One of the most vividly interesting, to musicians, of all the Wagner-Liszt transcriptions, is the death scene from “Tristan und Isolde,” known as “Isolde’s Love Death.” It is not a number easily grasped, or usually enjoyed by the general audience; and the elemental power and intensity of the passion it so forcefully expresses have been often criticized as morbid, unnatural, and exaggerated, by those, the mildly tempered milk-and-water of whose stormiest passions never exceed the moderate, decorous fury of a tempest in a tea-pot. But to those who can sympathize with and appreciate its irresistible, volcanic outburst of emotion, its overwhelming sweep of life-rending anguish, it is one of the strongest, grandest lyric utterances in all the realm of music, thrilling and overpowering the heart to the degree of pain and terror.

It is a lyric in form, in treatment, and in subject-matter, dealing exclusively with emotion, not action, though its breadth of outline, its somber strength, and its passionate intensity give it a decidedly dramatic effect. Here is no pink-and-white pet of the modern drawing-room, grieving for her missing poodle, or another’s failure to wear the most up-to-date tie; but a glorious primeval woman, with the fire of youth and plenty of good red blood in her veins, a goddess in the unreserved frankness of her feelings, the boundless strength of her devotion, sublime in the might of her passion and the majesty of her doom.

Her life is her love and must end with it. Her hero-lover, Tristan, lies beside her, dying of a mortal wound received in combat for love of her, however dishonorable in the world’s eyes; and he is the more to be cherished because despised and hunted to his death by his king and former comrades for her sake. Further attempt at flight with him is hopeless. Fate and their foes are closing swiftly in around them. The end is inevitable. Their brief, wild dream of stolen happiness is over. The first black, crushing moment of despairing realization, portrayed in the opening measures in sober chords, is followed by a strain of sweet, tender, but plaintive reminiscence of what love was to them and might have been. Then comes a long, steadily growing, tremendously impassioned climax of impotent protest, of desperate love, of vehement, heart-breaking sorrow, all mingled in one glowing lava stream of frenzied anguish, merging at last into a soft, half-delirious vision of reunion and happiness beyond the grave, in which her spirit takes its flight, to realms, we will hope, where hearts, not crowned heads, were the arbiters of her woman’s destiny.

Those who have no sympathy with a really great passion which sweeps all before it, flinging the pretty policies and cut-and-dried conventions of life aside like straw in the path of a cataract, had better let this music alone. It is not for them either to feel or to render. It requires exceptional intensity of treatment, a broad, strong, yet flexible chord-technique, and an absolute mastery of the tonal resources of the piano.