This essay on a famous man, whose name is not revealed until almost the end of the piece, is a study of monstrous conceit. Filled with biographical details that keep the reader guessing to the last moment, the essay concludes with a challenging view on the nature of genius: If a genius was so prolific, "is it any wonder that he had no time to be a man?"
He was an undersized little man, with a head too big for his body -- a sickly little man. His nerves were had. He had skin trouble. It was agony for him to wear anything next to his skin coarser than silk. And he had seclusions of grandeur.
He was a monster of conceit. Never for one minute did he look at the world or at people, except in relation to himself. He was not only the most important person in the world, to himself; in his own eyes he was the only person who existed. He believed himself to be one of the greatest dramatists in the world, one of the greatest thinkers, and one of the greatest composers. To hear him talk, he was Shakespeare, and Beethoven, and Plato, rolled into one. And you would have had no difficulty in hearing him talk. He was one of the most exhausting conversationalists that ever lived. An evening with him was an evening spent in listening to a monologue. Sometimes he was brilliant; sometimes he was maddeningly tiresome. But whether he was being brilliant or dull, he had one sole topic of conversation: himself. What he thought and what he did.
He had a mania for being in the right. The slightest hint of disagreement, from anyone, on the most trivial point, was enough to set him off on a harangue that might last for house, in which he proved himself right in so many ways, and with such exhausting volubility, that in the end his hearer, stunned and deafened, would agree with him, for the sake of peace.
It never occurred to him that he and his doing were not of the most intense and fascinating interest to anyone with whom he came in contact. He had theories about almost any subject under the sun, including vegetarianism, the drama, politics, and music; and in support of these theories he wrote pamphlets, letters, books … thousands upon thousands of words, hundreds and hundreds of pages. He not only wrote these things, and published them -- usually at somebody else's expense -- but he would sit and read them aloud, for hours, to his friends and his family.
He wrote operas, and no sooner did he have the synopsis of a story, but he would invite -- or rather summon -- a crowed of his friends to his house, and read it aloud to them. Not for criticism. For applause. When the complete poem was written, the friends had to come again, and hear that read aloud. Then he would publish the poem, sometimes years before the music that went with it was written. He played the piano like a composer, in the worst sense of what that implies, and he would sit down at the piano before parties that included some of the finest pianists of his time, and play for them, by the hour, his own music, needless to say. He had a composer's voice. And he would invite eminent vocalists to his house and sing them his operas, taking all the parts.
He had the emotional stability of a six-year-old child. When he felt out of sorts, he would rave and stamp, or sink into suicidal gloom and talk darkly of going to the East to end his days as a Buddhist wonk. Ten minutes later, when something pleased him, he would rush out of doors and run around the garden, or jump up and down on the sofa, or stand on his head. He could be grief-stricken over the death of a pet dog, and he could be callous and heartless to a degree that would have made a Roman emperor shudder.
He was almost innocent of any sense of responsibility. Not only did he seem incapable of supporting himself, but it never occurred to him that he was under ay obligation to do so. He was convinced that the world owed him a living. In support of this belief, he borrowed money from everybody who was good for a loan -- men, women, friends, or strangers. He wrote begging letters by the score, sometimes groveling without shame, at other loftily offering his intended benefactor the privilege of contributing to his support, and being mortally offended if the recipient declined the honor. I have found no record of his ever paying or repaying money to anyone who did not have a legal claim upon it.
What money he could lay his hands on he spent like an Indian rajah. The mere prospect of a performance of one of his operas was enough to set him to running up bills amounting to ten times the amount of his prospective royalties. No one will ever know -- certainly he never knew -- how much money he owed. We do know that his greatest benefactor gave him $6,000 to pay the most pressing of his debts in one city, and a year later had to give him $16,000 to enable him to live in another city without being thrown into jail for debt.
He was equally unscrupulous in other ways. An endless procession of women marched through his life. His first wife spent twenty years enduring and forgiving his infidelities. His second wife had been the wife of his most devoted friend and admirer, from whom he stole her. And even while he was trying to persuade her to leave her first husband he was writing to a friend to inquire whether he could suggest some wealthy woman -- any wealthy woman -- whom he could marry for her money.
He was completely selfish in his other personal relationships. His liking for his friends was measured solely by the completeness of their devotion to him, or by their usefulness to him, whether financial or artistic. The minute they failed him -- even by so much as refusing dinner invitation -- or began to lessen in usefulness, he cast them off without a second thought. At the end of his life he had exactly one friend left whom he had known even in middle age.
The name of this monster was Richard Wagner. Everything that I have said about him you can find on record -- in newspapers, in police reports, in the testimony of people who knew him, in his own letters, between the lines of his autobiography. And the curious thing about this record is that it doesn't matter in the least.
Because this undersized, sickly, disagreeable, fascinating little man was right all the time. The joke was on us. He was one of the world's greatest dramatists; he was a great thinker; he was one of the most stupendous musical geniuses that, up to now, the world has ever seen. The world did owe him a living.
