Part 2

They are the heroes of the Master's works: _Tannhäuser_ touching the strings of his lyre, and singing the passionate song to the glory of Venus. Lohengrin, like an archangel, drawing his sword for the defence of innocence. Tristan, the knight, who believes that he drinks from the goblet of death, and drains instead the cup where sparkles the philtre of love. Walther von der Vogelweide, and the last-born, the youthful and impetuous Siegfried, holding between his fingers the fatal ring.

There are also some tapestries, the gift of King Ludwig of Bavaria, which portray scenes from the Nibelungen. In a niche a gilded Buddha, Chinese incense-burners, chiselled cups--all sorts of rare and precious things. In one corner there are two round table cabinets with covers of glass, which protect a collection of magnificent butterflies with great gold and purple wings.

"This collection of butterflies came from the Paris Exposition," announces the Master, laughing, "and from amid all that great mass of things which owe their existence to the prodigious labours of mankind this is the one thing that an artist finds most to his taste."

Having returned to the drawing-room, our talk goes on, without constraint. The Master dazzles us by the charm of his words, his force and geniality, and, above all, by his incomparable intellect. Now we begin to feel that it is time to retire. We disembarked at Tribschen about five o'clock; it is growing dark and it must be late, perhaps nearing the dinner-hour, and, above all, we wish to be discreet and tactful. But at our first suggestion of going they exclaim with such an evident cordiality and urge us to stay with such friendly insistence that in the greatest content we sit down again.

The children say good-night to everyone, and go to bed. Lamps are brought, and time passes most delightfully. But at length--O humiliation!--our stomachs begin to protest and reproach us for forgetting them so long. We breakfasted before leaving Basle this morning, very hastily and earlier than usual, and it is a long time since then. Our host has not invited us to dinner, but since he keeps us on--probably they dine late at Tribschen.

Toward nine o'clock the door opens; a servant comes in at last! But, he brings a tray. It is only the tea, with the accompaniment of fallacious dry biscuit. We exchange amused glances. Bah! what does it matter? We will have supper at the hotel. Half-past eleven! Now we really must go. But how? By the lake? Would there still be boats at that hour?

"No, no, by the land. The carriage is in readiness. I will send someone with you." At the other side of the house, upon the threshold of the vestibule, the farewells are prolonged. They make us promise to return the next day, and to come earlier, that we may enjoy the garden and see the country a little. So we roll away through the unknown country and the dark night, ourselves all illuminated with joy. "In Wagner's owl carriage! It doesn't seem possible!" exclaims Villiers, patting the cushions. And then we all talk at once, going over every detail of that never-to-be-forgotten day. But the pangs of hunger are tormenting us more and more. What a supper we will have as soon as we reach the Hôtel du Lac! A drowsy boy rouses himself from his pallet bed to open the door for us. "May we have supper?" we request of him. But that isn't his affair; he knows nothing about it. He goes back to bed, and begins to snore. So we go wandering through the hotel, trying to open locked doors, ringing the electric bells again and again. Nothing! Silence everywhere, and solitude and sleep. Ah well, surely we ought to be willing to suffer a little for the cause that we defend; we ought not to complain over one day of fasting. And, since we are unable to avoid it, this ordeal rather pleases us; it seems fitting and symbolic; the emptiness of our stomachs permits us the better to listen to the song of joy in our hearts, to feel the intoxication of our minds; and so we go very happily to bed, hoping to see again in our dreams the sacred promontory over beyond the blue lake, where we shall return to-morrow.

IV

And that second day, which dawned with a beautiful blue sky, how sunny and radiant it seemed to us! How happy we were and how full of joyful anticipation! We knew Richard Wagner and he knew us.

