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Tnis§/olume  is  for 
REFER94CE  USE  ONLY 


KANSAS  CITY,  MO.  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 


-*.  •':':••  •/*• 

•      »^, 

•  •*    A --    ..     '^. 


THE  VICTOR  BOOK  OF  THE 

SYMPHONY 

REVISED       EDITION 


By    CHARLES    J3/CONNELL 


SIMON    AND    SCHUSTER    •    NEW    YORK 


ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 
INCLUDING   THE   RIGHT  OF  REPRODUCTION 

IN  WHOLE  OR  IN  PART  IN  ANY  FORM 
COPYRIGHT,   1935  AND   1 94 1,  BY  CHARLES  o'cONNELL 

PUBLISHED   BY  SIMON   AND   SCHUSTER,    INC. 
ROCKEFELLER   CENTER,    1230    SIXTH    AVENUE,    NEW   YORK,    N.   Y. 

REVISED    EDITION 


Reference 

-x^ 

\  *  o.^ 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
AMERICAN    BOOK-STRATFORD    PRESS,    INC.,    NEW   YORK 


FOR  ROBIN 


FOREWORD 

The  rarpid  growth  of  interest  in  orchestral  and  operatic  music  ail  over  the 
United  States  and  in  all  the  other  countries  of  the  world  where  the  European 
system  of  music  is  the  musical  language  makes  the  new  book  of  Charles  O'Connett 
of  ever-increasing  value. 

For  those  who  like  to  listen  to  music  in  the  concert  hall,  and  equally  for  those 
who  by  necessity  or  *prejerence  hear  symphonic  and  operatic  music  by  radio  and 
by  recordsy  this  book  can  be  a  friendly  and  intimate  guide. 

In  simple  language  if  gives  the  technical  background  of  symphonic  music  so 
that  even  an  inexperienced  music  lover  can  understand  and  enjoy  it.  In  reading 
it  his  mind  and  emotions  will  be  stimulated  so  that  his  pleasure  in  listening  to  the 
music  afterwards  will  be  greater. 

The  'parts  of  this  book  which  tell  of  the  imaginative  and  poetic  side  of  music 
are  in  themselves  a  kind  of  music  expressed,  through  words. 

One  has  the  impression  that  the  author  feels  that  music  is  chiefly  a  thing  of 
sensuous  pleasure  and  that  no  matter  how  great  or  small  may  be  the  technical 
knowledge  of  the  hearer  music  should  be  enjoyed  through  the  senses  and  the 
imagination. 

Except  in  purely  program  music  the  book  does  not  'paint  'pictures  or  tell  stories 
about  music  but  aims  to  suggest  images  and  lines  of  thought  that  will  give  the 
music  lover  a  'point  of  departure  for  his  own  imaginative  flight. 

This  book  is  equally  interesting  and  illuminating  to  the  professional  musician 
as  to  the  music  lover  who  has  not  yet  had  the  opportunity  of  studying  the  nature 
of  music  technically  but  whose  pleasures  in  listening  to  music  will  be  increased  if  Ms 
imagination  and  emotions  are  <pre$ared  and  stimulated  by  someone  who  op  fro  aches 
music  as  directly  and  yet  as  profoundly  as  Charles  O'ConnelL 


LEOPOLD  STOKOWSKI. 


CONTENTS 

Foreword  by  Leopold  Stokowski  vii 

Preface  xix 

A  Note  on  the  Modern  Orchestra  and  Its  Instrumental 

Components  3 

Sixteen  Conductors:  Illustrations,  facing  page  24 

The  Symphony  25 

The  Concerto  28 

BACH,  JOHANN  SEBASTIAN  30 

"BRANDENBURG"  CONCERTO  NO.  2  IN  F  MAJOR  31 

"BRANDENBURG"  CONCERTO  NO.  5  IN  D  MAJOR  33 

SUITE  NO.  2  IN  B  MINOR  FOR  FLUTE  AND  STRINGS  34 

SUITE  NO.  3  IN  D  MAJOR  35 

BACH-STOKOWSKI  36 

PRELUDE  IN  E-FLAT  MINOR  39 

CHACONNE  39 

CHORALVORSPIEL:  CHRIST  LAG  IN  TODESBANDEN  42 

KOMM  SUSSER  TOD  43 
FUGUE  IN  C  MINOR                                                           *       43 

FUGUE  IN  G  MINOR  (THE  "LITTLE"  FUGUE)  44 

FUGUE  IN  G  MINOR  (THE  "GREAT"  FUGUE)  45 

TOCCATA  AND  FUGUE  IN  D  MINOR  46 

CHORALVORSPIEL:  WIR  GLAUBEN  ALL'  AN  EINEN  GOTT  47 

CHORALVORSPIEL:  NUN  KOMM,  DER  HEIDEN  HEILAND  48 

PASSACAGLIA  IN  C  MINOR  49 

SARABAND  FROM  ENGLISH  SUITE  NO.  3  51 

ADAGIO  FROM  ORGAN  TOCCATA  IN  C  MINOR  52 

MY  SOUL  IS  ATHIRST  (FROM  ST.  MATTHEW  PASSION)  52 

CHORALE  FROM  EASTER  CANTATA  53 

ARIA  ("LENTO"  FROM  SUITE  NO.  3  IN  D  MAJOR)  54 
MEIN  JESUj  WAS  FUR  SEELENWEH  BEFALLT  DICH  IN 

GETSEMANE  54 

SARABAND  FROM  FIRST  VIOLIN  SUITE  55 

BALAKIREV,  MILI  .  56 

ISLAMEY  J^ 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

BARBER,  SAMUEL  5  8 

ESSAY  FOR  ORCHESTRA  5  8 

ADAGIO  FOR  STRINGS  59 

BEETHOVEN,  LUDWIG  VAN  60 

SYMPHONY  NO.  I  IN  C  MAJOR  6  1 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  D  MAJOR  65 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  IN  E  FLAT  ("EROICA73)  68 

,    SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  B-FLAT  MAJOR  73 

SYMPHONY  NO.  5  IN  C  MINOR  *j6 

SYMPHONY  NO.  6  IN  F  MAJOR  ("PASTORAL")  82, 

SYMPHONY  NO.  7  IN  A  MAJOR  87 

SYMPHONY  NO.  8  IN  F  MAJOR  91 

SYMPHONY  NO.  9  IN  D  MINOR  WITH  CHORAL  FINALE  ON 

SCHILLER'S  "ODE  TO  JOY"  95 

OVERTURE  TO  "LEONORA"  (NO.  3)  102 

OVERTURE  TO  "EGMONT"  103 

CONCERTO  NO.  4  IN  G  MAJOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  1  04 
CONCERTO  NO.  5  IN  E-FLAT  MAJOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA     107 

CONCERTO  IN  D  MAJOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  IO9 

OVERTURE  TO  "CORIOLANUS"  112 

CONSECRATION  OF  THE  HOUSE  -  OVERTURE  113 

QUARTET  IN  F  MAJOR  -  SCHERZO  AND  ADAGIO  1  14 

BERLIOZ,  HECTOR  1  1  6 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "THE  DAMNATION  OF  FAUST53  117 

RAKOCZY  MARCH  117 

OVERTURE  CARNAVAL  ROMAIN  1  1  8 

SYMPHONIE  FANTASTIQUE  Up 

OVERTURE  TO  THE  OPERA  "BENVENUTO  CELLINl"  122 

BIZET,  GEORGES  123 

EXCERPTS  FROM  "L^ARLESIENNE7'  124 
EXCERPTS  FROM  "  CARMEN" 


BLOCK,  ERNEST  x  2  8 

SCHELOMO  j2Q 

CONCERTO  GROSSO  FOR  STRING  ORCHESTRA  WITH   PIANOFORTE 
OBBLIGATO 


BORODIN,  ALEXANDER  PORPHYRIEVICH  1  3  3 

POLOVTSIAN    DANCES    FROM    "PRINCE    IGOR"  j  34 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  B  MINOR 


BRAHMS,  JOHANNES  l 

SYMPHONY  NO.  I  IN  C  MINOR  jog 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  D  MAJOR 


CONTENTS 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  IN  F  MAJOR 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  E  MINOR  j  ro 

VARIATIONS  ON  A  THEME  BY  HAYDN  I$j 

CONCERTO  IN  D  MAJOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  159 

HUNGARIAN  DANCES  NOS.   I,  5,  AND  6  l6l 

"TRAGISCHE"  OVERTURE  T62 

CONCERTO  NO.  I  IN  D  MINOR  FOR  PIANO-  AND  ORCHESTRA  1 62 

ACADEMIC  FESTIVAL  OVERTURE  jgr 

CONCERTO  NO.  2  IN  B-FLAT  MAJOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA       165 

BRUCH,  MAX  X5 

CONCERTO  NO.   I   IN  G  MINOR  j^g 

BRUCKNER,  ANTON 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  E  FLAT  ("ROMANTIC")  172, 

CARPENTER,  JOHN  ALDEN 

ADVENTURES  IN  A  PERAMBULATOR 
SKYSCRAPERS 


CHABRIER,  ALEXIS  EMMANUEL  1  82 

ESPANA 


CHADWICK,  GEORGE  WHITEFIELD  183 

JUBILEE 


CHAUSSON,  ERNEST  AMEDES  185 

POEME  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  185 

CHOPIN,  FREDERIC  FRANCOIS  1  87 

CONCERTO.  IN  E  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  1  88 

COPLAND,  AARON  190 

EL  SALON  MEXICO  190 

DEBUSSY,  CLAUDE  ACHILLE  193 

IBERIA  194 

NUAGES  196 

FETES  196 

LA  MER  197 

PRELUDE  TO  aL*APRES-MIDI  DJUN  FAUNE"  199 

DANSES:  SACREE  ET  PROFANE  201 

DELIUS,  FREDERICK  202 

3RIGG  FAIR  2O3 

DOHNANYI,  ERNO  205 

SUITE  FOR  ORCHESTRA  IN  D  MINOR 


Xii  CONTENTS 

DUKAS,  PAUL  209 

L^PPRENTI  SORCIER  209 

DVORAK,  ANTONIN  2 1  o 

CARNIVAL  OVERTURE  211 

SYMPHONY  NO.  5  IN  E  MINOR  ("FROM  THE  NEW  WORLD55)  212 

CONCERTO  IN  B  MINOR  FOR  VIOLONCELLO  219 

SCHERZO  CAPRICCIOSO  222 

ELGAR,  SIR  EDWARD  223 

VARIATIONS  ON  AN  ORIGINAL  THEME  ("ENIGMA55  VARIATIONS)       224 

CONCERTO  IN  B  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  225 

FALLA,  MANUEL  DE  228 

DANZA  RITUAL  DEL  FUEGO  228 

FRANCK,  CESAR  230 

SYMPHONY  IN  D  MINOR  23! 

LES  EOLIDES  237 

GLAZUNOV,  ALEXANDER  238 

CONCERTO  IN  A  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  238 

GLIERE,  REINHOLD  240 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  IN  B  MINOR  ("iLIA  MOUROMETZ55)  24<D 

YABLOCHKO  244 

GLINKA,  MIKHAIL  IVANOVICH  245 

OVERTURE  TO  "RUSSLAN  AND  LUDMILLA55  245 

GLUCK,  CHRISTOPH  WILLIBALD  VON  247 

BALLET  SUITE  -  248 

GRIEG,  EDVARD  249 

CONCERTO  IN  A  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  25O 

GRIFFES,  CHARLES  TOMLINSON  252 

THE  PLEASURE  DOME  OF  KUBLA  KHAN  252 

THE  WHITE  PEACOCK  254 

HANDEL,  GEORGE  FRIDERIC  255 

WATER  MUSIC  256 

CONCERTO  GROSSO  256 

HANSON,  HOWARD  258 

SYMPHONY  NO,  2  ("ROMANTIC55)  259 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  263 

SUITE  FROM  THE  OPERA  "MERRY  MOUNT55  267 


CONTENTS  XlS 

HARRIS,  ROY  269 

OVERTURE:  WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME  269 

SYMPHONY  FOR  VOICES  2JQ 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  2JI 

HAYDN,  FRANZ  JOSEF  2716 

SYMPHONY  IN  G  MAJOR  ("OXFORD33)  278 

SYMPHONY  IN  D  MAJOR  ("CLOCK33)  28  I 

SYMPHONY  IN  G  MAJOR  ("SURPRISE33)  283 

SYMPHONY  IN  C  MAJOR  (SALOMON  SET,  NO.  l)  285 

HOLST,  GUSTAV  287 

THE  PLANETS  287 

HONEGGER,  ARTHUR  289 

RUGBY  289 

INDY,  VINCENT  DJ  290 

ISTAR  29O 

IPPOLITOV-IVANOV,  MlKHAIL  292 

CAUCASIAN  SKETCHES  ,  292 

JANSSEN,  WERNER  293 

NEW  YEAR3S  EVE  IN  NEW  YORK.  293 

JOSTEN,  WERNER  295 

JUNGLE  295 

KODALY,  ZOLTAN  296 

HARY  JANOS  296 

LALO,  VICTOR  301 

SYMPHONIE  ESPAGNOLE  3OI 

LIADOV,  ANATOL  303 

EIGHT  RUSSIAN  FOLK  SONGS  303 

KIKIMORA  304 

LISZT,  FRANZ  305 

SYMPHONIC  POEM  NO.  2:  "TASSO:  LAMENTO  E  TRIONFO33  306 
CONCERTO  NO.  I  IN  E-FLAT  MAJOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA       307 

SYMPHONIC  POEM  NO.  3:  aLES  PRELUDES33  308 

A  FAUST  SYMPHONY  IN  THREE  CHARACTER  PICTURES  308 

TODTENTANZ  3IO 

MAHLER,  GUSTAV  312 

DAS  LIED  VON  DER  ERDE  313 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  C  MINOR  314 


XIV  CONTENTS 

MCDONALD,  HARL  316 

'  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  WORKERS  317 

SYMPHONY  NO.  I,  "THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL33  317 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2,  "RHUMBA"  319 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3,  "CHORAL33  321 

"CAKEWALK33  (sCHERZo)  FROM  SYMPHONY  NO.  4  322 

CONCERTO  FOR  TWO  PIANOS  AND  ORCHESTRA  323 
THREE  POEMS  (ON  ARAMAIC  AND  HEBRAIC  THEMES)                     -         324 

SAN  JUAN  CAPISTRANO TWO  EVENING  PICTURES  325 

MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY,  FELIX  326 

"A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT3S  DREAM33  MUSIC  327 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3   IN  A  MINOR   ("SCOTCH33)  329 

CONCERTO  IN  E  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  331 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  A  MAJOR  ("ITALIAN33)  333 
MOSSOLOV,  ALEXANDER  337 

EISENGIESSEREI  33  7 

MOZART,  W.  A.  338 

SYMPHONY  IN  C  MAJOR  ("JUPITER33)  339 

SYMPHONY  IN  D  MAJOR  ("HAFFNER33)  345 

SYMPHONY  IN  D  MAJOR  ("PRAGUE33)  347 

OVERTURE  TO  "THE  MAGIC  FLUTE33  35<D 

OVERTURE  TO  "THE  MARRIAGE  OF  FIGARO33  351 

CONCERTO  NO.  4  IN  D  MAJOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  351 

MUSSORGSKY,  MODEST  355 

A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BALD  MOUNTAIN  355 

PRELUDE  AND  ENTR3ACTE  FROM  "KHOVANTCHINA33  356 

PICTURES  AT  AN  EXHIBITION  357 

MUSSORGSKY-STOKOWSKI  3  60 

BORIS  GODUNOV  360 

PADEREWSKI,  IGNACE  JAN  364 

CONCERTO  IN  A  MINOR  364 

PAISIELLO,  GIOVANNI  366 

"THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE" — OVERTURE  366 

PROKOFIEFF,  SERGE  367 

"CLASSICAL"  SYMPHONY  368 

LE  PAS  D'ACIER  368 

LIEUTENANT  KIJE  369 

CONCERTO  NO.  2  IN  G  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  372 

PETER  AND  THE  WOLF  374 


CONTENTS  XV 

PURCELL,  HENRY  377 

SUITE  FOR  STRINGS  (PURCELL-BARBIROLLl)  3  78 

RACHMANINOFF,  SERGEI  VASSILIEVITCH  379 

CONCERTO  NO.  2  IN  C  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  380 

CONCERTO  NO.  3  IN  D  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  383 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  E  MINOR  385 
RAPSODIE  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  ON  A  THEME  OF 

PAGANINI  388 

RAVEL,  MAURICE 

MA  MERE  L'OYE  302 

LA  VALSE  ocn 

f  «J  S  3 

BOLERO  o  04 
DAPHNIS  AND  CHLOE 
RAPSODIE  ESPAGNOLE 

RESPIGHI,  OTTORINO  400 

PINI  DI  ROMA  ^OO 

FONTANE  DI  ROMA  4O2 

FESTE  ROMANS  493 

RlMSKY-KoRSAKOV,  NlKOLAI  405 

OVERTURE:  "LA  GRANDE  PAQUE  RUSSE"  406 

SCHEHERAZADE  406 

CAPRICCIO  ESPAGNOL  41  1 

ROUSSEL,  ALBERT  414 

SINFONIETTA  414 

SAINT-SAENS,  CHARLES  CAMILLE  416 

CONCERTO  IN  A  MINOR  FOR  VIOLONCELLO  AND  ORCHESTRA  416 

THE  CARNIVAL  OF  THE  ANIMALS  • 


LE  ROUET  D'OMPHALE  420 

DANSE  MACABRE  42Q 

SCHONBERGj  ARNOLD  422 

VERKLARTE  NACHT  422 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOOD  DOVE  (FROM  aGURRE-LIEDER5?)  425 

SCHUBERT,  FRANZ  420 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  C  MINOR  ("TRAGIC")  430 

SYMPHONY  NO.  7  IN  C  MAJOR  432 

SYMPHONY  NO.  8  IN  B  MINOR  ("UNFINISHED")  437 

ENTR'ACTE  AND  BALLET  MUSIC  FROM  "ROSAMUNDE"  441 


XVi  CONTENTS 

SCHUMANN,  ROBERT  442 

SYMPHONY  NO.  I  IN  B-FLAT  MAJOR  445 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  C  MAJOR  447 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  IN  E-FLAT  MAJOR  ("RHENISH33)  45° 

SYMPHONY  NO.    4  IN  D  MINOR  45  2 

CONCERTO  IN  A  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA  455 

CONCERTO  IN  D  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  461 

SCRIABIN,  ALEXANDER  NIKOLAIEVICH  465 

SYMPHONY  NO.  3  IN  C  MINOR  (LE  DIVIN  POEME)  466 

THE  POEM  OF  ECSTASY  4^7 

PROMETHEUS:  THE  POEM  OF  FIRE  468 

SHOSTAKOVICH,  DMITRI  469 

SYMPHONY  NO.   I  469 

SIBELIUS,  JEAN  472 

FINLANDIA  473 

RAKASTAVA:  THE  LOVER  474 

POHJOLA'S  DAUGHTER  475 

SYMPHONY  NO.  I  IN  E  MINOR  477 

SYMPHONY  NO.  2  IN  D  MAJOR  479 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  A  MINOR  482 

SYMPHONY  NO.  5  IN  E-FLAT  MAJOR  484 

SYMPHONY  NO.  6  IN  D  MINOR  488, 

CONCERTO  IN  D  MINOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  491 

THE  SWAN  OF  TUONELA  492 

VALSE  TRISTE  493 

SMETANA,  BEDRICH  494 

OVERTURE  TO  aTHE  BARTERED  BRIDE"  494 

THE  MOLDAU  495 

SMITH,  JOHN  CHRISTOPHER  496 

MINIATURE  SUITE  496 

SoWERBYj  LEO  498 

PRAIRIE  499 

STRAUSS,  RICHARD 
BIN  HELDENLEBEN 
SALOME'S  DANCE 
TILL  EULENSPIEGELS  LUSTIGE  STREICHE 


TOD  UND  VERKLARUNG  r  j  3 

DON  JUAN 
DON  QUIXOTE 


CONTENTS  XV11 

ALSO  SPRACH  ZARATHUSTRA  524 

SINFONIA  DOMESTICA  5^8 

STRAVINSKY,  IGOR  533 

SUITE  FROM  "L'OISEAU  DE  FEU"  534 

LE  SACRE  DU  PRINTEMPS  539 

SUITE  FROM  "PETROUCHKA"  544 

TAYLOR,  DEEMS 

SUITE:  THROUGH  THE  LOOKING  GLASS 

TCHAIKOVSKY,  PIOTR  ILYICH  552 

CAPRICCIO  ITALIEN  554 

MARCHE  SLAV  554 

FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI  555 
CONCERTO  NO.  I  IN  B-FLAT  MINOR  FOR  PIANO  AND  ORCHESTRA       556 
ROMEO  AND  JULIET 
OVERTURE  SOLENNELLE  "l8l2" 

NUTCRACKER  SUITE  5&1 

CONCERTO  IN  D  MAJOR  FOR  VIOLIN  AND  ORCHESTRA  565 

SYMPHONY  NO.  4  IN  F  MINOR  56? 

SYMPHONY  NO.  5  IN  E  MINOR  574 

SYMPHONY  NO.  6  IN  B  MINOR  ("PATHETIQUE")  582 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY  5^6 

VIVALDI,  ANTONIO  59° 

CONCERTO  GROSSO  IN  D  MINOR  59° 

WAGNER,  RICHARD  592 

A  FAUST  OVERTURE  595 

SIEGFRIED  IDYL  595 

OVERTURE  TO  "DER  FLIEGENDE  HOLLANDER"  59^ 

OVERTURE  TO  "RIENZl"  597 

"LOHENGRIN": 

PRELUDE  598 

PRELUDE  TO  ACT  III  599 

"DIE  MEISTERSINGER": 

OVERTURE  599 

PRELUDE  TO  ACT  III  6O2 

DANCE  OF  THE  APPRENTICES  602 

"PARSIFAL": 

PRELUDE  602 

GOOD  FRIDAY  SPELL  606 
"TANNHAUSER"  : 

OVERTURE  AND  VENUSBERG  MUSIC  606 
"TRISTAN  UND. ISOLDE": 

PRELUDE LIEBESNACHT LIEBESTOD  609 


CONTENTS 

"DER  RING  DBS  NIBELUNGEN": 
"DIE  WALKURE"  : 

RIDE  OF  THE  VALKYRIES 

MAGIC  FIRE  SCENE 

"SIEGFRIED": 

THE  FORGING  OF  THE  SWORD 

WALDWEBEN  "1 6 

"DAS  RHEINGOLD": 

PRELUDE THE  RAINBOW  BRIDGE ENTRANCE  OF  THE  GODS 

INTO  VALHALLA  617 
"DIE  GOTTERDAMMERUNG": 

SIEGFRIED'S  RHEINFAHRT  618 

SIEGFRIED'S  FUNERAL  MUSIC  621 

BRUNNHILDE'S  SELF-IMMOLATION  624 

WEBER,  CARL  MARIA  VON  626 

OVERTURE  TO  "DER  FREISCHUTZ"  627 

OVERTURE  TO  "EURYANTHE"  627 

INVITATION  TO  THE  DANCE  628 

WEINBERGER,  JAROMIR  629 

POLKA  AND  FUGUE  FROM  "SCH WANDA"  629 

The  Modern  Phonograph;  Radio  630 

Glossary  635 

A  List  of  Modern  Victor  Recordings  of  Symphonic  Music     637 


PREFACE 

THE  PRIMARY  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  make  good  orchestral  music  more  intelli- 
gible, and  therefore  more  stimulating  and  enjoyable,  to  people  who  are  willing  to 
listen  to  such  music  and  who  would  like  to  know  and  love  it  better.  A  subordinate 
purpose  is  to  enlarge  the  visible,  the  radio,  and  the  phonograph  audiences  by  the 
addition  of  others  of  intelligence  and  sensitiveness,  who  have  been  mystified, 
bored,  repelled,  or  unimpressed  by  such  music  as  they  have  heard.  To  accomplish 
these  ends,  the  author  has  discussed  the  major  portion  of  the  symphonic  repertoire 
in  language  that  is  almost  entirely  nontechnical  and  which  seeks,  in  most  cases,  to 
present  ideas  and  suggestions  that  will  stimulate  the  reader's  own  emotional  and 
imaginative  responses  to  music.  The  introduction  of  anything  illegitimately  related 
to  the  music,  which  has  been  the  deplorable  practice  in  so  many  books  on  "music 
appreciation,"  has  been  avoided;  the  author  has  found,  and  hopes  that  the  reader 
will  also  find,  in  the  music  itself,  whatever  imaginative  stimuli  are  necessary  to 
full  enjoyment. 

There  are  many  people  listening  to  music  today  who  a  few  years  ago  had 
seldom,  and  perhaps  never,  heard  a  symphony  orchestra.  There  are  literally  millions 
today  who,  though  they  hear  symphonic  music  rather  frequently,  have  never 
actually  seen  a  symphony  orchestra,  and  who  have  not  been  satisfied  or  particularly 
enlightened  by  the  suave  dicta  of  the  radio  announcer  or  by  the  usually  historical 
and  didactic  pronouncements  of  some  music  commentators.  This  book  aims  to 
provide  the  minimum  of  necessary  historical  and  technical  information  and  the 
maximum  of  such  material  as  will  render  the  music  more  enjoyable. 

Music  is  a  synthesis  of  all  the  arts.  The  elements  of  painting  and  sculpture 
and  architecture,  of  drama  and  rhetoric  and  oratory,  are  all  involved  in  it.  Its 
appeal  is  most  universal,  because  it  speaks  a  language  understood  by  all  men,  and 
supplies  a  need  of  which  all  men  are  to  some  degree  conscious.  It  is  the  most 
intimate  of  the  arts,  because  it  acts  directly  and  instantly  and  powerfully  upon  the 
physical,  as  well  as  on  the  spiritual,  organism.  Any  music,  like  any  object  of  art, 
can  give  intellectual  pleasure  out  of  the  very  grace  and  perfection  of  its  form  and 
structure,  but  its  basic  appeal  is  to  the  senses,  to  the  imagination,  and  to  the 
emotions. 

The  Book  of  the  Symphony,  therefore,  approaches  music  from  this  point  of 
view.  Relatively  few  people  have  the  time  or  the  inclination  to  study  music  pro- 
foundly, but  there  are  few  who  do  not  respond  to  its  emotional  significance  and  its 
delightful  effect  on  the  senses  if  their  emotions  and  senses  have  been  prepared  and 
sharpened.  The  book  attempts  to  develop  that  state  of  preparedness,  and  to 
awaken  the  emotions  so  that  when  the  music  is  actually  heard  in  the  concert  hall, 


XX  PREFACE 

or  by  radio  or  phonograph,  the  mind  may  be  free  of  puzzled  questionings  and  the 
music  enjoyed  to  the  full. 

The  matter  of  this  book  has  not  been  chosen  out  of  caprice  or  the  author's 
personal  preferences  5  rather  a  standard  derived  from  the  known  popularity  of  each 
work,  as 'demonstrated  by  the  frequency  of  its  appearance  on  the  programs  of  four 
major  American  symphony  orchestras  during  the  past  three  years,  has  been  applied. 
The  book,  therefore,  includes  not  what  the  orchestras  should  play,  or  what,  as  a 
concession  to  a  relatively  small  element  in  their  audiences,  they  play  on  rare  occa- 
-sions,  but  rather  the  music  which  outstanding  conductors  choose  to  present  to  their 
audiences  season  after  season.  Obviously,  the  modernists  cannot  be  fully  repre- 
sented in  such  a  collection,  because  of  the  relative  infrequency  of  their  appearance 
on  conceit  programs.  There  have  been  exceptions,  of  course,  to  this  rule;  for,  re- 
gardless of  their  infrequent  performances,  certain  modern  and  standard  works, 
because  of  their  musical  importance,  could  not  reasonably  be  omitted.  It  is  prob- 
able, however,  that  anyone  who  refers  from  a  concert  or  radio  program  of  sym- 
phonic music  to  the  contents  of  this  book  will  find  most,  if  not  all,  items  of  the 
program  included  here.  The  growing  numbers  of  those  who  have  discovered  the 
miracle  of  modern  recorded  music  will  have  the  added  convenience  of  a  list  of 
records  covering  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  music  discussed  in  these  pages. 
Biographies  of  composers  have  been  treated  very  sketchily,  because  they  are  avail- 
able ekewhere  in  full  and  detailed  form;  furthermore,  they  are  of  secondary  im- 
portance to  the  purpose  of  this  volume. 

The  author  accepts  complete  and  sole  responsibility  for  opinions  expressed 
about  various  musical  works  and  their  composers.  The  use  of  the  word  "Victor" 
in  the  title  does  not  imply  any  responsibility  on  the  part  of  the  RCA  Manufacturing 
Company,  Inc.,  of  Camden,  New  Jersey,  for  the  publication  of  this  book  or  for 
any  statement  made  in  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the  author  must  express  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  generosity  of  the  company,  in  giving  him  access  to  its  enormous  libraries 
of  music  and  records,  which  were  invaluable  in  the  preparation  of  The  Book  of 
the  Symphony.  He  hopes  also  to  borrow  for  his  book,  by  its  association  with  Victor, 
some  of  the  luster  that  surrounds  The  Victor  Book  of  the  Of  era,  certainly  the 
definitive  work  of  its  kind.  The  author  is  indebted  to  Victor  for  encouragement 
and  help  in  the  preparation  of  the  book,  and  for  permission  to  reprint  certain  por- 
tions originally  published  by  the  company;  to  Mr,  Arthur  Judson,  who  kindly  per- 
mitted extensive  research  into  the  records  of  the  Philharmonic  Symphony  Society 
of  New  York  and  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra;  Mr.  George  E.  Judd,  manager 
of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  for  permission  to  examine  the  archives  of  that 
great  organization;  and  to  the  members  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  who  posed 
for  photographs  illustrating  the  orchestral  instruments. 

October,  1940.  CHARLES  O'CONNELL 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK 
OF   THE    SYMPHONY 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MODERN  ORCHESTRA  AND 
ITS  INSTRUMENTAL  COMPONENTS 

IN  THE  ancient  Greek  theater,  the  choros  (dancers  and  vocalists)  occupied  an 
allotted  space  between  the  players  and  audience.  This  space  was  called  the  orchestra, 
and  would  correspond  to  the  orchestra  pit  in  the  modern  theater,  except  that  it  was 
not  depressed  below  the  level  occupied  by  the  audience.  Early  in  the  nineteenth 
century  it  became  customary  to  refer,  in  theatrical  parlance,  to  the  group  of  musi- 
cians who  occupied  this  space,  rather  than  to  the  space  itself,  as  "the  orchestra." 

The  first  instrumental  groups  known  as  orchestras  included,  usually,  instru- 
ments of  the  lute  type  (from  which  our  mandolin  and  guitar  are  descended) ;  the 
family  of  viols;  harpsichords  or  similar  percussion-string  instruments,  and  some- 
times small  organs.  Orchestras  were  first  used  almost  exclusively  as  support  for 
vocal  music;  in  fact,  the  development  of  the  violin  can  be  directly  traced  to  the 
need  for  a  high-pitched  viol  to  accompany  the  higher  voices  in  musical-dramatic 
productions. 

Growing  use  of  the  orchestra  emphasized  the  shortcomings  of  orchestral  in- 
struments, and  brought  about  their  improvement;  consequently  a  tendency  to  give 
the  orchestra  more  prominence  is  noticeable  in  compositions  of  the  period  (1650- 
1700),  and  finally  composers  of  importance  began  writing  music  for  instruments 
alone.  Bach  and  Haydn  were  among  the  most  important  early  composers  of  purely 
instrumental  music — the  former  with  suites  and  concertos,  the  latter  with  his  sym- 
phonies. The  orchestra  which  includes  in  its  repertoire  Haydn's  symphonies  today 
may  have  as  many  as  one  hundred  and  twenty  members  (though  not  all  would  be 
used  in  a  Haydn  symphony) ;  Haydn's  orchestra  would  have  about  eighteen  men. 
It  would  include  players  of  the  violin,  viola,  cello,  and  contrabass,  or  bass  viol; 
two  each  of  flute,  oboe  and  bassoon,  horn  and  trumpet;  and  perhaps  the  orchestra 
would  boast  also  a  pair  of  kettledrums. 

Mozart  introduced  clarinets  and  trombones  as  regular  voices  of  the  orchestra, 
and  Beethoven  established  almost  all  the  present-day  orchestral  instruments  as 
members  in  good  standing.  In  the  C  minor  Symphony  (the  Fifth)  he  created  a 
sensation  by  the  sudden  introduction  of  the  trombones  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth  movement;  and  he  used  piccolo  and  contrabassoon  with  great  effective- 
ness. 

Almost  constant  improvement  in  the  orchestral  instruments  gave  Wagner, 
Brahms,  and  Tchaikovsky  inviting  opportunities  for  colorful  orchestration,  and 
they,  with  all  composers  of  the  romantic  period,  took  advantage  of  such  oppor- 
tunities. No  one  has  ever  surpassed  Wagner  in  the  brilliance,  variety,  and  sig- 
nificance of  his  orchestral  color.  Not  satisfied  with  certain  instruments,  he  re- 
designed them  (the  Bayreuth  tuba,  for  example)  to  produce  the  precise  tone 
quality  he  wanted.  He  was  the  first,  and  remains  one  of  the  few  composers,  to 

3 


4  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

write  intelligently  for  the  modern  harp,  and  his  use  of  modern  valved  brass 
instruments  is  unsurpassed  in  effectiveness.  The  orchestration  of  Brahms  is  of 
course  entirely  different,  darker,  and  warmer  than  Wagner's,  but  rarely  so  bril- 
liant. Tchaikovsky's  is  perhaps  of  a  quality  halfway  between  the  two. 

The  development  of  certain  instruments,  and  the  acceptance  of  others  as 
standard  orchestral  instruments,  helped  to  increase  the  size  of  the  orchestra. 
Theoretically,  there  should  be  no  more  than  one  instrument  of  each  "choir"  in  the 
orchestra:  one  violin  voice,  one  clarinet,  one  flute,  and  so  on.  But,  because  all  in- 
strumental voices  are  not  of  the  same  power  and  sonority,  a  balance  must  be 
effected  by  adjusting  their  relative  numbers;  and  because  composers  often,  now- 
adays, write  orchestral  parts  so  elaborate  that  each  must  be  divided  among  several 
instruments  of  one  type,  the  orchestra  has  grown  steadily  larger.  Furthermore, 
concert  halls  have  increased  in  size,  necessitating  more  orchestral  power,  and  we 
have  at  last  arrived  at  an  orchestra  of  100-120  men,  which  seems  large  enough 
for  most  modern  concert  halls,  yet  not  too  large  to  be  perfectly  responsive  and 
flexible. 

The  symphony  orchestra  is  made  up  of  four  groups,  or  choirs:  the  strings, 
woodwinds,  brass,  and  percussion,  or  batterie*  The  strings  include  about  eighteen 
first  and  sixteen  second  violins;  ten  to  fourteen  violas;  eight  to  twelve  cellos;  eight 
or  ten  basses;  one  or  two  harps.  (Very  rarely  more  harps  are  used;  although 
Wagner  requires  as  many  as  six! )  The  woodwind  usually  includes  two  flutes,  two 
piccolos,  three  oboes,  one  cor  anglais  or  English  horn,  three  bassoons,  one  contra- 
bassoon,  three  clarinets,  one  bass  clarinet,  and  sometimes  a  contrabass  clarinet. 
The  brass  choir  is  composed  of  three  or  four  trombones,  four  trumpets,  four  to  ten 
or  even  twelve  horns,  and  tuba  (sometimes  bass  tuba  or  helicon).  The  batterie 
comprises  the  drums  (timpani  or  kettledrums,  bass  and  military  drums,  tambourine, 
Chinese  drum,  and  sometimes  others) ;  tam-tam  or  gong,  celesta,  glockenspiel  or 
orchestra  bell;  tubular  chimes,  castanets,  xylophone,  and  triangle,  together  with 
any  other  special  percussion  instruments  which  the  composer  may  require.  The 
work  of  the  battene  is  divided  among  several  men,  who  sometimes  play  other 
orchestral  instruments  as  well.  The  timpanist,  however,  devotes  his  entire  attention 
to  his  own  special  instruments. 

STRINGS 

VioUn 

The  violin  is  the  soprano  of  the  string  choir,  and  in  some  respects  the  most 
important  instrument  of  the  orchestra.  It  is  capable  of  a  wide  range  of  emotional 
expression,  and  of  considerable  dynamic  scope;  its  tone  is  of  a  character  that  makes 
it  blend  well  with  any  other  tone  in  the  orchestra. 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MODERN  ORCHESTRA 

RANGE  OF  THE  VIOLIN 


In  its  present  form  the  violin  is  the  result  of  a  long  period  of  evolution — a 
period  which  ended  in  the  superb  instruments  of  the  great  sixteenth-  and  seven- 
teenth-century Italian  makers.  The  first  "true"  violins  were  made  in  Italy  by 
Gasparo  da  Salo  (1540—1609),  and  his  instruments  were  used  as  models  by  suc- 
ceeding makers.  The  city  of  Cremona  was  the  seat  of  the  most  famous  school  of 
violin  makers,  and  it  was  there  that  Andrea  Amati  started  the  line  of  artisans  whose 
name  in  a  violin  makes  it  priceless.  His  grandson,  Nicolo  Amati  (1596—1684),  not 
only  made  some  of  the  finest  violins  in  use  today y  but  was  the  teacher  of  Antonio 
Stradivari,  greatest  of  all  craftsmen  in  this  difficult  and  subtle  art.  Other  makers 
whose  instruments  remain  priceless,  often  musically  and  always  intrinsically,  were 
those  of  the  Guadagnini  and  Guarnerius  families. 

Any  one  of  these  names  authentically  appearing  in  a  violin  makes  it  exceed- 
ingly valuable.  That  is  not  to  say  that  modern  instruments  are  necessarily  inferior, 
or  that  ancient  ones  are  invariably  fit  for  use.  It  is  highly  questionable  that  anyone, 
unless  an  impossible  combination  of  musician,  antiquarian,  and  student,  could  dis- 
tinguish by  the  ear  alone  a  Stradivarius  from  the  finest  of  modern  instruments. 
The  value  of  a  Cremona  violin  is  often  factitious,  or  fictitious.  There  is  no  miracle, 
especially  and  exclusively  available  to  the  viol  family,  which  excepts  them  from 
the  deterioration  of  age  and  use;  and  there  is  no  reason  why  duplicates  of  them, 
executed  by  a  first-class  modern  violin  maker,  should  not  have  an  equally  beauti- 
ful quality  of  tone.  This  is  a  statement  that  will  shock  many  violinists  and  mer- 
chants; the  fact  remains.  The  superiority  of  the  Cremona  instruments  is  probably 
due,  not  to  the  ridiculous  supposition  that  a  secretly  formulated  varnish  gives  them 
their  tone,  but  to  the  fact  that  they  were  made  with  endless  patience  and  loving 
care.  Intelligent  and  persistent  manipulation  of  the  sound  post  of  a  string  instru- 
ment will  have  more  effect  on  the  tone  than  any  rare  wood,  any  secret  varnish  in 
the  world.  Furthermore,  while  a  Heifetz  can  make  any  violin  give  out  beautiful 
sound,  an  amateur  fiddler  can  make  a  -"Strad"  sound  like  a  leopard  cat  in  agony. 
It  would  seem,  therefore,  that  the  player  has  considerable  influence  on  the  tone  of 
even  a  famous  instrument. 

The  violin  bow  is  a  direct  descendant  of  the  aboriginal  weapon.  Its  present 
form  was  determined  by  Frangois  Tourte  (1747-1835),  many  of  whose  bows  are 
in  use  today.  The  arc  is  usually  of  a  wood  called  Pernambuco;  the  hairs  are  from 


6  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

a  horse's  tail,  bleached  white,  and  rubbed  with  resin  to  increase  their  friction 
against  the  string. 

The  violin  is  tuned  to  the  tones  G,  D,  A,  and  E.  The  G  string  is  a  wire- 
wound  string,  and  gives  the  violin  its  most  powerful  and  deepest  tones.  The  other 
strings  are  of  "catgut" — actually  made  from  the  intestines  of  sheep.  They  are  of 
varying  degrees  of  brightness  in  tone,  the  most  brilliant,  of  course,  being  the  E 
string  which  sometimes  is  made  of  steel.  The  effective  range  of  the  violin  is  about 
three  and  one-half  octaves,  from  G  below  middle  C.  Higher  tones  can  be  pro- 
duced, but  they  are  neither  agreeable  nor  effective. 

A  great  variety  of  utterance  is  possible.  Singing  passages,  smooth  and  un- 
broken; sharp,  crisp,  detached'  notes,  at  almost  any  speed;  ethereal  harmonics 
and  warm,  full,  sonorous  G-string  tones — all  are  at  the  command  of  the  capable 
player.  Octaves  and,  to  a  limited  extent,  chords  may  be  played  on  the  violin; 
when  two  notes  are  pkyed  at  once,  the  device  is  called  "double-stopping."  Bril- 
liant effects  are  achieved  by  various  methods  of  bowing:  sfacato  by  playing  rapidly 
a  number  of  detached  notes  in  one  stroke  of  the  bow;  saltando  by  bouncing  the 
bow  on  the  strings;  vibrato  by  vibrating  the  left  hand  from  the  wrist  as  the  finger 
presses  against  the  string;  col  legno  by  playing  with  the  wooden  part  of  the  bow; 
tremolo  by  rapidly  repeating  the  same  note  with  short  up-and-down  strokes  of  the 
bow;  glissando  by  sliding  the  left  hand  along  the  string  while  bowing  with  the  right. 
Trills,  mordents,  and  other  musical  decorations  are  all  easily  effected  on  the  violin. 

Harmonics  are  very  high-pitched  sounds,  components  of  the  normal  tone  of 
the  instrument  but  normally  almost  inaudible.  They  are  made  conspicuous  by 
stopping  off  the  fundamental  tone,  and  causing  the  string  to  vibrate  in  segments. 
This  the  violinist  accomplishes  in  one  of  two  ways.  He  may  lightly  press  upon  the 
strings  at  their  "nodal"  points  (the  points  between  the  segments  in  which  all 
vibrating  strings  move)  thus  interfering  with  the  vibration  of  the  string  as  a  whole 
and  bringing  the  segmentary  vibrations  into  prominence.  The  sounds  thus  pro- 
duced are  called  "natural"  harmonics.  The  player  may,  instead,  press  strongly  on 
the  point  of  the  string  which  will  give  the  required  pitch,  and  with  the  fourth 
finger  touch  lightly  on  the  new  nodal  point  of  the  "shortened"  section  of  the 
string.  He  thus  produces  "artificial"  harmonics,  stronger  but  less  agreeable  in 
quality  than  "natural"  harmonics. 

Viola 

The  viola  is  the  contralto  of  the  string  choir.  It  is  somewhat  larger  than  the 
violin,  and  in  size  as  well  as  musical  relationship  occupies  the  place  between  the 
deeper-toned  cello  and  the  brilliant  violin.  Its  strings  are  slightly  thicker  than 
violin  strings,  and  the  two  lower  ones  are  wire-wound.  Its  tone  is  sonorous,  but, 
solo,  not  always  agreeable.  As  supplying  a  tonal  mass  of  great  importance  to  the 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MODERN  ORCHESTRA  7 

orchestra,  the  viola  is  highly  necessary  and  desirable,  but  as  a  solo  instrument  it 
has  little  appeal,  except  in  the  rare  cases  wherein  music  intelligently  written  for 
it  is  played  by  a  Primrose  or  a  Tertis. 

RANGE  OF  THE  VIOLA 


The  viola  part  is  written  in  the  tenor  clef 

The  viola  in  modern  orchestra  has  received  much  more  attention  than  for- 
merly. The  few  outstanding  artists  who  play  this  rather  ungrateful  instrument 
have  done  much  to  redeem  it  from  the  curse  of  being  the  resort  of  unsuccessful 
violinists,  and  many  modern  composers  assign  to  it  such  music  as  will  bring  out  to 
the  full  its  latent  possibilities.  It  is  capable  of  all  the  technical  effects  of  the  violin, 
and  is  tuned  one-fifth  lower  —  C,  G,  D,  A.  Its  range  is  slightly  less  than  that  of 
the  violin  —  about  three  octaves. 

Cello 

The  violoncello  is  the  baritone  of  the  orchestral  string  choir.  It  is  a  develop- 
.ment  of  the  ancient  viola  da  gamba  (knee  viol),  which  was  once  the  bass  member 
of  the  string  family,  and  was  played  with  the  instrument  held  between  the  knees, 
much  as  the  cello  is  today.  Violoncello  is  a  rather  cumbersome  way  of  saying  "little 
big  viol/3  which  is  what  it  means;  so,  commonly  the  instrument  is  called  cello. 

RANGE  OF  THE  VIOLONCELLO 


It  is  tuned  an  octave  below  the  viola,  and  its  longer,  thicker  strings,  and  the 
larger  body  of  air  vibrated  by  them,  produce  a  darker,  but  more  sonorous  and 
agreeable  tone.  It  encompasses  three  and  one-sixth  octaves;  it  can  be  manipulated 
in  practically  all  the  tricks  of  the  violin,  but  not  so  rapidly.  Its  tone  is  warm, 
vibrant,  masculine;  the  cello  is  often  assigned  a  singing  role  in  the  orchestra,  for 
that  reason.  In  masses  of  tone  the  cello  is  one  of  the  orchestra's  most  effective  in- 
struments, and  while  its  voice  is  not  the  most  powerful,  it  can  be  the  most  con- 
spicuous and  perhaps  the  most  expressive  in  the  string  ensemble. 

The  cello  bow  is  shorter  and  heavier  than  that  of  the  violin,  and  the  bow 
and  left-hand  technique  are  entirely  different. 


8  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Double  Bass.  Contrabass 

This  is  the  bass  of  the  string  choir — a  giant  violin  more  than  six  feet  high, 
and,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  physicist,  as  inefficient  as  it  is  big.  The  tone  of 
the  contrabass,  though  exceedingly  deep  and  rich,  is  quite  weak  in  relation  to  the 
size  of  the  instrument  and  the  energy  required  to  play  it;  nevertheless,  the  ten  or 
twelve  basses  in  a  symphony  orchestra  supply  a  wonderfully  rich  and  deep  tonal 
foundation,  perceptible  no  matter  how  powerfully  the  rest  of  the  orchestra  is 
playing. 

RANGE  OF  THE  DOUBLE  BASS 


The  contrabass  has  certain  physical  peculiarities  which  differentiate  it  from 
the  other  viols,  and  establish  its  relationship  with  the  oldest  instruments  of  the  viol 
type.  It  has  sloping,  rather  than  rounded,  shoulders;  a  flat  instead  of  a  swelling 
back,  and  an  exceedingly  high  bridge.  The  bow,  also,  shows  traces  of  its  origin,  and 
more  than  any  other  bow  suggests  the  huntsman's  weapon. 

The  contrabass  is  tuned  in  shorter  intervals  than  the  other  string  instruments; 
otherwise  the  player,  unless  his  hand  were  unnaturally  large,  could  not  span  them. 
Therefore,  the  tuning  is  in  fourths  —  E,  A,  D,  and  G.  It  sounds  an  octave  lower 
than  its  notes  are  written.  Occasionally  a  five-string  bass  is  used,  a  C  string  being 
added  to  give  lower  bass  notes.  Despite  the  size  of  the  instrument,  most  violinistic 
effects  can  be  performed,  but  of  course  not  nearly  at  the  speed  of  the  violinist. 
The  tone  is  full,  deep,  sonorous,  and  resonant,  and  only  to  a  very  limited  degree 
can  it  be  used  solo.  Occasionally,  however,  for  weird  or  comic  effects,  conspicuous 
and  even  solo  passages  are  given  to  this  instrument.  The  most  famous  of  all  is  the 
strange  utterance  of  the  basses  in  the  scherzo  of  the  Beethoven  Fifth  Symphony 
that  suggested  to  Hector  Berlioz  the  gambolings  of  elephants.  Serge  Koussevitzky, 
the  eminent  conductor  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  is  a  virtuoso  of  this 
Gargantuan  violin,  and  has  played  solo  in  public  as  well  as  for  phonograph  records. 


More  than  three  thousand  years  ago,  a  court  painter  was  commanded  to  deco- 
.rate  with  murals  the  battlements  of  an  ancient  Egyptian  city.  In  the  procession  of 
figures  he  limned  on  the  everlasting  stone,  some  bore  musical  instruments,  several 
of  which  are  distinctly  recognizable  as  harps. 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MODERN  ORCHESTRA 

RANGE  OF  THE  HARP 


ii  91      £       \\ 
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The  harp  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  romantic  of  musical  instruments*  It 
was  known  well  to  the  Jews  of  Biblical  times;  indeed,  David  is  remembered  as  a 
harper  and  singer.  No  doubt  he  wooed  a  lady  as  easily  as  he  soothed  a  troubled 
prince,  with  the  assistance  of  his  plangent  strings;  for  the  harp  gives  wonderful 
background  to  the  voice.  We  often  associate  the  harp  with  the  Irish  bards  and 
minstrels — indeed  with  the  Irish  race  itself;  not  entirely  without  reason,  for  the 
harp  is  the  only  musical  instrument  regarded  as  a  national  symbol,  and  represented 
in  a  national  flag.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  harp  has  a  more  intimate  connection 
with  the  ancient  Jews,  and  was  known  and  widely  used  in  Europe  long  before 
Ireland  heard  it.  The  painted  vases  of  the  ancient  Greeks  reveal  the  harp  in  use, 
and  the  troubadours,  the  minnesingers,  and  the  bards  of  Northern  Europe  brought 
it  to  the  western  shores  of  that  continent.  Soon  it  was  adopted  by  the  Irish,  the 
Scotch,  and  the  Welsh,  and  during  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII  was  incorporated  in 
the  national  insignia  of  Ireland. 

The  harp,  until  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  had  been  little  im- 
proved over  its  primitive  ancestors.  To  be  portable,  it  had  to  be  limited  in  size  and 
weight,  and  consequently  in  the  number  of  its  strings.  Chromatic  intervals — tones 
lying  between  the  whole  tones  (the  white  keys  on  the  piano) — could  not  be  played, 
because  to  tune  the  harp  chromatically  would  require  too  many  strings.  About  1720 
a  transposing  pedal  was  invented;  it  would  raise  all  the  strings,  simultaneously,  a 
half  tone.  Ninety  years  later,  Sebastien  £rard,  founder  of  the  French  piano  house 
"]£rard,"  developed  the  double-action  harp,  employing  pedals  that  would  shorten 
the  strings  instantaneously,  raising  them  either  a  half  or  whole  tone,  and  making 
it  possible  to  play  in  all  keys. 

The  modern  conceit  harp  is  usually  tuned  in  the  key  of  C  flat;  it  has  seven 
transposing  pedals,  each  pedal  affecting  all  the  strings  of  the  same  name.  Thus, 
the  C  pedal  affects  all  the  C  strings,  the  D  pedal  all  the  D's,  and  so  on.  When  all 
the  pedals  are  pressed  down  halfway,  the  harp  is  tuned  in  C  major;  if  they  are 
depressed  fully,  the  instrument  will  play  in  C-sharp  major.  Naturally,  the  agility 
of  the  harp  in  passing  from  one  tonality  to  another  is  somewhat  limited  by  its 
mechanism,  and  the  powers  of  the  human  hand  likewise  impose  handicaps.  It  is, 
therefore,  not  easy  to  write  intelligent  and  effective  music  for  the  harp,  and  at  the 
same  time  stay  within  the  possibilities  of  the  instrument. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  this,  one  of  the  most  ancient  of  instruments,  would 


10  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

win  the  approval  of  the  most  radical  modernist  architect  or  designer,  for  the  reason 
that  in  its  structure  it  is  almost  purely  functional.  The  slender  Corinthian  column 
that  is  characteristic  of  the  conventional  model  is  a  hollow  pillar  of  great  structural 
strength,  which  serves  not  only  to  take  a  large  part  of  the  strains  generated  by  the 
taut  strings,  but  also  encloses  the  rods  connecting  the  pedals  with  the  tuning  mech- 
anism. The  gracefully  curved  neck,  lovely  as  it  is,  nevertheless  is  a  purely  struc- 
tural form,  determined  entirely  by  the  varying  length  of  the  strings.  It,  too,  has  a 
double  purpose;  it  serves  as  a  base  for  anchoring  the  strings,  and  conceals  the 
transposing  mechanism.  The  sound  box  is  the  third  member  of  the  triangle; 
through  it  pass  the  strings  to  their  lower  extremities,  and  it  resonates  and  reinforces 
their  tone. 

The  tone  of  the  harp  is  rather  weak,  nor  is  it  susceptible  of  much  variation 
in  color.  In  the  orchestra  it  is  used  with  beautiful  effect,  nevertheless;  in  accom- 
panying solo  passages  for  other  instruments,  in  adding  a  certain  luster  to  the  orches- 
tral texture,  and,  more  rarely,  as  a  romantic  solo  voice.  The  lower  and  middle 
strings  have,  in  the  hands  of  a  skillful  player,  a  warm  and  lovely  tone,  unassertive 
yet  by  no  means  inconspicuous  in  orchestral  passages  of  moderate  dynamic  inten- 
sity. The  upper  strings  have  a  brilliant  but  ephemeral  tone,  which  because  of  the 
relative  inflexibility  and  shortness  of  the  string  is  resonated  but  briefly  and  weakly. 
The  range  of  the  harp  is  five  octaves;  its  music  is  written  exactly  like  that  of  the 
piano.  The  arpeggio,  a  chord  in  which  the  notes  are  played  rapidly  in  succession 
rather  than  simultaneously,  derives  its  name  from  that  of  the  harp;  it  is  the 
characteristic  utterance  of  the  instrument. 

The  orchestral  harpist  must  be  a  musician  of  the  first  rank,  possessed  of  an 
infallible  sense  of  pitch,  great  digital  dexterity,  deftness  in  the  use  of  the  pedals, 
and  poise  under  all  circumstances. 

WOODWINDS 
Flute 

The  flute  is  a  descendant  of  what  is  probably  the  oldest  and  simplest  wind 
instrument — a  hollow  reed.  Somewhat  more  proximately,  it  is  related  to  the  syrinx 
of  ancient  Greece,  from  which  the  vocal  organ  of  the  bird  is  named.  It  has  always 
been  a  highly  respectable  instrument;  a  cultured  Greek  youth  regarded  flute- 
playing  as  a  necessary  and  polite  accomplishment,  and  one  reads  of  yearning  nine- 
teenth-century bachelors  occupying  themselves  with  the  instrument  when  not 
otherwise  engaged. 

The  beak  flutes,  recorders,  and  flageolets  of  the  sixteenth  to  nineteenth  cen- 
turies were  the  ancestors  of  the  present  instruments.  They  were  played  vertically, 
however,  and  not  transversely,  as  is  the  orchestral  flute  of  today;  in  their  range, 
tone,  and  agility,  they  were  not  materially  different  from  a  ten-cent  tin  whistle. 


A    NOTE    ON    THE    MODERN    ORCHESTRA  II 

In  1832,  Theobald  Boehm  invented  a  keyed  flute  which  greatly  facilitated  per- 
formance, extended  the  possibilities  of  the  instrument,  and  gave  it  the  use  of  the 
chromatic  scale.  We  owe  the  modern  flute  almost  entirely  to  Boehm's  improve- 
ments. 

RANGE  OF  THE  FLUTE 


The  range  of  the  flute  is  approximately  three  octaves.  Its  tone  in  the  lower 
register  is  warm,  smooth,  and  rather  dark-colored;  as  it  proceeds  up  the  scale  the 
tone  becomes  much  more  brilliant,  and  in  the  highest  register  is  keen  and  pene- 
trating. Incidentally,  the  player  does  not  blow  into  his  instrument,  but  across  a  hole 
in  its  side  called  the  embouchure.  He  thus  agitates  the  column  of  air  within  the 
flute,  and  this  air  column  is  the  vibrating  body  which  produces  the  tone.  The  high- 
est notes  are  produced  by  overblowing  (blowing  harder  than  normally),  together 
with  changes  in  the  shape  of  the  lips. 

The  flute  can  produce  a  great  variety  of  effect.  It  is  used  in  important  melodic 
passages  as  well  as  in  brilliant,  decorative  figures;  its  agility  is  amazing,  its  tone 
almost  always  discernible  in  the  orchestral  fabric.  It  is  capable  of  exceedingly  rapid 
scale  passages,  but  not  normally  of  a  true  glissando — an  effect  which,  in  the  orches- 
tra, is  confined  exclusively  to  the  string  instruments  and  trombone.  It  is  almost  always 
used  in  the  accompaniment  to  the  most  ambitious  efforts  of  coloratura  sopranos, 
in  which  the  intent  is  to  compare  (or  is  it  to  contrast? )  the  agility,  tone,  and  into- 
nation of  the  voice  and  flute.  This  is  invariably  unfortunate  for  the  voice. 

Piccolo 

In  Italian,  pccolo  means  "diminutive,"  and  the  piccolo  of  the  orchestra  is 
essentially  a  little  flute.  It  is  half  the  size  of  the  flute,  it  is  played  in  much  the  same 
manner,  and  it  can  sound  an  octave  or  more  higher  than  its  larger  brother.  It 
ranges  through  about  three  octaves,  with  a  tone  which  at  any  pitch  is  exceedingly 
brilliant  and,  in  its  uppermost  register,  piercing  to  the  point  of  unpleasantness. 

RANGE  OF  THE  PICCOLO 


Composers  use  it  for  quaint  and  fantastic  effects,  as  well  as  for  applying  a 
penetrating  point  and  glitter  to  heavy  masses  of  orchestral  tone. 


12  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Oboe 

The  oboe,  in  recognizable  form,  dates  back  to  the  days  of  ancient  Greece  and 
Rome.  To  the  Greeks  it  was  known  as  the  aulos;  the  Romans  called  it  tibia,  a 
name  which  survives  today  in  an  organ  stop  of  woodwind  timbre.  In  Shakespeare's 
stage  directions  we  encounter  the  word  hautboy,  a  corruption  of  two  French  words 
meaning  "high  wood."  The  oboe  might  be  called  the  lyric  soprano  of  the  wood- 
wind choir.  Its  tone,  especially  in  its  upper  range,  is  bright,  penetrating,  reedy,  or 
almost  of  flutelike  brilliance,  yet  always  with  a  very  vocal  quality  that  is  peculiarly 
poignant  and  moving.  The  lowest  tones  are  round  and  reedy,  with  almost  a  con- 
tralto timbre. 

RANGE  OF  THE  OBOE 


The  oboe  is  a  sectional,  conical  tube  of  wood  (cocus,  rosewood,  or  ebony )i 
pierced  with  holes  and  fitted  with  a  key  system  not  unlike  that  of  the  flute.  It  is4 
equipped  with  a  double  reed,  the  vibrations  of  which  generate  its  tones.  Its  range 
encompasses  two  and  one-half  octaves.  Very  little  wind  is  necessary  to  make  the 
instrument  speak,  and  for  this  reason,  extended  phrases  are  quite  possible.  The 
player  is  more  concerned  with  holding  back  the  breath  than  with  great  blowing 
power,  but  he  must  be  able  to  "feed"  it  to  the  instrument  with  absolute  evenness, 
under  absolute  control. 

The  oboe  is  exceedingly  agile;  it  is  capable  of  brilliant  decorative  figures  as 
well  as  fluent  and  sustained  melody,  and  its  versatility  makes  it  one  of  the  orches- 
tra's most  important  voices.  Its  very  distinctive  and  incisive  tone,  "green"  and 
bittersweet,  keeps  this  instrument  always  conspicuous  in  the  ensemble,  and  make^ 
it  an  interesting  contrast  with  other  instruments* 

Cor  anglais 
[English  Horn] 

This  remarkably  named  instrument  is  neither  "English"  nor  a  horn.  It  is, 
actually,  an  alto  oboe,  with  certain  modifications  which  alter  the  characteristic  oboe 
tone  in  both  pitch  and  quality.  It  has  been  asserted  that  the  cor  anglais  is  a  descend- 
ant of  the  old  English  hornpipe,  and  that  the  French,  perceiving  its  value  and 
putting  it  to  work,  called  it  "English"  horn.  This  explanation  accounts  for  the 
"English,"  but  not  for  the  "horn." 


/"     .  •} 

««  i   U 5  A    NOTE     ON    THE     MODERN     ORCHESTRA 


RANGE  OF  THE  ENGLISH  HORN 


Certain  early  reed  instruments  were  bent  in  the  middle,  forming  an  obtuse 
angle ;  anglais  might  therefore  refer  to  "an  angled  horn."  Regardless  of  the  origin 
of  the  name,  however,  the  instrument  is  an  oboe  of  larger  size,  lower  pitch,  and 
darker  tone  color.  Its  bore  is  conical,  and  the  exterior  lines,  instead  of  ending  in  a 
slightly  flared  bell,  expand  into  a  roughly  spherical  bulb,  open  at  the  lower  extrem- 
ity. It  is  this  hollow  and  open  bulb  which  largely  determines  the  curiously  dark  and 
almost  nasal  quality  of  the  tone. 

The  English  horn  has  a  compass  of  about  two  and  one-half  octaves,  some 
German-made  instruments  having  one  or  two  notes  lower  than  the  French.  The 
key-and-fingering  system  is  identical  with  that  of  the  oboe,  but  the  cor  anglais  is 
pitched  five  tones  lower  than  its  soprano  relative. 

-  Nearly  everyone  knows  the  lovely  cor  anglais  solo  in  the  "Largo"  of  Dvorak's 

Xsymphony  "From  the  New  World."  Many  of  us,  however,  have  had  the  misfor- 
\3tune  to  become  acquainted  with  this  poignant  melody  only  as  the  basis  of  the  banal 
OQ  and  tasteless  mock  spiritual  "Coin*  Home."  The  persistence  of  this  emasculate  sen- 
y  on  radio  programs  has  not  increased  the  effectiveness  of  the  original 
when  it  appears,  in  its  proper  symphonic  setting,  on  the  air;  yet,  played  by 
a  really  great  executant  on  the  cor  anglc&sy  its  haunting  and  melancholy  beauty  can 
be  a  memorable  thing. 

Another  famous  and  exceedingly  beautiful  passage  for  English  horn  is  the 

main  theme  of  the  second  movement  of  the  Cesar  Franck  symphony.  At  the  first 

^^performance  of  this  work  one  critic  dismissed  it  breezily  for  the  very  reason  that  the 

Lpj  English  horn  is  used  in  it.  Franck  was  first  to  employ  this  instrument  in  a  sym-' 

Anhony,  and  the  profound  commentator,  with  true  French  logic,  decided  that  since 

..    no  symphony  had  used  the  English  horn,  no  work  which  did  use  it  could  be  a 

symphony. 

Wagner  used  this  beautiful  orchestral  voice,  as  he  used  every  instrument,  with 
singular  effectiveness.  The  unaccompanied  solo  for  cor  anglais^  occurring  in  the 
third  act  of  Tristan  und  Isolde>  is  a  striking  example. 

Oboe  d'amore 

This  instrument,  though  not  frequently  used  in  the  modern  orchestra,  was 
important  to  the  orchestra  of  Bach's  time,  and  is  found  occasionally  in  modern 
works  and  in  contemporary  orchestrations  of  the  music  of  Bach.  It  is  tuned  a  minor 

5.C39C51 


14  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

third  below  the  oboe  and  its  range  is  relatively  of  the  same  extent.  In  appearance  it 
much  resembles  the  English  horn,  having  the  more  or  less  spherically  shaped  bell 
which  by  surrounding  the  final  opening  of  the  instrument  imparts  a  veiled  and 
mystical  quality  to  the  tone.  The  instrument  is  keyed  and  played  like  the  English 
horn. 

Clarinet 

The  ancestors  of  the  clarinet  were  the  reed  instruments  in  common  use 
(1600—1700)  and  known  variously  as  chalumeaux,  shawms,  and  schalmeis.  These 
names  are  all  derived  from  the  Latin  calamus — a  reed.  The  word  clarinet  comes 
to  use  through  the  Italian  clanno  and  English  clarion,  a  small  and  high-pitched 
trumpet  which  the  clarinet,  or  clarionet,  eventually  succeeded. 

RANGE  OF  THE  CLARINET 


The  clarinet  is  a  single-reed  instrument.  Its  bore  is  cylindrical  rather  than 
conical,  and  the  tube  *is  about  two  feet  long,  terminating  in  a  slightly  flared  bell. 
The  range  and  agility  of  the  instrument  were  tremendously  improved  when,  in 
1843,  the  Boehm  key  system  was  applied  to  it.  The  modern  instrument  has  a  range 
of  more  than  three  octaves. 

If  the  oboe  is  the  lyric  soprano  of  the  woodwind  choir,  the  clarinet  is  the 
dramatic.  Its  tone  varies  definitely  and  markedly  in  different  sections  of  its  range. 
The  lowest  section  is  dark,  sonorous,  and  reedy — sometimes  melancholy  and  weird; 
the  middle  register  is  notably  weaker  and  less  colorful,  and  the  higher  is  remarkably 
clear,  bright,  and  polished. 

The  saxophone,  a  poor  but  close  relation  of  the  clarinet,  is  not  regularly  a 
member  of  the  orchestra,  but  its  use  in  modern  music  is  frequent  and  often  effec- 
tive. It  was  invented  in  1840  by  Adolphe  Sax.  Like  the  clarinet,  it  is  played  with  a 
single  reed  in  a  chisel-shaped  mouthpiece.  Unlike  the  clarinet,  it  has  a  conical  bore, 
a  relatively  large  and  upturned  bell,  and  is  made  of  brass.  It  is  made  in  many  sizes, 
from  tiny  soprano  to  grotesquely  large  and  clumsy  bass.  Maurice  Ravel  uses  it 
conspicuously  in  his  effective  orchestrations,  and  Debussy  composed  a  charming 
Rhapsodic  for  Saxophone  and  Orchestra. 

Bass  Clarinet 

A  clarinet  long  enough  to  produce  real  bass  tone  would  be  too  long  for  con- 
venience-, consequently,  the  bass  clarinet  is  doubled  on  itself,  to  bring  its  length 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  MODERN  ORCHESTRA  15 

RANGE  OF  THE  BASS  CLARINET 


Into  reasonable  limits.  It  resembles,  somewhat,  a  large  saxophone.  Its  tone  is 
more  powerful,  less  reedy,  more  sonorous  and  round  than  that  of  the  clarinet,  and 
extends  through  a  range  of  about  one  and  a  half  octaves.  Its  lowest  tones  are  re- 
markably big  and  heavy,  closely  resembling  certain  pedal  tones  in  a  great  organ* 

Bassoon 

The  bassoon  is  the  lowest-voiced  member  of  the  woodwind  group.  It  is  a  col- 
lateral descendant  of  the  same  ancient  instruments  from  which  springs  the  clarinet, 
though  there  is  little  resemblance  between  them.  Low-pitched  notes  are  a  function 
of  the  length  of  the  vibrating  body.  To  achieve  the  low  notes  of  the  bassoon,  length 
is  necessary,  and  primitive  forms  of  the  instrument  were  from  six  to  nine  feet  long. 
For  convenience  in  playing,  the  pipe  was  doubled  upon  itself  and  joined  together  in 
a  block  of  solid  wood.  The  imaginative  Italians  saw  some  resemblance,  then,  to  a 
bundle  of  sticks,  and  gave  the  instrument  the  name  jagotto — faggot. 

RANGE  OF  THE  BASSOON 


True  intonation  is  difficult  for  the  bassoon,  and  great  skill  is  required  to  make 
it  deliver  its  possible  effects.  It  is,  nevertheless,  capable  of  considerable  agility  and 
rapidity  in  its  various  expressions,  and  because  of  this,  plus  a  certain  weird,  dry 
quality  of  tone  in  certain  registers,  it  is  often  assigned  comical  parts,  and  has  won  a 
reputation  as  the  clown  of  the  orchestra.  This  is  a  little  unjust,  for  the  bassoon 
is  also  capable  of  warm  and  sentimental  expression,  of  utterances  passionate  and  sad. 
It  is  an  exceedingly  versatile  instrument,  and  has  been  employed  regularly  in  the 
orchestra  since  the  time  of  Handel  and  Bach.  Its  tone  blends  so  well  with  that  of 
certain  other  instruments  that  it  is  frequently  used  to  fortify  other  groups,  notably 
the  cellos.  Its  range  is  usually  somewhat  more  than  three  octaves. 

Contrabassoon 

The  subbass  of  the  woodwind  choir  is  essentially  of  the  same  type  as  bassoon, 
but  is  much  larger.  It  continues  down  the  scale  from  the  bassoon's  lowest  notes, 


l6  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

and  can  sound  the  deepest  notes  in  the  orchestral  ensemble.  Actually  about  sixteen 
feet  long,  it  is  folded  six  times,  so  that  its  coils  stand  about  four  feet  from  the  floor. 
In  addition  to  carrying  the  bassoon  quality  farther  down  the  scale,  the  contra- 

RANGE  OF  THE  CONTRABASSOON 


bassoon,  in  its  lower  register,  has  a  quality  peculiar  to  itself — it  can  snore  and  grunt 
and  growl  quite  effectively.  Ravel  makes  use  of  this  ability  of  the  instrument  by 
assigning  to  it,  in  his  Mother  Goose  suite,  the  part  of  the  Beast  in  the  episode 
"Beauty  and  the  Beast." 

THE  BRASS 
Trumpet 

The  ancestry  of  the  trumpet  is  most  ancient.  It  originated  in  the  horns  of 
animals,  or  in  certain  sea  shells,  which  primitive  man  fashioned  into  crude  instru- 
ments capable  of  sounding  but  one  note.  The  oldest  extant  form  of  the  instrument 
is  the  shofar,  the  ramVhorn  trumpet  still  used  in  modern  synagogues,  and  sounded 
as  a  formal  summons  to  the  congregation  on  the  Jewish  New  Year. 

RANGE  OF  THE  TRUMPET 


Metal  trumpets  were  used  for  military  purposes  by  the  ancient  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  the  present  form  of  the  instrument  had  its  beginnings  even  in  those 
early  days,  when  the  trumpet  was  made  in  coils  for  convenience  in  carrying.  A 
shrill  and  high-pitched  trumpet,  the  danno  or  clarion,  was  much  used  by  Handel 
and  Bach,  but  the  instrument  escaped  from  its  natural  limitations  only  when,  early 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  valves  or  pistons  were  provided.  These  simplified  the 
method  of  playing  the  instrument,  and  made  it  possible  to  execute  upon  it  the  full 
chromatic  scale. 

The  present  orchestral  trumpet  is  a  brass  tube  about  eight  feet  in  length,  coiled 
in  a  roughly  rectangular  shape  about  eighteen  inches  long.  The  greater  length  of 
the  tube  is  cylindrical,  but  about  twelve  inches  from  the  final  opening  it  begins 
to  expand  into  a  bell.  The  mouthpiece  is  cup-shaped,  and  the  lips  are  brought  against 


A     NOTE     ON     THE     MODERN     ORCHESTRA  If 

it  with  considerable  pressure.  By  manipulations  of  the. tongue  and  lips,  the  player 
can  sound  his  instrument  with  great  rapidity  and  brilliance.  By  the  use  of  the  mute 
— Si  pear-shaped  mass  of  metal  or  papier-mache  which  fits  into  the  bell — a  distant 
and  attenuated  tone  is  produced  for  special,  colorful  effects. 

The  natural  tone  of  the  instrument,  with  its  golden  clarity,  its  penetrating 
brilliance,  its  noble,  even  defiant  quality,  is  familiar  to  everyone.  In  the  hands  of  a 
really  expert  player,  its  tone  can  be  exceedingly  expressive,  soft  and  rich  and  mov- 
ing. In  the  symphony  orchestra  the  trumpet  is  used  for  a  variety  of  purposes,  but  of 
course  its  principal  duty  is  to  add  sonority  and  brilliance  to  the  ensemble.  Its  range 
is  about  two  and  one-half  octaves;  the  topmost  note  is  the  same  high  C  that  sopranos 
boast  of.  Some  jazz  trumpeters  can  force  the  instrument  even  higher,  unfortunately. 

Cornet 

Closely  related  to  the  trumpet,  the  cornet  is  not  an  orchestral  member  in  good 
standing.  Its  tone  is  smaller  and  less  brilliant  than  that  of  the  trumpet.  It  differs 
from  its  relative  in  that  its  bore  is  conical  rather  than  cylindrical,  and  it  is  much 
easier  to  play.  The  comparative  simplicity  of  its  technique  accounts  for  its  popularity 
in  small  and  amateur  orchestras,  and  among  juvenile  geniuses.  It  is  occasionally 
used  in  the  symphony  orchestra;  in  Stravinsky's  Petrouchka^  and  in  the  world's 
noisiest  overture — Tchaikovsky's  "1812." 

French  Horn 

Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  voice  in  the  brass  choir,  the  French  horn  is  also  the 
most  difficult  and  the  most  unreliable.  Its  tone,  pitch,  and  various  effects  are  more 
dependent  upon  the  skill  of  the  performer,  and  less  upon  the  mechanism  of  the 
instrument,  than  in  the  case  of  any  other  brass  instrument. 

RANGE  OF  THE  FRENCH  HORN 


1 


0.        00 


Its  remote  ancestor  is  the  hunting  horn,  often  observed  in  old  prints  coiled 
around  the  body  of  a  mounted  man.  It  is  a  brass  tube  about  sixteen  feet  long,  with 
coils  and  crooks  which  reduce  its  linear  dimensions  to  convenient  size.  The  bell  of 
the  horn  is  relatively  quite  large,  and  into  it  the  player  frequently  inserts  his  hand 
for  the  purpose  of  raising  or  lowering  the  pitch,  and  producing  muted  or  "stopped" 
effects. 

In  the  crude  early  horns  the  tones  produced  were  limited  by  the  audible  har- 


20  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

The  name  tuba,  and  that  of  an  ancestor  of  this  instrument — the  "ophicleide" 
— survive  in  the  modern  pipe  organ  as  designations  of  pedal  stops. 

PERCUSSION  INSTRUMENTS 
"Batterie 

Any  instrument  which  is  made  to  sound  by  striking,  beating,  or  shaking  is 
a  percussion  instrument.  The  piano,  for  example,  though  not  a  member  of  the 
orchestra,  is  a  percussion  instrument,  while  the  harp,  its  close  relative,  is  not. 
Instruments  of  percussion  are  the  descendants  of  the  most  primitive  sound-making 
apparatus.  Their  chief  function  is  to  produce  and  accent  rhythm,  and  rhythm  is 
the  most  primitive  musical  impulse.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  they  should 
come  first,  in  chronological  order,  of  all  musical  instruments. 

The  aggregation  of  percussion  instruments  in  the  orchestra  is  usually  called 
the  battene — things  that  are  struck.  Most  important  of  these  are  the 


Timpani,  or  kettledrums,  achieve  their  importance  chiefly  because  of  the  fact 
that  they  are  capable  of  definite  and  intentionally  variable  pitch.  Their  Oriental 
ancestors  consisted  of  a  skin  stretched  over  a  hollow  gourd.  The  modern  instru- 
ment is  a  bowl  of  copper,  pierced  by  a  small  hole  at  the  bottom,  and  topped  with  a 

RANGE  OF  TIMPANI  TUNED  TO  TONIC  AND 
DOMINANT,  KEY  OF  F 

p2±'~«^-  ^^^—^r"-- 'i 

tightly  stretched  calf  skin.  Early  symphonic  writing  calls  for  but  two  timpani, 
which  were  tuned  to  the  tonic  and  dominant  tones  of  the  key  in  which  the  music 
was  written.  (Do  and  sol.)  Hector  Berlioz,  whose  orchestral  extravagances  are 
historic,  considered  a  work  in  which  eight  pairs  of  timpani  were  to  be  used!  Com- 
monly, three  to  five  kettledrums  are  required;  they  vary  in  pitch  according  to 
their  size  and  the  tension  of  the  drumhead.  When  three  are  used,  they  are  generally 
tuned  to  the  tonic,  dominant,  and  subdominant  ( fa) ;  others  are  tuned  as  the 
exigencies  of  the  music  may  require. 

Notwithstanding  their  essential  simplicity,  the  timpani  are  capable  of  consid- 
erable variety  of  effect,  and  require  great  skill  and  musicianship  on  the  part  of  the 
player.  A  single  portentous  utterance,  as  in  the  conceit  version  (at  the  end)  of  the 
Tristan  prelude,  can  be  like  a  clutching  hand  at  the  throat;  a  long  crescendo  roll 


.  A    NOTE     ON    THE     MODERN     ORCHESTRA  21 

suggests  terror,  and  yet  the  same  instrument  can  impart  a  rhythmic  accent  of  deli- 
cacy and  grace. 

The  pitch  of  the  kettledrums  can  be  altered — indeed,  often  must  be — almost 
instantaneously  while  the  orchestra  is  playing.  This  requires  the  player  to  have  an 
uncannily  accurate  sense  of  pitch  and  ability  to  concentrate,  and  deftness  in  han- 
dling the  pedal  and  tuning  screws,  by  which  the  drumhead  is  tightened.  The  kettle- 
drum has  a  range  of  about  half  an  octave. 

Various  types  of  sticks  are  used,  varying  from  hard  to  very  soft,  according 
to  the  quality  of  tone  required.  The  head  of  the  stick  is  a  ball  which  may  be  of 
sponge,  felt,  rubber,  or  wood.  Sometimes  a  soft  and  dull  effect  is  made  by  covering 
the  drumhead  with  a  loose  piece  of  cloth.  Tremolo,  staccato,  and  other  effects  are 
produced  by  skillful  players  of  timpani. 

Side,  Swrey  or  Military  Drum 

Essentially,  the  snare  drum  consists  of  a  shallow  cylinder  of  brass  (or  wood), 
closed  at  either  plane  surface  by  a  head  of  parchment,  under  tension.  Across  the 
lower  head,  cords  of  catgut  are  stretched,  so  that  when  the  drum  is  struck  they 
vibrate  against  the  parchment,  causing  the  familiar  sharp,  crisp  rattling  effect. 

The  sticks,  of  wood,  have  small  round  heads,  and  by  an  expert  player  can  be 
manipulated  with  startling  rapidity. 

The  snare  drum  is  of  indefinite  pitch  but  brilliant  in  tone.  It  is  used  as  a 
rhythm-accenting  instrument,  though  occasionally  it  is  given  dramatic  significance, 
indicating  suspense;  or  to  imitate  certain  unmusical  sounds. 

Bass  Drum 

The  bass  drum  is  nothing  more  than  a  greatly  enlarged  side  drum.  It  is  made 
of  wood  or  metal ;  its  pitch  is  indefinite  but  very  low,  and  because  of  the  great  body 
of  vibrating  air  enclosed  in  it,  its  tone  is  exceedingly  resonant  and  quite  powerful. 
Unless  muted  by  a  covering  of  some  kind,  it  will  also  resonate  the  notes  of  other 
instruments,  even  while  it  stands  untouched.  It  is  pkyed  with  a  softheaded  stick* 
Its  note  is  audible  in  the  loudest  orchestral  ensembles,  and  though  it  is  cumbersome 
and  awkward  to  play,  it  contributes  very  powerfully  and  effectively  to  rhythmic 
effects.  It  is  used  also  for  imitative  and  nonmusical  sounds. 


The  tambourine  is  a  miniature  drum  with  a  single  head.  It  consists  of  a  hoop 
of  wood,  over  which  is  stretched  a  parchment.  In  the  rim  of  wood  are  inserted 
small  metal  discs,  which  vibrate  when  the  instrument  is  shaken  or  struck.  It  is  of 


22  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

extreme  antiquity;  we  find  it  pictured  in  Egyptian,  Assyrian,  and  Greek  mural 
paintings.  It  seems  to  have  come  to  us  through  the  Orient  and  Spain,  and  is  usually 
associated  with  Spanish  music.  It  is  played  by  either  striking  with  the  hand,  or 
shaking,  or  both  in  combination. 

Chinese  Drum 

A  wide  wooden  hoop,  over  which  is  stretched  pigskin — usually  gaily  painted. 
A  curiously  dull  and  nonresonant  sound,  of  indefinite  pitch,  is  produced  when  the 
drum  is  struck  with  a  hardheaded  stick.  It  is  used  only  occasionally  in  the  symphony 
orchestra,  but  has  become  popular  in  the  jazz  band  for  pseudo-Oriental  effects. 

Castanets 

Always  used  in  pairs,  the  castanets  (Spanish  castagna,  chestnut;  the  wood 
from  which  they  were  made)  are  hollow  shells,  clapped  rhythmically  together,  and 
giving  a  sharp,  clacking  sound  invariably  associated  with  the  dance  music  of  Spain 
and  Latin  America.  For  use  in  the  modern  orchestra  the  castanets  are  made  of 
boxwood  or  ebony,  and  sometimes  fastened  to  a  handle  with  strings.  Properly  shak- 
ing the  handle  gives  the  characteristic  rhythmic  clack.  Although  the  Latin  peoples 
of  both  Europe  and  America  use  the  instrument  extensively,  we  find  its  curious 
sound  in  many  examples  of  non-Latin  music  of  the  bacchanalian  type. 

Cymbals 

Discs  of  brass,  with  a  depression  in  the  center  of  each.  They  are  of  indefinite 
pitch,  but  have  an  exceedingly  brilliant  and  powerful  tone.  To  produce  this  tone 
they  vibrate  at  the  rate  of  more  than  12,000  cycles  per  second.  The  musician 
strikes  one  against  the  other  with  a  rubbing  motion,  or  uses  the  drumsticks  on 
them.  Sudden  terrifying  crashes,  long  crescendos,  single  portentous  strokes — these 
and  other  effects  are  in  the  repertoire  of  the  cymbals. 

They  are  of  great  antiquity,  and  have  come  down  to  us  at  least  from  Biblical 
times  in  virtually  unchanged  form.  They  have  greatly  increased  in  size  and  power, 
however,  and  "sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal"  could  not  have  been  written 
of  the  instruments  of  today. 

Triangle 

A  steel  rod,  bent  in  the  form  of  an  equilateral  triangle,  with  one  angle  open. 
It  is  suspended  on  a  string,  and  pkyed  by  being  struck  with  a  metal  stick.  It  has 
a  brilliant,  tinkling  tone,  of  no  determinate  pitch  but  of  such  brilliance  that  it  cuts 
through  the  most  powerful  utterances  of  the  orchestra. 


A    NOTE    ON    THE    MODERN    ORCHESTRA  23 

Tom-Tom 

In  effect,  a  cymbal  of  gigantic  size,  from  three  to  as  much  as  six  feet  in  diam- 
eter. It  is  made  of  brass,  and  is  of  Chinese  origin.  When  it  is  vibrated  by  rubbing 
with  a  softheaded  stick,  it  gives  forth  a  curious  brassy  roar,  combining  both  very 
low  tones  with  the  brilliant  overtones  of  the  cymbal.  When  struck  with  a  drum- 
stick, it  has  a  note  of  terrifying  power. 

This  instrument  is  vulgarly  called  a  gong,  and  tam-tam,  or  tom-tom,  is  often 
erroneously  applied  to  the  Chinese  drum. 

Xylophone 

A  series  of  slabs  of  resonant  wood,  laid  out  like  the  keyboard  of  the  piano, 
and  similarly  tuned.  Usually  its  range  is  three  and  one-half  octaves.  The  player 
uses  two  wooden  mallets  to  strike  the  wooden  slabs,  and  tubes  suspended  under 
the  latter  resonate  the  tone.  Xylophone  is  infrequently  used  in  the  orchestra, 
though  Saint-Saens  made  it  highly  suggestive  in  his  Danse  macabre>  and  other, 

RANGE  OF  THE  XYLOPHONE 


older  composers  have  occasionally  called  for  it.  Modern  writers  of  music  like  its 
bright  grotesquerie. 

Chime 
RANGE  OF  THE  CHIMES 


A  dhfcne  of  bells  is  part  of  the  equipment  of  every  symphony  orchestra.  The 
bells  are  tubes  of  metal,  usually  brass,  suspended  in  a  wooden  frame,  and  played 
by  striking  with  a  wooden  mallet.  The  player  strikes  the  bell  a  few  inches  below 
the  point  at  which  the  string  supporting  it  passes  through  the  tube.  The  chime 
encompasses  two  octaves  of  the  chromatic  scale.  Its  brilliant  yet  solemn  tone  is 
familiar. 


24  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

Orchestra  Bells 
RANGE  OF  THE  ORCHESTRA  BELLS 


Sometimes  called  glockenspiel.  Essentially  the  same  as  the  xylophone,  except 
that  metal  bars  instead  of  wooden  slabs  are  used  as  vibrating  bodies.  The  tone  is 
very  high,  bright,  and  crystalline.  The  bells  are  tuned  to  the  chromatic  scale,  and 
generally  encompass  three  octaves. 

Celesta 

The  celesta  looks  exactly  like  a  miniature  upright  piano.  It  has  a  keyboard 
of  four  octaves,  and  a  piano  action  which  causes  hammers  to  strike  tuned  steel 
plates  suspended  over  wooden  resonating  boxes.  It  has  a  sustaining  pedal  which 
when  depressed  permits  the  sound  to  continue  until  it  dies  from  the  cessation  of 
vibration.  Staccato  effects  are  produced  when  the  pedal  is  not  used. 

The  celesta  was  not  regarded  as  an  orchestral  instrument  until  1891,  when 

RANGE  OF  THE  CELESTA 


Tchaikovsky  discovered  it  in  the  workshop  of  its  inventor,  Auguste  Mustel,  in 
Paris.  He  was  thoroughly  charmed  by  the  sweet  and  delicate  tone  of  the  instrument, 
and  straightway  wrote  a  piece  for  it  ("Dance  of  the  Sugarplum  Fairy":  Nutcracker 
State).  It  is  not  impossible  that  the  instrument  suggested  the  tide  of  the  piece,  for 
the  tone  is  incredibly  sweet,  somewhat  gelatinous,  and  can  easily  become  cloying. 


ARTURO  TOSCANINI 


E.  G  oldens  ky 


LEOPOLD  STOKOWSKI 


Roberts 


SERGE   KOUSSEVITZKY 


Herbert  Mitchell 


JOHN   BARBIROLLI 


DlMlTRI    MlTROPOULOS 


EUGENE   ORMANDY 


JOSE   ITURBI 


PIERRE   MONTEUX 


SIR  ERNEST  MACMILLAN 


Paul  Sorts 


EUGENE  GOOSSENS 


HANS    KINDLER 


FRANK  BLACK 


HOWARD  BARLOW 


ARTHUR  FIEDLER 


WILFRED   PELLETIER 


CHARLES  O'CONNELL 


THE  SYMPHONY 

THE  SYMPHONY  is  at  once  the  most  important  and  the  most  highly  developed  and 
elaborate  of  musical  forms.  In  its  finally  developed  form  it  is  also  the  most  expres- 
sive, the  most  emotional,  and  most  complete  type  of  music  in  the  sense  that  it  is 
self-contained,  needing  no  program,  no  explanation,  no  interpretation  other  than 
that  which  is  afforded  by  its  own  sounds  and  rhythms. 

The  origin  of  the  symphony,  as  we  interpret  the  word,  is  somewhat  obscure. 
"Symphony"  was  once  used  to  designate  an  instrumental  part  of  a  choral  work, 
that  happened  to  attain  particular  prominence  because  of  length,  position,  or  char- 
acter. The  word  was  applied  to  such  passages  up  to  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
was  used  interchangeably  with  "overture,"  "ritornello,"  and  similar  terms  desig- 
nating a  short  instrumental  passage  in  a  work  for  human  voices  with  orchestral 
accompaniment.  By  degrees  the  symphony  grew  in  importance  until  it  was  able  to 
hold  an  independent  position  in  its  own  right. 

Roughly,  a  symphony  is  a  sonata  for  orchestra.  A  glance  at  the  word  "sonata" 
reveals  that  it  originated  in  "sonare"  to  sound;  opposed,  therefore,  to  "  cantor e" 
to  sing.  A  sonata,  consequently,  is  music  which  is  sounded,  as  opposed  to  music 
which  is  sung.  But  the  word  has  a  far  more  specific  significance  in  modern  usage. 
Definitely,  it  means  a  musical  composition  for  one  or  more  instruments,  having 
two  principal  themes  and  perhaps  several  subordinate  ones,  together  with  their 
statement,  their  exposition,  their  development,  and  a  conclusion.  The  first  move- 
ment of  a  symphony  is  usually  in  sonata  form.  It  has,  usually,  four  movements, 
thematically  independent,  but  with  the  first  and  last  similar  in  style  and  tonality. 
The  character  of  these  movements  is  ordinarily  designated  by  the  terms  allegro 
(quick  and  vigorous) ;  andante  (smooth  and  moving)  or  adagio  (slow) ;  scherzo 
(brisk  and  gay),  and  finale,  which  may  partake  of  any  character  dictated  by  the 
composer  but  is  usually  in  brilliant  style. 

Haydn  originated  the  modern  form  of  the  symphony;  Mozart  developed  it, 
and  Beethoven  brought  it  to  perfection.  It  is  not  possible,  therefore,  to  look  upon 
the  symphonies  of  these  three  composers  from  exactly  the  same  point  of  view.  The 
symphony  in  Haydn's  earlier  days  would  almost  be  considered  chamber  music  in 
our  time,  and  the  modern  symphony  orchestra  as  we  hear  it  had  not  then  been 
conceived.  The  size,  equipment,  and  standard  of  musicianship  in  the  orchestra  of 
today  are  so  far  removed  from  and  improved  over  those  of  the  orchestra  of 
Mozart's  or  even  of  Beethoven's  time  that  there  is  really  little  basis  for  compari- 
son between  them.  Again,  the  attitude  of  the  audience  of  today  is  not  that  of  the 
music  lovers  of  a  hundred  years  ago.  Today  we  seek  in  the  symphony  the  eloquent 
expression  of  passionate  emotion;  a  century  ago  the  audience  was  satisfied  with  a 
very  indifferent  performance  of  a  well-built  composition;  its  attention  was  cen- 
tered more  upon  the  structure  of  the  music  and  its  conformity  with  established 

25 


26  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

standards,  rather  than  on  its  emotional  significance  and  its  sympathetic  per- 
formance. 

Perhaps  it  is  for  that  reason  that  the  older  symphonies  are  more  sedate  and 
formal  in  style,  less  richly  scored,  and  more  repressed  emotionally  than  those  of 
more  recent  date.  They  are,  nevertheless,  fascinating  musically,  not  by  any  means 
as  merely  the  embryo  of  the  modern  orchestral  work  with  its  more  than  a  hun- 
dred perfectly  trained  artists,  and  its  more  than  a  hundred  instruments,  but  they 
are  interesting  in  themselves,  purely  as  orchestral  music.  It  is  gratifying  to  remem- 
ber also  that  we  have  the  privilege  of  hearing  the  music  of  the  older  masters,  such 
as  Haydn  and  Mozart,  played  as  they  themselves  never  heard  it;  rich  with  beauties 
beyond  the  conception  of  their  day.  Improvements  in  the  mechanics  and  technique 
of  orchestral  instruments,  together  with  the  traditions  and  modifications  which  a 
century  of  music  has  developed,  make  this  possible. 

The  symphony  orchestra  is  the  greatest,  the  most  expressive,  and  the  most 
powerful  of  musical  instruments.  It  is  one  mstrurnent^  though  it  is  made  up  of  the 
voices  of  nearly  all  the  recognized  musical  instruments.  It  does  not  speak  as  an 
aggregation  of  voices,  a  concourse  of  sound  5  rather  it  speaks  with  one  voice,  and 
that  a  voice  capable  of  an  infinite  variety  of  inflection,  of  color ;  a  voice  possessing 
a  range  of  dynamic  power  extending  from  the  faintest  whisper  of  sound  to  the 
deafening  crash  of  thunder;  a  voice  able  to  double  and  triple  and  multiply  itself 
many  times — yet  always  one  voice.  Unity  is  the  essence  of  the  symphony  orchestra; 
without  unity  it  would  speak  with  the  voices  of  Babel;  it  would  be  confusion.  It  is, 
then,  one  instrument,  to  be  played  upon  ever  so  delicately,  ever  so  magnificently, 
yet  always  under  the  control  of  one  intelligence,  always  one  in  purpose. 

The  development  of  the  orchestra  has  usually  been  far  more  advanced  than 
that  of  orchestral  music.  A  few  years  ago  it  might  have  been  said  without  fear  of 
contradiction  that  the  orchestra  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  development,  since  it 
was  and  had  for  some  time  been  adequate  to  any  demand  put  upon  it  by  composers 
of  recognized  merit.  Such  a  statement  could  not  be  made  today  in  certain  musical 
circles  without  a  question  of  its  validity  being  raised  at  once.  The  modern  com- 
poser is  rarely  content  with  the  resources  of  the  orchestra  as  it  is  generally  accepted, 
and  weird  effects  are  frequently  sought  in  order  to  make  the  orchestra  an  instru- 
ment for  the  delineation  of  realistic  effects  considered  by  most  people  as  far  removed 
from  the  domain  of  music. 

The  tendency  in  compositions  of  the  present  day  is  strongly  toward  program 
music,  or  music  which  paints  a  picture,  tells  a  story,  or  attempts  to  reproduce  the 
sounds  of  nature  or  of  everyday  life,  as  opposed  to  absolute  music,  which  is  simply 
the  use  of  sound  and  rhythm  to  communicate  an  artistic  thought  or  emotion  from 
composer  to  hearer.  That  modern  music  is  sufficiently  important  or  durable  to 
cause  a  change  in  the  number  or  kind  of  instruments  in  the  orchestra  seems  pos- 
sible, but  unlikely.  It  is  true  that  the  processes  of  evolution  seem  determined  by  the 


THE    SYMPHONY  2J 

demands  placed  upon  the  evolving  matter,  and  therefore  if  music  of  the  ultramodern 
type  were  to  become  sufficiently  popular  it  is  not  inconceivable  that  important 
changes  in  the  orchestra  might  in  time  be  necessary.  On  the  other  hand,  the  giants 
of  musical  history  were  content  with  orchestral  resources  even  less  extensive  than 
those  of  the  present  day,  and  their  music  at  once  seized  firm  hold  on  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  men,  nor  has  it  yet  relaxed  its  grip. 


THE  CONCERTO 

A  PAINTING,  to  be  truly  beautiful,  must  be  executed  in  conformity  with  certain 
laws  of  perspective;  a  poem  must  be  fitted  to  a  definite  measure;  a  monument 
must  be  engineered  as  well  as  sculptured,  and  a  musical  composition  must  adhere 
to  structural  laws  that  are  quite  as  essential,  quite  as  truly  grounded  in  reason,  as 
those  which  govern  the  form  of  any  other  work  of  art.  Beauty  is  the  apt  and  orderly 
disposition  of  the  parts,  and  therefore,  in  the  perfection  of  musical  form,  which  is 
in  truth  achieved  by  the  apt  and  orderly  disposition  of  its  parts,  we  can  find  a  beauty 
as  admirable  and  delightful  to  the  intellect  as  sheer  beauty  of  tone  is  to  the  senses. 

The  form  of  a  musical  composition  is  dictated  by  its  purpose  exactly  as  that  of 
a  painting,  a  poem,  or  a  monument,  and  the  resultant  forms  are  as  widely  diver- 
gent as  Michelangelo's  Sistine  Chapel  ceiling  and  Gainsborough's  Blue  Boyy  the 
Iliad  of  Homer  and  the  Requiem  of  Stevenson,  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  and  Rodin's 
Le  Penseur,  a  Beethoven  symphony  and  a  Schubert  song. 

The  concerto  is  an  instrumental  composition  the  purpose  of  which  is  to  display 
the  skill  of  the  solo  performer.  It  is  almost  invariably  accompanied  by  the  orchestra, 
though  to  this  rule  there  have  been  a  few  notable  exceptions,  among  them  Liszt's 
Concert  $athetiquey  and  Schumann's  Sonata,  Op.  14,  originally  published  as  Con~ 
cert  sans  orchestra.  The  concerto  is  the  final  test  of  the  executant,  for  it  asks  of 
him  not  technical  brilliance  alone,  but  sound  musicianship;  skill  in  ensemble  as  well 
as  solo  playing,  judgment  of  a  high  order,  and,  on  occasion,  even  talent  for  compo- 
sition or  improvisation. 

The  concerto  in  its  modern  form  was  perfected  by  Mozart,  and  elabo- 
rated and  modified  by  other  composers,  notably  by  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  and 
Brahms.  Concertos  by  other  composers  have  differed  radically  from  the  classic 
models,  but  the  number  of  irregular  compositions  in  the  concerto  form  is  not  suffi- 
cient to  establish  a  recognized  new  type,  and  since  the  time  of  Beethoven  the 
concerto  has  become  fairly  stabilized  as  regards  form.  It  consists  of  three  move- 
ments, usually  an  allegro,  or  bright  and  lively  section;  a  slow  movement;  and  a 
rondo,  or  movement  having  one  principal  subject  which  is  always  resumed  after 
the  introduction  of  other  matter.  The  rondo  might  be  either  gay  and  lively,  as  is 
usually  the  case,  or  might  take  on  a  less  joyous  character. 

To  examine  thoroughly  the  concerto  form  would  require  an  academic  disser- 
tation which,  perhaps,  would  not  be  of  great  interest  to  the  person  who  loves  music 
for  its  own  sake,  and  hence  would  be  out  of  place  here.  It  is  proper,  however,  to 
mention  briefly  some  of  the  more  salient  features  of  the  form,  in  order  that  your 
enjoyment  of  the  music  may  be  made  complete. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  concerto  is  the  final  test  of  the  artist.  Even  a  casual 
examination  of  the  classical  concerto  form  will  show  that  this  is  so.  The  first  move- 
ment affords  him  an  opportunity  to  display  brilliancy  of  technique,  rhythmic  feel- 

28 


THE    CONCERTO  29 

ing,  accuracy,  and  power  in  dynamic  effects;  the  second  asks  more  particularly  for 
emotional  expression,  quality  and  variety  of  tone,  depth  of  feeling,  and  faithfulness 
of  interpretation  5  the  third  movement  is  most  likely  to  exact  from  the  soloist  all 
these  qualities  combined  in  their  relations,  together  with  a  finish,  a  polish,  a  patina 
laid  on  by  thorough  scholarship. 

The  cadenza  is  a. feature  of  the  concerto,  and  one  of  considerable  importance 
and  great  interest.  The  cadenza  is  a  flourish,  brilliant,  indefinite  in  structure  and 
seemingly  abandoned,  yet,  in  its  most  acceptable  form,  embodying  ideas  taken  from 
the  subject  matter  of  the  work  of  which  it  forms  a  part.  It  originated  in  vocal 
music,  when  singers  seized  upon  the  opportunity  afforded  by  a  pause  just  before 
the  final  note  of  a  composition  to  demonstrate  the  range  and  flexibility  of  their 
voices*  Applied  to  instrumental  music,  particularly  to  the  concerto,  the  cadenza 
assumed  a  somewhat  different  character.  Coming  at  or  near  the  close  of  a  move* 
ment,  it  made  it  possible  for  the  executant  to  astonish  and  delight  his  hearers 
with  a  demonstration  of  musical  pyrotechnics,  and  leave  them  with  the  applause- 
producing  sense  of  astonishment  fresh  in  their  minds.  It  was  customary  for  the 
composer  to  allow  the  solo  player  to  extemporize  the  cadenza,  interpolating  ideas 
from  the  concerto  itself,  but  virtuosos  frequently  abused  the  privilege  by  bringing 
in  wholly  unrelated  matter  merely  for  purposes  of  display.  Several  composers,  no- 
tably Beethoven  and  Schumann,  themselves  frequently  wrote  out  the  cadenza  that 
was  to  be  played,  in  order  to  prevent  executants  introducing  wholly  extraneous 
matter. 

Probably  no  concerto,  or  any  other  composition,  adheres  rigidly  to  the  theo- 
retically perfect  form.  A  circle  is  the  perfect  example  of  the  curvilinear  form,  but 
the  oval  and  other  shapes  are  more  interesting  to  the  eye.  So  it  is  with  art  forms. 
Probably  none  of  the  Shakespearean  sonnets  is  absolutely  regular  and  perfect  in 
construction,  yet  one  feels  that  the  poet  achieved  the  final,  inevitable  form,  to 
which  irregularities  only  add  interest  and  piquancy.  In  the  same  manner  the  con- 
certo form,  or  sonata  form,  or  symphony  form  attain  distinction  and  character 
when,  observing  the  basic  canons  of  structure,  they  display  individual  marks  and 
differences. 

Perfection  of  form  does  not,  however,  stop  with  the  number,  kind,  or  sequence 
of  movements  in  the  composition.  It  involves  much  more  complicated  factors,  such 
as  time,  tonality,  and  relation  of  tonalities.  It  is  easy  to  perceive,  therefore,  that 
study  and  skill  of  unusual  degree  is  necessary  to  write  an  ordinary  concerto  \  to 
write  one  such  as  Schumann  or  Beethoven  or  Brahms  wrote  requires  genius,  and 
to  appreciate  such  a  composition  necessitates  some  little  thought  and  at  least  an 
acquaintance  with  the  rudiments  of  the  work. 


JOHANN  SEBASTIAN  BACH 

[1685-1750] 

JOHANN  SEBASTIAN  BACH,  the  greatest  musician  of  his  time  and  perhaps  of  all 
time,  was  born  at  Eisenach  of  a  family  which  for  two  centuries  had  been 
composed  largely  of  distinguished  musicians.  A  detailed  account  of  his  life, 
not  to  mention  the  lives  of  the  many  notable  musicians  who  were  closely  related 
to  him,  would  fill  all  the  pages  of  this  book.  It  may  give  some  idea  of  the  musical 
proclivities  of  the  Bach  family,  however,  if  one  notes  that  in  the  part  of  Germany 
in  which  they  lived,  town  musicians  came  to  be  known  as  "the  Bachs,"  and  the 
name  was  applied  to  them  long  after  any  Bach  could  be  found  among  them. 

It  is  important  to  mention  that  the  family  possessed  tribal  unity  of  an  extraor- 
dinary cohesiveness.  Most  of  the  Bachs  learned  from  one  another,  and  from  experi- 
ence; and  this  was  especially  fortunate  because  few  of  them  were  ever  in  a  position 
to  afford  formal  education.  Music  was  their  one  diversion,  their  work,  their  study, 
their  life.  It  was  practiced  at  home,  when  there  were  children  in  the  family  (and 
there  were  usually  many!)  and  made  into  a  game,  so  that  even  as  small  children 
the  Bachs  knew  much  about  music,  both  as  executants  and  as  composers.  The  tal- 
ents built  up  through  generations,  and  fostered  by  close  and  constant  family  con- 
tacts, were  ultimately  and  marvelously  concentrated  in  Johann  Sebastian  Bach. 

He  was  born  on  March  21,  1685,  and  was  hardly  out  of  the  cradle  before 
his  father,  Ambrosius  Bach,  began  giving  him  violin  lessons.  When  Johann  was 
ten  years  old,  he  was  left  an  orphan,  and  went  to  live  with  an  elder  brother,  who 
was  an  organist  and  teacher.  His  musical  training  was  continued  under  the  tutelage 
of  the  brother,  who  gave  Johann  lessons  in  playing  the  clavier  and  saw  to  it  that 
he  went  to  elementary  school.  The  young  Bach's  musical  education  proceeded  too 
rapidly  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  his  teacher,  who  instead  of  encouraging  the  pre- 
cocious Johann  often  took  steps  to  retard  his  progress. 

When  the  boy  was  fifteen,  he  was  admitted  to  the  church  choir  of  St. 
Michael's,  in  Liineburg,  and  by  his  singing  earned  his  schooling  in  an  institution 
connected  with  the  church.  Here  also  he  had  an  opportunity  to  study  the  key- 
board instruments,  and  to  visit  neighboring  Hamburg,  where  the  famous  organist 
Reinken  occasionally  played.  He  made  these  journeys  afoot,  and  a  pathetic  story 
is  told  of  how,  weary  and  hungry,  he  had  stopped  to  rest,  on  the  way  home,  out- 
side the  kitchen  windows  of  an  inn;  no  doubt  sniffing  the  while  at  the  enticing 
odors  that  were  wafted  out  to  him.  Suddenly  the  window  opened,  and  two  fish 
heads  were  thrown  out.  Any  boy  would  have  picked  them  up  and  inspected  them 
— and  so  did  Bach;  and  inside  each  he  found  a  coin.  Overjoyed,  he  had  a  meal  at 
the  inn  and,  his  strength  revived,  turned  about  and  went  back  to  Hamburg  for 
some  more  organ  music. 

His  schooling  finished,  the  talented  Johann  soon  found  himself  a  musical 

30 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  31 

situation,  and  it  was  but  the  first  of  many,  always  of  growing  importance.  In  1708 
he  was  given  the  position  of  court  organist  at  Weimar,  and  it  was  in  this  town  that 
most  of  his  great  works  were  written  ;  from  it,  his  fame  as  organist  radiated  every- 
where. He  had  married  in  1707,  and  his  first  wife,  Maria  Barbara  (whose  maiden 
name  also  was  Bach)  presented  him  with  seven  children.  She  died  in  1720,  and 
the  following  year  Bach  married  Anna  Magdalena  Wilcken,  who  became  the 
mother  of  thirteen  more  Bachs. 

The  admirable  qualities,  personal  and  musical,  of  the  Bach  line  seemed  crystal- 
lized in  Johann  Sebastian;  and  after  him  they  withered  and  died.  His  life  was 
beautifully  serene,  well  ordered,  and,  in  the  best  sense,  utterly  successful.  He  was 
respected  as  the  great  musician  of  his  time,  beloved  as  an  ideal  father,  envied  for 
the  talents  of  which  he  himself  was  acutely  conscious.  He  explored  a  distinctly 
new  approach  to  music,  to  its  very  limits;  and  no  one  who  followed  in  his  path 
found  anything  new  to  say  or  do,  for  Bach  had  overlooked  nothing.  He  worked 
unceasingly,  and  with  a  productiveness  that  is  almost  incredible.  Only  the  blindness 
that  came  upon  him,  probably  through  unremitting  eyestrain,  put  a  period  to  his 
activity  so  far  as  writing  down  music  was  concerned.  An  operation  to  relieve  it  was 
unsuccessful,  and  not  long  afterward  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  was  gathered  unto 
his  fathers.  His  obscure  grave  was  forgotten  and  neglected  until  1894,  when  it  was 
located,  and  positively  identified.  His  ashes  were  entombed  in  a  crypt  beneath  the 
altar  of  St.  John's  Church  at  Leipzig,  in  1900,  on  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  his  death. 


"Brandenburg"  Concerto  No.  2  in  F  major 

WE  ARE  accustomed,  perhaps,  to  think  of  the  concerto  as  a  display  piece  for  a  solo 
instrument,  accompanied  by  orchestra;  as  a  work  the  elements  of  which  are  the 
contrast  in  tonal  color  of  the  solo  instrument  as  opposed  to  the  orchestra's  infinite 
variety  of  tone  effects,  and  the  conspicuous  skill  of  the  performer. 

The  concerto  of  Bach's  day  is  something  quite  different.  Its  chief  element  is 
the  contrast  between  two  groups  of  instruments  —  in  this  case,  of  a  quartet  consist- 
ing of  trumpet,  oboe,  flute,  and  violin  against  the  main  body  of  strings. 

The  "Brandenburg"  Concertos  were  Bach's  earliest  achievements  in  the  field 
of  music  for  the  larger  instrumental  bodies.  They  derive  their  name  from  the  fact 
that  they  were  written  for  the  eccentric  Margrave  of  Brandenburg,  who,  it  has 
been  said,  collected  concertos  as  one  might  collect  Americana  or  postage  stamps. 
Indeed,  we  must  accept  the  latter  example,  for  the  value  placed  upon  this  music 
at  the  auction  of  the  Margrave's  effects  was  no  more  than  a  few  cents.  There  were 


J2  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

six  concertos  in  this  group,  each  written  for  a  different  group  of  instruments.  The 
second  is  doubtless  the  best-loved,  and  perhaps  the  finest  of  all. 

One  listens  to  this  and  other  works  of  Bach,  and  wonders  whence  originated 
the  suspicion  that  Bach  is  mathematical,  not  to  say  mechanical;  that  he  is  pedantic, 
lacking  in  humanity.  For  here  is  truly  lovely  music  . .  .  now  buoyant,  vigorous,  and 
swift 5  now  tender  to  the  point  of  poignancy;  now  architectural  upon  a  noble, 
inspiring  scale. 

First  Movement 

The  sheer  simplicity  and  clarity  of  the  first  movement,  apart  from  its  delight- 
ful sprightly  rhythm  and  prolific  invention  and  variety,  would  all  but  entitle  it  to 
the  name  "masterpiece."  It  sparkles;  it  trips  with  elastic  step  infallibly  through 
twining  measures,  and  colors  rich  and  bright,  like  a  moving  chiaroscuro,  sweep 
swiftly  across  the  page.  The  trumpet,  undeniable  leader  of  the  solo  quartet,  enters 
first  on  a  clear  and  long  drawn  note  .  .  .  now  the  violin  in  a  sprightly  figure;  the 
oboe,  with  its  somewhat  tearful  voice,  in  a  parallel  phrase,  and  finally  the  flute, 
spurting  jets  of  bright  tone  like  a  silver  stream  against  the  massed  colors  of  the 
string  choirs. 

Imitation,  thesis  and  antithesis,  contrast  and  parallel  .  .  .  half  the  melodic 
devices  known  to  the  master  are  resorted  to  with  almost  bewildering  brilliance  .  .  . 
and  through  it  all,  a  fine  elastic  rhythm,  urging  on  where  a  scholar's  delight  in 
perfect  symmetry  might  tempt  him  to  linger  ...  a  rhythm  strongly  supporting  the 
delicately  balanced  structure  above  it.  Yet,  at  the  division  of  the  movement,  the 
loveliest  music  is  still  to  come. 

Now  the  quartet  appears  in  both  internal  and  external  contrast,  and  at  each 
succeeding  shifting  of  tone  colors  one  wonders  which  is  loveliest.  A  modulation  to 
the  minor  effects  no  change  in  the  exuberant  spirit  of  the  movement;  rather,  its 
soberer  tones  give  stronger  contrast  to  the  joyous  return  to  the  main  theme,  in  the 
buoyant  F  major,  on  which  the  movement  closes.  A  broadening  of  tone  ...  an 
extension  of  the  rhythmic  stride  ...  a  bright  major  tonic  chord,  and  the  movement 
is  ended. 

Second  Movement 

The  bold  bright  tones  of  the  trumpet  in  the  solo  group  are  less  in  evidence  as 
the  tender  sentiment  of  the  second  movement  supplants  the  exuberant  joyousness 
of  the  first.  Now  a  lovely  song  is  woven  of  strands  charmed  from  violin  and  oboe, 
and  still  again  from  the  flute,  while  the  deeper  strings  of  the  orchestra  pursue  their 
quiet  course  through  broken  chords,  ever  moving  and  vital.  Again,  which  voice  is 
loveliest?  Again,  which  confluence  of  voices  shall  most  deeply  enchant  our  ears? 
Which  of  these  voices — oboe,  flute,  violin — which  shall  triumph  in  the  gentle 
conflict? 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN    BACH  33 

Not  to  give  support  to  the  legend  of  Bach's  scholasticism,  but  simply  to  explain 
a  charming  effect,  let  us  note  at  the  end  of  the  movement  a  modulation  character- 
istic of  the  composer,  and  one  invariably  successful  in  dissipating  shadow  and  restor- 
ing repose  in  his  music.  We  refer  to  the  dose  of  the  movement  on  the  chord  of 
the  ^ardlely  rather  than  the  relative,  major  tonic  chord — the  less  obvious,  and 
hence  the  more  surprising  and  effective  thing,  the  almost  daring  thing  to  do.  It  is 
effected,  incidentally,  by  the  alteration  of  but  a  single  note  in  the  chord.  What  can 
be  achieved  with  economy  of  means! 

Third  Movement 

It  is  difficult  to  explain — or  is  it  necessary? — the  insight  of  a  conductor  who 
guides  his  musicians  through  the  intricacies  of  the  magnificent  fugue  involving  the 
solo  group  throughout  the  final  movement.  Four  voices,  three  of  them  among  the 
weakest  in  the  orchestra,  woven  in  most  intricate  counterpoint,  against  the  massed 
sonorities  of  the  string  choirs — yet  each  voice  is  crystal  clear,  each  thread  of  tone 
shines  independently  in  its  own  color,  and  still  blends  with  its  background.  That 
is  Bach. 

The  fugue,  incidentally,  is  of  the  type  known  as  a  "free"  fugue,  in  contra- 
distinction to  the  strictest  form  of  the  fugue,  which  must  contain  all  elements  of 
this  contrapuntal  device,  and  these  in  regular  sequence.  One  would  rather  think 
that  Bach,  facile  as  he  was  in  the  most  difficult  labyrinths  of  harmony,  was  a  trifle 
impatient,  out  of  his  own  exuberance,  with  the  confines  of  strictest  form.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  he  has  created  in  this  movement,  within  restrictions  which  would  be 
paralyzing  to  a  present-day  composer,  an  expression  of  dashing  high  spirits. 


"Brandenburg"  Concerto  No.  5  in  D  major 

OF  THE  six  "Brandenburg"  Concertos,  the  fifth  seems  to  rank  next,  in  popular 
appeal,  to  the  second,  perhaps  because  of  the  anachronism  by  which  an  elaborate 
solo  piano  part  is  the  most  conspicuous  feature.  This  part  was  of  course  written  for 
the  clavier,  or  cembalo,  an  ancestor  of  the  piano,  but  with  none  of  the  tone  quality 
of  the  latter  and  very  little  of  its  power.  Bach  was  a  brilliant  performer  upon  this 
keyboard  instrument,  and  in  this  music  availed  himself  of  an  opportunity  to  display 
his  talents. 

Violin,  flute,  and  piano  are  treated  as  solo  instruments  in  all  three  movements, 
although  combined  with  extraordinarily  beautiful  effect  in  the  second.  The  thematic 
material  of  the  first  movement  is  presented  at  once  in  the  strings,  and  more  power- 


34  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

fully  in  the  ensemble.  The  solo  violin  and  flute  have  frequent  responsive  phrases, 
posed  against  the  concerted  voices  of  the  whole  orchestra  group.  (It  should  be 
mentioned  that  the  "Brandenburg"  Concertos  were  written  as  chamber  music, 
and  by  no  means  employed  the  sonorous  body  of  strings  which  we  ordinarily  hear 
in  them  today.  While  the  original  instrumentation  might  lend  more  accent  to  the 
formality  of  their  structure,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  works  as  given  by  sym- 
phony orchestra  are  more  euphonious.)  There  is  a  long,  elaborate,  and  difficult  solo 
for  piano. 

The  second  movement,  grave  and  full  of  emotion,  takes  the  form  of  a  trio 
for  the  solo  instruments,  in  which  their  separate  voices  are  intricately  woven  in 
most  expressive  melody.  The  third  and  final  section  is  a  marked  and  not  unwel- 
come contrast,  with  almost  abandoned  swift  rhythms,  bright  tunefulness,  and  more 
sonority  than  has  heretofore  appeared  in  the  concerto. 


Suite  No.  2  in  B  minor  for  Flute  and  Strings 

BACH  wrote  for  orchestra  four  suites,  or  groups  of  short  pieces  based  upon  popular 
dance  rhythms  of  the  period  (circa  1720).  While  not  among  his  most  important 
works,  these  suites  rank  with  his  most  charming  and  popular  compositions.  Bach's 
writing  for  orchestra  was  relatively  a  small  proportion  of  the  music  he  has  left  us, 
for  with  the  limited  orchestral  facilities  at  his  disposal,  and  the  character  of  his  pro- 
fession as  a  church  organist,  he  naturally  looked  to  the  organ,  with  its  great  dynamic 
and  color  range,  for  the  largest  expressions  of  his  genius. 

The  unhappy  and  self-deluded  people  who,  without  much  or  any  investiga- 
tion, choose  to  regard  Bach  as  dull,  mathematical,  and  heavy  should  cultivate  an 
acquaintance  with  all  four  of  the  suites.  Really  he  was  a  merry  fellow  at  times — 
as  merry  as  one  gifted  with  robust  health,  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  a  happy 
inward  life,  and  twenty  children  can  well  be.  Music  made  and  kept  him  happy — 
and  whether  the  music  was  a  great  cry  wrenched  from  a  deep  and  sometimes 
brooding  soul,  or  a  jig  that  might  have  been  danced  by  children  in  the  streets,  its 
effect  was  the  same  in  that  it  gave  its  creator  a  hearty  and  healthy  glow.  Nor  did 
he  take  himself  too  seriously  5  one  is  reminded  of  that  wonderful  little  organ  piece 
— the  Fugue  a  la  gigue  in  which  Bach  combines  the  massive  resources  and  serious 
tone  of  his  organ  with  the  figures  and  rhythms  of  a  lighthearted  and  quite  dance- 
able  jig! 

Of  the  four  suites,  the  second  and  third  are  perhaps  the  most  popular.  The 
second  is  written  for  flute  and  string  orchestras,  and  consists  of  an  overture,  rondo, 


36  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

This  suite  contains  as  its  second  movement  an  "air"  which  is  by  far  the  best- 
known  music  from  the  hand  of  Bach.  It  is  what  many  people  know  as  the  "Air 
for  the  G  String" — a  lovely  flowing  melody  that  has  tempted  too  strongly  many  a 
transcriber,  with  the  result  that  the  "air"  is  beter  known  as  a  little  piece  for  violin 
and  piano  than  as  a  part  of  this  suite. 

The  music  begins  with  the  customary  overture,  serious  and  contained  at  the 
outset,  but  presently  moving  into  a  brighter  and  swifter  section,  with  some  inter- 
esting solo  passages  for  violin.  The  overture  concludes  with  a  return  to  the  grave 
atmosphere  of  the  beginning. 

The  "air"  is  a  familiar  and  lovely  song,  played  by  strings  alone.  The  gavotte, 
the  third  movement,  is  in  the  rhythm  of  a  dance  once  a  favorite  among  the  peas- 
ants of  France,  but  later  appropriated  by  the  sophisticated.  There  are  really  two 
gavottes  in  this  movement,  and  the  first  is  repeated. 

The  bourree  in  this  instance  is  a  rather  rough-rhythmed  dance  plainly  show- 
ing its  peasant  origin.  It  has  much  vigor  and  liveliness,  and  is  a  foretaste  of  the 
rollicking  jig  (gtgue)  that  conventionally  forms  the  final  section  of  the  suite. 


Bach 

Freely  transcribed  for  orchestra  by  Leopold  Stokowski 

Music  composed  by  Johann  Sebastian  Bach,  and  transcribed  for  the  modern  sym- 
phony orchestra  by  Leopold  Stokowski,  has  become  a  definite  part  of  the  symphonic 
repertoire.  There  have  been  so  many  broadcast  and  recorded  performances  of  Sto- 
kowski's  Bach  transcriptions,  and  they  appear  with  such  frequency,  and  with  such 
a  warm  welcome,  on  the  concert  programs  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  that  this 
book  could  not  logically  omit  them. 

Bach,  in  many  respects  the  greatest  of  all  musicians,  wrote  relatively  little  for 
the  large  orchestra.  Most  of  his  music  was  written  for  the  church;  much  of  it  for 
chamber  orchestra,  for  the  organ,  and  for  the  clavier  (piano).  Yet  there  are  among 
his  works  things  which,  in  grandeur  of  conception,  richness  of  detail,  beauty  of 
form,  and  emotional  value,  transcend  by  far  the  limitations  imposed  by  the  instru- 
ments for  which  they  were  written.  Mr.  Stokowski,  as  a  virtuoso  of  the  organ, 
naturally  has  studied  intimately  the  music  of  Bach  for  many  years.  He  has  per- 
ceived the  peculiarly  adaptable  features  of  much  of  Bach's  music,  and  has  virtually 
rewritten,  for  orchestra,  not  only  several  of  the  mightiest  works,  such  as  the  Pas- 
sacaglia  in  C  minor,  the  great  Chaconne,  and  the  Toccata  and  Fugue  in  D  minor, 
but  also  many  obscure  and  relatively  unknown  smaller  works. 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  37 

Mr.  Stokowski  has  brought  to  bear  upon  this  music  a  vastly  greater  force  than 
the  scholar's  studiousness,  or  the  pedantry  of  the  musicologist.  The  conventional 
blind  worship  of  Bach  and  his  music  as  it  was  left  to  us  has  not  been  a  factor  in 
the  conductor's  transcriptions.  He  has  been  able  to  see  that  the  flawless  formalism 
of  so  much  of  Bach's  music,  with  its  endless  striving  for  color  and  variety  within 
rigidly  disciplined  boundaries,  is  not  the  foolish  and  footless  pleasure  of  a  musical 
mathematician  of  almost  superhuman  ingenuity,  but  perhaps  the  sublimation  of 
much  warmer  and  more  human  feelings;  an  infinite  refinement  and  ekboration  of 
very  sound  and  healthy  and  human  impulses.  No  chilly  ascetic  ever  had  twenty 
children,  as  Bach  did;  and  no  man  who  has  written  great  music,  or  made  great 
art  in  any  form,  has  been  able  to  divorce  his  own  emotional  nature  from  it.  Sto- 
kowski, with  extraordinary  keenness  of  perception,  has  recognized  in  much  of 
Bach's  music  his  joy  in  the  act  of  creation,  his  passion  for  color  and  ornament, 
his  sensitiveness  to  pure  melody;  and  these  things  are  likewise  recognized  in  the 
orchestrations.  Yet  some  of  them  are  as  chaste  as  ice,  and  accomplish  with  astound- 
ing economy  of  means  climaxes  and  effects  of  grandeur  that  would  doubtless  please, 
and  certainly  do  credit  to,  Bach  himself.  Bach's  humors  (and  he  was  a  moody 
fellow!)  are  always  taken  into  consideration,  and  in  Stokowski's  transcriptions  the 
old  master  appears  in  as  many  guises  as  he  doubtless  assumed  in  the  flesh.  Some- 
times, certainly,  he  is  the  pious  organist;  sometimes  the  sensitive  lover  of  beauty; 
sometimes  the  virile  figure  of  a  manly  man.  But  he  is  always  Bach;  Stokowski  has 
perceived  and  penetrated  his  spirit,  not  perverted  it. 

The  critics  have  not  been  unanimous  in  their  enthusiasm  for  these  Bach 
transcriptions.  Indeed,  some  have  taken  the  transcriber  to  task  for  having  brought 
to  brilliant  and  vigorous  life  some  of  the  organ  pieces.  Yet  here  are  works,  funda- 
mentally perhaps  the  most  perfect  and  expressive  in  all  the  treasury  of  music, 
which  but  for  Stokowski  might  today  still  languish  in  the  fusty  gloom  and  barren- 
ness of  the  organ  loft  and  the  choir  room.  It  was  not  by  altering  their  spirit  that 
he  has  made  them  the  most  thrilling  and  uplifting  of  all  his  orchestra's  great  utter- 
ances, but  rather  by  translating  that  spirit  in  terms  of  modern  orchestration;  by 
investing  them  with  all  the  tonal  glories  that  today's  superb  orchestral  instrument 
makes  available — resources  which  Bach  himself,  with  his  love  for  variety  and  inti- 
macy and  magnificence  and  climax,  would  himself  have  been  the  first  to  employ 
had  they  been  within  his  reach  or  knowledge. 

Some  commentators  have  resented  the  richness  of  the  color  which  Stokowski 
applies  to  the  convolutions  of  a  Bach  fugue,  and  indignantly  quote  (sic)  the  con- 
ductor as  having  said,  "Bach  is  just  a  sleepy  old  man,"  That  is  exactly  what  Bach 
is,  to  many  people — and  no  wonder.  His  interpreters  for  the  most  part  forget,  or 
perhaps  never  have  realized,  that  music  is  a  sensuous  as  well  as  an  intellectual 
pleasure,  and,  engrossed  with  the  mathematical  and  architectural  perfections  of 
Bach,  they  have  usually  allowed  the  tonal  possibilities  of  his  music  to  go  by  the 


38  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

board.  Of  course,  transcriptions  are  frowned  upon,  and  often  with  justification,  by 
the  musician;  what  is  written  for  one  instrument  is  seldom  played  upon  another 
without  distortion  of  meaning  and  loss  of  effectiveness.  But  this  is  not  always  the 
case.  Bach  is  often  dull  and  sleepy  to  modern  audiences  because  he  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  scholars  and  purists  who  would  have  his  music  played,  not  with  the 
full  grandeur  which  it  so  imperatively  calls  for,  but  with  a  contemporary  approx- 
imation of  the  feeble  resources  with  which  Bach  had  to  be  content. 

One  of  the  most  penetrating  of  Mr.  Stokowski's  public  remarks  upon  music 
is,  "Bach  is  more  modern  than  the  moderns."  Superficially,  the  comment  might 
seem  somewhat  reckless,  and  yet,  reflection  establishes  its  amazing  aptness  and  the 
broad  understanding  that  provoked  it. 

The  modern  composer  professes  to  deal,  fairly  exclusively,  with  fundamentals 
— with  the  expression  of  relatively  simple,  basic  human  emotion.  (We  speak  now 
of  the  writers  of  absolute  music — not  of  the  descriptive,  programmatic  type.)  He 
deals  with,  he  portrays,  he  attempts  to  illustrate,  the  primitive  and  elemental  feel- 
ing of  mankind.  For  example,  a  work  which  is  often  regarded  as  the  most  signifi- 
cant musical  creation  of  today  was  inspired  by  the  rites,  the  customs,  the  feelings  of 
p-vmtitve  man — not  of  the  peasant,  not  even  of  the  savage  of  today,  but  man  in  his 
earlier  stages  of  physical  and  spiritual  evolution;  man  who  snatched  his  woman 
from  her  father's  cavern,  who  tore  his  food  dripping  from  the  beast  his  crude 
weapons  had  brought  down. 

Yet  everything  in  modern  life  tends  away  from  the  primitive,  and  toward 
sophistication.  Modern  life  is  a  vast  and  complicated  structure;  modern  thought  • 
and  feeling  are  colored  and  affected  and  modified  by  ten  thousand  years  of  living. 
No  sane  person  is  today  capable  of  the  blind  and  elemental  passion  that  animated 
the  prehistoric  man.  No  more  is  music  that  deals  with  the  primitive,  either  explic- 
itly in  its  program,  or  implicitly  in  its  style,  capable  of  reflecting  the  emotional  or 
intellectual  aspects  of  modern  life. 

And  as  cerebration  evolved  from  a  simple,  primal  urge  to  the  infinitely  com- 
plicated processes  of  the  modern  intellect,  so  music  developed  from  a  beating  of 
the  first  kettledrum  (perhaps  a  hollow  tree! )  through  simple  melody  to  the  master- 
piece of  counterpoint.  The  history  of  melody  is  a  history  of  civilization;  the  devel- 
opment of  melody  and  its  uses  has  marched  along,  fari  fassu,  with  the  development 
of  nations.  It  is  interesting,  incidentally,  to  note  in  this  connection  that  racial  music 
constructed  on  a  limited  scale,  such  as  the  pentatonic  or  five-tone  scale,  is  usually 
encountered  among  the  peoples  regarded  as  backward,  judged  by  modern  stand-  - 
ards.  The  development  of  our  present  scale,  imperfect  as  it  is,  was  a  part  of  the 
intellectual  and  spiritual  development  of  Europe.  Sustained,  varied,  and  interesting 
melody — which  represents  sustained  development  of  a  thought — is  easily  accom- 
plished in  our  modern  scale,  and  almost  impossible  in  the  primitive. 

It  can  be  seen,  therefore,  that  the  music  of  Bach,  in  so  far  as  any  music  is  a 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  3^ 

reflection  of  contemporary  life  and  thought,  is  a  more  accurate  parallel  of  modern 
times  than  the  creations  of  the  so-called  modernists.  It  represents  modern  exisN 
ence  in  a  variety  of  ways — in  the  intricacies  of  its  processes,  in  the  complexity 
and  accuracy  of  its  mathematical  elements,  in  its  purely  scientific  and  mechanical 
aspects  (what  could  be  more  modern?),  and  in  its  architecture. 

Some  may  quarrel  with  the  last.  Isn't  Bach  "Gothic"?  Perhaps — but  the  idea 
is  based  more  upon  sentiment  and  religious  associations  than  upon  actual  struc- 
tural characteristics.  Some  resemblance  there  is,  indeed,  yet  the  structural  prin- 
ciples of  Bach's  music  are  more  closely  in  harmony  with  those  of  the  modern  sky- 
scraper even  than  with  those  of  the  medieval  cathedral.  The  contrapuntal  works 
especially  may  be  cited.  Note  the  broad  and  deep  substructure  .  .  .  the  foundation; 
the  soaring,  almost  vertical  lines;  the  vertiginous  altitude;  the  "decoration" — 
functions  of  the  main  theme  and  purpose,  intimately  related  to  and  derived  from 
that  theme  and  that  purpose;  the  glorious,  bold  color;  the  swift  sweep  and  rhythm. 
Are  these  not  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  modern  architecture? 


Prelude  in  E-flat  minor 

THERE  is  a  short  introduction  of  low  chords,  pulsating  like  the  beatings  of  pain 
against  the  heart;  and  then  from  the  trembling  strings  arises  a  song  of  such  sweet 
and  tender  melancholy  as  human  ears  have  rarely  heard,  and  human  voices  uttered 
never.  The  searching  poignancy  of  this  melody  passes  across  and  through  surround- 
ing harmonies  of  surpassing  loveliness;  then,  almost  imperceptibly,  two  voices  join 
in  eloquent  dialogue.  Now  the  music  is  not  without  gleams  of  hope,  or  at  least  of 
resignation;  it  passes  momentarily  into  brighter,  major,  measures,  but  dies  in  the 
shadowy  minor  from  which  it  came. 

This  prelude  is,  originally,  the  eighth  in  the  first  book  of  the  Wohltsmfertrte 
Clavier.  To  play  it  on  the  piano,  after  having  heard  this  transcription,  is  to  realize 
not  only  the  relative  inarticulateness  of  the  keyboard  instrument,  but  also  that 
some  such  development  as  this  lay  implicit  in  the  original. 


Chaconne 

A  GREAT  musicologist  once  wrote  of  this  music,  "The  spirit  of  the  master  urges  the 
instrument  to  incredible  utterance."  Nothing  truer  could  be  said  of  the  Chaconne, 


40  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

for  in  its  exploration  of  the  ultimate  limits  of  violin  technique,  its  astounding  inven- 
tiveness, imagination  and  logic,  its  complete  exhaustion  of  everything,  technical 
and  musical,  that  can  be  drawn  from  the  instrument  for  which  it  was  written,  it 
reveals  the  plethoric  genius  of  Bach  in  an  inspired  utterance  which  even  he  never 
again  equaled;  and  it  forces  the  puny  violin  into  ways  of  grandeur  and  magnifi- 
cence that  are  almost  unbelievable. 


BaA,=<'La^5BS3L»-^CT^  U 


A  work  conceived  on  so  grand  a  scale  can  find  its  ultimately  convincing 
expression  only  through  the  greatest  of  instruments  —  the  orchestra.  When  we  re- 
gard it  in  its  original  form,  it  arouses  admiration  as  much  through  its  afflearance 
as  through  its  sound,  for,  admire  as  we  may  its  exigent  demands  upon  the  violinist, 
and  perchance  his  ability  to  rise  to  them,  we  must  admit  also  that  the  Chaconne 
transcends  the  possibilities  of  any  one  instrument,  and  that  it  could  be  even  more 
wonderful  as  a  plan,  a  basic  structure,  a  skeleton  for  a  work  of  matchless  beauty 
and  dignity  and  power.  To  many  listeners,  there  is  something  pathetic  in  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  violin  struggling,  in  its  feeble  voice,  with  the  prodigious  and  massive 
eloquence  of  the  Chaconne*  It  is  like  perceiving  this  music  through  the  wrong  end 
of  a  telescope,  that,  even  while  it  concentrates  color  and  sharpens  detail,  belittles 
and  makes  remote  the  majesty  and  the  wonder  of  the  work. 

The  violin  was  the  most  flexible,  agile,  and  expressive  instrument  that  Bach 
knew.  An  orchestra  of  the  power,  sensitiveness,  and  infinite  tonal  resources  we  find 
in  the  symphonic  organization  of  today  might  have  been,  must  have  been,  dreamed 
of,  but  was  never  realized.  More  than  one  musician  has  been  conscious  of  this,  and 
has  attempted  to  bring  to  the  Chaconne  the  inexhaustible  colors,  the  wide  range 
of  power  and  expressiveness,  of  the  modern  orchestra.*  It  is  not  strange  that  Leo- 
pold Stokowski,  whose  orchestrations  of  the  works  of  Bach  are  among  the  impor- 
tant musical  achievements  of  the  last  decade,  should  accomplish  the  satisfactory, 
the  magnificently  convincing  orchestration  of  this  work. 

There  has  been  a  disposition  in  certain  quarters  where  musical  purism  is 
tempered  according  to  the  personality  involved  to  damn  the  orchestral  version  of 
the  Chaconne  as  "not  violinistic."  That  is  rather  obviously  true,  but  may  be  re- 
garded as  an  unintentional,  if  oblique,  compliment.  It  is  not  unreasonable  to  be- 


*  There  is  a  scholarly  orchestration  by  Jeno  Hubay,  the  eminent  Hungarian  musi- 
cian and  pedagogue. 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN    BACH  4! 

lieve  that  Bach  chose  the  violin  for  the  expression  of  this  work,  not  because  it  was 
the  ultimate  and  only  instrument  capable  of  such  an  expression,  but  because  it  was, 
at  the  time,  the  only  tool  flexible  enough  to  limn  with  clarity  the  infinitely  detailed 
yet  massive  outlines  of  the  structure.  It  has  remained  for  one  with  deep  sympathy 
and  understanding,  and  comparable  imagination,  to  give  to  the  Chaconne  the 
massiveness,  the  variety  of  expression,  the  logical  and  natural  coloration  indicated 
and  made  possible  by  Bach's  score. 

The  Chaconne  appears  to  have  been  written  between  the  years  1717—1720. 
It  is  part  of  a  partita  for  violin  unaccompanied,  in  D  minor.  The  chaconne  as  a 
musical  form  has  given  scholars  ground  for  endless  disputation.  Not  to  split  hairs, 
it  may  be  assumed  that  it  is  not  materially  different  from  the  fassacaglia,  in  origin, 
structure  or  use — and  the  fassacaglia  is  discussed  elsewhere  in  these  pages. 

The  obvious  method,  and  the  unimaginative,  of  transcribing  this  music  for 
orchestra,  would  have  been  to  divide  the  enormously  difficult  violin  figures  among 
the  string  choirs,  thereby  maintaining  a  maximum  of  virtuosity  with  a  minimum 
of  difficulty,  and  satisfying  the  entirely  unnecessary  requirement  that  the  music 
should  sound  "violinistic."  Since  the  piece  in  its  original  form  almost  requires  a 
multiplicity  of  hands  and  myriad  fingers,  it  should  follow  that  if  it  be  divided 
among  sixty-five  string  players  the  effect  will  be  magnificent,  It  isn't;  and  in  his 
transcription  Mr.  Stokowski  has  adopted  far  different  and  more  subtle  methods. 

It  is  given  to  some  creative  musical  minds  to  know,  by  what  seems  an  un- 
erring instinct,  which  of  the  instrumental  voices  will  most  eloquently  and  most 
fittingly  express  a  given  phrase.  That  strange  intuitiveness  is  powerfully  brought 
to  bear  upon  this  transcription.  Many  a  phrase,  many  a  difficult  one,  is  left  to  the 
abilities  and  resources  of  the  violins;  and  right  nobly  must  they  acquit  themselves. 
But  again,  a  phrase,  a  fragment,  fades  or  grows  from  one  voice  into  another; 
antithetical  voices  are  opposed  and  contrasted  and  combined  with  completely  con- 
vincing finality,  and  seem  to  match  in  appropriateness  of  color  and  texture  the 
inevitable  logic  and  justice  of  their  form  and  significance  in  Bach's  musical  struc- 
ture. Strangely,  the  structure  itself,  with  its  lines  so  traced  in  living  color,  seems 
to  be  less  complex,  more  comprehensible,  than  in  the  monochromatic  voice  of  the 
violin.  It  is  as  if  one  examined  a  colossal  replica  of  a  tiny  and  exquisite  crystal; 
and  found  that,  though  its  planes  and  curves  and  facets  retain  their  perfection 
and  proportion,  its  transparence,  like  all  white  light,  is  compounded  of  all  the  colors 
we  can  visualize. 

The  Chaconne,  in  the  transcribed  version,  brings  into  brilliant  reality  the 
imaginings  of  the  sensitive  person  who  hears  or  plays  the  music  on  the  violin.  Who 
has  not  thought,  perhaps  subconsciously,  "There,  in  that  passage,  it  sounds  like  an 
organ" — but  it  does  not  sound  like  an  organ;  only  like  a  violin  straining  for  un- 
attainable sonority.  Who  has  not  succumbed  to  the  illusion  of  a  "whole  band  of 
violins  playirig,"  because  of  the  deftness  of  one  violinist  and  the  miraculous  for- 


42  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

mulas  of  Bach's  counterpoint?  But  in  the  orchestra  there  is  not  the  illusion,  but 
the  glorious  and  almost  tangible  reality  5  there  is  a  band  of  strings,  of  brasses  and 
wind,  expanding  to  full  stature  the  magnificent  figures  that  Bach,  perforce,  has 
set  down  in  miniature. 

The  basic  theme  of  the  work  is  gravely  pronounced  by  the  lower  strings  at  the 
beginning;  and  at  once  the  marvelous  flow  of  ideas  in  seemingly  endless  abundance 
rises  from  the  solemn  subject.  There  can  be  no  adequate  description  of  the  wonder 
of  this  music.  In  a  peculiar  fashion  it  explains  itself;  it  is  always  clear,  articulate, 
rounded,  rich,  and  perfect.  There  are  succeeding  waves  of  power,  and  waves 
within  waves,  that  ultimately  reach  a  towering  crest  of  sonority.  There  are  little, 
subsidiary  motives;  a  second  thematic  idea  in  flute  and  other  woodwinds,  a  third  in 
horns  and  trombones,  and,  toward  the  end,  a  prodigious  outpouring  of  sound  that 
is  never  noisy,  of  tone  superlatively  full  yet  not  clamorous,  in  a  powerful  ejacula- 
tion of  the  basic  theme.  The  end  is  not  yet;  there  appears  once  more  in  the  music 
a  divine  and  somehow  tender  complacence,  that  recalls  again  the  thought  that 
inspired  the  vast  structure  and  informed  its  every  measure. 


Choralvorspiel :  Christ  lag  in  Todesbanden 
[Christ  Lay  in  the  Bonds  of  Death} 

BACH,  himself  a  warmly  human  man,  could  on  occasion  flood  his  music  with  the 
warmest  and  most  piercing  expressions  of  human  passion.  In  the  direct  and  simple 
faith  that  was  the  Lutheranism  of  Bach's  day,  one  grieved  for  the  Saviour  crucified 
as  for  a  suffering  friend,  and  felt  in  the  dreadful  record  of  the  death  of  Christ  all 
the  personal  agonies  of  bereavement. 

This  music  is  a  transcription  of  a  prelude  for  organ,  the  melody  of  which  is 
extracted  from  Bach's  cantata  of  the  same  name,  and  more  remotely  from  a 
Lutheran  hymn.  The  organ  prelude  itself  appears  in  the  composer's  Orgelbuch- 
l&n  (Little  Organ  Book),  a  collection  of  similar  pieces. 

There  is  scarcely  need  to  enlarge  upon  the  utterance  of  intolerable  woe  that 
the  sensitive  listener  can  hear  in  this  music.  Here  is  the  wordless  grief  that  gripped 
the  heart  of  a  Mother  who  looked  upon  the  murder  of  her  God,  her  Son;  the 
unutterable  loneliness  that  settled  upon  her,  and  upon  His  friends,  when  they  had 
laid  Him  away,  bound  in  the  white  cloths  of  the  tomb.  But,  at  the  end,  there  is 
something  too  of  hope  and  confidence  and  returning  joy,  in  the  conviction,  the  very 
strong  and  Lutheran  faith,  that  the  Lord  has  risen  and  lives. 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  43 

In  the  superbly  simple  transcription  for  orchestra,  the  opportunity  for  point- 
ing exquisite  melody  and  dark  rich  harmony  with  orchestral  loveliness  is  not 
neglected. 


"Komm  siisser  Tod" 
[Come,  Sweet  Death*] 

WHEN  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  first  played  this  unearthly  song,  there  were 
many  in  the  audience  who  wept  without  shame.  One  could  search  the  music  of  the 
world  and  never  find  a  melody  of  such  intolerable  beauty  and  tenderness,  such 
quiet,  poignant  passion  j  set  against  an  orchestral  background  of  indescribable 
loveliness.  It  brings  the  sweet  unbearable  pain  that  makes  us  weep  for  very  happi- 
ness; it  searches  some  long-untouched  and  secret  cell  of  the  human  soul,  and 
magically  opens  it. 

It  is  a  simple  melody,  originally  written  by  Bach  as  one  of  a  collection  of 
Geistliche  Lieder  (Sacred  Songs),  and  not,  as  many  commentators  and  radio 
announcers  have  said,  as  a  choral  prelude.  One  of  many  obscure  and  half-forgotten 
melodies  of  Bach,  in  Stokowsk?s  reverent  orchestration  it  has  become,  to  millions 
perhaps,  the  most  eloquent  expression  of  the  old  German  organist's  music. 

There  is  a  mysterious  awed  whisper  of  the  basses,  and  in  a  moment  the  cellos 
breathe  forth  the  melody,  in  tones  as  rich  and  transparent  and  aromatic  as  incense. 
The  transcriber  has  woven  against  the  melody  a  wonderful  counterpoint,  a  thin 
diaphanous  mist  of  tone,  floating,  almost  inaudibly,  high  above  the  song  in  muted 
violins.  The  air  is  repeated,  now  softly  in  woodwind,  and  finally  in  strings,  with 
a  slowly  ascending  sequence  softly  rising  from  the  harp. 


Fugue  in  C  minor 

A  FUGUE  may  be  a  studious  and  formal  exercise  in  counterpoint,  or  a  rich  and 
glowing  concatenation  of  tones,  related  with  marvelous  intricacy,  baknced,  sym- 
metrical, and  climactic.  Every  student  of  piano  is  familiar  with  this  fugue  in  its 
original  form.  It  is  taken  from  the  first  book  of  the  W 'ohltemferirte  Clavier — the 
set  of  exercises  which  Bach  prepared  for  one  of  his  children.  If  its  technical  diffi- 
culties were  at  first  discouraging  to  the  young  student,  its  extraordinary  humor, 
dancelike  rhythm,  and  almost  boisterous  atmosphere  must  have  compensated  for 
the  labor  of  learning  to  play  it  well. 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  Well-Tempered  Clavichord  of  Bach  to  the  great 
orchestral  instrument  of  today,  with  its  more  than  a  hundred  voices,  its  infinite 


44 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


variety  of  tone  colors,  its  flexibility,  and  its  power.  Bach,  of  all  the  classic  com- 
posers, would  have  reveled  in  it,  and  exploited  its  possibilities  as  no  one  else  could 
have  done.  This  little  fugue,  originally  a  student's  exercise,  becomes  in  Stokowski's 
brilliant  transcription  a  glowing  and  powerful  episode.  Not  forgetting  the  essen- 
tial humor  and  joviality  of  the  fugue,  the  transcriber  seizes  upon  its  intrinsic  dra- 
matic possibilities  also,  and  from  the  statement  of  the  theme  by  the  violins  at  the 
outset,  he  builds  to  a  gigantic  climax  involving  the  full  powers  of  the  orchestra. 

