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Title: My Life — Volume 1

Author: Richard Wagner

Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5197]
Most recently updated: May 28, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LIFE —
VOLUME 1 ***

My Life

by Richard Wagner

IN TWO VOLUMES
Volume 1
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN

Contents

PREFACE
CONTENTS
MY LIFE
PART I. 1813-1842
PART II. 1842-1850 (Dresden)

PREFACE

The contents of these volumes have been written down directly from my
dictation, over a period of several years, by my friend and wife, who wished
me to tell her the story of my life. It was the desire of both of us that these
details of my life should be accessible to our family and to our sincere and
trusted friends; and we decided therefore, in order to provide against a
possible destruction of the one manuscript, to have a small number of
copies printed at our own expense. As the value of this autobiography
consists in its unadorned veracity, which, under the circumstances, is its
only justification, therefore my statements had to be accompanied by
precise names and dates; hence there could be no question of their
publication until some time after my death, should interest in them still
survive in our descendants, and on that point I intend leaving directions in
my will.
If, on the other hand, we do not refuse certain intimate friends a sight of
these papers now, it is that, relying on their genuine interest in the contents,
we are confident that they will not pass on their knowledge to any who do
not share their feelings in the matter.

Richard Wagner

CONTENTS

Part I. 1813-1842
Childhood and Schooldays
Musical Studies
Travels in Germany (First Marriage)
Paris: 1839-42

Part II. 1842-1850 (Dresden)
‘Rienzi’
‘The Flying Dutchman’
Liszt, Spontini, Marschner, etc.
‘Tannhäuser’
Franck, Schumann, Semper, Gutzkow, Auerbach
‘Lohengrin’ (Libretto)
Ninth Symphony
Spohr, Gluck, Hiller, Devrient
Official Position.
Studies in Historical Literature
‘Rienzi’ at Berlin
Relations with the Management, Mother’s Death, etc.
Growing Sympathy with Political Events, Bakunin
The May Insurrection
Flight: Weimar, Zürich, Paris, Bordeaux, Geneva, Zürich

ILLUSTRATIONS
FRONTISPIECE FOR VOLUME I

Richard Wagner in 1842,
from the Portrait by E. Kietz.

FRONTISPIECE FOR VOLUME II
Richard Wagner about 1872 by Lenbach.

Original in the possession of Frau Cosima Wagner These frontispieces
are used by the courtesy of Mr. F. Bruckmann.

MY LIFE

PART I
1813-1842

I was born at Leipzig on the 22nd of May 1813, in a room on the second
floor of the ‘Red and White Lion,’ and two days later was baptized at St.
Thomas’s Church, and christened Wilhelm Richard.
My father, Friedrich Wagner, was at the time of my birth a clerk in the
police service at Leipzig, and hoped to get the post of Chief Constable in
that town, but he died in the October of that same year. His death was partly
due to the great exertions imposed upon him by the stress of police work
during the war troubles and the battle of Leipzig, and partly to the fact that
he fell a victim to the nervous fever which was raging at that time. As
regards his father’s position in life, I learnt later that he had held a small
civil appointment as toll collector at the Ranstädt Gate, but had
distinguished himself from those in the same station by giving his two sons
a superior education, my father, Friedrich, studying law, and the younger
son, Adolph, theology.
My uncle subsequently exercised no small influence on my development;
we shall meet him again at a critical turning-point in the story of my youth.
My father, whom I had lost so early, was, as I discovered afterwards, a
great lover of poetry and literature in general, and possessed in particular an
almost passionate affection for the drama, which was at that time much in
vogue among the educated classes. My mother told me, among other things,
that he took her to Lauchstadt for the first performance of the Braut von
Messina, and that on the promenade he pointed out Schiller and Goethe to
her, and reproved her warmly for never having heard of these great men. He
is said to have been not altogether free from a gallant interest in actresses.
My mother used to complain jokingly that she often had to keep lunch
waiting for him while he was paying court to a certain famous actress of the
day.[1] When she scolded him, he vowed that he had been delayed by papers

that had to be attended to, and as a proof of his assertion pointed to his
fingers, which were supposed to be stained with ink, but on closer
inspection were found to be quite clean. His great fondness for the theatre
was further shown by his choice of the actor, Ludwig Geyer, as one of his
intimate friends. Although his choice of this friend was no doubt mainly due
to his love for the theatre, he at the same time introduced into his family the
noblest of benefactors; for this modest artist, prompted by a warm interest
in the lot of his friend’s large family, so unexpectedly left destitute, devoted
the remainder of his life to making strenuous efforts to maintain and
educate the orphans. Even when the police official was spending his
evenings at the theatre, the worthy actor generally filled his place in the
family circle, and it seems had frequently to appease my mother, who,
rightly or wrongly, complained of the frivolity of her husband.
[1] Madame Hartwig.

How deeply the homeless artist, hard pressed by life and tossed to and
fro, longed to feel himself at home in a sympathetic family circle, was
proved by the fact that a year after his friend’s death he married his widow,
and from that time forward became a most loving father to the seven
children that had been left behind.
In this onerous undertaking he was favoured by an unexpected
improvement in his position, for he obtained a remunerative, respectable,
and permanent engagement, as a character actor, at the newly established
Court Theatre in Dresden. His talent for painting, which had already helped
him to earn a livelihood when forced by extreme poverty to break off his
university studies, again stood him in good stead in his position at Dresden.
True, he complained even more than his critics that he had been kept from a
regular and systematic study of this art, yet his extraordinary aptitude, for
portrait painting in particular, secured him such important commissions that
he unfortunately exhausted his strength prematurely by his twofold
exertions as painter and actor. Once, when he was invited to Munich to
fulfil a temporary engagement at the Court Theatre, he received, through
the distinguished recommendation of the Saxon Court, such pressing
commissions from the Bavarian Court for portraits of the royal family that
he thought it wise to cancel his contract altogether. He also had a turn for
poetry. Besides fragments—often in very dainty verse—he wrote several
comedies, one of which, Der Bethlehemitische Kindermord, in rhymed

Alexandrines, was often performed; it was published and received the
warmest praise from Goethe.
This excellent man, under whose care our family moved to Dresden
when I was two years old, and by whom my mother had another daughter,
Cecilia, now also took my education in hand with the greatest care and
affection. He wished to adopt me altogether, and accordingly, when I was
sent to my first school, he gave me his own name, so that till the age of
fourteen I was known to my Dresden schoolfellows as Richard Geyer; and
it was not until some years after my stepfather’s death, and on my family’s
return to Leipzig, the home of my own kith and kin, that I resumed the
name of Wagner.
The earliest recollections of my childhood are associated with my
stepfather, and passed from him to the theatre. I well remember that he
would have liked to see me develop a talent for painting; and his studio,
with the easel and the pictures upon it, did not fail to impress me. I
remember in particular that I tried, with a childish love of imitation, to copy
a portrait of King Frederick Augustus of Saxony; but when this simple
daubing had to give place to a serious study of drawing, I could not stand it,
possibly because I was discouraged by the pedantic technique of my
teacher, a cousin of mine, who was rather a bore. At one time during my
early boyhood I became so weak after some childish ailment that my
mother told me later she used almost to wish me dead, for it seemed as
though I should never get well. However, my subsequent good health
apparently astonished my parents. I afterwards learnt the noble part played
by my excellent stepfather on this occasion also; he never gave way to
despair, in spite of the cares and troubles of so large a family, but remained
patient throughout, and never lost the hope of pulling me through safely.
My imagination at this time was deeply impressed by my acquaintance
with the theatre, with which I was brought into contact, not only as a
childish spectator from the mysterious stagebox, with its access to the stage,
and by visits to the wardrobe with its fantastic costumes, wigs and other
disguises, but also by taking a part in the performances myself. After I had
been filled with fear by seeing my father play the villain’s part in such
tragedies as Die Waise und der Mörder, Die beiden Galeerensklaven, I
occasionally took part in comedy. I remember that I appeared in Der
Weinberg an der Elbe, a piece specially written to welcome the King of

Saxony on his return from captivity, with music by the conductor, C. M.
von Weber. In this I figured in a tableau vivant as an angel, sewn up in
tights with wings on my back, in a graceful pose which I had laboriously
practised. I also remember on this occasion being given a big iced cake,
which I was assured the King had intended for me personally. Lastly, I can
recall taking a child’s part in which I had a few words to speak in
Kotzebue’s Menschenhass und Reue[2], which furnished me with an excuse
at school for not having learnt my lessons. I said I had too much to do, as I
had to learn by heart an important part in Den Menschen ausser der Reihe.[3]
[2] ‘Misanthropy and Remorse.’

[3] ‘The Man out of the Rank or Row.’ In the German this is a simple phonetic
corruption of Kotzebue’s title, which might easily occur to a child who had only
heard, and not read, that title.—EDITOR.

On the other hand, to show how seriously my father regarded my
education, when I was six years old he took me to a clergyman in the
country at Possendorf, near Dresden, where I was to be given a sound and
healthy training with other boys of my own class. In the evening, the vicar,
whose name was Wetzel, used to tell us the story of Robinson Crusoe, and
discuss it with us in a highly instructive manner. I was, moreover, much
impressed by a biography of Mozart which was read aloud; and the
newspaper accounts and monthly reports of the events of the Greek War of
Independence stirred my imagination deeply. My love for Greece, which
afterwards made me turn with enthusiasm to the mythology and history of
ancient Hellas, was thus the natural outcome of the intense and painful
interest I took in the events of this period. In after years the story of the
struggle of the Greeks against the Persians always revived my impressions
of this modern revolt of Greece against the Turks.
One day, when I had been in this country home scarcely a year, a
messenger came from town to ask the vicar to take me to my parents’ house
in Dresden, as my father was dying.
We did the three hours’ journey on foot; and as I was very exhausted
when I arrived, I scarcely understood why my mother was crying. The next
day I was taken to my father’s bedside; the extreme weakness with which
he spoke to me, combined with all the precautions taken in the last
desperate treatment of his complaint—acute hydrothorax—made the whole

scene appear like a dream to me, and I think I was too frightened and
surprised to cry.
In the next room my mother asked me to show her what I could play on
the piano, wisely hoping to divert my father’s thoughts by the sound. I
played Ueb’ immer Treu und Redlichkeit, and my father said to her, ‘Is it
possible he has musical talent?’
In the early hours of the next morning my mother came into the great
night nursery, and, standing by the bedside of each of us in turn, told us,
with sobs, that our father was dead, and gave us each a message with his
blessing. To me she said, ‘He hoped to make something of you.’
In the afternoon my schoolmaster, Wetzel, came to take me back to the
country. We walked the whole way to Possendorf, arriving at nightfall. On
the way I asked him many questions about the stars, of which he gave me
my first intelligent idea.
A week later my stepfather’s brother arrived from Eisleben for the
funeral. He promised, as far as he was able, to support the family, which
was now once more destitute, and undertook to provide for my future
education.
I took leave of my companions and of the kind-hearted clergyman, and it
was for his funeral that I paid my next visit to Possendorf a few years later.
I did not go to the place again till long afterwards, when I visited it on an
excursion such as I often made, far into the country, at the time when I was
conducting the orchestra in Dresden. I was much grieved not to find the old
parsonage still there, but in its place a more pretentious modern structure,
which so turned me against the locality, that thenceforward my excursions
were always made in another direction.
This time my uncle brought me back to Dresden in the carriage. I found
my mother and sister in the deepest mourning, and remember being
received for the first time with a tenderness not usual in our family; and I
noticed that the same tenderness marked our leave-taking, when, a few days
later, my uncle took me with him to Eisleben.
This uncle, who was a younger brother of my stepfather, had settled there
as a goldsmith, and Julius, one of my elder brothers, had already been
apprenticed to him. Our old grandmother also lived with this bachelor son,
and as it was evident that she could not live long, she was not informed of
the death of her eldest son, which I, too, was bidden to keep to myself. The

servant carefully removed the crape from my coat, telling me she would
keep it until my grandmother died, which was likely to be soon.
I was now often called upon to tell her about my father, and it was no
great difficulty for me to keep the secret of his death, as I had scarcely
realised it myself. She lived in a dark back room looking out upon a narrow
courtyard, and took a great delight in watching the robins that fluttered
freely about her, and for which she always kept fresh green boughs by the
stove. When some of these robins were killed by the cat, I managed to catch
others for her in the neighbourhood, which pleased her very much, and, in
return, she kept me tidy and clean. Her death, as had been expected, took
place before long, and the crape that had been put away was now openly
worn in Eisleben.
The back room, with its robins and green branches, now knew me no
more, but I soon made myself at home with a soap-boiler’s family, to whom
the house belonged, and became popular with them on account of the
stories I told them.
I was sent to a private school kept by a man called Weiss, who left an
impression of gravity and dignity upon my mind.
Towards the end of the fifties I was greatly moved at reading in a musical
paper the account of a concert at Eisleben, consisting of parts of
Tannhäuser, at which my former master, who had not forgotten his young
pupil, had been present.
The little old town with Luther’s house, and the numberless memorials it
contained of his stay there, has often, in later days, come back to me in
dreams. I have always wished to revisit it and verify the clearness of my
recollections, but, strange to say, it has never been my fate to do so. We
lived in the market-place, where I was often entertained by strange sights,
such, for instance, as performances by a troupe of acrobats, in which a man
walked a rope stretched from tower to tower across the square, an
achievement which long inspired me with a passion for such feats of daring.
Indeed, I got so far as to walk a rope fairly easily myself with the help of a
balancing-pole. I had made the rope out of cords twisted together and
stretched across the courtyard, and even now I still feel a desire to gratify
my acrobatic instincts. The thing that attracted me most, however, was the
brass band of a Hussar regiment quartered at Eisleben. It often played a
certain piece which had just come out, and which was making a great

sensation, I mean the ‘Huntsmen’s Chorus’ out of the Freischutz, that had
been recently performed at the Opera in Berlin. My uncle and brother asked
me eagerly about its composer, Weber, whom I must have seen at my
parents’ house in Dresden, when he was conductor of the orchestra there.
About the same time the Jungfernkranz was zealously played and sung
by some friends who lived near us. These two pieces cured me of my
weakness for the ‘Ypsilanti’ Waltz, which till that time I had regarded as the
most wonderful of compositions.
I have recollections of frequent tussles with the town boys, who were
constantly mocking at me for my ‘square’ cap; and I remember, too, that I
was very fond of rambles of adventure among the rocky banks of the
Unstrut.
My uncle’s marriage late in life, and the starting of his new home,
brought about a marked alteration in his relations to my family.
After a lapse of a year I was taken by him to Leipzig, and handed over
for some days to the Wagners, my own father’s relatives, consisting of my
uncle Adolph and his sister Friederike Wagner. This extraordinarily
interesting man, whose influence afterwards became ever more stimulating
to me, now for the first time brought himself and his singular environment
into my life.
He and my aunt were very close friends of Jeannette Thome, a queer old
maid who shared with them a large house in the market-place, in which, if I
am not mistaken, the Electoral family of Saxony had, ever since the days of
Augustus the Strong, hired and furnished the two principal storeys for their
own use whenever they were in Leipzig.
So far as I know, Jeannette Thome really owned the second storey, of
which she inhabited only a modest apartment looking out on the courtyard.
As, however, the King merely occupied the hired rooms for a few days in
the year, Jeannette and her circle generally made use of his splendid
apartments, and one of these staterooms was made into a bedroom for me.
The decorations and fittings of these rooms also dated from the days of
Augustus the Strong. They were luxurious with heavy silk and rich rococo
furniture, all of which were much soiled with age. As a matter of fact, I was
delighted by these large strange rooms, looking out upon the bustling
Leipzig market-place, where I loved above all to watch the students in the

crowd making their way along in their old-fashioned ‘Club’ attire, and
filling up the whole width of the street.
There was only one portion of the decorations of the rooms that I
thoroughly disliked, and this consisted of the various portraits, but
particularly those of high-born dames in hooped petticoats, with youthful
faces and powdered hair. These appeared to me exactly like ghosts, who,
when I was alone in the room, seemed to come back to life, and filled me
with the most abject fear. To sleep alone in this distant chamber, in that old-
fashioned bed of state, beneath those unearthly pictures, was a constant
terror to me. It is true I tried to hide my fear from my aunt when she lighted
me to bed in the evening with her candle, but never a night passed in which
I was not a prey to the most horrible ghostly visions, my dread of which
would leave me in a bath of perspiration.
The personality of the three chief occupants of this storey was admirably
adapted to materialise the ghostly impressions of the house into a reality
that resembled some strange fairy-tale.
Jeannette Thome was very small and stout; she wore a fair Titus wig, and
seemed to hug to herself the consciousness of vanished beauty. My aunt,
her faithful friend and guardian, who was also an old maid, was remarkable
for the height and extreme leanness of her person. The oddity of her
otherwise very pleasant face was increased by an exceedingly pointed chin.
My uncle Adolph had chosen as his permanent study a dark room in the
courtyard. There it was that I saw him for the first time, surrounded by a
great wilderness of books, and attired in an unpretentious indoor costume,
the most striking feature of which was a tall, pointed felt cap, such as I had
seen worn by the clown who belonged to the troupe of rope-dancers at
Eisleben. A great love of independence had driven him to this strange
retreat. He had been originally destined for the Church, but he soon gave
that up, in order to devote himself entirely to philological studies. But as he
had the greatest dislike of acting as a professor and teacher in a regular post,
he soon tried to make a meagre livelihood by literary work. He had certain
social gifts, and especially a fine tenor voice, and appears in his youth to
have been welcome as a man of letters among a fairly wide circle of friends
at Leipzig.
On a trip to Jena, during which he and a companion seem to have found
their way into various musical and oratorical associations, he paid a visit to

Schiller. With this object in view, he had come armed with a request from
the management of the Leipzig Theatre, who wanted to secure the rights of
Wallenstein, which was just finished. He told me later of the magic
impression made upon him by Schiller, with his tall slight figure and
irresistibly attractive blue eyes. His only complaint was that, owing to a
well-meant trick played on him by his friend, he had been placed in a most
trying position; for the latter had managed to send Schiller a small volume
of Adolph Wagner’s poems in advance.
The young poet was much embarrassed to hear Schiller address him in
flattering terms on the subject of his poetry, but was convinced that the
great man was merely encouraging him out of kindness. Afterwards he
devoted himself entirely to philological studios—one of his best-known
publications in that department being his Parnasso Italiano, which he
dedicated to Goethe in an Italian poem. True, I have heard experts say that
the latter was written in unusually pompous Italian; but Goethe sent him a
letter full of praise, as well as a silver cup from his own household plate.
The impression that I, as a boy of eight, conceived of Adolph Wagner, amid
the surroundings of his own home, was that he was a peculiarly puzzling
character.
I soon had to leave the influence of this environment and was brought
back to my people at Dresden. Meanwhile my family, under the guidance of
my bereaved mother, had been obliged to settle down as well as they could
under the circumstances. My eldest brother Albert, who originally intended
to study medicine, had, upon the advice of Weber, who had much admired
his beautiful tenor voice, started his theatrical career in Breslau. My second
sister Louisa soon followed his example, and became an actress. My eldest
sister Rosalie had obtained an excellent engagement at the Dresden Court
Theatre, and the younger members of the family all looked up to her; for
she was now the main support of our poor sorrowing mother. My family
still occupied the same comfortable home which my father had made for
them. Some of the spare rooms were occasionally let to strangers, and
Spohr was among those who at one time lodged with us. Thanks to her
great energy, and to help received from various sources (among which the
continued generosity of the Court, out of respect to the memory of my late
stepfather, must not be forgotten), my mother managed so well in making
both ends meet, that even my education did not suffer.

After it had been decided that my sister Clara, owing to her exceedingly
beautiful voice, should also go on the stage, my mother took the greatest
care to prevent me from developing any taste whatever for the theatre. She
never ceased to reproach herself for having consented to the theatrical
career of my eldest brother, and as my second brother showed no greater
talents than those which were useful to him as a goldsmith, it was now her
chief desire to see some progress made towards the fulfilment of the hopes
and wishes of my step-father, ‘who hoped to make something of me.’ On
the completion of my eighth year I was sent to the Kreuz Grammar School
in Dresden, where it was hoped I would study! There I was placed at the
bottom of the lowest class, and started my education under the most
unassuming auspices.
My mother noted with much interest the slightest signs I might show of a
growing love and ability for my work. She herself, though not highly
educated, always created a lasting impression on all who really learnt to
know her, and displayed a peculiar combination of practical domestic
efficiency and keen intellectual animation. She never gave one of her
children any definite information concerning her antecedents. She came
from Weissenfels, and admitted that her parents had been bakers[4] there.
Even in regard to her maiden name she always spoke with some
embarrassment, and intimated that it was ‘Perthes,’ though, as we
afterwards ascertained, it was in reality ‘Bertz.’ Strange to say, she had been
placed in a high-class boarding-school in Leipzig, where she had enjoyed
the advantage of the care and interest of one of ‘her father’s influential
friends,’ to whom she afterwards referred as being a Weimar prince who
had been very kind to her family in Weissenfels. Her education in that
establishment seems to have been interrupted on account of the sudden
death of this ‘friend.’ She became acquainted with my father at a very early
age, and married him in the first bloom of her youth, he also being very
young, though he already held an appointment. Her chief characteristics
seem to have been a keen sense of humour and an amiable temper, so we
need not suppose that it was merely a sense of duty towards the family of a
departed comrade that afterwards induced the admirable Ludwig Geyer to
enter into matrimony with her when she was no longer youthful, but rather
that he was impelled to that step by a sincere and warm regard for the
widow of his friend. A portrait of her, painted by Geyer during the lifetime
of my father, gives one a very favourable impression of what she must have

been. Even from the time when my recollection of her is quite distinct, she
always had to wear a cap owing to some slight affection of the head, so that
I have no recollection of her as a young and pretty mother. Her trying
position at the head of a numerous family (of which I was the seventh
surviving member), the difficulty of obtaining the wherewithal to rear them,
and of keeping up appearances on very limited resources, did not conduce
to evolve that tender sweetness and solicitude which are usually associated
with motherhood. I hardly ever recollect her having fondled me. Indeed,
demonstrations of affection were not common in our family, although a
certain impetuous, almost passionate and boisterous manner always
characterised our dealings. This being so, it naturally seemed to me quite a
great event when one night I, fretful with sleepiness, looked up at her with
tearful eyes as she was taking me to bed, and saw her gaze back at me
proudly and fondly, and speak of me to a visitor then present with a certain
amount of tenderness.
[4] According to more recent information—mill owners.

What struck me more particularly about her was the strange enthusiasm
and almost pathetic manner with which she spoke of the great and of the
beautiful in Art. Under this heading, however, she would never have let me
suppose that she included dramatic art, but only Poetry, Music, and
Painting. Consequently, she often even threatened me with her curse should
I ever express a desire to go on the stage. Moreover, she was very
religiously inclined. With intense fervour she would often give us long
sermons about God and the divine quality in man, during which, now and
again, suddenly lowering her voice in a rather funny way, she would
interrupt herself in order to rebuke one of us. After the death of our
stepfather she used to assemble us all round her bed every morning, when
one of us would read out a hymn or a part of the Church service from the
prayer-book before she took her coffee. Sometimes the choice of the part to
be read was hardly appropriate, as, for instance, when my sister Clara on
one occasion thoughtlessly read the ‘Prayer to be said in time of War,’ and
delivered it with so much expression that my mother interrupted her,
saying: ‘Oh, stop! Good gracious me! Things are not quite so bad as that.
There’s no war on at present!’
In spite of our limited means we had lively and—as they appeared to my
boyish imagination—even brilliant evening parties sometimes. After the

death of my stepfather, who, thanks to his success as a portrait painter, in
the later years of his life had raised his income to what for those days was a
really decent total, many agreeable acquaintances of very good social
position whom he had made during this flourishing period still remained on
friendly terms with us, and would occasionally join us at our evening
gatherings. Amongst those who came were the members of the Court
Theatre, who at that time gave very charming and highly entertaining
parties of their own, which, on my return to Dresden later on, I found had
been altogether given up.
Very delightful, too, were the picnics arranged between us and our
friends at some of the beautiful spots around Dresden, for these excursions
were always brightened by a certain artistic spirit and general good cheer. I
remember one such outing we arranged to Loschwitz, where we made a
kind of gypsy camp, in which Carl Maria von Weber played his part in the
character of cook. At home we also had some music. My sister Rosalie
played the piano, and Clara was beginning to sing. Of the various theatrical
performances we organised in those early days, often after elaborate
preparation, with the view of amusing ourselves on the birthdays of our
elders, I can hardly remember one, save a parody on the romantic play of
Sappho, by Grillparzer, in which I took part as one of the singers in the
crowd that preceded Phaon’s triumphal car. I endeavoured to revive these
memories by means of a fine puppet show, which I found among the effects
of my late stepfather, and for which he himself had painted some beautiful
scenery. It was my intention to surprise my people by means of a brilliant
performance on this little stage. After I had very clumsily made several
puppets, and had provided them with a scanty wardrobe made from cuttings
of material purloined from my sisters, I started to compose a chivalric
drama, in which I proposed to rehearse my puppets. When I had drafted the
first scene, my sisters happened to discover the MS. and literally laughed it
to scorn, and, to my great annoyance, for a long time afterwards they
chaffed me by repeating one particular sentence which I had put into the
mouth of the heroine, and which was—Ich hore schon den Ritter trapsen (‘I
hear his knightly footsteps falling’). I now returned with renewed ardour to
the theatre, with which, even at this time, my family was in close touch.
Den Freischutz in particular appealed very strongly to my imagination,
mainly on account of its ghostly theme. The emotions of terror and the
dread of ghosts formed quite an important factor in the development of my

mind. From my earliest childhood certain mysterious and uncanny things
exercised an enormous influence over me. If I were left alone in a room for
long, I remember that, when gazing at lifeless objects such as pieces of
furniture, and concentrating my attention upon them, I would suddenly
shriek out with fright, because they seemed to me alive. Even during the
latest years of my boyhood, not a night passed without my waking out of
some ghostly dream and uttering the most frightful shrieks, which subsided
only at the sound of some human voice. The most severe rebuke or even
chastisement seemed to me at those times no more than a blessed release.
None of my brothers or sisters would sleep anywhere near me. They put me
to sleep as far as possible away from the others, without thinking that my
cries for help would only be louder and longer; but in the end they got used
even to this nightly disturbance.
In connection with this childish terror, what attracted me so strongly to
the theatre—by which I mean also the stage, the rooms behind the scenes,
and the dressing-rooms—was not so much the desire for entertainment and
amusement such as that which impels the present-day theatre-goers, but the
fascinating pleasure of finding myself in an entirely different atmosphere, in
a world that was purely fantastic and often gruesomely attractive. Thus to
me a scene, even a wing, representing a bush, or some costume or
characteristic part of it, seemed to come from another world, to be in some
way as attractive as an apparition, and I felt that contact with it might serve
as a lever to lift me from the dull reality of daily routine to that delightful
region of spirits. Everything connected with a theatrical performance had
for me the charm of mystery, it both bewitched and fascinated me, and
while I was trying, with the help of a few playmates, to imitate the
performance of Der Freischutz, and to devote myself energetically to
reproducing the needful costumes and masks in my grotesque style of
painting, the more elegant contents of my sisters’ wardrobes, in the
beautifying of which I had often seen the family occupied, exercised a
subtle charm over my imagination; nay, my heart would beat madly at the
very touch of one of their dresses.
In spite of the fact that, as I already mentioned, our family was not given
to outward manifestations of affection, yet the fact that I was brought up
entirely among feminine surroundings must necessarily have influenced the
development of the sensitive side of my nature. Perhaps it was precisely
because my immediate circle was generally rough and impetuous, that the

opposite characteristics of womanhood, especially such as were connected
with the imaginary world of the theatre, created a feeling of such tender
longing in me.
Luckily these fantastic humours, merging from the gruesome into the
mawkish, were counteracted and balanced by more serious influences
undergone at school at the hands of my teachers and schoolfellows. Even
there, it was chiefly the weird that aroused my keenest interest. I can hardly
judge whether I had what would be called a good head for study. I think
that, in general, what I really liked I was soon able to grasp without much
effort, whereas I hardly exerted myself at all in the study of subjects that
were uncongenial. This characteristic was most marked in regard to
arithmetic and, later on, mathematics. In neither of these subjects did I ever
succeed in bringing my mind seriously to bear upon the tasks that were set
me. In the matter of the Classics, too, I paid only just as much attention as
was absolutely necessary to enable me to get a grasp of them; for I was
stimulated by the desire to reproduce them to myself dramatically. In this
way Greek particularly attracted me, because the stories from Greek
mythology so seized upon my fancy that I tried to imagine their heroes as
speaking to me in their native tongue, so as to satisfy my longing for
complete familiarity with them. In these circumstances it will be readily
understood that the grammar of the language seemed to me merely a
tiresome obstacle, and by no means in itself an interesting branch of
knowledge.
The fact that my study of languages was never very thorough, perhaps
best explains the fact that I was afterwards so ready to cease troubling about
them altogether. Not until much later did this study really begin to interest
me again, and that was only when I learnt to understand its physiological
and philosophical side, as it was revealed to our modern Germanists by the
pioneer work of Jakob Grimm. Then, when it was too late to apply myself
thoroughly to a study which at last I had learned to appreciate, I regretted
that this newer conception of the study of languages had not yet found
acceptance in our colleges when I was younger.
Nevertheless, by my successes in philological work I managed to attract
the attention of a young teacher at the Kreuz Grammar School, a Master of
Arts named Sillig, who proved very helpful to me. He often permitted me to
visit him and show him my work, consisting of metric translations and a

few original poems, and he always seemed very pleased with my efforts in
recitation. What he thought of me may best be judged perhaps from the fact
that he made me, as a boy of about twelve, recite not only ‘Hector’s
Farewell’ from the Iliad, but even Hamlet’s celebrated monologue. On one
occasion, when I was in the fourth form of the school, one of my
schoolfellows, a boy named Starke, suddenly fell dead, and the tragic event
aroused so much sympathy, that not only did the whole school attend the
funeral, but the headmaster also ordered that a poem should be written in
commemoration of the ceremony, and that this poem should be published.
Of the various poems submitted, among which there was one by myself,
prepared very hurriedly, none seemed to the master worthy of the honour
which he had promised, and he therefore announced his intention of
substituting one of his own speeches in the place of our rejected attempts.
Much distressed by this decision, I quickly sought out Professor Sillig, with
the view of urging him to intervene on behalf of my poem. We thereupon
went through it together. Its well-constructed and well-rhymed verses,
written in stanzas of eight lines, determined him to revise the whole of it
carefully. Much of its imagery was bombastic, and far beyond the
conception of a boy of my age. I recollect that in one part I had drawn
extensively from the monologue in Addison’s Cato, spoken by Cato just
before his suicide. I had met with this passage in an English grammar, and it
had made a deep impression upon me. The words: ‘The stars shall fade
away, the sun himself grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,’ which,
at all events, were a direct plagiarism, made Sillig laugh—a thing at which I
was a little offended. However, I felt very grateful to him, for, thanks to the
care and rapidity with which he cleared my poem of these extravagances, it
was eventually accepted by the headmaster, printed, and widely circulated.
The effect of this success was extraordinary, both on my schoolfellows
and on my own family. My mother devoutly folded her hands in
thankfulness, and in my own mind my vocation seemed quite a settled
thing. It was clear, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that I was destined to
be a poet. Professor Sillig wished me to compose a grand epic, and
suggested as a subject ‘The Battle of Parnassus,’ as described by Pausanias.
His reasons for this choice were based upon the legend related by
Pausanias, viz., that in the second century B.C. the Muses from Parnassus
aided the combined Greek armies against the destructive invasion of the

Gauls by provoking a panic among the latter. I actually began my heroic
poem in hexameter verse, but could not get through the first canto.
Not being far enough advanced in the language to understand the Greek
tragedies thoroughly in the original, my own attempts to construct a tragedy
in the Greek form were greatly influenced by the fact that quite by accident
I came across August Apel’s clever imitation of this style in his striking
poems ‘Polyidos’ and ‘Aitolier.’ For my theme I selected the death of
Ulysses, from a fable of Hyginus, according to which the aged hero is killed
by his son, the offspring of his union with Calypso. But I did not get very
far with this work either, before I gave it up.
My mind became so bent upon this sort of thing, that duller studies
naturally ceased to interest me. The mythology, legends, and, at last, the
history of Greece alone attracted me.
I was fond of life, merry with my companions, and always ready for a
joke or an adventure. Moreover, I was constantly forming friendships,
almost passionate in their ardour, with one or the other of my comrades, and
in choosing my associates I was mainly influenced by the extent to which
my new acquaintance appealed to my eccentric imagination. At one time it
would be poetising and versifying that decided my choice of a friend; at
another, theatrical enterprises, while now and then it would be a longing for
rambling and mischief.
Furthermore, when I reached my thirteenth year, a great change came
over our family affairs. My sister Rosalie, who had become the chief
support of our household, obtained an advantageous engagement at the
theatre in Prague, whither mother and children removed in 1820, thus
giving up the Dresden home altogether. I was left behind in Dresden, so that
I might continue to attend the Kreuz Grammar School until I was ready to
go up to the university. I was therefore sent to board and lodge with a
family named Bohme, whose sons I had known at school, and in whose
house I already felt quite at home. With my residence in this somewhat
rough, poor, and not particularly well-conducted family, my years of
dissipation began. I no longer enjoyed the quiet retirement necessary for
work, nor the gentle, spiritual influence of my sisters’ companionship. On
the contrary, I was plunged into a busy, restless life, full of rough horseplay
and of quarrels. Nevertheless, it was there that I began to experience the
influence of the gentler sex in a manner hitherto unknown to me, as the

grown-up daughters of the family and their friends often filled the scanty
and narrow rooms of the house. Indeed, my first recollections of boyish
love date from this period. I remember a very beautiful young girl, whose
name, if I am not mistaken, was Amalie Hoffmann, coming to call at the
house one Sunday. She was charmingly dressed, and her appearance as she
came into the room literally struck me dumb with amazement. On other
occasions I recollect pretending to be too helplessly sleepy to move, so that
I might be carried up to bed by the girls, that being, as they thought, the
only remedy for my condition. And I repeated this, because I found, to my
surprise, that their attention under these circumstances brought me into
closer and more gratifying proximity with them.
The most important event during this year of separation from my family
was, however, a short visit I paid to them in Prague. In the middle of the
winter my mother came to Dresden, and took me hack with her to Prague
for a week. Her way of travelling was quite unique. To the end of her days
she preferred the more dangerous mode of travelling in a hackney carriage
to the quicker journey by mail-coach, so that we spent three whole days in
the bitter cold on the road from Dresden to Prague. The journey over the
Bohemian mountains often seemed to be beset with the greatest dangers,
but happily we survived our thrilling adventures and at last arrived in
Prague, where I was suddenly plunged into entirely new surroundings.
For a long time the thought of leaving Saxony on another visit to
Bohemia, and especially Prague, had had quite a romantic attraction for me.
The foreign nationality, the broken German of the people, the peculiar
headgear of the women, the native wines, the harp-girls and musicians, and
finally, the ever present signs of Catholicism, its numerous chapels and
shrines, all produced on me a strangely exhilarating impression. This was
probably due to my craze for everything theatrical and spectacular, as
distinguished from simple bourgeois customs. Above all, the antique
splendour and beauty of the incomparable city of Prague became indelibly
stamped on my fancy. Even in my own family surroundings I found
attractions to which I had hitherto been a stranger. For instance, my sister
Ottilie, only two years older than myself, had won the devoted friendship of
a noble family, that of Count Pachta, two of whose daughters, Jenny and
Auguste, who had long been famed as the leading beauties of Prague, had
become fondly attached to her. To me, such people and such a connection
were something quite novel and enchanting. Besides these, certain beaux

esprits of Prague, among them W. Marsano, a strikingly handsome and
charming man, were frequent visitors at our house. They often earnestly
discussed the tales of Hoffmann, which at that date were comparatively
new, and had created some sensation. It was now that I made my first
though rather superficial acquaintance with this romantic visionary, and so
received a stimulus which influenced me for many years even to the point
of infatuation, and gave me very peculiar ideas of the world.
In the following spring, 1827, I repeated this journey from Dresden to
Prague, but this time on foot, and accompanied by my friend Rudolf
Bohme. Our tour was full of adventure. We got to within an hour of Teplitz
the first night, and next day we had to get a lift in a wagon, as we had
walked our feet sore; yet this only took us as far as Lowositz, as our funds
had quite run out. Under a scorching sun, hungry and half-fainting, we
wandered along bypaths through absolutely unknown country, until at
sundown we happened to reach the main road just as an elegant travelling
coach came in sight. I humbled my pride so far as to pretend I was a
travelling journeyman, and begged the distinguished travellers for alms,
while my friend timidly hid himself in the ditch by the roadside. Luckily we
decided to seek shelter for the night in an inn, where we took counsel
whether we should spend the alms just received on a supper or a bed. We
decided for the supper, proposing to spend the night under the open sky.
While we were refreshing ourselves, a strange-looking wayfarer entered. He
wore a black velvet skull-cap, to which a metal lyre was attached like a
cockade, and on his back he bore a harp. Very cheerfully he set down his
instrument, made himself comfortable, and called for a good meal. He
intended to stay the night, and to continue his way next day to Prague,
where he lived, and whither he was returning from Hanover.
My good spirits and courage were stimulated by the jovial manners of
this merry fellow, who constantly repeated his favourite motto, ‘non plus
ultra.’ We soon struck up an acquaintance, and in return for my confidence,
the strolling player’s attitude to me was one of almost touching sympathy. It
was agreed that we should continue our journey together next day on foot.
He lent me two twenty-kreutzer pieces (about ninepence), and allowed me
to write my Prague address in his pocket-book. I was highly delighted at
this personal success. My harpist grew extravagantly merry; a good deal of
Czernosek wine was drunk; he sang and played on his harp like a madman,
continually reiterating his ‘non plus ultra’ till at last, overcome with wine,

he fell down on the straw, which had been spread out on the floor for our
common bed. When the sun once more peeped in, we could not rouse him,
and we had to make up our minds to set off in the freshness of the early
morning without him, feeling convinced that the sturdy fellow would
overtake us during the day. But it was in vain that we looked out for him on
the road and during our subsequent stay in Prague. Indeed, it was not until
several weeks later that the extraordinary fellow turned up at my mother’s,
not so much to collect payment of his loan, as to inquire about the welfare
of the young friend to whom that loan had been made.
The remainder of our journey was very fatiguing, and the joy I felt when
I at last beheld Prague from the summit of a hill, at about an hour’s
distance, simply beggars description. Approaching the suburbs, we were for
the second time met by a splendid carriage, from which my sister Ottilie’s
two lovely friends called out to me in astonishment. They had recognised
me immediately, in spite of my terribly sunburnt face, blue linen blouse,
and bright red cotton cap. Overwhelmed with shame, and with my heart
beating like mad, I could hardly utter a word, and hurried away to my
mother’s to attend at once to the restoration of my sunburnt complexion. To
this task I devoted two whole days, during which I swathed my face in
parsley poultices; and not till then did I seek the pleasures of society. When,
on the return journey, I looked back once more on Prague from the same
hilltop, I burst into tears, flung myself on the earth, and for a long time
could not be induced by my astonished companion to pursue the journey. I
was downcast for the rest of the way, and we arrived home in Dresden
without any further adventures.
During the same year I again gratified my fancy for long excursions on
foot by joining a numerous company of grammar school boys, consisting of
pupils of several classes and of various ages, who had decided to spend
their summer holidays in a tour to Leipzig. This journey also stands out
among the memories of my youth, by reason of the strong impressions it
left behind. The characteristic feature of our party was that we all aped the
student, by behaving and dressing extravagantly in the most approved
student fashion. After going as far as Meissen on the market-boat, our path
lay off the main road, through villages with which I was as yet unfamiliar.
We spent the night in the vast barn of a village inn, and our adventures were
of the wildest description. There we saw a large marionette show, with
almost life-sized figures. Our entire party settled themselves in the

auditorium, where their presence was a source of some anxiety to the
managers, who had only reckoned on an audience of peasants. Genovefa
was the play given. The ceaseless silly jests, and constant interpolations and
jeering interruptions, in which our corps of embryo-students indulged,
finally aroused the anger even of the peasants, who had come prepared to
weep. I believe I was the only one of our party who was pained by these
impertinences, and in spite of involuntary laughter at some of my
comrades’ jokes, I not only defended the play itself, but also its original,
simple-minded audience. A popular catch-phrase which occurred in the
piece has ever since remained stamped on my memory. ‘Golo’ instructs the
inevitable Kaspar that, when the Count Palatine returns home, he must
‘tickle him behind, so that he should feel it in front’ (hinten zu kitzeln, dass
er es vorne fuhle). Kaspar conveys Golo’s order verbatim to the Count, and
the latter reproaches the unmasked rogue in the following terms, uttered
with the greatest pathos: ‘O Golo, Golo! thou hast told Kaspar to tickle me
behind, so that I shall feel it in front!’
From Grimma our party rode into Leipzig in open carriages, but not until
we had first carefully removed all the outward emblems of the
undergraduate, lest the local students we were likely to meet might make us
rue our presumption.
Since my first visit, when I was eight years old, I had only once returned
to Leipzig, and then for a very brief stay, and under circumstances very
similar to those of the earlier visit. I now renewed my fantastic impressions
of the Thome house, but this time, owing to my more advanced education, I
looked forward to more intelligent intercourse with my uncle Adolph. An
opening for this was soon provided by my joyous astonishment on learning
that a bookcase in the large anteroom, containing a goodly collection of
books, was my property, having been left me by my father. I went through
the books with my uncle, selected at once a number of Latin authors in the
handsome Zweibruck edition, along with sundry attractive looking works of
poetry and belles-lettres, and arranged for them to be sent to Dresden.
During this visit I was very much interested in the life of the students. In
addition to my impressions of the theatre and of Prague, now came those of
the so-called swaggering undergraduate. A great change had taken place in
this class. When, as a lad of eight, I had my first glimpse of students, their
long hair, their old German costume with the black velvet skull-cap and the
shirt collar turned back from the bare neck, had quite taken my fancy. But

since that time the old student ‘associations’ which affected this fashion had
disappeared in the face of police prosecutions. On the other hand, the
national student clubs, no less peculiar to Germans, had become
conspicuous. These clubs adopted, more or less, the fashion of the day, but
with some little exaggeration. Albeit, their dress was clearly distinguishable
from that of other classes, owing to its picturesqueness, and especially its
display of the various club-colours. The ‘Comment,’ that compendium of
pedantic rules of conduct for the preservation of a defiant and exclusive
esprit de corps, as opposed to the bourgeois classes, had its fantastic side,
just as the most philistine peculiarities of the Germans have, if you probe
them deeply enough. To me it represented the idea of emancipation from
the yoke of school and family. The longing to become a student coincided
unfortunately with my growing dislike for drier studies and with my ever-
increasing fondness for cultivating romantic poetry. The results of this soon
showed themselves in my resolute attempts to make a change.
At the time of my confirmation, at Easter, 1827, I had considerable doubt
about this ceremony, and I already felt a serious falling off of my reverence
for religious observances. The boy who, not many years before, had gazed
with agonised sympathy on the altarpiece in the Kreuz Kirche (Church of
the Holy Cross), and had yearned with ecstatic fervour to hang upon the
Cross in place of the Saviour, had now so far lost his veneration for the
clergyman, whose preparatory confirmation classes he attended, as to be
quite ready to make fun of him, and even to join with his comrades in
withholding part of his class fees, and spending the money in sweets. How
matters stood with me spiritually was revealed to me, almost to my horror,
at the Communion service, when I walked in procession with my fellow-
communicants to the altar to the sound of organ and choir. The shudder with
which I received the Bread and Wine was so ineffaceably stamped on my
memory, that I never again partook of the Communion, lest I should do so
with levity. To avoid this was all the easier for me, seeing that among
Protestants such participation is not compulsory.
I soon, however, seized, or rather created, an opportunity of forcing a
breach with the Kreuz Grammar School, and thus compelled my family to
let me go to Leipzig. In self-defence against what I considered an unjust
punishment with which I was threatened by the assistant headmaster,
Baumgarten-Crusius, for whom I otherwise had great respect, I asked to be
discharged immediately from the school on the ground of sudden summons

to join my family in Leipzig. I had already left the Bohme household three
months before, and now lived alone in a small garret, where I was waited
on by the widow of a court plate-washer, who at every meal served up the
familiar thin Saxon coffee as almost my sole nourishment. In this attic I did
little else but write verses. Here, too, I formed the first outlines of that
stupendous tragedy which afterwards filled my family with such
consternation. The irregular habits I acquired through this premature
domestic independence induced my anxious mother to consent very readily
to my removal to Leipzig, the more so as a part of our scattered family had
already migrated there.
My longing for Leipzig, originally aroused by the fantastic impressions I
had gained there, and later by my enthusiasm for a student’s life, had
recently been still further stimulated. I had seen scarcely anything of my
sister Louisa, at that time a girl of about twenty-two, as she had gone to the
theatre of Breslau shortly after our stepfather’s death. Quite recently she
had been in Dresden for a few days on her way to Leipzig, having accepted
an engagement at the theatre there. This meeting with my almost unknown
sister, her hearty manifestations of joy at seeing me again, as well as her
sprightly, merry disposition, quite won my heart. To live with her seemed
an alluring prospect, especially as my mother and Ottilie had joined her for
a while. For the first time a sister had treated me with some tenderness.
When at last I reached Leipzig at Christmas in the same year (1827), and
there found my mother with Ottilie and Cecilia (my half-sister), I fancied
myself in heaven. Great changes, however, had already taken place. Louisa
was betrothed to a respected and well-to-do bookseller, Friedrich
Brockhaus. This gathering together of the relatives of the penniless bride-
elect did not seem to trouble her remarkably kind-hearted fiance. But my
sister may have become uneasy on the subject, for she soon gave me to
understand that she was not taking it quite in good part. Her desire to secure
an entree into the higher social circles of bourgeois life naturally produced a
marked change in her manner, at one time so full of fun, and of this I
gradually became so keenly sensible that finally we were estranged for a
time. Moreover, I unfortunately gave her good cause to reprove my
conduct. After I got to Leipzig I quite gave up my studies and all regular
school work, probably owing to the arbitrary and pedantic system in vogue
at the school there.

