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.
THURSDAY.–They keep two teams of singers in stock for the
chief roles, and one of these is composed of the most renowned
artists in the world, with Materna and Alvary in the lead. I
suppose a double team is necessary; doubtless a single team would
die of exhaustion in a week, for all the plays last from four in
the afternoon till ten at night. Nearly all the labor falls upon
the half-dozen head singers, and apparently they are required to
furnish all the noise they can for the money. If they feel a
soft, whispery, mysterious feeling they are required to open out
and let the public know it. Operas are given only on Sundays,
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, with three days of ostensible
rest per week, and two teams to do the four operas; but the
ostensible rest is devoted largely to rehearsing. It is said
that the off days are devoted to rehearsing from some time in the
morning till ten at night. Are there two orchestras also? It is
quite likely, since there are one hundred and ten names in the
orchestra list.
Yesterday the opera was “Tristan and Isolde.” I have seen
all sorts of audiences–at theaters, operas, concerts, lectures,
sermons, funerals–but none which was twin to the Wagner audience
of Bayreuth for fixed and reverential attention. Absolute
attention and petrified retention to the end of an act of the
attitude assumed at the beginning of it. You detect no movement
in the solid mass of heads and shoulders. You seem to sit with
the dead in the gloom of a tomb. You know that they are being
stirred to their profoundest depths; that there are times when
they want to rise and wave handkerchiefs and shout their
approbation, and times when tears are running down their faces,
and it would be a relief to free their pent emotions in sobs or
screams; yet you hear not one utterance till the curtain swings
together and the closing strains have slowly faded out and died;