Part 1

WAGNER AT HOME

FROM THE FRENCH OF

JUDITH GAUTIER

BY

EFFIE DUNREITH MASSIE

WITH NINE ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK

JOHN LANE COMPANY

MCMXI

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

RICHARD WAGNER (frontispiece) MADAME COSIMA WAGNER CORNER OF JUDITH GAUTIER'S SALON JUDITH GAUTIER IN BRITTANY WAGNER'S THEATRE AT BAYREUTH JUDITH GAUTIER IN HER GARDEN AT ST EUOGAT PART OF SCORE OF THE FIRST ACT IN "PARSIFAL" PART OF SCORE OF THE SECOND ACT IN "PARSIFAL" PART OF SCORE OF THE LAST ACT IN "PARSIFAL"

WAGNER AT HOME

PART FIRST

I

The train moved slowly, as becomes a well-conducted Swiss train that winds through beautiful country, and has no intention of blurring the views by undue haste. At each station there was a long stop, a slow renewal of leisurely motion.

To our little company of impatient French people within the compartment this slow progress was very trying. A feverish excitement possessed us; we could not sit still; from time to time we thrust our heads between the curtains to gaze in advance of the train. Villiers de l'Isle-Adam was one of us and most enthusiastic of all, his emotion continually bubbling over into spasmodic laughter and disjointed phrases.

On an ordinary excursion this slowness of the train would not have troubled us--but to-day--to-day we were going to Lucerne to see for the first time--Richard Wagner!

The swiftest "Express" would have seemed slow to us, yet we half dreaded the moment of arrival--when we should see the Master, hear him, speak to him!

What this wonderful genius meant to us it would have been difficult to make clear to those who were not of us, at that time when only a little group of disciples stood by the Master upholding him against the jeers of the masses who failed to comprehend him. Even to-day, when the triumph of the cause we supported has surpassed our hopes, it is not easy to explain our exaltation. We had the fanaticism of priests and martyrs--even to the slaying of our adversaries! It would, in fact, have been impossible to convince us that we should not be entirely justified in annihilating all those scoffers--blind to the new radiance which was so clear to us.

Each Sunday, when Pasdeloup played selections from Wagner, Homeric defiances were hurled between the opposing camps in the body of the concert hall and the interference of the town-guard was often required to prevent actual hand-to-hand conflict.

We had never dreamed that one day we should look upon the face of the Master. He was for us as inaccessible as Jupiter on the heights of Olympus or Jehovah behind the flaming triangle, yet now we were going to him!

"It is to you, my dear Judith, that we owe this incredible good fortune," exclaimed Villiers, throwing himself upon the seat beside me and pressing my hand between both his own.

In truth it was due to me, and my pride in the fact would not allow me to make light of it.

For, carried away by my enthusiasm and relying upon my instinct alone, I had had the audacity a few months before to publish a series of articles upon Richard Wagner. I had done this with a truly French impulsiveness, as I had then heard only a few fragments, indifferently rendered by orchestra, of all his stupendous work. I had even dared to attack an article upon Glück and Wagner, published by Earnest Reyer, a friend who had known me from my babyhood, and who was amazed by such unexpected aggression--truly youth stops at nothing--he had, however, replied very courteously, and this musical passage of arms had created some little sensation.

After much hesitation I had sent the articles to Wagner--then at Lucerne--and with them a letter in which I begged him to forgive and to correct whatever errors there might be. Then, with what trepidation I looked and longed for a reply! Would he write?--I could hardly hope for that. Yet I suffered a pang of disappointment each morning when the postman came and went, leaving no longed-for letter. One day, at last, I saw an envelope bearing a Lucerne stamp and an unfamiliar handwriting which I nevertheless knew at once. With what emotions, and in what fear and trembling I opened it. Could it be possible?--Four whole pages of fine, close writing, clear and elegant, and below the last line the magic signature!... Here is the letter:--

"MADAME,--You cannot imagine the kindly and touching impression that your letter and your beautiful articles have made upon me. Permit me to thank you and to count you among the very few true friends whose far-seeing sympathy makes my only glory. I have found nothing to correct or to alter in your articles; only I see that you do not yet know the _Meistersinger_ very intimately. The introduction to the third act has really appealed to our public. My barber told me the other day that this part pleased him most of all, which led me to reflect that the instincts of the people can neither be measured nor comprehended.

