between a failure at Alpha, and a failure at Omega?  Outwardly things look very pleasant:  An unusually animated audience, and an ovation for the Herr Capellmeister—­to join in which the royal father of my country returns to the front of his box.  But, subsequently, ominous reports about cuts which had been made, and further changes and abbreviations super-added; whilst the impression of a perfectly unabbreviated, but perfectly correct performance, at Munich, remains in my mind, and makes it impossible for me to agree with the mutilators.  So disgraceful a state of things seems inevitable, since few people understand the gravity of the evil, and fewer still care to assist in any attempts to mend it.

On the other hand there is some little consolation in the fact that in spite of all ill-treatment the work retains some of its power—­that fatal power and “effect” against which the professors of the Leipsic conservatorium so earnestly warn their pupils, and against which all sorts of destructive tactics are applied in vain!  Having made up my mind, not to assist personally at any future performance like the recent ones of “Die Meistersinger” at Dresden, I am content to accept the “success” of the work as a consolatory example illustrating the fate of our classical music in the hands of our conducting musicians.  Classical music retains its warmth, and continues to exist in spite of the maltreatment they subject it to.  It appears truly indestructible:  and the Spirit of German art may accept this indestructibility as a consoling fact, and may fearlessly continue its efforts in future.  It might be asked:  But what do the queer conductors with celebrated names amount to, considered simply as practical musicians?  Looking at their perfect unanimity in every practical matter one might be led to think that, after all, they understand their business properly, and that, in spite of the protest of one’s feelings, their ways might even be “classical.”  The general public is so ready to take the excellence of their doings for granted, and to accept it as a matter of course, that the middle-class musical people are not troubled with the slightest doubt as to who is to beat time at their musical festivals, or on any other great occasion when the nation desires to hear some music.  No one but Herr Hiller, Herr Rietz, or Herr Lachner is thought fit for this.  It would be simply impossible to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth if these three gentlemen should happen suddenly to sprain their wrists.  On the other hand, I am sorry to say I know of no one to whom I would confidently entrust a single tempo in one of my operas; certainly to no member of the staff of our army of time-beaters.  Now and then I have met with some poor devil who showed real skill and talent for conducting:  but such rare fellows find it difficult to get on, because they are apt not only to see through the incompetence of the celebrities, but imprudent enough to speak about it.  If, for instance, a man happens to discover serious mistakes in the orchestra parts of “Figaro,” from which the opera had been played with special unction—­heaven knows how often—­ under the solemn conductorship of a celebrity, he is not likely to gain the favour of his chief.  Such gifted poor fellows are destined to perish like the heretics of old.