It was a German critic of acuity who said of the music of Tristan and
Isolde, “The thrills relieve each other in squads.” Wagner certainly
touched the top-notch of his almost boundless imaginings in this
supreme apotheosis of lyric ecstasy. A scorching sirocco for the soul
are the tremendous blasts of this work. Nothing has ever been written
that is comparable with it in intensity, and it is safe to predict
that future generations will not hear its double. Wagner declared
that when he wrote it he could not have composed it otherwise; it is
full blown with his imperfections, his glaring excellences, his noble
turgidity, his lack of frugality, his economy of resource, his dazzling
prodigality, his riotous tonal debaucheries, his soggy prolixity and
his superhuman fascinations.
All that may be urged against Wagner’s ways I am, perforce, compelled
to acknowledge. He is all that his musical enemies say, and much
more; but how wilted are theories when in the full current of this
tropical simoon! I have steeled myself repeatedly when about to listen
to “Tristan and Isolde” and summoned up all my prejudices, bade my
feeble faculties perform their task of analysis, but am breathless and
vanquished before the curtain rises.
What boots it, then, to gird critically at an art, a devilish, demoniac
art that enchants, thrills and makes mock of all spiritual theories
about the divine in music? Here it is no longer on the heights as in
Beethoven’s realm. The philosophy of Schopenhauer hurled at your head
in the pessimistic dualism of the famous love scene availeth not to
stem the turbulent, sensuous torrent. Tristan and Isolde is the last
word, the very deification of carnalism. Call it what pretty titles
you may, wreathe the theme with the garlands of poetic fancy, the
stark naked fact stares at you--a strong, brutal, fact. It is the man
and the woman, nothing more, nothing less. The love potion does but
unloosen their tongues, for both were mute lovers before Brangäne
juggled with the fatal brew. Not in the sacred writings of the Jews,
not in Shakespeare, are expressed such frenetic passions. The songs of
Solomon are mildly Virgilian in comparison. This distinction must be
conferred upon Wagner; he is the greatest poet of passion the world has
yet encountered. As fiercely erotic as Swinburne, with Swinburne’s
matchless art, he has a more eloquent, a more potent instrument than
words; he has the orchestra that thunders, surges and searches out the
very heart of love. A mighty master, but a dangerous guide.
I am not an ardent admirer of all the Wagnerian play-books. There is
much that is puerile, much that is formless, and many scenes are too
long. It was Louis Ehlert who said that nothing but the sword would
suffice, and an heroic sword, to lop off superfluities. To the argument
that much lovely music is bound to be sacrificed by such a summary
proceeding, let the answer be--sacrifice it. “The play’s the thing;”
dramatic form must come first, else the whole Wagnerian framework
topples groundward.
If you consider, you will discover that Tristan is not the protagonist
of this fiery soul drama. He accepts the potion in the first act, gets
stabbed in the second, and tears the bandage from his wound in the
third. Isolde is the more absorbing figure. It is her enormous passion
that breaks the barricades of knightly honor and reserve. She it is who
extinguishes the torch that signals Tristan. She summons him with her
scarf; she meets him more than half-way; she dares all, loses and gains
all.
She is not timid, nor does she believe in prudent measures. Shakespeare
in Juliet, Ibsen in Hedda Gabler, never went such lengths. I think
that to Wagner must be awarded the honor of discovering the new woman.
Isolde’s key is high-pitched from the outset. And with what superb
wrath she cries:
“Destroy this proud ship, swallow its shattered fragments and all that
dwells upon it; the floating breath I will give you, O winds, as a
reward”! And Wagner has wedded this dramatic invocation to magnificent
music.
The composer often, in the intense absorption of creation, forgot the
existence of the Kantean categories of space and time. It requires
strong nerves to sit out Tristan and Isolde with unflagging interest;
not because it bores, but because it literally drains you of your
physical and psychical powers. The world seems drab after this huge
draught that Wagner proffers us in an exquisitely carved and chased
chalice, but one far too large for average human capacity. He has
raised many degrees the pitch of passion, and this work, which I think
is his most perfect flowering, sets the key for all future composers.
Let Nordau call us degenerates and our geniuses mattoids, we can endure
it. We are the slaves of our age, and we adore Wagner because he moves
us, thrills and thralls us. His may not be the most spiritual art, but
it is the most completely fascinating.