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.
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."
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 fromThe Flying Dutchman, and after that,Lohengrin. Then the Master joined in, and started the song of the Ship-boy fromTristan. All themotifsof the first and third Acts which have to do with a ship were passed in review; TheRhinegoldalso 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.
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.
But now a soft radiance stole over the sky. Little by little the outlines of the mountains stood out, very sombre against the lighter background; and, gradually, the magnificent spectacle of a rising moon unrolled before our eyes.
The diffused light increased and concentrated, surging higher and higher; the prelude to Lohengrin sang itself in our hearts, and when, at last, the full moon emerged, lifted above the highest summit, it was for us the Grail shining upon the altar, before the Master of the Grail.
"Allons, Enfants de la Patrie!Le jour de gloire est arrivé!"
So sang Wagner from theMarseillaiseat the top of his voice, as he beat a tattoo on the door of my bedroom to awaken me; and he passed on to each door, beating the same refrain.
We should have to dress very quickly, as we must climb a mountain and reach the summit before noon, if we wished to breakfast there.
This mountain was called the Axenstein. We commenced the ascent on foot, on a lovely day, under a sunshine already warm. The way at the beginning was charming, and mounted very slowly between trees and bushes, like a garden path.
Senta ran on before and gathered little wild flowers; very soon she gave a cry of joy. She had just discovered some strawberries. Surely enough, there were wild strawberries reddening under the leaves here and there. We also, Madam Cosima and I, were intent upon finding them; but Wagner, already far in advance, called out to us not to linger, and so, by a path grown more rugged and without any shade, we hurried on. My companion seemed very tired and almost fainting. I made her sit down on a grassy hillock, and after inhaling some salts, she recovered herself quickly.
"Do not speak of it. Above all, do not let the Master know," she said. Then she told me that she had been more or less ailing and feeble since the birth of Siegfried, her son, whom she had not yet presented to me.
"Wagner, who is indefatigable, always supposes that one has strength to follow him, and would be inconsolable if he were to know that he is mistaken. That is why it is necessary to triumph over weakness and continue the ascent."
The hotel was one of those sumptuous and comfortable structures which are to be found all over Switzerland, with the domestic in a dress coat, whose presence gives you a shock of disappointment when he receives you with a smile, at the moment when you reach a summit which you had imagined to be almost inaccessible. The view was, undoubtedly, very wonderful, since we had been obliged to mount so high in order to enjoy it, but I am ashamed to say that I have not retained any memory of it. The Master was exuberantly gay: again he found old acquaintances, old servants, among the retainers of the hotel, with whom he joked familiarly, which annoyed Madam Cosima very much, as she could have wished him to be more reserved, more Olympian.
In the corner that had been selected for us in the immense dining-room, the dinner, lubricated with champagne, was hilarious and particularly delicious. In honour of Wagner, the proprietress of the hotel, whose outline insistently suggested the fairy Carabosse, had herself superintended its preparation. We prolonged it until a late hour, as it was the last day of the excursion: on the following day we should have to descend again, to take the steamboat and return to Lucerne.
It was only after the return that Wagner confessed that he had been indisposed all through the journey; but he had taken great care not to let us perceive it, in order not to spoil our pleasure.
For several days we had noticed that they treated us with extraordinary respect at the Hôtel du Lac. If we rang, they ran to answer our call before the bell had stopped vibrating, owing to the fact that the servants always remained in the corridor, to take our orders the more quickly. At table, because we had once complimented the master of the hotel on a particularly delicious dish of spinach, they now served us spinach more and more delicious at every meal. When we left our rooms stealthy and curious eyes looked at us through half-open doors along the passage. They saluted us with an obsequiousness most unusual in free Switzerland. They almost appeared to form in line as we passed, and already in the city it was evident that our presence created a strange excitement. Was it because they knew us to be friends of Richard Wagner, and because the jealously-guarded retreat in which he lived was open for us? Certainly no glory appeared to us more enviable, and our just pride equalled our joy. But why should we cause such a commotion amid the placid population of Lucerne? Could it be that we were surrounded by a luminous mist, visible to less fortunate mortals?
