Part 8

A review of the symphonies of Mozart is a summing up of the history of the symphony in the eighteenth century from childhood to maturity. He was eight years old when he wrote in London his first symphony. It is in sonata form: allegro, andante, finale: he uses the orchestra of the predecessors of Haydn, viz., two violins, viola, bass, two oboes, and two horns. These early symphonies of Mozart are relics of the time when German instrumental music was still in a comparatively crude condition, and they are chiefly interesting from the historical point of view; for even Köchel, the devoted admirer of Mozart, says that they are wanting in character and that the motives are without development. Look for instance at the first symphony. The allegro has one hundred and eighteen measures; the andante fifty; the presto ninety-one. According to the fashion of the old suite the three movements are in the same tonality. The symphonies of 1764 and 1765 are in the same form; in two of them the andante is in a different key from the other movements. It was in 1767 that Mozart first introduced the minuet, which was, however, without a trio. The seventeen symphonies written from 1767 to 1772 show an advance in instrumentation rather than in growth of form. The early ones were composed for the eight-part orchestra, the foundation of modern orchestral works. In the second, the two horns are replaced by two clarinets, and a bassoon is added. Now the use of the clarinet was then rare. Christopher Denner made the first clarinet in 1701. Gossec wrote for the instrument in 1756, and it was first heard in England in Christian Bach's opera "Orione" (1763). Mozart used it also in a symphony written in Paris in 1778, and he did not introduce it again until 1783. One of the greatest innovations of this master, the father of orchestral color, was the knowledge of the resources of this instrument, whose voice, as Berlioz well says, is the voice of heroic love. In Mozart's works, "whether it sings with full and sonorous voice some episodic phrase or displays all the riches of its two _timbres_ in a superb adagio, everywhere it is brought fully into light, everywhere it plays an important rôle." In 1768, Mozart used the drums and one trumpet; in 1769 two bassoons; in 1770 two trumpets; in 1771, in an andante, two flutes. He was still making experiments. In 1773, for the first time, he composed a symphony in the minor mode; and in this year he first went over 200 measures in the opening allegro; he also used four horns. In 1774 he employed two viola parts. In 1778 the "Parisian" symphony was performed with great success at a _Concert Spirituel_. Never before had he developed his motives to so great a length; never before had he employed so large an orchestra; the score includes, besides the string parts, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, drums,--in all seventeen parts. Haydn did not use so large an orchestra until 1793. The allegros are brilliant and animated, following the French taste of the time, and they were loudly applauded; the andante did not produce so great an effect. After his return to Germany he was obliged to reduce his orchestral forces, and to cut his cloth to suit his opportunities. The "Haffner" made over from a serenade shows that the forms of the ancient serenade and modern symphony were still confounded; its allegro is not symphonic, but one theme is present and rules from beginning to end. In 1783, in the symphony in C, he first wrote an introduction to the first movement. In 1786 the symphony in D, with an introduction, was brought out at Prague with unbounded success. It contains, like the "Parisian," no minuet. It opens with a solemn adagio introduction; the allegro bears a rhythmical resemblance in its first theme to that of the "Magic Flute" overture; the andante is often cited as a perfect example of the exquisite grace of Mozart; the finale in its sparkling vivacity brings to mind a number of "Figaro." And here it may be said that the symphonic instrumentation of Mozart approaches closer dramatic formulas than that of Haydn or Beethoven. The three last symphonies of Mozart show a wonderful advance. In a certain expression and in a certain treatment they belong to the nineteenth century. There is more blood, more intensity, a dread of unmeaning formalism. Technically they are beyond criticism; and in pure expression of remarkable musical thought, in sense of euphony and proportion, in perfection of musical style they stand a marvel for all time. The one in E-flat was written in June, 1788. To gain the wished-for effects clarinets are used, and no oboes. The prevailing rhythm is ternary; and yet Mozart has so varied the pace of the movements that there is no feeling of monotony on this account. No prismatic words can give an idea of this "triumph of euphony"; although German commentators have exhausted what has been inelegantly described as "the drivel of panegyric." It is true that there are points of resemblance to Haydn's style; "but Mozart's individuality is here so overpowering as to have given its distinguishing stamp to these very features." No wonder that German romanticists have sought refuge in extravagance in description. Apel attempted to turn the symphony into a poem which was to imitate in words the character of the different movements. Hoffmann, writer of tales of horror, composer and conductor, caricaturist, critic, and official, one of the first to realize the greatness of Beethoven, called the symphony the "Swan Song." "Love and melancholy breathe forth in purest spirit tones; we feel ourselves drawn with inexpressible longing towards the forms which beckon us to join them in their flight through the clouds to another sphere. The night blots out the last purple rays of day, and we extend our arms to the beings that summon us as they move with the spheres in the eternal circles of the solemn dance." Our criticism of to-day is written in a different spirit. We use freely the test-tube and litmus paper; we pry and analyse. Such out-pourings we call hifalutin; but it must