elirious, waiting for the
vessel that brings Isolde and death--or we may take the Prelude, that
expression of eternal desire that is like a restless sea for ever
moaning and beating itself upon the shore.

* * * * *

The quality that touches me most deeply in _Tristan_ is the evidence of
honesty and sincerity in a man who was treated by his enemies as a
charlatan that used superficial and grossly material means to arrest and
amaze the public eye. What drama is more sober or more disdainful of
exterior effect than _Tristan_? Its restraint is almost carried to
excess. Wagner rejected any picturesque episode in it that was
irrelevant to his subject. The man who carried all Nature in his
imagination, who at his will made the storms of the _Walkuere_ rage, or
the soft light of Good Friday shine, would not even depict a bit of the
sea round the vessel in the first act. Believe me, that must have been a
sacrifice, though he wished it so. It pleased him to enclose this
terrible drama within the four walls of a chamber of tragedy. There are
hardly any choruses; there is nothing to distract one's attention from
the mystery of human souls; there are only two real parts--those of the
lovers; and if there is a third, it belongs to Destiny, into whose hands
the victims are delivered. What a fine seriousness there is in this love
play. Its passion remains sombre and stern; there is no laughter in it,
only a belief which is almost religious, more religious perhaps in its
sincerity than that of _Parsifal_.

It is a lesson for dramatists to see a man suppressing all frivolous
trifling and empty episodes in order to concentrate his subject entirely
on the inner life of two living souls. In that Wagner is our master, a
better, stronger, and more profitable master to follow, in spite of his
mistakes, than all the other literary and dramatic authors of his time.

* * * * *

I see that criticism has filled a larger place in these notes than I
meant it to do. But in spite of that, I love _Tristan_; for me and for
others of my time it has long been an intoxicating draught. And it has
never lost anything of its grandeur; the years have left its beauty
untouched, and it is for me the highest point of art reached by anyone
since Beethoven's death.

But as I was listening to it the other evening I could not help
thinking: Ah, Wagner, you will one day go too, and join Gluck and Bach