rgiastic
finales of the "Harold" and "Fantastic" symphonies are tempered by an
athletic steeliness and irony, are pervaded, after all, by the good dry
light of the intellect. The greater portion of the "Harold" is
obviously, in its coolness and neatness and lightness, the work of one
who was unwilling to dishevel himself in the cause of expression, who
outlined his sensations reticently rather than effusively, and stood
always a little apart. The "Corsair" overture has not the wild, rich
balladry of that of the "Flying Dutchman," perhaps. But it is full of
the clear and quivering light of the Mediterranean. It is, in the words
of Hans von Buelow, "as terse as the report of a pistol." And it flies
swiftly before a wind its own. The mob-scenes in "Benvenuto Cellini" are
bright and brisk and sparkling, and compare not unfavorably with certain
passages in "Petrouchka." And, certainly, "Romeo" manifests
unforgettably the fineness and nobility of Berlioz's temper. "The music
he writes for his love scenes," some one has remarked, "is the best test
of a musician's character." For, in truth, no type of musical expression
gives so ample an opportunity to all that is latently vulgar in him to
produce itself. And one has but to compare the "Garden Scene" of "Romeo"
with two other pieces of music related to it in style, the second act of
"Tristan" and the "Romeo" of Tchaikowsky, to perceive in how gracious a
light Berlioz's music reveals him. Wagner's powerful music hangs over
the garden of his lovers like an oppressive and sultry night. Foliage
and streams and the very moonlight pulsate with the fever of the blood.
But there is no tenderness, no youth, no delicacy, no grace in Wagner's
love-passages. Tchaikowsky's, too, is predominantly lurid and sensual.
And while Wagner's at least is full of animal richness, Tchaikowsky's is
morbid and hysterical and perverse, sets us amid the couches and
draperies and pink lampshades instead of out under the night-time sky.
Berlioz's, however, is full of a still and fragrant poesy. His is the
music of Shakespeare's lovers indeed. It is like the opening of hearts
dumb with the excess of joy. It has all the high romance, all the
ecstasy of the unspoiled spirit. For Berlioz seems to have possessed
always his candor and his youth. Through three hundred years men have
turned toward Shakespeare's play, with its Italian night and its balcony
above the fruit-tree tops, in wonder at its youthful loveliness