"Come early to-morrow," he had said to us. That was better and more real than mere politeness. The disciples pleased the Master, of that we were blissfully sure. But, all the same, we must not arrive too soon at Tribschen, and how should we pass the time until the fitting moment arrived? Villiers, who wished to be very smart, went in search of a hairdresser, and fixed his choice upon a certain Monsieur Frey. Installed in the chair, a towel under his chin, his cheeks all covered with soapsuds, the patient, still lost in his dream, recalled a phrase from the letter that Wagner had written me about the _Meistersinger_. "My barber told me the other day, that this part pleased him best of all." So the barbers of Lucerne were Wagnerians? Then he could talk; and with no further hesitation he entered with Monsieur Frey into a dissertation upon the music of the future. The Swiss Figaro did his best to fulfil his part, and the talk being prolonged, Villiers came out of the little shop with a head tightly curled all over like an astrakhan cap. Thus elaborated, he joined us upon the wharf at the edge of the lake, and to forget our impatience we prowled about among the bales and bundles of cordage. My companion hummed a motif from the overture to the _Meistersinger_, which charmed him more and more. He tried to prevail upon me to sing at the same time the second motif, where it mingles with the first.

"How can I, in the open streets? They would throw us both into the lake!"

"Then let us get out of sight of the passers-by."

So behold us forthwith clambering over joists and building materials of all kinds, to reach a deserted corner. Villiers was enchanted with our humming, which we had to recommence many times. His quick imagination supplied all that was lacking; he fancied he could hear the whole orchestra. Suddenly he caught sight of something, and stopped short, his clear blue eyes very wide open. Staring unwinkingly, he began to laugh.

"What on earth is that extraordinary word, 'Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaft?'"

True enough, there was the word in big letters on a board painted white, high up between two posts driven into the soil.

"Six vowels among twenty-three consonants, and all in one word!" cried Villiers. "What can such a word mean?"

And, uniting our vague notions of German, we concluded that it signified "Steamship Company," and that this was the landing-place. In fact, beyond the poles joined by the plank, which together formed a sort of door-casing, there was a wooden staircase which led to a pontoon. Swans swam about in the blue water as it lapped against the piles, and the sails, as white as their wings, bore toward the distant Eden, toward the promontory which the sun at that moment covered with a golden mist. "What time is it?" Every few moments this question was asked. At last the time came to go back to the Hôtel du Lac for dinner. For, contrary to the French custom, they served a very hearty dinner there at one o'clock, and if anything further was desired, a very light supper at eight; so finally we understood why, on the day before, it had seemed to us that they never dined at Tribschen.

V

Again we arrive at Tribschen. The children meet us and run on before us to the drawing-room, where they are waiting for us. With what sincere cordiality they welcome us! We are no longer the unknown people of yesterday. Cos hardly barks at all, and Russ, the black Newfoundland, without moving from his place on the steps, slowly sweeps the stone with his plumy tail, to show us his good feeling.

With what pleasure in its restful shade we breathe again the faintly perfumed air of this room. We must sit down and rest a little, they say; but the Master, full of good-humour and high spirits, remains standing. He strives to comprehend the voluble conversation (overflowing with enthusiasm, interspersed with laughter) of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, and he imagines that if he does not quite get the full meaning, it must be the fault of his imperfect understanding of French. No one of us dares to tell him that in listening to Villiers it is the same for all, that he more often than not twists his language into spirals of unintelligible phrases, through which flash both light and wit. When one knows him well, one sees only these flashes; but the Master does not know him.

So, in order to excuse himself, he relates to us an incident that took place once when he was living at Zurich, through his inability to comprehend French.

An orchestra leader, Alsatian or Belgian, having, in any case, a peculiar accent, was speaking with him of the different ways of directing. He condemned certain habits which he considered hopelessly bad, and emphasised his talk with one phrase which he repeated again and again.

_"C'est comme je vous assure."_

Wagner heard, _"C'est comme chez vous à Zurich."_

Irritated, at first, by this rude assertion, he ended by suddenly growing angry, and vehemently defending the Zurich orchestra, which he himself sometimes conducted.

