Beethoven took up his quarters in the theatre again as soon as the libretto was ready for him and went to work at it with a will.  But he was not at his best in operatic writing,—­this symphonist, this creator of great orchestral forms.  The opera was an alien soil to him; composition—­never an easy matter to Beethoven, was more difficult than ever in the case of Fidelio.  The sketch-books show the many attempts and alterations in the work, at its every stage.  In addition, he was handicapped at the outset by an unsuitable libretto.  The Spanish background, for one thing, was a clog, as his trend of thought and sympathies were thoroughly German.  But this is a slight matter compared with the forbidding nature of the drama itself, with its prison scenes, its dungeons and general atmosphere of gloom.  One dreary scene after another is unfolded, and the action never reaches the dignity of tragedy nor the depth of pathos which should be awakened by the portrayal of suffering.  We are unable to feel that the two principal characters are martyrs; as one tiresome scene succeeds another, we come to care nothing whatever about them and are unable to sympathize with them in their suffering or rejoice in their deliverance.  The first requisite in opera, it would appear, is that it be pervaded by an atmosphere of romanticism.  Other things are necessary; the libretto must have dramatic situations; but above all, the romantic element must prevail.  If it is difficult for the listener to become interested in an opera with such a libretto as is Fidelio, it must be doubly so for the composer who undertakes the task of writing music for it.  A dull story hinders the play of fancy; the imagination remains dormant, and the product under such conditions has the air of being forced.  The musician is in bonds.

Musically, it is a work of surpassing beauty; but there is a dissonance between music and libretto which gives the impression of something lacking; there is not the harmony which we expect in a work of this kind.  Wagner has taught us better on these points.  The music of Fidelio has force and grandeur; some of it has a sensuous beauty that reminds us of Mozart at his best.  Had Beethoven’s choice fallen to a better libretto, the result might have been an altogether better opera.

Fidelio affords a good instance of the fact that operatic composition, considered strictly as music, is not the highest form in which the art can be portrayed, and that, in itself, it is not so strictly confined to the domain of music as is the symphony, or the various forms of sacred music (the oratorio or the mass, for instance).  It may, in the right hands, come to be a greater work of art, viewed in its entirety, than either of the forms just mentioned.  In the hands of a man like Wagner, it undoubtedly is, but in such a case the result is achieved by means other than those obtained through the domain of music.  Much is contributed by the literary quality of the