and Ludwig had known that it would. After all, there was nothing else in Paul to appeal to. For the moment Ludwig was willing to take what he could get.
A small boat was moored there, attached to a mechanical swan. Ludwig had had it manufactured secretly. For him it was a solemn moment, the moment of the test.
The two youths stood for a moment on the dock, watching the uneasy waters of the lake. Paul was wrapped up in a heavy cloak. He took it off and handed it to Ludwig. Ludwig tried not to watch. He did not want to see Lohengrin departing, but Lohengrin coming toward him. The light caught for an instant against Paul’s armour. The little boat went out into the lake, turned, and started back.
Ludwig had had his back deliberately to the water. Now he watched. The swan made a slight chugging noise, ploughing woodenly through the water. The gunwales of the boat were too low. Paul had to stand with his legs apart, in order to balance, but he was undoubtedly Lohengrin. And yet he was not. He was only Paul. He had the impertinence to grin, when he should have looked remote, stern and heroic. That grin cut through Ludwig like a knife, at the same time that he was thrilled. The music of Wagner seemed to surge around the edges of the lake, in the trembling of the fir boughs. Yet as the boat came closer to the dock, he couldsee more clearly the cheerful, meaningless, wheaten face of Paul.
Abruptly his vision faded. His union with the works of Wagner disappeared. It had been wrong to call back Paul. He sent him away and tried on the Lohengrin armour himself, in the privacy of his rooms. He had to know how it felt to be Lohengrin, for if he was never to be saved by a Lohengrin, then he would have to be Lohengrin himself.
Paul was slighter than he, and so the armour did not quite fit. But wearing it did give him the delicious feeling of at last living inside somebody else, as though he were safe in being able to peer out at the world through another man’s eyes.
And yet in this case they were not eyes that saw very much. Perhaps the actor Rohde would see more. He hoped so, though subconsciously he did not believe it. It was only a way out of an increasingly tangled wood, the easiest one that he could take. He had been King for almost a year. The ministers were trying to remove Wagner. They were censorious about all luxuries except their own. They were agitating for his marriage, and politics were not agreeable. He decided to get away from them incognito.
He took the actor Rohde with him only because Rohde had the external face that hung like a magic mirror in his dreams, now close, now far away, and with strange skin, the texture of barley soap, which could wash away care. The person he sought seemed never to be behind the face he found.
As he boarded the train for Switzerland, he had the sensation of doing something he would do again, so that it did not matter whether the trip were a failure this time or not. It was only a reconnaisance.
But he knew, even before they reached the border, that the excursion was to fail. Rohde, like Wagner, but for different reasons, turned out to be unattainable. He was too cool, where Wagner was too warm. They followed the route of Tell. He had Rohde recite the immortal speeches as they reached each site, and forgot the man in the evocative glory of the voice. He did not look at the man. He looked at the mountains instead.
There, across waters merging into mist, not far from Geneva, lay the true mountain blue, purple only in its intensity, while he walked along the shore. Up there among the ice and the rocks Rohde was nothing but a blond voice, and that was as it should be. Still, one cannot live with a voice. When he became impatient, he left Rohde snoring at the hotel, slipped out into the transfigured night, and watched the Alpinglow. Tell had no use for the endless poppy of Tristan, nor for the chypre of the Venusberg. Tell smelled of pine boughs, cold water, and his wife was a round-faced
A small boat was moored there, attached to a mechanical swan. Ludwig had had it manufactured secretly. For him it was a solemn moment, the moment of the test.
The two youths stood for a moment on the dock, watching the uneasy waters of the lake. Paul was wrapped up in a heavy cloak. He took it off and handed it to Ludwig. Ludwig tried not to watch. He did not want to see Lohengrin departing, but Lohengrin coming toward him. The light caught for an instant against Paul’s armour. The little boat went out into the lake, turned, and started back.
Ludwig had had his back deliberately to the water. Now he watched. The swan made a slight chugging noise, ploughing woodenly through the water. The gunwales of the boat were too low. Paul had to stand with his legs apart, in order to balance, but he was undoubtedly Lohengrin. And yet he was not. He was only Paul. He had the impertinence to grin, when he should have looked remote, stern and heroic. That grin cut through Ludwig like a knife, at the same time that he was thrilled. The music of Wagner seemed to surge around the edges of the lake, in the trembling of the fir boughs. Yet as the boat came closer to the dock, he couldsee more clearly the cheerful, meaningless, wheaten face of Paul.
Abruptly his vision faded. His union with the works of Wagner disappeared. It had been wrong to call back Paul. He sent him away and tried on the Lohengrin armour himself, in the privacy of his rooms. He had to know how it felt to be Lohengrin, for if he was never to be saved by a Lohengrin, then he would have to be Lohengrin himself.
Paul was slighter than he, and so the armour did not quite fit. But wearing it did give him the delicious feeling of at last living inside somebody else, as though he were safe in being able to peer out at the world through another man’s eyes.
And yet in this case they were not eyes that saw very much. Perhaps the actor Rohde would see more. He hoped so, though subconsciously he did not believe it. It was only a way out of an increasingly tangled wood, the easiest one that he could take. He had been King for almost a year. The ministers were trying to remove Wagner. They were censorious about all luxuries except their own. They were agitating for his marriage, and politics were not agreeable. He decided to get away from them incognito.
He took the actor Rohde with him only because Rohde had the external face that hung like a magic mirror in his dreams, now close, now far away, and with strange skin, the texture of barley soap, which could wash away care. The person he sought seemed never to be behind the face he found.
As he boarded the train for Switzerland, he had the sensation of doing something he would do again, so that it did not matter whether the trip were a failure this time or not. It was only a reconnaisance.
But he knew, even before they reached the border, that the excursion was to fail. Rohde, like Wagner, but for different reasons, turned out to be unattainable. He was too cool, where Wagner was too warm. They followed the route of Tell. He had Rohde recite the immortal speeches as they reached each site, and forgot the man in the evocative glory of the voice. He did not look at the man. He looked at the mountains instead.
There, across waters merging into mist, not far from Geneva, lay the true mountain blue, purple only in its intensity, while he walked along the shore. Up there among the ice and the rocks Rohde was nothing but a blond voice, and that was as it should be. Still, one cannot live with a voice. When he became impatient, he left Rohde snoring at the hotel, slipped out into the transfigured night, and watched the Alpinglow. Tell had no use for the endless poppy of Tristan, nor for the chypre of the Venusberg. Tell smelled of pine boughs, cold water, and his wife was a round-faced
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