The pressure of circumstances, as well as the natural desire, to break ground for himself and his new creations, induced him for a time to give concerts with selections from them. He met with marked success before the unprejudiced hearers of Vienna, Prague, St. Petersburg, and Moscow. His visit to Russia especially yielded him a handsome sum, with which he returned to Vienna to await the representation of “Tristan,” but owing to the physical inability of Ander, the work finally had to be laid aside. Wagner felt also that intelligence as well as good-will for the cause were lacking; even the Isolde-Dustman did not at heart believe in it. “To speak frankly, I had enough of it and thought no more about it,” he tells us.
During this time he published the Nibelungen-poem, and in April, 1863, wrote the celebrated preface which eventually led to the consummation of his desires. He had with Semper conceived the design of a theatre which after the Grecian style should confine the attention of the entire audience to the stage, by its amphitheatric form, thus rendering impossible the mutual staring of the public or at least making it less likely to occur. Because of the oft repeated experience of the deeper effect of music when heard unseen, the orchestra was to be placed so low that no spectator could see the movements of the performers, while at the same time it would result in the more complete harmony of sound from the many and various instruments. In such a place, consecrated to art alone and not to pleasure of the eye, the “stage-festival-play” was to be produced. But would it be possible for lovers of art to provide the means, or was there perhaps a prince willing to spend for this purpose only as much as the maintenance for a short period of his imperfect Opera-house cost him? “In the beginning was the deed,” he says with Faust, and adds sadly enough in a postscript: “I no longer expect to live to see the representation of my stage-festival-play, and can barely hope to find sufficient leisure and desire to complete the musical composition.”
He next thought that the court Opera-house in process of erection in Vienna might be utilized by limiting the number of performances and securing a careful representation of the style of the works produced. Had not Joseph II. recognized the theatre as “contributing to the refinement of manners and of taste”? He even offered to prepare specially for Vienna a more condensed work, the “Meistersingers.” The reply was, however, that the name of Wagner had for the present received sufficient consideration, and that it was time to give a hearing to some other composer. “This other name was Jacques Offenbach,” adds Wagner. It needs no comment.
Again followed concerts, first in Prague, where “Tristan” was requested, then in Carlsruhe, where he had long been forgotten, although the prince’s own love for art had not been extinguished. The Carlsruhe and Mannheim orchestras acknowledged that they now first fully realized that they were artists. A negotiation for permanent settlement at the grand-ducal court failed, owing to the opposition of the courtiers. Wagner had demanded a court-carriage! Frederick the Great has said, it is true, that geniuses rank with sovereigns; but then this was too much, too much! Then too, he had, O horror! spent the beautiful ducats which the grand-duke had presented him, in entertaining of an evening the musicians who had executed the work. Where would such pretensions, such extravagance lead? The same courtiers, however, did not consider it robbery for many years shamefully to abridge the income of their noble prince until they finally stood disgraced themselves and escaped punishment only through the inexhaustible kindness of their monarch.
In Loewenberg, in Breslau, and again in Vienna, everywhere Wagner met with abundant success. But what of the real goal? “The public met him with enthusiasm wherever he showed himself, but on the other hand the leading critics remained cold or hostile and the directors of the theatres closed their doors to him,” his biographer, Glasenapp, says truthfully enough. Of the Nibelungen-poem also no notice had been taken except in a very narrow circle. Here and there a copy of the little volume, bound in red and gold, could be found, but the owner was sure to belong to the school of Liszt or Wagner. “How could the poetic work of an opera-composer bear serious consideration in contrast with the elaborate literary productions of professional poets?” Wagner says with justice. He felt himself rejected everywhere, and just where alone he desired admission.
“For me there shone no star that did not pale,
No cheering hope of which I was not reft;
To the world’s whim, changing with every gale,
And all its vain caprices, I was left;
To nobler art my aspirations soared,
Yet I must sink them to the common horde.
“He that our heads had crowned with laurels green,
By priestly staff whose verdure had decayed,
Robbed me of Hope’s sweet solaces, and e’en
The last delusive comfort caused to fade;
Yet thus was nourished in my soul serene
An inward trust, by which my faith was stayed;
And if to this trust I prove ever true
The withered staff shall blossom forth anew.
“What deep in my own heart I did discern,
Dwelt also, silent, in another’s breast;
And that which in his eager soul did burn,
Within my youthful heart peaceful did rest;
And as he half unconsciously did yearn
For all the Spring-time joys that were in quest,
The Spring’s delightsomeness our souls shall nourish,
And newer verdure round our faiths shall flourish.”
On his seventeenth birthday, the 25th of August, 1861, the grandson of that King Louis of Bavaria who was the first among the princes of Germany to again take an active interest in the plastic arts, witnessed a performance of “Lohengrin,” the first play that he had seen. Full of enthusiasm, he inquired for the other works of this master. Wagner’s writings convinced him, who now had on his desk only the busts of Beethoven and Wagner, that the one seemed likely to meet the same fate that the other had in fact encountered—to sink into the grave before the attainment of his goal and of his fame. His silent vow was to reach out his hand to this “one” as soon as he should be king. Two years later, the “Ring of the Nibelungen” appeared in print. In it was the question: “Will this prince be found?” In the following spring the author of the work was in dire distress in Vienna. The silver rubles had rapidly disappeared. How could such common treasures be heeded by him who had at his disposal the Holy Grail? But inexorably approached the danger of loss of personal liberty. He had to fly. A friend had provided him a refuge on his estate in Switzerland. On the way there he remained a few days in Stuttgart. Of a sudden the friend’s door-bell is rung, but Wagner’s presence is denied. The stranger urges pressing business, and on inquiry informs the master of the house—who was none other than Carl Eckert, subsequently Hofkapellmeister at Berlin—that he comes in the name of the King of Bavaria! Louis II. by the sudden death of Maximilian II. had been called to the throne in March, 1864, and one of his first acts was the invitation extended to the artist, so enthusiastically admired.
“Now all has been won, my most daring hopes surpassed. He places all his means at my disposal,” with these words he sank upon his friend’s breast. In a short time he was in Munich.