Life of Wagner - Biographies of Musicians

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Title: Life of Wagner - Biographies of Musicians
Author: Nohl, Louis
Language: English
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_BIOGRAPHIES OF MUSICIANS._

LIFE OF WAGNER

LOUIS NOHL

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

GEORGE P. UPTON.

"_Who better than the poet can guide?_"

CHICAGO:
JANSEN, McCLURG & COMPANY.
1884.

BIOGRAPHIES OF MUSICIANS.

LIFE OF MOZART, From the German of Dr. LOUIS NOHL. With Portrait.
Price $1.25.

II.

LIFE OF BEETHOVEN, From the German of Dr. LOUIS NOHL. With Portrait.
Price $1.25.

III.

LIFE OF HAYDN, From the German of Dr. LOUIS NOHL. With Portrait. Price
$1.25.

IV.

LIFE OF WAGNER, From the German of Dr. LOUIS NOHL. With Portrait.
Price $1.25.

JANSEN, McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.

[Illustration: RICHARD WAGNER.]

PREFACE.

The masters of music, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, advanced this
art beyond the limits of their predecessors by identifying themselves
more closely with the development of active life itself. By their
creative power they invested the life of the nation and mankind with
profounder thought, culminating at last in the most sublime of our
possessions--religion. No artist has followed in their course with
more determined energy than Richard Wagner, as well he might, for with
equal intellectual capacity, the foundation of his education was
broader and deeper than that of the classic masters; while on the
other hand the development of our national character during his long
active career, became more vigorous and diversified as the ideas of
the poets and thinkers were more and more realized and reflected in
our life. Wagner's development was as harmonious as that of the three
classic masters, and all his struggles, however violent at times, only
cleared his way to that high goal where we stand with him to-day and
behold the free unfolding of all our powers. This goal is the entire
combination of all the phases of art into one great work: the
music-drama, in which is mirrored every form of human existence up to
the highest ideal life. As this music-drama rests historically upon
the opera it is but natural that the second triumvirate of German
music should be composed of the founder of German opera, C. M. von
Weber, the reformer of the old opera, Christoph Wilibald Gluck, and
Richard Wagner. To trace therefore the development of the youngest of
these masters, will lead us to consider theirs as well, and in doing
this the knowledge of what he is will disclose itself to us.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE.

Just as this volume is going to press the announcement comes from
Germany that the prize offered by the Prague Concordia for the best
essay on "Wagner's Influence upon the National Art" has been adjudged
to Louis Nohl, an honor which will lend additional interest to this
little volume.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

WAGNER'S EARLY YOUTH.

His Birth--The Father's Death--His Mother Remarries--Removal
to Dresden--Theatre and Music--At School--Translation of
Homer--Through Poetry to Music--Returning to Leipzig--Beethoven's
Symphonies--Resolution to be a Musician--Conceals this
Resolution--Composes Music and Poetry--His Family distrusts his
Talent--"Romantic" Influences--Studies of Thoroughbass--Overture in
B major--Theodor Weinlig--Full Understanding of Mozart--Beethoven's
Influence--The Genius of German Art--Preparatory Studies ended 9-22

CHAPTER II.

STORM AND STRESS.

In Vienna--His Symphony Performed--Modern Ideas--"The
Fairies"--"Das Liebesverbot"--Becomes Kapellmeister--Mina
Planer--Hard Times--Experiences and Studies--"Rienzi"--Paris--First
Disappointments--A Faust Overture--Revival of the German
Genius--Struggle for Existence--"The Flying Dutchman"--Historical
Studies--Returning to Germany 22-44

CHAPTER III.

REVOLUTION IN LIFE AND ART.

Success and Recognition--Hofkapellmeister to the Saxon Court--New
Clouds--"Tannhaeuser" Misunderstood--The Myths of "The Flying
Dutchman" and "Tannhaeuser"--Aversion to Meyerbeer--The Religious
Element--"Lohengrin"--The Idea of "Lohengrin"--Wagner's
Revolutionary Sympathies--The Revolution of 1848--The Poetic Part
of "Siegfried's Death"--The Revolt in Dresden--Flight from
Dresden--"Siegfried Words." 45-72

CHAPTER IV.

EXILE.

Visit to Liszt--Flight to Foreign Lands--Three
Pamphlets--"Lohengrin" Performed--Wagner's Musical Ideas Expressed
in Words--Resumption of the Nibelungen Poem--The Idea of the
Poem--Its Religious Element--The First Music-Drama--In Zurich--New
Art Ideas--Increasing Fame--"Tristan and Isolde"--Analysis of this
Work--In Paris Again--The Amnesty--Tannhaeuser at the "Grand
Opera"--"Lohengrin" in Vienna--Resurrection of the "Mastersingers
of Nuremberg"--Final Return to Germany 73-105

CHAPTER V.

MUNICH.

Successful Concerts--Plans for a New Theatre--Offenbach's Music
Preferred--Concerts Again--New Hindrances and Disappointments--King
Louis of Bavaria--Rescue and Hope--New Life--Schnorr--"Tannhaeuser"
Reproduced--Great Performance of "Tristan"--Enthusiastic
Applause--Death of Schnorr--Opposition of the Munich Public--Unfair
Attacks upon Wagner--He goes to Switzerland--The
"Meistersinger"--The Rehearsals--The Successful
Performance--Criticisms 106-131

CHAPTER VI.

BAIREUTH.

A Vienna Critic--"Judaism in Music"--The War of 1870--Wagner's
Second Wife--"The Thought of Baireuth"--Wagner-Clubs--The "Kaiser
March"--Baireuth--Increasing Progress--Concerts--The Corner-Stone
of the New Theatre--The Inaugural Celebration--Lukewarmness of the
Nation--The Preliminary Rehearsals--The Summer of 1876--Increasing
Devotion of the Artists--The General Rehearsal--The Guests--The
Memorable Event--Its Importance--A World-History in Art-Deeds 132-158

CHAPTER VII.

PARSIFAL.

A German Art--Efforts to maintain the Acquired Results--Concerts
in London--Recognition Abroad and Lukewarmness at Home--The
"Nibelungen" in Vienna--"Parsifal"--Increasing Popularity
of Wagner's Music--Judgments--Accounts of the "Parsifal"
Representations--The Theatre Building--"Parsifal," a National
Drama--Its Significance and Idea--Anti-Semiticism--The Jewish
Spirit--Wagner's Standpoint--Synopsis of "Parsifal"--The Legend
of the Holy Grail--Its Symbolic Importance--Art in the Service
of Religion--Beethoven and Wagner--"Redemption to the Redeemer."
159-197

LAST DAYS AND DEATH OF WAGNER. 197-204

THE LIFE OF WAGNER.

CHAPTER I.

1813-1831.

WAGNER'S EARLY YOUTH.

His Birth--The Father's Death--His Mother Remarries--Removal to
Dresden--Theatre and Music--At School--Translation of
Homer--Through Poetry to Music--Returning to Leipzig--Beethoven's
Symphonies--Resolution to be a Musician--Conceals this
Resolution--Composes Music and Poetry--His Family Distrusts his
Talent--"Romantic" Influences--Studies of Thoroughbass--Overture in
B major--Theodor Weinlig--Full Understanding of Mozart--Beethoven's
Influence--The Genius of German Art--Preparatory Studies ended.

"_I resolved to be a musician._"--Wagner.

Richard Wilhelm Wagner was born in Leipzig, May 22, 1813. His father
at that time was superintendent of police--a post which, owing to the
constant movement of troops during the French war, was one of special
importance. He soon fell a victim to an epidemic which broke out among
the troops passing through. The mother, a woman of a very refined and
spiritual nature, then married the highly gifted actor, Ludwig Geyer,
who had been an intimate friend of the family, and removed with
him to Dresden, where he held a position at the court theatre and
was highly esteemed. There Wagner spent his childhood and early youth.
Besides the great patriotic uprising of the German people, artistic
impressions were the first to stir his soul. His father had taken an
active interest in the amateur theatricals of the Leipzig of his day,
and now the family virtually identified themselves with the practical
side of the art. His brother Albert and sister Rosalie subsequently
joined the theatre, and two other sisters diligently devoted
themselves to the piano. Richard himself satisfied his childish
tendency by playing comedy in his own room and his piano-playing was
confined to the repetition of melodies which he had heard. His
step-father, during the sickness which also overtook him, heard
Richard play two melodies, the "Ueb' immer Treu und Redlichkeit" and
the "Jungfernkranz" from "Der Freischuetz," which was just becoming
known at that time. The boy heard him say to his mother in an
undertone: "Can it be that he has a talent for music?" He had
destined him to be an artist, being himself as good a portrait painter
as he was actor. He died, however, before the boy had reached his
seventh year, bequeathing to him only the information imparted to his
mother, that he "would have made something out of him." Wagner in the
first sketch of his life, (1842) relates that for a long time he dwelt
upon this utterance of his step-father; and that it impelled him to
aspire to greatness.

His inclinations however did not at first turn to music. He was rather
disposed to study and was sent to the celebrated Kreuzschule. Music
was only cultivated indifferently. A private teacher was engaged to
give him piano lessons, but, as in drawing, he was averse to the
technicalities of the art, and preferred to play by ear, and in this
way mastered the overture to "Der Freischuetz." His teacher upon
hearing this expressed the opinion that nothing would become of him.
It is true, he could not in this way acquire fingering and scales, but
he gained a peculiar intonation arising from his own deep feeling,
that has been rarely possessed by any other artist. He was very
partial to the overture to "The Magic Flute," but "Don Juan" made no
impression on him.

All this, however, was only of secondary importance. The study of
Greek, Latin, mythology, and ancient history so completely captivated
the active mind of the boy, that his teacher advised him seriously to
devote himself to philological studies. As he had played music by
imitation so he now tried to imitate poetry. A poem, dedicated to a
dead schoolmate, even won a prize, although considerable fustian had
to be eliminated. His richness of imagination and feeling displayed
itself in early youth. In his eleventh year he would be a poet! A
Saxon poet, Apel, imitated the Greek tragedies, why should he not do
the same? He had already translated the first twelve books of Homer's
"Odyssey," and had made a metrical version of Romeo's monologue,
after having, simply to understand Shakspeare, thoroughly acquired a
knowledge of English. Thus at an early age he mastered the language
which "thinks and meditates for us," and Shakspeare became his
favorite model. A grand tragedy based on the themes of Hamlet and
King Lear was immediately undertaken, and although in its progress
he killed off forty-two of the _dramatis personae_ and was compelled
in the denouement, for want of characters to let their ghosts
reappear, we can not but regard it as a proof of the superabundance
of his inborn power.

One advantage was secured by this absurd attempt at poetry: it led
him to music, and in its intense earnestness he first learned to
appreciate the seriousness of art, which until then had appeared to
him of such small importance in contrast with his other studies, that
he regarded "Don Juan" for instance as silly, because of its Italian
text and "painted acting," as disgusting. At this time he had grown
familiar with "Der Freischuetz," and whenever he saw Weber pass his
house, he looked up to him with reverential awe. The patriotic songs
sung in those early days of resurrected Germany appealed to his
sensitive nature. They fascinated him and filled his earnest soul with
enthusiasm. "Grander than emperor or king, is it to stand there and
rule!" he said to himself, as he saw Weber enchant and sway the souls
of his auditors with his "Freischuetz" melodies. He now returned with
the family to Leipzig. Did he, while at work on his grand tragedy,
occupying him fully two years, neglect his studies? In the Nicolai
school, where he now attended, he was put back one class, and this so
disheartened him, that he lost all interest in his studies. Besides,
now for the first time, the actual spirit of music illumined his
intellectual horizon. In the Gewandhaus concerts he heard Beethoven's
symphonies. "Their impression on me was very powerful," he says,
speaking of his deep agitation, though only in his fifteenth year, and
it was still further intensified when he was informed that the great
master had died the year previous, in pitiful seclusion from all the
world. "I knew not what I really was intended for," he puts in the
mouth of a young musician in his story, "A Pilgrimage to Beethoven,"
written many years after. "I only remember, that I heard a symphony of
Beethoven one evening. After that I fell sick with a fever, and when I
recovered, I was a musician." He grew lazy and negligent in school,
having only his tragedy at heart, but the music of Beethoven induced
him to devote himself passionately to the art. Indeed while listening
to the Egmont music, it so affected him that he would not for all the
world, "launch" his tragedy without such music. He had perfect
confidence that he could compose it, but nevertheless thought it
advisable to acquaint himself with some of the rules of the art. To
accomplish this at once, he borrowed for a week, an easy system of
thoroughbass. The study did not seem to bear fruit as quickly as he
had expected, but its difficulties allured his energetic and active
mind. "I resolved to be a musician," he said. Two strong forces of
modern society, general education and music, thus in early youth made
an impression upon his nature. Music conquered, but in a form which
includes the other, in the presentation of the poetic idea as it first
found its full expression in Beethoven's symphonies. Let us now see
how this somewhat arbitrary and selfwilled temperament urged the
stormy young soul on to the real path of his development.

The family discovered his "grand tragedy." They were much grieved,
for it disclosed the neglect of his school studies. Under the
circumstances he concealed his consciousness of his inner call to
music, secretly continuing, however, his efforts at composition. It is
noticeable that the impulse to adapt poetry never forsook him, but it
was made subordinate to the musical faculty. In fact the former was
brought into requisition only to gratify the latter, so completely did
musical composition control him. Beethoven's Pastoral symphony
prompted him at one time to write a shepherd play, which owed its
dramatic construction on the other hand to Goethe's vaudeville, "A
Lover's Humor," to which he wrote the music and the verses at the same
time, so that the action and movement of the play grew out of the
making of the verses and the music. He was likewise prompted to
compose in the prevailing forms of music, and produced a sonata, a
string quartet, and an aria.

These works may not have had faults as far as form is concerned, but
very likely they were without any intrinsic value. His mind was
still engrossed with other things than the real poesy of music.
Notwithstanding this, under cover of such performances as these, he
believed he could announce himself to the family as a musician. They
regarded such efforts at composition however as a mere transitory
passion, which would disappear like others especially so as he was not
proficient on even one instrument, and could not therefore assume to
do the work of a practical musician with any degree of assurance. At
this time a strange and confused impression was made upon the young
mind, which had already absorbed so much of importance. The so called
"romantic writers" who then reigned supreme, particularly the mystic
Hoffmann, who was both poet and musician, and who wrote the most
beautiful poetic arrangements of the works of Gluck, Mozart, and
Beethoven, along with the absurdest notions of music, tended to
completely disturb his poetic ideas and mode of expression in music.
This youth of scarce sixteen was in danger of losing his wits. "I had
visions both waking and sleeping, in which the key note, third and
quint appeared bodily and demonstrated their importance to me, but
whatever I wrote on the subject was full of nonsense," he says
himself.

It was high time to overcome and settle these disturbing elements. His
imperfect understanding of the science of music, which had given rise
to these fancies and apparitions, now gave place to its real nature,
its fixed rules and laws. The skilled musician, Mueller, who
subsequently became organist at Altenburg, taught him to evolve from
those strange forms of an overwrought imagination the simple musical
intervals and accords, thus giving his ideas a secure foundation even
in these musical inspirations and fantasies. Corresponding success
however, had not yet been attained in the practical groundwork of the
art. The impetuous young fellow and enthusiast continued inattentive
and careless in this study. His intellectual nature was too restless
and aggressive to be brought back easily to the study of dry technical
rules, and yet its progress was not far-reaching enough, for even in
art their acquisition is essential.

One of the grand overtures for orchestra which he chose to write at
that time instead of giving himself to the study of music as an
independent language, he called himself the "culmination of his
absurdities." And yet in this composition, in B major, there was
something, which, when it was performed at the Leipzig Gewandhaus,
commanded the attention of so thorough a musician as Heinrich Dorn,
then a friend of Wagner, and who became later Oberhofkapellmeister at
Berlin. This was the poetic idea which Wagner by the aid of his mental
culture was enabled to produce in music, and which gives to a
composition its inner and organic completeness. Dorn could thus
sincerely console the young author with the hope of future success for
his composition, which, instead of a favorable reception, met only
with indignation and derision.

The revolution which broke out in France in July, 1830, greatly
excited him as it did others and he even contemplated writing a
political overture. The fantastic ideas prevalent at that time among
the students at the university, which in the meantime he had entered
to complete his general education, and fit himself thoroughly for the
vocation of a musician, tended still further to divert his mind from
the serious task before him. At this juncture, both for his own
welfare and that of art, a kind Providence sent him a man, who,
sternly yet kindly, as the storm subsided, directed the awakening
impulse for order and system in his musical studies. This was
Theodore Weinlig, who had been cantor at the Thomasschule in Leipzig,
since 1823 and was therefore, so to speak, bred in the spirit and
genius of the great Sebastian Bach. He possessed that attribute of a
good teacher which leads the scholar imperceptibly into the very heart
of his study. In less than a year the young scholar had mastered the
most difficult problems of counterpoint, and was dismissed by his
teacher as perfectly competent in his art. How highly Wagner esteemed
him is shown by the fact that his "Liebesmahl der Apostel," his only
work in the nature of an oratorio, is dedicated to "Frau Charlotte
Weinlig, the widow of my never-to-be-forgotten teacher." During this
time he also composed a sonata and a polonaise, both of which were
free from bombast and simple and natural in their musical form. More
important than all, Wagner now began to understand Mozart and learned
to admire him. He was at last on the path which subsequently was to
lead him, even nearer than Beethoven came, to that mighty cantor of
Leipzig, who by his art has disclosed for all time the depths of our
inner life and sanctified them.

For the present it was Beethoven, whose art unfolded itself before
him, and now that his own knowledge was firmly grounded, aided him to
become a composer. "I doubt whether there has ever been a young
musician more familiar with Beethoven's works than was Wagner, then
eighteen years of age," says Dorn of this period. Wagner himself says
in his "Deutscher Musiker in Paris:" "I knew no greater pleasure than
that of throwing myself so completely into the depths of this genius
that I imagined I had become a part of him." He copied the master's
overtures and the Ninth symphony, the latter causing him to sob
violently, but at the same time rousing his highest enthusiasm. He
now also fully comprehended Mozart, especially his Jupiter symphony.
"In the genius of our fatherland, pure in feeling and chaste in
inspiration, he saw the sacred heritage wherewith the German, under
any skies and whatever language he might speak, would be certain to
preserve the innate grandeur of his race," is his opinion of Mozart
expressed in Paris a few years afterward. "I strove for clearness and
power," he says of this period of his youth, and an overture and a
symphony soon demonstrated that he had really grasped the models.
After twenty years of personal activity in this high school of art, he
succeeded in thoroughly understanding the great Sebastian Bach, and
reared on this solid foundation-stone of music the majestic edifice of
German art, which embraces all the capabilities and ideals of the
soul, and created at last a national drama, complete in every sense.

The school period was passed. He now entered active life with firm and
secure step, armed only with his knowledge and his power of will. In
his struggles and disappointments the former was to be put to the test
and the latter to be strengthened. We shall meet with him again, when
by the exercise of these two powers he has gained his first permanent
victories.

CHAPTER II.

1832-1841.

STORM AND STRESS.

In Vienna--His Symphony Performed--Modern Ideas--"The
Fairies,"--"Das Liebesverbot"--Becomes Kapellmeister--Mina
Planer--Hard Times--Experiences and Studies--"Rienzi"--Paris--First
Disappointments--A Faust Overture--Revival of the German
Genius--Struggle for Existence--"The Flying Dutchman"--Historical
Studies--Returning to Germany.

_The God who in my breast resides,
He cannot change external forces._--Goethe.

Beethoven's life has acquainted us with the pre-eminence of Vienna as
a musical centre. In the summer of 1832 Wagner visited the city, but
found himself greatly disappointed as he heard on all sides nothing
but "Zampa," and the potpourris of Strauss. He was not to see the
imperial city again until late in life and as the master, crowned
with fame. In music and the opera Paris had the precedence. The
Conservatory in Prague however performed his symphony, though right
here he was destined to feel that the reign of his beloved Beethoven
had but scarcely begun.

In the succeeding winter the same symphony was performed in Leipzig.
"There is a resistless and audacious energy in the thoughts, a stormy
bold progression, and yet withal a maidenly artlessness in the
expression of the main motives that lead me to hope for much from the
composer;" so wrote Laube, with whom Wagner had shortly before become
acquainted. Here again we recognize the stormy, restless activity of
the time, which thenceforth did not cease, and brought about the unity
of the nation and of art. The ideas which prevailed among the
students' clubs, the theories of St. Simon and would-be reformers
generally had captivated the young artist's mind. In the "Young
Europe," Laube advocated the liberal thoughts of the new century, the
intoxication of love, and all the pleasures of material life. Wagner's
head was full of them and Heine's writings and the sensual
"Ardinghello" of Heinse helped to intensify them.

For a time however his better nature retained the mastery. Beethoven
and Weber remained his good genii. In 1833 he composed an opera, "The
Fairies," modelled after their works, the text of which displayed the
earnest tendency of his nature. A fairy falls in love with a mortal
but can acquire human life only on condition that her lover shall not
lose faith and desert her, however wicked and cruel she may appear.
She transforms herself into a stone from which condition the yearning
songs of her lover release her. It is a characteristic feature of
Wagner's ideal conception of love that the lover then is admitted to
the perpetual joys of the fairy world, as a reward for his faith in
the object of his love. The work was never performed. Bellini, Adam,
and their associates controlled the stage in Germany, and he was
greatly disappointed. That grand artiste, Schroeder-Devrient, who
afterwards was to become so essential to Wagner, had achieved unusual
success in these light operas, especially in the role of _Romeo_.
He observed this and comparing the sparkling music of these French and
Italians with the German Kapellmeister-music which was then coming
into vogue, it seemed indeed tedious and tormenting. Why should not he
then, this youth of twenty-one, ready for any deed and every pleasure,
earnestly longing for success, enter upon the same course? Beethoven
appeared to him as the keystone of a great epoch to be followed by
something new and different. The fruit of this restless seething
struggle was "Das Liebesverbot oder die Novize von Palermo," his first
opera which reached a performance.

The material was taken from Shakspeare's "Measure for Measure," not
however without making its earnestness conform to the ideas of "Young
Europe," and leaving the victory to sensualism. _Isabella_, the
novice, begs of the puritanical governor her brother's life, who has
forfeited it through some love affair. The governor agrees to grant
the pardon, on condition that she shall yield to his desires. A
carnival occurs, and, as in "Masaniello," a young man who loves the
maiden, incites a revolution, exposes the governor, and receives
_Isabella's_ hand. The spirit which pervades this tempestuous
carnival pleasure is sufficiently characterized by a verse in the only
chorus-number, which has appeared in print from this opera: "Who does
not rejoice in our pleasure plunge the knife into his breast!"

There were, it will be observed, two radically different
possibilities of development. The "sacred fervor of his sensitive
soul," which he had nourished with the German instrumental music, had
encountered the tendency to sensualism, and, as we find so often in
Wagner's works, these two elements of our nature were powerfully
portrayed, with the victory ever remaining to the judicious and
serious conception of life. Struggles and sorrows of various kinds
were to bring this "sacred earnestness" again into the foreground, to
remain there forever afterward.

