How clever it was of my friend to read no further, once he had been
enlightened (thanks to that chimerical vision) concerning the
Straussian Lessing and Strauss himself. We, however, read on further,
and even craved admission of the Doorkeeper of the New Faith to the
sanctum of music. The Master threw the door open for us, accompanied
us, and began quoting certain names, until, at last, overcome with
mistrust, we stood still and looked at him. Was it possible that we
were the victims of the same hallucination as that to which our friend
had been subjected in his dream? The musicians to whom Strauss
referred seemed to us to be wrongly designated as long as he spoke
about them, and we began to think that the talk must certainly be
about somebody else, even admitting that it did not relate to
incongruous phantoms. When, for instance, he mentioned Haydn with that
same warmth which made us so suspicious when he praised Lessing, and
when he posed as the epopt and priest of a mysterious Haydn cult;
when, in a discussion upon quartette-music, if you please, he even
likened Haydn to a "good unpretending soup" and Beethoven to
"sweetmeats" (p. 432); then, to our minds, one thing, and one thing
alone, became certain--namely, that his Sweetmeat-Beethoven is not our
Beethoven, and his Soup-Haydn is not our Haydn. The Master was
moreover of the opinion that our orchestra is too good to perform
Haydn, and that only the most unpretentious amateurs can do justice to
that music--a further proof that he was referring to some other artist
and some other work, possibly to Riehl's music for the home.
But whoever can this Sweetmeat-Beethoven of Strauss's be? He is said
to have composed nine symphonies, of which the Pastoral is "the least
remarkable"; we are told that "each time in composing the third, he
seemed impelled to exceed his bounds, and depart on an adventurous
quest," from which we might infer that we are here concerned with a
sort of double monster, half horse and half cavalier. With regard to a
certain Eroica, this Centaur is very hard pressed, because he did not
succeed in making it clear "whether it is a question of a conflict on
the open field or in the deep heart of man." In the Pastoral there is
said to be "a furiously raging storm," for which it is "almost too
insignificant" to interrupt a dance of country-folk, and which, owing
to "its arbitrary connection with a trivial motive," as Strauss so
adroitly and correctly puts it, renders this symphony "the least
remarkable." A more drastic expression appears to have occurred to the
Master; but he prefers to speak here, as he says, "with becoming
modesty." But no, for once our Master is wrong; in this case he is
really a little too modest. Who, indeed, will enlighten us concerning
this Sweetmeat-Beethoven, if not Strauss himself--the only person who
seems to know anything about him? But, immediately below, a strong
judgment is uttered with becoming non-modesty, and precisely in regard
to the Ninth Symphony. It is said, for instance, that this symphony
"is naturally the favourite of a prevalent taste, which in art, and
music especially, mistakes the grotesque for the genial, and the
formless for the sublime" (p. 428). It is true that a critic as severe
as Gervinus was gave this work a hearty welcome, because it happened
to confirm one of his doctrines; but Strauss is "far from going to
these problematic productions" in search of the merits of his
Beethoven. "It is a pity," cries our Master, with a convulsive sigh,
"that one is compelled, by such reservations, to mar one's enjoyment
of Beethoven, as well as the admiration gladly accorded to him." For
our Master is a favourite of the Graces, and these have informed him
that they only accompanied Beethoven part of the way, and that he then
lost sight of them. "This is a defect," he cries, "but can you believe
that it may also appear as an advantage?" "He who is painfully and
breathlessly rolling the musical idea along will seem to be moving the
weightier one, and thus appear to be the stronger" (pp. 423-24). This
is a confession, and not necessarily one concerning Beethoven alone,
but concerning "the classical prose-writer" himself. He, the
celebrated author, is not abandoned by the Graces. From the play of
airy jests--that is to say, Straussian jests-- to the heights of
solemn earnestness--that is to say, Straussian earnestness--they
remain stolidly at his elbow. He, the classical prose-writer, slides
his burden along playfully and with a light heart, whereas Beethoven
rolls his painfully and breathlessly. He seems merely to dandle his
load; this is indeed an advantage. But would anybody believe that it
might equally be a sign of something wanting? In any case, only those
could believe this who mistake the grotesque for the genial, and the
formless for the sublime--is not that so, you dandling favourite of
the Graces? We envy no one the edifying moments he may have, either in
the stillness of his little private room or in a new heaven specially
fitted out for him; but of all possible pleasures of this order, that
of Strauss's is surely one of the most wonderful, for he is even
edified by a little holocaust. He calmly throws the sublimest works of
the German nation into the flames, in order to cense his idols with
their smoke. Suppose, for a moment, that by some accident, the Eroica,
the Pastoral, and the Ninth Symphony had fallen into the hands of our
priest of the Graces, and that it had been in his power to suppress
such problematic productions, in order to keep the image of the Master
pure, who doubts but what he would have burned them? And it is
precisely in this way that the Strausses of our time demean
themselves: they only wish to know so much of an artist as is
compatible with the service of their rooms; they know only the
extremes-- censing or burning. To all this they are heartily welcome;
the one surprising feature of the whole case is that public opinion,
in matters artistic, should be so feeble, vacillating, and corruptible
as contentedly to allow these exhibitions of indigent Philistinism to
go by without raising an objection; yea, that it does not even possess
sufficient sense of humour to feel tickled at the sight of an
unaesthetic little master's sitting in judgment upon Beethoven. As to
Mozart, what Aristotle says of Plato ought really to be applied here:
"Insignificant people ought not to be permitted even to praise him."
In this respect, however, all shame has vanished--from the public as
well as from the Master's mind: he is allowed, not merely to cross
himself before the greatest and purest creations of German genius, as
though he had perceived something godless and immoral in them, but
people actually rejoice over his candid confessions and admission of
sins--more particularly as he makes no mention of his own, but only of
those which great men are said to have committed. Oh, if only our
Master be in the right! his readers sometimes think, when attacked by
a paroxysm of doubt; he himself, however, stands there, smiling and
convinced, perorating, condemning, blessing, raising his hat to
himself, and is at any minute capable of saying what the Duchesse
Delaforte said to Madame de Staël, to wit: "My dear, I must confess
that I find no one but myself invariably right."