Chapter XIV

At last the time had come! The last rehearsal but one was about to begin. How mysterious and imposing was the empty and dimly lighted theatre! It appeared immense, almost like a cathedral, the stage all bathed in a blue haze, produced, no doubt, by some reflection of the outside daylight, for it was then three o'clock in the afternoon.

Only a very few had been accorded the favour of being present at this rehearsal, which was without stage scenery or costumes.

Liszt was there. His tall dark silhouette loomed up from the orchestra stalls. I hastened to salute the Great Man, now become the friend, and I asked if he would permit me to remain near him during the rehearsal, that he might explain to me some things in the opera, the score of which I did not sufficiently know. The permission was very graciously accorded.

Now the musicians began to arrive and to take their places! How solemn and almost religious was the emotion we felt!

"For very many years I have waited for this moment," said Liszt, "and I have feared, indeed, that it would never come.... If you but knew the miseries, the wrecked and perished hopes despite which this work has germed and flowered! I have seen it all and I have suffered too because of it. I do not know how Wagner has been able to preserve his divine inspiration intact. He seems to me like a traveller who bore a cup full of water through the midst of a whirlwind without being forced to spill a single drop. But even in harbour, you see, he finds no shelter.... Dining his exile he was for many years the only German who had not heard _Lohengrin_. To-day, the tones of his great orchestra revealing his new work to the world, will sound for the first time and he will not hear them. Ah, what a ransom ought to be paid to genius!"

Now came Richter, pale and grave, and mounted to his desk.

We were hardly a dozen listeners in the dark audience hall. I caught a glimpse of the blond, almost white locks of Servais, and I divined the form of Edouard Schuré beside him. I also saw a shadow, climbing over the orchestra chairs: it was Villiers hastening to seat himself farther back, in order to be quite alone, quite undistracted.

They drew the curtain before the stage. Richter gave two or three quick blows on the desk, then with a serious and proud gesture raised his baton.

And now a deep, muffled tone rises from the orchestra, it vibrates almost imperceptibly in the lowest depths of the scale, indistinct, without form, it trembles in a limpid motion, then seems to dilate, to spread out, a slow sweet gliding movement floats up and loses itself, soon another ripples up along the same path and floats away, as one wave follows another.

Very soon these musical waves swell out and follow each other continuously upward; from above spheres of light seem to fall, spreading and diffusing like drops of milk in clear water. The curtain is drawn to reveal mysterious abysses seen through the blue transparency of the Rhine. On the stage there is nothing but a confused shadow, but how clearly the imagination inspired by the music, evokes the picture! Better, perhaps, than could the scenery itself.

Now a gentle undulation sways the tranquil water and suddenly a crystal voice resounds through the crystal fluid, a nymph glides from the heights and swims below, stirring the water to new motion. The words of her song form sliding syllables:

Weïa! Waga! Woge, du Welle,
Walle zur Wiege! Wagala Weïa
Wallala Weiala Weïa!

And she sways about the reef, at the summit of which dimly gleams the vein of gold; then another daughter of the Rhine plunges from the heights and joyously pursues her flying sister. But the voice of a third undine chides them both as she, laughing, sings:

Heila Weïa!
Wildes Geschwister!
Des Goldes Schlaf
Hütet ihr schlecht;
Besser bewacht
Des schlummemden Bett
Sonst büsst ihr beide das Spiel!

Then she in her turn dives below, and these gracious dwellers of the Rhine swim and frolic, upborne by the harmonious waves of music, around the prophetic rock where sleeps the imprisoned gold, untouched and virgin still.

On this occasion the Rhine maidens are standing quietly upon the platform in walking costumes and straw hats, but they can hardly be seen in the obscurity and, without interfering with our imaginings they lend their fresh and limpid voices to the forms the poet has created.

Now comes a heavy and jarring rhythm, and from the most obscure depths of the river, slowly emerges a strange dwarf, with white hair and long white beard braided into one strand. He climbs along the slippery rocks. The music expresses his struggles, as he complains of the painful ascent, alliterating his words:

Garstig glatter
Glitschriger Glimmer!
Wie gleit ich aus!

His eager look follows the undines in their charming play, and, unable to reach them, he calls to them:

He, He! Ihr Nicker!
Wie seid ihr niedlich
Neidliches Volk!

Aus Nibelheim's Nacht
Naht' ich euch gern,
Neigtet ihr euch zu mir.

The Rhine maidens, frightened, cluster about the rock:

"Hütet das Gold!
Vater warnte
Von solchem Feind."

"What dost thou seek, thou who comest up from below?"

"Wie scheint im Schimmer
Ihr hell und schön
Wie gern umschlänge
Der schlanken eine mein Arm
Schlüpfte hold sie herab!"

"Nun lach ich der Furcht
Der Feind ist verliebt."

And the frolicsome undines dive from the rocks, pursuing, enticing, tempting the ardent dwarf, who, in a passionate fury, leaps from rock to rock, trying to catch one or another. But the elusive maidens always evade him, slipping away, and as he falls back, breathless and angry, the clear notes of their mocking laughter float back to him.

But to-day, in the pleasure of reviving these memories, I must not fall into the error of describing the _Rheingold_. When I first heard it in Munich in the solemn stillness of the dark theatre, it was like the virgin metal gleaming in the sunlight at the summit, of the rock, for the first time revealed to the world, while now, like gold which has passed through the mint, it is known to all.

This first part of the Tetralogy, which is the prologue, was not divided into acts. Its four tableaux were given without interruption. The scenes were shifted in full view of the audience to the accompaniment of the orchestra. The performance lasted for more than two hours, and yet, even at this first hearing when all the faculties of attention were taxed to the utmost, one did not experience any fatigue; the architectural outline of the drama was so simple and clear cut, the music evoked with so much certainty the different phases, or so to speak, the elementaries of the work, and individualized them in themes and rhythms of such extraordinary beauty.

Only one passage seemed to me difficult to understand, the one where Wotan, in the face of the treasure forged by the Nibelungen which he has just ravished from them, is, according to the text, "struck by a high thought." At this moment is heard for the first and only time, the "Leit-motif" of the sword, that sword called "Nothung" which is to play such an important role in the following works, but which, when the theme enters which symbolises it, is not designated by any phrase or gesture. Liszt, whom I questioned about it, agreed with me that here was an obscurity, and that Wagner would have noticed it if he had been present at the rehearsals. Later, I spoke to the Master himself with regard to this point, and he remarked that the observation was a very just one, and that he would take advantage of it. After that, a sword was added to the treasure of the Nibelungen; Wotan discovered and brandished it at the moment when the theme was introduced.

We were all carried away by enthusiasm when the Gods, walking across the valley on the rainbow, entered Walhalla and the curtain fell. Richter, flushed with emotion, was surrounded, acclaimed. Liszt embraced and complimented him warmly. The singers were also praised, and the musicians of the orchestra who had so admirably fulfilled their glorious task.

After having escorted Liszt to his carriage, still filled with elation that was not to be calmed we set out, all together, to take possession of the Café Maximilian. Instead of ordering supper, we asked for pens and paper, and each one of us wrote to Richard Wagner, expressing to him all the admiration and delight which his new masterpiece had inspired in us, and thanking him for having accorded us the great favour of hearing it before the general public, and even alas, before he himself had heard it.