Encounters and Destinies

The Return of Gustav Mahler
(1915)
 
He has come home, the great exile of the past, returned
in glory to the city that he, as an outcast, departed only
a few years ago. In the same hall where formerly his compelling
will exercised its demonic effect, his long-absent nature
now takes on new spiritual form, resounding in the work.
Nothing can restrain it, not opprobrium or rancour; irresistibly
burgeoning with its unique qualities, feeling the purer for
no longer being locked in struggle, it now fills and expands
our inner world. No war, no event could hinder this elemental
blossoming of his fame, and the same man who appeared to
people here as something of an irritant and almost a monster
has overnight become consoler and liberator. Pain and loss—
his Kindertotenlieder express his spirit more powerfully than any
others of the time, and who today does not wish to learn, with
empathy, how sorrow transmogrifies itself through depth of
feeling in his farewell song, the ‘Song of the Earth’? Never was
Gustav Mahler so revitalized and inspired by this city as now,
when he is far removed from us and the ungrateful city that
abandoned him is his eternal homeland. Those who truly loved
him were patiently awaiting this hour, but now that it has come
it scarcely brings us joy. For while he was engaged in work, our
desire was to witness his creations, see them come alive. And
now that they have achieved renown, it is he himself we long
for, the man who will not return.
Because for us, an entire generation, he was far more than
a musician, a master, a conductor, more than an artist: he was
the unforgettable presence of our youth. To be young ultimately
means to be conscious of the extraordinary, of some
wondrously beautiful happening that transcends the narrow
world of appearances, of a phenomenon, the fulfilment of a
once-dreamt vision. And everything, admiration, enthusiasm,
humility—they all stir up powers of devotion, of exuberance,
they only seem so fiery and chaotic when concentrated in
unfinished beings, burning deep within when they appear—
recognized as such or intimated—in art, in love. And there is
a certain grace in experiencing such fulfilment in art, in those
days of premature, unspent love to observe something truly
meaningful, yet free with the fullest flow of feeling. It happened
to us. Anyone who has experienced those ten years of opera
from Mahler’s youth has enriched his life in ways that cannot
be measured in words. With the keen sense of impatience, we
sensed from the outset the rare thing, the miracle he harboured,
the demonic man, the rarest of all, one who isn’t entirely at
one with creativity, but with something far more mysterious in
its essence, possessing a distinctly natural power, the inspired
element. There is nothing to distinguish it from the external,
the influence it exerts constitutes its own singularity, something
indescribable, which can only be compared to a certain magical
arbitrariness of nature. It can be likened to the magnet;
thousands of iron filings may cling to it. All are tragic. They
know only how to plunge downwards, commanded by their
inner weight, alien to all else and inactive. But there is one
piece of iron, seemingly no brighter or richer than any of the
rest, which inwardly retains a power, the power of stars or the
furthest depths of the earth, that pulls all relatives together,
weaves its own form and frees itself from the internal weight.
What the magnet seizes it enlivens through its own power; if it
can hold it long enough, its secret flows forth. It draws towards
it kindred metals in order to enter them, dividing itself without
weakening the whole: its very nature and instinct are effect. And
this power—whether from the stars or the remotest depths of
the earth—constitutes the will of the demonic man. Thousands
mill around him, thousand upon thousand, each one rushing
headlong into his own life, inherently tragic and inanimate.
But he drags them towards himself, he fills the essence of the
oblivious with his own will, his rhythm; he propagates himself
in them by animating them. Through a kind of hypnosis, he
forces them all to draw near, tensing their nerves in time with
his own, wrenching them often painfully into his rhythm. He
enslaves them, imposes his will on them, lends the willing something
of the mystery of his force. It is precisely this demonic will
that was in Mahler, a power which suppressed and resisted all
opposition, but also one that inspired and enriched. About him
was a molten sphere where everyone seemed to glow, always
fiery, but working towards clarity. It was impossible to resist.
They say that sometimes musicians tried, but his will was just
too hot: all resistance simply melted. With unrivalled energy
he transforms his entire world of singers, assistants, directors,
musicians, moulding the chaotic interplay of hundreds of
individuals into his single unit in the space of a mere three
hours. He literally wrenches the will from them, he hammers,
pounds and files their individual qualities, he drives them on,
already they are aglow with fervour, moving inexorably into
his rhythm, until the point when he has salvaged the unique
from the ordinary, art from enterprise, until he is fulfilled in
the work and the work is fulfilled in him.