Part 3

Cosima called me, by a gesture, near to her, and from there I could see why my hosts were keeping so quietly out of sight. A coach full of tourists had stopped before the steps of the house. A personage clothed entirely in brown holland, against which appeared the black cord of a lorgnette, was interviewing the servant. I thought at first sight that it was a question of some tiresome acquaintance whom they were endeavouring to get rid of as politely as possible; but I soon comprehended that these were foreign tourists, entire strangers, who, with an incredible assurance, insisted upon visiting Richard Wagner. This excursion was doubtless fitted in between the ascension of the Righi and the promenade to the Lion of Lucerne. They insisted with unparallelled impertinence, feigning not to comprehend the assertions of the servant, prolonging the discussion wilfully, while, in the little grove near-by, one dared not breathe, for fear of being discovered. At length Jacob persuaded these intruders that the Master was absent. The carriage was started again amid the creaking of old iron, the gravel of the drive crunched under the wheels, and the vehicle, crowded with green umbrellas, blue veils, and red shawls, went back down the hill.

"At last we are free!" cried the Master, rising.

"How," said I, "could you believe that I would bring such a rabble here?"

"You arrived at the same time," said he; "but I ought not to have suspected you."

"Nor to have given me that terrible look!"

"The look was for the tourists," said he, laughing. "I am simply beset by the audacity of these strangers," added he. "This scene is very often repeated. The worst of it is that Jacob is against me. He finds all these people very distinguished, and cannot understand why I refuse to see them."

"What a queer situation it would be if one were to receive them. What would they say, and what attitude of mind would they reveal?"

"They relate a curious anecdote of Goethe with regard to a similar adventure," said Wagner. "He was so often intruded upon by the curious in his house in Weimar, that one day, made impatient by the determination of an unknown Englishman to force an entrance, he suddenly ordered his servant to show him in. The Englishman entered. Goethe planted himself erect in the centre of the room, his arms crossed, his eyes on the ceiling, motionless like a statue.

"Surprised for the moment, the stranger soon comprehended the situation, and without being in the least disconcerted, he put on his glasses, walked slowly round Goethe, inspected him from head to foot, and went out without saluting. It is difficult to say," concluded the Master, "which of the two showed the keener wit."

XIII

Every evening at eight o'clock--although, honestly ashamed of having been the cause of such a change in the household, we made every effort to prevent it--every evening at eight o'clock, the door of the drawing-room opened and Jacob announced the supper.

The dining-room was rather small and narrow, and was nearly filled by the oblong table, at one end of which Wagner took his place.

To the supper, consisting of cold meats, salad, cakes and fruit, the Master loved to add some of the champagne of his friend Chandon, and this, he said, we could drink without hesitation because his French admirer had presented him with more than he could use.

Wagner enjoyed this supper and declared that he could not understand why he had not instituted it long before.

"We never thought of it," said he. "It is an incredible oversight not to have thought of a thing so agreeable, even indispensable! In future, it shall always be served, and we shall bless the reform that was brought about by your fasting of the first evening."

We lingered at table, talking. The Master's words, now violent and impassioned, now joyous, but always sincere, made an intense, almost a magnetic impression upon us. We passed through all the phases that they described--enthusiasm, indignation, despair. Each circumstance that he recalled of his life, so full of vexations, _"les misérabilités,"_ as he said, he seemed to live over again, and we also endured with him all the heart-breaks and the pangs. Yet, if he saw us becoming too deeply moved, in order that we might recover ourselves, he would give expression, without any change of voice, to some irresistible bit of fun, and end by making us shout with laughter.

The pug-dog, "Cos," having a slight irritation of the skin, was on a diet, and meat had been forbidden him. If, unable to resist his urgent pleadings, one of the company stealthily gave him a little morsel, Wagner stopped abruptly in whatever he was saying, and emphatically repeated the doctor's orders. It was wonderful, that considerate thoughtfulness, in which nothing escaped him; and it revealed to us the infinite goodness, the boundless altruism of that great man, with his overwhelming personality.

