Volume 2 / Part 2 — PART II 1842-1850 (continued 5)

At this second performance I had a pleasant experience. After the impressive second act the public showed signs of wishing to call me, and as I went from the orchestra to the vestibule, in order to be ready if necessary, my foot slipped on the smooth parquet, and I might have had perhaps a serious fall had I not felt my arm grasped by a strong hand. I turned, and recognised the Crown Prince of Prussia,^[14] who had come out of his box, and who at once seized the opportunity of inviting me to follow him to his wife, who wished to make my acquaintance. She had only just arrived in Berlin, and told me that she had heard my opera for the first time that evening, and expressed her appreciation of it. She had, however, long ago received very favourable reports of me and my artistic aims from a common friend, Alwine Frommann. The whole tenor of this interview, at which the Prince was present, was unusually friendly and pleasant.

It was indeed my old friend Alwine who in Berlin had not only followed all my fortunes with the greatest sympathy, but had also done all in her power to give me consolation and courage to endure. Almost every evening, when the day’s business made it possible, I used to visit her for an hour of recreation, and gain strength from her ennobling conversation for the struggle against the reverses of the following day. I was particularly pleased by the warm and intelligent sympathy which she and our mutual friend Werder devoted to Lohengrin, the object of all my labours at that time. On the arrival of her friend and patroness, the Crown Princess, which had been delayed till now, she hoped to hear something more definite as to how my affairs stood with the King, although she intimated to me that even this great lady was in deep disfavour, and could only bring her influence to bear upon the King by observing the strictest etiquette. But from this source also no news reached me till it was time for me to leave Berlin and I could postpone my departure no longer.

As I had to conduct a third performance of Rienzi, and there still remained a remote possibility of receiving a sudden command to Sans-Souci, I accordingly fixed on a date which would be the very latest I could wait to ascertain the fate of the projects I had nearest to heart. This period passed by, and I was forced to realise that my hopes of Berlin were wholly shattered.

I was in a very depressed state when I made up my mind to this conclusion. I can seldom remember having been so dreadfully affected by the influence of cold and wet weather and an eternally grey sky as during those last wretched weeks in Berlin, when everything that I heard, in addition to my own private anxieties, weighed upon me with a leaden weight of discouragement.

My conversations with Hermann Franck about the social and political situation had assumed a peculiarly gloomy tone, as the King of Prussia’s efforts to summon a united conference had failed. I was among those who had at first been inclined to see a hopeful significance in this undertaking, but it was a shock to have all the intimate details relating to the project clearly set before me by so well informed a man as Franck. His dispassionate views on this subject, as well as on the Prussian State in particular, which was supposed to be representative of German intelligence, and was universally considered to be a model of order and good government, so completely disillusioned me and destroyed all the favourable and hopeful opinions I had formed of it, that I felt as if I had plunged into chaos, and realised the utter futility of expecting a prosperous settlement of the German question from this quarter. If in the midst of my misery in Dresden I had founded great hopes from gaining the King of Prussia’s sympathy for my ideas, I could no longer close my eyes to the fearful hollowness which the state of affairs disclosed to me on every side.

In this despairing mood I felt but little emotion when, on going to say good-bye to Count Redern, he told me with a very sad face the news, which had just arrived, of Mendelssohn’s death. I certainly did not realise this stroke of fate, which Redern’s obvious grief first brought to my notice. At all events, he was spared more detailed and heartfelt explanation of my own affairs, which he had so much at heart.

The only thing that remained for me to do in Berlin was to try and make my material success balance my material loss. For a stay of two months, during which my wife and my sister Clara had been with me, lured on by the hope that the production of Rienzi in Berlin would be a brilliant success, I found my old friend, Director Küstner, by no means inclined to compensate me. From his correspondence with me he could prove up to the hilt that legally he had only expressed the desire for my co-operation in studying Rienzi, but had given me no positive invitation. As I was prevented by Count Redern’s grief over Mendelssohn’s death from going to him for help in these trivial private concerns, there was no alternative but for me to accept with a good grace Küstner’s beneficence in paying me on the spot the royalties on the three performances which had already taken place. The Dresden authorities were surprised when I found myself obliged to beg an advance of income from them in order to conclude this brilliant undertaking in Berlin.

As I was travelling with my wife in the most horrible weather through the deserted country on my way home, I fell into a mood of the blackest despair, which I thought I might perhaps survive once in a lifetime but never again. Nevertheless, it amused me, as I sat silently looking out of the carriage into the grey mist, to hear my wife enter into a lively discussion with a commercial traveller who, in the course of friendly conversation, had spoken in a disparaging way about the ‘new opera Rienzi.’ My wife, with great heat and even passion, corrected various mistakes made by this hostile critic, and to her great satisfaction made him confess that he had not heard the opera himself, but had only based his opinion upon hearsay and the reviews. Whereupon my wife pointed out to him most earnestly that ‘he could not possibly know whose future he might not injure by such irresponsible comment.’

These were the only cheering and consoling impressions which I carried back with me to Dresden, where I soon felt the direct results of the reverses I had suffered in Berlin in the condolences of my acquaintances. The papers had spread abroad the news that my opera had been a dismal failure. The most painful part of the whole proceeding was that I had to meet these expressions of pity with a cheerful countenance and the assurance that things were by no means so bad as had been made out, but that, on the contrary, I had had many pleasant experiences.

This unaccustomed effort placed me in a position strangely similar to that in which I found Hiller on my return to Dresden. He had given a performance of his new opera, Conradin von Hohenstaufen, here just about this time. He had kept the composition of this work a secret from me, and had hoped to make a decided hit with it after the three performances which took place in my absence. Both the poet and the composer thought that in this work they had combined the tendencies and effects of my Rienzi with those of my Tannhäuser in a manner peculiarly suited to the Dresden public. As he was just setting out for Dusseldorf, where he had been appointed concert-director, he commended his work with great confidence to my tender mercies, and regretted not having the power of appointing me the conductor of it. He acknowledged that he owed his great success partly to the wonderfully happy rendering of the male part of Conradin by my niece Johanna. She, in her turn, told me with equal confidence that without her Hiller’s opera would not have had such an extraordinary triumph. I was now really anxious to see this fortunate work and its wonderful staging for myself; and this I was able to do, as a fourth performance was announced after Hiller and his family had left Dresden for good. When I entered the theatre at the beginning of the overture to take my place in the stalls, I was astonished to find all the seats, with a few scarcely noticeable exceptions, absolutely empty. At the other end of my row I saw the poet who had written the libretto, the gentle painter Reinike. We moved, naturally, towards the middle of the space and discussed the strange position in which we found ourselves. He poured out melancholy complaints to me about Hiller’s musical setting to his poetry; the secret of the mistake which Hiller had made about the success of his work he did not explain, and was evidently very much upset at the conspicuous failure of the opera. It was from another quarter that I learned how it had been possible for Hiller to deceive himself in such an extraordinary way. Frau Hiller, who was of Polish origin, had managed at the frequent Polish gatherings which took place in Dresden to persuade a large contingent of her countrymen, who were keen theatre-goers, to attend her husband’s opera. On the first night these friends, with their usual enthusiasm, incited the public to applaud, but had themselves found so little pleasure in the work that they had stayed away from the second performance, which was otherwise badly attended, so that the opera could only be considered a failure. By commandeering all the help that could possibly be got from the Poles by way of applause, every effort was made to secure a third performance on a Sunday, when the theatre generally filled of its own accord. This object was achieved, and the Polish theatre aristocracy, with the charity that was habitual to them, fulfilled their duty towards the needy couple in whose drawing-room they had often spent such pleasant evenings.

Once more the composer was called before the curtain, and everything went off well. Hiller thereupon placed his confidence in the verdict on the third performance, according to which his opera was an undoubted success, just as had been the case with my Tannhäuser. The artificiality of this proceeding was, however, exposed by this fourth performance, at which I was present, and at which no one was under an obligation to the departed composer to attend. Even my niece was disgusted with it, and thought that the best singer in the world could not make a success of such a tedious opera. Whilst we were watching this miserable performance I managed to point out to the poet some weaknesses and faults that were to be found in the subject-matter. The latter reported my criticisms to Hiller, whereupon I received a warm and friendly letter from Dusseldorf, in which Hiller acknowledged the mistake he had made in rejecting my advice on this point. He gave me plainly to understand that it was not too late to alter the opera according to my suggestions; I should thus have had the inestimable benefit of having such an obviously well-intentioned, and, in its way, so significant, a work in the repertoire, but I never got so far as that.

