wrought and of distinct and varied individuality. His chief
instrumental[286] works comprise a _Wallenstein Trilogy_ (three
symphonic poems based on Schiller's drama) notable for descriptive
power and orchestral effect; a Symphony for orchestra and pianoforte
on a mountain air[287]--one of his best works, because the folk-song
basis furnishes a melodic warmth which elsewhere is sometimes lacking;
a set of Symphonic Variations on the Assyrian legend of Istar; a
remarkable Sonata for violin and pianoforte; a String-Quartet, all the
movements of which are based on a motto of four notes, and lastly the
Symphony in B-flat major--considered his masterpiece--in which the
same process of development from generative motives is followed as in
Cesar Franck. All these works contain certain salient characteristics
proceeding directly from d'Indy's imagination and intellect. There is
always an ideal and noble purpose, a stoutly knit musical fabric and
melodies--d'Indy's own melodies, sincerely felt and beautifully
presented. Whether they have abounding power to move the heart of the
listener is, indeed, the point at issue. Since d'Indy is on record as
saying, "There is in art, truly, nothing but the heart that can
produce beauty," it is evident that he believes in the emotional
element in music. That there is a difference of opinion however, as to
what makes emotional power is shown by his estimate of Brahms (set
forth in his _Cours de Composition Musicale_, pp. 415-416) in the
statement that, though Brahms is a fine workman, his music lacks the
power to touch the heart (faire vibrer le coeur). There is no doubt
that, in any question of Brahms versus d'Indy, such has not been the
verdict of outside opinion. D'Indy is admired and respected, whereas
Brahms has won the love of those who know him; and the truth in the
saying, "Securus judicat orbis terrarum" is surely difficult to
contravene. D'Indy's melodies can always be minutely analysed[288] and
they justify the test; but we submit that the great melodies of the
world speak to us in more direct fashion. For there is, in his music,
a seriousness which at times becomes somewhat austere. He seems so
afraid of writing pretty tunes or ear-tickling music, that we often
miss a sensuous, emotional warmth. He hates the commonplace,
cultivating the ideal and religion of beauty. Bruneau, himself a noted
French critic and composer, says, "No one will deny his surprising
technique or his unsurpa