The account that follows is translated from Édouard Dujardin’s Mallarmé, par un des siens, published by Messein in Paris in 1952, pages 195-234. This is the first English translation.
The first issue of the Revue Wagnérienne saw the light of day in February 1885, on a Sunday, at the doors of the Concerts Lamoureux at the Château d’Eau. The prospectus announcing it had already appeared a few weeks earlier. The journal’s concept and structure had been conceived the previous summer, during the Ring Cycle performances in Munich.
In Paris in 1885, Wagnerian fervour was palpable, yet it had only recently begun to take root. The infamous Tannhäuser performance at the Opéra in 1861, the concerts Wagner had held in Paris—these were already distant memories. The war of 1870-1871 had interrupted everything. Wagner seemed to have abandoned any hope of performing in France; his loyal followers had dwindled to a mere handful. The opening of the Bayreuth theatre in 1876 had made little impact in Paris—only a few French had attended, and the press had scarcely mentioned it.
Yet gradually, interest began to rekindle. The circle of initiates widened, concerts began featuring fragments from the works, and each time it became a battleground. But this battle wasn’t about the works themselves—it was about the composer’s name. Who would believe it today? The quarrel was fought over the Pilgrim’s March. The ignorance was such that one could even hear talk of the “continuous melody” in the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. And naturally, there was the patriotic element.
The year 1882, however, marked a crucial moment. The impresario Schurmann had taken the Ring Cycle around the world with Bayreuth’s materials; there had been talk of bringing it to Paris, and excitement reached fever pitch. In the end, he contented himself with a performance in London.
It was there, in London, that I truly encountered Wagner’s work—I was twenty years old. I had heard only occasional excerpts in concerts, and my entire knowledge was drawn from Schuré’s book, The Musical Drama. Of the subjects of the four dramas I was about to witness, I knew only the sketchiest outlines, based on Schuré’s necessarily concise analyses. As for German, I had begun studying it, but I was still, I believe, at my fourth lesson! If we take “understanding” in its usual sense, I can say that I attended the monumental unfolding of those four evenings without truly understanding them. But the work unquestionably resonated with the deepest currents of my unconscious—those were four nights of pure ecstasy. I was swept along as if by ocean tides, and I have remained caught in that current ever since. I might compare the profound sense of understanding by the heart, alongside utter incomprehension by the mind, that those four evenings granted me, to my first reading of Thus Spoke Zarathustra many years later, when I knew almost nothing of Nietzsche. And I wonder whether this way of entering a great work might not be the most fitting—though of course, one must continue working at it afterwards.
The same year saw the inaugural performance of Parsifal in Bayreuth. This time, its reverberations were felt worldwide, reaching Paris and beyond. The following autumn, all three Sunday concert series organised in Paris that season began with the prelude to Parsifal.
Wagner’s death on 13 February 1883 sparked a surge of articles and renewed interest in his work. The performances of Parsifal the following summer attracted increasing numbers of French visitors to Bayreuth. Wagnerian fervour only intensified during the 1883-1884 concert season. In summer 1884, another series of Parsifal performances was staged in Bayreuth, followed by the Ring Cycle in Munich.
Several French had made their way from Bayreuth to Munich, and it was there, amongst the French more than the Germans, that I came to know Houston Stewart Chamberlain—a man born in England, raised in France, who would later settle in Germany and earn renown. We struck up a friendship that nothing would ever disrupt. The Revue Wagnérienne took shape during our daily conversations, held both at the Roth Café and the brasserie Maximilien, in the midst of the performances and the fervour of discoveries that seemed to follow one after another.
Let us not forget the sheer ignorance that gripped us all. Chamberlain, perhaps slightly more educated than the rest of us, was the only one amongst us who truly knew German. Of Wagner’s later works, only Tristan and Parsifal had been translated—Parsifal, God knows how! The Ring of the Nibelung, particularly, was an unfathomable abyss to us. We knew almost nothing of the growing body of scholarship in Germany surrounding the work, and nearly none of it had yet reached French shores. And so we began to recreate that exegesis for ourselves, piece by piece, drawing from what we could understand and make of it, forging our own path.
I recall how Chamberlain and I, often with a few friends but more frequently just the two of us, would pore over those texts that seemed so difficult, gathering at the brasserie to share the fruits of our reflections:
“You know that passage? Well, I think I’ve finally cracked it…”
And what a thrill it was to step into this new world, slowly uncovering its profound meaning, day by day!
