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