Richard Wagner and His Poetical Work, from "Rienzi" to "Parsifal"

by Judith Gautier

I arrived in Lucerne on a beautiful afternoon in the month of July, 1869. On entering the station I looked out of the carriage-door, when I suddenly perceived Wagner on the platform. He did not in the least resemble the unfavorable photographs which I had seen. I had no hesitation in recognizing him and ran toward him. We shook hands in silence, and he enveloped me with that intense glance which is peculiar to himself, and seems to pierce one's soul. I experienced no embarrassment during that moment of strange silence, in which my heart was, so to speak, bare beneath his gaze, but a profound emotion, a wild joy. "Come," he said, offering me his arm, "If you do not care for magnificence, the Lake Hotel will please you; I have engaged rooms there." The hotel was near by, and we went on foot. He stopped a moment on the way, and with a very grave, almost solemn expression, said to me: "We are bound by a very noble sentiment, madam." But an instant later, after having recommended me to the innkeeper, he took leave of me. "I am going to prepare for your reception," he said, "else I should be stupid. Come presently when you have taken a little rest." From my window I saw him move away with a rapid step, cross the old bridge of Lucerne, and step into a boat. He told me later that he was in haste to impart to his wife his impressions, which were not in the least what he had anticipated. At sunset I reached Tribscheu, that consecrated bit of land where, since that time, I have passed so many charming hours.

It was a sort of promontory, extremely picturesque, jutting into the lake. There was neither grating nor door; the garden had no defined limits, and extended indefinitely toward the neighboring mountains. The exterior of the house was perfectly plain,—gray, with dark tiles; but in the interior arrangements, full of grace and elegance, one felt the presence of a woman. Madame Wagner appeared in the midst of her children, fair, tall and gracious, with a charming smile, and tender, dreamy-blue eyes. The sympathy with which she inspired me from the first moment has never been broken, and our friendship, already of long standing, has never known a cloud. It was a delightful evening; the master displayed incomparable animation and gayety of spirits. I was unprepared for this vivacity of mind, these witticisms, the delicacies of language which we are wont to consider the monopoly of the Parisian, and which acquired in him a peculiar charm from his foreign accent, and, in spite of the great facility with which he spoke French, his original and unexpected expressions. He spoke of Paris, where he had greatly suffered, but which he still loved, and of the great contest over Tanhäuser, without bitterness. I remember, among others, this phrase:" Since the public at the opera do not like my music why inflict it upon them?" The group of warm partisans which had formed itself in France appeared to touch him deeply. Perhaps he founded secret hopes upon the initiative spirit of the French. In spite of his steadily increasing success in Germany he still had bitter adversaries, and was still exposed to base persecutions. The press reviled him incessantly with a coarseness and violence of which our French journals, even those most eager for scandal, can give no idea. The calumnies went even so far that Wagner, for the first and last time in his life, decided to reply to them. "I have seen," he said, among other things, "the London and Paris papers mock my works and tendencies without pity; these works have been dragged through the mire, they have been hissed in the theatres; but it still remained to me to see my person, my private character, my domestic life, exposed to public contempt in the country where my works are admired, and where a masculine energy and lofty aspirations are recognized in my efforts." The nobility and clergy were arrayed against him. What they sought for in him was doubtless the revolutionist of the days in May, 1849; the deep thinker, the powerful and energetic man of action, marching toward progress and the liberation of thought. And what hatred! Banished, pursued, and not knowing where to take refuge. Thus came about this almost incredible thing, that, at one time, he might be thought the only German who had not seen the representation of Lohengrin.

Notwithstanding the unalterable affection of King Louis II. he was, at the time I saw him, morally exiled from Bavaria. His long-cherished project of a theatre, the plans of which were already drawn by the great architect, Semper, and which the king wished to have erected in Munich, nearly revolutionized the city. The project was relinquished and the plaster model of the building was sorrowfully banished to an attic in the palace. But Wagner had not ceased to think of it, and who knows if at this moment Paris was not the aim of his dreams? He was then working upon the third part of the Nibelungen, Siegfried. I saw the manuscript on his study piano, in a little apartment adjoining the drawing-room. There was a portrait of his noble friend, handsome as a hero of the Edda. I was told that he sometimes escaped from Munich to pass a few days at Tribscheu, and that in this same room a bed was arranged for him.

