THE story of the invitation of Richard Wagner, the then dreaded iconoclast of music, to London, to conduct the concerts of the conservative Philharmonic Society, is both curious and interesting, in the history of the tonal art. Costa, the previous conductor, had resigned. The pressing question was, who could succeed so popular a man? The names of many German notabilities were proposed, and as soon dismissed. In England there was Sterndale Bennett, but he had quarrelled with the directors; the field was therefore open. It was then that the appointment of Wagner was suggested and agreed to. The circumstances were as follows. Prosper Sainton, the eminent violinist, was both leader of the orchestra of the Philharmonic, and one of the seven directors of the society. He was and is[8] an intimate friend of mine, and to him I proposed Richard Wagner. At that time Sainton was living with Charles LÜders, a dear, lovable German musician, with whom he had travelled on concert tours throughout Europe. From the time the two men met in Russia, they lived together for twenty-five years, until the marriage of Sainton with Miss Dolby, since which time LÜders was a daily visitor at his friend’s house, Sainton administering always to his comfort, and tending him on his death-bed, in the summer of 1884. LÜders and I were heart and soul, and catching my enthusiasm he pressed Sainton so warmly, that the name of Wagner was at once proposed. Richard Wagner was then but a myth to the average English musician. However, as Sainton was a general favourite with his colleagues, and was, further, held in high esteem on account of his artistic perception, I was requested, through his influence, to appear before the directors. I had then been a resident in the metropolis for twenty-one years; I attended at a directors’ meeting in Hanover Square, and stated my views.

Up to the present time, I have never been able to discover how it was that seven sedate gentlemen could have been so influenced by my red-hot enthusiasm as to have been led to offer the appointment to Richard Wagner. I found that they either knew very little of him or nothing at all, nor did I know him personally; I was but the reflection of August Roeckel; as a composer, however, I had become so wholly his partisan as to regard him the genius of the age. The crusade in favour of Richard Wagner, upon which I then entered with so much fervour, will be best understood by an article contributed by me at the time to the “New York Musical Gazette,”[9] parts of which I think it advisable to reproduce here, even at the expense of repeating an incident or two. The article was summarized in the London musical papers, and immediately a shower of virulent abuse fell upon me which, however, at no period affected in the slightest my ardour for Wagner’s cause.

It having been decided that the directors were to make proposals to Richard Wagner, I wrote to him detailing the events that had occurred, and stating that he might expect at any moment to receive a communication from the society. He did hear almost immediately, and on the 8th January, 1855, he wrote to me from Zurich.

The inclosure to Wagner’s letter was a long epistle from papa Roeckel, advising him to accept the Philharmonic engagement as a means of introducing some of Wagner’s own works to a London public in a worthy manner, the orchestra of the Philharmonic having acquired a continental reputation. Wagner had respect for the opinion of old Mr. Roeckel, taking counsel with him immediately the Philharmonic conductorship was proposed to him.

The next letter is dated—

On reading this letter, admiration for the fearless courage of Wagner grows upon one. A whole concert devoted to his own works! He little knew with whom he was dealing. Wagner’s temper was quick, and I feared to irritate him by conveying the certain refusal of the directors, but it had to be done. It was a difficult and delicate matter to prevent friction between Richard Wagner, possessed with the exalted notion of his mission, on the one hand, and the steady-going time-serving directors on the other. I saw Mr. Anderson. Timorous of the leap in the dark he and his colleagues had made in engaging Wagner, they feared hazarding the reputation of their concerts by the devotion of a whole evening to Wagner’s works, but a compromise—that some selections should be given—was readily effected. The conveyance of this news to Wagner brought from him the following letter:—

The following incident, as showing the enmity towards Wagner prior to his landing on these shores, should be noted. It was after receiving the previous letter that I met James Davison, the editor of the London “Musical World,” and also musical critic of the “Times,” at the house of Leopold de Meyer, the pianist. We had hitherto been on terms of friendship. The power of this gentleman was enormous. He told me, “I have read some of Richard Wagner’s literary works; in his books he is a god, but as long as I hold the sceptre of musical criticism, I’ll not let him have any chance here.” He did his utmost. With what result is matter of history.

