"Frau von Bülow, who has kindly come with her children to see me," said the Master, in presenting her.
After shaking hands with us cordially, she tells us the names of her children—Senta, Elisabeth, Isolda, and Eva—who gaze at us with big, wondering eyes.
We recognise in this choice of godmothers, all taken from among the heroines of Wagner, an enthusiasm as great as our own, which drives away all constraint between the charming mother and ourselves.
Then the dogs are presented to us. The big Newfoundland Rouzemouk, or "Russ" familiarly, and Cos, a gray pug belonging to Frau von Bülow.
"My name is Cosima," she tells me, "and my friends at home have formed the very bad habit, which actually gives me chills, of calling me "Cos," so I have given that name to my dog, and since then no one dares call me anything but Cosima!"
So the talk goes on, happy, quick-witted, enthusiastic, the Master almost as gay as the disciples; and we have so much to say!
Wagner speaks French more than moderately well. He speaks it correctly, but in his own way, with a certain freedom and audacity. When he is unable to find a word to express his exact thought, or when he believes there is no such word, he promptly creates one, and always so clearly, so logically, that one can never fail to comprehend. He speaks to me of Paris, which he loves, but where he has suffered much; he speaks also without bitterness of the great battle of Tannhäuser, concerning which we feel such mortification for our country. Yet he has gained, he says, a number of sincere partisans in France who console him for the defeat. Those who appreciate him there appreciate him more thoroughly than his German admirers.
The Frenchman, more nervous, more responsive, when he does understand, understands at once, and the warmth of his enthusiasm is very consoling.
The German is more patient and tranquil; he absorbs conscientiously whatever is presented to him, but he shows very little feeling; there can be nothing more frigid, more depressing, than certain playhouses where the stalls are filled with women in woollen frocks. "And, in order not to lose any time at the theatre," cries the Master, indignantly, "they take their knitting with them!"
Then, also, we look about us with respectful curiosity, at the interior of the temple, of which the quiet and pervading richness forms a strong contrast to the simple gray of the exterior.