In the autumn of 1834, during which this text had been written, Wagner
accepted the position of Kapellmeister at the Magdeburg theatre and
thus entered the field of practical activity. The position suited him
and he soon proved himself an able director, especially for the stage.
His skill in music, composed for the passing moment, soon gained for
him the desired success and induced him to compose the music to the
"Liebesverbot." "It often gave me a childish pleasure to rehearse
these light, fashionable operas, and to stand at the director's desk
and let the thing loose to the right and left," he tells us. He did
not seek in the least to avoid the French style but on the contrary
felt confident, that an actress like Schroeder-Devrient could even
in such frivolous music invest his _Isabella_ with dignity and
value. With such expectations in art and life before him, he took
unhesitatingly the serious step of engaging himself to Mina Planer, a
beautiful actress at the Magdeburg theatre, who unfortunately however
was never destined to appreciate his nobler aspirations.

In the spring of 1836, before the dissolution of the Magdeburg troupe,
an overhasty presentation of his opera was given, the only one that
ever took place. It was said of it by one: "There is much in it, and
it is very pleasing. There is that music and melody, which we so
rarely find in our distinctive German operas." He had himself for some
time completely neglected "The Fairies." The score of both operas is
in the possession of King Louis of Bavaria. They were to be followed
by one destined to survive--"Rienzi."

He had sought in vain to secure a performance of the "Liebesverbot,"
first in Leipzig, then in Berlin. In the latter city he saw one of
Spontini's operas performed and for the first time fully recognized
the meagre resources of the native stage, particularly in scenic
presentation. How Paris must have aroused his longing where Spontini
had introduced the opera upon a grander scale and with stronger
ensemble! The financial difficulties however, which followed
the dissolution of the Magdeburg theatre and the failure of his
compositions forced him to continue his connection still longer with
the German stage, wretched as it was. He next went to Koenigsberg. The
position there was not sufficiently remunerative to protect him from
want, now that he was married. One purpose he kept constantly in view,
namely, to perform some splendid work of art and with it free himself
from his embarrassing position. In every interesting romance he sought
the material for a grand opera. Among others, he selected Koenig's
"Hohe Braut," rapidly arranged the scenes and sent the manuscript to
Scribe in Paris, whose endorsement was considered essential, and whose
"Huguenots" had just helped to make Meyerbeer one of the stars of the
day. Nothing came of it however. Of what importance in this direction
was Germany at that time? The Koenigsberg troupe was also soon
dissolved. "Some men are at once decisive in their character and their
works, while others have first to fight their way through a chaos of
passions. It is true however that the latter class obtain greater
results," it is said in one account of this short episode. He was soon
to accomplish such an achievement. In the city of Koenigsberg, the old
seat of the Prussian kings, he had won a friend for life who, as will
subsequently appear, proved of service to him. The general character
of life in Prussia also greatly contributed to strengthen in him that
independent bearing of which Spontini's imperious splendor had given
him a hint, and which subsequently was to invest his own art with so
much importance in the world's history.

During a visit to Dresden in 1837 he came across Bulwer's "Rienzi, the
Last of the Tribunes," in which he became deeply interested, the more
so that the hero had been in his mind for some time. The necessities
of subsistence now drove him across the borders to Riga. His Leipzig
friend Dorn was there, and Karl Holtei had just organized a new
theatre. He was made director of music and his wife appeared in the
leading feminine roles. Splendid material was at hand and Wagner went
zealously to work. He was obliged however to produce here also the
works of Adam, Auber, and Bellini, which gave him a still deeper
insight into the degradation of the modern stage, with its frivolous
comedy, of which he had a perfect horror. About this time he became
familiar with the legend of the "Flying Dutchman," as Heine relates
it, with the new version that love can release the Ahasuerus of the
sea. The "fabulous home sickness," of which Heine speaks, found an
echo in his own soul and excited it the more. He studied moreover
Mehul's "Joseph in Egypt" and under the influence of the grave and
noble music of this imitator of the great Gluck, he felt himself
"elevated and purified." Even Bellini's "Norma," under the influence
of such impressions, gained a nobler tone and more dignified form than
is really inherent in the music. "Norma" was at that time even given
for his benefit! He now took up the "Rienzi" material in earnest and
projected a plan for the work which required the largest stage for
its execution. The lyric element of the romance, the messengers of
peace, the battle hymns, and the passion of love had already charmed
his purely musical sense. It was however by a solid work for the
theatre, of which the main feature should not be simply "beautiful
verses and fine rhymes" but rather strength of action and stirring
scenes, aided by all available means for producing effect through
scenery and the ballet, that he hoped to win success at the Paris
grand opera. In the fall of 1838 he began the composition.

The first two acts had scarcely been completed when Paris stood
clearly before the poet-composer's eyes. Meanwhile the contract with
Holtei drew to a close, but there were difficulties in the way that
could not easily be removed. He had contracted many debts and without
proof of their liquidation no one could at that time leave Russia.
Flight was determined upon. His friend from Koenigsberg, an old and
rich lumber merchant, in whose house he had spent many a social
evening, took his wife in a carriage over the border, passing her as
his own, while Wagner escaped in some other way. At Pillau they went
on board a sailing vessel, their first destination being London. Now
began the real lifework of Wagner, which was not to cease until he,
who had struggled with poverty and sorrow, was to see emperors and
kings as guests in his art-temple at Baireuth.

The long sea voyage of twenty-five days, full of mishaps, had a very
important bearing upon his art. The stormy sea along the Norwegian
coast and the stories of the sailors who never doubled the existence
of the "Flying Dutchman," gave life and definite form to the legend.
He remained but a short time in London, seeing the city and its two
houses of Parliament, and then went to Boulogne-sur-Mer. He remained
there four weeks, for Meyerbeer was there taking sea baths, and his
Parisian introductions were of the highest importance. The composer of
the "Huguenots" immediately recognized the talent of the younger
artist, and particularly praised the text to "Rienzi," which Scribe
was soon to imitate for him in his weak production of "The Prophet."
At the same time he pointed out the obstacles to success in the great
city which it would be extremely difficult for one to overcome without
means or connections. Wagner however relied on his good star and
departed for that city which he conceived to be the only one that
could open the way to the stage of the world for a dramatic composer.
The result of the visit to Paris was an abundance of disappointments,
but it added largely to his experience, increased his strength, nay
more, even gave rise to his first great work.

Meyerbeer recommended him to the director of the Renaissance Theatre
and besides acquainted him with artists of note. An introduction to
the Grand Opera however was out of the question for one who was an
utter stranger. Through Heinrich Laube, then in Paris, he made the
acquaintance of Heine, who was much surprised that a young musician
with his wife and a large Newfoundland dog should come to Paris, where
everything, however meritorious, must conquer its position. Wagner
himself has described these experiences in Lewald's "Europa," under
the title of "Parisian Fatalities of Germans." His first object was
to win some immediate success and he accordingly offered to the above
named director the "Liebesverbot," which apparently was well suited to
French taste. Unfortunately this theatre went into bankruptcy, so all
his efforts were fruitless. He now sought to make himself known
through lyrics set to music and wrote several, such as Heine's
"Grenadiers," but a favorite amateur balladist, Loisa Puget, reigned
supreme in the Paris salons, and neither he nor Berlioz could obtain
a hearing. His means were constantly diminishing and a terrible
bitterness filled his soul against the splendid Paris salons and
theatre world, whose interior appeared so hollow.

It happened one day that he heard the Ninth symphony at a performance
of the Conservatory, whose concerts were always splendidly and
carefully executed, and, as before, it stirred his inmost soul. Once
more his genius came to his rescue. He felt intuitively--what we now
know with historical certainty--that this work was born of the same
spirit which bore Faust, and thus in him also this "ever restless
spirit seeking for something new" was called into being and activity.
The overture to Faust, in reality the prelude of a Faust symphony,
tells us in tones of mighty resolve that his power to do and to will
still lived, and would not yield till it had performed its part. This
was toward the close of the year 1840.

"The God, who in my breast resides,
Can deeply stir the inner sources;
Though all my energies he guides,
He cannot change external forces.
Thus by the burden of my days oppressed,
Death is desired, and life a thing unblest."

With such a confession he regained strength to battle against Parisian
superficiality, which even in the sacred sphere of art seemed to seek
only for outward success and to admire whatever fashion dictated. His
criticisms on the condition of life and art in Paris are very severe.
Even the noble Berlioz does not escape censure from the artist's
stand-point, while Liszt, who resided there at the time, he had not
yet learned to appreciate. But again the saving genius of his art,
German music, rose resplendent, and she it was who recalled him to his
own self and to art.

He now entirely gave up the "Liebesverbot," as he felt that he could
not respect himself unless he did so. He thought of his native land.
A heroic patriotism seized him, although tinged with a political
bearing, for he did not forget the Bundestag and its resistance to
every movement for liberty, and yet withal he beheld the coming
grandeur of his fatherland. Now he himself first fully comprehended
Rienzi's words about his noble bride, whom he saw dishonored and
defiled, and a deep anger awakened in him those mighty exhorting
accents which his enthusiasm had already intoned in Rienzi's first
speech to the nobility and the people, and which had not been heard in
Germany since Schiller's days. As Rienzi resolved not to rest until
his proud Roma was crowned as queen of the world, so now there flashed
through him also the conviction, as he has so beautifully said in
speaking of Beethoven's music, that the genius of Germany was destined
to rescue the mind of man from its deep degradation. In the merely
superficial culture, which the Semitic-Gallic spirit had impressed
upon the period, and with which it held all Europe as in a net of
iron, he saw only utter frivolity. The great revolution had brought
about many political and social reforms but the liberation of the
soul, like that accomplished by the Reformation, it had not effected.
There was a material condition and mental tendency which he afterward,
not without reason, compared with the times of the Roman emperors.
Heine and his associates formed the literary centre, but even more
effective in its influence was Meyerbeer's grand opera. The imperious
sway of fashion had usurped the place of real culture and the problem
was therefore again to elevate culture with his art to its proper
sphere. He became more and more conscious of a mission which went far
beyond the realm of mere art-work. Even in this foreign land, which
had treated him so coldly and with such hostile egoism, he was to find
the ways and means to carry out his mission and to create for us
actual human beings instead of phantoms. In his "Parisian Fatalities,"
Wagner said of the Germans in Paris that they learned anew to
appreciate their mother tongue and to strengthen their patriotic
feeling. "Rienzi" was an illustration of this patriotic sentiment. He
now resolved to produce this composition for Dresden and the thought
gave him fresh zeal for work. Elsewhere, he says of the Germans: "As
much as they generally dread the return to their native land, they yet
pine away from it with homesickness." Longing for home! Had he not
once before beheld a being wasting away in the constant longing for
the eternal home and yet destined never to find rest? The "Flying
Dutchman" recurred to his imagination and to the outward form of the
ever-wandering seaman was added the human heart, constantly longing
for love and faithfulness. After having come to an understanding with
Heine, he rapidly arranged the material of this Wandering Jew of the
sea. A fortunate circumstance, the return of Meyerbeer to Paris, even
gave promise that the work might secure a hearing at the grand opera.

That he might be at rest while engaged on this work he earned his
daily bread by arranging popular operas for cornet-a-piston. He
submitted to this deep humiliation for he was conscious of the prize
to be obtained by "serving." A partial compensation in thus working
for hire he found in the permission given him by the sympathetic
music publisher, Schlesinger, to write for his _Gazette Musicale_ to
which he contributed many brilliant articles. In these he could at
least do in words what he was not allowed to do otherwise. He could
disclose the splendor of German music, and never before has anyone
written of Mozart, Weber, and Beethoven with keener appreciation or
profounder thought. Of the last named he proposed to write a
comprehensive biography and entered into correspondence with a
publisher in Germany.[A] He confronted the formal culture of the Latin
races with the character of the German mind, as it were the head of
the Medusa, and the consciousness of his mission kept up his spirits
under the most trying circumstances. With Paris as an art centre he
had done. Like Mozart's "Idomeneo" to the Opera Seria, "Rienzi" was
his last tribute to the Grand Opera. They have forever extinguished
the genre in style by exhausting its capabilities.

[Footnote A: The letter appears in the book entitled "Mosaics,"
published in Leipzig, 1881.]

In the meantime "Rienzi" had been accepted at Dresden, and he now
hoped through Meyerbeer's influence to see it also accepted by the
Grand Opera. The director, however, had been so well pleased with the
"Flying Dutchman" that he wished to appropriate the poem for himself,
or rather for another composer. In order therefore not to lose
everything, Wagner sold the copyright for Paris for 500 francs and it
soon after appeared as "Vaisseau Phantome." It naturally followed that
for the present his most urgent task was to complete the work for
himself and in his own way. The performance of the "Freischuetz" had
increased his ambition and his other experiences had completely
disgusted him with the modern Babylon. The romance--for such it
was--was soon finished. He had allowed a beautiful myth simply to tell
its own story and had avoided all the nonsense of the opera with its
finales, duets, and ballets, wishing simply to reveal to his
countrymen once more the divine attributes of the soul. But now that
the romance was to be set to music he feared that his art might have
deserted him, so long had it remained unused. However the work
progressed rapidly enough. He had in his mind as the main motive of
the work, _Senta's_ ballad, and around it clustered at once the whole
musical arrangement of the material. The Sailor's Chorus and the
Spinning Song were popular melodies, for the "Freischuetz" continually
kept them humming in his ears. In seven weeks the work was completed,
with the exception of the overture, which every day's pressing wants
retarded for a few weeks longer.

Leipzig and Munich promptly declined the work with which he had
proposed to salute his fatherland once more. The latter city declared
that the opera was not adapted to Germany! Through Meyerbeer's
influence it was then accepted in Berlin. Thus hated Paris led to the
production of two works in which he touched strings that find their
fullest response only in a German's heart. The prospect of returning
to his fatherland delighted him. What could be more natural than that
his mind strove to study more and more closely the spirit and
development of his fatherland, in order to raise other and better
monuments to it? He renewed his studies in German history, although
solely for the purpose of finding suitable material for operas. At
first, Manfred and the brilliant era of the Hohenstauffens attracted
him. But this historic world at once and utterly disappeared when he
beheld that figure in which the spirit of the Ghibellines attained in
human form its highest development and greatest beauty--_Tannhaeuser_!
His previous readings in German literature had made him familiar with
the story, but he now for the first time understood it. The simple
popular tale stirred him to such a degree that his whole soul was
filled with the image of its hero. It revealed the path to the
historic depths of our folk-lore to which Beethoven's and Weber's
music had long since given him the clues. The story had some
connection with the "Saengerkrieg auf Wartburg," and in this contest,
he saw at once the possibility of fully revealing the qualities of his
hero, who raises the first German protest against the pretended
culture and sham morality of the Latin world. The old poem of this
"Saengerkrieg," is further connected with the legend of Lohengrin.
Thus it was that in foreign Paris he was destined to gain at once and
permanently a realization of the native qualities of our common
nature, which, from primeval times, the German spirit has put into
these legends.

After a stay of more than three years abroad, he left Paris, April 7,
1842. "For the first time I saw the Rhine; with tears in my eyes, I, a
poor artist, swore to be ever loyal to my German fatherland," he says.
Have we not seen that this "poor artist" with the might of his magic
wand has created a world of new life, and what is far more, has
aroused the genius of his people, aye, the very soul of mankind, and
has led his epoch and his nation to the achievement of new and
permanent intellectual results?

We now come to his first efforts towards the accomplishment of such
results. They were to cost hard labor, anxiety, struggles, and pain of
every kind indeed, but they were done and they stand to-day.

CHAPTER III.

1842-1849.

REVOLUTION IN LIFE AND ART.

Success and Recognition--Hofkapellmeister to the Saxon Court--New
Clouds--"Tannhaeuser" Misunderstood--The Myths of "The Flying
Dutchman" and "Tannhaeuser"--Aversion to Meyerbeer--The Religious
Element--"Lohengrin"--The Idea of "Lohengrin"--Wagner's
Revolutionary Sympathies--The Revolution of 1848--The Poetic
Part of "Siegfried's Death"--The Revolt in Dresden--Flight from
Dresden--"Siegfried Words."

"_Give me a place to stand._"--Archimedes.

In an enthusiastic account of the first presentation of the "Flying
Dutchman" in Riga, May, 1843, it is said: "The 'Flying Dutchman' is a
signal of hope that we shall soon be rescued from this wild wandering
in the strange seas of foreign music and shall find once more our
blessed home." In a similar strain, the _Illustrierte Zeitung_ said:
"It is the duty of all who really cherish native art to announce to
the fatherland the appearance of a man of such promise as Wagner."
Indeed Wagner himself says that the success of the work was an
important indication that we need but write "as our native sense
suggests." That he himself perceived a new era of the highest and
purest outpouring of a new spirit is shown in the composition of this
year (1843), the "Liebesmahl der Apostel," wherein he quotes from the
Bible: "Be of good cheer for I am near you and My spirit is with you."
A chorus of forty male voices exultingly proclaimed this promise from
the high church choir loft in Dresden, on the occasion of the
Maennergesangvereins-Fest.

"Rienzi" was performed in October 1842, and the "Flying Dutchman"
January 2, 1843, both meeting with an enthusiastic reception. Wagner
himself had conducted the rehearsals and secured the support of
newly won friends and such eminent artists as Schroeder-Devrient
and Tichatschek. His success gained for him the distinction of
Hofkapellmeister to the Saxon Court. The position once held by Weber
was now his. The objects which he had sought to accomplish seemed
within reach and he heartily entered into the brilliant art life of
the city, the more so as hitherto he had not enjoyed it though
possessing the desire and knowledge to do so. Although "Rienzi"
retained a certain degree of popularity, the "Flying Dutchman" however
had not really been understood, and the more it was heard, the less
was it appreciated. How could it be otherwise amid such a public as
then existed in Germany? In the upper and middle classes French novels
were the favorite literature, while the stage was controlled by French
and Italian operas. With all their superficiality they combined
perfection in the art of singing, but failed to awaken any sense
of the intrinsic worth of our own nature. There were but few of
sufficiently delicate feeling to perceive in this composition the
continuation of the noble aims of Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber. Wagner
himself while in Dresden was destined to continue the struggle against
all that was foreign as these three masters had done before him.
"Professional musicians admitted my poetic talent, poets conceded that
I possessed musical capacity," is the way he characterizes the
prevailing misunderstanding of his endeavors and his works, which
required a generation to overcome.

He constantly sought to direct public attention to the grander and
nobler compositions, such as Gluck's "Armide" and "Iphigenia in
Aulis," Weber's "Euryanthe" and "Freischuetz," Marschner's "Hans
Heiling," Spohr's "Jessonda," and other grand works for concerts, like
Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony" and Bach's "Singet dem Herrn ein neues
Lied," all of which were performed in a masterly manner, while such
compositions as Spontini's "Vestalin" he at least helped to display in
the best light. He was also very active in having Weber's remains
brought from London. He not only composed a funeral march, for the
obsequies, upon motives from "Euryanthe," which was very powerful in
effect, but he also has reminded posterity of what it possesses in
this the youngest German master of the musical stage. "No musician,
more thoroughly German than thou, has ever lived," he said at the
grave. "See, now the Briton does thee justice, the Frenchman admires
thee, but the German alone can love thee. Thou art his, a beautiful
day in his life, a warm drop of his blood, a part of his heart." Thus
at times he succeeded in arousing the public. But on the whole, his
ideas were not accepted, and it retained its accustomed views and
continued in the old pleasures. Wagner began again to feel more
and more his isolated position. The complete misunderstanding of
Tannhaeuser, which he began to write when he first arrived in Dresden,
and the refusals of the work by other cities, Berlin among them,
declaring it "too epic," rendered this sense of isolation complete.
The recurrence of such experiences as these showed him how far his art
was still removed from its ideal and his contemporaries from the
comprehension of their own resources. He realized the fact that his
own improved circumstances had deceived him, and that in truth the
same superficiality of life and degradation of the stage prevailed
everywhere. The course of events during the next generation but proved
the truth of this. Whatever of merit was produced met with hostility,
as in the case of our artist. The growing perception of these facts
led him gradually to revolt against the art-circumstances of his time,
and as he became convinced that the condition of art was but the
result of the social and political, indeed of the existing mental
condition of the people, he at last broke out into open revolution
against the entire system. This very agitation of soul, however,
became the source of his artistic creations, wherein he attempted to
disclose grander ideals and nobler art, and they form therefore, as in
the case of every real artist, his own genuine biography. In tracing
the origin of his works, we follow the inner current of his life.

Thus far we have availed ourselves of the biographical notes which
Wagner, prior to the representation of the "Flying Dutchman," gave to
his friend Heinrich Laube for publication in the "Zeitung fuer die
elegante Welt." We are now guided further by one of the most stirring
spiritual revelations in existence, his "Communication to my Friends,"
in the year 1851, in that banishment to which his noblest endeavors
had brought him, written with his heart's blood, as a preface to the
publication of the three opera poems, namely, "Flying Dutchman,"
"Tannhaeuser" and "Lohengrin." It is the consummation of his artistic
as well as human development out of which grew his highest creations.

We must recur to the "Flying Dutchman," whose real name was "Hel
Laender," the guide of the deadship, or the fallen sun-bark, which,
according to the Teutonic legend, conveyed the heroes to Hel, the
region of perpetual night. We shall confine ourselves however to the
later version of the middle ages, the only one with which Wagner was
familiar. "The form of the 'Flying Dutchman' is the mythic poem of the
people; a primeval trait of humanity is expressed in it with
heartrending force," Wagner says to those who in spite of Goethe's
"Faust" had formed no conception of the vitality, and poetic treasures
that lay concealed in the myth. In its general significance the motive
is to be considered as the longing for rest from the storms of life.
The Greeks symbolized this in Odysseus, who, during his wanderings at
sea, longed for his native land, his wife, and home--"On this earth
are all my pleasures rooted." Christianity, which recognizes only a
spiritual home, reversed this conception in the person of the
"Wandering Jew." For this wanderer, condemned eternally to live over
again a life, without purpose and without pleasure, and of which he
has long since grown weary, there is no deliverance on earth. Nothing
remains to him but the longing for death. Toward the close of
the middle ages, after the human mind had been satiated with the
supernatural, and the revival of vital activity impelled men to
new enterprises, this longing disclosed itself most boldly and
successfully in the history of the efforts to discover new worlds.
An "impetuous desire to perform manly deeds" seized mankind as the
earth-encircling, boundless ocean came into view, no longer the
closely encircled inland sea of the Greeks. The longing of Odysseus,
which in the "Wandering Jew" has grown into longing for death, now
aims at a new life, not yet revealed, but distinctly perceived in the
prospective. It is the form of the "Flying Dutchman," in which both
expressions of the human soul are joined in a new and strange union,
such as the spirit of the people alone can produce. He had sworn to
sail past a cape in spite of wind and waves, and for that is condemned
by a demon, the spirit of these elements, to sail on the ocean through
all eternity. He can gratify the longing which he feels, through a
woman, who will sacrifice herself for his love, but to the Jew it was
denied. He seeks this woman therefore that he may pass away forever.
There is this difference however: She is no longer Penelope caring for
her home, but woman in general, the loving soul of mankind, which the
world has lost in its eager strife to conquer new worlds, and which
can only be regained when this strife shall cease and yield to a new
activity, truer to human nature.

