Old Fogy | Page 5

Nietzsche again, always this confounded Nietzsche, who, mad as a
hatter at Naumburg, yet contrives to hypnotize the younger generation
with his crazy doctrines of force, of the great Blond Barbarian, of the
Will to Destroy--infinitely more vicious than the Will to Live--and the
inherent immorality of Wagner's music. I came to Bayreuth to criticize;
I go away praying, praying for the mental salvation of his new

expounders, praying that this poisonous nonsense will not reach us in
America. But it will.
The charm of this little city is the high price charged for everything. A
stranger is "spotted" at once and he is the prey of the townspeople. Beer,
carriages, food, pictures, music, busts, books, rooms, nothing is cheap.
I've been all over, saw Wagner's tomb, looked at the outside of
Wahnfried and the inside of the theater. I have seen Siegfried
Wagner--who can't conduct one-quarter as well as our own Walter
Damrosch--walking up and down the streets, a tin demi-god, a reduced
octavo edition of his father bound in cheap calf. Worse still, I have
heard the young man try to conduct, try to hold that mighty Bayreuth
orchestra in leash, and with painful results. Not one firm, clanging
chord could he extort; all were more or less arpeggioed, and as for
climax--there was none.
I have sat in Sammett's garden, which was once Angermann's, famous
for its company, kings, composers, poets, wits, and critics, all mingling
there in discordant harmony. Now it is overrun by Cook's tourists in
bicycle costumes, irreverent, chattering, idle, and foolish. Even Wagner
has grown gray and the Ring sounded antique to me, so strong were the
disturbing influences of my environment.
The bad singing by ancient Teutons--for the most part--was to blame
for this. Certainly when Walhall had succumbed to the flames and the
primordial Ash-Tree sunk in the lapping waters of the treacherous
Rhine, I felt that the end of the universe was at hand and it was with a
sob I saw outside in the soft, summer-sky, riding gallantly in the blue,
the full moon. It was the only young thing in the world at that moment,
this burnt-out servant planet of ours, and I gazed at it long and fondly,
for it recalled the romance of my student years, my love of Schumann's
poetic music and other illusions of a vanished past. In a word, I had
again surrendered to the sentimental spell of Germany, Germany by
night, and with my heart full I descended from the terrace, walked
slowly down the arbored avenue to Sammett's garden and there sat,
mused and--smoked my Yankee pipe. I realize that I am, indeed, an old
man ready for that shelf the youngsters provide for the superannuated

and those who disagree with them.
I had all but forgotten the performances. They were, as I declared at the
outset, far from perfect, far from satisfactory. The Ring was depressing.
Rosa Sucher, who visited us some years ago, was a flabby Sieglinde.
The Siegmund, Herr Burgstalles, a lanky, awkward young fellow from
over the hills somewhere. He was sad. Ernst Kraus, an old acquaintance,
was a familiar Siegfried. Demeter Popovici you remember with
Damrosch, also Hans Greuer. Van Rooy's Wotan was supreme. It was
the one pleasant memory of Bayreuth, that and the moon. Gadski was
not an ideal Eva in Meistersinger, while Demuth was an excellent Hans
Sachs. The Brünnhilde was Ellen Gulbranson, a Scandinavian. She was
an heroic icicle that Wagner himself could not melt. Schumann-Heink,
as Magdalene in Meistersinger, was simply grotesque. Van Rooy's
Walther I missed. Hans Richter conducted my favorite of the Wagner
music dramas, the touching and pathetic Nuremberg romance, and, to
my surprise, went to sleep over the tempi. He has the technique of the
conductor, but the elbow-grease was missing. He too is old, but better
one aged Richter than a caveful of spry Siegfried Wagners!
I shan't bother you any more as to details. Bayreuth is full of
ghosts--the very trees on the terrace whisper the names of Liszt and
Wagner--but Madame Cosima is running the establishment for all there
is in it financially--excuse my slang--and so Bayreuth is deteriorating. I
saw her, Liszt's daughter, von Bülow, and Wagner's wife--or rather
widow--and her gaunt frame, strong if angular features, gave me the
sight of another ghost from the past. Ghosts, ghosts, the world is
getting old and weary, and astride of it just now is the pessimist
Nietzsche, who, disguised as a herculean boy, is deceiving his
worshippers with the belief that he is young and a preacher of the joyful
doctrines of youth. Be not deceived, he is but another veiled prophet.
His mask is that of a grinning skeleton, his words are bitter with death
and deceit.
I stopped over at Nuremberg and at a