be remembered that the acute Hoffmann put them into the mouth of the half-crazed Johannes Kreisler. A striking contrast to the E-flat symphony is the G minor written in July, 1788. Deldevez has described it in a sentence; "It is graceful, passionate, melancholy; it is inspiration united with science." Deldevez has also pointed out that it is the truest and the most complete expression of the minor mode; that the tonality is treated in the most vigorous manner; that the modulations succeed each other according to the severe precepts of the school. It is the symphony of Mozart that is most full of passion, and yet the composer never forgot in writing it that "music, when expressing horrors, must still be music." The symphony in C, August, 1788, is called, for some reason or other, possibly for its majesty, the "Jupiter." There is here not so much of human sentiment and passion as in the G minor symphony, but there is the splendor, as well as the serenity that is peculiar to Mozart; and the finale is a masterpiece of contrapuntal skill that is unsurpassed in music, for the fugue is made on a symphonic plan, and thus two distinct art-forms are moulded into one. Jahn has said that the highest quality of these three symphonies is "the harmony of tone-color, the healthy combination of orchestral sound," and he admits at the same time the impotence of language to reproduce the substance of a musical work. Richard Wagner wrote that "the longing sigh of the great human voice, drawn to him by the loving power of his genius, breathes from his instruments." And in these sayings the two great elements of Mozart's symphonic writing are fitly described. In his pianoforte concertos Mozart strove to set out and adorn by the orchestral instruments the pianoforte part, and at the same time give an enchanting musical background. In his symphonies "he sought to give his melody, by way of compensation for its delivery by mere instruments, the depth of feeling and ardor that lies at the source of the human voice as the expression of the unfathomable depths of the heart"; and in this he succeeded by leading "the irresistible stream of richest harmony into the heart of his melody." Well might the cool-headed Ambros say of the last great three, "considered as pure music, it is hardly worth while to ask whether the world possesses anything more perfect."

Mozart, as we have seen, wrote much for the church. Unfortunately the best known of his masses were written to suit the florid taste of his patron; and his church music, judged thereby, has been reproached for its frivolity and insincerity. Some, forgetting the solemnity of the litanies de venerabili, the dignity of the vespers, the heavenly "Ave Verum," the "Qui tollis" from the mass in C minor, and portions of the Requiem, have denied him religious feeling, so far as his religious music is concerned. But the musical expression of religious feeling differs with the time, the place, and the individual. What is religious music? To the Aztec, who in religious sacrifice cut out the victim's heart, the beating of the serpent-skin drum was religious music; to the monks of the Middle Ages the drone of the plain song of the church seemed the expression of religious contemplation; and to-day many worthy people find spiritual consolation in the joyous ditties of the Salvation Army. We define religious music conformably with our own religious sentiment. In the days of Palestrina, church music influenced subtly the congregation; it created a mood, a _Stimmung_. In the days of Haydn and Mozart the influence of the virtuosoship of the opera-singer was strongly felt; it invaded the church; it was recognized by the composer of the mass. So in more modern days the dramatic instinct of operatic composers is seen in their religious works; and one may say with Rubinstein, "I think it an error, however, to condemn for that reason the 'Stabat Mater' of Rossini or the 'Requiem' of Verdi in Protestant countries. The Protestant may indeed say: 'I have a different feeling,' but not, 'That is bad, because it is other than my feeling of worship.'" Thibaut may attack the church music of Mozart, and Lorenz may defend it; each expresses thereby his own religious sentiment. It is true that many of the masses of Mozart, considered as music, are not to be compared with his works of a higher flight; and the one that is the most popular, the 12th, so called, was not written by him. But how about the "Requiem," which he left unfinished, and which has been the subject of so many legends, so many disputes? Did not the mystery that for a time surrounded its birth give it a fictitious value? The Requiem and Kyrie are the work of Mozart as they now exist; the movements from the Dies Iræ to the first eight bars of the Lacrimosa, also the Domine Jesu and Hostias, were finished by him in the voice part and bass, and the principal points of the instrumentation were also indicated by him. It will be seen, therefore, that the part of Süssmayer, who completed it, is considerable. Now there has been much discussion concerning the merits of the double fugue even from the technical standpoint, and it is true that the most beautiful portions of the work are the least polyphonic, as the wailing Lacrimosa, which beyond a peradventure belongs to Mozart, although so little was actually written with his own hand; the Confutatis with the antiphonal effects of male and female voices, and the marvellous, unearthly harmonies of the _Oro supplex_; the powerful and concise _Rex tremendae_. On the other hand the _Tuba mirum_ with the trombone cantabile is an inadequate setting of the dread scene. By many worshippers of Mozart, who at the same time believe in the supremacy of religious music, the Requiem is called the truest and most genuine expression of Mozart's nature, and his imperishable monument. But the contrary opinion now prevails among prominent musicians. The Requiem as a whole cannot be considered as complete a revelation of the genius of the composer as the G-minor symphony, the quartets dedicated to Haydn, "Figaro" or "Don Giovanni."

