go to the opera at six o'clock or half-past, and expect
to be at home before ten. His latest opera, which has not yet been
produced, is founded on the Niebelungen Lied, and will take three
evenings in the representation, which is almost as bad as a Chinese
play. The present director of the conservatoire and opera, a Prussian,
Herr von Bulow, is a friend of Wagner. There are formed here in town
two parties: the Wagner and the conservative, the new and the old,
the modern and classical; only the Wagnerites do not admit that their
admiration of Beethoven and the older composers is less than that of
the others, and so for this reason Bulow has given us more music of
Beethoven than of any other composer. One thing is certain, that the
royal orchestra is trained to a high state of perfection: its rendition
of the grand operas and its weekly concerts in the Odeon cannot easily
be surpassed. The singers are not equal to the orchestra, for Berlin and
Vienna offer greater inducements; but there are people here who regard
this orchestra as superlative. They say that the best orchestras in
the world are in Germany; that the best in Germany is in Munich;
and, therefore, you can see the inevitable deduction. We have another
parallel syllogism. The greatest pianist in the world is Liszt; but then
Herr Bulow is actually a better performer than Liszt; therefore you see
again to what you must come. At any rate, we are quite satisfied in this
provincial capital; and, if there is anywhere better music, we don't
know it. Bulow's orchestra is not very large,--there are less than
eighty pieces, but it is so handled and drilled, that when we hear it
give one of the symphonies of Beethoven or Mendelssohn, there is little
left to be desired. Bulow is a wonderful conductor, a little man, all
nerve and fire, and he seems to inspire every instrument. It is worth
something to see him lead an orchestra: his baton is magical; head,
arms, and the whole body are in motion; he knows every note of the
compositions; and the precision with which he evokes a solitary note out
of a distant instrument with a jerk of his rod, or brings a wail from
the concurring violins, like the moaning of a pine forest in winter,
with a sweep of his arm, is most masterly. About the platform of
the Odeon are the marble busts of the great composers; and while the
orchestra is giving some of Beethoven's masterpieces, I like to fix my
eyes on his serious and genius-full face, whic