Part 6

Kullak, in his instrumental transcription, while preserving with artistic fidelity the composer’s intention in all the original effects of the song, has broadened, enriched, and intensified them, and at the same time adapted them cleverly to the resources of the piano. In places they may be still further enhanced by playing, as I would recommend to those possessing sufficient technic for it, all the scale passages for both hands in octaves, instead of single notes, as they are written, thus adding volume and brilliancy to the work as a whole.

The introduction, in rapid triplets, with marked accentuation, reproducing the exact rhythm of the gallop of horses, should begin softly, as if distant, and rise in a steady crescendo to a strong climax, suggesting the swift approach of a troop of riders; then the melody enters, bold and distinct, as if in trumpet tones, or given by the resonant voices of the dashing troopers. The piece must be varied by frequent and marked contrasts; now a trumpet-call, clear and sharp, answered by a distant echo; now a whispered hint of spectral terrors; again the sweep and rush, the clash and clamor, the delirious excitement of the impetuous charge.

The exultant climax, at the close, well expresses the sentiment of the final verse of the ballad:

“The Fatherland is free, famous, and triumphant, Glory to the heroes whose blood has bought the victory!”

This composition of Weber’s, when given by a rousing, ringing, full-voiced male chorus of Germans, stirs the martial spirit in every breast, just as the Marseillaise fires the blood of the French. In its piano transcription, by Kullak, I recommend it to every player and teacher who is seeking something which is very difficult to find—namely: a good and effective number, martial and rhythmic in character, which is of real merit, and is a novelty to the audience of to-day, and yet has a classic name attached. It is admirably adapted to close a program or to end a group of several shorter compositions of varying mood.

SCHUBERT 1797 1828

Schubert: (Impromptu B Flat) Theme and Variations, Op. 142, No. 3

Franz Schubert, the golden sands of whose brief existence, rich with the jewel gleams of genius, ran all too swiftly through the glass of time, between the years 1797 and 1828, may be considered, if not the strongest, certainly the most genial, fluent, and spontaneous composer of the modern Romantic School, which arose and flourished so luxuriantly during the vigorous youth of our own century. He is most generally known as the master of the German “Lied” or song. This brief, concise, epigrammatic form of condensed musical expression, though not, of course, original with Schubert, received at his hand its fullest development, its highest perfection, both as regards intrinsic beauty and dramatic precision; while in quantity, as well as quality, he far surpasses all competitors in this vein of creative work. There are something like 600 of these songs from his pen, and such was his fluent versatility of production, that he is known to have completed seven of these inimitable musical gems in one day. His instrumental compositions, whether for orchestra or piano, though far less numerous, are for the most part equally able and effective, and deserve a much more frequent hearing in the concert-room than they at present receive, displaying, as they do, to the full, his inventive spontaneity, his inexhaustible fund of fresh, original melody, and the peculiar, tender, poetic grace of his style.

Most of Schubert’s best known pianoforte works, like the composition under discussion, belong to the smaller, more modest, and unpretentious forms. They are eminently soft, sweet, and winning, rarely exhibiting that breadth, grandeur, and passionate intensity with which such composers as Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt have made us familiar. But who would despise the wood anemone because it chances not to possess the voluptuous perfume of the queenly rose or the gorgeous hues of the wizard poppy?

The “theme and variations,” of which this work is an excellent example, is one of the most ancient, natural, and logical forms of musical construction. A simple melody, clearly enunciated at the beginning, is used by the composer as the musical germ of his work, from which he evolves, as by the process of spontaneous growth, all its manifold possibilities for varied expression and contrasted effect; much as the skilful orator expands from his tersely stated thesis or text, by means of elaborate comparison, analysis, antithesis, and peroration, all that far-reaching sequence of deduction and argument latent in his thought-germ. It is always fascinating to watch this growth, this gradual evolution, this play of many colored lights over the familiar theme, under the skilful and ingenious manipulation of a master hand. But there is, I claim, a deeper interest and a higher pleasure to be derived from seeking, beneath the smoothly flowing harmonies and graceful, rippling embellishment, for the allegorical significance or suggestion mirrored in their clear depths, as scenes and faces are reflected in the tranquil stream, and which are rarely, if ever, wanting in the true art work.

The “theme and variations” in music, which owes its origin to the first crude attempts of early composers to elongate and develop a musical idea into a symmetrical art form, corresponds to a very early phase of another art. I refer to the series of progressive pictures carved on the friezes of many ancient Oriental and Grecian temples, portraying successive episodes in the life of some god, hero, king, or prophet. The central figure is ever the same, however attitude, action, mood, and environment may vary, to suit the stage of his story represented in each scene. No smoke of battle, strangeness of garb, or storm of emotion can so obscure or distort the familiar lineaments that they are not recognizable, though they take contour and expression from circumstances, those variations in the theme of life. The same idea is carried out in pictorial art in the interiors of more modern edifices, when the walls of cathedrals are adorned with frescoes representing the life of Christ, in numerous consecutive panels, from the infant in the manger to the death upon the cross. Painting can tell a story, within certain limitations, as well as words, and more powerfully. The same is true of music, for those who have ears to hear.

