llous mystery of the Tone-Art that, just where language comes to
an end, _she_ is only beginning to disclose a perennial fountain of fresh
forms of expression.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'Then what the opera-poet has to do is--to strive to
attain the utmost simplicity, as far as the words are concerned; it
will be enough to _suggest_ the situation, in clear and forcible
language.'

"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly: because the composer has to draw his inspiration
from the matter, the business and the situation--not from the words.
And not only is imagery to be avoided, but everything in the shape of a
reflection is a bugbear to the composer.'

"_Ferdinand_. 'After what you have said, I can assure you it seems to
be anything but an easy matter to write an opera text. Now, this
indispensable simpleness of the language; I can't say that I quite see
how to----'

"_Ludwig_. 'How to accomplish it! No! You are so fond of painting with
words, and so accustomed to it. But though Metastasio (as I think) has
exemplified in his librettos how opera texts ought _not_ to be written,
there are quantities of Italian poems which are absolute models of
words for music. For instance take the lines, known to the whole world,
no doubt:

"Almen si non poss' io
Seguir l'amato bene,
Affetti del cor mio
Seguite-lo per me!"

What can be simpler? Yet, in these few, unpretending words lies the
suggestion, or indication, of love and sorrow which the composer
comprehends, and can apply all the resources of musical expression to
represent. The particular situation in which the words are to be sung
will so stir his imagination that he will give the music the most
individual character. And this is why you will often find that a
poetical composer sets words that are wretched enough to admirable
music. In such cases what inspired him was that the matter was
genuinely suitable for opera; and as an instance I merely mention
Mozart's "Zauberfloete."'

"Ferdinand was going to reply, when, outside the windows, down in the
street, the drums were heard beating the _generale_. This seemed to
wake him to the sense of present duty as with an electric shock. Ludwig
shook him warmly by the hand.

"'Ah, Ferdinand,' he cried, 'what is to become of Art in these terrible
times? Won't it die, like some delicate plant lifting its languid head
towards the clouds beyond which the sun has disappeared? Ah! Where are
the golden days when we w