In Leipzig there were two higher-class schools, one called St. Thomas’s
School, and the other, and the more modern, St. Nicholas’s School. The
latter at that time enjoyed a better reputation than the former; so there I had
to go. But the council of teachers before whom I appeared for my entrance
examination at the New Year (1828) thought fit to maintain the dignity of
their school by placing me for a time in the upper third form, whereas at the
Kreuz Grammar School in Dresden I had been in the second form. My
disgust at having to lay aside my Homer—from which I had already made
written translations of twelve songs—and take up the lighter Greek prose
writers was indescribable. It hurt my feelings so deeply, and so influenced
my behaviour, that I never made a friend of any teacher in the school. The
unsympathetic treatment I met with made me all the more obstinate, and
various other circumstances in my position only added to this feeling. While
student life, as I saw it day by day, inspired me ever more and more with its
rebellious spirit, I unexpectedly met with another cause for despising the
dry monotony of school regime. I refer to the influence of my uncle, Adolph
Wagner, which, though he was long unconscious of it, went a long way
towards moulding the growing stripling that I then was.
The fact that my romantic tastes were not based solely on a tendency to
superficial amusement was shown by my ardent attachment to this learned
relative. In his manner and conversation he was certainly very attractive;
the many-sidedness of his knowledge, which embraced not only philology
but also philosophy and general poetic literature, rendered intercourse with
him a most entertaining pastime, as all those who knew him used to admit.
On the other hand, the fact that he was denied the gift of writing with equal
charm, or clearness, was a singular defect which seriously lessened his
influence upon the literary world, and, in fact, often made him appear
ridiculous, as in a written argument he would perpetrate the most pompous
and involved sentences. This weakness could not have alarmed me, because
in the hazy period of my youth the more incomprehensible any literary
extravagance was, the more I admired it; besides which, I had more
experience of his conversation than of his writings. He also seemed to find
pleasure in associating with the lad who could listen with so much heart and
soul. Yet unfortunately, possibly in the fervour of his discourses, of which
he was not a little proud, he forgot that their substance, as well as their
form, was far above my youthful powers of comprehension. I called daily to
accompany him on his constitutional walk beyond the city gates, and I

shrewdly suspect that we often provoked the smiles of those passers-by who
overheard the profound and often earnest discussions between us. The
subjects generally ranged over everything serious or sublime throughout the
whole realm of knowledge. I took the most enthusiastic interest in his
copious library, and tasted eagerly of almost all branches of literature,
without really grounding myself in any one of them.
My uncle was delighted to find in me a very willing listener to his recital
of classic tragedies. He had made a translation of Oedipus, and, according
to his intimate friend Tieck, justly flattered himself on being an excellent
reader.
I remember once, when he was sitting at his desk reading out a Greek
tragedy to me, it did not annoy him when I fell fast asleep, and he
afterwards pretended he had not noticed it. I was also induced to spend my
evenings with him, owing to the friendly and genial hospitality his wife
showed me. A very great change had come over my uncle’s life since my
first acquaintance with him at Jeannette Thome’s. The home which he,
together with his sister Friederike, had found in his friend’s house seemed,
as time went on, to have brought in its train duties that were irksome. As his
literary work assured him a modest income, he eventually deemed it more
in accordance with his dignity to make a home of his own. A friend of his,
of the same age as himself, the sister of the aesthete Wendt of Leipzig, who
afterwards became famous, was chosen by him to keep house for him.
Without saying a word to Jeannette, instead of going for his usual afternoon
walk he went to the church with his chosen bride, and got through the
marriage ceremonies as quickly as possible; and it was only on his return
that he informed us he was leaving, and would have his things removed that
very day. He managed to meet the consternation, perhaps also the
reproaches, of his elderly friend with quiet composure; and to the end of his
life he continued his regular daily visits to ‘Mam’selle Thome,’ who at
times would coyly pretend to sulk. It was only poor Friederike who seemed
obliged at times to atone for her brother’s sudden unfaithfulness.
What attracted me in my uncle most strongly was his blunt contempt of
the modern pedantry in State, Church, and School, to which he gave vent
with some humour. Despite the great moderation of his usual views on life,
he yet produced on me the effect of a thorough free-thinker. I was highly
delighted by his contempt for the pedantry of the schools. Once, when I had

come into serious conflict with all the teachers of the Nicolai School, and
the rector of the school had approached my uncle, as the only male
representative of my family, with a serious complaint about my behaviour,
my uncle asked me during a stroll round the town, with a calm smile as
though he were speaking to one of his own age, what I had been up to with
the people at school. I explained the whole affair to him, and described the
punishment to which I had been subjected, and which seemed to me unjust.
He pacified me, and exhorted me to be patient, telling me to comfort myself
with the Spanish proverb, un rey no puede morir, which he explained as
meaning that the ruler of a school must of necessity always be in the right.
He could not, of course, help noticing, to his alarm, the effect upon me of
this kind of conversation, which I was far too young to appreciate. Although
it annoyed me one day, when I wanted to begin reading Goethe’s Faust, to
hear him say quietly that I was too young to understand it, yet, according to
my thinking, his other conversations about our own great poets, and even
about Shakespeare and Dante, had made me so familiar with these sublime
figures that I had now for some time been secretly busy working out the
great tragedy I had already conceived in Dresden. Since my trouble at
school I had devoted all my energies, which ought by rights to have been
exclusively directed to my school duties, to the accomplishment of this task.
In this secret work I had only one confidante, my sister Ottilie, who now
lived with me at my mother’s. I can remember the misgivings and alarm
which the first confidential communication of my great poetic enterprise
aroused in my good sister; yet she affectionately suffered the tortures I
sometimes inflicted on her by reciting to her in secret, but not without
emotion, portions of my work as it progressed. Once, when I was reciting to
her one of the most gruesome scenes, a heavy thunderstorm came on. When
the lightning flashed quite close to us, and the thunder rolled, my sister felt
bound to implore me to stop; but she soon found it was hopeless, and
continued to endure it with touching devotion.
But a more significant storm was brewing on the horizon of my life. My
neglect of school reached such a point that it could not but lead to a rupture.
Whilst my dear mother had no presentiment of this, I awaited the
catastrophe with longing rather than with fear.
In order to meet this crisis with dignity I at length decided to surprise my
family by disclosing to them the secret of my tragedy, which was now

completed. They were to be informed of this great event by my uncle. I
thought I could rely upon his hearty recognition of my vocation as a great
poet on account of the deep harmony between us on all other questions of
life, science, and art. I therefore sent him my voluminous manuscript, with
a long letter which I thought would please him immensely. In this I
communicated to him first my ideas with regard to the St. Nicholas’s
School, and then my firm determination from that time forward not to allow
any mere school pedantry to check my free development. But the event
turned out very different from what I had expected. It was a great shock to
them. My uncle, quite conscious that he had been indiscreet, paid a visit to
my mother and brother-in-law, in order to report the misfortune that had
befallen the family, reproaching himself for the fact that his influence over
me had not always, perhaps, been for my good. To me he wrote a serious
letter of discouragement; and to this day I cannot understand why he
showed so small a sense of humour in understanding my bad behaviour. To
my surprise he merely said that he reproached himself for having corrupted
me by conversations unsuited to my years, but he made no attempt to
explain to me good-naturedly the error of my ways.
The crime this boy of fifteen had committed was, as I said before, to have
written a great tragedy, entitled Leubald und Adelaïde.
The manuscript of this drama has unfortunately been lost, but I can still
see it clearly in my mind’s eye. The handwriting was most affected, and the
backward-sloping tall letters with which I had aimed at giving it an air of
distinction had already been compared by one of my teachers to Persian
hieroglyphics. In this composition I had constructed a drama in which I had
drawn largely upon Shakespeare’s Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, and
Goethe’s Götz van Berlichingen. The plot was really based on a
modification of Hamlet, the difference consisting in the fact that my hero is
so completely carried away by the appearance of the ghost of his father,
who has been murdered under similar circumstances, and demands
vengeance, that he is driven to fearful deeds of violence; and, with a series
of murders on his conscience, he eventually goes mad. Leubald, whose
character is a mixture of Hamlet and Harry Hotspur, had promised his
father’s ghost to wipe from the face of the earth the whole race of Roderick,
as the ruthless murderer of the best of fathers was named. After having slain
Roderick himself in mortal combat, and subsequently all his sons and other
relations who supported him, there was only one obstacle that prevented

Leubald from fulfilling the dearest wish of his heart, which was to be united
in death with the shade of his father: a child of Roderick’s was still alive.
During the storming of his castle the murderer’s daughter had been carried
away into safety by a faithful suitor, whom she, however, detested. I had an
irresistible impulse to call this maiden ‘Adelaïde.’ As even at that early age
I was a great enthusiast for everything really German, I can only account
for the obviously un-German name of my heroine by my infatuation for
Beethoven’s Adelaïde, whose tender refrain seemed to me the symbol of all
loving appeals. The course of my drama was now characterised by the
strange delays which took place in the accomplishment of this last murder
of vengeance, the chief obstacle to which lay in the sudden passionate love
which arose between Leubald and Adelaïde. I succeeded in representing the
birth and avowal of this love by means of extraordinary adventures.
Adelaïde was once more stolen away by a robber-knight from the lover who
had been sheltering her. After Leubald had thereupon sacrificed the lover
and all his relations, he hastened to the robber’s castle, driven thither less by
a thirst for blood than by a longing for death. For this reason he regrets his
inability to storm the robber’s castle forthwith, because it is well defended,
and, moreover, night is fast falling; he is therefore obliged to pitch his tent.
After raving for a while he sinks down for the first time exhausted, but
being urged, like his prototype Hamlet, by the spirit of his father to
complete his vow of vengeance, he himself suddenly falls into the power of
the enemy during a night assault. In the subterranean dungeons of the castle
he meets Roderick’s daughter for the first time. She is a prisoner like
himself, and is craftily devising flight. Under circumstances in which she
produces on him the impression of a heavenly vision, she makes her
appearance before him. They fall in love, and fly together into the
wilderness, where they realise that they are deadly enemies. The incipient
insanity which was already noticeable in Leubald breaks out more violently
after this discovery, and everything that can be done to intensify it is
contributed by the ghost of his father, which continually comes between the
advances of the lovers. But this ghost is not the only disturber of the
conciliating love of Leubald and Adelaïde. The ghost of Roderick also
appears, and according to the method followed by Shakespeare in Richard
III., he is joined by the ghosts of all the other members of Adelaïde’s family
whom Leubald has slain. From the incessant importunities of these ghosts
Leubald seeks to free himself by means of sorcery, and calls to his aid a

rascal named Flamming. One of Macbeth’s witches is summoned to lay the
ghosts; as she is unable to do this efficiently, the furious Leubald sends her
also to the devil; but with her dying breath she despatches the whole crowd
of spirits who serve her to join the ghosts of those already pursuing him.
Leubald, tormented beyond endurance, and now at last raving mad, turns
against his beloved, who is the apparent cause of all his misery. He stabs
her in his fury; then finding himself suddenly at peace, he sinks his head
into her lap, and accepts her last caresses as her life-blood streams over his
own dying body.
I had not omitted the smallest detail that could give this plot its proper
colouring, and had drawn on all my knowledge of the tales of the old
knights, and my acquaintance with Lear and Macbeth, to furnish my drama
with the most vivid situations. But one of the chief characteristics of its
poetical form I took from the pathetic, humorous, and powerful language of
Shakespeare. The boldness of my grandiloquent and bombastic expressions
roused my uncle Adolph’s alarm and astonishment. He was unable to
understand how I could have selected and used with inconceivable
exaggeration precisely the most extravagant forms of speech to be found in
Lear and Götz von Berlichingen. Nevertheless, even after everybody had
deafened me with their laments over my lost time and perverted talents, I
was still conscious of a wonderful secret solace in the face of the calamity
that had befallen me. I knew, a fact that no one else could know, namely,
that my work could only be rightly judged when set to the music which I
had resolved to write for it, and which I intended to start composing
immediately.
I must now explain my position with respect to music hitherto. For this
purpose I must go back to my earliest attempts in the art. In my family two
of my sisters were musical; the elder one, Rosalie, played the piano,
without, however, displaying any marked talent. Clara was more gifted; in
addition to a great deal of musical feeling, and a fine rich touch on the
piano, she possessed a particularly sympathetic voice, the development of
which was so premature and remarkable that, under the tuition of Mieksch,
her singing master, who was famous at that time, she was apparently ready
for the role of a prima donna as early as her sixteenth year, and made her
debut at Dresden in Italian opera as ‘Cenerentola’ in Rossini’s opera of that
name. Incidentally I may remark that this premature development proved
injurious to Clara’s voice, and was detrimental to her whole career. As I

have said, music was represented in our family by these two sisters. It was
chiefly owing to Clara’s career that the musical conductor C. M. von Weber
often came to our house. His visits were varied by those of the great male-
soprano Sassaroli; and in addition to these two representatives of German
and Italian music, we also had the company of Mieksch, her singing master.
It was on these occasions that I as a child first heard German and Italian
music discussed, and learnt that any one who wished to ingratiate himself
with the Court must show a preference for Italian music, a fact which led to
very practical results in our family council. Clara’s talent, while her voice
was still sound, was the object of competition between the representatives
of Italian and German opera. I can remember quite distinctly that from the
very beginning I declared myself in favour of German opera; my choice
was determined by the tremendous impression made on me by the two
figures of Sassaroli and Weber. The Italian male-soprano, a huge pot-bellied
giant, horrified me with his high effeminate voice, his astonishing
volubility, and his incessant screeching laughter. In spite of his boundless
good-nature and amiability, particularly to my family, I took an uncanny
dislike to him. On account of this dreadful person, the sound of Italian,
either spoken or sung, seemed to my ears almost diabolical; and when, in
consequence of my poor sister’s misfortune, I heard them often talking
about Italian intrigues and cabals, I conceived so strong a dislike for
everything connected with this nation that even in much later years I used to
feel myself carried away by an impulse of utter detestation and abhorrence.
The less frequent visits of Weber, on the other hand, seemed to have
produced upon me those first sympathetic impressions which I have never
since lost. In contrast to Sassaroli’s repulsive figure, Weber’s really refined,
delicate, and intellectual appearance excited my ecstatic admiration. His
narrow face and finely-cut features, his vivacious though often half-closed
eyes, captivated and thrilled me; whilst even the bad limp with which he
walked, and which I often noticed from our windows when the master was
making his way home past our house from the fatiguing rehearsals, stamped
the great musician in my imagination as an exceptional and almost
superhuman being. When, as a boy of nine, my mother introduced me to
him, and he asked me what I was going to be, whether I wanted perhaps to
be a musician, my mother told him that, though I was indeed quite mad on
Freischutz, yet she had as yet seen nothing in me which indicated any
musical talent.

This showed correct observation on my mother’s part; nothing had made
so great an impression on me as the music of Freischutz, and I tried in every
possible way to procure a repetition of the impressions I had received from
it, but, strange to say, least of all by the study of music itself. Instead of this,
I contented myself with hearing bits from Freischutz played by my sisters.
Yet my passion for it gradually grew so strong that I can remember taking a
particular fancy for a young man called Spiess, chiefly because he could
play the overture to Freischutz, which I used to ask him to do whenever I
met him. It was chiefly the introduction to this overture which at last led me
to attempt, without ever having received any instruction on the piano, to
play this piece in my own peculiar way, for, oddly enough, I was the only
child in our family who had not been given music lessons. This was
probably due to my mother’s anxiety to keep me away from any artistic
interests of this kind in case they might arouse in me a longing for the
theatre.
When I was about twelve years old, however, my mother engaged a tutor
for me named Humann, from whom I received regular music lessons,
though only of a very mediocre description. As soon as I had acquired a
very imperfect knowledge of fingering I begged to be allowed to play
overtures in the form of duets, always keeping Weber as the goal of my
ambition. When at length I had got so far as to be able to play the overture
to Freischutz myself, though in a very faulty manner, I felt the object of my
study had been attained, and I had no inclination to devote any further
attention to perfecting my technique.
Yet I had attained this much: I was no longer dependent for music on the
playing of others; from this time forth I used to try and play, albeit very
imperfectly, everything I wanted to know. I also tried Mozart’s Don Juan,
but was unable to get any pleasure out of it, mainly because the Italian text
in the arrangement for the piano placed the music in a frivolous light in my
eyes, and much in it seemed to me trivial and unmanly. (I can remember
that when my sister used to sing Zerlinen’s ariette, Batti, batti, ben Masetto,
the music repelled me, as it seemed so mawkish and effeminate.)
On the other hand, my bent for music grew stronger and stronger, and I
now tried to possess myself of my favourite pieces by making my own
copies. I can remember the hesitation with which my mother for the first

time gave me the money to buy the scored paper on which I copied out
Weber’s Lutzow’s Jagd, which was the first piece of music I transcribed.
Music was still a secondary occupation with me when the news of
Weber’s death and the longing to learn his music to Oberon fanned my
enthusiasm into flame again. This received fresh impetus from the
afternoon concerts in the Grosser Garten at Dresden, where I often heard
my favourite music played by Zillmann’s Town Band, as I thought,
exceedingly well. The mysterious joy I felt in hearing an orchestra play
quite close to me still remains one of my most pleasant memories. The mere
tuning up of the instruments put me in a state of mystic excitement; even
the striking of fifths on the violin seemed to me like a greeting from the
spirit world—which, I may mention incidentally, had a very real meaning
for me. When I was still almost a baby, the sound of these fifths, which has
always excited me, was closely associated in my mind with ghosts and
spirits. I remember that even much later in life I could never pass the small
palace of Prince Anthony, at the end of the Ostra Allee in Dresden, without
a shudder; for it was there I had first heard the sound of a violin, a very
common experience to me afterwards. It was close by me, and seemed to
my ears to come from the stone figures with which this palace is adorned,
some of which are provided with musical instruments. When I took up my
post as musical conductor at Dresden, and had to pay my official visit to
Morgenroth, the President of the Concert Committee, an elderly gentleman
who lived for many years opposite that princely palace, it seemed odd to
find that the player of fifths who had so strongly impressed my musical
fancy as a boy was anything but a supernatural spectre. And when I saw the
well-known picture in which a skeleton plays on his violin to an old man on
his deathbed, the ghostly character of those very notes impressed itself with
particular force upon my childish imagination. When at last, as a young
man, I used to listen to the Zillmann Orchestra in the Grosser Garten almost
every afternoon, one may imagine the rapturous thrill with which I drew in
all the chaotic variety of sound that I heard as the orchestra tuned up: the
long drawn A of the oboe, which seemed like a call from the dead to rouse
the other instruments, never failed to raise all my nerves to a feverish pitch
of tension, and when the swelling C in the overture to Freischutz told me
that I had stepped, as it were with both feet, right into the magic realm of
awe. Any one who had been watching me at that moment could hardly have

failed to see the state I was in, and this in spite of the fact that I was such a
bad performer on the piano.
Another work also exercised a great fascination over me, namely, the
overture to Fidelio in E major, the introduction to which affected me deeply.
I asked my sisters about Beethoven, and learned that the news of his death
had just arrived. Obsessed as I still was by the terrible grief caused by
Weber’s death, this fresh loss, due to the decease of this great master of
melody, who had only just entered my life, filled me with strange anguish, a
feeling nearly akin to my childish dread of the ghostly fifths on the violin. It
was now Beethoven’s music that I longed to know more thoroughly; I came
to Leipzig, and found his music to Egmont on the piano at my sister
Louisa’s. After that I tried to get hold of his sonatas. At last, at a concert at
the Gewandthaus, I heard one of the master’s symphonies for the first time;
it was the Symphony in A major. The effect on me was indescribable. To
this must be added the impression produced on me by Beethoven’s features,
which I saw in the lithographs that were circulated everywhere at that time,
and by the fact that he was deaf, and lived a quiet secluded life. I soon
conceived an image of him in my mind as a sublime and unique
supernatural being, with whom none could compare. This image was
associated in my brain with that of Shakespeare; in ecstatic dreams I met
both of them, saw and spoke to them, and on awakening found myself
bathed in tears.
It was at this time that I came across Mozart’s Requiem, which formed
the starting-point of my enthusiastic absorption in the works of that master.
His second finale to Don Juan inspired me to include him in my spirit
world.
I was now filled with a desire to compose, as I had before been to write
verse. I had, however, in this case to master the technique of an entirely
separate and complicated subject. This presented greater difficulties than I
had met with in writing verse, which came to me fairly easily. It was these
difficulties that drove me to adopt a career which bore some resemblance to
that of a professional musician, whose future distinction would be to win
the titles of Conductor and Writer of Opera.
I now wanted to set Leubald und Adelaïde to music, similar to that which
Beethoven wrote to Goethe’s Egmont; the various ghosts from the spirit
world, who were each to display different characteristics, were to borrow

their own distinctive colouring from appropriate musical accompaniment.
In order to acquire the necessary technique of composition quickly I studied
Logier’s Methode des Generalbasses, a work which was specially
recommended to me at a musical lending library as a suitable text-book
from which this art might be easily mastered. I have distinct recollections
that the financial difficulties with which I was continually harassed
throughout my life began at this time. I borrowed Logier’s book on the
weekly payment system, in the fond hope of having to pay for it only during
a few weeks out of the savings of my weekly pocket-money. But the weeks
ran on into months, and I was still unable to compose as well as I wished.
Mr. Frederick Wieck, whose daughter afterwards married Robert
Schumann, was at that time the proprietor of that lending library. He kept
sending me troublesome reminders of the debt I owed him; and when my
bill had almost reached the price of Logier’s book I had to make a clean
breast of the matter to my family, who thus not only learnt of my financial
difficulties in general, but also of my latest transgression into the domain of
music, from which, of course, at the very most, they expected nothing better
than a repetition of Leubald und Adelaïde.
There was great consternation at home; my mother, sister, and brother-in-
law, with anxious faces, discussed how my studies should be superintended
in future, to prevent my having any further opportunity for transgressing in
this way. No one, however, yet knew the real state of affairs at school, and
they hoped I would soon see the error of my ways in this case as I had in
my former craze for poetry.
But other domestic changes were taking place which necessitated my
being for some little time alone in our house at Leipzig during the summer
of 1829, when I was left entirely to my own devices. It was during this
period that my passion for music rose to an extraordinary degree. I had
secretly been taking lessons in harmony from G. Muller, afterwards organist
at Altenburg, an excellent musician belonging to the Leipzig orchestra.
Although the payment of these lessons was also destined to get me into hot
water at home later on, I could not even make up to my teacher for the
delay in the payment of his fees by giving him the pleasure of watching me
improve in my studies. His teaching and exercises soon filled me with the
greatest disgust, as to my mind it all seemed so dry. For me music was a
spirit, a noble and mystic monster, and any attempt to regulate it seemed to
lower it in my eyes. I gathered much more congenial instruction about it

from Hoffmann’s Phantasiestucken than from my Leipzig orchestra player;
and now came the time when I really lived and breathed in Hoffmann’s
artistic atmosphere of ghosts and spirits. With my head quite full of
Kreissler, Krespel, and other musical spectres from my favourite author, I
imagined that I had at last found in real life a creature who resembled them:
this ideal musician in whom for a time I fancied I had discovered a second
Kreissler was a man called Flachs. He was a tall, exceedingly thin man,
with a very narrow head and an extraordinary way of walking, moving, and
speaking, whom I had seen at all those open-air concerts which formed my
principal source of musical education. He was always with the members of
the orchestra, speaking exceedingly quickly, first to one and then the other;
for they all knew him, and seemed to like him. The fact that they were
making fun of him I only learned, to my great confusion, much later. I
remember having noticed this strange figure from my earliest days in
Dresden, and I gathered from the conversations which I overheard that he
was indeed well known to all Dresden musicians. This circumstance alone
was sufficient to make me take a great interest in him; but the point about
him which attracted me more than anything was the manner in which he
listened to the various items in the programme: he used to give peculiar,
convulsive nods of his head, and blow out his cheeks as though with sighs.
All this I regarded as a sign of spiritual ecstasy. I noticed, moreover, that he
was quite alone, that he belonged to no party, and paid no attention to
anything in the garden save the music; whereupon my identification of this
curious being with the conductor Kreissler seemed quite natural. I was
determined to make his acquaintance, and I succeeded in doing so. Who
shall describe my delight when, on going to call on him at his rooms for the
first time, I found innumerable bundles of scores! I had as yet never seen a
score. It is true I discovered, to my regret, that he possessed nothing either
by Beethoven, Mozart, or Weber; in fact, nothing but immense quantities of
works, masses, and cantatas by composers such as Staerkel, Stamitz,
Steibelt, etc., all of whom were entirely unknown to me. Yet Flachs was
able to tell me so much that was good about them that the respect which I
felt for scores in general helped me to overcome my regret at not finding
anything by my beloved masters. It is true I learnt later that poor Flachs had
only come into the possession of these particular scores through
unscrupulous dealers, who had traded on his weakness of intellect and
palmed off this worthless music on him for large sums of money. At all

events, they were scores, and that was quite enough for me. Flachs and I
became most intimate; we were always seen going about together—I, a
lanky boy of sixteen, and this weird, shaky flaxpole. The doors of my
deserted home were often opened for this strange guest, who made me play
my compositions to him while he ate bread and cheese. In return, he once
arranged one of my airs for wind instruments, and, to my astonishment, it
was actually accepted and played by the band in Kintschy’s Swiss Chalet.
That this man had not the smallest capacity to teach me anything never once
occurred to me; I was so firmly convinced of his originality that there was
no need for him to prove it further than by listening patiently to my
enthusiastic outpourings. But as, in course of time, several of his own
friends joined us, I could not help noticing that the worthy Flachs was
regarded by them all as a half-witted fool. At first this merely pained me,
but a strange incident unexpectedly occurred which converted me to the
general opinion about him. Flachs was a man of some means, and had fallen
into the toils of a young lady of dubious character who he believed was
deeply in love with him. One day, without warning, I found his house
closed to me, and discovered, to my astonishment, that jealousy was the
cause. The unexpected discovery of this liaison, which was my first
experience of such a case, filled me with a strange horror. My friend
suddenly appeared to me even more mad than he really was. I felt so
ashamed of my persistent blindness that for some time to come I never went
to any of the garden concerts for fear I should meet my sham Kreissler.
By this time I had composed my first Sonata in D minor. I had also begun
a pastoral play, and had worked it out in what I felt sure must be an entirely
unprecedented way.
I chose Goethe’s Laune der Verliebten as a model for the form and plot of
my work. I scarcely even drafted out the libretto, however, but worked it
out at the same time as the music and orchestration, so that, while I was
writing out one page of the score, I had not even thought out the words for
the next page. I remember distinctly that following this extraordinary
method, although I had not acquired the slightest knowledge about writing
for instruments, I actually worked out a fairly long passage which finally
resolved itself into a scene for three female voices followed by the air for
the tenor. My bent for writing for the orchestra was so strong that I procured
a score of Don Juan, and set to work on what I then considered a very
careful orchestration of a fairly long air for soprano. I also wrote a quartette

in D major after I had myself sufficiently mastered the alto for the viola, my
ignorance of which had caused me great difficulty only a short time before,
when I was studying a quartette by Haydn.
Armed with these works, I set out in the summer on my first journey as a
musician. My sister Clara, who was married to the singer Wolfram, had an
engagement at the theatre at Magdeburg, whither, in characteristic fashion, I
set forth upon my adventure on foot.
My short stay with my relations provided me with many experiences of
musical life. It was there that I met a new freak, whose influence upon me I
have never been able to forget. He was a musical conductor of the name of
Kuhnlein, a most extraordinary person. Already advanced in years, delicate
and, unfortunately, given to drink, this man nevertheless impressed one by
something striking and vigorous in his expression. His chief characteristics
were an enthusiastic worship of Mozart and a passionate depreciation of
Weber. He had read only one book—Goethe’s Faust—and in this work there
was not a page in which he had not underlined some passage, and made
some remark in praise of Mozart or in disparagement of Weber. It was to
this man that my brother-in-law confided the compositions which I had
brought with me in order to learn his opinion of my abilities. One evening,
as we were sitting comfortably in an inn, old Kuhnlein came in, and
approached us with a friendly, though serious manner.
I thought I read good news in his features, but when my brother-in-law
asked him what he thought of my work, he answered quietly and calmly,
‘There is not a single good note in it!’ My brother-in-law, who was
accustomed to Kuhnlein’s eccentricity, gave a loud laugh which reassured
me somewhat. It was impossible to get any advice or coherent reasons for
his opinion out of Kuhnlein; he merely renewed his abuse of Weber and
made some references to Mozart which, nevertheless, made a deep
impression upon me, as Kuhnlein’s language was always very heated and
emphatic.
On the other hand, this visit brought me a great treasure, which was
responsible for leading me in a very different direction from that advised by
Kuhnlein. This was the score of Beethoven’s great Quartette in E flat major,
which had only been fairly recently published, and of which my brother-in-
law had a copy made for me. Richer in experience, and in the possession of
this treasure, I returned to Leipzig to the nursery of my queer musical

studies. But my family had now returned with my sister Rosalie, and I could
no longer keep secret from them the fact that my connection with the school
had been entirely suspended, for a notice was found saying that I had not
attended the school for the last six months. As a complaint addressed by the
rector to my uncle about me had not received adequate attention, the school
authorities had apparently made no further attempts to exercise any
supervision over me, which I had indeed rendered quite impossible by
absenting myself altogether.
A fresh council of war was held in the family to discuss what was to be
done with me. As I laid particular stress on my bent for music, my relations
thought that I ought, at any rate, to learn one instrument thoroughly. My
brother-in-law, Brockhaus, proposed to send me to Hummel, at Weimar, to
be trained as a pianist, but as I loudly protested that by ‘music’ I meant
‘composing,’ and not ‘playing an instrument,’ they gave way, and decided
to let me have regular lessons in harmony from Muller, the very musician
from whom I had had instruction on the sly some little while before, and
who had not yet been paid. In return for this I promised faithfully to go
back to work conscientiously at St. Nicholas’s School. I soon grew tired of
both. I could brook no control, and this unfortunately applied to my musical
instruction as well. The dry study of harmony disgusted me more and more,
though I continued to conceive fantasias, sonatas, and overtures, and work
them out by myself. On the other hand, I was spurred on by ambition to
show what I could do at school if I liked. When the Upper School boys
were set the task of writing a poem, I composed a chorus in Greek, on the
recent War of Liberation. I can well imagine that this Greek poem had about
as much resemblance to a real Greek oration and poetry, as the sonatas and
overtures I used to compose at that time had to thoroughly professional
music. My attempt was scornfully rejected as a piece of impudence. After
that I have no further recollections of my school. My continued attendance
was a pure sacrifice on my side, made out of consideration for my family: I
did not pay the slightest attention to what was taught in the lessons, but
secretly occupied myself all the while with reading any book that happened
to attract me.
As my musical instruction also did me no good, I continued in my wilful
process of self-education by copying out the scores of my beloved masters,
and in so doing acquired a neat handwriting, which in later years has often

been admired. I believe my copies of the C minor Symphony and the Ninth
Symphony by Beethoven are still preserved as souvenirs.
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony became the mystical goal of all my strange
thoughts and desires about music. I was first attracted to it by the opinion
prevalent among musicians, not only in Leipzig but elsewhere, that this
work had been written by Beethoven when he was already half mad. It was
considered the ‘non plus ultra’ of all that was fantastic and
incomprehensible, and this was quite enough to rouse in me a passionate
desire to study this mysterious work. At the very first glance at the score, of
which I obtained possession with such difficulty, I felt irresistibly attracted
by the long-sustained pure fifths with which the first phrase opens: these
chords, which, as I related above, had played such a supernatural part in my
childish impressions of music, seemed in this case to form the spiritual
keynote of my own life. This, I thought, must surely contain the secret of all
secrets, and accordingly the first thing to be done was to make the score my
own by a process of laborious copying. I well remember that on one
occasion the sudden appearance of the dawn made such an uncanny
impression on my excited nerves that I jumped into bed with a scream as
though I had seen a ghost. The symphony at that time had not yet been
arranged for the piano; it had found so little favour that the publisher did
not feel inclined to run the risk of producing it. I set to work at it, and
actually composed a complete piano solo, which I tried to play to myself. I
sent my work to Schott, the publisher of the score, at Mainz. I received in
reply a letter saying ‘that the publishers had not yet decided to issue the
Ninth Symphony for the piano, but that they would gladly keep my
laborious work,’ and offered me remuneration in the shape of the score of
the great Missa Solemnis in D, which I accepted with great pleasure.
In addition to this work I practised the violin for some time, as my
harmony master very rightly considered that some knowledge of the
practical working of this instrument was indispensable for any one who had
the intention of composing for the orchestra. My mother, indeed, paid the
violinist Sipp (who was still playing in the Leipzig orchestra in 1865) eight
thalers for a violin (I do not know what became of it), with which for quite
three months I must have inflicted unutterable torture upon my mother and
sister by practising in my tiny little room. I got so far as to play certain
Variations in F sharp by Mayseder, but only reached the second or third.
After that I have no further recollections of this practising, in which my

family fortunately had very good reasons of their own for not encouraging
me.
But the time now arrived when my interest in the theatre again took a
passionate hold upon me. A new company had been formed in my
birthplace under very good auspices. The Board of Management of the
Court Theatre at Dresden had taken over the management of the Leipzig
theatre for three years. My sister Rosalie was a member of the company,
and through her I could always gain admittance to the performances; and
that which in my childhood had been merely the interest aroused by a
strange spirit of curiosity now became a more deep-seated and conscious
passion.
Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Hamlet, the plays of Schiller, and to crown all,
Goethe’s Faust, excited and stirred me deeply. The Opera was giving the
first performances of Marschner’s Vampir and Templer und Judin. The
Italian company arrived from Dresden, and fascinated the Leipzig audience
by their consummate mastery of their art. Even I was almost carried away
by the enthusiasm with which the town was over-whelmed, into forgetting
the boyish impressions which Signor Sassaroli had stamped upon my mind,
when another miracle—which also came to us from Dresden—suddenly
gave a new direction to my artistic feelings and exercised a decisive
influence over my whole life. This consisted of a special performance given
by Wilhelmine Schroder-Devrient, who at that time was at the zenith of her
artistic career, young, beautiful, and ardent, and whose like I have never
again seen on the stage. She made her appearance in Fidelio.
If I look back on my life as a whole, I can find no event that produced so
profound an impression upon me. Any one who can remember that
wonderful woman at this period of her life must to some extent have
experienced the almost Satanic ardour which the intensely human art of this
incomparable actress poured into his veins. After the performance I rushed
to a friend’s house and wrote a short note to the singer, in which I briefly
told her that from that moment my life had acquired its true significance,
and that if in days to come she should ever hear my name praised in the
world of Art, she must remember that she had that evening made me what I
then swore it was my destiny to become. This note I left at her hotel, and
ran out into the night as if I were mad. In the year 1842, when I went to
Dresden to make my debut with Rienzi, I paid several visits to the kind-

hearted singer, who startled me on one occasion by repeating this letter
word for word. It seemed to have made an impression on her too, as she had
actually kept it.
At this point I feel myself obliged to acknowledge that the great
confusion which now began to prevail in my life, and particularly in my
studies, was due to the inordinate effect this artistic interpretation had upon
me. I did not know where to turn, or how to set about producing something
myself which might place me in direct contact with the impression I had
received, while everything that could not be brought into touch with it
seemed to me so shallow and meaningless that I could not possibly trouble
myself with it. I should have liked to compose a work worthy of a
Schroder-Devrient; but as this was quite beyond my power, in my head-
long despair I let all artistic endeavour slide, and as my work was also
utterly insufficient to absorb me, I flung myself recklessly into the life of
the moment in the company of strangely chosen associates, and indulged in
all kinds of youthful excesses.
I now entered into all the dissipations of raw manhood, the outward
ugliness and inward emptiness of which make me marvel to this day. My
intercourse with those of my own age had always been the result of pure
chance. I cannot remember that any special inclination or attraction
determined me in the choice of my young friends. While I can honestly say
that I was never in a position to stand aloof out of envy from any one who
was specially gifted, I can only explain my indifference in the choice of my
associates by the fact that through inexperience regarding the sort of
companionship that would be of advantage to me, I cared only to have some
one who would accompany me in my excursions, and to whom I could pour
out my feelings to my heart’s content without caring what effect it might
have upon him. The result of this was that after a stream of confidences to
which my own excitement was the only response, I at length reached the
point when I turned and looked at my friend; to my astonishment I
generally found that there was no question of response at all, and as soon as
I set my heart on drawing something from him in return, and urged him to
confide in me, when he really had nothing to tell, the connection usually
came to an end and left no trace on my life. In a certain sense my strange
relationship with Flachs was typical of the great majority of my ties in after-
life. Consequently, as no lasting personal bond of friendship ever found its
way into my life, it is easy to understand how delight in the dissipations of

student life could become a passion of some duration, because in it
individual intercourse is entirely replaced by a common circle of
acquaintances. In the midst of rowdyism and ragging of the most foolish
description, I remained quite alone, and it is quite possible that these
frivolities formed a protecting hedge round my inmost soul, which needed
time to grow to its natural strength and not be weakened by reaching
maturity too soon.
My life seemed to break up in all directions; I had to leave St. Nicholas’s
School at Easter 1830, as I was too deeply in disgrace with the staff of
masters ever to hope for any promotion in the University from that quarter.
It was now determined that I should study privately for six months and then
go to St. Thomas’s School, where I should be in fresh surroundings and be
able to work up and qualify in a short time for the University. My uncle
Adolph, with whom I was constantly renewing my friendship, and who also
encouraged me about my music and exercised a good influence over me in
that respect, in spite of the utter degradation of my life at that time, kept
arousing in me an ever fresh desire for scientific studies. I took private
lessons in Greek from a scholar, and read Sophocles with him. For a time I
hoped this noble poet would again inspire me to get a real hold on the
language, but the hope was vain. I had not chosen the right teacher, and,
moreover, his sitting-room in which we pursued our studies looked out on a
tanyard, the repulsive odour of which affected my nerves so strongly that I
became thoroughly disgusted both with Sophocles and Greek. My brother-
in-law, Brockhaus, who wanted to put me in the way of earning some
pocket-money, gave me the correcting of the proof-sheets of a new edition
he was bringing out of Becker’s Universal History, revised by Lobell. This
gave me a reason for improving by private study the superficial general
instruction on every subject which is given at school, and I thus acquired
the valuable knowledge which I was destined to have in later life of most of
the branches of learning so uninterestingly taught in class. I must not forget
to mention that, to a certain extent, the attraction exercised over me by this
first closer study of history was due to the fact that it brought me in
eightpence a sheet, and I thus found myself in one of the rarest positions in
my life, actually earning money; yet I should be doing myself an injustice if
I did not bear in mind the vivid impressions I now for the first time received
upon turning my serious attention to those periods of history with which I
had hitherto had a very superficial acquaintance. All I recollect about my

school days in this connection is that I was attracted by the classical period
of Greek history; Marathon, Salamis, and Thermopylae composed the
canon of all that interested me in the subject. Now for the first time I made
an intimate acquaintance with the Middle Ages and the French Revolution,
as my work in correcting dealt precisely with the two volumes which
contained these two periods. I remember in particular that the description of
the Revolution filled me with sincere hatred for its heroes; unfamiliar as I
was with the previous history of France, my human sympathy was horrified
by the cruelty of the men of that day, and this purely human impulse
remained so strong in me that I remember how even quite recently it cost
me a real struggle to give any weight to the true political significance of
those acts of violence.
How great, then, was my astonishment when one day the current political
events of the time enabled me, as it were, to gain a personal experience of
the sort of national upheavals with which I had come into distant contact in
the course of my proof-correcting. The special editions of the Leipzig
Gazette brought us the news of the July Revolution in Paris. The King of
France had been driven from his throne; Lafayette, who a moment before
had seemed a myth to me, was again riding through a cheering crowd in the
streets of Paris; the Swiss Guards had once more been butchered in the
Tuileries, and a new King knew no better way of commending himself to
the populace than by declaring himself the embodiment of the Republic.
Suddenly to become conscious of living at a time in which such things took
place could not fail to have a startling effect on a boy of seventeen. The
world as a historic phenomenon began from that day in my eyes, and
naturally my sympathies were wholly on the side of the Revolution, which I
regarded in the light of a heroic popular struggle crowned with victory, and
free from the blemish of the terrible excesses that stained the first French
Revolution. As the whole of Europe, including some of the German states,
was soon plunged more or less violently into rebellion, I remained for some
time in a feverish state of suspense, and now first turned my attention to the
causes of these upheavals, which I regarded as struggles of the young and
hopeful against the old and effete portion of mankind. Saxony also did not
remain unscathed; in Dresden it came to actual fighting in the streets, which
immediately produced a political change in the shape of the proclamation of
the regency of the future King Frederick, and the granting of a constitution.
This event filled me with such enthusiasm that I composed a political

overture, the prelude of which depicted dark oppression in the midst of
which a strain was at last heard under which, to make my meaning clearer, I
wrote the words Friedrich und Freiheil; this strain was intended to develop
gradually and majestically into the fullest triumph, which I hoped shortly to
see successfully performed at one of the Leipzig Garden Concerts.
However, before I was able to develop my politico-musical conceptions
further, disorders broke out in Leipzig itself which summoned me from the
precincts of Art to take a direct share in national life. National life in
Leipzig at this time meant nothing more than antagonism between the
students and the police, the latter being the arch-enemy upon whom the
youthful love of liberty vented itself. Some students had been arrested in a
street broil who were now to be rescued. The under-graduates, who had
been restless for some days, assembled one evening in the Market Place and
the Clubs, mustered together, and made a ring round their leaders. The
whole proceeding was marked by a certain measured solemnity, which
impressed me deeply. They sang Gaudeamus igitur, formed up into column,
and picking up from the crowd any young men who sympathised with them,
marched gravely and resolutely from the Market Place to the University
buildings, to open the cells and set free the students who had been arrested.
My heart beat fast as I marched with them to this ‘Taking of the Bastille,’
but things did not turn out as we expected, for in the courtyard of the
Paulinum the solemn procession was stopped by Rector Krug, who had
come down to meet it with his grey head bared; his assurance that the
captives had already been released at his request was greeted with a
thundering cheer, and the matter seemed at an end.
But the tense expectation of a revolution had grown too great not to
demand some sacrifice. A summons was suddenly spread calling us to a
notorious alley in order to exercise popular justice upon a hated magistrate
who, it was rumoured, had unlawfully taken under his protection a certain
house of ill-fame in that quarter. When I reached the spot with the tail-end
of the crowd, I found the house had been broken into and all sorts of
violence had been committed. I recall with horror the intoxicating effect this
unreasoning fury had upon me, and cannot deny that without the slightest
personal provocation I shared, like one possessed, in the frantic onslaught
of the undergraduates, who madly shattered furniture and crockery to bits. I
do not believe that the ostensible motive for this outrage, which, it is true,
was to be found in a fact that was a grave menace to public morality, had

any weight with me whatever; on the contrary, it was the purely devilish
fury of these popular outbursts that drew me, too, like a madman into their
vortex.
The fact that such fits of fury are not quick to abate, but, in accordance
with certain natural laws, reach their proper conclusion only after they have
degenerated into frenzy, I was to learn in my own person. Scarcely did the
summons ring out for us to march to another resort of the same kind than I
too found myself in the tide which set towards the opposite end of the town.
There the same exploits were repeated, and the most ludicrous outrages
perpetrated. I cannot remember that the enjoyment of alcoholic drinks
contributed to the intoxication of myself and my immediate fellows. I only
know that I finally got into the state that usually succeeds a debauch, and
upon waking next morning, as if from a hideous nightmare, had to convince
myself that I had really taken part in the events of the previous night by a
trophy I possessed in the shape of a tattered red curtain, which I had
brought home as a token of my prowess. The thought that people generally,
and my own family in particular, were wont to put a lenient construction
upon youthful escapades was a great comfort to me; outbursts of this kind
on the part of the young were regarded as righteous indignation against
really serious scandals, and there was no need for me to be afraid of owning
up to having taken part in such excesses.
The dangerous example, however, which had been set by the
undergraduates incited the lower classes and the mob to similar excesses on
the following nights, against employers and any who were obnoxious to
them. The matter at once assumed a more serious complexion; property was
threatened, and a conflict between rich and poor stood grinning at our
doors. As there were no soldiers in the town, and the police were thoroughly
disorganised, the students were called in as a protection against the lower
orders. An undergraduate’s hour of glory now began, such as I could only
have thirsted for in my schoolboy dreams. The student became the tutelar
deity of Leipzig, called on by the authorities to arm and band together in
defence of property, and the same young men who two days before had
yielded to a rage for destruction, now mustered in the University courtyard.
The proscribed names of the students’ clubs and unions were shouted by the
mouths of town councillors and chief constables in order to summon
curiously equipped undergraduates, who thereupon, in simple mediaeval
array of war, scattered throughout the town, occupied the guard-rooms at

the gates, provided sentinels for the grounds of various wealthy merchants,
and, as occasion demanded, took places which seemed threatened, more
especially inns, under their permanent protection.
Though, unluckily, I was not yet a member of their body, I anticipated the
delights of academic citizenship by half-impudent, half-obsequious
solicitation of the leaders of the students whom I honoured most. I had the
good fortune to recommend myself particularly to these ‘cocks of the walk,’
as they were styled, on account of my relationship to Brockhaus, in whose
grounds the main body of these champions were encamped for some time.
My brother-in-law was among those who had been seriously threatened,
and it was only owing to really great presence of mind and assurance that
he succeeded in saving his printing works, and especially his steam presses,
which were the chief object of attack, from destruction. To protect his
property against further assault, detachments of students were told off to his
grounds as well; the excellent entertainment which the generous master of
the house offered his jovial guardians in his pleasant summer-house enticed
the pick of the students to him. My brother-in-law was for several weeks
guarded day and night against possible attacks by the populace, and on this
occasion, as the mediator of a flowing hospitality, I celebrated among the
most famous ‘bloods’ of the University the true saturnalia of my scholarly
ambition.
For a still longer period the guarding of the gates was entrusted to the
students; the unheard-of splendour which accordingly became associated
with this post drew fresh aspirants to the spot from far and near. Every day
huge chartered vehicles discharged at the Halle Gate whole bands of the
boldest sons of learning from Halle, Jena, Gottingen, and the remotest
regions. They got down close to the guards at the gate, and for several
weeks never set foot in an inn or any other dwelling; they lived at the
expense of the Council, drew vouchers on the police for food and drink, and
knew but one care, that the possibility of a general quieting of men’s minds
would make their opportune guardianship superfluous. I never missed a day
on guard or a night either, alas! trying to impress on my family the urgent
need for my personal endurance. Of course, the quieter and really studious
spirits among us soon resigned these duties, and only the flower of the flock
of undergraduates remained so staunch that it became difficult for the
authorities to relieve them of their task. I held out to the very last, and
succeeded in making most astonishing friends for my age. Many of the

most audacious remained in Leipzig even when there was no guard duty to
fulfil, and peopled the place for some time with champions of an
extraordinarily desperate and dissipated type, who had been repeatedly sent
down from various universities for rowdyism or debt, and who now, thanks
to the exceptional circumstances of the day, found a refuge in Leipzig,
where at first they had been received with open arms by the general
enthusiasm of their comrades.
In the presence of all these phenomena I felt as if I were surrounded by
the results of an earthquake which had upset the usual order of things. My
brother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, who could justly taunt the former
authorities of the place with their inability to maintain peace and order, was
carried away by the current of a formidable movement of opposition. He
made a daring speech at the Guildhall before their worships the Town
Council, which brought him popularity, and he was appointed second-in-
command of the newly constituted Leipzig Municipal Guard. This body at
length ousted my adored students from the guard-rooms of the town gates,
and we no longer had the right of stopping travellers and inspecting their
passes. On the other hand, I flattered myself that I might regard my new
position as a boy citizen as equivalent to that of the French National Guard,
and my brother-in-law, Brockhaus, as a Saxon Lafayette, which, at all
events, succeeded in furnishing my soaring excitement with a healthy
stimulant. I now began to read the papers and cultivate politics
enthusiastically; however, the social intercourse of the civic world did not
attract me sufficiently to make me false to my beloved academic associates.
I followed them faithfully from the guard-rooms to the ordinary bars, where
their splendour as men of the literary world now sought retirement.
My chief ambition was to become one of them as soon as possible. This,
however, could only be accomplished by being again entered at a grammar
school. St. Thomas’s, whose headmaster was a feeble old man, was the
place where my wishes could be most speedily attained.
I joined the school in the autumn of 1830 simply with the intention of
qualifying myself for the Leaving Examination by merely nominal
attendance there. The chief thing in connection with it was that I and friends
of the same bent succeeded in establishing a sham students’ association
called the Freshman’s Club. It was formed with all possible pedantry, the
institution of the ‘Comment’ was introduced, fencing-practice and sword-

bouts were held, and an inaugural meeting to which several prominent
students were invited, and at which I presided as ‘Vice’ in white buckskin
trousers and great jack-boots, gave me a foretaste of the delights awaiting
me as a full-blown son of the Muses.
The masters of St. Thomas’s, however, were not quite so ready to fall in
with my aspirations to studentship; at the end of the half-year they were of
the opinion that I had not given a thought to their institution, and nothing
could persuade them that I had earned a title to academic citizenship by any
acquisition of knowledge. Some sort of decision was necessary, so I
accordingly informed my family that I had made up my mind not to study
for a profession at the University, but to become a musician. There was
nothing to prevent me matriculating as ‘Studiosus Musicae,’ and, without
therefore troubling myself about the pedantries of the authorities at St.
Thomas’s, I defiantly quitted that seat of learning from which I had derived
small profit, and presented myself forthwith to the rector of the University,
whose acquaintance I had made on the evening of the riot, to be enrolled as
a student of music. This was accordingly done without further ado, on the
payment of the usual fees.
I was in a great hurry about it, for in a week the Easter vacation would
begin, and the ‘men’ would go down from Leipzig, when it would be
impossible to be elected member of a club until the vacation was over, and
to stay all those weeks at home in Leipzig without having the right to wear
the coveted colours seemed to me unendurable torture. Straight from the
rector’s presence I ran like a wounded animal to the fencing school, to
present myself for admission to the Saxon Club, showing my card of
matriculation. I attained my object, I could wear the colours of the Saxonia,
which was in the fashion at that time, and in great request because it
numbered so many delightful members in its ranks.
The strangest fate was to befall me in this Easter vacation, during which I
was really the only remaining representative of the Saxon Club in Leipzig.
In the beginning this club consisted chiefly of men of good family as well
as the better class elements of the student world; all of them were members
of highly placed and well-to-do families in Saxony in general, and in
particular from the capital, Dresden, and spent their vacation at their
respective homes. There remained in Leipzig during the vacations only
those wandering students who had no homes, and for whom in reality it was

always or never holiday time. Among those a separate club had arisen of
daring and desperate young reprobates who had found a last refuge, as I
said, at Leipzig in the glorious period I have recorded. I had already made
the personal acquaintance of these swashbucklers, who pleased my fancy
greatly, when they were guarding the Brockhaus grounds. Although the
regular duration of a university course did not exceed three years, most of
these men had never left their universities for six or seven years.
I was particularly fascinated by a man called Gebhardt, who was
endowed with extraordinary physical beauty and strength, and whose slim
heroic figure towered head and shoulders above all his companions. When
he walked down the street arm-in-arm with two of the strongest of his
comrades, he used suddenly to take it into his head, by an easy movement
of his arm, to lift his friends high in the air and flutter along in this way as
though he had a pair of human wings. When a cab was going along the
streets at a sharp trot, he would seize a spoke of the wheel with one hand
and force it to pull up. Nobody ever told him that he was stupid because
they were afraid of his strength, hence his limitations were scarcely noticed.
His redoubtable strength, combined with a temperate disposition, lent him a
majestic dignity which placed him above the level of an ordinary mortal. He
had come to Leipzig from Mecklenburg in the company of a certain
Degelow, who was as powerful and adroit, though by no means of such
gigantic proportions, as his friend, and whose chief attraction lay in his
great vivacity and animated features, he had led a wild and dissipated life in
which play, drink, passionate love affairs, and constant and prompt duelling
had rung the changes. Ceremonious politeness, an ironic and pedantic
coldness, which testified to bold self-confidence, combined with a very hot
temper, formed the chief characteristics of this personage and natures akin
to his. Degelow’s wildness and passion were lent a curious diabolical charm
by the possession of a malicious humour which he often turned against
himself, whereas towards others he exercised a certain chivalrous
tenderness.
These two extraordinary men were joined by others who possessed all the
qualities essential to a reckless life, together with real and headstrong
valour. One of them, named Stelzer, a regular Berserker out of the
Nibelungenlied, who was nick-named Lope, was in his twentieth term.
While these men openly and consciously belonged to a world doomed to
destruction, and all their actions and escapades could only be explained by

the hypothesis that they all believed that inevitable ruin was imminent, I
made in their company the acquaintance of a certain Schroter, who
particularly attracted me by his cordial disposition, pleasant Hanoverian
accent, and refined wit. He was not one of the regular young dare-devils,
towards whom he adopted a calm observant attitude, while they were all
fond of him and glad to see him. I made a real friend of this Schroter,
although he was much older than I was. Through him I became acquainted
with the works and poems of H. Heine, and from him I acquired a certain
neat and saucy wit, and I was quite ready to surrender myself to his
agreeable influence in the hope of improving my outward bearing. It was
his company in particular that I sought every day; in the afternoon I
generally met him in the Rosenthal or Kintschy’s Chalet, though always in
the presence of those wonderful Goths who excited at once my alarm and
admiration.
They all belonged to university clubs which were on hostile terms with
the one of which I was a member. What this hostility between the various
clubs meant only those can judge who are familiar with the tone prevalent
among them in those days. The mere sight of hostile colours sufficed to
infuriate these men, who otherwise were kind and gentle, provided they had
taken the slightest drop too much. At all events, as long as the old stagers
were sober they would look with good-natured complacency at a slight
young fellow like me in the hostile colours moving among them so
amicably. Those colours I wore in my own peculiar fashion. I had made use
of the brief week during which my club was still in Leipzig to become the
possessor of a splendid ‘Saxon’ cap, richly embroidered with silver, and
worn by a man called Muller, who was afterwards a prominent constable at
Dresden. I had been seized with such a violent craving for this cap that I
managed to buy it from him, as he wanted money to go home. In spite of
this remarkable cap I was, as I have said, welcome in the den of this band of
rowdies: my friend Schroter saw to that. It was only when the grog, which
was the principal beverage of these wild spirits, began to work that I used to
notice curious glances and overhear doubtful speeches, the significance of
which was for some time hidden from me by the dizziness in which my
own senses were plunged by this baneful drink.
As I was inevitably bound on this account to be mixed up in quarrels for
some time to come, it afforded me a great satisfaction that my first fight, as
a matter of fact, arose from an incident more creditable to me than those

provocations which I had left half unnoticed. One day Degelow came up to
Schroter and me in a wine-bar that we often frequented, and in quite a
friendly manner confessed to us confidentially his liking for a young and
very pretty actress whose talent Schroter disputed. Degelow rejoined that
this was as it might be, but that, for his part, he regarded the young lady as
the most respectable woman in the theatre. I at once asked him if he
considered my sister’s reputation was not as good. According to students’
notions it was impossible for Degelow, who doubtless had not the remotest
intention of being insulting, to give me any assurance further than to say
that he certainly did not think my sister had an inferior reputation, but that,
nevertheless, he meant to abide by his assertion concerning the young lady
he had mentioned. Hereupon followed without delay the usual challenge,
opening with the words, ‘You’re an ass,’ which sounded almost ridiculous
to my own ears when I said them to this seasoned swashbuckler.
I remember that Degelow too gasped with astonishment, and lightning
seemed to flash from his eyes; but he controlled himself in the presence of
my friend, and proceeded to observe the usual formalities of a challenge,
and chose broadswords (krumme Sabel) as the weapons for the fight. The
event made a great stir among our companions, but I saw less reason than
before to abstain from my usual intercourse with them. Only I became more
strict about the behaviour of the swashbucklers, and for several days no
evening passed without producing a challenge between me and some
formidable bully, until at last Count Solms, the only member of my club
who had returned to Leipzig as yet, visited me as though he were an
intimate friend and inquired into what had occurred. He applauded my
conduct, but advised me not to wear my colours until the return of our
comrades from the vacation, and to keep away from the bad company into
which I had ventured. Fortunately I had not long to wait; university life
soon began again, and the fencing ground was filled. The unenviable
position, in which, in student phrase, I was suspended with a half-dozen of
the most terrible swordsmen, earned me a glorious reputation among the
‘freshmen’ and ‘juniors,’ and even among the older ‘champions’ of the
Saxonia.
My seconds were duly arranged, the dates for the various duels on hand
settled, and by the care of my seniors the needful time was secured for me
to acquire some sort of skill in fencing. The light heart with which I awaited
the fate which threatened me in at least one of the impending encounters I

myself could not understand at the time; on the other hand, the way in
which that fate preserved me from the consequences of my rashness seems
truly miraculous in my eyes to this day, and, worthy of further description.
The preparations for a duel included obtaining some experience of these
encounters by being present at several of them. We freshmen attained this
object by what is called ‘carrying duty,’ that is to say, we were entrusted
with the rapiers of the corps (precious weapons of honour belonging to the
association), and had to take them first to the grinder and thence to the
scene of encounter, a proceeding which was attended with some danger, as
it had to be done surreptitiously, since duelling was forbidden by law; in
return we acquired the right of assisting as spectators at the impending
engagements.
When I had earned this honour, the meeting-place chosen for the duel I
was to watch was the billiard-room of an inn in the Burgstrasse; the table
had been moved to one side, and on it the authorised spectators took their
places. Among them I stood up with a beating heart to watch the dangerous
encounters between those doughty champions. I was told on this occasion
of the story of one of my friends (a Jew named Levy, but known as
Lippert), who on this very floor had given so much ground before his
antagonist that the door had to be opened for him, and he fell back through
it down the steps into the street, still believing he was engaged in the duel.
When several bouts had been finished, two men came on to the ‘pitch,’
Tempel, the president of the Markomanen, and a certain Wohlfart, an old
stager, already in his fourteenth half-year of study, with whom I also was
booked for an encounter later on. When this was the case, a man was not
allowed to watch, in order that the weak points of the duellist might not be
betrayed to his future opponent. Wohlfart was accordingly asked by my
chiefs whether he wanted me removed; whereupon he replied with calm
contempt, ‘Let them leave the little freshman there, in God’s name!’ Thus I
became an eye-witness of the disablement of a swordsman who
nevertheless showed himself so experienced and skilful on the occasion that
I might well have become alarmed for the issue of my future encounter with
him. His gigantic opponent cut the artery of his right arm, which at once
ended the fight; the surgeon declared that Wohlfart would not be able to
hold a sword again for years, under which circumstances my proposed
meeting with him was at once cancelled. I do not deny that this incident
cheered my soul.

