My Life — Volume 1

Favourite passages at rehearsal were greeted with acclamation. A concerted number in B minor in the third finale became the “silver penny” passage, for which Tichatschek insisted a coin be paid each time—a gratuity, conscientiously handed over, that was more than once a welcome help toward the cost of their daily food. The full-dress rehearsal produced a general outburst of emotion: even Schröder-Devrient, prejudiced against her part as not the heroine’s, could only answer his questions in a voice stifled with tears. An invalid Italian singer, noticing the composer sitting hungry on a pile of boards, brought him a glass of wine and a piece of bread; the same man would later denounce him to the police.

On the morning of 20th October, the bass Risse, encountering him, gazed in silent rapture upon a man destined for such exceptional fate. The day was bright after gloomy weather, but the evening proved unique in Wagner’s experience. Sitting in a pit-box with Minna, Clara, and the Heines, he seemed to stand quite aloof from his work. The thickly crowded auditorium affected him like a continuous downpour, from which he sought shelter in the farthest corner of his box. He was unconscious of applause, and had to be forcibly reminded to appear before the curtain. His one overwhelming anxiety was the length: the first two acts had already equalled the whole of Freischütz, and the warlike third act ending at ten o’clock meant the opera had run four hours. He was sure the audience would never sit out two more acts, and apologised inwardly for his folly. Yet the singers, and Tichatschek above all, seemed to grow lustier the longer it lasted. Past midnight, the audience was still in full muster, and Wagner had at last to obey the thunderous calls of the public, side by side with his trusty singers.

The next morning he flew to the copyists with a blind rage for cutting, only to find that Tichatschek had forbidden the omissions, declaring, in a half-choked voice, “I will have none of my part cut out—it is too heavenly.” Fischer bubbled with laughter, a letter of thanks arrived from the Commissioner, and the triumph of Rienzi was at last plain.

Part 43 / Part 46

I had long despised theatrical life, viewing court theatres as arrogant, bureaucratic hellscapes where vain, ignorant rulers strangled all noble artistic impulse, so I met the 1843 negotiations for Dresden’s vacant court conductorship with cool reluctance, turning down the first offer of Carl Maria von Weber’s old musical director post out of hand. But every force aligned to break my resolve: the promise of a life tenure with a fixed 4,500 mark annual salary would end years of wandering poverty for my wife Minna and me; Caroline von Weber, my beloved master’s widow, begged me with tears in her eyes to take the post, not leave Weber’s legacy to the lazy, mediocre Reissiger who butchered his operas year after year; practical advisors insisted the light official duties would finally give me time to compose after a year of no creative work; and Lüttichau, Dresden’s general theatre director who had once dismissed me, now showed me unexpected, seemingly genuine kindness that seduced my hope for a fresh start. On February 2, 1843, I was summoned to Lüttichau’s office before the assembled royal orchestra, where a royal rescript was read appointing me forthwith court conductor, with the rare exemption from the year-long probation even Weber had been forced to serve, no room to negotiate the salary figure. Minna fainted with delight when I got home, and I felt I had no choice but to accept the post, give no offense, congratulate myself on my sudden rise.

The formal oath and presentation to the orchestra were followed by my first audience with King Friedrich, the kind, homely monarch I’d once written a political overture for in my youth. He spoke politely of his fondness for my Rienzi and Fliegender Holländer, noting only that the elemental forces of the sea and the mob in those works overpowered their individual characters, a critique I took as proof of his sincere, original artistic judgment. He apologized for rarely attending the theatre, a rule of his strict childhood training that had given him and his brother John a lifelong hatred of forced public appearances. Lüttichau, forced to wait in the anteroom, was furious at the long audience, a small, perfect snapshot of courtier pettiness. I would only see the King two more times: once presenting him with a dedication copy of the Rienzi piano score, once after he congratulated me in the park for my well-received arrangement of Gluck’s Iphigenia in Aulis. That first audience marked the high point of my Dresden career; anxiety set in immediately after.

Creditors I’d escaped years earlier came out of the woodwork, old debts from my Riga flight, even phantom claims from my school days so numerous I joked I’d soon get a bill from my wet nurse. I borrowed 3,000 marks from the great soprano Schroder-Devrient to pay off every debt, compensate my loyal friend Kietz who’d sacrificed for me in Paris, but had no money for a court uniform, no household allowance, had to borrow at interest to make ends meet. Everyone was certain Rienzi’s runaway success would flood my pockets with theatre commissions for my other operas, and for a few weeks orders came in from Cassel and Riga for the Fliegender Holländer, but a full year passed with no further inquiries. My attempt to publish the Fliegender Holländer piano score fell apart when Leipzig’s Hartel would only release it if I took no payment at all. Then the critical onslaught began: two newly appointed Dresden critics, Bank and Schladebach, resented that I’d never curried their favor, were envious of the young, once-poor musician who’d won the public’s love without their blessing. As soon as my appointment was announced, they launched a vitriolic campaign against me in the German press that would last for decades. My old friend Laube tried to defend me, publishing a biographical sketch and my portrait in his paper, but even he buckled under the systematic, virulent detraction, confessing he’d never seen a more desperate position against the united forces of journalism, giving me his blessing like a lost soul.