"As the curtain rises upon this third act, Hans Sachs, the cobbler, is seen in his workshop, early in the morning, seated in his arm-chair, entirely absorbed by his reading of the 'Chronicle' of the world. He speaks to his young apprentice, without interrupting the profound concentration of his mind upon his book.

"After the departure of the boy, he remains with head bowed over his enormous volume, and his meditation, silent up to this point, finally finds expression in these words spoken aloud, _'Wahn, Wahn! überall Wahn!'_ I do not know how to translate this, because _'Vanity, Vanity! All is vanity!'_ does not give the exact meaning of Wahn, which is much more general, and expresses the object of the folly as well as the folly itself.

"God only knows how my public divined, from the instrumental introduction to the third act, the situation that followed and the spiritual state of my Hans Sachs.

"It is true that in the second act, during the third verse of the shoemaker's song, the first motif of the stringed instruments had been introduced, suggesting there the hidden bitterness of the all-enduring man who reveals to the world only a cheerful and energetic front.

"Eva had comprehended this secret grief, and, moved to the depth of her soul, she had longed to fly where she could no longer hear that song with its pretence of joy.

"Here[1] this motif is played alone and developed fully, to die away at last in the sadness of renunciation, but, at the same time, the horns take up, softly, as if heard from a distance, the solemn chant with which Hans Sachs saluted Luther and the Reformation, and which brought to the poet a supreme popularity. After the first strophe the stringed instruments retake softly, and in a very slow movement, the themes of the true song of the shoemaker, as if the man raised his head from the work of his trade to look upward and lose himself in sweet and tender reveries. Then the horns, with their most exalted tone, break in triumphantly with that hymn of the Master with which Hans Sachs, on his appearance at the Fête in the third act, is saluted by all the people of Nuremberg in one unanimous thunder of applause.

"Again, the first motif of the stringed instruments enters, expressing with vigour the natural emotion of a soul profoundly moved. Gradually it grows calmer and more serene, and finally arrives at the supreme peace of a sweet and beautiful resignation.

"It is the real meaning of this short instrumental part that so impressed the worthy Pasdeloup that he essayed to perform it at your concerts as an illustration of this unusual music.

"Pardon me, Madame, for venturing to complete, with the aid of my imperfect French, your knowledge of my music--a knowledge otherwise so thorough and profound as truly to have surprised and touched me.

"I shall probably go to Paris before long, perhaps even this winter, and I delight in the anticipation of the real pleasure of taking your hand and telling you in person what good you have done to your very grateful and sincere,

"RICHARD WAGNER."

Wagner did not come to Paris that winter, so I looked for him in vain. But my longing to see him had become irresistible since the Master had written that he would like to know me.

There was only one thing to do--to go to Lucerne. But how should I be received? Strange stories were told about Wagner. One authority reported that he had a seraglio of women of all countries and of all colours, clothed magnificently, but that no one ever crossed his threshold.

Someone else described him as an unsociable man, gloomy and disagreeable, living alone in strict seclusion, his only companion a great black dog....

The idea of this stern solitude was not incongruous, and rather pleased me; but I was greatly troubled lest the Master might feel forced to permit my intrusion only through some sentiment of gratitude or courtesy.

Therefore I wrote a rather complicated letter, saying that I should pass through Lucerne with some friends, on my way to an exhibition of paintings at Munich. It would be only a flying visit, I wrote, and I begged him to tell me if he would be there at that time, and if I might go to pay my respects to him.

He would understand from this that I should not disturb him by staying too long.

The following letter completely reassured me:--

"MADAME,--I am now in Lucerne, and I need not tell you how glad I shall be to see you. But can I not persuade you to prolong your stay in Lucerne for a little, in order that the pleasure you grant me may not be too soon over?