"From the swamps and floods of my life often emerged the 'Flying
Dutchman,' and ever with irresistible attraction. It was the first
popular poem which took deep hold of my heart," says Wagner. At this
point his career began as a poet, and he ceased to write opera-texts.
It is true there was still much that was indecisive and confused in
the experiment, but the leading features are pictured verbally with
remarkable clearness, and the music invests them with a sense and
distinctness of convincing force as an inseparable whole, such as had
not been previously known in opera. It may be said that with the
"Flying Dutchman" a new operatic era began, or rather the attainment
of its dimly conceived destiny as a musical drama. It also expresses
the mental activity of the time and the longing for a new world, which
was to redeem mankind and secure for us an existence worthy of
ourselves. It still appears to us as the native land, encircling us
with its intimate associations, and yet there also appears in it the
longing for a return to our own individual identity, in which alone we
can find the traces of our higher humanity, which a narrowing and
degrading foreign influence had banished. Goethe's "Faust," Byron's
"Manfred," and Heine's "Ratcliff," all give utterance to the same
feeling, with more or less beauty and power; but the blissful repose
of deliverance really secured, they could not express with the
perfection displayed by Wagner. He was not only secure in this
advantage, but he was able to pursue it with increasing energy, so
as to push away to a great distance the obstacles which burdened the
time.

We perceive the same characteristic in "Tannhaeuser," which, it seems,
even at that time had impressed itself upon him with great force. This
legend also had its origin in the myths of nature. The Sun-god sinks
at eve on Klingsor's mountain castle in the arms of the beautiful
Orgeluse, queen of the night, from whose embraces the longing for
light drives him again at dawn. We must, however, also here confine
ourselves to the particular mediæval form of the legend, as Wagner
himself relates it.

The old Teutonic goddess, Holda, whose annual circuit enriched the
fields, met the same fate after the introduction of Christianity, as
Wotan, that of having her kindly influence suspected and described as
malignant. She was relegated to the heart of the mountains, as her
appearance was supposed to indicate disaster. At a later period,
her name disappeared in that of the heathen Venus, to which all
conceptions of a being that entices to evil pleasures could be more
easily attached. One such mountain region was the Hoerselberg
(Orgelusa Mountain), in Thuringia, where Venus maintained a luxurious,
sensual court. Jubilant melodies were heard there, which led him,
whose blood ran riot, unwittingly into the mountain. A beautiful old
song, however, tells us that the noble knight, Tannhaeuser, mythically
the same as Heinrich von Ofterdingen, remained there a whole year,
and then was seized with the recollection of the life on earth, and
made a pilgrimage to Rome to obtain indulgence for his sins. It reads
thus:

"The Pope had a stick white and dry,
Cut from the branches so bare;
Thy sins shall all be forgiven,
When on it green leaves appear."

Tannhaeuser wanders again into the mountain. But the good sense of the
people knew what was just:

"To bring consolation to man,
The priest is commissioned of Heaven;
The penitent, sorrowing heart
Hath all its sins forgiven."

The condemnation of the penitent is the curse of the old church, for
according to the true doctrine of the Gospels, as accepted and
faithfully treasured by the German people after long struggles, it is
not deeds but faith that secures salvation. So in the progress of the
legend leaves sprout from the dry stick, for "high above the universe
is God and his mercy is no mockery."

Wagner gives to the loving Elizabeth the knowledge of this eternal
mercy and from a simple child-like being she ascends to the heights
of martyrdom. Not until one human soul had gained the strength to die
for his redemption is the vehemence of his own nature broken, and he
finds relief in death, thus verifying the essence of religion and
rejecting forever false church-doctrine.

"A consuming glowing excitement kept my blood and nerves in a state of
feverish agitation," Wagner says, speaking of the first presentation
of this "Tannhaeuser." His fortunate change of circumstances, contact
with a luxurious court, and the expectation of material success had
fostered a desire for pleasure that led him in a direction counter to
his real nature. There was no other way to satisfy this craving except
by following as an artist the reigning fashion and the general
striving after success. "If I were to condense all that is pernicious
and wearisome in the making of opera-music, I should call it
Meyerbeer," he says, "inasmuch as it ignores the wants of the soul and
seeks to gratify the eye and ear alone." After all, was it the mere
gratification of the senses that he really longed for? His aspirations
grew in the natural soil of those life-feelings which dictate that
religion and morality shall not destroy natural impulses, but sanctify
them. Before his soul stood a pure, chaste, maidenly image of
unapproachable and intangible holiness and loveliness. In his own
words, his nature passionately and ardently embraced the outward forms
of this conception whose essence was the love of all that is noble and
pure. No other artist ever possessed a deeper sense of the need of our
time. With this protest against the violence done our purely human
nature, he places us again on a solid footing and symbolizes in art
the highest accomplishment of religion--regeneration by knowledge. It
is to this that we owe the regeneration of our national life. The
religious element of our nature has preserved us and made us a great
nation.

He confesses he had been so intensely engrossed in composing
"Tannhaeuser," that the nearer he approached the end, the more the
idea possessed him that sudden death would prevent its completion. As
he wrote the last note it seemed to him as though his life had been
in danger till then. The "Flying Dutchman" was a protest against the
purposeless wanderings of the human mind in every external department
of knowledge, while "Tannhaeuser" was a bold historical protest
against all that would subject the hidden sense of truth in our nature
to violent interpretation and arbitrary dogmas. From this time forth
his sphere became the purely human, and in this too he shows us by
his powerful art that which is indispensable and eternal in human
existence joined with the complete realization of the only natural way
to develop all our qualities. We have come to "Lohengrin," conceived
in 1847, and completed in its instrumental parts in March, 1848. It
was in truth "his child of pain."

After the completion of "Tannhaeuser," his native sense of humor
prompted him to design a satirical play on the "Saengerkrieg auf
Wartburg," namely the "Meistersinger von Nuernberg," of which, more
further on. The painful experience of being misunderstood in all his
earnest efforts as a man and as an artist, his failure to make
the assistance he longed to give acceptable, drove him back with
passionate vehemence into a serious frame of mind, in which condition
he could well understand the Lohengrin material. Hitherto, in the
mystic twilight of its mediæval presence, it had inspired him with
some degree of suspicion, but he now recognized in it a romance,
wherein was embodied the longing desires of pure human nature, and the
imperative necessity of love, as well as its artistic meaning.

The fundamental trait of this legend, as in "Tannhaeuser" and in the
flight of Odysseus from the embraces of sensualism, had already
appeared in the Greek myth of Zeus and Semele. Like the God from the
cloudy Olympian realms, so Lohengrin from the boundless ether to which
Christian imagination had assigned Olympus, descends to the human
female in the natural longing of love. There was an old tradition in
the legends of the people who dwelt near the sea, to the effect that
on its blue surface an unknown man of indescribable grace and beauty
approaches, whose resistless charms win every heart. He disappears
again, retreating with the waves, whenever it is sought to discover
who he is. So also in the Scheldt region once appeared a handsome
hero, drawn by a swan. He rescued a persecuted, innocent maiden, and
married her, but when she asked him who he was and whence he came, he
was compelled to forsake her. How does our poet interpret the legend?

Lohengrin, the son of Parcival, the royal guardian of the Holy Grail,
who represents the ideal in humanity, although he was probably
originally identical with the German Sun-god, who longs to rest in the
arms of night--this Lohengrin seeks the wife that believes in him, who
will not ask who he is and whence he came, but will love him as he is,
and simply as he appears to her. He sought the wife, to whom he need
not declare himself, need not justify himself, but who will love him
without question. Like Zeus, he had to conceal his divine nature, for
only in this way could he know that he was really loved, and not
simply admired, which was all he longed for when he descended from his
ethereal heights to the warm earth below. He longs to be human, to
experience the warm feelings of humanity, and gain a loving heart;
with these longings he descended from his blissful, lonely heights,
when he heard the cry of this heart for help in the midst of mankind.
The halo of his higher nature, however, betrays him. He can not but
appear as miraculous. The staring of the vulgar and the rancor of the
envious cloud the heart of the loving Elsa. Doubts and jealousy show
that he has not been understood but simply adored, and this draws from
him the confession of his divinity, after which he returns, his
purpose unaccomplished, to his solitude.

We must bear in mind how highly our poet even at that time prized this
artistic wealth. To Goethe, art was "like good deeds;" Schiller hoped
with its aid to unify the nation, and Wagner, especially after the
discovery of such grand art-material as those myths contained,
regarded it as the real fountain of health for the nation and the
time. We shall soon observe that at last his art embraced our highest
ideals in religion as well. Such an art, however, exists only in the
heart which believes in it, and we have seen how antagonistic was the
spirit of the time, particularly to this artist, who had emerged from
the blissful solitude of his own creative mind and sought the sympathy
of the warm human heart. He justly felt that the theme was a tragic
symbol of the time, and he was therefore enabled to present Lohengrin
as an entirely new artistic conception, something no poet had
previously succeeded in accomplishing.

More than this he discloses to us that which his Elsa imparted to
him--the nature of the feminine heart. "I could not help justifying
her in the outbreak at last of jealousy and at that moment for the
first time I fully comprehended the purely human nature of love," he
says. "This woman, who by passion is brought from the heights of
rapturous adoration back to her real nature and reveals it in her
ruin, this magnificent woman, from whom Lohengrin disappeared because
his peculiar nature prevented him from understanding her, I had now
discovered." The effect of this was to clarify his vision, as we shall
likewise learn. The lost arrow that he sent after this valuable
treasure had been his Lohengrin, which he had to sacrifice in order to
discover the track of the "true womanly" which Goethe was the first to
long for ardently, and which music had revealed as it were the sound
of a bell in the dark forest. This alone can explain why the
masculine egoism, even in so noble a form as our idealism had hitherto
assumed, was forced to yield to its influence. But this Elsa was only
the unconscious spirit of the people and the perception of this must
of necessity have made him, as he says, "a thorough revolutionist."
He felt that this spirit of the people was restrained by wrong
conceptions of morality and false ideals. He heard its lamentations,
and verily, if ever a genius served his people, then did the genius of
Wagner avail him as the worker of "good deeds." He prophetically
indicated at that time what subsequently became an exquisite reality.
"Only a good deed can help here," he writes after the completion of
"Lohengrin." "A gifted and inspired man must with good fortune attain
to power and influence who can elevate his inmost convictions to the
dignity of law. For it is possible after all, if chance will have it
so that a king will permit a competent man to have his way as well as
an incompetent one. The public can only be educated through facts. So
long as an immense majority is carried away by the mezza-voce of a
virtuoso, its needs are readily discerned and satisfied."

It is now our duty to record how he arrived at this remarkably
independent action of the artist; we follow his notes, as they furnish
the clearest testimony. Their stirring recital is touching enough for
any one who can look upon the nation in the light of the history of
mankind, to which has been assigned its own peculiar ideal problems.

In the meantime the revolution of 1848 had broken out. Although never
really much inclined toward politics, Wagner had foreseen its
necessity; but as soon as he came in contact with its various
elements, he recognized only too clearly that none of the warring
factions had the least conception of his own aims. Notwithstanding
this, he perfected a plan for the reorganization of the stage by which
alone under the circumstances the nation and the time could be
strongly impressed again with the ideal in thought and art. The
political rostrum showed soon enough how blunt were its arrows. And
what of the Catholic syllabus and Protestant "Culturkampf" as well?
Dead children born of dead mothers! Most of all it was important to
create anew for that stage the ideals which would serve to elevate the
time. Even while at work on "Lohengrin," which always made him feel as
if he were on an oasis in a desert waste and for which he gathered
strength from the performance of the Ninth symphony in Dresden,
Siegfried and Friedrich der Rothbart appeared to him. Each contained
the elements which lie nearest the heart. Each was a type and model of
our distinct characteristics. He recognized at once however that
Friedrich I. (Barbarossa) was only the historical regeneration of
Siegfried, and that the latter was in reality the youthful handsome
hero to form the object and centre of a work of art and to convey to
us in its fullness and beauty the purely human idea as Wagner
conceived it. How he found and interpreted this Siegfried, he has told
us in the pamphlet, "The Wibelungen, History from Legend" which
appeared in 1850.

The delight produced by the discovery of this "actor of reality,
this man in the fullness of highest and boundless power and most
indisputable loveliness" revealed to him by his Elsa, only intensified
for the present at least the feeling that in his best efforts and his
knowledge he stood sadly alone. His longing was intense, the more so
that in this actual life he could accomplish his purpose as Faust
says:

"The God, who in my breast resides,
He can not change external forces."

This longing grew until it seemed as if self-annihilation alone could
bring relief, and then appeared to him the image of Him whose death
brought salvation to mankind. He conceived the idea of picturing a
human "Jesus of Nazareth," to represent the universal rejection,
in all its malignity and rancor, to which Jesus fell a victim.
The reflection, however, that he certainly could not secure a
representation of his work under existing circumstances, and the
additional fact that after the Revolution, which seemed bound to
destroy every favorable condition, such a declaration of internal
struggle would have counted for nothing, induced him to leave the plan
unexecuted. Besides, in this year (1848), he had already finished
"Siegfried's Death," in its poetic form, and had even sketched some of
the musical thoughts connecting with that new world, to which he had
looked forward with such buoyant hope. At last came also the complete
rupture with the world that surrounded him, even while he was devoting
the best endeavors of his life to it. Wagner himself informs us of the
clear insight he had gained into the nature of the political movement.
Either the old state of things must remain intact or the new must
sweep it entirely away. He recognized the approach of the catastrophe
which was certain to engulf every one who was in earnest and unselfish
enough to desire a change of the deplorable conditions so generally
felt. The ancient spirit of a decayed past had outlived itself and
openly and insolently offered defiance to the existing and ruling
conditions. Knowing well the unavoidable decision which he would have
to form, he ceased all productive activity. Every stroke of the pen
appeared ridiculous, inasmuch as he could no longer deceive himself in
regard to his prospects. He spent these May-days of 1849 in the open
air, basking in the sunshine of the awakening spring and casting away
all egoistic desires.

At this time the revolt in Dresden occurred, which, as a sort of
forlorn hope, he thought might be the beginning of a general uprising
in Germany. "After what has been said, who could be so blind as not to
see that I had now no choice but to turn my back upon a world, to
which no ties of sympathy bound me," he says, thus clearly indicating
his active participation in the May-revolt. It was not long before the
Prussians appeared, who had only waited the signal from Dresden. With
many others Wagner had to take to flight. A long, sad banishment
followed, but out of its necessities and privations rose the full man
and artist who restored to his nation its ideals, or rather first
established the ideal in its perfection. How this conception came
to him is disclosed in the last words he uttered about the men and
circumstances which combined to wickedly conceal it. It is as bold as
it is inspiring, and it is only the deepest solicitude for our most
sacred treasures that could give utterance to such words. It reads:

"There is nothing with which to compare the sensation of pleasure I
experienced after the first painful impressions had been overcome,
when I felt myself free, free from a world of tormenting, ever
unsatisfied desires, free from conditions in which my aspirations had
been my sole absorbing nourishment. When I, persecuted and proscribed,
was no longer bound by any considerations to resort to a deception of
any kind; when I had given up every hope and desire, and with
unconstrained candor could say openly and plainly that I, the artist,
hated from the bottom of my heart this hypocritical world which
pretended to be interested in art and culture; when I could say to it
that not one drop of artist's blood flowed in all its veins, that it
had not one spark of manly culture or manly beauty,--then for the
first time in my life I felt myself completely free, happy, and
joyous, although I sometimes did not know where to conceal myself the
next day that I might still breathe the free air of heaven."

These are words such as a Siegfried might have spoken. From this time
on he did not rest until the Siegfried-deed was done and the sword was
thrust into the dragon's heart.

The preparations for it were conducted with untiring energy and
great wisdom. The works of art which he had already forged were the
sword. The true and noble art, which had begun with Goethe, was
now introduced in the various European centres of culture "with
considerate speed," and finally inspired in Germany, the very centre
of this culture and art, an understanding of their real elements. In
the modest Zurich where the banishment began, in London--Paris had
rejected it--in Petersburg, in Vienna, in Munich, and at last also
in Berlin, which at that time did not appear to have "one drop of
artist's blood in all its veins" the world's attention was aroused
anew by actual representations, though often only in parts, to the
fact, that the latter-day art of the last generation had removed us a
great distance from our ideals. And finally he succeeded, at first in
Munich, subsequently in Baireuth, in securing for the art of the stage
a proper representation, and with it an awakening of the age to a
correct perception of art as expressive of the ideal which stimulates
the whole world. The thrust which pierced the heart of the dragon of
the modern theatres was his "Parsifal," and the Siegfried, who dealt
the blow, gained with his art the slumbering bride, the re-awakening
heart of the nation and mankind.

Who is there to-day who will doubt that Faust denial of the curse and
the prophetic presentment of a new world? Is it not true that the
governing powers of the present time have seized upon the ideas in
politics and society, which were the kernel of the movement of 1848
and 1849? Whenever they shall understand the mental strivings of the
nation, as well as the political and military, then art and religion
will gain the dignity and the right to which they are entitled. The
revolt of Wagner was the revolt of the better soul of the nation which
had been estranged from itself. Thirty years of deeds have shown that
his word was the truth. We now come to their recital.

CHAPTER IV.

1850-1861.

EXILE.

_Seeking with all the soul the Grecian land._--Goethe.

The first impression following his sudden change of fate appeared in
Wagner's own world as a good omen. "What I felt as I conceived this
music, he felt when he conducted it; what I intended to say as I wrote
it, he said as he interpreted it," he says of the Tannhaeuser
rehearsal under Liszt's direction in Weimar, where he had gone for a
few days for the sake of this "rarest of friends," who had already of
his own accord given "Rienzi" and "Tannhaeuser" in the small
Thuringian court-residence to which the Wartburg belongs.

His stay was cut short however, and disguised as a waggoner he left
the city. Unfortunately the only place which he could reach in safety
was Paris, and from this city he also speedily fled as from a dismal
spectre whose disgusting features were again recognized. And yet he
was destined to return to it, to retrieve his fortunes, with a
possible success as an opera-composer, but also to be permanently
convinced that this "modern Babylon," where others had conquered the
world with their art-substitutes, was in absolute contrast with that
which he sought and needed for his labors. But of Weimar he exclaimed:

"How wonderful! By the love of this rarest of friends, in the time
when I was homeless, I secured the long desired and true home for my
art, which I had hitherto sought in vain elsewhere. When I was doomed
to wander in foreign lands, he who had wandered so much, retired
permanently to a small town and there provided me a home."

Liszt had given up entirely his career as a performer, and acted
mainly as Hofkapellmeister at the grand-ducal court in Weimar. Wagner
made his acquaintance "in the terrible Parisian past," but did not
then understand him. Liszt, however, lovingly watched his progress
like an elder brother, and drew the misunderstood genius to his great
heart. "Everywhere and always he cared for me. Ever prompt and
decisive where aid was required, with a cordial response to all my
wishes, and devoted love for me, he was to me what I had never found
before, and with that intensity whose fullness we only comprehend when
it actually embraces us in all its vastness."

Among the inspiring mountains of Switzerland he wrote a protest
against the pretense of the momentary victors of the revolution,
that they were the protectors of art. His pamphlet, "Art and the
Revolution," disclosed the real nature of this so called art in
the unsettled political and social condition of the time, and
energetically rejected as art anything which under any guise sought
to speculate upon the public. The "Art-Work of the Future" was a more
extended paper which described the deadly influence of modern fashion
upon art itself and the egoistic dismemberment of it into distinct
branches, and revealed the art of the future as embracing all human
art-capacities.

This misunderstood assertion gave rise to the term, "music of the
future," first used by a would-be professor, L. Bischoff in Cologne,
and immediately repeated everywhere by the thoughtless multitude. In
the first pamphlet he assailed the governments which only sought their
own particular advantage. In the second, likewise misunderstood, he
irritated all the artists. His fiercest indignation was expended upon
the born arch-enemies of our art and culture in the same year, 1850,
when he published "Judaism in Music," under the name of "Freigedank."
"What the heroes of the fine arts have wrested in the course of two
thousand unhappy years of strenuous and persistent efforts, from
the demon hostile to art, the Jew to-day converts into drafts on
art-merchandise. Who would imagine that this great work has been
cemented with the sweat and toil of genius for two thousand years,"
he exclaims in the exasperation of his soul at these flippant
time-servers who dominated in the concert-hall and on the stage.
Naturally the legion of their followers did not become his friends.
They controlled the press, and it is due to this, that his most
important writings are known even to-day only by his friends.

About this time he wrote the poetry to "Wiland der Schmied." It was in
Paris he showed the Germans how dire necessity contrives the wings
with which to escape from bondage and regain sweet liberty. Under the
peculiar constraint which work, foreign to his nature, imposed upon
him and which made him sick in body and soul, his eyes one day fell
upon the score of "Lohengrin." Two words to Liszt and the reply
determined him upon its performance. It occurred, August 28, 1850. It
was in fact a fresh protest against a false art-world and in 1870,
when the German people stood arrayed in arms against our foreign enemy
everyone exclaimed in astonishment, "Lohengrin!" This selection for
the celebration of Goethe's birthday was worthy of his memory, for
Wagner, as great a poet as he was musician, had invested the work
with every charm of tragic beauty, both in the text and poetical
construction as well as in the ingenious design of its dramatic
situations. The work marks a notable era in the history of German
music.

Wagner now fully explained in his book, "Opera and Drama," published
in 1861, the object of his art-revolution. The opera hitherto, as he
said, was not even the germ, how much less the fruit of the art-work
he purposed. On the contrary, the methods hitherto applied must be
completely changed. Music must be made the essential and highest
method of expression of poetry and the drama; but not the principal
theme to which words and situations are subordinated. In this he
unfolded all his artistic experience and claimed that whoever failed
to understand him now, did so because he was determined not to
understand. This can be found more fully treated in the "Allgemeine
Musikgeschichte." To his real friends he presented in the autumn of
the same year that "Communication" which reveals to us his manhood and
is a biography of the soul without parallel.

The high purpose, perceivable from afar, whither his endeavors tended,
appears in the real work of our artist taken up again at last. The
noble and affectionate regard of the family of the rich merchant
Wesendonck, in Zurich, provided him with a pleasant place of rest and
needed support. The performance of "Lohengrin" was a summons to new
deeds. He resumed the Nibelungen poem, and we shall see its powerful
influence upon the national spirit and national art.

"Man receives his first impressions from surrounding nature, and in
it no effect is so strong as that of light." Thus he begins in the
"Wibelungen" of 1850. The day, the sun, appears as the very condition
of life. Praise and adoration are bestowed upon it in contrast with
the dark night which breeds terror. Thus light becomes the cause of
all existence, Father, God. The day-break appears as the victory of
light, and naturally there grow out of it at last moral impressions.
This influence of nature is the foundation of all conceptions of
divinity, the division into distinct religions depending upon the
character of different tribes. The tribal tradition of the Franks,
as the noblest type of the Germans, has the advantage of a steady
development from its ancient origin into historic life. It likewise
shows us in the far distant past the individual God of light as he
slays the monster of the chaotic night--Siegfried's struggle with the
dragon.

But as the day surrenders to the night and summer is followed by
winter, so Siegfried finally is conquered and the god is changed into
mortal man. Now that he has fallen, he kindles in the human heart a
deeper sympathy. As the victim of a struggle that enriches us, he
arouses the moral sense of vengeance against the murderer. The
primeval struggle in nature is therefore continued by ourselves and
its success is seen in the vicissitudes of human life through the
ages, moving on from life to death, from joy to grief, and thus in
perpetual rejuvenescence clearly discloses the character of man as
well as of nature. The embodiment of this constant motion, the active
life itself, however, ultimately finds in Wotan (Zeus) as the father
of light, its distinct form. Although Zeus reigned supreme as the
father of all the gods, yet his origin is due to the advanced
knowledge of man while the God of light, Siegfried, is natural and so
to speak born with him.

