which throughout the Ring is made to serve so many purposes.  In this scene I still feel the halting between the Lohengrin style and later, the indecision—­nay, the uncertainty—­in the handling of the musical material.  There are no regular four-bar measures and full closes as in the earlier work; but a great deal is nothing more than dry recitative disguised.  The first scene of the Rhinegold is purely symphonic:  even if Alberich’s spasmodic, jerky exclamations seem to be written in to fit the nature of this being, his whole mode of speech—­harsh, unmusical—­renders the fact less glaring; and the tide of music flows steadily on, reaching climax upon climax, until the final crash when he disappears with the gold.  Wagner did not find it possible to get this continuity when he came to set to music the arguments amongst Wotan, Fricka and Freia:  there are short cantilenas, but they are constantly broken by recitative.

With the entry of the Giants the music makes, so to say, a fresh start.  The old themes are welded to or interwoven with new material, and a perfect symphonic whole results, one that can be listened to with delight without stage accessories.  I do not mean that music intended for the theatre should stand the test of playing away from the theatre, but that here Wagner, while writing strictly and immensely effective theatre music, has got such a grip of his art that he can combine the two things, dramatic truth, and symphonic beauty and cohesion.  The flood sweeps on, undisturbed in its flow by the entry of the other deities, or by the introduction of themes full of significance in the light of their after development.  But another fact must not go unnoticed.  There is in the Rhinegold little of the spring freshness of the Valkyrie.  The melody associated with Freia’s apples is supremely beautiful; but it is a mere short phrase, several times repeated, and the mass of music in which it is embedded smells more of the study and the lamp than of the mountains and the woods.  The Froh theme, too, is a trifle flat:  it does not effervesce or sparkle:  the “dewy splendour” of the Valkyrie music is not on it.  This is not to be hypercritical:  it is to compare, as one must, a great achievement with an achievement in all respects very much, immeasurably, greater.  Had we only the Rhinegold, with all its plentiful lack of inspiration and its theatricality, it would rank very high; but Wagner himself in the Valkyrie set the standard by which inevitably it must be judged.

When Wotan and Loge descend to the Nibelung’s cave to steal the treasure Wagner frankly lets himself loose.  Here we have the hobgoblins of the Teutonic imagination and the rude, boisterous, humorous Wotan of the Scandinavian imagination—­the Odin who tried to drink the sea dry and laughed to find he could not.  As the once-celebrated Sir Augustus Harris declared, “This is pantomime.”  Perhaps the scene is unduly protracted, but the music