"_Hein!_ How he listened! What a public! How pleased I was!"
And again his laugh rings out: his spirit kindles through the obscurities of his speech.
During breakfast we install ourselves upon the deck under the shelter of a dripping canvas. And what a breakfast! An omelet harder than a pancake, and filled with a stuffing the nature of which defies all speculation.
"It can't be yellow turnips. It is more like bits of raw pumpkin."
We consult the _Speisekarte_ and find "Omelet with Apricots." Quarters of unripe apricot in an overcooked omelet--what an infernal combination! O Shade of Brillat-Savarin![1] Our delicate French epicurism is doubtless about to be put to a rude test by the barbarously heavy German cooking.
But even so! Is not the drinking horn of the pilgrim still hanging from our shoulders? Does not the staff still burden our hands? Roots torn from the earth, muddy water from the brooks, even these things ought to content us.
True! And surely one can see that it is only in the sincerest charity, in order to give them a pleasure, that we bestow upon the fishes of the lake that "Omelet with Apricots."
At Lindau the boat stops and we enter Bavaria. And here we are stirred by a new emotion at the thought of treading this soil, of being in the land of Ludwig II., the young king of the Graal, whom we ourselves have also chosen for our King. Here all speaks of him, all things bear his colours and his crest: the time-tables, the gates, the letter-boxes are painted in white and blue: the royal crown in chiselled bronze is everywhere to be seen, surmounting the coat of arms with its lozenge of blue and silver, which upholds the Hons rampant; "_Königreich Bayern_,"[2] these words are on all sides, on the façades, on the arch of the station, on the railway carriages.
During the journey to Munich we try to recall everything that Wagner has told us about the king: best of all is Wagner's first interview with the messenger whom the king had sent, and who, after searching vainly for a long time, finally discovered the unfindable great man.
This was at Stuttgart: Wagner had stopped there after fleeing from Vienna. During many months, in the Opera-house of that city, he had directed the rehearsals of _"Tristan and Isolde."_ His hotel-keeper--having long since presented his bill, was kept patient by expectations of the fruitful receipts of the first night.