Chapter 7

A "Divina Commedia" it is to be? That is a splendid idea, and I enjoy the music in anticipation. But I must have a little talk with you about it. That "Hell" and "Purgatory" will succeed I do not call into question for a moment, but as to "Paradise" I have some doubts, which you confirm by saying that your plan includes choruses. In the Ninth Symphony the last choral movement is decidedly the weakest part, although it is historically important, because it discloses to us in a very naive manner the difficulties of a real musician who does not know how (after hell and purgatory) he is to represent paradise. About this paradise, dearest Franz, there is in reality a considerable difficulty, and he who confirms this opinion is, curiously enough, Dante himself, the singer of Paradise, which in his "Divine Comedy" also is decidedly the weakest part. I have followed Dante with deepest sympathy through the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio;" and when I emerged from the infernal slough, I washed myself, as does the poet, with the water of the sea at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory. I enjoyed the divine morning, the pure air. I rose step by step, deadened one passion after the other, battled with the wild instinct of life, till at last, arrived at the fire, I relinquished all desire of life, and threw myself into the glow in order to sink my personality in the contemplation of Beatrice. But from this final liberation I was rudely awakened to be again, after all, what I had been before, and this was done in order to confirm the Catholic doctrine of a God Who, for His own glorification, had created this hell of my existence, by the most elaborate sophisms and most childish inventions, quite unworthy of a great mind. This problematic proof I rejected from the bottom of my soul, and remained dissatisfied accordingly. In order to be just to Dante I had, as in the case of Beethoven, to occupy the historic standpoint; I had to place myself in Dante's time and consider the real object of his poem, which, no doubt, was intended to advocate a certain thing with his contemporaries- -I mean the reform of the Church. I had to confess that in this sense he understood marvellously well his advantage of expressing himself in an infallible manner through means of popular and generally accepted ideas. Before all, I cordially agreed with him in his praise of the saints who had chosen poverty of their own free-will. I had further to admire even in those sophisms his high poetic imagination and power of representation, just as I admire Beethoven's musical art in the last movement of his "Ninth Sympthony." I had further to acknowledge, with deepest and most sublime emotion, the wonderful inspiration through means of which the beloved of his youth, Beatrice, takes the form in which he conceives the Divine doctrine; and in so far as that doctrine teaches the purification of personal egoism through love, I joyfully acknowledge the doctrine of Beatrice. But the fact that Beatrice stands, as it were, on the chariot of the Church, that, instead of pure, simple doctrine, she preaches keen-witted ecclesiastic scholasticism, made her appear to me in a colder light, although the poet assures us that she shines and glows for ever. At last she became indifferent to me; and although as a mere reader I acknowledge that Dante has acted appropriately, in accordance with his time and his purpose, I should as a sympathetic co-poet have wished to lose my personal consciousness, and indeed all consciousness, in that fire. In that manner I should, no doubt, have fared better than even in the company of the Catholic Deity, although Dante represents it with the same art with which you, no doubt, will endeavour to celebrate it in your choruses. I faithfully record to you the impression which the "Divine Comedy" has made upon me, and which in the "Paradise" becomes to my mind a "divine comedy" in the literal sense of the word, in which I do not care to take part, either as a comedian or as a spectator. The misleading problem in these questions is always How to introduce into this terrible world, with an empty nothing beyond it, a God Who converts the enormous sufferings of existence into something fictitious, so that the hoped-for salvation remains the only real and consciously enjoyable thing. This will do very well for the Philistine, especially the English Philistine. He makes very good terms with his God, entering into a contract by which, after having carried out certain points agreed upon, he is finally admitted to eternal bliss as a compensation for various failures in this world. But what have we in common with these notions of the mob?

You once expressed your view of human nature to the effect that man is "une intelligence, servie par des organes." If that were so, it would be a bad thing for the large majority of men, who have only "organs," but as good as no "intelligence," at least in your sense. To me the matter appears in a different light, viz.,- -

