RICHARD WAGNER

AND

HIS POETICAL WORK

FROM

"RIENZI" TO "PARSIFAL"

BY

JUDITH GAUTIER

TRANSLATED WITH THE AUTHOR'S SPECIAL

PERMISSION

By L. S. J.

BOSTON

A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY

Old Corner Bookstore

1883

AMERICAN INTRODUCTION.

Richard Wagner was born May 22, 1813, in Leipsic, Germany. He died in Venice on February 13, 1883. His father was a Leipsic city official, who gave his son the benefit of the illustrious Thomas School, preparatory to a university career. The latter, however, was not of much advantage to him, as young Wagner devoted himself mainly to musical studies. He led a theatre orchestra in Magdeburg, then in Königsberg, then in Riga.

From the latter place he went, in 1839, to Paris, where he completed "Rienzi" and the "Flying Dutchman," in 1841. The latter was suggested by a gale which Wagner experienced during a short voyage. "Rienzi" was first brought out at Dresden in 1842, and led to Wagner's appointment as orchestra leader in Dresden, where he brought out his "Tanhäuser" in 1845. In 1849 Wagner had to leave Germany for political reasons, and went to Switzerland, where "Lohengrin" was finished and the tetralogy of the "Nibelung" was begun. Wagner then lived in Italy, Vienna, and Paris, where "Tanhäuser" met with a disastrous presentation in 1861, and led accidentally to the following pages.

In 1864 Wagner became intimate with Louis II., the young King of Bavaria, under whose zealous patronage he brought out his "Tristan" in 1857 the "Mastersingers" in 1768, "Rhinegold" in 1853 and the "Walkyria" in 1870,—all at Munich, wrote the text for his operas, and also numerous pamphlets, most of which led to acrimonious discussions. Wagner's musical ideals received some outward impulses from the Oberammergau passion play and the success of the Franco-Prussian war, which led to the establishment of the German Empire. A special Wagner theatre was begun in 1872 at Bayreuth, where the master has since lived, and his works were first presented in 1876, in entire harmony with his vast requirements. Wagner's last work, "Parsifal," was published in 1878.

Wagner's early writings were collected in an edition of nine volumes, published in Leipsic, 1871 to 1873. His life was written by Glasenapp in two volumes, 1876 to 1878. Kastner published a Wagner catalogue. But it will take years, perhaps decades, before a final and just estimate can be formed of so great a master. The following pages were written by Judith Gautier, the Paris writer, and translated by an American lady. They have gone through several European editions, as they give an account of Wagner's opera texts, and pay a tribute to the genius of the great composer, who was also a remarkable and original author.

PREFACE

Will the reader kindly look upon the first pages of this book as a fragment of reminiscences, which I hope some day to publish; not that my life in itself is worth relating, but it has been frequently brought in contact with that of celebrated artists. It treats here of certain experiences only, written as if for myself,—reminiscences gathered during several years of uninterrupted relations with Richard Wagner. The books already published on the master, in every language and every style, either to combat or glorify him, would fill a shelf; the catalogue of these criticisms, studies, and biographies would form a volume. Thus, the subject of his defeats, victories, and what is termed his musical system, has been exhausted; repetition is therefore useless.

Beside this, I have of late renounced all idea of proselytism; after a long struggle I abandon the contest, at the moment when, to many, victory seems most probable. I have reasons for this which I do not care to indicate, but which seem to me decisive. What I have for so long a time taken to be the customary and fatal resistance, the instinctive hatred which is experienced by every public in every country for the innovations of genius, is, I fear, in France something even more. Our quick intelligence, so light, so mobile, so disposed to mockery, deprives us of that quality so indispensable to the comprehension of master works—simplicity. We cannot refrain from finding something to ridicule in grand sentiments, sublimity, and noble or terrible passions; what pleases us above all is graceful, spirited art, slightly sentimental, quick observation, and arrows of satire; also, no people can rival us when comic operas, vaudevilles, and comedies of manners are in question.

Art is for us an amusement. We frankly weary of anything serious, and if by chance we happen to admit a masterpiece upon the scenes, it is simply on the score of curiosity. Does a theatre exist in Paris, this world's capital, where the great works, lyrical and dramatic, of the entire world may be represented? Who troubles himself about Calderon, Schiller, Goethe, Shakspeare? While absurd fairy scenes and miserable comedies, in which the only discoverable merit is the play or personality of the actors, and scenes of disgraceful realism, remain upon the boards during a whole year, Othello drags painfully on, barely reaching the twentieth representation. It will, perhaps, be urged that the Frenchman dare not travel, and that works of art created outside of his own little world do not interest him. And Victor Hugo! Is there any sort of indignity or outrage which has been spared him in his own country? It is true, that after sixty years of contest, his glory radiates at last splendid and triumphant. Well, where is Victor Hugo's theatre? Has the new generation ever seen the representations of this master's greatest works? "Les Burgraves," "Cromwell," and "Le Roi qui S'Amuse." This last drama, it is true, is about to reappear upon the stage. But fifty years will have intervened between its first and second representations. Why hope that Richard Wagner should stand a better chance of vanquishing the native antipathy of the French public to serious works than Shakspeare, who after three hundred years has not yet triumphed among us; than Victor Hugo, the greatest glory of France? Are the enchantments of music capable of working this miracle? It is possible, but I no longer hope for it. The success of Lohengrin in Paris is probable, but we shall go no farther. Neither the great Scandinavian epopée, nor the metaphysical loves of Tristan and Isolde, nor the mysticism of Parsifal will reach us. For this reason, recognizing the generous error in which I have so long persisted, I renounce all sterile efforts, and, blessing the invention of railroads, I go bravely toward the mountain which cannot be brought to me.