The next letter from Wagner is dated Zurich, 12th February. In it he speaks of “wishing for some quiet room, free from annoying visitors, where no one but yourself, knowing of my existence, will come to pester me while scoring part of my tetralogy. Your house I will gladly make as my own, but as a number of strangers are likely to call, I hope to escape them in solitude of unknown regions. You must not think this strange, as I isolate myself at home the whole morning, and do not permit a soul to come near me when at work, unless it be ‘Peps.’ You will remember, too, when I did something similar to this at Dresden, and left the world to go into retirement with August Roeckel.”

A few days after he left Zurich for London, his next letter being dated—

Wagner arrived at midnight precisely on Sunday, the fifth of March.

If I had not already acquired through the graphic letters of August Roeckel an insight into the peculiarities of Richard Wagner’s habits of thought, power of grasping profound questions of mental speculation, whilst relieving the severity of serious discourse by the intermingling of jocular ebulitions of fancy, I was soon to have a fair specimen of these wondrous qualities. One of the many points in which we found ourselves at home, was the habit of citing phrases from Schiller or Goethe, as applicable to our subjects of discussion, as often ironically as seriously. To these we added an almost interminable dictionary of quotations from the plays and operas of the early part of the century. These mental links were, in the course of a long and intimate friendship, augmented by references to striking qualities, defects, or oddities, our circle of acquaintances forming a means of communication between us which might not inaptly be likened to mental shorthand. Nothing could have exceeded the hilarity, when, upon showing him, at an advanced hour, to his bedroom, he enthusiastically said, “August was right; we shall understand each other thoroughly!” I felt in an exalted position, and dreamed that, like Spontini, I had received a new decoration from some potentate which delighted me, but the pleasant dream soon turned to nightmare, when I could find no room on my coat to place the newly acquired bauble. The next morning I found the signification of the dream. Exalted positions have their duties as well as their pleasures, and it became my duty to acquaint Wagner that a so-called “Necker” hat (i.e. a slouched one) was not becoming for the conductor of so conservative a society as the Philharmonic, and that it was necessary that he should provide himself with a tall hat, indeed, such headgear as would efface all remembrance of the social class to which his soft felt hat was judicially assigned, for, be it known, in some parts of Germany the soft slouched felt hat had been interdicted by police order as being the emblem of revolutionary principles. I think it was on the strength of the accuracy of this last statement that Wagner gave way, and I at once followed up the success by taking the composer of “TannhÄuser” to the best West End hatter, where, after an onslaught on the sons of Britannia and their manias, we succeeded in fitting a hat on that wondrous head of the great thinker. I could not help sarcastically joking Wagner on his compulsory leave-taking with the “revolutionary” hat for four months,—the time he was to sojourn amongst us,—by citing from Schiller’s “Fiesco” the passage about the fall of the hero’s cloak into the water, upon which Verina pushes him after it with the sinister words, “When the purple falls, the duke must follow.” As to Richard Wagner’s democratic principles, I observed that the solitude of exile had considerably modified them. This I noticed to my surprise and no less pain, for, when I anxiously inquired after our poor friend, August Roeckel, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Perhaps he tries to revolutionize the prison warders, for the ‘Wuhlers’” (uprooters, a name of the period) “are never at rest in their self-elected role of reformers!” I, who knew the unambitious, self-sacrificing nature of the poor prisoner, felt a pang of disappointment at Wagner’s remark, and had often to suffer the same when the year 1849 was mentioned.

