There were books with stories of magical swans and hordes of
gold and baleful curses, of phantasmal storm ships and hollow hills and
swords lodged in tree-trunks awaiting their wielders, of races of gods
and giants and grimy dwarfs, of guardian fires and potions of
forgetfulness and prophetic dreams and voices, that were Wagner. There
were adults who went to assist at these things of which one read, who
departed in state and excitement of an evening to attend performances of
"Die Walkuere" and "Tristan und Isolde," and who spoke of these
experiences in voices and manners different from those in which they
spoke, say, of the theater or the concert. And there were magnificent
and stately and passionate pieces that drew their way across the
pianoforte, that seized upon one and made one insatiable for them. Long
before we had actually entered the opera house and heard one of Wagner's
works in its entirety, we belonged to him and knew his art our own. We
were born Wagnerians.
But of late a great adventure has befallen us. What once seemed the
remotest of possibilities has actually taken place. We who were born and
grew under the sign of Wagner have witnessed the twilight of the god. He
has receded from us. He has departed from us into the relative distance
into which during his hour of omnipotence he banished all other
composers.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30