"The most important part of this tribal legend of the Franks is
the treasure which Siegfried obtains and which henceforth bears
his attributes as opposed to those of the primeval myth. The
Scandinavians, for instance, have preserved a Nifelheim as the abode
of the black demigods in contrast to the demigods of light. These
Niflungars, children of night and of death, search the interior of the
earth, discover its hidden treasures and invest them with new life by
forging them into weapons and ornaments. The Nibelungs, whom we also
find as the Myrmidons accompanying Achilles, the Siegfried of the
Greeks--are now with their treasure elevated by the Franks to a moral
importance. When Siegfried slew the Nibelungen dragon he gained its
treasure. The possession of it increases his power immeasurably
inasmuch as he now commands the Nibelungs, but it is at the same time
the cause of his death, for the heir of the dragon seeks to regain the
treasure and treacherously slays him as night does the day and draws
him into the dark realm of death. Siegfried is transformed into a
Nibelung! Although the acquisition of the treasure dooms it to death,
still each new generation inevitably strives to obtain it. The
treasure represents the embodiment of worldly power. It is the earth
with all its glory as we see it at dawn, our own sunny property after
the night has been driven away which had spread its dragon wings like
a horrid spectre over the rich treasures of the world.

"The treasure itself, which the Nibelungs have gathered, is the metal
found in the bowels of the earth which enables us to improve the
earth, and to fashion weapons and golden crowns, the means of power
and its symbols. The divine hero Siegfried, who first obtained it and
thus became a Nibelung, left to his race the claim to the treasure. To
revenge the slain hero and regain the treasure is the aim of the whole
race of the Nibelung-Franks, and by it they are recognized in history
as well as in legend."

Accordingly we find the noblest hero of the "Wibelungen," Friedrich
Barbarossa, of the Hohenstauffen race ruling in the mountain,
surrounded by Wotan's ravens. It is possible that the Franks were the
ruling tribe even in the Indo-germanic home; at all events they laid
claim to the mastery of the world as soon as they appear in history.
Of this impulse or desire Charlemagne must have been conscious when
he gathered the old tribal songs which contained the religious ideas
of the race. Upon it Napoleon based his claim to the realm of
Charlemagne. Is it not even possible that the Hohenzollerns were
influenced by the recollection of this Germanic past when they
endeavored to regain their old tribal seat in the Hohenstauffen land?

Here we close the intimate connection of the Nibelungen legend with
our history. Temporal power, however, is not the highest destiny of a
civilizing people. That our ancestors were conscious of this is shown
in the fact that the treasure, or gold, and its power, was transformed
into the Holy Grail. Worldly aims gave place to spiritual desires.
With this interpretation of the Nibelungen myth, Wagner acknowledged
the grand and eternal truth that this life is tragic throughout, and
that the will which would mould a world to accord with one's desires
can finally lead to no greater satisfaction than to break itself in a
noble death. This latter truth, which even the ancient Orient saw
clearly when in its history the Lord himself breaks the self-will of
Jacob in a dream, moves as a deep consciousness through the Germanic
myths, and induced the Germans to accept not only the higher faith
developed from such a basis to which alone they owe the preservation
of their impetuous activity, but also tended to give this Christian
truth itself a wider and deeper significance. In their myths they had
already indicated that the possession of this world is not the only
thing to be desired. They have the world-devastation, Muspilli, the
"Twilight of the Gods." It is this conquering of the world through the
victory of self which Wagner conveys as the highest interpretation of
our national myths. As Brunhilde approaches the funeral pyre to
sacrifice to the beloved dead, Siegfried, the life--the only tie which
still binds her to this earth--she says:

"If, like a breath, the gods disappear,
Without a pilot the world I leave.
To the world I will give now my holiest wisdom:
Not goods, nor gold, nor god-like pomp,
Not house, nor lands, nor lordly state,
Not wicked plottings of crafty men,
Not base deceits of cunning law,--
But, blest in joy and sorrow let only love exist."

Such was the "Ring of the Nibelungen" which Wagner created out
of the vast collection of German legends and not merely out of
the distinctively national Nibelungen epic. The completion of
"Siegfried's death," now the "Goetterdaemmerung," led to Siegfried's
"Schwertschmiedung," (Sword-wielding); "Drachenkampf,"
(Dragon-struggle) and "Brautgewinnung," (Bride-winning) and further
investigation of the subject led him in the "Walkuere" to picture
Brunhilde's guilt and punishment, and finally in the "Rheingold" a
psychological foundation for the whole. The work took this mental
shape as early as 1851. Two years later, the poem, for which he had
chosen the alliterative style of the Edda as the only suitable form,
was given to his friends, and in 1863 to the world. From that time his
sole ambition was to bring this first all-comprehensive German
national drama into life by having it performed as a distinct
festival-play far from the everyday theatre. Nearly twenty years
elapsed between this and the realization of the idea. But why take
note of time when great and grand things are to be accomplished?

The following decade brought with it many changes to Wagner, without
however at any time diverting his mind from the purpose of his life,
which constantly became clearer. Every opportunity was improved to
direct attention and approach nearer to it. The death of Spontini gave
occasion to a memorial tribute, closing with the words: "Let us bow
reverently before the grave of the creator of the 'Vestalin,'
'Cortez,' and 'Olympia.'" He sought with operas and concerts to
develop the limited musical resources of Zurich, where he had taken up
his permanent residence, because he had always met with a most cordial
personal reception there. In this he was aided by scholars who came to
him from Germany, most prominent among whom was Hans von Buelow, who
had been in Weimar with Liszt, and had become enthusiastic over
"Lohengrin." Wagner overcame his own repugnance to the operas of
Meyerbeer and his associates, which he hoped his "Lohengrin" was
destined to obliterate, and directed their performance. To do the
same for his own works, the requisite strength was lacking. "Some of
us are old, others are young. Let the older one think not of himself,
but let him love the younger for the sake of the inheritance which he
places in his heart to cherish anew, for the day will come when the
same shall be proclaimed for the welfare of humanity the world over,"
are the closing words of his "Opera and Drama." He found consolation
and compensation in performing the symphonies of Beethoven, for two of
which he prepared a special program; but as he desired to have the
real motives of his work understood by the hospitable little city, he
wrote a pamphlet, "A Theatre in Zurich," wherein he advocated the
establishment and maintenance of a theatre by the citizens themselves,
as the Greeks had done. It was another evidence of his firm conviction
that the stage had a high mission in the culture of our time. He even
lectured on the subject of dramatic music, and recited the poem of
"Siegfried's Death," which made a profound impression.

Very soon thereafter appeared the remarkable "Letter to Liszt in
Regard to the Goethe Memorial," wherein he confidently asserted that
painter as well as sculptor would decline to compete with the poet
acting in harmony with the musician, and that they would with
reverential awe bow before an art-work in comparison with which their
own productions would seem but lifeless fragments. For such an
art-work there should therefore be prepared a suitable place rather
than continue contributions to the support of the individual arts,
which the former would invigorate and elevate anew. We see to-day that
the plastic arts also strike out in new paths. Liszt and Wagner have
inspired their epoch and the sculptor Zumbusch in Vienna has given us
their busts. In a similar strain he challenged musical criticism and
thereupon began with the gradual spread of "Tannhaeuser," and soon
also of "Lohengrin," those seemingly endless disputes which, however,
at the same time increased the strength of some younger men, among
whom were Uhlig, Pohl, Cornelius, Raff and Ambros. These practical
performances, as little as they presented an artistic ensemble, yet
tended to arouse and shape talents that Wagner could avail himself of
later for his own higher purposes. Among them were Milde and his wife,
Ander, Schnorr, Formes, Niemann and Beck. Wagner's niece Johanna, was
already familiar with his method from her Dresden experience. He
endeavored in a pamphlet discussing the way to perform "Tannhaeuser"
to rescue it from banishment and familiarize the artists with its
merits but they remained deaf or hostile. He became absorbed the more
in his Nibelungen-poem, leaving to his good genius his deliverance
from external isolation. And yet the latter became a source of
pleasure when, in the manner of von Eschenbach's Parcival, who also
presented the sorrows and deeds of the mythical sun-hero, familiar to
him since 1845, he undertook to portray the forest-solitude in which
his young Siegfried grew up and gained all the miraculous power of
nature, above all, that inner confidence which banishes fear from the
human breast.

A brighter future seemed to open when, notwithstanding the doubts of
his friends of the ultimate success of his "monstrous undertaking,"
the knowledge of which began to spread, the German artists generally
accepted his invitation to spend a Wagner week in Zurich, and parts
of his masterly works were performed with such effect that "the
amiable maestro stood buried in flowers." For the overture to the
"Flying Dutchman," as well as for the prelude to "Lohengrin," he
composed an explanatory introduction.

In the autumn of the same year he was in Italy, and, lying sleepless
in a hotel at La Speccia, he found for the first time those plastic
"nature-motives" which in the Nibelungen-trilogy with constantly
increasing individuality are made the exponents of the passions and
the characters which give expression to them. He immediately returned
to his dreary, involuntary home to proceed with the completion of his
colossal work, which was to engage his attention for many years. A
visit from Liszt, in October, led to a profounder understanding of
Beethoven's last sonatas, so that their language was fully identified
with his own. "Rheingold" and the "Walkuere" were soon finished.

His fame meanwhile grew steadily. He received an invitation for the
concerts of the Philharmonic society in London, for which Beethoven
had written the Ninth Symphony and designed the Tenth, which,
according to his Sketches, was to show what all great poetic minds
longed for--the union of the tragic spirit of the Greeks with the
religious of the modern world. It was the same high goal that Wagner
touched in the "Nibelungenring" and attained in "Parcival." The
English at that time were even less disposed to appreciate his efforts
than the Germans, and the Jewish spirit of their church inclined them
to look with suspicion upon the "Jew Persecutor." He also found at
first some difficulties in the rushing style of execution, which was a
tradition from Mendelssohn, who was idolized in England. His untiring
energy, however, prevailed everywhere where art was at stake, and the
last of the eight concerts, in which Mozart's C Major Symphony and
Beethoven's Eighth were given, and the "Tannhaeuser Overture," was
encored, brought him, in a storm of applause, compensation for the
unworthy calumniations of the press, notably, of the _Times_.
Notwithstanding all this, he could not be induced to re-visit London
till twenty years later. The invitations from America he declined at
once.

His art-susceptibility at that time was very keen and active. He
remarked to a German admirer, in the autumn of 1856, that two new
subjects occupied his mind during the Nibelungen-work, which he could
with difficulty repress. The one was "Tristan," with which Gottfried's
brilliant epic had already made him familiar in composing the
"Walkuere," and the other, probably, was "Parcival," whose Good Friday
enchantment had impressed him many years before. In October Liszt
visited him again, and heard the "Walkuere" on the piano. A musical
journal in Leipzig was emboldened to speak of a forthcoming event that
would agitate the whole musical world. With what joyous cheerfulness
he composed "Siegfried," and his Anvil-song is shown in a letter about
Liszt's symphonic poems, which appeared in the following spring.
Accident and irresistible impulse, however, led immediately to the
completion of "Tristan and Isolde."

The seeming hopelessness of success in his endeavors at times
discouraged him. "When I thus laid down one score after the other,
never again to take them up, I seemed to myself like a sleep-walker
who is unconscious of his actions," he states. And yet he had to seek
the "daylight" of the German opera, from which he had fled with his
Nibelungen, if he would remain familiar with the active life of his
art. He proposed therefore to arrange the much simpler Tristan
material within the compass of ordinary stage representation.
Curiously enough he received just then an offer to compose an opera
for the excellent Italian troupe in Rio Janeiro. He thought, however,
of Strasbourg, and it was only through Edward Devrient, who visited
him in the summer of 1857, that he destined the work for Carlsruhe
where Grand Duke Frederick and his wife, Princess Louisa of Prussia,
displayed a growing interest in art. It was also the home of an
excellent singer, Ludwig Schnorr from Carolsfeld, of whom Tichatschek
had already informed him and who was to be the first to assume the
role of Tristan.

"Tristan" belongs, like "Siegfried" and "Parcival," to the circle
of the sun-heroes of the primeval myth. He also is forced to use
deception and is compelled to deliver his own bride to his friend,
then to discern his danger and voluntarily disappear. Thus Wagner
remained within his poetic sphere. But while in "Siegfried" the
Nibelungen-myth in its historic relations had to be maintained and
only the sudden destruction of the hero through the vengeance of the
woman who sacrifices herself with him, could be used in "Tristan," on
the other hand the main subject lies in the torture of love. The two
lovers become conscious of their mutual love through the drinking of
the love-potion that dooms them to death. It is a death preferred to
life without each other. What in "Siegfried" is but a moment of
decisive vehemence appears here in psychological action of endless
variety, wherein Wagner has woven the whole tragic nature of
our existence, which he had learned from the great philosopher
Schopenhauer, to esteem as a "blessing." There was however in this
similarity, and at the same time difference, a peculiar charm which
invested the work. It is supplementary to the Nibelungen-material
which in reality embraces human life in all its relations.

It is wonderful how readily he found the means to unfold before our
eyes the revelation which involved the death of the two lovers.
Commissioned by his uncle, King Marke, Tristan has conquered the
tributary Celts and slain their leader, Morold, in battle. Isolde,
the betrothed of the latter, to whose care the wounded Tristan is
consigned, is completely captivated when at last her eyes meet his,
but unconscious of this he wooes the beautiful woman for the "wearied
King" and conducts her to him. Inwardly aroused by this and the death
of her former lover, she plans to kill him and while yet on the vessel
offers him the cup of poison in retaliation for the slain Morold. Here
Brangaene appears and secretly changes the draught so that these two
who imagine they had drunk a coming death in which all love should
pass away, in this fancied final moment became conscious of life, and
confess to each other that love with which they cannot part. It is
therefore not the drink in itself but the certainty that death will
ensue, which relieves them from constraint. The act of drinking
betokens only the moment of consciousness and confession. Nevertheless
they cannot live, now that King Marke has discovered their love.
Tristan raises himself from the couch where he lies suffering from the
wound inflicted by the King's "friend" and tearing open the wound with
his own hand, embraces the approaching Isolde, who is now in death
united with him forever.

While composing the work, which the prospect of speedy representation
hastened forward rapidly, and which he hoped would secure for him a
temporary return to his fatherland, an agreeable sensation of complete
unrestraint seized him. With utter abandon he could reach the very
depths of those soul-emotions which are the very essence of music, and
fearlessly shape from them the external form as well. Now he could
apply the strictest rules. He even felt, in the midst of his work,
that he surpassed his own system. The impressive second act was
projected in Venice, where he spent the winter of 1858-59, owing to
ill-health. Thence he removed to Lucerne.

From his native land new rays of hope meanwhile penetrated his
retirement. Not only Carlsruhe but Vienna and Weimar now grew
interested. He ardently longed to strengthen himself, by hearing his
own music. "I dread to remain much longer, perhaps, the only German
who has not heard my 'Lohengrin,'" he writes to Berlioz, in 1859. He
begged permission to return, and sought the intervention of the
grand-duke of Baden, as otherwise he would have to go to Paris.
The grand-duke took all possible steps to help him, but it was of
no avail. His efforts failed, he says, because of the obstinate
opposition of the King of Saxony, but it was probably due more to the
dislike the unhappy minister, von Beust, himself an amateur composer,
entertained for the author-composer. Wagner, therefore, in the autumn
of 1859, again went to hated Paris, where he could, at least
occasionally, hear good music.

He found in Paris a few really devoted friends of his art as well
as of himself, who promised to make his stay home-like in this respect
at least. They were Villot, Champfleury, Baudelaire, the young
physician Gasperini, and Ollivier, Liszt's son-in-law. The press,
however, commenced at once its vicious and corrupt practices against
the "musical Marat." Wagner replied with actions. He invited
German singers and in three concerts performed selections from his
compositions. The beau monde of Paris attended, and the applause was
universal, especially after the Lohengrin Bridal-Chorus. The critics
however remained indifferent and even malicious. At this juncture, at
the solicitation of some members of the German legation, particularly
the young princess Metternich, Napoleon gave the order for the
performance of "Tannhaeuser," in the Grand Opera-house, much to
Wagner's surprise. It must have caused a curious mixture of joy and
anxiety in the artist's breast. Standing on the soil of France, he,
for the first time, was destined to conquer his fatherland, but on a
spot which belonged to the "Grand Opera," and where all the inartistic
qualities were fostered that he endeavored to supplant. As his native
land was closed to him, he went to work with his usual earnestness,
and, as though it were a reward for his faithfulness, there came
during the preparations the long-desired amnesty, with the exclusion,
however, of Saxony.

In the summer of 1860 he availed himself of his regained liberty to
make an excursion to the Rhine and then returned to the rehearsals.
Niemann, cast in an heroic mould, had been secured for the title-role.
For the instruction of the public he wrote the letter about the "Music
of the Future" adopting the current witty expression, which appeared
as preface to a translation of his four completed lyric works,
exclusive of the Nibelungen-Ring. With admirable clearness he
disclosed the purpose of his work. The press on the other hand made
use of every agency at its disposal to prejudice Paris from the start
against the work. To aggravate matters, Wagner would not consent to
introduce in the second act the customary ballet which always formed
the chief attraction for the Jockey-club, whose members belonged to
the highest society. He simply gave to the scene in the Venusberg
greater animation and color. It was for this reason that the press and
this club, the malicious Semitic and unintelligent Gallic elements,
the former unfortunately of German origin, united in the effort to
make the work a failure when presented in the spring of 1861. The
history of art discloses nothing more discreditable. The gentlemen of
the Jockey-club with their dog-whistles in spite of the protests of
the audience succeeded in making the performances impossible and the
press declared the work merited such a fate! Wagner withdrew it after
the third performance and thereby incurred a heavy debt which it
required years of privation to liquidate. At the same time as far as
he personally was concerned the occurrence gave rise to a feeling of
joyous exaltation. The affair caused considerable excitement and
brought him, as he says, "into very important relations with the most
estimable and amiable elements of the French mind," and he discovered
that his ideal, being purely human, found followers everywhere. The
performances themselves could not have pleased him. "May all their
insufficiencies remain covered with the dust of those three
battle-evenings," he wrote shortly after to Germany.

He realized afresh that for the present his native land alone was the
place for a worthy presentation of his music and the enthusiasm which
he witnessed at a performance of "Lohengrin" in Vienna, then the
German imperial city, convinced him that the insult which had just
been offered to the German spirit was keenly felt. Vienna as well as
Carlsruhe now requested "Tristan," but the request was not conceded.
At a musicians' union which met in Weimar in August, 1861, under
Liszt's leadership, Wagner found that the better part of the German
artists had also measurably been converted to his views. These
experiences and the hope that with a humorous theme selected from
German life he might finally obtain possession of the domestic stage
and speak heart to heart to his dearly loved people and remind them
that even their every day life ought to be transfused with the spirit
of the ideal, prompted him to resurrect his "Mastersingers of
Nuremberg." It was in foreign Paris that he wrote, in the winter of
1862, the prize song of German life and art which enchants every true
German heart. This was the last work he created in a foreign land and
in a certain sense he freed himself with it from the sad recollections
of a banishment endured for more than ten years to reappear now "sound
and serene" before his nation. That this would finally come to pass
had always been his last star of hope. "To the Pleiades and to Bootes"
Beethoven had likewise marked in his copy of the Odyssey.

We close therefore this chapter of banishment and dire misfortunes
with the prospect of a brighter future by communicating the plan of
the text of that work as he had already framed it in 1845.

"I conceived Hans Sachs to be the last appearance of the artistic
spirit of the people" he says, "and placed him in opposition to the
narrow-minded citizens from whom the Mastersingers were chosen. To
their ridiculous pedantry, I gave personal expression in the Marker
whose duty it was to pay attention to the mistakes of the singers,
especially of those who were candidates for admission to the guild."
Whenever a certain number of errors had been committed the singer had
to step down and was declared unworthy of the distinction he sought.
The eldest member of the guild now offered the hand of his young
daughter to that master who should win the prize at the public
song-festival.

The Marker, who already is a suitor, finds a rival in the person of a
young nobleman who, inspired by heroic tales and the minnesingers'
deeds, leaves his ruined ancestral castle to learn the art of the
mastersingers in Nuremberg. He announces himself for admission
prompted mainly by his sudden and growing love for the prize-maiden
who can only be gained by a "master." At the examination he sings an
inspired song which however gives constant offense to the Marker, so
much so, that before he is half through he has exhausted the limit of
errors. Sachs, who is pleased with the young nobleman, for his own
welfare frustrates the desperate attempt to elope with the maiden. In
doing this he finds at the same time an opportunity to greatly vex the
Marker. The latter, who to humiliate Sachs had upbraided him because
of a pair of shoes which were not yet ready, posts himself at night
before the window of the maiden and sings his song as a test, for it
is important to gain her vote upon which rests the final decision when
the prize is bestowed. Sachs, whose workshop lies opposite the house
for which the serenade is intended, when the Marker opens, begins to
sing loudly also because as he declares to the irate serenader, this
is necessary for him, if he would remain awake while at work so late,
and that the work is urgent none knows better than he who had so
harshly rebuked him for tardiness. At last he promises to desist, on
condition however that he be permitted to indicate the errors which,
after his own feeling, he may find in the song, by striking with the
hammer upon the last. The Marker sings, Sachs repeatedly and
vigorously strikes the last, and the Marker jumps up angrily but is
met with the question whether he is through with the song. "Far from
it," he cries. Sachs now laughingly hands him his shoes and declares
that the strokes of disapproval sufficed to complete them. With the
rest of the song, which in desperation he sings without stopping, he
lamentably fails before the female form at the window who shakes her
head violently in disapproval, and, to add to his own misfortune, he
receives a thrashing at the hands of the apprentices and journeymen
whom the noise has roused from slumber. The following day, deeply
dejected, he asks Sachs for one of his own songs. Sachs gives him one
of the young nobleman's poems, pretending not to know whence it came.
He cautions him to observe the melody to which it must be sung. The
vain Marker, however, believes himself perfectly secure in this, and
now sings the poem before the public master and peoples-court to a
melody which completely disfigures it, so that he fails again, and
this time decisively. Rendered furious, he accuses Sachs of deceit in
that he gave him an abominable poem. Sachs declares the poem to be
quite good, but that it must be sung according to the proper melody.
It is now determined that whoever knows this melody shall be the
victor. The young nobleman sings it and secures the bride. The
admission into the guild however he declines. Thereupon Hans Sachs
humorously defends the mastersingers and closes with the rhyme:

"The Holy Roman Empire may depart,
Yet will remain our Holy German art."

A few years later the German empire arose to new glory and blessing,
and yet a lustrum, and with the rise of Baireuth, came the German art.

CHAPTER V.

1862-1868.

MUNICH.

Successful Concerts--Plans for a New Theatre--Offenbach's Music
Preferred--Concerts Again--New Hindrances and Disappointments--King
Louis of Bavaria--Rescue and Hope--New Life--Schnorr--"Tannhaeuser"
Reproduced--Great Performance of "Tristan"--Enthusiastic
Applause--Death of Schnorr--Opposition of the Munich Public--Unfair
Attacks Upon Wagner--He Goes to Switzerland--The
"Meistersinger"--The Rehearsals--The Successful
Performance--Criticisms.

_O, thus descendest thou at last to me,
Fulfilment, fairest daughter of the Gods._
Goethe.

The pressure of circumstances, as well as the natural desire, to break
ground for himself and his new creations, induced him for a time to
give concerts with selections from them. He met with marked success
before the unprejudiced hearers of Vienna, Prague, St. Petersburg, and
Moscow. His visit to Russia especially yielded him a handsome sum,
with which he returned to Vienna to await the representation of
"Tristan," but owing to the physical inability of Ander, the work
finally had to be laid aside. Wagner felt also that intelligence as
well as good-will for the cause were lacking; even the Isolde-Dustman
did not at heart believe in it. "To speak frankly, I had enough of it
and thought no more about it," he tells us.

