ike the
_Dutchman_, is all of a piece, and is, moreover, the prelude to a huge
drama. When we come to _Siegfried_ we see at once how he was planning
his music on a still vaster scale: the atmosphere of _Siegfried_ is in
contrast, almost violent contrast, with that of the _Valkyrie_. The
music of the last act of the _Valkyrie_ is of a different character
altogether from that of the beginning of _Siegfried_. This is not
merely due to the development of Wagner's genius and his technical
power, but can be shown to be deliberately planned. Indeed, it ought
not to need any demonstration, knowing as we do know his knowledge and
grip of what is effective in the theatre. It would be absurd to
suppose that he was not perfectly well aware that every one would yawn
if after hearing the _Valkyrie_ his audience found _Siegfried_ to be
simply a continuation of the _Valkyrie_, found the two operas to be
virtually the same work with the scissors put through the score at an
arbitrarily chosen point. Consider the scenery of the two operas:
First Act of the _Valkyrie_, Hunding's hut with the smouldering fire;
Second, a rocky defile in the mountains and no particular weather;
Third, storm round the Valkyries' rock, black flying clouds, the pines
tossing their branches to the tempest, and, at the end, a peaceful
evening sky and then the yellow flames shooting up against it. We must
note the change to the beginning of _Siegfried_: a dark cave, and
outside it the forest, green, fresh and bright; Second Act, the
entrance to Hate-cave, time, night, long before dawn, and at the end a
summer morning, with the sun shimmering on the grass and the trees
gently murmuring in the wind; Third, a rocky ravine in the early
morning, grey storm-clouds scudding past, the wind whistling; at the
end, a mountain top, Bruennhilda sleeping, the peaceful trees, a horse
quietly grazing, morning sunlight. This sequence shows how carefully
the matter was schemed; and we may now turn to the music.

When the same leitmotivs are largely employed throughout a long
operatic work there must be a superficial, or, if I may say so,
external, monotony in the character of the music. A first glance at
the scores reveals to the eye the same series of notes and chords
repeated again and again; to any but the most attentive listener a
first hearing leaves the impression of the same themes and passages
endlessly repeated. But any one who leaves the theatre on an evening
after the _V