Music, after all, was something you simply let your heart respond to, swept up by its enchantment. But the poems—that vast bloom of legends, this myth that was at once so vivid and so stripped-down, yet so laden with ideas! And then there was the philosophical undercurrent we sensed beneath both poem and music. And this new vision of art, or rather this revitalisation of art, which replaced the fleeting entertainment of a night out with something far more profound—the institution of grand spiritual festivals, like those experienced in ancient Greece or in the grandeur of our medieval cathedrals!
“Why the emphasis on words, and on so many elements that seem unrelated, not only to the music but even to the dramatic action?” one of our composer friends once asked.
“Why,” another wondered, “this desire (thankfully, rarely followed) to be performed only at rare intervals, when one would be so content to perform whenever a free evening presents itself?”
“Why,” a third questioned, “choose Bayreuth, of all places, this out-of-the-way spot, rather than some more beautiful, more accessible city? Munich, for example?”
That, precisely, was what required understanding—and it was what most of our friends never truly grasped beyond the surface.
The Revue Wagnérienne was not, as some thought, a vehicle for simply spreading Wagner’s works. Its mission was to delve into them, to uncover and communicate their deeper significance. To speak plainly, Chamberlain and I set out to share our discovery: Wagner, the great musician? That was self-evident. But Wagner, the great poet; Wagner, the great thinker; and above all, Wagner, the creator of an entirely new form of art.
This plan to establish a journal titled Revue Wagnérienne, though perhaps less fully articulated than I have just laid out, found immediate favour with some of the most serious and well-disposed Wagnerians. It quickly won over three individuals who would become its most steadfast supporters: Judge Lascoux, the most colourful figure, a mix of music lover and magistrate, but also the most refined, most sensitive, and most reliable—his notorious reputation as something of an eccentric at the Palais would be enough to confirm that; Alfred Bovet, an industrialist from the Doubs, renowned for his celebrated autograph collection, an amiable Wagnerian; and Agénor Boissier, a millionaire from Geneva, the austere Wagnerian, but with the most upright heart and the most fatherly of dispositions.
Upon my return to Paris, I set about bringing our vision to life. I conceived the idea of gathering the Wagnerians from whom I might hope to gain any support at a dinner hosted at Lemardelay’s, in the very rooms now occupied by the Journal. Though I have forgotten most of those who attended, I do recall Catulle Mendès being there. A devout Wagnerian, he had been received by Wagner in Triebschen; at that time, he was married to Judith Gautier. When they separated, Wagner’s family sided with her, cutting ties with him, and that’s when Mendès remembered Wagner’s insults towards France, launching into his famous, alexandrine-worthy line:
“I won’t extend my hand to the one who applauds him.”
Aside from this nuance, he had remained ardently Wagnerian.
I also remember Champfleury, once Wagner’s friend, now very old and frail; Léon Leroy, another personal friend of Wagner, a man of both sharp intellect and strong character; and Jules de Brayer, the stuff of Wagnerian legend, a poor but noble and beloved soul, a great patron of local breweries, a composer, though I believe his compositions never strayed from the realm of dreams. I have heard mention of only one of his works, an arrangement of the March of the Pilgrims with the words from O salutaris hostia; he lived modestly, earning a living as a proofreader for the publisher Brandus, and was said to have walked all the way from Paris to Bayreuth.
Present as well were Lamoureux, Judge Lascoux, and, I believe, Victor Wilder, along with a number of musicographers and young composers.
That evening’s enthusiasm proved lukewarm at best. Someone even asked if my efforts might not be better directed towards the emerging French musical school. The meeting ended without any progress. I realised I would have to press forward on my own—or rather, with the steadfast friends who had thrown their support behind me. Still, that night offered me my first, sobering glimpse of the obstacles that lay ahead.
The programme published in the sample issue was deliberately broad, vague enough to resonate with Wagnerians across the spectrum.
The list of contributors, however, was another matter entirely, and it was bound to raise eyebrows. It featured the usual suspects—renowned Wagnerians like Schuré, Champfleury, Léon Leroy, and Mendès—as well as a handful of music critics and journalists. But then came the surprises: writers who sat outside the typical Wagnerian fold, including Bergerat, Elémir Bourges, and Edouard Rod; Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, who had known Wagner personally and visited him at Triebschen with Mendès; and finally, Mallarmé.
The air bristled, as if charged with the sound of steel meeting steel…
In the initial proofs of the sample issue, I had boldly set Mallarmé’s name apart, emblazoned in large letters as the headline contributor.
“Why?” Mendès demanded.
Did Mendès sense, even then, the pivotal role Mallarmé and symbolism were poised to play in the trajectory of the Revue Wagnérienne? For my part, I’m not sure I fully grasped it yet. What I do know is that I would eventually redeem myself—thankfully so.