Here  are  rhythms  within  rhythms,  strings  and  woodwind  and  trumpet  in  sub- 
ject and  answer,  with  elements  of  the  original  theme  constantly  reappearing  and 
keeping  in  motion  the  complicated  tissue  woven  by  Bach  and  colored  by  the 
orchestrator.  Now  there  is  a  simple  statement  of  the  jolly  subject  by  an  unasser- 
tive woodwind  voice;  now  long  scales  are  drawn  across  the  page;  minor  climaxes 
rise  and  fall,  until  finally,  the  long-restrained  trombones  and  tuba  assert  the  main 
subject  in  the  bass,  and  the  whole  orchestra  joins  in  gigantic  chords,  the  last  of 
which,  suddenly  moving  from  minor  to  parallel  major,  ends  the  fugue  in  a  golden 
blaze. 


Fugue  in  G  minor 
\The  "Little"  Fugue} 

Two  fugues  by  Bach  are  among  the  most  popular  in  the  organist's  repertoire;  this 
one,  called  the  "little  G  minor  Fugue,"  and  the  "great"  one,  which  is  part  of  the 
Fantasia  and  Fugue  in  G  minor.  The  "little"  fugue  is  a  wonderful  study  in  color 
and  climax.  It  begins  with  the  pronouncement  of  the  theme  by  oboe,  and  ultimately 


every  choir  in  the  orchestra  has  its  comment  to  make  on  this  theme.  Meanwhile 
a  series  of  climaxes,  all  developing  toward  one  final  thundering  forth  of  the  theme, 
succeed  one  another, 

The  jaunty  subject  of  the  fugue  appears  in  the  major  on  the  entrance  of  the 
cellos,  and  again  when  the  sonorous  basses  have  it;   but  the  answering  voice, 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN     BACH  45 

though  also  in  the  major  mode,  leads  back  to  more  powerful  pronouncements  of 
the  main  theme,  again  in  G  minor,  and  from  this  point  onward  there  is  a  swift 
growth  in  intensity  and  power  until  the  utmost  sonority  of  the  orchestra  is  called 
forth  in  the  last  climax. 


Fugue  in  G  minor 
[The  "Great"  Fugue] 

THIS  is  a  transcription  of  the  second  part  of  the  Fantasia  and  Fugue  in  G  minor, 
for  organ.  Like  the  "little"  fugue,  it  is  built  in  a  series  of  climaxes,  with  various 


**„_-«=. ,_3^ 


instruments  and  choirs  of  the  orchestra  putting  forth  their  versions  of  the  theme 
in  contrasting  or  related  timbres.  Unlike  the  "little"  fugue,  however,  its  progress 
toward  the  gigantic  climax  is  not  a  continuous  sweep;  passages  in  pianissimo  are 
adroitly  built  into  its  structure,  that  the  succeeding  outpourings  of  orchestral 
power  may  be  the  more  effective  by  contrast.  Sometimes  the  woodwinds,  given  the 
theme,  commune  quietly  among  themselves;  sometimes  the  brass  strikes  a  blazing 
slash  across  the  fabric  of  the  music,  but  at  the  end,  all  the  concerted  power  of  the 
orchestra  is  summoned  in  a  mighty  declaration.  On  the  final  chord  one  of  Bach's 
frequent  but  always  surprising  modulations  to  the  major  accomplishes  by  means 


of  harmony  what  the  straining  orchestra  could  not  add  by  sonority — &  last  in- 
credible brilliancy,  an  effect  of  reserve  powers  suddenly  brought  into  play. 


46  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Toccata  and  Fugue  in  D  minor 

BACH  has  been  variously  regarded  as  a  cold  and  scholastic  musical  mathematician 
and  architect ;  as  a  psalm-droning  pietist ;  a  disguised  or  sublimated  sensualist,  or 
a  fat  and  jolly  paterfamilias  serenely  and  busily  happy  with  music  in  the  expansive 
bosom  of  his  family.  Before  any  of  these  characterizations  be  discarded,  it  might 
be  well  to  remember  that  the  master  could  have  been,  and  probably  was,  each  one 
of  these  persons  at  different  times;  but  mostly  he  was  a  supremely  gifted  artist, 
astonishingly  knowing  and  confident  of  his  powers,  and  occasionally  luxuriating  in 
them  with  exuberance, 

It  was  in  such  a  moment  that  he  brought  into  being  this  astounding  piece  of 
virtuosity.  Virtuosity  is  a  dangerous  word,  perhaps;  for  it  so  often  connotes  super- 
ficial and  brilliant  vacuity.  But  there  is  a  distinct  esthetic  pleasure  in  the  mere 
exercise  of  power,  the  sheer  exploration  of  creative  ability  for  its  own  sake;  and 
here,  we  can  imagine,  Bach  fashioned  a  work  deliberately  as  an  act  of  abstract 
creation ;  a  creation  which  leaves  us  in  awe,  and  arouses  not  sentiment  but  wonder, 
that  the  human  mind  could  have  wrought,  in  the  intangible  stuff  of  music,  so 
variously  and  so  powerfully. 

The  Toccata  and  Fugue  was  written  for  organ — for  displaying  on  that  noble 
instrument  the  powers  of  which  Bach,  alone  in  his  time,  was  master.  Indeed,  it  is 
marvelous  to  believe  that  Bach  himself  could  have  played  this  music,  on  the  clumsy 
organs  of  his  day,  with  one  tenth  of  the  brilliance  which  the  work  so  obviously 
demands.  Today  only  the  most  gifted  and  dextrous  of  organists,  with  the  help  of 
electropneumatic  actions,  prearranged  stop  combinations  operating  at  a  single 
delicate  touch,  and  other  complicated  mechanical  devices,  can  adequately  deliver 
this  music;  and  even  then,  in  most  cases,  the  drab  shadow  of  a  nonexistent  Bach 
who  was  invariably  dull  and  pedantic — the  shadow  that  hovers  with  stupefying 
effect  over  most  organ  lofts — paralyzes  and  eviscerates  the  performance. 

The  Toccata  and  Fugue  is  one  of  the  first  of  Stokowski's  transcriptions  of 
Bach.  Its  first  public  performance,  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  created  a  sensa- 
tion which  is  repeated  even  now  with  each  succeeding  performance.  No  one  had 
ever  heard  Bach  like  this — and  this  particular  work,  in  this  orchestral  form,  has 
accomplished  more  toward  making  Bach  known  and  loved  by  the  masses  of  music 
lovers  than  any  other  influence  since  the  man  himself  lived  and  played  his  own 
music. 

The  two  sections  of  the  work  are  intimately  connected.  The  Toccata  (from 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  47 

toccare>  to  touch;  therefore,  a  work  designed  to  show  manual  dexterity)  is  utterly 
free  in  style,  and  blazing  with  brilliance  in  every  measure.  Fiercely  emphatic 
phrases,  rushing  scales,  infinitely  varied  figures  are  contrasted  with  crushing 
masses  of  tone  in  full  orchestra;  in  swift  succession  the  timbre  of  each  orchestral 
choir  is  exploited,  and  we  arrive  at  a  massive  but  swiftly  fading  climax.  Then,  in 
the  32nd  measure,  the  Fugue  itself  begins.  Question  and  answer  are  entangled  in 
glowing  textures  of  tone,  yet  always  are  clear.  There  are  recurring  surges  and 
recessions  of  power,  yet  each  minor  climax  is  greater  than  its  predecessor,  and  all 
combine  to  carry  the  orchestra  ever  closer  to  the  final  titanic  proclamation.  Before 
this  is  reached,  the  strings  indulge  themselves  in  a  deliriously  joyful,  a  madly 
exuberant  cadenza  that  searches  the  length  of  the  gamut  for  brilliance  and  sonority; 
then  as  if  exhausted,  the  tempo  is  retarded  a  little,  and  a  series  of  gigantic  chords, 
employing  the  last  resources  of  the  orchestra,  bring  the  music  to  its  thrilling  close. 


Choral vorspiel:  Wir  glauben  all*  an  einen  Gott 

[We  All  Believe  in  the  One  God] 

THE  stalwart  and  stern  religious  spirit  that  pervaded  Bach's  time  and  environment 
was  the  inspiration  that  called  into  being  his  noblest  music.  But  religion,  insofar 
as  it  was  effective  in  Bach's  own  life,  was  never  the  narrow,  cold,  intolerant,  and 
spirit-straitening  thing  which  it  often  has  been  and  sometimes  still  is.  It  was  broad, 
comprehending,  and  comprehensive,  touched  with  humanity,  simple  and  affecting. 

So,  at  least,  we  may  reason  from  much  of  Bach's  religious  music.  That  does 
not  imply  that  the  music  itself  is  simple,  for  often  it  is,  technically,  most  intricate 
and  elaborate.  But  the  thought  behind  it  seems  always  to  be  simple  faith,  warmed 
by  intensely  human  feeling — however  foreign  to  the  essence  of  Bach's  formal 
religion  that  feeling  might  be — and  the  whole  magnificently  thrilling,  glorified  by 
the  exercise  of  the  composer's  ultimate  degree  of  talent. 

It  was  always  the  simplest  and  most  fundamental  of  Christian  beliefs  that 
inspired  Bach  to  the  fullest  outpouring  of  his  genius.  The  Passion  of  the  Saviour 
...  the  realization  of  human  dependence  upon  a  mightier  power  ...  the  sorrows 
of  the  mother  who  wept  at  the  feet  of  a  Son  crucified. 

So  here,  Bach  chooses  for  what  has  been  called  the  "Giant  Fugue,"  a  sentence 
from  the  Creed  which  is  the  fundamental  affirmation  of  all  Christianity,  and  to 
which  all  mankind  can  subscribe:  "We  all  believe  in  the  one  God."  There,  indeed, 
is  the  essence  of  Lutheranism  .  .  .  but  there  too,  in  a  broader  sense,  is  the  corner- 


48  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

stone  of  all  religions  that  acknowledge  the  existence  of  a  power  beyond  the  earth. 
And  the  mighty  music  which  Bach  has  constructed  upon  and  about  the  plainsong 
utterance  of  this  simple  affirmation  in  the  Lutheran  church  is  equivalent  in  its  uni- 
versality to  the  theme  itself. 

The  choral  prelude  was  written  originally  for  the  organ,  and  the  name  some- 
times applied  to  it — the  "Giant  Fugue" — refers  to  the  bass  passages,  which  include 
such  long  intervals  in  their  striding  up  and  down  the  scale.  The  fugue  is  of  the 
type  known  as  the  "real"  fugue,  in  which  the  answer  to  the  first  subject  must 
appear  as  a  perfect  transposition  either  a  fourth  above  or  a  fifth  below  the  tone  of 
the  first  subject. 

The  theme  is  stated  at  the  outset  by  the  flute,  quickly  answered  by  the  oboe, 
and  joined  almost  immediately  by  the  strings.  The  fugue  is  not  a  form  that  the 
modern  writer  or  the  modern  mind  would  suggest  as  a  medium  for  the  clearest 
expression,  yet,  strangely  enough,  in  the  hands  of  Bach  and  those  of  his  present 
distinguished  interpreter,  this  strict  contrapuntal  form  becomes  an  aid  to  the  clarity 
of  the  composer's  thought  as  it  is  expressed  in  his  music.  The  theme  itself  is  the 
simplest  assertion  of  faith,  but  like  all  condensed  and  simple  things,  this  assertion 
implies  a  synthesis:  in  this  case,  of  the  entire  body  of  Christian  faith.  Therefore,  in 
the  fugue,  the  elaboration  of  the  theme  may  be  regarded  as  a  musical  analysis 
of  the  elements  that  contribute  to  and,  at  the  same  time,  spring  from  the  splendid 
assertion  of  belief.  The  choice  of  the  fugue,  with  its  characteristic  components,  to 
exemplify  the  idea,  is  therefore  in  itself  a  stroke  of  genius'. 

Further  to  elaborate,  in  words,  upon  what  Bach  has  to  say  musically  would 
seem  unnecessary.  The  weaving  of  this  magnificent  tapestry  of  sound  is  in  itself  a 
process  so  fascinating,  so  absorbing,  and  so  satisfying  that  to  unravel  it  pedantically 
is  as  unpleasant  as  to  dissect  the  delicate  and  complicated  structure  of  some  living 
thing.  The  growth  and  elaboration  toward  the  mighty  climax,  the  skill  with  which 
all  motion  and  all  growth  are  finally  arrested  upon  a  brilliant  and  utterly  satisfying 
major  chord,  carry  with  them  sufficient  effect  to  make  explanation  superfluous. 


Choral vorspiel:  Nun  komm,  der  Heiden  Heiland 
[Come,  Redeemer  of  Our  Race] 

THE  original  form  of  this  music  was  that  of  an  organ  prelude  to  the  chorale  men- 
tioned above — a  hymn  which,  like  many  used  by  Bach,  was  adapted  from  the 
Latin  version  in  the  Roman  church,  to  a  vernacular  rendering  in  the  Lutheran.  The 
transcription  preserves  the  atmosphere  of  devotion,  and  of  that  curious  blending 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN    BACH  49 

of  melancholy  and  strength  that  so  often  marked  the  church  music  of  Bach.  There 
are  turns  of  phrase  in  this  brief  music  that  seize  and  stop  the  heart  with  their 
terrible  momentary  pathos;  yet  the  music  pursues  an  even  tenor,  serene  and  con- 
fident and  placidly,  richly  beautiful. 

The  melody  emerges,  in  flute  and  bassoon,  from  a  background  of  muted 
strings.  By  some  thaumaturgy  known  only  to  great  conductors,  the  strings  here 
have  not  the  transparent  and  floating  quality  which  at  times  they  can  have  when, 
as  here,  they  are  played  con  sordino;  *  rather  they  reveal  a  dense  dark  richness 
like  the  light  that  shines  through  windows  of  many  colored  glass,  and  lingers  in  the 
dim  recesses  of  a  vaulted  nave.  The  withdrawal  of  all  but  strings  in  the  closing 
measures  brings  a  lessening  of  sonority,  but  a  more  passionate,  and  finally,  a  more 
prayerful  utterance. 


Passacaglia  in  C  minor 

A  fassacaglia  is  a  form  derived  from  an  ancient  stately  dance,  probably  of  Spanish 
origin,  based  on  a  dignified  figure  appearing  invariably  in  the  bass,  of  two,  four  or 
eight  measures,  in  triple  rhythm.  This  ground  bass  is  the  subject  of  the  entire  work; 
from  it  spring  melodic  derivatives  in  great  variety.  The  fassacaglia  differs  from  the 
chaconne  in  that  the  latter  has  the  subject  in  the  upper  and  internal  parts;  in  the 
strict  fassacaglia  it  appears  only  in  the  bass.  Bach  has  here  combined  the  two  forms, 
since  the  theme  appears  in  various  sections  of  the  harmonic  structure — though 
chiefly  in  the  bass.  He  further  elaborates  the  work  with  a  secondary  subject,  and 
fugue,  combining  all  at  the  close  with  indescribable  beauty  and  grandeur. 

Upon  the  main  theme  of  eight  measures,  Bach  constructs  a  series  of  twenty 
variations,  growing  in  brilliance,  in  intensity,  and  in  complexity  toward  the  climax. 
The  Passacaglia  is  perhaps  his  greatest  organ  work,  yet  one  wonders  if,  really,  it  is 
playable  upon  even  that  mighty  instrument,  with  even  a  fraction  of  the  nobility, 
the  subtlety  and  delicacy  of  shading,  the  exquisitely  flexible  rhythm,  the  infinite 
variety  of  color,  and  the  awesome  climax  given  it  by  the  orchestra.  Perhaps  that 
is  one  reason  why  Leopold  Stokowski,  himself  a  brilliant  organist,  made  this  master- 
piece of  orchestration — though  he  himself  gives  us  a  further  reason: 


*  The  Philadelphia  Orchestra  in  public  performances  plays  this  music  as  written,  but 
for  broadcasting  and  recording  the  mutes  are  not,  as  a  rule,  used. 


50  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  most  free  and  sublime  instrumental  expressions  of  Bach  are  his 
greater  organ  works,  and  of  these  the  greatest  is  the  Passacaglia  in  C  minor. 
Unfortunately  one  does  not  often  enough  have  opportunity  to  hear  it,  and  so, 
to  bring  it  nearer  to  those  who  love  Bach's  music,  I  have  made  it  for  orchestra. 

I  have  transcribed  it  simply,  adding  one  instrument  to  the  usual  orchestra 
— a  small  tuba — which  plays  in  octaves  with  the  larger  tuba  in  the  final  entry 
of  the  theme  in  the  fugue,  just  as  the  8  and  1 6  feet  pedal  stops  sound  in 
octaves  on  the  organ. 

This  Passacaglia  is  one  of  those  works  whose  content  is  so  full  and  sig- 
nificant that  its  medium  of  expression  is  of  relative  unimportance;  whether 
played  on  the  organ,  or  on  the  greatest  of  all  instruments — the  orchestra — it  is 
one  of  the  most  divinely  inspired  contrapuntal  works  ever  conceived. 

The  theme  is  softly  intoned  by  basses  and  cellos  as  the  music  begins.  Simply, 
these  deeper  strings,  as  a  concourse  of  rapt  worshipers,  recite  in  one  voice  their 
awed  declaration.  Then,  as  it  is  repeated,  the  violins,  as  a  soprano  choir,  the  flutes 
like  voices  pale-colored  yet  intensified  in  the  upper  arches  of  some  towering  nave, 
give  their  variations  of  the  theme. 

It  is  fascinating  to  observe,  apart  from  the  intense  emotional  exhilaration  of 
the  music,  how  the  conductor  must  build  simultaneously  along  at  least  three  differ- 
ent lines.  First  of  all  is  the  substructure  of  the  work,  which  is  to  culminate,  after 
steady  ascent,  in  the  overpowering  climax  at  the  end.  Second,  the  series  of  minor 
climaxes,  each  reaching  to  new  levels,  yet  each  integrated  in  expanding  and  ascend- 
ing progression.  Third,  the  continual  brightening  of  color  and  development  of 
sonority.  To  regard  these  elements,  to  assign  them  their  proper  yet  ever-varying 
proportions,  to  consider  them  in  relation  to  more  than  a  hundred  instruments,  and 
to  produce  a  closely  articulated,  perfectly  constructed,  absolutely  harmonious  whole 
— this  is  the  task  of  the  conductor. 

To  analyze  a  work  so  intricate  and  skillfully  contrived  may  be  a  joy  to  the 
pedant  and  the  scholar;  for  most  of  us,  to  hear  is  enough.  A  few  indications  suffice 
for  intelligent  listening;  the  rest  lies  in  the  appreciation  and  emotional  response  of 
the  hearer,  which  no  explanation  can  in  any  way  influence. 

The  solemn  theme  that  opens  the  work  persists  in  the  bass  throughout  the  first 
section  of  the  Passacaglia,  while  above  it  is  reared  a  complicated  structure  of  varia- 
tions, all  clearly  springing  from  the  melodic  essence  of  the  foundation  theme,  yet 
each  more  brilliant  than  its  predecessor. 

The  second  section  of  the  Passacaglia  reveals  the  variations  in  the  lower, 
internal  parts;  then  the  theme  in  the  sonorous  richness  and  nobility  of  the  brass, 
against  the  penetrating  brilliance  of  the  strings  above.  Now  for  the  first  time  the 
theme  appears  in  the  upper  voices,  assigned  to  the  woodwinds;  again,  it  is  presented 
by  the  violins,  with  the  contrabasses  ponderously  giving  out  their  particular  version* 


JOHANN     SEBASTIAN     BACH  51 

Tone  colors  cf  which  no  organ  is  capable,  tones  that  only  the  living  hand  and 
the  breath  of  1'fe  can  produce,  are  now  evoked  by  the  conductor  in  this  magnificent 
orchestration.  The  warm  tones  of  the  horns  boldly  proclaim  the  theme,  with  the 
incisive  voices  of  strings  and  oboe  sharply  contrasted.  A  new  figure,  involving 
rhythmic  and  dynamic  as  well  as  melodic  and  tonal  variation,  is  given  to  the  strings. 
Syncopation  disturbs  and  modifies  the  rhythm  of  the  variations,  and  the  theme 
itself,  now  in  the  basses,  is  subjected  to  a  rhythmic  mutation  that  adds  to  its  com- 
pelling force. 

The  third  section  of  the  Passacaglia  unfolds  new  and  wonderful  treatments, 
and  reveals  a  sustained  passionate  utterance  in  the  strings  that  is  quite  overpowering. 
Presently  the  fugue  begins,  its  first  subject  (it  is  a  double  fugue)  comprising  the 
first  half  of  the  Passacaglia  theme  proper,  and  the  other  subject  a  new  figure  in 
eighth  notes.  The  complete  theme  of  the  Passacaglia  does  not  appear  again  in  the 
music. 

The  fugue  is  the  strictest  and  most  mathematical  of  contrapuntal  devices,  yet 
there  are  occasions  in  music,  and  countless  examples  in  Bach,  where  by  inspired 
genius  it  is  made  the  vehicle  for  the  most  intense  emotional  expression.  Never  in 
all  his  music  did  Bach  employ  it  more  felicitously  than  here.  It  begins  simply 
enough,  but  in  its  convolutions  steadily  approaches  a  climax  of  soul-shaking  power. 
Soaring  .  .  .  indeed,  here  if  anywhere,  is  the  magnificent  leap  of  the  Gothic  arch, 
its  members  decorated  with  every  related  architectural  device,  its  sides  converging 
at  a  point  almost  infinitely  high — not  in  the  dim  sonorous  recesses  of  a  cathedral, 
but  where  the  transept  is  swept  by  the  glorious  light  of  the  full  day.  The  infallible, 
the  ever  new  and  ever  startling  Bach  modulation  to  the  parallel  rather  than  to  the 
relative  major  admits  a  flood  of  brilliant  sunlight  .  .  .  the  trumpets  pierce  like  a 
single  golden  ray  . .  .  the  orchestra  drives  forth  a  gigantic  mass  of  tone  as  palpable, 
almost,  as  richly  graved  and  many-colored  stone  .  .  .  reaches  a  peak  of  brilliance 
and  sonority  beyond  which  it  seems  mind  cannot  go  and  ear  cannot  hear — and 
touches  one  last  soaring  pinnacle  at  the  end. 


Saraband  from  English  Suite  No.  3 

THE  saraband  which  Mr.  Stokowski  has  transcribed  for  orchestra  is  extracted  from 
the  English  Suite  No.  3  of  Bach.  The  suite,  in  Bach's  time,  was  a  grouping  of 
movements  in  dance  rhythms,  rather  less  formal  than  "overtures"  and  sonatas.  The 
saraband  was  very  f  requendy  chosen  as  one  of  the  movements,  primarily  because  of 
the  intrinsic  dignity  and  grace  of  its  rhythm,  and  also  because  it  furnished  a  de- 


52  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

sirable  rhythmic  contrast  with  the  more  robust  measures  of  other  popular  dance 
forms. 

The  extended  rhythmic  impulse  of  the  saraband,  being  as  it  is  in  slow  ^  time, 
does  not  adapt  it  to  the  contrapuntal  style,  and  the  movement  consequently  assumes 
the  character  of  an  eloquent  but  simple  song.  In  the  orchestral  transcription  the 
lovely  melodic  line  is  maintained  in  all  its  purity,  yet  its  curves  are  accented  deli- 
cately with  colors  drawn  from  a  variety  of  instruments.  The  rhythmic  element  is 
preserved  by  subtle  yet  simple  means — an  occasional  rolling  arpeggio  from  the  harp 
that  gives  a  moving  impulse  and  at  the  same  time  applies  a  fugitive  brilliance. 


Adagio  from  the  Organ  Toccata  in  C  minor 

HALF-PENSIVE  and  half -gay,  this  vagrant  melody  takes  its  way  through  a  succes- 
sion of  instrumental  voices,  through  major  and  minor  modes.  It  is  leisurely,  but 
never  drags ;  and  it  has  a  distinct  and  vital  rhythmic  impulse  quite  peculiar  to  itself. 
Through  the  colorful,  yet  restrained  and  appropriate  orchestration,  we  are  afforded 
a  study  of  the  related  and  differing  tone  qualities  of  flute,  oboe,  clarinet,  cor 
anglais,  and  bassoon,  each  of  which  repeats  a  section  of  the  melody  in  descending 
progression;  each  of  which  imparts  its  own  peculiar  accent  and  phrasing.  There  is 
a  curious  and  highly  effective  touch  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  phrase,  where  by 
some  minor  miracle  of  orchestration  and  dynamics  an  effect  of  tremendous  mass 
and  power  is  obtained,  though  the  orchestra  speaks  but  softly. 


My  Soul  Is  Athirst 
[From  the  Passion  According  to  St.  Matthew] 

THIS  is  possibly  the  loveliest  of  all  the  Bach  chorales — the  tenderest,  most  mov- 
ing, most  reverent.  It  appears  several  times  in  the  Passion  According  to  St.  Matthew, 
in  various  harmonizations  and  with  differing  verbal  content.  It  is  more  familiarly 
known,  perhaps,  under  the  title  "O  Sacred  Head  Surrounded,"  and,  in  one  or 
another  of  its  many  harmonizations,  by  Bach  and  others,  it  is  sung  in  every  Chris- 
tian church  in  the  world. 

To  dissect  this  music  technically  would  be  almost  sacrilege.  It  cannot  be 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN    BACH  53 

heard  except  at  the  concerts  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  or  by  means  of  the 
phonograph  record  made  by  that  orchestra.  Never  has  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra 
achieved  such  miraculously  glowing  tone — a  tone  which,  darkly  incandescent,  is 
charged  with  musical  utterance  of  the  most  passionate  and  poignant  emotion. 
Phrases  impalpably  delicate,  pathetic  beyond  words  and  colored  beyond  description, 
float  in  the  air  like  prayers,  and  of  them  is  created  an  atmosphere  of  reverent  long- 
ing, of  pathos,  and  of  tenderness  almost  too  beautiful  to  bear. 


Chorale  from  Easter  Cantata 
[No.  4  Christ  lag  in  Todesbmden] 

BACH  used  the  fundamental  melody  of  Christ  lag  m  Todeslanden  in  numerous 
ways  and  several  places,  just  as  he  often  borrowed  other  melodies  from  himself  or 
from  his  contemporaries.  For  example,  the  familiar  "HerzRch  thut  mich  Verlangen" 
is  not  always  recognized  as  a  version  of  the  even  more  familiar  "O  Sacred  Head 
Surrounded,"  or  "My  Soul  Is  Athirst,"  the  loveliest  of  all  the  chorales  in  the 
St.  Matthew  Passion;  and  "Jesu  Joy  of  Man's  Desiring"  is  seldom  identified  with 
the  chorale  "Though  My  Feet  from  Thee  Have  Wandered/5  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  their  melodic  elements  are  the  same.  By  changes  of  rhythm,  and  especially 
by  changes  in  harmonization,  Bach  could  and  did  so  disguise  some  of  his  favorite 
melodies  so  completely  that  they  seem  entirely  new  and  different. 

Mr.  Stokowski  has  treated  this  melody  as  an  organ  prelude,  just  as  Bach  him- 
self frequently  used  a  special  harmonization  of  a  chorale  from  a  given  work  as  a 
prelude  to  that  work.  The  organistic  treatment  is  clear  from  the  beginning,  and  in 
the  bass  part,  the  parallel  to  an  organ  pedal  part  is  almost  perfect.  But  in  Stokowski's 
treatment  of  Bach  there  is  never  anything  so  obvious  as  a  mere  transcription  of 
notes,  and  remarkable  as  this  piece  is  technically,  it  is  even  more  significant  emo- 
tionally. The  variety  of  expression,  ranging  from  a  triumphant  proclamation  to 
pitiful  tenderness,  and  all  applied  with  singular  eloquence  to  the  one  theme,  com- 
mands the  hearer's  spiritual  response  even  more  imperatively  than  do  the  structural 
excellences  of  the  work. 


54  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Aria 
^Lento"  from  Suite  No.  3  in  D  major] 

THIS  is  the  lovely  and  familiar  melody  popularly  known  as  "Air  for  the  G  String" 
— as  violin  solo.  In  the  present  version  the  transcriber  has  brought  the  aria  back  into 
its  original  key  of  D  major,  and  at  the  outset  it  is  heard  in  the  warmer,  deeper  voice 
of  the  cellos*  Later  the  violins  sing  it  with  extraordinary  intensity  of  utterance.  There 
is  no  solo  presentation ;  the  choirs  of  the  orchestra,  rather,  are  used  as  groups,  soli; 
as  Bach  himself,  in  his  concertos,  used  them.  This  wordless  song  is  surely  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  ever  made  by  anyone,  and  in  Stokowski's  superb  harmonization  the 
aria  is  brought  to  what  must  be  its  final  and  maximum  degree  of  loveliness. 


Mein  Jesu?  was  fiir  Seelenweh  befallt  Dich  in  Getsemane 
[My  Jesus  in  Gethsemane\ 

ABOVE  is  the  complete  tide  of  this  beautiful  hymn  which  Mr.  Stokowski  selected 
from  a  collection  of  hymns  collated  by  the  Bach  Gesellschaft  under  the  general  title 
Geistliche  Lieder  und  Anen  mtt  beziffertem  oder  unbeziffertem  Bass,  aus  Sche- 
melWs  Gesangbuch  und  dem  Notenbuch  der  Anna  Magdalena  Bach  (Sacred  Songs 
and  Arias  With  or  Without  Figured  Bass,  from  Schemelli's  Book  of  Songs  and  the 
Notebook  of  Anna  Magdalena  Bach). 

The  pathos,  tenderness,  and  intimate  quality  which  fill  Bach's  music  when  it 
deals  with  sacred  things,  and  particularly  with  details  of  the  Passion,  are  preserved 
in  this  transcription  with  full  appreciation  and  sympathy.  The  string  choirs  are 
entrusted  with  the  melody,  which  we  hear  low  and  brooding  in  the  cellos,  and  again 
tense  and  passionately  protesting  in  the  upper  strings.  We  encounter  here  the 
formula  so  often  applied  by  Bach  in  the  St.  Matthew  Passion,  wherein  the  dolors  of 
Christ  are  reverently  contemplated;  pity  follows;  then  realization  of  human  respon- 
sibility for  His  sufferings,  and  finally  expressions  of  penitence-  and  of  love.  With 
economy  of  orchestral  resource,  and  within  a  purposely  limited  dynamic  range,  the 
orchestra  sings  this  profoundly  moving  song  with  an  eloquence  that  cannot  be 
described. 


JOHANN    SEBASTIAN     BACH  55 

Saraband  from  First  Violin  Suite 

THE  original  of  the  movement  is  found  in  the  first  of  the  six  suites  for  violin  un- 
accompanied, in  the  edition  published  by  Drei  Masken  Verlag  of  Munich.  Here  Mr. 
Stokowski's  work  becomes  more  that  of  the  composer  than  that  of  the  transcriber. 
Given  a  slender  single  line  of  music,  but  one  informed  by  Bach  with  undreamed-of 
possibilities,  the  transcriber  erects  upon  it  a  musical  structure  of  sweeping  majesty; 
richly  but  not  elaborately  colored;  so  suavely  handled  in  its  dynamics  that  without 
loudness  one  is  conscious  of  the  tonal  mass,  as  without  exaggerated  pianissimi  one 
feels  the  tonal  delicacy  of  the  orchestra. 

The  strings  and  the  woodwinds  supply  the  fabric  from  which  the  lovely  texture 
of  the  music  is  woven.  Always,  in  the  warp  and  weft  of  the  music,  the  shining  thread 
of  melody  which  is  Bach's  own  is  discernible,  now  in  a  solo  flute  requiring  consum- 
mate skill  and  beauty  of  tone;  again  in  the  upper  strings,  whose  sweeping  chords 
follow  precisely  the  bowing  directions  implied  in  the  original  for  violin  unaccom- 
panied. 


MILI  BALAKIREV 

[1837-1910] 

THE  COMPOSER  was  a  native  of  Nizhnii  Novgorod,  and  in  his  youth  had  the 
advantage  of  early  study  under  the  guidance  of  his  mother.  A  considerable 
part  of  his  boyhood  was  spent  in  the  country  home  of  a  friend  of  the 
family,  a  musicologist  and  publisher,  to  whose  extensive  library  young  Balakirev 
had  access.  Balakirev  became,  eventually,  more  important  as  an  influence  than  as 
a  composer  in  his  own  right,  though  he  has  left  many  charming  works.  His  chief 
contribution  to  music  was  his  enthusiastic  espousal  of  the  nationalistic  movement;  a 
movement  given  its  original  impetus  by  Glinka,  and  furthered  by  the  later  efforts 
of  Balakirev  and  his  associates.  His  importance  in  influencing  the  direction  of  Rus- 
sian musical  development  may  be  estimated  by  considering  that  he  had  as  pupils 
Cui,  Mussorgsky,  Borodin,  and  Rimsky-Korsakov. 

Aside  from  the  symphonic  poem  Thamar^  occasionally  performed  by  orches- 
tras in  this  country,  Balakirev  is  more  noted  for  an  orchestral  transcription  of  one 
of  his  own  piano  compositions,  and  for  his  own  piano  transcriptions  of  the  works 
of  others. 


Islamey 

BALAKIREV  was  one  of  the  group  of  Russian  composers  styled  "The  Five,"  and 
including  Borodin,  Cui,  Mussorgsky,  and  Rimsky-Korsakov  as  well  as  Balakirev. 
They  dedicated  themselves  to  the  production  of  a  really  Russian  music,  national  in 
origin,  idiom,  and  treatment,  and  they  looked  upon  such  composers  as  Tchaikovsky, 
whom  we  consider  so  Russian,  as  something  of  an  "outsider" — as  a  cosmopolitan, 
at  best. 

Balakirev  conceived  the  material  from  which  Islamey  is  constructed  during 
his  travels  in  the  Caucasus.  It  was  originally  written  as  a  pianoforte  composition, 
and,  incidentally,  is  quite  generally  regarded  as  perhaps  the  most  difficult  piece  of 
piano  music  in  existence.  The  transcription  for  orchestra  was  made  by  Alfredo 
Casella  in  1908,  and  dedicated  to  the  famous  pianist,  Alexander  Siloti.  The  work, 
as  may  well  be  surmised  from  its  character  as  a  pianistic  tour  de  force,  was  a  great 
favorite  of  Franz  Liszt,  and  doubtless  that  gifted  musician  was  able  to  play  it  as 
none  of  his  contemporaries  could. 

The  piece  is  in  the  form  of  a  free  fantasia  on  three  important  themes.  The 
first  opens  the  work,  and  is  heard  variously  in  woodwind,  horns,  trumpets,  and 
strings.  The  tempo  is  lightning  swift;  the  rhythm  violent.  Like  a  wild  dance,  con- 

56 


MILI    BALAKIREV  57 

standy  growing  in  fury  and  glowing  in  color,  the  theme  is  brilliantly  developed 
throughout  the  orchestra,  the  presentation  ending,  finally,  on  a  bold  and  broad 
major  chord. 

A  brief  interlude  follows;  and  there  is  a  striking  change  in  sentiment  and 
treatment.  A  lovely  cantabile  theme  is  now  assigned  the  cor  anglais,  and  then  the 
third  theme  appears  in  cor  anglais ,  with  strings;  in  solo  cello,  violin,  and  viola.  A 
perceptible  brightening  of  color,  and  a  quickening  of  rhythm  .  .  .  but  the  singing 
quality  of  the  music  is  preserved. 

The  marvelous  exposition  of  the  preceding  thematic  material  now  unfolds. 
New  resources  of  orchestral  power,  new  and  more  brilliant  colors  are  found  by  the 
arranger,  and  the  wonder  of  the  enormous  difficulties  of  the  music  is  quite  lost  in 
delight  in  its  polychromatic  beauty.  "Furioso"  is  the  expressive  mark  the  composer 
attaches  to  this  section,  and  no  better  word  could  have  been  chosen  to  describe  the 
music.  Rising  from  climax  to  climax  of  color  and  overpowering  dynamic  effect,  it 
culminates  in  slashing  chords,  in  full  orchestra,  that  effectively  put  a  period  to  its 
dominating  power. 


SAMUEL  BARBER 

[Born  March  9,  1910] 

HE  FACT  that  Samuel  Barber  is  a  nephew  of  the  famous  contralto,  Louise 
Homer,  may  reasonably  have  been  the  basis  for  his  predilection  for  music. 
He  began  musical  studies  at  six  and  his  first  compositions  date  from  a  year 
later.  At  thirteen  he  entered  the  Curtis  Institute  of  Music  in  Philadelphia,  where,  at 
thirty,  he  now  is  a  member  of  the  faculty.  In  his  student  days,  Emilio  de  Gogorza 
was  his  teacher  in  singing,  Isabelle  Vengerova  in  piano,  and  Rosario  Scalero  in 
composition,  which  was  his  chief  interest. 

Graduation  from  Curtis  in  1932  was  followed  by  the  winning  of  the  Prix  de 
Rome  in  1935  and  of  the  Pulitzer  Prize  for  Music  in  1935  and  1936  —  the*  first 
case  of  its  being  conferred  twice  on  the  same  musician.  Mr.  Barber's  orchestral 
works  have  had  frequent  performance,  both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe.  His 
Symphony  in  One  Movement  is  the  only  American  work  to  have  been  included  in 
the  festival  programs  at  Salzburg,  where  Artur  Rodzinski  conducted  it  in  1937. 

His  Adagio  for  Strings  and  Essay  for  Orchestra  were  first  performed  by 
Toscanini  and  the  NBC  Orchestra  in  1938,  and  the  former  was  the  only  American 
work  played  by  Toscanini  on  his  South  American  tour. 

Compositions  for  orchestra  by  Mr.  Barber  include  the  Essay  for  Orchestra, 
an  Adagio  for  Strings,  an  overture  to  The  School  for  Scandal,  Music  for  a  Scene 
from  Shelley,  Violin  Concerto,  and  Symphony  in  One  Movement.  In  the  field 
of  chamber  music  he  has  written  a  String  Quartet  in  B  minor,  a  Serenade  for 
String  Quartet,  Dover  Beach  for  voice  and  string  quartet,  and  a  sonata  for  cello 
and  piano.  Mr.  Barber  has  written  many  songs,  and  his  choral  works  are  The 
Virgin  Martyrs  and  (for  men's  chorus  and  kettledrums)  A  Stopwatch  and  an 
Ordnance  Ma$. 


Essay  for  Orchestra 
[Opus  12] 

THIS  composition,  written  in  1937,  is  akin  to  the  literary  essay  in  its  form,  hav- 
ing brevity  and  conciseness,  of  an  almost  epigrammatic  neatness.  Its  two  principal 
themes  are  contrasted  rather  than  extensively  developed.  The  lower  strings  present 
a  slow-paced  one  which  is  the  basis  of  the  first  section.  A  livelier  figure  introduces 
the  second  section,  in  which  eventually  the  first  theme  reappears  in  augmentation. 

58 


SAMUEL    BARBER  59 

There   is  a  broad  conclusion.   The   Essay  was  first  performed  by  the  NBC 
Orchestra,  under  Toscanini,  November  5,  1938. 


Adagio  for  Strings 
[Opus  n] 

THIS  music  was  composed  in  1936  in  Rome  as  the  slow  movement  of  a  string 
quartet  in  B'  minor.  In  that  form  it  was  first  played  there  by  the  Pro  Arte  Quartet 
that  year.  Its  first  performance  in  its  present  version  occurred  on  November  5, 
1938,  when  Toscanini  played  it  with  the  NBC  Symphony.  It  was  the  only 
American  work  performed  by  Toscanini  on  his  recent  South  American  tour.  Mr. 
Barber  is  a  nephew  of  the  famous  contralto,  Louise  Homer;  the  score  bears  this 
dedication:  "To  my  aunt  and  uncle,  Louise  and  Sidney  Homer." 

The  work  is  based  on  a  single  lyric  subject  announced  forthwith  by  the  first 
violins.  Then  taken  up  by  the  violas  in  imitation,  the  theme  appears  in  the  other 
voices  until  a  rising  fortissimo  is  reached  in  the  high  strings.  Following  a  pause 
there  is  a  tranquil  close. 


LUDWIG  VAN  BEETHOVEN 

[1770-1827] 

THERE  ARE  so  MANY,  and  such  excellent,  biographies  of  Beethoven  that 
there  is  little  need  or  use,  in  these  pages,  for  an  extended  account  of  his 
life.  He  was  one  of  the  two  or  three  most  important  musicians  who  ever 
lived,  and  a  story  of  his  life  with  a  just  approximation  of  its  importance  and  influ- 
ence would  fill  all  the  pages  of  this  book. 

He  was  born  at  Bonn,  December  16,  1770.  He  sprang  from  lowly  and  insig- 
nificant people.  His  mother  was  a  cook,  his  father  a  drunken  musician,  who  had 
emigrated  from  Holland  to  Germany.  His  childhood  was  a  succession  of  miseries. 
Lessons  from  a  sottish  teacher  after  being  dragged,  drugged  with  sleep,  from  his 
cot  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Poverty,  privation,  toil,  a  loveless  life,  but  never  dis- 
couragement. The  world  and  the  woes  that  man  makes  cannot  extinguish  the 
divine  fire.  Recognition  came  to  him  finally. 

In  middle  age — in  an  age  when  republicanism  was  treason — he  dared  to  be 
republican  even  while  he  commanded  the  support  of  courtiers  and  princes.  When 
to  be  liberal  was  to  be  heretic,  he  lived  a  large  religion  of  humanism — without  dis- 
respect to  established  orthodoxy.  When  perfumed  aristocrats  eyed  askance  his 
stodgy  figure,  grotesque  manners,  absurd  garb,  he  snarled  and  flashed  and  played 
the  pettiness  out  of  them.  Too  great  to  be  ignored,  too  poor  to  be  respected,  too 
eccentric  to  be  loved,  he  lived,  one  of  the  strangest  figures  in  all  history.  Passionate 
in  his  loves  and  hates,  ruthless  toward  opposition  or  criticism  of  friend  or  enemy, 
always  in  love  and  never  married,  ever  honorable  and  never  chivalrous,  tender  in 
sentiment  and  Rabelaisian  in  humor,  simply  thinking  sublime  thoughts,  that  was 
Beethoven! 

Tragedy  followed  him  like  a  hound.  He  became  deaf  and  his  last  years  were 
lived  in  a  whirling  void  of  silence.  Silence! — while  from  within  he  drew  the  sounds 
that  all  the  world  has  loved  to  hear,  and  he  of  all  the  world  should  first  have  heard! 
Romantic,  humorous,  tragic  man! 

A  decade  of  decades  has  passed  since  Beethoven,  starting  up  from  his  sickbed, 
shook  his  fist  at  the  frowning  skies  and  died.  His  grave  in  the  Wahring  cemetery, 
hard  by  the  resting  place  of  Schubert,  was  marked  simply  with  his  name,  and  with 
symbols  of  immortality.  He  lives  today  in  some  of  the  most  wonderful  music  ever 
penned  by  mortal  hand. 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  6l 

Symphony  No.  i  in  C  major 

"THIS/*  remarked  Hector  Berlioz,  with  a  kind  of  impatient  and  contemptuous 
toleration,  "this  is  not  Beethoven."  Indeed  it  is  not  the  Beethoven  of  the  Third, 
Fifth,  Seventh,  and  Ninth  Symphonies.  You  will  not  find  in  it  the  giant  that  strides 
across  the  pages  of  the  "Eroiccf* ;  you  will  not  feel  in  it  the  naked  passion,  the  blaz- 
ing power  of  the  deathless  Fifth,  nor  the  intoxicating  rhythms,  the  arrogant  virility 
of  the  Seventh.  And  the  heaven-storming  Ninth  was  separated  by  many  years  and 
radical  spiritual  change  and  development  from  the  First. 

This  symphony  will  certainly  not  provide  a  dramatic  thrill  for  the  casual  lis- 
tener— though  one  would  be  unresponsive  indeed  not  to  enjoy  it  in  a  calmer  fashion. 
The  greatness  of  this  work  can  be  appraised  only  by  considering  it  against  the 
musical  background  existing  at  the  time  of  its  first  performance,  in  April,  1800. 
That  is  not  to  say  that  its  charm  is  exclusively  for  the  scholar  and  the  musicologist. 
There  is  musical  delight  in  it  for  everyone;  its  chief  greatness  is,  however,  in  its 
revelation  of  the  Beethoven  that  was  to  be,  in  its  daring,  in  its  originality,  and 
in  its  forthright  vigor. 

In  1800  Haydn,  father  of  the  symphony,  was  still  alive,  and  regarded  as  the 
great  musician  of  the  day.  Mozart  had  been  dead  but  a  few  years.  The  former  had 
developed  the  form  of  the  sonata  and  the  symphony;  the  latter  had  brought  to  these 
a  grace  and  perfection  of  finish  peculiarly  his  own.  These  two  composers  dominated 
music  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Now  came  a  young  man,  offering  to  the  public  his  idea  of  a  symphony.  It  was 
but  natural  that  he  should  have  been  under  the  influence  of  Haydn  and  Mozart, 
both  of  whom  he  admired.  Yet  he  was  original  enough,  and  daring  enough,  to 
impress  upon  established  and  accepted  form  the  print  of  his  own  will  and  thought. 
Though  the  symphony  has  much  of  the  character  of  the  innumerable  Mozart  and 
Haydn  symphonies,  it  has  more — a  ruggedness,  a  certain  vigorous  humor,  originality 
in  form  and  in  detail,  and  imaginativeness.  In  all  of  these  qualities  it  surpasses  any- 
thing of  Haydn  or  Mozart — with  the  exception  of  the  "Jupiter"  Symphony  of  the 
latter. 

Eighteenth-century  audiences  were  much  more  interested  in  structural  form 
than  in  emotional  content.  Their  orchestras  would  be  regarded  today  as  adequate  to 
a  private  salon,  but  hardly  for  the  concert  hall.  Judged  by  our  standards,  their 
music  was  overdelicate,  highly  restrained,  somewhat  "precious."  With  interest 
chiefly  in,  and  emphasis  upon,  line  and  form,  large  orchestras  and  unrestrained 
emotional  outpourings  were  unknown.  Consequently,  the  power  of  this  music,  and 
the  exigent  demands  it  made  upon  both  performer  and  listener,  were  shocking  to 
the  polite  ears  of  1800. 


62  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

But  Beethoven  revealed  himself  as  a  man  whose  powerful  emotions  were  of  a 
kind  that  demanded  adequate  expression  through  music.  He  expanded  and  gave 
strength  to  the  accepted  forms;  he  regarded  them  with  respect,  if  not  reverence, 
and  he  made  them  serve  his  purpose.  This  did  not  please  the  standpatters  and  reac- 
tionaries of  his  own  day,  who  exhibited  the  antipathy  toward  innovation  that  we 
find  among  the  same  class  today. 

Some  of  the  criticisms  of  the  first  performance  are  interesting.  One  newspaper 
had  some  kind  things  to  say,  but  complained  that  "there  was  too  much  use  of  the 
wind  instruments,  so  that  the  music  sounded  more  as  if  written  for  a  military  band 
than  for  an  orchestra,"  Another  critic,  netded  by  Beethoven's  calm  disregard  for 
certain  musical  conventions,  said  that  the  symphony  was  "the  confused  explosions  of 
the  outrageous  effrontery  of  a  young  man."  Notwithstanding  much  unfavorable 
comment,  the  symphony  soon  became  popular,  and  by  the  time  the  Third  was  pro- 
duced, the  critics,  outraged  as  usual,  were  pointing  back  to  the  First  as  a  model 
symphony! 

First  Movement 

One  of  the  disturbing  features  of  some  modern  music  is  the  use  of  polytonality 
(several  keys  simultaneously)  or  atonality  (no  particular  key).  Imagine  then,  in 
1800,  a  symphony  opening  in  the  key  of  F,  and  within  a  few  measures  passing 
through  the  key  of  A  minor  to  G  major  to  C  major!  That  is  what  Beethoven  the 
modernist  does  in  the  first  few  pages  of  this  music.  There  is  a  kind  of  introduction, 
during  which  these  strange  modulations,  and  a  lovely  songlike  melody  for  violins, 
bring  us  in  a  thoughtful  mood  to  the  main  body  of  the  movement.  Here  there  is  a 
marked  change  in  pace  and  rhythmic  feeling,  and  the  violins,  softly  but  with  spirit, 
give  out  the  principal  theme. 


The  second  and  contrasting  theme  appears  in  the  alternating  voices  of  flute 
and  oboe,  shortly  after  a  powerful  crescendo  has  led  us  to  the  key  of  G  major — the 
related  tonality,  in  which  the  secondary  theme  of  a  movement  in  sonata  form  con- 
ventionally appears.  The  two  themes  are  worked  over  in  rather  conventional  style, 
but  with  somewhat  more  contrast  in  tone  color  and  dynamic  effect  than  was  com- 
mon at  the  time  this  work  was  composed. 

The  thematic  material  is  now  taken  apart  with  Beethoven's  almost  clinical 
thoroughness.  Every  melodic  possibility  is  exploited.  Thematic  contrasts  and  com- 
binations, brilliant  rhythmic  and  dynamic  effects,  and  effective  use  of  orchestral 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN 


color  are  employed  in  presenting  the  composer's  musical  thought  in  various  guises. 
Finally,  musical  expression  derived  from  the  first  theme  of  the  movement  is  used, 
in  conjunction  with  vigorous  chords,  as  a  coda  to  end  this  section  of  the  work. 

Second  Movement 

The  Beethoven  of  rough  humors  and  gruff  impatience,  the  Beethoven  who 
dared  and  startled  the  world  of  his  day,  is  more  in  evidence  throughout  the  second 
movement  of  the  symphony.  It  begins  conventionally  enough — with  a  melody,  sung 
by  the  second  violins  alone;  a  melody  compounded  of  pathos  and  wistful  humor,  a 

2*4  l/tolms  — 

*& 


wayward  and  charming  utterance.  Growing  from  it,  and  eventually  compounding 
a  mass  of  sonorous  and  lovely  tone,  come  successively  the  tones  of  viola  and  cello, 
first  violins  and  woodwind.  A  second  melody  is  projected;  then  a  brighter  phrase, 
and  sustained  but  sofdy  blown  notes  of  the  trumpet.  Underneath  moves  the  per- 
sistent rhythm  of  the  timpani — the  most  prominent  use  of  these  instruments  ever 
known  up  to  Beethoven's  time.  Abrupt  modulations,  sudden  and  surprising  con- 
trasts of  major  and  minor  tonalities,  sharply  etched  effects  of  sunshine  and  shadow 
reflect  Beethoven's  varying  humor  and  his  delight  in  shocking  contrasts. 


Third  Movement 

It  is  probable  that  modern  audiences  find  more  delight  in  Beethoven's  inimi- 
table scherzos  than  in  any  other  of  his  symphonic  movements.  In  them  we  feel 
abounding  vitality,  brusquerie,  mischievousness,  and  "harsh  humor  that  were  charac- 


64  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

teristic  of  the  man.  We  welcome  them  particularly  when  they  follow  a  belligerently 
and  persistently  solemn,  or  melancholy,  or  overlong  slow  movement,  as  they  some- 
times do. 

The  third  movement  of  the  present  symphony  is  marked  "minuet" ;  the  con- 
ventional eighteenth-century  symphony  almost  always  used  a  dance  form,  and  most 
often  the  minuet,  as  the  third  movement.  But,  though  this  part  of  the  symphony  is 
in  triple  time,  it  is  something  quite  different  from  the  usual  third  movement  of  the 
period.  It  is  swift,  it  is  light,  it  glints  with  sprightly  humor.  It  has  none  of  the 
studied  dignity  of  the  minuet,  and  little  of  its  elegance — but  it  has  life  and  vigor. 


/?//? 


[H?  fro^h  1/juo.re  .      ,  .       •      l  -&&+JLJLJL 


In  the  later  symphonies  Beethoven  frankly  abandoned  the  minuet  as  a  conventional 
third  movement,  and  designated  it  as  "scherzo."  The  present  portion  of  the  First 
Symphony  is  the  ancestor  of  all  his  scherzos. 

Two  melodies,  contrasted  in  form  and  in  orchestral  color,  are  the  basis  for  the 
minuet  proper.  There  are  sudden  modulations,  mischievous  moments  of  suspense, 
interesting  contrasts  of  instrumental  voices,  and  always  a  merry  and  urgent  rhythm 
moving  this  charming  music.  The  "trio,"  beginning  with  sustained  chords  in  wood- 
wind, is  in  a  more  restrained  but  still  humorous  mood.  The  minuet  proper  returns 
to  end  the  movement  with  energetic  gaiety. 

Fourth  Movement 

A  purely  technical  analysis  of  this  or  any  other  symphonic  movement  is  not 
pertinent  to  the  purpose  of  this  book.  The  musician  does  not  need  it,  the  layman 
does  not  want  it.  Except  for  its  vigor, 'and  the  violent  contrasts,  dynamic  and  rhyth- 
mic, which  mark  it  as  characteristically  Beethoven's,  the  music  is  not  essentially  nor 
vitally  different  from  many  another  preceding  work.  This  is  not  disparagement. 
Neither  Beethoven,  nor  any  lesser  man,  can  be  original  in  every  detail.  If  the  music 
followed  a  pattern  which  had  been  exploited  again  and  again,  that  is  not  to  say  that 
it  offered  nothing  new.  The  structure  was  an  established  one,  but  the  texture  is 
Beethoven's.  One  can  appreciate  it  with  the  ears,  taking  in  sounds  and  rhythms; 
not  with  the  eyes,  examining  a  mass  of  words. 

The  chief  subjects  of  the  movement  are  easily  identified  and  located.  There  is 
an  introduction,  adagio,  the  main  feature  of  which  is  a  series  of  ascending  passages, 
first  of  three  notes,  then  of  four,  finally  of  five.  After  some  hesitation,  the  music 
moves  suddenly  into  an  allegro,  and  the  first  theme  of  the  movement,  animated  and 


LUDWIG    VAN     BEETHOVEN 


65 

bright,  follows  at  once.  Underneath  it  moves  a  scale  passage,  its  marked  staccato 
character  easily  identifying  it. 


It  is  interesting  to  note  the  effect  of  climax  which  Beethoven,  with  the  econ- 
omy of  means  forced  upon  him  by  the  orchestra  of  his  day,  is  able  to  achieve.  We 
sense  climax  upon  climax,  each  of  which  actually  employs  virtually  the  entire  re- 
sources of  the  orchestra.  The  psychological  effect  wrought  by  the  composer  in  the 
suddenly  contrasted  passages,  played  piano,  is  tremendous,  and  each  peak  of  power 
seems  higher  than  the  preceding.  Presently  we  come  upon  a  brilliant  utterance, 
boldly  put  forward  by  horn  and  woodwind.  The  bright  scales  of  the  opening  section 
return,  and  with  a  succession  of  chords  less  long-winded  than  is  common  in  Beetho- 
ven symphonies,  the  movement  ends. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major 

To  WRITE  music  at  any  time  is  a  rather  trying  occupation.  To  have  been  a  com- 
poser of  Beethoven's  day  seems,  at  this  distance,  to  have  been  particularly  difficult. 
The  poor  musician  of  1790,  or  thereabout,  had  an  exciting  game  to  pky,  and  woe 
betide  him  if  he  did  not  play  according  to  the  rules.  Formality  was  the  thing,  and 
the  composer  who  could  write  strictly  to  a  form,  and  still  avoid  using  someone  else's 
melodies,  was  pretty  sure  to  be  regarded  as  successful.  The  matter  of  expressing  a 
large  and  noble  feeling,  in  a  large  and  noble  way,  was  not  the  point  at  issue. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Beethoven  was  one  of  the  first  composers  who 
broke  the  bonds  imposed  upon  his  spirit  and  his  inspiration  by  the  musical  conven- 
tions of  his  time,  and  in  many  of  his  pages  shouted  a  song  of  himself  which  in  a 
sense  paralleled  the  "barbaric  yawp"  of  Walt  Whitman.  The  nine  symphonies  were 
not,  however,  a  numerical  progression  toward  this  freedom.  Curiously,  the  first,  and 
from  then  on,  all  the  even-numbered  symphonies,  conformed  more  closely  with  the 
classical  mold  than  did  the  odd-numbered,  which  certainly  to  modern  ears  are  the 
most  exciting. 

This  symphony  was  written  during  the  year  1802.  It  was  one  of  Beethoven's 


66 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 


many  years  of  depression,  but  there  is  little  trace  of  his  despondency  in  this  music. 
He  was  in  love,  which  is  misery  enough  for  anyone.  His  health  was  bad,  and  the 
measures  taken  to  relieve  it  were  worse  than  the  disease.  His  deafness  was  acute, 
and  seemed  to  be  aggravated  by  his  other  physical  disorders.  Beethoven  felt  that 
death  was  near,  and  tried  to  resign  himself  to  it.  Some  of  his  greatest  work  was  still 
before  him. 

The  symphony  was  first  performed  in  Vienna,  April  5,  1803.  Surely  the 
Viennese  love  music,  for  at  this  same  concert,  which  began  at  six  in  the  evening, 
they  listened  not  only  to  this  symphony,  but  to  the  First,  the  C  minor  Piano  Con- 
certo, and  the  oratorio,  The  Mount  of  Olives! 


First  Movement 

In  listening  to  the  early  Beethoven  symphonies,  and  particularly  to  all  the 
even-numbered  ones,  we,  like  his  own  audiences,  must  to  some  extent  observe  the 
rules  of  the  game.  We  must  not  expect  the  emotional  content  of  the  greater,  later 
symphonies  j  we  must  not  expect  the  rich  orchestral  color  that  Brahms  gives  us,  or 
that  we  find  even  in  the  Beethoven  Fifth,  Seventh,  and  Ninth;  we,  too,  must 
regard  form  and  structure  as  of  paramount  interest. 

There  is  an  introduction,  rather  brief,  but  embodying  three  well-defined 
themes.  The  first  is  in  full  orchestra,  with  the  thematic  melody  in  the  woodwind. 
The  second  is  brighter  and  more  powerful,  with  sweeping  scales  and  emphatic  chords 
at  its  conclusion.  The  third,  with  descending  triplets  in  the  strings,  quickens  and 
involves  the  whole  orchestra. 


•j»«*"n^  "f"  .  i   « 


The  main  body  of  the  movement  now  follows,  with  the  principal  subject  pro- 
posed by  cellos  and  basses.  The  movement  is  strictly  in  form,  so,  watching  for  the 
conventional  second  theme,  we  come  upon  it,  in  rather  definitely  marked  rhythm, 
stated  by  clarinets,  and  answered  by  powerfully  bowed  strings.  The  two  themes  are 


LUDWIG     VAN    BEETHOVEN 


6? 

developed  elaborately  and  characteristically,  and  a  long  coda,  deriving  its  basic 
material  from  the  first  theme  of  the  movement,  brings  it  to  a  conclusion. 


Second  Movement 

If  Beethoven  was  hedged  about  with  conventions  which  sometimes  restrained 
him  in  his  expression  of  the  larger  passions,  he  could  and  did  make  of  his  slow 
movements  utterances  of  the  most  pointed  eloquence.  The  present  section  is  no 
exception.  It  has  a  pure  lyric  beauty  that  remains  serene  and  undisturbed,  however 
distracting  the  musical  figures  that  accumulate  about  it.  The  strings  announce  the 
songlike  subject,  and  indeed  are  entrusted  also  with  the  second  and  third  themes, 


the  last  being  somewhat  more  brisk  and  cheery  than  its  predecessors.  The  develop- 
ment of  all  three  is  less  interesting  for  its  stylized  character  than  for  the  fact  that  it 
never  obliterates  the  melodic  line  or  disturbs  the  mood  of  the  themes  themselves. 

Third  Movement 

The  term  "scherzo,"  which  means,  literally,  a  jest,  was  first  applied,  not 
without  wit,  to  an  extravagant  kind  of  love  song.  The  conventional  third  move- 
ment of  a  symphony  was  in  the  form  of  a  minuet,  but  Beethoven  injected  so  much 
vigor  and  swift  rhythm  into  his  third  movements  that,  though  in  ^4  time,  and 
three-part  form,  they  could  not  be  called  minuets.  He  applied  to  them  the  term 
scherzo,  as  indicating  their  light  and  playful  character. 


There  is  a  naughty  flippancy  in  this  scherzo,  and  it  is  refreshing  after  the  stiff- 
ness of  the  first  and  the  quiet  plaintiveness  of  the  second  movement  A  light  and 
animated  subject,  alternately  played  forte  and  piano,  is  presented  in  changing 
rhythms  and  modest  orchestral  colors.  The  trio,  or  middle  part  of  the  movement, 
gives  us  a  bright  little  melody,  repeated  with  considerable  ornamentation* 


68  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

«• 

Fourth  Movement 

The  fourth  movement,  though  highly  developed,  is  saved  from  the  weighty 
dignity  of  many  final  movements  by  its  engaging  rondo  form.  Its  lightness  made 


5- 

Hector  Berlioz,  that  indefatigable  student  of  Beethoven,  suggest  that  here  was  a 
second  scherzo  in  the  symphony.  And  he  added  his  delighted  comment  on  the  dis- 
tribution of  the  theme  in  fragments  among  the  orchestral  instruments,  with  the 
consequent  variety  of  tone  color.  Reference  to  the  term  rondo  in  the  Glossary  of 
Music  Terms,  beginning  on  page  635,  will  make  clear  the  structure  of  the  move- 
ment. 


Symphony  No.  3  in  E  flat 
[«Eroica»] 
[Opus  55] 

BEETHOVEN  the  democrat,  the  human,  the  believer  in  and  champion  of  human 
rights  did  no  violence  to  his  convictions  when  he  dedicated  this  symphony  to  Napo- 
leon. He  believed  sincerely  that  that  autocrat  was  possessed  by  motives  springing 
from  a  humanistic  creed  akin  to  his  own.  When  on  May  18  in  1804  Bonaparte 
accepted  the  title  of  Emperor,  Beethoven,  his  democratic  soul  outraged  by  the 
annihilation  of  his  conception  of  the  man,  ripped  the  title  page  from  his  just-com- 
pleted manuscript,  and  with  imprecations  dashed  it  to  the  ground.  Later,  when 
the  work  was  published,  the  title,  translated,  read,  "Heroic  symphony,  for  the  cele- 
bration of  the  memory  of  a  great  man." 

However  great  the  hero  who  might  be  celebrated  in  this  noble  music,  it  would 
further  illuminate  him.  In  majesty,  brilliance,  and  power;  in  breadth  and  depth  of 
feeling;  in  sheer  magnificence,  it  ranks  among  the  musical  masterpieces  of  all  time. 
Into  it  Beethoven  poured  his  own  superb  vitality,  so  that.it  lives  and  moves  power- 
fully; his  own  conception  of  a  hero,  so  that  it  speaks  nobly;  his  own  genius  as  a 
musician,  so  that  it  appeals  universally. 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  69 

One  of  the  curses  that  has  fastened  itself  upon  music  is  the  habit  of  the 
scholars  and  the  sentimentalists  of  attaching  to  musical  works  imaginative  and 
usually  farfetched  titles,  in  most  cases  never  heard  of  by  the  composer,  and  usually 
ridiculously  unfitting.  The  teachers  of  music  appreciation  have  been  the  most 
serious  sinners  in  this  respect,  and  have  begotten  in  the  minds  of  the  young  and  the 
musically  innocent  more  perverted  ideas  than  sound  ones.  It  is  a  pity  if  people  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  have  not  had  time  to  acquaint  themselves  with  the  de- 
lights of  music  must  be  led  to  it  under  false  pretenses.  Music,  strictly  speaking, 
cannot  tell  a  story.  It  does  not  mean  anything  that  can  be  expressed  in  words.  It 
cannot  paint  a  picture.  Often  it  can  fortify  and  make  more  vivid  our  impressions 
and  recollections  of  persons  and  events  and  things;  often  it  accompanies  and  in- 
creases the  emotional  ejffect  of  dramatic  action.  When  so  intended,  the  composer 
almost  invariably  lets  us  know  in  advance.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  such  titles  as 
"Moonlight"  Sonata,  and  "Spring  Song,"  and  "Raindrop"  Prelude  are  expressions 
of  the  cheapest  kind  of  musical  sentimentality,  and  no  importance  whatever  should 
be  attached  to  them. 

The  "Eroicef*  comes  by  its  subtitle  legitimately  enough,  but  musical  com- 
mentators have  not  been  content  with  the  name  Beethoven  himself  gave  it.  They 
must  find  cryptic  meanings  and  illustrations  in  its  four  unintegrated  movements — 
in  the  movements  which,  by  their  varying  character  and  unusual  sequence, 
have  so  puzzled  and  worried  academic  minds  for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  The 
many  contradictory  interpretations  urged  by  various  commentators  in  themselves 
establish  their  futility.  Dismiss  from  your  mind  every  consideration  but  that  of  pure 
music,  of  moving,  living  sound  that  transfers  to  you  an  emotional  state;  do  not  seek 
for  hidden  meanings,  for  musical  illustrations,  for  tone  pictures.  Beethoven  was 
eloquent  in  but  one  language — the  universal  language  of  music.  In  the  symphony 
he  speaks,  in  his  language,  of  the  qualities,  of  mind  and  heart,  he  finds  in  the  ideal 
hero.  Be  content  with  this.  What  this  music,  or  any  music,  means  to  another  is  not 
of  first  importance  to  your  hearing  of  it;  let  it  impress  you  as  it  will.  You  will  be 
uplifted,  and  thrilled,  and  happier  by  the  experience. 

First  Movement 

The  two-fisted  Beethoven  asks  attention  in  no  uncertain  way — and  gets  it — 
with  the  two  swift,  staccato,  and  powerful  chords  with  which  the  symphony  begins. 
Now  he  goes  directly  to  his  subject,  and  deep  in  the  choir  of  cellos,  we  hear,  some- 
what tentatively  but  clearly,  the  basic  theme  of  the  movement.  A  few  moments 
later,  boldly  and  with  elastic  vigor,  it  is  put  forth  by  horns,  clarinets,  and  flutes  in 
octaves. 


70  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Here  is  a  straightforward  theme,  not  unmilitary  in  its  simple  intervals  like 
those  of  a  trumpet  call.  Yet,  simple  as  it  is,  Beethoven  has  constructed  about  it  a 
towering  edifice  of  sound  that  moves;  sound  that  surges  and  flows  and  beats  against 
one's  consciousness  with  terrific  power.  Here  and  there  the  theme,  in  one  or 
another  of  the  many  voices  of  the  orchestra,  appears  and  dominates  all  the  elaborate 
developments  of  itself.  It  is  like  a  principle  of  living,  which,  though  seldom  ex- 
plicitly stated,  directs  and  can  be  detected  in  a  man's  every  action. 

After  the  first  presentation  of  a  contrasting  theme,  divided  among  the  wood- 
winds (oboe,  clarinet,  flute)  and  violins,  both  ideas  are  magnificently  developed. 


Oboe  Clarinet          Flute  Violin 

The -musical  quotation  above  is  but  the  merest  germ  of  the  mighty  ideas  which  the 
composer  now  projects  through  the  orchestra,  and  which  culminate  in  a  succession 
of  vigorous  and  impatient  thrusts  of  tone.  Sometimes  we  feel  that  the  music  has 
departed  far  from  the  simple  affirmation  which  was  urged  at  the  beginning  as  the 
basic  thought  of  the  movement — yet  always  with  a  sudden  influx  of  light 
Beethoven  shows  clearly  the  imminence  of  that  idea.  Let  it  come,  as  it  does,  in 
the  virile  voices  of  cellos  and  basses;  let  it  breathe  gently  in  the  rounded  mellow 
tones  of  the  horn;  let  it  speak  incisively  in  the  penetrating  accents  of  the  woodwind; 
it  is  still  the  same  simple  utterance,  and  the  source  of  all  the  life  and  power  of  the 
movement. 

Second  Movement 

One  may  look  upon  Death  as  the  inevitable,  and  regard  it  unemotionally. 
One  may  see  it  as  the  frustration  of  the  noble  impulses  and  heroic  designs  which 
lying  Life  encourages  one  to  feel  and  to  undertake,  and  therefore  resent  it,  bitterly 
and  impatiently.  And,  finally,  one  may  regard  Death  as  the  unreasonable,  inex- 
orable taking-off  of  one  beloved — and  weep. 

Here  in  the  second  movement  of  the  symphony — which  Beethoven  himself 
entitled  "Funeral  March" — is  a  curious  combination  of  the  latter  two  attitudes 
toward  Death.  The  significance  of  the  music  cannot  possibly  be  misconstrued.  That 
agonizing  slow  beat  can  be  only  the  terrible  rhythm  of  the  march  toward  the  grave 
which  figuratively  the  audience  makes  behind  the  body  of  Beethoven's  hero — 
and  makes,  literally,  with  every  passing  interval  of  time. 

Presently  the  music  expresses  more  of  what  we  might  regard  as  the  hero's 
own  attitude  toward  Death.  We  recall,  from  the  first  movement,  the  power,  the 
activity,  the  restlessness  and  ruthlessness  there  expressed;  here,  in  spite  of  the 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  *JI 

slow  rhythm,  we  feel  an  impatience,  a  resentment  toward  Death,  the  one  enemy, 
the  one  obstacle,  that  cannot  be  overcome.  The  theme  that  began  the  dread- 
ful march,  although  first  presented  softly  and  sadly,  sometimes  is  uttered  with 


vehemence,  as  if  to  elbow  aside  the  mournful  musical  creatures  that  move  along 
with  it.  Then,  in  a  voice  which  of  all  orchestral  sounds  can  be  most  tearful — the 
Oboe — comes  the  melody,  sad  and  lovely  and  resigned,  to  answer  the  sullen  mut- 
terings  of  the  bass.  Later,  another  very  beautiful  and  important  theme  is  given  to 
the  strings. 

This  movement  is  top  long.  Someday,  a  conductor  daring  or  foolhardy 
enough,  will  make  intelligent  revisions  that  will  shorten  it  by  several  minutes.  The 
critic  will  be  aghast,  the  purist  will  rage,  the  Beethoven- Worshipers  will  cry 
"sacrilege,95  but  the  music  and  the  audience  will  benefit.  It  does  not  require  twenty 
minutes  and  more  for  Beethoven  to  establish  and  sustain  the  mood  he  wishes  to 
achieve  here — unless,  someone  may  argue,  he  wishes  to  achieve  boredom,  and  dis^ 
tinct  discomfort  in  the  least  dignified  portions  of  the  anatomy.  The  basic  ideas  of 
the  movement  are  repeated  endlessly,  nor  is  there  sufficient  variety  in  orchestration, 
or  in  thematic  treatment,  to  justify  the  prodigious  and  tedious  length  of  this 
movement.  It  must  be  confessed  that  there  are  some  few  conductors  who  can 
make  it  seem  less  long  than  others,  and  for  these  we  give  thanks  and  leave  the 
music  as  Beethoven  wrote  it. 

Third  Movement 

The  electric  vitality  of  this  wonderful  scherzo,  coming  as  it  does  upon  the 
heels  of  a  funeral  procession,  has  puzzled  the  musicologists  for  a  hundred  years  and 
more.  Why,  they  ask,  should  a  movement  of  this  obviously  joyous  character  follow 
hard  upon  the  melancholy  preceding  movement?  Perhaps  the  sardonic  Beethoven 
could  give  a  reasonable  answer;  no  one  else  has  ever  done  so.  Certainly  the  swift 
vigor  that  comes  mysteriously  into  being  with  the  opening  notes  of  the  movement 
is  a  striking  contrast  to,  and  a  mighty  relief  from,  the  solemnity  of  the  dirge.  That 
is  sufficient  for  musicodramatic  purposes. 

The  thematic  elements  hardly  require  illustration.  A  rustling  in  the  strings, 


72  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

lightly  played  but  full  of  energy  and  swiftness,  grows  to  a  merry  tumult  of  colorful 
sound,  and  the  wonderfully  elastic  rhythm  urges  the  flying  strings  along  then- 
tangled  way.  The  trio  is  one  of  the  delights  of  Beethoven's  music.  A  subject  for 
the  horns,  very  like  a  hunting  call,  and,  if  played  strictly  in  tempo  (which  it  rarely 
is),  fiendishly  difficult  for  those  unreliable  instruments,  leaps  upward  and  outward 
from  the  orchestra  and  is  presently  answered  by  the  whole  band.  Wistfully  the 
horns  repeat  their  engaging  utterance,  and  there  is  for  a  moment  a  note  of  pathos 
in  the  responses  of  the  other  instruments.  But  then  the  sudden  fierce  joy  of  the 
opening  part  of  the  movement  returns  and  sweeps  all  other  thoughts  before  it  in  a 
powerful  climax. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  final  movement  of  the  symphony  is  a  triumph.  It  leaps  into  being  with  a 
most  brilliant  passage  for  all  the  strings,  growing  in  sonority  as  it  approaches  the 
lower  ranges  of  the  instruments,  and  resting,  finally,  on  a  series  of  mighty  chords 
in  full  orchestra.  Then  comes  the  pronouncement  of  the  theme,  presented  in  the 
simplest  possible  way — plucked,  note  by  note,  from  the  strings  of  violin,  viola,  cello, 
and  bass.  On  its  repetition,  a  curious  effect  of  echo  is  brought  about  when  the 
woodwind  (flutes,  clarinets,  and  bassoons  in  unison)  imitate  each  note  of  the 
strings,  half  a  measure  behind  them. 

There  is,  after  the  forceful  and  vivacious  first  utterance  of  the  movement, 
something  dark  and  ominous  in  this  chief  theme,  yet  its  developments  are  of  the 
most  triumphant  brilliance.  Later  on,  we  shall  find  it  extraordinarily  combined 
with  a  new  and  brighter  musical  idea.  To  illustrate  the  combination  of  both  themes, 
we  borrow  the  convenient  condensation  appearing  in  that  excellent  work,  The 
Standard  Concert  Guidey  by  George  P.  Upton  and  Felix  Borowski.  Here  it  is: 


The  themes  once  stated  in  their  entirety,  the  remainder  of  the  movement  is 
devoted  to  an  exhaustive  exploration  of  the  tonal  and  contrapuntal  possibilities  that 
lie  within  the  simple  thematic  sentences.  Every  instrument  of  the  orchestra,  it 
would  seem,  presents  its  version,  against  contrasting  utterances  from  the  rest  of  the 
ensemble.  Always  we  feel  a  growth  toward  a  certain  climax,  and  a  gathering  of 
the  orchestral  forces  for  a  final  triumphant  effort. 

This  climax  comes  very  suddenly  and  with  gigantic  power  in  the  final  section 
of  the  movement.  The  capacity  of  the  main  theme  of  the  present  movement  for 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  73 

further  enlargement  seems  to  have  been  exhausted  5  there  is  a  transitional  period 
during  which  you  will  hear,  now  subtly,  now  boldly  presented,  thematic  material 
from  the  preceding  movements;  then,  involving  all  the  orchestra's  thunders,  the 
moment  toward  which  the  composer  has  been  moving  relentlessly  from  the  very 
beginning  of  the  symphony  arrives  in  a  blaze  of  splendor  and  a  magnificence  too 
overpowering  for  words. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  B-flat  major 

THE  history  of  the  Fourth  Symphony  reveals,  incidentally,  some  phases  of  the 
character  of  the  composer  that  the  more  sentimental  biographers  and  incense  burners 
are  wont  to  ignore.  Continually  pressed  for  money,  because  of  his  own  debts  and 
those  contracted  by  relatives,  Beethoven  was  sometimes  harassed  into  certain  deal- 
ings with  his  publishers  and  others  that  cannot  be  described  as  precisely  ethical. 

Count  Oppersdorf,  at  the  time  a  warm  admirer  of  the  composer,  a  lover  of 
music  and  a  man  wealthy  enough  to  maintain  a  small  symphony  orchestra  at  his 
castle,  commissioned  Beethoven  to  write  a  symphony  for  him.  In  this  year,  1 806, 
Beethoven  was  absorbed  in  the  production  of  the  Fifth  Symphony,  but  with  a 
commission  at  hand,  he  laid  it  aside  and  devoted  himself  to  work  on  the  Sym- 
phony in  B-flat  major,  published,  eventually,  as  the  Fourth.  He  dedicated  it  to  his 
patron,  and,  later,  received  a  respectable  sum  of  money  for  it.  It  is  related,  in 
Thayer's  biography  of  Beethoven,  that  "he  did  not  send  the  Count  the  score,  as 
was  the  custom,  for  exclusive  use  during  a  fixed  period,  but  turned  it  over  to 
Lobkowitz  for  performance,  being  in  urgent  need  of  money;  a  year  later,  he  sub- 
stituted the  Fifth  for  the  Fourth  and  accepted  from  Count  Oppersdorf  a  hundred 
and  fifty  florins  in  March  and  two  hundred  in  June  for  it,  without  delivering  it; 
this  sum  being,  it  may  be  presumed,  a  bonus  for  the  larger  work,  the  Count  having 
asked  for  something  employing  an  unusual  apparatus.  This  symphony  was  also 
withheld  in  the  end,  for  reasons  which  are  not  known,  and  Oppersdorf  had  to  con- 
tent himself  with  the  mere  dedication  of  the  Symphony  in  B-flat  originally  designed 
for  him."  We  can  readily  surmise  why  Count  Oppersdorf  and  Beethoven  had  no 
further  relations! 

The  first  performance  of  this  work  was  at  a  concert  given  for  the  benefit  of 
the  composer,  March  15,  1807,  with  Beethoven  conducting,  of  course. 

First  Movement 

About  the  time  this  music  was  written,  Beethoven  seems  to  have  been  in  love 
with  the  Countess  Therese  von  Brunswick;  he  was  even  given  evidence  that  his 


74  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

sentiments  were  returned.  Because  of  this  circumstance,  there  has  been  a  disposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  many  commentators  to  assume  that  the  gay  spirits  that  move 
almost  always  in  this  music  are  a  reflection  of  Beethoven's  happiness  in  his  affair 
with  the  Countess,  and  his  delight  in  their  engagement.  To  listen  to  the  music, 
however,  is  to  remain  unconvinced  of  this  theory.  Joyful  it  is,  to  be  sure,  but  it  is 
hardly  the  kind  of  joy  one  would  expect  from  the  mercurial  Beethoven,  successful 
in  love.  When  that  man's  deepest  emotions  were  stirred,  they  were  not  expressed 
in  music  of  this  type,  where  the  composer  returns  to  the  style  and  the  formality 
of  the  earlier  symphonies.  There  is  something  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  light  in  this 
music;  there  are  even  stylized  and  derivative  things.  The  aroused  Beethoven  rarely 
resorted  to  such  moderate  and  conventional  devices  in  expressing  himself. 

Whatever  lies  back  of  this  music,  or  whatever  its  history,  we  are  immediately 
concerned  with  how  it  sounds.  It  sounds  happy,  and  ingratiating,  and  compkcent. 
It  never  approaches  the  sublimity  of  the  "Eroicd*  that  preceded  nor  the  Fifth 
that  followed  it.  But  it  is  Beethoven  in  a  happy  mood,  taking. joy  in  his  own 
craftsmanship,  and  consciously  producing  a  very  lovely  and  perfect  thing. 

The  strings  have  a  strange  downward  phrase,  against  an  organ  point  in  wood- 


wind,  at  the  beginning  of  the  adagio  opening  section  of  the  first  movement.  The 
contemplative  suggestion  of  the  introduction  does  not  endure  for  long,  and  pres- 
ently the  movement  proper,  with  its  vivaciousness  and  lightfooted  rhythm,  its 
downing  bassoon  and  delicately  bowed  strings,  comes  into  being.  The  thematic 


material  is  developed  in  quite  conventional,  but  utterly  charming  style.  There  is  a 
crescendo  in  the  second  section  of  the  movement  which  Berlioz  finds  as  important 
and  compelling  as  that  famous  one  which  leads  from  the  scherzo  to  the  finale  of 
the  Fifth  Symphony.  Simultaneously  there  are  interesting  suspensions  and  modu- 
lations, and  the  rollicking  mood  of  the  opening  part  of  the  movement  suddenly 
returns. 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  75 

The  curious  simplicity  of  the  long  scale  passage  in  the  strings,  the  persistent 
use  of  the  timpani,  and  the  gradual  accretion  of  orchestral  forces  toward  the  end 
of  the  movement  are  features  of  decided  interest. 

Second  Movement 

There  is  a  wonderful  tenderness  and  feeling  of  peace  in  the  lovely  melody 
which,  after  a  brief  introduction  in  strings,  Beethoven  assigns  to  the  first  violins 
as  the  principal  theme  of  the  movement.  No  less  sweetly  do  the  woodwinds  intone 


^^^^^^^^^w^^S      ^_J  f  I        fi 


it.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  placid  atmosphere,  there  is  a  quiet  intensity  here  that 
seizes  very  deftly  and  firmly  upon  the  emotions  and  the  imagination;  and  when, 
toward  the  end,  the  timpani  take  up,  as  a  solo,  the  tonic  and  dominant  that  we 
heard  in  the  introductory  figure,  the  atmosphere  of  tenseness,  of  melancholy  and 
perhaps  of  foreboding,  envelops  all,  and  remains  a  little  while. 

Third  Movement 
The  minuet  deviates  somewhat,  but  not  importantly,  from  the  classical  style. 


fSSt^mfSSSSSESS(EiSSSSSm£wi£**m^m.w*  "H 


It  is  somewhat  more  playful,  and  less  dignified,  than  some  classical  symphonic 
movements  in  the  same  form.  But  it  is  beautifully  clear  and  simple  in  structure, 
in  melodic  outline,  and  in  its  characteristic  well-marked  fy  rhythm.  The  middle 
section,  or  trio,  moderates  the  tempo  somewhat,  and  places  more  accent  upon 
melody  than  upon  rhythm. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  final  movement  achieves  even  more  of  gaiety  and  sprightUness  than  we 
have  yet  heard  in  the  symphony.  The  violins  open  the  festivities  with  a  gay  figure 


76  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

in  sixteenths,  which  sets  the  pace  and  establishes  the  brisk  rhythm  of  the  move- 


ment. There  are  occasional  rowdy  outbursts — the  kind  of  subito  interjection  of 
seriousness,  or  of  drama,  in  which  Beethoven  frequently  and  delightedly  indulged. 
His  good  humor,  however,  persists  to  the  end,  where  the  concluding  measures 
suggest  a  seriocomic  denouement. 


Symphony  No.  5  in  C  minor 

HERE  is  the  potent  and  concentrated  and  ultimate  distillation  of  the  genius  that 
was  Beethoven.  This  symphony  is  compounded  of  all  that  was  the  essential  man 
and  the  essential  music.  Incredibly  condensed  and  powerful,  the  forces  that  moved 
this  strange  and  wonderful  man  are  here  focused  upon  and  welded  into  one  superb 
structure.  The  godlike,  yet  so  human,  rages  that  possessed  him;  the  tenderness  and 
warmth  that  sometimes  radiated  from  him;  the  wry  and  wicked  and  harsh  humor 
that  flicked  and  stung  like  scorpions;  the  superb  courage,  the  impatience,  and 
finally  the  heroic  and  unreasoning  defiance  that  breathed  hotly  from  so  many  of 
his  utterances — all  are  here,  stripped  of  concealment,  of  ornament,  and  of  crafts- 
man's device.  All  are  here,  in  this  mighty,  this  comprehensible  and  human  music. 

There  is  in  the  world  music  of  more  sophistication,  but  there  is  none  that  so 
surely  makes  itself  understood.  There  is  music  magnificently  employing  orchestral 
resources  Beethoven  did  not  know,  but  there  is  none  that  speaks  more  powerfully. 
There  is  simpler  music,  but  none  that,  so  naked  and  shameless,  so  clearly  and  with 
such  terrible  intensity,  exposes  the  tempests  and  the  triumphs  of  the  human  soul. 
Shaken  by  a  frenzy  that  must  have  demented  a  lesser  man,  Beethoven  nevertheless 
restrains,  within  a  beauty  and  symmetry  of  form,  the  passions  in  whose  fire  this 
music  was  begotten,  and  perhaps  it  is  this  restraint,  this  iron  hand  that  the  com- 
poser lays  upon  himself,  that  most  commends  this  music.  For  we  are  all  hedged 
about  by  the  tricks  and  trials  of  fate,  by  the  disciplines  and  necessities  of  living;  in 
uttering  so  superbly  his  very  self,  within  self-imposed  restraints,  Beethoven  speaks 
for  all  of  us — as  we  should  want  to  be. 

We  cannot,  nor  do  we  need  to  know,  what  passions  moved  the  composer  in 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  77 

this  music.  The  sentimentalists  would  have  you  believe  that  it  reflects  the  rise  and 
fall  of  his  amorous  fortunes.  No  wholly  rational  being  could  draw  such  a  con- 
clusion from  this  ruthless,  blazing,  cosmic  music.  In  the  broad  sense,  this  is  not  an 
expression  of  one  man's  thought  or  feeling.  This  is  the  utterance  of  a  tormented 
and  puzzled  and  cynical  and  hopeful — and  finally  triumphant  humanity.  This  is 
the  voice  of  a  people,  of  a  world,  pitiful  and  puny;  yet  bearing  within  it,  as  the 
peasant  may  bear  the  seed  of  a  potentate,  the  elements  of  final  greatness. 

This  music  lay  gestating  in  the  mind  of  Beethoven  for  many  years.  His  papers 
reveal  the  nascent  idea  as  early  as  1800,  when  he  was  concerned  more  immediately 
with  the  formal  and  derivative,  the  almost  adolescent  early  symphonies.  It  seems  to 
have  been  performed  for  the  first  time  at  a  concert  in  the  Theater  an  der  Wien, 
Thursday,  December  22,  1808.  The  conductor  was  Beethoven.  The  "Pastoral" 
Symphony  was  also  performed  at  this  concert.  When  we  consider  the  relative 
popularity  of  the  Beethoven  symphonies  today,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  why 
Beethoven  himself  chose  the  "Eroica"  and  not  the  Fifth,  as  his  favorite.  (The 
Ninth  was  not  yet  in  existence.)  For  surely  the  Fifth  has  a  more  powerful,  direct, 
and  universal  appeal  to  human  nature  than  any  other  great  music  in  existence. 

Think  of  Beethoven  as  he  was,  and  you  will  not  approach  the  Fifth  Sym- 
phony in  awe.  Perhaps  that  will  come  later,  with  fuller  understanding.  Nor  will 
you,  if  you  think  of  the  man's  intense  humanity,  turn  aside  from  this  music  as  a 
problem  to  be  solved.  Though  you  may  be  weary  of  today's  interminable  round, 
you  will  never  look  upon  it  as  one  more  of  life's  enigmas.  No,  it  is  simple.  There  is 
nothing  of  awe  in  it.  It  is  dear  as  morning  light.  There  is  no  one  so  poorly  versed, 
or  so  experienced,  in  the  magic  art  of  music,  who  does  not  come  under  its  spell.  It  is 
the  expression  of  a  vigorous,  vital,  manly  man,  whose  introspection  revealed  in 
himself,  to  himself,  some  of  the  meanings  of  life.  He  is  able  by  his  art  to  com- 
municate his  thought  and  feeling  to  you.  Listen. 

First  Movement 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  while  Beethoven  left  no  "program"  for  the  sym- 
phony— it  needs  none! — he  did  give  us  a  clue  to  the  significance  of  that  brutally 
powerful  phrase  which  opens  the  movement,  and  which,  explicit  or  implicit,  can 
be  discovered  as  the  vitalizing  thought  through  all  four  movements  of  the  work. 
"So  focht  das  SchicksaL  an  die  Pjorte?  he  said.  ("Thus  fate  knocks  at  the  door.") 
But  this  was  some  time  after  the  symphony  had  been  written,  and  may  have  been 
an  afterthought,  or  an  idea  that  occurred  at  the  moment.  It  is  not  unreasonable, 
and  has  infinitely  pleased  the  musical  romanticists.  If  a  motto  be  needed  for  the 
symphony,  this  one,  the  possibility  of  which,  at  least,  was  admitted  by  Beethoven 
himself,  will  do  as  well  as  any  other.  For  this  harsh  and  powerful  utterance  is  as 
persistent  as  fate,  and  as  almighty  in  this  music.  It  shall  be  noted  further. 


78  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

At  the  opening  of  the  movement,  this  subject  is  thrust  at  us  by  all  the  strings 
and  the  clarinets;  on  its  sudden  and  climactic  expansion,  the  whole  orchestra  puts 
it  forth  with  violence.  It  is  quoted  in  its  simplest  form : 


From  these  four  notes  a  towering  and  active  and  raging  organism  of  tone  is 
swiftly  erected,  and  the  mercilessly  dynamic  and  dominating  character  of  the  prin- 
cipal theme  is  established.  Its  driving  force  is  suspended  on  a  powerful  chord,  and 
after  the  horns  more  gently  suggest  it  in  an  altered  guise,  we  can  note  a  brief  but 
lovely  musical  thought,  spoken  through  the  strings  and  woodwind  in  a  pensive 
dialogue  with  itself. 


And  in  this  movement  gentleness  and  grace  are  battered  and  defeated  and 
crushed  into  silence  by  the  awful  force  and  frequency  of  the  assaults  of  the  first 
four-note  phrase.  Distorted  and  driven  and  exhausted,  the  sweet,  sad  pretestings 
of  the  second  theme  finally  disappear,  and  Beethoven  turns  loose,  in  violent  chords, 
the  orchestra's  mightiest  forces,  that  relent,  it  seems,  only  from  exhaustion.  The 
oboe,  a  lonely  and  tearful  voice,  raises  a  piteous  cry,  but  seems  only  to  provoke 
new  torrents  that  rage  swiftly  through  the  strings.  Once  again  the  placid  and  com- 
forting voice  of  the  horn  gives  pause — and  yet  once  again  the  impetuous  strings 
return  to  sweep  resistlessly  through  the  orchestra  with  the  ever-present  and  fateful 
utterance  that  is  peculiarly  theirs. 

The  bitterness  and  violence  of  this  movement  have  no  parallel  in  music.  The 
sheer  power  that  moves  it,  the  utter  logic  and  inevitableness  and  finality  of  this 
music,  almost  remove  it  from  the  manipulations  of  the  conductor;  given  instru- 
ments and  knowing  hands,  it  plays  itself.  Many  a  conductor  has  found  that  there 
is  but  one  interpretation — Beethoven's — and  that  one  speaks,  rudely  and  clamor- 
ously and  sufficiently,  for  itself.  This  is  an  utterance'  of  the  supreme  and  ruthless 
ego,  momentarily  frustrated  but  unconquered,  and  it  does  not  brook  interference. 

Toward  the  dose  of  the  movement  Comes  that  superb  passage,  still  in  the 
deadly  rhythm  of  four  notes,  in  which  a  perverted  version  of  the  gentle  theme, 
once  so  diffidently  sung  by  the  violins  and  woodwind,  is  presented,  noticeably  in 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  79 

the  flute,  and  mocked  with  brutal  imitation  by  the  whole  string  section*  What 
marvelous  antithesis!  What  demoniac  humor! 

There  is  no  gentleness  or  peace,  or  even  conclusive  triumph,  at  the  end.  Only 
the  violent  presence  of  the  dominating  theme,  uttered  with  such  vehemence  as  the 
orchestra,  until  now,  has  not  known.  And  on  two  chords  like  mailed  fists  raised 
against  the  skies,  the  movement  ends. 

Second  Movement 

It  is  not  easy,  at  first  glance,  to  be  convinced  that  the  lovely  song  which  is 
the  opening  and  the  basis  of  this  movement  is  rhythmically  related  to  the  harsh 
and  intolerant  theme  of  the  preceding  section  of  the  work.  Here  cellos  speak  with 
warm  sentiment;  here  all  is  gentleness — gentleness  that  can,  to  be  sure,  grow  into 
intensity,  but  never  to  violence.  Yet,  in  exhibiting  the  persistence  of  the  dominant 
motive  of  the  symphony,  Beethoven  has  with  uncanny  insight  and  subtlety  incor- 
porated into  the  suave  cantilena  of  the  cellos  certain  rhythmic  elements  of  the 
first  movement's  chief  theme.  Here  is  the  theme  of  the  cellos: 


Dolce  is  Beethoven's  indication  of  the  manner  in  which  this  lovely  melody 
is  to  be  played.  Analyze  it,  and  conceive  it  as  played  with  the  natural  accents 
somewhat  exaggerated,  and  you  will  see  that  the  accented  notes  fit  precisely  the 
rhythmic  form  of  the  first  movement  "motto." 

Violas  and  cellos,  with  the  latter  dominating  and  the  basses  supplying  a  soft 
pizzicato  accompaniment,  sing  their  song  undisturbed,  even  when  an  answering  but 
mournful  cadence  descends  from  the  woodwinds.  A  new  and  more  somber  thought 
is  projected  by  the  clarinets  and  bassoons,  and  here  again  the  persistence  of  the 
four  accented  notes  recalls  dreadfully  the  knocking  of  fate.  The  orchestra  seems 
to  grow  impatient  with  this  persistence,  and  a  swift-growing  crescendo  draws  out 
a  powerful  and  downright  protest,  culminating  in  a  fiercely  vigorous  note  almost 
torn  from  the  deep-voiced  basses.  But  even  here,  a  rhythmic  analysis  shows  the 
ubiquity  of  the  central  thought  of  the  symphony. 


The  deliberate  compactness  and  density  of  this  music  happily  prevent  a  slow 
movement  too  long  drawn  out — as  sometimes  happens,  it  must  be  admitted,  in 
Beethoven's  works.  The  variations — which  form  this  movement  assumes — have 


80  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

the  charm  of  variety  in  color  and  treatment,  yet  with  fundamental  unity  and 
coherence.  The  composer  makes  no  effort  to  exhaust,  absolutely,  their  remotest 
musical  possibilities,  but  rather  selects  from  those  possibilities  the  particular  versions 
which  seem  most  fittingly  to  disclose  his  emotional  state. 

Here  the  emotional  condition,  if  not  absolutely  one  of  serenity,  is  at  least  con- 
tinent and  stable.  The  restlessness,  the  impatience,  the  abandoned  passion  of  the 
preceding  section  are  quite  gone,  and  only  at  the  end  is  there  an  outburst  to  sug- 
gest that  violence  and  ruthlessness  are  not  dead,  but  only  sleeping. 

Third  Movement 

Furtively  from  the  shadowed  regions  of  the  basses'  and  cellos'  lowest  strings 
comes  a  mysterious,  an  ominous,  and  suggestive  utterance.  It  is  but  a  breath  of 
tone,  a  premonition.  Its  intimations  do  not  disturb  the  gentle  and  tentative  responses 
of  the  upper  strings,  or  of  the  woodwinds,  and  as  the  phrase  is  repeated  we  are 
still  uncertain  of  its  import: 


And  here  is  the  reply: 


IE"  'ATJ^S^:  ^^"~  ,"c  j-",™l-^^™,^™l™^^^^,^""(flii'"™— ••• r         Jl 


There  is  a  pregnant  pause,  and  a  lingering  on  the  last  note  of  the  woodwind. 
Then  suddenly,  in  the  most  arrogant  voice  of  the  horn,  comes  this  suggestive 
warning: 


Almost  at  once,  the  whole  orchestra  is  involved  in  this  bold  assertion,  with  intona- 
tions of  defiance  and  power.  But  note,  note  the  rhythm:  it  is  the  rhythm  of  the 
summons  of  fate!  That  four-note  phrase,  almost  with  the  same  significance  as  in 
its  first  awesome  appearance!  Is  fate  now  to  be  triumphant  or  conquered?  Can 
that  wickedly  stubborn  thought  be  overcome? 

The  answer  is  laughter.  For  life  is  grotesque  and  bitter,  and  full  of  contra- 
dictions and  denials  and  unreason;  and  we  know  no  escape  but  to  laugh.  And  that 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  8l 

we  may  inwardly  laugh,  bitterly  or  wholesomely  as  we  may,  Beethoven  invents 
for  us  and  presents  to  us  a  dance ;  an  astonishing  grotesque  choreography  for  those 
cumbersome  and  serious  giants  of  the  orchestra,  the  great  contrabasses.  So  are 
serious  men  made  fools. 


And  he  makes  the  orchestra,  willing  or  not,  join  in,  until  finally,  when  it 
seems  convinced  of  the  harmlessness  of  the  recent  warning  of  the  horn,  and  rises 
to  a  peak  of  high  good  humor,  he  brings  it  to  earth  again.  Insinuatingly  the 
plucked  strings,  with  hysterical  assistance  from  the  woodwind,  timidly  echo  what 
lately  was  the  bold  proclamation  of  the  horn,  and  Beethoven  makes  of  the  orchestra 
a  single  plangent  instrument.  Gone  now  are  the  powerful  phrases  of  strings  that 
rocked  perilously  for  a  moment  in  the  upper  ranges,  and  then  plunged  with  ever- 
increasing  power  and  confidence  into  the  gloomy  terrain  of  the  bass.  Gone  the 
golden  glints  of  trumpet  and  of  horn.  Now  all  is  fearful  and  fervid  and  furtive; 
now  suddenly  there  is  all  but  silence. 

But  it  is  not  silence.  One  can  all  but  hear  the  sound  of  heavy  breathing  in 
the  faint  note  of  strings,  held  pianissimo  against  the  throbbing  of  timpani,  throb- 
bing in  that  grim  and  awful  rhythm  that  has  never  ceased  since  this  music  began. 
But  now  it  changes,  it  falters,  it  comes  more  quickly  but  still  mysteriously  and  far 
away.  Without  the  slightest  change  in  color  or  in  power  of  tone,  with  nothing  but 
an  alteration  of  rhythm  and,  later,  flickering  interjections  of  the  strings,  Beethoven 
effects  a  marvelous  clearing  of  this  overcharged  atmosphere.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
feeling  of  great  joy  to  come;  suddenly  there  is  a  fiercely  brilliant  crescendo,  and 
finally  a  golden  blaze  of  tone  from  the  whole  orchestra. 

This  extraordinary  transitional  passage  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling  things  in 
music.  The  hypnotic  spell  exerted  by  the  long-sustained  pianissimo;  the  low  thun- 
ders of  pulsing  drums  and  curious  flickerings  of  the  strings,  like  summer  lightning; 
and  then,  like  a  great  shout  of  triumph  impossible  to  restrain,  the  sudden  bursting 
forth  of  the  brass — all  these  combine  in  a  sublime  and  powerfully  moving  effect 
that  has  no  parallel  in  music. 

Fourth  Movement 

Beethoven  reserved  for  this  outburst  the  three  trombones,  which  take  the  lead 
in  the  first  pronouncement  of  the  movement: 

ft  .^-        *_^__          h     \       K  _.   T     .  _, 

-"I*"™ *>  v~~ •""" ""  """"£  :"^> 

ft 


82  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

Depth  is  added  by  calling  upon  the  contrabassoon ;  brilliance  by  the  inclusion  of 
the  piccolo.  Later,  in  another  subject,  the  coloring  of  the  orchestral  texture  is 
altered,  but  not  its  exuberant  spirit.  The  clarinet,  joined  by  violas  and  cellos,  has 
this  happy  phrase: 


* j  u  j  ^ 


These  are  the  chief  materials  out  of  which  Beethoven  weaves  the  glowing 
fabric  of  this  wonderful  music.  Here  is  joy  that  seems  almost  delirious;  here,  after 
the  humors  and  questionings  and  communings  of  the  previous  music,  is  exaltation 
beyond  restraint.  What  if,  in  the  midst  of  this  frantic  rejoicing,  comes  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  summons  of  fate,  or  of  the  bitter  laughter  that  once  seemed  the  only 
answer  to  that  dreadful  knocking?  It  serves  only  as  a  new  point  of  departure  for  an 
exploration  of  the  happy  possibilities  of  the  present  movement,  and  by  contrast, 
makes  them  happier  and  more  wonderful. 

Perhaps  it  is  possible,  after  hearing  and  thinking  upon  this  music,  to  reflect 
that  fate,  after  all,  is  but  the  composite  and  the  resultant  of  all  the  diverse  forces 
of  life,  of  all  our  own  deliberate  acts;  and  to  come  to  the  realization  that  "we  our- 
selves are  heaven  and  hell."  When  fate  knocks  too  persistently  at  the  door,  per- 
haps this  music,  and  the  sublime  thoughts  of  the  great  man  who  spoke  through  it, 
will  disarm  that  dreadful  visitor  and  rob  him  of  his  terrors. 


Symphony  No.  6  in  F  major 
{"Pastoral"]  • 

THE  "Pastoral"  Symphony  was  first  performed  in  1808,  and  probably  had  been 
composed,  for  the  most  part,  during  the  early  months  of  that  year.  In  it  Beethoven 
departed  radically  from  the  fundamental  idea  of  his  music  up  to  that  time,  in  that 
the  symphony  seeks  to  represent,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  story  and  a  picture.  There- 
fore, it  would  seem  to  come  perilously  close  to  what  we  know  as  "program  music," 
although  an  intimate  examination  and  study  of  it  pkces  the  "Pastoral"  in  a  quite 
different  category. 

Beethoven  was  probably  the  first  to  attempt  quite  so  frank  a  depiction  of 
nature,  through  an  extended  composition.  Imitations  of  the  sounds  of  nature  were 
probably  no  great  novelty — and  Bach  had  inserted  an  instrumental  imitation  of  the 
crowing  of  a  cock  into  music  descriptive  of  the  Passion  of  the  Saviour.  The  entire 


LUDWIG     VAN    BEETHOVEN  83 

"Pastoral,"  however,  relates  to  a  country  visit  and  to  country  scenes  and  incidents 
— and  involves  the  imitation  of  several  varieties  of  bird  songs. 

First  Movement 
"The  awakening  of  serene  feelmgs  on  arriving  in  the  country" 

That  Beethoven  should  create  one  great  musical  work  under  the  inspiration 
of  nature  was  perhaps  inevitable.  Though  his  ancestry  was  Dutch,  nevertheless  he 
was  a  German  of  the  Germans  in  his  passionate  love  of  nature,  of  birds  and  brooks 
and  growing  things,  and  in  the  naivete  and  ingenuousness  of  his  response  to  them. 
To  walk  by  himself  in  the  woods,  to  sit  in  the  crotch  of  a  favorite  tree  and  sketch 
his  musical  ideas,  to  be  out  of  doors  at  every  opportunity  were  to  him  the  acme 
of  happiness. 

The  "Pastoral"  Symphony  is  not,  actually,  the  story  in  music  of  a  journey  into 
the  woods.  It 'is  rather  an  expression,  in  music,  of  the  spirit  of  nature,  and  the 
feelings  aroused  in  one  by  communication  with  nature.  To  call  the  symphony 
"program  music"  is  to  slight  the  music  and  belittle  the  composer.  True,  here  and 
there  we  encounter  more  or  less  literal  details — but  these  only  in  sufficient  number, 
and  with  sufficient  emphasis,  to  center  our  attention  on  the  sights  and  sounds  that 
engendered  the  feelings  expressed  in  the  main  body  of  the  work. 

The  sweet  cool  moist  airs  of  "incense-breathing  morn"  envelop  the  opening 
measures  of  the  first  movement .  .  .  like  a  scarcely  felt  zephyr,  barely  stirring  dew- 
laden  leaves,  yet  awakening  drowsy  birds  and  all  but  silent  flutterings  among  the 


«••..•••,— r_)__q=g: 
"          qh^^ 


trees.  It  is  significant  that  here,  in  a  passage  that  is  anything  but  showy,  the  com- 
poser should  have  written  in  double  counterpoint  (a  musical  device:  the  simulta- 
neous presentation  of  two  distinct  melodies)  in  order  to  gain  an  effect  of  pastoral 
simplicity!  Yet  precisely  that  effect  is  achieved,  because  the  complicated  poly- 
phonic figure  springs  with  utter  naturalness  from  under  the  Beethoven  hand.  It 


84  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

was  the  tongue  in  which  he  spoke;  its  mechanical  and  technical  complications  were 
as  nothing  to  that  musical-mathematical  mind.  The  result  is,  to  the  ear,  an  utter- 
ance naive,  free,  natural,  infallibly  expressive  of  what  it  seeks  to  convey;  to  the 
mind,  it  is  at  the  same  time  a  wonderful  and  perfect  synthesis  of  sounds. 

The  blithe  spirit  aroused  by  arrival  in  the  green  countryside  persists  through- 
out the  movement.  It  teems  with  life  and  vigor — yet  it  is  the  mist-veiled  vitality  of 
springtime.  There  is  no  heaven-storming  climax,  no  imperative  summons  of  the 
orchestra's  mighty  sonorities,  but  rather  an  impelling  growth  and  vigor  as  subtle, 
as  mysterious,  and  as  inevitable  as  the  force  that  pushes  a  spearhead  of  grass 
above  the  fresh  brown  earth. 

Second  Movement 
"By  the  brook" 

Beethoven's  brook  is  a  placid  and  clear  stream,  gently  flowing,  rippled  by  the 
lightest  of  breezes,  and  mirroring  an  unshadowed  sky.  Overhead,  branches,  bud- 
burdened,  sway  in  a  smooth  untroubled  rhythm;  they  might  have  been  willows, 
bending  lovingly  over  the  calm  waters,  and  as  lovingly  touching  the  waters'  shining 
bosom.  Strings  give  forth  the  main  thematic  ideas,  with  strings,  again,  in  the 
sweeping  but  not  obtrusive  rhythm  that  accompanies  the  chief  subjects. 


Presently  the  woodwinds — what  poetry,  what  significance  in  that*  name  at 
this  juncture! — sing  the  melody.  Again,  a  second  theme  is  unfolded  in  the  string 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  85 

section,  but  briefly;  cellos  below  and  clarinets  above  repeat  it,  while  in  a  kind  of 
duet,  bassoon  and  violin  deliver  themselves  of  a  kindred  melody.  Occasionally  a 
sweetly  dissonant  trill,  high  in  strings,  or  perhaps  in  the  woodwind,  ruffles  the 
placidity,  as  if  some  swooping  bird  had  touched  in  flight  the  polished  bosom  of  the 
waters  with  tiny  claw  or  plumed  pinion. 

Nor  are  the  birds  wholly  imaginary.  Here  Beethoven  indulges  in  a  literal 
touch — explicitly  indicated  in  the  score.  After  a  mild  little  climax,  there  is  a  brief 
hush,  as  of  the  anesthetic  warmth  and  stillness  of  midday;  then,  quite  clear, 
quite  suggestive,  come  the  calls  of  birds.  The  trill  of  the  flute  is  the  song  of  the 
nightingale;  the  little  figure  in  repeated  notes,  for  the  oboe,  is  the  thin  and  pensive 
piping  of  the  quail  .  .  .  and  the  cuckoo  call  of  the  clarinet  is  unmistakable.  But  not 


even  a  birdcall  disturbs  the  sweet  complacence  in  which  the  movement  ends. 

Third  Movement 
"A  jolly  gathering  of  country  folk" 

Now  the  woodland  wanderer  conies  upon  a  merry  group  of  countrymen,  in  a 
holiday  revel.  The  music  is  obviously  and  inescapably  dance  music;  the  tune,  one 


86  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

that  might  have  been  born  in  the  misty  history  of  Erin,  for  Irish  it  is,  even  to 
the  very  characteristic  ending.  Its  first  cadence  is  sounded  in  strings  alone;  the 
flute,  bassoon,  and  oboe  join  in  the  answering  phrase.  It  is  dainty;  it  is  light;  it  is 
appealingly  simple  and  naive  in  rhythm  and  in  melodic  line. 

After  this  theme  is  somewhat  developed,  a  new  one,  more  song  than  dance 
although  in  the  same  gay  rhythm,  appears  in  the  solo  voice  of  the  oboe — sug- 
gesting, we  may  remark  without  irreverence,  a  quaint  little  German  folk  tune*  that 
every  schoolboy  knows.  The  tune  gathers  to  itself  new  color  and  strength  when 


TJi^Eggy 

t-5-'S,iSp*z 

1  '•T7-      '-*" 


it  is  given,  after  a  space,  by  the  mellow  horn.  Now  a  new  rhythm,  heavyfooted, 
rather  slow,  like  peasants  in  a  rude  dance,  keeps  the  music  moving  with  a 
kind  of  uncouth  grace.  And  again,  the  original  merry  tune  returns,  the  entire  first 
portion  of  the  movement  being  repeated. 

Storm  and  Tempest 

But  suddenly  (third  section  of  movement)  a  new  voice,  agitated,  fearful, 
crying  a  dread  warning,  appears,  to  send  the  merrymakers  scurrying  for  cover. 
Black  clouds,  pregnant  with  lightnings  and  with  rain,  are  driven  swiftly  across  a 
frowning  sky.  Trees  groan  and  bend  in  agony  under  the  first  onslaught  of  whistling 
winds  ...  a  blinding  bolt  rends  the  heavens  ...  the  very  earth  quakes  under  the  con- 
cussion of  thunder.  And  then  the  rain  .  . .  keen  shining  lances  driven  into  the  warm 
sod  ...  a  fierce  storm,  but  swiftly  over.  Hardly  have  the  first  signs  of  its  waning 
fury  appeared,  before  we  hear  music  expressing  a  religious  thankfulness.  The  first 
timid  bird  lifts  up  his  tiny  song,  a  shepherd  pkys  upon  his  pipes,  and  the  sun 
shines  once  more. 

In  this  section  of  the  symphony  some  interesting  presentiments  of  later 
Beethoven  music  are  discernible — notably,  during  the  storm  scene,  certain  passages 
later  employed,  almost  as  they  stand  in  the  score,  in  the  composer's  overture 
to  Egnwnt* 

Fourth  Movement 
"Gladsome  and  thankful  jeelmgs  after  the  storm" 

The  shepherd's  song,  and  the  quasi-religious  sentiment  expressed  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  storm  scene,  form  the  basis  for  the  construction  of  the  fourth 
movement.  The  music  broadens  tremendously;  the  once  almost  playful  rhythm 

*  A  doggerel  about  a  dachshund. 


LUDWIG    VAN     BEETHOVEN  87 

takes  on  an  impulse  of  deep  and  solemn  feeling;  and  yet  the  simple  and  straight- 
forward spirit  of  the  music  is  never  for  a  moment  lost.  An  occasional  brief  trill 
recalls  the  tremors  of  the  terrifying  storm  ...  but  the  solemn  joy  of  the  movement 
is  scarcely  disturbed,  and  it  proceeds  in  a  splendid  elaboration  of  the  basic  elements 
of  tranquillity  and  thankfulness. 


The  variations  built  up  on  the  basic  material  are  more  than  representations 
of  it  in  ornamented  style;  they  are  truly  developments  and  elaborations,  spring- 
ing from  the  intrinsic  musical  possibilities  of  the  themes  themselves.  And  still, 
throughout  its  complications,  there  is  in  the  movement  the  same  delightful  clarity 
and  candor  that  distinguishes  the  symphony  as  a  whole. 

The  climax,  at  the  end,  is  not  effected  by  the  commonplace  burst  of  sonority 
and  brilliance,  but  rather  by  a  gradual  subsidence  of  the  orchestral  forces,  dur- 
ing which  the  most  careful  listening  will  disclose,  against  the  scales  that  appear  in 
the  violins,  viola,  and  (doubled)  in  the  cellos  and  basses,  a  faintly  blown  reminis- 
cence of  the  basic  theme  of  the  movement,  sounded  upon  the  muted  horn.  Sturdy 
Beethovenesque  chords  end  the  movement  and  the  symphony. 


Symphony  No.  7  in  A  major 

[Opus  92] 

THE  Seventh  of  Beethoven's  nine  symphonies  was  written  during  one  of  the  com- 
poser's more  and  more  frequent  periods  of  spiritual  travail.  His  deafness  was  daily 
growing  worse;  a  love  affair  had  but  recently  been  broken  off,  and  the  political 
situation,  in  which  Beethoven  was  always  interested,  was  not  at  all  reassuring. 

These  circumstances  perhaps  helped  to  solidify  certain  traits  in  the  character  of 
the  composer  which  had  been  developing  for  quite  some  time.  The  symphony  reflects 
them.  It  is  touched  with  the  boisterous,  often  crude  humor  of  its  author;  it  is  not 
without  a  mordant  bitterness,  yet  a  bitterness,  penetrating  as  it  is,  that  is  never 
precisely  pessimism,  and  certainly  never  despair. 

Beethoven  himself,  despite  his  increasing  deafness,  conducted  the  first  per- 
formance of  the  Seventh,  from  manuscript,  on  December  8,  1813,  at  the  concert 
hall  of  the  University  of  Vienna.  It  is  interesting — and  refreshing — to  note  that 


88  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF     THE    SYMPHONY 

notwithstanding  the  composer's  difficulty  in  hearing,  and  his  often  ill-timed  and 
sometimes  absurdly  exaggerated  gestures,  the  symphony  was  received  with  acclaim. 

First  Movement 

The  magnificent  introduction  to  the  movement  presents  the  themes  very 
clearly  indeed.  The  first  comes  at  the  very  beginning,  separating  itself,  in  the  thin 
voice  of  the  oboe,  from  the  mighty  opening  chord.  As  it  slowly  progresses,  in  long 

Poc  *££££eW0 

o     i    F     fHL-fL 


elliptical  phrases,  the  full  orchestra  emphasizes  its  periods  with  powerful  chords. 
Presently  the  strings  intone  ascending  scales  in  crescendo,  the  basses  alone  holding 
aloof  from  these  until  the  apex  of  their  power  is  reached.  Now  the  second  theme  of 
the  introduction,  again  in  the  penetrating  voice  of  the  oboe,  sounds  rather  sadly  and 
wistfully,  but  the  orchestra  derives  from  it  figures  of  tremendous  breadth  and  power. 
In  the  midst  of  this  development  comes  a  sudden  pause.  A  nervous  flicker  of  string 
tone  ...  an  impatient  ejaculation  from  the  full  orchestra  .  .  .  tentative,  hesitating 
reduplicated  notes  in  the  upper  woodwind  .  .  .  and  suddenly  the  main  theme  of  the 
movement  proper  appears  in  the  silken  tones  of  the  flute.  Now  we  begin  to  perceive 


the  reason  for  designating  the  Seventh  as  the  "dance  symphony,"  for  this  quaint 
little  theme,  so  soon  to  be  the  foundation  for  a  vast  and  infinitely  varied  structure  of 
tone,  is  unmistakably  imitative  of  a  folk  dance.  In  fact,  it  resembles  rather  strikingly 
certain  cadences  of  "The  Low-Backed  Car,"  an  Irish  tune  of  considerable  age,  and 
almost  a  perfect  old-fashioned  jig. 

The  many  different  forms  into  which  this  theme  is  molded  by  the  genius  of 
Beethoven  are  really  amazing  in  their  constantly  renewed  variety  and  shifting  or- 
chestral color.  Somber  touches  there  are,  indeed  —  as  if  Beethoven,  instead  of  feeling 
the  bitter  and  gruff  humor  which  pervades  the  symphony  generally,  became  sud- 
denly and  acutely  conscious  of  his  woes  .  .  .  and  the  revel  of  tone  and  color  is  on 
again  with  perhaps  an  almost  ecclesiastical  chord  thrown  in  like  a  pious  grimace, 
now  and  then. 

Toward  the  end  there  is  a  new  burst  of  revelry  ...  an  occasional  curious  hesi- 
tation, as  if  the  composer  distrusted,  momentarily,  his  ability  to  remain  keyed  to 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  89 

sardonic  humor,  and  stood  undecidedly  on  the  brink  of  melancholy.  But  there  is 
fierce  vehemence  and  power  at  the  end. 

Second  Movement 

The  second  movement  happily  falls  short  of  being  a  funeral  march.  The  sug- 
gestion is  powerfully  present;  yet,  hear  it  through  and  you  decide  that  now  Beetho- 
ven is  serious  rather  than  sad,  philosophical  rather  than  pessimistic.  The  first  theme, 
ushered  in  by  a  somber  chord  in  the  horns  and  woodwind,  is  gloomy  and  ominous, 


_ 


but  the  countertheme,  though  still  in  the  minor  mode,  lends  a  brightening  touch  of 
hopefulness.  There  is  always  a  gleam  of  light  in  Beethoven's  darkness. 


With  rigid  economy  of  material,  the  composer  achieves  in  the  second  move- 
ment certain  amazing  contrasts.  The  softly  stepping  basses  suggest  an  atmosphere 
of  mystery  .  .  .  solemn  portent .  .  .  lowering  clouds  of  woe  .  .  .  and  yet  almost  the 
same  figure,  assigned  to  the  brighter  ranges  of  the  string  section,  is  bright  with 
hope,  vehement  in  exhortation,  passionate  in  pleading.  The  rhythms  of  the  two 
themes — one  persistent  and  strongly  marked,  the  other  fluent  and  flexible  as  a 
stream — are  oddly  contradictory,  yet  fitted  together  as  perfectly  and  as  wonderfully 
as  the  angular  and  refractory  fragments  of  a  mosaic  are  brought  together  to  form 
figures  of  gracious  curve  and  motion. 

There  are  further  contrasts — in  color  and  tonality  as  well  as  in  rhythm.  Note, 
for  example,  the  appearance  of  the  third  theme  of  this  movement.  It  is  introduced 
shortly  after  the  beginning  of  the  third  section  of  the  movement  Note,  too,  the 
fascinating  fugal  treatment  at  the  close  of  the  second  section. 

As  the  movement  draws  to  a  close  there  is  a  slowly  pervading  light.  The  orig- 
inal themes  are  glorified  and  sublimated  in  the  mysterious  tones  of  the  horn  and  in 
the  floating  unreality  of  the  upper  woodwind  ranges  ...  a  final  daring  touch  of 
grotesquerie  in  the  plucked  notes  near  the  end  .  .  .  and  at  last  an  unexpected  altera- 
tion in  accent  that  brings  the  movement  to  its  conclusion. 

Third  Movement 

Beethoven  was  famous  for  his  playing  of  slow  passages  at  the  piano,  and  his 
expression  of  himself  in  a  similar  style  through  the  orchestra  is  equally  distinctive. 


9O 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 


But,  hearing  certain  of  his  scherzos,  such  as  the  present  movement,  it  is  sometimes 
difficult  to  perceive  why  the  distinction  should  have  been  made  in  favor  of  the  more 
stately  and  dignified  andante  and  adagio  movements. 


For  here  are  wonderfully  vigorous  and  elastic  rhythms;  rugged  gaiety,  sus- 
tained exuberance  and  expression  of -the  most  fundamental  joys  of  life,  all  of  which 
contribute  to  the  construction  of  music  which  in  its  own  way  is  quite  as  moving, 
quite  as  expressive  and  impressive,  as  the  soberly  melodious  slow  movements.  Grant 
that  the  mood  of  Beethoven  was  more  often  sad  than  joyous;  the  joyous  mood, 
when  it  does  come,  is  none  the  less  truly  Beethoven! 

The  first  theme  opens  the  movement.  It  approaches  wildness  almost  as  closely 
as  Beethoven  could,  yet  underneath  it  is  possible  to  see  the  perfectly  ordered  struc- 
ture. Brilliant  orchestral  color  is  freely  applied,  especially  when  fragments  of 
thematic  material  are  repeated  in  different  sections  of  the  orchestra.  Superb  climaxes 
develop  with  the  ascending  scales  .  .  .  and  suddenly  the  swift  scales  are  reversed  to 
give  a  new  effect! 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  contrast  is  effected  about  the  middle  of  the  move- 
ment, however,  when  the  boisterous  opening  section  is  repeated,  in  tones  of  ethereal 
delicacy,  yet  with  every  original  detail  of  accent  and  phrasing  perfectly  imitated.  It 
is  dreamlike,  reminiscent — or  like  seeing  through  the  mist  of  years  some  beauty 
once  beheld  in  all  its  vivid,  glowing  splendor. 

The  contrasting  theme,  as  will  be  remembered  from  the  preliminary  discus- 
sion, is  much  slower,  and  rather  solemn.  We  hear  it  in  a  combination  of  clarinet, 


bassoon,  and  horn,  with  the  last  most  prominent:  and  against  it  is  poised  a  long- 
sustained  note  of  the  violins.  Later  the  theme  is  presented  in  a  similar  figure,  but 
with  most  of  the  orchestra  intoning  it  against  the  long  quivering  flame  of  tone  put 
out  by  the  trumpet. 

The  second  division  of  the  movement  reveals  development  of  the  themes  so 
clearly  posited  in  the  opening  section.  As  the  end  is  approached  a  prayerful  spirit  is 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  91 

breathed  gently  into  the  music  .  .  .  only  to  be  elbowed  roughly  aside  by  the  violent 
chords  in  full  orchestra  that  bring  the  movement  to  a  close. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  powerful  opening  chord  in  the  string  section  is  answered  and  reduplicated 
even  more  powerfully  by  the  remainder  of  the  orchestra  ,  .  .  again  the  same  figure 
.  .  .  and  with  scarcely  a  pause  the  wild  dancelike  first  theme  leaps  into  dynamic  life 
...  a  bacchanal  indeed! 


Here  the  "dance  symphony"  reaches  its  apotheosis.  Here  the  fundamental,  the 
primal  source  of  all  music  —  rhythm  —  holds  complete  sway.  There  is  an  almost 
savage,  primitive  joy  in  these  measures;  a  fierce  exaltation  of  the  purely  physical 
that  could  be  expressed  only  through  rhythm,  which  more  closely  than  any  other 
element  in  music  approaches  and  appeals  to  the  physical.  It  is  almost  impossible  for 
any  human  being  to  remain  motionless  through  this  movement! 

One  does  not,  now,  give  that  rapt  attention  which  might  have  been  demanded 
by  the  second  movement,  or  by  any  of  Beethoven's  more  serious  melodies.  No:  here 
we  become,  whether  we  will  or  no,  a  part  of  the  rhythm  created  and  driven  along 
by  the  composer,  conductor,  and  orchestra;  something  involuntary,  something  deep 
within  us,  leaps  and  moves  to  the  headlong  abandoned  onrush  of  this  music. 

The  second  theme,  which  appears  after  less  than  half  the  first  division  of  the 
movement  has  been  played,  is  almost  as  bacchanalian  and  contagious  as  the  first,  and 
it  leads  to  even  wilder  revels.  But  suddenly,  near  the  end  there  is  a  mysterious 
change,  so  subtly  effected  that  we  are  scarcely  conscious  of  the  means  employed. 
The  original  subject  reappears,  now  in  the  tender,  tremulous  accents  of  the  flute 
.  .  .  infinitely  gentle,  pensive,  yet  still  touched  by  joy.  It  is  but  a  bit  of  byplay  „  .  . 
an  aside  ...  a  highlight,  a  momentary  distraction  .  .  „  and  the  wild  dance  goes  on 
until  the  end. 


Symphony  No.  8  in  F  major 

THERE  seems  to  have  been  a  curious  ebb  and  flow  in  the  inspiration,  the  power, 

and  the  moods  that  were  Beethoven's.  The  Eighth  Symphony,  charming  as  it  is,  no 

'  more  represents  the  mature  and  full-statured  Beethoven  than  does  the  First.  The 


92  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

heroic  proportions  and  valorous  spirit  that  distinguished  the  Third,  the  fierce  and 
godlike  rages  of  the  Fifth,  the  vigor  and  bacchanalian  abandon  of  the  Seventh — 
there  is  little  of  any  of  these  qualities  to  be  discovered  in  the  Eighth,  nor  is  there 
much  that  could  be  regarded  as  evidence  of  the  forthcoming  Ninth  and  last  of  the 
symphonies.  Perhaps  these  even-numbered  symphonies  were  the  result  of  the  sheer 
urge  to  create  that  certainly  drove  Beethoven  in  every  waking  hour;  and  perhaps 
the  incidence  of  the  creative  urge,  and  of  material  out  of  which  to  fashion  his 
creature,  were  not  simultaneous.  Beethoven  had,  nevertheless,  so  mastered  the 
form  and  the  medium  that  even  such  habitual  workings  of  the  spirit,  as  exhibited 
in  the  present  symphony,  take  on  the  aspect  of  masterpieces. 

Beethoven  was  perhaps  too  concerned  with  troublesome  and  unmusical  things, 
when  this  music  was  written,  to  abandon  himself  thoroughly  to  his  inspiration.  His 
deafness,  already  a  handicap  in  his  profession,  was  beginning  to  prey  upon  his 
mind.  His  brother,  Johann,  had  involved  himself  in  an  affair  with  the  landlord's 
daughter,  and  the  hot-tempered  Beethoven  rushed  to  Linz  to  take  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands:  so  successful  was  he  that  the  result  was  precisely  what  he  had 
wished  to  prevent.  His  brother  married  the  girl.  There  is  something  at  once  droll 
and  pathetic  in  Beethoven's  hotheaded  and  tactless  interference  in  his  young 
brother's  love  affairs.  Although  he  loved  ladies  of  quality,  he  was  none  too  dis- 
criminating in  his  own  amours — he  died  of  an  affliction  rarely  contracted  from 
respectable  individuals — yet  he  rushed  incontinently  to  prevent  a  liaison,  not  to 
mention  a  marriage,  between  his  brother  and  a  girl  of  the  servant  class. 

However  disturbing  these  circumstances  were,  they  did  not  prevent  Beethoven 
from  completing,  during  the  year  1812,  the  Seventh  and  Eighth  Symphonies;  a 
trio  for  piano,  violin,  and  cello;  a  sonata  for  violin  and  piano,  and  certain  less 
important  works.  The  Eighth  Symphony  was  not  performed,  however,  until  more 
than  a  year  later.  It  was  first  presented  at  a  concert  in  Vienna,  on  Sunday,  Febru- 
ary 27,  1814.  A  little  more  than  thirty  years  kter  it  was  played  by  the  Philhar- 
monic Society  of  New  York,  in  November,  1844.  It  was  not  favorably  received 
at  its  first  performance,  nor  has  it  ever  become  a  favorite  to  rank  with  certain 
others  of  the  immortal  Nine.  However,  the  overfrequent  playing  of  the  favorites 
has  the  advantage  of  turning  attention,  ultimately,  to  the  less-known  symphonies, 
and  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  the  Eighth  is  appearing  more  frequently  on  sym- 
phonic programs.  It  is  worthy  of  frequent  hearing,  and  certainly  repays  in  pleasure 
the  most  careful  attention. 

First  Movement 

The  rugged  directness,  amounting  to  brusquerie^  that  so  often  marked 
Beethoven's  "company  manners"  is  reflected  in  the  bold  and  unheralded  procla- 
mation of  the  chief  subject  at  the  very  outset.  It  is  played  in  full  orchestra,  and 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  93 

vigorously,  in  downright  £4  rhythm.  The  violins  succeed  with  a  brief  delineation 
of  a  graceful  swaying  figure,  broken  by  a  hesitant  pause,  and  taken  up  then  by 
woodwind  (bassoon).  The  somewhat  dessicated  tones  of  this  instrument  insinuate 
themselves  into  the  melodic  pattern  of  a  second  theme,  introduced  by  the  violins, 
and  presently  emerge  in  the  brighter  company  of  oboe  and  flute,  with  a  restate- 
ment of  the  second  theme. 


y      rj    (violins) 


The  movement  follows,  in  the  main,  the  conventional  pattern  of  the  sonata 
form.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  notable  features,  the  entire  work  harks  back  to 
the  earlier  Beethoven — the  derivative,  exploring,  but  still  form-bound  Beethoven. 
For  the  stylized  development  section  of  the  movement,  Beethoven  selects  as  basic 
material  the  swaying  violin  figure  mentioned  above,  combined,  at  times,  with  the 
first  few  notes  of  the  principal  theme.  A  powerful  restatement  of  this  chief  theme, 
delivered  by  basses  and  bassoons  in  their  most  assertive  tones,  is  the  most  con- 
spicuous feature  of  the  formal  recapitulation.  To  end  the  movement,  Beethoven 
indulges  in  one  of  those  long  and  reluctant  codas  that  comes  close,  at  times,  to 
arousing  impatience.  It  is  as  if  the  composer,  having  discovered  a  pleasing  idea, 
was  loathe  to  let  it  go.  But  a  final  version  of  the  first  theme  signals  the  end  of 
the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

In  consistency  with  the  formal  character  of  the  symphony,  the  second  move- 
ment appears  in  one  of  the  nearest  related  keys — the  key  of  the  subdominant, 
B-flat  major.  Contrary  to  convention,  however,  the  second  movement  is  the 
scherzo,  though  not  so  marked  in  the  score;  and  there  is  no  directly  contrasting 
slow  movement. 

This  is  the  shortest  symphonic  movement  in  the  Beethoven  literature — and 
one  of  the  most  charming  and  graceful.  In  it  we  find  an  ingratiating  and  finished 
and  gently  humorous  quality  which  can  only  be  described  by  that  outmoded  and 
misused  word  "elegance";  yet  it  has  strength  and  vitality  and  energetic  action, 
Berlioz  remarked  that  the  movement  is  so  complete,  so  logical  and  final,  that  it 
seemed  to  have  "fallen  from  heaven  into  the  brain  of  its  author,  and  to  have  been 
written  at  a  sitting."  But  this  is  the  art  that  conceals  art,  for  an  examination  of 
Beethoven's  sketchbooks  and  papers  has  shown  many  sketches  which  ultimately 
found  their  development  in  this  movement. 

The  opening  theme  is  of  interest,  not  only  in  its  charming  self,  but  because  it 


94  THE    VICTOR.  BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

is  identical  with  a  little  "round"  which  Beethoven  composed  extemporaneously  at 
a  dinner  given  for  him  by  some  friends.  Among  the  guests  was  Malzel,  good  friend 
and  inventor  of  the  tyrannical  metronome.  Beethoven,  with  rare  but  charming 
graciousness,  imitated  with  staccato  notes  the  ticking  of  the  inexorable  metronome 
in  the  little  round,  or  canon,  which  he  called  "Tay  ta,  tieber  Malzel." 

The  opening  theme  is  presented  by  the  strings,  with  woodwind  accompani- 


-±J..m    f    *   m  f  sr  \    r"S_/_ 


ment.  It  is  full  of  geniality  and  good  humor.  The  theme,  and  the  movement  as  a 
whole,  are,  a  dangerous  temptation  for  the  conductor  who  wants  to  make  an 
"effect."  There  is  a  distinct  inclination  for  the  music  to  get  out  of  hand,  and,  if  it 
is  taken  too  fast,  Beethoven's  effect  is  completely  destroyed.  A  metronome  on  the 
conductor's  stand  would  be  an  excellent  idea,  in  some  cases;  though,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  are  conductors  who  beat  time  just  as  regularly  and  automatically. 

The  second  subject,  even  gayer  than  the  first,  presently  succeeds,  and  the 
whole  movement,  brief  though  it  is,  creates  a  delightfully  happy  and  friendly 
atmosphere, 

Third  Movement 

Here  is  a  conventional  symphonic  minuet,  the  characteristic  third-movement 
form  of  Beethoven's  earlier  years.  It  is  rather  curious  that,  unless  seized  by  some 
fury  quite  beyond  the  bounds  of  conventional  expression,  Beethoven  could  turn 
to  the  devices  of  the  purists  and  the  formalists,  and  beat  them  at  their  own  game. 
Even  here,  when  he  wrote  more  or  less  to  a  pattern,  the  composer  exhibits  elements 
of  the  power  and  individuality  and  imagination  that  set  him  so  far  above  his 
contemporaries.  The  minuet  of  Beethoven  has  vigor  in  its  rhythm.  There  is  nothing 
mincing  about  it.  A  lovely  melody  springs  from  the  assertive  rhythm  established 
in  the  first  two  measures.  The  violins  sing  it,  and  the  serious  bassoons  imitate 


them  a  bit  later.  The  trio,  or  middle  part  of  the  movement,  is  developed  mostly 
by  a  pair  of  horns  and  solo  cello;  later,  the  clarinet  has  pleasant  and  melodious 
things  to  say.  The  third  section  of  the  movement  is  identical  with  the  first. 


LUDWIG    VAN     BEETHOVEN  95 

Fourth  Movement 

There  is  nothing  in  the  preceding  movements  to  prepare  us  for  the  outburst 
of  force  that  occurs  in  the  final  movement,  except  that,  in  so  far  as  we  are  already 
acquainted  with  the  composer's  mercurial  temperament  and  his  love  of  violent 
contrasts,  we  might  have  been  led  to  expect  something  serious  and  potent  in  the 
closing  section  of  his  work.  Where  all  has  been  grace  and  lyric  loveliness  and  quiet 
humor,  we  now  find  Beethoven  drawing  a  sweeping  and  vigorous  circular  tonal 
pattern;  a  formal,  yet  free  and  almost  boisterous  gesture  in  which  he  asserts  his 
more  usual  self.  Roughly,  the  movement  is  in  rondo  form.  The  very  simple  open- 
ing theme  is  developed  into  a  forceful  and  eloquent  expression.  Prompted  by  the 
violins,  the  full  orchestra  in  a  vigorous  forte  asserts  the  primary  musical  idea.  A 


-4 f 


second  theme  is  also  given  to  violins,  then  to  woodwinds.  The  structure  of  the 
movement  is  so  beautifully  clear  that  to  follow  the  thematic  material  through  its 
development  is,  in  spite  of  the  moving  pace  and  constant  accessions  of  orchestral 
power,  a  fairly  easy  matter. 

There  is  a  concluding  section  of  considerable  length,  derived  for  the  most  part 
from  the  two  principal  themes.  The  symphony  ends  in  an  atmosphere  of  healthy 
and  vigorous  gaiety. 


Symphony  No.  9  in  D  minor  with  Choral  Finale  on 
Schiller's  "Ode  to  Joy" 

IT  is  not  improbable  that  Beethoven  set  about  the  work  of  composing  this  mighty 
symphony  with  a  conscious  effort  to  surpass  even  himself.  He  had  been  collecting 
material  for  it  during  a  period  of  years,  and  when  finally  he  applied  himself  to 
the  task,  he  seems  to  have  been  seized  with  a  demoniac  energy  and  power,  and  an 
influx  of  inspiration  that  expanded  him  to  his  most  gigantic  stature — and  at  the 
same  time  exhausted  him.  For  in  this  music  Beethoven  finds  the  orchestral  instru- 
ments, and  his  own  superb  knowledge  of  their  powers,  insufficient;  he  turns  to  the 
human  voice  for  the  final  expression  of  the  cosmic  thought  and  emotion  that  surged 
within  him. 


9  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

The  scholastic  musician  has  argued  for  years  about  the  merit  and  propriety 
of  including,  as  climax,  a  chorus  in  the  finale  of  this  symphony;  about  the  status  of 
this  chorus — whether,  indeed,  it  should  be  regarded  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
symphony,  having  its  real  origin  and  justification  in  what  has  preceded  it,  or  as 
merely  an  incident,  a  dramatic  device.  The  latter  opinion  seems  untenable,  in  view 
of  the  references  to  preceding  themes  made  in  the  last  movement,  as  well  as  their 
comparison  there  with  the  theme  of  the  Ode  to  Joy.  Furthermore,  it  can  be  sug- 
gested, at  the  risk  of  being  regarded  as  flippant,  that  in  the  final  movement 
Beethoven  made  no  real  departure  from  "absolute"  music,  because,  in  the  first 
place,  he  treats  the  voice  quite  like  an  instrumental  group  in  the  orchestra;  sec- 
ondly, because  the  vocal  parts  are  so  written  (and  so  badly  written,  from  the 
singer's  standpoint)  that  the  words  become  unintelligible,  and  the  Ode  to  Joy 
has  no  significance  except  that  expressed  through  tone,  through  rhythm,  and 
through  melodic  line.  Which  is  quite  sufficient. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Beethoven's  literary  taste  was  of  the  most  dis- 
criminating; yet  it  has  always  seemed  highly  questionable  that  the  symphony,  after 
its  marvelous  setting  forth  of  the  whole  gamut  of  human  joys,  could  settle  upon 
so  gaudy  and  vague  and  verbose  an  outpouring  as  Schiller's  Ode  as  the  ultimate 
expression  of  Beethoven's  thought  and  feeling.  It  is  more  reasonable  to  believe 
that  the  vague  references  to  human  brotherhood  and  world  embraces  touched  the 
great  heart  of  the  composer,  and  supplied  to  him  an  idea  of  greatness  and  of 
universality  and  humanity.  For  he  was  always  the  democrat,  a  man  essentially 
"of  the  people";  he  could  always  be  excited  by  an  idea  that  seemed  to  promote 
equality  and  brotherliness. 

So,  it  is  not  a  symphony  on  Schiller's  poem;  the  poem  is  but  a  vehicle  for 
drawing  in  the  voice,  the  most  expressive  of  all  musical  instruments.  What  the 
voice  says  is,  in  performance,  neither  important  nor  intelligible;  its  rhythms  and 
intonations,  not  the  words  of  the  poem  it  sings,  drive  Beethoven's  thought  into 
our  consciousness. 

The  symphony  was  first  performed  on  May  7,  1824,  in  Vienna.  Beethoven 
did  not  conduct,  but  sat  in  the  orchestra,  following  with  a  score,  and  vigorously 
beating  time  for  his  own  benefit.  When  the  work  was  finished,  he  was  still  beating 
time,  and  one  of  the  chorus,  noting  his  actions  and  knowing  the  reason  for  them, 
touched  him  and  turned  him  toward  the  audience  that  he  might  see  the  applause* 
He  had  been  deaf  for  twenty  years. 

First  Movement 

There  is  a  feeling  of  striving,  of  discontent,  of  mysterious  confusion  and  rest- 
lessness in  the  music  here.  Beethoven  seems  groping  for  some  utterance  that  will 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  97 

completely  express  him.  It  is  a  musical  parallel  to  the  mental  agony  of  searching 
for  one  certain  word  that  persistently  evades  utterance,  though  it  is  clearly  in 
some  remote  and,  for  the  moment,  unresponsive  brain  cell.  Fragments  of  melody 
are  snatched  hastily  from  the  strings — and  suddenly  these  fragments  fly  together, 
miraculously  like  pieces  of  a  shattered  sculpture,  and  the  bold  and  joyful  theme 
of  the  movement  is  shouted  bravely  forth  by  the  full  orchestra. 

Tutti 


The  music  is  full  of  the  brusque  impatience,  the  brutal  power  that  has  been 
exhibited  but  once  before  in  the  symphonies — in  the  Fifth;  but  here  is  another 
kind  of  passion.  There  is  a  lift  and  a  manly  joyousness  in  this  music  that  is  far 
removed  from  the  stark  agonies  of  that  deathless  utterance.  This  is  the  joy  of 
living,  not  the  tragedy  of  life.  And,  without  any  alteration  of  the  character  or 
spirit  of  the  movement,  without  important  mutations  of  the  theme,  that  joy  is 
explored  in  detail;  in  a  succession  of  strong  yet  melodious  developments.  There  is 
hardly  ever  a  recession  of  the  driving  force  that  moves  this  music,  except  when, 
occasionally,  a  reflective  little  song  in  woodwind  gives  pause;  and  toward  the  dose 
of  the  movement,  where  the  orchestra  finally  wins  back,  after  moments  of  sober- 
ness, through  a  labored  but  powerful  progression,  to  a  final  mighty  pronounce- 
ment of  the  principal  theme  of  the  movement.  For  once  we  are  spared  the  lingering 
farewells  that  so  often  marked  Beethoven's  conclusions;  here  all  is  powerful  and 
sure  and  downright.  All  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  on  this  theme,  and  so 
Beethoven  leaves  it. 

Second  Movement 

The  beauty  of  musical  form  is  not  always  evident  to  those  who  have  not 
been  forced,  by  one  circumstance  or  another,  to  study  it;  nor  is  it  necessary, 
always,  to  listeners  whose  joy  in  music  is,  as  it  should  be,  primarily  sensuous.  The 
beauty  of  the  f  ugued  treatment  of  the  second  movement  is,  however,  so  dear  and 
perfect  that  no  one  can  escape  it.  Not  only  are  its  contours  exquisitely  symmetrical 
and  rounded,  but  it  is  informed  with  a  rare  and  irresistible  rhythm,  with  tonal 
color  and  contrast,  with  a  high-spirited  and  at  times  almost  rowdy  vigor  that  seize 
and  shake  the  most  phlegmatic. 

There  is  a  brief  introduction,  and  then  the  subject  is  incisively  projected  by 
staccato  violins: 


98 


THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Strings,  staccato 


I&SSK 


Various  strings,  horn,  woodwind,  bass  enter  upon  and  experiment  with  this 
lightfooted  and  rollicking  theme,  building  to  climax  after  climax,  with  ever-grow- 
ing assertiveness.  Timpani,  with  a  powerful  rhythmic  figure,  renew  the  vigor  of 
the  orchestra  when  it  would  seem  to  flag.  For  melodic  contrast,  there  is  a  sweet 
little  theme,  the  melodic  line  of  which  actually  has  an  ecclesiastical  turn,  but,  as 
it  is  played  vivace,  seems  like  a  bucolic  parody  of  a  hymn  tune: 

Oboes  and  clarinets:  bassoons 


This  is  the  trio  of  the  scherzo;  the  succeeding  and  final  section  is  structurally 
similar  to  the  first,  but  in  it  Beethoven  derives  from  the  orchestra  new  and 
shrewdly  mixed  tone  colors.  There  are  small  fragments  of  melody,  and  near  the 
end,  the  second  theme  reappears  briefly;  but  it  is  elbowed  roughly  aside  by  the 
violent  chords  that  close  the  movement. 

If  the  first  movement  suggests  the  subjective  joys  of  maturity  and  strength 
and  vigorous  manhood,  we  may  imagine  that  the  second  presents  the  endless  round 
of  worldly  pleasures — the  cycle  of  superficial  things  with  which  man  distracts  him- 
self, and  which,  ultimately,  brings  him  back  to  the  point  from  which  he  departed. 
There  is  an  intimation  of  Beethoven's  impatience  and  dissatisfaction  with  this  kind 
of  pleasure,  in  the  impatient  chords  that  terminate  the  movement;  later  we  shall  see 
that  actually  he  was  seeking  a  different  kind  of  joy. 

Third  Movement 

Everyone  who  knew  Beethoven  well  enough  to  leave  us  some  word  of  the 
master  has  commented  with  admiration,  with  astonishment,  at  his  skill  in 
improvisation,  in  transposition,  and  sight-playing;  but  all  conclude  with  tributes  to 
the  poetry  of  his  playing  in  slow  passages.  Sir  George  Grove,  the  great  English 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN 


99 


commentator,  writes  that  it  was  not  brilliance  and  technical  skill  in  Beethoven's 
performance  at  the  piano,  but  the  "loftiness  and  elevation  of  his  style,  and  his 
great  power  of  expression  in  slow  movements,  which,  when  exercised  in  his  own 
noble  music,  fixed  his  hearers  and  made  them  insensible  to  any  fault  of  polish  or 
mechanism."  The  adagio  movement  of  the  Ninth  Symphony  illustrates  the  com- 
poser's singular  felicity  in  music  of  such  a  mood. 

Bassoon,  clarinet,  oboe,  and  strings  intone  the  introduction,  and  then  in  the 
most  silken  tone  of  the  violins  the  moving  subject  of  the  movement  is  exquisitely 
sung: 


The  music  suggests  a  curious  mixture  of  feelings.  Complacence,  passionate 
yearnings,  wistful  melancholy — all  have  their  expression  here;  there  are  even 
echoes  from  the  church.  We  can  heartily  agree  with  Hector  Berlioz,  when  he  wrote 
of  this  movement,  "If  my  prose  could  only  give  an  approximate  idea  of  them  [the 
melodies  of  the  movement]  music  would  have  found  a  rival  in  written  speech  such 
as  the  greatest  of  poets  himself  would  never  succeed  in  pitting  against  her." 

The  serenity  of  the  first  song  of  the  strings  is  presently  altered,  and  we  come 
upon  another  theme,  with  a  change  of  rhythm,  of  tonality,  and  of  emotional  plane. 
This,  in  violin  and  viola,  is  deeper  and  more  intense: 


What  joys  did  Beethoven  contemplate  here?  Those  of  peace,  perhaps;  or 
those  of  assured  and  sanctified  love.  The  variations  erected  over  these  themes  do 
not  disturb  their  essential  quality,  but  seem  like  new  and  sometimes  less  solemn 
aspects  of  the  prevailing  thought.  Toward  the  end  of  the  movement  the  calm 
atmosphere  is  somewhat  disturbed  by  prolonged  pealings  from  the  brass,  but  the 
long-drawn  note  of  the  trumpet  fades  once  more  into  tremulous  string  tones,  and 
the  woodwind,  the  horns  return  in  their  mellow  mysterious  beauty. 

