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.