But that evening, I lacked courage; I faltered under Mendès’s ire and relegated Mallarmé’s name to the standard ranks.
So what sort of audience was this fledgling Revue destined to navigate? It seems fitting to attempt a sketch of the curious Wagnerian public of 1885. I’m not referring to the elders—the masters—like Champfleury, Léon Leroy, and Schuré, who were rarely seen, nor to the solitary devotees content to admire Wagner from the seclusion of their ivory towers. Amongst the regulars at Sunday concerts, two distinct groups emerged.
The first consisted of music enthusiasts—your typical amateurs de musique—whose passion for Wagner’s compositions stopped at the music itself. Certainly, Wagner’s works had tapped into their unconscious desires, but they ventured no further. For them, Wagnerism was narrowly confined to the pleasure of playing or listening to a handful of his pieces—the same few, over and over. When it came to the broader context—literature, painting, or philosophy—they remained, in Flaubert’s apt phrasing, bourgeois. Their cultural ideals revolved around the Comédie-Française and the Salon. Novelty didn’t offend them, but neither did it pique their interest.
The second group was more adventurous. These were Wagnerians who, having been drawn in by the music, became curious about the larger framework. Let’s call them the “musical drama” devotees. They didn’t just revel in isolated pieces; they engaged with Wagner’s full-length dramas. Sure, they acknowledged the occasional stretches of tedium, but the sublime moments inspired forgiveness for the lapses. They understood that Wagner had condemned opera as it stood and aspired to craft something altogether new. Having read Schuré, they confidently referred to it as musical drama. Admittedly, some amongst them had trouble adapting to the term. One was overheard confessing:
“The first time I heard this opera…” Catching himself mid-sentence, he hastily corrected: “Pardon! This musical drama…”
But what, in their view, truly set musical drama apart from opera? The distinction lay in the master’s revolutionary reforms: no more cavatinas, no vocal acrobatics, no duets—after all, does anyone actually speak over one another in real life? (And yet, my good sir, Tristan and Isolde!) Gone, too, were the climactic ensemble pieces that once ended every act. As Augusta Holmès confided to me with her characteristic flair:
“Mark my words, Dujardin, the choristers will sing without so much as a glance at the conductor… absolutely… with their backs to the audience!”
Amongst these so-called “musical drama” Wagnerians, one didn’t merely find misguided music lovers. There were also accomplished musicians, like Chabrier, who admired Wagner’s harmonies and instrumentation but failed to understand a single word of his work beyond the “wise reforms the master introduced to the opera tradition.” It was the same Chabrier, after patiently listening to Chamberlain elaborate on why Wagner had built his theatre in a secluded Bavarian town, who replied with cheerful conviction:
“If we were to build a Wagner theatre in France, why not put it right on the Champ-de-Mars?”
Not all young composers in 1885 were on the same page. Yet many—particularly César Franck’s students—had a clearer grasp of Wagnerian literature, even philosophy, and understood the deeper significance of Bayreuth’s artistic mission. Amongst them were individuals of remarkable sincerity: Ernest Chausson, taken from us far too soon; Vincent d’Indy; Bréville; and, in a different sphere, Xavier Perreau. Later, I would cross paths with another figure: Paul Dukas. These were the ones who loved Wagner for his own sake. Sadly, there were others—those who admired Wagner only as long as he served their ambitions, casting him aside the moment his legacy became an inconvenience.
The Wagnerian public of 1885 also included a fair share of performers. Some, like the pianist Diémer, harboured earnest admiration but grasped little of Wagner’s broader vision. Others, no less admiring, strained to comprehend even the basics of “reformed opera,” unable to escape the confines of their own craft. This was particularly true of our Wagnerian conductors. Then there were the professional music critics—a formidable and humourless contingent, staunchly loyal to the concept of “musical drama.” Some displayed admirable dedication to meticulous accuracy, yet many demonstrated an almost comical inability to comprehend the work’s deeper meaning.
Beyond this staunchly musical circle stood figures like Catulle Mendès, who seemed intent on emphasising the poetic dimension of Wagner’s dramas—though not in the direction of introspection or restraint, one might guess.
A handful of journalists brought insight and wit to the discussion, including Fourcaud, Henry Bauer, and Willy. Alongside them were a few connoisseurs and literary men, such as Paul Poujaud and André Hallays, closely allied with the Franckist circle. These individuals represented the sharpest minds in understanding Wagnerian thought.
The painterly world also found its representation here, with artists like Fantin-Latour, Charles Toché, and Egusquiza—staunchly reactionary in painting but boldly avant-garde in music, a contradiction that defined their peculiar interpretation of Wagner. Renoir, though rarely seen, belonged to this group, as did Jacques Blanche, whose reputation for eccentricity seemed to follow him everywhere.
