c. Sirènes

Baudelaire’s prose poem, “The Stranger,” might serve as motto for the first nocturne, and for a hint to performance.

“_Enigmatical man, whom do you love best? Tell me—your mother, your sister, or your brother?_”

“_I have neither father, mother, sister, nor brother._”

“_Your friends?_”

“_You now use a word which to this day has been meaningless to me._”

“_Your country?_”

“_I do not know under what latitude it lies._”

“_Beauty?_”

“_I would love her gladly; goddess and immortal._”

“_Well, what do you love, extraordinary stranger?_”

“_I love the clouds, the clouds that pass, yonder, the marvellous clouds._”

_Festivals_, with its strange processional march, its whirring capriciousness, makes a more direct appeal. Does the third movement answer the old question put by Tiberius to the grammarians and repeated by Sir Thomas Browne, “What song did the sirens sing?” Here is music of waves and of sea-women: music that never was heard on a casino-lined coast, but sounds that might go with “The light that never was, on sea or land.” Here is music that is subtly poetic, music of ineffable beauty. Suppose that Debussy had put words to this song; how he would have cheapened the nocturne! To each hearer on the ship of Ulysses, or to each hearer of Debussy’s music, the sirens sang of what might well lure him.

* * *

The first two nocturnes, _Nuages_ and _Fêtes_, were produced at a Lamoureux concert, Camille Chevillard conductor, Paris, December 9, 1900, and they were played by the same orchestra January 6, 1901. The third, _Sirènes_, was first produced—in company with the other two—at a Lamoureux concert, October 27, 1901. The third is for orchestra with chorus of female voices. At this last concert the friends of Debussy were so exuberant in manifestations of delight that there was sharp hissing as a corrective. The _Nocturnes_ were composed in 1898, and published in 1899.

Debussy furnished a programme for the suite; at least, this programme is attributed to him. Some who are not wholly in sympathy with what they loosely call “the modern movement” may think that the programme itself needs elucidation. Debussy’s peculiar forms of expression in prose are not easily Englished, and it is well-nigh impossible to reproduce certain shades of meaning.

“The title _Nocturnes_ is intended to have here a more general and, above all, a more decorative meaning. We, then, are not concerned with the form of the Nocturne, but with everything that this word includes in the way of diversified impression and special lights.

“_Clouds_: the unchangeable appearance of the sky, with the slow and solemn march of clouds dissolving in a gray agony tinted with white.

“_Festivals_: movement, rhythm dancing in the atmosphere, with bursts of brusque light. There is also the episode of a procession (a dazzling and wholly idealistic vision) passing through the festival and blended with it; but the main idea and substance obstinately remain—always the festival and its blended music—luminous dust participating in the universal rhythm of all things.

“_Sirens_: the sea and its innumerable rhythm; then amid the billows silvered by the moon the mysterious song of the Sirens is heard; it laughs and passes.”

Alfred Bruneau with regard to the _Nocturnes_: “Here, with the aid of a magic orchestra, he has lent to clouds traversing the sombre sky the various forms created by his imagination; he has set to running and dancing the chimerical beings perceived by him in the silvery dust scintillating in the moonbeams; he has changed the white foam of the restless sea into tuneful sirens.”

Questioning the precise nature of the form that shapes these _Nocturnes_, the reader may well ponder the saying of Plotinus in his “Essay on the Beautiful”: “But the simple beauty of color arises, when light, which is something incorporeal, and reason and form, entering the obscure involutions of matter, irradiates and forms its dark and formless nature. It is on this account that fire surpasses other bodies in beauty, because, compared with the other elements, it obtains the order of form: for it is more eminent than the rest, and is the most subtle of all, bordering as it were on an incorporeal nature.”

The _Nocturnes_ are scored as follows:

I. Two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, three bassoons, four horns, kettledrums, harp, strings. The movement begins _modéré_, 6-4.

II. Three flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, three bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, two harps, kettledrums, cymbals, and snare drum, strings. _Animé et très rhythmé_, 4-4.

III. Three flutes, oboe, English horn, two clarinets, three bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, two harps, eight soprano voices, eight mezzo-soprano voices, strings, _modérément animé_, 12-8.

Debussy before his death made many changes in the instrumentation of these _Nocturnes_.

“LA MER,” TROIS ESQUISSES SYMPHONIQUES

I. De l’aube à midi sur la mer II. Jeux de vagues III. Dialogue du vent et de la mer

As these sketches are frankly impressionistic, the enjoyment of the hearer depends largely on his own susceptibility and imagination. There are persons who do not like the ocean. Oscar Wilde was disappointed in the Atlantic; but there are more normal beings, far from being poseurs, who cannot exclaim with Jules Laforgue, “the sea, always new, always respectable!” We know a man who was doomed to spend a vacation in a summer hotel on a bluff looking down on Nantucket Sound. Whenever he sat on a bench he turned his back to the ocean and faced pine trees, giving as an excuse that “the sea got on his nerves.”

Debussy’s _Sea_ is not for them, neither is it for those who find pleasure in Mendelssohn’s overture, _Sea Calm and Prosperous Voyage_, for Debussy knows a wilder ocean, many-faced, now exulting in Æschylean laughter, now spasmodic, sinister, terrible, and never so terrible as when calm, or inviting mortals to sport with it, and smiling—as though it were forgetful of rotting ships and sunken treasure and the drowned far down that were for a time regarded curiously by monsters of the deep.

* * *

These orchestral pieces (I. _From Dawn till Noon on the Ocean_; II. _Play of the Waves_; III. _Dialogue of Wind and Sea_) were performed for the first time at a Lamoureux concert in Paris, October 15, 1905. Camille Chevillard conducted.

Debussy wrote in August, 1903, from Bichain to his publisher Jacques Durand[24] that he was at work on _La Mer_. “If God will be good to me the work will be in a very advanced state on my return [to Paris].” He wrote later that the sketches would have three titles: _Mer belle aux Îles Sanguinaires_; _Jeux de vagues_; _Le Vent fait danser la mer_; and in September he said the work was intended for Chevillard. In September, 1904, he wrote from Dieppe, “I wanted to finish _La Mer_ here, but I must still work on the orchestration, which is as tumultuous and varied as the sea (with all my excuses to the latter).” In January, 1905, he was not sure that the title, “_De l’Aube à midi sur la mer_” would do: “So many contradictory things are dancing in my head, and this last attack of grippe has added its particular dance.” He also wrote that he had remade the end of _Jeux de vagues_. He was disturbed because Chevillard spoke of the difficulties in the music, but if he gave the score to Colonne there might be a row. In July and September, 1905, he complained of “very curious corrections” made by someone in the proofs; and the idea of a performance at Chevillard’s first concert seemed to him as bad as a performance at the last one of the season. At rehearsal it was found that the proofs had been badly read.

The Sketches, dedicated to Jacques Durand, were published at Paris in 1905. Debussy made an arrangement for two pianos; André Caplet made one in 1908 for three pianos.

_La Mer_ is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, three bassoons and contra-bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, two _cornets-à-pistons_, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, tam-tam, glockenspiel, two harps, and strings.

Debussy and the Sea

Debussy loved and respected the ocean. In 1905 he wrote from Eastbourne: “The sea rolls with a wholly British correctness. There is a lawn combed and brushed on which little bits of important and imperialistic English frolic. But what a place to work! No noise, no pianos, except the delicious mechanical pianos, no musicians talking about painting, no painters discussing music. In short, a pretty place to cultivate egoism.”

At Le Puy near Dieppe, August, 1906: “Here I am again with my old friend the sea, always innumerable and beautiful. It is truly the one thing in nature that puts you in your place; only one does not sufficiently respect the sea. To wet in it bodies deformed by the daily life should not be allowed; truly these arms and legs which move in ridiculous rhythms—it is enough to make the fish weep. There should be only Sirens in the sea, and could you wish that these estimable persons would be willing to return to waters so badly frequented?”

Houlgate, 1911: “Here life and the sea continue—the first to contradict our native savagery, the second to accomplish its sonorous going and coming, which cradles the melancholy of those who are deceived by the beach.”

Pourville, August, 1915: “Trees are good friends, better than the ocean, which is in motion, wishing to trespass on the land, bite the rocks, with the anger of a little girl—singular for a person of its importance. One would understand it if it sent the vessels about their business as disturbing vermin.”

“IBÉRIA”: “IMAGES” FOR ORCHESTRA, NO. 2

I. Par les rues et par les chemins (In the Streets and By-ways) II. Les Parfums de la nuit (The Fragrance of the Night) III. Le Matin d’un jour de fête (The Morning of a Festival Day)

The _Images_, of which _Ibéria_ is the second movement, are remarkable in many ways and to be ranked among the first compositions of this genius. They are impressionistic, but there is a sense of form; there is also the finest proportion. This music is conspicuous for exquisite effects of color. There are combinations of timbres and also contrasts that were hitherto unknown. There are hints of Spanish melodies; melodies not too openly exposed; there are intoxicating rhythms, sharply defined, or elusive, and then they are the more madding.

This music is pleasingly remote from photographic realism. The title might be “Impressions of Spain.” There is the suggestion of street life and wild strains heard on bleak plains or savage mountains; of the music of the people; of summer nights, warm and odorous; of the awakening of life with the break of day; of endless jotas, tangos, seguidillas, fandangoes; of gypsies with their spells brought from the East; of women with Moorish blood. _Ibéria_ defies analysis and beggars description.

What phrase-mongering, however ingenious, would impart the beauty of _Odors of the Night_ to him that did not hear the music? The music that haunts should not be lightly or openly talked about. The impression made by it should be guarded or confided only to the closest friend.

To speak of Debussy’s use of instruments to gain effects, of his ability to reproduce what had not been heard by others, though they may have felt it feebly and had the wish to hear it clearly and put it in notation, would be a classroom task. To write of it for the general reader would be only to rhapsodize. Now Debussy is a rhapsodist of the rarest nature, and his musical speech is not to be translated by a rhapsody in words.

* * *

_Ibéria_ is the second in a series of three orchestral compositions by Debussy entitled _Images_.

The first, _Gigues_—it was originally entitled _Gigue Triste_—was published in 1913 and performed for the first time at a Colonne concert, Paris, January 26, 1913. _Ibéria_ was performed for the first time at a Colonne concert in Paris on February 20, 1910, Gabriel Pierné, conductor.

M. Boutarel wrote after the first performance that the hearers are supposed to be in Spain. The bells of horses and mules are heard, and the joyous sounds of wayfarers. The night falls; nature sleeps and is at rest until bells and _aubades_ announce the dawn, and the world awakens to life. “Debussy appears in this work to have exaggerated his tendency to treat music with means of expression analogous to those of the impressionistic painters. Nevertheless, the rhythm remains well defined and frank in _Ibéria_. Do not look for any melodic design, nor any carefully woven harmonic web. The composer of _Images_ attaches importance only to tonal color. He puts his timbres side by side, adopting a process like that of the _Tachistes_ or the ‘stipplers’ in distributing coloring.” The Debussyites and “_Pelléastres_” wished _Ibéria_ repeated, but, while the majority of the audience was willing to applaud, it did not long for a repetition. Repeated the next Sunday, _Ibéria_ aroused “frenetic applause and vehement protestations.”

_Ibéria_ is scored for these instruments: piccolo, three flutes (one interchangeable with a second piccolo), two oboes, English horn, three clarinets, three bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, side drum, tambourine, castanets, xylophone, celesta, cymbals, three bells (F, G, A), two harps, and the usual strings.

Debussy wrote on May 16, 1905, to Jacques Durand, his publisher, that he was preparing these compositions for two pianofortes: “I. _Gigues tristes._ II. _Ibéria._ III. _Valse_ (?).” In September of that year he hoped to finish them. 1906, August 8: “I have at present three different ways of finishing _Ibéria_. Shall I toss up a coin or search for a fourth?” In September, 1907, the _Images_ would be ready as soon as the _Rondes_ were “_comme je le veux et comme il faut_.” In 1908 Debussy was hard at work on his opera, _The Fall of the House of Usher_, an opera of which, it is said, no sketches have been found. (Durand received Debussy’s libretto in 1917.) In 1909 he wrote that he had laid the _Images_ aside “to the advantage of Edgar Allan Poe.” He also worked on an opera, _The Devil in the Belfry_.

In 1910: “I have seen Pierné. I think he exaggerates the difficulties in a performance of _Ibéria_.”

Debussy wrote on December 4, 1910, from Budapest, where he gave a concert of his works, that _Ibéria_ was especially successful. “They could not play _The Sea_ no more the _Nocturnes_, from want of rehearsal. I was assured that the orchestra knew _The Sea_, for it had been played through three times. Ah! my friend, if you had heard it!... I assure you to put _Ibéria_ right in two rehearsals was, indeed, an effort.... Don’t forget that these players understood me only through an interpreter—a sort of Doctor of Law—who perhaps transmitted my thought only by deforming it. I tried every means. I sang, made the gestures of Italian pantomime, etc.—it was enough to touch the heart of a buffalo. Well, they at last understood me, and I had the last word. I was recalled like a ballet girl, and if the idolatrous crowd did not unharness the horses of my carriage, it was because I had a simple taxi. The moral of this journey is that I am not made to exercise the profession of composer of music in a foreign land. The heroism of a commercial traveler is needed. One must consent to a sort of compromise which decidedly repels me.”

ANTON DVOŘÁK

(Born at Mühlhausen [Nelahozeves] near Kralup, Bohemia, September 8, 1841; died at Prague, May 1, 1904)

The winning and endearing qualities of childhood were in Dvořák’s best music: artless simplicity, irresistible frankness, delight in nature and life. His music was best when it smacked of the soil, when he remembered his early days, the strains of vagabond musicians, the dances dear to his folk. One of a happily primitive people, he delighted in rhythm and color. He was not the man to translate pictures, statues, poems, a system of metaphysics, a gospel of pessimism into music. He was least successful when he would be heroic, mystical, profound. It was an evil day for him when England “discovered” him, patronized him, ordered oratorios from him for her festivals, made him a doctor of music (as though he were a cathedral organist), and tried to turn this _Naturmensch_ into a drawing-room and church celebrity. When Dvořák is dull, he is very dull. His Slavonic Dances and such a song as “Als die alte Mutter” are worth a wilderness of “St. Ludmilas” and “Heldenlieds.” And his work as a creative musician was no doubt at an end when he left this country to go back to his beloved Prague.

Some have been inclined to think lightly of Dvořák because his best and vital qualities were recognized by the people. This popularity irritated those who believe that pure art is only for the few—the purists; they forget Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, Verdi, Wagner, Tchaikovsky. But this popularity was based on the quick recognition of essential qualities: melody, rhythm, color. Slavonic intensity has a purpose, an esoteric meaning. Dvořák might have replied to lecturers, essayists, and the genteel in Whitman’s words:

_Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well, I have—for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has._

_Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Does the early redstail, twittering through the woods?_

Dvořák had his faults, and they were tiresome and exasperating. His naïveté became a mannerism. Like a child, he delighted in vain repetitions; he was at times too much pleased with rhythms and colors, so that he mistook the exterior dress for the substance and forgot that after all there was little or no substance behind the brilliant trappings. We believe that he will ultimately be ranked among the minor poets of music. His complete works may gather dust in libraries; but no carefully chosen anthology will be without examples of his piquancy, strength, and beauty in thought and expression.

SYMPHONY NO. 5, IN E MINOR, “FROM THE NEW WORLD,” OP. 95

I. Adagio; allegro molto II. Largo III. Scherzo IV. Allegro con fuoco

Dvořák was an Austrian of a sort, and lived his time in Vienna, like the others. But he had Czech blood in his veins, and had, moreover, pretty well formed his style before coming to Vienna; besides, he was a peasant and had not only been brought up in, but had a native affinity for, the peasant musical atmosphere; Vienna taught him no dancing-master tricks. It is at once curious and delightful to note how, in this symphony, Dvořák sticks to his peasant dialect. Once, in the _scherzo_, he rises to the Schubert pitch of civilization (and Schubert himself was an incorrigible man of the people), but for the rest remains peasant as he was born and bred. And as his dialect is really his native lingo, it has all the charm of reality and does not offend nor bore you—as so-called dialect novels do. Here in this symphony Dvořák has done, perhaps, the best work of his life; not the most genuine, for he is hardly ever anything but genuine, but the most thoroughly poetic and beautiful. There are parts of the _finale_ that seem clearly intended as a picture of—or say, rather, clearly inspired by memories of—a peasant’s Sunday afternoon _Keilerei_, or free fight (of the “where you see a head, hit” sort).

* * *

Dvořák in 1892-93 was living in New York as the director of the National Conservatory of Music. He made many sketches for this symphony. In the first of the three books used for this purpose, he noted “Morning, December 19, 1892.” Fuller sketches began January 10, 1893. The slow movement was then entitled “_Legenda_.” The _scherzo_ was completed January 31; the _finale_, May 25, 1893. A large part of the instrumentation was done at Spillville, Ia., where many Bohemians dwelt.

This symphony was performed for the first time, in manuscript, by the Philharmonic Society of New York on Friday afternoon, December 15, 1893. Anton Seidl conducted. Dvořák was present.

When this symphony was played at Berlin in 1900, Dvořák wrote to Oskar Nedbal, who conducted it: “I send you Kretzschmar’s analysis of the symphony, but omit that nonsense about my having made use of ‘Indian’ and ‘American’ themes—that is a lie. I tried to write only in the spirit of those national American melodies. Take the introduction to the symphony as slowly as possible.”

The symphony aroused a controversy in which there was shedding of much ink. The controversy long ago died out, and is probably forgotten even by those who read the polemical articles at the time and expressed their own opinions. The symphony remains. It is now without associations that might prejudice. It is now enjoyed or appreciated, or possibly passed by, as music, and not as an exhibit in a case on trial.

Yet it may be good to recall the circumstances of the symphony’s origin. In the feverish days of the discussion excited by the first performance of this symphony, it was stated that Mr. Krehbiel and others called the attention of Dvořák, who was then living in New York, to Negro melodies and rhythms; that the Bohemian composer then wept with joy and rushed after music paper; that he journeyed to a Western town inhabited chiefly by Bohemians, a town in Iowa, where he could find the stimulating atmosphere to write masterpieces of a truly American nature. Some may also remember that soon after the first performances of the symphony there was a distressing rumor that portions of it had been composed long before Dvořák came to New York; long before his eyes were dimmed and his knees turned to water by hearing Negro tunes.

The conclusion of the whole matter, according to several Czechs whom William Ritter (author of a life of Smetana) consulted, is as follows:

I. The _New World_ symphony expresses the state of soul of an uncultured Czech in America, the state of a homesick soul remembering his native land and stupefied by the din and hustle of a new life.

II. The uncultured Czech is a born musician, a master of his trade. He is interested in the only traces of music that he finds in America. Negro airs, not copied, adapted, imitated, tint slightly two or three passages of the symphony without injury to its Czech character.

III. The symphony leaped, Minerva-like, from the head of this uncultured genius. As nearly all his other compositions, except the operas, it was not stimulated by any foreign assistance, by any consultation of authors, or by quotations, reading, etc., as was especially the case with Brahms.

IV. The national Czech feeling in this work, quickened by homesickness, is so marked that it is recognized throughout Bohemia, by the learned and by the humblest.

These are the conclusions of Mr. Ritter after a painstaking investigation. That Dvořák was most unhappy and pathetically homesick during his sojourn in New York is known to many, though Mr. Ritter does not enter into any long discussion of the composer’s mental condition in this country.

Yet some will undoubtedly continue to insist that the symphony _From the New World_ is based, for the most part, on Negro themes, and that the future of American music rests on the use of Congo, North American Indian, Creole, Greaser, and Cowboy ditties, whinings, yawps, and whoopings.

The symphony is scored for two flutes and piccolo, two oboes (one interchangeable with English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, cymbals, triangle, and strings.

EDWARD WILLIAM ELGAR

(Born at Broadheath, near Worcester, England, June 2, 1857; died at Worcester, February 23, 1934)

Nearly one hundred years ago, William Hazlitt wrote a few words concerning a speech on Indian affairs by the Marquis Wellesley, the eldest brother of the Duke of Wellington. These words may be justly applied to Sir Edward Elgar, composer of _The Dream of Gerontius_, two symphonies, the popular march _Pomp and Circumstance_, and other works familiar to our concert audiences.

“Seeming to utter volumes in every word, and yet saying nothing; retaining the same unabated vehemence of voice and action without anything to excite it; still keeping alive the promise and the expectation of genius without once satisfying it—soaring into mediocrity with adventurous enthusiasm, harrowed up by some plain matter of fact, writhing with agony under a truism, and launching a commonplace with all the fury of a thunderbolt.”

VARIATIONS ON AN ORIGINAL THEME, “ENIGMA,” OP. 36

Theme: Andante. Variations: I. “C.A.E.” L’istesso tempo II. “H.D.S.-P.” Allegro III. “R.B.T.” Allegretto IV. “W.M.B.” Allegro di molto V. “R.P.A.” Moderato VI. “Ysobel” Andantino VII. “Troyte” Presto VIII. “W.N.” Allegretto IX. “Nimrod” Moderato X. “Dorabella—Intermezzo.” Allegro XI. “G.R.S.” Allegro di molto XII. “B.G.N.” Andante XIII. “X.X.X.—Romanza.” Moderato XIV. “E.D.U.—Finale”

Elgar’s Variations were once regarded as a brilliant show-piece for an orchestra. There was a time when Elgar was held to be a “great” composer. Time, the Old Man with a Scythe, has a disconcerting way of handling it. The music with a few exceptions seems at the best respectable in a middle-class manner; the sort of music that gives the composer the degree of Mus. Doc. from an English university. In Elgar’s case, his music won him knighthood, and to this day there are “Elgar Festivals” in England. Was Cecil Gray too severe when he wrote of Elgar: “He never gets entirely away from the atmosphere of pale, cultured idealism and the unconsciously hypocritical, self-righteous, Pharisaical gentlemanliness which is so characteristic of British art in the last century”?

* * *

These Variations, composed at Malvern in 1899, were first performed at one of Hans Richter’s concerts in London, June 19, 1899. Mr. Felix Borowski, the excellent editor of the Chicago Orchestra’s Programme Books, says: “Richter had never met the English composer when, in Vienna, he received the score of the Variations from his agent in the British capital; but the conductor determined to exploit a work which appeared to him to possess qualities of strength and skill that had not been made evident in many English compositions. ‘The _Enigma_ Variations,’ wrote Robert J. Buckley, ‘toured by Richter’s band, set the seal on Elgar’s reputation. Richter did for Elgar what he had done for Wagner thirty years before. England was won for Wagner by Richter and the _Tannhäuser_ overture. England was won for Elgar by Richter and the _Enigma_ Variations.’[25] It should, however, be pointed out that the Variations, as produced by Richter in June, 1899, were not quite the same composition as that which has been made familiar to every concert-going audience in the world. After the first performance, Elgar, at the instigation of Hans Richter, added a _coda_, and he made various changes in the orchestration throughout the piece. In this revised form it was produced at the Worcester Festival, the composer conducting his work, September 13, 1899.” The Variations were first played in Germany at a concert of the Städtische Musikverein, Düsseldorf, February 7, 1901; Julius Buths, conductor.

The score, which includes a theme and fourteen variations, is dedicated by the composer to his “friends pictured within.” Elgar himself said: “It is true that I have sketched, for their amusement and mine, the idiosyncrasies of fourteen of my friends, not necessarily musicians; but this is a personal matter and need not have been mentioned publicly. The Variations should stand simply as a ‘piece’ of music. The Enigma I will not explain—its ‘dark saying’ must be left unguessed, and I warn you that the apparent connection between the Variations and the theme is often of the slightest texture; further, through and over the whole set another and larger theme ‘goes’ but is not played.... So the principal theme never appears, even as in some late dramas—e.g., Maeterlinck’s _L’Intruse_ and _Les Sept Princesses_: the chief character is never on the stage.”

Elgar’s work is scored for two flutes and piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, snare drum, bass drum, triangle, cymbals, organ (_ad lib._), and strings.

THEME

The theme, or the “Enigma,” is an _andante_, G minor, 4-4, of a melancholy nature, with a halting and sighing melody. A few measures of musical notation would show more clearly the nature of the following variations than any verbal description, however graphic.

Elgar wrote to the late August Johannes Jaeger that he had composed thirteen variations, but, yielding to superstition, he had called the _finale_ the fourteenth.

VARIATIONS

I. “C.A.E.” _L’istesso tempo_, G minor, 4-4. The initials are Lady Elgar’s. The theme, changed in rhythm, is given to the second violins and violas tremolo; flute and clarinet in octaves. The close, _pianississimo_, is in G major.

II. “H.D.S.-P.” _Allegro_, G minor, 3-8. The theme finally appears in the violoncellos and basses under a staccato figure for wood-wind, later violins.

III. “R.B.T.” _Allegretto_, G major, 3-8. Fragments of the theme are played by oboe and violins (_pizzicato_) against a counter theme for wood-wind.

IV. “W.M.B.” A spirited, vigorous variation. _Allegro di molto_, G minor-major 3-4. Strings, wood-wind, and horns proclaim the theme. The last measures call for the full strength of the orchestra.

V. “R.P.A.” _Moderato_, C minor, 12-8 (4-4). A counter melody is developed against the theme (bassoons, violoncellos, and double basses), first above the theme and then below it.

VI. “Ysobel.” _Andantino_, C major 3-2. A lyrical movement with a cantilena for solo viola, while gentle phrases are given to the woodwind and horns.

VII. “Troyte.” _Presto_, C major, 4-4. Wood-wind and violins have a bold figure over a _basso ostinato_ for violoncellos, double basses, kettledrums. This figure, changed, is afterwards given to the basses.

VIII. “W.N.” _Allegretto_, G major, 6-8. Clarinets vary the theme.

IX. “Nimrod.” _Moderato_, E flat major, 3-4. This and the next variations are in strong contrast to each other and to those that precede. “Nimrod” is a tribute to Elgar’s friend Jaeger. Elgar’s Variations were performed at a memorial concert to Jaeger in London on January 24, 1910. Hans Richter conducted. Elgar wrote this note for the programme: “The Variations are not all ‘portraits.’... Something ardent and mercurial, in addition to the slow movement (No. IX), would have been needful to portray the character and temperament of A. J. Jaeger. The variation is a record of a long summer evening talk, when my friend grew nobly eloquent (as only he could) on the grandeur of Beethoven, and especially of his slow movements.” The strings (2d violins, violas, and violoncellos divided) sing the theme, _pianississimo_. Later the wood-wind and brass enlarge it.

X. “Dorabella—Intermezzo.” _Allegretto_, G major, 3-4, a sparkling, joyous variation, scored lightly for muted strings and wood-wind; a horn is heard in one measure, and there are a few strokes on the kettledrums.

XI. “G.R.S.” _Allegro di molto_, G minor, 2-2. An English reviewer says of this variation: “The furious pedaling in the basses seems to confirm our suspicion that this is the ‘picture’ of a well-known Cathedral organist.” This organist is probably Dr. George Roberton Sinclair, a friend and neighbor of Elgar at Hereford. The basses play a staccato variation of the theme. Later the brass has it _fortissimo_.

XII. “B.G.N.” _Andante_, G minor, 4-4. A song for violoncellos in which violas join later with first violins for the climax.

XIII. “X.X.X.—Romanza.” _Moderato_, G major, 3-4. The story is that “X.X.X.” was at sea when Elgar wrote this variation. We quote from Mr. Daniel Gregory Mason’s essay on Elgar: “Violas in a quietly undulating rhythm suggests the ocean expanse; an almost inaudible tremor of the drum gives the throb of the engines; a quotation from Mendelssohn’s _Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage_ (clarinet) completes the story. Yet ‘story’ it is not—and there is the subtlety of it. Dim sea and dreamlike steamer are only accessories, after all. The thought of the distant friend, the human soul there, is what quietly disengages itself as the essence of the music.”[26] Ernest Newman speaks of the “curious drum roll, like the faint throb of the engines of a big liner.”[27]

XIV. “E.D.U.—Finale.” _Allegro_, G major, with an introduction. There are various modifications of tempo; the final section is a _presto_. The organ part was added after the first performance. “The _finale_ is an elaborate movement, starting _pianissimo_, but soon developing strength and brilliancy in a richly scored marchlike strain, with which anon the _ritmo di tre_ of Variation IX, ‘Nimrod’ (but in augmentation) is combined in a grandiose and triumphant passage, which virtually forms the climax of the work.” There is also a reminiscence of the opening strain of Variation I, _pianississimo_.

MANUEL DE FALLA

(Born at Cadiz, November 23, 1876)

BALLET-PANTOMIME: “EL AMOR BRUJO”

The suite derived from de Falla’s “choreographic fantasy,” _Love, the Sorcerer_, does not suffer so much by its separation from the theatrical situations, action, and stage settings as other suites arranged from ballets. There are many pages that are enjoyable as pure music without thought of a plot and the evolutions of a ballet, without the question of whether this number or that is illustrative of an episode in the ballet. If de Falla expresses the wildness of Spanish gypsy music in a fascinating manner, he is equally fortunate in the expression of gentle emotions. There is little that is sensuous or voluptuous in the suite. The music for the scene of the appearance of a ghost which cools the amorous ardor of Candelas when her new lover would approach her—here one is reminded of the chief theme of Anatole France’s amusing and satirical _Histoire comique_—is, perhaps, imbued with passionate fervor for performance on the stage.

* * *

This _Gitaneria_ (Gypsy Life) in one act and two scenes, a choreographic fantasy with voice and small orchestra, book by Gregorio Martinez Sierra (known in this country by the plays _A Romantic Young Lady_, _Cradle Song_, _The Kingdom of God_), was produced at the Teatro de Lara, Madrid, April 15, 1915, with the Señora Pastora Imperio assisting. A concert version was performed at Madrid in 1916, E. Fernandez Arbos conductor, at a concert of the Sociedad Nacional de Música. According to G. Jean-Aubry, “De Falla drew from the music certain symphonic excerpts, in which he suppressed the spoken or sung parts and enlarged the instrumentation.... But this did not alter the essential character of the work, which is to be found in its particular color, or the semi-Arabian style of its idioms.”

This suite was performed for the first time in London on November 23, 1921.

Sierra based the libretto of de Falla’s ballet pantomime on an Andalusian gypsy story. _Brujo_ means a wizard, a male witch. Mr. Trent, in his _Manuel de Falla and Spanish Music_, writes: “_L’Amour sorcier_ has misled both audiences and English translators. _Love the Wizard_ gives an entirely wrong impression; _Wedded by Witchcraft_, proposed as an alternative, is a description, more or less, of what happens; and even that would be better as _Wedded in Spite of Witchcraft_.”

There was a small orchestra when the work was first produced. As finally revised, the score calls for piccolo, two flutes, oboe, two clarinets, bassoon, two horns, two trumpets, kettledrums, bells (A, D, C), piano, and strings. A mezzo-soprano sings “behind”; but in concerts the voice is replaced by a horn, or in one place an English horn.

When Mr. Arbos conducted this work in St. Louis, the Programme Book, edited by Harry R. Burke, contained this synopsis of the story published as a preface to the piano score:

“Candelas, a young, very beautiful and passionate woman has loved a wicked, jealous and dissolute, but fascinating and cajoling Gypsy. Although having led a very unhappy life with him, she has loved him intensely and mourned his loss, unable ever to forget him. Her memory of him is something like a hypnotic dream, a morbid, gruesome, and maddening spell. She is terrified by the thought that the dead may not be entirely gone, that he may return, that he continues to love her in that fierce, shadowy, faithless, and caressing way. She lets herself become a prey to the past as if under the influence of a specter; yet she is young, strong, vivacious. Spring returns, and with it love, in the shape of Carmelo.

“Carmelo, a handsome youth, enamored and gallant, makes love to her. Candelas, not unwilling to be won, almost unconsciously returns his love; but the obsession of her past weighs against her present inclination. When Carmelo approaches her and endeavors to make her share his passion, the Specter returns and terrifies Candelas, whom he separates from her lover. They cannot exchange the kiss of perfect love.

“Carmelo being gone, Candelas languishes and droops; she feels as if bewitched, and her past love seems to flutter heavily about her like malevolent and foreboding bats. But this evil spell has to be broken, and Carmelo believes he has found a remedy. He has once been the comrade of the Gypsy whose specter haunts Candelas. He knows that the dead lover was the typical faithless and jealous Andalusian gallant. Since he appears to retain, even after his death, his taste for beautiful women, he must be taken on his weak side and thus diverted from his posthumous jealousy in order that Carmelo may exchange with Candelas the perfect kiss against which the sorcery of love cannot prevail.

“Carmelo persuades Lucia, a young and enchantingly pretty Gypsy girl, the friend of Candelas, to simulate acceptance of the Specter’s addresses. Lucia, out of love for Candelas and from feminine curiosity, agrees. The idea of a flirtation with a ghost seems to her attractive and novel. And then the dead man was so mirthful in life. Lucia takes up the sentinel’s post. Carmelo returns to make love to Candelas, and the Specter intervenes ... but he finds the charming little Gypsy, and neither can nor will resist the temptation, not being experienced in withstanding the allurements of a pretty face. He makes love to Lucia, coaxing and imploring her, and the coquettish young Gypsy almost brings him to despair. In the meantime Carmelo succeeds in convincing Candelas of his love, and life triumphs over death and the past. The lovers at last exchange the kiss that defeats the evil influence of the Specter, who perishes, definitely conquered by love.”

THREE DANCES TAKEN FROM THE BALLET “THE THREE-CORNERED HAT”

I. The Neighbors II. The Miller’s Dance III. Final Dance

The score calls for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, side drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, xylophone, tam-tam, castanets, celesta, harp, piano, and the usual strings.

When the Russian Ballet visited Spain, Serge de Diaghilev was so much interested in the work of de Falla that he commissioned him to write a ballet on the subject of Alarcón’s novel, _El Sombrero de Tres Picos_.

This ballet _The Three-cornered Hat_ was performed for the first time on any stage by the Russian Ballet at the Alhambra, London. Joaquin Turina says (_The Chesterian_, May, 1920) that the first version of _The Three-cornered Hat_ was produced at the Eslava Theater, Madrid, under the title of _El Corregidor y la Molinera_. Turina was then conducting this theater’s orchestra. The “pantomime” of de Falla was accompanied by only seventeen players. “The composer was confronted with one great difficulty, and that was to follow musically the action of the play without spoiling the unity of his score. The music therefore continually reflected a certain anxiety on the composer’s part, as if he were trying to disentangle himself, so to speak, from the external network. The transformation of the ‘pantomime’ into a ballet at once cleared away all these difficulties. This is quite natural, for in the new version the action became reduced to a strictly indispensable minimum, and the dances became predominant, those already existing being considerably amplified.”

Turina finds the Miller’s Dance the most interesting “because of its typically Andalusian character, its fascinating rhythm which is like an affirmation of Southern art, and its Moorish character.” In the Final Dance the _jota_ and the folk theme called _vito_ are introduced.

The _Daily Telegraph_ (London, July 24, 1919) said of the ballet:

“Over the whole brisk action is the spirit of frivolous comedy of a kind by no means common only to Spain of the eighteenth century. A young miller and his wife are the protagonists, and if their existence be idyllic in theory, it is extraordinarily strenuous in practice—choreographically. But that is only another way of saying that M. Massine and Mme Karsavina, who enact the couple, are hardly ever off the stage, and that both of them work with an energy and exuberance that almost leave one breathless at moments. The miller and his wife between them, however, would scarcely suffice even for a slender ballet plot. So we have as well an amorous _corregidor_ (or governor), who orders the miller’s arrest so that the way may be cleared for a pleasant little flirtation—if nothing more serious—with the captivating wife. Behold the latter fooling him with a seductive dance, and then evading her admirer with such agility that, in his pursuit of her, he tumbles over a bridge into the mill stream. But, as this is comedy, and not melodrama, the would-be lover experiences nothing worse than a wetting, and the laugh, which is turned against him, is renewed when, having taken off some of his clothes to dry them and gone to rest on the miller’s bed, his presence is discovered by the miller himself, who, in revenge, goes off in the intruder’s garments after scratching a message on the wall to the effect that ‘Your wife is no less beautiful than mine!’ Thereafter a ‘gallimaufry of gambols’ and—curtain!”

CÉSAR FRANCK

(Born at Liège, Belgium, December 10, 1822; died at Paris, November 8, 1890)

What a characteristic figure is this artist of the nineteenth century, whose profile stands out so boldly from the surroundings in which he lived! An artist of another age, whose work makes one think of that of the great Bach! Franck went through this life as a dreamer, seeing little or nothing of that which passed about him, thinking only of his art, and living only for it. True artists are subject to this kind of hypnotism—the inveterate workers, who find the recompense of their labor in the accomplished fact, and an incomparable joy in the pure and simple toil of each day. They have no need to search for the echo in the crowd.

When Ysaye and Lachaume introduced Franck’s violin sonata (in Boston) in 1895; when these and others introduced the magnificent piano quintet in 1898, leading musicians of this city shook wise heads and said with an air of finality: “This will never do.” The string quartet was only tolerated, endured because it was produced at a Kneisel concert, and at that time the Kneisels could do no wrong. _The Wild Huntsman_, produced here by Theodore Thomas in 1898, was looked on as the work of an eccentric and theatrical Frenchman.

When Mr. Gericke produced the symphony in 1899, the storm broke loose. There were letters of angry protest. A leading critic characterized the symphony as “dismal.” Several subscribers to the concerts called it “immoral” and vowed they would not attend any concert at which music by Franck was to be played.

Nor did Franck fare better for a time in New York. Even the broad-minded James Huneker dismissed him as a sort of Abbé Liszt, now in the heavily scented boudoir, now with self-conscious devotion in the church. Franck in the boudoir! Poor “_Père_” Franck!

And so Franck had to make his way here, as in Paris, misunderstood, abused, regarded by some as an anarchist, by some as a bore. This, men and brethren, should make us all tolerant, even cautious in passing judgment on contemporary composers whose idiom is as yet strange to us. Cocksure opinions are valuable chiefly to the one who expresses them.

Let us hear what is going on in the musical world, even if it is going on noisily and queerly in our ears. It is not enough to say: “I don’t like it. Why does —— put such pieces on the programme?” Inherently bad music will soon disappear of itself, unless it is so bad, with such obviously vulgar tunes, that it becomes popular. But music is not necessarily bad because it is of a strange and irregular nature. For audiences to have no curiosity about new works, no spur to hot discussion concerning them, is a sign of stagnation in art. Thus César Franck, a great teacher, teaches us all indirectly a lesson.

SYMPHONY IN D MINOR

I. Lento; allegro non troppo II. Allegretto III. Allegro non troppo

As the “_Pelléastres_” for a time did Debussy harm, so the “Franckists” injured the reputation of César Franck. They insisted on his aloofness from earthly strife, joy, sorrow, passion. They proclaimed him a mystic, dwelling in the seventh heaven and hearing, if not the celestial choir, at least the music of the spheres. His compositions were of plenary inspiration: not a note could be added; not a note could be taken away.

A reaction was inevitable. Younger composers, escaping his influence, were tired of his alleged perfection. Older composers, envious no doubt of his fame, were wearied by the recital of his private and musical virtues. Was he overestimated soon after his death? For some years it has been the fashion to underestimate him; to speak of “the false mysticism of the old Belgian angel.” Too frequent repetitions of his music, even of that masterpiece the violin sonata and of his symphony, were not of benefit to him. (It was as with Tchaikovsky and his _Pathetic_ symphony.)

Today it is only just to recognize Franck’s eminence among composers. To say that his symphony is flawless is not so easy. We believe that in the first movement the return of the somber introduction, even with a changed tonality, before the full exposition, development and continuance of the main body of the movement, was a mistake. It might reasonably be said that there is in this movement overelaboration, a surplusage of detail, unnecessary repetitions of thematic fragments given in turn to various instruments or choirs of instruments, a favorite device of Tchaikovsky’s. There might something be said with regard to diffuseness in the other movements.

* * *

This symphony was produced at the Conservatoire, Paris, February 17, 1889. It was composed in 1888 and completed August 22 of that year.

Vincent d’Indy[28] in his Life of Franck gives some particulars about the first performance of the Symphony in D minor. “The performance was quite against the wish of most members of the famous orchestra, and was only pushed through thanks to the benevolent obstinacy of the conductor, Jules Garcin. The subscribers could make neither head nor tail of it, and the musical authorities were much in the same position. I inquired of one of them—a professor at the Conservatoire, and a kind of factotum on the committee—what he thought of the work. ‘That a symphony?’ he replied in contemptuous tones. ‘But, my dear sir, who ever heard of writing for the English horn in a symphony? Just mention a single symphony by Haydn or Beethoven introducing the English horn. There, well, you see—your Franck’s music may be whatever you please, but it will certainly never be a symphony!’” This was the attitude of the Conservatoire in the year of grace 1889.

“At another door of the concert hall, the composer of _Faust_, escorted by a train of adulators, male and female, fulminated a kind of papal decree to the effect that this symphony was the affirmation of incompetence pushed to dogmatic lengths. For sincerity and disinterestedness we must turn to the composer himself, when, on his return from the concert, his whole family surrounded him, asking eagerly for news. ‘Well, were you satisfied with the effect on the public? Was there plenty of applause?’ To which ‘Father Franck,’ thinking only of his work, replied with a beaming countenance: ‘Oh, it sounded well; just as I thought it would!’”

D’Indy describes Gounod leaving the concert hall of the Conservatoire after the first performance of Franck’s symphony, surrounded by incense burners of each sex, and saying particularly that this symphony was “the affirmation of impotence pushed to dogma.” Perhaps Gounod made this speech; perhaps he didn’t; some of Franck’s disciples are too busy in adding to the legend of his martyrdom. D’Indy says little about the structure of this symphony, although he devotes a chapter to Franck’s string quartet.

Speaking of Franck’s sonata for violin and pianoforte, he calls attention to the fact that the first of its organic germs is used as the theme of the four movements of the work. “From this moment cyclical form, the basis of modern symphonic art, was created and consecrated.” He then adds:

“The majestic, plastic, and perfectly beautiful Symphony in D minor is constructed on the same method. I purposely use the word _method_ for this reason: After having long described Franck as an empiricist and an improviser—which is radically wrong—his enemies (of whom, in spite of his incomparable goodness, he made many) and his ignorant detractors suddenly changed their views and called him a musical mathematician, who subordinated inspiration and impulse to a conscientious manipulation of form. This, we may observe in passing, is a common reproach brought by the ignorant Philistine against the dreamer and the genius. Yet where can we point to a composer in the second half of the nineteenth century who could—and did—think as loftily as Franck, or who could have found in his fervent and enthusiastic heart such vast ideas as those which lie at the musical basis of the symphony, the quartet, and _The Beatitudes_?

“It frequently happens in the history of art that a breath passing through the creative spirits of the day incites them, without any previous mutual understanding, to create works which are identical in form, if not in significance. It is easy to find examples of this kind of artistic telepathy between painters and writers, but the most striking instances are furnished by the musical art.

“Without going back upon the period we are now considering, the years between 1884 and 1889 are remarkable for a curious return to pure symphonic form. Apart from the younger composers, and one or two unimportant representatives of the old school, three composers who had already made their mark—Lalo, Saint-Saëns, and Franck—produced true symphonies at this time, but widely different as regards external aspects and ideas.

“Lalo’s Symphony in G minor, which is on very classical lines, is remarkable for the fascination of its themes, and still more for charm and elegance of rhythm and harmony, distinctive qualities of the imaginative composer of _Le Roi d’Ys_.

“The C minor symphony of Saint-Saëns, displaying undoubted talent, seems like a challenge to the traditional laws of tonal structure; and although the composer sustains the combat with cleverness and eloquence, and in spite of the indisputable interest of the work—founded, like many others by this composer, upon a prose theme, the _Dies Iræ_—yet the final impression is that of doubt and sadness.

“Franck’s symphony, on the contrary, is a continual ascent towards pure gladness and life-giving light because its workmanship is solid, and its themes are manifestations of ideal beauty. What is there more joyous, more sanely vital, than the principal subject of the _finale_, around which all the other themes in the work cluster and crystallize? While in the higher registers all is dominated by that motive which M. Ropartz has justly called ‘the theme of faith.’”

The symphony is scored for two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, two cornets, three trombones, bass tuba, tympani, harps, and strings. The score is dedicated to Henri Duparc.

GEORG FRIDERIC HANDEL

(Born at Halle, February 23, 1685; died at London, April 14, 1759)

“Mr. Georg Frideric Handel,” Mr. Runciman once wrote, “is by far the most superb personage one meets, in the history of music. He alone, of all the musicians, lived his life straight through in the grand manner.”[29] When Handel wrote “_pomposo_” on a page, he wrote not idly. What magnificent simplicity in outlines!... For melodic lines of such chaste and noble beauty, such Olympian authority, no one has approached Handel. “Within that circle none durst walk but he.” His nearest rival is the Chevalier Gluck.

And this giant of a man could express a tenderness known only to him and Mozart, for Schubert, with all his melodic wealth and sensitiveness, could fall at times into sentimentalism, and Schumann’s intimate confessions were sometimes whispered. Handel in his tenderness was always manly. No one has approached him in his sublimely solemn moments! Few composers, if there is anyone, have been able to produce such pathetic or sublime effects by simple means, by a few chords even. He was one of the greatest melodists. His fugal pages seldom seem labored; they are distinguished by amazing vitality and spontaneity. In his slow movements, his instrumental airs, there is a peculiar dignity, a peculiar serenity, and a direct appeal that we find in no other composer.

Would that we could hear more of Handel’s music! At present he is known in this country as the composer of _The Messiah_, the variations entitled _The Harmonious Blacksmith_, and the monstrous perversion of a simple operatic air dignified, forsooth, by the title “_Handel’s Largo_.”

TWELVE CONCERTI GROSSI, FOR STRING ORCHESTRA

No. 1, in G major No. 2, in F major No. 3, in E minor No. 4, in A minor No. 5, in D major No. 6, in G minor No. 7, in B flat major No. 8, in C minor No. 9, in F major No. 10, in D minor No. 11, in A major No. 12, in B minor

Handel apparently took a peculiar pride in his Concerti Grossi. He published them himself, and by subscription. They would probably be more popular today if all conductors realized the fact that music in Handel’s time was performed with varied and free inflections; that his players undoubtedly employed many means of expression. As German organists of forty years ago insisted that Bach’s preludes, fugues, toccatas, should be played with full organ and rigidity of tempo, although those who heard Bach play admired his skill in registration, many conductors find in all of the _allegros_ of Handel’s concertos only a thunderous speech and allow little change in tempo. In the performance of this old music, old but fresh, the two essential qualities demanded by Handel’s music, suppleness of pace and fluidity of expression, named by Volbach, are usually disregarded. Unless there be elasticity in performance, hearers are not to be blamed if they find the music formal, monotonous, dull.

The twelve concertos were composed within three weeks. Kretzschmar has described them as impressionistic pictures, probably without strict reference to the modern use of the word “impressionistic.” They are not of equal worth. Romain Rolland[30] finds the seventh and three last mediocre. In the tenth he discovers French influences and declares that the last _allegro_ might be an air for a music box. Yet the music at its best is aristocratic and noble.

* * *

Handel’s twelve grand concertos for strings were composed between September 29 and October 30, 1739. The London _Daily Post_ of October 29, 1739, said: “This day are published proposals for printing by subscription, with His Majesty’s royal license and protection, Twelve Grand Concertos, in Seven Parts, for four violins, a tenor, a violoncello, with a thorough-bass for the harpsichord. Composed by Mr. Handel. Price to subscribers, two guineas. Ready to be delivered by April next. Subscriptions are taken by the author, at his house in Brook Street, Hanover Square, and by Walsh.” In an advertisement on November 22 the publisher added, “Two of the above concertos will be performed this evening at the Theatre Royal, Lincoln’s Inn.” The concertos were published on April 21, 1740. In an advertisement a few days afterwards Walsh said, “These concertos were performed at the Theatre Royal in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and now are played in most public places with the greatest applause.” Victor Schoelcher made this comment in his _Life of Handel_: “This was the case with all the works of Handel. They were so frequently performed at contemporaneous concerts and benefits that they seem, during his lifetime, to have quite become public property. Moreover, he did nothing which the other theaters did not attempt to imitate. In the little theater of the Haymarket, evening entertainments were given in exact imitation of his ‘several concertos for different instruments, with a variety of chosen airs of the best master, and the famous _Salve Regina_ of Hasse.’ The handbills issued by the nobles at the King’s Theatre make mention also of ‘several concertos for different instruments.’”[31]

The year 1739, in which these concertos were composed, was the year of the first performance of Handel’s _Saul_ (January 16) and _Israel in Egypt_ (April 4)—both oratorios were composed in 1738—also of the music to Dryden’s _Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day_ (November 22).

Romain Rolland, discussing the form _concerto grosso_, which consists essentially of a dialogue between a group of soloists, the _concertino_ (trio of two solo violins and solo bass with cembalo) and the chorus of instruments, _concerto grosso_, believes that Handel at Rome in 1708 was struck by Corelli’s works in this field, for several of his concertos of Opus 3 are dated 1710, 1716, 1722. Geminiani introduced the concerto into England—three volumes appeared in 1732, 1735, 1748—and he was a friend of Handel.

It is stated that the word “concerto,” as applied to a piece for a solo instrument with accompaniment, first appeared in a treatise by Scipio Bargaglia (Venice, 1587); that Giuseppe Torelli, who died in 1708, was the first to suggest a larger number of instruments in a concerto, and to give the name _concerto grosso_ to this species of composition. But Michelletti, seventeen years before, had published his _Sinfonie e concerti a quatro_, and in 1698 his _Concerti musicali_, while the word “concerto” occurs frequently in the musical terminology of the seventeenth century. It was Torelli who, determining the form of the grand solo for violin, opened the way to Archangelo Corelli, the father of modern violinists, composers, or virtuosos.