When we set sail for the little cape of Tribschen, clouds of other sails, with an appearance of unconcern, put out from the banks to escort us from afar, and as long as we remained at the home of our illustrious host, they increased all about the edges of the grounds, drawing as near as possible.
We had told the Master and Madam Cosima about this, and they were as puzzled as we were. Sometimes we went into the garden, to look through the trees at all those boats, full of tourists, which waited there so stubbornly with that incomprehensible air of expectation.
This mysterious thing finally explained itself. Madam Cosima, in going to Lucerne one day to take Senta for her piano lesson, met the owner of Tribschen, and he himself, without being asked, gave the keyword of the enigma.
"Everyone in Lucerne knows," said he, "that the King, Ludwig II. of Bavaria, is here incognito. The Chief of Police said to me, 'I have an unerring scent, and I know that he is there.'"
Everyone knew that the King had had his hair dressed at the shop of M. Frey, and that he had honoured the fortunate barber with a conversation upon Wagner; that at the Zug rifle-match he had condescended to compete, and victoriously, and that he had made with the Master an excursion to the Axenstein....
The piano-teacher knew the story, but she also told Cosima something more. Adelina Patti had been at Tribschen for the last fifteen days. The King had brought her there, so that she might study a part, which it would be her duty to create in the next work of Wagner. That was why all the boatmen received orders to draw as near as possible to the Master's house, in order that the tourists might perhaps catch, on the wing, a few notes of thediva. It was Villiers de l'Isle-Adam whom they had taken for the King of Bavaria, and it was in my person that the Lucerne imagination had recognised Madam Patti. One of our companions was, beyond any doubt, the blond Count de Taxis.
"You see," Wagner said to us, "that you have not only touched two hearts which, through being armed so long against human malice, have become almost callous, but you have also put in a flutter the usually very apathetic brains of the inhabitants of Lucerne!"
All was very clear, now that we understood it; but now we must proceed to undeceive these firmly convinced people. All our denials, like the hammer that strikes upon the nail, only served to deepen the certainty of their minds. It only remained to amuse ourselves with this short royalty. We profited by it to the extent of being served like princes at the Hôtel du Lac.
One day I had been invited to Tribschen for the two o'clock dinner. Over the lake, as usual, a boatman rowed me to the point of the promontory, and I passed through the garden and up to the house without meeting anyone. The French windows of the drawing-room were wide-open, and as I reached the threshold I heard soft harmonies that came from the little sanctuary where the Master worked. Hardly daring to breathe, I slipped into the nearest chair. I was greatly moved, troubled, even frightened, for was it not a presumption, almost a sacrilege, to surprise in this way the sacred mystery? Yet, what rare good fortune was mine, to hear Wagner composing! Perfectly quiet, hardly moving an eyelash, I listened intently. Incomparably sweet appeared to me the sounds I heard. A very slow progression of chords, which seemed to be drawn from a harp rather than a piano: a strange, remote harmony, mysterious and supernatural. I discovered, later, that it was the first sketch of the Invocation to Erda by Wotan, in the Third Act ofSiegfried, where the goddess ascends from the depths of the earth, with closed eyes and draperies wet with dew....
After a few moments, silence fell, and Wagner soon appeared between the silken folds of the parted curtains.
His face, with its aureole of silvered hair, was calm, and still more luminous than usual were the rays that beamed from his large eyes.
He saw me sitting rigid on my chair.
"Ah!" he said, "are you there? As quiet as an image! I have not heard a sound."
"Imagine, then, O Master, what terror and what ecstasy I have felt, to surprise Deity in the act of creating."
"I have told you before that you must not be so enthusiastic," he exclaimed laughingly. "It is bad for the health."
"Oh! no; on the contrary, it makes one doubly alive."
"Well, I have been good too. Come and see how well I have worked."
A perfume of white-rose extract pervaded the little chapel. A restful light, subdued by the surrounding verdure, illumined it; two or three rays fell on the gilded backs of the books, and the royal friend in his golden frame seemed to follow one with the magic glance of his polar blue eyes.