There is nothing more touching than the enthusiastic affection with which this young king was inspired by the man of genius. He came to him like a saving angel at the moment when all abandoned him. "What shall I say to you," wrote Wagner to a friend, some time after his first interview with the king; "the most incomprehensible thing, and the only one, moreover, which could save me, is completely realized. In the very year of my first representation of Tanhäuser, a queen brought into this world the good genius of my life, him who was destined later, in the depth of my distress, to give me safety and consolation. It seems as if he had been sent me from heaven." The king was obliged, however, to do battle for his great friend, for the entire court was hostile to him, and the struggle was not without danger for the newly-crowned youth. But nothing could change his heart. The world in general revenged itself upon him by inventing various legends more or less absurd and unworthy of his notice. His only peculiarity lies in his deep intelligence, and his preference for masterpieces over the frivolous and commonplace pleasures of the world.

For fifteen days I passed my afternoons and evenings in the charming retreat Tribscheu, for I soon had the honor of being considered a friend. When minds are once in sympathy hearts come quicker to an understanding, and my affection for my host soon equalled the admiration with which the artist had inspired me. Of all the information given me about Wagner, his home life, the great reality, was the one black spot. Rus was a handsome Newfoundland, very gentle and pacific, who often came by himself to see me at the Lake Hotel. Few visitors ever crossed the threshold of the master's house. He knew no one at Lucerne, and this tranquillity was favorable to his work. Thus I saw him alone with his family, in all the simplicity of his life, and could form an exact idea of his character. I was greatly struck in the first place by his powerful, resolute head, the extraordinary brilliancy of his eyes, and his intensity of expression. There was also an expression of infinite goodness, which would never be suspected from his portraits. This almost superhuman goodness radiated from him at every moment; it was visible in the adoration with which he inspired not only his family but all who surrounded him. The members of his little domain took advantage of this gentleness. Little by little relations of every degree, near or far, gathered about him, who having come for a visit stayed indefinitely. As I knew the master better, I gained a further insight into his exquisite tenderness of soul, which in him has nothing in common with the vulgar philanthropy so frequently met with, and which is for the most part theoretic. It was a Frenchman, the Count of Gobineau, who said of Wagner, "He can never be absolutely happy, for he will always have some one near him whose sorrows he feels bound to share."

One day I asked him if he had any plans for his new-born son. "My first ambition," he said, "is to assure him a modest income, which will render him independent, that he may be sheltered from the miserable annoyances from which I have so cruelly suffered. Then I should wish him to know something of surgery, enough to render aid to a wounded person in emergencies, to prepare a first dressing. I have so often been troubled by my own inability that I wish to spare him this pain. Beyond this I shall leave him entirely free." Madame Wagner told me that the composition of the Mastersingers had been suspended during long months on account of a sick dog, wandering and abandoned, which Wagner, then at Zurich, had picked up and endeavored to cure. The dog had bitten his right hand badly, and the wound became so painful as to prevent him from writing. It is impossible to dictate music, and he was thus reduced to inaction, which put his patience to a hard test; but the dog was none the less cared for. There are, however, violence and roughness in Richard Wagner's character which must be recognized, and which are frequently the cause of his being misjudged, but only by those who regard merely the exterior. Nervous and impassionable to excess, the emotions which he experiences are always carried to an extreme. With him slight pain is almost despair, the smallest irritation has the appearance of madness. This wonderful organization of such exquisite sensibility has terrible vibrations, and his resistance of them is wonderful. A day of anxiety ages him ten years, but, happiness once reinstated, the day following finds him younger than ever. He gives himself to others with extraordinary prodigality. Always sincere, his whole heart is in everything he does; but of an extremely variable temper, his opinions and ideas, fixed the first moment, are by no means irrevocable. No one recognizes an error more quickly than he does, but he must have passed his first enthusiasm. By his frankness and vehemence he often wounds his best friends unintentionally; always excessive he goes farther than he intends, and does not recognize the grief he causes. Many, wounded in their self-love, bear in silence the injury which aggravates them, and thus they lose a precious friendship; whereas, if they had cried out that they were hurt, they would have found the master filled with such sincere regrets that he would have made an effusive effort to console them, and their love for him would only have increased.

