Will Richard Wagner's Battle Never End?
In my last article (on Grieg) I remarked that we love the work of art the more if we love the artist, not only as an artist but as a man as well. But also the reverse is true. If we do not fully sympathize with the artist as a man, we involuntarily transfer our dislike to his works. So it is with Richard Wagner. If we compare the noble, altruistic attitude of some of the great musicians with the egotistical, self indulgence of Wagner, we cannot help being somewhat prejudiced in our estimation of this master. Of course the success of his works is to-day unquestionable ; but one should not forget that this was gained through a colossal apparatus such as never before was— and probably never in the future will be— employed. Wagner himself wrote many volumes to explain his views; friends used their wealth and their greatest exertion to foster his cause; patrons supported him with their influence and generous gifts; societies were formed everywhere to procure for him the means to put his works into scene and build the Bayreuth playhouse. One should compare this mighty host of "shock troops" with the simplicity and unobtrusiveness with which other famous composers left their works to fight their own way, by virtue only of their intrinsic merit, without compulsion, without "frightfulness."
To be sure Wagner's music was not of the kind to be easily and immediately understood and appreciated, and the mere fact that his admirers engaged is a regular campaign to force public recognition is in itself a proof of the importance of Wagner's art; but the one who wins affection and love by means only of his own charm and attractiveness is surely a more sympathetic figure than the other who tries to impose and compel admiration. As a matter of fact, love cannot be enforced. It grows out of the heart of its own accord, or not at all.
Wagner's Theories
Wagner himself contributed ten stout volumes in support of his theories. Few, even among his most ardent admirers, are familiar with these writings as a whole. His system can be explained in far more concise language than he has employed. His language is often prolix and verbose and mostly offensive to other composers, critics, Jews, etc. For this reason never did an artist awaken such irreconcilable hatred against himself, or resentment which rose to such a pitch of frenzy. He was made the target of ridicule and mockery. A Berlin paper of 1870 wrote: "Since capital punishment has been abolished no one is obliged to hear Meistersinger more than once." The scene of Rheingold, in which the Rhinedaughters appear, was called an "Aquarium." Heinrich Dorn, the Berlin composer and critic, called the Kaisermarch an insult to the emperor of Germany. Truhn, another German critic, wrote: "It is a well-known fact that 99 per cent, of Wagner's admirers are unmusical." Berlioz and Wagner were called "the two enfants terribles" of Beethoven. When Joachim, the famous violinist, refused an invitation of the committee of the Vienna Beethoven Festival because Wagner had been requested to cooperate, a Berlin paper, the Echo, remarked caustically: "No one will question the privilege of private persons to avoid the society of suspicious characters; in the case of an artist this right should be denied least of all." Heyse, the German poet, called his music "a pathetic cancan." Wagner himself was called "the great cacophonist," "a literary, poetical and musical humbug," "the hangman of modern art," "the noisiest man of our century," "Richard, the Great, the Infallible, the Divine!"
It would be unjust, however, not to recognize the beneficial influence he has had on musical art, mainly concerning the intensity of dramatic expression, the concordance of music vith poetry, the wealth and novelty of harmony, the characteristic of rhythm, and the immense power of instrumentation. Furthermore, being the author also of his libretti, he was enabled to bring about a more homogeneous fusion of music and poetry. These are positive enrichments which everybody, even if he be averse to Wagner, must readily acknowledge.
Few artists have had such an eventful life as Richard Wagner. To-day a conductor in a German provincial town, to-morrow at the point of destitution in. Paris. To-day a court official of the King of Sax-only, to-morrow a fugitive in a strange country, with a warrant of arrest against him; to-day without a ray of hope, to-morrow declared friend and protege of a mighty monarch. His persistence and his unshakable belief in his own mission are certainly to be held as an example worthy of imitation by every ambitious musician.
Wagner's musical training was never very thorough. His relations to music were, at the beginning, quite superficial, as his inclinations were more for poetry. His dream was to write a tragedy in the style of Shakespeare. Only when his mother established herself in Leipzig (1829), where his sister Rosalie was engaged at the theatre, did he begin to think of a musical career. He took music lessons with the organist Mueller and counterpoint with Weinlig. In later life he developed an astounding working power. During the quiet years at Triebschen, in Switzerland, he generally worked without interruption from eight o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon. Here he composed the great part of the Meistersinger, Siegfried and Gotterdammerung.
From early youth he was inclined to eccentricity in art. At the age of fourteen he began a grand tragedy, of which he says that it was a mixture of Hamlet and Lear. So many people died in the course of it that their ghosts had to return in order to keep the fifth act going.