On the other hand, I experienced the small satisfaction of hearing the news that two performances of my Rienzi had taken place in Berlin, for the success of which Conductor Taubert, as he informed me himself, thought he had won some credit on account of the extremely effective combinations he had arranged. In spite of this, I was absolutely convinced that I must abandon all hope of any lasting and profitable success from Berlin, and I could no longer hide from Lüttichau that, if I were to continue in the discharge of my duties with the necessary good spirits, I must insist on a rise of salary, as, beyond my regular income, I could not rely on any substantial success wherewith to meet my unlucky publishing transactions. My income was so small that I could not even live on it, but I asked nothing more than to be placed on an equal footing with my colleague Reissiger, a prospect which had been held out to me from the beginning.

At this juncture Lüttichau saw a favourable opportunity for making me feel my dependence on his goodwill, which could only be secured by my showing due deference to his wishes. After I had laid my case before the King, at a personal interview, and asked for the favour of the moderate increase in income which was my object, Lüttichau promised to make the report he was obliged to give of me as favourable as possible. How great was my consternation and humiliation when one day he opened our interview by telling me that his report had come back from the King. In it was set forth that I had unfortunately overestimated my talent on account of the foolish praise of various friends in a high position (among whom he counted Frau v. Konneritz), and had thus been led to consider that I had quite as good a right to success as Meyerbeer. I had thereby caused such serious offence that it might, perhaps, be considered advisable to dismiss me altogether. On the other hand, my industry and my praiseworthy performance with regard to the revision of Gluck’s Iphigenia, which had been brought to the notice of the management, might justify my being given another chance, in which case my material condition must be given due consideration. At this point I could read no further, and stupefied by surprise I gave my patron back the paper. He tried at once to remove the obviously bad impression it had made upon me by telling me that my wish had been granted, and I could draw the nine hundred marks belonging to me at once from the bank. I took my leave in silence, and pondered over what course of action I must pursue in face of this disgrace, as it was quite out of the question for me to accept the nine hundred marks.

But in the midst of these adversities a visit of the King of Prussia to Dresden was one day announced, and at the same time by his special request a performance of Tannhäuser was arranged. He really did make his appearance in the theatre at this performance in the company of the royal family of Saxony, and stayed with apparent interest from beginning to end. On this occasion the King gave a curious explanation for having stayed away from the performances of Rienzi in Berlin, which was afterwards reported to me. He said he had denied himself the pleasure of hearing one of my operas in Berlin, because it was important to get a good impression of them, and he knew that in his own theatre they would only be badly produced. This strange event had, at any rate, the result of giving me back sufficient self-confidence to accept the nine hundred marks of which I was in such desperate need.

Lüttichau also seemed to make a point of winning back my trust to some extent, and I gathered from his calm friendliness that I must suppose this wholly uncultured man had no consciousness of the outrage he had done me. He returned to the idea of having orchestral concerts, in accordance with the suggestions I had made in my rejected report on the orchestra, and in order to induce me to arrange such musical performances in the theatre, said the initiative had come from the management and not from the orchestra itself. As soon as I discovered that the profits were to go to the orchestra I willingly entered into the plan. By a special device of my own the stage of the theatre was made into a concert-hall (afterwards considered first-class) by means of a sounding board enclosing the whole orchestra, which proved a great success. In future six performances were to take place during the winter months. This time, however, as it was the end of the year, and we only had the second half of the winter before us, subscription tickets were issued for only three concerts, and the whole available space in the theatre was filled by the public. I found the preparations for this fairly diverting, and entered upon the fateful year 1848 in a rather more reconciled and amiable frame of mind.

Early in the New Year the first of these orchestral concerts took place, and brought me much popularity on account of its unusual programme. I had discovered that if any real significance were to be given to these concerts, in distinction to those consisting of heterogeneous scraps of music of every different species under the sun, and which are so opposed to all serious artistic taste, we could only afford to give two kinds of genuine music alternately if a good effect was to be produced. Accordingly between two symphonies I placed one or two longer vocal pieces, which were not to be heard elsewhere, and these were the only items in the whole concert. After the Mozart Symphony in D major, I made all the musicians move from their places to make room for an imposing choir, which had to sing Palestrina’s Stabat Mater, from an adaptation of the original recitative, which I had carefully revised, and Bach’s Motet for eight voices: Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied (‘Sing unto the Lord a new song’); thereupon I let the orchestra again take its place to play Beethoven’s Sinfonia Eroica, and with that to end the concert.

This success was very encouraging, and disclosed to me a somewhat consoling prospect of increasing my influence as musical conductor at a time when my disgust was daily growing stronger at the constant meddling with our opera repertoire, which made me lose more and more influence as compared with the wishes of my would-be prima donna niece, whom even Tichatschek supported. Immediately on my return from Berlin I had begun the orchestration of Lohengrin, and in all other respects had given myself up to greater resignation, which made me feel I could face my fate calmly, when I suddenly received a very disturbing piece of news.

In the beginning of February my mother’s death was announced to me. I at once hastened to her funeral at Leipzig, and was filled with deep emotion and joy at the wonderfully calm and sweet expression of her face. She had passed the latter years of her life, which had before been so active and restless, in cheerful ease, and at the end in peaceful and almost childlike happiness. On her deathbed she exclaimed in humble modesty, and with a bright smile on her face: ‘Oh! how beautiful! how lovely! how divine! Why do I deserve such favour?’ It was a bitterly cold morning when we lowered the coffin into the grave in the churchyard, and the hard, frozen lumps of earth which we scattered on the lid, instead of the customary handful of dust, frightened me by the loud noise they made. On the way home to the house of my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus, where the whole family were to gather together for an hour, Laube, of whom my mother had been very fond, was my only companion. He expressed his anxiety at my unusually exhausted appearance, and when he afterwards accompanied me to the station, we discussed the unbearable burden which seemed to us to lie like a dead weight on every noble effort made to resist the tendency of the time to sink into utter worthlessness. On my return to Dresden the realisation of my complete loneliness came over me for the first time with full consciousness, as I could not help knowing that with the loss of my mother every natural bond of union was loosened with my brothers and sisters, each of whom was taken up with his or her own family affairs. So I plunged dully and coldly into the only thing which could cheer and warm me, the working out of my Lohengrin and my studies of German antiquity.

Thus dawned the last days of February, which were to plunge Europe once more into revolution. I was among those who least expected a probable or even possible overthrow of the political world. My first knowledge of such things had been gained in my youth at the time of the July Revolution, and the long and peaceful reaction that followed it. Since then I had become acquainted with Paris, and from all the signs of public life which I saw there, I thought all that had occurred had been merely the preliminaries of a great revolutionary movement. I had been present at the erection of the forts detaches around Paris, which Louis Philippe had carried out, and been instructed about the strategic value of the various fixed sentries scattered about Paris, and I agreed with those who considered that everything was ready to make even an attempt at a rising on the part of the populace of Paris quite impossible. When, therefore, the Swiss War of Separation at the end of the previous year, and the successful Sicilian Revolution at the beginning of the New Year, turned all men’s eyes in great excitement to watch the effect of these risings on Paris, I did not take the slightest interest in the hopes and fears which were aroused. News of the growing restlessness in the French capital did indeed reach us, but I disputed Röckel’s belief that any significance could be attached to it. I was sitting in the conductor’s desk at a rehearsal of Martha when, during an interval, Röckel, with the peculiar joy of being in the right, brought me the news of Louis Philippe’s flight, and the proclamation of the Republic in Paris. This made a strange and almost astonishing impression on me, although at the same time the doubt as to the true significance of these events made it possible for me to smile to myself. I too caught the fever of excitement which had spread everywhere. The German March days were coming, and from all directions ever more alarming news kept coming in. Even within the narrow confines of my native Saxony serious petitions were framed, which the King withstood for a long time; even he was deceived, in a way which he was soon to acknowledge, as to the meaning of this commotion and the temper that prevailed in the country.

On the evening of one of these really anxious days, when the very air was heavy and full of thunder, we gave our third great orchestral concert, at which the King and his court were present, as on the two previous occasions. For the opening of this one I had chosen Mendelssohn’s Symphony in A minor, which I had played on the occasion of his funeral. The mood of this piece, which even in the would-be joyful phrases is always tenderly melancholy, corresponded strangely with the anxiety and depression of the whole audience, which was more particularly accentuated in the demeanour of the royal family. I did not conceal from Lipinsky, the leader of the orchestra, my regret at the mistake I had made in the arrangement of that day’s programme, as Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, also in a minor key, was to follow this minor symphony. With a merry twinkle in his eyes the eccentric Pole comforted me by exclaiming: ‘Oh, let us play only the first two movements of the Symphony in C minor, then no one will know whether we have played Mendelssohn in the major or the minor key.’ Fortunately before these two movements began, to our great surprise, a loud shout was raised by some patriotic spirit in the middle of the audience, who called out ‘Long live the King!’ and the cry was promptly repeated with unusual enthusiasm and energy on all sides. Lipinsky was perfectly right: the symphony, with the passionate and stormy excitement of the first theme, swelled out like a hurricane of rejoicing, and had seldom produced such an effect on the audience as on that night. This was the last of the newly inaugurated concerts that I ever conducted in Dresden.