As already stated in connection with the Beethoven sonata, Op. 26, to me the “theme and variations” always seems to represent a given character or personality, met at different times, amid varying scenes and circumstances, in many moods and situations, as would be the case in real life; developing with the progress of acquaintance and contrasting experiences, showing now one aspect, now another, according to the changes of inner emotion or outward environment, but always preserving the same individuality, an identity which lends itself to, but does not lose itself in, the vicissitudes of human existence. In the particular work before us, let the first fresh, simple, tender theme symbolize a maiden, the heroine of the story we will call her, fair, with the delicate freshness of first youth, full of the winning grace, the naïve simplicity and the dreamy poetic fancy of one of Lytton’s heroines: a young girl,

“Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet— Womanhood and childhood fleet.”

All the manifold vicissitudes of life are lying untried before her, with the latent possibilities of her nature waiting to be unfolded and developed by experience, that climate of the soul.

In the first variation, with its tremulous yet flowing embellishment, all is vague, uncertain, conjectural. She seems in a mood of speculation, of reverie, to be gazing forward down the dim vista of the years, and wondering, with a thrill at heart, what they promise or presage for her. It is the first rosy, dawning twilight of as yet indefinite hope and desire.

In the second, her pulses beat to a swifter, stronger measure. She has begun to taste the zest of life and is borne along impetuously on the stream of youthful exhilaration and unbroken confidence, out into the broad, full sunlight of the first great happiness. Light ripples of laughter, quick-drawn breaths of delight, a sunny circuit of bright and blithe fancies, envelop the theme and well-nigh conceal it.

The mournful melody, somber minor harmonies, and sobbing accompaniment of the third variation, so full of passionate pain, express the all too certain reaction from the former hilarious mood, the coming of that inevitable shadow of all great joy—its corresponding grief. The hour has come when the first great, crushing sorrow surges in upon the soul, in a resistless, overwhelming tide; and our heroine, from fancying that her life’s pathway was to be all roses and sunshine, is forced to find it, for the time at least, all thorns and midnight darkness, and to match her single strength with the might of woe in that struggle for supremacy which must come soon or late to all.

The fourth again changes wholly in character; is bold, energetic, spirited, almost martial. The struggle of life is in full progress. The resolute, forceful bass tones, with which the left hand enters from time to time, seem like the impetus of a strong will giving momentum to earnest purpose. This variation tells in stirring trumpet tones of victory, of the dauntless courage and the elastic strength born in noble natures of endurance and endeavor, of a character invigorated by conflict, deepened and matured by adversity; and it leads us back, at its close, through many winding ways and devious modulations, to a later happiness, expressed in the fifth and last—a happiness hard-won, but more complete than the first, though less exuberant, more ethereal and spiritual, with something in it of the mellow sunset glow.

The work closes with a tranquil coda, a brief evening retrospect, grave and thoughtful; but, on the whole, cheerful in tone, as if the backward glance were, all in all, fraught with satisfaction. Here we find the opening theme, the character melody, in all its first simplicity, but given an octave lower, in slower tempo and in full chords. Our heroine has not altered; the contours are clear, the proportions identical, not a note is wanting; but the _leit-motif_ of her personality is deeper, broader, and fuller for the experiences of life behind her, and seems to bear the imprint as of an epitaph, “I have lived and loved and labored. All is well.”

Emotion in Music

Not long since, when urging upon a pupil the necessity of bringing out the deeper mood and meaning of a certain composition, the present writer received this response: “I am afraid to make it say all that, to put so much of myself into it; people will call me sentimental!”

The reply voiced a prevailing and thoroughly American weakness. It is far too common here to find, especially among our girls, a bright, warm, impulsive nature, full of genuine sentiment and poetic fancy, choked and perverted, turned shallow and bitter, by this same paralyzing fear of ridicule; to meet persons who take a morbid pride in concealing and repressing their better selves so effectually, that even their most intimate friends shall never suspect them of being one degree less frivolous and heartless than their companions, who in their turn are doubtless vying with them in this deplorable, misguided effort to belittle themselves, their lives and influence.

