philosopher—what, indeed, was he not? this latest comer.

"He is cubic. He comprises all," said Villiers, with finality.

"Emmenbrücke," called out the porter.

The last station was passed; one more half-hour, and then Lucerne!

Again we rhapsodised, this time seeking new names for Wagner, eulogistic titles, such as history has reserved for her greatest men.

"The Eagle of the Righi," "The Swan of Lucerne"—"The Swan" appeared especially appropriate to us, because of Lohengrin; but Villiers thought the allusion too ingenuous. "The Swan of Cambrai, the Swan of Lucerne,"—he groped about for a synonym, and finally burst out triumphantly with,

"The Palmiped of Lucerne!"

An explosion of laughter relieved our nervous tension. But the train whistled, and again our hearts began to beat wildly. Leaning half through the window, dishevelled by the wind, Villiers looked eagerly. It was impossible that anyone could fail to see it—that glorious radiance directly above the city which held such an oracle. Without any doubt, even in the full light of day, a shining star marked, for pious pilgrims, the place of the new Oracle.

We entered the station.

Suddenly, Villiers, pale and with dilated eyes, drew back, and dropped upon the seat, exclaiming,

"The Palmiped!"

II

It was indeed true!

Standing alone, a big straw hat on his head, Wagner waited for us on the platform. To be sure, we had never before seen him, but how could anyone fail to recognise him?

He, who had no idea how we looked, counted upon us to disclose ourselves. Motionless, in full view, he scanned with close attention the stream of arriving people. It was I who hurried toward him, in an effusion of joy which dominated every other emotion.

He included us all in a steady and luminous gaze that reached to the very soul, and then shook hands with us.

After a moment of solemn silence, he smiled and offered me his arm.

"Come," said he to me, "if you do not look for too much magnificence, you will like the Hôtel du Lac. I have engaged rooms for you there." And, with quick steps, he drew me outside the station.

On the way to the hotel he paused for a moment, and turning on me a steady and serious gaze said, with every appearance of emotion, "It is a very noble sentiment that brings us together, Madam!"

The hotel was near the station, and when we arrived, the Master, after recommending us to the care of the host, turned and said to us with a whimsical air: "Now I am going to prepare myself to receive you, otherwise I should make blunders. You will come presently to 'Tribschen,' will you not, as soon as you have rested a little? Come by the lake, that is the most convenient way."

To prepare himself to receive us!

From an upper window we watched him, as with quick steps he went away, saw him cross the old bridge, reach the quay, take a boat.

Without speaking a word, with the same worshipping expression upon every face, we followed him with our eyes.... Then, when he had quite disappeared, "Quick! let us dress quickly! We certainly will not allow him to wait for us."

III

Behold us, in our turn, at the edge of the lake of the "Four Cantons," on the wharf, which shelters a whole fleet of white boats with slackened sails.

What a landscape! What scenery!—And what a harmonious setting for the picture!

The lake, so pure, so clear that it seems like a mass of blue crystal, a liquid sapphire, is lost to sight between the spurs of the mountains. On one side looms Mount Pilatus, of the purple grey of storm clouds, rugged and bare, outlining against the sky its rocky summit; on the other, verdant Righi undulates, bristling with dark green firs that form a contrast to its bright lawns of tender green. And beyond, dim, cloudy, and unreal, appear the indentations of the Alps.

Choosing a boatman, we call to him, proudly,

"To Tribschen."

With a thrust of his boat hook the man launches us from the bank and spreads his sail.

Now it is the city that we see, the old Lucerne with its unequal houses, its many belfries, its unused bastions, spread out above the picturesque little wooden bridge which we had hardly noticed when we crossed it, but which now redoubles the curves of its rustic arches in the blue waters of the lake.

But it is the other horizon only which interests us; that slender promontory over there, which advances at a gentle slope, closing half the passage. Toward that point the breeze gently wafts our rounded sail. There is Tribschen, the domain of Richard Wagner!

A swan floats upon the lake, majestically parting the clear water with his snowy breast, and we imagine we can see between his wings the golden chain which yoked him to Lohengrin's little shallop. To our imagination the green Righi is Mount Salvat; the temple of the Grail must be concealed there behind the vigilant trees, and we search at the summit of Pilate for the giant portal of divine Walhalla.

But we are nearing the promontory; we can distinguish the slender poplars that stand erect upon its extreme point, then the trees and tufted shrubs ranged behind, and there, through an opening in the branches, we can even see a gable and a window of the house.

And now we reach the shore. The boat floats under a little shed built upon piles.

With what deep emotion we set foot upon this sacred soil!

There is no door, no hedge, no limit to this garden; the lake, the hills, the forests, the Alps, the whole world seems a part of it, and even as this thought appeals to our young enthusiasm, so also is it true and prophetic, since the world shall, in truth, become the domain of the great one who dwells here.

The earth rises in a gentle slope toward the house, which we see at the other side of a wide lawn. It seems a very simple house, all of gray, long and low under its roof of reddish tiles. In the centre a double flight of seven or eight steps, guarded by an iron balustrade, leads to the drawing-room.

We advance slowly, full of emotion and thoughtful, as at the threshold of a temple. Some one has seen us, undoubtedly, as the Master appears at the door of the drawing-room and descends the steps, a big black Newfoundland bounding by his side.

With an air at once ceremonious and cordial, Wagner bids us enter.

A tall and slender young woman, with a noble and distinguished air, a sweet smile and very blue eyes under her beautiful blond hair, stands in the centre of the drawing-room, surrounded by four little girls, one of them an infant.

"Frau von Bülow, who has kindly come with her children to see me," said the Master, in presenting her.

After shaking hands with us cordially, she tells us the names of her children—Senta, Elisabeth, Isolda, and Eva—who gaze at us with big, wondering eyes.

We recognise in this choice of godmothers, all taken from among the heroines of Wagner, an enthusiasm as great as our own, which drives away all constraint between the charming mother and ourselves.

Then the dogs are presented to us. The big Newfoundland Rouzemouk, or "Russ" familiarly, and Cos, a gray pug belonging to Frau von Bülow.

"My name is Cosima," she tells me, "and my friends at home have formed the very bad habit, which actually gives me chills, of calling me "Cos," so I have given that name to my dog, and since then no one dares call me anything but Cosima!"

So the talk goes on, happy, quick-witted, enthusiastic, the Master almost as gay as the disciples; and we have so much to say!

Wagner speaks French more than moderately well. He speaks it correctly, but in his own way, with a