Romain Rolland insisted that the instrumental music of Handel has the nature of a constant improvisation, music to be served piping hot to an audience, and should preserve this character in performance. “When you have studied with minute care each detail, obtained from your orchestra an irreproachable precision, tonal purity, and finish, you will have done nothing unless you have made the face of the improvising genius rise from the work.”

FRANZ JOSEF HAYDN

(Born at Rohrau, Lower Austria, March 31, 1732; died at Vienna, May 31, 1809)

Haydn has been sadly misunderstood by present followers of tradition who have spoken of him as a man of the old school, while Mozart was a forerunner of Beethoven. Thus they erred. Mozart summed up the school of his day and wrote imperishable music. There has been only one Mozart, and there is no probability of another being born for generations to come; but Haydn was often nearer in spirit to the young Beethoven. It is customary to speak lightly of Haydn as an honest Austrian who wrote light-hearted _allegros_, also minuets by which one is not reminded of a court with noble dames smiling graciously on gallant cavaliers, but sees peasants thumping the ground with heavy feet and uttering joyful cries.

It is said carelessly that Haydn was a simple fellow who wrote at ease many symphonies and quartets that, to quote Berlioz, recall “the innocent joys of the fireside and the _pot-au-feu_.” But Haydn was shrewd and observing—read his diary, kept in London—and if he was plagued with a shrewish wife he found favor with other women. Dear Mrs. Schroeter of London received letters from him breathing love, not manly complimentary affection. And it is said of Haydn that he was only sportive in his music, having a fondness for the bassoon. But Haydn could express tenderness, regret, sorrow in his music.

LONDON SYMPHONIES SYMPHONY NO. 104, IN D MAJOR (B. & H. NO. 2)

I. Adagio; allegro II. Andante III. Menuetto; trio IV. Allegro spiritoso

Haydn’s symphony is ever fresh, spontaneous, yet contrapuntally worked in a masterly manner. What a skillful employment of little themes in themselves of slight significance save for their Blakelike innocence and gayety! Yet in the introduction there is a deeper note, for, contrary to current and easy belief, Haydn’s music is not all beer, skittles, and dancing. There are even gloomy pages in some of his quartets; tragic pages in his _Seven Last Words_, and the prelude to _The Creation_, depicting chaos, is singularly contemporaneous.

* * *

Haydn composed twelve symphonies in England for Salomon. His name began to be mentioned in England in 1765. Symphonies by him were played in concerts given by J. C. Bach, Abel, and others in the ’seventies. Lord Abingdon tried in 1783 to persuade Haydn to take the direction of the Professional Concerts which had just been founded. Gallini asked him his terms for an opera. Salomon, violinist, conductor, manager, sent a music publisher, one Bland—an auspicious name—to coax him to London, but Haydn was loath to leave Prince Esterhazy. Prince Nicolaus died in 1790, and his successor, Prince Anton, who did not care for music, dismissed the orchestra at Esterház and kept only a brass band; but he added 400 gulden to the annual pension of 1,000 gulden bequeathed to Haydn by Prince Nicolaus. Haydn then made Vienna his home. And one day, when he was at work in his house, the “Hamberger” house in which Beethoven also once lived, a man appeared, and said: “I am Salomon from London, and come to fetch you with me. We will agree on the job tomorrow.” Haydn was intensely amused by the use of the word “job.” The contract for one season was as follows: Haydn should receive three hundred pounds for an opera written for the manager Gallini, £300 for six symphonies and £200 for the copyright, £200 for twenty new compositions to be produced in as many concerts under Haydn’s direction, £200 as guarantee for a benefit concert, Salomon deposited 5,000 gulden with the bankers, Fries & Company, as a pledge of good faith. Haydn had 500 gulden ready for traveling expenses, and he borrowed 450 more from his prince. Haydn agreed to conduct the symphonies at the piano.

Salomon about 1786 began to give concerts as a manager, in addition to fiddling at concerts of others. He had established a series of subscription concerts at the Hanover Square Rooms, London. He thought of Haydn as a great drawing card. The violinist W. Cramer, associated with the Professional Concerts, had also approached Haydn, who would not leave his prince. The news of Prince Esterhazy’s death reached Salomon, who then happened to be at Bonn. He therefore hastened to Vienna.

The first of the Salomon-Haydn concerts was given March 11, 1791, at the Hanover Square Rooms. Haydn, as was the custom, “presided at the harpsichord”; Salomon stood as leader of the orchestra. The symphony was in D major, No. 2, of the London list of twelve. The _adagio_ was repeated, an unusual occurrence, but the critics preferred the first movement.

The orchestra was thus composed: twelve to sixteen violins, four violas, three violoncellos, four double basses, flute, oboe, bassoon, horns, trumpets, drums—in all about forty players.

Haydn and Salomon left Vienna on December 15, 1790, and arrived at Calais by way of Munich and Bonn. They crossed the English Channel on New Year’s Day, 1791. From Dover they traveled to London by stage. The journey from Vienna took them seventeen days. Haydn was received with great honor.

Haydn left London towards the end of June, 1792. Salomon invited him again to write six new symphonies. Haydn arrived in London, February 4, 1794, and did not leave England until August 15, 1795. The orchestra at the opera concerts in the grand new concert hall of the King’s Theatre was made up of sixty players. Haydn’s engagement was again a profitable one. He made by concerts, lessons, symphonies, etc., £1,200. He was honored in many ways by the King, the Queen, and the nobility. He was twenty-six times at Carlton House, where the Prince of Wales had a concert room; and, after he had waited long for his pay, he sent a bill from Vienna for 100 guineas, which Parliament promptly settled.

LONDON SYMPHONIES SYMPHONY NO. 94, IN G MAJOR, “SURPRISE” (B. & H. NO. 6)

I. Adagio cantabile e vivace assai II. Andante III. Menuetto IV. Allegro di molto

This symphony, known as the “_Surprise_,” and in Germany as the symphony “with the drumstroke,” is the third of the twelve Salomon symphonies as arranged in the order of their appearance in the catalogue of the Philharmonic Society (London).

Composed in 1791, this symphony was performed for the first time on March 23, 1792, at the sixth Salomon concert in London. It pleased immediately and greatly. _The Oracle_ characterized the second movement as one of Haydn’s happiest inventions, and likened the “surprise”—which is occasioned by the sudden orchestral crash in the _andante_—to a shepherdess, lulled by the sound of a distant waterfall, awakened suddenly from sleep and frightened by the unexpected discharge of a musket.

Griesinger in his Life of Haydn (1810) contradicts the story that Haydn introduced these crashes to arouse the Englishwomen from sleep. Haydn also contradicted it; he said it was his intention only to surprise the audience by something new. “The first _allegro_ of my symphony was received with countless ‘Bravos,’ but enthusiasm rose to its highest pitch after the _andante_ with the drumstroke. ‘_Ancora! ancora!_’ was cried out on all sides, and Pleyel himself complimented me on my idea.” On the other hand, Gyrowetz, in his Autobiography, page 59 (1848), said that he visited Haydn just after he had composed the _andante_, and Haydn was so pleased with it that he played it to him on the piano, and sure of his success, said with a roguish laugh: “The women will cry out here!” C. F. Pohl[32] added a footnote, when he quoted this account of Gyrowetz, and called attention to Haydn’s humorous borrowing of a musical thought of Martini to embellish his setting of music to the commandment, “Thou shalt not steal,” when he had occasion to put music to the Ten Commandments. The _Surprise_ symphony was long known in London as “the favorite grand overture.”

PARIS SYMPHONIES SYMPHONY NO. 88, IN G MAJOR (B. & H. NO. 13)

I. Adagio; allegro II. Largo III. Menuetto; trio IV. Finale; allegro con spirito

The Parisian orchestra, which Haydn undoubtedly had in mind, was a large one—forty violins, twelve violoncellos, eight double basses—so that the composer could be sure of strong contrasts in performance by the string section. Fortunate composer—whose symphonies one can, sitting back, enjoy without inquiring into psychological intention or noting attempts at realism in musical seascapes and landscapes—music not inspired by book or picture—just music; now pompous, now merry, and in more serious moments, never too sad, but with a constant feeling for tonal grace and beauty.

* * *

Haydn wrote a set of six symphonies for a society in Paris known as the _Concert de la loge olympique_. They were ordered in 1784, when Haydn was living at Esterház. Composed in the course of the years 1784-89, they are in C, G minor, E flat, B flat, D, A. No. 1, in C, has been entitled the “_Bear_”; No. 2, in G minor, has been entitled the “_Hen_”; and No. 4, in B flat, is known as the “_Queen of France_.” This symphony is the first of a second set, of which five were composed in 1787, 1788, 1790. If the sixth was written, it cannot now be identified. This one in G major was written in 1787, and is numbered 88 in the full and chronological listing of Mandyczewski (given in Grove’s Dictionary).

I. The first movement opens with a short, slow introduction, _adagio_, G major, 3-4 which consists for the most part of strong _staccato_ chords which alternate with softer passages. The main body of the movement _allegro_, G major, begins with the first theme, a dainty one, announced _piano_ by the strings without double basses and repeated _forte_ by the full orchestra with a new counter figure in the bass. A subsidiary theme is but little more than a melodic variation of the first. So, too, the short conclusion theme—in oboes and bassoon, then in the strings—is only a variation of the first. The free fantasia is long for the period and is contrapuntally elaborate. There is a short _coda_ on the first theme.

II. _Largo_, D major, 3-4. A serious melody is sung by oboe and violoncellos to an accompaniment of violas, double basses, bassoon, and horn. The theme is repeated with a richer accompaniment; while the first violins have a counter figure. After a transitional passage the theme is repeated by a fuller orchestra, with the melody in first violins and flute, then in the oboe and violoncello. The development is carried along on the same lines. There is a very short _coda_.

III. The _Menuetto_, _allegretto_, G major, 3-4, with trio, is in the regular minuet form in its simplest manner.

IV. The _finale_, _allegro con spirito_, G major, 2-4, is a _rondo_ on the theme of a peasant country dance, and it is fully developed. Haydn in his earlier symphonies adopted for the _finale_ the form of his first movement. Later he preferred the _rondo_ form, with its couplets and refrains, or repetitions of a short and frank chief theme. “In some _finales_ of his last symphonies,” says Brenet,[33] “he gave freer reins to his fancy, and modified with greater independence the form of his first _allegros_; but his fancy, always prudent and moderate, is more like the clear, precise arguments of a great orator than the headlong inspiration of a poet. Moderation is one of the characteristics of Haydn’s genius; moderation in the dimensions, in the sonority, in the melodic shape; the liveliness of his melodic thought never seems extravagant, its melancholy never induces sadness.”

The usual orchestration of Haydn’s symphonies (including those listed above) consisted of one (or two) flutes, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, kettledrums, and strings. In his last years (from 1791) he followed Mozart’s lead in introducing two clarinets. The clarinets accordingly appear in the London symphony in D major, described in this chapter.—EDITOR.

PAUL HINDEMITH

(Born at Hanau, on November 16, 1895)

“KONZERTMUSIK” FOR STRING AND BRASS INSTRUMENTS

There was a time in Germany when Hindemith was regarded as the white-haired boy; the hope for the glorious future; greater even than Schönberg. In England, they look on Hindemith coolly—an able and fair-minded critic there has remarked: “The more one hears of the later Hindemith, the more exasperating his work becomes. From time to time some little theme is shown at first in sympathetic fashion, then submitted to the most mechanical processes known to music. Any pleasant jingle seems to mesmerize the composer, who repeats it much as Bruckner repeats his themes—Hindemith abuses the liberty shown to a modern.”

But Hindemith is not always mesmerized by a pleasant jingle. Witness his oratorio, performed with great success. The title is forbidding, _The Unending_, but the performance takes only two hours. The _Concert Music_, composed for the fiftieth anniversary of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, is more than interesting. It cannot be called “noble,” not even “grand,” but it holds the attention by its strength in structure, its spirit, festal without blatancy. For once there is no too evident desire to stun the hearer. It is as if the composer had written for his own pleasure. It is virile music with relieving passages—few in number—that have genuine and simple beauty of thought and expression; exciting at times by the rushing rhythm.

* * *

Hindemith, at the age of eleven, played the viola in the theater and in the moving-picture house; when he was thirteen, he was a viola virtuoso, and he now plays in public his own concertos for that instrument. When he was twenty, he was first concert master of the Frankfort opera house. His teachers in composition were Arnold Mendelssohn and Bernhard Sekles at the Hoch Conservatory in Frankfort. He is the viola player in the Amar Quartet (Licco Amar, Walter Casper, Paul Hindemith, and Maurits Frank—in 1926 his brother Rudolf was the violoncellist).

Apropos of a performance of one of his works, in Berlin, the late Adolf Weissmann wrote in a letter to the _Christian Science Monitor_: “Promising indeed among the young German composers is Paul Hindemith. More than promising he is not yet. For the viola player Paul Hindemith, travelling with the Amar Quartet through half Europe, has seldom time enough to work carefully. The greater part of his compositions were created in the railway car. Is it, therefore, to be wondered at that their principal virtue lies in their rhythm? The rhythm of the rolling car is, apparently, blended with the rhythm springing from within. It is always threatening to outrun all the other values of what he writes. For that these values exist cannot be denied.”

A foreign correspondent of the London _Daily Telegraph_, having heard one of his compositions, wrote: “It was all rather an exhilarating nightmare, as if Hindemith had been attempting to prove the theorem of Pythagoras in terms of parallelograms, which is amusing, but utterly absurd.”

It has been said by A. Machabey that Hindemith has been influenced in turn by Wagner, Brahms—“an influence still felt”; Richard Strauss; Max Reger, who attracted him by his ingenuity and freedom from elementary technic; Stravinsky, who made himself felt after the war; and finally by the theatrical surroundings in which he lives. “He is opposed to post-romanticism. Not being able to escape from romanticism in his youth, today he seems to be completely stripped of it. Freed from the despotism of a text, from the preëstablished plan of programme music, from obedience to the caprices and emphasis of sentiment, music in itself suffices.... The reaction against romanticism is doubled by a democratic spirit which was general in Germany after the war.” Therefore he has had many supporters, who welcomed, “besides this new spirit, an unexpected technic, unusual polyphony and instrumentation, in which one found a profound synthesis of primordial rhythms, tonalities enriched and extended by Schönberg and Hauer, economical and rational groupings of jazz.” Then his compositions are so varied: chamber music for the ultra-fastidious; melodies for amateurs; dramatic works for opera-goers; orchestral pieces for frequenters of concerts; he has written for débutantes and children; for the cinema, marionettes, mechanical pianos, brass bands. Work has followed work with an amazing rapidity.

ARTHUR HONNEGER

(Born at Havre, France, on March 10, 1892)

“PACIFIC 231,” ORCHESTRAL MOVEMENT

Some say that Honegger had no business to summon a locomotive engine for inspiration. No doubt this music of Honegger’s is “clever,” but cleverness in music quickly palls. Louis Antoine Jullien years ago in this country excited wild enthusiasm by his _Firemen’s Quadrille_, in which a conflagration, the bells, the rush of the firemen, the squirting and the shout of the foreman, “Wash her, Thirteen!” were graphically portrayed.

But there is majestic poetry in great machines, even in railway engines. One of Turner’s most striking pictures is the one depicting a hare running madly across a viaduct with a pursuing locomotive in rain and mist. What was the most poetic thing of the Philadelphia exposition of 1876? The superb Corliss engine, epic in strength and grandeur. Walt Whitman, Kipling, and others have found inspiration in a locomotive; why reproach a composer for attempting to express “the visual impression and the physical sensation” of it? One may like or dislike _Pacific 231_, but it is something more than a musical joke; it was not merely devised for sensational effect.

* * *

When _Pacific 231_ was first performed in Paris at Koussevitzky’s concerts, May 8 and 15, 1924, Honegger made this commentary:

“I have always had a passionate love for locomotives. To me they—and I love them passionately as others are passionate in their love for horses or women—are like living creatures.

“What I wanted to express in the _Pacific_ is not the noise of an engine, but the visual impression and the physical sensation of it. These I strove to express by means of a musical composition. Its point of departure is an objective contemplation: quiet respiration of an engine in state of immobility; effort for moving; progressive increase of speed, in order to pass from the ‘lyric’ to the pathetic state of an engine of three hundred tons driven in the night at a speed of one hundred and twenty per hour.

“As a subject I have taken an engine of the ‘Pacific’ type, known as ‘231,’ an engine for heavy trains of high speed.”

Other locomotive engines are classified as “Atlantic,” “Mogul.” The number 231 here refers to the number of the “Pacific’s” wheels 2—3—1.

“On a sort of rhythmic pedal sustained by the violins is built the impressive image of an intelligent monster, a joyous giant.”

_Pacific 231_ is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, tam-tam, strings.

The locomotive engine has been the theme of strange tales by Dickens, Marcel Schwob, Kipling, and of Zola’s novel, _La Bête humaine_. It is the hero of Abel Gance’s film, _Roué_ for which it is said Honegger adapted music, and the American film, _The Iron Horse_.

PAUL MARIE THÉODORE VINCENT d’INDY

(Born at Paris, March 27, 1852;[34] died at Paris on December 2, 1931)

Vincent d’Indy’s music has often been charged with the atrocious crimes of austerity and aloofness; it has been called cerebral. It is true that d’Indy uses his head, not loses it, in composition; that his music will never be popular with the multitude; it lacks an obvious appeal to those who say, with an air of finality: “I know what I like.” It is not sugary; it is not theatrical. To say that it is cold is to say that it is not effusive. D’Indy does not gush. Nor does he permit himself to run with a mighty stir and din to a blatant climax, dearly loved by those who think that noise shows strength. He respects his art and himself, and does not trim his sails to catch the breeze of popular favor. There is a nobility in his music; there is to those who do not wear their heart on their sleeve true warmth. There is a soaring of the spirit, not a drooping to court favor. And no one has ever questioned his constructive skill.

SYMPHONY NO. 2, IN B FLAT MAJOR, OP. 57

I. Extrêmement lent; très vif II. Modérément lent III. Modéré; très animé IV. Introduction, fugue et finale

The majority of the pages in d’Indy’s symphony contain music lofty and noble. Only the _finale_ sinks below the prevailing high level, and there are fine moments in the introduction to this _finale_. It is natural that the influence of César Franck is shown especially in the two middle movements. So great was d’Indy’s devotion to his master that he proudly admitted the influence; but d’Indy was no mere copyist; the greatest pages of the symphony are his own.

* * *

The Symphony in B flat major, composed in 1903-04, was produced at a Lamoureux concert, Paris, February 28, 1904. The score is dedicated to Paul Dukas. The symphony is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, three bassoons, four horns, small trumpet in E flat, two trumpets in C, three trombones, bass trombone, chromatic kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, two harps, strings.

This symphony is without a programme of any sort. D’Indy wrote in an article published in the first number of _Musica_ (Paris): “Symphonic music, unlike dramatic music, is developing toward complexity: the dramatic element is more and more introduced into absolute music, in such a way that form is here, as a rule, absolutely submissive to the incidents of a veritable action.” Mr. Calvocoressi supplies a note to this remark: “To search for an action that is not purely musical in absolute music would be madness. There is, indeed, an action in this symphony, but it is wholly in the music: the putting into play of two principal themes, which present themselves at the beginning side by side, follow each other, war against each other, or, on the contrary, are each developed separately, associate with themselves new ideas which complete or serve as commentary, and at the end of the work are blended in an immense triumphal chant.”[35] It would be idle, then, to attempt to characterize these themes as though they were dramatic motives. One can say, however, that two decided elements of musical expression are strongly opposed to each other.

The first movement is made up of two distinct parts: a slow introduction, in which the themes appear at first in the state of simple cells, and a lively movement.

I. _Extrêmement lent. Très vif._ B flat major, 4-2. Violoncellos and double basses, doubled by harps, announce an initial and somber theme of almost sluggish rhythm. The flute replies with a phrase whose chief characteristic is an ascending leap of a seventh, a progression dear to the composer. This phrase is the second principal theme of the symphony. The phrase may be resolved in this instance into two distinct elements: the descending fourth—B flat to F sharp—which, with its own peculiar rhythm, is a cell that later on will assume great importance; the ascending seventh, which will play a dominating part and appear again throughout the work as a song of despair, a burst of the determined will. The second theme may then be considered as a sort of embryonic form which contains the chief elements of the symphony. The initial theme, on the contrary, will almost always keep a closer resemblance to itself; there will be numberless changes, melodic or rhythmic transformations, but its particular physiognomy will not be lost.

A _tutti_ of some measures leads by a rapid _crescendo_ to the main body, _très vif_, 3-4. A horn, accompanied by second violins and violas, announces a new theme, which belongs exclusively to this movement. The first two notes of this motive are the descending fourth, the first cell of the second chief theme. The second section of the new theme furnishes material for an abrupt and jerky figure, given soon afterwards to the wood-wind.

II. _Modérément lent._ D flat major, 6-4. The second movement begins with an announcement by the first violins of the second principal theme (descending fourth). The bass clarinet sings the rest of the motive, which is taken up by the strings. These first measures prepare the reëntrance of the same theme under a form (6-4) already used in the first movement. A new figure appears, which will be found in the _finale_. The development brings a modulation to E major, and harps give out a strongly rhythmed motive in that tonality. This motive will be employed in the _scherzo_. The dotted, characteristic rhythm is now kept up, while the oboe, then the clarinet, and also other instruments, sing in turn an expressive theme; on the conclusion of it is the first new theme of this movement, which in turn is a prolongation of the theme (6-4) of the first movement.

III. _Modéré_, D minor, 2-4. A solo viola chants a theme of archaic character, which reminds one of some old legend’s air. The flute hints at the strongly rhythmed theme of the preceding movement, but the archaic tune is developed and interrupted suddenly by the horns proclaiming the initial theme, sadly changed and of greatly diminished importance. There is a fantastic whirlwind in the strings, and above it a bold theme is given out by the wood-wind. The strongly rhythmed theme appears almost immediately afterwards, and is added to the whirling triplets. There is a comparative lull, and the bold theme is now given out at length by the small trumpet, after which there is an orchestral explosion. Then the archaic tune appears, rhythmed curiously in 3-8, “after the manner of a pantomimic dance,” and played by flutes and then bassoons; harp harmonics and the triangle give additional color to this episode.

IV. _Introduction, fugue, et finale._ The general form of this last movement is that of a rondo preceded by an introduction in two parts (introduction and fugue). In the introduction to the fugue all the chief thematic ideas of the preceding movements are recalled one by one, either by solo instruments or by groups of instruments.

The subject of the fugue is the expressive theme first sung by the oboe in the second movement, but now the theme is lengthened by an ascending arabesque. The final association of the two themes, already hinted at the beginning of the second movement by the appearance of a figure common to them both, is now frankly declared. This subject, persisting to the end of the fugue, brings in a lively movement, 5-4, the true _finale_. The oboe sings the first new theme of the second movement. The instrumental complications become more elaborate. The strongly rhythmed theme presents itself, and then a brand-new motive appears, interrupted by echoes of the archaic melody. This new theme prepares the return of the initial motive, which strengthens itself in canon form. The fugue subject creeps about the whole orchestra, while a more aggressive form of the often used theme of the second movement soars above. The brand-new theme returns, and once more ushers in the initial theme in the bass, while the second chief or cyclic theme is announced above. This is the final struggle of the two. The fugue subject soon reappears, and leads to a brilliant burst of the whole orchestra. The second chief or cyclic theme is then used as a broadly proportioned chorale, whose bass is the initial theme, now subdued and definitely associated with the triumph of the second theme. This triumph is thrice proclaimed in the peroration, and, between the proclamations, the archaic theme, with its characteristic initial fifth, is heard in the wood-wind.

SYMPHONIC VARIATIONS, “ISTAR,” OP. 42

_Istar_, the _Symphony on a Mountain Air_, and _A Summer Day on the Mountain_ were composed in the period of d’Indy’s life when he was concerned chiefly with making music, and not telling young composers how it should be made. Those three compositions, with the Symphony in B flat major, will represent him honorably in the years to come. One should not underrate his work as a teacher, his high ideals. His technic did not leave him in his later works, but his brain was more in evidence than any source of emotion. Maurice Boucher, speaking of Debussy being drawn instinctively toward the French poets contemporaneous with him (the poems of Rossetti and the dramas of Maeterlinck also attracted him) said that d’Indy “by his temperament was borne toward doctrinal discussions.” In _Istar_, though his technical skill is brilliantly in evidence, there is pure music from the beginning to the end. It is true that the withholding of the theme in its full glory to the end might be called a “stunt,” as Ravel’s _Bolero_ is a stunt, but d’Indy’s is the legitimate, inevitable crowning of the work; Ravel’s was designed chiefly to create curiosity with a final surprise, and the _Bolero_ once known does not bear repeated hearings, for the effect, once known, is afterward discounted if not wholly lost.

* * *

This composition was first brought out in Brussels, and led by Eugène Ysaye, on January 10, 1897; it was performed in Chicago and led by Theodore Thomas on April 23, 1898. The variations—the work is practically a symphonic poem—are scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets and bass clarinet, three bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, cymbals, triangle, two harps, and strings. They are dedicated to the Orchestral Society of the Ysaye Concerts.

William Foster Apthorp translated the verses on the title-page as follows:

_Toward the immutable land Istar, daughter of Sin, bent her steps, toward the abode of the dead, toward the seven-gated abode where He entered, toward the abode whence there is no return._

. . . . . .

_At the first gate, the warder stripped her; he took the high tiara from her head._

_At the second gate, the warder stripped her; he took the pendants from her ears._

_At the third gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the precious stones that adorn her neck._

_At the fourth gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the jewels that adorn her breast._

_At the fifth gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the girdle that encompasses her waist._

_At the sixth gate, the warder stripped her; he took rings from her feet, the rings from her hands._

_At the seventh gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the last veil that covers her body._

. . . . . .

_Istar daughter of Sin went into the immutable land, she took and received the Waters of Life. She gave the sublime Waters, and thus, in the presence of all, delivered the Son of Life, her young lover._

The variations begin _très lent_, F minor, 4-4, with a somber motive (first horn). The violas and clarinets, accompanied by wood-wind instruments in syncopated rhythm, answer with a second motive, and there is a modulation to F major. The variations, as Mr. Apthorp says, have one wholly original peculiarity: “The theme is not given out simply at the beginning, neither is it heard in its entirety until the last variation, in which it is sung by various groups of instruments in unison and octaves, and worked up later in full harmony. Each one of the variations represents one of the seven stages of Istar’s being disrobed at the gates of the ‘immutable land,’ until in the last she stands forth in the full splendor of nudity. The composition is so free as to resent technical analysis; but by following the poem, and noting the garment or ornament taken off, the listener can appreciate the composer’s poetic or picturesque suggestiveness in his music.”

M. Lambinet, a professor at a Bordeaux public school, chose in 1905 the text “Pro Musica” for his prize-day speech. He told the boys that the first thing the study of music would teach them would be logic. “In symphonic development logic plays as great a part as sentiment. The theme is a species of axiom, full of musical truth, whence proceed deductions. The musician deals with sounds as the geometrician with lines and the dialectician with arguments.” The master went on to remark: “A great modern composer, M. Vincent d’Indy, has reversed the customary process in his symphonic poem _Istar_. He by degrees unfolds from initial complexity the simple idea which was wrapped up therein, and appears only at the close, like Isis unveiled, like a scientific law discovered and formulated.” The speaker found this happy definition for such a musical work—“an inductive symphony.”

FRANZ LISZT

(Born at Raiding, near Oedenburg, Hungary, October 22, 1811; died at Bayreuth, July 31, 1886)

Liszt suffered as a composer from foolish adulation and still more absurd denunciation. It was not so many years ago that otherwise fair-minded musicians, professors in conservatories, composers of smug, respectable music, pianists and violinists of nimble fingers and lukewarm blood, would leave the concert hall with an air whenever one of Liszt’s works was about to be performed. Liszt also suffered from admiring friends who helped themselves to his musical thoughts, to his new forms of musical expression, and using them for their own advantage, were applauded by the crowd, while Liszt himself was ignored or flouted. How much of Liszt there is in Richard Wagner’s best!

Programme music has existed from the early days of the art. No doubt David’s performance before Saul had some definite programme; but the symphonic poem as it is now known was invented and shaped by Liszt, and he has influenced in this respect composers of every nation. The modern Russians all hark back to Berlioz and Liszt. The more recent Germans and even the modern French were made possible by this Hungarian, who, in Paris, Weimar, or Rome, was first of all a citizen of the world. In the mass of his compositions there is mysticism that is vague and insignificant; there is affected simplicity that is as childish prattle; there is pathos that is bathos; eloquence sometimes degenerates into bombast; there is frequently the odor of tanbark, the vision of the ringmaster cracking his whip and the man in tights and spangles leaping through paper hoops or kissing his hand from the trapeze. Liszt was first famous as a virtuoso, and as Edward MacDowell once said, in every virtuoso there is the possibility of the rope dancer; it is in his blood.

The faults of Liszt as a composer are open to everyone. When they lie in the music for the piano they have been too often exaggerated by the “Liszt pupil.” Nor have orchestral conductors always been fortunate in the interpretation of the greater works; they have been intoxicated by the pomp or fury and were unable to draw the line between sonority and vulgarity.

We are inclined to judge a master of years gone by as though he were a contemporary, and forgetting that he in his day was a daring innovator, a revolutionary, we cry out against his music as trite and moribund. Certain forms of Liszt’s expression, forms that recall the reign of Rossini or Meyerbeer, are now distasteful to us, as are certain formulas of Wagner. Excessive modernity contains the seeds of early death. But the architecture that Liszt devised is still strong and beautiful, and is today a model for others who delight in strange ornamentation. The world of music owes Liszt a debt that it will be long in paying, and, as other debtors, it often forgets what it owes and abuses the creditor.

The years go by and the generosity, the loving-kindness, the nobility of Liszt, the man, are more and more clearly revealed. His purse, advice, assistance were ever ready. He would not cringe or flatter. His art was a religion. He was one of the very few composers that stood at ease in the presence of the mighty and were not snobbish toward the unfortunate, the misunderstood, the unappreciated. As a man in the world of his art he is therefore to be ranked with Handel and Hector Berlioz.

A “FAUST” SYMPHONY IN THREE CHARACTER PICTURES (AFTER GOETHE)

I. Faust II. Gretchen III. Mephistopheles

Perhaps in the first movement there are a few passages that might be cut out or condensed, but no one would wish the movement “Gretchen” to be changed in any way; of all the music that is associated with the innocent maiden of Goethe’s poem, this is surely the most expressive, the most beautiful. The remorseful, crazed Gretchen is not in Liszt’s picture. We find her in the prison music of Boïto. And how paltry does the music of Mephistopheles conceived by Gounod seem in comparison with the ironical fiend of Liszt, mocking the doubts and the aspirations of the disillusionized philosopher!

* * *

Liszt told his biographer, Lina Ramann,[36] that the idea of this symphony came to him in Paris in the ’forties, and was suggested by Berlioz’s _Damnation of Faust_. (Berlioz’s work was produced at the Opéra-Comique, December 6, 1846.) Lina Ramann’s biography is eminently unsatisfactory, and in some respects untrustworthy, but there is no reason to doubt her word in this instance. Some have said that Liszt was inspired by Ary Scheffer’s pictures to illustrate Goethe’s _Faust_. Peter Cornelius stated that Liszt was incited to his work by seeing the pictures “in which Scheffer had succeeded in giving a bodily form to the three leading characters in Goethe’s poem.” As a matter of fact, we believe, Scheffer did not portray Mephistopheles. Scheffer (1795-1858) was a warm friend of Liszt, and made a portrait of him in 1837, which is in the Liszt Museum at Weimar.

But Liszt made in the ’forties no sketches of his symphony. The music was composed in 1853-54; it was revised in 1857, when the final chorus was added. The _Faust_ symphony is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, cymbals, triangle, harp, strings, and male chorus with tenor solo. In the revised and unpublished version the bass clarinet is used, but only for a few measures.

Miss Ramann admits frankly that the symphony is, without the final chorus, merely a series of musical “Faust pictures,” as the pictures by Kaulbach, Kreling, and others, are in art; but without the chorus it does not reproduce the lyrical contents of the main idea of the poem itself.

I. “Faust.” Some find in this movement five leading motives, each one of which portrays a characteristic of Faust or one of his fixed moods. The more conservative speak of first and second themes, subsidiary themes, and conclusion themes. However the motives are ticketed or numbered, they appear later in various metamorphoses.

The movement begins with a long introduction, _lento assai_, 4-4. “A chain of dissonances,” with free use of augmented fifths (muted violas and violoncellos), has been described as the “Inquiry” theme, and the bold greater seventh (oboe) is also supposed to portray Faust, the disappointed philosopher. “These motives have here the expression of perplexed musing and painful regret at the vanity of the efforts made for the realization of cherished aspirations.”

An _allegro impetuoso_, 4-4. Violins attack, and, after the interruption of reeds and horns, rush along and are joined by wind instruments. The “Inquiry” motive is sounded. The music grows more and more intense. A bassoon, _lento assai_, gives out the “Faust” motive and introduces the main body of the movement:

_Allegro agitato ed appassionato assai_, C minor, 4-4. The first theme, a violently agitated motive, is of kin in character to a leading theme of the composer’s symphonic poem, _Prometheus_, which was composed in 1850 and revised in 1855. This theme comes here for the first time, except for one figure, a rising inflection at the end of the first phrase, which has been heard in the introduction. It is developed at length, and is repeated in a changed form by the whole orchestra. A new theme enters in passionate appeal (oboes and clarinets in dialogue with bassoons, violoncellos, and double basses), while the first violins bring back the sixteenth note figure of the first theme of the main section. This second theme with subsidiary passage-work leads to an episode, _meno mosso, misterioso e molto tranquillo_, 6-4. The “Inquiry” theme in the introduction is developed in modulating sequence by clarinet and some of the strings, while there are sustained harmonies in wind instruments and ascending passages in muted violins and violas. But the “Inquiry” theme has not its original and gnarled form: it is calmer in line and it is more remote. Another theme comes in, _affettuoso poco andante_, E major, 7-4 (3-4, 4-4), which has been called the “Love” theme, as typical of Faust with Gretchen. This theme is based on the “Faust” motive heard near the beginning of the introduction from wind instruments. In this movement it is said to portray Gretchen, while in the “Gretchen” movement it portrays Faust; and this theme is burlesqued continually in the third movement, “Mephistopheles.” The short theme given to wind instruments is interrupted by a figure for solo viola, which later in the symphony becomes a part of the theme itself. The “Faust-Gretchen” motive is developed in wood-wind and horns, with figures for violins and violas. Passage-work follows, and parts of the first theme appear, _allegro con fuoco_, 4-4. The music grows more and more passionate, and the rhythm of the wind instruments more pronounced. There is a transition section, and the basses allude to the last of the themes, the fifth according to some, the conclusion theme as others prefer, _grandioso, poco meno mosso_, which is given out _fortissimo_ by the full orchestra. It is based on the initial figure of the violas and violoncellos in the introduction. The exposition section of the movement is now complete. The free fantasia, if the following section may be so called, begins with the return of “_tempo primo—allegro agitato assai_,” and the working out of thematic material is elaborate. There is a repetition section, or rather a recapitulation of the first, third, and fourth themes. The _coda_ ends sadly with the “Faust” motive in augmentation.

II. “Gretchen.” _Andante soave_, A flat major, 3-4. The movement has an introduction (flutes and clarinets), which establishes a mood. The chief theme, “characteristic of the innocence, simplicity, and contented happiness of Gretchen,” may be called the “Gretchen” theme. It is sung (_dolce semplice_) by the oboe with only a solo viola accompaniment. The theme is then given to other instruments and with another accompaniment. The repeated phrase of flutes and clarinet, answered by violins, is supposed by some commentators to have reference to Gretchen’s plucking the flower, with the words, “He loves me—loves me not,” and at last, “He loves me!” The chief theme enters after this passage, and it now has a fuller expression and deeper significance. A second theme, typical of Gretchen, is sung by first violins, _dolce amoroso_; it is more emotional, more sensuous. Here there is a suggestion of a figure in the introduction. This theme brings the end to the first section, which is devoted exclusively to Gretchen.

Faust now enters, and his typical motive is heard (horn with agitated viola and violoncello accompaniment). The “Faust-Gretchen” motive of the first movement is used, but in a very different form. The restless theme of the opening movement is now one of enthusiastic love. The striking modulations that followed the first “Gretchen” theme occur again, but in different keys, and Faust soon leaves the scene. The third section of the movement is a much modified repetition of the first section. Gretchen now has memories of her love. A tender violin figure now winds about her theme. Naturally, the “He loves me—loves me not” music is omitted, but there is a reminiscence of the “Faust” motive.

III. “Mephistopheles.” Mephistopheles is here the spirit of demoniacal irony. Mr. Apthorp, after saying that the prevalence of triple rhythms in the movement might lead one, but in vain, to look for something of the _scherzo_ form in it, adds: “One may suspect the composer of taking Mephisto’s ‘_Ich bin der Geist der stets verneint_’ (‘I am the spirit that denies’) for the motto of this movement; somewhat in the sense of A. W. Ambros when he said of Jacques Offenbach in speaking of his opera-bouffes: ‘All the subjects which artists have hitherto turned to account, and in which they have sought their ideals, must here be pushed _ad absurdum_; we feel as if Mephisto were ironically smiling at us in the elegant mask of “a man of the times,” and asking us whether the whole baggage of the Antique and the Romantic were worth a rap.’”

It is not at all improbable that Liszt took the idea of Mephistopheles parodying the themes of Faust and Gretchen from the caricature of the motive of the fixed idea and from the mockery of the once loved one in the _finale_ of Berlioz’s _Episode in the Life of an Artist_, or _Fantastic_ symphony.

There are no new themes introduced in the “Mephistopheles” movement.

As Miss Ramann says, Mephistopheles’ character in this music is to be without character. His sport is to mock Faust as typified by his themes; but he has no power over the “Gretchen” themes, and they are left undisturbed.

Ernest Newman[37] finds the “Mephistopheles” section particularly ingenious. “It consists, for the most part, of a kind of burlesque upon the subjects of the _Faust_ which are here passed, as it were, through a continuous fire of irony and ridicule. This is a far more effective way of depicting ‘the spirit of denial’ than making him mouth a farrago of pantomime bombast, in the manner of Boïto. The being who exists, for the purpose of the drama, only in endeavoring to frustrate every good impulse of Faust’s soul, is really best dealt with, in music, not as a positive individuality, but as the embodiment of negation—a malicious, saturnine parody of all the good that has gone to the making of Faust. The ‘Mephistopheles’ is not only a piece of diabolically clever music, but the best picture we have of a character that in the hands of the average musician becomes either stupid, or vulgar, or both. As we listen to Liszt’s music, we feel that we really have the Mephistopheles of Goethe’s drama.”

_Allegro vivace ironico_, C major, 2-4. There is a short pictorial introduction, an ascending chromatic run (violoncellos and double basses, chords for wood-wind, strings, with cymbals and triangle). There are ironical forms of the “Faust” and “Inquiry” motives, and the _sempre allegro_ in which these themes appear leads to the main body of the movement, _allegro vivace_, 6-8, 2-4. The theme is the first of the first movement, and it now appears in a wildly excited form. Interrupted by the “Faust” motive, it goes on with still greater stress and fury. Transitional passages in the movement return in strange disguise. An episode _un poco animato_ follows with an abrupt use of the “Faust” motive, and the “Inquiry” motive, reappearing, is greeted with jeers and fiendish laughter. The violas have a theme evolved from the “Faust” motive, which is then given to the violins and becomes the subject of fugal treatment. _Allegro animato_; the grandiose fifth, or conclusion, theme of the first movement is now handled most flippantly. There is a tempestuous _crescendo_, and then silence; muted horns sustain the chord of C minor, while strings _pizzicati_ give out the “Inquiry” motive. “The passage is as a warning apparition.” The hellish mockery breaks out again. Some find the music now inspired by an episode in Goethe’s Walpurgis scene. In the midst of the din, wood-wind instruments utter a cry, as when Faust exclaimed, “Mephistopheles, do you see yonder a pale, beautiful child, standing alone?... I must confess it seems to me that she looks like the good Gretchen.” The music ascends in the violins, grows softer and softer. _Andante_; the oboe sings the “Gretchen” theme. The vision quickly fades. Again an outbreak of despair, and there is a recapitulation of preceding musical matter. In the _allegro non troppo_ the “Faust” theme is chiefly used. “And then things grow more and more desperate, till we come to what we may call the transformation scene. It is like the rolling and shifting of clouds, and, indeed, transports us from the abode of mortal man to more ethereal spheres.” The wild dissonances disappear; there is a wonderful succession of sustained chords. _Poco andante, ma sempre alla breve_: the “Gretchen” theme is colored mysteriously; trombones make solemn declaration. Gretchen is now Faust’s redeemer. The male chorus, _Chorus mysticus_, accompanied by organ and strings, sings to the strain announced by the trombones, _andante mistico_, the lines of Goethe:

_Alles Vergängliche Ist nur ein Gleichniss; Das Unzulängliche, Hier wird’s Erreigniss; Das Unbeschreibliche, Hier ist’s gethan; Das Ewig-Weibliche Zieht uns hinan._

The solo tenor and chorus sing: “_Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan_” (with the “Gretchen” motive rhythmically altered and with harp added to the accompaniment), and the work ends radiantly calm.

These lines have been Englished in prose: “All that is transitory is only a simile; the insufficient here becomes event; the indescribable is here done; the Ever feminine draws us onward.” It was Liszt’s intention, Brendel tells us, to have this chorus invisible at the first performance, but, inasmuch as it would have been necessary at Weimar to have it sung behind the lowered curtain, he feared the volume would be too weak.

SYMPHONIC POEM, NO. 3, “LES PRÉLUDES” (AFTER LAMARTINE)

According to statements of Richard Pohl, this symphonic poem was begun at Marseilles in 1834 and completed at Weimar in 1850, According to L. Ramann’s chronological catalogue of Liszt’s works, _The Preludes_ was composed in 1854 and published in 1856.

Theodor Müller-Reuter says that the poem was composed at Weimar in 1849-50 from sketches made in earlier years, and this statement seems to be the correct one.

Ramann tells the following story about the origin of _The Preludes_. Liszt, it seems, began to compose at Paris, about 1844, choral music for a poem by Aubray, and the work was entitled _Les 4 Éléments_ (_la Terre_, _les Aquilons_, _les Flots_, _les Astres_). The cold stupidity of the poem discouraged him, and he did not complete the cantata. He told his troubles to Victor Hugo, in the hope that the poet would take the hint and write for him; but Hugo did not or would not understand his meaning, so Liszt put the music aside. Early in 1854 he thought of using the abandoned work for a Pension Fund concert of the Court Orchestra at Weimar, and it then occurred to make the music, changed and enlarged, illustrative of a passage in Lamartine’s _Nouvelles Méditations poétiques, XVme Méditation: “Les Préludes,”_ dedicated to Victor Hugo.

The symphonic poem _Les Préludes_ was performed for the first time in the Grand Ducal Court Theater, Weimar, at a concert for the Pension Fund of the widows and orphans of deceased members of the Court Orchestra on February 23, 1854. Liszt conducted from manuscript.

Liszt revised _Les Préludes_ in 1853 or 1854. The score was published in May, 1856; the orchestral parts, in January, 1865.

The alleged passage from Lamartine that serves as a motto has thus been Englished:

“What is our life but a series of preludes to that unknown song, the first solemn note of which is sounded by death? Love forms the enchanted daybreak of every life; but what is the destiny where the first delights of happiness are not interrupted by some storm, whose fatal breath dissipates its fair illusions, whose fell lightning consumes its altar? and what wounded spirit, when one of its tempests is over, does not seek to rest its memories in the sweet calm of country life? Yet man does not resign himself long to enjoy the beneficent tepidity which first charmed him on Nature’s bosom; and when ‘the trumpet’s loud clangor has called him to arms,’ he rushes to the post of danger, whatever may be the war that calls him to the ranks, to find in battle the full consciousness of himself and the complete possession of his strength.” There is little in Lamartine’s poem that suggests this preface. The quoted passage beginning “The trumpet’s loud clangor” is Lamartine’s “_La trompette a jeté le signal des alarmes_.”

_The Preludes_ is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, harp, and strings.

PIANOFORTE CONCERTO, NO. 1, IN E FLAT

Liszt’s E flat concerto, long the subject of scurrilous criticism because forsooth a triangle was indicated in the score, has long been the virtuoso concerto _par excellence_. But its virtuosity is of an unusual order. It does not display its innate quality to the precise and composed technician; it cannot be played complacently or casually. It demands an audacious, unhesitating bravura, large rhetorical phrases, bold accents, and a careless contempt for its difficulties. Its octave _cadenzas_ suggest the remorseless dash of an eagle upon its prey.

* * *

This concerto was completed probably in 1848 or 1849, from sketches made in the early ’forties. According to a letter of Hans von Bülow’s, the concerto was completed in June, 1849. Revised in 1853, it was published in 1857. The first performance was at Weimar, at a Court concert in the hall of the Grand Duke’s palace (during the Berlioz week), on February 17, 1855; Liszt, pianist; Bülow, conductor. The concerto is dedicated to Henri Litolff. The orchestral part is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, cymbals, triangle, and the usual strings.

The form is free. A few important themes are exposed, developed; they undergo many transformations in rhythm and tempo. The first and leading theme is at once given out imperatively by the strings, with interrupting chords of wood-wind and brass. This is the theme to which Liszt used to sing: “_Das versteht ihr alle nicht!_”—according to Bülow and Ramann, “_Ihr Könnt alle nichts_.” This theme may be taken as the motto of the concerto. _Allegro maestoso, tempo giusto_, 4-4. The second theme, B major, _quasi adagio_, 12-8, is first announced by muted violoncellos and double basses and then developed elaborately by the pianoforte. There are hints of this theme in the preceding section. The third theme, E flat minor, _allegretto vivace_, 3-4, in the nature of a _scherzo_, is first given to the strings, with preliminary warning and answers of the triangle, which, the composer says, should be struck with delicately rhythmic precision. The fourth theme is rather an answer to the chief phrase of the second than an individual motive. The _scherzo_ tempo changes to _allegro animato_, 4-4, in which use is made chiefly of the motto theme. The final section is an _allegro marziale animato_, which quickens to a final _presto_.

The introduction of the triangle in the score caused great offense in Vienna. Hanslick damned the work by characterizing it as a “‘Triangle’ concerto,” when Pruckner played it there in the season of 1856-57. It was not heard again in that city until 1869, when Sophie Menter insisted on playing it. Liszt wrote a letter in 1857 describing the concerto and defending his use of the triangle.

CHARLES MARTIN LOEFFLER

(Born at Mühlhausen [Alsace], January 30, 1861; died at Medfield, Mass., May 19, 1935)

“A PAGAN POEM” (AFTER VIRGIL), OP. 14, FOR ORCHESTRA, PIANOFORTE, ENGLISH HORN, AND THREE TRUMPETS OBBLIGATI

The music of the _Pagan Poem_ is highly imaginative. Its pages are pages of beauty and passion. The strangeness of the opening is not forced or experimental. The composer himself first saw in his mind’s eye the scene and heard the sorcerer’s chant. And here is no love song of familiar type given to caterwauling ’cellos. There is no conventional lament of approved crape and tears. A dolorous theme, broadly and nobly thought, is sung by the English horn. The spell works. Daphnis now hastens toward the long empty and expectant arms. There is frantic and amorous exultation.

In this instance a rich and rare orchestral dress covers a well shaped and vigorous body.

* * *

This tone poem was suggested to Mr. Loeffler by certain verses in the eighth Eclogue of Virgil, which is sometimes known as “Pharmaceutria” (the Sorceress). The Eclogue, dedicated to Pollio, was written probably in 39 B.C. It consists of two love songs, that of Damon and that of Alphesibœus. Each song has ten parts, and these parts are divided by a recurring burden or refrain. Alphesibœus tells of the love incantation of a Thessalian girl, who by the aid of magical spells endeavors to bring back to her cottage her truant lover Daphnis. Virgil helped himself freely here from the second Idyll of Theocritus, “The Sorceress,” in which Simaetha, a Syracuse maiden of middle rank, weaves spells to regain the love of Delphis.

Mr. Loeffler does not intend to present in this music a literal translation of Virgil’s verse into tones. The poem is a fantasy, inspired by the verses.

The poem opens, _adagio_, 2-2, with a short motive, which, with an inversion of it, is much used throughout the work. The first chief theme is announced dolce, _mezzo-forte_, by viola solo and three flutes. It may be called the theme of invocation. The latter half of it may be divided into two motives, the first a phrase descending in whole tones, the second a rising and falling wail. These two motives are used separately and frequently in all sorts of ways. After the exposition of this theme the pianoforte enters _fortissimo_ with a harmonized inversion of the introductory motive; a _crescendo_ follows with use of the foregoing thematic material, and a _glissando_ for the pianoforte leads to an _allegro_, in which now familiar thematic material is used until the second theme appears (first violins, harp, pianoforte). This theme is developed. A pianoforte _cadenza_ built on thematic material leads to a _lento assai_, 6-4, with a dolorous theme (No. 3) for the English horn. The trumpets behind the scenes give out the burden of the sorceress. The _più vivo_ section may suggest to some a chase of wolves (“I have often seen Moeris become a wolf and plunge into the forest”). _Tranquillo_: a fourth theme, 4-4, is given to the pianoforte. _Calando_: the refrain is heard again from behind the scenes. _Moderato_: the second chief theme, 6-4, now appears, and it is used extensively. _Largamente_: the trumpets, now on the stage, announce the coming of Daphnis, and there is the suggestion of the barking Hylax. The ending is a fanfare of frantic exultation.

This poem, dedicated to the memory of Gustave Schirmer, was written originally in 1901 for performance as chamber music.

In 1905 and 1906 the work was remoulded and treated much more symphonically. The first public performance was by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in Boston on November 23, 1927, Mr. Gebhard pianist.

The poem is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets (and three trumpets off-stage), three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, glockenspiel, tam-tam, harp, pianoforte, strings.

