It is now fifteen years since Richard Strauss, a legendary figure of 85 years of age, died a tired old man, though inconsequentially enough in the full flush of his third and last surge of fame and inspiration. In the course of a long life of virtually uninterrupted prestige and happiness he had enjoyed the rare experience of seeing the works of his earliest maturity become as much part of the standard orchestral repertoire as the symphonies of Beethoven and Brahms. Yet it is perhaps a little sad to think how shocked the adventurous young composer of the Burleske of 1885, and of the deliberately provocative Aus Italien two years later, would have been had anyone suggested to him that he would one day be content to usurp Brahms's reactionary position as the Last of the Classics.

When an old man looks back on his life, it is natural that memory should soften disagreeable incidents and recall only the pleasant. This is perhaps the reason why Richard Strauss, too, confessed that the happiest memories of his life were connected with the town of his birth. He spent more than a quarter of his life within the city limits of Munich, and whenever he retired to his Garmisch eyrie or left it for his travels throughout Germany, Europe and America, to conduct the works of his great predecessors or interpret his own, his way always led him through his home town.

On the occasion of the world-wide celebration of the centenary of the birth of Richard Strauss, Tempo has asked me to recall some memories of this great musician who honoured me with his friendship, and who, even in times of difficulty always retained his admiration for France and the French spirit.

Peter Maxwell Davies has now reached an important turning-point in his career: like more than one other young British composer he is working on an opera. He has been contemplating this for at least seven years, but until recently he has hesitated to start work on it because he felt that his style was not yet suitable. He felt that he should wait until he had achieved a sufficiently ‘theatrical’ musical language—“just imagine an opera like St. Michael!” he is said to have exclaimed once, when criticising Nono for basing part of Intolleranza 1960 too closely on the style of II Canto Sospeso. Few would doubt the wisdom of his decision. An opera in the manner of St. Michael or Prolation would have been an alarming prospect.