XIV

Alas! we were none of us capitalists. This pious pilgrimage to the temple of genius and our glorious sojourn there must be paid for, and the money must be earned.

We had undertaken to send to the different journals exhaustive accounts of the Munich Exposition, with letters of travel, and above all, items of news about Richard Wagner, who at that time was the subject of many discussions and disputes. Living, as he did, in strict seclusion, he aroused the curiosity of the people to the highest point.

Not without misgivings, I had written an article for _Le Rappel_, entitled "Richard Wagner at Home."

I did not enlarge upon this to the Master himself, and I sincerely hoped he would never hear of it; but someone, believing it would please him, sent him the article.

He was angry.

"A discord already!" he cried. Then he declared to Cosima that his house and all things relating to his private life, including the dogs, were to him like the mysterious jewel of his destiny, and that he experienced actual terror at seeing them mentioned in the papers.

Cosima did her utmost to excuse and defend me, and the Master was appeased. But a Lucerne leaflet, the _Journal des Étrangers_, took upon itself to reprint the article, thereby drawing to the vicinity of Tribschen a swarm of boats filled with inquisitive observers, and Wagner was freshly annoyed. He felt a real chagrin, he said, because he could not endure such things from his friends, and he wished to consider us his friends. At length, having given him my promise not to repeat the offence, he pardoned it; and a few days later, in order to amuse me, he gave me the following letter--to read and then destroy-- which had made them laugh heartily, and which a lady of Thonon had been inspired to write by my article, "Richard Wagner at Home."

"My dear Sir,

"Pray pardon me for writing to you in this way, but I have just seen, in a newspaper, an article about you, and it is with the deepest emotion that I have read all the eulogies it contains, for, my dear Sir, I see that you, also, have passed through evil days. Being myself, at the present time, in the same unfortunate position, I can the more deeply sympathise with you, my dear Sir.

"I was brought up amid the greatest luxury, and was the object of every care and consideration. Unhappily for me, family misfortunes and reverses came upon me, and we lost all. Those who used to call themselves our friends no longer know us.

"Thank God, I have had the best possible education. I am passionately fond of music, but, alas! since our misfortunes, I have not touched a piano, and the fact that I have not the means to procure one is an immense deprivation and a real grief to me.

"Why am I not close to you, my dear Sir! In that case, I feel sure that you would not refuse me admission to your house, and a place at your piano.

"As for me, I have five children, and I have not the means for a home, but if I could be near you, my dear Sir, it seems to me that I should be happy.

"I should be indifferent to all other privations, if I were able to cultivate the art which is so dear to me.

"I foresee your astonishment, my dear Sir, when you read my letter; but if I could only see you, you would no longer be surprised. I know beforehand that your house will be mine, and your piano will be mine...."

"Your piano will be mine...." That phrase remained famous for a long time at Tribschen.

XV

One day, having landed at Tribschen, as I reached the house, I heard through the wide-open windows of the drawing-room, mingling with the light voices and laughter of the children, the sound of a curious melody. What could be happening? Not wishing to interrupt, I advanced very carefully in order not to be heard on the gravelled path, and, having climbed the steps, I saw a delightful picture.

In the centre of the room, the four little girls, the youngest of whom was hardly three, were dancing. Wagner, at the piano, provided the music. The smallest child laughed with delight, revealing all her little new teeth, as she strove to follow the steps of the older ones. Her tiny feet tapped the floor vigorously, out of time with the rhythm which the player, himself laughing and exclaiming as much as the dancers, nevertheless marked with much force. When they grew tired of dancing, I went in.

"Oh, did you see?" cried Senta, running toward me. "That is the Tailors' Quadrille. Papa composed it for us."

"The Tailors' Quadrille." Music of Richard Wagner! If one could only remember that music now! If one could only know, at least, that it is written down and preserved! As for me, I seem to hear it again when I recall that scene, which I remember in every detail, and which is, even to-day, as vivid and living as it is exquisite!