During this time he published the Nibelungen-poem, and in April, 1863,
wrote the celebrated preface which eventually led to the consummation
of his desires. He had with Semper conceived the design of a theatre
which after the Grecian style should confine the attention of the
entire audience to the stage, by its amphitheatric form, thus
rendering impossible the mutual staring of the public or at least
making it less likely to occur. Because of the oft repeated experience
of the deeper effect of music when heard unseen, the orchestra was to
be placed so low that no spectator could see the movements of the
performers, while at the same time it would result in the more
complete harmony of sound from the many and various instruments. In
such a place, consecrated to art alone and not to pleasure of the eye,
the "stage-festival-play" was to be produced. But would it be possible
for lovers of art to provide the means, or was there perhaps a prince
willing to spend for this purpose only as much as the maintenance for
a short period of his imperfect Opera-house cost him? "In the
beginning was the deed," he says with _Faust_, and adds sadly enough
in a postscript: "I no longer expect to live to see the representation
of my stage-festival-play, and can barely hope to find sufficient
leisure and desire to complete the musical composition."

He next thought that the court Opera-house in process of erection in
Vienna might be utilized by limiting the number of performances and
securing a careful representation of the style of the works produced.
Had not Joseph II. recognized the theatre as "contributing to the
refinement of manners and of taste"? He even offered to prepare
specially for Vienna a more condensed work, the "Meistersingers." The
reply was, however, that the name of Wagner had for the present
received sufficient consideration, and that it was time to give a
hearing to some other composer. "This other name was Jacques
Offenbach," adds Wagner. It needs no comment.

Again followed concerts, first in Prague, where "Tristan" was
requested, then in Carlsruhe, where he had long been forgotten,
although the prince's own love for art had not been extinguished. The
Carlsruhe and Mannheim orchestras acknowledged that they now first
fully realized that they were artists. A negotiation for permanent
settlement at the grand-ducal court failed, owing to the opposition of
the courtiers. Wagner had demanded a court-carriage! Frederick the
Great has said, it is true, that geniuses rank with sovereigns; but
then this was too much, too much! Then too, he had, O horror! spent
the beautiful ducats which the grand-duke had presented him, in
entertaining of an evening the musicians who had executed the work.
Where would such pretensions, such extravagance lead? The same
courtiers, however, did not consider it robbery for many years
shamefully to abridge the income of their noble prince until they
finally stood disgraced themselves and escaped punishment only through
the inexhaustible kindness of their monarch.

In Loewenberg, in Breslau, and again in Vienna, everywhere Wagner met
with abundant success. But what of the real goal? "The public met him
with enthusiasm wherever he showed himself, but on the other hand the
leading critics remained cold or hostile and the directors of the
theatres closed their doors to him," his biographer, Glasenapp, says
truthfully enough. Of the Nibelungen-poem also no notice had been
taken except in a very narrow circle. Here and there a copy of the
little volume, bound in red and gold, could be found, but the owner
was sure to belong to the school of Liszt or Wagner. "How could the
poetic work of an opera-composer bear serious consideration in
contrast with the elaborate literary productions of professional
poets?" Wagner says with justice. He felt himself rejected everywhere,
and just where alone he desired admission.

"For me there shone no star that did not pale,
No cheering hope of which I was not reft;
To the world's whim, changing with every gale,
And all its vain caprices, I was left;
To nobler art my aspirations soared,
Yet I must sink them to the common horde.

"He that our heads had crowned with laurels green,
By priestly staff whose verdure had decayed,
Robbed me of Hope's sweet solaces, and e'en
The last delusive comfort caused to fade;
Yet thus was nourished in my soul serene
An inward trust, by which my faith was stayed;
And if to this trust I prove ever true
The withered staff shall blossom forth anew.

"What deep in my own heart I did discern,
Dwelt also, silent, in another's breast;
And that which in his eager soul did burn,
Within my youthful heart peaceful did rest;
And as he half unconsciously did yearn
For all the Spring-time joys that were in quest,
The Spring's delightsomeness our souls shall nourish,
And newer verdure round our faiths shall flourish."

On his seventeenth birthday, the 25th of August, 1861, the grandson of
that King Louis of Bavaria who was the first among the princes of
Germany to again take an active interest in the plastic arts,
witnessed a performance of "Lohengrin," the first play that he had
seen. Full of enthusiasm, he inquired for the other works of this
master. Wagner's writings convinced him, who now had on his desk only
the busts of Beethoven and Wagner, that the one seemed likely to meet
the same fate that the other had in fact encountered--to sink into the
grave before the attainment of his goal and of his fame. His silent
vow was to reach out his hand to this "one" as soon as he should be
king. Two years later, the "Ring of the Nibelungen" appeared in
print. In it was the question: "Will this prince be found?" In the
following spring the author of the work was in dire distress in
Vienna. The silver rubles had rapidly disappeared. How could such
common treasures be heeded by him who had at his disposal the Holy
Grail? But inexorably approached the danger of loss of personal
liberty. He had to fly. A friend had provided him a refuge on his
estate in Switzerland. On the way there he remained a few days in
Stuttgart. Of a sudden the friend's door-bell is rung, but Wagner's
presence is denied. The stranger urges pressing business, and on
inquiry informs the master of the house--who was none other than Carl
Eckert, subsequently Hofkapellmeister at Berlin--that he comes in
the name of the King of Bavaria! Louis II. by the sudden death of
Maximilian II. had been called to the throne in March, 1864, and
one of his first acts was the invitation extended to the artist,
so enthusiastically admired.

"Now all has been won, my most daring hopes surpassed. He places all
his means at my disposal," with these words he sank upon his friend's
breast. In a short time he was in Munich.

"He has poured out his wealth upon me as from a horn of plenty," was
the expression he used immediately after the first audience. "What
shall I now tell you? The most inconceivable and yet the only thing I
need has attained its full realization. In the year of the first
representation of my 'Tannhaeuser,' a queen gave birth to the good
genius of my life, who was destined to bring me out of deepest want
into the highest happiness. He has been sent to me from heaven.
Through him I am, and comprehend myself," he wrote, a few months
later, after he had settled down in Munich, to a lady friend.

King Louis was a youth of true kingly form. In his beautiful eye there
was at the same time a quiet enthusiasm. His keen understanding was
accompanied by a lively imagination and a true soul, so that nature
had endowed him with the three principal mental powers in noble
proportions. His disposition is indicated by the words: "You are a
Protestant? That is right. Always liberal." And after the style of
youthful inexperience: "You likewise do not like women? They are so
tedious." His soul and mind were open to the joyous reception of all
ideal emotions. This was indeed a youthful king, as only such an
artist could have wished, and permanently attracted. "To the Kingly
Friend," is the title of the dedication of the "Walkuere," in the
summer of 1864.

"O gracious king! protector of my life!
Thou fountain of all goodness, all delight;
Now, at the goal of my adventurous strife,
The words that shall express thy grace aright
I seek in vain, although the world is rife
With speech and printed book; and day and night
I still must seek for words to utter free
The gratitude my heart doth bear to thee."

Thereupon follow the three verses quoted above, and it comes to a
close:

"So poor am I, I keep but only this--
The faith which thou hast given unto me;
It is the power by which to heights of bliss
My soul is lifted in proud ecstacy;
But partly is it mine, and I shall miss
Wholly its power, if thou ungracious be;
My gifts are all from thee, and I will praise
Thy royal faith that knows no change of days."

Of the latter there was to be no lack, although it was put to a severe
test, and thus the artist reached at last the goal of his effort,
referred to above, where he stands to-day, the artistic savior of his
nation and his time.

As the main thing, the completion of the Nibelungen-Ring was taken in
hand. In the meantime, however, a model exhibition of the new
art-style was to be given, with "Tristan." For this purpose Schnorr
was invited, at that time residing in Dresden. Wagner says, when he
first met him at Carlsruhe, in 1862: "While the sight of the
swan-knight, approaching in his little boat, gave me the somewhat odd
impression of the appearance of a young Hercules (Schnorr suffered
from obesity), yet his manner at once conveyed to me the distinct
charm of the mythical hero sent by the gods, whose identity we do not
study but whom we instinctively recognize. This instantaneous effect
which touches the inmost heart, can only be compared to magic. I
remember to have been similarly impressed in early youth by the great
actress, Schroeder-Devrient, which shaped the course of my life, and
since then not again so strongly as by Schnorr in Lohengrin." He had
found in him a genuine singer, musician, and actor, possessing above
all unbounded capacity for tragic roles.

He was put to the test at first in "Tannhaeuser," and in this new
role he also produced an entirely new impression, of which the Munich
public, led by Franz Lachner, in the worn-out tracks of the latter-day
classics, had its first experience. Then followed the rehearsals for
"Tristan," which Schnorr had already fully mastered, with the
exception of a single passage, "Out of Laughter and Weeping, Joys and
Wounds," the terrible love-curse in the third act. By his wonderful
power of expression, the master had "made this clear to him." At the
rehearsal of this act, Wagner staggered to his feet, profoundly moved,
and embracing his wonderful friend, said softly that he could not
express his joy over his now realized ideal, and Schnorr's dark eye
flashed responsive pleasure. Buelow, who, as concert-master to the
king, now resided in Munich, likewise conducted with wonderful
precision the orchestra which Wagner himself had thoroughly rehearsed,
and so the invitation was issued to this "art-festival" wherever
Wagner's art had conquered hearts. It was to show how far the problem
of original and genuine musico-dramatic art had been solved, and
whether the people were ready for it and prepared to share in its
grandest and noblest triumphs.

The public rehearsal was festive in its character. The whole musical
press of Germany and some of the foreign critics were present.
Wagner was called after every act. Unfortunately, the representation
proper was delayed for nearly four weeks through the sickness of
Frau Garrigues-Schnorr, who took the role of Isolde, so that the
Munich people were after all the principal attendants. The applause
was nevertheless enthusiastic, and the success of the memorable
"art-festival" of June 10, 1865, admission to which was not to be had
for money, but by invitation of Wagner and his royal friend, was an
accomplished fact, notwithstanding the work had been by no means fully
comprehended, for this required time. Unfortunately, the noble artist
died a short time after, in Dresden, from the effects of a cold, to
which the utter disregard of the theatre managers in Munich had
exposed him in the scene where he had to lie wounded on a couch.
Wagner was deeply affected. He conceived he had lost the solid stone
work of his edifice, and would now have to resort to mere bricks. It
is certain he never found a Siegfried as great as this Tristan.

Another contingency temporarily interfered with the undertaking of the
two friends, and that was the opposition of the Munich public, which
resulted in Wagner's permanent withdrawal from the city. To this
public a person was indeed strange who made such unusual artistic
demands, while the personal character and habits of Wagner at that
time were probably nowhere more strange than in Bavaria, which had
obtained its education at the hands of the Jesuit priests. It is true,
the good qualities, such as simplicity of manners and habits of life,
had remained, but the intellectual horizon had become a comparatively
narrow one, and, what was worse, the clerical and aristocratic
Bavarian party feared it would lose its power if a man like Wagner
were to remain permanently about the king. George Herwegh has
described comically enough the Witches-Sabbath, which that party, in
1865, with the aid of other hostile factions, enacted, and which
forced Wagner once more into foreign lands.

Munich, accustomed to simplicity, took exception to the rich style in
which Wagner furnished the villa presented by the king, and to the
expansion of the civil-list for the construction of the theatre, which
was to cost seven million marks, though it would have made Munich a
festival-place for all Germany, and cultivated society the world over.
The press from day to day printed some fresh calumny. It even assailed
the private character of the artist after a fashion that provoked him
to a very effective public defense. Even very sensible people became
possessed, in an unaccountable manner, with the prevalent idea that
Wagner was destroying Bavaria's prosperity. A not unknown author of
oriental poetry, said ignorantly enough, that it was well such a tramp
was finally to be driven off the street; and a college professor, who,
it is true, had a son, a self-composer in Beethoven's meaning of the
word, and who could therefore have performed all that Wagner did,
added to this the brutal, insolent assertion, "the fellow deserves
to be hanged." At last they prevailed upon the king, to whom this
had been foolsplay, to listen at least to what unprejudiced men
would tell him of public opinion in Bavaria. To the minister and
the police-superintendent were added an esteemed ultra montane
government counselor, an arch bishop and others who were reputed to be
unprejudiced. His reply, "I will show to my dear people that I value
their confidence and love above everything," proves that they finally
succeeded in misleading even the greatest impartiality. The king
himself requested the artist to leave Munich for some time and gave
him an annuity of 15,000 marks. When this had been done, a public
declaration of the principal party in Bavaria showed that the
so-called "displeasure of the people" about political machinations
and the like had been empty talk. Political, social, and artistic
intrigues and base envy alone had given birth to this ghost.

This happened near the close of the year 1865. Wagner again turned to
Switzerland. The king's affection for him had only been increased by
these occurrences. He even visited his friend in his voluntary exile,
who in turn had no more ardent desire than to meet such love with
deeds, and calmly prepared himself again for new work. His longing for
Munich had forever vanished. It is true, some of the nobler citizens
sought to wipe out the disgrace with which the city had covered
itself, by sending a silver wreath to Wagner on his birthday in 1866.
The rejection of Semper's splendid design for the theatre by the
civil-list led his thoughts anew to the wide German fatherland, and he
at once returned to the Meistersingers, in the hope that by this more
intelligible work the public would finally turn to him, and that
then the great German people would assist in the erection of a
festival-building for a national art-work and thus realize his grand
ideal. We know to-day that he succeeded in uniting them in this great
work.

The next important step in that direction was the representation of
the "Meistersinger" in Munich in 1868. In the course of time Wagner
dominated the stage in a manner which had not been witnessed since
"Lohengrin."

It has been truthfully said that there was something more surprising
than the highly poetic "Tristan," namely, the artist himself, who so
shortly after could create a picture of such manifold coloring as the
"Meistersinger." But with equal truth the same observer of Wagner says
that whoever is astounded at this achievement has but little
understood the one essential point in the nature and life of all
really great Germans. "He does not know on what soil alone that
many-sided humor displayed by Luther, Beethoven, and Wagner can grow,
which other nations do not at all comprehend, and which even the
Germans of to-day seem to have lost; that mixture, pure as gold, of
simplicity, deep, loving insight, mental reflection and rollicking
humor which Wagner has poured out like a delightful draught for all
those who have keenly suffered in life, and who turn to him, as it
were, with the smile of the convalescent." Another German, Sebastian
Bach, might have been named whom Wagner resembles most in that
universal dominating quality of mind which is even visible in the
half-ironical, laughing eye of the simple Thuringian chorister, and
brings home to us the truth of Faust's words, "creating delights
for the gods to enjoy." He played at that time many of Bach's
compositions, such as the "Well Tempered Clavicord," with his young
assistant, Hans Richter, who had been recommended to him from Vienna
as a copyist. What cared he for all this wild whirl of silly fancies
and boorish conceit, so long as he, a genuine Prometheus, could create
something new after the grandest models! In speaking of "Tannhaeuser"
he tells us how supremely happy he was when occupied with the
delightful work of real creation. "Before I undertake to write a verse
or sketch a scene, I am already filled with the musical spirit of my
creation," he writes in the year 1864. "All the characteristic motives
are in my brain, so that when the text is done and the scenes
arranged, the opera itself is completed, and the detailed musical
treatment becomes rather a thoughtful and quiet after-work which the
moment of actual composition has already preceded." The humor which at
times prompted even the aged Beethoven to spring over tables and
benches, frequently seized upon our master in such strange fashion
that in the midst of company he would suddenly stand upon his head in
a corner of the room for some time.

His friends observed with pleasure his rapturous happiness in the
certainty of reaching the goal, even though it should bring him to the
grave during this period of the "Meistersinger" composition. He lived
in the most quiet retirement upon a small and beautiful estate in
Triebscheu, near Lucerne, where Frau von Buelow, with her children,
provided for his domestic comfort. His own wife had unexpectedly died
a short time before. During her last years she had lived separately
from the "fiery wheel" whose mad flight she could no longer grasp
nor endure, but by no means in that poverty which the abominably
slanderous press of Munich and elsewhere had accused him of inflicting
upon her. On the contrary, she lived in circumstances fully
corresponding to her husband's means.

In October, 1867, after the lapse of 22 years, the "Meistersinger" was
at last completed. He now strove to secure as far as possible a model
representation. It was of course to take place in Munich, where
"Tristan" had already given the orchestra at least a sure tradition of
style. The event was destined to win for him the very heart of the
nation. If the general culture of the last generation by its shallow
optimism and stale humanitarianism blunted the feeling for the tragic,
as Wagner for the first time had deeply expressed it, yet of one
quality we were never deprived, it ever remained undisturbed, and
that was our German good-nature, from the depths of which humor
springs. At a casual meeting in Kuxhasen, during a friendly contest in
the expression of emotions by gestures of the face, even the great
Kean could not rival the greater Devrient in one thing, and had to
yield to him the victory, and that was the tearful smile which springs
from real compassion with the sorrows of humanity. It was with this
"German good-nature" that Wagner this time conquered the nations. It
was Beethoven who had again quickened the flow from this deepest
source of blessing in life which Shakespeare had been the first to
fully open. By it, Wagner's soul has ever kept its warmth and spirit.
Who that was present does not think with joyous emotion of those
Munich May-days of 1868?

His pamphlet, "German Art and German Politics," had directed the
attention of the narrower circle of Wagner's friends at least
to the great fact that the artificial French civilization which had
prevailed during the last generation could be banished by a real
intellectual culture, and that in this work the highest form of art,
the stage-festival-play, would take a prominent and important part. A
masterly performance of Lohengrin in the spring of 1868, in honor of
the Crown-Prince of Prussia, was a striking illustration of this,
especially to Munich circles. It may also have influenced the mood of
the performers in whose hands the ultimate realization of an object
after all rests. "Even in after years Wagner confessed he had never
felt greater satisfaction in his experiences with an opera company
than at the first representation of the 'Meistersinger.'" The
performers also speak of the persuasive grace and the fresh, animating
cheerfulness with which the master, an example for all in his restless
activity, moved among them and gave to each individual his constant
directions. This remark of his biographer tells everything.

The rehearsals were this time even more artistically satisfactory to
all the participants than those of "Tristan." This art-work was easier
of comprehension owing to its more familiar subject and natural tone.
At the director's desk stood Buelow--"a fine head with clear cut
features, bold arched forehead and large eyes." Opposite to him on the
stage stood Wagner, likewise a very active form of medium height. "All
his features bear the impress of an unsubdued will which underlies his
whole nature," says a Frenchman. "It shows itself everywhere--in the
broad and prominent forehead, in the excessive curve of the strong
chin, in the thin and compressed lips, up to the strong eyebrows,
which disclose the long excitements of a life of suffering; it is the
man of battle, whom we know by his life, the man of thought, who,
never content with the past, looks constantly to the future." Closely
attending, he accompanied every tone with a fitting gesture for the
performer. Only when Mallinger sang the role of the goldsmith's little
daughter, Eva, he paused and listened approvingly with a smiling face.
It was clear that, like Prometheus among his lifeless forms, he
animated them with the breath of the soul and roused them into life.
Beckmesser, the Marker, by his drastic presentation alone expressed
the full measure of furious wrath over the shoemaker's mockery of
his beautiful singing. Such a display of art was new to all. The
Court-Kapellmeister Esser of Vienna, admitted that for the first time
he knew what dramatic, as compared with Kapellmeister-music, was; and
the excellent clarinet-player Baermann, who had personally known
Weber, felt himself in a new world, of which he said that one who did
not know how to appreciate it was not worthy of it and that those who
did not understand it were served rightly in being debarred from this
enjoyment.

At the close of the rehearsals, Wagner expressed his great pleasure to
all the performers; only the artist could again elevate art, and in
contrast with the foreign style, hitherto cultivated, they would
create our own distinctive art. The performance itself was intended to
show to what height and dignity the drama could be elevated when
earnest zeal and true loyalty are enlisted in its service. It was a
touching proof of enthusiastic gratitude for the noble results to
which he had led them, when they all gathered around him to press his
hand or kiss his arms and shoulders. It was the first time that poet
and artist were reunited and in harmony. A hopeful moment for our
art! The enthusiasm lasted fully half of that fragrant summer night.

Such were the hopes realized by the happy impression the performance
itself made upon everyone. The harmony of action, word, music, and
scenery had hitherto never been consciously felt to such a degree. The
rejoicing was general. The Sunday-afternoon service, so devout and
home-like, the busy apprentices, the worthy masters, the "young
Siegfried" Walther von Stolzing, the thoughtful, noble burgher form
of Hans Sachs, and finally, lovely little Eva, no wonder it all
produced supreme ecstasy. Wagner, sitting in the imperial box at the
side of the king, cared not for the tumultous applause of those who
had so grievously wronged him, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of
this moment of the highest happiness, which perhaps was best reflected
in the eyes of his noble friend. Finally, however, when the demand
became too imperious, the king himself probably urged Wagner to go
forward, and from the royal box he made his acknowledgment, too deeply
stirred and agitated to utter a word. For the welfare of the nation
and the time, we see here realized in its wide significance the
vision of Schiller:

"Thus, King and Singer shall together be
Upon the mountains of humanity."

The friend of the cause will find a correct account of all these ever
memorable occurrences in the "Musical Sketchbook--An Exposition of the
State of the Opera at the present Time," of 1869, concerning which the
master wrote to the author: "You will readily believe that much,
indeed the most, of what you have written, has greatly affected and
deeply touched me, and I shall therefore say nothing about your work
itself except to express for all this my great and intense pleasure!"

The criticisms of different persons presented a many-colored picture
of which an amusing sketch will also be found in the book referred to.
How many Beckmessers came to light there! The most concise and
worthiest expression of the prevalent feeling of final victory for the
cause is found in the verses of Ernst Dohm, with which we close this
grand chapter, the morning greeting of noble deeds:

No mistakes, no faults were found.
No,--but purely, lovely singing,
Captivating every heart,
Honor to the master bringing,
Glorifying German art--
Did the Mastersong resound.

Soon, as standard bearers strong,
From the strand of Isar, we
Will go forth with Mastersong
Through United Germany.

CHAPTER VI.

1869-1876.

BAIREUTH.

A Vienna Critic--"Judaism in Music"--The War of 1870--Wagner's
Second Wife--"The Thought of Baireuth"--Wagner-Clubs--The "Kaiser
March"--Baireuth--Increasing Progress--Concerts--The Corner-Stone
of the new Theatre--The Inaugural Celebration--Lukewarmness of the
Nation--The Preliminary Rehearsals--The Summer of 1876--Increasing
Devotion of the Artists--The General Rehearsal--The Guests--The
Memorable Event--Its Importance--A World-History in Art-Deeds.

"_In the beginning was the deed._"--GOETHE.

"As artist and man, I am now approaching a new world," Wagner had
already written in 1851.