Fourth  Movement 

It  is  in  the  fourth  movement  of  the  symphony  that  Beethoven's  music  reaches 
that  sublime  altitude  where  with  a  single  farther  step  it  must  of  necessity  become 
vocal  if  it  is  to  say  more  than  the  wordless  instrumental  voices  say.  That  addi- 
tional step  is,  of  course,  taken.  But  first  there  is  a  period  of  preparation,  of  reflec- 
tion, of  consideration  and  anticipation. 

A  wild  discordant  cry  bursts  from  the  orchestra;  a  succession  of  descending, 


IOO  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

then  ascending  chords,  nervous  and  impatient,  is  driven  forth  in  all  its  voices. 
A  recitative  passage  for  the  basses  foreshadows  an  injunction  to  the  rest  of  the 
orchestra,  which  presently  we  shall  hear  in  articulate  form.  But  it  is  understood 
now,  as  it  were,  by  the  orchestral  instruments.  Their  dissonant  utterance  comes 
again,  but  there  is  a  pause,  and,  after  the  repeated  adjuration  of  the  basses,  the 
orchestra  briefly  explores  the  preceding  thematic  material  for  some  ultimate  pro- 
nouncement, big  and  expressive  enough  for  utterance  of  the  mad  exaltation  that 
is  presently  to  come.  It  is  now  that  we  hear  and  feel  the  surge  of  the  great  under- 
lying conception  of  the  work  beating  against  the  barriers  of  inarticulate  music. 
The  opening  measures  of  the  preceding  movements  are  searched  for  even  the  germ 
of  the  final  joyous  expression;  they  are  searched  in  vain,  and  the  orchestra  vigor- 
ously rejects  them.  There  is  a  soft  and  distant  voice  in  the  cellos  and  basses,  a 
voice  that  grows  stronger  in  its  uplifting  and  unadulterated  joy 5  yes,  this  is  the 
word,  the  phrase,  the  ultimate  pronouncement  that  Beethoven  sought.  Stronger  it 
grows,  until  it  is  put  forth  right  valiantly.  It  is  the  hymn  to  joy: 

Cellos  and  basses 

i  fTt  i  f 


r ip  f  r  irf 


Now  the  other  strings  take  up  the  joyous  strain,  and  now  the  full  orchestra. 
Yet  once  more  comes  the  terrible  dissonance  of  the  opening  measures,  and  the 
impatient  chords,  but  now  a  voice  of  authority  speaks.  It  is  not  the  wordless  voice 
of  an  orchestral  instrument  but  a  vigorous  baritone  in  a  kindly  command:  "O 
friends,  no  more  these  discords!  Let  us  raise  a  song  of  sympathy,  of  gladness. 
O  Joy,  let  us  praise  thee!"  Here  is  the  moment  toward  which  the  entire  work  has 
been  striving,  and  now  the  voices  dominate  even  the  orchestra.  To  happiness  is 
added  jubilation,  and  a  fever  of  exaltation  in  which  the  greathearted  Beethoven 
reaches  out  to  embrace  the  world. 

BARITONE  SOLO,  QUARTET,  AND  CHORUS* 

Freudey  schoner  Gotter]unkeny  Praise  to  Joyy  the  God-descended 

Tochter  aus  Elysium,  Daughter  of  Elysium! 

Wir  betreten  jeuer  tnmkeny  Ray  of  mirth  and  rapture  blended) 

Himmlische,  dein  Heiligtum!  Goddess,  to  thy  shrine  we  come. 

Deine  Zauber  linden  wieder.  By  thy  magic  is  united 

Was  die  Mode  streng  geteilt;  What  stern  Custom  farted  vMey 

4Ue  Menschen  werden  Bruder>  All  mankind  are  brothers  flighted 

Wo  dein  sartfter  Fliigel  wettt.  Where  thy  gentle  wings  abide. 

*The  English  translation  is  that  of  Natalia  Macfarren,  and  is  generally  used  in 
American  performances.  It  is  published  by  Novello  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London  (New  York; 
The  H.  W*  Gray  Company,  Agents) . 


LUBWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN 


IOI 


Wem  der  grosse  Wurj  gelungen, 

Eines  Freundes  Freimd  zu  sein, 
Wer  em  holdes  Weib  errungen, 

Mische  semen  Jubel  em! 
Ja,  wer  auch  nur  erne  Seele 

Sein  nennt  auf  dem  Erdenrundl 
Und  wer's  nie  gekonnt,  der  stehle 

W  emend  sich  aus  diesem  Bund! 


Ye  to  whom  the  loon  is  measured) 

Friend  to  be  of  faithful  friend, 
Who  a  wije  has  won  and  treasured, 

To  our  strain  your  voices  lend! 
Yea,  if  any  hold  in  keeping 

Only  one  heart  all  his  own, 
Let  him  join  us,  or  else  weeing) 

Steal  from  out  our  midst,  unknown*. 


Freude  trinken  die  Wesen 

An  den  Brusten  der  Natur; 
Alle  Guten,  alle  Bosen 

Folgen  ihrer  Rosewpur. 
Kiisse  gab  sie  uns  und  Reben, 

Einen  Freund,  gej>ri2ft  im  Tod; 
Wollust  ward  dem  Wurm  gegeben, 

Und  der  Cherub  steht  vor  Gott. 


Draughts  of  joy,  from  cup  overflowing, 

Bounteous  Nature  jreely  gives 
Grace  to  just  and  unjust  showing, 

Blessing  everything  that  lives. 
Wine  she  gave  to  us  and  kisses, 

Loyal  friend  on  life's  steef  road, 
E'en  the  worm  can  jeel  life's  blisses, 

And  the  Seraph  dwells  with  God. 

The  alternations  of  quartet  and  chorus  bring  constantly  new  and  more  intense 
variations  in  the  theme  of  joy,  from  the  lovingly  entwined  melodies  in  the  vocal 
cadenza  of  the  quartet  to  the  sturdy  assertions  of  male  voices  alone.  Beethoven 
introduces  not  only  variations  of  the  melody,  but  also  of  rhythm  and  tempo  and 
texture  of  the  music,  using  at  times  certain  sections  of  the  chorus,  at  others  various 
combinations  of  chorus,  quartet,  and  soloist;  and  finally,  in  the  most  exuberant 
vocal  outburst  in  music,  he  asks  of  the  whole  ensemble  the  delirious,  the  frantic, 
and  almost  unsingable  closing  passages.  One  wonders,  especially  during  the  inferior 
choral  performances  which  are  so  much  more  frequent  than  good  ones,  if  in 
evaluating  this  music  we  have  not  been  too  much  swayed  by  its  spectacular  quali- 
ties, or  even  by  a  feeling  of  relief  and  congratulation  if  the  chorus  actually  does 
sing  always  "in  time  and  in  tune."  If  we  did  not  know  the  complete  sincerity  of 
Beethoven,  it  would  be  possible  to  think  that  here  he  "doth  protest  too  much"; 
that  such  frenetic,  such  almost  insane  jubilation,  on  so  abstract  a  concept,  cannot 
be  real.  We  can  only  conclude  that  Beethoven  felt  in  it  something  quite  beyond 
the  rather  banal  and  pretentious  verbiage  of  the  poet,  something  even  beyond  the 
powers  of  his  own  music.  And  so,  we  can  but  give  ourselves  up  to  the  excitement, 
the  joyous  madness  of  this  symphony,  and  allow  it  to  move  us  as  it  will. 

The  remaining  portions  of  the  choral  parts  are  appended: 


Freude  ',  schoner  G  otter  fanken, 

Tochter  aus  Elysium) 
Wir  betreten  jeuer  trunken, 

Himmlische,  dein  Heiligtum! 
Deme  Zauber  binden  wieder, 

Was  die  Mode  streng  geteilt; 
Atte  Menschen  werden  Bruder, 

Wo  dein  sanfter  Flugel  we&t. 


Praise  to  Joy,  the  God-descended 

Daughter  of  Elysium! 
Ray  of  mirth  and  rapture  blended, 

Goddess,  to  thy  shrine  we  come. 
By  thy  magic  is  untied 

What  stern  Custom  farted  wide, 
All  mankind  are  brothers  flighted 

Where  thy  gentle  wmgs  abide. 


102                       THE    VICTOR    BOOK  OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

CHORUS 

Seid  umschlungen,  Millionen!  O  ye  millions,  I  embrace  ye! 

Diesen  Kuss  der  ganzen  Welt!  With  a  kiss  for  all  the  world! 

Bruder!  fiber*  m  Sternenzelt  Brothers,  o'er  yon  starry  sphere 

Muss  em  lieber  Voter  tuohnen*  Surely  dwells  a  loving  Father. 

Ihr  stilrzt  weder,  M'dlionen?  O  ye  millions;  kneel  before  Him, 

Ahnest  du  den  Scho^jery  Welt?  World,  dost  feel  thy  Maker  near? 

^  Such*  ihn  uber*m  Sternenzelt!  Seek  Him  o'er  yon  starry  sphere, 

Vber  Sternen  muss  er  wohnen.  Qyer  the  stars  enthroned,  adore  Him! 

CHORUS 

Freude,  schoner  Gotterjunken,  Praise  to  Joyy  the  God-descended 

Tochter  out  Elysium>  etc.  Daughter  of  Elysium,  etc. 

[AND]  [AND] 

Seid  umsthlungen,  Millionen!  O  ye  millions,  I  embrace  ye! 

Diesen  Kuss  der  ganzen  Welty  etc.  With  a  kiss  for  all  the  world,  etc. 

Ihr  sturzt  nieder,  Millionen,  O  ye  millions,  kneel  before  Him, 

Ahnest  du  den  Schoffer,  Welt?  World,  dost  feel  thy  Maker  near? 

Such3  ihn  uber*m  Sternenzelt!  Seek  Him  oyer  yon  starry  sphere, 

Bruder!  Bruder!  Brothers!  Brothers! 

Uber*m  Sternenzelt  O>er  the  stars  enthroned,  adore  Him! 

Muss  ein  lieber  Voter  wohnen. 

QUARTET  AND  CHORUS 

Freude,  Tochter  aus  Elysium,  Joyy  thou  daughter  of  Elysium, 

Deine  Zauber  binden  wieder>  By  thy  magic  is  united 

Was  die  Mode  streng  geteilt;  What  stern  Custom  farted  wide. 

Alle  Menschen  werden  Bruder,  All  mankind  are  brothers  flighted 

Wo  dein  sanjter  Flugel  w&Ht.  Where  thy  gentle  wings  abide. 

CHORUS 

Seid  um3chlungen>  Millionen!  etc.  O  ye  millions,  I  embrace  ye!  etc. 


Overture  to  "Leonora"  (No.  3) 

To  THIS  day  there  is  some  confusion,  even  among  musicians,  concerning  the  order 
and  identity  of  the  several  overtures  which  exist  under  the  above  title.  Beethoven's 
only  opera,  Fidelia,  was  produced  in  November,  1805,  but  at  its  first  presentation 
bore  the  tide  Leonora.  The  overture  pkyed  at  this  first  performance,  and  of 


LU0WIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  IO3 

course  first  in  the  order  of  composition,  is  the  one  now  known  as  "Leonora" 
No.  2.  After  the  first  production  of  the  opera,  it  was  withdrawn,  shortened,  and 
staged  again  with  a  new  overture — the  one  now  identified  as  "Leonora"  No.  3. 
The  opera  was  again  withdrawn,  but  in  1806  was  to  be  put  on  the  boards  again 
with  a  new  name — Fidelio — and  a  new  overture.  This  was  known  as  "Leonora" 
No.  I.  The  planned  revival  of  the  opera  did  not  take  place  in  1806,  but  eight 
years  later,  it  appeared  again,  in  its  present  form,  with  the  title  Fidelia,  and  an 
entirely  new  overture  also  of  that  name.  The  overture  considered  here  is  that 
generally  played  in  concert — Number  3. 

This  "Leonora"  overture  is  in  certain  respects  a  model  for  all  operatic 
preludes,  since  it  bears  within  itself  the  germs  from  which  the  drama  springs,  and 
even,  to  a  measurable  degree,  developments  of  them  paralleling  the  progress  of  the 
drama  itself.  It  is  in  three  broadly  defined  sections,  the  first  a  slow  movement  of 
tremendous  dramatic  and  orchestral  power.  A  descending  figure  which  follows 
indicates  the  progress  of  Florestan  (the  hero)  toward  his  dungeon,  and  the  suc- 
ceeding woodwind  melody,  with  accompaniment  in  strings,  is  the  famous  aria  of 
Florestan  in  the  opera — "In  the  Springtime  of  Youth."  There  is  a  transitional 
passage  full  of  mystery  and  foreboding,  flashes  like  lightnings  from  flute  and 
violin,  and  fragments  of  other  thematic  material  appearing  briefly  in  the  bass. 
A  powerful  utterance  in  full  orchestra  indicates  the  beginning  of  the  second  main 
division  of  the  work. 

Violins  and  cellos,  doubled  in  octaves,  present  the  important  theme  of  this 
section;  after  it  has  been  thoroughly  explored,  and  its  possible  musical  develop- 
ments clearly  and  elaborately  exposed,  a  second  theme,  first  given  to  the  horns 
and  later  to  strings  and  woodwind,  appears,  and  likewise  is  examined,  analyzed, 
and  synthesized.  Now  comes  a  climax  of  tremendous  power  and  intensity,  the 
brilliant  trumpet  against  the  mass  of  orchestral  tone  with  its  reiterated  promise 
of  freedom. 

A  flute  solo  gives  out  the  chief  musical  thought  of  the  third  portion  of  the 
overture,  and  here  again  there  is  extensive  development  of  and  vigorous  references 
to  the  thematic  material.  The  coda  expands  the  gladness  of  the  kter  sections  of 
the  work  into  mighty  outpourings  of  exaltation  and  triumph. 


Overture  to  "Egmont" 

THIS  spirited,  colorful,  and  dramatic  music  was  inspired  by  the  drama  of  the  same 
name,  written  by  the  German  poet  Goethe,  and  published  in  1788.  The  play  deals 
with  the  political  and  religious  struggles  of  the  Spanish  and  the  Dutch  for  sover- 


104  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

eignty  in  Holland,  with  Egmont,  leader  of  the  Protestant  Dutch  people,  as  the 
tragic  central  figure.  He  is  a  curiously  ineffectual  hero,  yet  his  leadership  does 
ultimately  bring  about  the  triumph  of  his  cause  after  he  himself  dies  for  it. 

The  overture  is  in  no  sense  "program  music,"  but  it  is  neither  too  difficult 
nor  too  fanciful  to  hear,  in  the  opening  bars,  the  cry  of  the  oppressed,  and  the 
answering  crushing  power  of  oppression.  A  sustained  and  poignant  note,  in  the 
united  voices  of  the  orchestra,  is  contrasted  with  heavy  and  vehement  chorus. 
Stronger  protesting  voices  are  lifted;  mightier  utterances  crush  them  down.  A 
growing  agitation,  that  might  symbolize  the  mutterings  of  an  angered  people, 
takes  form  and  mounts  to  a  climax  of  terrific  power.  Not  yet,  however,  are  the 
people  ready  for  triumph.  Perhaps  the  succeeding  music  suggests  the  false  promises 
of  politicians,  and  the  vitiating  influence  of  ease  and  pleasure.  Yet  the  uprising 
spirit  cannot  be  indefinitely  denied.  A  second  and  mightier  climax  arises;  revolt 
holds  dreadful  sway,  and  the  hero  envisions  from  the  scaffold  the  triumph  his 
death  shall  inspire. 


Concerto  No.  4  in  G  major  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 


THE  visit  and  triumphal  tour  in  America  during  1933  °^  t^lat  indefatigable 
apostle  of  Beethoven's  piano  music,  Artur  Schnabel,  has  revived  interest  in  this  noble 
work.  Why  interest  should  ever  have  lagged  is  difficult  to  understand  —  if  you  can 
hear  Schnabel  bring  this  superb  music  to  life.  The  fact  is,  however,  that  pianists 
have  devoted  themselves  so  exclusively  to  the  Concerto  No.  5  (the  "Emperor") 
that  for  some  time  this  equally  magnificent  music  has  been  neglected.  Curiously 
enough,  the  past  few  years  do  not  constitute  the  only  period  of  neglect  which  this 
concerto  has  suffered.  Although  the  first  performances,  public  and  private,  were 
given  by  Beethoven  himself  (1807-08)  and  the  work  was  highly  successful,  it  lay 
neglected  for  many  years  until  Mendelssohn  rediscovered  it.  It  was  played  by  him, 
to  the  delight  of  Robert  Schumann  and  other  discriminating  listeners,  at  Leipzig 
in  1836,  and  as  a  result,  was  restored  for  a  considerable  period  to  public  favor. 

F#vtf  Movement 

It  is  possible  that  the  driving  inspiration  out  of  which  was  born  the  Fifth 
Symphony  also  produced  this  bold  and  compelling  music.  It  has  moments  in  which 
the  fierceness  of  the  Fifth  rages  again,  and  certainly  it  was  written  during  that 
wonderfully  productive  period  when  Beethoven,  though  buffeted  by  unfriendly 
circumstances,  brought  the  Fifth  into  being. 

In  the  very  opening  measures  Beethoven  ignores  a  conventionality.  Instead  of 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  10$ 

the  usual  orchestral  introduction — which  in  some  of  the  piano-orchestral  works 
was  very  long — he  drives  at  once  to  the  heart  of  the  subject  with  a  firm  assertion  of 
the  major  musical  premise  by  the  piano.  The  solo  instrument  establishes  a  con- 
templative, but  not  melancholy  mood,  and  the  orchestra,  though  rather  suddenly 
and  surprisingly  effecting  a  modulation  to  the  key  of  B  major,  is  unable  to  shake 
off  the  poised  and  meditative  feeling  of  the  music.  As  if  abandoning  such  an 
attempt,  the  ensemble  returns  to  the  original  tonality,  and,  after  some  develop- 
ment of  the  central  idea,  presents,  after  a  brief  transitional  passage,  two  new 
musical  fragments  which  will  be  heard  conspicuously  on  occasion  throughout  the 
movement. 

The  first  of  these  is  assigned  to  the  first  violins,  and  on  its  repetition,  changes 
color  with  the  incisive  tones  of  the  oboe.  Between  it  and  the  second  subsidiary  idea 
lie  sturdy  chords  in  full  orchestra;  then  comes  another  little  subject  given,  like  its 
predecessor,  to  the  violins.  Derivations  of  the  first  subject  occur  now  and  again, 
and  are  frequent  in  the  accompaniment  which  the  orchestra  supplies  during  a  short 
cadenza  for  the  solo  instrument. 

The  piano  of  Beethoven's  day,  though  essentially  the  same  as  the  present 
instrument,  certainly  was  vastly  inferior,  in  tone,  in  power,  and  in  mechanical 
action  and  responsiveness.  Yet  in  the  creation  of  his  melodic  line  and  rhythmic 
pattern,  Beethoven  strangely  seems  to  have  written,  not  only  for  the  instrument 
of  his  own  time,  but  in  anticipation  of  the  modern  pianoforte.  This  is  particularly 
noticeable  here  in  this  movement,  when  the  orchestra  presents  to  the  solo  instru- 
ment a  challenge  in  the  form  of  a  beautifully  lyric  melody.  The  piano  at  once 
takes  it  up,  and  in  a  period  of  development  and  ornamentation,  derives  from  it  a 
wealth  of  beautiful  figures  that  are  completely  and  ideally  "pianistic." 

With  the  basic  material  of  the  movement  presented  and  partly  developed, 
Beethoven  now  proceeds  to  demonstrate  the  fertility  of  his  imagination,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  explore — without  making  a  mere  technical  display  of  the  exploration — 
the  possibilities  of  the  solo  instrument.  Fragments  of  thematic  material  are  scattered 
with  abandon  between  orchestra  and  piano;  electrically  swift  and  brilliant  scales, 
sweeping  arpeggios,  sonorous  chords  are  developed  from  the  relatively  simple  melodic 
structure  underlying  the  movement.  For  a  climax,  there  is  a  cadenza  that  extracts 
the  last  measure  of  dexterity  and  musicianship  from  the  solo  performer,  and  with  a 
short  coda  comes  the  expanding  crescendo  that  leads  to  the  end. 

Second  Movement 

It  was  such  a  movement  as  this  that  Beethoven  himself  delighted  to  play.  No 
doubt  he  felt  the  technician's  delight  in  more  definitely  bravura  passages;  no  doubt 
he  delighted  to  amaze  his  friends  with  his  dexterity  and  sureness;  but  when  he 
played  slow  movements  on  the  piano,  he  utterly  subdued  and  captivated  them. 


J06  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

There  are  more  sentimental  passages  among  Beethoven's  andantes,  but  none 
more  highly  keyed,  emotionally.  In  several  respects  this  movement  suggests  certain 
features  of  the  Fifth  Symphony.  The  contrast  of  the  harsh  vehemence  of  the 
strings,  in  their  presentation  of  the  main  theme,  with  the  gentle  and  appealing 
responses  of  the  solo  instrument,  recalls  the  rough  energy  and  delicately  curving 
grace  of  the  two  first  themes  of  the  first  movement  of  the  Fifth.  Then  too,  the 
particular  rhythmic  and  dynamic  character  of  this  movement,  establishing  as  it 
does  relationship  with  both  the  allegro  of  the  first  movement  and  the  vivace  of  the 
third,  recalls  that  at  the  time  this  music  was  written  Beethoven  was  also  con- 
cerned with  the  Fifth  and  the  wonderful  transitional  passage  that  lies  between  its 
third  and  fourth  movements. 

Of  course,  such  considerations  are  wholly  immaterial  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
music,  though  unconsciously  we  are  affected  by  this  brief  preparatory  and  transi- 
tional mood.  The  contrast  and  conflict  between  the  stern  utterance  of  the  strings  in 
unison,  and  the  mild  responses  of  the  solo  instrument,  weaken  now,  and  as  the 
movement  progresses,  the  assertions  of  the  strings  become  less  vigorous.  It  is 
exactly  as  if  some  untamed  spirit  were  subdued  by  the  very  persistence  of  gentleness. 

Third  Movement 

The  rondo,  into  which  form  the  unruly  music  of  this  movement  is  constrained, 
is  filled  with  the  rough  humor  and  heavyfooted  gaiety  which  Beethoven,  in  his 
personal  life,  so  often  exhibited.  It  suggests  a  peasant  dance,  with  more  vigor  than 
decorum,  but  with  an  infectious  rhythm  that  is  quite  inescapable.  The  first  theme 
is  put  forward,  by  the  strings,  and  the  piano  seizes  upon  it,  translating  it,  with 
embellishments,  into  its  own  particular  language.  A  second  idea  is  similarly  handled, 
except  that,  on  the  last  three  notes,  there  is  some  mischievous  byplay  between 
piano  and  orchestra,  as  if  the  theme  were  being  snatched  back  and  forth,  each  of 
the  rivals  unwilling  to  let  it  go.  A  fortissimo  projection  of  the  theme  in  full 
orchestra  seems  to  settle  the  matter,  and  the  piano  abandons  it  to  rise  through  a 
brilliant  chromatic  passage  to  the  lovely  second  theme. 

The  orchestra  appears  still  interested,  at  intervals,  in  the  first  musical  subject 
of  the  movement,  and  suggestively  puts  forward  a  few  notes  of  it.  The  piano, 
absorbed  in  leaping  arpeggios  and  later  in  a  brief  but  brilliant  cadenza,  ignores  all 
else  until  a  strong  statement  of  the  theme  in  its  original  form  occurs.  Now  the  basic 
material  of  the  movement  is  completely  and  wonderfully  developed,  the  rondo  form 
being  observed  rather  loosely.  Fiery  passages,  calling  upon  the  most  extended  powers 
of  both  solo  instrument  and  orchestra,  bring  us  eventually  to  the  final  cadenza, 
a  magnificent  flourish  at  which  the  doughtiest  pianist  might  quail,  but  in  which  a 
great  artist  detects  and  exposes  Beethoven's  extraordinary  understanding  of  the 
instrument.  There  is  little  more  to  be  said  after  this  superb  exhibition,  and  the 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN 


movement  closes  after  a  final  impassioned  insistence  upon  the  opening  theme,  and 
brief  concluding  passages. 


Concerto  No.  5  in  E-flat  major  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

BEETHOVEN  was  too  sincere  a  musician,  and  too  impatient  of  convention,  to  have 
written  here  a  work  designed  solely  to  exploit  the  technical  possibilities  of  the 
piano.  Most  concertos  of  his  day,  and  for  some  time  after  him,  were  so  designed; 
and  though  they  delight  the  virtuoso,  who  is  essentially  an  exhibitionist,  and  the 
average  audience,  which  is  always  more  impressed  by  technical  thaumaturgy  than 
by  music,  they  are  frequently  of  little  fundamental  music  value. 

In  composing  this  work  Beethoven  neither  ignores  entirely  the  classical  raison 
d'etre  of  the  piano  concerto  nor  slavishly  regards  it.  He  makes  music  which — 
incidentally — does  exact  the  maximum  of  technical  ability  from  the  solo  performer. 
At  the  same  time  he  writes  great  music,  for  orchestra  and  piano;  music  which  is 
definitely  and  sincerely  expressive  of  a  series  of  emotional  states,  as  all  music  should 
be;  music  which  inevitably  calls  for  this  particular  combination  of  instruments. 

The  orchestra  has  its  just  share  in  the  music.  It  has  sections  which  might  have 
been  taken  from  a  symphony,  so  significant,  so  large  in  concept,  and  so  rounded 
are  they.  The  music  given  to  the  orchestra  is  intimately  bound  up  with  that  of  the 
piano — yet  the  piano,  when  it  speaks,  is  always  the  dominating  voice.  If  you  choose, 
regard  it  as  a  display  piece,  vast  in  scope,  shrewd  and  exacting  in  its  requirements 
of  the  solo  instrument,  amazing  in  its  difficult  brilliancies.  But  it  is  more  important 
and  more  satisfying  to  accept  it  as  music  of  profound  and  satisfying  emotional 
significance. 

First  Movement 

Something  of  Beethoven's  characteristic  directness  is  lacking  in  this  first  move- 
ment. There  is  no  immediate,  bold  statement  of  themes;  no  frank  revektion  of  the 
composer's  thought;  no  forthright  "declaration  of  intentions,"  such  as  we  usually 
find  in  the  symphonies  and  in  other  concerted  works.  Here  Beethoven  seems  to 
prefer  an  atmosphere  of  suspense  .  .  .  and  the  lengthy  introduction  leads  us  to 
suspect  that  something  of  unusual  importance  is  presently  to  be  brought  forth. 

The  orchestra  has  by  far  the  larger  share  of  the  introduction.  The  piano  is 
heard  in  brief  flashes  .  .  .  promise  of  what  is  to  come;  but  to  the  orchestra 
Beethoven  devotes  most  of  the  introduction,  and  in  it  implants  the  germs  of  the 
thematic  material  upon  which  the  first  movement  is  to  be  constructed.  You  will 


108  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

sense  these  thematic  ideas  as  they  appear,  mostly  in  the  woodwind,  but  finally  in 
the  piano  also. 

As  the  movement  progresses,  the  orchestra  holds  sway  for  a  moment,  and 
then  the  first  important  part  for  the  piano  appears  ...  a  lovely  rippling  figure 
against  a  syncopated  figure  in  pizzicato  strings.  Here  is  a  passage  wherein  a  pianist 
of  taste  and  discretion  may  make  use  of  a  subtle  rubato — but  the  soloist  who  over- 
does it  is  unfortunate,  for  Beethoven  has  laid  a  trap  for  him  in  the  following 
phrases.  Now  there  is  a  frank  acceleration  that  leads  to  chords  of  great  vigor  in 
full  orchestra.  In  turn  comes  a  somewhat  gentler,  lyric  mood,  in  which  melody 
flows  back  and  forth  like  a  wave  between  orchestra  and  solo  instrument. 

A  brief  little  song  in  the  silvery  upper  ranges  of  the  piano  ...  a  flashing  duel 
between  piano  and  orchestra  in  mighty  chords  .  .  .  typical  Beethoven  melodic  and 
rhythmic  progressions  .  .  .  and  once  again  we  hear  the  opening  theme — once  again 
the  rippling  flow  from  the  piano  against  the  plucked  strings. 

The  final  section  of  the  movement  represents  in  new  guise  the  thematic 
material  we  have  already  heard  .  .  .  and  also  fragmentary  musical  ideas  poised 
against  long  and  glittering  piano  scales.  But  chiefly  it  is  the  orator's  peroration,  the 
summing  up,  the  final  emphatic  statement,  supported  by  all  the  power  that 
emphasis  and  striking  methods  of  presentation  can  confer.  Three  mighty  chords 
end  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

Enough  has  been  said  and  written  of  Beethoven's  slow  movements  to  prepare 
us  now  for  a  period  of  exquisite  and  soul-searching  loveliness.  And  in  this  adagio 
movement,  the  Master  of  Bonn  does  not  fail  us. 

The  orchestra  plays  a  brief  introduction,  in  almost  religious  solemnity  . .  .  and 
presently  against  its  long-drawn  chords  appears  the  melody,  in  the  pearly  tones  of 
the  piano,  its  shining  notes  in  high  contrast  with  the  subdued  colors  of  woodwind 
and  strings  as  they  are  held  suavely  in  restraint.  After  a  little  while,  a  more  posi- 
tive rhythm  moves  underneath  these  lovely  simple  harmonies;  sparkles  of  fire 
leap  in  tone  from  beneath  the  pianist's  fingers,  and  the  music  slowly  and  inevitably 
approaches  its  climax.  Toward  the  end  of  the  first  section,  an  interesting  figure  for 
the  solo  instrument,  very  reminiscent  of  its  flickering  loveliness  in  the  preceding 
movement,  becomes  for  a  moment  conspicuous. 

A  peculiarly  beautiful  division  of  the  instruments  is  made  by  Beethoven  in 
the  second  section  of  the  movement.  Here  the  melody — and  it  is  one  of  exceeding 
loveliness — is  given  to  pensive  woodwind  voices.  Beneath  it  the  strings  move  in  a 
very  definite  rhythm;  from  above  the  piano  showers  down  delicately  sweet  and 
richly  figured  tone.  There  is  a  brief,  curiously  tentative  interval,  a  hesitation,  and 
the  music  proceeds  in  a  more  robust  rhythm  than  has  yet  appeared  in  the  move- 
ment. Toward  the  close,  the  quasi-religious  solemnity  of  the  opening  is  quite 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  JOQ 

abandoned,  and  there  is  a  flurry  of  genuine  Beethovenesque  vigor  .  .  .  quickly 
coming,  and  as  quickly  departing  as  the  music  ends  with  abruptness  .  .  .  almost 
with  flippancy. 

Third  Movement 

Not  until  the  final  movement  does  Beethoven  unfold  the  full  splendors  of  the 
piano.  Now  massive  chords,  rippling  right-hand  figures,  trills  in  octaves,  curiously 
irregular  syncopated  figures  in  descending  chords,  vie  in  color  and  magnificence 
with  the  powerful  utterances  evoked  from  the  massed  voices  of  the  orchestra. 

Rhythms  typical  of  Beethoven  urge  the  music  onward  toward  the  close.  Some- 
thing of  that  hearty  if  gruff  good  humor  that  so  frequently  marked  the  manners 
of  the  composer  is  felt  in  the  music  now — and  we  can  recall  the  preceding  move- 
ments of  the  concerto  without  being  able  to  remember  an  instance  of  the  acrid 
bitterness  that  could  as  easily  impregnate  his  musical  utterances; 

Beethoven,  master  of  the  orchestra,  giant  of  the  pianoforte,  combines  in  the 
grandeur  and  magnificence  of  the  finale  his  supreme  gifts  in  both  these  fields.  Not 
often  are  we  privileged  to  hear  such  a  confluence  of  double  genius  . . .  not  soon  can 
the  experience  be  forgotten. 


Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 
[Opus  61] 

THE  concerto  we  are  considering  here  was  written  by  Beethoven  during  one  of  his 
happiest  periods — although  it  was  also  a  period  of  great  political  disturbance  in 
Austria,  where  he  was  living*  The  work  was  completed  during  the  Napoleonic 
invasion,  when  French  officers  were  actually  quartered  in  the  same  house  with 
Beethoven.  .Indeed,  the  story  is  told  that  Beethoven,  entreated,  even  by  his  host 
and  patron,  to  play  for  the  foreigners,  refused  in  a  rage,  and  when  jestingly 
threatened  with  confinement  in  the  house  until  he  should  decide  to  play,  stole  away 
in  the  nighttime,  furious. 

The  concerto  is  universally  recognized  as  the  greatest  work  of  its  kind.  Its  first 
presentation  was  so  unsatisfactory  that  the  music  lay  neglected  for  a  very  long 
time.  It  was  written  for  Franz  Clement,  a  notable  musician  of  Vienna  in 
Beethoven's  time.  The  work  bristled  with  new  ideas,  new  technical  difficulties ;  yet 
it  is  told  that  it  was  played  without  rehearsal,  and  at  sight.  This  was  a  dubious 
tribute  to  the  soloist's  musicianship,  but  its  effect  upon  this  noble  music  was  even 
more  unfortunate.  It  is  not  surprising  that  after  the  miserable  <$>remtere  the  concerto 
was  seldom  played  until  the  great  virtuoso  Joachim  resurrected  it. 


110  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

In  a  peculiar  fashion  Beethoven,  in  the  present  work,  satisfies  both  the  old 
and  the  newer  concepts  of  the  concerto  as  a  musical  form.  He  could  never  have 
conceived  music  expressly  for  technical  display.  While  the  concerto  gives  oppor- 
tunity for  demonstration  of  technical  proficiency  that  would  satisfy  the  most 
exigent  modern  virtuoso,  it  has  even  greater  charm  and  beauty  in  its  compelling 
expression  of  noble  and  exalted  concepts. 

First  Movement 

It  will  be  a  joy  to  the  analytically  minded  musician  to  trace  in  these  wonder- 
ful measures  the  underlying  structure  of  Beethoven's  music.  It  will  be  somewhat 
more  difficult  for  the  average  music  lover  to  do  likewise,  not  because  the  work  is 
particularly  involved  or  academic,  but  because  the  loveliness  of  the  music  itself  is 
so  appealing  that  it  quite  conceals  structural  perfections,  and  leaves  one  free,  or 
rather  compels  one,  simply  to  listen  and  delight  in  its  colorful  beauty. 

The  orchestra  gives  us  the  more  important  thematic  material  almost  at  once. 
Four  strokes  upon  the  kettledrum  (sometimes  said  to  have  been  suggested  to  the 
composer  by  a  neighbor's  knocking  for  admittance  late  one  night)  precede  the 
announcement  of  the  oboes,  clarinets,  and  bassoons,  which  utter  the  first  theme  of 
the  movement.  The  kettledrums  interrupt  again,  and  the  second  phrase  of  the 
theme  appears,  still  in  the  woodwind.  Now  the  rhythm  is  transferred  from  the 
drums  to  the  first  violins,  which  imitate  the  beating  of  the  timpani  on  a  surprising 
repeated  tone — accidental  D  sharps.  Presently  the  second  theme  is  given  out  by 
woodwind  and  horn,  and  for  a  space  these  themes  are  developed  richly. 

The  solo  violin  enters  in  a  quickly  mounting  and  descending  figure.  With  this 
brief  introduction  we  hear  again  the  same  theme  that  occurred  at  the  beginning  of 
the  movement,  but  now  sung  with  passionate  intensity  in  the  keen  voice  of  the 
lone  violin,  .With  the  solo  instrument  stating  the  eloquent  themes  explicitly,  or 
erecting  upon  them  a  wondrously  embroidered  fabric  of  sound,  the  movement 
proceeds  toward  its  climax.  Meanwhile  almost  every  device  in  the  technical  reper- 
toire of  the  violinist  is  brought  into  play  in  the  marvelously  elaborated  develop- 
ment of  the  themes.  Trills  of  inconceivable  brilliance,  delicacy,  and  rapidity; 
glittering  figures  leaping  and  mounting;  now  a  sonorous  note  from  the  G  string, 
now  a  shining  harmonic  far  in  the  uppermost  ranges  of  the  instrument.  A  cascade 
of  glowing  tone,  varying,  shifting  in  light  and  color  almost  with  each  succeeding 
note. 

So  the  movement  proceeds.  Toward  the  end  of  the  first  movement  we  come 
upon  a  famous  cadenza.  A  movement  in  a  concerto  generally  ends  with  such  a 
display  passage  for  the  soloist.  Frequently  the  improvisation  of  the  cadenza  is  left 
to  the  skill  of  the  performer  himself,  though  Beethoven,  outraged  by  the  irrelevant 
musical  material  often  introduced  by  the  solo  players  of  his  day,  sometimes  wrote 


LUDWIG    VAN    BEETHOVEN  III 

out  very  explicit  instructions  for  it.  This  cadenza  is  a  creation  of  the  composer 
himself  and  is  one  of  the  finest  in  violin  literature.  Its  marvelous  elaboration  will 
be  at  once  apparent — but  listen  for  the  amazing  thing,  the  use  of  the  two  themes 
of  the  movement  blended  in  most  skillful  counterpoint! 
A  short  concluding  passage  follows  the  cadenza. 

Second  Movement 

From  the  fiery  brilliance  of  the  first  movement  Beethoven  now  turns  with 
powerful  contrast  to  an  almost  devotional  mood.  Even  technically,  the  change  in 
style  is  revolutionary.  Now  we  hear  the  themes  almost  entirely  in  the  orchestra, 
with  the  solo  violin's  clear  soprano  soaring  in  graceful  figure  above  them.  The 
pace  is  stately  and  slow;  the  orchestral  voices  rich  and  sonorous,  their  colors  a 
subdued  background  for  the  silvery  sweetness  of  the  violin. 

The  string  section  of  the  orchestra  opens  the  movement,  eloquently  discours- 
ing an  almost  religious  theme.  A  few  measures  farther  on,  the  horns  in  their 
loveliest  range  intone  brief  phrases,  and  strings,  together  with  the  soloist,  kter  with 
woodwind  added,  proceed  in  a  gentle  mood.  A  strange  solemnity  broods  over  all, 
in  spite  of  the  slowly  growing  brilliance  of  the  intricate  figuration  of  the  violin  in 
the  cadenza  near  the  close.  (A  cadenza  composed  by  Fritz  Kreisler  is  often  used 
toward  the  close  of  this  movement.) 

There  is  that  in  the  voice  of  the  violin  which  speaks  directly  to  something 
within  us,  something  defying  definition,  but  existent  and  recognized  by  all.  Like  a 
thin  blade  of  flame  it  penetrates  to  that  nameless  inner  sense  and  quickens  it  to 
intense  consciousness.  Whether  the  master  draws  from  his  instrument  a  tenuous, 
isolated  thread  of  sound,  floating  apart  from  the  orchestra  like  a  disembodied 
thing;  whether  he  conjures  from  the  frail  heart  of  the  violin  the  most  sonorous 
and  passionate  utterance,  it  is  a  tone  that  should  not  only  glow  and  burn  with  the 
fervor  of  the  composer's  song,  but  which  should  possess  intrinsic  beauty  and.  rich- 
ness capable  of  casting  a  mystic  and  glorifying  light  upon  any  note  it  sings. 

Third  Movement 

Beethoven  cast  the  final  movement  into  that  most  symmetrical  (since  it  is 
"circular")  form,  the  rondo.  The  rondo  is  the  musical  parallel  of  the  verse  form 
of  the  same  name  but  different  spelling — the  rondeau.  It  has  a  principal  theme 
and  incidental  themes.  After  excursions  among  the  latter,  it  returns  always  to  the 
chief  subject,  just  as  in  the  rondeau,  which  has  a  continually  recurring  line  at 
definite  intervals. 

The  movement  begins  without  pause  between  it  and  its  predecessor,  the  solo 
instrument  giving  out  the  theme  and  an  imitative  figure  answering  in  the  bass. 


112  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Presently  both  orchestra  and  violin  are  joined  in  the  merry,  dancelike  figure,  and 
the  music  grows  in  vigor  and  gaiety.  In  the  second  section  a  lovely  contrast  of  tone 
colors  appears  in  the  combination  of  strings  and  horns,  joined  in  a  bright  figure 
suggestive  of  a  hunting  call. 

Toward  the  close  appears  another  cadenza,  usually  the  "Kreisler  cadenza," 
embodying  the  chief  theme  and  rhythm  of  the  movement.  A  long  trill  leads  to  the 
brief  conclusion. 


Overture  to  "Coriolanus" 

RICHARD  WAGNER  wrote  an  extraordinarily  penetrating  appreciation  of  this  pas- 
sionately dramatic  music,  and  in  it  referred  to  Coriolanus  "the  man  of  force 
untamable,  unfitted  for  a  hypocrite's  humility."  He  might  have  been  speaking  of 
Beethoven  himself,  and  indeed  it  is  not  strange  that  a  hero  who  could  be  so 
described  should  appeal  so  powerfully  to  the  imagination  of  Beethoven.  For  he  too 
was  untamable  and  restless  and  proud  5  he  too  was  capable  of  supreme  sacrifice 
for  the  sake  of  the  dominating  principle  of  his  life. 

The  Coriolanus  of  this  music  is  not  the  hero  of  the  Shakespearean  play,  but  of 
a  tragedy  by  the  German  poet  and  dramatist,  Heinrich  von  Collin.  Coriolanus,  a 
Roman  patrician,  is  banished  from  his  native  city,  and  allies  himself  with  its 
enemies.  The  peripeteia  is  brought  about  in  the  scene  wherein  the  haughty,  stub- 
born, proud,  and  yet  somehow  noble  nature  of  the  aristocrat  is  broken  by  the 
promptings  of  his  inmost  conscience,  reinforced  by  the  pleadings  of  his  mother  and 
his  wife.  Under  such  persuasions  he  returns  to  his  original  allegiance,  even  though 
his  beloved  Rome  is  in  the  hands  of  the  mob;  and  he  returns  to  certain  death. 

Beethoven,  in  the  overture,  does  not  attempt  to  outline  the  progress  of  the 
whole  drama,  but  with  his  sure  dramatic  instinct  seizes  upon  the  critical  moment 
described  above,  and  puts  it  into  music  of  raging  power,  of  nobility,  and  of  pathetic 
beauty. 

The  strings,  in  unison,  speak  in  three  powerful  utterances,  and  three  times 
they  are  answered  by  mighty  chords  in  full  orchestra.  There  are  two  principal 
themes:  the  first,  heroic,  yet  troubled  and  restless,  is  a  figure  of  Coriolanus  in  his 
spiritual  distress;  the  second  suggests  the  personal  characteristics  of  the  man.  Both 
are  wonderfully  developed  in  opposition  and  contrast.  Later,  a  f  uguelike  figure  in 
the  violins,  against  a  figured  accompaniment  by  viola  and  cello,  might  suggest  the 
pleadings  of  the  hero's  dear  ones,  and  the  furious  argument  that  rages  within  his 
own  conscience.  There  are  reappearances  of  the  first  and  second  themes,  and  with 
the  coming  of  the  latter  the  marvelous  conclusion,  descriptive  of  the  death  of 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN 


Coriolanus,  begins.  Here  is  music  of  violence  and  tragedy,  yet  the  catharsis  of  the 
classical  drama  is  present  in  the  pathetic  dying  away  of  the  music,  and  the  pity 
that  glows  in  the  gentle  closing  measures. 


Consecration  of  the  House — Overture 

[Opus  124] 

THIS  overture  has  been  seldom  heard  in  America  until  recently  for  reasons 
difficult  to  discover,  for  while  it  certainly  is  not  Beethoven  at  his  Olympian  best, 
it  is  Beethoven,  and  this  composer  exhibiting  any  degree  of  his  musical  gifts  can 
hardly  be  ignored.  It  is  of  interest  to  recall  that  Die  Weihe  des  Hauses  was  chosen 
as  the  first  work  ever  to  be  pkyed  by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  and  was 
the  opening  number  on  the  first  program  ever  to  be  played  in  Symphony  Hall,  the 
home  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  The  overture  was  composed  for  the 
opening  of  the  Josephstadter  Theater  in  Vienna,  which  took  place  on  October  3, 
1822,  preceding  the  performance  of  a  play  by  C.  Meisl.  A  friend  and  companion 
of  Beethoven  leaves  us  an  interesting  note  concerning  the  composition  of  this- 
overture: 

September  had  arrived,  and  it  was  full  time  to  set  to  work  at  the  new 
composition;  for  Beethoven  had  long  been  aware  that  the  overture  to  "The 
Ruins  of  Athens"  was  unsuited  to  the  opening  of  the  new  theater.  As  his 
nephew  and  I  were  walking  with  him  one  day  in  the  lovely  Helenenthal  near 
Baden,  he  asked  us  to  go  on  a  little,  and  wait  for  him  at  a  spot  which  he 
pointed  out.  It  was  not  long  before  he  joined  us,  when  he  said  that  he  had 
booked  two  subjects  for  the  overture.  He  talked  a  good  deal  on  the  plan  of 
treatment  he  should  adopt,  and  explained  that  one  of  the  themes  must  be 
carried  out  in  a  free  style,  the  other  in  the  strict  style  of  Handel.  He  then, 
as  far  as  his  voice  would  allow,  sang  both  themes,  and  asked  which  we 
preferred. 

The  overture  is  sometimes  referred  to  as  the  "overture  in  HandeFs  style." 
One  will  have  to  strain  his  imagination  considerably  to  find  very  definite  similarities 
between  The  Consecration  of  the  House  and  any  overture  of  Handel,  except  that 
in  a  purely  formal  sense  there  is  a  certain  structural  similarity. 

The  music  opens  with  a  slow  introduction  followed  by  an  allegro  in  fugal 
style.  You  will  observe  that  the  sonorous  trombones,  which  sounded  so  con- 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

spicuously  in  the  introduction,  are  thereafter  abandoned.  Beethoven  seems  to  have 
had  a  special  regard  for  these  instruments,  reserving  them  for  special  effects  as, 
for  example,  in  the  finale  of  the  Fifth  Symphony. 

The  introductory  chords  here  are  followed  by  a  theme  given  to  woodwinds 
against  an  accompaniment  plucked  from  the  strings: 

On  this  melody,  together  with  the  subject  and  countersubject  of  the  fugal 
section,  the  whole  overture  is  based,  and  the  development  which  hardly  needs 
detailed  analysis  is  in  typical  Beethoven  style.  The  subject  matter  of  the  fugal 
section  is  as  follows: 


Familiarity  with  this  theme  will  reveal  the  structural  beauties  of  most  of 
the  overture. 


Quartet  in  F  major — Scherzo  and  Adagio 
[Opus  135] 

THE  F  major  was  the  last  quartet  Beethoven  composed,  and  his  last  work  but 
one  in  any  form.  It  was  completed,  as  the  date  inscribed  in  Beethoven's  own 
handwriting  on  the  original  autograph  tells  us,  on  October  26,  1826,  at  Gneixen- 
dorf.  The  following  March  he  was  dead.  Arturo  Toscanini  has  performed  a 
signal  service  to  the  wider  appreciation  of  Beethoven's  music  by  transcribing  for 
string  orchestra  the  scherzo  and  adagio  from  the  quartet.  These  movements  were 
played  by  the  NBC  Symphony  Orchestra,  under  Arturo  Toscanini's  direction,  for 
the  first  time  at  a  concert  broadcast  in  the  season  of  1938—39  and  repeated  and 
recorded  by  public  demand.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  last  quartets  of  Beethoven  are  even 
today  the  least  widely  known  and  the  most  misunderstood  of  his  works.  Through- 
out his  entire  life,  Beethoven  was  always  well  in  advance  both  of  the  taste  and 
the  understanding  of  his  time.  Even  such  works  as  the  "Eraicd*  made  their  way 


LUDWIG     VAN     BEETHOVEN  115 

slowly  at  first,  but  these  quartets  are  exceptional  in  that  it  was  only  many  decades 
after  Beethoven's  death  that  they  began  to  achieve  a  measure  of  popularity  among 
small  circles  of  discriminating  students  of  music.  Today,  because  of  the  growing 
popularity  of  chamber  music,  they  have  become  known  to  a  wider  audience, 
perhaps,  than  ever  before.  Needless  to  say,  Beethoven's  contemporaries  could  make 
little  or  nothing  of  them.  When  a  friend  brought  to  him  upon  his  sickbed  the  news 
that  the  Opus  132  Quartet  had  failed  to  please  the  critics,  his  only  reply  was  that 
someday  it  would.  That  day  has  not  yet  finally  come,  for  a  very  large  percentage 
of  those  who  have  been  profoundly  stirred  by  the  majestic  sweep  of  the  C  minor 
Symphony  have  yet  to  discover  the  subtler  glories  of  the  late  quartets.  The  listener 
for  whom  the  present  music  constitutes  a  first  acquaintance  with  the  maturest 
product  of  Beethoven's  genius  is  almost  to  be  envied,  for  he  is  on  the  threshold 
of  a  new  world  of  musical  and  emotional  experience:  a  world  that  he  must 
cultivate  patiently  and  assiduously,  for  the  mystery  of  its  impossible  sorrow  lies 
buried  deep  within  the  recesses  of  a  colossal  peace  into  which  Beethoven  had 
poured  the  anguish  and  the  torment  of  his  last  years. 

There  is  nothing  to  explain  and  little  to  describe  in  this  music,  Mr.  Toscanini's 
transcription  requires  a  string  section  of  almost  impossible  perfection,  especially 
when  the  music  is  driven  along  by  a  spirit  so  fierce  and  so  exigent  as  that  of  the 
great  Italian  maestro.  The  invincible  rhythmic  vitality  and  drive  of  this  movement 
in  the  hands  of  so  great  a  conductor  are  things  that  must  be  experienced,  as 
millions  of  radio  listeners  experienced  them  when  Mr.  Toscanini  conducted  this 
music.  The  adagio  seems  like  an  impassioned  threnody,  a  weeping  for  all  the 
sorrows  of  the  world  by  a  heart  great  enough  to  contain  them.  Opportunities  to 
hear  this  music  in  actuality  must  be  few,  yet  since  it  represents  one  facet  of 
Toscanini's  genius,  and  since  perhaps  millions  have  been  moved  by  his  performance 
of  it,  the  music  must  be  noted  here. 


HECTOR  BERLIOZ 

[1803-1869] 

THE  GREAT  MUSICAL  romanticist  Hector  Berlioz  was  born  near  Grenoble, 
December  II,  1803,  the  son  of  a  country  doctor.  His  father  wished  that 
Hector  should  succeed  him  in  the  medical  profession,  and  the  leanings  of 
the  lad  toward  music  were  severely  frowned  upon;  for  to  the  practical  doctor 
music  was  a  frivolous  diversion,  not  to  be  considered  as  a  career.  Berlioz  therefore 
had  few  opportunities  to  pursue  the  art  in  his  boyhood.  He  was  nineteen  years  old 
before  he  received  any  systematic  musical  training,  and  even  then  he  gained  his 
point  only  after  disagreements  with  and  financial  desertion  by  his  parents. 

In  1822,  Berlioz  was  enrolled  at  medical  school  in  Paris.  His  lack  of  interest, 
and  a  horror  of  the  dissecting  room,  made  him  decide  definitely  and  finally  in 
favor  of  a  musical  career.  He  so  informed  his  parents  who,  after  vainly  pleading 
and  threatening,  cut  off  their  support.  He  was  admitted,  after  private  study,  to  the 
Conservatoire.  During  seven  years  at  this  famous  school,  Berlioz  was  almost  con- 
tinually in  conflict  with  his  teachers;  for  their  academic  point  of  view  and  methods 
irked  him,  and  like  so  many  gifted  with  great  facility,  he  left  weak  places  in  the 
structure  of  his  musical  development  by  taking  what  he  thought  were  "short  cuts," 
and  by  contempt  for  certain  fundamental  rules  which,  however  dull  and  perhaps 
senselessly  applied  by  his  teachers,  were  nevertheless  necessary  for  rounded  and 
full  artistic  attainments. 

In  1830  the  composer  won  the  Prix  de  Rome,  but  after  staying  eighteen 
months  in  Italy  on  this  scholarship  he  returned  to  Paris.  In  the  following  years 
he  became  known  and  admired  the  length  and  breadth  of  Europe — except  in  Paris, 
where  perhaps  the  fact  that  he  wrote  for  the  symphony  orchestra  rather  than  for 
the  exploitation  of  pretty  girls  and  not  necessarily  pretty  singers  at  the  Opera  had 
something  to  do  with  the  tardiness  of  the  French  public's  response. 

When  music  failed  to  pay  his  way,  Berlioz  turned  to  journalism,  and  wrote 
with  an  eloquent  and  effective  pen.  To  his  Memoirs  we  owe  many  a  priceless  side- 
light on  music  and  musicians  of  his  time.  He  was  a  musical  megalomaniac — we 
still  have  them — and  suggested  orchestras  of  as  many  as  four  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  instruments,  to  be  used  with  a  chorus  of  three  hundred  and  sixty  voices; 
four  chorus  masters,  and  two  assistant  conductors,  one  for  woodwind  and  one  for 
percussion,  who  were  to  take  their  cues  from  the  conductor-in-chief,  Hector 
Berlioz. 

He  had  a  positive  genius  for  orchestration,  notwithstanding  some  fantastic 
ideas  such  as  the  above.  He  was  the  first  composer  really  to  exploit  the  full  tonal 
resources  of  the  symphony  orchestra,  and  the  standard  instrumentation  of  the 

116 


HECTOR     BERLIOZ  IIJ 

orchestra  of  today  owes  much  to  him.  He  was  not  among  the  greatest  of  com- 
posers, but  certainly  is  among  the  most  entertaining. 


Selections  from  "The  Damnation  of  Faust" 

WAGNER  and  Gounod  and  Liszt,  among  others,  have  been  concerned  with  the 
legend  of  Faust,  who  sold  his  soul  to  the  Devil  in  a  not  wholly  inequitable  ex- 
change for  youth  and  love.  Berlioz,  he  of  the  wild  imagination  and  fierce  passions 
and  extraordinary,  if  imperfectly  developed,  gifts,  was  completely  fascinated  by 
Goethe's  version,  and  he  wrote,  "For  some  time  there  has  been  a  symphony  descrip- 
tive of  Faust  fermenting  in  my  head;  when  I  liberate  it,  it  will  terrify  the  musical 
world."  We  could  scarcely  doubt  either  the  potency  of  the  ferment  or  the  alarming 
effect  upon  the  world  if  Berlioz  had  turned  loose  all  his  fully  developed  forces 
upon  this  project.  The  music  took  the  form  of  "Eight  Scenes"  in  the  career  of  Dr. 
Faust,  and  in  its  presentation  was  one  of  Berlioz3  most  distinguished  failures. 

Nevertheless,  the  "Scenes"  contained  much  delightful  music,  and  the  excerpts 
mentioned  here  frequently  find  their  way  into  symphony  programs. 

Invocation  and  Dance  of  the  Will-oy-the-WiS'ps 

The  Devil  calls  forth  his  dark  crew  to  surround  and  hold  in  their  powers  the 
house  of  the  maiden  Marguerite;  and  the  baleful  will-o'-the-wisps  come  following 
quickly,  glowing  in  the  night  like  venomous  ephemera.  But  the  minuet  of  the 
sprightly  creatures  is  infinitely  graceful  and  delicate. 

Dance  of  the  Sylfhs 

Fantastic  creatures,  elves  and  sylphs,  charm  the  perturbed  Faust  to  slumber 
with  song  and  eerie  music,  and  they  fill  his  helpless  mind  with  sweet  voluptuous 
dreams,  and  the  fair  vision  of  the  desired  Marguerite. 


Rakoczy  March 

THIS  tremendously  exciting  and — considering  the  dynamic  resources  of  the  or- 
chestra— exacting  music  is  perhaps  Berlioz'  best-known  music.  It  was  originally 
written  as  a  Marche  hongroi$e3  the  theme  being  a  characteristic  Hungarian  tune, 


Il8  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

probably  of  great  antiquity.  The  composer  himself,  in  his  autobiography,  gives  a 
description  of  the  music  and  of  its  electrifying  effect  when  first  performed  at 
Budapest.  "When  the  day  came  my  throat  tightened,  as  it  did  in  time  of  great 
perturbation.  First  the  trumpets  gave  out  the  rhythm,  then  the  flutes  and  clarinets 
softly  outlining  the  theme,  with  a  pizzicato  accompaniment  of  the  strings,  the 
audience  remaining  calm  and  judicial.  Then,  as  there  came  a  long  crescendo, 
broken  by  dull  beats  of  the  bass  drum,  like  the  sound  of  distant  cannon,  a  strange 
restless  movement  was  to  be  heard  among  the  people;  and  as  the  orchestra  let 
itself  go  in  a  cataclysm  of  sweeping  fury  and  thunder,  they  could  contain  them- 
selves no  longer,  their  overcharged  souls  burst  with  a  tremendous  explosion  of  feel- 
ing that  raised  my  hair  with  terror.  I  lost  all  hope  of  making  the  end  audible,  and 
in  the  encore  it  was  no  better;  hardly  could  they  contain  themselves  long  enough 
to  hear  a  portion  of  the  coda." 

Berlioz  knew  that  the  tune,  Rakoczy,  was  like  an  expression  of  fierce  patriotic 
feeling  to  the  Hungarians;  he  did  not,  however,  expect  such  a  reception  as  this  for 
his  new  and  unconventional  version  of  it. 


Overture  Carnaval  romam 

THIS  delightfully  exciting  music  was  written  originally  to  serve  as  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  second  act  of  Berlioz'  unfortunate  opera,  Benvenuto  Cellmi.  Indeed,  it 
includes  some  of  the  music  which,  because  of  the  stupid  performance  given  it  at  the 
<preiruerey  contributed  to  the  failure  of  the  opera:  the  saltarello,  the  wild  Italian 
dance  which  occurs  in  the  second  act,  and  intimations  of  which  can  be  discerned 
in  the  introduction  to  this  overture. 

There  is  an  introduction,  beginning  with  fiery  and  energetic  rhythm,  which 
presently  relaxes  for  the  presentation,  by  cor  angldsy  of  the  melody  of  Benvenuto's 
love  song  in  the  first  act.  The  music  grows  in  swiftness  and  in  excitement,  and  the 
saltarello,  of  impetuous  rhythm  and  highly  elaborated  figuration,  is  delivered  with 
glowing  brilliance.  The  two  chief  subjects  are  developed  together,  the  dance  figure 
finally  becoming  dominant,  urging  the  music  onward  to  the  powerful  concluding 
measures. 


HECTOR     BERLIOZ  119 

Symphonic  f  antastique 

{Episode  in  the  Life  of  an  Artist] 

MUSICIANS,  unlike  novelists,  are  not  often  given  to  writing,  consciously,  autobiog- 
raphies in  their  compositions.  Richard  Strauss  did  so  deliberately  in  Bin  Helden~ 
leben;  Beethoven  perhaps  wrote  vital  chapters  of  his  life  in  the  Fifth,  and  else- 
where 5  but  no  one  else,  except  the  incorrigibly  romantic  Hector  Berlioz,  has  given 
a  detailed,  literal,  and  candid  exposition  of  his  emotional  life.  He  was  a  man  of 
fantastic  imagination,  of  powerful  passions,  of  undoubted  genius.  His  one  satisfy- 
ing means  of  expression  was  music,  and  when  the  central  fact  of  his  life — or  at 
least  what  he  took  to  be  the  central  fact — resulted  in  heartburnings  and  tragic 
disappointments,  music  was  his  refuge,  his  release,  his  "escape  mechanism/5 

The  Fantastic  Symphony  was  written  as  the  outgrowth  of  Berlioz*  mad  pas- 
sion for  the  celebrated  Irish  actress,  Harriet  Constance  (Henrietta)  Smithson.  It 
was  played  for  the  first  time,  at  Paris,  December  5,  1830.  The  ambiguous  sugges- 
tions of  the  final  movement  can  be  accounted  for  by  Berlioz*  bitter  and  almost 
insane  grief  when  calumnious  stories  as  to  the  character  of  Miss  Smithson  came 
to  his  ears.  He  revised  this  movement,  but  the  music  remains.  The  composer  made 
handsome  apologies  for  crediting  evil  report  'about  his  lady,  and,  three  years  after 
the  symphony  was  first  performed,  they  were  married.  They  were  not  happy. 

When  the  score  was  published,  Berlioz  inserted  a  preface  which  constitutes 
adequate  comment  on  the  significance  of  the  music.  Following  is  the  translation,  by 
Harriet  Bret,  which  is  printed  with  the  French  version  by  Berlioz  in  the  edition  of 
the  symphony  published  in  1900  by  Breitkopf  &  Hartel: 

Program  of  the  Symphony 

"A  young  musician  of  unhealthily  sensitive  nature  and  endowed  with  vivid 
imagination  has  poisoned  himself  with  opium  in  a  paroxysm  of  lovesick  despair. 
The  narcotic  dose  he  had  taken  was  too  weak  to  cause  death,  but  it  has  thrown 
him  into  a  long  sleep  accompanied  by  the  most  extraordinary  visions.  In  this  con- 
dition his  sensations,  his  feelings,  and  his  memories  find  utterance  in  his  sick  brain 
in  the  form  of  musical  imagery.  Even  the  Beloved  One  takes  the  form  of  a  melody 
in  his  mind,  like  a  fixed  idea  which  is  ever  returning  and  which  he  hears  every- 
where. (This  recurring  melody,  or  idee  fixe,  which  typifies  the  Beloved  One,  is 
first  heard  in  the  allegro,  in  C  major.) 

First  Movement 
Dreams,  Passions 

"At  first  he  thinks  of  the  uneasy  and  nervous  condition  of  his  mind,  of  somber 
longings,  of  depression  and  joyous  elation  without  any  recognizable  cause,  which 


I2O  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

he  experienced  before  the  Beloved  One  had  appeared  to  him.  Then  he  remembers 
the  ardent  love  with  which  she  suddenly  inspired  him;  he  thinks  of  his  almost  in- 
sane anxiety  of  mind,  of  his  raging  jealousy,  of  his  reawakening  love,  of  his 
religious  consolation. 

Second  Movement 
A  Ball 

"In  a  ballroom,  amidst  the  confusion  of  a  brilliant  festival,  he  finds  the  Beloved 
One  again. 

Third  Movement 
Scene  in  the  Fields 

"It  is  a  summer  evening.  He  is  in  the  country,  musing,  when  he  hears  two 
shepherd  lads  who  play,  in  alternation,  the  ranz  des  vaches  (the  tune  used  by  the 
Swiss  shepherds  to  call  their  flocks).  This  pastoral  duet,  the  quiet  scene,  the  soft 
whisperings  of  the  trees  stirred  by  the  zephyr  wind,  some  prospects  of  hope  recently 
made  known  to  him,  all  these  sensations  unite  to  impart  a  long  unknown  repose 
to  his  heart  and  to  lend  a  smiling  color  to  his  imagination.  And  then  She  appears 
once  more.  His  heart  stops  beating,  painful  forebodings  fill  his  soul.  "Should  she 
prove  false  to  him!"  One  of  the  shepherds  resumes  the  melody,  but  the  other 
answers  him  no  more.  . .  „  Sunset .  .  .  distant  rolling  of  thunder  .  .  .  loneliness  . .  . 
silence. „ . . 

Fourth  Movement 
March  to  the  Scaffold 

"He  dreams  that  he  has  murdered  his  Beloved,  that  he  has  been  condemned 
to  death,  and  is  being  led  to  execution.  A  march  that  is  alternately  somber  and 
wild,  brilliant  and  solemn,  accompanies  the  procession.  .  .  .  The  tumultuous  out- 
bursts are  followed  without  modulation  by  measured  steps.  At  last  the  fixed  idea 
returns,  for  a  moment  a  last  thought  of  love  is  revived — which  is  cut  short  by  the 
deathblow. 

Fifth  Movement 
Witched  Sabbath 

"He  dreams  that  he  is  present  at  a  witches'  revel,  surrounded  by  horrible  spirits, 
amidst  sorcerers  and  monsters  in  many  fearful  forms,  who  have  come  together  for 
his  funeral.  Strange  sounds,  groans,  shrill  laughter,  distant  yells,  which  other 
cries  seem  to  answer.  The  Beloved  Melody  is  heard  again,  but  it  has  lost  its  shy 
and  noble  character;  it  has  become  a  vulgar,  trivial  and  grotesque  dance  tune.  She 
it  is  who  comes  to  attend  the  witches'  meeting.  Riotous  howls  and  shouts  greet  her 
arrival. 


HECTOR    BERLIOZ  121 

"She  joins  the  infernal  orgy  .  .  .  bells  toll  for  the  dead  ...  a  burlesque  parody 
of  the  Dies  Irae  .  .  .  the  witches'  round  dance  .  .  .  the  dance  and  the  Dies  Irae  are 
heard  together." 

The  orchestration  of  the  symphony,  as  usual  with  Berlioz,  is  heavy  and  at  the 
same  time  brilliant.  There  are  moments  of  poignant  beauty — and  of  outrageous 
bombast;  also  according  to  the  characteristic  Berlioz.  Under  the  first  heading  comes 
the  lovely  pastoral  duet  of  oboe  and  horn,  in  the  third  movement;  under  the  latter, 
the  abandoned  outbursts  of  the  "Scene  of  the  Sabat" — the  fantastic  Black  Mass 
celebrated  in  the  final  movement.  The  gross  burlesque  of  the  Dies  Irae,  a  hymn 
for  the  dead  in  the  requiem  Mass  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  is  an  effective 
trick  which  Berlioz  was  neither  the  first  nor  the  last  to  employ.  Among  the  un- 
usual directions  for  playing  the  music  are  these:  four  timpani  are  to  be  played 
separately  by  four  musicians  (third  movement) ;  bass  drum  is  to  be  set  on  its  side 
and  played  with  kettledrum  sticks  by  two  players  (last  movement). 


The  idee  fixe  in  its  entirety  is  reproduced  here  as  a  matter  of  interest.  This 
theme  appears  in  every  movement  of  the  symphony.  Its  treatment  is  often  highly 
symbolic,  as  can  be  noted  in  the  fourth  movement  where  it  is  cut  off — even  as  a 
kst  thought  of  one's  beloved — by  the  death  stroke.  In  the  fifth  and  last  movement, 
the  treatment  is  even  more  programmatic.  Here  the  young  musician  pictures  him- 
self as  dead  .  .  .  and  attending  the  "Witches'  Sabbath."  He  is  "in  the  midst  of  a 
frightful  group  of  ghosts,  magicians,  and  monsters  of  all  sorts,  who  have  come  to- 
gether for  his  obsequies."  There  are  groans,  laughter,  howling,  shrieks  .  .  .  and 
then  suddenly  "the  Beloved  Melody  is  heard  again,  but  it  has  lost  its  shy  and  noble 
character;  it  has  become  a  vulgar,  trivial,  and  grotesque  dance  tune."  It  seems  to 
mock  him  as  it  is  squeaked  out  by  an  E-flat  clarinet,  later  assisted  by  a  piccolo. 
And  then  at  the  close,  the  Dies  Irae  develops  into  a  wild  fantastic  orgy.  You  can 
readily  visualize  the  young  musician,  writhing  in  a  cold  perspiration  on  his  bed, 
as  his  drug-distorted  mind  pictures  this  terrible  scene.  It  is  a  notable  bit  of  orchestral 
programmatic  composition — the  material  that  serves  to  link  Beethoven  and  his 
pure  classic  subjectivity  with  such  a  titan  as  Wagner  in  whom  we  have  the  objec- 
tive carried  to  its  very  zenith. 


122  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Overture  to  the  Opera  "Benvenuto  Cellini" 

HECTOR  BERLIOZ,  famous  as  a  critic  and  musical  humorist  as  well  as  composer, 
did  not  hesitate  to  turn  his  wit  upon  his  own  music  occasionally.  Commenting  on 
the  first  performance  of  his  opera  Benvenuto  Cellini)  on  September  10,  1838,  he 
remarked,  "The  overture  received  exaggerated  applause,  but  the  rest  was  hissed 
with  admirable  energy  and  unanimity/5 

There  were  reasons.  Despite  the  attractiveness  and  potentialities  of  the  sub- 
ject, the  libretto  was  inept;  the  musicians  were  not  impressed  by  the  music;  the 
singers  did  poorly;  the  conductor  was  in  a  continual  bad  humor.  Berlioz,  in  his 
memoirs,  relates  all  these  discouraging  circumstances  with  admirable  frankness. 
The  opera  has  not  survived,  but  the  rather  flamboyant  overture  is  in  the  repertoire 
of  most  symphony  orchestras. 

Like  all  good  overtures,  it  embodies  thematic  material  taken  from  the  opera, 
but,  unlike  the  best  overtures,  does  not  condense  and  synthesize  the  drama  itself. 
It  is  notable  for  its  inexhaustible  vigor  and  fulsome  elaboration,  for  the  genuinely 
lovely  melody  (sung  in  the  opera  by  the  philandering  Cellini  to  his  love)  for  flute, 
oboe,  and  clarinet.  Indications  of  Berlioz3  yearning  for  orchestras  of  prodigious 
size  and  effect  can  be  observed  near  the  end,  where  the  entire  brass  choir  is  en- 
listed in  a  theme  intimated  near  the  beginning,  while  three  kettledrums,  tuned  to  a 
major  chord,  are  mercilessly  pounded. 


GEORGES  BIZET 

[1838-1875] 

AXANDRE  CESAR  LEOPOLD  BIZET  was  born  in  Paris,  October  25,  1838* 
His  godfather  nicknamed  him  "Georges,"  and  as  Georges  he  is  known 
to  the  world  at  large.  Both  of  his  parents  were  musical,  and  the  child  was 
but  four  years  of  age  when  his  mother  began  giving  him  instruction  upon  the 
piano.  Like  other  infant  prodigies  an  absorbing  musical  interest  dominated  his  exist- 
ence, and  he  showed  little  liking  for  normal  childish  play.  His  greatest  enjoyment 
was  sitting  crouched  outside  the  door  of  his  father's  studio  listening  intently  to  the 
vocal  instruction  that  went  on  inside.  When  he  was  about  eight  years  old  his  father 
desired  to  begin  the  lad's  musical  education  in  earnest,  and  was  astonished  to  learn 
how  much  the  boy  already  knew.  A  retentive  memory  and  an  innate  musical  in- 
telligence had  mastered  many  difficulties  for  the  youth.  When  the  father  took 
the  boy  to  the  conservatory,  his  extreme  youth  appeared  a  barrier,  but  his  fund  of 
knowledge  so  completely  won  the  admiration  of  the  members  of  the  committee 
of  studies  that  he  was  admitted,  and  in  six  months  had  taken  the  prize  for  soljege* 

Zimmermann,  teacher  of  counterpoint  at  the  conservatory,  was  in  poor  health 
and  about  to  retire  when  the  talent  of  young  Bizet  came  to  his  attention.  He  be- 
came so  interested  in  the  boy  that  he  made  an  exception  in  his  case,  and  took  him 
as  a  pupil.  Bizet's  scholastic  career-  b6th  in  musical  science  and  as  an  executant  at 
the  piano  was  meteoric.  He  played  with  a  brilliance  of  technique,  and  could  with 
gentle  or  intense  finger  pressure  lift  a  melody  from  its  accompanying  harmonic 
intricacies  in  a  way  that  charmed  his  hearers.  His  teachers  said  of  him  that  he 
was  a  "remarkable  virtuoso,  a  fearless  reader,  and  a  model  accompanist."  His  ability 
to  arrange  at  sight  for  piano  the  most  difficult  orchestral  score  drew  admiring  com- 
ment from  the  great  Berlioz  himself. 

When  Zimmermann  died,  Bizet  studied  composition  with  Halevy,  whose 
daughter  he  later  married.  Halevy  welcomed  him  and  said  that  he  was  already  fit 
to  participate  in  a  contest  for  the  Grand  Prix.  His  youth,  however,  militated  against 
him,  and  even  though  he  waited  before  submitting  a  composition,  the  jury  awarded 
him  only  a  second  prize.  Another  coveted  prize  which  he  won  before  his  twentieth 
year  entitled  him  to  a  three-year  sojourn  in  Rome  at  government  expense,  after 
which  Bizet  returned  to  Paris.  Here  he  found  himself  confronted  with  the  hard- 
ships which  beset  so  many  young  musicians — chiefly,  to  nourish  the  body  while  the 
soul  clamors  to  create.  Bizet  was  obliged  to  meet  the  cost  of  living  by  giving  piano 
lessons,  writing  transcriptions,  and  arranging  orchestrations,  when  he  would  have 
liked  to  devote  his  entire  time  to  composition.  Opportunity  eventually  came  to  him 
when  a  patron  of  the  arts  made  a  gift  of  100,000  francs  to  the  Theatre-Lyrique. 
This  fund  provided  for  a  commission  to  compose  an  opera  to  the  libretto  of  The 
Pearl  Fishers.  Bizet  was  intensely  interested  ui  the  theater,  and  put  every  effort 

123 


124  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

into  the  work.  His  opera,  The  Pearl  Fishers,  won  the  prize,  and  quickly  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  colorful  UArlestenne  music,  incidental  to  Daudet's  drama.  The  opera 
Carmeny  now  so  popular,  was  unsuccessful  at  its  first  performance  in  1875*  The 
composer  died  three  months  later  at  Bouvigal,  near  Paris. 


Excerpts  from  "L'Arlesienne^ 
[First  Suite] 

BIZET  wrote  twenty-seven  pieces  as  incidental  music  to  Daudet's  drama.  Five  of 
them  are  usually  associated  in  this  popular  suite.  It  is  not  essential  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  music  to  know  the  story  of  Daudet's  drama,  yet  a  short  outline  may  add  to 
the  interest.  It  is  a  curious  story  in  that  the  heroine  at  no  time  appears  on  the 
scene.  Frederi,  a  young  farmer,  is  madly  in  love  with  PArlesienne,  a  woman  of 
the  town,  and  wishes  to  marry  her.  His  family  dissuade  him  on  account  of  her 
scarlet  past,  and  arrange  a  marriage  between  him  and  Vivette,  whom  he  has  known 
since  childhood.  Vivette  has  always  loved  him,  and  wedding  plans  are  made.  On 
the  eve  of  the  celebration,  Frederi  hears  strains  of  the  f  arandole,  a  dance  in  which 
PArlesienne  was  particularly  alluring.  The  hopelessness  of  his  passion  for  her  over- 
powers him,  and  he  casts  himself  from  the  loft  of  the  farmhouse,  crushing  his 
skull  on  the  pavement  below. -By  his  death  his  gentle,  simple-minded  brother,  called 
the  "Innocent,"  regains  full  reason.  The  tragedy  of  the  tale  is  relieved  by  its  sub- 
ordinate theme — the  tender  love  story  of  Balthazar  and  Mere  Renaud,  who  have 
loved  one  another  for  years.  She  had  become  the  wife  of  another,  but  he  remained 
true  to  his  love  for  her,  which  is  rekindled  when  they  meet  at  the  betrothal  of 
Frederi  and  Vivette. 

The  Prelude 

The  Prelude  is  a  series  of  variations  upon  a  march  theme  said  to  be  an  old 
French  Christmas  tune.  Harmony  and  melodic  shading  are  pitted  one  against  the 
other  from  the  rhythmically  stirring  beginning.  Strings  martially  announce  a  sub- 
ject which  the  reeds  answer  and  gradually,  with  the  perfect  understanding  of 
orchestration  which  was  Bizet's,  the  other  instruments  are  made  to  express  them- 
selves upon  the  same  theme.  A  passage  of  surpassing  beauty  written  originally  for 
the  saxophone,  but  played  generally  by  the  clarinet,  indicates  the  "Innocent,"  and 
the  stormy  impassioned  theme  which  follows  represents  the  love  madness  of 
Frederi. 


GEORGES    BIZET  125 

The  Minuet  to 

This  charmingly  quaint  melody  played  staccato  in  the  strings  and  wind  instru- 
ments is  said  "to  denote  the  tender  and  resigned  affection  of  Balthazar  and  Mere 
Renaud."  There  is  a  middle  portion  played  by  clarinet,  with  string  accompani- 
ment, that  sings  a  lovely  strain.  It  is  followed  by  violins,  with  running  harp  and 
woodwind  obbligato.  All  the  way  through  the  minuet  there  is  a  quiet  glow,  a  wist- 
ful yearning,  suggesting  the  gentleness  which  in  the  pkcid  middle  years  has  replaced 
the  flame  of  impassioned  youthful  love. 

The  Adagietto 

The  strings  alone  are  used  in  this  exquisite  music,  which  was  played  in  the 
drama  during  the  dialogue  between  the  aged  lovers.  It  creates  an  atmosphere  of 
tenderest  reminiscent  love  —  the  love  of  which  the  right  to  expression  was  gained 
only  through  the  death  of  Mere  Renaud's  husband.  Like  a  bit  of  old  lace,  a  faded 
photograph,  or  a  cherished  memento  of  the  past,  this  hauntingly  beautiful  melody 
has  a  curious  pathos  that  touches  even  the  most  unsentimental. 


Dcmse  'prove 

A  rollicking  country  dance  with  marked  rhythm  given  out  by  strings,  and  a 
lilting  melody  played  by  the  woodwinds,  flute,  and  piccolo,  depict  the  peasants 
attired  in  festive  raiment  making  merry  upon  the  village  green.  They  are  cele- 
brating the  approaching  marriage  of  Vivette  and  Frederi  »  •  .  a  celebration  to  be 
tragically  ended. 

Carillon 

This  is  the  betrothal  music,  and  the  bells  ring  in  honor  of  the  wedding.  Horns 
maintain  a  continuous  chime  against  a  gay  melody  in  the  violins.  In  retrospective 
tenderness  there  is  a  haunting  song  in  the  woodwinds  said  to  indicate  the  entrance 
of  Mere  Renaud.  Gradually  into  this  plaintive  theme  the  horns  project  their 
stentorian  tones,  re-establishing  the  effect  of  chimes,  with  which  the  music  is 
brought  to  a  close. 


Excerpts  from  "Carmen" 

BIZET  died  three  months  after  the  first  production  of  Carmen,  saddened  by  what 
appeared  to  be  its  complete  failure.  Today  it  is  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  all 
operas  of  its  genre,  and  of  all  such,  it  most  deserved  its  popularity  for  the  extraor- 


126  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

dinary  richness,  variety,  and  beauty  of  the  instrumental  score.  Much  of  its  music 
is  played  without  reference  to  the  opera  at  all,  and  the  favorite  selections  have 
been  grouped  in  a  collection  known  as  the  Carmen  Suite. 

Prelude  to  Act  I 

We  are  plunged  at  once  into  the  brilliance  and  febrile  restlessness  of  a  Spanish 
holiday,  just  before  the  bullfight.  Orchestral  colors  glow  and  flash,  and  reflect  the 
brilliant  colors  of  the  excited  scene.  The  sturdy  and  pompous  yet  gay-spirited 
rhythm  of  the  Toreador's  song  comes  in  the  middle  of  this  brief  overture. 

Soldiers  Changing  the  Guard 
[Act  I] 

A  brisk  march  tune,  with  fifes  and  trumpets,  indicates  the  approach  of  the 
"relief."  The  guards  in  their  bright  uniforms  come  down  the  street,  preceded  by 
laughing  urchins  who  mimic  the  proud  step  of  the  military  men. 

The  Dragoons  of  Alcala 
[Act  II} 

This  is  the  introduction  to  the  second  act;  music  associated  with  a  "crack 
regiment,"  one  of  the  many  groups  of  military  that  appear  from  time  to  time  on 
the  brilliant  and  crowded  stage  of  Carmen. 

Intermezzo 
{Act  III] 

For  the  first  time  in  the  suite  the  music  grows  lyrical.  This  is  the  introduction 
to  the  third  act  of  the  opera,  and  is  distinguished  by  one  of  Bizet's  loveliest  melo- 
dies, first  in  the  flute,  and  later  in  other  instruments.  The  harp  supplies  a  moving 
and  plangent  background. 

March  of  the  Smugglers 
[Act  III} 

Stealthy  music,  vividly  suggesting  the  action  of  the  opera,  wherein,  one  by 
one,  a  band  of  smugglers  scramble  down  over  harsh  and  barren  rocks  to  their 
primitive  camp  below. 


GEORGES     BIZET  12J 

Aragonaise 
[Act  IV] 

The  prelude  to  the  fourth  act  suggests,  in  a  musical  structure  remotely  related 
to  a  characteristic  Spanish  dance,  the  changing  mood  of  the  opera.  It  combines 
plaintiveness  and  passion  and  vague  premonitions  of  evil  in  wonderfully  colorful 
and  suggestive  music.  The  dance  rhythm  and  the  gypsy  influence  are  conspicuous ; 
and  after  an  impetuous  and  brilliant  climax  the  orchestra  withdraws  itself  into  an 
atmosphere  full  of  grave  portents. 


ERNEST  BLOCK 

[Born  1880] 

VENDOR  OF  cuckoo  clocks,  lecturer  on  metaphysics,  pedagogue,  educational 
administrator,  and  composer  of  music — such  is  the  variety  of  activity  in 
the  life  story  of  Ernest  Bloch.  He  was  born  July  24,  1880,  at  Geneva, 
Switzerland,  the  son  of  a  clock  merchant.  None  of  the  family  had  shown  musical 
inclinations,  but  Ernest  Bloch  early  evinced  great  talent  and  began  the  study  of 
the  violin.  On  reaching  the  age  of  eleven,  he  seriously  decided  to  devote  himself 
to  composition,  writing  his  resolve  on  a  piece  of  paper  which  he  burned  on  a  pile 
of  stones  as  though  carrying  out  some  ancient  rite  of  his  Hebraic  ancestors.  In 
accordance  with  his  resolve,  he  took  up  the  study  of  composition  with  Jaques- 
Dalcroze  at  Geneva  during  the  years  of  1893  to  I^97-  Later  he  left  home  and 
went  to  Brussels  where  he  studied  violin  with  Ysaye  and  composition  with  Rasse, 
a  pupil  of  Cesar  Franck.  Later  he  studied  with  Knorr  at  Frankfort  and  with 
Thuille  at  Munich,  where  he  wrote  his  first  symphony.  He  then  went  to  live  in 
Paris,  and  in  1904  to  Geneva.  Finding  his  family  in  difficult  circumstances,  he 
helped  by  working  as  clerk  in  his  mother's  shop.  It  was  during  this  period  that 
Romain  Rolland,  the  famous  author  of  Jean~Christo'phe  and  biographer  of  many 
of  the  great  composers,  visited  Bloch.  At  Paris,  Rolland  had  seen  the  score  of  the 
symphony,  then  in  manuscript.  Thrilled  by  the  beauty  and  originality  of  the  work, 
Rolland  made  the  long  trip  to  Geneva  to  become  acquainted  with  this  unheard-of 
composer.  At  Geneva  he  was  directed  to  a  souvenir  store.  Here  he  discovered  the 
composer  clambering  up  near  the  ceiling,  storing  away  mountain  climbers'  blouses. 
Rolland  expressed  surprise  and  alarm  at  finding  his  expected  genius  in  so  unesthetic 
an  attitude,  but  was  relieved  when  Bloch  explained  that  he  did  not  work  in  the 
shop  all  the  time.  The  visitor  expressed  his  happiness  to  learn  that  Bloch  gave  his 
time  when  out  of  the  shop  to  composition.  Bloch  corrected  him,  saying  that  when 
not  in  the  store  he  lectured  at  the  University  of  Geneva.  Greatly  impressed, 
Rolland  exclaimed,  "On  the  History  of  Music?"  "No,"  Bloch  again  corrected, 
"on  Metaphysics ! "  Such  is  the  versatility  of  his  genius. 

During  this  period  at  Geneva,  Bloch  conducted  orchestral  concerts  at  Lau- 
sanne and  Neuchatel,  and  composed  his  opera,  Macbeth  (Paris,  Opera-Comique, 
Nov.  30,  1910).  In  1915  Bloch  was  appointed  professor  at  the  Geneva  Con- 
servatory. The  following  year  he  moved  to  the  United  States,  and  in  1920  was 
made  director  of  the  Cleveland  Institute  of  Music.  This  position  he  resigned  in 
1925  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  composition.  Since  then  Bloch  has  made  his 
home  in  California. 

In  1928  Mr.  Bloch  gained  added  distinction  by  winning  Musical  America1* 
$3000  award  with  his  "epic  rhapsody,"  America.  This  work  was  accorded  the 
unusual  honor  of  almost  simultaneous  performance  by  a  number  of  the  leading 

128 


ERNEST    BLOCH  12<) 

orchestras  in  the  United  States.  In  1934  another  great  work,  ritualistic  but  unor- 
thodox in  character — his  Sacred  Service — came  from  his  pen  and  was  given  its 
first  performance  at  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York,  under  the  baton  of  the  composer. 
Although  Bloch  has  shown  himself  to  be  something  of  a  philosopher  and  in- 
terested in  the  pedagogical  aspect  of  his  art,  his  musical  compositions  reveal  him  to 
be  much  more  than  a  pedant,  a  seeker  for  intellectual  complexities,  or  a  lover  of 
the  merely  recondite.  His  music  is  convincingly  and  spontaneously  expressive  of  his 
personality  and  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  His  personality — at  least  so  Bloch 
himself  believes — is  the  result  of  generations  of  Jewish  ancestry,  and  thus  quite 
naturally  does  that  ancestry  find  a  powerful  voice  in  his  compositions.  The  earnest- 
ness, vehement  passion,  fervid  grief,  spiritual  exaltation  and,  contrasted  with  it, 
profound  dejection,  of  the  Old  Testament,  are  all  given  utterance  in  Bloch's 
music.  Yet  it  is  a  music  that  is  by  no  means  archaic;  it  is  most  intensely  modern. 


Schelomo 
Hebrew  Rhapsody  for  Violoncello  and  Orchestra 

ERNEST  BLOCK  has  frankly  dedicated  his  art  to  the  expression  of  racial  thought 
and  feeling:  not  through  borrowings  from  the  folk  music  of  the  Hebrew,  but 
rather  through  an  individual  idiom  which  Bloch  himself  has  developed  as  embody- 
ing his  own  powerful  race  consciousness.  Sacred  Service,  a  liturgy  for  Hebrew 
worship,  and  the  most  recent  composition  of  Bloch  to  be  performed  in  public,  is 
constructed  with  this  thought  in  mind,  and  certain  other  works,  such  as  the  Trots 
Poemes  juifs,  the  symphony  Israel,  musical  settings  for  some  of  the  Psalms,  and 
Schelomo,  are  studied  declarations  of  racial  feeling  and  philosophy. 

Schelomo  was  composed  in  1916,  and  has  had  many  enthusiastically  re- 
ceived performances  both  in  Europe  and  in  America. 

"Schelomo"  is,  of  course,  "Solomon,"  and  the  choice  of  the  cello  to  represent 
Israel's  most  glorious  ruler  is  an  eminently  happy  one.  Here  this  vital,  virile, 
passionate,  and  sometimes  meditative  voice  is  set  in  solitary  eminence  against  the 
full  splendors  of  the  orchestra.  Surely  Solomon  is  here  surrounded  by  beauty  and 
richness,  and  against  a  tonal  background  of  royal  magnificence  projects  himself 
in  a  many-sided  portrait.  The  voice  of  the  solo  cello  speaks  warmly  of  love,  reflec- 
tively upon  the  shallowness  and  the  vanity  of  the  world,  prophetically  upon  the 
ultimate  destiny  of  man.  Brooding,  and  filled  with  an  infinite  wisdom,  it  marks 
the  passage  of  time  and  the  emptiness  of  desires  fulfilled;  despairing,  it  sinks  at 
length  into  somberness  and  silence. 


13°  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Concerto  grosso  for  String  Orchestra  with  Pianoforte  Obbligato 

IN  COMPOSING  the  Concerto  grosso,  Bloch  demonstrates  his  interest  in  the  music 
of  an  earlier  epoch  5  for  this  form  of  music  was  one  of  the  most  characteristic  to  be 
perfected  during  the  eighteenth  century.  The  concerti  grossi  of  Handel,  still  fre- 
quently heard  at  the  concerts  of  our  leading  orchestras,  are  ranked  among  his  most 
characteristic  works.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been  inspired  to  write  in  this  form 
after  hearing  Corelli's  concerti  grossi  in  Rome  during  the  year  1708. 

This  type  of  composition  was  not  written  for  a  solo  instrument  with  orches- 
tral accompaniment,  as  the  name  concerto  might  lead  'one  to  expect,  but  rather, 
Was  conceived  as  a  dialogue  between  a  group  of  soloists  (called  the  concertino) 
and  a  larger  group  of  performers — the  main  body  of  the  orchestra,  the  harpsichord 
being  sometimes  added  to  "£11  in"  and  support  the  latter.  Handel  often  conducted 
the  performances  of  his  concerti  grossi  while  playing  the  harpsichord.  Each  con- 
certo grosso  consisted  of  a  variety  of  movements,  chiefly  allegros,  largos,  and 
andantes,  with  dance  movements,  such  as  gavottes  and  minuets,  sometimes  added. 

In  his  Concerto  grosso,  Bloch  has  followed  the  Handelian  form  and  manner, 
while  adapting  it  to  modern  conditions.  The  number  of  soloists  is  frequently  varied 
to  suit  the  needs  of  the  music;  the  pianoforte  is  used  instead  of  the  harpsichord, 
sometimes  as  one  of  the  solo  instruments,  sometimes  to  reinforce  the  main  body  of 
performers.  He  composed  the  work 'between  December,  1924,  and  April,  1925, 
beginning  the  composition  while  living  at  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico,  and  completing 
it  at  Cleveland,  Ohio.  It  was  first  performed  at  a  concert  given  by  the  Institute  of 
Music,  Cleveland,  June,  1925.  The  first  public  performance  was  at  the  Holly- 
wood Bowl,  Los  Angeles,  August  15,  1925. 

First  Movement 
Prelude 

The  movement  opens  with  a  series  of  heavily  accented  chords  that  compel 
immediate  attention,  frequent  changes  of  meter  from  four-four  to  two-four  giving 
the  music  a  propulsion,  a  forward  urge,  that  is  irresistible.  Soon  there  enters  a 
contrasting,  more  rapidly  moving  passage.  From  this  vigorous  material  the  prelude 
is  built.  There  are  no  striking  changes  of  key,  no  marked  contrasts  of  timbre,  no 
sustained  melodic  flights,  yet  the  prelude  constantly  grows  in  interest,  constantly 
springs  forward  to  the  very  end. 

Second  Movement 
Dirge 

The  vigorous  motion  of  the  Prelude  is  forgotten  in  the  melancholy  of  the 
Dirge  that  follows.  Strings  playing  softly  in  their  upper  register  announce  the 


ERNEST    BLOCK  131 

theme,  which  is  stately,  not  unlike  a  Bach  saraband,  but  marked  by  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  sorrow.  This  theme  is  then  heard  in  a  lower  range  while  there 
enters  beneath  it,  played  by  the  string  basses  and  piano,  a  brief,  austere  motive, 
inexorable  as  fate.  This  is  answered  by  a  poignant,  sorrowful  cry,  a  descending 
chromatic  passage,  sharply  dissonant,  played  by  the  strings  and  piano.  The  opening 
theme  returns,  its  grief  made  more  intense  through  the  cutting  harmonies  now 
added  to  it,  and  the  reappearance  in  the  bass  of  that  austere  motive  above  men- 
tioned. 

The  mode  changes  from  minor  to  major,  but  this  change  scarcely  brings  the 
expected  consolation  5  the  sorrow  has  become  only  less  vehement  in  its  expression. 
While  arpeggios  played  softly  by  the  piano  and  a  solo  viola  furnish  a  background, 
a  violin  soars  in  a  song  of  lamentation.  And  while  this  song  continues,  in  the  key  of 
F-sharp  major,  that  austere  motive  again  enters  in  the  bass,  now  in  the  distant 
tonality  of  B-flat  major.  The  opening  of  the  first  theme  suddenly  reappears,  a 
forceful  outcry  against  the  calmer  melody  of  the  solo  violin.  Again  an  insistent 
motive  returns  in  the  bass,  now  followed  by  the  grief-laden,  descending  chromatic 
passage.  When  the  very  intensity  of  the  mood  seems  to  have  exhausted  it,  there  is 
a  fresh  outburst,  the  first  theme  returns  as  another  and  even  more  frenzied 
paroxysm  of  sorrowing,  an  outcry  of  deepest  woe. 

Third  Movement 
Pastoral  and  Rustic  Dances 

The  E  sharp  of  the  last  chord  of  the  preceding  movement  suddenly  becomes 
an  F  natural  which  is  sustained  momentarily  by  a  violin  entirely  unaccompanied; 
thus  we  move  easily  and  without  a  pause  into  a  distant  tonality  and  a  far  different 
mood.  Cellos  suggest  the  drone  bass  characteristic  of  pastoral  music,  and  solo  violin 
and  solo  viola  answer  each  other  with  brief  pastoral  motives.  The  strings  take  up 
a  weaving  background  while  a  solo  violin  and  piano  continue  with  the  pastoral 
melody  which  grows  faster  and  more  brilliant.  At  the  moment  of  climax  there  is 
a  sudden  change  of  rhythm  and  tempo,  and  the  entire  body  of  strings  re-enforced 
by  the  piano  begin  a  joyous  folk  dance.  The  accents  are  heavily  marked  as  by 
the  sound  of  dancing  peasants5  feet;  the  melody  is  carefree,  the  very  lilt  and  curve 
of  it  suggesting  the  French  folk  song,  En  fassant  $ar  la  Lorrame.  Bloch  says  of 
this  movement  that  it  is  reminiscent  of  his  youth  in  Switzerland.  The  opening 
Pastoral  may  well  be  an  expression  of  the  rural  tranquillity  of  the  Alpine  mountain- 
sides, and  this  Rustic  Dance  a  memory  of  country  merrymaking.  The  folk  dance 
continues  in  this  mood  of  artless  rejoicing;  then,  the  dance  comes  to  a  halt,  the 
music  relaxes  its  speed,  and  the  violins  linger  over  three  notes  of  the  melody  of  the 
dance.  And  during  this  moment  of  meditation  we  suddenly  realize  that  this  bit  of 
the  dance  melody  is  also  the  opening  theme  of  the  Dirge;  a  suggestion  that  even 


132  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

in  our  happiest  hours,  sorrow  is  lurking  near  by.  There  is  a  moment  of  anxious 
tremolo  and  the  pastoral  melody  returns  briefly  but  now  in  a  troubled,  broken 
form.  Then,  while  the  violins  continue  a  tremolo  as  a  faint  background,  the  violas 
proceed  with  another  theme,  a  melody  that  is  at  once  serious  and  thoughtful, 
dreamily  meditative.  There  are  reminiscences  of  the  Dirge,  and  counterplay  of 
thematic  fragments  lately  introduced  into  the  present  movement.  Combinations 
and  contrasts  of  these  are  developed  into  a  brilliant  and  vigorous  concluding  climax. 

Fourth  Movement 
Fugue 

The  final  movement  is  an  elaborate  Fugue,  revealing  Bloch  the  modernist  as 
a  master  of  classical  form.  The  subject  of  the  movement  is  a  forthright  and  vig- 
orous tune,  almost  Handelian  in  its  candor  and  emphatic  rhythm.  It  is  stated  in  the 
conventional  manner,  that  is  to  say,  unaccompanied,  by  the  violas;  violins  answer. 
It  appears  again  in  the  bass,  with  contrasting  replies  in  the  higher  strings,  and  a 
development  of  ever  increasing  interest  and  complexity  begins  to  take  shape. 
Rhythmical  variations,  and  simultaneous  presentations  of  the  subject  in  various  dis- 
guises are  noticed  in  the  involved  yet  ever  transparent  tonal  web  which  the 
composer  has  woven  here.  There  is  a  final  climax  of  impressive  sonority,  with 
reminiscences  of  the  first  movement  contrasted  with  the  f  ugal  theme  of  the  last. 


ALEXANDER  PORPHYRIEVICH  BORODIN 

[1833-1887] 

A:XANDER  PORPHYRIEVICH  BORODIN  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  prince 
of  Imeretia.  In  his  boyhood  he  showed  a  decided  leaning  toward  the  two 
subjects  which  later  became  the  absorbing  interests  of  his  life:  music  and 
science.  At  nine  years  of  age  he  had  already  attempted  to  compose,  and  at  thir- 
teen had  produced  a  concerto  for  flute  and  piano.  His  mother,  who  gave  him  every 
educational  advantage,  had  set  her  heart  upon  a  medical  career  for  the  boy;  and 
when  he  was  sixteen  years  old  sent  him  to  the  St.  Petersburg  Academy  of  Medicine. 
Here  he  remained  for  six  years,  for,  unlike  Schumann,  who  studied  but  had  no 
interest  in  law,  Borodin  found  his  medical  work  entirely  congenial.  Despite  the 
fact  that  it  took  the  major  part  of  his  time,  he  managed  to  hear  and  even  participate 
in  the  performance  of  a  great  deal  of  music.  His  interest  was  more  profound  than 
a  mere  drawing-room  devotion,  and  led  him  to  study  seriously  to  improve  his 
deficiencies  in  the  technique  of  composition. 

Two  years  before  his  graduation  from  the  medical  school  Borodin  served  in  a 
military  hospital  for  a  period  during  which  he  became  acquainted  with  Mussorgsky, 
then  a  young  subaltern  in  the  army.  They  met  occasionally  at  the  homes  of  supe- 
rior officers  and  Borodin  was  impressed  with  Mussorgsky's  outspoken  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  nationalism  in  music,  for  up  to  that  time  his  experience  had  brought  him 
in  touch  with  little  other  than  the  western  classics. 

Graduating  in  1858,  he  spent  the  next  few  years  on  an  extensive  scientific 
tour  which  took  him  to  Italy,  Austria,  Germany,  and  France.  The  result  was  that 
his  musical  interests  were  dominated  by  Western  European  ideas,  which  persisted 
until  the  friendship  with  Mussorgsky  was  resumed.  This  occurred  when  Borodin's 
appointment  as  assistant  lecturer  at  the  St.  Petersburg  Academy  gave  him  greater 
leisure  to  devote  to  his  art.  Mussorgsky  introduced  him  to  Balakirev,  who  was  at 
the  time  deeply  immersed  in  projects  for  his  Free  School  of  Music,  founded  to 
spread  the  teachings  of  nationalism  and  intended  to  counterbalance  the  cosmo- 
politanism of  the  newly  established  conservatory  headed  by  the  great  Rubinstein. 

It  was  not  long  before  Borodin's  conversion  to  nationalist  aims  was  effected. 
He  studied  composition  under  Balakirev,  and  began  his  first  serious  composition, 
his  Symphony  in  E  flat,  which,  because  of  interruptions  for  the  scientific  activities 
he  pursued  until  his  death,  took  him  five  years  to  complete.  The  second,  in  B  minor, 
was  written  during  the  years  1871—77. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  the  Soviet  government,  recently  dedicating  a  monu- 
ment to  Borodin,  honored  him  not  for  his  music  but  for  his  medical  services  to  the 
Russian  people. 


133 


134  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Polovtsian  Dances  from  "Prince  Igor" 

SCIENTIFIC  men — the  eminent  Einstein  an  exception — are  notoriously  unsympa- 
thetic to  music,  and  consequently  it  is  surprising  to  find,  as  the  product  of  the 
same  closely  logical  mind  that  produced  the  standard  work  on  The  Solidification 
of  Aldehydes,  these  mad  and  intoxicating  audible  rhythms  which  we  call  the 
"Polovtsian  Dances." 

The  dances  occur,  interspersed  with  choral  parts,  in  the  second  act  of  Borodin's 
opera  Prince  Igor — an  opera  that  was  left  unfinished  by  the  composer,  though  he 
had  spent  years  in  developing  it.  The  music  of  the  dances,  as  well  as  of  other  por- 
tions of  the  opera,  was  orchestrated  by  the  generous  and  immensely  talented  friend 
of  Borodin,  Nicholai  Rimsky-Korsakov;  and  was  first  performed  under  Rimsky's 
direction. 

In  concert  performance  the  dances  do  not  include  the  choral  sections  which  in 
the  opera  are  scattered  through  them;  they  are  played  without  pause,  as  a  single 
piece.  The  Polovtsi  were  nomad  tribes  who  inhabited  the  steppes  of  far  eastern 
Russia;  if  the  dances  are  characteristic — and  the  researches  of  the  composer,  to- 
gether with  his  scientific  bent,  would  indicate  that  they  are — these  people  were 
capable  of  delicacy  of  feeling  as  well  as  of  savage  vigor. 

The  dances  vary  widely  in  rhythm  and  significance.  There  are  dances  of  wild 
men,  of  young  girls  and  boys,  of  slave  girls  and  of  prisoners;  dances  in  praise  of 
the  great  Khan,  and  a  wild  general  dance  involving  the  most  vigorous  and  cap- 
tivating rhythms.  The  occasion  for  this  celebration,  in  the  opera,  is  the  festival 
which  Konchak  Khan,  chief  of  the  Polovtsi,  devises  for  the  entertainment  of  Prince 
Igor,  whom  he  has  captured,  and  whom  he  mightily  respects  as  warrior  and  man. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  B  minor 

THE  charm  of  the  B  minor  Symphony  lies  largely  in  its  intense  national  char- 
acter. It  is  as  though  medieval  Russia  peered  through  its  magnificent  measures. 
When  it  was  performed  in  London  in  1896,  the  Telegrcfyh  (London)  published 
this  note: 

It  contains  scarcely  a  theme  that  can  on  any  ground  reasonably  be  re- 
ferred to  classic  sources.  Every  important  melody  is  of  an  Eastern  cast,  and 
some  of  the  subjects  were  derived,  one  might  suppose,  from  the  Middle  Asia 
celebrated  in  his  symphonic  poem  ("Dans  les  Steppes  de  1'Asie  centrale")  . .  . 


ALEXANDER     P  OR  P  H  Y  RI  E  VIC  H     BORODIN  135 

an  idea  supported  by  frequent  repetition  of  brief  phrases  in  the  manner  long 
recognized  as  characteristic  of  Oriental  art.  But  the  most  curious  feature  in 
the  work  is  the  presentation  of  such  music  strictly  in  symphonic  form.  The 
Russian  composer  does  not  use  even  legitimate  opportunities  of  freedom.  Hav- 
ing chosen  his  model,  he  respects  it  and,  so  to  speak,  compels  the  cfiery  and 
untamed  steed'  of  the  Ukraine  to  figure  in  the  limited  circle  of  the  haute 
ecole.  The  effect  is  curious  and  interesting,  especially  at  moments  when  the 
composer  seems  to  have  difficulty  in  keeping  his  native  impulses  from  getting 
the  upper  hand.  Thus  the  leading  theme  of  the  first  allegro,  a  phrase  of  eight 
notes,  haunts  nearly  the  whole  movement,  chiefly  by  simple  repetition.  A 
second  subject  does  appear  at  proper  times,  it  is  true,  but  comes  in  apologet- 
ically and  departs  speedily,  hustled  by  the  aggressive  eight  notes.  Using  a  big 
orchestra,  Borodin  employs  color  with  Eastern  lavishness,  and  exhausts  his 
resources  in  tours  de  force  of  various  kinds,  seeking,  perhaps,  to  counteract  the 
effect  of 'a  certain  thematic  monotony. 

First  Movement 
Allegro 

The  symphony  begins  with  a  statement  of  the  main  theme — an  impassioned 
utterance  that  impresses  itself  indelibly  upon  the  imagination — &  kind  of  motto  that 
shines  through  the  fabric  of  the  entire  movement.  Syncopation  in  the  brass  section 
alternating  with  majestic  chords  for  woodwinds  and  strings  suggest,  by  their  very 
repetition,  the  ideas  of  great  strength  and  barbaric  power. 

A  second  subject  is  lyrical  in  style,  and  of  great  beauty.  It  is  introduced  by  the 
cellos,  taken  up  by  the  woodwinds  and  upper  strings,  and  is  then  welded  into  the 
texture  of  the  movement.  Here  the  usual  development  section  gives  way  to  a  color- 
ful orchestration  in  which  the  motto  is  repeated  in  turn  by  clarinet,  bassoon,  and 
oboe  in  a  manner  characteristically  Oriental.  Drums  introduce  a  new  rhythmic 
figure  above  which  trombone  and  trumpets  sound  the  main  theme.  This  is  later 
proclaimed  in  unison  by  woodwind,  brass,  and  strings  with  an  insistence  that  is 
forceful  and  vigorous. 

Second  Movement 
Scherzo 

The  brilliant  scherzo  is  in  the  key  of  F  major.  The  most  striking  feature  of 
this  sparkling  movement  is  the  rapid  repetition  of  a  single  note  in  the  horns,  which 
persists  at  terrific  speed  almost  throughout,  and  offers  the  horn  player  an  oppor- 
tunity for  both  distinction  and  exhaustion.  Dazzling  outbursts  of  woodwind  and 
pizzicato  strings  leap  like  showers  of  sparks.  A  startling  effect  is  a  recurring  synco- 
pated passage,  one  of  many  curious  and  effective  rhythmic  elements  in  this  fascinat- 


136  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ing  movement.  Gradually  the  agitation  subsides,  and  in  striking  contrast  is  heard 
a  haunting  melody  of  the  solo  oboe.  Other  woodwinds  and  horns  continue  the  flow 
of  melody,  which  is  developed  in  broader  version  by  violins  and  cellos  just  before 
a  return  to  the  shimmering  prestissimo  with  which  the  movement  opened. 

Third  Movement 
Andante 

A  clarinet  solo  with  harp  accompaniment  introduces  this  movement.  The 
horn  sings  the  chief  melody,  and  it  is  one  of  melting  tenderness.  For  a  little  space 
there  is  a  distinctly  Oriental  color  and  movement  in  the  music,  and  then  a  sudden 
fortissimo  precedes  a  third  subject.  This  is  developed  to  a  powerful  climax.  The 
movement  ends  with  the  clarinet  phrase  which  began  it,  while  the  horn  answers 
dreamily,  and  the  pianissimo  roll  of  drums  accentuates  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the 
whole. 

Fourth  Movement 
Finale 

The  chief  motive,  which  is  heroic  in  character,  is  announced  by  the  upper 
strings.  Almost  at  once  there  follows  a  fiery  development;  a  tonal  flame  that  rages 
madly  through  the  orchestra,  only  to  subside  to  a  rich  glow  like  a  distant  reflection 
of  what  has  gone  before.  The  clarinet  announces  a  second  subject  which  is  re- 
peated in  the  bright  tones  of  piccolo  and  oboe,  and  later  bursts  out  with  the  fervor 
of  a  glorious  hymn.  Trombones  re-establish  the  mood  of  the  first  movement,  after 
which  the  second  melody  of  the  finale  is  heard  .  .  .  this  time  in  the  entire  string 
section,  and  then  in  the  splendor  of  the  full  orchestra. 


JOHANNES  BRAHMS 

[1833-1897] 

CLIO,  MUSE  OF  HISTORY,  must  have  smiled  as  she  recorded  in  the  life  of 
Brahms  no  tale  of  poverty  and  woe,  but  rather  a  goodly  span  of  years, 
placid  and  happy.  Few  of  the  great  composers  were  untouched  by  misery  j 
few,  therefore,  possessed  the  mild  and  equable  disposition  that  Brahms  concealed 
beneath  a  gruff  exterior,  and  few  escaped  the  unhappy  circumstances  which,  when 
recalled,  reproach  us  for  our  indifference  to  the  great  ones  in  our  midst. 

Brahms  was  a  musician  by  heredity.  Several  generations  of  his  ancestors  had 
been  directly  concerned  with  music  j  some  made  their  daily  bread  through  their 
skill  in  that  divine  art,  and  Brahms  in  early  childhood  revealed  a  gift  that  his 
elders  neither  could  nor  would  neglect.  He  studied  willingly  and  earnestly  as  a 
child;  with  bold  initiative  and  relentless  application  as  he  grew  older  in  years  and 
in  his  chosen  avocation. 

Fortune  favored  him.  He  attracted  the  attention  of  Joachim,  the  greatest 
violinist  of  his  day,  and  through  Joachim,  the  interest  of  Liszt,  than  whom  no 
greater  pianist,  possibly,  has  ever  lived.  Through  Joachim  also  was  arranged  a 
meeting  which  was  to  have  a  most  important  effect  upon  Brahms'  career — that  is, 
the  meeting  with  Schumann,  who  as  editor  of  an  important  musical  journal  and 
as  a  composer  of  eminence  was  in  a  position  to  forward  the  ambitions  of  the  young 
Brahms,  and  did  so  most  willingly.  Had  the  introduction  of  Brahms'  music  to  the 
world  been  engineered  according  to  the  ideas  of  a  modern  "publicity  agent,"  they 
could  scarcely  have  attracted  more  attention.  From  the  first  notice  by  Schumann, 
every  published  work  of  Brahms  was  the  occasion  for  widespread  discussion.  That 
this  was  not  invariably  favorable  did  not  detract  from  its  effect  in  bringing  the 
composer  into  prominence. 

Still  fortune  was  kind.  Brahms  received  a  commission  as  director  of  music  at 
the  court  of  a  German  prince,  just  when  he  needed  the  experience,  the  leisure,  and 
the  financial  rewards  that  only  such  an  appointment  could  give. 

He  lived  calmly,  happily,  and  successfully.  Attending  the  obsequies  of  Clara 
Wieck  Schumann,  pianist  and  wife  of  the  composer,  and  tireless  propagandist  for 
Brahms'  own  music,  he  contracted  a  cold  which  aggravated  a  chronic  ailment  and 
resulted  in  his  death  on  April  3,  1897,  at  Vienna. 


137 


138  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  i  in  C  minor 

BRAHMS  approached  the  task  of  writing  for  the  symphony  orchestra  with  great 
seriousness,  and  with  a  consciousness  of  the  importance  of  the  work,  the  dignity  of 
it,  and  the  exactions  which  it  makes  of  the  composer.  He  was  a  musician  of  mature 
powers,  of  established  merit  and  fame,  before  he  undertook  the  composition  of  his 
First  Symphony.  He  realized  that  even  genius  must  attain  the  stature  that  is 
achieved  only  after  years  of  experience,  experiment,  and  thorough  comprehension 
of  the  smaller  musical  forms,  before  asking  of  itself  the  exigent  requirements  of 
the  symphonic  form.  He  knew  his  own  powers — though  rather  diffidently  seeking 
the  approval  of  others  whose  musical  opinions  he  valued;  and  the  result  of  his 
accurate  self-estimate,  his  patience,  his  sincerity,  and  his  magnificent  talents  is  the 
C  minor  Symphony — the  greatest  "first"  symphony  ever  written.  Mature,  finished, 
plethoric  with  melody  and  with  orchestral  color,  as  vigorous  and  vital  as  Beethoven, 
as  songlike  as  Schubert,  as  perfectly  formed  as  Bach — and  as  subtle  as  Brahms! — 
this  wonderful  music,  though  It  is  the  first  symphony  from  the  hand  of  Brahms, 
represents  the  genius  of  the  composer  in  its  most  splendid  development. 

The  First  Symphony  was  completed  in  September,  1876,  and  was  first  per- 
formed, at  Karlsruhe,  two  months  later,  on  the  sixth  of  November. 

First  Movement 

The  introduction  is  like  the  drawing  of  a  huge  and  magnificent  curtain,  rich 
with  gold  and  ornament,  sweeping  slowly  apart  to  reveal  behind  it  the  fierce  swift 
movements  of  drama.  Thirty-seven  measures  of  glowing  and  sonorous  tone,  mov- 
ing slowly  and  with  ever-growing  might  and  majesty  toward  its  inevitable  climax. 
Portentous  beatings  of  timpani,  measured  and  powerful  and  determined,  support 
strings  and  woodwinds  moving  in  contrary  and  circuitous  paths  toward  a  single 
vehement  and  final  thrust  as  the  climax  of  the  introduction  is  attained.  Now  there 
are  fragments  of  melody,  poignant  phrases  of  flute  and  oboe  and  violin,  and  a 
subsidence  of  the  great  powers  of  the  orchestra  as  we  approach  the  beginning  of 
the  first  movement  proper. 

Now  the  expectancy,  and  the  marvelously  developed  emotional  stringency  of 
the  introduction  are  justified,  for  the  movement  leaps  into  flaming  vitality  and 
dashing  dramatic  contrasts  from  its  very  opening  note.  From  this  apparently 
simple  subject  the  composer  develops  a  throbbing  and  vital  organism,  full-blooded 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  139 

and  muscular  and  agile;  a  concourse  of  sound  that  almost  seems  to  leap  and  to 
shout,  to  defy  and  encourage,  to  warn  and  to  command.  There  are  brief  moments 
of  reflection,  almost  of  tenderness,  yet  always  urgent  rhythms  permit  no  dwelling 
upon  gentleness.  Sometimes  a  plucked  note  or  two,  like  the  curious  trifles  that  pro- 
voke conflicts,  seems  enough  to  arouse  the  orchestra  from  its  breathless  pauses,  and 
to  send  orchestral  antagonists  off  again  to  new  clashes  of  tone. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  movement  there  is  a  wonderful  instance  of  Brahms' 
amazing  rhythmic  sense,  and  his  fondness  for  odd  and  conflicting  internal  impulses 
in  his  music.  Strings  against  the  whole  orchestra  contest  with  swiftly  growing 
vehemence  for  possession  of  a  fragmentary  theme,  and  the  resulting  double  simul- 
taneous syncopation  creates  a  vivid  and  almost  visible  effect  of  a  short  fierce  struggle. 
Strings  are  victorious,  though  the  bassoon  joins  them  even  when  the  thematic 
fragment  has  been  torn  from  the  mouths  of  the  woodwinds;  then  the  violins  them- 
selves abandon  it,  and  are  given  instead  a  sad  and  lovely  and  reflective  melody 
which  presages  the  end  of  the  movement.  At  the  close  a  warm  and  enveloping 
wave  of  tone  waxes  great  and  wanes,  and  is  swept,  finally,  into  silence  by  the  single 
note  plucked  from  the  strings. 

To  mention  a  Brahms  symphony  today  is  to  provoke  inevitable  questions. 
"Why  did  his  contemporaries  think  him  dull?  How  could  his  music  have  been 
called  an  exhibition  of  'sullen  asceticism'?  How  could  an  American  critic,  in  1878, 
pontifically  declare  of  this  symphony  that  'it  will  not  be  loved  like  the  dear  master- 
pieces of  genius'?" 

Today  we  know  that  Brahms  ranks  among  the  very  first  musicians  of  all 
time.  His  symphonies — especially  the  C  minor — are  astonishingly  popular,  ranking 
in  public  esteem  with  the  best  and  most  famous  of  the  Beethoven  nine.  The  ex- 
planation probably  lies,  first,  in  the  reluctance  of  most  of  us  to  accept  what  is  new 
and  different,  and  secondly,  in  the  charm  exerted  by  anything  which,  though 
familiar,  continually  exhibits  new  items  of  interest  and  pleasure. 

These  reasons  may  at  first  glance  seem  contradictory;  they  really  are  not. 
Prior  to  1926,  the  Brahms  symphonies  did  indeed  appear  in  the  repertoire  of  every 
first-class  orchestra,  but  like  much  else  in  the  orchestral  library,  they  were  endured 
rather  than  enjoyed  by  a  large  section  of  the  public.  The  sudden  popularity  of  the 
C  minor  can  be  traced  directly  to  its  recording  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra.  It 
happened  that  electrical  recording,  then  in  its  earlier  stages  of  development,  was 
thoroughly  successful  for  the  first  time,  in  this  particular  work.  The  records  were 
used  all  over  the  world  for  demonstrating  the  possibilities  of  the  new  recording  and 
of  electrical  phonographs.  Their  power,  clarity,  and  fidelity,  so  greatly  surpassing 
anything  before  known  in  recorded  music,  amazed  everyone  who  heard  them — and 
incidentally  made  the  hearers  pretty  well  acquainted  with  this  music!  The  greater 
frequency  of  the  Brahms  First  on  orchestra  programs  from  this  period  to  the 
present  was  probably  the  result — and  naturally  the  other  three  symphonies,  though 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

never  winning  the  popularity  of  the  First,  began  to  have  more  frequent  hearings. 
The  recording  removed  the  symphony  from  the  class  of  unfamiliar  things,  and, 
because  it  made  repeated  hearings  possible,  established  the  music  in  that  little  group 
of  precious  things  which  become  dearer  and  richer  with  the  years. 

Second  Movement 

The  dramatic  intensity,  the  vigor,  and  nervous  animation  of  the  first  move- 
ment now  give  way  to  a  dreamy  and  contemplative  mood,  touched  with  melan- 
choly. It  is  a  gentle,  not  a  passionate  melancholy;  it  is  a  mood  that  might  have 
been  born  of  calm  observation  of  life,  with  its  inevitable  disappointments,  griefs, 
and  futilities.  Here  is  an  acceptance  of  things  as  they  are,  the  bitter  and  the  sweet, 
the  sad  and  joyous,  and  all  the  mercurial  conditions  of  existence;  with  sober  re- 
flection upon  them. 

There  is  no  introduction,  and  the  principal  theme  is  the  first  lovely  melody 
you  hear — conspicuously  in  the  first  violins. 


We  have  not  long  to  wait  for  the  entrance  of  the  second  theme,  a  song  equally 
beautiful,  pensive,  and  longing,  in  the  singularly  poignant  voice  of  the  oboe.  It 
rises,  lonely  and  trembling,  from  the  closing  cadence  of  the  first  full  expression 
of  the  chief  subject. 


In  the  strings,  once  more,  sounds  the  antithetical  phrase,  soaring  aloft  in  the 
clearest  and  loveliest  tones;  a  pulsing  rhythm  lies  beneath,  vitalizing  and  urging 
onward  the  dreamy  melody.  Strings  and  woodwind  bear  the  burden  of  the  move- 
ment. Sometimes  they  are  used  in  contrasting  tone  colors;  sometimes  one  supports 
and  colors  the  other;  always  there  are  new  and  fluent  and  fascinating  derivations 
from  the  themes,  and  mutations  of  timbre  and  harmony.  The  final  expression  of 
the  thematic  content  of  the  movement  is  given  to  the  solo  violin,  doubled  with  a 
solo  horn,  this  lyric  passage  occupying  almost  the  last  fourth  of  the  movement.  To 
the  end,  above  the  mysterious  tones  of  the  horn  and  the  accompanying  harmony  in 
the  orchestra,  we  hear  the  eloquent  violin  pour  forth  its  passionate  utterance,  star- 
like  and  bright  even  against  the  full  sweep  of  the  orchestra;  and  its  more  delicate 
tones  hover,  like  a  disembodied  voice,  over  the  very  final  chord. 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  I41 

Third  Movement 

In  only  the  Fourth  of  his  symphonies  did  Brahms  exhibit  a  movement  of  such 
robust  playfulness  as  to  justify  calling  it  a  scherzo.  In  the  present  work  the  third 
movement  is  indeed  lively,  and  graceful;  it  has  touches  of  a  gentle  and  whimsical 
humor.  But  it  is  by  no  means  the  wry  humor  of  a  Beethoven,  nor  the  bitter  and 
sardonic  grin  that  sometimes  leers  from  the  pages  of  Tchaikovsky.  It  is  rather  as  if 
Brahms,  the  childless  lover  of  children,  smiled  upon  their  quaint  conceits. 

The  movement  begins  with  the  theme,  given  to  the  sweet  and  unassertive 
voice  of  the  clarinet;  a  theme  much  like  a  children's  folk  song,  gracefully  moving 
above  a  pizzicato  accompaniment  in  the  cellos,  and  reinforced,  first  by  a  detached 
phrase  in  the  violins  and  violas,  and  then,  gently  and  softly,  by  the  string  and 
woodwind  choirs. 

Clarinets 


Presently  there  is  a  new  theme,  subordinate  in  importance,  but  temporarily 
affecting  both  a  rhythmic  and  modal  change  in  the  music.  Imperceptibly,  however, 
the  first  theme  returns,  but  now  almost  concealed  beneath  decorative  figures  of 
great  delicacy  and  beauty.  Then  comes  the  second  important  theme,  in  woodwind 
voices,  rather  lively  and  with  a  graceful,  swinging  rhythm  that  motivates  most  of 
the  remainder  of  the  movement.  Here  it  is: 


Here,  perhaps,  is  the  rotund  and  bearded  Brahms  gravely  shaking  a  warning 
finger  at  some  mischievous  child,  and  as  the  little  song  of  the  first  few  measures 
once  again  returns,  the  warning  gesture,  by  its  transfer  to  smooth  and  warm 
utterances  by  the  strings,  becomes  a  caress.  The  final  word  of  the  movement  is 
given  to  a  graceful  phrase  of  the  second  theme,  most  ingeniously  worked  into  the 
lustrous  musical  pattern  in  the  last  subsiding  measures. 

Fourth  Movement 

Had  he  written  nothing  else,  the  man  who  evoked  this  music  from  his  mind 
and  heart  must  have  won  proud  place  among  music's  immortals.  Surely  this  move- 


142  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

ment  is  one  of  the  sublimest  utterances  human  ears  have  heard.  It  is  here  that 
words  most  ingloriously  fail,  and  reverent  silence  should  be  the  only  comment. 
The  human  tongue  knows  no  speech  to  encompass  in  words  this  expression,  this 
outpouring  of  passion  and  of  exaltation,  this  magical  evocation  of  power  and  beauty. 
Here,  surely,  no  one  needs  words  to  help  him  know  and  feel  the  poignancy  of  that 
first  awful  cry  that  is  torn  from  the  orchestra;  nor  the  tragedy,  so  terrible  in  its 
dramatization  by  the  furtive  and  fateful  progress  of  the  plucked  low  strings,  that 
ends  in  the  violins'  brief  delirious  confusion;  nor  the  strange  and  wonderful  meta- 
morphosis by  which  madness  becomes  philosophical  complacence,  and  complacence 
becomes  exaltation. 

The  first  phrases  sweep  through  the  orchestra,  and  then  pizzicati  steal  secre- 
tively up  from  the  depths  of  the  bass;  then  mount,  more  swiftly  and  more  boldly, 
until  with  a  final  feline  leap  they  reach  and  entangle  the  whole  string  section. 
Above  chromatic  mutterings  of  the  violas  and  cellos,  other  orchestral  voices  sadly 
lament.  Again  the  fearsome  progression,  as  of  the  footsteps  of  a  menacing  beast, 
moves  through  the  plucked  strings,  and  now  not  only  the  woodwind  answers,  but 
also  strings  in  deliriously  whirling  figures,  flying  like  wind-blown  leaves  before 
fierce  gusts  of  tone  from  below.  At  the  vertiginous  pinnacle  of  this  mad  interlude 
comes  a  terrifying  roll  of  the  timpani,  which  not  only  climaxes  the  scene,  but  ends 
it.  Then  like  a  breath  of  sunlit  spring  air  we  hear  a  calm  and  lovely  song  blown 
softly  and  sweetly  from  the  horn.  And  again  it  comes,  cool  and  silvery  now  in  the 
voice  of  the  flute.  Close  upon  its  ending  there  sounds,  in  warm  complacence,  the 
soothing  and  heartening  "choral"  theme  which  later  will  arise  to  dominate  the 
orchestra  with  heaven-storming  power. 

The  theme  given  out,  first  by  horn  and  then  by  flute,  aroused  tremendous 
interest  when  this  symphony  was  first  played  in  England,  by  the  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity Musical  Society.  If  you  hum  it  to  yourself,  just  as  it  is  written,  it  will 
probably  seem  familiar: 

Horn 

sO 


But  if  you  make  a  very  slight  change,  it  will  be  even  more  familiar — for  you  hear 
it  from  half  of  the  chiming  clocks  in  the  world.  It  is  the  famous  "Cambridge 
Quarters": 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  143 

At  the  English  performance  just  mentioned,  many  hearers  believed  that  this 
curious  resemblance  between  the  theme  and  the  tune  of  the  striking  clock  at  Cam- 
bridge was  no  accident;  that  Brahms  deliberately  wished  to  pay  a  compliment  to 
his  Cambridge  audience.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  reason  for  believing  the 
similarity  to  be  other  than  a  coincidence. 

There  are  richly  scored  phrases  derived  from  the  horn  call,  and  presently, 
after  an  instant's  pause  as  if  for  breath,  the  orchestra  plunges  into  that  magnifi- 
cently high-spirited  song  which  is  the  essence  of  the  movement — a  song  which, 
first  presented  in  the  warmest  tones  of  the  strings,  sweeps  vigorously  along  and  in 
a  few  measures  erases  from  memory  the  terrors  and  the  awe  of  the  introduction. 

Violins 


It  was  here  that  the  enemies  of  Brahms  found — since  they  were  looking  for  it — 
evidence  that  he  had  looked  to  Beethoven  for  his  material;  it  was  precisely  here, 
also,  that  his  friends  found  proof  that  he  had  surpassed  Beethoven.  The  first  and 
casual  hearing  of  this  passage,  with  its  bounding  vigor  and  joyousness,  does  indeed 
suggest  certain  moments  in  the  Ninth  Symphony,  but  it  is  not  possible  for  a  rea- 
sonable person  to  believe  that  the  resemblance  is  more  than  mere  accident. 

Comparisons  between  this  movement  and  the  choral  finale  of  the  Ninth  Sym- 
phony might,  however,  be  undertaken  for  reasons  other  than  a  slight  resemblance 
of  themes.  Sometimes  it  is  difiicult  to  escape  the  conclusion  that  Brahms  accom- 
plished here  what  Beethoven  sought  and  failed  to  do  in  the  Ninth.  In  this  music 
Brahms,  employing  only  those  forces  natural  to  his  medium,  accomplishes  a  mag- 
nificent proclamation  of  joy  and  exaltation  which  has,  perhaps,  no  parallel,  no 
equal  in  music.  In  doing  so  he  works  calmly,  confidently,  sanely,  and  beautifully. 
With  the  sublime  complacence  of  a  man  who  knows  his  powers,  who  knows  that 
they  are  adequate  to  his  concept  and  to  his  work,  he  builds  a  mighty  paean  of  joy 
that  seems  utterly  natural  and  convincing  and  unconstrained.  Leaving  out  for  the 
moment  the  question  of  the  complete  originality  of  the  central  theme,  certainly 
Brahms'  treatment  of  it  is  original,  various,  brilliant,  logical,  satisfying;  and 
Brahms  is  never  frenetic,  never  shrill. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  in  introducing  a  chorus  in  the  last  movement  of  the 
Ninth,  Beethoven  did  violence  to  the  unity  of  the  symphony  as  a  work  of  art.  It 
tan  scarcely  be  denied  that  the  vocal  parts  themselves,  for  the  most  part,  are  written 
with  complete  indifference  to  the  limitations  of  the  human  voice  and  breathing 
apparatus.  Beethoven's  inevitable  resort  to  the  variation  form,  worn  threadbare  by 
himself  and  others,  and  not  particularly  appropriate  in  this  choral  musk,  cannot 


144  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

be  adduced  as  evidence  of  originality.  And,  to  many  hearers,  even  though  they  love 
the  music,  the  Ninth  Symphony  choral  finale  is  frantic  and  unconvincing.  Nor  does 
the  use  of  a  definitely  second-rate  poem  as  the  theme  of  the  movement  make  it 
much  more  persuasive,  unless  we  consider  that  Beethoven's  choice  of  the  verses  was 
dictated  not  by  their  literary  excellence  but  by  their  references  to  human  brother- 
hood —  an  ideal  always  close  to  the  heart  of  the  composer. 

There  is  no  occasion  here,  of  course,  for  an  extended  discussion  of  the  relative 
merits  of  Brahms  and  Beethoven.  The  spectacular  features  of  a  performance  of  the 
Ninth,  however,  have  so  frequently  distracted  attention  from  its  obvious  faults  as 
absolute  music  that  occasionally  it  is  helpful  to  withdraw  a  moment  from  its  un- 
deniable impressiveness  and  to  consider  it  coldly.  Informed  and  unbiased  musical 
opinion  would  probably  rank  the  Brahms  C  minor  above  the  Ninth,  and  the  grow- 
ing popularity  of  this  work  seems  to  indicate  that  the  joy  expressed  by  the  broadly 
intelligent,  cultivated,  civilized  Brahms  is  more  certainly  sincere  and  convincing 
than  Beethoven's  wildest  outbursts. 

Brahms  uses  that  wonderful,  elastic,  electrifying  melody  as  the  basis  for  a 
long  and  marvelously  elaborated  development;  a  development  that  explores  every 
musical  possibility  of  the  theme,  and  builds  slowly  but  certainly  toward  a  mag- 
nificent climax.  There  is  a  constant  growth  in  dramatic  intensity,  involving  remi- 
niscences of  early  themes  of  the  movement,  and  suggesting  an  atmosphere  of  keen 
anticipation  and  suspense.  At  the  moment  when  one  might  think  that  the  utter- 
most limits  of  power  have  been  explored  by  the  orchestra,  the  choral  theme  bursts 
forth  in  glowing  tones,  the  orchestra's  brazen  voices  dominating  all  with  their 
mightiest  powers: 


Once  more  wild  rhythms  leap  and  bright  colors  flash;  a  mighty  chord  is  built 
of  a  bold  descending  figure  in  the  brass,  and  the  end  comes  on  a  single  long-drawn 
conclusive  chord  of  noble  simplicity. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major 

THE  epic  breadth  and  grandeur  of  the  C  minor  Symphony  (the  First)  was  never 
again  approached  in  the  four  works  composed  by  Brahms  in  this  form*  Well  might 
he  have  exhausted  himself  of  heroic  utterance  in  that  matchless  music;  and  so,  in 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS 


145 


succeeding  works,  other  moods,  not  less  impressive  or  attractive,  engross  him, 
Therefore,  in  the  four  symphonies,  we  have  more  variety  of  intent  and  content 
than  can  be  found  in  any  other  group  of  symphonies  by  any  one  composer. 

The  Second  Symphony  is  perhaps  the  best  introduction  to  the  orchestral  music 
of  Brahms.  Its  content  is  full  and  rich  enough  for  the  most  exigent,  but  its  struc- 
ture is  very  clear,  its  moods  not  too  subtle  or  exacting.  Though  not  without  mo- 
ments of  somberness,  it  is  generally  lyric  and  sunny  j  occasionally  even  playful. 
Melodies  in  profusion  sing  through  these  measures  and  remain  unforgettably  in 
mind,  while  to  satisfy  those  for  whom  music  must  produce  a  thrill  by  rhythmic 
and  dynamic  power,  there  is  the  brilliant  fourth  movement. 

The  symphony  was  performed  for  the  first  time  by  the  Vienna  Philharmonic 
Orchestra,  December  30,  1877,  under  the  direction  of  Hans  Richter.  Brahms  had 
tantalized  his  musical  friends  with  obscure  or  misleading  information  about  the 
character  of  the  music,  and  with  his  customary  modesty  had  even  denied  the 
work  the  name  of  "symphony"  in  his  jesting  comment  on  it.  The  very  day  before 
the  performance  he  wrote  that  "the  orchestra  .  .  .  play  my  new  symphony  with 
crepe  on  their  sleeves"  .  .  .  and  added  ironically,  "it  is  to  be  printed  with  a  black 
border,  too!"  How  relieved  must  have  been  his  admirers  to  hear  this  glowing  and 
happy  music! 

First  Movement 
Over  the  shadowed  figure  of  the  basses  the  horn  romantically  dreams  upon 


r-  xsr 


the  first  theme.  Presently  violins  suggest  a  swaying  melody,  not  of  profound 
thematic  importance,  but  leading  eventually  to  the  yearning  song  of  the  cellos 
which  is  to  be  developed  as  the  second  basic  idea  of  the  movement,  Woodwinds 
(flutes)  are  attracted  to  this  flowing  melody,  and  present  their  own  version  in  an- 
swer to  the  strings.  Upon  the  basis  of  the  melody  the  composer  develops  a  firm  and 
sonorous  tonal  fabric,  through  which  runs  always  the  bright  strand  woven  by 
violins,  cellos,  and  basses,  enlivened  by  occasionally  irregular  conflicting  rhythmic 
impulses. 

The  structural  lines  of  the  movement,  in  spite  of  the  descending  transitional 
phrase  which  now  appears  in  the  flute,  are  tending  upward;  and  it  is  possible  to 
visualize  the  music  as  forming  itself  into  a  strongly  defined,  a  sturdy,  and  sym- 


146  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

metrical  pyramid.  The  apex  is  reached  in  the  development  of  the  principal  theme, 
which  is  now  elaborated  in  a  series  of  colorful  derivations,  increasing  always  in 
interest  and  animation,  and  gradually  drawing  upon  more  and  more  of  the  orches- 
tral resources.  Yet  always  there  is  a  beautiful  and  fascinating  clarity,  the  progress 
of  each  instrumental  voice  somehow  seeming  independent,  yet  vitally  related  to 
that  of  its  fellows.  Alternately  powerful  and  gentle  utterances  presage  a  return  of 
the  underlying  theme  in  its  explicit  form,  and  the  music,  guided  by  the  wandering 
horn,  gradually  descends  from  the  peak  of  its  powers  into  a  placid  valley,  filled 
with  sunshine  and  contentment. 

Second  Movement 

It  is  curious  to  discover  that  Brahms,  though  we  know  him  to  have  been  a 
dissembler  of  his  inmost  thoughts  and  feelings  except  in  music,  regarded  himself  as 
"not  at  all  a  sensitive  person,"  and  "absolutely  without  nerves  or  sympathy."  It 
requires  only  a  single  hearing  of  the  restrained  yet  passionate  song  of  the  cellos 
and  the  violins,  in  the  first  few  measures  of  this  movement,  to  convince  us  other- 
wise. The  music  is  grave,  but  warmed  and  intensified  by  a  tenderness  and  intimacy, 
and  by  suggestions  of  secret  pain;  and  it  speaks  with  a  directness  and  shrewd 
poignancy  that  few  sensitive  listeners  can  resist.  This  is  the  utterance,  not  of  a  con- 
firmed and  neurotic  and  hypochondriac  sufferer,  but  of  one  who  from  a  calm  yet 
not  remote  philosophical  eminence  observes  the  woes  of  humanity,  little  and  great, 
and  grieves  for  them.  Other  slow  movements  in  the  Brahms'  symphonies  are 
tender  and  touching,  but  nowhere  else  does  Brahms  reach  so  surely  into  the  vast 
profound  of  human  feeling. 

Detaching  oneself  momentarily  from  the  emotional  significance  of  this  music, 
it  is  interesting  to  note  the  beautifully  formed  contours  and  development  of  the 
music.  After  the  presentation  of  the  first  theme,  it  is  given  in  a  kind  of  imitation,  by 
horn,  oboe,  and  flute;  and  a  second  idea  is  brought  forward  by  the  strings,  and  later 
elaborated  in  woodwind  with  still  another  melody  moving  against  it  through  the 
cellos  and  violas.  The  melodic  possibilities  of  this  material  having  been  thoroughly 


explored,  the  movement,  remembering  for  a  moment  the  theme  that  brought  it 
into  being,  closes  in  serenity. 

Third  Movement 

The  journeyings  into  the  prof  ounder  depths  of  the  human  soul  are  too  recent 
for  Brahms  to  burst  forth,  immediately,  into  a  classical  scherzo ;  so  he  introduces,  at 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  147 

the  beginning  of  the  movement,  rhythmic  and  melodic  ideas  occupying  a  happy 
middle  ground  between  the  pathos  of  the  preceding  movement  and  the  playfulness 
that  is  presently  to  come.  The  oboe  has  a  bewitching  little  song,  half  wistful  and 
half  gay,  accompanied  by  cellos  pizzicati.  Other  woodwinds  likewise  discourse 
upon  this  theme,  and  it  establishes  a  mood  at  once  questioning  and  hopeful. 


With  a  sudden  change  of  tempo  the  strings,  in  a  crisp  and  elastic  rhythm,  are 
given  the  delightful  presto.  All  questionings  are  at  once  answered,  all  doubts 
resolved;  here  is  delicate  merriment,  here  is  frolic,  here  is  joy.  There  are  interludes 
of  thoughtfulness,  and  of  reflection,  as  when  the  woodwinds  suggest  a  serious 
moment,  and  the  oboe  insinuates  its  pristine  pensiveness.  The  reply  is  a  sturdier 
assertion  of  the  motive  of  the  presto. 

But  there  is  a  sudden  appearance  of  darker  orchestral  colors,  and  the  idea  of 
the  presto,  which  seemed  about  to  be  developed  as  the  dominating  spirit  of  the 
movement,  is  ultimately  discarded  for  a  return  to  the  first  plaintive  theme.  Violins 
and  flutes  and  oboes  are  attracted  to  it,  and  in  this  mood  the  movement  closes. 


Fourth  Movement 

The  finale  of  the  First  Symphony,  after  its  awesome  and  portentous  introduc- 
tion, brings  us  into  a  mood  which  asserts  a  profound,  a  vigorous,  and  vital  optimism. 


Tf-T 


ffff 


The  present  movement  is  concerned  with  joy,  too;  but  with  a  lighter  and  more 
brilliant,  a  more  vivacious  and  unreasoning  gladness.  The  headlong  rush  of  the 
violins  ushers  in  a  period  of  what  seems,  emotionally,  a  period  of  complete  abandon; 


CrttC. 


148  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

yet  one  can  observe  that  Brahms  achieves  this  freedom  within  the  confines  of  strict 
form.  Hanslick,  the  noted  Viennese  critic,  concedes  that  this  movement  is  "always 
agreeable,"  and  suggests  that  "Mozartian  blood  flows  in  its  veins."  One  would 
rather  believe  that  the  life  fluid  which  courses  through  this  music  is  thicker  and 
stronger  stuff  than  any  that  ever  circulated  in  the  delicate  tissues  of  Mozart's 
music.  In  its  formal  finish  it  can  be  compared  with  the  work  of  the  older  master; 
but  scarcely  otherwise. 

The  development  of  the  chief  themes,  both  of  which  are  first  projected  by  the 
strings,  is  highly  elaborated,  yet  the  spirit  of  the  music  is  never  lost  in  these  tangles 
of  academic  form;  on  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  grow  in  power  and  emphasis  as  the 
music  moves  along.  The  concluding  section  reaches  new  peaks  of  exaltation,  of 
almost  frantic  high  spirits;  powerful  chords,  underlined  by  syncopation,  bring  new 
powers  to  bear;  brilliant  brasses  lend  point  to  the  orchestra's  declamations,  and 
resounding  chords  establish  a  triumph  at  the  end. 


Symphony  No.  3  in  F  major 

THE  earliest  critics  of  the  Brahms'  symphonies  proved  their  own  diminutive  stature 
when,  to  them,  the  grandeur  of  the  music  was  obscurity.  The  coldness  with  which 
Brahms  was  once  received  was  not  only  the  result  of  his  daring-  to  be  different;  it 
was  not  merely  the  traditional  public  reluctance  to  accept  something  new.  It  was,  in 
fact,  inexperience  with  music  conceived  on  so  mighty  a  scale,  that  called  forth  the 
solemn  dicta  that  Brahms  was  "heavy,"  recondite,  obscure,  esoteric. 

For  no  one  before  Brahms  had  built  the  symphony  into  such  a  gigantic  struc- 
ture. No  one  had  conceived  a  pattern  at  once  so  broad  in  outline  and  so  exquisite  in 
detail.  Nor  is  this  a  reflection  upon  the  masters  who  had  gone  before.  There  can  be 
no  belittling  of  a  Beethoven  Fifth,  which  gains  its  end  by  a  fundamental  sim- 
plicity, an  almost  brutal  straightforwardness,  an  emotional  exhibitionism  that  con- 
stitute a  musical  portrait  of  the  great  soul  in  which  that  immortal  music  was  born. 
But  when  such  a  work  as,  for  example,  the  Beethoven  Fifth  was  the  summum 
bonum  of  symphonic  music  to  the  critics  of  Brahms'  day,  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
wondered  at  that  Brahms'  own  Third,  with  its  subtlety,  its  poise,  its  mellow 
warmth,  its  autumnal  richness,  and  its  sunset  glory,  should  fall  upon  uncom- 
prehending ears. 

Ease  of  comprehension  is  certainly  no  criterion  of  excellence.  Half  the  joy  of 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  149 

beauty  is  in  the  discovery  of  beauty,  and  though  in  our  day  we  enjoy,  at  first  hear- 
ing, a  Brahms'  symphony,  it  is  because  we  inherit,  so  to  speak,  a  degree  of  musical 
sophistication.  The  joy  of  discovering  new  and  personal  beauty  in  this  music  is 
nevertheless  still  ours;  and  we  profit  by  the  mistakes,  and  avoid  the  pitfalls,  of  our 
musical  forbears.  One  of  the  chiefest  charms  of  the  music  of  Brahms  is  its  endless 
revelation  of  new  and  unsuspected  loveliness;  of  hidden  perfections,  adumbrated  to 
our  perceptions  even  after  the  tenth  and  the  fiftieth  hearing. 

That  the  music,  or,  more  accurately,  the  charm  and  beauty  of  the  music  of 
Brahms  often  defy  words  is  no  indication  that  they  are  obscure.  On  the  contrary, 
if  words  could  adequately  describe  the  loveliness  and  the  significance  of  music, 
there  would  be  no  need  of  music.  Music  is  a  language,  universally  comprehensible, 
which  expresses  things  beyond  words.  It  is  a  communication,  between  composer 
and  listener,  of  an  emotional  state.  Words  fail.  Music,  intelligently  conceived  and 
executed,  never  fails.  The  child,  the  savant,  the  poor,  the  ignorant,  the  rich — all 
can  grasp  in  some  degree  its  significance;  and  it  is  only  when  words  come  between 
composer  and  hearer  that  music  may  be  confused,  uncertain,  obscure. 

First  Movement 

The  Brahms  Third  has  been  interpreted,  at  one  time  and  another,  as  a  musical 
picture  of  Hero  and  Leander;  or  of  Shakespeare's  lago!  or  as  having  a  recherche 
moral  significance  as  of  the  eternal  struggle  between  good  and  evil.  None  of  these 
conceptions  has  any  valid  basis;  they  are  but  products  of  individual  imaginations, 
reactions  of  individual  human  entities,  thrust  into  history  solely  because  of  the 
importance  of  the  persons  who  experienced  them.  As  in  the  case  of  any  "pure," 
subjective  music,  your  own  intellectual  and  emotional  response  to  the  symphony 
must  be  the  ultimate  norm  by  which  you  will  judge  and  through  which  you  will 
enjoy  it. 

The  majestic  opening  chords  have  much  more  importance  in  the  music  than 
would  at  first  appear.  Major  and  minor,  bright  and  somber,  they  indicate  an 
emotional  state  disturbed  by  conflict.  They  have  still  a  further  purpose,  musically, 
for,  after  a  few  bars  you  will  perceive  them  again,  not  in  woodwind,  as  at  first, 
where  they  dominate  the  orchestra,  but  in  the  bass  (strings  and  contrabassoon), 
supplying  a  somewhat  ominous  suggestion. 

The  main  theme  of  the  movement  sweeps  downward  in  the  strings  imme- 
diately following  the  two  broad  opening  chords.  There  is  a  contrasting,  upward- 
moving  figure  in  the  woodwind,  and  then,  just  before  the  second  principal  theme, 
occurs  a  phrase  that  might  have  been  transplanted  bodily  from  the  groves  of  the 
Venusberg  itself.  Wagner  lay  stricken  at  the  time  this  symphony  was  written, 
and  it  has  been  suggested,  rather  inappropriately,  perhaps,  that  in  this  surprising 


THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

echo  of  the  song  of  the  Venusberg  sirens,  Brahms  paid  tribute  to  the  dying  Wagner. 
In  view  of  all  circumstances,  the  suggestion  is  incredible. 


Now  comes  the  second  theme,  almost  like  a  lullaby  in  its  gentle  sway,  in  the 
voices  of  clarinet  and  bassoon.  The  strings  urge  onward  a  brisk  rhythm;  details 
of  composition  and  orchestration  now  cluster  about  the  broad  basic  lines  of  the 
movement.  The  gentle  second  theme  darkens  when  it  is  given  to  the  somber  voices 
of  the  heavier  strings;  the  first  theme,  similarly  treated,  is  almost  completely 
disguised. 


