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Siegfried and Lohengrin, or Merlin at the least. What he saw was a small man with short legs and a head that lurched on his shoulders like a burlap sack stuffed with eels. The vision lasted only a second, but it lodged in his mind, for the reality of his latest illusion might be useful later. After all, he had loved before. At least he had learned that much. But now, wanting only to see the ideal self, he rushed forward to embrace the man he regarded as the Master. Reality is thought: illusion resides in the senses and the fingertips. It was better to touch as soon as possible. Ugliness was one thing. The ugliness of a man who wanted something and was afraid he wouldn’t get it was quite another. That ugliness he had instantly to abolish, for if he saw it, he would see nothing else. He had not known before that the patron must be careful not to see too much.
    Wagner was not conscious of being ugly at all. They talked for almost two hours. Ludwig had never talked with a great man before, and Wagner had never talked to a rich one, so there was much to say. It was like the display of the Amherst pheasant. They were both top-heavywith the gorgeous weight of dreams fulfilled, the feathers ruffled out.
    To Ludwig it was the correct length of time, for he longed to rush to his rooms to savour the experience alone. To Wagner it could not be long enough. He hated solitude. He could only live in public, surrounded by much human noise. Ludwig felt sorry. Wagner was so obviously terrified that the meeting might fail. Ludwig had to prove that it had not failed. He asked the composer to come to Berg in May.
    But in a way to have him gone for the time being was a relief. He was content to sit alone in darkness and to think. He would give Wagner anything. Together they would create a world better than this one. The only safety in the world is the safety of a work of art. It is the safety the inarticulate long for. They know it exists, but they cannot enter it. With Wagner he would. For the first time in his life, to be alone filled him with a delicious thrill.
    But Wagner could not think without the presence of a woman. He went back to his hotel to worry; and in the absence of any of those great placid creatures on whom he begot their husbands’ children and his own works, sat down to write a letter. He had at last found his prince, and would do anything to keep him, but the world must know that, for already, he understood, Ludwig had a certain moral reputation that could not but soil his own. And yet he felt excited. He was on the threshold of that greatness he had so long planned for himself, the door to it had been unlocked, and as a result he felt grateful. “You cannot conceive the magic of his eyes. If only he remains alive. It is such an incredible miracle,” he wrote to his last mistress but one.
    Indeed, the eyes were peculiar. They seemed to havethe ability to see around events to what lay on the other side of them. If he had not known all kings to be basically irrelevant, Wagner would have been disturbed, for those eyes remained in his mind even when the face was no longer clear, like the staring eyes of a forest, that look out at the passing traveller, see everything, and say nothing. To see everything is to see too much. There were things which Wagner did not wish to have seen. To his letter he added a prudent footnote: “He is unfortunately so beautiful and intelligent, so full of feeling and so marvellous, that I am afraid his life might vanish like a dream of the gods in this vulgar world.” If the letter were to be intercepted, that would read nicely, for though compliments are all very well, a private letter is usually taken to be more sincere, particularly if read surreptitiously . After writing the words, he stared at them with surprise, perceiving them to be true.
    What was the King? Who was his friend in the ante-room ? Would his friend be amiable or an adversary? How much power did he have over the King? Would he