Shortly afterwards the first general reunion of our club was held at the
Green Tap. These gatherings are regular hot-beds for the production of
duels. Here I brought upon myself a new encounter with one Tischer, but
learned at the same time that I had been relieved of two of my most
formidable previous engagements of the kind by the disappearance of my
opponents, both of whom had escaped on account of debt and left no trace
behind them. The only one of whom I could hear anything was the terrible
Stelzer, surnamed Lope. This fellow had taken advantage of the passing of
Polish refugees, who had at that time already been driven over the frontier
and were making their way through Germany to France, to disguise himself
as an ill-starred champion of freedom, and he subsequently found his way
to the Foreign Legion in Algeria. On the way home from the gathering,
Degelow, whom I was to meet in a few weeks, proposed a ‘truce.’ This was
a device which, if it was accepted, as it was in this case, enabled the future
combatants to entertain and talk to one another, which was otherwise most
strictly forbidden. We wandered back to the town arm-in-arm; with
chivalrous tenderness my interesting and formidable opponent declared that
he was delighted at the prospect of crossing swords with me in a few
weeks’ time; that he regarded it as an honour and a pleasure, as he was fond
of me and respected me for my valorous conduct. Seldom has any personal
success flattered me more. We embraced, and amid protestations which,
owing to a certain dignity about them, acquired a significance I can never
forget, we parted. He informed me that he must first pay a visit to Jena,
where he had an appointment to fight a duel. A week later the news of his
death reached Leipzig; he had been mortally wounded in the duel at Jena.
I felt as if I were living in a dream, out of which I was aroused by the
announcement of my encounter with Tischer. Though he was a first-rate and
vigorous fighter, he had been chosen by our chiefs for my first passage of
arms because he was fairly short. In spite of being unable to feel any great
confidence in my hastily acquired and little practised skill in fencing, I
looked forward to this my first duel with a light heart. Although it was
against the rules, I never dreamed of telling the authorities that I was
suffering from a slight rash which I had caught at that time, and which I was
informed made wounds so dangerous that if it were reported it would
postpone the meeting, in spite of the fact that I was modest enough to be
prepared for wounds. I was sent for at ten in the morning, and left home
smiling to think what my mother and sisters would say if in a few hours I

were brought back in the alarming state I anticipated. My chief, Herr v.
Schonfeld, was a pleasant, quiet sort of man, who lived on the marsh. When
I reached his house, he leant out of the window with his pipe in his mouth,
and greeted me with the words: ‘You can go home, my lad, it is all off;
Tischer is in hospital.’ When I got upstairs I found several ‘leading men’
assembled, from whom I learned that Tischer had got very drunk the night
before, and had in consequence laid himself open to the most outrageous
treatment by the inhabitants of a house of ill-fame. He was terribly hurt, and
had been taken by the police in the first instance to the hospital. This
inevitably meant rustication, and, above all, expulsion from the academic
association to which he belonged.
I cannot clearly recall the incidents that removed from Leipzig the few
remaining fire-eaters to whom I had pledged myself since that fatal
vacation-time; I only know that this aide of my fame as a student yielded to
another. We celebrated the ‘freshmen’s gathering,’ to which all those who
could manage it drove a four-in-hand in a long procession through the town.
After the president of the club had profoundly moved me with his sudden
and yet prolonged solemnity, I conceived the desire to be among the very
last to return home from the outing. Accordingly I stayed away three days
and three nights, and spent the time chiefly in gambling, a pastime which
from the first night of our festivity cast its devilish snares around me. Some
half-dozen of the smartest club members chanced to be together at early
dawn in the Jolly Peasant, and forthwith formed the nucleus of a gambling
club, which was reinforced during the day by recruits coming back from the
town. Members came to see whether we were still at it, members also went
away, but I with the original six held out for days and nights without
faltering.
The desire that first prompted me to take part in the play was the wish to
win enough for my score (two thalers): this I succeeded in doing, and
thereupon I was inspired with the hope of being able to settle all the debts I
had made at that time by my winnings at play. Just as I had hoped to learn
composition most quickly by Logier’s method, but had found myself
hampered in my object for a long period by unexpected difficulties, so my
plan for speedily improving my financial position was likewise doomed to
disappointment. To win was not such an easy matter, and for some three
months I was such a victim to the rage for gambling that no other passion
was able to exercise the slightest influence over my mind.

Neither the Fechtboden (where the students’ fights were practised), nor
the beer-house, nor the actual scene of the fights, ever saw my face again.
In my lamentable position I racked my brains all day to devise ways and
means of getting the money wherewith to gamble at night. In vain did my
poor mother try everything in her power to induce me not to come home so
late at night, although she had no idea of the real nature of my debauches:
after I had left the house in the afternoon I never returned till dawn the next
day, and I reached my room (which was at some distance from the others)
by climbing over the gate, for my mother had refused to give me a latch-
key.
In despair over my ill-luck, my passion for gambling grew into a
veritable mania, and I no longer felt any inclination for those things which
at one time had lured me to student life. I became absolutely indifferent to
the opinion of my former companions and avoided them entirely; I now lost
myself in the smaller gambling dens of Leipzig, where only the very scum
of the students congregated. Insensible to any feeling of self-respect, I bore
even the contempt of my sister Rosalie; both she and my mother hardly ever
deigning to cast a glance at the young libertine whom they only saw at rare
intervals, looking deadly pale and worn out: my ever-growing despair made
me at last resort to foolhardiness as the only means of forcing hostile fate to
my side. It suddenly struck me that only by dint of big stakes could I make
big profits. To this end I decided to make use of my mother’s pension, of
which I was trustee of a fairly large sum. That night I lost everything I had
with me except one thaler: the excitement with which I staked that last coin
on a card was an experience hitherto quite strange to my young life. As I
had had nothing to eat, I was obliged repeatedly to leave the gambling table
owing to sickness. With this last thaler I staked my life, for my return to my
home was, of course, out of the question. Already I saw myself in the grey
dawn, a prodigal son, fleeing from all I held dear, through forest and field
towards the unknown. My mood of despair had gained so strong a hold
upon me that, when my card won, I immediately placed all the money on a
fresh stake, and repeated this experiment until I had won quite a
considerable amount. From that moment my luck grew continuously. I
gained such confidence that I risked the most hazardous stakes: for
suddenly it dawned upon me that this was destined to be my last day with
the cards. My good fortune now became so obvious that the bank thought it
wise to close. Not only had I won back all the money I had lost, but I had

won enough to pay off all my debts as well. My sensations during the whole
of this process were of the most sacred nature: I felt as if God and His
angels were standing by my side and were whispering words of warning
and of consolation into my ears.
Once more I climbed over the gate of my home in the early hours of the
morning, this time to sleep peacefully and soundly and to awake very late,
strengthened and as though born again.
No sense of shame deterred me from telling my mother, to whom I
presented her money, the whole truth about this decisive night. I voluntarily
confessed my sin in having utilised her pension, sparing no detail. She
folded her hands and thanked God for His mercy, and forthwith regarded
me as saved, believing it impossible for me ever to commit such a crime
again.
And, truth to tell, gambling had lost all fascination for me from that
moment. The world, in which I had moved like one demented, suddenly
seemed stripped of all interest or attraction. My rage for gambling had
already made me quite indifferent to the usual student’s vanities, and when I
was freed from this passion also, I suddenly found myself face to face with
an entirely new world.
To this world I belonged henceforth: it was the world of real and serious
musical study, to which I now devoted myself heart and soul.
Even during this wild period of my life, my musical development had not
been entirely at a standstill; on the contrary, it daily became plainer that
music was the only direction towards which my mental tendencies had a
marked bent. Only I had got quite out of the habit of musical study. Even
now it seems incredible that I managed to find time in those days to finish
quite a substantial amount of composition. I have but the faintest
recollection of an Overture in C major (6/8 time), and of a Sonata in B flat
major arranged as a duet; the latter pleased my sister Ottilie, who played it
with me, so much that I arranged it for orchestra. But another work of this
period, an Overture in B flat major, left an indelible impression on my mind
on account of an incident connected with it. This composition, in fact, was
the outcome of my study of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in about the
same degree as Leubald und Adelaïde was the result of my study of
Shakespeare. I had made a special point of bringing out the mystic meaning
in the orchestra, which I divided into three distinctly different and opposite

elements. I wanted to make the characteristic nature of these elements clear
to the score reader the moment he looked at it by a striking display of
colour, and only the fact that I could not get any green ink made this
picturesque idea impossible. I employed black ink for the brass instruments
alone, the strings were to have red and the wind green ink. This
extraordinary score I gave for perusal to Heinrich Dorn, who was at that
time musical director of the Leipzig theatre. He was very young, and
impressed me as being a very clever musician and a witty man of the world,
whom the Leipzig public made much of.
Nevertheless, I have never been able to understand how he could have
granted my request to produce this overture.
Some time afterwards I was rather inclined to believe with others, who
knew how much he enjoyed a good joke, that he intended to treat himself to
a little fun. At the time, however, he vowed that he thought the work
interesting, and maintained that if it were only brought out as a hitherto
unknown work by Beethoven, the public would receive it with respect,
though without understanding.
It was the Christmas of the fateful year 1830; as usual, there would be no
performance at the theatre on Christmas Eve, but instead a concert for the
poor had been organised, which received but scant support. The first item
on the programme was called by the exciting title ‘New Overture’—nothing
more! I had surreptitiously listened to the rehearsal with some misgiving. I
was very much impressed by the coolness with which Dorn fenced with the
apparent confusion which the members of the orchestra showed with regard
to this mysterious composition. The principal theme of the Allegro was
contained in four bars; after every fourth bar, however, a fifth bar had been
inserted, which had nothing to do with the melody, and which was
announced by a loud bang on the kettle-drum on the second beat. As this
drum-beat stood out alone, the drummer, who continually thought he was
making a mistake, got confused, and did not give the right sharpness to the
accent as prescribed by the score. Listening from my hidden corner, and
frightened at my original intention, this accidentally different rendering did
not displease me. To my genuine annoyance, however, Dorn called the
drummer to the front and insisted on his playing the accents with the
prescribed sharpness. When, after the rehearsal, I told the musical director
of my misgivings about this important fact, I could not get him to promise a

milder interpretation of the fatal drum-beat; he stuck to it that the thing
would sound very well as it was. In spite of this assurance my restlessness
grew, and I had not the courage to introduce myself to my friends in
advance as the author of the ‘New Overture.’
My sister Ottilie, who had already been forced to survive the secret
readings of Leubald und Adelaïde, was the only person willing to come
with me to hear my work. It was Christmas Eve, and there was to be the
usual Christmas tree, presents, etc., at my brother-in-law’s, Friedrich
Brockhaus, and both of us naturally wanted to be there. My sister, in
particular, who lived there, had a good deal to do with the arrangements,
and could only get away for a short while, and that with great difficulty; our
amiable relation accordingly had the carriage ready for her so that she
might get back more quickly. I made use of this opportunity to inaugurate,
as it were, my entree into the musical world in a festive manner. The
carriage drew up in front of the theatre. Ottilie went into my brother-in-
law’s box, which forced me to try and find a seat in the pit. I had forgotten
to buy a ticket, and was refused admission by the man at the door. Suddenly
the tuning up of the orchestra grew louder and louder, and I thought I
should have to miss the beginning of my work. In my anxiety I revealed
myself to the man at the door as the composer of the ‘New Overture,’ and in
this way succeeded in passing without a ticket. I pushed my way through to
one of the first rows of the pit, and sat down in terrible anxiety.
The Overture began: after the theme of the ‘black’ brass instruments had
made itself heard with great emphasis, the ‘red’ Allegro theme started, in
which, as I have already mentioned, every fifth bar was interrupted by the
drum-beat from the ‘black’ world. What kind of effect the ‘green’ theme of
the wind instruments, which joined in afterwards, produced upon the
listeners, and what they must have thought when ‘black,’ ‘red,’ and ‘green’
themes became intermingled, has always remained a mystery to me, for the
fatal drum-beat, brutally hammered out, entirely deprived me of my senses,
especially as this prolonged and continually recurring effect now began to
rouse, not only the attention, but the merriment of the audience. I heard my
neighbours calculating the return of this effect; knowing the absolute
correctness of their calculation, I suffered ten thousand torments, and
became almost unconscious. At last I awoke from my nightmare when the
Overture, to which I had disdained to give what I considered a trite ending,
came to a standstill most unexpectedly.

No phantoms like those in Hoffmann’s Tales could have succeeded in
producing the extraordinary state in which I came to my senses on noticing
the astonishment of the audience at the end of the performance. I heard no
exclamations of disapproval, no hissing, no remarks, not even laughter; all I
saw was intense astonishment at such a strange occurrence, which
impressed them, as it did me, like a horrible nightmare. The worst moment,
however, came when I had to leave the pit and take my sister home. To get
up and pass through the people in the pit was horrible indeed. Nothing,
however, equalled the pain of coming face to face with the man at the door;
the strange look he gave me haunted me ever afterwards, and for a
considerable time I avoided the pit of the Leipzig theatre.
My next step was to find my sister, who had gone through the whole sad
experience with infinite pity; in silence we drove home to be present at a
brilliant family festivity, which contrasted with grim irony with the gloom
of my bewilderment.
In spite of it all I tried to believe in myself, and thought I could find
comfort in my overture to the Braut von Messina, which I believed to be a
better work than the fatal one I had just heard. A reinstatement, however,
was out of the question, for the directors of the Leipzig theatre regarded me
for a long time as a very doubtful person, in spite of Dorn’s friendship. It is
true that I still tried my hand at sketching out compositions to Goethe’s
Faust, some of which have been preserved to this day: but soon my wild
student’s life resumed its sway and drowned the last remnant of serious
musical study in me.
I now began to imagine that because I had become a student I ought to
attend the University lectures. From Traugott Krug, who was well known to
me on account of his having suppressed the student’s revolt, I tried to learn
the first principles of philosophy; a single lesson sufficed to make me give
this up. Two or three times, however, I attended the lectures on aesthetics
given by one of the younger professors, a man called Weiss. This
perseverance was due to the interest which Weiss immediately aroused in
me. When I made his acquaintance at my uncle Adolph’s house, Weiss had
just translated the metaphysics of Aristotle, and, if I am not mistaken,
dedicated them in a controversial spirit to Hegel.
On this occasion I had listened to the conversation of these two men on
philosophy and philosophers, which made a tremendous impression on me.

I remember that Weiss was an absent-minded man, with a hasty and abrupt
manner of speaking; he had an interesting and pensive expression which
impressed me immensely. I recollect how, on being accused of a want of
clearness in his writing and style, he justified himself by saying that the
deep problems of the human mind could not in any case be solved by the
mob. This maxim, which struck me as being very plausible, I at once
accepted as the principle for all my future writing. I remember that my
eldest brother Albert, to whom I once had to write for my mother, grew so
disgusted with my letter and style that he said he thought I must be going
mad.
In spite of my hopes that Weiss’s lectures would do me much good, I was
not capable of continuing to attend them, as my desires in those days drove
me to anything but the study of aesthetics. Nevertheless, my mother’s
anxiety at this time on my behalf made me try to take up music again. As
Muller, the teacher under whom I had studied till that time, had not been
able to inspire me with a permanent love of study, it was necessary to
discover whether another teacher might not be better able to induce me to
do serious work.
Theodor Weinlich, who was choirmaster and musical director at St.
Thomas’s Church, held at that time this important and ancient post which
was afterwards occupied by Schicht, and before him by no less a person
than Sebastian Bach. By education he belonged to the old Italian school of
music, and had studied in Bologna under Pater Martini. He had made a
name for himself in this art by his vocal compositions, in which his fine
manner of treating the parts was much praised. He himself told me one day
that a Leipzig publisher had offered him a very substantial fee if he would
write for his firm another book of vocal exercises similar to the one which
had proved so profitable to his first publisher. Weinlich told him that he had
not got any exercises of the kind ready at the moment, but offered him
instead a new Mass, which the publisher refused with the words: ‘Let him
who got the meat gnaw the bones.’ The modesty with which Weinlich told
me this little story showed how excellent a man he was. As he was in a very
bad and weak state of health when my mother introduced me to him, he at
first refused to take me as a pupil. But, after having resisted all persuasions,
he at last took pity on my musical education, which, as he soon discovered
from a fugue which I had brought with me, was exceedingly faulty. He
accordingly promised to teach me, on condition that I should give up all

attempts at composing for six months, and follow his instructions implicitly.
To the first part of my promise I remained faithful, thanks to the vast vortex
of dissipation into which my life as a student had drawn me.
When, however, I had to occupy myself for any length of time with
nothing but four-part harmony exercises in strictly rigorous style, it was not
only the student in me, but also the composer of so many overtures and
sonatas, that was thoroughly disgusted. Weinlich, too, had his grievances
against me, and decided to give me up.
During this period I came to the crisis of my life, which led to the
catastrophe of that terrible evening at the gambling den. But an even greater
blow than this fearful experience awaited me when Weinlich decided not to
have anything more to do with me. Deeply humiliated and miserable, I
besought the gentle old man, whom I loved dearly, to forgive me, and I
promised him from that moment to work with unflagging energy. One
morning at seven o’clock Weinlich sent for me to begin the rough sketch for
a fugue; he devoted the whole morning to me, following my work bar by
bar with the greatest attention, and giving me his valuable advice. At twelve
o’clock he dismissed me with the instruction to perfect and finish the sketch
by filling in the remaining parts at home.
When I brought him the fugue finished, he handed me his own treatment
of the same theme for comparison. This common task of fugue writing
established between me and my good-natured teacher the tenderest of ties,
for, from that moment, we both enjoyed the lessons. I was astonished how
quickly the time flew. In eight weeks I had not only gone through a number
of the most intricate fugues, but had also waded through all kinds of
difficult evolutions in counterpoint, when one day, on bringing him an
extremely elaborate double fugue, he took my breath away by telling me
that after this there was nothing left for him to teach me.
As I was not aware of any great effort on my part, I often wondered
whether I had really become a well-equipped musician. Weinlich himself
did not seem to attach much importance to what he had taught me: he said,
‘Probably you will never write fugues or canons; but what you have
mastered is Independence: you can now stand alone and rely upon having a
fine technique at your fingers’ ends if you should want it.’
The principal result of his influence over me was certainly the growing
love of clearness and fluency to which he had trained me. I had already had

to write the above-mentioned fugue for ordinary voices; my feeling for the
melodious and vocal had in this way been awakened. In order to keep me
strictly under his calming and friendly influence, he had at the same time
given me a sonata to write which, as a proof of my friendship for him, I had
to build up on strictly harmonic and thematic lines, for which he
recommended me a very early and childlike sonata by Pleyel as a model.
Those who had only recently heard my Overture must, indeed, have
wondered how I ever wrote this sonata, which has been published through
the indiscretion of Messrs. Breitkopf and Hartel (to reward me for my
abstemiousness, Weinlich induced them to publish this poor composition).
From that moment he gave me a free hand. To begin with I was allowed to
compose a Fantasia for the pianoforte (in F sharp minor) which I wrote in a
quite informal style by treating the melody in recitative form; this gave me
intense satisfaction because it won me praise from Weinlich.
Soon afterwards I wrote three overtures which all met with his entire
approval. In the following winter (1831-1832) I succeeded in getting the
first of them, in D minor, performed at one of the Gewandhaus concerts.
At that time a very simple and homely tone reigned supreme in this
institution. The instrumental works were not conducted by what we call ‘a
conductor of the orchestra,’ but were simply played to the audience by the
leader of the orchestra. As soon as the singing began, Pohlenz took his place
at the conductor’s desk; he belonged to the type of fat and pleasant musical
directors, and was a great favourite with the Leipzig public. He used to
come on the platform with a very important-looking blue baton in his hand.
One of the strangest events which occurred at that time was the yearly
production of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven; after the first three
movements had been played straight through like a Haydn symphony, as
well as the orchestra could manage it, Pohlenz, instead of having to conduct
a vocal quartette, a cantata, or an Italian aria, took his place at the desk to
undertake this highly complicated instrumental work, with its particularly
enigmatical and incoherent opening, one of the most difficult tasks that
could possibly be found for a musical conductor. I shall never forget the
impression produced upon me at the first rehearsal by the anxiously and
carefully played 3/4 time, and the way in which the wild shrieks of the
trumpet (with which this movement begins) resulted in the most
extraordinary confusion of sound.

He had evidently chosen this tempo in order, in some way, to manage the
recitative of the double basses; but it was utterly hopeless. Pohlenz was in a
bath of perspiration, the recitative did not come off, and I really began to
think that Beethoven must have written nonsense; the double bass player,
Temmler, a faithful veteran of the orchestra, prevailed upon Pohlenz at last,
in rather coarse and energetic language, to put down the baton, and in this
way the recitative really proceeded properly. All the same, I felt at this time
that I had come to the humble conclusion, in a way I can hardly explain,
that this extraordinary work was still beyond my comprehension. For a long
time I gave up brooding over this composition, and I turned my thoughts
with simple longing towards a clearer and calmer musical form.
My study of counterpoint had taught me to appreciate, above all,
Mozart’s light and flowing treatment of the most difficult technical
problems, and the last movement of his great Symphony in C major in
particular served me as example for my own work. My D minor Overture,
which clearly showed the influence of Beethoven’s Coriolanus Overture,
had been favourably received by the public; my mother began to have faith
in me again, and I started at once on a second overture (in C major), which
really ended with a ‘Fugato’ that did more credit to my new model than I
had ever hoped to accomplish.
This overture, also, was soon afterwards performed at a recital given by
the favourite singer, Mlle. Palazzesi (of the Dresden Italian Opera). Before
this I had already introduced it at a concert given by a private musical
society called ‘Euterpe’, when I had conducted it myself.
I remember the strange impression I received from a remark that my
mother made on that occasion; as a matter of fact this work, which was
written in a counterpoint style, without any real passion or emotion, had
produced a strange effect upon her. She gave vent to her astonishment by
warmly praising the Egmont Overture, which was played at the same
concert, maintaining that ‘this kind of music was after all more fascinating
than any stupid fugue.’
At this time I also wrote (as my third opus) an overture to Raupach’s
drama, Konig Enzio, in which again Beethoven’s influence made itself even
more strongly felt. My sister Rosalie succeeded in getting it performed at
the theatre before the play; for the sake of prudence they did not announce
it on the programme the first time. Dorn conducted it, and as the

performance went off all right, and the public showed no dissatisfaction, my
overture was played with my full name on the programme several times
during the run of the above-mentioned drama.
After this I tried my hand at a big Symphony (in C major); in this work I
showed what I had learnt by using the influence of my study of Beethoven
and Mozart towards the achievement of a really pleasant and intelligible
work, in which the fugue was again present at the end, while the themes of
the various movements were so constructed that they could be played
consecutively.
Nevertheless, the passionate and bold element of the Sinfonia Eroica was
distinctly discernible, especially in the first movement. The slow
movement, on the contrary, contained reminiscences of my former musical
mysticism. A kind of repeated interrogative exclamation of the minor third
merging into the fifth connected in my mind this work (which I had finished
with the utmost effort at clearness) with my very earliest period of boyish
sentimentality.
When, in the following year, I called on Friedrich Rochlitz, at that time
the ‘Nestor’ of the musical aesthetes in Leipzig, and president of the
Gewandhaus, I prevailed upon him to promise me a performance of my
work. As he had been given my score for perusal before seeing me, he was
quite astonished to find that I was a very young man, for the character of
my music had prepared him to see a much older and more experienced
musician. Before this performance took place many things happened which
I must first mention, as they were of great importance to my life.
My short and stormy career as a student had drowned in me not only all
longing for further development, but also all interest in intellectual and
spiritual pursuits. Although, as I have pointed out, I had never alienated
myself entirely from music, my revived interest in politics aroused my first
real disgust for my senseless student’s life, which soon left no deeper traces
on my mind than the remembrance of a terrible nightmare.
The Polish War of Independence against Russian supremacy filled me
with growing enthusiasm. The victories which the Poles obtained for a short
period during May, 1831, aroused my enthusiastic admiration: it seemed to
me as though the world had, by some miracle, been created anew. As a
contrast to this, the news of the battle of Ostrolenka made it appear as if the
end of the world had come. To my astonishment, my boon companions

scoffed at me when I commented upon some of these events; the terrible
lack of all fellow-feeling and comradeship amongst the students struck me
very forcibly. Any kind of enthusiasm had to be smothered or turned into
pedantic bravado, which showed itself in the form of affectation and
indifference. To get drunk with deliberate cold-bloodedness, without even a
glimpse of humour, was reckoned almost as brave a feat as duelling. Not
until much later did I understand the far nobler spirit which animated the
lower classes in Germany in comparison with the sadly degenerate state of
the University students. In those days I felt terribly indignant at the
insulting remarks which I brought upon myself when I deplored the battle
of Ostrolenka.
To my honour be it said, that these and similar impressions helped to
make me give up my low associates. During my studies with Weinlich the
only little dissipation I allowed myself was my daily evening visit to
Kintschy, the confectioner in the Klostergasse, where I passionately
devoured the latest newspapers. Here I found many men who held the same
political views as myself, and I specially loved to listen to the eager
political discussions of some of the old men who frequented the place. The
literary journals, too, began to interest me; I read a great deal, but was not
very particular in my choice. Nevertheless, I now began to appreciate
intelligence and wit, whereas before only the grotesque and the fantastic
had had any attraction for me.
My interest in the issue of the Polish war, however, remained paramount.
I felt the siege and capture of Warsaw as a personal calamity. My
excitement when the remains of the Polish army began to pass through
Leipzig on their way to France was indescribable, and I shall never forget
the impression produced upon me by the first batch of these unfortunate
soldiers on the occasion of their being quartered at the Green Shield, a
public-house in the Meat Market. Much as this depressed me, I was soon
roused to a high pitch of enthusiasm, for in the lounge of the Leipzig
Gewandhaus, where that night Beethoven’s C minor Symphony was being
played, a group of heroic figures, the principal leaders of the Polish
revolution, excited my admiration. I felt more particularly attracted by
Count Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, a man of exceptionally powerful physique and
noble appearance, who impressed me by his dignified and aristocratic
manner and his quiet self-reliance—qualities with which I had not met
before. When I saw a man of such kingly bearing in a tight-fitting coat and

red velvet cap, I at once realised my foolishness in ever having worshipped
the ludicrously dressed up little heroes of our students’ world. I was
delighted to meet this gentleman again at the house of my brother-in-law,
Friedrich Brockhaus, where I saw him frequently.
My brother-in-law had the greatest pity and sympathy for the Polish
rebels, and was the president of a committee whose task it was to look after
their interests, and for a long time he made many personal sacrifices for
their cause.
The Brockhaus establishment now became tremendously attractive to me.
Around Count Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, who remained the lodestar of this
small Polish world, gathered a great many other wealthy exiles, amongst
whom I chiefly remember a cavalry captain of the name of Bansemer, a
man of unlimited kindness, but of a rather frivolous nature; he possessed a
marvellous team of four horses which he drove at such breakneck speed as
to cause great annoyance to the people of Leipzig. Another man of
importance with whom I remember dining was General Bem, whose
artillery had made such a gallant stand at Ostrolenka.
Many other exiles passed through this hospitable house, some of whom
impressed us by their melancholy, warlike bearing, others by their refined
behaviour. Vincenz Tyszkiewitcz, however, remained my ideal of a true
man, and I loved him with a profound adoration. He, too, began to be
interested in me; I used to call upon him nearly every day, and was
sometimes present at a sort of martial feast, from which he often withdrew
in order to be able to open his heart to me about the anxieties which
oppressed him. He had, in fact, received absolutely no news of the
whereabouts of his wife and little son since they separated at Volhynien.
Besides this, he was under the shadow of a great sorrow which drew all
sympathetic natures to him. To my sister Louise he had confided the terrible
calamity that had once befallen him. He had been married before, and while
staying with his wife in one of his lonely castles, in the dead of night he had
seen a ghostly apparition at the window of his bedroom. Hearing his name
called several times, he had taken up a revolver to protect himself from
possible danger, and had shot his own wife, who had had the eccentric idea
of teasing him by pretending to be a ghost. I had the pleasure of sharing his
joy on hearing that his family was safe. His wife joined him in Leipzig with
their beautiful boy, Janusz. I felt sorry not to be able to feel the same

sympathy for this lady as I did for her husband; perhaps one of the reasons
of my antipathy was the obvious and conspicuous way in which she made
herself up, by means of which the poor woman probably tried to hide how
much her beauty had suffered through the terrible strain of the past events.
She soon went back to Galicia to try and save what she could of their
property, and also to provide her husband with a pass from the Austrian
Government, by means of which he could follow her.
Then came the third of May. Eighteen of the Poles who were still in
Leipzig met together at a festive dinner in a hotel outside the town; on this
day was to be celebrated the first anniversary of the third of May, so dear to
the memory of the Poles. Only the chiefs of the Leipzig Polish Committee
received invitations, and as a special favour I also was asked. I shall never
forget that occasion. The dinner became an orgy; throughout the evening a
brass band from the town played Polish folksongs, and these were sung by
the whole company, led by a Lithuanian called Zan, in a manner now
triumphant and now mournful. The beautiful ‘Third of May’ song more
particularly drew forth a positive uproar of enthusiasm. Tears and shouts of
joy grew into a terrible tumult; the excited men grouped themselves on the
grass swearing eternal friendship in the most extravagant terms, for which
the word ‘Oiczisna’ (Fatherland) provided the principal theme, until at last
night threw her veil over this wild debauch.
That evening afterwards served me as the theme for an orchestral
composition (in the form of an overture) named Polonia; I shall recount the
fate of this work later on. My friend Tyszkiewitcz’s passport now arrived,
and he made up his mind to go back to Galicia via Brunn, although his
friends considered it was very rash of him to do so. I very much wanted to
see something of the world, and Tyszkiewitcz’s offer to take me with him,
induced my mother to consent to my going to Vienna, a place that I had
long wished to visit. I took with me the scores of my three overtures which
had already been performed, and also that of my great symphony as yet
unproduced, and had a grand time with my Polish patron, who took me in
his luxurious travelling-coach as far as the capital of Moravia. During a
short stop at Dresden the exiles of all classes gave our beloved Count a
friendly farewell dinner in Pirna, at which the champagne flowed freely,
while the health was drunk of the future ‘Dictator of Poland.’

At last we separated at Brunn, from which place I continued my journey
to Vienna by coach. During the afternoon and night, which I was obliged to
spend in Brunn by myself, I went through terrible agonies from fear of the
cholera which, as I unexpectedly heard, had broken out in this place. There
I was all alone in a strange place, my faithful friend just departed, and on
hearing of the epidemic I felt as if a malicious demon had caught me in his
snare in order to annihilate me. I did not betray my terror to the people in
the hotel, but when I was shown into a very lonely wing of the house and
left by myself in this wilderness, I hid myself in bed with my clothes on,
and lived once again through all the horrors of ghost stories as I had done in
my boyhood. The cholera stood before me like a living thing; I could see
and touch it; it lay in my bed and embraced me. My limbs turned to ice, I
felt frozen to the very marrow. Whether I was awake or asleep I never
knew; I only remember how astonished I was when, on awakening, I felt
thoroughly well and healthy.
At last I arrived in Vienna, where I escaped the epidemic which had
penetrated as far as that town. It was midsummer of the year 1832. Owing
to the introductions I had with me, I found myself very much at home in
this lively city, in which I made a pleasant stay of six weeks. As my
sojourn, however, had no really practical purpose, my mother looked upon
the cost of this holiday, short as it seemed, as an unnecessary extravagance
on my part. I visited the theatres, heard Strauss, made excursions, and
altogether had a very good time. I am afraid I contracted a few debts as
well, which I paid off later on when I was conductor of the Dresden
orchestra. I had received very pleasant impressions of musical and theatrical
life, and for a long time Vienna lived in my memory as the acme of that
extraordinarily productive spirit peculiar to its people. I enjoyed most of all
the performances at the Theater an der Wien, at which they were acting a
grotesque fairy play called Die Abenteuer Fortunat’s zu Wasser und zu
Land, in which a cab was called on the shores of the Black Sea and which
made a tremendous impression on me. About the music I was more
doubtful. A young friend of mine took me with immense pride to a
performance of Gluck’s Iphigenia in Tauris, which was made doubly
attractive by a first-rate cast including Wild, Staudigl and Binder: I must
confess that on the whole I was bored by this work, but I did not dare say
so. My ideas of Gluck had attained gigantic proportions from my reading of
Hoffmann’s well-known Phantasies; my anticipation of this work therefore,

which I had not studied yet, had led me to expect a treatment full of
overpowering dramatic force. It is possible that Schroder-Devrient’s acting
in Fidelio had taught me to judge everything by her exalted standard.
With the greatest trouble I worked myself up to some kind of enthusiasm
for the great scene between Orestes and the Furies. I hoped against hope
that I should be able to admire the remainder of the opera. I began to
understand the Viennese taste, however, when I saw how great a favourite
the opera Zampa became with the public, both at the Karnthner Thor and at
the Josephstadt. Both theatres competed vigorously in the production of this
popular work, and although the public had seemed mad about Iphigenia,
nothing equalled their enthusiasm for Zampa. No sooner had they left the
Josephstadt Theatre in the greatest ecstasies about Zampa than they
proceeded to the public-house called the Strausslein. Here they were
immediately greeted by the strains of selections from Zampa which drove
the audience to feverish excitement. I shall never forget the extraordinary
playing of Johann Strauss, who put equal enthusiasm into everything he
played, and very often made the audience almost frantic with delight.
At the beginning of a new waltz this demon of the Viennese musical
spirit shook like a Pythian priestess on the tripod, and veritable groans of
ecstasy (which, without doubt, were more due to his music than to the
drinks in which the audience had indulged) raised their worship for the
magic violinist to almost bewildering heights of frenzy.
The hot summer air of Vienna was absolutely impregnated with Zampa
and Strauss. A very poor students’ rehearsal at the Conservatoire, at which
they performed a Mass by Cherubini, seemed to me like an alms paid
begrudgingly to the study of classical music. At the same rehearsal one of
the professors, to whom I was introduced, tried to make the students play
my Overture in D minor (the one already performed in Leipzig). I do not
know what his opinion was, nor that of the students, with regard to this
attempt; I only know they soon gave it up.
On the whole I had wandered into doubtful musical bypaths; and I now
withdrew from this first educational visit to a great European art centre in
order to start on a cheap, but long and monotonous return journey to
Bohemia, by stage-coach. My next move was a visit to the house of Count
Pachta, of whom I had pleasant recollections from my boyhood days. His
estate, Pravonin, was about eight miles from Prague. Received in the

kindest possible way by the old gentleman and his beautiful daughters, I
enjoyed his delightful hospitality until late into the autumn. A youth of
nineteen, as I then was, with a fast-growing beard (for which my sisters had
already prepared the young ladies by letter), the continual and close
intimacy with such kind and pretty girls could hardly fail to make a strong
impression on my imagination. Jenny, the elder of the two, was slim, with
black hair, blue eyes, and wonderfully noble features; the younger one,
Auguste, was a little smaller, and stouter, with a magnificent complexion,
fair hair, and brown eyes. The natural and sisterly manner with which both
girls treated me and conversed with me did not blind me to the fact that I
was expected to fall in love with one or the other of them. It amused them
to see how embarrassed I got in my efforts to choose between them, and
consequently they teased me tremendously.
Unfortunately, I did not act judiciously with regard to the daughters of
my host: in spite of their homely education, they belonged to a very
aristocratic house, and consequently hesitated between the hope of
marrying men of eminent position in their own sphere, and the necessity of
choosing husbands amongst the higher middle classes, who could afford to
keep them in comfort. The shockingly poor, almost mediaeval, education of
the Austrian so-called cavalier, made me rather despise the latter; the girls,
too, had suffered from the same lack of proper training. I soon noticed with
disgust how little they knew about things artistic, and how much value they
attached to superficial things. However much I might try to interest them in
those higher pursuits which had become necessary to me, they were
incapable of appreciating them. I advocated a complete change from the
bad library novels, which represented their only reading, from the Italian
operatic arias, sung by Auguste, and, last but not least, from the horsy,
insipid cavaliers, who paid their court to both Jenny and her sister in the
most coarse and offensive manner. My zeal in this latter respect soon gave
rise to great unpleasantness. I became hard and insulting, harangued them
about the French Revolution, and begged them with fatherly admonitions
‘for the love of heaven’ to be content with well-educated middle-class men,
and give up those impertinent suitors who could only harm their reputation.
The indignation provoked by my friendly advice I often had to ward off
with the harshest retorts. I never apologised, but tried by dint of real or
feigned jealousy to get our friendship back on the old footing. In this way,
undecided, half in love and half angry, one cold November day I said good-

bye to these pretty children. I soon met the whole family again at Prague,
where I made a long sojourn, without, however, staying at the Count’s
residence.
My stay at Prague was to be of great musical importance to me. I knew
the director of the Conservatoire, Dionys Weber, who promised to bring my
symphony before the public; I also spent much of my time with an actor
called Moritz, to whom, as an old friend of our family, I had been
recommended, and there I made the acquaintance of the young musician
Kittl.
Moritz, who noticed that not a day passed but what I went to the much-
feared chief of the Conservatoire upon some pressing musical business,
once despatched me with an improvised parody on Schiller’s Burgschaft:—
Zu Dionys dem Direktor schlich
Wagner, die Partitur im Gewande;
Ihn schlugen die Schuler im Bande:
‘Was wolltest du mit den Noten sprich?’
Entgegnet ihm finster der Wutherich:
‘Die Stadt vom schlechten Geschmacke befreien!
Das sollst du in den Rezensionen bereuen.’[5]

[5] To Dionys, the Director,
crept Wagner, the score in his pocket;
The students arrested him forthwith:
‘What do’st thou with that music, say?’
Thus asked him the angry tyrant:
‘To free the town from taste too vile!
For this the critics will make thee suffer.’

Truly I had to deal with a kind of ‘Dionysius the Tyrant.’ A man who did
not acknowledge Beethoven’s genius beyond his Second Symphony, a man
who looked upon the Eroica as the acme of bad taste on the master’s part;
who praised Mozart alone, and next to him tolerated only Lindpaintner:
such a man was not easy to approach, and I had to learn the art of making
use of tyrants for one’s own purposes. I dissimulated; I pretended to be
struck by the novelty of his ideas, never contradicted him, and, to point out
the similarity of our standpoints, I referred him to the end fugue in my
Overture and in my Symphony (both in C major), which I had only
succeeded in making what they were through having studied Mozart. My
reward soon followed: Dionys set to work to study my orchestral creations
with almost youthful energy.

The students of the Conservatoire were compelled to practise with the
greatest exactitude my new symphony under his dry and terribly noisy
baton. In the presence of several of my friends, amongst whom was also the
dear old Count Pachta in his capacity of President of the Conservatoire
Committee, we actually held a first performance of the greatest work that I
had written up to that date.
During these musical successes I went on with my love-making in the
attractive house of Count Pachta, under the most curious circumstances. A
confectioner of the name of Hascha was my rival. He was a tall, lanky
young man who, like most Bohemians, had taken up music as a hobby; he
played the accompaniments to Auguste’s songs, and naturally fell in love
with her. Like myself, he hated the frequent visits of the cavaliers, which
seemed to be quite the custom in this city; but while my displeasure
expressed itself in humour, his showed itself in gloomy melancholy. This
mood made him behave boorishly in public: for instance, one evening,
when the chandelier was to be lighted for the reception of one of these
gentlemen, he ran his head purposely against this ornament and broke it.
The festive illumination was thus rendered impossible; the Countess was
furious, and Hascha had to leave the house never to return.
I well remember that the first time I was conscious of any feelings of
love, these manifested themselves as pangs of jealousy, which had,
however, nothing to do with real love: this happened one evening when I
called at the house. The Countess kept me by her side in an ante-room,
while the girls, beautifully dressed and gay, flirted in the reception-room
with those hateful young noblemen. All I had ever read in Hoffmann’s Tales
of certain demoniacal intrigues, which until that moment had been obscure
to me, now became really tangible facts, and I left Prague with an obviously
unjust and exaggerated opinion of those things and those people, through
whom I had suddenly been dragged into an unknown world of elementary
passions.
On the other hand I had gained by my stay at Pravonin: I had written
poetry as well as musical compositions. My musical work was a setting of
Glockentone, a poem by the friend of my youth, Theodor Apel. I had
already written an aria for soprano which had been performed the winter
before at one of the theatre concerts. But my new work was decidedly the
first vocal piece I had written with real inspiration; generally speaking, I

suppose it owed its’ characteristics to the influence of Beethoven’s
Liederkreis: all the same, the impression that it has left on my mind is that it
was absolutely part of myself, and pervaded by a delicate sentimentality
which was brought into relief by the dreaminess of the accompaniment. My
poetical efforts lay in the direction of a sketch of a tragi-operatic subject,
which I finished in its entirety in Prague under the title of Die Hochzeit
(‘The Wedding’). I wrote it without anybody’s knowledge, and this was no
easy matter, seeing that I could not write in my chilly little hotel-room, and
had therefore to go to the house of Moritz, where I generally spent my
mornings. I remember how I used quickly to hide my manuscript behind the
sofa as soon as I heard my host’s footsteps.
An extraordinary episode was connected with the plot of this work.
Already years ago I had come across a tragic story, whilst perusing
Busching’s book on chivalry, the like of which I have never since read. A
lady of noble birth had been assaulted one night by a man who secretly
cherished a passionate love for her, and in the struggle to defend her honour
superhuman strength was given her to fling him into the courtyard below.
The mystery of his death remained unexplained until the day of his solemn
obsequies, when the lady herself, who attended them and was kneeling in
solemn prayer, suddenly fell forward and expired. The mysterious strength
of this profound and passionate story made an indelible impression upon
my mind. Fascinated, moreover, by the peculiar treatment of similar
phenomena in Hoffmann’s Tales, I sketched a novel in which musical
mysticism, which I still loved so deeply, played an important part. The
action was supposed to take place on the estate of a rich patron of the fine
arts: a young couple was going to be married, and had invited the friend of
the bride-groom, an interesting but melancholy and mysterious young man,
to their wedding. Intimately connected with the whole affair was a strange
old organist. The mystic relations which gradually developed between the
old musician, the melancholy young man and the bride, were to grow out of
the unravelment of certain intricate events, in a somewhat similar manner to
that of the mediaeval story above related. Here was the same idea: the
young man mysteriously killed, the equally strange sudden death of his
friend’s bride, and the old organist found dead on his bench after the
playing of an impressive requiem, the last chord of which was inordinately
prolonged as if it never would end.

I never finished this novel: but as I wanted to write the libretto for an
opera, I took up the theme again in its original shape, and built on this (as
far as the principal features went) the following dramatic plot:—
Two great houses had lived in enmity, and had at last decided to end the
family feud. The aged head of one of these houses invited the son of his
former enemy to the wedding of his daughter with one of his faithful
partisans. The wedding feast is thus used as an opportunity for reconciling
the two families. Whilst the guests are full of the suspicion and fear of
treachery, their young leader falls violently in love with the bride of his
newly found ally. His tragic glance deeply affects her; the festive escort
accompanies her to the bridal chamber, where she is to await her beloved;
leaning against her tower-window she sees the same passionate eyes fixed
on her, and realises that she is face to face with a tragedy.
When he penetrates into her chamber, and embraces her with frantic
passion, she pushes him backwards towards the balcony, and throws him
over the parapet into the abyss, from whence his mutilated remains are
dragged by his companions. They at once arm themselves against the
presumed treachery, and call for vengeance; tumult and confusion fill the
courtyard: the interrupted wedding feast threatens to end in a night of
slaughter. The venerable head of the house at last succeeds in averting the
catastrophe. Messengers are sent to bear the tidings of the mysterious
calamity to the relatives of the victim: the corpse itself shall be the medium
of reconciliation, for, in the presence of the different generations of the
suspected family, Providence itself shall decide which of its members has
been guilty of treason. During the preparations for the obsequies the bride
shows signs of approaching madness; she flies from her bridegroom,
refuses to be united to him, and locks herself up in her tower-chamber. Only
when, at night, the gloomy though gorgeous ceremony commences, does
she appear at the head of her women to be present at the burial service, the
gruesome solemnity of which is interrupted by the news of the approach of
hostile forces and then by the armed attack of the kinsmen of the murdered
man. When the avengers of the presumed treachery penetrate into the
chapel and call upon the murderer to declare himself, the horrified lord of
the manor points towards his daughter who, turning away from her
bridegroom, falls lifeless by the coffin of her victim. This nocturnal drama,
through which ran reminiscences of Leubald und Adelaïde (the work of my
far-off boyhood), I wrote in the darkest vein, but in a more polished and

more noble style, disdaining all light-effects, and especially all operatic
embellishments. Tender passages occurred here and there all the same, and
Weinlich, to whom I had already shown the beginning of my work on my
return to Leipzig, praised me for the clearness and good vocal quality of the
introduction I had composed to the first act; this was an Adagio for a vocal
septette, in which I had tried to express the reconciliation of the hostile
families, together with the emotions of the wedded couple and the sinister
passion of the secret lover. My principal object was, all the same, to win my
sister Rosalie’s approval. My poem, however, did not find favour in her
eyes: she missed all that which I had purposely avoided, insisted on the
ornamentation and development of the simple situation, and desired more
brightness generally. I made up my mind in an instant: I took the
manuscript, and without a suggestion of ill-temper, destroyed it there and
then. This action had nothing whatever to do with wounded vanity. It was
prompted merely by my desire honestly to prove to my sister how little I
thought of my own work and how much I cared for her opinion. She was
held in great and loving esteem by my mother and by the rest of our family,
for she was their principal breadwinner: the important salary she earned as
an actress constituted nearly the whole income out of which my mother had
to defray the household expenses. For the sake of her profession she
enjoyed many advantages at home. Her part of the house had been specially
arranged so that she should have all the necessary comfort and peace for her
studies; on marketing days, when the others had to put up with the simplest
fare, she had to have the same dainty food as usual. But more than any of
these things did her charming gravity and her refined way of speaking place
her above the younger children. She was thoughtful and gentle and never
joined us in our rather loud conversation. Of course, I had been the one
member of the family who had caused the greatest anxieties both to my
mother and to my motherly sister, and during my life as a student the
strained relations between us had made a terrible impression on me. When
therefore they tried to believe in me again, and once more showed some
interest in my work, I was full of gratitude and happiness. The thought of
getting this sister to look kindly upon my aspirations, and even to expect
great things of me, had become a special stimulus to my ambition. Under
these circumstances a tender and almost sentimental relationship grew up
between Rosalie and myself, which in its purity and sincerity could vie with
the noblest form of friendship between man and woman. This was

principally due to her exceptional individuality. She had not any real talent,
at least not for acting, which had often been considered stagey and
unnatural. Nevertheless she was much appreciated owing to her charming
appearance as well as to her pure and dignified womanliness, and I
remember many tokens of esteem which she received in those days. All the
same, none of these advances ever seemed to lead to the prospect of a
marriage, and year by year went by without bringing her hopes of a suitable
match—a fact which to me appeared quite unaccountable. From time to
time I thought I noticed that Rosalie suffered from this state of affairs. I
remember one evening when, believing herself to be alone, I heard her
sobbing and moaning; I stole away unnoticed, but her grief made such an
impression upon me that from that moment I vowed to bring some joy into
her life, principally by making a name for myself. Not without reason had
our stepfather Geyer given my gentle sister the nickname of ‘Geistchen’
(little spirit), for if her talent as an actress was not great, her imagination
and her love of art and of all high and noble things were perhaps, on that
account alone, all the greater. From her lips I had first heard expressions of
admiration and delight concerning those subjects which became dear to me
later on, and she moved amongst a circle of serious and interesting people
who loved the higher things of life without this attitude ever degenerating
into affectation.
On my return from my long journey I was introduced to Heinrich Laube,
whom my sister had added to her list of intimate friends. It was at the time
when the after-effects of the July revolution were beginning to make
themselves felt amongst the younger men of intellect in Germany, and of
these Laube was one of the most conspicuous. As a young man he came
from Silesia to Leipzig, his principal object being to try and form
connections in this publishing centre which might be of use to him in Paris,
whither he was going, and from which place Borne also made a sensation
amongst us by his letters. On this occasion Laube was present at a
representation of a play by Ludwig Robert, Die Macht der Verhallnisse
(‘The Power of Circumstances’). This induced him to write a criticism for
the Leipzig Tageblatt, which made such a sensation through its terse and
lively style that he was at once offered, in addition to other literary work,
the post of editor of Die elegante Welt. In our house he was looked upon as
a genius; his curt and often biting manner of speaking, which seemed to
exclude all attempt at poetic expression, made him appear both original and

daring: his sense of justice, his sincerity and fearless bluntness made one
respect his character, hardened as it had been in youth by great adversity.
On me he had a very inspiring effect, and I was very much astonished to
find that he thought so much of me as to write a flattering notice about my
talent in his paper after hearing the first performance of my symphony.
This performance took place in the beginning of the year 1833 at the
Leipzig Schneider-Herberge. It was, by the bye, in this dignified old hall
that the society ‘Euterpe’ held its concerts! The place was dirty, narrow, and
poorly lighted, and it was here that my work was introduced to the Leipzig
public for the first time, and by means of an orchestra that interpreted it
simply disgracefully. I can only think of that evening as a gruesome
nightmare; and my astonishment was therefore all the greater at seeing the
important notice which Laube wrote about the performance. Full of hope, I
therefore looked forward to a performance of the same work at the
Gewandhaus concert, which followed soon after, and which came off
brilliantly in every way. It was well received and well spoken of in all the
papers; of real malice there was not a trace—on the contrary, several notices
wore encouraging, and Laube, who had quickly become celebrated,
confided to me that he was going to offer me a libretto for an opera, which
he had first written for Meyerbeer. This staggered me somewhat, for I was
not in the least prepared to pose as a poet, and my only idea was to write a
real plot for an opera. As to the precise manner, however, in which such a
book had to be written, I already had a very definite and instinctive notion,
and I was strengthened in the certainty of my own feelings in the matter
when Laube now explained the nature of his plot to me. He told me that he
wanted to arrange nothing less than Kosziusko into a libretto for grand
opera! Once again I had qualms, for I felt at once that Laube had a mistaken
idea about the character of a dramatic subject. When I inquired into the real
action of the play, Laube was astonished that I should expect more than the
story of the Polish hero, whose life was crowded with incident; in any case,
he thought there was quite sufficient action in it to describe the unhappy
fate of a whole nation. Of course the usual heroine was not missing; she
was a Polish girl who had a love affair with a Russian; and in this way some
sentimental situations were also to be found in the plot. Without a moment’s
delay I assured my sister Rosalie that I would not set this story to music:
she agreed with me, and begged me only to postpone my answer to Laube.
My journey to Wurzburg was of great help to me in this respect, for it was

easier to write my decision to Laube than to announce it to him personally.
He accepted the slight rebuff with good grace, but he never forgave me,
either then or afterwards, for writing my own words!
When he heard what subject I had preferred to his brilliant political
poem, he made no effort to conceal his contempt for my choice. I had
borrowed the plot from a dramatic fairy tale by Gozzi, La Donna Serpente,
and called it Die Feen (‘The Fairies’). The names of my heroes I chose from
different Ossian and similar poems: my prince was called Arindal; he was
loved by a fairy called Ada, who held him under her spell and kept him in
fairyland, away from his realm, until his faithful friends at last found him
and induced him to return, for his country was going to rack and ruin, and
even its capital had fallen into the enemy’s hands. The loving fairy herself
sends the prince back to his country; for the oracle has decreed that she
shall lay upon her lover the severest of tasks. Only by performing this task
triumphantly can he make it possible for her to leave the immortal world of
fairies in order to share the fate of her earthly lover, as his wife. In a
moment of deepest despair about the state of his country, the fairy queen
appears to him and purposely destroys his faith in her by deeds of the most
cruel and inexplicable nature. Driven mad by a thousand fears, Arindal
begins to imagine that all the time he has been dealing with a wicked
sorceress, and tries to escape the fatal spell by pronouncing a curse upon
Ada. Wild with sorrow, the unhappy fairy sinks down, and reveals their
mutual fate to the lover, now lost to her for ever, and tells him that, as a
punishment for having disobeyed the decree of Fate, she is doomed to be
turned into stone (in Gozzi’s version she becomes a serpent). Immediately
afterwards it appears that all the catastrophes which the fairy had
prophesied were but deceptions: victory over the enemy as well as the
growing prosperity and welfare of the kingdom now follow in quick
succession: Ada is taken away by the Fates, and Arindal, a raving madman,
remains behind alone. The terrible sufferings of his madness do not,
however, satisfy the Fates: to bring about his utter ruin they appear before
the repentant man and invite him to follow them to the nether world, on the
pretext of enabling him to free Ada from the spell. Through the treacherous
promises of the wicked fairies Arindal’s madness grows into sublime
exaltation; and one of his household magicians, a faithful friend, having in
the meantime equipped him with magic weapons and charms, he now
follows the traitresses. The latter cannot get over their astonishment when

they see how Arindal overcomes one after the other of the monsters of the
infernal regions: only when they arrive at the vault in which they show him
the stone in human shape do they recover their hope of vanquishing the
valiant prince, for, unless he can break the charm which binds Ada, he must
share her fate and be doomed to remain a stone for ever. Arindal, who until
then has been using the dagger and the shield given him by the friendly
magician, now makes use of an instrument—a lyre—which he has brought
with him, and the meaning of which he had not yet understood. To the
sounds of this instrument he now expresses his plaintive moans, his
remorse, and his overpowering longing for his enchanted queen. The stone
is moved by the magic of his love: the beloved one is released. Fairyland
with all its marvels opens its portals, and the mortal learns that, owing to his
former inconstancy, Ada has lost the right to become his wife on earth, but
that her beloved, through his great and magic power, has earned the right to
live for ever by her side in fairyland.
Although I had written Die Hochzeit in the darkest vein, without operatic
embellishments, I painted this subject with the utmost colour and variety. In
contrast to the lovers out of fairyland I depicted a more ordinary couple,
and I even introduced a third pair that belonged to the coarser and more
comical servant world. I purposely went to no pains in the matter of the
poetic diction and the verse. My idea was not to encourage my former
hopes of making a name as a poet; I was now really a ‘musician’ and a
‘composer,’ and wished to write a decent opera libretto simply because I
was sure that nobody else could write one for me; the reason being that
such a book is something quite unique and cannot be written either by a
poet or by a mere man of letters. With the intention of setting this libretto to
music, I left Leipzig in January, 1833, to stay in Wurzburg with my eldest
brother Albert, who at the time held an appointment at the theatre. It now
seemed necessary for me to begin to apply my musical knowledge to a
practical purpose, and to this end my brother had promised to help me in
getting some kind of post at the small Wurzburg theatre. I travelled by post
to Bamberg via Hof, and in Bamberg I stayed a few days in the company of
a young man called Schunke, who from a player on the horn had become an
actor. With the greatest interest I learned the story of Caspar Hauser, who at
that time was very well known, and who (if I am not mistaken) was pointed
out to me. In addition to this, I admired the peculiar costumes of the
market-women, thought with much interest of Hoffmann’s stay at this place,

and of how it had led to the writing of his Tales, and resumed my journey
(to Wurzburg) with a man called Hauderer, and suffered miserably from the
cold all the way.
My brother Albert, who was almost a new acquaintance to me, did his
best to make me feel at home in his not over luxurious establishment. He
was pleased to find me less mad than he had expected me to be from a
certain letter with which I had succeeded in frightening him some time
previously, and he really managed to procure me an exceptional occupation
as choir-master at the theatre, for which I received the monthly fee of ten
guilders. The remainder of the winter was devoted to the serious study of
the duties required of a musical director: in a very short time I had to tackle
two new grand operas, namely, Marschner’s Vampir and Meyerbeer’s
Robert der Teufel, in both of which the chorus played a considerable part.
At first I felt absolutely like a beginner, and had to start on Camilla von
Paer, the score of which was utterly unknown to me. I still remember that I
felt I was doing a thing which I had no right to undertake: I felt quite an
amateur at the work. Soon, however, Marschner’s score interested me
sufficiently to make the labour seem worth my while. The score of Robert
was a great disappointment to me: from the newspapers I had expected
plenty of originality and novelty; I could find no trace of either in this
transparent work, and an opera with a finale like that of the second act
could not be named in the same breath with any of my favourite works. The
only thing that impressed me was the unearthly keyed trumpet which, in the
last act, represented the voice of the mother’s ghost.
It was remarkable to observe the aesthetic demoralisation into which I
now fell through having daily to deal with such a work. I gradually lost my
dislike for this shallow and exceedingly uninteresting composition (a dislike
I shared with many German musicians) in the growing interest which I was
compelled to take in its interpretation; and thus it happened that the
insipidness and affectation of the commonplace melodies ceased to concern
me save from the standpoint of their capability of eliciting applause or the
reverse. As, moreover, my future career as musical conductor was at stake,
my brother, who was very anxious on my behalf, looked favourably on this
lack of classical obstinacy on my part, and thus the ground was gradually
prepared for that decline in my classical taste which was destined to last
some considerable time.

