You bring consolation, doubtlessly. But you
bring it by choice into the boudoir. You speak sadly of the cruel winds
of lust. You dwell on the example of the pious St. Elizabeth of Hungary.
You spread your hands over fair penitents, making a series of the most
beautiful gestures. You whisper honeyed forgiveness for passional sins.
You always excite tears and gratitude. But, in the end, your
"Consolation" turns out only another "Liebestraum."
No doubt, you loved your native land. But your patriotism recalls
dangerously the restaurant Magyar, the fiddler in the frogged coat. You
draw from your violin passionate laments. In a sort of ecstasy you
celebrate Hungaria. Then, smiling brilliantly, you pass the hat.
Once, only, your eye did not wander liquidly to the gallery. Once, only,
your workmanship was not marred by schemes for titillating effects, for
sensational contrasts, for grandiose and bombastic expression. Once,
only, you were completely the artist, impregnating your work with a
fine glow of life, making it deeply dignified and impassioned, sincere
and firm, profoundly moving. For you, too, there was the cardinal
exception. For you there was the "Faust Symphony." The work is romantic
music, the music of the Byronic school _par excellence_.
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