To the memory of our beloved Fischer
I am moved by the death, almost at the same time, of two worthy, highly venerated old men. The loss of one concerns the whole musical world, which mourns Ludwig Spohr. I leave it to that world to estimate what an abundant power and noble productivity is lost to us by the Master's death. It reminds me, to my sorrow, that now the last has gone of the line of genuine serious musicians whose youthful days were directly illuminated by the radiant sun of Mozart, and who with inspiring fidelity nurtured the light they received as Vestals nurture the pure flame entrusted to them, and who preserved it against all the storms and winds of life on their chaste hearth. Their sublime duty kept these men pure and noble, and if I with one stroke of my pen had to put down what has impressed me so unforgettably about Spohr, I would say: He was a serious, honest master of his art; the foundation of his life was his faith in his art; his best impulse sprang from the strength of that faith. And that solemn faith kept him free from any personal narrowness; whatever he failed entirely to understand he left aside as strange to him without hating or persecuting it: this was considered as coldness and harshness; but whatever grew understandable to him (and a deep fine feeling for all beauty could surely be assumed in the creator of Jessonda) was unreservedly and zealously loved and protected by him, as soon as he recognized it in one thing: seriousness, seriousness in Art. And this was the tie that bound him to the recent endeavors in art even in his old age. They might have become alien to him but never hateful. Honor to our Spohr! Veneration for his memory! Faithful regard for his noble example!
At the news of his death it was almost only the happy recollection of my former personal contact with Spohr which prevailed with me as a melancholy, yet joyous memory; but that chord of merely human sympathy was brought to painful resonance when I learned of the death of our beloved Fischer. Here the respect for the modest comrade in art could be entirely absorbed by the feeling of sorrowing devotion to the dear human friend. And yet when one death followed the other so quickly, I had to recognize such a close kinship in the nature of the two deceased ones, that they almost merged into one for me. The memory of the famous, highly respected Master will be commemorated far and wide, and in a better way than by my humble word: but the eulogy of this splendid, vigorous, extremely lovable old man, of our dear Fischer, is to be spoken by myself, and I should like to do it for the much smaller circle of his friends. And how easy will the task become to me, how few words are needed to praise this outstanding man to those who knew him: since he was no creative artist he could not become renowned far and wide, but was known only to those who stood close to his personal work, to his professional activity, to his unmatched friendship. And I gladly speak to those who want to become aware of what they lost in Fischer, by telling them what I lost in him.
It will now soon be twenty years since I applied to him from Paris, whence even now I am sending my last messages; then I begged him to take under his protection my Rienzi which I had submitted to the Dresden Opera. His answer disclosed some sort of hesitation; doubtful about the reason and origin of his scruples, I finally started out for Dresden myself and quickly learned the origin of the scruples named by Fischer, when, welcoming me, he rose joyfully and embraced me, then still a stranger to him, with exuberant tenderness. I never will forget this act of kindness: it was the first, the very first encouragement, the first expression of enthusiastic sympathy to cheer the entirely helpless, unknown, needy, and hard-pressed young artist on his path in life. It is you, my friend, who knows this, and I need not remind you of the part you took in that heartening encouragement. This was the basis for the gradual sweeping away of all those scruples. The growing and enthusiastic interest of our Tichatschek in his task and in the whole work soon extended to all those called to participation, a thing which hardly ever happens in these times of ours, and with our reserved attitudes; and the Dresden public, happily prepared by the miracle of that warmest sympathy of all artists for the work of an entirely unknown artist, boldly adopted me as its favorite on the stormy night of the first Rienzi performance.
Then our Fischer grew more and more content, and as in tender awareness of having been the first to recognize me, and of having been the incentive for my success, calmly fixed his clear, friendly eye on me as if to say: "Well, I knew it would turn out this way!"
From now on I was his joy. My aspirations, my creative work, were his delight; my need was his pain, my attainment his success. With more zeal and eagerness than anyone else, he exceeded himself when it came to assisting me in some especially difficult problems. When I had succeeded in what I had audaciously demanded—what a joyful smile radiated from his face! What he was capable of achieving, to what level his performances as the choral director were rising, and how they were made memorable in the history of art—this we all of us learned when he accomplished the incredible task and drilled his chorus in Bach's motet, Singet dem Herrn. He did it in such a way, and the performance of the singers was so absolutely secure and masterly, that I was induced to have the first part of the motet sung at a really fiery pace which, as you know, scared the critics to death, since, owing to its harassing difficulty, it is always performed in the most cautious moderato. The popular success of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony was made possible, in my belief, through the presentation by the chorus, which was of the confident boldness I had intended, but which could be realized only through Fischer's accomplishment as a choral conductor—and this was absolutely unique in my opinion.
