that Wagner deliberately made use of crowds of people and masses of tone to carry through and emphasize his dramatic purpose.  In the first act every one is rejoiced to have Tannhaeuser amongst them, and Tannhaeuser himself has much to say on finding himself free of the Hoerselberg nightmare, and in familiar, homely, human scenes once more.  The anger of the nobles in the second, Elisabeth’s grief and intercession for her lover, her self-abasement—­it is part of the drama to make us feel these things and time is required.  The finale of the last act I give up altogether.  Nor can I understand why Elisabeth’s prayer should be so long drawn out.  Elisabeth has “nothing to do with the case.”  However, Wagner thought she had; so we can only be thankful when she finishes, and after Wolfram’s song the action recommences with the entry of Tannhaeuser.  The opera is planned on a huge scale, and in such works longueurs are apt to occur.

The overture foretells the drama that is to ensue, but not consecutively as in the Dutchman.  We have the pilgrims’ hymn, the second section of which is one of those things of which one can truly say that only Richard Wagner could have penned them.  The accent of grief is intensely passionate, yet it remains solemn, sublime.  Then the Bacchanal music and Tannhaeuser’s chant in praise of Venus are heard; but all the tumult dies down, and the pilgrims end the piece not as it began, but triumphantly.  We have here, as I have said, the great Wagner, working confidently and with ease on a vast scale.  The curtain rises; and if we could not see the scene the music would tell us of the billows of hot rose mist, and the dancers working themselves up to frenzy.  There is a hush, and the sweetest song ever sung by sirens is heard, full of languor and soft seductiveness.  When Tannhaeuser starts up declaring he has heard the village chime in his dreams, it is as if a breath of cool air, laden with the fragrance of wild flowers, blew into that hot, steaming cavern.  Music of unimaginable beauty and freshness sings of the pleasant earth—­the green spring, the nightingale.  When Venus coaxes him, he responds with one of the world’s greatest songs—­the hymn to Venus.  Her “Geliebter, komm” is another piece of magic.  The very essence of sensuality is in it, and never was sin made to seem so lovely.  One great theme follows another.  “Hin zu den kalten Menschen flieh’” is almost Schubertian in its spontaneity.  The music never flags; there are scarcely any of the old formulas—­not even, for example, to express Venus’s anger; the fund of melody seems inexhaustible.  Three main points may be observed.  First, the dramatic propriety of every phrase is perfect—­the music wanted for each successive situation fitly to express the emotion of the situation is infallibly forthcoming; the music invariably reveals the inwardness of the situation.  Second, in spite of following the drama, move by move, so to speak, the continuity