XVI

Villiers had some very singular traits of character to which his old friends paid no attention, but which never failed to astonish those who knew him but slightly and had never been forewarned. He experienced, on occasions, a sort of nervous terror which he did not even attempt to resist.

For instance, one day as he was talking with some one at a street corner, he received in his eye an infinitesimal spatter of saliva. Seized with a sudden panic, Villiers darted away from his amazed interlocutor, and with all speed made for the nearest pharmacy.

His vivid imagination had instantly foreseen all the possibilities of calamity, by this venomous drop he felt himself inoculated with the most baleful maladies. He saw himself condemned, lost! To quiet him, the chemist with great haste had made a point of bathing his eye in all sorts of supposedly powerful lotions.

One afternoon at Tribschen, Villiers was playing with the children; tossing a ball, which, to their great glee, he sent very high in the air. Russ, the Newfoundland, bounding from place to place and barking, did his best to join in the sport.

But once, as he gave a strong impetus to the ball, Villiers' recoiling fist struck a sharp blow on the dog's jowl, drawing from him a reproachful whine. Villiers grew pale as he examined his hand, and found a red mark where the dog's tooth had lightly scratched the skin; then, with one haggard look at us, he turned and fled, running as only he could run.

"What is the matter? Where is he going?" cried Wagner in dismay.

Some answer had to be made.

"Oh, it is nothing. He struck his hand against the teeth of poor Russ, and grazed the skin."

"Yes, I know; but it did not bleed. Is that why he grew so pale?"

"A brain like his receives quick suggestions; in the flash of an eye his thoughts fly to the very limit of possible consequences. Villiers doubtless believes himself in danger of hydrophobia, and as in such case delay adds to the danger, he is running as fast as he can to Lucerne, to have the wound cauterised."

"But there is no wound."

Wagner received an unpleasant impression. He was clearly disturbed by Villiers, whose conversation he found it so difficult to understand, and whose character he could not comprehend.

But it was best to laugh it off. The involuntary culprit, good old Russ, was in perfect health, and there could not be any danger.

When Villiers, feeling rather sheepish, returned to Tribschen on the following day, Wagner, as soon as he saw him in the distance, made a pretence of extreme terror, and exclaimed,

"He is mad! He is mad!"

And as Villiers with a wry smile approached nearer to him, he broke into a run, crying out, "Do not bite me!" Then, as if to escape from the danger, he climbed with extraordinary agility to the very top of a pine-tree.

XVII

The Master asked me if I knew the Military March he had dedicated to the King of Bavaria. He had on his piano a copy of this piece, arranged for four hands.

"Let us play it," said he. "But I warn you that I play the piano very badly."

What of my playing, then! But I felt that I must not disclose my weakness, that, at any cost, this wonderful, rare moment must be enshrined in my memory:--to have played a duet with Richard Wagner, if it were only a few bars!

He took the upper part, and as the bass is more difficult for me, that made the matter worse. But I seated myself courageously, mentally determined to make every effort of which I was capable.

We began to play, without stumbling. I felt as though I were a somnambulist walking on a narrow ledge, and I seemed to have been doing so for a very long time.

But at last, on the third page, Wagner himself hesitated and then stopped, declaring that part too difficult.

"How well you keep the time!" he exclaimed. And then he complimented me upon my way of rolling the _tremolos_. That particular merit was most assuredly brought to light by the emotion of the moment, as I had never known of it before.

My _tremolo_, moreover, remained celebrated at Tribschen--and even at Wahnfried--for I have lived upon my reputation, and, despite all solicitations, I have never risked attempting it again.

Wagner made me a present of that copy of the Cavalry March which I had so anxiously deciphered, and he wrote above the first line:

"À Cheval! À Quatre Mains."

XVIII

"I wish to say to you," announced the Master, one day as we arrived, "that you are invited by me to make an excursion into a very interesting corner of Switzerland--the country of William Tell. The trip is all planned, and everything is arranged."

