The years 1848 and 1849 saw the climax1 of a great crisis both in Wagner's life and his art; it had been developing for two or three years before, and its reverberations did not wholly die away for some years after. All his life and his work at this time were, as I have already said, simply a violent purgation of the spirit—a nightmare agony from which he woke with a cry of relief. He shakes off the theatre, and faces the world on a new footing as a man. And in silence, unknown to everybody and almost to himself, he develops into a new musician. For the moment his mind is a jumble2 of art, ethics3, politics and sociology. But as usual his artistic4 instincts guide him surely in the end. After many gropings in this direction and that, he settles down to the Ring drama, which he first of all plans, in 1848, in the form of a three-act opera with the title of Siegfried's Death. He falters6 a little even then, being obsessed7 by two other subjects, Jesus of Nazareth and Friedrich Barbarossa; but finally he rejects them both, the greater adaptability8 of the Siegfried drama for music being intuitively evident to him. The next twenty-six years are to be taken up with the working out of this gigantic theme, with Tristan and the Meistersinger as a kind of diversion in the middle of it; then comes the quiet end with Parsifal. I do not propose to discuss the philosophical9—or pseudo-philosophical—ideas of any of these works. It is only as a musician that Wagner will live, and to a musician the particular philosophy or philosophies that he preached in the Ring and Tristan and Parsifal are matters of very small concern. Wagner himself was always inclined to over-estimate the importance of his own philosophising, and his vehement10 garrulity11 has betrayed both partisans12 and opponents into taking him too seriously as a thinker. Had he not left us his voluminous prose works and letters, indeed, we should never have suspected the hundredth part of the portentous15 meanings that he and his disciples16 read into his operatic libretti. To those who still see profound metaphysical revelations in the later works it may be well to point out that Wagner saw revelations equally inspired and inspiring in the earlier ones, which no one takes with excessive seriousness to-day on their dramatic side. The philosophising all smacks17 too much, for our taste, of the sentimental18 Germany of the mid-nineteenth century. For Wagner, Senta is "the quintessence of Woman [das Weib überhaupt], yet the still to-be-sought-for, the longed-for, the dreamed-of, the infinitely19 womanly Woman—let me out with it in one word: the Woman of the Future."[404] Tannh?user was "the spirit of the whole Ghibelline race for every age, comprehended in a single, definite, infinitely moving form; but at the same time a human being right down to our own day, right into the heart of an artist full of life's longing20."[405] "Lohengrin sought the woman who should have faith in him; who should not ask who he was and whence he came, but should love him as he was, and because he was what he appeared to himself to be. He sought the woman to whom he should not have to explain or justify21 himself, but who would love him unconditionally22. Therefore he had to conceal23 his higher nature, for only in the non-revealing of this higher—or more correctly heightened—essence could he find surety that he was not wondered at for this alone, or humbly24 worshipped as something incomprehensible,—whereas his longing was not for wonder or adoration25, but for the only thing that could redeem26 him from his loneliness and still his yearning27—for Love, for being loved, for being understood through Love.... The character and the situation of this Lohengrin I now recognise with the clearest conviction as the type of the only really tragic28 material, of the tragic element of our modern life; of the same significance, indeed, for the Present as was the Antigone, in another relation, for the life of the Greek state.... Elsa is the unconscious, the un-volitional30, into which Lohengrin's conscious, volitional being yearns31 to be redeemed32; but that yearning is itself the unconscious, un-volitional in Lohengrin, through which he feels himself akin13 in being to Elsa. Through the capacity of this 'unconscious consciousness' as I myself experienced it in common with Lohengrin, the nature of Woman ... became more and more intimately revealed to me ... that true Womanhood that should bring to me and all the world redemption, after man's egoism, even in its noblest form, had voluntarily broken itself before her. Elsa, the Woman ... made me a full-fledged revolutionary. She was the spirit of the folk, for redemption by whom I too, as artist-man, was yearning."[406]
This seems all very remote from us now; one wonders how any one, even Wagner himself, could ever have taken these operatic puppets with such appalling33 seriousness. The Ring stands a little nearer to us; but no longer can we follow Wagner in his philosophising even there. For Wagner Siegfried was "the human being in the most natural and gayest fulness of his physical manifestation34.... It was Elsa who had taught me to discover this man: to me he was the male-embodied35 [der m?nnlich-verk?rperte] spirit of the eternal and only involuntarily creative force [Geist der ewig und einzig zeugenden Unwillkür], of the doer of true deeds, of Man in the fulness of his most native strength and his most undoubted love-worthiness."[407] We can hardly regard Siegfried in that light to-day. As we meet with him in the libretto36 he is, as Mr. Runciman says, rather an objectionable young person; we cannot quite reconcile ourselves to his ingratitude37 and his super-athletic fatuousness38; he reminds us too much of Anatole France's description of the burly, bullet-headed general in Les Dieux ont Soif—the sparrow's brain in the ox's skull39. As we see him on the stage he is, under the best conditions, slightly ridiculous, a sort of overgrown Boy Scout40. It is only in his music that he is so magnificently alive, so sure of our sympathy. Sensible musicians, indeed, do not trouble very much in these days about the metaphysics or the esoteric implications of the Wagnerian dramas. Wotan must stand or fall by his own dramatic grandeur41 and by the quality of the music that is given to him to sing, not by the degree of success with which he illustrates42 a particular theory of the Will. Tristan is none the better for all its Schopenhauerisms, natural or acquired; we may be thankful that it is none the worse for them.
Wagner's philosophical stock, indeed, was never a very large one. The "problems" of his operas are generally problems of his own personality and circumstances. His art, like his life, is all unconscious egoism. His problems are always to be the world's problems, his needs the world's needs. Women obsessed him in art as in life: they kindled44 fiery45 passion in man, or they "redeemed" him from passion, or they set a sorrow's crown of sorrows on his head by failing to redeem him. Passion, redemption, renunciation—these are the three dominant47 motives49 of Wagner's work; and wherever we look in that work we find himself. Indulgence—revulsion; hope—frustration50; passion—renunciation; these are the antitheses51 that are constantly confronting us. In the Flying Dutchman, Vanderdecken-Wagner is redeemed by the woman who loves and trusts him unto death. Tannh?user-Wagner fluctuates between the temptress and the saint. Lohengrin-Wagner seeks in vain the woman who shall love him unquestioningly. Wieland the Smith, the hero of a libretto he sketched53 in 1849, is again Wagner, lamed54 by life, but healed at last by another "redeeming55" woman. Wotan-Wagner, finding the world going another way than his, wills his own destruction and that of the world. Tristan-Wagner finds love insatiable, and death the only end of all our loving. Sachs-Wagner renounces56 love. Parsifal-Wagner finds salvation57 in flight from sensual love. Always there is this oscillation between desire and the slaying58 of desire, between hope for the world and despair for the world. In 1848, in an hour of physical and mental joy in life, he conceives a blithe59 and exuberant60 Siegfried, the super-man of the future, striding joyously61 and victoriously63 through life. But the revulsion comes almost in a moment. He realises his solitariness64 as man and artist. "I was irresistibly65 driven to write something that should communicate this grievous consciousness of mine in an intelligible66 form to the life of the present. Just as with my Siegfried the strength of my yearning had borne me to the primal67 fount of the eternal purely68-human; so now, when I found this yearning could never be stilled by modern life, and realised once again that redemption was to be had only in flight from this life, in escaping from its claims upon me by self-destruction, I came to the primal fount of every modern rendering69 of this situation—to the Man Jesus of Nazareth." Like Jesus, confronted with the materialism70 of the world, he longs for death, and reads a similar longing into all humanity.
So the oscillation goes on to the very end of his days. There is no need, no reason, to discuss the "philosophy" of such a mind. He is no philosopher: he is simply a tortured human soul and a magnificent musical instrument. All that concerns us to-day is the quality of the music that was wrung71 from the instrument under the torture.
2
The most astounding72 fact in all Wagner's career was probably the writing of Siegfried's Death in 1848. That drama is practically identical with the present G?tterd?mmerung; and we can only stand amazed at the audacity73 of the conception, the imaginative power the work displays, the artistic growth it reveals since Lohengrin was written, and the total breach74 it indicates with the whole of the operatic art of his time. But Siegfried's Death was impossible in the idiom of Lohengrin; and Wagner must have known this intuitively. This is no doubt the real reason for his writing no music for six years, from the completion of Lohengrin in August 1847 to the commencement of work on the Rhinegold at the end of 1853. His artistic instincts always led him infallibly, no matter what confusion might reign76 in the rest of his thinking. He conceives the idea of the Meistersinger, for instance, in 1845, just after finishing Tannh?user. But a wise and kindly77 fate intervenes and turns him aside from the project. He was not ripe for the Meistersinger, either poetically81 or musically, as we can see not only by a comparison of his later musical style with that of Tannh?user, but by comparing the sketch52 of the drama that he wrote in 1845 with the revised drafts of 1861. It was his original intention, again, to introduce Parsifal into the third Act of Tristan; but his purely artistic instincts were too sound to permit him to adhere to that plan. How unripe82 he was in 1848 for a setting of Siegfried's Death hardly needs demonstration83 now. The swift and infallibly telling strokes with which he has drawn84 Hagen and Gutrune in the G?tterd?mmerung, for example, were utterly85 beyond him then; it took twenty years' evolution before he could attain86 to that luminousness87 and penetration88 of vision, that rapidity and certainty of touch. So much, again, of the tragic atmosphere in which the G?tterd?mmerung is enveloped89 comes from the subtle harmonic idiom that Wagner had evolved by that time, that it is hard to imagine the extent of his probable failure had he persisted in setting the text to music in 1848. The lyrical style of Lohengrin, the leisurely90 spun91 tissue of that lovely work, were neither drastic enough, close enough, nor elastic92 enough for Siegfried's Death. And of this he must have had a dim consciousness.
So he puts the musical part of his task on one side for six years, broods continually over the subject, finds it growing within him, and at last shapes it into not one opera but four. When he begins work upon the music of the Rhinegold he is a new being. His imagination has developed to an extent that is without a parallel in the case of any other musician. The characters and the milieu93 of the Rhinegold are themselves evidence of the audacious sweep of his vision: he undertakes to re-create in music gods and men and giants, creatures of the waters and creatures of the bowels94 of the earth; the music has to flood the scene now with water, now with fire, with the murky95 vapours of the underworld and the serene96 air of the heights over against Valhalla. Never before had any composer dreamed of an opera so rich in all varieties of emotion, of action, of atmosphere. The practice he had in the Rhinegold developed his powers still further: in the Valkyrie the painting grows surer and surer, the imagination sweeps on to conceptions beyond anything that any musician before him would have thought possible: in Siegfried there is an absolute exultation97 of style; the music seems to dance and cry aloud out of pure joy in its own strength and beauty. His melody has already become terser98 and more suggestive in the Rhinegold, and has lost much of its earlier rhythmic99 formality. His harmonic range, while narrow enough compared with that of Tristan and the G?tterd?mmerung, has yet developed greatly. He dares anything in pursuit of his ideal of finding in his music the full and perfect counterpart of the characters and the scenes; that endless E flat chord at the commencement of the Rhinegold prelude100 is an innovation the audacity of which we can hardly estimate to-day.
It has been objected that the melody of the Rhinegold is on the miniature side, and that the score has little of the grand surge and sweep of the later operas. It may be so, but the style of the music seems admirably suited to the broad and simple outlines of this drama and the relatively101 simple psychology102 of the beings who take part in it,—beings who are now taking only the first step along the path that is to lead them all into such tragic complications. But in any case Wagner was obeying a sound instinct when he abandoned the broader style of Lohengrin in favour of the seemingly shorter-breathed style of the Rhinegold. It was the consequence of his intuition that his new dramatic ideas demanded a new musical form; we have to remember that everything he says on this topic in Opera and Drama is the outcome of his reflection upon Siegfried's Death and the best manner of its setting. The older forms of opera being inapplicable here, he had to devise a new method of unifying104 his vast design. He found the solution of his problem in an application to opera of the symphonic web-weaving of Beethoven; but for this he needed short and extremely plastic motives. That as yet he cannot weave these motives, and the episodical matter between them, into so continuous a tissue as that of the later works is only natural; to expect him to have done so would be as unreasonable105 as to expect the texture106 of Beethoven's second symphony to be as closely woven as that of his fifth. But Wagner knew he had a wonderful new instrument in his grasp, and he did well to learn the full use of it by cautious practice.
3
The leit-motive48, of course, is not Wagner's invention. Other operatic composers had tentatively handled the device before him; and in his own day Schumann had seen the possibilities of such a method being applied107 to the song. In his Frühlingsfahrt, for example, the joyous62 major melody that accompanies the bright youths on their first setting out in life changes to the clouded minor108 as the poet tells of the ruin that came upon one of them; and everyone knows the sadly expressive109 effect of the winding110 up of the Woman's Life and Love cycle with a reminiscence of the melody of the opening song. The device of reminiscence in poetic80 or dramatic music is indeed so obviously a natural one that we can only wonder that the pre-Wagnerian composers did not make more use of it. But Wagner did more than employ it as a sort of index or label; he turned it into the seminal111 principle of musical form for perhaps three-fourths of the music of our time. He made it not merely a dramatic but a symphonic-dramatic instrument. He had experimented with the device from his youth, but until now without perceiving its symphonic possibilities. We have seen him carrying forward a significant theme from one scene to another in Das Liebesverbot. In Rienzi there is very little real use of the leit-motive. He will adopt a characteristic orchestral figure for a person or a situation at the commencement of a scene or "number," and play with it all through that particular set piece; but it is very rarely that he will remind us of a previous situation by importing the theme that symbolises it into a later situation. He does this, for example, with the "Oath" motive, which first accompanies Rienzi's story of his own vow113 to avenge114 his murdered brother (vocal115 score, pp. 77, 78), and is afterwards employed to accompany Colonna's threat of vengeance116 if Rienzi dooms117 him and his fellow conspirators118 to death (p. 266), Rienzi's rejection119 of Adriano's plea for mercy (p. 337), and finally Adriano's own resolve to be avenged120 upon Rienzi (p. 416). In the Flying Dutchman the tissue is largely unified121 by typical themes, which, however, are as a rule merely repeated without substantial modification122, though now and then a motive is melodically124 transformed to suggest a psychological variation, as when the "Redemption" theme from Senta's ballad—
nro.23
No. 23.
afterwards becomes the motive of "Love unto death"—
nro.24
No. 24.
In Tannh?user there is a good deal of recurrent material—the Bacchanale and the Pilgrims' Chorus, for instance—but the leit-motive can hardly be said to be used at all in the later sense. Lohengrin is strewn with leit-motives that are marvels126 of characterisation; but here too they recur125 in their original form time after time. For the most part they merely label the character: they do not change as he changes, nor do they spread themselves over the score with the persistence127 of the motives of the later works.
