Part 7

With a coaxing familiarity she makes a strong effort to win me, to inspire me with confidence, but I am haunted by the idea that she is prejudiced against Cosima, that she has betrayed her friendship, and I find it an effort to respond to her friendly advances, or to abandon my reserve.

Liszt in his turn approaches me; he speaks of my father, whom he knew; he has seen me as a child and remembers me, although I have no memory of him. I find that he has the very suave manners of a priest--but how can he be a priest, and why are all these women so taken with him? Just now they are greatly perturbed at seeing him occupied with one who has made no advances, and so they cluster about him again, begging him to play something, teasing him to sit down at the piano. This he refuses to do and repulses them rather rudely, declaring that it is Madame Muchanoff who ought to play, that he himself has too much pleasure in listening to her to seat himself at the piano when she is present.

The Countess rises, nonchalant and disdainful, she draws off her gloves slowly, and her smile says plainly enough that she devotes herself only to spare Liszt a drudgery, and that she is amused, to the point of derision, at the jealous rage of all those who will be forced to applaud her.

"L'ivoire, où ses mains ont des ailes, Et, comme des papillons blancs, Sur la pointe des notes frêles Suspendent leurs baisers tremblants..."

These lines mingle, in my mind, with the phrases of the nocturne that the Countess plays. She is certainly talented; but it seems to me that her playing lacks restraint, that she exaggerates and plays with too much abandonment.

After she had stopped playing Liszt offered me his arm to conduct me to the refreshment table, in the face of the envious and uncomprehending glances of the greater number of the women. He allowed every one else to pass before us, with the idea, no doubt, of withdrawing with me a little to one side. In fact, as soon as we were alone, he said to me in a low voice:--

"You have seen Cosima?"

I had none of that sentiment which the high personality of Liszt evoked among his intimates. I was absolutely ignorant of the beauty of his compositions, which I was to admire so much in the future, and of the incomparable loftiness of his character. I considered him only as a very celebrated pianist. So I was not in the least intimidated, and, believing him to be hostile to the best interests of his daughter, it was with a decided vehemence that I replied to him:--

"I beg of you, do not say anything against your daughter to me. I am her partisan to such an extent that I cannot admit any blame. In the face of a personality so superhuman as Richard Wagner's, the prejudices and even the laws of men cannot prevail. Who would not feel the fascination and submit joyfully to the supremacy of such a genius? In Cosima's place, you would do as she does, and it is your duty as a father not to put any obstacle in the way of the realization of the great event to which she has the right to look forward."

Liszt grasped me warmly by the arm.

"I am entirely of your opinion, but I may not express it," said he in a still lower voice. "The habit which I wear imposes certain opinions which I cannot openly deny. I know the temptations of the heart too well to judge severely: conventions force me to be silent, but within myself, I desire more than anyone else for a legal solution of this painful affair. I can do nothing to hasten it; as to retarding it in any way whatever, I have never had such a thought."

Greatly surprised and relieved I cried out, impulsively--

"Will you authorise me to write that to Cosima?"

"Certainly," he replied. "I wished to ask you to do so. Assure her that there is no need of a rupture between us, that my heart is with her, but that she ought to comprehend my reserve, and to show, before the world, a certain consideration with respect to me, until the new order of things is established."

"I will write this very evening. If you could know what relief and what happiness this news will give them."

"I am very glad of that. You see how I have seized the first opportunity that has offered to make known to my daughter, secretly, my innermost thought. I have sought for such an opportunity without finding it. In whom could I confide? Envy and hypocrisy find a place in all human hearts. Very few have your frankness and your beautiful, unrestrained enthusiasm.... But let us go in. I believe that we are watched, and that people are already surprised by our long conversation."

In fact many anxious and irritated looks were directed toward us, and, if the eyes of the women clustered there, had been daggers, I should never have passed the threshold of the dining-room alive.