Shortly after this the inevitable political changes took place. The King dismissed his ministry and elected a new one, consisting partly of Liberals and partly even of really enthusiastic Democrats, who at once proclaimed the well-known regulations, which are the same all over the world, for founding a thoroughly democratic constitution. I was really touched by this result, and by the heartfelt joy which was evident among the whole population, and I would have given much to have been able to gain access to the King, and convince myself of his hearty confidence in the people’s love for him, which seemed to me so desirable a consummation. In the evening the town was gaily illuminated, and the King drove through the streets in an open carriage. In the greatest excitement I went out among the dense crowds and followed his movements, often running where I thought it likely that a particularly hearty shout might rejoice and reconcile the monarch’s heart. My wife was quite frightened when she saw me come back late at night, tired out and very hoarse from shouting.

The events which took place in Vienna and Berlin, with their apparently momentous results, only moved me as interesting newspaper reports, and the meeting of a Frankfort parliament in the place of the dissolved Bundestag sounded strangely pleasant in my ears. Yet all these significant occurrences could not tear me for a single day from my regular hours of work. With immense, almost overweening satisfaction, I finished, in the last days of this eventful and historic month of March, the score of Lohengrin with the orchestration of the music up to the vanishing of the Knight of the Holy Grail into the remote and mystic distance.

About this time a young Englishwomen, Madame Jessie Laussot, who had married a Frenchman in Bordeaux, one day presented herself at my house in the company of Karl Ritter, who was barely eighteen years of age. This young man, who was born in Russia of German parents, was a member of one of those northern families who had settled down permanently in Dresden, on account of the pleasant artistic atmosphere of that place. I remembered that I had seen him once before not long after the first performance of Tannhäuser, when he asked me for my autograph for a copy of the score of that opera, which was on sale at the music-shop. I now learned that this copy really belonged to Frau Laussot, who had been present at those performances, and who was now introduced to me. Overcome with shyness, the young lady expressed her admiration in a way I had never experienced before, and at the same time told me how great was her regret at being called away by family affairs from her favourite home in Dresden with the Ritter family, who, she gave me to understand, were deeply devoted to me. It was with a strange, and in its way quite a new, sensation that I bade farewell to this young lady. This was the first time since my meeting with Alwine Frommann and Werder, when the Fliegender Holländer was produced, that I came across this sympathetic tone, which seemed to come like an echo from some old familiar past, but which I never heard close at hand. I invited young Ritter to come and see me whenever he liked, and to accompany me sometimes on my walks. His extraordinary shyness, however, seemed to prevent him from doing this, and I only remember seeing him very occasionally at my house. He used to turn up more often with Hans von Bulow, whom he seemed to know pretty well, and who had already entered the Leipzig University as a student of law. This well-informed and talkative young man showed his warm and hearty devotion to me more openly, and I felt bound to reciprocate his affection. He was the first person who made me realise the genuine character of the new political enthusiasm. On his hat, as well as on his father’s, the black, red, and gold cockade was paraded before my eyes.

Now that I had finished my Lohengrin, and had leisure to study the course of events, I could no longer help myself sympathising with the ferment aroused by the birth of German ideals and the hopes attached to their realisation. My old friend Franck had already imbued me with a fairly sound political judgment, and, like many others, I had grave doubts as to whether the German parliament now assembling would serve any useful purpose. Nevertheless, the temper of the populace, of which there could be no question, although it might not have been given very obvious expression, and the belief, everywhere prevalent, that it was impossible to return to the old conditions, could not fail to exercise its influence upon me. But I wanted actions instead of words, and actions which would force our princes to break for ever with their old traditions, which were so detrimental to the cause of the German commonwealth. With this object I felt inspired to write a popular appeal in verse, calling upon the German princes and peoples to inaugurate a great crusade against Russia, as the country which had been the prime instigator of that policy in Germany which had so fatally separated the monarchs from their subjects. One of the verses ran as follows:—

As I had no connection with political journals, and had learned by chance that Berthold Auerbach was on the staff of a paper in Mannheim, where the waves of revolution ran high, I sent him my poem with the request to do whatever he thought best with it, and from that day to this I have never heard or seen anything of it.

Whilst the Frankfort Parliament continued to sit on from day to day, and it seemed idle to conjecture whither this big talk by small men would lead, I was much impressed by the news which reached us from Vienna. In the May of this year an attempt at a reaction, such as had succeeded in Naples and remained indecisive in Paris, had been triumphantly nipped in the bud by the enthusiasm and energy of the Viennese people under the leadership of the students’ band, who had acted with such unexpected firmness. I had arrived at the conclusion that, in matters directly concerning the people, no reliance could be placed on reason or wisdom, but only on sheer force supported by fanaticism or absolute necessity; but the course of events in Vienna, where I saw the youth of the educated classes working side by side with the labouring man, filled me with peculiar enthusiasm, to which I gave expression in another popular appeal in verse. This I sent to the Oesterreichischen Zeitung, where it was printed in their columns with my full signature.

In Dresden two political unions had been formed, as a result of the great changes that had taken place. The first was called the Deutscher Verein (German Union), whose programme aimed at ‘a constitutional monarchy on the broadest democratic foundation.’ The names of its principal leaders, among which, in spite of its broad democratic foundation, my friends Eduard Devrient and Professor Rietschel had the courage openly to appear, guaranteed the safety of its objects. This union, which tried to include every element that regarded a real revolution with abhorrence, conjured into existence an opposition club which called itself the Vaterlands-Verein (Patriotic Union). In this the ‘democratic foundation’ seemed to be the chief basis, and the ‘constitutional monarchy’ only provided the necessary cloak.

Röckel canvassed passionately for the latter, as he seemed to have lost all confidence in the monarchy. The poor fellow was, indeed, in a very bad way. He had long ago given up all hope of rising to any position in the musical world; his directorship had become pure drudgery, and was, unfortunately, so badly paid that he could not possibly keep himself and his yearly increasing family on the income he derived from his post. He always had an unconquerable aversion from teaching, which was a fairly profitable employment in Dresden among the many wealthy visitors. So he went on from bad to worse, running miserably into debt, and for a long time saw no hope for his position as the father of a family except in emigration to America, where he thought he could secure a livelihood for himself and his dependants by manual labour, and for his practical mind by working as a farmer, from which class he had originally sprung. This, though tedious, would at least be certain. On our walks he had of late been entertaining me almost exclusively with ideas he had gleaned from reading books on farming, doctrines which he applied with zeal to the improvement of his encumbered position. This was the mood in which the Revolution of 1848 found him, and he immediately went over to the extreme socialist side, which, owing to the example set by Paris, threatened to become serious. Every one who knew him was utterly taken aback at the apparently vital change which had so suddenly taken place in him, when he declared that he had at last found his real vocation—that of an agitator.

His persuasive faculties, on which, however, he could not rely sufficiently for platform purposes, developed in private intercourse into stupefying energy. It was impossible to stop his flow of language with any objection, and those he could not draw over to his cause he cast aside for ever. In his enthusiasm about the problems which occupied his mind day and night, he sharpened his intellect into a weapon capable of demolishing every foolish objection, and suddenly stood in our midst like a preacher in the wilderness. He was at home in every department of knowledge. The Vaterlands-Verein had elected a committee for carrying into execution a plan for arming the populace; this included Röckel and other thoroughgoing democrats, and, in addition, certain military experts, among whom was my old friend Hermann Muller, the lieutenant of the Guards who had once been engaged to Schroder-Devrient. He and another officer named Zichlinsky were the only members of the Saxon army who joined the political movement. The part I played in the meetings of this committee, as in everything else, was dictated by artistic motives. As far as I can remember, the details of this plan, which at last became a nuisance, afforded very sound foundation for a genuine arming of the people, though it was impossible to carry it out during the political crisis.

My interest and enthusiasm about the social and political problems which were occupying the whole world increased every day, until public meetings and private intercourse, and the shallow platitudes which formed the staple eloquence of the orators of the day, proved to me the terrible shallowness of the whole movement.

