Then Siegfried arrived with his horn. He lay down during
a pause, which is reputed to be very beautiful; and sometimes he
talked to himself, and sometimes he was quite silent. He wanted to
imitate the song of the birds, and cut a rush with his horn, and
made a flute out of it. But he played the flute badly, and so he
began to blow his horn. The scene is intolerable, and there is not
the least trace of music in it. I was annoyed to see three thousand
people round about me, listening submissively to this absurdity
and dutifully admiring it.
"With some courage I managed to wait for the next
scene--Siegfried's fight with the dragon. There were roarings and
flames of fire and brandishings of the sword. But I could not stand
it any longer; and I fled out of the theatre with a feeling of
disgust that I have not yet forgotten."
I admit I cannot read this delightful criticism without laughing; and it
does not affect me painfully like Nietzsche's pernicious and morbid
irony. It used to be a grief to me that two men whom I loved with an
equal affection, and whom I reverenced as the finest spirits in Europe,
remained strangers and hostile to each other.
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