. The book of months . THE BOOK OF MONTHS alien fires and passions not our own; the tempta-tions of Kundry have shaken us; the sorrow ofWotan, as wide as the world and as bitter as thesea, has for the time been ours. We have beenlaid to sleep on a mountain-top like Brunnhilde,and like Siegfried have dreamed in the greenshade of woods until the voice of nature has be-come intelligible and the twittering of birdsarticulate through the murmur of the quintessence of human emotion in all itsterroi and beauty has shaken and enthralled —then the curtain came down, and we goout again
. The book of months . THE BOOK OF MONTHS alien fires and passions not our own; the tempta-tions of Kundry have shaken us; the sorrow ofWotan, as wide as the world and as bitter as thesea, has for the time been ours. We have beenlaid to sleep on a mountain-top like Brunnhilde,and like Siegfried have dreamed in the greenshade of woods until the voice of nature has be-come intelligible and the twittering of birdsarticulate through the murmur of the quintessence of human emotion in all itsterroi and beauty has shaken and enthralled —then the curtain came down, and we goout again into the real world, which for thetime art has rendered shadow-like, where a hun-dred petty duties await us, in no way refreshedor strung-up for their accomplishment, but im-patient, irritated, and bored. Such, at least, were my own feelings when on a morning I awoke and remembered (what at first seemed incredible) that there was to be no opera that day, and that the curtain was down 210. ^M siiaw **;.w;*Hv--- P*?;.---, M::. ^^i SEPTEIMBER on the stage at Baireuth for two years. Thelittle backwater of a town which on arrival hadseemed so instinct with such sweet repose andtranquillity was insupportable; its tranquillitywas stagnation and decay, its repose a creepingdeath-trance with gray nightmare to ride itsrest. Instead of finding that the fiery dreams ofthe last fortnight had gilded its streets andwoven themselves into its gardens and trellises,it appeared to me merely the most dismal littlesunbaked suburb I had ever seen. A gloriouslamp had burned there; but the lamp wasquenched, and instead of a reflection of its lightlingering there, there was only a smell of the immediate and vital question was whatto do and where to go. I could not imagine myself finding existencetolerable anywhere, and least of all, perhaps,could I imagine myself back in England in myOT quiet little house in the country town, sincefor the time being, at any rate, all the
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