Behold us, in our turn, at the edge of the lake of the "Four Cantons,"
on the wharf, which shelters a whole fleet of white boats with
slackened sails.
What a landscape! What scenery!--And what a harmonious setting for the
picture!
The lake, so pure, so clear that it seems like a mass of blue crystal,
a liquid sapphire, is lost to sight between the spurs of the mountains.
On one side looms Mount Pilatus, of the purple grey of storm clouds,
rugged and bare, outlining against the sky its rocky summit; on the
other, verdant Righi undulates, bristling with dark green firs that
form a contrast to its bright lawns of tender green. And beyond, dim,
cloudy, and unreal, appear the indentations of the Alps.
Choosing a boatman, we call to him, proudly,
"To Tribschen."
With a thrust of his boat hook the man launches us from the bank and
spreads his sail.
Now it is the city that we see, the old Lucerne with its unequal
houses, its many belfries, its unused bastions, spread out above the
picturesque little wooden bridge which we had hardly noticed when we
crossed it, but which now redoubles the curves of its rustic arches in
the blue waters of the lake.
But it is the other horizon only which interests us; that slender
promontory over there, which advances at a gentle slope, closing half
the passage. Toward that point the breeze gently wafts our rounded
sail. There is Tribschen, the domain of Richard Wagner!
A swan floats upon the lake, majestically parting the clear water with
his snowy breast, and we imagine we can see between his wings the
golden chain which yoked him to Lohengrin's little shallop. To our
imagination the green Righi is Mount Salvat; the temple of the Grail
must be concealed there behind the vigilant trees, and we search at the
summit of Pilate for the giant portal of divine Walhalla.
But we are nearing the promontory; we can distinguish the slender
poplars that stand erect upon its extreme point, then the trees and
tufted shrubs ranged behind, and there, through an opening in the
branches, we can even see a gable and a window of the house.
And now we reach the shore. The boat floats under a little shed built
upon piles.
With what deep emotion we set foot upon this sacred soil!
There is no door, no hedge, no limit to this garden; the lake, the
hills, the forests, the Alps, the whole world seems a part of it, and
even as this thought appeals to our young enthusiasm, so also is it
true and prophetic, since the world shall, in truth, become the domain
of the great one who dwells here.
The earth rises in a gentle slope toward the house, which we see at the
other side of a wide lawn. It seems a very simple house, all of gray,
long and low under its roof of reddish tiles. In the centre a double
flight of seven or eight steps, guarded by an iron balustrade, leads to
the drawing-room.
We advance slowly, full of emotion and thoughtful, as at the threshold
of a temple. Some one has seen us, undoubtedly, as the Master appears
at the door of the drawing-room and descends the steps, a big black
Newfoundland bounding by his side.
With an air at once ceremonious and cordial, Wagner bids us enter.
A tall and slender young woman, with a noble and distinguished air, a
sweet smile and very blue eyes under her beautiful blond hair, stands
in the centre of the drawing-room, surrounded by four little girls, one
of them an infant.
"Frau von Bülow, who has kindly come with her children to see me,"
said the Master, in presenting her.
After shaking hands with us cordially, she tells us the names of her
children--Senta, Elisabeth, Isolda, and Eva--who gaze at us with big,
wondering eyes.
We recognise in this choice of godmothers, all taken from among the
heroines of Wagner, an enthusiasm as great as our own, which drives
away all constraint between the charming mother and ourselves.
Then the dogs are presented to us. The big Newfoundland Rouzemouk, or
"Russ" familiarly, and Cos, a gray pug belonging to Frau von Bülow.
"My name is Cosima," she tells me, "and my friends at home have formed
the very bad habit, which actually gives me chills, of calling me
"Cos," so I have given that name to my dog, and since then no one dares
call me anything but Cosima!"
So the talk goes on, happy, quick-witted, enthusiastic, the Master
almost as gay as the disciples; and we have so much to say!
Wagner speaks French more than moderately well. He speaks it
correctly, but in his own way, with a certain freedom and audacity.
When he is unable to find a word to express his exact thought, or when
he believes there is no such word, he promptly creates one, and always
so clearly, so logically, that one can never fail to comprehend. He
speaks to me of Paris, which he loves, but where he has suffered much;
he speaks also without bitterness of the great battle of _Tannhäuser_,
concerning which we feel such mortification for our country. Yet he has
gained, he says, a number of sincere partisans in France who console
him for the defeat. Those who appreciate him there appreciate him more
thoroughly than his German admirers.
The Frenchman, more nervous, more responsive, when he does understand,
understands at once, and the warmth of his enthusiasm is very consoling.
The German is more patient and tranquil; he absorbs conscientiously
whatever is presented to him, but he shows very little feeling; there
can be nothing more frigid, more depressing, than certain playhouses
where the stalls are filled with women in woollen frocks. "And,
in order not to lose any time at the theatre," cries the Master,
indignantly, "they take their knitting with them!"