There was no disorder on the piano-desk. Several large sheets of music-paper, nearly covered with writing, concealed here and there the dark woodwork. The part which the Master had just composed was written in pencil, in very fine, close writing.
"I copy with the pen," he said. "I like to have it very clear. When I cannot decipher it, I am furious."
I read at the top of a re-copied page,
"Siegfried. Third Act."
"As a matter of fact," exclaimed Wagner, "I ought to rewrite from nearly two pages back, because I have smudged it."
And he showed me where, on the right side of the leaf, three bars were scratched out. They had been erased angrily, by three slurs, very heavily marked and resembling a series ofe's andl's.
"What will become of this precious paper, then?" I asked.
"Would you like it?" replied the Master, divining my covetousness.
"Oh! yes."
Then, taking his pen, he dated it on the margin at the top of the page, "From Tribschen."
It is the wonderful prelude from the Third Act ofSiegfried, before the Invocation to Erda. It is sketched in three lines, with instrumental indications, and a few pencilled alterations. I did not yet know all the beauty contained in those two pages, the possession of which filled me with joy.
The bell fordéjeunersounded, and I heard the laughter of the children. They were looking for us. Wagner gallantly offered me his arm to escort me to the dining-room.
At table, Wagner told us about a very interesting French leaflet which he had once read in Paris, and which he had never been able to find again. It was a history of Bluebeard, with the traditional slaying of his wives and the forbidden chamber; but in this account the last-threatened victim was not saved in the usual way, by her brothers. No less a person than Jeanne d'Arc came to deliver her and punish the criminal.
"I remember," said the Master, "that there were illustrations. As a matter of fact, it was a cheap edition, printed in two columns. I have no idea how this pamphlet came into my hands, nor how it was lost, but I have never forgotten it. That bringing together of Jeanne d'Arc and Bluebeard impressed me very much. The monstrous Gilles de Retz, who may have served as a model for the legendary type of Bluebeard, was a contemporary ofLa Pucelle, and the hypothesis of that heroine's coming to the aid of innocence and chastising the guilty is very curious. I should be glad if I could find that funny little leaflet again."
(Alas! it was not to be found, in spite of all researches.)
Toward the middle of the dinner, Wagner, who had been silent for a little time, asked our permission to go and note down an idea which had crossed his mind, and which he feared he might forget,à proposof the study of Beethoven upon which he was then at work.
He went up to his bedroom to write these few sentences, and I concluded from that fact that the Master did not write his volumes of prose in the same holy place where he composed his music.
In the "gallery," beside the marble statue of Tristan, stood a photograph framed in velvet which reproduced the features of a handsome, athletic young man, with an intensely ardent expression. I was very curious about this portrait, which always attracted my attention and held it irresistibly. One day I questioned the Master.
"Who is that young man?"
I saw him grow pale; his eyes filled with tears, and with a repressed sigh, he murmured,
"My poor Schnorr!"
Madam Cosima signed to me not to say anything more, and as soon as it was possible, she told me all about it.
"It is a photograph of Schnorr von Karolsfeld, 'the hero of song,' as Wagner called him—suddenly cut off by Death in the very fulness of triumphant life. Five years have passed since then, but the Master cannot console himself for the loss of this friend, this disciple, this marvellous interpreter of his work. He never thinks of him without a pang and, above all, he dreads to speak of him."
"Schnorr was the son of a celebrated painter, and had received a fine education. He was very gifted in all the arts, and by reason of one more rare and wonderful gift, that of an incomparable voice, he had been drawn toward music and the stage. From his first acquaintance with the works of Richard Wagner, Schnorr had comprehended and profoundly loved them. Despite the increasing celebrity of the young artist, the Master for a long time rather dreaded to see him because of what he had heard of his too great corpulence: he feared that this physical imperfection might prejudice and render him unjust to all his other qualities. So, because he was little skilled in concealing his impressions, he avoided being brought in contact with the interpreter of his works. It was, therefore, with great secrecy that he went one evening to Karlsruhe (where Schnorr was engaged for a representation ofLohengrin) and entered the theatre without being recognised.