During the refreshment hour Villiers de l'Isle-Adam talked with the Countess Muchanoff, who appeared to be struck with amazement. He had pinned upon his evening coat the decoration of the Knights of Malta, a little cross set with white enamel, and he explained to her that he was Grand Master of that order, which had been bestowed upon one of his ancestors in 1520. France not recognizing the knighthood of Malta, he could only wear the insignia when abroad. Then, at least, he could wear them conscientiously.

Villiers then proceeded to recount the complicated and confused history of his incontestable claims to the throne of Greece, by reason of this Grand-mastership. He had even, once upon a time, presented his claim as a candidate for the royal succession, and had had a memorable campaign in the effort to maintain it.

From heraldic fantasies and aristocratic vanities, Villiers passed, happily, to the more reasonable pride of the poet: he narrated his reading at Wagner's house and his glorious success, and, when they separated, he had promised the Countess Muchanoff to give, at the _Hôtel des Quatre Saisons_, on any evening which she should be pleased to name, a second reading of _La Révolte_.

VI

We very soon became intimate with Franz Servais, and grew to regard him as our good friend. It was through him that I tried to penetrate some of the mysteries that seemed to me to envelope the life of Liszt, and first of all I asked how, and why, he was a priest?

"It was only four years ago that he took the orders," said Servais to me, "and became the Abbé Liszt."

"In what way, and why?"

"No one knows! On his return from a journey to Rome, he was a priest. Perhaps he wished, in this way, to explain to the world, which had been in a state of excitement over his projects of marriage with the Princess Wittgenstein, that they were definitely abandoned. I believe also that he was relieved at being able to take away from all the women who adored him, the hope of obtaining his hand."

"But as a matter of fact, all the women seem, even now, to quarrel over him quite openly. Does not his habit make a difference to them?"

"No, on the contrary, it inflames them the more, it has all the fascination of forbidden fruit! Liszt exercises, moreover, an extraordinary influence over the women and even the men who understand and admire him. I am able to speak of this with knowledge, because I submit to it myself without attempting to defend myself, and I am proud to be one of his pupils. But some of the women undoubtedly go too far. It leads them into a sort of idolatry, of fetichism. They dispute over a flower that he has touched, they gather up the ends of his cigars, and those who are sufficiently independent, and are able to do so, follow him from city to city, all through the year."

"And does not that exasperate him?"

"On the contrary, he would be very unhappy without the atmosphere of adoration which surrounds him. He loves the incense of these excessive flatteries. He feels the need of this mystical kingdom, and in order to hold it together, he distributes his favours, very simply, according to the merits of the recipients, or in the order of his own preferences."

"But how is he able to maintain order and harmony in his harem, and to keep down jealousy and rivalry?"

"That is the most wonderful thing about it all," said Servais; "he succeeds in keeping peace amongst all his votaries, he even makes them accept and respect a favourite. When you express astonishment at an abnegation so unusual among women, he makes to you this unexpected announcement, 'They love themselves in me.'"

VII

Wagner had telegraphed from Tribschen to the king, to tell him that some French friends, who had arrived in Munich, would be happy to see representations of Lohengrin, _Tannhäuser_ etc., while they waited for the _Rheingold. Lohengrin_ had already been announced. But, further than that, a servant in blue and gold livery brought us, each morning, admissions to the _galerie noble_, sometimes for the Royal Opera, sometimes for the Théâtre de la Résidence; it was by order of the king that we were accorded this favour, and we had the great pleasure, alas! for the French alone a rare one, of being present nearly every evening at productions of the tragedies and comedies of Shakespeare, alternating with operas of Wagner.

In its relation to the theatre, the love which the Bavarians feel for reconstruction and imitation produces the best of results: the plays are very carefully mounted, and the scenic effects very fine and exact. We had the pleasure of seeing, in the space of a few weeks, _Richard III., A Winter's Tale, As You Like It, Twelfth Night, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Lohengrin, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhäuser,_ and _The Mastersingers_.

