The reminiscences . opening Pilgrims Chorus, as it rose fromthe orchestra, pleased me much, without, however, impressingme as something overpowering. But when the violins set inwith that weird and constantly growing tumult of passion,drowning the pious notes of the Pilgrims Chorus under thewild outcries of an uncanny frenzy, then sinking into whiningmoans of exhaustion, I could hardly restrain myself. I felt asif I should jump up and shout. Frau Kinkel observed myemotion, put her hand upon my own as if to hold me down tomy seat, and whispered: Oh, oh, I see how it takes you, do you not
The reminiscences . opening Pilgrims Chorus, as it rose fromthe orchestra, pleased me much, without, however, impressingme as something overpowering. But when the violins set inwith that weird and constantly growing tumult of passion,drowning the pious notes of the Pilgrims Chorus under thewild outcries of an uncanny frenzy, then sinking into whiningmoans of exhaustion, I could hardly restrain myself. I felt asif I should jump up and shout. Frau Kinkel observed myemotion, put her hand upon my own as if to hold me down tomy seat, and whispered: Oh, oh, I see how it takes you, do you not hear that it is all wrong? I could not answer,but continued to hsten with rapture. I did not hear that it wasall wrong; and if I had noticed anything that was wrong underthe accepted yules of thorough-bass, I should not have was fairly overwhelmed by those surging and rolling billowsof harmony, by the breakers of passion rushing and tumblingover the rocks, those plaintive voices of sadness or despair, [58]. JENNY LIND THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZthose tender accents of love or delight floating above andthrough the accompaniment which lifted the melody in a poeticcloud. When the last notes of the Tannhauser overturehad died away, I sat still, unable to say anything articulate. Ifelt only that an entirely new musical world had opened andrevealed itself to me, the charms of which I could not possiblyresist. My good friend Frau Kinkel noticed well what hadhappened to me. She looked at me sadly and said with a sigh, I see, I see! You are now a captive, too. And so it wiU become of our art? Indeed, I was a captive, and I remained one. It so hap-pened that many years, nearly thirty, elapsed before I heardany Wagner music again, except some transcriptions for thepiano which were naturally but feeble echoes of the orchestralscore, and a single representation of Lohengrin in the littletheater of Wiesbaden. But when at last during those memor-able seasons of German
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