It is one of the most significant and lamentable signs of the time, that any allusion to or expression of a warm, true, earnest sentiment is met in society with more or less open and bitter derision, even by those who are secretly in sympathy with it, admire the courage and sincerity of its champion, and would gladly take the same bold stand in its defense, but dare not, and so add their coward voices to swell the majority. This is the more deplorable, since this tendency is at once cause and effect. The continual and systematic denial and suppression of emotion and ideality result finally in their complete extinction in most cases, or leave them deformed and feeble, to struggle for a precarious existence in some dark, hidden recess of the soul, whose highest throne is their rightful heritage.

George Sand says, somewhere, speaking of the French, “We once had sentiment, but the sirocco of sarcasm has scorched it from our hearts, and where it grew is a desert place!” Alas for the people of whom this is true! Alas for the young man or maiden who can say, “I have no sentiment,” and speak truth. And let me here caution any young person against a light and frequent, even though purposely insincere, denial of any characteristic of value; for there is a strange and subtle sympathy between the heart and the lips, which works steadily, if stealthily, to bring them more and more into accord. A lie is in every sense a violation of the laws of nature; and what is first uttered as a conscious, flagrant falsehood, becomes less so with each repetition, till unawares a day will come which shall see it transformed into a glaring truth. Such a person, no matter how highly organized, or perfectly trained otherwise, is no better than a machine. He does not live, he simply runs.

One may not be to blame for a natural deficiency in those higher qualities which make a life warm and rich and attractive, which mark a personality as something more than an animated clod, or even a well-adjusted mental mechanism; he must be pitied even though instinctively shunned; but he who wantonly draws the fatal knife of sarcasm across the throat of a true sentiment or a lofty ideal, however feebly or imperfectly embodied, commits a crime against humanity at large, more injurious and far-reaching in its effects than slaughter of the body only. Above all, let us beware how we tamper with the natural, essential relations between art and the emotions. Good-by to the artist who has no place or use for sentiment in his work; he should turn his attention at once to some more practical and creditable branch of mechanics.

One grievous mistake in our American system of training is that we ignore almost altogether this phase of culture. We develop the conscience, the reason, the memory, but do nothing for the taste, the imagination, the esthetic sense, the whole ideal and spiritual side of the character. The faithful, protracted study of music, or other branch of art, even though it never result in any financial profit or the smallest degree of professional success, will develop faculties and tendencies of more advantage to the student and to all who may come in contact with him in private life, than any amount of algebra, or any number of Greek roots. The German methods of study, especially for young ladies, might teach us a valuable lesson in this connection.

He who would attain the best results in art should remember that we do not gather dates of thorns, nor figs of thistles; that “only life begets life,” and that after its own kind; that an art product, to be really good and great, must be the concentrated, crystallized essence of the best that is in him, the epitome of his highest moods and aspirations, of those rare, intuitive glimpses of a loftier existence, to which in favorable moments he can lift himself, the distilled perfume of weeks, it may be years, of living. He should subject himself to every possible cultivating, elevating influence, should train, not only hand and head, but heart as well; for these three are the inseparable trinity of art. He should increase his resources, widen his experiences, expand his horizon; not by cramming a quantity of facts, or by the conquest of mere technical means—what use in commanding words, or tones, if one has nothing to express withal?—but by increased familiarity with and capacity to appreciate and exercise the qualities so constantly requisite in his work.

Let us remember, too, what the scientists tell us, that light and heat radiated from a given center are dissipated in force and intensity in proportion to the square of the distance to be traversed. The same is emphatically true of emotion. If one would stir his audience to a pleasurable excitement, he must himself be shaken as in a tempest; to warm them, he must be at white heat.

Should the question arise, How shall one learn to feel music more deeply and make it more expressive? my answer would be, Read, think, feel, dream, love, live! Read—not musical history and biography—these give information, not culture; they are valuable, but not in this connection; read poetry, especially the lyric and dramatic, and good prose literature. A person entirely unaccustomed to understand or to utter anything in tones, will often find the key to this unfamiliar medium of expression by the following indirect method: Find some work, a poem is best, because briefer and more concrete, which expresses, approximately at least, the sentiment of the composition to be studied. Most persons are more familiar with the language of words than with that of tones, and will reach a given mood more directly and easily through that channel. Let the poem be well studied, not only with the mind, but with the imagination, dwelling upon it, trying to feel its meaning and beauty as deeply as possible; then throw the same emotional content into the music, making the tones tell what the words have said. The present writer has found this course in teaching very effective with all sensitive natures, even with those who have but the rudiments of an artistic temperament.

Above all, artist or amateur, teacher or pupil, fear not to use in your work to the full all the emotional power you have or can acquire. It may be the injudicious application of force that sometimes impairs artistic results; it is never the excess. Vital energy should be controlled, regulated, but never stinted. Ill-timed frenzy is not art, of course; but where intensity is demanded and proper gradations and proportions are observed, no dirge is ever too deeply gloomy, no dramatic climax too strong. The danger is always of tameness, rather than of excessive fervor.

