Chapter 4

[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!

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 theRheingoldto 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.

Sometimes we amused ourselves by playing charades. It was undoubtedly I who proposed this kind of diversion, of which I was very fond. It was a pastime that had pleased my father, and with which, at Neuilly, he had often enlivened the Thursdays at home of the Rue de Longchamp.

From the first, Servais showed a remarkable aptitude. He was always ready with something opportune, something unexpected, and he was never deterred by the fear of producing comical effects. Villiers, great actor as he was! declared himself to be incapable of improvising two sentences, so reserved for himself the honour of guessing the word of the charade. Schuré requested to be allowed to hold the office of the public—a rather abstracted public—while Scheffer and his dog, which never left him, were both very attentive. As for Richter, he consented to appear in the rôle of a mute personage, so mute even, that upon one occasion when representing a sick man, he allowed the brilliantine to be poured into his mouth without a protest, in order not to spoil the effect.

How did the lady of many names, who ought to have had something else to do, take it into her head to announce to the whole city the way in which we passed our evenings? It always seemed to be known. One evening when we had had supper at the Café Maximilian, just as we started to go out, we saw several carriages roll up and stop one after the other in front of the Café. Before we had time to think about it, the Countess Muchanoff alighted from the first coach and entered hastily.

"At last you are found!" cried she, "you have become very elusive, you are never at your apartments, you never come when one invites you, so we decided to look for you everywhere. For the last hour we have been going to all the beer-gardens, all the restaurants in Munich; this is the very last one."

We were a little disconcerted. Villiers had made a show of running away, but the retreat was cut off, the doors of the other carriages opened, ladies and gentlemen, who figured in the elegant society which had been present at the disastrous fête, spread out over the much be-glorified side-walk.

"It is very wrong of you to be so exclusive," continued Madame Muchanoff, "to organise charming evening parties, without letting anyone know! Now that we have discovered you, we shall take you all away with us. Come, come, you must do some charades, we are all so curious to see that!"

"Charades!"

How did they know?... and did they really imagine that we would proceed to play at charades in the city?

"But, dear lady——" said I to her, "it was only

among ourselves and as one would play at children's games, that we amused ourselves so; we should lose all our spontaneity if we undertook to be serious about it."

They begged and they insisted, but we remained firm and unmoved. We asserted that we considered them all as our guests, that we ought to receive and entertain them, and that they must excuse us for not being able to do it in a Café.

At this moment someone opened for us an empty room, turned on the lights, and all these gay people, very much pleased, went in there, followed by the surprised and admiring gaze of the public. The ladies loosened their evening wraps and revealed their bare shoulders and light costumes. The men were in evening coats.

Many of the persons present we hardly knew, and at first we were a little ill at ease. But someone ordered tea, someone else champagne, the women lighted their Russian cigarettes, as slender as toothpicks, and the momentary awkwardness vanished. Count von Berghem, a man with very fascinating manners, of whom I know nothing more than his name, entered into a discussion with Schuré and Servais upon the analogies which exist between the Gods of Edda, from whom Wagner has taken his heroes, and the Gods of Olympus, between Wotan and Jupiter.

The Countess Muchanoff seemed determined to reconquer Villiers, who escaped from her as long as possible, but she made such gracious advances to him, she expressed such a lively admiration for his talent and his mind, that he regained all his assurance.

In fact, this rather unusual overture, this unexpected invasion, became a very charming and cordial event. The conclusion of the episode revealed Villiers' character: he was no longer crestfallen at having seated himself upon the piano and allowed his feet to dangle, he only regretted that he did not have his Maltese cross in his pocket on this occasion, so that he could pin it to his waistcoat.

Our friends wished very much to show us the model of the Semper theatre that Wagner had charged us to go and see, and which was very seldom shown. A sort of basement in the Royal Residence served as a place of concealment for this very pretty miniature theatre—modelled in plaster, and standing upon a large table of white wood. Greatly interested, we circled about the little edifice, the plan of which is so rational and so well adapted to its purpose—and it saddened us to think of Wagner's frustrated hopes and bitter disappointment at having to give up his plan for constructing a model theatre.

Who could have foretold that, seven years later, thanks to the unflagging faith of the royal friend, we should see it rise up, triumphant, upon the hill at Bayreuth?

Richard Wagner, while in Munich, had been for a long time the neighbour of Count Friedrich von Schack, and there was a warm friendship between them. I was commissioned to remind Richter not to forget to invite the Count to the dress rehearsal of theRheingold, and I had promised, also, to pay a visit to his famous collection of paintings.

WAGNER'S THEATRE AT BAYREUTH.

This Count von Schack was a writer of some celebrity—his "History of Literature and Dramatic Art in Spain" Wagner esteemed very highly; he knew Arabic, Persian, Sanscrit, and had translated, among others, the "Book of the Kings" of Ferdousi. At one time the Master contemplated a musical drama founded upon one of the episodes of this work; he was also tempted by a legend contained in "The Voices of the Ganges," a collection also translated by Schack.

As to his museum, the public reviled more than they praised it; they even went so far as to call it the "Krausteum" (so true it is that philanthropy engenders ingratitude)—because of the things gathered in by this millionaire, who believed himself to be doing right in ordering pictures from poor artists from whom no one else had ever ordered!

As a matter of fact, the collection included not a few horrors and some very beautiful works.

The copies of the great masters, from Lenbach's brush, for example, seemed to me very remarkable. They recalled to me a commission for this artist, with which Cosima had charged me, and I decided to go at once to his studio, which was near the Schack gallery.

Lenbach had a delicate, rather crafty face, the sharp look of the hunter, a short, red-brown beard and a one-sided smile.

He showed me some delicious portraits of children which he was just finishing, he made me admire some authentic and very beautiful canvases of the old masters which were in his possession, among others, a sketch by Rubens and a splendid portrait of Francis I. by Titian.

This is what I had come to say to him:—

"It is absolutely necessary that you should paint the portrait of Richard Wagner, it is a disgrace to Germany that no artist of worth has yet attempted it. Madame Cosima sends the order to you, and leaves you free to fix your own price."

"I will undertake the work with the greatest pleasure," said Lenbach, "and I wish no further payment than the honour of having done it if I should succeed."

"That is indeed worthy of you," said I, holding out my hand to him, "but Cosima will doubtless feel differently, you must discuss that question with her."

