"Mother! Why, mamma, you said you weren't coming until Sunday." Mrs. Fridolin could not see very well in the heavy shadows after the blinding sunlight without. "What are you doing here, Margaret, and of all things alone up there on a throne! Is this a rehearsal for the opera?" "I'm not alone, mother. This is Wenceslaus—Mr. Wenceslaus Arthmann, the sculptor, mamma, and he is doing me in clay. Look at it; isn't it sweet? Mr. Arthmann, this is my mother—and who is the young lady, mamma?" "Oh, I forgot. I was so confused and put out not finding you at the station I drove at once to Villa Wahnfried—" "Villa Wahnfried!" echoed two voices in dismayed unison. "Yes, to Frau Cosima, and she directed me here." "She directed you here?" "Yes, why shouldn't she? Is there anything wrong in that?" asked the stately, high-nosed lady with the gray pompadour, beginning to peer about suspiciously. "Oh, no, mamma, but how did Frau Cosima know that I was here?" "I don't know, child," was the testy answer. "Come, get down and let me introduce you to my charming travelling friend, Miss Bredd." "Miss Saïs Bredd," put in the Western girl; "I was named Saïs after my father visited Egypt, but my friends call me Louie."—"And Miss Bredd, this is Mister—" "Arthmann, madame," said the sculptor. They all shook hands after the singer had released her mother from a huge, cavernous hug. "But Meg, Meg, where is your chaperon?" Fridolina looked at the young man: "Why, mamma, it was the Hausfrau who let you in, of course." Miss Bredd smiled cynically.
III
Up the Via Dolorosa toiled a Sunday mob from many nations. The long, nebulous avenue, framed on either side by dull trees, was dusty with the heels of the faithful ones; and the murmur of voices in divers tongues recalled the cluttering sea on a misty beach. Never swerving, without haste or rest, went the intrepid band of melomaniacs speaking of the singers, the weather and prices until the summit was reached. There the first division broke ranks and charged upon the caravansary which still stood the attacks of thirsty multitudes after two decades. Lucky ones grasped Schoppen of beer and Rhine wine hemmed in by an army of expectant throats, for the time was at hand when would sound Donner's motive from the balcony: music made by brass instruments warning the elect that "Rheingold" was about to unfold its lovely fable of water, wood and wind.
Mrs. Fridolin went to the theatre and longed with mother's eyes for the curtains to part and discover Fricka. She took her seat unconcernedly; she was not an admirer of Wagner, educated as she had been in the florid garden of Italian song. The darkness at first oppressed her. When from mystic space welled those elemental sounds, not mere music, but the sighing, droning, rhythmic swish of the waters, this woman knew that something strange and terrible was about to enter into her consciousness. The river Rhine calmly, majestically stole over her senses; she forgot Bellini, Donizetti, even Gounod and soon she was with the Rhine Daughters, with Alberich.... Her heart seemed to stop. All sense of identity vanished at a wave of Wagner's wand, as is absorbed the ego by the shining mirror of the hypnotist. This, then, was the real Wagner—a Wagner who attacked simultaneously the senses, vanquished the strongest brain; a Wagner who wept, wooed, sang and surged, ravished the soul until it was brought lacerated and captive to the feet of the victorious master magician. The eye was promise-crammed, the ears sealed with bliss, and she felt the wet of the waters. She breathed hard as Alberich scaled the slimy steeps; and the curves described by the three swimming mermaids filled her with the joy of the dance, the free ecstatic movements of free things in the waves. The filching of the Rheingold, the hoarse shout of laughter from Alberich's love-foresworn lips, and the terrified cries of the luckless watchers were as real as life. Walhall did not confuse her, for now she caught clues to the meaning of the mighty epic. Wotan and Fricka—ah, Meg did not look so stout, and how lovely her voice sounded!—Loki, mischief-making, diplomatic Loki; the giants, Fafner and Fasolt; Freia, and foolish, maimed, malicious Mime—these were not mere papier-maché, but fascinating deities. She saw the gnomes' underworld, saw the ring, the snake and the tarnhelm; she heard the Nibelungs' anvil chorus—so different from Verdi's—saw the giants quarrelling over their booty; and the sonorous rainbow seemed to bridge the way to a fairer land. As the Walhall march died in her ears she found herself outside on the dusky, picturesque esplanade and forgot all about Meg, remembering her only as Fricka. With the others she slowly trod the path that had been pressed by the feet of art's martyrs. Mrs. Fridolin then gave tongue to her whirring brain:
"Oh! the magic of it all," she gasped.
