Part 6

Discouragement and bitter despair again overcame him, and he believed that from that hour he should no longer have the force to retrieve himself. In the most sombre humour, he was making his preparations to leave Stuttgart when an attendant of the hotel where he was staying brought to him a visiting card upon which he read: "Von Pfistermeister, Aulic Secretary to His Majesty the King of Bavaria."

How could he foresee that this little slip of paper marked the end of all his troubles, and that happiness was in store for him?

Wagner suspected that it might be some creditor in disguise, and refused to receive the unknown person. But the visitor insisted, saying that King Ludwig had sent him and that he could not be denied.

When the announcer of miracles appeared he at once put in the Master's hand the King's portrait, and a diamond ring. Ludwig II. wished to declare himself a most fervent admirer of the genius of Wagner, and offered to use all his power to aid him to finish his work and to realize his dreams. The messenger had received orders not to return without Richard Wagner.

Stirred by deep emotion, his face streaming with tears that he could not check, Wagner comprehended that misfortune was finally overcome, and that a treaty of sublime alliance was about to be made between himself and the royal disciple so suddenly revealed to him.

The first act of this eighteen-year-old king, who had ascended the throne less than a month before, was to render homage to an artist of genius, and to reach out to him a fraternal hand.

While Ludwig II., in his palace at Munich, awaited the arrival of Wagner with joyful impatience, a courtier wishing to flatter the sovereign, said to him:

"Men of genius equal to that of Wagner re-visit the earth only once in a thousand years."

"A man with genius equal to that of Wagner," responded the king, "has never before come to this world, and he will never come again."

And Ludwig II., to the great scandal of his Court, ran hastily down the staircase of honour, to greet Richard Wagner.

That meeting was perhaps one of the most touching and memorable incidents of history.

Wagner retains a magical impression of it.

"The king is so comely, his thoughts are so elevated and his soul so noble," said he, "that I am afraid his life may pass athwart this vulgar world like a dream of the Gods.

"He knows and understands me like my own soul. He longs to remove all my troubles and embarrassments, and help me to accomplish my work!"

We now know that in spite of his power and his good will, the king was not able to attain to the realization of all his desires.

The Archangel could not subdue the dragon, so covered by the impenetrable breastplate formed of human imbecility.

The sword dulled itself against that thick shell, the crown narrowly escaped being shattered thereon: the hatred and fury of the Philistines against an artist of genius increased this time to the point of riot. They howled in the streets, they broke the windows of the Master's house, until at last, fearing some misfortune for the royal friend who persisted in defending him, he feigned to separate himself from him, and quitted Munich.

If the king as chief of the State was unhappily forced to give way before the popular tempest, as friend he did not concede a single point, and remained true to his faith.

In that dear retreat of Tribschen which Wagner then found, forever delivered, thanks to the royal friend, from the sordid troubles which bedim the spirit, he had no longer any but lofty cares, and, in retirement and peace, he finished the _"Meistersinger"_ and recommenced work on the "Ring of the Nibelung."

[1] Author of "The Physiology of Taste."

[2] Kingdom of Bavaria.

II

The train puffed and panted as it laboured up the slope which rises without interruption from Lindau to Munich. We were' already very high up, for occasional mists of cloud drifted across our carriage. Wonderful landscapes opened before us; far away peaks tearing the mist into ribbons, glimpses of deep valleys soon lost to sight, forests of pines, hills of a fresh velvety green which undulated to the sky, and at the stations of the infrequent hamlets and villages which we passed, the blue and white of the royal escutcheons always reappeared upon the gates and arches.

"_Königreich Bayern_!" How happy we were to be in the domain of King Charming! We thought and spoke only of him.

This same route, by which we were coming, he once travelled in the opposite direction, alone and in secret, in order to go and surprise the Master at Tribschen and, "to experience again during a few wonderful hours the joy of being with him."

Wagner had told us the story of this journey of the King.

