I do not want to dwell upon the inherent imperfections of Wagner’s dramas; they are really dramatic or epic symphonies, impossible to act, and gaining nothing from representation.  This is especially true of Tristan, where the disparity between the storm of sentiment depicted, and the cold convention and enforced timidity of action on the stage, is such that at certain moments—­in the second act, for example—­it pains and shocks one, and seems almost grotesque.

But while admitting that Tristan is a symphony that is not suitable for representation, one also recognises its blemishes and, above all, its unevenness.  The orchestration in the first act is often rather thin, and the plot lacks solidity.  There are gaps and unaccountable holes, and melodious lines left suspended in space.  From beginning to end, lyrical bursts of melody are broken by declamations, or, what is worse, by dissertations.  Frenzied whirlwinds of passion stop suddenly to give place to recitatives of explanation or argument.  And although these recitatives are nearly always a great relief, although these metaphysical reveries have a character of barbarous cunning that one relishes, yet the superior beauty of the movements of pure poetry, emotion, and music is so evident, that this musical and philosophical drama serves to give one a distaste for philosophy and drama and everything else that cramps and confines music.

But the musical part of Tristan is not free either from the faults of the work as a whole, for it, too, lacks unity.  Wagner’s music is made up of very diverse styles:  one finds in it Italianisms and Germanisms and even Gallicisms of every kind; there are some that are sublime, some that are commonplace; and at times one feels the awkwardness of their union and the imperfections of their form.  Then again, perhaps two ideas of equal originality come together and spoil each other by making too strong a contrast.  The fine lamentation of King Mark—­that personification of a knight of the Grail—­is treated with such moderation and with so noble a scorn for outward show, that its pure, cold light is entirely lost after the glowing fire of the duet.

The work suffers everywhere from a lack of balance.  It is an almost inevitable defect, arising from its very grandeur.  A mediocre work may quite easily be perfect of its kind; but it is rarely that a work lofty aim attains perfection.  A landscape of little dells and smiling meadows is brought more readily into pleasing harmony than a landscape of dazzling Alps, torrents, glaciers, and tempests; for the heights may sometimes overwhelm the picture and spoil the effect.  And so it is with certain great pages of Tristan.  We may take for example the verses which tell of excruciating expectation—­in the second act, Isolde’s expectation on the night filled with desire; and, in the third act, Tristan’s expectation, as he lies wounded and delirious, waiting for the vessel that brings Isolde and death—­or we may take the Prelude, that expression of eternal desire that is like a restless sea for ever moaning and beating itself upon the shore.