EDWARD MacDOWELL

(Born in New York, December 18, 1861; died there, January 23, 1908)

ORCHESTRAL SUITE NO. 2, IN E MINOR, “INDIAN,” OP. 48

I. Legend II. Love Song III. In War Time IV. Dirge V. Village Festival

The music has the characteristic force and tenderness of this composer when he was writing for himself and not directly for the general public. It is not necessary to lug in any question of whether this be distinctively American music, for the best pages of the suite are not parochial—they are not national.

They are universal in their appeal to sensitive hearers of any land. The movements that are the most poetically imaginative, that have the greatest distinction, are the “Legend,” “In War Time,” and above all the “Dirge.” Music like this would honor any composer of whatever race he might be.

This lamentation might be that of the dying race. There is nothing of the luxury of woe; there is no conventional music for “threadbare crape and tears.” There is the dignity of man who has been familiar with nature, who has known the voices of the day and of the night on lonely prairie and in somber forest. There is serene yielding to fate.

* * *

This suite was composed in 1891-92. The first performance in public was by the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, January 23, 1896.

The Indian themes used in the suite are as follows:

1. First theme, Iroquois. There is also a small Chippewa theme.

2. Iowa love song.

3. A well-known song among tribes of the Atlantic coast. There is a Dacota theme, and there are characteristic features of the Iroquois scalp dance.

4. Kiowa (woman’s song of mourning for her absent son).

5. Women’s dance, war song, both Iroquois.

The suite is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, a set of three kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, and strings.

I. “Legend”: Not fast; with much dignity and character, E minor, 2-2. It has been said that this movement was suggested to the composer by Thomas Bailey Aldrich’s Indian legend, “Miantowona”; but MacDowell took no pains to follow Aldrich’s poem incident by incident, nor to tell any particular story; “the poem merely suggested to him to write something of a similar character in music.”

II. “Love Song”: Not fast; tenderly, A major, 6-8. One chief theme, which is announced immediately by the wood-wind, is developed, with the use of two subsidiary phrases, one a sort of response from the strings, the other a more assertive melody, first given out in D minor by wood-wind instruments.

III. “In War Time”: With rough vigor, almost savagely, D minor, 2-4. The chief theme is played by two flutes, in unison, unaccompanied. Two clarinets, in unison and without accompaniment, answer in a subsidiary theme. This material is worked out elaborately in a form that has the characteristics of the _rondo_. The rhythm changes frequently towards the end from 2-4 to 6-8 and back again.

IV. “Dirge”: Dirge-like, mournfully, in G minor, 4-4. The mournful chief theme is given out by muted violins in unison, which are soon strengthened by the violas, against repetitions of the tonic note G by piccolo, flutes, and two muted horns, one on the stage, the other behind the scenes, with occasional full harmony in groups of wind instruments. “The intimate relation between this theme and that of the first movement is not to be overlooked. It is answered by the horn behind the scenes over full harmony in the lower strings, the passage closing with a quaint concluding phrase of the oboe.” The development of this theme fills the short movement.

V. “Village Festival”: Swift and light, in E major, 2-4. Several related themes are developed. All of them are more or less derived from that of the first movement. There are lively dance rhythms. “But here also the composer has been at no pains to suggest any of the specific concomitants of Indian festivities; he has only written a movement in which merrymakings of the sort are musically suggested.”

GUSTAV MAHLER

(Born at Kalischt in Bohemia, on July 7, 1860; died at Vienna on May 18, 1911)

Those who without undue prejudice discuss Mahler the composer, admitting his faults, discussing them at length, dwelling on undeniable fine qualities, assert that his artistic life was greater than his own musical works, which, greatly planned, did not attain fulfillment and were often imitative. The sincerity of the composer was never doubted; the failure to secure that for which he strove is therefore the more pathetic.

He was of an intensely nervous nature. His life as a conductor—and he was a great conductor—the feverish atmosphere of the opera house, his going from city to city until his ability was recognized in Vienna and later at the Metropolitan, the death of a dearly loved child, the fact that he was a Jew, who had turned Catholic: these, with musical intrigues and controversies from which he suffered, gave him no mental or esthetic poise. It was his ambition to continue the work of men he revered, Beethoven and Wagner. In spite of his indisputable talent he was not the man to do this. In the nearer approaches to the ideal that was in his mind he was simply an imitator; not a convincing, not even a plausible one.

One has found through his symphonies restlessness that at times becomes hysterical; reminders of Wagner, Berlioz, Strauss; melodies in folk-song vein, often naïve, at times beautiful, but introduced as at random and quickly thrown aside; an overemployment of the wood-winds, used too often as solo instruments; passages for the brass which recall the fact that as a child Mahler delighted in military bands. Sudden changes from screaming outbursts to thin and inconsequential instrumentation; trivial moments when the hearer anticipates the movement of a country dance; diffuseness, prolixity that becomes boresome; an unwillingness to bring speech to an end; seldom genuine power or eloquence; yet here and there measures that linger in the memory.

THE SYMPHONIES

No. 1. D major. Begun in December, 1883; completed at Budapest in 1888; produced at Budapest, Mahler, conductor, on November 20, 1889; published in 1898. The Budapest programme described it as a “symphonic poem in two parts.” When it was performed at the Tonkünstler Fest at Weimar on June 3, 1894, through the insistence of Richard Strauss and Dr. Kretzschmar, it was known as “_Titan_” (after Jean Paul Richter’s romance).

No. 2. C minor. Begun and completed in 1894. First performed at a Philharmonic Concert in Berlin, Richard Strauss, conductor, on March 4, 1895. Only the three instrumental movements were then performed. The second and third met with great favor; Mahler was called out five times after the _scherzo_. The majority of the Berlin critics distorted or suppressed this fact and represented the performance as a fiasco. The whole of the symphony was performed for the first time at Mahler’s concert at Berlin on December 13, 1895. According to Ernst Otto Nodnagel, the critics again behaved “indecently”; took the purely orchestral movements for granted, and heard only the _finale_ with the tenor and contralto solos. One of them spoke of “the cynical impudence of this brutal and very latest music maker.” Nikisch and Weingartner were deeply impressed, and the greater part of the audience was wildly enthusiastic.

No. 3. F major, known as the “_Summer Morning’s Dream_,” or “_Programme_” symphony. Sketched in 1895, completed in 1896. Produced piecemeal in 1896 at Berlin and Hamburg; in 1897 at Berlin. First performance of the whole symphony at a concert of the Allgemeiner Deutscher Musikverein at Krefeld in June, 1902. Published in 1898.

No. 4. G major. Composed in 1899-1900. First performance at Munich by the Kaim Orchestra on November 28, 1901. Mahler conducted. Published in 1900.

No. 5. C-sharp minor, known as “_The Giant_” Symphony. Completed in 1902. First performance at a Gürzenich concert in Cologne, October 18, 1904.

No. 6. A minor. Composed in 1903-04. Performed under Mahler’s direction at the Tonkünstler Fest at Essen on May 27, 1906. Published in 1905.

No. 7. E minor. Composed in 1904-06. Produced at Prague on September 19, 1908. Mahler conducted. Published in 1908.

No. 8. In two parts, with soli and double chorus; first part, hymn, “Veni, Creator Spiritus,” as a sonata first movement, with double fugue; second part, the last scenes of _Faust_, in form of an _adagio_, _scherzo_, and _finale_. Composition begun in 1906. First performance at Munich as “_Symphony of the Thousand_” on September 12, 1908, the year of publication.

No. 9. Begun in 1906. Produced at Vienna late in June, 1912, Bruno Walter, conductor. The last movement is an _adagio_.

No. 10. Composed in 1909-10; left unfinished by Mahler. First performance at Prague on June 6, 1924, Alex von Zemlinsky, conductor.

“_Das Lied von der Erde_” (Song of the Earth), a symphony in six parts for tenor and contralto soli with orchestra, the text taken from _The Chinese Flute_, a collection of Chinese lyrics by Hans Bethge. Composed in 1908, first produced at Munich November 10, 1911, Bruno Walter, conductor.

Some of Mahler’s symphonies are described as programme music, but he was no friend of realism as it is understood by Richard Strauss. Mahler was reported as saying: “When I conceive a great musical picture, I always arrive at the point where I must employ the ‘word’ as the bearer of my musical idea.... My experience with the last movement of my second symphony was such that I ransacked the literature of the world, up to the Bible, to find the expository word.” Though he differed with Strauss in the matter of realistic music, he valued him highly: “No one should think I hold myself to be his rival. Aside from the fact that, if his success had not opened a path for me, I should now be looked on as a sort of monster on account of my works, I consider it one of my greatest joys that my colleagues and I have found such a comrade in fighting and creating.”

One reason why Mahler’s symphonies were looked at askance by conductors was the enormous orchestra demanded. No. 2 called for as many strings as possible, two harps, four flutes (interchangeable with four piccolos), four oboes (two interchangeable with two English horns), five clarinets (one interchangeable with bass clarinet—and when it is possible the two in E flat should be doubled in _fortissimo_ passages), four bassoons (one interchangeable with double bassoon), six horns (and four in the distance to be added in certain passages to the six), six trumpets (four in the distance, which may be taken from the six), four trombones, tuba, two sets of kettledrums, bass drum, snare drum (when possible several of them), cymbals, tam-tam of high pitch and one of low pitch, triangle, glockenspiel, three bells, a Ruthe (a bundle of rods to switch a drumhead), organ, two harps. In the distance a pair of kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle. Soprano solo, contralto solo, mixed chorus.

SYMPHONY NO. 5, IN C SHARP MINOR IN THREE PARTS

I. 1. Dead March—with measured step—like a funeral train. Suddenly faster, passionately, wildly. À tempo 2. With stormy emotion. With utmost vehemence II. 3. Scherzo. With force, but not too fast III. 4. Adagietto, very slow 5. Rondo finale: allegro

The symphony is like unto the great image that stood before Nebuchadnezzar in a vision. “And the form thereof was terrible. The image’s head was of fine gold, his breast and his arms of silver, his belly and his thighs of brass; his legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay.”

There are musical thoughts that are lovely and noble. By their side are themes of a vulgarity that is masked only by adroit contrapuntal treatment or by the blare of instrumentation which gives a plausible and momentary importance. There is excessive reiteration of subjects and devices, and the skill displayed in embellishment and variation of orchestral color, color rather than nuance, does not relieve the monotony. The opening is imposing, but the chief theme of the Dead March disappoints. The first pages of the second section, “stormily restless,” are a stroke of genius, the free expression of wild imagination. There are charming ideas in the _scherzo_, and there is also much that is only whimsical, as though Mahler had then written solely for his own amusement, and said to himself, “Let us try it this way. I wonder how it will sound.” The _adagietto_ is the most emotional portion of the work, and here Mahler employed simple means. Here the thought and the expression are happily wedded, nor does the ghost of Wagner, seen for a moment smiling, forbid this union. It may be that in the _finale_ the composer could not help remembering the wondrous theme, D major, in the _adagio_ of Beethoven’s Ninth symphony; but the resemblance is after all only a suggestion, and this _finale_ in _rondo_ form, with the majestic peroration, is worked so that there is a steady _crescendo_ of interest. As a whole Mahler’s symphony, with its mixture of the grand and the common, with its spontaneity and its laborious artifice, is like unto the great image referred to above.

* * *

This symphony, known to some as “_The Giant_” symphony, was performed for the first time at a Gürzenich concert at Cologne, October 18, 1904. The composer conducted. There was a difference of opinion concerning the merits of the work. A visiting critic from Munich wrote that there was breathless silence after the first movement, “which proved more effectively than tremendous applause that the public was conscious of the presence of genius.” It is stated that after the _finale_ there was much applause; there was also hissing.

When the symphony was performed in certain German cities, as at Dresden, January 27, 1905, at a symphony concert of the Royal Orchestra, and at Berlin, February 20, 1905, at a Philharmonic concert, the programme books contained no analytical notes and no argument of any sort. The compilers thus obeyed the wish of the composer. Mr. Ludwig Schiedermair tells us, in his _Gustav Mahler: eine biographisch-kritische Würdigung_, of Mahler’s abhorrence of all programme books for concert use, and he relates this anecdote. Mahler conducted a performance of his Symphony in C minor at a concert of the Munich Hugo Wolf Society. After the concert there was a supper, and in the course of the conversation someone mentioned programme books. “Then was it as though lightning flashed in a joyous, sunny landscape. Mahler’s eyes were more brilliant than ever, his forehead wrinkled, he sprang in excitement from the table and exclaimed in passionate tones: ‘Away with programme books, which breed false ideas! The audience should be left to its own thoughts over the work that is performing: it should not be forced to read during the performance; it should not be prejudiced in any manner. If a composer by his music forces on his hearers the sensations which streamed through his mind, then he reaches his goal. The speech of tones has then approached the language of words, but it is far more capable of expression and declaration.’ And Mahler raised his glass and emptied it with ‘_Pereat den Programmen!_’”

Yet Mr. Mahler’s enthusiastic admirer and partisan, Ernst Otto Nodnagel, of Darmstadt, contributed to “Die Musik” (second November number and first December number of 1904) a technical analysis of the Fifth symphony, an analysis of twenty-three large octavo pages, with a beautiful motto from Schiller. This analysis, published by Peters, and sold for the sum of thirty pfennig, is within reach of the humblest.

The symphony was completed in the spring of 1903. It was written in 1901-02 at his little country house near Maiernigg on Lake Wörther. Other works of this date are the _Kindertotenlieder_ and other songs with Rückert’s verses. The symphony is scored for four flutes (and piccolo), three oboes, three clarinets (and bass clarinet), two bassoons, one double bassoon, six horns (in third movement a horn obbligato), four trumpets, three trombones, tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, Glockenspiel, gong, harp, and strings.

Let us respect the wishes of the composer who looked on analytical or explanatory programmes as the abomination of desolation. Yet it may be said that in the _rondo finale_, after the second chief motive enters as the subject of a fugal section, one of the lesser themes used in the development is derived from Mahler’s song, “Lob des hohen Verstands” (relating to the trial of skill between the nightingale and the cuckoo with the ass as judge).

FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY

(Born at Hamburg, February 3, 1809; died at Leipsic, November 4, 1847)

Mendelssohn in his maturity wrote his music as he looks in his picture, smiling and with a stickpin in his ruffled shirt. When at seventeen he wrote his overture to _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, he was a romanticist. What might he not have accomplished if he had been poor and less respectable! He wrote this overture before he had been spoiled by flattery; before he became a composer of priggish formulas. Aubrey Beardsley pictured the later Mendelssohn in that forgotten magazine, the _Savoy_. There you see the man that was shocked by the resurrection of the nuns in _Robert the Devil_, by Terlina undressing in _Fra Diavolo_, by Hugo’s _Ruy Blas_, although he condescended to write an overture for it. The spotless Mendelssohn who delighted Queen Victoria and her spouse by playing the organ to them. But the overture to Shakespeare’s comedy is from another Mendelssohn, the composer of _The Hebrides_, portions of the _Walpurgis Night_, not the man of the oratorios and the sentimental _Songs without Words_.

SYMPHONY IN A MAJOR, “ITALIAN,” OP. 90

I. Allegro vivace II. Andante con moto III. Con moto moderato IV. Saltarello: presto

How much of Italy is there in this symphony of Mendelssohn? Suppose there were no title. The last movement might easily be recognized as a _saltarello_; but how about the other movements? The first is light and gay, but there is no geographical or national mood at once established, there is no authoritative characterization. I doubt whether even a tambourine would be of material assistance. It was not necessary for the composer to go to Naples to write the _andante_. As for the _scherzo_, the horns with their pleasant sentimentalism might represent today Germans in Rome, armed with red guide books, and now and then bursting out in songs of the Fatherland, something about the forest, or spring, or the blissfulness of sorrow and longing. The _saltarello_ part was done much better by Berlioz. Compare this symphony, so far as local color is concerned, with a page of Bizet painting in tones a Southern scene, or with Richard Strauss’ Italian suite, or with the suite of Charpentier, and Mendelssohn’s music seems without marked distinction, rather tame and drab. Yet the first movement and the _finale_ are amiable music, pages that may awaken a gentlemanlike joy, and there is no denying the clearness of the musical thought, the purity of expression, the sure and polished workmanship.

* * *

The symphony was completed in Berlin. Mendelssohn wrote to Pastor Bauer, “My work about which I recently had many misgivings is completed, and, looking it over, I now find that, contrary to my expectations, it satisfies me. I believe it has become a good piece. Be that as it may, I feel it shows progress, and that is the main point.” The score bears the date, Berlin, March 13, 1833.

The first performance from manuscript and under the direction of the composer was at the sixth concert of the Philharmonic Society that season, May 13, 1833. “The concerts of the Society were this year, and onward, given in the Hanover Square Rooms, which had just been remodeled. The symphony made a great impression, and Felix electrified the audience by his wonderful performance of Mozart’s Concerto in D minor, his _cadenzas_ being marvels in design and execution. His new overture in C was produced at the last concert of the season.”

Mendelssohn began to revise the symphony in June, 1834. On February 16, 1835, he wrote to Klingemann that he was biting his nails over the first movement and could not yet master it, but that in any event it should be something different—perhaps wholly new—and he had this doubt about every one of the movements. Towards the end of 1837 the revision was completed. Whether the symphony in its new form was played at a Philharmonic Society Concert in London, June 18, 1838, conducted by Moscheles, is doubtful, although Moscheles asked him for it. The first performance of the revised version on the European continent was at a Gewandhaus concert, Leipsic, November 1, 1849, when Julius Rietz conducted. The score and orchestral parts were not published until March, 1851.

Grove remarked of this work: “The music itself is better than any commentary. Let that be marked, learned, and inwardly digested.”

Reismann found the first movement, _allegro vivace_, A major, 6-8, to be a paraphrase of the so-called “Hunting Song” in the first group of _Songs without Words_. The tonality is the same, and this is often enough to fire the imagination of a commentator. The chief subject begins with the violins in the second measure and is developed at length. The second subject, E major, is for clarinets. The development section begins with a new figure treated in imitation by the strings. The chief theme is then used, with the second introduced contrapuntally. In the recapitulation section the second theme is given to the strings.

The second movement, _andante con moto_, D minor, 4-4, sometimes called the “Pilgrims’ March,” but without any authority, is said “to have been a processional hymn, which probably gave the name of ‘“_Italian_” symphony’ to the whole (!).” Lampadius remarks in connection with this: “I cannot discover that the piece bears any mark of a decided Catholic character, for, if I recollect rightly, I once heard Moscheles say that Mendelssohn had in his mind as the source of this second movement an old Bohemian folk song.”[38] The two introductory measures suggested to Grove “the cry of a muezzin from his minaret,” but, pray, what has this to do with Italy? The chief theme is given out by oboe, clarinet, and violas. The violins take it up with counterpoint for the flutes. There is a new musical idea for the clarinets. The first theme returns. The two introductory measures are used with this material in the remainder of the movement.

The third movement is marked simply “_con moto moderato_” (A major, 3-4). “There is a tradition (said to originate with Mendelssohn’s brother-in-law, Hensel, but still of uncertain authority) that it was transferred to its present place from some earlier composition. It is not, however, to be found in either of the twelve unpublished juvenile symphonies; and in the first rough draft of this symphony there is no sign of its having been interpolated. In style the movement is, no doubt, earlier than the rest of the work.” The movement opens with a theme for first violins; the trio with a passage for bassoons and horns. The third part is a repetition of the first. In the _coda_ there is at the end a suggestion of the trio.

The _finale_ is a _saltarello, presto_, 4-4. There are three themes. The flutes, after six introductory measures, play the first. In the second, somewhat similar in character, the first and second violins answer each other. The third is also given to the first and second violins alternately, but now in the form of a continuously moving, not a jumping figure.

This _saltarello_ was undoubtedly inspired by the Carnival at Rome, of which Mendelssohn gave a description in his letter of February 8, 1831. “On Saturday all the world went to the Capitol, to witness the form of the Jews’ supplications to be suffered to remain in the Sacred City for another year, a request which is refused at the foot of the hill, but, after repeated entreaties, granted on the summit, and the Ghetto is assigned to them. It was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all, understood the oration of the Jews as little as the answer of the Christians. I came down again in very bad humor, and thought that the Carnival had begun rather unpropitiously. So I arrived in the Corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when I was suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. I looked up; they had been flung by some young ladies whom I had seen occasionally at balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment I took off my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. Their carriage drove on, and in the next was Miss T——, a delicate young Englishwoman. I tried to bow to her, but she pelted me, too; so I became quite desperate, and clutching the confetti, I flung them back bravely. There were swarms of my acquaintances and my blue coat was soon as white as that of a miller. The B——s were standing on a balcony, flinging confetti like hail at my head; and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers and the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races.”

It is a singular reflection on “local color” in music that Schumann mistook the “_Scotch_” symphony for the “_Italian_” and wrote of the former: “It can, like the Italian scenes in _Titan_, cause you for a moment to forget the sorrow of not having seen that heavenly country.” The best explanation of this Symphony No. 4, if there be need of any explanation, is found in the letters of Mendelssohn from Italy.

OVERTURE AND INCIDENTAL MUSIC TO SHAKESPEARE’S LAY, “A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM”

Translations by Schlegel and Tieck of Shakespeare’s plays were read by Mendelssohn and his sister Fanny in 1826. The overture, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, was written in July and August of that year.

Klingemann tells us that part of the score was written “in the summer, in the open air, in the Mendelssohns’ garden at Berlin, for I was present.” This garden belonged to a house in the Leipziger Strasse (No. 3). It was near the Potsdam gate, and when Abraham Mendelssohn, the father, bought it, his friends complained that he was moving out of the world. There was an estate of about ten acres. In the house was a room for theatrical performances; and the center of the garden house formed a hall which held several hundred, and it was here that Sunday music was performed. In the time of Frederick the Great this garden was part of the Thiergarten. In the summer-houses were writing materials, and Felix edited a newspaper, called in summer _The Garden Times_, and in the winter _The Snow and Tea Times_.

Mendelssohn told Hiller that he had worked long and eagerly on the overture: “How in his spare time between the lectures at the Berlin University he had gone on extemporizing at it on the piano of a beautiful woman who lived close by; ‘for a whole year, I hardly did anything else,’ he said; and certainly he had not wasted his time.”

It is said that Mendelssohn made two drafts of the overture, and discarded the earlier after he completed the first half. This earlier draft began with the four chords and the fairy figure; then followed a regular overture, in which use was made of a theme typical of the loves of Lysander and Hermia, and of kin to the “love melody” of the present version.

The overture was first written as a pianoforte duet, and it was first played to Moscheles in that form by the composer and his sister, November 19, 1826. It was performed afterwards by an orchestra in the garden house. The first public performance was at Stettin in February, 1827, from manuscript, when Karl Löwe conducted. The critic was not hurried in those days, for an account of the concert appeared in the _Harmonicon_ for December of that year. The critic had had time to think the matter over, and his conclusion was that the overture was of little importance.

The overture was performed in England for the first time on June 24 (Midsummer Day), 1829, at a concert given by Louis Drouet in the Argyll Rooms. Sir George Smart, who returned from the concert with Mendelssohn, left the score of the overture in a hackney coach. So the story is told; but is it not possible that the blameless Mendelssohn left it? The score was never found, and Mendelssohn rewrote it. The overture was played in England for the first time in connection with Shakespeare’s comedy at London, in 1840, when Mme Vestris appeared in the performance at Covent Garden.

The orchestral parts were published in 1832; the score in April, 1835. The overture is dedicated to His Royal Majesty the Crown Prince of Prussia.

The overture opens _allegro di molto_, E major, 2-2, with four prolonged chords in the wood-wind. On the last of these follows immediately a _pianissimo_ chord of E minor in violins and violas. This is followed by the “fairy music” in E minor, given out and developed by divided violins with some _pizzicati_ in the violas. A subsidiary theme is given out _fortissimo_ by full orchestra. The melodious second theme, in B major, begun by the wood-wind, is then continued by the strings and fuller and fuller orchestra. Several picturesque features are then introduced: the Bergomask dance from the fifth act of the play; a curious imitation of the bray of an ass in allusion to Bottom, who is, according to Maginn’s paradox, “the blockhead, _the_ lucky man on whom Fortune showers her favors beyond measure”; and the quickly descending scale passage for violoncellos, which was suggested to the composer by the buzzing of a big fly in the Schoenhauser Garten. The free fantasia is wholly on the first theme. The third part of the overture is regular, and there is a short _coda_. The overture ends with the four sustained chords with which it opened.

In 1843 King Frederick William the Fourth of Prussia wished Mendelssohn to compose music for the plays _Antigone_, _A Midsummer_ _Night’s Dream_, _Athalie_, which should be produced in September. During March and April of that year Mendelssohn, who had written the overture in 1826, composed the additional music for Shakespeare’s play. Tieck had divided the play into three acts and had said nothing to the composer about the change. Mendelssohn had composed with reference to the original division. The first performance was in the Royal Theater in the New Palace, Potsdam, October 14, 1843, on the eve of the festival of the King’s birthday. Mendelssohn conducted.

The score was published in June, 1848; the orchestral parts in August of that year. The first edition for pianoforte was published in September, 1844.

Mendelssohn’s music to the play consists of thirteen numbers:

I. Overture; II. _Scherzo_ (Entr’acte after Act I); III. Fairy March (in Act II); IV. “You spotted snakes,” for two sopranos and chorus (in Act II); V. Melodrama (in Act II); VI. Intermezzo (Entr’acte after Act II); VII. Melodrama (in Act III); VIII. Notturno (Entr’acte after Act III); IX. _Andante_ (in Act IV); X. Wedding March (after the close of Act IV); XI. _Allegro commodo_ and _Marcia funebre_ (in Act V); XII. Bergomask Dance (in Act V); XIII. _Finale_ to Act V.

Many of the themes in these numbers were taken from the overture.

The _scherzo_ (entr’acte between Acts I and II) is an _allegro vivace_ in G minor, 3-8. “Presumably Mendelssohn intended it as a purely musical reflection of the scene in Quince’s house—the first meeting to discuss the play to be given by the workmen at the wedding—with which the first act ends. Indeed, there is a passing allusion to Nick Bottom’s bray in it. But the general character of the music is bright and fairy-like, with nothing of the grotesque about it.” The _scherzo_ presents an elaborate development of two themes that are not sharply contrasted; the first theme has a subsidiary. The score is dedicated to Heinrich Conrad Schleinitz.

CONCERT OVERTURE, “THE HEBRIDES,” OR “FINGAL’S CAVE,” OP. 26

In the _Hebrides_ overture, Mendelssohn shook off his priggish formalism. He had been deeply affected by the sight of Staffa and Fingal’s Cave; he was not ashamed to translate his emotions into music without obsequious obedience to the old pedagogic traditions. Here he is poetic, picturing the wildness of the far-off scene without too deliberate attempt at realism. Here is the suggestion—and with the small orchestra of the period!—as Mr. Apthorp put it, of screaming sea birds, whistling winds, the salty smell of the seaweed on the rocks. For once Mendelssohn showed himself more than a careful manufacturer of music when he revised his score, saying that the middle section smelt more of counterpoint than of train oil, sea gulls, and salt fish.

* * *

Mendelssohn saw Staffa and Fingal’s Cave on August 7, 1829. He at once determined to picture the scenes in music. He wrote to his sister on that day: “That you may understand how extraordinarily the Hebrides affected me, the following came into my mind”; and he then noted down twenty-one measures in _alla breve_, which coincide for the first ten and a half measures with the later measures in 4-4. Ferdinand Hiller, who lived with Mendelssohn in Paris during the winter of 1831-32, tells how Mendelssohn brought to him the sketched score. “He told me how the thing came to him in its full form and color when he saw Fingal’s Cave; he also informed me how the first measures, which contain the chief theme, had come into his mind. In the evening he was making a visit with his friend Klingemann on a Scottish family. There was a pianoforte in the room; but it was Sunday, and there was no possibility of music. He employed all his diplomacy to get at the pianoforte for a moment; when he had succeeded, he dashed off the theme out of which the great work grew. It was finished at Düsseldorf, but only after an interval of years.” Hiller was mistaken about the place and time of completion.

The overture was first performed on May 14, 1832, from manuscript, in London, at the sixth concert of the Philharmonic Society at Covent Garden. Thomas Attwood conducted. The composer wrote: “It went splendidly, and sounded so droll amongst all the Rossini things.” The _Athenæum_ said that the overture as descriptive music was a failure. George Hogarth wrote in his History of the Philharmonic Society (1862): “It at once created a great sensation—a sensation, we need scarcely add, that has not been diminished by numberless repetitions. At a general meeting of the Society on the 7th of June, 1832, Sir George Smart read a letter from Mendelssohn requesting the Society’s acceptance of the score of this overture; and it was resolved to present him with a piece of plate in token of the Society’s thanks, which was forthwith done.” The _Harmonicon_ praised the overture highly, and found the key of B minor well suited to the purpose.

CONCERTO FOR VIOLIN, IN E MINOR, OP. 64

I. Allegro molto appassionato II. Andante III. Allegretto non troppo; allegro molto vivace

The concerto does not call for any true depth of emotional display. The sentiment is amiable and genteel, with a dash of becoming melancholy, and the strength is the conventional strength of a man who in music had little virility. Beautifully made, a polished piece of mechanism, the concerto always, under favorable circumstances, interests and promotes contagious good feeling.

* * *

Mendelssohn in his youth composed a violin concerto with accompaniment of stringed instruments, also a concerto for violin and pianoforte (1823) with the same sort of accompaniment. These works were left in manuscript. It was at the time that he was put into jackets and trousers. Probably these works were played at the musical parties at the Mendelssohn house in Berlin on alternate Sunday mornings. Mendelssohn took violin lessons first with Carl Wilhelm Henning and afterwards with Eduard Rietz, for whom he wrote this early violin concerto. When Mendelssohn played any stringed instrument, he preferred the viola.

As early as 1838 Mendelssohn conceived the plan of composing a violin concerto in the manner of the one in E minor, for on July 30 he wrote to Ferdinand David: “I should like to write a violin concerto for you next winter. One in E minor is running in my head, and the beginning does not leave me in peace.” On July 24 of the next year he wrote from Hochheim to David, who had pressed him to compose the concerto: “It is nice of you to urge me for a violin concerto! I have the liveliest desire to write one for you, and if I have a few propitious days here, I’ll bring you something. But the task is not an easy one. You demand that it should be brilliant, and how is such a one as I to do this? The whole of the first solo is to be for the E string!”

The concerto was composed in 1844 and completed on September 16 of that year at Bad Soden, near Frankfort-on-the-Main. David received the manuscript in November. Many letters passed between the composer and the violinist. David gave advice freely. Mendelssohn took time in revising and polishing. Even after the score was sent to the publishers in December, there were more changes. David is largely responsible for the _cadenza_ as it now stands.

Mendelssohn played parts of the concerto on the pianoforte to his friends; the whole of it to Moscheles at Bad Soden.

The first performance was from manuscript at the twentieth Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic, March 13, 1845. Ferdinand David was the violinist. Niels W. Gade conducted.

The concerto is in three connected movements. The first, _allegro molto appassionato_, E minor, 2-2, begins immediately after an introductory measure with the first theme given out by the solo violin. This theme is developed at length by the solo instrument, which then goes on with _cadenza_-like passage-work, after which the theme is repeated and developed as a _tutti_ by the full orchestra. The second theme is first given out _pianissimo_ in harmony by clarinets and flutes over a sustained organ-point in the solo instrument. The chief theme is used in the development which begins in the solo violin. The brilliant solo _cadenza_ ends with a series of _arpeggios_, which continue on through the whole announcement of the first theme by orchestral strings and wind. The conclusion section is in regular form. There is no pause between this movement and the _andante_.

The first section of the _andante_, C major, is a development of the first theme sung by the solo violin. The middle part is taken up with the development of the second theme, a somewhat agitated melody. The third part is a repetition of the first, with the melody in the solo violin, but with a different accompaniment. Mendelssohn originally intended the accompaniment (strings) to the first theme to be played _pizzicato_. He wrote to David, “I intended to write in this way, but something or other—I don’t know what—prevented me.”

The _finale_ opens with a short introduction, _allegretto non troppo_, E minor, 4-4. The main body of the _finale, allegro molto vivace_, E major, 4-4, begins with calls on horns, trumpets, bassoons, drums, answered by _arpeggios_ of the solo violin and tremolos in the strings. The chief theme of the _rondo_ is announced by the solo instruments. The orchestra has a second theme, B major; the violin one in G major. In the recapitulation section the _fortissimo_ second theme appears again, this time in E major. There is a brilliant _coda_.

Mendelssohn used the following orchestration for the works discussed in this chapter (save for the addition of an ophicleide in the overture to _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_): two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, kettledrums, and strings.—EDITOR.

MODESTE PETROVITCH MOUSSORGSKY

(Born at Karevo, district of Toropeta, in the government of Pskov, on March 28, 1835; died at St. Petersburg on March 28, 1881)

“A NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN” (“UNE NUIT SUR LE MONT-CHAUVE”); FANTASY FOR ORCHESTRA Posthumous Work Completed and Orchestrated by Rimsky-Korsakov

Moussorgsky’s fantasy was composed in 1867 and was thus one of the few early Russian orchestral compositions of a fantastically picturesque nature. In the original form it was no doubt crude, for Moussorgsky had little technic for the larger forms of music; he despised “style,” and believed that much knowledge would prevent him from attaining the realism that was his goal. That he himself was not satisfied with this symphonic poem is shown by the fact that he revised it two or three times. He died; Rimsky-Korsakov edited it and orchestrated it. The music was finally heard after Moussorgsky’s death. Rimsky-Korsakov was a fastidious musician, a learned harmonist, a master of orchestrations. It is said that he sandpapered and polished _Boris Godounov_ to the great detriment of Moussorgsky’s opera; he chastened the wild spirit; he tamed the native savageness, so it is said. What did he do to this musical picture of a Witches’ Sabbath on Bald Mountain?

Having heard several musical descriptions of these unholy Sabbaths, where reverence was paid Satan, exultantly ruling in the form of a he-goat, where there was horrid, obscene revelry, if we may believe well-instructed ancient and modern writers on Satanism and witchcraft, we wonder why any woman, young or old, straddled a broomstick and made her way hopefully and joyfully to a lonely mountain or barren plain. If we can put faith in the musical descriptions given by Berlioz, Boïto, Gounod, Satan’s evening receptions were comparatively tame affairs, with dancing of a nature that would not have offended the selectmen and their wives and sisters of our little village in the sixties, when the waltz was frowned on as a sensual and ungodly diversion. Liszt’s _Mephisto Waltz_ is, indeed, sensuous, fleshly, but Satan in this instance only plays the fiddle; he is not master of sabbatic revels. In Moussorgsky’s symphonic poem the _allegro_ devoted to the worshipers of the devil is rather commonplace; its laborious wildness becomes monotonous in spite of the editor’s instrumentation. Far more original and effective is the second section, in which a church bell puts the blasphemous revelers to flight.

* * *

In September, 1860, Moussorgsky wrote to Balakirev: “I have also been given a most interesting piece of work to do, which must be ready by next summer: a whole act of _The Bald Mountain_ (after Megden’s drama _The Witch_). The assembly of the witches, various episodes of witchcraft, the pageant of all the sorcerers, and a _finale_, the witch dance and homage to Satan. The libretto is very fine. I have already a few materials for the music, and it may be possible to turn out something very good.” In September, 1862, he wrote to Balakirev, saying that his friend’s attitude towards _The Witches_ [_sic_] had embittered him. “I considered, still consider, and shall consider forever that the thing is satisfactory.... I come forth with a first big work.... I shall alter neither plan nor working-out; for both are in close relationship with the contents of the scene, and are carried out in a spirit of genuineness, without tricks or make-believes.... I have fulfilled my task as best I could. The one thing I shall alter is the percussion, which I have misused.” A letter to Rimsky-Korsakov dated July, 1867, shows that he did rewrite _A Night on Bald Mountain_, but remained unwilling to make further alterations.

During the winter of 1871-72 the director of the opera at St. Petersburg planned that Moussorgsky, Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Cui should each write a portion of a fairy opera, _Mlada_. Moussorgsky was to write music for some folk scenes, a march for the procession of Slav princes and a great fantastical scene, “The Sacrifice to the Black Goat on Bald Mountain.” This would give him the opportunity of using his symphonic poem. The project fell through on account of pecuniary reasons. Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Mlada_ was produced at St. Petersburg in 1892.

In 1877 Moussorgsky undertook to write an opera _The Fair at Sorotchinsi_, based on a tale by Gogol. He purposed to introduce in it _A Night on Bald Mountain_, and he revised the score.

It is said that the original version of the symphonic poem was for pianoforte and orchestra; that the revision for _Mlada_ was for orchestra and chorus; that the work was to serve as a scenic interlude in the unfinished opera, _The Fair at Sorotchinsi_.

Rimsky-Korsakov as Moussorgsky’s musical executor revised the score of the poem. He retained the composer’s argument:

“Subterranean din of supernatural voices. Appearance of Spirits of Darkness, followed by that of the god Tchernobog. Glorification of Tchernobog. Black mass. Witches’ Sabbath. At the height of the Sabbath there sounds far off the bell of the little church in a village which scatters the Spirits of Darkness. Daybreak.”

The form is simple: a symphonic _allegro_ is joined to a short _andante_; _allegro feroce_; _poco meno mosso_.

_A Night on Bald Mountain_, dedicated to Vladimir Stassov, is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, tam-tam, bell in D, and strings.

The first performance was at a concert of the Russian Symphony Society at St. Petersburg on October 27, 1886. Rimsky-Korsakov conducted. The piece met with such success that it was played later in that season.

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

(Born at Salzburg, January 27, 1756; died at Vienna, December 5, 1791)

In this life that is “so daily,” as Jules Laforgue complained, a life of tomorrow rather than of today, we are inclined to patronize the ancient worthies who in their own period were very modern, or to speak jauntily of them as bores, with their works of “only historical interest.” Mozart has not escaped. Many concertgoers yawn at his name and wonder why such men as Richard Strauss or Vincent d’Indy could praise him with glowing cheeks. They suspect this attribute of worship to be a pose. Remind them of the fact that to such widely different characters as Rossini, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Brahms, the musician of musicians was Mozart, and they say lightly, “There’s no accounting for tastes; surely you do not pretend to maintain that Mozart is a man of this generation.”

No, Mozart was neither a symbolist nor a pessimist. He was not a translator of literature, sculpture, or painting into music His imagination was not fired by a metaphysical treatise. He simply wrote music that came into his head and disquieted him until it was jotted down on paper. He did not go about nervously seeking for ideas. His music is never the passionate cry, never the wild shriek of a racked soul. His music is never hysterical, it is never morbid. It is seldom emotional as we necessarily and unhappily understand that word today. Perhaps for these reasons it is still modern, immortal, and not merely on account of the long and exquisite melodic line, fitting, inevitable background, delicate coloring. Music that is only the true voice of a particular generation is moribund as soon as it is born.

His music, whether it vitalizes stage characters or is absolute, as in the three famous symphonies, and in the chamber works, is as the music on Prospero’s isle: “Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.” The analyst may find pleasure in praising the unsurpassable workmanship, which is akin to the spontaneity of natural phenomena; he may marvel at the simplicity of plan and expression; the simplicity that is the despair of interpreters, for it is the touchstone of their own art or artificiality—and Mozart himself, when he told his emperor that his opera had just the right number of notes, anticipated the judgment of time—but he is still far from explaining the peculiar and ineffable tenderness of this music that soothes and caresses and comforts.

The serenity, the classic suggestion of emotion without the distortion that accompanies passion, would grace a tragedy of Sophocles or a comedy by Congreve. Mozart’s music is essentially Grecian, yet now and then it reminds one of Watteau.

Hazlitt said of art that it should seem to come from the air and return to it. But he characterized it with finer appreciation when he said, without mention of Mozart’s name, “Music is color without form; a soul without a body; a mistress whose face is veiled; an invisible goddess.” And for this reason Debussy is the spiritual brother of Mozart, moderns both, yet classics.

_Symphonies in E flat (Koechel No. 543), G minor (Koechel No. 550), C major (“Jupiter”), (Koechel No. 551)_

SYMPHONY IN E FLAT MAJOR (KOECHEL NO. 543)

I. Adagio; allegro II. Andante III. Minuetto; trio IV. Finale: allegro

Mozart wrote his symphony when in a condition of distress, but who would know from the music of the composer’s poverty and gloom? The iteration of the chief theme of the second movement soon frets the nerves, not from any poignancy of emotion, but from its very placidity. And how seldom in Mozart’s music is there any emotional burst as we understand emotion today! There are a few passages in the first movement of the G minor symphony, pages in certain chamber works, and in the _Requiem_, and there are the two great scenes in _Don Giovanni_, the trio between the Don, the Commander, and Leporello after the duel, and the scene between the blaspheming rake and the Stone Man. As a rule the emotion of Mozart is that of the classic frieze or urn. Beauty with him is calm and serene, and emotion, he believed, should always be beautiful.

* * *

The symphony in E flat induced A. Apel to attempt a translation of the music into poetry that should express the character of each movement. It excited the fantastical E. T. A. Hoffmann to an extraordinary rhapsody: “Love and melancholy are breathed forth in purest spirit tones; we feel ourselves drawn with inexpressible longing toward the forms which beckon us to join them in their move with the spheres in the eternal circles of the solemn dance.” So explained Johannes Kreisler in the _Phantasiestücke in Callots Manier_.

SYMPHONY IN G MINOR (KOECHEL NO. 550)

I. Allegro molto II. Andante III. Minuetto; trio IV. Finale: allegro assai

It seems as if Mozart lost his classic serenity whenever he chose the key of G minor. In the immortal symphony there is, except in the beautiful, characteristically Mozartian _andante_, a feverishness, an intensity not to be found in his other symphonies; and so in the perfect flower of his chamber music there is a direct, passionate appeal of one theme (G minor again) that reminds one of the terribly earnest Verdi of the ’fifties.

Some years ago, a prominent writer about music, a wild-eyed worshiper of Liszt and Wagner, published the statement that this symphony is interesting only in a historical sense. His idols would have been the first to laugh at him. There are few things in art that are perfect. The G minor symphony is one of them. Its apparent simplicity is an adorable triumph of supreme art.

SYMPHONY IN C MAJOR, “JUPITER” (KOECHEL NO. 551)

I. Allegro vivace II. Andante cantabile III. Minuetto: allegretto; trio IV. Finale: allegro molto

Hearing the _andante_, the _minuet_, and the wonderful _finale_, one no longer questions the famous and subtle saying of Rossini. When asked who was the greatest composer, he answered “Beethoven”; he then said, “But Mozart is the only one.”

Let the first movement pass with its second theme that reminds one of charming music in _The Marriage of Figaro_. The _andante_ could have been written only by Mozart. There is spiritualized sensuousness; there is perfect form, exquisite proportion, and euphony.

Has there not too much been said about the marvelous display of science in the construction of the _finale_? The wonder of it is that the display does not impress the hearer unduly. To him it is merely gay and charming music. It ravishes his ear without his taking interest in the technical devices, even if he could recognize and understand them. If the title should be “Symphony in C major with the Fugue,” the word “fugue” would not fill his soul with dismal foreboding. There has been only one Mozart, as there has been only one Handel.

It is not known who gave the title “Jupiter” to the symphony. There is nothing in the music that reminds one of Jupiter Tonans, Jupiter Fulgurator, Jupiter Pluvius; or of the god who, assuming various disguises, came down to earth, where by his adventures with women semi-divine or mortals of common clay he excited the jealous rage of Juno. The music is not of an Olympian mood. It is intensely human in its loveliness and its gayety.

* * *

It is possible that the “_Jupiter_” symphony was performed at the concert given by Mozart in Leipsic. The two that preceded the great three were composed in 1783 and 1786. The latter of the two (D major) was performed at Prague with extraordinary success. Publishers were not slow in publishing Mozart’s compositions, even if they were as conspicuous niggards as Joseph II himself. The two symphonies played at Leipsic were probably of the three composed in 1788, but this is only a conjecture.

Some say the title “Jupiter” was applied to the symphony by J. B. Cramer, to express his admiration for the loftiness of ideas and nobility of treatment. Some maintain that the triplets in the first measure suggest the thunderbolts of Jove. Some think that the “calm, godlike beauty” of the music compelled the title. Others are satisfied with the belief that the title was given to the symphony as it might be to any masterpiece or any impressively beautiful or strong or big thing. To them “Jupiter” expresses the power and brilliance of the work.

The eulogies pronounced on this symphony are familiar to all—from Schumann’s “There are things in the world about which nothing can be said, as Mozart’s C major symphony with the fugue, much of Shakespeare, and pages of Beethoven,” to Bülow’s “I call Brahms’ First symphony the Tenth, not because it should be placed after the Ninth: I should put it between the Second and the _Eroica_, just as I think the first not the symphony of Beethoven but the one composed by Mozart and known by the name of ‘Jupiter.’” But there were decriers early in the nineteenth century. Thus Hans Georg Nägeli (1773-1836) attacked this symphony bitterly on account of its well-defined and long-lined melody, “which Mozart mingled and confounded with a free instrumental play of ideas, and his very wealth of fancy and emotional gifts led to a sort of fermentation in the whole province of art, and caused it to retrograde rather than to advance.” He found fault with certain harmonic progressions which he characterized as trivial. He allowed the composer originality and a certain power of combination, but he found him without style, often shallow and confused. He ascribed these qualities to the personal qualities of the man himself: “He was too hasty, when not too frivolous, and he wrote as he himself was.” Nägeli was not the last to judge a work according to the alleged morality or immorality of the maker.

Mozart wrote his three greatest symphonies in 1788. The one in E flat is dated June 26; the one in G minor, July 25; the one in C major with the _fugue-finale_, August 10.

His other works of that year are of little importance with the exception of a piano concerto in D major which he played at the coronation festivities of Leopold II at Frankfort in 1790. Why is this? 1787 was the year of _Don Giovanni_; 1790, the year of _Cosi fan tutte_. Was Mozart, as some say, exhausted by the feat of producing three symphonies in such a short time? Or was there some reason for discouragement and consequent idleness?

The Ritter Gluck, composer to the Emperor Joseph II, died November 15, 1787, and thus resigned his position with a salary of 2,000 florins. Mozart was appointed his successor, but the thrifty Joseph cut down the salary to 800 florins. And Mozart at this time was sadly in need of money, as his letters show. In a letter of June, 1788, he tells of his new lodgings, where he could have better air, a garden, quiet. In another, dated June 27, he says: “I have done more work in the ten days that I have lived here than in two months in my other lodgings, and I should be much better here, were it not for dismal thoughts that often come to me. I must drive them resolutely away; for I am living comfortably, pleasantly, and cheaply.” We know that he borrowed from Puchberg, a merchant with whom he became acquainted at a Masonic lodge, for the letter with Puchberg’s memorandum of the amount is in the collection edited by Nohl.

Mozart could not reasonably expect help from the Emperor. The composer of _Don Giovanni_ and the “_Jupiter_” symphony was unfortunate in his emperors.

The Emperor Joseph was in the habit of getting up at five o’clock; he dined on boiled bacon at 3.15 P.M.; he preferred water as a beverage, but would drink a glass of Tokay; he was continually putting chocolate drops from his waistcoat pocket into his mouth; he gave gold coins to the poor; he was unwilling to sit for his portrait; he had remarkably fine teeth; he disliked sycophantic fuss; he patronized the English, who introduced horse-racing; and Michael Kelly, who tells us many things, says that Joseph was “passionately fond of music and a most excellent and accurate judge of it.” We know that he did not like the music of Mozart.

Joseph commanded from his composer Mozart no opera, cantata, symphony, or piece of chamber music, although he was paying him 800 florins a year. He did order dances, for the dwellers in Vienna were dancing mad. Kelly, who knew Mozart and sang in the first performance of _Le Nozze di Figaro_ in 1786, says in his memoirs (written by Theodore Hook): “The ridotto rooms, where the masquerade took place, were in the palace; and, spacious and commodious as they were, they were actually crammed with masqueraders. I never saw or indeed heard of any suite of rooms where elegance and convenience were more considered, for the propensity of the Vienna ladies for dancing and going to carnival masquerades was so determined that nothing was permitted to interfere with their enjoyment of their favorite amusement.... The ladies of Vienna are particularly celebrated for their grace and movements in waltzing, of which they never tire. For my own part, I thought waltzing from ten at night until seven in the morning a continual whirligig, most tiresome to the eye and ear, to say nothing of any worse consequences.”[39] Mozart wrote for these dances, as did Haydn, Hummel, Beethoven.

We know little or nothing concerning the first years of the three symphonies. Gerber’s “_Lexicon der Tonkünstler_” (1790) speaks appreciatively of him: the erroneous statement is made that the Emperor fixed his salary in 1788 at 6,000 florins; the varied ariettas for piano are praised especially; but there is no mention whatever of any symphony.

The enlarged edition of Gerber’s work (1813) contains an extended notice of Mozart’s last years, and we find in the summing up of his career: “If one knew only one of his noble symphonies, as the overpoweringly great, fiery, perfect, pathetic, sublime symphony in C.” And this reference is undoubtedly to the “_Jupiter_” the one in C major.

Mozart gave a concert at Leipsic in May, 1789. The programme was made up wholly of pieces by him, and among them were two symphonies in manuscript. At a rehearsal for this concert Mozart took the first _allegro_ of a symphony at a very fast pace, so that the orchestra soon was unable to keep up with him. He stopped the players and began again at the same speed, and he stamped the time so furiously that his steel shoe buckle flew into pieces. He laughed, and, as the players still dragged, he began the _allegro_ a third time. The musicians, by this time exasperated, played to suit him. Mozart afterwards said to some who wondered at his conduct, because he had on other occasions protested against undue speed: “It was not caprice on my part. I saw that the majority of the players were well along in years. They would have dragged everything beyond endurance if I had not set fire to them and made them angry, so that out of sheer spite they did their best.” Later in the rehearsal he praised the orchestra, and said that it was unnecessary for it to rehearse the accompaniment to the pianoforte concerto: “The parts are correct, you play well, and so do I.” This concert, by the way, was poorly attended, and half of those who were present had received free tickets from Mozart, who was generous in such matters.

