music especially, mistakes the grotesque for the genial, and the
formless for the sublime" (p. 428). It is true that a critic as severe
as Gervinus was gave this work a hearty welcome, because it happened
to confirm one of his doctrines; but Strauss is "far from going to
these problematic productions" in search of the merits of his
Beethoven. "It is a pity," cries our Master, with a convulsive sigh,
"that one is compelled, by such reservations, to mar one's enjoyment
of Beethoven, as well as the admiration gladly accorded to him." For
our Master is a favourite of the Graces, and these have informed him
that they only accompanied Beethoven part of the way, and that he then
lost sight of them. "This is a defect," he cries, "but can you believe
that it may also appear as an advantage?" "He who is painfully and
breathlessly rolling the musical idea along will seem to be moving the
weightier one, and thus appear to be the stronger" (pp. 423-24). This
is a confession, and not necessarily one concerning Beethoven alone,
but concerning "the classical prose-writer" himself. He, the
celebrated author, is not abandoned by the Graces. From the play of
airy jests--that is to say, Straussian jests-- to the heights of
solemn earnestness--that is to say, Straussian earnestness--they
remain stolidly at his elbow. He, the classical prose-writer, slides
his burden along playfully and with a light heart, whereas Beethoven
rolls his painfully and breathlessly. He seems merely to dandle his
load; this is indeed an advantage. But would anybody believe that it
might equally be a sign of something wanting? In any case, only those
could believe this who mistake the grotesque for the genial, and the
formless for the sublime--is not that so, you dandling favourite of
the Graces? We envy no one the edifying moments he may have, either in
the stillness of his little private room or in a new heaven specially
fitted out for him; but of all possible pleasures of this order, that
of Strauss's is surely one of the most wonderful, for he is even