"Later, the Master himself told the story of that wonderful evening.
"'All my apprehensions very soon disappeared. It is true that the first appearance of the Knight of the Swan as he drew near to the shore, looking like a young Hercules, made a rather strange impression upon me, but this disappeared as the hero advanced. The peculiar charm of the messenger from God works instantly. Of this character one did not ask, "Who is he?" but said, "It is he."
"'Truly, this sudden and profound impression can only be compared to a kind of enchantment. I remember having felt this very decidedly when I was a boy, concerning the great Schroeder-Devrient. I have never experienced it since so strongly, so decisively as at the entrance of Ludwig Schnorr inLohengrin. While I recognised, in the course of his interpretation, that in many ways his understanding and rendering of my work had not yet attained maturity, yet even in that I saw the charm of a youthful purity still untouched, of a virgin soil that promised to bring forth flowers of great artistic perfection. The fervour, the tender exaltation that burned in the marvellously love-filled eyes of this very young man, made me feel vaguely how ill-omened might be the fire by which they were enkindled. Very soon I discovered in him a being who, by the very reason of his unlimited gifts, inspired in me a tragic pity.'
"The meeting between the Master and the disciple was cordial and touching. And what a glad surprise for the creator ofTristan and Isolde, to discover that Schnorr, filled with enthusiasm for this work, reputed to be unsingable, had made himself thoroughly acquainted with it, and knew therôleof Tristan from one end to the other! Nevertheless, he had hesitated to sing it, all because of a passage in the Third Act. He did not quite comprehend what ought to be the musical expression of this especial passage, which he judged to be one of the highest importance.
"This unselfish scruple gave Wagner one of the vivid surprises of his life. Could it be possible that a tenor acclaimed by all should have so little vanity and be so nobly conscious of his artistic mission? Could he so mistrust himself and, in spite of his experience and his pre-eminence, believe himself incapable of interpreting a rôle because he did not entirely comprehend the exact expression of a single passage in so complicated a work? And the idea of cutting out this phrase, the first that would have occurred to any other singer, had not even suggested itself to this rare soul.
"The passage in question, in the Third Act ofTristan, runs as follows:
'Aus Vaters Noth und Mutter Weh,Aus Liebes-thränen eh' und je,Aus Lachen und Weinen, Wonnen und Wunden,Hab' ich des Trankes Gifte gefunden!Den ich gebraut, der mir geflossen,Den Wonne Schlürfend je ich genossen,Verflucht sei furchtbarer Trank,Verflucht wer dich gebraut!'
"It is a climax in that delirious raving of Tristan separated from Isolde, that frenzied longing which only found relief in unconsciousness.
"The Master explained certain things to Schnorr; especially he gave him the idea of a wider, less rapid, movement, which suddenly cleared all that had been obscure to the young artist, who showed at once that he had understood by interpreting the passage in a way that was without a fault.
"'Who can measure the extent of the hopes that thrilled me at the moment when such a singer came into my life!'
"Such was Wagner's cry of gratitude. And from that day he made every effort to obtain a representation ofTristan, with the co-operation of Schnorr.
"There were still many years before this beautiful dream was realised, and then it came to pass through the intervention of the royal friend, the archangel so miraculously sent, whose flaming sword reduced all obstacles to ashes and made free the path toward the ideal.
"These first representations ofTristanat Munich were among the most memorable of artistic events. Those who had the good fortune to take part in them preserved a splendid memory and a nostalgic longing. So great a work produced with such perfection and, during the rehearsals, such complete harmony between the Master and the interpreter!
"To quote the Master's own words:
"'The clumsiest of would-be musicians, singer or instrumentalist, would never have accepted from me such minute instructions as did that hero of song, who, without effort, arrived at such a mastery. Any indication of mine upon which I laid the slightest stress he accepted and acted on with cheerful promptness, grasping the reason for it at once, and in such a way that I should have felt that I had failed in my duty if, through fear of wounding his feelings, I had withheld my suggestion, however minute it might be. The reason for this disposition on the part of my friend is that the ideal comprehension of my work had come to him quite spontaneously; he absorbed my ideas so naturally that not the slenderest thread of the spiritual woof, not the slightest allusion to the most obscure harmonies escaped him; he felt them all in a very subtle way.'