All the same, this did not occur before I had given some proof of my
great inexperience in the lighter style of writing. My brother wanted to
introduce a ‘Cavatine’ from the Piraten, by Bellini, into the same
composer’s opera, Straniera; the score was not to be had, and he entrusted
me with the instrumentation of this work. From the piano score alone I
could not possibly detect the heavy and noisy instrumentation of the
ritornelles and intermezzi which, musically, were so very thin; the
composer of a great C major Symphony with an end fugue could only help
himself out of the difficulty by the use of a few flutes and clarinets playing
in thirds. At the rehearsal the ‘Cavatine’ sounded so frightfully thin and
shallow that my brother made me serious reproaches about the waste of
copying expenses. But I had my revenge: to the tenor aria of ‘Aubry’ in
Marschner’s Vampir I added an Allegro, for which I also wrote the words.
My work succeeded splendidly, and earned the praise of both the public
and my brother. In a similar German style I wrote the music to my Feen in
the course of the year 1833. My brother and his wife left Wurzburg after
Easter in order to avail themselves of several invitations at friends’ houses; I
stayed behind with the children—three little girls of tender years—which
placed me in the extraordinary position of a responsible guardian, a post for
which I was not in the least suited at that time of my life. My time was
divided between my work and pleasure, and in consequence I neglected my
charges. Amongst the friends I made there, Alexander Muller had much
influence over me; he was a good musician and pianist, and I used to listen
for hours to his improvisations on given themes—an accomplishment in
which he so greatly excelled, that I could not fail to be impressed. With him
and some other friends, amongst whom was also Valentin Hamm, I often
made excursions in the neighbourhood, on which occasions the Bavarian
beer and the Frankish wine were wont to fly. Valentin Hamm was a
grotesque individual, who entertained us often with his excellent violin
playing; he had an enormous stretch on the piano, for he could reach an
interval of a twelfth. Der Letzte Hieb, a public beer-garden situated on a
pleasant height, was a daily witness of my fits of wild and often enthusiastic
boisterousness; never once during those mild summer nights did I return to
my charges without having waxed enthusiastic over art and the world in
general. I also remember a wicked trick which has always remained a blot
in my memory. Amongst my friends was a fair and very enthusiastic
Swabian called Frohlich, with whom I had exchanged my score of the C

minor Symphony for his, which he had copied out with his own hand. This
very gentle, but rather irritable young man had taken such a violent dislike
to one Andre, whose malicious face I also detested, that he declared that this
person spoilt his evenings for him, merely by being in the same room with
him. The unfortunate object of his hatred tried all the same to meet us
whenever he could: friction ensued, but Andre would insist upon
aggravating us. One evening Frohlich lost patience. After some insulting
retort, he tried to chase him from our table by striking him with a stick: the
result was a fight in which Frolich’s friends felt they must take part, though
they all seemed to do so with some reluctance. A mad longing to join the
fray also took possession of me. With the others I helped in knocking our
poor victim about, and I even heard the sound of one terrible blow which I
struck Andre on the head, whilst he fixed his eyes on me in bewilderment.
I relate this incident to atone for a sin which has weighed very heavily on
my conscience ever since. I can compare this sad experience only with one
out of my earliest boyhood days, namely the drowning of some puppies in a
shallow pool behind my uncle’s house in Eisleben. Even to this day I cannot
think of the slow death of these poor little creatures without horror. I have
never quite forgotten some of my thoughtless and reckless actions; for the
sorrows of others, and in particular those of animals, have always affected
me deeply to the extent of filling me with a disgust of life.
My first love affair stands out in strong contrast against these
recollections. It was only natural that one of the young chorus ladies with
whom I had to practise daily should know how to attract my attentions.
Therese Ringelmann, the daughter of a grave-digger, thanks to her beautiful
soprano voice, led me to believe that I could make a great singer of her.
After I told her of this ambitious scheme, she paid much attention to her
appearance, and dressed elegantly for the rehearsals, and a row of white
pearls which she wound through her hair specially fascinated me. During
the summer holidays I gave Therese regular lessons in singing, according to
a method which has always remained a mystery to me ever since. I also
called on her very often at her house, where, fortunately, I never met her
unpleasant father, but always her mother and her sisters. We also met in the
public gardens, but false vanity always kept me from telling my friends of
our relations. I do not know whether the fault lay with her lowly birth, her
lack of education, or my own doubt about the sincerity of my affections; but
in any case when, in addition to the fact that I had my reasons for being

jealous, they also tried to urge me to a formal engagement, this love affair
came quietly to an end.
An infinitely more genuine affair was my love for Friederike Galvani, the
daughter of a mechanic, who was undoubtedly of Italian origin. She was
very musical, and had a lovely voice; my brother had patronised her and
helped her to a debut at his theatre, which test she stood brilliantly. She was
rather small, but had large dark eyes and a sweet disposition. The first
oboist of the orchestra, a good fellow as well as a clever musician, was
thoroughly devoted to her. He was looked upon as her fiance, but, owing to
some incident in his past, he was not allowed to visit at her parents’ house,
and the marriage was not to take place for a long time yet. When the
autumn of my year in Wurzburg drew near, I received an invitation from
friends to be present at a country wedding at a little distance from
Wurzburg; the oboist and his fiancee had also been invited. It was a jolly,
though primitive affair; we drank and danced, and I even tried my hand at
violin playing, but I must have forgotten it badly, for even with the second
violin I could not manage to satisfy the other musicians. But my success
with Friederike was all the greater; we danced like mad through the many
couples of peasants until at one moment we got so excited that, losing all
self-control, we embraced each other while her real lover was playing the
dance music. For the first time in my life I began to feel a flattering
sensation of self-respect when Friederike’s fiance, on seeing how we two
flirted, accepted the situation with good grace, if not without some sadness.
I had never had the chance of thinking that I could make a favourable
impression on any young girl. I never imagined myself good-looking,
neither had I ever thought it possible that I could attract the attention of
pretty girls.
On the other hand, I had gradually acquired a certain self-reliance in
mixing with men of my own age. Owing to the exceptional vivacity and
innate susceptibility of my nature—qualities which were brought home to
me in my relations with members of my circle—I gradually became
conscious of a certain power of transporting or bewildering my more
indolent companions.
From my poor oboist’s silent self-control on becoming aware of the
ardent advances of his betrothed towards me, I acquired, as I have said, the
first suggestion of the fact that I might count for something, not only among

men, but also among women. The Frankish wine helped to bring about a
state of ever greater confusion, and under the cover of its influence I at
length declared myself, quite openly, to be Friederike’s lover. Ever so far
into the night, in fact, when day was already breaking, we set off home
together to Wurzburg in an open wagon. This was the crowning triumph of
my delightful adventure; for while all the others, including, in the end, the
jealous oboist, slept off their debauch in the face of the dawning day, I, with
my cheek against Friederike’s, and listening to the warbling of the larks,
watched the coming of the rising sun.
On the following day we had scarcely any idea of what had happened. A
certain sense of shame, which was not unbecoming, held us aloof from one
another: and yet I easily won access to Friederike’s family, and from that
time forward was daily a welcome guest, when for some hours I would
linger in unconcealed intimate intercourse with the same domestic circle
from which the unhappy betrothed remained excluded. No word was ever
mentioned of this last connection; never once did it even dawn upon
Friederike to effect any change in the state of affairs, and it seemed to strike
no one that I ought, so to speak, to take the fiance’s place. The confiding
manner in which I was received by all, and especially by the girl herself,
was exactly similar to one of Nature’s great processes, as, for instance,
when spring steps in and winter passes silently away. Not one of them ever
considered the material consequences of the change, and this is precisely
the most charming and flattering feature of this first youthful love affair,
which was never to degenerate into an attitude which might give rise to
suspicion or concern. These relations ended only with my departure from
Wurzburg, which was marked by the most touching and most tearful
leavetaking.
For some time, although I kept up no correspondence, the memory of this
episode remained firmly imprinted on my mind. Two years later, while
making a rapid journey through the old district, I once more visited
Friederike: the poor child approached me utterly shamefaced. Her oboist
was still her lover, and though his position rendered marriage impossible,
the unfortunate young woman had become a mother. I have heard nothing
more of her since.
Amid all this traffic of love I worked hard at my opera, and, thanks to the
loving sympathy of my sister Rosalie, I was able to find the necessary good

spirits for the task. When at the commencement of the summer my earnings
as a conductor came to an end, this same sister again made it her business
loyally to provide me with ample pocket-money, so that I might devote
myself solely to the completion of my work, without troubling about
anything or being a burden to any one. At a much later date I came across a
letter of mine written to Rosalie in those days, which were full of a tender,
almost adoring love for that noble creature.
When the winter was at hand my brother returned, and the theatre
reopened. Truth to tell, I did not again become connected with it, but
acquired a position, which was even more prominent, in the concerts of the
Musical Society in which I produced my great overture in C major, my
symphony, and eventually portions of my new opera as well. An amateur
with a splendid voice, Mademoiselle Friedel, sang the great aria from Ada.
In addition to this, a trio was given which, in one of its passages, had such a
moving effect upon my brother, who took part in it, that, to his
astonishment, as he himself admitted, he completely lost his cue on account
of it.
By Christmas my work had come to an end, my score was written out
complete with the most laudable neatness, and now I was to return to
Leipzig for the New Year, in order to get my opera accepted by the theatre
there. On the way home I visited Nuremberg, where I stayed a week with
my sister Clara and with her husband, who were engaged at the theatre
there. I well remember how happy and comfortable I felt during this
pleasant visit to the very same relatives who a few years previously, when I
had stayed with them at Magdeburg, had been upset by my resolve to adopt
music as a calling. Now I had become a real musician, had written a grand
opera, and had already brought out many things without coming to grief.
The sense of all this was a great joy to me, while it was no less flattering to
my relatives, who could not fail to see that the supposed misfortune had in
the end proved to my advantage. I was in a jolly mood and quite
unrestrained—a state of mind which was very largely the result not only of
my brother-in-law’s cheerful and sociable household, but also of the
pleasant tavern life of the place. In a much more confident and elated spirit
I returned to Leipzig, where I was able to lay the three huge volumes of my
score before my highly delighted mother and sister.

Just then my family was the richer for the return of my brother Julius
from his long wanderings. He had worked a good while in Paris as a
goldsmith, and had now set up for himself in that capacity in Leipzig. He
too, like the rest, was eager to hear something out of my opera, which, to be
sure, was not so easy, as I entirely lacked the gift of playing anything of the
sort in an easy and intelligible way. Only when I was able to work myself
into a state of absolute ecstasy was it possible for me to render something
with any effect. Rosalie knew that I meant it to draw a sort of declaration of
love from her; but I have never felt certain whether the embrace and the
sisterly kiss which were awarded me after I had sung my great aria from
Ada, were bestowed on me from real emotion or rather out of affectionate
regard. On the other hand, the zeal with which she urged my opera on the
director of the theatre, Ringelhardt, the conductor and the manager was
unmistakable, and she did it so effectually that she obtained their consent
for its performance, and that very speedily. I was particularly interested to
learn that the management immediately showed themselves eager to try to
settle the matter of the costumes for my drama: but I was astonished to hear
that the choice was in favour of oriental attire, whereas I had intended, by
the names I had selected, to suggest a northern character for the setting. But
it was precisely these names which they found unsuitable, as fairy
personages are not seen in the North, but only in the East; while apart from
this, the original by Gozzi, which formed the basis of the work,
undoubtedly bore an oriental character. It was with the utmost indignation
that I opposed the insufferable turban and caftan style of dress, and
vehemently advocated the knightly garb worn in the early years of the
Middle Ages. I then had to come to a thorough understanding with the
conductor, Stegmayer, on the subject of my score. He was a remarkable,
short, fat man, with fair curly hair, and an exceptionally jovial disposition;
he was, however, very hard to bring to a point. When over our wine we
always arrived at an understanding very quickly, but as soon as we sat at the
piano, I had to listen to the most extraordinary objections concerning the
trend of which I was for some time extremely puzzled. As the matter was
much delayed by this vacillation, I put myself into closer communication
with the stage manager of the opera, Hauser, who at that time was much
appreciated as a singer and patron of art by the people of Leipzig.
With this man, too, I had the strangest experiences: he who had
captivated the audiences of Leipzig, more especially with his impersonation

of the barber and the Englishman in Fra Diavolo, suddenly revealed himself
in his own house as the most fanatical adherent of the most old-fashioned
music. I listened with astonishment to the scarcely veiled contempt with
which he treated even Mozart, and the only thing he seemed to regret was
that we had no operas by Sebastian Bach. After he had explained to me that
dramatic music had not actually been written yet, and that properly
speaking Gluck alone had shown any ability for it, he proceeded to what
seemed an exhaustive examination of my own opera, concerning which all I
had wished to hear from him was whether it was fit to be performed.
Instead of this, however, his object seemed to be to point out the failure of
my purpose in every number. I sweated blood under the unparalleled torture
of going through my work with this man; and I told my mother and sister of
my grave depression. All these delays had already succeeded in making it
impossible to perform my opera at the date originally fixed, and now it was
postponed until August of the current year (1834).
An incident which I shall never forget inspired me with fresh courage.
Old Bierey, an experienced and excellent musician, and in his day a
successful composer, who, thanks more particularly to his long practice as a
conductor at the Breslau theatre, had acquired a perfectly practical
knowledge of such things, was then living at Leipzig, and was a good friend
of my people. My mother and sister begged him to give his opinion about
the fitness of my opera for the stage, and I duly submitted the score to him.
I cannot say how deeply affected and impressed I was to see this old
gentleman appear one day among my relatives, and to hear him declare with
genuine enthusiasm that he simply could not understand how so young a
man could have composed such a score. His remarks concerning the
greatness which he had recognised in my talent were really irresistible, and
positively amazed me. When asked whether he considered the work
presentable and calculated to produce an effect, he declared his only regret
was that he was no longer at the head of a theatre, because, had he been, he
would have thought himself extremely lucky to secure such a man as
myself permanently for his enterprise. At this announcement my family was
overcome with joy, and their feelings were all the more justified seeing that,
as they all knew, Bierey was by no means an amiable romancer, but a
practical musician well seasoned by a life full of experience.
The delay was now borne with better spirits, and for a long time I was
able to wait hopefully for what the future might bring. Among other things,

I now began to enjoy the company of a new friend in the person of Laube,
who at that time, although I had not set his Kosziusko to music, was at the
zenith of his fame. The first portion of his novel, Young Europe, the form of
which was epistolary, had appeared, and had a most stimulating effect on
me, more particularly in conjunction with all the youthful hopefulness
which at that time pulsated in my veins. Though his teaching was
essentially only a repetition of that in Heinse’s Ardinghello, the forces that
then surged in young breasts were given full and eloquent expression. The
guiding spirit of this tendency was followed in literary criticism, which was
aimed mainly at the supposed or actual incapacity of the semi-classical
occupants of our various literary thrones. Without the slightest mercy the
pedants,[6] among whom Tieck for one was numbered, were treated as sheer
encumbrances and hindrances to the rise of a new literature. That which led
to a remarkable revulsion of my feelings with regard to those German
composers who hitherto had been admired and respected, was partly the
influence of these critical skirmishes, and the luring sprightliness of their
tone; but mainly the impression made by a fresh visit of Schroder-Devrient
to Leipzig, when her rendering of Borneo in Bellini’s Romeo and Juliet
carried every one by storm. The effect of it was not to be compared with
anything that had been witnessed theretofore. To see the daring, romantic
figure of the youthful lover against a background of such obviously shallow
and empty music prompted one, at all events, to meditate doubtfully upon
the cause of the great lack of effect in solid German music as it had been
applied hitherto to the drama. Without for the moment plunging too deeply
into this meditation, I allowed myself to be borne along with the current of
my youthful feelings, then roused to ardour, and turned involuntarily to the
task of working off all that brooding seriousness which in my earlier years
had driven me to such pathetic mysticism.
[6] Zöpfe in the German text.—TRANSLATOR.

What Pohlenz had not done by his conducting of the Ninth Symphony,
what the Vienna Conservatoire, Dionys Weber, and many other clumsy
performances (which had led me to regard classical music as absolutely
colourless) had not fully accomplished, was achieved by the inconceivable
charm of the most unclassical Italian music, thanks to the wonderful,
thrilling, and entrancing impersonation of Romeo by Schroder-Devrient.
What effect such powerful, and as regards their causes, incomprehensible,

effects had upon my opinion was shown in the frivolous way in which I was
able to contrive a short criticism of Weber’s Euryanthe for the Elegante
Zeitung. This opera had been performed by the Leipzig company shortly
before the appearance of Schroder-Devrient: cold and colourless
performers, among whom the singer in the title-role, appearing in the
wilderness with the full sleeves which were then the pink of fashion, is still
a disagreeable memory. Very laboriously, and without verve, but simply
with the object of satisfying the demands of classical rules, this company
did its utmost to dispel even the enthusiastic impressions of Weber’s music
which I had formed in my youth. I did not know what answer to make to a
brother critic of Laube’s, when he pointed out to me the laboured character
of this operatic performance, as soon as he was able to contrast it with the
entrancing effect of that Romeo evening. Here I found myself confronted
with a problem, the solving of which I was just at that time disposed to take
as easily as possible, and displayed my courage by discarding all prejudice,
and that daringly, in the short criticism just mentioned in which I simply
scoffed at Euryanthe. Just as I had had my season of wild oat sowing as a
student, so now I boldly rushed into the same courses in the development of
my artistic taste.
It was May, and beautiful spring weather, and a pleasure trip that I now
undertook with a friend into the promised land of my youthful romance,
Bohemia, was destined to bring the unrestrained ‘Young-European’ mood in
me to full maturity. This friend was Theodor Apel. I had known him a long
while, and had always felt particularly flattered by the fact that I had won
his hearty affection; for, as the son of the gifted master of metre and
imitator of Greek forms of poetry, August Apel, I felt that admiring
deference for him which I had never yet been able to bestow upon the
descendant of a famous man. Being well-to-do and of a good family, his
friendship gave me such opportunities of coming into touch with the easy
circumstances of the upper classes as were not of frequent occurrence in my
station of life. While my mother, for instance, regarded my association with
this highly respectable family with great satisfaction, I for my part was
extremely gratified at the thought of the cordiality with which I was
received in such circles.
Apel’s earnest wish was to become a poet, and I took it for granted that
he had all that was needed for such a calling; above all, what seemed to me
so important, the complete freedom that his considerable fortune assured

him by liberating him from all need of earning his living or of adopting a
profession for a livelihood. Strange to say, his mother, who on the death of
his distinguished father had married a Leipzig lawyer, was very anxious
about the vocation he should choose, and wished her son to make a fine
career in the law, as she was not at all disposed to favour his poetical gifts.
And it was to her attempts to convert me to her view, in order that by my
influence I might avert the calamity of a second poet in the family, in the
person of the son, that I owed the specially friendly relations that obtained
between herself and me. All her suggestions succeeded in doing, however,
was to stimulate me, even more than my own favourable opinion of his
talent could, to confirm my friend in his desire to be a poet, and thus to
support him in his rebellious attitude towards his family.
He was not displeased at this. As he was also studying music and
composed quite nicely, I succeeded in being on terms of the greatest
intimacy with him. The fact that he had spent the very year in which I had
sunk into the lowest depths of undergraduate madness, studying at
Heidelberg and not at Leipzig, had kept him unsullied by any share in my
strange excesses, and when we now met again at Leipzig, in the spring of
1834, the only thing that we still had in common was the aesthetic
aspiration of our lives, which we now strove by way of experiment to divert
into the direction of the enjoyment of life. Gladly would we have flung
ourselves into lively adventures if only the conditions of our environment
and of the whole middle-class world in which we lived had in any way
admitted of such things. Despite all the promptings of our instincts,
however, we got no further than planning this excursion to Bohemia. At all
events, it was something that we made the journey not by the post, but in
our own carriage, and our genuine pleasure continued to lie in the fact that
at Teplitz, for instance, we daily took long drives in a fine carriage. When in
the evening we had supped off trout at the Wilhelmsburg, drunk good
Czernosek wine with Bilin water, and duly excited ourselves over
Hoffmann, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Heinse’s Ardinghello, and other
matters, and then, with our limbs comfortably outstretched in our elegant
carriage, drove back in the summer twilight to the ‘King of Prussia,’ where
we occupied the large balcony-room on the first floor, we felt that we had
spent the day like young gods, and for sheer exuberance could think of
nothing better to do than to indulge in the most frightful quarrels which,

especially when the windows were open, would collect numbers of alarmed
listeners in the square before the inn.
One fine morning I stole away from my friend in order to take my
breakfast alone at the ‘Schlackenburg,’ and also to seize an opportunity of
jotting down the plan of a new operatic composition in my note-book. With
this end in view, I had mastered the subject of Shakespeare’s Measure for
Measure, which, in accordance with my present mood, I soon transformed
pretty freely into a libretto entitled Liebesverbot. Young Europe and
Ardinghello, and the strange frame of mind into which I had fallen with
regard to classical operatic music, furnished me with the keynote of my
conception, which was directed more particularly against puritanical
hypocrisy, and which thus tended boldly to exalt ‘unrestrained sensuality.’ I
took care to understand the grave Shakespearean theme only in this sense. I
could see only the gloomy strait-laced viceroy, his heart aflame with the
most passionate love for the beautiful novice, who, while she beseeches him
to pardon her brother condemned to death for illicit love, at the same time
kindles the most dangerous fire in the stubborn Puritan’s breast by infecting
him with the lovely warmth of her human emotion.
The fact that these powerful features are so richly developed in
Shakespeare’s creation only in order that, in the end, they may be weighed
all the more gravely in the scales of justice, was no concern of mine: all I
cared about was to expose the sinfulness of hypocrisy and the unnaturalness
of such cruel moral censure. Thus I completely dropped Measure for
Measure, and made the hypocrite be brought to justice only by the avenging
power of love. I transferred the theme from the fabulous city of Vienna to
the capital of sunny Sicily, in which a German viceroy, indignant at the
inconceivably loose morals of the people, attempts to introduce a
puritanical reform, and comes miserably to grief over it. Die Stumme von
Portici probably contributed to some extent to this theme, as did also certain
memories of Die Sizilianische Vesper. When I remember that at last even
the gentle Sicilian Bellini constituted a factor in this composition, I cannot,
to be sure, help smiling at the strange medley in which the most
extraordinary misunderstandings here took shape.
This remained for the present a mere draft. Studies from life destined for
my work were first to be carried out on this delightful excursion to
Bohemia. I led my friend in triumph to Prague, in the hope of securing the

same impressions for him which had stirred me so profoundly when I was
there. We met my fair friends in the city itself; for, owing to the death of old
Count Pachta, material changes had taken place in the family, and the
surviving daughters no longer went to Pravonin. My behaviour was full of
arrogance, and by means of it I doubtless wished to vent a certain
capricious lust of revenge for the feelings of bitterness with which I had
taken leave of this circle some years previously. My friend was well
received. The changed family circumstances forced the charming girls ever
more and more imperatively to come to some decision as to their future,
and a wealthy bourgeois, though not exactly in trade himself, but in
possession of ample means, seemed to the anxious mother, at all events, a
good adviser. Without either showing or feeling any malice in the matter, I
expressed my pleasure at the sight of the strange confusion caused by
Theodor’s introduction into the family by the merriest and wildest jests: for
my only intercourse with the ladies consisted purely of jokes and friendly
chaff. They could not understand how it was that I had altered so strangely.
There was no longer any of that love of wrangling, that rage for instructing,
and that zeal in converting in me which formerly they had found so
irritating. But at the same time not a sensible word could I be made to utter,
and they who were now wanting to talk over many things seriously could
get nothing out of me save the wildest tomfoolery. As on this occasion, in
my character of an uncaged bird, I boldly allowed myself many a liberty
against which they felt themselves powerless, my exuberant spirits were
excited all the more when my friend, who was led away by my example,
tried to imitate me—a thing they took in very bad part from him.

Only once was there any attempt at seriousness between us: I was sitting
at the piano, and was listening to my companion, who was telling the ladies
that in a conversation at the hotel I had found occasion to express myself
most warmly to some one who appeared to be surprised on hearing of the
domestic and industrious qualities of my lady friends. I was deeply moved
when, as the outcome of my companion’s remarks, I gathered what
unpleasant experiences the poor things had already been through: for what
seemed to me a very natural action on my part, appeared to fill them with
unexpected pleasure. Jenny, for instance, came up to me and hugged me
with great warmth. By general consent I was now granted the right of
behaving with almost studied rudeness, and I replied even to Jenny’s warm
outburst only with my usual banter.
In our hotel, the ‘Black Horse,’ which was so famous in those days, I
found the playground in which I was able to carry the mischievous spirit not
exhausted at the Pachta’s house to the point of recklessness. Out of the most
accidental material in table and travelling guests we succeeded in gathering
a company around us which allowed us, until far into the night, to lead it
into the most inconceivable follies. To all this I was incited more
particularly by the personality of a very timid and undersized business man
from Frankfort on the Oder, who longed to seem of a daring disposition;
and his presence stimulated me, if only owing to the remarkable chance it
gave me of coming into contact with some one who was at home in
Frankfort ‘on the Oder.’ Any one who knows how things then stood in
Austria can form some idea of my recklessness when I say that I once went
so far as to cause our symposium in the public room to bellow the
Marseillaise out loud into the night. Therefore, when after this heroic
exploit was over, and while I was undressing, I clambered on the outer
ledges of the windows from one room to the other on the second floor, I
naturally horrified those who did not know of the love of acrobatic feats
which I had cultivated in my earliest boyhood.
Even if I had exposed myself without fear to such dangers, I was soon
sobered down next morning by a summons from the police. When, in
addition to this, I recalled the singing of the Marseillaise, I was filled with

the gravest fears. After having been detained at the station a long time,
owing to a strange misunderstanding, the upshot of it was that the inspector
who was told off to examine me found that there was not sufficient time left
for a serious hearing, and, to my great relief, I was allowed to go after
replying to a few harmless questions concerning the intended length of my
stay. Nevertheless, we thought it advisable not to yield to the temptation of
playing any more pranks beneath the spread wings of the double eagle.
By means of a circuitous route into which we were led by our insatiable
longing for adventures—adventures which, as a matter of fact, occurred
only in our imagination, and which to all intents and purposes were but
modest diversions on the road—we at length got back to Leipzig. And with
this return home the really cheerful period of my life as a youth definitely
closed. If, up to that time, I had not been free from serious errors and
moments of passion, it was only now that care cast its first shadow across
my path.
My family had anxiously awaited my return in order to inform me that
the post of conductor had been offered to me by the Magdeburg Theatre
Company. This company during the current summer month was performing
at a watering place called Lauchstadt. The manager could not get on with an
incompetent conductor that had been sent to him, and in his extremity had
applied to Leipzig in the hope of getting a substitute forthwith. Stegmayer,
the conductor, who had no inclination to practise my score Feen during the
hot summer weather, as he had promised to do, promptly recommended me
for the post, and in that way really managed to shake off a very troublesome
tormentor. For although, on the one hand, I really desired to be able to
abandon myself freely and without restraint to the torrent of adventures that
constitute the artist’s life, yet a longing for independence, which could be
won only by my earning my own living, had been greatly strengthened in
me by the state of my affairs. Albeit, I had the feeling that a solid basis for
the gratification of this desire was not to be laid in Lauchstadt; nor did I
find it easy to assist the plot concocted against the production of my Feen. I
therefore determined to make a preliminary visit to the place just to see how
things stood.
This little watering-place had, in the days of Goethe and Schiller,
acquired a very wide reputation, its wooden theatre had been built
according to the design of the former, and the first performance of the Braut

von Messina had been given there. But although I repeated all this to
myself, the place made me feel rather doubtful. I asked for the house of the
director of the theatre. He proved to be out, but a small dirty boy, his son,
was told to take me to the theatre to find ‘Papa.’ Papa, however, met us on
the way. He was an elderly man; he wore a dressing-gown, and on his head
a cap. His delight at greeting me was interrupted by complaints about a
serious indisposition, for which his son was to fetch him a cordial from a
shop close by. Before despatching the boy on this errand he pressed a real
silver penny into his hand with a certain ostentation which was obviously
for my benefit. This person was Heinrich Bethmann, surviving husband of
the famous actress of that name, who, having lived in the heyday of the
German stage, had won the favour of the King of Prussia; and won it so
lastingly, that long after her death it had continued to be extended to her
spouse. He always drew a nice pension from the Prussian court, and
permanently enjoyed its support without ever being able to forfeit its
protection by his irregular and dissipated ways.
At the time of which I am speaking he had sunk to his lowest, owing to
continued theatre management. His speech and manners revealed the sugary
refinement of a bygone day, while all that he did and everything about him
testified to the most shameful neglect. He took me back to his house, where
he presented me to his second wife, who, crippled in one foot, lay on an
extraordinary couch while an elderly bass, concerning whose excessive
devotion Bethmann had already complained to me quite openly, smoked his
pipe beside her. From there the director took me to his stage manager, who
lived in the same house.
With the latter, who was just engaged in a consultation about the
repertory with the theatre attendant, a toothless old skeleton, he left me to
settle the necessary arrangements. As soon as Bethmann had gone,
Schmale, the stage manager, shrugged his shoulders and smiled, assuring
me that that was just the way of the director, to put everything on his back
and trouble himself about nothing. There he had been sitting for over an
hour, discussing with Kroge what should be put on next Sunday: it was all
very well his starting Don Juan, but how could he get a rehearsal carried
out, when the Merseburg town bandsmen, who formed the orchestra, would
not come over on Saturday to rehearse?

All the time Schmale kept reaching out through the open window to a
cherry tree from which he picked and persistently ate the fruit, ejecting the
stones with a disagreeable noise. Now it was this last circumstance in
particular which decided me; for, strange to say, I have an innate aversion
from fruit. I informed the stage manager that he need not trouble at all about
Don Juan for Sunday, since for my part, if they had reckoned on my making
my first appearance at this performance, I must anyhow disappoint the
director, as I had no choice but to return at once to Leipzig, where I had to
put my affairs in order. This polite manner of tendering my absolute refusal
to accept the appointment—a conclusion I had quickly arrived at in my own
mind—forced me to practise some dissimulation, and made it necessary for
me to appear as if I really had some other purpose in coming to Lauchstadt.
This pretence in itself was quite unnecessary, seeing that I was quite
determined never to return there again.
People offered to help me in finding a lodging, and a young actor whom I
had chanced to know at Wurzburg undertook to be my guide in the matter.
While he was taking me to the best lodging he knew, he told me that
presently he would do me the kindness of making me the housemate of the
prettiest and nicest girl to be found in the place at the time. She was the
junior lead of the company, Mademoiselle Minna Planer, of whom
doubtless I had already heard.
As luck would have it, the promised damsel met us at the door of the
house in question. Her appearance and bearing formed the most striking
contrast possible to all the unpleasant impressions of the theatre which it
had been my lot to receive on this fateful morning. Looking very charming
and fresh, the young actress’s general manner and movements were full of a
certain majesty and grave assurance which lent an agreeable and captivating
air of dignity to her otherwise pleasant expression. Her scrupulously clean
and tidy dress completed the startling effect of the unexpected encounter.
After I had been introduced to her in the hall as the new conductor, and
after she had done regarding with astonishment the stranger who seemed so
young for such a title, she recommended me kindly to the landlady of the
house, and begged that I might be well looked after; whereupon she walked
proudly and serenely across the street to her rehearsal.
I engaged a room on the spot, agreed to Don Juan for Sunday, regretted
greatly that I had not brought my luggage with me from Leipzig, and

hastened to return thither as quickly as possible in order to get back to
Lauchstadt all the sooner. The die was cast. The serious side of life at once
confronted me in the form of significant experiences. At Leipzig I had to
take a furtive leave of Laube. At the instance of Prussia he had been warned
off Saxon soil, and he half guessed at the meaning which was to be attached
to this move. The time of undisguised reaction against the Liberal
movement of the early ‘thirties had set in: the fact that Laube was
concerned in no sort of political work, but had devoted himself merely to
literary activity, always aiming simply at aesthetic objects, made the action
of the police quite incomprehensible to us for the time being. The
disgusting ambiguity with which the Leipzig authorities answered all his
questions as to the cause of his expulsion soon gave him the strongest
suspicions as to what their intentions towards him actually were.
Leipzig, as the scene of his literary labours, being inestimably precious, it
mattered greatly to him to keep within reach of it. My friend Apel owned a
fine estate on Prussian soil, within but a few hours’ distance of Leipzig, and
we conceived the wish of seeing Laube hospitably harboured there. My
friend, who without infringing the legal stipulations was in a position to
give the persecuted man a place of refuge, immediately assented, and with
great readiness, to our desire, but confessed to us next day, after having
communicated with his family, that he thought he might incur some
unpleasantnesses if he entertained Laube. At this the latter smiled, and in a
manner I shall never forget, though I have noticed in the course of my life
that the expression which I then saw in his face was one which has often
flitted over my own features. He took his leave, and in a short time we
heard that he had been arrested, owing to having undertaken fresh
proceedings against former members of the Burschenschaft (Students’
League), and had been lodged in the municipal prison at Berlin. I had thus
had two experiences which weighed me down like lead, so I packed my
scanty portmanteau, took leave of my mother and sister, and, with a stout
heart, started on my career as a conductor.
In order to be able to look upon the little room under Minna’s lodging as
my new home, I was forced also to make the best of Bethmann’s theatrical
enterprise. As a matter of fact, a performance of Don Juan was given at
once, for the director, who prided himself on being a connoisseur of things
artistic, suggested that opera to me as one with which it would be wise for
an aspiring young artist, of a good family, to make his debut. Despite the

fact that, apart from some of my own instrumental compositions, I had
never yet conducted, and least of all in opera, the rehearsal and the
performance went off fairly well. Only once or twice did discrepancies
appear in the recitative of Donna Anna; yet this did not involve me in any
kind of hostility, and when I took my place unabashed and calm for the
production of Lumpaci Vagabundus, which I had practised very thoroughly,
the people generally seemed to have gained full confidence in the theatre’s
new acquisition.
The fact that I submitted without bitterness and even with some
cheerfulness to this unworthy use of my musical talent, was due less to my
taste being at this period, as I called it, in its salad days, than to my
intercourse with Minna Planer, who was employed in that magic trifle as the
Amorous Fairy. Indeed, in the midst of this dust-cloud of frivolity and
vulgarity, she always seemed very much like a fairy, the reasons of whose
descent into this giddy whirl, which of a truth seemed neither to carry her
away nor even to affect her, remained an absolute mystery. For while I
could discover nothing in the opera singers save the familiar stage
caricatures and grimaces, this fair actress differed wholly from those about
her in her unaffected soberness and dainty modesty, as also in the absence
of all theatrical pretence and stiltedness. There was only one young man
whom I could place beside Minna on the ground of qualities like those I
recognised in her. This fellow was Friedrich Schmitt, who had only just
adopted the stage as a career in the hope of making a ‘hit’ in opera, to
which, as the possessor of an excellent tenor voice, he felt himself called.
He too differed from the rest of the company, especially in the earnestness
which he brought to bear upon his studies and his work in general: the
soulful manly pitch of his chest voice, his clear, noble enunciation and
intelligent rendering of his words, have always remained as standards in my
memory. Owing to the fact that he was wholly devoid of theatrical talent,
and acted clumsily and awkwardly, a check was soon put to his progress,
but he always remained dear to me as a clever and original man of
trustworthy and upright character—my only associate.
But my dealings with my kind housemate soon became a cherished habit,
while she returned the ingenuously impetuous advances of the conductor of
one-and-twenty with a certain tolerant astonishment which, remote as it was
from all coquetry and ulterior motives, soon made familiar and friendly
intercourse possible with her. When, one evening, I returned late to my

ground-floor room, by climbing through the window, for I had no latch-key,
the noise of my entry brought Minna to her window just over mine.
Standing on my window ledge I begged her to allow me to bid her good-
night once more. She had not the slightest objection to this, but declared it
must be done from the window, as she always had her door locked by the
people of the house, and nobody could get in that way. She kindly
facilitated the handshake by leaning far out of her window, so that I could
take her hand as I stood on my ledge. When later on I had an attack of
erysipelas, from which I often suffered, and with my face all swollen and
frightfully distorted concealed myself from the world in my gloomy room,
Minna visited me repeatedly, nursed me, and assured me that my distorted
features did not matter in the least. On recovering, I paid her a visit and
complained of a rash that had remained round my mouth, and which
seemed so unpleasant that I apologised for showing it to her. This also she
made light of. Then I inferred she would not give me a kiss, whereupon she
at once gave me practical proof that she did not shrink from that either.
This was all done with a friendly serenity and composure that had
something almost motherly about it, and it was free from all suggestion of
frivolity or of heartlessness. In a few weeks the company had to leave
Lauchstadt to proceed to Rudolstadt and fulfil a special engagement there. I
was particularly anxious to make this journey, which in those days was an
arduous undertaking, in Minna’s company, and if only I had succeeded in
getting my well-earned salary duly paid by Bethmann, nothing would have
hindered the fulfilment of my wish. But in this matter I encountered
exceptional difficulties, which in the course of eventful years grew in
chronic fashion into the strangest of ailments. Even at Lauchstadt I had
discovered that there was only one man who drew his salary in full, namely
the bass Kneisel, whom I had seen smoking his pipe beside the couch of the
director’s lame wife. I was assured that if I cared greatly about getting some
of my wages from time to time, I could obtain this favour only by paying
court to Mme. Bethmann. This time I preferred once more to appeal to my
family for help, and therefore travelled to Rudolstadt through Leipzig,
where, to the sad astonishment of my mother, I had to replenish my coffer
with the necessary supplies. On the way to Leipzig I had travelled with
Apel through his estate, he having fetched me from Lauchstadt for the
purpose. His arrival was fixed in my memory by a noisy banquet which my
wealthy friend gave at the hotel in my honour. It was on this occasion that I

and one of the other guests succeeded in completely destroying a huge,
massively built Dutch-tile stove, such as we had in our room at the inn.
Next morning none of us could understand how it had happened.
It was on this journey to Rudolstadt that I first passed through Weimar,
where on a rainy day I strolled with curiosity, but without emotion, towards
Goethe’s house. I had pictured something rather different, and thought I
should experience livelier impressions from the active theatre life of
Rudolstadt, to which I felt strongly attracted. In spite of the fact that I was
not to be conductor myself, this post having been entrusted to the leader of
the royal orchestra, who had been specially engaged for our performances,
yet I was so fully occupied with rehearsals for the many operas and musical
comedies required to regale the frivolous public of the principality that I
found no leisure for excursions into the charming regions of this little land.
In addition to these severe and ill-paid labours, two passions held me
chained during the six weeks of my stay in Rudolstadt. These were, first, a
longing to write the libretto of Liebesverbot; and secondly, my growing
attachment to Minna. It is true, I sketched out a musical composition about
this time, a symphony in E major, whose first movement (3/4 time) I
completed as a separate piece. As regards style and design, this work was
suggested by Beethoven’s Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, and, so far as I
can remember, I should have had no need to be ashamed of it, had I been
able to complete it, or keep the part I had actually finished. But I had
already begun at this time to form the opinion that, to produce anything
fresh and truly noteworthy in the realm of symphony, and according to
Beethoven’s methods, was an impossibility. Whereas opera, to which I felt
inwardly drawn, though I had no real example I wished to copy, presented
itself to my mind in varied and alluring shapes as a most fascinating form of
art. Thus, amid manifold and passionate agitations, and in the few leisure
hours which were left to me, I completed the greater part of my operatic
poem, taking infinitely more pains, both as regards words and versification,
than with the text of my earlier Feen. Moreover, I found myself possessed
of incomparably greater assurance in the arrangement and partial invention
of situations than when writing that earlier work.
On the other hand, I now began for the first time to experience the cares
and worries of a lover’s jealousy. A change, to me inexplicable, manifested
itself in Minna’s hitherto unaffected and gentle manner towards me. It
appears that my artless solicitations for her favour, by which at that time I

meant nothing serious, and in which a man of the world would merely have
seen the exuberance of a youthful and easily satisfied infatuation, had given
rise to certain remarks and comments upon the popular actress. I was
astonished to learn, first from her reserved manner, and later from her own
lips, that she felt compelled to inquire into the seriousness of my intentions,
and to consider their consequences. She was at that time, as I had already
discovered, on very intimate terms with a young nobleman, whose
acquaintance I first made in Lauchstadt, where he used to visit her. I had
already realised on that occasion that he was unfeignedly and cordially
attached to her; in fact, in the circle of her friends she was regarded as
engaged to Herr von O., although it was obvious that marriage was out of
the question, as the young lover was quite without means, and owing to the
high standing of his family it was essential that he should sacrifice himself
to a marriage of convenience, both on account of his social position and of
the career which he would have to adopt. During this stay at Rudolstadt
Minna appears to have gathered certain information on this point which
troubled and depressed her, thus rendering her more inclined to treat my
impetuous attempts at courtship with cool reserve.
After mature deliberation I recognised that, in any case, Young Europe,
Ardinghello, and Liebesverbot could not be produced at Rudolstadt; but it
was a very different matter for the Fee Amorosa, with its merry theatrical
mood, and an Ehrlicher Burger Kind to seek a decent livelihood. Therefore,
greatly discouraged, I proceeded to accentuate the more extravagant
situations of my Liebesverbot by rioting with a few comrades in the
sausage-scented atmosphere of the Rudolstadt Vogelwiese. At this time my
troubles again brought me more or less into contact with the vice of
gambling, although on this occasion it only cast temporary fetters about me
in the very harmless form of the dice and roulette-tables out on the open
market-place.
We were looking forward to the time when we should leave Rudolstadt
for the half-yearly winter season at the capital, Magdeburg, mainly because
I should there resume my place at the head of the orchestra, and might in
any case count on a better reward for my musical efforts. But before
returning to Magdeburg I had to endure a trying interval at Bernburg, where
Bethmann, the director, in addition to his other undertakings, had also
promised sundry theatrical performances. During our brief stay in the town
I had to arrange for the presentation, with a mere fraction of the company,

of several operas, which were again to be conducted by the royal conductor
of the place. But in addition to these professional labours, I had to endure
such a meagre, ill-provided and grievously farcical existence as was enough
to disgust me, if not for ever, at any rate for the time being, with the
wretched profession of a theatrical conductor. Yet I survived even this, and
Magdeburg was destined to lead me eventually to the real glory of my
adopted profession.
The sensation of sitting in command at the very conductor’s desk from
which, not many years before, the great master Kuhnlein had so moved the
perplexed young enthusiast by the weighty wisdom of his musical
directorship, was not without its charm for me, and, indeed, I very quickly
succeeded in obtaining perfect confidence in conducting an orchestra. I was
soon a persona grata with the excellent musicians of the orchestra. Their
splendid combination in spirited overtures, which, especially towards the
finale, I generally took at an unheard-of speed, often earned for us all the
intoxicating applause of the public. The achievements of my fiery and often
exuberant zeal won me recognition from the singers, and were greeted by
the audience with rapturous appreciation. As in Magdeburg, at least in those
days, the art of theatrical criticism was but slightly developed, this universal
satisfaction was a great encouragement, and at the end of the first three
months of my Magdeburg conductorship I felt sustained by the flattering
and comforting assurance that I was one of the bigwigs of opera. Under
these circumstances, Schmale, the stage manager, who has been my good
friend ever since, proposed a special gala performance for New Year’s Day,
which he felt sure would be a triumph. I was to compose the necessary
music. This was very speedily done; a rousing overture, several melodramas
and choruses were all greeted with enthusiasm, and brought us such ample
applause that we repeated the performance with great success, although
such repetitions after the actual gala day were quite contrary to usage.
With the new year (1835) there came a decisive turning-point in my life.
After the rupture between Minna and myself at Rudolstadt, we had been to
some extent lost to one another; but our friendship was resumed on our
meeting again in Magdeburg; this time, however, it remained cool and
purposely indifferent. When she first appeared in the town, a year before,
her beauty had attracted considerable notice, and I now learned that she was
the object of great attention from several young noblemen, and had shown
herself not unmoved by the compliment implied by their visits. Although

her reputation, thanks to her absolute discretion and self-respect, remained
beyond reproach, my objection to her receiving such attentions grew very
strong, owing possibly, in some degree, to the memory of the sorrows I had
endured in Pachta’s house in Prague. Although Minna assured me that the
conduct of these gentlemen was much more discreet and decent than that of
theatre-goers of the bourgeois class, and especially than that of certain
young musical conductors, she never succeeded in soothing the bitterness
and insistence with which I protested against her acceptance of such
attentions. So we spent three unhappy months in ever-increasing
estrangement, and at the same time, in half-frantic despair, I pretended to be
fond of the most undesirable associates, and acted in every way with such
blatant levity that Minna, as she told me afterwards, was filled with the
deepest anxiety and solicitude concerning me. Moreover, as the ladies of the
opera company were not slow to pay court to their youthful conductor, and
especially as one young woman, whose reputation was not spotless, openly
set her cap at me, this anxiety of Minna’s seems at last to have culminated
in a definite decision. I hit upon the idea of treating the elite of our opera
company to oysters and punch in my own room on New Year’s Eve. The
married couples were invited, and then came the question whether Fraulein
Planer would consent to take part in such a festivity. She accepted quite
ingenuously, and presented herself, as neatly and becomingly dressed as
ever, in my bachelor apartments, where things soon grew pretty lively. I had
already warned my landlord that we were not likely to be very quiet, and
reassured him as to any possible damage to his furniture. What the
champagne failed to accomplish, the punch eventually succeeded in doing;
all the restraints of petty conventionality, which the company usually
endeavoured to observe, were cast aside, giving place to an unreserved
demeanour all round, to which no one objected. And then it was that
Minna’s queenly dignity distinguished her from all her companions. She
never lost her self-respect; and whilst no one ventured to take the slightest
liberty with her, every one very clearly recognised the simple candour with
which she responded to my kindly and solicitous attentions. They could not
fail to see that the link existing between us was not to be compared to any
ordinary liaison, and we had the satisfaction of seeing the flighty young
lady who had so openly angled for me fall into a fit over the discovery.
From that time onward I remained permanently on the best of terms with
Minna. I do not believe that she ever felt any sort of passion or genuine love

for me, or, indeed, that she was capable of such a thing, and I can therefore
only describe her feeling for me as one of heartfelt goodwill, and the
sincerest desire for my success and prosperity, inspired as she was with the
kindest sympathy, and genuine delight at, and admiration for, my talents.
All this at last became part of her nature. She obviously had a very
favourable opinion of my abilities, though she was surprised at the rapidity
of my success. My eccentric nature, which she knew so well how to humour
pleasantly by her gentleness, stimulated her to the continual exercise of the
power, so flattering to her own vanity, and without ever betraying any
desire or ardour herself, she never met my impetuous advances with
coldness.
At the Magdeburg theatre I had already made the acquaintance of a very
interesting woman called Mme. Haas. She was an actress, no longer in her
first youth, and played so-called ‘chaperone’s parts.’ This lady won my
sympathy by telling me she had been friendly ever since her youth with
Laube, in whose destiny she continued to take a heartfelt and cordial
interest. She was clever, but far from happy, and an unprepossessing
exterior, which with the lapse of years grew more uninviting, did not tend to
make her any happier. She lived in meagre circumstances, with one child,
and appeared to remember her better days with a bitter grief. My first visit
to her was paid merely to inquire after Laube’s fate, but I soon became a
frequent and familiar caller. As she and Minna speedily became fast friends,
we three often spent pleasant evenings talking together. But when, later on,
a certain jealousy manifested itself on the part of the elder woman towards
the younger, our confidential relations were more or less disturbed, for it
particularly grieved me to hear Minna’s talents and mental gifts criticised
by the other. One evening I had promised Minna to have tea with her and
Mme. Haas, but I had thoughtlessly promised to go to a whist party first.
This engagement I purposely prolonged, much as it wearied me, in the
deliberate hope that her companion—who had already grown irksome to me
—might have left before my arrival. The only way in which I could do this
was by drinking hard, so that I had the very unusual experience of rising
from a sober whist party in a completely fuddled condition, into which I
had imperceptibly fallen, and in which I refused to believe. This incredulity
deluded me into keeping my engagement for tea, although it was so late. To
my intense disgust the elder woman was still there when I arrived, and her
presence at once had the effect of rousing my tipsiness to a violent

