certain freedom and audacity. When he is unable to find a word to express his exact thought, or when he believes there is no such word, he promptly creates one, and always so clearly, so logically, that one can never fail to comprehend. He speaks to me of Paris, which he loves, but where he has suffered much; he speaks also without bitterness of the great battle of Tannhäuser, concerning which we feel such mortification for our country. Yet he has gained, he says, a number of sincere partisans in France who console him for the defeat. Those who appreciate him there appreciate him more thoroughly than his German admirers.

The Frenchman, more nervous, more responsive, when he does understand, understands at once, and the warmth of his enthusiasm is very consoling.

The German is more patient and tranquil; he absorbs conscientiously whatever is presented to him, but he shows very little feeling; there can be nothing more frigid, more depressing, than certain playhouses where the stalls are filled with women in woollen frocks. "And, in order not to lose any time at the theatre," cries the Master, indignantly, "they take their knitting with them!"

Then, also, we look about us with respectful curiosity, at the interior of the temple, of which the quiet and pervading richness forms a strong contrast to the simple gray of the exterior.

The drawing-room is rather large; it occupies an entire angle of the house, and has windows on two sides. It is bathed in warm and restful shadows between its walls covered with yellow leather traced with arabesques of gold. A thick carpet muffles the footsteps. The velvet draperies of the windows fall in heavy folds and mass themselves upon the floor. A fine portrait of Beethoven holds sway at the end of the grand piano, and faces a mirror which reflects it. Upon two other panels Goethe and Schiller hang facing each other. From the ceiling depends a big bronze lamp.

A large divan of purple damask stands against the wall, and soft easy-chairs and cabinets are grouped here and there.

"Will you come to see my gallery?" asks Wagner, with a smile which mocks the ambitious title. A wide arch connects the drawing-room with a long, narrow room hung in violet velvet, against which the whiteness of small marble statues stands out in soft relief.

They are the heroes of the Master's works: Tannhäuser touching the strings of his lyre, and singing the passionate song to the glory of Venus. Lohengrin, like an archangel, drawing his sword for the defence of innocence. Tristan, the knight, who believes that he drinks from the goblet of death, and drains instead the cup where sparkles the philtre of love. Walther von der Vogelweide, and the last-born, the youthful and impetuous Siegfried, holding between his fingers the fatal ring.

There are also some tapestries, the gift of King Ludwig of Bavaria, which portray scenes from the Nibelungen. In a niche a gilded Buddha, Chinese incense-burners, chiselled cups—all sorts of rare and precious things. In one corner there are two round table cabinets with covers of glass, which protect a collection of magnificent butterflies with great gold and purple wings.

"This collection of butterflies came from the Paris Exposition," announces the Master, laughing, "and from amid all that great mass of things which owe their existence to the prodigious labours of mankind this is the one thing that an artist finds most to his taste."

Having returned to the drawing-room, our talk goes on, without constraint. The Master dazzles us by the charm of his words, his force and geniality, and, above all, by his incomparable intellect. Now we begin to feel that it is time to retire. We disembarked at Tribschen about five o'clock; it is growing dark and it must be late, perhaps nearing the dinner-hour, and, above all, we wish to be discreet and tactful. But at our first suggestion of going they exclaim with such an evident cordiality and urge us to stay with such friendly insistence that in the greatest content we sit down again.

The children say good-night to everyone, and go to bed. Lamps are brought, and time passes most delightfully. But at length—O humiliation!—our stomachs begin to protest and reproach us for forgetting them so long. We breakfasted before leaving Basle this morning, very hastily and earlier than usual, and it is a long time since then. Our host has not invited us to dinner, but since he keeps us on—probably they dine late at Tribschen.

Toward nine o'clock the door opens; a servant comes in at last! But, he brings a tray. It is only the tea, with the accompaniment of fallacious dry biscuit. We exchange amused glances. Bah! what does it matter? We will have supper at the hotel. Half-past eleven! Now we really must go. But how? By the lake? Would there still be boats at that hour?

"No, no, by the land. The carriage is in readiness. I will send someone with you." At the other side of the house, upon the threshold of the vestibule, the farewells are prolonged. They make us promise to return the next day, and to come earlier, that we may enjoy the garden and see the country a little. So we roll away through the unknown country and the dark night, ourselves all illuminated with joy. "In Wagner's owl carriage! It doesn't seem possible!" exclaims Villiers, patting the cushions. And then we all talk at once, going over every detail of that never-to-be-forgotten day. But the pangs of hunger are tormenting us more and more. What a supper we will have as soon as we reach the Hôtel du Lac! A drowsy boy rouses himself from his pallet bed to open the door for us. "May we have supper?" we request of him. But that isn't his affair; he knows nothing about it. He goes back to bed, and begins to snore. So we go wandering through the hotel, trying to open locked doors, ringing the electric bells again and again. Nothing! Silence everywhere, and solitude and sleep. Ah well, surely we ought to be willing to suffer a little for the cause that we defend; we ought not to complain over one day of fasting. And, since we are unable to avoid it, this ordeal rather pleases us; it seems fitting and symbolic; the emptiness of our stomachs permits us the better to listen to the song of joy in our hearts, to feel the intoxication of our minds; and so we go very happily to bed, hoping to see again in our dreams the sacred promontory over beyond the blue lake, where we shall return to-morrow.

IV

And that second day, which dawned with a beautiful blue sky, how sunny and radiant it seemed to us! How happy we were and how full of joyful anticipation! We knew Richard Wagner and he knew us.

"Come early to-morrow," he had said to us. That was better and more real than mere politeness. The disciples pleased the Master, of that we were blissfully sure. But, all the same, we must not arrive too soon at Tribschen, and how should we pass the time until the fitting moment arrived? Villiers, who wished to be very smart, went in search of a hairdresser, and fixed his choice upon a certain Monsieur Frey. Installed in the chair, a towel under his chin, his cheeks all covered with soapsuds, the patient, still lost in his dream, recalled a phrase from the letter that Wagner had written me about the Meistersinger. "My barber told me the other day, that this part pleased him best of all." So the barbers of Lucerne were Wagnerians? Then he could talk; and with no further hesitation he entered with Monsieur Frey into a dissertation upon the music of the future. The Swiss Figaro did his best to fulfil his part, and the talk being prolonged, Villiers came out of the little shop with a head tightly curled all over like an astrakhan cap. Thus elaborated, he joined us upon the wharf at the edge of the lake, and to forget our impatience we prowled about among the bales and bundles of cordage. My companion hummed a motif from the overture to the Meistersinger, which charmed him more and more. He tried to prevail upon me to sing at the same time the second motif, where