Finally, there were the anonymous faces—the unknown regulars at Wagner concerts, their identities as elusive as their devotion to the music was certain.
To this disparate audience, Chamberlain and I sought to bring a new Wagner: Wagner the poet*, Wagner the philosopher—figures about whom most had no inkling and, frankly, no interest in learning. We presented an artistic vision that, with rare exceptions, was met with apathy, if not outright resistance. Yet even this was only part of the challenge. The Revue‘s direction was shaped not just by its Wagnerian ideals but also by the founder’s own literary ambitions, which would lead it down an even more precarious path.
[* Let us here recall what Schopenhauer had remarked upon receiving the libretto of the Ring of the Nibelungs, which Wagner had sent to him with a dedication: “Thank your friend Wagner for me for sending me his Nibelungs, but he should give up his music, he has more genius as a poet! I, Schopenhauer, remain faithful to Rossini and Mozart…”]
At that time, the literary landscape was gripped by the restless ferment of the decadent movement. Symbolism had yet to crystallise—it would not take its definitive shape until 1886—but the decadents paved the way, serving as its precursors. Many who later identified as symbolists began their journey as decadents. As I have explained elsewhere, decadence was nothing more than a brief and tumultuous prelude, a simmering preface to the sweeping poetic movement that would become symbolism. We were, in those days, a scattered band of very young writers, each pursuing our own solitary path. It’s likely we would have continued in that isolation for much longer had we not found a master to guide us and a gathering place where we could meet: Mallarmé.
Amongst the poets who gathered at his Tuesdays, René Ghil, Stuart Merrill, Charles Morice, Charles Vignier, Téodor de Wyzewa, Ajalbert, Gabriel Mourey, Quillard, and Ephraïm Michael would later contribute to the Revue Wagnérienne. Not to overlook our elders—Huysmans, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, and Verlaine—who were also amongst its collaborators, nor companions like Laforgue, Moréas, Verhaeren, Gustave Kahn, and Mockel, who, for reasons I cannot discern, did not contribute. And then there were those who arrived only a few years later: Vielé-Griffin, Henri de Régnier, Maeterlinck, Hérold, and Fontainas.
Could one reasonably expect a young poet, frequenting Mallarmé’s circle, to construct an impermeable wall between the two chambers of his heart, and, like some Maître Jacques, never fail to exchange, at the appointed hour, the Mallarmist’s garb for that of the Wagnerian?
An obstacle far deeper than any personal inclination rendered such a division impossible. Wagner was one of the founding masters of Symbolism, a fact soon to become unmistakably clear. His conception of art, his philosophy, even his very formula, lay at the foundation of Symbolism. To delve into the heart of Wagnerism was to encounter Symbolism; in other words, it was impossible to articulate the Wagnerian vision without recognising within it the doctrine—or, at the very least, one of the essential elements—of the burgeoning poetic movement. I have mentioned Téodor de Wyzewa. It was during this period that I made his acquaintance, and it so happened that our ideas aligned. As is well known, he became my collaborator in the fullest sense for two and a half years.
Leafing through my collection of the Revue Wagnérienne the other day, I stumbled upon a few pages by Robert Godet, whom I had invited to contribute one of the articles intended to conclude the series. His response, though courteous, was severe, critiquing the Revue for what he described as a significant inconsistency in its presentation of Wagnerian doctrine. On this point, he was correct—for we were seekers, and it is only through seeking that one discovers. More than once, we erred, with perhaps the singular exception of Chamberlain, so restrained in his assertions, so assured in expressing his thoughts, and who, by the time he began contributing to the Revue, had already achieved clarity of both information and purpose. Godet also took issue with what he termed our personal theories, all that we had dared to add to Wagnerian doctrine. Each of us, he argued—not without exaggeration—had followed his own path, rather than dedicating ourselves entirely to understanding and interpreting the master.
Yet now, with the perspective of so many years, I feel compelled to seek my friend Robert Godet’s pardon—for it was he who was mistaken. I’m convinced that Wagner himself would have been the first to encourage disciples who, illuminated by his work, sought not only him but also themselves, rather than settling for mere imitation. Indeed, it was this spirit of exploration that lent the Revue Wagnérienne its vitality. But what a price we paid for it!
The first issue was received with astonishment—a reaction that’s easy to understand—but not without a degree of sympathy. It included an opening column that was suitably combative, a solid introductory study signed by Fourcaud, several documentary articles, and, under the title “Wagnerian Month,” as exhaustive a record as possible of all Wagnerian concerts and theatrical performances, both in Paris and abroad. This survey, facilitated by a network of collegial correspondents, became a source of fascination for the Parisian public. Even Massenet, a subscriber, confided to me—whilst personally handing me the twelve francs for his subscription—that he had been impressed.
