The eagerly looked for event has taken place. Costa’s bâton, so lately swayed with such majestical and even tyrannical ardour, this self-same bâton was taken on Monday last (12th March) by Richard Wagner. The audience rose almost en masse to see the man first, and whispers ran from one to another: “He is a small man, but what a beautiful and intelligent forehead he has!” Haydn’s symphony, No. 7 (grand) began the concert, and opened the eyes of the audience to a state of things hitherto unknown, as regards conducting. Wagner does not beat in the old-fashioned, automato-metronomic manner. He leaves off beating at times—then resumes again—to lead the orchestra up to a climax, or to let them soften down to a pianissimo, as if a thousand invisible threads tied them to his bâton. His is the beau ideal of conducting. He treats the orchestra like the instrument on which he pours forth his soul-inspired strains. Haydn’s well-known symphony seemed a new work through his inexpressibly intelligent and poetical conception. Beethoven’s “Eroica,” the first movement of which used to be taken always with narcotic slowness by previous conductors, and in return the funeral march always much too fast, so as to rob it of all the magnificent gran’dolore; the scherzo, which always came out clumsily and heavily; and the finale, which never was understood.—Beethoven’s “Eroica” may be said to have been heard for the first time here, and produced a wonderful effect. As if to beat the Mendelssohnian hypercritics on their own field, Wagner gave a reading of Mendelssohn’s “Isle of Fingal” that would have delighted the composer himself, and even the overture of “Die Zauberflöte” (“Magic Flute”) was invested with something not noticed before. Let it be well understood that Wagner takes no liberties with the works of the great masters; but his poetico-musical genius gives him, as it were, a second sight into their hidden treasures; his worship for them and his intense study are amply proved by his conducting them all without the score, and the musicians of the orchestra, so lately bound to Costa’s reign at Covent Garden, and prejudiced to a degree against the new man, who had been so much abused before he came, and judged before he was heard (by those who are not capable of judging him when they do hear him!)—this very orchestra already adores Wagner, who, notwithstanding his republican politics, is decidedly a despot with the orchestra. In short, Wagner has conquered, and an important influence on musical progress may be predicted for him. The next concert will bring us the “Ninth Symphony” and a selection of “Lohengrin,” which the directors would insist on, notwithstanding the refusal of the composer. The “Times” abuses Wagner and revenges the neglected English conductors; mixes up his music with the Revolution, 1848, and falsely states that he hates Mozart, Beethoven, etc., etc., and furthermore asserts, just as falsely, that he wrote his books in defence of his operas; but is so virulent against the man, and says so little about his conducting, that it strikes us the article must have been written some years ago, as an answer to “Judaism in Music.” The “Morning Post” agrees perfectly with us as to Wagner being the conductor of whom musicians have dreamed, when they sought for perfection, hitherto unbelieved.
SUPPER AFTER THE CONCERT.
After the first concert, we went by arrangement to spend a few hours at his rooms. Dear me, what an evening of excitement that was! There were Wagner, Sainton, Lüders, Klindworth (whom I had introduced to Wagner as a pupil of Liszt), myself and wife. Animal spirits ran high. Wagner was in ecstasies. The concert had been a marked success artistically, and Richard Wagner’s reception flattering. On arriving at his rooms, he found it necessary to change his dress from “top to toe.” He had perspired so freely from excitement that his collar was as though it had that moment been dipped into a basin of water. So while he went to change his attire and don a somewhat handsome dressing-robe made by Minna, Sainton prepared a mayonnaise for the lobster, and Lüders rum punch made after a Danish method, and one particularly appreciated by Wagner, who, indeed, loved everything unusual of that description. Wagner had chosen the lobster salad, I should mention, because crab fish were either not to be got at all in Germany, or were very expensive. When he returned he put himself at the piano. His memory was excellent, and innumerable “bits” or references of the most varied description were rattled off in a sprightly manner; but more excellent was his running commentary of observations as to the intention of the composer. These observations showed the thinker and discerning critic, and in themselves were of value in helping others to comprehend the meaning of the music. What he said has mostly found its way into print; indeed, it may be affirmed that the greater part of his literary productions was only the transcription of what he uttered incessantly in ordinary conversation. Then, too, he sang; and what singing it was! It was, as I told him then, just like the barking of a big Newfoundland dog. He laughed heartily, but kept on nevertheless. He cared not. Yet though his “singing” was but howling, he sang with his whole heart, and held you, as it were, spellbound. There was the real musician. He felt what he was doing. He was earnest, and that was, and is, the cause of his greatness. Then when we sat at supper he was in his liveliest mood. Richard Wagner a German? Why, he behaved then with all that uncontrolled expansion of the Frenchman. But this is only another instance of those contradictions in Wagner’s life. His volubility at the table knew no bounds. Anecdotes and reminiscences of his early life poured forth with a freshness, a vigour, and sparkling vivacity just like some mountain cataract leaping impetuously forward. He spoke with evident pleasure of his reception by the audience; praised the orchestra, remarking how faithfully they had borne in mind and reproduced the impressions he had sought to give them at the rehearsal. On this point he was only regretful that the inspiration, the divination, the artistic electricity, as it were, which is in the air among German or French executants, should be wanting here; or, as he phrased it, “Ils jouent parfaitement, mais le feu sacré leur manque.”