"'So nothing remained for him but to select as rigorously as possible the technical methods of expression for the singer, the musician, and the actor that would best secure a perfect harmony between the personal gifts of the artist in their particular effect and the ideal object of the interpretation. All who were present at those studies will be able to testify that they never before witnessed such an amicable and artistic understanding. Having explained to him the one passage which he had not comprehended I never had any further talk with Schnorr about the Third Act ofTristan, After paying the closest attention to the rehearsals of the First and Second Acts, when the Third Act commenced I involuntarily turned away from the hero, wounded unto death, and, sitting motionless upon my chair with my eyes half-closed, became completely absorbed in the music. As I never turned toward him during this tremendous scene even at his most impassioned utterances, Schnorr appeared to have been abashed by my long silence and seeming indifference; but when, after the malediction of love, I finally got up and going unsteadily to this wonderful friend, who still remained prostrate on his couch, I leaned over him and, embracing him vehemently, said to him in a subdued voice that I had no criticism to make, that from this time forth my own ideal would be consummately revealed by him, then his sombre eyes sparkled like the star of love; there was one hardly perceptible sob, and from that time no other word ever passed between us on the subject of this Third Act.'
"The days of these representations and the dress rehearsal before the King were, without doubt, for Wagner the culminating point in his destiny as composer: they included those ineffable hours that repay for a whole lifetime of efforts, of disappointments, of miseries—his 'ideal realised,' the splendour of his genius shining before his own eyes and penetrating his very being with a glorious certainty.
"And what a magnificent trinity, Richard Wagner, Ludwig II. and the incarnation of Tristan! What a noble joy animated them all! 'How I bless those hours!' cried Schnorr, in a burst of enthusiasm. 'O Master, with your help and the help of this divine king, I also must accomplish something great and glorious!'
"A most unusual interruption brought this splendid manifestation of art to an unforeseen conclusion after the fourth representation. From the first, Wagner had felt for Schnorr's prodigious achievement an astonishment full of respect, which increased to dread and finally became an actual terror. It was unbelievable that the singer could repeat this performance day after day, after the custom of the theatre. The Master felt that it would be a crime, and he therefore declared that this fourth representation ofTristanshould be the last; that he would not permit another. So the work was not given again.
"'I feel that I have no right to inflict such a condition of trouble upon a human being,' said Wagner.
"It was not a question of physical fatigue—Schnorr did not experience any: but to live Tristan, to burn with his passions, to suffer his agonies, to thrill with his ecstasies, to die his death!—such superhuman exaltation, such emotion and fever of the soul, all this the Master could not permit again. So the success was interrupted, the big receipts were cut off, for such secondary considerations as these did not concern those generous minds for an instant.
"Then a very great project began to take shape in Wagner's brain.
"'With the certainty of the unspeakable importance of Schnorr for my musical creations, a new springtide of hope entered into my life. The medium was at last found through which my creative power could link itself to the present. The moment was come in which to teach and to make clear. That which had been universally misunderstood, denounced as unplayable, mocked at, covered with contempt, was about to be proved an undeniable artistic reality. To create a German style for representing works of German genius—this was our watchword. And with this consoling hope I found it easier to oppose, for the time, any further productions ofTristan. This work and these representations were so different from the usual performances that they would necessitate too sudden a leap into the unknown; the precipices and chasms yawning before it must be approached deliberately. We must begin by carefully roofing them over, by paving the way toward ourselves, the isolated artists, up to our summit, for those associates that were indispensable to us. So then, Schnorr being ours, it was determined to found a Royal College of Music and Dramatic Art.'
"Alas! how many obstacles, how many fresh struggles, and before the work could be achieved, how cruel the death that struck down the hero, in the fulness of youth, in the fulness of beauty!"
And now, when in the gallery I pass before the superb likeness of Schnorr von Karolsfeld, I in my turn feel my heart contract, and I stifle a cry of anger, of revolt, against so blind and imbecile a destiny.
