It is a little cooler now, and we are wandering through the paths of
the garden, with their borders of tender green. The Master wishes to
show us his domain.
All about us the children run, laughing and calling to each other with
happy voices. Russ bounds on ahead, picks up stones, which he brings
back to us with an insinuating air, anxious to draw us into a game, but
Wagner is rather grieved over this game. "That is a bad trick I taught
him; now I cannot break him of it, and he damages his teeth against the
stones."
The Master walks rapidly; he guides us toward a high kiosk, where the
view, he says, is superb.
In truth, it is a ravishing place. The house seems half buried in a
billow of verdure, sheep browse on the slopes of the hills, and below,
on the limpid azure of the lake, white sails drift, reflecting the
amethyst hues of the high summits. A delicious light bathes in serenity
all this wonderful nature.
Richard Wagner, with both hands upon the rustic balustrade of the
kiosk, stood erect and silent, with that grave and solemn expression
which came to him suddenly when he was touched by any deep emotion.
It was he whom I watched now, and that was an unforgettable instant:
his eyes, as blue as the lake, wide open, almost staring, seemed to
absorb this picture, which radiated for them a world of thoughts;
this refuge, this exquisite retreat, created by the tenderness of a
much-loved friend, who had known how to brave all, and to face the
reprobation of the world with head erect, in order to come to the
consolation of one to whom she had consecrated herself without reserve,
at the time when he was most cruelly pursued by the bitter things of
life; this dear solitude, enlivened by the laughter of children, where
the blows of destiny could reach him only across a rampart of love--it
was with a very tender gratitude that he contemplated it.