"I suppose that you are going to Munich for the exhibition of paintings; yet, as I venture to believe that you would be glad to hear some one of my works, I must tell you that the representations of _Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan,_ and the _Meistersinger_ took place in the month of June; the theatre is closed at present, and the _Rheingold_ will not be given before the 25th August, if, indeed, it is given at all.

"But I hope that neither the postponement of the exhibition nor the closing of the theatre will delay your visit to Lucerne; on the contrary, I shall hope that your stay here may be prolonged.

"Please send me a line, telling me the day of your arrival, and accept again the assurance of my sincere regard.

"RICHARD WAGNER."

By an exchange of telegrams I was assured that the Master would also welcome my companions, like myself his ardent disciples--and off we started.

The last night we slept at Basle, where we had an adventure which made a vivid impression upon us all. We arrived at night, and after dining, we attempted to see what we could of the city, in spite of the darkness. We found ourselves in a maze of narrow streets, dimly lighted at long intervals. Rather bewildered, we went on across thoroughfares and squares where large fountains could be seen, only to find ourselves again in narrow lanes.

At last we emerged into a wide, open place, which the sky helped to make a little lighter; a deep and continuous roaring pervaded it, which quite appalled us, and made us advance with great precaution. This tremendous volume of sound was produced by the Rhine. It is very wide at this point and rushes through Basle with the violence of a torrent.

Stopping in the middle of the bridge, we leaned over the parapet, and watched the ink-black river hurling itself on into the night, bearing with it the shattered reflections of the stars, and seeming to long to carry away the bridge also, and even the city.

A large moon, red as glowing embers, rose above the gables and irregular outlines of the houses along the river-bank. It cast across the river a crimson trail, which was wildly tossed and scattered by the waves.

We lingered there, spell-bound by this sight, when, suddenly, we heard a song, that seemed to rise clear and strong out of the tumult of waters. Could we be dreaming? It was well known to us. The sailors' song from _The Flying Dutchman_. What! Did that ill-omened ship come to roam by night upon this impassable stream? Bending lower, we peered into the black water, but we could see nothing; yet now the voices were very near--it seemed as if the invisible ship were passing under the arch of the bridge itself.

We were greatly agitated, but when the voices were silent, we went away without wishing to fathom the mystery, shunning the possible discovery of some cheerful tavern concealed in a recess of the high bank, where lusty Swiss peasants found shelter, and grouped about their mugs of foaming beer, sang with their clear, sonorous voices the song that had so mystified us.

Now, while the train crept along, we recalled this episode of our pilgrimage, and it seemed to us a happy omen.

For the first time we had been able to listen with an untroubled enjoyment to a passage from the Master. In Paris, it was always in a state of feverish excitement--with watchful eyes and fists clenched, ready to pounce upon the interrupters--that we absorbed the new music.

Outside our own country, it appeared, the cause was already won, and the music of Richard Wagner already popular. Very slowly we counted off the different stations, and at length we were approaching the last one. Our excitement increased. We were overcome by a sort of sacred terror. We searched among the gods of art for the one who should appear to us greater than this one, into whose presence we should so soon be ushered--for that one in the whole sublime Olympus of geniuses whom we could prefer to him, or whom we would rather see, could we be given the power to choose.

Homer, Æschylus, Dante, Goethe, Beethoven, we named them all. Even the divine Shakespeare failed to make us hesitate. To us the name of Wagner flamed higher, with a more magical lustre.

He was Orpheus and Apollo both, blended to one lyre. Poet, musician, philosopher--what, indeed, was he not? this latest comer.

"He is cubic. He comprises all," said Villiers, with finality.

"Emmenbrücke," called out the porter.

The last station was passed; one more half-hour, and then Lucerne!

Again we rhapsodised, this time seeking new names for Wagner, eulogistic titles, such as history has reserved for her greatest men.

