demic
straw. M. France disclaimed all authority--he, most erudite among
critics; M. Brunetiere praised impersonality in criticism--he, the
most personal among writers--not a pleasing or expansive personality,
be it understood; but, narrow as he was, his personality shone out
from every page.

Now, says Mr. Robertson, why not ask every critic about to bring forth
an opinion for a sort of chart on which will be shown his various
qualities of mind, character; yes, and even his physical temperament;
whether sanguine or melancholic, bilious or eupeptic, young or old,
peaceful or truculent; also his tastes in literature, art, music,
politics, and religion. This reminds one of an old-fashioned game. And
all this long-winded preamble is to tell you that the case of Arnold
Schoenberg, musical anarchist, and an Austrian composer who has at
once aroused the ire and admiration of musical Germany, demands just
such a confession from a critic about to hold in the balance the music
or unmusic (the Germans have such a handy word) of Schoenberg.
Therefore, before I attempt a critical or uncritical valuation of the
art of Arnold Schoenberg let me make a clean breast of my prejudices
in the manner suggested by Hennequin and Robertson. Besides, it is a
holy and unwholesome idea to purge the mind every now and then.

First: I place pure music above impure, _i. e._, instrumental above
mixed. I dislike grand opera as a miserable mishmash of styles,
compromises, and arrant ugliness. The moment the human voice intrudes
in an orchestral work, my dream-world of music vanishes. Mother Church
is right in banishing, from within the walls of her temples the female
voice. The world, the flesh, and the devil lurk in the larynx of the
soprano or alto, and her place is before the footlights, not as a
vocal staircase to paradise. I say this, knowing in my heart that
nothing is so thrilling as Tristan and Isolde, and my memory-cells
hold marvellous pictures of Lilli Lehmann, Milka Ternina, and Olive
Fremstad. So, I'm neither logical nor sincere; nevertheless, I
maintain the opinion that absolute music, not programme, not
music-drama, is the apogee of the art. A Beethoven string quartet
holds more genuine music for me than the entire works of Wagner.
There's a prejudiced statement for you!

Second: I fear and dislike the music of Arnold Schoenberg, who may be
called the Max Stirner of music. Now, the field being cleared, let us
see what the music of the