This Würzburg engagement was Richard Wagner’s first real active participation in stage life. He had entered upon his new duties but a short time when an opportunity presented itself wherein he could exhibit his practical skill as a musician. Albert was cast for the tenor part in Marschner’s “Vampyre.” According to his notion, his chief solo finished unsatisfactorily. Richard’s aid was invoked, and the result was additional words, some forty lines and music, too, which enabled Albert to display his unusually fine high tones.
The life to Wagner was novel, attractive, and full of bright promise. The friendly relations that existed between the chorus and their director, the habitual banter of the players, their studied posing, their concealing home miseries beneath a simulated gaiety, attracted and charmed the inexperienced neophyte. He was yet blind to all the wiles, trickeries, and petty infamies that seem inseparable from stage life. In the theatre the meannesses and jealousies that clog human existence under all forms are focused and exposed to the glare of publicity, whereas in the wide world they are lost among the crowd. It was not long before Wagner began to hate the shams and petty meannesses of the stage with ten-fold the intensity he had at first been bewitched by it.
During his stay at Würzburg, urged by his brother he again thought of composing an opera. Casting about for a fitting subject, he alighted upon a volume of legends by Gozzi. One, “La Donna Serpente,” attracted him, and seemed to invite operatic treatment. He resolved to write his own text, and within the year produced what was his first complete opera, which he called “The Fairies.” The musical treatment was entirely in the romantic style of Weber and Marschner, but Wagner frankly confesses it did not realize his expectations. He had thought himself capable of greater things than his powers were yet equal to. Nevertheless, he strove to obtain a hearing for it, but without success. French and Italian opera ruled the German stage, and native productions were not encouraged. However, an ardent aspirant for fame like Wagner was not to be discouraged by the cold slights offered to his first stage work. He returned to Leipzic, 1834, again energetically endeavouring to get it accepted, but only to be disappointed once more.
“DAS LIEBESVERBOT.”
It was during this visit to Leipzic that an event occurred which was destined to strongly influence his future career. He heard that great dramatic artist, Schroeder-Devrient. The effect of her performance upon him was startling, although the operas in which she appeared, “Romeo” and “Norma” of Bellini, were of the weakest. He saw what a striking impression could be produced by careful attention to dramatic detail. The poorest work was elevated into the realms of high art by the grand style of the inspired artist. For the first time he realized the immense value of perfection of “style.” The lesson was not lost, and the high point to which Wagner artists have subsequently carried it by the master’s imperative insistence upon the most thorough and exhaustive attention to every detail of art, has formed the undying Wagner school.
Fired by enthusiasm, he began the composition of a new opera, in which he ambitiously hoped the great actress would perform the principal rôle. This was his second music-dramatic work, “Das Liebesverbot” (“The Novice of Palermo”), founded upon Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure.” It took him about two years to write it. To Wagner this period was one of transition, alternately dominated by the serious Beethoven, the “romantic” Weber, Auber, and even the popular Italian school. He was as a tree through whose branches the winds rushed from all quarters, only the more firmly to consolidate the roots. He, too, was young, and a not unnatural desire to acquire some of the world’s riches induced him to write his new work in a “popular” vein. The “Novice of Palermo” has but very faint indications of the Wagner of after-life, and in the composer’s own judgment was but an indifferent work, although comparing favourably with the operas of its day.
ART AND NATIONALITY.
After the termination of his Würzburg engagement Wagner went to Magdeburg, 1834, where he was appointed music director, a post he held for nearly two years, steadily working, meanwhile, at the “Novice of Palermo.” The Magdeburg company was above the usual level of provincial troupes. The conductor was young and energetic, and soon secured the good will of his subordinates. But the Magdeburghers were apathetic in musical matters, and in the spring of 1836 the theatre announced its final performances. The “Novice of Palermo” was not then completed. After some discussion it was decided to perform it. Wagner hurried on his work, battling with innumerable difficulties which presented themselves thick and fast. First the theatre was threatened with bankruptcy. To escape this it was arranged to close the building a month earlier than the time originally announced. It left Wagner ten days for rehearsals. His book had not been submitted to the censor, and as it was now the Lenten season, there was a dread that the title might subject the libretto to vexatious pruning. The opera was given out as founded on one of the serious plays of Shakespeare, and by this means escaped all maltreatment. But what could be done in ten days? Little even where friendly will was engaged. However, after rehearsal upon rehearsal, the work was performed. Its reception was moderate. The tenor singer had been unable to learn his part in the short time and resorted to unlimited “gag.” Perhaps hardly one was perfect in his rôle, and the whole work went badly enough. In after-life Wagner could afford to laugh at this makeshift performance, but at that time it was terribly real. He once gave me a representation of the tenor singer and other impersonators in a manner so ludicrous and mirth-provoking that he said, “You laugh now, but listen! A second performance was promised for my benefit. We were assembled and about to begin, when suddenly a hand-to-hand fight sprung up between two of the characters, and the performance had to be given up.” This put him in sad straits. He had hoped to receive such a sum of money from this “benefit” as would free him from all monetary difficulties, but no performance taking place he was worried in a most uncomfortable manner.
I suppose that if there be any feature in Wagner’s character about which there is no difference of opinion it is his love for his native land. At critical junctures, he has not hesitated, by speech or action, to declare his pronounced feelings. At present, however, my purpose is not to illustrate this point, but to emphasize a phase of thought in Wagner’s early manhood, which, boldly proclaimed at the time, gathered strength with increasing years, and forms one of the most important factors in his art-workings. He contended that the national life of a people was intimately entwined with their art productions. “The stage,” said Wagner, “is the noblest arena of a nation’s mind.” This was a very favourite theme of his. He would descant on it unceasingly. The stage was the mirror of a people. Shakespeare he worshipped, and gloried that such an intellect was counted in the republic of letters. England should be proud of her great man. He thought Carlyle right when he said Shakespeare was worth more to a nation than ten Indias. But poor Germany! What could she show? Where was her race of literary giants? The war of liberation had fired every German heart with the intensest patriotism. Young Germany had fought with unexampled ardour, and the hateful Napoleonic yoke was victoriously cast off. Liberty, patriotism, and fraternity were the watchwords of every German, and they found their art expression in the inspiriting strains of the soldier-poet, Körner, and the vigorous melodies of the patriotic Weber. And German potentates looked on bewildered. Where would this torrent of enthusiasm end? Were they themselves secure on their thrones? Would it not sap the foundations of their own rule? And, as history too sadly shows, fear developed into despotism. The princes turned, and with the iron heel trampled upon the very men who had valiantly defended them against the ruthless invader. They were fearful of the German mind awakening to a sense of its political and social shortcomings. They argued that this uncontrolled enthusiasm for liberty of speech and person was a menace to their thrones; therefore they strove to crush it out. Their conduct Wagner later stigmatized as “replete with the blackest ingratitude,” and their treatment of national art as dictated by “cold, calculating cruelty.” For the stage, alien productions were imported. French frivolity reigned supreme. Rossini’s operas, licentious ballets, were patronized to the exclusion of Beethoven’s works, and now, though half a century has elapsed, the baneful influence is still discernible. Such feelings greatly agitated Wagner’s early manhood. By 1840 they had assumed definite shape, and we find him through the public journals deploring the want of a German national drama. It was his effort to supply this want. He went to work with a fixed purpose. How far he has succeeded posterity will judge.