ealized. It is formally impure, a thing that none of the earlier
tone-poems are. Neither style nor shape are deeply felt. Both are
superficially and externally conceived; and nothing so conclusively
demonstrates it as the extreme ineffectually of the moments of contrast
with which Strauss has attempted to relieve the dominant mood of his
work. Just as in "Salome" the more restless and sensual passages, lazily
felt as they are, are nevertheless infinitely more significant than the
intensely contrasting silly music assigned to the Prophet, so, too, in
"Elektra," the moments when Strauss is cruel, brutal, ugly are of a much
higher expressiveness than those in which he has sought to write
beautifully. For whereas in moments of the first sort the lions of the
Mycenae gates do at times snarl and glower, in those of the second it is
the Teutonic beer-mug that makes itself felt. Elektra laments her father
in a very pretty and undistinguished melody, and entreats her sister to
slay Klytemnaestra to the accompaniment of a sort of _valse perverse_. It
is also in _tempo di valse_ that Chrysothemis declares her need of
wifehood and motherhood. As an organism the work does not exist.

But even the expressiveness and considerability of "Salome" and
"Elektra," limited and unsatisfactory as they are, are wanting in the
more recent works. With "Der Rosenkavalier," Strauss seems to have
reached a condition in which it is impossible for him to penetrate a
subject deeply. No doubt he always was spotty, even though in his golden
days he invariably fixed the inner informing binding rhythm of each of
his works. But his last works are not only spotty, but completely
spineless as well, invertebrate masses upon which a few jewels, a few
fine patches, gleam dully. "Salome" and "Elektra" had at least a certain
dignity, a certain bearing. "Der Rosenkavalier," "Ariadne auf Naxos,"
"Joseph's Legende" and "Eine Alpensymphonie" are makeshift, slack,
slovenly despite all technical virtuosity, all orchestral marvels. Every
one knows what the score of "Rosenkavalier" should have been, a gay,
florid, licentious thing, the very image of the gallant century with its
mundane amours and ribbons and cupids, its _petit-maitres_ and furbelows
and _billets-doux_, its light emotions and equally light surrenders. But
Strauss's music is singularly flat and hollow and dun, joyless and
soggy, even though it is dotted with waltzes and contains the delightful
introduction