4
The leit-motive in the Ring is quite another matter. Most of the motives in the earlier operas were vocal in origin, and their relatively great length—which makes them as a rule unsuitable for a flexible symphonic treatment—is the direct consequence of the length of Wagner's poetic lines at that time. In Rienzi, for example, the motive of Rienzi's prayer, the "Sancto spirito cavaliere" motive, the "Freedom" motive, the motive of the "Messengers of Peace," and others, are all of this type. In the Flying Dutchman the motive of "Longing for death," the two "Redemption" motives, the "Daland" motive, the "Festivity" motive, the "Rejoicing" motive, the "Longing for redemption" motive, and several others, are all vocal melodies in the first place; of the same kind are the motives of "Repentance," of "Love's magic," of "Love's renunciation" and others in Tannh?user; and in Lohengrin, the "Grail" motive, the "Farewell" motive, the "Elsa's prayer" motive, the "Knight128 of the Grail" motive, the "Warning" motive, the "Doubt" motive, and others. All of these are fully129 developed, self-existent melodies, not germ-figures destined130 for the weaving of a quasi-symphonic web. And though some of the less important motives in the early operas are short, they were not made so with any intention of using them plastically. The first things that strike us in connection with the motives of the Ring are their general shortness, their very plastic nature, and the sense they convey of not having been conceived primarily in a vocal form. It is true that some of them are vocal in origin, but that fact does not stare us so aggressively in the face as it does in the previous works; while the lines of the Ring are themselves so short that even when a phrase is modelled on one or two of them it never spreads itself out so extensively as the typical phrases of the Flying Dutchman, Tannh?user and Lohengrin do. This at first sight seems to imply that the poetic form of the Ring exercised a powerful influence on the musical form. It is permissible131 for us to-day to invert132 that proposition. Wagner, writing in 1851, maintained that he had discarded the older form of verse, with its long lines and its terminal rhymes, because of his conviction that this was too conventional a garment to throw over the sturdy limbs of Siegfried, the untutored child of nature, and that he was therefore led to adapt the Stabreim of the Folk. Consistently with the theory I have already advanced in these pages, I prefer to believe—guided, as of course Wagner himself could not be guided at that time, by the evidence of the function the music performs in his later works—that the new orchestral musician that was coming to birth within him felt the necessity of shorter and more plastic germ-themes, and instinctively133 urged the poet to cast his material into a form that would place no obstacle in the musician's way. But explain it as we will, the fact remains134 that now he is coming to maturity135 his leit-motives are on the whole both more concentrated and more purely instrumental than they had been hitherto; as I have said, even when they come to us in the first place from the mouths of the characters, they assume quite naturally the quality of instrumental themes in the subsequent course of the opera, whereas a purely orchestral rendering of the themes of Tannh?user and Lohengrin can never disguise their vocal origin. It is comparatively rarely that the Ring motives extend beyond two bars, or at the most three. The "Servitude" motive is virtually only one bar in length; so are the "Rhine Maidens136' song," the "Smithing" motive, and the "Reflection" motive; the "Waves" motive, the "Ring" motive, the "Valhalla" motive, the "Might of youth " motive, the "Twilight137" motive, the "Norns" motive, the "Dusk of the gods" motive, are all comprised within a couple of bars; several others run to three bars, and only one or two run to four.
In this respect, as in some others, the Meistersinger stands in a class apart from the other works of Wagner's maturity. It is the most purely vocal of all his later works, in the sense that while the orchestral tissue is superbly full and unceasing in its flow, the voice parts have an independence that is rare in the later Wagner. The style is in a way almost a reversion to that of Lohengrin, allowance being made, of course, for the more symphonic nature of the orchestral portion, and the more continuous nature of the whole. The Meistersinger is full of "set" pieces—arias, duets, trios, a quintet, choruses, ensembles138, and so on. The necessity for all these lay in the nature of the subject; and Wagner, at that time at the very height of his powers, has so cunningly mortised all the components139 of the opera that not a join is observable anywhere. A superficial glance at a table of the Meistersinger motives would be enough to convince us, without any knowledge of the opera, that a great many of the themes have had a vocal origin, either solo or choral. Others owe their length to the fact that Wagner is painting masses rather than individuals; only a fairly extended theme could depict141, for instance, the sturdy, pompous142 old Meistersingers and their stately processions. Where he is not following a vocal line or painting with broad sweeps of the brush, and is free to invent motives for purely orchestral use, he generally throws them into the same concise143 form as those of the Ring—the "Wooing" motive, for example—
nro.25
No. 25.
which, by reason of its brevity, is one of the most plastic motives in the score. But as a whole the Meistersinger lives in a different world from the Ring or Tristan. There is no great fateful principle running through it, that can be symbolised in a short orchestral figure and flashed across the picture at any desired moment, after the manner of the "Curse" or the "Hagen" motive in the Ring, or the "Death" motive in Tristan. The people in the Meistersinger carry hardly any shadows about with them. Their natures are mostly ingenuous144, transparent145, unsubtle: such as we see them on the stage at any given moment, such are they to themselves and others in every hour of their lives. It was natural then that they should take upon themselves more of the burden of the drama than the characters of the Ring as a whole,—for these are only instruments in the hand of a fate that is best symbolised by the ever-present orchestra—and that the instrumental voices should co-operate joyously with them, rather than dog them and lie in wait for them, as in the Ring, with symbols of reminiscence and foreboding. That the whole essence of the Meistersinger lies in its simple human characterisation and simple story-telling is shown again by Wagner's reverting146 in the Prelude to the pot-pourri feuilleton form of the Tannh?user overture,—a form he never used again after 1845, except here.
5
As he proceeds with the Ring his leit-motives in general become more and more concentrated. Now and then he will employ a fairly extended theme, but never without a good psychological reason. One of the longest motives in the whole tetralogy is that of the "Volsung race." Its length is justified147 by the duty it has to perform: to concentrate the nobility and the suffering of that race into a chord or two would be beyond the powers of any musician; none but Wagner, indeed, could have expressed such an infinity148 of elevated grief within the compass of seven or eight bars. Some of the other motives are astounding in their brevity and eloquence149. Not till after his work on the Rhinegold had unsealed his imagination and perfected his technique could he have hoped to hit off the wild, half-animal energy of the Valkyries in some four or five notes that are merely the expansion of a single chord, or have dared to trust to what is virtually only a series of syncopations to symbolise Alberich's work of destruction (the Vernichtungsarbeit motive). Never before could he have written anything so eloquent150 of death as the "Announcement of death" motive in the Valkyrie. In Siegfried, though the number of new motives is comparatively small, the same process of concentration is observable. The god-like nature and the stately gait of the Wanderer are suggested to us in three or four notes. And in the G?tterd?mmerung the concentration is amazing. In that stupendous work he is, in my opinion, at the very summit of his powers. He never wastes a note now: every new stroke he deals is incredibly swift, direct and telling. Absolutely sure of himself, he dispenses152 with a prelude—for the few bars of orchestral writing before the voices enter can hardly be called one—and trusts to the colour of a mere112 couple of chords to tune153 the audience's imagination to the atmosphere of the opening scene. One short characteristic figure suffices for the motive of Hagen, and nowhere in the whole of Wagner's or anyone else's work is a figure of two notes used so multifariously and with such far-reaching suggestion. It is evident that he now feels the harmonic instrument to be the most serviceable and flexible of all; and hundreds of his most overpowering effects in the G?tterd?mmerung are achieved by harmonic invention or harmonic transformation154. The grisliness of the Hagen theme comes in large part—putting aside the question of orchestral colour—from the sort of dour155, irreconcilable156 element it seems to introduce into certain chords,—though in reality the harmony has nothing essentially157 far-fetched in it—as in that tremendous passage near the end of the first Act of the G?tterd?mmerung—
nro.26
No. 26.
Hagen!
The new themes, too, rely for a great deal of their poignancy158 upon some subtle and fleeting159 taste of sweetness or some swift suggestion of darkness and mystery in the harmony, as in the exquisite160 motive that is associated with the wedding of Gutrune—
nro.27
No. 27.
or in the motive of "Magic deceit"—
nro.28
No. 28.
while others make their effect by means of the utmost concentration of melodic123 meaning, like the "Blood-brotherhood" motive, or by an epigrammatic condensation161 of rhythm, like the "Oath of fidelity162" motive, which only Wagner could have invented, and which no other composer but Beethoven would have dared to use if it had been offered to him—
nro.29
No. 29.
painting1
Bruckmann
RICHARD WAGNER.
From the painting by H. Herkomer at Bayreuth.
It is on harmonic alteration163 that he chiefly relies again, in the latter stages of the Ring, to suggest the fateful gloom that is gradually closing in upon the drama; much of the tense and tragic atmosphere of the G?tterd?mmerung comes from this clouding of the simpler texture of the motives of the earlier operas. One of the most remarkable164 instances of this is his treatment of the "Servitude" motive, that is generally associated with Alberich. In the Rhinegold it appears in a variety of simple forms, such as this—
nro.30
No. 30.
and this—
In the G?tterd?mmerung a sense of almost intolerable strain, of a great tragedy sweeping165 to its inevitable166 end, is conveyed by various subtilisations of the harmony, of which the following may stand as a type—
When Siegfried appears on Brynhilde's rock, disguised as Gunther, the theme of the latter is metamorphosed from—
into—
Here everything is exquisitely167 calculated,—the harmonic alteration, the orchestral colouring (the soft mysterious tones of trumpet168 and trombones), the interrupted ending, and the long fateful silence that follows.
When Alberich, in his colloquy169 with Hagen at the commencement of the second Act of the G?tterd?mmerung, looks forward to the approaching destruction of the gods, the "Valhalla" motive becomes altered from the familiar—
to—
Many other illustrations might be given of this harmonic intensification170 of themes.
6
It has to be admitted, however, that Wagner's use of the leit-motive presents some singularities, and is at times open to criticism. He undoubtedly171 introduces the motives more frequently than they are really needed; there is no necessity, for example, for the "Siegfried's horn" motive to be sounded at almost every appearance of Siegfried or every mention of his name. Debussy has made merry over this superfluity of reference, comparing it to a lunatic presenting his card to you in person. But we can easily forgive Wagner this little excess of zeal172. He was doing something absolutely new for his time. He had a gigantic mass of material to unify103, and this incessant173 recurrence174 of significant themes seemed to him the only way to do it. He could not foresee how familiar the operas and their motives would be to the whole musical world half a century later. In any case this peculiarity175 of his style can be passed over with a mere mention. Of more importance is his habit of making many of the motives so much alike that a certain amount of confusion is set up even in the minds of those who know the operas well. The "Servitude" motive, for example, is so like the opening of the Rhine Maidens' song that everyone goes astray over the two themes now and then in the first stages of his acquaintance with the Ring. Still more confusing is his habit of taking a motive that at first has only a particular meaning, and making it express a general concept, the result being that we frequently associate it with the wrong character. His mind was curiously177 like Bach's in this respect, that having fixed178 upon a figure that seemed to him an adequate symbol for an action, a person, an animal, or a material object, he would use it for all future phenomena179 of the same kind. But Bach's procedure is rather more logical, for his typical themes have as a rule a pictorial180 or semi-pictorial character, and so they can be applied without incongruity181 to a number of pictures of the same general order. A phrase that symbolises waves, for example, in one work may be legitimately182 employed to symbolise waves in another, for the theme itself is so constructed as to suggest the motion of waves: at least that is the intention. But Wagner necessarily has to find musical symbols for all kinds of things in his operas for which it is quite impossible to discover an unmistakable, self-explanatory musical equivalent. The symbol has therefore to be an arbitrary one; it has no claim to pictorial veracity183, but we agree to accept it because it fulfils a useful musical purpose. The "Fire" motive conveys a real suggestion of fire; the Rhinegold prelude has certain qualities that make us willing to associate it with a mighty184 rolling river. But the "Ring" motive does not convey the slightest suggestion of a ring, nor has the "Gold" motive any resemblance to gold.
Wagner runs, then, a risk of being misunderstood, or not understood at all, when he takes an arbitrary symbol which we are willing to concede him in one case, and applies it to another. It would tax all the ingenuity185 of the thorough-going Wagnerian to justify, for instance, in the scene of the Norns in the G?tterd?mmerung, the employment of the "Sleep" motive that is inevitably186 associated in our minds with Wotan's parting from Brynhilde at the end of the Valkyrie. When Brynhilde is taking leave of Siegfried, in the second scene of the G?tterd?mmerung, and giving him Grane as a perpetual reminder187 of herself, the orchestra accompanies his words with the "Love" motive from the duet between Siegmund and Sieglinde in the first act of the Valkyrie. So profound has been the impression we have received from it there that it is impossible for us to associate it with any other pair of lovers; and we cannot help wondering what Siegmund and Sieglinde have to do with Siegfried and Brynhilde and Grane. When Hagen describes the coming of Siegfried down the Rhine, it is quite right that the orchestra should give out the typical Siegfried theme, but quite wrong, surely, that this theme should be combined with that of the Rhine Maidens from the Rhinegold. The intention presumably is that from the Rhine Maidens we are to infer the Rhine;[408] but the musical intelligence does not like having to diverge189 into deductive reasoning of this kind. Anyone who has learnt to associate the theme with the Rhine Maidens will naturally suppose either that they are to appear in person or that some allusion190 is to be made to them, neither of which things happens. The "Treaty" motive of the Rhinegold, again, has become so firmly associated in our minds with the agreement between Wotan and the giants that we involuntarily think of them when we hear it again in the orchestra during the swearing of Blood-brotherhood by Siegfried and Gunther (G?tterd?mmerung, vocal score, p. 92).
One of the most curious uses of the leit-motive is to be found in Siegfried (V. S. p. 35). Siegfried, pouring contempt on the idea that Mime191 can be his father, is telling him how he once saw the reflection of his own face in the brook192:
Unlike unto thee
there did I seem:
as like as a toad193
to a glittering fish.
There is excellent reason for accompanying the third line with the "Smithing" motive that so often characterises Mime; but what reason can there be for accompanying the fourth line with the "Waves" motive from the prelude to the Rhinegold? As it is not in the Rhine but in a brook that Siegmund has seen his reflection, the motive here can only be taken as symbolising not the waves of a particular and already familiar river—a procedure for which there might be some excuse—but waves in general, which is quite illegitimate. Wagner goes too far, as Bach used to go too far, in importing into the line a pictorial allusion that is not already there, and that we can only put there by an effort. For Bach also was in the habit of making his music argue, as it were, from one external fact to another. We can permit this within certain limits, but both Bach and Wagner sometimes go beyond all limits. When Bach has to set to music a stanza194 in which the faithful are spoken of as Christ's sheep (Beglückte Herde, Jesu Schafe, in the cantata196 Du Hirte Israel) he obviously aims at creating a pastoral atmosphere by the use of the oboes; and our imagination here is quite willing to accept the na?f translation of the religious idea into a pictorial image. But when Bach, possessed197 by the image of Jesus calling His disciples to be fishers of men (in the cantata Siehe, ich will viel Fischer aussenden), makes use of a motive of a type that he always employs to symbolise waves, we can only say, with all respect, that we had rather he did not ask us to deduce the necessity of waves from the fact that there are fish. So with this passage from Siegfried: we should be quite satisfied with the mere comparison between the toad and the fish; to lay it down with such portentous gravity that where there are fish there must necessarily be water is to reduce pictorialism to an absurdity198.