VIII

I was very glad to meet Liszt again at the soirée given for Villiers de l'Isle-Adam by the Countess Muchanoff. Very soon after my entrance I recognized that he, also, was impatient to speak to me, for he threw me a questioning look, and as soon as we could draw a little away from the others he said to me:--

"Well, what news?"

Then I told him how my letter, repeating his words, had caused a commotion of joy at Tribschen, had given them a blessed release from harrowing cares, and the consolation of knowing that the affection of a heart so dear was not lost. From that certainty they could draw strength for the struggle to come! As for me, simply the messenger, the master had sent me his blessing.

Liszt, his eyes shining with tears quickly dried, seized my hand and rapidly whispered to me:

"Guard well the secret that I confide to you; I will do my best on my return to Italy, to stop a few hours at Lucerne in order to embrace my daughter and my grandchildren."

And then he, who always refused to play, went to the piano, lifted the cover with a quick movement, and ran his masterful fingers over the keys in an impetuous, thrilling and passionate improvisation.

The ovation which this called forth approached delirium, but he hardly noticed it.

It was now the turn of Villiers to charm the audience. Well curled, his Maltese cross in the right place on his left side, he looked very magnificent. Yet he appeared to me a little nervous and disturbed.... Was it possible that the vast ornate drawing-room of the mansion overwhelmed him, and that this gathering of noble, well-dressed ladies, of high functionaries, of artists, forming a half circle as in a theatre, and staring at him in silent attention, abashed him more than the Olympian intimacy of Tribschen? In full light, standing at the end of the grand piano, he seemed to hesitate, he did not speak. But at last, with a proud toss of his head, he threw back his waving hair and began to read in a firm, clear voice.

I was reassured; Villiers, very certain of himself, was taking plenty of time and managing his effects; the audience was interested, a flattering murmur followed certain passages, they applauded; then again, the respectful silence was renewed, and they listened intently.

But, alas! What is happening? Suddenly Villiers is silent, he drops his manuscript and looks at his audience with wide open eyes filled with fright. With an hysterical gesture he un-hooks the belt of his trousers, then he takes off his shoes and seats himself on the top of the piano. Oh, horror! What can he mean? Is that in the play? A mystification? A wager? In any case it is in very bad taste! There is a mocking uproar and everyone rises; they come to me; they question me.

What can I say? How can I make them understand that Villiers believes himself in danger of death, and that therefore he has done what he thinks is best for himself, irrespective of propriety. He has had, without doubt, a little nervous spasm of the heart; some physician, chaffing him, perhaps, once told him that if anything of the kind happened, he must loosen his clothing quickly, take off his shoes and stockings, and seat himself high up so that his feet would hang. And now they can see that the invalid has conformed to this order in every particular.

Much laughter was stifled behind fans. They pretended to forget the incident.

Villiers had fled, bearing his shoes with him, while our little group, not daring to follow him in beating a retreat, remained feeling very much embarrassed, and experiencing the isolation of the vanquished.

Franz Servais was filled with consternation; he walked about feverishly, his hands in his pockets, the long pale wisps of his hair hanging and almost meeting again in his mouth, which constantly opened to give vent to vehement recriminations.

"There is only one thing that can save the situation," cried he. "There is only one excuse that Villiers can make. Death! Yes, yes, for the honour of us all he must die!"

IX

We had taken furnished apartments in Maximilianstrasse, a remarkably wide street, very gay and attractive with its rows of fine shops and fascinating shop-windows. It begins in the heart of Munich, dose to the Royal Theatre, and, extending for over a mile, ends at the Isar, a very impetuous river, running madly over enormous stones, which appear to have been artificially cut. These stones, by their sharp angles, form giant steps over which the water dashes in cascades. We did not imagine this torrent to be navigable, but one day an unexpected sight proved to us that it was so.

On this very warm day, we slowly sauntered toward the Isar, hoping to find a little freshness in the gardens, which on the other side of the river, extend the whole length of the wide banks. Having stopped in the middle of the bridge, above a dizzying tumult of waters, we suddenly beheld in the distance four or five rafts loaded with men, which seemed to be at the mercy of the current, but were, on the contrary, very skilfully guided as they swept along.