We drove from the hatmaker straight to the city to inquire after a box containing the compositions Wagner had been requested to bring over with him. The box had arrived, and then we continued our peregrination back to the West, alighting at Nottingham Place, the residence of Mr. Anderson. The old gentleman possessed all the suave, gentle manner of the courtier, and all went well during the preliminary conversation about the projected programme, until Mr. Anderson mentioned a prize symphony of Lachner as one of the intended works to be performed. Wagner sprang from his seat, as if shot from a gun, exclaiming loudly and angrily, “Have I therefore left my quiet seclusion in Switzerland to cross the sea to conduct a prize symphony by Lachner? no; never! If that be a condition of the bargain I at once reject it, and will return. What brought me away was the eagerness to head a far-famed orchestra and to perform worthily the works of the great masters, but no Kapellmeister music; and that of a ‘Lachner,’ bah!” Mr. Anderson sat aghast in his chair, looking with bewildered surprise on this unexpected outbreak of passion, delivered with extraordinary volubility and heat by Wagner, partly in French and partly in German. I interposed a more tranquillizing report of the harangue and succeeded in assuring Mr. Anderson that the matter might be arranged by striking out the “prize” composition, to which he directly most urbanely acceded. Wagner, who did not fail to perceive the startling effect his derisive attack on the proposed work had produced on poor Mr. Anderson, whose knowledge of the French language was fairly efficient in an Andante movement, but quite incapable of following such a presto agitato as the Wagner speech had assumed, begged me to explain the dubious position of prize compositions in all cases, and certainly no less in the case of the Lachner composition, and Wagner himself laughingly turned the conversation into a more general and quiet channel. After thus having tranquillized the storm, the interview ended more agreeably than the startling episode had promised. I, however, then clearly foresaw the many difficulties likely to occur during the conductorship of a man of Wagner’s Vesuvius-like temper, and the sequel amply proved that I had not been unduly prejudiced in this respect. Yet in all his bursts of excitability, a sudden veering round was always to be expected, should it chance that the angry poet-musician perceived any ludicrous feature in the controversy, when he would turn to that as a means of subduing his ebullition of temper, and falling into a jocular vein, would plainly show he was conscious of having exceeded the bounds of moderation. I was glad that we had passed the Rubicon of our difficulties for the present, for I was fully aware that whatever difficulties might arise with regard to Wagner’s relation to the other directors, they would be easily overcome by Mr. Anderson’s support, for it was he who unquestionably ruled the “Camarilla,” or secret Spanish council, as Wagner styled the “seven,” when any work proposed by them for performance met with disapproval. I never could well understand how the Lachner episode became known, but it is certain that it did, for the German opposition journals, and there were many, made great capital out of the refusal of Wagner to conduct a prize symphony.

Our next visit was an unclouded one. We went to call on Sainton, who was as refined a soloist as he was an intelligent and energetic orchestral leader. His jovial temperament, Gasconic fun (born at Toulouse), his good and frank nature, pleased Wagner at once. Charles LÜders, a German musician, “le frÈre intime” of Sainton, formed the oddest contrast to his friend’s character. Quiet, reflective, and somewhat old-fashioned, he nevertheless became an ardent admirer of Wagner’s music, and proved that “extremes meet,” for in his compositions, and they are many, known in Germany and in France, the good LÜders tenaciously clung to the traditions of a past period. We soon identified him in gentle fun with the “contrapuntista.” Notwithstanding the marked contrast of the quartette, Wagner, Sainton, LÜders, and myself, we harmonized remarkably well, and many were our pleasant, convivial meetings during the time of Wagner’s stay in London. As Sainton had always been very intimate with Costa, and was his recognized deputy in his absence, he accompanied us on the first visit to the Neapolitan conductor, Wagner expressing a wish to make Costa’s acquaintance. This was the only visit of etiquette Wagner paid. He sternly refused to pay any more, no matter to whom, and I gladly desisted from advocating any, though he suffered severely in consequence from a press which stigmatized him as proud and unsociable.