"There is another portrait which I should also very much love to do, and it is yours."

"My portrait! You could find time for that?"

"I could do it at once, I beg you to allow me to do it."

O, careless youth! Many times Lenbach spoke again of this portrait, but the idea of posing wearied me and I evaded the appointments. The poignant regret that I now feel is surely a sufficient punishment.

The rehearsals of theRheingoldwith orchestra had commenced! Wagner had made it a point that his friends should be allowed to be present at the last one before the dress rehearsal. This prospect filled us with joy.

Richter, however, seemed to be anxious. Could anything be going wrong? The singers were of the first rank and full of enthusiasm, the members of the orchestra were, without a doubt, the best in the world,—but there was also the management of the theatre, which laboured secretly at the staging of the work. What would this staging be like, without the suggestions of the Master, carried on by a management that was hostile to him, and looking out only for itself? Incredible as it may appear, it is true that the men who directed and managed the theatre, to which Wagner brought glory and profit, were hostile to Wagner.

And yet the manager, Perfall, had been appointed solely at the recommendation of the Master, whom he had solicited with a servile insistence, swearing that he would have no other object except to devote himself to him and to his interests, with all his heart and all his ability. As soon as he was appointed, with an unparalleled treachery, he had betrayed the one to whom he owed his position, and hindered in a thousand ways the production of theMeistersinger.

Nor could one depend very much more upon the Court Counsellor, Lorenz von Düfflipp, intermediary between the Palace and the theatre, who, in spite of his obsequious flatteries of Wagner, was secretly adverse to him, and hand in hand with the management.

Fruitless reprisals indeed, but we called him "Tartufflipp,"[1]and his title of "Hofrath" changed itself for us into "Chaussetrappe."[2]

This counsellor, secretary to the king, had replaced Pfistmeister, the messenger who had carried the good news to Wagner from Ludwig II., and who was now, also, one of his most implacable adversaries.

"Tartufflipp," with his prepossessing face, was badly built, high-shouldered, even hump-backed—and the report ran that his hump was greatly increased by the Wagnerian theatre project, which having juggled away, he had concealed there.

What could result from all these artful under-hand dealings? Already they had written me from Tribschen that the costumes, according to the sketches sent to the Master, were hideous and would have to be re-made. Someone had conceived the idea of building up great scaffolds of gold upon the heads of the Gods, without remembering that in this opera, where gold is discovered, it ought not to appear until after Alberich had plundered and forged it. Would attention be paid to the author's suggestions? In that which pertained to the staging was there not all to be feared, considering that the only beings upon whom it depended were spiteful and incapable?

Decidedly, Richter's anxiety explained itself and extended to us.

[1]Hypocrite.

[2]Trap-door.

At last the time had come! The last rehearsal but one was about to begin. How mysterious and imposing was the empty and dimly lighted theatre! It appeared immense, almost like a cathedral, the stage all bathed in a blue haze, produced, no doubt, by some reflection of the outside daylight, for it was then three o'clock in the afternoon.

Only a very few had been accorded the favour of being present at this rehearsal, which was without stage scenery or costumes.

Liszt was there. His tall dark silhouette loomed up from the orchestra stalls. I hastened to salute the Great Man, now become the friend, and I asked if he would permit me to remain near him during the rehearsal, that he might explain to me some things in the opera, the score of which I did not sufficiently know. The permission was very graciously accorded.

Now the musicians began to arrive and to take their places! How solemn and almost religious was the emotion we felt!

"For very many years I have waited for this moment," said Liszt, "and I have feared, indeed, that it would never come.... If you but knew the miseries, the wrecked and perished hopes despite which this work has germed and flowered! I have seen it all and I have suffered too because of it. I do not know how Wagner has been able to preserve his divine inspiration intact. He seems to me like a traveller who bore a cup full of water through the midst of a whirlwind without being forced to spill a single drop. But even in harbour, you see, he finds no shelter.... Dining his exile he was for many years the only German who had not heardLohengrin. To-day, the tones of his great orchestra revealing his new work to the world, will sound for the first time and he will not hear them. Ah, what a ransom ought to be paid to genius!"

Now came Richter, pale and grave, and mounted to his desk.

We were hardly a dozen listeners in the dark audience hall. I caught a glimpse of the blond, almost white locks of Servais, and I divined the form of Edouard Schuré beside him. I also saw a shadow, climbing over the orchestra chairs: it was Villiers hastening to seat himself farther back, in order to be quite alone, quite undistracted.

They drew the curtain before the stage. Richter gave two or three quick blows on the desk, then with a serious and proud gesture raised his baton.

And now a deep, muffled tone rises from the orchestra, it vibrates almost imperceptibly in the lowest depths of the scale, indistinct, without form, it trembles in a limpid motion, then seems to dilate, to spread out, a slow sweet gliding movement floats up and loses itself, soon another ripples up along the same path and floats away, as one wave follows another.

Very soon these musical waves swell out and follow each other continuously upward; from above spheres of light seem to fall, spreading and diffusing like drops of milk in clear water. The curtain is drawn to reveal mysterious abysses seen through the blue transparency of the Rhine. On the stage there is nothing but a confused shadow, but how clearly the imagination inspired by the music, evokes the picture! Better, perhaps, than could the scenery itself.

Now a gentle undulation sways the tranquil water and suddenly a crystal voice resounds through the crystal fluid, a nymph glides from the heights and swims below, stirring the water to new motion. The words of her song form sliding syllables:

Weïa! Waga! Woge, du Welle,Walle zur Wiege! Wagala WeïaWallala Weiala Weïa!

And she sways about the reef, at the summit of which dimly gleams the vein of gold; then another daughter of the Rhine plunges from the heights and joyously pursues her flying sister. But the voice of a third undine chides them both as she, laughing, sings:

Heila Weïa!Wildes Geschwister!Des Goldes SchlafHütet ihr schlecht;Besser bewachtDes schlummemden BettSonst büsst ihr beide das Spiel!

Then she in her turn dives below, and these gracious dwellers of the Rhine swim and frolic, upborne by the harmonious waves of music, around the prophetic rock where sleeps the imprisoned gold, untouched and virgin still.

On this occasion the Rhine maidens are standing quietly upon the platform in walking costumes and straw hats, but they can hardly be seen in the obscurity and, without interfering with our imaginings they lend their fresh and limpid voices to the forms the poet has created.