If only I could rest assured that, while such senseless confusion was the order of the day, people well versed in these matters would withhold from any demonstration (which to my great regret I observed in Hermann Franck, and told him of, openly), then, on the contrary, I should feel myself compelled, as soon as the opportunity arose, to discuss the purport of such questions and problems according to my judgment. Needless to say, the newspapers played an exciting and prominent part on this occasion. Once, when I went incidentally (as I might go to see a play) to a meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein, when they were assembled in a public garden, they chose for the subject of their discussion, ‘Republic or Monarchy?’ I was astonished to hear and to read with what incredible triviality it was carried on, and how the sum-total of their explanation was, that, to be sure, a republic is best, but, at the worst, one could put up with a monarchy if it were well conducted. As the result of many heated discussions on this point, I was incited to lay bare my views on the subject in an article which I published in the DRESDENER ANZEIGER, but which I did not sign. My special aim was to turn the attention of the few who really took the matter seriously, from the external form of the government to its intrinsic value. When I had pursued and consistently discussed the utmost idealistic conclusions of all that which, to my mind, was necessary and inseparable from the perfect state and from social order, I inquired whether it would not be possible to realise all this with a king at the head, and entered so deeply into the matter as to portray the king in such a fashion, that he seemed even more anxious than any one else that his state should be organised on genuinely republican lines, in order that he might attain to the fulfilment of his own highest aims. I must own, however, that I felt bound to urge this king to assume a much more familiar attitude towards his people than the court atmosphere and the almost exclusive society of his nobles would seem to render possible. Finally, I pointed to the King of Saxony as being specially chosen by Fate to lead the way in the direction I had indicated, and to give the example to all the other German princes. Röckel considered this article a true inspiration from the Angel of Propitiation, but as he feared that it would not meet with proper recognition and appreciation in the paper, he urged me to lecture on it publicly at the next meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein for he attached great importance to my discoursing on the subject personally. Quite uncertain as to whether I could really persuade myself to do this, I attended the meeting, and there, owing to the intolerable balderdash uttered by a certain barrister named Blode and a master-furrier Klette, whom at that time Dresden venerated as a Demosthenes and a Cleon, I passionately decided to appear at this extraordinary tribunal with my paper, and to give a very spirited reading of it to about three thousand persons.

The success I had was simply appalling. The astounded audience seemed to remember nothing of the speech of the Orchestral Conductor Royal save the incidental attack I had made upon the court sycophants. The news of this incredible event spread like wildfire. The next day I rehearsed Rienzi, which was to be performed the following evening. I was congratulated on all sides upon my self-sacrificing audacity. On the day of the performance, however, I was informed by Eisolt, the attendant of the orchestra, that the plans had been changed, and he gave me to understand that thereby there hung a tale. True enough, the terrible sensation I had made became so great, that the directors feared the most unheard-of demonstrations at any performance of Rienzi. Then a perfect storm of derision and vituperation broke loose in the press, and I was besieged on all sides to such an extent that it was useless to think of self-defence. I had even offended the Communal Guard of Saxony, and was challenged by the commander to make a full apology. But the most inexorable enemies I made were the court officials, especially those holding a minor office, and to this day I still continue to be persecuted by them. I learned that, as far as it lay in their power, they incessantly besought the King, and finally the director, to deprive me at once of my office. On account of this I thought it necessary to write to the monarch personally, in order to explain to him that my action was to be regarded more in the light of a thoughtless indiscretion than as a culpable offence. I sent this letter to Herr von Lüttichau, begging him to deliver it to the King, and to arrange at the same time a short leave for me, so that the provoking disturbance should have a chance of dying down during my absence from Dresden. The striking kindness and goodwill which Herr von Lüttichau showed me on this occasion made no little impression upon me, and this I took no pains to conceal from him. As in the course of time, however, his ill-controlled rage at various things, and especially at a good deal that he had misunderstood in my pamphlet, broke loose, I learned that it was not from any humane motives that he had spoken in such a propitiatory manner to me, but rather by desire of the King himself. On this point I received most accurate information, and heard that when everybody, and even von Lüttichau himself, were besieging the King to visit me with punishment, the King had forbidden any further talk on the subject. After this very encouraging experience, I flattered myself that the King had understood not only my letter, but also my pamphlet, better than many others.

In order to change my mind a little, I determined for the present (it was the beginning of July) to take advantage of the short period of leave granted to me, by going to Vienna. I travelled by way of Breslau, where I looked up an old friend of my family, the musical director Mosewius, at whose house I spent an evening. We had a most lively conversation, but, unfortunately, were unable to steer clear of the stirring political questions of the day. What interested me most was his exceptionally large, or even, if I remember rightly, complete collection of Sebastian Bach’s cantatas in most excellent copies. Besides this, he related, with a humour quite his own, several amusing musical anecdotes which were a pleasant memory for many a year. When Mosewius returned my visit in the course of the summer at Dresden, I played a part of the first act of Lohengrin on the piano for him, and the expression of his genuine astonishment at this conception was very gratifying to me. In later years, however, I found that he had spoken somewhat scoffingly about me; but I did not stop to reflect as to the truth of this information, or as to the real character of the man, for little by little I had had to accustom myself to the most inconceivable things. At Vienna the first thing I did was to call on Professor Fischhof, as I knew that he had in his keeping important manuscripts, chiefly by Beethoven, among which the original of the C minor Sonata, opus 111, I was particularly curious to see. Through this new friend, whom I found somewhat dry, I made the acquaintance of Herr Vesque von Puttlingen, who, as the composer of a most insignificant opera (Joan of Arc), which had been performed in Dresden, had with cautious good taste adopted only the last two syllables of Beethoven’s name—Haven. One day we were at his house to dinner, and I then recognised in him a former confidential official of Prince Metternich, who now, with his ribbon of black, red, and gold, followed the current of the age, apparently quite convinced. I made another interesting acquaintance in the person of Herr von Fonton, the Russian state councillor, and attache at the Russian Embassy in Vienna. I frequently met this man, both at Fischhof’s house and on excursions into the surrounding country; and it was interesting to me for the first time to run up against a man who could so strongly profess his faith in the pessimistic standpoint, that a consistent despotism guarantees the only order of things which can be tolerated. Not without interest, and certainly not without intelligence—for he boasted of having been educated at the most enlightened schools in Switzerland—he listened to my enthusiastic narration of the art ideal which I had in my mind, and which was destined to exercise a great and decided influence upon the human race. As he had to allow that the realisation of this ideal could not be effected through the strength of despotism, and as he was unable to foresee any rewards for my exertions, by the time we came to the champagne he thawed to such a degree of affable good-nature as to wish me every success. I learned later on that this man, of whose talent and energetic character I had at the time no small opinion, was last heard of as being in great distress.

Now, as I never undertook anything whatever without some serious object in view, I had made up my mind to avail myself of this visit to Vienna, in order to try in some practical manner to promote my ideas for the reform of the theatre. Vienna seemed to me specially suitable for this purpose, as at that, time it had five theatres, all totally different in character, which were dragging on a miserable existence. I quickly worked out a plan, according to which these various theatres might be formed into a sort of co-operative organisation, and placed under one administration composed not only of active members, but also of all those having any literary connection with the theatre. With a view to submitting my plan to them, I then made inquiries about persons with such capacities as seemed most likely to answer my requirements. Besides Herr Friedrich Uhl, whom I had got to know at the very beginning through Fischer, and who did me very good service, I was told of a Herr Franck (the same, I presume, who later on published a big epic work called Tannhäuser), and a Dr. Pacher, an agent of Meyerbeer’s, and a pettifogger of whose acquaintance later on I was to have no reason to be proud. The most sympathetic, and certainly the most important, of those chosen by me for the conference meeting at Fischhof’s house, was undoubtedly Dr. Becher, a passionate and exceedingly cultivated man. He was the only one present who seriously followed the reading of my plan, although, of course, he by no means agreed with everything. I observed in him a certain wildness and vehemence, the impression of which returned to me very vividly some months later, when I heard of his being shot as a rebel who had participated in the October Insurrection at Vienna. For the present, then, I had to satisfy myself with having read the plan of my theatre reform to a few attentive listeners. All seemed to be convinced that the time was not opportune for putting forward such peaceable schemes of reform. On the other hand, Uhl thought it right to give me an idea of what was at present all the rage in Vienna, by taking me one evening to a political club of the most advanced tendencies. There I heard a speech by Herr Sigismund Englander, who shortly afterwards attracted much attention in the political monthly papers; the unblushing audacity with which he and others expressed themselves that evening with regard to the most dreaded persons in public power astounded me almost as much as the poverty of the political views expressed on that occasion. By way of contrast I received a very nice impression of Herr Grillparzer, the poet, whose name was like a fable to me, associated as it was, from my earliest days, with his Ahnfrau. I approached him also with respect to the matter of my theatre reform. He seemed quite disposed to listen in a friendly manner to what I had to say to him; he did not, however, attempt to conceal his surprise at my direct appeals and the personal demands I made of him. He was the first playwright I had ever seen in an official uniform.