This book is, in reality, only addressed to the small number of the initiated who, having broken through the occult precinct of the new art, have the incomparable joy of admiring without reserve all that is worthy of admiration. They will find in these pages, in addition to certain characteristic traits of the master, drawn from life, and from which they will be able to modify the ideas which they may have received from fantastic portraits, the detailed analyses of poems which have not been translated into French, and, above all, that of Parsifal. These analyses will enable those undertaking the pilgrimage to Bayreuth, and who do not understand German, to follow the representations. My sole ambition is to be useful to the extent of my power to this intelligent minority, who, in my opinion, alone form this world, and who, I truly hope, may alone form another, should it exist; for I am convinced, with Charles Baudelaire, that paradise is made up of the small number of chosen ones.

CONTENTS.

PART FIRST.

RICHARD WAGNER

PART SECOND

RICHARD WAGNER'S POETIC WORK.
FROM RIENZI TO TRISTAN AND ISOLDE

RIENZI—THE FLYING DUTCHMAN—TANHÄUSER—LOHENGRIN—TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBERG

THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG
RHINEGOLD (introductory)—WALKYRIA (first day)—SIGFRID (second day)—GLOOM OF THE GODS (third day).

PARSIFAL: A LYRICAL FEAST
FIRST ACT—SECOND ACT—THIRD ACT.

RICHARD WAGNER.

It was under rather peculiar circumstances that the name of Wagner was mentioned in my presence, for the first time, the evening of the first representation of Tanhäuser in Paris. I had left school the day before on a vacation, and if this great combat in regard to Tänhauser had been mentioned in my hearing, I, at least, remembered nothing of it. I was accidentally crossing the Passage de l'Opéra with my father, the evening of this representation, during an entr'acte. The passage was crowded; a gentleman, who approached my father with a bow, stopped us. He was rather small, thin, with hollow cheeks and a prominent nose, a broad forehead and brilliant eyes. He began to speak of the representation, at which he had been present, with malignant intensity, and such a ferocious joy at seeing the confirmation of its failure, that, carried away by an involuntary sentiment, I suddenly emerged from the silence and reserve imposed upon one of my age, to cry with astonishing impertinence, "In hearing you, sir, it is easy to divine that a great work is in question, and that you speak of a brother-artist."

"Now, what has come over you, naughty child," said my father, wishing to reprove me, but quietly laughing to himself. "Who is it?" I asked, when the gentleman had left us. "That was Hector Berlioz."

I have never forgotten this incident, and I have seemed later to see in this sudden movement of anger, which roused my young conscience to indignation in so singular a manner, a sort of presentiment, —something which premonished me that one day I should become a passionate admirer of this artist, whose name I now heard for the first time.

It seems evident that, at the moment when a new genius reveals itself, a little group of chosen mortals springs to life, called to form about him a devoted company to defend him, to console him for all but universal hatred, to sustain him in his agonies, all the while upholding the divinity of his inspirations. It was doubtless my vocation to become a disciple of this new hero, to understand and believe in him, for I was influenced by no one. One day chance placed in my hands the score of the Flying Dutchman. My music teacher, who hired music at Flaxland's, had taken this volume, among others, without knowing its contents, and left it with me until the next lesson, as it was inconveniently burdensome. I had profited little by my lessons, and was a most indifferent pianist; notwithstanding which, after having deciphered in the most incomplete and crude manner this unknown score, I was entirely overcome, and in spite of my numberless mistakes, the grandeur and meaning of this music were revealed to me by a sort of intuition. I could not be persuaded to leave the piano; I became infatuated, and my friends tried in vain to get the score out of my hands. From this moment Richard Wagner had one more faithful disciple.

When, in 1868, I wrote several articles upon his works, I had still a very imperfect knowledge of them from more or less satisfactory executions upon the piano and desultory fragments heard at the popular concerts. I was much alarmed at my own audacity, after having addressed these articles to Wagner, then at Lucerne, accompanied by a letter, begging him to aid me kindly with his advice for their correction and completion. I hoped and waited for an answer with extreme anxiety: would it come? I could not believe it, and yet I could think of nothing else. I could hardly sleep, and as each morning passed, and the messenger brought nothing, my heart filled with anguish. One day, however, I spied the Lucerne postmark upon an envelope addressed in an unknown hand, which I immediately recognized as remarkable.

I held this letter a long time between my fingers before opening it. I experienced a strange emotion,—a sort of fear. How had I dared, with my heedlessness, characteristically French, to write, confiding alone in my instinct, upon the works of this artist, for whom I felt already such an enthusiasm that I could only imagine him as existing, after the manner of the gods, upon an inaccessible Olympus. Was this letter really from him? I opened it at last, four pages of elegant handwriting, very legible, and at the last line the magic signature. The letter began thus: "Madam,—It is impossible that you could have experienced the slightest doubt of the touching and kindly impression made upon me by your letter and your fine articles. Accept my thanks for them, and permit me to count you among the small number of true friends whose clear-eyed sympathy is my only glory. There is nothing in your articles to correct, nothing to suggest; but I perceive that you have not yet a thorough knowledge of the Mastersingers." He then gave me an interesting explanation of the introduction to the third act in the Mastersingers, which had been performed by Pasdeloup a short time previous at the popular concerts. The letter ended thus:—

"Pardon me, madam, if I venture to complete, above all with the aid of my bad French, your acquaintance, otherwise so profound and intimate, with my music, by which you have truly touched and surprised me. I shall probably visit Paris before long, perhaps even this winter, and I rejoice beforehand in the true pleasure of taking you by the hand, and telling you face to face of the pleasure you have given to your truly obliged and devoted,

RICHARD WAGNER."