Now comes a heavy and jarring rhythm, and from the most obscure depths of the river, slowly emerges a strange dwarf, with white hair and long white beard braided into one strand. He climbs along the slippery rocks. The music expresses his struggles, as he complains of the painful ascent, alliterating his words:

Garstig glatterGlitschriger Glimmer!Wie gleit ich aus!

His eager look follows the undines in their charming play, and, unable to reach them, he calls to them:

He, He! Ihr Nicker!Wie seid ihr niedlichNeidliches Volk!Aus Nibelheim's NachtNaht' ich euch gern,Neigtet ihr euch zu mir.

The Rhine maidens, frightened, cluster about the rock:

"Hütet das Gold!Vater warnteVon solchem Feind."

"What dost thou seek, thou who comest up from below?"

"Wie scheint im SchimmerIhr hell und schönWie gern umschlängeDer schlanken eine mein ArmSchlüpfte hold sie herab!""Nun lach ich der FurchtDer Feind ist verliebt."

And the frolicsome undines dive from the rocks, pursuing, enticing, tempting the ardent dwarf, who, in a passionate fury, leaps from rock to rock, trying to catch one or another. But the elusive maidens always evade him, slipping away, and as he falls back, breathless and angry, the clear notes of their mocking laughter float back to him.

But to-day, in the pleasure of reviving these memories, I must not fall into the error of describing theRheingold. When I first heard it in Munich in the solemn stillness of the dark theatre, it was like the virgin metal gleaming in the sunlight at the summit, of the rock, for the first time revealed to the world, while now, like gold which has passed through the mint, it is known to all.

This first part of the Tetralogy, which is the prologue, was not divided into acts. Its four tableaux were given without interruption. The scenes were shifted in full view of the audience to the accompaniment of the orchestra. The performance lasted for more than two hours, and yet, even at this first hearing when all the faculties of attention were taxed to the utmost, one did not experience any fatigue; the architectural outline of the drama was so simple and clear cut, the music evoked with so much certainty the different phases, or so to speak, the elementaries of the work, and individualized them in themes and rhythms of such extraordinary beauty.

Only one passage seemed to me difficult to understand, the one where Wotan, in the face of the treasure forged by the Nibelungen which he has just ravished from them, is, according to the text, "struck by a high thought." At this moment is heard for the first and only time, the "Leit-motif" of the sword, that sword called "Nothung" which is to play such an important role in the following works, but which, when the theme enters which symbolises it, is not designated by any phrase or gesture. Liszt, whom I questioned about it, agreed with me that here was an obscurity, and that Wagner would have noticed it if he had been present at the rehearsals. Later, I spoke to the Master himself with regard to this point, and he remarked that the observation was a very just one, and that he would take advantage of it. After that, a sword was added to the treasure of the Nibelungen; Wotan discovered and brandished it at the moment when the theme was introduced.

We were all carried away by enthusiasm when the Gods, walking across the valley on the rainbow, entered Walhalla and the curtain fell. Richter, flushed with emotion, was surrounded, acclaimed. Liszt embraced and complimented him warmly. The singers were also praised, and the musicians of the orchestra who had so admirably fulfilled their glorious task.

After having escorted Liszt to his carriage, still filled with elation that was not to be calmed we set out, all together, to take possession of the Café Maximilian. Instead of ordering supper, we asked for pens and paper, and each one of us wrote to Richard Wagner, expressing to him all the admiration and delight which his new masterpiece had inspired in us, and thanking him for having accorded us the great favour of hearing it before the general public, and even alas, before he himself had heard it.

It was the 25th of August, anniversary day of the birth of King Ludwig II. Munich was adorned with flags, and its regiments marched in full dress uniforms of sky blue. We had heard one of their bands play before the Royal Palace the very "Huldigung-Marsch"—which I had so laboriously deciphered at four hands with Wagner. The King was not in Munich, but would come in time to be present at the dress rehearsal of theRheingold, which was to take place on Friday the 27th of August—two days later.

Ludwig II., who was adored by his people, did not seek for ovations. On the contrary, he avoided them as often as possible, and thereby greatly disappointed the Bavarian people, who were always eager to see him and were so rarely gratified!

It appeared indeed, that all the young girls of the kingdom, and even perhaps, all the women, were in love with their youthful and charming sovereign; but he was haughty and reserved by nature, and in the wonderful locations which he had chosen for his castles he lived almost alone, surrounded by the splendours of art and the beauties of Nature.

This, however, did not prevent him from fulfilling his duties as king; he had according to custom inaugurated the International Exposition of Painting, and had left the city the same day. Very few would have the opportunity of seeing him when he should return to hear the work of his great friend.

I, too, was born on the 25th of August, the day of St Ludwig the king, so it was also my fête-day. I had told Cosima this fact because of my vain-glory in possessing something in common with the royal archangel. To my great surprise, she remembered it and sent me a charming parasol, of a new model, which they called, "Sea-side parasol," the novelty consisting in the fact that it could also be used as a cane. So, in promenading through Maximilianstrasse, I liked better to lean upon my parasol than to open it and shelter myself from the sun.

Many pilgrims were to be seen in Munich, come from all sides to hear theRheingold. Among them were pointed out to us, Madame Pauline Viardot, Saint-Saëns, Tourguenef, Baron von Leon, manager of the theatre at Weimar, and many others whom I have forgotten.

We were all very nervous and excited. Only two days more! Would everything be ready? Hans Richter could not conceal his disquietude, so many things about the conduct of the manager seemed to him to be ambiguous.

"Perfall will not allow anything to be seen of his stage arrangements," said he, "but he has the expression of a traitor."

"Perfall, Perfide!"

One would have said that the labours of the Cyclops were taking place behind the walls of the long closed theatre. There were rumours of steam engines, hoisted upon the stage by means of lifting machines and pulleys. For what purpose? Truly it was very terrifying; what would come of all this mystery?

In any case Richter was sure of his orchestra. It was he, who like St Christoper with the child Jesus, would bear the whole weight of the undertaking upon his robust shoulders.

At last it was the 27th of August and we entered the theatre.

A crowd of spectators were gathered about the entrance and before the Royal Palace. They must have known that the apartments in the palace communicated directly with the royal box, and that no one could see the King pass or know when he entered the theatre, so it could only have been the irresistible attraction of walls behind which something is happening, that held all those loungers there.