Man, like every other animal, embodies the "will of life," for which he fashions his organs according to his wants; and amongst these organs he also develops intellect, i.e., the organ of conceiving external things for the purpose of satisfying the desire of life to the best of his power. A NORMAL man is therefore he who possesses this organ, communicating with the external world (whose function is perception, just as that of the stomach is digestion) in a degree exactly sufficient for the satisfaction of the vital instinct by external means. That vital instinct in NORMAL man consists in exactly the same as does the vital instinct of the lowest animal, namely, in the desire of nourishment and of propagation. For this "will of life," this metaphysical first cause of all existence, desires nothing but to live--that is, to nourish and eternally reproduce itself--and this tendency can be seen identically in the coarse stone, in the tenderer plant, and so forth up to the human animal. Only the organs are different, of which the will must avail itself in the higher stages of its objective existence, in order to satisfy its more complicated, and therefore more disputed and less easily obtainable, wants. By gaining this insight, which is confirmed by the enormous progress of modern science, we understand at once the characteristic feature of the life of the vast majority of men, and are no longer astonished because they appear to us simply as animals; for this is the NORMAL essence of man. A very large portion of mankind remains BELOW this NORMAL stage, for in them the complicated organ of perception is not developed even up to the capability of satisfying normal wants; but, on the other hand, although of course very rarely, there are ABNORMAL natures in which the ordinary measure of the organ of perception--that is, the brain--is exceeded, just as nature frequently forms monstrosities in which ONE ORGAN is developed at the expense of the others. Such a monstrosity, if it reaches the highest degree, is called GENIUS, which at bottom is caused only by an abnormally rich and powerful brain. This organ of perception, which originally and in normal cases looks outward for the purpose of satisfying the wants of the will of life, receives in the case of an abnormal development such vivid and such striking impressions from outside that for a time it emancipates itself from the service of the will, which originally had fashioned it for its own ends. It thus attains to a "will-less"--i.e., aesthetic-- contemplation of the world; and these external objects, contemplated APART FROM THE WILL, are exactly the ideal images which the ARTIST in a manner fixes and reproduces. The sympathy with the external world which is inherent in this contemplation is developed in powerful natures to a permanent forgetfulness of the original personal will, that is to a SYMPATHY with external things for their own sake, and no longer in connection with any personal interest.

The question then arises what we see in this abnormal state, and whether our sympathy takes the form of COMMON JOY or COMMON SORROW. This question the true MEN OF GENIUS and the true SAINTS of all times have answered in the sense that they have seen nothing but SORROW and felt nothing but COMMON SORROW. For they recognized the NORMAL state of all living things and the terrible, always self-contradictory, always self-devouring and blindly egotistic, nature of the "will of life" which is common to all living things. The horrible cruelty of this will, which in sexual love aims only at its own reproduction, appeared in them for the first time reflected in the organ of perception, which in its normal state had felt its subjection to the Will to which it owed its existence. In this manner the organ of perception was placed in an abnormal sympathetic condition. It endeavoured to free itself permanently and finally from its disgraceful serfdom, and this it at last achieved in the perfect negation of the "will of life."

This act of the "negation of will" is the true characteristic of the saint, which finds its last completion in the absolute cessation of personal consciousness; and all consciousness must be personal and individual. But the saints of Christianity, simple-minded and enveloped in the Jewish dogma as they were, could not see this, and their limited imagination looked upon that much-desired stage as the eternal continuation of a life, freed from nature. Our judgment of the moral import of their resignation must not be influenced by this circumstance, for in reality they also longed for the cessation of their individual personality, i.e., of their existence. But this deep longing is expressed more purely and more significantly in the most sacred and oldest religion of the human race, the doctrine of the Brahmins, and especially in its final transfiguration and highest perfection, Buddhism. This also expounds the myth of a creation of the world by God, but it does not celebrate this act as a boon, but calls it a sin of Brahma which he, AFTER HAVING EMBODIED HIMSELF IN THIS WORLD, must atone for by the infinite sufferings of this very world. He finds his salvation in the saints who, by perfect negation of the "will of life," by the sympathy with all suffering which alone fills their heart, enter the state of Nirwana, i.e., "the land of being no longer." Such a saint was Buddha. According to his doctrine of the migration of souls every man is born again in the form of that creature on which he had inflicted pain, however pure his life might otherwise have been. He himself must now know this pain, and his sorrowful migration does not cease, until during an entire course of his new-born life he has inflicted pain on no creature, but has denied his own will of life in the sympathy with other beings. How sublime, how satisfying is this doctrine compared with the Judaeo-Christian doctrine, according to which a man (for, of course, the suffering ANIMAL exists for the benefit of man alone) has only to be obedient to the Church during this short life to be made comfortable for all eternity, while he who has been disobedient in this short life will be tortured for ever. Let us admit that Christianity is to us this contradictory phenomenon, because we know it only in its mixture with, and distortion by, narrow-hearted Judaism, while modern research has succeeded in showing that pure and un-alloyed Christianity was nothing but a branch of that venerable Buddhism which, after Alexander's Indian expedition, spread to the shores of the Mediterranean. In early Christianity we still see distinct traces of the perfect negation of the "will of life," of the longing for the destruction of the world, i.e., the cessation of all existence. The pity is that this deeper insight into the essence of things can be gained alone by the abnormally organised men previously referred to, and that they only can fully grasp it. In order to communicate this insight to others, the sublime founders of religion have therefore to speak in images, such as are accessible to the common normal perception. In this process much must be disfigured, although Buddha's doctrine of the migration of souls expresses the truth with almost perfect precision. The normal vulgarity of man and the license of general egoism further distort the image until it becomes a caricature. And I pity the poet who undertakes to restore the original image from this caricature. It seems to me that Dante, especially in the "Paradise," has not succeeded in this; and in his explanation of the Divine natures he appears, to me at least, frequently like a childish Jesuit. But perhaps you, dear friend, will succeed better, and as you are going to paint a TONE picture I might almost predict your success, for music is essentially the artistic, original image of the world. For the initiated no error is here possible. Only about the "Paradise," and especially about the choruses, I feel some friendly anxiety. You will not expect me to add less important things to this important matter.

