Having returned to the drawing-room, our talk goes on, without constraint. The Master dazzles us by the charm of his words, his force and geniality, and, above all, by his incomparable intellect. Now we begin to feel that it is time to retire. We disembarked at Tribschen about five o'clock; it is growing dark and it must be late, perhaps nearing the dinner-hour, and, above all, we wish to be discreet and tactful. But at our first suggestion of going they exclaim with such an evident cordiality and urge us to stay with such friendly insistence that in the greatest content we sit down again.
The children say good-night to everyone, and go to bed. Lamps are brought, and time passes most delightfully. But at length--O humiliation!--our stomachs begin to protest and reproach us for forgetting them so long. We breakfasted before leaving Basle this morning, very hastily and earlier than usual, and it is a long time since then. Our host has not invited us to dinner, but since he keeps us on--probably they dine late at Tribschen.
Toward nine o'clock the door opens; a servant comes in at last! But, he brings a tray. It is only the tea, with the accompaniment of fallacious dry biscuit. We exchange amused glances. Bah! what does it matter? We will have supper at the hotel. Half-past eleven! Now we really must go. But how? By the lake? Would there still be boats at that hour?
"No, no, by the land. The carriage is in readiness. I will send someone with you." At the other side of the house, upon the threshold of the vestibule, the farewells are prolonged. They make us promise to return the next day, and to come earlier, that we may enjoy the garden and see the country a little. So we roll away through the unknown country and the dark night, ourselves all illuminated with joy. "In Wagner's owl carriage! It doesn't seem possible!" exclaims Villiers, patting the cushions. And then we all talk at once, going over every detail of that never-to-be-forgotten day. But the pangs of hunger are tormenting us more and more. What a supper we will have as soon as we reach the Hôtel du Lac! A drowsy boy rouses himself from his pallet bed to open the door for us. "May we have supper?" we request of him. But that isn't his affair; he knows nothing about it. He goes back to bed, and begins to snore. So we go wandering through the hotel, trying to open locked doors, ringing the electric bells again and again. Nothing! Silence everywhere, and solitude and sleep. Ah well, surely we ought to be willing to suffer a little for the cause that we defend; we ought not to complain over one day of fasting. And, since we are unable to avoid it, this ordeal rather pleases us; it seems fitting and symbolic; the emptiness of our stomachs permits us the better to listen to the song of joy in our hearts, to feel the intoxication of our minds; and so we go very happily to bed, hoping to see again in our dreams the sacred promontory over beyond the blue lake, where we shall return to-morrow.
