On the stage Herr Eduard Devrient helped very materially in bringing about wonderfully distinct ensembles; he also knew how to gratify a certain wish of Spontini’s, which threw us all into tremendous confusion.  In accordance with the cuts adopted by all the German theatres, we too ended the opera with the fiery duet, supported by the chorus, between Licinius and Julia after their rescue.  The master, however, insisted on adding a lively chorus and ballet to the finale, according to the antiquated method of ending common to French opera seria.  He was absolutely against finishing his work with a dismal churchyard episode; consequently the whole scene had to be altered.  Venus was to shine resplendent in a rose bower, and the long-suffering lovers were to be wedded at her altar, amid lively dancing and singing, by rose-bedecked priests and priestesses.  We performed it like this, but unluckily not with the success we had all hoped for.

In the course of the production, which was proceeding with wonderful accuracy and verve, we came across a difficulty with regard to the principal part for which none of us had been prepared.  Our great Schroder-Devrient was obviously no longer of an age to give the desired effect as the youngest of the vestal virgins; she had acquired matronly contours, and her age was moreover accentuated by the extremely girlish-looking high-priestess with whom she had to act, and whose youth it was difficult to dissimulate.  This was my niece, Johanna Wagner, who, because of her marvellous voice and great talent as an actress, made every one in the audience long to see the parts of the two women reversed.  Schroder-Devrient, who was well aware of this fact, tried by every effective means in her power to overcome her most difficult position; this effort, however, resulted not infrequently in great exaggeration and straining of the voice, and in one very important place her part was sadly overacted.  When, after the great trio in the second act, she had to gasp the words, ‘er ist frei’ (’he is free’), and to move away from her rescued lover towards the front of the stage, she made the mistake of speaking the words instead of singing them.

She had often proved the effect of a decisive word uttered with an exaggerated and yet careful imitation of the ordinary accents of the spoken language, by exciting the audience’s wildest enthusiasm when she almost whispered the words, ’Noch einen Schritt und du bist todt!’ (’Just one more step and thou art dead!’) in Fidelia.  This terrific effect, which I too had felt, was produced by the shock—­like unto the blow of an executioner’s axe—­which I received on suddenly coming down from the ideal sphere to which music itself can exalt the most awful situations, to the naked surface of dreadful reality.  This sensation was due simply to the knowledge of the utmost height of the sublime, and the memory of the impression I received led me to call that particular moment the moment of lightning;