I shall soon write again; on the 26th I leave here, and shall therefore have endured to the end. Farewell dear, dear Franz.

Your

R. W.

LONDON, June 7th, 1855.

191.

ZURICH, July 5th, 1855.

DEAREST FRANZ,

Your late servant Hermann called on me today and told me that I should have a letter from you one of these days, that you and the Princess would come to Switzerland SOON (?), and a thousand other things.

I am longing for direct news from you. I have been back in Zurich since June 3Oth, after having conducted my last London concert on the 25th. You have probably heard how charmingly Queen Victoria behaved to me. She attended the seventh concert with Prince Albert, and as they wanted to hear something of mine I had the "Tannhauser" overture repeated, which helped me to a little external amende. I really seem to have pleased the Queen. In a conversation I had with her, by her desire, after the first part of the concert, she was so kind that I was really quite touched. These two were the first people in England who dared to speak in my favour openly and undisguisedly, and if you consider that they had to deal with a political outlaw, charged with high treason and "wanted" by the police, you will think it natural that I am sincerely grateful to both.

At the last concert the public and the orchestra roused themselves to a demonstration against the London critics. I had always been told that my audiences were very much in my favour, and of the orchestra I could see that it was always most willing to follow my intentions, as far as bad habits and want of time would allow. But I soon saw that the public received impressions slowly and with difficulty, and was unable to distinguish the genuine from the spurious, trivial pedantry from sterling worth, while the orchestra--out of regard for its real master and despot Costa, who can dismiss and appoint the musicians according to his will--always limited its applause to the smallest and least compromising measure. This time, at the leavetaking, it broke through all restraint. The musicians rose solemnly, and together with the whole thickly packed hall, began a storm of applause so continuous that I really felt awkward. After that the band crowded round me to shake hands, and even some ladies and gentlemen of the public held out their hands to me, which I had to press warmly. In this manner my absurd London expedition finally took the character of a triumph for me, and I was pleased at least to observe the independence of the public which this time it showed towards the critics. A triumph in MY SENSE was, of course, out of the question. In the best possible case I cannot really be known in the concert room, and that best possible case- -I mean performances fully realising my intentions--could not be achieved, owing principally to want of time. In consequence, I always retained a bitter feeling of degradation, increased by the fact that I was compelled to conduct whole programmes of monstrous length, and put together in the most tasteless and senseless manner. That I did conduct these concerts to the end was done entirely out of regard for my wife and a few friends, who would have been grieved very much by the consequences of my sudden departure from London. I am glad that the matter has been carried through, at least with favourable appearances; with the Queen I was really pleased, and to individual friends I have given great pleasure; that must suffice. The New Philharmonic would like to have me next year; what more can I desire?

One real gain I bring back from England--the cordial and genuine friendship which I feel for Berlioz, and which we have mutually concluded. I heard a concert of the New Philharmonic under his direction, and was, it is true, little edified by his performance of Mozart's "G. Minor Symphony," while the very imperfect execution of his "Romeo and Juliet" symphony made me pity him. A few days afterwards we two were the only guests at Sainton's table; he was lively, and the progress in French which I have made in London, permitted me to discuss with him for five hours all the problems of art, philosophy, and life in a most fascinating conversation. In that manner I gained a deep sympathy for my new friend; he appeared to me quite different from what he had done before. We discovered suddenly that we were in reality fellow-sufferers, and I thought, upon the whole, I was happier than Berlioz. After my last concert he and the other few friends I have in London called on me; his wife also came. We remained together till three o'clock in the morning, and took leave with the warmest embraces. I told him that you were going to visit me in September, and asked him to meet you at my house. The money question seemed to be his chief difficulty, and I am sure he would like to come. Let him know exactly when you will be here.

Klindworth was to play a concerto by Henselt yesterday at the last New Philharmonic concert, conducted by Berlioz. I made the acquaintance of Dr. Wylde, a good man, and was able to be of some use to Klindworth in that small matter. I sincerely pity him. He is much too much of an artist and a high-minded man, not to be and always remain very unhappy in London. He should try something else.

