This curious and interesting feature of dropping the somewhat harsh Leipzic accent and delivering himself in the purest German remained with Wagner to the last. On all what might be termed state occasions, when addressing an assembly his speech was clear, measured, and dignified; not a trace of his Leipzic accent was observable. It should be explained that the Leipzic accent is a sort of sing-song, almost whining utterance, with as strongly marked a pronunciation compared to pure German as that of a broad Somerset dialect to pure English.
The story of the composition of “Tannhäuser,” poem and music, is a forcible illustration of the proverb, that the life of a man is reflected in his works. Of the music and the performance of “Tannhäuser” in October, 1845, at Dresden, I wrote a notice for a London periodical, called the “English Gentleman.” This was the first time, I believe, that Wagner’s name was mentioned in England. They were exciting times, and it is of exceptional interest at this epoch to reflect upon the judgment of the composer at the birth of “Tannhäuser.”
When the legend first engaged Wagner’s attention, with a view to its composition, he was not thirty years old. It will be remembered that the transformation from Paris poverty to a comparative Dresden luxury infused new life into him. He tells me, “I resolved to throw myself into a world of excitement, to enjoy life, and taste fully its pleasures.” And he did. It was in this mood of feverish excitation that the Venus love invaded him. His state was one of intense nervous tension. The poem was worked out, but not in the shape we now have it. The end was subsequently changed. The poetry and music simmered in his brain for three years. He began elated, filled with sensations of ecstasy. He ended dejected, fearing that death would intervene before the last notes were written.
[Sidenote: _THE WRITING OF “TANNHÄUSER.”_]
Now wherein lies the explanation of this? Let me recount briefly his life during these three years, and the reason will at once be perceived. He had opened his Dresden career with brilliancy. “Rienzi” had proved a great success; he had been appointed conductor to the court, a competence of 1500 thalers or £ 225 yearly was guaranteed him, and his horizon seemed brighter;--but the reverse soon began to show itself. The “Dutchman,” by which he had hoped to increase his reputation, proved a failure; even “Rienzi” was refused outside Dresden, and the press was violently inimical. His excited sanguine temperament had received a grievous shock. At Berlin, the “Dutchman” proved so abortive, that he took counsel with himself, and resolved that this “Tannhäuser” should not be written for the world, but for those who had shown themselves in sympathy with him. As “Tannhäuser” neared its completion, his state grew more morbid and desponding. His only solace, outside Roeckel, was his dog. It was a common saying with Wagner that his dog helped him to compose “Tannhäuser.” It seems that when at the piano, at which he always composed, singing with his accustomed boisterousness, the dog, whose constant place was at his master’s feet, would occasionally leap to the table, peer into his face, and howl piteously. Then Wagner would address his “eloquent critic” with, “What? it does not suit you?” and shaking the animal’s paw, would say, quoting Puck, “Well, I will do thy bidding gently.”