Chapter XXVII

We had hardly finished supper and were still at table when Herr and Frau Schott were announced.

Wagner made a droll face, got up, and offered me his arm to pass to the drawing-room.

But just outside the door I slipped away, and with Servais I climbed to the first floor, where Cosima's maid was waiting to help us do the best we could with our costumes.

When we were ready Jacob lighted the stage lamps; and drawing the curtains a little, we peeped into the drawing-room.

There they are, seated in rows, the two new guests in the front row. They appear to us very solemn and terrifying: two portraits by Franz Hals--a Franz Hals who would have lived under Louis Philippe--tall, straight, all clothed in black; he, in a frock coat and high satin cravat; she, in a dull, lifeless frock, with hardly a line of white at the neck; thin figures and sallow skins; nothing playful about them. We are a little disconcerted. Pshaw! The Master's voice sounds laughingly: he is in a good humour, all goes well. Courage!

Dum! Dum! Dum!

Richter at the piano begins a fanciful overture where the motifs of _Tristan and Isolde_ mingle with foreign airs. The curtain is drawn.

A young Chinese lady embroiders under the lamp; but this virtuous occupation and tranquil appearance are deceitful: violent passions agitate her soul. She is married to a man whom she detests, first, just because she detests him, and then because he belongs to a conquering race. He is a Tartar. She waits for her lover, whom she adores, and who himself is a true Chinaman.

The husband is asleep, the night dark; the lover watches in the shadow. Now the hour has come for the signal: she opens the window and waves her scarf. From the piano comes the second act of _Tristan_.

The lover enters impetuously.

"My beloved?"

"My darling, art thou truly mine?"

"Dost thou still belong to me?"

"Are these thine eyes?"

"Is this thy mouth?"

"Thy heart?"

"Sweetheart!"

"Stem of the Lotus!"

"Duck of a Mandarin!"

The music changes. It is now from the fifth scene of _Die Walküre_; enter Sieglinde and Siegmund.

"Is he asleep?"

"Ah, he sleeps profoundly. I prepared for him an intoxicating drink."

"His sleep is not yet profound enough. Let us finish what thou hast begun: that he may never waken again."

They decide then to assassinate the Tartar, and to conceal his body.

The lover steals into the next room, from which cries are very soon heard, and the sound of a struggle; then the murderer returns, dragging after him an inanimate body.

They must dispose of it, throw it into the river, and the lover tries to pull the dead man onto his back. But this Tartar, who was a man of importance with the rank of Mandarin, had been altogether too well fed and he is horribly heavy, so that the Chinaman is doubled up under his great bulk, and try as he may he cannot carry the unwieldy corpse.

"Ah well, cut him in two!"

Then, by the aid of a great sabre and their own tremendous efforts, they hack the Tartar in two--not very difficult really, considering the cushions of which he is formed. When this has been accomplished the lover wraps one of the halves in a rug and carries it off. He will come back for the remainder the next night.... Villiers, in the drawing-room, has already guessed that this first syllable which we have acted ought to be "Tar"--the half of a Tartar!

The next thing to do is to make them recognise the illustrious Pasdeloup directing a "popular concert" and that difficult task falls to my lot. I have made myself a beard with skeins of yellow silk, and donned an evening coat of Wagner's. Servais has to multiply himself to represent the public, the police, etc., while Richter in the distance is the orchestra.

All join in giving the "la"[1] with especial significance: then they begin the prelude to _Lohengrin_. Pasdeloup, according to his custom, rounds his back, wrinkles his good-natured face, extends his arms with gestures half supplicating, half soothing, in order to secure "Pianissimi" full of mystery, and the orchestra does his best to obey. But all is not in harmony in the audience. Murmurs arise, are hushed down, then an altercation follows, with a sound of slaps, and swells to an uproar--as it had so often done during those days at "The Cirque d'Hiver."[2]--

The orchestra stops, the guard drags out the roysterers, and Pasdeloup makes a speech to the public.

And that, both good and bad, represents the syllable "La."

All the servants at Tribschen are crowded at the doors, and they watch this unprecedented sight with devout amazement. At the third scene their attention redoubles, for the kettle and the broom are about to play their part, to the great horror of the cook.

"If it had only been a nice hair broom! But that ugly old one used to sweep the court!"

In reality the broom is not exactly the right thing, but as there is only one of me to personate the three witches of Macbeth, I feel that this classic mount will aid the illusion. With my hair concealed under a grey veil, I bestride the diabolical steed, which then proceeds to prance.

"Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights hast thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charméd pot.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire, burn: and, cauldron, bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."

Then comes Macbeth: he is welcomed by the prophetic words:

"All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee thane of Glamis!"

"Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!"

"All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter." And the audience is supposed to understand that the third syllable is "Tane."