His interlocutor, unable to understand what had caused such anger, was dismayed, excused himself, stammered, and a long time passed before it was made clear.

At the memory of this misunderstanding, Wagner's laugh rang out clear and vibrant, and with all our hearts we laughed with him.

VI

The Master then sat down at the piano, and related to us the poem of Siegfried, upon which he was at that time working. He played the themes, measure by measure, and declaimed and sang with such ardour, such vigour, and such a perfect expression that we seemed actually to be living the whole drama. The hero, at the moment of re-forging the sword, strikes a single blow upon the anvil, and Mime, terror-struck, falls over backward. Wagner rose and almost disappeared entirely in the great violet curtains, in order the better to exemplify the fright of the gnome. He emerged again laughing, and declared that, not being in any sense a pianist, this music of the future was too difficult for him.

"I will outline the second act better," said he; and he revealed to us the whole bird scene in such a delightful way that no later execution of it, anywhere, has quite exalted us to the height of that vivid first impression.

VII

It is a little cooler now, and we are wandering through the paths of the garden, with their borders of tender green. The Master wishes to show us his domain.

All about us the children run, laughing and calling to each other with happy voices. Russ bounds on ahead, picks up stones, which he brings back to us with an insinuating air, anxious to draw us into a game, but Wagner is rather grieved over this game. "That is a bad trick I taught him; now I cannot break him of it, and he damages his teeth against the stones."

The Master walks rapidly; he guides us toward a high kiosk, where the view, he says, is superb.

In truth, it is a ravishing place. The house seems half buried in a billow of verdure, sheep browse on the slopes of the hills, and below, on the limpid azure of the lake, white sails drift, reflecting the amethyst hues of the high summits. A delicious light bathes in serenity all this wonderful nature.

Richard Wagner, with both hands upon the rustic balustrade of the kiosk, stood erect and silent, with that grave and solemn expression which came to him suddenly when he was touched by any deep emotion.

It was he whom I watched now, and that was an unforgettable instant: his eyes, as blue as the lake, wide open, almost staring, seemed to absorb this picture, which radiated for them a world of thoughts; this refuge, this exquisite retreat, created by the tenderness of a much-loved friend, who had known how to brave all, and to face the reprobation of the world with head erect, in order to come to the consolation of one to whom she had consecrated herself without reserve, at the time when he was most cruelly pursued by the bitter things of life; this dear solitude, enlivened by the laughter of children, where the blows of destiny could reach him only across a rampart of love--it was with a very tender gratitude that he contemplated it.

He understood that I had followed his thought, for he continued aloud:--

"And yet," said he, "this little corner of earth, so full of memories, does not belong to me; but I intend to buy a small piece of land, just by this side here, so that, later, the children may be able to return here, and at least retain something of this nest of their infancy."

This desire was not realised. The Master, probably, gave up the idea.

VIII

Madam Cosima and our companions rejoined us, and we walked a long time in that limitless garden. But it was growing late; we could not abuse our welcome. We wished to take leave; they exclaimed at that, and we confessed, with much laughter, our fasting of the day before, our culpable habit of dining in the evening. Then the Master showed a real chagrin; he could not pardon himself for having forgotten that French customs are different from those of German Switzerland. We were moved almost to shame for having provoked such regret, which revealed to us, however, the keen sensibility and the sensitive kindness of this much misunderstood man.

"Beginning with to-morrow," cried he, "a supper shall be served every evening _here_, and then you surely must forgive me!"

IX

At the end of the drawing-room at Tribschen, to the left in coming from the garden, a heavy portière, raised by a cord, allowed one a glimpse of a very small room, which I could not approach without great emotion. It was the sanctuary, the Holy of Holies, the work-room of Richard Wagner! Sombre draperies, a restrained half-light, two walls covered with book-shelves, filled with splendid works: music, poetry, philosophy; a piano of a special design (almost an altar), furnished with drawers and a plane like a table; a single picture, the portrait of Ludwig II., the royal friend, the ministering spirit: "The man who," said Wagner, "seems to have been sent to me from heaven!" What a beautiful, refined face! how the brown tint of the skin and the black hair bring out the splendid clearness of the eyes, of a polar blue, and sparkling with enthusiasm--eyes that seem supernatural.