When he was seventeen an overture of his was performed at the theater between two of the acts. Wagner says: "I chose to aid the comprehension of anyone who would study the parts by writing them in three different inks—the stringed instruments red, the reed instruments green, and the brass, black. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony was to be a mere trifle beside this wonderful overture! This was the culminating point of my absurdities. The public was extraordinarily puzzled by the persistence of the drum player, who had to give a loud beat every four bars, from beginning to end. People grew impatient and finally laughed at the thing as a joke."
It came to the point that his music was generally criticised as being irrational, and it happened in many cases that both libretto and score, which were submitted to publishers, were returned unopened.
With no income, Wagner turned to Lisst for aid: "I should once more be a human being," he wrote, "a man for whom existence would be possible, an artist who would never again in his life ask for a shilling, and would only do his work bravely. Dear Liszt, with some money you will buy me out of slavery! Do you think I am worth that sum as a serf?" E(June, 1848). "I cannot live like a dog. I cannot sleep on straw and drink bad whiskey. I must be coaxed in one way or another if my mind is to accomplish the tremendous task of creating a non-existing world. As the year approaches its close I realize that I shall want much, very much money."
In another letter to Liszt he writes: "You must get me an Erard grand. Write to the widow and tell her that you visit me three times every year and that you must absolutely have a better piano than that old and lame thing in my possession. Tell her a hundred thousand fibs and make her believe that it is for her a point of honor that an Erard piano should stand in my house. In brief do not think, but act with the impudence of genius. I must have an Erard."
Wagner's Poverty
Another time he begs Liszt to forward to Mme. Wagner (the first) some money to enable her to join him in Zurich. Liszt forwarded to Mme. Wagner 100 Thalers. And in another letter: "If nothing else will answer, you must give a concert 'for an artist in distress.' Consider everything, dear Liszt, and before all manage to send me some money."
"Anyone who has the slightest real knowledge of the nature of my works," he writes to Liszt, "who knows and admires its special distinctive character, must see that a man of my sort can never on any terms consent to treat it as merchandise."
One sees, conceit was not an unknown quantity to Wagner! He was not burdened by bash fulness. On the other hand this unlimited belief in his own merit endowed him with a tenacity able to overcome any obstacle.
Nothing is good or high enough for him. "Padeloup made every effort to acclimatize me in France," he writes, "and I thank him. But no one can become acquainted with me through concerts. I must be introduced at the theater, for to appear properly I need not only singers but scenic effects and the entire dramatic apparatus. In my compositions all the parts are closely related, one conditioned by the others; and if one of these is omitted, the unity of my work suffers. My work, however, will never receive recognition in France. My music is too German. I strive with all the power given me, to be the child of my own father-land."
He was right in that. The reception accorded to Tannhauser in Paris on its first performance proved the truth of his statement. In 1861, through the intercession of the Princesse Metternich, the Emperor ordered the production of Tannhauser at the Paris Grand Opera, commanding that the work should be mounted in the most magnificent style and that Wagner should choose his own singers and have as many rehearsals as he saw fit. There were 153 rehearsals in all. The production is said to have cost something like $40,000. He rewrote the opening scene entirely and as a sort of educational campaign published a translation of his libretto with a prefatory explanation of his aims and views. In spite of the elaborate preparations, the failure was one of the greatest on record. Three performances were given, of which it is difficult to say whether the performance was on the stage or in the auditorium, for the uproar in the house drowned whatever sounds came from the stage. The members of the Jockey Club, who were prejudiced against the performance, were armed with shrill whistles, and the din and confusion were appalling.
1869 Wagner was already planning the building of a theater devoted only to the representation of his own works. The cost of the Bayreuth Theatre was originally estimated at 330,000 thalers, and was to be raised upon 1,000 certificates, each entitling the holder to a seat at three performances. As this scheme came to a standstill, it was suggested to found Wagner societies. At last, 28 years after its first conception, August, 1876, the Ring of the Nibelung was performed at Bayreuth under the direction of Hans Richter. In spite of the sacrifices readily made by each and all of the artists concerned, there was a deficit of $37,500.
At different times I have seen all of Wagner's works performed in Bayreuth. I have also examined the interior of the playhouse, and must readily recognize the great advantages of Wagner's innovations, some of which have been introduced into the most modern theaters, but which we, nevertheless, will summarize, as they are of great importance.
The advantages of the sunken and concealed orchestra are threefold: musical, dramatic and aesthetic.