I waited in vain for this proposed journey. Wagner did not visit France during that winter. Nor has he come since then. There was but one thing to be done,—go to Lucerne. But how should I be received? Fantastic legends were reported in regard to Wagner; among others, it was related that he had in his house a seraglio, composed of women of all colors, from all countries, in magnificent costumes; but that no visitor crossed the threshold of his dwelling. On the other hand, persons who pretended to know him intimately, depicted him as an unsocial man, gloomy and sullen, living in jealous retreat, having for sole companionship two large black dogs. This wild solitude was tolerable, and even pleased me; but the idea that a feeling of polite gratitude might force him to break through it in my favor troubled me greatly. On this account I wrote an extremely complicated letter, saying, that passing through Lucerne by chance, only passing, I begged him to inform me if he were still there and would permit me the pleasure of greeting him. By this arrangement the fear of his disturbance being prolonged beyond that of a short interview would be averted. To tell the truth, chance had nothing to do with this journey, and there was nothing to hurry me. The following letter entirely reassured me:

"Madam,—I am at Lucerne, and I have no need to tell you how much pleasure I shall have in seeing you. I shall but beg you to prolong your sojourn at Lucerne in order that the happiness you accord me may not vanish too quickly. I suppose that you go to Munich for the Exposition of pictures; however, as I have the presumption to believe that it will be agreeable to you to hear some of my works, I would inform you that the representation of Tanhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan, and the Mastersingers will take place in the month of June, that the theatre is at the present moment closed, and that Rhinegold will be given at the earliest on the 29th of August, if indeed it be given then. But I trust that neither the postponement of the exposition, nor the closing of the theatre, will retard your visit to Lucerne. Quite on the contrary, I shall hope for a prolongation of your stay here, and while begging you to kindly notify me by a word, of the day when you expect to arrive, I pray you to accept the assurance of my respectful gratitude.

RICHARD WAGNER."

I arrived in Lucerne on a beautiful afternoon in the month of July, 1869. On entering the station I looked out of the carriage-door, when I suddenly perceived Wagner on the platform. He did not in the least resemble the unfavorable photographs which I had seen. I had no hesitation in recognizing him and ran toward him. We shook hands in silence, and he enveloped me with that intense glance which is peculiar to himself, and seems to pierce one's soul. I experienced no embarrassment during that moment of strange silence, in which my heart was, so to speak, bare beneath his gaze, but a profound emotion, a wild joy. "Come," he said, offering me his arm, "If you do not care for magnificence, the Lake Hotel will please you; I have engaged rooms there." The hotel was near by, and we went on foot. He stopped a moment on the way, and with a very grave, almost solemn expression, said to me: "We are bound by a very noble sentiment, madam." But an instant later, after having recommended me to the innkeeper, he took leave of me. "I am going to prepare for your reception," he said, "else I should be stupid. Come presently when you have taken a little rest." From my window I saw him move away with a rapid step, cross the old bridge of Lucerne, and step into a boat. He told me later that he was in haste to impart to his wife his impressions, which were not in the least what he had anticipated. At sunset I reached Tribscheu, that consecrated bit of land where, since that time, I have passed so many charming hours.

It was a sort of promontory, extremely picturesque, jutting into the lake. There was neither grating nor door; the garden had no defined limits, and extended indefinitely toward the neighboring mountains. The exterior of the house was perfectly plain,—gray, with dark tiles; but in the interior arrangements, full of grace and elegance, one felt the presence of a woman. Madame Wagner appeared in the midst of her children, fair, tall and gracious, with a charming smile, and tender, dreamy-blue eyes. The sympathy with which she inspired me from the first moment has never been broken, and our friendship, already of long standing, has never known a cloud. It was a delightful evening; the master displayed incomparable animation and gayety of spirits. I was unprepared for this vivacity of mind, these witticisms, the delicacies of language which we are wont to consider the monopoly of the Parisian, and which acquired in him a peculiar charm from his foreign accent, and, in spite of the great facility with which he spoke French, his original and unexpected expressions. He spoke of Paris, where he had greatly suffered, but which he still loved, and of the great contest over Tanhäuser, without bitterness. I remember, among others, this phrase:" Since the public at the opera do not like my music why inflict it upon them?" The group of warm partisans which had formed itself in France appeared to touch him deeply. Perhaps he founded secret hopes upon the initiative spirit of the French. In spite of his steadily increasing success in Germany he still had bitter adversaries, and was still exposed to base persecutions. The press reviled him incessantly with a coarseness and violence of which our French journals, even those most eager for scandal, can give no idea. The calumnies went even so far that Wagner, for the first and last time in his life, decided to reply to them. "I have seen," he said, among other things, "the London and Paris papers mock my works and tendencies without pity; these works have been dragged through the mire, they have been hissed in the theatres; but it still remained to me to see my person, my private character, my domestic life, exposed to public contempt in the country where my works are admired, and where a masculine energy and lofty aspirations are recognized in my efforts." The nobility and clergy were arrayed against him. What they sought for in him was doubtless the revolutionist of the days in May, 1849; the deep thinker, the powerful and energetic man of action, marching toward progress and the liberation of thought. And what hatred! Banished, pursued, and not knowing where to take refuge. Thus came about this almost incredible thing, that, at one time, he might be thought the only German who had not seen the representation of Lohengrin.