Where  now  is  the  electric  brilliance  in  which  this  theme  once  flashed,  cleaving 
Its  way  through  great  masses  of  orchestral  tone?  Scarcely  have  we  time  to  wonder 
what  darkling  cloud  has  enshrouded  the  music,  when  the  theme  appears  again, 
with  all  the  brightness  and  vigor  of  its  first  coming.  Now  the  basic  material  of 
the  movement  grows  to  the  fullness  of  its  splendor  under  Brahms'  wonderful 
development.  Now  the  firm  basic  structure  of  the  movement  supports  the  'masses 
of  detail  that  disclose  it,  not  merely  as  a  finely  articulated  skeleton,  but  as  a  vital 
principle  actuating  and  determining  the  form  and  significance  of  the  movement 
itself. 

Second  Movement 

If  there  is  serenity  in  the  second  movement,  there  is  also  passion,  intense 
though  restrained;  if  there  is  ingenuousness,  there  is,  too,  a  subtlety,  an  ingenious- 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  15! 

ness  not  to  be  disregarded.  The  main  theme  is,  of  course,  the  lovely  song  of  the 
woodwind,  like  a  hymn  for  little  children,  that  opens  the  movement.  It  is  as  if  a 
great  organ  played  gently  .  .  .  but  the  answering  cadence  is  not  the  white  and 
passionless  voices  of  children,  but  a  deep  and  tremulous  yearning  utterance  of  the 
strings.  Yet  more  poignant,  more  pleading,  is  the  voice  of  the  oboe  that  in  solitary 
eloquence  pierces  the  masses  of  tone  that  encircle  it. 

There  are  countless  embellishments  and  mutations  of  the  main  melody,  yet 
in  all  its  wanderings,  in  all  its  guises  simple  or  obscure,  it  yearns  and  is  unsatisfied. 
Presently,  after  the  lowest  reaches  of  the  strings  have  been  explored,  the  wood- 
winds (clarinets,  bassoon  doubling)  suggest  a  comforting  thought.  And  again,  the 
strings  bring  forth  a  still  brighter  figure,  carried  on,  now,  alternately  by  wood 
and  strings. 

Brahms  is  often  calm,  serene,  placid  .  .  .  but  dullness  has  no  place.  The 
rhythms  of  this  movement  could  hardly  be  described  as  turbulent,  and  yet  there 
is  conflict.  Is  it  aimed  to  accent  the  pervading  calm  by  contrast — or  by  disturbance 
to  prevent  a  monotone  in  the  pattern  of  the  movement?  Who  knows  .  .  .  and  what 
matter?  Here  is  a  delicate  and  skillful  thing,  but  one  of  a  thousand  details  that 
make  Brahms  .  .  .  Brahms!  Listen  attentively,  and  you  will  detect  the  faint 
rhythmic  clashing  of  three  notes  in  strings  against  two  in  woodwind. 

And  yet,  there  is  always  a  wonderful  unity,  rhythmic  and  melodic.  It  can 
hardly  escape  you:  note,  for  example,  toward  the  close  of  the  movement,  the 
appearance  of  a  subject  in  the  woodwind  against  the  figured  accompaniment  of 
the  strings  and  the  chorded  brass.  What  is  it  but  the  candid  opening  theme,  sub- 
jected to  a  slight  rhythmic  mutation  that  makes  it  seem  to  grow  naturally  and 
logically  from  what  has  preceded  it? 

Third  Movement 

The  third  movement  of  a  symphony  is,  traditionally  and  technically,  a  dance 
movement.  With  Brahms,  whose  love  and  understanding  of  the  Hungarian  and 
gypsy  dances  is  one  of  the  traditions  of  music,  such  a  movement  would  be  inevitable. 
But  the  use  of  a  dance  form  in  the  symphony  antedated  Brahms,  of  course,  by 
many  a  year.  The  minuet  of  the  Mozart  symphony,  the  scherzo  of  Beethoven, 
were  handy  devices  which  the  composer  bent  to  his  purpose  of  expressing  a  humor 
not  exactly  compatible  with  the  more  serious  musical  forms.  And  thus  a  composer 
of  today,  if  in  his  symphony  he  placed  a  fox-trot  movement,  would  be  perfectly 
justified  by  all  canons  of  technique,  by  tradition  and  convention. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred,  however,  that  the  dance  movement  necessarily  is 
frivolous,  trifling,  or  lacking  in  depth.  It  need  not  even  be  happy.  The  fassacaglia^ 
the  saraband,  and  other  dance  forms  were  at  least  serious;  the  minuet,  stately; 
the  polonaise,  solemn. 


152  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF     THE    SYMPHONY 

Do  not,  therefore,  expect  this  third  movement,  although  it  exhibits  certain 
dance-suggestive  rhythms,  to  be  of  a  character  at  odds  with  that  of  the  main  body 
of  the  work.  True,  the  movement  is  contrasted,  and  deliberately  so,  with  the  others; 
but  not  to  the  extent  of  dissipating  the  spirit  of  calm  and  mellow  joy  that  vitalizes 
the  work  as  a  whole. 

The  cellos  sing  the  dance  song  that  is  the  chief  theme  of  the  movement .  .  . 


sing  it  without  prelude  as  this  section  of  the  symphony  opens.  Then,  when  one 
would  naturally  expect  a  second  and  perhaps  a  brighter  theme,  the  same  song  is 
transferred,  with  a  gain  of  emotional  content,  an  even  more  pensive  suggestion, 
to  the  violins.  Still  later,  when  the  appearance  of  a  new  motive  sqems  inevitable, 
an  even  more  mournful  projection  of  the  theme  is  effected  in  woodwind  voices — 
flute  and  oboe,  doubled.  Yet  there  is  a  certain  vitality,  a  determined  forward 
motion,  a  rhythm  strangely  at  variance,  in  its  persistence  and  gentle  insistence, 
with  the  emotional  potency  of  the  melody  itself. 

Presently  a  brief  pause,  a  tentative  mutation  of  harmony,  and  the  second 
theme  finally  does  appear.  It  seems  to  have  a  certain  diffidence,  a  hesitation  .  .  . 
yet  its  rhythm  is  definite,  its  tonal  coloring  (in  flute,  oboe,  clarinet,  bassoon) 
rich  and  pervasive.  The  cello,  below,  proceeds  in  a  figure  of  its  own,  and  occa- 
sionally a  gently  blown  horn  adds  to  the  luminous  tone  of  the  woodwind  choir. 

There  is  a  transitional  passage  of  singing  loveliness,  and  now  the  horn,  in  no 
uncertain  tone,  duplicates  the  song  of  the  cellos  at  the  opening  of  the  movement; 
the  oboe  repeats  the  former  part  of  the  violins.  Color  is  applied  with  a  generous 
hand;  the  melodic  elements  of  the  movement  are  reviewed  in  various  guises,  and 
there  is,  finally,  a  tentative  and  hesitating  approach  to  the  figure  described  in  the 
preceding  paragraph.  Suddenly  the  mood  vanishes,  that  motive  is  never  re-created, 
and  the  movement  quickly,  but  gently,  ends. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  Brahms  of  the  fourth  movement  is  indeed  that  mighty  Brahms  of  the 
C  major  (First)  Symphony.  Here  is  the  opulence  of  orchestration,  the  overwhelm- 
ing power,  the  invariable  certitude,  the  virility  and  vitality  of  that  noble  music. 
But  here  there  is  more :  there  is  more  of  poise,  more  of  the  feeling  of  achievement. 
For  beyond  the  triumphant  note  one  senses  the  warm  soft  flow  of  peace — a  rich 
autumnal  peace.  The  goodly  harvest  is  gathered;  the  day  is  done;  a  golden  western 
light  flows  over  the  world  in  splendor,  and  dies  ...  in  splendor. 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  153 

Strings  and  bassoon,  not  loudly,  but  with  the  vigor  and  emphasis  of  restrained 
power,  give  us  the  first  theme  in  strong  and  perfect  octaves.  Woodwind  enriches 

flfl*   $*&*/. 


the  harmony,  and  then,  a  powerful  and  sonorous  phrase,  half  military,  half  of 
the  cloister,  is  ushered  in  by  the  horn  and  pronounced  by  strings  and  woodwind. 
An  almost  savage  pronouncement  of  the  horn  grows  directly  from  this  phrase, 
and  there  is  a  period  of  further  elucidation  of  the  first  theme.  The  dynamic  range 
is  extended-,  there  are  exigent  demands  upon  the  orchestra's  power,  but  another 
ominous  utterance  of  the  horn  presently  restrains  the  spirit  of  abandon.  The  fierce- 
ness of  attack  relaxes  temporarily,  until  the  violins  presently  whip  the  vast  pool 
of  sound  into  a  new  frenzy. 

Strangely,  this  new  burst  of  energy  is  devoted  to  the  solemn,  almost  ecclesi- 
astical subject  we  heard  not  long  after  the  movement  began.  But  one  more  climax, 
one  more  terrific  burst  of  energy,  one  more  upward  surging  of  all  the  orchestra's 
mightiest  powers,  one  more  stentorian  warning  in  the  brass — and  the  twilight 
begins,  gently  and  all  but  imperceptibly,  to  fall  across  the  scene. 

There  are  no  words,  there  is  no  need  of  words,  to  describe  this  music  in  its 
last  moments.  The  glow  of  a  mighty  presence  pervades  it.  The  magnificent  com- 
placence of  a  great  spirit  broods  comfortingly  above  it,  resolving  all  doubts  and 
questionings  in  the  serenity,  the  peace,  the  spiritual  satisfaction  of  its  close. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  E  minor 

BRAHMS'  Symphony  in  E  minor  was  first  performed  in  1885,  published  during 
the  following  year,  and  played  for  the  first  time  in  America  by  the  Symphony 
Society,  in  New  York,  in  December,  1886.  Brahms  was  uncertain  of  the  merit  of 
the  work,  and  in  fact  seems  to  have  been  generally  depressed  both  during  the 
months  of  composition  and  the  first  few  performances,  which  he  himself  conducted. 
It  is  said  that,  just  prior  to  beginning  work  on  the  Fourth  Symphony,  he  had 
studied  diligently,  and  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  Sophocles'  tragedy  Oedipus, 
and  perhaps  there  is  something  of  the  grief  and  terror  of  that  awesome  work  in 
certain  portions  of  the  symphony.  That  is  not  to  say  that  it  is  a  symphony  of  gloom 
or  melancholy.  It  is  always  thoughtful,  sometimes  philosophical,  occasionally  gay; 
never  morbid,  never  depressing. 


154  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

First  Movement 

Always  it  seems  strange  that  Brahms  ever  could  have  been  considered  cold 
and  pedantic,  intellectual  rather  than  emotional,  forbidding  and  heavy.  True, 
after  the  sometimes  thin  and  effeminate  prettiness  of  Mozart,  the  mellifluous 
facility  of  Schubert,  the  stark  simplicity  and  ruggedness  of  Beethoven,  music 
conceived  so  magnificent  in  outline  and  so  elaborate  in  detail  as  the  music  of 
Brahms  often  is  must  have  lacked  the  power  to  evoke  a  spontaneous  reaction  from 
the  casual  listener.  The  music  lover,  the  concertgoer  of  today,  however,  is  perhaps 
more  sophisticated.  Each  year  of  musical  history,  each  composer  who  has  come 
and  gone,  has  widened  and  deepened  musical  background,  sharpened  musical 
perception,  refined  musical  discrimination.  And  though  Mozart  and  Schubert  and 
Beethoven  lose  nothing  through  the  years,  the  sophisticated  and  occasionally 
abstruse  Brahms  finds  today  an  audience  more  receptive,  more  appreciative  and 
sympathetic  than  he  knew  while  he  lived. 

The  very  opening  phrases  of  the  first  movement  draw  us  into  a  moving 
current  of  music  5  music  that  seems  to  have  begun  nowhere,  music  of  which  we 
suddenly,  not  shockingly,  become  conscious.  The  theme  is  cast  in  a  figure  much 


like  a  dialogue,  strings  questioning,  woodwind  answering.  A  pleasant  rustling  in 
the  accompaniment,  gradually  growing  more  prominent,  suggests  the  general  cur- 
rent of  life,  with  life's  insistent  questionings  and  half  answers  persistently  intruding. 
There  are  wild  calls  on  the  horn,  and  the  second  important  theme  appears  as  a 
fragmentary  melody  in  the  cellos,  with  the  curious  dominating  character  invariably 
assumed  by  a  melody  when  it  is  laid  in  the  bass  * .  .  but  an  upward  sweep  presently 
carries  it  into  the  higher,  more  penetrating,  yet  less  commanding  voices  of  the 
lighter  strings. 

The  movement  proceeds,  not  in  the  strictly  academic  sonata  form,  but  as  a 
series  of  episodes  and  climaxes,  unified  into  a  perfect  whole  more  by  their  emo- 
tional significance  than  by  any  interrelation  of  structure.  The  second  section  of 
the  movement,  for  example,  opens  much  like  the  first,  but  with  a  sense  of  uncer- 
tainty achieved  by  the  slight  variation  of  the  questioning  phrase  with  which  it 
began.  The  wild  phrases  of  the  horn  which  once  before  have  briefly  appeared 
return  with  more  emphasis,  and  are  elaborated  at  such  length  as  to  give  them 
momentary  dominance.The  questioning  phrase  of  the  beginning  is  again  presented, 
now  in  a  solemn  light,  and  still  without  definite  answer. 

A  climax  greater  than  the  several  preceding  climaxes  of  the  movement 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS 

develops  in  the  final  section  of  the  movement  ...  a  spirit  almost  warlike  grips  and 
moves  the  music  until  its  final  insistent  questions  are  put  down  under  the  emphatic 
chords  and  bearings  of  the  great  drums  in  the  closing  measures. 

Second  Movement 

Horns,  then  the  bassoons,  oboes,  and  flutes  put  forth  a  tentative  tentacle  of 
tone;  a  delicate  tendril  that  presently  fastens  and  fashions  itself  into  a  lovely 
melody  woven  of  dreams  under  a  summer  sun. 

In  writing  a  simple  melody,  the  composer  reveals  his  greatness,  if  any  he 
has.  The  little  man  can  command  the  bravura  effect,  can  evoke  the  orchestra's 
mightiest  thunders,  but  only  the  great  achieve  the  sheer  simplicity  which  because  it 
is  simple  and  elementary  touches  our  deepest  and  most  vital  sensibilities.  This 
achievement  is  frequent  in  the  music  of  Brahms,  and  is  notably  accomplished  here. 

Gone  are  the  feverish  questionings,  the  inadequate  answering,  the  strife,  the 
tumult,  and  the  overbearing  power  of  the  first  movement.  Now  all  is  bright,  placid, 
warm,  restful.  If  there  is  a  hint  of  sadness,  it  is  of  that  pleasant  melancholy  with 
which  comfortable  age  regards  the  time-softened  memories  of  restless  youthful 
years.  The  melody  flows  over  the  almost  imperceptible  disturbances  of  plucked 
strings,  but  there  is  growing  emotional  stringency;  presently  you  feel  a  new  and 
more  passionate  impulse,  the  strings  giving  it  expression  above  a  woodwind  and 
horn  accompaniment.  Still  another  and  more  powerful  motive,  strings  echoing 
woodwind  with  emphasis.  And  yet  the  movement  has  reached  no  definite  and 
permanent  emotional  plane  *  .  .  its  melodies,  vagrant  as  they  are,  touch  lightly  the 
wellsprings  of  feeling. 

At  the  very  moment  when  we  feel  that  the  errant  spirit  which  animates  the 
movement  must  alight  and  reveal  itself  fully,  we  come  upon  an  agitated  passage 
in  which  the  strings'  most  moving  accents  are  called  forth,  briefly  but  powerfully. 
Now  we  know  that  the  former  wanderings  were  as  the  strange  succession  of 
fantasies  that  come  in  fllogical  procession  through  a  sleeper's  subconsciousness, 
Now  they  are  revealed,  as  it  were,  in  the  hard  light  of  full  awakening  .  .  „  lived 
over  .  .  .  and  presently  dismissed  with  a  smile. 

Third  Movement 

A  joyous  outpouring  of  vigor  and  vitality,  a  happy  command  of  the  orchestra's 
full  forces  in  a  jolly  tune  that  surely  had  its  genesis  in  some  wild  peasant  dance  4  . . 


156  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

thus  the  third  movement  (allegro  giocoso:  lively  and  joyously)  of  the  symphony 
springs  into  being.  The  chief  theme  is  in  the  opening  bars,  and  throughout  the 
first  few  minutes  you  will  hear  it  in  a  variety  of  tone  colors;  in  its  original  form, 
and  curiously  inverted;  in  the  bass  and  in  the  tenor  voices  of  the  orchestra. 


Then,  a  little  later,  the  same  theme  in  a  quaintly  distorted  form  partakes  of 
the  character  of  a  pious  supplication,  perhaps  in  mockery,  perhaps  in  atonement 
for  its  former  exuberance.  But  not  for  long  .  .  .  for  a  new  figure,  as  bold  and  as 
gay  as  the  first,  elbows  aside,  as  it  were,  the  faintly  ecclesiastical  utterance.  Never 
again  through  the  movement  can  the  bright  spirits  be  restrained,  and  they  rush  on 
through  all  the  orchestra's  choirs  to  a  swift  and  vigorous  climax. 

Fourth  Movement 

It  was  characteristic  of  Brahms3  quiet  daring  to  use,  for  the  finale  of  his 
symphony,  an  ancient  dance  form — the  fassacagKa.*  It  has  been  remarked  that 
in  this  instance  the  judgment  of  the  composer  was  open  to  question,  for  if  any- 
where in  the  symphony  clarity  is  essential,  it  is  in  the  finale.  The  fassacaglia  is 
not  a  simple  form,  and  in  the  hands  of  a  composer  less  lucid  in  his  musical 
expression  than  Brahms  is  in  this  instance,  it  might  have  meant  the  popular  failure 
of  his  work. 

Even  if  it  were  necessary  deliberately  to  abstract  one's  attention  from  the 
magnificence  of  the  finale  as  a  whole,  in  order  to  follow  the  structural  elements 
of  the  ^assacaglia  form,  the  effort  would  well  be  repaid.  But  such  a  mental  abstrac- 
tion is  not  necessary.  A  listener  knowing  nothing,  and  caring  less,  about  form 
and  construction  will  be  charmed,  will  be  gripped  and  moved  by  this  magnificent 


*  A  fassacaglia  is  an  ancient  dance  form,  the  musical  beauty  of  which,  attracted  the 
attention  of  composers  of  serious  music.  A  fassacaglia  is  musical  construction  consisting 
essentially  of  a  ground  bass  and  variations.  A  ground  bass  is  a  note  or  phrase — in  the 
passacaglia  always  extending  two,  four  or  eight  measures — upon  wKidi  series  of  har- 
monies and  variations  are  built.  In  this  form  the  ground  bass  may  appear  either  in  bass  or 
treble;  it  is  generally  rather  solemn  in  character,  and  its  musical  treatment  is  extremely 
elaborate.  The  fassacaglia  is  closely  related  to  the  ckaconne,  or  ciaccona.  J.  S.  Bach  made 
notable  use  of  these  and  other  ancient  dance  forms  in  his  organ  compositions.  Brahms 
first  introduced  the  fassacaglia  into  the  symphony. 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  157 

music.  The  musically  initiated  will  be  conscious,  without  effort,  of  both  the  tech- 
nical structure  and  the  musical  beauty  of  the  movement. 

The  first  eight  measures  of  the  movement  give  us  the  ground  bass  of  the 
fassacagtia*   It  is  sounded  mightily  in  the  brass  and  woodwind,  and  its  first 


ornamentation  appears  immediately  when  on  a  repetition  of  the  theme  it  is 
contrasted  with  pizzicato  strings.  Again,  it  runs  counter  to  a  distinctly  new  and 
flowing  melody  far  above  it.  Now  the  basic  theme  comes  itself  into  the  treble 
range,  and  through  all  versions,  through  all  variations  appears  a  definite  growth, 
a  working  toward  a  climax — a  form  within  a  form. 

And  this  growth  is  felt  even  when  it  appears  in  the  diffident  accents  of  the 
flute,  wherein  an  increasing  of  emotional  tenseness  repkces  that  of  dynamic  effect. 
The  same  is  true  of  the  subdued  choir  of  brass  that  presently  intones  a  solemn 
phrase  ...  a  phrase  replaced  in  a  moment  by  the  basic  theme  itself,  put  forth 
in  powerful  brazen  accents  by  the  same  instruments  that  ktely  spoke  so  gently. 

And  once  more  as  the  final  section  of  the  movement  begins,  the  brass  with 
even  augmented  power  blares  forth  defiantly  against  the  acid  commentary  of  the 
strings,  the  same  potent  utterance.  Yet  with  each  recurring  emphatic  statement 
of  the  theme,  one  feels  there  is  a  reserve,  a  something  left  unsaid,  a  something 
which  is  said  finally,  in  gorgeous  counterpoint  and  intoxicating  rhythm,  in  the 
closing  measures  of  the  symphony. 


Variations  on  a  Theme  by  Haydn 

THOUGH  Brahms  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  Haydn  for  the  foundation 
theme  of  this  lovely  music,  Haydn  was  not  so  candid.  There  is  considerable  evidence 
that  he  was  not  the  originator  of  the  tune.  It  appears  to  have  been,  basically  and 


158  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

originally,  a  hymn  tune;  historically  of  the  type  of  Ein  jeste  Burg,  which  is 
variously  attributed  to  Luther  and  Bach  and  others,  but  the  origins  of  which  are 
unknown.  The  theme  of  the  Variations  is  extracted  from  a  series  of  pieces  for  wind 
instruments,  by  Haydn ;  in  this  music  it  is  described  as  the  Chorale  of  St.  Anthony. 


By  the  time  Brahms  adopted  it,  this  tune  had  been  modified  in  such  a  way  as 
to  be  less  severely  ecclesiastical.  A  chorus  composed  of  oboes,  bassoons,  contra- 
bassoon,  horns,  and  pizzicato  double  basses  proposes  the  theme  for  development. 
During  the  variations,  it  may  occasionally  require  intentness  to  locate  all  the  notes 
of  the  theme,  since  they  are  frequently  surrounded  or  buried  by  masses  of  tone. 
But  they  are  there! 

Variation  i :  Developed  in  strings  and  woodwind,  in  fairly  lively  rhythm.  The 
texture  of  tone  woven  by  the  strings,  against  and  above  the  wind  instruments,  is 
delicate  and  involved. 

Variation  2:  The  pattern  of  the  theme  is  followed  again  by  woodwind 
(clarinet,  bassoon)  with  the  strings  supplying  ornamental  figures. 

Variation  3:  Oboe  and  bassoon  are  contrasted  with  brilliant  octaves,  played 
by  all  the  strings  from  viola  down.  The  violins  are  reserved  for  a  later  moment, 
wherein  woodwinds  join  them. 

Variation  4:  A  bizarre  tone  quality  is  effected  by  a  combination  of  oboe  and 
horn,  the  one  penetrating  and  biting,  the  other  round  and  full  and  sweet.  These 
have  the  melody,  against  string  accompaniment;  later  the  tune  is  given  to  the 
strings* 

Variation  5:  A  rather  humorous  and  flippant  treatment  of  Handel's  quasi- 
pious  tune.  It  appears  in  somewhat  distorted  form,  and  is  contrasted  with  lively 
figures  in  the  woodwind,  with  the  piccolo  adding  its  brilliance. 

Variation  6:  The  theme  is  sharply  sketched  by  pizzicato  strings. 

Variation  j:  In  rather  slow  but  graceful  movement.  Flute  and  viola,  clarinet 
and  violin,  in  graceful  descending  figures. 

Variation  8:  An  inversion  of  the  theme.  The  strings,  con  sordino,  begin;  then 
a  tonally  brilliant  but  dynamically  weak  combination  of  instruments — piccolo, 
clarinet,  and  bassoon — is  inserted. 

Conclusion:  A  climax  built  upon  a  part  of  Haydn's  theme,  which  is  here  given 
out  by  the  strings  and  used  as  a  point  of  departure  for  a  highly  developed  climax. 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  159 

Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

THE  concerto  was  written  when  the  genius  of  Brahms  was  in  its  full  flower.  The 
composer  waited  and  labored  long  before  undertaking  his  First  Symphony,  knowing 
that  only  through  certain  knowledge  of  the  smaller  instrumental  forms  could  he 
attain  to  command  of  the  larger.  How  logical  then  that  this,  which  is  practically 
a  symphony  plus  a  violin  sonata,  should  have  been  put  off  until  Brahms  was  sure 
of  his  hold  upon  both  orchestral  and  violin  music. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  that  the  work  was  written  with  the  gifted  Joachim  in 
the  mind  of  the  composer  as  the  interpreter  of  the  concerto.  The  famous  violinist 
conferred  with  Brahms  upon  the  work,  but  curiously  enough,  while  willing  to 
accept  suggestions  regarding  musical  structure  (in  which  science  Brahms  was  prob- 
ably much  the  superior),  the  composer  would  not  consider  very  seriously  the  ideas 
of  the  violinist  in  the  matter  of  technique.  Perhaps  it  was  Brahms3  fear  and  dislike 
of  the  uselessly  ornamental  and  meretricious  that  accounted  for  this  curious  atti- 
tude. That  his  own  knowledge  of  the  violin  was  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  explore 
in  his  music  the  limits  of  its  possibilities  is  obvious  enough  in  a  single  hearing 
of  the  concerto,  and  he  gives  the  solo  artist  as  much  liberty  (in  the  cadenza)  as 
justice  and  precedent  would  require. 

First  Movement 

The  mass  and  breadth  of  the  introduction  to  the  first  movement  is  typically 
Brahms;  rich,  almost  heavy  harmonies  in  contrast  with  the  lighter  and  more 
penetrating  tone  colors  of  the  woodwind.  Beginning  gently  enough,  the  music 
presently  attains  a  bold  vigor  and  vitality  that  commands,  rather  than  invites, 
attention,  yet  it  is  joyous  and  bright,  and  these  manifestations  of  the  orchestra's 
concerted  powers  are  but  a  foil  for  the  compelling  and  solitary  utterance  of  the 
solo  instrument. 

The  violin  enters  in  a  richly  figured  passage,  somewhat  tentative  in  its  present 
implications,  and  quickly  fading  in  an  incredible  pianissimo  shared  by  the  whole 
orchestra.  The  first  section  of  the  movement  presents,  so  to  speak,  violin  tone  in 
the  abstract.  The  solo  instrument's  part  is  formless,  vague,  not  of  the  warp  and 
woof  of  the  concerto  itself,  yet  it  has  served  the  valuable  purpose  of  stimulating 
the  finer  perceptions  of  the  ear  with  tempting  bits  of  the  most  exquisite  tone, 
inviting,  persuading  attention  to  the  lovely  flow  of  melody  that  presently  follows. 
The  second  section  of  the  movement  opens  with  a  song  of  such  deceptive  sim- 
plicity, such  limpid  fluency,  as  to  lead  imperceptibly  into  a  fascinating  labyrinth  of 
melodious  complexities  before  we  are  quite  conscious  of  it.  That  this  melody  and 
its  elaborations  are  exacting  from  the  solo  artist  an  appreciable  degree  of  technical 
skill;  that  they  are  accompanied  in  their  every  convolution  by  an  orchestra  most 


l6o  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

subtly  shadowing  the  violin's  every  intonation — these  things  require  second  thought 
and  deliberate  abstraction  from  the  witching  beauty  of  the  melody  itself. 

Nor  when,  in  the  following  sections  of  the  movement,  there  is  even  more 
elaborate,  more  wonderful,  and  vastly  more  difficult  development  of  the  thematic 
material  we  have  already  heard  is  there  a  sense  of  striving  or  of  academic  perfec- 
tion, or  of  that  cold  impassive  beauty  so  often  the  virtuoso's  sole  claim  to  greatness. 
The  emotional  values,  which  after  all  are  the  chief  values  of  any  music  and  its  sole 
raison  {Petre^  are  always  foremost. 

The  final  section  of  the  movement  is  devoted  to  the  cadenza,  the  customary 
ornate  display  passage  given  to  an  exhibition  of  the  soloist's  technical  skill.  It  is 
worthy  of  note  that  Brahms,  in  conformity  with  ancient  custom,  left  the  cadenza 
to  the  discretion  of  the  violinist,  giving  him,  therefore,  an  opportunity  to  display 
not  only  instrumental  gymnastics  but  also  his  talent  for  composition  and  his  con- 
ception of  the  essential  musical  thought  of  the  movement,  upon  which  the  cadenza 
should  be  founded.  Beethoven,  it  will  be  remembered,  frequently  wrote  out  his 
cadenzas  to  prevent  an  ambitious  soloist's  doing  violence  to  the  composer's  work. 

That  danger  does  not  exist  when  a  great  musician  is  the  soloist,  or  when  the 
famous  Kreisler  cadenza  is  used.  Comment  upon  it,  upon  the  sprightliness  never 
sacrificed  to  dignity,  the  dignity  that  never  approaches  pompousness,  the  clear  and 
valid  relationship  of  the  cadenza  to  the  main  body  of  the  movement — these  things 
need  no  comment. 

Second  Movement 

Melody  in  instrumental  music  alone  gives  it  intimate  and  personal  character. 
Melody  is  the  origin  and  basis  of  the  primordial  musical  speech  of  humanity.  It  is 
not  at  all  surprising,  therefore,  that  to  the  greater  number  of  lovers  of  music  a 
song,  be  it  vocal  or  instrumental,  comes  nearest  to  the  heart.  The  violin,  too,  the 
most  intimate  and  personal  and  unmechanical  of  all  musical  instruments,  seems 
most  expressive  of  the  wordless  voice  we  call  melody.  The  present  movement,  then, 
should  have  a  singularly  potent  appeal. 

It  has.  None  of  the  vocal  songs  of  Brahms,  lovely  as  they  are,  surpasses  in  its 
direct,  its  almost  naive  appeal  to  sentiment,  the  beautiful  melody  which  springs 
from  the  reedy  woodwind,  against  the  warm  tones  of  the  horns,  as  the  second 
movement  of  the  concerto  begins.  A  pastoral  simplicity  is  suggested;  a  lonely, 
wandering  voice,  discernible  not  by  its  power  but  by  the  pensiveness  of  its  utter- 
ance, follows  the  graceful  melodic  line  which  the  composer  has  laid  down  for  it. 
Yet  its  appeal  is  never  so  shrewd,  never  so  keen  or  so  moving,  as  when  the  solo 
violin,  with  its  voice  of  infinite  pathos,  projects  almost  the  same  song. 

But  presently  the  violin  wanders  farther  afield;  it  soars,  it  droops,  it  puts 
out  simultaneously  two  patterns  of  notes,  gentle  yet  conclusive;  it  intensifies  feel- 
ing, yet  soothes;  it  sings  with  the  wind  .  .  .  and  again  wanders  in  its  own  smooth 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  l6l 

path;  it  is  cold,  it  is  passionate,  it  is  remote  and  intimate.  And  presently,  against 
dreamy  harmonies  beneath,  it  is  silent. 

Third  Movement 

It  is  unlikely  that  any  of  those  wonderful  violinists  who  in  happier  days 
wandered  from  town  to  village  in  Hungary  as  gypsies  could  have  played  the  violin 
part  in  this  final  movement  of  the  concerto,  yet  it  is  certain  that  their  music,  their 
fiery  rhythms,  their  daring  harmonies,  their  mercurial  emotionalism  are  the  bass 
for  this  music.  Perhaps,  as  has  been  hinted,  it  was  a  tribute  to  the  gypsy  background 
of  Joachim,  the  great  violinist  to  whom  the  work  is  musically,  if  not  literally, 
dedicated.  At  any  rate,  here,  in  a  more  sophisticated  form,  is  the  life  and  vigor, 
the  fire  and  feeling  of  the  itinerant  nameless  geniuses  of  the  bow  whose  musk 
leaped  and  rang,  wailed  and  sobbed  and  danced  all  over  Hungary  a  generation  ago. 

A  more  sophisticated  form — yes.  But  the  essence  of  the  wild  gypsy  music  is 
here,  and  lost  in  its  rhythm  and  singing  melody,  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  glow- 
ing fire,  the  eerie  light  reflected  in  dark  eyes  and  from  swarthy  faces;  to  imagine 
in  the  orchestral  accompaniment  the  soft  clangor  of  the  cembalo,  and  in  the 
nervous,  passionate  utterances  of  the  solo  violin  the  diablerie  of  some  wild  gypsy 
fiddler.  And  the  violin  can  sparkle  and  flash  as  well  as  sing!  Scales  as  crisp  and 
clear  as  if  played,  staccato,  on  the  piano;  glittering  tones  from  the  violin's  topmost 
register;  shining  trills  even  and  lustrous  as  matched  pearls. 

New  vitality  moves  and  hastens  the  rhythm  as  the  end  of  the  movement 
approaches  .  .  .  the  music  is  faster,  more  brilliant,  more  gay  until,  at  the  end, 
come  the  characteristic  Hungarian  three  mighty  chords,  the  violin  dominating  even 
here  the  full  might  of  the  orchestra. 


Hungarian  Dances  Nos.  i,  5,  and  6 

EXTENDED  comment  upon  these  exceedingly  popular  little  concert  pieces  is  hardly 
necessary;  rare  is  the  orchestra,  large  or  small,  that  is  not  often  called  upon  to 
play  them,  and  many  a  pianist  and  fiddler  has  found  in  them  "sure-fire"  demon- 
strations of  skill  and  expression.  They  were  originally  set  down  for  piano,  four 
hands;  and  the  words  "set  down"  are  used  deliberately.  These  tunes  were  not 
original  with  Brahms,  and  he  never  claimed  that  they  were.  When  they  first 
became  popular  Brahms  was  accused  of  plagiarism,  and  of  getting  rich  at  the 
expense  of  wandering  gypsy  fiddlers  from  whom  he  borrowed  these  wild  melodies. 
But  Brahms  only  claimed  to  have  "set"  them  for  piano. 


l62  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Some  of  the  dances  were  later  orchestrated  by  Brahms,  Dvorak  and  others. 
The  popular  Nos.  5  and  6  are  usually  played  in  the  orchestration  by  Albert  Parlow; 
the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  has  recently  added  to  its  repertoire,  as  an  encore  piece, 
No.  I  in  the  orchestration  of  Stokowski. 


"Tragische"  Overture 
[Tragic  Overture] 

THIS  wonderful  music  exhibits  Brahms  in  a  character  which  was  intimately  his, 
yet  which  was  never,  in  any  other  work,  so  clearly  and  so  thoroughly  exposed. 
This  is  Brahms  the  philosopher,  considering  the  endless  tragedy  of  life,  but  trans- 
lating it  into  terms  of  music,  the  soul  language  that  he  knew  so  well.  The  tragedy 
in  this  music  is  subjective,  and  not  of  the  world 5  yet  we  feel  in  it  the  superb  con- 
tours of  the  Greek  masterpieces,  with  the  inevitable  struggle  of  opposing  forces, 
the  soul-shaking  peripeteia,  the  soul-soothing  catharsis.  There  is  no  story,  no  pro- 
gram for  this  music.  It  is  pure  emotion,  abstracted  from  material  life,  bent  into 
intelligible  and  moving  form  by  the  power  of  a  great  mind  and  the  warmth  of  a 
great  heart.  To  associate  it  with  any  existing  drama  is  to  misconstrue  it  entirely. 
There  are  two  conspicuous  themes  which  may  be  assumed  to  represent  pro- 
tagonist and  antagonist.  One  seems  filled  with  intense  yearning  and,  at  the  same 
rime,  with  terror;  the  other,  more  sanguine  perhaps,  might  indicate  the  possibility 
of  ultimate  triumph.  Their  development  leads  them  into  tense  and  calamitous 
situations,  into  conflict  and  crisis,  just  as  in  the  classical  tragedy  the  hero's  own 
weaknesses  beguile  him  into  circumstances  from  which  there  is  no  escape.  And, 
as  in  the  drama  our  own  emotions  are  purged,  our  own  pity  awakened  as  the 
protagonist  suffers  condign  punishment  for  his  shortcomings,  so  it  is  with  the 
surpassing  power  and  suggestiveness  of  this  mighty  music* 


Concerto  No.  i  in  D  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

THIS  noble  work  for  the  piano  with  orchestra  has  a  curious  history.  It  germinated 
in  ideas  whkh  Brahms  had  written  down  for  a  projected,  and  never  completed, 
symphony;  it  was  developed  later  as  a  sonata  for  two  pianos;  the  first  two  move- 
ments finally  appeared  in  their  present  setting,  and  the  third  was  used  in  Brahms' 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  163 

German  Requiem.  When  the  concerto  was  first  performed  (by  Brahms,  January 
27,  1859)  &  was  by  no  means  an  unqualified  success.  Brahms  himself  was  not 
entirely  satisfied  with  it,  though  undisturbed  by  its  cool  reception;  and  some  of 
the  critics  were  both  prejudiced  and  merciless.  Others  found  reason  for  praising 
Brahms'  ability  as  a  pianist,  his  musicianship  and  sincerity;  but  few  admired  the 
work  for  its  own  sake.  In  part,  the  reason  for  this  was  the  fact  that  the  concerto 
does  not  make  of  the  piano  a  mere  musical  firework;  the  solo  instrument  is  often 
subordinated  to  the  orchestra,  and  the  orchestration  itself,  at  times,  is  in  truth  very 
weighty.  Even  today,  the  concerto  is  not  the  favorite  with  pianists  that  the  succeed- 
ing one  is,  though  it  is  necessarily  in  the  repertoire  of  every  great  keyboard  artist. 

First  Movement 

The  orchestra  constructs  an  introduction  of  considerable  length,  and  not  very 
closely  related  except  in  characteristic  instrumental  color  and  texture,  to  the  move- 
ment proper,  until  the  presentation  of  the  main  theme.  This  subject  is  powerfully 


put  forward  by  the  strings,  with  thunderings  of  the  timpani  in  support;  presently 
the  piano  is  merged  into  the  orchestral  picture,  and  deals  with  the  thematic  mate- 
rial in  the  same  mood  in  which  it  has  been  presented.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that, 
while  the  piano,  from  this  point  onward,  is  usually  the  moving  spirit  in  the  intro- 
duction of  new  musical  ideas,  it  is  secondary  to  the  orchestra  in  the  development 
of  them.  The  piano,  solo,  proposes  the  second  subject  of  the  movement,  together 
with  episodic  material  derived  from  it,  but  the  melody  is  soon  surrendered  to  the 
strings,  the  solo  instrument  contenting  itself  with  accompaniment  figures.  Later, 
after  piano  and  orchestra  combine  in  a  long  development  of  thematic  material, 
there  is  a  succession  of  new  ideas,  together  with  reminiscences  of  the  first  important 
theme.  The  concluding  section  of  the  music,  derived  from  this  theme,  is  of  striking 
power  and  brilliance. 

Second  Movement 

The  romantic  and  philosophically  melancholy  Brahms  mores  throiigh  the 
pages  of  this  section.  The  rhythm  Is  slow:  the  melody,  reflective  and  sad.  We 


164  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

hear  k  first  in  strings  and  woodwind  (bassoon);  then  in  the  clearer,  the  liquid 
flow  of  the  solo  instrument.  In  his  usual  manner  Brahms  examines  the  theme 
with  a  microscopic  eye  to  its  possibilities  of  development,  most  of  which  are  beauti- 


fully  realized  as  the  movement  progresses.  An  interrupting  idea  is  presented,  for 
contrast,  by  the  clarinet  in  the  middle  of  the  movement;  but  the  air  of  philosophical 
detachment  is  restored  at  the  end. 


Third  Movement 

The  last  movement  is  in  the  form  of  a  rondo,  wherein  the  piano  achieves 
more  prominence,  and  a  pkce  of  greater  importance  in  the  pattern  of  the  music, 

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After  the  first  theme  is  presented  by  the  piano  and  developed,  there  is  a  second, 
also  for  piano.  In  true  rondo  style  this  too  is  elaborated,  and  there  is  a  return 
to  the  first  theme,  strictly  according  to  the  rules!  The  first-violin  section  proposes 
a  new  subject  for  development,  and,  before  the  conventional  return  to  the  opening 
theme  is  made,  there  is  an  extended  fuguelike  section.  The  technical  difficulties 
of  the  piano  part  seem  to  be  progressively  greater,  and  at  this  point  they  are  quite 
conspicuous*  There  is  no  further  thematic  material  of  importance,  but  previously 
stated  ideas  are  presented,  and  there  is  a  cadenza  of  considerable  difficulty*  The 
fundamental  theme  of  the  movement  is  used  as  the  basis  for  the  concluding 
passages. 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  165 

Academic  Festival  Overture 

BRAHMS  is  sufficiently  a  modern  to  have  been  the  recipient  of  honorary  degrees 
from  universities.  Considering  his  natural  shyness  and  frequent  brusquerie,  it  would 
not  have  been  unnatural  if,  when  he  was  tendered  the  degree  Ph.D.  by  the 
University  of  Breslau,  in  1880,  he  had  curtly  refused  it.  It  must  have  been  offered 
when  the  composer  was  in  an  expansive  mood,  however,  for  he  graciously  accepted 
the  honor,  and  acknowledged  it  with  this  delightful  music.  It  was  first  played  at 
the  University,  with  Brahms  conducting,  on  January  4,  1881. 

Apart  from  being  lighthearted  and  colorful,  apart  from  its  happy  suggestion 
of  the  joys  of  student  life,  the  Academic  Festival  Overture  powerfully  (but  not 
ponderously)  illustrates  Brahms*  wonderful  ingenuity  in  developing  variations  on 
themes — his  own  or  others.  The  overture  is  a  fantasy  on  German  students*  songs, 
among  them  being:  Wtr  hatten  gebauet  em  stattliches  Haus  (We  have  built  a 
stately  house),  sounded  out  by  the  brass  choir;  Der  LandesuaUr  (The  Land 
Father),  heard  from  the  violin  section;  Was  kommt  dort  von  der  Rolf  (What 
comes  from  afar),  sung  in  woodwinds,  with  plucked  strings  giving  it  accent,  and 
finally  the  triumphant  Gaudeamus  igtiur  (Wherefore  let  us  rejoice),  hurled  forth 
in  the  orchestra's  mightiest  voice. 


Concerto  No.  2  in  B-flat  major  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

IT  is  reported  that  Brahms  composed  this  magnificent  work  while  under  the 
enchantment  of  spring  in  Italy.  The  fact  is,  the  concerto  was  begun  following  a 
sojourn  in  that  sunny  land,  where  Brahms  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  visit;  but 
evidently  it  required  a  second  trip  to  renew  the  springs  of  his  inspiration,  for  the 
concerto  was  not  completed  until  April,  1881 — three  years  after  the  composer  had 
begun  work  on  it.  Its  first  public  performance  was  given  from  manuscript,  with 
Brahms  himself  at  the  piano,  at  Budapest,  November  9,  1881. 

It  will  be  noted  that  the  music  is  in  four  movements,  though  three  i$  the 
conventional  number  for  a  concerto.  There  is  evidence  that  originally  there  were 
but  three  sections  to  this  work,  and  that  Brahms,  wanting  a  contrasting  movement 
between  what  are  now  the  first  and  third  movements,  inserted  an  allegro  appas- 
sionato. Some  students  have  claimed,  also,  that  this  movement  was  originally 
written  as  a  part  of  the  violin  concerto. 


l66  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

First  Movement 

The  movement  is  long,  involved,  and,  for  the  soloist,  quite  difficult.  Truly,  as 
Brahms  himself  once  remarked,  it  is  not  "a  piece  for  little  girls."  During  most 
of  the  movement,  the  piano  is,  nevertheless,  definitely  subordinated  to  the  orchestra; 
the  composer  uses  it  not  primarily  as  a  solo  voice,  but  as  an  unaccustomed  and 
brilliant  color  added  to  the  orchestral  palette.  Nor  is  the  piano  usually  entrusted 
with  important  thematic  proposals;  its  function  in  this  concerto  seems  to  be  that 
of  an  answering  voice  among  the  throng  of  instruments,  and  a  tonal  "edge"  that 
points  up  the  less  percussive  notes  of  its  fellows  in  the  orchestra. 

The  germs  of  the  first  theme  are  present  as  the  movement  begins,  and  they 


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develop  into  the  bright  phrase  presently  proclaimed  by  the  horns.  The  piano 
responds  with  graceful  arpeggios.  Again,  the  statement  and  the  answer.  Wood- 
winds suggest  a  growing  emotional  tension,  and  the  solo  instrument  responds  with 
agitated  elaborations  in  cadenza  form.  Brilliant  orchestral  passages  develop  all  the 
thematic  material,  and  from  this  point  onward  the  piano  practically  ceases  to  func- 
tion as  a  solo  instrument.  That  is  not  to  say  that  it  ceases  to  be  of  importance; 
on  the  contrary,  throughout  the  movement  its  clearest  and  most  polished  tones 
are  summoned,  in  darting  arpeggios,  to  adorn  the  melodies  so  rapturously  developed 
in  the  orchestra.  There  is  a  tremendous  wealth  of  these,  yet  the  whole  movement 
is  dominated,  in  spirit,  by  the  singular  freshness  and  romantic  appeal  of  the 
wonderful  horn  call  that  first  appeared  near  the  beginning.  There  are  tremendous 
climaxes;  there  are  anriphonal  declamations  of  piano  and  orchestra;  there  are 
tentative  and  sometimes  even  ominous  pauses  and  pianissimi,  but  the  vigor  and 
brightness  of  the  basic  theme  always  return,  and  never  more  brilliantly  than  in 
the  robust  measures  that  end  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

This  section  corresponds,  in  musical  character  and  in  purpose,  with  the 
scherzo  of  a  symphony.  It  is  full  of  storm  and  fire,  of  vigorous  rhythms  and  fierce 
conflicts.  There  are  in  it  questionings  and  longings,  too;  and  moments  of  contem- 
plation. Though  scherzo  means  "playful,"  a  composer  can  and  often  does  use 


JOHANNES    BRAHMS  167 

it  to  suggest  more  serious  things — as  Brahms  does  here,  as  Beethoven  did,  as 
Dvorak  did  in  the  symphony  "From  the  New  World."  The  movement  has,  how- 
ever, the  conventional  trio  in  marked  contrast.  The  melody  becomes  cheerful,  if 
not  delicately  graceful;  the  rhythm  is  sturdy  and  vital.  The  spirit  of  the  first  section 
returns,  however,  and  in  it  the  second  movement  ends. 

Third  Movement 

Brahms,  the  maker  of  the  world's  loveliest  songs,  reveals  himself  in  that 
character  here  in  the  third  movement.  There  are,  indeed,  suggestions  of  certain 
of  his  songs  in  the  melodic  line,  but  we  are  assured  that  these  resemblances  are 
quite  fortuitous.  Remembering  that  the  piano  is  fundamentally  a  percussion  instru- 
ment, the  composer  assigns  the  opening  theme,  not  to  the  brilliant  tone  of  the 
soloist,  but  to  the  cello — one  cello  alone;  then  bassoon  and  violins.  Again  the 


piano  is  used  decoratively,  first  in  free  and  wandering  passages^  and  again,  when 
the  chief  theme  reappears  in  the  orchestra.  The  mood  is  shadowed  and  brooding; 
the  thematic  development,  though  leading  to  a  climax  of  some  magnitude,  gener- 
ally lies  in  the  darker  orchestral  tones.  The  solo  cello  and  later  the  orchestra  itself 
bring  back  the  romantic  theme  of  the  beginning,  against  which  the  piano  spurts 
brilliant  trills  and  arpeggios. 

Fourth  Movement 

In  the  final  movement  the  piano  asserts  more  strongly  its  rights  as  a  solo 
instrument,  taking  to  itself  not  only  the  first  statement  of  the  principal  theme,  but 
portions  of  others.  The  movement  is  in  rondo  form — a  form  which  parallels  in 
music  the  verse  form  familiar  to  every  schoolboy.  Its  pattern  is  this:  A,  B,  C,  B, 
AA,  B,  C,  B,  A — plus  the  coda,  or  concluding  section.  There  are  three  themes  of 
conspicuous  importance.  The  first  is  the  brisk  one  projected  and  developed  by 


l68  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

the  piano,  and,  later,  by  the  orchestra.  The  second  appears  in  strings  and  wood- 


wind,  with  decorations  in  arpeggio  form  by  the  piano;  the  third  is  exposed  by 
the  piano  with  accompaniment  plucked  from  the  strings. 


J-l-fc  $&t 


There  is  a  distinct  Hungarian  flavor  here,  as  commentators  have  noted;  nor 
B  k  the  first  time  Brahms  has  allowed  us  this  spicy  treat.  The  music  is  full  of 
hearty  good  cheer,  with  just  enough  occasional  wistfulness  for  contrast.  There  is 
brilliant  work  for  the  pianist,  with  dazzling  octaves,  assertive  arguments  with  the 
orchestra,  swift  arpeggios,  and  display  passages  that  exact  the  last  measure  of 
dexterity  and  power  from  the  soloist.  The  rondo  form  is  followed  with  reasonable 
definiteness,  and  the  long  and  elaborate  coda  achieves  a  climax  of  brilliance  and 
sonority  not  easily  forgotten. 


M 


MAX  BRUCH 

[1838-1920] 

TAX  BRUCH  was  born  at  Cologne,  January  6,  1838.  His  musical  gifts 
were  evidently  inherited  from  his  mother,  who  came  of  a  well-known 
and  talented  family.  Young  Bruch  received  his  first  theoretical  educa- 
tion at  Bonn,  Beethoven's  birthplace.  He  exhibited  remarkable  ability  and  won  a 
four-year  scholarship  to  the  Mozart  Foundation  at  Frankfort-am-Main,  at  the  age 
of  fourteen,  continuing  his  studies  under  Hiller,  Reinecke,  and  Breuning  at 
Cologne.  Long  visits  to  various  musical  centers  furthered  his  development,  and 
soon  his  compositions  began  to  bring  him  recognition.  He  taught  in  his  native 
city  from  1858  to  1861  and  had  the  experience,  denied  so  many  composers,  of 
witnessing  the  production  of  one  of  his  works,  in  this  case  his  operetta,  Scherz, 
List,  und  R.achey  set  to  Goethe's  text.  In  Munich  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
poet,  Geibel,  whose  Lorelei^  written  for  Mendelssohn,  he  put  to  music.  Obtain- 
ing the  poet's  consent  to  perform  the  opera,  he  proceeded  to  Mannheim,  where 
he  busied  himself  with  the  study  of  stage  requirements  in  general,  and  the  produc- 
tion of  his  opera  in  particular.  He  then  composed  many  of  the  choral  works  which 
added  so  much  to  his  fame  in  his  own  country.  He  was  musical  director  of  the 
Concert-Institution  at  Coblenz,  and  later  became  Kapellmeister  to  the  Prince  of 
Schwarzburg-Sondershausen  (  1865—1870).  After  his  resignation  of  the  latter  post, 
he  lived  independently  —  first  in  Berlin  and  then  at  Bonn  —  devoting  himself 
exclusively  to  composition,  returning  to  Berlin  in  1878  to  succeed  the  renowned 
Stockhausen  as  director  of  the  Stern  Singing  Society.  In  1880  he  was  offered  the 
directorship  of  the  Liverpool  Philharmonic  Society,  and  England  became  his  home 
for  the  next  three  years.  Returning  to  Germany,  the  ensuing  twenty  years  of  his 
life  were  engaged  in  directing  and  teaching  in  Breslau  and  Berlin,  until  1910, 
at  which  time  he  withdrew  from  public  life  and  lived  in  retirement  near  the  latter 
city  until  his  death  in  1920. 

Although  the  verdict  of  musicologists  maintains  that  the  reputation  of  Max 
Bruch  lies  in  his  works  for  choir  and  orchestra,  popular  opinion  points  to  his  violin 
compositions,  particularly  his  G  minor  Concerto,  Opus  26,  as  likely  to  provide  his 
most  enduring  fame. 


Concerto  No.  i  in  G  minor 
[Opus  26] 

BRUCH,  like  many  another  composer  of  violin  concertos,  did  not  become  a  violinist, 
but  a  great  deal  of  his  finest  efforts  as  a  writer  of  music  was  expended  in  works 

169 


I7O  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

for  the  violin.  Among  them  this  work  is  perhaps  the  best  known.  The  first  outlines 
of  this  melodious  work  were  sketched  in  Cologne,  when  the  composer  was  but 
nineteen  years  of  age,  but  it  was  not  completed  until  nine  years  later  at  Coblenz. 
The  date  of  the  first  performance  was  scheduled  for  early  April,  1866,  with 
Johann  Naret-Koning  of  Mannheim  as  soloist;  but  he  was  unable  to  appear  due 
to  illness,  and  the  concerto  had  its  first  hearing  later  in  the  month  with  Otto  von 
Konigslow,  concertmeister  of  the  Giirzenich  Orchestra  and  teacher  of  violin,  at  the 
Cologne  Conservatory,  as  soloist.  Bruch  conducted  from  manuscript.  Subsequently 
it  was  revised  with  the  assistance  of  Joachim,  to  whom  it  is  dedicated,  and  who 
brought  out  the  new  version  in  Bremen  in  1868. 

Pablo  Sarasate,  the  great  Spanish  violinist,  introduced  the  work  to  the  United 
States  at  a  concert  in  New  York  in  February,  1872,  and  since  that  time  it  has 
been  on  violinists*  programs  many  times  each  year. 

First  Movement 

The  first  movement  begins  with  a  five-measure  prelude  for  the  orchestra, 
after  which  the  solo  instrument  enters  with  an  urgent  recitative,  restated  with  florid 
embellishments  and  commented  upon  by  decisive  chords  in  the  orchestra.  A  new 
melody  of  tender  beauty,  announced  by  the  violin,  is  repeated  by  the  orchestra 
against  ascending  trills  for  the  solo  instrument.  The  development  of  the  new 
theme  gives  the  melody  to  the  orchestra  with  passages  ornate  and  decorative  for 
the  solo  instrument,  violin  and  accompaniment  joining  in  a  sustained  and  impas- 
sioned ensemble  of  wonderful  effectiveness.  From  this  the  violin  emerges  with  a 
restatement  of  the  opening  recitative.  An  orchestral  passage  leads  without  pause 
to  the  next  movement. 

Second  Movement 

An  introduction,  slow  and  sustained,  ushers  in  the  song  of  the  adagio,  one  of 
the  most  poignantly  beautiful  of  all  melodies  for  the  violin.  It  is  a  dreamy  theme 
that  speaks  of  romance  and  yearning  and,  at  times,  of  anguish.  Ornate  passage 
work  for  the  Solo  instrument  brings  the  movement  to  a  dose. 

Finale 

The  orchestra  opens  this  movement  with  a  bold  theme  for  the  solo  instrument 
that  suggests  gypsy  melodies  and  rhythm.  This  develops  ornamental  passages  in 
triplets  for  the  violin  and  a  vigorous  orchestral  background  which  is  elaborately 
worked  out.  Phrases  stated  by  the  violin  and  answered  by  the  orchestra  exploit 
melodies  of  notable  beauty  which  rise  to  an  impressive  climax. 


ANTON  BRUCKNER 

[1824-1896] 

AON  BRUCKNER,  one  of  the  most  important  composers  of  the  last  hundred 
years,  was  born  at  Ansfelden,  not  far  from  Linz  in  upper  Austria.  He 
was  musically  trained  from  childhood,  first  by  his  father,  the  village 
schoolmaster,  later  and  more  formally  by  teachers  in  Vienna  and  elsewhere.  As 
a  mere  child  he  was  accomplished  both  as  organist  and  composer,  and  in  later 
years  held  important  posts  as  teacher,  lecturer,  and  concert  organist.  His  early  life 
was  made  difficult  by  poverty,  but  such  material  trials  were  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  succession  of  disappointments  and  persecutions  he  experienced  in  his  middle 
and  later  years.  Chief  of  the  disappointments  was  the  coldness  and  bigotry  which 
Viennese  musicians  exhibited  toward  his  music,  and  the  incredible  difficulties,  not 
only  of  getting  an  appreciative  audience,  but  of  persuading  anyone  to  play  his 
works. 

Bruckner  composed  much  music  for  the  church,  several  important  choral 
works,  a  notable  string  quartet;  but  it  was  his  eight  symphonies  that  eventually 
established  him  as  a  composer  ranking  in  the  same  group  with  the  greatest  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  argument  has  been  advanced  that  Bruckner's  mwc  is 
too  strongly  derivative  from  that  of  Richard  Wagner;  to  which  the  Bmcknerite 
counters  with  evidence  that  many  of  the  passages  apparently  Wagner-inspired  were 
actually  written  before  the  Wagnerian  music  from  which  they  were  supposed  to 
derive.  It  is  a  fact,  however,  that  Bruckner  had  a  profound  reverence  for  Wagner, 
both  as  man  and  musician.  Wagner,  in  turn,  was  profoundly  touched  by  this  devo- 
tion, and,  as  for  Bruckner's  achievements  as  a  composer,  he  had  this  reckless  state- 
ment to  make:  "I  know  of  only  one  who  may  be  compared  to  Beethoven,  and 
he  is  Bruckner."  (Gabriel  Engel:  The  Lije  of  Anton  Bruckner.  Roerich  Museum 
Press,  New  York.) 

The  friendship  and  admiration  existing  between  Wagner  and  Bruckner  were 
not  altogether  a  benefit  to  the  latter.  Out  of  his  adoration  for  the  composer  of  the 
Ring  operas,  Bruckner  had  written  his  Third,  sometimes  called  his  "Wagner'* 
Symphony,  in  which  he  actually  quotes,  verbatim  so  to  speak,  passages  from 
Wagner.  At  the  time,  the  enmity  between  Wagnerites  and  anti-Wagnerites  was 
incredibly  bitter.  Bruckner  succeeded  in  antagonizing  both;  the  one  group  by 
daring  to  write,  as  they  thought,  like  Wagner  the  almighty;  the  other,  by  afflicting 
them  (•«£)  with  more  Wagnerian  music.  But  Vienna  did  not  like  Bruckner, 
regardless  of  his  Wagnerian  references,  and  when  at  last  his  Third  Symphony  was 
performed,  under  his  own  direction,  by  the  Vienna  Society  of  the  Friends  of 
Musk,  the  audience,  headed  by  a  director  of  the  Conservatory,  first  laughed,  and 
then  departed;  and  before  the  musk  was  finished  there  ware  not  more  than  ten 

171 


172  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

people  left  in  the  parquet.  Among  these  ten  was  Gustav  Mahler,  devoted  disciple 
of  Bruckner,  who  attempted  to  console  the  heartbroken  composer,  but  in  vain. 

In  spite  of  cruel  disappointment,  Bruckner  continued  working  at  his  sym- 
phonies, and  was  almost  finished  with  the  last  movement  of  the  Sixth  when  Hans 
Richter,  the  great  conductor  and  admirer  of  Wagner,  discovered  the  long-finished 
but  unplayed  Fourth,  or  "Romantic,"  while  visiting  the  composer.  He  admired  it 
immediately,  and  determined  to  play  it  at  the  first  opportunity.  It  was  a  mag- 
nificent success.  Bruckner's  musical  fortunes  improved,  everywhere  but  in  his  own 
country,  from  that  day  onward.  It  is  of  passing  interest  to  note  that  his  Third 
Symphony  was  played  in  New  York,  under  Anton  Seidl,  December  6,  18855  some 
months  before  Vienna  would  listen  to  the  composer.  But  he  was  not  without  able 
protagonists,  among  them  Karl  Muck,  Arthur  Nikisch,  and  Theodore  Thomas. 

Toward  its  close,  this  life  that  had  seen  so  much  of  personal  tragedy  was 
made  happy  and  serene;  it  was  even  enlightened  by  a  few  belated  and  innocent 
love  affairs  with  young  girls,  whose  proximity  always  seemed  inspiring  to  Herr 
Bruckner.  These  came  to  nothing.  The  aging  composer  had  honors  heaped  upon 
him;  in  them  he  rejoiced,  and  with  them,  his  work,  and  the  faithful  ministrations 
of  a  scolding  but  devoted  maid  servant  he  lived  out  his  days.  Brahms,  against 
whom  his  friends  had  often  tactlessly  opposed  him,  stood  outside  the  churchyard 
at  the  funeral,  muttering  sadly  of  his  own  approaching  end;  Hugo  Wolf,  another 
neglected  genius,  was  refused  admittance  because  he  was  not  a  member  of  the 
societies  whose  representatives  filled  the  church.  The  body  of  Bruckner  was  taken 
to  the  old  church  of  St.  Florian,  where  he  had  so  often  made  music;  and  it  was 
kid  to  rest  under  the  great  organ  that  had  served  him  so  welL 


Symphony  No.  4  in  E  fiat 
["Romantic"] 

THE  wheel  of  fortune  turned  violently  for  Bruckner  when,  on  February  20,  1881, 
this  lovely  music  was  first  performed,  at  Vienna,  under  the  devoted  guidance  of 
Hans  Richter.  Here  was  the  first  adequate  performance  of  any  of  his  symphonies, 
and  listening  to  it  was  a  spellbound  audience,  which,  after  each  movement,  com- 
pelled the  diffident  composer  to  appear  and  bow  to  the  applause.  The  symphony 
had  been  completed  almost  seven  years  before;  but  Bruckner  had  revised  it  in 
1878;  and  the  scherzo,  the  famous  "hunting  scherzo,3*  had  been  inserted,  though 
it  had  not  been  a  part  of  the  original  score. 


ANTON    BRUCKNER  173 

After  the  first  performance,  the  overjoyed  composer  rushed  to  Richter,  and, 
embracing  him,  cried,  "Take  this" — pressing  a  coin  into  his  hand — "and  drink  a 
glass  of  beer  to  my  health!"  Richter,  it  is  related,  wore  the  coin  on  his  watch 
chain  ever  afterward. 

The  music  of  Bruckner  is  massive  and  mighty.  At  the  risk  of  offending  his 
active  and  admirable  champions,  it  might  even  be  said  that  at  times  it  is  over- 
elaborated  and  by  no  means  simple  of  comprehension.  The  latter  is  not  urged 
as  an  objection,  but  as  a  statement  of  fact.  Though  more  and  more  lovers  of  music 
are  coming,  with  each  succeeding  season,  to  a  better  understanding  and  appre- 
ciation of  such  music  as  this,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Bruckner's  works  are  not 
easy  to  assimilate,  nor  is  there  any  way  for  the  layman  to  develop  an  appreciation 
of  them  except  by  repeated  hearings.  Such  notes  as  logically  come  within  the 
compass  of  this  book  must  therefore  extend  only  to  a  general  and  condensed 
impression  of  the  work. 

First  Movement 

Gabriel  Engel,  in  his  valuable  Life  of  Anton  Bruckner,  says  in  connection 
with  the  subtitle  of  this  symphony,  "There  seems  little  doubt  that  the  detailed 
'program'  or  symphonic  plot  communicated  to  his  circle  of  friends  by  Bruckner 
was  a  post-analysis  influenced  by  no  other  than  Wagner,  who  had  even  published 
a  rather  fantastic  pictorial  description  of  Beethoven's  Ninth.  It  is  at  any  rate  silly 
to  dilly-dally  over  the  fitness  of  its  details;  for  the  'Romantic'  has  so  clear  and 
effective  a  tale  to  tell  that  it  has  become  the  favorite  vehicle  for  the  introduction 
of  Bruckner  to  a  new  audience.  That  the  composer  did  not  regard  the  program 
seriously  is  evident  from  his  remark  concerning  the  Finale :  'And  in  the  last  move- 
ment,' said  he,  'I've  forgotten  completely  what  picture  I  had  in  mind.'  The  work 
possesses,  however,  an  unmistakable  unity  hitherto  without  precedent  in  absolute 
music,  for  all  four  parts  spring  from  the  main  theme,  in  the  first  movement.  So 
logical  and  masterly  is  the  development  of  this  theme  in  the  course  of  the  work 
that  the  climax  is  not  reached  until  the  closing  portion  of  the  Finale." 

This  theme  is  slowly  evolved  out  of  the  material  with  which  the  movement 
opens.  The  strings  establish  the  tonality  of  the  movement  with  a  restrained  pro- 
nouncement of  a  chord  in  E  major;  and  almost  at  once  the  close-knit  fabric  of 
the  music  becomes  discernible.  Against  the  strings,  a  horn  projects  a  call,  and  the 
imitative  figures  in  the  woodwind,  based  on  this  proclamation,  are  presently  iden- 
tified as  the  first  theme.  The  second  important  thematic  idea  is  sung  by  violas 
and  later  by  cellos,  against  another  and  harmonizing  melody  of  the  same  contours, 
voiced  by  the  violins. 

The  entire  movement  is  developed  with  regard  to  structural  formality,  and  in 
the  final  passages,  the  theme  which  appeared  at  the  beginning  is  vigorously  recalled. 


174  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

Second  Movement 

If  by  "romantic"  we  mean  sentimental,  then  the  second  movement  is  the 
section  which  establishes  most  firmly  the  subtitle  of  the  symphony  5  but  if  we 
choose  to  use  the  word  in  a  somewhat  musical  sense,  then  any  movement  except 
the  first  could  justify  It,  for  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  movements  are  rather 
free  and  unconventional  in  form.  Mr.  Philip  Hale,  the  always  illuminating  author 
of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  program  notes,  describes  this  movement  as 
"a  sort  of  romanza  built  in  three  themes.  The  first  is  given  out  by  the  violoncellos; 
the  second  is  a  cantilena  for  violins,  the  third  for  strings  and  woodwind  in  full 
harmony." 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  nothing  difficult  of  comprehension  in  this  lovely  and  often 
lyrical  movement;  and  if  the  song  of  the  violins,  in  the  second  theme,  does  not 
carry  conviction  and  significance  to  any  sensitive  heart,  then  no  explanatory  com- 
ment can  aid  it. 

Third  Movement 

This  is  the  famous  "hunting  scherzo"  so  enjoyably  featured  in  the  revised 
version  of  Bruckner's  score.  Always  happy  in  writing  for  the  horn,  the  composer 
here  assigns  to  that  versatile,  if  unreliable  instrument,  a  series  of  characteristic 
calls  which  form  the  basis  for  the  movement.  The  outlines  of  the  movement 
approach  the  conventional,  but  the  development  of  the  thematic  material  is  elaborate 
and  free.  The  middle  section,  or  trio,  reveals  a  contrasting  mood  in  moderated 
time  and  less  emphatic  rhythm.  Then  the  bright  hunting  horn  returns  in  the 
concluding  section. 

Fourth  Movement 

Modeling  almost  as  tangible  as  that  of  the  sculptor  is  revealed  in  the  fashion- 
ing of  the  fundamental  musical  idea  of  the  movement.  The  phrases  of  the  horns 
are  joined  and  molded,  and  developed  from  their  soft  beginnings  into  a  bright 
sentence  stated  by  trumpets;  then  the  whole  orchestra  drives  forth  the  theme  in 
an  aggressive  pronouncement.  Now  the  whole  orchestra  is  vitalized,  and  the 
texture  of  the  music,  though  temporarily  thinner,  is  brighter  and  more  intricately 
woven.  It  grows  simultaneously  in  sonority  and  elaboration,  and  arrives,  after 
extended  development,  at  a  conclusion  of  magnificence  and  grandeur. 


JOHN  ALDEN  CARPENTER 

[Born  1876] 

PSYCHOLOGISTS  would  be  interested  in  the  strange  resultants  of  heredity  and 
environment  that  produce  in  John  Alden  Carpenter,  not  only  a  native 
American  but  a  descendant  of  Pilgrims  and  doubtless  of  music-fearing 
Puritans,  a  composer  of  extraordinary  and  versatile  talent.  His  music  is  of  its 
own  genre,  original  and  unique,  yet  he  can  turn  with  facility  from  the  often  austere 
and  grave  patriotic  affirmations  of  A  Song  of  Faith  to  the  problematical  reflections 
of  an  infant  in  Adventures  in  a  Perambulator,  or  from  the  vague  and  subjective 
musings  of  the  Indian  mystic  Rabindranath  Tagore,  to  the  febrile  flush  and 
spasmodic  rhythms  of  a  Coney  Island  panorama. 

It  is  only  in  recent  seasons  that  Carpenter's  music  has  received  the  full 
appreciation  of  the  public,  which  fact,  far  from  being  a  disparagement  of  his  work, 
is  more  truly  a  very  sincere  compliment*  Immediate  popularity  of  any  music  is 
too  often  an  indication  of  superficiality  and  poverty  of  thought  in  the  music  itself, 
and  f  requently  the  instant  and  violent  response  of  the  public  to  a  musical  work, 
with  consequent  demands  for  frequent  repetitions,  has  quickly  accomplished  its 
extinction. 

Supporters  of  symphony  concerts  and  other  sources  of  musical  entertainment 
are,  however,,  in  ever-increasing  number,  "discovering"  John  Alden  Carpenter's 
delightful  music,  and  savoring  more,  with  each  repetition,  its  rare  humor,  its  wealth 
of  invention,  sometimes  startling  but  always  logical  harmony,  and  the  extraordinary 
feeling  for  contagious  rhythms  which  it  constantly  exhibits. 

Mr.  Carpenter  is  at  present  busy  with  composition  and  other  musical  matters  at 
his  home  in  Chicago. 


Adventures  in  a  Perambulator 

THIS  charming  work  is  in  itself  an  adventure,  in  its  musical  exploration  of  infant 
psychology.  What  a  baby  thinks  about  has  been  the  subject  of  speculation  on  the 
part  of  perhaps  every  parent  in  the  world,  and  while  giving  us  delightful  enter- 
tainment, Mr.  Carpenter  suggests  a  stream  of  ideas  which  might  very  probably 
occupy  the  half-formed  mind  of  a  passenger  in  a  perambulator.  The  composers 
own  notes  for  the  music  cannot  be  improved;  and  by  his  express  permission  they 
are  appended: 

175 


176  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

En  Voiture! 

Every  morning — after  my  second  breakfast — if  the  wind  and  the  sun  are 
favorable,  I  go  out.  I  should  like  to  go  alone,  but  my  will  is  overborne.  My  Nurse 
fe  appointed  to  take  me.  She  is  older  than  I,  and  very  powerful  While  I  wait  for 
her,  resigned,  I  hear  her  cheerful  steps,  always  the  same.  I  am  wrapped  in  a 
vacuum  of  wool,  where  there  are  no  drafts.  A  door  opens  and  shuts.  I  am  placed 
in  my  perambulator,  a  strap  is  buckled  over  my  stomach,  my  Nurse  stands  firmly 
behind — and  we  are  off! 

The  "Policeman 

Out  is  wonderful!  It  is  always  different,  though  one  seems  to  have  been  there 
before.  I  cannot  fathom  it  all.  Some  sounds  seem  like  smells.  Some  sights  have 
echoes.  It  is  confusing,  but  it  is  Life!  For  instance,  the  Policeman — an  Unprec- 
edented Man!  Round  like  a  ball — taller  than  my  father.  Blue — fearful — fas- 
cinating! I  feel  him  before  he  comes.  I  see  him  after  he  goes.  I  try  to  analyze  his 
appeal.  It  is  not  buttons  alone,  nor  belt,  nor  baton.  I  suspect  it  is  his  eye  and  the 
way  he  walks.  He  walks  like  Doom.  My  Nurse  feels  it,  too.  She  becomes  less  firm, 
less  powerful.  My  perambulator  hurries,  hesitates,  and  stops.  They  converse.  They 
ask  each  other  questions! — some  with  answers,  some  without.  I  listen,  with  discre- 
tion. When  I  feel  that  they  have  gone  far  enough,  I  signal  to  my  Nurse,  a  private 
signal,  and  the  Policeman  resumes  his  enormous  Blue  March.  He  is  gone,  but  I 
feel  him  after  he  goes* 

The  Hurdy-Gwrdy 

Then  suddenly  there  is  something  else.  I  think  it  is  a  sound.  We  approach 
it.  My  ear  is  tickled  to  excess.  I  find  that  the  absorbing  noise  comes  from  a  box 
— something  like  my  music  box,  only  much  larger,  and  on  wheels.  A  dark  man  is 
turning  the  music  out  of  the  box  with  a  handle,  just  as  I  do  with  mine.  A  dark 
kdy,  richly  dressed,  turns  when  the  man  gets  tired.  They  both  smile.  I  smile,  too, 
with  restraint,  for  music  is  the  most  insidious  form  of  noise.  And  such  music!  So 
gay!  I  tug  at  the  strap  over  my  stomach.  I  have  a  wild  thought  of  dancing  with 
my  Nurse  and  my  perambulator — all  three  of  us  together.  Suddenly,  at  the  climax 
of  our  excitement,  I  feel  the  approach  of  a  phenomenon  that  I  remember,  It  is  the 
Policeman.  He  has  stopped  the  music.  He  has  frightened  away  the  dark  man  and 
the  lady  with  their  music  box.  He  seeks  the  admiration  of  my  Nurse  for  his  act. 
He  walks  away,  his  buttons  shine,  but  far  off  I  hear  again  the  forbidden  music. 
Delightful  forbidden  music! 


JOHN     ALDEN     CARPENTER  177 

The  Lake 

Sated  with  adventure,  my  Nurse  firmly  pushes  me  on,  and  before  I  recover 
my  balance  I  am  face  to  face  with  new  excitement.  The  land  comes  to  an  end, 
and  there  at  my  feet  is  the  Lake.  All  my  other  sensations  are  joined  in  one.  I  see, 
I  hear,  I  feel  the  quiver  of  the  little  waves  as  they  escape  from  the  big  ones  and 
come  rushing  up  over  the  sand.  Their  fear  is  pretended.  They  know  the  big  waves 
are  amiable,  for  they  can  see  a  thousand  sunbeams  dancing  with  impunity  on  their 
very  backs.  Waves  and  sunbeams!  Waves  and  sunbeams!  Blue  water — white 
clouds— dancing,  swinging!  A  white  sea  gull  floating  in  the  air.  That  is  My  Lake! 

Dogs 

We  pass  on.  Probably  there  is  nothing  more  in  the  world.  If  there  is,  it  is 
superfluous.  There  IS.  It  is  Dogs!  We  come  upon  them  without  warning.  Not  one 
of  them — all  of  them.  First  one  by  one;  then  in  pairs;  then  in  societies.  Little 
dogs,  with  sisters;  big  dogs,  with  aged  parents.  Kind  dogs,  brigand  dogs,  sad 
dogs,  and  gay.  They  laugh,  they  fight,  they  run.  And  at  last,  in  order  to  hold  my 
interest,  the  very  littlest  brigand  starts  a  game  of  "Follow  the  Leader,"  followed 
by  all  the  others.  It  is  tremendous! 

Dreams 

Those  dogs  have  gone!  It  is  confusing,  but  it  is  Life!  My  mind  grows  numb. 
My  cup  is  too  fulL  I  have  a  sudden  conviction  that  it  is  well  that  I  am  not  alone. 
That  firm  step  behind  reassures  me.  The  wheels  of  my  perambulator  make  a 
sound  that  quiets  my  nerves.  I  lie  very  still.  I  am  quite  content.  In  order  to  think 
more  clearly,  I  dose  my  eyes.  My  thoughts  are  absorbing.  I  deliberate  upon  my 
Mother.  Most  of  the  time  my  Mother  and  my  Nurse  have  but  one  identity  in  my 
mind,  but  at  night  or  when  I  close  my  eyes,  I  can  easily  tell  them  apart,  for  my 
Mother  has  the  greater  charm.  I  hear  her  voice  quite  plainly  now,  and  feel  the 
touch  of  her  hand.  It  is  pleasant  to  live  over  again  the  adventures  of  the  day — 
the  long  blue  waves  curling  in  the  sun,  the  Policeman  who  is  bigger  than  my 
Father,  the  music  box  and  my  friends,  the  Dogs.  It  is  pleasant  to  lie  quite  still 
and  close  my  eyes,  and  listen  to  the  wheels  of  my  perambulator.  How  very  large 
the  world  is!  How  many  things  there  are! 

Mr.  Carpenter,  when  the  work  was  first  performed  by  the  Chicago  Symphony 
Orchestra  under  the  direction  of  Frederick  Stock,  March  19,  1915,  prepared  the 
following  musical  analysis  of  the  Adventttres: 

En  Voitwe!  The  first  movement  is  in  the  nature  of  a  short  pro- 
logue,   introducing   the    "principal   characters,"    viz.,    "My   Nurse,"   "My 


178  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Perambulator,"  and  "Myself."  The  themes  representing  these  ideas  reappear 
constantly  throughout  the  composition  in  varying  form.  "My  Nurse" 
announces  herself  promptly  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  movement  by  means 
of  two  violoncellos,  soli.  This  soon  is  followed  by  the  first  appearance  of  the 
"Perambulator"  motive  in  the  celesta  and  strings,  over  which,  almost  imme- 
diately, the  first  flute  announces  the  ingenuous  idea,  a  descending  scale,  which 
stands  for  "Myself." 

The  PoUceman.  A  few  introductory  measures,  suggesting  an  interested 
and  hurrying  perambulator,  are  followed  by  the  "Policeman"  who  makes 
himself  known  in  flute  and  clarinets  over  a  pizzicato  accompaniment.  After 
a  short  development  this  is  followed  by  a  sort  o£  Intermezzo  which  is  intended 
to  suggest  the  conversation  between  the  "Policeman"  and  the  "Nurse" — the 
remarks  of  the  former  being  voiced  in  a  solo  bassoon,  and  the  responses  of  the 
latter  in  four  solo  violins,  dmsi  (divided  as  to  parts).  The  conversation  is  in- 
terrupted by  the  "private  signal" — sounded  by  a  muted  trumpet,  ff  (very 
loudly),  over  an  agitated  suggestion  of  the  "Perambulator53  theme  in  celesta 
and  piano.  The  first  part  of  the  movement  is  then,  in  substance,  repeated. 

The  Hurdy-Gurdy.  There  is  no  new  material  in  this  movement.  Bits  of 
familiar  masterpieces  are  heard  on  the  "Hurdy-Gurdy"  (two  xylophones  and 
harp)  with  excited  interjections  by  "Myself"  and  "Nurse."  We  all  "dance 
together"  to  a  little  waltz  based  on  the  "Perambulator"  theme*  The  re- 
mainder of  the  movement  requires  no  analysis. 

The  Lake.  The  only  themes  necessary  to  mention,  as  belonging  to  this 
movement,  are  the  first,  suggesting  the  "little  waves,*5  allotted  to  the  flute, 
and  another,  suggestive  of  the  large  and  amiable  ones,  which  is  heard  in  the 
strings  and  the  horns. 

Dogs.  The  woodwind  bears  most  of  the  burden  of  furnishing  descrip- 
tions of  dogs,  in  various  themes  and  snatches  of  themes,  which  it  would  not  be 
of  interest  to  quote.  A ch^  Da  lieber  Augustin  may  be  detected  in  the  'melee ^ 
as  well  as  Where,  O  Where  Has  My  Little  Dog  Gone?  A  variation  of  the 
last  is  used  toward  the  end  of  the  movement  as  the  theme  of  a  short  fugue  in 
the  woodwind,  suggesting  dogs  playing  "Follow  the  Leader/* 

Dreams.  A  resume  of  aH  the  preceding  "excitements."  It  may  be  worth 
whfle  simply  to  call  attention  to  the  softened  and  broadened  version  of  the 
original  "Nurse"  theme,  which  here  represents  "My  Mother,"  and  also  the 


JOHN    ALDEN     CARPENTER  179 

final  berceuse,  which  is  made  up  in  part  of  the  "Child"  theme  over  an  accom- 
paniment drawn  from  the  "Perambulator"  motive. 


Skyscrapers 

SKYSCRAPERS  was  written  originally  as  a  ballet,  and  was  first  performed  as  such  by 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  of  New  York,  on  February  19,  1926,  with 
scenery  and  costumes  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones,  rmse  en-  scene  by  John  Alden 
Carpenter.  In  suite  form  it  has  been  done  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  and  others, 
with  marked  success. 

Strictly  speaking,  there  is  no  story  delineated  in  this  music;  rather,  the  com- 
poser wishes  to  express  the  fact  that  American  life,  more  particularly  urban  life, 
reduces  itself  to  two  bare  essentials — work  and  play,  "each  with  ks  own  peculiar 
and  distinctive  rhythmic  character/'  each  alternately  dominating.  "The  action  of 
the  ballet,"  says  the  composer,  "is  merely  a  series  of  moving  decorations  reflecting 
some  of  the  obvious  external  features  of  this  life." 

The  ballet  is  divided  into  six  scenes: 

Scene  i.  Symbols  of  restlessness. 

Scene  2.  An  abstraction  of  the  Skyscraper;  the  work  that  produces  it;  the 
crowds  passing  it. 

Scene  3.  The  transition  from  Work  to  Play. 

Scene  4.  Any  amusement  park  of  the  Coney  Island  type,  and  its  varied, 
restless  activities;  a  "flash-back"  to  the  idea  of  work,  and  back  again  to  play* 

Scene  5.  The  return  from  Play  to  Work. 

Scene  6.  Skyscrapers. 

The  restless  rhythms,  the  incoherent,  almost  subconscious  suggestions  of  fox- 
trotting and  similar  diversions,  then  again  the  inescapable  rhythms  of  industry,  of 
building,  of  working,  condense  within  relatively  few  bars  of  music  the  blinding 
brilliance  and  swiftness  and  exigent  haste  and  confusion  of  city  life  at  its  most 
urgent  pace.  The  'elaborate  orchestration  gives  the  music  many  voices,  and  not  only 
are  extraordinary  tonal  qualities  fabricated  from  these,  but  various  instruments, 
notably  the  brass  and  the  extremely  difficult  piano  parts,  by  the  character  of  their 
respective  timbres,  and  of  the  parts  they  are  asked  to  play,  express  more  effectively 
than  words  the  feverish  brilliance  and  endless  variety  of  the  American  scene. 

The  jagged  steel  of  the  skyscraper  rearing  its  pinnacles  toward  tfae  sky,  the 


l8o  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

snatches  of  conversation  of  the  passers-by,  and  even  the  comments  of  the  loiterers 
so  inevitably  attracted  by  other  people  working  can  easily  be  read  into  this  enter- 
taining music  .  .  .  in  the  rough  and  irregular  rhythms,  the  half-formed  phrases,  and 
high,  penetrating,  irregular  figures  for  brass  and  woodwind. 

As  Scene  4  begins,  however,  and  we  approach  the  Coney  Island  atmosphere,  a 
more  definitely  fox-trot  rhythm  appears  in  the  music,  and  a  merry,  careless,  rather 
lazy  fox-trot  melody  is  introduced  with  ingenious  scoring.  This  tune  is  particularly 
noticeable  when  presented  by  a  languidly  plucked  banjo. 

In  the  following  section  the  music  becomes  more  blatantly  that  of  an  amuse- 
ment park,  with  its  brass  bands,  its  carrousel,  its  noisy  dance  orchestras;  the  atmos- 
phere is  charged  with  that  strange  mixture  of  feverish  gaiety  and,  occasionally, 
maudlin  and  furtive  sentiment  which  so  often  infects  great  gatherings  of  middle- 
class  America  at  play.  Toward  the  end  of  the  section  we  come  upon  the  "Dance 
of  'Herself,*  "  introduced  by  a  muted  trumpet  in  a  nervous,  high-pitched  figure, 
as  if  "herself,"  who  could  be  either  a  Park  Avenue  "deb"  or  a  "million-dollar 
baby  from  the  five-and-ten" — except  that  the  "baby"  would  perhaps  look  more  like 
a  "deb"  than  the  lady  from  the  fashionable  avenue!  Near  the  end  you  will  hear  a 
familiar  tune  ingeniously  introduced. 

The  following  section  is  in  much  the  same  mood,  up  to  the  introduction  of 
the  "Dance  of  the  Strutter."  The  introduction  begins  with  a  sudden  forte  attack  in 
muted  brass,  rapidly  diminishing  in  a  series  of  repeated  accented  dissonances,  and, 
after  a  snatch  of  melody,  it  brings  us  up  short  with  sturdy  utterances  of  the  piano. 
The  Strutter's  dance  opens  with  a  showy  play  of  brasses,  as  bold  as  a  frisco  dancer's 
flourish,  and  presently  the  Strutter  is  "doing  his  stuff"  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
catchy  fox-trot  tune.  Rhythms  and  moods  change,  but  the  general  character  of 
the  music  is  maintained  to  a  point  where,  with  a  vertiginous  glissando,  we  may 
suppose  that  Strutter  slides  across  the  stage  and  takes  his  bow  with  an  orchestra 
crash. 

The  remainder  of  the  section  introduces  a  rather  weird  solo  for  English  horn 
against  an  irregularly  rhythmic  accompaniment,  preparing  us  for  "The  Negro 
Scene"  which  presently  begins. 

A  "blues"  tune  rivaling  the  famous  "St.  Louis"  here  appears  in  the  strings, 
rising  in  brilliance  and  vehemence  to  a  climax  that  involves  the  whole  orchestra 
for  a  moment.  A  return  to  the  "blues"  theme,  another  climax,  and  a  second  Negro 
dance  tune,  more  like  a  "strut,"  appears,  developing  its  own  climax,  and  in  turn 
being  succeeded  by  a  definitely  "fox-trotty"  melody.  Yet  through  all  this  music, 
outwardly  vigorous  and  grotesquely  gay,  there  is  a  hint  of  mystery  and  of  sadness, 
as  if  the  composer  had  seen  into  the  secret  heart  of  that  strange  and  half-under- 
stood race,  and  had  found  there  vague  memories  of  other,  happier  days.  However, 
we  are  not  permitted  to  linger  over  sentimental  or  philosophical  considerations,  and 
the  scene  ends  emphatically  on  a  swift  fox-trot  rhythm. 


JOHN    ALDEN     CARPENTER  l8l 

The  next  record  begins  with  "The  Sandwich  Man,"  and  the  music  suggests 
not  a  purveyor  of  hot  dogs  but  rather  one  of  the  melancholy  plodding  figures, 
encased  in  a  wooden  overcoat,  who  wanders  disconsolately  through  crowds  bearing 
on  breast  and  back  the  panoply  of  commerce.  His  trudging  pace  is  felt  in  under- 
lying rhythms,  and  the  shrieking  colors  of  the  message  he  bears  are  suggested  in 
brilliant  curt  utterances  of  trumpets  and  stopped  horns.  Later  the  pace  increases, 
perhaps  the  music  typifies  all  advertising  of  the  more  blatant  type,  and  a  remi- 
niscence of  "Yankee  Doodle"  suggests  that  perhaps  here  we  have  an  Americanism 
in  the  raw. 

The  final  record  includes  "The  Return  to  Work"  and  "Skyscrapers."  Shortly 
after  the  beginning  we  hear  a  factory  whisde  summoning  its  slaves,  and  at  once 
the  fierce  rhythms  of  "work"  again  drive  the  music  forward.  The  thematic  con- 
tent we  heard  near  the  opening  is  introduced  anew,  with  greater  brilliance,  power, 
and  significance.  The  sheer  massiveness  and  strict  utility  of  the  skyscraper  are  in- 
dicated in  the  tremendous  chords  in  full  orchestra  that  march  irresistibly  forward 
to  the  end. 


ALEXIS  EMMANUEL  CHABRIER 

[1841-1894] 

CHIS  compatriot  Chausson,  Alexis  Chabrier  was  essentially  an  amateur, 
educated  as  a  lawyer,  and  largely  self-taught  in  music.  Unlike  Chausson, 
however,  he  sought  after,  and  often  succeeded  in  attaining,  the  large 
dramatic  effect. 

He  was  born  at  Ambert,  France,  and  began  the  study  of  music  rather  late  in 
life  —  considering  the  average  age  of  students  and  beginners.  Chabrier  had  the  good 
fortune  to  hold  a  government  position  while  he  studied,  and  probably  this  one 
afforded  considerable  leisure.  Though  he  had  at  various  times  several  teachers  in 
piano  and  theory,  he  acquired  most  of  his  knowledge  of  music  through  his  own 
unguided  efforts. 

His  two  most  important  works  are  the  rafsodie}  Esfana,  and  a  comic  opera, 
Le  Rot  malgre  lui.  The  latter  has  passed  into  obscurity,  at  least  as  far  as  audiences 
in  this  country  are  concerned;  the  rapodie  remains  in  the  symphonic  repertoire 
as  one  of  its  most  popular  lighter  pieces. 


Espana 


THIS  delightful  work  was  the  first  to  draw  public  attention  to  the  talents  of  the 
composer.  Curiously,  it  is  said  to  contain  but  one  melody  original  with  Chabrier; 
that  one  is  heard  conspicuously  in  the  trombones.  The  others  were  collected  from 
the  native  songs  and  dances  of  Spain  during  the  composer's  visit  there  in  1883. 
The  distinguished  French  conductor  Lamoureux  conducted  the  first  performance 
of  Esfana,  November  4,  1883. 

The  vitalizing  elements  in  the  rapsodie  are  two  Spanish  dances,  the  jota  and 
the  mdaguena>  both  of  which  rhythms  have  been  extensively  used  by  composers 
seeking  to  capture  the  authentic  Spanish  flavor.  The  jota  is  related  to  the  waltz, 
but  its  tempo  and  rhythm  are  both  erratic  and  elastic,  and  it  is  given  to  much 
languorous  rubato.  The  mdaguena  is  also  in  Y^  time,  but  it  is  lively,  even  madly 
agitated  at  times. 

The  composer  has  assembled  a  choice  little  collection  of  tunes,  and  upon 
them  constructed  in  free  form  a  fantasia  of  delightful  colorf  ulness  and  abandoned 
rhythmic  grace.  Like  so  many  other  composers,  foreign  to  Spanish  soil,  he  cap- 
tured the  essence  of  the  Spanish  spirit  and  atmosphere  more  effectively  and  surely 
than  did  most  of  his  Spanish  contemporaries. 

182 


GEORGE  WHITEFIELD  CHADWICK 

[1854-1931] 

GEORGE  WHITEFIELD  CHADWICK  was  one  of  the  most  highly  regarded  of 
American  composers.  Although  perhaps  he  composed  nothing  of  world- 
shaking  importance,  much  of  his  music  is  worthy  of  such  immortality  as 
possibly  can  be  conferred  on  mortal  things,  and  his  influence  both  through  creative 
work  and  through  teaching  was  and  is  far-reaching  and  important.  He  was  born 
at  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  and  died  at  Boston.  His  early  musical  instruction  was 
given  by  his  brother,  and  later  Chadwick  studied  at  the  famous  New  England 
Conservatory  of  Music  in  Boston.  A  very  American  family,  and  particularly  a 
Boston  one,  might  well  be  expected  to  look  with  raised  eyebrow  upon  serious 
musical  aspirations  on  the  part  of  one  of  its  members,  and  so  it  happened  with 
Chadwick.  For  a  time  he  was  perforce  engaged  in  his  father's  insurance  business, 
but  in  1877  he  decided  to  devote  himself  seriously  and  exclusively  to  music,  and  in 
the  face  of  family  opposition  he  went  to  Europe  to  study.  He  worked  under 
Jadassohn  and  Rheinberger,  and  in  1880  returned  to  Boston  where  he  began  his 
long  and  successful  career  as  composer,  conductor,  and  teacher.  Among  his  pupils 
were  Horatio  Parker,  Arthur  Whiting,  William  Grant  Still,  F.  S.  Converse, 
Henry  Hadley,  Daniel  Gregory  Mason,  and  Edwin  B.  HilL 


Jubilee 

IN  1896  Chadwicfc  published  a  suite  called  Symphonic  Sketches,  which  included 
four  separate  pieces.  They  are  not  frequently  played  today  and,  in  fact,  came  almost 
with  the  refreshing  quality  of  completely  new  music  when  they  were  performed  at 
the  concerts  of  the  Philharmonic  Symphony  Society  of  New  York  and  the  National 
Symphony  of  Washington  during  the  summer  of  1939  under  the  direction  of  the 
author  of  this  book* 

The  most  characteristic  of  the  Symphonic  Sketches,  and  perhaps  the  best 
example  of  Chadwick's  style  is  the  first  of  the  sketches,  called  "Jubilee."  It  is  an 
overture  in  free  style,  brightly  and  cleverly  orchestrated,  and  employing  frag- 
ments of  tunes  popular  at  the  time  of  its  composition  in  1896.  There  is  a  recurrent 
theme  amusingly  reminiscent  of  a  popular  tune  associated  with  a  motion  picture  of 
a  few  years  ago.  Street  Angel^  called  "Angela  tma.n  There  are  certain  moments 

183 


184  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

reminiscent  of  tunes  you  know  from  the  hand  of  Stephen  Foster  and  others. 
"Jubilee,"  and  the  remainder  of  the  Symphonic  Sketches,  are  thoroughly  entitled 
to  sympathetic  and  frequent  hearing;  in  fact,  the  merest  acquaintance  with  them 
will  assure  their  repeated  welcome  on  symphonic  programs  in  the  United  States. 


ERNEST  AM£D£S  CHAUSSON 

[1855-18991 

CHAUSSON  was  one  of  the  rarest  of  musical  spirits;  a  man  of  wealth  and 
sophistication,  who,  giving  up  a  lucrative  and  more  or  less  respectable 
profession — the  law — devoted  himself  and  his  sensitive  discerning  gifts  to 
the  pursuit  of  art.  Like  an  obedient  French  son,  Chausson  studied  for  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  because  of  his  parents'  wish  that  he  do  so  before  devoting  himself 
exclusively  to  music.  He  was  in  classes  under  Massenet  when,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  he  entered  the  Conservatoire  at  Paris.  The  teaching  of  Massenet  did  him 
little  good,  and  certainly  aroused  no  enthusiasm  in  him.  Fortunately,  Cesar  Francfc 
was  also  on  the  staff  of  the  Conservatoire  at  the  time,  and  perhaps  sensing  in 
Chausson  a  modesty  and  hatred  of  ostentation  as  well  as  musical  gifts  somewhat 
similar  to  his  own,  the  kindly  Franck  took  the  young  composer  into  the  little  group 
of  students  who  believed  in  and  surrounded  him,  and  for  three  years  Chausson 
sat  at  the  feet  of  the  master. 

The  French  preoccupation  with  music  for  the  opera  and  the  stage,  combined 
with  Chausson's  own  lack  of  assertiveness  and  confidence  in  himself,  probably 
account  for  the  fact  that  his  music  was  long  neglected  by  the  public.  The  music 
itself  is  not  of  a  type  which  would  normally  impress  the  French  musical  public. 
It  is  rarely  dramatic,  never  flamboyant;  and  it  was  suspected  of  Wagnerian  influ- 
ences. Strangely  enough,  it  was  the  great  German  conductor  Arthur  Nikisch  who 
helped  bring  Chausson's  music  to  an  appreciative  public;  later  Ysaye,  the  Belgian 
violinist,  and  Colonne,  the  distinguished  French  musician,  helped  the  good  work 
along. 

Chausson's  standing  as  a  composer  was  improving  with  rapidity  when  his  un- 
fortunate death  occurred.  He  was  riding  a  bicycle  on  his  estate  at  Limay,  and 
losing  control  of  the  machine,  coasted  rapidly  downhill  and  crashed  into  a  stone 
wall.  He  died  of  a  fractured  skull. 


Poeme  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

THE  influence  of  Cesar  Franck  is  clearly  evident  in  this  lovely  music;  yet  there 
is  more  of  the  personality  of  Chausson  himself,  and  the  charm  of  the  work  is 
enhanced  thereby.  The  meticulous  and  thorough  craftsman  is  reflected  in  the 
soundness  without  heaviness  which  marks  the  structure  of  the  music;  and  the 
gentle  melancholy,  the  rhapsodic  yet  restrained  passion,  the  reserve,  the  delicacy, 

18* 


l86  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  exquisite  economy  of  means,  all  are  characteristic.  It  has  been  said  of  his 
music,  that  it  "is  saying  constantly  the  word  ^her?  His  passion  is  not  fiery;  it  is 
always  affectionate,  and  this  affection  is  gentle  agitation  in  discreet  reserve." 

The  Poeme  lacks  none  of  the  qualities  here  suggested,  and  furthermore, 
exhibits  a  penetrating  knowledge  of  the  violin,  especially  as  that  instrument  is 
regarded  by  musicians  of  the  French  school,  who  look  more  to  refinement  and 
delicacy  of  tone,  and  perfected  technical  finish,  than  to  the  broader  and  more 
passionate  utterance  which  we  ordinarily  associate  with  it.  Nevertheless  the  Poeme 
warmly  commended  itself  to  a  violinist  who  used  his  instrument,  generally,  in  the 
more  abandoned  style — Eugene  Ysaye,  who  gave  the  first  performance  of  this 
work  at  Paris,  April  4,  1897. 


FR£D£RIC  FRANCOIS  CHOPIN 

[1809-1849] 

CHOPIN,  like  Schubert,  died  in  comparative  youth  and  at  the  summit  of  his 
powers*  But  he  had  been  a  delicate  lad,  predisposed  toward  the  pulmonary 
disorder  which  eventually  brought  about  his  death.  He  was  born  in 
Poland,  one  of  four  children  of  a  French  father  and  a  Polish  mother.  His  educa- 
tion was  perhaps  more  comprehensive  than  most  of  the  classical  composers  could 
boast,  and  he  had  advantages  in  his  home  surroundings  and  the  relative  material 
comfort  provided  by  his  father. 

The  traditional  patriotic  fervor  of  the  Pole  found  an  illustrious  exemplar  in 
Chopin.  But  though  filled  with  the  fierce  love  of  country,  of  freedom,  charac- 
teristic of  the  Pole,  Chopin  never  surrounded  himself  with  the  veil  of  gloom  and 
brooding  that  so  often  accompanies  the  emotional  disturbances  of  the  Slav.  With 
his  Polish  devotion  to  country  he  combined  the  heritage  of  Gallic  fire  and  vividness 
of  expression  which  he  doubtless  took  from  the  distaff  side  of  the  house. 

And, Paris  became  his  home  far  more  than  his  native  land;  he  was  taken  to 
the  heart  of  that  sunny  land  which  so  warmly  welcomes  the  artist,  and  particularly 
the  pianist.  It  is  said  that  there  are  more  pianists  in  Paris  than  in  the  entire  rest  of 
the  world.  Among  them  the  young  Pole  shone  with  a  pale  yet  penetrating  light. 

Chopin  had  indeed  won  some  degree  of  fame  as  a  musician  when  he  was  but 
nine  years  old,  but  it  was  as  a  full-fledged  genius  of  the  pianoforte  that  Paris  hailed 
him.  He  knew  the  great  ones  of  the  social  and  artistic  world,  and  was  admired 
and  loved  by  them  for  his  great  art,  his  infinite  gentleness,  and  warmly  human 
personality. 

Chopin  pioneered  bravely  in  matters  pertaining  to  the  piano*  In  technique  and 
in  composition  he  was  equally  daring,  and  though  today  he  is  universally  recog- 
nized as  the  composer  supreme  for  the  piano,  he  was  not  without  his  critics.  But  the 
greatest  of  them — Robert  Schumann — said  when  he  heard  Chopin,  "Hats  off, 
gentlemen — a  genius!" 

Chopin's  playing  had  the  exquisite  delicacy  that  might  be  expected  of  a  poetic 
imagination  which  constantly  engaged  itself  with  mystical  fantasy,  with  musical 
images  of  ethereal  form  and  texture,  of  faint  elusive  color,  of  indescribable  sig- 
nificance. In  the  originality  and  daring  of  his  musical  ideas,  and  in  his  bearing  and 
deportment  in  exemplifying  them,  he  was  a  living  exponent  of  that  sage  motto, 
"Far&ter  m  re,  sed  suaviter  m  modo"  (Steadfast  in  principle,  but  gentle  m  fe 
application). 

Chopin  never  married.  In  his  mature  years  only  one  of  the  many  women  who 
admired  him  was  singled  out  for  his  particular  attention.  That  was  the  novelist 
George  Sand,  whose  attitude  toward  him  has  been  revealed  as  selfish,  domineering, 
tender,  cruel,  spiritual,  tawdry,  maternal  .  *  .  depending  upon  the  biographer's 


l88  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

point  of  view  and  the  particular  aspect  of  this  strange  liaison  under  consideration. 
The  actual  circumstances  of  its  termination  have  been  the  subject  of  discussion 
among  Chopin's  biographers,  but  all  agree  that  it  affected  his  already  declining 
health. 

His  body  wracked  by  disease  and  his  spirit  torn  by  even  more  terrible  on- 
slaughts of  pain,  Chopin  died  after  a  short  illness  in  Paris.  He  was  kid  in  the 
celebrated  cemetery  of  Pere  Lachaise,  and  an  orchestral  arrangement  of  the 
"Funeral  March"  from  the  B-flat  minor  Sonata  was  played  at  the  service.  (The 
removal  of  his  body  to  his  native  Poland  was  recently  projected,  but  the  destruc- 
tion of  Poland  in  1939  would  seem  to  have  ensured  his  permanent  resting  place 
in  France.)  He  exercised,  as  his  music  continues  to  exercise,  a  profound  influence 
upon  piano  composition  and  technique,  and  left  behind  a  literature  for  the  piano 
unmatched  in  beauty  and  importance  in  all  the  history  of  the  instrument. 


Concerto  in  E  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 
[Opus  n] 

THERE  is  a  marked  difference  between  the  Chopin  concertos  and  other  music 
written  for  the  piano  by  him.  In  the  concertos,  he  chose  to  forswear  romanticism, 
at  least  as  far  as  it  affected  form,  and  to  adhere  closely  to  the  classical  concerto 
model.  He  who  had  devised  his  own  forms,  and  who  indeed  left  some  of  them  as 
established  forms  used  by  later  composers,  could  not  have  felt  free  in  forms  estab- 
lished by  others.  Also,  while  so  far  as  the  piano  is  concerned,  even  in  the  concertos, 
Chopin's  music  is  essentially  and  beautifully  pianistic,  it  cannot  be  said  that  he 
wrote  with  equal  conviction  for  the  orchestra;  even  when  his  concertos  have  been 
reorchestrated  by  men  more  gifted  in  that  branch  of  music  than  was  Chopin  him- 
self, there  is  sometimes  in  them  a  feeling  of  effort  and  a  certain  lack  in  the  orches- 
tral background. 

One  may  venture  the  opinion  that  Chopin's  concertos  are  not  his  best  work, 
but  he  would  be  daring  indeed  who  asserted  that  there  is  not  great  music  in  them. 
More  frequent  performances  and  greater  familiarity  would  very  likely  establish 
their  place  more  firmly;  and  it  is  one  of  the  valuable  functions  of  recorded  music 
to  provide  these.  Arthur  Rubinstein  has  played  this  concerto  for  recording,  and  the 
great  artist  gives  a  sympathetic  and  authoritative  performance. 

The  Concerto  in  F  minor  was  composed  before  the  present  one,  but  the  E 
minor  was  the  first  to  be  published — in  September,  1833.  Its  companion  was  not 
published  until  nearly  three  years  later,  in  April,  1836.  Not  the  least  interesting 


FREDERIC     FRANCOIS    CHOPIN  1 89 

feature  is  the  conflict  between  classicism  in  the  form  and  romanticism  in  the  sub- 
stance of  the  work;  and  at  various  moments  one  or  the  other  predominates.  Noth- 
ing new  or  advanced  in  the  development  of  the  concerto  as  a  form  of  musical 
expression  is  introduced. 

The  principal  themes  are  revealed  in  the  long  introductory  passage.  The 
movement,  marked  allegro  maestoso  risolutoy  gets  under  way  in  a  vigorous  ^4 
rhythm.  There  are  tentative  suggestions  and  finally  a  subject  of  first  importance, 
appearing  in  the  violins.  There  is  a  section  of  episodic  matter,  projected  in  the 
darker  orchestral  voices,  and  then  the  statement  of  a  second  theme,  again  in  the 
strings.  The  piano  appears,  finally,  against  a  pizzicato  accompaniment,  and  pres- 
ently the  solo  instrument  completely  dominates  the  music  in  its  development  of 
the  first  subject.  The  passage  marked  tranquUlo,  coming  after  twenty-four  bars  of 
pianistic  comment  on  the  first  theme,  is  a  splendid  foil  and  preparation  for  the 
excited  passages  that  are  to  come,  and  in  itself  is  one  of  the  loveliest  moments  in 
the  entire  work.  Now  the  tonality  becomes  E  major,  and  the  second  subject  is  re- 
called. The  music  grows  in  intensity  toward  the  "working-out"  section,  and 
passes  through  several  tonalities  before  returning,  at  the  close,  to  the  tonic  E  minor. 

The  second  movement  is  filled  with  a  lovely  serenity,  poised  by  the  piano 
against  a  softly  colored  orchestral  background.  It  is  called  a  romanzey  and  marked 
larghetto.  The  soloist  should  call  forth  a  particular  liquid  and  silvery  tone  here, 
in  wonderful  contrast  to  the  soft  round  tone  of  the  horns  and  the  velvet  quality  of 
the  muted  strings.  The  melodic  line  is  sustained,  but,  curiously  enough  it  is  not, 
either  in  piano  or  orchestra,  particularly  Chopinesque.  The  simplicity  and  poetry 
of  the  movement,  nevertheless,  recall  the  comment  of  George  Sand,  who  wrote 
of  Chopin  that  "he  made  the  instrument  speak  the  language  of  the  infinite.  Often 
in  ten  lines  that  a  child  might  play  he  has  introduced  poems  of  unequaled  eleva- 
tion, dramas  unrivaled  in  force  and  energy.  He  did  not  need  the  great  material 
methods  to  find  expression  for  his  genius.  Neither  saxophone  nor  ophicleide  was 
necessary  for  him  to  fill  the  soul  with  awe.  Without  church  organ  or  human  voice 
he  inspired  faith  and  enthusiasm." 

The  third  movement,  a  rondo,  and  played  vtvace,  is  perhaps  the  most  charm- 
ing and  certainly  the  most  characteristic  of  the  three.  A  sprightly  rhythm  is  in- 
troduced by  the  solo  instrument  after  a  short  and  somewhat  portentous  introduc- 
tion by  the  orchestra,  and  while  it  is  occasionally  tempered  somewhat  for  purposes 
of  contrast  and  emphasis,  it  is  persistent  to  the  end,  and  gives  life  and  dash  to  the 
whole  movement.  The  wit  and  playfulness  so  often  and  so  happily  found  in 
Chopin^  music  for  the  niann  solo  are  evident  here. 


AARON  COPLAND 

[Born  1900] 

AON  COPLAND  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  distinguished  of  Ameri- 
can composers,  Horn  in  Brooklyn  in  1900,  he  received  his  musical 
training  in  composition  under  Rubin  Goldmark  and  later  at  the  Fon- 
tainebleau  School  of  Music  under  Nadia  Boulanger,  He  studied  the  piano  under 
Victor  Wittgenstein  and  Ckrence  Adler.  The  Guggenheim  Fellowship  was 
awarded  to  him  twice,  and  in  1930  he  received  the  Victor  award  for  his  "Dance" 
Symphony.  He  has  taken  a  deep  interest  in  contemporary  music  and  has  been  active 
as  the  executive  secretary  of  the  American  Composers'  Alliance.  He  was  the  first 
director  of  the  American  Festival  of  Contemporary  Music  at  Yaddo,  and  to- 
gether with  Roger  Sessions  directed  the  famous  Copland-Sessions  concerts  (1928- 
1931)  for  the  presentation  of  American  music.  Copland  has  written  specially  com- 
missioned works  for  the  American  concert  series  of  the  League  of  Composers  and 
of  the  Columbia  Broadcasting  System.  Aside  from  his  excellence  as  a  composer, 
Copland  is  an  especially  talented  writer  about  music.  His  articles  in  Modern 
Music>  The  New  Republic,  etc.,  as  well  as  his  recent  book,  make  very  worth- 
while reading. 

Copland  is  not  the  most  prolific  of  composers.  He  has  written,  among  other 
things,  a  Symphony  for  Organ  and  Orchestra,  a  First  Symphony,  a  "Dance" 
Symphony,  a  "Short"  Symphony;  compositions  entitled  Music  for  the  Theatre  y 
Music  for  Radio;  a  set  of  piano  variations,  and  a  play-opera  for  high-school  per- 
formance entitled  The  Second  Hurricane. 


El  Salon  Mexico 

THIS  fascinating  music  certainly  comes  under  the  head  of  "modern  composition." 
To  label  it  so,  however,  is  perhaps  to  frighten,  if  not  to  antagonize,  many  a  music 
lover  who  would  find  it  completely  fascinating.  It  is  true  that  much  modern  music 
is  self -conscious,  cerebral  rather  than  emotional  or  spiritual,  and  devised  more  for 
the  exploitation  of  theory  than  for  the  exploration  of  human  feeling.  , 

But  if  a  symphony  orchestra  playing  contemporary  music  has  any  terrors  for 
anyone,  here  is  music  that  will  dispel  them.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  anyone 
with  red  blood,  whether  it  be  the  kind  that  is  agitated  by  Beethoven  or  the  type 
that  moves  faster  to  the  goings-on  of  Benny  Goodman,  will  fafl  to  respond,  and 
respond  with  acthre  pleasure,  to  this  extraordinary  music.  To  be  sure  it  has  its  dis- 

190 


AARON    COPLAND  Jgi 

sonances — but  no  dissonance  that  the  scholar,  the  theorist,  or  the  jitterbug  need 
reject.  It  is  light,  even  vulgar,  but  it  is  alive,  it  is  vivid,  and  it  reflects  a  picture  in 
which  the  action  is  forthright  and  the  colors  raw,  crude,  and  recklessly  applied. 
This  music  has  the  quality  of  universal  appeal,  which  is  certainly  aft  essential  of  all 
true  art;  and  the  proof  of  its  universal  effectiveness  is  established  by  its  equal  suc- 
cess in  Mexico  City,  London,  Boston,  Cincinnati,  or  Brooklyn.  It  is  amusing  to 
find  The  Boston  Herald,  for  example,  comment  that  "Mr.  Copland  has  been 
wasting  his  time  all  these  years  and  should  have  been  sunning  himself  and  keeping 
his  ears  open  in  the  cafes  of  Latin  America.  The  public  will  care  little  that  he  ruin 
his  health  so  long  as  he  produces  exotic  and  exciting  scores  like  this." 

El  Salon  Mexico  is  the  Mexican  version  of  the  Roseland  Ballroom  of  New 
York,  or  the  cheaper  dance  halls  of  any  large  city.  It  is  one  of  the  famous  hot 
spots  of  Mexico  City  and  Mr.  Copland,  attracted  by  the  typically  Mexican  flavor 
of  the  place,  decided  to  write  music  descriptive  of  it.  The  temperature  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  music  and  the  dancers  quite  fascinated  him,  as  did  many  other 
details,  "Where  else  in  the  world,"  he  asks,  "could  you  find  a  sign  on  a  dance-hall 
wall  which  says:  Tlease  don't  throw  lighted  butts  on  the  floor  so  the  ladies  don't 
burn  their  feet'?" 

The  fact  is  that  though  centering  his  attention  primarily  on  El  Salon  Mexico, 
Mr.  Copland  condensed  and  crystallized  the  life,  the  feeling,  and  the  color  of  all 
Mexico.  In  this  music,  which  superficially  seems  so  jazzy,  there  are  flashes  of 
purest  Spanish  fire  as  well  as  fragments  of  the  vulgarest  dance  musk  of  today,  not 
to  mention  certain  attractive  Mexican  folk  dances  which,  as  he  said,  he  has  taken 
and  strung  together  like  beads  of  a  string.  Mr.  Copland  writes,  "Other  tourists 
will  pull  out  their  snapshots  to  show  you  what  a  country  looks  like,  but  a  com- 
poser wants  you  to  know  what  a  country  sounds  like."  One  feels  the  composer  has 
been  eminently  successful  in  his  project. 

"I  follow  no  general  rule,"  he  adds,  "in  the  use  of  the  themes  that  I  treated. 
Almost  all  of  them  come  from  the  Canctonero  Mexicano  by  Frances  Toor,  or 
from  the  erudite  work  by  Ruben  M.  Campos,  El  Folk-lore  y  la  Muslca  Mexicans 
To  both  authors  I  owe  thanks.  Probably  the  most  direct  quotation  of  a  complete 
melody  is  that  of  El  Mosco  (No.  84  in  the  book  by  Campos),  which  is  presented 
twice,  immediately  after  the  introductory  measures  (in  which  may  be  found  frag^ 
ments  of  El  Palo  Verde,  and  of  La  Jesusita)" 

This  music  actually  pants  with  excitement  and  occasionally  even  staggers  with 
emotional  exhaustion.  The  precise  and  compelling  rhythms,  while  jazzy  enough, 
might  extend  even  the  best  dance  band  beyond  its  physical  powers,  but  the  ecstatk 
shudders  and  squeals  of  the  clarinet  would  be  a  most  welcome  invitation  to  the 
best  possible  jitterbug  virtuoso.  The  use  of  percussion  instruments,  both  those  which 
are  standard  in  the  symphony  orchestra  and  several  exotic  ones,  is  of  exceptional 
interest,  and  various  instrumentalists  in  addition  to  the  percussion  player,  and 


THE    VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

daily  the  solo  trumpet  and  solo  clarinet,  have  parts  that  might  stagger  many  a 
virtuoso  but  can  often  be  realized  by  players  in  our  better  symphony  orchestras. 

Many  alleged  experts  feel  that  a  symphony  player  cannot  grasp,  much  less 
execute,  jazz  music.  Performances  of  this  work  by  various  orchestras,  and  partic- 
ularly by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  completely  refute  any  such  notion. 
Here  is  what  might  be  called  subtropical  jazz,  infinitely  elaborated  and  clarified, 
bristling  with  difficulties  of  all  kinds,  yet  played  with  conviction,  enthusiasm,  and 
expertness  by  orchestra  men  who  might  scowl  on  a  popular  fox  trot. 


CLAUDE  ACHILLE  DEBUSSY 

[1862-1918] 

DEBUSSY  was  born  on  August  22,  1862,  at  St.  Germain-en-Laye,  His  mu- 
sical proclivities  were  discovered  by  Mme  Mantet,  mother-in-law  of  the 
bohemian  poet  Verlaine,  whose  writings  were  later  to  influence  the  music 
of  Debussy.  Not  long  afterward  little  Claude  was  sent  to  the  Paris  Conservatoire, 
that  matrix  of  so  many  master  musicians;  he  remained  there  eleven  years.  During 
these  years  he  won  many  a  prize — a  first  for  soljege,  at  the  age  of  fourteen  5  a 
second  for  piano,  at  fifteen,  and  at  twenty-two,  the  highest  honor  the  Conserva- 
toire can  bestow — the  Grand  Prix  de  Rome.  This  precious  scholarship  entitles  the 
winner  to  residence  and  study  at  Rome  for  three  years,  at  the  expense  of  the 
French  Republic.  Debussy  won  it  with  his  cantata  UEn\ant  frodtgue — The 
Prodigal  Son;  a  work  which  showed  little  of  the  style  which  was  to  rank  the  com- 
poser among  the  great  innovators  in  music,  but  which  certainly  was  and  remains 
delightful  music,  and  an  extraordinary  achievement  for  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
two  years. 

One  of  the  best  and  most  dangerous  features  of  the  Prix  de  Rome  is  that  it 
allows  a  great  deal  of  leisure  to  the  student.  In  the  case  of  Debussy  this  was  an 
advantage,  for  ft  gave  him  time  to  develop  the  radical  musical  ideas  whfch  for 
some  time  had  been  taking  form  in  his  mind.  From  the  point  of  vkw  of  the  Prix 
committee,  however,  Debussy  was  not  accomplishing  much,  and  the  first  works  he 
sent  back  from  Rome  were  severely  censured. 

When  Debussy  returned  to  Paris  he  continued  his  work  as  a  composer,  ap- 
peared occasionally  as  pianist,  and  wrote  musical  'reviews.  He  was  a  remarkable 
teacher  of  piano  5  indeed,  he  showed  a  comprehension  of  that  instrument,  in  both 
his  teaching  and  composition,  that  few  composers  of  any  period  have  equaled.  The 
tonal  possibilities  of  the  piano  are  very  great,  though  very  subtle.  Few  performers, 
and  as  few  composers,  have  anything  like  an  adequate  appreciation  of  them. 
Debussy  did;  he  wrote  and  taught  accordingly,  and  we  are  fortunate  that  one  of 
the  first  to  understand  and  love  and  intelligently  play  the  piano  music  of  Debussy 
was  an  American,  George  Copeland,  friend  and  pupil  of  the  composer. 

During  the  years  that  followed,  up  to  about  1910,  works  of  very  great  sig- 
nificance came  from  Debussy's  hand.  The  two  volumes  of  Preludes,  for  piano;  the 
suite,  The  Children* s  Corner;  a  lovely  string  quartet;  Images,  a  group  of  three 
orchestral  pieces;  The  Afternoon  of  a  Faun,  La  Mer,  the  three  Nocturnes — 
Nuages>  Fetes,  and  Strenes — and  other  more  or  less  important  works  have  found 
their  way  into  the  permanent  orchestral  repertoire. 

The  pedants  and  the  purists  could  not  approve  the  music  of  Debussy,  because 
it  blandly  disregarded  every  canon  of  accepted  form  and  conventional  harmony. 
That  was  his  great  sin.  That  he  had  developed  a  singularly  effective  and  beautiful 

193 


194  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

system  of  harmony,  quite  his  own,  was  relatively  unimportant  to  his  critics.  He 
was  not  "regular";  therefore,  he  was  damned.  The  curiously  rich  yet  transparent 
quality  of  much  of  Debussy's  music  is  the  direct  result  of  his  ideas  of  harmony,  and 
though  it  arouses  no  hisses  today — we  have  heard  things  much  more  radical! — it 
was  incomprehensible  to  many  of  the  musical  commentators  of  the  'go's  and  the 
early  part  of  this  century.  For  some  occult  reason,  this  harmony  has  within  itself  a 
most  potent  suggestion  of  nature  in  all  her  moods;  of  moving  waters  and  of  the 
sea;  of  fathomless  skies  and  the  silent  motion  of  clouds,  and  of  the  mysteries  that 
transpire  within  the  green  dimness  of  forests.  There  is  no  reasonable  explanation 
of  this,  for  Debussy  certainly  does  not  descend  to  mere  musical  imitation  of  the 
sounds  of  nature.  His  power  is  suggestive,  rather  than  imitative.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested that  his  music  and  his  delicacy  of  effect  are  somewhat  effeminate.  Someone 
has  said  that  any  great  artist  is  half  woman  and  half  barbarian.  Perhaps  this  ex- 
plains Debussy,  if  explanation  is  needed. 


Iberia 
[Afo.  2  from  Images  four  orchestral 

THOMAS  CRAVEN,  in  his  priceless  book  Modern  Art,  quotes  from  the  mouth  of 
the  painter  Degas  what  he  regards  as  an  almost  perfect  definition  of  impressionism: 
"To  observe  his  models  through  the  keyhole."  But  Mr.  Craven  himself  gives  a 
better  one— "a  snapshot  of  a  little  fragment  of  the  visible  world."  The  impression- 
ism of  Debussy,  who  was  the  most  distinguished  practitioner  of  the  cult,  requires  a 
somewhat  more  generous  view  of  the  subject,  but  essentially  the  definition  applies 
to  musical  impressionism.  In  this  manner  of  expression  the  composer  would  convey 
a  swift  yet  comprehensive  glance  at  his  subject,  inclusive  but  not  detailed,  softly 
colored,  and  blurred  like  the  half-remembered  images  in  a  dream. 

Debussy  had  little  more  than  a  "keyhole  image"  of  Spain;  he  had  spent  but  a 
few  hours  in  that  country.  Yet  from  the  brief  impressions  of  this  visit,  and,  sub- 
consciously perhaps,  from  associated  ideas  drawn  from  books,  from  paintings,  and 
from  Spanish  music  that  he  had  heard,  Debussy  "created  spontaneously  such  Span- 
ish musk  as  might  be  envied  him — who  did  not  really  know  Spain — by  many  others 
who  knew  her  only  too  well."  (Manuel  de  Falla,) 

The  composer  used  the  tide  Images  rather  indiscriminately,  applying  it  to 
certain  piano  compositions,  as  well  as  to  a  group  of  three  orchestral  pieces,  of 
which  Iberia  is  the  second.  The  first  performance  was  given  at  Paris,  at  a  Colonne 
Concert,  under  the  direction  of  Gabriel  Pierne.  The  French  audience's  habit  of 


CLAUDE    ACHILLE     DEBUSSY  195 

whistling  its  disapproval  was  noticeable,  but  so  also  was  the  warmth  of  the  re- 
sponse from  a  good  number  of  listeners. 

Ibtria  is  divided  into  three  sections,  The  first: 

"Par  Les  Rues  et  far  les  chemins" 
[In  the  Streets  and  Roadsides'] 

There  is  no  need  for  extended  analysis  of  this  music;  on  the  contrary,  such 
probings  as  we  might  be  guilty  of  were  exceedingly  distasteful  to  Debussy,  and 
certainly  are  not  consonant  with  the  purpose  and  character  of  impressionist  music. 
But  there  is  pleasure  in  the  anticipation  of  the  blazing  colors  in  which  the  music 
begins;  of  the  nimble  rhythm,  marked  by  the  hard  click  of  castanets,  that  moves 
through  the  music;  of  such  incidents  as  the  lovely  song  given  to  strings  and  cor 
angl&Sy  or  of  the  lighthearted  one  that  appears  in  other  woodwinds;  and  finally,  it 
is  well  to  be  prepared  for  the  bewitching  effect  when  so  many  of  these  are  com- 
bined in  a  gorgeous,  a  barbaric  and  hotly  colored  fabric  of  tone, 

A  second  section  reveals  more  delicate,  but  not  less  exotic  color  and  texture  in 
the  music;  here  Debussy  anticipates  the  polytonalists,  and  projects  an  eerie  voice 
compounded  of  violin  harmonics  and  piccolo,  in  one  key,  against  the  strings  in  an- 
other, with  rhythmic  emphasis  in  the  percussive  tambourine,  harp,  and  castanets. 
A  third  section,  with  more  restrained  rhythm,  brings  back  eventually  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  beginning. 

"Les  Parfums  de  la  twit" 
[Perfumed  Darkne$i\ 

Spanish  nights  are  dark  and  warm,  palpitating  and  languorous  and  bewitched 
by  murmurous  shadows.  Muted  strings  suggest  the  almost  palpable  and  fragrant 
darkness,  breathing  the  aromatic  airs  that  rise  from  a  thousand  hidden  gardens; 
and  fugitive  glints  of  celesta  and  tambourine  and  xylophone,  like  faint  stars  in  a 
black  sky,  make  the  night  darker.  There  is  a  lonely  song  of  the  oboe  and  little 
vagrant  phrases  for  horn  and  bassoon  and  solo  violin.  The  perfumed  night  vibrates 
with  secret  ardors  and  passionate  wooings,  and,  "avec  une  grande  mtensite  dans 
Pexfression"  the  orchestra  moves  toward  a  brief  climax.  The  movement  closes 
with  mysterious  cornmunings  of  stopped  brass  and  woodwind  and  solo  violin,  and 
there  is  a  distant  drowsy  sound  of  bells. 

"Le  Matin  d?un  jour  de  jete» 
[  The  Morning  of  a  Festival] 

The  night  has  come  and  gone,  brightening  imperceptibly  into  tbe  fiertse  *ua- 
light  of  a  Spanish  summer*  Where  are  the  fantasies  of  those  enchanted  hours? 


196  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Where  the  longing,  where  the  pain?  The  music  recalls  them  mockingly,  the  glar- 
ing light  mercilessly  exposes  them,  and  the  cynical  Spanish  eye  looks  upon  their 
distorted  recollection  with  a  shrug  and  a  sneer.  Now  for  the  life  and  swift  activity 
of  the  day 5  now  for  processions  and  games  and  feasting!  And  the  music  marches 
briskly  toward  the  festival. 


Nuages 
[Clouds'] 

THIS  lovely  impressionistic  fragment  is  one  of  the  three  Nocturnes,  for  orchestra, 
the  others  of  which  are  entitled  Fetes  and  Sirenes.  The  latter,  which  requires  a 
wordless  choir  of  sixteen  female  voices  as  well  as  orchestra,  is  seldom  performed. 

Here  Debussy  does  not  attempt  to  paint  a  picture  of  clouds  moving  through 
the  seas  of  heaven.  Rather,  one  feels,  his  aim  is  to  evoke  such  a  mood  as  might 
come  upon  one  who  gazes  long  upon  "the  unchanging  aspect  of  the  sky,  with  the 
slow  and  solemn  passage  of  the  clouds  dissolving  in  a  gray  vagueness  tinged  with 
white."  And  again  he  writes,  "The  title  'Nocturnes*  is  to  be  understood  in  a  wider 
sense  than  that  usually  given  to  it,  and  should  be  regarded  as  conveying  a  decora- 
tive meaning.  The  form  of  the  nocturne  has  not  entered  into  consideration,  and 
the  term  should  be  viewed  as  signifying  all  that  is  associated  with  diversified  im- 
pressions and  special  lights." 

The  "diversified  impressions  and  special  lights"  are  here  achieved  with  a  mar- 
velous economy  of  means,  and  with  an  effectiveness  which  depends — aside  from 
the  intrinsic  and  lovely  suggestiveness  of  the  music — upon  the  receptivity  of  the 
listener.  Too,  the  subtly  and  unobtrusively  shifting  colors  of  this  music,  without 
accent  or  emphasis,  permit  contemplation  without  distraction — and  we  can  make 
our  own  pictures! 

Clarinets  and  bassoons  and  the  strangely  wild  and  pastoral  suggestions  of  the 
English  horn  achieve  an  effect  of  color  and  motion  in  silence.  The  music  passes 
like  a  dream  too  lovely  to  endure. 


Fetes 

THERE  is  music  in  this  world  that  accomplishes  meanings  and  suggestions  quite 
beyond  words.  We  know  that  the  music  reaches  us,  and  touches  that  particular 


CLAUDE    ACHILLE    DEBUSSY 

cell  within  us  upon  which  the  composer  would  lay  his  hand;  but  we  do  not  know 
why  the  music  so  reaches  and  touches  us.  It  is  as  if  we  had  a  sixth  sense,  which 
no  one  can  explain,  which  responds  to  nothing  but  certain  mysterious  and  nameless 
things  in  music;  and  which  even  the  composer  addresses  unconsciously  and  with- 
out design. 

Fetes  is  such  music.  It  is  a  little  thing,  but  unforgettable.  Hearing  it  is  like 
having  brought  back  to  us,  almost  clearly,  the  lovely  fragments  of  a  dream  that  is 
shattered  and  gone  on  the  instant  of  awakening.  It  is  music  that  comes  from  no- 
where, goes  nowhere,  and  stays  forever  in  our  ears,  whispering  of  fabulous  scenes. 
These  immaterial  spectacles  are  different  for  each  one  of  us,  but  always  there  is 
revelry,  and  a  swiftly,  at  first  almost  silently,  advancing  column  of  nebulous 
dancing  figures.  They  come  from  limitless,  shadowy  distances,  with  light  feet 
marching  to  the  soft  impulses  of  timpani  and  harp  and  low  plucked  strings;  with 
ghostly  fanfares  of  muted  triumpets.  They  crowd  and  jostle  on  the  scene,  yet  they 
are  always  out  of  reach;  as  swiftly  they  disappear,  and  the  final  faint  touch  on  a 
cymbal  is  mocking  and  memorable. 


La  Mer 

[The  Sea} 

[Three  Symphonic  Sketches] 

SOMEONE  has  remarked  that  in  the  music  of  Debussy  there  is  always  the  move- 
ment and  the  sound  of  water,  and  surely  the  composer  left  many  indications  of  his 
love  and  awe  of  the  ocean.  It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  what  is  perhaps  his  mas- 
terwork  in  symphonic  form  should  have  been  suggested  by  the  sea.  La  Mer  was 
performed  for  the  first  time  at  a  Lamoureux  Concert,  Pars,  October  15,  1905, 
under  the  direction  of  Camille  Chevilkrd;  its  first  American  presentation  was  by 
the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  March  2,  1907. 

The  titles  of  the  three  sections  constitute  the  only  program  Debussy  has  indi- 
cated for  the  music;  but  his  impressions  of  nature's  mightiest  force  are  suggested 
in  many  of  his  letters.  The  following  excerpt  is  of  interest: 

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  bf 
daily  life  should  not  be  allowed;  truly  these  arms  and  legs  which  move  ia 
ridiculous  rhythms — it  is  enough  to  make  the  fish  weep.  There  should  be  only 


198  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Sirens  in  the  sea,  and  could  you  wish  that  these  estimable  persons  would  be 
willing  to  return  to  waters  so  unpleasantly  frequented? 

We  might  have  had  even  more  interesting  comment  if  only  Dubussy  could 
have  seen  Coney  Island. 


"UAube  a  midi  sur  Iff 
[The  Sea  from  Dawn  until  Noon] 

The  ocean,  mother  of  myriad  immemorial  dawnings,  slowly  heaves  and 
writhes  in  a  mysterious  quiet,  and  another  day  is  born.  Muted  strings  and  murmur- 
ing drums,  and  ascending  notes  of  the  harp  merge  into  a  mist  that  lies  over  the 
orchestra.  A  single  flash  of  the  awakening  sun  is  reflected  in  the  vaguely  shim- 
mering waters,  and  the  light  grows.  Muted  horn  and  cor  anglais  against  descend- 
ing strings  suggest  the  limitless  line  of  the  horizon  as  it  materializes  through  the 
mist,  and  the  shadowed  hues  of  the  darkness  before  dawn  are  dissipated,  with  the 
clinging  mists,  in  the  broad  light  of  morning. 

The  music  shifts  in  color  and  transparency  like  the  sea  itself,  and  it  is  no  more 
possible  to  separate  from  its  curiously  incorporeal  and  amorphous  structure  the 
myriad  beauties  of  which  it  is  compounded  than  to  regard,  in  the  wide  expanse  of 
ocean,  the  gleam  and  play  of  each  individual  wave.  But  nowhere  in  music  is  there 
so  magical  a  suggestion  of  the  sea,  with  its  incredible  blues  and  greens,  its  sparkle 
and  motion  and  clear  depths,  its  mysterious  and  unforgettable  mumurings  and  its 
power. 

"Jeux  de  vagues** 
[Sport  of  the  Waves] 

The  mocking,  stormy,  placid,  deceiving  monster  is  revealed  here  in  yet  an- 
other mood*  The  ocean  merrily  disports  itself,  and  in  the  orchestra  a  seeming  thou- 
sand voices  entangle  and  collide  and  sparkle  like  the  ocean's  own  waves  and 
wavelets.  Frisky  waters  throw  themselves  glittering  against  the  blue  air;  long 
rollers  rush  toward  the  shore  and  dissolve  in  snowy  foam;  vagrant  winds  snatch 
the  white  caps  from  tossing  billows,  and  fling  the  wet  spray  across  the  sky.  There 
are  little  solos  for  cor  anglais  and  horn,  for  oboe,  and  for  violin;  and  finally  the 
music,  stirred  up  gradually  by  its  own  sportiveness,  rises  to  a  brilliant  climax  of 
revelry,  then  wearily  subsides  into  calm. 

"Dialogue  du  vent  et  de  la  mer** 
[Dialogue  of  the  Wind  and  the  Sea] 

Now  the  ocean  is  not  playful,  but  lashed  to  wild  fury  by  fierce  winds  descend- 
ing upon  it  from  the  endless  reaches  of  heaven.  Madly  it  heaves  itself  against  the 


CLAUDE    ACHILLB    DEBUSSY  199 

blast;  roaring,  the  invisible  demons  of  the  air  hurl  its  waters  back  into  its  distorted 
face.  Throughout  the  movement — here  in  the  climax  of  the  stormy  dialogue  as  well 
as  in  the  sometimes  tender,  sometimes  angry  concluding  passages — strings  and 
wind  instruments  are  played  against  each  other  in  bewildering  and  wonderful 
fashion. 


Prelude  to  "L'Apres-midi  d'un  faune" 
\The  Afternoon  of  a  Fattn] 

IN  THIS  mysterious  and  magical  music  the  orchestra,  taking  into  its  hundred  hands 
the  somnolent  warmth  and  anesthetic  perfumes  of  a  summer  day,  fashions  a  dream 
and  evokes  a  vision.  Nowhere  in  all  music  has  anyone  so  deftly  and  so  exquisitely 
synthesized  the  heat  and  silence  and  voluptuousness  of  afternoon's  golden  hours, 
and  by  their  translation  into  lovely  sound  expressed  the  nameless  longings  and 
fantastic  fleet  visions  that  youth,  unseeing  yet  gazing  into  the  l*mMfss  blue  of 
heaven,  alone  can  experience, 

This  lovely  vaporous  web  of  sound  was  devised  by  Debussy  as  a  musical 
illustration  of  the  poem,  The  Afternoon  of  a  Fauny  by  Stephane  Mallarme.  The 
poem  itself  is  a  vague  and  ciyptic  outpouring,  suggesting  a  literary  style  paralleled 
in  painting  by  extreme  impressionism,  and  in  musk,  very  often,  by  the  work  of 
Debussy.  Paradoxically  this  music  is  not  difficult  to  understand  5  indeed,  it  is  not 
to  be  understood  at  all,  but  merely  heard  and  felt.  Debussy  himself  tells  us.that 
it  is  not  a  musical  parallel  to  the  poem,  but  perhaps  merely  a  background  for  it, 
and  inducement  to  a  mood  congenial  to  the  poem. 

As  Lawrence  Oilman  pointed  out  in  the  program  notes  of  the  New  York 
Philharmonic  Orchestra,  the  English  reduction  of  the  poem,  by  Edmund  Gosse,  is 
almost  as  famous  as  the  original,  and  certainly  more  comprehensible.  As  a  possible 
indication  of  the  atmosphere  the  music  seeks  to  create,  we  quote  Mr.  Gosse's 
version: 

A  faun — a  simple,  sensuous,  passionate  being — wakens  in  the  forest  at 
daybreak  and  tries  to  recall  his  experience  of  the  previous  afternoon.  Was  he 
the  fortunate  recipient  of  an  actual  visit  from  nymphs,  white  and  golden 
goddesses,  divinely  tender  and  indulgent?  Or  is  the  memory  he  seems  to  retain 
nothing  but  the  shadow  of  a  vision,  no  more  substantial  than  tlie  arid  rain  of 
notes  from  his  own  flute?  He  cannot  telL  Yet  surely  there  was,  surely  there  is, 
an  animal  whiteness  among  the  brown  reeds  of  the  lake  that  shines  out  yonder. 


2OO  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Were  they,  are  they,  swans?  No!  But  Naiads  plunging?  Perhaps!  Vaguer 
and  vaguer  grows  the  impression  of  this  delicious  experience.  He  would  resign 
his  woodland  godship  to  retain  it.  A  garden  of  lilies,  golden-headed,  white- 
stalked,  behind  the  trellis  of  red  roses?  Ah!  the  effort  is  too  great  for  his  poor 
brain.  Perhaps  if  he  selects  one  lily  from  the  garth  of  lilies,  one  benign  and 
beneficent  yielder  of  her  cup  to  thirsty  lips,  the  memory,  the  ever-receding 
memory,  may  be  forced  back.  So  when  he  has  glutted  upon  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
he  is  wont  to  toss  the  empty  skins  into  the  air  and  blow  them  out  in  a  visionary 
greediness.  But  no,  the  delicious  hour  grows  vaguer;  experience  or  dream, 
he  will  never  know  which  it  was.  The  sun  is  warm,  the  grasses  yielding;  and 
he  curls  himself  up  again,  after  worshipping  the  efficacious  star  of  wine,  that 
he  may  pursue  the  dubious  ecstasy  into  the  more  hopeful  boskages  of  sleep. 

Mr.  Gosse's  version  of  the  poem  is  imaginative  and  lovely,  yet,  listening  to 
the  music,  may  we  not  surmise  a  little  more?  Vague  and  dreamy  though  it  is, 
there  are  certain  indications  in  the  music  that  the  Faun's  afternoon  was  not  so  close 
to  that  strange  borderland  between  sleep  and  consciousness;  that  there  was  "a 
whiteness  among  the  brown  reeds";  that  there  were  pursuits  and  embraces  and 
escapes,  and  little,  wondering  ecstasies;  little,  poignant  pains. 

Exquisite  languors  are  induced  as  with  supple  and  errant  phrases  the  polished 
tones  of  the  flute  sing  unaccompanied.  Woodwinds  speak;  a  diaphanous  membrane 


of  sound  is  made  of  quick  glinting  harp  notes,  and  the  horns,  that  seem  able  to 
utter  in  three  tones  all  the  sweet  and  melancholy  languidness  of  summer,  bring 
us  to  an  open  and  green-floored  space  in  the  forest.  Here  lay  the  Faun;  here  we 
too  may  lie,  looking  deep  into  the  bottomless  bowl  of  the  sky,  or  turning  to  hear 
the  drowsy  hum  and  watch  the  teeming  life  of  myriad  insects,  going  their  tangled 
and  busy  ways  among  ferns  and  grasses* 

Here  lay  the  Faun,  and  each  time  we  hear  this  music  we  can  see  him  again, 
flitting  among  the  trees,  pursuing,  hurrying,  hiding,  laughing  immoderately,  and 
pleading.  With  each  venturesome  dash  the  orchestra  mirrors  his  excitement;  with 
each  disappointment  and  each  repulsion  the  glowing  and  pulsating  tone  is  shadowed. 
More  pursuits  and  raptures  ...  a  lightfooted  dash  that,  in  the  orchestra,  suddenly 
hesitates  and  almost  stumbles.  Ecstatic  melody  in  the  violins,  against  woodwind 
and  horns,  and  finally,  after  all,  the  dreamy  and  voluptuous  idea  in  the  languid 
voice  of  the  flute  ...  the  thought  with  which  the  music  opened.  At  the  end,  music 


CLAUDE    ACHILLE    DEBUSSY  2OI 

sweet  and  impalpable  as  a  dream — muted  and  tenuous  and  fading  and — at  last — 
silent. 


Danses:  sacree  et  profane 

A  LITERAL  translation  of  this  title  means  little  5  it  seems  preferable,  in  view  of  the 
suggestions  of  the  music,  to  make  the  tide  read  in  English:  Dances,  Ritualistic  and 
Voluptuous.  These  two  short  pieces  for  chromatic  harp  and  orchestra  were  written 
shortly  after  the  development  of  the  solo  instrument  in  its  higher  form,  and  were 
dedicated  to  the  inventor  of  the  chromatic  instrument.  The  first  performance  was 
given  in  1904,  by  Mme  Wurmser-Delcourt  at  one  of  the  Colonne  Concerts  in 
Paris;  the  first  American  performance  was  given  at  New  York,  by  the  same  artist, 
in  December,  1919. 

The  two  dances  flow  imperceptibly,  one  into  the  other.  Only  a  slight  quicken- 
ing of  tempo  indicates  the  beginning  of  the  second.  The  first  is  hypnotic  and 
mystical,  curiously  rhythmed,  as  if  a  rapt  worshiper,  half  unconscious  in  awe  and 
adoration,  moved  with  sinuous  automatic  glidings  and  swayings  before  the  glower- 
ing image  of  the  god.  The  second  suggests  secret  rites  and  quiet  ecstasies;  no  more 
than  gleams  of  passion,  but  a  smooth  and  voluptuous  tracing  of  lovely  contours. 
But  let  the  music  make  its  own  suggestions! 

The  orchestra  is  incidental,  the  harp  always  all  important,  in  both  pieces. 
With  due  respect  to  all  the  great  harpists,  it  is  suggested  that  to  hear  a  performance 
of  this  music,  even  on  radio  or  phonograph,  by  Edna  Phillips,  first  harpist  of  the 
Philadelphia  Orchestra,  is  to  realize  fully  its  possibilities  and  their  beauty. 


FREDERICK  DELIUS 

[1863-1934] 

D5LIUS  WAS  BORN  in  England,  and  is  regarded  as  an  English  composer, 
though  his  parentage  was  German.  Few  sons  are  approved  by  their 
fathers  when  they  decide  for  a  musical  career,  and  Delius  was  no  excep- 
tion. When  he  was  able  to  free  himself  from  parental  restraints,  he  went  to 
Florida  to  work  at  the  cultivation  of  oranges.  This  interlude  was  not  entirely 
without  good  effect,  for  it  gave  leisure  and  opportunity  for  the  study  of  nature  as 
well  as  music;  and  nature,  in  Delius'  music,  looms  large.  Happily,  he  was  not 
too  interested  in  the  Negro  songs  he  heard,  though  they  did  not  escape  his 
observation* 

When  Delius  was  twenty-two  years  old,  he  decided  that  he  had  had  enough 
of  the  citrus  grower's  life,  and  that  he  should  devote  himself  entirely  to  music. 
He  taught  for  a  short  period,  at  Danville,  Va.,  but  realizing  the  necessity  for 
further  study,  he  went  to  Germany  and  studied  there  under  Reinecke,  Jadassohn, 
and,  finally,  Edvard  Grieg. 

In  recent  years  Delius  became  almost  totally  blind,  and  suffered  from  the 
additional  handicap  of  paralysis.  A  talented  young  musician,  Eric  Fenby,  assisted 
the  composer  during  his  last  years,  as  amanuensis.  Delius  permitted  himself  no 
abandonment  to  his  physical  trials,  in  the  joy  which  he  had  in  composing  music. 

Delius,  some  time  ago,  had  penetrating  and  bitter  remarks  to  make  on  the 
subject  of  jazz  and  modernism;  remarks  made,  not  inappropriately,  to  an  official 
of  an  agency  which  has  had  much  to  do  with  the  popularity  of  modern  music, 
jazz  and  serious:  The  Gramophone  Company,  Ltd.  "What  could  be  worse,"  he 
asked,  "than  the  spectacle  of  serious  musicians  trying  to  imitate  jazz?  To  imitate 
jazz  is  as  bad  as  imitating  the  atonal  music  invented  by  Schonberg  and  Company. 
Worst  of  all,  I  see  that  the  young  English  musicians  are  being  influenced  by  what 
I  call  this  'wrong  note*  school  of  music."  And  again  he  remarked,  "The  only  wayt 
for  any  man  to  write  music  is  to  follow  the  line  of  his  own  feelings  and  not 
imitate  foreigners  or  anyone  else.  Such  ugliness  as  is  heard  in  some  of  the  modern 
music  now  being  written  in  England  and  Germany  and  France  can  only  reveal 
an  extremely  ugly  soul.  It  is  atrociously  monstrous  and  ugly.  In  my  opinion,  the 
adherents  of  the  'wrong  note'  school  are  merely  sensationalists." 

Such  comment,  applied  indiscriminately,  is  of  course  rather  dangerous;  but 
at  the  same  time  it  is  not  unnatural  in  a  composer  who  perhaps  was  a  little 
embittered  by  neglect,  and  who,  in  his  musical  ideas,  is  a  distant  relative  of  Grieg 
and  perhaps  of  Debussy. 

In  recent  years  Delius  has  suffered  by  overpraise  at  the  hands  of  persistent 
and  vociferous  enthusiasts  who  feel  that  because  his  music  is  contemporary  it  fe 
also  modern,  and  new.  It  is  easy  to  grant  the  agreeableness  of  all  of  Delius*  work; 


FREDERICK    DELIUS  20$ 

but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  see  that  it  is  strikingly  original,  powerful,  or  permanently 
impressive.  Some  English  and  American  supporters  see  in  him  a  musician  ranking 
with  any  of  the  late  nineteenth,  or  of  the  twentieth  century;  very  likely  this  is  a 
serious  overestimate.  It  is  gratifying,  nevertheless,  to  find  his  truly  lovely  music 
making  its  way,  with  growing  frequency,  into  symphonic  programs.  Whether  or 
not  it  is  to  endure,  the  test  of  time  will  reveal. 