Let us, then, be genuine, earnest, whole-hearted, open, in our allegiance to the ideal; and as for those who sneer at sentiment in art or in life, why, let them rave. We adhere to the creed which T. T. Munger has beautifully formulated for our profession in his “Music as Revelation”: “Emotion is the summit of existence, and music is the summit of emotion, the art pathway to God.”

CHOPIN 1810 1849

Chopin: Sonata, B Flat Minor, Op. 35

Whether regarded from the standpoint of musical form, of intrinsic beauty, or of dramatic intensity, this work may safely be pronounced Chopin’s masterpiece; and in the present writer’s opinion it ranks as the greatest composition in all piano literature. Chopin’s ability to handle the strict sonata form successfully has been sometimes called in question; but whatever may be said of his other two sonatas, this one will certainly bear comparison with the most perfect models of symmetry, finish, and architectural completeness, by the best known and most universally recognized classic masters. In the _allegro_ movement, upon which the distinguishing character of the sonata form always depends, the first and second subjects are well contrasted and admirably balanced, the development is logical, ingenious, and forceful, and the statement of the dramatic content is clear, concise, and strong, without a single irrelevant phrase or superfluous measure.

The work is founded upon an ancient Polish poem of a semi-legendary, semi-allegorical significance, by a once prominent, now well-nigh forgotten Polish writer. It consists of four movements, corresponding to the four cantos of the poem, of which it is, in a sense, a musical translation, treating successively the principal moods and situations in the story. The fact that in the first two movements the incidents are treated symbolically, emotionally, in accordance with the composer’s usual subjective mode of expression, rather than with the descriptive or imitative devices of the modern school, does not in the least detract from the poetic impression or suggestive power of the music.

In the last two movements he has recourse, for obvious reasons, to the direct method of definite realism. The first movement pictures the life and feelings of the hero, a Polish knight of the middle ages, facing storm and conflict, danger and hardship, in camp and field, fighting for king and country, cheered now and then, in lonely hours of vigil at the camp-fire, by waking visions of his distant home and his waiting bride.

The opening measures of the brief introduction tell of stern courage and inflexible resolve. Then the first subject enters, stirring, impetuous, fiery, full of the ring of trumpets, the clash of steel, the fierce exultation of desperate combat. The tranquil second subject suggests memories of the happy days of youth in his quiet home—dreams of a future brightened by the light of promised love, but still enveloped in the softening haze of distance and uncertainty. The development, with its complex, conflicting rhythms, its resistless, tempestuous sweep, thrills with the excitement of sudden onset, the rush of charging squadrons, the battle cry of struggling hosts. The closing chords express a somber triumph, the proud but sorrow-shadowed elation of a hard-won victory, purchased by the blood of many a patriot comrade.

The second movement, the scherzo, gives us the triumphant return of our hero crowned with laurel, accompanied by the jubilant strains of martial music, and the glad acclamations of the crowd. Yet, in the midst of his pride and well-earned glory, he finds time to dream again; this time more tenderly, sweetly, hopefully; to dream of his home-coming, and the fond greeting that awaits him in his own native village, where, through the difficulties and dangers of the campaign, his promised bride has been watching, and hoping, and praying for his return in faithful but anxious affection.

Here again we find two contrasting and strongly characteristic themes: The first, full of martial pride and exultation, the thoughts of victory, the glad tribute of applause to a nation’s hero; the second, tender, dreamy, pulsing with love’s anticipation. After this soulful trio melody, the first martial strains are repeated; but in the coda, a brief recurrence of the trio theme seems to emphasize the idea that with him the love thought dominates. This brings us to the third movement, the Funeral March, unquestionably the best funeral march ever written for the piano, the most intrinsically beautiful, the most touchingly, intensely sad, and the most complete, finely finished, and perfectly sustained, from first measure to last; the strongest, noblest, deepest expression of heart-crushing sorrow to be found in all piano literature.

As it is published and most often heard by itself, many who have played and listened to it have not even been aware that it affords the third chapter, so to speak, in a great tone epic, for as such this sonata must be considered.

As our hero approaches home, his heart swelling with anticipation, he is greeted by the distant, solemn tolling of cathedral bells, too evidently funeral bells, and soon is met by a slowly moving, somber procession of black-robed monks and mourners, bearing to her last resting-place in the church-yard the very bride to whose fond greeting he has so ardently looked forward. The music, soft and muffled at first, like the toll of far-off bells, gradually grows in power and intensity as the procession advances, assuming more and more the heavy, measured, inflexible rhythm of a funeral march, and swelling at last to an overwhelming climax of passionate pain.