outbreak; for she seemed astonished at my rowdy and unseemly behaviour,
and made several remarks upon it intended for jokes, whereupon I scoffed
at her in the coarsest manner, so that she immediately left the house in high
dudgeon. I had still sense enough to be conscious of Minna’s astonished
laughter at my outrageous conduct. As soon as she realised, however, that
my condition was such as to render my removal impossible without great
commotion, she rapidly formed a resolution which must indeed have cost
her an effort, though it was carried out with the utmost calmness and good-
humour. She did all she could for me, and procured me the necessary relief,
and when I sank into a heavy slumber, unhesitatingly resigned her own bed
to my use. There I slept until awakened by the wonderful grey of dawn. On
recognising where I was, I at once realised and grew ever more convinced
of the fact that this morning’s sunrise marked the starting-point of an
infinitely momentous period of my life. The demon of care had at last
entered into my existence.
Without any light-hearted jests, without gaiety or joking of any
description, we breakfasted quietly and decorously together, and at an hour
when, in view of the compromising circumstances of the previous evening,
we could set out without attracting undue notice, I set off with Minna for a
long walk beyond the city gates. Then we parted, and from that day forward
freely and openly gratified our desires as an acknowledged pair of lovers.
The peculiar direction which my musical activities had gradually taken
continued to receive ever fresh impetus, not only from the successes, but
also from the disasters which about this time befell my efforts. I produced
the overture to my Feen with very satisfactory results at a concert given by
the Logengesellschaft, and thereby earned considerable applause. On the
other hand, news came from Leipzig confirming the shabby action of the
directors of the theatre in that place with regard to the promised
presentation of this opera. But, happily for me, I had begun the music for
my Liebesverbot, an occupation which so absorbed my thoughts that I lost
all interest in the earlier work, and abstained with proud indifference from
all further effort to secure its performance in Leipzig. The success of its
overture alone amply repaid me for the composition of my first opera.
Meanwhile, in spite of numerous other distractions, I found time, during
the brief six months of this theatrical season in Magdeburg, to complete a
large portion of my new opera, besides doing other work. I ventured to

introduce two duets from it at a concert given in the theatre, and their
reception encouraged me to proceed hopefully with the rest of the opera.
During the second half of this season my friend Apel came to sun himself
enthusiastically in the splendour of my musical directorship. He had written
a drama, Columbus, which I recommended to our management for
production. This was a peculiarly easy favour to win, as Apel volunteered to
have a new scene, representing the Alhambra, painted at his own expense.
Besides this, he proposed to effect many welcome improvements in the
condition of the actors taking part in his play; for, owing to the continued
preference displayed by the directress for Kneisel, the bass, they had all
suffered very much from uncertainty about their wages. The piece itself
appeared to me to contain much that was good. It described the difficulties
and struggles of the great navigator before he set sail on his first voyage of
discovery. The drama ended with the momentous departure of his ships
from the harbour of Palos, an episode whose results are known to all the
world. At my desire Apel submitted his play to my uncle Adolph, and even
in his critical opinion it was remarkable for its lively and characteristic
popular scenes. On the other hand, a love romance, which he had woven
into the plot, struck me as unnecessary and dull. In addition to a brief
chorus for some Moors who were expelled from Granada, to be sung on
their departure from the familiar home country, and a short orchestral piece
by way of conclusion, I also dashed off an overture for my friend’s play. I
sketched out the complete draft of this one evening at Minna’s house, while
Apel was left free to talk to her as much and as loudly as he liked. The
effect this composition was calculated to produce rested on a fundamental
idea which was quite simple, yet startling in its development. Unfortunately
I worked it out rather hurriedly. In not very carefully chosen phrasing the
orchestra was to represent the ocean, and, as far as might be, the ship upon
it. A forcible, pathetically yearning and aspiring theme was the only
comprehensible idea amid the swirl of enveloping sound. When the whole
had been repeated, there was a sudden jump to a different theme in extreme
pianissimo, accompanied by the swelling vibrations of the first violins,
which was intended to represent a Fata Morgana. I had secured three pairs
of trumpets in different keys, in order to produce this exquisite, gradually
dawning and seductive theme with the utmost niceties of shade and variety
of modulation. This was intended to represent the land of desire towards
which the hero’s eyes are turned, and whose shores seem continually to rise

before him only to sink elusively beneath the waves, until at last they soar
in very deed above the western horizon, the crown of all his toil and search,
and stand clearly and unmistakably revealed to all the sailors, a vast
continent of the future. My six trumpets were now to combine in one key, in
order that the theme assigned to them might re-echo in glorious jubilation.
Familiar as I was with the excellence of the Prussian regimental trumpeters,
I could rely upon a startling effect, especially in this concluding passage.
My overture astonished every one, and was tumultuously applauded. The
play itself, however, was acted without dignity. A conceited comedian,
named Ludwig Meyer, completely ruined the title part, for which he
excused himself on the ground that, having to act as stage manager also, he
had been unable to commit his lines to memory. Nevertheless, he managed
to enrich his wardrobe with several splendid costumes at Apel’s expense,
wearing them, as Columbus, one after the other. At all events, Apel had
lived to see a play of his own actually performed, and although this was
never repeated, yet it afforded me an opportunity of increasing my personal
popularity with the people of Magdeburg, as the overture was several times
repeated at concerts by special request.
But the chief event of this theatrical season occurred towards its close. I
induced Mme. Schroder-Devrient, who was staying in Leipzig, to come to
us for a few special performances, when, on two occasions, I had the great
satisfaction and stimulating experience of myself conducting the operas in
which she sang, and thus entering into immediate artistic collaboration with
her. She appeared as Desdemona and Romeo. In the latter role particularly
she surpassed herself, and kindled a fresh flame in my breast. This visit
brought us also into closer personal contact. So kindly disposed and
sympathetic did she show herself towards me, that she even volunteered to
lend me her services at a concert which I proposed to give for my own
benefit, although this would necessitate her returning after a brief absence.
Under circumstances so auspicious I could only expect the best possible
results from my concert, and in my situation at that time its proceeds were a
matter of vital importance to me. My scanty salary from the Magdeburg
opera company had become altogether illusory, being paid only in small
and irregular instalments, so that I could see but one way of meeting my
daily expenses. These included frequent entertainment of a large circle of
friends, consisting of singers and players, and the situation had become
unpleasantly accentuated by no small number of debts. True, I did not know

their exact amount; but reckoned that I could at least form an advantageous,
if indefinite, estimate of the sum to be realized by my concert, whereby the
two unknown quantities might balance each other. I therefore consoled my
creditors with the tale of these fabulous receipts, which were to pay them all
in full the day after the concert. I even went so far as to invite them to come
and be paid at the hotel to which I had moved at the close of the season.
And, indeed, there was nothing unreasonable in my counting on the
highest imaginable receipts, when supported by so great and popular a
singer, who, moreover, was returning to Magdeburg on purpose for the
event. I consequently acted with reckless prodigality as regards cost,
launching out into all manner of musical extravagance, such as engaging an
excellent and much larger orchestra, and arranging many rehearsals.
Unfortunately for me, however, nobody would believe that such a famous
actress, whose time was so precious, would really return again to please a
little Magdeburg conductor. My pompous announcement of her appearance
was almost universally regarded as a deceitful manœuvre, and people took
offence at the high prices charged for seats. The result was that the hall was
only very scantily filled, a fact which particularly grieved me on account of
my generous patroness. Her promise I had never doubted. Punctually on the
day appointed she reappeared to support me, and now had the painful and
unaccustomed experience of performing before a small audience.
Fortunately, she treated the matter with great good-humour (which, I
learned later, was prompted by other motives, not personally concerning
me). Among several pieces she sang Beethoven’s Adelaïde most exquisitely,
wherein, to my own astonishment, I accompanied her on the piano. But,
alas! another and more unexpected mishap befell my concert, through our
unfortunate selection of pieces. Owing to the excessive reverberation of the
saloon in the Hotel ‘The City of London,’ the noise was unbearable. My
Columbus Overture, with its six trumpets, had early in the evening filled the
audience with terror; and now, at the end, came Beethoven’s Schlacht bei
Vittoria, for which, in enthusiastic expectation of limitless receipts, I had
provided every imaginable orchestral luxury. The firing of cannon and
musketry was organised with the utmost elaboration, on both the French
and English sides, by means of specially constructed and costly apparatus;
while trumpets and bugles had been doubled and trebled. Then began a
battle, such as has seldom been more cruelly fought in a concert-room. The
orchestra flung itself, so to speak, upon the scanty audience with such an

overwhelming superiority of numbers that the latter speedily gave up all
thought of resistance and literally took to flight. Mme. Schroder-Devrient
had kindly taken a front seat, that she might hear the concert to an end.
Much as she may have been inured to terrors of this kind, this was more
than she could stand, even out of friendship for me. When, therefore, the
English made a fresh desperate assault upon the French position, she took to
flight, almost wringing her hands. Her action became the signal for a panic-
stricken stampede. Every one rushed out; and Wellington’s victory was
finally celebrated in a confidential outburst between myself and the
orchestra alone. Thus ended this wonderful musical festival. Schroder-
Devrient at once departed, deeply regretting the ill-success of her well-
meant effort, and kindly left me to my fate. After seeking comfort in the
arms of my sorrowing sweetheart, and attempting to nerve myself for the
morrow’s battle, which did not seem likely to end in a victorious symphony,
I returned next morning to the hotel. I found I could only reach my rooms
by running the gauntlet between long rows of men and women in double
file, who had all been specially invited thither for the settlement of their
respective affairs. Reserving the right to select individuals from among my
visitors for separate interview, I first of all led in the second trumpeter of
the orchestra, whose duty it had been to look after the cash and the music.
From his account I learned that, owing to the high fees which, in my
generous enthusiasm, I had promised to the orchestra, a few more shillings
and sixpences would still have to come out of my own pocket to meet these
charges alone. When this was settled, the position of affairs was plain. The
next person I invited to come in was Mme. Gottschalk, a trustworthy
Jewess, with whom I wanted to come to some arrangement respecting the
present crisis. She perceived at once that more than ordinary help was
required in this case, but did not doubt that I should be able to obtain it from
my opulent connections in Leipzig. She undertook, therefore, to appease the
other creditors with tranquillising assurances, and railed, or pretended to
rail, against their indecent conduct with great vigour. Thus at last we
succeeded, though not without some difficulty, in making the corridor
outside my door once more passable.
The theatrical season was now over, our company on the point of
dissolution, and I myself free from my appointment. But meanwhile the
unhappy director of our theatre had passed from a state of chronic to one of
acute bankruptcy. He paid with paper money, that is to say, with whole

sheets of box-tickets for performances which he guaranteed should take
place. By dint of great craft Minna managed to extract some profit even
from these singular treasury-bonds. She was living at this time most
frugally and economically. Moreover, as the dramatic company still
continued its efforts on behalf of its members—only the opera troupe
having been dissolved—she remained at the theatre. Thus, when I started
out on my compulsory return to Leipzig, she saw me off with hearty good-
wishes for our speedy reunion, promising to spend the next holidays in
visiting her parents in Dresden, on which occasion she hoped also to look
me up in Leipzig.
Thus it came about that early in May I once more went home to my own
folk, in order that after this abortive first attempt at civic independence, I
might finally lift the load of debt with which my efforts in Magdeburg had
burdened me. An intelligent brown poodle faithfully accompanied me, and
was entrusted to my family for food and entertainment as the only visible
property I had acquired. Nevertheless, my mother and Rosalie succeeded in
founding good hopes for my future career upon the bare fact of my being
able to conduct an orchestra. To me, on the other hand, the thought of
returning once more to my former life with my family was very
discomfiting. My relation to Minna in particular spurred me on to resume
my interrupted career as speedily as possible. The great change which had
come over me in this respect was more apparent than ever when Minna
spent a few days with me in Leipzig on her way home. Her familiar and
genial presence proclaimed that my days of parental dependence were past
and gone. We discussed the renewal of my Magdeburg engagement, and I
promised her an early visit in Dresden. I obtained permission from my
mother and sister to invite her one evening to tea, and in this way I
introduced her to my family. Rosalie saw at once how matters stood with
me, but made no further use of the discovery than to tease me about being
in love. To her the affair did not appear dangerous; but to me things wore a
very different aspect, for this love-lorn attachment was entirely in keeping
with my independent spirit, and my ambition to win myself a place in the
world of art.
My distaste for Leipzig itself was furthermore strengthened by a change
which occurred there at this time in the realm of music. At the very time
that I, in Magdeburg, was attempting to make my reputation as a musical
conductor by thoughtless submission to the frivolous taste of the day,

Mendelssohn-Bartholdy was conducting the Gewandhaus concerts, and
inaugurating a momentous epoch for himself and the musical taste of
Leipzig. His influence had put an end to the simple ingenuousness with
which the Leipzig public had hitherto judged the productions of its sociable
subscription concerts. Through the influence of my good old friend
Pohlenz, who was not yet altogether laid on the shelf, I managed to produce
my Columbus Overture at a benefit concert given by the favourite young
singer, Livia Gerhart. But, to my amazement, I found that the taste of the
musical public in Leipzig had been given a different bent, which not even
my rapturously applauded overture, with its brilliant combination of six
trumpets, could influence. This experience deepened my dislike of
everything approaching a classical tone, in which sentiment I found myself
in complete accord with honest Pohlenz, who sighed good-naturedly over
the downfall of the good old times.
Arrangements for a musical festival at Dessau, under Friedrich
Schneider’s conductorship, offered me a welcome chance of quitting
Leipzig. For this journey, which could be performed on foot in seven hours,
I had to procure a passport for eight days. This document was destined to
play an important part in my life for many years to come; for on several
occasions and in various European countries it was the only paper I
possessed to prove my identity. In fact, owing to my evasion of military
duty in Saxony, I never again succeeded in obtaining a regular pass until I
was appointed musical conductor in Dresden. I derived very little artistic
pleasure or benefit of any kind from this occasion; on the contrary, it gave a
fresh impetus to my hatred of the classical. I heard Beethoven’s Symphony
in C minor conducted by a man whose physiognomy, resembling that of a
drunken satyr, filled me with unconquerable disgust. In spite of an
interminable row of contrabassi, with which a conductor usually coquettes
at musical festivals, his performance was so expressionless and inane that I
turned away in disgust as from an alarming and repulsive problem, and
desisted from all attempts to explain the impassable gulf which, as I again
perceived, yawned between my own vivid and imaginative conception of
this work and the only living presentations of it which I had ever heard. But
for the present my tormented spirits were cheered and calmed by hearing
the classical Schneider’s oratorio Absalom rendered as an absolute
burlesque.

It was in Dessau that Minna had made her first debut on the stage, and
while there I heard her spoken of by frivolous young men in the tone usual
in such circles when discussing young and beautiful actresses. My
eagerness in contradicting this chatter and confounding the scandalmongers
revealed to me more clearly than ever the strength of the passion which
drew me to her.
I therefore returned to Leipzig without calling on my relatives, and there
procured means for an immediate journey to Dresden. On the way (the
journey was still performed by express coach) I met Minna, accompanied
by one of her sisters, already on the way back to Magdeburg. Promptly
procuring a posting ticket for the return journey to Leipzig, I actually set off
thither with my dear girl; but by the time we reached the next station I had
succeeded in persuading her to turn back with me to Dresden. By this time
the mail-coach was far ahead of us, and we had to travel by special post-
chaise. This lively bustling to and fro seemed to astonish the two girls, and
put them into high spirits. The extravagance of my conduct had evidently
roused them to the expectation of adventures, and it now behoved me to
fulfil this expectation. Procuring from a Dresden acquaintance the
necessary cash, I conducted my two lady friends through the Saxon Alps,
where we spent several right merry days of innocent and youthful gaiety.
Only once was this disturbed by a passing fit of jealousy on my part, for
which, indeed, there was no occasion, but which fed itself in my heart on a
nervous apprehension of the future, and upon the experience I had already
gained of womenkind. Yet, despite this blot, our excursion still lingers in
my memory as the sweetest and almost sole remembrance of unalloyed
happiness in the whole of my life as a young man. One evening in particular
stands out in bright relief, during which we sat together almost all night at
the watering-place of Schandau in glorious summer weather. Indeed, my
subsequent long and anxious connection with Minna, interwoven as it was
with the most painful and bitter vicissitudes, has often appeared to me as a
persistently prolonged expiation of the brief and harmless enjoyment of
those few days.
After accompanying Minna to Leipzig, whence she continued her
journey to Magdeburg, I presented myself to my family, but told them
nothing of my Dresden excursion. I now braced my energies, as though
under the stern compulsion of a strange and deep sense of duty, to the task
of making such arrangements as would speedily restore me to my dear

one’s side. To this end a fresh engagement had to be negotiated with
Director Bethmann for the coming winter season. Unable to await the
conclusion of our contract in Leipzig, I availed myself of Laube’s presence
at the baths in Kosen, near Naumburg, to pay him a visit. Laube had only
recently been discharged from the Berlin municipal gaol, after a tormenting
inquisition of nearly a year’s duration. On giving his parole not to leave the
country until the verdict had been given, he had been permitted to retire to
Kosen, from which place he, one evening, paid us a secret visit in Leipzig. I
can still call his woebegone appearance to mind. He seemed hopelessly
resigned, though he spoke cheerfully with regard to all his earlier dreams of
better things; and owing to my own worries at that time about the critical
state of my affairs, this impression still remains one of my saddest and most
painful recollections. While at Kosen I showed him a good many of the
verses for my Liebesverbot, and although he spoke coldly of my
presumption in wishing to write my own libretto, I was slightly encouraged
by his appreciation of my work.
Meanwhile I impatiently awaited letters from Magdeburg. Not that I had
any doubt as to the renewal of my engagement; on the contrary, I had every
reason to regard myself as a good acquisition for Bethmann; but I felt as
though nothing which tended to bring me nearer to Minna could move fast
enough. As soon as I received the necessary tidings, I hurried away to make
all needful arrangements on the spot for ensuring a magnificent success in
the coming Magdeburg operatic season.
Through the tireless munificence of the King of Prussia fresh and final
assistance had been granted to our perennially bankrupt theatrical director.
His Majesty had assigned a not inconsiderable sum to a committee
consisting of substantial Magdeburg citizens, as a subsidy to be expended
on the theatre under Bethmann’s management. What this meant, and the
respect with which I thereupon regarded the artistic conditions of
Magdeburg, may be best imagined if one remembers the neglected and
forlorn surroundings amid which such provincial theatres usually drag out
their lives. I offered at once to undertake a long journey in search of good
operatic singers. I said I would find the means for this at my own risk, and
the only guarantee I demanded from the management for eventual
reimbursement was that they should assign me the proceeds of a future
benefit performance. This offer was gladly accepted, and in pompous tones
the director furnished me with the necessary powers, and moreover gave me

his parting blessing. During this brief interval I lived once more in intimate
communion with Minna—who now had her mother with her—and then
took fresh leave of her for my venturesome enterprise.
But when I got to Leipzig I found it by no means easy to procure the
funds, so confidently counted on when in Magdeburg, for the expenses of
my projected journey. The glamour of the royal protection of Prussia for our
theatrical undertaking, which I portrayed in the liveliest colours to my good
brother-in-law Brockhaus, quite failed to dazzle him, and it was at the cost
of great pains and humiliation that I finally got my ship of discovery under
weigh.
I was naturally drawn first of all to my old wonderland of Bohemia.
There I merely touched at Prague and, without visiting my lovely lady
friends, I hurried forward so that I might first sample the opera company
then playing for the season at Karlsbad. Impatient to discover as many
talents as I could as soon as possible, so as not to exhaust my funds to no
purpose, I attended a performance of La Dame Blanche, sincerely hoping to
find the whole performance first class. But not until much later did I fully
realise how wretched was the quality of all these singers. I selected one of
them, a bass named Graf, who was singing Gaveston. When in due course
he made his debut at Magdeburg, he provoked so much well-founded
dissatisfaction, that I could not find a word to say in reply to the mockery
which this acquisition brought upon me.
But the small success with which the real object of my tour was attended
was counterbalanced by the pleasantness of the journey itself. The trip
through Eger, over the Fichtel mountains, and the entry into Bayreuth,
gloriously illuminated by the setting sun, have remained happy memories to
this day.
My next goal was Nuremberg, where my sister Clara and her husband
were acting, and from whom I might reckon on sound information as to the
object of my search. It was particularly nice to be hospitably received in my
sister’s house, where I hoped to revive my somewhat exhausted means of
travel. In this hope I reckoned chiefly upon the sale of a snuff-box presented
to me by a friend, which I had secret reasons to suppose was made of
platinum. To this I could add a gold signet-ring, given me by my friend
Apel for composing the overture to his Columbus. The value of the snuff-
box unfortunately proved to be entirely imaginary; but by pawning these

two jewels, the only ones I had left, I hoped to provide myself with the bare
necessaries for continuing my journey to Frankfort. It was to this place and
the Rhine district that the information I had gathered led me to direct my
steps. Before leaving I persuaded my sister and brother-in-law to accept
engagements in Magdeburg; but I still lacked a first tenor and a soprano,
whom hitherto I had altogether failed to discover.
My stay in Nuremberg was most agreeably prolonged through a renewed
meeting with Schroder-Devrient, who just at that time was fulfilling a short
engagement in that town. Meeting her again was like seeing the clouds
disperse, which, since our last meeting, had darkened my artistic horizon.
The Nuremberg operatic company had a very limited repertoire. Besides
Fidelio they could produce nothing save Die Schweizerfamilie, a fact about
which this great singer complained, as this was one of her first parts sung in
early youth, for which she was hardly any longer suited, and which, in
addition, she had played ad nauseam. I also looked forward to the
performance of Die Schweizerfamilie with misgivings, and even with
anxiety, for I feared lest this tame opera and the old-fashioned sentimental
part of Emmeline would weaken the great impression the public, as well as
myself, had formed up to that moment of the work of this sublime artist.
Imagine, therefore, how deeply moved and astonished I was, on the evening
of the performance, to find that it was in this very part that I first realised
the truly transcendental genius of this extraordinary woman. That anything
so great as her interpretation of the character of the Swiss maiden could not
be handed down to posterity as a monument for all time can only be looked
upon as one of the most sublime sacrifices demanded by dramatic art, and
as one of its highest manifestations. When, therefore, such phenomena
appear, we cannot hold them in too great reverence, nor look upon them as
too sacred.
Apart from all these new experiences which were to become of so much
value to my whole life and to my artistic development, the impressions I
received at Nuremberg, though they were apparently trivial in their origin,
left such indelible traces on my mind, that they revived within me later on,
though in quite a different and novel form.
My brother-in-law, Wolfram, was a great favourite with the Nuremberg
theatrical world; he was witty and sociable, and as such made himself much
liked in theatrical circles. On this occasion I received singularly delightful

proofs of the spirit of extravagant gaiety manifested on these evenings at
the inn, in which I also took part. A master carpenter, named Lauermann, a
little thick-set man, no longer young, of comical appearance and gifted only
with the roughest dialect, was pointed out to me in one of the inns visited
by our friends as one of those oddities who involuntarily contributed most
to the amusement of the local wags. Lauermann, it seems, imagined himself
an excellent singer, and as a result of this presumption, evinced interest only
in those in whom he thought he recognised a like talent. In spite of the fact
that, owing to this singular peculiarity, he became the butt of constant jest
and scornful mockery, he never failed to appear every evening among his
laughter-loving persecutors. So often had he been laughed at and hurt by
their scorn, that it became very difficult to persuade him to give a display of
his artistic skill, and this at last could only be effected by artfully devised
traps, so laid as to appeal to his vanity. My arrival as an unknown stranger
was utilised for a manœuvre of this kind. How poor was the opinion they
held of the unfortunate mastersinger’s judgment was revealed when, to my
great amazement, my brother-in-law introduced me to him as the great
Italian singer, Lablache. To his credit I must confess that Lauermann
surveyed me for a long time with incredulous distrust, and commented with
cautious suspicion on my juvenile appearance, but especially on the
evidently tenor character of my voice. But the whole art of these tavern
associates and their principal enjoyment consisted in leading this poor
enthusiast to believe the incredible, a task on which they spared neither time
nor pains.
My brother-in-law succeeded in making the carpenter believe that I,
while receiving fabulous sums for my performances, wished by a singular
act of dissimulation, and by visiting public inns, to withdraw from the
general public; and that, moreover, when it came to a meeting between
‘Lauermann’ and ‘Lablache,’ the only real interest could be to hear
Lauermann and not Lablache, seeing that the former had nothing to learn
from the latter, but only Lablache from him. So singular was the conflict
between incredulity, on the one hand, and keenly excited vanity on the
other, that finally the poor carpenter became really attractive to me. I began
to play the role assigned me with all the skill I could command, and after a
couple of hours, which were relieved by the strangest antics, we at last
gained our end. The wondrous mortal, whose flashing eyes had long been
fixed on me in the greatest excitement, worked his muscles in the peculiarly

fantastic fashion which we are accustomed to associate with a music-
making automaton, the mechanism of which has been duly wound up: his
lips quivered, his teeth gnashed, his eyes rolled convulsively, until finally
there broke forth, in a hoarse oily voice, an uncommonly trivial street-
ballad. Its delivery, accompanied by a regular movement of his outstretched
thumbs behind the ears, and during which his fat face glowed the brightest
red, was unhappily greeted with a wild burst of laughter from all present,
which excited the unlucky master to the most furious wrath. With studied
cruelty this wrath was greeted by those, who until then had shamelessly
flattered him, with the most extravagant mockery, until the poor wretch at
last absolutely foamed with rage.
As he was leaving the inn amid a hail of curses from his infamous
friends, an impulse of genuine pity prompted me to follow him, that I might
beg his forgiveness and seek in some way to pacify him, a task all the more
difficult since he was especially bitter against me as the latest of his
enemies, and the one who had so deeply deceived his eager hope of hearing
the genuine Lablache. Nevertheless, I succeeded in stopping him on the
threshold; and now the riotous company silently entered into an
extraordinary conspiracy to induce Lauermann to sing again that very
evening. How they managed this I can as little remember as I can call to
mind the effect of the spirituous liquors I imbibed. In any case, I suspect
that drink must eventually have been the means of subduing Lauermann,
just as it also rendered my own recollections of the wonderful events of that
prolonged evening at the inn extremely vague. After Lauermann had for the
second time suffered the same mockery, the whole company felt itself
bound to accompany the unhappy man to his home. They carried him
thither in a wheelbarrow, which they found outside the house, and in this he
arrived, in triumph, at his own door, in one of those marvellous narrow
alleys peculiar to the old city. Frau Lauermann, who was aroused from
slumber to receive her husband, enabled us, by her torrent of curses, to form
some idea of the nature of their marital and domestic relations. Mockery of
her husband’s vocal talents was with her also a familiar theme; but to this
she now added the most dreadful reproaches for the worthless scamps who,
by encouraging him in this delusion, kept him from profitably following his
trade, and even led him to such scenes as the present one. Thereupon the
pride of the suffering mastersinger reasserted itself; for while his wife
painfully assisted him to mount the stairs, he harshly denied her right to sit

in judgment upon his vocal gifts, and sternly ordered her to be silent. But
even now this wonderful night-adventure was by no means over. The entire
swarm moved once more in the direction of the inn. Before the house,
however, we found a number of fellows congregated, among them several
workmen, against whom, owing to police regulations as to closing hours,
the doors were shut. But the regular guests of the house, who were of our
party, and who were on terms of old friendship with the host, thought that it
was nevertheless permissible and possible to demand entrance. The host
was troubled at having to bar his door against friends, whose voices he
recognised; yet it was necessary to prevent the new arrivals from forcing a
way in with them. Out of this situation a mighty confusion arose, which,
what with shouting and clamour and an inexplicable growth in the number
of the disputants, soon assumed a truly demoniacal character. It seemed to
me as though in a few moments the whole town would break into a tumult,
and I thought I should once more have to witness a revolution, the real
origin of which no man could comprehend. Then suddenly I heard some
one fall, and, as though by magic, the whole mass scattered in every
direction. One of the regular guests, who was familiar with an ancient
Nuremberg boxing trick, desiring to put an end to the interminable riot and
to cut his way home through the crowd, gave one of the noisiest shouters a
blow with his fist between the eyes, laying him senseless on the ground,
though without seriously injuring him. And this it was that so speedily
broke up the whole throng. Within little more than a minute of the most
violent uproar of hundreds of human voices, my brother-in-law and I were
able to stroll arm-in-arm through the moonlit streets, quietly jesting and
laughing, on our way home; and then it was that, to my amazement and
relief, he informed me that he was accustomed to this sort of life every
evening.
At last, however, it became necessary seriously to attend to the purpose
of my journey. Only in passing did I touch at Wurzburg for a day. I
remember nothing of the meeting with my relations and acquaintance
beyond the melancholy visit to Friederike Galvani already mentioned. On
reaching Frankfort I was obliged to seek at once the shelter of a decent
hotel, in order to await there the result of my solicitations for subsidies from
the directorate of the Magdeburg theatre. My hopes of securing the real
stars of our operatic undertaking were formed with a view to a season at
Wiesbaden, where, I was told, a good operatic company was on the point of

dissolution. I found it extremely difficult to arrange the short journey
thither; yet I managed to be present at a rehearsal of Robert der Teufel, in
which the tenor Freimuller distinguished himself. I interviewed him at once,
and found him willing to entertain my proposals for Magdeburg. We
concluded the necessary agreement, and I then returned with all speed to
my headquarters, the Weidenbusch Hotel in Frankfort. There I had to spend
another anxious week, during which I waited in vain for the necessary
travelling expenses to arrive from Magdeburg. To kill time I had recourse,
among other things, to a large red pocket-book which I carried about with
me in my portmanteau, and in which I entered, with exact details of dates,
etc., notes for my future biography—the selfsame book which now lies
before me to freshen my memory, and which I have ever since added to at
various periods of my life, without leaving any gaps. Through the neglect of
the Magdeburg managers my situation, which was already serious, became
literally desperate, when I made an acquisition in Frankfort which gave me
almost more pleasure than I was able to bear. I had been present at a
production of the Zauberflote under the direction of Guhr, then wonderfully
renowned as ‘a conductor of genius,’ and was agreeably surprised at the
truly excellent quality of the company. It was, of course, useless to think of
luring one of the leading stars into my net; on the other hand, I saw clearly
enough that the youthful Fraulein Limbach, who sang the ‘first boy’s’ part,
possessed a desirable talent. She accepted my offer of an engagement, and,
indeed, seemed so anxious to be rid of her Frankfort engagement that she
resolved to escape from it surreptitiously. She revealed her plans to me, and
begged me to assist her in carrying them out; for, inasmuch as the directors
might get wind of the affair, there was no time to lose. At all events, the
young lady assumed that I had abundant credit, supplied for my official
business journey by the Magdeburg theatre committee, whose praises I had
so diligently sung. But already I had been compelled to pledge my scanty
travelling gear in order to provide for my own departure. To this point I had
persuaded the host, but now found him by no means inclined to advance me
the additional funds needed for carrying off a young singer. To cloak the
bad behaviour of my directors I was compelled to invent some tale of
misfortune, and to leave the astonished and indignant young lady behind.
Heartily ashamed of this adventure, I travelled through rain and storm via
Leipzig, where I picked up my brown poodle, and reaching Magdeburg,
there resumed my work as musical director on the 1st of September.

The result of my business labours gave me but little joy. The director, it is
true, proved triumphantly that he had sent five whole golden louis to my
address in Frankfort, and that my tenor and the youthful lady-singer had
also been provided with proper contracts, but not with the fares and
advances demanded. Neither of them came; only the basso Graf arrived
with pedantic punctuality from Karlsbad, and immediately provoked the
chaff of our theatrical wags. He sang at a rehearsal of the Schweizerfamilie
with such a schoolmasterly drone that I completely lost my composure. The
arrival of my excellent brother-in-law Wolfram with my sister Clara was of
more advantage for musical comedy than for grand opera, and caused me
considerable trouble into the bargain; for, being honest folk and used to
decent living, they speedily perceived that, in spite of royal protection, the
condition of the theatre was but very insecure, as was natural under so
unscrupulous a management as that of Bethmann, and recognised with
alarm that they had seriously compromised their family position. My
courage had already begun to sink when a happy chance brought us a young
woman, Mme. Pollert (nee Zeibig), who was passing through Magdeburg
with her husband, an actor, in order to fulfil a special engagement in that
town; she was gifted with a beautiful voice, was a talented singer, and well
suited for the chief roles. Necessity had at last driven the directors to action,
and at the eleventh hour they sent for the tenor Freimuller. But I was
particularly gratified when the love which had arisen between him and
young Limbach in Frankfort enabled the enterprising tenor to carry away
this singer, to whom I had behaved so miserably. Both arrived radiant with
joy. Along with them we engaged Mme. Pollert, who, in spite of her
pretentiousness, met with favour from the public. A well-trained and
musically competent baritone, Herr Krug, afterwards the conductor of a
choir in Karlsruhe, had also been discovered, so that all at once I stood at
the head of a really good operatic company, among which the basso Graf
could be fitted in only with great difficulty, by being kept as much as
possible in the background. We succeeded quickly with a series of operatic
performances which were by no means ordinary, and our repertory included
everything of this nature that had ever been written for the theatre. I was
particularly pleased with the presentation of Spohr’s Jessonda, which was
truly not without sublimity, and raised us high in the esteem of all cultured
lovers of music. I was untiring in my endeavours to discover some means of
elevating our performances above the usual level of excellence compatible

with the meagre resources of provincial theatres. I persistently fell foul of
the director Bethmann by strengthening my orchestra, which he had to pay;
but, on the other hand, I won his complete goodwill by strengthening the
chorus and the theatre music, which cost him nothing, and which lent such
splendour to our presentations that subscriptions and audiences increased
enormously. For instance, I secured the regimental band, and also the
military singers, who in the Prussian army are admirably organised, and
who assisted in our performances in return for free passes to the gallery
granted to their relatives. Thus I managed to furnish with the utmost
completeness the specially strong orchestral accompaniment demanded by
the score of Bellini’s Norma, and was able to dispose of a body of male
voices for the impressive unison portion of the male chorus in the
introduction of that work such as even the greatest theatres could rarely
command. In later years I was able to assure Auber, whom I often met over
an ice in Tortoni’s cafe in Paris, that in his Lestocq I had been able to render
the part of the mutinous soldiery, when seduced into conspiracy, with an
absolutely full number of voices, a fact for which he thanked me with
astonishment and delight.
Amid such circumstances of encouragement the composition of my
Liebesverbot made rapid strides towards completion. I intended the
presentation of this piece for the benefit performance which had been
promised me as a means of defraying my expenses, and I worked hard in
the hope of improving my reputation, and at the same time of
accomplishing something by no means less desirable, and that was the
betterment of my financial position. Even the few hours which I could
snatch from business to spend at Minna’s side were devoted with
unexampled zeal to the completion of my score. My diligence moved even
Minna’s mother, who looked with some uneasiness upon our love affair.
She had remained over the summer on a visit to her daughter, and managed
the house for her. Owing to her interference a new and urgent anxiety had
entered into our relations, which pressed for serious settlement. It was
natural that we should begin to think of what it was all going to lead to. I
must confess that the idea of marriage, especially in view of my youth,
filled me with dismay, and without indeed reflecting on the matter, or
seriously weighing its pros and cons, a naive and instinctive feeling
prevented me even from considering the possibility of a step which would
have such serious consequences upon my whole life. Moreover, our modest

circumstances were in so alarming and uncertain a state that even Minna
declared that she was more anxious to see these improved than to get me to
marry her. But she was also driven to think of herself, and that promptly, for
trouble arose with regard to her own position in the Magdeburg theatre.
There she had met with a rival in her own speciality, and as this woman’s
husband became chief stage manager, and consequently had supreme
power, she grew to be a source of great danger. Seeing, therefore, that at
this very moment Minna received advantageous offers from the managers
of the Konigstadt theatre in Berlin, then doing a splendid business, she
seized the opportunity to break off her connection with the Magdeburg
theatre, and thus plunged me, whom she did not appear to consider in the
matter, into the depths of despair. I could not hinder Minna from going to
Berlin to fulfil a special engagement there, although this was not in
accordance with her agreement, and so she departed, leaving me behind,
overcome with grief and doubt as to the meaning of her conduct. At last,
mad with passion, I wrote to her urging her to return, and the better to move
her and not to separate her fate from my own, I proposed to her in a strictly
formal manner, and hinted at the hope of early marriage. About the same
time my brother-in-law, Wolfram, having quarrelled with the director
Bethmann and cancelled his contract with him, also went to the Konigstadt
theatre to fulfil a special engagement. My good sister Clara, who had
remained behind for a while amid the somewhat unpleasant conditions of
Magdeburg, soon perceived the anxious and troubled temper in which her
otherwise cheerful brother was rapidly consuming himself. One day she
thought it advisable to show me a letter from her husband, with news from
Berlin, and especially concerning Minna, in which he earnestly deplored
my passion for this girl, who was acting quite unworthily of me. As she
lodged at his hotel, he was able to observe that not only the company she
kept, but also her own conduct, were perfectly scandalous. The
extraordinary impression which this dreadful communication made upon
me decided me to abandon the reserve I had hitherto shown towards my
relatives with regard to my love affairs. I wrote to my brother-in-law in
Berlin, telling him how matters stood with me, and that my plans greatly
depended on Minna, and further, how extremely important it was for me to
learn from him the indubitable truth concerning her of whom he had sent so
evil an account. From my brother-in-law, usually so dry and given to
joking, I received a reply which filled my heart to overflowing again. He

confessed that he had accused Minna too hastily, and regretted that he had
allowed idle chatter to influence him in founding a charge, which, on
investigation, had proved to be altogether groundless and unjust; he
declared, moreover, that on nearer acquaintance and conversation with her
he had been so fully convinced of the genuineness and uprightness of her
character, that he hoped with all his heart that I might see my way to marry
her. And now a storm raged in my heart. I implored Minna to return at once,
and was glad to learn that, for her part, she was not inclined to renew her
engagement at the Berlin theatre, as she had now acquired a more intimate
knowledge of the life there, and found it too frivolous. All that remained,
then, was for me to facilitate the resumption of her Magdeburg engagement.
To this end, therefore, at a meeting of the theatre committee, I attacked the
director and his detested stage manager with such energy, and defended
Minna against the wrong done her by them both with such passion and
fervour, that the other members, astonished at the frank confession of my
affection, yielded to my wishes without any further ado. And now I set off
by extra post in the depth of night and in dreadful winter weather to meet
my returning sweetheart. I greeted her with tears of deepest joy, and led her
back in triumph to her cosy Magdeburg home, already become so dear to
me.
Meanwhile, as our two lives, thus severed for a while, were being drawn
more and more closely together, I finished the score of my Liebesverbot
about New Year 1836. For the development of my future plans I depended
not a little upon the success of this work; and Minna herself seemed not
disinclined to yield to my hopes in this respect. We had reason to be
concerned as to how matters would pan out for us at the beginning of the
spring, for this season is always a bad one in which to start such precarious
theatrical enterprises. In spite of royal support and the participation of the
theatre committee in the general management of the theatre, our worthy
director’s state of perennial bankruptcy suffered no alteration, and it seemed
as if his theatrical undertaking could not possibly last much longer in any
form. Nevertheless, with the help of the really first-rate company of singers
at my disposal, the production of my opera was to mark a complete change
in my unsatisfactory circumstances. With the view of recovering the
travelling expenses I had incurred during the previous summer, I was
entitled to a benefit performance. I naturally fixed this for the presentation
of my own work, and did my utmost so that this favour granted me by the

directors should prove as inexpensive to them as possible. As they would
nevertheless be compelled to incur some expense in the production of the
new opera, I agreed that the proceeds of the first presentation should be left
to them, while I should claim only those of the second. I did not consider it
altogether unsatisfactory that the time for the rehearsals was postponed until
the very end of the season, for it was reasonable to suppose that our
company, which was often greeted with unusual applause, would receive
special attention and favour from the public during its concluding
performances. Unfortunately, however, contrary to our expectations, we
never reached the proper close of this season, which had been fixed for the
end of April; for already in March, owing to irregularity in the payment of
salaries, the most popular members of the company, having found better
employment elsewhere, tendered their resignations to the management, and
the director, who was unable to raise the necessary cash, was compelled to
bow to the inevitable. Now, indeed, my spirits sank, for it seemed more than
doubtful whether my Liebesverbot would ever be produced at all. I owed it
entirely to the warm affection felt for me personally by all members of the
opera company, that the singers consented not only to remain until the end
of March, but also to undertake the toil of studying and rehearsing my
opera, a task which, considering the very limited time, promised to be
extremely arduous. In the event of our having to give two representations,
the time at our disposal was so very short that, for all the rehearsals, we had
but ten days before us. And since we were concerned not with a light
comedy or farce, but with a grand opera, and one which, in spite of the
trifling character of its music, contained numerous and powerful concerted
passages, the undertaking might have been regarded almost as foolhardy.
Nevertheless, I built my hopes upon the extraordinary exertions which the
singers so willingly made in order to please me; for they studied
continuously, morning, noon, and night. But seeing that, in spite of all this,
it was quite impossible to attain to perfection, especially in the matter of
words, in the case of every one of these harassed performers, I reckoned
further on my own acquired skill as conductor to achieve the final miracle
of success. The peculiar ability I possessed of helping the singers and of
making them, in spite of much uncertainty, seem to flow smoothly onwards,
was clearly demonstrated in our orchestral rehearsals, in which, by dint of
constant prompting, loud singing with the performers and vigorous
directions as to necessary action, I got the whole thing to run so easily that

it seemed quite possible that the performance might be a reasonable success
after all. Unfortunately, we did not consider that in front of the public all
these drastic methods of moving the dramatic and musical machinery would
be restricted to the movements of my baton and to my facial expression. As
a matter of fact the singers, and especially the men, were so extraordinarily
uncertain that from beginning to end their embarrassment crippled the
effectiveness of every one of their parts. Freimuller, the tenor, whose
memory was most defective, sought to patch up the lively and emotional
character of his badly learned rule of the madcap Luzio by means of routine
work learned in Fra Diavolo and Zampa, and especially by the aid of an
enormously thick, brightly coloured and fluttering plume of feathers.
Consequently, as the directors failed to have the book of words printed in
time, it was impossible to blame the public for being in doubt as to the main
outlines of the story, seeing that they had only the sung words to guide
them. With the exception of a few portions played by the lady singers,
which were favourably received, the whole performance, which I had made
to depend largely upon bold, energetic action and speech, remained but a
musical shadow-play, to which the orchestra contributed its own
inexplicable effusions, sometimes with exaggerated noise. As characteristic
of the treatment of my tone-colour, I may mention that the band-master of a
Prussian military band, who, by the bye, had been well pleased with the
performance, felt it incumbent upon him to give me some well-meant hints
for my future guidance, as to the manipulation of the Turkish drum. Before
I relate the further history of this wonderful work of my youth, I will pause
a moment briefly to describe its character, and especially its poetical
elements.
Shakespeare’s play, which I kept throughout in mind as the foundation of
my story, was worked out in the following manner:—
An unnamed king of Sicily leaves his country, as I suggest, for a journey
to Naples, and hands over to the Regent appointed—whom I simply call
Friedrich, with the view of making him appear as German as possible—full
authority to exercise all the royal power in order to effect a complete reform
in the social habits of his capital, which had provoked the indignation of the
Council. At the opening of the play we see the servants of the public
authority busily employed either in shutting up or in pulling down the
houses of popular amusement in a suburb of Palermo, and in carrying off
the inmates, including hosts and servants, as prisoners. The populace

oppose this first step, and much scuffling ensues. In the thickest of the
throng the chief of the sbirri, Brighella (basso-buffo), after a preliminary
roll of drums for silence, reads out the Regent’s proclamation, according to
which the acts just performed are declared to be directed towards
establishing a higher moral tone in the manners and customs of the people.
A general outburst of scorn and a mocking chorus meets this
announcement. Luzio, a young nobleman and juvenile scape-grace (tenor),
seems inclined to thrust himself forward as leader of the mob, and at once
finds an occasion for playing a more active part in the cause of the
oppressed people on discovering his friend Claudio (also a tenor) being led
away to prison. From him he learns that, in pursuance of some musty old
law unearthed by Friedrich, he is to suffer the penalty of death for a certain
love escapade in which he is involved. His sweetheart, union with whom
had been prevented by the enmity of their parents, has borne him a child.
Friedrich’s puritanical zeal joins cause with the parents’ hatred; he fears the
worst, and sees no way of escape save through mercy, provided his sister
Isabella may be able, by her entreaties, to melt the Regent’s hard heart.
Claudio implores his friend at once to seek out Isabella in the convent of the
Sisters of St. Elizabeth, which she has recently entered as novice. There,
between the quiet walls of the convent, we first meet this sister, in
confidential intercourse with her friend Marianne, also a novice. Marianne
reveals to her friend, from whom she has long been parted, the unhappy fate
which has brought her to the place. Under vows of eternal fidelity she had
been persuaded to a secret liaison with a man of high rank. But finally,
when in extreme need she found herself not only forsaken, but threatened
by her betrayer, she discovered him to be the mightiest man in the state,
none other than the King’s Regent himself. Isabella’s indignation finds vent
in impassioned words, and is only pacified by her determination to forsake
a world in which so vile a crime can go unpunished.—When now Luzio
brings her tidings of her own brother’s fate, her disgust at her brother’s
misconduct is turned at once to scorn for the villainy of the hypocritical
Regent, who presumes so cruelly to punish the comparatively venial
offence of her brother, which, at least, was not stained by treachery. Her
violent outburst imprudently reveals her to Luzio in a seductive aspect;
smitten with sudden love, he urges her to quit the convent for ever and to
accept his hand. She contrives to check his boldness, but resolves at once to
avail herself of his escort to the Regent’s court of justice.—Here the trial

scene is prepared, and I introduce it by a burlesque hearing of several
persons charged by the sbirro captain with offences against morality. The
earnestness of the situation becomes more marked when the gloomy form
of Friedrich strides through the inrushing and unruly crowd, commanding
silence, and he himself undertakes the hearing of Claudio’s case in the
sternest manner possible. The implacable judge is already on the point of
pronouncing sentence when Isabella enters, and requests, before them all, a
private interview with the Regent. In this interview she behaves with noble
moderation towards the dreaded, yet despised man before her, and appeals
at first only to his mildness and mercy. His interruptions merely serve to
stimulate her ardour: she speaks of her brother’s offence in melting accents,
and implores forgiveness for so human and by no means unpardonable a
crime. Seeing the effect of her moving appeal, she continues with
increasing ardour to plead with the judge’s hard and unresponsive heart,
which can certainly not have remained untouched by sentiments such as
those which had actuated her brother, and she calls upon his memory of
these to support her desperate plea for pity. At last the ice of his heart is
broken. Friedrich, deeply stirred by Isabella’s beauty, can no longer contain
himself, and promises to grant her petition at the price of her own love.
Scarcely has she become aware of the unexpected effect of her words when,
filled with indignation at such incredible villainy, she cries to the people
through doors and windows to come in, that she may unmask the hypocrite
before the world. The crowd is already rushing tumultuously into the hall of
judgment, when, by a few significant hints, Friedrich, with frantic energy,
succeeds in making Isabella realise the impossibility of her plan. He would
simply deny her charge, boldly pretend that his offer was merely made to
test her, and would doubtless be readily believed so soon as it became only
a question of rebutting a charge of lightly making love to her. Isabella,
ashamed and confounded, recognises the madness of her first step, and
gnashes her teeth in silent despair. While then Friedrich once more
announces his stern resolve to the people, and pronounces sentence on the
prisoner, it suddenly occurs to Isabella, spurred by the painful recollection
of Marianne’s fate, that what she has failed to procure by open means she
might possibly obtain by craft. This thought suffices to dispel her sorrow,
and to fill her with utmost gaiety. Turning to her sorrowing brother, her
agitated friends, and the perplexed crowd, she assures them all that she is
ready to provide them with the most amusing of adventures. She declares

that the carnival festivities, which the Regent has just strictly forbidden, are
to be celebrated this year with unusual licence; for this dreaded ruler only
pretends to be so cruel, in order the more pleasantly to astonish them by
himself taking a merry part in all that he has just forbidden. They all believe
that she has gone mad, and Friedrich in particular reproves her
incomprehensible folly with passionate severity. But a few words on her
part suffice to transport the Regent himself with ecstasy; for in a whisper
she promises to grant his desire, and that on the following night she will
send him such a message as shall ensure his happiness.—And so ends the
first act in a whirl of excitement.
We learn the nature of the heroine’s hastily formed plan at the beginning
of the second act, in which she visits her brother in his cell, with the object
of discovering whether he is worthy of rescue. She reveals Friedrich’s
shameful proposal to him, and asks if he would wish to save his life at the
price of his sister’s dishonour. Then follow Claudio’s fury and fervent
declaration of his readiness to die; whereupon, bidding farewell to his sister,
at least for this life, he makes her the bearer of the most tender messages to
the dear girl whom he leaves behind. After this, sinking into a softer mood,
the unhappy man declines from a state of melancholy to one of weakness.
Isabella, who had already determined to inform him of his rescue, hesitates
in dismay when she sees him fall in this way from the heights of noble
enthusiasm to a muttered confession of a love of life still as strong as ever,
and even to a stammering query as to whether the suggested price of his
salvation is altogether impossible. Disgusted, she springs to her feet, thrusts
the unworthy man from her, and declares that to the shame of his death he
has further added her most hearty contempt. After having handed him over
again to his gaoler, her mood once more changes swiftly to one of wanton
gaiety. True, she resolves to punish the waverer by leaving him for a time in
uncertainty as to his fate; but stands firm by her resolve to rid the world of
the abominable seducer who dared to dictate laws to his fellow-men. She
tells Marianne that she must take her place at the nocturnal rendezvous, at
which Friedrich so treacherously expected to meet her (Isabella), and sends
Friedrich an invitation to this meeting. In order to entangle the latter even
more deeply in ruin, she stipulates that he must come disguised and
masked, and fixes the rendezvous in one of those pleasure resorts which he
has just suppressed. To the madcap Luzio, whom she also desires to punish
for his saucy suggestion to a novice, she relates the story of Friedrich’s

proposal, and her pretended intention of complying, from sheer necessity,
with his desires. This she does in a fashion so incomprehensively light-
hearted that the otherwise frivolous man, first dumb with amazement,
ultimately yields to a fit of desperate rage. He swears that, even if the noble
maiden herself can endure such shame, he will himself strive by every
means in his power to avert it, and would prefer to set all Palermo on fire
and in tumult rather than allow such a thing to happen. And, indeed, he
arranges things in such a manner that on the appointed evening all his
friends and acquaintances assemble at the end of the Corso, as though for
the opening of the prohibited carnival procession. At nightfall, as things are
beginning to grow wild and merry, Luzio appears, and sings an extravagant
carnival song, with the refrain:
Who joins us not in frolic jest
Shall have a dagger in his breast;

by which means he seeks to stir the crowd to bloody revolt. When a band of
sbirri approaches, under Brighella’s leadership, to scatter the gay throng, the
mutinous project seems on the point of being accomplished. But for the
present Luzio prefers to yield, and to scatter about the neighbourhood, as he
must first of all win the real leader of their enterprise: for here was the spot
which Isabella had mischievously revealed to him as the place of her
pretended meeting with the Regent. For the latter Luzio therefore lies in
wait. Recognising him in an elaborate disguise, he blocks his way, and as
Friedrich violently breaks loose, is on the point of following him with
shouts and drawn sword, when, on a sign from Isabella, who is hidden
among some bushes, he is himself stopped and led away. Isabella then
advances, rejoicing in the thought of having restored the betrayed Marianne
to her faithless spouse. Believing that she holds in her hand the promised
pardon for her brother, she is just on the point of abandoning all thought of
further vengeance when, breaking the seal, to her intense horror she
recognises by the light of a torch that the paper contains but a still more
severe order of execution, which, owing to her desire not to disclose to her
brother the fact of his pardon, a mere chance had now delivered into her
hand, through the agency of the bribed gaoler. After a hard fight with the
tempestuous passion of love, and recognising his helplessness against this
enemy of his peace, Friedrich has in fact already resolved to face his ruin,
even though as a criminal, yet still as a man of honour. An hour on

Isabella’s breast, and then—his own death by the same law whose
implacable severity shall also claim Claudio’s life. Isabella, perceiving in
this conduct only a further proof of the hypocrite’s villainy, breaks out once
more into a tempest of agonised despair. Upon her cry for immediate revolt
against the scoundrelly tyrant, the people collect together and form a motley
and passionate crowd. Luzio, who also returns, counsels the people with
stinging bitterness to pay no heed to the woman’s fury; he points out that
she is only tricking them, as she has already tricked him—for he still
believes in her shameless infidelity. Fresh confusion; increased despair of
Isabella; suddenly from the background comes the burlesque cry of
Brighella for help, who, himself suffering from the pangs of jealousy, has
by mistake arrested the masked Regent, and thus led to the latter’s
discovery. Friedrich is recognised, and Marianne, trembling on his breast, is
also unmasked. Amazement, indignation! Cries of joy burst forth all round;
the needful explanations are quickly given, and Friedrich sullenly demands
to be set before the judgment-seat of the returning King. Claudio, released
from prison by the jubilant populace, informs him that the sentence of death
for crimes of love is not intended for all times; messengers arrive to
announce the unexpected arrival in harbour of the King; it is resolved to
march in full masked procession to meet the beloved Prince, and joyously
to pay him homage, all being convinced that he will heartily rejoice to see
how ill the gloomy puritanism of Germany is suited to his hot-blooded
Sicily. Of him it is said:
Your merry festals please him more
Than gloomy laws or legal lore.