"Savages! Pirogues!" cried Villiers.

And in fact it was a spectacle that suggested only adventurous savages shooting the rapids in canoes made from the bark of trees.

The shallowness of the water as it ran over the rocks added to the danger of being drowned that of being crushed to pieces at the slightest error in the difficult manoeuvring. We had scarcely time to tremble for these men, or even to distinguish them, standing on the rafts and leaning on their short poles, before they had passed under the bridge, and flying from the other side had disappeared from sight.

"The true course to the Abyss!" cried Villiers.

"Where do these beings come from?" I demanded, "and whither do they go?"

"Ah, it is better not to know. It is never good to investigate too deeply. We have seen a vision, have we not, of ferocious warriors descending the Ogowe, in the pursuit of a rival tribe: why should we try to convince ourselves that we have only seen worthy peasants going to the nearest market, for the very prosaic purpose of selling some vulgar product of the soil?"

"In any case they are brave as well as worthy peasants!"

But Villiers was no longer listening: his imagination had followed the warriors of the Ogowe and was wandering far away, and the part of the man that was left with us expressed itself in a confused monotone, mingled with laughter. He toyed with his ideas, as one amuses oneself at the seashore, by letting the sand fall in cascades between the fingers. But I well knew that there were some precious stones in the sand that Villiers sifted, and I lay in wait for these.

When we were finally seated on grassy hillocks in the shadows of the great trees of the English Garden, where we could look out over the fresh meadows starred with saffron blossoms like thousands of goblin fires, and the nearer willows, of a vivid green, with long strands trailing in the Isar, then at last I began to distinguish some light amid the obscurities of the discourse of Villiers.

"I have a glimpse of a misty sea, a dreamlike twilight around an unknown isle, then, in a luminous eddy, a great sphinx emerges from the waves and swims toward the bank. Across her back a violet banner is floating, and on the banner in letters of gold gleams the word: Inviolata!"

"And that is all," said Villiers; "it will never connect itself with anything and will never be explained. The intense impression, the charm, the mystery, the disquieting strangeness, are all in the picture itself, seen through an opening in the clouds, and never more to be forgotten."

"And there are some poems," added he, "which should have but a single stanza: this one for example:--

'La lourde clé du rêve à ma ceinture sonne....[1]

Isn't that complete enough? Isn't that magnificent? What could one add to that? In my foolishness and desire to make a poem I once tried--impossible! There is nothing to add. Nor is there to this other line:--

'O pasteur, Hespérus à l'occident s'allume!'[2]

The melancholy of the hour, the clear evening, the shining star and the pastoral life, it is all there; why seek for anything further?"

"It is true," said I, "that that kind of stanza, the single stanza in which a whole poem seems to be condensed, is sufficient unto itself and disdains rhyme. I have composed one myself, very absurd, but who could find a rhyme to add to it?

'Je suis le nautonier des océans lunaires!'[3]

The Italian poet, Gualdo, has quoted this line somewhere as an epigraph, in order to silence his contemporaries and make them search for its origin."

Villiers suddenly began to rummage in his pockets, and, after an agitated search, he drew out some very crumpled sheets of paper.

"Let us be serious again," said he, "let us be practical and prosaic. Here is my article upon the exposition: it is finished."

"What!" cried I, "have you not sent it yet? It will be too late: the opening of the exposition is an old story now: they will not wish to publish it."

"Oh, if you could see with what fine little touches it has all been refreshed! In the first place, I have changed the title, which is now: 'Munich during the Exposition.' Really the article isn't bad, listen to this:"

And he read:--

"The halls of the Crystal Palace are filled to overflowing, the French envoys are rudely bumped by the enormous boxes. At the exposition the paintings reach to the very cornices, and there is even talk of hanging some delayed canvases in the restaurant opposite, notably the _Casseur de Pierres_ of Courbet. We must add, however, that Courbet has also sent here a magnificent landscape, in which the water is so natural and so deep that it makes one dream dreams. That, and the _Fauconnier_ of Couture, are the pictures that we love best in the French salon, in spite of our lack of sympathy for the realistic school.

