In Goethe's verses entitled "Harzreise im Winter," thoughts lie
scattered about like erratic strata in the world of geology, and
feelings that are as big and terrible as the flames from burning
planets. In Daniel's work the whole of Goethe's prodigious sorrow and
solemnity seemed to have been transformed automatically into music.
When, in the second half, the motif of human voices was taken over, when
these voices pealed forth first singly, one by one, from the surging
sea of tones, and then gathered with ever-increasing avidity, longing,
and candour into the great chorus, one had the feeling that without this
liberation they would have been stifled in the darkness.
The effect of the pianissimo moaning of the basses before the soprano
set in was overwhelming: it was like the vulture which, resting with
easy wing on the dark morning cloud, spies around for booty. So was the
song meant to be. The trombone solo was a shout of victory: it imparted
new life to the sunken orchestra.
Daniel had infinite trouble in making all this wealth of symbolic art
clear through song, word, and gesture at the same time that his music
was being played.
The work abounded in blends and half tones which stamped it as a child
of its age, and still more of ages to come, despite the compact rigidity
of its architecture. There was no bared sweetness in it; it was as rough
as the bark of a tree; it was as rough as anything that is created with
the assurance of inner durability.
Its rhythm was uniform, regular; it provided only for crescendos. There
was nothing of the seductive, nothing of the waltz-fever in it. It was
in no way cheap; it did not flatter slothful ears. It had no languishing
motifs; it was all substance and exterior. The melody was concealed like
a hard kernel in a thick shell; and not merely concealed: it was
divided, and then the divisions were themselves divided. It was
condensed, compressed, bound, and at the same time subterranean. It was
created to rise from its depths, rejoice, and overwhelm: "But clothe the
lonely one in thy clouds of gold! Enshroud with ivy until the roses
bloom again, oh Love, the dampened hair of thy poet!"
The work was written a quarter of a century before its time. It was out
of touch with the nerves of its contemporary environment. It could not
hope to count upon a prophet or an interpreter. It could not be carried
further by the benevolence of congenial champions. It bore the marks of
mortal neglect. It was like a bird from the tropics left to die on the
icy coasts of Greenland.
But for those who are near in heart there is a fluid in the air that
intercedes for the higher truth. M. Riviere and Eleanore scarcely
breathed during the recital. Eleanore's big eyes were still: they opened
and closed slowly. When Daniel finished, he dried his hot brow with his
handkerchief, and then his arms fell limp at his sides. He felt as if
the brilliancy of Eleanore's eyes had reached the tips of his hair and
had electrified it.
"Enshroud with ivy, until the roses bloom again, oh Love, the dampened
hair of thy poet!"
"It is impossible to get an idea of it," murmured Daniel; "the piano is
like an instrument of torture."
They were struck by peculiar sounds coming from the living room. They
went in, and found Gertrude pale as death, her hands folded across her
bosom, sitting on the sofa. She was talking to herself, partly as if in
a dream, partly as if she were praying. It was impossible to understand
what she was saying. She seemed distant, estranged.
Eleanore hastened to her; Daniel looked at her with a scowl. Just then
the bell rang, and M. Riviere went out. There was the sound of a man's
voice; it was disagreeable. The door was opened and--Herr Carovius
entered.