This and many similar achievements put Fischer's name squarely among those who have promoted the correct understanding of sublime masterworks in the history of art. The fact that his merits remain unheeded only justifies my stronger emphasis in mentioning them. And so we may further remark that achievements, seldom credited to their source, are the result of unspeakable drudgery and worries. How often did I pity the poor man when he had to meet my drastic demands by his own despair. Good singers would fall ill, the best ones were dismissed because their demands for higher pay had been refused, the rest were overtired, or disabled by excessive work, or not available because of other duties. And he was a considerate man who never liked to let things come to a breach, but mediated and tried to make the best out of mediocre material. There we sometimes came to blows, and the firm one got excited against the stormy one, and the fight grew all the more violent because he really wanted just what I wanted. And then we went ahead after all. God knows how, but we succeeded. And then the joy, the reveling in reconciliation!
Thus our work in art and our friendship was an ever merging and reviving unity; and I may publicly celebrate the companion in art by praising the friend.
What kind of trouble the poor man had with me! Prudent and realistic in his practical appreciation of the happenings in this world—how deep was the grief, the pain, he suffered for me when I was torn away from him. Fate drove me so far away. Only a few months ago I had hoped to see him again. But now I shall never again be able to press his hand. If there was anything that could endear that rare man to me more than our association had done, it was our separation. In his first letter to me in my exile, his sorrow and love showed as in bright flame: the intimate du which I once had proposed to him and which the strange man had refused on account of our official relations, he now offered me in ardent devotion; the father lovingly embraced the beloved lost son. Once I was his joy, but now I was his care! And how he cared for me! When the unexpected miracle happened, and my operas began to spread across Germany with suddenly increasing popularity, his "care" gradually changed to "taking care"; and when the young man failed, the vigorous old man stepped in, eased me of all my burdens, watched the copying and arrangements of my scores, wrapped them up, corresponded, pushed ahead or stopped—for the sake of my peace—so that I might work again and devote myself to my art. Now I succeeded again and how delighted he was! But that joy was forever dimmed to him. When would he see me once more? Would he ever? At last, when all his hope vanished, he wanted to start out himself, to come and visit me at the foot of the distant Alps. Then illness prevented him: his savings had to be used for a cure, the plan to see his friend had to be abandoned. Having confidently expected to see him, I now learned of his fatal illness and was able only to—write to him. He died—and my letter failed to reach him.
Now my home has become much more alien to me; but you live quite close to me, dear friend, in my heart, where I carry you around with me, and no exile can separate us again.
There are not many men like him left in this world, for he was such a rare man. If the artist is permitted to draw forth that man into the public view as a friend, I do it only to show in him also the deserving, serious companion in art. He bequeaths to his sorrowing heirs a certain treasure which, pathetic in its origin, offers rich reward to aspiring musicians. When Fischer retired to his little room from the toil of his duties, the worries of his profession, the cares of friendship, for a few quiet hours of recreation, I often found him there absorbed in a project which he undertook for his own diversion: with his neat hand he copied all kinds of rare and precious musical works, especially works in many vocal parts, and of the older masters who to most people were hardly known by name. To my wondering smile he answered that this was his way of filling his time pleasantly, and learning while enjoying himself. For if you are not able to create such works yourself, nothing would be better than copying them; in that way you study them in a thorough way you could hardly do otherwise. And this man came to the theater in his age of early adolescence, became an actor, won the impassioned favor of the Leipzig public as a bass buffo, but this didn't suffice him; he was more attracted by serious art: so he developed his musical knowledge, became choral director in addition to his position as an actor, again acquired high fame as such, and kept studying in order to preserve himself for decisive and important participation in the solution of the most serious and bold tasks of art, and above all to preserve a free and open understanding of every advance, every development of the older music. Thus he was able to extend a noble and fearless welcome to works of mine which were met with doubt and distrust by the critics, though he did this only after hesitation and friendly head-shakings. His understanding of them came quite spontaneously by practical participation in the performance of the doubted work, thus gaining faith through love.
Truly, it is a comfort that such men exist! It is a priceless boon to have met such a man! It is a deep grief to lose him.
And so I have dared to put our dear Fischer beside the much honored Spohr. Death united both for me and involuntarily merged them into one: the significance of their actions makes them appear equal to me. What places one in the forefront by his works and fame I should like to bestow upon the other; if I should follow the dictates of my heart I would yield to him all my achievements as an artist, if I did not deem them too slight. Thus I prefer to bridge the distance by my full gratitude and love.
Richard Wagner
Source: Letters of Richard Wagner: The Burrell Collection, ed. John N. Burk (Macmillan, 1950), No. 214