All the singers and a few other guests had been seated, and Liszt, Frau Cosima and Siegfried Wagner were in their places when the door opened and in shot Wagner.  It was as well calculated as the entrance of the star in a play.  On his way to his seat he stopped and chatted a few moments with this one and that one.  Instead of Wagner sitting at the head of the table and his wife at the foot, they sat together in the middle.  It seemed impossible for him, though, to remain seated more than a few minutes at a time, and he was jumping up and down and running about the table all through the banquet.  On the other side of Wagner sat Liszt; on the other side of Frau Cosima, Siegfried Wagner, then still a boy.  Among the four there were two pairs of likenesses.  Liszt was gray; but, although Frau Cosima’s hair was blonde, and her face smooth and fair as compared with her father’s, which was furrowed with age and boldly aquiline, she was his child in every lineament.  Moreover, the quick, responsive lighting up of the features, her graceful bearing, her tact—­that these were inherited from him a brief surveillance of the two sufficed to disclose.  Combined with these fascinating, but after all more or less superficial characteristics was the stamp of a rare intellectual force on both faces.  No one seeing them together needed to be told that Cosima was a Liszt.

Nor did any one need to be told that Siegfried was a Wagner.  The boy was as much like his father as his mother was like hers.  Feature for feature, Wagner was reproduced in his son.  That there should be no trace of the mother, and such a mother, in the boy’s face struck me as remarkable; but there was none.  Siegfried Wagner was a veritable pocket edition of his famous father.  His later photographs as a young man show that much of this likeness has disappeared.  After dinner, there were speeches.  Wagner, his hand resting affectionately on Liszt’s shoulder, paid a feeling tribute to the man who had befriended him early in his career and who had given him the precious wife at his side.  I remember as if it had been but last night the tenderness with which he spoke the words die theure Gattin.

It was a wonderful two or three hours, that banquet, with the numerous notabilities present, and at least two great men, Liszt and Wagner, and one great woman, the daughter of Liszt and the wife of Wagner; and the experience is to be treasured all the more, because few of those present saw Wagner again.  Early in the following year he died at Venice.  He is buried in the garden back of Wahnfried, his Bayreuth villa.  He was a great lover of animals, and at his burial his two favorite dogs, Wotan and Mark, burst through the bushes that surround the grave and joined the mourners.  One of these pets is buried near him, and on the slab is the inscription:  “Here lies in peace Wahnfried’s faithful watcher and friend—­the good and handsome Mark.”