There is no lack of examples of this process of illegitimate inference and illegitimate association. After Mime has answered the first of the Wanderer's three questions, the latter congratulates him in this wise (Siegfried, vocal score, p. 74):
Right well the name
of the race dost thou know:
sly, thou rascal199, thou seemest!
—to the same phrase that is often used in the Rhinegold to suggest the trickiness200 of Loge in particular, but also, apparently201, to suggest deceit in general. It accompanies, for example, Fafner's remark to Fasolt, à propos of the attempt of Wotan to evade202 the promised payment for Valhalla—
My trusty brother,
seest thou, fool, his deceit?
(V. S. 89, 90); and again the words in which Wotan tries to calm the apprehensions203 of Fricka—
Where simple strength serves,
of none ask I assistance:
but to force the hate
of foes204 to help me,
needs such craft and deceit
as Loge the artful employs.
(V. S. 82, 83). That is to say, a purely arbitrary musical figure is to be taken as symbolising not merely the slyness of a particular person, but slyness in the abstract—a length to which we must decline to go with Wagner.
And as with his waves and his moral qualities, so with his animals; they too are both particular and universal. When Alberich, at the urging of Loge, turns himself into a serpent (Rhinegold, p. 182), it is to the accompaniment of a motive that is itself admirably pictorial. But in Siegfried, (p. 7, etc.), and the G?tterd?mmerung (p. 34, etc.), the same motive is always used to characterise Fafner, after he has turned himself into a dragon. One need not enlarge upon the confusion this is bound to create.
We are willing again, to accept the "Swan" motive in Lohengrin as a purely conventional symbol; but the same motive strikes rather oddly on our ears when it is used to particularise the swan in Parsifal. If in Lohengrin it typifies that particular swan, it is obviously not right to employ it for a totally different bird in another opera; for there is nothing in the outline of the theme that can be said to bear the remotest resemblance to a swan in the way that an arpeggio theme may be said to resemble waves, or a crepitating theme to suggest fire. Again, Wagner only confuses us when he uses the motive that accompanies Kundry's ride in the first scene of Parsifal to accompany Parsifal's description of the horsemen he had once seen in the wood:
And once upon the fringe of the wood,
on glorious creatures mounted,
men all glittering went by me;
fain had I been like them:
with laughter they swept on their way.
And then I ran,
but never again I saw them;
through deserts wide I wandered,
o'er hill and dale;
oft fell the night,
then followed day: etc.
(vocal score, p. 54); afterwards to accompany Kundry's account of the death of Herzeleide:
As I rode by I saw her dying,
and, Fool, she sent thee her greeting;
(V. S. p. 57); after that, again, to accompany Kundry as she hastens to the spring in the wood to get water for the fainting Parsifal (V. S. p. 58); after that to describe the rush of Klingsor's warriors205 to the ramparts (V. S. p. 120); after that to accompany the thronging206 of the Flower Maidens to the scene (V. S. p. 156); again to give point to Parsifal's words:
And I, the fool, the coward,
to deeds of boyish wildness hither fled—
(V. S. p. 203); and to accompany—for what reason it is difficult to say—Kundry's threat that she will call the spear against Parsifal if he continues to repulse207 her (V. S. p. 222); and finally, as an accompaniment to her last words to Parsifal:
For fleddest thou from here,
and foundest all the ways of the world,
the one that thou seek'st,
that path thy foot shall find never;
(V. S. p. 225). No ingenuity can justify the employment of the same motive for so many different purposes. As a matter of fact, after we have once become conscious of it as accompanying Kundry's ride in the first scene of the opera, it is inevitable that we should associate it with her at each subsequent recurrence of it.
Another peculiarity of Wagner's use of the leit-motive may be noted208; once or twice he gives a meaning to a theme in the later stages of the Ring that we cannot be sure of it possessing at first. The most striking instance of this is the "Reflection" motive. In Siegfried it is exclusively employed in connection with Mime, and the manner of its employment leaves no room for doubt that the commentators209 are right in giving it this title. The prelude to Siegfried commences with it; it is used there to suggest to us Mime pondering over the problem of the forging of the sword. It frequently recurs210 with the same significance in the scene that follows. It is used again all through the scene of questions and answers between the Wanderer and Mime, to suggest the dwarf211 putting his considering cap on after or during each of the Wanderer's posers. Yet on its first appearance in the Rhinegold (vocal score, p. 151) there is nothing whatever to indicate that the theme is to be taken as symbolical213 of reflection. It accompanies Mime's plaint to Wotan and Loge—
What help for me?
I must obey
the commands of my brother,
who holds me bondsman to him.
By evil craft fashioned Alberich
from the ravished Rhinegold a yellow ring: etc.
(Vocal score, p. 151.) From the words one would be a priori inclined to associate the music with Alberich rather than with Mime; and as it is not employed again in the Rhinegold, the meaning we are suddenly asked to attach to it at the opening of Siegfried seems a little far-fetched.
7
Wagner was not long in realising that however thrilling the timbre214 of the human voice may be, and useful as it is for making clear the course of the action and the sentiments of the characters, the orchestra is the most powerful and most resourceful of all the instruments at the disposal of the operatic composer. More and more the main current of his thinking goes into this. In the Rhinegold the orchestral texture is by no means continuous; frequently it merely punctuates215 or supports the vocal declamation216 by means of a detached chord or two, much in the way that it used to sustain the older recitative. As the Ring proceeds, pages of this kind become rarer: the orchestra thrusts itself more and more to the centre of the picture. It would be impossible to make the tissue of the Rhinegold intelligible without the voices: but the orchestral part of the G?tterd?mmerung would flow on with hardly a break if the vocal part were omitted; so also would large sections of Tristan and the Meistersinger. It was inevitable that under these circumstances the vocal writing should occasionally become a little perfunctory. It is frequently said that the balance between the vocal and orchestral parts is most perfectly217 maintained in Tristan; but the most cursory218 examination of the score shows that even there Wagner could not always find, or would not take the trouble to find, a vocal line of equal melodic interest with that of the orchestra, in the opening scene, for instance, it is transparently219 clear that the really expressive voice is the orchestra, and that the vocal parts have been inserted, sometimes rather carelessly and unskilfully, after the orchestral tissue has been completed. The vocal writing in Tristan falls into four main categories. The first is that to which I have already referred; wholly absorbed in the orchestral working out of a theme, Wagner seems to pay the minimum of attention to the vocal line, which sometimes has as little real relevance221 to the music as a whole as if it had been added by another person. As a specimen222 of this kind of writing we may cite the music to the words of Brangaene at the commencement of the opera—
Bluish strips
are stretching along the west;
swiftly the ship
sails to the shore:
if restful the sea by eve
we shall readily set foot on land.
(Vocal score, pp. 7, 8.)
To the second category belong passages in which the voice is frankly223 in the forefront of the picture and the orchestra is merely a background—as in the colloquy between Tristan and Brangaene (vocal score, pp. 18 ff.), or in the music to Isolde's words shortly after the beginning of the second Act—
BRANGAENE. I still hear the sound of horns.
ISOLDE.No sound of horns
were so sweet;
yon fountain's soft
murmuring current
moves so quietly hence;
if horns yet brayed224
how could I hear that?
(Vocal score, pp. 90, 91.)
To the third category belong the passages in which the voice simply sings the same melody as the orchestra, as on p. 177 of the vocal score ("Thy kingdom thou art showing," etc.); and to the fourth, those in which it sings a real counterpoint to the orchestra—not a mere piece of padding like the passage I have cited from pp. 7, 8 of the score, but a vocal line of genuine melodic interest—as in a good deal of the scene of the third Act through which there runs the melancholy225 cor anglais melody.
Tristan, in fact, in spite of the splendour of its orchestral polyphony, by no means exhibits Wagner's symphonic powers in their full evolution. The most wonderful of his works in this respect is the G?tterd?mmerung, the stupendous strength of which is beyond words and almost beyond belief. The world had not seen a musical brain working at such tremendous and long-sustained pressure since the days when the B minor Mass and the "Matthew Passion" were written; and even those masterpieces have not the continuity of texture of the G?tterd?mmerung, nor do they show so giant a hand at its work of unification. Turn almost where you will, the course of the drama is told with absolute clearness in the orchestra itself. Yet in spite of his concentrating so largely on the orchestra, the vocal parts have an extraordinary aptness; it would be hard to find a passage in the score as perfunctory as some that might be quoted from Tristan. The voice, it is true, is often used simply as another counterpoint among those of the orchestra; but as a counterpoint it generally has a dramatic appositeness and a melodic beauty of its own.
In Parsifal this tendency to make the orchestra the principal dramatic speaker goes so far that very frequently the vocal writing is thoroughly226 bad. Some writers have attributed this to a decline of mental power in Wagner's old age. I do not think that this is the correct explanation. I can see no general decadence227 of musical invention in the music of Parsifal: I am willing to believe that the peculiar176 emotional and intellectual world of the opera makes no appeal to many people; but the style as a whole is as admirably suited to that world as the styles of Tristan and the Meistersinger are to their respective subjects, and I for one see no failure of inspiration except in some of the choral writing in the first Act, where there is occasionally an undeniable touch of commonplace. Part of the admitted colourlessness of some of the vocal passages is to be accounted for, I think, by the utterly unmusical quality of the words. The defect is not in Wagner the musician but in Wagner the poet, who has forgotten for the moment several of the principles he had laid down in his prose works and put into successful practice in the six great operas of his prime. The text of Parsifal contains a large amount of quite unmusical matter, especially at the commencement. Many of the lines have evidently not roused the slightest interest in the composer. He knew that the orchestral part was alive, and always developing the emotional possibilities of the situation; and when he comes to an obviously impossible verbal patch,—necessary for the telling of the story, but containing no stimulus230 for the musician—he simply refuses to waste time or trouble upon it. Take as an example one of the very worst passages for the voice in the whole opera—the words of Parsifal just before the beginning of the transformation music in the first Act—
PARSIFAL. I hardly stir, and yet I move apace.
Granting that the words are unfit for music, it is incredible that Wagner could not have found a more interesting musical outline for them than this, if it had occurred to him to try. But I take it that he would not try, or saw no necessity for trying; his mind was wholly bent232 on working out his orchestral picture, which, after all, is the only thing that really matters here as in so many other places. In other passages, such as the long recital233 of Kundry to Parsifal commencing "I saw the babe upon its mother's breast" (vocal score, p. 187), the orchestral part is a sort of small symphonic movement in itself, in which the voice mostly sings the same melody as the orchestra. Where it does not do this in the symphonic passages the vocal writing again becomes a trifle careless, as in the Good Friday music. The self-contained completeness of the orchestral part here is conclusively234 shown by its perfect adaptation to the concert room; and I take it that, feeling that virtually all he had to say had been said by the orchestra, Wagner worked out the mood of the scene with complete satisfaction to himself in that medium, and then added the vocal part as best he could—sometimes quite well, sometimes by no means well. He had largely given up, indeed, thinking simultaneously235 in terms of both voice and orchestra, as in the best parts of Tristan, the Meistersinger and the G?tterd?mmerung. Those who will may put this down to a decline of his musical powers. To me it seems more probable that as a musician he came to rely more and more on his most eloquent instrument, the orchestra. It may even be that his carelessness with regard to the text of Parsifal, his inclusion of a number of episodes that he must have known were essentially foreign to his own ideal of music, can be accounted for by his belief that he could rely on the expressiveness236 and the continuity of the orchestral web to see him through all the inevitable difficulties. As one looks at the score of Parsifal one can readily understand his desire to try his hand at a symphony in the last years of his life.
8
It is open to doubt, indeed, whether Wagner ever attained237 the homogeneity of form that was his ideal. His most homogeneous work is probably Lohengrin; after his developing imagination and technique had made him dissatisfied with the style of that opera, and pointed238 him on to more difficult achievements, he does indeed paint pictures of magnificent scope and exquisite fineness of detail, but he hardly attains239 the perfect balance of all the factors and the perfect consistency240 of style that make Lohengrin flow so smoothly241. The reason, I think, is that while he was urged on to this reform and that by the logical quality of his mind, he was never quite logical enough—which is only another way of saying that even the greatest minds cannot create a new form of their own in art. All they can do is to add something to the structure they have inherited from their predecessors242, and pass the transformed product on to their successors as something to be transformed still further. An ideal like that of Wagner—to create an art form that should be musical through and through, a continuous, endlessly varied243 web of melody,—is realisable in instrumental music pure and simple, but hardly in connection with the stage. Concentrate the dramatic action as he would, so as to provide the musician with a framework that should be musical in every fibre, the poet was still compelled to retain a certain amount of non-musical matter in order to tell his story clearly to the audience. The concision244 of Tristan is wonderful; but even in the first Act of Tristan there are verse-passages the pedestrian quality of which the composer has not been able to disguise. The style of all his later works fluctuates in character because he is divided between a desire to keep the actors in the forefront and the necessity for relegating245 them to the background in order to give the orchestra an absolutely free course. We feel with Wagner, as we do with certain others of the most fertile minds in art—with Goethe, with Leonardo, with Hokusai—that one human life-time was too pitifully short for the realisation of everything of which the great brain was capable; that the body broke down while the mind was still capable of adding to its store of knowledge and feeling. All Wagner's greatest works, regarded from the standpoint of the twentieth century, are hardly more than magnificent attempts to find a compromise between drama and music. At times the compromise worked admirably; at others there is perceptible friction246. His dilemma247 was the one that has confronted every composer of opera since the day when opera was invented. Poetry and music are not the loving sisters that the fancy of the literary man would make them out to be; they are rival goddesses, very jealous and intolerant of each other. The poet, in proportion as his work is genuine, faultless poetry, has no need of the musician. Music is cruel, ravenous248, selfish, overbearing with poetry; it deprives it, for its own ends, of almost everything that makes it poetry, altering its verbal values, disregarding its rhymes, substituting another rhythm for that of the poet. It has no need of anything but the poetic idea, and to get at that kernel249 it ruthlessly tears away all the delicacies250 of tissue that enclose it. Wagner himself, however much he might theorise about poetry, was never a poet; he was simply a versifier who wrote words for music, sometimes admirably adapted for this purpose, sometimes exceedingly ill adapted. In Tristan, which he himself regarded as the one of all his poems that was best suited for music, what he writes is generally not poetry at all. Who would give that title to lines that scorn all grace of rhythm, all variety of cadence228, all the magic that comes of the perfect fusion75 of speech and expression: lines like those of the final page, for example:
Heller schallend
mich umwallend,
sind es Wellen
sanfter Lüfte?