To-day it happened that when we entered the drawing-room at Tribschen we found our host there entertaining strangers, visitors! A gentleman and a lady, both very small in figure and rather dull in aspect, were sitting with an air of constraint, only one of them speaking.
The Master presented them.
"His Excellency The Counsellor Isérof and Madame Isérof, who have come from Russia to see me."
We exchanged some rather cold salutations.
It was evident that our presence displeased the newcomers as much as theirs disturbed us. They felt that we were more intimate than they in the household; they saw that we were received very cordially, that Russ and Cos did not bark, but gave evidence of pleasure in our arrival. Yet these people were much older acquaintances of Wagner's than were we; they certainly would have preferred to have the Master to themselves. Ah! how well we could comprehend what they felt!
Madam Cosima followed me out on to the steps. We both leaned against the iron railing, and she told me about the visitors.
"Counsellor Isérof is a composer well thought of in Russia, who is worthy of being admitted into the free-masonry of the brotherhood if only to uphold firmly the Wagnerian standard at Petersburg. Of his wife there is not much to say. She seems to be rather in the background. They are going, as you are, to Munich, to be present at the production of theRheingold."
"Well, between soldiers of the same army there must be good understanding."
"Indeed yes. The Master will undoubtedly keep them to supper."
"Very well. We must be very amiable to Isérofitus and Isérofita!"
As the weather was beautiful and very warm, Madam Cosima bathed in the lake nearly every day with her little girls, and I was invited to join in this cool recreation.
Under the shadow cast by the little shed of the landing-place, which deepened the blue of the limpid water, we very prudently disported ourselves. Madam Cosima and the children wore long white dressing-gowns; she, with her blond hair hanging in braids, seemed like a saint surrounded by cherubs, or even a swan guiding her brood. I, myself, was in a bathing costume, and so I ventured beyond the prescribed limits into the clearer blue and the sunlight, cutting capers, and feeling very flattered by the admiration which my ease and audacity as a swimmer aroused among those who could not leave the shelter. But, when I had gone a little too far away, and a chorus of clear, sweet voices called me back with cries and supplications, then I returned very obediently and stood again in shallow water, and joined with the merry circle in madly splashing the water into the air, laughing with them as it fell again in showers of pearls.
Alas! we had only a few more days to remain in Lucerne. The opening of the Exposition of Painting was announced and we must be there, in order to fulfil our engagements with the journals to which we had promised our letters.
On one of these last days the weather was dull and stormy, and Madam Cosima and I had stayed under the great pine that the Master was so agile in climbing.
He had gone to his room to work for a time on his study of Beethoven. Madam Cosima was giving me information about Munich, telling me what was best to see there: among other things the gallery of Count von Schack, an original character even more interesting, perhaps, than his collection, which contained, among many daubs, a few fine paintings.
"You will also see my father, and someone who is very dear to him," added she.
As she spoke these words an expression of sadness passed quickly over her face and as quickly disappeared.
"I feel sure," she continued, "that you have no idea for whom your father wrote the 'Symphonie en blanc majeur.' You do not know'La femme Cygne,' 'La neige Vierge,' 'L'Hostie,' 'La moelle de Roseau,'or who was the original of those delightful portraitures."
"Then there was an original?"
"Yes, madame; before you were born that original inspired the poet who was your father, and at that time, it appears, his description was very like her."
"Do you know who she was?"
"The very person about whom I spoke a moment ago, and who, I am certain, will be curious to see you. She was born a Nesselrode, then became Madam Kalergic, and is to-day the Countess Muchanoff. Very enthusiastic about Wagner, she has been for a long time devoted to his cause. Intelligent, cultured, a musician! My father asserts that no one interprets Chopin as well as she does."
"Then there is a connection between you?"
"Yes."
"What bitterness in that 'Yes!' What has she done to you?"