The subsequent issues adhered to this balanced, middle-ground Wagnerism: presenting, analysing, debating—particularly in opposition to Saint-Saëns, for whom Wagner had become a veritable bête noire. It was all too easy to dismantle his articles, where the composer of Samson and Delilah championed descriptive music and dismissed musical expression as nothing more than “the fashionable witticism.”
Meanwhile, certain readers began to take issue with what they perceived as “decadent” turns of phrase in my writings and those of Téodor de Wyzewa. In those heroic days, I personally handled the delivery of each issue to booksellers. I vividly recall bringing the newly printed issue to Fischbacher, the publisher and bookseller, himself a Wagnerian, only to find myself sharply reprimanded—and in the most beautiful way, in fact—in the name of French grammar.
Things took a turn for the worse with the paraphrase Huysmans produced on the Tannhäuser overture. I had taken Huysmans and Mallarmé to the Good Friday concert at Lamoureux’s Concerts Spirituels. For Mallarmé, the evening was transformative. In music—particularly Wagnerian music—he recognised one of the voices of the mystery that reverberated within his vast soul. From that night onwards, he became a regular at the Sunday concerts. Huysmans, however, remained steadfastly a naturalist, despite his curiosity for the novel currents of symbolism. More a painter at heart than a musician, he grasped little of what he heard. Instead, he found amusement in the peculiar shapes of the tubas, which joined the orchestra for the Funeral March from Twilight of the Gods. To him, they conjured images of intestines afflicted by some malady I can no longer recall. He confined himself to expanding, in his characteristic style, upon the analysis of the Tannhäuser overture included in the programme the usher had handed him:
In a landscape that nature herself could never conjure, in a landscape where the sun fades into the exquisite and ultimate dilution of golden yellow, in a transcendent realm where, beneath a painfully radiant sky, the mountains opalesce above the bluish valleys the crystallised white of their peaks; in a landscape beyond the reach of painters, for it is made up largely of visual phantoms, silent shivers, and the trembling moisture of the air, a song rises—an extraordinary and majestic song, an august and pacifying hymn that soars from the souls of the pilgrims as they move forward in procession.
But what were the daring bursts of colour in this style, beside what followed:
It seems that the Venus of the musician is the heir to the Luxuria of the poet, the white Beastmaster, drenched in perfumes, who flattens her victims beneath the weight of maddening flowers; it seems that the Wagnerian Venus draws in and ensnares like the most perilous of deities of Prudence, the one whose name this religious writer can only write with trembling hand: Sodomita Libido.
Nothing, of course, could have been further from Wagner’s own thinking than such notions, and one could only smile at their fanciful nature. Yet just a few days later, I received a letter from Geneva in which, with all the tact and immense kindness his perfect delicacy commanded, the great patron of the Revue Wagnérienne informed me that there were two things he would never tolerate being insulted: religion and morality.
The Revue eased off its challenge to moral propriety and, for a few issues, returned to a more modest tone—this was not contradicted by a page from Villiers de l’Isle-Adam on the Bayreuth legend. But then, in August, Mallarmé’s magnificent essay “Richard Wagner, rêverie d’un poète français” was published. It caused an uproar, due to its language, which was almost impossibly difficult. Yet what greater scandal might it have provoked had the Wagnerians understood how the great poet set his own cause apart from that of the great musician?
For a time, the Revue Wagnérienne would serve the Wagnerians both sweetness and bitterness in succession. The sweet: a series of solid studies on Wagner’s work, the first publication of Schuré’s Parsifal, a translation and commentary on the all-too-famous Capitulation. The bitter: an attempt at a literary and literal translation of the opening scene of Das Rheingold, marked by boundless linguistic audacity, and yet not always entirely devoid of merit!
Weia! Waga! — Vogue, ô la vague! — Vibre en la vive!
And this, which could be deemed a translation success:
Seul qui de l’Amour — Renonce la puissance, — Seul qui de l’Amour — Répudie la délice, — Seul celui atteint le charme — Pour forger en cercle l’Or.
But there was, alas, also this:
Laide, lisse, — Glissante glace! — Comme je glisse! — Des mains et des pieds — Je ne saisis ni ne tiens — La lèche-marche. — Humide mouille — M’emplit le nez.