After I had paid an unsuccessful visit to Herr Bauernfeld, relative to the same business, I concluded that Vienna was of no more use for the present, and gave myself up to the exceptionally stimulating impressions produced by the public life of the motley crowd, which of late had undergone such marked changes. If the student band, which was always represented in great numbers in the streets, had already amused me with the extraordinary constancy with which its members sported the German colours, I was very highly diverted by the effect produced when at the theatres I saw even the ices served by attendants in the black, red, and gold of Austria. At the Karl Theatre, in the Leopold quarter of the town, I saw a new farce, by Nestroy, which actually introduced the character of Prince Metternich, and in which this statesman, on being asked whether he had poisoned the Duke of Reichstadt, had to make his escape behind the wings as an unmasked sinner. On the whole, the appearance of this imperial city—usually so fond of pleasure—impressed one with a feeling of youthful and powerful confidence. And this impression was revived in me when I heard of the energetic participation of the youthful members of the population, during those fateful October days, in the defence of Vienna against the troops of Prince Windischgratz.

On the homeward journey I touched at Prague, where I found my old friend Kittl (who had grown very much more corpulent) still in the most terrible fright about the riotous events which had taken place there. He seemed to be of opinion that the revolt of the Tschech party against the Austrian Government was directed at him personally, and he thought fit to reproach himself with the terrible agitation of the time, which he believed he had specially inflamed by his composition of my operatic text of Die Franzosen vor Nizza, out of which a kind of revolutionary air seemed to have become very popular. To my great pleasure, on my homeward journey I had the company of Hänel the sculptor, whom I met on the steamer. There travelled with us also a Count Albert Nostitz, with whom he had just settled up his business concerning the statue of the Emperor Charles IV., and he was in the gayest mood, as the extremely insecure state of Austrian paper money had led to his being paid at a great profit to himself, in silver coin in accordance with his agreement. I was very pleased to find that, thanks to this circumstance, he was in such a confident mood, and so free from prejudice, that on, arriving at Dresden he accompanied me the whole way—a very long distance—from the landing-stage at which we had left the steamer to my house, in an open carriage; and this despite the fact that he very well knew that, only a few weeks before, I had caused a really terrible stir in this very city.

As far as the public were concerned, the storm seemed quite to have died down, and I was able to resume my usual occupations and mode of life without any further trouble. I am sorry to say, however, that my old worries and anxieties started afresh; I stood in great need of money, and had not the vaguest notion whither to go in search of it. I then examined very thoroughly the answer I had received during the preceding winter to my petition for a higher salary. I had left it unread, as the modifications made in it had already disgusted me. If I had till now believed that it was Herr von Lüttichau who had brought about the increase of salary I had demanded, in the shape of a supplement which I was to receive annually—in itself a humiliating thing—I now saw to my horror that all the time there had been no mention save of one single supplement, and that there was nothing to show that this should be repeated annually. On learning this, I saw that I should now be at the hopeless disadvantage of coming too late with a remonstrance if I should attempt to make one; so there was nothing left for me but to submit to an insult which, under the circumstances, was quite unprecedented. My feelings towards Herr von Lüttichau, which shortly before had been rather warm owing to his supposed kind attitude towards me during the last disturbance, now underwent a serious change, and I soon had a new reason (actually connected with the above-mentioned affair) for altering my favourable opinion of him, and for turning finally against him for good and all. He had informed me that the members of the Imperial Orchestra had sent him a deputation demanding my instant dismissal, as they thought that it affected their honour to be any longer under a conductor who had compromised himself politically to the extent which I had. He also informed me that he had not only reprimanded them very severely, but that he had also been at great pains to pacify them concerning me. All this, which Lüttichau had put in a highly favourable light, had latterly made me feel very friendly towards him. Then, however, as the result of inquiries into the matter, I heard accidentally through members of the orchestra that the facts of the case were almost exactly the reverse. What had happened was this, that the members of the Imperial Orchestra had been approached on all sides by the officials of the court, and had been not only earnestly requested to do what Lüttichau had declared they had done of their own accord, but also threatened with the displeasure of the King, and of incurring the strongest suspicion if they refused to comply. In order to protect themselves against this intrigue, and to avoid all evil consequences should they not take the required step, the musicians had turned to their principal, and had sent him a deputation, through which they declared that, as a corporation of artists, they did not in the least feel called upon to mix themselves up in a matter that did not concern them. Thus the halo with which my former attachment to Herr von Lüttichau had surrounded him at last disappeared for good and all, and it was chiefly my shame at having been so very much upset by his false conduct that now inspired me for ever with such bitter feelings for this man. What determined this feeling even more than the insults I had suffered, was the recognition of the fact that I was now utterly incapable of ever being able to enlist his influence in the cause of theatrical reform, which was so dear to me. It was natural that I should learn to attach ever less and less importance to the mere retention of the post of orchestral conductor on so extraordinarily inadequate and reduced a salary; and in keeping to this office, I merely bowed to what was an inevitable though purely accidental circumstance of a wretched fate. I did nothing to make the post more intolerable, but, at the same time, I moved not a finger to ensure its permanence.

The very next thing I must do was to attempt to establish my hopes of a larger income, so sadly doomed hitherto, upon a very much sounder basis. In this respect it occurred to me that I might consult my friend Liszt, and beg him to suggest a remedy for my grievous position. And lo and behold, shortly after those fateful March days, and not long before the completion of my Lohengrin score, to my very great delight and astonishment, the very man I wanted walked into my room. He had come from Vienna, where he had lived through the ‘Barricade Days,’ and he was going on to Weimar, where he intended to settle permanently. We spent an evening together at Schumann’s, had a little music, and finally began a discussion on Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, in which Liszt and Schumann differed so fundamentally that the latter, completely losing his temper, retired in a fury to his bedroom for quite a long time. This incident did indeed place us in a somewhat awkward position towards our host, but it furnished us with a most amusing topic of conversation on the way home, I have seldom seen Liszt so extravagantly cheerful as on that night, when, in spite of the cold and the fact that he was clad only in ordinary evening-dress, he accompanied first the music director Schubert, and then myself, to our respective homes. Subsequently I took advantage of a few days’ holiday in August to make an excursion to Weimar, where I found Liszt permanently installed and, as is well known, enjoying a life of most intimate intercourse with the Grand Duke. Even though he was unable to help me in my affairs, except by giving me a recommendation which finally proved useless, his reception of me on this short visit was so hearty and so exceedingly stimulating, that it left me profoundly cheered and encouraged. On returning to Dresden I tried as far as possible to curtail my expenses and to live within my means; and, as every means of assistance failed me, I resorted to the expedient of sending out a circular letter addressed jointly to my remaining creditors, all of whom were really friends; and in this I told them frankly of my situation, and enjoined them to relinquish their demands for an indefinite time, till my affairs took a turn for the better, as without this I should certainly never be in a position to satisfy them. By this means they would, at all events, be in a position to oppose my general manager, whom I had every reason to suspect of evil designs, and who would have been only too glad to seize any signs of hostility towards me, on the part of my creditors, as a pretext for taking the worst steps against me. The assurance I required was given me unhesitatingly; my friend Pusinelli, and Frau Klepperbein (an old friend of my mother’s), even going so far as to declare that they were prepared to give up all claim to the money they had lent me. Thus, in some measure reassured, and with my position relative to Lüttichau so far improved that I could consult my own wishes as to whether and when I should give up my post entirely, I now continued to fulfil my duties as a conductor as patiently and conscientiously as I was able, while with great zeal I also resumed my studies, which were carrying me ever further and further afield.

