of the barren Sahara of opera. To the emperor
he got an introduction—whether or not in
the way Praeger relates is not worth inquiring into—and
the emperor received him not merely with courtesy,
but with what appears to have been something a great
deal warmer than courtesy. He hearkened to the
two finished acts of
Rienzi, and beginning
with an expression of admiration for the beautiful
clear handwriting, presently grew interested in the
music and ended by commending it heartily. Wagner
departed for Paris with the autocrat’s letters
in his pocket and, as I have said, little money, but
a breast packed with glorious hopes. The most
successful opera-composer of the day had declared
that he would succeed, and guaranteed his belief by
giving him those precious introductions. One
was to the direction of the Grand opera, one to Joly,
director of the Renaissance Theatre, another to Schlesinger,
the publisher, another again to Habeneck, the director
of the Conservatoire. Of these the letter to
Habeneck proved useful to Wagner from the artistic
point of view; that to Schlesinger useful pecuniarily.
The others were useless, and were never meant to be
of any service. Had Meyerbeer told Wagner to
go back to Germany it is just possible Wagner might
have gone. Instead, Meyerbeer sent him into a
cul de sac—to starve, or get out
as he best could. In the whole history of the
art of the world no more cruel swindle was ever played
on an obscure artist by a man occupying a brilliant
position.
For, figuratively, Wagner had not been in Paris twenty
minutes before he discovered that to be presented
by the omnipotent Meyerbeer meant nothing—absolutely
nothing. Every one received him with the greatest
politeness; every one appeared to promise great things;
no one did anything. At the opera he had not
the remotest chance, of course, being young, unknown,
a German, and without social influence. The Renaissance
speedily shut its doors, being bankrupt. Through
Habeneck he learnt to understand the Ninth Symphony
even better than he had understood it before; for
the Conservatoire orchestra had rehearsed it until,
almost unconsciously, they discovered the real melody,
or what Wagner calls the melos. This is a question
I shall go into later when dealing with Wagner’s
own conducting; for the present it suffices to mention
the bare fact, as we can trace directly to these performances—or,
rather, rehearsals—the Faust overture
which Wagner soon afterwards composed. Habeneck
gave a performance of his Columbus overture;
and in no other way was the acquaintance of any value.
So, as his little money was speedily gone, he had to
live for a while on what his relatives and friends
could give him, and afterwards by what he could earn
by writing for Schlesinger’s Gazette Musicale.
This is what Meyerbeer’s introductions were worth.
II