Now the supreme genius of Mozart is seen in his dramatic works. It has been said that he completed the palace of Italian opera and laid the enduring foundations of the German. This saying has more of epigram than truth; or it is only partially true. The opera is a thing of fashion, an amusement of the day. It is finally shaped by the prevailing popular taste, although the beginnings of a new and varying form may be in opposition to that taste. The history of opera from the time of its invention at Florence to the pilgrimages to Bayreuth is a story of fickle tastes, passionate caprices, violent disputes. First there was the revolt against the contrapuntists; then came the rule of the singer; then the conflict between dramatic truth and personal vainglory, a conflict that was born with the birth of opera. Run over the "History of Operas" by Clément and Larousse; glance at the roll of singers from the early times of virtuosoship: names that are utterly forgotten, and yet they once filled the mouths of men and were the idols of the day. It is a dreary business, this reading of the exploits of singers and opera makers of the past,--not unlike the deciphering of moss-covered tombstones in the hillside graveyard of a well-nigh deserted New England village. To better appreciate the work of Mozart, let us briefly consider the condition of opera when he first looked toward the stage. In the middle of the eighteenth century the singer ruled supreme. They were great days, those eighteenth-century days,--"When men had longer breaths and voices that never grew old, when strange and terrible things still happened, sapphire rings presented them by the demon, processions to welcome them, and violent deaths by murder or in brawls." The singers had contributed largely in forming the lyric drama, but their demands became exorbitant and the composer was their slave. The introduction of castrates on the stage was of special influence in shaping the operatic conditions. Take any _opera seria_ of that day: it consists simply of a series of detached airs strung together by the poet's story. There was no dramatic action; there was simply an operatic concert. The _prima donna_ was the queen of the theatre; she claimed the privilege of the escort of a page when she made her entrance; he held the train of her robe and followed every movement. The tenor was obliged to be either a noble father, a traitor or tyrant. The _basso_ was restricted to _opera buffa_, for it was thought that his voice was naturally too "grotesque" to be heard in _opera seria_. The castrate was the monarch of the scene. Singularly enough, he was called the _primo uomo_, and to him was given the lover's part. His very person was sacred on the stage. Others might slay and be slain; he was inviolable, and his head was always crowned with laurel. It was the rule in Italy, never to admit the murder of the chief singer, although the piece itself might reek with blood. These male sopranos were spoiled children. One must make his appearance upon a horse; another insisted on descending from a mountain; another would not sing unless his plume was five feet in length. The moment they finished their airs, they left the stage, or remained upon it sucking oranges or drinking wine. They made their demands on the composer; he was obliged to write a bravura aria, or an air _di portamento_ with perhaps a trumpet obligato, according to their caprice. They robbed their associates of their airs if they saw a possible distribution of glory. The chief singer and the composer between them made the opera, for there was but little ensemble work. The custom was to finish the second act with a duet between the castrate and the first soprano; to end the third by a terzetto in which the first tenor was admitted. Grétry tells us that during the seven or eight years he lived in Rome, he never saw a serious opera succeed. "If the theatre was crowded, it was to hear a certain singer; and when the singer left the stage, the people in the boxes played cards or ate ices, and the people in the parterre yawned." And Voltaire summed up the whole matter when he wrote M. de Cideville (1752) that "the opera is a public rendezvous where people meet on certain days without knowing why; it is a house which is frequented by everybody, although the master is freely cursed and the crowd bored."