"The Eagle of the Righi," "The Swan of Lucerne"--"The Swan" appeared especially appropriate to us, because of Lohengrin; but Villiers thought the allusion too ingenuous. "The Swan of Cambrai, the Swan of Lucerne,"--he groped about for a synonym, and finally burst out triumphantly with,

"The Palmiped of Lucerne!"

An explosion of laughter relieved our nervous tension. But the train whistled, and again our hearts began to beat wildly. Leaning half through the window, dishevelled by the wind, Villiers looked eagerly. It was impossible that anyone could fail to see it--that glorious radiance directly above the city which held such an oracle. Without any doubt, even in the full light of day, a shining star marked, for pious pilgrims, the place of the new Oracle.

We entered the station.

Suddenly, Villiers, pale and with dilated eyes, drew back, and dropped upon the seat, exclaiming,

"The Palmiped!"

[1] In the introduction to the third act.

II

It was indeed true!

Standing alone, a big straw hat on his head, Wagner waited for us on the platform. To be sure, we had never before seen him, but how could anyone fail to recognise him?

He, who had no idea how we looked, counted upon us to disclose ourselves. Motionless, in full view, he scanned with close attention the stream of arriving people. It was I who hurried toward him, in an effusion of joy which dominated every other emotion.

He included us all in a steady and luminous gaze that reached to the very soul, and then shook hands with us.

After a moment of solemn silence, he smiled and offered me his arm.

"Come," said he to me, "if you do not look for too much magnificence, you will like the Hôtel du Lac. I have engaged rooms for you there." And, with quick steps, he drew me outside the station.

On the way to the hotel he paused for a moment, and turning on me a steady and serious gaze said, with every appearance of emotion, "It is a very noble sentiment that brings us together, Madam!"

The hotel was near the station, and when we arrived, the Master, after recommending us to the care of the host, turned and said to us with a whimsical air: "Now I am going to prepare myself to receive you, otherwise I should make blunders. You will come presently to 'Tribschen,' will you not, as soon as you have rested a little? Come by the lake, that is the most convenient way."

To prepare himself to receive us!

From an upper window we watched him, as with quick steps he went away, saw him cross the old bridge, reach the quay, take a boat.

Without speaking a word, with the same worshipping expression upon every face, we followed him with our eyes.... Then, when he had quite disappeared, "Quick! let us dress quickly! We certainly will not allow him to wait for us."

III

Behold us, in our turn, at the edge of the lake of the "Four Cantons," on the wharf, which shelters a whole fleet of white boats with slackened sails.

What a landscape! What scenery!--And what a harmonious setting for the picture!

The lake, so pure, so clear that it seems like a mass of blue crystal, a liquid sapphire, is lost to sight between the spurs of the mountains. On one side looms Mount Pilatus, of the purple grey of storm clouds, rugged and bare, outlining against the sky its rocky summit; on the other, verdant Righi undulates, bristling with dark green firs that form a contrast to its bright lawns of tender green. And beyond, dim, cloudy, and unreal, appear the indentations of the Alps.

Choosing a boatman, we call to him, proudly,

"To Tribschen."

With a thrust of his boat hook the man launches us from the bank and spreads his sail.

Now it is the city that we see, the old Lucerne with its unequal houses, its many belfries, its unused bastions, spread out above the picturesque little wooden bridge which we had hardly noticed when we crossed it, but which now redoubles the curves of its rustic arches in the blue waters of the lake.

But it is the other horizon only which interests us; that slender promontory over there, which advances at a gentle slope, closing half the passage. Toward that point the breeze gently wafts our rounded sail. There is Tribschen, the domain of Richard Wagner!

A swan floats upon the lake, majestically parting the clear water with his snowy breast, and we imagine we can see between his wings the golden chain which yoked him to Lohengrin's little shallop. To our imagination the green Righi is Mount Salvat; the temple of the Grail must be concealed there behind the vigilant trees, and we search at the summit of Pilate for the giant portal of divine Walhalla.

But we are nearing the promontory; we can distinguish the slender poplars that stand erect upon its extreme point, then the trees and tufted shrubs ranged behind, and there, through an opening in the branches, we can even see a gable and a window of the house.