The theatre was brilliantly lighted, although nearly empty. The hundred or so persons whom the King had seen fit to invite were scattered through the house and were hardly noticeable. The side boxes and a few rows of the orchestra chairs were to be used on this occasion. The dress circle and the boxes facing the stage, in the midst of which the royal box filled so large a space, were shut off.

I gazed at the sumptuous decorations of that loge, the frame to which the picture was as yet lacking, but which would hold in a few moments the so longed-for figure of the young sovereign. It would be our first glimpse of him, of that being who inspired in us such a profound sympathy, of him who radiated the glory of having been able to correct an error of destiny, and diminish the shame that humanity would endure for having failed to recognise Genius.

The blue velvet draperies with their rich folds held back by cords of gold, the crown and coat of arms, lozenged in blue and silver, and borne by the rampant lions, which signified in the language of heraldry "up and ready," these only caught the light, and the royal box itself was like a grotto of darkness.

All of a sudden the King was there, sparkling in the obscurity like a star emerged from the mist. His youthful visage gave us a delightful surprise. We had not imagined him like that, at once feminine and headstrong, ingenuous and arrogant. In contrast to the very black locks of his hair, which, standing up from his forehead, seemed to guard him like a wave of flame, his skin was of a warm, almost, dusky pallor, and a singular expression of energy contrasted strongly with the delicate modelling of his features; but one was instantly fascinated by the extraordinary splendour of those eyes, blue-green as the sea, fringed with long black lashes, eyes profound, ecstatic.... "Nothing is able to give any idea of the magic of that glance," said the Master.

The king advanced to the front of the box. His tall form dominated the house for an instant: then he seated himself. Very soon the lights were turned down and the vision vanished. But Hans Richter did not yet give the signal to the orchestra. The footlights were lighted, but before the curtain was drawn a man slipped out before it from a corner of the stage.

Perfall, the manager! What could he wish to say?

After many bowings and scrapings, with his hand on his heart he spoke, he implored "the indulgence of the select public before whom he had the honour.... In spite of the best will in the world, of long conscientious efforts ... insurmountable difficulties of scenery ... effects impossible to realise.... It had been necessary to give up the idea of attaining perfection, and to be content with what could be done, regret, chagrin ... but there is no flying without wings....

The presence of the king kept back all marked demonstration: yet even that could not stifle the indignant murmur that followed Perfall, when, after fresh cringings, he disappeared behind the curtain.

Richter struck angrily upon his desk, as if he were hitting the back of the traitor. The low note began its muffled vibration, the prelude commenced: but we no longer listened in the religious absorption of the other day, we were afraid to see the curtain drawn aside ... and at that moment it was drawn.

One was disappointed at the very first glance; no sign of the green shadows, of the humid and troubled depths which we had expected to see, only very dry rocks of moulded paper, resting without mystery, upon the boards of the stage. A frightful oil lamp, suspended from the highest moulding was supposed to represent "the gold of the Rhine." It only recalled the lantern which is placed, by night, at the top of a street obstruction.... The crystalline voice unrolled its clear melody, but at this point, a mannikin with dangling arms and hair hanging before its face, intended for an undine, was precipitated, head first, from above and, half way down, remained suspended, balancing from the end of a string. At the moment when the other voices were heard, other images of the same nature fell from above and oscillated in the deplorable attitudes of the drowned. Soon after, the mannikins were drawn back, and the true singers, standing upon supports, half concealed by the jutting out of the paper rocks, appeared and agitated their arms to represent swimming. Then they went away, and the puppet Rhine maidens returned and capered desperately about the smoking lamp.

What absurdity! They would not dare to present anything so bad at the Punch and Judy show of the Champs-Elysées.

After the scene-shifting, of an unbelievable awkwardness, a very little Walhalla, like a castle of cards, was to be seen upon a miniature mountain. Wotan had the appearance of a wayfarer who sleeps in the open air. As soon as he began to sing however, the magnificent voice of Betz made one willing to forget all else, one no longer saw the ridiculous landscape, and as the mechanical difficulties were over for the time, one could listen to the scenes that followed up to the moment of the descent to the Nibelheim.

At that point the management took its revenge.

A frightful and continuous hissing suddenly drowned both the voices and the orchestra. What in the world could it be? At first one was terrified, but heavy clouds of white vapour soon enveloped the scene and all was explained: the famous machines! A red Bengal fire, lighted too late, coloured those clouds, which were supposed to escape from the subterranean kingdom of the Nibelungen forgers.

When, a little later, Alberich should have donned the magic helmet in order to take the form of the dragon, he very simply walked off at the wings and the dragon entered by the same path, then the dragon went back, and the man returned.

The steam engine was not employed in the last scene; at the moment when Donner assembled the clouds and let loose the storm, the hissing might have helped to represent the whistlings of the tempest. At that time, however, what seemed to be blocks of granite descended from the freize and moved to the right and the left without knowing where to stop. The Gods climbed painfully up after the storm, and beheld, added to the scenery of before, a large bridge in white linen, which crossed the valley and reached to the other side, erasing and overwhelming the tiny Walhalla.

Toward this whiteness the Gods direct their steps. Then that must be the rainbow over which they are to pass. Yes, of course it is, for now a prismatic light, thrown from a lantern, runs distractedly over the lower end of the linen, onto Wotan's nose, everywhere it ought not to be, and never reaches the bridge, massive and white, for which it is intended.

At length the curtain falls, the orchestra is silent. Richter, red with wrath, throws down his baton; the usually amiable Richter looks positively fierce.

"I will not direct such aRheingold" cried he, "it is war between you and me, Herr Manager!" And to us he said, "Wait for me at the Café Maximilian, we must join together in forewarning the Master."

The first presentation of theRheingoldwas billed for Sunday, the 29th August, two days later. Under the circumstances, it must be prevented from taking place.

If the stage settings had been simply mediocre, it might have been possible to resign oneself and count upon the splendour of the work to make one forget the inadequacy of its plastic realisation: but here there was too much of the grotesque, too many things that made one laugh, the bad faith and malevolence were too evident: there must be a protest so violent as to prevent the accomplishment of the sacrilege.

After we were all reunited in our usual place at the Café Maximilian, the conference was not a long one. Richter had had a stormy interview with Perfall.

"Postpone the representation," said Richter.

"The representation will take place on Sunday," replied Perfall.

