August Roeckel writes:—
AT THE GRAVE OF WEBER.
All Dresden was in excitement; the event produced a profound sensation. The body was received by us all. We had been rehearsing for some time a funeral march arranged by Wagner from themes in “Euryanthe.” The loving care bestowed by Wagner on the rehearsals touched every one. It was clear that his whole heart was in the work. His own opinion is that he never succeeded in anything as in this. The soft, appealing tones of the wood-wind were wonderfully pathetic, and when the march was performed in the open air, accompanying the body, not a member of the cortège or bystander but was moved. And then the scene at the grave! Schulz delivered an oration, and Richard Wagner too. Wagner had composed and written his out. Think of the care! He wished to avoid being led away at the sight of the mourners’ grief, and the great concourse which was sure to be present, and so he learned his speech by heart. The impression produced upon me was such a one as I never before experienced. Deep sympathy reigned everywhere; all the musicians adored Weber; and the towns-people, members of whom had known that lovable man personally, did honour to Germany’s great son, for national sentiment played an important part in the matter. You know that in ordinary conversation, the strong accent of the Leipzic dialect is the common speech of Richard Wagner, but when delivering his oration, his utterance was pure German, his measured periods were declaimed in slow, clear, ringing tones, showing unmistakable evidence of histrionic power. As an effort of will it was remarkable, and surprised all his intimate friends.
This curious and interesting feature of dropping the somewhat harsh Leipzic accent and delivering himself in the purest German remained with Wagner to the last. On all what might be termed state occasions, when addressing an assembly his speech was clear, measured, and dignified; not a trace of his Leipzic accent was observable. It should be explained that the Leipzic accent is a sort of sing-song, almost whining utterance, with as strongly marked a pronunciation compared to pure German as that of a broad Somerset dialect to pure English.
CHAPTER XIII.
1845.
THE story of the composition of “Tannhäuser,” poem and music, is a forcible illustration of the proverb, that the life of a man is reflected in his works. Of the music and the performance of “Tannhäuser” in October, 1845, at Dresden, I wrote a notice for a London periodical, called the “English Gentleman.” This was the first time, I believe, that Wagner’s name was mentioned in England. They were exciting times, and it is of exceptional interest at this epoch to reflect upon the judgment of the composer at the birth of “Tannhäuser.”
When the legend first engaged Wagner’s attention, with a view to its composition, he was not thirty years old. It will be remembered that the transformation from Paris poverty to a comparative Dresden luxury infused new life into him. He tells me, “I resolved to throw myself into a world of excitement, to enjoy life, and taste fully its pleasures.” And he did. It was in this mood of feverish excitation that the Venus love invaded him. His state was one of intense nervous tension. The poem was worked out, but not in the shape we now have it. The end was subsequently changed. The poetry and music simmered in his brain for three years. He began elated, filled with sensations of ecstasy. He ended dejected, fearing that death would intervene before the last notes were written.
THE WRITING OF “TANNHÄUSER.”
Now wherein lies the explanation of this? Let me recount briefly his life during these three years, and the reason will at once be perceived. He had opened his Dresden career with brilliancy. “Rienzi” had proved a great success; he had been appointed conductor to the court, a competence of 1500 thalers or £ 225 yearly was guaranteed him, and his horizon seemed brighter;—but the reverse soon began to show itself. The “Dutchman,” by which he had hoped to increase his reputation, proved a failure; even “Rienzi” was refused outside Dresden, and the press was violently inimical. His excited sanguine temperament had received a grievous shock. At Berlin, the “Dutchman” proved so abortive, that he took counsel with himself, and resolved that this “Tannhäuser” should not be written for the world, but for those who had shown themselves in sympathy with him. As “Tannhäuser” neared its completion, his state grew more morbid and desponding. His only solace, outside Roeckel, was his dog. It was a common saying with Wagner that his dog helped him to compose “Tannhäuser.” It seems that when at the piano, at which he always composed, singing with his accustomed boisterousness, the dog, whose constant place was at his master’s feet, would occasionally leap to the table, peer into his face, and howl piteously. Then Wagner would address his “eloquent critic” with, “What? it does not suit you?” and shaking the animal’s paw, would say, quoting Puck, “Well, I will do thy bidding gently.”
THE REVOLUTION OF 1849.