And now we reach the shore. The boat floats under a little shed built upon piles.

With what deep emotion we set foot upon this sacred soil!

There is no door, no hedge, no limit to this garden; the lake, the hills, the forests, the Alps, the whole world seems a part of it, and even as this thought appeals to our young enthusiasm, so also is it true and prophetic, since the world shall, in truth, become the domain of the great one who dwells here.

The earth rises in a gentle slope toward the house, which we see at the other side of a wide lawn. It seems a very simple house, all of gray, long and low under its roof of reddish tiles. In the centre a double flight of seven or eight steps, guarded by an iron balustrade, leads to the drawing-room.

We advance slowly, full of emotion and thoughtful, as at the threshold of a temple. Some one has seen us, undoubtedly, as the Master appears at the door of the drawing-room and descends the steps, a big black Newfoundland bounding by his side.

With an air at once ceremonious and cordial, Wagner bids us enter.

A tall and slender young woman, with a noble and distinguished air, a sweet smile and very blue eyes under her beautiful blond hair, stands in the centre of the drawing-room, surrounded by four little girls, one of them an infant.

"Frau von Bülow, who has kindly come with her children to see me," said the Master, in presenting her.

After shaking hands with us cordially, she tells us the names of her children--Senta, Elisabeth, Isolda, and Eva--who gaze at us with big, wondering eyes.

We recognise in this choice of godmothers, all taken from among the heroines of Wagner, an enthusiasm as great as our own, which drives away all constraint between the charming mother and ourselves.

Then the dogs are presented to us. The big Newfoundland Rouzemouk, or "Russ" familiarly, and Cos, a gray pug belonging to Frau von Bülow.

"My name is Cosima," she tells me, "and my friends at home have formed the very bad habit, which actually gives me chills, of calling me "Cos," so I have given that name to my dog, and since then no one dares call me anything but Cosima!"

So the talk goes on, happy, quick-witted, enthusiastic, the Master almost as gay as the disciples; and we have so much to say!

Wagner speaks French more than moderately well. He speaks it correctly, but in his own way, with a certain freedom and audacity. When he is unable to find a word to express his exact thought, or when he believes there is no such word, he promptly creates one, and always so clearly, so logically, that one can never fail to comprehend. He speaks to me of Paris, which he loves, but where he has suffered much; he speaks also without bitterness of the great battle of _Tannhäuser_, concerning which we feel such mortification for our country. Yet he has gained, he says, a number of sincere partisans in France who console him for the defeat. Those who appreciate him there appreciate him more thoroughly than his German admirers.

The Frenchman, more nervous, more responsive, when he does understand, understands at once, and the warmth of his enthusiasm is very consoling.

The German is more patient and tranquil; he absorbs conscientiously whatever is presented to him, but he shows very little feeling; there can be nothing more frigid, more depressing, than certain playhouses where the stalls are filled with women in woollen frocks. "And, in order not to lose any time at the theatre," cries the Master, indignantly, "they take their knitting with them!"

Then, also, we look about us with respectful curiosity, at the interior of the temple, of which the quiet and pervading richness forms a strong contrast to the simple gray of the exterior.

The drawing-room is rather large; it occupies an entire angle of the house, and has windows on two sides. It is bathed in warm and restful shadows between its walls covered with yellow leather traced with arabesques of gold. A thick carpet muffles the footsteps. The velvet draperies of the windows fall in heavy folds and mass themselves upon the floor. A fine portrait of Beethoven holds sway at the end of the grand piano, and faces a mirror which reflects it. Upon two other panels Goethe and Schiller hang facing each other. From the ceiling depends a big bronze lamp.

A large divan of purple damask stands against the wall, and soft easy-chairs and cabinets are grouped here and there.

"Will you come to see my gallery?" asks Wagner, with a smile which mocks the ambitious title. A wide arch connects the drawing-room with a long, narrow room hung in violet velvet, against which the whiteness of small marble statues stands out in soft relief.