We are very successful up to this point. Wagner, who is standing behind an easy chair, leaning his elbows on the back, looks and listens with extreme attention, he is greatly interested and laughs heartily.

Now we must give the entire word: "Tarlatane." The public approbation encourages us, so we are no longer nervous about our effects.

Richter plays a waltz.

A lady comes home at midnight from a ball, in a tarlatan frock. Standing before her mirror she begins to remove her jewels, to take the flowers from her hair, meanwhile thinking over the incidents of the evening, the compliments, the scandals, the toilettes more or less pretty, the little absurdities of her friends, which are still amusing her.

As she has danced all the evening, she is very tired, and rejoices at the idea of retiring.

But suddenly there is a ring at the bell. The lady starts:

"Who can be ringing at my house at such an hour?"

The domestics are in bed. At first she dares not open the door: but she must, for perhaps some one of her neighbours is ill and in need of her.

On the threshold appears a strange young man, tall, thin, with weeping willow locks, and an awkward and conceited air.

"You are no doubt mistaken in the floor, sir, as I have not the honour of your acquaintance."

"How, Madam, you do not remember me! You know me very well, nevertheless. We have met in society, and I came here once to a Soirée at your house. Let me give you my card!"

"Ah, yes, I do seem to remember, you are not altogether a stranger.... But what serious thing can have happened to bring you to my house so late?"

"Oh, do not be disturbed, there is nothing serious, nothing at all. I was passing your house by chance; happening to look up, I saw a light in your window. I said to myself: 'Stay! I owe this lady a visit, a very much delayed visit, which must not be put off any longer.... What a good opportunity! Certainly, I am not sleepy, and, since she is awake she is not sleepy either. She will be pleased to see me and to pass a few hours in intellectual conversation with me.'"

"A few hours!"

"But, I beg you, do not inconvenience yourself for me! do not remain standing; let us be seated; one can talk so much better sitting down."

"But don't you understand, sir, it is very late!"

"Oh! do not be disturbed about that, I am not in the slightest hurry."

And the intruder enters upon a trifling and endless gabble in spite of the impatience of the lady, who does not attempt to conceal her ill-humour, and replies ironically and as briefly as possible. Finally she declares:

"I truly believe that you have lost your common-sense."

"What, do you imagine that I am intoxicated? Ah well, you will see that is quite impossible when I tell you that I have dined at home: a plain and frugal dinner, of which I retain a very unpleasant memory, and while we are on that subject, I beg of you to be good enough to give me a tooth-pick."

"A tooth-pick!"

"Yes, exactly, you will in that way do me a favour, because, at that dinner, I partook of veal, and I should very much like a tooth-pick. You see it was paternal veal, stringy, tough and salted.... Ah, so salt that I am dying of thirst, and it would be so kind of you if you would have some drinks served."

During the last intermission, some champagne had been uncorked. Wagner, who was as amused as a child, interrupted the scene at this point, crying out:

"Here it is! Here it is!"

And he poured the sparkling wine for us himself!

Then Servais became epic.

"It is very curious, Madam, but you have a butler who has a marvellous resemblance to a composer of whom they have been talking very much of late, a certain Richard Wagner. He is an extravagant person, a madman, who makes terrible music, full of discords that are worthy of cannibals and calls it 'the music of the future.'"

And he retailed, without trembling, all the venomous imbecilities that were current, and finally:...

"And it appears that this music has no airs, yet, apropos of this, something surprises me very much: this composer has brought out in Paris a so-called opera, which naturally was finely hissed, and which furnished a subject for endless witticisms: one, among others, you might, perhaps, be able to explain to me. Some one said, 'He bores me with his recitatives and wearies me with his airs'--(il me _tanne aux airs_).[3] But since there are no airs? and then 'tanne.' What can that word mean?"

Then the lady's wrath broke forth:

"Sir, _'tanner'_ is a slang word, which means 'to annoy, to bore, to exasperate' in polite speech. It is, for example, what you are doing here at this moment. I have given proof of extraordinary patience because I am a gentlewoman, but now that you dare to speak offensively of a man whom I believe to be the greatest genius that ever existed, that I will not endure. You have wounded my dearest convictions. You are an idiot and a ruffian, and I have the pleasure of showing you the door, and of charging you never to come to my house again."

Wagner laughed till he cried.

It was necessary to explain, in the midst of the bravos and the recalls, that the word of the charade was "Tarlatane": A lady in a tarlatane dress ... a man who "tard la tanne," "stays late and bores."

[1] "La" A, given for the tuning of the instruments.

[2] A well-known place of entertainment in Paris.

[3] Allusion of that time to "Tannhäuser." "Il m'ennuie aux récitatifs et il me tanne aux airs."