Chapter 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.

For a long time we skirted the edge of a lake, very blue between its green banks--that is all I remember about it; then stopped in front of a commonplace little house by the side of the road. Where this was I do not know. A recent study of Baedeker makes me suppose that it was at a place called Brunnen.

On the other side of the road was the lake, and the landing-place for the boats was almost in front of the house.

There was nothing to indicate that it was an inn, but the Master knew the people, and while we went upstairs to a room on the first floor, furnished only with a round table, some chairs, and an old piano, he conferred with the proprietor and arranged the menu. He returned to us triumphant, and cried:

"We shall have 'un druide' of ancient Gaul!" The meaning of this terrible pun did not strike us at first, but we laughed immoderately when we found that it was a question of "une truite" (a trout)!

Two windows of the little room that we were in faced the lake, a third, a side window, was open and overlooked the court, where a blacksmith was at work. Wagner listened to the ringing stroke of the hammer on the anvil. Suddenly he opened the piano and began to play the motif of Siegfried forging the sword. At the measure where the blade is struck he stopped, and it was the blacksmith who, striking the iron with an astonishing precision, unconsciously completed the theme.

"You see," said the Master, "how well I have calculated the time, and how exactly the blow falls."

But _"le druide"_ made his entrance, and we proceeded to render him the honours that he merited.