"We shall see!"

"And hewill see," added Richter. "My resolution is taken, but I did not wish to announce it before asking Wagner's advice. Quick. Let us get to business!"

He wrote a dispatch in German, and we wrote the following in French:

"Master, the orchestra, under the direction of Hans Richter, was admirable. The singers deserve the highest praise. The scenery and the stage mechanism are absurd, ridiculous, impossible." And, while someone hurried off with the telegrams, I wrote a long letter to Wagner, giving him a detailed account of the spectacle at which we had just been present and concerning which we were still trembling with indignation.

Betz also wrote to the Master, who would receive the dispatches the same evening and the letters the following morning.

We awaited the replies in the greatest impatience.

The first telegram which arrived the next day was for Richter:

"Will they really offer me such an insult as to give my work to-morrow?"

At the theatre theRheingoldwas still announced. Richter showed Wagner's dispatch to Perfall, but he paid no attention to it, and persisted in his determination to give the work upon the date for which it was billed.

I received a letter from Tribschen in which Wagner said that he thanked me for the vivid description I had sent him of this disaster, that he had telegraphed to the King asking him to suspend the representations, that he had telegraphed to Betz begging him to refuse to sing under such conditions.

On Sunday morning Richter went for a last time to see the Director, and said to him:

"The representation of theRheingoldwill not take place this evening, because I will not conduct the work against the wish of its author."

"You will not conduct it this evening, nor any other evening," cried Perfall—"as you are no longer Capellmeister to the Royal Theatre."

And pale with rage, he signed the dismissal of Hans Richter.

But at least they could not play theRheingoldthat evening. Better that the sea should swallow one man than the whole ship.

A strip was pasted across the bills, postponing the performance to the following Thursday. The management sought for a new leader of orchestra, there was a mad rush about Munich, where many Capellmeisters had come to hear theRheingold.

All those whom they solicited, stole away, leaving the city precipitately; not one of them cared to incur the disapproval of the composer by conducting the work against his will.

On Monday another letter brought the news that Wagner had written at length to the King, explaining to him in all its details, the affair of theRheingoldand begging him to postpone again the performance announced for Thursday to the following Sunday. If it were in accordance with the King's wishes, Wagner would himself go to Munich to re-instal Richter at the desk and to reorganize the scenes as much as possible.

The Master had submitted the same conditions to the management of the theatre the day before, and had received a telegram, come out of the Counsellor's hump, to the effect that the conditions were granted and that they only prayed him to allow them to give the representation on Thursday.

Wagner telegraphed in answer to that:—

"I await a response from the King to a letter sent off to-day."

But on this same evening of Monday, the 30th August, Richter received a dispatch from Wagner which announced his own arrival for the following day. He had not the patience to wait for the King's answer. He would come in the strictest secrecy, no one was to know where he would stay, and, we must understand, it was necessary to guard the secret most carefully.

"Alte Pferdestrasse, Wagner, who has just arrived in Munich, is there, come to-night, after dark."

We had all gathered at Franz Servais' house to await the news, when this note was brought to me and put into "the right hands" with much mystery. It was not signed, but Richter had written it.

"Richard Wagner here!" We expected him, yet now we were surprised and troubled that he had come, even though in answer to our call.... What if some misfortune should grow out of this incident!... On the contrary, all would come right now that the Master was here, his presence would work miracles.

"Alte Pferdestrasse," said Servais, "Wagner has gone to Scheffer's home: what an honour!"

"Who is this Scheffer, then?" asked Villiers, "always so silent and buried in his beard? One cannot make him out at all."

"He is correspondent of some small German papers, according to his own account, but, I believe also an office-holder. Certainly he is a good Wagnerian, and that ought to suffice for us."

"His dog is also that," replied Villiers, "for he only comes when one whistles the serenade of Beckmesser."

"Where is the Alte Pferdestrasse?" I asked.

"In a very quiet part of the city, but it is not easy to find—" said Servais. "We will take you there and wait for you, since you only are invited to see the Master...."

It was still daylight when we left Servais' house and sauntered slowly along, in order not to have the air of conspirators. We asked ourselves if Wagner really ran any risks, in coming to Munich. He was not really exiled, only morally so, by his own resolution not to go there. What had he to fear? The public was eager for his works: the price of seats in the theatre doubled when they were played, and the house was always full. Were his enemies still so implacable, and what could they do?

We stopped before the theatre to read the posters and wonder what Perfall was plotting. TheRheingoldwas announced for Thursday, two days later. The management was stubborn: nevertheless it would have to concede one point; who would conduct the orchestra, if not Richter?

We went on, and were nearly lost in a labyrinth of small deserted streets with grass growing between the pavingstones, with little, low houses and small gardens.

"Alte Pferdestrasse." At last we found it; my companions stopped at the corner of the street and Franz Servais pointed out the house of the greatly envied Scheffer. The entrance door was closed and I knew that porters were not usual in the Munich houses. I could see the shining brass of three little bells, but it had grown very dark, and I could not succeed in making out the name of the resident or the number of the floor engraved under each. Leaving it to chance, I rang the middle one! Chance served me this time, for Scheffer himself came to let me in. We mounted a narrow dimly-lighted staircase to the first floor.

As soon as we passed the threshold, I saw Wagner, at the end of the second room, seated on an old sofa.

Then I suddenly remembered Tribschen, the superb frame which seemed so fitting a place for the Master. I thought how at this hour, between the high mountains, deep shadows brooded over the dear home, which no longer held his presence, and anxiety possessed the heart of her, who in spirit followed the absent one.

How strange it was to find Wagner in this narrow and shabby setting! Yet, because it held him, one was no longer conscious of the restrictions: he transformed all that surrounded him.

"Well, dear friend," he said to me, "here are the Misérabilités in full force! I do not regret that you should have been a witness of the occurrence that has brought me here, for there are some things that one could never believe, unless one had seen them."

"But the King, what does the King say?"

"Ah, I imagine that he feigns to ignore the fiasco, and does not wish to be drawn into it. They have probably persuaded him that it is impossible to do better, or to make the stage effects realistic: he wishes to enjoy again the pleasure he had in hearing the music and probably said to his subordinates:

"'Arrange as well as you can, but give me another representation of theRheingoldas soon as possible.'"