The Vienna Thersites, with his coarse and confused wits, whom the real
irony of his time had termed "the most renowned musical critic of the
age," had the hardihood to write for the principal newspaper of
Austria as late as the spring of 1872: "Wagner is lucky in everything.
He begins by raging against all monarchs, and a generous King meets
him with enthusiastic love. Then he writes a pasquinade against the
Jews, and musical Jewry pays him homage all the more by purchasing the
Baireuth certificates. He proves that all our Hofkapellmeisters are
mere artisans, and behold, they organize Wagner-clubs and recruit
troops for Baireuth. Opera-singers and theatre directors, whose
performances Wagner most cruelly condemns, follow his footsteps
wherever he appears and are delighted if he salutes them. He brands
our conservatories as being spoiled and neglected institutes, and the
scholars of the Vienna conservatory form in line before Richard Wagner
and make a subscription to present the master with a token of esteem."

Ah, yes; but this "luck" was the result of his close search for what
was true and real.

This moral dignity, which asks for nothing but the truth, gradually
drew toward Wagner many estimable friends, among them, through the
"Meistersinger" performance in Munich, that simple citizen who
organized in Mannheim the first of those Wagner-clubs that called into
existence for us the high castle of art and the ideal--"Baireuth."

With that work Wagner had made the last hopeful attempt to improve the
domestic stage. The experiences gained in this effort disclosed to
him with distinct clearness the radically inartistic and un-German
qualities of the theatre, which outwardly and inwardly, morally as
well as spiritually, exerted an equally pernicious influence. But
while completely alienating himself from it and planning only to "rear
with considerate haste his gigantic edifice of four divisions," and
thus obtain a stage free from all commercial interests, consecrated
only to the ideal of the nation and the human mind, he yet felt
impelled once more to withdraw with firm hand the veil from the actual
social and art conditions of the nation, and wrote "Judaism in Music."

A simple pamphlet has rarely set all circles of society in such
commotion as did this. It was like the awakening conscience of
the nation, only that its mental stupor prevented the immediate
comprehension of the new and deeply conciliatory spirit which here
presented itself, at once to heal and to save. It was a national deed
clearly to disclose this unseemly shopkeeper's spirit which attempts
to drag to the mercantile level even the highest concerns of humanity.
At the same time there came to some a conception of how deep and
great, how overwhelming this German spirit must be, that it not only
forces such aliens into its yoke, but, as in the case of Heine and
Mendelssohn, often produces in them profoundly affecting tones of
longing for participation in its sublime nature. Wagner's feeling at
this, the most confused uproar which has been heard in the present
time, could only have been like that of Goethe, namely, that all these
stupid talkers have no idea how impregnable the fortress is in which
he lives who is ever earnest about himself and his cause. He was
unconcerned, knowing that he should have the privilege of performing
his "Ring of the Nibelungen" far from all these distorted forms and
figures of the prevailing art. Of this, his noble friend had given
positive assurance; and for himself it became an unavoidable
necessity, since in 1869 and 1870 Munich had performed, without his
consent and contrary to his wishes, "Rheingold" and "Walkuere," by
which it had only been shown anew how little the prevalent opera
routine was in consonance with his object.

In the meantime came the war of 1870. That of 1866 had destroyed the
rotten German "Bund," but now the most daring hopes revived in German
breasts, for there stood the people in arms, like Lohengrin,
everywhere repelling injustice and violence.

I dared to bury many a smart
Which long and deeply grieved my heart.

With these words Wagner greeted his king on the latter's birth day in
1870, and with clear-sighted boldness he said to himself, "The morning
of mankind is dawning." The work, however, which was to glorify and
render effective this first full Siegfried-deed of the Germans since
the days of the Reformation, and revive the moral energy of the
nation, was completed in June of the same year, 1870, with the
"Goetterdaemmerung."

He now strove to strengthen himself anew and permanently. For the
first time in his life he fully secured the purely human happiness
which preserves our powers. He married the divorced Frau Cosima von
Buelow, a daughter of Liszt. "This man, so completely controlled
by his demon, should always have had at his side a high-minded,
appreciative woman, a wife that would have understood the war that was
constantly waged within him," is the judgment passed on Wagner's first
wife by one of her friends. He had now found this woman, and in a way
that proved on every hand a blessing. Her incomparably unselfish,
self-sacrificing first husband himself declared afterwards that this
was the only proper solution. Siegfried was the name given to the
fruit of this union. The "Siegfried Idyl" of 1871 is dedicated to the
boy's happy childhood in the beautiful surroundings of Lucerne.

In this year, the centennial anniversary of Beethoven's birth, he also
told his nation what it possessed in him, its most manly son. He
represents, as he says in that Jubilee pamphlet, the spirit so much
feared beyond the mountains as well as on the other side of the Rhine.
He regained for us the innocence of the soul. What is now wanting is,
that out of this pure spirit-nature, as it is illustrated in his
music, there shall arise a true culture in contrast with the foreign
civilization, which resembles the time of the Roman emperors? These
tones utter anew a world-saving prophesy, and shall we not then
appropriate them fully and forever? The "thought of Baireuth" now
obtained more definite form. A number of friends of the cause were to
make it real and wrest German art from the Venusberg of the common
theatre.

The work of the Wagner-clubs now began, which, with the aid of the
Baireuth Board of Managers, under the direction of the indefatigable
banker Fustel, has led to the goal at last. Liszt's Scholar, Tausig,
and his friend, Frau von Schleinitz, in Berlin, organized the society
of "Patrons," each member of which was to contribute one hundred
thalers toward a fund of three hundred thousand. By the publication of
his writings, Wagner himself introduced the cause that was to show
that in his art also he sought that life by which the ideal nature of
the nation exists. His noble-minded king had, in November of 1870,
uttered the words of deliverance to the other German princes, which
finally gave us again a dignified and honorable existence as a nation,
by creating the German empire. Could German art then remain in the
background? Our artist was now all activity--a wonderfully joyous and
stirring activity. To the "German army before Paris," he who had
always thought and labored for his nation's glory, sang, in January,
1871, the song of triumphant joy of the German armies' deeds:

The Emperor comes: let justice now in peace have sway.

At that time, also, he composed, at the suggestion of Dr. Abrahams,
owner of the "Peters edition," in Leipzig, the Kaiser March, which
closes with the following people's song:

God save the Emperor, William, the King!
Shield of all Germans, freedom's defense!
The highest crown
Graces thine head with renown!
Peace, won with glory, be thy recompense!
As foliage new upon the oak-tree grows,
Through thee the German Empire new-born rose;
Hail to its ancient banners which we
Did carry, which guided thee
When conquering bravely the Gallic foes!
Defying enemies, protecting friends,
The welfare of the nations Germany defends.

Shortly afterward he expresses more clearly the meaning of the
festival-plays that are to be representations in a nobler and
original German style, and he, the lonely wanderer, who hitherto has
heard but the croakings in the bogs of theatrical criticism,
accompanied the pamphlet with an essay on the "Mission of the Opera,"
with which he at the same time introduces himself as a member of the
Berlin Academy.

In the spring of 1871, he went to Baireuth, the ancient residence of
the Margraves, which contained one of the largest theatres. The
building was arranged for the wants of the court and not fully adapted
to his purposes, but the simple and true-hearted inhabitants of the
place had attracted him. Besides this, the pleasant, quiet little city
was situated in the "Kingdom of Grace" and, what likewise seemed of
importance, in the geographical centre of Germany. A short stay
subsequently in the capital of the new empire revealed his goal at
once with stronger consciousness and purpose both for himself and his
friends. At a celebration held there in his honor he said that the
German mind bears the same relation to music as to religion. It
demands the truth and not beautiful form alone. As the Reformation
had laid the foundations of the religion of the Germans deeper and
stronger by freeing Christianity from Roman bonds, so music must
retain its German characteristics of profoundness and sublimity.
During the same time the building of the theatre after Semper's
designs was planned with the building inspector, Neumann.

The sudden death of Tausig which occurred at this time seemed a heavy
loss to all. Wagner has erected for him an inspiring and touching
monument in verse. Other friends however came forward all the more
actively, particularly from Mannheim, with its music-dealer, Emil
Heckel, who had asked him what those without means could do for the
great cause and then at once commenced to organize the "Richard
Wagner-Verein." The example was immediately followed by Vienna and the
other German cities. The project was so far advanced that negotiations
with Baireuth could now be opened. The city was found willing enough
to provide a building site. Applications of other cities having in
view their material interests could therefore be ignored. Wagner then
in order to clearly state the definite purpose to be accomplished,
published the "Report to the German Wagner-Verein," which reveals to
us so deeply the soul-processes that were connected with the
completion of his stage-festival-play. "I have now to my intense
pleasure only to unite the propitious elements under the same banner
which floats so auspiciously over the resurrected German empire, and
at once I can build up my structure out of the constituent parts of a
real German culture; nay more, I need only to unveil the prepared
edifice, so long unrecognized, by withdrawing from it the false
drapery which will soon like a perforated veil disappear in the air."
Thus he closes with joyous hope. And now the necessary steps were
taken in Baireuth. The city donated the building site. The laying of
the corner-stone of the temporary building was to be celebrated May
22, 1872, with Beethoven's Ninth symphony. Wagner took up his
permanent residence in Baireuth. The King had sent his secretary to
meet him while en-route through Augsburg and to assure him that
whatever the outcome might be he would be responsible for any deficit.

A paragraph in the prospectus of the Mannheim society had held out
the prospect of concerts under the master's own direction. This led
to a number of journeys that gave him an opportunity to make the
acquaintance of his "friends" and especially of the artistic "forces"
of Germany. The first journey, as was proper, was to Mannheim "where
men are at home." They had there, as he said, strengthened his faith
in the realization of his plans and demonstrated that the artist's
real ground was in the heart of the nation! Thus he interpreted the
meaning of the celebration there. Vienna also heard classical music,
as well as his own, under the direction of his magical baton. It
happened that at "Wotan's Departure," and "the Banishment of the
fire-god, Loge," in the "Walkuere," a tremendous thunder-storm broke
forth. "When the Greeks contemplated a great work, they called upon
Zeus to send them a flash of lightning as an omen. May all of us who
have united to found a home for German art interpret this lightning
also as favorable to our work, and as a sign of approval from above,"
he said amidst indescribable sensation, and then touched upon the
Baireuth festival, and the Ninth symphony, in which the German soul
appears so deep and rich in meaning. What a world of thoughts, what
germs of future forms lie concealed in this symphony! He himself
stands upon this great work, and from this vantage strives to advance
further. During this period the ill-omened raven, Professor Hanslick,
uttered his silly words about Wagner's "luck." But the victory was
this time with the right.

In Baireuth meanwhile all was being prepared for the celebration. The
Riedel and the Rebling singing-societies constituted the nucleus of
the chorus while the orchestra was formed of musicians from all parts
of Germany, Wilhelmi at their head. There the master for the first
time was really among "his artists." "We give no concert, we make
music for ourselves and desire simply to show the world how Beethoven
is performed--the devil take him who criticises us," he said to them
with humorous seriousness. The laying of the corner-stone on the
beautiful hill overlooking the city, where the edifice stands to-day,
took place May 22, 1872, to the strains of the "Huldigungs March,"
composed for his King in 1864. "Blessing upon thee, my stone, stand
long and firm!" were the words with which Wagner himself gave the
first three blows with the hammer. The King had sent a telegram: "From
my inmost soul, I convey to you, my dearest friend, on this day so
important for all Germany, my warmest and sincerest congratulations.
May the great undertaking prosper and be blessed! I am to-day more
than ever united with you in spirit." Wagner himself had written the
verse:

Here I enclose a mystery;
For centuries it here may rest.
So long as here preserved it be,
It shall to all be manifest.

Both telegram and verse with the Mannheim and Bayreuth documents lie
beneath the stone. Wagner returned with his friends to the city in a
deeply earnest mood. On this his sixtieth birthday his eyes for the
first time beheld the goal of his life!

At the celebration, which then took place in the Opera-house, he
addressed the following words to his friends and patrons: "It is the
nature of the German mind to build from within. The eternal God
actually dwells therein before the temple is erected to His glory. The
stone has already been placed which is to bear the proud edifice,
whenever the German people for their own honor shall desire to enter
into possession with you. Thus then may it be consecrated through your
love, your good wishes and the deep obligation which I bear to you,
all of you who have encouraged, helped and given to me! May it be
consecrated by the German spirit which away over the centuries sends
forth its youthful morning-greeting to you."

The performance of the symphony of that artist, to whom Wagner himself
attributes religious consecration according to eye-witnesses, gave to
this festival, also "the character of a sacred celebration," as had
once been true of the great Beethoven academy in November, 1814.
At the evening celebration, however, Wagner recalled again the
large-heartedness of his King, and said that to this was due what they
had experienced to-day, but that its influence reached far beyond
civil and state affairs. It guaranteed the ultimate possession of a
high intellectual culture, and was the stepping-stone to the grandest
that a nation can achieve. Would the time soon come which shall fitly
name this King, as it already recognized him, a "Louis the German" in
a far nobler sense than his great ancestor? "Certainly no fear of the
always existing majority of the vulgar and the coarse is to prevent
us from confessing that the greatest, weightiest and most important
revelation which the world can show is not the world-conqueror but he
who has overcome the world:" thus teaches the philosopher, and we
shall soon perceive that this was also true of Wagner and his royal
friend.

The fame of this celebration, which had so deeply stirred everyone
present, resounded through all countries, appealed to all true
German hearts. And yet, how many remained even now indifferent and
incredulous! The "nation," as such, did not respond to the call. It
did not, or would not, understand it, uttered by a man who had told
us so many unwelcome truths to our face. It still lay paralyzed in
foreign and unworthy bondage, and was, besides, for the time too much
engrossed with the affairs of the empire, whose novelty had not yet
worn off.

"From morn till eve, in toil and anguish,
Not easily gained it was."

These words of _Wotan_, about his castle Walhalla, were only to
be too fully realized by our master. His "friends" alone gave him
comfort, and their number he saw constantly increase from out of the
midst of the people whose leaders in art-matters they were more and
more destined to become. The public interest was kept alive and
stirred afresh with concerts and discourses. The Old did not rest.
The struggle constantly broke out anew, and for the time it remained
in the possession of the ring that symbolizes mastery. The dragon was
still unconquered. As the "people" in Germany are not particularly
wealthy, slow progress was made with the contributions from the
multiplying Wagner-clubs, and yet millions were needed even for this
temporary edifice with its complete stage apparatus. It required all
the love of his friends, especially of that rarest of all friends, to
dispel at times his deep anger when he was compelled to see how
mediocrity, even actual vulgarity, again and again held captive the
minds of his people to whom he had such high and noble things to
offer. "In the end I must accept the money of the Jews in order to
build a theatre for the Germans," he said, in the spring of 1873, to
Liszt, when during that period of wild stock-speculations, some Vienna
bankers had offered him three millions of marks for the erection of
his building. He could not well have been humiliated more deeply
before his own people, but he was raised still higher in the
consciousness of his mission. Truly, this love also came "out of
laughter and tears, joys and sorrows," for the mighty host of his
enemies now put forth every effort to make his work appear ridiculous
and in that way kill it. A pamphlet, by a physician, declared him
"mentally diseased by illusions of greatness." Even a Breughel could
not paint the raging of the distorted figures which at that time
convulsed the world of culture, not alone of Germany. It was really an
inhuman and superhuman struggle around this ring of the Nibelung!

Nevertheless, in August of the same year (1873), the festival could be
undertaken in Baireuth. "Designed in reliance upon the German soul,
and completed to the glory of its august benefactor," is printed on
the score of the Nibelungen Ring, which now began to appear. The space
for the "stage-festival-play" was at least under roof. But with that,
the means obtained so far were exhausted, and only "vigorous
assistance" on the part of his King prevented complete cessation of
work. Wagner himself was soon compelled again to take up his
wanderer's staff. He sought this time (1874-1875), with the lately
completed "Goetterdaemmerung," to sound through the nation the
effective call to awaken, and in doing so met with many decided
encouragements. "From the bottom of my heart I thank the splendid
Vienna public which to-day has brought me an important step nearer the
realization of my life-mission." This was the theme which fortunately
he had then only to vary in Pesth and in Berlin.

The preliminary rehearsals now began, and what Munich had witnessed
in 1868 repeated itself ten times over in Baireuth during this summer
of 1875. For weeks there was the same untiring industry, but also
the same, nay increasing, enthusiasm. "Of this marvelous work I
recently heard more than twenty rehearsals. It over-tops and dominates
our entire art-period as does Mont Blanc the other mountains,"
wrote Liszt. The master frankly conceded that it was due to the
"unhesitating zeal of the associate artists as well as to the splendid
success of their performances" that he could now positively invite
the patrons and Wagner for the next summer. "Through your kind
participation may an artistic deed be brought to light, such as none
of the dignitaries of to-day but only the free union of those really
called could present to the world," he says. And:

"From such marvelous deed the hero's fame arose,"

sings Hagen of Siegfried.

The rehearsals during the summer of 1876 so increased the enthusiastic
devotion of the artists to the work, that many felt they had really
now only become such. Others, however, like Niemann as Siegmund, Hill
as Alberich, and Schlosser as Mime, showed already in fact what heroic
deeds in the art of representation were presented. The fetters of the
maidenly bride were indeed broken that she might live. "We have
overcome the first. We must yet consummate a true hero-deed in a short
time," Wagner said, when at the first close of the Cycle silent
emotion had given place to a perfect storm of enthusiasm, but, he
exultantly added: "If we shall carry it out as I now clearly see that
it will be done, we may well say that we have performed something
grand." The little anticipated humor in "Siegfried" developed itself
in such a way under the leadership of Hans Richter, who was more and
more inspired by the master, that one seemed indeed to hear "the
laughter of the universe in one stupendous outbreak." That was the
fruit of the "tempestuous sobbing" with which young Siegfried himself
had once listened to the Ninth symphony. It was indeed a new
soul-foundation for his nation and his time! Wagner himself calls an
enthusiasm of this kind a power that could conduct all human affairs
to certain prosperity and upon which states could be built. The
patriotic enthusiasm of 1870 sprang from the same source and it has
brought us the "empire" as that of 1876 gave us the "art."

The general rehearsal on the seventh of August was attended by the
King. He had stopped at a sub-station, once the favorite resort of
Jean Paul, and at the station-master's house the two great and
constant friends silently embraced, giving vent to their feelings in
tears. From that date to the thirteenth of August, 1876, the ever
memorable day of the re-creation of German art, came the hosts of
friends and patrons, from great princes to the humble German
musicians. "Baireuth is Germany" is the acclamation of an Englishman
on witnessing the spectacle. The head of the realm, Emperor William,
was there himself welcomed by the festival-giver and hailed with
acclamation by the thousands from far and near. The Grand-duke
Constantine and the Emperor of Brazil were likewise present.

Of the effect we shall at this time say nothing for lack of space to
tell all; but, to convey at least a conception of the event which
riveted minds and held hearts spell-bound until the last note had
passed away, while at the same time a whole new world dawned upon our
souls--we present a short account of the work as pithily drawn by
Wagner's gifted friend and patron, Prof. Nietzsche, in Basle.

"In the Ring of the Nibelungen," he says, "the tragic hero is a god
(Wotan), who covets power and who, by following every path to obtain
it, binds himself with contracts, loses his liberty and is at last
engulfed in the curse which rests upon power. He becomes conscious of
his loss of liberty, because he no longer has the means to gain
possession of the golden ring, the essence or symbol of all earthly
power, and at the same time of greatest danger for himself as long as
it remains in the hands of his enemies. The fear of the end and the
'twilight' of all the gods comes over him and likewise despair, as he
realizes that he can not strive against this end, but must quietly see
it approach. He stands in need of the free, fearless man, who without
his advice and aid, even battling against divine order, from within
himself accomplishes the deed which is denied to the gods. He does not
discover him, and just as a new hope awakens he must yield to the
destiny that binds him. Through his hand the dearest must be
destroyed, the purest sympathy punished with his distress.

"Then at last he loathes the power that enslaves and brings forth
evil. His will is broken, and he desires the end which threatens from
afar. And now what he had but just desired occurs. The free, fearless
man appears. He is created supernaturally, and they who gave birth to
him pay the penalty of a union contrary to nature. They are destroyed,
but Siegfried lives.

"In the sight of his splendid growth and development the loathing
vanishes from the soul of Wotan. He follows the hero's fate with the
eye of the most fatherly love and anxiety. How Siegfried forges the
sword, kills the dragon, secures the ring, escapes the most crafty
intrigues, and awakens Brunhilde; how the curse that rests upon the
ring does not spare even him, the innocent one, but comes nearer and
nearer; how he, faithful in faithlessness, wounds out of love the most
beloved, and is surrounded by the shadows and mists of guilt, but at
last emerges as clear as the sun and sinks, illuminating the heavens
with his fiery splendor and purifying the world from the curse--all
this the god, whose governing spear has been broken in the struggle
with the freest and who has lost his power to him, holds full of joy
at his own defeat, fully participating in the joy and sorrow of his
conqueror. His eye rests with the brightness of a painful serenity
upon all that has passed. 'He has become free in Love, free from
himself.'"

These are the profound contents of a work that reveals to us the
tragic nature of the world!

At the close of the Cycle, there arose in the enthusiastic assemblage
a demand to see at such a great and grand moment the noble artist
whose eyes had rested for so many years upon the spirit of his great
nation "with the brightness of a painful serenity." He could not evade
the persistent, stormy demand, and had to appear. His features bore an
expression that seemed to show a whole life lived again, an entire
world embraced anew, as he came forward and uttered the significant
yet simple words: "To your own kindness and the ceaseless efforts of
my associates, our artists, you owe this accomplishment. What I have
yet to say to you can be put into a few words, into an axiom. You have
seen now what we can do. It remains for you to will! And if you will,
then we have a German art!"

Yes, indeed we have such an art--a "Baireuth."

O, done is the deathless deed;
On mountain-top the mighty castle!
Splendidly shines the structure new.
As in dreams I did dream it,
As my will did wish it,
Strong and serene it stands to the view--
Mighty manor new!

We have a German art! But have we also by this time a German spirit
that sways the nation's life? Have we come to detest mere might which
we have hitherto worshipped and that yet "bears within its lap evil
and thralldom?" Has the "free, fearless man," the Siegfried, been born
to us who out of himself creates the right and with the sword he
forges manfully slays the dragon that gnaws at the vitals of our being
and thus rescues the slumbering bride? This question has been hurled
into our life and history by the "Ring of the Nibelungen." It will be
heard as long as the question remains unsolved. If, according to
Wagner's conception, Beethoven wrote the history of the world in
music, then he himself has furnished a world-history in art-deeds!
Such is the meaning of this Baireuth with its Nibelungen Ring of 1876.

Let us see now what the life and work of this artist, for nigh unto
seventy years, further and finally imports to us. He also was guided
by Goethe's fervent prayer:

"O, lofty Spirit, suffer me
The end of my life's-work to see!"

CHAPTER VII.

1877-1882.

PARSIFAL.

A German Art--Efforts to maintain the Acquired Results--Concerts in
London--Recognition abroad and Lukewarmness at home--The
"Nibelungen" in Vienna--"Parsifal"--Increasing Popularity
of Wagner's Music--Judgments--Accounts of the "Parsifal"
Representations--The Theatre Building--"Parsifal," a National
Drama--Its Significance and Idea--Anti-Semiticism--The Jewish
Spirit--Wagner's Standpoint--Synopsis of "Parsifal"--The Legend of
the Holy Grail--Its Symbolic Importance--Art in the Service of
Religion--Beethoven and Wagner--"Redemption to the Redeemer."

"_Dawn then now, thou day of Gods!_"--Wagner.

"If you but will it, we shall have a German art." It is true we had a
German music, a German literature, a German art of painting, each of
high excellence, but they were not that union of German art which
floated before Wagner's mind in his "combined art-work" and which
found its first adequate interpretation in the performances of the
Nibelungen Ring. His object was now to make it permanent and to this
end he sought the means.

