Chapter XXV

One day I had been invited to Tribschen for the two o'clock dinner. Over the lake, as usual, a boatman rowed me to the point of the promontory, and I passed through the garden and up to the house without meeting anyone. The French windows of the drawing-room were wide-open, and as I reached the threshold I heard soft harmonies that came from the little sanctuary where the Master worked. Hardly daring to breathe, I slipped into the nearest chair. I was greatly moved, troubled, even frightened, for was it not a presumption, almost a sacrilege, to surprise in this way the sacred mystery? Yet, what rare good fortune was mine, to hear Wagner composing! Perfectly quiet, hardly moving an eyelash, I listened intently. Incomparably sweet appeared to me the sounds I heard. A very slow progression of chords, which seemed to be drawn from a harp rather than a piano: a strange, remote harmony, mysterious and supernatural. I discovered, later, that it was the first sketch of the Invocation to Erda by Wotan, in the Third Act of _Siegfried_, where the goddess ascends from the depths of the earth, with closed eyes and draperies wet with dew....

After a few moments, silence fell, and Wagner soon appeared between the silken folds of the parted curtains.

His face, with its aureole of silvered hair, was calm, and still more luminous than usual were the rays that beamed from his large eyes.

He saw me sitting rigid on my chair.

"Ah!" he said, "are you there? As quiet as an image! I have not heard a sound."

"Imagine, then, O Master, what terror and what ecstasy I have felt, to surprise Deity in the act of creating."

"I have told you before that you must not be so enthusiastic," he exclaimed laughingly. "It is bad for the health."

"Oh! no; on the contrary, it makes one doubly alive."

"Well, I have been good too. Come and see how well I have worked."

A perfume of white-rose extract pervaded the little chapel. A restful light, subdued by the surrounding verdure, illumined it; two or three rays fell on the gilded backs of the books, and the royal friend in his golden frame seemed to follow one with the magic glance of his polar blue eyes.

There was no disorder on the piano-desk. Several large sheets of music-paper, nearly covered with writing, concealed here and there the dark woodwork. The part which the Master had just composed was written in pencil, in very fine, close writing.

"I copy with the pen," he said. "I like to have it very clear. When I cannot decipher it, I am furious."

I read at the top of a re-copied page,

"_Siegfried_. Third Act."

"As a matter of fact," exclaimed Wagner, "I ought to rewrite from nearly two pages back, because I have smudged it."

And he showed me where, on the right side of the leaf, three bars were scratched out. They had been erased angrily, by three slurs, very heavily marked and resembling a series of _e_'s and _l_'s.

"What will become of this precious paper, then?" I asked.

"Would you like it?" replied the Master, divining my covetousness.

"Oh! yes."

Then, taking his pen, he dated it on the margin at the top of the page, "From Tribschen."

It is the wonderful prelude from the Third Act of _Siegfried_, before the Invocation to Erda. It is sketched in three lines, with instrumental indications, and a few pencilled alterations. I did not yet know all the beauty contained in those two pages, the possession of which filled me with joy.

The bell for _déjeuner_ sounded, and I heard the laughter of the children. They were looking for us. Wagner gallantly offered me his arm to escort me to the dining-room.