240.  I heard, once again for the first time, Richard Wagner’s overture to the Mastersinger:  it is a piece of magnificent, gorgeous, heavy, latter-day art, which has the pride to presuppose two centuries of music as still living, in order that it may be understood:—­it is an honour to Germans that such a pride did not miscalculate!  What flavours and forces, what seasons and climes do we not find mingled in it!  It impresses us at one time as ancient, at another time as foreign, bitter, and too modern, it is as arbitrary as it is pompously traditional, it is not infrequently roguish, still oftener rough and coarse—­it has fire and courage, and at the same time the loose, dun-coloured skin of fruits which ripen too late.  It flows broad and full:  and suddenly there is a moment of inexplicable hesitation, like a gap that opens between cause and effect, an oppression that makes us dream, almost a nightmare; but already it broadens and widens anew, the old stream of delight—­the most manifold delight,—­of old and new happiness; including especially the joy of the artist in himself, which he refuses to conceal, his astonished, happy cognizance of his mastery of the expedients here employed, the new, newly acquired, imperfectly tested expedients of art which he apparently betrays to us.  All in all, however, no beauty, no South, nothing of the delicate southern clearness of the sky, nothing of grace, no dance, hardly a will to logic; a certain clumsiness even, which is also emphasized, as though the artist wished to say to us:  “It is part of my intention”; a cumbersome drapery, something arbitrarily barbaric and ceremonious, a flirring of learned and venerable conceits and witticisms; something German in the best and worst sense of the word, something in the German style, manifold, formless, and inexhaustible; a certain German potency and super-plenitude of soul, which is not afraid to hide itself under the RAFFINEMENTS of decadence—­which, perhaps, feels itself most at ease there; a real, genuine token of the German soul, which is at the same time young and aged, too ripe and yet still too rich in futurity.  This kind of music expresses best what I think of the Germans:  they belong to the day before yesterday and the day after tomorrow—­ they have as yet no today.

241.  We “good Europeans,” we also have hours when we allow ourselves a warm-hearted patriotism, a plunge and relapse into old loves and narrow views—­I have just given an example of it—­ hours of national excitement, of patriotic anguish, and all other sorts of old-fashioned floods of sentiment.  Duller spirits may perhaps only get done with what confines its operations in us to hours and plays itself out in hours—­in a considerable time:  some in half a year, others in half a lifetime, according to the speed and strength with which they digest and “change their material.”  Indeed, I could think of sluggish, hesitating races,