“The Wagnerites wouldn’t think so. It is melody. Therefore it is—good enough for the uninitiated, perhaps—but not to be put up with by people of serious musical cultivation. The only passages in Wagner’s own work that his disciples take exception to, are those where, in a fit of artistic obliquity, he has become truly melodious. Here, they think, he has been guilty of backsliding. His melodies were the short-comings of genius—pardonable, in consideration of their infrequency, but in no wise to be commended. The further he gets away from the old standards of excellence—the more perplexing, complicated, artificial, soporific, he becomes—the better are his enthusiasts pleased. The other day I was talking with one of them, and in the desire to say something pleasant, I spoke of how supremely beautiful the Pilgrim’s Chorus is in Tannhâuser. A look of sadness fell upon my friend’s face, and I saw that I had blundered. ’Ah,’ she cried, ’don’t speak of that. It makes my heart ache to think that the master could have let himself down to any thing so trivial.’ That’s their pet word—trivial. Whenever a theme is comprehensible, they dispose of it as trivial.”
Arthur laughed and said, “It is evident to what school you belong. For my part, I always suspect that when a composer disdains to write melodies, it is a case of sour grapes.”
“Yes, he lacks the inventive faculty, and then affects to despise it,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “My taste is very old-fashioned. Of course every body must recognize Wagner’s greatness, and must appreciate him in his best moods. But when he cuts loose from all the established laws of composition—well, I heard my sentiments neatly expressed once by Signor Zacchinelli, the maestro. ’It is ze music of ze future?’ he inquired. ’Zen I am glad I shall be dead.’ Smiting his breast he went on, ’I want somezing to make me feel good here.’ That’s the trouble. Except when Wagner abides by the old traditions, he never makes one feel good here. The pleasure he affords is intellectual rather than emotional. He amazes you by the intricate harmonies he constructs, but he doesn’t touch your heart. Now and then he forgets himself—is borne away from his theories on the wings of an inspiration—and then he is superb.”
“I wonder,” Arthur asked, by and by, “whether you can tell me what it was that you sang the evening I first heard you. It was more than a week ago—a week ago Friday. At about sunset time, we were out on our roof, and you sang something that I had never heard before,—something soft and plaintive, with a refrain that went like this——” humming a bar or two of the refrain. “Oh, that? Did you like that?”
“I did, indeed. I thought it was exquisite.”
“I am glad, because it is a favorite of my own. It’s an old French folk-song, arranged by Bizet. The title is Le Voile d’une Religieuse.”
“I wish I could hear it again. I can’t tell you how charming it was to sit there in the open air, and watch the sunset, and listen to that song. Only, it was so exasperating not to be able to see the songstress. Won’t you be persuaded to sing it now? I’m sure you are not too tired to sing that.”
“What? Here? I should never be absolved. The auditors—I dare not fancy what the effect upon them might be. That song, of all things! Why, it is worse than Schubert.—But seriously,” she added, gravely, “I could not bear to expose any thing so dear to me as my music is, to the ridicule it would provoke from the Wagnerites. It hurts me keenly to hear a song that I love, picked to pieces, and made light of, and tossed to the winds. It hurts me just as keenly to hear it praised insincerely—merely for politeness’ sake. Music—true music—is like prayer. It is too sacred to—you know what I mean—to be laid bare to the contempt of unbelievers.”
“Yes, indeed, like prayer. It is the most perfect vehicle of expression for one’s deepest, most solemn feelings—that and——”
“And poetry.”