"How could he understand, after having put at the disposition of the Director the enormous sum of sixty thousand florins, and commanding him not to spare time in obtaining a perfect result, how could he imagine such bad will and malevolence in those whom he employs?"

"But now that you are here, Master, all will be different."

"No, alas! The first representation is still billed for Thursday. The King wishes it and I am not willing to oppose him. You know that all my new works belong to him, in exchange for the yearly indemnity which he grants me. As soon as any score is completed, I send it to him and he has the right to dispose of it as he pleases. This time, I am protesting inwardly, but mutely, against the fragmentary representations of the Tetralogy. But how can I feel any ill-will toward the King for his impatience? Toward him who has endeavoured in every way to put through the theatre project which would have permitted the bringing out of my work as a whole? He cannot resign himself to waiting, as I should have liked to have him wait, for the better times, and he wishes to see, at least, the representations of parts of my work. I can only submit myself. And all this creates rather a delicate situation. He is vexed that I do not accept the situation as he has done, and that I refuse to direct the studies of theRheingold, and I am grieved that he exercises his right to have them represented. But, like my mute protestation, so his blame is unspoken. Nothing greater than that could come to trouble a friendship such as ours; it is only a squall, which dulls for a moment the surface of a beautiful lake."

"Then Master, what will you be able to do here before Thursday?"

"First and above all, I wish to re-instal Richter at the desk and I have asked for a rehearsal to-morrow, for myself alone, when I shall endeavour to improve whatever I can, to correct the greatest faults, if it is possible to do it. I owe this effort to my honour as an artist, to the devotion of our matchless Richter and of my interpreters; I owe it to my friends; this conviction has made me break the promise that I made to myself, not to come here, or mix in any way in the affair."

Richter, in Wagner's presence, preserved the ecstatic expression of a priest before a holy apparition. Standing at a little distance he listened to the Master thoughtfully, his steady eyes shining behind his glasses, in the midst of the abundant gold of his beard and his hair. He seemed to have lost the power of speech. As for Scheffer, seated in a corner, he pulled softly at the ears of the dog crouched between his knees, and watched his glorious guest with a devout air.

Wagner endured, or seemed to endure, these fresh trials with an admirable serenity; he had, as it were, an armour of happiness which the blows of fate would henceforth hit without piercing, and this group of disciples zealous for the faith, seemed to form a rampart about his heart.

Very cheerfully he gave me the news of Tribschen and of the vexations that the Munich events had caused there. The day after the dress rehearsal chanced to be a day of many visitors. "One of his sisters with her husband and daughter; an eminent student of Sanscrit, professor at the University of Leipzig; a philologist of Basle "—that was Nietzsche—so they had a number of people with them at two o'clock dinner. This dinner was interrupted ten times by the arrival of telegrams; the Master left the table in order to write a reply; no sooner had he returned and taken his place, than another message was brought to him and he was forced to absent himself again. All those good people were amazed and could not believe that, ordinarily, in that dear retreat of Tribschen, one saw and heard nothing of the outside world.

By the questions that Wagner asked of Richter concerning certain passages from the score of theRheingold, the effect that they produced, and the sound of new combinations, I comprehended that hardest of all for the composer, in the sacrifice upon which he had determined, was to deny himself from hearing his orchestra: and that without admitting it to himself, perhaps, he believed he should find a balm for this intense desire, in the rehearsal which he had solicited for the following day. Truly, there would be very little opportunity in such a short time, of materially improving the deplorable scenic arrangements. It was evident that the Master had, above all, two things most at heart: to hear his work once, as if by stealth—and to restore Richter, who was without means, to his high position of Capellmeister to the Royal Theatre.

We should see what to-morrow would bring! Wagner ought to make the attempt, if not to sleep, at least to rest; Richter and I took leave of him, and left him to the care of the glorified Reinhard Scheffer.

A brougham drawn by two horses stood before the house in Alte Pferdestrasse, when I went to learn the news the next day.

Feeling that it was sure to be some one from the Court who was in conference with the Master, I did not enter at once, but sauntered away for some little distance, waiting till the interview should be over.

It lasted a long time. Finally I saw Düfflipp, the Court Counsellor, come out, followed by the Director, Perfall. The swarthy and saccharine face of the king's secretary was all shining with perspiration. He wore a suit of chestnut-coloured cloth. His big awkward shoulders disappeared into the carriage, and Perfall, very red and very much given to obsequious bowings, closed the door. The horses reared, stamping noisily on the pavingstones, then pranced off at a great pace, while the Director walked rapidly away.

They both had the aspect of rogues. I hurried up the stairs to Scheffer's floor, urged by anxiety and the desire to know what had happened.

I found Wagner in a peculiar state of mind, ironically gay, satirical, full of jokes, but calm, without any trace of anger.

"Do you recall that sentence ofKing Lear," he asked me, "'The worst is not yet,' when they had said: 'this is the worst'? To-day surpasses yesterday. Tartufflipp is just gone and the measure is full. Not only do they refuse me the only rehearsal I asked for, and reject Richter (who has failed in the obedience and respect which he owed to such a director as Perfall) forever, but again they drive me away from Munich. I am, it appears, a public menace and my life is in danger. It is terrible! The poor counsellor was quite distracted about it, his hump shivered with disquietude.... Truly, if he worries so about me, his health will be affected and, in order to prevent such a misfortune, I must go away at once."

"Oh! without seeing even one rehearsal of your work?"

"But the theatre would be quite likely to collapse upon me if I passed its threshold! Do you not understand? Tartufflipp comprehends it all very well; with the greatest solicitude and tenderness he incited me to a prompt flight! To all that I attempted to say to him, he made the same reply—'But that is not the question, do not remain here, you must not stay, how terrible if anything were to happen to you!'"

"Did he speak in the name of his Master?"

"Not at all! The King is undoubtedly ignorant of the fact that I am here. I tried to see him, this morning, at his Castle of Berg; but they told me he had gone on an excursion. There is a guard all about him in order to prevent my approaching him. But I foresee in all this a cause for recriminations which might do harm to the royal person, and in the endeavour to spare him all annoyance I take myself off, without protest. You may be sure that the enormous sum the King has put at the disposal of the theatre has given rise to wrath among the ministers. The fact that this sum has been misused, squandered without profit, through the incapacity and the knavery of those to whom it was confided, does not lessen the complaint against the King. Then let us accept the situation. We will let people imagine if they can that the stage arrangements of theRheingoldare superb; if mincemeat must be made of my work, I submit to it, if only they will not incriminate the King, and will leave me alone."