Friedrich, with his freshly affianced wife, Marianne, must lead the
procession, followed by Luzio and the novice, who is for ever lost to the
convent.
These spirited and, in many respects, boldly devised scenes I had clothed
in suitable language and carefully written verse, which had already been
noticed by Laube. The police at first took exception to the title of the work,
which, had I not changed it, would have led to the complete failure of my
plans for its presentation. It was the week before Easter, and the theatre was
consequently forbidden to produce jolly, or at least frivolous, plays during
this period. Luckily the magistrate, with whom I had to treat concerning the
matter, did not show any inclination to examine the libretto himself; and

when I assured him that it was modelled upon a very serious play of
Shakespeare’s, the authorities contented themselves merely with changing
the somewhat startling title. Die Novize van Palermo, which was the new
title, had nothing suspicious about it, and was therefore approved as correct
without further scruple. I fared quite otherwise in Leipzig, where I
attempted to introduce this work in the place of my Feen, when the latter
was withdrawn. The director, Ringelhardt, whom I sought to win over to my
cause by assigning the part of Marianne to his daughter, then making her
debut in opera, chose to reject my work on the apparently very reasonable
grounds that the tendency of the theme displeased him. He assured me that,
even if the Leipzig magistrates had consented to its production—a fact
concerning which his high esteem for that body led him to have serious
doubts—he himself, as a conscientious father, could certainly not permit his
daughter to take part in it.
Strange to say, I suffered nothing from the suspicious nature of the
libretto of my opera on the occasion of its production in Magdeburg; for, as
I have said, thanks to the unintelligible manner in which it was produced,
the story remained a complete mystery to the public. This circumstance, and
the fact that no opposition had been raised on the ground of its
TENDENCY, made a second performance possible, and as nobody seemed
to care one way or the other, no objections were raised. Feeling sure that my
opera had made no impression, and had left the public completely
undecided about its merits, I reckoned that, in view of this being the
farewell performance of our opera company, we should have good, not to
say large, takings. Consequently I did not hesitate to charge ‘full’ prices for
admittance. I cannot rightly judge whether, up to the commencement of the
overture, any people had taken their places in the auditorium; but about a
quarter of an hour before the time fixed for beginning, I saw only Mme.
Gottschalk and her husband, and, curiously enough, a Polish Jew in full
dress, seated in the stalls. Despite this, I was still hoping for an increase in
the audience, when suddenly the most incredible commotion occurred
behind the scenes. Herr Pollert, the husband of my prima donna (who was
acting Isabella), was assaulting Schreiber, the second tenor, a very young
and handsome man taking the part of Claudio, and against whom the
injured husband had for some time been nursing a secret rancour born of
jealousy. It appeared that the singer’s husband, who had surveyed the
theatre from behind the drop-scene with me, had satisfied himself as to the

style of the audience, and decided that the longed-for hour was at hand
when, without injuring the operatic enterprise, he could wreak vengeance
on his wife’s lover. Claudio was so severely used by him that the
unfortunate fellow had to seek refuge in the dressing-room, his face covered
with blood. Isabella was told of this, and rushed despairingly to her raging
spouse, only to be so soundly cuffed by him that she went into convulsions.
The confusion that ensued amongst the company soon knew no bounds:
they took sides in the quarrel, and little was wanting for it to turn into a
general fight, as everybody seemed to regard this unhappy evening as
particularly favourable for the paying off of any old scores and supposed
insults. This much was clear, that the couple suffering from the effects of
Herr Pollert’s conjugal resentment were unfit to appear that evening. The
manager was sent before the drop-scene to inform the small and strangely
assorted audience gathered in the theatre that, owing to unforeseen
circumstances, the representation would not take place.
This was the end of my career as director and composer in Magdeburg,
which in the beginning had seemed so full of promise and had been started
at the cost of considerable sacrifice. The serenity of art now gave way
completely before the stern realities of life. My position gave food for
meditation, and the outlook was not a cheerful one. All the hopes that I and
Minna had founded upon the success of my work had been utterly
destroyed. My creditors, who had been appeased by the anticipation of the
expected harvest, lost faith in my talents, and now counted solely on
obtaining bodily possession of me, which they endeavoured to do by
speedily instituting legal proceedings. Now that every time I came home I
found a summons nailed to my door, my little dwelling in the Breiter Weg
became unbearable; I avoided going there, especially since my brown
poodle, who had hitherto enlivened this retreat, had vanished, leaving no
trace. This I looked upon as a bad sign, indicating my complete downfall.
At this time Minna, with her truly comforting assurance and firmness of
bearing, was a tower of strength to me and the one thing I had left to fall
back upon. Always full of resource, she had first of all provided for her own
future, and was on the point of signing a not unfavourable contract with the
directors of the theatre at Königsberg in Prussia. It was now a question of
finding me an appointment in the same place as musical conductor; this
post was already filled. The Königsberg director, however, gathering from
our correspondence that Minna’s acceptance of the engagement depended

upon the possibility of my being taken on at the same theatre, held out the
prospect of an approaching vacancy, and expressed his willingness to allow
it to be filled by me. On the strength of this assurance it was decided that
Minna should go on to Königsberg and pave the way for my arrival there.
Ere these plans could be carried out, we had still to spend a time of
dreadful and acute anxiety, which I shall never forget, within the walls of
Magdeburg. It is true I made one more personal attempt in Leipzig to
improve my position, on which occasion I entered into the transactions
mentioned above with the director of the theatre regarding my new opera.
But I soon realised that it was out of the question for me to remain in my
native town, and in the disquieting proximity of my family, from which I
was restlessly anxious to get away. My excitability and depression were
noticed by my relations. My mother entreated me, whatever else I might
decide to do, on no account to be drawn into marriage while still so young.
To this I made no reply. When I took my leave, Rosalie accompanied me to
the head of the stairs. I spoke of returning as soon as I had attended to
certain important business matters, and wanted to wish her a hurried good-
bye: she grasped my hand, and gazing into my face, exclaimed, “God alone
knows when I shall see you again!” This cut me to the heart, and I felt
conscience-stricken. The fact that she was expressing the presentiment she
felt of her early death I only realised when, barely two years later, without
having seen her again, I received the news that she had died very suddenly.
I spent a few more weeks with Minna in the strictest retirement in
Magdeburg: she endeavoured to the best of her ability to relieve the
embarrassment of my position. In view of our approaching separation, and
the length of time we might be parted, I hardly left her side, our only
relaxation being the walks we took together round the outskirts of the town.
Anxious forebodings weighed upon us; the May sun which lit the sad
streets of Magdeburg, as if in mockery of our forlorn condition, was one
day more clouded over than I have ever seen it since, and filled me with a
positive dread. On our way home from one of these walks, as we were
approaching the bridge crossing the Elbe, we caught sight of a man flinging
himself from it into the water beneath. We ran to the bank, called for help,
and persuaded a miller, whose mill was situated on the river, to hold out a
rake to the drowning man, who was being swept in his direction by the
current. With indescribable anxiety we waited for the decisive moment—
saw the sinking man stretch out his hands towards the rake, but he failed to

grasp it, and at the same moment disappeared under the mill, never to be
seen again. On the morning that I accompanied Minna to the stage-coach to
bid her a most sorrowful farewell, the whole population was pouring from
one of the gateways of the town towards a big field, to witness the
execution of a man condemned to be put to death on the wheel ‘from
below.’[7] The culprit was a soldier who had murdered his sweetheart in a fit
of jealousy. When, later in the day, I sat down to my last dinner at the inn, I
heard the dreadful details of the Prussian mode of execution being
discussed on all sides. A young magistrate, who was a great lover of music,
told us about a conversation he had had with the executioner, who had been
procured from Halle, and with whom he had discussed the most humane
method of hastening the death of the victim; in telling us about him, he
recalled the elegant dress and manners of this ill-omened person with a
shudder.
[7] Durch das Rod van unten. The punishment of the wheel was usually inflicted
upon murderers, incendiaries, highwaymen and church robbers. There were two
methods of inflicting this: (1) ‘from above downwards’ (von oben nach unten), in
which the condemned man was despatched instantly owing to his neck getting
broken from the start; and (2) ‘from below upwards’ (von unten nach oben),
which is the method referred to above, and in which all the limbs of the victim
were broken previous to his body being actually twisted through the spokes of
the wheel.—Editor

These were the last impressions I carried away from the scene of my first
artistic efforts and of my attempts at earning an independent livelihood.
Often since then on my departure from places where I had expected to find
prosperity, and to which I knew I should never return, those impressions
have recurred to my mind with singular persistence. I have always had
much the same feelings upon leaving any place where I had stayed in the
hope of improving my position.
Thus I arrived in Berlin for the first time on the 18th May, 1836, and
made acquaintance with the peculiar features of that pretentious royal
capital. While my position was an uncertain one, I sought a modest shelter
at the Crown Prince in the Königstrasse, where Minna had stayed a few
months before. I found a friend on whom I could rely when I came across
Laube again, who, while awaiting his verdict, was busying himself with
private and literary work in Berlin. He was much interested in the fate of
my work Liebesverbot, and advised me to turn my present situation to
account for the purpose of obtaining the production of this opera at the

Konigstadt theatre. This theatre was under the direction of one of the most
curious creatures in Berlin: he was called ‘Cerf,’ and the title of
Commissionsrath had been conferred upon him by the King of Prussia. To
account for the favours bestowed upon him by royalty, many reasons of a
not very edifying nature were circulated. Through this royal patronage he
had succeeded in extending considerably the privileges already enjoyed by
the suburban theatre. The decline of grand opera at the Theatre Royal had
brought light opera, which was performed with great success at the
Konigstadt theatre, into public favour. The director, puffed up by success,
openly laboured under the delusion that he was the right man in the right
place, and expressed his entire agreement with those who declared that one
could only expect a theatre to be successfully managed by common and
uneducated men, and continued to cling to his blissful and boundless state
of ignorance in the most amusing manner. Relying absolutely upon his own
insight, he had assumed an entirely dictatorial attitude towards the officially
appointed artists of his theatre, and allowed himself to deal with them
according to his likes and dislikes. I seemed destined to be favoured by this
mode of procedure: at my very first visit Cerf expressed his satisfaction
with me, but wished to make use of me as a ‘tenor.’ He offered no objection
whatever to my request for the production of my opera, but, on the contrary,
promised to have it staged immediately. He seemed particularly anxious to
appoint me conductor of the orchestra. As he was on the point of changing
his operatic company, he foresaw that his present conductor, Glaser, the
composer of Adlershorst, would hinder his plans by taking the part of the
older singers: he was therefore anxious to have me associated with his
theatre, that he might have some one to support him who was favourably
disposed towards the new singers.
All this sounded so plausible, that I could scarcely be blamed for
believing that the wheel of fortune had taken a favourable turn for me, and
for feeling a sense of lightheartedness at the thought of such rosy prospects.
I had scarcely allowed myself the few modifications in my manner of living
which these improved circumstances seemed to justify, ere it was made
clear to me that my hopes were built upon sand. I was filled with positive
dread when I soon fully realised how nearly Cerf had come to defrauding
me, merely it would seem for his own amusement. After the manner of
despots, he had given his favours personally and autocratically; the
withdrawal and annulment of his promises, however, he made known to me

through his servants and secretaries, thus placing his strange conduct
towards me in the light of the inevitable result of his dependence upon
officialdom.
As Cerf wished to rid himself of me without even offering me
compensation, I was obliged to try to come to some understanding
regarding all that had been definitely arranged between us, and this with the
very people against whom he had previously warned me and had wanted
me to side with him. The conductor, stage manager, secretary, etc., had to
make it clear to me that my wishes could not be satisfied, and that the
director owed me no compensation whatever for the time he had made me
waste while awaiting the fulfilment of his promises. This unpleasant
experience has been a source of pain to me ever since.
Owing to all this my position was very much worse than it had been
before. Minna wrote to me frequently from Königsberg, but she had nothing
encouraging to tell me with regard to my hopes in that direction. The
director of the theatre there seemed unable to come to any clear
understanding with his conductor, a circumstance which I was afterwards
able to understand, but which at the time appeared to me inexplicable, and
made my chance of obtaining the coveted appointment seem exceedingly
remote. It seemed certain, however, that the post would be vacant in the
autumn, and as I was drifting about aimlessly in Berlin and refused for a
moment to entertain the thought of returning to Leipzig, I snatched at this
faint hope, and in imagination soared above the Berlin quicksands to the
safety of the harbour on the Baltic.
I only succeeded in doing so, however, after I had struggled through
difficult and serious inward conflicts to which my relations with Minna
gave rise. An incomprehensible feature in the character of this otherwise
apparently simple-minded woman had thrown my young heart into a
turmoil. A good-natured, well-to-do tradesman of Jewish extraction, named
Schwabe, who till that time had been established in Magdeburg, made
friendly advances to me in Berlin, and I soon discovered that his sympathy
was chiefly due to the passionate interest which he had conceived for
Minna. It afterwards became clear to me that an intimacy had existed
between this man and Minna, which in itself could hardly be considered as
a breach of faith towards me, since it had ended in a decided repulse of my
rival’s courtship in my favour. But the fact of this episode having been kept

so secret that I had not had the faintest idea of it before, and also the
suspicion I could not avoid harbouring that Minna’s comfortable
circumstances were in part due to this man’s friendship, filled me with
gloomy misgivings. But as I have said, although I could find no real cause
to complain of infidelity, I was distracted and alarmed, and was at last
driven to the half-desperate resolve of regaining my balance in this respect
by obtaining complete possession of Minna. It seemed to me as though my
stability as a citizen as well as my professional success would be assured by
a recognised union with Minna. The two years spent in the theatrical world
had, in fact, kept me in a constant state of distraction, of which in my heart
of hearts I was most painfully conscious. I realised vaguely that I was on
the wrong path; I longed for peace and quiet, and hoped to find these most
effectually by getting married, and so putting an end to the state of things
that had become the source of so much anxiety to me.
It was not surprising that Laube noticed by my untidy, passionate, and
wasted appearance that something unusual was amiss with me. It was only
in his company, which I always found comforting, that I gained the only
impressions of Berlin which compensated me in any way for my
misfortunes. The most important artistic experience I had, came to me
through the performance of Ferdinand Cortez, conducted by Spontini
himself, the spirit of which astonished me more than anything I had ever
heard before. Though the actual production, especially as regards the chief
characters, who as a whole could not be regarded as belonging to the flower
of Berlin opera, left me unmoved, and though the effect never reached a
point that could be even distantly compared to that produced upon me by
Schroder-Devrient, yet the exceptional precision, fire, and richly organised
rendering of the whole was new to me. I gained a fresh insight into the
peculiar dignity of big theatrical representations, which in their several parts
could, by well-accentuated rhythm, be made to attain the highest pinnacle
of art. This extraordinarily distinct impression took a drastic hold of me,
and above all served to guide me in my conception of Rienzi, so that,
speaking from an artistic point of view, Berlin may be said to have left its
traces on my development.
For the present, however, my chief concern was to extricate myself from
my extremely helpless position. I was determined to turn my steps to
Königsberg, and communicated my decision, and the hopes founded upon
it, to Laube. This excellent friend, without further inquiry, made a point of

exerting his energies to free me from my present state of despair, and to
help me to reach my next destination, an object which, through the
assistance of several of his friends, he succeeded in accomplishing. When
he said good-bye to me, Laube with sympathetic foresight warned me,
should I succeed in my desired career of musical conductor, not to allow
myself to be entangled in the shallowness of stage life, and advised me,
after fatiguing rehearsals, instead of going to my sweetheart, to take a
serious book in hand, in order that my greater gifts might not go
uncultivated. I did not tell him that by taking an early and decisive step in
this direction I intended to protect myself effectually against the dangers of
theatrical intrigues. On the 7th of July, therefore, I started on what was at
that time an extremely troublesome and fatiguing journey to the distant
town of Königsberg.
It seemed to me as though I were leaving the world, as I travelled on day
after day through the desert marches. Then followed a sad and humiliating
impression of Königsberg, where, in one of the poorest-looking suburbs,
Tragheim, near the theatre, and in a lane such as one would expect to find in
a village, I found the ugly house in which Minna lodged. The friendly and
quiet kindness of manner, however, which was peculiar to her, soon made
me feel at home. She was popular at the theatre, and was respected by the
managers and actors, a fact which seemed to augur well for her betrothed,
the part I was now openly to assume.
Though as yet there seemed no distinct prospect of my getting the
appointment I had come for, yet we agreed that I could hold out a little
longer, and that the matter would certainly be arranged in the end. This was
also the opinion of the eccentric Abraham Möller, a worthy citizen of
Königsberg, who was devoted to the theatre, and who took a very friendly
interest in Minna, and finally also in me. This man, who was already well
advanced in life, belonged to the type of theatre lovers now probably
completely extinct in Germany, but of whom so much is recorded in the
history of actors of earlier times. One could not spend an hour in the
company of this man, who at one time had gone in for the most reckless
speculations, without having to listen to his account of the glory of the stage
in former times, described in most lively terms. As a man of means he had
at one time made the acquaintance of nearly all the great actors and
actresses of his day, and had even known how to win their friendship.
Through too great a liberality he unfortunately found himself in reduced

circumstances, and was now obliged to procure the means to satisfy his
craving for the theatre and his desire to protect those belonging to it by
entering into all kinds of strange business transactions, in which, without
running any real risk, he felt there was something to be gained. He was
accordingly only able to afford the theatre a very meagre support, but one
which was quite in keeping with its decrepit condition.
This strange man, of whom the theatre director, Anton Hubsch, stood to a
certain extent in awe, undertook to procure me my appointment. The only
circumstance against me was the fact that Louis Schubert, the famous
musician whom I had known from very early times as the first violoncellist
of the Magdeburg orchestra, had come to Königsberg from Riga, where the
theatre had been closed for a time, and where he had left his wife, in order
to fill the post of musical conductor here until the new theatre in Riga was
opened, and he could return. The reopening of the Riga theatre, which had
already been fixed for the Easter of this year, had been postponed, and he
was now anxious not to leave Königsberg. Since Schubert was a thorough
master in his art, and since his choosing to remain or go depended entirely
on circumstances over which he had no control, the theatre director found
himself in the embarrassing position of having to secure some one who
would be willing to wait to enter upon his appointment till Schubert’s
business called him away. Consequently a young musical conductor who
was anxious to remain in Königsberg at any price could but be heartily
welcomed as a reserve and substitute in case of emergency. Indeed, the
director declared himself willing to give me a small retaining fee till the
time should arrive for my definite entrance upon my duties.
Schubert, on the contrary, was furious at my arrival; there was no longer
any necessity for his speedy return to Riga, since the reopening of the
theatre there had been postponed indefinitely. Moreover, he had a special
interest in remaining in Königsberg, as he had conceived a passion for the
prima donna there, which considerably lessened his desire to return to his
wife. So at the last moment he clung to his Königsberg post with great
eagerness, regarded me as his deadly enemy, and, spurred on by his instinct
of self-preservation, used every means in his power to make my stay in
Königsberg, and the already painful position I occupied while awaiting his
departure, a veritable hell to me.

While in Magdeburg I had been on the friendliest footing with both
musicians and singers, and had been shown the greatest consideration by
the public, I here found I had to defend myself on all sides against the most
mortifying ill-will. This hostility towards me, which soon made itself
apparent, contributed in no small degree to make me feel as though in
coming to Königsberg I had gone into exile. In spite of my eagerness, I
realised that under the circumstances my marriage with Minna would prove
a hazardous undertaking. At the beginning of August the company went to
Memel for a time, to open the summer season there, and I followed Minna a
few days later. We went most of the way by sea, and crossed the Kurische
Haff in a sailing vessel in bad weather with the wind against us—one of the
most melancholy crossings I have ever experienced. As we passed the thin
strip of sand that divides this bay from the Baltic Sea, the castle of
Runsitten, where Hoffmann laid the scene of one of his most gruesome tales
(Das Majorat), was pointed out to me. The fact that in this desolate
neighbourhood, of all places in the world, I should after so long a lapse of
time be once more brought in contact with the fantastic impressions of my
youth, had a singular and depressing effect on my mind. The unhappy
sojourn in Memel, the lamentable role I played there, everything in short,
contributed to make me find my only consolation in Minna, who, after all,
was the cause of my having placed myself in this unpleasant position. Our
friend Abraham followed us from Königsberg and did all kinds of queer
things to promote my interests, and was obviously anxious to put the
director and conductor at variance with each other. One day Schubert, in
consequence of a dispute with Hubsch on the previous night, actually
declared himself too unwell to attend a rehearsal of Euryanthe, in order to
force the manager to summon me suddenly to take his place. In doing this
my rival maliciously hoped that as I was totally unprepared to conduct this
difficult opera, which was seldom played, I would expose my incapacity in
a manner most welcome to his hostile intentions. Although I had never
really had a score of Euryanthe before me, his wish was so little gratified,
that he elected to get well for the representation in order to conduct it
himself, which he would not have done if it had been found necessary to
cancel the performance on account of my incompetence. In this wretched
position, vexed in mind, exposed to the severe climate, which even on
summer evenings struck me as horribly cold, and occupied merely in
warding off the most painful troubles of life, my time, as far as any

professional advancement was concerned, was completely lost. At last, on
our return to Königsberg, and particularly under the guardianship of Möller,
the question as to what was to be done was more earnestly considered.
Finally, Minna and I were offered a fairly good engagement in Danzig,
through the influence of my brother-in-law Wolfram and his wife, who had
gone there.
Möller seized this opportunity to induce the director Hubsch, who was
anxious not to lose Minna, to sign a contract including us both, and by
which it was understood that under any circumstances I should be officially
appointed as conductor at his theatre from the following Easter. Moreover,
for our wedding, a benefit performance was promised, for which we chose
Die Stumme von Portici, to be conducted by me in person. For, as Möller
remarked, it was absolutely necessary for us to get married, and to have a
due celebration of the event; there was no getting out of it. Minna made no
objection, and all my past endeavours and resolutions seemed to prove that
my one desire was to take anchor in the haven of matrimony. In spite of
this, however, a strange conflict was going on within me at this time. I had
become sufficiently intimate with Minna’s life and character to realise the
wide difference between our two natures as fully as the important step I was
about to take necessitated; but my powers of judgment were not yet
sufficiently matured.
My future wife was the child of poor parents, natives of Oederan in the
Erzgebirge in Saxony. Her father was no ordinary man; he possessed
enormous vitality, but in his old age showed traces of some feebleness of
mind. In his young days he had been a trumpeter in Saxony, and in this
capacity had taken part in a campaign against the French, and had also been
present at the battle of Wagram. He afterwards became a mechanic, and
took up the trade of manufacturing cards for carding wool, and as he
invented an improvement in the process of their production, he is said to
have made a very good business of it for some time. A rich manufacturer of
Chemnitz once gave him a large order to be delivered at the end of the year:
the children, whose pliable fingers had already proved serviceable in this
respect, had to work hard day and night, and in return the father promised
them an exceptionally happy Christmas, as he expected to get a large sum
of money. When the longed-for time arrived, however, he received the
announcement of his client’s bankruptcy. The goods that had already been
delivered were lost, and the material that remained on his hands there was

no prospect of selling. The family never succeeded in recovering from the
state of confusion into which this misfortune had thrown them; they went to
Dresden, where the father hoped to find remunerative employment as a
skilled mechanic, especially in the manufacture of pianos, of which he
supplied separate parts. He also brought away with him a large quantity of
the fine wire which had been destined for the manufacture of the cards, and
which he hoped to be able to sell at a profit. The ten-year-old Minna was
commissioned to sell separate lots of it to the milliners for making flowers.
She would set out with a heavy basketful of wire, and had such a gift for
persuading people to buy that she soon disposed of the whole supply to the
best advantage. From this time the desire was awakened in her to be of
active use to her impoverished family, and to earn her own living as soon as
possible, in order not to be a burden on her parents. As she grew up and
developed into a strikingly beautiful woman, she attracted the attention of
men at a very early age. A certain Herr von Einsiedel fell passionately in
love with her, and took advantage of the inexperienced young girl when she
was off her guard. Her family was thrown into the utmost consternation,
and only her mother and elder sister could be told of the terrible position in
which Minna found herself. Her father, from whose anger the worst
consequences were to be feared, was never informed that his barely
seventeen-year-old daughter had become a mother, and under conditions
that had threatened her life, had given birth to a girl. Minna, who could
obtain no redress from her seducer, now felt doubly called upon to earn her
own livelihood and leave her father’s house. Through the influence of
friends, she had been brought into contact with an amateur theatrical
society: while acting in a performance given there, she attracted the notice
of members of the Royal Court Theatre, and in particular drew the attention
of the director of the Dessau Court Theatre, who was present, and who
immediately offered her an engagement. She gladly caught at this way of
escape from her trying position, as it opened up the possibility of a brilliant
stage career, and of some day being able to provide amply for her family.
She had not the slightest passion for the stage, and utterly devoid as she was
of any levity or coquetry, she merely saw in a theatrical career the means of
earning a quick, and possibly even a rich, livelihood. Without any artistic
training, the theatre merely meant for her the company of actors and
actresses. Whether she pleased or not seemed of importance in her eyes
only in so far as it affected her realisation of a comfortable independence.

To use all the means at her disposal to assure this end seemed to her as
necessary as it is for a tradesman to expose his goods to the best advantage.
The friendship of the director, manager, and favourite members of the
theatre she regarded as indispensable, whilst those frequenters of the theatre
who, through their criticism or taste, influenced the public, and thus also
had weight with the management, she recognised as beings upon whom the
attainment of her most fervent desires depended. Never to make enemies of
them appeared so natural and so necessary that, in order to maintain her
popularity, she was prepared to sacrifice even her self-respect. She had in
this way created for herself a certain peculiar code of behaviour, that on the
one hand prompted her to avoid scandals, but on the other hand found
excuses even for making herself conspicuous as long as she herself knew
that she was doing nothing wrong. Hence arose a mixture of
inconsistencies, the questionable sense of which she was incapable of
grasping. It was clearly impossible for her not to lose all real sense of
delicacy; she showed, however, a sense of the fitness of things, which made
her have regard to what was considered proper, though she could not
understand that mere appearances were a mockery when they only served to
cloak the absence of a real sense of delicacy. As she was without idealism,
she had no artistic feeling; neither did she possess any talent for acting, and
her power of pleasing was due entirely to her charming appearance.
Whether in time routine would have made her become a good actress it is
impossible for me to say. The strange power she exercised over me from the
very first was in no wise due to the fact that I regarded her in any way as
the embodiment of my ideal; on the contrary, she attracted me by the
soberness and seriousness of her character, which supplemented what I felt
to be wanting in my own, and afforded me the support that in my
wanderings after the ideal I knew to be necessary for me.
I had soon accustomed myself never to betray my craving after the ideal
before Minna: unable to account for this even to myself, I always made a
point of avoiding the subject by passing it over with a laugh and a joke; but,
on this account, it was all the more natural for me to feel qualms when fears
arose in my mind as to her really possessing the qualities to which I had
attributed her superiority over me. Her strange tolerance with regard to
certain familiarities and even importunities on the part of patrons of the
theatre, directed even against her person, hurt me considerably; and on my
reproaching her for this, I was driven to despair by her assuming an injured

expression as though I had insulted her. It was quite by chance that I came
across Schwabe’s letters, and thus gained an astonishing insight into her
intimacy with that man, of which she had left me in ignorance, and allowed
me to gain my first knowledge during my stay in Berlin. All my latent
jealousy, all my inmost doubts concerning Minna’s character, found vent in
my sudden determination to leave the girl at once. There was a violent
scene between us, which was typical of all our subsequent altercations. I
had obviously gone too far in treating a woman who was not passionately in
love with me, as if I had a real right over her; for, after all, she had merely
yielded to my importunity, and in no way belonged to me. To add to my
perplexity, Minna only needed to remind me that from a worldly point of
view she had refused very good offers in order to give way to the
impetuosity of a penniless young man, whose talent had not yet been put to
any real test, and to whom she had nevertheless shown sympathy and
kindness.
What she could least forgive in me was the raging vehemence with which
I spoke, and by which she felt so insulted, that upon realising to what
excesses I had gone, there was nothing I could do but try and pacify her by
owning myself in the wrong, and begging her forgiveness. Such was the end
of this and all subsequent scenes, outwardly; at least, always to her
advantage. But peace was undermined for ever, and by the frequent
recurrence of such quarrels, Minna’s character underwent a considerable
change. Just as in later times she became perplexed by what she considered
my incomprehensible conception of art and its proportions, which upset her
ideas about everything connected with it, so now she grew more and more
confused by my greater delicacy in regard to morality, which was very
different from hers, especially as in many other respects I displayed a
freedom of opinion which the could neither comprehend nor approve.
A feeling of passionate resentment was accordingly roused in her
otherwise tranquil disposition. It was not surprising that this resentment
increased as the years went on, and manifested itself in a manner
characteristic of a girl sprung from the lower middle class, in whom mere
superficial polish had taken the place of any true culture. The real torment
of our subsequent life together lay in the fact that, owing to her violence, I
had lost the last support I had hitherto found in her exceptionally sweet
disposition. At that time I was filled only with a dim foreboding of the
fateful step I was taking in marrying her. Her agreeable and soothing

qualities still had such a beneficial effect upon me, that with the frivolity
natural to me, as well as the obstinacy with which I met all opposition, I
silenced the inner voice that darkly foreboded disaster.
Since my journey to Königsberg I had broken off all communication with
my family, that is to say, with my mother and Rosalie, and I told no one of
the step I had decided to take. Under my old friend Möller’s audacious
guidance I overcame all the legal difficulties that stood in the way of our
union. According to Prussian law, a man who has reached his majority no
longer requires his parents’ consent to his marriage: but since, according to
this same provision, I was not yet of age, I had recourse to the law of
Saxony, to which country I belonged by birth, and by whose regulations I
had already attained my majority at the age of twenty-one. Our banns had to
be published at the place where we had been living during the past year, and
this formality was carried out in Magdeburg without any further objections
being raised. As Minna’s parents had given their consent, the only thing that
still remained to be done to make everything quite in order was for us to go
together to the clergyman of the parish of Tragheim. This proved a strange
enough visit. It took place the morning preceding the performance to be
given for our benefit, in which Minna had chosen, the pantomimic role of
Fenella; her costume was not ready yet, and there was still a great deal to be
done. The rainy cold November weather made us feel out of humour, when,
to add to our vexation, we were kept standing in the hall of the vicarage for
an unreasonable time. Then an altercation arose between us which speedily
led to such bitter vituperation that we were just on the point of separating
and going each our own way, when the clergyman opened the door. Not a
little embarrassed at having surprised us in the act of quarrelling, he invited
us in. We were obliged to put a good face on the matter, however; and the
absurdity of the situation so tickled our sense of humour that we laughed;
the parson was appeased, and the wedding fixed for eleven o’clock the next
morning.
Another fruitful source of irritation, which often led to the outbreak of
violent quarrelling between us, was the arrangement of our future home, in
the interior comfort and beauty of which I hoped to find a guarantee of
happiness. The economical ideas of my bride filled me with impatience. I
was determined that the inauguration of a series of prosperous years which I
saw before me must be celebrated by a correspondingly comfortable home.
Furniture, household utensils, and all necessaries were obtained on credit, to

be paid for by instalment. There was, of course, no question of a dowry, a
wedding outfit, or any of the things that are generally considered
indispensable to a well-founded establishment. Our witnesses and guests
were drawn from the company of actors accidentally brought together by
their engagement at the Königsberg theatre. My friend Möller made us a
present of a silver sugar-basin, which was supplemented by a silver cake-
basket from another stage friend, a peculiar and, as far as I can remember,
rather interesting young man named Ernst Castell. The benefit performance
of the Die Stumme von Portici, which I conducted with great enthusiasm,
went off well, and brought us in as large a sum as we had counted upon.
After spending the rest of the day before our wedding very quietly, as we
were tired out after our return from the theatre, I took up my abode for the
first time in our new home. Not wishing to use the bridal bed, decorated for
the occasion, I lay down on a hard sofa, without even sufficient covering on
me, and froze valiantly while awaiting the happiness of the following day. I
was pleasantly excited the next morning by the arrival of Minna’s
belongings, packed in boxes and baskets. The weather, too, had quite
cleared up, and the sun was shining brightly; only our sitting-room refused
to get properly warm, which for some time drew down Minna’s reproaches
upon my head for my supposed carelessness in not having seen to the
heating arrangements. At last I dressed myself in my new suit, a dark blue
frock-coat with gold buttons. The carriage drove up, and I set out to fetch
my bride. The bright sky had put us all in good spirits, and in the best of
humour I met Minna, who was dressed in a splendid gown chosen by me.
She greeted me with sincere cordiality and pleasure shining from her eyes;
and taking the fine weather as a good omen, we started off for what now
seemed to us a most cheerful wedding. We enjoyed the satisfaction of
seeing the church as over-crowded as if a brilliant theatrical representation
were being given; it was quite a difficult matter to make our way to the
altar, where a group no less worldly than the rest, consisting of our
witnesses, dressed in all their theatrical finery, were assembled to receive
us. There was not one real friend amongst all those present, for even our
strange old friend Möller was absent, because no suitable partner had been
found for him. I was not for a single moment insensible to the chilling
frivolity of the congregation, who seemed to impart their tone to the whole
ceremony. I listened like one in a dream to the nuptial address of the parson,
who, I was afterwards told, had had a share in producing the spirit of

bigotry which at this time was so prevalent in Königsberg, and which
exercised such a disquieting influence on its population.
A few days later I was told that a rumour had got about the town that I
had taken action against the parson for some gross insults contained in his
sermon; I did not quite see what was meant, but supposed that the
exaggerated report arose from a passage in his address which I in my
excitement had misunderstood. The preacher, in speaking of the dark days,
of which we were to expect our share, bade us look to an unknown friend,
and I glanced up inquiringly for further particulars of this mysterious and
influential patron who chose so strange a way of announcing himself.
Reproachfully, and with peculiar emphasis, the pastor then pronounced the
name of this unknown friend: Jesus. Now I was not in any way insulted by
this, as people imagined, but was simply disappointed; at the same time, I
thought that such exhortations were probably usual in nuptial addresses.
But, on the whole, I was so absent-minded during this ceremony, which
was double Dutch to me, that when the parson held out the closed prayer-
book for us to place our wedding rings upon, Minna had to nudge me
forcibly to make me follow her example.
At that moment I saw, as clearly as in a vision, my whole being divided
into two cross-currents that dragged me in different directions; the upper
one faced the sun and carried me onward like a dreamer, whilst the lower
one held my nature captive, a prey to some inexplicable fear. The
extraordinary levity with which I chased away the conviction which kept
forcing itself upon me, that I was committing a twofold sin, was amply
accounted for by the really genuine affection with which I looked upon the
young girl whose truly exceptional character (so rare in the environment in
which she had been placed) led her thus to bind herself to a young man
without any means of support. It was eleven o’clock on the morning of the
24th of November, 1836, and I was twenty-three and a half.
On the way home from church, and afterwards, my good spirits rose
superior to all my doubts.
Minna at once took upon herself the duty of receiving and entertaining
her guests. The table was spread, and a rich feast, at which Abraham Möller,
the energetic promoter of our marriage, also took part, although he had been
rather put out by his exclusion from the church ceremony, made up for the

coldness of the room, which for a long time refused to get warm, to the
great distress of the young hostess.
Everything went off in the usual uneventful way. Nevertheless, I retained
my good spirits till the next morning, when I had to present myself at the
magistrate’s court to meet the demands of my creditors, which had been
forwarded to me from Magdeburg to Konigsburg.
My friend Möller, whom I had retained for my defence, had foolishly
advised me to meet my creditors’ demands by pleading infancy according to
the law of Prussia, at all events until actual assistance for the settlement of
the claims could be obtained.
The magistrate, to whom I stated this plea as I had been advised, was
astonished, being probably well aware of my marriage on the previous day,
which could only have taken place on the production of documentary proof
of my majority. I naturally only gained a brief respite by this manœuvre,
and the troubles which beset me for a long time afterwards had their origin
on the first day of my marriage.
During the period when I held no appointment at the theatre I suffered
various humiliations. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to make the most of
my leisure in the interests of my art, and I finished a few pieces, among
which was a grand overture on Rule Britannia.
When I was still in Berlin I had written the overture entitled Polonia,
which has already been mentioned in connection with the Polish festival.
Rule Britannia was a further and deliberate step in the direction of mass
effects; at the close a strong military band was to be added to the already
over-full orchestra, and I intended to have the whole thing performed at the
Musical Festival in Königsberg in the summer.
To these two overtures I added a supplement—an overture entitled
Napoleon. The point to which I devoted my chief attention was the
selection of the means for producing certain effects, and I carefully
considered whether I should express the annihilating stroke of fate that
befell the French Emperor in Russia by a beat on the tom-tom or not. I
believe it was to a great extent my scruples about the introduction of this
beat that prevented me from carrying out my plan just then.
On the other hand, the conclusions which I had reached regarding the ill-
success of Liebesverbot resulted in an operatic sketch in which the demands
made on the chorus and the staff of singers should be more in proportion to

the known capacity of the local company, as this small theatre was the only
one at my disposal.
A quaint tale from the Arabian Nights suggested the very subject for a
light work of this description, the title of which, if I remember rightly, was
Mannerlist grosser als Frauenlist (‘Man outwits Woman’).
I transplanted the story from Bagdad to a modern setting. A young
goldsmith offends the pride of a young woman by placing the above motto
on the sign over his shop; deeply veiled, she steps into his shop and asks
him, as he displays such excellent taste in his work, to express his opinion
on her own physical charms; he begins with her feet and her hands, and
finally, noticing his confusion, she removes the veil from her face. The
jeweller is carried away by her beauty, whereupon she complains to him
that her father, who has always kept her in the strictest seclusion, describes
her to all her suitors as an ugly monster, his object being, she imagines,
simply to keep her dowry. The young man swears that he will not be
frightened off by these foolish objections, should the father raise them
against his suit. No sooner said than done. The daughter of this peculiar old
gentleman is promised to the unsuspecting jeweller, and is brought to her
bridegroom as soon as he has signed the contract. He then sees that the
father has indeed spoken the truth, the real daughter being a perfect
scarecrow. The beautiful lady returns to the bridegroom to gloat over his
desperation, and promises to release him from his terrible marriage if he
will remove the motto from his signboard. At this point I departed from the
original, and continued as follows: The enraged jeweller is on the point of
tearing down his unfortunate signboard when a curious apparition leads him
to pause in the act. He sees a bear-leader in the street making his clumsy
beast dance, in whom the luckless lover recognises at a glance his own
father, from whom he has been parted by a hard fate.
He suppresses any sign of emotion, for in a flash a scheme occurs to him
by which he can utilise this discovery to free himself from the hated
marriage with the daughter of the proud old aristocrat.
He instructs the bear-leader to come that evening to the garden where the
solemn betrothal is to take place in the presence of the invited guests.
He then explains to his young enemy that he wishes to leave the
signboard up for the time being, as he still hopes to prove the truth of the
motto.

After the marriage contract, in which the young man arrogates to himself
all kinds of fictitious titles of nobility, has been read to the assembled
company (composed, say, of the elite of the noble immigrants at the time of
the French Revolution), there is heard suddenly the pipe of the bear-leader,
who enters the garden with his prancing beast. Angered by this trivial
diversion, the astonished company become indignant when the bridegroom,
giving free vent to his feelings, throws himself with tears of joy into the
arms of the bear-leader and loudly proclaims him as his long-lost father.
The consternation of the company becomes even greater, however, when
the bear itself embraces the man they supposed to be of noble birth, for the
beast is no less a person than his own brother in the flesh who, on the death
of the real bear, had donned its skin, thus enabling the poverty-stricken pair
to continue to earn their livelihood in the only way left to them. This public
disclosure of the bridegroom’s lowly origin at once dissolves the marriage,
and the young woman, declaring herself outwitted by man, offers her hand
in compensation to the released jeweller.
To this unassuming subject I gave the title of the Gluckliche
Barenfamilie, and provided it with a dialogue which afterwards met with
Holtei’s highest approval.
I was about to begin the music for it in a new light French style, but the
seriousness of my position, which grew more and more acute, prevented
further progress in my work.
In this respect my strained relations with the conductor of the theatre
were still a constant source of trouble. With neither the opportunity nor the
means to defend myself, I had to submit to being maligned and rendered an
object of suspicion on all sides by my rival, who remained master of the
field. The object of this was to disgust me with the idea of taking up my
appointment as musical conductor, for which the contract had been signed
for Easter. Though I did not lose my self-confidence, I suffered keenly from
the indignity and the depressing effect of this prolonged strain.
When at last, at the beginning of April, the moment arrived for the
musical conductor Schubert to resign, and for me to take over the whole
charge, he had the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that not only was the
standing of the opera seriously weakened by the departure of the prima
donna, but that there was good reason to doubt whether the theatre could be
carried on at all. This month of Lent, which was such a bad time in

Germany for all similar theatrical enterprises, decimated the Königsberg
audience with the rest. The director took the greatest trouble imaginable to
fill up the gaps in the staff of the opera by means of engaging strangers
temporarily, and by new acquisitions, and in this my personality and
unflagging activity were of real service; I devoted all my energy to buoying
up by word and deed the tattered ship of the theatre, in which I now had a
hand for the first time.
For a long time I had to try and keep cool under the most violent
treatment by a clique of students, among whom my predecessor had raised
up enemies for me; and by the unerring certainty of my conducting I had to
overcome the initial opposition of the orchestra, which had been set against
me.
After laboriously laying the foundation of personal respect, I was now
forced to realise that the business methods of the director, Hubsch, had
already involved too great a sacrifice to permit the theatre to make its way
against the unfavourableness of the season, and in May he admitted to me
that he had come to the point of being obliged to close the theatre.
By summoning up all my eloquence, and by making suggestions which
promised a happy issue, I was able to induce him to persevere; nevertheless,
this was only possible by making demands on the loyalty of his company,
who were asked to forego part of their salaries for a time. This aroused
general bitterness on the part of the uninitiated, and I found myself in the
curious position of being forced to place the director in a favourable light to
those who were hard hit by these measures, while I myself and my position
were affected in such a manner that my situation became daily more
unendurable under the accumulation of intolerable difficulties taking their
root in my past.
But though I did not even then lose courage, Minna, who as my wife was
robbed of all that she had a right to expect, found this turn of fate quite
unbearable. The hidden canker of our married life which, even before our
marriage, had caused me the most terrible anxiety and led to violent scenes,
reached its full growth under these sad conditions. The less I was able to
maintain the standard of comfort due to our position by working and
making the most of my talents, the more did Minna, to my insufferable
shame, consider it necessary to take this burden upon herself by making the
most of her personal popularity. The discovery of similar condescensions—

as I used to call them—on Minna’s part, had repeatedly led to revolting
scenes, and only her peculiar conception of her professional position and
the needs it involved had made a charitable interpretation possible.
I was absolutely unable to bring my young wife to see my point of view,
or to make her realise my own wounded feelings on these occasions, while
the unrestrained violence of my speech and behaviour made an
understanding once and for all impossible. These scenes frequently sent my
wife into convulsions of so alarming a nature that, as will easily be realised,
the satisfaction of reconciling her once more was all that remained to me.
Certain it was that our mutual attitude became more and more
incomprehensible and inexplicable to us both.
These quarrels, which now became more frequent and more distressing,
may have gone far to diminish the strength of any affection which Minna
was able to give me, but I had no idea that she was only waiting for a
favourable opportunity to come to a desperate decision.
To fill the place of tenor in our company, I had summoned Friedrich
Schmitt to Königsberg, a friend of my first year in Magdeburg, to whom
allusion has already been made. He was sincerely devoted to me, and
helped me as much as possible in overcoming the dangers which threatened
the prosperity of the theatre as well as my own position.
The necessity of being on friendly terms with the public made me much
less reserved and cautious in making new acquaintances, especially when in
his company.
A rich merchant, of the name of Dietrich, had recently constituted
himself a patron of the theatre, and especially of the women. With due
deference to the men with whom they were connected, he used to invite the
pick of these ladies to dinner at his house, and affected, on these occasions,
the well-to-do Englishman, which was the beau-ideal for German
merchants, especially in the manufacturing towns of the north.
I had shown my annoyance at the acceptance of the invitation, sent to us
among the rest, at first simply because his looks were repugnant to me.
Minna considered this very unjust. Anyhow, I set my face decidedly against
continuing our acquaintance with this man, and although Minna did not
insist on receiving him, my conduct towards the intruder was the cause of
angry scenes between us.

One day Friedrich Schmitt considered it his duty to inform me that this
Herr Dietrich had spoken of me at a public dinner in such a manner as to
lead every one to suppose that he had a suspicious intimacy with my wife. I
felt obliged to suspect Minna of having, in some way unknown to me, told
the fellow about my conduct towards her, as well as about our precarious
position.
Accompanied by Schmitt, I called this dangerous person to account on
the subject in his own home. At first this only led to the usual denials.
Afterwards, however, he sent secret communications to Minna concerning
the interview, thus providing her with a supposed new grievance against me
in the form of my inconsiderate treatment of her.
Our relations now reached a critical stage, and on certain points we
preserved silence.
At the same time—it was towards the end of May, 1837—the business
affairs of the theatre had reached the crisis above mentioned, when the
management was obliged to fall back on the self-sacrificing co-operation of
the staff to assure the continuance of the undertaking. As I have said before,
my own position at the end of a year so disastrous to my welfare was
seriously affected by this; nevertheless, there seemed to be no alternative
for me but to face these difficulties patiently, and relying on the faithful
Friedrich Schmitt, but ignoring Minna, I began to take the necessary steps
for making my post at Königsberg secure. This, as well as the arduous part I
took in the business of the theatre, kept me so busy and so much away from
home, that I was not able to pay any particular attention to Minna’s silence
and reserve.
On the morning of the 31st of May I took leave of Minna, expecting to be
detained till late in the afternoon by rehearsals and business matters. With
my entire approval she had for some time been accustomed to have her
daughter Nathalie, who was supposed by every one to be her youngest
sister, to stay with her.
As I was about to wish them my usual quiet good-bye, the two women
rushed after me to the door and embraced me passionately, Minna as well as
her daughter bursting into tears. I was alarmed, and asked the meaning of
this excitement, but could get no answer from them, and I was obliged to
leave them and ponder alone over their peculiar conduct, of the reason for
which I had not even the faintest idea.