"The Germans, when they see Courbet's paintings, say, 'A painter as good as he is rough, he sees like a peasant and paints like a professor, which is saying a great deal,' they add laughing."

"Here I interpolate a sentence," said Villiers. "'It is late to speak of the exposition,' and then I go on to speak of it all the same:

"One must also mention some exquisite grisailles of Ramberg, the _Saint Joseph_ of Gysis, portraits by Lenbach, landscapes by Zwangauer, the German Daubigny, some academic sepias of Kaulbach on subjects drawn from Wagner's operas, and _The woman in the velvet Gown_, of Herr Canon, a young Austrian painter of incomparable talent. It is thought that _The Banquet of Phaton_ of Herr Anselm Feuerbach, will have the medal of honour. It is great work, truly, and since Peter Cornelius, nothing better has been done in Germany. So art is in a flourishing condition.

"I am going to slip a new sentence in there," said Villiers. "'Let us now leave the exposition, with its already old news, and take a promenade through the city.'"

And he continued his reading:--

"We love Munich, but not everyone is of our opinion. It is true that Munich is rather lacking in police officers, that _Les Pompiers de Nanterre_ is not sung here, that we notice an absence of assaults, swindlings and murders that is truly desolating for the future of this capital. On the other hand, we have seen magnificent theatres where Goethe is played, we have visited museums which contain treasures of art and of genius, we have seen monuments in the purest Greek style, great gardens like the Bois de Boulogne, immense cafés where one is served by pretty girls whom no one dreams of chaffing beyond reason, except, perhaps, some passing wags who have only their trouble for their pains.

"We have climbed up inside 'The Bavaria,' the enormous bronze statue which towers above the city, and through the eyes of which six people are able to see before them the sweep of land extending to the mountains of the Tyrol. We have visited the hall of the portraits of beautiful women of the country, where one imagines oneself in a sort of Montyon Gallery of love, and where, if her nose be of an heroic cast, the daughter of a shoemaker may find herself side by side with the daughter of a princess. The king, Ludwig I., who lodged in his palace this ingenuous display of Germanic beauty, loved all pretty women; and the good Bavarians recount that at his death the following scene must have taken place at the gate of Heaven:

"Rap! Rap!"

"'Who is there?' asks St Peter.'

"'It is I, Ludwig, King of Bavaria!'

"'One moment,' replies the blessed Apostle. Then he shouts in a voice of thunder: 'Get the eleven thousand virgins out of the way quick! Here is Ludwig of Bavaria just arriving!"

"But we must not laugh too much about that king who, in the place of military glory, has bequeathed to his people schools where the children are taught to develop a lofty and noble character."

"That is very good, Villiers, but you must not read any more," cried I, interrupting him. "Let us hurry to the post, there is still time before the evening collection. Let us send the article at once, the more you allow the time to pass, the less chance there is of its being published, for, in spite of your conciliatory sentence, present time does not wait."

[1] Forever clanks at my girdle the heavy key of the dream.

[2] O shepherd, Vesper kindles at the west!

[3] I am the boatman of the lunar seas!

X

After the tiresome incident of the Hôtel des Quatre Saisons, when Villiers had removed his shoes before a noble audience, we sulked at the social world, refused its invitations, and when there was nothing very interesting at the theatres, we loved to gather in the evening at the house of Franz Servais.

Servais, who made very frequent visits to Munich, had there a large apartment on the ground floor, in a quarter a little away from the centre. He possessed a piano, around which we passed many delightful hours, thanks to the unwearied kindness of Hans Richter, who played us fragments from the _Rheingold_ to initiate us a little into the work which we were so soon to have the happiness of seeing represented.

Servais had not held any resentment against Villiers; he quite understood now that he had done what he believed was necessary, and they had become good companions and were on the best of terms.