son and in any climate, their ponderous field-glasses slung over
their fat shoulders and their pockets bulging with guide-books and
postal cards, swallowing by barrelfuls the cool and beloved beer and
eating _Butterbrod_ by platefuls.

On Saturday evenings Madame Wagner--called familiarly Frau
Cosima--opens her _salon_, and every one goes who can get an
invitation. There is generally music, and the best-artists from the
Opera-house are delighted to sing. Also the inevitable pianist who is
"the finest interpreter of Chopin." (Did you ever know one who was
not?)

Very interesting evenings, these, because one sees all the notabilities
that flock to Bayreuth. Princes, plebeians, and artists meet here in
the limitless brotherhood of music.

Madame Nordica has been singing throughout this season. Her Lohengrin
is Van Dyke, and Gruning plays Tristan to her Isolde. Her voice is
charming, and she acts very well, besides being very good to look at.
She has a promising _affaire de coeur_ with a tenor called Dohme,
Hungarian by birth, and, I should say, anything by nature. He is
handsome, bold, and conceited, and thinks he can sing "Parsifal."
Madame Nordica has, I believe, sung for nothing, on the condition that
her _fiance_ should make his _debut_ here previous to taking the world
by storm, but Madame Cosima, with foresight and precaution, has been
putting him off (and her on) until the last day of the season, which
was yesterday. Then Frau Cosima allowed him to make his appearance,
upon which he donned his tunic, put on the traditional blond wig, took
his spear in hand, and set forth to conquer. His first phrase, "_Das
weiss ich nicht_" which is about all he has to say in the first act,
was coldly received. However, his bare legs and arms were admired from
the rear as he stood his half-hour looking at the Holy Grail. In the
second act, where he resists Kundry's questionable allurements, he did
passably well, though he gave the impression that even for a _reiner
Thor_--the German for a virtuous fool--she had no charms. She was a
masterful, fat, and hideous German lady, and when she twisted a curl
out of her yellow wig and sang, "_Diese Loche_" and cast her painted
lips at him with the threat, "_Diese Lippe_" he remained hopelessly
indifferent, with a not-if-I-know-it expression on his face. He was
neither a singer nor an actor, and did not have a shadow of success.
But he thought he had, and that was enough for him. It is not