We had hardly finished supper and were still at table when Herr and
Frau Schott were announced.
Wagner made a droll face, got up, and offered me his arm to pass to the
drawing-room.
But just outside the door I slipped away, and with Servais I climbed
to the first floor, where Cosima's maid was waiting to help us do the
best we could with our costumes.
When we were ready Jacob lighted the stage lamps; and drawing the
curtains a little, we peeped into the drawing-room.
There they are, seated in rows, the two new guests in the front row.
They appear to us very solemn and terrifying: two portraits by Franz
Hals--a Franz Hals who would have lived under Louis Philippe--tall,
straight, all clothed in black; he, in a frock coat and high satin
cravat; she, in a dull, lifeless frock, with hardly a line of white at
the neck; thin figures and sallow skins; nothing playful about them. We
are a little disconcerted. Pshaw! The Master's voice sounds laughingly:
he is in a good humour, all goes well. Courage!
Dum! Dum! Dum!
Richter at the piano begins a fanciful overture where the motifs of
_Tristan and Isolde_ mingle with foreign airs. The curtain is drawn.
A young Chinese lady embroiders under the lamp; but this virtuous
occupation and tranquil appearance are deceitful: violent passions
agitate her soul. She is married to a man whom she detests, first, just
because she detests him, and then because he belongs to a conquering
race. He is a Tartar. She waits for her lover, whom she adores, and who
himself is a true Chinaman.
The husband is asleep, the night dark; the lover watches in the shadow.
Now the hour has come for the signal: she opens the window and waves
her scarf. From the piano comes the second act of _Tristan_.
The lover enters impetuously.
"My beloved?"
"My darling, art thou truly mine?"
"Dost thou still belong to me?"
"Are these thine eyes?"
"Is this thy mouth?"
"Thy heart?"
"Sweetheart!"
"Stem of the Lotus!"
"Duck of a Mandarin!"
The music changes. It is now from the fifth scene of _Die Walküre_;
enter Sieglinde and Siegmund.
"Is he asleep?"
"Ah, he sleeps profoundly. I prepared for him an intoxicating drink."
"His sleep is not yet profound enough. Let us finish what thou hast
begun: that he may never waken again."
They decide then to assassinate the Tartar, and to conceal his body.
The lover steals into the next room, from which cries are very soon
heard, and the sound of a struggle; then the murderer returns, dragging
after him an inanimate body.
They must dispose of it, throw it into the river, and the lover tries
to pull the dead man onto his back. But this Tartar, who was a man of
importance with the rank of Mandarin, had been altogether too well fed
and he is horribly heavy, so that the Chinaman is doubled up under his
great bulk, and try as he may he cannot carry the unwieldy corpse.
"Ah well, cut him in two!"
Then, by the aid of a great sabre and their own tremendous efforts,
they hack the Tartar in two--not very difficult really, considering
the cushions of which he is formed. When this has been accomplished
the lover wraps one of the halves in a rug and carries it off. He
will come back for the remainder the next night.... Villiers, in the
drawing-room, has already guessed that this first syllable which we
have acted ought to be "Tar"--the half of a Tartar!
The next thing to do is to make them recognise the illustrious
Pasdeloup directing a "popular concert" and that difficult task falls
to my lot. I have made myself a beard with skeins of yellow silk, and
donned an evening coat of Wagner's. Servais has to multiply himself to
represent the public, the police, etc., while Richter in the distance
is the orchestra.
All join in giving the "la"[1] with especial significance: then they
begin the prelude to _Lohengrin_. Pasdeloup, according to his custom,
rounds his back, wrinkles his good-natured face, extends his arms
with gestures half supplicating, half soothing, in order to secure
"Pianissimi" full of mystery, and the orchestra does his best to obey.
But all is not in harmony in the audience. Murmurs arise, are hushed
down, then an altercation follows, with a sound of slaps, and swells
to an uproar--as it had so often done during those days at "The Cirque
d'Hiver."[2]--
The orchestra stops, the guard drags out the roysterers, and Pasdeloup
makes a speech to the public.