Accordingly on January 1, 1877, the invitation to form "a society of
patrons for the culture and maintenance of the stage-festival-plays
of Baireuth" was issued. At the same time the "Baireuther Blaetter,"
which subsequently were made available to the general public, were
issued in order to more fully and constantly elucidate the aim and
object of the cause. Wagner had declined to acquiesce in a demand for
a subsidy from the Reichstag, although King Louis had agreed to
support such a measure before the Bundesrath. "There are no Germans;
at least they are no longer a nation. Whoever still thinks so and
relies upon their national pride makes a fool of himself," he said
bitterly enough to a friend. As far as the ideal is concerned he was
certainly right in regard to the Reichstag as well as the people. "He
who can clear such paths is a genius, a prophet, and in Germany, a
martyr as well!" are the words of one of those who at one time had
contemptuously spoken of this "Baireuth" as a "speculation." And yet
Wagner had to accept an invitation to give concerts in London to cover
the expenses of this same "Baireuth." By the distinguished reception
the artist met there, the consideration shown for his art, the spread
of his earlier works over the whole of Europe, he felt that foreign
lands had understood him, the German. It must have been very bitter
for him to feel that the Germans as a nation knew him not. Among the
multitude of the educated, faith was still wanting. They courted
foreign gods. If it had not been so would it have required seven,
fully seven years, to obtain the moderate sum needed even to think of
resuming the work, and in the end a contribution of three hundred
thousand marks from His Majesty the King to bring it to completion?
How slow was the progress of the society of patrons! People who,
during the era of speculation had accumulated wealth rapidly, thought
in these years of decreasing prosperity of something else than joining
such an undertaking, and declared that they had to economize. And yet
the annual dues were but 15 marks! Very singular was the answer of
some whose rank or learning gave them prominence. They said that it
was not even known whether the project had any real standing and they
might therefore disgrace themselves by lending their names. Yes, when
the bad Wagnerians dared to attack the tottering Mendelssohn-Schuman
instrumental mechanics, Germans as well as others were induced to
withdraw from the society which it had cost them so much struggle to
join. Councilors of State and educators did not even respond to the
invitations of the society's branches which were now gradually
organized in a large number of cities.

It was generally known that a new work was soon to issue from Wagner's
brain and soon everywhere from the Rhine to the Danube, from rock to
sea, could be heard the Nibelungen! Wagner had, against his innermost
conviction, consented to permit the use of the work by the larger
theatres in the supposition that such personal experience of the
"prodigious deed" would open heart and hand for a still grander one,
the permanent establishment of a distinctive German art. Vienna came
first. However excellent the performance of a few, for instance,
Scaria as Wotan, Materna as Brunnhilde and the orchestra under Hans
Richter, there was lacking the ensemble! The sensation of something
extraordinary, of grandeur and solemnity, that in Baireuth had
elevated the soul to the eternal heights of humanity, was not there.
It was often as when daylight enters a theatre; the sublime illusion
of such a tragic representation was wanting, and Wagner knew that in
this art it is the very bread of life. "The art-work also, like
everything transitory, is only a parable, but a parable of the
ever-present eternal," he said, in taking leave of his friends and
patrons in Baireuth and his purpose now was deeply to impress the
minds of his contemporaries with this "ever-present eternal" and thus
make it permanently effective. The Holy Grail had first to give forth
its last wonder!

Once more he diverts his attention from "outward politics," as he
called the intercourse with the theatres, and collects his thoughts
for a new deed. This was "Parsifal." With this work, performed for the
first time, July 26, 1882, and then repeated thirteen times, he
believed he might close his life-long labors, and assuredly he has
securely crowned them. It seems indeed as if this has finally and
forever broken the obstinate ban that so long separated him and his
art from his people. The success of the Nibelungen Ring had been
called in question, but that of "Parsifal" is beyond doubt, as
sufficiently demonstrated by the attendance of cultured people from
everywhere for so many weeks! "They came from all parts of the world;
as of old in Babel, you can hear speech in every tongue," said a
participant in the festival. With the final slaying of the dragon,
there fell also into the hero's hand the treasure, inasmuch as the
large attendance left a surplus of many thousand marks, thus assuring
the continuation of the festival-plays.

To be sure, the Nibelungen Ring had largely contributed to this
success. At first performed in Leipzig, then by the same troupe in
Berlin, it had met with a really unprecedented reception. Since
the storm of 1813, since the years of 1848-49, the feeling of a
distinctive nationality has not been so effectually roused, and this
time it no longer stood solely upon the ground of patriotism and
politics, but there where we seek our highest--the "ever-present
eternal." England was likewise roused in 1882, with performances
of the "Nibelungen Ring," and still more with "Tristan," to a
consciousness of an eternal humanity in this art, such as had not
been experienced there since Beethoven's Ninth symphony, and this
enthusiasm of our manly and serious brethren sped like the fire's
glare, illuminating the common fatherland from whence they had
themselves once carried that feeling for the tragic which produced
their Shakespeare. Everywhere was the stir of spring-time, sudden
awakening, as from death-like slumber or a disturbing dream. "Dawn
then now, thou day of gods!"

We will next give some accounts of the representations.

"'Victory! Victory!' is the word which is making the rounds of the
world from Baireuth, in these days. Wagner's latest creation which
brings the circle of his works in a beautiful climax to a dignified
close, has achieved a success such as the most intimate adherents of
the master could not well desire fuller or grander. The name of a
'German Olympia,' which had been given facetiously to the capital
of Upper Franconia, it really now merited," was said by a London
correspondent.

At the close of the general rehearsal, "the participating artists
unanimously declared that they had never received from the stage such
an impression of lofty sublimity." "Parsifal produces such an enormous
effect that I can not conceive any one will leave the theatre
unsatisfied or with hostile thoughts," E. Heckel wrote; and Liszt
affirmed that nothing could be said about this wonderful work: "Yes,
indeed, it silences all who have been profoundly touched by it. Its
sanctified pendulum swings from the lofty to the most sublime." Of the
first act it had already been said: "We here meet with a harmony of
the musico-dramatic and religious church style which alone enables us
to experience in succession the most terrible, heartrending sorrow and
again that most sanctified devotion which the feeling of a certainty
of salvation alone rouses in us."

The German Crown-Prince attended the performance of August 29th, the
last one. "I find no words to voice the impression I have received,"
he said to the committee of the patron society which escorted him. "It
transcends everything that I had expected, it is magnificent. I am
deeply touched, and I perceive that the work can not be given in the
modern theatre." And, finally, "I do not feel as though I am in a
theatre, it is so sublime."

A Frenchman wrote: "The work that actually created a furious storm of
applause is of the calmest character that can be conceived; always
powerful, it leaves the all-controlling sensation of loftiness and
purity." "The union of decoration, poetry, music and dramatic
representation in a wonderfully beautiful picture, that with
impressive eloquence points to the new testament--a picture full of
peace and mild, conciliatory harmony, is something entirely new in
the dramatic world," is said of the opening of the third act.

And in simple but candid truth the decisive importance of the cause
called forth the following: "Parsifal furnishes sufficient evidence
that the stage is not only not unworthy to portray the grandest and
holiest treasures of man and his divine worship, but that it is
precisely the medium which is capable in the highest degree of
awakening these feelings of devotion and presenting the impressive
ceremony of divine worship. If the hearer is not prompted to devotion
by it, then certainly no church ceremony can rouse such a feeling in
him. The stage, that to the multitude is at all times merely a place
of amusement, and upon which at best are usually represented only the
serious phases of human life, of guilt and atonement, but which is
deemed unworthy of portraying the innermost life of man and his
intercourse with his God, this stage has been consecrated to its
highest mission by 'Parsifal.'"

The building also, which Semper's art-genius, with the highest end in
view had constructed, is worthy of this mission. It has no ornament in
the style of our modern theatres. Nowhere do we behold gold or
dazzling colors; nowhere brilliancy of light or splendor of any kind.
The seats rise amphitheatrically and are symmetrically enclosed by a
row of boxes. To the right and left rise mighty Corinthian columns,
which invest the house with the character of a temple. The orchestra,
like the choir of the Catholic cloisters, is invisible and everything
unpleasant and disturbing about ordinary theaters is removed.
Everything is arranged for a solemn, festive effect. "That is no
longer the theatre, it is divine worship," was the final verdict
accordingly. "Baireuth" is the temple of the Holy Grail.

At length we come to the principal theme, and with it to the climax of
this historical sketch of such a mighty and all-important artistic
lifework, to "Parsifal" itself. The mere mention of its contents
attests its importance for the present and the future. Wagner's
"Parsifal," in an important sense, can be termed our national drama.
Such a work like Æschylus' "Persian" and Sophocles' Oedipus-trilogy,
should recall to the consciousness of a world-historical people the
period in which it stands in the world's history, and thereby make
clear the mission it has to fulfil.

That we Germans have begun again to make world-history in a political
sense, since the last generation, is evidenced by the great action of
the time which seems for the present to have settled the politics of
Europe and extended its influence upon the world at large. Beyond the
domain of politics however the real movers of the world are the ideas
which animate humanity and of which politics are but a sign of life
possessing subordinate influence. In this movement of the mind we
Germans are, without question, much older than a mere generation, as
indeed Wagner's poetic material everywhere confirms. The one work in
which Kaulbach's genius triumphed, the "Battle of the Huns," gained
for him a world-wide fame, more by the plastic idea revealed in the
perpetual struggle of the spirits than by its artistic execution. We
stand to-day before, or rather in, a like mighty contest. Two moral
religious sentiments struggle against each other for life and death in
invisible as well as visible conflict. To which shall be the victory?

In the year 1850 Wagner wrote a pamphlet of weighty import. It reveals
an expression of the utmost moment, though it has been heeded least by
those whom it concerns as much as life and death; or, rather, it has
not been understood at all, because these natures are more attracted
by the trivial. Its most impressive confirmation is to-day furnished
by art, above all else by actual representations on the boards that
typify the world. "Parsifal" also is such a symbol, and in so large a
world-historical and even metaphysical sense, that by it the stage
has become a place dedicated to the proclamation of highest truth and
morality. We have seen the grotesque anti-Semitic movement and the
lamentable persecution of the Jews. What could inflict more injury to
our higher nature, to our real culture? And yet in this lies concealed
a deep instinct of a purely moral nature. It does not, however,
concern merely that people whom the course of events has cast among
other nations, still much less the individual man, who, without choice
or intention, has been born among, and therefore forms a part of them.
It involves the secret of the world-historical problems that struggle
so long with each other until the right one triumphs. To these
problems, with his incomparable depth of soul, the whole life and work
of our artist is devoted as long as he breathes and lives, moved by
the holiest feeling for his nation, for the time--yes, for mankind, in
whose service he as real "poet and prophet" stands with every fibre of
his nature and works with every beat of his heart.

That unnoticed, misunderstood expression at the close of the paper by
"K. Freigedank," in 1850, was this: "One more Jew we must name, who
appeared among us as a writer, namely, Boerne. He stepped out of his
individual position as Jew, seeking deliverance among us. He did not
find it, and must have become conscious that he would only find it in
our own transformation also into genuine men. To return in common with
us to a purer humanity, however, signifies, for the Jew, above all
else, that he shall cease to be a Jew. Boerne had fulfilled this. But
it was precisely Boerne who taught us how this deliverance cannot be
achieved in cool comfort and listless ease; but that it involves for
them, as for us, toil, distress, anxiety, and abundance of pain and
sorrow. Strive for this by self-abandonment and the regenerating work
of salvation, and then we are united and without difference! But,
remember that your deliverance depends upon the deliverance of
Ahasrer--his destruction!"

No other people has received those cast out by all the world with such
sacredly pure, humane feeling as the Germans. Will they then at last
find their deliverance among us from the curse of homelessness, their
new existence by absorption into a larger, richer, deeper whole? It is
this question which animates and moves Wagner; but by no means in the
sense of a casual and shifting quarrel among different races or even
religious parties. On the contrary, he feels that this question is a
life-question of the time, approaching its final solution. It is
not the Jews, however, but the Jewish spirit, that represents
the antagonist--that spirit which at first, after the birth of
Christianity, and aided by the filth of Roman civilization, with its
inherent evil germs, this people devoted to a world-historic power of
evil; and which, even in its most brilliant revelation, in Spinoza, as
has been most clearly demonstrated from his own works by Schopenhauer,
seeks only its own advantage, to which it sacrifices the whole, but
does not recognize the whole to which it must lovingly sacrifice
itself.

Such concrete, actual historical developments Wagner regards not as a
hindrance, but as the external support of his art-work. For a poetic
composition requires some connection with a time or space to make
perceptible to the senses its view of the advancing development of
the mind of humanity. So it is that Kleist's "Arminius-battle" does
not in the least refer to the ancient Romans, but to the degenerate
race, the mixture of tiger and ape, as Voltaire has called them, and
in this symbol of art he strengthened the determination of his people
until in the battles of nations it conquered. Wagner even transfers
the scene of this conflict into those distant centuries in which the
struggle between Christians and Infidels was very fierce, while that
between Jews and Occidentals had not yet even in existence. Like the
real artist, he also uses only individual phases of the present time,
which, it is quite true, bear but too close a relation to the
character of that Arabian world that once engaged in conflict
with Christianity for the world's control, and thus proves that
this question, least of all is a passing "Question of time and
controversy," but is one of the ever-present questions of humanity
which has again come to the front in a specially vivid and urgent
form. His inborn feeling for the purely human, which we have seen
displayed with such touching warmth in all his doings, and that has
created for us the genuine human forms of a "Flying Dutchman,"
"Tannhaeuser," "Lohengrin," and "Siegfried" is true to itself this
time, indeed this time more than ever. He anticipates the struggling
aspiration. He sees the form already appear on the surface, and only
seeks a pure human sympathy to show the true and full solution which
denies to neither of the disputing parties the God-given right of
existence.

Klingsor, the sorcerer, representative of everything hostile to the
Holy Grail and its knights, summons Kundry, the maid, subject to his
witchcraft--in other words to that evil moral law which the individual
alone is unable to resist--and reproachfully says:

Shame! that with the brood of knights,
Thou should'st like a beast be maintained!

The German class-pride which regarded the Jew as a body servant is
strongly enough characterized and our own ancient injustice still more
sharply expressed in his words:

"Thus may the whole body of knights
In deadly conflict each other destroy."

Thus Wagner reveals still more clearly than in the "Flying Dutchman"
with his "fabulous homesickness" an absolute trait and the inner view
of that sentiment which here longs for salvation, to be mortal with
the mortals. At the sight of the nobler qualities and real human
dignity which Kundry for the first time in her life sees in the person
of Parsifal, who has been born again through the recognition of the
truth, she breaks down completely and with the only word that she now
knows, "serve! serve!" she throws all evil selfishness away. For the
first time it is now fully disclosed how deeply after all, and with
what intensity those of alien race and religion serve the ideas, not
so much of our own similarly narrow contracted race-life, but those
ideas which have transformed us from a mere nation to an historical
part of humanity that guards the world's eternal treasure in this Holy
Grail, as its last and grandest possession.

How fully is Goethe's saying "the power that ever seeks the evil and
yet produces good" realized. Kundry is the messenger of the same Holy
Grail against which her lord and master conducts the fatal war. To all
distant lands it is she that brings the higher element of culture,
the purer humanity which she gets from the Grail and its life. Though
the peculiar portraiture of Kundry is drawn from his own experience
of the present, the poet has gone still further and pictured that
omnipresent spirit of evil which can never by simple participation in
the sorrows of others gain knowledge of the perpetual sorrow of the
world. Klingsor summons from the chaotic, primeval foundation of the
world, where good and evil still lie commingled, the blind instinct of
nature, as that wonderful element in the world's history which must
everywhere be at once servant of the devil and messenger of grace,
with the all-comprehensive words:

"Thy master calls thee, nameless one;
Primeval devil! rose of hell!
Herodias thou wast and what more?
Gundryggia there, Kundry here!"

It is the feminine Ahasrer, present in all ages and spheres, in our
time revealing its tangible form in the ruling spirit of Judaism. As
her sinful nature at last is overcome by Parsifal's purity, and she
humbly approaches him to receive the baptism that is awarded to every
one who believes and acts in the spirit of pure humanity, he
proclaims, when he has withstood her temptation and thereby has
regained from Klingsor the holy lance of the Grail, the impending
catastrophe by tracing with the lance the sign of the cross and
saying:

"With this sign thy spell I banish!
Even as it heals the wound
Which with it thou hast dealt--
So may thy delusive splendor in grief and ruin fall."

When in the last century, Roman Catholicism had become sensual and
worldly through Jesuitism, and Protestantism had put on either the
straight-jacket of orthodoxy or had been diluted with rationalism,
there came to the surface, outside of the religious sects, secret
societies, such as the Freemasons. In their well-meant but flat
humanitarian idealism, those strangers to our race and religion, the
hitherto despised Jews, also took active part and what "delusive
splendor" have they not since then provided for themselves in
literature and art and general ways of life? A single actual
resurrection of that sign in which we Germans alone have attained
world-culture and world-importance has "in grief and ruin destroyed"
all this, and we hope in truth that we are now approaching a new epoch
of our spiritual as well as moral existence. Just as, out of the first
awakening of a pure human feeling such as Christianity brought us,
there rose in contrast to priesthood a work like the "Magic Flute,"
child-like, artless but devoutly pure and full of feeling, so now
there resounds like the mighty watchword of this full national
resurrection, Wagner's "Parsifal."

Let us see how the poem itself has done this and what it signifies.

According to the legend of the Holy Grail, already artistically
resurrected by the master in "Lohengrin," the chalice from which
Christ had drank with His disciples at the last supper, and in which
His blood had been received at the cross, had been brought into the
western world by a host of angels at a time of most serious danger to
the pure gospel of Christianity. King Titurel had erected for it the
temple and castle of Monsalvat in the north of Spain, where knights of
absolute purity of mind guard it and receive spiritual as well as
bodily nourishment from its miraculous powers. This sanctuary can only
be found by the pure. The king keeps the holy lance, which had opened
the Savior's wound, and with it holds in check the hostile heathen.
Klingsor, the sorcerer, on the southern decline of the mountain, rules
the latter. He had likewise once been seized with remorse for his
sins, his "pain of untamed longings and the most terrible pressure
of hellish desires," and had mutilated himself and then seeking
deliverance had wandered to the Holy Grail. Amfortas however,
Titurel's son, now king of the Grail, perceived his impurity and
sternly turned away the evil sorcerer, who only seeks release for
worldly gain.

Angered thereat, the latter now contrives through the agency of
Kundry, who appears in the highest and most bewitching beauty,
encircling the king himself with the snares of passion, to obtain
power over him and to wrest from him the lance with which he wounds
him. This wound will burn until the holy lance shall be regained. This
then is the supreme deed to be accomplished. The Grail itself at one
time has proclaimed during the keenest pangs of the suffering king,
that it shall be regained by him who, deficient in worldly knowledge,
shall from pure sympathy with his terrible sufferings recognize the
sufferings of humanity and through such blissful faith bring to it new
redemption. The body of humanity, which Christianity had called into
new life, had been invaded by a consuming poison and only so far as by
the full unconsciousness of innocence, its genius itself was
re-awakened, was it possible to again expel the poison.

In the forest of the castle old Gurnemanz and two shield-bearers lie
slumbering at early dawn. The solemn morning-call of the Grail is
heard and they all rise to pray and then await the sick king who is to
take a soothing bath in the near lake. All medicinal herbs have proved
useless. Kundry shortly after suddenly appears in savage, strange
attire and proffers balm from Arabia. The king is carried forward. We
listen to his lamentations. He thanks Kundry, who, however, roughly
declines all thanks. The shield-bearers show indignation at this but
are reprimanded by Gurnemanz who says: "She serves the Grail and her
zeal with which she now helps us and herself at the same time is
in atonement for former sins." When she is missing too long, a
misfortune surely is in store for the knights. She preserves for them
by the opposing forces of her nature the true and good in their
consciousness and purpose. With that he tells them Klingsor has
established on the other side of the mountain, toward the land of the
Arabian infidels, a magic garden with seductively beautiful women to
menace them by enticing the knights there and ruining them. In the
attempt to destroy this harbor of sin the king had carried away the
wound and lost the lance which, according to the revelation of the
Grail, only "the simple fool knowing by compassion" could recover.

Suddenly cries of lamentation resound in the sacred forest. A wild
swan slowly descends and dies. Shield-bearers bring forward a handsome
youth whose harmless, innocent demeanor inspires involuntary interest.
He is recognized by the arrows he carries as the murderer of the bird
which had been flying over the lake and which had seemed to the king,
about to take his bath, as a happy omen. Gurnemanz upbraids him for
this deed of cruelty. The swan is doubly sacred to the Grail. It is a
swan also that conducts Lohengrin to the relief of innocence! "I did
not know," Parsifal replies. The universal lamentation however touches
his heart and he breaks his bow and arrows. He knows not whence he
came, knows neither father nor name. The only thing he knows is that
he had a mother named "Sad-heart." "In forest and wild meadows we were
at home." Gurnemanz perceives however by his manner and appearance
that he is of noble race, and Kundry, who has seen and heard
everything in her constant wanderings confirms the impression.

"Thus he was the born king
Who had the aspect of a lordly youth,"

says Chiron to Faust of the young Herakles. As his father had been
slain in battle, the mother had brought him up in the wilderness a
stranger to arms--foolish deed--mad woman! Parsifal relates that he
had followed "glittering men" and after the manner of the vigorous
primitive peoples, had led the wild life of nature, following only
natural instincts. Gurnemanz reproaches him for running away from his
mother and when Kundry states that she is dead, Parsifal furiously
seizes her by the throat. It is the first feeling for a being other
than himself, his first sorrow. Again Gurnemanz upbraids him for his
renewed violence but remembering the prophecy and the finding of the
secret passage to the castle, he believes that there may be nobler
qualities in him. For this reason he speaks to him of the Grail,
which, now that the king has left the bath, is to provide them anew
with nourishment. Upon secret paths they reach the castle of the Grail
which only he of pure mind can find. The knights solemnly assemble in
a hall with a lofty dome. Beyond Amfortas' couch of pain, the voice of
Titurel is heard as from a vaulted niche, admonishing them to uncover
the Grail. Thus the dead genii of the world admonish the living to
expect life! Amfortas however cries out in grievous agony that he, the
most unholy of them all, should perform the holiest act, that in an
unsanctified time the sanctuary should be seen. The knights however
refer him to the promised deliverance and so begins the solemn
unveiling for the distribution of the last love-feast of the Savior,
whose cup is then drawn forth, resplendent in fiery purple. Parsifal
stands stupefied before this consecration of the human although he
also made a violent movement toward his heart when the king gave forth
his passionate cry of anguish. But the torments of guilt which produce
such sorrows he has not yet comprehended. Gurnemanz therefore angrily
ejects him through a narrow side-door of the temple to resume his ways
to his wild boyish deeds. He had first to experience the torments of
passion and deliverance from the same in his own person.

