The "Corsair" overture has not the wild, rich
balladry of that of the "Flying Dutchman," perhaps. But it is full of
the clear and quivering light of the Mediterranean. It is, in the words
of Hans von Buelow, "as terse as the report of a pistol." And it flies
swiftly before a wind its own. The mob-scenes in "Benvenuto Cellini" are
bright and brisk and sparkling, and compare not unfavorably with certain
passages in "Petrouchka." And, certainly, "Romeo" manifests
unforgettably the fineness and nobility of Berlioz's temper. "The music
he writes for his love scenes," some one has remarked, "is the best test
of a musician's character." For, in truth, no type of musical expression
gives so ample an opportunity to all that is latently vulgar in him to
produce itself. And one has but to compare the "Garden Scene" of "Romeo"
with two other pieces of music related to it in style, the second act of
"Tristan" and the "Romeo" of Tchaikowsky, to perceive in how gracious a
light Berlioz's music reveals him. Wagner's powerful music hangs over
the garden of his lovers like an oppressive and sultry night. Foliage
and streams and the very moonlight pulsate with the fever of the blood.
But there is no tenderness, no youth, no delicacy, no grace in Wagner's
love-passages.
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