Each morning bills were posted, giving the programmes of the music
to be played in the different beer-gardens of Munich during the two
o'clock dinner-hour. Numerous selections from the Wagner operas
appeared in these programmes, and so we decided to leave the hotel of
the _"Trois Rois Mages"_ and its commonplace table d'hôte in order
to take furnished apartments and be free to choose the place for our
meals according to the musical menu. Behold us then, our resolution
taken, rushing from one end of the city to the other in search of the
appointed restaurant, and, once there, hobnobbing with its population,
whether turbulent students, or middle-class families who love to dine
to the sound of fiddles.
To us, who were so unaccustomed to them, these restaurant orchestras
seemed excellent, and we had great pleasure in listening to the
fragments which we so rarely had the opportunity to hear at home.
We were delighted to notice that the dining public always gave an
especially warm reception to the selections from Wagner.
One day we went to a very distant restaurant where the overture of
_"Die Meistersinger"_ was to be played. The orchestra was disposed
in a most extraordinary fashion. In default of a better place they
had installed it upon the outside gallery of a châlet which was in
the midst of the garden, a narrow balcony where two musicians could
with difficulty sit abreast, so that the whole number of the players
extended from one end to the other of the façade and the double-basses
were a long distance from the brass instruments. We left the table
where we had dined to find seats in the enclosure so that the sounds
should be less scattered, and took our places in front of the balcony
facing the leader, who occupied the very centre.
Not far from us were seated three young men who had also drawn near to
the musicians, and who scrutinised us secretly and persistently. One
of them, a very fair blond, tall and slight, seemed to me the perfect
type of the German student; he had long hair, straight as a poker, of
a colour lighter than his face, and his delicate profile recalled the
portraits of Schiller. One of his companions, whose golden beard and
gold-rimmed eye-glasses glistened in the sun, had an expressive face
which fairly radiated happiness and enthusiasm. The third was rather
small, and one could hardly see his features through the disordered
profusion of his brown hair, his eyebrows and his beard. A white dog
stayed close by his side.
Suddenly I heard the young man with the golden beard say, in a very
audible voice, as he looked at us.
"I'll wager it is they."
After the last notes of the overture of _"Die Meistersinger,"_ as we
applauded with all our might, the group of strangers came nearer.
"No longer any doubt," one of them said, "since they applauded."
And the young man with the golden beard advanced without hesitation.
"I am Hans Richter--" said he as he saluted us--"and you certainly
must be the friends who have just been visiting Richard Wagner. The
Master wrote me to put myself at your service and to act as your guide
about Munich, but he did not tell me where to find you."
Hans Richter, the chief of 'Orchestra of the Royal Theatre, who would
have the honour of conducting the "_Rheingold_!"
After cordial greetings Richter presented his friends, first the
heavily bearded man, then the other.
"Herr Scheffer, a Wagnerian fanatic. Herr Franz Servais, son of the
celebrated Belgian violinist; he has just come from Brussels to hear
the _"Rheingold"_."
So the man who had appeared to be the personification of a German
student was a Belgian composer!
All seated at the same table with foaming bocks before us, we quickly
became acquainted, and found each other very congenial, since we served
under the same banner. It appeared that they had been searching for us
all over Munich. Our passage to the hotel of the Three Kings had been
traced, but we had gone from there without leaving any address, and
from that point they could find no clue. Herr Scheffer had been very
keen to find us before this especial day was over, and had applied to
the police, but chance had forestalled them.
[Illustration: CORNER OF JUDITH GAUTIER'S SALON.]
"We had promised," said Richter, "to conduct you to a reunion this
evening, at the house of the Countess of Schleinitz. We shall all be
there."
"Liszt will be there," exclaimed Servais, "he arrived in Munich
yesterday, and you will also see the Countess Muchanoff."
"Liszt!"
I thought of Cosima, and her sorrow at being disapproved of by her
father: I felt I would rather not see him. But my companions had
already joyfully accepted, and had arranged a meeting place for the
evening, at eight o'clock.
V
The Countess of Schleinitz, wife of the minister of the royal house
of Prussia, at whose house we met, was an extremely gracious little
person, very small and delicate, even fragile. She spoke French like a
Parisian, a French sparkling with wit and drollery, and in her glance
there was a gleam of passion. One could have said:--
"Le Caprice a taillé son petit nez charmant...."
A little snub nose tip-tilted with an elegant impertinence. The charm
of her smile was trebled by the dimples it made in her cheeks.
They did not fail to introduce me to a great number of people, whose
names, few of them easy to remember, have escaped me. I recall that of
Lenbach, the already illustrious painter, and I remember the beautiful
head of Edward Schuré, with its inspired and slightly "absent" air.
The appearance of Franz Liszt astonished me.
I was evidently out of the running, I was ignorant of everything: why
that long black cassock? Was he a priest? With that smooth-shaven face,
had he also a tonsure in the locks that fell long and straight to his
shoulders? But what eyes, like a lion, what burning glances under the
shaggy eyebrows! What overmastering irony in the curves of the large
mouth with its thin lips! In the whole attitude what majesty, tempered
with benevolence.
The entrance of Liszt caused an extreme excitement in the assemblage,
and I became more and more surprised. Could it be that he was a saint?
They showed such an extraordinary veneration for him, especially the
women. They hurried toward him, and almost kneeling, kissed his hands,
raising looks of ecstasy to his face.
But my attention was suddenly drawn to a woman who had arrived at the
same moment--surely this must be she, the mysterious beauty who came
from the north, in a whirlwind of snow, and herself whiter than the
snow. The lady with eyes like Parma violets, whom the poets have sung
with such longing, the Countess of Kalergis, now Countess Muchanoff.