Brigg  Fair 
\An  English  Rhapsody] 

DELIUS  was  always  much  concerned,  in  his  music,  with  the  loveliness  of  nature 
and  the  appeal  of  bucolic  things.  The  present  work  was  inspired  by  an  old  English 
folk  song,  discovered  by  that  indefatigable  collector  of  such  treasures,  the  pianist- 
composer  Percy  Grainger.  The  Rhapsody,  incidentally,  is  dedicated  to  Grainger; 
and  bears  on  its  title  page  the  words  of  the  folk  song,  the  first  and  last  stanza  of 
which  are  as  follows: 


It  was  on  the  fijf  of  August,  The  green  leaves  they  shall 

The  weather  fine  and  fair,  And  the  branches  they  shall  die 

"Unto  Brigg  Fair  I  did  repair  If  ever  I  p*ove  false  to  hery 
For  love  I  was  inclined.  To  the  girl  that  loves  me. 

The  introduction  suggests  vividly  the  sunny  warmth  and  drowsiness  of  <cthe 
fift*  of  August"  in  an  English  countryside:  suggests  the  scene,  indeed,  by  faintly 
Debussyan  handling  of  muted  strings  and  woodwind  and  harp.  Following  the 
preluding  passages,  the  folk-song  theme  is  presented  in  the  reedy  voice  of  the 
oboe,  and  a  delightfully  ingenuous  and  pastoral  idea  it  is.  After  its  development, 
we  come  upon  a  tranquil  passage  in  a  new  rhythm;  of  this  passage,  a  writer  in 
the  Manchester  Guardian  of  October  1  8,  1929,  has  the  following  to  say: 

"  A  study  of  cBrigg  Fair/  from  the  passage  marked  lento  molto  transqw&ato 
...  to  the  close  of  the  climax  which  leads  to  the  transformation  of  the  main  theme 
into  a  new  melody  for  trumpet  and  trombone,  with  an  occasional  toll  of  the  bell  — 
a  study  of  this  indescribably  beautiful  passage  will  bring  us  into  the  very  heart 
of  Delius  the  composer  and  Delius?  the  man.  Here,  especially,  we  can  look  into 
his  rhythmical  fluidity,  the  sign  of  a  musical  sensibility  that  would  have  been  dis- 
persed by  the  ordinary  recurrent  rhythms  of  music."  The  opinion  of  this  nameless 
but  apparently  authoritative  commentator  has  been  the  deciding  factor  m  the  choice 


2O4  THE    VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

of  Srigg  F(Ary  rather  than  any  other  of  Delius*  works,  for  inclusion  in  this  book. 
There  is  a  rather  melancholy  solemnity  in  the  theme  of  the  trumpet  and  trombone 
mentioned  above,  but  this  atmosphere  does  not  endure  for  long,  and  a  lighter  mood 
returns,  with  the  chief  theme  conspicuously  recalled.  A  climax  is  developed  along 
sweeping  lines,  but  the  music  ends  in  the  resolute  and  gently  serious  feeling  sug- 
gested by  the  words  of  the  folk  song. 


ERNO  DOHNANYI 

[Born  1877] 

ERNO  DOHNANYI  (the  name  is  sometimes  given  as  Ernst  von  Dohnanyi) 
was  born  at  Pressburg,  in  Hungary,  the  son  of  a  talented  amateur  musician 
who  early  perceived  the  musical  gifts  of  his  son,  and  provided  every  means 
for  their  cultivation.  It  was  not,  however,  the  intention  of  the  family  that  the  boy 
should  become  a  professional  musician,  and  not  until  after  some  time  spent  as  a 
student  of  philosophy  in  the  University  of  Budapest  did  Erno  decide  that  music 
was  the  one  profession  in  which  he  could  satisfy  himself  and  succeed. 

Dohnanyi  studied  piano  and  composition  under  several  of  the  foremost  Euro- 
pean masters,  and  set  about  developing  himself  rapidly  and  thoroughly.  It  was 
not  long  before  his  compositions  began  to  win  fame  and  awards,  and  his  playing 
of  the  piano  soon  established  him  in  the  front  rank  of  solo  artists.  His  first  American 
appearance  was  at  Boston,  with  the  Boston  Symphony,  in  1899$  and  audiences  in 
several  other  American  cities  later  heard  him  both  as  conductor  and  as  pianist. 
Although  known  to  fame  particularly  as  a  pianist,  Dohnanyi  has  written 
extensively  in  the  major  musical  forms.  Symphonies,  chamber  music,  serious  and 
comic  opera,  and  solo  piano  works  are  numbered  among  his  compositions.  While 
a  modern,  Dohnanyi  is  never  guilty  of  the  striving  for  effect,  the  use  of  novelty 
for  its  own  sake,  and  similar  artistic  sins  which  are  often  and  justly  charged 
against  many  present-day  composers.  His  music  is  sound,  logical,  beautiful,  and 
expressive;  more  need  not  be  said  of  any  music. 


Suite  for  Orchestra  in  D  minor 
[Opus  19] 

THE  suite,  as  a  musical  form,  is  the  outgrowth  of  the  popularity,  at  certain  periods, 
of  various  ancient  dance  forms.  Instead  of  being  played  singly  as  entities,  these 
various  dances  were  artistically  combined  and  contrasted  so  as  to  give  a  group  of 
them  (a  suite,  in  other  words)  a  certain  balance  and  continuity. 

The  modern  suite  may  or  may  not  be  constructed  of  dance  tunes,  but  its 
germinal  idea  lies  in  this  sequence  of  dance  rhythms.  The  suite  differs  from  the 
symphony  in  that  its  themes  are  not  so  conspicuous,  so  pronounced,  or  so  important 
to  the  structure  of  the  movement  as  are  those  of  the  symphony.  Furthermore,  the 
symphony  is  usually  much  more  abstract  and  subjective  in  character,  and  its  move- 

205 


206  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ments  exhibit  more  varied  treatment  and  more  melodic  and  rhythmic  contrasts 
than  do  the  movements  of  a  suite. 

The  suite,  therefore,  is  less  imperative  in  its  demands  upon  the  listener,  and 
returns  him  more  for  a  modicum  of  attention  and  understanding  than  the  sym- 
phony* Herein  lies  a  reason  for  the  charm  and  popularity  of  the  suite.  That  its 
musical  value,  workmanship,  and  worthiness  may  be  equal  to  those  of  a  symphony 
goes  without  saying — and  is  demonstrated  in  the  work  annotated  here. 

Parti 
Andante  with  Variations 

You  will  observe,  in  the  very  first  measure  of  the  suite,  that  here  is  music  of 
a  decidedly  new  and  different  color.  The  composer  effects  combinations  of  instru- 
ments here  that  produce  a  peculiarly  penetrating,  sharp  yet  sweet  quality  of  tone 
that  is  delightfully  refreshing.  The  music  that  you  first  hear,  a  broad  and  flowing 
song  in  which  the  influence  of  Brahms  is  distinctly  evident,  is  the  theme  about 
which  the  orchestra  will  presently  weave  a  lovely  fabric  of  sound — variations  of 
the  theme  itself,  derived  in  their  every  convolution  from  the  first  utterance  of 
the  woodwind. 

The  woodwind  section  is  led  by  the  oboe,  and  joined  by  the  strings,  in  the 
first  projection  of  the  theme.  The  first  variation  is  animated  in  rhythm,  and  vividly 
colored  * .  ,  the  composer  again  turning  to  the  woodwind  section  for  the  particular 
tonal  quality  he  wishes  to  achieve.  But  now  the  strings  are  more  importantly 
employed;  the  curious  sharply  flickering  rhythm  that  underlies  the  line  of  the 
melody  dances  from  beneath  lively  bows. 

The  second  variation  is  even  livelier  and  more  vigorous.  Bold  chords,  power- 
ful and  deep  in  the  bass,  usher  it  in — and  the  variation  figure  alternates  between 
crackling  strings  and  penetrating  woodwind.  A  brief  transition  passage,  a  broaden- 
ing of  the  melodic  line,  lead  us  to  the  third  variation,  in  which  the  Brahmslike 
feeling  of  the  theme-  is  even  more  pronounced  than  on  its  first  appearance.  Here 
the  deeper  strings  have  the  theme  in  a  new  form,  with  accompaniment  by  horns 
and  the  violins.  Presently  the  violins  themselves  are  given  the  theme  in  a  still 
further  development,  but  the  tranquil  atmosphere  of  the  third  variation  continues 
for  a  space. 

The  fourth  variation  begins  in  a  gentle  mood,  but  with  a  lively  rhythm  under- 
lying it.  And  presently,  with  growing  animation  and  vigor,  it  reaches  a  briefly 
glowing  climax  *  . .  the  cor  mglais  leading  a  swift  and  merry  procession  of  orches- 
tral voices  to  the  e&d. 

The  fifth  variation  (livelier  still  than  any  that  have  gone  before)  begins  with 
a  portentous  beating  of  the  kettledrums  .  ,  .  a  little  movement  of  darkness  that  is 
belied  by  the  quaint,  the  almost  grotesque  style  of  the  measures  that  follow. 


ERNO    DOHNANYI  207 

Although  in  a  minor  key  the  music  is  full  of  robust  and  vital  rhythm.  It  attains 
its  climax  in  a  broadening  of  the  rhythmic  swing  and  a  vast  increase  in  orchestral 
power,  on  a  retarding  series  of  chords  that  bring  us  to  the  sixth  and  final  variation* 
The  last  of  the  variations  is  in  marked  contrast  with  all  the  others,  and  par- 
ticularly with  the  fifth.  More  of  sentiment,  more  of  passion,  and  less  of  the  sturdy 
and  vigorous  rhythms  of  the  first  five  variations  are  felt  here.  The  violins  sing 
most  eloquently  .  .  .  and  there  are  shadows  in  the  low  and  reedy  sweetness  of 
the  clarinets.  Yet  at  the  close  the  mood  is  not  one  of  gloom,  but  of  mellow 
thoughtfulness. 

Part  II 
Scherzo 

The  scherzo  lives  up  to  all  the  requirements  of  that  title,  in  the  briskness  of 
its  rhythm,  the  piquancy  of  its  melodic  content,  and  the  sharpness  and  lightness 
of  its  orchestral  colors.  The  little  subject  given  out  at  the  beginning,  in  the  wood- 
wind, and  answered  by  the  strings,  is  the  basis  for  the  major  part  of  the  move- 
ment. It  is  presented  in  a  variety  of  phases,  worked  over  orchestrally  until  the 
last  atom  of  brightness  and  gaiety  and  charm  is  exacted  from  it. 

There  is  a  contrasting  section  in  which  a  single  note  (A),  is  continually 
repeated,  and  made  the  basis  for  a  very  interesting  series  of  harmonies.  The  use  of 
the  timpani  in  urging  forward  the  ever-lively  rhythm  is  exceptionally  effective. 

Later,  we  hear  the  subject  matter  of  the  opening  passages  presented  again 
in  somewhat  modified  form;  then,  in  the  horns,  a  remembrance  of  the  second, 
contrasting  section;  and  finally,  a  deliriously  humorous  close,  involving  clarinets, 
timpani,  cymbal,  violin  in  harmonics,  and  a  sudden  chord  from  the  whole  orchestra, 

Part  III 


A  romance,  as  its  name  might  indicate,  is  a  composition  in  free  style,  usually 
sentimental  in  character.  Here  the  composer  frees  himself  from  the  restrictions 
of  form,  and  gives  musical  expression  to  the  vague  and  errant  dreamings  which 
all  of  us,  at  one  time  or  another,  experience  but  can  neither  express  nor  classify. 

The  movement  opens  with  three  measures  of  introduction  in  the  strings* 
plucked  instead  of  bowed.  Then  the  principal  theme,  a  sweet  little  song  in  the 
plaintive  voice  of  the  oboe,  wanders  across  the  scene.  Later  the  cello,  in  its  most 
suave  and  ingratiating  accents,  unfolds  a  lovely  tale  of  melody.  The  cor  anglais 
suggests  its  own  version,  and  then,  after  a  hastening  of  tempo,  the  harp  and  strings 
present  a  more  intense  and  passionate  thought.  Yet,  at  the  end,  the  song  of  the 
English  horn  returns  as  the  final  idea,  and  a.  soaring  violin  brings  the  movement 
to  its  peaceful  conclusion. 


208  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Part  IV 
Rondo 

In  music,  the  rondo  is  analogous  to  the  rondeau  in  verse.  In  this  form,  the 
subject  recurs  at  intervals,  always  following  the  introduction  of  new  matter. 

Here  the  first  subject,  which  is  to  be  the  basis  of  the  rondo,  and  which  will 
appear  at  intervals,  is  the  vigorous  theme  which  you  hear  as  the  music  begins.  It 
appears  in  the  strings,  and  presently  is  taken  up  by  the  woodwind,  with  the  strings 
now  plucked  rather  than  bowed,  forming  a  crisply  rhythmical  accompaniment 
figure.  The  succeeding  musical  idea,  even  more  gay  and  colorful,  appears  now 
following  a  powerful  chord  in  full  orchestra.  After  this  presentation  of  the  second 
theme,  there  is  a  swiftly  descending  passage  in  the  woodwind,  and  the  first  subject, 
according  to  the  requirements  of  the  rondo,  returns  as  it  was  formerly  presented. 
The  flute  suggests  a  new  musical  idea,  and,  following  it,  a  brilliant  and  passionate 
utterance  is  given  out  by  the  string  section. 

The  composer,  instead  of  another  presentation  of  the  basic  theme,  develops 
this  last  subject  of  the  strings  at  some  length — and  only  then  returns  to  a  reminis- 
cence of  the  original  subject.  Impatient  of  the  confines  of  the  string  form,  the 
music  broadens  immensely,  and  a  powerful,  brilliant,  and  vigorous  utterance  is 
drawn  from  the  entire  orchestra,  with  thundering  kettledrums  and  crackling 
castanets  emphasizing  the  swing  of  the  rhythm. 

The  second  section  of  the  movement  receives  even  broader,  but  perhaps  less 
brilliant  and  vigorous  treatment  in  its  opening  passages.  There  is,  however,  a 
distinct  growth  in  vigor  and  vehemence  as  it  progresses.  The  basic  theme  returns 
for  its  last  appearance,  and  then,  after  a  crash  of  the  cymbal,  and  a  moment  of 
intense  suspense,  the  composer  returns,  not  merely  to  the  theme  of  this  movement, 
but  to  the  sweet  and  passionate  song  that  opened  the  suite  and  was  the  subject  of 
the  variations  of  the  first  movement.  There  is  a  swift  and  brilliant  concluding 
passage. 


PAUL  DUKAS 

[1865-1935] 

THE  COMPOSER  was  a  native  of  Paris,  a  graduate  of  the  Conservatoire,  and 
a  winner  of  the  Prix  de  Rome.  He  has  written  quite  extensively,  but 
the  only  work  known  throughout  the  world  of  the  symphony  orchestra  is 
the  symphonic  episode,  The  Sorcerer's  Afflrentice.  Dukas  is  remarkable  in  that 
he  kept  abreast  of  musical  developments  through  all  his  life  and  maintained  an 
open  mind  and  broad  point  of  view  with  respect  to  music  far  removed  in  character 
from  the  kind  upon  which  he  was  nourished  from  childhood.  He  was  a  musk  critic, 
as  well  as  composer,  writing  for  various  journals  in  the  French  capital. 


L'Apprenti  sorcier 
[The  Sorcerer**  Apprentice] 

THIS  very  familiar  and  highly  descriptive  music  was  inspired  immediately  by  a 
ballad  by  Goethe,  but  remotely  by  a  fable  more  than  eighteen  hundred  years  old. 
A  magician,  who  traveled  about  with  his  understudy,  had  a  favorite  trick  of 
turning  a  broom  handle,  or  any  other  stick,  into  a  human  figure,  which  undertook 
the  duties  of  a  servant,  ordered  meals,  carried  water,  and  the  like.  The  young 
apprentice  often  tried  to  get  from  his  master  the  magic  words  which  would  accom- 
plish this  miracle,  but  in  vain;  until  one  day,  having  secreted  himself  within  ear- 
shot, he  overheard  the  charm.  When  the  magician  was  safely  out  of  the  way,  the 
apprentice  tried  out  the  words,  and  immediately  changed  a  pestle  into  the  figure 
of  a  man.  He  ordered  it  to  fetch  some  water,  and  was  obeyed.  Satisfied  with  his 
experiment,  he  ordered  the  creature  to  "be  again  a  pestle."  But  the  automaton  did 
not  understand;  the  apprentice  had  forgotten  to  learn  the  words  which  put  the 
magic  into  reverse,  and  the  senseless  but  docile  "servant"  continued  to  bring  water 
until  the  room  overflowed.  Desperate,  the  young  magician  split  the  stick  in  two, 
with  an  ax — but  then  there  were  two  painfully  obedient  creatures  bringing  water! 
The  fortuitous  arrival  of  the  master  magician  eventually  saved  the  day. 

The  progress  of  the  little  comedy  is  clearly  indicated  by  the  musk  itself. 


209 


ANTONIN  DVORAK 

[1841-1904] 

ATONIN  DVORAK  was  born  on  September  8,  1841,  the  son  of  an  innkeeper 
of  Miihlhausen  in  Bohemia.  His  father  had  destined  him  to  succeed  to  his 
estate,  but,  as  the  inn  dispensed  music  as  well  as  hospitality  (through  the 
offices  of  the  bands  of  itinerant  musicians  who  occasionally  played  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  villagers  and  guests),  something  stirred  within  the  boy,  and,  perhaps 
before  he  realized  it,  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  the  precarious  career  of  a  musician 
instead  of  looking  to  the  complacent  comfort  that  was  no  doubt  assured  the 
proprietor  of  a  village  caravanserai. 

On  his  own  initiative  the  boy  Dvorak  persuaded  the  village  schoolmaster  to 
teach  him  to  play  the  violin  and  to  sing,  and  presently  he  was  allowed  to  sing  in 
the  church,  and  to  play,  too,  on  special  occasions.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old, 
he  was  sent  by  his  father  to  Zlonitz,  a  town  not  far  from  his  birthplace,  where  he 
was  given  the  opportunity  to  proceed  in  his  music  under  the  tutelage  of  the  local 
organist  and  the  discipline  of  an  uncle.  Here  Dvorak's  musical  education  really 
began;  here  he  learned  the  fundamentals  of  organ  and  pianoforte  playing,  musical 
theory,  harmony,  extemporization,  and  other  branches  of  the  art. 

The  elder  Dvorak  gave  the  boy  permission  to  go  to  Prague  to  study  music 
with  a  view  toward  making  it  his  life  work.  In  October,  1857,  he  did  so,  entering 
an  organ  school  and  barely  living  on  the  small  allowance  which  his  father  was 
able  to  give  him.  Even  this  soon  stopped,  and  now  Antonin's  ability  to  pky  upon 
the  violin  stood  him  in  good  stead,  for  with  it  he  was  able  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  and,  meanwhile,  to  join  an  orchestra;  now  he  was  brought  in  contact 
with  the  masterpieces  of  music,  and,  as  a  viola-player  later,  came  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  composer  and  conductor  Smetana. 

Dvorak  probably  never  dreamed  of  making  his  way  in  the  musical  world  as 
a  virtuoso;  composition  was  the  field  which  more  particularly  appealed  to  him, 
and  neither  hunger  nor  poverty,  nor  the  lack  of  the  tools  of  his  craft,  could  prevent 
his  steady  laboring  in  this  direction.  He  was  helped  by  several  kind  friends,  however, 
and  attained  sufficient  standing  as  a  musician  to  be  judged  worthy  of  the  post  of 
organist  at  St,  Adalbert's  church  in  Prague.  He  accepted  this  position  in  1873, 
left  the  orchestra  in  which  he  had  been  playing,  married,  and  settled  down  to 
work  harder  than  ever. 

Not  until  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two  did  Dvorak  come  into  notice 
as  a  composer,  although  during  his  years  of  quiet  yet  intense  labor  he  had  developed 
greatly.  A  patriotic  cantata  was  the  vehicle  which  brought  to  him  the  attention  of 
musicians,  and,  fond  as  he  was  of  the  national  musical  idiom,  Dvorak  made  a 
striking  success  of  it.  His  rise  to  prominence  really  dates  from  this  event.  As  a  result 
of  it  he  obtained  both  more  substantial  emoluments  and  the  friendship  of  musicians 

2X0 


ANTONIN    DVORAK  211 

whose  position  was  already  unassailable.  Among  the  latter  was  Brahms  who,  as  a 
commissioner  appointed  to  pass  upon  musical  works  submitted  for  a  prize  of  an 
annual  pension,  came  upon  certain  duets  of  Dvorak  which  fascinated  him  not  only 
because  of  their  general  musical  excellence  but  by  their  demonstration  of  the 
composer's  knowledge  of  Bohemian  national  musical  characteristics. 

It  was  not  long  before  Dvorak  became  known  in  England  and  in  America. 
In  1892  he  was  invited  to  accept  the  post  as  director  of  the  National  Conservatory 
of  New  York;  he  came  to  America,  and  held  this  position  until  1895.  Returning 
to  his  native  Bohemia,  he  became  head  of  the  Conservatory  of  Prague,  where  he 
remained  until  his  sudden  death  on  May  I,  1904. 


Carnival  Overture 

IN  THIS  merry,  this  almost  rowdy  music,  Dvofak,  the  composer  of  that  quasi- 
American  symphony  "From  the  New  World,"  was  very  definitely  a  Bohemian.  He 
had  not  yet  been  obliged  or  expected  to  deliver  to  the  world  his  inspiration  from 
or  opinion  of  America,  set  to  music — though  he  had  been  in  New  York  for  several 
days.  In  the  overture  he  brought  with  him  the  wild  gypsy  rhythms,  and  passionately 
gay  spirits  of  his  native  knd,  and  perhaps  the  polite  audience  assembled  in  Carnegie 
Hall  on  October  12,  1892,  were  a  little  startled,  and  a  little  taken  aback,  that 
Dvo?ak,  then  the  musical  hero  of  America,  could  offer  such  gorgeous  frivolity. 
The  overture  is  the  second  of  a  suite  of  three,  called  Nature,  Life,  and  Love. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  second  overture  was  called,  at  its  first  performance  in 
Europe,  Bohemian  Carnival.  A  carnival  k  is,  glowing  with  the  most  vivid  orchestral 
colors,  and  moving  swiftly  through  wayward,  wild,  and  syncopated  rhythms  to  a 
bacchanalian  climax.  In  the  very  middle,  however,  a  more  sober  thought  is  intruded, 
and  we  come  upon  one  of  the  loveliest  passages  in  all  Dvorak's  music.  Here  solo 
violin  and  English  horn  join  in  a  passage  of  lyric  sweetness,  touched  with  melan- 
choly. Flutes  are  attracted  to  this  poignant  strain — but  briefly;  the  impatient 
orchestra  in  agitation  revives  the  colorful  rout,  and  brings  presently  a  whirling, 
flashing  climax  of  tremendous  force. 


212  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  5  in  E  minor 
["From  the  New  World"} 

IMMEDIATE  and  widespread  popularity  has  accomplished  the  ruin  of  many  musical 
works  of  considerable  merit,  and  for  reasons  much  similar  to  those  which  make 
the  brummagem  songs  and  dances  of  Broadway  but  the  ephemeral  efflorescence  of 
our  swift  and  brilliant  modern  life.  They  are  heard  too  frequently,  assimilated  too 
quickly,  and  their  intellectual  content  is  not  sufficient  to  sustain,  for  any  consider- 
able period,  the  soul  of  man,  to  which  all  valid  music  must  appeal  in  order  ulti- 
mately to  survive.  It  would  be  invidious  to  compare  a  work  of  a  serious  and  sincere 
but  not  highly  gifted  composer  with  the  titillating  trifles  of  Tin  Pan  Alley,  yet, 
when  elusive  popularity  attaches  its  dubious  hold  to  either  or  both,  the  reason  for 
the  general  acclaim  and  the  brevity  of  its  duration  is  the  same  in  both  cases — the 
paucity  of  substantial  material  upon  which  the  spirit  can  feed. 

Conversely,  great  musical  works  are  only  in  comparatively  rare  instances 
"popular"  immediately.  Sometimes  they  win  the  approval  of  the  more  esoteric 
musical  circles  at  first  or  second  hearing,  but  usually  public  approbation  must  wait 
upon  public  assimilation — a  process  which  is  slow,  labored,  rarely  complete,  and 
sometimes  impossible.  Nevertheless,  there  are  a  few  notable  works  of  permanent 
value  that  have  been  immediately  accepted  and  eventually  appreciated  even  by  the 
public  at  large.  Dvorak's  symphony  "From  the  New  World"  is  one  of  them. 

We  have  almost  forgotten  the  storm  of  controversy  that  raged  in  musical 
circles  following  the  first  presentation  of  the  symphony.  It  had  to  do  with  the 
manner  and  degree  in  which  the  "New  World"  was  influenced  by  characteristic 
American  music,  that  is,  the  music  of  the  Indian  and  the  plantation  songs  of  the 
Negro. 

Discussions  of  these  matters  are  not  of  paramount  importance  now.  The 
"New  World  Symphony"  has  been  assimilated  into  the  collective  body  of  musical 
works  which  we  have  come  to  regard  as  properly  in  the  repertoire  of  every  sym- 
phony orchestra;  old  prejudices  and  opinions  are  forgotten  in  the  extraordinary 
charm  of  the  music  itself.  Matured  judgment  of  musicians  and  music  lovers  has 
vindicated  the  declaration  of  the  composer  that  he  sought,  not  to  embody  in  the 
symphony  a  literal  version  of  native  American  music — assuming  that  there  is  such 
a  thing — but  rather  an  interpretation  of  the  spirit  of  that  American  music  which 
most  closely  approaches  the  folk  song. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  that  the  symphony  was  written  in  America,  most  of 
the  orchestration  being  done  at  Spillville,  la.,  whither  the  composer  had  fled  from 
New  York  in  a  period  of  homesickness.  Here  in  this  little  town  was  a  colony  of 
Bohemians;  here  Dvorak  could  feel  that  he  was  among  his  own,  could  hear  his 
native  tongue,  and  feel  contact  with  those  who  certainly  were  his  friends.  The 


ANTONIN     DVORAK  213 

symphony  was  written  during  December,  1892,  and  the  early  months  of  1893; 
the  last  touches  were  given  on  May  25,  1893.  In  the  following  December,  the 
symphony  "From  the  New  World"  was  given  its  first  performance,  in  New  York 
City,  by  the  Philharmonic  Society  of  New  York,  with  Anton  Seidl  conducting 
and  Dr.  Dvofak  present. 

First  Movement 

The  symphony  opens  with  a  brief  introduction,  the  melody  assigned  to  the 
lower  range  of  the  cellos,  syncopated,  yet  with  its  syncopation  almost  concealed 
in  the  adagio  movement,  and  the  smoother  descending  figure  of  the  viola  and  the 
double  bass.  A  placid  note  of  the  clarinet,  and  a  more  sudden  utterance  of  the 
horn,  the  latter  drawn  out  and  gradually  diminishing,  occupy  the  interval  that 

ff/JJ  <w*Jfo 

lies  between  the  first  melody  and  its  repetition  in  contrasting  tone  colors  by  flute 
and  oboe.  The  entire  string  section,  dominated  by  the  cello  and  the  double  bass, 
bursts  out  in  an  impatient  brief  phrase,  each  repetition  answered  with  equal  asperity 
in  the  woodwind.  In  this  passionate  utterance  of  the  strings  lies  the  first  germ  of 
the  theme  of  the  symphony,  which  from  this  point  begins  to  take  form  as  the 
plastic  but  fragile  material  is  strained  into  one  mold  and  again  into  another  under 
the  pressure  of  the  composer's  thought. 

A  syncopated  rhythm  has  appeared  once,  and  now,  more  pronounced  in  the 
waywardness  of  its  movement,  another  irregularly  accented  figure  is  given  to  the 
flute,  oboe,  and  clarinet.  Immediately  following  it,  we  have  the  first  statement  of 
the  principal  theme  in  its  most  important  rhythmic,  but  not  harmonic,  form.  Now 
come  sudden  and  vehement  chords  of  the  full  orchestra,  with  a  swift-rising  climax 
to  the  beginning  of  the  first  movement  proper. 

The  violins  carry  over  the  final  note  of  the  introduction,  and  as  the  movement 
proper  opens,  the  theme  is  heard  against  them  in  the  horn,  now  in  its  final 
rhythmical  form  and  harmonic  position.  Its  first  statement  is  answered  by  strings, 
bassoon,  and  clarinet  in  a  dainty,  dancelike  rhythm;  again  it  appears  in  the 
attenuated  tones  of  the  oboe,  in  the  sonorous  voice  of  the  trombone,  and  in  the 
singing  strings.  After  presentation  of  the  theme  in  various  guises,  there  is  a  transi- 
tion to  a  subsidiary  theme  derived  remotely  from  the  woodwind's  response  to  the 
first  pronouncement  of  the  chief  subject  of  the  movement. 

A  climax  is  built  upon  this  plaintive  little  song,  and  preparations  are  made 


214  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

for  the  presentation  of  the  second  important  theme  of  the  movement — a  subject 
for  which  the  melody  of  the  Negro  song  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot  undoubtedly 
furnished  inspiration.  The  flute,  solo  against  the  string  section  in  pianissimo, 
breathes  the  pensive  yet  moving  air;  later  the  violins  seize  upon  it  more  energetically, 
and  presently  it  is  developed  into  the  final  climax  of  the  opening  section  of  the 
movement.  Now  begins  the  wonderful  development  and  working  out  of  the  rich 
thematic  material. 

The  horn  breathes  a  dreamy  reminiscence  of  the  second  theme,  a  reminiscence 
immediately  translated  into  present  action  by  the  brighter  voices  of  the  piccolo 
and  the  strident  note  of  the  trumpet  in  a  brief  canonical  figure.  Melodically  the 
figure  is  the  same  as  when  first  presented,  but  there  is  a  slight  rhythmic  change 
that  adds  vigor.  Now  the  themes  of  the  movement  are  assigned  to  various  instru- 
ments and  appear  in  the  minor,  then  in  the  major  mode.  The  elementary  ideas 
are  preserved  with  clearness  and  unity,  even  in  contrapuntal  passages,  chiefly  by 
using  the  themes  in  fragmentary  and  rhythmically  altered  form  rather  than  by 
building  up  harmonic  variations  of  them. 

Second  Movement 

Considered  as  a  complete  entity,  the  second  movement,  or  "Largo,"  of  the 
symphony  "From  the  New  World,"  is  one  of  the  most  appealing  and  best-known 
pieces  of  music  in  all  the  literature  of  the  orchestra.  Its  principal  melody  is  generally 
conceded  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  solos  for  the  cor  anglais^  or  the  alto  oboe, 
in  all  music. 


The  movement  opens  with  solemn  harmonies  in  the  brass  and  woodwind, 
brightening  in  color  and  expanding  in  volume  as  they  are  thrice  repeated.  Articu- 
lated with  the  last  of  this  series  of  chords  is  a  second  series,  now  in  all  the  strings, 
muted,  and  in  pianissimo.  Then  begins  the  languishing  melody  in  the  cor  anglais, 
the  strings,  still  muted,  supplying  the  lovely,  chorded  accompaniment.  Presently 
the  solo  instrument  is  joined  by  the  clarinet  for  a  few  bars;  and  later  by  the 
bassoon  for  an  equally  brief  space,  but  the  clarinet  alone  breathes  the  echo  of  the 
final  cadence.  A  vivid  contrast  in  tonal  colors  is  presented  after  the  conclusion  of 
the  "song"  with  woodwind  intoning  an  imitation,  in  higher,  clearer  voices,  of  the 
opening  chords  of  the  movement,  the  full  orchestra  joining  in  a  tforzando  at  the 
dose. 

The  mood  is  not  one  of  violent  emotion^  but  rather  of  deep  and  painful  long- 


ANTONIN    PVO&AK  215 

ing  without  surcease.  And  so  the  one  outburst  of  passionate  emphasis  fades,  almost 
as  suddenly  as  it  came,  into  the  pleading,  almost  tearful  voices  of  the  violins,  putting 
forth  their  version  of  the  chief  motive  of  the  movement.  Presently  the  plaint  of 
the  first  solo  instrument  comes  again,  and  an  impression  of  the  terrible  loneliness 
of  the  prairies,  stretching  without  motion,  sound,  or  variation,  for  mile  after  mile 
under  a  blazing  sky,  is  easily  suggested. 

As  the  movement  proceeds  we  hear  an  echo  of  the  song  of  the  cor  anglais  in 
woodwind,  followed  by  the  mysterious,  dreamy  communing  of  the  horns.  As  their 
tones  fade,  a  new  melody,  more  definitely  sad  yet  with  added  vigor,  appears 
in  the  flute  and  oboe,  with  flutterings  of  the  strings  beneath  it.  The  soprano  oboe 
joins  the  flute  in  a  derivation  of  this  new  song,  against  the  secretive  pizzicato 
accompaniment  from  the  double  basses,  and  presently  the  first  version  of  the  subject 
is  repeated  with  fierce  emphasis  by  the  violins,  while  the  contrasted  flute  puts  forth 
cool  tendrils  of  tone  like  soothing  fingers  caressing. 

By  one  of  those  unexpected  modulations  which,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  we  have  been  utterly  unprepared,  come  smoothly,  exquisitely  beautiful,  and 
refreshing,  the  composer  leads  us  from  the  melancholy  minor  back  into  the  major 
mode,  this  part  of  the  symphony  ending  on  the  major  triad  in  the  key  of  C  sharp. 
The  sudden  shaft  of  light  that  strikes  into  the  shadows  of  the  still  echoing  minors 
is  most  ingeniously  generated  by  the  mutation  of  a  single  note — the  sharpening  of 
the  middle  member  of  the  triad,  which  brings  us  into  the  parallel,  rather  than  the 
relative  major — a  Bachlike  evolution  lighting  the  close  with  sunset  glory. 

Later  occurs  a  striking  instance  of  the  use  of  silence,  as  the  painter  would  use 
complete  absence  of  light  as  an  expressive  touch;  exactly  where  one  would  expect 
emphasis  in  the  phrase,  there  is  a  quick  fading,  a  stillness,  a  terrible  voice  more 
eloquent  in  what  it  represses  perhaps  than  any  sound  could  be.  If  music  can  either 
suggest  or  call  forth  a  tear — and  it  can — here  fe  a  wrenching  sob,  an  inward  cry 
that  is  stifled  into  silence  before  it  is  born.  And  the  song  bravely  attempts  to  go  on, 
but  only  a  single  note  is  uttered  before  hopelessness  once  more  descends.  Another 
broken  phrase;  then  with  more  firmness  and  courage  the  first  phrases  of  the  theme 
are  given  again,  and  we  come  to  a  lingering  dose  of  exquisite  beauty.  Imperceptibly 
a  wandering  figure  leads  to  a  return  of  the  opening  phrases  of  the  movement — 
solemn  harmonies  low  in  the  horn  and  brass,  brightening  in  their  slow  approach 
to  a  subdued  climax. 

Third  Movement 

The  paradoxical  combination  of  the  whimsical  and  the  somber,  the  grotesque 
and  the  quaint,  give  to  the  third  movement,  the  scherzo  of  the  "New  World  Sym- 
phony," a  weird,  a  macabre  gaiety  that  is  utterly  fascinating.  It  is  animated  by  an 
uncommon  rhythm — a  rhythm  which,  whether  k  attracts  to  itself  a  considerable 
section  of  the  orchestra  and  thus  temporarily  becomes  uppermost  in  the  scheme 


2l6  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

of  the  movement,  or  engages  but  a  small  number  of  instruments,  always  makes 
strangely  moving  impulses  distinctly  felt.  Emotionally,  the  scherzo  occupies  a  plane 
seldom  touched  by  any  other  composer — a  kind  of  middle  ground  between  sadness 
and  exuberant  joy;  and  the  combination  of  melodic  factors  expressing  the  one, 
with  rhythmic  elements  suggestive  of  the  other,  is  unique  and  highly  effective. 
Here,  too,  may  be  observed  the  appearance  of  several  characteristics  of  the  peasant 
and  gypsy  music  of  Bohemia — an  emotional  capriciousness,  a  certain  diablerie  that 
in  a  moment  becomes  instead  pure  sentiment;  sudden  rhythmic  impulses,  and  the 
use  of  melodies  very  like  folk  tunes  of  Middle  Europe. 

Both  the  rhythmic  and  the  thematic  content  of  the  scherzo  are  present  in 
embryo  in  the  opening  chords  of  the  movement,  vigorously  spoken  by  practically 
the  entire  orchestra.  There  is  an  internal  rhythm  even  in  the  first  chord,  effected 
by  the  syncopation  applied  to  the  entering  notes  of  the  timpani  and  horns;  through- 
out the  movement  an  uncommon  rhythmic  beat  can  be  felt  urging  on  the  sometimes 
plaintive  voices  that  would  linger  in  the  delights  of  sweet  melancholy. 


Plucked  and  spiccato  strings  maintain  the  rhythm  at  the  beginning,  with 
woodwinds  flickering  above,  entangled  in  a  little  canon  that  is  later  adopted  by 
the  violins,  and  which  leads  to  a  passage  descending  and  rising  again  in  a  swiftly 
growing  crescendo.  After  the  climax  the  whole  first  section  is  repeated,  and  there 
is  a  modulation  to  the  parallel  major — effected,  it  should  be  mentioned,  in  precisely 
the  same  manner  as  that  at  the  close  of  the  second  section  of  the  preceding  move- 
ment, by  the  alteration  of  a  single  note.  Now  comes  a  lovely  little  song,  a  song 
that  would  linger  on  its  own  caressing  accents,  but  is  pressed  forward  always  by 
the  nervous  rhythm  that  moves  beneath  it  in  the  strings.  Flute  and  oboe,  doubled 
in  octaves,  sing  this  melody,  with  the  bassoon  shadowing  their  brighter  tones. 
Presently  the  theme  is  heard  in  the  reedy  voice  of  the  clarinet  divided  in  octaves, 
and  in  its  most  emphatic  statement,  it  appears  in  the  sonorous  cello. 


The  scherzo  presents  an  opportunity  to  observe  how  different  from  that  of 
other  composers  is  Dvorak's  manner  of  expressing  and  amplifying  and  elaborating 
emotional  values.  Sadness  often  touched  him,  and  perhaps  at  no  time  more  than 


ANTONIN     DVO&AK.  217 

during  the  period  occupied  by  the  writing  of  the  present  symphony;  consequently, 
its  traces  will  be  found  frequently  in  his  music.  And  the  very  fact  that  the  scherzo 
—ordinarily  abandoned  in  most  symphonic  writing  to  the  exploitation  of  less  serious 
thoughts — is  distinctly  marked  by  melancholy,  is  in  itself  an  interesting  comment 
on  both  the  temperament  of  the  composer  and  on  his  music  in  so  far  as  it  is  a 
reflection  of  his  temperament.  The  circumstances  of  his  birth,  his  early  life  and 
surroundings,  the  influences  to  which  he  was  exposed,  all  contributed  to  the  forma- 
tion of  an  intense,  sensitive,  volatile  spirit,  quickly  and  powerfully  responsive  to 
external  influence  of  every  kind.  His  music  reflects  these  influences.  His  life  was 
clouded  by  sorrow,  as  is  every  life,  but  he  knew  that  there  is  joy  in  existence,  and  it 
speaks  from  his  music  as  eloquently  as  the  griefs  that  are  so  often  assumed  to  be 
more  productive  of  poetic  eloquence.  The  temperament  of  the  typical  Czech  is  too 
full  of  fiery  energy  to  make  a  rite  of  sorrow,  and  Dvorak  could  not  have  expressed 
with  such  terrible  literalness  the  intolerable  woes  of  Tchaikovsky,  for  example ;  yet 
when  he  does  tell  of  spiritual  pain,  his  message  is  the  more  vital  because  it  suggests 
suffering  in  a  living  organism — one  quickened  with  the  breath  of  life,  one  that 
recoils  in  wounded  surprise  from  the  hurts 'of  life.  It  is  the  captivating  child  of 
nature  who  speaks  in  Dvorak's  music;  never  the  weary  sophisticate.  And  the  pain 
is  quickly  gone. 

So  the  feeling  of  the  second  movement  is  longing  and  love,  but  not  essentially 
sorrow;  and  in  the  third  movement,  the  close  approach  to  melancholy  is  checked 
by  a  rhythm  that  leaps  with  vitality,  and  turns  into  weird  mirth  a  thought  too 
pitiful  for  lodgment  in  the  merry  heart. 

Fourth  Movement 

Full  of  vigor  and  vitality,  the  major  theme  of  the  final  movement  bursts  forth 
in  horn  and  trumpet  after  nine  measures  of  introduction  quite  as  forceful  as  the 
theme  itself.  This  bold  deckration,  in  marchlike  cadence,  in  its  brazen  emphasis, 
its  power  reinforced  by  a  throng  of  instruments,  suggests  the  cortege  of  some 
lordly  satrap,  as  it  moves  in  heavy  dignity  and  pompous  accent  to  its  completion. 
Decorative  figures  are  added  by  the  strings  as  the  theme  is  repeated.  Its  antithetical 
phrase  also  is  assigned  to  the  strings,  speaking,  however,  not  in  their  frequent  flow- 
ing cantabile,  but  in  accents  of  fierce  vehemence. 


Between  the  first  and  second  theme  a  subsidiary  motive  is  now  interposed. 
Strings  once  more  come  to  the  fore,  and  move  in  agitation  until  a  single  stroke 


2l8  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

upon  the  cymbal  gives  pause  to  their  rapid  motion.  Here  we  find  the  second 
important  theme  of  the  movement,  and  perhaps  the  loveliest  melody  in  the  entire 
symphony. 


With  little  prelude  to  herald  it,  this  entrancing  melody,  hopeful,  yet  with  a 
faint  suggestion  of  weariness  and  grief,  arises  serenely  out  of  the  whirling  masses 
of  tone  that  surround  it,  and  undisturbed  by  interruptions  of  the  restive  violin 
and  the  touch  of  ominous  meaning  lent  by  quick  strokes  of  the  timpani  proceeds 
gently  to  its  conclusion.  Within  a  few  bars  the  violins  take  up  the  strain,  altering 
the  serenity  of  the  woodwind  to  a  passionate  intensity,  as  well  as  presenting  a 
varying  form  of  the  song,  with  an  elaborated  accompaniment  based  upon  the  broad 
and  defiant  first  subject  of  the  movement.  A  three-note  figure  (taken  from  the 
old  ditty,  Three  Blind  Mice)  is  now  worked  into  the  texture  of  the  music,  and  is 
used  as  a  solid  ground  bass  from  which  spring  several  interesting  elaborations,  finally 
coming  uppermost  as  the  first  section  of  the  movement  draws  to  a  close.  The 
suggestion  of  finality  contained  in  this  simple  group  of  three  notes  is  borne  out  as 
various  instruments  of  the  orchestra  seize  upon  it.  It  passes  through  the  upper 
strings,  and  then  is  suspended  imminently  in  clarinet,  oboe,  and  bassoon;  at  last, 
still  retarding,  one  hears  it  plucked  sharply  from  cello  and  double  bass,  quite 
unequivocally  marking  the  completion  of  the  composer's  present  thought. 

As  the  present  part  of  the  symphony  proceeds  we  shall  find  in  it  vivid  reminis- 
cences of  mottoes  from  the  preceding  movements — in  fact,  there  are  almost  literal 
repetitions  of  them.  Derivations  of  the  three-note  subject  that  dosed  the  preceding 
section  of  the  movement  appear,  flute  and  oboe  giving  out  the  figure  with  a 
brilliant  trill  on  its  final  note.  Presently  the  mysterious  voice  of  the  horn  presents, 
in  contrast  to  this  item,  a  form  of  the  bold  sentence  that  appeared  as  the  first 
important  theme  of  the  fourth  movement,  with  an  added  phrase  of  less  defiant 
spirit  j  after  a  repetition  of  this  subject  in  various  subdued  voices,  out  of  the  somber- 
ness  shines  the  first  motive  of  the  second  movement,  the  lovely  English-horn 
melody  in  almost  its  original  harmonic  position,  but  somewhat  altered  rhythmically. 
In  the  recollection  of  the  themes  of  the  symphony  Dvorak  goes  back  even  to  the 
first  movement,  and  in  a  derived  form,  the  syncopated  first  subject  of  the  opening 
part  of  the  work  now  appears,  this  also  in  juxtaposition  with  the  bold  opening 
subject  of  the  present  movement. 

The  final  section  of  the  movement  is  devoted  practically  in  its  entirety  to  a 
resume  of  the  first  themes  of  the  preceding  movements,  all  drawing  to  a  splendid 
climax  in  which  the  first  motive  of  the  present  movement  is  given  with  tremendous 


ANTONIN     DVORAK  2X9 

force  and  decision.  Statement  of  this  theme,  with  harmonic  suggestions  of  others, 
and  a  last  strong  but  quickly  fading  chord,  bring  the  symphony  to  an  end. 

Whether  or  not  the  "New  World  Symphony"  is  America's  contribution  to 
music  has  been  discussed  these  many  years,  and  though  prejudices  of  one  kind 
and  another  have  long  since  expired,  there  are  those  who  still  insist  that  the  work 
was  inspired  by  American  aboriginal  and  Negro  music,  as  well  as  many  more 
who  assert  the  complete  independence  of  the  symphony  from  anything  that 
Dvorak  found  in  the  music  of  America.  That  question  will  never  be  decided,  for 
argument  never  convinced  anyone.  Nor  is  there  need  for  either  argument  or  deci- 
sion; it  is  much  more  to  the  point  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  a  composition  that  is 
musically  rich,  highly  original,  completely  sincere,  and  which,  if  it  be  not  America's 
tribute  to  music,  is  surely  music's  most  beautiful  tribute  to  America- 


Concerto  in  B  minor  for  Violoncello 
[Opus  104] 

THJS  lovely  music  has  particular  interest  for  Americans,  for  with  the  E  minor 
Symphony,  the  Quartet  in  F  major,  the  Quintet  in  E  flat,  and  the  cantata  The 
American  Flag,  as  well  as  certain  other  works,  it  Was  written  during  Dvofak's 
stay  in  this  country,  and  dates  from  1895.  Its  first  performance,  however,  was 
given  in  London,  with  the  composer  himself  conducting  the  London  Philharmonic 
Orchestra  and  Leo  Stern  playing  the  solo  part,  on  March  19,  1896.  Another 
American  note  is  interjected  by  the  fact  that  Alwin  Schroeder,  a  distinguished 
American  cellist,  was  consulted  by  Dvorak  concerning  the  writing  of  some  of  the 
more  technical  passages,  and  it  was  Mr*  Schroeder  who  played  the  concerto  for  the 
first  time  in  America,  at  a  concert  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  December 
19,  1896. 

A  third  cellist  was  concerned  also  in  the  composition  and  earliest  performances 
of  the  work,  and  apparently  Dvofak  feared  that  this  cellist  might  be  entirely  too 
much  concerned  with  it.  The  musician  in  <juestion  was  Hans  Wihan,  founder  of 
die  Bohemian  String  Quartet,  first  cellist  of  the  Munich  Opera,  and  friend  to 
DvoHk.  He  attended  to  the  bowing  and  fingering  of  the  solo  part,  and  the  work 
was  dedicated  to  him.  Having  studied  and  worked  hard  on  the  composition,  Drorifc 
was  fearful  that  some  of  his  work  might  be  undone,  or  damaged,  by  soloists  who 
might  play  it,  and  he  wrote  to  his  publishers:  **I  give  you  my  work  only  if  jo«  w3! 
promise  me  that  no  one — not  even  my  friend  Wihan — shall  make  anf  Alteration 
In  it  without  my  knowledge  and  permissbti,  also  that  there  be  no  cadenza  such  as 


220  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Wihan  has  made  in  the  last  movement  5  and  that  its  form  shall  be  as  I  have  felt 
ft  and  thought  it  out.  The  cadenza  in  the  last  movement  is  not  to  exist  either  in 
the  orchestral  or  in  the  piano  score;  I  informed  Wihan,  when  he  showed  it  to  me, 
that  it  is  impossible  so  to  insert  one.  The  finale  closes  gradually  diminuendo"  (sic!) 
" — like  a  breath — with  reminiscences  of  the  first  and  second  movements;  the  solo 
dies  away  to  a  pianissimo,  then  there  is  a  crescendo,  and  the  last  measures  are  taken 
up  by  the  orchestra,  ending  stormily.  That  was  my  idea,  and  from  it  I  cannot 
recede."  Rather  than  risk  any  alteration,  Dvorak  himself  inserted  certain  alternate 
and  less  difficult  solo  passages. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Dvorak  should  have  been  so  insistent  upon  a  literal 
presentation  of  a  work  so-  difficult  to  write,  and  upon  which  he  had  expended  so 
much  study  and  effort.  To  create  an  extended  work  for  cello  is  a  task  of  very  great 
difficulty.  The  problem  is  fundamentally  related  to  the  character  of  the  solo 
instrument,  which  does  not  possess  great  variety  of  utterance.  Primarily  and  natu- 
rally, the  cello  is  a  singing  instrument,  and  the  velocity  and  brilliance  of  utterance, 
the  vocabulary,  so  to  speak,  of  its  smaller  brothers  of  the  viol  family,  are  denied  it. 
True,  the  virtuoso  can  execute  upon  the  cello  figures  as  complicated  and  almost  as 
swift  and  varied  as  those  of  the  violinist,  but  not  even  the  virtuoso  can  make  such 
pyrotechnics  sound  like  music. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  concerto  for  cello  composed  entirely  of  singing  melody, 
grave  or  gay,  would  be  intolerable.  Dvorak  was  one  of  the  very  few  composers 
who  have  solved  this  problem  adequately.  In  the  cello  concerto,  the  noble,  broad, 
and  masculine  singing  voice  of  the  solo  instrument  is  naturally  employed,  and 
extensively;  but  through  his  own  musicianship,  his  careful,  thoughtful  study,  and 
his  readiness  to  consult  expert  opinion,  the  composer  was  able  to  add  the  variety  of 
mood  and  utterance,  the  contrasts  in  figure  and  color  that  are  necessary  to  make 
any  concerto  a  viable  work. 

First  Movement 
Allegro 

There  is  conformity  with  convention  in  the  long  introduction  which  opens 
the  movement.  Here,  if  anywhere  in  the  concerto,  one  may  find  recollections  of 
native  Negro  melodies  which  so  fascinated  Dvo?ak;  not  at  the  beginning  of  the 
introduction,  where  the  clarinets  give  out  the  principal  theme,  but  later  when  the 
horns  deliver  a  second  subject — a  warm  and  lyrical  and  languorous  melody.  Mean- 
while, there  are  rhythmic  and  melodic  developments  of  considerable  extent  and  a 
high  degree  of  emotional  intensity;  and  the  basic  matter  having  been  exposed,  we 
proceed  to  the  main  body  of  the  movement  on  the  entrance  of  the  solo  cello. 

Up  to  this  point  the  conventional  form  has  been  followed  fairly  closely;  but, 
after  the  cello's  presentation,  risoluto,  quasi  invprovisando,  of  the  two  basic  subjects, 


ANTONIN    DVORAK  221 

the  music  is  treated  in  less  formal  fashion.  Really  formidable  difficulties  begin  to 
appear  in  the  solo  part — swift  arpeggios  and  many  a  terrifying  figure  shrewdly 
designed  to  set  off  the  performer's  skill,  or  expose  his  shortcomings;  all  leading 
to  a  determined  statement  of  the  principal  theme.  The  cello  proceeds  with  even 
more  elaborate  developments,  approaching  in  both  style  and  difficulty  the  status  of  a 
cadenza.  Here  Dvorak  permitted  an  alternate  solo  part  to  be  printed  in  the  score. 
With  the  reappearance  of  the  second  subject,  in  woodwind  and  violins,  there 
is  a  transition  to  the  parallel  major  (key  of  B),  and  after  some  development,  the 
chief  theme  is  stated  once  more,  and  a  short  coda  ends  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 
Adagio  ma  non  trofpo 

The  cautioning  modification  "ma  non  trofipo"  was  wise,  for  almost  any 
cellist,  or  conductor,  would  be  tempted  to  linger  lovingly  over  these  flowing 
melodies.  Here  perhaps,  of  all  parts  of  the  concerto,  one  might  most  reasonably 
expect  the  native  American  touch — but  it  does  not  exist  in  this  movement.  Clarinet 
unfolds  the  first  subject,  accompanied  by  oboe  and  bassoons;  and  the  cello 
presently  is  attracted  to  the  same  melody.  A  second  subject  soon  appears,  with 
clarinet  obbligato  and  leaping  figures  in  the  strings;  then  the  theme  is  transferred 
to  other  instruments  while  the  solo  instrument  itself  assumes  an  obbligato  position, 
Horns,  with  strong  rhythmic  support  from  the  basses,  renew  our  acquaintance 
with  the  chief  theme,  and  there  is  a  short  cadenza,  involving  flute  and  bassoons 
as  well  as  the  solo  cello.  There  is  a  long  concluding  section. 

Third  Movement 
Finale.  Allegro  moderate 

One  might  have  thought  that  the  first  movement  exploits  rather  thoroughly 
the  technical  resources  of  the  cello.  The  second  movement,  or  any  cantilena,  could 
go  on  almost  indefinitely  without  repetition — given  a  cello,  a  great  player,  and  a 
fine  orchestra.  However,  in  the  finale  of  this  work,  and  incidentally  the  movement 
in  which  Dvorak  5s  most  definitely  himself,  the  composer  finds  new  and  more 
difficult  tasks  for  his  soloist  to  accomplish;  and  does  so  without  for  a  moment 
abandoning  the  movement  as  pure  music  merely  to  afford  a  display  of  the  soloist's 
powers. 

Thfc  fact  is,  of  the  three  movements,  this  is  the  most  exciting,  the  richest  in 
emotional  content.  The  forward-pacing  rhythm  set  up  by  the  winds  (horns  and 
oboes)  indicates  the  imminence  of  important  things,  and  in  a  moment  the  atmosphere 
of  expectancy  is  intensified;  whereupon  the  soloist  enters.  The  cello  gives  out  its 
version  of  the  theme;  the  orchestra,  in  full,  gives  it  emphatic  emphasis,  and  adds  a 


222  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

new  thematic  fragment,  which  attracts  the  solo  instrument  also. -The  clarinet  is 
made  the  vehicle  for  the  introduction  of  the  second  chief  theme,  a  gracious  figure 
interestingly  harmonized  in  the  typical  Dvorak  manner,  against  a  series  of  shapely 
figures  traced  out  by  the  soloist.  An  interesting  episode  occurs  a  little  later,  when 
after  a  vigorous  assertion  by  the  full  orchestra,  there  is  a  treatment  in  canon,  by 
solo  cello,  flute,  and  oboe  of  a  thematic  fragment.  The  augmentation  of  an  accom- 
paniment figure  with  simultaneous  diminution  in  its  sonority  brings  us  to  the  final 
section  of  the  movement  and  a  change  of  tempo  to  moderate. 

Here  a  new  subject  is  forthcoming,  sounded  by  the  cello,  and  seemingly  the 
signal  for  free  discussion  of  and  (apparently)  improvisation  on  the  thematic  matter. 
There  are  reminiscences  of  preceding  themes,  both  from  this  and  from  the  first 
movement,  the  first  subject  of  which  can  be  clearly  discerned  in  the  woodwind. 
The  concluding  measures  of  the  movement  follow  the  directions  laid  down  by 
the  composer. 


Scherzo  capriccioso 

A  DELIGHTFUL  movement  exhibiting  Dvorak's  distinctive  and  colorful  orchestra- 
tion, and  some  of  the  engaging  rhythms  of  the  Bohemian  music  of  which  he  was 
so  fond.  The  tide  indicates  the  light  and  free  character  of  the  music.  The  horns 
alone  present  a  leaping  figure  as  introduction;  the  orchestra  puts  forward  the 
vigorous  main  theme.  There  is  a  particularly  lovely  passage  in  swaying  waltz 
rhythm,  and  sung  with  intensity  of  feeling  by  the  violins;  and  another  section,  in 
which  an  English-horn  solo  is  conspicuous,  reveals  again  a  melody  almost  as  beau- 
tiful as  that  of  the  slow  movement  in  Dvorak's  symphony  "From  the  New  World." 
The  whole  work  is  full  of  lovely  melody,  which  should  be  even  more  familiar  to 
concert  audiences  than  it  is. 


SIR  EDWARD  ELGAR 

[1857-1934] 

EDWARD  WILLIAM  ELGAR  was  born  at  Broadheath,  near  Worcester,  Eng- 
land. He  comes  of  pure  English  stock,  his  father  being  a  native  of  Dover, 
hi  mother  belonging  to  a  yeoman  family  of  Herefordshire.  The  father 
was  a  musician  by  vocation  as  well  as  by  avocation.  He  had  a  music  shop  in 
Worcester,  and  in  his  remaining  time  played  the  violin  in  a  local  orchestra,  and 
was  organist  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  St.  George.  His  taste  ran  to  the 
classics. 

Although  the  elder  Elgar  recognized  his  son's  talent,  he  was  unable  to  afford 
special  guidance  for  him.  Apart  from  a  few  violin  and  piano  lessons  the  youth 
was  left  almost  entirely  to  his  own  devices,  drudging  laboriously  to  lay  the  founda- 
tion for  future  musical  expression.  This  struggle  for  knowledge  was  an  early 
indication  of  Elgar's  power  of  self-assertion  j  a  beginning  of  his  march  toward  a 
great  ideal;  namely,  the  making  of  music  as  a  pure  and  sincere  medium  of  self- 
expression,  and  the  emancipation  of  British  musk. 

Of  distinct  benefit  to  young  Edward  was  the  fact  that  various  musical  instru- 
ments were  available  to  him.  For  example,  he  played  bassoon  in  a  wind  quintet 
for  which  he  is  accredited  wkh  having  written  music*  But  his  greatest  successes 
were  with  the  violin,  which  led  him  to  positions  in  orchestras  and  appearances  as 
a  soloist.  An  important  influence  in  Elgar's  youth  was  his  association  with  the 
Worcester  Glee  Club,  an  organization  in  which  he  appeared  as  conductor,  violinist, 
and  piano  accompanist.  During  all  this  time  of  interpretative  activities,  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  composing  music.  After  careful  consideration  he  decided  to 
abandon  the  idea  of  becoming  a  solo  violinist,  and  in  1885  succeeded  his  father  as 
organist  at  St  George's  in  Worcester, 

In  1889  Elgar  married  the  daughter  of  Major  General  Sir  Henry  Roberts, 
and  her  companionship  and  sympathetic  encouragement  were  always  a  source  of 
inspiration.  After  his  marriage  he  took  up  his  residence  in  London.  Here  his  recep- 
tion proved  none  too  warm,  but  he  continued  composing,  undaunted  by  the  struggle 
for  recognition.  He  was  nearly  forty  years  of  age  when  he  produced  his  now  famous 
cantata,  King  Ol&f.  Later  The  Dream  of  G€rontius>  after  a  poem  by  Cardinal 
Newman,  was  produced,  but  it  was  not  until  after  its  enthusiastic  reception  in 
Germany,  where  the  favorable  criticism  of  Richard  Strauss  brought  the  composer 
into  prominence,  that  the  work  became  popular  in  England  and  other  countries. 

The  production  in  1908  of  his  First  Symphony  marked  Elgar  as  a  master  of 
that  musical  form,  in  recognition  of  which  his  knighthood  of  1904  was  augmented 
by  the  Order  of  Merit.  From  then  on  his  successes  were  unquestioned.  The  English 
people  have  come  to  look  upon  him  as  their  private  Beethoren^  and  although 
Elgar's  music  scarcely  ranks  with  that  of  the  great  classical  masses^  it  has  die 

223 


224  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

charm  of  sincerity  and  sound  workmanship.  The  composer's  devotion  to  his  pur- 
pose of  advancing  the  standards  of  English  music,  both  in  composition  and  execu- 
tion, was  one  of  his  most  admirable  characteristics.  When  he  died  early  in  1934, 
England  lost  a  valuable  protagonist  of  her  claims  to  distinction  in  the  field  of 
music,  nor  is  there,  at  the  moment,  any  indication  that  Elgar's  successor  is  alive. 
In  America  Elgar  is  generally  known  almost  entirely  by  the  Pomp  and  Cir- 
cumstance marches,  one  of  which  has  been  adopted  as  a  patriotic  air,  and  used  both 
in  America  and  England.  Unfortunately  it  is  as  unsingable  as  the  Star-Spangled 
Banner,  but  we  nevertheless  often  hear  public  assemblages  and  other  groups 
struggling  with  Land  oj  Hope  and  Glory. 


Variations  on  an  Original  Theme 
\The  "Enigma"  Variations] 

THE  late  Sir  Edward  Elgar  has  been  represented  more  f  requendy  on  American 
programs  by  this  work  than  by  any  other.  It  is  possible  that  the  music  has  exercised 
a  fascination  more  through  its  puzzling  qualities  than  by  any  intrinsic  value.  That 
is  not  to  say  that  it  has  none;  on  the  contrary,  the  theme  and  variations  are  most 
engaging,  and  worked  out  with  the  scholarly,  though  occasionally  heavy,  detail 
and  finish  characteristic  of  Elgar's  best  work.  When,  however,  a  composer  poses 
a  problem  like  this  it  is  but  natural  that  his  friends  and  admirers  should  try  to  guess 
the  answer.  But  no  one  has  completely  solved  Sir  Edward's  riddle. 

This  music  was  performed,  for  the  first  time,  under  the  direction  of  Hans 
Richter,  on  June  19,  1899,  at  London.  It  was  the  first  contemporary  English  work 
which  had  much  appealed  to  the  distinguished  conductor,  and  when  he  arrived 
in  England  from  Germany  to  give  a  series  of  concerts,  he  was  happy  to  be  able 
to  offer  a  native  work  of  definitely  outstanding  musical  value — a  rare  thing,  from 
the  Continental  point  of  view.  Richter's  perf  ormances,  of  the  Variations  had  much 
to  do  with  the  establishment  of  Elgar  in  English  minds  as  a  great  musician. 

There  is  a  basic  theme,  called  the  "Enigma"  by  Elgar  himself  (although  the 
word  does  not  appear  in  the  formal  title  of  the  music)  and  a  set  of  fourteen  varia- 
tions. The  composer  wished  that  the  work  should  be  regarded  as  absolute  musk, 
without  regard  to  the  significance  of  the  Variations — to  which,  nevertheless,  he 


SIR     EDWARD     ELGAR  225 

added  the  initials  of  certain  friends,  "not  necessarily  musicians."  And  he  wrote, 
"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  it  is  not  played."  This  is  something  of  a  poser,  but 
good  guessers  insist  on  exercising  their  peculiar  gifts,  and  several  of  the  Variations 
have  been  identified  with  reasonable  certainty.  These  are  the  first,  which  is  headed 
by  the  initials  of  Lady  Elgar-,  the  ninth,  entitled  "Nimrod,"  suggests  August  Jaeger 
(German  for  hunter,  or  nimrod)  who  was  a  champion  of  Elgar's  music;  the 
eleventh,  bearing  the  initials  of  George  Robertson  Sinclair,  organist  of  Hereford 
Cathedral  and  a  friend  of  the  composer. 

The  main  theme  with  which  the  music  begins  is  of  a  sturdy  and  significant 
character,  but  in  the  variations  is  modified,  of  course,  to  fit  the  personality  Elgar 
had  in  mind  in  each  case.  It  is  evident  from  the  lighter  and  gentler  mood  of  the 
music,  at  times,  that  certain  of  the  fourteen  friends  were  women. 

(NOTE:  The  program  notes  of  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra,  by  Felix  Borowski, 
are  the  source  of  some  of  the  facts  about  the  "Enigma"  Variations.) 


Concerto  in  B  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

THE  B  minor  Concerto  for  Violin  and  Orchestra  by  Sir  Edward  Elgar  is  dedicated 
to  Fritz  Kreisler.  It  was  performed  for  the  first  time  at  a  concert  of  the  Royal 
Philharmonic  Society,  at  Queens  Hall,  London,  on  November  10,  1910,  wkh 
Kreisler  as  soloist  and  the  composer  conducting.  More  recently  it  has  been  revived 
by  the  violinist  Yehudi  Menuhin. 

It  was  natural  that  with  Elgar's  knowledge  of  the  capabilities  of  the  violin 
his  concerto  for  that  instrument  would  arouse  interest.  Then,  when  it  became 
known  that  the  great  Kreisler  was  to  introduce  it  to  the  musical  world,  its  per- 
formance became  one  of  the  high  spots  of  the  London  season.  Nor  did  the  work 
fail  to  fulfill  the  expectations  of  the  composer's  most  enthusiastic  admirers,  and 
soon  many  of  the  world's  great  soloists  included  it  in  their  repertoires.  That  the 
work  should  pass  into  the  ranks  of  standard  concertos  is  easily  understood  when 
one  considers  its  wealth  of  expression,  its  richness  of  melodic  content,  the  beauty 
of  its  harmonies  and  instrumental  color.  It  exacts  a  heavy  technical  toll  from  the 
soloist,  but  only  by  way  of  obtaining  artistic  effects.  Not  one  measure  in  the  entire 
work  exploits  technical  ability  per  se.  The  composition  is  a  magnificent  ensemble 
like  a  broad,  beautiful  song  5  restless,  rising  to  great  emotional  heights,  and  always 
sound  and  convincing. 


226  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

First  Movement 

The  concerto  begins  with  passages  for  full  orchestra  in  which  several  themes 
are  announced  and  developed*  Four  distinct  motives  linked  together,  each  having 
its  particular  sphere  of  activity,  spring  from  the  first  subject.  Then  the  broad  sing- 
ing melody,  which,  in  its  fuller  development,  becomes  the  second  theme,  is  softly 
hinted  at  by  strings  and  wind  choir  in  lower  register.  Gradually  this  phrase  is 
brought  forward  in  tender  comment  of  woodwinds  and  strings.  The  orchestra  then 
dwells  principally  upon  the  opening  motives  until  a  sustained  tone  for  horn  pro- 
vides a  background  for  the  entrance  of  the  solo  instrument.  It  is  a  quiet  entrance, 
but  one  of  gripping  beauty  and  warmth.  As  the  music  progresses,  the  theme 
becomes  more  and  more  animated  and  colorful.  The  motives  of  the  first  subject 
are  carefully  developed,  after  which  the  lovely  second  subject  is  fully  commented 
upon  in  passionate  tenderness.  The  treatment  of  the  material  already  stated  holds 
the  interest  throughout  the  development  and  recapitulation.  A  vigorous  reference 
to  the  opening  motives  terminates  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

The  andante,  in  the  key  of  B-flat  major,  is  from  beginning  to  end  a  poem 
of  contemplation  and  tenderness.  The  orchestra  states  a  prayerful  theme.  The  solo 
instrument  then  repeats  it,  slightly  altered,  flowing  along  calmly  and  meditatively 
to  a  middle  section  which  develops  a  second  theme.  Here  the  music  acquires  more 
warmth  and  intensity.  Passages  of  deep  tenderness  for  the  $olo  instrument  are 
matched  against  a  sturdy  orchestral  background.  Then  toward  the  close  of  the 
movement  the  music  re^estal?lishes  the  mood  of  contemplation,  dying  awy  in 
serenity  and  peace. 


The  animation  of  this  movement  is  strongly  cpntr^^d  to  the  quiet  of  the 
andante.  Brilliant  passage  work  for  the  solo  instrument,  punctuated  by  chords  for 
full  orchestra,  precede  a  surging  of  staccato  sqales,  of  breath-taking  rapidity,  These 
recall  the  lovely  theme  of  the  preceding  movement,  stated  first  by  the  solo  instru- 
ment and  repeated  by  the  orchestra,  while  the  violin  wreathes  the  whole  with 
sparkling  triplet  figures.  Material  from  the  first  movement  now  engrosses  orchestra 
and  solo  instrument.  A  scintillating  cadsnza,  which  affords  the  soloist  wonderful 
umtsrisi  for  technical  and  interpretative  display,  follows,  A  rather  mysterious  effect 
is  achieved  in  the  orchestra  by  %  <$*&&&$$  &&&el&ul&  giv$n  to  a  portion  of  tfae 
strings.  This  is  obtained  by  directing  the  players  to  drum  softly  Q&  the  string$ 


SIR     EDWARD     ELGAR  227 

the  fleshy  part  of  their  fingers— ^a  device  recently  adopted  by  the  jazz  bass  player, 
who  slaps  the  strings  instead  of  bowing  or  plucking  them. 

A  sustained  trill  for  the  soloist,  and  a  repetition  of  the  opening  motive  for 
the  orchestra  which  is  immediately  silenced  by  the  solo  instrument,  precede  the 
end  of  the  cadenza.  Immediately  a  vigorous  passage  in  the  solo  instrument  soars 
over  a  restatement  of  the  material  of  the  opening;  then  impressive  chords  for  the 
violin  lead  to  a  short  coda* 


MANUEL  DE  FALLA 

[Born  1876] 

FALLA  is  among  the  most  important  of  living  composers,  and  very  probably 
the  greatest  in  Spain.  He  was  born  at  Cadiz,  and  the  foundation  of  his 
musical  education  was  laid  there  while  he  was  a  boy.  He  studied  piano  and 
composition,  later,  at  Madrid,  and  though  definitely  nationalistic  in  his  musical 
ideas,  he  went  to  France  for  further  study.  Here  he  came  in  contact  with  many 
of  the  leaders  in  modern  French   music,  among  them  Ravel,  whose  marked 
Spanish  sympathies  are  well  known,  Dukas,  and  Debussy,  who  became  a  friend  to 
Falla  and  was  keenly  admired  by  him. 

Falla's  music  for  the  piano  is  as  distinguished  as  that  for  orchestra  and  other 
instruments  and  combinations  of  instruments.  He  has  perhaps  done  more  than  any 
other  individual  toward  arousing  interest  in  present-day  music  of  Spain  and  Spanish 
America,  and  has  unselfishly  propagandized  for  the  compositions  of  others,  includ- 
ing musicians  of  Cuba,  Mexico,  and  South  America,  as  well  as  those  of  Spain. 

When  the  First  World  War  broke  out,  Falla  left  France,  and  has  since  main- 
tained a  residence  at  Granada. 


Danza  Ritual  del  Fuego 

Ritual  Dance  of  Fire,  to  Exorcise  Evil  Spirits 

[From  the  choreographic  fantasy,  El  Amor  Brujo] 

THE  musical  work  of  which  the  Fire  Dance  is  the  most  popular  excerpt  has  a  tide 
which  is  not  to  be  accurately  translated  into  English.  Love,  the  Maguxan  does 
not  nearly  convey  the  intended  meaning,  but  it  is  in  fairly  common  use.  The  music, 
in  its  original  form  with  vocal  parts,  was  performed  for  the  first  time  April  15, 
1915,  at  Madrid.  The  orchestral  version  by  Falla  was  introduced  into  America 
by  Leopold  Stokowski  and  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  April  15,  1922;  and 
remarkable  performances  of  the  complete  work  were  given  at  Paris  during  the 
season  of  1928. 

The  music  is  divided  into  twelve  sections,  including  both  instrumental  and 
vocal  parts.  In  the  orchestral  arrangement,  the  voice  parts  are  usually  omitted, 
and  the  orchestration  augmented.  The  work  is  based  on  Andalusian  folk  tales,  and 
tells  the  story  of  a  gypsy  girl  whose  dead  lover  is  jealous  of  the  attentions  being 
paid  her  by  his  very  lively  successor.  In  a  series  of  distressing  apparitions,  the  ghost 

22$ 


MANUEL    DE     FALLA  229 

attempts  to  interrupt  the  progress  of  his  former  sweetheart's  new  romance.  Another 
gypsy  girl,  bold  even  beyond  her  kind,  flirts  with  the  ghost  himself,  and  eventually 
so  distracts  him  from  his  purpose  that  the  earthly  love  he  sought  to  prevent  is 
carried  out  to  its  logical  conclusion  without  fear  of  necromantic  interruptions. 

A  weird  effect  in  plucked  and  bowed  strings  suggests  the  darkly  flickering  fire, 
reflected  from  the  oozy  walls  of  a  cavern.  The  oboe  insinuates  a  seductive  tune, 
and  strange  rhythms  move  secretly  underneath.  At  intervals,  terrifying  chords  in 
full  orchestra  interrupt  the  fierce  dance,  yet  always  the  sensuous  rhythm  persists, 
and  thin  insinuating  voices  penetrate  the  music.  The  fire  motive  has  periods  of 
dominance,  but  there  is  a  steady  growth  and  progression  toward  the  abandoned 
wOdness  of  the  final  climax. 


CESAR  FRANCK 

[1822-1890] 

CESAR  AUGUSTE  FRANCK,  in  many  respects  the  greatest  of  "French"  com- 
posers, was  born  at  Liege,  Belgium,  of  a  family  of  artists,  on  December 
10,  1822.  His  father's  people  were  directly  descended  from  a  long  line 
of  painters  who  were  conspicuous  in  that  art  through  the  sixteenth  century.  His 
mother  was  of  German  blood.  The  father,  noting  signs  of  talent  in  his  boy,  saw 
to  it  that  he  was  given  adequate  instruction  in  piano,  first  at  Liege,  and  later  at 
Paris,  where  the  family  moved  in  1835.  Later  the  young  Franck  entered  the  Paris 
Conservatoire,  where  he  achieved  notable  success  and  prizes  in  pianoforte,  organ, 
and  composition. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Franz  Liszt,  one  of  the  greatest  virtuosos  of  the  piano 
in  musical  history,  was  startling  Europe  with  his  performances,  and  winning  for 
himself  fame  and  wealth.  The  elder  Franck  was  ambitious  for  his  talented  son, 
and  hoped  that  he  too  might,  by  diligent  work  and  shrewd  management,  achieve 
a  parallel  success.  Cesar,  naturally  modest  and  retiring,  did  not  regard  this  idea 
with  any  noticeable  eagerness,  and  thereby  incurred  parental  disapproval.  He 
further  complicated  matters  by  bringing  into  the  strait-laced  Franck  family,  as 
his  wife,  a  famous  young  actress  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  His.  marriage  was  the 
last  straw,  and  he  was  obliged  to  leave  his  father's  household,  and  maintain  him- 
self as  best  he  could  by  giving  piano  instruction,  and  later,  on  his  none  too  generous 
income  as  an  organist.  In  1858,  however,  fortune  smiled  upon  him,  and  he  was 
appointed  to  the  post  of  organist  at  the  fashionable  church  of  Sainte-Clotflde.  His 
success  here  was  marked — so  much  so  that  he  was  retained  in  the  position  until 
his  death.  What  is  more  important,  the  organist's  position  gave  him  time  for 
composition. 

As  organist,  Franck's  extraordinary  skill,  both  in  executing  the  works  of  the 
masters  and  in  improvising  his  own,  amazed  and  delighted  his  auditors;  but  his 
compositions  were  appreciated  by  few  while  he  lived.  Not  until  he  was  almost  ready 
to  die  did  the  bigoted  musical  public  of  Paris,  fascinated  by  composers  of  more 
obvious  merits,  permit  him  a  really  notable  success. 

Franck  certainly  was  one  of  the  most  lovable  of  the  great  composers.  He  was 
possessed  of  a  curious  and  engaging  and  naive  candor,  and  at  the  same  time  of  a 
deep  spirituality  and  gentleness  that  endeared  him  to  all  who  knew  him.  His  inno- 
cence and  sincerity  were  conspicuous  characteristics.  When  the  D  minor  Sym- 
phony was  first  pkyed  publicly,  the  family  were  naturally  interested,  and  when 
the  composer  returned  home  from  the  concert,  they  eagerly  asked  if  it  had  been  a 
success — meaning,  of  course,  to  ask  if  the  audience  had  applauded  and  received  it 
well.  Franck  smiled  his  beatific  smile,  and  rather  absently  answered,  "Oh  yes, 
k  sounded  beautiful,  just  as  I  thought  it  would." 

230 


CESAR    FRANCK  2JI 

The  composer  was  a  devout  Catholic  and  deeply  mystical;  the  brooding  and 
spiritual  beauty  of  his  music,  especially  of  the  improvisations  with  whkh  he  so 
sweetly  filled  the  echoing  nave  of  Sainte-Clotflde's,  caused  it  to  be  said  of  him  that 
he  "conversed  not  with  men  but  with  angels." 

Notwithstanding  his  Belgian  and  German  ancestry,  Franck  is  justly  regarded 
as  a  French  composer.  His  training  was  almost  exclusively  French,  and  in  his 
personal  sympathies  he  was  definitely  and  enthusiastically  a  Frenchman.  Indeed, 
shortly  after  the  war  of  1870,  during  which  he  had  been  as  anxious  and  disturbed 
as  anyone  because  of  the  precarious  condition  of  France,  he  became  a  French 
citizen.  His  compositions,  in  their  meticulous  attention  to  detail  and  their  perfec- 
tion of  form,  in  their  clarity,  unity,  and  logic,  are  characteristically  French.  Finally, 
his  was  the  influence  that  helped  to  develop  the  golden  period  of  French  music 
during  the  late  nineteenth  and  early  twentieth  centuries,  when  such  meh  as  Pierne, 
Ropartz,  Lekeu,  Chausson,  Duparc,  Bordes,  and  d'Indy — all  pupfls  of  Fnmck — 
brought  new  vitality  and  significance  to  French  music* 

Franck  did  not  leave  a  great  quantity  of  music,  if  that  is  important.  The  try- 
ing circumstances  that  beset  him  practically  all  his  life  made  composition  difficult, 
and  under  such  conditions  the  amount,  not  to  mention  the  quality,  of  hi  work  is 
really  extraordinary*  Among  the  larger  instrumental  fonni,  he  wrote  (in  almost 
every  instance)  only  one  of  each  variety;  but  in  every  case  that  one  is  a  master- 
piece. The  Symphony  in  D  minor,  the  Quartet  in  D  major,  the  Piano  Quintet  in 
F  minor;  the  Violin  Sonata  in  A  major,  the  Symphonic  Variations  for  Piano  and 
Otxdiestra,  the  Prelude,  Choral,  and  Fugue  for  piano,  the  Chorals  for  Organ,  the 
oratorio  Les  B&atittodts — all  are  masterpieces  in  their  genre. 

Cesar  Franck  was  never  a  robust  man,  but  the  quiet  routine  of  his  life  and  the 
shining  happiness  of  his  inward  being  helped  to  prolong  his  days,  One  day  in  1890 
he  was  injured  in  an  omnibus  accident  while  on  the  way  to  the  home  of  a  pupil. 
Though  apparently  he  recovered,  the  injury  nevertheless  resulted  in  complica- 
tions which  caused  his  death  a  few  months  later,  November  8,  1890* 


Symphony  in  D  minor 

IN  SPITE  of  Franck's  satisfaction  on  hearing  the  first  performance  of  Ms  only  sym- 
phony, it  must  be  recorded  that  neither  orchestra  nor  audience  regarded  it  teiy 
highly.  The  public  first  heard  the  work  at  the  Paris  Conservatoire  OQ  February  *9, 
1889.  Had  the  orchestra's  opinion  been  regarded  by  the  management,  die  work 
would  not  have  been  performed  at  all — aad  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  was 


232  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

no  ordinary  orchestra,  but  one  made  up  then,  as  it  is  now,  of  professors  and  dis- 
tinguished students  of  orchestral  instruments,  and  therefore  given  to  strong  senti- 
ments and  emphatic  expression  of  them.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  conductor,  M. 
Jules  Garcin,  at  length  prevailed,  and  the  concert  was  given.  The  public,  however, 
remained  either  uncomprehending  or  openly  hostile.  Vincent  d'Indy,  a  pupil  of 
Franck,  in  his  biography  of  the  composer  describes  the  attitude  of  the  audience: 

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  pro- 
fessor at  the  Conservatoire  and  a  kind  of  factotum  of  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  sym- 
phony? Just  mention  a  single  symphony  by  Haydn  or  Beethoven  introducing 
the  English  horn.  There,  well,  you  see— your  Franck's  music  may  be  what- 
ever you  please,  but  it  will  certainly  never  be  a  symphony."  This  was  the  at- 
titude of  the  Conservatoire  in  the  year  of  grace  1889.  At  another  door  of  the 
concert  hall,  the  composer  of  Faust  (Gounod)  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. 

Of  course  this  was  but  one  more  instance  of  the  curious  inability  of  most 
people  to  accept  with  open  mind  and  heart  anything  that  differs  from  the  conven- 
tional. It  has  happened  before,  in  music;  it  happens  with  each  succeeding  season, 
and  it  will  continue  to  happen  as  long  as  human  nature  remains  what  it  is.  Never- 
theless, we  are  still,  in  these  days,  puzzled  by  it,  especially  when  we  consider  the 
extraordinary  popularity  of  this  symphony,  its  wealth  of  tender  and  beautiful 
melody,  its  drama,  its  conflict  of  mind  and  spirit,  its  opulent  tonal  color.  The 
French  say  that  to  understand  all  is  to  forgive  all.  Since  we  think  we  have  come  to 
understand  this  music,  it  is  possible  that,  unlike  Franck's  contemporaries,  we  can 
forgive  daring  and  originality  and  even  honesty  of  purpose  that  disregards  all  else. 

First  Movement 

The  mystic  cycle  of  this  symphony  begins  with  the  strange  and  fateful  ques- 
tion that  has  troubled  the  spirits  of  so  many  men  of  music.  Down  in  the  deep  and 
gloomy  recesses  of  tone  where  only  the  great  basses  can  speak,  we  hear,  sof  tly  and 
portentously,  the  wondering  phrase — a  phrase  that  Beethoven  wrote,  almost  iden- 
tically, as  the  question  "Must  it  be?"  in  one  of  the  last  quartets* 5  that  mighty. 
Wagner  used  with  dreadful  significance  in  the  titanic  Ring  tetralogy;  that  even 
the  facile  and  superficial  Liszt  found  occasion  for,  in  Les  Preludes. 

*  Quartet  in  F  major,  Op.  135. 


CESAR    FRANCK  233 

Violas,  Cellos,  and  Basses 


^     ^•••x ^^       "N^  ^  -0- 


This  curious,  doubting,  and  soul-wearied  question  is  the  emotional  basis  of  the 
whole  symphony.  Throughout  the  present  movement,  it  is  asked  by  almost  every 
voice  of  the  orchestra,  in  almost  every  possible  accent;  persuasively,  piteously,  im- 
petuously, hopefully,  and  almost  despairingly.  Even  at  those  moments  when  it 
seems  temporarily  banished  from  the  composer's  heart,  we  can  almost  always  find 
it  lurking  secretively,  buried  under  more  suave  and  happier  utterances;  but  it  is 
there,  leading  us  with  the  music  through  mysterious  mazes  of  distracting  loveliness. 
There  is  neither  escape  nor  answer.  The  bittersweet  tones  of  descending  wood- 
winds and  strings  do  not  satisfy  this  persistent  questioning,  nor  is  there  more  than 
momentary  comfort  in  the  lovely  song  of  the  strings,  coming  from  pale  ethereal 
heights  to  warm  low  soothing  utterances.  Tremulous  flights  of  tone,  again  in  the 
strings,  suggest  the  beating  of  caged  pinions;  and  they  beat  in  vain.  Sudden 
fortissimo  chords  upraised  like  barriers  against  flight,  and  now  the  strings  together 
project,  with  new  and  stronger  emphasis,  the  questioning  motto  of  the  move- 
ment. Swift  modulations  to  new  tonalities  only  bring  more  intense  and  passionate 
expression.  Yet  there  are  moments  when  tentative  answers  to  the  tormented  soul- 
questioning  of  the  theme  begin  to  appear — moments  of  such  rare  and  diaphanous 
and  unearthly  beauty  as  to  snatch  at  one's  heart  and  stop  one's  breathing.  There 
is  the  piteous  half  answer  of  the  flute,  and  the  hopeful  contemplation  of  the  solo 
horn,  intimating  the  quiet  and  the  peace  that  may  come.  What  storms  rage  through 
the  music  thereafter  do  not  banish  the  faint  glimmerings  of  ultimate  glories,  and 
even  the  relentless  and  magnificently  powerful  final  utterance  of  the  questioning 
theme,  at  the  end  of  the  movement,  ends  upon  an  exalted  major  chord  that 
promises  ultimate  triumph. 

It  seems  somewhat  beside  the  point  to  disintegrate,  even  in  words,  the  lovely 
plastic  material  of  which  this  musk:  is  made.  Its  structural  features  are  discernible, 
if  not  obvious;  and  despite  the  multitude  of  muskal  elements  contained  in  it,  fes 
unity  is  extraordinarily  perfect.  Students  will  doubtless  observe  the  frequency  with 
which  Franck  resorts  to  the  contrapuntal  device  of  the  canon;  his  modulations  to 
remotely  related  tonalitks;  his  expansion  of  the  characteristic  first-movement  form 
to  dimensions  adequate  to  the  thought  he  wished  to  convey;  and  the  importance 
given  the  third  theme.  The  cyclic  form,  by  which  the  movements  are  thematkally 
connected,  and  the  logical  development  and  unity  of  the  symphony  thereby  tremen- 
dously enhanced,  was  not  of  course  original  with  Franck  except  in  the  sense  that, 


234  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

even  when  employed  by  Beethoven  in  the  Ninth,  it  was  not  used  as  effectively,  nor 
with  such  intimate  union  of  thematic  ideas. 

Second  Movement 

The  English  horn,  in  the  hands  of  an  undistinguished  player,  can  be  exceed- 
ingly disagreeable.  Its  tone  is  susceptible  of  many  subtle  variations  in  quality,  and 
not  only  technical  ability,  but  keen  musical  taste  and  discernment,  are  necessary 
equipment  of  the  instrumentalist  if  the  beautiful  possibilities  of  thfe  curious  oboe 
are  to  be  realized.  Franck,  with  his  acute  sense  of  color,  must  have  heard,  or  must 
have  had  an  ideal  of,  the  perfect  executant  upon  this  instrument,  for  in  the  present 
movement  he  has  created  for  the  cor  vnglm  one  of  the  loveliest  melodies  ever 
written  for  it.  But  this  is  a  dangerous  movement,  and  a  dangerous  melody,  for  a 
conductor  can,  by  incorrect  tempo,  either  sentimentalize  or  despiritualize  the  music 
and  the  theme,  while  the  solo  pkyer,  by  unsympathetic  phrasing  or  an  ill-chosen 
reed,  can  pervert  and  destroy  the  essential  beauty  of  the  melody. 


Harp  and  pizzicato  strings  suggest  the  outlines  of  the  theme  as  the  movement 
begins.  At  the  seventeenth  bar  the  solo  voice  of  the  English  horn  entefs  with  its 
exquisitely  melancholy  song,  its  brooding  tones  shadowing  the  somber  theme  with 
rich  dark  brilliance.  A  thought  upon  this  theme  reveals  that  it  is  remotely  derived 
from  the  fateful  and  persistent  question  that  moved  throughout  the  whole  first 
movement;  and  as  the  music  now  grows  in  contemplative  spirit,  it  is  as  if  that 
old  interrogation  were  taken  up  and  considered  in  a  new  and  more  philosophical 

light, 

The  pizzicato  strings  and  harp  continue,  for  a  space,  in  the  accompaniment. 
Presently  violas  add  a  poignant  countermelody  of  their  own;  clarinet  and  horn  in 
unison  continue  the  theme,  and  as  the  flute  adds  its  brighter1  and  more  hopeful 
voice,  the  cellos  are  drawn  to  the  countertheme* 

Here  is  one  of  the  loveliest  moments  in  symphonic  music—  and  curiously*  one 
which  most  commends  the  symphony  to  us  today,  though  it  was  a  particular  affront 
to  the  listeners  at  the  first  performance.  Why  do  we  love  this  music  so  much?  To 
the  senses  it  is  a  delight  —  but  out  senses  can  be  delighted  often  and  variously,  and 
Franck  was  not  the  first  to  us*  the  instruments  that  sing  to  us  here.  It  can  only  be 
because,  in  this  symphony,  there  is  revealed  to  us  a  deep  and  kindly  and  lovable 
spirit,  a  spirit  that  strained  against  Ac  doubts  and  futilities  and  disiUusioiiment  of 
this  world*  and  who*  white  giving  expression  to  the  struggles  that  raged  —  despite 


CESAR    FRANCK 

his  placid  exterior  —  within  his  great  and  simple  soul,  is  able  also  to  lead  us  to 
glimpses  of  a  light  beyond  the  world. 

There  are  flights  toward  that  light  as  the  movement  progresses  —  flights  of 
swift  muted  notes,  like  the  beatings  of  thousands  of  invisible  wings,  coursing  the 
misty  upper  airs  in  clouds  of  vibrant  color  and  life.  Incredibly  we  find  that  even 
this  will-o'-the-wisp  figure  is  remotely  derived  from  the  eternal  question  of  the 
first  movement  —  notwithstanding  its  soaring  hopefulness.  The  meaning  seems 
clear:  out  of  eternal  questioning,  someday  comes  an  answer;  out  of  living,  life* 

What  if,  presently,  the  fluttering  pinions  droop,  and  the  sad  song  of  the  Eng- 
lish horn  returns?  There  has  been  a  moment  of  pellucid  light;  there  has  been  a 
gleam  of  something  from  afar,  and  now  the  music  moves  more  certainly,  with 
more  vitality,  toward  the  coming  vision.  That  vision  is  not  beheld,  for  the  present; 
yet  there  are  clear  intimations  of  the  direction  from  which  it  shall  come  in  the  slow 
ascent  of  luminous  tones  arising  from  the  harp. 

While  the  symphony  is  formally  divided  into  three  movements,  the  second 
movement  is  actually  a  combination,  an  intimate  joining,  of  two  distinct  sections, 
the  latter  of  which  could  very  logically  be  regarded  as  the  scherzo  of  the  work, 
This  part  begins  following  the  first  abandonment  of  the  theme  introduced  by  Eng- 
lish horn,  and  opens  with  the  fluttering  motive  of  the  strings  and  the  answering 
cadence  of  the  woodwinds*  The  rhythmic  pattern  of  the  two  sections  changes  tem- 
porarily with  the  introduction  of  the  second  theme,  whkh  would  establish  a  new 
mood  and  movement,  but  the  intimate  connection  of  the  themes,  and  the  signifi- 
cance with  which  they  are  contrasted,  weld  them  together  in  such  a  way  as  to  lead 
the  composer  to  unify  them  in  a  angle  movement.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  not 
difficult  to  imagine  how  the  composer,  if  it  had  suited  his  purpose,  could  by  transi- 
tional passages  have  joined  the  entire  symphony  into  a  single  movement.  The 
sequence  of  moods  is  so  natural  and  logical,  and  the  thematic  unity  so  perfect,  as 
to  make  such  an  achievement  perfectly  possible  in  theory. 


Why  music  in  a  major  tonality  suggests  happiness,  and  in  the  minor  conveys 
Tarying  degrees  of  melancholy,  must  be  an  interesting  matter  for  speculation  by 
the  psychologist.  True,  it  does  happen  that  gay  sentiments  are  sometimes  trans- 
mitted through  music  in  the  minor  mode,  yet  there  is  usually  a  wry  or  macabre 
quality  in  such  gaiety.  It  is  likewise  true  that  the  major  keys  can  hold  within 
themselves  music  that  is  sad.  But  in  all  these  exceptions,  rhythm  has  an  Influence 
too;  and  the  fact  remains  that  a  angle  chord  in  die  major  seems  bright;  in  the 
minor,  depressing. 

The  very  first  brief  chords  that  usher  in  the  theme  of  the  third  movement 
change  the  entire  atmosphere.  At  once  there  is  brightness;  at  once,  hope  and  good 


236  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

spirits.  The  theme  that  follows  hard  upon  the  opening  chords  sustains  these  happier 
feelings,  and  replacing  the  melancholy,  the  philosophical,  and  pensive,  and  at  times 
almost  despairing  significance  of  the  music,  there  comes  a  feeling  of  wholesomeness 
and  vitality  and  energy  as  welcome  as  a  cool  and  sunlit  breeze.  Indeed,  there  is 
something  breezy  in  the  soft-spoken  but  vigorous  theme  as  cellos  and  bassoons 
announce  it.  It  is  wonderful  that  —  as  yet  —  no  creator  of  fox  trots  has  discovered 
it.  It  is  a  cheerful  and  ingratiating  tune,  with  syncopation  all  ready-made,  and 
nothing  but  reorchestration  necessary  to  make  it  the  masterwork  of  a  Tin  Pan 
Alley  genius.  Adopted  by  the  violins,  and  punctuated  vigorously  with  elastic  syn- 
copations, it  swiftly  becomes  an  exultant  song.  There  is  a  swift  diminuendo,  and 
then  softly  from  the  brass  comes  the  solemn  yet  joyous  second  theme  —  the  choral- 
like  utterance  of  triumph  that  is  to  climax  the  movement  and  the  symphony. 


^""^     *™"*  §J""?""1"  '"""^  ~*  v 


"Here,"  says  Leopold  Stokowski,  "Cesar  Franck  seems  to  come  from  his  church 
into  the  sunlight  and  life  of  his  friends  outside."  And  Ropartz,  in  his  critical  com- 
ment upon  this  music,  asks,  "What  is  there  more  joyous,  more  sanely  vital,  than 
the  principal  subject  of  the  finale,  around  which  all  other  themes  in  the  work 
cluster  and  crystallize?  The  symphony  is  a  continual  ascent  toward  gladness  and 
life-giving  light,  because  its  workmanship  is  solid,  and  its  themes  are  manifesta- 
tions of  ideal  beauty." 

All  the  other  themes  do  cluster  and  crystallize  about  this  noble  proclamation 
of  the  brass  —  and  indeed  gradually  efface  its  first  utterance  as  they  recall  the 
troubled  past,  and  intrude  themselves,  at  times  to  the  point  of  domination,  into  the 
texture  of  the  present  movement  But  there  is  power  in  the  basic  thought  of  this 
movement,  and  remembrances  of  the  doubts  and  sorrows  of  what  has  gone  before 
are  presently  thrust  aside  with  almost  hysterically  joyous  cries.  Once  more  the 
great  choral  theme  is  proclaimed  by  full  orchestra,  and  then  there  is  a  recession  of 
orchestral  light,  and  a  period  of  contemplation.  There  are  meditations  of  the 
woodwind,  and  anxious  questions  of  the  strings;  yet  again  comes  the  once  melan- 
choly subject  of  the  second  movement,  but  now  gloriously  transmuted  into  a  great 
song  of  gladness;  now  bravely  shouted  forth  in  brazen  voices  and  joyously  trem- 
bling strings. 

•The  dark  past  with  its  misgivings  can  now  be  reviewed  as  some  dreadful 
night  that  is  gone,  some  fevered  imagining  driven  away  by  the  coolness  of  sanity 
and  newborn  day,  and  as  final  uncertainties  are  overcome,  and  perceived  as  defi- 
nitely in  the  past,  the  great  choral  theme,  after  a  passage  of  joyous  frenzy,  projects 


CESAR     FRANCK  237 

itself  in  glittering  blades  of  tones  from  the  whole  orchestra.  All  evil  and  all  doubt 
at  last  done  away,  we  see  "the  vision  splendid," 


Les  Eolides 

THE  AEOUDAE  is  of  importance  to  the  student  because  it  was  Franck's  first  ven- 
ture into  the  form  of  the  symphonic  poem — in  fact,  his  first  orchestral  music  of 
any  magnitude;  but  to  the  nontechnical  listener  its  charm  lies  in  the  lovely  effect 
of  breathing  winds,  of  warm  and  fragile  airs,  which  the  composer  achieves  in  it. 

Aeolus  was  the  god  of  the  winds;  also,  a  mythical  king  who  discovered  the 
uses  of  wind  and  sail.  The  Aeolidae  were  soft  southern  winds,  welcome  for  their 
gentleness  and  warmth,  in  contrast  to  Zephyr,  the  violent  and  cold  north  wind. 
Franck's  symphonic  poem  is  said  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  verses  of  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  beginning: 

"O  floating  breezes  of  the  skies,  sweet  breaths  of  the  fair  spring,  that  caress 
the  hills  and  plains  with  freakish  kisses  .  .  .  eternal  nature  wakens  to  your  songs." 
The  music  is  developed  from  a  brief,  pianissimo  phrase  of  chromatic  structure  j 
and  upon  this  fragile  basis  the  composer  builds  up  a  wonderful  texture  of  sug- 
gestive sound. 


ALEXANDER  GLAZUNOV 
[1865-1936] 

GLAZUNOV  is  one  of  the  many  Russian  composers  who  came  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Balakirev  and,  particularly,  Rimsky-Korsakov.  His  father  was 
well  known  as  a  publisher  and  bookseller,  and  was  sufficiently  interested 
in  music  to  give  young  Alexander  an  opportunity  to  develop  the  musical  gifts 
which  he  exhibited  as  a  child.  At  nine,  Alexander  began  the  study  of  piano  and 
theory,  and  at  thirteen  he  was  able  to  compose  music  of  considerable  merit. 

Balakirev  suggested  that  Glafcunov  study  privately  with  Rimsky,  and  under 
that  great  master  the  brilliant  young  man  made  swift  and  satisfying  progress. 
Balakirev  played  his  first  symphony  when  the  composer  was  only  sixteen  years  old, 
and  Anton  Rubinstein,  conducting  the  orchestra  of  the  Russian  Musical  Society, 
performed  an  overture  by  the  rising  young  genius.  Liszt,  always  willing  to  listen, 
and  to  further  the  musical  ambitions  of  talented  young  men,  helped  matters  along 
by  arranging  for  a  symphony  of  Gkzunov  to  be  pkyed  at  Weimar,  and  from  that 
time  on  his  success  was  assured. 


Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

LEOPOLD  AUER,  doubtless  the  greatest  teacher  of  violin  ever  to  draw  bow,  was  the 
first  performer  of  this  music,  giving  it  with  the  assistance  of  the  orchestra  of  the 
Imperial  Music  Society  thirty-five  years  ago.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  composer  re- 
veals his  inclination  toward  the  classical  style.  In  spite  of  his  nationality,  and  the 
powerful  influences  exerted  by  his  associates  of  the  Russian  school,  the  music  is  not 
particularly  Russian  in  character.  It  is  beautifully  written  for  the  solo  instrument, 
and  its  orchestration,  while  not  rich,  is  highly  distinctive,  and  an  admirable  foil  for 
the  solo  eloquence  of  the  violin.  It  is  in  three  movements,  but  is  designed  for  per- 
formance without  interruption* 

First  Movement 

Minor  and  melancholy,  the  violin  sings  an  expressive  melody  against  re- 
strained accompaniment  in  woodwind,  and  brings  about  an  atmosphere  of  medita- 
tion and  repose.  A  second  solo  violin  melody  is  sung,  and  is  worthy  of  note  if  one 
is  following  tbe  thematic  structure  of  the  concerto,  for  it  will  appear  from  time  to 

through  the  music  The  violin  section  reinforces  it.  A  remembrance  of  the 

238 


ALEXANDER    GLAZUNOV 

first  theme  is  brought  in  by  cellos  and  violins,  and  with  a  touch  of  the  harp  and  a 
descending  passage  for  solo  violin,  the  second  movement  begins. 

Second  Movement 

The  movement  is  exceedingly  clear  and  melodious.  The  soloist  gives  out  a 
lovely  song  in  the  warmest  tones  of  his  instrument  that  gradually  becomes  more 
agitated  and  involves  some  brilliant  playing  in  scales  and  figuration.  Woodwind 
reminds  us  of  the  second  theme  from  the  preceding  movement,  and  the  solo  instru- 
ment decorates  it  with  bright  arabesques  of  tone.  Then  the  relation  of  violin  and 
orchestra  is  reversed,  with  the  melody  in  the  former,  and  the  orchestra,  most 
noticeably  the  flute,  developing  intricate  ornamentation.  There  is  a  fiery  cadenza 
for  the  soloist,  and  the  final  section  is  begun. 

Third  Movement 

Such  contrasting  voices  as  violin  and  trumpet  are  employed,  in  the  lively  finale, 
in  a  rather  brisk  dialogue;  later,  the  softly  rounded  tones  of  horn  and  solo  violin 
are  entangled  in  an  ascending  figure.  A  growing  agitation,  sometimes  crisply 
staccato,  recalls  the  opening  measures,  and  brings  the  vivacious  concluding  passages. 


REINHOLD  GLIERE 

[Born  1874] 

BOTH  MUSICALLY  and  chronologically,  Gliere  occupies  an  important  place 
between  the  extreme  moderns  who  are  now  his  contemporaries,  and  the 
last  of  the  great  nationalistic  Russian  composers.  He  was  born  at  Kiev, 
and  educated   at  Moscow  Conservatory,   where   he  studied  composition   under 
Taneiev  and  Ippolhov-Ivanov.  He  was  a  brilliant  student,  and  won  a  gold  medal 
for  composition  in  his  graduation  year.  He  lived  in  various  European  cities,  but  the 
disturbances  incident  to  the  war  prevented  a  permanent  residence  until  finally  he 
returned  to  Russia,  where  he  was  appointed  head  of  the  Kiev  Conservatory.  He 
made  a  distinguished  success  of  what  seemed  a  hopeless  task,  bringing  the  school 
through  a  series  of  troubles  to  a  position  of  security  and  importance. 

Gliere  has  maintained  his  standing  with  Soviet  government  and  people;  his 
ballet,  The  Red  Poppy,  is  at  present  one  of  the  most  popular  musical  works  heard 
in  Soviet  entertainment  centers. 


Symphony  No.  3  in  B  minor 
["Ilia  Mouromete?'] 

THIS  symphony,  of  prodigious  length  and  enormous  interest,  has  for  its  theme  and 
inspiration  a  group  of  ancient  Russian  folk  tales,  concerning  a  hero  not  entirely 
legendary,  who  may  have  lived  during  the  twelfth  century.  This  was  Hia  Mouro- 
metz,  a  man  of  infinite  valor  and  strength,  who  feasted  and  fought  on  a  grand 
scale,  was  converted  to  the  Christian  faith,  and  is  supposed  to  have  become,  even- 
tually (and  in  no  flippant  sense),  ossified. 

Gliere  inserts,  as  a  foreword  to  his  score,  the  following  story,  the  basis  of  the 
symphony,  in  Russian  and  French: 

L 

In  the  ancient  days  when  the  benign  Prince  Vladimir  reigned,  there 
lived  a  peasant's  son  named  Ilia  Mourometz.  This  young  man,  for  thirty 
years,  had  strangely  remained  motionless  in  a  sitting  posture:  until  one  day 
two  wandering  strangers,  who  were  really  gods,  came  and  cried  to  him, 
"Arise  and  go!  You  are  fated  to  be  a  famous  and  powerful  hero!"  Ilia  arose 
inspired,  and  went  forth  into  the  lovely  countryside.  He  took  a  great  horse, 
worthy  of  a  hero,  and  set  out  to  find  a  kindred  spirit,  the  great  knight 

240 


REINHOLD     GLIERE  24! 

Sviatogor.  This  giant  was  so  huge  that  he  was  restricted  to  the  mountaintops 
of  Sviaty  Gory,  for  the  land  of  Holy  Russia  would  not  bear  his  weight.  Ilia 
boldly  approached  the  great  one,  greeting  him  respectfully;  and  they  became 
friends. 

The  two  heroes  mounted  swift  horses,  and  coursed  over  the  mountain- 
tops,  entertaining  themselves  with  games  and  trials  of  skill  and  strength. 
They  came  upon  a  huge  sarcophagus,  so  deep  that  when  Sviatogor  placed  him- 
self within  it,  he  could  not  be  extricated;  and  then  he  knew  that  his  doom 
was  upon  him.  But  before  he  died  he  gave  his  secrets  and  his  advice  to  Ilia. 
Then  the  dew  of  death  came  upon  him,  and  he  breathed  no  more.  His  powers 
were  transmitted  to  Ilia,  who  leaped  upon  his  charger  and  took  the  highroad 
to  the  great  city  Kiev.  His  gigantic  steed  took  lakes  and  rivers  at  a  bound, 
and  the  swish  of  his  tail  razed  cities. 

II. 

In  a  dark  woodland  there  lived  the  ferocious  Solovei  the  Brigand.  The 
road  to  the  seven  towering  oaks  beneath  which  lay  his  stronghold  was  dan- 
gerous; slippery  and  guarded  by  barriers.  This  villainous  fellow  could  send 
forth  sweet  cries,  like  a  nightingale,  or  ferocious,  bloodthirsty  bellowings;  he 
was  strong  enough  to  lay  forests  low,  and  to  crush  the  unhappy  men  who 
might  be  beneath  the  trees.  He  kept  three  enticing  maidens,  who  played  with 
heaps  of  gold  and  silver  and  jewels,  and  enticed  the  unwary  with  gifts.  As 
Solovei  hears  the  tread  of  Ilia's  mighty  warhorse,  he  roars  with  rage,  he  sends 
out  his  seductive  birdsong.  Ilia  answers  the  summons  with  an  arrow  of  in- 
candescent steel  from  his  unerring  bow.  The  glowing  dart  pierces  the  right 
eye  of  Solovei  the  Robber;  and  he  falls  prostrate  on  the  damp  ground.  Ilia 
lashes  the  unhappy  giant  to  his  stirrup  leather,  and  drags  him  away  toward  the 
palace  of  Vladimir,  the  prince. 

IIL 

Vladimir  is  holding  revelry  with  the  heroes  and  the  nobility.  Hia  comes 
before  the  great  gate  of  the  palace,  and  commands  the  wounded  and  captive 
Solovei  to  give  forth  his  cries  and  his  birdsongs.  The  cowed  brigand  obeys; 
the  walls  and  the  roof  of  the  palace  tremble,  the  heroes  and  the  noblemen 
fall — all  except  Vladimir,  and  even  he  is  shaken.  Then  Hia  beheads  the  cow- 
ering Solovei,  and  the  grateful  Vladimir  acknowledges  him  as  hero,  and  gnres 
him  the  seat  of  honor  at  the  princely  table.  Vladimir's  guests  salute  Hia  as 
brother. 

IV. 

In  Orda,  the  land  of  gold,  there  arose  the  chieftain  Batygha  the  Wicked 
and  his  pagan  host,  so  numerous  that  the  breath  of  their  horses  obscured  the 


242  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

sunlight  like  a  cloud,  so  villainous  that  their  very  odor  suffocated  a  Christian. 
But  Ilia  Mourometz  at  the  head  of  his  twelve  warriors  advanced  against 
them  defying  them;  and  battled  for  twelve  days.  Then  a  warrior,  huge  and 
terrible  as  a  mountain,  detached  himself  from  each  of  the  opposing  forces  5 
Ilia  Mouronietz  on  one  side,  Qudalaya  Polyenksa  on  the  other.  They  rushed 
together,  and  in  the  first  encounter  neither  was  injured.  Then  each  seized  the 
other's  horse  by  the  mane;  still  neither  was  unhorsed.  They  dismounted  and 
wrestled  on  the  ground.  From  evening  until  dawn  they  struggled,  and  Ilia 
was  thrown  to  the  ground.  But  from  the  warm  earth  he  gained  new  strength, 
and  dealt  his  adversary  such  a  mighty  stroke  upon  the  breast  that  the  man  was 
driven  high  above  the  trees  of  the  forest.  Hia  seized  the  senseless  form,  put 
out  its  eyes,  chopped  off  the  head,  and  mounting  this  grisly  trophy  on  a  Tartar 
lance,  bore  it  aloft  before  the  cheers  of  his  comrades-in-arms. 

Seven  of  Ilia's  heroes  advanced  with  him,  scornfully  shouting,  "Where 
is  the  celestial  army  that  we  so  ktely  overcame?"  Hardly  had  they  pro- 
nounced the  words,  when  two  mighty  warriors  sprang  from  the  earth. 
"Advance,  then,  heroes,"  shouted  these,  "let  us  have  a  trial  of  strength."  The 
two  warriors  advanced;  Ilia  cut  them  down,  but  they  became  four,  and  un- 
hurt* Hia  butchered  these,  and  they  became  eight,  whole  and  menacing.  All  of 
Ilia's  men  threw  themselves  upon  the  enemy,  but  these  continued  to  multiply, 
and  the  little  band  of  heroes  fled  toward  the  mountains*  As  they  approached 
the  towering  hills,  one  by  one  they  were  turned  to  stone.  Only  Hia  remained 
— and  he  too  turned  toward  the  heights;  he  too  was  suddenly  stiffened  into 
motionless  stone.  And  since  then  there  have  been  no  more  heroes  in  Holy 
Russia.  (Translated  freely  by  C.  O'C.) 

First  Movement 

The  symphony  is  tremendously  elaborated,  and  its  outlines  are  often  covered 
with  a  dense,  rich  layer  of  orchestral  color.  Usually  the  music  is  not  played  in  its 
entirety:  for  practical  reasons  cuts  are  made  here  and  there,  and  even  with  them, 
the  symphony  can  be  tedious  in  any  but  the  most  expert  hands. 

The  movement  proper  h  preceded  by  an  introduction,  based  upon  mysterious 
suggestions  from  horn  and  strings,  both  muted,  and  forecasting  the  thematic  ideas 
of  the  main  body  of  the  movement,  There  are  rhythmic  indications  of  growing 
excitement  in  the  musk,  and  as  the  tale  unfolds,  cor  anglmsy  and  again  oboe  with 
strings,  suggest  thematic  material  ripe  for  development;  the  chief  theme  of  the 
movement  comes,  rigorously  and  strongly  rhythmed,  in  cellos  and  bassoons.  The 
introduction  to  the  movement  is  probably  intended  to  suggest  the  wandering  stranger 
wbo  galvanized  the  immobfle  Hk  into  life;  die  theme  of  the  bas&x&is  and  cellos 
could  represent  the  sturdy  fellow  himsdi 


REINHOLD    GLIERE  243 

Now  there  is  a  considerable  period  of  elaborate  development,  as  we  observe 
the  exploits  of  the  protagonist  and  his  development  to  the  stature  of  hero.  There 
comes  a  pause;  then  a  resumption  of  the  music  in  a  mysterious  atmosphere,  and  a 
sof dy  intoned  theme  for  the  brass,  like  a  choral — hinting,  perhaps,  at  Ilia's  even- 
tual turning  toward  a  very  muscular  Christianity.  All  the  thematic  material  is  now 
developed  on  the  broadest  lines,  and  every  orchestral  instrument  is  required  to 
present  its  most  gorgeous  and  striking  tones.  Interesting  use  is  made  of  the  per- 
cussion section. 

Second  Movement 

This  section  is  largely  given  over  to  a  musical  portrait  of  Solovei  the  Brigand. 
His  birdlike  warblings  are  frequently  heard,  first  in  flutes  and  at  intervals  in  other 
woodwinds.  The  contrabassoon  has  a  figure  which  must  be  the  lusty  roars  of  the 
brutal  fellow,  and  near  the  end  of  the  movement  this  becomes  particularly  terrify- 
ing as  it  is  shouted  out  in  the  powerful  voices  of  trombones  (muted),  bassoon,  and 
double  bass.  But  the  movement  ends  with  little  fierceness,  and  a  gradual  retraction 
of  orchestral  forces. 

Third  Movement 

Now  we  observe  Ilia  at  the  court  of  the  Prince  Vladimir.  Gently  plucked  harp 
strings  suggest  the  improvisations  of  a  minstrel,  and  presently  a  voice — clarinet — 
is  heard,  closely  followed  by  flute,  in  a  quick  but  somewhat  hesitant  figure.  This  is 
the  basis  for  a  considerable  section  of  the  movement,  but  there  are  other,  rather 
fragmentary  themes,  and  occasional  references  to  thematic  material  from  preced- 
ing sections  of  the  symphony. 

Fourth  Movement 

Here  the  composer  pictures  in  music  the  incredible  performances  of  Hia  on  the 
field  of  battle — prodigies  of  valor  which  are  arrested  only  when  the  gigantic  hero 
is  turned  into  stone.  Ominous  rnutterings  of  the  drums,  both  timpani  and  bass; 
mysterious  utterances  of  the  horns  (muted),  and  strange  groanings  in  the  strings, 
prepare  us  for  a  scene  of  terror  and  strife.  As  the  battle  rages  this  way  and  that, 
the  orchestra  follows  with  a  fugue  based  on  a  powerful  theme  of  cellos  and 
bassoons.  Hoarse  brasses  intrude  a  fierce  warlike  note,  but  references  to  material 
from  the  first  movement  have  a  calming  effect  Mighty  climaxes  are  yet  to  be  at- 
tained, however.  In  the  quieter  portions  that  succeed  one  of  these,  we  may  pause 
and  wonder  if  the  dying  brigand  had  put  a  curse  upon  our  Hia,  for  we  hear  re- 
membrances of  that  villain's  birdlike  cries,  and  shortly  thereafter  occurs  the  awful 
miracle  in  which  heroic  Ilia  is  turned  to  immovable  stone* 


244  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Yablochko 
[Dance  of  Drunken  Sailor] 

THOUGH  GKere's  music  has  not  appeared  with  great  frequency  on  orchestra  pro- 
grams in  this  country,  this  brilliant  extract  from  the  ballet  The  Red  Pofpy  has 
become,  almost  overnight,  a  favorite  encore  piece  and  a  rather  frequent  feature  of 
radio  concerts. 

Typical  Russian  dance  rhythm  whips  the  music  through  its  brief  duration  to 
a  climax  of  terrific  intensity.  The  dance  is  really  a  simple  theme  with  a  series  of 
variations.  Its  first  presentation  is  heavy  and  awkward,  like  a  rough  fellow  whose 
legs  betray  him  when  he  essays,  with  drunken  insistence,  a  difficult  dance  step. 
Basses  and  cellos,  roughly  bowed,  present  the  theme  j  later,  upper  strings  and  wood- 
winds giggle  and  squeak,  and  always  there  is  an  acceleration  and  a  steady  swift 
growth  in  orchestral  power.  The  rhythm  grows  mad;  powerful  syncopations  sug- 
gest halting  and  unsteady  footwork  on  the  part  of  the  drunken  dancer,  and  finally, 
exhilarated  by  vodka  and  excitement,  he  completes  the  dance  in  a  last  desperate 
and  powerful  rush,  which  the  orchestra  accompanies  with  all  enthusiasm. 


MIKHAIL  IVANOVICH  GLINKA 

[1803-1857] 

GLINKA  WAS  BORN  into  a  well-to-do  upper-class  Russian  family,  and  lived 
a  protected,  not  to  say  pampered,  childhood  life.  He  was  given  oppor- 
tunity to  study  music,  and  in  his  youth  worked  under  several  distin- 
guished teachers.  The  visits  of  peasant  bands  to  the  home  of  his  father  acquainted 
him  with  much  of  the  rich  folk  music  of  Russia,  and  aroused  an  interest  in  that 
musk  which  was  eventually  to  inspire  some  of  the  most  original  and  highly 
nationalistic  of  Russian  music. 

As  a  young  man,  Glinka  occupied  a  government  position  in  St.  Petersburg, 
but  found  time  both  for  travel  and,  kter  on,  devoted  study  of  ancient  and  con- 
temporary music.  His  old  interest  in  the  folk  songs  of  his  country  revived,  but  an 
acquaintance,  made  during  one  of  his  Italian  visits,  with  operatic  composers  such  as 
Donizetti  and  Bellini,  resulted  in  a  temporary  fascination  with  Italian  music.  How- 
ever, it  is  probable  that  contact  with  these  composers  gave  birth  to  the  idea  of 
Glinka's  composing  a  national  opera  of  his  own,  and  eventually  he  did;  A  Life  for 
the  Tsar.  It  was  sensationally  successful,  not  only  in  that  it  won  public  acclaim, 
but  because  of  its  expression  in  music  of  a  true  and  thoroughly  Russian  spirit  An- 
other opera,  Russian  and  Ludmtllay  was  a  failure  in  public  estimation,  but  was  in 
fact  Glinka's  greatest  musical  work. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  the  works  of  this  composer,  though  emphat- 
ically national  in  origin  (and  important  on  that  score  alone),  have  also  a  warmth 
and  facility  of  expression,  and  sometimes  an  exuberant  and  unrestrained  happiness, 
that  Glinka  must  have  borrowed  from  the  Italians.  It  is  probable  that  many  more 
notable  works  would  have  been  brought  into  being  by  this  remarkably  gifted  mu- 
sician had  not  his  delicate  health  and  other  factors  delayed  the  beginning  of  his 
muskal  career  past  the  point  at  which  full  musical  development  usually  begins* 


Overture  to  "Russian  and  Ludmilla" 

THE  opera  Russian  md  Lttdmttta  was  suggested  by  the  poem  similarly  titled,  by 
Pushkin.  The  poet  was  to  arrange  the  libretto,  but  before  he  had  more  than  begun 
the  work,  he  was  killed  in  a  duel.  Glinka  was  nevertheless  determined  to  use  the 
theme  of  the  poem  as  a  basis  for  his  opera,  and  eventually  a  libretto  was  evolved* 
The  opera  was  not  a  success,  chiefly  because  of  the  poorly  constructed  **book,w  but 
the  musk:  eventually  was  recognized  as  probably  the  best  Glinka  had  written. 

24* 


246  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  fable  of  Russian  and  Ludmflla  is  an  ancient  one,  but  the  theme  is  not 
wholly  unfamiliar.  Three  princes  seek  the  hand  of  Ludmilla,  herself  a  princess; 
but  she  has  given  her  love  to  Russian.  Her  father  promises  her  hand  to  the  suitor 
who  will  rescue  her  from  the  clutches  of  Chernomor,  a  magician  who  also  desires 
the  princess.  Russian  acquires  a  magic  sword,  and  with  its  help  rescues  his  beloved. 
But  they  are  waylaid  on  the  road  home  by  one  of  the  rival  princes,  who  puts  a 
hypnotic  sleep  upon  them,  and  brings  the  princess  back  to  her  father's  house,  de- 
manding her  hand  as  his  reward,  Meanwhile  Russian  wakens,  and  arrives  at  the 
psychological  moment  to  claim  his  bride,  and  marry  her. 

The  overture  employs  material  from  the  opera,  krgely  drawn  from  the 
finale;  and  hence  for  the  most  part  is  of  a  brilliant  and  cheerful  character.  Full 
chords,  fortissimo,  precede  a  strong  melody  sung  by  the  violins,  violas,  and  wood- 
wind. A  period  of  development  follows,  with  minor  climaxes;  then  another  and 
more  fluid  theme  appears  in  the  bassoon  and  lower  strings.  It  is  repeated  in  full 
orchestra,  and  interestingly  developed.  The  concluding  passages  of  the  overture  are 
tremendously  brilliant  and  lively. 


CHRISTOPH  WILLJBALD  VON  GLUCK 

[1714-1787] 

GLUCK  WAS  BORN  in  a  castle,  his  family  belonging  to  the  household  of  a 
German  prince;  and  his  childhood  training  was  not  inferior,  in  important 
matters,  to  the  education  of  a  princeling.  He  learned  as  a  little  boy  to 
play  on  several  musical  instruments,  and  later  was  able  to  support  himself  by  his 
abilities  along  this  line.  The  interest  of  patrons  of  music  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  study  extensively  and  thoroughly,  both  in  his  own  country  and  in  Italy,  then  the 
most  important  center  of  musical  culture  in  the  world.  He  was  attracted,  as  a 
composer,  to  the  operatic  form,  and  though  his  earliest  efforts  in  this  direction 
met  with  some  success,  it  was  not  until  many  years  later  that  he  brought  about 
the  revolution  in  operatic  style  upon  which  his  fame  chiefly  rests. 

Gluck  journeyed  to  England  and  to  France,  and  in  Paris,  attending  many 
operas,  he  began  to  perceive  the  serious  faults  of  the  operatic  forms  then  in  vogue. 
Though  no  one  has  ever  succeeded  in  making  the  opera  anything  but  a  loosely 
articulated,  hybrid  form  of  art,  Gluck  set  about  putting  into  practice  a  theory  that 
plot,  action,  and  music  should  actually  have  some  interrelations.  This  does  not 
seem  2stonishing  to  us,  until  we  find  that  opera  at  the  time  was  merely  an  excuse 
for  vocal  and  instrumental  pieces,  loosely  strung  along  a  flimsy  thread  of  plot,  and 
having  little  or  no  unity  with  it. 

The  composer  turned  to  classical  subjects  for  most  of  his  operatic  works.  la 
them  he  used,  for  the  first  time,  the  devices  which  have  made  of  the  opera  at  least  a 
bearable  dramatic  entertainment,  and  at  its  best  a  highly  effective,  if  very  imper- 
fect, musical  form.  The  omniscient  Sir  George  Grove  exclaims,  "But  how  in- 
genious are  the  artifices  to  whkh  Gluck  resorts  in  order  to  give  variety  to  the  reci- 
tative and  the  declamatory  passages!  How  skillfully  he  brings  in  his  short  incisive 
symphonies  (interludes)  and  how  much  effect  he  produces  by  syncopation!  How 
appropriately  he  introduces  the  orchestra  to  emphasize  a  word,  or  to  point  a 
dramatic  antithesis!" 

Gluck  wrote  a  considerable  number  of  purely  instrumental  works,  church 
music,  and  other  pieces;  but  none  of  his  compositions  approaches  in  importance  the 
operas.  These,  however,  were  of  so  revolutionary  a  character,  and  in  themselves  so 
charming,  that  to  have  created  them  is  achievement  enough  to  win  laurek  for  any 
musician. 


247 


248  THE     VICTOR    BOOK:    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Ballet  Suite 
[Arranged  for  Orchestra  by  Felix  Mottl] 

THOUGH  Gluck  wrote  no  great  music  for  orchestra,  excerpts  from  his  operas, 
adapted  for  the  modern  orchestra,  supply  some  exquisitely  beautif ul  material  to  the 
conductor  of  today's  symphonic  organization.  The  suite  arranged  by  Motd  in- 
cludes choice  excerpts  from  Gluck's  most  successful  operas,  and  are  all  of  such 
naive  charm  and  pellucid  clarity  as  to  require  no  more  than  mere  identification: 

The  first  two  short  and  contrasting  pieces,  "Air  gai"  and  "Lento,"  are  from 
the  opera  Iphigenia  m  Aufas;  these  two  are  combined  in  one  number.  The  second 
section  of  the  suite  is  the  "Dance  of  the  Blessed  Spirits,"  from  Orpheus;  the  next 
is  a  "Musette"  from  the  opera  Arnude;  then  comes  a  brighter  section,  again  from 
Iphtgenia  In  AuKs,  and  the  final  moderate-paced  section  is  a  "Sicflienne"  from 
Armde. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember,  when  listening  to  this  music,  the  comment  made 
upon  Gluck's  work  by  the  French  critic  Marmontel,  which  is  quoted  in  Grove's 
article  on  Gluck: 

"Harsh  and  rugged  harmony,  mutilations  and  incongruities  (that  were)  con- 
tained in  his  airs";  and  again  Gluck  was  accused  of  "want  of  care  in  choosing  his 
subjects,  in  carrying  out  his  designs,  and  giving  completeness  and  finish  to  his 
melodies."  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  these  words  could  have  been  written  about 
Gluck,  especially  when  this  lovely,  ingratiating,  and  exquisitely  finished  musk 
soothes  our  ears! 


EDVARD  GRIEG 
[1843-1907] 

EDVARD  GRIEG  was  born  at  Bergen,  Norway,  the  great-grandson  of  a  Scotch 
merchant  who,  nearly  a  century  before,  had  fled,  with  so  many  other 
Scots  from  his  native  heath,  to  the  hospitable  shores  of  the  Scandinavian 
peninsula.  Driven  from  Scotland  after  the  disastrous  rout  of  the  forces  of  Charles 
Edward  Stuart  by  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  at  Culloden,  the  Highlanders  min- 
gled with  their  Norwegian  neighbors,  and  a  century  later,  we  find  in  Edvard 
Grieg  a  man  whose  very  name  had  become  more  Scandinavian  than  Scotch,  and 
whose  character  scarcely  showed  the  presence  of  one-eighth  Scottish  blood* 

Grieg's  father  was  a  man  of  broad  culture,  but  not  a  musician.  It  was  from 
the  distaff  side  that  Edvard  inherited  his  musical  genius.  Indications  of  its  existence 
were  manifest  throughout  his  childhood,  and  he  himself  has  left  us  recollections  of 
many  amusing  incidents  in  which  his  preference  for  music  caused  him  to  run  afoul 
of  the  rules  and  regulations  that  govern  the  rearing  of  a  Norwegian  little  boy. 

Grieg's  career  was  devoid  of  the  miseries  that  have  marked  the  lives  of  so 
many  composers.  Though  never  affluent,  his  modest  needs  were  always  adequately 
matched  by  his  circumstances.  What  trials  he  had  came,  rather,  from  within  j  trials 
of  the  spirit,  and  the  struggle,  almost  lifelong,  against  ill  health.  Despite  this  latter 
handicap,  he  was  able  to  accomplish  the  great  work  he  set  out  to  do,  and  during 
his  lifetime  established  himself  as  one  of  the  foremost  of  modern  composers.  Eng- 
land and  the  Continent  knew  him  through  personal  appearances  as  well  as  through 
his  music.  Grieg  never  visited  the  United  States,  although  he  often  wished  to  do  so 
and  was  the  recipient  of  many  invitations  and  flattering  offers.  His  health,  he 
feared,  would  not  permit  him  to  undertake  the  sea  voyage. 

Grieg  died,  not  unhappily,  in  his  beloved  Norway  .  .  .  the  Norway  which 
owes  to  him  so  much,  and  to  which  he  gave  an  intense  devotion.  The  state  claimed 
the  privilege  of  honoring  him  with  formal  obsequies,  and  ten  thousand  of  his 
sincerely  grieving  countrymen  followed  his  bier  to  the  end.  He  was  laid  in  a  wild 
spot  which  he  himself  had  long  before  chosen  as  his  last  resting  place  ...  a  grotto 
halfway  up  a  steep  cliff,  overlooking  one  of  the  lovely  Norwegian  fiords  .  .  *  a 
place  from  which  his  own  home  can  be  seen  in  the  distance.  After  his  ashes  had 
been  deposited  here,  the  grotto  was  sealed,  marked  with  the  name  EDVARD 
GRIEG,  and  made  forever  inaccessible  to  the  world.  Thus  Grieg  lies  in  the 
bosom  of  the  country  he  loved  so  deeply. 


249 


250  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

ALTHOUGH  the  greater  number  of  Grieg's  compositions  are  either  for  voice  or 
pianoforte,  he  is  best  known  by  the  Peer  Gynt  Suite  for  orchestra,  and  the  A  minor 
Concerto,  which  has  been  characterized,  perhaps  a  little  recklessly,  as  the  most 
perfect  amalgam  of  piano  and  orchestra  ever  effected. 

The  concerto  is,  at  any  rate,  in  the  repertoire  of  every  great  pianist  5  not  as  a 
vehicle  for  the  display  of  the  mere  mechanics  of  the  art,  but  as  a  sublimely  beautiful 
utterance  which  explores  the  dramatic  and  tonal  resources  of  the  piano  and,  in- 
deed, extends  them.  Brilliance  it  has,  but  also  the  deeper  and  more  subtle  sig- 
nificance that  only  the  serious  and  sincere  composer  and  performer  can  impart  or 
reveal.  It  was  composed  when  Grieg  was  but  twenty-five  years  old. 

First  Movement 

A  long  and  ominous  roll  upon  the  kettledrums  ...  a  mighty  chord  in  full 
orchestra  ...  a  furious  descending  passage  for  the  solo  instrument,  and  without 
further  introduction  we  are  brought  to  the  first  movement  proper  .  .  .  and  to  the 
presentation,  in  the  woodwind,  of  the  most  important  theme  of  the  movement.  It 
is  a  curious,  memory-penetrating  theme  j  simple  in  rhythm  and  melody,  but,  once 
heard,  impossible  to  forget  or  dissociate  from  this  great  work.  In  a  moment  we  hear 
it  given  voice  in  the  crystalline  tones  of  the  piano,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  momentary 
ebullition  of  a  further  melodic  thought  j  a  gay,  almost  grotesque  rhythm  that  con- 
trasts sharply  with  the  previous  utterance. 

The  second  section  begins  with  still  more  thematic  material — an  exquisitely 
flowing  melody,  purely  lyric  in  character,  yet  containing  within  itself  elements 
that  are  to  be  developed  into  a  furious  outburst  of  passion.  We  hear  this  song  first 
in  the  restrained  voices  of  the  orchestra;  then  it  is  given,  with  its  elaborations  and 
development,  to  the  piano,  which  seizes  upon  it  and  makes  it  the  medium  for  the 
most  powerful  and  dramatic  utterance  of  the  music  so  far.  The  formal  working- 
out  section  of  the  movement  now  takes  form.  Novelties  of  rhythm,  as  well  as  un- 
foreseen melodic  development  of  thematic  material,  grow  swiftly  and  surely  out 
of  the  masses  of  tone  that  surge  upward  from  both  orchestra  and  solo  instrument. 
Crashing  chords  from  the  piano,  and  emphatic  statement  of  the  first  theme  in  the 
full  might  of  the  orchestra's  concerted  voices,  bring  us  to  the  cadenza,  or  display 
passage  for  the  piano.  But  it  is  more  than  a  display  passage  j  it  is  rather  a  sublima- 
tion of  what  has  gone  before,  presented  with  the  last  iota  of  power  and  brilliance 
which  a  great  performer  can  call  forth  from  that  noble  instrument.  Underneath 
its  glitter  and  its  mighty  chords  lies  the  solid  basis  of  the  themes  of  the  movement, 
and  instead  of  distracting  from  the  thought  of  the  musk,  the  cadenza  glorifies  and 
clarifies  it  in  a  burst  of  brilliant  light. 


EDVARD    GRIEG  251 

Second  Movement 

The  somber  feeling  that  is  so  often  a  characteristic  of  Northern  genius  is  the 
underlying  motive  of  this  movement.  But  you  will  not  confuse  it  with  the  abject 
melancholy  of  the  Slav,  for  it  is  vital  and  moving;  there  is  sadness>  perhaps,  but  not 
deadly  hopelessness. 

The  melody  is  of  simple  lyric  character,  given  to  the  piano  after  a  somewhat 
lengthy  introduction  by  the  orchestra.  There  is  a  distinct  feeling  of  climax,  yet  not 
departure  from  the  somber,  almost  elegiac  character  of  the  movement.  With  a  very 
brief  pause,  the 

Third  Movement 

begins  after  the  dying  away  of  the  melodious  conclusion  of  the  second.  In  a  mo- 
ment die  entire  complexion  of  the  music  is  altered.  A  bold  passage  on  the  piano 
ushers  in  a  rhythm  of  almost  violent  force,  and  quaint  dancing  figures  which  at 
times  suggest  the  grotesquerie  of  The  Hall  of  the  Mountoin  Kings.  A  rlj^ay  of 
terrific  intensity  is  reached,  the  piano  ever  revealing  new  influxes  of  power,  new 
brilliancies,  new  and  vivid  colorings.  And  then,  once  more,  come  pale  Northern 
harmonies. 

Orchestra  and  solo  instrument  presently  join  again  in  a  mad  revel,  the  occa- 
sional dissonances  (Liszt  loved  them!)  adding  spice  and  piquancy  to  the  muse. 
Mighty  descending  passages  in  octaves  for  the  piano  introduce  a  light  and  dancelte 
figure  which  presently  involves,  one  by  one,  the  various  sections  of  the  orchestra, 
and  leads  to  the  majestic  finale,  built  not  only  of  the  themes  of  the  present  move- 
ment, but  embodying,  too,  in  heroic  form,  the  once  lyric  song  of  the  second  section 
of  the  concerto.  Mighty  chords  for  piano  and  full  orchestra  bring  us  to  the  dose. 


CHARLES  TOMLINSON  GRIFFES 

[1884-1920] 

GRIFFES  had  given  clear  and  definite  promise  of  becoming  America's  greatest 
creative  musician  when,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  he  died  after  a  brief  illness. 
He  was  born  at  Elmira,  N.  Y.,  September  17,  1884.  His  musical  gifts 
were  evident  in  boyhood.  He  studied  piano  in  his  native  city,  and,  after  being  gradu- 
ated from  high  school,  went  to  Germany,  where  he  continued  to  work  at  piano,  and 
studied  composition  under  the  late  distinguished  composer,  Engelbert  Humperdinck. 
To  create  music  was  his  great  ambition,  and  though  he  gave  piano  lessons  in  Ger- 
many, and,  after  his  return,  in  New  York,  he  continued  to  work  at  his  composi- 
tions, many  of  which  are  both  beautiful  and  successful. 

The  earliest  works  are  marked  by  the  derivative  qualities  almost  always  found 
in  a  student's  work.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  his  German  teaching  made 
itself  felt,  and  early  influences  disappeared.  His  more  mature  period  produced  works 
in  which,  instead,  the  effect  of  impressionism  is  definitely  marked.  It  is  reported  by 
able  and  intimate  musical  friends  that,  when  he  was  so  unfortunately  removed  from 
this  world,  he  was  striving  toward  a  freer  style — one  not  restricted  by  the  limita- 
tions of  the  conventional  scale;  one  that,  had  it  developed,  might  have  influenced 
the  course  of  modern  symphonic  music  in  America,  turning  it  away  from  insincerity 
and  conscious  "effectiveness"  toward  a  reasoned  and  logical  freedom. 


The  Pleasure  Dome  of  Kubla  Khan 
r  the  Poem  of  S.  T.  Coleridge] 


THIS  richly  suggestive  and  impressionistic  music  was  written  during  1916.  It  re- 
veals both  the  influence  of  the  French  school  personified  by  Debussy  and  the  com- 
poser's own  acute  interest  in  things  Oriental.  It  is,  of  course,  inspired  by  the  poem 
Kubla  Khmy  but  more  explicitly  by  certain  lines  in  the  poem.  What  the  composer 
himself  had  to  say  of  the  work  —  quoted  by  permission  from  the  program  notes  for 
the  first  performance  by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  November  28,  1919  —  is 
illuminating: 

I  have  taken  as  a  basis  for  my  work  those  lines  of  Coleridge's  poem  de- 
scribing the  "stately  pleasure  dome,"  the  "sunny  pleasure  dome  with  caves  of 
ice,"  the  "miracle  of  rare  device."  Therefore  I  call  the  work  The  Pleasure 

252 


CHARLES    TOMLINSON    GRIFEES  253 

Dome  of  Kubla  Khan  rather  than  Kubla  Khan.  These  lines  include  I  to  1 1 
and  lines  32  to  38. . , . 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  'pleasure-dome  decree: 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  rwery  ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 

And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills^ 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

As  to  argument  [continued  Mr.  Griff  es'  notes] ,  I  have  given  my  imagi- 
nation free  rein  in  the  description  of  this  strange  palace  as  well  as  of  purely 
imaginary  revelry  which  might  take  place  there.  The  vague,  foggy  beginning 
suggests  the  sacred  river,  running  "through  caverns  measureless  to  man  down 
to  a  sunless  sea/'  Then  gradually  rise  the  outlines  of  the  palace,  "with  walls 
and  towers  girdled  round/*  The  gardens  with  fountains  and  "sunny  spots  of 
greenery"  are  next  suggested.  From  inside  come  sounds  of  dancing  and  revelry 
whkh  increase  to  a  wild  climax  and  then  suddenly  break  off.  There  is  a  return 
to  the  original  mood  suggesting  the  sacred  river  and  the  "caves  of  ke." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  anything  to  Mr.  Griffes'  own  comment  The 
glassy  tones  he  evokes  for  the  suggestion  of  icy  caverns,  the  clouded  and  mysterious 
atmosphere  of  the  beginning  and  the  end,  the  fantastic  and  abandoned  revelries,  the 
majesty  and  wonder  of  the  pleasure  dome — all  are  explicit  in  the  musk  as  they  are 
in  the  poem, 


254  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  White  Peacock 

The  White  Peacock,  originally  written  for  the  piano,  was  orchestrated  by  the 
composer.  Like  his  Two  Sketches  Eased  on  Indian  Themesy  The  White  Peacock 
reveals  Griffes'  love  for  rarefied  mood  and  exotic  tone  color.  The  love  for  the 
exotic  and  for  coloristic  effect  is  one  of  the  paramount  features  of  Griffes'  art,  and 
his  works  include  such  compositions  as  Schojo,  a  Japanese  mime  play,  Five  Poems 
of  Ancient  China  and  Japan,  The  Kcam  of  Koridwen,  and  a  Symphony  in  Yellow. 


GEORGE  FRIDERIC  HANDEL 

[1685-1759] 

ONE  OF  THE  few  amusing  paragraphs  in  the  several  thousand  pages  of 
Grove's  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians  has  to  do  with  HandeL  After 
generously  characterizing  him  as  "one  of  the  greatest  composers  the  world 
has  ever  seen,"  Sir  George  relates  that  the  composer  became  a  naturalized  British 
subject  in  1726,  "but,"  modestly,  "to  claim  him  as  an  Englishman  is  as  gratuitous 
as  it  would  be  to  deny  that  the  whole  tone  of  his  mind  and  genius  were  singularly 
attuned  to  the  best  features  of  the  English  character."  Then  follows  an  extraordi- 
nary expression  of  the  complacence,  and  sense  of  superiority,  and  of  a  virtual  monop- 
oly of  all  things  truly  worthy  that  have  made  the  Briton  so  arrogantly  and 
charmingly  the  social  arbiter  of  the  world.  Listen  to  Sir  George:  "The  stubborn 
independence,  the  fearless  truth  and  loyalty  of  his  character,  the  deep,  genuine  feel- 
ing which,  in  its  horror  of  pretense  or  false  sentiment,  hides  itself  behind  bluntness 
of  expression,  the  practical  mind  which  seeks  to  derive  its  ideas  from  facts,  and  not 
its  facts  from  ideas — these  found  their  artistic  expression  in  the  work  of  Handel; 
besides  which  he  was,  beyond  all  doubt,  intimately  acquainted,  as  many  of  his 
choruses  show,  with  the  works  of  England's  greatest  composer,  Henry  PurcelLw 

Couple  this  estimate  of  Handel,  his  music,  and  his  wonderful  impersonation  of 
all  admirable  British  qualities,  with  the  fact  that  his  popular  fame  in  England  rests 
almost  solely  upon  music  involving  the  presentation  of  standardized  religious  beliefs, 
and  you  have  the  reason  why  it  is  said  that  music  is  respected,  but  not  loved,  in 
England. 

Handel  was  born  at  Halle,  in  Saxony,  the  son  of  a  surgeon  who  vigorously 
opposed  the  boy's  tendency  toward  music,  and  who  did  everything  possible  to  dis- 
courage it  Nevertheless  the  boy  secredy  learned  as  much  as  he  could  about  music 
and  playing  the  clavichord,  and  eventually  attracted  the  attention  of  a  patron  of 
music  who  saw  to  it  that  his  musical  education  was  not  neglected.  When  he  was 
eleven  years  old  his  teacher  admitted  that  the  boy  knew  more  than  the  master. 
Handel  won  his  way  eventually  into  muskal  cirdes  and  musical  jobs;  he  made 
acquaintances  and  friends  among  those  who  could  be  valuable  to  him,  and  won  the 
attention  of  many  people  of  influence  and  importance,  in  his  own  country,  in  Italy, 
and  finally  in  England.  He  was  in  England  in  1712,  regardless  of  the  wishes  of 
the  Elector  of  Hanover,  who  had  subsidized  him  and  consequently  wanted  him  at 
home.  It  was  therefore  quite  embarrassing  when  that  same  Elector  succeeded  to  the 
English  throne,  and  found  Herr  Handel,  the  runaway,  in  the  neighborhood. 

However,  Handel  was  restored  to  royal  favor.  He  was  fifty-three  years  old 
when  he  began  work  on  the  music  upon  which  his  fame  chiefly  rests— the  oratorios 
and  several  other  compositions.  The  Mess&hy  still  the  favorite  in  England,  was  pro- 
duced during  a  visit  to  Dublin;  when  the  performance  was  repealed  in  London,  the 

255 


256  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

king  and  all  the  audience  "were  so  transported"  at  the  famous  "Hallelujah7'  Chorus 
that  they  rose  to  their  feet  and  remained  standing  until  the  end.  The  detestable 
habit  of  rising  during  performances  of  this  music  began  with  this  incident. 

Handel  became  blind  before  his  death,  but  did  not  allow  this  misfortune  to 
handicap  him.  His  disposition,  always  irascible,  did  not  improve,  but  he  continued  to 
play  the  organ  and  otherwise  exercise  his  musical  powers.  His  fame  and  popularity 
were  daily  increasing,  and  he  had  almost  every  reason  to  be  happy  when  he  died, 
April  14,  1759.  He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


Water  Music 

THE  story  concerning  the  Water  Mus\cy  now  regarded  as  untrue  in  its  central  fact 
—  that  the  music  was  composed  for  a  certain  very  special  occasion,  as  a  surprise  to 
George  I  of  England  —  is  as  follows: 

Handel  had  been  chief  musician  to  the  Elector  of  Hanover,  and  had  obtained 
permission  for  a  visit  to  England,  on  condition  that  it  would  not  be  an  unreasonably 
long  one.  The  composer  remained  in  England  for  two  years.  Meanwhile,  the 
Elector  was  named  King  of  England,  which  was  very  embarrassing  indeed  for  the 
truant  Handel,  who  was  careful  to  remain  away  from  the  royal  presence.  But  he 
had  a  friend  who  was  also  a  friend  and  follower  of  the  Elector  in  Hanover,  and 
this  person  suggested  that,  since  His  Majesty  was  planning  a  party  to  be  held  in 
boats  on  the  Thames,  here  was  an  opportunity  to  win  back,  by  music,  into  his  good 
graces;  all  the  composer  need  do  was  to  write  some  music  appropriate  to  the  occa- 
sion. Handel  did  so,  following  the  royal  barge  with  his  orchestra  in  another  boat, 
and  conducting  the  music  himself.  The  King  was  surprised  and  pleased,  and  when 
the  errant  Handel  was  brought  before  him  as  the  composer,  Majesty  forgave. 

The  music  scarcely  requires  analysis.  It  is  suavely  sweet,  and  sometimes  naive, 
and  always  lovely.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  serenade,  comprising  twenty  sections,  of 
which  the  following,  in  the  order  named,  are  usually  played  in  symphony  orchestra 
performances:  allegro,  air,  bourree>  hornpipe,  andante,  and  allegro  dedso.  The  suite 
was  arranged  fay  Sir  Hamilton  Harty. 


Concerto  grosso 

THE  concerto  grosso,  as  a  type,  is  discussed  elsewhere  in  this  book,  and  it  is  not 
necessary  to  examine  many  examples  of  the  form,  even  Handel's,  in  detaiL  To  say 
that  all  are  alike  would  be  something  of  an  exaggeration;  but  the  form  is  a  firmly 


GEORGE     FRIDERIC    HANDEL  257 

established  one,  and  the  kind  of  music  molded  into  tt  is  not  such  as  to  require 
extended  analysis. 

Handel  wrote  twelve  works  in  this  style,  richer  in  orchestral  color  than  was 
customary,  and  with  a  larger  solo  group,  or  concertino,  than  the  older  concerto 
grosso  employed.  They  are  all  filled  with  the  freshness  and  spontaneity  that  marked 
so  much  of  his  music,  but  they  differ  essentially  among  themselves  only  in  melodic 
content  This  is  so  clear  as  to  explain  itself. 


HOWARD  HANSON 

[Born  1896] 

HOWARD  HANSON,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  figures  in  contemporary 
American  music,  was  born  in  Wahoo,  Nebraska,  and  is  at  present  living 
in  Rochester.  His  earliest  musical  instruction  was  derived  from  his  mother, 
and  later  at  the  Luther  College  in  Wahoo.  His  studies  were  continued  in  the  Institute 
of  Musical  Art  in  New  York  City,  and  at  Northwestern  University  where  he 
obtained  his  degree.  In  1916,  when  only  twenty,  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Theory  at  the  College  of  the  Pacific  in  California.  Three  years  later  (1919)  he 
became  the  Dean  of  the  Conservatory  of  Fine  Arts  in  the  same  college.  His  merit 
as  a  composer  was  soon  recognized,  and  in  1921  he  received  the  Prix  de  Rome.  He 
spent  three  years  (1921-24)  as  a  Fellow  in  the  American  Academy  in  Rome,  and, 
upon  his  return  to  the  United  States,  assumed  the  Directorship  of  the  Eastman 
School  of  Music  in  Rochester,  New  York. 

