I
A heavy sky, a foggy atmosphere and the warm rain that falls without a
sound: the weather is entirely in unison with our sentiments! No more
blue sky, no more sun: all is gray around us as within us. The lake
of Constance, upon which we sail to reach Bavaria, appears quite ugly
under the mist, after the lake of Lucerne which was for us so blue and
limpid! Yet this water which bears us, and which, alas! is not the
same that bathes the dear promontory with its tall poplars, bears us
nevertheless toward a predestined country, toward the Theatre-Temple
where the rites of our religion are fulfilled.
But this melancholy must be driven away, and it is Villiers who makes
the charge. Still full of pride over his success of the evening before,
he is unable to stop thinking and speaking of it.
"_Hein!_ How he listened! What a public! How pleased I was!"
And again his laugh rings out: his spirit kindles through the
obscurities of his speech.
During breakfast we install ourselves upon the deck under the shelter
of a dripping canvas. And what a breakfast! An omelet harder than a
pancake, and filled with a stuffing the nature of which defies all
speculation.
"Yellow turnips!" hazards Villiers.
"It can't be yellow turnips. It is more like bits of raw pumpkin."
We consult the _Speisekarte_ and find "Omelet with Apricots."
Quarters of unripe apricot in an overcooked omelet--what an infernal
combination! O Shade of Brillat-Savarin![1] Our delicate French
epicurism is doubtless about to be put to a rude test by the
barbarously heavy German cooking.
But even so! Is not the drinking horn of the pilgrim still hanging from
our shoulders? Does not the staff still burden our hands? Roots torn
from the earth, muddy water from the brooks, even these things ought to
content us.
True! And surely one can see that it is only in the sincerest charity,
in order to give them a pleasure, that we bestow upon the fishes of the
lake that "Omelet with Apricots."
At Lindau the boat stops and we enter Bavaria. And here we are stirred
by a new emotion at the thought of treading this soil, of being in the
land of Ludwig II., the young king of the Graal, whom we ourselves have
also chosen for our King. Here all speaks of him, all things bear his
colours and his crest: the time-tables, the gates, the letter-boxes
are painted in white and blue: the royal crown in chiselled bronze is
everywhere to be seen, surmounting the coat of arms with its lozenge
of blue and silver, which upholds the Hons rampant; "_Königreich
Bayern_,"[2] these words are on all sides, on the façades, on the arch
of the station, on the railway carriages.
During the journey to Munich we try to recall everything that Wagner
has told us about the king: best of all is Wagner's first interview
with the messenger whom the king had sent, and who, after searching
vainly for a long time, finally discovered the unfindable great man.
This was at Stuttgart: Wagner had stopped there after fleeing
from Vienna. During many months, in the Opera-house of that city,
he had directed the rehearsals of _"Tristan and Isolde."_ His
hotel-keeper--having long since presented his bill, was kept patient by
expectations of the fruitful receipts of the first night.
But after seventy rehearsals, and a very few representations, by reason
of disaffection and intrigue the work was declared impossible and the
company broke up. The danger of detention for debt still existed;
Wagner dreaded this above all things, he had not sufficient resources
with which to satisfy his creditors, but falling back upon a project
for a series of concerts in Russia, he had left Vienna. That plan also
fell through.
Discouragement and bitter despair again overcame him, and he believed
that from that hour he should no longer have the force to retrieve
himself. In the most sombre humour, he was making his preparations to
leave Stuttgart when an attendant of the hotel where he was staying
brought to him a visiting card upon which he read: "Von Pfistermeister,
Aulic Secretary to His Majesty the King of Bavaria."
How could he foresee that this little slip of paper marked the end of
all his troubles, and that happiness was in store for him?
Wagner suspected that it might be some creditor in disguise, and
refused to receive the unknown person. But the visitor insisted, saying
that King Ludwig had sent him and that he could not be denied.
When the announcer of miracles appeared he at once put in the Master's
hand the King's portrait, and a diamond ring. Ludwig II. wished to
declare himself a most fervent admirer of the genius of Wagner, and
offered to use all his power to aid him to finish his work and to
realize his dreams. The messenger had received orders not to return
without Richard Wagner.
Stirred by deep emotion, his face streaming with tears that he could
not check, Wagner comprehended that misfortune was finally overcome,
and that a treaty of sublime alliance was about to be made between
himself and the royal disciple so suddenly revealed to him.
The first act of this eighteen-year-old king, who had ascended the
throne less than a month before, was to render homage to an artist of
genius, and to reach out to him a fraternal hand.
While Ludwig II., in his palace at Munich, awaited the arrival of
Wagner with joyful impatience, a courtier wishing to flatter the
sovereign, said to him:
"Men of genius equal to that of Wagner re-visit the earth only once in
a thousand years."
"A man with genius equal to that of Wagner," responded the king, "has
never before come to this world, and he will never come again."
And Ludwig II., to the great scandal of his Court, ran hastily down the
staircase of honour, to greet Richard Wagner.
That meeting was perhaps one of the most touching and memorable
incidents of history.
Wagner retains a magical impression of it.
"The king is so comely, his thoughts are so elevated and his soul so
noble," said he, "that I am afraid his life may pass athwart this
vulgar world like a dream of the Gods.
"He knows and understands me like my own soul. He longs to remove all
my troubles and embarrassments, and help me to accomplish my work!"
We now know that in spite of his power and his good will, the king was
not able to attain to the realization of all his desires.
The Archangel could not subdue the dragon, so covered by the
impenetrable breastplate formed of human imbecility.
The sword dulled itself against that thick shell, the crown narrowly
escaped being shattered thereon: the hatred and fury of the Philistines
against an artist of genius increased this time to the point of riot.
They howled in the streets, they broke the windows of the Master's
house, until at last, fearing some misfortune for the royal friend who
persisted in defending him, he feigned to separate himself from him,
and quitted Munich.
If the king as chief of the State was unhappily forced to give way
before the popular tempest, as friend he did not concede a single
point, and remained true to his faith.
In that dear retreat of Tribschen which Wagner then found, forever
delivered, thanks to the royal friend, from the sordid troubles which
bedim the spirit, he had no longer any but lofty cares, and, in
retirement and peace, he finished the _"Meistersinger"_ and recommenced
work on the "Ring of the Nibelung."
[1] Author of "The Physiology of Taste."
[2] Kingdom of Bavaria.