The second act takes us to Klingsor's magic castle. Klingsor sees the
fool advance, joyous and childish, and summons Kundry, the guilty one,
who rests in the dead lethargy of destiny, and in sorrow and anger
only follows his command. She longs no more for life, but seeks
deliverance in the eternal sleep. She has laughed at the bleeding head
of John, laughed when she beheld the Savior bleeding at the cross, and
is now condemned to laugh forever and to ensnare all in her net of
passion: "Whoever can resist thee, will release thee," says Klingsor,
the father of evil. "Make thy trial upon the boy." The youth
approaches. The fallen knights seek to hinder his progress, but he
easily vanquishes them all, and stands victorious upon the battlement
of the castle, gazing in childish astonishment at all this unknown
silent splendor below. Soon, however, the scene becomes animated. The
ravishing enchantresses appear in garments of flowers, and each seeks
to win the handsome youth for herself. He remains, however, toward
them what he is--a fool. Suddenly he hears a voice. He stands
astonished, for he heard the name with which in times long past his
mother had called her hearts-blood; it is the one thing he knows. The
beauties disappear. The voice takes on form. It is Kundry, no longer
of repulsive, savage appearance, but as a "lightly draped woman of
superb beauty." She explains to him his name:

"Thee, foolish innocent, I called Fal parsi--
Thee, innocent fool, Parsifal!"

She tells him of his mother's love, of his mother's death. What he, a
giddy fool, has thus far done in life, suddenly overwhelms him as
well as the thought that despair at his loss has even killed his
mother. He sinks deeply wounded at the feet of the seductive woman; it
is the first soul-despair in his life. She, however, with diabolic
persuasiveness, avails herself of this to overcome his manly heart by
her only way, the painful, longing sensation for his mother, and
offers him the consolation which love gives, "as a blessing, the
mother's last greeting, the first kiss of love." At this he rises
quickly in great alarm and presses his hands against his heart.
"Amfortas! the wound burns in my heart!" The miracle of knowledge has
happened to him, and in a moment has changed his whole nature. It is
regeneration by grace, recognized from the earliest time as the sense
of all religion. He now experiences the trembling of guilty desires
that burn within our breasts, and understands also the mystery of
salvation which he can now obtain for the unhappy King of the Grail.
Out of the depths of his soul he hears the supplications of the Grail:

"Redeem me, save me
From hands defiled by sin!"

The evil demon of voluptuousness displays all its charms. Astonishment
gives way more and more to passion for this pure one, but he
sinks into deep and deeper reverie until a second long, burning
kiss suddenly and completely awakens him. Then, having gained
"world-knowledge," he sees into the deep abyss of this being full of
guilt and penitence, and impetuously repulses the temptress. She
herself, however, is now overpowered by the passion which she has
sought by all the means of temptation to instil into the innocent
youth, and fancies she sees in him again the Savior whom she had once
laughed at. She tells him with heartrending truth her inextinguishable
suffering, her eternal sorrow, her lamentation full of the laughter of
derision, the whole wide emptiness of her misery, and implores him
to be merciful, and let her weep for a single hour upon his pure
bosom--for a single hour to be his. But the answer comes like the
voice of an avenging God, terribly stern and annihilating:

"To all eternity thou wouldst be damned with me,
If for one hour I should forget my mission."

At last she seeks, like the serpent in Paradise, to allure him with
the promise that in her arms he will attain to godhood. He remains,
however, true to himself. Roused now to furious rage, she curses him.
He shall never find Amfortas, but shall wander aimlessly. Klingsor
then appears, and puts his power to the utmost trial by brandishing
his sacred lance, but Parsifal's pure faith banishes the false charm.
The lance remains suspended above his head. Kundry sinks down crying
aloud. The magic garden is turned to a desert. Parsifal calls out:

"Thou knowest where alone thou canst find me again."

That true womanly love roused for the first time in her will also show
this desolate heart the path to eternal love. And Parsifal had finally
shown her, the pitiable one, the only thing he could--pity!

The last act takes us once more into the domain of the sacred Grail
which Parsifal since then has been longingly seeking. Gurnemanz, now
grown to an old man, lives as a hermit near a forest spring. From out
the hedges he hears a groan. "So mournful a tone comes not from the
beast," he says, familiar as he is with the lamenting sounds of sinful
humanity. It is Kundry, whom he carries completely benumbed out of the
thicket. This fierce and fearful woman had not been seen nor thought
of for a long time. Her wildness now however lies only in the
accustomed serpent-like appearance, otherwise she gives forth but that
one cry "to serve! to serve!" Whoever has not comprehended the highest
and most actual elements of our life when they assert themselves, is
condemned to silence. Only by silent acts and conduct can she attest
the growing inner participation in the higher and nobler human deeds.
She enters the hut close by and busies herself. When she returns with
the water pitcher she perceives a knight, clad in sombre armor, who
approaches with hesitating steps and drooping head. Gurnemanz greets
him kindly but admonishes him to lay aside his weapons in the sacred
domain and above all on this the most sacred of days--Good Friday.
With that he recognizes him. It is Parsifal, now a mature and serious
man. "In paths of error and of suffering have I come," he says. He is
at once saluted by Gurnemanz who recognizes the sacred lance as
"master" for now he can hope to bring relief to the suffering king of
the Grail whose laments Parsifal had once listened to without being
moved to action. He learns through the faithful old man of the supreme
distress and gradual disappearance of the holy knights. Amfortas has
refused to uncover the life-preserving Grail and prefers to die rather
than linger in pain and anguish, and thus the strength of the knights
has died away. Titurel is already dead, a "man like others," and
Gurnemanz has hidden himself in solitude in this corner of the forest.
Parsifal is overcome with grief. He, he alone has caused all this.
He has for so long a time not perceived the path to final salvation.
Kundry now washes his feet "to take from him the dust of his long
wanderings," while Gurnemanz refreshes his brow and asks him to
accompany him to the Grail which Amfortas is to uncover to-day for the
consecration of the dead Titurel. Kundry then anoints his feet and
Gurnemanz his head that he may yet to-day be saluted as king and he
himself performs his first act as Savior by baptizing Kundry out of
the sacred forest spring. Now for the first time can she shed tears.
Thereby even the fields and meadows appear as if sprinkled with sacred
dew, for according to the ancient legend, nature also celebrates
on Good Friday the redemption which mankind gained by Christ's
love-sacrifice and which changes the sinner's tears of remorse to
tears of joy.

In the castle of the Grail the knights are conducting Titurel's
funeral. Amfortas, who in his sufferings longs for death as the one
act of mercy, falls into a furious frenzy of despair when the knights
urge him to uncover the Grail which alone gives life, so that they all
retreat in terror. Then at the last moment Parsifal appears and
touches the wound with the lance that alone can close it. He praises
the sufferings of Amfortas that have given to him, the timorous fool,
"Compassion's supreme strength and purest wisdom's power" and assumes
the king's functions. The Grail glows resplendent. Titurel rises in
his coffin and bestows blessing from the dome. A white dove descends
upon Parsifal's head as he swings the Grail. Kundry with her eyes
turned toward him sinks dying to the ground while Amfortas and
Gurnemanz do him homage as king and a chorus from above sings:

"Miracle of Supreme blessing,
Redemption to the Redeemer!"

The holy Grail, the symbol of the Savior, has at last been rescued
from hands defiled by guilt--has been redeemed.

Such is the short sketch of the grand as well as profoundly
significant dramatic action of the artist's last work! It is easy to
see that the figures and actions are but a parable. They symbolize the
ideas and periods of human development. Nay more, the phases and
powers of human nature are here disclosed to view. It is the inner
history of the world which ever repeats itself and by which mankind is
always rejuvenated. The pure and restored genius of the nation arises
anew to its real nature. Its lance heals the wound which we have
received at the hands of the other--the evil and foreign genius. It is
this pure genius which all, even the dead and the dying, hail as King,
and do homage to new deeds of blessing. Next to religion itself,
it was art which more than all else constantly brought to the
consciousness of humanity the ideals which originated with the former,
and here art even entered literally into the service of divine truth.
The lance, which signifies the mastery over the spirits, was wrested
from the dominating powers. Serious harm indeed and spiritual
starvation have followed as the consequence of our falling in every
sphere of life under the control of the elements that frivolously play
with our supreme ideals. Art, which springs from the purest genius of
mankind, seems destined now to be the first to regain the lance and
heal the wasting wound. For is not religion divided into warring
factions and science into special cliques, jealous of each other? The
church does not prevail in the struggle against the evil powers here
or elsewhere, and has long ceased to satisfy the mind. The increasing
tendency to pursue special studies creates indifference for such
supreme ethical questions. It is art alone that has gained new
strength from within itself. We have seen it in portraying this one
mighty artist, in the irresistible force, in the longing and hoping,
in the indestructible, faithful affection for his people, which must
dominate all who have retained the feeling for the purely human.
Should not art then be destined to awaken, among the cultured at
least, a vivid renewal of the consciousness of the sublime for which
we are fitted and in whose slumbering embrace we are held? Eternal
truth ever selects its own means and ways to reveal itself anew to
mankind. "The ways of the Lord are marvelous!" It aims only at the
accomplishment of its object. It has at heart only our ever wandering
and suffering race. Those who judged without prejudice tell us that
this "Parsifal" appeared to them as a mode of divine worship, and that
the festival-play-house was not only no longer a theatre, but that even
all evil demons had been banished from this edifice, and all good ones
summoned within its walls. Would that this were so, and that we could
hope in the future that the painful and severe trials of the artist's
long life, which gave to this genius also "compassion's supreme
strength and purest wisdom's power," would be blessed with abundant
fruit, with the full measure of consummation of his own hopes, and
the goal so ardently struggled for attained, for his as well as for
our own welfare.

However this may be, and whatever the future may have in store for us,
this "Parsifal" is a call to the nation grander than any one has
uttered before. It was foreordained, and could only be accomplished by
an art which is the most unmixed product of that culture originating
with Christianity; more, it is a product of the religious emotions of
humanity itself. Just as our master said of Beethoven's grand art,
that it had rescued the human soul from deep degradation, so no artist
after him has presented this supreme and purest spirit of our nation
as sanctified and strengthened by Christianity, purer and clearer
than he who had already confessed in early years that he could not
understand the spirit of music otherwise than as love! With "Parsifal"
he has created for us a new period of development, which is to lead us
deeper into our own hearts and to a purer humanity, and thereby give
us possibly the strength to overcome everything false and foreign
which has found its way into our life, and elevate us to a sense of
the real object and goal of life.

Richard Wagner, more than any other contemporary, as we conceive, has
re-awakened in the sphere of the intellectual life of his German
people its inborn feeling for the grand and profound, for the pure and
the sublime--in one word, for the ideal. May we who follow prove this
in life by gratefully welcoming this grand deed! Then Lohengrin, who
sought the wife that believed in him, need not again return to his
dreary solitude. He will be forever relieved of his longing for union
with the heart of his people. Then too it can be said of him, this
genius who throughout a long life "in paths of error and of suffering
came" as of all who live their life in love for the whole: "Redemption
to the Redeemer."

* * * * *

The biography of Dr. Nohl closes at this point. What remains to be
told is shrouded in sadness. It is but a record of suffering and
death. In the autumn of 1882, the great master went to Italy, where
his fame had already preceded him, and where in the very home of
Italian opera his works had been given with great success, to seek
rest and improvement of health. He made his home at the Palazzo
Vendramin in Venice, where he was joined by Liszt and other friends.
With the help of an orchestra and chorus, he was rehearsing some of
his earlier works and was also engaged in remodeling his symphony. His
restless energy was manifest even in these days of recreation. The
_Neue Freie Presse_ states that he was composing a new musical drama,
called "Die Buesser," based upon a Brahminical legend and having for
its motive the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. Filippo
Filippi, the Italian critic, also says that he was engaged upon a new
opera, with a Grecian subject, in which "it would undoubtedly have
been shown that his genius, turning from the misty fables of the
Germans to the bright and serene poetry of ancient Greece, would have
drawn nearer to our musical life and feeling, which is clear and
characteristically melodious." Whatever may have been his tasks it was
destined they should not be achieved. "Parsifal" was his swan song.
It was during the representation of this opera that his asthmatic
trouble grew so intense as to necessitate his departure for Italy and
regular medical treatment. During the week preceding his death he was
in excellent spirits, and greatly enjoyed the carnival with his family
and friends. On the 12th of February he even visited his banker and
drew sufficient money to cover the expenses of a projected trip into
southern Italy, with his son, Siegfried. On the morning of the 13th he
devoted his time as usual to composition and playing. He did not
emerge from his room until 2 o'clock when he complained of feeling
very fatigued and unwell. At 3 o'clock he went to dinner with the
family, but just as they were assembled at table and the soup was
being served he suddenly sprang up, cried out "Mir ist sehr schlecht,"
(I feel very badly) and fell back dead from an attack of heart
disease.

The remains were conveyed along the Grand Canal, amid the most
impressive pageantry of grief, to the railroad station, and thence
transported by a special funeral train to Baireuth. The public
obsequies were very simple and impressive, consisting only of the
performance of the colossal funeral march from "Siegfried," speeches
by friends and a funeral song by the Liederkranz of Baireuth, after
which the cortege moved to the tolling of bells to the grave which at
his request was prepared behind his favorite villa "Wahnfried," which
had been the scene of his great labors. The Lutheran funeral service
was pronounced and the body of the great master was laid to its final
rest.

The news of his death was received by Angelo Neumann, the director of
the Richard Wagner Theatre, on the 14th, at Aachen, just as a
performance of the "Rheingold" was about to commence. The director
addressed the audience as follows:

"Not only the German people, the German nation, the whole world mourns
to-day by the coffin of one of its greatest sons. All in this assembly
share our grief and pain. But nevertheless we alone can fully measure
the fearful loss which the Richard Wagner Theatre has met with through
this event. The love and care of the master for this institution can
find no better expression than in a letter, written by his own hand,
received by me this evening, which closes with these words:

'May all the blessings of Heaven follow you! My best
greetings, which I beg you to distribute according to
desert.
'Sincerely yours,
'RICHARD WAGNER.
'VENICE, PALAZZO VENDRAMIN, February 11, 1883.'

"Now we are orphaned--in the Master everything is as if dead for us! I
can only add, we shall never cease to labor according to the wishes
and the spirit of this great composer; never shall we forget the
teachings which we were so happy as to receive from his lips and pen."

A correspondent, writing from Leipzig at the time of his death,
contributes some interesting information as to his method of
composition and the literary treasures he had left behind him. He
says:

"Richard Wagner composed, like all great musicians, in his brain, and
not, as is often imagined, at the piano. It is a delight to examine a
manuscript composition from his hand--to see how complete and
well-rounded, how ripe and finished everything sprung from his head.
Changes are very rarely found in such a manuscript; even in the
boldest harmonies and most difficult combinations, not a slip of the
pen occurs. In the entire score of 'Tannhaeuser,' which Wagner wrote
out himself from beginning to end in chemical ink, not one correction
is to be found. One note followed the other with easy rapidity. It was
his habit to write the musical sketch in pencil--in Baireuth,
music-paper was to be found in every corner of 'Wahnfried,' on which
while wandering about the house during sleepless nights, musing and
planning, he made brief jottings, often merely a new idea in
instrumentation. The rest was in his head; the vocal parts were added
to the score without hesitation, and never needed correction. For the
orchestra he employed three staves, one of which was reserved for
special notes, as, for instance, when a particular instrument was to
enter. From these sketches the vocal parts could be written out
immediately, although the instrumentation was by no means finished.
Such sketches were carefully collected by Frau Cosima, who tried for a
time to fix the notes permanently by drawing the pen through them.
This task was, however, soon abandoned. In its stead she grasped the
idea of making a collection of Wagner's manuscripts, to be deposited
in 'Wahnfried.' For many years she has conducted an extended
correspondence for the purpose of obtaining, for love or money, the
scattered treasures, and has, in a great measure--principally through
the use of the latter persuasive--succeeded.

"Wagner had written his memoirs, which are not only finished, but
already printed. The entire edition consists of _only three copies_,
one of which was in the possession of the author, the second an
heirloom of Seigfried's, and the third in the hands of Franz Liszt.
This autobiography fills four volumes, and was printed at Basel, every
proof-sheet being jealously destroyed, so that there are actually but
three copies in existence. To the nine volumes of his works already
published (Leipzig, E. W. Fritzsch, 1871-'73) will be added a tenth,
containing brief essays and sketches of a philosophical character, and
(it is to be hoped) the four volumes of the autobiography."

After a life of strife such as few men have to encounter; of hatred
more intense and love more devoted than usually falls to the fate of
humanity; of restless energy, indomitable courage, passionate devotion
to the loftiest standards of art and unquestioning allegiance to the
"God that dwelt within his breast," he rests quietly under the trees
of Villa "Wahnfried." He lived to see his work accomplished, his
mission fulfilled, his victory won and his fame blown about the world
despite the malice of enemies and cabals of critics. As the outcome
of his stormy life we have music clothed in a new body, animated
with a new spirit. He has lifted art out of its vulgarity and
grossness. The future will prize him as we to-day prize his great
predecessor--Beethoven.

G. P. U.

_"Stirring events are graphically told in this series of
romances."--Home Journal, New York._

TIMES OF GUSTAF ADOLF.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE EXCITING
TIMES OF THE THIRTY YEARS' WAR.

FROM THE ORIGINAL SWEDISH.

BY Z. TOPELIUS.

_12mo, extra cloth, black and gilt. Price $1.25._

"A vivid, romantic picturing of one of the most fascinating periods of
human history."--_The Times, Philadelphia._

"Every scene, every character, every detail, is instinct with life....
From beginning to end we are aroused, amused, absorbed."--_The
Tribune, Chicago._

"The author has a genuine enthusiasm for his subject, and stirs up his
readers' hearts in an exciting manner. The old times live again for
us, and besides the interest of great events, there is the interest of
humble souls immersed in their confusions. 'Scott, the delight of
glorious boys,' will find a rival in these Surgeon Stories."--_The
Christian Register, Boston._

"It is difficult to give an idea of the vividness of the descriptions
in these stories without making extracts which would be entirely too
long. It is safe to say, however, that no one could possibly fail to
be carried along by the torrent of fiery narration which marks these
wonderful tales.... Never was the marvelous deviltry of the Jesuits so
portrayed. Never were the horrors of war painted in more lurid
colors."--_The Press, Philadelphia._

"The style is simple and agreeable.... There is a natural
truthfulness, which appears to be the characteristic of all these
Northern authors. Nothing appears forced; nothing indicates that the
writer ever thought of style, yet the style is such as could not well
be improved upon. He is evidently thoroughly imbued with the loftiest
ideas, and the men and women whom he draws with the novelist's
facility and art are as admirable as his manner of interweaving their
lives with their country's battles and achievements."--_The Graphic,
New York._

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed postpaid, on receipt of price, by
the publishers.

JANSEN, McCLURG, & CO.,
117, 119 & 121 Wabash Av., Chicago, Ill.

_"A model Cook Book."--Express, Buffalo._

NONPAREIL COOK BOOK.

CONTAINING A LARGE NUMBER OF NEW RECIPES,
MANY FROM ENGLISH, FRENCH AND GERMAN COOKS.

BY MRS. A. G. M.

_12mo, 432 pages, with blank interleaves. Price $1.50._

"It seems an ideal cook book."--_Free-Press, Detroit._

"The receipts are admirable, and are clearly written."--_The Day,
Baltimore._

"A comprehensive and common-sense kitchen and household
guide."--_Transcript, Boston._

"The best cook book we have seen for valuable French and German
recipes."--_Sunday Herald, Rochester._

"The volume is most admirable in its arrangement, and many excellent
novelties have been introduced."--_The Argus, Albany, N. Y._

"It is an excellent compilation of the best and most economical
recipes.... A common-sense cook book in all respects."--_Globe,
Boston._

"Everything about the book indicates that the author is intelligent in
cooking, in nursing, and in housekeeping generally."--_Bulletin,
Philadelphia._

"With this volume in the kitchen or on the table of the housewife,
there would be no excuse for tasteless or indigestible
dishes."--_Journal, Chicago._

"We have at last a cook book in which we fail to find one single
demand for baking powders, which stamps it at once as desirable. The
same sensible determination to prevent dyspepsia, while giving good,
wholesome and delicious cookery, is noticeable throughout the
volume."--_Telegraph, Pittsburgh._

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price, by the publishers.

JANSEN, McCLURG, & CO.,
117, 119 & 121 Wabash Av., Chicago, Ill.

_"Instructive, assuring, wise, helpful."--Christian Advocate,
New York._

THE THEORIES OF DARWIN

AND THEIR RELATION TO PHILOSOPHY, RELIGION,
AND MORALITY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

RUDOLF SCHMID,

BY G. A. ZIMMERMANN, PH.D., WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE DUKE OF
ARGYLL.

_12mo, 410 pages. Price $2.00._

"Learning, fairness, love of truth, and vital earnestness are
everywhere manifest in this work."--_Christian Union, New York._

"This book contains the fullest exposition we have seen of the rise
and history of the abstract Darwinian theories, combined with a
critical explanation of their practical application."--_Observer, New
York._

"The work is full of ingenious and subtle thought, and the author, who
is evidently a sincere Christian, finds in Mr. Darwin's theories
nothing inconsistent with the belief of the Scriptures."--_Bulletin,
Philadelphia._

"I have carefully read the 'Theories of Darwin,' by Rudolf Schmid. I
regard the scientific portion of the book, being about two-thirds of
the whole, as the best reasoned and the most philosophic work which we
have on organic development, and on Darwinism."--_President James
McCosh, Princeton College._

"Those who have not time or patience to read the literature of
evolution, yet desire to form a just conception of it, will find Mr.
Schmid's work of great value. It bears the imprint of an unprejudiced
judgment, which may err, but not blindly, and a scholarly mind. The
doctrines of Darwin are not more logically expounded and accurately
sifted than is every conspicuous modifying and magnifying phase
through which they have passed in the hands of German and English
scientists, stated with a fidelity and courtesy as generous as we must
reluctantly admit it to be rare."--_Chicago Tribune._

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price, by the publishers.

JANSEN, McCLURG, & CO.,
117, 119 & 121 Wabash Av., Chicago, Ill.

_"A book of unique and peculiar interest."--The Times._

FRONTIER ARMY SKETCHES.

BY JAMES W. STEELE.

_12mo, extra cloth, black and gilt. Price $1.50._

"It is an unusual entertaining book, and will well repay
perusal."--_Christian Advocate, New York._

"A fresh, breezy volume, well illustrated, and full of anecdotes and
stories of the frontier."--_Chronicle, Pittsburgh._

"If Capt. Steele had written only the preface to these sketches, we
might well thank him for that one gem of poetic prose; and to say that
the book is worthy of it is but a hearty tribute to its
merits."--_Tribune, Chicago._

"They are all picturesque in style, strong in characterization, and
are manifestly sketched from nature. The dry and unforced humor that
distinguishes them gives them a very attractive flavor."--_Gazette,
Boston._

"There is strong feeling in the narratives, and a freshness and
excitement in their themes that make the book novel and of uncommon
interest. Its flavor is strong and seductive. The literary work is
well done."--_Globe, Boston._

"They are the writings of a man of culture and refined taste. There is
a polish in his work, even in the rough materials that army officers
find in our far Southwest, among Indians and white frontiersmen, that
reminds the reader of Irving's sketches."--_Bulletin, Philadelphia._

"They are written with a care and a nice precision in the use of
words quite rare in books of this character.... The author brings
to our notice phases of character practically unknown to Eastern
civilization, and withal so graphically portrayed as to give the
impression of actual life.... The book is worthy of attentive
reading."--_The American, Philadelphia._

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price,
by the publishers.

JANSEN, McCLURG, & CO.,
117, 119 & 121 Wabash Av., Chicago, Ill.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to regularize punctuation and to correct
typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain
true to the author's words and intent.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Life of Wagner - Biographies of Musicians" ***

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