"With Wagner the second movement is the good one," said a French violinist, who had left everything to enroll himself in the orchestra at Bayreuth,—an artist of great merit, a man of spirit who was one of those preferred by the master. In spite of his occasionally rough manner, Wagner is, when he so chooses, a perfect charmer. There is nothing to be compared with the fascination which he exercises upon the interpreters working under his orders. After a few days the most hostile and rebellious orchestra becomes attached to him. It is the same with the singers, whom he inspires with unbounded devotion. The illustrious Schnorr, the first singer of Tristan, in which part he was sublime, cried, as he drew his last breath, "It is not I then who will sing Siegfried." He regretted nothing in this life but the glory of interpreting Wagner's works. One of the most remarkable things about Wagner is the youthful gayety which so frequently breaks out, and the charming good humor which his tormented life has never been able to quench. His entertaining and profound conversation will become all at once, without transition, full of humor and imagination. He tells stories in the most comical manner, with a fine irony which belongs to him alone. At Lucerne he surprised me by his skill in bodily exercises, and by his singular agility. He climbed the highest trees in his garden, to the terror of his wife, who besought me not to look at him, because, she said, if he were encouraged he would commit no end of follies.

He was then working very regularly, rising early in the morning. At midday he was free, took long walks, or rested while reading, for he has an insatiable thirst for literature, and is an indefatigable student. In these hours of rest and meditation he has moments of beautiful serenity. His features then assume an incomparable sweetness, his face becomes enveloped with a pallor which has nothing of ill-health, but seems to veil it with a slight cloud. At these moments nothing troubles or agitates him. One feels that he is in self-communion with his dreams, and one involuntarily thinks of a magnificent lake reflecting the heavens. I have never witnessed this peaceful reverie without emotion, without the deep desire that nothing may trouble or dissipate it. But little is needed to bring back agitation; the least breath suffices; happy if the tempest does not break forth. Unfortunately for himself Wagner will never know the feeling so wisely egotistical—polite indifference. Before my departure from Lucerne he wished to organize an excursion of several days to show us the country of William Tell. We were obliged to start at dawn, and the carriage was winding its way by the lake of Lucerne, or the Four Cantons, when the sun rose. I remember that a gleam of light fell upon the master's lips while he was talking to us. In speaking of Mendelssohn he said: "He is a great landscape-painter."

I confess to seeing very little of the country I was visiting. I remember at the first halting-place a trout upon which Wagner made a frightful pun, which I shall not translate. Then came the steamboat which conveyed us to Zurich, where the master was welcomed by the populace as a well-loved king; a mountain was climbed, a sail followed; but all is confused. What has ever remained in my memory is the charm of those days, passed in such glorious intimacy, his gentle gayety and simplicity, the attentive cares, the art of organizing everything for one's greatest comfort and pleasure. He was the first to rise and awake the more slothful ones, and he hummed the Marseillaise as he tapped upon our doors.

Once again at Lucerne Wagner confessed that he had been suffering during the greater part of the journey, but had been careful to say nothing lest he should spoil our pleasure. It was with sincere regret that I finally took leave of my hosts, being, however, somewhat consoled by the promise that I should often receive news from Tribscheu, a promise which has been faithfully kept. I returned there the following year, 1870, being at Lucerne when the war was declared. It was evident with his ardent character that Wagner could not fail to be deeply impressed by this event. The idea of a united Germany impassioned him, and I confess that I should have loved him less had he not experienced, like all of us, in these crises the inspirations of patriotism. It was deemed expedient, however, not to touch upon dangerous questions, where we could not possibly agree, but to remain prudently in the regions of art, where we so entirely understood one another. By this method the events which made us opponents could not disturb our friendship. Returned to Paris, the last letter which I received from him was dated the 5th of September. It informed me of the baptism of his son, to whom I stood god-mother, but alas, at a distance. "At the moment of the benediction," he wrote, "a storm burst upon us with flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder. It appears that the thunder claps will play their part in the life of this terrible child. I myself like such celestial auguries, while I hold in aversion those terrestrial blows which have deprived us of your presence. I keep to our silence so sensibly agreed upon. But happily there is a region of existence where we are and always shall remain friends. All that separates us, even in our opinions upon things which belong to this region, can only contribute to draw us in time nearer and more intimately together." The horrible tempest once calmed, we met again with the same sentiments, each continuing to reserve his own opinions. In 1872 Lucerne was abandoned for Bayreuth; the great project so long cherished of the theatre built after Wagner's ideas was at last to be realized. The 22d of April Madame Wagner wrote me: "One last word from Tribscheu, my dear friend, which we leave with full hearts and troubled minds. To-morrow Wagner goes to Bayreuth, and I am to follow him with the children and Rus in a week. We cannot, however, leave without sending you our tender remembrances."