Then, also, we look about us with respectful curiosity, at the
interior of the temple, of which the quiet and pervading richness forms
a strong contrast to the simple gray of the exterior.
The drawing-room is rather large; it occupies an entire angle of the
house, and has windows on two sides. It is bathed in warm and restful
shadows between its walls covered with yellow leather traced with
arabesques of gold. A thick carpet muffles the footsteps. The velvet
draperies of the windows fall in heavy folds and mass themselves upon
the floor. A fine portrait of Beethoven holds sway at the end of the
grand piano, and faces a mirror which reflects it. Upon two other
panels Goethe and Schiller hang facing each other. From the ceiling
depends a big bronze lamp.
A large divan of purple damask stands against the wall, and soft
easy-chairs and cabinets are grouped here and there.
"Will you come to see my gallery?" asks Wagner, with a smile which
mocks the ambitious title. A wide arch connects the drawing-room with a
long, narrow room hung in violet velvet, against which the whiteness of
small marble statues stands out in soft relief.
They are the heroes of the Master's works: _Tannhäuser_ touching the
strings of his lyre, and singing the passionate song to the glory of
Venus. Lohengrin, like an archangel, drawing his sword for the defence
of innocence. Tristan, the knight, who believes that he drinks from the
goblet of death, and drains instead the cup where sparkles the philtre
of love. Walther von der Vogelweide, and the last-born, the youthful
and impetuous Siegfried, holding between his fingers the fatal ring.
There are also some tapestries, the gift of King Ludwig of Bavaria,
which portray scenes from the Nibelungen. In a niche a gilded Buddha,
Chinese incense-burners, chiselled cups--all sorts of rare and precious
things. In one corner there are two round table cabinets with covers of
glass, which protect a collection of magnificent butterflies with great
gold and purple wings.
"This collection of butterflies came from the Paris Exposition,"
announces the Master, laughing, "and from amid all that great mass of
things which owe their existence to the prodigious labours of mankind
this is the one thing that an artist finds most to his taste."
Having returned to the drawing-room, our talk goes on, without
constraint. The Master dazzles us by the charm of his words, his force
and geniality, and, above all, by his incomparable intellect. Now we
begin to feel that it is time to retire. We disembarked at Tribschen
about five o'clock; it is growing dark and it must be late, perhaps
nearing the dinner-hour, and, above all, we wish to be discreet and
tactful. But at our first suggestion of going they exclaim with such an
evident cordiality and urge us to stay with such friendly insistence
that in the greatest content we sit down again.
The children say good-night to everyone, and go to bed. Lamps
are brought, and time passes most delightfully. But at length--O
humiliation!--our stomachs begin to protest and reproach us for
forgetting them so long. We breakfasted before leaving Basle this
morning, very hastily and earlier than usual, and it is a long time
since then. Our host has not invited us to dinner, but since he keeps
us on--probably they dine late at Tribschen.
Toward nine o'clock the door opens; a servant comes in at last!
But, he brings a tray. It is only the tea, with the accompaniment of
fallacious dry biscuit. We exchange amused glances. Bah! what does it
matter? We will have supper at the hotel. Half-past eleven! Now we
really must go. But how? By the lake? Would there still be boats at
that hour?
"No, no, by the land. The carriage is in readiness. I will send
someone with you." At the other side of the house, upon the threshold
of the vestibule, the farewells are prolonged. They make us promise to
return the next day, and to come earlier, that we may enjoy the garden
and see the country a little. So we roll away through the unknown
country and the dark night, ourselves all illuminated with joy. "In
Wagner's owl carriage! It doesn't seem possible!" exclaims Villiers,
patting the cushions. And then we all talk at once, going over every
detail of that never-to-be-forgotten day. But the pangs of hunger are
tormenting us more and more. What a supper we will have as soon as we
reach the Hôtel du Lac! A drowsy boy rouses himself from his pallet bed
to open the door for us. "May we have supper?" we request of him. But
that isn't his affair; he knows nothing about it. He goes back to bed,
and begins to snore. So we go wandering through the hotel, trying to
open locked doors, ringing the electric bells again and again. Nothing!
Silence everywhere, and solitude and sleep. Ah well, surely we ought to
be willing to suffer a little for the cause that we defend; we ought
not to complain over one day of fasting. And, since we are unable to
avoid it, this ordeal rather pleases us; it seems fitting and symbolic;
the emptiness of our stomachs permits us the better to listen to the
song of joy in our hearts, to feel the intoxication of our minds; and
so we go very happily to bed, hoping to see again in our dreams the
sacred promontory over beyond the blue lake, where we shall return
to-morrow.