I waited half an hour and then they arrived, frozen.They explained that they had been delayed by an unlooked-for circumstance: while passing in the neighborhood of Marlborough House they saw a crowd gathering and were told that the Prince of Wales was about to drive out, so they stopped to get a sight of him.They had waited half an hour on the sidewalk, freezing with the crowd, but were disappointed at last--the Prince had changed his mind.I said, with a good deal of surprise, "Is it possible that you two have lived in London all your lives and have never seen the Prince of Wales?"Apparently it was their turn to be surprised, for they exclaimed: "What an idea! Why, we have seen him hundreds of times."They had seem him hundreds of times, yet they had waited half an hour in the gloom and the bitter cold, in the midst of a jam of patients from the same asylum, on the chance of seeing him again.It was a stupefying statement, but one is obliged to believe the English, even when they say a thing like that.Ifumbled around for a remark, and got out this one:
"I can't understand it at all.If I had never seen General Grant I doubt if I would do that even to get a sight of him."With a slight emphasis on the last word.
Their blank faces showed that they wondered where the parallel came in.Then they said, blankly: "Of course not.He is only a President."It is doubtless a fact that a prince is a permanent interest, an interest not subject to deterioration.The general who was never defeated, the general who never held a council of war, the only general who ever commanded a connected battle-front twelve hundred miles long, the smith who welded together the broken parts of a great republic and re-established it where it is quite likely to outlast all the monarchies present and to come, was really a person of no serious consequence to these people.To them, with their training, my General was only a man, after all, while their Prince was clearly much more than that--a being of a wholly unsimilar construction and constitution, and being of no more blood and kinship with men than are the serene eternal lights of the firmament with the poor dull tallow candles of commerce that sputter and die and leave nothing behind but a pinch of ashes and a stink.
I saw the last act of "Tannh:auser." I sat in the gloom and the deep stillness, waiting--one minute, two minutes, I do not know exactly how long--then the soft music of the hidden orchestra began to breathe its rich, long sighs out from under the distant stage, and by and by the drop-curtain parted in the middle and was drawn softly aside, disclosing the twilighted wood and a wayside shrine, with a white-robed girl praying and a man standing near.Presently that noble chorus of men's voices was heard approaching, and from that moment until the closing of the curtain it was music, just music--music to make one drunk with pleasure, music to make one take scrip and staff and beg his way round the globe to hear it.
To such as are intending to come here in the Wagner season next year I wish to say, bring your dinner-pail with you.If you do, you will never cease to be thankful.If you do not, you will find it a hard fight to save yourself from famishing in Bayreuth.
Bayreuth is merely a large village, and has no very large hotels or eating-houses.The principal inns are the Golden Anchor and the Sun.At either of these places you can get an excellent meal--no, I mean you can go there and see other people get it.
There is no charge for this.The town is littered with restaurants, but they are small and bad, and they are overdriven with custom.You must secure a table hours beforehand, and often when you arrive you will find somebody occupying it.We have had this experience.We have had a daily scramble for life; and when I say we, I include shoals of people.I have the impression that the only people who do not have to scramble are the veterans--the disciples who have been here before and know the ropes.I think they arrive about a week before the first opera, and engage all the tables for the season.My tribe had tried all kinds of places--some outside of the town, a mile or two--and have captured only nibblings and odds and ends, never in any instance a complete and satisfying meal.Digestible? No, the reverse.
These odds and ends are going to serve as souvenirs of Bayreuth, and in that regard their value is not to be overestimated.
Photographs fade, bric-a-brac gets lost, busts of Wagner get broken, but once you absorb a Bayreuth-restaurant meal it is your possession and your property until the time comes to embalm the rest of you.Some of these pilgrims here become, in effect, cabinets; cabinets of souvenirs of Bayreuth.It is believed among scientists that you could examine the crop of a dead Bayreuth pilgrim anywhere in the earth and tell where he came from.But I like this ballast.I think a "Hermitage" scrap-up at eight in the evening, when all the famine-breeders have been there and laid in their mementoes and gone, is the quietest thing you can lay on your keelson except gravel.