Mozart also gave a concert of his own works at Frankfort, October 14, 1790. Symphonies were played in Vienna in 1788, but they were by Haydn; and one by Mozart was played in 1791. In 1792 a symphony by Mozart was played at Hamburg.

The early programmes, even when they have been preserved, seldom determine the date of a first performance. It was the custom to print: “_Symphonie von Wranitsky_,” “_Sinfonie von Mozart_,” “_Sinfonia di Haydn_.” Furthermore, it should be remembered that _Sinfonie_ was then a term often applied to any work in three or more movements written for strings, or strings and wind instruments.

OVERTURE TO THE OPERA, “THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO”

_Le Nozze di Figaro: dramma giocoso in quadro atti; poesia di Lorenzo Da Ponte, aggiustata dalla commedia del Beaumarchais, “Le Mariage de Figaro”; musica di W. A. Mozart_, was composed at Vienna in 1786 and produced there on May 1 of the same year.

The overture opens (_presto_, D major, 4-4) immediately with the first theme; the first part of it is a running passage of seven measures in eighth notes (strings and bassoons in octaves), and the second part is given for four measures to wind instruments, with a joyous response of seven measures by full orchestra. This theme is repeated. A subsidiary theme follows, and the second theme appears in A major, a gay figure in the violins, with bassoon, afterward flute. There is no free fantasia. There is a long _coda_.

Mozart saw in the play of Beaumarchais an excellent libretto for an opera. Da Ponte tells the story in his amusing _Memoirs_: “Talking one day with him [Mozart], he asked me if I could turn Beaumarchais’s _Noces de Figaro_ into an opera. The proposition was to my taste, and the success was immediate and universal. A little before, this piece had been forbidden by the Emperor’s command, on account of its immorality. How then to propose it anew? Baron Vetzlar [Wezlar] offered me with his customary generosity a reasonable price for my libretto and assured me that he would see to its production at London or in France, if it were refused in Vienna. I did not accept the offer, and I secretly began work. I waited the opportune moment to propose the poem either to the Intendant or, if I had the courage, to the Emperor himself. Martin alone was in my confidence, and he was so generous, out of deference to Mozart, to give me time to finish my piece before I began work on one for him. As fast as I wrote the words, Mozart wrote the music, and it was all finished in six weeks. The lucky star of Mozart willed an opportune moment and permitted me to carry my manuscript directly to the Emperor.

“‘How’s this?’ said Joseph to me. ‘You know that Mozart, remarkable for his instrumental music, has with one exception never written for song, and the exception is not good for much.’

“I answered timidly, ‘Without the kindness of the Emperor, I should have written only one drama in Vienna.’

“‘True: but I have already forbidden the German company to play this piece _Figaro_.’

“‘I know it; but, in turning it into an opera, I have cut out whole scenes, shortened others, and been careful everywhere to omit anything that might shock the conventionalities and good taste; in a word, I have made a work worthy of the theater honored by His Majesty’s protection. As for the music, as far as I can judge, it seems to me a masterpiece.’

“‘All right; I trust to your taste and prudence. Send the score to the copyists.’

“A moment afterward I was at Mozart’s. I had not yet told him the good news, when he was ordered to go to the palace with his score. He obeyed, and the Emperor thus heard several _morceaux_ which delighted him. Joseph II had a very correct taste in music, and in general for everything that is included in the fine arts. The prodigious success of this work throughout the whole world is a proof of it. The music, incredible to relate, did not obtain a unanimous vote of praise. The Viennese composers crushed by it, Rosenberg and Casti especially, never failed to run it down.”[40]

Did Da Ponte show himself the courtier when he spoke of the Emperor’s “very correct taste in music”?

There was a cabal from the start against the production of Mozart’s opera. Kelly says in his _Reminiscences_: “Every one of the opera company took part in the contest. I alone was a stickler for Mozart, and naturally enough, for he had a claim on my warmest wishes.... Of all the performers in this opera at that time, but one survives—myself. [This was written in 1826.] It was allowed that never was opera stronger cast. I have seen it performed at different periods in other countries, and well too, but no more to compare with its original performance than light is to darkness. All the original performers had the advantage of the instruction of the composer, who transfused into their minds his inspired meaning. I never shall forget his little animated countenance, when lighted up with the glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describe as it would be to paint sunbeams.”

OVERTURE TO THE OPERA “THE MAGIC FLUTE”

Emanuel Johann Schikaneder, the author of the libretto of _Die Zauberflöte_ (The Magic Flute), was a wandering theater director, poet, composer, and play actor. Vain, improvident, shrewd, a bore, he nevertheless had good qualities that won for him the friendship of Mozart. In 1791 Schikaneder was the director of the Auf der Wieden, a little theater where comic operas were performed. He no doubt would have made a success of his venture, had he curbed his ambition. On the verge of failure, he made a fairy drama out of _Lulu, or the Enchanted Flute_, Liebeskind’s story in a collection of fairy tales published by Wieland. He asked Mozart to write the music for it. Mozart, pleased with the scenario, accepted the offer and said: “If I do not bring you out of your trouble, and if the work is not successful, you must not blame me; for I have never written magic music.” Schikaneder had followed closely Wieland’s text; but he learned that Marinelli, a rival manager, the director of the Leopoldstadt Theater, thought of putting upon the stage a piece with the same subject; so he hurriedly, and with the assistance of an actor named Gieseke, modified the plot, and substituted for the evil genius of the play the high priest Sarastro, who appears to be the custodian of the secrets and the executor of the wishes of the Masonic order.

Schikaneder knew the ease with which Mozart wrote. He also knew that it was necessary to keep watch over him, that he might be ready at the appointed time. Mozart’s wife was then in Baden. Schikaneder therefore put Mozart in a little pavilion which was in the midst of a garden near his theater. The music of _The Magic Flute_ was written in this pavilion and in a room of the casino of Josephdorf. Mozart was deep in doleful dumps when he began his task, so Schikaneder surrounded him with members of his company. It was long believed that the composer was then inspired by the beautiful eyes of the singing woman, Gerl, but the story may rest on no better foundation than the one of the Mme Hofdaemmel tragedy, which even Otto Jahn thought worthy of his investigation.

Schikaneder made his proposal early in March, 1791. The overture, with the Priests’ March, was composed September 28, 1791. On September 30 of that year _Die Zauberflöte_, a grand opera in two acts, was produced at the Auf der Wieden Theater.

Schikaneder’s name was in large type on the bill; Mozart’s name was in small type underneath the cast. Johann Schenk (1753-1836), who made money and won fame by the popularity of his operas—_Der Dorfbarbier_ (1796) was long a favorite—Schenk gave Beethoven lessons in counterpoint at Vienna in 1793-94—sat in one of the orchestra seats. At the end of the overture, he went to Mozart and kissed his hand. Mozart stroked his admirer’s cheek. But the first act was not well received. Mozart went behind the scenes and saw Schikaneder in his costume of a bird. He reassured Mozart, but the opera disappointed the Viennese at first, and Mozart was cut to the quick. The cool reception was not due to the character of the subject; for “magic plays” with music of Viennese composers, as Wenzel Müller, were very popular, and _The Magic Flute_ was regarded as a _Singspiel_, a “magic farce,” with unusually elaborate music. The report from Vienna that was published in Kunzen and Reichardt’s music journal, _Studien fur Tonkünstler und Musikfreunde_ (Berlin, 1793, p. 79), tells the story: “The new machine comedy, _The Magic Flute_, with music by our _Kapellmeister_ Mozard [_sic_], which was given at great expense and with such sumptuousness, did not meet with the expected success, for the contents and dialogue of the piece are utterly worthless.” Schikaneder was obstinate in his faith; the opera soon became the fashion. The two hundredth representation was celebrated at Vienna in October, 1795. _The Magic Flute_ made its way over the continent. The libretto was translated into Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Polish, Italian. Paris knew the opera in 1801 (August 23) as _Les Mystères d’Isis_. The first performance in London was on May 25, 1819, in Italian.

Mozart died shortly after the production of _The Magic Flute_, in deep distress. This opera, with the music of his _Requiem_, was in his mind until the final delirium. While the opera was performing he would take his watch from under his pillow and follow the performance in imagination: “We are now at the end of the act,” or “Now comes the grand aria for the Queen of Night.” The day before he died, he sang with his weak voice the opening measures of “Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja,” and endeavored to beat the time with his hands. The frivolous and audacious Schikaneder, “sensualist, parasite, spendthrift,” filled his purse by this opera: in 1798 he built the Theater an der Wien. On the roof he put his own statue, clothed in the feather costume of Papageno. His luck was not constant; in 1812 he died in poverty.

CONCERTOS FOR VIOLIN

No. 1, in B flat major (Koechel No. 207) No. 2, in D major (Koechel No. 212) No. 3, in G major (Koechel No. 216) No. 4, in D major (Koechel No. 218) No. 5, in A major (Koechel No. 219) No. 6, in E flat major (Koechel No. 268)

Mozart composed five violin concertos at Salzburg in 1775. The accompaniment of the five concertos is scored for the same instruments: two oboes, two horns, strings. In 1776 Mozart wrote a sixth concerto—E flat major—with an accompaniment scored for flute, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns, and strings. A seventh was discovered by Dr. Kopfermann in 1907. There is some doubt as to its genuineness.

These concertos were undoubtedly written for Mozart’s own use. As a child, he played the violin as well as the forerunners of the pianoforte, and on his tour in 1763 he played the violin in public. His first published composition was a sonata in C major for pianoforte and violin (K. No. 6). This, and one in D major, were composed in 1763 at Paris. They are dedicated to the Princess Victoire of France. In 1775 Mozart was practicing diligently the violin to please his father. It was one of Wolfgang’s duties at the Court to play the violin. He disliked to do it. His father, an excellent violinist, encouraged his son: “You have no idea how well you play the violin; if you would only do yourself justice, and play with boldness, spirit, and fire, you would be the first violinist in Europe.” This was in answer to a letter from Munich in which Mozart had written: “I played as though I were the greatest fiddler in Europe.” In 1777 the father reproached him for neglecting the violin (in Vienna Wolfgang preferred to play the viola in quartets). And it was in 1777 that Mozart wrote of one Franzl whom he heard playing a violin concerto at Mannheim: “You know I am no great lover of difficulties. He plays difficult things, but one does not recognize the difficulties and imagines that one could do the same thing at once: that is true art. He also has a beautiful round tone—not a note is missing, one hears everything; everything is well marked. He has a fine _staccato_ bow, up as well as down; and I have never heard so good a double shake as his. In a word, though he is no wizard, he is a solid violinist.”

The characteristics of the Salzburg violin concertos are the same. They are in three movements, _allegro_, _andante_ or _adagio_, and _rondo_. The first movement is the one most developed, although it might be considered as in aria form rather than the form befitting a first movement of a symphony. There is the customary alternation between _tutti_ and solo passages. The structure is more compact than that of the aria; it has more life. The “passage” measures grow out of the themes, play about them, or are closely related to them. The second movement requires expressive playing of sustained melody and is of a cheerful character. The _finale_ is in rondo form and joyful mood.

MOZART AS PIANIST

From Mozart’s letters, one learns something about his own manner of playing the piano:

“Herr Stein sees and hears that I am more of a player than Beecke—that without making grimaces of any kind I play so expressively that, according to his own confession, no one shows off his pianoforte as well as I. That I always remain strictly in time surprises everyone; they cannot understand that the left hand should not in the least be concerned in a _tempo rubato_. When they play, the left hand always follows” (1777).

About Nannette Stein’s playing: “She sits opposite the treble instead of in the middle of the instrument, so that there may be greater opportunities for swaying about and making grimaces. Then she rolls up her eyes and smirks. If a passage occurs twice, it is played slower the second time; if three times, still slower. When a passage comes, up goes the arm, and, if there is to be an emphasis it must come from the arm, heavily and clumsily, not from the fingers. But the best of all is that when there comes a passage (which ought to flow like oil) in which there necessarily occurs a change of fingers, there is no need of taking care: when the time comes you stop, lift the hand and nonchalantly begin again. This helps one the better to catch a false note, and the effect is frequently curious” (1777). Nannette was then eight years old.

At Aurnhammer’s: “The young woman is a fright, but she plays ravishingly, though she lacks the true singing style in her _cantabile_; she is too jerky” (1781).

“Whenever I played for him [Richter, a pianist], he looked immovably at my fingers, and one day he said, ‘My God! how I am obliged to torment myself and sweat, and yet without obtaining applause; and for you, my friend, it is mere play!’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I had to labor once in order not to show labor now’” (1784).

“It is much easier to play rapidly than slowly; you can drop a few notes in passages without anyone noticing it. But is it beautiful? At such speed you can use the hands indiscriminately; but is that beautiful?” (1778.)

“Give me the best clavier in Europe and at the same time hearers who understand nothing or want to understand nothing, and who do not feel what I play with me, and all my joy is gone” (1778).

“The _andante_ is going to give us the most trouble, for it is full of expression and must be played with taste.... If I were her [Rose Cannabich’s] regular teacher, I would lock up all her music, cover the keyboard with a handkerchief, and make her practice on nothing but passages, trills, mordents, etc., until the difficulty with the left hand was remedied.”

Saint-Saëns, lover of irony and paradox, wrote a preface to his edition of Mozart’s pianoforte sonatas, published at Paris in 1915, in which, after a discussion of the ornaments, he has this to say:

“One is accustomed in modern editions to be prodigal with _liaisons_, to indicate constantly _legato_, _molto legato_, _sempre legato_. There is nothing of this in the manuscripts and the old editions. Everything leads us to believe that this music should be performed lightly, that the figures should produce an effect analogous to that obtained on the violin by giving a stroke to each note without leaving the string. When Mozart wished the _legato_, he indicated it. In the middle of the last century, pianists were still found whose playing was singularly leaping (as one may say). The old non-_legato_, being exaggerated, became a _staccato_. This exaggeration brought a reaction in the contrary sense, and this was pushed too far....

“This music of Mozart during his early years is destitute of nuances; occasionally a _piano_ or a _forte_; nothing more. The reason for this abstinence is because these pieces were written for the clavecin, and its sonority could not be modified by a pressure of the finger. Clavecins with two keyboards could alternate with _forte_ and _piano_, but nuances, properly speaking, were unknown to them.

“In the 18th century, one lived more quietly than today, nor were there in music our modern habits of speed, which is often inflicted on ancient compositions to their great injury. It is necessary to shun in the case of Mozart this tendency to hurry the movements, as too often happens. His _presto_ corresponds to our _allegro_; his _allegro_ to our _allegro moderato_. His _adagios_ are extremely slow, as is shown by the multiplicity of notes sometimes contained in a single beat. The _andante_ is not very slow.

“It was the rule, in his time, not to put the thumb on a black key except from absolute necessity. This method of fingering gives to the hand great restfulness, precious for the performance of old music that demands perfect equality of the fingers.

“The first pianofortes were far from having the powerful sonority of the great modern instruments. Therefore, it is not always necessary to take Mozart’s _forte_ literally; it is often the equivalent of our _mezzo forte_.”

SERGE SERGIEVICH PROKOFIEFF

(Born at Sontsovka, Russia, April 24, 1891)

SCYTHIAN SUITE, “ALA AND LOLLI,” OP. 20

I. The Adoration of Veles and Ala II. The Enemy God and the Dance of the Black Spirits III. Night IV. The Glorious Departure of Lolli and the Procession of the Sun

The ancient Scythians, wildly savage, had horrid manners and customs. Herodotus tells us at pleasing length how they sacrificed one in a hundred of their enemies to Mars; how in battle they scalped their foes and drank their blood; how they burned false prophets among their many soothsayers; how they strangled servants of their dead king and seated them upon horses stuffed with chaff to place about the monument. Truly a splendidly barbarous folk.

And in his Scythian suite, Prokofieff has written superbly barbaric music.

This music is something more than roaring, blaring dissonance; something more than eccentric experimentation in harmonic schemes and daring orchestration. The suite is deftly planned; broadly conceived; carried out with rare dramatic intensity.

No matter how wild this music is, there is admirable method in the madness; there is a refreshing mastery in the development of the composer’s purpose. He knew what he wanted; he gained his effects. They are not episodic, spasmodic, but skillfully continuous. The third movement, “Night,” is perhaps the most remarkable in the revelation of poetically dramatic feeling. There is “the blackness of darkness”—a night in which Nature herself shudders and is afraid; a night when the Demon is master, and strange, sinister deeds are wrought. Compare this movement with the magnificent _finale_ with its amazing climax.

* * *

This suite was composed in 1914. The first performance was at the Imperial Maryinski Theater, Petrograd, on January 29, 1916. The composer conducted.

The suite is scored for piccolo, three flutes, three oboes, English horn, three clarinets, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, eight horns, four trumpets, four trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, side drum, tambourine, cymbals, triangle, celesta, xylophone, bells, two harps, pianoforte, and strings.

The four movements have this programme:

I. Invocation to Veles and Ala. _Allegro feroce_, 4-4 time. The music describes an invocation to the sun, worshiped by the Scythians as their highest deity, named Veles. This invocation is followed by the sacrifice to the beloved idol, Ala, the daughter of Veles.

II. The Evil-God and dance of the pagan monsters. _Allegro sostenuto_, 4-4 time. The Evil-God summons the seven pagan monsters from their subterranean realms and, surrounded by them, dances a delirious dance.

III. Night. _Andantino_, 4-4 time. The Evil-God comes to Ala in the darkness. Great harm befalls her. The moon rays fall upon Ala, and the moon-maidens descend to bring her consolation.

IV. Lolli’s pursuit of the Evil-God and the sunrise. _Tempestuoso_, 4-4 time. Lolli, a Scythian hero, went forth to save Ala. He fights the Evil-God. In the uneven battle with the latter, Lolli would have perished, but the Sun-God rises with the passing of night and smites the evil deity. With the description of the sunrise the suite comes to an end.

Scythia is a name that has been applied to different countries at different times. The Scythia described by Herodotus comprised the southeastern parts of Europe between the Carpathian Mountains and the river Tanaïs (now Don). Herodotus gives a graphic and singularly interesting account of these wild, barbaric nomads in the fourth book of his history. We are interested here only with what he has to say about their religion:

“They propitiate the following gods only: Vesta, most of all; then Jupiter, deeming the Earth to be the wife of Jupiter; after these, Apollo, and Venus Urania, and Hercules and Mars. All the Scythians acknowledge these, but those who are called Royal Scythians sacrifice also to Neptune. Vesta in the Scythian language is named Tabiti; Jupiter is, in my opinion, very rightly called Papæus; the Earth, Apia; Apollo, Œtosyrus; Venus Urania, Artimposa; and Neptune, Thamimasadas. They are not accustomed to erect images, altars, and temples, except to Mars; to him they are accustomed.” Then follows a minute description of the manner in which they sacrificed cattle and enemies taken prisoners, the latter to Mars. “Swine they never use, nor suffer them to be reared in their country.”

CLASSICAL SYMPHONY, OP. 25

I. Allegro II. Larghetto III. Gavotte IV. Finale

Prokofieff’s symphony is a delightful little work, fresh, melodious, vivacious, with significant themes; masterly, not pedantic treatment of them; charming orchestration achieved by apparently simple means, but showing consummate skill. The first movement and the _finale_ are in many measures truly Mozartean in mood, the _larghetto_ and the gavotte are more modern but in no way agressively contradictory.

* * *

This symphony, begun in 1916, was completed in 1917. The first performance was at Leningrad by the orchestra now known as the State Orchestra. The first performance in the United States was at a concert of the Russian Symphony Orchestra in New York, in December, 1918.

The symphony, scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, kettledrums, and strings, is dedicated to Boris Assafieff, who, as Igor Gleboff, has written much about music. “The composer’s idea in writing this work was to catch the spirit of Mozart and to put down that which, if he were living now, Mozart might put into his scores.”[41]

I. _Allegro_, D major, 4-4 time. The chief theme is given to the first violins. A transitional passage has material for the flutes. Development follows. The second theme is for first violins. The development begins with use of the first subject. The transitional measures are taken up, later the second theme. The recapitulation opens in C major (strings). Then follows the transitional passage (D major) for the flute. The second theme is again for the strings. There is a short _coda_.

II. _Larghetto_, A major, 2-2 time. First violins announce the chief theme. There are episodes.

III. _Gavotta_: _Non troppo allegro_, D major, 4-4 time. The subject is given at once to strings and wood-wind. The trio is in G major (flutes and clarinets above an organ point for violoncellos and double basses). This subject is repeated by the strings.

IV. _Finale_: _Molto vivace_, D major, 2-2 time. The first theme is for the strings; the second, A major, for wood-wind.

SERGEI VASSILIEVICH RACHMANINOFF

(Born at Onega in the government of Novgorod, April 1, 1873)

SYMPHONY NO. 2, IN E MINOR, OP. 27

I. Largo; allegro moderato II. Allegro molto III. Adagio IV. Allegro vivace

The composition is a long one; it lasts about an hour. The first two movements seem by far the strongest, architecturally and emotionally. The third movement seems insufferably long drawn out and sentimental. The fourth movement gains on a second hearing—has a more decided profile, and seems less episodic.

The reasons for the popularity of this symphony are not far to seek. The themes are eminently melodious, and some of them are of singular beauty; there is rich coloring; there are beautiful nuances in color; there is impressive sonority; there are frequent and sharp contrasts in sentiment, rhythm, expression; there is stirring vitality. Mr. Rachmaninoff in this symphony is romantic in the old and accustomed forms. He does not surprise or perplex by experiments in harmony; his form is essentially academic and traditional. Here is another case of new wine in old leather bottles, but first of all the bottles were put in thorough order, patched, strengthened, cleaned.

Instantaneous popularity often indicates some weakness in a composition. It will be interesting to watch the life of this symphony. There was a time when Raff’s _Lenore_ was as rapturously applauded. The most extravagant things were said about it. Raff too had uncommon contrapuntal skill; he too was a fecund melodist; he too had a pretty sense of color in his day. And what, pray, has become of Raff’s _Lenore_? It is in the great cemetery of orchestral compositions buried snugly with its heroine and her Wilhelm.

Let us enjoy, however, the gifts the gods give us and not indulge ourselves in gloomy thoughts. Mr. Rachmaninoff has written beautiful and eloquent music in this symphony. He has shown technical skill and revealed an emotional side that he has concealed in other compositions. Whether he would show inspiration outside of traditional forms; whether he has imagination in sufficient degree to shape wondrous thoughts in a freer form and be a law not only to himself but to his hearers—these questions we shall call unnecessary.

* * *

This symphony, composed at Dresden, was played at Moscow at a concert of the Imperial Russian Music Society in the course of the season of 1908-09. The composer conducted.

The symphony, dedicated to S. Tanéïev, is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), three oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, glockenspiel, and the usual strings.

There is an introduction, _largo_, 4-4, to the first movement. Violoncellos and double basses give an indication of the chief motive. Sustained chords of wind instruments follow, and over them appears the leading thought of the symphony (violins). The solo for the basses is repeated a third lower, and again chords for wind instruments follow. (These passages for wind instruments are used reminiscently in the second movement.) The violin theme is now more broadly developed, and after a short _crescendo_ a phrase for the English horn leads to the main portion of the first movement, _allegro moderato_, E minor, 2-2.

The first theme, _molto espressivo_, of the first movement, enters after four measures of prelude and is given to the violins. A motive in triplets for basses, _poco a poco più vivo_, is added. This leads to a section, _moderato_, in which, after preluding, a theme in G major is sung by violins. This becomes more passionate, and leads to a close in G major with a melody for violoncellos. The chief theme of the symphony is developed in the working out, by solo violin, by the rest of the strings and by wood-wind instruments. There is a noticeable rhythmic figure for violas, and this slackening of the pace brings the return of the chief theme of the movement with an elaborate _crescendo_. There are fanfares for the brass, and a horn-call is freely used. There is an agitated _coda_.

Second movement, _allegro molto_, A minor, 2-2. The theme begins with horns and is carried out by violins, while there are characteristic figures for wood-wind instruments. The first section is constructed simply and clearly from portions of this theme. There is a melodious section, _moderato_ (violins in octaves, violas, and violoncellos _cantabile_), and then the energetic rhythmic figure brings in the repetition of the first portion of the movement. The trio, _meno mosso_, begins with a design for second violins, and its development includes march-like harmonies for the brass. There is a free repetition of the _scherzo_ portion, and at the end a reminiscence of the theme for brass in the introduction.

The third movement, _adagio_, A major, 4-4, is in song form, and there are three leading melodies in succession. The chief one is given to the first violins; the clarinet has an expressive air; the third melody is for oboes and violins. In the middle section there is a return to the chief theme of the symphony. It occurs in dialogue form, and it also appears at the end of the repetition of the first section.

The _finale_, _allegro vivace_, begins with a lively introduction which is rhythmically developed out of the first jubilant motive for full orchestra. There is a march theme for wind instruments. The second theme is for strings, D major, and is in lyric mood. Many of the melodic figures heard before enter in the _finale_. The climax of passion is reached when the brass sounds forth the bass motive of the introductory _largo_, and at the end the _adagio_ theme is sung against the dance motive of the _finale_.

CONCERTO NO. 2, IN C MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE WITH ORCHESTRA, OP. 18

I. Moderato II. Adagio sostenuto III. Allegro scherzando

The concerto is of uneven worth. The first movement is labored and has little marked character. It might have been written by any German, technically well-trained, who was acquainted with the music of Tchaikovsky. The _adagio_ and the _finale_ have more racial spirit and are well designed to win the favor of the crowd; the _adagio_ by its agreeable sentiment, the _finale_ by the sharply defined themes, the hustle and rush, the _crescendo_ of excitement, with the apotheosis, full vigor of the orchestra with a long, sweeping _cantilena_, an obvious tune—truly an _ad captandum finale_.

* * *

This concerto was performed for the first time at a concert of the Philharmonic Society of Moscow, October 14, 1901, when the composer was the pianist. The concerto gained for the composer, in 1904, the Glinka prize of 500 roubles, founded by the publisher Belaïev. Published in 1901, it is dedicated to N. Dahl.

The orchestral portion of the concerto is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones and bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, and the usual strings.

Rachmaninoff has composed four pianoforte concertos: No. 1, F sharp minor, Op. 1, was written in 1890-91 and revised in 1917; No. 2, in C minor, 1900; No. 3, in D minor, 1909; No. 4, in G minor, 1927.

There follows a description of the Second concerto:

I. _Moderato_, C minor, 2-2. Introductory chords for the pianoforte lead to the exposition of the first theme, which is given to the strings while the pianoforte has an _arpeggio_ figure in accompaniment. There is a short orchestral interlude, and the second theme, E flat major, is announced by the pianoforte. The presentation of this subject ends with a _coda_ in which there is passage-work for the pianoforte while there is a suggestion of the first theme in the brass choir. The section of development begins with a working out of the first motive, at first in the orchestra. In the recapitulation, _maestoso, alla marcia_, the chief theme is given to the strings, while there are chords for the brass and a counter theme for the solo instrument. The horns take the second theme in augmentation, _moderato_, A flat major. The material for the _coda, meno mosso_, is taken from the chief theme, and the pianoforte has passage-work.

II. _Adagio sostenuto_, E major, 4-4. There is a short introduction with sustained harmonies for strings. These harmonies are soon reinforced by wind instruments. The pianoforte enters with a figure over which the flute and then the clarinet announce the theme on which the movement is built. The opening phrase for the clarinet has much significance in this respect. The pianoforte now has the theme, and the accompaniment of a broken chord figure is given to violins (_pizzicato_) and clarinets. The pace is quickened for the working out of the subject and for episodic material. There is a _cadenza_ for the pianoforte, after which there is a repetition in part of the opening section. The _coda_ contains a new musical thought for the pianoforte: a progression of chords in the upper part is accompanied by a broken chord figure in the left, and wood-wind instruments play against this in triplets.

III. _Allegro scherzando_, C minor, 4-4. There are introductory measures, and the first motive is for the pianoforte. This motive is developed. The second motive is for oboe and violoncellos, and is taken up later by the pianoforte and leads to figuration in triplets, _meno mosso_, for the same instrument. Then comes a section _allegro scherzando_, _moto primo_, in which the chief theme is further developed. There is a _fugato_: the first violins are answered by pianoforte and lower strings. In the recapitulation section there is a suggestion of the chief theme, but the second motive is in the orchestra, this time for violins and flute, and it is taken up later, as it was before, by the solo instrument. The triplet figuration returns. _Allegro scherzando_: the chief theme is treated in imitation by the orchestra. There is an increase in speed with a _crescendo_, and, when the climax is reached, there is a _cadenza_ for the pianoforte. The second theme is announced by the full orchestra _maestoso_, with chords for the solo instrument. There is a brilliant _coda_.

JOSEPH MAURICE RAVEL

(Born at Ciboure, Basses Pyrénées, March 7, 1875)

“MA MÈRE L’OYE” (MOTHER GOOSE), FIVE CHILDREN’S PIECES

I. Pavane de la Belle au Bois Dormant (Pavane of Sleeping Beauty) II. Petit Poucet (Hop o’ my Thumb) III. Laideronnette, Impératrice des Pagodes (Laideronnette, Empress of the Pagodas) IV. Les Entretiens de la Belle et de la Bête (Conversations of Beauty and the Beast) V. Le Jardin Féerique (The Fairy Garden)

Ravel’s music is of the most delicate texture, lacework with exquisite thoughts orchestrated as for the little orchestra of ivory instruments imagined by Jules Laforgue. Although to the eye the structure of the score is simple, the performance demands the utmost skill on the part of the players and the finest taste of an imaginative conductor. It would be hard to say which of the five movements is the most beautiful in fancy. The “Pavane” has a subtle, melancholy charm. “Hop o’ my Thumb” is curiously rhythmed and strangely effective by means of orchestration. “Laideronnette” in the movement of a march is delightful, and with the movement that follows, in the time of a slow waltz and with a solo for the double bassoon representing the Beast, wins immediate popularity. In the ballet the Apotheosis was the “Fairy Garden,” and this movement, too, is most poetic.

* * *

These pieces were originally composed in 1908 for pianoforte (four hands), and for the pleasure of the children, Mimie and Jean Godebski, to whom they were dedicated when the pieces were published in 1910. They were first performed at a concert of the Société Musicale Indépendante, Salle Gaveau, Paris, on April 20, 1910. The pianists were Christine Verger, six years old, and Germaine Duramy, ten years old.

I. “Pavane of the Sleeping Beauty.” _Lent_, A minor, 4-4. This movement is only twenty measures long. It is based on the opening phrase for flute, horns, and violas.

II. “Hop o’ my Thumb.” Ravel has quoted in the score this passage from Perrault’s tale: “He believed that he would easily find his path by means of his bread crumbs which he had scattered wherever he had passed; but he was very much surprised when he could not find a single crumb: the birds had come and eaten everything up.”

III. “Laideronnette, Empress of the Pagodas.” The French give the name _pagode_ to a little grotesque figure with a movable head, and thus extend the meaning, which was also found in English for pagoda, “an idol or image.” This latter use of the word is now obsolete in the English language. A _laideron_ is any ugly young girl or young woman. There is this quotation from “Serpentin Vert” by the Countess Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy (about 1655-1705) who wrote romances and also fairy tales in imitation of Perrault. “She undressed herself and went into the bath. The pagodes and pagodines began to sing and play on instruments; some had theorbos made of walnut shells; some had viols made of almond shells; for they were obliged to proportion the instruments to their figure.” Laideronnette, in the story, the daughter of a king and queen, was cursed in her cradle by Magotine, a wicked fairy, with the curse of the most horrible ugliness. When the princess grew up, she asked that she might dwell far away in a castle where no one could see her. In the forest near by she met a huge green serpent, who told her that he was once handsomer than she was. Laideronnette had many adventures. In a little boat, guarded by the serpent, she went out to sea and was wrecked on the coast of a land inhabited by pagodes, a little folk whose bodies were formed from porcelain, crystal, diamonds, emeralds, etc. The ruler was an unseen monarch—the green snake who also had been enchanted by Magotine. Finally, he was changed into human shape, and he married Laideronnette, whose beauty was restored.

IV. “The Conversations of Beauty and the Beast.” Quotations from Mme Leprince de Beaumont are given:

“‘When I think how good-hearted you are, you do not seem to me so ugly.’

“‘Yes, I have, indeed, a kind heart; but I am a monster.’

“‘There are many men more monstrous than you.’

“‘If I had wit, I would invent a fine compliment to thank you, but I am only a beast.’

. . . . . . .

“‘Beauty, will you be my wife?’

“‘No, Beast!’

“‘I die content since I have the pleasure of seeing you again.’

“‘No, my dear Beast, you shall not die; you shall live to be my husband!’”

The Beast had disappeared, and she saw at her feet only a prince more beautiful than Love, who thanked her for having broken his enchantment.

“_Mouvement de valse très modéré_,” F major, 3-4. This movement is based chiefly on a melody for the clarinet, which begins in the second measure. There is a middle section with a subject suggesting the Beast and given to the double bassoon. The two subjects are combined. At the end, a solo violin plays the theme of the middle section.

V. “The Fairy Garden.” _Lent et grave_, C major, 3-4. The movement is based on the opening theme for strings.

The orchestration is as follows: two flutes (and piccolo), two oboes (and English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, double bassoon, two horns, kettledrums, triangle, cymbals, bass drum, tam-tam, xylophone, glockenspiel, celesta, harp and strings.

“DAPHNIS ET CHLOÉ,” BALLET IN ONE ACT, ORCHESTRAL FRAGMENTS, SECOND SERIES “DAYBREAK,” “PANTOMIME,” “GENERAL DANCE”

Ravel’s cunningly and gorgeously orchestrated ballet bears separation from the stage and stage effects, the dancers and the mimes. Nor is it necessary for one’s enjoyment to be concerned with the adventures of Daphnis and Chloe. Here is something more than purple patches of instrumental color and dexterous juggling with surprising combinations of timbres. There is form, there is melody, there are ravishing harmonic devices; there is, above all, poetic imagination.

* * *

Ravel composed his ballet, _Daphnis and Chloe_, expecting that it would be performed by the Russian Ballet at Paris in 1911. Jacques Durand, the publisher, says that Ravel was asked by Diaghilev in 1911 to write this ballet. Others give the year 1910. Durand also says Diaghilev was not at first satisfied with the ballet and hesitated to produce it, but Durand finally persuaded him; that Diaghilev’s first unfavorable impression was due to his knowing the music only by the arrangement for piano. At the rehearsals there were violent scenes between Fokine and Diaghilev, which led to the rupture which became “official” after that season of the Ballet Russe. It was not performed until June 5, 1912. The performances were at the Châtelet. Nijinsky mimed Daphnis; Mme Karsavina, Chloe. Messrs. Bolm and Cechetti also took leading parts. The conductor was Mr. Monteux. The score, however, was published in 1911. Two concert suites were drawn from it. The first—“Nocturne,” “Interlude,” “Danse Guerrière”—was performed at a Châtelet concert conducted by Gabriel Pierné on April 2, 1911.

The second suite is scored for two flutes (and piccolo), a flute in G, two oboes, English horn, a clarinet in E flat, two clarinets in B flat, bass clarinet in B flat, three bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, four trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, tambourine, two side drums, castanets, celesta, glockenspiel, two harps, strings (double basses with the low C), chorus of mixed voices. This chorus, which sings without words, can be replaced by variants inserted for this purpose in the orchestral parts.

The following argument is printed in the score of the suite to illustrate the significance of the sections in succession:

“No sound but the murmur of rivulets fed by the dew that trickles from the rocks. Daphnis lies stretched before the grotto of the nymphs. Little by little the day dawns. The songs of birds are heard. Afar off a shepherd leads his flock. Another shepherd crosses the back of the stage. Herdsmen enter, seeking Daphnis and Chloe. They find Daphnis and awaken him. In anguish he looks about for Chloe. She at last appears, encircled by shepherdesses. The two rush into each other’s arms. Daphnis observes Chloe’s crown. His dream was a prophetic vision: the intervention of Pan is manifest. The old shepherd Lammon explains that Pan saved Chloe, in remembrance of the nymph Syrinx, whom the god loved.

“Daphnis and Chloe mime the story of Pan and Syrinx. Chloe impersonates the young nymph wandering over the meadow. Daphnis as Pan appears and declares his love for her. The nymph repulses him; the god becomes more insistent. She disappears among the reeds. In desperation he plucks some stalks, fashions a flute, and on it plays a melancholy tune. Chloe comes out and imitates by her dance the accents of the flute.

“The dance grows more and more animated. In mad whirlings, Chloe falls into the arms of Daphnis. Before the altar of the nymphs he swears on two sheep his fidelity. Young girls enter; they are dressed as Bacchantes and shake their tambourines. Daphnis and Chloe embrace tenderly. A group of young men come on the stage.

“Joyous tumult. A general dance. Daphnis and Chloe.”

The scenario of the ballet was derived by Michel Fokine from the charming romance of Longus. There are stage pictures of Chloe carried away by robbers, rescued by Pan at the prayer of Daphnis, and of the lovers miming together the story of Pan and Syrinx. There are scenes in the grove of Pan and in the pirate camp, besides those mentioned above. The scenery and costumes were designed by Leon Bakst.

BOLERO

_Bolero_ does not fare the better by repetition. It is the clever trick of a super-refined composer. The trick is amazingly well performed, but it is only a trick. The surprise of a first performance does not affect one a second time. Still, there is the expectation of something going to happen, of a final, thunderous proclamation of the inherently negligible tune. According to the old saw, surprise is the chief element of wit. Perhaps—but honest laughter follows the first cracking of a joke. After that, the laughter is only courteous.

* * *

This _Bolero_, dedicated to Ida Rubinstein, was brought out by her and danced by her at Paris in November, 1928. Alexandre Benois designed the settings and the costumes to represent a scene that Goya might have painted: a Spanish inn, with the dancer on a trestle table, men surrounding it. At first calm, the actors on the Parisian stage were little by little excited to frenzy as the dancer became more and more animated. Knives were drawn—the woman was tossed from arms to arms, until her partner intervened; they danced until quiet was restored. So was the scene described by French and English reporters.

The first performance in the United States of this Bolero as a concert piece was by the Philharmonic Society of New York, Mr. Toscanini conductor, on November 14, 1929.

_Tempo di ballo, moderato assai_, 3-4. A drum gives the dance rhythm, which is maintained throughout; a flute announces the theme, which is taken up by the wind instruments in turn; then by groups of instruments. There is a _crescendo_ for about twenty minutes, until there is an explosive modulation—brass and percussion instruments swell the din until at last there is what has been described as a “tornado of sound.”

M. Prunières called attention to the fact that Ravel was not the first to repeat a simple, common theme until by the monotony of tune and rhythm the hearer was excited (as are Oriental hearers by the same method). Padilla, the composer of _Valencia_, had worked this obsession by the repetition of a tune for at least twenty times.

Ravel’s _Bolero_ calls for these instruments: two flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, oboe d’amour, English horn, two clarinets, one E flat clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, four trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, high saxophone in F, soprano and tenor saxophones in B flat, kettledrums, side drums, cymbal, tam-tam, celesta, harp, and the usual strings.

OTTERINO RESPIGHI

(Born on July 9, 1879, at Bologna, Italy)

SYMPHONIC POEM, “PINES OF ROME”

I. The Pines of the Villa Borghese II. The Pines near a Catacomb III. The Pines of the Janiculum IV. The Pines of the Appian Way

Respighi wrote _Pines of Rome_ as a companion piece to his _Fountains of Rome_. He may yet write “_Hills of Rome_,” but it would have to be in seven movements. In the _Fountains of Rome_ he set no bird a-singing. In the third section [of the Pines of Rome] “Pines of the Janiculum,” he introduces a nightingale. Perhaps he had in mind the reply of the good King Agesilaus, who, when a man was recommended to him as a skillful imitator of that justly famous bird, replied: “I have heard the nightingale itself.” So Respighi obtained a gramophone record of a nightingale which he heard singing. The movement would not suffer if there were no nightingale in the orchestra.

In the “Pines of the Villa Borghese,” where children are supposed to be playing games, darting to and fro, shrieking, emitting loud squeals of joy, the instrumentation is unusually brilliant, effective, original. One finds more poetic feeling, more imagination in “Pines near a Catacomb,” with the somber opening, the solemnity of the double basses, the mysterious song which swells and dies away. Yes, there is more poetic feeling in this movement than in “Pines of the Janiculum,” with the moon full and the gramophone turned on for the faint voice of the nightingale. At first in the _finale_ there is the rhythm of innumerable steps that De Quincey might have heard at the beginning of his “Dream Fugue” in “The Vision of Sudden Death.” There is the vision of past glories, of soldiers victorious making their clashing and blaring way to the Capitol; with the huzzaing crowd “to see Great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.” This march is exciting by reason of its rhythmic and dynamic increasing intensity and its overpowering climax.

But if one takes the work poem as a whole, the composer is revealed as a supreme master of orchestral color rather than a man of fine, entrancing, impressive ideas.

* * *

This symphonic poem was composed in 1924. It was performed at a concert in the Augusteum, Rome, in the season of 1924-25. The score calls for 3 flutes (and piccolo), 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, bass clarinet, 2 bassoons, double bassoon, 4 horns, 1 trumpet off stage, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones and bass tuba, 6 buccine (the bucina was the war trumpet of ancient Rome): 2 flicorni (Fluegelhorn) soprani, 2 flicorni tenori, 2 flicorni bassi—replaced if necessary by horns; kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, 2 small cymbals, tambourine, rattle, triangle, tam-tam, harp, bells, celesta, gramophone (No. R. 6105 of the Concert Record Gramophone—the “Song of the Nightingale”), pianoforte, organ, and strings.

The piece is in four connected sections. They are based upon this programme, printed as preface to the score:

“1. The Pines of the Villa Borghese. _Allegretto vivace_, 2-8. Children are at play in the pine grove of the Villa Borghese, dancing the Italian equivalent of ‘Ring Around a-Rosy’; mimicking marching soldiers and battles; twittering and shrieking like swallows at evening; and they disappear. Suddenly the scene changes to—

“2. The Pines near a Catacomb. _Lento_, 4-4; beginning with muted and divided strings, muted horns, _piano_. We see the shadows of the pines which overhang the entrance to a catacomb. From the depths rises a chant which reëchoes solemnly, sonorously, like a hymn, and is then mysteriously silenced.

“3. The Pines of the Janiculum. _Lento_ 4-4; _piano cadenza_; clarinet solo. There is a thrill in the air. The full moon reveals the profile of the pines of Gianicolo’s Hill. A nightingale sings (represented by a gramophone record of a nightingale’s song heard from the orchestra).

“4. The Pines of the Appian Way. _Tempo di marcia._ Misty dawn on the Appian Way. The tragic country is guarded by solitary pines. Indistinctly, incessantly, the rhythm of innumerable steps. To the poet’s phantasy appears a vision of past glories; trumpets blare, and the army of the consul advances brilliantly in the grandeur of a newly risen sun toward the sacred way, mounting in triumph the Capitoline Hill.”

Mr. Ernest Newman was facetious, hearing the symphonic poem at a concert of the London Symphony Orchestra in October, 1925: “The tame nightingale in the last movement (a gramophone record, ‘kindly lent,’ as the programme informed us, ‘by the Gramophone Company, Hayes’) did not communicate the expected thrill. Perhaps the captive bird does not sing with the rapture of the free one. Perhaps the proper romantic associations were lacking; it might have been better had the lights been put out and we had all held hands. But I fancy the explanation is that realism of this sort is a trifle too crude to blend with music. We all remember Mr. Arnold Bennett’s ‘Card,’ who, having bought in the days of his prosperity a painting of a Swiss scene with a church tower in it, and still having enough of the Five Towns left in him to want to fortify the beautiful with the useful, had a real clock face inserted in the tower to tell him and the world the time. Since then we have read of Mr. Harry Leon Wilson’s little boy, who used to gaze with a blend of fascination and terror on a picture of a lion in a cage, the bars of the cage being real, inserted in the frame; the great thing was to put your fingers behind the bars and half hope, half fear that the lion would go for them. Musical realism of the Respighi type has the same queer attractiveness and the same drawbacks. Of course, if the public likes it, it can be extended indefinitely. We may yet live to see the evening when the _Pastoral_ symphony will be given with real running water in the slow movement, nightingale by the Gramophone Company, quail by Messrs. Fortnum and Mason.”

NICOLAS ANDREJEVITCH RIMSKY-KORSAKOV

(Born at Tikhvin, in the government of Novgorod, March 18, 1844; died at St. Petersburg, June 21, 1908)

SYMPHONIC SUITE, “SCHEHERAZADE” (AFTER “THE THOUSAND NIGHTS AND A NIGHT”), OP. 35

I. The Sea and Sindbad’s Ship II. The Story of the Kalandar Prince III. The Young Prince and the Young Princess IV. Festival at Baghdad. The Sea. The Ship Goes to Pieces against a Rock Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior. Conclusion

Rimsky-Korsakov wrote an argument for his score. The music is in illustration of _Sindbad the Sailor_, the storm at sea, the shipwreck, the tale of one of the three Kalandars, a tale of a prince and a princess. The argument is not wholly clear, and probably this was the composer’s intention. What prince and what princess? There are so many in _The Thousand Nights and a Night_. Who will be so rash as to name the one of the three Kalandars? In the last movement there is a festival at Baghdad, and lo, suddenly Sindbad’s ship sails to its fate.

In the ballet all this music is wedded to the story that is the prelude to the wondrous tales: the story of the two rulers, their wanton wives, and the resolve of one of the Kings to kill a spouse every morning, until Scheherazade by her charm as a narrator softens his heart. What then becomes of the graphic sea music; or that illustrative of Kalandar, prince and princess? It is not necessary to insist on the incongruity.

Unless a conductor can feel in this music the spirit of _The Thousand Nights and a Night_, unless he is himself a rhapsodist with admiration for the wild fancy, the humor now grotesque, now cruel, now Rabelaisian, for the sensuousness that is at times sensuality; unless there is understanding, with appreciation of the imagination that peopled the air with slaves of King Solomon’s ring, hideous afreets and space-annihilating genii, his interpretation will be that of a man who complains of endless repetitions without contrapuntal development. The music is not for the academic.

Grant that _Scheherazade_ reeks at times of benzoin and the pastils of the harem; that it suggests:

_Lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon_—

grant all this: there remains the superb sea music with the rolling billows, the tossing, laboring vessel, the final crash and wild farewell. There is more than a constant display of fancy or imagination. The wonder is, as a matter of technic, how Rimsky-Korsakov succeeds in casting his spell with analogous themes constantly varied. Nor is this due solely to the surprising, masterly, and entrancing instrumentation.

* * *

_Scheherazade_, with the _Easter Overture_, was composed in the summer of 1881 at Neyzhgovitsy on the shore of Lake Cheryemenyetskoye. It was produced at St. Petersburg in the course of the following concert season.

The suite, dedicated to Vladimir Stassov, is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes (and English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, tambourine, cymbals, triangle, tam-tam, harp, and strings.

The following programme is printed in Russian and French on a fly-leaf of the score:

“The Sultan Schahriar, persuaded of the falseness and the faithlessness of women, has sworn to put to death each one of his wives after the first night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by interesting him in tales which she told him during one thousand and one nights. Pricked by curiosity, the Sultan put off his wife’s execution from day to day, and at last gave up entirely his bloody plan.

“Many marvels were told Schahriar by the Sultana Scheherazade. For her stories the Sultana borrowed from poets their verses, from folk songs their words; and she strung together tales and adventures.”

Rimsky-Korsakov has this to say about _Scheherazade_ in _My Musical Life_, translated into English by J. A. Joffe:

“The programme I had been guided by in composing _Scheherazade_ consisted of separate, unconnected episodes and pictures from _The Arabian Nights_: the fantastic narrative of the Prince Kalandar, the Prince and the Princess, the Baghdad festival, and the ship dashing against the rock with the bronze rider upon it. The unifying thread consisted of the brief introductions to Movements I, II, and IV, and the _intermezzo_ in Movement III, written for violin solo, and delineating Scheherazade herself as telling her wondrous tales to the stern Sultan. The conclusion of Movement IV serves the same artistic purpose.

“In vain do people seek in my suite leading motives linked always and unvaryingly with the same poetic ideas and conceptions. On the contrary, in the majority of cases, all these seeming leitmotives are nothing but purely musical material, or the given motives for symphonic development. These given motives thread and spread over all the movements of the suite, alternating and intertwining each with the other. Appearing as they do each time under different moods, the self-same motives and themes correspond each time to different images, actions and pictures.

“Thus, for instance, the sharply outlined fanfare motive of the muted trombone and trumpet, which first appears in the Kalandar’s Narrative (Movement II) appears afresh in Movement IV, in the delineation of the doomed ship, though this episode has no connection with the Kalandar’s Narrative. The principal theme of the Kalandar’s Narrative (B minor, 3-4) and the theme of the Princess in Movement III (B flat major, 6-8, clarinet) in altered guise and quick tempo appear as the secondary themes of the Baghdad festival; yet nothing is said in _The Arabian Nights_ about these persons taking part in the festivities. The unison phrase, as though depicting Scheherazade’s stern spouse, at the beginning of the suite, appears in the Kalandar’s Narrative, where there cannot, however, be any thought of Sultan Schahriar.

“In this manner, developing quite freely the musical data taken as a basis of the composition, I had in view the creation of an orchestral suite in four movements, closely knit by the community of its themes and motives, yet presenting, as it were, a kaleidoscope of fairy-tale images and designs of Oriental character—a method that I had to a certain degree made use of in my _Skazka_ (Fairy Tale), the musical data of which are as little distinguishable from the poetic as they are in _Scheherazade_.

