There was a moment of financial difficulty when the fate of Bayreuth trembled in the balance; she has swept away all doubt, and her enthusiasm has been so infectious that the little Franconian town has become one of the centres of the world’s culture: all its past is forgotten, even Jean Paul is hardly remembered, so all-absorbing is the Wagnerian aura. Royal personages, the princes in the several realms of art, science, letters, and politics, men and women famous in all the walks of life, have made these celebrations their trysting-place, and people who elsewhere grumble at the highest extravagance of luxury are content to put up with the simplest of fare and the humblest accommodation if only they may be allowed to lay their tribute on the high altar of genius. A gathering at Wahnfried is something to remember; it is a goodly company, a cosmopolitan galaxy of talent. Failing health prevents the great hostess from welcoming her guests in person, but she is well represented by her children, Siegfried Wagner and his sister, round whom are assembled all the most distinguished of the visitors to the town. It is a company in which a man must needs feel very humble. For here every one has achieved something in the world. Here is a recognized authority as antiquary and historian; there the great physician who watched over Prince Bismarck’s latest years: famous musicians, learned professors, a few notable soldiers, are much to the front: one lady is translating into German an American philosophical work; other ladies are engaged in various branches of art; some are successful actresses, others well-known and cherished singers; here are painters who have achieved fame, younger men who are climbing that same giddy ladder; of literary men there is no lack. The conversation is brilliant; it is only interrupted now and then by such music as would compel even the Philistines to hold their peace. It would be strange indeed if in the home of Richard Wagner obedience were not given to the old Italian warning, “Il più grande omaggio alla musica è il silenzio.” CHAPTER XLIII A LAST WORD Since my memory of what took place at St. Petersburg in 1864 was made ready for the printer, the storm which some of us foresaw as the inevitable consequence, sooner or later, of the shameless betrayal of Denmark in that year, has burst upon the world in all the fulness of its fury. Never have the vials of wrath been poured upon mankind with such remorseless cruelty; of that cup of a poison which has been brewing for fifty years we now have to drink the bitter dregs.