I arrived home late in the afternoon, worn out by my exertions and
worries, dead-tired, pale and hungry, and was surprised to find the table not
laid and Minna not at home, the maid telling me that she had not yet
returned from her walk with Nathalie.
I waited patiently, sinking down exhausted at the work-table, which I
absent-mindedly opened. To my intense astonishment it was empty. Horror-
struck, I sprang up and went to the wardrobe, and realised at once that
Minna had left the house; her departure had been so cunningly planned that
even the maid was unaware of it.
With death in my soul I dashed out of the house to investigate the cause
of Minna’s disappearance.
Old Möller, by his practical sagacity, very soon found out that Dietrich,
his personal enemy, had left Königsberg in the direction of Berlin by the
special coach in the morning.
This horrible fact stood staring me in the face.
I had now to try and overtake the fugitives. With the lavish use of money
this might have been possible, but funds were lacking, and had, in part, to
be laboriously collected.
On Möller’s advice I took the silver wedding presents with me in case of
emergency, and after the lapse of a few terrible hours went off, also by
special coach, with my distressed old friend. We hoped to overtake the
ordinary mail-coach, which had started a short time before, as it was
probable that Minna would also continue her journey in this, at a safe
distance from Königsberg.
This proved impossible, and when next morning at break of day we
arrived in Elbing, we found our money exhausted by the lavish use of the
express coach, and were compelled to return; we discovered, moreover, that
even by using the ordinary coach we should be obliged to pawn the sugar-
basin and cake-dish.
This return journey to Königsberg rightly remains one of the saddest
memories of my youth. Of course, I did not for a moment entertain the idea
of remaining in the place; my one thought was how I could best get away.
Hemmed in between the law-suits of my Magdeburg creditors and the
Königsberg tradesmen, who had claims on me for the payment by
instalment of my domestic accounts, my departure could only be carried out

in secrecy. For this very reason, too, it was necessary for me to raise money,
particularly for the long journey from Königsberg to Dresden, whither I
determined to go in quest of my wife, and these matters detained me for two
long and terrible days.
I received no news whatever from Minna; from Möller I ascertained that
she had gone to Dresden, and that Dietrich had only accompanied her for a
short distance on the excuse of helping her in a friendly way.
I succeeded in assuring myself that she really only wished to get away
from a position that filled her with desperation, and for this purpose had
accepted the assistance of a man who sympathised with her, and that she
was for the present seeking rest and shelter with her parents. My first
indignation at the event accordingly subsided to such an extent that I
gradually acquired more sympathy for her in her despair, and began to
reproach myself both for my conduct and for having brought unhappiness
on her.
I became so convinced of the correctness of this view during the tedious
journey to Dresden via Berlin, which I eventually undertook on the 3rd of
June, that when at last I found Minna at the humble abode of her parents, I
was really quite unable to express anything but repentence and heartbroken
sympathy.
It was quite true that Minna thought herself badly treated by me, and
declared that she had only been forced to take this desperate step by
brooding over our impossible position, to which she thought me both blind
and deaf. Her parents were not pleased to see me: the painfully excited
condition of their daughter seemed to afford sufficient justification for her
complaints against me. Whether my own sufferings, my hasty pursuit, and
the heartfelt expression of my grief made any favourable impression on her,
I can really hardly say, as her manner towards me was very confused and, to
a certain extent, incomprehensible. Still she was impressed when I told her
that there was a good prospect of my obtaining the post of musical
conductor at Riga, where a new theatre was about to be opened under the
most favourable conditions. I felt that I must not press for new resolutions
concerning the regulation of our future relations just then, but must strive
the more earnestly to lay a better foundation for them. Consequently, after
spending a fearful week with my wife under the most painful conditions, I
went to Berlin, there to sign my agreement with the new director of the

Riga theatre. I obtained the appointment on fairly favourable terms which, I
saw, would enable me to keep house in such a style that Minna could retire
from the theatre altogether. By this means she would be in a position to
spare me all humiliation and anxiety.
On returning to Dresden, I found that Minna was ready to lend a willing
ear to my proposed plans, and I succeeded in inducing her to leave her
parents’ house, which was very cramped for us, and to establish herself in
the country at Blasewitz, near Dresden, to await our removal to Riga. We
found modest lodgings at an inn on the Elbe, in the farm-yard of which I
had often played as a child. Here Minna’s frame of mind really seemed to
be improving. She had begged me not to press her too hard, and I spared her
as much as possible. After a few weeks I thought I might consider the
period of uneasiness past, but was surprised to find the situation growing
worse again without any apparent reason. Minna then told me of some
advantageous offers she had received from different theatres, and
astonished me one day by announcing her intention of taking a short
pleasure trip with a girl friend and her family. As I felt obliged to avoid
putting any restraint upon her, I offered no objection to the execution of this
project, which entailed a week’s separation, but accompanied her back to
her parents myself, promising to await her return quietly at Blasewitz. A
few days later her eldest sister called to ask me for the written permission
required to make out a passport for my wife. This alarmed me, and I went to
Dresden to ask her parents what their daughter was about. There, to my
surprise, I met with a very unpleasant reception; they reproached me
coarsely for my behaviour to Minna, whom they said I could not even
manage to support, and when I only replied by asking for information as to
the whereabouts of my wife, and about her plans for the future, I was put
off with improbable statements. Tormented by the sharpest forebodings, and
understanding nothing of what had occurred, I went back to the village,
where I found a letter from Königsberg, from Möller, which poured light on
all my misery. Herr Dietrich had gone to Dresden, and I was told the name
of the hotel at which he was staying. The terrible illumination thrown by
this communication upon Minna’s conduct showed me in a flash what to do.
I hurried into town to make the necessary inquiries at the hotel mentioned,
and found that the man in question had been there, but had moved on again.
He had vanished, and Minna too! I now knew enough to demand of the

Fates why, at such an early age, they had sent me this terrible experience
which, as it seemed to me, had poisoned my whole existence.
I sought consolation for my boundless grief in the society of my sister
Ottilie and her husband, Hermann Brockhaus, an excellent fellow to whom
she had been married for some years. They were then living at their pretty
summer villa in the lovely Grosser Garten, near Dresden. I had looked them
up at once the first time I went to Dresden, but as I had not at that time the
slightest idea of how things were going to turn out, I had told them nothing,
and had seen but little of them. Now I was moved to break my obstinate
silence, and unfold to them the cause of my misery, with but few
reservations.
For the first time I was in a position gratefully to appreciate the
advantages of family intercourse, and of the direct and disinterested
intimacy between blood relations. Explanations were hardly necessary, and
as brother and sister we found ourselves as closely linked now as we had
been when we were children. We arrived at a complete understanding
without having to explain what we meant; I was unhappy, she was happy;
consolation and help followed as a matter of course.
This was the sister to whom I once had read Leubald und Adelaïde in a
thunderstorm; the sister who had listened, filled with astonishment and
sympathy, to that eventful performance of my first overture on Christmas
Eve, and whom I now found married to one of the kindest of men, Hermann
Brockhaus, who soon earned a reputation for himself as an expert in
oriental languages. He was the youngest brother of my elder brother-in-law,
Friedrich Brockhaus. Their union was blessed by two children; their
comfortable means favoured a life free from care, and when I made my
daily pilgrimage from Blasewitz to the famous Grosser Garten, it was like
stepping from a desert into paradise to enter their house (one of the popular
villas), knowing that I would invariably find a welcome in this happy
family circle. Not only was my spirit soothed and benefited by intercourse
with my sister, but my creative instincts, which had long lain dormant, were
stimulated afresh by the society of my brilliant and learned brother-in-law.
It was brought home to me, without in any way hurting my feelings, that
my early marriage, excusable as it may have been, was yet an error to be
retrieved, and my mind regained sufficient elasticity to compose some
sketches, designed this time not merely to meet the requirements of the

theatre as I knew it. During the last wretched days I had spent with Minna
at Blasewitz, I had read Bulwer Lytton’s novel, Rienzi; during my
convalescence in the bosom of my sympathetic family, I now worked out
the scheme for a grand opera under the inspiration of this book. Though
obliged for the present to return to the limitations of a small theatre, I tried
from this time onwards to aim at enlarging my sphere of action. I sent my
overture, Rule Britannia, to the Philharmonic Society in London, and tried
to get into communication with Scribe in Paris about a setting for H.
Konig’s novel, Die Hohe Braut, which I had sketched out.
Thus I spent the remainder of this summer of ever-happy memory. At the
end of August I had to leave for Riga to take up my new appointment.
Although I knew that my sister Rosalie had shortly before married the man
of her choice, Professor Oswald Marbach of Leipzig, I avoided that city,
probably with the foolish notion of sparing myself any humiliation, and
went straight to Berlin, where I had to receive certain additional instructions
from my future director, and also to obtain my passport. There I met a
younger sister of Minna’s, Amalie Planer, a singer with a pretty voice, who
had joined our opera company at Magdeburg for a short time. My report of
Minna quite overwhelmed this exceedingly kind-hearted girl. We went to a
performance of Fidelia together, during which she, like myself, burst into
tears and sobs. Refreshed by the sympathetic impression I had received, I
went by way of Schwerin, where I was disappointed in my hopes of finding
traces of Minna, to Lubeck, to wait for a merchant ship going to Riga. We
had set sail for Travemunde when an unfavourable wind set in, and held up
our departure for a week: I had to spend this disagreeable time in a
miserable ship’s tavern. Thrown on my own resources I tried, amongst other
things, to read Till Eulenspiegel, and this popular book first gave me the
idea of a real German comic opera. Long afterwards, when I was
composing the words for my Junger Siegfried, I remember having many
vivid recollections of this melancholy sojourn in Travemunde and my
reading of Till Eulenspiegel. After a voyage of four days we at last reached
port at Bolderaa. I was conscious of a peculiar thrill on coming into contact
with Russian officials, whom I had instinctively detested since the days of
my sympathy with the Poles as a boy. It seemed to me as if the harbour
police must read enthusiasm for the Poles in my face, and would send me to
Siberia on the spot, and I was the more agreeably surprised, on reaching

Riga, to find myself surrounded by the familiar German element which,
above all, pervaded everything connected with the theatre.
After my unfortunate experiences in connection with the conditions of
small German stages, the way in which this newly opened theatre was run
had at first a calming effect on my mind. A society had been formed by a
number of well-to-do theatre-goers and rich business men to raise, by
voluntary subscription, sufficient money to provide the sort of management
they regarded as ideal with a solid foundation. The director they appointed
was Karl von Holtei, a fairly popular dramatic writer, who enjoyed a certain
reputation in the theatrical world. This man’s ideas about the stage
represented a special tendency, which was at that time on the decline. He
possessed, in addition to his remarkable social gifts, an extraordinary
acquaintance with all the principal people connected with the theatre during
the past twenty years, and belonged to a society called Die
Liebenswurdigen Libertins (‘The Amiable Libertines’). This was a set of
young would-be wits, who looked upon the stage as a playground licensed
by the public for the display of their mad pranks, from which the middle
class held aloof, while people of culture were steadily losing all interest in
the theatre under these hopeless conditions.
Holtei’s wife had in former days been a popular actress at the Konigstadt
theatre in Berlin, and it was here, at the time when Henriette Sontag raised
it to the height of its fame, that Holtei’s style had been formed. The
production there of his melodrama Leonore (founded on Burger’s ballad)
had in particular earned him a wide reputation as a writer for the stage,
besides which he produced some Liederspiele, and among them one,
entitled Der Alte Feldherr, became fairly popular. His invitation to Riga had
been particularly welcome, as it bid fair to gratify his craving to absorb
himself completely in the life of the stage; he hoped, in this out-of-the-way
place, to indulge his passion without restraint. His peculiar familiarity of
manner, his inexhaustible store of amusing small talk, and his airy way of
doing business, gave him a remarkable hold on the tradespeople of Riga,
who wished for nothing better than such entertainment as he was able to
give them. They provided him liberally with all the necessary means and
treated him in every respect with entire confidence. Under his auspices my
own engagement had been very easily secured. Surly old pedants he would
have none of, favouring young men on the score of their youth alone. As far
as I myself was concerned, it was enough for him to know that I belonged

to a family which he knew and liked, and hearing, moreover, of my fervent
devotion to modern Italian and French music in particular, he decided that I
was the very man for him. He had the whole shoal of Bellini’s, Donizetti’s,
Adam’s, and Auber’s operatic scores copied out, and I was to give the good
people of Riga the benefit of them with all possible speed.
The first time I visited Holtei I met an old Leipzig acquaintance, Heinrich
Dorn, my former mentor, who now held the permanent municipal
appointment of choir-master at the church and music-teacher in the schools.
He was pleased to find his curious pupil transformed into a practical opera
conductor of independent position, and no less surprised to see the eccentric
worshipper of Beethoven changed into an ardent champion of Bellini and
Adam. He took me home to his summer residence, which was built,
according to Riga phraseology, ‘in the fields,’ that is literally, on the sand.
While I was giving him some account of the experiences through which I
had passed, I grew conscious of the strangely deserted look of the place.
Feeling frightened and homeless, my initial uneasiness gradually developed
into a passionate longing to escape from all the whirl of theatrical life which
had wooed me to such inhospitable regions. This uneasy mood was fast
dispelling the flippancy which at Magdeburg had led to my being dragged
down to the level of the most worthless stage society, and had also
conduced to spoil my musical taste. It also contained the germs of a new
tendency which developed during the period of my activity at Riga, brought
me more and more out of touch with the theatre, thereby causing Director
Holtei all the annoyance which inevitably attends disappointment.
For some time, however, I found no difficulty in making the best of a bad
bargain. We were obliged to open the theatre before the company was
complete. To make this possible, we gave a performance of a short comic
opera by C. Blum, called Marie, Max und Michel. For this work I
composed an additional air for a song which Holtei had written for the bass
singer, Gunther; it consisted of a sentimental introduction and a gay military
rondo, and was very much appreciated. Later on, I introduced another
additional song into the Schweizerfamilie, to be sung by another bass
singer, Scheibler; it was of a devotional character, and pleased not only the
public, but myself, and showed signs of the upheaval which was gradually
taking place in my musical development. I was entrusted with the
composition of a tune for a National Hymn written by Brakel in honour of
the Tsar Nicholas’s birthday. I tried to give it as far as possible the right

colouring for a despotic patriarchal monarch, and once again I achieved
some fame, for it was sung for several successive years on that particular
day. Holtei tried to persuade me to write a bright, gay comic opera, or rather
a musical play, to be performed by our company just as it stood. I looked up
the libretto of my Glucktiche Barenfamilie, and found Holtei very well
disposed towards it (as I have stated elsewhere); but when I unearthed the
little music which I had already composed for it, I was overcome with
disgust at this way of writing; whereupon I made a present of the book to
my clumsy, good-natured friend, Lobmann, my right-hand man in the
orchestra, and never gave it another thought from that day to this. I
managed, however, to get to work on the libretto of Rienzi, which I had
sketched out at Blasewitz. I developed it from every point of view, on so
extravagant a scale, that with this work I deliberately cut off all possibility
of being tempted by circumstances to produce it anywhere but on one of the
largest stages in Europe.
But while this helped to strengthen my endeavour to escape from all the
petty degradations of stage life, new complications arose which affected me
more and more seriously, and offered further opposition to my aims. The
prima donna engaged by Holtei had failed us, and we were therefore
without a singer for grand opera. Under the circumstances, Holtei joyfully
agreed to my proposal to ask Amalie, Minna’s sister (who was glad to
accept an engagement that brought her near me), to come to Riga at once.
In her answer to me from Dresden, where she was then living, she informed
me of Minna’s return to her parents, and of her present miserable condition
owing to a severe illness. I naturally took this piece of news very coolly, for
what I had heard about Minna since she left me for the last time had forced
me to authorise my old friend at Königsberg to take steps to procure a
divorce. It was certain that Minna had stayed for some time at a hotel in
Hamburg with that ill-omened man, Herr Dietrich, and that she had spread
abroad the story of our separation so unreservedly that the theatrical world
in particular had discussed it in a manner that was positively insulting to
me. I simply informed Amalie of this, and requested her to spare me any
further news of her sister.
Hereupon Minna herself appealed to me, and wrote me a positively
heartrending letter, in which she openly confessed her infidelity. She
declared that she had been driven to it by despair, but that the great trouble
she had thus brought upon herself having taught her a lesson, all she now

wished was to return to the right path. Taking everything into account, I
concluded that she had been deceived in the character of her seducer, and
the knowledge of her terrible position had placed her both morally and
physically in a most lamentable condition, in which, now ill and wretched,
she turned to me again to acknowledge her guilt, crave my forgiveness, and
assure me, in spite of all, that she had now become fully aware of her love
for me. Never before had I heard such sentiments from Minna, nor was I
ever to hear the same from her again, save on one touching occasion many
years later, when similar outpourings moved and affected me in the same
way as this particular letter had done. In reply I told her that there should
never again be any mention between us of what had occurred, for which I
took upon myself the chief blame; and I can pride myself on having carried
out this resolution to the letter.
When her sister’s engagement was satisfactorily settled, I at once invited
Minna to come to Riga with her. Both gladly accepted my invitation, and
arrived from Dresden at my new home on 19th October, wintry weather
having already set in. With much regret I perceived that Minna’s health had
really suffered, and therefore did all in my power to provide her with all the
domestic comforts and quiet she needed. This presented difficulties, for my
modest income as a conductor was all I had at my disposal, and we were
both firmly determined not to let Minna go on the stage again. On the other
hand, the carrying out of this resolve, in view of the financial inconvenience
it entailed, produced strange complications, the nature of which was only
revealed to me later, when startling developments divulged the real moral
character of the manager Holtei. For the present I had to let people think
that I was jealous of my wife. I bore patiently with the general belief that I
had good reasons to be so, and rejoiced meanwhile at the restoration of our
peaceful married life, and especially at the sight of our humble home, which
we made as comfortable as our means would allow, and in the keeping of
which Minna’s domestic talents came strongly to the fore. As we were still
childless, and were obliged as a rule to enlist the help of a dog in order to
give life to the domestic hearth, we once lighted upon the eccentric idea of
trying our luck with a young wolf which was brought into the house as a
tiny cub. When we found, however, that this experiment did not increase the
comfort of our home life, we gave him up after he had been with us a few
weeks. We fared better with sister Amalie; for she, with her good-nature and
simple homely ways, did much to make up for the absence of children for a

time. The two sisters, neither of whom had had any real education, often
returned playfully to the ways of their childhood. When they sang children’s
duets, Minna, though she had had no musical training, always managed
very cleverly to sing seconds, and afterwards, as we sat at our evening
meal, eating Russian salad, salt salmon from the Dwina, or fresh Russian
caviare, we were all three very cheerful and happy far away in our northern
home.
Amalie’s beautiful voice and real vocal talent at first won for her a very
favourable reception with the public, a fact which did us all a great deal of
good. Being, however, very short, and having no very great gift for acting,
the scope of her powers was very limited, and as she was soon surpassed by
more successful competitors, it was a real stroke of good luck for her that a
young officer in the Russian army, then Captain, now General, Carl von
Meek, fell head over ears in love with the simple girl, and married her a
year later. The unfortunate part of this engagement, however, was that it
caused many difficulties, and brought the first cloud over our menage a
trois. For, after a while, the two sisters quarrelled bitterly, and I had the very
unpleasant experience of living for a whole year in the same house with two
relatives who neither saw nor spoke to each other.
We spent the winter at the beginning of 1838 in a very small dingy
dwelling in the old town; it was not till the spring that we moved into a
pleasanter house in the more salubrious Petersburg suburb, where, in spite
of the sisterly breach before referred to, we led a fairly bright and cheerful
life, as we were often able to entertain many of our friends and
acquaintances in a simple though pleasant fashion. In addition to members
of the stage I knew a few people in the town, and we received and visited
the family of Dorn, the musical director, with whom I became quite
intimate. But it was the second musical director, Franz Lobmann, a very
worthy though not a very gifted man, who became most faithfully attached
to me. However, I did not cultivate many acquaintances in wider circles,
and they grew fewer as the ruling passion of my life grew steadily stronger;
so that when, later on, I left Riga, after spending nearly two years there, I
departed almost as a stranger, and with as much indifference as I had left
Magdeburg and Königsberg. What, however, specially embittered my
departure was a series of experiences of a particularly disagreeable nature,
which firmly determined me to cut myself off entirely from the necessity of

mixing with any people like those I had met with in my previous attempts
to create a position for myself at the theatre.
Yet it was only gradually that I became quite conscious of all this. At
first, under the safe guidance of my renewed wedded happiness, which had
for a time been so disturbed in its early days, I felt distinctly better than I
had before in all my professional work. The fact that the material position
of the theatrical undertaking was assured exercised a healthy influence on
the performances. The theatre itself was cooped up in a very narrow space;
there was as little room for scenic display on its tiny stage as there was
accommodation for rich musical effects in the cramped orchestra. In both
directions the strictest limits were imposed, yet I contrived to introduce
considerable reinforcements into an orchestra which was really only
calculated for a string quartette, two first and two second violins, two
violas, and one ‘cello. These successful exertions of mine were the first
cause of the dislike Holtei evinced towards me later on. After this we were
able to get good concerted music for the opera. I found the thorough study
of Mehul’s opera, Joseph in Aegypten, very stimulating. Its noble and
simple style, added to the touching effect of the music, which quite carries
one away, did much towards effecting a favourable change in my taste, till
then warped by my connection with the theatre.
It was most gratifying to feel my former serious taste again aroused by
really good dramatic performances. I specially remember a production of
King Lear, which I followed with the greatest interest, not only at the actual
performances, but at all the rehearsals as well. Yet these educative
impressions tended to make me feel ever more and more dissatisfied with
my work at the theatre. On the one hand, the members of the company
became gradually more distasteful to me, and on the other I was growing
discontented with the management. With regard to the staff of the theatre, I
very soon found out the hollowness, vanity, and the impudent selfishness of
this uncultured and undisciplined class of people, for I had now lost my
former liking for the Bohemian life that had such an attraction for me at
Magdeburg. Before long there were but a few members of our company
with whom I had not quarrelled, thanks to one or the other of these
drawbacks. But my saddest experience was, that in such disputes, into
which in fact I was led simply by my zeal for the artistic success of the
performances as a whole, not only did I receive no support from Holtei, the
director, but I actually made him my enemy. He even declared publicly that

our theatre had become far too respectable for his taste, and tried to
convince me that good theatrical performances could not be given by a
strait-laced company.
In his opinion the idea of the dignity of theatrical art was pedantic
nonsense, and he thought light serio-comic vaudeville the only class of
performance worth considering. Serious opera, rich musical ensemble, was
his particular aversion, and my demands for this irritated him so that he met
them only with scorn and indignant refusals. Of the strange connection
between this artistic bias and his taste in the domain of morality I was also
to become aware, to my horror, in due course. For the present I felt so
repelled by the declaration of his artistic antipathies, as to let my dislike for
the theatre as a profession steadily grow upon me. I still took pleasure in
some good performances which I was able to get up, under favourable
circumstances, at the larger theatre at Mitau, to where the company went for
a time in the early part of the summer. Yet it was while I was there,
spending most of my time reading Bulwer Lytton’s novels, that I made a
secret resolve to try hard to free myself from all connection with the only
branch of theatrical art which had so far been open to me.
The composition of my Rienzi, the text of which I had finished in the
early days of my sojourn in Riga, was destined to bridge me over to the
glorious world for which I had longed so intensely. I had laid aside the
completion of my Gluckliche Barenfamilie, for the simple reason that the
lighter character of this piece would have thrown me more into contact with
the very theatrical people I most despised. My greatest consolation now was
to prepare Rienzi with such an utter disregard of the means which were
available there for its production, that my desire to produce it would force
me out of the narrow confines of this puny theatrical circle to seek a fresh
connection with one of the larger theatres. It was after our return from
Mitau, in the middle of the summer of 1838, that I set to work on this
composition, and by so doing roused myself to a state of enthusiasm which,
considering my position, was nothing less than desperate dare-devilry. All
to whom I confided my plan perceived at once, on the mere mention of my
subject, that I was preparing to break away from my present position, in
which there could be no possibility of producing my work, and I was
looked upon as light-headed and fit only for an asylum.

To all my acquaintances my procedure seemed stupid and reckless. Even
the former patron of my peculiar Leipzig overture thought it impracticable
and eccentric, seeing that I had again turned my back on light opera. He
expressed this opinion very freely in the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, in a
report of a concert I had given towards the end of the previous winter, and
openly ridiculed the Magdeburg Columbus Overture and the Rule Britannia
Overture previously mentioned. I myself had not taken any pleasure in the
performance of either of these overtures, as my predilection for cornets,
strongly marked in both these overtures, again played me a sorry trick, as I
had evidently expected too much of our Riga musicians, and had to endure
all kinds of disappointment on the occasion of the performance. As a
complete contrast to my extravagant setting of Rienzi, this same director, H.
Dorn, had set to work to write an opera in which he had most carefully
borne in mind the conditions obtaining at the Riga theatre. Der Schoffe van
Paris, an historical operetta of the period of the siege of Paris by Joan of
Arc, was practised and performed by us to the complete satisfaction of the
composer. However, the success of this work gave me no reason for
abandoning my project to complete my Rienzi, and I was secretly pleased to
find that I could regard this success without a trace of envy. Though
animated by no feeling of rivalry, I gradually gave up associating with the
Riga artists, confining myself chiefly to the performance of the duties I had
undertaken, and worked away at the two first acts of my big opera without
troubling myself at all whether I should ever get so far as to see it produced.
The serious and bitter experiences I had had so early in life had done
much to guide me towards that intensely earnest side of my nature that had
manifested itself in my earliest youth. The effect of these bitter experiences
was now to be still further emphasised by other sad impressions. Not long
after Minna had rejoined me, I received from home the news of the death of
my sister Rosalie. It was the first time in my life that I had experienced the
passing away of one near and dear to me. The death of this sister struck me
as a most cruel and significant blow of fate; it was out of love and respect
for her that I had turned away so resolutely from my youthful excesses, and
it was to gain her sympathy that I had devoted special thought and care to
my first great works. When the passions and cares of life had come upon
me and driven me away from my home, it was she who had read deep down
into my sorely stricken heart, and who had bidden me that anxious farewell
on my departure from Leipzig. At the time of my disappearance, when the

news of my wilful marriage and of my consequent unfortunate position
reached my family, it was she who, as my mother informed me later, never
lost her faith in me, but who always cherished the hope that I would one
day reach the full development of my capabilities and make a genuine
success of my life.
Now, at the news of her death, and illuminated by the recollection of that
one impressive farewell, as by a flash of lightning I saw the immense value
my relations with this sister had been to me, and I did not fully realise the
extent of her influence until later on, when, after my first striking successes,
my mother tearfully lamented that Rosalie had not lived to witness them. It
really did me good to be again in communication with my family. My
mother and sisters had had news of my doings somehow or other, and I was
deeply touched, in the letters which I was now receiving from them, to hear
no reproaches anent my headstrong and apparently heartless behaviour, but
only sympathy and heartfelt solicitude. My family had also received
favourable reports about my wife’s good qualities, a fact about which I was
particularly glad, as I was thus spared the difficulties of defending her
questionable behaviour to me, which I should have been at pains to excuse.
This produced a salutary calm in my soul, which had so recently been a
prey to the worst anxieties. All that had driven me with such passionate
haste to an improvident and premature marriage, all that had consequently
weighed on me so ruinously, now seemed set at rest, leaving peace in its
stead. And although the ordinary cares of life still pressed on me for many
years, often in a most vexatious and troublesome form, yet the anxieties
attendant on my ardent youthful wishes were in a manner subdued and
calm. From thence forward till the attainment of my professional
independence, all my life’s struggles could be directed entirely towards that
more ideal aim which, from the time of the conception of my Rienzi, was to
be my only guide through life.
It was only later that I first realised the real character of my life in Riga,
from the utterance of one of its inhabitants, who was astonished to learn of
the success of a man of whose importance, during the whole of his two
years’ sojourn in the small capital of Livonia, nothing had been known.
Thrown entirely on my own resources, I was a stranger to every one. As I
mentioned before, I kept aloof from all the theatre folk, in consequence of
my increasing dislike of them, and therefore, when at the end of March,
1839, at the close of my second winter there, I was given my dismissal by

the management, although this occurrence surprised me for other reasons,
yet I felt fully reconciled to this compulsory change in my life. The reasons
which led to this dismissal were, however, of such a nature that I could only
regard it as one of the most disagreeable experiences of my life. Once,
when I was lying dangerously ill, I heard of Holtei’s real feelings towards
me. I had caught a severe cold in the depth of winter at a theatrical
rehearsal, and it at once assumed a serious character, owing to the fact that
my nerves were in a state of constant irritation from the continual
annoyance and vexatious worry caused by the contemptible character of the
theatrical management. It was just at the time when a special performance
of the opera Norma was to be given by our company in Mitau. Holtei
insisted on my getting up from a sick-bed to make this wintry journey, and
thus to expose myself to the danger of seriously increasing my cold in the
icy theatre at Mitau. Typhoid fever was the consequence, and this pulled me
down to such an extent that Holtei, who heard of my condition, is said to
have remarked at the theatre that I should probably never conduct again,
and that, to all intents and purposes, ‘I was on my last legs.’ It was to a
splendid homoeopathic physician, Dr. Prutzer, that I owed my recovery and
my life. Not long after that Holtei left our theatre and Riga for ever; his
occupation there, with ‘the far too respectable conditions,’ as he expressed
it, had become intolerable to him. In addition, however, circumstances had
arisen in his domestic life (which had been much affected by the death of
his wife) which seemed to make him consider a complete break with Riga
eminently desirable. But to my astonishment I now first became aware that
I too had unconsciously been a sufferer from the troubles he had brought
upon himself. When Holtei’s successor in the management—Joseph
Hoffmann the singer—informed me that his predecessor had made it a
condition to his taking over the post that he should enter into the same
engagement that Holtei had made with the conductor Dorn for the post
which I had hitherto filled, and my reappointment had therefore been made
an impossibility, my wife met my astonishment at this news by giving me
the reason, of which for some considerable time past she had been well
aware, namely, Holtei’s special dislike of us both. When I was afterwards
informed by Minna of what had happened—she having purposely kept it
from me all this time, so as not to cause bad feeling between me and my
director—a ghastly light was thrown upon the whole affair. I did indeed
remember perfectly how, soon after Minna’s arrival in Riga, I had been

particularly pressed by Holtei not to prevent my wife’s engagement at the
theatre. I asked him to talk things quietly over with her, so that he might see
that Minna’s unwillingness rested on a mutual understanding, and not on
any jealousy on my part. I had intentionally given him the time when I was
engaged at the theatre on rehearsals for the necessary discussions with my
wife. At the end of these meetings I had, on my return, often found Minna
in a very excited condition, and at length she declared emphatically that
under no circumstances would she accept the engagement offered by Holtei.
I had also noticed in Minna’s demeanour towards me a strange anxiety to
know why I was not unwilling to allow Holtei to try to persuade her. Now
that the catastrophe had occurred, I learned that Holtei had in fact used
these interviews for making improper advances to my wife, the nature of
which I only realised with difficulty on further acquaintance with this man’s
peculiarities, and after having heard of other instances of a similar nature. I
then discovered that Holtei considered it an advantage to get himself talked
about in connection with pretty women, in order thus to divert the attention
of the public from other conduct even more disreputable. After this Minna
was exceedingly indignant at Holtei, who, finding his own suit rejected,
appeared as the medium for another suitor, on whose behalf he urged that
he would think none the worse of her for rejecting him, a grey-haired and
penniless man, but at the same time advocated the suit of Brandenburg, a
very wealthy and handsome young merchant. His fierce indignation at this
double repulse, his humiliation at having revealed his real nature to no
purpose, seems, to judge from Minna’s observations, to have been
exceedingly great. I now understood too well that his frequent and
profoundly contemptuous sallies against respectable actors and actresses
had not been mere spirited exaggerations, but that he had probably often
had to complain of being put thoroughly to shame on this account.
The fact that the playing of such criminal parts as the one he had had in
view with my wife was unable to divert the ever-increasing attention of the
outside world from his vicious and dissolute habits, does not seem to have
escaped him; for those behind the scenes told me candidly that it was owing
to the fear of very unpleasant revelations that he had suddenly decided to
give up his position at Riga altogether. Even in much later years I heard
about Holtei’s bitter dislike of me, a dislike which showed itself, among
other things, in his denunciation of The Music of the Future,[8] and of its
tendency to jeopardise the simplicity of pure sentiment. I have previously

mentioned that he displayed so much personal animosity against me during
the latter part of the time we were together in Riga that he vented his
hostility upon me in every possible way. Up to that time I had felt inclined
to ascribe it to the divergence of our respective views on artistic points.
[8] Zukunftsmusik is a pamphlet revealing some of Wagner’s artistic aims and
aspirations, written 1860-61.—EDITOR.

To my dismay I now became aware that personal considerations alone
were at the bottom of all this, and I blushed to realise that by my former
unreserved confidence in a man whom I thought was absolutely honest, I
had based my knowledge of human nature on such very weak foundations.
But still greater was my disappointment when I discovered the real
character of my friend H. Dorn. During the whole time of our intercourse at
Riga, he, who formerly treated me more like a good-natured elder brother,
had become my most confidential friend. We saw and visited each other
almost daily, very frequently in our respective homes. I kept not a single
secret from him, and the performance of his Schoffe van Paris under my
direction was as successful as if it had been under his own. Now, when I
heard that my post had been given to him, I felt obliged to ask him about it,
in order to learn whether there was any mistake on his part as to my
intention regarding the position I had hitherto held. But from his letter in
reply I could clearly see that Dorn had really made use of Holtei’s dislike
for me to extract from him, before his departure, an arrangement which was
both binding on his successor and also in his (Dorn’s) own favour. As my
friend he ought to have known that he could benefit by this agreement only
in the event of my resigning my appointment in Riga, because in our
confidential conversations, which continued to the end, he always carefully
refrained from touching on the possibility of my going away or remaining.
In fact, he declared that Holtei had distinctly told him he would on no
account re-engage me, as I could not get on with the singers. He added that
after this one could not take it amiss if he, who had been inspired with fresh
enthusiasm for the theatre by the success of his Schoffe von Paris, had
seized and turned to his own advantage the chance offered to him.
Moreover, he had gathered from my confidential communications that I was
very awkwardly situated, and that, owing to my small salary having been
cut down by Holtei from the very beginning, I was in a very precarious
position on account of the demands of my creditors in Königsberg and

Magdeburg. It appeared that these people had employed against me a
lawyer, who was a friend of Dorn’s, and that, consequently, he had come to
the conclusion that I would not be able to remain in Riga. Therefore, even
as my friend, he had felt his conscience quite clear in accepting Holtei’s
proposal.
In order not to leave him in the complacent enjoyment of this self-
deception, I put it clearly before him that he could not be ignorant of the
fact that a higher salary had been promised to me for the third year of my
contract; and that, by the establishment of orchestral concerts, which had
already made a favourable start, I now saw my way to getting free from
those long-standing debts, having already overcome the difficulties of the
removal and settling down. I also asked him how he would act if I saw it
was to my own interest to retain my post, and to call on him to resign his
agreement with Holtei, who, as a matter of fact, after his departure from
Riga, had withdrawn his alleged reason for my dismissal. To this I received
no answer, nor have I had one up to the present day; but, on the other hand,
in 1865, I was astonished to see Dorn enter my house in Munich
unannounced, and when to his joy I recognised him, he stepped up to me
with a gesture which clearly showed his intention of embracing me.
Although I managed to evade this, yet I soon saw the difficulty of
preventing him from addressing me with the familiar form of ‘thou,’ as the
attempt to do so would have necessitated explanations that would have been
a useless addition to all my worries just then; for it was the time when my
Tristan was being produced.
Such a man was Heinrich Dorn. Although, after the failure of three
operas, he had retired in disgust from the theatre to devote himself
exclusively to the commercial side of music, yet the success of his opera,
Der Schoffe von Paris, in Riga helped him back to a permanent place
among the dramatic musicians of Germany. But to this position he was first
dragged from obscurity, across the bridge of infidelity to his friend, and by
the aid of virtue in the person of Director Holtei, thanks to a magnanimous
oversight on the part of Franz Listz. The preference of King Friedrich
Wilhelm IV. for church scenes contributed to secure him eventually his
important position at the greatest lyric theatre in Germany, the Royal Opera
of Berlin. For he was prompted far less by his devotion to the dramatic
muse than by his desire to secure a good position in some important
German city, when, as already hinted, through Liszt’s recommendation he

was appointed musical director of Cologne Cathedral. During a fete
connected with the building of the cathedral he managed, as a musician, so
to work upon the Prussian monarch’s religious feelings, that he was
appointed to the dignified post of musical conductor at the Royal Theatre,
in which capacity he long continued to do honour to German dramatic
music in conjunction with Wilhelm Taubert.
I must give J. Hoffmann, who from this time forward was the manager of
the Riga theatre, the credit of having felt the treachery practised upon me
very deeply indeed. He told me that his contract with Dorn bound him only
for one year, and that the moment the twelve months had elapsed he wished
to come to a fresh agreement with me. As soon as this was known, my
patrons in Riga came forward with offers of teaching engagements and
arrangements for sundry concerts, by way of compensating me for the
year’s salary which I should lose by being away from my work as a
conductor. Though I was much gratified by these offers, yet, as I have
already pointed out, the longing to break loose from the kind of theatrical
life which I had experienced up to that time so possessed me that I
resolutely seized this chance of abandoning my former vocation for an
entirely new one. Not without some shrewdness, I played upon my wife’s
indignation at the treachery I had suffered, in order to make her fall in with
my eccentric notion of going to Paris. Already in my conception of Rienzi I
had dreamed of the most magnificent theatrical conditions, but now,
without halting at any intermediate stations, my one desire was to reach the
very heart of all European grand opera. While still in Magdeburg I had
made H. Konig’s romance, Die Hohe Braut, the subject of a grand opera in
five acts, and in the most luxurious French style. After the scenic draft of
this opera, which had been translated into French, was completely worked
out, I sent it from Königsberg to Scribe in Paris. With this manuscript I sent
a letter to the famous operatic poet, in which I suggested that he might
make use of my plot, on condition that he would secure me the composition
of the music for the Paris Opera House. To convince him of my ability to
compose Parisian operatic music, I also sent him the score of my
Liebesverbot. At the same time I wrote to Meyerbeer, informing him of my
plans, and begging him to support me. I was not at all disheartened at
receiving no reply, for I was content to know that now at last ‘I was in
communication with Paris.’ When, therefore, I started out upon my daring
journey from Riga, I seemed to have a comparatively serious object in view,

and my Paris projects no longer struck me as being altogether in the air. In
addition to this I now heard that my youngest sister, Cecilia, had become
betrothed to a certain Eduard Avenarius, an employee of the Brockhaus
book-selling firm, and that he had undertaken the management of their Paris
branch. To him I applied for news of Scribe, and for an answer to the
application I had made to that gentleman some years previously. Avenarius
called on Scribe, and from him received an acknowledgment of the receipt
of my earlier communication. Scribe also showed that he had some
recollection of the subject itself; for he said that, so far as he could
remember, there was a joueuse de harpe in the piece, who was ill-treated by
her brother. The fact that this merely incidental item had alone remained in
his memory led me to conclude that he had not extended his acquaintance
with the piece beyond the first act, in which the item in question occurs.
When, moreover, I heard that he had nothing to say in regard to my score,
except that he had had portions of it played over to him by a pupil of the
Conservatoire, I really could not flatter myself that he had entered into
definite and conscious relations with me. And yet I had palpable evidence in
a letter of his to Avenarius, which the latter forwarded to me, that Scribe
had actually occupied himself with my work, and that I was indeed in
communication with him, and this letter of Scribe’s made such an
impression upon my wife, who was by no means inclined to be sanguine,
that she gradually overcame her apprehensions in regard to the Paris
adventure. At last it was fixed and settled that on the expiry of my second
year’s contract in Riga (that is to say, in the coming summer, 1839), we
should journey direct from Riga to Paris, in order that I might try my luck
there as a composer of opera.
The production of my Rienzi now began to assume greater importance.
The composition of its second act was finished before we started, and into
this I wove a heroic ballet of extravagant dimensions. It was now
imperative that I should speedily acquire a knowledge of French, a
language which, during my classical studies at the Grammar School, I had
contemptuously laid aside. As there were only four weeks in which to
recover the time I had lost, I engaged an excellent French master. But as I
soon realised that I could achieve but little in so short a time, I utilised the
hours of the lessons in order to obtain from him, under the pretence of
receiving instruction, an idiomatic translation of my Rienzi libretto. This I
wrote with red ink on such parts of the score as were finished, so that on

reaching Paris I might immediately submit my half-finished opera to French
judges of art.
Everything now seemed to be carefully prepared for my departure, and
all that remained to be done was to raise the necessary funds for my
undertaking. But in this respect the outlook was bad. The sale of our modest
household furniture, the proceeds of a benefit concert, and my meagre
savings only sufficed to satisfy the importunate demands of my creditors in
Magdeburg and Königsberg. I knew that if I were to devote all my cash to
this purpose, there would not be a farthing left. Some way out of the fix
must be found, and this our old Königsberg friend, Abraham Möller,
suggested in his usual flippant and obscure manner. Just at this critical
moment he paid us a second visit to Riga. I acquainted him with the
difficulties of our position, and all the obstacles which stood in the way of
my resolve to go to Paris. In his habitual laconical way he counselled me to
reserve all my savings for our journey, and to settle with my creditors when
my Parisian successes had provided the necessary means. To help us in
carrying out this plan, he offered to convey us in his carriage across the
Russian frontier at top speed to an East Prussian port. We should have to
cross the Russian frontier without passports, as these had been already
impounded by our foreign creditors. He assured us that we should find it
quite simple to carry out this very hazardous expedition, and declared that
he had a friend on a Prussian estate close to the frontier who would render
us very effective assistance. My eagerness to escape at any price from my
previous circumstances, and to enter with all possible speed upon the wider
field, in which I hoped very soon to realise my ambition, blinded me to all
the unpleasantnesses which the execution of his proposal must entail.
Director Hoffmann, who considered himself bound to serve me to the
utmost of his ability, facilitated my departure by allowing me to leave some
months before the expiration of my engagement. After continuing to
conduct the operatic portion of the Mitau theatrical season through the
month of June, we secretly started in a special coach hired by Möller and
under his protection. The goal of our journey was Paris, but many unheard-
of hardships were in store for us before we were to reach that city.
The sense of contentment involuntarily aroused by our passage through
the fruitful Courland in the luxuriant month of July, and by the sweet
illusion that now at last I had cut myself loose from a hateful existence, to
enter upon a new and boundless path of fortune, was disturbed from its very

outset by the miserable inconveniences occasioned by the presence of a
huge Newfoundland dog called Robber. This beautiful creature, originally
the property of a Riga merchant, had, contrary to the nature of his race,
become devotedly attached to me. After I had left Riga, and during my long
stay in Mitau, Robber incessantly besieged my empty house, and so touched
the hearts of my landlord and the neighbours by his fidelity, that they sent
the dog after me by the conductor of the coach to Mitau, where I greeted
him with genuine effusion, and swore that, in spite of all difficulties, I
would never part with him again. Whatever might happen, the dog must go
with us to Paris. And yet, even to get him into the carriage proved almost
impossible. All my endeavours to find him a place in or about the vehicle
were in vain, and, to my great grief, I had to watch the huge northern beast,
with his shaggy coat, gallop all day long in the blazing sun beside the
carriage. At last, moved to pity by his exhaustion, and unable to bear the
sight any longer, I hit upon a most ingenious plan for bringing the great
animal with us into the carriage, where, in spite of its being full to
overflowing, he was just able to find room.
On the evening of the second day we reached the Russo-Prussian frontier.
Möller’s evident anxiety as to whether we should be able to cross it safely
showed us plainly that the matter was one of some danger. His good friend
from the other side duly turned up with a small carriage, as arranged, and in
this conveyance drove Minna, myself, and Robber through by paths to a
certain point, whence he led us on foot to a house of exceedingly suspicious
exterior, where, after handing us over to a guide, he left us. There we had to
wait until sundown, and had ample leisure in which to realise that we were
in a smugglers’ drinking den, which gradually became filled to suffocation
with Polish Jews of most forbidding aspect.
At last we were summoned to follow our guide. A few hundred feet away,
on the slope of a hill, lay the ditch which runs the whole length of the
Russian frontier, watched continually and at very narrow intervals by
Cossacks. Our chance was to utilise the few moments after the relief of the
watch, during which the sentinels were elsewhere engaged. We had,
therefore, to run at full speed down the hill, scramble through the ditch, and
then hurry along until we were beyond the range of the soldiers’ guns; for
the Cossacks were bound in case of discovery to fire upon us even on the
other side of the ditch. In spite of my almost passionate anxiety for Minna, I
had observed with singular pleasure the intelligent behaviour of Robber,

who, as though conscious of the danger, silently kept close to our side, and
entirely dispelled my fear that he would give trouble during our dangerous
passage. At last our trusted helpmeet reappeared, and was so delighted that
he hugged us all in his arms. Then, placing us once more in his carriage, he
drove us to the inn of the Prussian frontier village, where my friend Möller,
positively sick with anxiety, leaped sobbing and rejoicing out of bed to
greet us.
It was only now that I began to realise the danger to which I had exposed,
not only myself, but also my poor Minna, and the folly of which I had been
guilty through my ignorance of the terrible difficulties of secretly crossing
the frontier—difficulties concerning which Möller had foolishly allowed me
to remain in ignorance.
I was simply at a loss to convey to my poor exhausted wife how
extremely I regretted the whole affair.
And yet the difficulties we had just overcome were but the prelude to the
calamities incidental to this adventurous journey which had such a decisive
influence on my life. The following day, when, with courage renewed, we
drove through the rich plain of Tilsit to Arnau, near Königsberg, we
decided, as the next stage of our journey, to proceed from the Prussian
harbour of Pillau by sailing vessel to London. Our principal reason for this
was the consideration of the dog we had with us. It was the easiest way to
take him. To convey him by coach from Königsberg to Paris was out of the
question, and railways were unknown. But another consideration was our
budget; the whole result of my desperate efforts amounted to not quite one
hundred ducats, which were to cover not only the journey to Paris, but our
expenses there until I should have earned something. Therefore, after a few
days’ rest in the inn at Arnau, we drove to the little seaport town of Pillau,
again accompanied by Möller, in one of the ordinary local conveyances,
which was not much better than a wagon. In order to avoid Königsberg, we
passed through the smaller villages and over bad roads. Even this short
distance was not to be covered without accident. The clumsy conveyance
upset in a farmyard, and Minna was so severely indisposed by the accident,
owing to an internal shock, that I had to drag her—with the greatest
difficulty, as she was quite helpless—to a peasant’s house. The people were
surly and dirty, and the night we spent there was a painful one for the poor
sufferer. A delay of several days occurred before the departure of the Pillau

vessel, but this was welcome as a respite to allow of Minna’s recovery.
Finally, as the captain was to take us without a passport, our going on board
was accompanied by exceptional difficulties. We had to contrive to slip past
the harbour watch to our vessel in a small boat before daybreak. Once on
board, we still had the troublesome task of hauling Robber up the steep side
of the vessel without attracting attention, and after that to conceal ourselves
at once below deck, in order to escape the notice of officials visiting the
ship before its departure. The anchor was weighed, and at last, as the land
faded gradually out of sight, we thought we could breathe freely and feel at
ease.
We were on board a merchant vessel of the smallest type. She was called
the Thetis; a bust of the nymph was erected in the bows, and she carried a
crew of seven men, including the captain. With good weather, such as was
to be expected in summer, the journey to London was estimated to take
eight days. However, before we had left the Baltic, we were delayed by a
prolonged calm. I made use of the time to improve my knowledge of
French by the study of a novel, La Derniere Aldini, by George Sand. We
also derived some entertainment from associating with the crew. There was
an elderly and peculiarly taciturn sailor named Koske, whom we observed
carefully because Robber, who was usually so friendly, had taken an
irreconcilable dislike to him. Oddly enough, this fact was to add in some
degree to our troubles in the hour of danger. After seven days’ sailing we
were no further than Copenhagen, where, without leaving the vessel, we
seized an opportunity of making our very spare diet on board more bearable
by various purchases of food and drink. In good spirits we sailed past the
beautiful castle of Elsinore, the sight of which brought me into immediate
touch with my youthful impressions of Hamlet. We were sailing all
unsuspecting through the Cattegat to the Skagerack, when the wind, which
had at first been merely unfavourable, and had forced us to a process of
weary tacking, changed on the second day to a violent storm. For twenty-
four hours we had to struggle against it under disadvantages which were
quite new to us. In the captain’s painfully narrow cabin, in which one of us
was without a proper berth, we were a prey to sea-sickness and endless
alarms. Unfortunately, the brandy cask, at which the crew fortified
themselves during their strenuous work, was let into a hollow under the seat
on which I lay at full length. Now it happened to be Koske who came most
frequently in search of the refreshment which was such a nuisance to me,

and this in spite of the fact that on each occasion he had to encounter
Robber in mortal combat. The dog flew at him with renewed rage each time
he came climbing down the narrow steps. I was thus compelled to make
efforts which, in my state of complete exhaustion from sea-sickness,
rendered my condition every time more critical. At last, on 27th July, the
captain was compelled by the violence of the west wind to seek a harbour
on the Norwegian coast. And how relieved I was to behold that far-reaching
rocky coast, towards which we were being driven at such speed! A
Norwegian pilot came to meet us in a small boat, and, with experienced
hand, assumed control of the Thetis, whereupon in a very short time I was
to have one of the most marvellous and most beautiful impressions of my
life. What I had taken to be a continuous line of cliffs turned out on our
approach to be a series of separate rocks projecting from the sea. Having
sailed past them, we perceived that we were surrounded, not only in front
and at the sides, but also at our back, by these reefs, which closed in behind
us so near together that they seemed to form a single chain of rocks. At the
same time the hurricane was so broken by the rocks in our rear that the
further we sailed through this ever-changing labyrinth of projecting rocks,
the calmer the sea became, until at last the vessel’s progress was perfectly
smooth and quiet as we entered one of those long sea-roads running through
a giant ravine—for such the Norwegian fjords appeared to me.
A feeling of indescribable content came over me when the enormous
granite walls echoed the hail of the crew as they cast anchor and furled the
sails. The sharp rhythm of this call clung to me like an omen of good cheer,
and shaped itself presently into the theme of the seamen’s song in my
Fliegender Holländer. The idea of this opera was, even at that time, ever
present in my mind, and it now took on a definite poetic and musical colour
under the influence of my recent impressions. Well, our next move was to
go on shore. I learned that the little fishing village at which we landed was
called Sandwike, and was situated a few miles away from the much larger
town of Arendal. We were allowed to put up at the hospitable house of a
certain ship’s captain, who was then away at sea, and here we were able to
take the rest we so much needed, as the unabated violence of the wind in
the open detained us there two days. On 31st July the captain insisted on
leaving, despite the pilot’s warning. We had been on board the Thetis a few
hours, and were in the act of eating a lobster for the first time in our lives,
when the captain and the sailors began to swear violently at the pilot, whom

I could see at the helm, rigid with fear, striving to avoid a reef—barely
visible above the water—towards which our ship was being driven. Great
was our terror at this violent tumult, for we naturally thought ourselves in
the most extreme danger. The vessel did actually receive a severe shock,
which, to my vivid imagination, seemed like the splitting up of the whole
ship. Fortunately, however, it transpired that only the side of our vessel had
fouled the reef, and there was no immediate danger. Nevertheless, the
captain deemed it necessary to steer for a harbour to have the vessel
examined, and we returned to the coast and anchored at another point. The
captain then offered to take us in a small boat with two sailors to Tromsond,
a town of some importance situated at a few hours’ distance, where he had
to invite the harbour officials to examine his ship. This again proved a most
attractive and impressive excursion. The view of one fjord in particular,
which extended far inland, worked on my imagination like some unknown,
awe-inspiring desert. This impression was intensified, during a long walk
from Tromsond up to the plateau, by the terribly depressing effect of the
dun moors, bare of tree or shrub, boasting only a covering of scanty moss,
which stretch away to the horizon, and merge imperceptibly into the
gloomy sky. It was long after dark when we returned from this trip in our
little boat, and my wife was very anxious. The next morning (1st August),
reassured as to the condition of the vessel, and the wind favouring us, we
were able to go to sea without further hindrance.
After four days’ calm sailing a strong north wind arose, which drove us at
uncommon speed in the right direction. We began to think ourselves nearly
at the end of our journey when, on 6th August, the wind changed, and the
storm began to rage with unheard-of violence. On the 7th, a Wednesday, at
half-past two in the afternoon, we thought ourselves in imminent danger of
death. It was not the terrible force with which the vessel was hurled up and
down, entirely at the mercy of this sea monster, which appeared now as a
fathomless abyss, now as a steep mountain peak, that filled me with mortal
dread; my premonition of some terrible crisis was aroused by the
despondency of the crew, whose malignant glances seemed superstitiously
to point to us as the cause of the threatening disaster. Ignorant of the trifling
occasion for the secrecy of our journey, the thought may have occurred to
them that our need of escape had arisen from suspicious or even criminal
circumstances. The captain himself seemed, in his extreme distress, to
regret having taken us on board; for we had evidently brought him ill-luck

on this familiar passage—usually a rapid and uncomplicated one, especially
in summer. At this particular moment there raged, beside the tempest on the
water, a furious thunderstorm overhead, and Minna expressed the fervent
wish to be struck by lightning with me rather than to sink, living, into the
fearful flood. She even begged me to bind her to me, so that we might not
be parted as we sank. Yet another night was spent amid these incessant
terrors, which only our extreme exhaustion helped to mitigate.
The following day the storm had subsided; the wind remained
unfavourable, but was mild. The captain now tried to find our bearings by
means of his astronomical instruments. He complained of the sky, which
had been overcast so many days, swore that he would give much for a
single glimpse of the sun or the stars, and did not conceal the uneasiness he
felt at not being able to indicate our whereabouts with certainty. He
consoled himself, however, by following a ship which was sailing some
knots ahead in the same direction, and whose movements he observed
closely through the telescope. Suddenly he sprang up in great alarm, and
gave a vehement order to change our course. He had seen the ship in front
go aground on a sand-bank, from which, he asserted, she could not extricate
herself; for he now realised that we were near the most dangerous part of
the belt of sand-banks bordering the Dutch coast for a considerable
distance. By dint of very skilful sailing, we were enabled to keep the
opposite course towards the English coast, which we in fact sighted on the
evening of 9th August, in the neighbourhood of Southwold. I felt new life
come into me when I saw in the far distance the English pilots racing for
our ship. As competition is free among pilots on the English coast, they
come out as far as possible to meet incoming vessels, even when the risks
are very great.
The winner in our case was a powerful grey-haired man, who, after much
vain battling with the seething waves, which tossed his light boat away
from our ship at each attempt, at last succeeded in boarding the Thetis. (Our
poor, hardly-used boat still bore the name, although the wooden figure-head
of our patron nymph had been hurled into the sea during our first storm in
the Cattegat—an ill-omened incident in the eyes of the crew.) We were
filled with pious gratitude when this quiet English sailor, whose hands were
torn and bleeding from his repeated efforts to catch the rope thrown to him
on his approach, took over the rudder. His whole personality impressed us
most agreeably, and he seemed to us the absolute guarantee of a speedy

deliverance from our terrible afflictions. We rejoiced too soon, however, for
we still had before us the perilous passage through the sand-banks off the
English coast, where, as I was assured, nearly four hundred ships are
wrecked on an average every year. We were fully twenty-four hours (from
the evening of the 10th to the 11th of August) amid these sandbanks,
fighting a westerly gale, which hindered our progress so seriously that we
only reached the mouth of the Thames on the evening of the 12th of August.
My wife had, up to that point, been so nervously affected by the
innumerable danger signals, consisting chiefly of small guardships painted
bright red and provided with bells on account of the fog, that she could not
close her eyes, day or night, for the excitement of watching for them and
pointing them out to the sailors. I, on the contrary, found these heralds of
human proximity and deliverance so consoling that, despite Minna’s
reproaches, I indulged in a long refreshing sleep. Now that we were
anchored in the mouth of the Thames, waiting for daybreak, I found myself
in the best of spirits; I dressed, washed, and even shaved myself up on deck
near the mast, while Minna and the whole exhausted crew were wrapped in
deep slumber. And with deepening interest I watched the growing signs of
life in this famous estuary. Our desire for a complete release from our
detested confinement led us, after we had sailed a little way up, to hasten
our arrival in London by going on board a passing steamer at Gravesend. As
we neared the capital, our astonishment steadily increased at the number of
ships of all sorts that filled the river, the houses, the streets, the famous
docks, and other maritime constructions which lined the banks. When at last
we reached London Bridge, this incredibly crowded centre of the greatest
city in the world, and set foot on land after our terrible three weeks’ voyage,
a pleasurable sensation of giddiness overcame us as our legs carried us
staggering through the deafening uproar. Robber seemed to be similarly
affected, for he whisked round the corners like a mad thing, and threatened
to get lost every other minute. But we soon sought safety in a cab, which
took us, on our captain’s recommendation, to the Horseshoe Tavern, near
the Tower, and here we had to make our plans for the conquest of this giant
metropolis.
The neighbourhood in which we found ourselves was such that we
decided to leave it with all possible haste. A very friendly little
hunchbacked Jew from Hamburg suggested better quarters in the West End,
and I remember vividly our drive there, in one of the tiny narrow cabs then

in use, the journey lasting fully an hour. They were built to carry two
people, who had to sit facing each other, and we therefore had to lay our big
dog crosswise from window to window. The sights we saw from our
whimsical nook surpassed anything we had imagined, and we arrived at our
boarding-house in Old Compton Street agreeably stimulated by the life and
the overwhelming size of the great city. Although at the age of twelve I had
made what I supposed to be a translation of a monologue from
Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, I found my knowledge of English quite
inadequate when it came to conversing with the landlady of the King’s
Arms. But the good dame’s social condition as a sea-captain’s widow led
her to think she could talk French to me, and her attempts made me wonder
which of us knew least of that language. And then a most disturbing
incident occurred—we missed Robber, who must have run away at the door
instead of following us into the house. Our distress at having lost our good
dog after having brought him all the way there with such difficulty occupied
us exclusively during the first two hours we spent in this new home on land.
We kept constant watch at the window until, of a sudden, we joyfully
recognised Robber strolling unconcernedly towards the house from a side
street. Afterwards we learned that our truant had wandered as far as Oxford
Street in search of adventures, and I have always considered his amazing
return to a house which he had not even entered as a strong proof of the
absolute certainty of the animal’s instincts in the matter of memory.
We now had time to realise the tiresome after-effects of the voyage. The
continuous swaying of the floor and our clumsy efforts to keep from falling
we found fairly entertaining; but when we came to take our well-earned rest
in the huge English double bed, and found that that too rocked up and
down, it became quite unbearable. Every time we closed our eyes we sank
into frightful abysses, and, springing up again, cried out for help. It seemed
as if that terrible voyage would go on to the end of our lives. Added to this
we felt miserably sick; for, after the atrocious food on board, we had been
only too ready to partake, with less discretion than relish, of tastier fare.
We were so exhausted by all these trials that we forgot to consider what
was, after all, the vital question—the probable result in hard cash. Indeed,
the marvels of the great city proved so fascinating, that we started off in a
cab, for all the world as if we were on a pleasure trip, to follow up a plan I
had sketched on my map of London. In our wonder and delight at what we
saw, we quite forgot all we had gone through. Costly as it proved, I

considered our week’s stay justified in view of Minna’s need of rest in the
first place, and secondly, the excellent opportunity it afforded me of making
acquaintances in the musical world. During my last visit to Dresden I had
sent Rule Britannia, the overture composed at Königsberg, to Sir John
Smart, president of the Philharmonic Society. It is true he had never
acknowledged it, but I felt it the more incumbent on me to bring him to task
about it. I therefore spent some days trying to find out where he lived,
wondering meanwhile in which language I should have to make myself
understood, but as the result of my inquiries I discovered that Smart was not
in London at all. I next persuaded myself that it would be a good thing to
look up Bulwer Lytton, and to come to an understanding about the operatic
performance of his novel, Rienzi, which I had dramatised. Having been
told, on the continent, that Bulwer was a member of Parliament, I went to
the House, after a few days, to inquire on the spot. My total ignorance of
the English language stood me in good stead here, and I was treated with
unexpected consideration; for, as none of the lower officials in that vast
building could make out what I wanted, I was sent, step by step, to one high
dignitary after the other, until at last I was introduced to a distinguished-
looking man, who came out of a large hall as we passed, as an entirely
unintelligible individual. (Minna was with me all the time; only Robber. had
been left behind at the King’s Arms.) He asked me very civilly what I
wanted, in French, and seemed favourably impressed when I inquired for
the celebrated author. He was obliged to tell me, however, that he was not in
London. I went on to ask whether I could not be admitted to a debate, but
was told that, in consequence of the old Houses of Parliament having been
burnt down, they were using temporary premises where the space was so
limited that only a few favoured visitors could procure cards of admittance.
But on my pressing more urgently he relented, and shortly after opened a
door leading direct into the strangers’ seats in the House of Lords. It seemed
reasonable to conclude from this that our friend was a lord in person. I was
immensely interested to see and hear the Premier, Lord Melbourne, and
Brougham (who seemed to me to take a very active part in the proceedings,
prompting Melbourne several times, as I thought), and the Duke of
Wellington, who looked so comfortable in his grey beaver hat, with his
hands diving deep into his trousers pockets, and who made his speech in so
conversational a tone that I lost my feeling of excessive awe. He had a
curious way, too, of accenting his points of special emphasis by shaking his

whole body, I was also much interested in Lord Lyndhurst, Brougham’s
particular enemy, and was amazed to see Brougham go across several times
to sit down coolly beside him, apparently with a view to prompting even his
opponent. The matter in hand was, as I learned afterwards from the papers,
the discussion of measures to be taken against the Portuguese Government
to ensure the passing of the Anti-Slavery Bill. The Bishop of London, who
was one of the speakers on this occasion, was the only one of these
gentlemen whose voice and manner seemed to me stiff or unnatural, but
possibly I was prejudiced by my dislike of parsons generally.