Sind es Wogen
wonniger Düfte?
Wie sie schwellen
mich umrauschen,
soll ich atmen,
soll ich lauschen?
Soll ich schlürfen,
untertauchen?
Süss in Düften
mich verhauchen?
In dem wogenden Schwall,
in dem t?nenden Schall,
in des Welt-Atems
wehendem All,—
ertrinken,—
versinken,—
unbewusst,—
h?chste Lust43!
or those at the meeting of Tristan and Isolde in the second Act—
TRISTAN. Isolde! Geliebte!
ISOLDE. Tristan! Geliebter!
Bist du mein?
TRISTAN. Hab' ich dich wieder?
ISOLDE. Darf ich dich fassen?
TRISTAN. Kann ich mir trauen?
ISOLDE. Endlich! Endlich!
TRISTAN. An meine Brust!
ISOLDE. Fühl' ich dich wirklich?
TRISTAN.Seh' ich dich selber?
ISOLDE. Dies deine Augen?
TRISTAN. Dies dein Mund?
ISOLDE. Hier deine Hand?
TRISTAN. Hier dein Herz?
ISOLDE. Bin188 ich's? Bist du's?
Halt' ich dich fest?
TRISTAN. Bin ich's? Bist du's?
Ist es kein Trug?
BOTH. Ist es kein Traum?
O Wonne der Seele,
o süsse, hehrste,
kühnste, sch?nste,
seligste Lust!
TRISTAN. Ohne Gleiche!
ISOLDE. überreiche!
TRISTAN. überselig!
ISOLDE. Ewig!
If this telegraphic style, as Emil Ludwig calls it, is poetry, then we shall have to give that word a meaning it has never yet had.
But if the Tristan order of verse is not poetry, it is magnificently adapted to the needs of the symphonic musician. It is unobtrusive; it is pliant251; it serves to préciser the musical emotion without fettering252 the orchestral composer either melodically or rhythmically253. Compare now with the previous extracts one or two from Parsifal—
Denn ihm, da wilder Feinde List und Macht
des reinen Glaubens Reich bedrohten,
ihm neigten sich in heilig ernster Nacht
dereinst des Heilands sel'ge Boten:
(To him, when 'gainst the savage255 foeman's might
this realm of faith he had defended,
oh wonder rare! in solemn, holy night
from heaven the Saviour256's messengers descended)
Des eig'nen sündigen Blutes Gewell'
in wahnsinniger Flucht
muss mir zurück dann fliessen,
in die Welt der Sündensucht
mit wilder Scheu sich ergiessen:
von neuem sprengt es das Tor,
daraus es nun46 str?mt hervor,
hier durch die Wunde, der seinen gleich,
geschlagen von desselben Speeres Streich,
der dort dem Erl?ser die Wunde stach,
aus der mit blut'gen Tr?nen
der G?ttliche weint' ob der Menschheit Schmach
in Mitleid's heiligem Sehnen,—
und aus der nun mir, an heiligster Stelle,
dem Pfleger g?ttlichster Güter,
des Erl?sungsbalsams Hüter,
das heisse Sündenblut entquillt,
ewig erneut aus des Sehnens Quelle,
das, ach! keine Büssung je mir stillt!
(In maddest tumult258, by sin defiled259,
my blood back on itself
doth turn and rage within me;
to the world where sin is lord
in frenzied260 fear is it surging;
again it forces the door,
in torrents261 it poureth forth262,
here through the spear-wound, alike to His,
and dealt me by the self-same deadly spear
that once the Redeemer pierced with pain,
and, tears of blood outpouring,
the Holy One wept for the shame of man,
in pity's god-like yearning,—
and from this my wound, the Grail's own chosen,
the holy relics263' guardian264,
of redemption's balm the warder,
the sinful fiery flood wells forth,
ever renewed from the fount of longing
that, ah! never penance265 more may still!)
So hofft sein sündenreu'ger Hüter,
da er nicht sterben kann,
wann je er ihn erschaut,
sein Ende zu erzwingen,
und mit dem Leben seine Qual zu enden.
(Thus hopes its sin-repentant266 guardian,
since he can perish not
while on it he doth gaze,
by force to draw death to him,
and with his life to end his cruel torment267.)
How incredibly careless is the construction here—the long, involved sentences, the parentheses268, the separation of substantive269 and verb by several lines! It is this absence of poetic concentration that makes Parsifal a trifle langweilig at times; for no matter how expressive Wagner may make the orchestral music, he cannot quite reconcile us to the frequent flatness of the vocal writing and the difficulty we often have in getting the sense, or even the grammatical construction, of the words. That Wagner at the end of his life could put together a text like Parsifal after having made the poems of Tristan and the Ring is not in the least a proof of mental collapse270, but only of the almost insuperable difficulties in the way of finding a perfect compromise between music and dramatic poetry. He was fortunate enough, in the case of Tristan, to hit upon a subject that was comparatively easy to concentrate. Two duties, it must be remembered, an operatic poem has to perform: it has to provide the composer with opportunities for emotional expression, and it has to make a story clear to the spectator. The ideal text would be that in which the action was implicit272 in the emotion, that is to say, one in which there was no need for any explanation, through the mouth of this or that actor, of events that were happening off the stage or that had occurred before the drama began. It is when the composer has to interrupt his purely emotional outpouring in order to allow the poet to become explanatory that he realises the difficulty of making his opera musical throughout. Even in Tristan Wagner could not wholly dispense151 with a certain amount of explanation, in the first act, of the events in Ireland and Cornwall that have led up to the situation in which Tristan and Isolde now find themselves. The music in consequence halts decidedly at times; all the art of the composer cannot disguise the fact that he is momentarily being held up by the exigencies273 of the stage poet. In the Ring, as it was first drafted, Wagner was faced with the same problem, but he solved it in another way. Siegfried's Death was to be merely the climax of a long sequence of tragic events. Without some knowledge of these events, however, the spectator would be unable to understand the final tragedy. So Wagner resorted to the device of making the characters themselves recapitulate274 the earlier stages of the story, in much the same way that Isolde, in the first act of Tristan, tells Brangaene—for the benefit of the audience, of course—all about the coming of Tristan to Ireland, his slaying of Morold, her nursing of the wounded Cornish hero, his wooing her as bride for King Marke, and so on. In the opening scene of Siegfried's Death the Norns tell each other—again for the benefit of the audience—how Alberich ravished the gold from the Rhine, made a ring from it, and enslaved the Nibelung race; how the ring was stolen, and Alberich himself became a thrall275; how the giants built Valhalla for the gods, and, denied their promised reward, got possession of the ring that the gods had stolen from Alberich; how there was born a free hero, destined to redeem the gods from their bondage276; how Siegfried slew277 the dragon and wakened Brynhilde from her sleep. Having made all this clear in an introductory scene, Wagner raises the curtain upon Siegfried and Brynhilde. Later, Hagen tells Gunther,—all for the sake of the audience—how Wotan begot278 the Volsung race; how the twin-born Volsung pair Siegmund and Sieglinde had for son the mighty hero, Siegfried, who "closed the ravenous maw" of the dragon with his "conquering sword." In the next scene Siegfried explains to the audience—via Hagen and Gunther—how he came into possession of the tarnhelm and the ring, whereupon Hagen describes the virtues280 of the former. In the third scene the Valkyries[409] fly to the solitary281 Brynhilde and learn of her awakening282 by Siegfried, and of the intervention283 of Wotan in the combat between Siegmund and Hunding. In the first scene of the second Act Alberich tells Hagen how he won the gold and forged the ring, and compelled Mime to make the tarnhelm for him; how the ring was ravished from him by the gods and given to the giants; how one of the latter guarded it in the form of a dragon; how Siegfried slew the latter and Mime. In the second scene of the third Act Siegfried tells the Gibichungs—the audience overhearing—how Mime tended the dying Sieglinde in the wood, saved her child, and brought him up to his own craft of smith; how he (Siegfried) forged his father's sword anew and did the dragon to death; how the bird warned him of Mime's plot against his life, told him of the powers of the ring and tarnhelm, and sent him to rouse Brynhilde from her sleep on the fire-girt rock.
Wagner must have felt the clumsiness of this method of constant explanation, and anticipated that it would impede284 the free flow of his music; while in any case the audience would probably still not be quite clear as to certain points. So, as all the world knows, he first of all prefixed to Siegfried's Death another drama—The Young Siegfried—designed to put the bearing of all the stages of the action beyond the possibility of misunderstanding. But again the fear haunts him that there may still be some things insufficiently285 accounted for; so even The Young Siegfried has to have a certain number of pages of explanation. The fact of Siegfried being there at all has to be explained by Mime, as well as the further facts of the death of Siegmund in battle and the perishing of Sieglinde in giving birth to Siegfried. In the next scene, almost the whole story of what afterwards became the Rhinegold and the Valkyrie is told afresh in the competition of questions and answers between the Wanderer and Mime. In the first scene of the third Act, we have the completion of the story of the Valkyrie given to the audience in the dialogue between the Wanderer and Erda—how the earth-goddess bore a daughter, Brynhilde, to Wotan, how she flouted286 the god's will, and for punishment was doomed287 to sleep on the fiery fell. Not content with all this, Wagner afterwards stages, in a third opera, the Valkyrie, the whole of the action that has been told and told again in Siegfried and the G?tterd?mmerung, from the love of Siegmund and Sieglinde down to the punishment of Brynhilde. Even here he has to find room for explanations; in the first scene of the second Act Wotan tells the audience—via Brynhilde—the whole story of the rape288 of the gold by Alberich and all the events that followed from it. Finally Wagner comes to the conclusion that the whole action, from its beginning in the depths of the Rhine, had better be put visibly upon the stage; and so the Rhinegold, the story of which has been already told more than once, is prefixed to the Valkyrie. But in spite of his having shown everything so completely that nothing remains to be explained by word of mouth, he still retains all the explanations he had inserted in the three other dramas of the tetralogy. No doubt he was aware of their superfluity, but shrank, as he might well do, from the enormous task of reconstructing the whole work yet again. He may have argued, too, that as each of the operas would have to stand by itself on the particular occasion of its performance, it would be no disadvantage to have the events of the preceding evening fully explained, even at the cost of some otherwise needless repetition.
I have not gone over this long familiar ground merely to tell again a thrice-told tale, but to bring into higher relief the fundamental difficulty of the musical dramatist who is working along the Wagnerian lines—the difficulty of taking up the whole of the poet's work into the being of music, when the poet, in order to leave no room for misunderstanding on the part of the audience of the reason for the visible actions and the audible sentiments of the actors, has to pad out his poem with a certain amount of matter that is explanatory of the past rather than emotional in the present. So desperate a device as the visible representation in three or four evenings of every stage of a dramatic action was obviously not to be resorted to again. It was equally impossible to reduce the story of Parsifal to the highly concentrated form into which he had managed to cast Tristan. So he had to do what it had been his first impulse to do in the Ring—elucidate the visible action of the moment by a narrative290 of all that had happened before the action, or that particular stage of the action, began, and trust to the orchestra to maintain the musical interest by means of the interplay of leit-motives. Hence the lumbering291 stage technique of the first Act of Parsifal, and the raison d'être for the endless garrulity of Gurnemanz. That venerable worthy292 is not a character; he is merely a walking and talking guide book; he stands outside the real drama, somewhat in the style of the compère in a revue; and the proof of his almost complete nullity is that Wagner has been utterly unable to characterise him musically. Every other character in his operas—even the minor personages, such as Kurvenal and David and Gutrune—exists for us as a definite personality, someone drawn in the round in music as effectively as a painter or sculptor293 could have shown him forth. But even Wagner has been unable to invent a single phrase that shall be characteristic of Gurnemanz and Gurnemanz alone. He is the one Wagnerian character who simply does not exist for musicians. As far as his music is concerned he has neither mental characteristics nor bodily form; we remember him solely294 for his interminable talk.
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If Wagner failed in his struggle with the musical-dramatic form, it was the failure of a Titan in a struggle that only a Titan would have ventured upon. Form and the perfection of form are simple enough matters for the smaller musical intelligences, for whom form means merely a symmetrical mould to be filled. It is for the greater minds that the problem of form is always a torture, for their ideas are perpetually outgrowing295 the mould. In sheer fertility of idea Wagner was probably the greatest musician the world has ever seen. It was of the very essence of his work that there should be no repetition either of mood or of procedure. Without, indeed, making the necessarily futile296 attempt to decide which is per se the finer order of musical mind, the dramatic or the symphonic, it may be confidently said that to a dramatist—or at all events a dramatist like Wagner—there is permitted no such easy returning upon his own tracks, no half-mechanical manipulation of the same order of ideas time after time, as is possible to the worker in the stereotyped297 instrumental forms. Great as is the inventive power of a Bach, a Beethoven or a Brahms, it cannot be denied that much of their work is simply a varied exploitation of a relatively small number of formulas,—that a very small amount of thematic invention can be made to go a very long way under the guidance of an established pattern. Nor, broadly speaking, is the same intensity298 of imagination, or the same scope of imagination, required to invent a hundred ordinary fugal or symphonic themes as to find a hundred themes that are the veritable musical counterparts of as many human beings. The family resemblance between "subjects" that is permitted to a Bach or a Beethoven is not permitted to a Wagner: the dramatist's work must be a perpetual re-creation—and a definite, unmistakable re-creation—of the life around him in all its multiformity. In this sense Wagner is without an equal among composers; never has there been a brain so apt at limning299 character and suggesting the milieu in music. We can speak of the Wagnerian imagination as we can speak of the Shakespearean imagination; Wagner's is the only imagination in music that can be compared with Shakespeare's in dramatic fertility and comprehensiveness. It pours itself over the whole surface of a work, into every nook and cranny of it. It is a vast mind, infinite in its sympathies, protean300 in its creative power. For sheer drastic incisiveness301 of theme he has not his equal in all music; each vision instinctively, without an effort, finds its own inevitable utterance302. In the works of his great period every motive has a physiognomy as distinct from all others as the face of any human being is distinct from all other faces. The motives are unforgettable once we have heard them. They depict their subject once for all: who to-day, enormously as the apparatus303 of musical expression has developed since Wagner's time, would dare to try to find better symbols than those he has invented for the tarnhelm, the fire, the Rhine, the sword, the dragon, the potion that brings oblivion to Siegfried; or for any of the men and women of the operas—for Wotan, for Siegfried, for Mime, for the "reine Thor," for Herzeleide, for Hagen, for Gutrune, for Brynhilde, and for a dozen others? To hear any of these themes to-day, after a generation or more of daily familiarity with them, is like looking at a medallion of a hundred years ago in which not a point of the outline or a single plane of the relief has been blurred304, nor a single grain of its first sharp milling been lost. They are what they are because they combine in the fullest measure and in impeccable proportion the two great preservatives305 of all artistic work,—a luminous14 personal vision and consummate306 style.
