At last the time had come! The last rehearsal but one was about to
begin. How mysterious and imposing was the empty and dimly lighted
theatre! It appeared immense, almost like a cathedral, the stage all
bathed in a blue haze, produced, no doubt, by some reflection of the
outside daylight, for it was then three o'clock in the afternoon.
Only a very few had been accorded the favour of being present at this
rehearsal, which was without stage scenery or costumes.
Liszt was there. His tall dark silhouette loomed up from the orchestra
stalls. I hastened to salute the Great Man, now become the friend, and
I asked if he would permit me to remain near him during the rehearsal,
that he might explain to me some things in the opera, the score of
which I did not sufficiently know. The permission was very graciously
accorded.
Now the musicians began to arrive and to take their places! How solemn
and almost religious was the emotion we felt!
"For very many years I have waited for this moment," said Liszt, "and
I have feared, indeed, that it would never come.... If you but knew the
miseries, the wrecked and perished hopes despite which this work has
germed and flowered! I have seen it all and I have suffered too because
of it. I do not know how Wagner has been able to preserve his divine
inspiration intact. He seems to me like a traveller who bore a cup full
of water through the midst of a whirlwind without being forced to spill
a single drop. But even in harbour, you see, he finds no shelter....
Dining his exile he was for many years the only German who had not
heard _Lohengrin_. To-day, the tones of his great orchestra revealing
his new work to the world, will sound for the first time and he will
not hear them. Ah, what a ransom ought to be paid to genius!"
Now came Richter, pale and grave, and mounted to his desk.
We were hardly a dozen listeners in the dark audience hall. I caught a
glimpse of the blond, almost white locks of Servais, and I divined the
form of Edouard Schuré beside him. I also saw a shadow, climbing over
the orchestra chairs: it was Villiers hastening to seat himself farther
back, in order to be quite alone, quite undistracted.
They drew the curtain before the stage. Richter gave two or three quick
blows on the desk, then with a serious and proud gesture raised his
baton.
And now a deep, muffled tone rises from the orchestra, it vibrates
almost imperceptibly in the lowest depths of the scale, indistinct,
without form, it trembles in a limpid motion, then seems to dilate, to
spread out, a slow sweet gliding movement floats up and loses itself,
soon another ripples up along the same path and floats away, as one
wave follows another.
Very soon these musical waves swell out and follow each other
continuously upward; from above spheres of light seem to fall,
spreading and diffusing like drops of milk in clear water. The
curtain is drawn to reveal mysterious abysses seen through the blue
transparency of the Rhine. On the stage there is nothing but a confused
shadow, but how clearly the imagination inspired by the music, evokes
the picture! Better, perhaps, than could the scenery itself.
Now a gentle undulation sways the tranquil water and suddenly a crystal
voice resounds through the crystal fluid, a nymph glides from the
heights and swims below, stirring the water to new motion. The words of
her song form sliding syllables:
Weïa! Waga! Woge, du Welle,
Walle zur Wiege! Wagala Weïa
Wallala Weiala Weïa!
And she sways about the reef, at the summit of which dimly gleams the
vein of gold; then another daughter of the Rhine plunges from the
heights and joyously pursues her flying sister. But the voice of a
third undine chides them both as she, laughing, sings:
Heila Weïa!
Wildes Geschwister!
Des Goldes Schlaf
Hütet ihr schlecht;
Besser bewacht
Des schlummemden Bett
Sonst büsst ihr beide das Spiel!
Then she in her turn dives below, and these gracious dwellers of the
Rhine swim and frolic, upborne by the harmonious waves of music, around
the prophetic rock where sleeps the imprisoned gold, untouched and
virgin still.
On this occasion the Rhine maidens are standing quietly upon the
platform in walking costumes and straw hats, but they can hardly be
seen in the obscurity and, without interfering with our imaginings they
lend their fresh and limpid voices to the forms the poet has created.
Now comes a heavy and jarring rhythm, and from the most obscure depths
of the river, slowly emerges a strange dwarf, with white hair and long
white beard braided into one strand. He climbs along the slippery
rocks. The music expresses his struggles, as he complains of the
painful ascent, alliterating his words:
Garstig glatter
Glitschriger Glimmer!
Wie gleit ich aus!
His eager look follows the undines in their charming play, and, unable
to reach them, he calls to them:
He, He! Ihr Nicker!
Wie seid ihr niedlich
Neidliches Volk!
Aus Nibelheim's Nacht
Naht' ich euch gern,
Neigtet ihr euch zu mir.
The Rhine maidens, frightened, cluster about the rock:
"Hütet das Gold!
Vater warnte
Von solchem Feind."
"What dost thou seek, thou who comest up from below?"
"Wie scheint im Schimmer
Ihr hell und schön
Wie gern umschlänge
Der schlanken eine mein Arm
Schlüpfte hold sie herab!"
"Nun lach ich der Furcht
Der Feind ist verliebt."
And the frolicsome undines dive from the rocks, pursuing, enticing,
tempting the ardent dwarf, who, in a passionate fury, leaps from rock
to rock, trying to catch one or another. But the elusive maidens always
evade him, slipping away, and as he falls back, breathless and angry,
the clear notes of their mocking laughter float back to him.
But to-day, in the pleasure of reviving these memories, I must not
fall into the error of describing the _Rheingold_. When I first heard
it in Munich in the solemn stillness of the dark theatre, it was like
the virgin metal gleaming in the sunlight at the summit, of the rock,
for the first time revealed to the world, while now, like gold which
has passed through the mint, it is known to all.
This first part of the Tetralogy, which is the prologue, was not
divided into acts. Its four tableaux were given without interruption.
The scenes were shifted in full view of the audience to the
accompaniment of the orchestra. The performance lasted for more than
two hours, and yet, even at this first hearing when all the faculties
of attention were taxed to the utmost, one did not experience any
fatigue; the architectural outline of the drama was so simple and clear
cut, the music evoked with so much certainty the different phases, or
so to speak, the elementaries of the work, and individualized them in
themes and rhythms of such extraordinary beauty.
Only one passage seemed to me difficult to understand, the one where
Wotan, in the face of the treasure forged by the Nibelungen which he
has just ravished from them, is, according to the text, "struck by a
high thought." At this moment is heard for the first and only time,
the "Leit-motif" of the sword, that sword called "Nothung" which is to
play such an important role in the following works, but which, when
the theme enters which symbolises it, is not designated by any phrase
or gesture. Liszt, whom I questioned about it, agreed with me that
here was an obscurity, and that Wagner would have noticed it if he had
been present at the rehearsals. Later, I spoke to the Master himself
with regard to this point, and he remarked that the observation was a
very just one, and that he would take advantage of it. After that, a
sword was added to the treasure of the Nibelungen; Wotan discovered and
brandished it at the moment when the theme was introduced.
We were all carried away by enthusiasm when the Gods, walking across
the valley on the rainbow, entered Walhalla and the curtain fell.
Richter, flushed with emotion, was surrounded, acclaimed. Liszt
embraced and complimented him warmly. The singers were also praised,
and the musicians of the orchestra who had so admirably fulfilled their
glorious task.
After having escorted Liszt to his carriage, still filled with elation
that was not to be calmed we set out, all together, to take possession
of the Café Maximilian. Instead of ordering supper, we asked for pens
and paper, and each one of us wrote to Richard Wagner, expressing
to him all the admiration and delight which his new masterpiece had
inspired in us, and thanking him for having accorded us the great
favour of hearing it before the general public, and even alas, before
he himself had heard it.