One and all we love him, this young man; we consider him as our king, our chief and our ally, since he has the same faith as ourselves, and, like us, is in the ranks of the disciples. We were destined for the same mission: to affirm the divinity of a man of genius, to be the mirrors reflecting for him the splendour of his dreams; assuring him of the certainty of his power; soldiers ready to endure insults and blows in his defence, who would gladly fall for his glory. And this king is stronger than we are for the combat; his sceptre bears more weight than our fists. Sometimes escaping from the court, the royal friend came, alone and incognito, to Tribschen, to celebrate the Master's birthday, or to bring some good tidings. As the house was not large, it was in this little room that they arranged a cot-bed for him. And here he spent several days, very happy, and asking only to be treated as a humble disciple.

Wagner surprised me to-day, on the threshold of this little study, this sanctuary (into which I dared not go), contemplating the piano, the scattered sheets, where the ink was scarcely dry, agitated to the last degree by the human details of the thing that seemed to me so completely superhuman. And I was overcome, almost to suffocation, by hearing suddenly close by my side the voice and the laugh of him who seemed to me, as I looked back through the ages, to stand with Homer, Æschylus, Shakespeare, and to be the one whom I would still have acclaimed as the greatest of all.

"How enthusiastic you are!" cried he. "You must not be too much so, or your health will suffer." He spoke jestingly, but the kind light in his eyes told me much that his laugh disguised.

X

"This morning," said Wagner to me, "my domestic, Jacob, declared that I must pass the whole day without him, because he was going to Zug."

"'Zug! Zug!'" That word is on the lips of everyone in Lucerne. We hear it constantly, and I thought it an exclamation, a soothing word, familiar to the Swiss, something like 'Zut.'"

"Not at all. Zug is a little village, very near here."

"And what is there so attractive about it?"

"Not much, ordinarily; but evidently you do not know that the Federal shooting-match has begun at Zug. It is the event of all others that develops to its utmost the enthusiasm of all the cantons. A hundred thousand francs in prizes, thirty thousand rifles all together. Seriously, it is curious and interesting, and you ought to see it."

It was in obedience to the Master's counsel, and not without regret at leaving him, that we alighted a few hours later, at the Zug station.

XI

A hen in the midst of her chickens--that is the first impression of the little village of Zug, with its belfry towering up from the midst of the low houses. But what a background it has! The green velvet of the lowest fold of the mountains, which, from there, stretch away, one above another, to the far-away snows of rose and mauve! When one draws near to the little town its aspect changes; now one sees only an ancient fortified gate having in its midst an enormous dial. Large flags wave slowly in the light breeze and the many-coloured banners of the different Swiss cantons hang from every angle of the high roof with its many turrets, which surmounts this gate. Garlands of leaves festoon in many curves, the pointed arch cut in the ancient structure. And when one has passed under the arch, the street stretching away gives one the illusion of a Chinese street, with its houses of unequal height and its perspective of multi-coloured streamers. But one must go by another route to reach the field where the Federal shooting is established. A frightful uproar leads us unerringly to the place. Temporary barracks in the open fields, a crowd of people, gay and solemn, forming a procession. Here and there the picturesque costumes worn by the natives of some cantons still faithful to the old usages.

Bernese with full gathered skirts, half concealed by the apron of silk, of the colour of a pigeon's neck, with the long corsage of black velvet, held by silver chains to the plaited guimpes, and in their hair the great historic pins.

There are peasants from Fribourg clothed in short breeches, with brown jackets, large hats on their heads, and leaning on their ashen staffs. There are even some Tyrolese, drawn from far away by their curiosity, who please the eye by their bright costumes, their narrow tricoloured aprons, their pointed hats of black felt, ornamented with gold braid and worn very low over the forehead.