"It was the 22nd of May, 1866, on the fifty-third anniversary of my birth. Early in the morning the king had started out alone from the castle of Starnberg, riding his horse to Biesenhofen where he had taken the train to Lindau; there he disembarked, and to my profound astonishment, arrived that same afternoon at Tribschen. They set up a camp-bed for him in my study. He begged me to return with him to Bavaria, but, for his own sake, I felt that I must refuse.

"In the following year, Ludwig II. was affianced to his cousin, the Archduchess Sophie, sister to the Empress of Austria, and, in order to add to the significance of the marriage ceremonies, fixed for the 12th October, they reserved for this date the first representation of "_Die Meistersinger_." But, before that time arrived, one evening when "_Tristan_" was being given at the Royal Theatre, the prospective bride appeared in a box in an unceremonious toilet; she listened to the work with an absent air, and without attempting to disguise the fact that she was bored. She was not Wagnerian in her tastes! The discovery abruptly broke the spell: the King judged that a person who shared so little in his faith and his enthusiasm ought not to be his wife, and he closed his heart against her.

"We admired him for that, and Villiers declared that if he understood German better he would compose a poem in which he would say magnificent things, and would send it to Ludwig II."

This idea led us back to the dedication printed at the beginning of the score of _"Die Walküre,"_ those well-known stanzas that Wagner addressed "To the royal friend," consecrating him in this way to an ever glorious immortality.

The verses are reputed to be untranslatable into French, and that fact naturally incited us to make the attempt. One of our number was thoroughly conversant with the language of Goethe, and for some time back we had been working at the translation. What a good chance to go on with it, during these hours of the journey!

In the original, Wagner's poem is very beautiful, with an unusual grace and exquisite subtlety of expression.

What would it be in French?

Here is our attempt at a translation:

AU ROYAL AMI.

"O roi, doux seigneur qui protèges ma vie! Toi qui révélés la suprême bonté, Combien, arrivé au but de mes efforts, je m'efforce De trouver le mot juste qui t'exprimerait ma gratitude! Pour le dire ou l'écrire, comme je la cherche en vain! Et pourtant, de plus en plus impérieux, m'entraîne le désir De trouver ce mot qui exprimerait Le sentiment de reconnaissance que je porte dans mon coeur.

Ce que tu es pour moi, je ne puis, émerveillé, m'en rendre compte Qu'en évoquant ce que je fus sans toi... Pas une étoile ne se leva pour moi, que je ne la visse pâlir; Pas un espoir que je n'eusse perdu. Livré au bon plaisir, à la faveur du monde, Aux jeux du gain et du risque, Tout ce qui en moi luttait pour l'émancipation de l'art Se vit trahi par le sort, sombra dans la bassesse.

Celui qui, jadis, commanda à la branche desséchée De reverdir dans la main du prêtre, Bien qu'il m'eût ravi tout espoir de salut Et que la dernière illusion consolante se fût évanouie, Fortifia en mon sein cette foi En moi que je puisais en moi-même; Comme je lui demeurais fidèle, Il fit refleurir pour moi la branche desséchée.

Ce que solitaire et muet je gardais au fond de moi Vivait aussi dans le sein d'un autre; Ce qui agitait profondément et douloureusement l'esprit d'un homme Emplissait d'un joie sacrée un coeur d'adolescent; Ce qui nous entraînait dans une ardeur printanière Vers un même but,--conscient... inconscient... Devait s'épancher comme une joie du printemps: Double foi, faisant naître une frondaison nouvelle.

Tu es le doux printemps qui m'as paré à nouveau, Qui as rajeuni la sève de mes branches et de mes ramures; C'est ton appel qui m'a fait sortit de la nuit, De la nuit hivernale qui tenait inerte ma force; Ton altier salut, qui m'a charmé, M'arrache à la souffrance dans une joie soudaine Et je marche, à présent, fier et heureux, par de nouveaux sentiers, Dans le royaume estival de la grâce....

Quel mot pourrait donc te faire comprendre Tout ce que tu es pour moi? Si je peux à peine exprimer le peu que je suis, Toi, au contraire, tu es roi en tout. Aussi la lignée de mes oeuvres repose-t-elle en toi, Dans une paix bien heureuse. Et puisque tu as comblé tous mes espoirs, Délicieusement j'ai renoncé à l'espoir.

