and he is in no fit condition to do anything but to
lie torpid and slowly gather back life and strength
for the next service. This opera of “Tristan
and Isolde” last night broke the hearts of all
witnesses who were of the faith, and I know of some
who have heard of many who could not sleep after it,
but cried the night away. I feel strongly out
of place here. Sometimes I feel like the sane
person in a community of the mad; sometimes I feel
like the one blind man where all others see; the one
groping savage in the college of the learned, and
always, during service, I feel like a heretic in heaven.
But by no means do I ever overlook or minify the fact
that this is one of the most extraordinary experiences
of my life. I have never seen anything like
this before. I have never seen anything so great
and fine and real as this devotion.
Friday.—Yesterday’s opera was
“Parsifal” again. The others went
and they show marked advance in appreciation; but
I went hunting for relics and reminders of the Margravine
Wilhelmina, she of the imperishable “Memoirs.”
I am properly grateful to her for her (unconscious)
satire upon monarchy and nobility, and therefore nothing
which her hand touched or her eye looked upon is indifferent
to me. I am her pilgrim; the rest of this multitude
here are Wagner’s.
Tuesday.—I have seen my last two operas;
my season is ended, and we cross over into Bohemia
this afternoon. I was supposing that my musical
regeneration was accomplished and perfected, because
I enjoyed both of these operas, singing and all, and,
moreover, one of them was “Parsifal,”
but the experts have disenchanted me. They say:
“Singing! That wasn’t singing; that
was the wailing, screeching of third-rate obscurities,
palmed off on us in the interest of economy.”
Well, I ought to have recognized the sign—the
old, sure sign that has never failed me in matters
of art. Whenever I enjoy anything in art it
means that it is mighty poor. The private knowledge
of this fact has saved me from going to pieces with
enthusiasm in front of many and many a chromo.
However, my base instinct does bring me profit sometimes;
I was the only man out of thirty-two hundred who got
his money back on those two operas.
Is it true that the sun of a man’s mentality
touches noon at forty and then begins to wane toward
setting? Doctor Osler is charged with saying
so. Maybe he said it, maybe he didn’t;
I don’t know which it is. But if he said
it, I can point him to a case which proves his rule.
Proves it by being an exception to it. To this
place I nominate Mr. Howells.
