times, of a not very popular king, one of a line noted for mental and moral deficiency; and, without consulting any of the powers that had ruled for a long time in Bavaria, in his mad enthusiasm he set about “reforming” everything.  Apparently he wanted within twenty-four hours to set up a Saxon Utopia in the midst of a people who hated the Saxons.  He wanted to establish a new opera-house, where perfect artists were to give perfect performances for audiences that did not pretend to be perfect.  As such performances could not possibly pay, the audiences, besides putting down the price of admittance, had, as taxpayers, to make good the deficits.  King Ludwig was supposed to do it; but where on earth was Ludwig’s money to come from if not out of the taxpayers’ pockets?  Then there was to be founded a genuine school of music—­an excellent scheme, but one, again, which could not possibly be profitable, or for some time earn enough to cover its expenses.  Who was to pay?—­of course King Ludwig:  that is, the taxpayers.  And Wagner was not only known (with absolute certainty) to wish to divert from the pockets of “placemen” funds they had learnt to consider their perquisites, with a view of turning Munich into a musical paradise on earth:  it seemed to many that he was gaining such an ascendancy over the feeble mind and will of the king that shortly he would be dictator of the country.  That view was not well-founded:  Wagner, dreamer though he was, had a strong practical vein in his character:  if he saw that one of his dreams could be realised he realised it at the first opportunity; if he saw it could not be realised he explained it in an article and left others to make the first effort at realisation.  The man who created Bayreuth was not the man to imagine altogether vainly that he could, per favour of a king, whom he must have known to be utterly weak, turn some millions of citizens and villagers into an Utopian nation of art-lovers and so on.  But hatred surrounded him everywhere; the machinery of the state came early to a standstill, and, finally, the king had to ask him to withdraw for a longer or shorter while.

This is the plain truth of an affair concerning which there has been an immense amount of lying on both sides.  The scandals about the personal relations of the king and Wagner I leave to the vampires; as for the gentry who will have it that Wagner was “persecuted” out of Munich by Jews, Christians, journalists and bank-managers, I leave them to anybody who likes to take them up.  That Wagner had to quit Munich was a sad thing in his life—­a very sorrow’s crown of sorrow; and it was a bad thing for German music.  It put back the clock many years.  But, sad though it was for Wagner, in the long run it proved good for him.  He would have composed little more in such a city—­a city so misgoverned and misguided as Munich:  his days would have been filled with bitterness, his nerves would have been quickly shattered by intrigues.  He was now amply provided for; a villa—­the celebrated “Triebschen”—­was taken for him on the shores of Lucerne, and here he settled and remained for some years.  Here he finished the Ring and planned Bayreuth.