We went home to dine. What a pleasant impression did the master give us of his childlike jollity. Full of fun, he exhibited his remarkable power of imitation. He was a born actor, and it was impossible not to recognize immediately who was the individual caricatured, for Wagner’s power of observation led him at all times to notice the most minute characteristics of all whom he encountered. A repast in his society might well be described as a “feast of reason and flow of soul,” for, mixed in odd ways, were the most solid remarks of deep, logical intuition, with the sprightliest, frolicsome humour. Wagner ate very quickly, and I soon had occasion to notice the fatal consequences of such unwise procedure, for although a moderate eater, he did not fail to suffer severely from such a pernicious practice. This first day afforded a side-light upon the master’s peculiarities. Never having been used to the society of children, he was plainly awkward in his treatment of them, which we did not fail to perceive whenever my little boy was brought in to say “good-night.”

As soon as we had discovered a fitting apartment at Portland Place, Regent’s Park, within a few minutes’ walk of my house, the first thing he wanted was an easel for his work, so that he might stand up to score. No sooner was that desire satisfied than he insisted on an eider-down quilt for his bed. Both these satisfied desires are illustrative of Wagner. He knew not self-denial. It was sufficient that he wished, that his wish should be gratified. When he arrived in London his means were limited, but nevertheless the satisfaction of the desires was what he ever adhered to.

He had not been here a day before his determined character was made strikingly apparent to me. In the matter of crossing a crowded thoroughfare his intrepidity bordered close upon the reckless. He would go straight across a road; safe on the other side, he was almost boyish in his laugh at the nervousness of others. But this was Wagner. It was this deliberate attacking everything that made him what he was; timorousness was not in his character; dauntless fearlessness, perhaps not under proper control, naturally gave birth to an iconoclast, who struck with vigour at all opposition, heedless of destroying the penates worshipped by others.

The rehearsal and the introduction of the band of the Philharmonic was a nervous moment for me. I knew the spirit of opposition had found its way among a few members of the orchestra; indeed, it numbered one at least, who felt himself displaced by Wagner’s appointment. However, Wagner came. He addressed the band in a brotherly manner, as co-workers for the glory of art; made an apt reference to their idol, his predecessor, and secured the good-will at once of the majority. I say advisedly the majority only, because they had not long set to work when he was gently admonished by some that “they had not been in the habit of taking this movement so slowly, and that, perhaps, the next had been taken a trifle too fast.” Wagner was diplomatic; his words were conciliatory, but, for all that, he went on his way, and would have the tempi according to his will. At the end he was applauded heartily, and henceforth the band apparently followed implicitly his directions.

The first concert took place on the 12th March; the programme was as follows:—

Symphony	Hadyn.
Operatic terzetto (vocal)	Mozart.
Violin Concerto	Spohr.
Scena (“Ocean, Thou Mighty Monster”)	Weber.
Overture (“The Isle of Fingal”)	Mendelssohn.
The “Eroica”	Beethoven.
Duet (“O My Father”)	Marschner.
Overture (“ZauberflÖte”)	Mozart.

The effect of the concert will be best understood by the following notice, which I contributed at the time for the “New York Musical Gazette”:—