At that moment Richter arrived.

"Master," said he, "I have said my good-byes to the musicians of the orchestra; they replied by a very touching ovation to me, and they begged me to assure you of their most enthusiastic loyalty."

"My poor friend," said Wagner, "you are the real victim of this deplorable fiasco."

But Richter, his eyes sparkling with joy, replied: "I am happy!"

Wagner reached out his arms and embraced him warmly.

"Ah! Here is Wotan!" said I—as Betz, the singer, entered.

"They are pasting up new posters!" cried he. "'The orchestra will be conducted by Herr Wülner, the rôle of Wotan will be sung by Herr Betz!' Ha! ha! do they really believe so? Well, theRheingoldwill neither be given on this Thursday, nor yet on Sunday, because I have to tender my farewell to you, Master; instead of signing my new engagement with the Royal Theatre of Bavaria, I am going this evening to Berlin, without even forewarning that wretch of a Perfall."

The carriage which was to take Wagner to the railway station, on that Thursday the 2nd September, was to come for me before going to the "Old street of horses," and that before daylight, as the train left at 5.15 in the morning.

This time, all the disciples were to be permitted to see the Master—if only they waked early enough—and it was arranged that they should bid him farewell at the station where, in order not to attract attention, each one was to go singly.

The sun was hardly up and it was still chilly in spite of the season, on that high plateau where Munich is situated, when the old hackney coach, driven by a young coachman in blue and with a Tyrolean hat, carried me through the deserted city streets.

At the sound of the little bells and the wheels of the coach, Richter came down with the handbag; then came Wagner followed by Scheffer.

The Master looked very well, and the serenity of his humour seemed to have increased since the day before.

After we had started, I complimented him upon the strength of mind which sustained him in the face of this disaster, upon his magnanimous resignation, or perhaps, his Olympian scorn.

"Neither the one nor the other!" said he. "I have found my force in the belief that nothing essential, nothing of that which is closest to me, is hurt by this contention. My work, after the impression which it has made upon all of you, who understand me so intimately, must be just what I wished for it, and it soars away intact and free, from amidst the tawdry rubbish with which they try to disguise it.

"There is still another thing; it is that human malignity is no longer able to reach or hurt me deeply across the warm affection and the devotion which surround me. This certainty has comforted me. You see that even here, as I go away, I leave friends. You also know with what anxious tenderness they watch for my arrival at home! Truly, when I think of the past and the despair into which such circumstances as these would have plunged me then, when I had to bear my pain alone, I am able to feel almost joyous. Stop, look at the excellent Richter!" added he with a laugh, "he feels as I do, at twenty-eight he loses a position that a mature man would find it difficult to obtain, and, in place of the downcast countenance he ought to have, he shows us a sincere expression of the most complete satisfaction."

As a matter of fact, sitting opposite the Master, Richter, the golden, gazed at him with an air of utter beatitude.

"It is because Richter, he also," say I, "soars above the 'misérabilités,' he even carries a glorious palm, and, like the martyrs of the Coliseum, he sings thanksgivings while the lions are eating him."

"Verily," cried Richter, "I go, like them, straight to Heaven!"

That was true, for Wagner had "commanded" Richter to go and instal himself at Tribschen and await events there.

As we passed through the Maximilian Square, the Master called attention to a statue with which he was unfamiliar.

"Who is that?" asked he.

"It is Goethe, by Widnmann," responded Scheffer.

Wagner lifted his soft felt hat and said;

"It is a striking likeness!"

Then he added:

"I said that for fun, but I could very well have known Goethe, I must have been about fifteen when he died. However I should be pleased to make you believe that I am younger than Richter!'

"You are younger, Master; the Immortals have no age."

At the station we were all reunited. There were Villiers, Schuré, Servais and others. Wagner took them all cordially by the hand and Richter presented to him Franz Servais, whom he did not yet know, but of whom Liszt had often spoken to him.

The train was in readiness, the compartment chosen, some one arranged the luggage.

The Master, in a boyish humour, sat on the floor of the carriage, in the opening of the door, the step serving for his footstool. We ranged ourselves in a circle, which formed a rampart about him.

I always remember him so under his big gray felt hat, with his luminous blue eyes, his laughing mouth, so finely cut above the prominence of the wilful chin, and the neckerchief of yellow satin which he had crossed over his throat because of the chilly morning air.

He reminded us of our promise to go again and greet him at Tribschen on our way back to Paris. He also invited Servais to go when we did.

"Since they have chased me out of Munich," said Wagner "those who love me have nothing further to keep them here."

"We shall remain only a few days," said I, "to keep an eye on the enemy and to see whether, furious at his defeat, he may not prepare some vengeance."

"Bah! the conqueror saves himself and will be out of reach of his blows. But let it be well understood that I triumph in spite of myself, thanks to the generous defection of Betz, that I did not wish in any case to oppose the will of the King nor to prevent the representation. As for you, Richter, do not forget that I only give you time to go and embrace your mother and to strap your trunks ... and then you must come as fast as possible to Tribschen, where your room is prepared."

Without responding, Richter seized the Master's hand and kissed it.

The heartless whistle of the train interrupted us. We must separate. Wagner rose and stepped into the carriage; the door was closed. Still leaning from the window, he waved his grey hat; the wind scattered the locks of his hair about his splendid forehead, and, as long as the train remained in sight, we continued to signal with our handkerchiefs our latest farewell.

Richter's mother lived in a little village somewhere in the neighbourhood of Munich. He had planned to pass two or three days with her before his departure for Lucerne and had asked us to go with him; he would show us the country and we should be able to return to Munich the same day before the evening meal.

Villiers and Servais were of the party. We passed through pleasant and hilly country, picturesque with the villages of the suburban residents.

Frau Richter was a professor of singing, and it was the lesson hour when we entered the little house where she lived. Scales and trills of remarkable shrillness struck our ears, while we waited on the ground floor for the lesson to be over. The pupils passed us on their way out, and Richter conducted us up to the first floor and into the drawing-room, which was well furnished in a homelike and very German fashion.

Frau Richter was still a young woman, of attractive presence and manner. She spoke very regretfully of the events which had led to the dismissal of her son and she seemed to fear that he would never again find so good a position.

