likeness sits in the mind forever. When we examine them outwardly, we cannot see why we remember them at all, even though they have the captive clarity and beauty of a snowstorm in a paperweight. They are those days when our sensescapture permanently the outward semblance of the world during some great inner spiritual event that transforms our lives. This one was a day in September of 1863.
He and Paul were alone together. It was the first time Ludwig had ever been allowed to be alone with anyone. It made him move with a curious self-conscious jerkiness of which he was agonizingly aware. He became the puppet of himself, and scarcely knew which wires to pull. He so much wanted to please Paul. And in truth Paul was easily pleased, though not by him. But there was no way in which Ludwig could know that.
They climbed one of the silent valleys of the Watzmann. The higher they rose the closer together they became. The day was intimate and warm. Rank, conventions, and reserve lay behind Ludwig on the slopes below him, like discarded clothes. He longed to touch Paul’s hand. He did not dare. He did not then quite understand the nature of his necessity to touch, but drew away from it instinctively. Instead he began to run.
Paul followed. He was, after all, an aide-de-camp. He had to do what his master did. They shot out of the forest like dogs after a rabbit, and found themselves in the middle of a little meadow.
Through the meadow ran a shallow brook, very wide over smooth stones. What energy it had was caught by a low dam, where it was allowed to spill over. A few dusty and abandoned fruit trees stood about in the knee-high grass. The forest rose beyond. Beside the dam there was a mill. Behind the mill was a steep-roofed farmhouse. The Watzmann lurked beyond. At the top of the Watzmann glittered snow.
In front of the mill was a yellow wooden bench. Behind the bench stood a young peasant, stripped to the waist. He had the face of a Siegfried, not that of a Lohengrin .It was a heavy, sleepy, inert face full of shadowy laughter. His skin was slippery, but his body firm. He was sweating lustily. He was planing a plank.
Ludwig paused and was envious. He himself had the wrong body for a hero. And Paul was an idea, not a body. Paul he could have. The woodsman he could not. He transferred his emotions from one to the other. He had found an ideal figure at last and he would never be able to forget it. There remained his desires, and he was afraid of them. Paul had the slim, useless figure of a drawing-room officer.
Looking at the woodsman, Ludwig became both reverent and wary. He sat down on a stump. It was something that moved him deeply, a glimpse at the thing he and Paul should have had between them, but did not. For the aristocracy could make nothing. It was born without hands. It could only express itself through others, otherwise its message died.
The woodsman was wearing lederhosen and nothing else. The sweat clotted on his hairy chest and legs. His face was finer than he was. It was a face not to be lost. They shared their lunch with the woodsman. It was a communion of sorts, but communion with a god who could not answer.
Ludwig had found what he could never be. It made him sad. It made him suddenly see through Paul, to the amiable nonentity on the other side. Physical desires, though they should be denied, could be gratified anywhere . But what he needed was greatness. Greatness was the only thing he could love, and he despaired of finding it anywhere.
Then he had met Wagner, and there had been hope. But Wagner was not great. Only his works were so. Wagner was gone. The works remained. He had dismissedPaul when he had found Wagner. Now, having dismissed Wagner, he called Paul back. Who else was there, whom he could call?
He called him to Hohenschwangau. He had a reason for that.
Together they went down to a jetty on the lake, below the schloss, towards evening. The experiment had appealed to Paul’s sense of masquerade,
He and Paul were alone together. It was the first time Ludwig had ever been allowed to be alone with anyone. It made him move with a curious self-conscious jerkiness of which he was agonizingly aware. He became the puppet of himself, and scarcely knew which wires to pull. He so much wanted to please Paul. And in truth Paul was easily pleased, though not by him. But there was no way in which Ludwig could know that.
They climbed one of the silent valleys of the Watzmann. The higher they rose the closer together they became. The day was intimate and warm. Rank, conventions, and reserve lay behind Ludwig on the slopes below him, like discarded clothes. He longed to touch Paul’s hand. He did not dare. He did not then quite understand the nature of his necessity to touch, but drew away from it instinctively. Instead he began to run.
Paul followed. He was, after all, an aide-de-camp. He had to do what his master did. They shot out of the forest like dogs after a rabbit, and found themselves in the middle of a little meadow.
Through the meadow ran a shallow brook, very wide over smooth stones. What energy it had was caught by a low dam, where it was allowed to spill over. A few dusty and abandoned fruit trees stood about in the knee-high grass. The forest rose beyond. Beside the dam there was a mill. Behind the mill was a steep-roofed farmhouse. The Watzmann lurked beyond. At the top of the Watzmann glittered snow.
In front of the mill was a yellow wooden bench. Behind the bench stood a young peasant, stripped to the waist. He had the face of a Siegfried, not that of a Lohengrin .It was a heavy, sleepy, inert face full of shadowy laughter. His skin was slippery, but his body firm. He was sweating lustily. He was planing a plank.
Ludwig paused and was envious. He himself had the wrong body for a hero. And Paul was an idea, not a body. Paul he could have. The woodsman he could not. He transferred his emotions from one to the other. He had found an ideal figure at last and he would never be able to forget it. There remained his desires, and he was afraid of them. Paul had the slim, useless figure of a drawing-room officer.
Looking at the woodsman, Ludwig became both reverent and wary. He sat down on a stump. It was something that moved him deeply, a glimpse at the thing he and Paul should have had between them, but did not. For the aristocracy could make nothing. It was born without hands. It could only express itself through others, otherwise its message died.
The woodsman was wearing lederhosen and nothing else. The sweat clotted on his hairy chest and legs. His face was finer than he was. It was a face not to be lost. They shared their lunch with the woodsman. It was a communion of sorts, but communion with a god who could not answer.
Ludwig had found what he could never be. It made him sad. It made him suddenly see through Paul, to the amiable nonentity on the other side. Physical desires, though they should be denied, could be gratified anywhere . But what he needed was greatness. Greatness was the only thing he could love, and he despaired of finding it anywhere.
Then he had met Wagner, and there had been hope. But Wagner was not great. Only his works were so. Wagner was gone. The works remained. He had dismissedPaul when he had found Wagner. Now, having dismissed Wagner, he called Paul back. Who else was there, whom he could call?
He called him to Hohenschwangau. He had a reason for that.
Together they went down to a jetty on the lake, below the schloss, towards evening. The experiment had appealed to Paul’s sense of masquerade,
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