"I believed that I could count upon her friendship, and she failed me at the moment when I had most need of it. Last winter she overwhelmed me with reproaches because I did not take her into my confidence regarding the distractions of my inner life. I replied quietly that I had nothing to confide, nothing to conceal. 'The painful situation in which I am placed will disentangle itself very naturally, since Herr von Bülow and I are agreed upon the divorce.' But my father, with whom I am no longer in touch, struck the last blow at me, in dissuading Herr von Bülow from this project. I wrote at once to Madam Muchanoff, begging her to use her influence with my father. I besought her to prevent him from influencing Herr von Bülow in a way so contrary to my interest and my dearest wishes. She has done nothing. Her reply was confused, without sympathy and without frankness. Ah! how I regret having broken through my reserve with her, and, above all, having allowed Wagner to write to her as he has done, so open-heartedly and with so much enthusiasm! But, hush! here he comes again. I do not want him to see that I am sad."
Behind the house, in that court which formed a part of the garden, and from which the carriage-drive started, there was a high swing, which the children were allowed to use very carefully, and with which the older people sometimes amused themselves. One day Madam Cosima was sitting on the narrow board. Wagner offered to start the swing and give her a good flight through the air.
All went well for a time, but, little by little, the motion became more rapid; higher and still higher went the swing! In vain Madam Cosima begged for mercy. Carried away by a kind of frenzy, the Master paid no attention, and the incident began to have a terrifying aspect.
Cosima grew white; her hold relaxed, and she was about to fall.
"Do you not see that she is fainting?" I cried, throwing myself toward Wagner.
He grew pale, in his turn, and the danger was quickly averted. But, as the poor woman continued to be dizzy and trembling, the Master concluded it would be wise to create a diversion. He ran rapidly toward the house, and by the aid of the shutters, the mouldings and projections of the stones, he climbed nimbly up the side, and reaching the balcony of the floor above, leaped over it.
He had obtained the desired effect, but in replacing one evil by another. Trembling with anxiety, Cosima turned to me, saying under her breath:
"Above all things, do not notice him; do not look surprised, or you can never tell where he will end."
"While you are in Munich," Wagner said to me, "try to induce them to show you the model of a theatre that the great architect Semper constructed for me. I warn you that this will not be easy, even with the introductions that I shall be able to give you. They have consigned this model to some out-of-the-way corner of the palace, and they are not fond of bringing it to light. They strongly suspect that I have not altogether given up the hope that one day I may see my buried project come to life again, and this presentiment is a real nightmare for my enemies."
A little later Madam Cosima drew me to one side, and said:—
"If you should be able, in connection with the approaching representation of theRheingold, to bring before the public the history of that theatre project, which the Master told you about, I do not believe that I can be mistaken in saying that you would give him a real and profound satisfaction; for the truth about those events has been so completely disfigured by envy, incapacity, and spite as to be hardly recognisable."
"You may be very sure that I will gladly do what I can."
"It is just because I am sure of your devotion to this noble cause that I make my petition to you."
"But I know nothing about the project. Adhere can I get the information necessary in order not to be misleading?"
"Of course I will tell you all about it, as briefly and dearly as I can. Come upstairs with me to my dressing-room; there you can take notes."
Thisboudoir, on the first floor, was a little room, with wall coverings and draperies of green silk, and situated in a corner of the house. It overlooked the garden and, through the trees, one could see the blue of the lake and the violet shadows of the mountains. I had already passed many hours in this room, Madam Cosima having had the kindness to read to me there the Hindoo history of Nal and Damayanti, translating it from the German. I was searching just then for biographies of illustrious lovers of all countries, having promised to contribute a series of portraitures for the publication contemplated by the Editor Lecroix, and entitled "Les Grandes Amoureuses." Jean Richepin, Zola, and others collaborated in this work, which, for some reason, was never completed. A few portraitures only appeared in print, but not in the order of succession, and the greater number of the manuscripts were scattered.
I installed myself in my accustomed place on a little divan fitted into the corner. Madam Cosima seated herself in front of me, her elbows resting on the table. She was charming so, in the full light, and with her crown of heavy blond hair. Her soft blue eyes shone with a tender light; a pleased smile half disclosed her pretty teeth. We were both delighted at the idea of planning something which might give pleasure to the Master!