Equally bitter for the true Wagnerians was a paraphrase I offered two months later, titled “Amfortas,” which became, undeniably, the very pinnacle of the decadentism that had taken root amongst the new poets:
The ever-lively thought of guilty pleasures, unforgettable, unforgettable thought! The Sick Man relives the damned visions, and before his dimmed eyes, lecherous images pass by: eyes of the sinner! sinful senses! sinful sensations! He feels the vast gardens, thick with smouldering fragrances and rich dyes; the languid warmth of the air, a languor that was languorous, when before his body she arose, the female beast… etc… etc…
But the final blow came the following month (January 1886), with the homage to Wagner, a collection of eight sonnets by Stéphane Mallarmé, Paul Verlaine, René Ghil, Stuart Merrill, Charles Morice, Charles Vignier, Teodor de Wyzewa, and myself. The last six of these sonnets would have gone unnoticed, as they were, for the most part, composed in a rather reasonable style; but those by Verlaine and Mallarmé were a true event. O tempora, o mores! Of Verlaine’s exquisite sonnet, all that was remembered was the hiatus in the final line:
Et, ô ces voix d'enfants chantant dans la coupole! [And, oh, these voices of children singing in the dome!]
And, oh! The serious artist that Fantin-Latour was, when I visited him at the time, greeted me with this exclamation: “And, oh!” And throughout my visit, it was nothing but “And, oh!” and bursts of laughter. Yet this does not diminish the fact that this sonnet remains one of Verlaine’s finest, and I take great pride in having played a part in getting him to compose it.
As for Mallarmé’s sonnet,
Le silence déjà funèbre d'une moire [The already funereal silence of a moire]
it was pure delirium. I have already recounted, on page 41, the fate it met at the journalists’ dinner hosted by Auguste Vitu.
Amongst the fraternity of the musicographers, mere indignation would not suffice. A few of these gentlemen had already held conciliabula; they had sought out Lascoux, pointing out the harm that this particular approach to defending Wagnerism was inflicting. One of them, who combined the titles of musicologist and composer, even took it upon himself to write to Agénor Boissier. By rare good fortune, Lascoux, Boissier, and Bovet were men of steadfast nature who, once they had offered someone their friendship and trust, did not withdraw it lightly. Nevertheless, whilst remaining loyal to me, Boissier and Bovet felt it necessary to deliver some earnest counsel. I cannot say whether they travelled to Paris expressly for this purpose, but one fine day, Wyzewa and I received an invitation to lunch at a pied-à-terre Alfred Bovet owned on Rue Charlot, with Agénor Boissier and Lascoux in attendance. With all the tact and kindness these men could muster, I was invited to explain myself. It was gently conveyed to me that their support for La Revue Wagnérienne was grounded in its commitment to publish scholarly studies on Wagner—not symbolist poetry. This message was delivered with remarkable generosity, as they simultaneously reassured me: one pledged to renew his subscription, whilst the other two promised continued financial support for the coming year. News of this luncheon inevitably trickled out, sparking outrage amongst my musicographer acquaintances. As we shall see, thwarted in this particular effort, they eventually found their revenge through Lamoureux.
The circumstances, to some extent, served to appease the patrons of the Revue Wagnérienne, as the matter of Lohengrin gradually consumed almost the entire content of the subsequent issues. Carvalho, the director of the Opéra-Comique, had, during 1885, entertained the idea of staging Lohengrin; the Wagner family representative, Adolphe Gross, had come to Paris, and a contract had been signed. But when it came time to move from planning to execution, a ferocious media campaign broke out1. At the forefront of this opposition stood Mme Adam, whose role is vividly illustrated by the following circular letter, dispatched to numerous prominent figures:
Paris, 24 December 1885
La Nouvelle Revue
25 Boulevard Poissonnière, Paris
DIRECTION.
Mme Adam, before addressing the Women of the Siege of Paris, respectfully requests that M*** lend their advice to prevent the performance of Lohengrin.
The meeting will take place at her residence tomorrow, Friday, at precisely two o’clock.
In a letter published on 15 January 1886, in Le Figaro, Mme Adam revealed the motivations behind what she called her “hatred” (the word is her own) of Wagner. During the Empire, he had been welcomed into the “opposition” salon of the Countess d’Agoult. Despite this, he had later sought the protection of Mme de Metternich in order to have Tannhäuser staged at the Opéra… One shudders, she suggested, at the mere recounting of such treachery…
In the same letter, Mme Adam could not resist referring to “A Capitulation.”
“You will reply,” she wrote, “Wagner is dead. But have our dead risen again? I wish to reason calmly, to impose some structure upon my arguments. I cannot. My emotion is too overwhelming2
The result was unequivocal: Lohengrin was not performed.