Notwithstanding the unalterable affection of King Louis II. he was, at the time I saw him, morally exiled from Bavaria. His long-cherished project of a theatre, the plans of which were already drawn by the great architect, Semper, and which the king wished to have erected in Munich, nearly revolutionized the city. The project was relinquished and the plaster model of the building was sorrowfully banished to an attic in the palace. But Wagner had not ceased to think of it, and who knows if at this moment Paris was not the aim of his dreams? He was then working upon the third part of the Nibelungen, Siegfried. I saw the manuscript on his study piano, in a little apartment adjoining the drawing-room. There was a portrait of his noble friend, handsome as a hero of the Edda. I was told that he sometimes escaped from Munich to pass a few days at Tribscheu, and that in this same room a bed was arranged for him.

There is nothing more touching than the enthusiastic affection with which this young king was inspired by the man of genius. He came to him like a saving angel at the moment when all abandoned him. "What shall I say to you," wrote Wagner to a friend, some time after his first interview with the king; "the most incomprehensible thing, and the only one, moreover, which could save me, is completely realized. In the very year of my first representation of Tanhäuser, a queen brought into this world the good genius of my life, him who was destined later, in the depth of my distress, to give me safety and consolation. It seems as if he had been sent me from heaven." The king was obliged, however, to do battle for his great friend, for the entire court was hostile to him, and the struggle was not without danger for the newly-crowned youth. But nothing could change his heart. The world in general revenged itself upon him by inventing various legends more or less absurd and unworthy of his notice. His only peculiarity lies in his deep intelligence, and his preference for masterpieces over the frivolous and commonplace pleasures of the world.

For fifteen days I passed my afternoons and evenings in the charming retreat Tribscheu, for I soon had the honor of being considered a friend. When minds are once in sympathy hearts come quicker to an understanding, and my affection for my host soon equalled the admiration with which the artist had inspired me. Of all the information given me about Wagner, his home life, the great reality, was the one black spot. Rus was a handsome Newfoundland, very gentle and pacific, who often came by himself to see me at the Lake Hotel. Few visitors ever crossed the threshold of the master's house. He knew no one at Lucerne, and this tranquillity was favorable to his work. Thus I saw him alone with his family, in all the simplicity of his life, and could form an exact idea of his character. I was greatly struck in the first place by his powerful, resolute head, the extraordinary brilliancy of his eyes, and his intensity of expression. There was also an expression of infinite goodness, which would never be suspected from his portraits. This almost superhuman goodness radiated from him at every moment; it was visible in the adoration with which he inspired not only his family but all who surrounded him. The members of his little domain took advantage of this gentleness. Little by little relations of every degree, near or far, gathered about him, who having come for a visit stayed indefinitely. As I knew the master better, I gained a further insight into his exquisite tenderness of soul, which in him has nothing in common with the vulgar philanthropy so frequently met with, and which is for the most part theoretic. It was a Frenchman, the Count of Gobineau, who said of Wagner, "He can never be absolutely happy, for he will always have some one near him whose sorrows he feels bound to share."

One day I asked him if he had any plans for his new-born son. "My first ambition," he said, "is to assure him a modest income, which will render him independent, that he may be sheltered from the miserable annoyances from which I have so cruelly suffered. Then I should wish him to know something of surgery, enough to render aid to a wounded person in emergencies, to prepare a first dressing. I have so often been troubled by my own inability that I wish to spare him this pain. Beyond this I shall leave him entirely free." Madame Wagner told me that the composition of the Mastersingers had been suspended during long months on account of a sick dog, wandering and abandoned, which Wagner, then at Zurich, had picked up and endeavored to cure. The dog had bitten his right hand badly, and the wound became so painful as to prevent him from writing. It is impossible to dictate music, and he was thus reduced to inaction, which put his patience to a hard test; but the dog was none the less cared for. There are, however, violence and roughness in Richard Wagner's character which must be recognized, and which are frequently the cause of his being misjudged, but only by those who regard merely the exterior. Nervous and impassionable to excess, the emotions which he experiences are always carried to an extreme. With him slight pain is almost despair, the smallest irritation has the appearance of madness. This wonderful organization of such exquisite sensibility has terrible vibrations, and his resistance of them is wonderful. A day of anxiety ages him ten years, but, happiness once reinstated, the day following finds him younger than ever. He gives himself to others with extraordinary prodigality. Always sincere, his whole heart is in everything he does; but of an extremely variable temper, his opinions and ideas, fixed the first moment, are by no means irrevocable. No one recognizes an error more quickly than he does, but he must have passed his first enthusiasm. By his frankness and vehemence he often wounds his best friends unintentionally; always excessive he goes farther than he intends, and does not recognize the grief he causes. Many, wounded in their self-love, bear in silence the injury which aggravates them, and thus they lose a precious friendship; whereas, if they had cried out that they were hurt, they would have found the master filled with such sincere regrets that he would have made an effusive effort to console them, and their love for him would only have increased.

"With Wagner the second movement is the good one," said a French violinist, who had left everything to enroll himself in the orchestra at Bayreuth,—an artist of great merit, a man of spirit who was one of those preferred by the master. In spite of his occasionally rough manner, Wagner is, when he so chooses, a perfect charmer. There is nothing to be compared with the fascination which he exercises upon the interpreters working under his orders. After a few days the most hostile and rebellious orchestra becomes attached to him. It is the same with the singers, whom he inspires with unbounded devotion. The illustrious Schnorr, the first singer of Tristan, in which part he was sublime, cried, as he drew his last breath, "It is not I then who will sing Siegfried." He regretted nothing in this life but the glory of interpreting Wagner's works. One of the most remarkable things about Wagner is the youthful gayety which so frequently breaks out, and the charming good humor which his tormented life has never been able to quench. His entertaining and profound conversation will become all at once, without transition, full of humor and imagination. He tells stories in the most comical manner, with a fine irony which belongs to him alone. At Lucerne he surprised me by his skill in bodily exercises, and by his singular agility. He climbed the highest trees in his garden, to the terror of his wife, who besought me not to look at him, because, she said, if he were encouraged he would commit no end of follies.

