And so Berlioz remained for half a century simply the composer
of the extravagant "Symphonic Fantastique" and the brilliant "Harold in
Italy," and, for the rest, a composer of brittle and arid works, barren
of authentic ideas, "a better litterateur than musician." However, with
the departure of the world from out the romantic house, Berlioz has
rapidly recovered. Music of his that before seemed ugly has gradually
come to have force and significance. Music of his that seemed thin and
gray has suddenly become satisfactory and red. Composers as eminent as
Richard Strauss, conductors as conservative as Weingaertner, critics as
sensitive as Romain Rolland have come to perceive his vast strength and
importance, to express themselves concerning him in no doubtful
language. It is as though the world had had to move to behold Berlioz,
and that only in a day germane to him and among the men his kin could he
assume the stature rightfully his, and live.
For we exist to-day in a time of barbarian inroads. We are beholding the
old European continent of music swarmed over by Asiatic hordes, Scyths
and Mongols and Medes and Persians, all the savage musical tribes. Once
more the old arbitrary barrier between the continents is disappearing,
and the classic traits of the West are being mingled with those of the
subtle, sensuous, spiritual East.
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