Howard  Hanson  has  been  a  vital  factor  in  stimulating  interest  in  American 
music  during  the  past  several  years.  Perhaps  the  most  noteworthy  of  his  labors  in 
this  field  has  been  the  inauguration  of  the  American  Composers  Concerts,  in  which 
project  he  enlisted  the  support  of  the  Rochester  Philharmonic,  and  the  services  of 
ballet  groups  and  soloists.  Hanson  has  also  aided  American  music  in  many  other 
ways:  as  Chairman  of  the  Commission  on  Curricula  of  the  National  Association  of 
Schools  of  Music,  as  President  of  the  Music  Teachers  National  Association,  and  as 
a  member  of  the  examining  jury  for  the  American  Academy  in  Rome. 

Dr.  Hanson  has  also  achieved  a  considerable  reputation  as  a  conductor  and  has 
Jed  the  orchestras  of  many  American  and  European  cities.  As  a  composer,  his  out- 
put is  rather  large.  He  has  written  many  songs,  and  many  piano  pieces.  His  chamber 
music  includes  a  Quintet  in  F  Minor,  Op.  6  (1916);  a  Concerto  da  Camera, 
Op.  7,  for  piano  and  strings  (1917);  and  a  String  Quartet,  Op.  23  (1923).  His 
symphonic  creation  includes  several  symphonic  poems  {Before  the  Dawn:  1919; 
'Exa&sdon:  1920;  North  and  West:  1923;  Lux  Aeterna:  1923;  Pan  and  the 
Priest:  1926);  a  Symphonic  Rhapsody  (1918),  a  Symphonic  Legend  (1920),  a 
Concerto  for  Organ  and  Orchestra  (1926),  an  orchestral  Suite  from  the  opera 
Merry  Mount  (1937),  and  three  symphonies.  His  First  Symphony,  the  "Nordic" 
Symphony,  was  composed  in  1922;  the  Second,  the  "Romantic*'  Symphony,  in 
1930,  and  his  Symphony  No.  3  in  1937.  Aside  from  his  opera  Merry  Mount  (com- 
posed in  1932  and  produced  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York  on 
February  10,  1933)  the  "Romantic"  Symphony  presented  here  is  perhaps  the  most 
famous  of  his  works.  Dr.  Hanson  was  invited  to  conduct  it,  in  1930,  with  the 
Augustes  at  Rome,  which  he  did  with  eminent  success.  In  1933,  the  work  was  per- 

258 


HOWARD    HANSON  259 

formed  for  the  first  time  in  New  York,  by  the  Philharmonic  Symphony,  Arturo 
Toscanini  conducting. 


Symphony  No.  2  ("Romantic") 

THE  "Romantic"  Symphony  was  composed  by  Dr.  Hanson  for  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  It  was  first  performed  by  that 
orchestra  at  the  concerts  of  November  28  and  29,  1930.  We  are  fortunately  able 
to  present  an  analysis  of  this  work  which  has  the  complete  approval  of  Dr.  Hanson. 
It  follows: 

The  symphony  is  in  three  movements  and  is  scored  for  two  flutes  and  piccolo, 
two  oboes  and  English  horn,  two  clarinets,  two  bassoons,  four  horns,  three  trumpets, 
three  trombones  and  tuba,  timpani,  percussion,  harp,  and  strings* 

The  first  movement,  adagio-allegro  moderate,  begins  with  an  atmospheric 
introduction  in  the  woodwinds 


joined  first  by  the  horns,  the  strings,  and  finally  die  brass  choir  in  increasing  in- 
tensity, and  then  subsiding.  A  call  in  the  muted  trumpets  and  horns 


r t^—r *  ~_-  ' r  — TsJT^^tJtJO'*  f'*1 
\£— -SssS^Fs=^ss^^^s=!~— — 5t=== 


tTCH^O  * 

is  followed  by  the  announcement  of  the  principal  theme,  attegro  moderate y 


by  four  horns  with  an  accompaniment  of  stmgs  and  woodwiads.  Tins  rigorous 


260 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


theme  is  imitated  in  turn  by  the  trumpets,  woodwinds*  and  strings.  An  episodic 
theme 


appears  quiedy  in  the  oboe  and  later  in  the  solo  horn,  followed  by  a  transition  lead- 
ing into  the  subordinate  theme. 

The  quiet  subordinate  theme,  a  melody  of  singular  beauty, 


serves  as  the  unifying  idea  of  the  entire  symphony.  This  theme  is  in  reality  two 
melodies  projected  simultaneously,  theme  a  in  the  strings  and  theme  b  in  the  solo 
horn.  A  brief  fanfare  figure  in  the  muted  trumpets 


¥ 


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£ 


leads  dinecdy  to  the  development  section.  The  principal  theme  now  takes  on  a 
pastoral  character  and  is  presented  alternately  by  the  English  horn,  oboe,  horn,  and 
flute,  much  of  the  time  in  lengthened  note  values. 

The  development  of  the  principal  theme  leads  to  a  climax  of  great  intensity. 
The  recapitulation  follows  quickly  and  the  principal  theme  returns  in  its  original 
form,  accompanied  by  the  horncall.  A  vigorous  and  dynamic  development  of  this 
material  leads  to  the  announcement  of  the  lyrical  episodic  theme  sung  by  the  solo 
clarinet. 

The  subordinate  theme  again  appears,  rises  to  a  climax,  and  quickly  subsides. 
The  movement  concludes  quietly  with  the  pianissimo  echoing  of  a  haunting  theme. 


HOWARD    HANSON 


26l 


The  second  movement,  andante  con 
tenderness.  The  principal  thenie 


)  reveals  a  mood  of  nostalgic 


trS? 


is  announced  by  the  woodwinds  with  a  sustained  string  accompaniment.  An  inter- 
lude in  the  brass,  taken  from  the  introduction  of  the  first  movement  and  interrupted 
by  florid  passages  in  the  woodwinds,  leads  to  the  subordinate  theme. 


A  transition,  again  interrupted  by  a  florid  woodwind  passage,  leads  to  a  restate- 
ment of  the  principal  theme  of  the  movement.  The  movement  ends  quietly  in  a 
mood  reminiscent  of  the  opening  phrase. 

The  third  movement,  allegro  con  br\oy  begins  with  a  vigorous  accompaniment 
figure  in  strings  and  woodwinds, 

*vo. 

y  .         ». 

\ 


fc^ZL   I 

which  comes  direcdy  from  the  first  movement.  The  powerful  principal  theme, 


1— *  \***rwt^f 

i-,^ '  j22L.^5tS5  J5  mm  mm^Sm  i^^TSSt  mm  mm  •SS55TlS5CSI^SS^J52^2ilmJ5«^*lta—A^^ 


262 


THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 


reminiscent  of  a  passage  in  the  first  movement,  appears  in  the  four  horns  and  is 
later  repeated  by  the  basses.  A  continuation  of  the  horn  theme 


H-  Jj_>.  >        ^J^^  •^-f 

—  —  ' 


follows*  The  music  subsides  and  the  subordinate  theme,  molto  meno  mosso> 


Y*** 


is  announced  by  the  violoncellos  and  then  taken  up  by  the  English  horn,  the  de- 
velopment of  which  leads  to  the  middle  section,  fkt  mosso. 

This  section  begins  with  an  ominous  pizzicato  accompaniment  in  the  violas, 
violoncellos,  and  basses,  over  which  is  announced  a  horncalL 


This  call  is  taken  up  fay  the  trombones  and  leads  into  a  brilliant  fanfare, 


first  in  the  trumpets,  then  in  the  horns  and  woodwinds,  and  then  again  in  the 
trumpets  and  woodwinds.  The  tremendous  climax  of  the  fanfare  comes  with  the 
announcement  fortissimo  of  the  principal  theme  of  the  first  movement  by  the 
trumpets,  against  the  fanfare  rhythm  in  woodwinds.  The  development  of  this  theme 
leads  into  a  final  statement  of  the  subordinate  theme  of  the  first  movement  for- 
tissimo. 

A  brief  coda  of  this  material  leads  to  a  final  fanfare  and  the  conclusion  of  the 
symphony. 


HOWARD    HANSON  263 

Symphony  No.  3 

DR.  HANSON'S  Third  Symphony  was  written  on  commission  from  the  Columbia 
Broadcasting  System  to  commemorate  the  3OOth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of 
the  first  Swedish  settlement  in  America  in  1638.  At  the  time  of  the  first  perform- 
ance by  the  Columbia  Symphony  Orchestra,  February  19,  1937, tne  fourth  move- 
ment had  not  been  completed  and  only  three  movements  of  the  work  were  per- 
formed on  this  occasion.  Shortly  thereafter,  the  work  was  finished  and  was 
performed  by  Dr.  Hanson  as  guest  conductor  with  the  NBC  Symphony  in  the 
spring  of  1938.  The  first  concert  performance  was  given  the  following  autumn 
by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  on  November  3  and  4,  1939,  with  Dr.  Han- 
son conducting.  Dr.  Koussevitzky  was  most  enthusiastic  about  the  work  and  con- 
ducted it  himself  on  numerous  occasions,  including  the  first  public  performance  in 
New  York  and  elsewhere.  The  symphony  is  dedicated  to  Dr.  Koussevitzky. 

The  Symphony  pays  tribute  to  the  epic  qualities  of  those  pioneers.  The  first 
movement,  which  has  the  subtitle  andante  lament&ndo-agitatO)  is  both  rugged  and 
turbulent  in  character,  alternating  with  a  religious  mysticism.  The  second  move- 
ment, andante  tranqtalloy  is,  as  its  name  implies,  for  the  most  part  peaceful  and 
brooding  in  quality.  The  third  movement,  tempo  scherzandoy  is  in  the  tempo  of  a 
fast  scherzo,  and  is  vigorous  and  rhythmic.  The  fourth  movement,  marked  &r- 
g&mente  e  fesante,  begins  with  the  brooding  character  of  the  first  movement,  de- 
veloping into  an  extended  chorale  in  antiphonal  style,  rising  to  a  climax  in  the  full 
orchestra  out  of  which  appears  the  principal  theme  of  the  second  movement,  the 
symphony  ending  in  a  note  of  exultation  and  rejoicing. 

The  first  movement,  &ndante  l&mentando^  begins  with  the  introductory  theme 


pianissimo  in  the  low  strings,  mysterious  and  brooding,  punctuated  by  distant  horn- 
calls,  leading  into  tie  announcement  of  a  small,  portion  of  the  chorale  theme 
sforzando  in  the  basses  and  cellos.  This  motive 


w-Tm  _  «  _         •  it  t  1 


is  accompanied  shortly  by  a  motive  of  dynamic  intensity  in  the  woodwinds  and 
high  strings. 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


•B.-MM 

'I 

•r             l 

ill           1              f      „          ,  -     L-  1  J  *•  

TT" 

mmtfrnm-JK  jmm 


' 

—  ;  —  —  (  1 

t      .!_ 

> 

=* 

> 

>'         >             ' 

This  subsides  and  leads  directly  to  the  principal  theme 


J«. 


^  I 

—  ^'^       ^      M      * 


in  the  woodwinds  and  later  in  the  strings.  A  short  development  leads  to  the  sub- 
ordinate theine  of  the  movement, 


i 


tr  r"? 


a  chorale  given  out  by  the  trombones  and  later  joined  by  all  the  brasses  of  the 
orchestra.  This  leads  directly  to  the  development  section,  an  agitato  in  five-eight 
meter.  In  the  middle  of  the  development  section  we  hear  a  subsidiary  theme,  a 
vigorous  dance  of  folklike  character. 


The  development  section  is  then  resumed,  leading  to  a  short  recapitulation  of  the 
principal  theme  fortissimo,  followed  immediately  by  the  chorale.  The  movement 
ends  quietly  with  a  chorale  theme  in  muted  horns  and  trumpets. 


HOWARD     HANSON  265 

The  second  movement,  andante  tranquiUo,  in  extended  song  form,  begins  with 
an  intimation  of  the  principal  theme  in  the  French  horn.  This  theme,  quiet  and 
nostalgic  in  character,  is  soon  taken  up  by  the  entire  string  section. 


The  second  theme 


&  followed  in  turn  by  a  recapitulation  of  the  first.  This  song  form  is  followed  bjr 
an  extended  development  of  both  themes,  interrupted  by  a  rhythmic  figure  in  the 
woodwinds  of  more  agitated  character.  The  development  of  the  themes  continues, 
is  interrupted  again  by  the  woodwind  figure,  and  is  followed  in  turn  by  the  re- 
appearance of  the  principal  theme,  subsiding  in  a  short  coda  of  elegiac  mood. 

The  third  movement  in  scherzo  form  begins  with  a  vigorous  rhythmic  intro- 
ductory theme  in  the  solo  timpani 


The  principal  theme  of  folklike  character 


appears  in  the  solo  oboe.  After  considerable  development  the  timpani  theme  re- 
appears, forming  a  bridge  to  the  trio, 


266 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


tranquil  and  lyrical,  in  the  strings.  In  the  working  out  of  this  theme  it  is  combined 
with  fragments  of  the  principal  theme,  the  simultaneous  development  of  both 
leading  to  the  recapitulation  of  the  first  theme  again  in  the  solo  oboe.  The  develop- 
ment of  this  theme,  accompanied  by  the  reappearance  of  the  introductory  timpani 
theme,  leads  to  a  climax  of  fierce  intensity  after  which  the  movement  quickly  ends. 
The  fourth  movement,  laargamente  e  fesctnte,  begins  with  a  shrill  ejaculation 
from  the  entire  orchestra 


taken  from  the  third  motive  of  the  first  movement.  The  introductory  theme  of  the 
first  movement  reappears,  followed  by  the  principal  theme  focKssmo  pu  mosso, 
matincomco. 


A  brief  reminiscence  of  the  chorale  theme  of  the  first  movement  leads  to  a 
vigorous  and  rhythmic  development  of  the  principal  theme  of  this  movement,  fol- 
lowed by  antiphonal  development  of  the  chorale  theme  by  the  three  sections  of  the 
brass  choir.  A  brief  reappearance,  gtub&mte)  of  the  principal  theme  of  the  first 
movement  is  soon  followed  fay  a  second  antiphonal  development  of  another  portion 
of  the  chorale  theme  over  a  two-fold  bass  ostm&t&*  This  development  leads  to  a 


HOWARD    HANSON  26? 

towering  climax  out  of  which  appears  the  principal  theme  of  the  second  movement. 
The  movement  ends  in  a  jubilant  climax. 


Suite  from  the  Opera  "  Merry  Mount" 

THE  Suite  from  the  opera  Merry  Mount  consists  of  four  short  excerpts  from  the 
opera.  The  opera  itself  was  commissioned  by  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company 
and  received  its  first  performance  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York 
City  on  February  10,  1934,  with  Lawrence  Tibbett,  Edward  Johnson,  Gladys 
Swarthout,  Gota  Ljungberg,  and  Louis  D'Angelo,  with  Tullio  Serafin  conduct- 
ing* The  work  had  been  performed  the  previous  spring  in  a  concert  version  at  die 
Ann  Arbor  Musk  Festival  with  the  Ann  Arbor  Chorus  and  the  Chicago  Symphony 
Orchestra,  with  John  Charles  Thomas,  Frederick  Jagel,  Rose  Bampton,  Leonora 
Corona,  and  Chase  Boroineo,  with  the  composer  conducting. 

The  four  movements  selected  for  the  Suite  consist  of  the  Prelude  to  the  first 
act,  to  which  a  concert  ending  has  been  added.  This  Prelude  forecasts  the  general 
mood  of  the  opera,  and  is  based  upon  the  choraleKke  theme  which  characterizes 
the  Puritans.  The  second  number  is  the  short  and  lively  '^Children's  Dance" 
taken  from  the  first  act.  The  third  number  of  the  Suite  is  the  "Love  Duet**  some- 
what reorchestrated  for  concert  performance  and  with  the  voice  parts  eliminated. 
This  is  the  duet  which  occurs  at  the  end  of  the  infernal  scene  and  which  is  sung  by 
the  Puritan  pastor,  Wrestling  Bradford,  and  the  Cavalier  heroine  after  the  episode 
in  whfch  Bradford,  in  his  feverish  imagination,  has  descended  into  Hell  and  signed 
away  his  soul  to  Satan  in  return  for  the  love  of  the  lady  of  his  dreams.  The  Suite 
concludes  with  the  "Maypole  Dances"  celebrating  the  Cavalier  festival  of  May  Day. 

The  Prelude  to  the  opera,  M errj  Mount,  with  which  the  Suite  begins,  is  based 
upon  a  cfaoraklifce  theme. 


This  tibeme,  solemn  and  religious  in  character,  not  oofy  sets  Ac  mood  for  the 
opera  itself  but  is  symbolistic  of  the  Puritans. 


268  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  "Children's  Dance,"  gay  and  boisterous  in  contrast,  is  based  upon  a  short 
rhythmic  motive. 


*£ 


iyjkLjjiyfcaft&u 


The  "Love  Duet"  in  its  orchestral  version  consists  essentially  of  one  lyrical 
theme  developed  with  constantly  increasing  intensity  until  it  arrives  at  its  final 
climax. 


The  "Maypole  Dances"  consist  of  a  short  introduction,  followed  by  the  de- 
velopment of  two  dance  tunes. 


The  first  of  these,  though  it  does  not  make  use  of  actual  folk  material,  is  patterned 
directly  after  the  rhythmic  characteristics  of  certain  dances  of  the  period.  The  work 
s  essentially  a  tour  de  force  in  orchestration,  and  calls  for  a  high  degree  of  vir- 
tuosity from  every  section  of  the  orchestra. 


ROY  HARRIS 
Overture:  When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home 

HARRIS'  success  story  differs  from  many  others  because  it  has  been 
achieved  without  any  sacrifice  of  the  ideals  and  standards  of  a  singularly 
..high-minded,  sincere  and  uncompromising  artist.  The  melodies,  the 
harmonies,  the  rhythms,  the  counterpoint  have  lived  their  own  way  with  an  in- 
dependence and  a  power  that  bespoke  the  presence  of  that  rarest  thing  in  art,  a 
genuinely  individual  voice." 

When  the  late  Lawrence  Oilman  wrote  these  prophetic  words  seven  years  ago 
Harris  was  just  beginning  to  get  into  his  stride.  He  had  just  enjoyed  the  world 
premiere  of  his  popular  overture,  When  Johnny  Comes  MarcHng  Home^  under 
the  baton  of  Otto  Klemperer.  Actually  it  was  not  the  first  performance  of  this 
work.  It  was  already  published  on  Victor  Records  performed  by  Eugene  Ormandy 
with  the  Minneapolis  Symphony.  Victor  had  been  so  pleased  with  the  response  to  the 
recording  of  Harris>  Three  Variations  on  a  Theme  performed  by  the  Roth  Quartet, 
that  they  commissioned  him  to  write  the  overture,  When  Johnny  Comes  Marching 
Homey  especially  for  recording.  The  work  was  soon  performed  by  our  major 
orchestras,  and  since  then  has  settled  into  a  steady,  well-established  repertory  work 
— for  popular  concerts,  winter  concerts,  and  children's  concerts.  This  work  is  based 
on  the  Civil  War  tune  from  which  it  took  its  name.  The  overture  is  a  theme-and- 


variation  form  but  not  the  variation  style  we  are  accustomed  to.  The  original  theme, 
fragments,  characteristic  intervals,  general  melodk  contours,  augmentations  are  so 
skillfully  interwoven  to  give  a  simple,  direct,  open-sounding  overture  that  we  litdc 
suspect  how  contrapuntal  the  work  is.  When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home  hats 
the  general  shape  of  a  scherzo,  fast,  slow  (trio),  fast,  prefaced  by  a  short  introduc- 
tion which  is  in  itself  a  closely  knit  stretto  of  fragments  of  the  subject  over  an 
augmentation  of  the  opening  section  of  the  theme.  Especially  unique,  with  its  tenor 
tuba  solo  in  B  flat  minor  over  a  sustained  and  pizzicato  accompaniment  in  D  flat 
major,  are  some  of  the  most  successful  pages  of  polytonal  writing  to  be  found  in 
modern  music.  Again  the  broad  chorale  treatment  of  the  strings  over  the  short 
accented  statement  of  the  subject  in  brass  and  low  strings  clearly  stems  from  Bach 

269 


270  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

— yet  ft  is  as  American  as  the  theme  it  treats — as  nostalgic  and  rough  hewn  in  force 
and  controlled  power  as  the  story  behind  it.  Harris  tells  us  that  his  childhood 
experiences  determined  the  mood  and  shape  of  this  work.  The  gay  tune  was  one  of 
his  father's  favorite  tunes  which  he  used  to  whistle  in  merry  mood  in  the  morning 
as  he  went  to  the  fields  behind  his  prancing  horses.  At  dusk  the  weary  horses  would 
come  home  slower  and  with  head  down,  while  his  father  whistled  the  same  tune  in 
the  melancholy  and  reflective  mood  of  evening  time. 


Symphony  for  Voices 

THE  Symphony  for  Voices  is  probably  the  boldest  choral  writing  since  Bach. 
It  is  written  for  an  eight-voiced  a  capetta  chorus  in  three  movements.  Each  move- 
ment treats  some  characteristic  Whitmanesque  subject.  Harris  is  devoted  to  the 
poetry  of  Walt  Whitman  and  has  often  declared  that  Whitman  has  influenced 
him  more  than  any  other  writer  or  philosopher.  Like  Whitman,  Harris  has  roamed 
all  over  America,  riding  the  bumpers,  hitch  hiking,  walking,  driving  his  own  car 
(he  is  an  inveterate  driver),  and  has  often  told  me  that  the  American  composer 
really  should  go  to  some  new  and  wonderful  place  in  our  land  for  each  new  work: 
"Where  some  great  river  meets  the  sea — or  mountains  rise  up  out  of  the  plains — or 
cities  swallow  the  lives  of  strong  men — or  deep  into  the  waiting,  age-old  desert. " 
This  has  been  his  dream — and  who  knows,  maybe  that  is  the  way  to  hear  the  songs 
of  America,  and  to  capture  them  for  the  choruses  and  orchestras  and  bands  of 
America*  Certainly  Whitman  has  had  a  deep  and  lasting  influence  on  this  West- 
erner. It  is  not  surprising  then  that  one  of  his  strongest  works  is  Symphony  for  Voices 
on  words  by  Whitman. 

Critical  reaction  to  this  Symphony  for  Voices  has  been  extraordinarily  enthu- 
siastic. And  it  is  quite  understandable,  because  this  choral  work  is  absolutely  revolu- 
tionary in  choral  orchestration.  The  first  movement,  "Song  for  All  Seas,  All  Ships," 
achieves  a  vigorous,  salty  surge  by  its  canonk  motive  between  tenors  and  altos,  only 
to  become  the  background  for  long  declamations  in  the  antiphonal  treatment  of 
sopranos  and  basses.  The  calming  of  this  surge  into  the  long  lyric  swells,  peaceful 
and  contemplative,  which  arise  on  the  song  of  basses  answered  by  sopranos,  all 
woven  together  in  the  coda — all  this  creates  a  sea  mood  which  is  unmistakable  in  its 
saltiness  and  untamed  pantheism. 

"Tears"  sings  and  chants  the  sorrow  of  the  sea  of  humanity's  multitudes.  Its 
incessant  rise  to  a  fierce,  wild  cry  of  anguish  marks  it  as  a  modern  Miserere  which 
we  wfll  not  soon  f orget.  Many  critics  have  found  in  it  the  melancholy  of  the  Celtic 
race,  which  is  not  amiss  because  Harris  is  of  Scotch-Irish  ancestry. 


ROY     HARRIS  271 

But  the  first  two  movements  of  this  remarkable  "Choral"  Symphony  would 
be  incomplete  without  the  relentless  power  and  bold  outline  of  the  last  movement. 
Choral  directors  say  that  such  freedom  of  choral  writing  has  not  been  dared  since 
Bach.  Conceived  as  a  triple  fugue  on  three  lines  from  Whitman's  inscriptions,  it 
creates  a  new  standard  for  choruses — a  new  dynamic,  a  new  concentrated  power 
and  length  of  conception. 

The  first  section  is  a  closely  knit  stretto  fugue  on  Whitman's  words: 

Of  Life  immense  in  fassion^  fulse,  'power. 


.  _ . ._ 

Of<     lift       vm-msftKuv  p*V<-      *ton,   pu.l**»     p*w   -     er 


Qie*r.-  fttl,  for      frw-«*t    at-  Uan,    formed 


Th»     Mod  -    «rn      Man      I 


Brilliant,  open,  powerful,  almost  brutal  in  its  demands  of  bravura  choral  singing. 
Coming  to  a  dramatic  climax,  this  first  section  is  immediately  contrasted  with  a 
singing  legato,  youthful  subject  on  the  words:  "Cheerful  for  freest  action — forme49 
under  the  laws  divine" 

This  section  treats  the  voices  in  a  light,  sweet,  buoyant  manner,  while  the 
structure  complements  this  treatment  with  a  much  more  open  texture  than  the  first 
movement.  Then  the  first  subject  begins  to  intrude  more  and  more  insistently  on 
the  second  mood,  leading  to  the  heroic  final  subject  on  the  words:  "the  modern 
man  I  sing* 

This  subject  goes  immediately  into  an  eight-part  canonic  stretto  which  achieves 
a  sonority  which,  in  the  words  of  the  great  contrapuntal  scholar  Jeppesen,  "is  some- 
thing new  and  most  exciting  to  the  world  of  counteipoint." 

The  dexterity  with  which  Harris  has  woven  the  three  themes  in  the  coda 
marks  him  in  the  history  of  choral  achievement.  Lazare  Saminsky,  himself  a  choral 
director  of  national  repute,  has  written,  "he  has  become  a  master  of  broad  and 
powerful  technique." 


Symphony  No.  3 

THOSE  who  are  most  deeply  interested  and  well  informed  about  Harris*  large 
and  growing  literature  seem  to  be  about  equally  divided  in  their  opinions  concerning 


272 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


his  most  important  contribution.  Chamber-music  musicians  think  that  he  has  achieved 
his  greatest  expression  in  chamber  music — such  as  his  Piano  Quartet,  Third  String 
Quartet,  or  the  Viola  Quintet;  while  choral  enthusiasts  are  convinced  that  his  most 
significant  work  has  been  achieved  in  his  choral  writing,  such  as  Song  for  Occupa- 
tions, Symphony  for  Voices,  the  Folk  Song  Symphony. 

But  I  feel  confident  that  his  largest  and  most  enthusiastic  audience  would 
unhesitatingly  vote  his  symphonic  music  most  important,  and  I  sympathize  with 
Dr.  Serge  Koussevitzky  in  the  opinion  that:  "Harris'  Third  Symphony  is  the  greatest 
orchestral  work  yet  written  in  America." 

In  years  to  corne  we  will  probably  realize  that  this  symphony  marks  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era  of  American  music;  without  precedent,  yet  as  bold,  simple, 
direct,  and  unhesitating  as  our  architecture,  our  bridges,  our  roads,  our  way  of 
speech. 

In  this  work  Harris  has  attempted  and  solved  a  most  difficult  problem  in  form. 
Beginning  with  a  bold  entrance  in  the  strings,  he  has  succeeded  in  making  an  arched 

Section  I  -  Tragic    -      low«ritri»t£   »on0riti«s. 
TV**;.  fL.lt «. 


span  of  seventeen  minutes'  duration.  We  all  realize  that  it  is  infinitely  more  dif- 
ficult to  wrke  a  sustained  movement  of  this  length  than  to  write  a  three-movement 
work  of  greater  length.  I  think  that  this  aspect  of  the  Third  Symphony  is  most  note- 
worthy because  it  is  evidence  of  a  new  high  point  of  achievement  in  orchestral 
resourcefulness.  And  not  only  resourcefulness  in  orchestration,  but  in  all  the  ele- 
ments of  form:  harmony,  rhythm,  melody,  counterpoint.  For  instance,  the  long, 
intense  opening  for  low  strings,  in  which  only  organum  harmony  is  used  (i.e., 
fourths,  fifths,  and  octaves),  reserve  a  new  harmonic  color  for  the  entrance  of  the 
violins  in  which  harmonic  thirds  and  sixths  were  introduced,  while  the  lower  voices 
continued  on  their  organum  foundation  harmony.  Again  the  complete  contrast  of 


ROY     HARRIS 


the  next  section  when  new  intensity  was  achieved  with  large  Sonorities  (all  the 
woodwinds)  in  two-part  counterpoint  to  the  violins,  leading  to  a  high  climax  of 
only  a  single  voice  in  the  violins,  which  prepared  the  ear  for  a  new  kind  of  in- 


tensification.  But  this  time  a  soft,  very  diversified  sonority  of  wide  range  in  the 
four-part  canonic  passage  work  of  the  strings;  all  of  which  was  only  background 
for  the  slender,  graceful  pastoral  melodies  in  the  woodwinds.  As  the  librarian  of 


Section  S  •  Pftttfri" At  *    Woodwind'  nwlodte*     ag*tiuA_&    j»olyto*»l    strlrvj 


the  Boston  Symphony  said  in  wonderment:  "I  know  all  the  orchestral  literature  — 
but  there  is  something  absolutely  new  —  a.  sound  I've  never  heard  before  from 
the  orchestra."  And  so  it  is:  delicate,  fragile,  not  of  man  —  yet  with  all  the  devil- 
may-care  freedom  of  a  liberated  soul.  It  is  doubtful  that  Harris  will  ever  achieve  a 
greater,  long,  gradually  growing  climax  than  the  growth  of  this  pastoral  to  its 
wild,  dancing,  unleashed  madness  which  leads  to  dramatic  fugue  entrance. 


Sccttorv  S  -  Dnmatvc  -  Fug*.!    *      bra.«     •onori.tie* 


Here  again  a  new  sonority  of  the  orchestra  enters.  The  work  is  half  over  and 
we  have  never  heard  the  percussive,  metrc&to  utterance  of  a  modern  symphony 
orchestra.  But  when  it  does  come,  how  welcome  it  is — with  what  authority  it  enters 
— only  to  toss  about  the  ribald  rhythms  with  utmost  contrapuntal  abandon — with 


274  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

an  unbridled  expulsive  force,  which  could  only  lead  to  the  long,  broad,  sonorous 
weaving  of  the  coda*  The  long,  tenuous  line  in  the  violins  which  winds  its  way 

Section.  I  -  Drwndtic  «•  Tragic  *  ttame  from  Section!: 

iw  canon  with,  wawiwvnds;  Hiy&mic  motif  { rom  U  fer*ss) 


Motif:      7 


down  through  the  antiphonal  brasses  to  the  final  cadence  could  be  cited  as  one  of 
the  highest  peaks  of  achievement  in  modern  form.  The  whole  symphony  is  a  mas- 
terpiece in  form.  Witness  Modern  Music,  in  the  issue  of  October-November,  1939: 

So  far,  it  is  safe  to  say,  there  is  no  work  to  equal  it  in  American  music- 
making.  For  significance  of  material,  breadth  of  treatment  and  depth  of 
meaning;  for  tragic  implication,  dramatic  intensity,  concentration;  for  mov- 
ing beauty,  glowing  sound,  it  can  find  no  peer  in  the  musical  art  of  America. 
Here  is  music  of  the  bleak  and  barren  expanses  of  western  Kansas,  of  the 
brooding  prairie  night,  and  of  the  fast  darknesses  of  the  American  soul,  of  its 
despair  and  its  courage,  its  defeat  and  its  triumph,  its  struggles  and  its  aspira- 
tions. From  the  great  sweep  of  the  opening  phrases  in  the  lower  strings, 
through  the  pastoral  middle  sections  to  the  importunate  plangencies  of  the 
dirge  and  the  final  climax,  there  is  a  sense  of  inevitable  compulsion. 

The  Third  Symphony  expounds  a  new  approach  to  the  orchestra.  The  style  is 
nearer  to  Beethoven  than  to  the  romantic  masters,  depending  on  the  material  itself 
for  interest  rather  than  on  the  orchestral  palette. 

Yet  one  cannot  say  that  the  orchestral  treatment  is  without  color.  On  the 
contrary  the  color  is  unique  and  very  clear.  The  instruments  are  used  in  their  most 
telling  range.  But  yet  it  is  not  the  important  part  of  the  symphony.  It  is,  one  may 
suppose,  a  return  to  the  classic  attitude  in  which  the  medium  of  expression  is  taken 
for  granted,  to  be  used  as  a  vehicle  of  the  music,  not  as  an  arbitrary  end  in  itself. 

This  suggests  a  few  comments  on  Harris*  form.  He  describes  his  attitude 
toward  form  as  "autogenetfc."  He  says  that  a  form  should  grow  like  a  tree  grows 
from  fts  seed ;  that  each  work  should  be  a  new  form — determined  by  its  material. 
He  is  extremely  concerned  about  the  variation  form,  as  was  Beethoven  in  his  later 
years.  But  he  feels  that  the  variation  must  be  an  organic  growth  of  ideas,  "not  just 
embroidery  or  species  counterpoint  exercises  on  a  given  c&ntus  frmw"  This  attitude 


ROY    HARRIS  275 

has  led  him  into  a  great  deal  of  research  work  in  the  study  of  melodic  development. 
He  holds  that  literal  sequences  are  not  tenable  unless  they  are  only  there  to  con- 
stitute a  polyphonic  background  for  further  development  in  highlighted  voices.  This 
concentration  of  melodic  invention  and  harmonic  texture  makes  his  music  difficult 
to  listen  to.  At  first  hearing  one  is  apt  to  get  lost — especially  those  of  us  who  are 
accustomed  to  the  literal  sequential  form  development  of  the  nineteenth-century 
masters.  Perhaps  this  explains  why  Harris*  greatest  success  has  been  achieved  in  his 
recordings.  Whole  concerts  of  his  recorded  music  are  often  given — and  record 
societies  invite  him  to  lecture  on  his  music.  Harris  himself  believes  that  "Records 
are  the  American  composers'  greatest  friend." 


FRANZ  JOSEF  HAYDN 

[1732-1809] 

HAYDN,  THE  FATHER  of  the  symphony,  was  born  at  Rohrau,  Austria.  His 
father,  a  mechanic,  and  his  mother,  daughter  of  a  cook,  were  poor  in 
material  things,  but  gifted  with  a  love  for  music — a  rich  endowment 
which  they  passed  on  to  their  son.  It  was  the  mother's  wish  that  the  boy  should 
study  for  the  Church,  but,  when  finally  convinced  of  his  talent,  she  gave  up  her 
ambitions  for  him,  and  permitted  him  to  become  the  pupil  of  a  relative  who  hap- 
pened to  be  a  musician. 

When  the  boy  was  eight  years  old  he  became  a  chorister  in  the  church  of  St. 
Stephen,  Vienna,  and  when  the  weakness  of  his  voice  became  apparent  enough  to 
cause  his  discharge  from  this  position,  he  turned  to  the  study  of  music  in  other 
forms.  Several  years  of  concentrated  work  developed  his  talent,  and  by  the  time  he 
was  twenty-seven  years  old  he  had  achieved  a  conspicuous  place  in  Viennese  musical 
cirdes.  Wlien  he  won  the  position  of  Muslkdirektor  to  the  Viennese  Count  Morzin, 
he  felt  secure  enough  to  marry.  The  Count,  however,  dismissed  his  orchestra 
within  two  years. 

More  important  than  his  marriage  or  the  position  which  had  made  it  possible 
was  Haydn's  connection  with  the  famous  Hungarian  noble  family  of  Esterhazy. 
The  Esterhazys^  like  so  many  of  the  European  nobility,  were  generous  and  con- 
sistent patrons  of  music.  Prince  Pal  Antal,  at  the  time  head  of  the  house,  became 
interested  in  Haydn  and  offered  him  a  position  as  assistant  conductor  of  the  orches- 
tra maintained  by  the  family.  Haydn  accepted,  and  was  emphatically  successful. 
When  Prince  Mildos  succeeded  Pal  Antal,  he  made  Haydn  first  conductor,  and 
later  practically  imprisoned  him  in  the  remote  and  beautiful  family  estate  Esterhaz, 
where  the  composer,  far  from  distraction  and  care,  and  cut  off  from  communica- 
tion with  the  world,  had  full  opportunity  to  pour  out  his  ideas  in  composition,  and 
to  satisfy  the  endless  demands  of  the  music-loving  prince  for  new  scores. 

Prince  Miklos  died  in  1790.  His  successor,  Antal,  was  no  great  musical  en- 
thusiast, and  dismissed  most  of  the  musicians  who  were  being  maintained  at  Ester- 
haz— among  them,  Haydn.  The  composer,  however,  continued  to  receive  a  gener- 
ous annuity  from  the  estate  of  Prince  Miklos.  Now  he  began  to  recall  the  offers  he 
had  been  forced  to  decline  during  the  period  of  his  "confinement"  at  Esterhaz.  By 
a  happy  coincidence,  J.  P.  Salomon,  of  London,  one  of  the  concert  managers  who 
had,  from  time  to  time,  asked  for  his  services  as  composer  and  conductor,  hap- 
pened to  be  traveling  through  Germany  when  he  heard  of  Prince  Miklos'  death. 
Suspecting  how  matters  might  be  with  Haydn,  he  renewed  his  offers.  Haydn  ac- 
cepted, and  the  two  set  forth  to  London. 

His  success  was  immediate  and  emphatic.  He  played  to  none  but  crowded 
haHs.  He  was  invited  everywhere,  and  honors,  including  a  degree  from  Oxford 

276 


FRANZ    JOSEF    HAVDN  277 

University,  were  heaped  upon  him.  He  nevertheless  found  time  to  fulfill  that  part 
of  his  contract  with  Salomon  which  required  him  to  compose  six  symphonies  for 
performance  in  London.  He  left  London,  happy,  prosperous,  and  famous,  and 
found  at  home  a  measure  of  acclaim  that  heretofore  had  been  denied  him.  A  subse- 
quent visit  to  England  resulted  in  a  repetition  of  his  success,  and  the  composition  of 
six  more  symphonies  for  Salomon.  Among  the  twelve  commissioned  by  this  pub- 
lisher we  find  the  best  of  Haydn's  symphonies — the  "Clock,"  the  "Surprise,"  the 
"Oxford,"  and  the  "London." 

Haydn  was  summoned  back  to  Austria  in  1795  by  the  then  head  of  the  Ester- 
hazys,  and  was  received  with  such  honor  as  he  had  never  before  known  in  his  native 
land.  The  fact  that  it  came  after  his  success  in  a  foreign  country  was  not  lost  upon 
him,  and  he  commented  upon  it  with  some  bitterness.  He  was  an  ardent  patriot, 
however,  and  had  not  been  home  long  before  he  composed  the  noble  hymn  Gott 
erhdte  Franz  den  Kaiser ',  which  became  the  national  anthem  of  Austria,  and  was 
in  use  as  such  until  after  the  World  War.  The  melody,  with  variations,  also  con- 
stitutes the  slow  movement  of  Haydn's  beautiful  "Kaiser"  Quartet. 

Three  years  after  Haydn's  final  return  to  the  Continent  from  Engknd,  the 
first  performance  of  his  celebrated  oratorio,  Tht  Creation,  was  given.  This  was 
his  most  ambitious  work,  and  was  a  magnificent  success.  The  English  fondness  for 
this  type  of  music,  and  the  devotion  and  skill  which  they  bring  to  bear  upon 
oratorio  performances,  can  be  traced  in  great  measure  to  the  works  of  Haydn  in 
this  form, 

Haydn  was  now  beginning  to  feel  the  weight  and  the  infirmities  of  many 
years.  Neither  his  health  nor  his  disposition  was  improved  when  he  found  his  beloved 
Vienna  invaded  by  the  French  in  1805 — an^  aga*n  in  1809.  ^n  ^P*te  °^  their 
attendant  slaughter,  wars  were  more  politely  conducted  in  those  days,  and  Haydn 
was  treated  with  great  respect  by  the  invaders.  Many  of  the  French  officers  came  to 
call  on  him,  and  no  doubt  to  hear  some  of  his  musk  at  first  hand. 

There  was  a  concert  and  performance  of  The  Cres&on  early  in  1 808*  Haydn, 
physically  weak  but  burning  with  all  his  old  enthusiasm,  was  carried  into  the  hall. 
The  performance  was  a  triumph,  and  the  old  musician  was  so  excited  that  his 
friends  thought  it  best  to  remove  him  even  before  it  was  finished.  From  this  night 
he  became  gradually  weaker,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  end  was  near.  Haydn  him- 
self sensed  it,  and  one  day  in  May,  1809,  he  summoned  his  household,  asked  to  be 
supported  at  his  clavier,  and  played  for  the  last  time  the  "Emperor's  Hyraa.n  Even 
as  he  played  the  French  were  once  more  in  Vienna, 

Five  days  later  the  father  of  the  symphony  was  dead. 

It  is  not  without  reason  that  Haydn  is  called  the  "father  of  the  symphony*" 
He  lived  at  a  time  when  music  in  the  contrapuntal,  polyphonic  style,  beautifully 
contrived  by  both  Italian  and  German  composers,  had  been  brought  to  the  ultimate 
limits  of  its  possibilities  by  Johann  Sebastian  Bach.  Composers  then  as  now  sought 


278  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

individuality  and  originality  in  style,  and  Haydn  looked  about  for  some  larger  form 
that  would  give  opportunity  for  exploitation  of  his  truly  remarkable  fund  of  musical 
ideas.  The  works  of  Karl  Philipp  Emanuel  Bach,  son  of  Johann,  gave  Haydn  the 
foundation  for  his  idea.  K.  P.  E.  Bach,  though  his  works  are  of  interest  chiefly  to 
the  musicologist  and  the  historian,  is  generally  credited  with  having  been  the  first 
to  employ  two  themes  simultaneously  in  certain  formal  relationship.  This  is  the 
basis  of  the  sonata  form,  which  Haydn  fully  developed,  and  which  in  turn  is  the 
foundation  of  the  classical  symphonic  movement.  (See  note  on  "The  Symphony/* 
page  25.) 

In  the  sonata  form,  two  themes  of  equal  importance  are  treated  in  several  sec- 
tions, in  one  of  which  duality  of  key  relationship  is  maintained;  in  the  second  of 
which  plurality  of  key  relationship  occurs,  and  in  the  third  of  which  unity  of  key 
relationship  Js  effected.  Sometimes  an  introduction  precedes  the  first  section,  or  expo- 
sition; then  comes  the  development  section;  then  the  recapitulation.  Often  there  is 
a  coda,  or  tailpiece,  to  finish  off  the  movement. 

Haydn  admitted  his  debt  to  K.  P.  E.  Bach.  It  was,  however,  the  wealth  of 
invention  and  the  amazing  clarity  which  marked  his  works  that  made  Haydn  truly 
great.  He  brought  to  bear  upon  the  "bones"  of  the  sonata  structure  the  products  of 
his  own  fertile  imagination,  and  developed  this  structure  from  a  stiff  and  attenuated 
skeleton  to  a  full-bodied,  richly  colored,  and  musically  satisfying  entity. 

That  is  not  to  say  that  the  Haydn  symphony  is  to  be  compared  with  the  ro- 
mantic or  modern.  It  is  too  rigidly  symmetrical,  reserved,  stylized,  and  relatively 
poor  in  emotional  content.  We  must,  however,  consider  it  against  the  background 
of  the  times,  and  mark  what  a  bold  and  constructive  departure  from  the  common- 
place k  represents.  The  orchestra  and  its  repertoire  are  today  infinitely  richer  in 
resources  than  in  Haydn's  time,  but  his  music,  though  it  rarely  flames  and  never 
explodes,  still  sparkles;  though  it  has  little  mystery  for  us,  it  has  magic.  He  took 
the  best  from  the  world  of  musk  as  he  saw  it,  and  made  of  it  a  firm  structure  upon 
which  the  greater  men  who  came  after  him  built  so  proudly. 


•'  Symphony  in  G  major 

[The  "Oxford"] 

ONE  of  the  most  charming  of  the  Salomon  group  of  twelve  symphonies  by  Haydn 
is  this  one,  in  G  major,  which  was  the  musical  fiece  de  resistance  on  the  occasion 
of  the  conferring  of  the  degree  of  doctor  of  music  upon  the  composer  by  the  Eng- 
lish university.  Three  concerts  were  given  at  Oxford  during  Haydn's  visit,  and  at 
the  second,  Haydn  himself  conducted  this  work,  since  generally  known  as  the 


FRANZ    JOSEF    HAYDH  279 

"Oxford5*  Symphony,  It  exhibits  the  characteristic  grace,  vitality,  and  exquisite 
finish  of  all  the  music  in  the  Salomon  group,  and  perhaps  because  of  its  particularly 
happy  spirit  and  vivacity  it  is  easily  one  of  the  favorite  Haydn  symphonies. 

The  composer's  skill  as  a  conductor  was  noted  with  pleasure  on  this  and  other 
occasions.  At  the  time,  the  art  of  conducting  as  we  know  it  was  unheard  of*  Orches- 
tral concerts  were  directed  from  the  piano,  and,  from  time  to  time,  the  conductor 
played  chords  from  the  score  before  him,  merely  to  give  a  degree  of  security  and 
precision  in  attack  to  the  orchestra  men.  The  concertmaster  also  directed,  standing 
up  in  his  place  and  beating  time  with  his  bow  as  a  baton,  or  with  his  foot,  or  perhaps 
by  striking  his  bow  against  his  music  stand.  The  conventional  baton  did  not  come 
into  use  until  many  years  later. 

We  have  a  survival  of  this  style  of  conducting  at  present,  when  occasionally  a 
great  pianist  is  also  a  conductor.  Bruno  Walter  and  Jose  Iturbi  frequently  conduct 
and  play  concertos  while  seated  at  the  piano. 

First  Movement 

The  symphony  begins  with  an  introduction  twenty  measures  in  length,  of 
which  all  but  seven  are  written  for  strings  alone.  Then  the  first  theme  of  the  main 
subject  occurs.  This  bold  and  animated  melody  is  also  assigned  to  the  strings,  and 
is  repeated  presently  by  the  flute.  The  development  following  involves  scales  that 
sweep  up  and  down  at  breakneck  speed,  punctuated  by  a  softly  interposed  comment 
of  bassoon  and  oboe. 


The  contrasting  second  theme  is  a  more  sentimental  and  gracious  melody, 
sung  by  violins.  Here  the  quality  of  the  music  suggests  the  curving  grace  of  feminin- 
ity ...  grace  and  winsomeness  in  charming  contrast  to  the  virility  of  the  first 
theme.  Stated  first  by  the  strings  alone,  the  theme  is  repeated  with  accompanying 
descending  and  ascending  scales  by  the  flute.  In  the  development  of  this  material 
woodwinds  and  strings  superimpose  sparkling  musical  gossip.  The  second  theme, 
originally  stated  by  the  violin,  is  now  heard  in  the  plaintive  voice  of  the  oboe,  and 
then  dear  and  tranquil  in  the  flute. 

Second  Movement 

There  is  a  gracious  dignity  and  stateliness  to  the  second  moTciaent  of  the 
symphony;  a  formality  that  suggests  panniers,  powdered  wigs  cctffed  high,  and 
satin  knee  breeches,  lace  cuffs,  and  snuffboxes. 


280  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  music  is  in  three-part  form,  with  the  first  and  third  divisions  made  up  of 
the  same  material.  The  second,  for  contrast,  differs  in  tonality  as  well  as  in  subject 
matter.  The  strings  have  the  opening  theme,  a  melody  of  straightforward  simplicity. 
Flute  and  oboe  add  their  voices,  and  the  theme  is  expanded  in  the  measures  preced- 
ing the  second  division. 


Here  the  subject  in  D  minor  is  cast  in  a  more  serious  mold.  The  forte  chords 
which  introduce  it  are  in  direct  contrast  to  the  serene  termination  of  the  first  section. 
Four  notes  for  bassoon  in  descending  sequence  usher  in  a  passage  for  flute  and 
oboes,  whose  piquant  charm  relieves  the  severity  of  the  strident  chords.  Strings,  in 
variation,  repeat  it  softly,  just  before  a  return  of  the  sinister  chords  that  mark  the 
close  of  the  second  division. 

Then  the  piercing  voice  of  the  oboe — supported  by  strings  and  horns — restates 
the  theme  of  the  first  division.  Strings  continue  with  it,  woodwinds  contribute 
plaintively,  and  the  lovely  melody  dies  softly  away* 

Third  Movement 

Like  the  preceding  movement,  the  menuetto  is  written  in  three-part  form. 
The  first  part  is  a  virile  melody  presented  by  full  orchestra.  The  customary  trio  is 
announced  by  bassoons  and  horns  with  pizzicato  accompaniment  in  the  strings.  The 
third  part  of  the  movement  is  an  exact  repetition  of  the  first. 


Ifot-tt 


Fourth  Movement 

The  lively  finale  opens  with  a  theme  assigned  to  the  strings.  Flutes  and  horns 
enter  at  the  sixteenth  measure,  and  the  melody  is  repeated  by  bassoons  and  lower 

fttrfo,  ^  . 

,^<>j*«ii_     '^g**L--_     . — -  -  •       *»as    •          t     ^  .  *-*    .     *?_LJ     f"fq  . 


•  ^•••;r  JBI-B^ 


•-••••••Jaiag^  >••«••.  ^^••»^a^t r  mm^armmmmm  mmmrm—t i_«t 

——mmmi---—immmm^i**mmmmmmjiwm^+immmmm^jmmm  mmmm    tr  ^— 1-'3 
^  ~         -^M*^i>. 

strings.  Somewhat  later  the  strings  announce  a  second  theme,  softly;  a  dainty 
mincing  figure  which  the  flute  imitates.  In  the  development,  both  themes  are 


FRANZ    JOSEF    HAYDN 

worked  out  with  fascinating  effects,  being  transferred  from  the  string  to  the  wind 
section  with  the  finesse  of  perfect  jugglery.  One  waits,  breathless,  to  hear  what 
more  can  be  achieved  with  these  delightful  melodies  .  .  .  and  suddenly  the  move- 
ment is  ended. 


Symphony  in  D  major 
[The  "Clock"] 
[B&HNo.4]* 


THE  number  of  symphonies  written  by  Haydn  exceeds  one  hundred.  It  is  estimated 
as  high  as  one  hundred  and  fifty-three,  but  in  a  collection  of  his  complete  works  the 
number  is  given  as  one  hundred  and  four. 

When  Beethoven  could  write  but  nine,  Tchaikovsky  six,  and  Brahms  four 
symphonies,  it  will  be  easy  to  conclude  that,  if  Haydn  wrote  a  hundred,  the  sym- 
phony of  his  time  must  have  been  something  quite  different  from  that  of  the  roman- 
tic and  modern  composers.  It  was.  It  was  infinitely  less  complicated  in  scoring; 
narrower  in  its  dynamic  and  emotional  range,  and  in  every  aspect,  less  exacting.  It 
bears  the  same  relationship  to  a  Brahms'  symphony  that  a  miniature  bears  to  a 
mural.  Consequently,  we  cannot  expect  to  find  here  the  emotional  ferment  that 
agitates  the  larger  and  more  modern  works.  The  audiences  for  whom  Haydn 
wrote  would  have  been  shocked  and  displeased,  their  ears  would  have  protested  at, 
say,  the  Sixth  Symphony  of  Tchaikovsky.  The  stylized,  the  formal,  and  well-bred, 
the  restrained  and  polite,  the  correct  and  perfect  thing,  appealed  to  them. 

This  is  not  to  intimate  that  Haydn's  music  is  without  charm.  Quite  the  con- 
trary. There  is  something  singularly  refreshing  and  relaxing  in  the  sweet  simplicity, 
the  fine  direct  line,  the  firm  symmetrical  contours  of  this  music.  The  world  seems 
to  be  turning  a  degree  or  so  toward  gradousness  and  ease  and  leisure — enforced  or 
otherwise;  perhaps  this  influence  will  be  felt  in  musk,  and  such  symphonies  as  this 
will  become  even  more  widely  popular. 

First  Movement 

The  movement  has  an  introduction,  slow  and  grave,  a  foil  for  the  sprightly 
musk  that  constitutes  the  main  body  of  this  section.  A  slowly  ascending  passage  for 
strings  and  bassoons  sounds  against  woodwind  and  one  section  of  violins;  then,  anti- 


*  Breitkopf  &  Hartel  number  this  symphony  "4"  in  their  catalog  of  Haydn's  music. 
It  is  the  fifth  in  the  second  series  of  six  composed  by  Haydn  for  the  London  publisher 
Salomon, 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

thetically,  violas  and  cellos  in  opposite  motion  give  a  descending  phrase,  repeated  by 
flutes.  The  movement  proper  begins  with  a  vivacious  announcement,  by  the  first 
violins,  of  the  swiftly  ascending  scales  which  constitute  the  first  theme.  Later  the 
same  instruments  are  entrusted  with  the  presentation  of  the  second  theme,  and 
both  are  presently  involved  in  elaborate  counterpoint,  the  themes  reversed  and  con- 
trasted and  otherwise  called  forth  in  contrast  to,  and  support  of,  each  other. 

Second  Movement 

It  is  this  movement  which  has  caused  the  work  to  be  known  as  the  "Clock" 
Symphony.  The  fanciful  title  is  not  so  farfetched  as  some.  It  arises  from  the  firm 
slow  rhythm  with  which  the  movement  progresses — a  rhythm  marked  by  staccato 
notes  of  bassoons,  violins,  cellos,  and  basses  (the  strings  playing  pizzicato),  against 
which  first  violins  play  a  singularly  delicate  and  simple  melody.  With  occasional 
robust  passages  for  contrast,  the  idea  presented  in  the  opening  section  of  the  move- 
ment persists  throughout,  the  respective  melody  and  "ticking  clock"  parts  being 
assigned  to  different  groups  of  instruments. 

Third  Movement 

It  was  a  convention  which  persisted  for  some  time  after  Haydn  that  the  third 
movement  of  a  symphony  be  cast  in  the  form  of  a  minuet.  Polite  eighteenth-century 
society  knew  nothing  more  abandoned.  The  present  movement  is  in  characteristic 
form,  but  somewhat  jollier,  though  not  less  graceful,  than  the  typical  minuet  of  the 
period.  There  is  an  incident  in  harmony  here  which  is  strange  to  the  music  of  Haydn 
but  sounds  conventional  enough  to  modern  ears.  It  occurs  in  the  trio — the  second 
section  of  the  minuet — and  produces  a  dissonance  not  at  all  disagreeable.  The  emi- 
nent critic  Mr.  Lawrence  Gflman  held  that  it  was  not  Haydn's  or  a  copyist's  mis- 
take; that  it  appears  in  the  Haydn  manuscript  and  can  be  regarded  merely  as  a 
drone  bass. 

Fourth  Movement 

It  must  have  been  such  sprightly  and  ingenious  music  as  this  which  captivated 
the  English  at  the  Salomon  concerts;  indeed,  it  would  fascinate  anyone  who  has 
ears  to  hear.  The  strings  have  a  broad  phrase  to  deliver  as  the  chief  subject  of  the 
movement,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  lightfooted  vivacious  rhythm  asserts  itself, 
sparkling  through  all  sections  of  the  orchestra  and  eventually  involving  the  ensem- 
ble in  a  brilliant  fugue  based  on  the  opening  subject. 


FRANZ    JOSEF    HAYDN  283 

Symphony  in  G  major  * 
[The  "Surprise"] 

THIS  delightful  and  perfect  little  symphony  was  one  of  the  group  commissioned  by 
the  London  publisher  Salomon.  It  is  number  three  in  the  first  group  bearing  the 
name  of  the  publisher,  and  was  first  performed  in  London  on  March  23,  1792. 
Sometimes  it  is  called  the  symphony  €€mt  dem  Paukenschlag*' — both  this  tide  and 
the  appellation  "surprise"  being  assigned  to  it  because  of  the  sudden  orchestral  crash 
occurring  at  the  end  of  a  pianissimo  passage  in  the  second  movement.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  Haydn  had  noticed  a  number  of  drowsy  people  at  certain  London 
concerts,  and  that  he  inserted  the  pianissimo  string  passage,  interrupted  by  the  rude 
sforzando  in  full  orchestra,  to  lull  the  ladies  into  a  trap  of  somnolence  and  then 
awaken  them  with  a  "bang."  He  is  quoted  as  having  gleefully  exclaimed,  "Here 
the  ladies  will  shriek!"  Perhaps  they  did  in  those  days,  but  the  bombshell  is  a  squib 
to  modern  ears.  After  all,  we  have  heard  Wagner  and  Stravinsky! 

First  Movement 

It  must  always  be  remembered  that  the  symphonies  of  Haydn  and  his  con- 
temporaries cannot  be  regarded  in  the  same  light  as  those  of  the  later  dlasrical,  and 
more  recent  romantic,  composers.  They  are  symphonies  in  miniature,  so  to  speak, 
and  though  fascinating  in  their  delicate  and  perfect  workmanship,  in  their  charming 
melodic  line  and  grace  of  form,  they  must  not  be  expected  to  reveal  the  large  effect, 
the  intense  emotional  expressiveness,  the  glamorous  color,  and  wide  dynamic  range 
of  the  more  modern  symphonies. 

The  present  work  is  important  as  well  as  charming,  for  in  it  Haydn  reveals  a 
beautiful  example  of  the  three-part  sonata  form  which  he  himself  had  so  highly 
developed.  There  is  a  brief  introduction,  with  a  delightfully  melodious  passage 
given  alternately  to  a  woodwind  and  horn  combination,  and  to  strings.  After  the 
fine  crescendo  and  diminuendo  there  is  a  distinct  atmosphere  of  anticipation,  and 
here  the  first  movement  proper  begins. 

It  opens  vivaciously,  with  the  first  theme,  entrusted,  appropriately,  to  the 
violins,  which  sing  it  softly  but  with  sparkle.  Its  second  phrase  sounds  more  vigor- 
ously in  full  orchestra*  The  theme  is  "appropriate"  to  the  violins  because  of  its  close 
resemblance  to  a  typical  Hungarian  gypsy  tune.  Haydn,  whose  acquaintance  wkfa 
the  wonderful  treasury  of  melody  to  be  found  in  the  folk  music  of  Middle  Europe, 
did  not  hesitate  to  draw  upon  it  frequently  for  thematic  material,  and  die  present 
theme  is  certainly  one  of  his  happiest  selections. 

The  second  part  of  the  first  theme  is  considerably  exploited  and  repeated, 
until  the  first  phrase  appears  again,  in  flute  and  strings.  Now  the  Ley  of  D  major — 

*  No.  6  in  Bueitlopf  &  HlrtePi  edition  of  H^da't  ***b. 


284  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  key  of  the  dominant — is  emphasized,  suggesting  that  it  will  be  the  contrasting 
tonality  in  which  the  second  theme  of  the  movement  will  be  proposed.  And  so  it 
happens.  The  second  theme  is  not  particularly  outstanding;  you  will  hear  it  in  the 
running  string  passages,  but  its  second  phrase  will  be  more  conspicuous.  This  is  a 
vigorously  rhythmic  and  buoyant  melody,  leading  to  a  transitional  passage  which 
precedes  the  development  section  of  the  movement. 

The  development  begins  with  fragments  of  the  first  theme,  heard  in  the 
strings;  some  modulations  through  related  keys,  and  then  an  announcement  of  the 
chief  theme  in  the  key  of  G  major — indicating  that  the  development  section  is  fin- 
ished and  the  recapitulation  about  to  begin.  The  development  section  of  this  move- 
ment is  curiously  brief  and  loose  in  structure,  but  contains  elements  that  suggest  the 
broader  thematic  treatment  which  was  later  to  be  a  conspicuous  feature  of  sym- 
phonies of  the  romantic  school. 

In  the  recapitulation,  convention  requires  that  the  thematic  material  be  so 
brought  together  as  to  agree  in  tonality  and  exhibit  unity  in  contrast  with  preceding 
duality  and  pluraKty  of  key  relationship.  This  Haydn  neatly  accomplishes,  and  even 
brings  in  charming  ornamental  ideas  which  have  not  heretofore  appeared  in  the 
movement. 

Second  Movement 

In  Haydn's  time  the  second  movement  was  a  great  favorite  with  his  audiences, 
not  alone  because  it  contains  the  famous  "surprise,"  but  because  of  its  intrinsic 
beauty  and  charm.  It  is  cast  in  the  form  of  theme  and  variations:  a  movement  built 
up  of  a  single  basic  theme,  manipulated  successively  in  many  different  derivations 
of  itself.  The  basic  melody  is  heard  in  the  strings,  softly,  as  the  movement  begins. 
It  is  repeated  even  more  softly,  and  as  it  reaches  the  extreme  of  pianissimo,  we  are 
expected  to  be  startled  by  the  "Paukenschlag"  the  drumbeat  pointing  the  orchestral 
crash  which  gives  the  symphony  its  nickname. 

In  the  first  variation  the  melody  is  given  out  strongly  by  second  violins  and 
violas,  with  the  first  violins  presenting  a  variation  of  it.  The  second  variation  ap-< 
pears  in  the  key  of  C  minor,  beginning  with  sweeping  and  powerful  octaves,  alter- 
nated with  a  first-violin  passage  leading  to  the  key  of  E-flat  major.  The  third 
variation  is  first  assigned  to  the  oboe — still  in  E-flat  major — then  to  violins,  and  a 
moment  later  it  appears  in  a  lovely  passage  for  flute  and  oboe.  The  fourth  version 
of  the  theme  is  announced  by  full  orchestra,  fortissimo,  contrasted  with  a  softer 
passage  in  which  the  violas  have  prominence.  A  fifth  variation  is  projected,  but 
scarcely  materializes  before  the  movement  softly  ends. 

Third  Movement 

The  third  movement  presents  another  innovation  attributed  to  Haydn — the 
introduction  of  a  popular  dance  form  as  the  third  symphonic  section.  Haydn,  of 


FRANZ    JOSEF    HAYDN  285 

course,  used  the  minuet,  the  dance  of  polite  society  in  his  day.  A  contemporary 
composer  could  use  a  fox  trot  with  perfect  propriety — just  as  Beethoven  incorpo- 
rated boisterous  dancelike  movements  in  his  symphonies,  just  as  Tchaikovsky  em- 
ployed the  waltz  in  his. 

This  minuet  is  in  characteristic  style,  the  first  and  third  parts  dainty  and  play- 
ful, the  middle  part,  or  trio,  somewhat  more  grave. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  final  movement  is  a  brief  rondo,  built  upon  two  simple  themes,  and  pro- 
ceeding at  a  furious  pace  through  all  its  short  but  merry  life.  The  musk  must  have 
been  particularly  exacting  for  the  fiddlers  of  Haydn's  time,  for  it  is  exigent  enough 
even  today,  after  aU  the  years  of  improvement  and  development  in  violinistic 
technique. 


Symphony  in  C  major 

[Salomon  Set,  No.  i] 

First  Movement 

THE  symphony  opens  with  a  short  introduction  in  C  major,  for  strings  and  wood- 
winds. The  main  theme  of  the  movement  is  ushered  in  by  a  fortissimo  assertion  in 
full  orchestra.  This  theme  is  then  commented  upon  by  strings  and  woodwinds  in  the 
pleasing  variety  of  tone  color  which  these  instruments  offer.  Woodwinds  finally 
give  way  to  the  strings,  which  state,  in  unison,  a  boldly  triumphant  phrase  tiiat 
directly  precedes  a  second  theme.  Violins  announce  this  second  theme — a  lilting 
phrase  timidly  introduced  and  later  gaining  assurance  in  a  forceful  triplet  figure. 
There  is  a  repetition  of  both  themes  and  their  development,  leading  to  the  second 
movement  of  the  symphony. 

Second  Movement 

The  slow  movement  in  4/4  time,  begins  in  F  major*  The  theme,  announced 
at  once  by  the  strings,  is  a  gentle  melody,  full  of  happiness  and  serenity.  An  emo- 
tional surge  at  the  realization  of  such  contentment  is  expressed  by  the  long  violin 
tone  sustained  over  the  ascending  crescendo  scale  in  the  bass,  easily  discovered  a 
few  moments  later.  The  theme  is  then  heard  in  a  triplet  figure  in  the  strings;  then 
there  is  a  milder  section  in  F  minor.  A  return  to  the  major  key  changes  the  mood 
again,  and  the  theme  is  then  presented  in  delightful  variation,  mischievously  parody- 


286  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ing  the  quiet  melody  ,  .  *  until  descending  thirds  in  the  various  choirs  bring  the 
movement  to  a  close. 

Third  Movement 

The  minuet,  in  typical  Haydn  style,  commences  with  a  theme  for  full  orches- 
tra. The  trio,  or  middle  section,  is  a  particularly  charming  one.  It  is  built  upon  a 
subject  played  by  first  violins,  oboe,  and  bassoon.  The  opening  theme  is  repeated, 
and  leads  to  the  finale. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  finale  in  2/4  time  is  in  rondo  form.  It  is  highly  animated,  and  sparkles 
with  audacity  and  verve.  Here  the  entire  orchestra  is  involved  in  friendly  chatter; 
an  interchange  of  queries  and  answers  in  the  string  and  wind  choirs,  such  as  Haydn 
delighted  to  suggest,  keeps  the  music  interesting  and  lively  to  the  close. 


GUSTAV  HOLST 

[1874-1934] 

GCJSTAV  HOLST,  though  born  in  England,  came  of  a  family  that  had  its  roots 
in  Russia  and  Sweden  and  Poland.  Several  generations,  however,  were 
native  to  the  British  Isles.  Gustav  was  born  at  Cheltenham,  the  son  of  a 
musician;  his  father  wanted  the  boy  to  follow  a  musical  career,  but  did  not  expect 
that  it  would  be  along  the  line  of  creative  music.  The  boy  learned  to  play  piano 
and  organ;  later,  several  other  instruments.  His  most  interesting  studies,  however, 
were  those  in  composition  under  Villiers  Stanford.  He  was  noted  also  as  conductor 
and  teacher  of  choirs,  and  made  numerous  public  appearances  in  these  positions. 

Hoist  was  a  modern,  but  a  reasonable  one.  His  music,  while  sometimes  strange 
and  difficult,  seems  valid  and  sincere,  with  no  struggling  for  "effect  at  any  price-" 
Much  of  his  musk  has  been  heard  in  America,  and  continues  to  be  heard  with  in- 
creasing frequency. 


The  Planets 

{Suite  for  Orchestra] 

THE  suite  is  composed  for  large  orchestra  and  organ,  and  there  is  a  chorus  of 
female  vokes  in  one  section.  The  composer,  when  interviewed  before  the  perform- 
ance of  The  Planets  in  1920,  gave  the  following  statement,  which  is  quoted  from 
the  program  notes  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  for  the  concert  of  Hoist's 
music,  conducted  by  the  composer,  January  22,  1932: 

These  pieces  were  suggested  by  the  astrological  significance  of  the  plan- 
ets; there  is  no  program  music  in  them,  neither  have  they  any  connection  with 
the  deities  of  classical  mythology  bearing  the  same  names.  If  any  guide  to  the 
music  is  required,  the  subtitle  to  each  piece  will  be  found  sufficient,  especially  if 
it  be  used  in  a  broad  sense.  For  instance,  Jupiter  brings  jollity  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  and  also  the  more  ceremonial  kind  of  rejoicing  associated  with  religious 
or  national  festivities.  Saturn  brings  not  only  physical  decay,  but  also  a  vision 
of  fulfillment  Mercury  is  the  symbol  of  mind. 


/.  Mars  —  The  Bringer  of  War:  A  single  note  is  played  by  strings 
and  by  percussion.  Bassoons  and  horns  bring  forth  an  aggressive  figure,  and  wars 
rage  in  the  brass.  The  organ  adds  its  might  to  a  great  climax- 


288  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

2.  Venus — The  Bringer  of  Peace:  She  has  never  been  noted  for  it!  But  the 
movement  is  rather  peaceful  and  slow,  and  features  a  violin  solo. 

3.  Mercury — The  Winged  Messenger:  Mercury  is  known  in  this  character 
to  everyone.  He  is  also  the  patron  of  thieves. 

4.  Jupter — The  Bringer  of  Jollity:  Olympian  merriment  rocks  the  orchestra; 
horn  and  woodwind  inaugurate  the  theme.  More  solemn  joys  are  expressed  as  the 
movement  progresses. 

5.  Saturn — The  Bringer  of  Old  Age:  Surly  phrases  for  double  bass,  and  kter, 
footsteps  toward  oblivion,  also  in  the  bass  strings,  pizzicato. 

6.  Uranus — The  Magician:  The  magic  occurs  largely  in  the  lower  sections 
of  the  orchestra,  basses,  tubas,  and  bassoons  having  important  roles.  A  distressing 
slide,  fortissimo,  on  the  organ,  and  an  immediately  following  suppression  of  all  in- 
struments, suggests  horrors  and  black  magic. 

7.  Neptune — The  Mystic:  The  score  requires  a  chorus  of  women's  voices, 
but  this  is  not  always  employed.  The  principal  incident  is  projected  through  two 
flutes,  soli.  The  conclusion  is  lively. 


ARTHUR  HONEGGER 

[Born  1892] 

HONEGGER  was  born  of  Swiss-German  parents  at  Le  Havre,  where  his 
family  had  been  settled  for  some  time.  His  mother  encouraged  his  musi- 
cal tendencies,  and  his  surroundings  supplied  his  mind  with  vivid  images 
—  the  sea,  the  teeming  harbor,  the  great  locomotives  that  drew  the  rapid*  to  Paris. 
The  latter  were  eventually  to  suggest  the  music  by  which  Honegger  is  best  known 
in  this  country  —  Pacific  231  —  but  which  has  mercifully  disappeared  from  sym- 
phonic programs  during  the  last  few  years. 

Honegger  was  sent,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  to  study  music  in  Switzerland  ;  later 
he  worked  with  private  teachers  in  Paris,  and  finally  at  the  Conservatoire.  The  war 
interrupted  his  studies,  but  he  continued  them  eventually,  becoming  the  pupil  of 
such  eminent  masters  as  Charles  Marie  Widor,  the  venerable  organist  of  St.  Sulpke, 
and  Vincent  d'Indy.  His  most  important  work,  perhaps,  is  Le  Rot  David,  a  "sym- 
phonic psalm,"  with  narrator,  soloists,  and  chorus.  His  best-known  orchestral  works 
are  Pad  fie  231  and  Rugby;  neither  is  of  great  moment,  though  both  have  distinct 
elements  of  interest. 


Rugby 

[A  Symphonic  Movement] 

THIS  curious  music  claims  the  title  "symphonic"  because  it  begins  and  ends  in  the 
same  key*  Yet  so  distinguished  a  critic  as  Henry  Prunieres  is  not  quite  sure  even  of 
this;  from  which  one  can  deduce  that  the  music  is  rather  free  and  vague  in  form. 

Honegger  seems  to  have  that  dangerous  facility  that  sometimes  entices  men 
to  the  production  of  work  unworthy  of  their  real  talents.  Pacific  231,  with  its 
rather  cheap  imitation  of  a  locomotive  and  its  strident  dissonances,  was  an  example 
of  this.  "Was"  is  used  deliberately,  for  the  piece  seems  to  have  been  consigned  to 
"the  limbo  of  forgotten  things."  Rugby,  in  spite  of  its  looseness,  does  not  descend 
to  cinematographic  representation  of  the  game  of  football;  on  the  contrary,  it 
contains  what  one  might  reasonably  call  the  abstract  pattern  of  a  game,  for  the 
formations,  the  movements,  the  jarring  stops,  the  oppositions,  and  struggles  —  all 
are  suggested  skillfully,  and  with  masterly  command  of  orchestral  resources. 

The  composition  of  Rugby  was  more  or  less  an  accident.  It  is  related  that 
Honegger  once  said  to  a  newspaperman  that  he  could,  while  watching  a  game 
of  football,  visualize  its  movement  and  pattern  in  music.  The  reporter  burst  into 
print  with  the  story  that  Honegger  was  writing  a  football  symphony;  and  the 
idea  so  amused  the  composer  that  when  he  was  asked  to  write  a  pece 
he  wrote  Rugby* 

2*9 


VINCENT  D'INDY 

[1851-1931] 

VINCENT  D'INDY  lived  through  a  period  which  saw  the  rise  and  decline 
of  more  than  one  musical  reform  and  revolt.  It  its  astonishing,  somehow, 
to  find  that  he  was  a  veteran  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  knew  Liszt, 
Brahms,  Franck;  and  was  present  at  the  first  performance  of  Wagner's  Ring 
operas;  yet  lived  through  the  World  War,  knew  the  music  of  Stravinsky  and  Ravel 
and  Schonberg,  and,  it  seems,  left  us  only  yesterday. 

The  composer  was  born  at  Paris,  and  died  there.  As  an  obedient  son,  he 
studied  for  the  bar  at  the  wish  o£  his  parents,  though  his  musical  inclinations  were 
strong.  His  father  was  not  unsympathetic  to  music,  and  played  violin  himself;  on 
the  death  of  his  mother,  d'Indy  was  entrusted  to  the  care  of  his  grandmother,  who 
was  an  excellent  musician  and  taught  him  much.  He  became  a  member  of  an 
orchestra,  playing  timpani;  later  won  an  appointment  as  a  chorusmaster,  and  finally 
studied  under  Cesar  Franck  at  the  Conservatoire.  He  was  not  satisfied  at  the 
school,  and  became  a  private  pupil  of  Franck. 

In  1905,  d'Indy  was  invited  to  conduct  a  series  of  concerts  in  America,  with 
the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  He  accepted,  and  appeared  in  Boston,  Phila- 
delphia, Baltimore,  Washington,  and  New  York,  playing  many  of  his  own  works 
with  conspicuous  success.  The  composer  has  written  a  number  of  books,  among 
them  a  life  of  his  friend  and  teacher,  Cesar  Franck;  a  biography  of  Beethoven,  and 
technical  works  on  music.  He  has  composed  much  chamber  music,  as  well  as  choral, 
and  some  beautiful  tilings  for  the  piano. 


Istar 

[Symphonic  Variations] 

THE  strange  and  exotic  beauty  of  this  music,  and  of  the  timeless  tale  which  inspired 
it,  have  made  the  Variations — not  to  be  anticipated  as  something  formal  and 
scholastic,  but  rather  as  a  fantasia  or  symphonic  poem — a  welcome  incident  on 
orchestral  programs*  Eugene  Ysaye  was  first  to  perform  this  music,  conducting  it 
at  Brussels,  January  10,  1897.  During  the  next  season  it  was  pkyed  by  the  Chicago 
Symphony  Orchestra — the  Theodore  Thomas  orchestra — and  conducted  by  that 
devoted  and  illustrious  musician. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  that,  appropriately  to  details  of  the  story  which  accom- 
pany the  music,  the  composer  has  not  built  iq>  to  an  elaborated  climax,  but  rather 


VINCENT  D'INDY  291 

away  from  it;  the  theme  is  not  presented  entirely,  nor  with  final  clarity,  until  the 
end,  where  Istar  stands  forth  in  lovely  nakedness,  passing  the  last  gate  in  the  house 
of  death,  and  releasing  her  lover. 

The  darker  and  more  mysterious  tones  of  woodwind  and  horn  project  the  be- 
ginnings of  the  subject,  and  a  curious  irregular  rhythm  is  established  by  the  wood- 
wind. The  significance  and  development  of  each  variation  is  indicated  by  the  verses 
of  the  ancient  Babylonian  poem  which  inspired  the  music,  here  given  in  the  version  of 
William  Foster  Apthorp: 

Toward  the  immutable  land,  Istar,  daughter  of  Sin  (a  proper  name), 
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  5  he  took  the  high  tiara  from 
her  head. 

At  the  second  gate,  the  warder  stripped  her  j  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  the  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. 


MIKHAIL  IPPOLITOV-IVANOV 

[1859-1935] 

THE  composer  was  born  at  Gatchina.  His  father  was  a  mechanic,  but  was 
able  to  provide  the  rudiments  of  a  musical  education.  The  boy  studied 
violin,  and,  in  his  seventeenth  year,  was  admitted  to  the  Conservatory  at 
St.  Petersburg.  There  he  had  the  advantage  of  working  under  the  great  Rimsky- 
Korsakov,  and  he  employed  it  so  thoroughly  that  on  his  graduation  he  was  appointed 
conductor  of  the  concerts  given  by  the  Imperial  Russian  Musical  Society  at  Tiflis. 
He  held  a  succession  of  important  positions  under  the  old  Russian  regime,  includ- 
ing conductorship  of  the  Imperial  Opera  and  of  the  Moscow  Choral  Society, 
and  a  professorship  at  the  Moscow  Conservatoire. 

Ippolitov-Ivanov,  while  conductor  of  the  symphony  concerts  at  Tiflis,  made 
a  penetrating  and  thorough  study  of  the  folk  music  of  the  Caucasus,  and  wrote 
an  exhaustive  report  of  his  findings  which  is  the  absolute  authority  on  the  subject. 
His  suite,  Caucasian  Sketches,  is,  of  course,  one  of  the  results  of  his  investigations. 
The  composer  managed  to  maintain  his  prestige  under  the  Soviet,  as  well  as 
under  the  Czarist,  government.  He  was  given  national  honors  by  the  former  in 
1923. 


Caucasian  Sketches 


THIS  pleasant  music  remains  a  favorite  with  the  radio  and  summer  concert 
audiences.  Occasionally  in  the  past  few  years  it  has  appeared  in  programs  of  the 
regular  season  of  symphony  orchestras.  The  suite  is  in  four  sections,  each  colorful, 
picturesque,  and  contrasting  with  its  fellows.  The  suggestion  of  Georgian  folk 
music  is  powerful.  The  four  parts  are,  in  order,  "Dans  le  defile"  (In  the  Moun- 
tain Pass),  "Dans  Paoule"  (In  the  Village),  "Dans  la  mosquee"  (In  the  Mosque), 
and  the  ever-popular  and  grandiloquent  "Cortege  du  sirdar"  (March  of  the 
Sirdar). 


29* 


WERNER  JANSSEN 
[Born  1899] 

WERNER  JANSSEN  was  born  in  New  York  into  the  family  of  a  famous 
restaurateur.  He  had  a  thorough  musical  as  well  as  general  education, 
graduating  from  Phillips  Exeter  Academy  and  Dartmouth  College, 
and  studying  with  Chadwick  and  Friedheim  in  theory,  composition,  and  piano. 
His  musical  inclinations  were  discouraged  by  his  father,  who  preferred  a  Boniface 
to  a  Beethoven  in  the  family.  His  career  as  composer  began  when  he  was  in  college, 
where  he  wrote  the  music  for  several  of  the  college  stage  productions;  his  activities 
continued  more  or  less  along  the  same  line  after  graduation,  when  we  find  his 
name  associated  with  the  music  of  a  number  of  Broadway  entertainments,  among 
them  the  Ziegfeld  Follies  of  1925-26*  He  became  assistant  conductor  at  the  old 
Roxy  Theatre  in  New  York,  and  two  years  later  won  the  American  Prix  de  Rome 
with  the  composition  discussed  here.  He  has  conducted  in  Italy,  Germany,  and 
with  sensational  success  in  the  Scandinavian  countries. 

Mr.  Janssen  was  chosen  as  one  of  the  American  conductors  of  the  Phil- 
harmonic Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  for  the  season  1934-35,  and  is  one  of 
the  few  native  Americans  ever  to  conduct  regular  concerts  of  this  great  orchestra. 
He  later  was  conductor  of  the  Baltimore  Symphony,  and  is  at  present  writing  music 
in  and  for  Hollywood. 


New  Year's  Eve  in  New  York 
[Symphonic  Poem  for  Symphony  Orchestra  and  Jazz  Band] 

THE  possible  utility  of  jazz  in  the  field  of  symphonic  music  has  engrossed  many 
modern  composers,  particularly  those  in  America.  For  a  time  jazz  seemed  a  quite 
important  musical  development,  but  now,  since  the  excitement  of  Whiteman  con- 
certs in  Carnegie  Hall,  and  the  frank  interpolation  of  jazz  into  various  pieces  for 
symphony  orchestra,  it  is  evident  that  jazz  music,  virtually  all  of  it  unoriginal  and 
uninspired,  has  little  to  contribute  to  symphonic  music,  and  that  little  is  remotely 
derived  from  serious  music  anyway.  It  should  be  remembered  that  there  is  no 
harmonic,  rhythmic,  or  melodic  device  characteristic  of  jazz  that  has  not  been 
employed,  countless  times,  in  serious  music;  and  this  long  before  there  was  any  such 
thing  as  jazz.  Jazz  orchestration  has  of  course  introduced  some  novelties,  mostly 
raucous. 

Nevertheless,  any  folk  expression,  whether  poetic,  or  crude,  or  merely  cheap 

293 


294  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

and  noisy,  is  significant;  so  regarded,  it  is  entitled  to  consideration  by  the  serious 
musician.  Mr.  Janssen  relates,  in  the  programs  of  the  Chicago  and  Cleveland 
orchestras,  that  he  discussed  this  point  with  Mr.  Carl  Engel,  late  chief  of  the  Music 
Division  of  the  Library  of  Congress,  now  head  of  the  publishing  house  of  G. 
Schirmer.  Mr.  Engel,  a  musician  and  scholar  of  distinction,  suggested  the  employ- 
ment of  jazz  as  a  logical  feature  of  a  work  designed  along  the  lines  of  New 
Year's  Eve;  and  a  year  later  Mr,  Janssen  began  work  on  it. 

The  old-time  New  Year's  Eve  in  New  York  is  largely  a  thing  of  the  past. 
The  years  of  prohibition  and  depression  gradually  took  the  sparkle  out  of  it.  There 
is  still  noise  and  some  excitement,  but  the  evening  Janssen  celebrates  is  a  wilder, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  healthier  and  more  spontaneous,  bacchanalia.  Americans 
seem  to  have  become  too  cynical,  too  blase,  for  such  outpourings,  yet  we  are,  as  a 
nation,  too  unsophisticated  to  invent  any  other  kind  of  joyful  expression. 

The  restless  rhythms  of  the  music  suggest  the  aimless  wanderings  of  the 
crowds  along  Broadway.  Everyone  is  awaiting  the  stroke  of  twelve.  Taxis  dart 
here  and  there,  the  bright  lights  glare,  newsboys  cry  the  morning  papers,  "white- 
top"  restaurants  disgorge  visitors  from  the  Bronx,  the  tolerant  cop  ignores  the 
nofey  drunk  but  not  the  flashing  traffic  light.  Excitement  grows  as  the  midnight 
hour  approaches;  the  clock  strikes  twelve  and  pandemonium  reigns.  Here  the  jazz 
band  k  introduced,  and  the  symphonic  poem  temporarily  becomes  a  modern 
concerto  grosso. 

Besides  the  usual  orchestral  instruments,  the  orchestra  includes  a  fire  siren, 
automobile  horn,  paper  horns  of  the  type  peddled  in  the  streets  on  holidays,  banjo, 
piano,  and  rattles. 


WERNER  JOSTEN 

[Born  1888] 

JOSTEN  is  GERMAN  BY  BIRTH,  American  by  adoption.  He  was  born  at  Elber- 
feld,  Germany,  and  came  to  New  York  in  the  early  'ao's.  His  musical  edu- 
cation was  carried  on  in  Germany  and  Switzerland,  and,  in  recent  years,  in 
America.  In  1923  the  composer  was  offered  a  teaching  post  at  Smith  College, 
which  he  accepted  and  still  holds.  He  has  been  active  in  the  revival  of  many  ancient 
operas,  especially  those  of  Handel  and  Monteverdi.  Several  operas  of  the  latter 
have  been  produced  for  the  first  time  in  America  under  Mr*  Josten's  direction. 

Mr.  Josten  has  composed  a  number  of  important  works  in  various  forms.  His 
Concerto  sacro  reveals  musical  tendencies  of  great  interest 5  Jungle  is  his  most 
popular  and  best-known  music. 


Jungle 
[Symphonic  Movement  for  fall  orchestra] 

ey  though,  according  to  the  composer,  inspired  by  a  painting — the  work  o£ 
Henri  Rousseau — entitled  Foret  exoUquey  is  definitely  absolute  music,  with  no 
program  or  story  through  which  it  might  be  interpreted  in  detail.  The  fragments 
of  weird  melody  that  appear  in  it  are  original  with  the  composer;  no  native  tunes 
are  used,  and  the  only  aboriginal  derivation  is,  according  to  the  composer's  note  in 
the  program  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  a  rhythmic  motive  of  voodoo 
origin. 

The  teeming  life  of  the  jungle,  the  fetid  growths,  the  primitive  struggles  of 
plant  and  animal  life  for  survival,  the  shuddering  cries  of  victims  of  ferocity — 
these  and  other  details  have  an  effect  that  is  at  once  subduing  and  exciting;  and 
it  is  the  responses  of  a  civilized  man  to  these  stimuli  that  the  composer,  according 
to  his  own  word,  wishes  to  suggest. 

The  orchestration  includes  a  large  percussion  section,  which  requires  among 
other  effects,  a  "lion  roar." 


ZOLTAN  KODALY 

[Born  1882] 

ZDLTAN  KODALY  was  born  at  Kecskemet,  in  Hungary.  His  musical  gifts 
were  not  particularly  noticed  when  he  was  a  small  child,  for  an  inclina- 
tion toward  music  was  entirely  normal  in  a  litde  Hungarian  boy  at  the 
time.  At  the  age  of  eighteen,  however,  the  young  man  was  enrolled  as  a  student 
at  the  Conservatory  in  Budapest,  and  there  studied  under  Hans  Koessler.  The  great 
influences  of  the  time — Brahms  and  Debussy — had  their  effect  upon  Kodaly  in  his 
student  days,  and  several  early  works  reveal  that  the  young  composer  was  en- 
thralled by  the  music  of  the  older  masters.  However,  it  was  not  long  before  he  be- 
came interested  in  the  folk  music  of  his  own  country,  which  eventually  quite  en- 
grossed him.  Indeed,  the  study  of  Hungarian  folk  music  should  be  rich  in  interest 
for  any  student,  for  though  it  is  known  to  have  been  affected  by  native  gypsy  as 
well  as  foreign  influences,  its  original  sources  are  obscure.  Whatever  Kodaly  may 
have  accomplished  in  tracing  the  origin  of  Hungarian  music,  he  performed  a  price- 
less service  for  music  in  general  when  he  collected,  often  from  the  very  mouths  of 
the  peasants  who  sang  them,  a  wonderful  group  of  native  melodies.  It  is  reported 
that  he  has  gathered  together,  in  collaboration  with  Bela  Bartok,  several  thousand 
folk  songs  of  his  own  country. 

Six  years  after  his  enrollment  at  the  Budapest  Conservatory,  Kodaly  became 
head  of  the  department  of  composition  there.  A  few  years  later,  he  had  as  one  of 
his  pupils  the  brilliant  conductor  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  Eugene  Ormandy. 
Mr.  Ormandy  has  established  himself  as  the  authoritative  interpreter  of  Kodaly's 
music,  and  particularly  of  the  suite,  Hary  Janos. 


Hary  Janos 


PERHAPS  the  most  important  work  of  Kodaly,  to  date,  is  the  opera,  Hary  Janes, 
based  upon  Hungarian  legend  and  folk  music.  It  was  presented  for  the  first  time, 
and  successfully,  in  Budapest,  in  October,  1926.  The  orchestral  suite,  which  has 
become  one  of  the  most  popular  of  recent  novelties  on  American  symphonic  pro- 
grams, is  drawn  from  the  opera,  and  was  first  performed  at  a  conceit  of  the  Phil- 
harmonic Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  under  the  direction  of  WHlem  Mengel- 
berg,  on  December  15,  1927.  It  has  been  given  many  times  since,  and  promises  to 
become  an  established  favorite  in  the  symphonic  repertoire. 

296 


ZOLTAN     KODALY  297 

Hary  Janos,  according  to  the  story  of  the  opera,  is  a  national  hero  whose  per- 
sonal characteristics  and  achievements  are,  to  say  the  least,  apocryphal,  but  never- 
theless firmly  believed  by  the  Hungarian  peasant.  Hary  is  so  prodigious,  yet  so 
naive,  a  liar  that  not  only  does  he  convince  his  listeners  of  the  truth  of  his  tales,  as 
he  sits  comfortably  in  the  inn  surrounded  by  a  gaping  audience;  what  is  more  im- 
portant, he  believes  them  himself! 

He  is  a  fellow  of  rare  imagination  and  inventiveness,  and  the  romantic  Hun- 
garian peasant  believes  him,  not  because  his  tales  are  true,  but  because  the  story- 
teller is  a  dreamer,  a  fellow  romanticist,  and  an  excellent  storyteller.  Belief  is  the 
most  sincere  applause,  and  by  believing  Hary  Janos*  audiences  wish  merely  to  com- 
pliment the  excellence  of  his  fantastic  tales. 

The  action  of  the  opera,  if  translated  into  real  life,  might  have  had  interesting 
effects  upon  the  political  map  of  Europe.  It  takes  place  a  hundred  years  ago,  with 
Janos,  a  typical  peasant  soldier  home  from  the  wars,  relating  his  adventures  to  a 
circle  of  admiring  villagers.  He  tells  them  about  the  time  when  Marie  Louise, 
daughter  of  Emperor  Francis  and  wife  of  Napoleon,  was  on  her  way  to  Vienna 
from  Paris,  via  Russia.  She  and  Janos  meet  almost  at  the  same  time  Orze,  Hary's 
sweetheart,  arrives  on  the  scene.  The  Empress  falls  violently  in  love  with  the 
soldier,  and  insists  that  he  accompany  her  on  her  journey.  This  Hary  refuses  to  do, 
except  on  condition  that  Orze  join  the  party  also.  The  braggart  and  heartbreaker 
of  course  delights  in  this  situation,  wherein  he  has  two  lovely  women,  one  princess 
and  one  peasant,  quarreling  for  his  favors.  To  add  interest  to  the  triangle,  the 
chancellor  who  accompanies  the  Empress  as  a  kind  of  moral  guarantor  (supplied 
by  Napoleon)  vigorously  resents  the  presence  and  charm  of  the  Hungarian  sol- 
dier. This  personage  eventually  persuades  Napoleon  to  declare  war  on  Austria,  as 
the  direct  result  of  Hary's  philandering. 

But  this  was  another  made-to-order  situation  for  Janos.  On  the  battlefield  he 
performs  prodigies  of  valor  and  military  efficiency.  Whole  troops  of  the  enemy  are 
mowed  down  before  his  lethal  blade,  and  regiments  quake  at  his  approach.  He  cuts 
his  way  through  to  Napoleon  himself,  who,  no  better  than  his  underlings,  quails 
and  begs  for  Hary's  mercy.  This  does  not  endear  the  Emperor  to  his  wife,  who  is 
more  than  ever  convinced  of  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  her  passion  for  the  Hun- 
garian conqueror.  After  a  rather  cruel  and  boisterous  humiliation  of  Napoleon, 
involving  well-placed  kicks  and  similar  indignities,  he  is  released. 

The  scene  now  shifts  to  Vienna,  where,  after  a  triumphal  entrance,  Hary 
Janos  abandons  himself  to  luxury.  Yet  at  the  height  of  his  triumphs  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  imperial  splendor,  the  conqueror  is  not  happy.  The  attentions  of  the 
Empress  have  become  wearisome,  and  he  discovers  that  there  is  a  definite  hiatus  in 
his  scheme  of  things.  The  entrance  of  Orze  into  the  scene  at  this  point  makes 
Janos  realize  that  she,  his  faithful  sweetheart  of  less  fortunate  days,  is  quite  neces- 
sary to  his  happiness.  Whereupon  he  discards  the  trappings  of  royalty,  and  declares 


298  TH£    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

to  the  assembled  guests  that  they  may  judge  him  and  do  with  him  as  they  see  fit 
The  Empress,  the  "woman  scorned,"  would  like  to  have  him  properly  tortured  to 
death— or  nearly  5  but  in  the  face  of  his  popularity  she  is  afraid  to  take  steps 
against  him.  So  Hary  Janos,  forsaking  all  for  love,  takes  his  sweet  Orze  by  the 
hand  and  leads  her  back  to  his  native  village. 

Again  the  scene  changes,  returning  to  the  village  inn  where  the  boastful  ex- 
soldier  is  holding  forth.  Again  the  awestruck  burghers  are  enthralled  by  his  tales. 
Presently  the  door  opens,  and  the  woman  for  whom,  says  Hary,  he  has  abandoned 
an  empress  and  all  glory  enters.  It  is  Orze,  old  and  ugly  and  querulous.  She  takes 
the  braggart  by  the  ear  and  leads  him  home. 

The  suite  derived  from  the  opera  of  course  omits  many  of  the  incidents  amus- 
ingly outlined  in  the  stage  version  of  the  work.  The  score  as  usually  played  is 
divided  into  six  sections:  "The  Tale  Begins,"  "Viennese  Musical  Clock,"  "Song," 
"The  Battle  and  Defeat  of  Napoleon,"  "Intermezzo,"  "Entrance  of  the  Em- 
peror and  His  Court" 

The  Tde  Begins 

Tiere  fc  a  Hungarian  superstition  to  the  effect  that  if  anyone  sneezes  during 
the  telling  of  a  story,  it  is  proof  of  the  speaker's  truth,  Hary  has  a  receptive  and 
credulous  audience  indeed,  if  we  are  to  judge  by  the  tremendous,  long-drawn,  and 
concerted  sneeze  with  which  the  orchestra  opens  the  first  section  of  the  tale.  There 
ensues  a  pregnant  suspension,  as  if  the  listeners  waited  with  bated  breath  for  the 
old  soldier  to  proceed  with  his  romancing.  The  chief  melodic  idea  is  a  charming 
theme  suggesting  the  sentimental  goings-on  of  our  hero's  youth;  it  is  assigned  to 
the  clarinet,  and  later,  in  a  more  emphatic  presentation,  to  a  voice  compounded  of 
the  tones  of  cello  and  horn.  The  violins  adopt  the  same  idea,  and  sweep  gradually 
upward  to  a  climax  terminated  by  a  tremendous  sjorzando  chord  in  full  orchestra. 
Now  having  put  his  audience  into  the  proper  frame  of  mind,  and  having,  as  it  were, 
pounded  the  table  and  commanded  silence,  Hary  leisurely  turns  to  the  telling  of  his 
fantastic  tales. 

Viennese  Musical  Clock 

Here  is  indescribably  gay  and  colorful  music.  The  troops  have  marched  into 
Vienna,  and  here  the  innocent  countryman,  for  all  his  brave  uniform  and  bragga- 
docio, is  tremendously  impressed  by  his  first  sight  of  the  famous  musical  clock  in 
tie  imperial  palace,  which  not  only  plays  merry  tunes,  but  makes  little  painted 
figures  of  soldiers  perform  their  military  evolutions  in  time  with  the  music.  Under- 
neath the  clamor  of  chimes  and  celesta  and  glockenspiel,  we  can  both  hear  and  feel 
the  brisk,  marchlike,  military  rhythm.  All  the  wild  chimes  of  Vienna  join  the 


ZOLTAN     KODALY  299 

clangorous  chorus,  and  the  rising  climax  finally  rests  upon  a  sturdy  orchestral 
chord,  edged  with  bells. 

Song 

It  is  perhaps  in  this  movement  that  the  influence  of  Hungarian  gypsy  music  is 
most  keenly  felt.  This  warm  and  passionate  utterance,  with  its  romantic  sugges- 
tions and  whimsically  changing  moods,  is  absolutely  typical.  Here  Janos  and  his 
peasant  sweetheart,  dismayed  by  military  discipline  and  regulation,  sit  mooning  and 
reflecting  upon  the  simple  joys  of  their  deserted  and  distant  village.  One  may  inti- 
mate, as  the  music  progresses  from  the  tender  viola  solo  at  the  beginning  to  the 
impassioned  climaxes,  that  possibly  they  found  adequate  consolation  in  making 
love  to  each  other. 

The  viola  solo  is  one  of  the  few  opportunities  given  to  players  of  that  some- 
times ungrateful  instrument  to  shine  with  distinction — or  to  exhibit  the  worst  qual- 
ities of  the  viola.  Another  interesting  feature  is  the  use,  in  the  development  of  the 
viola  theme,  of  the  characteristic  gypsy  instrument,  the  cembalo.  There  are  so  few 
capable  players  of  the  cembalo  in  this  country,  however,  that  the  piano,  a  closely 
related  instrument,  is  generally  used  in  concert  presentations  of  this  work.  T*his 
substitution  has  the  approval  of  the  composer. 

The  Battle  and  Defeat  of  Nafoleon 

This  highly  entertaining  movement  pictures,  very  graphically,  the  desperate 
struggle  between  the  Austrian  and  French  forces,  in  which  the  carnage  was  so 
terrible  that  finally  only  Hary  and  the  Emperor  Napoleon  are  left  to  fight  it  out 
hand  to  hand.  The  marching  of  hosts,  the  terrible  presence  of  Hary,  and,  at  length, 
the  cringing  pleas  of  the  discouraged  Emperor  are  amusingly  depicted;  there  is 
highly  dramatic  use  of  the  brass,  there  are  amazingly  suggestive  echo  effects,  and  a 
musical  dialogue  between  Hary  and  the  Emperor,  to  which  the  peasant  hero  puts  a 
period  with  a  hearty  kick  at  the  Emperor,  the  kick  arriving,  as  planned,  squarely 
in  the  bosom  of  the  potentate's  pants.  The  suave  yet  "jittery"  saxophone  accom- 
plishes the  Napoleonic  pleading,  which  is  heard  importunately  above  a  dirge  sug- 
gestively derived  from  a  few  notes  of  the  Marseillaise.  The  ludicrous  glissando  in 
the  bass  is  as  insolent  and  insulting  as  the  well-known  gesture  of  the  little  boy,  in- 
volving thumb,  nose,  and  certain  wigglings  of  the  fingers. 

Intermezzo 

The  'Intermezzo,*5  though  it  is  without  significance  so  far  as  the  action  of 
the  opera  is  concerned,  nevertheless  constitutes  one  of  the  most  charming  incidents 


3OO  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

in  the  suite.  Here  is  genuine  Hungarian  music,  highly  flavored  with  the  spicy 
romanticism  and  hot  passion  of  the  gypsy;  wayward  in  rhythm  and  capricious. 

A  vigorous  and  marchlike  figure  gets  the  movement  under  way,  and,  after  a 
little  detached  and  hesitant  phrase,  the  swinging  march  is  repeated,  and  this  time 
progresses  into  a  short  period  of  development.  A  marked  change  in  rhythm,  and 
a  reduction  of  orchestral  power,  precede  the  introduction  of  a  lovely  theme  for 
horn.  Strings  and,  later,  woodwind,  elaborate  this  delightful  melody.  The  same 
tentative  little  phrase  that  interrupted  the  opening  march  reappears,  and  now 
serves  to  recall  that  stirring  episode.  The  cembalo  adds  the  soft  glint  of  its  peculiar 
tone  color,  and  the  movement  ends  with  the  conventional  three  chords  that  mark 
the  conclusion  of  every  typical  Hungarian  gypsy  dance. 

Entrance  of  the  Emperor  and,  His  Court 

The  rhythmically  compelling  combination  of  drums  and  other  percussion  in- 
struments, which  Kodaly  uses  often  and  effectively  through  this  music,  here  serves 
again  to  introduce  a  section  of  the  work.  Here  is  orchestral  magnificence  indeed! 
Now  every  instrument  must  put  forward  its  most  powerful  and  brightest  tone;  now 
all  must  move  in  the  swift,  the  domineering  march  of  this  brilliant  music.  Pauses 
serve  to  fascinate  attention  for  bold  and  strident  pronunciations  of  the  brass;  fierce, 
swift  crescendos,  pointed  with  the  brazen  clangor  of  the  cymbal,  rush  toward  the 
massive  chords  near  the  end.  And,  driving  home  the  pointed  chords  in  the  last 
measures,  comes  a  tremendous  stroke  upon  the  great  bass  drum. 


VICTOR  LALO 

[1823-1892] 

VICTOR  ANTOINE  £DOUARD  LALO,  a  famous  composer  of  Spanish  origin, 
was  born  at  Lille,  France,  January  27,  1823,  and  died  in  Paris  in  April, 
1892.  His  early  musical  education  was  received  at  the  Lille  Conservatoire, 
where  he  studied  violin  under  Muller;  and  violoncello  with  the  German,  Bau- 
mann,  who  had  pkyed  under  Beethoven's  leadership  at  Vienna. 

In  J  839,  Lalo  came  to  Paris  to  continue  his  violin  study  at  the  Conservatoire, 
and  to  round  out  his  musical  education  with  private  lessons  in  harmony  and  com- 
position. His  first  works  date  from  the  year  1845,  an(l  include  songs  published 
three  years  later. 

In  a  competition  at  the  Theatre-Lyrique,  his  opera,  Ftesque>  won  third  prize. 
Later,  a  violin  concerto,  and  the  Symphonic  es^agnole  for  violin  and  orchestra, 
dedicated  to  and  introduced  by  the  eminent  violinist,  Sarasate,  firmly  established 
Lalo  as  a  front-rank  composer. 

His  talent  was  highly  individual,  and  was  influenced  not  so  much  by  the  course 
of  study  at  the  Conservatoire,  as  by  his  own  concentration  upon  the  music  and 
methods  of  such  masters  as  Beethoven,  Schubert,  and  Schumann,  for  whom  he  had 
a  special  liking.  Among  his  chief  characteristics  are  an  unusual  grace  in  the  expres- 
sion of  ideas,  a  piquancy  in  the  treatment  of  themes,  and,  above  all,  a  dexterity  and 
in  orchestration, 


Symphonic  espagnole 

THE  first  performance  of  this  popular  and  exceedingly  "violinistic"  work  was 
given  at  Paris,  February  7,  1875,  with  the  almost  legendary  Sarasate  as  soloist.  It 
was  highly  successful,  and  even  other  composers  admired  it.  Although  in  a  style 
somewhat  outworn  today,  it  remains  a  favorite  with  all  the  great  contemporary 
violinists,  and  certainly  gives  them  delightful  if  not  too  exacting  opportunities. 

First  Movement 

The  main  theme  of  this  movement  has  two  divisions,  The  first  is  a  vigorous 
phrase  given  alternately  to  the  orchestra  and  the  solo  instrument.  The  second  is  a 
melody  begun  with  an  ascending  scale  in  the  solo  instrument,  which  continues 
partly  in  triplets  with  pizzicato  accompaniment  in  the  strings.  Passage  work  devel- 
oping this  material  leads  to  a  short  tutti,  which  ushers  in  a  second  theme  in  B-flat 
major,  played  by  the  solo  violin.  The  development  here  consists  primarily  of 
bravura  passages  for  the  violin.  There  is  a  return  of  the  two  themes,  the  second 


304  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

stags."  The  Pl&ntive  Melody  is  well  named,  a  lonely  voice  rising  and  falling  along 
a  lovely  melodic  line.  Lively  strings  suggest  the  buzzing  of  a  mosquito  in  the 
Humorous  Song,  wherein  a  peasant  dances  to  a  naive  figure  in  woodwind.  The 
Legend  of  the  Birds  has  obvious  bird  voices  in  the  orchestral  arrangement.  The 
Cradle  Song  has  the  swaying  motion  and  the  note  of  melancholy  impossible  to 
dissociate  from  a  lullaby.  The  Round  Dance  is  largely  in  pizzicato  strings,  crisp 
and  lively,  with  a  charming  melody  briefly  fugued.  The  climax  is  the  vigorous  and 
merry  Village-Dance  Song,  characteristically  Russian  in  rhythm  and  melody, 
ending  in  a  vigorous,  vibrating  chord  for  full  orchestra. 


Kikimora 
\Legend  for  Orchestral 

LIADOV  never  worked  in  the  "grand"  style,  and  even  when  he  employs  the  sym- 
phony orchestra,  his  music  has  an  ultrarefined,  and  almost  salon  quality  that 
would  make  it  sound  weak  were  it  not  for  the  intelligence  and  charm  of  his  orches- 
tration. Perhaps  he — and  we — should  thank  his  teacher  Rimsky-Korsakov  for  this! 
Liadov  was  much  engrossed  in  Russian  folklore  and  folk  music;  and  this  little 
work,  like  Le  Lac  enchante  and  Baba  Yaga,  illustrates  one  of  the  most  familiar 
Russian  tales.  Kikimora  is  a  precocious  but  highly  unattractive  female,  who  lived 
in  the  house  of  a  magician,  and  grew  to  maturity  in  seven  years.  Her  early 
maturity  was  partly  the  result  of  the  information  she  gained  from  daily  conferences 
with  an  omniscient  feline,  who  related  many  strange  tales  of  far  and  wonderful 
places.  Kikimora  was  thin  and  sallow,  her  head  no  bigger  than  a  thimble,  her  body 
thin  as  a  straw.  Her  conversation  took  the  form  of  horrid  hisses  and  whistlings, 
and  as  she  occupied  herself  with  spinning  and  weaving,  she  planned  evils  and 
miseries  against  mankind. 


FRANZ  LISZT 

[1811-1886] 

O*E  OF  THE  MOST  spectacular  and  eccentric  geniuses  in  the  history  of  music, 
Franz  Liszt  may  be  remembered  longer  because  of  what  he  did  for  the 
music  of  others  than  by  his  own  creations.  His  family  was  an  obscure 
one,  in  the  service  of  the  famous  Hungarian  noble  family,  the  Esterhazys.  His 
father  was  sufficiently  interested  and  capable  in  music  to  give  the  child  piano  les- 
sons, with  such  success  that  at  the  age  of  nine  years  Franz  made  his  debut — and  a 
successful  one — as  a  concert  pianist.  This  attracted  the  attention  of  certain  wealthy 
patrons  of  music,  who  subscribed  to  a  fund  which  guaranteed  some  years  of  further 
study  for  the  boy.  The  result  of  this  was  that  when  Liszt  was  only  eleven  years  old, 
he  gave  a  concert  in  Vienna  which  won  the  hearty  approval  of  everyone  who  heard 
it — including  Ludwig  van  Beethoven. 

Liszt  was  now  regarded  as  an  important  musician,  in  spite  of  his  childish 
years;  but  he  was  not  a  completely  developed  one.  He  was  not  permitted  to  enter 
the  Paris  Conservatoire,  where  he  sought  further  training,  but  he  found  teachers 
elsewhere  who  helped  him  greatly.  He  began  a  series  of  concert  tours  which  took 
him  virtually  all  over  the  Continent,  and  to  England,  and  which  established  Mnr> 
without  question  as  the  greatest  pianist  of  his  day.  His  admirers  were  virtually 
idolatrous;  and  one  of  them,  the  Countess  d'Agoult,  whom  Liszt  met  in  Paris, 
became  his  mistress  and  bore  him  three  children.  Even  in  fathering  these  extralegal 
progeny  Liszt  did  a  service  to  music  and  to  a  composer  whose  music  he  was  to 
espouse  with  enthusiasm;  for  one  of  them,  Cosima,  became  the  wife  of  Richard 
Wagner,  and  his  helper  and  ferocious  protagonist  to  the  end  of  her  days. 

In  1849  Lrazt  settled  at  Weimar,  and  became  director  of  the  court  theater 
there.  He  abandoned  the  career  of  a  virtuoso  to  accept  this  position,  and  did  so 
in  order  that  he  might  be  in  a  position  to  forward  the  works  of  other  composers, 
This  act,  though  it  may  not  have  been  done  without  an  eye  to  his  own  limitations 
and  advantages,  was  nevertheless  not  without  elements  of  a  fantastic  generosity — 
a  quality  which  always  had  distinguished  the  man.  From  one  point  of  view  it  fits 
neatly  into  the  pattern  of  his  life  and  character.  Though  a  pianist  whose  gifts 
have  never  been  duplicated,  Liszt  was  always  at  his  best  in  works  by  other  com- 
posers, and  had  a  singular  adeptness  in  comprehending  their  meanings,  and  exem- 
plifying them  with  more  accuracy  and  expressiveness  than  the  composers  them- 
selves. He  was  indifferent  or,  at  the  most,  tolerant  when  musicians  played  Ks 
music  badly,  but  would  fly  into  terrible  rages  if  they  played  imperfectly,  say,  a 
Beethoven  sonata.  Richard  Wagner,  perhaps  in  compensation  for  holding  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek  as  far  as  Liszt's  own  music  was  concerned,  praised  Liszt  as 
an  executant,  and,  in  effect,  asserted  that  here  Liszt  was  really  a  composer;  that 
he  did  not  reproduce^  but  p-oduced,  the  music  of  other  composers. 

305 


306  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

In  his  later  years  Liszt,  after  having  had  a  merry  time  of  it  in  his  youth, 
and  always  a  brilliant  and  worldly  life,  turned  with  strange  devotion  to  the  more 
ascetic  type  of  Catholicism.  While  in  Rome  he  became  a  member  of  the  Franciscan 
brotherhood,  and  was  invested  with  the  minor  orders — porter,  reader,  exorcist, 
and  acolyte.  He  was  tonsured,  and  wore  clerical  garb,  in  which  he  is  often  pictured, 
the  center  of  interest  in  a  brilliant  salon. 

After  attending  a  performance  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  at  Bayreuth,  July  4, 
1 886,  Liszt  was  stricken  with  his  final  illness.  He  died  a  few  weeks  later. 

The  composer  left  behind  him  an  astonishing  amount  of  work,  vocal,  instru- 
mental, and  literary.  Much  of  his  music  is  bombastic  and  vacuous;  some  of  the 
piano  transcriptions  are  exceedingly  brilliant  and  vulgar;  but  there  are  treasures 
among  his  works,  nevertheless.  The  arrangements  of  some  of  Bach's  organ  works 
are  superb;  and  the  Hungarian  Rhapsodies,  while  not  profound  as  a  rule,  are 
wonderful  display  pieces.  Liszt  invented  the  "symphonic  poem" — music  of  sym- 
phonic dimensions  but  free  in  style,  and  usually  in  one  movement — and  though 
others  have  made  better  use  of  the  form,  Liszt  will  be  remembered  for  having 
devised  it* 


Symphonic  Poem  No.  2:  "Tasso:  Lamento  e  Trionfo" 
[Tasso:  Lament  and  Triumph] 

TORQUATO  TASSO  was  a  mad  Italian  poet  who,  in  lucid  intervals,  wrote  numerous 
poetical  works,  some  of  them  of  considerable  importance.  He  was  installed  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Duke  of  Ferrara  in  the  latter's  residence,  but  his  recurring 
fits  of  insanity,  during  which  he  had  the  wildest  hallucinations  and  on  at  least 
one  occasion  attempted  murder,  resulted  in  his  being  confined.  He  escaped,  regained 
his  mind,  and  returned  to  Ferrara,  only  to  become  subject  to  further  fits  of  mad- 
ness. He  was  returned  to  the  asylum  and,  after  a  long  period  spent  there,  appears 
to  have  regained  his  senses  completely.  After  some  years  in  which  he  gradually 
attained  a  position  of  literary  eminence,  he  was  offered  national  honors  in  recogni- 
tion of  his  work,  but  while  on  his  way  to  Rome  to  be  invested  with  them,  he  fell 
ill  from  excitement,  and  died. 

The  stormy  and  melodramatic  life  of  this  poor  madman  appealed  very  power- 
fully to  Liszt,  who  liked  stormy  and  melodramatic  things;  and  when  Goethe,  the 
great  German  poet,  fashioned  Tasso's  life  history  into  a  drama,  this  music,  though 
not  originally  written  for  the  purpose,  was  used  as  a  prelude, 

The  music  makes  eloquent  use  of  the  contrasts  of  Tasso's  life,  and  as  is  usual 
in  Liszt's  symphonic  poems,  it  is  marked  by  thematic  unity  and  continuity.  The 


FRANZ     LISZT  307 

music,  especially  in-  the  early  sections,  has  an  Italianate  warmth  and  melodic  quality 
that  are  unusual  in  Liszt  and  certainly  not  ungrateful  to  hear.  The  portentous 
theme,  most  strongly  uttered  by  cellos  at  the  beginning  of  the  work,  is  the  basic 
musical  idea,  and  is  transformed,  at  the  close,  in  the  theme  of  triumph. 

Tasso  was  first  played,  with  Liszt  conducting,  before  a  dramatic  production 
of  Goethe's  work  at  Weimar,  August  28,  1849.  According  to  the  program  of  the 
Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra,  Liszt  wrote  an  epilogue  to  the  work,  and  sent  the 
score  to  Dr.  Leopold  Damrosch,  father  of  radio's  musical  instructor,  and  noted 
American  conductor.  Leopold  Damrosch  was  at  the  time  conductor  of  the  New 
York  Philharmonic  Society,  and  to  him  the  composer  dedicated  the  epilogue,  Le 
Triomphe  junebre  du  Tasse.  This  was  performed,  then,  for  the  first  time  any- 
where, on  March  24,  1877,  at  New  York. 


Concerto  No.  i  in  E-flat  major  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

LISZT,  possibly  the  greatest  of  pianists,  could  be  depended  upon  to  produce  a 
concerto  that  would  give  him  an  opportunity  to  display  his  talents,  He  possessed 
a  technique  that  enabled  him  to  discount  at  once  the  difficulties  of  a  work  and  to 
concentrate  upon  its  inner  meaning.  It  is  unfortunate  that  in  many  of  his  own 
works  there  was  so  little  inner  meaning  upon  which  to  concentrate-  This  music  is 
an  old-fashioned  concerto,  a  dazzling  display  piece  for  piano  with  orchestral  back- 
ground; but  it  differs  somewhat  from  the  classical  type  in  that  relatively  little 
thematic  material  is  employed,  and  in  the  final  section,  virtually  none — the  last 
movement  being  given  over  to  re-presentation  of  previous  themes  in  new  rhythmic, 
harmonic,  and  orchestral  dress. 

The  scherzo  of  this  work  is  of  especial  interest,  partly  because  of  its  ex- 
traordinary brilliance  and  its  exigent  demands  upon  the  soloist,  and  partly  because 
it  employs,  in  the  introduction,  an  instrument  of  percussion — the  triangle — which 
aroused  the  ire  of  a  certain  Viennese  critic.  But  even  its  glittering  tones  do  not 
shine  with  the  brilliance  Liszt  expects— r-and  doubtless  extracted — from  the  solo 
instrument. 

This  concerto  has  somewhat  fallen  from  grace  in  these  modern  days,  except 
with  a  few  of  the  great  pianists  who  are  still  capable  of  astounding  audiences 
somewhat  sated  with  technical  displays.  Liszt  himself  was  the  first  performer  of 
the  work,  presenting  it  at  Weimar,  February  16,  1855. 


308  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphonic  Poem  No.  3 :  "Les  Preludes" 

LISZT,  as  a  philosopher,  was  possibly  at  his  worst;  but  in  this  instance,  though  his 
subject  is  sometimes  a  rather  cynical  and  superficial  melancholy,  his  musical 
presentation  of  it  embodies  much  that  is  beautiful.  This  symphonic  poem  was 
inspired  by  verses  of  Lamartine,  entitled  Les  Preludes,  and  Liszt's  condensed  ver- 
sion appears  on  the  flyleaf  of  the  score.  In  the  poem,  life  is  looked  upon  as  a  series 
of  preludes  to  death  j  love  as  an  evanescent  joy  soon  destroyed  by  vanishing  illu- 
sions and  the  trials  of  life.  The  soul,  hurt  by  struggle  and  defeat,  seeks  rest — 
but  at  the  first  spur  of  ambition,  the  first  summons  to  renew  the  struggle,  it  rushes 
back  into  the  fray  to  discover  and  test  itself,  and  to  conquer. 

The  music,  though  readily  divided  into  sections  by  changes  in  rhythm  and 
mood,  is  given  continuity  by  a  marked  thematic  relationship  in  all  its  parts.  The 
basic  theme  is  proposed  almost  immediately,  and  continues  prominently  in  strings 
and  brass.  It  is  heard  in  various  guises  throughout  the  music,  and  finally  is  shouted 
out  by  the  brass,  "when  the  trumpet  gives  the  signal,"  with  active  string  passages 
surrounding  it,  indicative  of  man's  return  to  the  battle  and  the  ceaseless  bustle  of 
life. 


A  Faust  Symphony  in  Three  Character  Pictures 
{After  Goethe] 

LISZT  was  one  of  many  artists  who  were  attracted  to  the  strange  story  of  Faust, 
especially  as  related  in  Goethe's  dramatic  poem.  His  musical  version  is  not  strictly 
a  symphony,  but  a  symphonic  poem  in  three  movements/Liszt  himself  conducted 
the  first  performance  of  the  work  at  Weimar,  September  15,  1857.  It  is  dedicated 
to  Hector  Berlioz. 

First  Movement 
Faust 

The  composer  attempts  to  apply  the  quality  of  universality  to  the  suffering, 
the  dissatisfaction,  the  jaded  impotence  and  weariness  of  Faust;  and  would  use 
Goethe's  protagonist  as  a  lay  figure  bearing  the  burdens  of  all  humanity.  Lower 
strings,  muted,  and  presently  touched  with  piercing  woodwinds,  suggest  the  dis- 
heartened and  gloomy  mood  of  the  hero.  Once  this  melancholy  atmosphere  is 
established,  there  is  a  quickening  and  a  brightening  in  the  music,  and  a  transitional 
passage,  in  which  emphatic  phrases  are  proposed  and  answered  in  strings  and 
woodwind,  leads  to  the  main  portion  of  the  movement. 


FRANZ    LISZT  309 

Now  the  music  takes  on  a  totally  different  character.  Faust  dallies  with  the 
dreadful  notion  of  selling  his  soul.  At  one  moment,  he  is  filled  with  terror  and 
repulsion;  again,  as  the  possible  joys  of  recovered  youth  are  suggested,  he  rages 
with  longing,  with  ambition,  with  desire.  He  doubts,  he  hesitates,  he  falls;  and  a 
quiet  passage,  strings  against  woodwind,  suggests  the  workings  of  the  magic.  Now 
life  is  infused  into  the  scene,  as  Faust,  his  veins  expanded  with  new,  warm,  rich 
blood,  looks  about  him  for  a  world — and  a  woman — to  conquer.  An  aggressive 
utterance  of  the  trumpet  suggests  the  burning  glance  with  which  he  contemplates 
his  surroundings  and  his  future.  The  remainder  of  the  movement  is  filled  with 
ceaseless  activity,  climax  after  climax,  yet  at  the  end  there  is  a  suggestion  of  the 
sense  of  satiety  and  depletion  which  was  noticed  in  the  introduction. 

Second  Movement 
Marguerite 

Oboe,  against  an  arpeggiolike  figure  in  the  solo  viola,  suggests  the  sweet  maid 
Marguerite;  but  in  that  keen  and  pensive  and  somewhat  passionate  voice  of  the 
oboe  there  are  suggestions  of  unnamed  longings  and  a  certain  restlessness.  These 
are  satisfied  with  the  entrance  of  another  theme  in  woodwind,  supposedly  indicative 
of  the  dawn  of  love.  There  is  a  passage  of  intense  beauty,  wherein  the  strings  sing 
of  passion  not  only  awakened  but  returned  and  realized;  and  an  amorous  con- 
versation of  cellos  and  violins.  Near  the  end  of  the  movement  we  are  reminded 
of  Faust's  resolution  by  a  reference  to  the  trumpet's  bold  cry  in  the  first  movement. 

Third  Movement 
Mefhistopheles 

One  of  Liszt's  directions  for  interpreting  this  movement  is  "ironico" ;  and  the 
character  of  the  musical  content  lends  itself  admirably  to  ironic  treatment.  Here 
the  motives  of  the  preceding  movements  are  horribly  distorted  and  burlesqued. 
Mephistopheles  sneers  and  jeers  at  the  recollection  of  Faust's  grandiose  plans  and 
resolutions;  he  mocks  the  thought  of  an  innocent  virgin.  Sometimes  he  roars  in 
paroxysms  of  kughter;  he  poisonously  snickers,  through  the  medium  of  sharply 
plucked  strings,  at  melancholy  Faust.  And  as  the  movement  proceeds  toward  its 
close,  the  Devil  rocks  from  side  to  side  in  Gargantuan  scornful  mirth.  He  is 
restrained  toward  the  end,  and  a  chorus  of  men's  voices  sings  philosophical  reflec- 
tions upon  the  vanity  of  life. 


310  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Todtentanz 

\Dance  of  Death} 

A  paraphrase  of  Dies  Irae  for  piano  and  orchestra 

THE  eloquent  music  from  the  Mass  for  the  Dead  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
has  attracted  the  attention  of  more  than  one  composer.  Depending  upon  his  own 
temperament,  each  has  treated  it  differently,  but  certainly  no  one  has  wrung 
from  it,  as  thematic  material,  so  brilliant  and  so  varied  a  musical  fabric  as  that 
which  the  virtuoso  Liszt  has  left  to  us.  The  Dies  Irae  has  an  ominously  impressive 
theme,  capable  of  many  a  variation,  involution,  and  distortion ;  its  exploitation  even 
by  Liszt  has  not  been  completely  exhaustive — as  witness  the  Rachmaninoff  varia- 
tions— but  no  one,  in  a  single  work,  has  exposed  so  many  aspects  of  this  provoking 
and  macabre  tune. 

There  are  two  theories  advanced  to  account  for  the  motive  and  inspiration 
which  resulted  in  the  composition  of  the  Todtentcwz.  One  holds  that  the  work 
is  the  result  of  Liszt's  effort  to  translate  into  music  the  essence  of  a  series  of  etch- 
ings by  Holbein,  entitled  The  Dance  of  Death.  This  belief  was  entertained  by 
Richard  Pohl,  an  intimate  of  Liszt  and  author  of  his  biography.  The  more  likely 
theory,  however,  has  to  do  with  Liszt's  impressions  of  a  fresco  in  the  Campo  Santo 
at  Pisa  entitled  The  Triumph  of  Death,  which  fantastically  portrayed  the  effects 
of  death  upon,  and  the  afterexistence  of,  a  great  group  of  humans,  varying  in 
social  importance  from  peasants  to  princes  and  popes  and  cardinals.  Lina  Ramann, 
in  her  biography  of  Liszt,  condemns  the  first-mentioned  theory,  and  is  quite 
certain  that  the  fresco  (attributed  to  Andrea  Orcagna)  was  the  inspiration  of  the 
work. 

The  music  itself  is  highly  interesting  from  various  viewpoints.  Technically 
it  is  a  tour  de  force  for  the  pianist,  calling  upon  the  ultimate  tonal  resources  of  the 
instrument  and  the  extreme  technical  abilities  of  the  soloist — a  genuine  Lisztian 
exhibition  of  glittering  brilliance,  intense  if  not  always  profound  emotion  and 
highly  colored  picturesque,  almost  programmatic  quality.  On  the  strictly  musical 
side,  one  is  conscious  of  Liszt's  various  attitudes  toward  death — mockery,  reverence, 
compassion,  cynicism,  triumph,  contempt,  and  resignation.  As  a  pseudo  churchman, 
as  a  worldling,  as  a  sinner  of  no  small  sins,  as  a  darling  of  society,  as  a  genius,  the 
composer  must  have  had  a  curious  attitude  toward  death,  if  he  thought  about  it  at 
all;  and  we  may  with  reason  suppose  that  here  the  music  reflects  his  considerations 
of  that  final  event. 

The  music  was  completed  by  the  composer  in  1853,  an<^  revised  six  years  later. 
The  first  performance  was  given  at  The  Hague,  March  15,  1865,  with  Hans  von 
Billow  as  the  soloist.  The  performance  by  Alexander  Siloti  at  New  York,  March 
1 8,  1898,  was  advertised  as  the  first  performance  in  America,  but  there  is  some 


FRANZ     LISZT 

doubt  about  this,  as  Edouard  Hesselberg  is  reported  to  have  played  it  in  Chicago 
and  Philadelphia  some  years  before  this  date. 

The  work  has  a  subtitle,  Danse  macabre — but  it  has  nothing  in  common  with 
Saint-Saens*  orchestral  piece  of  the  same  name,  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  theme  and 
variations,  the  theme  being  of  course,  the  cantus  firmus  Dies  Irae,  which  is  first 
exposed,  after  a  weird  and  sinister  introduction,  by  a  low-voiced  ensemble  of 
clarinets,  bassoons,  trombones,  tuba,  and  the  strings  from  viola  down.  There  is  a 
brief  and  fiercely  brilliant  cadenza  for  the  piano  and  a  repetition  of  the  theme. 
Then  the  variations — five  in  number — begin;  but  the  work  is  by  no  means  strict 
in  form,  and  there  are  important  sections,  particularly  toward  the  close,  which, 
while  based  on  the  theme,  are  not  in  any  strict  sense  variations  of  it.  The  first 
variation  breaks  up  the  thematic  matter  into  its  elements,  dividing  them  between 
piano  and  orchestra.  The  second  assigns  the  theme  to  the  pianist's  left  hand,  rein- 
forced and  sometimes  doubled  by  pizzicato  strings,  with  a  solo  for  horn  con- 
spicuously present.  The  third  variation  again  reveals  the  theme  divided  between 
soloist  and  orchestra,  sometimes  rather  fully  concealed  in  the  accompaniment.  The 
fourth  variation  resorts  to  the  canon  as  a  device  for  varying  the  theme;  the  piano  is 
heard  solo,  and  the  dissection  of  the  cantus  firmus  is  clearly  evident.  Yet  even  here, 
in  the  midst  of  what  can  be  a  dry  and  dull  contrapuntal  device,  Liszt  makes  it  the 
vehicle  for  a  distinct  and  moving  change  in  emotional  content,  and  the  soloist  takes 
full  advantage  of  the  opportunity  presented. 

The  fifth  variation  treats  the  theme  in  jugato,  beginning  with  the  piano  and 
later  involving  the  whole  orchestra.  The  dynamic  resources  of  the  orchestra  are 
brought  more  and  more  into  play  as  the  music  progresses,  and  as  the  variation  form 
is  abandoned  for  a  freer  style.  There  are  weird  dancelike  passages,  strongly 
rhythmical  and  glittering,  sometimes,  with  a  hard  brilliance.  Toward  the  end  there 
is  a  prodigious  cadenza,  and  a  short  and  powerful  coda  ends  the  work. 

Liszt's  Todtentanx  is  dedicated  to  von  Bulow.  Other  notable  performers 
have  been  Alexander  Sfloti  and  his  pupil,  the  late  Alexander  Kelberine,  who  in 
1940  died  by  his  own  hand  shortly  after  his  last  public  performance  of  the  work. 


GUSTAV  MAHLER 

[1860-1911] 

GCJSTAV  MAHLER  was  born  at  Kalischt,  in  Bohemia,  to  parents  who  were 
poor  in  this  world's  goods,  but  not  unacquainted  with  more  permanent 
and  desirable  treasures  in  the  form  of  books  and  music.  The  boy  soon 
showed  signs  of  interest  in  both.  When  he  was  six  years  old  he  preferred  playing 
the  piano  to  games,  and,  when  he  was  eight,  gave  piano  lessons  to  a  seven-year-old 
pupil.  Music  so  fascinated  him,  and  so  clearly  revealed  itself  as  the  dominating 
passion  of  his  young  life,  that  his  father  finally  took  the  boy  to  a  famous  teacher  at 
Vienna  and  asked  if  Gustav  had  sufficient  talent  to  justify  the  expense  of  a  musical 
education.  The  answer  was  definitely  in  the  affirmative. 

Mahler  entered  the  Vienna  Conservatory  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  At  the  end  of 
the  very  first  year  he  won  a  prize  for  piano-playing,  and  another  for  composition. 
Later  he  distinguished  himself  further  at  the  piano,  and  there  is  evidence  that  he 
could  have  had  a  virtuoso  career  with  that  instrument  had  he  so  chosen.  During 
and  after  his  period  at  the  Conservatory,  Mahler  supported  himself  by  teaching 
piano  5  but  not  long  after  leaving  the  school,  he  obtained  the  first  of  a  series  of 
positions  as  conductor  in  various  minor  musical  centers.  Eventually  he  became 
assistant  to  Anton  Seidl,  kter  to  Arthur  Nikisch;  and  finally  chief  conductor  at 
Budapest.  He  was  established  as  an  important  musical  figure  in  Europe,  and  so 
it  was  natural  that  when  the  post  of  conductor  of  the  Vienna  Opera  became 
vacant,  Mahler  was  chosen.  Later  he  directed  the  Vienna  Philharmonic  Society. 

In  1907,  Mahler  was  engaged  by  Conried  to  conduct  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  in  New  York,  and  during  the  season  of  1 908—09  he  was  appointed  to  direct 
the  Philharmonic  Society.  A  terrific  schedule  of  concerts  was  undertaken,  and  the 
health  of  the  composer,  never  robust,  gave  way  under  the  strain.  He  had  conducted 
two  seasons  with  the  Philharmonic,  but  was  unable  to  finish  the  third.  He  returned 
to  Europe,  vainly  sought  to  restore  his  health,  and  finally  went  home  to  Vienna, 
to  die. 

To  estimate  the  works  or  the  importance  of  Mahler  within  the  limitations  of 
this  book  is  not  possible.  For  an  adequate  biography  one  may  turn  to  that  very 
sympathetic  one  written  by  Gabriel  Engel,  and  published  (1932)  by  The  Bruckner 
Society  of  America.  Mahler's  music,  when  performed  in  America,  has  created 
unprecedented  sensation,  and  success;  yet  it  is  played  all  too  infrequently.  When 
Leopold  Stokowski  gave  nine  successive  performances  of  the  "Symphony  of  a 
Thousand"  in  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  it  made,  to  quote  the  conductor,  "an 
impression  on  the  public  unlike  anything  else  I  have  ever  experienced  ...  so  deeply 
moved  the  public  that  the  greater  part  of  the  listeners  were  in  tears  at  the  end  of 
the  performance." 

In  spite  of  public  receptivity,  conductors  as  a  rule  have  neglected  Mahler's 

312 


GUSTAV    MAHLER  313 

works  until  comparatively  recent  years;  and  we  must  half  sadly,  half  hopefully 
join  in  his  own  frequent  and  confident  declaration:  "M&ne  Zelt  wird  nock 
kommen" — My  time  will  yet  come.  There  are  indications  that  his  "time"  is 
imminent. 


Das  Lied  von  der  Erde 

[Song  of  the  Earth~\ 
[Symphony  for  Tenor,  Contralto,  and  Orchestral 

THIS  deeply  reflective  and  philosophically  beautiful  work  was  first  performed  in 
America  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  under  Leopold  Stokowski,  December  15, 
1916,  following  its  presentation  under  Bruno  Walter  in  Munich  five  years  previ- 
ously. Notwithstanding  the  inclusion  of  the  solo  voices,  it  is  in  every  respect  a 
symphony;  and  one  built  along  imposing  lines.  There  are  six  movements,  each 
based  on  one  of  a  group  of  Chinese  poems.  The  verses  are  philosophical,  but  not 
necessarily  gloomy,  although  the  final  one  has  the  immemorial  bittersweetness 
of  farewell.  Indeed,  the  music  is  regarded  by  admirers  and  students  of  Mahler  as 
his  artistic  leave-taking. 

The  solo  voices  sing  alternately.  They  are  not  woven  into  the  music  in 
Wagnerian  style,  but  stand  forth  against  an  exceedingly  rich  orchestral  back- 
ground, .  serving  as  an  accompaniment,  but  absolutely  symphonic  in  scope.  No 
description  of  the  music  is  adequate  without  the  words  of  the  poems,  which,  unfor- 
tunately, cannot  be  reproduced  here.  The  titles  of  the  poems,  which  will  give  elues 
to  the  significance  of  the  movement  with  which  they  coincide,  are  as  follows: 

1.  The  Drinking  Song  of  4.    Of  Beauty 

Earthly  Woe  5 .    The  Drunkard  in  Springtime 

2.  Autumnal  Solitude  6.    Awcating  a  Friend;  the 

3.  Of  Youth  Farewell  of  a  Friend 

The  verses  date  from  the  eighth  century,  and  are  from  the  poems  of  Li  Tai 
Po  (l,  3,  4,  and  5),  Tschang-Tsi  (2),  Mong-Kao-Jen  (6<z)  and  War^g-Wei 
(6&).  They  were  translated  into  German  by  Hans  Bethge,  and  modified  by 
Mahler  to  suit  his  purposes;  an  English  version  was  made  for  the  Philadelphia 
Orchestra  program  by  Dr.  Phillip  Goepp. 


314  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  2  in  C  minor 
[For  Orchestr^  Chorus y  Soli  Soprano  and  Contralto} 

THIS  gigantic  work  was  written  in  1895.  Performances  in  America  have  been 
exceedingly  few,  primarily  because  of  the  extensive  orchestral  resources  required 
by  the  score,  and  also  because  of  the  indifference  to  the  music  of  Mahler  which 
existed  for  many  years,  among  both  conductors  and  audiences  here  and  abroad. 
The  decline  of  ultramodern  music  during  the  past  few  seasons  has  had  a  counter- 
effect  in  the  development  of  public  taste  for  music  of  the  post-Wagnerian  period, 
during  which  Mahler  and  Bruckner  produced  their  greatest  works. 

The  symphony  required  an  enormous  orchestra,  chorus,  soli  soprano  and 
contralto,  pipe  organ,  and  church  bells.  A  recording  of  one  of  the  few  perform- 
ances ever  given,  when  all  the  requirements  of  the  score  were  available,  is  in 
existence. 

First  Movement 

Allegro  maestoso 

The  musk  is  full  of  powerful  contrasts.  The  solemn  atmosphere  which  sur- 
rounds the  music  early  in  the  first  movement  is  often  interrupted  by  high  drama 
and  heroic  song;  the  suspension  of  vitality  that  sometimes  seems  to  be  indicated  is 
frequently  contrasted  with  musical  utterances  suggesting  the  most  vigorous  action. 
Intermingled  with  these  come  frequent  melodies  of  the  most  ingratiating  and 
buoyant  character.  Strings  and  brass  are  used  for  contrasts  of  both  timbre  and 
emotional  significance,  but  the  resolute  song  that  forms  the  basis  for  the  movement 
is  finally  dominant. 

Second  Movement 
Andante  moderate 

Those  who  have  too  eagerly  accepted  the  dictum  that  Mahler  is  dull  and 
heavy  should  turn  to  the  elastic  rhythms  and  charming  melody  of  this  movement 
for  a  demonstration  of  the  falsity  of  the  accusation.  Here  a  little  folk  song  is 
carried  forward,  of  a  quaint  and  moving  rhythm.  Ultimately  there  is  a  leisurely 
development  suggesting  a  fugue  and  a  climax  of  impressive  power  in  brass  and 
strings,  but  the  movement  ends  in  an  atmosphere  of  quiet  courage  and  complacence. 

Third  Movement 
Wtih  quietly  flowing  movement 

The  movement  has  some  of  the  stark  and  detached  quality  which  in  recent 
seasons  we  have  come  to  associate  with  much  of  the  symphonic  work  of  Sibelius. 
Normally  this  movement  would  be  the  scherzo  of  the  symphony,  but  that  term 


GUSTAV     MAHLER  315 

cannot  be  applied  to  it  with  any  degree  of  accuracy.  Though  there  are  flashes  of 
humor  and  mischievousness  and  often  quite  frisky  rhythms,  the  mood  of  the  move- 
ment is  not  exactly  playful.  Its  atmosphere  is  at  moments  quite  pastoral  and  the 
composer  makes  use  of  what  are  unmistakably  old  folk  songs  and  dances. 

Fourth  Movement 
Primal  Light  (Contralto  solo.  Very  solemn  but  simfly;  like  a  chorale.} 

The  fourth  movement  of  the  symphony  is  inspired  by  verses  taken  from  a 
collection  of  Germany  poetry,  Knaben  Wunderhorn.  This  verse  is  sung  by  a  con- 
tralto voice  accompanied  by  the  orchestra.  The  orchestra,  in  fact,  projects  its  own 
wordless  interpretation  of  the  verses  in  contrast  and  complement  to  the  verses  sung 
by  the  contralto.  They  are  as  follows: 

Thou  red)  red,  rose! 

Ahy  man  lies  in  fatter  throes. 

Yea,  man  lies  in  greatest  woe — 

Far  rather  I  would  to  heaven  go. 

I  entered  u$on  a  broad  highway. 

Then  came  an  angel  bright  and  wanted  to  stay  me. 

Ah  no,  I  would  not  let  him  stay  mel 

Ah  no,  I  would  not  let  him  stay  me! 

I  am  from  Gody  I  will  go  back  to  God! 

The  merciful  Gody  the  merciful  God>  a  candle  will  be  sending, 

To  light  my  way  into  a  blessed  Kfe  unending. 

Fifth  Movement 
Finale:  "The  Great  Summons" 

The  inspiration  of  the  fifth  movement  is  also  a  poem,  entitled  The  Resurreo* 
•&ony  written  by  the  German  poet  Klopstock,  with  the  orchestra  supplying  a  rich 
and  variously  colored  background.  The  poem  is  delivered  in  the  form  of  solos  for 
contralto  and  soprano  with  chorus  in  the  background.  The  climax  is  one  of  the 
most  splendid  in  all  music.  Here  chorus,  orchestra,  and  organ  join  in  a  fervent 
outpouring,  above  which  rises  the  clangor  of  great  bells.  At  the  end  the  music 
reaches  a  degree  of  sonority  almost  unmatched  in  symphonic  music. 


HARL  MCDONALD 

[Born  July  27,  1899] 

FOR  HARL  McDoNALD  music  has  been  an  art,  a  science,  and  a  business.  At 
this  time  or  that,  one  aspect  wfll  have  the  ascendancy,  but  music  has  always 
dominated  his  life.  He  was  born  on  a  cattle  ranch  in  the  Rockies  above 
Boulder,  Colorado.  Since  his  was  a  musical  family,  he  had  a  healthy  admixture  of 
outdoors  and  of  music  in  his  upbringing. 

Early  lessons  on  piano,  violin,  and  French  horn  led  to  professional  engagements. 
Work  with  a  number  of  Los  Angeles  church  choirs  helped  finance  further  educa- 
tion. Study  in  Europe  was  made  possible  by  prizes  awarded  for  a  "Suite  for  Orches- 
tra" and  a  ballet. 

In  1927  he  was  appointed  lecturer  in  composition  at  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania and  since  then  he  has  made  Philadelphia  his  home.  From  1930  to  1933  under 
a  grant  of  the  Rockefeller  Foundation  he  collaborated  in  research  dealing  with  the 
measurement  of  instrumental  and  vocal  tone,  new  scale  divisions  and  the  resultant 
harmonies.  In  1933  he  became  Director  of  the  Music  Department  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Pennsylvania,  where  in  addition  to  administrative  duties  he  taught  numer- 
ous courses  and  directed  various  undergraduate  musical  organizations.  He  gained 
wide  renown  as  a  choral  conductor  at  this  time. 

In  1934  he  was  named  to  the  Board  of  Directors  of  The  Philadelphia  Orchestra 
Association.  This  allowed  him  an  insight  into  the  executive  and  financial  problems 
of  the  organization  and  gave  him  an  opportunity  also  to  work  in  close  collaboration 
with  the  conductors.  He  was  appointed  manager  of  the  orchestra  in  June,  1939. 

During  the  past  few  years  Mr.  McDonald's  compositions  have  been  performed 
by  many  American  and  European  orchestras.  In  addition  to  many  works  for  piano, 
voice,  violin  and  chorus,  the  list  includes  Festival  of  the  Workers  (1933-34); 
Symphony  No.  i,  "The  Santa  Fe  Trail"  (1934) ;  "Rhumba"  Symphony,  "Reflec- 
tions on  an  Era  of  Turmoil"  (1935)  ;  Symphony  No.  3,  "Choral"  (1936) ;  Three 
Poems  for  Orchestra  on  Traditional  Aramaic  and  Hebraic  Themes  (1936) ;  Con- 
certo for  Two  Pianos  and  Orchestra  (1937);  Symphony  No.  4  (1938);  and 
Lament  for  the  Stolen,  for  chorus  of  women's  voices  and  large  orchestra  (1939). 

In  spite  of  this  catalogue,  Mr.  McDonald's  interests  have  not  always  been  ex- 
clusively musical.  A  little  patch  of  silver  in  his  skull  is  a  memento  of  a  youthful 
ambition  as  a  rodeo  performer.  A  nose  slightly  out  of  plumb  is  a  reminder  of  the 
fact  that  he  once  proudly  raised  his  arm  as  amateur  champion  lightweight  of  the 
Southwest.  He  found  out,  however,  that  the  sport  was  injurious  to  his  hands  and 
regretfully  hung  up  his  gloves. 


HARL    MCDONALD 


Festival  of  the  Workers 

THIS  work,  originally  in  three  movements,  is  not  a  sociological  preachment,  Mr. 
McDonald  points  out,  but  is  a  series  of  tone  pictures  of  a  labor  rally. 

The  first  movement,  "Procession  of  the  Workers,"  opens  with  the  muffled 
pulse  of  thousands  of  heavy-booted  feet  approaching  from  a  distance.  The  solo  bas- 
soon is  heard  in  a  melancholy  song,  which  grows  more  and  more  powerful  until  the 


whole  orchestra  presents  it  fortissimo.  As  the  procession  disappears  in  the  distance, 
the  song  of  the  bassoon  is  heard  again  faintly. 

"Dance  of  the  Workers53:  The  gaiety  of  the  workers  is  tinged  with  sadness  and 
the  rhythms  of  the  dance  reflect  this  spirit.  Pizzicato  strings  and  light  woodwinds 
provide  an  accompaniment  for  the  theme  (again  bassoon)  which  opens  the  dance. 


After  some  development  of  the  theme  and  a  minor  climax,  the  second  theme, 
Lento  rubato  is  heard  in  solo  clarinet.  A  brief  return  of  the  first  theme  brings  the 


dance  to  a  close. 

The  third  movement  of  this  suite,  "Exaltation  of  the  Workers"  was  destroyed 
by  the  composer  in  1940. 


Symphony  No. 


i,  "The  Santa  Fe  Trail" 


THE  "Santa  Fe  Trail"  is  a  program  symphony  in  three  movements. 

"When  I  was  a  small  boy  in  the  Southwest,  I  heard  many  of  the  old  men 
describe  their  experiences  in  the  early  days  when  they  came  to  the  new  country. 
Coming,  as  many  of  them  did,  from  the  orderly  and  restricted  life  of  New  Eng- 
land, this  first  plunge  into  a  brutal,  uncaring  existence  was  a  terrifying  experience. 


318  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

From  small  communities  in  which  the  welfare  of  every  individual  was  a  matter  of 
concern  to  all,  they  marched  forward  to  a  world  in  which  their  lives  were  held  by 
a  precariously  small  margin,  and  death  was  frequently  attended  only  by  buzzards 
and  coyotes.  With  few  words  and  long  periods  of  silence,  they  painted  pictures  so 
vivid  that  they  must  remain  clear  in  my  mind  as  long  as  I  live.  My  purpose  in  this 
work  is  to  re-create  in  tone  something  of  the  spirit  and  experiences  of  these  pioneers. 

First  Movement 
(The  Explorers) 

"Across  the  face  of  the  great  pkin  of  infinite  sweep  moves  a  group  of  tiny 
figures.  Surveyed  from  a  distance,  one  would  hardly  be  conscious  that  they  move 
at  all,  so  slight  is  their  progress  from  day  to  day.  A  cloud  of  dust  hangs  over  them, 
partly  concealing  their  advance,  making  breathing  an  agony,  and  red-rimming  their 
eyes.  By  night  they  shiver  under  insufficient  blankets,  and  by  day  their  lips  and 
faces  are  blistered  by  the  sun  and  alkali  dust.  It  seems  to  many  of  the  group  that 
they  have  always  been  a  part  of  this  dust  cloud  moving  westward,  and  occasionally 
they  speculate  on  their  chances  of  ever  escaping  it. 


r^ 


"An  exclamation  focuses  every  unbelieving  eye  upon  the  dim  outline  of  distant 
mountains,  and  weeks  of  weary  plodding  are  forgotten  in  the  new  impatience  to 
reach  the  Spanish  settlements.  The  excitement  is  climaxed  when  they  reach  the 
crest  of  the  first  range,  and  gaze  in  ecstasy  at  the  panorama  which  is  unfolded 
before  them.  Behind  them  the  desert  sleeps  on,  undisturbed. 


-H- 


1 


"This  movement  opens  molto  mdante  (the  desert),  and  leads  to  an  allegro 
(the  mountains),  becoming  again  moko  an&mte. 