He was then working very regularly, rising early in the morning. At midday he was free, took long walks, or rested while reading, for he has an insatiable thirst for literature, and is an indefatigable student. In these hours of rest and meditation he has moments of beautiful serenity. His features then assume an incomparable sweetness, his face becomes enveloped with a pallor which has nothing of ill-health, but seems to veil it with a slight cloud. At these moments nothing troubles or agitates him. One feels that he is in self-communion with his dreams, and one involuntarily thinks of a magnificent lake reflecting the heavens. I have never witnessed this peaceful reverie without emotion, without the deep desire that nothing may trouble or dissipate it. But little is needed to bring back agitation; the least breath suffices; happy if the tempest does not break forth. Unfortunately for himself Wagner will never know the feeling so wisely egotistical—polite indifference. Before my departure from Lucerne he wished to organize an excursion of several days to show us the country of William Tell. We were obliged to start at dawn, and the carriage was winding its way by the lake of Lucerne, or the Four Cantons, when the sun rose. I remember that a gleam of light fell upon the master's lips while he was talking to us. In speaking of Mendelssohn he said: "He is a great landscape-painter."

I confess to seeing very little of the country I was visiting. I remember at the first halting-place a trout upon which Wagner made a frightful pun, which I shall not translate. Then came the steamboat which conveyed us to Zurich, where the master was welcomed by the populace as a well-loved king; a mountain was climbed, a sail followed; but all is confused. What has ever remained in my memory is the charm of those days, passed in such glorious intimacy, his gentle gayety and simplicity, the attentive cares, the art of organizing everything for one's greatest comfort and pleasure. He was the first to rise and awake the more slothful ones, and he hummed the Marseillaise as he tapped upon our doors.

Once again at Lucerne Wagner confessed that he had been suffering during the greater part of the journey, but had been careful to say nothing lest he should spoil our pleasure. It was with sincere regret that I finally took leave of my hosts, being, however, somewhat consoled by the promise that I should often receive news from Tribscheu, a promise which has been faithfully kept. I returned there the following year, 1870, being at Lucerne when the war was declared. It was evident with his ardent character that Wagner could not fail to be deeply impressed by this event. The idea of a united Germany impassioned him, and I confess that I should have loved him less had he not experienced, like all of us, in these crises the inspirations of patriotism. It was deemed expedient, however, not to touch upon dangerous questions, where we could not possibly agree, but to remain prudently in the regions of art, where we so entirely understood one another. By this method the events which made us opponents could not disturb our friendship. Returned to Paris, the last letter which I received from him was dated the 5th of September. It informed me of the baptism of his son, to whom I stood god-mother, but alas, at a distance. "At the moment of the benediction," he wrote, "a storm burst upon us with flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder. It appears that the thunder claps will play their part in the life of this terrible child. I myself like such celestial auguries, while I hold in aversion those terrestrial blows which have deprived us of your presence. I keep to our silence so sensibly agreed upon. But happily there is a region of existence where we are and always shall remain friends. All that separates us, even in our opinions upon things which belong to this region, can only contribute to draw us in time nearer and more intimately together." The horrible tempest once calmed, we met again with the same sentiments, each continuing to reserve his own opinions. In 1872 Lucerne was abandoned for Bayreuth; the great project so long cherished of the theatre built after Wagner's ideas was at last to be realized. The 22d of April Madame Wagner wrote me: "One last word from Tribscheu, my dear friend, which we leave with full hearts and troubled minds. To-morrow Wagner goes to Bayreuth, and I am to follow him with the children and Rus in a week. We cannot, however, leave without sending you our tender remembrances."

The first stone of the theatre was solemnly laid at Bayreuth on the 22d of May of the same year. On this occasion the king sent the following despatch to Wagner:—

"From the depths of my heart, dear friend, I express to you, on this day of such great import to all Germany, my warmest and sincerest congratulations. Success and blessing to the great enterprise of the coming year! To-day more than ever I am with you in spirit."

"LUDWIG."

Beethoven's symphony, with choruses, directed by Wagner, was the finest episode of the fêtes which followed. The German public, who knew it well, was enraptured by the inimitable performance. "We cannot express in words our thanks and admiration for the manner in which Wagner interprets the works of Beethoven," wrote the Musical Journal of Berlin. "We have never heard an orchestra spiritualized to such a degree. We add our share of enthusiasm to that of the transported audience." And Mr. Richard Pohl, a well-known writer, said: "Richard Wagner, who always directs without notes, knowing the score by heart, exercises a marvellous and magnetic charm over his orchestra. He forces it to accomplish his wishes, does with it what he will, sure of being obeyed. He animates and electrifies each musician, and always remains in sympathetic contact with the whole instrumental body. All divine, so to speak, his thought. He handles the orchestra like a gigantic instrument, with a certainty that never fails him, with a sovereignty before which all joyfully bow. To form an idea of this prodigy it must be witnessed; the revelation is as unique as is Wagner's incomparably artistic nature." "Our fête is over," wrote Madame Wagner, several days later, "and in spite of very bad weather it has been superb. The words of Beethoven, 'all men become brothers,' seemed to be realized during these few days at Bayreuth, where our friends, known and unknown, have congregated from every quarter of the globe, having all one thought and one faith."