After the first concert, we went by arrangement to spend a few hours at his rooms. Dear me, what an evening of excitement that was! There were Wagner, Sainton, LÜders, Klindworth (whom I had introduced to Wagner as a pupil of Liszt), myself and wife. Animal spirits ran high. Wagner was in ecstasies. The concert had been a marked success artistically, and Richard Wagner’s reception flattering. On arriving at his rooms, he found it necessary to change his dress from “top to toe.” He had perspired so freely from excitement that his collar was as though it had that moment been dipped into a basin of water. So while he went to change his attire and don a somewhat handsome dressing-robe made by Minna, Sainton prepared a mayonnaise for the lobster, and LÜders rum punch made after a Danish method, and one particularly appreciated by Wagner, who, indeed, loved everything unusual of that description. Wagner had chosen the lobster salad, I should mention, because crab fish were either not to be got at all in Germany, or were very expensive. When he returned he put himself at the piano. His memory was excellent, and innumerable “bits” or references of the most varied description were rattled off in a sprightly manner; but more excellent was his running commentary of observations as to the intention of the composer. These observations showed the thinker and discerning critic, and in themselves were of value in helping others to comprehend the meaning of the music. What he said has mostly found its way into print; indeed, it may be affirmed that the greater part of his literary productions was only the transcription of what he uttered incessantly in ordinary conversation. Then, too, he sang; and what singing it was! It was, as I told him then, just like the barking of a big Newfoundland dog. He laughed heartily, but kept on nevertheless. He cared not. Yet though his “singing” was but howling, he sang with his whole heart, and held you, as it were, spellbound. There was the real musician. He felt what he was doing. He was earnest, and that was, and is, the cause of his greatness. Then when we sat at supper he was in his liveliest mood. Richard Wagner a German? Why, he behaved then with all that uncontrolled expansion of the Frenchman. But this is only another instance of those contradictions in Wagner’s life. His volubility at the table knew no bounds. Anecdotes and reminiscences of his early life poured forth with a freshness, a vigour, and sparkling vivacity just like some mountain cataract leaping impetuously forward. He spoke with evident pleasure of his reception by the audience; praised the orchestra, remarking how faithfully they had borne in mind and reproduced the impressions he had sought to give them at the rehearsal. On this point he was only regretful that the inspiration, the divination, the artistic electricity, as it were, which is in the air among German or French executants, should be wanting here; or, as he phrased it, “Ils jouent parfaitement, mais le feu sacrÉ leur manque.”

Then followed his abuse of fashion. White kid gloves on the hands of a conductor he scoffed at. “Who can do anything fettered with these things?” he pettishly insisted; and it was only after considerable pressure, and pointing out the aristocratic antecedents of the Philharmonic and the class of its supporters, that he had consented to wear a pair just to walk up the steps of the orchestra on first appearing, to be taken off immediately he got to his desk. That evening, at Wagner’s request, we drank with much acclamation eternal “brotherhood,” henceforth to “tutoyer” each other, and broke up our high-spirited meeting at two in the morning.

But the second concert, 26th March, 1855, the programme was after Wagner’s own heart. It was, perhaps, the one of the whole eight which delighted him the most, embracing as it did the overture to “Der FreischÜtz,” the prelude and a selection from “Lohengrin,” and Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony.” It was the first time any of Wagner’s music was to be performed in England, and Wagner was anxious. But the rehearsal was reassuring. At first the orchestra could not understand the pianissimo required in the opening of the “Lohengrin” prelude; and then the crescendos and diminuendos which Wagner insisted upon having surprised the executants. They turned inquiringly to each other, seemingly annoyed at his fastidiousness. But the conductor knew what he wanted and would have it. Then came the overture to “Der FreischÜtz.” Now this was exceedingly popular in England, and it was thought nothing could be altered in the mode of rendering it. Traditions, however, of the “adored idol,” Weber, were strong in Wagner, and he took it in the composer’s way; the result was, that at the concert the applause was so boisterous, and the demands of the audience so emphatic, that a repetition was at once given. That the overture was repeated will show how insistent were the audience, for Wagner then, as afterwards, was decidedly opposed to encores; however, upon this occasion there was no way of avoiding the repeat. Though, as I have said, the overture was extremely popular, yet the reading was so new and striking, the phrasing and nuances marked with such decision, that the people were startled, and expressed their appreciation heartily.

The reception of the “Lohengrin” selection, too, was unmistakably favourable. The delicately fragile orchestration of the sweetly melodic prelude, followed by the bright and attractive rhythmical phrases of the bridal chorus, caused a bewildered, pleased surprise among the audience, who had expected something totally different. The “music of the future was noise and fury,” so said the leading English musical journal, and this authority counted for something; but the “Lohengrin” prelude was very inaccurately described, if that had been included, and Wagner felt pleased and contented at the impression which the first performance of any of his music had created in this country.