In writing of “Wagner as I knew him” I have touched upon certain subjects and criticised him in a manner which I am aware many of his worshippers might perhaps shrink from. But in this I have in no way offended Wagner. He wished to be known as he was. Indeed, he has written his own life, which, should it please the Wagner heirs, may one day be given to the world to its great gain. I became aware of the existence of this autobiography in the following manner. Wagner and his wife were going out, leaving me alone at Tribschen. Before going, Wagner placed in my hands a volume for my perusal during his absence. “It is my autobiography,” he said. “Only Liszt has a copy; none other has seen it, and it shall not be published until my Siegfried has reached his majority.” I read it carefully, and I may state, without touching upon any of the matter contained therein, that in my treatment of Wagner I have not uttered one word to which he himself would not have subscribed.
To see Wagner surrounded by children was a pleasant sight. He was as frolicsome as they. He would have the children sing the “Kaisermarsch” at the piano, and reward them with coins. As regards their discipline and training, he effaced himself completely before Madame Wagner. To his wife he showed the tenderest affection. It might almost be said of him that he was the most uxorious of husbands.
LISZT “BEGAN TOO LATE.”
No matter the mood in which I found Wagner, it was always the old Wagner. Did we set out for a stroll, he would take me into some wayside inn, there to eat sausages and drink beer. I must add that his drinking was of the most moderate description. It was during one of these rambles that we spoke of Liszt, and in the talking, he told me that Liszt had been more pained at his daughter Cosima’s change of religion from Roman Catholic to Protestant, than at her divorce from von Bülow. Among other things, too, he said, speaking of Liszt as a composer, that “he [Liszt] had begun too late in life.”
To me Wagner was all affection. He played to me, showed me everything received from the king (among the many presents were two handsome vases, the equivalent of which in money Wagner said he would have preferred), and did all that he could to make my stay agreeable. I did not stay the whole time I had purposed; I left somewhat unexpectedly. My departure brought the following letter from Wagner:—
Thou strangest of all men, why do you not give a sign of life? Is it right or just? After having lived among us, as one of us, to have left us so suddenly, and not without causing us some anxiety, too, on your behalf. How wrong if you were in a dissatisfied mood with us; but that cannot be; rather be convinced that we take the most hearty interest in you, and that this is the sole reason which induces me to make this inquiry.
Let me hear from you, and be heartily greeted.
From yours ever,
Richard Wagner.
From now to the day of his death I have but little to tell. He had arrived at a time when the world accepted him as one of its great men. His movements were chronicled in the press as though he were some minister of state. I saw him repeatedly since 1872, notably at the opening of the Bayreuth theatre in 1874, and at the succeeding representations there, and naturally on his coming to London for the Albert Hall Wagner Festival in 1877, when at the banquet given at the Cannon Street Hotel in his honour, he toasted me as the friend, “the first in this country to nobly support him,” at a time when he was a stranger in the land and the target of hostile criticism. Later on, I saw him again at the “Parsifal” performances at Bayreuth, which proved to be for the last time.
My task is done.