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In the operas of his prime, every one of his characters is musically alive, down to the smallest. Tristan is not more real to us than Kurvenal, nor Walther more real than David, nor Brynhilde than Gutrune. His fiery imagination saw over the whole field of the drama with the same intensity. In this respect, as in so many others, not one of his successors can compare with him. Strauss, for instance, has always failed to give reality to any but the leading characters of his operas. His Faninal in the Rosenkavalier is decidedly not alive, nor is his Chrysothemis in Elektra. There is not a single truly characteristic phrase by which the musician can recall the former to his memory in the way that he can recall David or Kurvenal or Mime; the only piece of music by which he can recall Chrysothemis is an atrocious rag-time waltz that he would prefer to forget. Strauss's minor characters are known to us through the poem rather than the music; while Wagner's minor characters are clear-cut personalities307 to thousands of opera-goers who have never read the poem. And like the true dramatist, Wagner has no moral prejudices; for the time being he puts himself into the skin of each of his characters and looks at the world solely through his eyes. Nowhere is the author to be detected in the work, just as Shakespeare is nowhere to be detected in his; each of the characters sees the world from his own standpoint, and while he is talking we are for the moment bound to see the world precisely308 as he sees it. In any one else's hands Alberich would have been a mere conventional villain309 of melodrama310. As Wagner draws him he is as real as Iago,—an enemy of the light and all that live in the light, but their enemy by reason of the very nature of his being, following his own instincts with perfect naturalness and perfect consistency. So it comes about that we invariably believe in Alberich and the justice of his cause when he is speaking for himself; nowhere is he a mere foil or relief to characters with whom we may have more moral sympathy. No one can fail to be moved, for instance, by his appeal to Hagen in the second Act of the G?tterd?mmerung—the genuine heart-hunger of this, repulsive311 gnome312, lusting313 for power with all the passion and all the sincerity314 of his narrow soul. How vast and terrible a force of evil, again, is Hagen, but at the same time how natural, how inevitable. Even Mime is always right from Mime's point of view: the spectator can for the moment no more turn against him than against Alberich.
It is one of the mysteries of human psychology, indeed, how the mind that could be so incurably315 egoistic in the ordinary affairs of life, so incapable316 of seeing people as they really were, and not merely as they were in relation to the gratification or frustration of his own desires, should be capable of such universal sympathy in his artistic creation. The crowning wonder of Wagner's artistic psychology is his treatment of Beckmesser. We have seen what a deadly and unreasoning hatred317 he had for Hanslick, and that it was Hanslick he had in view in the later poetical79 drafts of the character. Yet in the opera, though Beckmesser is made appropriately ridiculous, he is handled almost throughout without a touch of the malice318 one might have expected when one knows that the character is meant as a satire319 upon a detested320 enemy. I say "almost throughout," for it has always seemed to me that there is just a shade of unnecessary harshness in Sachs's words after Beckmesser has left the house with the manuscript of Walther's song in his pocket:
A heart more base I never have known,
Ere long he'll be paid for his spite:
Though men cast reason down from its throne
They cannot deny it quite:
Some day the net is spread before them:
In it they fall, and we triumph o'er them.
Beckmesser, for all his wiles321, has not hitherto struck us as being base (boshaft). We laugh at him, but we love him, as we love all the fools and rogues322 of pure comedy. I fancy I can detect in this passage the last angry flash of the eye and the snap of the jaw323 as Wagner thought of Hanslick. But apart from this little lapse271 it is wonderful with what detachment the composer has been able to see his personal enemy. The artist in him was too strong, too infallible, to permit of his fouling324 the ideal world of his art with any breath from the bitter, muddy world of real life. Mr. Bernard Shaw is of the opinion that Strauss, in Ein Heldenleben, gives "an orchestral caricature of his enemies which comes much closer home than Wagner's medi?vally disguised Beckmesser." I hardly think the musical world as a whole will agree with Mr. Shaw. The "Adversaries325" section of Ein Heldenleben always strikes me as a mere outburst of rather stupid bad temper: the humour is as ill-conditioned as the psychology is crude and the expression commonplace. We have long since ceased to bestow326 on it the compliment of even as much thin laughter as we gave it when it was quite new. It is bad art for this reason if for no other,—that the petty, snappy hero shown in this section is inconsistent with the sort of super-man who figures in the rest of the work; who can believe that the hero of the noble ending, set high above earth and all its littlenesses, is the same individual as the small bundle of wounded vanity and irritated nerves whose reply to his critics takes the form of putting out his tongue and "talking back" like a street urchin327? Wagner's caricature is at once deeper, truer, kindlier, more universal and more enduring. He could be little enough in his life: in his art the gods took care that he should never be anything but magnanimity itself.
And if there has never been a brain in music that saw so deeply into the springs of character, there has never been a musical brain with such a grasp of a drama as a whole. It was the mighty, tireless synthetic328 engine that we meet with only some score of times, perhaps, in the whole history of human thought,—in two or three great military commanders, a few great architects, and half-a-dozen philosophers. It is becoming more and more evident each year that since his death there has been no single composer of anything like his bigness, no single composer capable of work at once so new and so coherently wrought329. His was the last truly great mind to find expression in music. That statement is not at all inconsistent with the admission that modern composers have said many hundreds of things that Wagner could never have thought of: I simply mean that the brains of Strauss and Debussy or any two others put together would not equal Wagner's in range, in depth, in staying power. There has not been a musician since his time who can "think in continents" as he did. The more we study him, indeed, the more wonderful do this sweep of vision and tenacity330 of hold become to us. There is nothing in all other men's music comparable to Wagner's feat331 of keeping the vast scheme of the Ring in his head for more than a quarter of a century, and actually laying it aside completely for eleven years during that time, without relaxing his grip for a moment upon the smallest limb of the great drama. It is in virtue279 of this fiery and unceasing play of the imagination and this stupendous synthetic power that he takes his place among the half-dozen most comprehensive minds that have ever worked in art.
In music there are only two brains—those of Bach and Beethoven—to compare with his in breadth of span. Say what we will about the repetitions and the longueurs of the Ring, there is nothing in all music, and very little else in any other art, to compare with that wonderful work for combined scope and concentration of design. Wagner had in abundance the rarest of all artistic gifts,—the faculty332, as a great critic has put it, of seeing the last line in the first, of never losing sight of the whole through all the tangle333 of detail. One might almost say that no other modern brain except Napoleon's and Herbert Spencer's has been able to keep all the minuti? of a gigantic problem so unfailingly within the one sphere of vision. Wagner forgot nothing in his work: at any stage of it he could summon up at a moment's notice not only any figure he wanted, in all its natural warmth of life, but the very atmosphere that surrounded it, the very mood it induced in others. To me one of the most marvellous instances of this has always been the passage in Waltraute's recital in the third scene of the G?tterd?mmerung, in which, in the midst of that extraordinary picture of the frustrated334 Wotan brooding among the joyless gods in Valhalla, she speaks of the god remembering his favourite and banished335 child:
Then soft grew his look:
He remembered, Brynhilde, thee!
It is a far cry at this stage from the parting of the god and his daughter in the Valkyrie; but at the mere mention of it there wells up in Wagner, after twelve years or more, all the emotion of the wonderful union between them, and the gloomy, careworn336 music melts for a bar or two into a tear-compelling tenderness. Another magnificent illustration of this gift of his of looking before and after may be had in the third Act of the Meistersinger, just after the greeting of Sachs by the populace of Nuremberg. That reception is surely the most overwhelming thing of its kind the earth has ever seen or heard; it has always been a mystery to me how any merely human singer can find a voice in which to respond to it. But it is precisely here that we realise the subtlety337 of Wagner's conception of Sachs, the profoundly imaginative way in which he saw him, and his ever-present sense of the fundamentals of the character through apparently the most distracting vicissitudes338. Any other operatic librettist339 and composer, after that million-throated outburst, would have set a strutting340 Sachs on his feet, smilingly and condescendingly accepting the homage342 of the multitude. Wagner makes his Sachs realise nothing but his own unworthiness and the sense of something hollow and fleeting in all this vociferation; and there is hardly an effect in all music to compare for subtlety, for poetry, for the profundity343 of its humanity, with the instantaneous melting of the crimson344 and purple strains of the folk into the quiet grey theme of Sachs' sorrow in the strings345. It was the only possible outlet346 from what any other sincere composer would have instinctively felt to be an emotional impasse347; and it was only Wagner who could have found the outlet. He is great in many ways, but in no way greater than in this faculty of keeping the burning vision of the moment always in touch with those that have passed and those that are to come; in all contemporary music there is not to be found a brain with a third of his power in this respect. In the latest operas of Strauss, strewn with fine things as they are, there is no such unity348 of style, no such ardour of conception, no such unrelaxing hold upon every character in every phase of it; and of course no purely orchestral work can compare with even a single opera of Wagner's for combined sweep of design and closeness of texture.
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The clarity and unity of Wagner's vision are evident again in the pictorial element that plays so large a part in his works. He was often pictorial without intending it, and was himself probably unconscious of many of the effects of light, colour, and atmosphere that delight us in his music. Mr. Runciman has done well to insist upon the gift, exhibited as early as Die Feen, for not only visualising a scene or a character for us but giving it us in its natural tints350. We have happily got past the day when old-fashioned theorists used to lay it down that "pure" music was "concerned with nothing but itself," and that whoever made it concern itself with appearances of the visible world was at the best no more than half a musician. As I have argued in an earlier chapter of this book, we cannot parcel off the human consciousness into psychology-tight bulkheads in this way. The various faculties351 are always crossing over into each other's territories for a moment, and coming back with spoils that they refuse to surrender for the rest of their days. The theorists have always been telling us that music cannot "paint." The composers, knowing much more about the matter than the theorists, have always gone on painting to their heart's content,—Bach, for example, being incorrigibly352 realistic. The three minds with the most pronounced bias353 towards tone-painting were probably those of Bach, Schubert (in his songs), and Wagner. But between the musician-painters there are as many differences of vision and of manner as there are between "pure" musicians or "pure" painters; and Wagner, in this regard as in every other, brought certain new elements into music, and still stands in a class by himself.
The curious thing about him is that while no other man's music gives us such an impression of being bound up at almost every point with the visible world in which we live and move, actual realism of the ordinary kind is comparatively rare with him, and it is certainly the least important factor in this impression. Now and again, of course, he does "paint" the concrete in the realistic way made familiar to us by the modern symphonic poem-writers. But this way is not at all a new way. The music of Schubert and that of Bach, as has been said, is full of realism of this order,—Schubert's spinning-wheel and Bach's serpents, to give merely two well-known instances. To this category belong Wagner's Rhine, and his fire music, and the whinnying of the Valkyries' horses. But there is really not much realism of that sort in Wagner's music. He objected to it in Berlioz and others unless there was a very good reason for it, and never employed it himself except where it complied with the dual140 condition of being thoroughly justified by the scene and unquestionably within the scope of musical expression. Wagner does comparatively little tone-painting of the purely realistic kind, but of course he does it always with superb certainty, profiting by a hundred years of evolution of technique since Bach, and by the gorgeous instrument that the modern orchestra places at his disposal.
A subtler sort of pictorialism,—subtler because it is unpremeditated and unconscious,—is that to which Mr. Runciman has drawn attention. No one except Hugo Wolf has ever approached Wagner in the capacity for bathing each scene, each character, in a light and an atmosphere of its own. (Wolf's achievements in this line were of course on a much smaller scale than Wagner's, but some of them are hardly less wonderful if we take into consideration the limitations of the black-and-white medium in which he worked.) This is surely one of the most baffling mysteries in music,—how the same few dozen tones and colours can be made to suggest such differently coloured aspects of the visible world, a world, we must remember, from which music is utterly cut off by the very nature of its medium. But whatever the explanation, the fact is indubitable; though it is a comparatively new thing in music, and indeed would not be possible without our modern developments of harmony, colour and technique. It is virtually unknown in pre-Wagnerian music. I do not mean that no previous composer ever gave a specially229 appropriate tint349 to a particular scene. That was frequently done; but it was done more or less by a convention, by the use of instruments having a particular association in the minds of the audience, as when the oboe or the cor anglais would be used for suggesting a pastoral scene, or the horns,—as in the beautiful passage at the commencement of the Freischütz overture—for suggesting a wood. The Wagnerian and Wolfian method to which I am now referring is something quite different from this. The term "method," indeed, is inappropriate, for it is impossible to reduce it to any rules or to trace the secret of its effect, as we can in the two other general instances I have cited. It is possible to say that the cold, bare effect of Wolf's Das verlassene M?gdlein comes from the peculiar harmonies he uses, and the pitch at which they are used,—just as the pastoral effect of the "Scène aux champs" in Berlioz's Symphonie fantastique comes from the use of the cor anglais. But the difference is this,—that you can standardise, as it were, the pastoral effects of the oboe or the cor anglais, whereas you cannot standardise the effects of Das verlassene M?gdlein. Even in the hands of a fifth-rate composer the oboe may be made to suggest a shepherd: but give Wolf's harmonies to a second-rate musician and tell him to "paint" with them as Wolf has done, and he will soon realise that the "painting" is really not separable from the music as a whole, even though we may be able to say analytically354 that it is due to one factor more than another. The truth is that the scene has been perceived with such intensity of vision by the composer that, unknown to him, and without any volition29 on his part, the vision has made its own idiom for itself, incarnated355 itself in lines and colours that are expressive of it and it alone.
It is this subtle faculty that is always unconsciously operative in Wagner. It first comes to light in Die Feen. It gave parts of the Flying Dutchman their strange salt tang. It makes the peculiar white light of Lohengrin. And after that opera, when Wagner had attained full command of his powers, it did astounding things for him. There is a different light, a different air, in each of the four dramas of the Ring; and this broad difference between any two of the four is maintained in spite of there being minor differences of colour between the various scenes of each of them. How mysterious and infallible this faculty is in its workings is best seen from the fact that when Wagner took up the second half of Siegfried, in 1869, after having suspended work upon it in 1857, he did what no other musician before him or since could have done—spontaneously, unconsciously reverted356 to the idiom of twelve years before. Between those two dates he had travelled an incredibly long path as a musician; he had written Tristan and the Meistersinger, two works with as many differences of idiom between themselves as there are between either of them and the Ring. Yet the wonderful brain could sweep itself clear of all the new impressions that had fed it during those twelve years, and, though the new acquisitions of technique of course remained, he thinks himself back in a flash to the very centre of the souls of the Ring characters and the very colour and temperature of the scenes he had parted from so long ago.