_La Symphonie en blanc majeur_ herself in fact! As yet she was standing
with her back to me, at the other side of the grand piano. People were
crowding about her as she took their outstretched hands. She was tall,
a muslin scarf covered her shoulders, her pale blond hair curled at
the nape of her neck. I repeated under my breath some words from the
well-known poem which she had inspired my father to write, so long
ago:--
"Conviant la vue enivrée
De sa boréale fraîcheur
A des régals de chair nacrée,
A des débauches de blancheur.
Son sein, neige moulée en globe,
Contre les camélias blancs
Et le blanc satin de sa robe
Soutient des combats insolents.
Dans ces grandes batailles blanches,
Satins et fleurs ont le dessous,
Et, sans demander leurs revanches,
Jaunissent comme des jaloux.
* * * * * * * *
De quel mica de neige vierge,
De quelle moelle de roseau,
De quelle hostie et de quel cierge
A-t-on fait le blanc de sa peau?..."
Alfred de Musset was also a fervent admirer of this white idol, and
later, Heinrich Heine paraphrased, in honour of her whom he called,
"The Cathedral of the God Love," the verses of Théophile Gautier:
"Auprès d'elle la neige de l'Himalaya
Paraît grise comme la cendre;
Le lis que sa main saisit, aussitôt, par le contraste
Ou par jalousie, devient couleur de rouille..."
I really dreaded the moment when she would turn, and, as she made a
movement to do so, I closed my eyes, to keep for a little longer the
illusion of the past.
Almost at once I hear the rustling of silk close beside me; a clear
musical voice addresses me, sweetly modulated, with a slight Russian
accent. The Countess Muchanoff seats herself beside me and presses my
hand, as she assures me that there is no need for an introduction, for
she has recognised me without hearing my name, and that having the same
admirations, the same ardent beliefs, we must belong to the same ideal
family and should love even before we know each other.
She seems a very great lady, very sure of herself, intelligent, and
filled with a passionate love of art. I look for the white camellias
near the snow of her breast--very marble-like, in truth, but with the
help, perhaps, of pearl white and a touch of rice powder. Her face
is regular, pale under the fair hair so cleverly arranged. Although
they believe her to be too superior to linger over any artifices of
coquetry, she undoubtedly seeks to retain and to prolong a beauty so
celebrated, but she depends still more upon the graces of her mind,
which time does not affect, upon her intellectual culture and her
musical talent.
With a coaxing familiarity she makes a strong effort to win me, to
inspire me with confidence, but I am haunted by the idea that she is
prejudiced against Cosima, that she has betrayed her friendship, and I
find it an effort to respond to her friendly advances, or to abandon my
reserve.
Liszt in his turn approaches me; he speaks of my father, whom he knew;
he has seen me as a child and remembers me, although I have no memory
of him. I find that he has the very suave manners of a priest--but how
can he be a priest, and why are all these women so taken with him? Just
now they are greatly perturbed at seeing him occupied with one who has
made no advances, and so they cluster about him again, begging him to
play something, teasing him to sit down at the piano. This he refuses
to do and repulses them rather rudely, declaring that it is Madame
Muchanoff who ought to play, that he himself has too much pleasure in
listening to her to seat himself at the piano when she is present.
The Countess rises, nonchalant and disdainful, she draws off her
gloves slowly, and her smile says plainly enough that she devotes
herself only to spare Liszt a drudgery, and that she is amused, to the
point of derision, at the jealous rage of all those who will be forced
to applaud her.
"L'ivoire, où ses mains ont des ailes,
Et, comme des papillons blancs,
Sur la pointe des notes frêles
Suspendent leurs baisers tremblants..."
These lines mingle, in my mind, with the phrases of the nocturne that
the Countess plays. She is certainly talented; but it seems to me that
her playing lacks restraint, that she exaggerates and plays with too
much abandonment.
After she had stopped playing Liszt offered me his arm to conduct me to
the refreshment table, in the face of the envious and uncomprehending
glances of the greater number of the women. He allowed every one else
to pass before us, with the idea, no doubt, of withdrawing with me a
little to one side. In fact, as soon as we were alone, he said to me in
a low voice:--
"You have seen Cosima?"
I had none of that sentiment which the high personality of Liszt
evoked among his intimates. I was absolutely ignorant of the beauty of
his compositions, which I was to admire so much in the future, and of
the incomparable loftiness of his character. I considered him only as
a very celebrated pianist. So I was not in the least intimidated, and,
believing him to be hostile to the best interests of his daughter, it
was with a decided vehemence that I replied to him:--
"I beg of you, do not say anything against your daughter to me. I
am her partisan to such an extent that I cannot admit any blame. In
the face of a personality so superhuman as Richard Wagner's, the
prejudices and even the laws of men cannot prevail. Who would not feel
the fascination and submit joyfully to the supremacy of such a genius?
In Cosima's place, you would do as she does, and it is your duty as a
father not to put any obstacle in the way of the realization of the
great event to which she has the right to look forward."
Liszt grasped me warmly by the arm.
"I am entirely of your opinion, but I may not express it," said he in
a still lower voice. "The habit which I wear imposes certain opinions
which I cannot openly deny. I know the temptations of the heart too
well to judge severely: conventions force me to be silent, but within
myself, I desire more than anyone else for a legal solution of this
painful affair. I can do nothing to hasten it; as to retarding it in
any way whatever, I have never had such a thought."