“In composing _Scheherazade_ I meant these hints to direct but slightly the hearer’s fancy on the path which my own fancy had traveled, and to leave more minute and particular conceptions to the will and mood of each listener. All I had desired was that the hearer, if he liked my piece _as symphonic music_, should carry away the impression that it is beyond doubt an Oriental narrative of some numerous and varied fairy-tale wonders, and not merely four pieces played one after the other and composed on the basis of themes common to all the four movements. Why, then, if that be the case, does this name and the subtitle (‘After _The Thousand and One Nights_’) connote in everybody’s mind the East and fairy-tale wonders; besides, certain details of the musical exposition hint at the fact that all of these are various tales of some one person (which happens to be Scheherazade) entertaining therewith her stern husband.”

A characteristic theme, the typical theme of _Scheherazade_, keeps appearing in the four movements. This theme, that of the Narrator, is a florid melodic phrase in triplets, and it ends generally in a free _cadenza_. It is played, for the most part, by a solo violin; sometimes by a wood-wind instrument. “The presence in the minor cadence of the characteristic seventh, G, and the major sixth, F sharp—after the manner of the Phrygian mode of the Greeks or the Doric church tone—might illustrate the familiar beginning of all folk tales, ‘Once upon a time.’”

I. The Sea and Sindbad’s Ship. _Largo e maestoso_, E minor, 2-2. The chief theme of this movement, proclaimed frequently and in many transformations, has been called by some the “Sea” motive, by others the “Sindbad” motive. It is proclaimed immediately and heavily in fortissimo unison and octaves. Soft chords of wind instruments—chords not unlike the first chords of Mendelssohn’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” overture in character—lead to the “Scheherazade” motive, lento, 4-4, played by solo violin against chords of the harp. Then follows the main body of the movement, allegro non troppo, E major, 6-4, which begins with a combination of the chief theme, the “sea” motive, with a rising and falling arpeggio figure, the “wave” motive. There is a crescendo. A modulation leads to C major. Wood-wind instruments and violoncellos pizzicato introduce a motive that has been called the “ship,” at first for solo flute, then oboe, lastly, clarinet. A reminiscence of the “sea” motive is heard from the horn between the phrases. A solo violoncello continues the “wave” motive, which in one form or another persists almost throughout the whole movement. The “Scheherazade” motive soon enters (solo violin). There is a long period that at last reëstablishes the chief tonality, E major. The “sea” motive is sounded by full orchestra. The development is easily followed. There is an avoidance of contrapuntal use of thematic material. The style of the composer in this suite is homophonous, not polyphonic. He prefers to produce his effects by melodic, harmonic, rhythmic transformations and by most ingenious and highly colored orchestration. The movement ends tranquilly.

II. The Story of the Kalandar Prince. The second movement opens with a recitative-like passage, _lento_, B minor, 4-4. A solo violin accompanied by the harp gives out the “Scheherazade” motive, with a different _cadenza_. There is a change to a species of _scherzo_ movement, _andantino_, 3-8. The bassoon begins the wondrous tale, _capriccioso quasi recitando_, accompanied by the sustained chords of four double basses. The beginning of the second part of this theme occurs later and transformed. The accompaniment has the bagpipe drone. The oboe then takes up the melody, then the strings with quickened pace, and at last the wind instruments, _un poco piu animato_. The chief motive of the first movement is heard in the basses. A trombone sounds a fanfare, which is answered by the trumpet; the first fundamental theme is heard, and an _allegro moto_ follows, derived from the preceding fanfare, and leads to an orientally colored _intermezzo_. “There are curious episodes in which all the strings repeat the same chord over and over again in rapid succession—very like the responses of a congregation in church—as an accompaniment to the ‘Scheherazade’ motive, now in the clarinet, now in the bassoon.” The last interruption leads to a return of the Kalandar’s tale, _con moto_, 3-8, which is developed, with a few interruptions from the “Scheherazade” motive. The whole ends gayly.

III. The Young Prince and the Young Princess. Some think from a similarity of the two themes typical of prince and princess that the composer had in mind the adventures of Kamar al-Zaman (Moon of the Age) and the Princess Budur (Full Moons). “They were the likest of all folk, each to other, as they were twins or an only brother and sister,” and over the question which was the more beautiful, Maymunah, the Jinniyah, and Dabnash, the Ifrit, disputed violently.

This movement is in simple _romanza_ form. It consists in the long but simple development of two themes of folk-song character. The first is sung by the violins, _andantino quasi allegretto_, G major, 6-8. There is a constant recurrence of songlike melody between phrases in this movement, of quickly rising and falling scale passages, as a rule in the clarinet, but also in the flute or first violins. The second theme, _pochissimo piu mosso_, B flat major and G minor, 6-8, introduces a section characterized by highly original and daringly effective orchestration. There are piquant rhythmic effects from a combination of triangle, tambourine, snare drum, and cymbals, while violoncellos (later the bassoon) have a sentimental counter phrase.

IV. Festival at Baghdad. The Sea. The Ship Goes to Pieces Against a Rock Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior. Conclusion. _Allegro molto_, E minor, 6-8. The _finale_ opens with a reminiscence of the “sea” motive of the first movement, proclaimed in unisons and octaves. Then follows the “Scheherazade” motive (solo violin), which leads to the fête in Baghdad, _Allegro molto e frenetico_, E minor, 6-8. The musical portraiture, somewhat after the fashion of a tarantelle, is based on a version of the “sea” motive, and it is soon interrupted by Scheherazade and her violin. In the movement _vivo_, E minor, there is a combination of 2-8, 6-16, 3-8 times, and two or three new themes, besides those heard in the preceding movements, are worked up elaborately. The festival is at its height—“This is indeed life; O sad that ’tis fleeting”—when there seems to be a change of festivities, and the jollification to be on shipboard. In the midst of the wild hurrah the ship strikes the magnetic rock.

The trombones roar out the “sea” motive against the billowy “wave” motive in the strings, _Allegro non troppo e maestoso_, C major, 6-4; and there is a modulation to the tonic, E major, as the tempest rages. The storm dies. Clarinets and trumpets scream one more cry on the march theme of the second movement. There is a quiet ending with development of the “sea” and “wave” motives. The tales are told. Scheherazade, the narrator, who lives with Shahryar “in all pleasance and solace of life and its delights till there took them the Destroyer of delights and the Severer of societies, the Desolator of dwelling places and Garnerer of graveyards, and they were translated to the ruth of Almighty Allah,” fades with the vision and the final note of her violin.

CAPRICE ON SPANISH THEMES, OP. 34

I. Alborada II. Variations III. Alborada IV. Scene and Gypsy Song V. Fandango of the Asturias (Played without pause)

Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Capriccio Espagnol_ was performed for the first time in St. Petersburg at a Russian Symphony concert, October 31, 1887. The composer conducted. The caprice was published in 1887, yet we find Tchaikovsky writing to Rimsky-Korsakov in 1886 (November 11): “I must add that your _Spanish Caprice_ is a colossal masterpiece of instrumentation, and you may regard yourself as the greatest master of the present day.” Rimsky-Korsakov wrote in his _Autobiography_: “The opinion formed by both critics and public, that the _capriccio_ is a magnificently orchestrated piece, is wrong. The _capriccio_ is a brilliant composition for the orchestra. The change of timbres, the felicitous choice of melodic designs and figuration patterns, exactly suiting each instrument, brief virtuoso _cadenzas_ for instrument solo, the rhythm of the percussion instruments, etc., constitute here the very essence of the composition and not its garb or orchestration. All in all, the _capriccio_ is a purely external piece, but vividly brilliant for all that.”

The caprice is dedicated to the artists of the orchestra of the Imperial Russian Opera House of St. Petersburg. The names, beginning with M. Koehler and R. Kaminsky, are given, sixty-seven in all, on the title-page of the score. The caprice is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes (and English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, side drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, tambourine, castanets, harp, and strings.

It was in the summer of 1887 that Rimsky-Korsakov, purposing at first to use Spanish dance themes for a virtuoso violin piece, sketched instead this caprice. He thought the third section, the “Alborada” in B flat major, to be a little less successful than the other sections, on account of the brass somewhat drowning the melodic designs of the wood-wind, but this fault could be remedied by a careful conductor. Rimsky-Korsakov tells how, at the rehearsal in St. Petersburg, the orchestra applauded vigorously after the first movement, and in fact after those succeeding, and the composer was so pleased that he dedicated the _capriccio_ to the players. He also says that the first performance was extraordinarily brilliant, more so than when it was later led by others, even by Arthur Nikisch.

The movements, according to the direction of the composer, are to be played without intervening pauses.

I. Alborada. _Vivo e strepitoso._ This serenade opens with the wild, tempestuous chief theme, which is given to the full orchestra. There is a subsidiary theme for the wood-wind instruments. Both themes are repeated twice by solo clarinet, accompanied by horns and bassoons, and strings _pizzicato_. A delicate _cadenza_ for solo violin brings the close, _pianissimo_.

II. Variations. _Andante con moto_, F major, 3-8. The horns give out the theme with a rocking accompaniment for strings. Before this theme is ended, the strings have the first variation. The second variation, _poco meno mosso_, is a dialogue between English horn and horn. The third variation is for full orchestra. The fourth, _tempo primo_, E major, organ-point on B, is for wood-wind, two horns, and two violoncellos, accompanied by sixteenth notes for clarinet and violins. The fifth, F major, is for full orchestra. A _cadenza_ for solo flute brings the end.

III. Alborada. _Vivo e strepitoso_, B flat major, 2-4. This movement is a repetition of the first, transposed to B flat major and with different orchestration. Clarinets and violins have now exchanged their parts. The solo that was originally for clarinet is now for solo violin; the _cadenza_ that was originally for the solo violin is now for the solo clarinet.

IV. Scene and Gypsy Song. _Allegro_, D minor, 6-8. This dramatic scene is a succession of five _cadenzas_. The movement begins abruptly with a roll of side drum, with a fanfare, quasi-_cadenza_, in syncopated rhythm, gypsy fashion, for horns and trumpets. The drum roll continues, now _pianississimo_. The second _cadenza_, which is for solo violin, introduces the chief theme. This is repeated by flute and clarinet. The third _cadenza_, freer in form, is for flute over a kettledrum roll; the fourth, also free, for clarinet over a roll of cymbals. The fifth _cadenza_ is for harp with triangle.

The gypsy song begins after a harp _glissando_.

The song is attacked savagely by the violins and is punctuated by trombone and tuba chords and cymbal strokes. The _cadenza_ theme enters, full orchestra, with a characteristic figure for accompaniment. The two themes are alternated. There is a side theme for solo violoncello. Then the strings, in guitar fashion, hint at the fandango rhythm of the _finale_, and accompany the gypsy song, which is now blown _staccato_ by wood-wind instruments. The _cadenza_ theme is enwrapped in triplets for strings alternating with harmonics _pizzicato_. The pace grows more and more furious, _animato_, and leads into the _finale_.

V. Fandango of the Asturias. A major, 3-4.

The chief theme of the fandango in this _Spanish Caprice_ is announced immediately by the trombones, and a related theme for wood-wind instruments follows. Both themes are repeated by oboes and violins, while flutes and clarinets have figured in accompaniment. There is a variation in dance form for solo violin. The chief theme in a modified version is given to bassoons and violoncellos. The clarinet has a solo with fandango accompaniment, and the dance grows more and more furious until the chief theme is heard again from the trombones. The _fandango_ suddenly is changed into the “Alborada” of the first movement, _Coda, vivo_. There is a short closing _presto_.

CHARLES CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

(Born at Paris, October 9, 1835; died at Algiers, December 16, 1921)

An enemy of Saint-Saëns—and Saint-Saëns made enemies by his barbed words—might have applied to him the lines of Juvenal:

_Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, pictor, aliptes, Augur, Schoenobates, medicus, magus, omnia novit. Graeculus esuriens in coelum, jusseris, ibit_—[42]

for Saint-Saëns was not satisfied with the making of music or the career of a virtuoso. Organist, pianist, caricaturist, dabbler in science, enamored of mathematics and astronomy, amateur comedian, feuilletonist, critic, traveler, archæologist—he was a restless man.

He was of less than average height, thin, nervous, sick-faced; with great and exposed forehead, hair habitually short, beard frosted. His eyes were almost level with his face. His eagle-beak would have excited the admiration of Sir Charles Napier, who once exclaimed: “Give me a man with plenty of nose.” Irritable, whimsical, ironical, paradoxical, indulging in sudden changes of opinion, he was faithful to friends, appreciative of certain rivals, kindly disposed toward young composers, zealous in practical assistance as well as in verbal encouragement. A man that knew the world and sparkled in conversation; fond of society; at ease and on equal terms with leaders in art, literature, fashion. A man whose Monday receptions were long famous in Paris, eagerly anticipated by _Tout Paris_; yet never so happy as when acting Calchas to Bizet’s or Regnault’s Helen in Offenbach’s delightful _La Belle Hélène_, or impersonating in an extraordinary costume Gounod’s Marguerite surprised by the casket of jewels. An indefatigable student of Bach, he parodied the Italian opera of the ’thirties, ’forties, ’fifties in _Gabriella di Vergi_.

Then there is his amusing _Carnival des Animaux_, which was written, as his _Gabriella di Vergi_, without intention of publication. A Parisian from crown of head to sole of foot; yet a nomad.

In 1867 Berlioz called Saint-Saëns “one of the greatest musicians of our epoch.” In 1878 Bülow lamented in a letter to Hans von Bronsart that there was no musician in Germany like Saint-Saëns “except you and me.” Liszt’s admiration for Saint-Saëns is well known. In 1918 there were some, even in this country, who applauded him as the greatest living composer. On the other hand, there have been critics who said that he was too much of a musician to be a great composer or creator. The praise of Gounod—“Saint-Saëns will write at will a work _à la Rossini_, _à la Verdi_, _à la Schumann_, _à la Wagner_”—was counted by them a reproach; it was regarded as a courteous manner of saying, “Saint-Saëns has the unfortunate faculty of assimilation.” Hugues Imbert, discussing him, admitted that there is no graver censure than to say of an artist, “He is incapable of being himself.”

So far as an intimate knowledge of music as a science is concerned, so far as fluency and ease of expression are concerned, Saint-Saëns was beyond a doubt a remarkable musician.

An extraordinary man and musician. Possessing an uncommon technical equipment as composer, pianist, organist; French in clearness of expression, logic, exquisite taste; a master of rhythm, with a clear appreciation of tonal color and the value of simplicity in orchestration, he is seldom warm and tender; seldom does he indulge himself in sentiment, passion, imagination. With him orthodox form must always be kept in mind. Hence perhaps the reactionary attitude of his later years; his sharp criticism of the more modern school of French composers, including César Franck. His wit and brilliancy are indisputable. He seldom touches the heart or sweeps away the judgment. He was not a great creator, yet his name is ever to be mentioned with respect. Without consideration of his many admirable compositions, one should bear this in mind: In the face of difficulties, discouragement, misunderstanding, sneers, he worked steadily from his youth up, and always to the best of his ability, for righteousness in absolute music; he endeavored to introduce into French music thoughtfulness and sincerity for the advantage and the glory of the country that he dearly loved.

SYMPHONY NO. 3, IN C MINOR (WITH ORGAN), OP. 78

I. Adagio; allegro moderato; poco adagio II. Allegro moderato; presto; maestoso; allegro

Saint-Saëns’ Symphony in C minor has the finest and most characteristic qualities of the best French music: logical construction, lucidity, frankness, euphony. The workmanship is masterly. There is no hesitation. The composer knew exactly what he wanted and how to express himself. A few of the themes that when first exposed might seem to some insignificant assume importance and even grandeur in the development. The chief theme of the _adagio_, the theme for strings, is very French in its sustained suavity, in a gentle, emotional quality that never loses elegance, and the preparation for the entrance of this _adagio_ is worthy of the greatest masters. It is not necessary to speak of the many beautiful or stirring pages; of the consummate skill of the technician; of the unerring instrumentation.

* * *

This symphony was composed for the London Philharmonic Society and first performed at a concert of that society in London, May 19, 1886, when the composer conducted. It was performed at Aix-la-Chapelle in September of that year under the direction of the composer.

For the first performance in London, Saint-Saëns prepared the following analysis, which was translated into English:

“This symphony is divided into two parts, after the manner of Saint-Saëns’ Fourth concerto for piano and orchestra and Sonata for piano and violin. Nevertheless, it includes practically the traditional four movements: the first, checked in development, serves as an introduction to the _adagio_, and the _scherzo_ is connected, after the same manner, with the _finale_. The composer has thus sought to shun in a certain measure the interminable repetitions which are more and more disappearing from instrumental music.

“The composer thinks that the time has come for the symphony to benefit by the progress of modern instrumentation, and he therefore establishes his orchestra as follows: three flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, three kettledrums, organ, pianoforte (now for two hands and now for four), triangle, a pair of cymbals, bass drum, and the usual strings.

“After an introduction _adagio_ of a few plaintive measures the string quartet exposes the initial theme, which is somber and agitated (_allegro moderato_). The first transformation of this theme leads to a second motive, which is distinguished by greater tranquillity; after a short development, in which the two themes are presented simultaneously, the motive appears in a characteristic form, for full orchestra, but only for a short time. A second transformation of the initial theme includes now and then the plaintive notes of the introduction. Varied episodes bring gradually calm, and thus prepare the _adagio_ in D flat. The extremely peaceful and contemplative theme is given to the violins, violas, and violoncellos, which are supported by organ chords. This theme is then taken by clarinet, horn, and trombone, accompanied by strings divided into several parts. After a variation (in arabesques) performed by the violins, the second transformation of the initial theme of the _allegro_ appears again, and brings with it a vague feeling of unrest, which is enlarged by dissonant harmonies. These soon give way to the theme of the _adagio_, performed this time by some of the violins, violas, and violoncellos, with organ accompaniment and with a persistent rhythm of triplets presented by the preceding episode. This first movement ends in a _coda_ of mystical character, in which are heard alternately the chords of D flat major and E minor.

“The second movement begins with an energetic phrase (_allegro moderato_), which is followed immediately by a third transformation of the initial theme in the first movement, more agitated than it was before, and into which enters a fantastic spirit that is frankly disclosed in the _presto_. Here arpeggios and scales, swift as lightning, on the pianoforte, are accompanied by the syncopated rhythm of the orchestra, and each time they are in a different tonality (F, E, E flat, G). This tricky gayety is interrupted by an expressive phrase (strings). The repetition of the _allegro moderato_ is followed by a second _presto_, which at first is apparently a repetition of the first _presto_; but scarcely has it begun before a new theme is heard, grave, austere (trombone, tuba, double basses), strongly contrasted with the fantastic music. There is a struggle for the mastery, and this struggle ends in the defeat of the restless, diabolical element. The phrase rises to orchestral heights, and rests there as in the blue of a clear sky. After a vague reminiscence of the initial theme of the first movement, a _maestoso_ in C major announces the approaching triumph of the calm and lofty thought. The initial theme of the first movement, wholly transformed, is now exposed by divided strings and the pianoforte (four hands), and repeated by the organ with the full strength of the orchestra. Then follows a development built in a rhythm of three measures. An episode of a tranquil and pastoral character (oboe, flute, English horn, clarinet) is twice repeated. A brilliant _coda_, in which the initial theme by a last transformation takes the form of a violin figure, ends the work; the rhythm of three measures becomes naturally and logically a huge measure of three beats; each beat is represented by a whole note, and twelve quarters form the complete measure.”

This symphony is dedicated to the memory of Franz Liszt.

Liszt died at Bayreuth, July 31, 1886. The symphony was performed at London before his death. When Liszt was in Paris in March of 1886 to hear the performance of his _Graner Messe_ at St. Eustache, the symphony was nearly completed, and Saint-Saëns gave Liszt an idea of it by playing it on the pianoforte. The statement that Saint-Saëns intended the symphony to be “a funereal memorial and an apotheosis of the glorious master” is nonsensical. The dedication was a posthumous tribute.

ARNOLD SCHOENBERG

(Born at Vienna, September 13, 1874)

“VERKLÄRTE NACHT” (RADIANT NIGHT), ARRANGED FOR STRING ORCHESTRA, OP. 4

Schoenberg’s music, to be enjoyed, does not need either the original verse or the paraphrase. Indeed, it would be better if the argument were not printed for the concertgoer. As it is, he may be too anxious to discover the emancipated woman and the good, easy-going, complaisant man in the music, and be oblivious of the strains of beauty and passion. For this music, on the whole prolix, has beautiful and passionate pages of compelling eloquence. Other pages are a sandy, dreary waste. The impression would be still stronger, the music still more significant, if the composition were much shorter. Whether the music itself gains by the revision and enlargement, is a question that admits of discussion.

* * *

This piece, originally a sextet, was published in 1905; the arrangement for string orchestra was published in 1917. The sextet was composed in 1899.

An excerpt from Richard Dehmel’s poem, “Weib und die Welt,” is printed on a flyleaf of the score. When the sextet was first performed in New York by the Kneisel Quartet, Mr. Krehbiel paraphrased this poetic fragment as follows:

“Two mortals walk through a cold, barren grove. The moon sails over the tall oaks, which send their scrawny branches up through the unclouded moonlight. A woman speaks. She confesses a sin to the man at her side: she is with child, and he is not its father. She had lost belief in happiness, and, longing for life’s fullness, for motherhood and mother’s duty, she had surrendered herself, shuddering, to the embraces of a man she knew not. She had thought herself blessed, but now life had avenged itself upon her, by giving her the love of him she walked with. She staggers onward, gazing with lack-lustre eye at the moon which follows her. A man speaks. Let her not burden her soul with thoughts of guilt. See, the moon’s sheen enwraps the universe. Together they are driving over chill waters, but a flame from each warms the other. It, too, will transfigure the little stranger, and she will bear the child to him. For she has inspired the brilliant glow within him and made him too a child. They sink into each other’s arms. Their breaths meet in kisses in the air. Two mortals wander through the wondrous moonlight.”

FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT

(Born at Lichtenthal, near Vienna, January 31, 1797; died at Vienna, November 19, 1828)

Schubert was a clumsy man, short, round-shouldered, tallow-faced, with a great shock of black hair, with penetrating though spectacled eyes, strong-jawed, stubby-fingered. He shuffled in his walk, and he expressed himself in speech with difficulty. He described himself as unhappy, miserable; but his practical jokes delighted tavern companions, and he was proud of his performance of _The Erlking_ on a comb. He kept a diary and jotted down platitudes. He had little taste for literature, painting, sculpture, travels; he was not interested in politics or in questions of sociology. He went with his own kind. Unlike Beethoven, he could not impose on the aristocracy of Vienna. He loved the freedom of the tavern, the dance in the open air or late at night, when he would play pretty tunes for the dancers. Handel was the superb personage of music. Gluck was a distinguished person at the Court of Marie Antoinette; Sarti pleased the mighty Catherine of Russia; Rossini, the son of a strolling horn player, was at ease with royalty and worshiped by women. There is little in the plain life of Schubert to fire the zeal of the anecdotical or romantic biographer. No Grimm, no Diderot, relished his conversation. There is no gossip of noble and perfumed dames looking on him favorably. There is a legend that he was passionately in love with Caroline of the House of Esterhazy; but his passion followed a spell of interest in a pretty housemaid. He sang love in immortal strains; but women were not drawn towards him as they were towards Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven—the list is a long one. He was not a spectacularly heroic figure. His morbidness has not the inviting charm of Schumann’s torturing introspection. We sympathize more deeply with the sufferings of Mozart, and yet the last years of Schubert were perhaps as cruel. Dittersdorf is close to us by his autobiography. Smug Blangini amuses by his vanity and by his indiscreet defence of Pauline Bonaparte, his pupil. No one can imagine Schubert philosophizing in books after the fashion of Wagner, Gounod, Saint-Saëns. It would have been easier for him to write a dozen symphonies than a feuilleton in the manner of Hector Berlioz. Schubert was a simple, kindly, loving, honest man, whose trade, whose life, was music.

Schubert thought in song even when he wrote for the pianoforte, string quartet, or orchestra. The songs which he wrote in too great number were composed under all sorts of conditions, almost always hurriedly, in the fields, in the tavern, in bed. There were German songs before Schubert—folk songs, songs of the church, set songs for home and concert; but Schubert created a new lyric—the emotional song. Plod your weary way through the ballads of Zumsteeg, the songs of J. A. Hiller, Reichardt, Zelter, and the others: how cold, formal, precise they are! They are like unto the cameo brooches that adorn the simpering women in old tokens or keepsakes; as remote and out of fashion as the hair jewelry of the early ’sixties. Take away “The Violet,” and what interest is there in Mozart’s book of songs? There is Haydn’s famous _Canzonet_; there is perhaps Beethoven’s “In Questa Tomba” with a few of the songs addressed to the “_Ferne Geliebte_”; but Beethoven knew the voice best as an orchestral instrument. The modern song was invented by Franz Schubert.

The striking characteristics of Schubert’s songs, spontaneity, haunting melody, a birthright mastery over modulation, a singular good fortune in finding the one inevitable phrase for the prevailing sentiment of the poem and in finding the fitting descriptive figure for salient detail, are also found in the best of his instrumental works.

There is the spontaneous simplicity, the simplicity praised by Walt Whitman: “The art of art, the glory of expression is simplicity. To speak with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art. The greatest poet swears to his art: ‘I will not be meddlesome. I will not have in my writing any elegance or effect or originality to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains. What I tell, I tell for precisely what it is. Let who may exalt or startle or fascinate or soothe, I will have purposes as health or heat or snow has, and be as regardless of observation. What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition. You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me.’”

Then there is the ineffable melancholy that is the dominating note. There is gayety such as was piped naïvely by William Blake in his _Songs of Innocence_; there is the innocence that even Mozart hardly reached in his frank gayety; yet in the gayety and innocence is a melancholy—despairing, as in certain songs of “The Winter Journey,” when Schubert smelled the mould and knew the earth was impatiently looking for him—a melancholy that is not the titanic despair of Beethoven, not the whining or shrieking pessimism of certain German and Russian composers; it is the melancholy of an autumnal sunset, of the ironical depression due to a burgeoning noon in spring, the melancholy that comes between the lips of lovers.

_The sunniest things throw sternest shade, And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid! There is no music in the life That sounds with idiot laughter solely; There’s not a string, attuned to mirth, But has its chord in melancholy._

No one has treated the passion of love more purely. Love with the modern French composer is too often merely a pronounced phase of eroticism, or it is purely, or impurely, cerebral. With Wagner it is as a rule heroically sensuous if not sensual. Is there one page of Schubert’s music that is characterized first of all by sensuousness? A few measures are played or sung; the music may be unknown to the hearer, but he says to himself “Schubert,” and not merely because he recognizes restless changes from major to minor and from minor to major, tremulous tonalities, surprising ease in modulation, naïve, direct melody. The sedulous ape may sweat in vain; there is no thought of Schubert, whose mannerisms are his whole individuality.

This individuality defies analysis. It was finely said by Walt Whitman that all music is “what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments”; the hearer’s thoughts are sweeter and purer, his soul is cheered or soothed, when he is reminded by the music of Schubert.

Pompous eulogies have been paid this homely, human, inspired man, who knew poverty and distress, who was ignored by the mob while he lived his short life, who never heard some of his most important works, whose works were scattered.

“Schubert, turning round, clutched at the wall with his poor, tired hands, and said in a slow voice, ‘Here, here is my end.’ At three in the afternoon of Wednesday, November 19, 1828, he breathed his last, and his simple, earnest soul took its flight from the world. There never has been one like him, and there will never be another.” When you read these words of Sir George Grove, something chokes you; they outweigh the purple phrases and dexterously juggled sentences of the rhetorician.

SYMPHONY NO. 8, IN B MINOR (“UNFINISHED”)

I. Allegro moderato II. Andante con moto

Let us be thankful that Schubert never finished the work. Possibly the lost arms of the Venus of Milo might disappoint if they were found and restored. The few measures of the _scherzo_ that are in the manuscript furnish but slight hope that here at last Schubert would not, as in so many of his works of long breath, maintain a steady _decrescendo_ of interest.

Surely, no one would deny the melancholy beauty of the first movement of Schubert’s symphony, with its lyricism that is appealingly feminine, with its melancholy that is without touch of peevishness and without taint of pessimism; and the second movement has the serenity—that is, Schubert’s romantic serenity, which is another thing than the classic serenity of Mozart.

The symphony is eminently Schubertian in its beauty and in its weakness. In the first movement there are measures of a grandeur that is seldom found in Schubert’s compositions. In these measures we recognize the Schubert that conceived the “Doppelgänger,” the “Gruppe aus dem Tartarus,” and a few other songs in which dramatic force comes before charming lyricism.

* * *

Two brothers, Anselm and Joseph Hüttenbrenner, were fond of Schubert. Their home was in Graz, Styria, but they were living at Vienna. Anselm was a musician; Joseph was in a government office. Anselm took Schubert to call on Beethoven, and there is a story that the sick man said, “You, Anselm, have my mind; but Franz has my soul.” Anselm closed the eyes of Beethoven in death. These brothers were constant in endeavor to make Schubert known. Anselm went so far as to publish a set of _Erlking Waltzes_, and assisted in putting Schubert’s opera, _Alfonso and Estrella_ (1822), in rehearsal at Graz, where it would have been performed if the score had not been too difficult for the orchestra. In 1822 Schubert was elected an honorary member of musical societies of Linz and Graz. In return for the compliment from Graz, he began the Symphony in B minor, No. 8 (October 30, 1822). He finished the _allegro_ and the _andante_, and he wrote nine measures of the _scherzo_. Schubert visited Graz in 1827, but neither there nor elsewhere did he ever hear his unfinished work.

Anselm Hüttenbrenner went back to his home about 1820. It was during a visit to Vienna that he saw Beethoven dying. Joseph remained at Vienna. In 1860 he wrote from the office of the Minister of the Interior a singular letter to Johann Herbeck, who then conducted the concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. He begged permission to sing in concerts as a member of the society, and urged him to look over symphonies, overtures, songs, quartets, choruses by Anselm. He added towards the end of the letter, “He [Anselm] has a treasure in Schubert’s B minor symphony, which we put on a level with the great Symphony in C, his instrumental swan song, and any one of the symphonies by Beethoven.”

Herbeck was inactive and silent for five years, although he visited Graz several times. Perhaps he was afraid that if the manuscript came to light he could not gain possession of it, and the symphony, like the one in C, would be produced elsewhere than in Vienna. Perhaps he thought the price of producing one of Anselm Hüttenbrenner’s works in Vienna too dear. There is reason to believe that Joseph insisted on this condition.[43]

In 1865 Herbeck was obliged to journey with his sister-in-law, who sought health. They stopped in Graz. On May 1 he went to Ober-Andritz, where the old and tired Anselm, in a hidden little one-story cottage, was awaiting death. Herbeck sat down in a humble inn. He talked with the landlord, who told him that Anselm was in the habit of breakfasting there. While they were talking, Anselm appeared. After a few words, Herbeck said, “I am here to ask permission to produce one of your works at Vienna.” The old man brightened, he shed his indifference, and after breakfast took him to his home. The work-room was stuffed with yellow and dusty papers, all in confusion. Anselm showed his own manuscripts, and finally Herbeck chose one of the ten overtures for performance. “It is my purpose,” he said, “to bring forward three contemporaries, Schubert, Hüttenbrenner, and Lachner, in one concert before the Viennese public. It would naturally be very appropriate to represent Schubert by a new work.” “Oh, I have still a lot of things by Schubert,” answered the old man; and he pulled a mass of papers out of an old-fashioned chest. Herbeck immediately saw on the cover of a manuscript “_Symphonie in H moll_,” in Schubert’s handwriting. Herbeck looked the symphony over. “This would do. Will you let me have it copied immediately at my cost?” “There is no hurry,” answered Anselm. “Take it with you.”

The symphony was first played at a Gesellschaft concert, Vienna, December 17, 1865, under Herbeck’s direction. It was played at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, in 1867.

SYMPHONY NO. 7, IN C MAJOR

I. Andante; allegro non troppo II. Andante con moto III. Scherzo: allegro vivace; trio IV. Finale: allegro vivace

There are some who are not persuaded by Schumann and Weingartner into enjoying the extreme length of the symphony. They would fain have the work undergo some process of condensation, and yet it would be difficult for them to indicate the measures or sections that should be omitted.

It is still a marvelous work in certain respects. The Hungarian dash in the second theme of the first movement; the wonderful trombone passage; the melodic charm of the _andante_ and the infinite beauty of the detail—but when one begins to speak of this movement he might vie with Schubert in length; the expressive trio of the _scherzo_; the rush of the _finale_—these place the symphony high on the list; and yet, and yet—but Schubert was not a severe critic of his own compositions. He wrote at full speed, and he had not the time to revise, to condense.

* * *

The manuscript of this symphony, numbered 7 in the Breitkopf & Härtel list and sometimes known as No. 10, bears the date March, 1828. In 1828 Schubert composed besides this symphony the songs “Die Sterne” and “Der Winterabend”; the oratorio, _Mirims Siegesgesang_; the song “Auf dem Strom”; the _Schwanengesang_ cycle; the string quintet, Op. 163, and the Mass in E flat. On November 14 he took to his bed. It is said that Schubert gave the work to the Musikverein of Vienna for performance; that the parts were distributed; that it was even tried in rehearsal; that its length and difficulty were against it, and it was withdrawn on Schubert’s own advice in favor of his earlier Symphony in C, No. 6 (written in 1817). All this has been doubted; but the symphony is entered in the catalogue of the society under the year 1828, and the statements just quoted have been fully substantiated. Schubert said, when he gave the work to the Musikverein, that he was through with songs and should henceforth confine himself to opera and symphony.

It has been said that the first performance of the symphony was at Leipsic in 1839. This statement is not true. Schubert himself never heard the work; but it was performed at a concert of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna, December 14, 1828, and repeated March 12, 1829. It was then forgotten until Schumann visited Vienna in 1838 and looked over the mass of manuscripts then in the possession of Schubert’s brother Ferdinand. Schumann sent a transcript of the symphony to Mendelssohn for the Gewandhaus concerts, Leipsic. It was produced at the concert of March 21, 1839, under Mendelssohn’s direction, and repeated three times during the following season—December 12, 1839, March 12 and April 3, 1840. Mendelssohn made some cuts in the work for these performances. The score and parts were published in January, 1850.

The manuscript is full of alterations. As a rule Schubert made few changes or corrections in his score. In this symphony, alterations are found at the very beginning. The subject of the introduction and that of the _allegro_ were materially changed; the tempo of the opening movement was altered from _allegro vivace_ to _allegro ma non troppo_. Only the _finale_ seems to have satisfied him as originally conceived, and this _finale_ is written as though at headlong speed.

The symphony[44] is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, strings. There is a story that Schubert was afraid he had made too free use of trombones and asked advice of Franz Lachner.

The second theme of the first movement has a decidedly Slav-Hungarian character, and this character colors other portions of the symphony both in melody and general mood. The rhythm of the _scherzo_ theme had been used by Schubert as early as 1814 in his Quartet in B flat. It may also be remarked that the _scherzo_ is not based on the old minuet form, and that there is more thematic development than was customary in such movements at that period.

There is a curious tradition—a foolish invention is perhaps the better phrase—that the _finale_ illustrates the story of Phaëton and his justly celebrated experience as driver of Apollo’s chariot. Others find in the _finale_ a reminiscence of the terrible approach of the Statue towards the supper table of Don Giovanni.

ROBERT ALEXANDER SCHUMANN

(Born at Zwickau, Saxony, June 8, 1810; died at Endenich, near Bonn, July 29, 1856)

It has been urged against Schumann that his symphonies were thought for the pianoforte and then orchestrated crudely, as by an amateur. This, however, is not the fatal objection. He had his own orchestral speech. Good, bad, or indifferent, it was his own. He could not have otherwise expressed himself through the orchestral instruments. His speech is to be accepted or rejected as the hearer is impressed chiefly by ideas, or by the manner of expression.

A more serious objection is this: the genius of Schumann was purely lyrical, although occasionally there is the impressive expression of a wild or melancholy mood, as in the chords of unearthly beauty soon after the beginning of the overture to _Manfred_. Whether the music be symphonic, chamber, a pianoforte piece or a song, the beauty, the expressive force lies in the lyric passages. When Schumann endeavored to build a musical monument, to quote Vincent d’Indy’s phrase, he failed; for he had not architectonic imagination or skill.

His themes in symphonies, charming as they often are, give one the impression of fragments, of music heard in sleep-chasings. Never a master of contrapuntal technique, he repeated these phrases over and over again instead of broadly developing them, and his filling in is generally amateurish and perfunctory.

The best of Schumann’s music is an expression of states and conditions of soul. This music is never spectacular; it is never objective. Take, for instance, his music to Goethe’s _Faust_. The episodes that attracted the attention of Berlioz, Liszt, Gounod, were not to Schumann a source of inspiration. It was the mysticism in the poem that led him to musical interpretation. His music, whether for voice or instruments, is first of all _innig_, and this German word is not easily translated into English. Heartfelt, deep, ardent, fervent, intimate; no one of these words conveys exactly the idea contained in _innig_. There is the intimacy of personal and shy confession.

Schumann in his life was a reticent man. He dreamed dreams. He was lost in thought when others, in the beerhouse or at his home, were chattering about art. He put into his music what he would with difficulty have said aloud to his Clara. As a critic he was bold in praise and blame. As a composer he was often not assertive as one on a platform. He told his dreams, he wove his romantic fabric for a few sympathetic souls. It is true that in his days of wooing he was orchestrally jubilant, as in the first movement of the Symphony in B flat, but in this movement the anticipation aroused by the first measures is not realized. The thoughts soared above the control of the thinker; there was not the mastery over them that allowed no waste material, that gives golden expression without alloy.

In his own field, Schumann is lonely, incomparable. No composer has whispered such secrets of subtle and ravishing beauty to a receptive listener. The hearer of Schumann’s music must in turn be imaginative and a dreamer. He must often anticipate the composer’s thought. This music is not for a garish concert hall; it shrinks from boisterous applause.

SYMPHONY NO. 1, IN B FLAT MAJOR, OP. 38

I. Andante un poco maestoso; allegro molto vivace II. Larghetto III. Scherzo: molto vivace. Trio (1): molto più vivace; Trio (2) IV. Allegro animato e grazioso

The opening is imposing with need of re-orchestration. Charming is the lyric passage in the _scherzo_ that puts one in mind of Schubert’s “Hark, Hark, the Lark”; but for the most part there is rhythmic uniformity and boresome repetition that no change in the instrumentation could redeem. As the thick orchestration stands, if the music is played according to Schumann’s directions, Weingartner says, it is impossible to produce a true _forte_ or an expressive _pianissimo_.

* * *

Schumann was married to Clara Wieck, September 12, 1840, after doubts, anxieties, and opposition on the part of her father; after a nervous strain of three or four years. His happiness was great, but to say with some that this joy was the direct inspiration of the First symphony would be to go against the direct evidence submitted by the composer. He wrote Ferdinand Wenzel: “It is not possible for me to think of the journal” (the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, founded by Schumann, Wieck, Schunke, and Knorr in 1834, and edited in 1841 by Schumann alone). “I have during the last days finished a task (at least in sketches) which filled me with happiness, and almost exhausted me. Think of it, a whole symphony—and, what is more, a Spring symphony; I myself can hardly believe that it is finished.” And he said in a letter (November 23, 1842) to Spohr: “I wrote the symphony toward the end of the winter of 1841, and, if I may say so, in the vernal passion that sways men until they are very old, and surprises them again with each year. I do not wish to portray, to paint; but I believe firmly that the period in which the symphony was produced influenced its form and character, and shaped it as it is.” He wrote to Wilhelm Taubert, who was to conduct the work in Berlin: “Could you infuse into your orchestra in the performance a sort of longing for the Spring, which I had chiefly in mind when I wrote in February, 1841? The first entrance of trumpets, this I should like to have sounded as though it were from high above, like unto a call to awakening; and then I should like reading between the lines, in the rest of the introduction, how everywhere it begins to grow green, how a butterfly takes wing; and, in the _allegro_, how little by little all things come, that in any way belong to Spring. True, these are fantastic thoughts, which came to me after my work was finished; only I tell you this about the _finale_, that I thought it as the good-bye of Spring.”

(It may here be noted that the symphony was fully sketched in four days, and that Schumann now speaks of composing the work in February, 1841, and now of writing it towards the end of that year.)

Berthold Litzmann, in the second volume of his _Clara Schumann_ (Leipsic, 1906), gives interesting extracts from the common diary of Schumann and his wife, notes written while Schumann was composing this symphony.

Towards the end of December, 1840, she complained that Robert had been for some days “very cold toward her, yet the reason for it is a delightful one.” On January 17-23, 1841, she wrote that it was not her week to keep the diary, “but, if a man is composing a symphony, it is not to be expected that he will do anything else.... The symphony is nearly finished. I have not yet heard a note of it, but I am exceedingly glad that Robert at last has started out in the field where, on account of his great imagination, he belongs.” January 25: “Today, Monday, Robert has nearly finished his symphony; it was composed chiefly at night—for some nights my poor Robert has not slept on account of it. He calls it ‘Spring symphony.’... A spring poem by [Boettger] gave him the first impulse toward composition.”

According to the diary Schumann completed the symphony on Tuesday, January 26. “Begun and finished in four days.... If there were only an orchestra for it right away. I must confess, my dear husband, I did not give you credit for such dexterity.” Schumann began to work on the instrumentation January 27; Clara impatiently waited to hear a note of the symphony. The instrumentation of the first movement was completed February 4, that of the second and third movements on February 13, that of the fourth on February 20, in the year 1841. Not till February 14 did Schumann play the symphony to her. E. F. Wenzel, later a teacher at the Leipsic Conservatory, and E. Pfundt, a kettledrum player of the Gewandhaus orchestra, were present. “I should like,” she wrote in her diary, “to say a little something about the symphony, yet I should not be able to speak of the little buds, the perfume of the violets, the fresh green leaves, the birds in the air.... Do not laugh at me, my dear husband! If I cannot express myself poetically, nevertheless the poetic breath of this work has stirred my very soul.” The instrumentation was completed on February 20.

Clara wrote to Emilie Liszt after the performance: “My husband’s symphony achieved a triumph over all cabals and intrigues.... I never heard a symphony received with such applause.”

Robert wrote in the diary some days before that his next symphony should be entitled “Clara; and I shall paint her therein with flutes, oboes, and harps.”

The first movement opens with an introduction, _andante un poco maestoso_, B flat major, 4-4, which begins with a virile phrase in the horns and trumpets, answered by the full orchestra _fortissimo_. There are stormy accents in the basses, with full chords in the brass and other strings, and each chord is echoed by the wood-wind. Flute and clarinet notes over a figure in the violas lead to a gradual _crescendo ed accelerando_, which introduces the _allegro molto vivace_, B flat major, 2-4. This begins at once with a brilliant first theme. The chief figure is taken from the initial horn and trumpet call as Schumann originally wrote it. The development of the theme leads finally to a modulation to the key of C major, and there is the thought, naturally, of F major as the tonality of the second theme, but this motive given out by the clarinets and bassoons is in no definite tonality; it is in a mode which suggests A minor and also D minor; the second section ends, however, in F major, and the further development adheres to this key. The first part of the movement is repeated. The free fantasia is long and elaborately worked out. The first movement does not return in the shape it has at the beginning of the _allegro_, but in the broader version heard at the opening of the introduction. The long _coda_ begins _animato, poco a poco stringendo_, on a new theme in full harmony in the strings, and it is developed until horns and trumpets sound the familiar call.

The second movement, _larghetto_, E flat major, 3-8, opens with a _romanza_ developed by the violins. The second theme, C major, is of a more restless nature, and its phrases are given out alternately by the wood-wind and violins. The melodious first theme is repeated, B flat major, by the violoncellos against an accompaniment in second violins and violas and syncopated chords in the first violins and the wood-wind. There is a new episodic theme. The first motive appears for the third time, now in E flat major. It is sung by the oboe and horn, accompanied by clarinets and bassoons, with passages in the strings. Near the close of the short _coda_ are solemn harmonies in bassoons and trombones. This movement is enchained with the _scherzo_.

The _scherzo, molto vivace_, D minor, 3-4, begins in G minor. The first trio, _molto più vivace_, D major, 2-4, includes harmonic interplay between strings and wind instruments. It is developed at some length, and the _scherzo_ is repeated. There is a second trio, B flat major, 3-4, with imitative contrapuntal work, and it is followed by a second repetition of the _scherzo_. A short _coda_ has the rhythm of the first trio and brings the end.

_Finale_: _allegro animato e grazioso_, B flat major, 2-2. It begins with a _fortissimo_ figure which is used hereafter. The first theme, a cheerful, tripping dance melody, enters and is developed by strings and wood-wind. The second theme, equally blithe, is in G major, and the impressive initial figure of the full orchestra at the beginning of the movement, now given out by the strings, is in the second phrase. The two motives are worked up alternately. The free fantasia opens quietly. Trombones sound the rhythm of the first theme of the first movement. There is a long series of imitations on the first theme of the _finale_. This series leads to some horn calls and a _cadenza_ for the flute. The third section of the movement is regular, and there is a brilliant _coda_.

SYMPHONY NO. 2, IN C MAJOR, OP. 61

I. Sostenuto assai; allegro ma non troppo II. Scherzo: allegro vivace. Trio (1); Trio (2) III. Adagio espressivo IV. Allegro molto vivace

With the exception of the introduction to the first movement and the _adagio_, in which the romantic dreamer Schumann is revealed, the symphony has aged. And in this symphony, more than the other three, the orchestration seems hopelessly crude, ineffective, distressing to the ear, while the musical contents are seldom worthy of a more tasteful dress.

Yet there are few _adagios_ to be compared with this dramatic song of Schumann. If he had only had the courage to cut out that meaningless and incongruous little episode, too deliberately contrapuntal.

* * *

In October, 1844, Schumann left Leipsic, where he had lived for about fourteen years. He had in July given up the editorship of the _Neue Zeitschrift_; he had been a teacher of pianoforte playing and composition at the Leipsic Conservatory from April, 1843. A singularly reserved man, hardly fitted for the duties of a teacher and without pupils, he was in a highly nervous state, so that a physician recommended a change of scene and told him he should not hear too much music. Schumann therefore moved back to Dresden. “Here,” he wrote in 1844, “one can recover the old lost longing for music, there is so little to hear. This suits my condition, for I still suffer very much from my nerves, and everything affects and exhausts me immediately.” He saw few people; he talked little. In the early ’eighties they still showed in Dresden a restaurant frequented by him, where, seated in a room with his head against a wall, he would sit for hours at a time, dreaming daydreams. In 1846 he was very sick, mentally and bodily. “He observed that he was unable to remember the melodies that occurred to him when he was composing; the effort of invention fatigued his mind to such an extent that it impaired his memory.” When he did work, he applied himself to contrapuntal problems.

The Symphony in C major, known as No. 2, but really the third—for the one in D minor, written first, was withdrawn after performance, remodeled, and finally published as No. 4—was composed in the years 1845 and 1846. The symphony was published, score and parts, in November, 1847. The symphony was first played at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic, under Mendelssohn’s direction, on November 5, 1846.

Schumann wrote from Dresden on April 2, 1849, to Otten, a writer and conductor at Hamburg, who had brought about the performance of the symphony in that city: “I wrote the symphony in December, 1845, when I was still half sick. It seems to me one must hear this in the music. In the _finale_ I first began to feel myself; and indeed I was much better after I had finished the work. Yet, as I have said, it recalls to me a dark period of my life. That, in spite of all, such tones of pain can awaken interest, shows me your sympathetic interest. Everything you say about the work also shows me how thoroughly you know music; and that my melancholy bassoon in the _adagio_, which I introduced in that spot with especial fondness, has not escaped your notice, gives me the greatest pleasure.” In the same letter he expressed the opinion that Bach’s Passion according to John was a more powerful and poetic work than his Passion according to Matthew.

And yet, when Jean J. H. Verhulst of The Hague (1816-91) visited Schumann in 1845 and asked him what he had written that was new and beautiful, Schumann answered he had just finished a new symphony. Verhulst asked him if he thought he had fully succeeded. Schumann then said, “Yes, indeed, I think it’s a regular Jupiter.”

There is a dominating motive, or motto, which appears more or less prominently in three of the movements. This motto is proclaimed at the very beginning, _sostenuto assai_, 6-4, by horns, trumpets, alto trombone, _pianissimo_, against flowing counterpoint in the strings. This motto is heard again in the _finale_ of the following _allegro_, near the end of the _scherzo_, and in the concluding section of the _finale_. (It may also be said here that relationship of the several movements is further founded by a later use of other fragments of the introduction and by the appearance of the theme of the _adagio_ in the _finale_.) This motto is not developed: its appearance is episodic. It is said by one of Schumann’s biographers that the introduction was composed before the symphony was written, and that it was originally designed for another work. The string figure is soon given to the wood-wind instruments. There is a _crescendo_ of emotion and an acceleration of the pace until a _cadenza_ for the first violins brings in the _allegro, ma non troppo_, 3-4. The first theme of this _allegro_ is exposed frankly and _piano_ by full orchestra with the exception of trumpets and trombones. The rhythm is nervous, and accentuation gives the idea of constant syncopation. The second theme, if it may be called a theme, is not long in entering. The exposition of this movement, in fact, is uncommonly short. Then follows a long and elaborate development. In the climax the motto is sounded by the trumpets.

The _scherzo, allegro vivace_, C major, 2-4, has two trios. The _scherzo_ proper consists of first violin figures in sixteenth notes, rather simply accompanied. The first trio, in G major, 2-4, is in marked contrast. The first theme, in lively triplet rhythm, is given chiefly to wood-wind and horns; it alternates with a quieter, flowing phrase for strings. This trio is followed by a return of the _scherzo_. The second trio, in A minor, 2-4, is calm and melodious. The simple theme is sung at first in full harmony by strings (without double basses) and then developed against a running contrapuntal figure. The _scherzo_ is repeated, and, towards the close, trumpets and horns loudly sound the motto.

The third movement, _adagio espressivo_, 2-4, is the development of an extended _cantilena_ that begins in C minor and ends in E flat major. Violins first sing it; then the oboe takes it, and the song is more and more passionate in melancholy until it ends in the wood-wind against violin trills. This is followed by a contrapuntal episode, which to some is incongruous in this extremely romantic movement. The melodic development returns, and ends in C major.