Donc je suis pauvre, je ne garde qu'une chose, La foi à laquelle s'unit la tienne: C'est elle, la puissance qui fait que je me montre fier, C'est elle qui saintement trempe mon amour. Mais si, partagée, cette foi est encore à moitié mienne Elle sérait tout entière perdu pour moi si elle venait à te manquer: Ainsi, c'est toi seul qui me donnes la force de te remercier Grâce à ta foi royale et sans défaillance."

We had great difficulty in making this translation and were far from satisfied with it. But there was no more time, the train was already slowing up to the station, we had reached. Munich--_München_!

Outside the station, the omnibus which we took for the hotel of _"Trois Rois Mages,"_ after going a short distance was obliged to stop before a military orchestra. Fine looking, fair-haired soldiers in sky-blue uniforms, were grouped about their leader, and were playing nothing else than the religious march from "_Lohengrin_!"

Later on, Wagner, in fun, tried to make us believe that we owed it to him that we had been "so religiously received."

III

What an amusing city is Munich, with its architectural follies! I do not know another outside of France which seems to me so attractive. Ludwig I. probably had a great love for memorials, and certainly, he hesitated at nothing. It was he who wished to reproduce and bring together in his capital, all the edifices which he had admired in the course of his travels; so this pretty city resembles the "Rue des Nations" of some universal exposition.

Do you love the Florentine style? Here is the library and its majestic marble staircase leading to the "loggia dei Lanzi," copied exactly from that of Florence; a little farther on, under the name of Königbau you will see a reproduction of the famous Pitti Palace. If you prefer Roman art, the arch of Constantine is close at hand, and you will also come across a fifteenth-century dome. If it is Greek art that attracts you, you may see the Propylæum of Athens, the Glyptothek in the Ionic style, or the palace of Fine Arts in the Corinthian style: or better still, near a consecrated wood, the Hall of Fame. If you dream of Venice, you have only to listen to the fluttering wings of the pigeons of Saint Mark's, who have, evidently, all migrated to Munich!

There are some buildings like cathedrals, high and loaded down with sculptures, but they are of moulded terra-cotta. The Renaissance style is well represented, the rococo abounds, Egyptian art, even, is not forgotten. In order to commemorate a noble feat of arms, they have erected a metal obelisk, modelled upon the monolith of Luxor, but this one has not the merit of being a single casting of bronze.

The International Exposition of Painting, ostensible reason for our journey, was, I think, very remarkable; it did honour to the group of artists who organized it and brought into prominence the Bavarian school of painting. But I am forced to admit that in spite of the very conscientious accounts that I published in I cannot remember how many journals, I recall only very confused memories of them. But I do remember one painter, perhaps forgotten today, who was then at the beginning of his career and was much talked of: Gabriel Max--I can still see in my mind his lovely martyr, who, in the whiteness of death seemed to sleep so easily upon the cross.

On the other hand, a visit to the Pinakothek made an ineffaceable impression upon me. The Rubens collection above all seemed to me superb: the artist triumphs there in all his fleshly glory--he is jubilant, dazzling!

And what perfect taste was shown in the placing of the canvases! What a sensible arrangement! As far as possible, each room held the works of a single master grouped upon a favourable background and under a well managed lighting. In this way the intensity of effect was doubled. One experienced to the full the painter's charm, and the contrast between one master and another was startling. For instance in the hall of Van Dyck, as one entered after viewing the resplendent walls of the hall of Rubens, the subdued colouring gave the impression of restful and mysterious shadows, out of which seemed to steal wonderful white masks of a distinction that is without equal. Then, too, the catalogue, translated into French, did not lack amusement for us: one read such things as these:

"The Virgin is seated at evening before an edifice: at her knee the little Jesus seizes with the right hand the lung border of her robe."

"Vanity under the guise of a beautiful woman of luxurious form, supporting herself with the left hand which holds a dying candle, upon a round mirror."