They brought us beer and bretzels. The talk languished a little at first, but when Richter told us that his mother had invented a method of singing which increased the power of the voice five-fold, she at once became interested and animated.

In fact, the pupils we had heard just before, had seemed to us to have a very unusual volume of tone.

Frau Richter's method consisted in throwing the sound, when singing, against the vault of the palate, which then forms a sort of drum increasing the resonance and the force of the tone to an astonishing degree.

Richter sat down at the piano and sang according to this method. His voice came out in tremendous volume, making the little house tremble to its foundation.

"One would say that his palate was made of tin," cried Villiers.

Our amiable hostess explained her discovery in detail, illustrating meanwhile in a voice that sounded like a bell.

Servais was the first one to grasp the idea, he tried it and produced some very wonderful bellowings.

"The curious thing about it," said Richter, "is that this system which my mother has found, does away with all fatigue. One is able to use the voice indefinitely in this way."

And Richter, to prove the truth of his assertion, sang us the entire third scene from the Rheingold.

When we had taken leave of our hosts, and were established in our railway carriage, we made our very best endeavours to sing from the palate, and the result was a scandalous cacophony.

In governmental circles, the intrigues continued around the incidents occasioned by theRheingold, and the journalists who took their cue from there, did not cease to expend their servile ink in writing calumnious articles.

Finally Wagner was constrained to break the silence he had wished to keep, by publishing a short article in theAllgemeine Zeitungof Augsburg. He asserted once again in this article that he had never offered any opposition to the execution of his work. "I should certainly be very glad," he wrote, "if they would give up the idea of playing it under such deplorable conditions; but if they have decided to do so, I am entirely resigned and I have no intention of hindering the representations."

The news from Tribschen informed me that the Master was in good health, but the persistence of this animosity toward him had made even his strength of mind waver for a moment. Cosima had surprised him, one day, alone in his room, seated on a low chair and sobbing. But serenity and cheerfulness soon came back, he applied himself again regularly to the work which he had given up during those days of trouble, and then all went well.

At the theatre, Kindermann—"the singing gun"—as Villiers called him, because of his thundering voice—who interpreted the rôle of one of the giants, studied also that of Wotan, abandoned by Betz.

They had sent to Darmstadt in all haste, for the very skilful decorator, Brandt, and had requested him to patch up the scenery a little if possible, but he fled away more quickly than he came, declaring that he could not do anything with such horrors, that all would have to be remade.

The management did not give up, however, for theRheingoldwas announced for the 22nd September.

All the visitors who had come to Munich from different countries went away again, one after another. Liszt was the first to go. Without doubt he went secretly to Lucerne to see his daughter. Madame Muchanoff paid us a farewell visit. She herself would pass through Lucerne and make a visit to Wagner. Richter was already at Tribschen and Schuré would also go there.

We were the last to leave Munich, in spite of the anonymous letters which we daily received, threatening us with all sorts of retribution unless we went at once. "It is you who have prevented the theatre from carrying out the King's orders; you are the servants of a traitor, traitors yourselves.... It is not to be endured much longer etc...." But we were not in the least disturbed.

Cosima told me that at one time in Munich she had received each day as many as four or five letters, in which they swore that she should die and called her "Prussian spy."

We remained, chiefly, to give time for the crowd of visitors then at Tribschen to leave, in order that we should not encumber that delicious retreat. Finally they called us back there with such a charming and affectionate insistence, assuring us that there was no longer any one there, that we suddenly decided to go.

And, face to the enemy, we quitted Munich, without resentment against that pretty city, where we had received from all those who were not in league with the Court faction, the most sympathetic and cordial welcome.

This time, we arrived at Tribschen without being expected.

What joy to know and to return! to leap from the boat to the landing with its familiar little shed! to see again with our real eyes, the garden, the house, the lovely verdure, the air so blue....

Servais, who saw it all for the first time, was deeply moved. Villiers exulted.

I ran across the lawn, to be the first to arrive, Russ discovered us, he bounded forward, recognised me and greeted me with loud barks.

Then the children ran with cries of delight. In the salon, the sound of the piano, which I had heard, suddenly ceased. Wagner appeared at the top of the steps and Cosima followed him.

"Ah! there you are at last!" cried he, hurrying down the steps. "Without knowing any thing about it, I expected you to-day!"

And they embraced us, "Not," as Cosima declared, "like people of the world, but like peasants."

How much they had to tell us, and to re-tell chiefly about the nightmare of theRheingold, which started up again when they thought it had subsided and was not yet at an end!

"You can imagine," Cosima said to me, "the mixture of terror and of joy that overwhelmed me, when, two days after the Master's departure, I received the dispatch announcing his sudden return. I waited for him at the station with the four children and the two dogs. At the sight of his radiant expression I was at once reassured, and the thought that I have something to do with the serenity he is able to preserve through all this trouble, makes me feel as happy as it makes me proud. The moments of weakness and discouragement which he passed through will not come any more, and Tribschen will remain the paradise that you know."

They had had one satisfaction all through these troubled days: the reconciliation with Liszt, or rather the end of the misunderstanding. Cosima confessed, in a low voice, that her father had come one evening, secretly; that he had passed a night at Tribschen, and that this had been a very sweet consolation. Now they had cut off all relation with the outer world again, and they lived for noble labour and domestic joys.

"Do you know how we were occupied when you arrived?" the Master asked me.

"You were making music, but it did not seem to me to be from Wagner."

"We were playing, Cosima and I, some of Haydn's symphonies, arranged for four hands, and that with the greatest pleasure. We have chosen the twelve English Symphonies, which Haydn wrote after the death of Mozart. For some time we have been following this study and it has given us some delightful hours."

Richter who had been at Tribschen for several days, had undoubtedly heard us arrive. He slipped into the drawing-room almost furtively, and saluted us with a restrained affection. In Wagner's presence, he always seemed ecstatic and overwhelmed. Cosima assured me that he had been so since his arrival. "One can hardly make him speak. He stays out of sight, for fear of being in the way, renders all sorts of services, goes to bathe the dogs, and, when he is present he stands off in a corner, where he listens and admires. Sometimes he starts away, suddenly, and one can hear him going down to the kitchen. Curious to know what he wanted to do there, one evening some one followed without his suspecting it, and heard him relating to the servants who listened to him open-mouthed, as to a sermon, all the beautiful things that Wagner had said!"

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