And who were present at these gatherings? Well, occasionally men of note: Villot, famed as the recipient of that lengthy exposition of Wagner’s views in the shape of a letter; Gasparini, a medical gentleman from the south of France; Champfleury, an enthusiastic pamphleteer who wrote then, and published his views of Wagner; and Olivier, the husband of Cosima Bülow’s eldest sister. There doubtless were others, but I do not know. What I do know is that I marvelled much at some of the visitors who found themselves in Wagner’s salon. A very mixed assembly. At one of his receptions, while Wagner was singing (in his way) and accompanying himself at the piano, I remember an old lady (a Jewess) who snored painfully audibly while Wagner was at the piano. Aroused by the applause of the others, she suddenly burst into grunts of approval, clapping her hands at the same time. I expostulated with Wagner. How could he sing and play before such an audience? “How could he help it,” was his reply; to that lady he was under obligations for £200. She resided in Manchester, and had been introduced to him by a German friend, a Bayreuth figure, known to all pilgrims to Wahnfried. His singing was like that of a composer who tries over at the piano all the parts of his score. What among musicians and composers would be regarded as a grand boon seemed to me, before the uninitiated, as a profanation. He hardly liked such references to his performance, but conscious of their sincerity, he fully explained his position to me. The trials which a genius is sometimes compelled to undergo are bitter, very.
I was one day discussing with Wagner, when he was called away by a visitor. On his return, he told me I should never guess who it was. M. Badjocki, chamberlain of the Emperor Napoleon III., had been directed to arrange for a performance of “Tannhäuser” at the grand opera. The story of the “Tannhäuser” disaster is now known to almost every one. I therefore shall touch upon certain points, only particularly those with which I am acquainted as an eyewitness, and which have not been spoken of elsewhere. Richard Wagner told me that one day, at a reception, the emperor had asked the Princess Metternich whether she had seen the last opera of Prince Poniatowski. She replied, contemptuously, “I do not care for such music.” “But is it not good?” doubtingly observed the emperor. “No,” she said, curtly. “But where is better music to be got, then?” “Why, Your Majesty, you have at the present moment the greatest German composer that ever lived in your capital.” “Who is he?” “Richard Wagner.” “Then why do they not give his operas?” “Because he is in earnest, and would require all kinds of concessions and much money.” “Very well; he shall have _carte blanche_.” This is the whole story.