We have reached the very heart of the hubbub, and it is like that of a frightful battle; the whistling of thousands of balls, which cut the air without cessation, produces the strangest effect upon the ear. One can imagine oneself wrapped in a network of vibrating iron filaments which weave across and through each other, forming a lattice, and the illusion is so complete that one dares not advance, for fear of injuring these threads. Sheds, divided into compartments and facing in different directions, divide the plain, and in each compartment very busy men hastily load the rifles which they hand to the sharp-shooters, who may be seen from behind taking aim at a far-away target.

Half-unconsciously we allow ourselves to be pushed into one of the boxes, and once there, a Swiss, with the cordial familiarity which prevails in a free country, shouts something into Villiers' ear. He does not hear, but they put a rifle between his hands, and now behold him, in his turn, shouldering and sighting with great care!

What has happened? No one heard the detonation above the uproar, but there is a sudden movement of joyous excitement, and the faraway target, moved by a spring, shakes and salutes the conqueror. Villiers has made a hit! They drag him away; some individuals furnished with enormous trombones appear from somewhere and, forming two lines, make an escort for him. By their puffed-out and crimson cheeks rather than by sound, one surmises the triumphant fanfare. They stop at length before a gaily painted kiosk, surrounded with glass cases, where are displayed the prizes for the best marksmen.

There is a framed portrait of Garibaldi, a pair of gold spectacles, a set of silver, a jewel-box containing a collection of hundred-sous pieces with the effigy of Louis Philippe, arranged in the shape of a star, and many other marvels, from among which Villiers has only to choose; but, overcome by laughter, he is unable to decide. Finally, he un-hooks a necklace of corals and thrusts it in his pocket while someone fastens a commemorative medal to his hat, where it shines in the midst of a flutter of ribbons. The victor then wishes to steal away, but the circle of trombones narrows about him and urges him toward a pavilion consecrated to Bacchus, where a commissary of the Fair, mounted upon a table, solemnly holds out to him the glorious cup, full of the bitter wine of Sarli, which he (concealing a grimace of distaste) is obliged to empty with the best grace possible.

That evening at supper, Wagner was much interested in the adventure, and in order to do honour to the skilful marksman, he uncorked some champagne.

"It is excellent," he said. "My friend Chandon sent it to me."

XII

One day my companions, having articles to write, remained at the Hôtel du Lac, and I arrived alone at Tribschen soon after the two o'clock dinner, a little fearful of having come, perhaps, too soon. The clear sky made the lake very blue and the fresh green of the banks mirrored itself as usual in the tranquil water. I disembarked at the point of the promontory by the foot of the garden, under the little shed which sheltered the wooden steps.

As there was neither door, nor doorkeeper, nor bell, I arrived without giving any signal, and, walking slowly, fearing to find my hosts still at table, I took the least direct route to the house, through a charming, very shady path which follows the edge of the lake. It grows steep very quickly, and the slope which, covered with bushes, topples down to the water, has the appearance of a picturesque little precipice, and nothing could be more lovely to see than the stains of azure made by the lake through the interlacing of the branches. The children have named this corner, where they are forbidden to go alone, for fear of the descents, "The Park of Brigands," and they tell long tales about the adventures which come to pass there after nightfall. At the moment when I came out from the shelter of the trees, the eldest of the little girls saw me and came running, signalling to me not to speak or make any noise. When she reached me, she drew me, without a word, through clumps of trees where I nearly lost my hat, toward a sort of little summer-house of verdure, very near the house, where the coffee had been served. The Master was there, seated on a cane easy-chair, smoking a cigar; Cosima, standing, peeped through the interstices of the bushes, and made me a sign to keep silent: but Wagner, looking at me fiercely, said in a low tone, "What, did you bring all these people?"

"What people?"