In 1876 the theatre was finished, and that colossal work, the Ring of the Nibelung, was brought forward and put upon the stage. Sovereigns, artists, an intelligent crowd, rushed toward Bayreuth, which could not contain it, and even the streets were put into requisition for improvised camps. That little city, so completely obscure a few years ago, suddenly rendered famous by the caprice of a man of genius, is hidden behind the chilly mountains of Upper Franconia. Pine woods, rapid streams, vast plains, bounded by blue-tinted hills against the misty sky, long poplar-studded roads, along which harnessed oxen slowly travel in couples under the brass yoke which forms a sort of crown over their heads,—such is the approach to this once quiet city, which, all at once, in honor of the theatre which rises in proud simplicity on the hill, throws open its gates to welcome emperors, kings, and princes from all countries, and finds itself filled with a joyous crowd, which the innkeepers, waking from their long lethargy, swindle to the best of their ability. While speaking of innkeepers I may recall a characteristic incident which happened at Munich. The hotel-keepers of the city, having previously come to a common understanding, offered to build the projected theatre for Wagner at their own expense, but at Munich, not in Bayreuth. They considered that it would be a great affair for them. Even as a river is diverted from its course, so they proposed to direct toward themselves the tide of visitors; but the master held to Bayreuth and declined their offers.

Wahnfried! Such is the name of Wagner's villa at Bayreuth. Wahnfried, a name full of melancholy doubt, which gives rise to many thoughts, but is difficult to translate; its truest signification being illusions of peace. At the height of his glory, adored almost, he whose life had been so troubled and painful wished to persuade himself that he had at last cremated, sheltered from all attacks, a retreat where he could thenceforward live in peace; but he himself recognized the futility of this scheme. Can repose exist for such a mind, always pushing irresistibly forward and higher? Folly, illusion, thus to mark a standing-place, to carve one's tombstone, and to dig a grave, while so many desires are still fermenting, and while so many dreams are still outlived, which must be formed, and then again dissipated.

Wahnfried! This word, which at first seemed to me to contain a regret, held, perhaps, on the contrary a hope. The house, constructed upon Wagner's own plan, appears at the end of a long avenue; it is built of grayish red stones, almost square, and without other ornament than the fresco upon the front, which recalls a scene from the Nibelungen. A straight flight of steps leads to the door; that opens upon a small anteroom, which again communicates with a large vestibule, very high, and lighted from the top. It is surrounded, on a level with the first story, by a gallery, decorated with paintings, representing Eastern scenes. The floor is paved with flagstones, divans are placed in the angles, together with marble statues of Wagner's heroes, the work of enthusiastic sculptors, and a large American organ with brass stops. At the right is the dining-room; on the left a little salon filled with objects of art. Facing this is the great hall of reunion, vast and sumptuous, at once library and working-room. It is terminated by a glass rotunda opening into the garden, where a fountain is babbling joyously.

The theatre, which stands outside of the city on a hill, is a construction of simple aspect, somewhat resembling the palace of the Trocadéro. When I saw it for the first time rising majestically on the height, illumined by the rays of the setting sun; when I saw that contemplative crowd slowly ascending on every side toward this temple of art, I could not restrain tears of joy. The dream of this man's entire life was thus at last realized. The world that had persecuted him hastened finally to greet him with a rapture beyond precedent. He, once so persecuted, enjoyed even in life his apotheosis. This new phase of his life had changed nothing in his manner of being; this immense triumph failed to intoxicate him; he did not even appear to be greatly impressed. It seemed to me that the Nibelungen were far from his mind, which already meditated new creations. He made me visit the theatre in all its details, from the hidden orchestra, sunk beneath the stage, to the mechanism which held suspended the Undines of the Rhine. We had to climb everything that was practicable, descend to the floor under the stage; and I perceived that the master had lost none of his agility of Tribscheu.

Those who were present at the admirable representations of 1876, where everything had been prepared and directed by Wagner, will never forget them. A like solemnity has not been reproduced since the great theatrical celebrations of ancient Greece, and will remain a great event in the future history of art. I shall close these few pages, written from memory, by the relation of my last visit to the master, copied from my travelling note book.

BAYREUTH, 29th of September, 1881.

It is with quickly beating hearts that we cross once more the threshold of this dwelling, which, in spite of the cordial reception always awaiting us, we feel to be consecrated ground, the holy of holies, which should not be penetrated without a sort of sacred awe. The whole family is assembled in the drawing-room, which is brightened by a ray of sunlight. Liszt, who has come to pass a few weeks with his dear grandchildren, is superb, with his long white hair, his bushy eyebrows, beneath which shine a lion's eyes. My godson is already growing large; he has a broad forehead, and blue eyes of exquisite sweetness. The master comes up from the garden, always the same, even younger. Truly the immortals defy time. He receives us with that tender effusion with which those of his followers, by whom he knows himself perfectly loved, inspire him, for he has nothing of the impassable egotism which so often attacks great men when they arrive at a certain height of glory. He is rather, as we have already said, too impressionable, allows himself to be governed by the momentary violence of his impressions; and the only uneasiness he causes to those who surround him, who live only for him, proceeds from this intensity in his sadness or joy, or from his anger, which a nature less tempered than his would not be able to resist. He can sometimes forget, even completely change, his opinion, love that which he once detested, and always with the same sincerity.

