In the second act of _Tristan_ there is a celebrated
passage, where Ysolde, burning with desire, is waiting for Tristan; she
sees him come at last, and from afar she waves her scarf to the
accompaniment of a phrase repeated several times by the orchestra. I
cannot express the effect produced on me by that _imitation_ (for it is
nothing else) of a series of sounds by a series of gestures; I can never
see it without indignation or without laughing. The curious thing is
that when one hears this passage at a concert, one sees the gesture. At
the theatre either one does not "see" it, or it appears childish. The
natural action becomes stiff when clad in musical armour, and the
absurdity of trying to make the two agree is forced upon one. In the
music of _Rheingold_ one pictures the stature and gait of the giants,
and one sees the lightning gleam and the rainbow reflected on the
clouds. In the theatre it is like a game of marionettes; and one feels
the impassable gulf between music and gesture. Music is a world apart.
When music wishes to depict the drama, it is not real action which is
reflected in it, it is the ideal action transfigured by the spirit, and
perceptible only to the inner vision.
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