And yet, whatever the difference, most of Wagner's might was still in
him when first we came to know his music. The spell in which he had
bound the generation that preceded ours was still powerful. For us,
too, there occurred the moments when Siegfried's cavernous forest depths
first breathed on us, when for the first time "Die Meistersinger"
flaunted above the heads of all the world the gonfalon of art, when for
the first time we embarked upon the shoreless golden sea of "Tristan und
Isolde." For us, too, the name of Richard Wagner rang and sounded above
all other musical names. For us, too, he was a sort of sovereign lord of
music. His work appeared the climax toward which music had aspired
through centuries, and from which it must of necessity descend again.
Other, and perhaps purer work than his, existed, we knew. But it seemed
remote and less compelling, for all its perfection. New music would
arrive, we surmised. Yet we found ourselves convinced that it would
prove minor and unsatisfactory. For Wagner's music had for us an
incandescence which no other possessed. It was the magnetic spot of
music. Its colors blazed and glowed with a depth and ardor that seemed
to set it apart from other music as in an enchanted circle. It unlocked
us as did no other.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28