The _finale, allegro molto vivace_, C major, 2-2, opens after two or three measures of prelude with the first theme of vigorous character (full orchestra except trombones). This is lustily developed until it reaches a transitional passage, in which the violins have prominent figures. All this is in _rondo_ form. The second theme is scored for violas, violoncellos, clarinets, and bassoons, while violins accompany with the figures mentioned. This theme recalls the opening song of the _adagio_. A new theme, formed from development of the recollection, long hinted at, finally appears in the wood-wind and is itself developed into a _coda_ of extraordinary length. Figures from the first theme of the _finale_ are occasionally heard, but the theme itself does not appear in the _coda_, although there is a reminiscence of a portion of the first theme of the first movement. The motto is sounded by the brass. There is a second exultant climax, in which the introductory motive is of great importance.

SYMPHONY NO. 3, IN E FLAT MAJOR, “RHENISH,” OP. 97

I. Vivace II. Moderato assai III. Allegro non troppo IV. Maestoso V. Vivace

This music has not the buoyancy and exciting rush of the First symphony, or the romantic spirit of the one in D minor. Nor are there pages equal in sheer beauty to those of the _adagio_ in the Second symphony. One wishes that the first movement was not in so continuously heroic, exultant vein; that there was at least a breathing spell. The second movement expresses a sort of clumsy joviality. The third might be a pretty piano piece that had been orchestrated. The fourth movement, the “cathedral scene,” is the most impressive portion of the symphony. Here we have lofty ideas and a solemn, ecstatical mood befitting a gorgeous ceremony of the holy church.

Schumann’s symphony was intended by him to be a glorification of Rhenish scenes and Rhenish life. It was composed first of all for Düsseldorf, the city where he met with many disappointments, many vexations. He was temperamentally unfitted for the position of city conductor. He did not have a firm control over the players—in a word he was a composer—a man of dreams and visions—not an interpreter of works by others, not even of his own works. It was received coldly when it was first heard. The compositions that followed showed his failing powers. There were intrigues that vexed him. Little by little his mind gave way. There was the attempt at suicide; then madness. But the Schumann of this symphony was still the composer to be reckoned with.

* * *

The symphony was sketched and orchestrated at Düsseldorf between November 2 and December 9, 1850. Clara Schumann wrote in her diary, November 16, 1850: “Robert is now at work on something, I do not know what; for he has said nothing to me about it.” It was on December 9 that he surprised her with the symphony. Sir George Grove, for some reason or other, thought Schumann began to work on it before he left Dresden to accept the position of City Conductor at Düsseldorf; that he wished to compose an important work for production at the Lower Rhine Festival.

The first performance of this symphony was in Geisler Hall, Düsseldorf, at the sixth concert of Der Allgemeine Musikverein, February 6, 1851. Schumann conducted from manuscript. The reception was cold. Mme Schumann wrote after the performance that the “creative power of Robert was again ever new in melody, harmony, and form.... I cannot say which one of the five movements is my favorite. The fourth is the one that at present is the least clear to me; that it is most artistically made—that I hear—but I cannot follow it so well, while there is scarcely a measure in the other movements that remains unclear to me; and indeed to the layman is this symphony, especially in its second and third movements, easily intelligible.”

Schumann wrote (March 19, 1851) to the publisher, Simrock, at Bonn: “I should have been glad to see a greater work published here on the Rhine, and I mean this symphony, which perhaps mirrors here and there something of Rhenish life.” It is known that the solemn fourth movement was inspired by the recollection of the ceremony at Cologne Cathedral at the installation of the Archbishop of Geissel as Cardinal, at which Schumann was present (November 12, 1850). Wasielewski quotes the composer as saying that his intention was to portray in the symphony as a whole the joyful folk life along the Rhine, “and I think,” said Schumann, “I have succeeded.” Yet he refrained from writing even explanatory mottoes for the movements. The fourth movement originally bore the inscription, “In the character of the accompaniment to a solemn ceremony”; but Schumann struck this out and said: “One should not show his heart to people; for a general impression of an art work is more effective; the hearers then, at least, do not institute any absurd comparison.” The symphony was very dear to him. He wrote (July 1, 1851) to Carl Reinecke, who made a four-handed arrangement at Schumann’s wish and to his satisfaction: “It is always important that a work which cost so much time and labor should be reproduced in the best possible manner.”

The first movement, _lebhaft_ (lively, animated), E flat major, 3-4, begins immediately with a strong theme, announced by full orchestra. The basses take the theme, and violins play a contrasting theme, which is of importance in the development. The complete statement is repeated; and the second theme, which is of an elegiac nature, is introduced by oboe and clarinet and answered by violins and wood-wind. The key is G minor, with a subsequent modulation to B flat. The fresh rhythm of the first theme returns. The second portion of the movement begins with the second theme in the basses, and the two chief themes are developed with more impartiality than in the first section, where Schumann is loath to lose sight of the first and more heroic motive. After he introduces towards the end of the development the first theme in the prevailing tonality, so that the hearer anticipates the beginning of the reprise, he makes unexpected modulations, and finally the horns break out with the first theme in augmentation in E flat major. Impressive passages in syncopation follow, and trumpets answer, until in an ascending chromatic climax the orchestra with full force rushes to the first theme. There is a short _coda_.

The second movement is a _scherzo_ in C major, _sehr mässig_ (very moderately), in 3-4. William Foster Apthorp found the theme to be “a modified version of the so-called ‘Rheinweinlied,’” and this theme of “a rather ponderous joviality” well expresses “the drinkers’ ‘_Uns ist ganz cannibalisch wohl, als wie fünf hundert Säuen!_’ (As ’twere five hundred hogs, we feel so cannibalic jolly!) in the scene in Auerbach’s cellar in Goethe’s _Faust_.” This theme is given out by the violoncellos and is followed by a livelier contrapuntal counter theme, which is developed elaborately. In the trio horns and other wind instruments sing a _cantilena_ in A minor over a long organ-point on C. There is a pompous repetition of the first and jovial theme in A major; and then the other two themes are used in combination in their original form. Horns are answered by strings and wood-wind, but the ending is quiet.

The third movement, _nicht schnell_ (not fast), in A flat major, 4-4, is really the slow movement of the symphony, the first theme, clarinets and bassoons over a viola accompaniment, reminding some of Mendelssohn; others of “_Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali_,” in _Lucia di Lammermoor_. The second theme is a tender melody, not unlike a refrain heard now and then. On these themes the _romanza_ is constructed.

The fourth movement, _feierlich_, E flat minor, 4-4, is often described as the “Cathedral scene.” Three trombones are added. The chief motive is a short figure rather than a theme, which is announced by trombones and horns. This appears augmented, diminished, and afterwards in 3-2 and 4-2. There is a departure for a short time to B major, but the tonality of E flat minor prevails to the end.

_Finale_: _lebhaft_, E flat major, 2-2. This movement is said to portray a Rhenish festival. The themes are of a gay character. Towards the end the themes of the “Cathedral scene” are introduced, followed by a brilliant _stretto_. The _finale_ is lively and energetic. The music, as a rule, the free development of thematic material of the same unvaried character.

SYMPHONY NO. 4, IN D MINOR, OP. 120

I. Andante; allegro II. Romanza III. Scherzo IV. Largo; finale (Played without pause.)

Weingartner regards the D minor symphony of Schumann as inferior to the first and second of the same composer. I fail to see why. Surely this symphony does not fall behind its companions; it is the one of Schumann’s four that can be heard with full enjoyment. The middle movements breathe a romantic spirit that Schumann himself never surpassed as expressions of gentle, dreamy melancholy. I know of few more haunting pages in orchestral music than those of the trio in the _scherzo_.

* * *

This symphony was composed in 1841, immediately after the Symphony in B flat major, No. 1. According to the composer’s notes it was “sketched at Leipsic in June, 1841, newly orchestrated at Düsseldorf in 1851. The first performance of the original version was at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic, under David’s direction. December 6, 1841.” Clara Schumann wrote in her diary on May 31 of that year: “Robert began yesterday another symphony, which will be in one movement, and yet contain an _adagio_ and a _finale_. I have heard nothing about it, yet I see Robert’s bustle, and I hear the D minor sounding wildly from a distance, so that I know in advance that another work will be fashioned in the depths of his soul. Heaven is kindly disposed toward us: Robert cannot be happier in the composition than I am when he shows me such a work.” A few days later she wrote: “Robert composes steadily; he has already completed three movements, and I hope the symphony will be ready by his birthday.”

Their first child, Marie, was born on September 1, 1841. On the thirteenth of the month, his wife’s birthday, Marie was baptized and the mother received from her husband the D minor symphony: “which I have quietly finished,” he said.

Schumann was not satisfied with the symphony, and he did not publish it. In December, 1851, he revised the manuscript. During the years between 1841 and 1853 Schumann had composed and published the Symphony in C (No. 2) and the Symphony in E flat (No. 3); the one in D minor was published therefore as No. 4. In its first form the one in D minor was entitled “_Symphonische Phantasie_.”

The symphony in the revised and present form was played for the first time at the seventh concert of the Allgemeine Musikverein at Düsseldorf on March 3, 1853, in Geisler Hall. Schumann conducted from manuscript. At this concert selections from the Mass were performed for the first time.

The concert master, Ruppert Becker, made these entries in his diary concerning the rehearsals and the first performance of this symphony in Düsseldorf:

“Tuesday, evening of March 1. Rehearsal for 7th Concert. Symphony by Schumann for the first time; a somewhat short but thoroughly fresh and vital piece of music. Wednesday, 2. 9 o’clock in the morning, 2 rehearsal for concert. Thursday, 3. 7th concert: Program.

“Of Schumann compositions these were new: Symphony D minor, which he had already composed 12 years ago, but had left lying till now. 2 excerpts from a Mass: both full of the most wonderful harmonies, only possible with Schumann. I liked the symphony especially on account of its swing.”

The symphony was dedicated to Joseph Joachim. On the title-page of the manuscript was this inscription: “When the first tones of this symphony were awakened, Joseph Joachim was still a little fellow; since then the symphony and still more the boy have grown bigger, wherefore I dedicate it to him, although only in private. Düsseldorf, December 23, 1853. Robert Schumann.”

The parts were published in November, 1853. The score was published the next month.

It was stated for many years that the only changes made by Schumann in this symphony were in the matter of instrumentation, especially in the wood-wind. Some time after the death of Schumann the first manuscript passed into the possession of Johannes Brahms, who finally allowed the score to be published, edited by Franz Wüllner. It was then found that the composer had made important alterations in thematic development. He had cut out elaborate contrapuntal work to gain a broader, simpler, more rhythmically effective treatment, especially in the last movement. He had introduced the opening theme of the first movement “as a completion of the melody begun by the three exclamatory chords which make the fundamental rhythm at the beginning of the last movement.” And, on the other hand, some thought the instrumentation of the first version occasionally preferable on account of clearness to that of the second.

It was Schumann’s wish that the symphony should be played without pauses between the movements. Mendelssohn expressed the same wish for the performance of his “_Scotch_” symphony, which was produced nearly four months after the first performance of this Symphony in D minor.

The first movement begins with an introduction, _ziemlich langsam_ (_un poco lento_), D minor, 3-4. The first motive is used later in the “Romanze.” The orchestra gives out an A which serves as background for this motive in sixths in the second violins, violas, and bassoons. This figure is worked up contrapuntally. A dominant organ-point appears in the basses, over which the first violins play an ascending figure; the time changes from 3-4 to 2-4.

The main body of this movement, _lebhaft_ (_vivace_), in D minor, 2-4, begins _forte_ with the development of the violin figure just mentioned. This theme prevails, so that in the first section there is no true second theme. The characteristic trombone figure reminds one of a passage in Schumann’s piano Quartet in E flat, Op. 47. There is a heroic figure in the wood-wind instruments. After the repetition comes a long free fantasia. The true second theme, sung in F major by first violins, appears. The development is now perfectly free. There is no third part.

The “Romanze,” _ziemlich langsam_ (_un poco lento_), in D minor—or, rather, A minor plagal—opens with a mournful melody said to be familiar in Provence. Schumann intended originally to accompany the song of oboe and first violoncellos with a guitar. This theme is followed by the dreamy motive of the introduction. Then the first phrases of the “Romanze” are sung again by oboe and violoncellos, and there is a second return of the contrapuntal work—now in D major—with embroidery by a solo violin. The chief theme brings the movement to a close on the chord of A major.

The _scherzo, lebhaft_ (_vivace_), in D minor, 3-4, presents the development of a rising and falling scale-passage of a few notes. The trio, in B flat major, is of a peculiar and beautiful rhythmic character. The first beat of the phrase falls constantly on a rest in all the parts. The melody is almost always in the wood-wind, and the first violins are used in embroidery. The _scherzo_ is repeated after the trio, which returns once more as a sort of _coda_.

The _finale_ begins with a short introduction, _langsam_ (_lento_), in B flat major, and it modulates to D minor, 4-4. The chief theme of the first movement is worked up against a counter figure in the trombones to a climax. The main body of the movement _lebhaft_ (_vivace_), in D major, 4-4, begins with the brilliant first theme, which has the character of a march, and it is not unlike the theme of the first movement with its two members transposed. The figure of the trombones in the introduction enters. The _cantabile_ second theme begins in B minor, but it constantly modulates in the development. The free fantasia begins in B minor, with a G (strings, bassoons, trombones), which is answered by a curious ejaculation by the whole orchestra. There is an elaborate contrapuntal working out of one of the figures in the first theme. The third part of the movement begins irregularly with the return of the second theme in F sharp minor. The second theme enters in the tonic. The _coda_ begins in the manner of the free fantasia, but in E minor; but the ejaculations are now followed by the exposition and development of a passionate fourth theme. There is a free closing passage, _schneller_ (_più moto_), in D major, 2-2.

CONCERTO IN A MINOR, FOR PIANOFORTE AND ORCHESTRA, OP. 54

I. Allegro II. Adagio III. Allegro non troppo

After Schumann heard for the first time Mendelssohn play his own Concerto in G minor, he wrote that he would never dream of composing a concerto in three movements, each one complete in itself. It is said that he began to write a pianoforte concerto when he was only seventeen and ignorant of musical form; that in 1836 he sketched a concerto in F major when he was living at Heidelberg. In January, 1839, he wrote from Vienna to Clara Wieck, his betrothed: “My concerto is a compromise between a symphony, a concerto, and a huge sonata. I see I cannot write a concerto for the virtuosos: I must plan something else.” The key was not mentioned.

The first movement of the Concerto in A minor was written at Leipsic in the summer of 1841—it was begun in May. It was then called “_Phantasie_” in A minor, and was not intended for the movement of a concerto. It was played for the first time by Clara Schumann, on August 13, 1841, at a private rehearsal in the Gewandhaus, Leipsic. This rehearsal was for the changes made in Schumann’s First symphony. Schumann wished in 1843 or 1844 to publish the work as an _allegro affettuoso_, also as _Concert Allegro_, for pianoforte with orchestral accompaniment, “Op. 48,” but he could not find a publisher. The _intermezzo_ and _finale_ were composed at Dresden, May-July, 1845. Clara wrote in her diary on July 31, 1845: “Robert has finished his concerto and given it to the copyists.”

The whole concerto was played for the first time by Clara Schumann at her concert, December 4, 1845, in the Hall of the Hôtel de Saxe, Dresden, from manuscript. The second performance was at Leipsic, January 1, 1846, when Clara Schumann was the pianist and Mendelssohn conducted. Verhulst attended a rehearsal, and said that the performance was rather poor; the passage in the _finale_ with the puzzling rhythms “did not go at all.”

I. _Allegro affettuoso_, A minor, 4-4. After a short pianoforte prelude, the first period of the first theme is announced by wind instruments. The antithesis, which is almost an exact repetition of the thesis, is for the pianoforte. The second theme is practically a new version of the first and may be considered as a new development of it. The free fantasia begins _andante espressivo_, A flat major, 6-4. The recapitulation section is almost a repetition of the first. There is an elaborate _cadenza_ for the pianoforte before the _coda_, which is an _allegro molto_, A minor, 2-4.

II. _Intermezzo_: _andante grazioso_, F major, 2-4. The movement is in simple _romanza_ form. Dialogue between solo instrument and orchestra; then more emotional phrases for violoncellos, violins, etc. (accompanied by pianoforte _arpeggios_). At the close there are hints at the first theme of the first movement, which lead directly to the _finale_.

III. _Allegro vivace_, A major, 3-4. The movement is in sonata form. The pianoforte gives out the chief theme. After a modulation to E major, the second theme is for the pianoforte. This theme is distinguished by constantly syncopated rhythm. A contrasting theme is developed in florid fashion by the pianoforte. The free fantasia begins with a short orchestral _fugato_ on the first theme. The third part begins irregularly in D major, with the first theme as an orchestral _tutti_. There is a long _coda_.

In each of his four symphonies Schumann used two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns (two horns sufficed for the Second symphony), two trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, and strings. For the piano concerto, he used the same orchestration, with two horns, and omitting the trombones.—EDITOR.

ALEXANDER NICOLAIEVITCH SCRIABIN

(Born at Moscow on Christmas Day, 1871; died there on April 14, 1915)

“THE POEM OF ECSTASY” (LE POÈME DE L’EXTASE), OP. 54

A singular and at times interesting composition. Victor Hugo has said that agony when at its height is mute. Some, on hearing Scriabin’s score, have wished, no doubt, that this were true of ecstasy. Is the music really ecstatic? There are anthropological sociologists who find extreme voluptuousness in physical pain. Mantegazza has a chapter on this subject, a chapter that is not for the _jeune fille_. We are told that Scriabin in this music wished to express the ecstasy of untrammeled action, the joy in creative activity. Let the poem he wrote, and the title, be put aside; there are fine and original passages in the composition, and there is certainly untrammeled action. The themes themselves are not important, not expressive, not significant enough to warrant the extravagant development and the polyphonic complexity. There is also irritating repetition.

* * *

“_Le Poème de l’Extase_” was performed for the first time by the Russian Symphony Society of New York in New York, December 10, 1908. Modeste Altschuler conducted. We were indebted to Mr. Altschuler in 1910 for the following information about _The Poem of Ecstasy_:

“While I was in Switzerland during the summer of 1907 at Scriabin’s villa, he was all taken up with the work, and I watched its progress with keen interest. The composer of the _Poème de l’Extase_ has sought to express therein something of the emotional (and therefore musically communicable) side of his philosophy of life. Scriabin is neither a pantheist nor a theosophist, yet his creed includes ideas somewhat related to each of these schools of thought. There are three divisions in his poem: 1. His soul in the orgy of love; 2. The realization of a fantastical dream; 3. The glory of his own art.”

Mr. Modeste Altschuler has interesting letters written by Scriabin covering the period of his sojourn in the United States and Mr. Altschuler’s journey to Russia in 1907, the aim of which was to secure a subsidy from the Russian government for the Russian Symphony Orchestra in New York. Scriabin was very anxious to assist Mr. Altschuler in his mission. The letters plainly indicate his anxiety. Those letters will appear in Mr. Altschuler’s _Memoirs_, which a Russian historian was taking down in November, 1930, when Mr. Altschuler was conductor of the Hollywood Symphony Orchestra.

Scriabin wrote from Paris in the spring of 1907 that he had finished The Poem of Ecstasy. The revised instrumentation now in use was made that summer (1907) by the composer and Modeste Altschuler together, in Switzerland, where they spent two weeks together.

It has been said that the subject of _Le Poème de l’Extase_ begins where that of _Le divin Poème_ leaves off. The three divisions of the latter symphony, movements joined together without a pause, are “Luttes,” “Voluptés,” “Jeu divin” (creative force consciously exercised).

_Le Poème de l’Extase_ was completed in January, 1908, in Switzerland, the month of the Fifth sonata, which, it is said, was written in three or four days. It is scored for these instruments: piccolo, three flutes, three oboes, English horn, three clarinets, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, eight horns, five trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, tam-tam, bells, deep chime in C, celesta, two harps, organ, and the usual strings.

Scriabin wrote a poem in Russian for this orchestral composition. The poem was published at Geneva, Switzerland, 1906. Mr. Altschuler kindly lent his copy of it. A literal translation into English was made by Mrs. Lydia L. Pimenov-Noble of Boston expressly for the Boston Symphony Programme Book of October 22, 1910. The poem is very long, too long for reprinting. There are verses that recur like a refrain, especially the first lines:

_The Spirit, Winged by the thirst for life, Takes flight On the heights of negation. There in the rays of his dream Arises a magic world Of marvelous images and feelings. The Spirit playing, The Spirit longing, The Spirit with fancy creating all, Surrenders himself to the bliss of love._

The poem ends with a rhapsodic invocation of the poet to the world he has created:

_“O pure aspirations, I create thee, A complex entity. A feeling of bliss Embracing all of you. I am a moment illuminating eternity. I am affirmation, I am ecstasy.” By a general conflagration The universe is embraced. The Spirit is at the height of being. And he feels The tide unending Of the divine power, Of free will. He is all-daring, What menaced— Now is excitement, What terrified Is now delight; And the bites of panthers and hyenas have become But a new caress, A new pang, And the sting of the serpent But a burning kiss. And the universe resounded With a joyful cry, “I am.”_

JEAN JULIUS CHRISTIAN SIBELIUS

(Born at Tavastehus, Finland, December 8, 1865)

Some, judging the music of Sibelius or rhapsodizing over it, have laid great stress on the fact that Finland is a wild and desolate country. They therefore argue that the music of Sibelius must be bleak and grim. They are also convinced that Sibelius himself must be a stern-visaged man, something of a Berserk, savage and unapproachable, to write as he does. But travelers assure us that in Finland there are smiling landscapes, and we know from personal acquaintance that Mr. Sibelius, like Baptista Minola in the comedy, is “an affable and courteous gentleman.” We doubt if climatic conditions, the constitutional qualities or the passive mood of a man necessarily affect his music. Beethoven was in doleful dumps when he wrote one of his most cheerful symphonies. We have heard music by contemporaneous Italian composers that is more barbaric, gloomier than the great majority of that by Scandinavian or Russian musicians.

SYMPHONY NO. 1, IN E MINOR, OP. 39

I. Andante ma non troppo; allegro energico II. Andante ma non troppo lento III. Allegro IV. Finale (quasi una fantasia): andante; allegro molto

There is a marked difference between the mood and the orchestral expression of this First symphony and those of the composer’s Fifth and Seventh. Sibelius was not young in years when he wrote the First—he was thirty-four—but this symphony was the work of one musically young. It is seldom that a first symphony rests on firm foundations architectonically planned, logically continuous in flow of musical thought, as is the First symphony of Brahms, who had written much chamber music before he ventured into the symphonic field.

The musical thoughts of a symphonic composer meditating his first work of long breath are many; they are often yeasty in their exuberance. There is not yet in the joy of composing the ability to eliminate. There is so much to say; all of it is thought important, essential.

Yet this exuberance when it expresses itself in a fantastical manner is not displeasing. Better wild irregularity, barbaric force than the smug aping of orthodox and approved predecessors. In the first symphony he did not escape the influence of Tchaikovsky, an influence shown particularly in the second movement. But the voice of Sibelius himself speaks in no uncertain tones: a virile voice that has new things to say; is not ashamed of screaming outbursts, sudden contrasts; not a whining egoist, not a despairing pessimist; a strong soul not disturbed by the sensuous charm of woman.

And so this symphony is more than conventionally interesting. It is dramatic, as if Sibelius had had a drama in his mind, perhaps one of his own life. The music is free, outspoken. It is without fear of the learned professor at the conservatory. One might say of the symphony, one hears this music and is in the mighty presence of a man.

* * *

The First symphony was composed in 1899 and published in 1902. The first performance was at Helsingfors on April 26, 1899. The symphony was played in Berlin at a concert of Finnish music, led by Robert Kajanus, in July, 1900.

I. Introduction: _andante ma non troppo_, E minor, 2-2. Over a drum roll that rises and falls in intensity a clarinet sings a mournful melody, which is of much importance in the _finale_ of the symphony.

The first violins, after the short introduction, give out the first theme with imitative passages for violas and violoncellos, _allegro energico_, E minor, 6-4. There are two subsidiary motives: one for wind instruments, and one, derived from this last, for strings. A _crescendo_ leads to a climax, with the proclamation of the first chief theme by full orchestra with a furious drum roll. The second and contrasting chief motive is given to the flutes, _piano ma marcato_, against tremulous violins and violas and delicate harp chords. The conclusion of this theme is developed and given to the flutes with syncopated rhythm for the strings. The pace is quickened, and there is a _crescendo_, which ends in B minor. The free fantasia is of a passionate nature with passages that suggest mystery; heavy chords for wind instruments are bound together with chromatic figures for the strings; wood-wind instruments shriek out cries with the interval of a fourth; cries that are taken from one in the introduction; the final section of the second theme is sung by two violins with strange figures for the strings, _pianissimo_, and with rhythms taken from the second chief theme. These rhythms in the course of a powerful _crescendo_ dominate at last. The first chief theme endeavors to assert itself, but it is lost in descending chromatic figures. Again there is a _crescendo_, and the strings have the second subsidiary theme, which is developed until the wild entrance of the first chief motive. The orchestra rages until, after a great outburst and with clash of cymbals, a diminuendo leads to gentle echoes of the conclusion of the second theme. Now the second theme tries to enter, but without the harp chords that first accompanied it. Rhythms that are derived from it lead to defiant blasts of the brass instruments. The movement ends in this mood.

II. _Andante, ma non troppo lento_, E flat major, 2-2.

“The _adagio_ (_andante_) is steeped in his proper pathos, the pathos of brief, bland summers, of light that falls for a moment, gentle and mellow, and then dies away. Something like a memory of a girl sitting amid the simple flowers in the white Northern sunshine haunts the last few measures.”[45]

“The _andante_ is purest folk melody; and it is strange how we know this, though we do not know the special tune.”[46]

III. _Allegro_, C major, 3-4. The chief theme of the _scherzo_ may be said to have the characteristically national humor, which seems to Southern nations wild and heavily fantastical. The second theme is of a lighter and more graceful nature. The trio, E major, is of a somewhat more tranquil nature.

IV. _Finale_ (_quasi una fantasia_), E minor. The _finale_ begins with the melody of the introduction of the first movement. It is now of an epic, tragic nature, and not merely melancholy. There are hints in the lower strings at the chief theme, which at last appears, 2-4, in the wood-wind. This theme has a continuation which later has much importance. The prevailing mood of the _finale_ is one of wild and passionate restlessness, but the second chief theme, _andante assai_, is a broad, dignified, melodious motive for violins.

“The substratum [of the symphony] is national; in fact, one may say that if the principal subjects are predominantly Slavonic in character, the subsidiary ones are often distinctly Finnish, and the atmosphere of storm and conflict which pervades the entire work is largely the outcome of a kind of revolt on the part of this thematic rank and file against their lords and masters. In this way the symphony presents a symbolical picture of Finnish insurrection against Russian tyranny and oppression. Not that I would suggest for a moment that the composer had any such purpose in mind while writing it, but there would be nothing surprising if there were an unconscious correspondence between the state of mind of the composer and the position of his unhappy country at the time when the symphony was conceived, at the very height of the Tsarist persecution. On the contrary, it would be surprising if there were not.”[47]

SYMPHONY NO. 2, IN D MAJOR, OP. 43

I. Allegretto II. Tempo andante ma rubato III. Vivacissimo; lento e suave IV. Finale: allegro moderato

Mr. Paul Rosenfeld, who writes about certain modern composers as if he had summered and wintered with them and been through them with a dark lantern, finds this symphony of a “pastoral” nature, full of “home sounds, of cattle.” The music reveals a “pale, evanescent sunlight,” and through the music sounds “the burden of a lowly tragedy.” This is entertaining reading, to be sure, but to be charged with these impressions Mr. Rosenfeld must have heard a tea-table performance of the symphony. There is almost continually the tragic note in the music, but the tragedy is hardly “lowly.”

This music is extremely Northern, at times bleak and windswept. Arresting and impressive music; and lo, suddenly Sibelius drops into Tchaikovskian mood, and even speaks the self-torturing Russian’s speech. Yet Sibelius is generally in the foreground, and his speech is generally his own. It is when he would touch the heart of the public that Tchaikovsky pushes him aside. There is much of interest in the symphony besides the peculiar esthetic and racial quality: there are qualities of the orchestration that hold the attention and excite admiration, as the long _pizzicato_ figure for the double basses.

* * *

This symphony, composed in 1901-02, was produced at Helsingfors, March 8, 1902, at a concert given by the composer.

According to Georg Schneevoight, an intimate friend of Sibelius, the composer’s intention was to depict in the first movement the quiet, pastoral life of the Finns undisturbed by thought of oppression. The second movement is charged with patriotic feeling, but the thought of a brutal rule over the people brings with it timidity of soul. The third, in the nature of a _scherzo_, portrays the awakening of national feeling, the desire to organize in defense of their rights, while in the _finale_ hope enters their breasts and there is comfort in the anticipated coming of a deliverer.

I. _Allegretto_, D major, with various rhythms, that of 6-4 predominating. The movement begins with an accompaniment figure for strings, which reappears in the course of the development. The quaint first theme is announced by oboes and clarinets. This theme is worked, and secondary motives are introduced, to be used again later. A passage for strings _pizzicato_ leads to a theme given out by flutes, oboes, and clarinets in octaves; bassoons and brass instruments sustain, and the strings have the characteristic strumming heard at the beginning. After the free fantasia a prolonged tremolo of strings leads to the recapitulation. The quaint first theme appears again in the wood-wind, but the accompaniment is more elaborate. The second theme is again announced by wind instruments, and at the end there is the initial figure of accompaniment.

II. _Tempo andante ma rubato_, D minor, 4-4, 3-8, 4-4. On a roll of kettledrums, double basses begin _pizzicato_, a figure which is finally taken up by violoncellos, and serves as an accompaniment for a mournful theme sung by the bassoons in octaves. The movement becomes more animated and more dramatic. After a climax _fortississimo, molto largamente_, the second and expressive theme is sung by some of the first violins, violas, violoncellos (F sharp major, _andante sostenuto_), accompanied at first by strings and then by running passages in flutes and bassoons. This theme, now in wood-wind instruments, is accompanied by running passages for violins. The first theme returns in F sharp minor, and is developed to another climax, after which the second theme enters in D minor, and toward the close there are hints at the first motive.

III. _Vivacissimo_, B flat major, 6-8. The movement begins with a nimble theme for violins. There is a short development, and flute and bassoon announce the second theme, against the rhythm of the first, which returns against a _tremolo_ of wood-wind instruments supported by brass and kettledrums. _Lento e suave_, G flat major, 12-4. The oboe has the theme over sustained chords for bassoons and horns. This section, which serves here as a trio to a _scherzo_, is short. There is a repetition, with changes of the opening section. The oboe sounds again the theme of the trio, and there is a free transition to the _finale_ without any pause.

IV. _Finale_: _allegro moderato_, D major, 3-2. The movement is fashioned after the general style of a _rondo_ on a short and simple theme announced immediately by violins, violas, and violoncellos. There are less important motives which serve as thematic material, and there are modifications of tonality and tempo. The movement ends in a sonorous apotheosis, _molto largamente_.

SYMPHONY NO. 4, IN A MINOR, OP. 63

I. Tempo molto moderato quasi adagio II. Allegro molto vivace III. Il tempo largo IV. Allegro

The fourth symphony is strangely different in character from those that precede and follow it. Was Sibelius experimenting, endeavoring to strike out a new path? Was he dissatisfied with the result? When it was performed in New York as a new piece, Mr. Henderson, the most sympathetic of those reviewing the symphony, thought that Sibelius had “parted company with himself and joined the futurists.” One of the critics went so far as to describe the work as “inconsequential as the ravings of a drunken man.” This was an absurd opinion, for, whatever may be said of the symphony, it is not “inconsequential”; it was planned deliberately; one might say, from the lack of emotional quality, planned in cold blood.

Perhaps there was an argument in his mind. Perhaps he had been hearing _Parsifal_, for there are times in the symphony when one is reminded of Amfortas with his complaining voice. Not that Sibelius was obliged to borrow phrases; but the mood of the composer and that of the wounded knight are at times alike. There is also the suggestion of similar harmonic and orchestral, but not melodic expression.

The thematic material is for the most part cool, contemplative, often fragmentary, or purposely incomplete. The melancholy that drips from the pages is almost without relief. Nor does one find the symphony of “baffling simplicity” as a London reviewer found it a few years ago. The “simplicity” was carefully contrived. There is little real beauty, frank or subtle—there is little that impresses by loftiness of thought, or nobility of expression. There is prevailing sobriety. Sibelius might say, “That is the way I felt when I wrote it. I could not write otherwise any more than I could then feel differently.” Is it not a significant fact that Sibelius soon left this path that he had found?

* * *

This symphony, dated 1911, was performed at Helsingfors in that year. The score is dedicated to Eero Järnefelt.

The reviewer for the London _Times_ noted (February 28, 1921) that there was moderate applause after a performance, and added: “After all, what was there to make a fuss about? No accumulation of energy, no building to a climax, no display of rhetoric; just a number of ideas, each dwelt on as long as it showed capacity for growth, each left as soon as it had generated another; there is just enough relevance to defeat the charge of inconsequence, not enough arrangement to suggest a moment’s tautology. The fineness of this symphony is of the ascetic type which refuses the luxuries of sound and finds a miracle in the simplest relations of notes. From these relations the tunes grow naturally as folk tunes grow. From the intonation of two notes at the outset comes the whole of the first movement; a perfect fifth is the source of the most expansive melody which crowns the third movement. There is nothing abstruse about it; people only fail to understand it because they cannot believe that any man could be so simple and so real as Sibelius shows himself to be.”

Mr. Fox Strangways wrote (February 21, 1932): “Sibelius has, what only the best composers have, the flair for the phrase that will repay investigation. His phrase on paper impresses no one; when you hear it, spaced out, set in relief, debated upon, it grows life size. He seems to go on for minutes together in an ordinary tone of voice, and then suddenly an idea stings him, and he is afire, and the whole room hanging on his lips.”

“The complete absence of sensuous appeal in this work,” writes Cecil Gray, “coupled with the exacting demands it makes upon the intelligence of audiences, will always prevent it from being popular. For the few, however, it probably constitutes Sibelius’s greatest achievement; he has certainly never written anything to surpass it.”

SYMPHONY NO. 5, IN E FLAT MAJOR, OP. 82

I. Tempo molto moderato; allegro moderato II. Andante mosso, quasi allegretto III. Allegro molto: un pochettino largamente

There is not a sensuous note, not a single bid for immediate popularity; but there is something in the symphony that will be permanent. It is skillfully constructed in a new manner; skillfully scored with most ingenious effects not too laboriously contrived, and with a comparatively small orchestra. The young composer of today, looking at the score, will rub his eyes in wonder and exclaim: “What! No English horn, no bass clarinet, only four horns, no celesta, xylophone, harp, tam-tam? What’s the man thinking about?”

But Sibelius has ideas. He feels deeply; he pours out his emotions; he snaps his fingers at decorations, at sensational effects, at sugared pages sure to please. When he is in lighter mood it is only for a moment; the eternal questions asked since the beginning of time are ever in his mind; yet serious, he is not dull, he does not sermonize. He writes music first of all to free himself of what is in his heart and brain and must out.

This man of the North knows the exciting effect of oriental repetition in phrase and rhythm, and on these repetitions he rears imposing musical structures. There are measures to which dervishes might whirl, rays of the sun break through the clouds, yet we prefer Sibelius when the sky is leaden.

* * *

This symphony was composed before the World War. It was performed at Helsingfors as early as the spring of 1914. It is said that the symphony was revised before performances in other cities, among them Stockholm.

The first two movements are here played as one.

When the symphony was performed in London the _Daily Telegraph_ had this to say: “It is true that this symphony is designed on broader lines than its predecessor; it contains more positive statement of its ideas, many of which are of the simplest melodic kind, that the coloring is richer and fuller, with more use of the effects of orchestral masses....

“The first two movements are closely linked together by a four-note motto theme which pervades the greater part of the subject matter of both; they are distinguished by contrast of mood. The first is a dreaming fantasy in which many motives and forces contend; the second unifies them in a more closely knit _scherzo_ rhythm. Through both of them the strings supply in an uneasy background of shimmering sound, while the voices of the wind instruments are more closely articulated.

“The third movement is _andante quasi allegretto_. The rather dry rhythmic pattern of the chief theme is discussed among the instruments in a way which is strangely Mozart-like, and marks more definitely Sibelius’s abstracted devotion to pure beauty of design. The _finale_ launches out into a franker expression of feeling. Its second subject makes an almost passionate appeal on its first revival, and this appeal is intensified in the long development of it which leads to the _coda_. Yet somehow this ending left the feeling that the composer had not allowed himself to say all that he meant, or the thing which he meant most of all. This may have been partly in the playing, for Sibelius is a difficult conductor to follow.

“Sibelius, both as composer and conductor, stands apart, a lonely figure seeking with difficulty to bring the ideals which are intensely real to him into touch with other minds. Possibly it is his struggle for expression which sometimes recalls Beethoven as one listens to him.”

SYMPHONY NO. 7, OP. 105 (_In one movement_)

Mr. Lawrence Gilman was right in characterizing Sibelius’ Seventh symphony as “enigmatic, puissant.” Is it also, as he says, “strangely moving”? It is not a symphony for an afternoon’s careless pleasure.

The music of Sibelius seldom accepts the canons of obvious beauty. His musical soul is proud, regardless of popular applause. In his latest works he seems to be writing for himself; to be absorbed in introspection and the expression of what he finds that is dear and important to himself alone. There are noble ideas, fleeting and haunting passages, in this symphony, but the plan and the conclusion of the whole are not easily grasped.

* * *

It has been said that this symphony, published in 1925, was composed with the view of producing it under the direction of the composer at an English music festival. Sickness prevented his going to England. The symphony was performed in Philadelphia by the Philadelphia Orchestra, Mr. Stokowski conductor, on April 3, 1926.

There is no designation of key. The opening measures are in A minor; the ending is in C major.

The first section is a somber _adagio_. It opens with an ascending scale, 3-2 time for the strings. This is the basic theme of the symphony, appearing as a whole, in fragments, or inverted. A lyric theme follows, C major, for violas (divided) and violoncellos. The violins join later. There is a melody, somewhat like a chant for a solo trombone. This later assumes marked importance. The pace grows faster, until it is _vivacissimo_, C minor. Mr. Gilman, in his lucid notes for the Philadelphia Programme Book, finds that the subject now announced by the strings “recalls the mood of the _scherzo_ of Beethoven’s ‘_Eroica_.’” The _adagio_ tempo recurs, as does the trombone theme, which the brass section enlarges. Change in tempo: _allegro molto moderato_. There is a new motive, C major, 6-4, simple, in folk manner; still another motive with wood-wind “doubled in pairs, playing in thirds, fifths and sixths.” The development is for strings and wind. _Vivace_, E flat major. Antiphonal measures for strings and wood-wind. “The tempo becomes _presto_, the key C major. The strings, divided in eight parts, begin a mysteriously portentous passage, at first _pianississimo_, with the violas and violoncellos defining an urgent figure against a reiterated pedal G of the violins, basses, and tympani. A _crescendo_, _rallentando_, is accompanied by a fragment of the basic scale passage, in augmentation, for the horns. The tempo is again _adagio_; and now the chant-like C major theme is heard once more from the brass choir, against mounting figurations of the strings. There is a climax _fortissimo_, for the whole orchestra. The strings are heard alone, _largamente molto_, in an _affettuoso_ of intense expression. Flute and bassoon in octaves, supported by soft string tremolos, sing a plaint. The strings, _dolce_, in syncopated rhythm, modulate through seventh chords in A flat and G to a powerful suspension, _fortissimo_, on the tonic chord of C major; and this brings to a close the enigmatic, puissant, and strangely moving work.”[48]

The instrumentation which Sibelius calls for in his Seventh symphony is typical of the severely “classical” orchestration which was the basis of his symphonies in general: two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, and strings. This was also the instrumentation of the Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth (although, for episodic purposes, a glockenspiel was added to the Fourth, and a bass clarinet and harp to the Sixth). The First symphony had a richer bass and percussion—bass tuba, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, and harp were used (compare the orchestration of _Finlandia_ and _The Swan of Tuonela_ of the same early period). When he wrote his Second symphony, Sibelius dropped all these instruments of percussion. The tuba he kept for the Second, but he did not use it again in his symphonies.—EDITOR.

“FINLANDIA,” SYMPHONIC POEM FOR ORCHESTRA, OP. 26, NO. 7

It is said that _Finlandia_, although it was composed as far back as 1894, evokes such enthusiasm in the composer’s native land that performance of it was forbidden by the oppressing Russian. The question is, does _Finlandia_ evoke enthusiasm in Madrid, Dresden, Boston? For after all it is something more than a national document. It is picturesque, with suggestions of prayers and hymns, revolts and revolutions.

There is more of Finland in the symphonies, the violin concerto, and _A Saga_ of Sibelius than in his _Finlandia_, which is hot with the spirit of revolt. No doubt he wrote this music with a patriotic heart, but patriotism is not an essential quality in a musical work of art.

* * *

_Finlandia: Tondight for orkester_, Op. 26, No. 7, was composed in 1894. It is not a fantasia on genuine folk tunes. The composer is the authority for this statement. Mrs. Newmarch says: “Like Glinka, Sibelius avoids the crude material of the folk song; but like this great national poet, he is so penetrated by the spirit of his race that he can evolve a national melody calculated to deceive the elect. On this point the composer is emphatic, ‘There is a mistaken impression among the press abroad,’ he has assured me, ‘that my themes are often folk melodies. So far I have never used a theme that was not of my own invention. Thus the thematic material of _Finlandia_ and _En Saga_ is entirely my own.’”

The following note is from a programme of the Russian Symphony Society:

“_Finlandia_, though without explanatory subtitle, seems to set forth an impression of the national spirit and life.... The work records the impressions of an exile’s return home after a long absence. An agitated, almost angry theme for the brass choir, short and trenchant, begins the introduction, _andante sostenuto_ (_alla breve_). This theme is answered by an organ-like response in the wood-wind, and then a prayerful passage for strings, as though to reveal the essential earnestness and reasonableness of the Finnish people, even under the stress of national sorrow. This leads to an _allegro moderato_ episode, in which the restless opening theme is proclaimed by the strings against a very characteristic rhythmic figure, a succession of eight beats, the first strongly accented.... With a change to _allegro_ the movement, looked at as an example of the sonata form, may be said to begin. A broad, cheerful theme by the strings in A flat, against the persistent rhythm in the brass, is followed by a second subject, introduced by the wood-wind and taken up by the strings, then by the ’cello and first violin. This is peaceful and elevated in character, and might be looked upon as prophetic of ultimate rest and happiness. The development of these musical ideas carries the tone poem to an eloquent conclusion.”

_Finlandia_ is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle and strings.

“THE SWAN OF TUONELA” (“TUONELAN JOUTSEN”), LEGEND FROM THE FINNISH FOLK EPIC “KALEVALA”

Here is no swan, singing before death, a fable that suggested to Villiers de l’Isle-Adam one of his cruelest tales, and served Anna Pavlowa for an entrancing, memorable dance-pantomime to Saint-Saëns’ familiar music. This is the swan that glides and sings on the river of black water around Tuonela, the Kingdom of Death. Sibelius, to whom the Finnish epic _Kalevala_ furnished subjects for several of his earlier compositions, by economic means, by an unerring choice of his instruments, portrays the scene and gives the song—after the hearer is acquainted with the explanatory note in the score. Suppose that the hearer had no knowledge of the legend, had never read of Lemminkainen’s adventures; how, to win the maid Pohjola, he set out to accomplish certain tasks, among them to shoot a swan on this River of Death. How would the hearer then be impressed? Surely he would be moved by the strangeness of the music, by the mysterious first measures, by the unearthly melancholy of the song, by the quiet intensity of it all. He would find in the music a tragic mood, simply but unmistakably expressed. To us this legend of Sibelius, for itself, is commanding music.

* * *

_The Swan of Tuonela_ is the third section of a symphonic poem _Lemminkainen_, in four parts, Op. 22, 1. “Lemminkainen and the Maidens”; 2. “His Sojourn in Tuonela”; 3. “The Swan of Tuonela”; 4. “Lemminkainen Homefaring.” These pieces are drawn from the Finnish epic _Kalevala_. A note on the score of _The Swan of Tuonela_ runs thus: “Tuonela, the Kingdom of Death, the Hades of Finnish mythology, is surrounded by a broad river of black water and rapid current, in which the Swan of Tuonela glides in majestic fashion and sings.”

Lemminkainen is one of the four principal heroes of the _Kalevala_. Mr. W. F. Kirby, in his translation of the epic, describes him as a “jovial, reckless personage, always getting into serious scrapes, from which he escapes either by his own skill in magic or by his mother’s. His love for his mother is the redeeming feature in his character. One of his names is Kaukomieli, and he is, in part, the original of Longfellow’s ‘Pau-Puk-Keewis.’”

In the thirteenth and fourteenth Runos, it is told how Lemminkainen asks the old woman of Pohja for her daughter Pohjola. She demands that he should first accomplish certain tasks: to capture on snowshoes the elk of Hiisi; to bridle fire-breathing steeds. Succeeding in these adventures, he is asked to shoot a swan on the river of Tuonela.

_I will only give my daughter, Give the youthful bride you seek for, If the river swan you shoot me, Shoot the great bird on the river; There on Tuoni’s murky river, In the sacred river’s whirlpool, Only at a single trial, Using but a single arrow._

Lemminkainen came to the river. A cowherd, Märkähattu, old and sightless, who had long waited for him, slew him there by sending a serpent “like a reed from out the billows” through the hero’s heart, and cast the body into the stream. Lemminkainen floated on to Tuonela’s dread dwelling. The son of Tuoni cut the body into pieces. The hero’s mother, learning of his fate, raked the water under the cataract till she found all the fragments. She joined them together and restored her son to life by charms and magic salves, so that he could return home with her.

The piece is written in A minor, _andante molto sostenuto_ 9-4 time. Mrs. Rosa Newmarch (_Jean Sibelius_) says of it:

“The majestic but intensely sad, swan-like melody is heard as a solo for _cor-anglais_, accompanied at first by muted strings and the soft roll of drums. Now and then this melody is answered by a phrase given to first violoncello or viola, which might be interpreted as the farewell sigh of some soul passing to Tuonela. For many bars the brass is silent, until suddenly the first horn (muted) echoes a few notes of the swan melody with the most poignant effect. Gradually the music works up to a great climax, indicated _con gran suono_, followed by a treble _pianissimo_, the strings playing with the back of the bow. To this accompaniment, which suggests the faint flapping of pinions, the swan’s final phrases are sung. The strings return to the natural bowing and the work ends in one of the characteristic, sighing phrases for violoncello.”

The second theme is given out by the strings to a slow but rhythmed accompaniment of wood-wind, brass, and drums.

The score calls for oboe, English horn (solo), bass clarinet, two bassoons, four horns, three trombones, kettledrums, bass drum, harp, and the usual strings.

RICHARD STRAUSS

(Born at Munich, June 11, 1864)

“DON JUAN,” TONE POEM (AFTER NICOLAUS LENAU), OP. 20

Some of Strauss’s wild-eyed worshipers, not content with the quotations that serve as mottoes, have invented ingenious analyses in which we are told the precise meaning of each theme in _Don Juan_, and how this section represents his passion for a widow and that for a maiden. But did not Strauss himself say that the theme which represents, according to an analyst, Don Juan rushing off to new triumphs was intended as his drunken entrance into a ballroom? And is it not possible that when Strauss wrote down this theme he attached no specific and minute significance to it? No, there is no need of the showman with blackboard and rod while this music is playing. “Don Juan—after Lenau’s poem” is enough; and merely _Don Juan_ might serve.

A daring, brilliant composition: one that paints the hero as might a master’s brush on canvas. How expressive the themes! How daring the treatment of them! What fascinating, irresistible insolence, glowing passion, and then the taste of Dead Sea fruit!

* * *

_Don Juan_, composed at Munich 1887-88, is known as the first of Strauss’s symphonic or tone poems, but _Macbeth_, Op. 23, was composed at Munich, 1886-87 (revised in 1890 at Weimar), and published later (1891). _Don Juan_ was published in 1890. The first performance of _Don Juan_ was at the second subscription concert of the Grand Ducal Court Orchestra of Weimar in the fall of 1889.

The work is scored for three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, kettledrums, triangle, cymbals, glockenspiel, harp, strings. The score is dedicated “To my dear friend, Ludwig Thuille,” a composer and teacher, born at Bozen in 1861, who was a fellow student at Munich. Thuille died in 1907.

Strauss’s hero is Lenau’s, in search of the ideal woman. Not finding one reaching his standard, disgusted with life, he practically commits suicide by dropping his sword when fighting a duel with a man whose father he had killed. Before this Don Juan dies, he provides in his will for the women he had seduced and forsaken.

Lenau wrote his poem in 1844. It is said that his third revision was made in August and September of that year at Vienna and Stuttgart. After September he wrote no more, for he went mad, and he was mad until he died in 1850. The poem, “Eitel nichts,” dedicated in the asylum at Winnenthal, was intended originally for _Don Juan_. _Don Juan_ is of a somewhat fragmentary nature. The quotations made by Strauss paint well the hero’s character.

L. A. Frankl, a biographer of the morbid poet, says that Lenau once spoke as follows concerning his purpose in this dramatic poem: “Goethe’s great poem has not hurt me in the matter of _Faust_ and Byron’s ‘Don Juan’ will here do me no harm. Each poet, as every human being, is an individual ego. My Don Juan is no hot-blooded man eternally pursuing woman. It is the longing in him to find a woman who is to him incarnate womanhood, and to enjoy in the one, all the women on earth, whom he cannot as individuals possess. Because he does not find her, although he reels from one to another, at last Disgust seizes hold of him, and this Disgust is the Devil that fetches him.”

