"MADAME,--I am now in Lucerne, and I need not tell you how glad I shall
be to see you. But can I not persuade you to prolong your stay in
Lucerne for a little, in order that the pleasure you grant me may not
be too soon over?
"I suppose that you are going to Munich for the exhibition of
paintings; yet, as I venture to believe that you would be glad to
hear some one of my works, I must tell you that the representations
of _Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan,_ and the _Meistersinger_ took
place in the month of June; the theatre is closed at present, and the
_Rheingold_ will not be given before the 25th August, if, indeed, it is
given at all.
"But I hope that neither the postponement of the exhibition nor
the closing of the theatre will delay your visit to Lucerne; on the
contrary, I shall hope that your stay here may be prolonged.
"Please send me a line, telling me the day of your arrival, and accept
again the assurance of my sincere regard.
"RICHARD WAGNER."
By an exchange of telegrams I was assured that the Master would also
welcome my companions, like myself his ardent disciples--and off we
started.
The last night we slept at Basle, where we had an adventure which
made a vivid impression upon us all. We arrived at night, and after
dining, we attempted to see what we could of the city, in spite of the
darkness. We found ourselves in a maze of narrow streets, dimly lighted
at long intervals. Rather bewildered, we went on across thoroughfares
and squares where large fountains could be seen, only to find ourselves
again in narrow lanes.
At last we emerged into a wide, open place, which the sky helped to
make a little lighter; a deep and continuous roaring pervaded it, which
quite appalled us, and made us advance with great precaution. This
tremendous volume of sound was produced by the Rhine. It is very wide
at this point and rushes through Basle with the violence of a torrent.
Stopping in the middle of the bridge, we leaned over the parapet, and
watched the ink-black river hurling itself on into the night, bearing
with it the shattered reflections of the stars, and seeming to long to
carry away the bridge also, and even the city.
A large moon, red as glowing embers, rose above the gables and
irregular outlines of the houses along the river-bank. It cast across
the river a crimson trail, which was wildly tossed and scattered by the
waves.
We lingered there, spell-bound by this sight, when, suddenly, we
heard a song, that seemed to rise clear and strong out of the tumult
of waters. Could we be dreaming? It was well known to us. The sailors'
song from _The Flying Dutchman_. What! Did that ill-omened ship come
to roam by night upon this impassable stream? Bending lower, we peered
into the black water, but we could see nothing; yet now the voices were
very near--it seemed as if the invisible ship were passing under the
arch of the bridge itself.
We were greatly agitated, but when the voices were silent, we went away
without wishing to fathom the mystery, shunning the possible discovery
of some cheerful tavern concealed in a recess of the high bank, where
lusty Swiss peasants found shelter, and grouped about their mugs of
foaming beer, sang with their clear, sonorous voices the song that had
so mystified us.
Now, while the train crept along, we recalled this episode of our
pilgrimage, and it seemed to us a happy omen.
For the first time we had been able to listen with an untroubled
enjoyment to a passage from the Master. In Paris, it was always in a
state of feverish excitement--with watchful eyes and fists clenched,
ready to pounce upon the interrupters--that we absorbed the new music.
Outside our own country, it appeared, the cause was already won, and
the music of Richard Wagner already popular. Very slowly we counted
off the different stations, and at length we were approaching the last
one. Our excitement increased. We were overcome by a sort of sacred
terror. We searched among the gods of art for the one who should appear
to us greater than this one, into whose presence we should so soon be
ushered--for that one in the whole sublime Olympus of geniuses whom we
could prefer to him, or whom we would rather see, could we be given the
power to choose.
Homer, Æschylus, Dante, Goethe, Beethoven, we named them all. Even the
divine Shakespeare failed to make us hesitate. To us the name of Wagner
flamed higher, with a more magical lustre.
He was Orpheus and Apollo both, blended to one lyre. Poet, musician,
philosopher--what, indeed, was he not? this latest comer.
"He is cubic. He comprises all," said Villiers, with finality.
"Emmenbrücke," called out the porter.
The last station was passed; one more half-hour, and then Lucerne!
Again we rhapsodised, this time seeking new names for Wagner,
eulogistic titles, such as history has reserved for her greatest men.
"The Eagle of the Righi," "The Swan of Lucerne"--"The Swan" appeared
especially appropriate to us, because of Lohengrin; but Villiers
thought the allusion too ingenuous. "The Swan of Cambrai, the Swan
of Lucerne,"--he groped about for a synonym, and finally burst out
triumphantly with,
"The Palmiped of Lucerne!"
An explosion of laughter relieved our nervous tension. But the train
whistled, and again our hearts began to beat wildly. Leaning half
through the window, dishevelled by the wind, Villiers looked eagerly.
It was impossible that anyone could fail to see it--that glorious
radiance directly above the city which held such an oracle. Without any
doubt, even in the full light of day, a shining star marked, for pious
pilgrims, the place of the new Oracle.
We entered the station.
Suddenly, Villiers, pale and with dilated eyes, drew back, and dropped
upon the seat, exclaiming,
"The Palmiped!"
[1] In the introduction to the third act.