One day, having landed at Tribschen, as I reached the house, I heard
through the wide-open windows of the drawing-room, mingling with the
light voices and laughter of the children, the sound of a curious
melody. What could be happening? Not wishing to interrupt, I advanced
very carefully in order not to be heard on the gravelled path, and,
having climbed the steps, I saw a delightful picture.
In the centre of the room, the four little girls, the youngest of
whom was hardly three, were dancing. Wagner, at the piano, provided
the music. The smallest child laughed with delight, revealing all
her little new teeth, as she strove to follow the steps of the older
ones. Her tiny feet tapped the floor vigorously, out of time with the
rhythm which the player, himself laughing and exclaiming as much as the
dancers, nevertheless marked with much force. When they grew tired of
dancing, I went in.
"Oh, did you see?" cried Senta, running toward me. "That is the
Tailors' Quadrille. Papa composed it for us."
"The Tailors' Quadrille." Music of Richard Wagner! If one could only
remember that music now! If one could only know, at least, that it is
written down and preserved! As for me, I seem to hear it again when I
recall that scene, which I remember in every detail, and which is, even
to-day, as vivid and living as it is exquisite!