at once tell a story and paint a picture of tempest amongst the wild mountainous rocks.  Had Schopenhauer heard this music it would have justified his remark about the use of clouds.  From the moment that Wotan begins his invocation the quality falls:  the motive is, for Wagner, a poor, mechanical thing; and an appearance of life is only kept up by marked rhythms, forced changes of key, and noisy orchestration.  Erda’s music is not on the highest level.  The colour is there, and an atmosphere is gained largely through the employment of music previously heard; but the vocal phrases are not true song, nor that blending of true song with recitative of which we have already noticed so many examples.

With the approach of Siegfried, however, at once the superb artist shows himself:  a complete piece made from the fire-music, the bird-music, and Siegfried the hunter’s theme is begun, to be interrupted for a while, then resumed and worked up into a glorious thing.  The interruption is the scene between Siegfried and his grandfather the Wanderer.  It brings the tragedy of Wotan more vividly than ever before us, and is from every point of view not only justified but necessary.  Siegfried scoffs at the old dotard, who loves the boy as his own flesh and blood (if one may say this of a pagan god) doomed to death by his forbear’s ambition and errors.  At last Siegfried, impatient to go on, smashes the Spear and ascends the path to where we see the distant glow of the flames.  The music is supremely noble and touching, with just a hint here and there of over-facility:  I mean chiefly that the vocal phrases are not tense and full of character as are those in the Valkyrie:  they seem to have been put in to fit the orchestral web.  In an earlier chapter I spoke of this weakness in the Ring; and from this point onward till the end of Wagner’s writing days, unless he was writing undisguised song, the liability to this weakness increased.  The over-ripeness shows itself also in the structure of the music:  the parts lack definition (as microscopists would say).  Formalism is not at all a desirable thing; but if we examine the great works, differing widely in character, Tristan, the Mastersingers and the Valkyrie, we find the utmost distinctness combined with perfect freedom and expressiveness.  Even as early as the Second Act of Siegfried the freedom threatens to degenerate into sloppiness—­or, to put it rather more mildly, at least into vagueness.  Perhaps he felt this himself; for certainly at the end of the act we are discussing, and often in the Dusk of the Gods, he gives us straightforward song.  At best his song-recitative is sublime; at worst it is insufferably tedious.