Everyone must have noticed that if we listen to music at a certain distance the tones will be somewhat veiled but idealized, and that it is difficult to distinguish by what instrument they are produced. If, however, we go nearer we discover that we mistook the timbre; for instance, piano tones for those of a violin, violoncello for the human voice, etc. At the same time one .will notice that before he could determine with certainty the timbre of the sounds they were so full of charm and so mysterious that we were loath to break the strange spell of this incorporeal music. Wagner's sunken orchestra brings about a similar effect. A kind of veil covers the orchestral tone waves, and by this means the excessive sonority of Wagner's instrumentation is muffled and softened. It gains, moreover, in delicacy and harmoniousness as the tones reach the ear, as it were, chemically amalgamated, and we are almost unable to distinguish the elements contained in the fusion. In this way Wagner enriched his orchestral palette with new color effects.
The players of the Bayreuth orchestra were not only hidden from the audience, but the whole disposition of the orchestra was an entire departure from the usual one; they were disposed amphitheatrically. The orchestral arena consists of six steps; upon the upper one are the violins, which can still be seen from the stage; the conductor is still higher, indeed, on the same level with the stage. The noisy brass instruments occupy a space on the lowest step which descends into a kind of grotto spreading under the stage. The sound waves which rush forth from this depression must first strike a large shell that rises above-the orchestra, and before they reach the auditor they have lost their violence and roughness. The other instruments are distributed over the intermediate ranges, the violas above, parallel with the violins, then the violoncelli, encircled by the contrabassi, among these the wood instruments between the harps, and then the less important brass instruments. Conductor and players enjoy complete freedom in the choice of their clothing, as they cannot be seen from the public. No evening dress, but shirt sleeves, and often still less.
A still further advantage is that we are spared the by no means aesthetic sight of the conductor exerting himself in the guidance of his host of singers and instrumentalists and reminding us every moment that we are witnessing a mere play.
The complete darkness must still be mentioned. I am not talking here of semi-darkness, but total obscurity, so that only the stage holds the attention of the listeners.
It the physical obscurity of the opera house in Bayreuth compels the attention of the public, the mental gloom of the city of Bayreuth contributes to the same end. The stranger waits with impatience for the performance to begin, not only on account of its merit, but also to escape from the everlasting tediousness of the town.
Of course, that forms only the framework. I do not need to speak of the "picture," as all Wagner's works have been performed everywhere (with the exception of Parsifal).
We have seen that Wagner had always to complain about "lack of funds." After his return to Zurich (1850) the question of trying his fortune in America was agitated. The prospect seemed, however, to alarm him. He wrote: "America is a terrible nightmare. If the New York people should ever make up their mind to offer me a considerable sum I should be in the most awful dilemma. If I refused I should have to conceal it from all men, for everyone would charge me in. my position with recklessness. Good gracious! Such sums as I may earn in America, people ought to give me without asking anything in return beyond what I am actually doing. Besides this I am much better adapted to spend 60,000 francs in six months than to earn them. The latter I cannot do at all, for it is not my business to earn money, but it is the business of my admirers to give me as much money as I want to do my work in a cheerful mood."
To be sure, an artist has the privilege to be above any monetary consideration, but, especially from the American point of view, it appears inconceivable that this man refused to riake any effort to earn his money in a legitimate way, and insisted on obtaining it as a gift.
Some of Wagner's views:
"I believe in God, Mozart end Beethoven, and in their disciples and apostles."
"Let me establish first of all the fact that the one true form of music is melody; that without melody music is unthinkable, and that music and melody are inseparable."
"In instrumental music I am a reactionaire, a conservative. I dislike everything that requires a verbal explanation beyond the actual sound." (What would say the partisans of "program music"?)
Monarchy he always considered as the "indispensable center of all social organization."
Religion he loved, but hated priests.
An anecdote:
"When Wagner was conductor of the London Philharmonic concerts, he rehearsed a Beethoven symphony from memory. As Mendelssohn had always led from a score, the directors thought there must be something radically wrong in Wagner's method of procedure, and remonstrated with him so strongly that he promised to conduct from the score at the concert. Accordingly that evening he had a music book on his desk and turned the leaves from time to time as he conducted the symphony. After the concert one of the directors came up to him and said: "Now, Herr Wagner, you must admit that the symphony went much better with the score than without it." Wagner ironically pointed to the score he had used. It was Rossini's Barber of Sevilla.
As most salient elements in Wagner's artistic career we find:
The unshakable faith in his own genius, which was so deep-rooted that no failure—no seemingly insurmountable obstacle—could deflect him from his aims.
His truly radical reforms of the music drama.
The scenic and acoustic innovations of the Bayreuth theater.
The bold adroitness he used to interest people in his own plans.
The "ready pen" which in his hand became a powerful offensive and defensive weapon against his enemies.
The angel-friend, From Lisst, who with unheard of generosity tried continuously to quench Wagner's inextinguishable thirst and unblushing demand for money—Money—and again MONEY!
A GREAT ARTIST WHOM WE ADMIRE, BUT WHOM WE CANNOT LOVE.