When you consider what he wrote -- thirteen operas and music dramas, eleven of them still holding the stage, eight of them unquestionably worth ranking among the world's great musico-dramatic masterpieces -- when you listen to what he wrote, the debts and heartaches that people had to endure from him don't seem much of a price. Think of the luxury with which for a time, at least, fate rewarded Napoleon, the man who ruined France and looted Europe; and then perhaps you will agree that a few thousand dollars' worth of debts were not too heavy a price to pay for the Ring trilogy.
What if he was faithless to his friends and to his wives? He had one mistress to whom he was faithful to the day of his death: Music. Not for a single moment did he ever compromise with what he believed, with what be dreamed. There is not a line of his music that could have been conceived by a little mind. Even when he is dull, or downright bad, he is dull in the grand manner. There is greatness about his worst mistakes. Listening to his music, one does not forgive him for what he may or may not have been. It is not a matter of forgiveness. It is a matter of being dumb with wonder that his poor brain and body didn't burst under the torment of the demon of creative energy that lived inside him, struggling, clawing, scratching to be released; tearing, shrieking at him to write the music that was in him. The miracle is that what he did in the little space of seventy years could have been done at all, even by a great genius. Is it any wonder that he had no time to be a man?
n. a person too wicked to be considered human; an animal or plant that is very unlike those usually found in nature
a. smaller than usual; too small
a. weak, unhealthy and often ill
n. very great pain or suffering of mind or body
a. not fine or smooth; rough
n. a false belief
n. greatness, nobility
delusion of grandeur
n. a writer of plays, esp. serious ones; playwright
n. one who writes musical works
n. a person who enjoys and is skilled at conversation
n. a long speech by one person; a spoken part in a play or film for a single person 独白
a. irritating or boring
n. a desire so strong than it seems mad; an unusual or unreasonable fondness 狂热；癖好
n. a statement or action that gives a small or indirect suggestion
a. of little or no importance
n. a long, loud speech, esp. one which blames those listening to it
n. fondness for talking; talkativeness
vt. make deaf, esp. for a short time; stun with noise
n. the practice or principle of eating only vegetable foods and refraining from eating meat, fish or other animal products
n. a small book with paper covers which deals usu. with some matter of public interest; booklet 小册子
n. cost in money, time, or effort
n. a musical play
vt. order(sb.) to come
n. loud praise for a performer or performance, esp. by striking the hands together
a. (of people) famous and admired
a. of the voice
vi. talk wildly
a. wishing to kill oneself, which leads or will lead to death or destruction
n. a feeling of unhappiness or despair
ad. with a dark, gloomy, or menacing look or manner
a., n. having to do with Buddhism; a believer in Buddhism 佛教的；佛教徒
n. a member of an all-male religious group who has made solemn promises, esp. not to marry and not to have any possessions, living in a monastery 僧侣
n. a feeling of extreme sadness
a. filled with great sorrow
n. an animal kept in the home as a companion
a. without feeling for the suffering of other people; unkind
n. the ruler of an empire
vi. shake uncontrollably for a moment, esp. from fear, cold, or strong dislike; tremble
a. not having the power or ability to do sth. or show a quality
vi. be shamefully bumble or eager to please; ask or beg with too great humility 卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝
ad. proudly; haughtily
a. very high; towering; noble
n. a person who gives friendly help, often in the form of money
ad. bitterly, extremely
a. causing death; certain to die someday
vt. hurt the feeling of; upset
n. a person who receives sth.
a. of or using the law
n. an Indian ruler
a. expected or intended; likely to be or become
n. a part of the price of a book, paid to the writer on each copy sold; a payment made to the writer of a play or piece of music when it is performed 版税
a. not caring about honesty and fairness in getting what one wants; completely without principles
a. having or seeming to have no end; never finishing
n. an act of disloyalty; lack of faithfulness, esp. to husband or wife
n. a person who admires, esp. a man who is attracted to a particular woman
a. rich, abundant
a. concerned about oneself without thinking of others
v. make or become less
n. the story of a person's life written by himself/herself
a. bad-tempered and unfriendly; unpleasant
a. amazing, marvelous 巨大的，惊人的
a. of or for music
n. a person who has very great natural ability to think and create
ad. beyond dispute or doubt; certainly
v. have or regard as having a certain rank or relative position
a. of or concerning both music and the drama
n. an outstanding work 杰作
n. a pain in the head; a difficult or worrying problem
vt. rob, plunder
n. a group of three related books, plays, etc. connected by common subject matter, but each complete in itself （小说、戏剧等的）三部曲
a. not deserving trust; disloyal
vi. surrender one's principles, etc. dishonorably; reach an agreement by having each side give up certain demands 背弃；妥协
ad. thoroughly; completely
a. dignified, stately
v. stop being angry (at)
n. the act of forgiving or the willingness to forgive; pardon
v. dig, scrape, or injure with sth. sharp, such as fingernails, claws or a tool
vi. make a loud, shrill cry
n. sth. that is amazing and unusual 奇迹
Phrases & Expressions
in relation to
in connection with; with regard to; about
in one's eyes
in one's opinion
in support of
at sb.'s expense
with sb. paying the cost
needless to say
of course; as was to be expected
out of sorts
in an angry or unhappy mood; in a bad temper
under obligation (to do)
having the duty (to do)
able to pay or contribute; useful or suitable for
lay one's hands on
find; gain possession of
allow (sth. such as debt) to increase
written down in a record
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