On once more touching the Continent I felt a little better. The air here suits me, and I hope soon to be again at my work, which at last I gave up in London altogether. Of the "Valkyrie" you will find little ready.

But when are you coming? If I may not expect you before September, I shall go to Seelisberg till then, starting next Monday, but if, as Hermann led me to hope, I receive a letter before then, announcing your immediate arrival, I shall of course be very happy to remain at Zurich.

Therefore let me soon hear from you. You have kept me waiting long, which indeed I might have expected after my last letter from London, for to communications of this kind your reply has always been silence. But now you must relieve me of my uncertainty as to your visit, which may at last be expected shortly once more. I need scarcely tell you that I am looking forward to it with great pleasure, and that our meeting will be to me the only joy after long trouble.

I am expecting a letter from you with great impatience. Cordial greetings in advance from your

RICHARD. 192.

Welcome in Zurich, dearest Richard, where I hope to see you at the end of September or October.

My Hungarian journey is still somewhat uncertain, as, according to the latest news, the cathedral will probably not be quite finished this year. But in any case I shall come to you this autumn, and shall let you know my arrival in Zurich a few weeks in advance. The satisfactory close of your stay in London has pleased me very much, and, as I know London, I think it would be well if you were to go there again next season. About this and some other business I shall tell you more when I see you.

In the meantime I am delighted at your friendly relations with Berlioz. Of all contemporary composers he is the one with whom you can converse in the simplest, openest, and most interesting manner. Take him for all in all, he is an honest, splendid, tremendous fellow; and, together with your letter, I received one from Berlioz, in which he says amongst other things: "Wagner will, no doubt, tell you all about his stay in London, and what he has had to suffer from predetermined hostility. He is splendid in his ardour and warmth of heart, and I confess that even his violence delights me. It seems there is a fate against my hearing his last compositions. The day when, at the demand of Prince Albert, he conducted his 'Tannhauser' overture at the Hanover Square Rooms, I was compelled at the same hour to attend a horrible choral rehearsal for the New Philharmonic concert which I had to conduct two days afterwards," etc.

And lower down: "Wagner has something singularly attractive to me, and if we both have asperities, those asperities dovetail into each other:"

[drawing]

(Berlioz's drawing is more brilliant than mine.)

Many thanks for your Dante letter. By way of answer, I hope to show you the first half of my work at Zurich, together with some other things which will illustrate my aims to you more distinctly than anything I could tell you.

During the next few weeks I shall have to work at my "Prometheus" choruses, which I want to publish soon, and for that purpose I must write an entirely new score. For in the year 1850, when I composed this work, I had too little time (scarcely a month), and was too much occupied by the "Lohengrin" rehearsals to give it the necessary finish. I have now kept in view the means of performance more than before, and although the design and the conception remain essentially unchanged, the whole thing will have a better appearance. It is a similar process as in sculpture, when the artist works in marble. Before the performance a symphonic, and still more, a dramatic work exists, so to speak, only in CLAY. I could easily illustrate this comparison by the new score of your "Faust" overture, and by some of the changes you have made in the "Flying Dutchman." Wait a little, dearest Richard, and you will see what a lot of stuff, and how much material for conversation I shall bring with me. The end of last week I spent in Dresden, where I called upon our friends, the Ritters. Sascha Ritter, our Weymar Court musician, has been blessed with a little daughter, whose god-father I shall have the honour to be. His mother-in-law has been staying here for some weeks, and Johanna Wagner is expected in September.

Our theatrical affairs are in a critical condition. The Intendant, Herr von Beaulieu, is going to leave, and the artistic director, Marr, is also said to have sent in his resignation. I do not trouble myself about these matters, and look forward with perfect peace of mind to the solution of these somewhat unimportant questions.

Gutzkow's call to Weymar, which the papers announced several times, is not in itself unlikely, but will probably be delayed a little, as nothing definite has, as yet, been done.

Farewell, and set to work at your "Valkyrie." Go up your mountains, and bring the very skies down to your music. In September, or at the latest, in October, we shall meet.

Your

F. L.

Your kindness and friendship for Klindworth have obliged me particularly, and I ask you to continue them.

WEYMAR, July 11th, 1855.

P.S.--I shall remain here all the summer.

193.

SEELISBERG, CANTON URI, July 22nd, 1855.

DEAREST FRIEND,

I think of nothing now but our meeting and being together. I am glad you did not come sooner, because at present I should be able to show you very little of the "Valkyrie," and I am pleased therefore to have a good deal of time for the completion of the score. By November I shall have finished, at least, the first two acts, even the clean copy of them.