Soon after, the Revue would feature the landmark documentary articles with which Chamberlain laid the foundation for the extraordinary work he would ultimately dedicate to Wagner. I refer specifically to the series that began in June 1886; seldom have critical writings combined such precision in research, such depth of understanding, and such rigorous logic. Each article seemed to settle the question definitively—a resolution that appealed as much to the heart as to the intellect. Remarkably, Chamberlain had never written before contributing to the Revue Wagnérienne. The Revue can claim at least two significant achievements: introducing Stéphane Mallarmé to the concert hall and inspiring Houston Stewart Chamberlain to take up the pen.
That Chamberlain’s articles resonated with their readers is beyond doubt. The Revue had already won favour with nearly all Wagnerians by compiling and publishing the documents surrounding the Lohengrin controversy. It continued to garner praise the following summer for its role during the Bayreuth Festival. There had been no festival in 1885, nor would there be one in 1887, but the 1886 event featured performances of Parsifal and Tristan, followed by two cycles of the Ring in Munich. In its May and June issues, the Revue offered detailed coverage of these events whilst announcing that it would provide subscribers with practical assistance: information about the performances, travel logistics, accommodations in Bayreuth, and even coordination with the Festival Committee. Inquiries could be directed to the Revue‘s Paris office at 79 rue Blanche (which doubled as the editor’s residence) or to Bayreuth, Opernstrasse 178, where the editor himself would be stationed for the festival’s duration.
It required all the youthful idealism of a twenty-four-year-old to transform an aspiring writer into a kind of Wagnerian travel agent. A substantial number of individuals responded to the initiative, many acknowledging that, this time, the Revue Wagnérienne had provided a genuinely practical service.
The Lohengrin affair resurfaced early the following year when Lamoureux decided to stage a few performances at the Eden-Théâtre. As history records, the piece was performed only once, on 3 May 1887.
The Revue Wagnérienne, naturally, maintained its commitment to offering the most exhaustive documentary accounts of these events. That the venom of decadent language continued to creep into this otherwise placid Wagnerian landscape might, perhaps, have been resignedly accepted as inevitable. However, Wyzewa’s ongoing series of articles on contemporary painting and literature was, at the very least, deemed poorly timed. Matters were further inflamed by two lithographs from Jacques Blanche, executed in an uncharacteristically confrontational style, which once more sparked outrage. Thus came the definitive rupture with Lamoureux—a split that had already been solidified by November 1886 and was made public six months later. I will not attempt to retrace its details, which would now seem trivial and of little relevance. I would not mention it at all if it did not stand as a symbol of the two years of discord that had roiled Parisian Wagnerism.
Around Lamoureux, indeed, gathered most of our Wagnerians, drawn by the prestige of his prominent musical standing: young composers, both sincere and opportunistic (who saw in Lamoureux only the man who performed their works in concert and who would become the director of a major opera house), as well as mere music enthusiasts, Wagnerians of the “musical drama” school, stubborn or simply narrow-minded musicographers, journalists—all those who regarded the staging of Lohengrin and the Ring Cycle in Paris as the ultimate triumph of Wagnerism. One is left to wonder what real weight a few barely emerging poets, fresh to the literary world, could possibly have in such a balance!
But what caused the rift?
At its core, of course, was Lamoureux’s personal antipathy towards the decadent extravagances that had crept into the movement. Yet, preoccupied with the responsibilities of being a conductor and a future opera house director, he would likely have paid little heed to it—if not for the slow, insidious work of the Wagnerian detractors of the Revue Wagnérienne, who found in him the support they had been denied elsewhere. Finally, there was the intervention of Victor Wilder.
It would be unjust to place Victor Wilder amongst the base, malicious figures I have described, those to whom he was far superior. I must also add that he was not lacking in intellect or, at least as a journalist and musicographer, in talent. But his views were diametrically opposed to the Wagnerian ideals upheld by the Revue Wagnérienne. Above all, there was the matter of translations.
I had long attempted to handle him with tact; indeed, I went so far (and was reproached for it) in making concessions—out of opportunism—but beneath these concessions, it was clear that hostility was simmering.
In brief, Victor Wilder translated Wagner in the style of an opera libretto, and one could hardly imagine a more brutal betrayal. He translated in verse, of course; the difficulty of finding a French phrase whose accents could match the German was made all the worse by the additional requirement to rhyme and count syllables! When I expressed my surprise one day, he responded:
“I write as easily in verse as in prose.”
Indeed, with his head stuffed with all the pseudo-poetic clichés3
This, all in an effort to render poems that were compressed into a few precise, powerful, and evocative words—almost always monosyllables—drawn from the most authentic sources of the language—poems that, from a purely literary perspective, were some of the greatest renewals of modern poetry!
