without danger for the newly-crowned youth. But nothing could change his heart. The world in general revenged itself upon him by inventing various legends more or less absurd and unworthy of his notice. His only peculiarity lies in his deep intelligence, and his preference for masterpieces over the frivolous and commonplace pleasures of the world.

For fifteen days I passed my afternoons and evenings in the charming retreat Tribscheu, for I soon had the honor of being considered a friend. When minds are once in sympathy hearts come quicker to an understanding, and my affection for my host soon equalled the admiration with which the artist had inspired me. Of all the information given me about Wagner, his home life, the great reality, was the one black spot. Rus was a handsome Newfoundland, very gentle and pacific, who often came by himself to see me at the Lake Hotel. Few visitors ever crossed the threshold of the master's house. He knew no one at Lucerne, and this tranquillity was favorable to his work. Thus I saw him alone with his family, in all the simplicity of his life, and could form an exact idea of his character. I was greatly struck in the first place by his powerful, resolute head, the extraordinary brilliancy of his eyes, and his intensity of expression. There was also an expression of infinite goodness, which would never be suspected from his portraits. This almost superhuman goodness radiated from him at every moment; it was visible in the adoration with which he inspired not only his family but all who surrounded him. The members of his little domain took advantage of this gentleness. Little by little relations of every degree, near or far, gathered about him, who having come for a visit stayed indefinitely. As I knew the master better, I gained a further insight into his exquisite tenderness of soul, which in him has nothing in common with the vulgar philanthropy so frequently met with, and which is for the most part theoretic. It was a Frenchman, the Count of Gobineau, who said of Wagner, "He can never be absolutely happy, for he will always have some one near him whose sorrows he feels bound to share."

One day I asked him if he had any plans for his new-born son. "My first ambition," he said, "is to assure him a modest income, which will render him independent, that he may be sheltered from the miserable annoyances from which I have so cruelly suffered. Then I should wish him to know something of surgery, enough to render aid to a wounded person in emergencies, to prepare a first dressing. I have so often been troubled by my own inability that I wish to spare him this pain. Beyond this I shall leave him entirely free." Madame Wagner told me that the composition of the Mastersingers had been suspended during long months on account of a sick dog, wandering and abandoned, which Wagner, then at Zurich, had picked up and endeavored to cure. The dog had bitten his right hand badly, and the wound became so painful as to prevent him from writing. It is impossible to dictate music, and he was thus reduced to inaction, which put his patience to a hard test; but the dog was none the less cared for. There are, however, violence and roughness in Richard Wagner's character which must be recognized, and which are frequently the cause of his being misjudged, but only by those who regard merely the exterior. Nervous and impassionable to excess, the emotions which he experiences are always carried to an extreme. With him slight pain is almost despair, the smallest irritation has the appearance of madness. This wonderful organization of such exquisite sensibility has terrible vibrations, and his resistance of them is wonderful. A day of anxiety ages him ten years, but, happiness once reinstated, the day following finds him younger than ever. He gives himself to others with extraordinary prodigality. Always sincere, his whole heart is in everything he does; but of an extremely variable temper, his opinions and ideas, fixed the first moment, are by no means irrevocable. No one recognizes an error more quickly than he does, but he must have passed his first enthusiasm. By his frankness and vehemence he often wounds his best friends unintentionally; always excessive he goes farther than he intends, and does not recognize the grief he causes. Many, wounded in their self-love, bear in silence the injury which aggravates them, and thus they lose a precious friendship; whereas, if they had cried out that they were hurt, they would have found the master filled with such sincere regrets that he would have made an effusive effort to console them, and their love for him would only have increased.

"With Wagner the second movement is the good one," said a French violinist, who had left everything to enroll himself in the orchestra at Bayreuth,—an artist of great merit, a man of spirit who was one of those preferred by the master. In spite of his occasionally rough manner, Wagner is, when he so chooses, a perfect charmer. There is nothing to be compared with the fascination which he exercises upon the interpreters working under his orders. After a few days the most hostile and rebellious orchestra becomes attached to him. It is the same with the singers, whom he inspires with unbounded devotion. The illustrious Schnorr, the first singer of Tristan, in which part he was sublime, cried, as he drew his last breath, "It is not I then who will sing Siegfried." He regretted nothing in this life but the glory of interpreting Wagner's works. One of the most remarkable things about Wagner is the youthful gayety which so frequently breaks out, and the charming good humor which his tormented life has never been able to quench. His entertaining and profound conversation will become all at once, without transition, full of humor and imagination. He tells stories in the most comical manner, with a fine irony which belongs to him alone. At Lucerne he surprised me by his skill in bodily exercises, and by his singular agility. He climbed the highest trees in his garden, to the terror of his wife, who besought me not to look at him, because, she said, if he were encouraged he would commit no end of follies.

He was then working very regularly, rising early in the morning. At midday he was free, took long walks, or rested while reading, for he has an insatiable thirst for literature, and is an indefatigable student. In these hours of rest and meditation he has moments of beautiful serenity. His features then assume an incomparable sweetness, his face becomes enveloped with a pallor which has nothing of ill-health, but seems to veil it with a slight cloud. At these moments nothing troubles or agitates him. One feels that he is in self-communion with his dreams, and one involuntarily thinks of a magnificent lake reflecting the heavens. I have never witnessed this peaceful reverie without emotion, without the deep desire that nothing may trouble or dissipate it. But little is needed to bring back agitation; the least breath suffices; happy if the tempest does not break forth. Unfortunately for himself Wagner will never know the feeling so wisely egotistical—polite indifference. Before my departure from Lucerne he wished to organize an excursion of several days to show us the country of William Tell. We were obliged to start at dawn, and the carriage was winding its way by the lake of Lucerne, or the Four Cantons, when the sun rose. I remember that a gleam of light fell upon the master's lips while he was talking to us. In speaking of Mendelssohn he said: "He is a great landscape-painter."

I confess to seeing very little of the country I was visiting. I remember at the first halting-place a trout upon which Wagner made a frightful pun, which I shall not translate. Then came the steamboat which conveyed us to Zurich, where the master was welcomed by the populace as a well-loved king; a mountain was climbed, a sail followed; but all is confused. What has ever remained in my memory is the charm of those days, passed in such glorious intimacy, his gentle gayety and simplicity, the attentive cares, the art of organizing everything for one's