•       HARL    MCDONALD  319 

Second  Movement 
(The  Spanish  Settlements) 

"This  movement  (an  allegro  scherxando,  with  a  trio,  molto  moderatoy  of 
Hispanic- Jota  patterns)  reflected  the  spirit  of  the  life  in  the  Spanish  settlements, 
where  the  explorers  come  upon  a  kind  of  life  which  is  beyond  their  comprehen- 
sion. At  first  these  cold  men  of  the  North  and  East  are  dimly  aware  of  the  gaiety 
and  indolence  of  the  Hispanic  life,  but  soon  it  becomes  the  pulse  of  their  existence. 

Third  Movement 
(The  Wagon  Trails  of  the  Pioneers} 

"This  third  movement,  allegro  moderate  e  vigorosoamentey  is  built  on  several 


subjects,  and  represents  the  many  influences — Hispanic,  Nordic,  and  American 
Indian — that  combined  to  build  the  spirit  and  substance  of  the  Southwest.  In  this 
movement  I  have  carried  to  completion  the  principal  subject  of  the  first  movement, 
and  while  there  is  a  considerable  interplay  of  thematic 'material  in  the  three  move- 
ments, I  have  given  more  thought  to  the  sequence  of  emotional  states  than  to  any 
purely  technical  devices  of  structure." 


Symphony  No.  2,  "Rhumba" 

IN  1935,  at  the  time  of  the  first  performances  of  his  second  symphony,  Mr. 
McDonald  wrote  the  following  explanatory  notes: 

"It  is  no  claim  to  distinction  in  the  congregation  of  creative  artists  to  say  that 
one  of  my  major  interests  is  in  the  field  of  social  and  economic  problems.  Naturally, 
our  troubled  times  have  led  to  more  and  more  speculation  and  discussion  along 
these  lines,  and  several  years  ago  I  fyegan  to  think  of  a  large-scale  composition 
which  would  be  based  on  my  reactions  to  and  reflections  on  the  current  turbulent 
scene. 

" About  a  year  ago,  I  chanced  to  spend  some  time  in  Pittsburgh,  where  I  was 
greatly  excited  by  the  wonderful  work  being  done  in  the  Carnegie  Institute  of 


32O  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Technology  and  the  Mellon  Research  Laboratories.  It  seemed  that  at  last  mankind 
had  been  liberated  by  the  scientist,  and  that  we  no  longer  need  to  fear  the  bitter 
decree,  'by  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  eat  bread.'  In  the  midst  of  this  scene 
of  effortless  production  and  new  methods  of  creating  an  age  of  plenty  for  human- 
ity, I  came  face  to  face  with  bread  lines,  hunger,  labor  strife,  and  the  final  inter- 
vention of  the  Federal  government.  Out  of  all  these  contradictory  experiences  I 
began  to  write,  not  of  my  social  philosophy,  but  of  my  experiences.  Tumult,  ac- 
complishment and  frustration,  industry  and  stagnation,  were  all  a  part  of  the  scheme, 
and  I  felt  and  hoped  that  I  was  getting  something  of  the  pulse  of  my  own  day.  At 
about  the  time  that  I  was  sketching  the  third  movement  and  had  completely  im- 
mersed myself  in  the  spirit  of  our  hectic,  dynamic  gaiety,  there  came  very  disturb- 
ing news  of  the  Fascists  and  Nazis,  adding  unbelievably  to  the  complications  sur- 
rounding our  precarious  state  of  civilization. 

"This  fixed  in  my  mind  the  character  of  the  fourth  movement,  and  the  score 
was  finished  shortly  after. 

"This  symphony  is  in  no  sense  a  program  composition,  and  the  title,  'Rhumba' 
Symphony,  has  to  do  only  with  the  fact  that  I  have  used  rhumba  rhythms  in  the 
third  movement. 

"My  reflections  on  our  turbulent  age  are  entirely  personal,  and  I  make  no 
effort  to  paint  graphically,  nor  do  I  wish  to  create  the  scene  of  my  experiences  in 
the  minds  of  listeners. 

"Some  people  will  find  bitterness  in  parts  of  this  music,  and  I  hope  in  other 
parts  they  will  find  ecstasy  and  elevation.  The  realization  that  great  multitudes  are 
living  in  want  while  we  debate  the  problem  of  overproduction;  that  the  ambition 
and  spiritual  development  of  thousands  of  young  people  is  aborted  every  year  be- 
cause the  greatest  industrial  nations  of  history  can't  use  their  man  power — all  this 
must  lend  a  flavor  of  bitterness  to  any  thoughts  of  our  times. 

"With  all  this  tumult  of  accomplishment  and  frustration,  I  am  always  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  I  am  living  in  an  age  that  has  an  almost  insatiable  appetite 
for  gaiety  and  entertainment.  In  this  part  of  my  score  I  have  used  a  rhumba,  for 
the  two  reasons  that  I  like  rhumba  rhythms  and  also  because  they  seem  to  be  a  part 
of  the  pulse  of  our  times. 


«™ ^—  i    i     i  i^^*^***1"^*™1*11"^^   -^— - 


HAUL    MCDONALD  321 

(Mr.  McDonald  has  supplied  thematic  excerpts  of  only  the  third  "rhumba" 
movement  of  this  symphony.) 

"The  modern  orchestra  affords  innumerable  colors  in  which  one  might  pic- 
ture the  martial  hosts  that  are  springing  up  all  over  the  earth.  The  swashbuckling 
blackshirts,  brownshirts,  and  their  ilk  occupy  an  alarmingly  important  position  on 
our  stage,  but  I  cannot  feel  the  rhythms  of  marching  soldiery  without  sensing  their 
avowed  purpose  of  bringing  death.  I  have  suggested  all  this  in  the  fourth  movement. 

"There  is  considerable  interplay  of  thematic  material,  except  in  the  third 
movement.  There  are  no  devices  of  form  or  structure  for  the  sake  of  adherence  to 
the  traditional,  yet  the  first  and  last  movements  are  noticeably  in  sonata  form,  with 
a  few  individual  excursions." 


Symphony  No.  3,  "Choral" 

"BASED  on  a  text  by  Huan  Hseih  drawn  freely  from  The  Lamentation  of  Fu 
Hsuan. 

"In  form,  this  composition  makes  many  departures  from  the  conventional  sym- 
phonic structure.  I  have  introduced  the  thematic  material  of  the  whole  composition 
in  the  first  movement  and  thereafter  varied  it  according  to  the  needs  of  the  several 
sections.  Except  in  the  first  movement  I  have  intended  that  the  chorus  shall  be,  as 
much  as  possible,  an  integral  part  of  the  orchestra;  that  the  tone  of  instruments  and 
voices  combine  in  the  tonal  fabric. 

"The  symphony  opens  with  a  dirgelike  rhythm  which  is  carried  insistently 


under  the  cry  of  high  strings  and  woodwinds.  A  bleak  melody  leads  to  an  agitated 


section  which  in  turn  subsides  again  to  the  dirge  figure.  An  off-stage  chorus  is 
heard,  faintly,  on  the  lines,  'The  mght  is  calm  and  softly  breathes  the  earitf — (and 
then  the  chorus  hums  an  accompaniment  to  the  soloist's  $frech~stimmey  *a  voice 
whispers,  yet  no  one  answers  my  call.')  The  chorus  and  soloist  gradually  fade,  and 
again  are  heard  the  off-stage  voices — 'the  night  is  calm.'  The  movement  closes  with 
the  plaint  of  solitude  in  the  solo  part  which  is  carried  to  conclusion  in  the  cellos. 


322  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

"The  second  movement  opens  with  a  clangor  in  the  orchestra  which  intro- 
duces the  soloist's  spoken  lines — 'once  more  may  I  gaze  upon  thy  face/  and,  with 
subdued  force,  combine  in  a  slow,  undulating  rhythm  on  the  words,  'between  thee 
and  me  move  the  waves  of  a  sea  of  tears. 

"The  third  movement,  con  ismania,  springs  from  the  hallucinations  and  de- 
lirium that  accompany  frenzied  grief.  Demons  and  shadows,  minions  of  the  god 
of  death,  shout  their  victorious  battle  cry  which  is  sometimes  heard  and  sometimes 
lost  in  the  turbulent  orchestral  music* 

"As  the  fourth  movement  opens,  the  clangor  and  wailing  song  are  again  sug- 
gested, this  time  by  the  orchestra  alone.  There  is  a  brief  return  of  the  agitato  theme 
of  the  first  movement  and  the  soloist  sings — ca  cloud  of  darkness  covers  all  the 
earth  as  death  enfolds  me.'  The  theme  of  this  brief  solo  is  then  taken  up  by  the 
chorus  in  a  chant  which  continues  to  the  close.  The  chorus  is  at  all  times  supported 
and  sometimes  engulfed  by  counterchorales  in  the  orchestra,  the  whole  mood  being 
austere  and  quasi-ecdesiasticaL" 


"Cakewalk"  (Scherzo)  from  Symphony  No.  4 

MR.  MCDONALD  explains  that  his  fourth  symphony  is  now  being  revised  and  for 
that  reason  he  supplies  information  only  on  the  "Cakewalk"  movement  which  is  to 
remain  in  its  original  form  in  the  revised  symphony. 

The  "cakewalk,"  originally  a  gay  American-Negro  dance,  attained  world- 
wide popularity  during  the  first  decade  of  this  century.  "I  used  a  cakewalk  as 
scherzo  in  my  Fourth  Symphony,  not  with  the  idea  of  paying  my  respects  to  a 
folk-dance  form  but  because  the  spirit  and  style  of  the  cakewalk  are  strongly 
American  and,  therefore,  a  natural  medium  of  expression  for  me."  The  movement 
opens  in  the  characteristic,  rhythmical  style,  and  after  fifty  bars  devoted  to  dance 


patterns  the  principal  theme  appears. 


melodic  line  in  the  *trio*  is  accompanied  by  pizzicato  strings,  rein- 


HARL     MCDONALD  323 

forced  by  the  unconventional  but  thoroughly  American  device  of  foot-tapping  and 
hand-clapping  in  crossed  rhythms." 


Concerto  for  Two  Pianos  and  Orchestra 

First  Movement 

"THE  first  movement  opens  molto  moderate  in  a  broad  melodic  line  over  an 
ostinato  pattern  in  cellos,  basses,  and  bassoons.  At  the  end  of  twenty  bars  this  theme 


is  taken  by  the  solo  instruments  and  leads  to  the  subito  allegro.  After  some  dialogue 
between  orchestra  and  pianos,  the  principal  thematic  material  falls  to  the  orchestra, 
and  the  soloists'  parts  become  largely  ornamental.  Suddenly,  at  bar  98,  the  pianos 
announce,  fortissimo,  a  rhythmic  pattern,  which,  in  turn,  becomes  a  pizzicato  ac- 
companiment for  the  first  (introductory)  theme.  Development  continues,  with  the 
use  of  both  principal  and  secondary  themes,  and  is  carried  into  a  long  cadenza. 
There  is  a  brief  recapitulation,  vivo,  and  the  movement  closes  with  a  sweeping, 
double  glissando  in  the  two  solo  instruments. 

Second  Movement 

"The  second  movement  is  a  set  of  free  variations  on  an  original  theme, 
andante  esfresswo,  in  three-two  time.  The  theme  is  first  heard  in  the  first  violins; 


continues  as  an  oboe  solo  over  a  string  background;  and  then  is  taken  up  by  the 
pianos.  The  first  variation,  which  is  an  allegretto  scherzando  in  two-four  rhythm, 
finds  the  soloists  embellishing  the  subject  matter,  which  is  given  to  woodwinds  and 
pizzicato  strings.  The  second  variation,  adagio  maestoso,  in  three-four,  is  intro- 
duced by  the  two  soloists,  who  later  weave  counterlines  around  the  orchestra.  In 
the  third  variation,  moderato  e  goto,  again  in  three-four  time,  the  orchestra  is  used, 
sometimes  in  choirs  and  sometimes  as  a  whole,  in  a  highly  rhythmic  style  while  the 


324  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

soloists  counter  with  a  little  scherzo.  The  fourth  and  last  variation  is  a  chorale  in 
five-four  time  for  wind  instruments,  countered  and  embellished  first  by  one  soloist, 
then  the  other. 

Third  Movement 

"The  last  movement  of  the  concerto  is  Hispanic- American  in  style,  and  in  it 
I  have  utilized  some  devices  common  to  many  Mexican  concert  bands.  These  have 
to  do  with  the  practical  elimination  of  dialogue  between  soloists  and  orchestra;  the 
occasional  use  of  the  solo  instruments  as  a  part  of  the  orchestral  fabric;  but  in  gen- 
eral, constant  emphasis  on  continuous  and  uninterrupted  sonorities  and  rhythms. 
The  Juarezes  a  dance  of  northern  Mexico,  has  been  popular  for  about  fifty  years, 
and  along  the  border  has  taken  on  something  of  the  character  of  American  jazz. 
It  is  in  two-two  time  and  allegro.  The  movement  opens  with  twelve  measures  of 
percussion;  the  subordinate  theme  is  then  introduced  in  the  orchestra  with  piano 
decoration,  and  after  a  few  bars  the  second  piano  presents  the  principal  theme. 


Development  of  the  material  is  accompanied  by  constant  increase  in  orchestra  vol- 
ume, until  a  brief  diminuendo  leads  to  a  malaguena  in  the  two  pianos.  The  rhythms 
of  the  percussion  instruments  are  heard  again  in  juarezca.  The  movement  closes 

ffi-* 


Three  Poems  (on  Aramaic  and  Hebraic  Themes) 

"THE  themes  on  which  I  have  built  this  suite  are  from  a  collection  made  by  the 
celebrated  musicologist,  Dr.  Abraham  Idelssohn.  For  the  most  part  they  are  of  great 
age  and  I  have  woven  together  four  Aramaic  and  three  traditional  Hebrew  tunes 
because  of  their  fundamental  similarity  of  style  and  spirit. 

"The  first  Poem  is  in  a  happy  vein,  and  the  opening  section  may  be  considered 
a  nature  poem*  Then  appears  the  theme  of  an  Aramaic  chant,  which  is  broken  by 


the  cry  'EK,  El* — /  It  defies  with  a  suggestion  of  the  opening  passage. 


HARL    MCDONALD  325 

"The  second  Poem  is  a  song  of  lamentation,  based  on  an  Aramaic  tune  and 
Hebraic  theme  of  similar  character. 


"The  third  Poem  is  built  on  three  themes,  two  of  which  are  dance  tunes. 


While  I  have  felt  free  to  reshape  the  original  material  even  to  the  point  of  invert- 
ing lines,  I  have  tried  at  all  times  to  maintain  the  important  rhythmic  and  phrase 
peculiarities  of  the  originals.  In  the  matter  of  harmonic  language,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  the  orchestral  style,  I  have  attempted  to  preserve  the  character  of  the  tradi- 
tional material  rather  than  to  allow  myself  too  many  excursions  in  a  too  personal 
vein." 


San  Juan  Capistrano — Two  Evening  Pictures 

MR.  McDoNALD  has  written  as  follows  concerning  this  work: 

"San  Juan  Capistrano  was  composed  in  the  latter  part  of  1938.  The  musk  is 
meant  to  reflect  two  scenes  in  the  little  mission  community  of  Capistrano  which  lies 
near  the  Mexican  border  in  California.  For  nearly  three  hundred  years  the  mission 
has  dominated  the  town  and  its  inhabitants.  Except  for  an  occasional  automobile,  at 
which  children  stare  as  it  passes  through,  life  in  Capistrano  goes  on  in  much  the 
same  fashion  as  it  did  a  century  or  two  ago. 

"The  first  movement,  'The  Mission/  opens  in  a  quiet  vein  suggesting  the 
tranquillity  of  early  evening.  Occasionally  the  soft  music  of  the  strings  is  punctu- 
ated by  the  sound  of  mission  bells.  Faintly,  from  a  distant  procession,  comes  a  strain 
reminiscent  of  a  seventeenth-century  ecclesiastical  melody,  and  gradually  the  chant- 
ing and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  engulf  the  scene.  As  the  procession  disappears  in  the 
mission  the  subdued  and  languorous  music  of  the  opening  passages  is  heard  again. 

"The  second  nocturne,  Tiesta,'  pictures  the  community  batLe  or  danza  which 
is  held  in  the  mission  square.  The  movement  opens  with  the  fast  Spanish-Colonial 
jota  in  6-8,  3-4  rhythm;  there  is  an  abrupt  climax  and  the  music  then  pictures  the 
ever-popular  danza  dueto  in  habanero  tempo.  A  return  of  the  jota  music  brings  the 
piece  to  a  close,  fortissimo." 


FELIX  MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY 

[1809-1847] 


O^e  happy  one)  was  a  well-chosen  name  for  Mendelssohn,  for 
fortune  smiled  on  him,  and  bestowed  on  the  boy  her  choicest  gifts;  a 
diadem  of  genius  for  his  curly  head,  inherited  wealth  from  his  father, 
a  winning  charm  of  manner,  and  a  graceful  upright  physique. 

The  Mendelssohn  family,  though  of  Jewish  origin,  eventually  became  Chris- 
tian, one  branch  being  received  into  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  the  other,  including 
Felix,  accepting  Protestant  Christianity.  The  primary  reasons  for  this  were  political 
and  social,  rather  than  religious.  Some  of  the  Mendelssohns  added  the  name 
"Bartholdy"  to  their  branch  to  distinguish  it  from  other  branches. 

From  boyhood  Mendelssohn  won  laurels  as  a  pianist,  first  appearing  on  the 
concert  stage  at  the  age  of  nine.  He  and  his  sister  were  devoted,  and  practiced 
at  the  same  piano,  their  delightful  mother  sitting  near  by  with  her  knitting.  Felix 
also  counted  landscape  painting,  Greek,  and  composition  among  his  studies,  in  all 
of  which  he  was  remarkably  bright. 

At  twelve  he  began  to  compose,  and  a  year  later  he  met  Weber.  At  once 
admiration,  which  he  never  lost,  was  born  in  the  heart  of  the  lad  for  that  romantic 
composer.  Although  the  influence  of  those  for  whom  he  had  great  respect  aflFected 
him — he  loved  Handel,  Bach,  and  Beethoven,  deeply — he  never  "copied"  anyone, 
and  his  music  has  a  style  and  character  very  definitely  his  own. 

His  pen  flowed  with  melody,  giving  to  the  world  a  perennial  springtime  of 
music*  He  "discovered"  Shakespeare  in  the  German  editions  when  he  was  but  a 
boy,  and  admired  the  English  poet  so  much  that  he  wrote  the  charming  music 
inspired  by  A  Midsummer  Nights  Dream^  the  Overture  to  which  was  completed 
when  Felix  was  but  seventeen  years  old.  Later,  Mendelssohn  lived  in  England,  and 
was  enormously  popular  there. 

He  was  particularly  fortunate  in  friends,  numbering  among  them  Schumann, 
Chopin,  Spontini,  and  Moscheles.  He  himself  was  the  favorite  of  kings  and 
emperors,  who  vied  with  each  other  to  do  him  honor.  Loving  life,  loving  beauty, 
loving  people,  this  magnetic  personality  drew  everyone  to  him.  He  lived,  wedded, 
and  died  happily;  and  he  left  happy  music  behind  him. 

The  character,  the  personality  of  the  composer  are  invariably  revealed,  some- 
where or  other,  in  his  music.  Not  always  does  he  speak,  deliberately,  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  and  yet  he  often  reveals,  unwittingly,  depths  of  which  he  him- 
self is  scarcely  conscious.  He  says  more  than  he  intends  to  say.  There  are  moments 
in  the  music  of  Beethoven,  for  example,  when  the  tragedy  that  haunted  his  life 
stalks  boldly  across  the  page.  Again,  there  are  times  when  the  grim  humor  of 
that  strange  man  rises  above  his  melancholies,  and  he  laughs  gruffly  at  his  own 
misery.  Yet  he  could  write  his  gayest  music — and  he  could  be  gay — whfle  in  the 

3*6 


FELIX     MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY  327 

depths  of  unhappiness,  just  as  the  struggling  poet,  starving  and  sweltering  in  a 
city  garret  in  midsummer,  might  sing  his  daintiest  song  of  Christmas  lights  and 
Christmas  snows. 

But  Mendelssohn  very  consistently  revealed  his  real  self — the  cheerful, 
successful,  contented,  happy  man  that  he  was;  and  there  is  nothing  in  his  music 
to  indicate  that  his  gaiety  is  constrained.  The  delicacy  and  sprightliness  that  were 
integrated  with  his  character  shine  forth  in  his  music;  his  love  of  the  refined,  the 
aristocratic,  the  cultured,  is  faithfully  reflected  in  his  work. 


"A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  Music 

IN  THE  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  music  Mendelssohn  could  and  did  have  free 
play  for  the  delicacy  and  polished  workmanship  characteristic  of  his  music.  In 
Shakespeare's  fantastic  play  he  found  the  inspiration  for  this  exquisitely  wrought 
and  fanciful  music — gaily  yet  subtly  colored,  touched  with  magic  and  with  mystery, 
painting  pictures  of  exceeding  loveliness,  and  telling  a  tale  of  delicious  fantasy, 

Mendelssohn  was  but  a  youth,  impressionable^  eager  for  knowledge,  when  he 
wrote  the  first  item  of  the  incidental  music  to  Shakespeare's  A  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream — the  Overture.  This  was  in  1826.  Not  another  note  of  the  music  was 
written  until  1843,  7et  Mendelssohn,  who  lived  in  an  apparently  perennial  youth, 
completed  the  music  after  this  long  interval  without  losing  the  sense  and  the 
expression  of  wonder  and  delight;  without  writing  a  phrase  that  did  violence  to 
the  spirit  of  his  youthful  and,  up  to  the  time  of  its  composition,  his  only  notable 
work. 

The  Overture  was  originally  written  as  a  piano  duet,  and  was  performed 
privately  in  that  form.  The  music  was  completed  at  the  command  of  William  IV 
of  Prussia,  and  consisted  of  thirteen  pieces.  The  four  described  here  constitute 
the  usual  concert  form  of  the  Midsummer  Nightfs  Dream  music. 

The  incidental  music  does  not,  of  course,  carry  in  its  suggestions  a  complete, 
coherent  version  of  the  plot  of  Shakespeare's  play.  It  is,  in  truth,  incidental;  many 
episodes  of  the  play  are  portrayed  or  suggested,  but  to  the  listener  who  wishes  to 
fit  the  music  definitely  to  the  story,  a  certain  degree  of  familiarity  with  the  lines 
of  the  play  itself  is  necessary.  This  is  still  more  obvious  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
arrangement  of  the  music  usually  presented  is  a  condensation  in  the  form  of  a  suite 
for  orchestra,  made  by  Mendelssohn  for  concert  performance, 

It  is  not  necessary  for  your  enjoyment  that  you  be  familiar  with  the  play, 
however.  The  music  is  so  exquisitely  beautiful  in  itself,  so  filled  with  fair/like 


328  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

delicacy,  with  quaint  and  jeesque  humor,  with  romance  and  lovely  orchestral  color 
that  it  needs  no  program  to  make  itself  felt  and  enjoyed. 

. .  .  Once  I  sat  ufon  a  promontory 

And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly   "from  their  spheres 

To  hear  the  Mermaid?*  music. 

Thus  says  Oberon,  in  Midsummer  Wighfs  Dream.  In  such  a  fantastic  tonality 
the  Midsummer  Nights  Dream  music  is  pitched.  There  is  a  magic  in  it  ...  an  elfin 
gaiety,  a  diaphanous  delicacy,  an  ethereal  quality  compounded  of  dew  and  honey 
and  the  nectar  of  flowers,  the  scents  of  flowers  on  warm  midnight  airs,  the  rhythm 
of  flowers  and  of  tiny  feet  dancing  'neath  towering  blades  of  grass.  There  are 
pranks  and  clowning,  true  love  and  black  magic,  pathos  and  the  pleasant,  impossible 
conceits  of  a  poet's  imagination. 

The  Overture  embodies  many  of  the  themes  of  the  incidental  music  to  the 
play.  Motive  would  perhaps  be  more  accurately  descriptive  than  theme,  for  little 
episodic  phrases  are  given  definite  significance  by  the  composer.  It  opens  with  four 
lovely  chords  in  the  woodwind,  faint  and  mysterious.  Swiftly,  delicately,  wavering, 
and  intangible,  the  music  of  the  fairies  follows  in  the  violins,  with  occasional 
pizzicato  notes  from  the  violas.  Suddenly  the  whole  orchestra  bursts  forth  in  a 
joyous  revel,  and  again  the  fairy  music,  developed  in  much  greater  volume  and 
definiteness,  appears  for  a  space. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  first  section  the  Bergomask*  dance  from  the  fifth  act 
of  the  play  appears — a  jolly  rhythm  and  tuneful.  A  little  later  you  will  notice 
the  curious  bray  of  the  brass  that  typifies  Bottom,  the  dolt  of  the  Shakespearean 
comedy  who  through  fairy  magic  is  given  an  ass's  head  instead  of  a  human.  You 
will  note,  too,  a  rapidly  descending  passage  for  the  cellos,  said  to  have  been 
suggested  to  the  composer  by  the  buzzing  of  a  huge  fly  in  the  garden  where  some 
of  his  music  was  written. 

From  this  point  the  Overture  is  krgely  devoted  to  development  of  the 
fascinating  material  already  introduced — and  always  lively,  colorful,  and  full  of 
the  dainty  witchery  with  which  Mendelssohn  has  invested  all  of  this  lovely  music. 

Nocturne 

The  Nocturne,  occurring  in  the  play  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  when  sleep 
has  quietly  and  sweetly  descended  upon  all  in  the  drama,  embodies  one  of  the 

*  Named  for  the  nnconth  inhabitants  of  an  ancient  Italian  town  whose  grotesque 
manners  and  rough  humor  were  a  favorite  subject  for  burlesque  and  mimicry. 


FELIX     MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY  329 

loveliest  passages  for  the  horn  in  all  music — and  some  of  the  loveliest  music,  the 
most  mysterious  and  dreamy,  the  most  romantic  and  expressive,  that  ever  came 
from  the  hand  of  Mendelssohn.  The  horn  passage,  which  is  the  most  important 
melody  of  the  Nocturne,  appears  at  the  very  beginning,  and  for  a  space  occupies 
the  scene  completely.  But  presently  the  strings  attain  more  prominence,  and  come 
strongly  in  contrast  with  the  horn;  first,  in  the  lower  ranges,  and  then  on  a 
sustained  high  note.  The  countertheme  is  presented  in  strings  and  woodwind. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find,  outside  of  the  work  of  Wagner,  music  so  expres- 
sive of  love,  and  of  the  sweet  warmth  and  drowsiness  of  a  midsummer  night. 
Here  the  downish  Bottom  is  sunk  in  slumber,  while  Titania,  the  bewitched  and 
lovely,  sleeps  delicately  the  while  she  caresses  the  uncouth  head  of  her  lover.  To 
the  end  the  eerie  singing  of  the  strings  and  the  communing  horns  maintain  their 
gentle  sway. 

Scherzo 

The  infinite  delicacy,  playfulness,  and  fairylike  grace  of  the  Midsummer 
Nighfs  Dream  music  reach  a  climax  in  the  Scherzo,  which  is  used  quite  like  a 
prelude  to  the  second  act  of  the  play.  Here  Mendelssohn  "discloses  the  fairy  world, 
with  its  chattering  elves  and  their  mischievous  gambols,  interrupted  now  and  then 
by  the  griefs  of  the  unfortunate  and  tormented  lovers."  In  spite  of  its  delicacy  and 
grace,  it  has  a  kind  of  fierce  energy  at  times — little  bursts  of  fury  that  flash  for  a 
moment  and  are  gone.  But  it  dies  away  into  impalpable  delicacy,  and  finally, 
silence. 

Wedding  March 

Much  of  the  Wedding  March  is  familiar  to  everyone.  Its  joyous  pomp  and 
lively  rhythm,  its  bright  orchestral  color,  and  the  inevitable  note  of  sadness  that 
seems  inexplicably  to  touch  every  bridal  with  smothered  misgiving — these  have 
made  it  almost  universally  the  customary  recessional  for  the  marriage  ceremony. 
Its  principal  melodies  are  sufficiently  familiar,  however,  to  require  no  comment;  k 
is  the  composer's  treatment  of  them,  and  in  them  the  gathering  together  of  all  the 
emotions  usually  experienced  by  any  and  all  of  the  participants  in  a  wedding 
ceremony,  that  will  most  excite  interest  and  pleasure. 


Symphony  No.  3  in  A  minor 
["Scotch"  Symphony] 

SCOTTISH  music  and  Scottish  history  inspired  this  symphony,  though  we  will  happily 
find  in  it  no  sound  of  bagpipes  or  battle.  Mendelssohn  had  visited  Scotland  in  1829^ 


330  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

and  heard  the  pipers  skirling  their  wild  music,  and  had  visited  the  very  room  at 
Holyrood,  where  Mary  had  lived,  and  stood  on  the  spot  where  an  Italian  musician, 
once  a  favorite  of  the  queen,  had  been  murdered.  "I  believe  I  have  found,"  wrote 
the  composer,  "the  beginning  of  my  Scotch  symphony."  It  was  not  so  Scotch, 
however,  that  it  could  not  be  misinterpreted,  for  it  is  related  that  when  Robert 
Schumann  heard  it,  and  was  told  that  it  was  Mendelssohn's  "Italian"  Symphony, 
he  declared  it  so  charmingly  represented  Italy  as  to  compensate  one  for  never 
having  been  there! 

The  symphony  was  performed  for  the  first  time  at  Berlin,  March  3,  1842, 
under  Mendelssohn's  direction. 

First  Movement 

The  movement  has  a  grave  introduction;  portions  of  its  thematic  material 
are  supposed  to  have  been  written  down  by  Mendelssohn  on  the  second  day  of 
his  visit  to  Scotland.  There  is  a  "motto"  theme,  heard  at  the  beginning,  and 
recurring  at  periods  through  the  work,  which  is  probably  the  musical  idea  that  so 
promptly  impressed  the  composer. 

The  movement  proper  is  in  somewhat  more  vigorous,  but  not  less  romantic, 
style  than  the  introduction.  There  are  typically  Mendelssohnian  melodies,  gently 
melancholy,  and  a  return  to  the  somberness  of  the  introduction. 

Second  Movement 

The  second,  rather  than  the  third,  is  the  scherzo  movement  of  this  symphony. 
A  transitional  passage  for  horn  and  woodwind  precedes  the  establishment  of  the 
graceful  rhythm — one  which,  however,  seldom  becomes  boisterous.  One  might 
have  expected  Scottish  dancing  here,  but  though  the  spirit  of  the  music  is  light 
and  gay,  there  is  none  of  the  robust  vigor  associated  with,  say,  a  Highland  "fling." 

Third  Movement 

The  third  movement  may  have  been  suggested  by  Mendelssohn's  reflections 
at  Holyrood  castle.  It  has  gravity,  even  majesty,  with  a  reflective  and  somewhat 
melancholy  note  that  could  be  a  remembrance  of  the  tragic  events  that  came  to 
pass  in  that  gloomy  keep.  But  the  music  could  as  well  suggest  the  wild  hills  and 
solemn  forests  of  Scotland,  or  the  overbearing  sadness  of  plains  and  lonely  moors. 

Fourth  Movement 

If  anywhere  this  symphony  is,  in  a  musical  sense,  definitely  Scotch,  it  is  in 
the  final  movement.  Here  the  wild  Highlander,  claymore  in  hand,  sweeps  down 


FELIX    MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY 

from  his  rugged  hills  joyously  to  do  battle  j  but  we  are  spared  a  too  literal  descrip- 
tion of  the  fight.  Here,  too,  is  the  impetuous,  the  vigorous  dance  of  the  North, 
and  a  retailing  in  suggestive  musical  terms  of  the  glorious  deeds  of  Scotland's 
heroes.  There  is  a  contrasting  section,  somewhat  more  restrained,  yet  even  more 
suggestive  of  Scottish  music. 


Concerto  in  E  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 
[Opus  64] 

THE  concerto  in  its  original  form  is  primarily  a  showpiece  for  the  solo  instrument. 
Modern  trends  in  instrumental  music  have  made  the  chief  instrument  more  strictly 
a  voice  of  the  orchestra — outstanding,  it  is  true,  but  more  closely  identified  with  the 
orchestra  than  the  original  purpose  of  the  concerto  would  justify. 

Mendelssohn,  in  the  present  work,  leans  toward  the  more  classic  style.  The 
orchestra  is,  generally,  subdued  ;  the  violin  stands  out  like  a  silhouette — a  moving, 
vital,  highly  colored  silhouette — against  the  pastel-tinted  background  of  the  orches- 
tra. Thus,  without  effort,  both  the  melodic  line  of  the  solo  part,  and  the  beautiful 
tone  of  the  solo  instrument,  may  be  traced  throughout  the  concerto. 

It  will  be  of  great  interest  to  compare  this  work  with  the  Beethoven  violin 
concerto.  Such  a  comparison  will  be  a  fascinating  revelation  of  the  differences  in 
style  and  treatment  characteristic  of  Mendelssohn  and  Beethoven,  and  the  follow- 
ing anecdote  will  add  further  light: 

Ferdinand  David,  a  violinist  of  note  and  a  contemporary  of  Mendelssohn, 
visited  the  composer  at  his  home  while  work  on  the  concerto  was  being  finished. 
"This,"  said  David,  "is  going  to  be  something  great!"  "Do  you  think  so?"  asked 
Mendelssohn.  "I'm  sure  of  it."  David  was  enthusiastic.  "There  is  plenty  of  music 
for  violin  and  orchestra,  but  there  has  been  only  one  real  great  big  concerto — now 
there  will  be  two." 

"No,  no!"  said  Mendelssohn,  "if  I  finish  this  concerto  it  will  be  with  no  wish 
of  competing  with  Beethoven." 

Yet  musical  history  has  inevitably  made  comparisons,  and  often  with  the  con- 
clusions expressed  by  Sterndale  Bennett  on  this  same  occasion.  "There  seems  to  me 
something  essentially  and  exquisitely  feminine  about  it,  just  as  in  the  Beethoven 
concerto  there  is  something  essentially  and  heroically  masculine.  He  has  made  the 
Adam  of  concertos,  and  you  have  mated  it  with  the  Eve." 

This  occasion  took  place  in  1840.  Mendelssohn,  on  being  asked  when  the 
concerto  would  be  completed,  replied  jestingly,  "In  five  years."  It  was  first  played 
in  public  on  March  13,  1845,  at  Berlin, 


33^  THfc    VICTOR    fcOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

First  Movement 

With  a  fine  feminine  freedom  and  curving  grace  of  melodic  line  the  first 
movement  begins,  the  violin  springing  swiftly  into  a  lovely  flight  of  melody  above 
the  restrained  accompaniment  of  the  orchestra.  This  melody  is  in  fact  the  first  main 
theme  of  the  movement,  and  its  subsequent  brilliant  development,  and  contrast 
with  the  countertheme,  is  effected  with  the  most  exquisite  delicacy  and  skill,  as 
shall  be  perceived  later  in  the  movement. 

Now  the  orchestra  reiterates  the  theme,  and  the  solo  instrument  ranges  almost 
to  the  limits  of  its  scale  in  laying  on  tonal  ornament.  Now  a  phrase  of  pure  melody, 
now  brilliant  fragments,  now  a  reminiscence  of  the  first  theme  in  the  silvery  upper- 
most tones  of  the  instrument. 

There  is  a  faint  touch  of  melancholy  in  the  second  subject,  first  presented  in 
the  dulcet  voices  of  flute  and  clarinet,  then  taken  up  in  the  even  lovelier,  warmer 
tone  of  the  violin  itself.  Succeeding  it  is  a  new  version  of  the  first  songlike  melody, 
appearing  now  in  the  major  mode.  The  composer  plays  delicately  with  his  subject, 
exploiting  its  possibilities  to  the  limit,  yet  with  never  a  moment  of  pedantry  or 
heaviness.  Meanwhile,  a  climax  is  being  developed  which  bursts  into  being  in  the 
marvelous  cadenza  at  the  end  of  the  second  section  of  the  movement.  Now  the 
resources  of  the  violin  are  extended.  Rich  tone,  deep  and  full  from  the  G  string; 
glittering,  or  again,  ethereal  harmonics  deftly  conjured  from  the  remotest  upper 
ranges  of  the  instrument;  flying  bow  .  .  .  and  lingering;  all  fashioned  into  a 
gorgeous  ornament  of  tone  as  solidly  constructed  as  a  Gothic  ornament  in  stone; 
and  as  delicate  and  meticulous  as  a  dry-point  etching. 

The  lovely,  almost  Mozartian  countertheme  of  the  first  movement  is  pre- 
sented again;  then  the  main  theme  as  the  final  section  of  the  movement  begins. 
The  coda — the  peroration  of  the  movement — is  built  largely  upon  the  main  theme, 
and  new  wonders  in  delicacy,  new  outbursts  of  vigor,  new  intensities  of  sentiment 
are  presented. 

Second  Movement 

In  contrast  with  the  light  mood  of  the  preceding  movement  the  music  now 
is  shaded  with  a  spirit  that  is  almost  religious — when  it  does  not  breathe  with  the 
gentle  cadence  of  a  berceuselikt  melody  of  exceeding  beauty.  A  short  and  softly 
intoned  introduction  by  the  orchestra  precedes  the  lovely  song  of  the  solo  instru- 
ment. Here  the  composer  of  the  inimitable  Songs  Without  Words  is  character- 
istically himself — the  creator  of  suave  melody,  springing  spontaneously  from  a 
spirit  almost  overburdened  with  it. 

Still  the  feminine  character  of  the  concerto  can  be  felt;  perhaps  it  is  responsi- 
ble for  the  rhythm  here  which  so  strongly  suggests  the  cradle  song.  But  there  is 
another  powerful,  and  very  strange  suggestion  here  ...  the  curious  resemblance, 


FELIX     MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY  333 

vague  but  unmistakable,  of  this  movement,  particularly  in  the  opening  measures,  to 
the  marvelously  beautiful  and  touching  slow  movement  of  the  Beethoven  Quartet, 
Opus  135 — incidentally,  the  last  complete  work  from  the  hand  of  that  master. 

In  the  latter  half  of  the  movement  the  orchestra  comes  to  the  fore  more  con- 
spicuously than  at  any  previous  period  in  the  concerto,  yet  the  penetrating  tone  of 
the  violin  is  invariably  dominating,  and  toward  the  end  surmounts  the  orchestra's 
muted  thunders  in  a  final  utterance  of  the  eloquent  song  that  opened  this  section  of 
the  work. 

Third  Movement 

How  vigorous  and  vital  a  thing  the  violin  can  be;  how  varied  and  colorful 
the  tonal  effects,  that  can  be  drawn  from  it  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  may  be  dis- 
covered in  this  one  movement  alone.  Its  tones  dance  as  lightly  as  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  above  the  sonorities  of  the  orchestra  ...  or,  as  the  bow  is  drawn  powerfully 
across  the  G  string,  it  utters  such  expressions  of  somber  passion,  of  passionate 
warmth  that  penetrate  immediately  to  the  innermost  heart.  Now  an  ethereal  har- 
monic, mysterious,  luminous,  hangs  imminent  for  a  moment  like  a  pale  star  ...  or 
melody  sings  like  a  quivering  projection  of  flame. 

The  rhythmic  foundation  of  the  movement  lies  in  a  simple,  almost  crude 
figure,  much  like  an  old  folk  song  or  dance — but  upon  it  is  reared  an  airy  struc- 
ture of  tone,  infinitely  graceful  and  dainty;  polished  and  sophisticated;  rising  to  a 
dynamic  and  tonal  climax  surpassingly  powerful  and  brilliant. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  A  major 

["Italian"  Symphony] 

[Opus  90] 

MORE  than  one  hundred  years  ago,  Felix  Mendelssohn,  after  a  leisurely  and  round- 
about journey  from  his  beloved  England  through  Germany  and  Austria  and  Switz- 
erland, arrived  at  Rome  for  a  sojourn  of  several  months.  The  moment  of  his  visit 
was  most  fortunately  timed.  He  witnessed  and  was  fascinated  by  all  the  great  pop- 
ular festivals,  with  their  colorfulness,  their  mad  abandon,  their  wild  dances  and 
often  charming  songs;  and  what  impressed  him  even  more  as  an  artist  and  mu- 
sician were  the  gorgeous  rites  accompanying  the  coronation  of  Pope  Gregory  XVI, 
at  which  Mendelssohn  was  a  spectator. 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  Italy,  the  soft  beauties  of  the  Alban  hills,  the  gran- 


334  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

dear  of  Rome,  and  the  ever-near  spectacle  of  the  sea — which  always  fascinated 
hjm — all  left  their  mark  upon  the  music  Mendelssohn  composed  during  his 
Roman  visit.  It  is  interesting  to  note,  and  perhaps  reveals  musical  and  personal 
characteristics  of  the  man,  that  he  was  definitely,  almost  indignantly,  unsympa- 
thetic toward  the  liturgical  music  of  the  Catholic  Church,  as  performed  during  the 
ceremonies  at  St.  Peter's  and  elsewhere.  Considering  the  often  lush  sentimentality 
of  Mendelssohn's  own  music,  it  is  not  remarkable  that  he  could  not  appreciate  the 
austere  and  passionless  beauty  of  the  Gregorian  chant.  Mendelssohn  frequently  ex- 
hibited in  his  music  the  warm,  and  often  unctuous,  facile,  and  fulsome  emotional- 
ism that  occasionally  marks  artists  of  his  race.  He  did  not,  by  any  means,  lack  spir- 
ituality; but  to  him  an  emotion  could  not  be  detached  from  the  warmth  and 
naturalness  of  human  relations,  and  a  music  designed  to  celebrate  a  deity  of  such 
powers  and  magnificence  as  are  attributed  to  the  Christian  God  must  needs,  in 
Mendelssohn's  notion,  be  itself  splendid  and  adorned  and  rich  with  Oriental  sump- 
tuousness. 

The  present  symphony  appears  to  have  been  composed,  in  large  measure,  dur- 
ing Mendelssohn's  stay  in  Rome.  Certainly  it  has  a  definitely  Italian  flavor;  it  is 
colored  by  the  impressions  of  sights  and  sounds  which  so  delighted  the  composer  in 
that  sunny  land.  Mendelssohn  himself  never  heard  it,  as  it  was  among  the  great 
mass  of  manuscript  left  behind  at  his  death,  nine  years  after  he  had  written  it. 

The  symphonies  of  Mendelssohn  have  passed  through  a  curious  cycle  in  public 
estimation.  Mendelssohn  enjoyed  an  enormous  prestige  among  his  contemporaries, 
and  almost  anything  he  wrote  was  warmly  received.  The  symphonies  attained  the 
peak  of  their  popularity  in  America  perhaps  during  the  "gay"  '90*5,  and  the  first 
twenty  years  of  this  century.  Then  for  some  years  they  were  played  with  relative 
infrequency,  and  only  during  the  past  several  seasons  have  they  begun  to  win  back 
toward  the  place  they  once  occupied.  The  taste  of  the  concert  public  seems  to  in- 
cline toward  more  robust  fare,  in  these  times;  yet  there  is  a  suave  charm  in  Men- 
delssohn's music  which  will  not  be  denied.  As  long  as  there  are  people  who  love 
beautiful  melody  and  finished  musical  craftsmanship,  Mendelssohn  will  have  an 
audience;  and  while  more  and  more  people  turn  to  the  symphony  orchestra  for 
their  musical  entertainment,  the  symphonies  of  Mendelssohn,  peculiarly  attractive 
to  the  unjaded  musical  appetite,  wfll  have  their  devoted  admirers. 

Fir $t  Movement 

The  spontaneous  flow  of  melody — rarely  a  deep  flow  but  always  dear  and 
shining— -that  characterized  most  of  Mendelssohn's  works  is  exhibited  almost  in 
the  first  measure.  Violins  are  entrusted  with  the  principal  theme,  woodwind  and 
horns  supplying  a  richly  colored  accompaniment  An-  interlude,  in  which  the  intro- 
ductory motive  of  the  movement  is  heard  again  in  woodwind  against  a  crisply 


FELIX    MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY  335 

staccato  counterfigure  in  the  strings,  precedes  the  more  powerfully  scored  repre- 
sentation of  the  chief  musical  idea. 

Mendelssohn  was  a  romantic,  both  in  the  literal  and  musicological  meanings 
of  the  word.  He  was  not  thereby  prohibited  from  the  sacred  ground  of  classicism, 
however.  Furthermore,  a  man  with  his  love  of  fine  workmanship  could  not  always 
forgo  the  intricacies  of  the  classical  style.  Hence  it  is  not  so  surprising  to  find  in 
this  vigorous  and  free  and  beautifully  fashioned  movement,  as  part  of  its  develop- 
ment, an  ingenious  jugato  in  the  strings.  It  occurs  approximately  four  minutes 
after  the  beginning  of  the  movement,  and  leads  to  a  general  interweaving  of 
previous  thematic  material,  which  persists  to  the  close  of  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

There  is  something  songlike  in  almost  everything  that  Mendelssohn  has  left 
us.  Melody — song — came  to  him  almost  as  easily  as  to  Schubert.  Someday  a  great 
pianist  will  really  understand  and  cultivate  Mendelssohn's  Songs  Without  Words 
— and  he  will  have  a  popular  success  of  impressive  proportions.  The  present  move- 
ment is  a  song  so  lovely  and  so  simple  and  so  moving  that,  as  someone  has  aptly 
said,  it  would,  if  written  apart  from  the  symphony  and  appropriately  titled,  have 
rivaled  in  popularity  the  famous  Sping  Song.  Let  us  hope  so. 

Particular  interest  attaches  to  the  brief  introductory  figure,  not  because,  as 
Sir  George  Grove  remarked,  it  is  "like  the  cry  of  a  muezzin  from  his  minaret,** 
but  because,  apart  from  its  intrinsic  appeal,  it  appears  frequently  and  importantly 
at  intervals  throughout  the  movement.  The  introductory  figure  is  heard  in  wood- 
wind (flute,  oboe,  bassoon)  and  the  upper  strings.  It  is  succeeded  by  the  chief 
theme  of  the  movement,  which  you  will  hear  in  the  mellifluous  combination  of 
oboe,  bassoon,  and  viola,  to  an  accompaniment  by  low  strings  and  woodwind. 

Some  of  the  more  fanciful  commentators  upon  Mendelssohn's  music  have  re- 
ferred to  this  movement  as  "The  Pilgrim's  March."  This  idea  was  doubtless  be- 
gotten by  the  fact  that  the  musk  was  written  while  the  composer  was  in  Rome, 
and  undoubtedly  under  the  influence  of  what  he  saw  and  heard  there.  Probably 
he  observed  many  a  pontifical  procession  and  penitential  march,  but  in  this  case, 
as  in  most  others  where  an  imaginative  title  is  attached  to  a  musical  work,  there 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  Mendelssohn  had  any  picturesque  idea  in  mind. 

Third  Movement 

Musical  scholars  have  not  always  agreed  with  Mendelssohn's  brother-in-law, 
who  stated  that  this  movement  was  originally  a  part  of  an  earlier  unpublished  work. 
Such  matters  are  not  of  particular  interest  here;  what  does  interest  us,  however,  is 
the  sprightly  and  vigorous  music,  logically  placed  and  developed  in  this  symphony, 


33^  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

which  we  find  In  this  delightful  scherzo.  Melodically  and  rhythmically,  it  is  one  of 
the  pleasantest  things  in  symphonic  form  which  Mendelssohn  has  left  us.  Violins 
have  a  graceful  and  lively  tune;  bassoons  and  horns,  contrasted  both  in  timbre  and 
in  melodic  figure  with  violins  and  flutes,  give  us  the  highly  effective  trio,  and  a 
combination  of  strings  against  bassoons,  brass,  and  timpani  supplies  interesting  color 
and  rhythm. 

Fourth  Movement 

If  we  are  told  that  the  slow  movement  of  this  symphony  represents  a  proces- 
sion of  penitents,  we  are  equally  at  liberty  to  believe  that  the  present  section  repre- 
sents the  same  devout  people  after  having  received  the  absolving  sacrament.  Here 
is  a  typical  Italian  peasant  dance,  directly  based  on  the  saltarello — a  rather  rowdy 
and  certainly  vigorous  performance,  done  by  men  and  women  in  pairs,  in  which 
arms  and  legs  are  used  as  violently,  if  not  as  elegantly  as  possible.  The  dancers 
circle  about,  approaching  and  retreating,  with  the  woman  manipulating  her  apron, 
now  in  inviting  gestures,  again  as  if  to  repel  her  suitor.  Meanwhile  rapid  and  ex- 
hausting steps,  with  hops  and  skips,  soon  have  the  dancers  breathless.  It  is  a  dance 
of  quite  vigorous  and  abandoned  character,  but  definitely  not  lascivious  or  lewd. 

Mendelssohn,  having  been  in  and  about  Rome  during  the  festival  periods, 
must  have  seen  the  saltarello  many  times,  and  he  did  indeed  capture  here  the 
bounding  vitality  and  spirit  of  it.  The  peculiar  rhythm  of  the  dance  is  introduced 
at  the  second  measure  of  this  movement,  in  a  figure  for  woodwind  and  strings. 
Five  bars  later  the  chief  subject  of  the  movement — a  series  of  thirds  in  the  flutes — 
is  heard.  Later  a  third  musical  idea,  exposed  in  a  dialogue  between  the  two  sections  of 
violins,  is  introduced.  Here  there  is  an  impressive  climax  of  animation  and  brilliance, 
succeeded  by  an  even  more  frenetic  outburst  when,  after  the  violins  introduce  a 
new  theme,  the  music  adopts  the  mad  rhythm  of  the  tarantella.  (This  is  a  wildly 
exciting  and  vigorous  dance,  supposed  anciently  to  drive  from  the  body  the  poison  of 
the  tarantula's  bite.  When  the  dancer  was  exhausted,  he  was  either  dead  or  cured.) 
Both  dance  rhythms  are  now  employed  with  brilliant  effect,  the  original  impulse 
of  the  saltarello  becoming  dominant  at  the  end. 


ALEXANDER  MOSSOLOV 

[Born  1900] 

MOSSOLOV  is  one  of  the  more  important  younger  Russian  composers,  most  of 
whom  are  or  have  been  engaged  in  music  which  attempts  political  propa- 
ganda. His  earlier  works  happily  do  not  reveal  this  futile  tendency,  and 
some  of  them  are  of  great  charm.  Unfortunately  only  his  Soviet  Iron  Foundry 
is  known  in  this  country. 

Mossolov  studied  at  the  Moscow  Conservatory  with  Gliere  and  Miaskovski, 
which  fact  alone  should  assure  his  ability. 


Eisengiesserei 
[Soviet  Iron  Foundry] 

THIS  symphonic  fragment  is  by  no  means  as  terrifying  as  it  sounds.  It  employs  no 
bizarre  instruments  or  noisemaking  devices  except  a  single  steel  plate  which  is 
vibrated  occasionally.  Some  of  the  regular  instruments  are  used  unconventionally; 
otherwise  there  is  nothing  startling  about  the  piece  except  its  complete  formlessness. 
It  attempts  to  reproduce  not  merely  the  noise,  but  the  atmosphere  of  a  steel  mill, 
with  its  flaming  forges,  shadowy  figures  darting,  and  ceaseless  activity.  The  first 
performance  was  given  at  Liege  in  1930;  the  first  American  performance  was  at 
Cleveland,  under  the  direction  of  Nikolai  Sokoloff,  during  the  same  year  but  the 
following  season  (November  6,  1930). 


337 


W.  A.   MOZART 

[1756-1791] 

WOLFGANG  AMADEUS  MOZART,  the  supreme  figure  among  natural  geniuses 
in  music,  was  born  at  Salzburg,  in  the  Bavarian  Alps,  on  January  27, 
1756,  the  seventh  child  of  Leopold  and  Anna  Maria  Mozart.  He  was 
christened  Joannes  Chrysostomus  Wolfgangus  Theophilus,  to  which  at  confirma- 
tion was  added  the  name  Sigismundus.  Most  of  his  works  were  signed,  simply, 
W.  A.  Mozart. 

Mozart  discovered  the  family  clavichord  when  he  was  only  three  years  old, 
and  he  began  to  pick  out  harmonies  on  this  instrument,  an  ancestor  of  the  piano. 
A  year  later  his  father,  a  professional  musician,  began  to  give  the  child  lessons.  He 
soon  began  to  "compose  little  pieces/'  some  of  which  remain  in  existence.  In  1762, 
with  his  elder  sister  Maria  Anna,  familiarly  "Nannerl,"  he  was  taken  by  the  father 
to  Munich  and  Vienna.  At  the  Austrian  court,  Wolfgang  climbed  into  the  lap  of 
the  Empress,  and  he  and  Nannerl,  who  was  then  in  her  eleventh  year,  were  ac- 
cepted as  playmates  by  the  young  princes  and  princesses.  At  Vienna  he  was  said  to 
have  learned,  without  instruction,  not  only  the  organ,  but  the  far  more  difficult 
violin.  The  following  year  the  family  went  to  Paris,  where  Wolfgang's  first  com- 
positions appeared — four  sonatas  for  piano  and  violin.  In  1764,  they  went  to  Eng- 
land, remaining  more  than  a  year.  It  was  at  this  time  that  his  father  said  of  him 
that  his  "high  and  mighty  Wolfgang"  knew  everything  in  his  eighth  year  that  could 
be  required  of  a  man  of  forty.  On  the  return  to  Salzburg,  Mozart  continued  com- 
position and  study.  In  1767  he  composed  his  first  oratorio.  Again  in  Vienna,  the 
following  year,  he  wrote  his  first  opera,  La  Fmta  sempKce,  which  now  and  again  is 
revived  and  staged. 

In  1769  an  Italian  tour  was  arranged.  In  Rome  he  achieved  one  of  the  great 
feats  of  musical  history.  This  was  in  Holy  Week,  when  he  went  to  hear  the  Sistine 
Chapel  choir  sing  Allegri's  Miserere,  which  it  was  forbidden  to  copy  and  circulate 
under  pain  of  excommunication.  On  going  home,  he  wrote  down  the  entire  work 
from  memory,  correcting  only  a  few  passages  at  a  second  hearing.  This  came  to  the 
ears  of  the  Pope,  who  sent  for  Mozart,  not  to  excommunicate  the  youth,  but  to 
give  praise  to  his  extraordinary  genius.  Not  long  afterward  he  was  made  a  Knight 
of  the  Papal  Court. 

By  the  time  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  Mozart  had  to  his  credit  something 
like  twenty-three  sonatas,  eighty-one  brief  symphonic  works,  nine  Masses,  three 
oratorios,  five  organ  sonatas,  and  miscellaneous  works  beyond  record. 

In  1768  he  had  been  appointed  concertmeister  to  the  Archbishop  of  Salzburg, 
but  his  patron  died  in  1772  and  gave  way  to  a  successor  who  cared  nothing  for 
Mozart's  genius.  Moreover,  the  income  was  small,  and  he  resigned  in  1777*  resum- 
ing the  post  after  his  mother's  death  in  1778* 

33* 


W.     A.     MOZART  339 

The  young  man,  while  in  Mannheim,  had  fallen  in  love  with  Aloysia  von 
Weber,  who  seems  for  a  time  to  have  returned  his  affection.  He  married,  however, 
Aloysia's  sister  Constance,  in  1782,  establishing  family  ties  with  another  great 
composer,  Carl  Maria  von  Weber,  who  was  a  nephew  of  Fridolin  Weber,  the  girls* 
father.  With  his  wife  Mozart  now  settled  in  Vienna.  The  two  met  with  poverty, 
but  it  was  during  their  life  together  that  the  three  great  operas,  Don  Giovanni,  The 
Magic  Flute,  and  The  Marriage  of  Figaro,  were  given  to  the  world.  All  were 
artistically  successful,  and  it  seems  that  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  a  source  of  profit ; 
but  Mozart,  like  many  men  absorbed  with  the  ambitions  and  the  problems  of 
achievement  and  not  possession,  remained  poor.  Then,  too,  there  was  parsimony  in 
musical  and  court  circles. 

Just  before  completing  The  Magic  Flute,  Mozart  was  commissioned  to  com- 
pose a  Requiem  for  Count  Franz  von  Walsegg,  who  shabbily  intended  to  have  it 
performed  as  his  own  work.  But  constant  labor,  pecuniary  failure,  family  troubles, 
illness  had  brought  Mozart  close  to  the  end  of  his  physical  resources.  After  the 
success  of  The  Magic  Flute,  composed  upon  a  plot  derived  from  Freemasonry,  his 
health,  never  good,  broke  down.  He  began  to  feel  that  his  days  were  numbered, 
and  he  worked  unremittingly  upon  the  Requiem,  sensing  that  it  was  to  be  his  own. 

The  very  day  before  his  death,  he  asked  that  the  finished  score  be  brought  in 
to  him.  He  distributed  the  soprano,  tenor,  and  bass  parts  among  those  around  the 
bedside,  reserving  the  contralto  for  himself.  The  music  was  sung,  but  at  the  end  of 
the  Lachrymosa  he  no  longer  could  contain  himself.  He  knew  the  eyes  of  death 
were  upon  him,  and  under  their  gaze,  the  spirit  of  Mozart  broke.  The  next  day  was 
his  last.  After  hours  of  agony  and  delirium,  there  came  unconsciousness.  Toward 
midnight  he  revived  for  the  last  time;  he  sat  erect,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  light. 
Then  he  sank  upon  the  pillow  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

He  was  buried,  in  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  in  an  unmarked  grave  in  the 
paupers'  cemetery  of  St.  Marx,  in  Vienna.  His  widow,  seeking  the  spot  a  few  days 
later,  could  not  find  it,  for  the  keeper  of  the  cemetery  himself  had  taken  no  note  of 
it.  Sixty-eight  years  afterward,  the  city  of  Vienna  built  his  monument.  It  was  not 
necessary  then,  for  his  music,  gentle,  innocent,  childlike  for  the  most  part  like  his 
character,  was  written  in  something  more  durable  than  stone* 


Symphony  in  C  major 
["Jwpiter"  Symphony] 

THE  "Jupiter"  Symphony  of  Mozart  represents  one  of  the  greatest  feats  in  the 
history  of  music*  The  thirty-ninth  of  Mozart's  symphonies,  ft  was  written,  with  two 


340  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

others,  within  a  period  of  six  weeks;  to  be  exact,  between  June  26  and  August  ID, 
1788.  This  fact  alone  would  establish  Mozart's  as  one  of  the  great  musical  intellects 
of  the  world;  add  to  it  the  circumstance  that  the  composer  was  under  spiritual  and 
physical  stress  at  the  time,  and  we  have  an  almost  miraculous  feat  of  composition. 
With  his  wife  ill,  and  with  no  apparent  source  of  income,  with  creditors  harassing 
him,  Mozart,  driven  to  desperation,  summoned  every  ounce  of  physical  and  mental 
energy  and  produced  in  this  short  period  not  only  three  symphonies,  but  the  greatest 
of  all  his  symphonies.  It  was  also  his  last. 

How  the  name  "Jupiter"  came  to  be  attached  to  this  work,  or  by  whom  it 
was  first  applied,  is  not  clear.  In  order  to  appreciate  it,  the  C  major  Symphony 
must  not  be  compared  with  the  Fifth  or  the  Ninth  of  Beethoven,  but  with  the 
earlier  symphonies  of  Mozart  himself,  or  perhaps  with  those  of  Haydn.  Thus 
compared,  the  majesty,  the  dignity,  the  loftiness  of  thought  and  seriousness  of 
purpose,  together  with  the  relatively  magnificent  scope  of  the  work,  immediately 
demonstrate  the  appropriateness  of  the  somewhat  cryptic  title.  It  frequently  hap- 
pens that  the  works  of  a  composer  are  given  names  by  popular  fancy  or  sentiment. 
It  happens  much  less  frequently  that  these  names  are  justified  either  by  the  com- 
poser's intent  or  the  material  of  the  composition  itself.  In  this  case,  however,  it  is 
generally  conceded  that  the  fanciful  name  which  tradition  has  assigned  to  Mozart's 
last  symphony  is  deserved  and  fitting,  and  for  its  use  we  have  the  authority  of  no 
less  a  personage  than  Mendelssohn. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  Mozart  himself  was  hardly  sensible  of  the  real 
and  full  poetic  power  of  the  symphonic  form.  The  symphony  in  his  hands  did  not 
reach  its  highest  development,  and,  wide  as  is  the  gulf  between  his  early  sym- 
phonies and  the  "Jupiter,"  the  latter  was  written  when  the  symphony  was  still  in 
the  formative  state.  There  is  nevertheless  an  unconscious,  rugged  strength  in  it;  a 
frank  and  concise  statement  of  ideas,  a  coherency,  a  proportion  and  balance,  and, 
as  far  as  those  qualities  mentioned  are  concerned,  a  work  very  unlikely  ever  to  be 
surpassed. 

The  symphony  consists  of  four  movements,  the  first,  allegro  vivace;  the 
second,  andante  cantabile;  the  third,  menuettoy  and  then  the  finale,  molto  allegro. 
It  is  more  heavily  orchestrated  than  was  usual  in  Mozart's  symphonies;  in  fact,  it 
approaches  the  modern  symphonic  work  in  the  deft  arrangement  among  the  instru- 
ments of  items  of  musical  interest,  and  in  the  contrasts  and  the  power  achieved  by 
the  composer  with  the  instruments  at  his  command. 

First  Movement 

Preparation  for  the  final  climax  of  the  "Jupiter"  Symphony  begins  with  the 
first  note  of  the  first  movement.  Through  three  entire  movements  that  preparation 
is  carried  on  and  worked  out  completely,  and  so,  it  is  not  unnatural  that  we  feel 


W.    A.     MOZART  241 

the  atmosphere  of  suspense  gathering  more  and  more  heavily  as  the  music  takes  its 
course;  nor  is  it  strange  that  the  first  three  movements  seem  like  an  immense  prel- 
ude to  the  last.  In  this  one  characteristic  the  "Jupiter"  is  distinguished  among  all 
Mozart's  symphonies,  and  here  makes  its  closest  approach  to  the  modern  symphony 
as  well  as  its  greatest  departure  from  the  composer's  earlier  works  in  the  same  form. 


Since  the  first  three  movements,  as  we  have  noted,  are  in  a  loose  sense  but  a 
prelude  to  the  last,  it  f oUows  that  the  profoundest  depths  will  not  be  plumbed  here 
as  the  symphony  begins.  But  broad  phrases  for  the  full  orchestra  ring  out  in  the 
opening  sentence;  phrases  with  a  distinctly  upward,  cheerful  inflection.  Half- 
melancholy,  half-merry  utterances  in  the  upper  strings  respond;  a  bold  brief  pas- 
sage in  which  the  orchestra  speaks  with  all  emphasis,  and  we  come  upon  exquisite 
counterpoint,  with  woodwind  and  the  lower  strings  in  duet.  You  will  look  vainly 
here  for  sustained  melody;  it  is  not  in  the  composer's  scheme  of  things  at  the  mo- 
ment. Rather  he  passes  before  one's  attention  a  succession  of  episodes  which  are 
treated  almost  as  separate  entities.  Far  from  being  meaningless,  however,  they  are 
indices  of  the  plane  of  the  entire  symphony,  and  they  grow  in  significance  as  they 
are  repeated. 

The  redistribution  of  items  of  musical  interest  among  the  instruments  of  the 
orchestra  is  the  commanding  feature  of  the  second  portion  of  the  first  movement. 
The  principal  themes,  almost  fragmentary  as  they  are,  have  already  been  given 
out;  no  new  thematic  material  appears. 

The  significance — and  the  aptness — of  the  popular  name  of  the  symphony  not 
infrequently  is  questioned  at  various  pkces  throughout  the  work.  There  is,  it  is 
true,  little  reason  for  naming  the  symphony  after  Jupiter  Tonans — the  Thunderer; 
the  work  is  much  too  finished  and  refined.  Nor  has  it  the  flashing  brilliance  that 
would  evoke  the  patronymic  of  Jupiter  Fulrninator,  the  god  of  Lightning.  If  we 
need  find  a  definite  contact  between  the  symphony  and  the  supreme  among  the 
gods,  it  must  lie  in  yet  another  title  of  the  ancient  Roman  deity — Jupiter  Invictus, 
Jove  the  Unconquerable.  The  spirit  of  the  work  is  one  of  invincible  optimism — a 
vague  and  perhaps  unreasoning  cheeriness  that  in  intensity  of  expression  varies  be- 
tween joyous  fanfares  and  frivolous  titfllation  of  the  musical  scale.  The  present 
moment  in  the  work  is  largely  of  the  latter  character,  and  might  indeed  justify  a 
question  of  the  appropriateness  of  the  title  did  we  not  remember  that  even  Jove 
had  his  lighter  moments. 

The  movement  does  not  long  continue  on  the  rollicking  note,  however.  There 


342  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

is  some  presentation  of  previous  themes  with  colors  enriched  either  by  the  addition 
of  other  instruments  to  the  voices  which  originally  announced  the  thematic  mate- 
rial, or  by  giving  out  previously  heard  ideas  in  new  voices.  The  flute  and  bassoon 
sometimes  double  the  melody  of  the  upper  strings  an  octave  above  and  below;  horns 
and  the  heavier  strings  are  more  conspicuously  used.  One  familiar  with  the 
spurious  Twelfth  Mass  will  find  expressions  here  strongly  suggestive  of  certain  of 
the  more  florid  and  grandiose  passages  in  the  Gloria  of  that  rather  gaudy  work. 

Second  Movement 

For  the  moment,  Mozart  has  done  with  the  bravura  style.  After  the  first 
movement,  his  audience  is  quite  under  his  control;  its  attention  has  been  seized 
with  no  uncertain  hand,  its  anticipation  aroused  and  quickened.  All  available  re- 
sources have  been  brought  into  play  upon  the  thematic  material  already  put  forth, 
and  any  further  exploitation  of  it  would  lose  the  ground  already  gained  in  the  mind 
of  the  listener.  But  the  composer  is  not  yet  ready  to  present  the  great  climax  of  the 
symphony.  It  is  necessary  then  not  only  to  abandon  the  bravura  mood  for  a  time, 
but  also  to  produce  a  new  thought,  presented  in  a  new  way.  In  this  necessity,  the 
style  of  the  second  movement  originates. 

One  cannot  but  feel  the  solidifying  of  the  elements  of  the  symphony  as  the 
second  movement  proceeds.  There  is  stricter  adherence  to  the  lovely  melody — the 
principal  theme  of  the  movement — given  out  at  the  beginning  by  strings  con 


sor£no  (muted).  A  massive  chord,  delivered  forte  by  the  whole  orchestra,  answers 
each  opening  phrase  of  this  flowing  utterance,  and  now  begins  a  more  coherent, 
more  knowledgeable,  a  fuller  and  richer  musical  treatment  of  the  composer's 
thought.  The  melody  in  the  strings  is  fortified  by  the  woodwind,  with  a  pulsing 
accompaniment  by  the  remainder  of  the  orchestra. 

There  &  more  of  pure  sentiment  in  the  second  movement  of  the  "Jupiter" 
Symphony  than  in  any  other  portion  of  the  work.  Here  is  the  most  candid  emo- 
tional expression  and  the  closest  approximation  of  the  style  of  the  modern  sym- 
phony. Particularly  in  the  present  section  of  the  movement,  we  sense  that  the 
composer  has  searched  the  secret  places  of  his  heart  and  brought  forth  utterances  of 
poignant  eloquence.  The  cold  formality  and  reserve  of  the  first  movement  have 
melted  under  the  warm  suasion  of  the  lovely  melody,  and  the  melody  itself— you 
have  already  heard  it  as  the  theme  of  this  movement — has  agitated  the  deeper 
springs  of  feeling,  so  that,  quite  unexpectedly  in  Mozart,  the  movement  is  thrown 


W.    A.    MOZART 

into  a  veritable  emotional  ferment.  There  are  intimations  of  joy  and  of  tears,  of 
aloof  contemplation  and  swift  activity,  and  of  remembrance.  But,  recalling  the 
devotion  to  form  and  structure  that  was  the  earmark  of  the  symphony  in  the  time 
of  Haydn  and  Mozart,  you  will  not  expect  the  large  impassioned  utterance  of 
Beethoven,  the  soul-searching  pathos  of  Schubert,  or  Tchaikovsky's  gorgeous  trap- 
pings of  woe.  There  is  always  the  restraint  which  is  perhaps  even  more  forceful 
than  utter  abandon.  The  movement  is  like  a  Horatian  ode  in  the  moderation  and 
invariable  graciousness  of  its  suggestion  of  the  deeper  feelings.  Yes,  and  there  is 
also  the  spice  of  a  Falernian  cup  in  the  occasional  light  figures  that  come  to  belie 
certain  hints  of  melancholy. 

Third  Movement 

Powdered  wigs  and  silver  buckles.  Mincing  step  and  curtsy  low.  Candles 
glinting  from  a  thousand  prisms.  Lavender  and  old  lace.  And  the  quaint  courtli- 
ness of  a  day  that  is  forever  gone.  Such  is  the  picture  suggested  in  the  third 
movement  of  the  symphony — a  picture  that  Mozart  must  have  frequently  seen  in 
the  original,  and  one  which  often  was  animated  by  music  from  his  pen.  Vienna 
was  dancing-mad  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  not  only  Mozart, 
but  Haydn  and,  later,  Beethoven  wrote  music  for  its  frequent  masquerades  and 
other,  parties.  Some  of  this  music  has  contributed  to  the  fame  of  its  composer,  bit 
never  won  the  respect  of  those  for  whom  it  was  written;  a  pleasure-craving  public 
looks  with  nothing  more  than  contemptuous  toleration  on  those  who  provide  it 
with  amusement. 


Strings  give  out  the  simple  subject  of  the  movement  at  the  very  beginning, 
with  an  orchestral  tutti  on  the  answering  cadence,  emphasized  always  by  the 
timpani.  Woodwind  and  strings  vary  the  theme  somewhat,  and  there  are  frag- 
ments of  charming  counterpoint  in  which  two  simple  melodies  become  artfully 
entangled.  There  is  little  elaboration  of  the  thematic  material,  but  the  delightful 
rhythm,  the  grace  and  delicacy  of  the  entire  movement  sustain  interest  to  the  very 
last  note. 

The  playful  character  of  the  mewuetto  arouses  the  suspicion  that  we  are  being 
prepared  for  a  return  to  serious  things.  Throughout  the  three-movement  "prelude" 
the  composer  has  led  us  farther  and  farther  away  from  his  real  intent.  He  has 
aroused  us  with  the  promises  of  the  first  movement;  lulled  into  calmness  the  agita- 
tion of  the  first  with  the  suavity  of  the  second,  and  awakened  the  dreams  of  the 


344  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

second  with  the  elastieally  springing  rhythm  of  the  third.  How  could  the  alertness 
produced  by  the  third  movement  be  justified  and  satisfied,  how  could  the  promising 
character  of  all  three  movements  be  fulfilled,  except  by  a  noble  conclusion? 

Fourth  Movement 

In  the  fourth  movement  of  the  "Jupiter"  Symphony  we  come  upon  one  of 
the  transcendent  things  in  all  music,  and  certainly  the  zenith  of  Mozart's  writings. 
Seizing  upon  what  is  perhaps  the  most  formal  and  constricted  of  musical  structures 
— the  fugue — he  has  made  of  it  "the  vehicle  for  a  flow  of  fiery  eloquence,  and  has 
spread  abroad  glory  and  beauty  without  stint."  A  simple  theme,  a  rigid  form,  yet 
warmed  and  lighted  with  the  white  incandescence  of  Mozart's  genius  in  a  truly 
inspired  moment.  No  one,  however,  unfamiliar  with  the  technicalities  of  the  art, 
can  be  insensible  to  the  magnificence  of  this  movement  as  it  grows  from  the  first 
timid  utterance  of  the  violin  into  an  elaborate  fabric  of  beautiful  sounds,  glowing 
with  the  richest  orchestral  colors,  intricately  woven  of  many  voices,  yet  clear, 
logical,  final  in  the  perfection  of  its  pattern. 


t    -«  I  1J  I -• I— '  I  I—  I  •  1  1  I  1        """" ^+<r  I  1  .-        .    In   I  I     _^— I 


The  four-note  phrase  of  the  first  violins — the  first  notes  heard  as  the  move- 
ment begins — is  derived  from  an  old  church  tone  of  indefinite  age  and  origin.  It 
has  been  used  by  Mozart  in  several  of  his  more  important  works,  and  indeed  by 
other  composers  as  well.  It  appears  in  the  Credo  of  Mozart's  Mass  in  F  major,  in 
the  Sanctus  of  his  Mass  in  C  major,  and  in  one  of  his  symphonies.  Bach,  Mendels- 
sohn, and  Handel  have  used  it  in  its  original  or  in  a  derived  form,  and  in  spite  of 
its  ecclesiastical  origin  it  can  be  traced  to  so  profane  a  work  as  Tristan  und-  Isolde^ 
though,  we  are  told,  "its  appearance  there  in  the  passionate  disguise  which  Wagner's 
imagination  gave  it  was  no  doubt  fortuitous." 

This  single  phrase  is  the  basis  for  the  entire  movement.  Its  first  pronounce- 
ment leads  to  some  bars  of  introductory  matter,  bold,  authoritative,  and  large  in 
style.  A  few  moments  of  this,  and  the  great  five-voice  fugue  begins,  with  first 
violins,  second  violins,  violas,  cellos,  and  basses  in  turn  weaving  their  separate 
colors  into  the  intricate  pattern.  Each  voice  entering  cuts  off  the  last  note  of  its 
predecessor,  and  presently  we  are  in  the  very  midst  of  one  of  the  world's  master- 


W.    A.    MOZART  345 

pieces  of  polyphony.  The  rhythm  is  swift  and  always  moving-,  the  orchestra  speaks 
in  its  noblest  and  most  emphatic  accents;  now,  at  last,  Jove  thunders. 

The  music  here  is  ever  in  a  state  of  flux,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  separate  out 
from  the  glowing  mass  the  components  that  give  it  being.  We  sense  rather  than 
see  the  constant  growth  and  development;  imagination  and  senses  are  held  en- 
thralled, and  only  by  a  distinct  effort  of  the  pure  intellect  are  we  able  to  discern 
the  elements  that  make  up  the  complex  and  yet  homogeneous  structure  of  this 
music.  We  do  note  the  strengthening  of  the  melodic  factors  by  the  addition  of 
woodwind  to  the  strings;  the  wonderful  entangled  scales — a  kind  of  chevaux  de 
jrise  with  which  the  composer  surrounds  the  more  solid  portions  of  the  movement. 
Wood  and  brass  now  have  a  larger  share  of  the  great  fugue,  and  underneath  their 
sonorities  ring  always  the  emphatic  timpani.  Power  and  vigor  increase  steadily  as 
the  movement  proceeds,  and  still  Mozart  has  reserved  the  most  wonderful  achieve- 
ment of  all  for  the  end,  where  all  the  principal  melodic  and  rhythmic  elements  of 
the  movement  are  combined  in  a  perfectly  harmonized  unit. 

Much  of  Mozart's  writings,  it  must  be  conceded,  were  no  more  than  faces 
^occasion;  many  were  "pretty,"  more  were  ingenious,  all  were  charming.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  times  was  not  one  likely  to  encourage  the  writing  of  music  calculated 
to  give  expression  to  the  deeper  pulses  of  human  life  and  thought.  Particularly  was 
this  true  in  Vienna,  then  the  world  center  of  musical  life,  where  the  public  was 
intoxicated  with  the  elaborate  pleasures  of  the  court,  and  where  Mozart's  patrons, 
when  they  commanded  his  services  at  all,  did  not  ask  for  opera,  cantata,  or  sym- 
phony, but  for  dances.  Therefore,  his  production  of  the  present  work  was  the  more 
remarkable.  Mozart  put  aside  the  exigencies  of  time  and  circumstance,  and,  we 
imagine,  wrote  a  symphony  after  his  own  heart.  There  has  been  nothing,  and 
there  are  no  indications  that  there  will  be  anything,  in  music  to  surpass  it  in  its 
special  virtues.  In  it,  the  inner  Mozart  spoke.  He  wrote  not  for  the  age,  but  for 
the  ages. 


Symphony  in  D  major 


[Kochel  No.  385] 

MOZART  had  the  unfortunate  talent  of  being  able  to  compose,  quickly  and  easily, 
and  at  will.  This  faculty  exposed  him  to  the  demands  of  courts  and  musical 
dilettanti,  and  he,  on  his  part,  pressed  as  he  often  was  for  funds,  was  seldom  able 
to  refuse.  The  result  was  that  in  spite  of  his  expressed  determination  to  do  nothing 


346  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

slipshod,  he  wrote  some  music  that  was  considerably  less  valuable  than  his  best. 

This  symphony  was  written  to  order,  and  in  the  short  space  of  two  weeks; 
this  at  a  time,  too,  when  Mozart  was  quite  busy  with  other  matters.  Nevertheless, 
it  cannot  be  dismissed  as  one  of  the  composer's  many  occasional  pieces,  for  it  ranks, 
both  in  musical  merit  and  in  popularity,  with  any  of  his  symphonies  except  the 
great  "Jupiter»"  During  the  early  months  of  1782,  Mozart  was  much  preoccupied 
with  work  on  the  opera  The  Elopement  from  the  Harem,  and  incidentally  with 
efforts  to  win  his  father's  consent  to  his  marriage  with  Constance  Weber.  Beset  by 
work  and  worry,  he  was  not  overjoyed  to  receive  a  letter  from  his  father,  inform- 
ing him  that  a  well-to-do  merchant  of  Salzburg  named  Haffner  desired  to  com- 
mission music  for  a  festive  occasion,  and  was  interested  in  having  Mozart  write  it. 
Partly  because  he  needed  the  money,  and  perhaps  partly  to  install  himself  in  the 
good  graces  of  his  father,  the  composer  grudgingly  undertook  the  work. 

As  originally  planned,  the  music  was  to  take  the  form  of  a  suite,  including 
two  minuets,  an  andante,  a  march,  and  a  finale.  Such  was  the  pressure  of  work, 
however,  that  Mozart  was  unable  to  complete  the  composition  as  planned,  and 
later  revised  it  to  bring  it  closer  to  the  conventional  symphonic  form.  He  omitted 
the  march  and  one  of  the  minuets,  and  enriched  the  orchestration  by  the  addition 
of  flutes  and  clarinets.  As  the  Symphony  in  D  major,  then,  he  left  us  one  of  the 
most  charming  of  his  works. 

First  Movement 

There  was  certainly  no  occasion  for  profundity  in  the  composition  of  this 
symphony,  nor  shall  we  find  it  here.  All  fe  brilliance  and  gaiety  as  the  movement 
opens,  with  the  theme,  a  vigorous  and  buoyant  one,  put  forth  by  the  whole  orches- 
tra. There  are  moments  of  hesitation,  perhaps  of  doubt,  and  the  vigorous  subject 
returns  with  accessory  scales  and  impetuous  strong  chords.  Ingenious  development, 
in  which  the  principal  subject  is  seldom  diflScuIt  to  locate,  brings  us  eventually  to 
a  brief  reflective  period,  not  sad,  but  for  a  moment  withdrawn  from  the  first  out- 
bursts of  joyousness.  The  chief  subject  returns,  and  is  treated  with  various  ingenious 
contrapuntal  devices,  and  exchanged,  in  canon  form,  between  bass  and  treble. 
Fluttering  yet  brilliant  trills,  rushing  scales,  and  emphatic  chorda!  pronouncements 
are  used  in  sustaining  the  jolly  mood  to  the  end  of  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

The  slow  movement  is  always  tender,  sometimes  impassioned,  but,  excepting 
a  brief  moment  for  the  sake  of  contrast,  never  solemn.  Its  chief  interest  is  the  open- 
ing melody,  assigned  to  the  violins,  and  full  of  warm  and  vibrant  feeling.  Now 
the  violins  are  taken  to  their  upper  ranges,  and  the  theme  becomes  one  of  airy  grace 
and  loveliness.  After  a  repetition  of  this  part  of  the  movement,  there  occurs  aa 


W.    A,     MOZART  347 

interlude  of  almost  ecclesiastical  solemnity,  but  without  ecclesiastical  gloom.  The 
prevailing  note  of  warmth  and  ease  and  complacence  is  resumed  with  the  return 
of  the  opening  section,  which,  in  somewhat  modified  form,  and  with  its  melodic 
line  somewhat  changed,  brings  us  to  the  close  of  the  movement. 

Third  Movement 

What  would  be  the  scherzo  in  a  modern  symphony  is,  of  course,  a  minuet  in 
a  work  by  Mozart.  No  dance  form,  except  the  polonaise,  is  so  fitted  to  the  expres- 
sion of  stately  and  dignified  festivity.  The  familiar  three-beat  rhythm  of  the  minuet 
is  very  definitely  marked,  and  the  melody  written  over  it  has  the  softly  lustrous 
brilliance  of  candlelight.  The  trio,  or  middle  portion  of  the  minuet,  brings  about  a 
touch  of  intimacy  and  tenderness,  as  if  some  bewigged  and  powdered  dandy  paused 
a  moment  in  the  dance  to  "whisper  sweet  nothings"  in  his  lady's  ear — and  then 
the  opening  section  is  repeated  with  brilliance. 

Fourth  Movement 

All  the  lighthearted  vigor  and  sugggestion  of  merriment  which  Mozart  could 
in  so  unique  a  fashion  command  is  applied  to  the  finale  of  this  charming  work. 
There  are  but  two  musical  ideas  of  importance — yet  the  composer  weaves  of  them 
a  glittering  and  exquisitely  designed  web  of  sound,  highly  elaborated,  yet  deli- 
cate. The  first  subject  is  intoned  quite  softly  by  the  strings;  it  is  repeated  with  a 
slight  alteration,  and  the  humor  of  the  movement  is  at  once  established.  The  sec- 
ond subject  is  somewhat  more  restrained  on  its  first  presentation,  but  grows  in 
vigor  and  in  wit  as  it  is  developed.  Incidentally,  the  movement  is  marked  presto 
(very  fast),  and  Mozart  wrote  to  his  father  that  it  should  be  played  as  rapidly 
as  possible.  A  first-class  symphony  orchestra  of  today  can  make  a  very  brilliant 
and  glowing  effect  in  this  movement  and,  at  the  same  time,  caji  preserve  the 
essential  clarity  and  cleanness  of  detail  so  vital  to  the  goo'd  performance  of  Mozart's 
music. 


Symphony  in  D  major  ("Prague") 
[K.  504] 

THIS  engaging  little  symphony  dates  from  1786;  it  was  composed  during  Decem- 
ber of  that  year  and  performed  at  Prague  early  in  1787*— probably  on  January  19 
— for  the  first  time,  and  under  the  direction  of  the  composer.  la  that  month 
Mozart  conducted  two  concerts,  and  this  work  was  played  at  one  of  them.  One  of 


348  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

his  biographers,  Franz  Niemtschek,  of  Prague,  wrote  "the  symphonies  which  he 
[Mozart]  chose  for  the  occasion  are  true  masterpieces  of  instrumental  composi- 
tion, full  of  surprising  transitions.  They  have  a  swift  and  fiery  bearing,  so  that 
they  at  once  tune  the  soul  to  the  expectation  of  something  superior.  This  is  espe- 
cially true  of  the  great  Symphony  in  D  major,  which  is  still  a  favorite  of  the 
Prague  public,  although  it  has  been  heard  here  nearly  a  hundred  times." 

Mozart  had  a  good  time  during  his  visit  at  Prague,  both  because  of  the  warmth 
of  the  public  toward  his  music,  and  the  gay  parties  that  had  been  arranged  for 
him.  Prague  knew  his  music;  his  opera  The  Marriage  of  Figaro  had  been  pre- 
sented there  during  the  preceding  season  with  prodigious  success.  People  went 
about  the  streets  whistling  the  tunes  of  the  opera,  as  they  were  to  do  again  less 
than  a  year  later,  when  they  became  acquainted  with  Don  Giovanni. 

As  has  been  noted,  the  performance  of  the  present  work  brought  forth  the 
warmest  enthusiasm.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  symphony,  the  audience  would  not 
let  Mozart  depart  until  he  appeared  and  improvised  at  the  piano  for  their  delecta- 
tion; and  when  he  played  an  impromptu  set  of  variations  on  the  aria  "Non  fiu 
andrai"  his  audience  was  completely  at  his  feet. 

One  of  Mozart's  letters  to  his  friend  Gottfried  von  Jacquin  gives  an  interest- 
ing sidelight  on  his  enjoyment  of  Prague  and  his  success  there,  as  well  as  an  indi- 
cation of  his  sly  humor.  On  the  very  evening  of  his  arrival  at  Prague,  he  attended 
a  ball,  perhaps  given  in  his  honor — the  "Breitfeld  Ball,  where  the  flower  of  the 
Prague  beauties  assemble.  You  ought  to  have  been  there,  my  dear  friend;  I  think 
I  see  you  running,  or  rather  limping,  after  all  those  pretty  creatures,  married  and 
single.  I  neither  danced  nor  flirted  with  any  of  them — the  former  because  I  was 
too  tired,  and  the  latter  from  my  natural  bashfulness.  I  saw,  however,  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,  all  these  people  flying  about  with  such  great  delight  to  the  music 
of  my  Figaro  transformed  into  quadrilles  and  waltzes;  for  here  nothing  is  talked 
of  but  Figaro,  nothing  played  but  Figaro,  nothing  whistled  or  sting  but  Figaro, 
no  opera  so  crowded  as  Figaro,  nothing  but  Figaro — very  flattering  to  me,  cer- 
tainly." 

It  is  at  once  obvious,  upon  hearing  the  music,  that  it  was  designed  for  and 
can  adequately  be  played  by  a  quite  small  orchestra.  Indeed,  most  music  contem- 
porary with  this  was  so  designed.  Probably  any  version  used  today  employs  a  fuller 
orchestra  than  Mozart  had  at  his  disposal  when  he  first  conducted  the  work;  for  at 
that  time  the  orchestra  of  the  Prague  Opera  House,  also  used  as  a  concert  orches- 
tra, was  meager,  with  a  string  section  numbering  only  six  violins,  two  violas,  and 
two  basses.  Small  orchestras  were  not  the  invariable  rule,  however,  even  in  Mozart's 
time,  and  on  great  occasions  bands  of  as  many  as  two  hundred  players  were  assem- 
bled! And  the  orchestra  of  the  Loge  Olympique,  in  Paris,  was  comparable  in  size 
to  any  of  our  symphony  orchestras  of  today.  The  symphony  is  scored  for  pairs  of 
oboes,  flutes,  bassoons,  horns,  trumpets,  timpani,  and  the  usual  strings. 


W.    A.     MOZART  349 

First  Movement 
Introduction,  Adagio,  Allegro 

One  of  the  remarkable  things  about  this  symphony  is  that  it  has  an  introduc- 
tion of  appreciable  length — uncommon  in  Mozart  and  in  his  contemporaries.  This 
section  of  the  work  makes  no  pretense  to  form;  it  is  free,  almost  rambling  in  style, 
but  by  no  means  weak  or  purposeless.  The  strong  chords  in  unison  at  the  beginning 
suggest  portentous  matters,  and  the  wandering  figures  given  to  the  strings,  as  well 
as  the  pause,  piano,  on  the  harmonically  unsatisfying  dominant,  indicate  a  some- 
what tentative  attitude. 

Then  the  movement  proper — a  typically  Mozartian  movement,  informed  with 
vigor  and  with  bright  spirit — gets  fairly  under  way.  It  may  be  stressing  the  obvious, 
nevertheless  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  mention  of  the  anticipations  of  other  works 
that  lie  implicit — and  sometimes  almost  explicit — in  this  movement.  Suggestions 
of  Both  Don  Giovanni,  and  of  certain  melodic  details  of  Die  Zauberfibte,  are  in- 
escapable. The  movement  is  formal,  the  themes  straightforward,  their  develop- 
ment thorough  and  rather  unusually  lengthy. 

Second  Movement 
Andante 

Now  the  music  moves  to  the  key  of  the  dominant  (G  major),  and  develops 
a  vernal  freshness  and  measured  calm  at  contrast  with  the  somewhat  nervous  ac- 
tivity of  the  preceding  movement.  Yet  it  has  pace  and  grace,  and  even  at  the 
slower  tempo  one  feels  the  coursing  of  its  lifeblood  and  the  vitality  that  is  in  it.  The 
movement  is  in  sonata  form,  but  its  adherence  to  that  mold  is  not  intruded  upon 
one's  attention.  The  texture  of  the  music,  too,  undergoes  a  change,  and  gains  in 
suavity  what  it  loses  in  brilliance  and  rhythmic  impulse  by  the  omission  of  timpani 
and  trumpet,  which  are  tacet. 

Third  Movement 

A  Mozart  symphony  without  a  minuet  movement  is  almost  a  curiosity,  but 
here  is  one.  We  are  wont  to  assume  that  all,  or  nearly  all,  symphonies  of  this 
period  employed  the  minuet  in  one  movement — the  surviving  member  of  the 
suite  form  that  preceded  the  symphony.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  Mozart's  own 
time  there  were  protests  from  the  musical  intelligentsia — evidently  as  irritating  a 
breed  then  as  now — against  the  employment  of  the  minuet;  it  was  not  sufficiently 
serious,  it  was  vulgar,  it  was  gay,  it  disturbed  the  line  and  mood  of  the  musk.  The 
lighter  touch  is  always  incomprehensible  to,  and  therefore  resented  by,  the  humor- 
less dolt;  music  must,  regardless  of  its  nature,  always  be  played  "with  a  straight 
face"! 


35O  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  movement  is  full  of  animation  and  zest;  and  beneath  its  sparkle  and 
glow  and  apparent  joyous  freedom  there  are,  nevertheless,  the  elements  of  strict 
form.  It  is  rich  in  contrast  and  color,  and  notable  for  the  marked  extremes  of 
dynamics  as  well  as  shrewd  juxtapositions  of  orchestral  color  which  Mozart  intro- 
duces. Eric  Blom,  commenting  on  the  symphony  as  a  whole,  remarks,  "The  won- 
der of  the  symphony  is,  however,  that  in  spite  of  the  variety  of  the  visions  it  may 
suggest  to  the  hearer,  it  is  a  perfect  whole.  Every  structural  part  and  every 
thematic  feature  is  exquisitely  proportioned.  No  separate  incident  is  allowed  to 
engage  attention  independently  of  the  scheme  in  which  it  is  assigned  its  function, 
even  where  it  is  as  incredibly  beautiful  as  the  second  subject  of  the  first  movement, 
which  is  surreptitiously  introduced  by  a  passage  that  is  apparently  merely  transi- 
tional, or  as  engagingly  sprightly  as  the  second  subject  of  the  finale  with  its  bub- 
bling bassoon  accompaniment." 


Overture  to  "The  Magic  Flute" 

THE  opera  The  Magic  Flute  was  Mozart's  last  great  work,  and  one  of  which  the 
composer  was  particularly  proud.  The  subject  of  the  opera  is  of  no  importance  now, 
except  that  it  has  often  been  characterized  as  one  of  the  worst  librettos  ever  written 
for  any  opera.  It  is  based,  in  part,  on  a  mythology  derived  from  Egypt,  and  is 
singularly  incoherent  and  improbable.  The  music,  and  particularly  the  overture, 
is  as  lovely  as  any  that  Mozart  left,  in  operatic  form.  Particular  interest  is  derived 
from  the  apparent  references  to  Masonic  symbolism  to  be  found  in  the  overture. 

The  great  chords  in  brass,  in  the  slow  introduction,  are  supposed  to  have 
Masonic  significance.  The  initiated  will  know;  to  others,  this  is  a  fateful  pro- 
nouncement, a  summons,  and  a  portentous  warning.  In  the  main  body  of  the  over- 
ture, there  are  two  important  themes;  the  first,  presented  in  the  violins,  becomes 
the  subject  of  ingenious  and  highly  developed  fugal  treatment;  the  second  is  given 
out  by  the  flute,  but  in  association  with  references  to  the  first  theme.  The  sig- 
nificance of  the  three  trombone  chords,  which  first  came  to  attention  in  the  intro- 
duction, Is  recalled  now  in  a  short  section  played  with  gravity  and  impressively 
slow  rhythm;  then  follows  the  complicated  and  brilliantly  developed  section  de- 
voted to  exploitation  of  the  given  thematic  material. 


W.    A.     MOZART  351 

Overture  to  "The  Marriage  of  Figaro" 

THIS  characteristically  Mozartian  delicacy  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  trifles,  and 
at  the  same  time,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  pieces  of  writing  for  strings,  in  the 
orchestral  repertoire.  Le  Nozze  dl  Figaro  is  a  comic  opera,  the  details  of  which  are 
of  no  concern  here.  It  is  based  on  a  comedy  by  Beaumarchais,  and  was  first  produced 
in  Vienna  in  1786.  The  overture  is  full  of  the  grace  and  delicacy  that  always 
marked  the  music  of  Mozart;  it  has  in  addition  a  nervous  vitality  and  humor 
that  are  most  engaging.  The  strings  begin,  vejy  softly,  very  rapidly,  a  suggestion  of 
the  principal  theme;  a  more  definitely  thematic  phrase  presently  appears,  first  in  the 
woodwind,  then  in  full  orchestra,  fortissimo.  With  this  as  a  starting  point, 
the  music  hurries  along  in  a  succession  of  coy  melodies,  brilliantly  developed. 
Toward  the  end  occurs  one  of  the  most  exciting  crescendo  passages  to  be  found  in 
all  Mozart's  music;  and  the  conclusion  has  a  brevity  and  wit  that  are  surprising 
and  delightful. 


Concerto  No,  4  in  D  major  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 
First  Movement 

NONE  of  the  vigor,  the  vitality,  the  sprightly  humor  and  voraciousness  usually  asso- 
ciated with  the  music  of  Mozart  is  lacking  in  this  beautiful  work.  To  those  familiar 
with  it,  or  habituated  to  the  music  of  Mozart  in  general,  it  will  reveal  great  de- 
lights; to  the  uninitiated,  it  may  quite  possibly  be  the  starting  point  of  a  journey 
into  musical  realms,  the  beauty  of  which  will  surprise  and  charm.  One  needs  not 
to  know,  but  merely  to  love,  music  in  order  to  feel  the  charm  of  its  naive  direct- 
ness and  candor,  its  freshness  and  originality;  nor  is  it  required  that  the  hearer 
possess  a  knowledge  of  the  technique  of  the  violin  in  order  to  appreciate  it. 

The  orchestral  introduction  to  the  concerto  is  quite  extensive,  occupying  ap- 
proximately two  minutes.  The  introductory  chords  leave  behind  them  a  pedal  point 
against  which  a  vivacious  figure  is  developed  over  several  measures.  The  pedal 
point  (on  the  tonic)  underlies  the  greater  part  of  the  introduction,  skillfully  com- 
bined with  the  harmonies  that  develop  around  it.  Presently  the  solo  violin  enters, 
its  solitary  voice  dominating  the  entire  ensemble  more  by  the  singular  beauty  of  its 
tone  than  by  its  strength.  A  melody,  which  is  immediately  recalled  as  having  been 
present  in  embryo  in  the  introduction,  is  given  to  the  solo  violin,  and  »  modestly 
elaborated  in  trills  and  changes  of  rhythm  until  the  dose  of  this  part  of  the  con- 
certo on  emphatic  chords  of  the  dominant. 


352  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Rigid  formality  and  emotional  expressiveness  are  not  frequently  found  to- 
gether in  music.  They  are,  to  a  certain  degree,  mutually  repugnant.  While  com- 
plete disregard  of  form  results  merely  in  a  concatenation  of  meaningless  sounds, 
absolutely  strict  adherence  to  conventional  forms  is  often  equally  as  unsatisfactory 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  listener  of  emotional  temperament.  There  is,  of 
course,  a  certain  sublime  complacence  in  a  musical  composition  which  formally 
is  flawless — and  complacence  has  a  definite  emotional  value  5  but  in  such  cases 
the  feeling  inspired  or  expressed  is  akin  to  that  of  the  mathematician  who  has 
solved  a  particularly  intricate  formula,  being  far  more  intellectual  than  emotional. 

The  audiences  of  Mozart's  day  looked  for  excellence  of  form  more  than  for 
eloquence  of  expression;  they  neither  expected  nor  did  they  hear  the  perfect  execu- 
tion of  musical  compositions  to  which  we  are  accustomed.  As  form  could  not  be 
distorted  even  by  indifferent  performance,  perhaps  it  was  sought  because  it  was 
the  one  factor  in  the  music  not  subject  to  the  shortcomings  of  the  executant.  But 
Mozart  was  not  content  with  merely  formal  beauty;  he  invested  his  music  with 
the  brightness  of  spirit  that  was  his.  So  here  in  the  second  part  of  the  concerto  we 
find  not  only  skillful  manipulation  of  the  musical  textures  in  which  he  works,  but 
emotional  expressiveness  garbed  in  the  most  exquisite  raiment,  richly  colored,  in- 
tricately woven,  and  patterned  after  perfection. 

The  concerto  is,  of  course,  primarily  a  showpiece — one  designed  to  display 
the  skill  of  the  solo  performer  in  every  department  of  his  art.  Thus  far,  the  music 
has  revealed  the  beauty  and  variety  of  the  violin  tone,  but  little  of  the  violin  tech- 
nique. Here,  however,  in  the  concluding  portion  of  the  first  movement,  the  com- 
poser introduces  a  magnificent  cadenza,  in  which  the  violin  in  solitary  splendor  is 
heard  in  a  bewildering  sequence  of  flying  notes. 

The  orchestra  gives  out  thematic  matter  quite  similar  to  portions  of  the  move- 
ment already  heard;  there  comes  a  gradual  broadening  of  tone  and  tempo,  and 
then  the  violin  stands  forth  alone.  The  cadenza  begins  with  rather  simple  elabora- 
tions of  a  subject  germane  to  the  first  movement  theme,  but  soon  glows  with  colors 
of  prismatic  purity  and  richness,  and  moves  with  fleet  touches  over  the  entire  scale. 
Double-stopping  arpeggios,  natural  and  artificial  harmonics,  incredibly  swift  finger- 
ing of  difficult  phrases,  all  appear  with  consummate  ease  and  grace  and  beauty  of 
tone  from  a  master  violinist's  singing  strings. 

Second  Movement 

A  stirring  of  the  depths  of  emotion  is  not  necessarily  reflected  in  an  agitation 
of  the  melodic  current  in  music.  On  the  contrary,  a  smooth  flow  of  melody  may 
bear  an  emotional  content  of  more  gravity  and  tenseness  than  the  most  exuberant 
outburst — perhaps  because  of  its  likeness  to  song,  and  song's  likeness  to  speech.  The 
present  movement  of  the  concerto  is  a  case  in  point. 


W.    A.     MOZART  353 

It  has  been  pointed  out  in  these  pages  that  Mozart,  notwithstanding  his  ad- 
herence to  form  as  the  exigencies  of  his  time  required,  invested  his  compositions 
with  a  quite  definite  emotional  beauty.  Glimmerings  of  it  are  seen  even  in  his  most 
casual  fieces  d?  occasion — and  these  were  rather  numerous;  and  in  his  more  serious 
works,  the  "Jupiter"  Symphony  or  the  present  concerto  as  examples,  emotional 
expressiveness  rises  to  a  parity  with  strict  form. 

Effusiveness,  or  even  radical  departure  from  his  customary  idiom,  should, 
however,  have  been  quite  inconceivable  to  Mozart.  So,  while  in  this  portion  of  the 
concerto  we  find  a  melody  that  speaks  with  passionate  eloquence,  we  feel  too  the 
familiar  Mozart  cadences;  we  anticipate,  quite  frequently,  the  structure  of  phrase 
and  harmony.  There  is  an  orchestral  introduction  of  almost  ecclesiastical  solemnity, 
from  which  the  solo  instrument  presently  borrows  the  first  phrase  of  its  song. 
Contrasting  voices,  subdued  but  effective,  speak  from  the  orchestra  as  the  solo  violin 
traces  its  exquisite  melody  in  tones  of  piercing  plaintiveness — a  quality  that  does  not 
leave  its  voice  whether  it  soars  in  the  soprano  register  or  moves  along  the  warmer 
G  string. 

The  exquisite  melody,  now  in  the  upper  ranges  of  the  solo  instrument,  is  more 
animated  as  the  second  portion  of  the  movement  begins.  Rhythmical  chanting  of 
the  orchestra  supports  and  vivifies  it,  though  the  tempo  is  still  andante  and  the 
sentiment  solemn.  Presently  we  hear  it  in  counterpoint,  but  without  the  intricacies 
of  that  figure  which  if  too  strongly  emphasized  would  perhaps  be  a  distraction 
rather  than  an  elaboration  of  either  emotional  or  purely  ornamental  character. 

After  a  short  pause  following  the  contrapuntal  treatment  of  the  theme  we 
come  upon  one  of  the  loveliest  passages  in  the  concerto,  if  not  in  the  entire  body  of 
the  Mozart  compositions.  To  call  it  a  cadenza  is  misleading,  for  the  word  connotes 
a  merely  technical  display,  brilliant  but  usually  devoid  of  emotional  significance, 
and  designed  to  amaze  by  agility  rather  than  to  move  by  expressiveness.  In  the 
passage  now  at  hand,  we  have  technical  brilliance,  it  is  true,  and  skill  of  a  subtle 
rather  than  obvious  kind;  what  is  more  important,  however,  we  have  phrases  preg- 
nant with  meaning,  which  only  incidentally  require  for  their  proper  execution  the 
most  wonderful  digital  dexterity.  What  does  it  matter  that  a  trill  against  double- 
stopped  thirds  is  an  exceedingly  difficult  feat  of  violin  technique,  when  that  partic- 
ular phrase  utters  something  from  the  soul  of  one  of  the  world's  most  remarkable 
men?  So  it  happens  that,  with  the  consciousness  that  this  passage  is  at  one  with  the 
exalted  mood  of  the  entire  movement,  the  perfect  technique  that  makes  its  execu- 
tion possible  is  quite  unnoticed  in  the  spell  which  the  music  itself,  purely  as  musk, 
puts  upon  its  hearers. 

Third  Movement 

The  rondeau,  or  rondo  as  it  is  more  commonly  known,  fe  one  of  the  oldest  of 
the  many  patterns  on  which  formal  musical  composition  is  designed.  Remotely  it  is 


354-  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

derived  from  the  poetical  form  of  the  same  name,  in  which  the  first  and  last  lines 
of  the  stanza  are  identical.  The  musical  rondo  parallels  this  style  of  construction 
by  providing  for  a  return  to  the  first  subject  after  the  introduction  of  the  second  or 
even  the  third  subject- — these  being  always  in  related  keys,  and  usually  in  ithe  key 
of  the  dominant.  Notwithstanding  its  simplicity,  the  rondo  achieves  contrast  and  a 
finished,  rounded  melodic  line  that  are  as  pleasing  to  the  ear  as  to  the  sense  of 
musical  justice  and  logic  and  mathematics. 

The  final  movement  of  the  concerto  is  cast  in  the  graceful  mold  of  the  rondo. 
The  form  must  have  appealed  to  Mozart,  for  it  is  one  that  would  readily  be  adap- 
ted to  his  style,  and  in  which  he  wrote  with  singular  felicity.  The  first  subject  is 
announced  by  the  violin  against  the  accompanying  orchestra,  with  the  latter  more 
prominent  in  succeeding  cadences.  After  a  repetition  the  secondary  subject  is  intro- 
duced, and  elaborated  to  the  close  on  the  chord  of  the  dominant* 

The  rondo,  like  other  rather  mathematical  forms,  is  a  temptation  to  the  com- 
poser to  become  cold,  formal,  architectural  rather  than  sculptural;  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  Mozart,  however,  cannot  be  repressed  even  by  so  rigid  a  pattern.  Within 
the  confines  of  the  form  his  ebullient  spirits  find  space  for  expression,  and  whether 
the  thought  be  serious  or  gay,  it  is  never  obscured  by  purely  structural  intricacies. 

The  first  subject  of  the  rondo  now  returns  and  is  again  presented  with  the 
lightness  and  humor  that  marked  its  first  appearance  as  the  movement  opened. 
Transitions  from  the  second  subject  back  to  the  first,  and  then  from  the  first  to  the 
third,  are  effected  without  the  slightest  break  in  the  curvilinear  structure  of  the 
movement,  though  the  contrasts  in  the  character  of  the  various  motives  are  emphatic. 
The  vivaciousness  of  the  music  becomes  quite  modified  as  it  progresses,  and  there 
are  moments  touched  with  a  quasi-religious  melancholy;  nevertheless,  the  inherent 
vitality  of  the  composer's  thought  invariably  wins  through,  and  each  phrase  closes 
in  tonal  brightness. 

As  in  the  preceding  section,  the  music  now  exhibits  a  repetition  of  the  first 
subject  of  the  rondo.  This  theme,  however,  is  not  elaborated  as  extensively  as  in  its 
previous  appearances,  and  an  even  more  joyous  note  is  sounded  just  before  the 
opening  of  a  cadenza,  brief  but  brilliant,  that  prefaces  a  recapitulation  of  several 
episodes  of  the  movement. 

One  may  investigate  the  vast  treasury  of  Mozart  music  and  easily  find  works 
designed  on  a  greater  scale  than  this;  others  more  expressive  of  the  deeper  emo- 
tions; more  representative,  perhaps,  of  Mozart  at  the  very  zenith  of  his  powers — 
but  none  in  which  all  the  perfections  of  form  and  expressiveness  are  to  such  a 
degree  combined  in  the  characteristic  Mozart  manner. 


MODEST  MUSSORGSKY 

[1839-1881] 

DRGSKY  did  not  consider  music  as  a  profession  until  he  was  twenty-two 
fears  old  and  an  officer  in  a  famous  Russian  army  regiment,  He  was 
born  of  a  musical  family,  and  had  shown  considerable  talent  as  a  child, 
but  following  the  usual  course  of  education  allotted  to  a  Russian  boy  of  the  better 
classes,  he  contented  himself  with  a  dilettante  attitude  until  he  happened  to  become 
acquainted,  while  still  in  the  army,  with  several  prominent  Russian  musicians. 

Immediately  he  decided  to  give  up  social  position  and  a  comfortable  income 
for  the  precarious  existence  of  an  artist.  Nothing  could  dissuade  him,  arid  if  he 
paid  for  his  determination  with  a  lifetime  of  poverty,  he  rewarded  himself  also 
by  creating  some  very  beautiful  music. 

Eventually  he  accepted  a  poorly  paid  government  position,  which  kept  him 
alive  while  he  worked  at  music,  but  was  also  the  source  of  troubles  which  led  the 
composer  to  indulge  in  liquor  and  drugs  to  an  alarming  extent.  His  health  broke 
down  under  abuse;  then  moderation  of  his  habits  restored  him  for  a  while,  and 
enabled  him  to  do  some  of  his  most  important  work.  One  of  the  few  happy  turns 
of  fortune  he  ever  experienced  was  his  acquaintance  with  Rimsky-Korsakov,  who 
later  was  to  make  a  viable  musical  work  out  of  Mussorgsky's  greatest  achievement, 
the  opera  Boris  Gockunov* 

Mussorgsky  never  had  a  thorough  trailing  in  the  technique  of  his  art,  and 
consequently,  though  much  of  his  music  has  elements  of  greatness,  it  often  requires 
revision  by  finished  musicians  before  its  qualities  can  be  justly  revealed.  The  com- 
poser was  never  recognized  by  the  public  as  a  distinguished  musician  during  his 
lifetime;  but  his  musical  friends  knew  his  qualities,  and  did  their  best  to  help  him. 
He  was  of  an  exceedingly  attractive  personality,  though  careless,  ill-kempt,  and 
disorderly;  and  his  indulgence  in  drugs  of  course,  removed  him  from  the  circles 
whereip.  he  might  otherwise  have  found  valuable  support.  He  died  at  the  age  of 
forty-two,  half  developed,  wholly  ru^ed  by  himself. 


A  Night  on  the  Bald  Mountain 


IF  THERE  is  any  excuse  or  pretext  for  indulgence  in  narcotic  drugs,  h  is  that  some 
of  them  violently  stimulate  the  imagination,  and  provoke  images  which  may  pos- 
sibly be  of  use  in  creative  work.  Mussorgsky  was  so  vacillating  in  his  original  con- 

355 


356  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

captions  of  this  music,  and  at  times  thought  of  inserting  such  fantastically  unreason- 
able ideas,  that  the  suspicion  arises  he  may  have  been  under  the  influence  of  drugs 
(as  he  often  was)  when  he  wrote  it.  Certainly  the  orgiastic  celebrations  suggested 
in  it  have  never  been  seen  by  mortal  eye,  but  materialize  in  the  music  like  the  wild 
and  terrifying  illusions  of  a  dream.  It  would  be  more  realistic  to  suggest  that  the 
composer's  friend,  Rimsky-Korsakov,  had  something  to  do  with  the  extraordinarily 
descriptive  and  colorful  music,  for  he  revised,  reorchestrated,  and  put  it  into 
playable  form. 

A  detailed  description  of  the  music  is  scarcely  necessary,  considering  the  pro- 
gram which  is  printed  in  the  published  score: 

Subterranean  sounds  of  unearthly  voices;  appearance  of  the  spirits  of 
darkness,  followed  by  that  of  the  god  Chernobog;  Chernobog's  glorification 
and  the  Black  Mass;  the  revels;  at  the  height  of  the  orgies  there  is  heard 
from  afar  the  bell  of  a  little  church,  which  causes  the  spirits  to  disperse;  dawn. 


Prelude  and  Entr'acte  from  "Khovantchina" 

FOR  the  plot  of  his  opera  Mussorgsky  chose  the  stirring  incidents  of  the  end  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  when,  as  his  friend  Stassov  suggested  in  his  L,i]ey  the 
passing  of  the  old  and  the  birth  of  the  new  Russia  "afforded  a  rich  subject."  There 
were  at  the  times  such  disagreements  on  matters  of  national  policy  that^  serious 
struggles  between  opposing  factions  kept  the  country  in  a  state  of  ferment.  One 
of  the  prominent  figures  in  these  struggles  was  that  of  the  Prince  Khovantsky, 
and  from  his  name  is  derived  the  name  of  the  opera. 

The  Prelude  is  highly  atmospheric,  descriptive,  and  moving.  It  paints  the  pale 
and  wintry  skies  as  day  breaks  over  the  Kremlin  in  Moscow,  and  establishes  a 
mood  superbly  in  keeping  with  the  highly  dramatic  scenes  that  follow  upon  its 
conclusion. 

The  Entr'acte  usually  played  on  symphonic  programs  is  extracted  from 
Scene  II,  Act  IV,  of  the  opera.  Here  one  of  the  figures  in  the  drama — a  victim  of 
the  uprising  of  the  New  Russia — begins  his  long  journey  into  exile.  There  is  a 
gloomy  and  terribly  persistent  figure  in  the  bass,  compounded  of  the  low  strings 
and  bassoons;  this,  with  the  melancholy  song  that  appears  above  it,  produces  an 
atmosphere  of  desolation  and  loneliness  almost  without  parallel  in  orchestral  music. 


MOBEST  MUSSORGSKY  357 

Pictures  at  an  Exhibition 

ONE  of  Mussorgsky's  most  intimate  friends  was  a  painter-architect  named  Victor 
Hartman.  Their  association  was  terminated  by  the  death  of  Hartman  at  the  age  of 
thirty-nine — one  of  the  great  sorrows  in  Mussorgsky's  life.  Other  friends  and 
admirers  of  Hartman  planned  to  honor  his  memory  with  an  exhibition  of  his 
paintings  in  oil  and  water  color,  and  this  was  the  occasion  for  the  composition  of 
the  delightful  music,  descriptive  of  the  exhibition,  which  we  are  considering  here. 

The  music  was  not  written  originally  for  orchestra,  but  for  piano.  The  orches- 
tral arrangement  is  the  work  of  Maurice  Ravel,  and  was  done  at  the  request  of 
Serge  Koussevitzky,  conductor  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  The  first  per- 
formance was  given  by  Mr.  Koussevitzky  in  Paris,  May  3,  1923;  the  first  in 
America  by  the  same  conductor,  with  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  December 
3,  1926.  In  orchestral  guise,  the  Pictures  take  on  color  and  form  impossible  to 
realize  in  the  original  piano  version,  and  exhibit  both  Ravel's  respect  for  the  designs 
of  the  composer,  and  his  own  extraordinary  skill  in  the  difficult  and  subtle  art  of 
orchestration. 

The  music  begins  with  a  bold,  striding  theme,  quite  Russian  in  character, 
and  called  "Promenade."  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  here  a  casual  gallery  visitor, 
walking  boldly  in,  looking  about,  and  then  perhaps  uncertain  where  to  begin.  The 
theme  is  in  the  brass;  first  trumpets,  then  horns,  trombones,  and  tuba  join  in  it. 
On  the  entrance  of  strings  and  woodwind  our  promenader  wanders  toward  a 
picture  called 

Gnomes 

Here  is  a  grotesque  bandy-legged  f  ellow,  alternating  spry  and  jerky  move- 
ments with  dragging  steps  and  awkward  posturings.  Woodwind  and  plucked 
strings,  muted  brass  and  descending  scales  draw  the  picture  for  us. 

The  "Promenade"  theme,  slower  in  tempo  and  less  vigorous,  and  with  inter- 
esting changes  in  orchestration,  brings  us  to  the  next  picture,  which  represents 

The  Old  Castle 

It  is  a  medieval  castle  perhaps,  with  a  troubadour  standing  in  the  shadow  of 
its  tower,  singing  to  his  lady.  The  song  is  wistful.  The  dark  bassoon  first  presents 
it,  and  then  the  alto  saxophone,  with  lovely  string  accompaniment,  breathes  forth 
the  melody  again. 

The  "Promenade"  indicates  that  we  proceed  to  another  picture;  this  time  we 
hear  it  in  tones  of  trumpet,  then  trombones  and  tuba.  A  brief  passage  in  plucked 
strings  leads  us  to  a  scene  in  the 


358  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

TuHeries 

In  this  Parisian  retreat  for  politer  children  (of  all  ages),  we  hear  anxious 
nurses  scolding  their  charges;  pert  youngsters,  chattering  and  capricious;  and 
there  is  a  soft  and  lovely  background  such  as  the  mist-wreathed  trees  of  Paris 
might  present  of  an  April  morning. 

Usually  the  "Promenade,"  at  this  point,  is  omitted,  and  we  come  next  to  a 
picture  entitled,  simply, 

Bydlo 

A  bydlo  is  a  crude  farm  wagon,  common  in  Polish  agricultural  districts.  It 
has  great  wheels  made  of  solid  wooden  discs;  it  is  springless,  Cumbersome,  and 
usually  is  drawn  by  a  pair  of  stolid  oxen.  The  halting  and  irregular  rhythm  of 
this  conveyance  and  the  sound  of  its  great  wooden  wheels  are  wonderfully  sug- 
gested in  this  little  piece. 

The  next  appearance  of  the  "Promenade"  is  in  the  minor  mode,  which  pro- 
vides an  effective  preparation  for  the  music  depicting  a  drawing  entitled 

Ballet  of  the  Unhatched  Chickens 

Thfe  was  a  sketch  for  a  stage  setting,  made  by  Hartman  for  the  ballet  Trilby. 
So  fantastic  an  idea  as  chicks  dancing  in  their  shells  would  have  appealed  power- 
fully to  the  ready  imagination  of  Mussorgsky,  and  with  the  Ravel  orchestration  a 
brilliant,  a  charming,  and  almost  pathetically  "cute"  effect  is  achieved.  You  can 
hear  the  little  creatures  chirping,  bouncing  about,  and  pecking  at  their  shells  from 
within;  you  can  almost  see  them  pirouetting  on  their  little  horny  toes! 

Samuel  Goldenburg,  and  Schmuyle 

Thfe  must  be  a  caricature — a  wealthy  Polish  Jew  and  his  sycophantic  "yes- 
man."  Goldenburg  is  represented  by  a  suave  melody,  rich  in  the  colors  of  strings 
and  woodwind;  then  comes  the  nervous,  alert,  obsequious  Schmuyle,  interjecting 
himself  in  thin  tones  of  the  trumpet.  Both  themes  are  now  entangled,  no  doubt  as 
Schmuyle  importunately  buttonholes  his  rich  compatriot.  Goldenburg  cannot  endure 
this  insignificant  person  for  long,  however,  and  (at  the  end)  abruptly,  rudely 
dismisses  him. 

Limoges:  The  Market  Place 

Anyone  who  has  ever  seen  a  Gallic  housewife  effecting  a  bargain  will  need 
no  further  comment  upon  this  delightful  fragment.  Would  that  she  and  all  her 
sisters,  arguing  in  unison  and  ad  lib.,  could  sound  so  amusing! 


MODEST    MUSSORGSKY  359 

From  the  vivid  color  and  animation  of  this  scene,  we  descend,  paradoxically 
by  a  swift  ascending  orchestra  figure,  to  the 

Catacombs 

Here  in  earthy  cells  lie  the  martyred  fathers  of  the  church;  here  were  cele- 
brated, in  darkness  and  secrecy,  the  mystic  rites  of  early  Christianity;  here  now 
echo  the  ghostly  voices  of  worshipers  long  silent.  Here  one  walks  with  solemn 
step;  here  the  "Promenade"  is  given  a  solemn  and  churchly  guise,  and  mournful 
woodwinds  intone  their  harmonies  over  hushed  strings.  Ascending  scales  on  the 
harp  bring  us  back  to  the  light  of  day,  and  from  the  city  of  the  dead  we  are 
swiftly  transported  to  a  land  of  fantasy,  where,  in  amazement  we  see 

A  Hut  on  Fowl's  Legs 

Baba  Yaga,  in  Russian  legends,  is  a  witch  who  dwelt  in  such  a  hut.  On 
special  occasions  she  used,  for  purposes  of  transportation,  a  glowing-hot  mortar, 
which  she  rowed  through  the  upper  air  with  a  pestle,  reaching  out  behind  from 
time  to  time  to  obliterate  all  traces  of  her  passage  with  a  flaming  broom.  One 
of  her  favorite  diversions  was  the  collecting  of  human  bones,  and  of  the  bodies 
of  her  petrified  victims,  which  she  pounded  to  convenient  size  with  her  pesde. 

Hartman's  drawing  was  a  clock  in  the  form  of  Baba  Yaga's  hut;  Mussorgsky 
added  suggestions  of  the  activities  of  the  witch  herself,  as  described  above.  With 
these  in  mind,  the  music  becomes  highly  suggestive. 

The  Great  Gate  at  Kiev 

As  architect  and  engineer,  Hartman  had  made  plans  for  a  monumental  gate 
in  the  city  of  Kiev;  as  artist,  he  had  made  an  imaginative  painting  of  the  gate, 
and  it  was  this  painting  which  suggested  the  present  and  concluding  section  of 
the  work.  The  gateway  is  in  the  massive  old  Russian  style,  turreted  and  high, 
perhaps  with  a  peal  of  bells  flinging  their  wild  harmonies  from  its  stately  pinnacles. 
Here  the  music  is  noble,  broad,  and  richly  colored;  the  sonorous  brass  drives  forth 
great  masses  of  tone,  bells  add  a  glamorous  richness,  and  the  musk  mounts  tp 
overpowering  heights. 


MUSSORGSKY-STOKOWSKI 

Boris  Godunov 
[Symphonic  Synthesis] 

THE  opera  Boris  Godunov  has  a  curious  history  and  a  complicated  one.  Mussorgsky- 
produced  it  first  in  a  loose  and  unintegrated  form;  Rimsky-Korsakov  twice 
rearranged  and  reorchestrated  it,  and  made  it  into  something  quite  at  variance 
with  the  composer's  own  version;  Mussorgsky  published  an  incomplete  vocal  score, 
and  finally,  there  is  the  complete  orchestral  score,  published  in  1929,  and  revealing 
completely  how  far  the  operatic  version,  as  witnessed  in  America  and  Europe, 
deviated  from  Mussorgsky's  original.  The  complete  and  authentic  edition  was  per- 
formed for  the  first  time  anywhere  on  February  26,  1928,  at  the  Mariinsky 
Theater  in  Leningrad;  the  first  American  performance  was  given  in  concert  form, 
under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Stokowski  and  with  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  at  the 
Academy  of  Music,  Philadelphia,  November  29,  1929.  Mr.  Stokowski  used  at  that 
time  the  first  of  Mussorgsky's  two  versions  of  the  work. 

Boris,  work  of  wonder  that  it  is,  cannot  in  the  technical  sense  be  considered 
good  opera.  The  composer  himself  was  sensible  of  this,  and  in  a  second  version 
called  it  "a  musical  folk  drama."  It  lacks  the  continuity  of  plot,  and  is  too  com- 
pletely episodic,  to  make  a  theoretically  good  opera.  Although  with  its  marvelous 
music,  its  pageantry,  its  moments  of  high  tragedy,  of  terror  and  ambition  and 
wickedness,  it  makes  a  superb  dramatic  spectacle,  it  must  be  confessed  that  but  for 
the  existence  of  the  incomparable  Chaliapin  most  people,  even  seasoned  opera 
enthusiasts,  would  find  the  work  something  less  than  satisfying.  Sometimes  one  has 
difficulty  in  accepting  the  necessary  polyglot  performances,  with  soloists  singing  in 
French,  Italian,  and  German,  the  chorus  in  French  or  Italian,  and  the  protagonist 
in  Russian! 

For  these  and  other  reasons,  one  suspects,  Mr.  Stokowski  chose  to  bring  to 
bear  upon  this  stupendous  score  his  unique  gifts  for  transcription  and  execution. 
Here,  as  in  his  Wagnerian  syntheses,  he  has  distilled  out  the  basic  elements  of  the 
work,  and  blended  them  into  a  kind  of  tone  poem  as  beautifully  constructed  as  a 
symphony,  and  as  skillfully  calculated  to  control  and  direct  the  emotions  in  a  series 
of  crises  and  climaxes.  In  so  doing,  Mr.  Stokowski,  as  no  other  orchestrator  did, 
has  adhered  to  the  spirit  of  the  original  score,  and  quite  often  to  the  letter.  Of  his 
transcription  he  writes: 

"I  based  this  transcription  only  on  the  Mussorgsky  original  score — not  on  the 
Rimsky-Korsakov.  Although  Mussorgsky  and  Rimsky-Korsakov  were  intimate 
friends,  and  for  a  time  lived  together  like  two  brothers,  yet  as  creative  musicians 
they  were  at  opposing  poles.  Their  approach  to  music  was  totally  different.  With 
generous  intentions  Rimsky-Korsakov  tried  to  reorchestrate  and  reform  Boris* 

360 


MUSSORGSKY-STOKOWSKI  361 

Instead,  he  made  something  far  from  the  spirit  of  Mussorgsky  The  original 
orchestration  of  Mussorgsky  shows  clearly  what  he  was  trying  to  say,  but  some- 
times he  failed  to  express  his  musical  conception,  because  he  was  inexperienced  in 
the  vast,  subtle,  and  highly  differentiated  world  of  the  modern  orchestra.  There 
are  exceptions  to  this,  notably  the  'Siege  of  Kazan5  [Varlaam's  narrative — Ed.], 
in  form  a  theme  and  variations,  in  spirit  a  fantastic  scherzo.  This  is  a  masterpiece 
of  orchestration,  especially  that  variation  which  describes  how  Ivan  the  Terrible 
lit  the  fires  and  exploded  the .  mines  under  the  walls  of  the  Tartar  fortress. 
Mussorgsky's  score  is  full  of  inspired  music  of  symphonic  quality.  Wherever  the 
orchestration  of  Mussorgsky  only  partly  expresses  the  spirit  of  his  musical  concep- 
tion, I  have  tried  to  help  the  orchestra  more  completely  say  what  Mussorgsky  was 
aiming  to  express,  keeping  the  music  in  the  dramatic  sequence  of  Pushkin's  poem 
and  Mussorgsky's  score.  The  result  is  something  like  a  free  modern  symphony, 
which  in  this  form  is  available  to  music  lovers  who  otherwise  rarely  hear  this  music 
of  power  and  imagination  and  genius.  Mussorgsky  paints  richly  in  tone  the  Russia 
of  Pushkin,  Gogol,  Dostoevsky — &  life  which  few  other  peoples  have  approached 
in  pageantry,  cruelty,  and  sensitive  perception  of  the  beauty  and  horror  of  which 
life  is  capable." 

The  sequence  of  the  music,  in  Mr.  Stokowski's  symphonic  synthesis,  is  as 
follows:  outside  the  Novodievchy  Monastery;  the  people  ask  Boris  for  protection; 
pilgrims  are  heard  singing  in  the  distance;  tKey  come  closer  and  enter  the  monas- 
tery; coronation  of  Boris;  monks  chanting  in  the  monastery  of  Choudov;  siege  of 
Kazan;  outside  the  church  of  St.  Basil;  the  Idiot  foretells  the  fate  of  Russia;  the 
starving  crowd  asks  Boris  for  bread;  death  of  Boris. 

These  episodes  are  drawn  from  the  following  scenes  in  the  opera: 
Prologue,  Scene  j.  The  courtyard  of  the  Novodievchy  Monastery.  The 
people,  at  the  instigation  of  the  police,  entreat  Boris  to  accept  the  Russian  throne. 
A  procession  of  singing  pilgrims  passes  and  enters  the  monastery.  Prologue^  Scene  2. 
The  coronation  of  Boris  at  the  Kremlin.  Act  /,  Scene  i.  Pimen's  cell  in  the 
Choudov  Monastery  (where  the  chanting  of  the  monks  is  heard  from  off  stage). 
The  novice  Grigory  wakens  from  a  dream  of  ambition  and  power.  Hearing  from 
the  monk  Pimen — an  eyewitness — of  the  murder  of  the  Tsarevitch  Dmitri,  and 
learning  that  the  murdered  boy,  had  he  lived,  would  have  been  Grigory's  own 
age,  the  novice  resolves  to  impersonate  the  murdered  prince  and  attempt  to  get 
the  crown  for  himself.  Act  /,  Scene  2.  An  inn  on  the  border,  Varlaam  and 
Missafl,  wandering  friars,  enter  with  Grigory  who  is  in  disguise  and  is  making  an 
attempt  to  cross  the  border  into  Lithuania.  Varlaam,  drinking  deeply,  narrates  in 
a  half-drunken  and  highly  colored  style  the  story  of  the  siege  of  Kazan.  Act  IV ^ 
Scene  j.  The  Red  Square,  before  the  church  of  St.  Baal,  Moscow.  Music  is  heard 
from  within  the  church.  An  Idiot  appears,  and  is  tormented  by  street  urchins. 
Presently  Boris  and  his  courtiers  emerge  from  the  church.  The  people  beg  Boris 


362  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

for  bread,  and  the  Idiot  sings  a  song  foretelling  the  downfall  of  Russia  and 
miseries  to  come.  4 ct  IV.  The  great  reception  hall  of  the  Kremlin.  A  council  of 
state.  The  old  monk  Pimen  is  brought  in,  and  he  tells  of  a  miracle  that  has  taken 
place  at  the  tomb  of  the  murdered  Dmitri.  Boris  cries  aloud,  faints,  and  embracing 
for  the  kst  time  his  loved  son,  dies. 

Extended  or  detailed  comment  upon  this  music  is  hardly  necessary  or  desir- 
able. The  very  first  notes  we  hear,  the  weirdly  sad  and  lonely  voice  of  the  bassoon, 
lead  us  into  a  mysterious,  an  enchanting,  if  sometimes  terrifying,  world  of  swift, 
tense  emotions.  With  the  sketches  of  the  sequence  of  the  work  given  above,  and 
any  degree  of  acquaintance  with  the  story  of  the  opera,  the  eloquence  of  this 
orchestral  version  becomes  at  once  apparent.  From  a  certain  point  of  view,  the 
symphonic  synthesis  is  more  eloquent  and  more  compelling  than  the  opera  itself. 
It  integrates  the  dramatic  moments  of  the  work  much  more  closely;  it  strips  away 
what  is  unessential  and  sometimes  poor;  it  disposes  of  the  pitiful  artificiality  of  the 
stage,  and  gives  us  with  a  rare  degree  of  purity  that  powerful  distillation  of 
Russian  life  now  forever  gone.  Finally,  the  barrier  of  language,  more  or  less 
essential  to  the  opera,  is  done  away  with  by  the  substitution  of  pure  music,  which 
everyone  understands. 

Some  interesting  features  of  the  transcription  should  be  especially  noted.  The 
unbelievable  fidelity  of  the  reproduction  of  bell  effects-— in  the  coronation  scene 
and  the  death  scene — is  something  to  marvel  at.  Tam-tam,  tubular  chimes,  muted 
trumpets,  plucked  strings,  and  other  instrumental  devices  are  employed  in  com- 
binations which  produce  tones  never  before  heard  from  any  orchestra.  Effects  that 
are  almost  vocal,  in  certain  choralelike  passages  associated  in  the  opera  with  the 
chanting  of  monks  and  pilgrims,  are  accomplished  by  the  string  choirs.  Brasses  and 
other  instruments  of  the  orchestra  combine  in  groups  that  suggest  a  distant  great 
pipe  organ.  Atmospheric  effects  peculiar  to  this  music,  scenes  that  are  almost  visible, 
so  suggestive  is  the  music,  are  accomplished  with  tremendous  power  and  conviction, 
and  the  climaxes,  especially  those  of  the  coronation,  the  tale  of  Kazan,  and  the 
death  of  Boris,  are  overpowering. 

The  real  significance  of  the  music  lies  of  course  in  the  composer's  own  con- 
cept, whkfa,  though  immediately  a  failure,  has  finally  been  realized  and  recognized. 
As  for  Stokowskf s  orchestral  version  of  Boris,  one  may  with  reason  decide  that  it 
reveals  the  absolute  and  essential  meanings  as  no  version,  operatic  or  other,  has  done 
heretofore.  If  justification  for  the  synthetic  orchestral  form  is  necessary,  or  if  one 
wonders  whether  or  not  Mr.  Stokowski  has  actually  accomplished  for  Mussorgsky's 
music  what  the  composer  himself  failed  in,  we  have  only  to  turn  to  Mussorgsky's 
own  words.  In  a  letter  he  wrote  that  he  strove  to  reproduce  in  his  music  "the 
expressive  qualities  of  the  tones  in  which  human  beings,  while  speaking,  convey 
tfeeir  thoughts  and  feelings.  If  my  way  of  doing  so  is  musical  and  artistic,  then 


MUSSORGSKY- STOKOWSKI  363 

This  transcription  has  contributed  much  to  the  winning  of  that  race.  The 
passage  quoted  above  might  with  justice  have  been  written  of  Mr.  Stokowski's 
work,  for  he  asks  the  orchestra  to  speak  with  the  exj>res$we  tones  with  which 
humans  transmit  their  thoughts;  he  has  devised  new  and  more  expressive  ones,  and 
through  this  marvelous  medium,  he  has  conveyed  the  crystal-clear  essence  of  the 
horror,  the  tragedy,  the  strange  wild  humor,  the  barbaric  beauty,  the  wonder  that 
was  Russia.  One  reads,  after  hearing  this  wonderful  music,  with  an  assenting  and 
sympathetic  attitude  the  comment  of  the  late  Lawrence  Oilman: 

The  immense  pitif ulness,  the  sorrowing  tenderness,  the  fathomless  com- 
passion of  Mussorgsky's  music  are  among  the  precious  heritages  of  our  time. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  the  whole  stretch  of  the  art  as  it  has  come 
down  to  us.  Its  simplicity  of  accent  and  gesture,  its  overwhelming  sincerity, 
its  unsounded  depths,  are  without  analogy.  In  some  of  Bach's  chorale-preludes, 
in  certain  episodes  of  Pelleas  et  Metisande,  we  catch  glimpses  of  a  world  not 
far  removed  from  that  inhabited  by  Mussorgsky  at  his  most  typical.  But  his 
world  is  his  own — there  is  none  other  like  it  in  music. 

It  is  not  in  the  sombrely  splendid  moments  of  Boris  Godunov  that 
Mussorgsky  is  greatest;  nor  even  in  those  moments  that  imprison  the  dutch- 
ing  horror  of  the  Macbeth-like  hallucination  scene,  in  which  the  tortured 
Boris  grovels  before  the  specter  of  the  murdered  Dmitri.  It  Is  when  he  is 
simplest,  most  intimate,  most  quietly  Compassionate  that  he  is  to  be  most 
treasured;  when  he  voices  an  immemorial  sorrow,  an  ageless  grief,  as  in  the 
scene  between  the  dying  Boris  and  his  son,  or  the  scene  in  which  the  piteous 
Simpleton  weeps  in  the  snowy,  bitter  dusk. 


IGNACE  JAN  PADEREWSKI 
[Born  November  6,  1860] 

ALECENTLY  published  and  the  only  authentic  biography  of  Paderewski  gives 
in  detail  the  complex  history  of  events  which  have  combined  to  make  his 
life  one  of  the  most  fascinating  stories  of  modern  times.  To  this  biography, 
which  is  in  fact  an  autobiography,  we  must  refer  the  reader  if  he  wishes  to  study 
in  detail  the  background  against  which  this  gigantic  musical  figure  has  moved  for 
fourscore  years. 

Paderewski  was  born  November  6,  1860,  in  the  province  of  Podolia,  in 
Poland.  As  a  small  child  he  was  attracted  to  the  piano  and  was  seriously  studying 
it  before  he  was  eight  years  old,  with  a  provincial  teacher  named  Peter  Souruski. 
He  made  such  progress  that  his  parents  sent  him,  in  1872,  to  Warsaw  where  he 
studied  harmony  and  counterpoint  at  the  Conservatory.  Later  he  pursued  his 
studies  in  Berlin,  and  when  only  eighteen  was  engaged  as  instructor  in  piano  at 
the  Warsaw  Conservatory.  Nothing  in  his  teaching  activities  was  particularly 
gratifying  to  Paderewski,  but  necessity  forced  him  a  little  later  to  accept  a  professor- 
ship at  the  Strasbourg  Conservatory — an  engagement  which  terminated  very  soon 
after  it  had  been  begun.  It  was  the  great  Leschetizky  who  most  influenced 
Paderewski  as  a  pianist,  although  it  might  have  been  he  also  who  suggested  to 
Paderewski  that  it  were  better  if  he  pursued  his  studies  of  the  trombone  as  he  was 
not  likely  to  become  a  pianist  of  any  considerable  ability!  It  is  rekted,  too,  that 
Paderewski  was  more  interested  in  composition  as  a  career  than  in  the  executant 
side  of  music  and  that  he  became  a  pianist  primarily  to  assure  himself  of  satisfactory 
performances  of  his  compositions.  His  development  as  a  performing  artist  was 
such,  however,  that  he  established  himself  as  one  of  the  greatest  pianists  of  all 
history  and,  as  everyone  knows,  his  name  has  become  a  synonym  for  the  ultimate 
in  pianisric  art. 


Concerto  in  A  minor 
[Opus  17] 

PADEREWSKI  relates  in  his  memoirs  that  the  concerto,  which  is  perhaps  his 
most  important  and  enduring  work,  was  begun  in  1888  and  finished  in  1889.  It 
was  given  its  first  performance  by  Mme  Essipoff-Leschetizky,  who  pkyed  it  under 
the  baton  of  Hans  Richter,  Paderewski  himself  played  the  work  at  his  American 
debut  in  New  York  on  November  17,  1891.  It  was  with  this  work,  therefore,  that 

364 


IGNACE    JAN     PADEREWSKI  365 

Paderewski's  great  first  impression  was  made  upon  the  American  public.  It  is 
interesting  to  search  out  the  press  comment  of  the  time,  which  seemed  devoted 
more  particularly  to  the  performer  than  to  the  music  itself.  The  New  York  Sun 
wrote  of  Paderewski,  "clear-cut,  poetical,  dreamy  face,  with  tawny  hair  lying  in 
masses  of  curls  about  his  well-shaped  head."  The  New  York  Herald  described  the 
concert  as  "an  intoxicating  success."  The  Times  had  a  curious  comment  to  make: 
"Paderewski  is  his  name,"  said  the  reviewer.  "It  is  not  a  pretty  name,  and  it  is 
not  a  pretty  man,  but  he  can  play  the  piano." 

Although  the  concerto  dates  from  a  period  when  compositions  of  this  kind 
were  designed  chiefly  for  exploitation  of  the  technical  abilities  of  the  performer, 
it  is  interesting  and  gratifying  to  observe  that  while  certainly  there  is  plenty  of 
opportunity  for  display,  Paderewski  subordinated  the  piano  to  the  orchestra  much 
as  in  the  more  modern  concertos.  On  the  other  hand,  the  concerto  is  definitely  in 
the  manner  of  the  romantic  school  with  its  wealth  of  melody,  its  profound  emo- 
tionalism, its  use  of  unsophisticated  and,  to  some  degree,  nationalistic  thematic 
material,  and  its  frank  concern  with  beautiful  sound  rather  than  with  cleverness 
and  quasi-sophistication.  At  the  same  time  there  is  a  vigorous  drive  especially  in 
the  orchestral  portions  of  the  first  movement,  and  where  one  might  expect  a 
moody  and  possibly  a  morbid  introspection  in  view  of  the  composer's  character  as  a 
patriot  and  his  use  of  Polish  musical  idiom,  we  find  a  wholesome  and  muscular 
vitality  both  exciting  and  refreshing. 

Comparisons  of  Chopin  and  Paderewski  are  perhaps  inevitable  since  both 
were  natives  of  Poland,  both  came  under  the  musical  influences  of  Paris,  and 
both  were  intensely  patriotic.  Many  listeners  will  convince  themselves  that  the 
influence  of  Chopin  is  marked  in  this  concerto,  and  particularly  in  the  second 
movement.  One  will  find  here,  however,  none  of  the  often  morbid  nostalgia  and 
the  polite  plaints  of  Chopin.  Paderewski  was  always  fiercely  patriotic  and  here 
develops  his  romanza  over  what  might  well  be  the  melodic  lines  of  a  Polish  folk 
tune,  but  the  music  is  ever  wholesome,  vital,  and  boldly  striding  with  life  and 
vigor  even  in  its  most  sentimental  moments. 

If  anywhere  this  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  display  piece  it  is  in  the  third  move- 
ment where  the  lighter  themes  and  the  fascinating  difficulties  assigned  to  the  soloist 
brighten  the  whole  spirit  of  the  music.  Nevertheless,  though  the  piano  is  now  given 
more  prominence,  its  music  is  closely  integrated  with  that  of  the  orchestra  and  the 
roundness  and  fullness  of  the  composition  are  never  disturbed  by  the  flashes  of 
pianistic  lightnings. 


GIOVANNI  PAISIELLO 

[1741-1816] 

"The  Barber  of  Seville"— Overture 

PAISIELLO  was  one  of  the  most  prolific  of  composers,  leaving  nearly  one 
hundred  operas  behind  him.  Most  of  them  probably  were  successful  during 
their  little  lives  and  his  opera,  The  Barber  of  Seville,  remained  a  success  for 
a  great  many  years*  Indeed  it  was  the  respect  and  affection  in  which  his  opera  was 
held  that  brought  about  the  early  failure  of  Rossini's  work  of  the  same  name, 
which  was  presented  thirty-six  years  after  Paisiello's  Barber.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered, incidentally,  that  the  story  of  The  Barber  of  Seville  antedates  both  the 
Paisiello  and  Rossini  operas  by  a  considerable  period. 

This  dainty  little  overture  is  all  that  remains,  outside  of  libraries  and  the 
dusty  tomes  of  musicologists,  of  Paisiello's  opera.  It  is  quite  Mozartian  in  style,  and 
could  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  work  of  that  incomparable  master  in  one  of  his 
more  whimsical  moments.  It  is  formed  with  an  astonishing  degree  of  perfection 
and  is  filled  with  a  sprightly  and  innocent  humor  that  is  most  ingratiating.  Its  first 
American  performance  was  given  at  Boston  by  the  Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 
under  the  direction  of  Arthur  Fiedler,  in  the  season  of  1939.  Its  first  performance 
in  New  York  seems  to  have  been  the  one  given  by  the  Philharmonic  Symphony 
Society  at  the  Lewisohn  Stadium,  under  the  direction  of  the  author  of  this  book. 


366 


SERGE  PROKOFIEFF 

[Born  1891] 

PROKOFIEFF,  with  a  group  of  other  and  somewhat  younger  composers,  is 
of  the  musical  hierarchy  of  the  Soviet  Republics  today.  The  ultraconservative 
would  have  us  believe  that  music,  or  any  other  art  that  wfll  not  or  cannot 
contribute  something  to  the  Soviet  political  scheme,  is  lightly  regarded,  if  regarded 
at  all,  by  the  powers  that  be  in  Russia.  The  radical,  on  the  other  hand,  holds  that 
this  is  as  it  should  be,  and  that  the  social  and  political  experiment  now  in  process 
under  the  Soviets  is  of  such  magnitude,  of  such  importance  to  humanity,  that  every 
human  activity  should  in  some  manner  be  devoted  to  it.  Between  these  extreme 
views  lies  what  is  perhaps  the  truth — that  valid  music,  like  any  valid  art,  does  and 
should  reflect  contemporary  life,  but  need  not  and  generally  should  not  be  polemic. 

The  more  recent  music  of  Prokofieff  falls  upon  this  middle  ground.  Rarely 
has  he  fallen  to  the  mischievous  delusions  of  extreme  musical  radicalism;  he  has 
demonstrated  the  soundest  kind  of  composition,  even  to  writing  a  charming  sym- 
phony in  the  classical  manner;  and  his  major  works,  including  some  of  the  most 
modern  ones,  are  highly  interesting  and  effective. 

Prokofieff  was  born  in  the  Ekaterinoslav  district  of  Russia  on  April  23,  iSgi. 
He  was  something  of  a  child  prodigy.  At  six  he  composed  a  march,  a  waltz,  and  a 
rondo,  and  three  years  later  exhibited  the  beginnings  of  a  tendency  which  has  since 
materialized  into  some  of  his  best  music — the  preference  for  composition  accom- 
panying stories  of  his  own  invention.  Before  he  was  ten  years  old  he  had  written 
a  three-act  opera  to  his  own  story  entitled  The  Giant,  and  at  twelve  years  he 
completed  another  opera  based  on  Pushkin's  Feast  During  the  Plague.  A  boy  with 
such  talent  could  hardly  have  existed  without  further  development  and  he  had 
the  benefit  of  working  under  such  masters  as  Gliere,  Rimsky-Korsakov,  Liadov, 
and  Tcherepnin. 

Prokofieff  left  Russia  in  1918,  coming  to  America  by  way  of  Japan,  and  then 
established  a  home  in  Paris.  In  1934  he  returned  to  Russia  and  has,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  brief  intervals,  lived  there  since. 

There  is  a  mischievous  quality,  apparent  in  almost  all  of  ProkofieflPs  music, 
though  it  is  not  always  obvious.  Even  his  "Classical"  Symphony  was  not  without 
elements  of  mockery.  His  Opus  17,  entitled  Sarcasms  for  Pumoy  is  frankly  what 
its  title  implies.  In  the  suite  Lieutenant  Kije,  Opus  60,  and  Peter  and  the  Wotj, 
Opus  67,  his  humor  is  more  pointed  but  less  obvious,  wittier  and  better  humored 
than  some  of  his  earlier  mockeries,  yet  one  may  easily  read  into  these  later  works 
political  satires  not  without  an  element  of  bitterness. 

Prokofieff  had  been  engaged  for  many  appearances  in  America  as  pianist 
during  the  season  1939-40,  but  the  difficulties  of  the  war  interreiiei 

3*7 


368  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

"Classical"  Symphony 

THIS  little  symphony,  aside  from  its  charming  melodic  content  and  polished 
formal  perfection,  is  interesting  chiefly  because  of  the  composer's  purpose  in  writ- 
ing it.  Bearing  in  mind  that  Prokofieff  is  one  of  the  most  radical,  as  well  as  one 
of  the  most  intelligent,  of  modern  composers,  it  is  illuminating  to  discover  that 
"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." 