It was different in _opera buffa_. In this species of opera the virtuosos were not so powerful as the poet and the composer. The castrate could not afford to waste his time in consorting with the "_bouffons_," and so his place was taken by the tenor, who became the passionate lover. In like manner the _prima donna_, was paid such a small sum that the manager was obliged to look for women of ambition and dramatic talent instead of acknowledged vocal skill. The _basso_ was admitted to the company, and here was the foundation of an ensemble impossible in grand opera. The _opera seria_ remained in its conventional or ideal world; the _opera buffa_ was concerned with subjects of everyday life. The former clung to history or legend; the latter delighted in appealing to the life of the people. The composer was allowed more liberty. He was not confined to the _da capo_ air, composed of two parts with the invariable repetition of the first; he could use the rondo, where the chief melody appears after each secondary theme; or the cavatina, with one movement; or the chanson with its simple couplet; in other words, he could better suit the dramatic action. He wrote duets, trios, quartets of importance, and gradually the finale was developed. So too the orchestra, which had been subordinated to the imperious singer in _opera seria_, found its voice, and even sang in passages where the text demanded of the singer a rapid delivery that was almost dramatic speech. The _opera buffa_ rapidly grew in public favor, and Arteaga in his famous book on the "Revolution of Italian Dramatic Music" frankly confessed that the _opera buffa_ was in better condition and gave greater promise than its more pretentious rival.

The first attempts of Mozart in dramatic composition do not call for special attention. They were in the conventional style of the day, and the librettos were wretched. Two of them "Bastien et Bastienne" and "La finta Giardiniera" were revived in Germany in 1892 and with considerable success. In the latter the characters are well defined; the melody is spontaneous; there is color; and the finales are well developed. But in "Idomeneo" (1781) we first see the peculiar dramatic genius of Mozart. There is still the formalism of the _opera seria_, but there are traces of the influence of French dramatic sincerity, and of his own artistic individuality. Jahn has described the opera as "the genuine Italian _opera seria_ brought to its utmost perfection by Mozart's highly cultivated individuality." The chorus is brought into prominence; the instrumentation is richer than in contemporaneous works, and there are evidences of the study of Gluck, as in the accompaniment of three trombones and two horns in the proclaiming of the oracle of Neptune. That he was convinced at the time of the superiority of French taste in dramatic music, as in truth of diction and sincerity, is shown by the fact that he wished to bring it out in Vienna rearranged after the French model. And it may here be said that if Mozart in the formation of his song was strongly influenced by Italian spirit, he was also deeply impressed by the sense of proportion, that was characteristic of French opera of his day. Grétry had shown great art in the connecting of the operatic scenes, translating faithfully the spoken word into musical speech, and individualizing by musical means the creatures of the play. It was reserved for Mozart, the greater genius, to carry Grétry's theories farther and at the same time never lose sight of the musical expression. Méhul once said that Grétry made wit and not music; this reproach could not justly be made against Mozart, although he walked in the same path with the author of "Le Tableau parlant" and "Richard." In spite of both the French and Italian influences, there was much that was novel in the expression of the phrase, the variety of thematic development, and the modulation, harmony, and instrumentation. Its first performance was an epoch in the history of opera.

In the "Escape from the Seraglio" (1782) there was a still greater advance, and here is seen the beginning of what is now known as German opera. Mozart, while composing it, wrote his father at various times concerning his operatic creed. Quotations from these letters will perhaps best explain his theories: "A man who abandons himself to his anger, becomes extravagant and is no longer master of himself. If music paints anger, it must imitate its model; and however violent the passions may be they should never provoke disgust. Music ought never to wound the ear. Even in the most horrible situations it ought to satisfy the ear. Music should always remain music." Here it will be seen that he is with La Harpe and against Gluck. "Poetry in opera should be the obedient daughter of music. Why do the Italian operas, in spite of miserable texts, please everywhere, even in Paris? Because the music dominates as sovereign and everything else is accepted." Here again Mozart is directly opposed to Gluck; the former is the disciple of the Italian school; the latter faithful to the French theory. Perhaps, as Victor Wilder suggests, the truth is between the two extreme points; poetry and music in opera are necessarily in reciprocal independence, and each ought in turn to dominate the other, as the action hastens or is at a standstill. Gluck himself admitted that "the union between words and music should be so close that the poem seems as much made for the music as the music for the poem." Now Italian dramatic music was chiefly concerned with the whole effect of the poetical thought; the French was more concerned with the detail; the German was more allied to the symphony, and there was a more even balance between the vocal melody and the instrumental phrase. (It will be borne in mind that I speak of German opera as it existed before the theories and work of Richard Wagner.) As "Idomeneo" is distinguished by choral dignity and French frankness of dramatic expression, the "Escape from the Seraglio" is characterized by exquisite melody, by delightful ensemble, and by ingenious instrumentation. There is an exuberance, a freshness in this opera, that led von Weber to affirm that here Mozart had reached "the full maturity of his powers as an artist, and that his further progress after that was only in knowledge of the world." It would be an interesting task to show the growth of Mozart's dramatic genius as seen in this glorification of the old German Singspiel; the characterization of the different parts by musical means. His letters to his father show the pains he took in the instrumentation, now seeking with triangle, big drum and cymbals Turkish effects, now emphasizing the sighs of Belmont with muted strings and the flute.