Alas! we had only a few more days to remain in Lucerne. The opening of
the Exposition of Painting was announced and we must be there, in order
to fulfil our engagements with the journals to which we had promised
our letters.
On one of these last days the weather was dull and stormy, and Madam
Cosima and I had stayed under the great pine that the Master was so
agile in climbing.
He had gone to his room to work for a time on his study of Beethoven.
Madam Cosima was giving me information about Munich, telling me what
was best to see there: among other things the gallery of Count von
Schack, an original character even more interesting, perhaps, than his
collection, which contained, among many daubs, a few fine paintings.
"You will also see my father, and someone who is very dear to him,"
added she.
As she spoke these words an expression of sadness passed quickly over
her face and as quickly disappeared.
"I feel sure," she continued, "that you have no idea for whom your
father wrote the '_Symphonie en blanc majeur_.' You do not know _'La
femme Cygne,' 'La neige Vierge,' 'L'Hostie,' 'La moelle de Roseau,'_ or
who was the original of those delightful portraitures."
"Then there was an original?"
"Yes, madame; before you were born that original inspired the poet who
was your father, and at that time, it appears, his description was very
like her."
"Do you know who she was?"
"The very person about whom I spoke a moment ago, and who, I am
certain, will be curious to see you. She was born a Nesselrode, then
became Madam Kalergic, and is to-day the Countess Muchanoff. Very
enthusiastic about Wagner, she has been for a long time devoted to his
cause. Intelligent, cultured, a musician! My father asserts that no one
interprets Chopin as well as she does."
"Then there is a connection between you?"
"Yes."
"What bitterness in that 'Yes!' What has she done to you?"
"I believed that I could count upon her friendship, and she failed me
at the moment when I had most need of it. Last winter she overwhelmed
me with reproaches because I did not take her into my confidence
regarding the distractions of my inner life. I replied quietly that I
had nothing to confide, nothing to conceal. 'The painful situation in
which I am placed will disentangle itself very naturally, since Herr
von Bülow and I are agreed upon the divorce.' But my father, with whom
I am no longer in touch, struck the last blow at me, in dissuading
Herr von Bülow from this project. I wrote at once to Madam Muchanoff,
begging her to use her influence with my father. I besought her to
prevent him from influencing Herr von Bülow in a way so contrary to my
interest and my dearest wishes. She has done nothing. Her reply was
confused, without sympathy and without frankness. Ah! how I regret
having broken through my reserve with her, and, above all, having
allowed Wagner to write to her as he has done, so open-heartedly and
with so much enthusiasm! But, hush! here he comes again. I do not want
him to see that I am sad."