We’re in Zürich for a few days on our way back to Los Angeles. I’ve been here before a few times — twice as a researcher and writer for travel guidebooks — so it’s not a city I view as alien to me. In fact, despite its apparent bourgeois smugness — the flawless national and cantonal flags everywhere, the opulence of the shops on the immutable Bahnhofstrasse, the blue trams silently gliding along as if the streets were made of soft Alpine waters — it is a city I’ve always liked since my first visit at the age of sixteen. Then, if not now, it struck me, a child of the wild Americas, as the epitome of European charm and order. But never before had I been to the Villa Wesendonck, pictured here. Built as a private residence, it is now the site of the outstanding Museum Rietberg, devoted to the arts of Asia and other parts of the world. In the late 1850s, the villa and the surrounding park served as the setting for Richard Wagner’s liaison with the poet Mathilde Wesendonck. Her husband, Otto, a wealthy industrialist, had extended Wagner and his wife an invitation to stay in a cottage — the Villa Schönberg — on the villa’s grounds, and Wagner, eternal fugitive, had gladly accepted. He named it his “Asyl,” and there, in the peaceful land of Switzerland and with the hospitality of a generous patron, the great composer began to work on Tristan und Isolde. We ignore the exact nature of Richard Wagner and Mathilde Wesendock’s friendship, but we at least have the passionate Wesendonck Lieder, in which he set to music five of her poems. In the text of the second song, “Stehe still,” she writes: “So I, in sweet oblivion, / May take full measure of my joy; / See bliss within another’s eyes, / Immerse my soul within another’s, / Another’s being that mirrors mine; / An intimation that hope’s goal is near.” The poem, of course, is better in the German original, but even this awkward version still conveys the amorous loftiness that may have in the hearts of Richard Wagner and Mathilde Wesendonck, who dwelled near each other in a peaceful villa not far from a quiet lake in the middle of the nineteenth century.
In this city in the heart of Europe, just about to return home, I’ve been thinking of my own Vidauds, the subject of this laborious blog. Some of the most interesting among them were also born and lived in those remote decades. Some crossed the Atlantic many times. Some, like Wagner and Wesendonck, must surely have loved other bodies and minds. And then I despair at coldness of my treatment of their spectral lives. How can I even think of retrieving them for the past without being able to know their hearts? Should I simply discard this silly little blog and imagine them — Adolphe, Charlotte, María, Alberto, Severo, Fanny, even the older Anne-Julienne and Julien Michel, plus the elusive François V. du D. de B. — not as silly little names stuck in the twigs of the family tree, but as full-blown figures who may live again in the realm of fiction? As I approach the biblically sounding fortieth post, it may well be time for to put an end to this relentlessly equivocal botany — to turn, as it were, a new leaf — and write a novel, where truth resides.