We pass to the dining-room. The master is now rapturously gay; he expresses himself with some difficulty in French, which does not, however, prevent his playing upon the words as no one else can. He tells us of his journey to Naples and Venice, of the pleasure he has derived from Italy, and we quickly divine in him a longing for the sun and new horizons; he is thinking of Greece, the Bosporus, India. Oh Wahnfried, Wahnfried! One thing evidently wearies him greatly; it is the instrumentation of Parsifal. He complains of not being able to form young artists capable of aiding him in his work; but this is simply make-believe, he well knows that it is impossible. "When one is young," he said, "when the nerves are not yet fatigued, and one writes scores with a certain ease, even that of Lohengrin, without knowing all the resources of coloring and combination, the work is not comparable to that which the new works demand, and which must be written at a maturer age. Auber, however, wrote until his eighty-fourth year without fatigue; but he had not changed his manner." Liszt relates a speech of Auber's, to whom a young musician of great promise had been presented. "Are we not enough already?" cried the master. He afterwards spoke of a counterbass with five chords, the object of which is to descend still further in the lower notes than the ordinary counterbass does. Wagner said of a gentleman who came to submit a similar process to him, that he sent him about his business. Mendelssohn, however, has already tried something of the kind and produced a fine effect.

We were reproached for not having come a month sooner, when the house was full of singers, to whom the parts of Parsifal were assigned, and who began their first studies. To console us, Wagner promised to let us hear certain passages. But he pretends to play badly, so that it will not be the same thing. There is a project to go to-morrow to the theatre to see the models of the scenes, provided the machinist who is expected has arrived to show them:

30th September.

We are early to-day at Wahnfried. The gate is never shut except by a bolt, and we can take a solitary walk in the garden without disturbing any one. Long trellises of virgin vines, already bloodstained by the precocious autumn, creep the length of each side of the way leading to the house; it is almost dark under their shelter; in places, however, the green roof becomes lighter, and the dead leaves rustle under our feet. The space intervening between these trellises and the centre walk is reserved for the kitchen garden; but the soil does not appear to be fertile. We come out at the conservatory, where there is already a fire; all the delicate flowers have been brought in-doors. A few exotic plants destined to ornament the drawing-room, but which are withering, are there as in an infirmary. In front of the hot-house, on the other side of the house, cries and a flapping of wings indicate the hen-house; it is large and gay, and might be taken for a sample from the garden of acclimation in Paris. Peacocks, silver pheasants, rare hens, and a scattering of pigeons fill it, defying the cook's knife, for the place is as sacred to them as if they were taking their sports within the enclosure of a Brahmin temple.

In front of the drawing-room, and surrounding the fountain, is the pleasure-garden; with fine lawns, beds of Bengal roses, and flowers of all kinds, but many of them are already frostbitten. This free space is enclosed by a bushy wood forming a sort of wall. One must penetrate its shadows to approach the tomb, which has been already so much talked of, and which by a sufficiently exuberant fancy the master caused to be built at the same time with his house. It is completely enveloped by the thick coppice, and is without egress; it is only when autumn strips the trees that a large, gray marble slab can be seen through the confusion of branches, over which the briars twine themselves. A graceful pavilion of two stories, a gymnasium for the children, hemicycles of grass, with stone benches, are scattered in this wood, which leads to a little gate, looking out upon the royal residence. The stroke of the clock recalls us to the house. The master has finished his morning task, and shows us his well-filled page lying upon the table. His life is one of the greatest regularity, above all when, as at this time, he is pursuing a hurried and fatiguing work. He rises at six, but after his bath retires again and reads until ten. At eleven he sets himself to work until two o'clock. After dinner he rests for a short time, always in company with a book. From four until six he drives, then goes back to his work until supper, at eight; the evening is passed gayly with his family, and before eleven all the household is in bed.

At table Liszt announces that Darwin declares himself a partisan of vivisection, but that this frightful practice has just been interdicted in England. It is well known that Richard Wagner is one of the warmest defenders of those innocent victims of the physiologist's cruel curiosity. Some time ago he wrote a long article full of sadness and anger, in which he repeats the words of Faust, "The dogs themselves will no longer wish to live in such a world." "Our campaign has already had good results in Germany," he said; "the joiners who manufacture the instruments of torture destined for the unfortunate dogs complain of the diminution of their sales." He asks us if this humane cause has defenders in France; to which we reply that there are very ardent ones; in the first instance, all honest people: and then we cite among the journalists Victor Meunier, who, in the Rappel, rises vehemently against these cruelties, and very justly compares the actual position of animals to that of the former slaves, over whom their masters were supposed to have every right.

A visit to the theatre is again spoken of; the machinist whom we expected, evidently cannot come; but we shall go to see the models and scenery in M. Ioukouski's studio. "My theatre will, I think," said the master, "become a sort of conservatory where singers will be found, and where the method in which my works will be executed and put upon the stage will serve as a model to directors and managers who will mount them elsewhere." The Paris Conservatory still holds to the tradition of the movements of Gluck's Iphigenia.... "You have there," he added, "an orchestra of the first order—Beethoven's Symphonies were played to perfection." Liszt tells of a very singular appreciation on Boieldieu's part of the Beethoven Symphonies, at the time of their first hearing in Paris. "It certainly produces an effect," he said, "but it bears a resemblance to people chewing tobacco and swearing in a guard-house."

We start upon a visit to M. Paul Ioukouski's studio. This young painter, who, meeting Richard Wagner at Naples, solicited and obtained the honor of being chosen for the work of the scenery in Parsifal, and left all to follow the master, is the son of one of Russia's most illustrious poets, who was the preceptor of Alexander II. The artist is installed in a house in the immediate neighborhood of Wahnfried, and lives there like a hermit, putting his whole heart into his work. The sketches, which are real pictures, are displayed upon the various easels. On the first is the forest, with the rising sun, for the first tableau, which, to make place for the second, will slide gently from left to right, sinking down little by little, while the characters are supposed to be advancing as they ascend a hill. These characters will disappear behind masses of rocks, then will be seen again in grottoes near Cyclopean substructures, then in galleries. They finally pass through a door, and the temple of the Grail will appear. Here it is seen, upon the neighboring easel, with its porphyry columns, its capital of precious stones, its vaults, its double cupolas, its mysterious depths. The tables destined for the sacred repast, which bring to mind the sacrament, are arranged on either side of the altar. The smooth marble-paved floor reflects like a lake. Mr. Brandt, machinist of the theatre at Darmstadt, a man of genius, it appears, for whom the word impossible does not exist, says that he can produce this glittering effect, and that the only difficulty lies in the rapid shifting of the scenery.

