One day I had been invited to Tribschen for the two o'clock dinner.
Over the lake, as usual, a boatman rowed me to the point of the
promontory, and I passed through the garden and up to the house without
meeting anyone. The French windows of the drawing-room were wide-open,
and as I reached the threshold I heard soft harmonies that came from
the little sanctuary where the Master worked. Hardly daring to breathe,
I slipped into the nearest chair. I was greatly moved, troubled, even
frightened, for was it not a presumption, almost a sacrilege, to
surprise in this way the sacred mystery? Yet, what rare good fortune
was mine, to hear Wagner composing! Perfectly quiet, hardly moving an
eyelash, I listened intently. Incomparably sweet appeared to me the
sounds I heard. A very slow progression of chords, which seemed to
be drawn from a harp rather than a piano: a strange, remote harmony,
mysterious and supernatural. I discovered, later, that it was the
first sketch of the Invocation to Erda by Wotan, in the Third Act of
_Siegfried_, where the goddess ascends from the depths of the earth,
with closed eyes and draperies wet with dew....
After a few moments, silence fell, and Wagner soon appeared between the
silken folds of the parted curtains.
His face, with its aureole of silvered hair, was calm, and still more
luminous than usual were the rays that beamed from his large eyes.
He saw me sitting rigid on my chair.
"Ah!" he said, "are you there? As quiet as an image! I have not heard
a sound."
"Imagine, then, O Master, what terror and what ecstasy I have felt, to
surprise Deity in the act of creating."
"I have told you before that you must not be so enthusiastic," he
exclaimed laughingly. "It is bad for the health."
"Oh! no; on the contrary, it makes one doubly alive."
"Well, I have been good too. Come and see how well I have worked."
A perfume of white-rose extract pervaded the little chapel. A restful
light, subdued by the surrounding verdure, illumined it; two or three
rays fell on the gilded backs of the books, and the royal friend in his
golden frame seemed to follow one with the magic glance of his polar
blue eyes.
There was no disorder on the piano-desk. Several large sheets of
music-paper, nearly covered with writing, concealed here and there the
dark woodwork. The part which the Master had just composed was written
in pencil, in very fine, close writing.
"I copy with the pen," he said. "I like to have it very clear. When I
cannot decipher it, I am furious."