Thus settled, I now began to watch the wonderful developments in the fate of my friend Röckel. As every day brought fresh rumours of threatened reactionary coups d’etat and similar violent outbreaks, which Röckel thought it right to prevent, he drew up an appeal to the soldiers of the army of Saxony, in which he explained every detail of the cause for which he stood, and which he then had printed and distributed broadcast. This was too flagrant a misdeed for the public prosecutors: he was therefore immediately placed under arrest, and had to remain three days in gaol while an action for high treason was lodged against him. He was only released when the solicitor Minkwitz stood bail for the requisite three thousand marks (equal to L150). This return home to his anxious wife and children was celebrated by a little public festival, which the committee of the Vaterlands-Verein had arranged in his honour, and the liberated man was greeted as the champion of the people’s cause. On the other hand, however, the general management of the court theatre, who had before suspended him temporarily, now gave him his final dismissal. Röckel let a full beard grow, and began the publication of a popular journal called the Volksblatt, of which he was sole editor. He must have counted on its success to compensate him for the loss of his salary as musical director, for he at once hired an office in the Brudergasse for his undertaking. This paper succeeded in attracting the attention of a great many people to its editor, and showed up his talents in quite a new light, he never got involved in his style or indulged in any elaboration of words, but confined himself to matters of immediate importance and general interest; it was only after having discussed them in a calm and sober fashion, that he led up from them to further deductions of still greater interest connected with them. The individual articles were short, and never contained anything superfluous, in addition to which they were so clearly written, that they made an instructive and convincing appeal to the most uneducated mind. By always going to the root of things, instead of indulging in circumlocutions which, in politics, have caused such great confusion in the minds of the uneducated masses, he soon had a large circle of readers, both among cultivated and uncultivated people. The only drawback was that the price of the little weekly paper was too small to yield him a corresponding profit. Moreover, it was necessary to warn him that if the reactionary party should ever come into power again, it could never possibly forgive him for this newspaper. His younger brother, Edward, who was paying a visit at the time in Dresden, declared himself willing to accept a post as piano-teacher in England, which, though most uncongenial to him, would be lucrative and place him in a position to help Röckel’s family, if, as seemed probable, he met his reward in prison or on the gallows. Owing to his connection with various societies, his time was so much taken up that my intercourse with him was limited to walks, which became more and more rare. On these occasions I often got lost in the most wildly speculative and profound discussions, while this wonderfully exciteable man always remained calmly reflective and clear-headed. First and foremost, he had planned a drastic social reform of the middle classes—as at present constituted—by aiming at a complete alteration of the basis of their condition. He constructed a totally new moral order of things, founded on the teaching of Proudhon and other socialists regarding the annihilation of the power of capital, by immediately productive labour, dispensing with the middleman. Little by little he converted me, by most seductive arguments, to his own views, to such an extent that I began to rebuild my hopes for the realisation of my ideal in art upon them. Thus there were two questions which concerned me very nearly: he wished to abolish matrimony, in the usual acceptation of the word, altogether. I thereupon asked him what he thought the result would be of promiscuous intercourse with women of a doubtful character. With amiable indignation he gave me to understand that we could have no idea about the purity of morals in general, and of the relations of the sexes in particular, so long as we were unable to free people completely from the yoke of the trades, guilds, and similar coercive institutions. He asked me to consider what the only motive would be which would induce a woman to surrender herself to a man, when not only the considerations of money, fortune, position, and family prejudices, but also the various influences necessarily arising from these, had disappeared. When I, in my turn, asked him whence he would obtain persons of great intellect and of artistic ability, if everybody were to be merged in the working classes, he met my objection by replying, that owing to the very fact that everybody would participate in the necessary labour according to his strength and capacity, work would cease to be a burden, and would become simply an occupation which would finally assume an entirely artistic character. He demonstrated this on the principle that, as had already been proved, a field, worked laboriously by a single peasant, was infinitely less productive than when cultivated by several persons in a scientific way. These and similar suggestions, which Röckel communicated to me with a really delightful enthusiasm, led me to further reflections, and gave birth to new plans upon which, to my mind, a possible organisation of the human race, which would correspond to my highest ideals in art, could alone be based. In reference to this, I immediately turned my thoughts to what was close at hand, and directed my attention to the theatre. The motive for this came not only from my own feelings, but also from external circumstances. In accordance with the latest democratic suffrage laws, a general election seemed imminent in Saxony; the election of extreme radicals, which had now taken place nearly everywhere else, showed us that if the movement lasted, there would be the most extraordinary changes even in the administration of the revenue. Apparently a general resolution had been passed to subject the Civil List to a strict revision; all that was deemed superfluous in the royal household was to be done away with; the theatre, as an unnecessary place of entertainment for a depraved portion of the public, was threatened with the withdrawal of the subsidy granted it from the Civil List. I now resolved, in view of the importance which I attached to the theatre, to suggest to the ministers that they should inform the members of parliament, that if the theatre in its present condition were not worth any sacrifice from the state, it would sink to still more doubtful tendencies—and might even become dangerous to public morals—if deprived of that state control which had for its aim the ideal, and, at the same time, felt itself called upon to place culture and education under its beneficial protection. It was of the highest importance to me to secure an organisation of the theatre, which would make the carrying out its loftiest ideals not only a possibility but also a certainty. Accordingly I drew up a project by which the same sum as that which was allotted from the Civil List for the support of a court theatre should be employed for the foundation and upkeep of a national theatre for the kingdom of Saxony. In showing the practical nature of the well-planned particulars of my scheme, I defined them with such great precision, that I felt assured my work would serve as a useful guide to the ministers as to how they should put this matter before parliament. The point now was to have a personal interview with one of the ministers, and it occurred to me that the best man to apply to in the matter would be Herr von der Pfordten, the Minister of Education. Although he already enjoyed the reputation of being a turncoat in politics, and was said to be struggling to efface the origin of his political promotion, which had taken place at a time of great agitation, the mere fact of his having formerly been a professor was sufficient to make me suppose that he was a man with whom I could discuss the question that I had so much at heart. I learned, however, that the real art institutions of the kingdom, such, for instance, as the Academy of Fine Arts, to whose number I so ardently desired to see the theatre added, belonged to the department of the Minister of the Interior. To this man—the worthy though not highly cultivated or artistic Herr Oberlander—I submitted my plans, not, however, without having first made myself known to Herr von der Pfordten, in order, for the reasons above stated, to command my project to him. This man, who apparently was very busy, received me in a polite and reassuring manner; but his whole bearing, indeed the very expression of his face, seemed to destroy all hopes I might ever have cherished of finding in him that understanding which I had expected. The minister Oberlander, on the other hand, earned my confidence by the straightforward earnestness with which he promised a thorough inquiry into the matter. Unfortunately, however, at the same time, he informed me with the most simple frankness, that he could entertain but very little hope of getting the King’s authorisation for any unusual treatment of a question hitherto given over to routine. It must be understood that the relations of the King to his ministers were both strained and unconfidential, and that this was more especially so in the case of Oberlander, who never approached the monarch on any other business than that which the strictest discharge of his current duties rendered indispensable. He therefore thought it would be better if my plan could be brought forward, in the first place, by the Chamber of Deputies. As, in the event of the new Civil List being discussed, I was particularly anxious to avoid the question of the continuation of the court theatre being treated in the ignorant and shortsighted radical fashion, which was to be feared above all, I did not despair of making the acquaintance of some of the most influential among the new members of parliament. In this wise I found myself suddenly plunged into quite a new and strange world, and became acquainted with persons and opinions, the very existence of which until then I had not even suspected. I found it somewhat trying always to be obliged to meet these gentlemen at their beer and shrouded in the dense clouds of their tobacco smoke, and to have to discuss with them matters which, though very dear to me, must have seemed a little fantastic to their mind. After a certain Herr von Trutschler, a very handsome, energetic man, whose seriousness was almost gloomy, had listened to me calmly for some time, and had told me that he no longer knew anything about the state, but only about society, and that the latter would know, without either his or my aid, how it should act in regard to art and to the theatre, I was filled with such extraordinary feelings, half mingled with shame, that there and then I gave up, not only all my exertions, but all my hopes as well. The only reminder I ever had of the whole affair came some while, after when, on meeting Herr von Lüttichau, I quickly gathered from his attitude to me that he had got wind of the episode, and that it only inspired him with fresh hostility towards me.

During my walks, which I now took absolutely alone, I thought ever more deeply—and much to the relief of my mind—over my ideas concerning that state of human society for which the boldest hopes and efforts of the socialists and communists, then busily engaged in constructing their system, offered me but the roughest foundation. These efforts could begin to have some meaning and value for me only when they had attained to that political revolution and reconstruction which they aimed at; for it was only then that I, in my turn, could start my reforms in art.