This is the pictorial instinct of Wagner seen in its totality. In its detail it is equally marvellous. Each scene is so bathed in its own appropriate light and colour, and strewn with its own peculiar shadows, that the music itself, apart from the scenic357 setting, is eloquent of the place and the hour of the action. In Wagner's music, as in Wolf's, one is conscious not only of the locality and the person and the race: one can almost tell the time of day. Music like that at the awakening of Brynhilde would go with nothing but a mountain height in blinding sunlight. Hunding is not physically358 darker to the eye than he is to the ear in that marvellous tuba motive that accompanies his first entry in the Valkyrie. The gait of Siegfried's music is as rapid as Mime's; but the differing stature359 of the two men is unmistakable from the music alone. One might multiply instances by the hundred of effects of realistic differentiation360 obtained not merely by orchestral colour, but by something subtly inter78 wrought into the very texture of the music. (The Hunding theme, for example, is "black" and sinister361 even on the pianoforte.) It is just this faculty of seeing everything with the most precise of painter's eyes, and then finding the infallibly right musical correlative of it, that enables Wagner to achieve such variety among pictures that are in essence the same. How many and how different woodlands there are in his music, how many degrees of sunlight, how many shades and qualities of darkness! The storm that maddens Mime after the exit of Siegfried is a very different storm from the one through which Siegmund rushes to the house of Hunding. What other man could have written two Rhine-Maidens' trios like those in the Rhinegold and the G?tterd?mmerung, each so liquid, so mobile, so sweet with the primal innocence362 of the world, and therefore so alike in many respects, yet so absolutely different?
So it comes about that without any tone-painting in the ordinary acceptation of the word, Wagner succeeds in bringing the visible universe before our eyes in a way and to an extent that no other musician has done. Of tone-painting pure and simple there is practically none in Tristan. Wagner is here concerned solely with a man and woman; yet how actual he makes every scene in which they move, and this without a single realistic stroke. In the garden scene he uses none of the conventional musical recipes—there is no obvious rustling363 of leaves, no sighing of the breeze, no purling of the brooks,—yet how the magic of the garden and of the hour steals through us and intoxicates364 us! How hot and dry the air has become in the third Act,—as dry to us as to the parched365 tongue of the wounded man alone on the castle walls, with the mid-day sun turning the blue sea beyond to a vibrating, blinding haze366. And—to me the most wonderful of all—how sinister is the atmosphere he creates through virtually the whole of the G?tterd?mmerung; how, though indeed it is mostly set in the daylight, one feels that here among these Gibichungs, with gaunt, grim Hagen for weaver367 of the web of fate, the very earth has lost the radiant smile it had in Siegfried's forest and on Brynhilde's mountain top. The sun no longer warms, the Rhine no longer laughs and glints and gladdens. And finally, how exquisitely adapted is the melodic and harmonic idiom of Parsifal,—so smoothly flowing, so full of melting and caressing368 tenderness,—to that static world from which, with the purging369 from it of so much human passion, so much even of the ordinary physical energy of humanity too has gone. For this, as for everything else, he found the right, the only musical equivalent, without seeking for it. His visions painted themselves.
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Even the best of Wagnerians to-day become a little impatient at the occasional longueurs in his operas. Not merely does he plan them on a scale that makes it almost impossible to give some of them in their entirety under ordinary conditions, but he sometimes lapses370 into a prolixity371 that is regrettable or maddening according to the frame of mind we happen to be in at the moment. Most of his prolixity is to be accounted for by that bad text-construction to which I have drawn attention. Music, let it be said again and again, is primarily an emotional art, and the less it has to do with mere dramatic explanation the better. We can never tire of Wotan pouring out his heart in loving farewell to his child; but we can hear Wotan tell the long story of his financial and matrimonial troubles once too often. We could listen as often to Kundry's story of Herzeleide as to the slow movement of the Ninth Symphony or the "Kleine Nacht-Musik" of Mozart; but wild horses would not drag us to the theatre to listen to old Gurnemanz's too-often-told tale of Amfortas and Klingsor, and how the sacred spear was lost. Yet though the poet Wagner is generally answerable for the occasional tedious quarters-of-an-hour in the operas, the musician Wagner is not wholly free from blame. He never managed to get quite rid of the slow-footedness that was characteristic of his music from the first; to the very end he sometimes takes rather longer to drive his points home than is absolutely necessary; and in these more rapid and impatient days that goes against him sorely. He is often reproached with rhythmical254 monotony. There is some truth in the charge, which as a whole he himself would probably not have taken the trouble to repel372. There is a passage in one of his letters in which he recognises that his music is not so rhythmical as it might be, but he holds that some lack of rhythmical variety is inseparable from an ideal of dramatic music such as his. As I have attempted to show, he relied much more on harmonic effect than on rhythm, the latter being more peculiarly the instrument of the symphonic composer, while harmonic change is more suited to depict the varying aspects of a dramatic action. But against the comparative regularity374 of his rhythms is to be set his sense of style. He had an intuitive knowledge of how and when to break up a melodic line that was in danger of becoming too uniform. One of the simplest illustrations of this may be seen in the Parsifal Prelude (vocal score, p. 5, lines 1 and 2); just at the moment when we are beginning to suspect that the theme of "Faith" has been repeated quite often enough and to dread375 the further repetition that has already got under weigh, he alters the signature from 6/4 to 9/4, and gives a new rhetorical turn to the familiar melody. In Wotan's Abschied, again, we are unconscious of the uniformity of the rhythm in phrase after phrase, so consummate is the art with which the interest is always being transferred from one part of the combined vocal and orchestral tissue to another, and so beautifully planned is not only each section in itself but what may be called the exposition and development and cadence of the whole scene. Wagner could afford to dispense with the smaller rhythmical man?uvring of individual musical phrases; he had the much greater faculty of endowing long scenes and even whole operas with a vast dramatic rhythm of their own. Hundreds of smaller composers can give this page or that of their music a rhythmic piquancy376 that Wagner could never have attained on the same small scale; but not one of them could achieve such a rhythm as that of the second Act of Tristan, with its slow, steady, imperceptible transition from night and its rapture377 to daylight and its cruel disillusioning378 glare.
Wagner's prolixity, again, is not the flabby dulness of a mind that is merely maundering on and on from sheer incompetence379 to get to grips with the essentials of an emotion, but the over-copiousness of an inexhaustibly rich brain. And if this quality of his has its occasional bad side, we do well to remember that it is accountable also for some of his most gigantic achievements in expression. Were it not for the endless inventive power and the never-failing sense of beauty in it, a work like Tristan, that never pauses till the last drop of bitter-sweet juice has been squeezed out of the theme, would be hardly bearable. Like Bach, Wagner could never conceive any emotion without intensifying380 it to the utmost. The barest hint of joy in one of Bach's texts will set him carolling like a lark381; the barest hint of mortality will bedim his music with all the tears of all the universe for its dead. Wagner has the same insatiable hunger for expression. In Tristan in particular every emotion is developed to its furthest limit of poignancy. The passion of love becomes almost delirium382; when Tristan, in the third Act, sings of the thirst caused by his wound, our very mouths, our very bones, seem dried as if by some burning sirocco blowing from the desert; when the sick man praises Kurvenal for his devotion it is a cosmic p?an to friendship that he sings. In hundreds of other cases it is not by elaboration of speech that he makes his overwhelming effect, but by a sort of volcanic383 concentration. Mingled384 rage and grief and despair have never found such colossal385 expression anywhere, in any art, as in those few bars given to the frustrated and maddened Wotan after Fricka has foiled his plan for the protection of Siegmund in the fight (the Valkyrie, vocal score, pp. 118, 119). Pathos386 will never find more touching387 accents than those of Brynhilde in her last great scene with Wotan (Valkyrie, pp. 292, 293); few things in all music convey such a sense of tears as the strange salt tones of the oboe and cor anglais here. For concentrated fury there is nothing to compare with the outburst of the bound and impotent Alberich as he dismisses the Nibelungs who have witnessed his shame (the Rhinegold, pp. 199-201); technically388 this is one of the most effective crescendi389 in all Wagner's works. His imagination always takes fire at a single touch, a single suggestion, and there is no staying it until the fire has burnt itself completely out. In the Siegfried Idyl he has only to think of the child whose coming meant so much to him, and all the fountains of human tenderness are unsealed; this is not an individual father musing390 over his child's cradle, but all nature crooning a song of love for its little ones. It is this intensification of every emotion he has to express that makes each of his characters, like Shakespeare's, seem the epitome391 of that particular phase of human nature. Tristan and Isolde are the world's most passionate392 and most tragic lovers: the opera is the very quintessence of the egoism of sexual love. So with a score of other characters. The last word—for our own day at any rate—in god-like majesty393 has been uttered in Wotan; the last word of womanly gentleness and sweetness in Eva and Gutrune; the last word of tragic womanhood in Sieglinde; the last word of superb womanhood in Brynhilde; the last word of mellow394 and kindly middle age in Hans Sachs; the last word of scheming feebleness in Mime; the last word of elemental savagery395 in the Valkyries; the last word of youthful irresponsibility in the Meistersinger apprentices396; the last word of human grimness in Hagen; the last word of dog-like devotion in Kurvenal. The character-drawing is endless in its variety and infallible in its touch.
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Parsifal stands in a class apart from all the other works of Wagner. Its characterisation is not individual but symbolic212; Amfortas and Parsifal and Kundry and Klingsor are not men and women whom we might meet any day in the flesh, but simply types of human aspiration397 or failure. We have outgrown398 the mental world of the work; the religious symbolism of it, qua religious symbolism, leaves many of us unimpressed; yet the basic emotional stuff of it all is enduring, and we must not allow ourselves to be set against the opera because the forms in which Wagner has embodied a durable399 philosophy are themselves of a time instead of all time. Evidently the symphonist in him was at this stage overpowering the dramatist. The symphonist can safely deal with types or abstractions; the dramatist can only deal with individuals. Wagner has made the blunder of trying to translate the most delicate, the most esoteric perceptions into the language of the theatre, of setting symbols upon the stage. The force of a poetic symbol lies wholly in the imagination: as soon as a dramatist or a painter tries to set it visibly before us, the free flight of the imagination is curbed400 by the physical obviousness, the physical limitations, of the figure that is put before the eye; the universal cannot be perceived for the particular. Wagner's root idea in Parsifal was to show us, in Kundry, a living symbol of the dual nature of woman, half-angel and half-beast, in turns sensual and repentant, the destroyer and the saviour of man. But it is precisely symbols of this kind, cutting down to the obscurest depths of human psychology, that cannot retain their vast suggestiveness after they have been narrowed down to the personality of a single actor. We no longer see the eternal and infernal womanly; it is only a German prima-donna, stout401 of build and heavy of movement, that we see upon the stage. So with Parsifal himself. Mr. Huneker has called him "that formidable imbecile." So might we style St. Francis of Assisi, or the Buddha402, or any other of the simple wise ones of the world, if we persist in looking at them through unsympathetic and unimaginative eyes. The conception of Parsifal is fine enough in itself—an unstained soul made divinely wise by its very simplicity403, its love, its pity. But a character of this kind should be left to the imagination, or to music to suggest to the imagination: it is impossible to realise it behind the footlights in the person of an actor. A Parsifal is a figure for the quiet of one's chamber404, not for a crowded theatre lying the other side of the box office. Hundreds of people must have felt, as I have done for twenty years, that a good deal of Parsifal affects us more deeply at home than it ever does in the theatre, the loss of the orchestral colour being more than made up for by the gain in imaginative intensity. And the difficulty of making such a character vital and credible231 upon the stage is increased when he is made the centre of a quasi-religious ritual that has long ceased to have a meaning for many people.
But in spite of it all, Parsifal is a masterpiece. The story of it seems to arouse a violent antipathy405 in some people, who apparently regard it as an immoral406 work. The pleasant little game of Parsifal-baiting began with Nietzsche, who said that he despised everyone who did not regard the opera as an outrage407 on morals.
Like most philosophers, Nietzsche had the charming failing of imagining that the only right way for the world to go was his way. He was singularly taken with that notion of his of the super-man—a mythical408 and unidentifiable mammal about which we have never been able to get any definite information, either from Nietzsche or from any of his disciples. Now Nietzsche found this ideal of his in Siegfried, and he loathed409 Parsifal because it preached the negation410 of life, the denial of the Will to Power. Later writers, like Mr. Runciman and Mr. Huneker, who are not, I think, Nietzscheans, agree with him in seeing something peculiarly weak in the philosophy—to call it by that name—of Parsifal. They see in the opera not merely moral weakness but moral nastiness. I remember one of the simpler adherents411 of this theory telling me, in awe-stricken tones, that this "sexless" opera was the resort of a set of men who were mixed up in a German scandal of a few years ago that sent its unwholesome odour through the civilised world: and he obviously thought that this discredited412 Wagner's Parsifal, whereas it struck me as being very like asking us to give up having breakfast because Dr. Crippen and Charles Peace liked bacon and eggs.
Nor can any moral flabbiness, I think, be discovered in Parsifal except by people who make the mistake of thinking that the "philosophy" of any musical work matters very much. Mr. Runciman detests413 Parsifal and calls him a perfect idiot—that epithet414 being Mr. Runciman's playful intensification of Wagner's "pure [i.e. stainless] fool"—"fool" being unfortunately the only monosyllable we have in English for the translation of "Thor." But even supposing Parsifal were an idiot—which I dispute—would it greatly matter? Mr. Runciman has launched his full battery against the Siegfried of Wagner's poem—a swaggering, quarrelsome, ungrateful young noodle; but, as Mr. Runciman's own eloquent description of the opera shows, the Siegfried of Wagner's music is a vastly more interesting and sympathetic person than the Siegfried of Wagner's verse. Similarly, even if I could think, when reading the libretto, that Parsifal is an idiot, I could never think so when listening to the music. The truth is that a good many of Wagner's characters and dramatic motives seem rather foolish to us nowadays. For my part I do not know or care whether or how Parsifal is to "redeem" the world. The word redemption has no meaning for me in the sense in which Wagner and the theologians use it. I can believe that redemption is a concrete reality in the pawnbroking415 business; but if any one tells me that men's souls are to be bought and sold, or lost and found again, without any volition of their own, I can only say that all this conveys about as much to my intelligence as talk about a quadrilateral triangle would do. But to appreciate a work of art it is not in the least necessary to subscribe416 to its author's philosophical or religious opinions; a rationalist can be as deeply thrilled by the Matthew Passion as any Christian417 can be. The "thesis" of a work of art is the one thing in it that does not concern us as artists. Who is to decide between rival philosophies or sociologies? Personally I believe that one philosophy is just as good as another, and worse, as the Irishman would say; but if an artist chooses to set forward a character as the embodiment of some philosophy that possesses him at the moment, I am willing to listen to him so long as he can talk interestingly about it, without my wishing either to subscribe to the philosophy or to dissent418 from it. Mr. Runciman thinks there is something frightful419 in the thesis—let us call it that—of Parsifal. I do not see anything frightful in it. I do not believe in it as the only rule of life; but then I do not believe—in that sense—in Senta's "redemption" of the Dutchman, or Elisabeth's "redemption" of Tannh?user, or that Lohengrin was right in withholding420 his name from Elsa and then going off in a huff when she asked for it. But all these fantastic motives, in which I have no belief, no more affect my appreciation421 of the operas than my disbelief in ghosts affects my appreciation of Hamlet. I do not want any of my friends to be like Parsifal, Amfortas, or Klingsor—especially Klingsor: but neither do I want any of them to be like Lohengrin or Elsa or Senta or the Flying Dutchman. A real world run on the lines of Parsifal would probably drive normal men mad in a month: but then who could live in a world in which Senta-sentimental maidens insisted on jumping into the sea to "redeem" master mariners422, taking no account of the able seamen423 and the stokers and the stewards424, who, from anything I can gather to the contrary in the text of the Flying Dutchman, all go to Davy Jones's locker425 in a state of pure damnation what time the captain and the girl ascend426 to glory? No, we had better leave alone the question of what the world would be like if we were to try to model it on Parsifal. We know very well that nothing of the sort will ever happen, just as we know that Little Red Riding Hood's wolf will not gobble up little Phyllis on her way to the High School next week, or the door of the safe fly open when the burglar says "Sesame." These be but fairy tales. We can still sleep in our beds o' nights: and we can still go to Parsifal without either having our morals corrupted427 or feeling that we are encouraging race suicide.