It has been said that the “emotional phases of the story” appealed to Strauss:

1. The fiery ardor with which Don Juan pursues his ideal;

2. The charm of woman; and

3. The selfish idealist’s disappointment and partial atonement by death.

There are two ways of considering this tone poem: to say that it is a fantasia, free in form and development—the quotations from the poem are enough to show the mood and the purposes of the composer; or to discuss the character of Lenau’s hero, and then follow foreign commentators who give significance to every melodic phrase and find deep, esoteric meaning in every modulation. No doubt Strauss himself would be content with the verses of Lenau and his own music, for he is a man not without humor, and on more than one occasion has slyly smiled at his prying or pontifical interpreters.

Strauss has particularized his hero among the many that bear the name of Don Juan, from the old drama of Gabriel Tellez, the cloistered monk who wrote, under the name of “Tirso de Molina,” _El Burlador de Sevilla y el Convidado de Piedra_ (first printed in 1634). Strauss’s hero is specifically the Don Juan of Lenau, not the rakehelly hero of legend and so many plays, who at the last is undone by the Statue invited by Juan to supper.

“TOD UND VERKLÄRUNG” (DEATH AND TRANSFIGURATION) TONE POEM, OP. 24

“Death and Transfiguration” is now more old-fashioned than the G minor symphony of Mozart. The anguish of the dying man, who does not make the graceful and gracious apology of Charles II on his deathbed, no longer moves us. His recollections seem sentimental and vapid, while the trombone passages once considered as terrific, awe-inspiring, are not so significant as the single horn of Charon in Gluck’s _Alceste_. _Don Juan_, on the other hand, holds its own by its defiant spirit, expressing the arrogance of the Don on his triumphant way—by its dramatic translation into music of the words put by Lenau into his mouth:

_Exhausted is the fuel; And on the hearth, the cold is fiercely cruel._

The superb horn phrase should have accompanied the entrance of Lovelace into the ballroom, one of the most powerful scenes in Richardson’s long-winded romance.

* * *

This tone poem was composed at Munich in 1888-89.

Hans von Bülow wrote to his wife from Weimar, November 13, 1889: “Strauss is enormously beloved here. His _Don Juan_ evening before last had a wholly unheard-of success. Yesterday morning Spitzweg and I were at his house to hear his new symphonic poem _Tod und Verklärung_—which has again inspired me with great confidence in his development. It is a very important work in spite of sundry poor passages, and it is also refreshing.”

The first performance was from manuscript, under the direction of the composer, at the fifth concert of the 27th Musicians’ Convention of the Allgemeine Deutscher Musikverein in the City Theater of Eisenach, June 21, 1890.

The poem is dedicated to Friedrich Rösch, and is scored for three flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, a set of three kettledrums, two harps, gong, and strings.

On the flyleaf of the score is a poem in German.

The following literal translation is by William Foster Apthorp:

“In the necessitous little room, dimly lighted by only a candle end, lies the sick man on his bed. But just now he has wrestled despairingly with Death. Now he has sunk exhausted into sleep, and one hears only the soft ticking of the clock on the wall in the room, whose awful silence gives a foreboding of the nearness of death. Over the sick man’s pale features plays a sad smile. Dreams he, on the boundary of life, of the golden time of childhood?

“But death does not long grant sleep and dreams to his victim. Cruelly he shakes him awake, and the fight begins afresh. Will to live and power of Death! What frightful wrestling! Neither bears off the victory, and all is silent once more!

“Sunk back tired of battle, sleepless, as in fever-frenzy the sick man now sees his life pass before his inner eye, trait by trait and scene by scene. First the morning red of childhood, shining bright in pure innocence! Then the youth’s saucier play—exerting and trying his strength—till he ripens to the man’s fight, and now burns with hot lust after the higher prizes of life. The one high purpose that has led him through life was to shape all he saw transfigured into a still more transfigured form. Cold and sneering, the world sets barrier upon barrier in the way of his achievement. If he thinks himself near his goal, a ‘Halt!’ thunders in his ear. ‘Make the barrier thy stirrup! Ever higher and onward go!’ And so he pushes forward, so he climbs, desists not from his sacred purpose. What he has ever sought with his heart’s deepest yearning, he still seeks in his death sweat. Seeks—alas! and finds it never. Whether he comprehends it more clearly or it grows upon him gradually, he can yet never exhaust it, cannot complete it in his spirit. Then clangs the last stroke of Death’s iron hammer, breaks the earthly body in twain, covers the eye with the night of death.

“But from the heavenly spaces sounds mightily to greet him what he yearningly sought for here: deliverance from the world, transfiguration of the world.”

The poem by Ritter is, after all, the most satisfactory explanation of the music to those that seek eagerly a clew and are not content with the title. The analysts have been busy with this tone poem as well as the others of Strauss. Wilhelm Mauke wrote a pamphlet of twenty pages with twenty-one musical illustrations, and made a delicate distinction between “Fever” theme No. 1 and “Fever” theme No. 2. Reimann and Brandes have been more moderate. _Death and Transfiguration_ may be divided into sections, closely joined, and for each one a portion of the poem may serve as a motto.

I. _Largo_, C minor, D flat major, 4-4. The chief “Death” motive is a syncopated figure, _pianissimo_, given to the second violins and violas. A sad smile steals over the sick man’s face (wood-wind accompanied by horns and harps), and he thinks of his youth (a simple melody, the childhood motive, announced by the oboe). These three motives establish the mood of the introduction.

II. _Allegro molto agitato_, C minor. Death attacks the sick man. There are harsh double blows in quick succession. What Mauke characterizes as the “Fever” motive begins in the basses, and wildly dissonant chords shriek at the end of the climbing motive. There is a mighty _crescendo_, the chief “Death” motive is heard, the struggle begins (full orchestra, _fortississimo_). There is a second chromatic and feverish motive, which appears first in sixteenths, which is bound to a contrasting and ascending theme that recalls the motive of the struggle. This second feverish theme goes canonically through the instrument groups. The sick man sinks exhausted (_ritenuto_). Trombones, violoncellos, and violas intone even now the beginning of the “Transfiguration” theme, just as Death is about to triumph. “And again all is still!” The mysterious “Death” motive knocks.

III. And now the dying man dreams dreams and sees visions (_meno mosso, ma sempre alla breve_). The “Childhood” motive returns (G major) in freer form. There is again the joy of youth (oboes, harp, and, bound to this motive of “Hope” that made him smile before the struggle, the motive now played by solo viola). The fight of manhood with the world’s prizes is waged again (B major, full orchestra, _fortissimo_), waged fiercely. “Halt!” thunders in his ears, and trombones and kettledrums sound the dread and strangely rhythmed motive of “Death” (drums beaten with wooden drumsticks). There is contrapuntal elaboration of the “Life Struggle” and “Childhood” motives. The “Transfiguration” motive is heard in broader form. The chief “Death” motive and the feverish attack are again dominating features. Storm and fury of orchestra. There is a wild series of ascending fifths. Tam-tam and harp knell the soul’s departure.

IV. The “Transfiguration” theme is heard from the horns; strings repeat the “Childhood” motive. A _crescendo_ leads to the full development of the “Transfiguration” theme (_moderato_, C major), “World deliverance, world transfiguration.”

The scoring is as follows: three flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones and bass tuba, kettledrums, tam-tam, two harps, and strings.

“TILL EULENSPIEGEL’S MERRY PRANKS, AFTER THE OLD-FASHIONED ROGUISH MANNER—IN RONDO FORM,” OP. 28

_Till Eulenspiegel_ disputes with _Don Juan_ the first position among the symphonic poems of Strauss. The opening of _Thus Spake Zarathustra_ is colossal in its elemental grandeur; the death music in _Don Quixote_ is incomparably beautiful; there are a few pages in _A Hero’s Life_ that remind one of Beethoven at his best; the love music in the _Domestic symphony_ is memorable; but _Till Eulenspiegel_ and _Don Juan_ are continuously impressive, each in its way, and are free from the suspicion of effects made for the sake of effect, designed deliberately to make the bourgeois stare.

The story is medieval and Rabelaisian, and the music is quite as broad as the tale. Clear motives typify Till, who can be traced from beginning to end. He “bobs up” (no other term can describe it) through every kind of repression and persecution; he is saucy and insouciant; he is comically repentant when at the last he is hanged, and his last faint squeak is very mock-pathetic.

This hanging is a deviant from the old story in which Till evades his doom and cheats the executioner. For some time the reviewers were in doubt as to whether Strauss had given warrant for the execution—which shows the weak point of “programme music,” for no one ought to have had any doubts upon the subject after hearing the change of style from glibness to utter dejection at the end.

* * *

_Till Eulenspiegel’s lustige Streiche, nach alter Schelmenweise—in Rondoform, für grosses Orchester gesetzt, von Richard Strauss_, was produced at a Gürznich concert at Cologne, November 5, 1895. It was composed in 1894-95 at Munich, and the score was completed there, May 6, 1895. The score and parts were published in September, 1895.

There has been dispute concerning the proper translation of the phrase, _nach alter Schelmenweise_, in the title. Some, and Apthorp was one of them, translate it “after an old rogue’s tune.” Others will not have this at all, and prefer “after the old—or old-fashioned—roguish manner,” or, as Krehbiel suggested, “in the style of old-time waggery,” and this view is in all probability the sounder. It is hard to twist _Schelmenweise_ into “rogue’s tune.” _Schelmenstück_, for instance, is “a knavish trick,” a “piece of roguery.” As Krehbiel well said: “The reference [_Schelmenweise_] goes, not to the thematic form of the phrase, but to its structure. This is indicated, not only by the grammatical form of the phrase but also by the parenthetical explanation: ‘_in Rondoform_.’ What connection exists between roguishness, or waggishness, and the rondo form it might be difficult to explain. The roguish wag in this case is Richard Strauss himself, who, besides putting the puzzle into his title, refused to provide the composition with even the smallest explanatory note which might have given a clue to its contents.” It seems to us that the puzzle in the title is largely imaginary. There is no need of attributing any intimate connection between “roguish manner” and “_rondo_ form.”

Till (or Tyll) Eulenspiegel is the hero of an old _Volksbuch_ of the fifteenth century attributed to Dr. Thomas Murner (1475-1530). Till is supposed to be a wandering mechanic of Brunswick, who plays all sorts of tricks, practical jokes—some of them exceedingly coarse—on everybody, and he always comes out ahead. In the book, Till (or Till Owlglass, as he is known in the English translation) goes to the gallows, but he escapes through an exercise of his ready wit and dies peacefully in bed, playing a sad joke on his heirs, and refusing to lie still and snug in his grave. Strauss kills him on the scaffold. The German name is said to find its derivation in an old proverb: “Man sees his own faults as little as a monkey or an owl recognizes his ugliness in looking into a mirror.”

When Dr. Franz Wüllner, who conducted the first performance at Cologne, asked the composer for an explanatory programme of the “poetical intent” of the piece, Strauss replied: “It is impossible for me to furnish a programme to _Eulenspiegel_; were I to put into words the thoughts which its several incidents suggest to me, they would seldom suffice, and might give rise to offense. Let me leave it, therefore, to my hearers to crack the hard nut which the Rogue has prepared for them. By way of helping them to a better understanding, it seems sufficient to point out the two ‘Eulenspiegel’ motives, which, in the most manifold disguises, moods, and situations, pervade the whole up to the catastrophe, when, after he has been condemned to death, Till is strung up to the gibbet. For the rest, let them guess at the musical joke which a Rogue has offered them.” Strauss indicated in notation three motives—the opening theme of the introduction, the horn theme that follows almost immediately, and the descending interval expressive of condemnation and the scaffold.

The rondo, dedicated to Dr. Arthur Seidl, is scored for piccolo, three flutes, three oboes, English horn, small clarinet in E flat, two clarinets, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, four horns (with the addition of four horns _ad lib._), three trumpets (with three additional trumpets _ad lib._), three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, a watchman’s rattle, strings.

“THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA,” TONE POEM (FREELY AFTER FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE), OP. 30

Strauss’s huge “machine” has aged. The opening measures are still stupendous. The “Grave Song” and “Night Song” are not without compelling beauty, but on the whole, Nietzschian philosophy and music do not dwell together in harmony. Dismiss the thought of Nietzsche; consider the music as absolute music, and there is much that is boresome and inherently cheap, if not vulgar, in spite, or by reason of the bombast and pretentiousness.

* * *

The full title of this composition is _Also sprach Zarathustra, Tondichtung_ (_frei nach Friedrich Nietzsche_) _für grosses Orchester_. Composition was begun at Munich, February 4, 1896, and completed there August 24, 1896. The first performance was at Frankfort-on-the-Main, November 27 of the same year. The composer conducted, and also at Cologne, December 1.

Friedrich Nietzsche conceived the plan to his _Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None_, in August, 1881, as he was walking through the woods near the Silvaplana Lake in the Engadine and saw a huge tower-like crag. He completed the first part in February, 1883, at Rapallo, near Genoa; he wrote the second part in Sils Maria in June and July, the third part in the following winter at Nice, and the fourth part, not then intended to be the last, but to serve as an interlude, from November, 1884, till February, 1885, at Mentone. Nietzsche never published this fourth part; it was printed for private circulation and not publicly issued till after he became insane. The whole of _Zarathustra_ was published in 1892.

Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is by no means the historical or legendary Zoroaster, mage, leader, warrior, king. The Zarathustra of Nietzsche is Nietzsche himself, with his views on life and death. Strauss’s opera _Guntram_ (1894) showed the composer’s interest in the book. Before the tone poem was performed, this programme was published: “First movement: Sunrise, Man feels the power of God. _Andante religioso._ But man still longs. He plunges into passion (second movement) and finds no peace. He turns towards science, and tries in vain to solve life’s problem in a fugue (third movement). Then agreeable dance tunes sound and he becomes an individual, and his soul soars upward while the world sinks far beneath him.” But Strauss gave this explanation to Otto Florsheim: “I did not intend to write philosophical music or to portray in music Nietzsche’s great work. I meant to convey by means of music an idea of the development of the human race from its origin, through the various phases of its development, religious and scientific, up to Nietzsche’s idea of the Superman. The whole symphonic poem is intended as my homage to Nietzsche’s genius, which found its greatest exemplification in his book, _Thus Spake Zarathustra_.”

_Thus Spake Zarathustra_ is scored for piccolo, three flutes (one interchangeable with a second piccolo), three oboes, English horn, two clarinets in B flat, clarinet in E flat, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, six horns, four trumpets, three trombones, two bass tubas, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, glockenspiel, a low bell in E, two harps, organ, sixteen second violins, twelve violas, twelve violoncellos, eight double basses.

On a flyleaf of a score is printed the following excerpts from Nietzsche’s book, the first section of “Zarathustra’s Introductory Speech”:

“Having attained the age of thirty, Zarathustra left his home and the lake of his home and went into the mountains. There he rejoiced in his spirit and his loneliness, and for ten years did not grow weary of it. But at last his heart turned—one morning he got up with the dawn, stepped into the presence of the Sun and thus spake unto him: ‘Thou great star! What would be thy happiness, were it not for those on whom thou shinest? For ten years thou hast come up here to my cave. Thou wouldst have got sick of thy light and thy journey but for me, mine eagle and my serpent. But we waited for thee every morning and receiving from thee thine abundance, blessed thee for it. Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath collected too much honey; I need hands reaching out for it. I would fain grant and distribute until the wise among men could once more enjoy their folly, and the poor once more their riches. For that end I must descend to the depth; as thou dost at even, when sinking behind the sea, thou givest light to the lower regions, thou resplendent star! I must, like thee, go down, as men say—men to whom I would descend. Then bless me, thou impassive eye, that canst look without envy even upon overmuch happiness. Bless the cup which is about to overflow, so that the water golden-flowing out of it may carry everywhere the reflection of thy rapture. Lo! this cup is about to empty itself again, and Zarathustra will once more become a man.’—Thus Zarathustra’s going down began.”

This prefatory note in Strauss’s tone poem is not a “programme” of the composition itself. It is merely an introduction. The sub-captions of the composer in the score indicate that the music after the short musical introduction begins where the quotation ends.

“The scene of _Thus Spake Zarathustra_,” says Dr. Tille, “is laid, as it were, outside of time and space, and certainly outside of countries and nations, outside of this age, and outside of the main condition of all that lives—the struggle for existence.... There appear cities and mobs, kings and scholars, poets and cripples, but outside of their realm there is a province which is Zarathustra’s own, where he lives in his cave amid the rocks, and whence he thrice goes to men to teach them his wisdom. This Nowhere and Nowhen, over which Nietzsche’s imagination is supreme, is a province of boundless individualism, in which a man of mark has free play, unfettered by the tastes and inclinations of the multitude.... _Thus Spake Zarathustra_ is a kind of summary of the intellectual life of the nineteenth century, and it is on this fact that its principal significance rests. It unites in itself a number of mental movements which, in literature as well as in various sciences, have made themselves felt separately during the last hundred years, without going far beyond them. By bringing them into contact, although not always into uncontradictory relation, Nietzsche transfers them from mere existence in philosophy, or scientific literature in general, into the sphere or the creed of _Weltanschauung_ of the educated classes, and thus his book becomes capable of influencing the views and strivings of a whole age.”

Zarathustra teaches men the deification of Life. He offers not joy of life, for to him there is no such thing, but fullness of life, in the joy of the senses, “in the triumphant exuberance of vitality, in the pure, lofty naturalness of the antique, in short, in the fusion of God, world, and ego.”

There is a simple but impressive introduction, in which there is a solemn trumpet motive, which leads to a great climax for full orchestra and organ on the chord of C major. There is this heading, “Von den Hinterweltlern” (Of the Dwellers in the Rear World). These are they who sought the solution in religion. Zarathustra too had once dwelt in this rear world. (Horns intone a solemn Gregorian _Credo_.)

The next heading is “Von der grossen Sehnsucht” (Of the Great Yearning). This stands over an ascending passage in B minor in violoncellos and bassoons, answered by wood-wind instruments in chromatic thirds.

The next section begins with a pathetic _cantilena_ in C minor (second violins, oboes, horn), and the heading is: “Von den Freuden und Leidenschaften” (Of Joys and Passions).

“Grablied” (Grave Song). The oboe has a tender _cantilena_ over the Yearning motive in violoncellos and bassoons.

“Von der Wissenschaft” (Of Science). The fugued passage begins with violoncellos and double basses (divided). The subject of this _fugato_ contains all the diatonic and chromatic degrees of the scale, and the real responses to this subject come in successively a fifth higher.

Much farther on a passage in the strings, beginning in the violoncellos and violas, arises from B minor. “Der Genesende” (The Convalescent).

“Tanzlied.” The dance song begins with laughter in the wood-wind.

“Nachtlied” (Night Song).

“Nachtwanderlied” (The Song of the Night Wanderer, though Nietzsche in later editions changed the title to “The Drunken Song”). The song comes after a _fortissimo_ stroke of the bell, and the bell, sounding twelve times, dies away softly.

The mystical conclusion has excited much discussion. The ending is in two keys—in B major in the high wood-wind and violins, in C major in the basses, _pizzicato_. “The theme of the Ideal sways aloft in the higher regions in B major; the trombones insist on the unresolved chord of C, E, F sharp; and in the double basses is repeated C, G, C, the World Riddle.” This riddle is unsolved by Nietzsche, by Strauss, and even by Strauss’s commentators.

“DON QUIXOTE,” FANTASTIC VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF KNIGHTLY CHARACTER, OP. 35 INTRODUCTION, THEME WITH VARIATIONS, AND FINALE

Don Quixote, a virtuoso tone poem, shows Strauss at his best and at his worst. Composers have laid violent hands on the world-famous novel of Cervantes. The Knight has figured in both serious and comic operas. It occurred to Strauss that Don Quixote might be portrayed by one instrument, Sancho Panza by another. Strauss undoubtedly rubbed his hands with glee at the thought of the musical representation of ba-a-a-ing sheep and the opportunity of introducing a wind machine with a man turning a crank for the variation, “The Ride through the Air.” But there are fine passages in the work. When Don Quixote speaks nobly of the ideal, Strauss gives him noble music, and Strauss has seldom written more charming music than for the last speech of Sancho Panza. One might ask, however, if this music is in Sancho Panza’s character as Cervantes describes it. And in the final music—the disillusionment of Don Quixote and his death—Strauss attains, without straining and exaggeration, an emotional height that is seldom found in his instrumental compositions that follow. Hearing these emotional sections one almost forgets the imitative and pictorial passages of the work, which seem too long, with much music that is of little worth and interest.

* * *

_Don Quixote_ (_Introduzione, Tema con Variazioni, e Finale_): _Fantastische Variationen uber ein Thema ritterlichen Charakters_, was composed at Munich in 1897 (the score was completed on December 29th of that year). It was played for the first time at a Gürzenich Concert, Cologne, from manuscript, Franz Wüllner conductor, March 8, 1898. Friedrich Grützmacher was the solo violoncellist. Strauss conducted his composition on March 18, 1898, at a concert of the Frankfort Museumgesellschaft, when Hugo Becker was the violoncellist. It is said that Becker composed an exceedingly piquant _cadenza_ for violoncello on the “Quixote” motive for his own enjoyment at home.

The work is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, six horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tenor tuba, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, tambourine, wind machine, harp, sixteen first violins, sixteen second violins, twelve violas, ten violoncellos, eight double basses. It is dedicated to Joseph Dupont.

Much has been written in explanation of this work, which followed _Also sprach Zarathustra_, Op. 30 (1896), and preceded _Ein Heldenleben_, Op. 40 (1898). As the story goes, at a music festival in Düsseldorf in 1899 an acquaintance of Strauss complained bitterly before the rehearsal that he had no printed “guide” to _Don Quixote_, with which he was unfamiliar. Strauss laughed, and said for his consolation, “Get out! you do not need any.” Arthur Hahn wrote a pamphlet of twenty-seven pages in elucidation. In this pamphlet are many wondrous things. We are told that certain queer harmonies introduced in an otherwise simple passage of the introduction “characterize admirably the well-known tendency of Don Quixote toward false conclusions.”

There is no programme attached to the score of this work. The arrangement for pianoforte gives certain information concerning the composer’s purposes.

Max Steinitzer declares in his _Richard Strauss_ (Berlin and Leipsic, 1911) that with the exception of some details, as the “Windmill” episode, the music is intelligible and effective as absolute music; that the title is sufficiently explanatory. “The introduction begins immediately with the hero’s motive and pictures with constantly increasing liveliness by other themes of knightly and gallant character life as it is mirrored in writings from the beginning of the seventeenth century. ‘Don Quixote, busied in reading romances of chivalry, loses his reason—and determines to go through the world as a wandering knight.’” It is easy to recognize the hero’s theme in its variations, because the knight is always represented by the solo violoncello. The character of Sancho Panza is expressed by a theme first given to bass clarinet and tenor tuba; but afterward and to the end by a solo viola. _Don Quixote_ is divided into an introduction, a theme with variations, and a _finale_. The sections are connected without a break. Each variation portrays an incident in the novel.

Introduction

_Mässiges Zeitmass_ (_moderato_), D major, 4-4. Don Quixote plunged himself deeply in his reading of books of knighthood, “and in the end, through his little sleep and much reading, he dried up his brains in such sort, as he lost wholly his judgment. His fantasy was filled with those things that he read, of enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, tempests, and other impossible follies.”[49] The first theme (wind instruments) foreshadows the typical Don Quixote motive, and is here typical of knight-errantry in general. The next section (strings) represents the idea of knightly gallantry, and the whole theme ends with the passages that include the strange harmonies and portray his madness. These strange progressions recur frequently throughout the work. “He does not dream,” says Mr. H. W. Harris, “that his reasoning is at fault or that he is the victim of self-delusion; on the contrary, he ascribes all such discrepancies to magic, by which he believes himself to be persecuted, which is clearly being employed to make things appear otherwise than his judgment assures him they really should be.”

The first section of the first theme is ornamented (violas). Don Quixote grows more and more romantic and chivalric. He sees the Ideal Woman, his lady-love (oboe). The trumpets tell of a giant attacking her and her rescue by a knight. “In this part of the Introduction, the use of mutes on all the instruments—including the tuba, here so treated for the first time—creates an indescribable effect of vagueness and confusion, indicating that they are mere phantasms with which the Knight is concerned, which cloud his brain.” A Penitent enters (muted violas _fortissimo_). Don Quixote’s brain grows more and more confused. The orchestral themes grow wilder. An augmented version of the first section of the theme (brass), followed by a harp _glissando_, leads to shrill discord—the Knight is mad. “The repeated use of the various sections of the first theme shows that his madness has something to do with chivalry.” Don Quixote has decided to be a knight-errant.

Theme

“Don Quixote, the knight of the sorrowful countenance; Sancho Panza.” _Moderato_, D minor, 4-4. The Don Quixote theme is announced by solo violoncello. It is of close kin to the theme of the introduction. Sancho Panza is typified by a theme given first to bass clarinet and tenor tuba; but afterward the solo viola is the characteristic instrument of Sancho.

Variation I

The Knight and the Squire set out on their journey. “In a leisurely manner,” D minor, 12-8. The beautiful Dulcinea of Toboso inspires the Knight (a version of the “Ideal Woman” theme), who soon sees some windmills (brass) and prepares to attack. A breeze arises (wood-wind and strings), and the Knight, angry at the challenge, attacks, and is knocked down by the sails (run in wood-wind, harp _glissando_, heavy drum-beats).

Variation II

The Victorious Battle against the Host of the Great Emperor Alifanfaron. “Warlike,” D major, 4-4. There is a cloud of dust; surely a great army approaches; the Knight rushes to fight, in spite of the warnings of Sancho, who sees the sheep. There is a pastoral figure (wood-wind), and out of the dust cloud (strings) comes a chorus of “Ba-a-a-a” (muted brass). Don Quixote charges and puts the foes to confusion.

Variation III

The Dialogues of the Knight and the Squire. _Moderato_, 4-4. Sancho questions the worth of such a life. Don Quixote speaks of honor and glory (first theme), but Sancho sees nothing in them. The dispute waxes hot. Don Quixote speaks nobly of the ideal. Sancho prefers the easy, comfortable realities of life. At last his master is angry and bids him hold his tongue.

Variation IV

The Adventure with the Penitents. “Somewhat broader,” D minor, 4-4. A church theme (wind instruments) announces the approach of a band of pilgrims. Don Quixote sees in them shameless robbers, desperate villains. He attacks them. They knock him senseless and go on their prayerful way. Sancho, sorely disturbed, rejoices when his master shows signs of life, and after he has helped him, lies down by his side and goes to sleep (bass tuba, double bassoon).

Variation V

The Knight’s Vigil. “Very slow,” 4-4. Don Quixote, ashamed to sleep, holds watch by his armor. Dulcinea, answering his prayers, appears in a vision (the “Ideal Woman” theme, horn). A _cadenza_ for harp and violins leads to a passage portraying his rapture.

Variation VI

The Meeting with Dulcinea. G major, 2-4, 3-4. A common country wench comes along (wood-wind, tambourine), and Sancho by way of jest points her out to his master as Dulcinea. The Knight cannot believe it. Sancho swears it is so. The Knight suddenly knows that some magic has worked this transformation, and he vows vengeance.

Variation VII

The Ride through the Air. D minor, 8-4. Knight and Squire sit, blindfolded, on a wooden horse, which, they have been made to believe, will bear them through the air. Their respective themes soar skyward. The wind whistles about them (chromatic flute passages, harp, drum roll, wind machine). They stop suddenly (long-held bassoon note), and, looking about them, they think themselves still on the ground. “The persistent _tremolo_ of the double basses on one note may be taken to mean that the two did not really leave the solid earth.”

Variation VIII

The Journey in the Enchanted Bark. Don Quixote sees an empty boat, and he is sure it is sent by some mysterious power, that he may do a glorious deed. He and Sancho embark. His typical theme is changed into a barcarolle. The boat upsets, but they succeed in gaining the shore; and they give thanks for their safety (wind instruments _religioso_).

Variation IX

The Combat with Two Magicians. “Quickly and stormily,” D minor, 4-4. Don Quixote is again on his famous horse, eager for adventure. Two peaceable monks are jogging along on their mules, and the Knight sees in them the base magicians who have worked him harm. He charges them and puts them to flight. The two themes are a version of the Don Quixote motive and an ecclesiastical phrase for the bassoons.

Variation X

Don Quixote, defeated by the Knight of the White Moon, returns home and resolves to be a shepherd. “Know, sir,” said the Knight of the White Moon, “that I am styled the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, and am one of Don Quixote’s town; whose wild madness hath moved as many of us as know him to compassion, and me amongst the rest most; and believing that the best means to procure his health is to keep him quiet, and so to have him in his own house, I thought upon this device.” So said this knight after the furious battle which is thus described:

“They both of them set spurs to their horses, and the Knight of the White Moon’s being the swifter, met Don Quixote ere he had run a quarter of his career so forcibly (without touching him with his lance, for it seemed he carried it aloft on purpose) that he tumbled horse and man both to the ground, and Don Quixote had a terrible fall; so he got straight on the top of him; and, clapping his lance’s point upon his visor, said, ‘You are vanquished, Knight, and a dead man, if you confess not, according to the conditions of our combat.’ Don Quixote, all bruised and amazed, without heaving up his visor, as if he had spoken out of a tomb, with a faint and weak voice, said, ‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the unfortunatest Knight on earth; and it is not fit that my weakness defraud this truth; thrust your lance into me, Knight, and kill me, since you have bereaved me of my honor.’ ‘Not so truly,’ quoth he of the White Moon, ‘let the fame of my Lady Dulcinea’s beauty live in her entireness; I am only contented that the grand Don Quixote retire home for a year, or till such time as I please, as we agreed, before we began the battle.’ And Don Quixote answered that, so nothing were required of him in prejudice of his Lady Dulcinea, he would accomplish all the rest, like a true and punctual knight.” The variation portrays the fight. The pastoral theme heard in the second variation—the battle with the sheep—reappears. Don Quixote loses one by one his illusions.

Finale

The Death of Don Quixote. “Very peacefully,” D major, 4-4. The typical theme of the Knight takes a new form. The queer harmonies in a section of this theme are now conventional, commonplace. “They stood all gazing one upon another, wondering at Don Quixote’s sound reasons, although they made some doubt to believe them. One of the signs which induced them to conjecture that he was near unto death’s door was that with such facility he was from a stark fool become a wise man. For, to the words already alleged, he added many more so significant, so Christian-like, and so well couched, that without doubt they confidently believed that Don Quixote was become a right wise man.... These heavy news opened the sluices of the tears-ful and swollen-blubbering eyes of the maid, of the niece, and of his good Squire Sancho Panza; so that they showered forth whole fountains of tears and fetched from the very bottom of their aggrieved hearts a thousand groaning sighs. For in effect (as we have already declared elsewhere) whilst Don Quixote was simply the good Alonso Quixano, and likewise when he was Don Quixote de la Mancha, he was ever of a mild and affable disposition and of a kind and pleasing conversation: and therefore was he not only beloved of all his household, but also of all those that knew him.... He had no sooner ended his discourse and signed and sealed his will and testament, but a swooning and faintness surprising him, he stretched himself the full length of his bed. All the company were much distracted and moved thereat, and ran presently to help him; and during the space of three days, that he lived after he had made his will, he did swoon and fall into trances almost every hour. All the house was in a confusion and uproar; all which notwithstanding the niece ceased not to feed very devoutly: the maidservant to drink profoundly, and Sancho to live merrily. For, when a man is in hope to inherit anything, that hope doth deface or at least moderate in the mind of the inheritor the remembrance or feeling of the sorrow and grief which of reason he should have a feeling of the testator’s death. To conclude, the last day of Don Quixote came, after he had received all the sacraments; and had by many and godly reasons made demonstration to abhor all the books of errant chivalry. The notary was present at his death and reporteth how he had never read or found in any book of chivalry that any errant knight died in his bed so mildly, so quietly, and so Christianly as did Don Quixote. Amidst the wailful plaints and blubbering tears of the bystanders, he yielded up the ghost, that is to say, he died.”

“Tremolos in the strings indicate the first shiver of a deadly fever.” The Knight feels his end is near. Through the violoncello he speaks his last words. He remembers his fancies; he recalls the dreams and the ambitions; he realizes that they were all as smoke and vanity; he is, indeed, ready to die.

“EIN HELDENLEBEN” (A HERO’S LIFE), TONE POEM, OP. 40

We doubt if _Ein Heldenleben_ will be ranked among Strauss’s important works, though some of the sections, notably “The Hero’s Escape from the World, and Conclusion” are impressive, having emotional depth, being the baring of a soul. No man is perhaps a hero to his valet; but Strauss is evidently a hero to himself. He is autobiographical in this tone poem, as in his _Domestic_ symphony. There is a certain presumption in asking one to hear musical descriptions of a composer’s struggles, his feelings at being adversely criticized by wretched Philistines, who do not appreciate him, his sulking and withdrawal, like Achilles to his tent. And why drag Frau Strauss into the musical story and typify her, capricious, coquettish, by whimsical measures for the violin? This tone poem, in spite of the sections just referred to, might be justly entitled “A Poseur’s Life,” and a blustering poseur at that.

Still, in _Ein Heldenleben_ there is the peaceful, contemplative ending, pages that Strauss has seldom surpassed, only in the recognition scene of _Elektra_ and the presentation of the rose by the cavalier.

* * *

_Ein Heldenleben_, a _Tondichtung_, was first performed at the eleventh concert of the Museumsgesellschaft, Frankfort-on-the-Main, March 3, 1899, when Strauss conducted from manuscript and Alfred Hess played the violin solo.

Strauss began the composition of this tone poem at Munich, August 2, 1898; he completed the score December 27, 1898, at Charlottenburg. The score and parts were published at Leipsic in March, 1899.

The score calls for these instruments: sixteen first and second violins, twelve violas, twelve violoncellos, eight double basses, two harps, a piccolo, three flutes, three or four oboes, an English horn, clarinet in E flat, two clarinets in B flat, bass clarinet, three bassoons, double bassoon, eight horns, five trumpets, three trombones, a tenor tuba, a bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, snare drum, side drum, cymbals. It is dedicated to Willem Mengelberg and his orchestra in Amsterdam. Strauss has said that he wrote _A Hero’s Life_ as a companion work to his _Don Quixote_, Op. 35: “Having in this later work sketched the tragi-comic figure of the Spanish Knight whose vain search after heroism leads to insanity, he presents in _A Hero’s Life_ not a single poetical or historical figure, but rather a more general and free ideal of great and manly heroism—not the heroism to which one can apply an everyday standard of valor, with its material and exterior rewards, but that heroism which describes the inward battle of life, and which aspires through effort and renouncement towards the elevation of the soul.”

There are many descriptions and explanations of _Ein Heldenleben_. One of the longest and deepest—and thickest—is by Friedrich Rösch. This pamphlet contains seventy thematical illustrations, as well as a descriptive poem by Eberhard König. Romain Rolland quotes Strauss as saying: “There is no need of a programme. It is enough to know there is a hero fighting his enemies.”

The work is in six sections:

The Hero

The chief theme, which is typical of the hero, the whole and noble man, is announced at once by horn, violas and violoncellos, and the violins soon enter. This theme, E flat major, 4-4, is said to contain within itself four distinct motives, which collectively illustrate the will power and self-confidence of the hero, and their characteristic features are used throughout the work in this sense. Further themes closely related follow. They portray various sides of the hero’s character—his pride, emotional nature, iron will, richness of imagination, “inflexible and well-directed determination instead of low-spirited and sullen obstinacy,” etc. This section closes with pomp and brilliance, with the motive thundered out by the brass; and it is the most symphonic section of the tone poem. “A pause is made on a dominant seventh: ‘What has the world in store for the young dreamer?’”

The Hero’s Antagonists

They are jealous, they envy him, they sneer at his aims and endeavors, they are suspicious of his sincerity, they see nothing except for their own gain; and through flute and oboe they mock and snarl. They are represented by about a half-a-dozen themes, of which one is most important. Diminutions of the preceding heroic themes show their belittlement of his greatness. (It has been said that Strauss thus wished to paint the critics who had not been prudent enough to proclaim him great.) “Fifths in the tubas show their earthly, sluggish nature.” The hero’s theme appears in the minor; and his amazement, indignation, and momentary confusion are expressed by “a timid, writhing figure.” Finally the foes are shaken off.

The Hero’s Helpmate

This is an amorous episode. The hero is shy. The solo violin represents the loved one, who at first is coy, coquettish, and disdains his humble suit. There is a love theme, and there are also two “thematic illustrations of feminine caprice” much used later on. At last she rewards him. The themes given to the solo violin, and basses, violoncellos, and bassoon, are developed in the love duet. A new theme is given to the oboe, and a theme played by the violins is typical of the crowning of happiness. The clamorous voices of the world do not mar the peacefulness of the lovers.

The Hero’s Battlefield

There is a flourish of trumpets without. The hero rushes joyfully to arms. The enemy sends out his challenge. The battle rages. The typical heroic theme is brought into sharp contrast with that of the challenger, and the theme of the beloved one shines forth amid the din and the shock of the fight. The foe is slain. The themes lead into a song of victory. And now what is there for the hero? The world does not rejoice in his triumph. It looks on him with indifferent eyes.

The Hero’s Mission of Peace

This section describes the growth of the hero’s soul. The composer uses thematic material from _Don Juan_, _Also sprach Zarathustra_, _Tod und Verklärung_, _Don Quixote_, _Till Eulenspiegel’s lustige Streiche_, _Guntram_, _Macbeth_, and his song, “Traum durch die Dämmerung.” Jean Marnold claims that there are twenty-three of these reminiscences, quotations, which Strauss introduces suddenly, or successively, or simultaneously, “and the hearer that has not been warned cannot at the time notice the slightest disturbance in the development. He would not think that all these themes are foreign to the work he hears, and are only souvenirs.”

The Hero’s Escape from the World, and Conclusion

The world is still cold. At first the hero rages, but resignation and content soon take possession of his soul. The bluster of nature reminds him of his old days of war. Again he sees the beloved one, and in peace and contemplation his soul takes flight. For the last time the hero’s theme is heard as it rises to a sonorous, impressive climax. And then is solemn music, such as might serve funeral rites.

IGOR FEDOROVITCH STRAVINSKY

(Born at Oranienbaum, near St. Petersburg, on June 5, 1882)

As for Stravinsky, we personally prefer the Stravinsky of the _Sacre du Printemps_ to the Stravinsky who of late has been attempting to compose in the manner of Bach. To begin with, we do not hear music now with the ears of the earlier centuries, and the old idiom today has no pertinence except when it has been handed down to us by a master of it, who broke through the idiom and made a universal language of it for many years to come. Stravinsky’s feeble echo is simply dull, boresome. His “Muscovism” is greatly to be preferred.

SUITE FROM “L’OISEAU DE FEU” (THE FIRE-BIRD) A Danced Legend

I. Introduction: Kastcheï’s Enchanted Garden and Dance of the Fire-Bird II. Supplication of the Fire-Bird III. The Princesses Play with the Golden Apples IV. Dance of the Princess IVa. Berceuse V. Infernal Dance of All the Subjects of Kastcheï VI. Finale

In the summer of 1909 Diaghilev asked Stravinsky to write a ballet founded on the old Russian legend of the Fire-Bird. The score was ready in May, 1910. The scenario was the work of Fokine.

The first performance of _L’Oiseau de Feu_, a _Conte dansé_, in two scenes, was at the Paris _Opéra_ on June 25, 1910. The Fire-Bird, Tamara Karsavina; The Beautiful Tsarevna, Mme Fokina; Ivan Tsarevitch, Fokine; Kastcheï, Boulgakov. Gabriel Pierné conducted. The stage settings were by Golovine and Bakst. Balakirev had sketched an opera in which the Fire-Bird was the central figure, but nothing came of it. Kastcheï (or Kostcheï) is the hero of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera _Kastcheï the Immortal: an Autumn Legend_, produced at the Private Opera, Moscow, in 1902. He also figures as “the man-skeleton” in Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Mlada_, a fairy opera-ballet (St. Petersburg, 1893) and, by implication, Moussorgsky’s symphonic poem, _A Night on Bald Mountain_.

Mr. Montagu-Nathan[50] says in his sketch of Stravinsky: “In identifying the literary basis of _The Fire-Bird_ with that of Korsakov’s _Kastcheï_, it should be pointed out that the latter work is but a _pastiche_ of episodes derived from legendary lore, with the monster as a central figure. In Stravinsky’s ballet, the ogre is an accessory character, so far as concerns the dramatic action, but his presence in the scheme is nevertheless vital to it.”

“Ivan Tsarevich, the hero of many tales, wandering in the night, espies the Fire-Bird attempting to pluck the golden fruit from a silver tree, and, after a chase, succeeds in capturing her. But receiving the gift of a glowing feather he consents to forego his prize. As the darkness of night lifts, Ivan discovers that he is in the grounds of an old castle, from which thirteen maidens presently emerge. They are observed by the concealed youth to make play with the tree and its fruit. Disclosing himself, he obtains possession of a golden apple. With the approaching dawn the maidens withdraw into the castle, which Ivan now recognizes as that of the fearsome Kastcheï, captor of decoyed travelers, over whom he tyrannously wields his magic power. Ivan resolves upon entering Kastcheï’s abode, but on opening the gate he is confronted first by a motley horde of freakish monsters and then by the ogre himself, to whose court they belong. Kastcheï seeks to bewitch the young adventurer and to turn him to stone, but Ivan is protected by the glowing feather. Presently the bird comes to his aid and nullifies Kastcheï’s threatened spell, and, after demonstrating its power by causing the frightful company of courtiers to break into a frenzied dance, reveals the casket in which Kastcheï’s ‘death’ is hidden. From the casket Ivan takes an egg, which he dashes to the ground; the death it contains unites itself with its owner, and the dread wizard dies. His castle vanishes, his victims are liberated, and Ivan receives the hand of the most beautiful of the maidens.”

The score, which was later revised with a smaller orchestration, calls for piccolo, three flutes (one interchangeable with a second piccolo), three oboes, English horn, three clarinets in A (one interchangeable with a small clarinet in D), bass clarinet, three bassoons (one interchangeable with a second double bassoon), double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, bells, tambourine, xylophone, celesta, pianoforte, three harps, sixteen first violins, sixteen second violins, fourteen violas, eight violoncellos, six double basses.

SUITE FROM THE BALLET, “PETROUCHKA”

_Carnival—The Magician—Russian Dance—Petrouchka—The Arab—Dance of the Ballerina—Carnival—Nurses’ Dance—The Bear and the Peasant Playing a Hand-Organ—The Merchant and the Gypsies—The Dance of the Coachmen and Grooms—The Masqueraders—The Quarrel of the Arab and Petrouchka, and the Death of Petrouchka._

The ballet _Petrouchka: Scènes burlesques en 4 Tableaux_, scenario by Alexandre Benois, was completed by Stravinsky at Rome in May (13-26), 1911. It was produced by Diaghilev at the Châtelet, Paris, on June 13, 1911. The chief dancers were Mme Tamar Karsavina, La Ballerine; Nijinsky, Petrouchka. Mr. Monteux conducted; Mr. Fokine was the ballet master. The scenery and costumes were designed by Benois; the scenery was painted by Anisfeld.

“This ballet depicts the life of the lower classes in Russia, with all its dissoluteness, barbarity, tragedy, and misery. Petrouchka is a sort of Polichinello, a poor hero always suffering from the cruelty of the police and every kind of wrong and unjust persecution. This represents symbolically the whole tragedy in the existence of the Russian people, a suffering from despotism and injustice. The scene is laid in the midst of the Russian carnival, and the streets are lined with booths in one of which Petrouchka plays a kind of humorous rôle. He is killed, but he appears again and again as a ghost on the roof of the booth to frighten his enemy, his old employer, an allusion to the despotic rules in Russia.”

The following description of the ballet is taken from _Contemporary Russian Composers_, by Mr. Montagu-Nathan:

“The ‘plot’ of _Petrouchka_ owes nothing to folklore, but retains the quality of the fantastic. Its chief protagonist is a lovelorn doll; but we have still a villain in the person of the _focusnik_, a showman who for his own ends prefers to consider that a puppet has no soul. The scene is the Admiralty Square, St. Petersburg; the time ‘Butter-Week,’ somewhere about the eighteen-thirties.... Prior to the raising of the first curtain the music has an expectant character and the varied rhythmic treatment of a melodic figure which has a distinct folk-tune flavor has all the air of inviting conjecture as to what is about to happen. Once the curtain goes up we are immediately aware that we are in the midst of a carnival, and are prepared for some strange sights. The music describes the nature of the crowd magnificently, and in his orchestral reproduction of a hurdy-gurdy, whose player mingles with the throng, Stravinsky has taken pains that his orchestral medium shall not lend any undue dignity to the instrument.... Presently the showman begins to attract his audience, and, preparatory to opening his curtain, plays a few mildly florid passages on his flute. With his final flourish he animates his puppets. They have been endowed by the showman with human feelings and passions. Petrouchka is ugly and consequently the most sensitive. He endeavors to console himself for his master’s cruelty by exciting the sympathy and winning the love of his fellow doll, the Ballerina, but in this he is less successful than the callous and brutal Moor, the remaining unit in the trio of puppets. Jealousy between Petrouchka and the Moor is the cause of the tragedy which ends in the pursuit and slaughter of the former. The Russian Dance which the three puppets perform at the bidding of their task-master recalls vividly the passage of a crowd in Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Kitezh_.

“When at the end of the dance the light fails and the inner curtain falls, we are reminded by the roll of the side drum which does duty as entr’acte music that we have to do with a realist, with a composer who is no more inclined than was his precursor Dargomijsky to make concessions; he prefers to preserve illusions, and so long as the drum continues its slow fusillade the audience’s mind is kept fixed upon the doll it has been contemplating. The unsuccessful courtship is now enacted and then the scene is again changed to the Moor’s apartment, where, after a monotonous droning dance, the captivation of the Ballerina takes place. There are from time to time musical figures recalling the showman’s flute flourishes, apparently referring to his dominion over the doll.... The scene ends with the summary ejection of that unfortunate (Petrouchka), and the drum once more bridges the change of scene.

“In the last tableau the Carnival, with its consecutive common chords, is resumed. The nurses’ dance, which is of folk origin, is one of several items of decorative music, some of them, like the episode of the man with the bear, and the merchant’s accordion, being fragmentary. With the combined dance of the nurses, coachmen, and grooms, we have again a wonderful counterpoint of the melodic elements.

“When the fun is at its height, it is suddenly interrupted by Petrouchka’s frenzied flight from the little theater. He is pursued by the Moor, whom the cause of their jealousy tries vainly to hold in check. To the consternation of the spectators, Petrouchka is slain by a stroke of the cruel Moor’s sword, and a tap on the _tambour de Basque_.

“The showman, having demonstrated to the satisfaction of the gay crowd that Petrouchka is only a doll, is left alone with the corpse, but is not allowed to depart in absolute peace of mind. To the accompaniment of a ghastly distortion of the showman’s flute music the wraith of Petrouchka appears above the little booth. There is a brief reference to the carnival figure, then four concluding _pizzicato_ notes, and the drama is finished. From his part in outlining it we conclude that Stravinsky is an artist whose lightness of touch equals that of Ravel, whose humanity is as deep as Moussorgsky’s.”

The ballet calls for these instruments: four flutes (two interchangeable with piccolo), four oboes (one interchangeable with English horn), four clarinets (one interchangeable with bass clarinet), four bassoons (one interchangeable with double bassoon), four horns, two trumpets (one interchangeable with little trumpet, in D), two _cornets-à-pistons_, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, snare drum, _tambour de Provence_, bass drum, tambourine, cymbals, triangle, glockenspiel, xylophones, tam-tam, celesta (two and four hands), pianoforte, two harps, strings. The score, dedicated to Alexandre Benois, was published in 1912.

“LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS” (“THE RITE OF SPRING”), PICTURES OF PAGAN RUSSIA

I. The Adoration of the Earth

_Introduction—Harbingers of Spring—Dance of the Adolescents—Abduction—Spring Rounds—Games of the Rival Cities—The Procession of the Wise Men—The Adoration of the Earth (The Wise Man)—Dance of the Earth._

II. The Sacrifice

_Introduction—Mysterious Circles of the Adolescents—Glorification of the Chosen One—Evocation of the Ancestors—Ritual of the Ancestors—The Sacrificial Dance of the Chosen One._

_The Rite of Spring_, or more literally according to the Russian _Spring Consecration_, scenery and costumes designed by Nicolas Roerich, choreography by W. Nijinsky, was produced at the Théâtre des Champs Élysées on May 29, 1913, by the Diaghilev Ballet Russe. Mr. Monteux conducted. The chief dancers were M. Nijinsky and Mlle Piltz. The performance, while it delighted some, incited howls of protest. The hissing was violent, mingled with counter cheers, so that M. Astruc ordered the lights turned up. The late Alfred Capu wrote a bitter article published in _Le Figaro_, in which he said:

“Bluffing the idle rich of Paris through appeals to their snobbery is a delightfully simple matter.... The process works out as follows: Take the best society possible, composed of rich, simple-minded, idle people. Then submit them to an intense régime of publicity. By pamphlets, newspaper articles, lectures, personal visits and all other appeals to their snobbery, persuade them that hitherto they have seen only vulgar spectacles, and are at last to know what is art and beauty. Impress them with cabalistic formulæ. They have not the slightest notion of music, literature, painting, and dancing; still, they have heretofore seen under these names only a rude imitation of the real thing. Finally assure them that they are about to see real dancing and hear real music. It will then be necessary to double the prices at the theater, so great will be the rush of shallow worshipers at this false shrine.”