Again we were rather embarrassed, and endeavoured to protest. But Madam Cosima made signs to me, and, coming nearer, said in a low voice:

"Do not refuse: he would be angry. And let him manage it all; let him take the lead, if you do not wish to grieve him."

"The weather is beautiful," continued Wagner. "We ought not to wait. If it is convenient to you, let us start to-morrow."

"Joyfully, Master."

"Then that is agreed upon. We shall begin the journey by coach, and will call for you at the Hôtel du Lac."

"At what hour?"

"Ah! as to that, it must be early in the morning in order to avoid the great heat. Be ready at half-past five."

"Half-past five. We shall be ready."

The next day, before day in fact, two carriages stopped before the Hôtel du Lac. Wagner was alone in one: Madam Cosima and her daughter Senta occupied the other.

We descended hurriedly, all ready to go, if still a little sleepy. Villiers, very much flurried, instead of going directly to the carriage, tried to get into the little shop of Monsieur Frey, close at hand; but the amiable hairdresser was not yet awake, and his disappointed client was forced to go without being curled. He went with me in Wagner's carriage, which took the lead, and the expedition started on its way.

What roads we travelled, what landscapes unfolded before us during that radiant and never-to-be-forgotten morning, I should be quite unable to relate, for I avow that I saw nothing! When one has gazed at the sun, for a long time one sees nothing more than a flame which comes between the eyes and all other things. So it was with me; the face of the Master masked all Nature, so that I saw only that. I remember very well that the slanting rays of the rising sun enveloped Wagner, and cast a light on his under-lip; this light sparkled at every inflexion, and his words seemed like stars.

I had questioned him with regard to Mendelssohn: the works of Mendelssohn had a great charm for me, which endured in spite of my Wagnerian exclusiveness, a fact of which I was a little ashamed.

"Mendelssohn is a great landscape-painter," said he to me, "and his palette has a richness that is unequalled. No one else transposes the external beauty of things into music as he does. The Cave of Fingal, among others, is an admirable picture. He is able, conscientious, and clever. Yet, in spite of all these gifts, he fails to move us to the depths of the soul: it is as if he painted only the appearance of sentiment, and not the sentiment itself."

Before noon we expected to reach an inn, where we should try to get luncheon, or rather, the German dinner. At that point the coaches were to be abandoned, and the journey would be continued by steamboat.

For a long time we skirted the edge of a lake, very blue between its green banks--that is all I remember about it; then stopped in front of a commonplace little house by the side of the road. Where this was I do not know. A recent study of Baedeker makes me suppose that it was at a place called Brunnen.

On the other side of the road was the lake, and the landing-place for the boats was almost in front of the house.

There was nothing to indicate that it was an inn, but the Master knew the people, and while we went upstairs to a room on the first floor, furnished only with a round table, some chairs, and an old piano, he conferred with the proprietor and arranged the menu. He returned to us triumphant, and cried:

"We shall have 'un druide' of ancient Gaul!" The meaning of this terrible pun did not strike us at first, but we laughed immoderately when we found that it was a question of "une truite" (a trout)!

Two windows of the little room that we were in faced the lake, a third, a side window, was open and overlooked the court, where a blacksmith was at work. Wagner listened to the ringing stroke of the hammer on the anvil. Suddenly he opened the piano and began to play the motif of Siegfried forging the sword. At the measure where the blade is struck he stopped, and it was the blacksmith who, striking the iron with an astonishing precision, unconsciously completed the theme.

"You see," said the Master, "how well I have calculated the time, and how exactly the blow falls."

But _"le druide"_ made his entrance, and we proceeded to render him the honours that he merited.

XIX

Wagner was an admirable organiser. Just as the coffee was finished and the cigarettes smoked, we heard the whistle of the steamboat, and had only to cross the road and go aboard. What is there to tell about this voyage, except that there are some moments in life when all nature is illuminated by the light that you carry within yourself; when the air seems more limpid, the sky more luminous, the water more transparent; when all vibrates harmoniously throughout the scene which envelops your joy.