The fantastic garden, created by the magician, Klingsor, in order to reduce and ruin the Knights of the Grail, was a thing difficult to conceive. Wagner wished for something absolutely improbable; the conception of a dream, a wild efflorescence brought to life by the stroke of a wand, not by plodding earthly labor; he was dissatisfied with every attempt. He has, however, obtained his desire, and it appears that on the stage this scene is one of the most successful of all. What is most singular is that these giant flowers, sheaves, clusters, and thickets, which leave only a corner on the horizon visible, fade away and die in the twinkling of an eye, leaving in sight only an arid moor, shut in by snowy mountains, while a shower of withered leaves and dried petals falls upon the ground. The flowering meadow near the spring wood, which shelters the hermit's hut, with its clear spring murmuring beneath the thick moss, is truly enchanting. From this we return by a shifting of scenes analogous to that in the first act, to the temple of the Grail, where the piece ends. The costumes are not more easy of invention, for the master will not be satisfied with anything like the costumers' indignation. Even should they all become wretched they must yield. The enchantresses evoked by the magician,—women who are flowers, as the syrens are fishes,—are those who give the most trouble. Wagner will not have attractive young girls, but real animated flowers. There is also the tunic of the terrible and marvellous Kundry.

1st October.

The master has kept his promise this evening, and has let us hear fragments from Parsifal. "Liszt's presence makes me lose my powers in a measure," he said, laughing, "he intimidates me, for I know that my false notes irritate him." Unfortunately, Liszt, who only yesterday improvised upon the piano in a delightful manner, blending with his own inventions motions from Tristan and Isolde, has slightly wounded his finger, and cannot play. It must certainly be acknowledged that Wagner is an imperfect pianist, and he is the first to laugh at his own imperfection. We notice, however, in a wonderful manner, certain passages which the author knows how to render with the true expression, better than any other. A few months ago, Liszt wrote to us: "Wagner has worked a new miracle, Parsifal. Those who already have the good fortune to understand this new work share this opinion; the singers are enraptured. Judging from the general impression, this ought to be a new transformation in the master's method,—one of those giant steps to which he is accustomed. In this instance the height and refinement of art combine to produce an effect of apparent simplicity and perfect serenity." This evening we take leave of our illustrious hosts, promising to meet them again next year at the first representation of Parsifal.

POETIC WORK.

WAGNER'S POETIC WORK.

FROM RIENZI TO TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBURG.

The scene of this piece is laid in the sixteenth century, at that singular epoch when art and poetry, disdained by the nobility, had taken refuge among the citizens and trades-people. Since the disappearance of the Minnesingers, those minstrels of love so closely resembling the French troubadours, the Mastersingers alone taught poetry and music. These masters were also chiefs of corporations, and their scholars, at the same time their apprentices, learned to stitch a sole and hold a note, to scan a verse and cut a pair of breeches. It is easy to imagine in what degree art must have languished in such a state, how the many rules and laws of these narrow-minded men must have trammelled the flight of inspiration, which must of necessity fold its wings and walk in trodden paths. It was like a bird brought up by a mole. If by chance a new-comer, possessing no science save his own genius, ventured into the circle of poet-mechanics, it is easy to imagine what a concert of imprecations assailed the freedom with which he broke the laws, minutely woven by routine, as if they had been spiders' webs. It is an event of this nature which Richard Wagner has chosen to form the plot of his comedy.

Walter von Stolzing, a knight of Franconia, is in love with the daughter of Pogner, a rich goldsmith of Nuremberg; but only he who shall be proclaimed mastersinger at the next competition shall obtain the hand of Eva. Walter, who does not know the first word of art, wishes to compete. He endeavors to gain a little information from the untutored David, pupil and apprentice of Hans Sachs. The scene passes in the aisles of the church named after St. Catherine in Nuremberg, which the apprentices are about arranging for the masters' meeting. "So you wish to become master?" says David to Walter. "It is so difficult then?" "The art of a master cannot be acquired in a day. Here I have been a whole year with the greatest man in Nuremberg, Hans Sachs, who teaches me poetry and shoemaking at the same time; when I have tanned the leather well, he makes me repeat the vowels and consonants; when I have waxed the thread well he makes me understand rhyme. Well, where do you imagine I am now?" "Perhaps you have made a good pair of buskins?" "Oh, no, I am not so far advanced yet," cries the apprentice. "Let us see; do teach me," says Walter. "Very well; know then that the masters' tones and modes are numerous, and that each has its name; there is the long tone, and the too long tone, the mode of writing-paper, the sweet tone, and the rose tone, the tone of short love, and the forgotten tone, the mode of English zinc, of the cinnamon stalk, of frogs, of calves, the mode of the deceased glutton, and of the faithful pelican, and so through a long, long chapter." "Good heavens, what is all that," cried the terrified Walter. "But it is not enough to know the names," continued David, "one must understand how to sing each mode without changing what they call the figuration and the tabulature. For myself, I am not yet so far advanced, and my master often sings the mode of the martinet to me, and unless my good friend Magdalene comes to my assistance I myself sing the mode of dry bread and water. Know then that a mastersinger is he who composes a new mode in poetry and music."