Though I wished very much to admire the work of a composer whom I held in such esteem, I felt it did not come out very well from the test.  To begin with, this symphony is excessively long—­it lasts an hour and a half—­though there is no apparent justification for its proportions.  It aims at being colossal, and mainly achieves emptiness.  The motifs are more than familiar.  After a funeral march of commonplace character and boisterous movement, where Beethoven seems to be taking lessons from Mendelssohn, there comes a scherzo, or rather a Viennese waltz, where Chabrier gives old Bach a helping hand.  The adagietto has a rather sweet sentimentality.  The rondo at the end is presented rather like an idea of Franck’s, and is the best part of the composition; it is carried out in a spirit of mad intoxication and a chorale rises up from it with crashing joy; but the effect of the whole is lost in repetitions that choke it and make it heavy.  Through all the work runs a mixture of pedantic stiffness and incoherence; it moves along in a desultory way, and suffers from abrupt checks in the course of its development and from superfluous ideas that break in for no reason at all, with the result that the whole hangs fire.

Above all, I fear Mahler has been sadly hypnotised by ideas about power—­ideas that are getting to the head of all German artists to-day.  He seems to have an undecided mind, and to combine sadness and irony with weakness and impatience, to be a Viennese musician striving after Wagnerian grandeur.  No one expresses the grace of Laendler and dainty waltzes and mournful reveries better than he; and perhaps no one is nearer the secret of Schubert’s moving and voluptuous melancholy; and it is Schubert he recalls at times, both in his good qualities and certain of his faults.  But he wants to be Beethoven or Wagner.  And he is wrong; for he lacks their balance and gigantic force.  One saw that only too well when he was conducting the Choral Symphony.

But whatever he may be, or whatever disappointment he may have brought me at Strasburg, I will never allow myself to speak lightly or scoffingly of him.  I am confident that a musician with so lofty an aim will one day create a work worthy of himself.

* * * * *

Richard Strauss is a complete contrast to Mahler.  He has always the air of a heedless and discontented child.  Tall and slim, rather elegant and supercilious, he seems to be of a more refined race than most other German artists of to-day.  Scornful, blase with success, and very exacting, his bearing towards other musicians has nothing of Mahler’s winning modesty.  He is not less nervous than Mahler, and while he is conducting the orchestra he seems to indulge in a frenzied dance which follows the smallest details of his music—­music that is as agitated as limpid water into which a stone has been flung.  But he has a great advantage over Mahler; he knows