After this pleasing adventure I imagined I had exhausted the attractions
of London for the present, for although I could not gain admittance to the
Lower House, my untiring friend, whom I came across again as I went out,
showed me the room where the Commons sat, explained as much as was
necessary, and gave me a sight of the Speaker’s woolsack, and of his mace
lying hidden under the table. He also gave me such careful details of
various things that I felt I knew all there was to know about the capital of
Great Britain. I had not the smallest intention of going to the Italian opera,
possibly because I imagined the prices to be too ruinous. We thoroughly
explored all the principal streets, often tiring ourselves out; we shuddered
through a ghastly London Sunday, and wound up with a train trip (our very
first) to Gravesend Park, in the company of the captain of the Thetis. On the
20th of August we crossed over to France by steamer, arriving the same
evening at Boulogne-sur-mer, where we took leave of the sea with the
fervent desire never to go on it again.
We were both of us secretly convinced that we should meet with
disappointments in Paris, and it was partly on that account that we decided
to spend a few weeks at or near Boulogne. It was, in any case, too early in
the season to find the various important people whom I proposed to see, in
town; on the other hand, it seemed to me a most fortunate circumstance that
Meyerbeer should happen to be at Boulogne. Also, I had the
instrumentation of part of the second act of Rienzi to finish, and was bent
on having at least half of the work ready to show on my arrival in the costly
French capital. We therefore set out to find less expensive accommodation
in the country round Boulogne. Beginning with the immediate
neighbourhood, our search ended in our taking two practically unfurnished
rooms in the detached house of a rural wine merchant’s, situated on the
main road to Paris at half an hour’s distance from Boulogne. We next
provided scanty but adequate furniture, and in bringing our wits to bear
upon this matter Minna particularly distinguished herself. Besides a bed and
two chairs, we dug up a table, which, after I had cleared away my Rienzi
papers, served for our meals, which we had to prepare at our own fireside.

While we were here I made my first call on Meyerbeer. I had often read
in the papers of his proverbial amiability, and bore him no ill-will for not
replying to my letter. My favourable opinion was soon to be confirmed,
however, by his kind reception of me. The impression he made was good in
every respect, particularly as regards his appearance. The years had not yet
given his features the flabby look which sooner or later mars most Jewish
faces, and the fine formation of his brow round about the eyes gave him an
expression of countenance that inspired confidence. He did not seem in the
least inclined to depreciate my intention of trying my luck in Paris as a
composer of opera; he allowed me to read him my libretto for Rienzi, and
really listened up to the end of the third act. He kept the two acts that were
complete, saying that he wished to look them over, and assured me, when I
again called on him, of his whole-hearted interest in my work. Be this as it
may, it annoyed me somewhat that he should again and again fall back on
praising my minute handwriting, an accomplishment he considered
especially Saxonian. He promised to give me letters of recommendation to
Duponchel, the manager of the Opera House, and to Habeneck, the
conductor. I now felt that I had good cause to extol my good fortune which,
after many vicissitudes, had sent me precisely to this particular spot in
France. What better fortune could have befallen me than to secure, in so
short a time, the sympathetic interest of the most famous composer of
French opera! Meyerbeer took me to see Moscheles, who was then in
Boulogne, and also Fraulein Blahedka, a celebrated virtuoso whose name I
had known for many years. I spent a few informal musical evenings at both
houses, and thus came into close touch with musical celebrities, an
experience quite new to me.
I had written to my future brother-in-law, Avernarius, in Paris, to ask him
to find us suitable accommodations, and we started on our journey thither
on 16th September in the diligence, my efforts to hoist Robber on to the top
being attended by the usual difficulties.
My first impression of Paris proved disappointing in view of the great
expectations I had cherished of that city; after London it seemed to me
narrow and confined. I had imagined the famous boulevards to be much
vaster, for instance, and was really annoyed, when the huge coach put us
down in the Rue de la Juissienne, to think that I should first set foot on
Parisian soil in such a wretched little alley. Neither did the Rue Richelieu,
where my brother-in-law had his book-shop, seem imposing after the streets

in the west end of London. As for the chambre garnie, which had been
engaged for me in the Rue de la Tonnellerie, one of the narrow side-streets
which link the Rue St. Honore with the Marche des Innocents, I felt
positively degraded at having to take up my abode there. I needed all the
consolation that could be derived from an inscription, placed under a bust of
Moliere, which read: maison ou naquit Moliere, to raise my courage after
the mean impression the house had first made upon me. The room, which
had been prepared for us on the fourth floor, was small but cheerful,
decently furnished, and inexpensive. From the windows we could see the
frightful bustle in the market below, which became more and more alarming
as we watched it, and I wondered what we were doing in such a quarter.
Shortly after this, Avenarius had to go to Leipzig to bring home his bride,
my youngest sister Cecilia, after the wedding in that city. Before leaving, he
gave me an introduction to his only musical acquaintance, a German
holding an appointment in the music department of the Bibliotheque
Royale, named E. G. Anders, who lost no time in looking us up in Moliere’s
house. He was, as I soon discovered, a man of very unusual character, and,
little as he was able to help me, he left an affecting and ineffaceable
impression on my memory. He was a bachelor in the fifties, whose reverses
had driven him to the sad necessity of earning a living in Paris entirely
without assistance. He had fallen back on the extraordinary bibliographical
knowledge which, especially in reference to music, it had been his hobby to
acquire in the days of his prosperity. His real name he never told me,
wishing to guard the secret of that, as of his misfortunes, until after his
death. For the time being he told me only that he was known as Anders, was
of noble descent, and had held property on the Rhine, but that he had lost
everything owing to the villainous betrayal of his gullibility and good-
nature. The only thing he had managed to save was his very considerable
library, the size of which I was able to estimate for myself. It filled every
wall of his small dwelling. Even here in Paris he soon complained of bitter
enemies; for, in spite of having come furnished with an introduction to
influential people, he still held the inferior position of an employee in the
library. In spite of his long service there and his great learning, he had to see
really ignorant men promoted over his head. I discovered afterwards that
the real reason lay in his unbusinesslike methods, and the effeminacy
consequent on the delicate way in which he had been nurtured in early life,
which made him incapable of developing the energy necessary for his work.

On a miserable pittance of fifteen hundred francs a year, he led a weary
existence, full of anxiety. With nothing in view but a lonely old age, and the
probability of dying in a hospital, it seemed as if our society put new life
into him; for though we were poverty-stricken, we looked forward boldly
and hopefully to the future. My vivacity and invincible energy filled him
with hopes of my success, and from this time forward he took a most tender
and unselfish part in furthering my interests. Although he was a contributor
to the Gazette Musicale, edited by Moritz Schlesinger, he had never
succeeded in making his influence felt there in the slightest degree. He had
none of the versatility of a journalist, and the editors entrusted him with
little besides the preparation of bibliographical notes. Oddly enough, it was
with this unworldly and least resourceful of men that I had to discuss my
plan for the conquest of Paris, that is, of musical Paris, which is made up of
all the most questionable characters imaginable. The result was practically
always the same; we merely encouraged each other in the hope that some
unforeseen stroke of luck would help my cause.
To assist us in these discussions Anders called in his friend and
housemate Lehrs, a philologist, my acquaintance with whom was soon to
develop into one of the most beautiful friendships of my life. Lehrs was the
younger brother of a famous scholar at Königsberg. He had left there to
come to Paris some years before, with the object of gaining an independent
position by his philological work. This he preferred, in spite of the attendant
difficulties, to a post as teacher with a salary which only in Germany could
be considered sufficient for a scholar’s wants. He soon obtained work from
Didot, the bookseller, as assistant editor of a large edition of Greek classics,
but the editor traded on his poverty, and was much more concerned about
the success of his enterprise than about the condition of his poor
collaborator. Lehrs had therefore perpetually to struggle against poverty, but
he preserved an even temper, and showed himself in every way a model of
disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. At first he looked upon me only as a
man in need of advice, and incidentally a fellow-sufferer in Paris; for he had
no knowledge of music, and had no particular interest in it. We soon
became so intimate that I had him dropping in nearly every evening with
Anders, Lehrs being extremely useful to his friend, whose unsteadiness in
walking obliged him to use an umbrella and a walking-stick as crutches. He
was also nervous in crossing crowded thorough-fares, and particularly so at
night; while he always liked to make Lehrs cross my threshold in front of

him to distract the attention of Robber, of whom he stood in obvious terror.
Our usually good-natured dog became positively suspicious of this visitor,
and soon adopted towards him the same aggressive attitude which he had
shown to the sailor Koske on board the Thetis. The two men lived at an
hotel garni in Rue de Seine. They complained greatly of their landlady, who
appropriated so much of their income that they were entirely in her power.
Anders had for years been trying to assert his independence by leaving her,
without being able to carry out his plan. We soon threw off mutually every
shred of disguise as to the present state of our finances, so that, although the
two house-holds were actually separated, our common troubles gave us all
the intimacy of one united family.
The various ways by which I might obtain recognition in Paris formed
the chief topic of our discussions at that time. Our hopes were at first
centred on Meyerbeer’s promised letters of introduction. Duponchel, the
director of the Opera, did actually see me at his office, where, fixing a
monocle in his right eye, he read through Meyerbeer’s letter without
betraying the least emotion, having no doubt opened similar
communications from the composer many times before. I went away, and
never heard another word from him. The elderly conductor, Habeneck, on
the other hand, took an interest in my work that was not merely polite, and
acceded to my request to have something of mine played at one of the
orchestral practises at the Conservatoire as soon as he should have leisure. I
had, unfortunately, no short instrumental piece that seemed suitable except
my queer Columbus Overture, which I considered the most effective of all
that had emanated from my pen. It had been received with great applause
on the occasion of its performance in the theatre at Magdeburg, with the
assistance of the valiant trumpeters from the Prussian garrison. I gave
Habeneck the score and parts, and was able to report to our committee at
home that I had now one enterprise on foot.
I gave up the attempt to try and see Scribe on the mere ground of our
having had some correspondence, for my friends had made it clear to me, in
the light of their own experience, that it was out of the question to expect
this exceptionally busy author to occupy himself seriously with a young and
unknown musician. Anders was able to introduce me to another
acquaintance, however, a certain M. Dumersan. This grey-haired gentleman
had written some hundred vaudeville pieces, and would have been glad to
see one of them performed as an opera on a larger scale before his death. He

had no idea of standing on his dignity as an author, and was quite willing to
undertake the translation of an existing libretto into French verse. We
therefore entrusted him with the writing of my Liebesverbot, with a view to
a performance at the Theatre de la Renaissance, as it was then called. (It
was the third existing theatre for lyric drama, the performances being given
in the new Salle Ventadour, which had been rebuilt after its destruction by
fire.) On the understanding that it was to be a literal translation, he at once
turned the three numbers of my opera, for which I hoped to secure a
hearing, into neat French verse. Besides this, he asked me to compose a
chorus for a vaudeville entitled La Descente de la Courtille, which was to
be played at the Varietes during the carnival.
This was a second opening. My friends now strongly advised me to write
something small in the way of songs, which I could offer to popular singers
for concert purposes. Both Lehrs and Anders produced words for these.
Anders brought a very innocent Dors, mon enfant, written by a young poet
of his acquaintance; this was the first thing I composed to a French text. It
was so successful that, when I had tried it over softly several times on the
piano, my wife, who was in bed, called out to me that it was heavenly for
sending one to sleep. I also set L’Attente from Hugo’s Orientales, and
Ronsard’s song, Mignonne, to music. I have no reason to be ashamed of
these small pieces, which I published subsequently as a musical supplement
to Europa (Lewald’s publication) in 1841.
I next stumbled on the idea of writing a grand bass aria with a chorus, for
Lablache to introduce into his part of Orovist in Bellini’s Norma. Lehrs had
to hunt up an Italian political refugee to get the text out of him. This was
done, and I produced an effective composition a la Bellini (which still exists
among my manuscripts), and went off at once to offer it to Lablache.
The friendly Moor, who received me in the great singer’s anteroom,
insisted upon admitting me straight into his master’s presence without
announcing me. As I had anticipated some difficulty in getting near such a
celebrity, I had written my request, as I thought this would be simpler than
explaining verbally.
The black servant’s pleasant manner made me feel very uncomfortable; I
entrusted my score and letter to him to give to Lablache, without taking any
notice of his kindly astonishment at my refusal of his repeated invitation to
go into his master’s room and have an interview, and I left the house

hurriedly, intending to call for my answer in a few days. When I came back
Lablache received me most kindly, and assured me that my aria was
excellent, though it was impossible to introduce it into Bellini’s opera after
the latter had already been performed so very often. My relapse into the
domain of Bellini’s style, of which I had been guilty through the writing of
this aria, was therefore useless to me, and I soon became convinced of the
fruitlessness of my efforts in that direction. I saw that I should need
personal introductions to various singers in order to ensure the production
of one of my other compositions.
When Meyerbeer at last arrived in Paris, therefore, I was delighted. He
was not in the least astonished at the lack of success of his letters of
introduction; on the contrary, he made use of this opportunity to impress
upon me how difficult it was to get on in Paris, and how necessary it was
for me to look out for less pretentious work. With this object he introduced
me to Maurice Schlesinger, and leaving me at the mercy of that monstrous
person, went back to Germany.
At first Schlesinger did not know what to do with me; the acquaintances I
made through him (of whom the chief was the violinist Panofka) led to
nothing, and I therefore returned to my advisory board at home, through
whose influence I had recently received an order to compose the music to
the Two Grenadiers, by Heine, translated by a Parisian professor. I wrote
this song for baritone, and was very pleased with the result; on Ander’s
advice I now tried to find singers for my new compositions. Mme. Pauline
Viardot, on whom I first called, went through my songs with me. She was
very amiable, and praised them, but did not see why SHE should sing them.
I went through the same experience with a Mme. Widmann, a grand
contralto, who sang my Dors, mon enfant with great feeling; all the same
she had no further use for my composition. A certain M. Dupont, third tenor
at the grand opera, tried my setting of the Ronsard poem, but declared that
the language in which it was written was no longer palatable to the Paris
public. M. Geraldy, a favourite concert singer and teacher, who allowed me
to call and see him frequently, told me that the Two Grenadiers was
impossible, for the simple reason that the accompaniment at the end of the
song, which I had modelled upon the Marseillaise, could only be sung in the
streets of Paris to the accompaniment of cannons and gunshots. Habeneck
was the only person who fulfilled his promise to conduct my Columbus
Overture at one of the rehearsals for the benefit of Anders and myself. As,

however, there was no question of producing this work even at one of the
celebrated Conservatoire concerts, I saw clearly that the old gentleman was
only moved by kindness and a desire to encourage me. It could not lead to
anything further, and I myself was convinced that this extremely superficial
work of my young days could only give the orchestra a wrong impression
of my talents. However, these rehearsals, to my surprise, made such an
unexpected impression on me in other ways that they exercised a decisive
influence in the crisis of my artistic development. This was due to the fact
that I listened repeatedly to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which, by dint of
untiring practice, received such a marvellous interpretation at the hands of
this celebrated orchestra, that the picture I had had of it in my mind in the
enthusiastic days of my youth now stood before me almost tangibly in
brilliant colours, undimmed, as though it had never been effaced by the
Leipzig orchestra who had slaughtered it under Pohlenz’s baton. Where
formerly I had only seen mystic constellations and weird shapes without
meaning, I now found, flowing from innumerable sources, a stream of the
most touching and heavenly melodies which delighted my heart.
The whole of that period of the deterioration of my musical tastes which
dated, practically speaking, from those selfsame confusing ideas about
Beethoven, and which had grown so much worse through my acquaintance
with that dreadful theatre—all these wrong views now sank down as if into
an abyss of shame and remorse.
This inner change had been gradually prepared by many painful
experiences during the last few years. I owed the recovery of my old vigour
and spirits to the deep impression the rendering of the Ninth Symphony had
made on me when performed in a way I had never dreamed of. This
important event in my life can only be compared to the upheaval caused
within me when, as a youth of sixteen, I saw Schroder-Devrient act in
Fidelio.
The direct result of this was my intense longing to compose something
that would give me a similar feeling of satisfaction, and this desire grew in
proportion to my anxiety about my unfortunate position in Paris, which
made me almost despair of success.
In this mood I sketched an overture to Faust which, according to my
original scheme, was only to form the first part of a whole Faust Symphony,
as I had already got the ‘Gretchen’ idea in my head for the second

movement. This is the same composition that I rewrote in several parts
fifteen years later; I had forgotten all about it, and I owed its reconstruction
to the advice of Liszt, who gave me many valuable hints. This composition
has been performed many times under the title of eine Faust-ouverture, and
has met with great appreciation. At the time of which I am speaking, I
hoped that the Conservatoire orchestra would have been willing to give the
work a hearing, but I was told they thought they had done enough for me,
and hoped to be rid of me for some time.
Having failed everywhere, I now turned to Meyerbeer for more
introductions, especially to singers. I was very much surprised when, in
consequence of my request, Meyerbeer introduced me to a certain M.
Gouin, a post-office official, and Meyerbeer’s sole agent in Paris, whom he
instructed to do his utmost for me. Meyerbeer specially wished me to know
M. Antenor Joly, director of the Theatre de la Renaissance, the musical
theatre already mentioned. M. Gouin, with almost suspicious levity,
promised me to produce my opera Liebesverbot, which now only required
translation. There was a question of having a few numbers of my opera
sung to the committee of the theatre at a special audience. When I suggested
that some of the singers of this very theatre should undertake to sing three
of the numbers which had been already translated by Dumersan, I was
refused on the plea that all these artists were far too busy. But Gouin saw a
way out of the difficulty; on the authority of Maître Meyerbeer, he won
over to our cause several singers who were under an obligation to
Meyerbeer: Mme. Dorus-Gras, a real primadonna of the Grand Opera,
Mme. Widmann and M. Dupont (the two last-named had previously refused
to help me) now promised to sing for me at this audience.
This much, then, did I achieve in six months. It was now nearly Easter of
the year 1840. Encouraged by Gouin’s negotiations, which seemed to spell
hope, I made up my mind to move from the obscure Quartier des Innocents
to a part of Paris nearer to the musical centre; and in this I was encouraged
by Lehrs’ foolhardy advice.
What this change meant to me, my readers will learn when they hear
under what circumstances we had dragged on our existence during our stay
in Paris.
Although we were living in the cheapest possible way, dining at a very
small restaurant for a franc a head, it was impossible to prevent the rest of

our money from melting away. Our friend Möller had given us to
understand that we could ask him if we were in need, as he would put aside
for us the first money that came in from any successful business transaction.
There was no alternative but to apply to him for money; in the meantime we
pawned all the trinkets we possessed that were of any value. As I was too
shy to make inquiries about a pawnshop, I looked up the French equivalent
in the dictionary in order to be able to recognise such a place when I saw it.
In my little pocket dictionary I could not find any other word than
‘Lombard.’ On looking at a map of Paris I found, situated in the middle of
an inextricable maze of streets, a very small lane called Rue des Lombards.
Thither I wended my way, but my expedition was fruitless. Often, on
reading by the light of the transparent lanterns the inscription ‘Mont de
Piété,’ I became very curious to know its meaning, and on consulting my
advisory board at home about this ‘Mount of Piety,’[9] I was told, to my
great delight, that it was precisely there that I should find salvation. To this
‘Mont de Piété’ we now carried all we possessed in the way of silver,
namely, our wedding presents. After that followed my wife’s trinkets and
the rest of her former theatrical wardrobe, amongst which was a beautiful
silver-embroidered blue dress with a court train, once the property of the
Duchess of Dessau. Still we heard nothing from our friend Möller, and we
were obliged to wait on from day to day for the sorely needed help from
Königsberg, and at last, one dark day, we pledged our wedding rings. When
all hope of assistance seemed vain, I heard that the pawn-tickets themselves
were of some value, as they could be sold to buyers, who thereby acquired
the right to redeem the pawned articles. I had to resort even to this, and thus
the blue court-dress, for instance, was lost for ever. Möller never wrote
again. When later on he called on me at the time of my conductorship in
Dresden, he admitted that he had been embittered against me owing to
humiliating and derogatory remarks we were said to have made about him
after we parted, and had resolved not to have anything further to do with us.
We were certain of our innocence in the matter, and very grieved at having,
through pure slander, lost the chance of such assistance in our great need.
[9] This is the correct translation of the words Berg der Frömmigkeit used in the
original.—Editor.

At the beginning of our pecuniary difficulties we sustained a loss which
we looked upon as providential, in spite of the grief it caused us. This was

our beautiful dog, which we had managed to bring across to Paris with
endless difficulty. As he was a very valuable animal, and attracted much
attention, he had probably been stolen. In spite of the terrible state of the
traffic in Paris, he had always found his way home in the same clever
manner in which he had mastered the difficulties of the London streets.
Quite at the beginning of our stay in Paris he had often gone off by himself
to the gardens of the Palais Royal, where he used to meet many of his
friends, and had returned safe and sound after a brilliant exhibition of
swimming and retrieving before an audience of gutter children. At the Quai
du Pont-neuf he generally begged us to let him bathe; there he used to draw
a large crowd of spectators round him, who were so loud in their
enthusiasm about the way in which he dived for and brought to land various
objects of clothing, tools, etc., that the police begged us to put an end to the
obstruction. One morning I let him out for a little run as usual; he never
returned, and in spite of our most strenuous efforts to recover him, no trace
of him was to be found. This loss seemed to many of our friends a piece of
luck, for they could not understand how it was possible for us to feed such a
huge animal when we ourselves had not enough to eat. About this time, the
second month of our stay in Paris, my sister Louisa came over from Leipzig
to join her husband, Friedrich Brockhaus, in Paris, where he had been
waiting for her for some time. They intended to go to Italy together, and
Louisa made use of this opportunity to buy all kinds of expensive things in
Paris. I did not expect them to feel any pity for us on account of our foolish
removal to Paris, and its attendant miseries, or that they should consider
themselves bound to help us in any way; but although we did not try to
conceal our position, we derived no benefit from the visit of our rich
relations. Minna was even kind enough to help my sister with her luxurious
shopping, and we were very anxious not to make them think we wanted to
rouse their pity. In return my sister introduced me to an extraordinary friend
of hers, who was destined to take a great interest in me. This was the young
painter, Ernst Kietz, from Dresden; he was an exceptionally kind-hearted
and unaffected young man, whose talent for portrait painting (in a sort of
coloured pastel style) had made him such a favourite in his own town, that
he had been induced by his financial successes to come to Paris for a time
to finish his art studies. He had now been working in Delaroche’s studio for
about a year. He had a curious and almost childlike disposition, and his lack
of all serious education, combined with a certain weakness of character, had

made him choose a career in which he was destined, in spite of all his
talent, to fail hopelessly. I had every opportunity of recognising this, as I
saw a great deal of him. At the time, however, the simple-hearted devotion
and kindness of this young man were very welcome both to myself and my
wife, who often felt lonely, and his friendship was a real source of help in
our darkest hours of adversity. He became almost a member of the family,
and joined our home circle every night, providing a strange contrast to
nervous old Anders and the grave-faced Lehrs. His good-nature and his
quaint remarks soon made him indispensable to us; he amused us
tremendously with his French, into which he would launch with the greatest
confidence, although he could not put together two consecutive sentences
properly, in spite of having lived in Paris for twenty years. With Delaroche
he studied oil-painting, and had obviously considerable talent in this
direction, although it was the very rock on which he stranded. The mixing
of the colours on his palette, and especially the cleaning of his brushes, took
up so much of his time that he rarely came to the actual painting. As the
days were very short in midwinter, he never had time to do any work after
he had finished washing his palette and brushes, and, as far as I can
remember, he never completed a single portrait. Strangers to whom he had
been introduced, and who had given him orders to paint their portraits, were
obliged to leave Paris without seeing them even half done, and at last he
even complained because some of his sitters died before their portraits were
completed. His landlord, to whom he was always in debt for rent, was the
only creature who succeeded in getting a portrait of his ugly person from
the painter, and, as far as I know, this is the only finished portrait in
existence by Kietz. On the other hand, he was very clever at making little
sketches of any subject suggested by our conversation during the evening,
and in these he displayed both originality and delicacy of execution. During
the winter of that year he completed a good pencil portrait of me, which he
touched up two years afterwards when he knew me more intimately,
finishing it off as it now stands. It pleased him to sketch me in the attitude I
often assumed during our evening chats when I was in a cheerful mood. No
evening ever passed during which I did not succeed in shaking off the
depression caused by my vain endeavours, and by the many worries I had
gone through during the day, and in regaining my natural cheerfulness, and
Kietz was anxious to represent me to the world as a man who, in spite of the
hard times he had to face, had confidence in his success, and rose smiling

above the troubles of life. Before the end of the year 1839, my youngest
sister Cecilia also arrived in Paris with her husband, Edward Avenarius. It
was only natural that she should feel embarrassed at the idea of meeting us
in Paris in our extremely straitened circumstances, especially as her
husband was not very well off. Consequently, instead of calling on them
frequently, we preferred waiting until they came to see us, which, by the
way, took them a long time. On the other hand, the renewal of our
acquaintance with Heinrich Laube, who came over to Paris at the beginning
of 1840 with his young wife, Iduna (nee Budaus), was very cheering. She
was the widow of a wealthy Leipzig doctor, and Laube had married her
under very extraordinary circumstances, since we last saw him in Berlin;
they intended to enjoy themselves for a few months in Paris. During the
long period of his detention, while awaiting his trial, this young lady had
been so touched by his misfortunes that without knowing much of him, she
had shown great sympathy and interest in his case. Laube’s sentence was
pronounced soon after I left Berlin; it was unexpectedly light, consisting of
only one year’s imprisonment in the town gaol. He was allowed to undergo
this term in the prison at Muskau in Silesia, where he had the advantage of
being near his friend, Prince Puckler, who in his official capacity, and on
account of his influence with the governor of the prison, was permitted to
afford the prisoner even the consolation of personal intercourse.
The young widow resolved to marry him at the beginning of his term of
imprisonment, so that she might be near him at Muskau with her loving
assistance. To see my old friend under such favourable conditions was in
itself a pleasure to me; I also experienced the liveliest satisfaction at finding
there was no change in his former sympathetic attitude. We met frequently;
our wives also became friends, and Laube was the first to approve in his
kindly humorous way of our folly in moving to Paris.
In his house I made the acquaintance of Heinrich Heine, and both of
them joked good-humouredly over my extraordinary position, making even
me laugh. Laube felt himself compelled to talk seriously to me about my
expectations of succeeding in Paris, as he saw that I treated my situation,
based on such trivial hopes, with a humour that charmed him even against
his better judgment. He tried to think how he could help me without
prejudicing my future. With this object he wanted me to make a more or
less plausible sketch of my future plans, so that on his approaching visit to
our native land he might procure some help for me. I happened just at that

time to have come to an exceedingly promising understanding with the
management of the Theatre de la Renaissance. I thus seemed to have
obtained a footing, and I thought it safe to assert, that if I were guaranteed
the means of livelihood for six months, I could not fail within that period to
accomplish something. Laube promised to make this provision, and kept his
word. He induced one of his wealthy friends in Leipzig, and, following this
example, my well-to-do relations, to provide me for six months with the
necessary resources, to be paid in monthly instalments through Avenarius.
We therefore decided, as I have said, to leave our furnished apartments
and take a flat for ourselves in the Rue du Helder. My prudent, careful wife
had suffered greatly on account of the careless and uncertain manner in
which I had hitherto controlled our meagre resources, and in now
undertaking the responsibility, she explained that she understood how to
keep house more cheaply than we could do by living in furnished rooms
and restaurants. Success justified the step; the serious part of the question
lay in the fact that we had to start housekeeping without any furniture of our
own, and everything necessary for domestic purposes had to be procured,
though we had not the wherewithal to get it. In this matter Lehrs, who was
well versed in the peculiarities of Parisian life, was able to advise us. In his
opinion the only compensation for the experiences we had undergone
hitherto would be a success equivalent to my daring. As I did not possess
the resources to allow of long years of patient waiting for success in Paris, I
must either count on extraordinary luck or renounce all my hopes forthwith.
The longed-for success must come within a year, or I should be ruined.
Therefore I must dare all, as befitted my name, for in my case he was not
inclined to derive ‘Wagner’[10] from Fuhrwerk. I was to pay my rent, twelve
hundred francs, in quarterly instalments; for the furniture and fittings, he
recommended me, through his landlady, to a carpenter who provided
everything that was necessary for what seemed to be a reasonable sum, also
to be paid by instalments, all of which appeared very simple. Lehrs
maintained that I should do no good in Paris unless I showed the world that
I had confidence in myself. My trial audience was impending; I felt sure of
the Theatre de la Renaissance, and Dumersan was keenly anxious to make a
complete translation of my Liebesverbot into French. So we decided to run
the risk. On 15th April, to the astonishment of the concierge of the house in
the Rue du Helder, we moved with an exceedingly small amount of luggage
into our comfortable new apartments.

[10] ‘Wagner’ in German means one who dares, also a Wagoner; and ‘Fuhrwerk’
means a carriage.—Editor.

The very first visit I received in the rooms I had taken with such high
hopes was from Anders, who came with the tidings that the Theatre de la
Renaissance had just gone bankrupt, and was closed. This news, which
came on me like a thunder-clap, seemed to portend more than an ordinary
stroke of bad luck; it revealed to me like a flash of lightning the absolute
emptiness of my prospects. My friends openly expressed the opinion that
Meyerbeer, in sending me from the Grand Opera to this theatre, probably
knew the whole of the circumstances. I did not pursue the line of thought to
which this supposition might lead, as I felt cause enough for bitterness
when I wondered what I should do with the rooms in which I was so nicely
installed.
As my singers had now practised the portions of Liebesverbot intended
for the trial audience, I was anxious at least to have them performed before
some persons of influence. M. Edouard Monnaie, who had been appointed
temporary director of the Grand Opera after Duponchel’s retirement, was
the less disposed to refuse as the singers who were to take part belonged to
the institution over which he presided; moreover, there was no obligation
attached to his presence at the audience. I also took the trouble to call on
Scribe to invite him to attend, and he accepted with the kindest alacrity. At
last my three pieces were performed before these two gentlemen in the
green room of the Grand Opera, and I played the piano accompaniment.
They pronounced the music charming, and Scribe expressed his willingness
to arrange the libretto for me as soon as the managers of the opera had
decided on accepting the piece; all that M. Monnaie had to reply to this
offer was that it was impossible for them to do so at present. I did not fail to
realise that these were only polite expressions; but at all events I thought it
very nice of them, and particularly condescending of Scribe to have got so
far as to think me deserving of a little politeness.
But in my heart of hearts I felt really ashamed of having gone back again
seriously to that superficial early work from which I had taken these three
pieces. Of course I had only done this because I thought I should win
success more rapidly in Paris by adapting myself to its frivolous taste. My
aversion from this kind of taste, which had been long growing, coincided
with my abandonment of all hopes of success in Paris. I was placed in an
exceedingly melancholy situation by the fact that my circumstances had so

shaped themselves that I dared not express this important change in my
feelings to any one, especially to my poor wife. But if I continued to make
the best of a bad bargain, I had no longer any illusions as to the possibility
of success in Paris. Face to face with unheard-of misery, I shuddered at the
smiling aspect which Paris presented in the bright sunshine of May. It was
the beginning of the slack season for any sort of artistic enterprise in Paris,
and from every door at which I knocked with feigned hope I was turned
away with the wretchedly monotonous phrase, Monsieur est a la campagne.
On our long walks, when we felt ourselves absolute strangers in the midst
of the gay throng, I used to romance to my wife about the South American
Free States, far away from all this sinister life, where opera and music were
unknown, and the foundations of a sensible livelihood could easily be
secured by industry. I told Minna, who was quite in the dark as to my
meaning, of a book I had just read, Zschokke’s Die Gründung von
Maryland, in which I found a very seductive account of the sensation of
relief experienced by the European settlers after their former sufferings and
persecutions. She, being of a more practical turn of mind, used to point out
to me the necessity of procuring means for our continued existence in Paris,
for which she had thought out all sorts of economies.
I, for my part, was sketching out the plan of the poem of my Fliegender
Holländer, which I kept steadily before me as a possible means of making a
debut in Paris. I put together the material for a single act, influenced by the
consideration that I could in this way confine it to the simple dramatic
developments between the principal characters, without troubling about the
tiresome operatic accessories. From a practical point of view, I thought I
could rely on a better prospect for the acceptance of my proposed work if it
were cast in the form of a one-act opera, such as was frequently given as a
curtain raiser before a ballet at the Grand Opera. I wrote about it to
Meyerbeer in Berlin, asking for his help. I also resumed the composition of
Rienzi, to the completion of which I was now giving my constant attention.
In the meantime our position became more and more gloomy; I was soon
compelled to draw in advance on the subsidies obtained by Laube, but in so
doing I gradually alienated the sympathy of my brother-in-law Avenarius, to
whom our stay in Paris was incomprehensible.
One morning, when we had been anxiously consulting as to the
possibility of raising our first quarter’s rent, a carrier appeared with a parcel

addressed to me from London; I thought it was an intervention of
Providence, and broke open the seal. At the same moment a receipt-book
was thrust into my face for signature, in which I at once saw that I had to
pay seven francs for carriage. I recognised, moreover, that the parcel
contained my overture Rule Britannia, returned to me from the London
Philharmonic Society. In my fury I told the bearer that I would not take in
the parcel, whereupon he remonstrated in the liveliest fashion, as I had
already opened it. It was no use; I did not possess seven francs, and I told
him he should have presented the bill for the carriage before I had opened
the parcel. So I made him return the only copy of my overture to Messrs.
Laffitte and Gaillard’s firm, to do what they liked with it, and I never cared
to inquire what became of that manuscript.
Suddenly Kietz devised a way out of these troubles. He had been
commissioned by an old lady of Leipzig, called Fraulein Leplay, a rich and
very miserly old maid, to find a cheap lodging in Paris for her and for his
stepmother, with whom she intended to travel. As our apartment, though not
spacious, was larger than we actually needed, and had very quickly become
a troublesome burden to us, we did not hesitate for a moment to let the
larger portion of it to her for the time of her stay in Paris, which was to last
about two months. In addition, my wife provided the guests with breakfast,
as though they were in furnished apartments, and took a great pride in
looking at the few pence she earned in this way. Although we found this
amazing example of old-maidishness trying enough, the arrangement we
had made helped us in some degree to tide over the anxious time, and I was
able, in spite of this disorganisation of our household arrangements, to
continue working in comparative peace at my Rienzi.
This became more difficult after Fraulein Leplay’s departure, when we
let one of our rooms to a German commercial traveller, who in his leisure
hours zealously played the flute. His name was Brix; he was a modest,
decent fellow, and had been recommended to us by Pecht the painter, whose
acquaintance we had recently made. He had been introduced to us by Kietz,
who studied with him in Delaroche’s studio. He was the very antithesis of
Kietz in every way, and obviously endowed with less talent, yet he grappled
with the task of acquiring the art of oil-painting in the shortest possible time
under difficult circumstances with an industry and earnestness quite out of
the common. He was, moreover, well educated, and eagerly assimilated
information, and was very straightforward, earnest, and trustworthy.

Without attaining to the same degree of intimacy with us as our three older
friends, he was, nevertheless, one of the few who continued to stand by us
in our troubles, and habitually spent nearly every evening in our company.
One day I received a fresh surprising proof of Laube’s continued
solicitude on our behalf. The secretary of a certain Count Kuscelew called
on us, and after some inquiry into our affairs, the state of which he had
heard from Laube at Karlsbad, informed us in a brief and friendly way that
his patron wished to be of use to us, and with that object in view desired to
make my acquaintance. In fact, he proposed to engage a small light opera
company in Paris, which was to follow him to his Russian estates. He was
therefore looking for a musical director of sufficient experience to assist in
recruiting the members in Paris. I gladly went to the hotel where the count
was staying, and there found an elderly gentleman of frank and agreeable
bearing, who willingly listened to my little French compositions. Being a
shrewd reader of human nature, he saw at a glance that I was not the man
for him, and though he showed me the most polite attention, he went no
further into the opera scheme. But that very day he sent me, accompanied
by a friendly note, ten golden napoleons, in payment for my services. What
these services were I did not know. I thereupon wrote to him, and asked for
more precise details of his wishes, and begged him to commission a
composition, the fee for which I presumed he had sent in advance. As I
received no reply, I made more than one effort to approach him again, but in
vain. From other sources I afterwards learned that the only kind of opera
Count Kuscelew recognised was Adam’s. As for the operatic company to be
engaged to suit his taste, what he really wanted was more a small harem
than a company of artists.
So far I had not been able to arrange anything with the music publisher
Schlesinger. It was impossible to persuade him to publish my little French
songs. In order to do something, however, towards making myself known in
this direction, I decided to have my Two Grenadiers engraved by him at my
own expense. Kietz was to lithograph a magnificent title-page for it.
Schlesinger ended by charging me fifty francs for the cost of production.
The story of this publication is curious from beginning to end; the work
bore Schlesinger’s name, and as I had defrayed all expenses, the proceeds
were, of course, to be placed to my account. I had afterwards to take the
publisher’s word for it that not a single copy had been sold. Subsequently,
when I had made a quick reputation for myself in Dresden through my

Rienzi, Schott the publisher in Mainz, who dealt almost exclusively in
works translated from the French, thought it advisable to bring out a
German edition of the Two Grenadiers. Below the text of the French
translation he had the German original by Heine printed; but as the French
poem was a very free paraphrase, in quite a different metre to the original,
Heine’s words fitted my composition so badly that I was furious at the
insult to my work, and thought it necessary to protest against Schott’s
publication as an entirely unauthorised reprint. Schott then threatened me
with an action for libel, as he said that, according to his agreement, his
edition was not a reprint (Nachdruck), but a reimpression (Abdruck). In
order to be spared further annoyance, I was induced to send him an apology
in deference to the distinction he had drawn, which I did not understand.
In 1848, when I made inquiries of Schlesinger’s successor in Paris (M.
Brandus) as to the fate of my little work, I learned from him that a new
edition had been published, but he declined to entertain any question of
rights on my part. Since I did not care to buy a copy with my own money, I
have to this day had to do without my own property. To what extent, in later
years, others profited by similar transactions relating to the publication of
my works, will appear in due course.
For the moment the point was to compensate Schlesinger for the fifty
francs agreed upon, and he proposed that I should do this by writing articles
for his Gazette Musicale.
As I was not expert enough in the French language for literary purposes,
my article had to be translated and half the fee had to go to the translator.
However, I consoled myself by thinking I should still receive sixty francs
per sheet for the work. I was soon to learn, when I presented myself to the
angry publisher for payment, what was meant by a sheet. It was measured
by an abominable iron instrument, on which the lines of the columns were
marked off with figures; this was applied to the article, and after careful
subtraction of the spaces left for the title and signature, the lines were added
up. After this process had been gone through, it appeared that what I had
taken for a sheet was only half a sheet.
So far so good. I began to write articles for Schlesinger’s wonderful
paper. The first was a long essay, De la musique allemande, in which I
expressed with the enthusiastic exaggeration characteristic of me at that
time my appreciation of the sincerity and earnestness of German music.

This article led my friend Anders to remark that the state of affairs in
Germany must, indeed, be splendid if the conditions were really as I
described. I enjoyed what was to me the surprising satisfaction of seeing
this article subsequently reproduced in Italian, in a Milan musical journal,
where, to my amusement, I saw myself described as Dottissimo Musico
Tedesco, a mistake which nowadays would be impossible. My essay
attracted favourable comment, and Schlesinger asked me to write an article
in praise of the arrangement made by the Russian General Lwoff of
Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater, which I did as superficially as possible. On my
own impulse I then wrote an essay in a still more amiable vein called Du
metier du virtuose et de l’independance de la composition.
In the meantime I was surprised in the middle of the summer by the
arrival of Meyerbeer, who happened to come to Paris for a fortnight. He
was very sympathetic and obliging. When I told him my idea of writing a
one-act opera as a curtain raiser, and asked him to give me an introduction
to M. Leon Pillet, the recently appointed manager of the Grand Opera, he at
once took me to see him, and presented me to him. But alas, I had the
unpleasant surprise of learning from the serious conversation which took
place between those two gentlemen as to my future, that Meyerbeer thought
I had better decide to compose an act for the ballet in collaboration with
another musician. Of course I could not entertain such an idea for a
moment. I succeeded, however, in handing over to M. Pillet my brief sketch
of the subject of the Flying Dutchman..
Things had reached this point when Meyerbeer again left Paris, this time
for a longer period of absence.
As I did not hear from M. Pillet for quite a long time, I now began to
work diligently at my composition of Rienzi, though, to my great distress, I
had often to interrupt this task in order to undertake certain pot-boiling
hack-work for Schlesinger.
As my contributions to the Gazette Musicale proved so unremunerative,
Schlesinger one day ordered me to work out a method for the Cornet a
pistons. When I told him about my embarrassment, in not knowing how to
deal with the subject, he replied by sending me five different published
‘Methods’ for the Cornet a pistons, at that time the favourite amateur
instrument among the younger male population of Paris. I had merely to
devise a new sixth method out of these five, as all Schlesinger wanted was

to publish an edition of his own. I was racking my brains how to start, when
Schlesinger, who had just obtained a new complete method, released me
from the onerous task. I was, however, told to write fourteen ‘Suites’ for the
Cornet a pistons—that is to say, airs out of operas arranged for this
instrument. To furnish me with material for this work, Schlesinger sent me
no less than sixty complete operas arranged for the piano. I looked them
through for suitable airs for my ‘Suites,’ marked the pages in the volumes
with paper strips, and arranged them into a curious-looking structure round
my work-table, so that I might have the greatest possible variety of the
melodious material within my reach. When I was in the midst of this work,
however, to my great relief and to my poor wife’s consternation,
Schlesinger told me that M. Schlitz, the first cornet player in Paris, who had
looked my ‘Etudes’ through, preparatory to their being engraved, had
declared that I knew absolutely nothing about the instrument, and had
generally adopted keys that were too high, which Parisians would never be
able to use. The part of the work I had already done was, however,
accepted, Schlitz having agreed to correct it, but on condition that I should
share my fee with him. The remainder of the work was then taken off my
hands, and the sixty pianoforte arrangements went back to the curious shop
in the Rue Richelieu.
So my exchequer was again in a sorry plight. The distressing poverty of
my home grew more apparent every day, and yet I was now free to give a
last touch to Rienzi, and by the 19th of November I had completed this
most voluminous of all my operas. I had decided, some time previously, to
offer the first production of this work to the Court Theatre at Dresden, so
that, in the event of its being a success, I might thus resume my connection
with Germany. I had decided upon Dresden as I knew that there I should
have in Tichatschek the most suitable tenor for the leading part. I also
reckoned on my acquaintance with Schroder-Devrient, who had always
been nice to me and who, though her efforts were ineffectual, had been at
great pains, out of regard for my family, to get my Feen introduced at the
Court Theatre, Dresden. In the secretary of the theatre, Hofrat Winkler
(known as Theodor Hell), I also had an old friend of my family, besides
which I had been introduced to the conductor, Reissiger, with whom I and
my friend Apel had spent a pleasant evening on the occasion of our
excursion to Bohemia in earlier days. To all these people I now addressed
most respectful and eloquent appeals, wrote out an official note to the

director, Herr von Lüttichau, as well as a formal petition to the King of
Saxony, and had everything ready to send off.
Meantime, I had not omitted to indicate the exact tempi in my opera by
means of a metronome. As I did not possess such a thing, I had to borrow
one, and one morning I went out to restore the instrument to its owner,
carrying it under my thin overcoat. The day when this occurred was one of
the strangest in my life, as it showed in a really horrible way the whole
misery of my position at that time. In addition to the fact that I did not know
where to look for the few francs wherewith Minna was to provide for our
scanty household requirements, some of the bills which, in accordance with
the custom in Paris in those days, I had signed for the purpose of fitting up
our apartments, had fallen due. Hoping to get help from one source or
another, I first tried to get those bills prolonged by the holders. As such
documents pass through many hands, I had to call on all the holders across
the length and breadth of the city. That day I was to propitiate a cheese-
monger who occupied a fifth-floor apartment in the Cite. I also intended to
ask for help from Heinrich, the brother of my brother-in-law, Brockhaus, as
he was then in Paris; and I was going to call at Schlesinger’s to raise the
money to pay for the despatch of my score that day by the usual mail
service.
As I had also to deliver the metronome, I left Minna early in the morning
after a sad good-bye. She knew from experience that as I was on a money-
raising expedition, she would not see me back till late at night. The streets
were enveloped in a dense fog, and the first thing I recognised on leaving
the house was my dog Robber, who had been stolen from us a year before.
At first I thought it was a ghost, but I called out to him sharply in a shrill
voice. The animal seemed to recognise me, and approached me cautiously,
but my sudden movement towards him with outstretched arms seemed only
to revive memories of the few chastisements I had foolishly inflicted on
him during the latter part of our association, and this memory prevailed
over all others. He drew timidly away from me and, as I followed him with
some eagerness, he ran, only to accelerate his speed when he found he was
being pursued. I became more and more convinced that he had recognised
me, because he always looked back anxiously when he reached a corner;
but seeing that I was hunting him like a maniac, he started off again each
time with renewed energy. Thus I followed him through a labyrinth of
streets, hardly distinguishable in the thick mist, until I eventually lost sight

of him altogether, never to see him again. It was near the church of St.
Roch, and I, wet with perspiration and quite breathless, was still bearing the
metronome. For a while I stood motionless, glaring into the mist, and
wondered what the ghostly reappearance of the companion of my travelling
adventures on this day might portend! The fact that he had fled from his old
master with the terror of a wild beast filled my heart with a strange
bitterness and seemed to me a horrible omen. Sadly shaken, I set out again,
with trembling limbs, upon my weary errand.
Heinrich Brockhaus told me he could not help me, and I left him. I was
sorely ashamed, but made a strong effort to conceal the painfulness of my
situation. My other undertakings turned out equally hopeless, and after
having been kept waiting for hours at Schlesinger’s, listening to my
employer’s very trivial conversations with his callers—conversations which
he seemed purposely to protract—I reappeared under the windows of my
home long after dark, utterly unsuccessful. I saw Minna looking anxiously
from one of the windows. Half expecting my misfortune she had, in the
meantime, succeeded in borrowing a small sum of our lodger and boarder,
Brix, the flute-player, whom we tolerated patiently, though at some
inconvenience to ourselves, as he was a good-natured fellow. So she was
able to offer me at least a comfortable meal. Further help was to come to me
subsequently, though at the cost of great sacrifices on my part, owing to the
success of one of Donizetti’s operas, La Favorita, a very poor work of the
Italian maestro’s, but welcomed with great enthusiasm by the Parisian
public, already so much degenerated. This opera, the success of which was
due mainly to two lively little songs, had been acquired by Schlesinger, who
had lost heavily over Halevy’s last operas.
Taking advantage of my helpless situation, of which he was well aware,
he rushed into our rooms one morning, beaming all over with amusing
good-humour, called for pen and ink, and began to work out a calculation of
the enormous fees which he had arranged for me! He put down: ‘La
Favorita, complete arrangement for pianoforte, arrangement without words,
for solo; ditto, for duet; complete arrangement for quartette; the same for
two violins; ditto for a Cornet a piston. Total fee, frcs. 1100. Immediate
advance in cash, frcs. 500.’ I could see at a glance what an enormous
amount of trouble this work would involve, but I did not hesitate a moment
to undertake it.