reet, ventured upon conducting the whole of the
Beethoven concert. And what can be said of that evening? I will not
speak of the _Concerto for pianoforte, in G major_, which Busoni played
with a brilliant and superficial execution that took away all breadth
from the work; it is enough to note that his interpretation was
enthusiastically received by the public. German artists were not
responsible for that performance; but they were responsible for that
fine cycle of _Lieder, An die entfernte Geliebte_, which was bellowed by
a Berlin tenor at the top of his voice, and for the _Choral Symphony_,
which was, for me, an unspeakable performance. I could never have
believed that a German orchestra conducted by the chief _Kapellmeister_
of Austria could have committed such misdeeds. The time was incredible:
the scherzo had no life in it; the adagio was taken in hot haste without
leaving a moment for dreams; and there were pauses in the finale which
destroyed the development of the theme and broke the thread of its
thought. The different parts of the orchestra fell over one another, and
the whole was uncertain and lacking in balance. I once severely
criticised the neo-classic stiffness of Weingartner; but I should have
appreciated his healthy equilibrium and his effort to be exact after
hearing this neurasthenic rendering of Beethoven. No; we can no longer
hear Beethoven and Mozart in Germany to-day, we can only hear Mahler and
Strauss. Well, let it be so. We will resign ourselves. The past is past.
Let us leave Beethoven and Mozart, and speak of Mahler and Strauss.

* * * * *

Gustav Mahler is forty-six years old.[193] He is a kind of legendary
type of German musician, rather like Schubert, and half-way between a
school-master and a clergyman. He has a long, clean-shaven face, a
pointed skull covered with untidy hair, a bald forehead, a prominent
nose, eyes that blink behind his glasses, a large mouth and thin lips,
hollow cheeks, a rather tired and sarcastic expression, and a general
air of asceticism. He is excessively nervous, and silhouette caricatures
of him, representing him as a cat in convulsions in the conductor's
desk, are very popular in Germany.

[Footnote 193: This essay was written in 1905.]

He was born at Kalischt in Bohemia, and became a pupil of Anton
Bruckner at Vienna, and afterwards _Hofoperndirecktor_ ("Director of the
Opera") there. I hope one day to study this artist's