Colossal as were his
forces, colossal as were the struggles he made for the assumption of his
art, his musical powers were not always able to cope with the tasks he
set himself. The unflagging inventive power of a Bach or a Haydn, the
robustness of a Haendel or a Beethoven, the harmonious personality of a
Mozart, were things he could not rival. He is even inferior, in the
matter of style, to men like Weber and Debussy. There are many moments,
one finds, when his scores show that there was nothing in his mind, and
that he simply went through the routine of composition. Too often he
permitted the system of leading-motifs to relieve him of the necessity
of creating. Too often, he made of his art a purely mental game. His
emotion, his creative genius were far more intermittent, his breath far
less long than one once imagined. Some of the earlier works have
commenced to fade rapidly, irretrievably. At present one wonders how it
is possible that one once sat entranced through performances of "The
Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhaeuser." "Lohengrin" begins to seem a little
brutal, strangely Prussian lieutenant with its militaristic trumpets,
its abuse of the brass. One finds oneself choosing even among the acts
of "Tristan und Isolde," finding the first far inferior to the poignant,
magnificent third.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35