edified by a little holocaust. He calmly throws the sublimest works of
the German nation into the flames, in order to cense his idols with
their smoke. Suppose, for a moment, that by some accident, the Eroica,
the Pastoral, and the Ninth Symphony had fallen into the hands of our
priest of the Graces, and that it had been in his power to suppress
such problematic productions, in order to keep the image of the Master
pure, who doubts but what he would have burned them? And it is
precisely in this way that the Strausses of our time demean
themselves: they only wish to know so much of an artist as is
compatible with the service of their rooms; they know only the
extremes-- censing or burning. To all this they are heartily welcome;
the one surprising feature of the whole case is that public opinion,
in matters artistic, should be so feeble, vacillating, and corruptible
as contentedly to allow these exhibitions of indigent Philistinism to
go by without raising an objection; yea, that it does not even possess
sufficient sense of humour to feel tickled at the sight of an
unaesthetic little master's sitting in judgment upon Beethoven. As to
Mozart, what Aristotle says of Plato ought really to be applied here:
"Insignificant people ought not to be permitted even to praise him."
In this respect, however, all shame has vanished--from the public as
well as from the Master's mind: he is allowed, not merely to cross
himself before the greatest and purest creations of German genius, as
though he had perceived something godless and immoral in them, but
people actually rejoice over his candid confessions and admission of
sins--more particularly as he makes no mention of his own, but only of
those which great men are said to have committed. Oh, if only our
Master be in the right! his readers sometimes think, when attacked by
a paroxysm of doubt; he himself, however, stands there, smiling and
convinced, perorating, condemning, blessing, raising his hat to
himself, and is at any minute capable of saying what the Duchesse