When I heard the "Don Juan," which I had heard twice
before, and liked less the second time than the first, I realised
finally the whole strain, pretence, and emptiness of the thing. Played
with this earnest attention to the meaning of every note, it was like a
trivial drama when Duse acts it; it went to pieces through being taken
at its own word. It was as if a threadbare piece of stuff were held up
to the full sunlight; you saw every stitch that was wanting.
The "Don Juan" was followed by the Entr'acte and Ballet music from
"Rosamunde," and here the same sunlight was no longer criticism, but
rather an illumination. I have never heard any music more beautifully
played. I could only think of the piano playing of Pachmann. The faint,
delicate music just came into existence, breathed a little, and was
gone. Here for once was an orchestra which could literally be overheard.
The overture to the "Meistersinger" followed, and here, for the first
time, I got, quite flawless and uncontradictory, the two impressions
which that piece presents to one simultaneously. I heard the unimpeded
march forward, and I distinguished at the same time every delicate
impediment thronging the way.
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