At the same time my thoughts were busy with a drama, in which the Emperor Frederick I. (surnamed ‘Barbarossa’) was to be the hero. In it the model ruler was portrayed in a manner which lent him the greatest and most powerful significance. His dignified resignation at the impossibility of making his ideals prevail was intended not only to present a true transcript of the arbitrary multifariousness of the things of this world, but also to arouse sympathy for the hero. I wished to carry out this drama in popular rhyme, and in the style of the German used by our epic poets of the Middle Ages, and in this respect the poem Alexander, by the priest Lambert, struck me as a good example; but I never got further with this play than to sketch its outline in the broadest manner possible. The five acts were planned in the following manner: Act i. Imperial Diet in the Roncaglian fields, a demonstration of the significance of imperial power which should extend even to the investiture of water and air; Act ii. the siege and capture of Milan; Act iii. revolt of Henry the Lion and his overthrow at Ligano; Act iv. Imperial Diet in Augsburg, the humiliation and punishment of Henry the Lion; Act v. Imperial Diet and grand court assembly at Mainz; peace with the Lombards, reconciliation with the Pope, acceptance of the Cross, and the departure for the East. I lost all interest, however, in the carrying out of this dramatic scheme directly I discovered its resemblance to the subject-matter of the Nibelungen and Siegfried myths, which possessed a more powerful attraction for me. The points of similarity which I recognised between the history and the legend in question then induced me to write a treatise on the subject; and in this I was assisted by some stimulating monographs (found in the royal library), written by authors whose names have now escaped my memory, but which taught me in a very attractive manner a considerable amount about the old original kingdom of Germany. Later on I published this fairly extensive essay with the title of Die Nibelungen, but in working it out I finally lost all inclination to elaborate the historical material for a real drama.

In direct connection with this I began to sketch a clear summary of the form which the old original Nibelungen myth had assumed in my mind in its immediate association with the mythological legend of the gods—a form which, though full of detail, was yet much condensed in its leading features. Thanks to this work, I was able to convert the chief part of the material itself into a musical drama. It was only by degrees, however, and after long hesitation that I dared to enter more deeply into my plans for this work; for the thought of the practical realisation of such a work on our stage literally appalled me. I must confess that it required all the despair which I then felt of ever having the chance of doing anything more for our theatre, to give me the necessary courage to begin upon this new work. Until that time I simply allowed myself to drift, while I meditated listlessly upon the possibility of things pursuing their course further under the existing circumstances. In regard to Lohengrin, I had got to that point when I hoped for nothing more than the best possible production of it at the Dresden theatre, and felt that I should have to be satisfied in all respects, and for all time, if I were able to achieve even that. I had duly announced the completion of the score to Herr von Lüttichau; but, in consideration of the unfavourable nature of my circumstances at the time, I had left it entirely to him to decide when my work should be produced.

Meanwhile the time arrived when the keeper of the Archives of the Royal Orchestra called to mind that it was just three hundred years since this royal institution had been founded, and that a jubilee would therefore have to be celebrated. To this end a great concert festival was planned, the programme of which was to be made up of the compositions of all the Saxon orchestral conductors that had lived since the institution had been founded. The whole body of musicians, with both their conductors at their head, were first to present their grateful homage to the King in Pillnitz; and on this occasion a musician was, for the first time, to be elevated to the rank of Knight of the Civil Order of Merit of Saxony. This musician was my colleague Reissiger. Until then he had been treated by the court, and by the manager himself, in the most scornful manner possible, but had, owing to his conspicuous loyalty at this critical time, especially to me, found exceptional favour in the eyes of our committees. When he appeared before the public decorated with the wonderful order, he was greeted with great jubilation by the loyal audience that filled the theatre on the evening of the festival concert. His overture to Yelva was also received with a perfect uproar of enthusiastic applause, such as had never fallen to his lot; whereas the finale of the first act from Lohengrin, which was produced as the work of the youngest conductor, was accorded only an indifferent reception. This was all the more strange as I was quite unaccustomed to such coolness in regard to my work on the part of the Dresden public. Following upon the concert, there was a festive supper, and when this was over, as all kinds of speeches were being made, I freely proclaimed to the orchestra, in a loud and decided tone, my views as to what was desirable for their perfection in the future. Hereupon Marschner, who, as a former musical conductor in Dresden, had been invited to the jubilee celebrations, expressed the opinion that I should do myself a great deal of harm by holding too good an opinion of the musicians. He said I ought just to consider how uncultivated these people were with whom I had to deal; he pointed out that they were trained simply for the one instrument they played; and asked me whether I did not think that by discoursing to them on the aspirations of art I would produce not only confusion, but even perhaps bad blood? Far more pleasant to me than these festivities is the remembrance of the quiet memorial ceremony which united us on the morning of the Jubilee Day, with the object of placing wreaths on Weber’s grave. As nobody could find a word to utter, and even Marschner was able to give expression only to the very driest and most trivial of speeches about the departed master, I felt it incumbent upon me to say a few heartfelt words concerning the memorial ceremony for which we were gathered together. This brief spell of artistic activity was speedily broken by fresh excitements, which kept pouring in upon us from the political world. The events of October in Vienna awakened our liveliest sympathy, and our walls daily blazed with red and black placards, with summonses to march on Vienna, with the curse of ‘Red Monarchy,’ as opposed to the hated ‘Red Republic,’ and with other equally startling matter. Except for those who were best informed as to the course of events—and who certainly did not swarm in our streets—these occurrences aroused great uneasiness everywhere. With the entry of Windischgratz into Vienna, the acquittal of Frobel and the execution of Blum, it seemed as though even Dresden were on the eve of an explosion. A vast demonstration of mourning was organised for Blum, with an endless procession through the streets. At the head marched the ministry, among whom the people were particularly glad to see Herr von der Pfordten taking a sympathetic share in the ceremony, as he had already become an object of suspicion to them. From that day gloomy forebodings of disaster grew ever more prevalent on every side. People even went so far as to say, with little attempt at circumlocution, that the execution of Blum had been an act of friendship on the part of the Archduchess Sophia to her sister, the Queen of Saxony, for during his agitation in Leipzig the man had made himself both hated and feared. Troops of Viennese fugitives, disguised as members of the student bands, began to arrive in Dresden, and made a formidable addition to its population, which from this time forth paraded the streets with ever-increasing confidence. One day, as I was on my way to the theatre to conduct a performance of Rienzi, the choir-master informed me that several foreign gentlemen had been asking for me. Thereupon half a dozen persons presented themselves, greeted me as a brother democrat, and begged me to procure them free entrance tickets. Among them I recognised a former dabbler in literature, a man named Hafner, a little hunchback, in a Calabrian hat cocked at a terrific angle, to whom I had been introduced by Uhl on the occasion of my visit to the Vienna political club. Great as was my embarrassment at this visit, which evidently astonished our musicians, I felt in no wise compelled to make any compromising admission, but quietly went to the booking-office, took six tickets and handed them to my strange visitors, who parted from me before all the world with much hearty shaking of hands. Whether this evening call improved my position as musical conductor in Dresden in the minds of the theatrical officials and others, may well be doubted; but, at all events, on no occasion was I so frantically called for after every act as at this particular performance of Rienzi.

Indeed, at this time I seemed to have won over to my side a party of almost passionate adherents among the theatre-going public, in opposition to the clique which had shown such marked coldness on the occasion of the gala concert already mentioned. It mattered not whether Tannhäuser or Rienzi were being played, I was always greeted with special applause; and although the political tendencies of this party may have given our management some cause for alarm, yet it forced them to regard me with a certain amount of awe. One day Lüttichau proposed to have my Lohengrin performed at an early date. I explained my reasons for not having offered it to him before, but declared myself ready to further his wishes, as I considered the opera company was now sufficiently powerful. The son of my old friend, F. Heine, had just returned from Paris, where he had been sent by the Dresden management to study scene-painting under the artists Desplechin and Dieterle. By way of testing his powers, with a view to an engagement at the Dresden Royal Theatre, the task of preparing suitable scenery for this opera was entrusted to him. He had already asked permission to do this for Lohengrin at the instigation of Lüttichau, who wished to call attention to my latest work. Consequently, when I gave my consent, young Heine’s wish was granted.

I regarded this turn of events with no little satisfaction, believing that in the study of this particular work I should find a wholesome and effective diversion from all the excitement and confusion of recent events. My horror, therefore, was all the greater, when young Wilhelm Heine one day came to my room with the news that the scenery for Lohengrin had been suddenly countermanded, and instructions given him to prepare for another opera. I did not make any remark, nor ask the reason for this singular behaviour. The assurances which Luttichan afterwards made to my wife—if they were really true—made me regret having laid the chief blame for this mortification at his door, and having thereby irrevocably alienated my sympathy from him. When she asked him about this many years later, he assured her that he had found the court vehemently hostile to me, and that his well-meant attempts to produce my work had met with insuperable obstacles.

However that may have been, the bitterness I now experienced wrought a decisive effect upon my feelings. Not only did I relinquish all hope of a reconciliation with the theatre authorities by a splendid production of my Lohengrin, but I determined to turn my back for ever on the theatre, and to make no further attempt to meddle with its concerns. By this act I expressed not merely my utter indifference as to whether I kept my position as musical conductor or no, but my artistic ambitions also entirely cut me off from all possibility of ever cultivating modern theatrical conditions again.