The Wagner family refused to grant Victor Wilder the translation rights that the publisher had conferred upon him, instead awarding them to Alfred Ernst. A significant error, one that mistook good intentions for genuine talent. Ernst did not write in verse, nor in the operatic libretto style, but under the guise of rhythmic precision, he fell into utter gibberish—gibberish that had nothing in common with the kind I had written. My gibberish, if I may call it that, was born of literary intent, as I sought to capture the full, potent, and evocative meaning of the original text. Ernst, by contrast, spoke gibberish due to a complete lack of literary sensibility, constantly substituting the right word with the wrong one4.
It was I who, in an article for the Revue, made my rift with Lamoureux public. I should have, since I was determined to bring this clash to light, framed the question with full clarity: Theoretically, was true Wagnerism to be found in the notion of the “musical drama” and “reformed opera” of which Lamoureux had made himself the representative? Practically speaking, was there any value in presenting Wagner’s work through the “sideways” interpretation that would inevitably result from these performances of Lohengrin, however brilliant they may have been? Perhaps I could have even questioned whether it was wise to sacrifice the very essence of what Wagner’s work offered in terms of renewing French poetry. But I became lost in petty quarrels. Instead of confronting the Goliath that was Lamoureux directly, I, an inexperienced David, resorted to throwing pebbles at his legs. I could only be destined for defeat.
I felt the void closing in around the Revue Wagnérienne. From Agénor Boissier and Alfred Bovet, it could expect nothing more. Through his generosity, Lascoux still extended his goodwill towards me, but I could not deny that he did not approve of my actions. Only a few loyal friends rallied to my side: the Bonnier brothers, who, despite some misjudgements, had always been understanding of Wagnerian thought; my literary friends (with one exception); and, of course, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, who remained unshakably at my side, offering yet another demonstration of his admirable solidarity. In an article published in the September-October 1887 issue, he launched a trial against Victor Wilder’s translations—one of those trials he knew how to conduct so well, leaving nothing standing, from which Victor Wilder never recovered.
The Revue Wagnérienne would soon have only a few more issues, sustained by articles from Chamberlain and the Bonnier brothers. I dedicated one entire issue to a sort of testament of my Wagnerism; with nothing left to lose, I presented, in the language that had become mine, the vision of Wagnerian art I had reached. Then, in the spring of 1888, came a series of farewell articles, like eulogies over a tomb, which I requested from a few collaborators.
And so, the Revue Wagnérienne came to an end. It is not for me to judge its legacy. Yet two facts seem undeniable. Amid its many missteps and errors, it succeeded—not in systematically laying out what the Wagnerian creation truly was—but in illuminating that creation through a variety of lenses. At a time when most Wagnerians were content to admire the musical form, and the more progressive amongst them saw only a reform of opera, it revealed the profound novelties introduced by this Schopenhauerian conception of music, this Hellenic vision of art.
From the strictly French viewpoint, its work, within the great poetic movement of 1885-86, served, once again, to illuminate; it became the connecting thread between Wagner and Mallarmé, between Schopenhauer and symbolism; it helped the symbolists recognise the profound musical necessity that pressed upon them. In return, it paid a heavy price: with extravagances that, today, can only elicit a wry smile—and with enemies, who thwarted its progress in its dual mission. Indeed, someone of greater strength might have sidestepped such pitfalls and prevailed over these opponents!
NOTES:
1. See the historical account of the affair in the Revue Wagnérienne, March 1886, which includes numerous citations from newspapers↩
.2. As is widely known, Wagner later married Cosima, one of the daughters of the Comtesse d’Agoult. It is also known that the Comtesse d’Agoult had employed as a governess the mother of Mme Adam, and later as a lady-in-waiting Mme Adam herself, then Mademoiselle Juliette Lambert.↩
.3. I would like to provide an example of what Victor Wilder’s “verses” were like. I do not have the texts before me; I am quoting from memory. In the first act of Die Walküre, Wagner had written something like: Hunding ist hier Herr Hunding is the master here Wilder translates it, adding a half-dozen quavers or demi-quavers: Hunding commands here and issues decrees↩
.4. It must be acknowledged that a translation that adapts to music is almost unachievable, and, in any case, can only be realized by resigning oneself, with respect to the music, to adding or omitting what Wagner himself referred to as the “little notes,” and, with respect to meaning, to minor inaccuracies or apparent inaccuracies that leave the essence intact. The true translator will be the one who, when an exact translation is impossible, finds the equivalent turn of phrase; but what knowledge, what experience of their language must one presume in them, and what imagination they must possess!
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Léon Hennique Novel 