At last it was the 27th of August and we entered the theatre.
A crowd of spectators were gathered about the entrance and before the
Royal Palace. They must have known that the apartments in the palace
communicated directly with the royal box, and that no one could see the
King pass or know when he entered the theatre, so it could only have
been the irresistible attraction of walls behind which something is
happening, that held all those loungers there.
The theatre was brilliantly lighted, although nearly empty. The
hundred or so persons whom the King had seen fit to invite were
scattered through the house and were hardly noticeable. The side
boxes and a few rows of the orchestra chairs were to be used on this
occasion. The dress circle and the boxes facing the stage, in the midst
of which the royal box filled so large a space, were shut off.
I gazed at the sumptuous decorations of that loge, the frame to which
the picture was as yet lacking, but which would hold in a few moments
the so longed-for figure of the young sovereign. It would be our first
glimpse of him, of that being who inspired in us such a profound
sympathy, of him who radiated the glory of having been able to correct
an error of destiny, and diminish the shame that humanity would endure
for having failed to recognise Genius.
The blue velvet draperies with their rich folds held back by cords of
gold, the crown and coat of arms, lozenged in blue and silver, and
borne by the rampant lions, which signified in the language of heraldry
"up and ready," these only caught the light, and the royal box itself
was like a grotto of darkness.
All of a sudden the King was there, sparkling in the obscurity like a
star emerged from the mist. His youthful visage gave us a delightful
surprise. We had not imagined him like that, at once feminine and
headstrong, ingenuous and arrogant. In contrast to the very black locks
of his hair, which, standing up from his forehead, seemed to guard him
like a wave of flame, his skin was of a warm, almost, dusky pallor, and
a singular expression of energy contrasted strongly with the delicate
modelling of his features; but one was instantly fascinated by the
extraordinary splendour of those eyes, blue-green as the sea, fringed
with long black lashes, eyes profound, ecstatic.... "Nothing is able to
give any idea of the magic of that glance," said the Master.
The king advanced to the front of the box. His tall form dominated the
house for an instant: then he seated himself. Very soon the lights were
turned down and the vision vanished. But Hans Richter did not yet give
the signal to the orchestra. The footlights were lighted, but before
the curtain was drawn a man slipped out before it from a corner of the
stage.
Perfall, the manager! What could he wish to say?
After many bowings and scrapings, with his hand on his heart he
spoke, he implored "the indulgence of the select public before whom
he had the honour.... In spite of the best will in the world, of long
conscientious efforts ... insurmountable difficulties of scenery ...
effects impossible to realise.... It had been necessary to give up the
idea of attaining perfection, and to be content with what could be
done, regret, chagrin ... but there is no flying without wings....
The presence of the king kept back all marked demonstration: yet even
that could not stifle the indignant murmur that followed Perfall, when,
after fresh cringings, he disappeared behind the curtain.
Richter struck angrily upon his desk, as if he were hitting the back
of the traitor. The low note began its muffled vibration, the prelude
commenced: but we no longer listened in the religious absorption of the
other day, we were afraid to see the curtain drawn aside ... and at
that moment it was drawn.
One was disappointed at the very first glance; no sign of the green
shadows, of the humid and troubled depths which we had expected to see,
only very dry rocks of moulded paper, resting without mystery, upon the
boards of the stage. A frightful oil lamp, suspended from the highest
moulding was supposed to represent "the gold of the Rhine." It only
recalled the lantern which is placed, by night, at the top of a street
obstruction.... The crystalline voice unrolled its clear melody, but
at this point, a mannikin with dangling arms and hair hanging before
its face, intended for an undine, was precipitated, head first, from
above and, half way down, remained suspended, balancing from the end of
a string. At the moment when the other voices were heard, other images
of the same nature fell from above and oscillated in the deplorable
attitudes of the drowned. Soon after, the mannikins were drawn back,
and the true singers, standing upon supports, half concealed by the
jutting out of the paper rocks, appeared and agitated their arms to
represent swimming. Then they went away, and the puppet Rhine maidens
returned and capered desperately about the smoking lamp.
What absurdity! They would not dare to present anything so bad at the
Punch and Judy show of the Champs-Elysées.
After the scene-shifting, of an unbelievable awkwardness, a very
little Walhalla, like a castle of cards, was to be seen upon a
miniature mountain. Wotan had the appearance of a wayfarer who sleeps
in the open air. As soon as he began to sing however, the magnificent
voice of Betz made one willing to forget all else, one no longer saw
the ridiculous landscape, and as the mechanical difficulties were over
for the time, one could listen to the scenes that followed up to the
moment of the descent to the Nibelheim.
At that point the management took its revenge.
A frightful and continuous hissing suddenly drowned both the voices
and the orchestra. What in the world could it be? At first one was
terrified, but heavy clouds of white vapour soon enveloped the scene
and all was explained: the famous machines! A red Bengal fire, lighted
too late, coloured those clouds, which were supposed to escape from the
subterranean kingdom of the Nibelungen forgers.
When, a little later, Alberich should have donned the magic helmet in
order to take the form of the dragon, he very simply walked off at the
wings and the dragon entered by the same path, then the dragon went
back, and the man returned.
The steam engine was not employed in the last scene; at the moment when
Donner assembled the clouds and let loose the storm, the hissing might
have helped to represent the whistlings of the tempest. At that time,
however, what seemed to be blocks of granite descended from the freize
and moved to the right and the left without knowing where to stop. The
Gods climbed painfully up after the storm, and beheld, added to the
scenery of before, a large bridge in white linen, which crossed the
valley and reached to the other side, erasing and overwhelming the tiny
Walhalla.
Toward this whiteness the Gods direct their steps. Then that must be
the rainbow over which they are to pass. Yes, of course it is, for now
a prismatic light, thrown from a lantern, runs distractedly over the
lower end of the linen, onto Wotan's nose, everywhere it ought not to
be, and never reaches the bridge, massive and white, for which it is
intended.
At length the curtain falls, the orchestra is silent. Richter, red
with wrath, throws down his baton; the usually amiable Richter looks
positively fierce.
"I will not direct such a _Rheingold_" cried he, "it is war between
you and me, Herr Manager!" And to us he said, "Wait for me at the Café
Maximilian, we must join together in forewarning the Master."