I took a pencil and paper, and listened with all my ears.
"Perhaps you do not know," said she, "that Wagner was condemned to death in Saxony, for having taken part in the revolution of '49. As he fled, in company with others, he owed his escape to a singular chance. In a village near the frontier, his companions were seized, but they did not see Wagner, who was asleep in an out-of-the-way corner of the hall of the inn."
"Wagner condemned to death!"
"It is incredible, is it not? But you must not imagine that he was a very fierce democrat. He was occupied only with questions of art, and, like Walther of theMeistersinger, he was chiefly in revolt against the tyranny of routine. He sincerely believed that a political upheaval would lead to an artistic reform; he has paid for that error by twelve years of exile. Defeated as the insurrection was, he still clung to the illusion that better times would surely come for his country and for art. So then it was that, alone, cut off from the world, with nothing to live for, he conceived, in view of those better times, the plan of his tetralogy, of a great national drama, which should make to live before the regenerated German people the gods and heroes of ancient Germanic mythology. Years passed; the better times never came, and the life of the exile grew more and more bitter. Yet, beyond any doubt, Richard Wagner became a celebrated and popular composer throughout all Germany. Thanks to the intervention of my father,TannhäuserandLohengrinhad been given in Weimar, and also in other capital cities. The exigencies of his life would not permit of his disdaining the situation which now offered itself. The Master was aware that he would have to come down from the heights of his dream and follow this more accessible path which opened before him. In 1857, therefore, he interrupted the composition of the Ring of the Nibelungen, of which theRheingold, theValkyrieand two acts ofSiegfriedwere completed."
"What! was he already so far advanced in that tremendous work?"
"Yes. And then Wagner performed another miracle: he composedTristan and Isolde! When the amnesty was finally granted to him, he went back to Germany. He saw what was happening there with regard to matters of art, and that he could not dream of producing his tetralogy. However, he published the poems from it, preceded by a preface wherein he pointed out in a supremely able way the steps that ought to be taken to attain to the creation of a great National Art. Then he applied himself to the composition of hisMeistersinger. When the King of Bavaria summoned Wagner, he had read this preface, and the first thing he said to him was, 'Finish your Nibelungen. I feel that I am called to help you realise your vision.'
"And so it was decided to build a theatre that should be absolutely independent of daily representations and of change of programme. A theatre the opening of which, occurring only once a year, should be an artistic consecration. But what architect would be capable of constructing this monument according to the ideas of the Master? None other than Semper, the designer of the Dresden Museum and theatre, an artist of the first rank, whose talents were unquestioned. The King gave him the command to draw up the plans. Just at this time a formidable intrigue was organised, which revealed itself in a succession of spiteful acts, outrages, and furious onslaughts against him whose only dream was to endow his country with a superior art. This reached such a point that Wagner, fearing for his royal friend, withdrew from Munich. But Ludwig II. would not let go his prize. He banished the principal promoters of these villainies, among others the Minister Pforten, to a distance; and the negotiations with Semper on the subject of the theatre were continued.
"The enemies were conquered only in appearance. They broke loose again and, after an exhausting struggle, too long to recount, it was found necessary to give up the building of the theatre. Once more Wagner retired. He came to Tribschen, and again took up his interrupted work, after an interval of ten years.
"The King only asks of him the completion of this tetralogy, and it is his wish to produce the different parts of it, from year to year, in his own theatre, since the foolishness and malignity of those about him will not allow of the carrying out of Semper's plans. But Wagner has sworn that he will not be present at any of these fragmentary representations of his work. He considers himself as virtually exiled from Bavaria. So, for the second time, Destiny has reserved for him the trial of not being present at the performances of his own works, and of not hearing the resounding music of his immense orchestra. That is the fate imposed upon him to-day, by his artistic conscience.
"There, dear friend, is the history of the defeat of a man of genius by a horde of envious imbeciles. I am sure that Wagner will be glad if you reestablish the truth about this affair which has been so abominably misrepresented.
"And now let us hurry down. They have probably already noticed our absence."