"A wolf devours a lamb while a fox also enters there."

"A woman seated beside an ass which brays on the ground nursing her infant."

"Two dogs quarrel with a calf's head."

"Portrait of the Elector Maximilian fully braced."

"St Martin on white horseback."

"The Christ, after having suffered death, receives graciously the four repentant sinners."

It is a good thing to laugh a little!

IV

Each morning bills were posted, giving the programmes of the music to be played in the different beer-gardens of Munich during the two o'clock dinner-hour. Numerous selections from the Wagner operas appeared in these programmes, and so we decided to leave the hotel of the _"Trois Rois Mages"_ and its commonplace table d'hôte in order to take furnished apartments and be free to choose the place for our meals according to the musical menu. Behold us then, our resolution taken, rushing from one end of the city to the other in search of the appointed restaurant, and, once there, hobnobbing with its population, whether turbulent students, or middle-class families who love to dine to the sound of fiddles.

To us, who were so unaccustomed to them, these restaurant orchestras seemed excellent, and we had great pleasure in listening to the fragments which we so rarely had the opportunity to hear at home. We were delighted to notice that the dining public always gave an especially warm reception to the selections from Wagner.

One day we went to a very distant restaurant where the overture of _"Die Meistersinger"_ was to be played. The orchestra was disposed in a most extraordinary fashion. In default of a better place they had installed it upon the outside gallery of a châlet which was in the midst of the garden, a narrow balcony where two musicians could with difficulty sit abreast, so that the whole number of the players extended from one end to the other of the façade and the double-basses were a long distance from the brass instruments. We left the table where we had dined to find seats in the enclosure so that the sounds should be less scattered, and took our places in front of the balcony facing the leader, who occupied the very centre.

Not far from us were seated three young men who had also drawn near to the musicians, and who scrutinised us secretly and persistently. One of them, a very fair blond, tall and slight, seemed to me the perfect type of the German student; he had long hair, straight as a poker, of a colour lighter than his face, and his delicate profile recalled the portraits of Schiller. One of his companions, whose golden beard and gold-rimmed eye-glasses glistened in the sun, had an expressive face which fairly radiated happiness and enthusiasm. The third was rather small, and one could hardly see his features through the disordered profusion of his brown hair, his eyebrows and his beard. A white dog stayed close by his side.

Suddenly I heard the young man with the golden beard say, in a very audible voice, as he looked at us.

"I'll wager it is they."

After the last notes of the overture of _"Die Meistersinger,"_ as we applauded with all our might, the group of strangers came nearer.

"No longer any doubt," one of them said, "since they applauded."

And the young man with the golden beard advanced without hesitation.

"I am Hans Richter--" said he as he saluted us--"and you certainly must be the friends who have just been visiting Richard Wagner. The Master wrote me to put myself at your service and to act as your guide about Munich, but he did not tell me where to find you."

Hans Richter, the chief of 'Orchestra of the Royal Theatre, who would have the honour of conducting the "_Rheingold_!"

After cordial greetings Richter presented his friends, first the heavily bearded man, then the other.

"Herr Scheffer, a Wagnerian fanatic. Herr Franz Servais, son of the celebrated Belgian violinist; he has just come from Brussels to hear the _"Rheingold"_."

So the man who had appeared to be the personification of a German student was a Belgian composer!

All seated at the same table with foaming bocks before us, we quickly became acquainted, and found each other very congenial, since we served under the same banner. It appeared that they had been searching for us all over Munich. Our passage to the hotel of the Three Kings had been traced, but we had gone from there without leaving any address, and from that point they could find no clue. Herr Scheffer had been very keen to find us before this especial day was over, and had applied to the police, but chance had forestalled them.

"We had promised," said Richter, "to conduct you to a reunion this evening, at the house of the Countess of Schleinitz. We shall all be there."

"Liszt will be there," exclaimed Servais, "he arrived in Munich yesterday, and you will also see the Countess Muchanoff."

"Liszt!"

I thought of Cosima, and her sorrow at being disapproved of by her father: I felt I would rather not see him. But my companions had already joyfully accepted, and had arranged a meeting place for the evening, at eight o'clock.