I listen to Parsifal, then—and I imagine most other people do the same—as I would to any other outpouring of a great man's spirit on a world of ideas that fascinated him for the moment, and without any more impulse to translate it all into terms of reality than when I am listening to the Flying Dutchman or Lohengrin. The opera is in no sense the work of an exhausted428 old man. It has been alleged429 that the plot is "the work of Wagner's tired-out old age." But Parsifal was sketched as early as 1857, worked out in detail in 1864 (when Wagner was only fifty-one), and turned into verse in 1877. Further, the central ideas of the drama are to be found both in the sketches430 of Jesus of Nazareth (1848) and The Victors (1856); while in 1855 it was Wagner's intention to bring Parsifal on the stage in the final scene of Tristan, opposing him, as a symbol of renunciation, to Tristan as a symbol of passion. At almost any time of Wagner's life, indeed, he might have written a Parsifal. All his life through he fluctuated between intense eroticism and an equally intense revulsion from the erotic. One may say, in truth, that such a man had to write a Parsifal before he died. "Il est à remarquer, mon fils," says the excellent Abbé Coignard in Anatole France's La R?tisserie de la Reine Pédauque, "que les plus grands saints sont des pénitents, et, comme le repentir se proportionne à la faute, c'est dans les plus grands pêcheurs que se trouve l'étoffe des plus grands saints. La matière première de la sainteté est la concupiscence, l'incontinence, toutes les impuretés de la chair et de l'esprit. Il importe seulement, après avoir amassé cette matière, de la travailler selon l'art théologique et de la modeler, pour ainsi dire5, en figure de pénitence, ce qui est l'affaire de quelques années, de quelques jours et parfois d'un seul instant, comme il se voit dans le cas de la contrition431 parfaite."
In the great book of sex there are many chapters, and Parsifal is simply the last of them for some people. For others it is a chapter that they turn to again and again in moments of revulsion from the illusions of passion. Wagner's insight was clear enough: the Parsifals are no more denials of the Life-Force than the Tristans are; they are simply another phase of the Life-Force. When we disengage the central idea of Parsifal from its rather unskilful operatic setting, the work is simply an artist's dream of an ideally innocent world, purged432 of the lust, the hatred, the cruelty that deface the world we live and groan433 in. This is the world the music paints for us—
"Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth and oarless434 sea";
and the cumbrous, old-fashioned stage framework upon which the drama is constructed means no more to me than a clumsily-drafted programme to a great symphonic poem,—it detracts no more from my musical enjoyment435 than that would do. The music itself, apart from a few commonplaces in the first Act, is marvellous. It is indeed an old man's music, but only in the sense that it opens windows for us upon regions of the soul to which only the old and emotionally wise have access. Swinburne somewhere speaks of Blake's face having the look of being lit up from the inside. I see a similar luminous transfiguration in the later portraits of Wagner[410]—they have the look of a man who has penetrated436 to the great underlying437 simplicities438 of things; and I find in the music of Parsifal the same subtle, searching simplicity, the same almost unearthly illumination. Nowhere does the great master seem to me more truly powerful than in these quiet strains, whose suggestiveness, as is the case with the last Italian songs of Hugo Wolf, is inexplicably439 out of proportion to the quiet economy of their tissue. To the last the wonderful brain kept growing. He makes a new musical idiom, a new texture, for Parsifal as he had done for every other of his works; above all a harmonic language of incomparable subtlety, a gliding440, melting chromaticism441 that searches us through and through. It is from this novel chromaticism—a very different one from that of Tristan—that the harmony of César Franck has come, and all the modern harmony that builds upon Franck.
last-photo
WAGNER: THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH.
14
Wagner saw his own work as a transmutation and amplification442 of the speech of Beethoven—infinitely changeful, but controlled in every bar by a never-sleeping sense of the organic unity of the whole; but it is clear to us now that many features in his work derive443 from Bach, or are a re-discovery of certain principles of form that Bach affected444. It is from Bach, rather than from Beethoven, that such things as the Tristan Prelude come, with their incessant evolution of new life out of a single thematic germ, and their adoption445 of a conical form of slow ascent446 to a climax and descent from it, in place of the square symphonic form of return and re-start. In Bach, again, will be found the basis both of Wagner's realism and of the Wagnerian system of allusive447 "motives." The towering greatness of Wagner is nowhere more strikingly shown than in the failure of all his successors to handle his form—or, indeed, any other—with anything like the same power, freedom and consistency; both the opera and symphonic music are waiting for someone big enough to build afresh upon the foundations Wagner has laid, and with the materials he has left. At present the most that any of his successors can do is to fit a few of the more manageable of the stones together, with a deplorable quantity of waste and confusion all around and in between. Salome and the Rosenkavalier may be taken as instructive examples. There is not a living man big enough to occupy more than a room or two at a time of the vast house that Wagner reared about him. It is true that in certain details—in the furnishing and decoration of one or two of the rooms, let us say—modern music has gone beyond him. Strauss's orchestration has an eloquence—not merely a colour, but a soul and a voice—of which Wagner probably never suspected the possibility. Strauss, Wolf, and others have shaken off the rhythmic fetters448 that sometimes hampered449 the movement both of Wagner's poetry and of his music. Wolf and Strauss have shown us the possibilities of what may be called a prose style in music—a more continuous and less formal style than that of verse, with the rhythmic joints450 and pivots451 more skilfully220 concealed452. Superb examples of it are to be found in the later scene between Octavian and the Princess in the first Act of the Rosenkavalier, and in the great trio in the third Act. Wagner, it is safe to say, would have flatly pronounced it impossible to make rhythmic music of a piece of frank prose like the latter, in which there is not a suspicion of a pretext453 for any of the staple454 rhythmic formulas.
But though the Wagnerian apparatus has been improved upon at these and other points—Strauss, for example, has subtilised the employment of the leit-motive—no one has been great enough to manipulate the apparatus as a whole with anything like Wagner's power, scope and freedom, and opera is still waiting for its new redeemer. Even an anti-Wagnerian work like Pelleas and Melisande is, in a sense, a tribute to the Titan: the very sharpness and thoroughness of its recoil455 from everything that hints at Wagner is an admission of the impossibility of continuing his work on its own lines. And after all, Pelleas and Melisande is only a beautiful and wonderful tour de force—a sort of glorified456 musical mule457, without pride of ancestry458 or hope of posterity459. Its idiom is too small for the expression of great things; we might as well try to build a city out of nothing but mother-of-pearl and opals.
Like Bach and like Beethoven, Wagner closes a period, and exhausts a form. And as with Bach and Beethoven to-day, it is indirectly460 rather than directly that his best influence is being exerted; there is no room for imitation of him, but his speech and his vision are eternal stimuli461 to our imaginations. It is inevitable that in some quarters a reaction should have set in against his music and his influence. He has been too overpowering a force. His music has been performed with such fatal frequency that the merest amateur can hardly remain unconscious of the weak points in it; and for a whole generation he made all but the very strongest minds among composers a mere shadow and echo of himself. Music, as was only to be expected, has now gone beyond him in certain respects, and the erstwhile anarch is now one of the greatest of the forces that conservatism claims for its own. The French and some of the Russians have revolted against what is less a Wagnerian than a German domination of all European music. A number of our very newest young men are delightfully462 contemptuous of him: every puny463 whipster now raises his little hand to deal the reeling colossus another blow. But the colossus will easily right himself. There are moments when one is tempted373 to say that he and Bach and Beethoven have expressed between them almost all that is essentially original and great in the music of the last two centuries. When a composer is so mighty of body as this, he can well afford to lose a drop or two of blood on his pilgrimage through the ages.
"In music, as in nature," says Vincent d'Indy, "there are mountains and valleys; there are artists of genius who raise their art to such heights that the herd195 of second-rank creators, unable to breathe in these altitudes, is forced to descend257 again to more temperate464 levels (which, however, are often sown with charming flowers), until the eruption465 of a new genius heaves up a new mountain peak.
"Such were Bach, Haydn, Beethoven and César Franck in the symphonic order; and in the dramatic order, Palestrina, Monteverdi, Rameau, Gluck and Wagner. At the present moment we are descending341 the slope created by the Wagnerian upheaval466, and we are hastening gently towards the hopeful presage467 of a new summit. But all our drama—even that of the composers who most energetically deny the imputation—comes from the spring which rises at the feet of the titanic468 Wagner.
"Richard Wagner still casts his great shadow over all our musico-dramatic production. But it is certain that the latent work that is going on in the souls of creative artists is to favour the ascent towards a distant height, of which we cannot yet foresee either the glaciers469 or the precipices470."
His work, in truth, will flower afresh some day in some great composer who will sum up in himself, as Wagner did, all the finest impulses of the music of his day,—who will have absorbed the essential, durable part of the spirit of his predecessors, and who will have at his command an idiom, a vocabulary and a technique competent to express every variety of human emotion. But we may hazard the conjecture471 that the new flowering will be in instrumental music rather than in the opera. It seems to be a law of musical evolution that at the end of a period of crisis the seminal force that has exhausted itself in one genre472 passes over to, and finds a new life in, a wholly different genre. Beethoven left no real successors in the classical symphony,—for great as Schumann and Brahms are, they are in this field no more than epigones of Beethoven. It is in the Wagnerian opera that the new expressive, half-poetic power of Beethoven's music finds its further logical development. All the opera writers that have followed in Wagner's tracks—Strauss included—are to Wagner simply what Brahms was to Beethoven. As Beethoven fertilised not the symphony but the music-drama, so Wagner has fertilised not the music-drama but poetic instrumental music,—the innumerable symphonic poems and programme symphonies of the last fifty years. The idea of the new form may have been Liszt's as much as Wagner's, or even more; but Liszt's music was not rich enough to do the full work of fertilisation. Now, apparently, we are nearing the end of a period of transition. Already there are signs that the formal programme was little more than a crutch473 for poetic music in the days of its hesitating growth. Composers are beginning to master the art of suggesting the dramatic inner conflicts of the soul without needing to rely on any outer apparatus of suggestion. We are probably developing towards a form of symphonic music that shall be to the art of its own day what the Beethoven symphony of the middle period was to the art of his time,—a musical drama-without-words, and perfectly lucid289 without words. When the new instrumental music has assimilated all the finest spirit and mastered the full harmonic and rhythmic vocabulary and the best technique of the new day, some future Wagner will perhaps turn the mighty stream into a fresh dramatic channel, the nature of which it is almost impossible to anticipate. So the great series of cross-cycles will no doubt go on and on, into a day when dramatic music shall no more resemble Wagner's than Wagner's music resembles that of Palestrina. In that distant day he may be no more to mankind than Monteverdi is to us; but music will still be something different from what it would have been had he never been born; and of only some half-dozen composers in the whole history of the art can that be said.
