It is of great interest to note that the germs of a sort of "Bayreuth festival plan" can be found in his letters as early as 1850,–the year when "Lohengrin" had its first hearing. Thus a full quarter of a century elapsed between the conception of this festival plan and its execution. But Wagner had the patience of Job, as well as his capacity for suffering.
Amid privations of all sorts, he wrote the sublime music of these dramas, beginning with "Rheingold," on Nov. 1, 1853,–the first time he had put new operatic melodies on paper since the completion of "Lohengrin," in August, 1847. In his head, to be sure, he had been carrying much of the Nibelung music for some time, for he habitually created his leading melodies at the same time as the verse; and the four Nibelung poems were in print in 1853. On May 28, 1854, the score of "Rheingold" was completed, and four weeks later he began the sketches of "The Valkyrie," the completed score of which was in his desk by the end of March, 1856.
In the meantime his poverty had compelled him, much against his wishes, to accept an offer from the London Philharmonic Society to conduct their concerts for a season (March to June, 1855). He had reason to bitterly regret this action. With the limited number of rehearsals at his command it was impossible for him to make the orchestra follow his intentions and reveal his greatness as a conductor. He was not allowed to make the programmes, and the directors, ignorant of the fact that they had engaged the greatest musical genius of the century, gave no Wagner concert, and put only a few short selections from his early operas on the programs. Thus his hopes of creating a desire for the hearing of his complete operas, which had been one of his motives in going to London, were frustrated. He was, moreover, constantly abused for doing things differently from Mendelssohn, and the leading critics referred to his best music as "senseless discord," "inflated display of extravagance and noise," and so on. Almost the only pleasant episode was the sympathy and interest of Queen Victoria, who had a long talk with him, and informed him that his music had enraptured her.
For all this trouble and loss of time (he found himself unable in London to do any satisfactory work on the uncompleted "Valkyrie" score), he received the munificent sum of $1,000,–considerably less than many Wagner singers to-day get for one evening's work. Shortly before leaving London he wrote to a friend that he would bring home about 200 francs,–$40! For this he had wasted four months of precious time and endured endless "contrarieties and vulgar animosities," to use his own words.
Equally unsuccessful were his efforts, a few years later, to better himself financially by a series of concerts in Paris (1860). They resulted in a large deficit. Nor was he benefited by the performances of his "Tannhäuser," which were given at the grand opera in March, 1861, by order of Napoleon, at the request of the influential Princess Metternich. He had refused to interpolate a vulgar ballet in the second act for the benefit of the members of the aristocratic Jockey Club, who dined late and insisted on having a ballet on entering the opera-house. They took their revenge by creating such a disturbance every evening that after the third performance Wagner refused to allow any further repetitions, although the house on the third night had been completely sold out. He was to receive $50 for each performance. The result was $150, or less than 50 cents a day, for a year's hard work and no end of worry in connection with the rehearsals.
How many men are there in the annals of art who would have refused, after all these disappointments and bitter lessons, to make some concessions? Wagner was writing a gigantic work, the Nibelung Tetralogy, which, he was convinced, would never yield a penny's profit during his lifetime. Sometimes despair seized him. In one of his letters he exclaims: "Why should I, poor devil, burden and torture myself with such terrible tasks, if the present generation refuses to let me have even a workshop?" Yet the only deviation he made from his plan was that when he had reached the second act of the third of the Nibelung dramas, the poetic "Siegfried," in June, 1857, he made up his mind to abandon the Tetralogy for the time being, and compose an opera which might be performed separately and once more bring him into contact with the stage.
This opera was "Tristan and Isolde;" but instead of being a concession, it turned out to be the most difficult and Wagnerian of all his works,–an opera with much emotion but little action, no processions or choruses such as "Lohengrin" still had, and, of course, no arias or tunes whatever. "Tristan and Isolde" was completed in 1859, and Wagner would have much preferred to have its performance in Paris commanded by Napoleon in place of "Tannhäuser." What the Jockey Club would have done in that case is inconceivable, for, compared with "Tristan," "Tannhäuser" is almost Meyerbeerian, if not Donizettian. No singers, moreover, could have been found in Paris able to interpret this work, with its new vocal style,–"speech-song," as the Germans call it. Even Germany could do nothing, at first, with this opera. In Vienna, after fifty-four rehearsals, it was abandoned, in 1863, as "impossible," and that city did not produce it till after Wagner's death. Instead of bringing him into immediate contact with the stage, it was not heard anywhere till seven years after its completion.
There was one more card for him to play. All his operas, so far, had been tragedies. What if he were to write a comic opera? Would not that be likely to get him access to the stage again, and help him financially? He had the plan for a comic opera; indeed, he had sketched it as early as 1845, at the same time as the plot of "Lohengrin." Sixteen years it lay dormant in his brain. At last he wrote out the poem in Paris, immediately after the "Tannhäuser" disaster there. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call "Die Meistersinger" a humorous opera; for while the story of the mediaeval knight who wins the goldsmith's daughter has comic features, its chief characteristic is humor, with that undercurrent of seriousness that belongs to all masterpieces of humor. To a certain extent, it is a musical and poetic autobiography, the victorious young Knight Walter, who sings as he pleases, without regard to pedantic rules, representing Wagner himself and the "music of the future," while the vain and malicious Beckmesser stands for the critics, and Hans Sachs for enlightened public opinion.
It was during the time that he wrote the gloriously melodious and spontaneous music to this poem that the most important event of his life happened. Work on the score was repeatedly interrupted by the necessity of making some money. Most of his concerts in German cities, undertaken for this purpose, did not yield him any profits. In Russia, however, he was very successful, and as he had the promise of a repetition of his success, he rented a fine villa at Penzing, near Vienna, and proceeded to enjoy life for a change. Who can blame him for this? As he said to a friend not long after this, "I am differently organized from others, have sensitive nerves, must have beauty, splendor, and light. Is it really such an outrageous thing if I lay claim to the little bit of luxury which I like,–I, who am preparing enjoyment for the world and for thousands?"
Unfortunately the second Russian project failed, through no fault of his own, and as he had borrowed money at usurious rates on his expected profits, he found himself compelled to fly once more from his creditors. After spending a short time in Switzerland, he went to Stuttgart, where he persuaded his friend Weissheimer to go with him into the Suabian Alps, where he intended to hide for half a year, until he could finish his "Meistersinger," and with the score raise money for his creditors. The wagon had already been ordered for the next morning, May 3, 1864, and Wagner was packing his trunk, when a card was brought up to him with the inscription: "von Pfistenmeister, Secrétaire aulique de S.M. le roi de Bavière," and the message that the Baron came by order of the King of Bavaria, and was very anxious to see him.
King Ludwig II. of Bavaria had declared, while he was still crown prince, that as soon as he became king he would show the world how highly he held the genius of Wagner in honor. He kept his word. One of his first acts was to despatch Baron von Pfistenmeister to search for Wagner, and not to return without him. He was to tell him that the king was his most ardent admirer; that he wanted him to come at once to Munich, to live there in comfort, at the king's expense, to complete his Nibelung operas, and produce them forthwith. Was it a wonder that when the Baron had left, Wagner, who was thus suddenly raised from the depth of despair (he had even meditated suicide) to the height of happiness, fell on Weissheimer's neck, and wept for joy.
Surely the brain of a Dumas could not have conceived a more romantic event than this sudden transformation of one who was a fugitive from debtor's