I at once proceeded to execute my long-cherished plans for Siegfried’s Tod, which I had been half afraid of before. In this work I no longer gave a thought to the Dresden or any other court theatre in the world; my sole preoccupation was to produce something that should free me, once and for all, from this irrational subservience. As I could get nothing more from Röckel in this connection, I now corresponded exclusively with Eduard Devrient on matters connected with the theatre and dramatic art. When, on the completion of my poem, I read it to him, he listened with amazement, and at once realised the fact that such a production would be an absolute drug in the modern theatrical market, and he naturally could not agree to let it remain so. On the other hand, he tried so far to reconcile himself to my work as to try and make it less startling and more adapted for actual production. He proved the sincerity of his intentions by pointing out my error in asking too much of the public, and requiring it to supply from its own knowledge many things necessary for a right under-standing of my subject-matter, at which I had only hinted in brief and scattered suggestions. He showed me, for instance, that before Siegfried and Brunhilda are displayed in a position of bitter hostility towards each other, they ought first to have been presented in their true and calmer relationship. I had, in fact, opened the poem of SIEGFRIED’S TOD with those scenes which now form the first act of the GOTTERDAMMERUNG. The details of Siegfried’s relation to Brunhilda had been merely outlined to the listeners in a lyrico-episodical dialogue between the hero’s wife, whom he had left behind in solitude, and a crowd of Valkyries passing before her rock. To my great joy, Devrient’s hint on this point directed my thoughts to those scenes which I afterwards worked out in the prologue of this drama.

This and other matters of a similar nature brought me into intimate contact with Eduard Devrient, and made our intercourse much more lively and pleasant. He often invited a select circle of friends to attend dramatic readings at his house in which I gladly took part, for I found, to my surprise, that his gift for declamation, which quite forsook him on the stage, here stood out in strong relief. It was, moreover, a consolation to pour into a sympathetic ear my worries about my growing unpopularity with the director. Devrient seemed particularly anxious to prevent a definite breach; but of this there was little hope. With the approach of winter the court had returned to town, and once more frequented the theatre, and various signs of dissatisfaction in high quarters with my behaviour as conductor began to be manifested. On one occasion the Queen thought that I had conducted NORMA badly, and on another that I ‘had taken the time wrongly’ in ROBERT THE DEVIL. As Luettichau had to communicate these reprimands to me, it was natural that our intercourse at such times should hardly be of a nature to restore our mutual satisfaction with each other.

Notwithstanding all this, it still seemed possible to prevent matters from coming to a crisis, though everything continued in a state of agitating uncertainty and fermentation. At all events the forces of reaction, which were holding themselves in readiness on every side, were not yet sufficiently certain that the hour of their triumph had come as not to consider it advisable for the present, at least, to avoid all provocation. Consequently our management did not meddle with the musicians of the royal orchestra, who, in obedience to the spirit of the times, had formed a union for debate and the protection of their artistic and civic interests. In this matter one of our youngest musicians, Theodor Uhlig, had been particularly active. He was a young man, still in his early twenties, and was a violinist in the orchestra. His face was strikingly mild, intelligent and noble, and he was conspicuous among his fellows on account of his great seriousness and his quiet but unusually firm character. He had particularly attracted my notice on several occasions by his quick insight and extensive knowledge of music. As I recognised in him a spirit keenly alert in every direction, and unusually eager for culture, it was not long before I chose him as my companion in my regular walks—a habit I still continued to cultivate—and on which Roeckel had hitherto accompanied me. He induced me to come to a meeting of this union of the orchestral company, in order that I might form an opinion about it, and encourage and support so praiseworthy a movement. On this occasion I communicated to its members the contents of my memorandum to the director, which had been rejected a year before, and in which I had made suggestions for reforms in the band, and I also explained further intentions and plans arising therefrom. At the same time I was obliged to confess that I had lost all hope of carrying out any projects of the kind through the general management, and must therefore recommend them to take the initiative vigorously into their own hands. They acclaimed the idea with enthusiastic approval. Although, as I have said before, Luettichau left these musicians unmolested in their more or less democratic union, yet he took care to be informed through spies of what took place at their highly treasonable gatherings. His chief instrument was a bugler named Lewy, who, much to the disgust of all his comrades in the orchestra, was in particularly high favour with the director. He consequently received precise, or rather exaggerated, accounts of my appearance there, and thought it was now high time to let me once more feel the weight of his authority. I was officially summoned to his presence, and had to listen to a long and wrathful tirade which he had been bottling up for some time about several matters. I also learned that he knew all about the plan of theatre reform which I had laid before the ministry. This knowledge he betrayed in a popular Dresden phrase, which until then I had never heard; he knew very well, he said, that in a memorandum respecting the theatre I had ‘made him look ridiculous’ (ihm an den Laden gelegt). In answer to this I did not refrain from telling him how I intended to act in retaliation, and when he threatened to report me to the King and demand my dismissal, I calmly replied that he might do as he pleased, as I was well assured that I could rely on his Majesty’s justice to hear, not only his charges, but also my defence. Moreover, I added, this was the only befitting manner for me to discuss with the King the many points on which I had to complain, not only in my own interests, but also in those of the theatre and of art. This was not pleasant hearing for Lüttichau, and he asked how it was possible for him to try and co-operate with me, when I for my part had openly declared (to use his own expression) that all labour was wasted upon him (Hopfen und Malz verloren seien). We had at last to part with mutual shruggings of the shoulder. My conduct seemed to trouble my former patron, and he therefore enlisted the tact and moderation of Eduard Devrient in his service, and asked him to use his influence with me to facilitate some further arrangement between us. But, in spite of all his zeal, Devrient had to admit with a smile, after we had discussed his message, that nothing much could be done; and as I persisted in my refusal to meet the director again in consultation respecting the service of the theatre, he had at last to recognise that his own wisdom would have to help him out of the difficulty.

Throughout the whole period during which I was fated to fill the post of conductor at Dresden, the effects of this dislike on the part of the court and the director continued to make themselves felt in everything. The orchestral concerts, which had been organised by me in the previous winter, were this year placed under Reissiger’s control, and at once sank to the usual level of ordinary concerts. Public interest quickly waned, and the undertaking could only with difficulty be kept alive. In opera I was unable to carry out the proposed revival of the Fliegender Holländer, for which I had found in Mitterwurzer’s maturer talent an admirable and promising exponent. My niece Johanna, whom I had destined for the part of Senta, did not like the role, because it offered little opportunity for splendid costumes. She preferred ZAMPA and FAVORITA, partly to please her new protector, my erstwhile RIENZI enthusiast, Tichatschck, partly for the sake of THREE BRILLIANT COSTUMES which the management had to furnish for each of these parts. In fact, these two ringleaders of the Dresden opera of that day had formed an alliance of rebellion against my vigorous rule in the matter of operatic repertoire. Their opposition, to my great discomfiture, was crowned by success when they secured the production of this FAVORITA of Donizetti’s, the arrangement of which I had once been obliged to undertake for Schlesinger in Paris. I had at first emphatically refused to have anything to do with this opera, although its principal part suited my niece’s voice admirably, even in her father’s judgment. But now that they knew of my feud with the director, and of my voluntary loss of influence, and finally of my evident disgrace, they thought the opportunity ripe for compelling me to conduct this tiresome work myself, as it happened to be my turn.

Besides this, my chief occupation at the royal theatre during this period consisted in conducting Flotow’s opera MARTHA, which, although it failed to attract the public, was nevertheless produced with excessive frequency, owing to its convenient cast. On reviewing the results of my labours in Dresden—where I had now been nearly seven years—I could not help feeling humiliated when I considered the powerful and energetic impetus I knew I had given in many directions to the court theatre, and I found myself obliged to confess that, were I now to leave Dresden, not, the smallest trace of my influence would remain behind. From various signs I also gathered that, if ever it should come to a trial before the King between the director and myself, even if his Majesty were in my favour, yet out of consideration for the courtier the verdict would go against me.

Nevertheless, on Palm Sunday of the new year, 1849, I received ample amends. In order to ensure liberal receipts, our orchestra had again decided to produce Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Every one did his utmost to make this one of our finest performances, and the public took up the matter with real enthusiasm. Michael Bakunin, unknown to the police, had been present at the public rehearsal. At its close he walked unhesitatingly up to me in the orchestra, and said in a loud voice, that if all the music that had ever been written were lost in the expected world-wide conflagration, we must pledge ourselves to rescue this symphony, even at the peril of our lives. Not many weeks after this performance it really seemed as though this world-wide conflagration would actually be kindled in the streets of Dresden, and that Bakunin, with whom I had meanwhile become more closely associated through strange and unusual circumstances, would undertake the office of chief stoker.