of rolling the tremolos. That particular merit was most assuredly brought to light by the emotion of the moment, as I had never known of it before.

My tremolo, moreover, remained celebrated at Tribschen—and even at Wahnfried—for I have lived upon my reputation, and, despite all solicitations, I have never risked attempting it again.

Wagner made me a present of that copy of the Cavalry March which I had so anxiously deciphered, and he wrote above the first line:

"À Cheval! À Quatre Mains."

XVIII

"I wish to say to you," announced the Master, one day as we arrived, "that you are invited by me to make an excursion into a very interesting corner of Switzerland—the country of William Tell. The trip is all planned, and everything is arranged."

Again we were rather embarrassed, and endeavoured to protest. But Madam Cosima made signs to me, and, coming nearer, said in a low voice:

"Do not refuse: he would be angry. And let him manage it all; let him take the lead, if you do not wish to grieve him."

"The weather is beautiful," continued Wagner. "We ought not to wait. If it is convenient to you, let us start to-morrow."

"Joyfully, Master."

"Then that is agreed upon. We shall begin the journey by coach, and will call for you at the Hôtel du Lac."

"At what hour?"

"Ah! as to that, it must be early in the morning in order to avoid the great heat. Be ready at half-past five."

"Half-past five. We shall be ready."

The next day, before day in fact, two carriages stopped before the Hôtel du Lac. Wagner was alone in one: Madam Cosima and her daughter Senta occupied the other.

We descended hurriedly, all ready to go, if still a little sleepy. Villiers, very much flurried, instead of going directly to the carriage, tried to get into the little shop of Monsieur Frey, close at hand; but the amiable hairdresser was not yet awake, and his disappointed client was forced to go without being curled. He went with me in Wagner's carriage, which took the lead, and the expedition started on its way.

What roads we travelled, what landscapes unfolded before us during that radiant and never-to-be-forgotten morning, I should be quite unable to relate, for I avow that I saw nothing! When one has gazed at the sun, for a long time one sees nothing more than a flame which comes between the eyes and all other things. So it was with me; the face of the Master masked all Nature, so that I saw only that. I remember very well that the slanting rays of the rising sun enveloped Wagner, and cast a light on his under-lip; this light sparkled at every inflexion, and his words seemed like stars.

I had questioned him with regard to Mendelssohn: the works of Mendelssohn had a great charm for me, which endured in spite of my Wagnerian exclusiveness, a fact of which I was a little ashamed.

"Mendelssohn is a great landscape-painter," said he to me, "and his palette has a richness that is unequalled. No one else transposes the external beauty of things into music as he does. The Cave of Fingal, among others, is an admirable picture. He is able, conscientious, and clever. Yet, in spite of all these gifts, he fails to move us to the depths of the soul: it is as if he painted only the appearance of sentiment, and not the sentiment itself."

Before noon we expected to reach an inn, where we should try to get luncheon, or rather, the German dinner. At that point the coaches were to be abandoned, and the journey would be continued by steamboat.