in the path made
by Brahms, he soon came under the influence of Liszt, and we were
given a chaplet of tone-poems, sheer programme-music, but cast in a
bigger and more flexible mould than the thrice-familiar Liszt pattern.
Whatever fate is reserved for Death and Transfiguration, Till
Eulenspiegel, Also Sprach Zarathustra, Hero's Life, and Don Quixote,
there is no denying their significance during the last decade of the
nineteenth century. For me it seemed a decided step backward when
Strauss entered the operatic field. One so conspicuously rich in the
gift of music-making (for the titles of his symphonies never prevented
us from enjoying their colouring and eloquence) might have avoided the
more facile triumphs of the stage. However, Elektra needs no apology,
and the joyous Rosenkavalier is a distinct addition to the repertory
of high-class musical comedy. Strauss is an experimenter and no doubt
a man for whom the visible box-office exists, to parody a saying of
Gautier's. But we must judge him by his own highest standard, the
standard of Elektra, Don Quixote, and Till Eulenspiegel, not to
mention the beautiful songs. Ariadne on Naxos was a not particularly
successful experiment, and what the Alp Symphony will prove to be we
may only surmise. Probably this versatile tone-poet has said his best.
He is not a second Richard Wagner, not yet has he the charm of the
Lizst personality, but he bulks too large in contemporary history to
be called a decadent, although in the precise meaning of the word,
without its stupid misinterpretation, he is a decadent inasmuch as he
dwells with emphasis on the technique of his composition, sacrificing
the whole for the page, putting the phrase above the page, and the
single note in equal competition with the phrase. In a word, Richard
Strauss is a romantic, and flies the red flag of his faith. He has not
followed the advice of Paul Verlaine in taking eloquence by the neck
and wringing it. He is nothing if not eloquent and expressive,
magnifying his Bavarian song-birds to the size of Alpine eagles. The
newer choir has avoided the very things in which Strauss has excelled,
for that way lie repetition and satiety. [Since writing the above,
Strauss has given the world his ballet The Legend of Joseph, in which
he has said nothing novel, but has with his customary skill mixed anew
the old compound of glittering colours and sultry, exotic harmonies.]

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Ho