Certain it is that there was never for me such a blue lake between such fresh hills, and yet I did not see them. The face of the Master, his beaming eyes, where blended the most beautiful shades of sapphire--that was what I saw, and I said to Madam Cosima, who thought quite as I did,--

"Now, at last, I comprehend that happiness of paradise, so extolled by believers, the seeing of the Gods face to face!"

The setting sun illumined a beatified sky when the boat stopped at the last station. The lake appeared to end there, and I believe the little port where we disembarked was called Treib, and from there one ascended to Seelisberg.

I was altogether unacquainted with the previous life of Richard Wagner; I knew nothing of his political exile or of his long sojourn in this country where he was leading us: I had no idea of the ordeals he had passed through, of the heart-breaks which had preceded the consoling lull of the present hour, this happy time of renewed inspiration, during which I had the good fortune to find him so full of joy, of energy, and of serenity.

I was, therefore, very much surprised, delightfully surprised, by the scene which followed his landing. Before he put his foot on shore he had been recognised. Very soon a crowd assembled: boatmen, residents, attendants, all hurried toward him, and with wonderful enthusiasm acclaimed Richard Wagner, pressing his hands, kissing his garments with a sort of adoration. The Master thanked them laughing, but with wet eyes. He drew us quickly away from the crowd.

"These good people," said he, "they have not forgotten me yet."

Then he told us how much this land of exile had meant to him.

"I arrived here like a criminal driven out of his country, knowing not where to find refuge. This is the very village to which I came. And that first night when, sad and disheartened, I made ready to sleep in a strange room, a chorus of men, accompanied by harps and brass instruments broke forth under my window. Dressing again quickly, I opened the shutters, and saw on the lake several boats hung with lanterns, and filled with men who sang. Can you imagine my emotion in listening to them? For they sang my music, fragments from my operas! I could hardly believe my ears. How could it happen that while I was fleeing from one country which hated me, here, in this out-of-the-way village, I was loved; they knew my works, and welcomed me like this? I have lived a long time among these honest Swiss people, and I am deeply grateful to them, because at the moment of my greatest despair they gave me back faith and hope." Wagner spoke with feeling, and his voice was serious; but his laugh rang clearly as he added:

"And that is why you will have bad beds tonight, and an indifferent supper. For I know you would not have me take you to any other inn than this one from which I carried away such a memory."

XX

The inn was, indeed, badly kept, but delightfully situated, at the base of the mountains and close to the margin of another lake, which the setting sun transformed into a basin of gold.

When our rooms had been given us and supper ordered, Wagner proposed that we should go by boat to the place where a stream gushes out from the rock, and is supposed to possess all sorts of virtues, among others that of granting forgetfulness to whomsoever shall drink of its waters.

The inn-keeper himself rigged up his boat for us, and offered to take us there. With one shove of his boat-hook he launched it upon the luminous surface, which shivered and darkened into blue shadows.

Wagner began to sing, since we were now in the land of William Tell,

"Accours dans ma nacelle, Timide jouvencelle...."

But we responded with themes from _The Flying Dutchman_, and after that, _Lohengrin_. Then the Master joined in, and started the song of the Ship-boy from _Tristan_. All the _motifs_ of the first and third Acts which have to do with a ship were passed in review; The _Rhinegold_ also had its turn, and at last Wagner cried:

"We have exhausted all my aquatic music!"

The mountains made an almost sheer descent to the lake. We reached the spring that spouts from the rock. Madam Cosima wished to taste this water, but I declared that I would not drink, lest I should lose the memory of the wonderful journey.

The twilight lowered; gradually everything was obscured, and we sailed under the deepening shadows. Wagner thought it would be more prudent not to leave the boat, but to return to the inn, where supper awaited us.

XXI

After supper, silent and thoughtful, seated about the Master on the terrace of the inn, we gave ourselves up to the grave and restful influences of the night, so quickly fallen between those high mountains which enclosed us. The lake was invisible save for a few faint reflections.