CONDUCTING WEBER’S MUSIC.
Then followed his abuse of fashion. White kid gloves on the hands of a conductor he scoffed at. “Who can do anything fettered with these things?” he pettishly insisted; and it was only after considerable pressure, and pointing out the aristocratic antecedents of the Philharmonic and the class of its supporters, that he had consented to wear a pair just to walk up the steps of the orchestra on first appearing, to be taken off immediately he got to his desk. That evening, at Wagner’s request, we drank with much acclamation eternal “brotherhood,” henceforth to “tutoyer” each other, and broke up our high-spirited meeting at two in the morning.
But the second concert, 26th March, 1855, the programme was after Wagner’s own heart. It was, perhaps, the one of the whole eight which delighted him the most, embracing as it did the overture to “Der Freischütz,” the prelude and a selection from “Lohengrin,” and Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony.” It was the first time any of Wagner’s music was to be performed in England, and Wagner was anxious. But the rehearsal was reassuring. At first the orchestra could not understand the pianissimo required in the opening of the “Lohengrin” prelude; and then the crescendos and diminuendos which Wagner insisted upon having surprised the executants. They turned inquiringly to each other, seemingly annoyed at his fastidiousness. But the conductor knew what he wanted and would have it. Then came the overture to “Der Freischütz.” Now this was exceedingly popular in England, and it was thought nothing could be altered in the mode of rendering it. Traditions, however, of the “adored idol,” Weber, were strong in Wagner, and he took it in the composer’s way; the result was, that at the concert the applause was so boisterous, and the demands of the audience so emphatic, that a repetition was at once given. That the overture was repeated will show how insistent were the audience, for Wagner then, as afterwards, was decidedly opposed to encores; however, upon this occasion there was no way of avoiding the repeat. Though, as I have said, the overture was extremely popular, yet the reading was so new and striking, the phrasing and nuances marked with such decision, that the people were startled, and expressed their appreciation heartily.
The reception of the “Lohengrin” selection, too, was unmistakably favourable. The delicately fragile orchestration of the sweetly melodic prelude, followed by the bright and attractive rhythmical phrases of the bridal chorus, caused a bewildered, pleased surprise among the audience, who had expected something totally different. The “music of the future was noise and fury,” so said the leading English musical journal, and this authority counted for something; but the “Lohengrin” prelude was very inaccurately described, if that had been included, and Wagner felt pleased and contented at the impression which the first performance of any of his music had created in this country.
CHAPTER XIX.
1855. Continued.
ON the “Ninth Symphony,” that colossal work, Richard Wagner expended commensurate pains. I remember how surprised the vocalists were at the rehearsal, when he stopped them, inquiring did they understand the meaning of what they were singing, and then he briefly explained in emphatic language what he thought about it. The bass solo was especially odd: the vocalist was taking it as though it were an ordinary ballad, when Wagner burst in fiery song, natural and falsetto, illustrating how it should go, singing the whole of the solo of Mr. Weiss (the bass vocalist) in such a decided, clean cut manner that it was impossible for the singer to help imitating him, and with marked effect too. As for the band, that rehearsal was a revelation to them. That symphony was a stupendous work, yet the conductor knew it by heart and was conducting without score. They felt they were in the hands of a man whose artistic soul was fired with enthusiasm; his earnestness infected them; they caught it quickly and responded with a zealousness that only sympathetic artists can put forth, ably supported by Sainton, whom the Prince Consort complimented to Wagner as a splendid “Chef d’attaque.” The concert performance created, too, such a stir that even the most violent of all the anti-Wagner critics spoke of it as an “intellectual and elevated conception.” This concert placed Wagner permanently in the heart of his band; they loved to be under the command of such an earnest art worker and yielded willingly to his inspirations.
That evening after the concert, at our now established gathering, Wagner was positively jubilant. He had been able to produce the “Ninth Symphony” in London as he wished, and he hoped the “traditions” would remain. He emphasized “traditions” in a slyly sarcastic manner, and well had he reason to do so. Traditions of Mendelssohn and Spohr were omnipotent, and omnipotent with the orchestra, and Wagner hoped the conservative English mind would retain “his” traditions of the “Choral Symphony,” among which would be found how he had sung the long recitative for the strings,—double-basses,—that ushers in the choral portion of the work. When Wagner first sang this part to the orchestra, they all engaged in a good-humoured titter, which speedily gave way to respect; for Wagner certainly was marvellously successful in explaining how he wanted a phrase played by first singing it,—a gift it undoubtedly was.