ly to the inner vision. The worst foolishness is to
present two visions--one for the eyes and one for the spirit. Nearly
always they kill each other.

The other argument urged against the symphony with a programme is the
pretended classical argument (it is not really classical at all).
"Music," they say, "is not meant to express definite subjects; it is
only fitted for vague ideas. The more indefinite it is, the greater its
power, and the more it suggests." I ask, What is an indefinite art? What
is a vague art? Do not the two words contradict each other? Can this
strange combination exist at all? Can an artist write anything that he
does not clearly conceive? Do people think he composes at random as his
genius whispers to him? One must at least say this: A symphony of
Beethoven's is a "definite" work down to its innermost folds; and
Beethoven had, if not an exact knowledge, at least a clear intuition of
what he was about. His last quartets are descriptive symphonies of his
soul, and very differently carried out from Berlioz's symphonies. Wagner
was able to analyse one of the former under the name of "A Day with
Beethoven." Beethoven was always trying to translate into music the
depths of his heart, the subtleties of his spirit, which are not to be
explained clearly by words, but which are as definite as words--in fact,
more definite; for a word, being an abstract thing, sums up many
experiences and comprehends many different meanings. Music is a hundred
times more expressive and exact than speech; and it is not only her
right to express particular emotions and subjects, it is her duty. If
that duty is not fulfilled, the result is not music--it is nothing at
all.

Berlioz is thus the true inheritor of Beethoven's thought. The
difference between a work like _Romeo_ and one of Beethoven's symphonies
is that the former, it would seem, endeavours to express objective
emotions and subjects in music. I do not see why music should not follow
poetry in getting away from introspection and trying to paint the drama
of the universe. Shakespeare is as good as Dante. Besides, one may add,
it is always Berlioz himself that is discovered in his music: it is his
soul starving for love and mocked at by shadows which is revealed
through all the scenes of _Romeo_.

I will not prolong a discussion where so many things must be left
unsaid. But I would suggest that, once and for all, we get rid of these
absurd endeavours to fence in art. D