I
The train moved slowly, as becomes a well-conducted Swiss train that
winds through beautiful country, and has no intention of blurring the
views by undue haste. At each station there was a long stop, a slow
renewal of leisurely motion.
To our little company of impatient French people within the compartment
this slow progress was very trying. A feverish excitement possessed us;
we could not sit still; from time to time we thrust our heads between
the curtains to gaze in advance of the train. Villiers de l'Isle-Adam
was one of us and most enthusiastic of all, his emotion continually
bubbling over into spasmodic laughter and disjointed phrases.
On an ordinary excursion this slowness of the train would not have
troubled us--but to-day--to-day we were going to Lucerne to see for
the first time--Richard Wagner!
The swiftest "Express" would have seemed slow to us, yet we half
dreaded the moment of arrival--when we should see the Master, hear him,
speak to him!
What this wonderful genius meant to us it would have been difficult
to make clear to those who were not of us, at that time when only a
little group of disciples stood by the Master upholding him against the
jeers of the masses who failed to comprehend him. Even to-day, when the
triumph of the cause we supported has surpassed our hopes, it is not
easy to explain our exaltation. We had the fanaticism of priests and
martyrs--even to the slaying of our adversaries! It would, in fact,
have been impossible to convince us that we should not be entirely
justified in annihilating all those scoffers--blind to the new radiance
which was so clear to us.
Each Sunday, when Pasdeloup played selections from Wagner, Homeric
defiances were hurled between the opposing camps in the body of the
concert hall and the interference of the town-guard was often required
to prevent actual hand-to-hand conflict.
We had never dreamed that one day we should look upon the face of the
Master. He was for us as inaccessible as Jupiter on the heights of
Olympus or Jehovah behind the flaming triangle, yet now we were going
to him!
"It is to you, my dear Judith, that we owe this incredible good
fortune," exclaimed Villiers, throwing himself upon the seat beside me
and pressing my hand between both his own.
In truth it was due to me, and my pride in the fact would not allow me
to make light of it.
For, carried away by my enthusiasm and relying upon my instinct
alone, I had had the audacity a few months before to publish a series
of articles upon Richard Wagner. I had done this with a truly French
impulsiveness, as I had then heard only a few fragments, indifferently
rendered by orchestra, of all his stupendous work. I had even dared to
attack an article upon Glück and Wagner, published by Earnest Reyer, a
friend who had known me from my babyhood, and who was amazed by such
unexpected aggression--truly youth stops at nothing--he had, however,
replied very courteously, and this musical passage of arms had created
some little sensation.
After much hesitation I had sent the articles to Wagner--then at
Lucerne--and with them a letter in which I begged him to forgive and
to correct whatever errors there might be. Then, with what trepidation
I looked and longed for a reply! Would he write?--I could hardly hope
for that. Yet I suffered a pang of disappointment each morning when the
postman came and went, leaving no longed-for letter. One day, at last,
I saw an envelope bearing a Lucerne stamp and an unfamiliar handwriting
which I nevertheless knew at once. With what emotions, and in what fear
and trembling I opened it. Could it be possible?--Four whole pages of
fine, close writing, clear and elegant, and below the last line the
magic signature!... Here is the letter:--
"MADAME,--You cannot imagine the kindly and touching impression that
your letter and your beautiful articles have made upon me. Permit me
to thank you and to count you among the very few true friends whose
far-seeing sympathy makes my only glory. I have found nothing to
correct or to alter in your articles; only I see that you do not yet
know the _Meistersinger_ very intimately. The introduction to the third
act has really appealed to our public. My barber told me the other day
that this part pleased him most of all, which led me to reflect that
the instincts of the people can neither be measured nor comprehended.
"As the curtain rises upon this third act, Hans Sachs, the cobbler, is
seen in his workshop, early in the morning, seated in his arm-chair,
entirely absorbed by his reading of the 'Chronicle' of the world. He
speaks to his young apprentice, without interrupting the profound
concentration of his mind upon his book.
"After the departure of the boy, he remains with head bowed over his
enormous volume, and his meditation, silent up to this point, finally
finds expression in these words spoken aloud, _'Wahn, Wahn! überall
Wahn!'_ I do not know how to translate this, because _'Vanity, Vanity!
All is vanity!'_ does not give the exact meaning of Wahn, which is much
more general, and expresses the object of the folly as well as the
folly itself.
"God only knows how my public divined, from the instrumental
introduction to the third act, the situation that followed and the
spiritual state of my Hans Sachs.
"It is true that in the second act, during the third verse of the
shoemaker's song, the first motif of the stringed instruments had been
introduced, suggesting there the hidden bitterness of the all-enduring
man who reveals to the world only a cheerful and energetic front.
"Eva had comprehended this secret grief, and, moved to the depth of her
soul, she had longed to fly where she could no longer hear that song
with its pretence of joy.
"Here[1] this motif is played alone and developed fully, to die away
at last in the sadness of renunciation, but, at the same time, the
horns take up, softly, as if heard from a distance, the solemn chant
with which Hans Sachs saluted Luther and the Reformation, and which
brought to the poet a supreme popularity. After the first strophe the
stringed instruments retake softly, and in a very slow movement, the
themes of the true song of the shoemaker, as if the man raised his head
from the work of his trade to look upward and lose himself in sweet and
tender reveries. Then the horns, with their most exalted tone, break in
triumphantly with that hymn of the Master with which Hans Sachs, on his
appearance at the Fête in the third act, is saluted by all the people
of Nuremberg in one unanimous thunder of applause.
"Again, the first motif of the stringed instruments enters, expressing
with vigour the natural emotion of a soul profoundly moved. Gradually
it grows calmer and more serene, and finally arrives at the supreme
peace of a sweet and beautiful resignation.
"It is the real meaning of this short instrumental part that so
impressed the worthy Pasdeloup that he essayed to perform it at your
concerts as an illustration of this unusual music.
"Pardon me, Madame, for venturing to complete, with the aid of my
imperfect French, your knowledge of my music--a knowledge otherwise so
thorough and profound as truly to have surprised and touched me.
"I shall probably go to Paris before long, perhaps even this winter,
and I delight in the anticipation of the real pleasure of taking your
hand and telling you in person what good you have done to your very
grateful and sincere,
"RICHARD WAGNER."
Wagner did not come to Paris that winter, so I looked for him in vain.
But my longing to see him had become irresistible since the Master had
written that he would like to know me.
There was only one thing to do--to go to Lucerne. But how should I
be received? Strange stories were told about Wagner. One authority
reported that he had a seraglio of women of all countries and of all
colours, clothed magnificently, but that no one ever crossed his
threshold.
Someone else described him as an unsociable man, gloomy and
disagreeable, living alone in strict seclusion, his only companion a
great black dog....
The idea of this stern solitude was not incongruous, and rather pleased
me; but I was greatly troubled lest the Master might feel forced
to permit my intrusion only through some sentiment of gratitude or
courtesy.
Therefore I wrote a rather complicated letter, saying that I should
pass through Lucerne with some friends, on my way to an exhibition of
paintings at Munich. It would be only a flying visit, I wrote, and I
begged him to tell me if he would be there at that time, and if I might
go to pay my respects to him.
He would understand from this that I should not disturb him by staying
too long.