ABSTRACT
Composers’ wives are martyrs by definition. They are constantly called to judgment. A domestic difficulty in the household of a composer may deprive the world of a masterpiece; and what musicologist would not cast a stone at the unfortunate mate for not sacrificing her musically unproductive life for a dormant chef-d’oeuvre? Even the purely negative fact of not having inspired a creator to more revelations is sufficient to condemn the wife. We, posterity, are not equalitarians; we always take sides with the creator as against a human being, and the morality we so severely preach to the living, does not apply to dead geniuses. Even when wrong a thousand times, the composer has a perfect alibi in one work of genius, and we pillory the wife who was not sufficiently selfdenying, or lacked the proper catalytic force of domestic inspiration.