V

The Countess of Schleinitz, wife of the minister of the royal house of Prussia, at whose house we met, was an extremely gracious little person, very small and delicate, even fragile. She spoke French like a Parisian, a French sparkling with wit and drollery, and in her glance there was a gleam of passion. One could have said:--

"Le Caprice a taillé son petit nez charmant...."

A little snub nose tip-tilted with an elegant impertinence. The charm of her smile was trebled by the dimples it made in her cheeks.

They did not fail to introduce me to a great number of people, whose names, few of them easy to remember, have escaped me. I recall that of Lenbach, the already illustrious painter, and I remember the beautiful head of Edward Schuré, with its inspired and slightly "absent" air.

The appearance of Franz Liszt astonished me.

I was evidently out of the running, I was ignorant of everything: why that long black cassock? Was he a priest? With that smooth-shaven face, had he also a tonsure in the locks that fell long and straight to his shoulders? But what eyes, like a lion, what burning glances under the shaggy eyebrows! What overmastering irony in the curves of the large mouth with its thin lips! In the whole attitude what majesty, tempered with benevolence.

The entrance of Liszt caused an extreme excitement in the assemblage, and I became more and more surprised. Could it be that he was a saint? They showed such an extraordinary veneration for him, especially the women. They hurried toward him, and almost kneeling, kissed his hands, raising looks of ecstasy to his face.

But my attention was suddenly drawn to a woman who had arrived at the same moment--surely this must be she, the mysterious beauty who came from the north, in a whirlwind of snow, and herself whiter than the snow. The lady with eyes like Parma violets, whom the poets have sung with such longing, the Countess of Kalergis, now Countess Muchanoff. _La Symphonie en blanc majeur_ herself in fact! As yet she was standing with her back to me, at the other side of the grand piano. People were crowding about her as she took their outstretched hands. She was tall, a muslin scarf covered her shoulders, her pale blond hair curled at the nape of her neck. I repeated under my breath some words from the well-known poem which she had inspired my father to write, so long ago:--

"Conviant la vue enivrée De sa boréale fraîcheur A des régals de chair nacrée, A des débauches de blancheur.

Son sein, neige moulée en globe, Contre les camélias blancs Et le blanc satin de sa robe Soutient des combats insolents.

Dans ces grandes batailles blanches, Satins et fleurs ont le dessous, Et, sans demander leurs revanches, Jaunissent comme des jaloux. * * * * * * * * De quel mica de neige vierge, De quelle moelle de roseau, De quelle hostie et de quel cierge A-t-on fait le blanc de sa peau?..."

Alfred de Musset was also a fervent admirer of this white idol, and later, Heinrich Heine paraphrased, in honour of her whom he called, "The Cathedral of the God Love," the verses of Théophile Gautier:

"Auprès d'elle la neige de l'Himalaya Paraît grise comme la cendre; Le lis que sa main saisit, aussitôt, par le contraste Ou par jalousie, devient couleur de rouille..."

I really dreaded the moment when she would turn, and, as she made a movement to do so, I closed my eyes, to keep for a little longer the illusion of the past.

Almost at once I hear the rustling of silk close beside me; a clear musical voice addresses me, sweetly modulated, with a slight Russian accent. The Countess Muchanoff seats herself beside me and presses my hand, as she assures me that there is no need for an introduction, for she has recognised me without hearing my name, and that having the same admirations, the same ardent beliefs, we must belong to the same ideal family and should love even before we know each other.

She seems a very great lady, very sure of herself, intelligent, and filled with a passionate love of art. I look for the white camellias near the snow of her breast--very marble-like, in truth, but with the help, perhaps, of pearl white and a touch of rice powder. Her face is regular, pale under the fair hair so cleverly arranged. Although they believe her to be too superior to linger over any artifices of coquetry, she undoubtedly seeks to retain and to prolong a beauty so celebrated, but she depends still more upon the graces of her mind, which time does not affect, upon her intellectual culture and her musical talent.