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1 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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2 jumble | |
vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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3 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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4 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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5 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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6 falters | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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7 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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8 adaptability | |
n.适应性 | |
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9 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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10 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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11 garrulity | |
n.饶舌,多嘴 | |
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12 partisans | |
游击队员( partisan的名词复数 ); 党人; 党羽; 帮伙 | |
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13 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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14 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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15 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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16 disciples | |
n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 );门徒;耶稣的信徒;(尤指)耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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17 smacks | |
掌掴(声)( smack的名词复数 ); 海洛因; (打的)一拳; 打巴掌 | |
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18 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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19 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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20 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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21 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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22 unconditionally | |
adv.无条件地 | |
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23 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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24 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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25 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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26 redeem | |
v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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27 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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28 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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29 volition | |
n.意志;决意 | |
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30 volitional | |
adj.意志的,凭意志的,有意志的 | |
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31 yearns | |
渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32 redeemed | |
adj. 可赎回的,可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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33 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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34 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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35 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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36 libretto | |
n.歌剧剧本,歌曲歌词 | |
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37 ingratitude | |
n.忘恩负义 | |
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38 fatuousness | |
n.愚昧,昏庸,蠢 | |
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39 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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40 scout | |
n.童子军,侦察员;v.侦察,搜索 | |
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41 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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42 illustrates | |
给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 ); 说明; 表明; (用示例、图画等)说明 | |
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43 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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44 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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45 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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46 nun | |
n.修女,尼姑 | |
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47 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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48 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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49 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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50 frustration | |
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空 | |
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51 antitheses | |
n.对照,对立的,对比法;对立( antithesis的名词复数 );对立面;对照;对偶 | |
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52 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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53 sketched | |
v.草拟(sketch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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54 lamed | |
希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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55 redeeming | |
补偿的,弥补的 | |
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56 renounces | |
v.声明放弃( renounce的第三人称单数 );宣布放弃;宣布与…决裂;宣布摒弃 | |
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57 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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58 slaying | |
杀戮。 | |
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59 blithe | |
adj.快乐的,无忧无虑的 | |
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60 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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61 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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62 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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63 victoriously | |
adv.获胜地,胜利地 | |
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64 solitariness | |
n.隐居;单独 | |
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65 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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66 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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67 primal | |
adj.原始的;最重要的 | |
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68 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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69 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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70 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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71 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
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72 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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73 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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74 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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75 fusion | |
n.溶化;熔解;熔化状态,熔和;熔接 | |
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76 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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77 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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78 inter | |
v.埋葬 | |
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79 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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80 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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81 poetically | |
adv.有诗意地,用韵文 | |
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82 unripe | |
adj.未成熟的;n.未成熟 | |
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83 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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84 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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85 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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86 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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87 luminousness | |
透光率 | |
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88 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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89 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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91 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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92 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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93 milieu | |
n.环境;出身背景;(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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94 bowels | |
n.肠,内脏,内部;肠( bowel的名词复数 );内部,最深处 | |
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95 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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96 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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97 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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98 terser | |
(说话、文笔等)精练的,简洁的,扼要的( terse的比较级 ) | |
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99 rhythmic | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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100 prelude | |
n.序言,前兆,序曲 | |
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101 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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102 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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103 unify | |
vt.使联合,统一;使相同,使一致 | |
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104 unifying | |
使联合( unify的现在分词 ); 使相同; 使一致; 统一 | |
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105 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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106 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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107 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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108 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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109 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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110 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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111 seminal | |
adj.影响深远的;种子的 | |
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112 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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113 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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114 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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115 vocal | |
adj.直言不讳的;嗓音的;n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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116 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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117 dooms | |
v.注定( doom的第三人称单数 );判定;使…的失败(或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局)成为必然;宣判 | |
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118 conspirators | |
n.共谋者,阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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119 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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120 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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121 unified | |
(unify 的过去式和过去分词); 统一的; 统一标准的; 一元化的 | |
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122 modification | |
n.修改,改进,缓和,减轻 | |
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123 melodic | |
adj.有旋律的,调子美妙的 | |
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124 melodically | |
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125 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
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126 marvels | |
n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 );令人惊奇的事物(或事例);不平凡的成果;成就v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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128 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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129 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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130 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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131 permissible | |
adj.可允许的,许可的 | |
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132 invert | |
vt.使反转,使颠倒,使转化 | |
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133 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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134 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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135 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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136 maidens | |
处女( maiden的名词复数 ); 少女; 未婚女子; (板球运动)未得分的一轮投球 | |
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137 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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138 ensembles | |
整体( ensemble的名词复数 ); 合奏; 乐团; 全套服装(尤指女装) | |
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139 components | |
(机器、设备等的)构成要素,零件,成分; 成分( component的名词复数 ); [物理化学]组分; [数学]分量; (混合物的)组成部分 | |
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140 dual | |
adj.双的;二重的,二元的 | |
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141 depict | |
vt.描画,描绘;描写,描述 | |
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142 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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143 concise | |
adj.简洁的,简明的 | |
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144 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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145 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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146 reverting | |
恢复( revert的现在分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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147 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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148 infinity | |
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
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149 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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150 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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151 dispense | |
vt.分配,分发;配(药),发(药);实施 | |
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152 dispenses | |
v.分配,分与;分配( dispense的第三人称单数 );施与;配(药) | |
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153 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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154 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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155 dour | |
adj.冷酷的,严厉的;(岩石)嶙峋的;顽强不屈 | |
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156 irreconcilable | |
adj.(指人)难和解的,势不两立的 | |
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157 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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158 poignancy | |
n.辛酸事,尖锐 | |
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159 fleeting | |
adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
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160 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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161 condensation | |
n.压缩,浓缩;凝结的水珠 | |
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162 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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163 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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164 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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165 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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166 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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167 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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168 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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169 colloquy | |
n.谈话,自由讨论 | |
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170 intensification | |
n.激烈化,增强明暗度;加厚 | |
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171 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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172 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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173 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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174 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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175 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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176 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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177 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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178 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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179 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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180 pictorial | |
adj.绘画的;图片的;n.画报 | |
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181 incongruity | |
n.不协调,不一致 | |
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182 legitimately | |
ad.合法地;正当地,合理地 | |
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183 veracity | |
n.诚实 | |
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184 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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185 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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186 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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187 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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188 bin | |
n.箱柜;vt.放入箱内;[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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189 diverge | |
v.分叉,分歧,离题,使...岔开,使转向 | |
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190 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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191 mime | |
n.指手画脚,做手势,哑剧演员,哑剧;vi./vt.指手画脚的表演,用哑剧的形式表演 | |
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192 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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193 toad | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆 | |
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194 stanza | |
n.(诗)节,段 | |
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195 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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196 cantata | |
n.清唱剧,大合唱 | |
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197 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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198 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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199 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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200 trickiness | |
n.欺骗;狡猾;棘手;微妙 | |
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201 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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202 evade | |
vt.逃避,回避;避开,躲避 | |
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203 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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204 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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205 warriors | |
武士,勇士,战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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206 thronging | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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207 repulse | |
n.击退,拒绝;vt.逐退,击退,拒绝 | |
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208 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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209 commentators | |
n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 );时事评论员;注释者;实况广播员 | |
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210 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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211 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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212 symbolic | |
adj.象征性的,符号的,象征主义的 | |
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213 symbolical | |
a.象征性的 | |
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214 timbre | |
n.音色,音质 | |
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215 punctuates | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的第三人称单数 );不时打断某事物 | |
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216 declamation | |
n. 雄辩,高调 | |
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217 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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218 cursory | |
adj.粗略的;草率的;匆促的 | |
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219 transparently | |
明亮地,显然地,易觉察地 | |
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220 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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221 relevance | |
n.中肯,适当,关联,相关性 | |
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222 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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223 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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224 brayed | |
v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 );发嘟嘟声;粗声粗气地讲话(或大笑);猛击 | |
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225 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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226 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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227 decadence | |
n.衰落,颓废 | |
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228 cadence | |
n.(说话声调的)抑扬顿挫 | |
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229 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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230 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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231 credible | |
adj.可信任的,可靠的 | |
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232 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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233 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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234 conclusively | |
adv.令人信服地,确凿地 | |
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235 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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236 expressiveness | |
n.富有表现力 | |
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237 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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238 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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239 attains | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的第三人称单数 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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240 consistency | |
n.一贯性,前后一致,稳定性;(液体的)浓度 | |
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241 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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242 predecessors | |
n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 );前辈;(被取代的)原有事物;前身 | |
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243 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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244 concision | |
n.简明,简洁 | |
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245 relegating | |
v.使降级( relegate的现在分词 );使降职;转移;把…归类 | |
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246 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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247 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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248 ravenous | |
adj.极饿的,贪婪的 | |
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249 kernel | |
n.(果实的)核,仁;(问题)的中心,核心 | |
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250 delicacies | |
n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 );精致;精美的食物;周到 | |
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251 pliant | |
adj.顺从的;可弯曲的 | |
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252 fettering | |
v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的现在分词 ) | |
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253 rhythmically | |
adv.有节奏地 | |
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254 rhythmical | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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255 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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256 saviour | |
n.拯救者,救星 | |
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257 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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258 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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259 defiled | |
v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 );污染;弄脏;纵列行进 | |
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260 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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261 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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262 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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263 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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264 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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265 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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266 repentant | |
adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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267 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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268 parentheses | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲( parenthesis的名词复数 ) | |
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269 substantive | |
adj.表示实在的;本质的、实质性的;独立的;n.实词,实名词;独立存在的实体 | |
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270 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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271 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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272 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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273 exigencies | |
n.急切需要 | |
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274 recapitulate | |
v.节述要旨,择要说明 | |
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275 thrall | |
n.奴隶;奴隶制 | |
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276 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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277 slew | |
v.(使)旋转;n.大量,许多 | |
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278 begot | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 );产生,引起 | |
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279 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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280 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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281 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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282 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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283 intervention | |
n.介入,干涉,干预 | |
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284 impede | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,阻止 | |
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285 insufficiently | |
adv.不够地,不能胜任地 | |
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286 flouted | |
v.藐视,轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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288 rape | |
n.抢夺,掠夺,强奸;vt.掠夺,抢夺,强奸 | |
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289 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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290 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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291 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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292 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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293 sculptor | |
n.雕刻家,雕刻家 | |
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294 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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295 outgrowing | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的现在分词 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
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296 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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297 stereotyped | |
adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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298 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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299 limning | |
v.画( limn的现在分词 );勾画;描写;描述 | |
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300 protean | |
adj.反复无常的;变化自如的 | |
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301 incisiveness | |
n.敏锐,深刻 | |
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302 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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303 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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304 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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305 preservatives | |
n.防腐剂( preservative的名词复数 ) | |
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306 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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307 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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308 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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309 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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310 melodrama | |
n.音乐剧;情节剧 | |
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311 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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312 gnome | |
n.土地神;侏儒,地精 | |
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313 lusting | |
贪求(lust的现在分词形式) | |
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314 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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315 incurably | |
ad.治不好地 | |
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316 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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317 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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318 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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319 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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320 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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321 wiles | |
n.(旨在欺骗或吸引人的)诡计,花招;欺骗,欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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322 rogues | |
n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 );无赖;调皮捣蛋的人;离群的野兽 | |
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323 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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324 fouling | |
n.(水管、枪筒等中的)污垢v.使污秽( foul的现在分词 );弄脏;击球出界;(通常用废物)弄脏 | |
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325 adversaries | |
n.对手,敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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326 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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327 urchin | |
n.顽童;海胆 | |
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328 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
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329 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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330 tenacity | |
n.坚韧 | |
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331 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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332 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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333 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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334 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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335 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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336 careworn | |
adj.疲倦的,饱经忧患的 | |
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337 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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338 vicissitudes | |
n.变迁,世事变化;变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 );盛衰兴废 | |
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339 librettist | |
n.(歌剧、音乐剧等的)歌词作者 | |
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340 strutting | |
加固,支撑物 | |
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341 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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342 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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343 profundity | |
n.渊博;深奥,深刻 | |
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344 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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345 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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346 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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347 impasse | |
n.僵局;死路 | |
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348 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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349 tint | |
n.淡色,浅色;染发剂;vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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350 tints | |
色彩( tint的名词复数 ); 带白的颜色; (淡色)染发剂; 痕迹 | |
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351 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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352 incorrigibly | |
adv.无法矫正地;屡教不改地;无可救药地;不能矫正地 | |
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353 bias | |
n.偏见,偏心,偏袒;vt.使有偏见 | |
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354 analytically | |
adv.有分析地,解析地 | |
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355 incarnated | |
v.赋予(思想、精神等)以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 );使人格化;体现;使具体化 | |
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356 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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357 scenic | |
adj.自然景色的,景色优美的 | |
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358 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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359 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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360 differentiation | |
n.区别,区分 | |
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361 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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362 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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363 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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364 intoxicates | |
使喝醉(intoxicate的第三人称单数形式) | |
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365 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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366 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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367 weaver | |
n.织布工;编织者 | |
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368 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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369 purging | |
清洗; 清除; 净化; 洗炉 | |
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370 lapses | |
n.失误,过失( lapse的名词复数 );小毛病;行为失检;偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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371 prolixity | |
n.冗长,罗嗦 | |
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372 repel | |
v.击退,抵制,拒绝,排斥 | |
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373 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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374 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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375 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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376 piquancy | |
n.辛辣,辣味,痛快 | |
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377 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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378 disillusioning | |
使不再抱幻想,使理想破灭( disillusion的现在分词 ) | |
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379 incompetence | |
n.不胜任,不称职 | |
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380 intensifying | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的现在分词 );增辉 | |
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381 lark | |
n.云雀,百灵鸟;n.嬉戏,玩笑;vi.嬉戏 | |
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382 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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383 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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384 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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385 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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386 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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387 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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388 technically | |
adv.专门地,技术上地 | |
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389 crescendi | |
n.(声音)渐强( crescendo的名词复数 ) | |
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390 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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391 epitome | |
n.典型,梗概 | |
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392 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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393 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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394 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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395 savagery | |
n.野性 | |
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396 apprentices | |
学徒,徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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397 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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398 outgrown | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的过去分词 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
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399 durable | |
adj.持久的,耐久的 | |
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400 curbed | |
v.限制,克制,抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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402 Buddha | |
n.佛;佛像;佛陀 | |
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403 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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404 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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405 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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406 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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407 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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408 mythical | |
adj.神话的;虚构的;想像的 | |
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409 loathed | |
v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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410 negation | |
n.否定;否认 | |
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411 adherents | |
n.支持者,拥护者( adherent的名词复数 );党羽;徒子徒孙 | |
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412 discredited | |
不足信的,不名誉的 | |
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413 detests | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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414 epithet | |
n.(用于褒贬人物等的)表述形容词,修饰语 | |
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415 pawnbroking | |
n.典当业 | |
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416 subscribe | |
vi.(to)订阅,订购;同意;vt.捐助,赞助 | |
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417 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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418 dissent | |
n./v.不同意,持异议 | |
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419 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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420 withholding | |
扣缴税款 | |
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421 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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422 mariners | |
海员,水手(mariner的复数形式) | |
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423 seamen | |
n.海员 | |
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424 stewards | |
(轮船、飞机等的)乘务员( steward的名词复数 ); (俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的)管理员; (大型活动的)组织者; (私人家中的)管家 | |
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425 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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426 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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427 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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428 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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429 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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430 sketches | |
n.草图( sketch的名词复数 );素描;速写;梗概 | |
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431 contrition | |
n.悔罪,痛悔 | |
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432 purged | |
清除(政敌等)( purge的过去式和过去分词 ); 涤除(罪恶等); 净化(心灵、风气等); 消除(错事等)的不良影响 | |
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433 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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434 oarless | |
adj.无桨的 | |
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435 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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436 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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437 underlying | |
adj.在下面的,含蓄的,潜在的 | |
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438 simplicities | |
n.简单,朴素,率直( simplicity的名词复数 ) | |
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439 inexplicably | |
adv.无法说明地,难以理解地,令人难以理解的是 | |
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440 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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441 chromaticism | |
n.半音音阶的使用,富有半音音阶的音乐作风 | |
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442 amplification | |
n.扩大,发挥 | |
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443 derive | |
v.取得;导出;引申;来自;源自;出自 | |
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444 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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445 adoption | |
n.采用,采纳,通过;收养 | |
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446 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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447 allusive | |
adj.暗示的;引用典故的 | |
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448 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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449 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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450 joints | |
接头( joint的名词复数 ); 关节; 公共场所(尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所) (非正式); 一块烤肉 (英式英语) | |
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451 pivots | |
n.枢( pivot的名词复数 );最重要的人(或事物);中心;核心v.(似)在枢轴上转动( pivot的第三人称单数 );把…放在枢轴上;以…为核心,围绕(主旨)展开 | |
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452 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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453 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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454 staple | |
n.主要产物,常用品,主要要素,原料,订书钉,钩环;adj.主要的,重要的;vt.分类 | |
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455 recoil | |
vi.退却,退缩,畏缩 | |
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456 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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457 mule | |
n.骡子,杂种,执拗的人 | |
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458 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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459 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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460 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
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461 stimuli | |
n.刺激(物) | |
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462 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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463 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
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464 temperate | |
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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465 eruption | |
n.火山爆发;(战争等)爆发;(疾病等)发作 | |
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466 upheaval | |
n.胀起,(地壳)的隆起;剧变,动乱 | |
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467 presage | |
n.预感,不祥感;v.预示 | |
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468 titanic | |
adj.巨人的,庞大的,强大的 | |
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469 glaciers | |
冰河,冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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470 precipices | |
n.悬崖,峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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471 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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472 genre | |
n.(文学、艺术等的)类型,体裁,风格 | |
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473 crutch | |
n.T字形拐杖;支持,依靠,精神支柱 | |
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