"I'm afraid I rather agree with Nordau, Mrs. Fridolin—the whole affair reminds me of a tank-drama I once saw in Chicago." It was the cool voice of Miss Bredd that sounded in the hot, humming lane punctuated by vague, tall trees....
Mrs. Fridolin and her party went to Sammett's for dinner that evening. This garden, once Angermann's and made famous by Wagner, is still a magnet. The Americans listened calmly to furious disputes, in a half-dozen tongues, over the performance to the crashing of dishes and the huddling of glasses always full, always empty. Arthmann ordered the entire menu, knowing well that it would reach them after much delay in the inevitable guise of veal and potatoes. The women were in no hurry, but the sculptor was. He drummed on the table, he made angry faces at his neighbors—contented looking Germans who whistled themes from "Rheingold"—and when Herr Sammett saluted his guests with a crazy trombone and crazier perversion of the Donner motive, Arthmann jumped up and excused himself. The two hours and a half in the theatre had made him nervous, restless, and he went away saying that he would be back presently. Mrs. Fridolin was annoyed. It did not seem proper for three ladies to remain unaccompanied in a public garden, even if that garden was in Bayreuth. Suppose some of her New York friends should happen by!... "I wonder where he has gone? I don't admire your new friend, Margaret. He seems very careless," she grumbled.
"Wenceslaus!"—Mrs. Fridolin looked narrowly at her daughter—"Mr. Arthmann, then, will be back soon. Like all sculptors he hates to be cooped up long." "I guess he's gone to get a drink at the bar," suggested the practical Miss Bredd. "How did you like my Fricka—oh, here's Mr. Dennett—Caspar, Caspar come over here, here!" The big girl stood up in elephantine eagerness, and a jaunty, handsome young man, with a shaven face and an important chin, slowly made his way through the press of people to the Fridolin table. It was Caspar Dennett, the conductor. After a formal presentation to the tall, thin Mrs. Fridolin, the young American musician settled himself for a talk and began by asking how they liked his conducting. He had been praised by the Prince Imperial himself—praise sufficient for any self-doubting soul! Thank heaven, he had no doubt of his vocation! It was Miss Bredd who answered him:
"I enjoyed your conducting immensely, Mr. Dennett, simply because I couldn't see you work those long arms of yours.... I wrote lots about you when you visited the West with your band. I never cared for your Wagner readings." He stared at her reproachfully and she stared in return. Then he murmured, "I'm really very sorry I didn't please you, Miss Bredd. I didn't know that you were a newspaper woman." "Journalist, if you please!" "I beg your pardon, journalist. I'm so sorry that Mrs. Dennett is visiting relations in England. She would have been delighted to call on you;"—Miss Bredd's expression became disagreeable—"and now, Mrs. Fridolin, what do you think of your daughter, your daughter Fricka Fridolina, as we call her? Won't she be a superb Isolde some day?" "I hope not, Mr. Dennett," austerely replied the mother. Margaret grasped his hands gratefully, crying aloud, "You dear! Isn't he a dear, mamma? Only think of your daughter as Isolde. Ah! there comes the deserter. You thoughtless man!"
The sculptor bowed stiffly when presented, and the two men sat on either side of Miss Fridolin, far away from each other.