Mr. Carl Van Vechten describes the scene in his book: _Music after the Great War_:

“I attended the first performance in Paris of Stravinsky’s anarchistic (against the canons of academic art) ballet, _The Rite of Spring_, in which primitive emotions are both depicted and aroused by a dependence on barbarous rhythm in which melody and harmony, as even so late a composer as Richard Strauss understands them, do not enter. A certain part of the audience, thrilled by what it considered to be a blasphemous attempt to destroy music as an art, and swept away with wrath, began very soon after the rise of the curtain to whistle, to make cat-calls, and to offer audible suggestions as to how the performance should proceed. Others of us, who liked the music and felt that the principles of free speech were at stake, bellowed defiance. It was war over art for the rest of the evening, and the orchestra played on unheard, except occasionally when a slight lull occurred. The figures on the stage danced in time to music that they had to imagine they heard, and beautifully out of rhythm with the uproar in the auditorium. I was sitting in a box, in which I had rented one seat. Three ladies sat in front of me, and a young man occupied the place behind me. He stood up during the course of the ballet to enable himself to see more clearly. The intense excitement under which he was laboring, thanks to the potent force of the music, betrayed itself presently when he began to beat rhythmically on the top of my head with his fists. My emotion was so great that I did not feel the blows for some time. They were perfectly synchronized with the beat of the music. When I did, I turned around. His apology was sincere. We had both been carried beyond ourselves.”

There were five performances in Paris that season.

When this ballet was brought out at Drury Lane, London, on July 11, 1913, with Mr. Monteux conductor, it was thought advisable to send a lecturer, Mr. Edwin Evans, in front of the curtain, to explain the ideas underlying the ballet. At the end of the performance there was greater applause than hissing.

The music of this ballet was performed for the first time in concert form by an orchestra conducted by Mr. Monteux at one of his concerts at the Casino de Paris in Paris on April 5, 1914, when it was enthusiastically applauded.

And now _The Rite of Spring_ is acclaimed by many as Stravinsky’s “greatest work.”

The orchestration is as follows: piccolo, 3 flutes (the third interchangeable with a second piccolo), bass flute; five oboes (the fourth interchangeable with English horn); small clarinet in E flat, three clarinets and bass clarinet; three bassoons, two double bassoons; eight horns (two interchangeable with tenor tubas); small trumpet in D, three trumpets in C, bass trumpet; three trombones; two bass tubas; kettledrums, bass drum, two antique cymbals, tam-tam, scratcher, and strings.

JOSEPH DEEMS TAYLOR

(Born at New York, December 22, 1885)

“THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS,” SUITE, FIVE PICTURES FROM LEWIS CARROLL, OP. 12

Ia. Dedication Ib. The Garden of Live Flowers II. Jabberwocky III. Looking-Glass Insects IV. The White Knight

It is a pleasure to find an American composer of talent who is willing to write music that is cheerful, not portentous; whose fancy is delicate; who uses a large orchestra discreetly, not chiefly to make a thunderous noise. Mr. Taylor for his inspiration went to a book that for years has pleased children from the tender age to that of white hair; he did not ransack the Grecian or the Scandinavian mythology; he had no thesis, no exposition of colors; he did not attempt to portray in music cave life and the rude rites of primitive man. Nor did he strive painfully to be ultra-modern in the French, Italian, or German manner. He remembered Lewis Carroll’s story. Pleasant and amusing musical thoughts came into his head, and he expressed them musically, without laboring after transliteration. Even his narration of the Jabberwock’s fate is not too realistic, and in this movement the measures that may be taken to picture the peaceful scene while the hero waited “with vorpal sword” in hand by the Tumtum tree the approach of the fearful monster are charged with poetic beauty. Charming also is the “Dedication.” The whole work shows genuine fancy, a gift of expression in an individual manner. Whether without titles the music would identify this or that episode is not to the point. The suite is frankly programme music, but of the better kind; natural, not pretentious; amusing, but as a man of talent amuses first himself, then those who are privileged to be with him.

* * *

This suite, inspired by _Through the Looking-Glass_, by Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, 1832-98), was written in 1917-19 for flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, horn, pianoforte, and strings. It was produced in this form at a concert of the New York Chamber Music Society in New York on February 18, 1919. The suite was then in three movements. In September, 1921, Mr. Taylor began to revise the suite for full orchestra. He added “The Garden of Live Flowers.” The first performance of the revised work was by the New York Symphony Orchestra in Brooklyn, March 10, 1923. The performance was repeated in New York the following afternoon.

The score, dedicated “To Katharine Moore Taylor from a difficult son,” calls for these instruments: three flutes (and piccolo), two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, a set of three kettledrums, snare drum, tambourine, cymbals, triangle, glockenspiel, xylophone, pianoforte, and strings.

When the suite was produced by the Symphony Society of New York, the programme contained a description by Mr. Taylor:

“The suite needs no extended analysis. It is based on Lewis Carroll’s immortal nonsense fairy tale, _Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_, and the five pictures it presents will, if all goes well, be readily recognizable to lovers of the book. There are four movements, the first being subdivided into two connected parts.”

Ia. Dedication

Carroll precedes the tale with a charming poetical foreword, the first stanza of which the music aims to express. It runs:

_Child of the pure, unclouded brow And dreaming eyes of wonder! Though time be fleet, and I and thou Are half a life asunder, Thy loving smile will surely hail The love gift of a fairy tale._

A simple song theme, briefly developed, leads to

Ib. The Garden of Live Flowers

(The score contains this extract from the book:

“‘O Tiger Lily,’ said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, ‘I wish you could talk.’

“‘We can talk,’ said the Tiger-Lily, ‘when there’s anybody worth talking to.’

“‘And can the flowers talk?’

“‘As well as you can,’ said the Tiger-Lily, ‘and a great deal louder.’”)

Shortly after Alice had entered the looking-glass country she came to a lovely garden in which the flowers were talking—in the words of the Tiger-Lily, “as well as you can, and a great deal louder.” The music, therefore, reflects the brisk chatter of the swaying, bright-colored denizens of the garden.

II. Jabberwocky

This is the poem that so puzzled Alice, and which Humpty-Dumpty finally explained to her. The theme of that frightful beast, the Jabberwock, is first announced by the full orchestra. The clarinet then begins the tale, recounting how on a “brillig” afternoon, the “slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” Muttered imprecations by the bassoon warn us to “beware the Jabberwock, my son.” A miniature march signalizes the approach of our hero, taking “his vorpal sword in hand.” Trouble starts among the trombones—the Jabberwock is upon us. The battle with the monster is recounted in a short and rather repellent fugue, the double basses bringing up the subject and the hero fighting back in the interludes. Finally his vorpal blade (really a xylophone) goes “snicker-snack” and the monster, impersonated by the solo bassoon, dies a lingering and convulsive death. The hero returns to the victorious strains of his own theme—“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” The whole orchestra rejoices—the church bells are rung—alarums and excursions.

Conclusion. Once more the “slithy toves” perform their pleasing evolutions, undisturbed by the uneasy ghost of the late Jabberwock.

III. Looking-Glass Insects

(The score contains extracts from the dialogue of Alice and the gnat “about the size of a chicken” about various insects, among them the bread-and-butter-fly.

“‘And what does it live on?’

“‘Weak tea with cream in it.’

“‘Supposing it couldn’t find any?’

“‘Then it would die, of course.’

“‘But that must happen very often,’ said Alice thoughtfully.

“‘It always happens,’ said the gnat.”)

Here we find the vociferous diptera that made such an impression upon Alice—the Bee-elephant, the Gnat, the Rocking-horse-fly, the Snap-dragon-fly, and the Bread-and-butter-fly. There are several themes, but there is no use trying to decide which insect any one of them stands for.

IV. The White Knight

(The score contains extracts from the conversation of the White Knight, and an account of his leave-taking.)

He was a toy Don Quixote, mild, chivalrous, ridiculous, and rather touching. He carried a mouse-trap on his saddle-bow, “because, if they do come, I don’t choose to have them running about.” He couldn’t ride very well, but he was a gentle soul, with good intentions. There are two themes: the first, a sort of instrumental prance, being the Knight’s own conception of himself as a slashing, dare-devil fellow. The second is bland, mellifluous, a little sentimental—much more like the Knight as he really was. The first theme starts off bravely, but falls out of the saddle before very long, and has to give way to the second. The two alternate, in various guises, until the end, when the Knight rides off, with Alice waving her handkerchief—he thought it would encourage him if she did.

PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY

(Born at Votkinsk, in the government of Viatka, Russia, May 7, 1840; died at St. Petersburg, November 6, 1893)

It is true that in more than one page of his symphonies Tchaikovsky narrowly escapes the reproach of vulgarity; but the earnestness, the sincerity of the speech makes its way even before the development and the amplification make them seem inevitable. The heart of Tchaikovsky was that of a little child; the brain was that of a man weary of the world and all its vanities. And so we have the singular phenomenon of naïveté, accompanied by a super-refined skill—and all this in the body and mind of a man fundamentally oriental in his tastes and especially in his love of surprising or monotonous rhythms and gorgeous colors. The very modernity of Tchaikovsky, his closeness to us as the spokesman of the things we think and dare not say—these qualities may war against his lasting fame; but in our day and generation he is the supreme interpreter by music of elemental and emotional thought. The emptiness of life obsessed him, and in the expression of his thought he is again the man of his period. When faith returns again to the world, his music may be studied with interest and curiosity as an important document in sociology. But in the present we are under his mighty spell.

SYMPHONY NO. 4, IN F MINOR, OP. 36

I. Andante sostenuto; moderato con anima in movimento di valse II. Andantino in modo di canzona III. Scherzo: “pizzicato ostinato”; allegro IV. Finale: allegro con fuoco

If Tchaikovsky had a programme in mind when he composed his Fifth and Sixth symphonies, he never published it to the world; but for the Fourth he wrote an elaborate one. Does the music gain by it? To us the Fourth symphony is interesting because it seems nearer to the Russian spirit and life as portrayed by Dostoivsky than the later ones. Even the ornamentation, the arabesques, that in another’s music would seem as so many excrescences, perhaps frivolous, are here in place. The neurotic, self-torturing Tchaikovsky was for years obsessed by the thought of death and the charnel house. Fate was to him not a word to be associated only with the story of Œdipus or Pelop’s line. The Fourth symphony is a personal document, revealing the man, as his letters revealed him. It is easy to pick flaws in it; to dismiss it as a suite, not a symphony; to complain of this or that; but the music with its deep-rooted melancholy, its noisy attempt to forget the inevitable end, its drunken hilarity, its dark and sinister sadness, is not easily to be put aside, not easily to be forgotten.

* * *

Tchaikovsky composed this symphony during the winter of 1877-78. He had lost interest in an opera, _Othello_, for which a libretto at his own wish had been drafted by Stassov. The first draft was finished in May, 1877. He began the instrumentation on August 23 of that year, and finished the first movement September 24. He began work again towards the end of November. The _andantino_ was finished on December 27, the _scherzo_ on January 1, 1878, and the _finale_ on January 7, 1878.

The first performance was at a symphony concert of the Russian Musical Society, Moscow, February 22, 1878. Nicholas Rubinstein conducted.

The dedication of this symphony is as follows: “_À mon meilleur ami_” (To my best friend), and thereby hangs a tale.

This best friend was the widow Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck. Her maiden name was Frolovsky. Born in the village Snamensk, government of Smolensk, February 10, 1831, she married in 1848 an engineer, and for some years knew poverty. Her courage did not give way; she was a helpmeet for her husband, who finally became famous and successful. In 1876 her husband died. She was left with eleven children and a fortune of “many millions of rubles.” Dwelling at Moscow, fond of music, she admired beyond measure certain works by Tchaikovsky. Inquiring curiously concerning his character as a man and about his worldly circumstances, she became acquainted with Kotek, a pupil of Tchaikovsky in composition. Through him she gave Tchaikovsky commissions for transcriptions for violin and pianoforte of some of his works. There was an interchange of letters. In the early summer of 1877 she learned that he was in debt. She sent him 3,000 rubles; in the fall of the same year she determined to give him yearly the sum of 6,000 rubles, that he might compose free from pecuniary care and vexation; but she insisted that they should never meet. They never spoke together; their letters were frequent and intimate. Tchaikovsky poured out his soul to this woman, described by his brother Modeste as proud and energetic, with deep-rooted principles, with the independence of a man; a woman that held in disdain all that was petty and conventional; pure in thought and action; a woman that was compassionate, not sentimental.

The composer wrote to her on May 13, 1877, that he purposed to dedicate this symphony to her. “I believe that you will find in it echoes of your deepest thoughts and feelings. At this moment any other work would be odious to me; I speak only of work that presupposes the existence of a determined mood. Added to this I am in a very nervous, worried, and irritable state, highly unfavorable to composition, and even my symphony suffers in consequence.” In August, 1877, writing to her, he referred to the symphony as “yours.” “I hope it will please you, for that is the main thing.” He wrote in August from Kamenka: “The first movement has cost me much trouble in scoring it. It is very complicated and long; but it seems to me it is also the most important. The other movements are simple, and it will be fun to score them. There will be a new effect of sound in the _scherzo_, and I expect much from it. At first the strings play alone and _pizzicato_ throughout. In the trio the wood-wind instruments enter and play alone. At the end all three choirs toss short phrases to each other. I believe that the effects of sound and color will be most interesting.” He wrote to her in December from Venice that he was hard at work on the instrumentation: “No one of my orchestral pieces has cost me so much labor, but on no one have I worked with so much love and with such devotion. At first I was led on only by the wish to bring the symphony to an end, and then I grew more and more fond of the task, and now I cannot bear to leave it. My dear Nadejda Filaretovna, perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems to me that this symphony is no mediocre piece; that it is the best I have yet made. How glad I am that it is our work, and that you will know when you hear it how much I thought about you in every measure! If you were not, would it ever have been finished? When I was in Moscow and thought that my end was about to come [There is a reference here to the crazed condition of Tchaikovsky after his amazing marriage to Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov. The wedding was on July 18, 1877. He left his wife at Moscow, October 6, of that year.] I wrote on the first draft: ‘If I should die, please send this manuscript to N. F. von Meck.’ I wished the manuscript of my last composition to be in your possession. Now I am not only well, but, thanks to you, in the position to give myself wholly to work, and I believe that I have written music which cannot fall into oblivion. Yet it is possible that I am wrong; it is the peculiar habit of all artists to wax enthusiastic over the youngest of their productions.” Later he had chills as well as fever over the worth of the symphony.

SYMPHONY NO. 5, IN E MINOR, OP. 64

I. Andante; Allegro con anima II. Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza III. Valse (Allegro moderato) IV. Finale (Andante maestoso; allegro vivace)

Tchaikovsky was singularly reticent in his letters concerning the Fifth symphony, but who can refrain from thinking with Ernest Newman that this symphony was written to a programme; that the work “embodies an emotional sequence of some kind”? There is the tread of inexorable fate; this tread disturbs the beauty of the _andante_; it checks the forced gayety of the dancers in the waltz, and is the triumphant spirit in the _finale_ something more than a heroic defiance of the inevitable, a brave stand before the approach of death?

We are interested in the woe of Canio or of the Navarraise; we are moved by the infinite sadness of Mélisande; we understand the tragedy in the humble home on Montmartre and the agony of Rigoletto. We endure the spectacle of the anguish of these men and women on the stage, applaud and go comfortably to bed. Tchaikovsky’s music awakens in the breast the haunting, unanswerable questions of life and death that concern us directly and personally.

* * *

About the end of April, 1888, Tchaikovsky took possession of his country house at Frolovskoe, which had been made ready for him, when he was at Paris and London, by his servant Alexis. Frolovskoe is a picturesque place on a wooded hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. The house was simple. “Here he [Tchaikovsky] could be alone,”—we quote from Mrs. Newmarch’s translation into English of Modeste Tchaikovsky’s life of Peter,—“free from summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out upon a distant stretch of country—upon that homely, unassuming landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for, although he only lived there for three years, he became greatly attached to the place. A month before his death, traveling from Klin to Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: ‘I should like to be buried there.’”

On June 22 he wrote to Mme von Meck: “Now I shall work my hardest. I am exceedingly anxious to prove to myself, as to others, that I am not played out as a composer.... Have I told you that I intend to write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; but now inspiration seems to have come. However, we shall see.”

In July, Tchaikovsky received a letter from an American manager who offered him 25,000 dollars for a concert tour of three months. The sum seemed incredible to the composer: “Should this tour really take place, I could realize my long-cherished wish to become a landowner.” On August 6 he wrote to Mme von Meck: “When I am old and past composing, I shall spend the whole of my time in growing flowers. I have been working with good results. I have orchestrated half the symphony. My age—although I am not very old [he was then forty-eight]—begins to tell on me. I become very tired, and I can no longer play the pianoforte or read at night as I used to do.” On August 26 he wrote to her: “I am not feeling well, ... but I am so glad that I have finished the symphony that I forget my physical troubles.... In November I shall conduct a whole series of my works in St. Petersburg, at the Philharmonic, and the new symphony will be one of them.”

The Fifth symphony was performed for the first time at St. Petersburg, November 17, 1888. The composer conducted. The audience was pleased, but the reviews in the newspapers were not very favorable. On November 24 of the same year, Tchaikovsky conducted the symphony again at a concert of the Musical Society.

In December, 1888, he wrote to Mme von Meck: “After two performances of my new symphony in St. Petersburg and one in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure. There is something repellent, something superfluous, patchy, and insincere, which the public instinctively recognizes. It was obvious to me that the ovations I received were prompted more by my earlier work, and that the symphony itself did not really please the audience. The consciousness of this brings me a sharp twinge of self-dissatisfaction. Am I really played out, as they say? Can I merely repeat and ring the changes on my earlier idiom? Last night I looked through _our_ symphony No. 4. What a difference! How immeasurably superior it is! It is very, very sad!” He was cheered by news of the success of the symphony in Moscow.

At the public rehearsal in Hamburg, the symphony pleased the musicians; there was real enthusiasm.

Tchaikovsky wrote after the concert to Davidov: “The Fifth symphony was magnificently played and I like it far better now, after having held a bad opinion of it for some time. Unfortunately, the Russian press continues to ignore me. With the exception of my nearest and dearest, no one will ever hear of my successes.”

Modeste Tchaikovsky is of the opinion that the Fifth symphony was a long time in making its way chiefly on account of his brother’s inefficiency as a conductor.

The _andante_, E minor, 4-4 theme of the symphony, which occurs in the four movements, typical of fate, “the eternal note of sadness,” of what you will, is given at the very beginning to the clarinets, and the development serves as an approach to the _allegro_. The principal theme of the first movement, _allegro con anima_, 6-8, is announced by clarinet and bassoon. It is developed elaborately and at great length. This theme is said to have been derived from a Polish folk song. The second theme in B minor is given to the strings. The recapitulation begins with the restatement of the principal theme by the bassoon. There is a long _coda_, which finally sinks to a _pianissimo_ and passes to the original key.

The second movement has been characterized as a romance, firmly knit together in form, and admitting great freedom of interpretation, as the qualification, “_con alcuna licenza_,” of the _andante cantabile_ indicates. After a short introduction in the deeper strings, the horn sings the principal melody. The oboe gives out a new theme, which is answered by the horn, and this theme is taken up by violins and violas. The principal theme is heard from the violoncellos, after which the clarinet sings still another melody, which is developed to a climax, in which the full orchestra thunders out the chief theme of the symphony, the theme of bodement. The second part of the movement follows in a general way along the lines already established. There is another climax, and again is heard the impressive theme of the symphony.

The third movement is a waltz _allegro moderato_, A major, 3-4. The structure is simple, and the development of the first theme, _dolce con grazia_, given to violins against horns, bassoons, and string instruments, is natural. Toward the very end clarinets and bassoons sound, as afar off, the theme of the symphony: the gayety is over.

There is a long introduction, _andante maestoso_, E major, 4-4, to the _finale_, a development of the somber and dominating theme. This _andante_ is followed by an _allegro vivace_, E minor, with the first theme given to the strings, and a more tuneful theme assigned first to the wood-wind and afterward to the violins. The development of the second theme contains illusions to the chief theme of the symphony. Storm and fury; the movement comes to a halt; the _coda_ begins in E major, the _allegro vivace_ increases to a _presto_. The second theme of the _finale_ is heard, and the final climax contains a reminiscence of the first theme of the first movement.

Some find pleasure in characterizing Tchaikovsky’s symphonies as suites; Dvořák is said to have made this criticism. But the Fifth symphony escapes this charge, for objectors admit that in this work the composer made his nearest approach to true symphonic form—in spite of the fact that there is no repetition of the first part of the first _allegro_, and a waltz movement takes the place of the _scherzo_.

SYMPHONY NO. 6, IN B MINOR, “PATHETIC,” OP. 74

I. Adagio; allegro non troppo II. Allegro con grazia III. Allegro molto vivace IV. Finale: adagio lamentoso

We well remember the sensation the Sixth symphony made in Boston when Mr. Paur brought it out. When the late William Foster Apthorp described the music as “obscene,” a singular word to apply to it, indignant denunciatory letters were sent to the _Evening Transcript_, written by persons who, as Charles Reade once said of letter writers to newspapers, had no other waste-pipe for their intellect.

This symphony was at the first so popular that some predicted its life would be short. It is still an amazing human document. The Fifth may for some reasons be preferred as a purely musical composition; the Fourth has more of the Russian folk-spirit; but the somber eloquence of the _Pathetic_, its pages of recollected joys fled forever, its wild gayety quenched by the thought of the inevitable end, its mighty lamentation—these are overwhelming and shake the soul.

* * *

The first mention of the _Pathetic_ symphony is in a letter from Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol, dated Klin, February 22, 1893: “I am now wholly occupied with the new work (a symphony) and it is hard for me to tear myself away from it. I believe it comes into being as the best of my works. I must finish it as soon as possible, for I have to wind up a lot of affairs and I must also soon go to London. I told you that I had completed a symphony which suddenly displeased me, and I tore it up. Now I have composed a new symphony _which I certainly shall not tear up_.”

Returning in August from a trip to London, Peter wrote to Modeste that he was up to his neck in his symphony. “The orchestration is the more difficult, the farther I go. Twenty years ago I let myself write at ease without much thought, and it was all right. Now I have become cowardly and uncertain. I have sat the whole day over two pages; that which I wished came constantly to naught. In spite of this, I make progress.” He wrote to Davidov, August 15: “The symphony which I intended to dedicate to you—I shall reconsider this on account of your long silence—is progressing. I am very well satisfied with the contents, but not wholly with the orchestration. I do not succeed in my intentions. It will not surprise me in the least if the symphony is cursed or judged unfavorably; ’twill not be for the first time. I myself consider it the best, especially the most open-hearted of all my works. I love it as I never have loved any other of my musical creations. My life is without the charm of variety; evenings I am often bored; but I do not complain, for the symphony is now the main thing, and I cannot work anywhere so well as at home.” He wrote Jurgenson, his publisher, on August 24, that he had finished the orchestration: “I give you my word of honor that never in my life have I been so contented, so proud, so happy, in the knowledge that I have written a good piece.” It was at this time that he thought seriously of writing an opera with a text founded on _The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Mr. Barton_, by George Eliot, of whose best works he was an enthusiastic admirer.

Tchaikovsky left Klin forever on October 19. He stopped at Moscow to attend a funeral, and there with Kashkin he talked freely after supper. Friends had died; who would be the next to go? “I told Peter,” said Kashkin, “that he would outlive us all. He disputed the likelihood, yet added that never had he felt so well and happy.” Peter told him that he had no doubt about the first three movements of his new symphony, but that the last was still doubtful in his mind; after the performance he might destroy it and write another _finale_. He arrived at St. Petersburg in good spirits, but he was depressed because the symphony made no impression on the orchestra at the rehearsals. He valued highly the opinion of players, and he conducted well only when he knew that the orchestra liked the work. He was dependent on them for the finesse of interpretation. “A cool facial expression, an indifferent glance, a yawn—these tied his hands; he lost his readiness of mind, he went over the work carelessly, and cut short the rehearsal, that the players might be freed from their boresome work.” Yet he insisted that he never had written and never would write a better composition than this symphony.

The Sixth symphony was performed for the first time at St. Petersburg, October 28, 1893. Tchaikovsky conducted. The symphony failed. “There was applause,” says Modeste, “and the composer was recalled, but with no more enthusiasm than on previous occasions. There was not the mighty, overpowering impression made by the work when it was conducted by Napravnik, November 18, 1893, and later, wherever it was played.” The critics were decidedly cool.

The morning after, Modeste found Peter at the tea-table with the score of the symphony in his hand. He regretted that, inasmuch as he had to send it that day to the publisher, he had not yet given it a title. He wished something more than “No. 6,” and did not like “Programme symphony.” “What does Programme symphony mean when I will give it no programme?” Modeste suggested “Tragic,” but Peter said that would not do. “I left the room before he had come to a decision. Suddenly I thought, ‘Pathetic.’ I went back to the room,—I remember it as though it were yesterday,—and I said the word to Peter. ‘Splendid, Modi, bravo, “Pathetic”!’ and he wrote in my presence the title that will forever remain.”

On November 1, Tchaikovsky was in perfect health. He dined with an old friend and went to the theater. In the cloakroom there was talk about spiritualism. Varlamov objected to all talk about ghosts and anything that reminded one of death. Tchaikovsky laughed at Varlamov’s manner of expression and said: “There is still time enough to become acquainted with this detestable snub-nosed one. At any rate, he will not have us soon. I know that I shall live for a long time.” He then went with friends to a restaurant, where he ate macaroni and drank white wine with mineral water. When he walked home about 2 A.M., Peter was well in body and in mind.

There are some who find pleasure in the thought that the death of a great man was in some way mysterious or melodramatic. For years some insisted that Salieri caused Mozart to be poisoned. There was a rumor after Tchaikovsky’s death that he took poison or sought deliberately the cholera. When Mr. Alexander Siloti, a pupil of Tchaikovsky, first visited Boston, in 1898, he did not hesitate to say that there might be truth in the report, and, asked as to his own belief, he shook his head with a portentous gravity that Burleigh might have envied. We have been assured by other Russians who knew Tchaikovsky that he killed himself, nor was the reason for his so doing withheld. Peter’s brother Modeste gives a circumstantial account of Peter’s death from natural causes. Peter awoke November 2 after a restless night, but he went out about noon to make a call; he returned to luncheon, ate nothing, and drank a glass of water that had not been boiled. Modeste and others were alarmed, but Peter was not disturbed, for he was less afraid of the cholera than of other diseases. Not until night was there any thought of serious illness, and then Peter said to his brother: “I think this is death. Good-bye, Modi.” At eleven o’clock that night it was determined that his sickness was cholera.

Modeste tells at length the story of Peter’s ending. Their mother had died of cholera in 1854, at the very moment that she was put into a bath. The physicians recommended as a last resort a warm bath for Peter, who, when asked if he would take one, answered: “I shall be glad to have a bath, but I shall probably die as soon as I am in the tub—as my mother died.” The bath was not given that night, the second night after the disease had been determined, for Peter was too weak. He was at times delirious, and he often repeated the name of Mme von Meck in reproach or in anger, for he had been sorely hurt by her sudden and capricious neglect after her years of interest and devotion. The next day the bath was given. A priest was called, but it was not possible to administer the Communion, and he spoke words that the dying man could no longer understand. “Peter Ilitch suddenly opened his eyes. There was an indescribable expression of unclouded consciousness. Passing over the others standing in the room, he looked at the three nearest him, and then toward heaven. There was a certain light for a moment in his eyes, which was soon extinguished, at the same time with his breath. It was about three o’clock in the morning.”

What was the programme in Tchaikovsky’s mind? Kashkin says that, if the composer had disclosed it to the public, the world would not have regarded the symphony as a kind of legacy from one filled with a presentiment of his own approaching end; that it seems more reasonable “to interpret the overwhelming energy of the third movement and the abysmal sorrow of the _finale_ in the broader light of a national or historical significance rather than to narrow them to the expression of an individual experience. If the last movement is intended to be predictive, it is surely of things vaster and issues more fatal than are contained in a mere personal apprehension of death. It speaks rather of a ‘_lamentation large et souffrance inconnue_,’ and seems to set the seal of finality on all human hopes. Even if we eliminate the purely subjective interest, this autumnal inspiration of Tchaikovsky, in which we hear ‘the ground whirl of the perished leaves of hope, still remains the most profoundly stirring of his works.’ ...”

“ROMEO AND JULIET,” OVERTURE FANTASIA (AFTER SHAKESPEARE)

The _Romeo and Juliet_ overture would be worth a journey if only to hear Tchaikovsky’s love music. Here is the incomparable expression in tones of the Southern passion of Juliet, and it is strangely Shakespearean. The remainder of the overture is rather rank Russian, with the exception of the music of Friar Laurence and the noble requiem at the end.

* * *

This overture fantasia was begun and completed in 1869. The first performance was at a concert of the Musical Society, Moscow, on March 16, 1870; Nicholas Rubinstein conducted. The work was revised in the summer of 1870 during a sojourn in Switzerland; it was published in 1871. Tchaikovsky, not satisfied with it, made other changes, and, it is said, shortened the overture. The second edition, published in 1881, contains these alterations.

The first performance in the United States was in New York, by the Philharmonic Society, George Matzka, conductor, on April 22, 1876.

The overture begins _andante non tanto, quasi moderato_, F sharp minor, 4-4. Clarinets and bassoons sound the solemn harmonies, which, according to Kashkin, characterize Friar Laurence; and yet Hermann Teibler finds this introduction symbolical of “the burden of fate.” A short theme creeps among the strings. There is an organ-point on D flat, with modulation to F minor (flutes, horns, harp, lower strings). The Friar Laurence theme is repeated (flutes, oboes, clarinets, English horn, with _pizzicato_ bass). The ascending cry of the flutes is heard in E minor instead of F minor, as before.

_Allegro giusto_, B minor, 4-4. The two households from “ancient grudge break to new mutiny.” Wood-wind, horn, and strings picture the hatred and fury that find vent in street brawls. A brilliant passage for strings is followed by a repetition of the strife music. Then comes the first love theme, D flat major (muted violas and English horn, horns in syncopated accompaniment, with strings _pizzicato_). This motive is not unlike in mood, and at times in melodic structure, Tchaikovsky’s famous melody, _Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt_ (Op. 6, No. 6), which was composed in December, 1869. In the “Duo from Romeo and Juliet,” found among Tchaikovsky’s sketches and orchestrated by S. Taneiev, this theme is the climax, the melodic phrase which Romeo sings to “_O nuit d’extase, arrête-toi! O nuit d’amour, étends ton voile noir sur nous!_” (O tarry, night of ecstasy! O night of love, stretch thy dark veil over us!). Divided and muted violins, with violas _pizzicato_, play delicate, mysterious chords (D flat major), which in the duet above mentioned serve as accompaniment to the amorous dialogue of Romeo and Juliet in the chamber scene. Flutes and oboes take up the first love theme.

There is a return to tumult and strife. The theme of dissension is developed at length; the horns intone the Friar Laurence motive. The strife theme at last dominates _fortissimo_, until there is a return to the mysterious music of the chamber scene (oboes and clarinets, with murmurings of violins and horns). The song grows more and more passionate, until Romeo’s love theme breaks out, this time in D major, and is combined with the strife theme and the motive of Friar Laurence in development. A burst of orchestral fury; there is a descent to the depths; violoncellos, basses, bassoons, alone are heard; they die on low F sharp, with roll of kettledrums. Then silence.

_Moderato assai_, B minor. Drum beats, double basses _pizzicato_. Romeo’s song in lamentation. Soft chords (wood-wind and horns) bring the end.

CONCERTO FOR PIANOFORTE NO. 1, IN B FLAT MINOR, OP. 23

I. Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso; allegro con spirito II. Andantino semplice; allegro vivace assai III. Allegro con fuoco

There was an old Grecian gentleman who apologized for the sumptuous funeral provided for his little child. There are men who have built a lordly portico for a dwelling place, and then, for some reason or other, lack of funds or through caprice, contented themselves with a tasteless, shabbily furnished mansion. The opening section of Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto has a compelling melodic sentence, treated gorgeously, and with magnificent breadth and sweep. What follows is a curious mixture of engrossing measures and wild vulgarity.

Perhaps Nicholas Rubinstein was right; after all, in his bitter, almost venomous tirade when Tchaikovsky played it to him in private. When the concerto was brought out in Boston by Bülow, in October, 1875—it was the very first performance—a critic of this city shrewdly discovered that the first movement was “not in the classical concerto spirit.” Tchaikovsky himself was amused by American reviews sent to him by Bülow. Peter wrote: “The Americans think that the first movement of my concerto ‘suffers in consequence of the absence of a central idea’—and in the _finale_ this reviewer has found ‘syncopation in trills, spasmodic pauses in the theme, and disturbing octave passages!’ Think what healthy appetites these Americans must have: each time Bülow was obliged to repeat the whole _finale_ of my concerto! Nothing like this happens in our country!”

* * *

In 1874 Tchaikovsky was a teacher of theory at the Moscow Conservatory. (He began his duties at that institution in 1866 at a salary of thirty dollars a month.) On December 13, 1874, he wrote to his brother Anatol: “I am wholly absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte concerto, and I am very anxious that Rubinstein [Nicholas] should play it in his concert. I make slow progress with the work, and without real success; but I stick fast to my principles, and cudgel my brain to subtilize pianoforte passages: as a result I am somewhat nervous, so that I should much like to make a trip to Kiev for the purpose of diversion.”

The orchestration of the concerto was finished on February 21, 1875, but before that date he played the work to Nicholas Rubinstein. The episode is one of the most singular in the history of this strangely sensitive composer. He described it in a letter written to Nadeshda Filaretovna von Meck. This letter is dated San Remo, February 2, 1878. It has been published in Modeste Tchaikovsky’s Life of his famous brother.

“In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I am not a pianist, I thought it necessary to ask a virtuoso what was technically unplayable in the work, thankless, or ineffective. I needed the advice of a severe critic who at the same time was friendly disposed toward me. Without going too much into detail, I must frankly say that an interior voice protested against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge over the mechanical side of my work. But he was the best pianist in Moscow, and also a most excellent musician. I was told that he would take it ill from me if he should learn that I had passed him by and shown the concerto to another; so I determined to ask him to hear it and criticize the pianoforte part.

“On Christmas Eve, 1874, we were all invited to Albrecht’s, and Nicholas asked me, before we should go there, to play the concerto in a classroom of the Conservatory. We agreed to it. I took my manuscript, and Nicholas and Hubert came. Hubert is a mighty good and shrewd fellow, but he is not a bit independent; he is garrulous and verbose; he must always make a long preface to ‘yes’ or ‘no’; he is not capable of expressing an opinion in decisive, unmistakable form; and he is always on the side of the stronger, whoever he may chance to be. I must add that this does not come from cowardice, but only from natural instability.

“I played through the first movement. Not a criticism, not a word. You know how foolish you feel, if you invite one to partake of a meal provided by your own hands, and the friend eats and—is silent! ‘At least say something, scold me good-naturedly, but for God’s sake speak, only speak, whatever you may say.’ Rubinstein said nothing. He was preparing his thunderstorm; and Hubert was waiting to see how things would go before he should jump to one side or the other. The matter was right here: I did not need any judgment on the artistic form of my work: there was question only about mechanical details. This silence of Rubinstein said much. It said to me at once: ‘Dear friend, how can I talk about details when I dislike your composition as a whole?’ But I kept my temper and played the concerto through. Again silence.

“‘Well?’ I said, and stood up. Then burst forth from Rubinstein’s mouth a mighty torrent of words. He spoke quietly at first; then he waxed hot, and at last he resembled Zeus hurling thunderbolts. It appeared that my concerto was utterly worthless, absolutely unplayable; passages were so commonplace and awkward that they could not be improved; the piece as a whole was bad, trivial, vulgar. I had stolen this from that one and that from this one; so only two or three pages were good for anything, while the others should be wiped out or radically rewritten. ‘For instance, that! What is it, anyhow?’ (And then he caricatured the passage on the pianoforte.) ‘And this? Is it possible?’ and so on, and so on. I cannot reproduce for you the main thing, the tones in which he said all this. An impartial bystander would necessarily have believed that I was a stupid, ignorant, conceited note-scratcher, who was so impudent as to show his scribble to a celebrated man.

“Hubert was staggered by my silence, and he probably wondered how a man who had already written so many works and was a teacher of composition at the Moscow Conservatory could keep still during such a moral lecture or refrain from contradiction—a moral lecture that no one should have delivered to a student without first examining carefully his work. And then Hubert began to annotate Rubinstein; that is, he incorporated Rubinstein’s opinions, but sought to clothe in milder words what Nicholas had harshly said.”

Tchaikovsky erased the name of Nicholas Rubinstein from the score and inserted in the dedication the name of Hans von Bülow, whom he had not yet seen; but Klindworth had told him of Bülow’s interest in his works and his efforts to make them known in Germany. Bülow acknowledged the compliment, and in a warm letter of thanks praised the concerto, which he called the “fullest” work by Tchaikovsky yet known to him: “The ideas are so original, so noble, so powerful; the details are so interesting, and though there are many of them they do not impair the clearness and the unity of the work. The form is so mature, ripe, distinguished for style, for intention and labor are everywhere concealed. I should weary you if I were to enumerate all the characteristics of your work—characteristics which compel me to congratulate equally the composer as well as all those who shall enjoy actively or passively (respectively) the work.”

For a long time Tchaikovsky was sore in heart, wounded by his friend. In 1878 Nicholas had the manliness to confess his error; as a proof of his good-will he studied the concerto and played it often and brilliantly in Russia and beyond the boundaries, as at the Paris Exhibition of 1878.

CONCERTO FOR VIOLIN, IN D MAJOR OP. 35

I. Allegro moderato II. Canzonetta: andante III. Finale: allegro vivacissimo

Hanslick’s volumes of collected reviews and essays are many. It is possible that in the days to come he will be remembered only by the fact that he said, apropos of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, that it stank in the ear. In spite of Hanslick’s dictum, the concerto still lives, whatever its obvious faults: its endless repetitions, its measures of sheer padding. Why cannot someone arrange _Gems from Tchaikovsky’s Concerto_ after the manner of various anthologies (including _Crumbs of Comfort_)? Long-winded, tedious at times as it is, the concerto, by reason of melodic charm and demoniacal spirit, is still heard by the people gladly.

* * *

The concerto, dedicated at first to Leopold Auer, but afterwards to Adolf Brodsky—and thereby hangs a tale—was performed for the first time at a Philharmonic concert, Vienna, December 4, 1881. Brodsky was the solo violinist. An interesting letter from him to Tchaikovsky after the first performance, is published in Modeste’s Life of his brother (Vol. II, p. 177): “I had the wish to play the concerto in public ever since I first looked it through. That was two years ago. I often took it up and often put it down, because my laziness was stronger than my wish to reach the goal. You have, indeed, crammed too many difficulties into it. I played it last year in Paris to Laroche, but so badly that he could gain no true idea of the work; nevertheless, he was pleased with it. That journey to Paris which turned out unluckily for me—I had to bear many rude things from Colonne and Pasdeloup—fired my energy (misfortune always does this to me, but when I am fortunate then am I weak) so that, back in Russia, I took up the concerto with burning zeal. It is wonderfully beautiful. One can play it again and again and never be bored; and this is a most important circumstance for the conquering of its difficulties. When I felt myself sure of it, I determined to try my luck in Vienna. Now I come to the point where I must say to you that you should not thank me: I should thank you; for it was only the wish to know the new concerto that induced Hans Richter and later the Philharmonic Orchestra to hear me play and grant my participation in one of these concerts. The concerto was not liked at the rehearsal of the new pieces, although I came out successfully on its shoulders. It would have been most unthankful on my part, had I not strained every nerve to pull my benefactor through behind me. Finally we were admitted to the Philharmonic concert. I had to be satisfied with one rehearsal, and much time was lost there in the correction of the parts, that swarmed with errors. The players determined to accompany everything _pianissimo_, not to go to smash; naturally, the work, which demands many nuances, even in the accompaniment, suffered thereby. Richter wished to make some cuts, but I did not allow it.”

The concerto came immediately after a _divertimento_ by Mozart. According to the account of the Viennese critics and of Brodsky there was a furious mixture of applause and hissing after the performance. The applause prevailed, and Brodsky was thrice recalled, which showed that the hissing was directed against the work, not the interpreter. Out of ten critics only two, and they were the least important, reviewed the concerto favorably. The review by Eduard Hanslick, who was born hating programme music and the Russian school, was extravagant in its bitterness, and caused Tchaikovsky long-continued distress, although Brodsky, Carl Halir, and other violinists soon made his concerto popular. Tchaikovsky wrote from Rome, December 27, 1881, to Jurgenson: “My dear, I saw lately in a café a number of the _Neue Freie Presse_ in which Hanslick speaks so curiously about my violin concerto that I beg you to read it. Besides other reproaches he censures Brodsky for having chosen it. If you know Brodsky’s address, please write to him that I am moved deeply by the courage shown by him in playing so difficult and ungrateful a piece before a most prejudiced audience. If Kotek, my best friend, were so cowardly and pusillanimous as to change his intention of acquainting the St. Petersburg public with this concerto, although it was his pressing duty to play it, for he is responsible in the matter of ease of execution of the piece; if Auer, to whom the work is dedicated, intrigued against me, so am I doubly thankful to dear Brodsky, in that for my sake he must stand the curses of the Viennese journals.”

The review of Hanslick is preserved in the volume of his collected _feuilletons_ entitled, _Concerte, Componisten, und Virtuosen der Letzten fünfzehn Jahre, 1870-1885_, pp. 295, 296 (Berlin, 1886). The criticism in its fierce extravagance now seems amusing. Here are extracts: “For a while the concerto has proportion, is musical, and is not without genius, but soon savagery gains the upper hand and lords it to the end of the first movement. The violin is no longer played: it is yanked about, it is torn asunder, it is beaten black and blue. I do not know whether it is possible for anyone to conquer these hair-raising difficulties, but I do know that Mr. Brodsky martyrized his hearers as well as himself. The _adagio_, with its tender national melody, almost conciliates, almost wins us. But it breaks off abruptly to make way for a _finale_ that puts us in the midst of the brutal and wretched jollity of a Russian _kermess_. We see wild and vulgar faces, we hear curses, we smell bad brandy. Friedrich Vischer once asserted in reference to lascivious painting that there are pictures which ‘stink in the eye.’ Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto brings to us for the first time the horrid idea that there may be music that stinks in the ear.” Modeste Tchaikovsky tells us that this article disquieted Peter till he died; that he knew it by heart, as he did an adverse criticism written by César Cui in 1866.

The concerto was dedicated first to Leopold Auer. Tchaikovsky, in the Diary of his tour in 1888, wrote: “I do not know whether my dedication was flattering to Mr. Auer, but in spite of his genuine friendship he never tried to conquer the difficulties of this concerto. He pronounced it impossible to play, and this verdict, coming from such an authority as the St. Petersburg virtuoso, had the effect of casting this unfortunate child of my imagination for many years to come into the limbo of hopelessly forgotten things.” The composer about seven years before this wrote to Jurgenson from Rome (January 16, 1882) that Auer had been “intriguing against him.” Peter’s brother Modeste explains this by saying: “It had been reported to Peter that Auer had dissuaded Emile Sauret from playing the concerto in St. Petersburg;” but Modeste also adds that Auer changed his opinion many years later, and became one of the most brilliant interpreters of the concerto.

The following orchestration was used by Tchaikovsky in his last three symphonies (with no percussion but timpani in the Fifth): piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, and strings. In the _Romeo and Juliet_ overture, the English horn and harp were added for color, and the bass drum (with the customary kettledrums) sufficed for percussion. In the piano and violin concertos there was the same scheme of orchestration (without the additional percussion).—EDITOR.

RICHARD WAGNER

(Born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813; died at Venice, February 13, 1883)

It is not easy for anyone who did not live through the period of the Wagnerian excitement to understand the fierceness of the controversy. The younger generation reads at its ease accounts of protests against compositions by Strauss, Reger, Schönberg; how this or that piece was hissed by some in a concert hall and applauded by others; it reads and is amused, but it regards the discussion as academic. The Wagner question, like the Beecher trial, like the Ibsen controversy in Norway, divided households.

The world has moved since 1876. Much water has flowed under the bridge. Wagner is still one of the most commanding figures in the temple, but it is no longer an act of irreverence to discuss him as Verdi, Gluck, Richard Strauss are discussed. It is now generally agreed that this towering genius was after all a mortal; that he was often verbose, that he could be dull in his musical speech, as other geniuses were before him.

The great public today cares nothing about Wagner’s philosophy, or the “metaphysics” of his _Ring_. Wotan, Mime, Siegfried, and the rest of them, heroic or shabby characters, are as Radames, Salome, Mélisande, Edgardo, Leonora, Manrico in the tower; they are persons in a drama who sing, and do not speak the dialogue. We have the heartiest admiration for the great scenes in the _Ring_, and yet find Wotan long-winded and tiresome in his reminiscences and narrations. Mime is like Artemus Ward’s kangaroo, “an amoozin’ little cuss.” Alberich with his gibbering and his jumping about is also amusing. The Dragon and the Bird do not excite our ridicule. We accept them and find their singing no more surprising than the vocal endurance of Tristan on his deathbed or the moving scenery in the first act of _Parsifal_. The dragon is a familiar figure in art, and we should not rub our eyes more than once if we should see one in the wilds of New Jersey. We enjoy seeing him in his proper place in _Siegfried_ and do not wish to be told what he represents or typifies.

Enemies of Wagner, esthetic enemies, used to reproach him for the “immorality” of his librettos. In _Tannhäuser_ there is the Venusberg. In _Die Walküre_ there is the incestuous and adulterous pair whose amorous shoutings shocked Arthur Schopenhauer. Reading the story of _Tristan_, these rigid moralists held the nose and called for civet. Fie on Kundry’s case!

We now hear little about the “immorality” of the music dramas. King Mark’s long harangue is more immoral than the rapturous duet of the lovers; the Landgrave is more immoral than Venus; for Mark and the Landgrave, by reason of their long-winded platitudes, make Virtue boresome and Respectability a monster.

And in the expression of certain emotions and passions, in the expression of amorous ecstasy and the mystery of death, Wagner reached a height of eloquence that has seldom been attained by makers of music. Hearing the announcement by Brünnhilde of Siegmund’s fate, the love song of Tristan and Isolde under the cloak of the conniving night, the rustle and murmur of Siegfried’s forest, we marvel at the genius of the man who first heard these things and had the ability to let the world hear them with him.

OVERTURE TO “RIENZI, THE LAST OF THE TRIBUNES”

The overture to _Rienzi_ is at the best mere circus music. It is a good thing to hear it once in a while, for it shows that Wagner, on occasion, could be more vulgar than Meyerbeer, whom he so cordially disliked.

* * *

Wagner left Königsberg in the early summer of 1837 to visit Dresden, and there he read Bärmann’s translation into German of Bulwer’s _Rienzi_. And thus was revived his long-cherished idea of making the last of the Tribunes the hero of a grand opera. “My impatience with a degrading plight now amounted to a passionate craving to begin something grand and elevating, no matter if it involved the temporary abandonment of any practical goal. This mood was fed and strengthened by a reading of Bulwer’s _Rienzi_. From the misery of modern private life, whence I could nohow glean the scantiest material for artistic treatment, I was wafted by the image of a great historico-political event in the enjoyment whereof I needs must find a distraction lifting me above cares and conditions that to me appeared nothing less than absolutely fatal to art.” The overture to _Rienzi_ was completed October 23, 1840. The opera was produced at the Royal Saxon Court Theater, Dresden, October 20, 1842.

The overture is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, serpent (third bassoon), two valve horns, two plain horns, two valve trumpets, two plain trumpets, three trombones, one ophicleide, kettledrums, two snare drums, bass drum, triangle, cymbals, and strings. The serpent mentioned in the score is replaced by the double bassoon, and the ophicleide by the bass tuba.

All the themes of the overture are taken from the opera itself. The overture begins with a slow introduction, _molto sostenuto e maestoso_, D major, 4-4. It opens with “a long-sustained, swelled and diminished A on the trumpet,” in the opera, the agreed signal for the uprising of the people to throw off the tyrannical yoke of the nobles. The majestic _cantilena_ of the violins and the violoncellos is the theme of Rienzi’s prayer in the fifth act. The last prolonged A leads to the main body of the overture. This begins _allegro energico_, D major, 2-2, in the full orchestra on the first theme, that of the chorus, “_Gegrüsst sei hoher Tag!_” at the beginning of the first _finale_ of the opera. The first subsidiary theme enters in the brass, and it is the theme of the battle hymn (“Santo spirito cavaliere”) of the revolutionary faction in the third act. A transitional passage in the violoncellos leads to the entrance of the second theme—Rienzi’s prayer, already heard in the introduction of the overture—which is now given, _allegro_, in A major, to the violins. The “Santo spirito cavaliere” theme returns in the brass, and leads to another and joyful theme, that of the _stretto_ of the second _finale_, “Rienzi, dir sei Preis,” which is developed with increasing force. In the _coda, molto più stretto_, the “Santo spirito cavaliere” is developed in a most robust manner.

OVERTURE TO “DER FLIEGENDE HOLLÄNDER” (“THE FLYING DUTCHMAN”)

The overture to _The Flying Dutchman_ gives the condensed and essential drama. We are relieved of the avaricious father who is delighted at the thought of handing his daughter to the mysterious stranger; nor does one have to hear the bleatings of the saphead lover. No wonder Senta preferred the Dutchman.

Wagner’s overture is a stormy seascape. The Dutchman knew no calm seas. The music that typifies him is one of Wagner’s happiest inventions. Poor Vanderdecken sings nothing so compelling, not even in his monologue. One hears enough of Senta’s ballad in the overture; one is not tempted to laugh at the operatic spinning wheels that stick when they should revolve; one does not find Wagner trying to write with Italian melodiousness.

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The overture was sketched at Meudon near Paris in September, 1841, and completed and scored at Paris in November of that year. In 1852, Wagner changed the ending. In 1860 he wrote another ending for the Paris concerts.

It opens _allegro con brio_ in D minor, 6-4, with an empty fifth, against which horns and bassoons give out the “Flying Dutchman” motive. There is a stormy development, through which this motive is kept sounding in the brass. There is a hint at the first theme of the main body of the overture, an _arpeggio_ figure in the strings, taken from the accompaniment of one of the movements in the Dutchman’s first air in