What  Mozart  might  put  into  his  scores  now  is  anybody's  guess;  but  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  Prokofieff  has  recalled  that  blithe  spirit  in  the  delightful 
music  he  has  written  here.  The  melodies,  the  structure,  the  dance  movement  (a 
gavotte  rather  than  the  classical  minuet) — all  could  have  been  written  by  Mozart, 
except  for  curious  surprising  echoes  in  the  harmony,  occasionally;  and  turns  of 
phrase  that  reveal  somewhat  more  of  sophistication  than  we  find  in  any  of  the 
old  master's  symphonies,  except  the  "Jupiter." 

The  symphony  is  in  four  short  movements. 


Le  Pas  d'acier 
\The  Age  of  Steel} 

[Ballet] 

Le  Pas  tfacier  is  one  of  the  few  Soviet-inspired  musical  works  to  find  a  firm 
foothold  on  the  concert  stage.  It  is  highly  probable,  in  fact,  that  the  music  as 
distinct  from  the  ballet  is  more  successful  than  the  complete  form  of  the  work. 
Though  definitely  "modern,"  in  the  sense  that  established  laws  of  form  and 
harmony  are  disregarded,  the  music  is  by  no  means  unpleasant  to  hear.  It  is  often 
dissonant,  almost  always  powerful,  acrid,  and  angular,  but  it  is  also  convincing 
to  a  high  degree. 

The  work  was  staged,  with  a  modified  scenario  and  new  scenery  by  Lee 
Simonson,  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra  in  co-operation  with  the  League  of  Com- 
posers, and  under  the  direction  of  Leopold  Stokowski,  April  10,  1931,  for  the  first 
time  in  America.  Excerpts  from  the  score  had  been  previously  played,  for  the  first 
time  in  this  country,  by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  under  the  direction  of 
Serge  Koussevitzky. 

Mr.  Stokowski,  on  the  occasion  of  the  presentation  of  the  complete  work, 
made  the  following  comment,  which  was  reported  in  the  program  of  the  Phila- 
delphia Orchestra: 


SERGE     PROKOFIEFF  369 

ProkofiefFs  Le  Pas  tPacier  is  a  vigorous  dynamic  painting  in  tone  of  the 
transition  period  through  which  the  Western  world  is  passing,  from  the  former 
ideas  of  life,  to  the  new  and  as  yet  only  dimly  visioned  possibilities. 

The  regular  throb  of  the  rhythms,  the  clear  incisive  orchestration,  the 
long  swinging  strokes  of  the  musical  fabric,  stun  and  dazzle  and  bewilder  and 
fascinate,  just  as  do  the  rare  good  manifestations  of  modern  life,  from  among 
the  great  mass  of  imitation  of  externals.  This  is  music  of  vitality,  and  the 
thrill  of  speed  and  power. 

A  reviewer  of  the  first  performance  in  England,  writing  in  the  London  Daily 
Telegraphy  commented  upon  the  charmingly  simple  music  associated  with  one 
scene  in  the  ballet,  and  continued:  "Not  that  the  music  elsewhere  was  complicated 
or  painful  to  our  ears.  Prokofieff  has  always  a  hard  and  steely  style,  but  musically 
Le  Pas  d'acier  is  by  no  means  cacophonous.  Raucous  it  may  sometimes  be,  and  the 
percussion  does  not  suffer  from  reticence." 

The  ballet  is  called  "a  ballet  of  work."  It  exhibits  in  two  tableaux  and  many 
scenes  the  two  chief  preoccupations  of  contemporary  Russian  life — work  and  life 
in  the  country  and  on  the  farm,  work  and  life  in  the  city  and  in  the  factory. 
In  the  concert  suite  drawn  from  the  ballet,  there  are  six  pieces:  "Train  of  Men 
Carrying  Provision  Bags,"  "Sailor  with  Bracelet  and  Wbrkingwoman,"  "Recon- 
struction of  Scenery,"  "The  Factory,"  "The  Hammers,"  "Final  Scene." 


Lieutenant  Kije — Suite 
[Opus  60] 

IN  1933  the  Russian  film  corporation,  Belgoskino,  produced  a  highly  successful 
sound  film,  Lieutenant  Kijey  for  which  Prokofieff  was  commissioned  to  write  the 
music.  The  concert  suite  is  extracted  from  the  incidental  music  for  the  picture, 
and  was  published  and  first  performed  in  Moscow  in  1934.  The  first  American 
performance  was  given,  October  15,  1937,  by  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 
under  the  direction  of  Serge  Koussevitzky,  at  a  regular  concert  at  Symphony  Hall, 
Boston;  it  was  repeated  in  New  York  and  elsewhere  by  the  same  artists  during  the 
season  1937—38  with  conspicuous  success. 

The  sound  film  for  which  this  music  was  written  was  exhibited  in  New  York 
several  years  ago.  For  a  sketch  of  this  story,  we  turn  to  the  writings  of  Nicolas 
Slonimsky,  who  says:  "The  subject  of  the  film  is  based  on  an  anecdote  about 
the  Czar  Nicholas  I,  who  misread  the  report  of  his  military  aide  so  that  the  last 


370  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

syllable  of  the  name  of  a  Russian  officer  which  ended  with  ckf  and  the  Russian 
intensive  expletive  'je*  (untranslatable  by  any  English  word  but  similar  in  position 
and  meaning  to  the  Latin  'quidem')  formed  a  nonexistent  name,  Kije.  The 
obsequious  courtiers,  fearful  of  pointing  out  to  the  Czar  the  mistake  he  had  made, 
decided  to  invent  an  officer  of  that  name  (as  misread  by  the  Czar).  Hence  all 
kinds  of  comical  adventures  and  quid-pro-quo's."  (Kije  is  also  sometimes  written 
"Ktje,"  but  to  English-speaking  people  this  presents  somewhat  of  a  problem  in 
pronunciation.) 

The  Birth  of  Kije 

Like  that  mythical  deity  who  sprang  "full-panoplied  from  the  head  of  Jove," 
our  hero  is  a  full-grown  and  gorgeously  uniformed  fellow  at  birth,  and  properly 
approaches  the  scene  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  very  military  figure  sounded  at 
first  faintly,  then  somewhat  more  assertively,  by  a  cornet  off  stage.  The  rasp  of 
the  snare  drum  and  the  thin  brilliance  of  the  piccolo  are  presently  heard,  and 
attract  other  instruments  of  the  orchestra  to  the  splendid  parade.  There  is  some- 
thing amusingly  broad  and  vulgar  in  the  orchestration  here,  suggesting  a  pompous, 
rather  stupid,  overdressed,  and  yet  amiable  fellow. 

Romance 

In  the  sound  film,  a  solo  baritone  voice  was  employed  in  this  section.  In  the 
concert  suite  the  part  is  taken  by  a  tenor  saxophone.  The  words  of  the  melody, 
which  is  the  central  feature  of  this  movement,  are  printed  in  the  score,  and  run 
as  follows: 

Heart  be  caLmy  do  not  flutter; 

Don't  kee$  flying  like  a  butterfly. 

Welly  what  has  my  heart  decided,? 

Where  will  we  in  summer  rest? 

But  my  heart  could  answer  nothing; 

Beating  fast  in  my  foor  breast. 

My  gray  dove  is  full  of  sorrow — 

Moaning  is  she  day  and  mght* 

For  her  dear  companion  left  hery 

Having  vanished  out  of  sight; 

Sad  and  dull  has  gotten  my  gray  dove. 

Kite's  Wedding 

There  is  a  curious  and  amusing  combination  of  military  stiffness  and  ordinary 
sentimentality  here— incidentally  a  shrewd  comment  upon  some  of  those  who 


SERGE    PROKOFIEFF  371 

professionally  are  hard-boiled  but,  subcutaneously,  soft  to  the  point  of  stickiness. 
The  notation  allegro  fastoso  appearing  in  the  score  at  this  point  is  an  uncomiiion 
one*  Fastoso  means  pompously. 

Troika 

Again  the  saxophone  substitutes  for  the  original  baritone  voice,  as  do  other 
instruments  occasionally.  The  song  is  an  old  Russian  tavern  ditty,  and  the  words 
are  as  follows: 

A  womoffs  heart  is  like  an  inn: 

All  those  who  wish  go  in. 

And  they  who  roam  about 

Day  and  night  go  in  and  out. 

Come  here  I  say>  come  here  I  say> 

And  have  no  fear  with  me* 

Be  you  bachelor  or  not, 

Be  you  shy  or  be  you  bold, 

I  call  you  all  to  come  here. 

So  all  those  who  are  about 
Keef  going  in  and  coming  outy 
Night  and  day  they  roam  about. 

Burial  of  Kije 

If  one  expects  anything  resembling  a  dirge  here,  he  shall  be  much  dis- 
appointed. It  is  easy  to  believe,  from  what  we  know  of  the  story  of  the  film,  that 
Lieutenant  Kije's  fellow  officers  were  more  than  glad  to  be  rid  of  him.  His  quasi- 
existence  must  have  been  a  strain,  and  his  comrades'  relief  at  his  final  dissolution 
can  definitely  be  felt — rather  than  any  grief — in  the  music.  There  are  remem- 
brances of  all  his  exploits  here  in  the  music,  and  he  departs  in  much  the  same 
atmosphere  that  prevailed  at  his  birth.  A  distant  cornet  introduces  a  review  of  his 
short  life,  and  at  the  end,  the  same  off-stage  brass  accompanies  his  final  departure. 

The  suite  is  scored  for  two  flutes  and  piccolo,  two  oboes,  two  clarinets,  two 
bassoons,  tenor  saxophone,  cornet,  two  trumpets,  four  horns,  three  trombones*  tuba, 
timpani,  bass  drum,  military  drum,  triangle,  cymbals,  tambourine,  sleigh  bells, 
harp,  celesta,  piano,  and  the  usual  strings. 

The  political  implications  of  Lieutenant  Kije,  if  any,  caused  a  curious  incident 
at  a  Lamoureux  concert  in  Paris,  February  20,  1937,  when  the  musk  was  per- 
formed under  the  direction  of  the  composer.  An  unidentified  man  attempted  to 
tell  the  audience  about  Russian  music  in  general  and  Prokofieff  in  particular.  "But^* 
according  to  the  Musical  Times,  "he  did  not  get  very  far.  By  the  time  be  had 
reached  his  third  or  fourth  platitude  folk  became  impatient,  and  when  a  French 


372  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

audience  becomes  impatient  it  lets  it  be  known  in  shrieks,  hoots,  howls,  whistlings, 
and  Gallic  vociferation  of  displeasure.  The  lecturer  beating  a  retreat  to  the  tune 
of  what  was  by  now  a  rather  tumultuous  invitation  to  disappear,  Bigot  (who  con- 
ducted the  rest  of  the  program)  put  in  an  appearance  and  got  on  with  the  concert." 
The  writer  in  Le  M&nestrel  had  more  to  say:  "At  the  beginning  of  the  con- 
cert, a  speaker  came  forth  to  read  remarks  which  were  loudly  cut  short  by  a  public 
of  little  patience.  If  he  intended  to  elucidate  the  two  composers,  he  taught  us  little. 
If  to  spread  national  propaganda,  the  attempt  was  clumsy  and  useless  as  well" 
In  spite  of  this  contretemps,  the  music  was  enormously  successful,  as  it  has  been 
wherever  played  since. 


Concerto  No.  2  in  G  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

[Opus  63] 

PROKOFIEFF'S  Second  Concerto  for  Violin  and  Orchestra  was  completed  during 
the  latter  part  of  1935,  while  the  composer  was  living  in  Russia.  The  first  per- 
formance was  given  by  the  Madrid  Symphony  Orchestra,  with  Robert  Soetens  as 
soloist,  under  the  direction  of  Enrique  Arbos,  December  I,  1935.  The  first 
American  performance  was  given  at  Symphony  Hall,  Boston,  with  Jascha  Heifetz 
and  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  Serge  Koussevitzky  conducting,  December 
17,  1937.  The  concerto  was  recorded  by  Mr.  Heifetz  and  the  Boston  Symphony 
Orchestra  on  December  20,  1937. 

If  we  can  accept  the  verdict  of  so  eminent  an  authority  as  Jascha  Heifetz — 
and  we  can — this  is  one  of  the  five  or  six  great  violin  concertos.  With  the 
Beethoven,  the  Brahms,  the  Tchaikovsky,  the  Sibelius,  and  the  Elgar  concertos,  it 
should  take  positive  and  permanent  rank.  In  listening  to  it,  we  need  not  and  should 
not  be  concerned  with  cryptic  political  meanings,  with  Sovietism,  the  life  of  the 
worker,  the  philosophy  of  Stalin,  the  machine  age,  or  anything  else  not  germane 
to  music  as  such.  It  is  beautiful  and  wonderful  music,  written  in  a  fresh  and 
stimulating  idiom,  and  with  exhaustive  knowledge  of  the  violin  as  a  solo  instrument. 
As  for  the  orchestra  and  its  possibilities,  few  men  living  are  more  intimately 
acquainted  with  it  than  ProkofiefF. 

There  have  been  few  occasions,  if  any,  when  a  solo  performer  of  a  con- 
temporary work  could  look  out  upon  his  audience  and  find  them  moved  to  tears. 
The  moderns  have  looked  with  jaundiced  eye  upon  sentiment,  upon  emotion, 
largely  because  their  music  has  for  the  most  part,  when  it  has  been  rational  at  all, 
dealt  with  cerebral  rather  than  emotional  reactions.  Emotional  response,  because 
it  is  not  easy  to  achieve,  has  been  looked  down  upon  by  the  poseur,  the  "faker/3 


SERGE    PROKOFIEFF  373 

the  soi-disant  intellectual,  the  little  musical  snobs,  dolts,  cranks,  and  camp  followers. 
Happily,  in  the  present  work,  Prokofieff,  who  has  before  now  demonstrated  his 
ability  in  the  most  coldly  classical  as  well  as  in  the  modern  styles,  is  not  concerned 
with  these  ragtag  and  bobtail  of  the  musical  art.  He  writes  here  from  the  heart, 
and  from  a  profound  intellectual  appreciation  of  the  resources  upon  which  he 
draws  and  the  territory  upon  which  he  enters.  In  one  sense  his  Second  Concerto 
for  Violin  and  Orchestra  is  not  modern  at  all,  but  quite  old-fashioned,  as  were 
Beethoven's  and  Brahms'  and  Sibelius'.  In  other  words,  he  is  not  ashamed  that 
his  music,  while  incidentally  exploiting  anew  the  resources  of  violin  versus  orchestra, 
should  speak  eloquently  of  beauty  and  of  the  things  that  remain  remote  and  hidden 
in  the  recesses  of  the  human  heart  and  mind. 

If  sometimes  his  harmonies  are  acrid  and  strange,  it  is  because  the  conflicts 
and  contacts  of  life  are  also,  often,  harsh  and  forbidding  and  unaccustomed,  but  it 
should  not  and  does  not  follow  that  all  experiences  must  be  so.  Prokofieff  is 
forward-looking,  original,  and  daring  enough  to  forge  his  own  tools  of  harmony 
and  structure;  he  is  also  intelligent  enough  to  employ  the  means  that  other  great 
men  have  developed  and  left  ready  to  his  hand.  He  is  neither  archaic  nor  futuristic 
— but  only  logical,  sensible,  sensitive,  and  convincing. 

First  Movement 
Allegro  moderate 

There  is  more  than  one  reminder  of  the  "Classical"  Symphony  of  Prokofiefr 
in  this  concerto,  but,  though  it  is  roughly  conventional  in  form,  it  nevertheless 
strikes  out  along  a  new  path  in  its  field.  The  composer  uses  the  conventions,  but 
is  not  inhibited  by  them.  Obvious  atonality  is  not  laboriously  intruded,  and  we 
find  the  solo  violin  giving  out  a  definable  chief  theme  for  the  first  movement, 
solidly  established  in  the  key  of  G  minor.  In  the  first  few  measures  it  is  unaccom- 
panied. There  is  some  elaboration,  and  a  second,  quite  melodious  subject  is 
presented  against  a  soft  and  rhythmical  figure  in  the  orchestra  strings.  The  move- 
ment is  developed  in  sonata  form. 

Second  Movement 
Andante 

It  was  during  the  lovely  second  movement  that  many  of  the  first  audience 
to  hear  this  work  in  America  were  moved  to  tears.  Here  the  musk  is  almost 
Mozartean  in  its  clarity;  but  its  complexity  of  rhythms  and  harmonies  is  much 
more  involved  than  any  Mozart  ever  gave  us.  The  soloist  reveals  the  principal 
thematic  material,  variations  of  which  are  subsequently  developed.  The  feeling  of 
the  whole  andante  is  romantic  and  lyrical.  The  tonality  is  ultimately  E-fiat  major, 


374  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

though  before  this  key  is  reached  there  are  many  diversions  and  digressions,  both 
in  tonality  and  in  the  mutations  of  the  chief  thematic  idea. 

Third  Movement 
Allegro  ben  m&rcato+ 

The  finale  presents  a  marked  change  in  spirit,  and  a  revelation  of  a  style  more 
characteristic,  perhaps,  of  the  contemporary  Prokofieff  than  anything  that  has  yet 
appeared  in  the  concerto.  The  movement  is  a  kind  of  rondo,  practically  devoid  of 
sustained  melody,  but  with  swift  and  powerful  rhythms  urging  it  on  through  every 
bar.  It  is  by  far  the  most  brilliant  section  of  the  concerto,  and  perhaps  the  most 
exacting  so  far  as  the  soloist  is  concerned.  There  are  some  rhythmically  difficult 
but  fascinating  passages  in  7/4  and  5/4,  which  the  conductor's  incisive  beat  and 
the  soloist's  unerring  accuracy  make  doubly  attractive.  One  is  reminded  now  of  the 
piano  concertos,  with  their  whimsical,  sometimes  bitterly  ironical  suggestions,  and 
vigorous  "busy"  rhythms.  In  the  coda  percussion  and  plucked  strings  are  adeptly 
used  as  foils  against  the  crisp  and  biting  tone  of  the  solo  violin. 


Peter  and  the  Wolf 

[An  Orchestral  Fwry  Tale] 

[Opus  67] 

Peter  0nd  the  Wolf  was  composed  in  1936  and  first  performed  at  a  children's 
concert  at  Moscow  in  May  2  of  that  year.  The  text  as  well  as  the  music  is 
ProkofiefFs  own  invention.  It  is  curious  that  this  work,  which  pretends  to  be  a 
fairy  t&le  tpld  with  orchestral  accompaniment  to  and  for  children,  nevertheless 
commends  itself,  like  Alice  m  Wonderland^  equally  to  grownups.  It  is  possible  to 
read  into  it  a  rather  obscure  political  satire,  although  such  a  connection  is  rather 
difficult  to  establish.  Taken  at  its  face  value  it  is  music  of  a  gentle  charm  and 
apparent  simplicity,  but  it  is  also  music  most  subtly  wrought,  extraordinarily  sug- 
gestive and  descriptive,  and  completely  captivating.  Various  instruments  or  groups 
of  instruments  in  the  orchestra  are  used  to  represent  characters  in  the  story,  just 
as  orchestral  rhythms,  melodies,  and  rhythmic  manipulations  are  used  to  suggest 
dramatic  incident  and  situation,  One  of  the  most  ingenious  and  picturesque  details 
is  the  curious  progression  of  the  strings  as  Peter  lets  down  his  lasso  from  the  tree 
and  catches  the  Wolf  by  the  tail.  The  dispute  of  the  Duck  and  the  Bird  is  another 
raiment  of  delicate  and  gentle  humor. 


SERGE    PROKOFIEFF  375 

ProkofiefFs  own  story  supplies  all  the  description  necessary  to  a  complete 
understanding  and  enjoyment  of  this  music.  The  story  is  as  follows: 

My  dear  children — Each  character  of  this  tale  is  represented  by  a  correspond- 
ing instrument  in  the  orchestra:  the  Bird  by  a  flute,  the  Duck  by  an  oboe,  the  Cat 
by  a  clarinet  staccato  in  a  low  register,  the  Grandfather  by  a  bassoon,  the  Wolf  by 
three  horns,  Peter  by  the  string  quartet,  the  shooting  of  the  Hunters  by  the  kettle- 
drums and  the  bass  drum.  Thereby,  dear  children,  you  will  be  able  to  distinguish 
the  sonorities  of  the  several  instruments  during  the  performance  of  this  tale. 

Early  one  morning  Peter  opened  the  gate  and  went  out  into  the  big  green 
meadow.  On  the  branch  of  a  big  tree  sat  a  little  Bird — Peter's  friend.  When  he 
saw  Peter  he  chirped  at  him  gaily,  " All's  quiet  here." 

Soon  a  Duck  came  waddling  around.  She  was  delighted  to  see  that  Peter  had 
not  closed  the  gate,  and  decided  to  have  a  nice  swim  in  the  deep  pond  in  the 
meadow.  When  the  little  Bird  saw  the  Duck,  he  flew  down,  settled  himself  in  the 
grass  beside  the  Duck — and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  kind  of  a  bird  are  you 
if  you  can't  fly?"  said  he.  To  which  the  Duck  replied,  "What  kind  of  a  bird  are 
you  if  you  can't  swim?" — and  dived  into  the  pond.  They  argued  and  argued-^the 
Duck  swimming  in  the  pond,  the  little  Bird  hopping  back  and  forth  along  the 
bank.  Suddenly  something  caught  Peter's  eye.  It  was  a  Cat — crawling  through 
the  grass.  The  Cat  said  to  herself,  "Now  the  bird  is  busy  arguing*  1*11  just  grab 
him!"  Stealthily  she  crept  toward  him  on  her  velvet  paws.  "Oh — look  out!"  cried 
-Peter — and  the  Bird  flew  quickly  up  into  the  tree,  while  the  Duck  quacked  angrily 
at  the  Cat — from  the  middle  of  the  pond.  The  Cat  crawled  round  and  round  the 
tree  and  thought,  "Is  it  worth  climbing  up  so  high?  By  the  time  I  get  there  the 
Bird  will  have  flown  away." 

All  at  once  Grandpapa  came  out.  He  was  angry  because  Peter  had  gone  to 
the  meadow.  "The  meadow  is  a  dangerous  place,"  he  cried.  "What  if  a  wolf 
should  come  out  of  the  forest?  What  would  you  do  then?"  Peter  paid  no  attention 
to  Grandfather's  words.  Boys  like  Peter  are  not  afraid  of  wolves.  But  Grandpapa 
took  Peter  by  the  hand,  led  him  home,  and  locked  the  gate.  No  sooner  had  Peter 
gone  than  a  big  gray  Wolf  did  come  out  of  the  forest.  In  a  twinkling  the  Cat 
sprang  up  into  the  tree.  The  Duck  quacked  in  great  excitement,  but  in  her  over- 
emphasis, jumped  out  of  the  pond.  But  no  matter  how  hard  the  Duck  tried  to  run, 
she  couldn't  escape  the  Wolf.  He  was  getting  nearer — and  nearer — catching  up 
with  her — and  there  he's  got  her!  And  with  one  gulp  he  swallowed  her. 

And  now  this  is  how  things  stood — the  Cat  was  sitting  on  one  branch  up  in 
the  tree,  the  Bird  on  another — not  too  close  to  the  Cat.  And  the  Wolf  walked 
round  and  round  the  tree,  looking  at  them  both  with  greedy  eyes.  In  the  mean- 
time, Peter  without  the  slightest  fear  stood  behind  the  closed  gate,  watching  all 
that  was  going  on.  Presently  he  ran  into  the  house,  got  a  strong  rope,  hurried  back, 
and  climbed  up  the  high  stone  wall.  One  of  the  branches  of  the  tree,  around 


37^  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

which  the  Wolf  was  pacing,  stretched  out  over  this  wall.  Grabbing  hold  of  this 
branch,  Peter  climbed  over  into  the  tree.  Peter  said  to  the  Bird,  "Fly  down  and 
circle  around  the  Wolf's  head — only  take  care  he  doesn't  catch  you!"  The  Bird 
almost  touched  the  Wolf's  head  with  his  wings — while  the  Wolf  snapped  furiously 
at  him  from  this  side  and  that.  How  that  Bird  did  worry  the  Wolf!  And  oh  how 
that  Wolf  tried  to  catch  him!  But  the  Bird  was  too  clever  for  him,  and  the  Wolf 
simply  couldn't  do  anything  about  it. 

Meanwhile,  Peter  had  made  a  lasso;  and  carefully  letting  it  down,  he  caught 
the  Wolf  by  the  tail  and  pulled  with  all  his  might.  Feeling  himself  caught,  the 
Wolf  began  to  jump  wildly — trying  to  get  loose.  But  Peter  had  tied  the  other 
end  of  the  rope  to  the  tree — and  the  Wolf's  jumping  only  made  the  rope  tighter 
around  his  tail!  Just  then,  the  Hunters  came  out  of  the  woods,  following  the 
Wolf's  trail,  and  shooting  as  they  came.  But  Peter,  sitting  up  in  the  tree,  cried 
out,  "Oh  don't  shoot!  The  Bird  and  I  have  already  caught  him!  Just  help  us  take 
him  to  the  zoo." 

And  there  they  go.  Imagine  the  triumphant  procession:  Peter  at  the  head, 
after  him  the  Hunters,  leading  the  Wolf,  and  winding  up  the  procession,  Grand- 
father and  the  Cat.  Grandpapa -tossed  his  head:  "This  is  all  very  well,  but  what  if 
Peter  had  not  caught  the  wolf — what  then!"  Above  them  flew  the  little  Bird, 
merrily  chirping,  "Aren't  we  smart,  Peter  and  I?  Just  see  what  we  have  caught!" 
And  if  you  listened  very  carefully,  you  could  hear  the  Duck — quacking  away 
inside  the  Wolf — because  in  his  haste  the  Wolf  had  swallowed  her  alive! 


HENRY  PURCELL 

[1658-1695] 

HENRY  PURCELL  was  born  probably  in  1658,  about  two  years  before  the 
restoration  of  the  monarchy  under  Charles  II,  at  a  time  when  musical 
people,  both  composers  and  performers,  regarded  the  service  of  the  King 
as  the  final  mark  of  artistic  distinction.  PurcelTs  father,  also  named  Henry,  and 
his  Uncle  Thomas  were  both  Gentlemen  of  the  Chapel  Royal  when  that  institution 
was  re-established  in  1660.  Purcell,  Senior,  was,  it  appears,  a  good  muscian — 
a  singer,  organist,  and  lutanist.  Henry,  Senior,  died  while  our  composer  was  still 
a  litde  boy,  but  his  Uncle  Thomas,  who  likewise  had  access  to  the  Court  and  the 
Chapel  Royal,  gained  admittance  for  young  Henry  to  the  training  department  of 
the  Court,  known  as  the  Children  of  the  Chapel  RoyaL  Both  Captain  Cooke,  the 
first  master  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  and  Thomas  Purcell,  who  was  one  of  the  con- 
ductors of  the  King's  string  orchestra,  took  active  interest  in  young  PurcelPs 
creative  activities. 

Pelham  Humphrey,  Cookers  successor,  was  an  even  better  teacher,  for  apart 
from  his  own  notable  talent  he  had  the  advantage  of  studying  in  France  under 
Lully.  When  Humphrey  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  Purcell  worked  under 
the  not  inappropriately  named  John  Blow,  organist  and  master  of  the  Chapel 
Royal,  and  it  probably  was  Dr.  Blow  who  advanced  Henry  Purcell  most  rapidly 
along  the  road  of  musical  knowledge. 

In  1677  Purcell  secured  for  himself  a  sound  position  as  Composer  in  Ordinary 
to  His  Majesty's  Violins,  and  three  years  later  he  succeeded  his  old  teacher,  John 
Blow,  as  organist  at  Westminster  Abbey, 

Purcell  died  when  he  was  thirty-seven  years  old,  yet  in  the  short  span  of  his 
life  he  established  himself  as  incomparably  the  greatest  of  English  composers  down 
to  the  present  day.  It  seems  apropos  to  quote  the  dictum  of  John  Dryden,  his 
contemporary,  who  wrote  in  the  published  edition  of  Amphitryon,  "What  has  been 
wanting  on  my  part  has  been  abundantly  supplied  by  the  Excellent  Composition 
of  Mr.  Purcell,  in  whose  Person  we  have  at  length  found  an  Englishman  eqttd 
with  the  best  abroad" 

Though  musicians  are  rarely  politicians,  at  least  outside  of  their  own  field  of 
activity,  occasionally  even  the  most  nonpolitical  of  them  gets  himself  into  trouble. 
This  happened  to  Purcell  who,  through  his  music,  was  made  to  appear  both  an 
admirer  and  hater  of  King  James  II.  An  ode  composed  for  this  King's  birthday 
represents  him  as  a  great  ruler  annihilating  the  monster  of  revolt,  and  yet  another 
of  PurcelFs  compositions  became  one  of  the  most  effective  popular  weapons  used 
for  the  overthrow  of  James  IL  The  story  is  as  follows: 

A  Quickstep  of  PurcelPs  appeared  in  1686,  the  year  of  the  appointment  by 
James  of  the  thoroughly  hated  General  Talbot  to  the  position  of  Lord  Lieutenant 

377 


378  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

of  Ireland.  A  doggerel  poem,  entitled  Ltlliburlero,  set  to  the  music  of  PurcelTs 
Quickstep,  soon  went  the  rounds  and  became  shortly  the  popular  rallying  cry  of 
the  Protestants  in  the  struggle  against  James.  "The  whole  Army  and  at  last  the 
people,  both  in  city  and  country,  were  singing  it  perpetually,"  writes  Bishop  Burnet, 
"and  perhaps  never  had  so  slight  a  thing  so  great  an  effect."  The  mating  of  verse 
to  music  has  been  attributed  to  the  Irish  Viceroy,  Lord  Wharton,  and  it  was  his 
boast  "that  the  song  had  sung  a  deluded  Prince  out  of  the  three  Kingdoms." 


PURCELL-BARBIROLLI 

SUITE  FOR  STRINGS 
(With  4  horns,  2  flutes  and  English  horn) 

Derived  by  John  Barbirolli 
from  the  "Dramatick  Musick"  of  Henry  Purcell 

PURCELL  wrote  much  incidental  music  for  plays  produced  during  his  time. 
Though  the  plays  were  almost  without  exception  unimportant,  much  of  the  musk 
is  exceedingly  beautiful.  Mr.  John  Barbirolli,  whose  researches  in  the  early  English 
music  have  produced  many  long  hidden  and  beautiful  things,  has  selected  six  move- 
ments from  a  variety  of  PurcelPs  music  for  the  drama  and  has  arranged  them  into 
a  coherent  and  beautiful  suite. 

The  first  movement  is  taken  from  the  music  to  a  comedy  entitled  The 
Gordian  Knot  Untied.  The  authorship  of  this  play  has  not  been  established.  The 
second  movement  is  taken  from  the  music  to  The  Virtuous  Wife,  a  comedy  by  Tom 
D'Urfey,  whose  plays  were  frequently  more  distinguished  by  PurcelPs  music  than 
by  their  intrinsic  worth.  The  third  and  sixth  movements  in  the  suite  are  extracted 
from  the  incidental  music  to  Dryden's  King  Arthur.  The  fourth  movement  Mr. 
Barbirolli  locates  in  Volume  15  of  the  Purcell  Society  Edition.  The  fifth  move- 
ment, one  of  the  loveliest  fragments  in  all  PurqelFs  music,  is  the  "Lament  of 
Dido"  in  the  opera.  Dido  and  Aeneas.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  miniature  fassacagBa 
with  the  cellos  and  basses  repeating,  unchanged,  a  four-measure  theme  and  the 
English  horn  giving  forth  the  melancholy  loveliness  of  the  vocal  line. 


SERGEI  VASSILIEVITCH  RACHMANINOFF 

[Born  1873] 

MORE  OFTEN  than  not,  material  circumstances  discourage  the  development 
of  musical  talent,  but  in  the  case  of  Rachmaninoff,  they  indirectly 
brought  about  the  discovery  of  his  genius.  He  was  born  on  April  I  of  a 
wealthy  family,  at  his  mother's  estate  in  the  province  of  Novgorod.  The  first  nine 
years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  the  seclusion  of  this  remote  and  very  "Russian"  part 
of  Russia;  the  boy  lived  as  the  typical  youngster  of  his  class,  without,  perhaps, 
a  great  degree  of  development,  but  quietly  and  happily.  He  had  shown  considerable 
interest  in  and  talent  for  music,  but  no  great  attention  was  paid  to  this  side  of  his 
personality  until  a  change  in  family  fortunes  made  it  impossible  to  send  him  to  the 
aristocratic  school  his  parents  had  chosen.  Since  some  formal  schooling,  and  some 
preparation  for  life  were  imperatively  necessary,  Rachmaninoff  was  sent  to  the 
Conservatory  at  St.  Petersburg,  in  the  hope  that  his  musical  talents  might  prove 
to  be  of  such  caliber  as  would  enable  him  to  provide  for  himself  by  their  exercise. 

At  the  Conservatory  he  was  a  distinguished  student,  but  no  prodigy.  It  was 
apparent  that  his  musical  foundations  were  broad  and  firm,  and  work  at  St. 
Petersburg  further  solidified  them.  It  was  not  until  he  had  transferred  to  the 
Moscow  Conservatory,  and,  on  the  completion  of  his  studies  there  in  1892,  had 
won  a  gold  medal  for  his  opera  A leko  that  he  gained  serious  attention.  At 
Moscow  Rachmaninoff  studied  with  his  relative  Siloti,  a  pupi  of  Liszt;  and  with 
Taneiev  and  Arensky,  both  distinguished  composers.  At  Moscow  he  came  under 
the  influence  of  the  great  Tchaikovsky  also,  for  the  latter  was  at  the  rime  active 
in  the  affairs  of  the  Conservatory.  Doubtless  this  accounts,  in  a  measure,  for  the 
melancholy  that  often  pervades  Rachmaninoff's  music,  for  he  had  reverent  admira- 
tion for  Tchaikovsky  and,  though  never  imitative,  was  unquestionably  influenced 
by  the  older  master. 

Succeeding  years  brought  him  positions  of  honor  and  responsibility,  and  gave 
him  as  well  considerable  rime  to  devote  to  composition  and  conducting.  During 
the  season  of  igog^id,  Rachmaninoff  paid  his  first  visit  to  America,  When  tibe 
tour  was  first  proposed,  he  was  hesitant,  expressing  the  belief  that  he  was  not 
known  to  America,  and  that  therefore  a  concert  tour  could  not  be  a  success.  He 
was  persuaded,  however,  and  found  that  America  knew  him  not  intimately  but 
well,  through  one  of  his  smaller  compositions — the  famous  C-sharp  minor  Prelude 
for  piano.  The  American  tour  was  but  the  first  of  many  successful  ones.  Rach- 
maninoff has  made  his  home  here  since  the  First  World  War,  and  has  been  so 
completely  adopted  that  he  has  come  to  be  regarded  almost  as  an  American 
institution. 

Though  a  contemporary,  Rachmaninoff  is  by  no  means  a  modernist  in  the 
musical  sense*  Highly  individualistic,  his  music  is  nevertheless  marked  by  the  coo* 

379 


380  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

servatism  inherited  from  his  teachers  and  impressed  by  the  composers  he  most 
admires.  Furthermore,  there  is  in  the  man  as  well  as  in  his  music  a  rugged  honesty, 
a  deep  and  serious  sincerity,  which  would  almost  certainly  inhibit  him  from  seeking 
after  the  often  false  gods  of  sensational  modernism.  His  place  as  a  pianist  is  among 
the  greatest,  and  as  either  pianist  or  conductor,  he  brings  to  bear  upon  music  a 
technique  so  highly  developed  that  it  can  be  forgotten,  and  a  rare  and  grave 
musicianship  always  refreshing  and  always  satisfying. 


Concerto  No.  2  in  C  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

OF  RACHMANINOFF'S  four  concertos  for  piano  and  orchestra,  the  second,  in  C 
minor,  and  the  third,  in  D  minor,  are  among  the  most  popular  in  the  pianist's  reper- 
toire ,  the  first  and  fourth  are  seldom  heard.  This  beautiful  work  was  heard  publicly 
for  the  first  time  at  Moscow,  at  a  concert  of  the  Moscow  Philharmonic  Society, 
October  14,  1901,  with  the  composer  at  the  piano.  It  was  first  performed  in 
America  not,  as  many  have  believed,  by  Rachmaninoff,  but  by  the  great  French 
pianist  Raoul  Pugno,  who  played  it  November  18,  1905,  with  the  Russian  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  during  the  visit  of  that  organization  to  New  York.  Rachmaninoff 
himself  played  it  with  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  during  the  season  of 
1909—10,  under  the  direction  of  Karl  Muck;  at  the  same  concert,  Rachmaninoff 
conducted  his  symphonic  poem,  The  Isle  of  the  Dea£y  after  the  famous  painting 
by  Bocklin.  The  concerto  is  the  composition  which  won  for  Rachmaninoff,  in 
1904,  the  Glinka  prize  of  five  hundred  rubles,  and  helped  notably  in  establishing 
him  as  a  composer  of  distinction. 

First  Movement 

It  is  almost  incredible,  but  it  is  true,  that  relatively  few  pianists,  even  among 
the  great,  recognize  or  appreciate  the  tonal  possibilities  of  the  piano.  It  follows 
that  among  students  of  the  instrument,  and,  quite  as  lamentably,  among  the 
musical  public,  there  is  even  less  understanding  of  this  superb,  this  subtle,  and 
difficult  instrument.  Contemporary  composers  who  regard  the  piano  at  most  as 
a  shallow  percussion  instrument,  or  at  most  as  a  mere  tool  of  their  trade,  have 
utterly  no  conception  of  its  powers  and  its  beauties.  Rachmaninoff  is  a  shining 
exception. 

It  would  seem  that  the  pianist  who  is  also  a  tonalist  would,  under  such 
deplorable  conditions,  find  it  difficult  to  assemble  an  audience.  Such  is  not  the 
case,  for,  as  everyone  knows,  Rachmaninoff  is  one  of  the  few  musical  artists  who 
today  can  fill  any  concert  hall  with  his  admirers.  And  he  is  definitely  a  tonalist. 


SERGEI    VASSILIEVITCH    RACHMANINOFF  381 

Happy  in  the  possession  of  a  technique  so  perfect  that  it  can  be  ignored,  this  great 
artist  can,  and  does,  concentrate  upon  the  interpretive  values  of  the  music  he  plays, 
and  by  bringing  to  bear  upon  it  a  mature  and  sober  intelligence,  a  sound  and 
sincere  musicianship,  and  a  profound  appreciation  of  his  instrument,  he  is  able  to 
reach  and  hold  the  imagination  of  most  people.  Though  the  majority  do  not  know 
it,  he  accomplishes  his  most  striking  effects  by  subtle  variations  of  tone. 

Many  of  us  will  say,  "You  strike  the  piano  key,  and  a  sound  comes,  loud  or 
soft,  depending  upon  the  force  with  which  you  strike  it.  You  can't  affect  the  actual 
tone  quality."  Strangely,  that  statement  is  not  true,  and  any  really  great  pianist, 
who  has  ears  capable  of  appreciating  subtle  variations  of  tone  and  the  technical 
ability  to  produce  them,  can,  by  the  use  of  pressure,  weight,  force,  pedaling,  laxity 
or  rigidity  of  the  fingers  and  wrists,  demonstrate  to  you  definite,  if  subtle,  varia- 
tions of  tone  quality. 

The  point  of  this  discussion  cannot  be  escaped  if  you  hear  a  great  artist  play 
this  concerto;  to  hear  Rachmaninoff  himself  play  it  is  an  experience  which  no 
lover  of  the  piano  can  ever  forget.  The  eight  solemn  chords  with  which  it  begins, 
each  individually  shaded  and  colored,  yet  progressing  as  a  unified  phrase,  and  with 
growing  power,  toward  an  inevitable  climax  and  response — these  glowing  yet 
somber  utterances  of  the  piano  constitute  one  of  the  great  exordiums  of  music. 
The  response  to  them,  low  in  the  strings,  is  indeed  the  first  theme  of  the  move- 
ment; still  lower  moves  the  piano,  in  full-flowing  and  legato  waves  of  tone.  An 
accented  bass  note  at  the  beginning  of  each  measure  sustains  the  dark  color  of  the 
music  that  was  first  applied  in  the  descending  octaves  at  the  end  of  the  introductory 
eight-note  phrase. 

Later  the  piano  moves  into  its  brighter  upper  register,  and  the  liquid  tones 
with  which  it  overlays  the  shadowed  voices  of  the  strings  and  woodwind  presently 
resolve  themselves  into  a  very  positive  and  vigorous  rhythm.  The  curiously  acute 
rhythmic  sense  of  the  Russian  is  Rachmaninoff's  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and 
here  he  exhibits  it  with  subtle  charm.  One  is  scarcely  conscious  of  the  point  at 
which  the  flowing  cantabfle  of  the  first  theme  in  the  strings,  by  some  strange 
metamorphosis,  becomes  angular,  and  abrupt,  and  powerful. 

A  subsidiary  idea,  powerfully  pushed  to  the  front  by  the  brass,  suggests  a 
change  in  mood,  and  the  second  most  important  theme  of  the  movement  appears 
in  the  most  limpid  tones  of  the  piano.  In  its  development,  however,  the  piano  is 
not  the  prima  donna  of  the  ensemble,  but  rather  a  partner  with  the  orchestra 
in  exploring,  quite  fully,  the  possibilities  of  the  music.  Almost  tmnoticeaUy  we 
are  led  back  to  a  re-presentation  of  the  first  theme,  which  now  appears  in  much 
the  same  tonal  guise  as  originally,  but  with  brilliant  and  markedly  syncopated 
chords  of  the  piano  sounding  powerfully  above  it.  Here  is  a  marvelously  seductive 
fox  trot  for  some  enterprising  soul  to  "borrow" — although  Rachmaninoff  calk  it, 
in  the  score,  a  march  {cilia  marda). 


382  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

One  of  the  loveliest  moments  in  the  whole  work  occurs  in  the  succeeding 
section,  where  the  horn,  solo,  takes  up  the  second  theme  and  breathes  it  softly, 
yet  with  passion,  against  a  breathlessly  delicate  accompaniment.  Later,  strings 
and  piano  are  heard  in  a  countertheme  of  the  alia  wwda  section;  toward  the 
end,  a  soft  suggestion  of  the  strings  sends  piano  and  orchestra  into  a  swift 
accelerando,  with  vigorous  figures  torn  violently  from  the  solo  instrument,  and 
three  powerful  chords  ending  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

Rich  chords  in  muted  strings,  ecclesiastically  suggestive  yet  filled  with  typi- 
cally Russian  passion  and  warmth,  introduce  the  second  movement,  and,  after 
wanderings  of  the  piano  in  a  wayward  and  pastoral  melody,  we  encounter  the 
central  musical  idea  of  the  movement,  presented  by  the  flute  and  accompanied  by 
piano.  Again,  the  theme  is  given  to  the  piano,  with  strings  supplying  the  accom- 
paniment. Still  further  in  the  serene  progress  of  the  movement,  we  find  the  theme 
assigned  to  the  violins,  the  piano  painting  in  a  lovely  and  richly  colored  back- 
ground. By  one  of  those  strange  mutations  so  often  encountered  in  the  musk  of 
Rachmaninoff,  wherein  rhythms  seem  to  develop  within  and  finally  to  engulf  and 
absorb  other  rhythms,  we  find  the  pace  of  the  music  suddenly  and  greatly  increased. 
There  is  f  antasialike  treatment  of  a  subsidiary  theme,  and  on  a  sforzando  chord 
of  the  orchestra  a  gorgeous  cadenza,  filled  with  traps  for  unwary  fingers  and 
exacting  from  the  soloist  exceedingly  difficult  requirements  in  the  way  of  digital 
dexterity,  accuracy,  and  velocity,  leads  to  a  serenely  beautiful  coda. 

Third  Movement 

The  lower  strings  enter  furtively,  but  in  a  sharp  staccato,  and  typically  a 
Rachmaninoff  rhythm.  The  phrase  and  its  responses  grow  stronger  with  repetition, 
and  develop,  presently,  into  an  orchestral  climax  of  some  force.  There  follows  a 
piano  passage,  solo,  in  which  figures  suggestive  of  some  of  the  composer's  popular 
short  pieces  (Po&chwelle;  Prelude  in  G  minor)  appear  briefly,  and  lead  to  the 
main  theme.  A  sequence  in  the  major  tonality  (the  movement  as  a  whole  is  in 
C  minor)  follows,  marked  strongly  with  Rachmaninoff  characteristics  in  rhythmic 
pattern  and  melodic  outline.  A  transitional  passage  leads  to  the  second  theme,  a 
passionate  song  of  piercing  beauty,  reminiscent  of  the  first  theme  of  the  concerto. 
It  is  sung,  of  course,  by  the  violins. 

Treatment  of  the  thematic  material  is  broad  and  varied.  A  little  fugato,  a 
curious  descending  dialogue  between  piano,  on  the  one  hand,  and,  in  opposition, 
horns  and  woodwind  in  brief  sharp  phrases,  and  unexpected  yet  pleasing  modula- 
tions, are  interesting  features  of  the  movement.  The  second  theme  is  dominant  as 
the  dose  approaches,  but  there  are  derivations  of  the  first  in  the  commentary  of  the 


SERGEI    VASSILIEVITCH    RACHMANINOFF  383 

piano  that  runs  along  with  the  chanting  of  the  strongly  bowed  strings.  At  the 
end,  a  powerful  and  rhythmically  eccentric  figure,  of  the  type  so  dear  to  this 
composer,  provides  a  final  fillip. 


Concerto  No.  3  in  D  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 
First  Movement 

RACHMANINOFF  himself  gave  the  first  performance  of  this  work  during  his  first 
American  tour,  on  December  28,  1909,  with  the  New  York  Symphony  under 
Walter  Damrosch. 

The  curious  contradictions  we  find  in  this  engaging  music  are  reflections  from 
the  personality  of  the  composer  himself.  Under  a  sober,  a  serious,  and  almost 
melancholy  exterior,  he  conceals  a  warm,  vital,  and  friendly  personality,  modest 
yet  forcefuL  Somehow  this  music  effects  a  projection  of  the  character  of  its  maker. 
The  very  opening  is  shadowed  and  somber — yet  within  two  measures  a  vigorous 
and  moving  rhythm  is  established;  within  a  dozen,  the  pensive  yet  bright  and 
sanguine  melody  which  the  piano  sings  overcomes  the  gloomy  atmosphere  pervad- 
ing the  orchestra.  The  music  explores  dark  minor  harmonies — yet  moves  through 
them  with  surging  vitality  and  drive. 

One  can  feel  here  the  shade  of  the  introspective  Tchaikovsky — but  only  a 
shade.  There  is  something  from  his  orchestral  palette  in  the  "color"  of  this  musk; 
something,  too,  in  the  turn  of  a  phrase  here  and  there,  and  certainly  more  than 
traces  of  melancholy.  But  if  it  is  melancholy,  it  is  of  the  philosophical  kind.  If  it  is 
introspective,  it  is  not  morbid*  Its  musings  are  degage,  and  wholesome,  and  normaL 
Its  warmth  is  the  warmth  of  vitality,  not  the  blaze  of  febrile  passion.  Here  there 
may  be  suffering — but  no  tears. 

The  chief  theme  of  the  movement  (if  you  are  sufficiently  curious  to  identify 
and  follow  it)  occurs  almost  at  the  beginning,  with  the  first  notes  of  the  solo  in- 
strument. Strings  and  bassoon  supply  background  and  contrasting  color,  and  then 
the  piano  departs  in  a  long  and  errant  flight  through  contours  derived  from  the 
theme,  while  the  orchestra  itself  adopts  a  more  explicit  version  of  it  The  piaao, 
solo,  with  soaring  arpeggios  and  swift  plunges  into  the  has,  presently  puts  an 
emphatic  period  to  this  episode,  and  portentous  utterances  of  the  low  strings  foretell 
a  change  of  mood. 

There  is  a  change  of  rhythm,  too,  as  strings  and  piano  alternate  in  fragments 
of  a  new  motive,  still  in  a  dark  minor  key,  but,  for  a  moment*  rather  f nAy  never- 
theless. Curiously  enough,  this  quaint  episode  is  the  germ  from  which  springs,  a 
few  seconds  later,  a  melody  of  lovely  lyric  quality,  exchanged  periodically  between 


384  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

piano  and  orchestra.  It  grows  in  emotional  intensity  and  dynamic  power  until  a 
great  climax  is  reached;  its  rhythms  change,  and  suddenly  we  find  ourselves  re- 
turned to  the  atmosphere  of  the  opening  of  the  movement.  The  thematic  cyde  is 
established  and  complete.  Now  its  possibilities  are  exploited,  and  with  them,  the 
technical  and  tonal  resources  of  the  piano.  The  development  explores  and  exacts 
from  both  solo  instrument  and  orchestra  the  last  flashing  color,  the  swiftest  dash- 
ing flights,  the  ultimate  variation  of  the  theme,  and  the  climax  of  this  is  the  mag- 
nificent cadenza  that  occurs  near  the  close  of  the  movement. 

The  cadenza  is  not  only  a  brilliant  piece  of  musical  pyrotechnics;  it  is  a  logical 
and  beautiful  piece  of  music,  its  swift  brevity  encompassing,  in  gorgeous  elabora- 
tion, the  basic  themes  of  the  movement.  Rachmaninoff  did  not  leave  to  the  soloist 
the  development  of  the  cadenza,  as  is  frequently  done  in  the  classical  concertos; 
rather  he  brought  to  bear  upon  it  his  own  musicianship  and  superb  technique,  and 
posed  a  problem  that  interests  the  greatest  of  pianists  and  baffles  lesser  ones.  As  it 
proceeds,  it  involves  the  voices  of  flute,  oboe,  clarinet,  and  horn,  each  stating  in 
modified  form  a  portion  of  the  chief  theme  of  the  movement,  the  piano  following 
with  a  suggestion  of  the  second  theme.  Then  comes  a  succession  of  piano  gym- 
nastics, calling  for  almost  incredible  rapidity  and  brilliance;  there  is  a  recapitula- 
tion of  the  movement's  chief  subjects,  and  it  quietly  ends. 

Second  Movement 

In  his  most  heartbreaking  utterances  Tchaikovsky  never  expressed  weariness 
and  piercing  woe  more  eloquently  than  does  Rachmaninoff,  in  the  poignant  cry 
delivered  by  the  strings  at  the  opening  of  this  movement.  In  a  Tchaikovsky  sym- 
phony however,  the  sorrow-laden  atmosphere  momentarily  created  by  this  anguished 
outpouring  would  have  been  the  dominant  feeling  of  the  movement.  Rachmaninoff 
almost  immediately  contrasts  with  it  a  brighter  thought,  and  introduces  rhythmic 
elements  which  by  their  vitality  deliver  the  movement  from  deadliness  and  un- 
mitigated sorrow. 

Here  the  composer  uses  woodwind  most  eloquently,  calling  upon  its  mellower 
voices  as  foil  to  the  bright  and  sometimes  crystal-white  tones  of  the  solo  piano. 
The  melodic  line  unfolds  slowly,  sending  its  curving  coils  through  lovely  harmonic 
progressions  and  modulations.  Running  passages  for  the  piano  build  up  from  the 
long  firm  lines  established  by  strings  and  woodwind,  and  a  sweeping  climax  rises 
out  of  the  whole  glowing  mass  of  colored  tone. 

After  a  recession  from  this  peak  of  sonority,  there  is  an  interesting  transi- 
tional passage;  a  change  in  rhythm,  and  in  a  moment  the  entire  character  of  the 
music  is  radically  altered.  The  piano,  glittering  above  the  new  melodic  subject  in 
clarinet  and  bassoon,  has  passage  work  of  terrific  difficulty  and  iridescent  brilliance: 
the  rhythmic  impulses  of  plucked  strings,  curiously  waltzlike,  move  persistently  in 


SERGEI    VASSILIEVITCH    RACHMANINOFF  385 

the  bass.  Presently  a  new  and  brusque  idea  projects  itself  through  the  sonorous  bass 
of  the  piano,  and  crashing  chords  lead  directly  to  the  third  movement  of  the 
concerto. 

Third  Movement 

It  is  interesting  to  consider  that  nowhere  in  the  concerto,  except  in  the 
cadenza  near  the  close  of  the  first  movement,  has  the  piano  been  treated  as  a 
display  instrument,  quite  distinct  from  the  other  instruments  of  the  orchestra. 
This  would  not  have  been  true  in  the  earlier,  classical  concerto,  nor  is  it  by  any 
means  the  invariable  rule  in  modern  and  contemporary  works  in  this  style.  Rach- 
maninoff prefers  to  use  the  piano,  generally,  as  a  new  orchestral  color — more  pene- 
trating and  more  prominent  than  most,  perhaps,  but,  nevertheless,  an  orchestral 
instrument  laying  a  shining  patina  of  tone  over  the  whole. 

Such  treatment  of  the  piano  is  perhaps  more  agreeable,  for  purely  musical 
reasons,  than  the  showpiece  style.  Yet  it  has  one  disadvantage,  in  that  it  often 
conceals  the  prodigious  technical  ability  of  the  solo  artist  Rarely  are  we  conscious, 
through  this  work,  that  the  pianist  is  performing  virtuoso  feats  of  skill;  yet  the 
piano  part  bristles  with  the  most  exacting  difficulties,  and  relatively  few  are  the 
pianists  who  can  do  it  justice. 

The  rippling  triplets  with  which  the  piano  enters  the  final  movement,  the 
great  clanging  chords  in  the  orchestra,  and  a  second  theme  shared  by  piano  and 
strings,  evoke  a  succession  of  richly  colored  musical  images.  Varying  orchestral 
tones  are  applied;  shifting  rhythms  pique  one's  interest,  as  does  the  introduction, 
about  halfway  through  this  section,  of  thematic  material  derived  from  the  first 
movement.  The  agitated  rhythm  becomes  calmer,  and  a  retarded  passage,  gentle 
and  suave,  prepares  us  for  the  contrasting  swift  coda,  with  its  breathless  accelera- 
tion and  brilliant  thrusts  of  tone. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  E  minor 

RACHMANINOFF  in  an  interview  once  very  gracefully  dismissed  the  idea  that  he  is 
a  pupil  of  Tchaikovsky,  though  proudly  admitting  that  he  had  received  help  and 
suggestion  from  that  great  master.  The  Tchaikovsky  influence  is  very  definitely 
felt  in  this  symphony,  but,  though  the  musk  is  for  the  most  part  grave,  and  at  times 
even  melancholy,  its  seriousness,  passing  through  the  purifying  alembic  of  Rach- 
maninoff's own  personality  and  genius,  is  freed  of  any  trace  of  morbidity,  of  excess, 
of  despair. 

This  symphony  dates  from  1908,  during  which  season  it  was  performed  for 


386  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  first  time  at  Moscow,  Rachmaninoff  conducting.  Also  during  this  year  the 
composition  was  awarded  the  coveted  Glinka  prize — the  second  time  Rachmaninoff 
has  achieved  this  distinction;  the  first  being  on  the  occasion  of  the  publication  of 
his  Second  Piano  Concerto.  The  E  minor  Symphony  was  played  for  the  first  time 
in  America  at  a  concert  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  November  26,  19095 
Rachmaninoff  was  the  conductor.  The  symphony,  which  is  very  long,  is  usually 
played  with  cuts,  which  have  been  authorized  by  the  composer. 

First  Movement 

One  cannot  but  reflect,  in  hearing  the  shadowy  and  somber  opening  of  the 
introduction,  how  incredibly  beautiful  and  subtle  a  language  is  music!  Its  implica- 
tions, its  suggestions,  its  forecasting  of  its  own  progress,  its  power  to  bring  into 
being  the  germ  of  an  idea  and  to  indicate,  all  in  a  little  moment,  the  direction  of 
its  development — all  are  singular  beauties  of  this  wordless  yet  so  comprehensible 
language.  This  music,  hard  upon  the  intensely  somber  and  reflective  first  measures, 
when  the  violins  enter  above  the  declining  lower  strings,  implants  a  thought  which 
at  the  moment  seems  an  inconsiderable  fragment  of  the  web  of  tone  that  is  being 
woven  before  us,  yet  later,  in  developed  form,  is  to  be  recalled  with  piercing  and 
significant  emphasis  as  the  first  theme  of  the  movement.  The  whole  introduction 
is  a  closely  woven  network  of  melody,  and  of  harmonies  rich  and  dark;  so  that 
when  the  voice  of  the  cor  anglais  appears,  it  stands  forth  in  dear  and  solitary  love- 
liness, and  with  an  intensity  in  its  passionate  brief  song  that  is  like  the  final  d&- 
tfllation  of  all  that  has  gone  before. 

With  a  few  measures  establishing  a  new  rhythm,  the  curving  melody  of  the 
main  theme  traces  its  way  in  the  violins — and  we  remember  the  darker  and  more 
solemn  intimations  of  this  song  in  the  introduction.  It  is  vital  and  moving  and 
bright  now;  and  it  gives  such  impetus  to  the  orchestra  that  a  brief  climax  of  vigor 
and  assertiveness  is  developed.  There  is  a  pause,  a  suggestive  phrase  of  clarinets, 
and  then  comes  the  second  theme — a  simple  figure  of  three  notes,  yet,  in  its  partic- 
ular orchestral  color  and  the  setting  against  which  it  makes  itself  heard,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  poignantly  eloquent  expressions  of  loneliness  one  can  find  in  musk.  Soft 
woodwinds  give  it  voice,  and  strings  suggest  a  comforting  answer. 

It  is  easy  to  perceive  in  the  two  melodic  ideas,  which  now  become  the  basis  of 
the  symphony,  the  healthy  and  contemplative  quality  of  Rachmaninoff's  melan- 
choly. Here,  certainly,  is  none  of  the  facile  tearfulness  of  Tchaikovsky,  nor  yet  a 
storming  and  inconsolable  grief  $  rather,  a  gentle  regretfulness  that  is  not  without 
a  sanguine  note.  In  succeeding  passages  the  latent  power  and  virility  of  the  music 
assert  themselves:  then  there  is  a  recession  of  the  orchestral  powers  through  a  long 
and,  ultimately,  a  delicate  diminuendo,  which  continues  until  but  one  voice — a  solo 
This  recalls  the  first  theme,  and  inaugurates  a  period  of  develop- 


SERGEI    VASSILIEVITCH    RACHMANINOFF 

ment  in  which  all  apparent  possibilities  of  the  subject  are  alluringly  explored.  The 
little  second  theme,  colored  more  brightly  still,  in  its  brief  utterance  conveying  a 
feeling  of  intolerable  sadness,  returns  momentarily.  The  movement  is  not  to  dose 
in  this  spirit,  however.  A  potent  rhythm  in  the  typical  plastic  and  vital  Rach- 
maninoff style  is  introduced  in  the  concluding  measures,  and  the  music  ceases  after 
a  final  aggressive  rush. 

Second  Movement 

The  second  movement  constitutes  what  might  be  called  the  scherzo  of  the 
symphony.  Brilliant  strings  establish  a  swift  rhythm  in  two  short  measures,  and  the 
horns  pour  out  a  wild  sweet  tune,  to  which  the  violins  are  presently  attracted. 
There  is  another  and  even  lovelier  cantabfle  for  the  sweeping  strings,  and  sudden 
secretive  passages  in  which  a  return  to  the  urgent  rhythm  of  the  beginning  is 
suggested. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  composer's  rare  and  delightful  sense  of  humor  that  prevents 
his  graver  moments  from  becoming  too  solemn,  and  invests  his  humorous  ideas, 
paradoxically,  with  a  saturnine  suggestion.  At  any  rate,  given  the  tonality  and  the 
instrumentation  of  this  movement,  one  could  imagine  the  beginnings  of  a  tragic 
utterance;  Rachmaninoff  prefers  a  tragicomedy.  The  occasional  moments  of  pomp- 
ousness  are,  with  brusque  good  spirits,  thrust  aside;  the  insistent  rhythm  of  the 
opening  returns  again  and  again,  and  eventually  involves  the  whole  orchestra  in  its 
humor.  Nor  does  the  faintly  ominous  suggestion  of  the  brass,  in  the  closing  meas- 
ures, overcome  the  spirit  of  wry-faced  badinage. 

Third  Movement 

In  the  tangled  web  of  melody  devised  by  Rachmaninoff  for  the  third  move- 
ment, there  is  an  atmosphere  strangely  compounded  of  both  peace  and  longing.  In 
the  first  song  of  the  strings  one  can  feel  it,  and  yet  more  strongly  in  the  lovely 
solo  of  the  clarinet.  The  whole  tangle  of  melodies  that  twine  themselves  into  this 
lovely  fabric  are,  notwithstanding  their  involutions  with  one  another,  always  dear 
and  individual;  as  if  the  composer  had  deliberately  chosen  to  utter  the  same  senti- 
ment in  half  a  dozen  ways  simultaneously.  Near  the  end,  we  are  recalled  again  to 
the  cryptic  significance  of  the  first  movement's  theme. 

Fourth  Movement 

Almost  belligerently,  the  music  leaps  out  from  the  orchestra,  in  a  theme  of 
boundless  vigor  and  elastic  rhythm,  coursing  freely  and  powerfully.  For  a  time  it 
is  completely  in  control;  then,  its  powers  spent,  the  orchestra  pauses  upon  a  long- 
held  note  of  the  horn,  con  sort&to.  The  basses,  plucked,  descend  step  by  step  into 
their  lowest  range;  then  begins  a  grotesque  little  march  that  once  more  infuses 


388  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

vitality  and  mobile  rhythm  into  the  orchestra,  and  the  bold  opening  subject  returns. 
The  strings  sing  a  more  romantic  melody,  which  establishes  the  mood  of  the 
section  of  the  movement  based  on  the  second  theme.  There  is  a  long  diminuendo, 
with  harmonies  almost  visibly  suspended,  finally  resolving  in  a  tenuous  pianissimo. 
There  are  sudden  silences  and  sudden  attacks;  remembrances  (flute)  of  the  first 
theme  in  the  first  movement;  suggestions  of  the  quaint  march  of  the  previous  sec- 
tion, and  finally  a  conclusion  of  noble  power  and  brilliance. 


Rapsodie  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 
on  a  Theme  of  Paganini 

IT  is  characteristic  of  Rachmaninoff  to  give  himself  wholeheartedly  to  what- 
ever task  he  undertakes,  so  that  when,  in  the  spring  of  1934,  he  cut  short  a  tour 
that  deprived  thousands  of  his  admirers  of  their  annual  Rachmaninoff  recital,  the 
rumor  that  he  had  gone  abroad  to  compose  was  not  altogether  without  grounds. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Rapsodie  was  begun  at  Rachmaninoff's  summer  home  on 
Lake  Lucerne.  In  these  beautiful  surroundings  opposite  Triebschen,  Wagner's 
abode  from  1866  to  1872,  the  composition,  begun  on  July  3,  was  completed 
August  24.  Its  first  performance  was  given,  with  the  composer  at  the  piano,  in 
Baltimore,  November  7,  1934,  at  a  concert  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  con- 
ducted by  Leopold  Stokowski. 

The  work  is  in  the  form  of  a  theme  with  variations.  The  music  by  Paganini 
which  Rachmaninoff  selected  appealed  not  only  to  him  but  to  a  great  German 
composer  also,  for  it  is  the  same  Paganini  theme  which  Johannes  Brahms  used  in 
his  Variations  for  Piano.  The  great  Russian  begins  his  twenty-  four  variations  with 
a  short  introduction.  He  then  departs  from  custom  by  forecasting  the  theme  in 
the  first  variation  before  actually  presenting  it. 

The  introduction  of  nine  measures  for  full  orchestra  is  followed  by  the  first 
variation,  after  which  the  theme,  stated  by  first  and  second  violins,  is  heard. 


,.+.:  c** 


SERGEI    VASSILIEVITCH    RACHMANINOFF  389 

The  second  variation  (Piste  sso  tempo)  is  presented  by  piano  with  soft  accom- 
paniment of  horns  and  trombones.  The  piano,  over  strings,  begins  the  third  varia- 
tion (Pistesso  tempo),  to  which  is  added  a  chattering  in  the  woodwinds.  The  fourth 
variation  (ptu  vivo),  in  which  the  piano  distinctly  sings  the  melody,  develops  less 
than  a  minute  later,  and  after  sharp  chords  in  the  piano  is  followed  by  number  five 
(tempo  precendente).  Here  the  decisive  chords  for  piano  continue  with  soft  accom- 
paniment of  strings,  developing  sweeping  arabesques  that  lead  at  once  to  variation 
six  (Pistesso  tempo).  This  variant  of  the  theme  rushes  in  headlong  brilliance  and 
agitation  that  subsides  with  the  same  phrase  for  piano  that  announced  the  variation. 
It  is  followed  by  the  mournful  comment  of  the  English  horn,  and  ends  with  a  soft 
ascending  scale  for  piano.  Variation  seven  (tneno  mosso  e  tempo  moderate)  is 
heard  when  the  piano  intones  a  solemn  melody  based  upon  the  Dies  Irae,  while  the 
cellos  and  bassoons  play  the  Paganini  theme.  The  eighth  (Tempo  I)  begins  with 
a  forte  passage  for  the  piano  which  is  almost  Lisztian  in  style.  Variation  nine 
(Pistes so  tempo)  begins  with  a  syncopated  figure  in  a  kind  of  galloping  rhythm 
with  the  phrase  ending  in  descending  chromatics.  Variation  ten  (poco  marcato) 
may  be  recognized  by  a  repetition  of  the  somber  Dies  Irae  theme  which  the  piano 
plays  forte  while  strings  weave  fragments  of  the  original  theme.  Against  a  whirling 
variant  for  the  piano  of  the  Paganini  theme,  the  strings  take  up  the  Dies  Ir0e 
music,  to  which  the  winds  add  comment  Sweeping  chromatics  lead  to  variation 
eleven  (moderato)^  introduced  by  strings,  tremolo,  from  which  the  piano  emerges 
like  the  song  of  a  bird  soaring  skyward.  Brilliant  passage  work  against  woodwinds 
and  harp  glissando  follows,  and  finally  the  piano,  in  a  solo  passage,  terminates 
the  variation  with  a  four-note  figure  also  suggestive  of  the  song  of  a  bird.  Varia- 
tion twelve  (tempo  di  memtetto)  is  aptly  described  by  its  marking.  It  is  one  of 
those  lilting  melodies  that,  beautiful  in  itself,  is  made  even  more  so  by  the  ringing 
accompaniment  that  is  woven  into  it.  Before  the  sweetness  cloys  we  are  swept  into 
the  martial  allegro  of  variation  thirteen.  Strings  present  the  theme  while  the  piano 
contributes  strident  chords.  A  shrill  scale  for  piccolo,  flutes,  and  clarinets  leads 
without  break  to  variation  fourteen  (Pistesso  tempo),  which  may  be  recognized 
by  the  vehemence  with  which  the  lower  strings  and  horns  establish  its  rhythmic 
pulse.  This  is  a  stormy  passage  that  suggests  cloudy,  ominous  skies  at  the  beginning, 
which  lighten  as  the  music  progresses,  and  clear  to  show  the  musical  rainbow  that 
is  variation  fifteen.  If  this  variation  (pw  vkfo),  scherzando,  were  published  anony- 
mously, there  would  be  little  difficulty  recognizing  its  composer.  It  is  distinctly 
Rachmaninoff.  Nothing  quite  so  characteristic  appears  elsewhere  in  this  brilliant 
music,  and  in  passages  like  this  lies  the  explanation  of  the  reluctance  of  even  the 
greatest  technicians  to  essay  a  public  performance  of  the  Rapsodie.  Its  difficulties 
are  prodigious.  Like  a  capricious  wind,  the  music  advances,  now  softly,  now  em- 
phatically with  sudden  crescendo,  until,  spent  with  the  vigor  of  its  own  force,  there 
is  a  pause  for  breath  before  the  final  chord  which  ends  this  magnificent  variation. 


390  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

In  the  next  (allegretto)  the  melody  is  assigned  to  the  oboe,  while  strings  furnish 
a  wavering  background.  There  is  rich  embroidery  for  the  solo  instrument,  and 
then  a  return  to  the  opening  measures  of  the  variation  before  the  announcement  of 
the  seventeenth  variation. 

In  the  seventeenth  variation  melody  and  accompaniment  are  both  given  to  the 
piano  while  woodwinds  supply  subdued  background.  The  calmness  of  this  music 
establishes  the  mood  for  variation  eighteen  (andante  cantabile).  This  is  a  serene 
and  expressive  song  for  the  solo  instrument,  which  is  later  taken  up  by  strings 
with  piano  and  woodwinds  furnishing  accompaniment.  The  nineteenth  variation  is 
announced  brusquely  with  a  triplet  figure  for  pianos  against  a  pizzicato  accompani- 
ment of  strings.  A  quickening  of  tempo  in  the  strings  introduces  number  twenty 
(un  $oco  jnu  vivo).  The  piano  moves  along  in  a  skipping  figure,  returning  in 
variation  twenty-one  to  a  triplet  figure,  staccato,  that  moves  with  exceeding  ani- 
mation to  number  twenty-two  (tm  foco  fiu  vivo).  Descending  chords  for  piano 
mark  the  beginning  of  this  variation  in  which  a  high  climax  is  reached.  Here,  at 
moments,  one  is  reminded  of  the  grandeur  of  the  composer's  Toteninsel,  as  the 
music  sweeps  passionately  upward  to  the  brilliant  cadenza  just  before  the  begin- 
ning of  variation  twenty-three.  Fortissimo  chords  usher  in  the  theme  assigned,  in 
less  ornate  fashion  than  previously,  at  the  piano. 

Variation  twenty-three  begins  simply  enough,  but  soon  becomes  involved.  The 
piano  comes  forward  at  an  incredible  speed,  engaging  at  last  in  a  whirl  of  chro- 
matics followed  by  four  chords,  pianissimo.  As  the  solo  instrument  forges  madly 
ahead  in  the  tempestuous  finale,  the  theme  is  heard  at  first  in  the  woodwinds. 
Then,  when  the  piano  states  it,  the  brasses  and  strings  blare  forth  ominously  with 
the  Dies  Irae%  from  which  the  solo  instrument  emerges  with  a  fragment  of  the 
theme  and  ends  the  composition. 

The  work  is  scored  for  piccolo,  two  flutes,  two  oboes,  English  horn,  two 
clarinets,  two  bassoons,  four  horns,  two  trumpets  in  C,  three  trombones,  tuba, 
timpani,  percussion,  bells,  harp,  and  strings. 


MAURICE  RAVEL 

[1875-1937] 

KVEL  was  born,  March  7,  1875,  in  Ciboure,  a  small  town  in  southwestern 
France,  just  across  the  border  from  the  land  of  the  Basques,  the  mysteri- 
ous people  who  inhabit  northwestern  Spain  and  a  part  of  France.  At  an 
early  age,  he  was  taken  to  Paris,  and  in  1889  he  was  admitted  to  the  Conserva- 
toire, where  he  received  the  usual  thorough  foundational  musical  training  there 
given.  Five  or  six  years  later,  at  the  publication  of  his  Habanera,  the  musical  world 
was  given  notice  of  the  appearance  of  a  young  composer  whose  work  was  strik- 
ingly original  in  character.  This  short  though  highly  colored  piece  was  later  in- 
corporated into  the  orchestral  composition,  Rafsodie  es$agnoley  which  was  first 
played  in  1908,  and  still  appears  frequently  on  symphonic  programs.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly significant  of  one  aspect  of  his  character  that  this  early  composition  as 
well  as  the  highly  seasoned  musical  comedy  of  his  middle  years,  UHeure  esfagnote 
(The  Spanish  Hour),  and  one  of  his  later  works  which  more  than  any  other  has 
made  the  name  of  Ravel  well  known  in  the  United  States,  the  Bolero — are  all 
Spanish  in  idiom. 

During  the  years  following  the  publication  of  the  Habanera>  Ravel  continued 
his  studies  at  Paris,  pursuing  some  of  the  deepest  mysteries  of  his  art  with  two 
famous  masters,  Andre  Gedalge  and  Gabriel  Faure — the  former  one  of  the 
world's  most  remarkable  masters  of  the  art  of  counterpoint  and  fugue,  the  latter 
one  of  the  great  composers  of  modern  France,  who  brilliantly  championed  the 
theory  that  originality  of  melody  and  harmony  should  be  sought  within  the  limits 
of  classical  form.  Under  Gedalge,  Ravel  doubtless  gained  much  of  his  own  uncanny 
technical  facility  in  his  art;  and  under  Faure,  whose  work  especially  roused  hfe 
enthusiasm,  the  younger  composer  learned  the  deep  regard  for  formal  perfection 
that  has  always  characterized  his  compositions. 

The  youthful  composer  also  fell  under  the  spell  of  that  strange  genius,  Erik 
Sarie.  The  unconventional  tides  Satie  gave  his  compositions  were  in  themselves 
enough  to  frighten  the  more  conservative  portion  of  the  musical  public.  (For  in- 
stance, some  of  his  pieces  are  named:  Genuine  Lazy  Preludes  for  &  Dog>  Tf&  Mm 
Carrying  Heavy  Stones ,  Disagreeable  Glimpses.)  His  music  is  often  pointedly 
ironical  in  character,  his  harmonies  are  revolutionary*  The  story  is  told  that  at  die 
harmony  class  at  the  Conservatoire,  while  waiting  for  their  teacher,  Ravel  used  to 
play  Satie's  Sarabandes  and  Gymnopedies  to  his  scandalized  fellow  students. 

Whfle  he  was  continuing  his  studies^  the  ever-industrious  Ravel  also  produced 
a  number  of  important  compositions,  notably  the  well-known  piano  pieces,  P&vene 
four  une  infante  defunte  and  Jeux  tPeau.  In  1901  he  entered  the  contest  for  the 
Prix  de  Rome,  The  winner  of  this  prize  is  entitled  to  three  years*  residence  in 
Rome  at  government  expense  and  so  is  insured  the  leisure  to  devote  himself  to 

391 


392  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

musical  composition  in  the  favorable  environment  of  the  Eternal  City.  Ravel's 
sense  of  humor — or  at  least  of  artistic  propriety — here  betrayed  him.  For  the  text 
of  the  cantata  which  the  contestants  were  required  to  set  to  music  was  of  such 
maudlin  sentimentality  that  Ravel  was  moved  to  write  his  cantata  in  the  languorous 
waltz  style  of  a  comic  opera.  Some  of  the  judges,  evidently  suspecting  the  ironic 
implications,  objected  to  Ravel's  being  awarded  the  Prix  de  Rome  that  his  work 
merited,  and  a  compromise  was  reached  by  giving  him  the  rather  empty  honor  of  a 
second  prize.  Having  once  received  this  official  stigma,  he  again  failed  in  1902  and 
1903,  and  in  1905  was  even  refused  admittance  to  the  contest,  although  that 
decision  kindled  general  indignation,  for  by  that  time  Ravel  had  become  recognized 
as  a  composer  of  importance,  even  by  those  who  disapproved  his  artistic  methods. 
Meanwhile,  undismayed  by  this  lack  of  official  recognition,  Ravel  had  com- 
posed a  number  of  significant  works.  At  the  beginning  of  the  First  World  War  in 
1914,  Ravel  joined  the  colors  but  was  soon  invalided  home.  Among  his  works 
written  since  the  War  should  be  mentioned:  the  suite  of  piano  pieces  written  in 
memory  of  fallen  comrades  in  arms,  Le  Tombeau  de  Couferin  (1918);  La  Valse 
for  orchestra  (1921);  and  the  Bolero  (1928),  the  most  amazing  orchestral  tour 
de  force  of  recent  times. 


Ma  Mere  Poye 
{Mother  Goose] 

[Five  Children's  Pieces] 

RAVEL,  the  musical  cynic  of  La  Valse,  the  musical  sensualist  of  Rapsodte  esfagnole, 
die  musical  exhibitionist  of  Bolero,  is  revealed  in  these  little  pieces  as  the  delightful 
lover  and  entertainer  of  children.  This  charming  music  was  written  originally  for 
and  dedicated  to  a  little  boy  and  a  girl,  friends  of  the  composer.  It  was  made  for 
the  piano,  in  a  four-hand  arrangement,  and  played  for  the  first  time  at  the  Salle 
Gaveau,  Paris,  April  20,  1910,  by  Christane  Verger,  six  years  old,  and  Germaine 
Duramy,  ten.  The  orchestral  version  was  made  for  a  ballet,  and  revised  for  concert 
performance.  In  the  concert  suite  five  numbers  are  usually  included.  Walter  Dam- 
rosch  was  the  first  American  conductor  to  perceive  the  charm  of  this  music,  and 
presented  it  at  a  concert  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra,  November  8, 
1912.  The  music  scarcely  needs  extended  analysis.  All  five  pieces  reveal  the  ex- 
traordinary beauty  and  appropriateness  of  Ravel's  orchestration,  and  an  ingenuous 


MAURICE    RAVEL  393 

charm  far  different  from  the  kind  we  generally  associate  with  this  composer's 
music* 

The  tides  of  the  subdivisions  are  as  follows:  "Pavane  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty*5 5 
"Hop-o'-My-Thumb"$  "Laideronette,  Empress  of  the  Pogodes";  "Beauty  and 
the  Beast";  "The  Fairy  Garden." 


La  Valse 

THE  sweeping,  the  compelling  rhythms  of  this  music,  and  its  marvelous  evocation 
of  the  orchestra's  final  powers  and  most  vivid  tonal  hues,  are  not  so  disturbing  as  an 
inescapable  feeling  of  bitterness  and  cynicism  which  it  seems  to  reveal.  It  has  cer- 
tain associations,  chronological  at  least,  with  the  First  World  War,  for  it  was 
planned  during  that  distressing  period,  and  pkyed  for  the  first  time  at  Paris, 
December  12,  1920.  It  has  the  mad  abandon  of  many  postwar  musical  celebrations, 
with  certain  prophetic  and  tragic  suggestions  which  may  be  comment  upon  the 
carelessly  wicked  spirit  that  seems  to  have  captivated  the  world  since  November  II, 
1918. 

The  score  of  La  Vake  includes  the  following  descriptive  note:  "Whirling 
clouds  give  glimpses,  through  rifts,  of  couples  waltzing.  The  clouds  scatter,  little 
by  little.  One  sees  an  immense  hall,  peopled  with  a  twirling  crowd.  The  scene  is 
gradually  illuminated.  The  light  of  the  chandeliers  bursts  forth,  fortissimo.  An 
imperial  court  about  1855." 

The  music  can  readily  be  divided,  as  Alfredo  Casella  points  out,  into  three  dis- 
tinct sections:  The  Birth  of  the  Waltz,  The  Waltz,  The  Apotheosis  of  the  Waltz. 
The  dance  seems  to  materialize  out  of  a  vague  and  shadowy  background,  frag- 
ments coming  now  and  again  to  the  surface,  in  various  colors,  and  ultimately  be- 
coming synthesized  into  a  dear  waltz  rhythm  and  melody.  From  these  formless 
beginnings  the  waltz  passes  through  a  period  of  fairly  conventional  development, 
into  an  orgiastic  perversion  of  itself.  The  rhythm  that  had  seemed  so  full  of  grace 
becomes  dreadful  and  menacing  and  mad;  horrid  dissonances  replace  once  bitter- 
sweet harmonies,  and  the  musfc  speeds  to  an  almost  insanely  violent  and  abandoned 
climax. 


394  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Bolero 

THIS  amazing  tour  de  force  of  orchestration  and  orchestral  dynamics  accomplished 
for  its  composer,  in  the  space  of  two  weeks,  more  public  notice  than  he  had  been 
able  to  achieve  in  more  than  fifty  musically  productive  years.  Its  American  per- 
formances— all  within  the  space  of  the  few  weeks  following  its  introduction  by  the 
Philharmonic  Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  under  Arturo  Toscanini,  Novem- 
ber 14,  1929 — made  Ravel  almost  an  American  national  hero,  and  caused  such 
wild  excitement  and  enthusiasm  as  had  never  been  seen  in  American  concert  halls. 
Popularity,  especially  if  it  is  immediate  and  widespread,  is  a  dangerous  thing,  and 
has  accomplished  the  elimination  from  the  orchestral  repertoire  of  many  a  com- 
petent work.  This  extraordinary  piece  has  withstood  popular  enthusiasm  without 
parallel,  not  to  mention  the  onslaughts  of  many  a  misguided  conductor  and  many 
a  pitiable  orchestra.  Yet  its  maddening  rhythm,  its  hot  and  glowing  color,  its  crush- 
ing climax  never  fail  to  excite  and  fascinate  most  listeners. 

The  Bolero  is  more  of  an  exercise  in  orchestration  and  an  experiment  in 
psychology  than  a  musical  masterpiece.  The  use  of  an  unvarying  rhythm  beyond 
the  point  of  boredom  to  the  verge  of  madness  is  not  a  new  idea  in  music — but  its 
execution  here  is  original  and  superbly  effective.  The  masterful  and  imaginative 
and  colorful  orchestration,  by  which  a  single  theme  is  in  constant  use  for  about 
twenty  minutes  yet  by  the  variety  of  orchestral  color  in  which  it  is  repeatedly  pre- 
sented always  seems  new  and  interesting,  is  a  really  singular  accomplishment. 

The  work  is  dedicated  to  the  great  dancer  Ida  Rubinstein,  and  was  first  pre- 
sented by  her  at  Paris  in  November,  1928.  It  was  staged  as  a  ballet  divertissement, 
the  setting  suggesting  a  Spanish  inn,  the  dancer  performing  on  a  large  table.  The 
Rubinstein  performance  almost  resulted  in  a  riot*  The  mounting  excitement  of  the 
music,  the  hypnotic  power  of  the  persistent  rhythm,  and  the  magically  suggestive 
performance  of  Rubinstein  herself  brought  about  a  disordered  scene  in  which  the 
dancer  barely  escaped  injury,  and  both  audience  and  actors  became  involved  in  a 
violent  and  dangerous  melee. 

The  music  itself  is  not  truly  a  bolero.  The  characteristic  dance  of  this  name 
is  one  of  dignity  and  modesty,  not  unrelated  to  the  minuet;  also,  it  is  usually,  if 
not  always,  in  duple  time,  whereas  the  Bolero  is  in  triple  rhythm.  At  any  rate,  the 
music,  like  so  much  of  RavePs  work,  is  highly  flavored  with  Spanish  essence,  and 
the  theme  itself,  if  not  Spanish  in  origin,  is  sufficiently  typical  to  have  originated 
south  of  the  Pyrenees. 

The  theme  is  really  in  two  distinct  parts,  with  accessory  derivations  which 
occasionally  have  important  place  in  the  structure  of  the  music.  The  first  part  of 
the  basic  subject,  after  a  few  bars  of  an  insinuating  rhythmic  figure  established  by 
the  drums,  is  projected  in  the  solo  voice  of  the  flute: 


MAURICE    RAVEt 


395 


The  second  section  of  the  theme  comes  a  little  later,  played  solo  by  clarinet: 


Now  the  wind  instruments  in  turn,  beginning  with  a  solo  bassoon,  present  the 
curious  wayward  melody  or  some  closely  similar  derivation  of  it*  We  hear  it,  solo, 
in  the  E-flat  clarinet;  in  the  oboe  £&morey  in  the  flute  again;  it  comes  successively 
in  muted  trumpet,  in  tenor  and  in  soprano  saxophone;  finally,  as  the  crescendo 
which  began  almost  with  the  opening  note  exceeds  the  possibilities  of  solo  instru- 
ments, the  theme  is  transferred  to  groups  of  instruments.  Almost  without  exception, 
these  groups  bring  into  being  weird  and  brilliant  and  novel  qualities  of  tone.  The 
first  group,  for  example,  creates  a  strange  effect  —  celesta  in  octaves,  piccolo,  and 
the  melody  in  the  solo  horn.  Another  bizarre  presentation  occurs  when  the  theme 
comes  in  a  combination  of  oboe,  oboe  Jf  a/more^  English  horn,  clarinet,  and  bass 
clarinet.  Still  later,  with  a  slight  recession  of  dynamics,  the  theme  is  revealed  as  a 
trombone  solo. 

It  is  impossible  to  convey,  except  through  the  orchestra  itself,  the  power  and 
the  fascination  of  the  cumulative  effect.  The  tune  never  becomes  monotonous;  the 
rhythm  established  and  maintained  in  the  accompaniment  is  monotonous  to  an 
agonizing  degree—  which  is  precisely  the  effect  the  composer  wishes  to  create.  It  is 
an  exemplification  of  the  old  Chinese  torture  of  the  endlessly  repeated  drops  of 


1929.  Rxtel  Bolero  refroduetfaw  by 


of  ZfcrW  &  Ckt  Paw, 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

water.  Singly  they  are  harmless,  but  their  relentless  repetition  drives  one  toward 
frenzy. 

Meanwhile,  with  every  re-presentation  of  the  theme,  the  orchestra's  powers 
are  more  heavily  drawn  upon,  and  the  endlessly  varied  and  brilliant  color  of  which 
it  is  capable  more  wonderfully  revealed.  Now  Ravel  uses  the  instruments  in  pairs, 
contrasting  yet  blending  with  one  another  in  the  most  fantastic  combinations. 
Underneath  moves  the  maddeningly  persistent  rhythm,  enforced  now  not  only  by 
drum,  but  by  dissonant  chords  of  the  harp,  and  pizzicato  strings.  Now  the  theme 
is  transferred  to  bowed  strings,  and  again  to  the  first  and  second  violins  divided  in 
weird  harmonies  against  similarly  divided  and  harmonized  woodwinds.  When  the 
composer  has  matched  all  the  orchestral  voices  against  each  other,  he  is  by  no 
means  at  the  limit  of  his  resources,  but  changes  the  character  of  the  tonal  effect 
still  further  by  reinforcing  the  harmonics  of  one  instrument  with  the  fundamental 
of  another. 

Ultimately  the  whole  orchestra  sways  in  the  wicked  rhythm,  and  with  z 
potency  of  utterance  that  seems  to  exact  its  ultimate  powers.  But  the  end  is  not 
yet!  The  canny  composer,  at  what  seems  to  be  the  very  peak  of  this  mountain  of 
vibrant  sound,  introduces  a  slight  change  in  the  melodic  line  and  in  tonality — most 
noticeable  in  violins  and  woodwind — which  somehow  seems  to  add  still  more 
power,  though  actually  it  does  not.  There  are  short  syncopated  phrases  which  we 
have  not  noticed  before;  new  accretions  of  power  in  the  brass,  and  finally,  after 
poisonously  dissonant  glissandos  in  which  the  trombones'  coarse  bray  is  most  con- 
spicuous, the  piece  ends  in  a  single  crushing  mass  of  tone. 

Ravel's  Bolero  is  hardly  great  music,  as  music  per  se.  It  is,  nevertheless,  a 
gigantic  masterpiece  of  orchestration,  and  if,  while  it  entertains,  it  reveals  to  us  the 
enormous  dynamic  powers  of  the  orchestra,  and  the  almost  infinite  variety  of  tonal 
color  of  which  the  modern  symphonic  organization  is  capable,  it  shall  have  served 
a  useful  purpose. 


Daphnis  and  Chloe 
[Suites} 

THE  lamented  Nijinsky  and  his  lovely  partner  Karsavina  made  one  of  their  most 
complete  successes  when  they  appeared  in  the  first  performance  of  the  ballet  (or 
"choreographic  symphony")  Dafhnts  and  Chloe ,  produced  by  the  Ballet  Russe  to  a 
scenario  by  Fokine,  at  Paris,  June  8,  1912.  Pierre  Monteux,  sometime  conductor 
of  the  Boston  Symphony,  and  guest  conductor  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  was 
in  command  of  the  orchestra.  Later  the  composer  arranged  two  suites  from  the 


MAURICE    &AVEL  397 

music  of  the  ballet,  each  including  three  pieces.  The  first  was  made  up  of  a  "Noc- 
turne," and  "Interlude,"  and  a  "Danse  GuerrierJ*  $  the  second  comprises  "Day- 
break," "Pantomime,"  and  a  "General  Dance." 

The  following  outline  of  the  significance  of  the  music  of  the  First  Suite  from 
Dafhnis  and  Chloe  is  printed  in  the  score: 

A  little  flame  shines  suddenly  on  the  head  of  one  of  the  statues  of 
nymphs.  The  nymph  moves  and  descends  from  her  pedestal.  The  second  and 
third  nymph  likewise  come  to  life,  leave  their  pedestals,  and  begin  a  slow  and 
mysterious  dance.  They  perceive  Daphnis,  bend  over  him,  and  wipe  away  his 
tears.  (He  is  weeping  for  his  beloved  Chloe,  who  has  been  abducted  by 
pirates.)  They  arouse  him,  and  invoke  the  god  Pan,  Little  by  little  the  form 
of  the  god  becomes  visible. 

Voices  are  heard,  at  first  from  afar.  The  pirates*  camp  is  revealed,  with 
cypresses  on  either  side.  In  the  background  is  the  sea.  A  trireme  is  near  the 
shore.  The  pirates,  laden  with  booty,  run  to  and  fro.  Torches  are  brought  in, 
and  illuminate  the  scene. 

The  score  also  gives  an  outline  of  the  action  of  the  ballet  as  reflected  in  the 
music  of  the  Second  Suite: 

No  sound  but  the  murmur  of  rivulets  fed  by  the  dew  that  trickles  from 
the  rocks.  Daphne  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. . . .  Herdsmen  enter,  seeking  Daphnis  and  Chloe.  They  find  Daphnfe 
and  awaken  him.  In  anguish  he  looks  about  for  Chloe.  She  at  last  appears  en- 
cirded  by  shepherdesses.  The  two  rush  into  each  other's  arms.  Daphnis  ob- 
serves 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  imperson- 
ates 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  rocks.  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. , .  , 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY     . 

Rapsodie  espagnole 

THE  mystery  of  a  Spanish  twilight,  charged  with  secret  yearnings,  sweet  scents, 
and  sensuous  suggestions;  the  provocative  rhythms,  the  ecstasies  of  Spanish  dances, 
the  flaming  color  and  vivid  life  of  a  Spanish  festival — these  are  of  the  texture  of 
this  rapturous  and  incandescent  music.  It  is  not  strange  that  Ravel  should  exhibit 
Spanish  influence,  for  he  is  from  the  Basque  country,  the  high  country  of  those 
strange  people  who  are  neither  Spanish  nor  French,  but  reveal  certain  sympathies 
with  both. 

Ravel's  Spanish  Rhapsody  was  first  performed  in  1908,  on  March  19,  at  a 
Colonne  Concert,  Colonne  himself  conducting.  It  is  divided  into  four  sections, 
played  continuously. 

Prelude  a  la  rmt 

There  is  something  acrid,  yet  sweet,  in  the  complaining  phrase  of  muted 
strings  at  the  beginning;  and,  paradoxically,  as  the  hard  light  of  day  fades,  and  the 
loveliness  and  loneliness  of  darkness  penetrate  the  music,  there  is  growing  warmth, 
there  are  anticipations  of  promised  ecstasy  in  fierce  little  bursts  of  harp  and  wood- 
wind. Two  clarinets  course  over  a  rapturous  cadenza,  and,  a  little  later,  the  shadowy 
tones  of  the  bassoons  imitate  it,  with  a  quartet  of  violins  abandoned  to  trills  and 
moving  harmonics.  There  are  languorous  chimings,  and  at  the  end,  the  lingering 
liquid  sweetness  of  the  celesta. 

Malaguena 

A  fascinating  rhythm  moves  through  basses  and,  presently,  bass  clarinet,  to 
ensnare  a  typically  Spanish  dance  melody.  Suggestions  of  it  appear  in  plucked 
strings*  and  in  woodwinds  almost  glissando  in  the  rapid  smoothness  of  their 
scales;  a  distant  and  muted  trumpet  adds  its  penetrating  phrase,  and  a  fierce  brief 
climax  brings  a  suggestive  pause.  Now  the  cor  <mglaisy  against  trembling  strings 
and  celesta,  intones  a  languid  melody;  the  plaint  of  the  strings  from  the  opening 
passages  returns  briefly,  as  does  the  rhythmic  introduction  to  this  section.  A  deli- 
cately flirtatious  flick  of  string  tone  dismisses  the  yearning  sentiment,  and  ends  the 
dance. 

Habanera 

The  habanera  derives  its  name  from  Havana,  and  it  originated  in  Cuba. 
Ravel's  version  is  a  seductive  and  languorous  dance,  artfully  syncopated  and  slow; 
the  clarinet  first  establishing  the  rhythm,  and  woodwinds  later  introducing  a  melody 
typically  Spanish  in  outline.  Little  climaxes  and  restless  hastenings  of  the  rhythm 
occur;  then,  wearied  with  ecstasy,  the  dance  ends  in  faint  sweet  tones  of  celesta 
atove  the  clarinet's  insistent  figure. 


MAURICE    RAVEL  399 

Feria 

Here  is  a  glowing  picture  of  the  colors  and  movement  and  variety  of  a  coun- 
try fair  in  Spain.  Here,  too,  for  the  first  time  in  the  music,  the  orchestra  speaks 
with  its  fullest  power;  now  in  swift  climax,  in  fragmentary  dance  tunes,  ultimately 
in  a  wild  melange  of  all  the  burning  color  and  febrile  activity  of  the  scene.  But 
there  is  a  section  wherein  all  the  blinding  brightness  and  distractions  of  the  fair 
are  forgotten,  and  the  cor  anglais  sings  of  romance  and  of  passion  with  little 
ecstatic  rushings  of  the  strings — all  against  the  very  Spanish  melody  boldly  sung 
forth  in  strings.  Presently  dances  and  wild  songs  come  once  more,  and  the  per- 
sistence of  the  rhythm,  emphasized  in  mighty  chords  of  full  orchestra,  is  almost 
maddening  in  its  excitement  and  power*  The  end  come$  abruptly  on  a  swift 
climax. 


OTTORINO  RESPIGHI 

[1879-1936] 

K5PIGHI  was  born  at  Bologna,  of  a  highly  gifted  family  of  artists.  His  pater- 
nal grandfather  had  been  organist  and  choirmaster  at  the  parish  church, 
and  his  father  was  a  pianist  of  ability.  Respighi's  mother  came  of  a  family 
noted  in  other  artistic  directions. 

The  composer's  first  lessons  in  music  were  given  him  by  his  father,  and  the 
boy  set  out  to  become,  eventually,  a  violinist.  He  studied  later  at  the  Rossini  School 
of  Music  at  Bologna,  and  after  leaving  it,  gave  a  number  of  violin  recitals.  Even- 
tually he  returned  to  the  piano,  and  he  has  played  his  own  piano  compositions  at 
many  a  concert,  including  some  in  the  United  States. 

Respighi  soon  turned  his  attention  toward  composition,  and  studied  under 
several  very  distinguished  masters,  among  them  Bruch,  Rimsky-Korsakov,  and 
Martucci.  He  held  various  teaching  posts  in  Italy,  but  his  compositions  were  so 
successful  that  he  was  able  to  abandon  this  refuge  of  the  struggling  musician. 

His  compositions  are  many  and  in  varied  form.  He  is  known  chiefly  for  the 
three  Roman  poems,  a  Suite  of  Ancient  Dances,  a  suite  for  small  orchestra  called 
The  Btrdsy  and  orchestrations  of  several  works  by  Bach.  Respighi  visited,  and  was 
warmly  welcomed,  in  America,  where  he  played  and  conducted  his  own  works 
with  distinguished  success. 


Pini  di  Roma 
[The  Pines  of  Rome} 

The  Pmes  of  Rome  is  the  second  of  the  series  of  symphonic  poems  in  which 
Respighi  celebrates  the  ancient  dignity  and  grandeur  of  the  eternal  city.  Its  first 
performance  in  America  was  given  by  the  New  York  Philharmonic,  under  the 
direction  of  Arturo  Toscanini.  On  the  following  day  it  was  performed  in  Phila- 
delphia, by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  under  the  direction  of  Respighi.  It  was 
instantly  successful,  and  since  these  performances  has  been  in  the  repertoire  of 
every  important  orchestra  in  America. 

The  background  of  the  piece  is  explained  in  a  note  which  the  composer  con- 
tributed to  the  program  notes  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra: 

While  in  his  preceding  work,  The  Fountains  of  Rome>  the  composer 
sought  to  reproduce  by  means  of  tone  an  impression  of  nature,  in  The  Pines 
of  Rome  he  uses  nature  as  a  point  of  departure  in  order  to  recall  memories 

400 


OTTORINO     RESPIGHI  4OI 

and  visions.  The  century-old  trees  which  dominate  so  characteristically  the 
Roman  landscape  become  testimony  for  the  principal  events  in  Roman  life. 

The  music  is  divided  into  four  connected  sections,  played  without  pause. 

The  Pines  of  the  Villa  Borghese 

It  is  not  difficult,  for  one  who  loves  nature,  to  believe  that  trees  are  living 
and  sentient  beings,  with  souls  and  memories.  Surely  they  have  the  power  to  make 
us  remember;  how  often  do  we  say,  "It  was  under  that  very  tree  that  thus  and  so 
happened"?  Trees  do  associate  themselves  with  human  activity;  and  what  trees 
could  be  more  crowded  with  memories  than  those  grave  and  shadowy  and  ancient 
giants  that  stand,  quiet  and  majestic,  against  the  landscape  of  historic  Rome?  But 
in  the  first  section  of  the  music  the  trees  look  down  upon  children  at  play,  shrill 
and  lively  as  birds.  No  memories  of  the  glorious  past  are  here,  but  perhaps  the 
kindly  trees  contemplate  the  busy  youngsters,  and  remember  them  against  the  day 
when  they,  too,  may  make  history  in  these  ancient  groves. 

The  Pines  Near  a  Catacomb 

The  scene  changes,  and  we  are  conducted  into  the  gloomy  shadow  of  the 
pines  that  stand  before  the  entrance  to  a  catacomb.  How  often  have  these  trees 
seen  trembling  figures  in  the  night,  stealing  beneath  the  branches  to  this  tomb  of 
the  living,  fearful  of  every  shadow,  shuddering  in  the  night  wind,  yet  determined 
to  witness,  in  the  subterranean  caverns,  the  sacrifice  that  was  life  and  health  and 
salvation?  Strings  and  horns,  both  muted,  suggest  mystery  and  darkness,  and  pres- 
ently in  the  orchestra  we  hear  an  echo  from  a  distant  day.  It  is  the  chanting  of 
worshipers,  muted  by  the  sheltering  earth;  a  primitive,  earnest  and  churchly  utter- 
ance in  the  lower  strings,  wordless  but  significant.  A  distant  trumpet  is  heard. 

The  Pines  of  the  Janicttlum 

Rome's  famous  hill  lifts  the  pines  toward  heaven,  and  in  the  full  light  of  the 
moon  a  nightingale  sings.  (Here  Respighi  requires  in  the  orchestration  a  phono- 
graph record  of  the  song  of  a  nightingale.)  Against  the  bird  voice  is  a  tremulous 
and  transparent  accompaniment  of  muted  strings  and  harp,  like  the  mists  that 
nightly  rise  above  Rome.  The  music  is  heavily  charged  with  mystery  and  languor, 
and  the  mists  hang  luminously  over  the  hillside  even  through  the  dawn,  when  we 
behold  the  lordly 

Pines  of  the  Apfam  Way 

Through  the  centuries,  armed  men  have  paced  this  ancient  highway;  march- 
ing forth  on  Roman  conquests,  returning  to  add  luster  to  their  city's  magic  name. 


4O2  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

In  the  music  there  is  a  suggestion  of  countless  footsteps.  Ghostly  legions  approach, 
with  banners  and  blaring  trumpets,  and  there  are  visions  of  ancient  triumphs,  of 
blazing  glories,  as  the  music  rises  to  one  of  the  most  sonorous  climaxes  in  sym- 
phonic music. 


Fontane  di  Roma 
[The  Fountains  of  Rome] 

OF  THE  three  symphonic  poems  composed  by  Respighi  on  aspects  of  Rome,  its 
landscapes  and  its  history,  The  Fountains  of  Rome  is  the  first  and  perhaps  the 
most  popular.  It  was  written  in  1916,  and  its  fre?niere  given  at  Rome  under  the 
direction  of  Arturo  Toscanini,  February  10,  1918.  The  first  performance  in 
America  was  by  the  Philharmonic  Society  of  New  York,  under  Josef  Stransky, 
February  13,  1919. 

The  composer  finds  powerful  imaginative  stimuli  in  various  details  of  the 
Roman  scene,  and  vividly  describes  them  in  his  music.  Four  of  Rome's  many 
beautiful  fountains  are  described  in  this  tone  poem,  and  the  name  of  each  is  given 
to  a  section  of  the  music. 

The  score  of  The  Fountains  of  Rome  gives  a  clue  to  the  composer's  attitude: 

In  this  symphonic  poem  the  composer  has  endeavored  to  give  expression 
to  the  sentiments  and  visions  suggested  to  him  by  four  of  Rome's  fountains, 
contemplated  at  the  hour  in  which  their  character  is  most  in  harmony  with  the 
surrounding  landscape,  or  in  which  their  beauty  appears  most  impressive  to  the 
observer. 

The  Fountain  of  Voile  Gittlia  at  Dawn 

The  first  part  of  the  poem,  inspired  by  the  Fountain  of  Valle  Giulia, 
depicts  a  pastoral  landscape  5  droves  of  cattle  pass  and  disappear  in  the  fresh, 
damp  mists  of  a  Roman  dawn. 

The  Triton  Fountain  at  Dawn 

A  sudden  loud  and  insistent  blast  of  horns  above  the  frills  of  the  whole 
orchestra  introduces  the  second  part,  the  Triton  Fountain.  It  is  like  a  joyous 
call,  summoning  troops  of  naiads  and  tritons,  who  come  running  up,  pursuing 
eadi  other  and  mingling  in  a  frenzied  dance  between  the  jets  of  water, 


OTTORINO    RESPIGHI  403 

The  Fountain  of  Trevi  at  Midday 

Next  there  appears  a  solemn  theme,  borne  on  the  undulations  of  the  or- 
chestra. It  is  the  Fountain  of  Trevi  at  midday.  The  solemn  theme,  passing 
from  the  wood  to  the  brass  instruments,  assumes  a  triumphal  character. 
Trumpets  peal;  across  the  radiant  surface  of  the  water  there  passes  Neptune's 
chariot,  drawn  by  seahorses  and  followed  by  a  train  of  sirens  and  tritons.  The 
procession  then  vanishes,  while  faint  trumpet  blasts  resound  in  the  distance, 

The  Villa  Medici  Fountain  at  Sunset 

The  fourth  part,  the  Villa  Medici  Fountain,  is  announced  by  a  sad 
theme,  which  rises  above  a  subdued  warbling.  It  is  the  nostalgic  hour  of  sun- 
set. The  air  is  full  of  the  sound  of  tolling  bells,  birds  twittering,  leaves 
rustling.  Then  all  dies  peacefully  into  the  silence  of  the  night. 


Feste  romane 
[Roman  Festivals] 

THE  proud  and  ancient  city  has  looked  upon  many  a  festival;  festivals  so  contrast- 
ing in  character  as  those  which  were  celebrated  with  the  wholesale  slaughter  of  the 
early  Christians,  and  those  which  marked  the  coronation  of  a  pope;  revelries  that 
marked  the  rape  of  the  city  by  barbarians,  and  the  foregatherings  of  Roman 
patricians  when  the  "glory  that  was  Rome"  was  at  its  zenith. 

The  music  completes  the  group  of  symphonic  poems  through  which  Respighi 
wishes  to  convey  his  impressions  of  various  aspects  of  Rome  and  Roman  life.  It 
was  composed  in  1928,  and  was  given  its  first  performance  under  the  direction  of 
Arturo  Toscanini,  wfah  the  Philharmonic  Symphony  Society  of  New  York.  In  it 
the  composer  seeks  to  accomplish  "visions  and  evocations  of  Roman  fetes." 

The  work  is  divided  into  four  connected  sections,  the  first  o£  which  is  entided 

Circus  Maxim4($ 

The  composer  has  caused  to  be  printed  in  the  score  an  explanation  of  the 
meaning  of  the  music.  Here  he  paints  on  a  great  canvas  the  crowded  aisles  and 
benches  of  the  Circus.  The  mob,  intent  upon  games,  gorged  with  free  food  and 
cheap  wine,  sweating  and  shouting  its  habitual  cry  "pmem  et  &rc&tsss9*  swarms 
through  the  stone- walled  passages  so  aptly  named  wmttoria*  Tbe  sky  is  overcast 


404  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

and  threatening,  but  the  throng  sees  only  the  bright  sand  of  the  arena  and  the 
purple  booth  of  the  Caesar,  whom  they  greet  with  lusty  "Aves."  A  band  of  Chris- 
tians is  led  into  the  arena,  singing  a  hymn  of  joy  and  resignation.  The  cages  of  the 
lions  are  thrown  open,  and  their  howling  mingles  with  the  voices  of  their  victims. 
The  song  of  the  martyrs  is  triumphant — and  then  obliterated. 

The  Jubilee 

Weak  and  weary  and  almost  despairing,  a  band  of  pilgrims  plods  along  the 
road  to  Rome.  Laboriously  they  climb  to  the  summit  of  Monte  Mario,  and  then 
suddenly  bursts  upon  their  vision  the  incomparable  panorama  of  the  eternal  city. 
"Rome!  Rome!"  they  shout  in  frenzied  joy,  and  they  join  spontaneously  in  a 
hymn  of  praise  and  thanksgiving,  while  from  the  church  towers  of  Rome  comes  a 
welcoming  reply. 

The  October  Festival 

The  harvest  is  in;  the  grapes  have  given  their  lifeblood  for  the  making  of 
rich  wines.  The  populace  takes  to  the  woodlands  and  the  fields,  with  games  and 
sports  and  loVe-making;  with  hunts  and  merry  music.  After  nightfall,  serenades 
and  swift,  cool  kisses  and  the  eternal  stratagems  of  youth. 

The  Effyh&ny 

A  feast  often  celebrated  more  enthusiastically  than  Christmas  by  some  Euro- 
pean peoples.  Religious  exaltation  transposed  into  very  human  revelry.  Trumpets 
are  like  strident  young  imperative  voices  in  the  crowd.  Peasants  dance,  wildly, 
heavily,  with  abandon;  the  leaping  measures  of  the  saltarello  are  heard,  and  the 
harsh  sweet  whining  of  a  barrel  organ.  The  uproar  is  terrific. 


NIKOLAI  RIMSKY-KORSAKOV 

[1844-1908] 


KrtSKY-KoRSAKOV  was  born  in  a  little  Russian  town  called  Tikhvin.  Of  aris- 
tocratic family,  he  never  faced  the  physical  hardships  and  difficulties  that 
have  beset  so  many  of  the  great  musicians  and  composers.  The  develop- 
ment of  his  musical  talents  was  handicapped,  however,  by  the  very  fact  of  his  fortu- 
nate birth.  While  the  education  of  which  he  was  assured  by  the  standing  of  his 
family  included  an  elementary  instruction  in  music,  this  had  presently  to  be  aban- 
doned in  favor  of  one  of  the  very  few  professions  regarded  as  suitable  to  a  young 
man  of  his  birth  —  that  of  a  naval  officer. 

He  had  shown  such  marked  ability  in  his  primary  musical  studies  that  even 
while  a  student  in  the  Naval  College,  and  later  as  an  officer  on  a  three-year  cruise, 
he  was  able,  under  great  difficulties,  to  pursue  his  studies.  His  first  symphony  was 
composed  during  this  long  voyage,  and  was  sent  in  sections  to  Balakirev,  another 
Russian  composer  of  note,  for  correction. 

After  his  period  of  service  in  the  Russian  navy,  Rimsky-Korsakov  soon  be- 
came one  of  that  important  group  of  Russian  composers  who  form  the  so-called 
neo-Russian  schooL  Among  them  were  Cesar  Cui,  Balakirev,  Borodin,  and  Mus- 
sorgsky, all  of  whom  were  playing  conspicuous  parts  in  the  development  of  Russian 
musk  as  we  know  it  today. 

Following  his  First  Symphony  came  two  compositions  which  attracted  to 
Rimsky-Korsakov  the  attention  of  the  whole  Russian  musical  world.  These  were 
the  symphonic  poem  Sadko  and  The  Mmd,  of  Pskov,  an  opera.  Now  the  composer 
retired  from  his  duties  in  the  navy,  and  accepted  a  position  as  professor  in  the  St. 
Petersburg  Conservatory.  He  held  a  succession  of  musical  positions,  and  as  a  teacher 
was  conspicuously  successful,  developing  as  his  pupils  such  noted  musicians  as 
Liadov,  Ippolitov-Ivanov,  Sacchetti,  Gretchaninov,  and  Glazunov. 

Rimsky-Korsakov  had  already  become  successful  as  a  composer  when  he  be- 
gan to  entertain  serious  doubts  as  to  the  thoroughness  and  utility  of  his  own  musical 
education  —  which  had  been  largely  accomplished  through  self-teaching.  Accord- 
ingly, he  set  about  acquiring  the  most  thorough  knowledge  of  the  classical  require- 
ments of  the  composer,  and  by  this  noble  gesture  of  self-discipline  called  forth  the 
admiration  of  all  his  musical  friends,  including  the  great  Tchaikovsky,  who  paid 
him  an  exceptionally  warm  tribute. 

The  music  of  this  composer  is,  generally  speaking,  strongly  marked  with  na- 
tional characteristics.  What  is  perhaps  even  more  remarkable  is  the  fact  that  it  is 
sometimes  deeply  tinged  with  the  wondrous  colors  of  the  East  —  the  East  which, 
though  we  infrequently  realize  it,  lies  dose,  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  location,  to  Russia. 
Yet  Rimsky-Korsakov  could  compose,  also,  in  so  definite  an  Iberian  strain  as  we 

40$ 


406  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

note  in  the  Spanish  Capice.  In  the  field  of  opera  the  Russian  master  achieved  con- 
spicuous success,  chiefly  with  Sadko,  Snegurouchka,  and  Le  Coq  d'or. 


Overture:  "La  Grande  Paque  russe" 

\The  Russian  Easter] 

HERE  is  tremendously  thrilling  music;  music  that  leaps  innumerable  years,  and  in- 
volves at  once  the  solemnity  of  the  Christian  Easter,  the  wild  vernal  rites  of  pagan 
times,  and  the  orgiastic  celebrations  of  peasant  Russia.  It  is  indescribably  nervous 
music — in  the  somberness  of  its  ecclesiastical  themes,  in  the  restless  rhythms  that 
move  through  it,  in  the  high-pitched  and  frenetic  exaltations  of  its  climax.  It  is, 
almost  from  beginning  to  end,  an  emotional  and  dynamic  crescendo. 

There  are  derivations  of  two  ancient  Russian  hymns — Let  God  Arise!  and 
An  Angel  Mourned — in  the  solemn  introduction.  Yet  these  very  motives,  sober  as 
they  are,  contain  the  germs  of  the  febrile  figures  that  play  furiously  through  the 
music.  Pompous  brasses  declaim,  like  tall  and  deep-voiced  mitered  priests  in  an  echo- 
ing cathedral;  and  the  choirs  of  the  orchestra  reverently  respond.  There  are  in  the 
music,  says  the  composer,  recollections  of  the  gloom  that  overlay  the  sepulcher  of 
Christ  after  the  Resurrection,  when  His  friends  came  and  found  the  tomb  empty. 
But  these  do  not  endure  for  long.  At  the  realization  of  the  Resurrection,  the  central 
proof  of  redemption  in  the  Christian  faith,  joy  is  unbridled,  frantic,  wild.  A  short 
solo  for  timpani  sets  the  pace  and  rhythm  for  the  remainder  of  the  overture,  which 
is  a  gorgeous  orgy  of  orchestral  sound,  culminating  in  a  climax  of  electric  brilliance 
and  crushing  power. 


Scheherazade 

IT  WOULD  be  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  fitting  subject  for  exploitation  by  a  com- 
poser of  Rimsky-Korsakov*s  particular  gifts  than  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  more 
properly,  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights  stories.  The  Orient  is  but  next  door  to 
Russia,  and  few  are  the  Russian  composers  who  do  not  feel  its  subtle  influence. 
Rimsky-Korsakov  was  almost  unique  in  his  ability  to  write  music  pervaded  with 
the  perfumes,  the  glowing  colors,  the  brilliant  and  exotic  life  of  the  oldest  part  of 
the  Old  World.  The  modern  orchestra,  with  its  inexhaustible  resources  of  tone 


NIKOLAI    HIMSKY-KORSAKO?  407 

color,  lay  like  a  great  musical  palette,  ready  to  his  hand.  With  the  wealth  of  pig- 
ments which  it  supplied,  Rimsky-Korsakov  compounded  tonal  hues  in  almost  be- 
wildering variety  and  of  a  strange  and  wonderful  beauty.  Combined  with  the  seduc- 
tive rhythms  of  the  East,  these  marvelous  sound  colors  take  life  and  motion  as  the 
orchestra  projects  them  in  a  gigantic  musical  kaleidoscope. 

The  composer  declares  explicitly  that  in  the  suite  he  had  no  intention  of  de- 
picting, in  detail,  any  of  the  Arabian  Nights  stories.  We  cannot  definitely  connect, 
with  certain  exceptions,  the  divisions  of  the  suite  with  definite  episodes  in  the  stories. 
In  fact,  Rimsky-Korsakov  was  so  averse  to  the  hearer's  seeking  a  "program"  for 
the  music  that  in  one  edition  of  the  music  he  abandoned  even  the  hints  given  in  the 
rides  of  the  sections  of  the  suite. 

In  composing  Scheherazade  [he  writes  in  his  autobiography],  I  meant 
these  hints  to  direct  but  slightly  the  hearer's  fancy  on  the  path  which  my  own 
fiancy  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  another  and  composed 
on  the  basis  of  themes  common  to  all  four  movements.  Why,  then,  if  that  be 
the  case,  does  my  suite  bear  the  name,  precisely,  of  Scheherazade?  Because 
this  name  and  the  subtitle,  Ajter  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 
person  (which  happens  to  be  Scheherazade)  entertaining  her  stern  husband 
with  them. 

Here  is  the  story  that  inspired  Scheherazade: 

The  Sultan  Schahriar,  holding  the  conviction  that  all  women  are  false  and 
faithless,  vowed  to  put  to  death  each  of  his  wives  after  the  first  nuptial  night.  Bat 
the  Sultana  Scheherazade  saved  her  life  by  entertaining  her  lord  with  fascinating 
tales  which  she  continued  telling  him  for  a  thousand  and  one  nights,  (Perhaps  here 
we  had  the  forerunner  of  the  modern  "serial" !)  The  Sultan,  consumed  widb 
curiosity,  postponed  from  day  to  day  the  execution  of  his  wife,  and  finally  repudiated 
his  bloody  vow  entirely. 

"Many  were  the  wondrous  tales  recounted  for  the  delectation  of  Schahriar  by 
the  Sultana  Scheherazade,  for  in  them  she  made  use  of  the  verses  of  the  poets,  folk 
songs,  and  stories,  and  various  other  tales  and  adventures." 

In  consideration  of  Rimsky-Korsakov's  remarks  on  this  suite,  we  can  hardly 
look  for  a  connected  story  expressed  in  the  music.  Descriptive  it  is,  indeed— but  not 
narrative.  However,  there  are  certain  motives  which,  although  used  somewhat 


408  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

indiscriminately,  have,  as  a  rule,  a  definite  significance.  These  will  be  mentioned 
as  they  appear. 

/.  The  Sea  and  the  Vessel  of  Sinbad 

As  the  music  begins,  we  perceive  the  menacing  figure  of  the  stern  Sultan, 
t  T*b*.  STfc  CWfc  8>h. 

^*~V*-*    -e^V-       »\   >   **  ul,  '      " 


T 


grimly  determined  upon  his  sanguinary  method  of  insuring  "fidelity"  in  his  wives, 
The  bold  phrase,  given  in  unison  by  trombone,  tuba,  horns,  and  the  woodwind  and 
strings  in  their  lower  range  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  suite,  might  represent  the 
severe  monarch.  There  is  a  little  interlude,  rather  tentative  in  character,  and  then 
tie  violin,  trembling  and  diffident,  yet  shining  clear  against  rich  chords  from  the 
harp,  utters  the  lovely  little  song  that  typifies  Scheherazade,  the  Narrator. 


Now  we  feel  the  long  swell  of  the  sea,  the  heaving  restless  sea;  we  hear  the 
strange  mysterious  sounds  of  water  lapping  at  the  smooth  sides  of  the  vessel  and 
chuckling  in  the  scuppers;  we  see  the  bellying  sail  and  the  bending  mast,  the  white- 
capped  blue  of  deep  water,  and  the  brazen  sun  hanging  in  a  brazen  sky.  The  list- 
lessness  of  the  midday  watch  settles  on  the  hot  decks  as  Sinbad  the  Sailor  looks  along 
the  rail  and  thrills  to  the  unceasing  motion,  the  ceaseless  susurrus  of  the  ocean. 

The  music  has  the  long  rolling  motion  of  a  deep-sea  comber.  Strings  maintain 
the  thread  of  the  story  of  Sinbad,  and  underneath  always  moves  the  sea  rhythm. 


Ft.** 


Presently  we  hear  the  string  motive  transferred  to  the  dreamy  voice  of  the  horn, 
and  decorated  with  polished  tones  of  the  flute  as  glittering  as  a  dash  of  sea  spray  in 
sunlight.  There  is  a  recurring  phrase  in  woodwind  that  is  almost  articulate,  almost 
says,  "Once  upon  a  time  .  ,  ."  and  it  is  by  no  means  difficult  to  feel  toward  the 
music  precisely  the  attitude  the  composer  wished  to  create.  A  fabulous  story  is  being 
told;  "a  painted  ship  upon  a  painted  ocean"  .  .  .  and  not  only  the  story,  but  the 
storyteller  and  the  listener  are  suggested  to  us.  Strange  birds  fly  overhead;  awful 


NIKOLAI    RIMSKY-KORSAKOV  409 

shapes  move  dimly  in  the  green  deeps  j  a  shadow  runs  swiftly  across  the  sunlit  decks 
though  there  is  no  shape  between  ship  and  sun ;  a  short,  fierce  storm  rages  invisibly 
in  the  infinite  blue  depths  of  the  tropic  sky;  the  sea  heaves  up  like  a  weary  giant. 
Suddenly  it  is  not  a  picture  but  a  story;  the  stern  voice  of  the  Sultan  is  heard  again 
(the  same  theme  as  at  the  opening  of  the  movement)  and  the  tremulous  accents  of 
Scheherazade  go  bravely  on.  In  the  calm  that  closes  the  movement  we  have  assur- 
ance that  for  one  day,  at  least,  she  has  postponed  her  terrible  fate, 

//.  The  Tale  of  the  Prince  Kalender  * 

The  motive  of  Scheherazade,  a  little  more  confident,  a  little  more  certain, 
opens  the  second  movement  of  the  suite.  A  tenuous  shining  thread  of  tone,  chang- 
ing in  expressiveness  as  the  dainty  Sultana's  face  must  have  altered  to  meet  the  smile 
or  frown  of  her  lord.  Ending  in  a  cadenza  of  extreme  brilliance  and  difficulty,  it 
leads  us  into  the  main  theme  of  the  movement,  assigned  to  the  bassoon.  Here  is  a 
golden  opportunity  for  "the  clown  of  the  orchestra"  (the  bassoon).  In  turn  pathetic, 
awkward,  grave,  jocose,  this  strange  and  amusing  subject  might  well  be  taken  as 
significant  of  the  Prince  Kalender  himself  .  . .  dignity  in  rage,  pompousness  in  pov- 
erty, clowning  in  a  courtier.  We  have  no  means  of  knowing  what  story  the  fakir- 
prince  told  in  word  and  gesture,  but  we  cannot  escape  the  conclusion  that  it 
fascinated  the  interest  of  his  hearers. 

After  a  space  the  tearful  voice  of  the  oboe  takes  up  a  little  song  derived  from 
that  of  the  bassoon,  and  a  brightness  comes  over  the  musk.  The  violins  join  in  a 
livelier  rhythm,  and  toward  the  dose  of  the  first  section  of  the  music  we  hear  what 
might  be  the  accompaniment  to  a  wild  exotic  dance. 

The  placid  opening  of  the  second  section  is  deceptive,  for  suddenly  we  are  in 
the  midst  of  a  scene  of  wfld  barbaric  splendor.  Fanfares  of  the  brass,  flying  phrases 
of  string  and  woodwind  are  combined  in  a  whirling,  glowing  flux  of  tone ;  incan- 
descent masses  of  color  are  thrown  out  like  bright  jewels  from  the  garments  of 
some  dancer  of  the  Orient.  Commanding  phrases  are  uttered  boldly  by  the  trom- 
bones, and  echoed  in  the  mysterious  distance  by  a  muted  trumpet;  secretive  sentences 
come  from  plucked  and  muted  strings;  that  tragicomedian,  the  bassoon,  mutters 
strangely  to  itself. 

Here,  as  nowhere  else  in  the  suite,  Rimsky-Korsakov  develops  the  themes 
almost  in  conventional  symphonic  style.  This  is  particularly  noticeable  in  the  third 
part  of  the  "Kalender  Prince"  yet  not  the  slightest  degree  of  novelty,  or  of  vitality, 
or  of  sustained  interest  is  lost  in  the  process.  Incidentally,  the  hearer  will  note  in 
this  final  section  an  occasional  resemblance,  in  the  harmonic  treatment,  to  a  com- 
position by  another  modern  Russian — Stravinsky's  ballet  music  Pfftrouchka. 

*  A  Kalender  was  a  member  of  a  colt  of  wandering  mendicant  deirishes,  or  friars, 
rowed  to  poverty,  chastity,  and  humility.  They  were  also  fakirs  and  it  is  to  this  variety 
that  Rimsky-Korsakov  probably  refers  here. 


4IO  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

777.  The  Young  Prince  cmd  the  Yoimg  Princess 

What  a  delightful  contrast  in  these  naive  melodies!  Here  the  significance  of 
the  music  is  not  Oriental,  but  simply  human.  It  sings  of  love — love  of  the  idyllic 
kindj  not  without  passion,  but  without  the  fierce  selfish  hunger  of  passion  5  not  with- 
out ecstasy,  but  with  the  ecstasy  of  love  fulfilled  and  not  satiated. 

The  Prince  speaks  first,  and  to  him  is  assigned  the  tender  melody  of  the  violins 
at  the  very  beginning  of  the  movement.  We  might  picture  him  singing  to  his  love 
"on  a  terrace  above  a  dark  pool,  while  behind  them  *a  carven  moon,  without  faint- 
est aureole,  a  voluptuous  moon,  mysteriously  marked,  holds  her  hand  upon  the 
circle  of  her  breast.'  " 

Presently  the  Young  Princess  herself  speaks,  in  the  reedy  sweetness  of  the 
clarinet — &  tender  little  song,  with  rapturous  flights  of  tone  and  arch  phrases.  Later 
we  hear  her  accompanied  in  her  song  by  snare  drum,  tambourine,  cymbals,  and  the 
tinkling  triangle.  The  Young  Prince  sings  again  his  amorous  lay  ...  and  then,  near 
the  end,  we  remember  once  more  that  it  is  a  story,  as  the  shy  Scheherazade  appears* 

IV.  Festival  at  Bagdad.  The  Sea 

The  Vessel  Is  Wrecked 

Conclusion 

Once  again  the  stern-voiced  Sultan  is  heard  in  his  dreadful  resolution  .  .  .  but 
Scheherazade  hastens  on  with  her  stories,  diverting  him  with  a  glowing  description 
of  a  Bagdad  festival.  A  brief  but  brilliant  violin  cadenza  leads  us  to  this  lively  and 
colorful  scene.  Wild  dancers  weave  sinuously  in  strange  arabesque  figures,  gayly 
colored  draperies  stiffen  in  the  breeze,  the  hubbub  of  the  market  place  runs  like  a 
powerful  undercurrent  beneath  the  more  assertive  sounds  of  the  festival.  Snake 
charmers  pipe  magic  tunes  to  their  hooded  and  venomous  charges  ...  fakirs  cry 
their  wares  and  perform  strange  feats  of  thaumaturgy  before  a  thousand  curious 
eyes  „  .  .  ivory-skinned  girls  peer  seductively  from  shadowy  shelters  of  richest  rugs 
and  rare  fabrics  . . ,  imperious  camels  carry  some  lordly  satrap  and  his  train  through 
the  scurrying,  chattering  crowds  *  .  .  rare  perfumes,  mingled  with  the  penetrating 
odors  of  spices  and  the  unforgettable  scent  of  the  streets  and  crowds  ...  it  K  the 
Orient,  the  Orient  with  all  its  brilliantly  glowing  life  and  sound  and  colon 

Once  again  the  ominous  accents  of  the  Sultan  are  heard,  but  briefly  now  and 
with  less  determination,  while  Scheherazade  bravely  continues  with  her  tale,  desper- 
ately achieving  new  climaxes,  more  bewildering  pictures  of  beauty.  Suddenly  we 
are  once  more  on  the  sea,  on  the  broad  decks  of  Sinbad^s  ship. 

But  it  is  not  the  quiet  ocean  we  have  known.  Rather  its  gigantic  surges  heave 
themselves  up  to  terrifying  heights,  the  vessel  trembles  to  its  very  keel;  the  sals 
crack  like  giant  pistols  under  the  impact  of  sudden  fierce  gusts  from  the  empty  dries. 


NIKOLAI    RIMSKY-KORSAKOV  411 

Masts  bend  and  strain  ...  the  sailors  turn  ashen  faces  toward  a  great  rock,  sur- 
mounted by  a  warrior  of  bronze  . .  .  and  toward  the  rock  the  ship  turns  too,  drawn 
irresistibly  by  some  occult  force. 

A  heaven-splitting  crash  .  .  .  and  the  ship  is  gone,  her  proud  hull  splintering 
and  grinding  against  the  refractory  rock  .  .  .  and  only  the  wandering  winds  to 
mourn  for  her.  Now  Scheherazade  rehearses  the  little,  almost  articulate,  phrase 
(woodwind)  with  which  she  prefaced  her  stories,  and  presently  we  hear  her  own 
lovely  motive,  as  before,  in  the  voice  of  the  violin. 

The  Sultan  finally  speaks — but  now  gently,  amorously,  and  the  violin  rises 
to  an  incredible,  triumphant  height  against  the  glowing  harmonies  that  end  the 
movement. 


Capriccio  espagnol 

IT  is  a  curious  fact  that,  before  Ravel  and  certain  contemporary  Spanish  composers, 
the  musical  spirit  of  Spain  was  more  vividly  expressed  by  Slavic  composers  than  by 
Spaniards.  The  many  dance  and  song  forms,  the  captivating  and  sensuous  rhythms, 
the  folk  and  gypsy  melodies,  have  exercised  a  fascination  upon  all  the  great  musi- 
cians who  have  heard  them  at  first  hand,  and  many  have  adopted  them  to  their  own 
musical  purposes. 

Rimsky-Korsakov  had  planned  this  work  as  a  fantasy  for  violin  upon  Spanish 
themes,  but  before  he  had  done  more  than  to  sketch  the  work,  he  decided  that  the 
glamor  and  glitter  he  wished  this  music  to  express  could  be  conveyed  with  more 
effect  through  the  orchestra.  He  was  singularly  proud  of  this  music,  and  with  rea- 
son 5  there  is  little  to  compare  with  it  in  dazzling  brilliance  of  orchestration,  its 
fantastic  and  glowing  sound  pictures.  The  composer  resented,  however,  the  fact 
that  everyone  congratulated  him  on  the  orchestrationy  which  he  could  not  or  would 
not  consider  apart  from  the.  work  as  a  whole.  Nevertheless  it  is  the  opulence  of  its 
instrumental  habit  that  makes  this  music  most  interesting. 

The  first  performance  of  the  work  was  at  St.  Petersburg,  October  ji?  1887, 
under  the  direction  of  the  composer.  At  rehear$al  the  musicians  had  been  so  im- 
pressed that  they  stopped  and  applauded;  wanned  by  their  enthusiasm,  the  com- 
poser dedicated  the  Caprice  to  the  men  of  the  orchestra,  and  the  name  of  each  one 
appears  on  the  flyleaf  of  the  score. 

The  music  is  in  five  sections,  played  without  pause.  The  first; 

*  f 

Alborada 

A  morning  song,  and  one  to  which  the  deepest  sleeper  should  awaken,  for  it 
bursts  into  vigorous  life  with  a  theme  powerfully  projected  in  full  orchestra.  Later, 


4*2  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

plucked  strings,  with  woodwind  and  horn  in  accompaniment,  supply  a  background 
against  which  the  solo  clarinet  repeats  the  opening  theme.  A  fragment  which  must 
have  been  drawn  from  the  original  sketches  for  the  violin  fantasy — a  cadenza  tech- 
nically exacting  and  musically  beautiful — ends  this  section  of  the  music. 

Variations 

The  basis  of  the  variations  is  a  subject  issued  by  the  horns  at  the  beginning. 
Upon  it  the  composer  constructs  five  ingenious  elaborations,  each  presented  in  dif- 
ferent tone  colors.  The  first  begins  in  the  strings,  gracefully  rising  directly  out  of 
the  subject  matter.  The  second  combines  the  round,  full  tone  of  the  horn  with  the 
melancholy  reediness  of  the  cor  anglais.  The  third  is  boldly  put  forth  by  practically 
the  entire  orchestra.  The  fourth  is  sounded  in  a  delicious  combination  of  paired 
horns  and  cellos,  against  accompaniment  by  clarinet  and  violins.  The  last  again 
calls  forth  the  full  color  range  of  the  orchestra,  and  is  succeeded  by  one  of  the 
brilliant  display  passages  originally  written  for  violin,  now  played  by  flute. 

Alborada 

This  section,  in  its  musical  material,  is  practically  the  same  as  the  opening  part 
of  the  work,  but  its  orchestration  is  ingeniously  arranged  so  that  it  almost  sounds 
new.  The  most  noticeable  feature  is  the  exchange  of  parts  between  violin  and  clari- 
net. You  will  observe  that  the  solo  previously  given  to  clarinet  is  now  played  by 
violin,  and  vice  versa. 

Scene  and  Gypsy  Song 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  connect  this  music  with  "Scene" — if  we  are  looking 
for  details;  for  the  first  part  is  no  more  than  a  series  of  display  passages,  dramatic 
enough,  to  be  sure,  but  certainly  not  translatable  from  the  language  of  music  into 
any  other.  There  is  a  long  roll  on  the  snare  drum,  and  a  brilliant,  syncopated  pas- 
sage for  a  sharp-edged  combination  of  horn  and  trumpet.  The  rattling  of  the  drum 
fades,  and  the  solo  violin  traces  a  delicate  figure,  imitated  by  the  clarinet  and  the 
flute.  The  bright  tones  of  flute  dance  over  a  heavy  sounding  of  the  timpani;  the 
rapidly  beaten  cymbal  makes  a  brilliant  foil  for  the  full  richness  of  the  solo  clarinet. 
The  "Scene"  is  ended  by  the  iridescent  glitter  of  harp  and  triangle. 

An  ecstatic  glissando  on  the  harp  ushers  in  the  passionate  gypsy  song,  sung 
with  fierce  emphasis  by  the  violins  with  a  brassy  accompaniment  from  trombone, 
tuba,  and  cymbals.  The  orchestra  remembers  the  violin  solo  from  the  preceding  sec- 
tion and  puts  it  forward  with  vehemence.  The  music  grows  more  complicated, 
warmer,  and  more  lustrous  as  the  gypsy  song,  the  previous  theme  of  the  violin,  a 
solo  for  cello,  and  certain  intimations  of  the  finale  that  is  still  to  come  are  all  woven 


NIKOLAI    RIMSKY-KORSAKOV  413 

together  with  incredible  richness  and  brilliance  of  orchestration.  The  resources  of 
the  orchestra  seem  endless  as  they  are  summoned  forth,  one  by  one;  the  tempo 
increases  to  furious  speed,  and  rushes  the  orchestra  into  the 

Fandango  of  the  Asturias 

The  fandango  is  a  gracefully  seductive  dance,  probably  of  Moorish  origin, 
certainly  very  ancient.  Its  seductiveness  is  Spanish,  which  is  to  say  that  it  is  subtle, 
full  of  delicate  and  tempting  maneuvers,  its  flaming  passion  concealed — for  the  most 
part — beneath  a  mask  of  suavity.  But  here  the  dance  rises  to  a  fury,  to  an  over- 
powering degree  of  madness  and  abandon.  Occasionally  a  single  instrument  speaks, 
but  for  the  most  part  the  orchestra  is  enslaved  to  the  intoxicating  rhythm.  At  the 
peak  of  intensity,  the  trombones  speak  as  they  spoke  at  the  beginning  of  the  move- 
ment; the  dance  suddenly  changes  to  the  music  of  the  first  movement,  and  in  con- 
cluding passages  of  incandescent  warmth  and  terrific  power,  the  Capriccio  is  ended. 


ALBERT  ROUSSEL 

[1869-1937] 

AXERT  ROUSSEL  was  born  at  Turcoing,  April  5,  1869.  He  was  orphaned 
when  a  little  boy,  and  was  reared  by  his  grandfather,  mayor  of  his  native 
town.  Throughout  his  youth  and  his  school  years,  Roussel  exhibited 
marked  interest  in  and  talent  for  music;  but  he  was  educated  as  a  naval  officer,  and 
eventually  accepted  a  commission  in  the  French  navy.  His  vocation  gave  him  time 
for  what  was,  in  his  youth,  little  more  than  a  hobby ;  and  his  travels  brought  him  to 
strange  and  distant  scenes,  whose  life  and  color  eventually  made  themselves  felt  in 
his  music. 

Curiously  enough,  it  was  a  brother  of  the  opera  singer,  the  late  Emma  Calve, 
who  was  responsible  for  bringing  Roussel  to  the  attention  of  Colonne.  The  attitude 
of  this  distinguished  musician,  and  later,  of  others,  convinced  Roussel  that  he  should 
make  music  his  lifework,  and  he  resigned  his  commission  to  become  a  student  under 
Gigout  and  d'Indy. 

It  has  been  said  of  Roussel  that  he  possessed  every  desirable  characteristic  of  a 
great  composer  excepting  the  power  of  invention;  which  perhaps  is  a  somewhat 
euphemistic  manner  of  saying  that  he  was  uninspired.  This  is  too  harsh  a  dictum; 
and  while  unquestionably  certain  of  his  contemporaries  were  more  gifted  in  this 
respect,  the  sane  quality  of  his  music,  its  freshness,  its  shrewd  adaptation  of  new  and 
growing  ideas,  its  meticulous  craftsmanship,  its  color  and  poetry — these  are  quali- 
ties decidedly  worthy  of  consideration,  and  their  possessor  must  be  and  is  worthy  of 
a  hearing.  The  fact  is  Roussel  has  had  a  generous  hearing,  in  America  and  else- 
where; and  while  the  circle  of  his  audience  has  not  progressed  very  far  beyond  the 
more  or  less  esoteric  groups,  it  is  still  a  growing  circle.  Roussel  was  perhaps  the  last 
of  that  group  of  French  composers  who  brought  French  music  to  an  exceedingly 
high  degree  of  development,  and  his  departure  was  a  lamentable  event  in  the  eyes 
of  those  who  knew  him  and  his  work. 


Sinfonietta 

THOSE  who  have  urged  the  assertion  that  this  composer  lacked  spontaneity  and 
originality  sometimes  add  that  he  was  greatly  influenced  by  his  contemporaries.  It  is 
true  that  he  never  hesitated  to  adapt  to  his  own  purposes  any  new  device  that  seemed 
sound  and  rational  and  valid  and  effective;  and  he  was  influenced  by  others  exactly 
as  every  artist  is  influenced  by  his  predecessors*  But  he  was  a  distinct  and  forceful 

414 


ALBERT    ROUSSEL  415 

personality  in  his  own  right,  and,  as  Arthur  Hoeree  commenting  upon  the  perform- 
ance of  what  was  probably  Roussel's  last  work  (Rapodie  fiamande)  wrote,  "He 
possesses  that  kind  of  honesty  which  forbids  circumventing  obstacles  by  trickery  of 
workmanship,  for  his  thoughts  are  of  a  higher  order.  This  directness  has  provided 
us  with  a  score  different  from  that  of  the  symphonies  with  their  familiar  structures, 
but  no  less  representative  of  the  personal  style  of  the  composer."  Of  other  charac- 
teristics of  Roussel's  music,  we  have  the  criticism  of  M.  Jean-Aubry,  who  writes, 
"The  ingenious  orchestration  nowhere  reveals  the  obstinate  desire  to  attract  atten- 
tion that  has  too  often  lessened  the  merit  of  modern  works."  (Certainly  the  orches- 
tration of  this  Sinfonietta  is  anything  but  ostentatious!)  "The  employment  of  the 
instruments  ...  is  governed  by  no  desire  to  master  a  theorem  but  by  the  play  of 
their  colors  and  nuances,  for  the  awakening  of  the  imagination  or  the  feelings  of 
the  listener.59 

These  remarks  were  written  in  referring  to  another  work  (Evocations)  but 
are  apt  in  their  application  to  the  Sinfonietta.  We  shall  find  little  that  is  strange, 
nothing  that  is  overpowering,  in  this  exquisitely  finished  music;  none  of  the  exotic 
colors  of  Padmavati)  the  fantasy  of  Poem  of  the  Forest}  but  sincerely  conceived  and 
charming  music,  asking  only  for  the  limited  yet  subtly  variable  colors  of  the  string 
orchestra,  and  for  no  intemperate  dynamics,  no  startling  denouements,  no  vulgar 
sensations. 

The  music  is  written  with  that  fastidious  craftsmanship  which  was  one  of  the 
composer's  most  conspicuous  characteristics.  In  its  three  brief  sections — allegro 
moltoy  andante,  allegro — it  traverses  with  well-bred  charm  the  limits  of  the  terri- 
tory available  to  an  orchestra  of  strings. 


CHARLES  CAMILLE  SAINT-SABNS 
[1835-1921] 

CHARLES  CAMILLE  SAINT-SAENS  was  born  in  Paris,  October  9,  1835. 
When  scarcely  more  than  an  infant,  he  exhibited  a  love  of  music  and  a 
certain  aptness  for  it.  His  mother  and  her  great-aunt  were  quick  to  per- 
ceive this,  and  saw  to  it  that  he  was  given  the  beginnings  of  a  thorough  musical 
education.  They  were  careful,  however,  not  to  force  his  talent,  but  his  attainments 
as  a  child  were  nevertheless  astonishing.  His  First  Symphony  was  performed  when 
he  was  but  eighteen  years  old.  A  few  years  later  he  was  capably  filling  the  post  of 
organist  at  the  Church  of  the  Madeleine.  For  a  term  he  was  professor  of  piano  at  a 
conservatory,  and  during  his  tenure  had  as  pupils  such  famous  musicians  as  Faure, 
Gigout,  and  Messager. 

His  activities  were  many  and  varied;  he  appeared  in  public  as  pianist,  organist, 
and  conductor;  he  soon  became  famous  as  one  of  the  leading  spirits  in  French 
music.  He  wrote  a  book  of  poems,  essays  on  musical  subjects,  several  short  plays, 
and  papers  on  scientific  subjects,  as  well  as  music  in  almost  every  form.  He  visited 
the  United  States  on  two  different  occasions,  the  second  being  the  Panama-Pacific 
Exposition,  to  which  he  was  a  representative  of  France. 

As  a  composer,  Saint-Saens  is  distinguished  by  the  formal  and  technical  finish 
of  his  work,  and  his  extraordinary  talent  for  orchestration.  He  is  seldom  profound, 
but  he  is  never  obscure;  and  the  occasional  lack  of  depth  in  his  music  is  more  than 
compensated  by  its  grace  and  frequently  acute,  though  kindly,  sense  of  humor. 
Romain  Rolland,  the  sympathetic  biographer  of  so  many  great  musicians,  says  of 
Saint-Saens,  "He  is  tormented  by  no  passions,  and  nothing  perturbs  the  lucidity 
of  his  mind.  He  brings  into  the  midst  of  our  present  restlessness  something  of  the 
sweetness  and  clarity  of  past  periods,  something  that  seems  like  fragments  of  a 
vanished  world." 


Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Violoncello  and  Orchestra 

THE  number  of  concertos  for  cello  is  pitifully  few.  It  is  strange  that  this  beautiful, 
expressive,  masculine  voice  should  have  been  so  neglected.  One  would  expect  that 
with  its  wonderful  tone — its  "singing"  power,  its  strength  and  relative  agility — the 
cello  would  be  a  favorite  with  the  great  composers  who  wrote  concertos  for  string 
instruments.  The  more  superficial,  thin,  and  feminine  beauty  of  the  violin  seems  to 
have  blinded  most  composers  to  the  resources  of  the  cello  as  a  solo  instrument. 

Dvorak  and  Saint-Saens  have  each  contributed  to  the  literature  of  the  cello, 

416 


CHARLES     CAMILLE     SAINT-SAENS  417 

and  their  works  are  in  the  repertoire  of  every  prominent  cellist  today.  Saint-Saens 
wrote  two  concertos  for  the  violoncello,  this  one,  Opus  33,  being  a  favorite  with 
performers  and  audiences  alike.  It  was  first  performed  at  Paris,  January  19,  1873. 

The  music  is  not  divided  into  three  or  four  movements,  as  is  the  conventional 
work  of  this  type.  It  is  played  in  one  movement,  but  with  various  sections  in  differ- 
ing rhythm  and  tempo.  The  concerto  as  a  whole  is  unified  by  a  basic  theme  which 
appears  at  intervals  throughout  its  length.  This  theme  is  stated  at  the  outset  by  the 
solo  cello,  with  accompaniment  by  violins  and  violas.  It  is  exploited  thoroughly  by 
the  soloist,  then  by  woodwind,  and  again  by  strings.  With  great  canniness  the  com- 
poser opposes  the  tone  of  the  cello  with  either  contrasting  or  richly  blending  timbres 
in  the  orchestra;  meanwhile,  he  asks  of  the  soloist  considerable  dexterity  in  handling 
the  instrument,  flawless  intonation,  and  a  flexible  bow  arm. 

There  is  a  second  theme,  not  quite  so  animated  as  the  first,  again  in  the  solo 
cello  with  accompaniment  by  its  orchestral  relatives.  As  the  music  proceeds,  the  solo 
part  becomes  more  and  more  exacting  in  its  technical  requirements;  yet  it  lies  always 
within  the  most  effective  range  of  the  instrument,  and  rarely  displays  mechanical 
dexterity  merely  for  showy  effect. 

After  thoroughly  working  out  the  thematic  material,  the  music  proceeds  to 
what,  in  effect,  is  a  new  movement.  The  rhythm,  the  tempo,  and  the  tonality  (key) 
change ;  the  chief  musical  idea  is  produced  by  the  violins,  con  sordino  and  pianissimo. 
The  solo  instrument  disagrees  to  the  extent  of  pouring  forth  a  melody  of  its  own, 
posed  beautifully  against  that  of  its  soft-spoken  companions  in  the  orchestra.  Tiring 
of  this  diversion,  the  cello  engages  in  a  brilliant  display  of  its  technicomusical  possi- 
bilities, ending  upon  a  vibrant  trill;  this  is  contrasted  with  the  penetrating  voices  of 
the  woodwind  section  in  the  orchestra,  and  there  is  a  lovely  play  of  instrumental 
color. 

In  a  new  section  of  the  concerto,  the  solo  instrument,  after  giving  out  its 
theme,  is  required  to  execute  a  series  of  difficulties  against  brilliant  comment  by  the 
orchestral  instruments.  Complicated  rhythms,  swift  scales,  and  the  projection  of  its 
largest  and  most  noble  tones  exact  the  utmost  skill  from  the  performer;  and  the 
growing  sonority  of  the  orchestra,  as  it  approaches  the  climax  and  conclusion  of  the 
work,  overcomes  any  but  the  most  powerful  bowing  of  the  solo  cello. 


The  Carnival  of  the  Animals 

THIS  charming  music  was  composed  for  a  Mardi-gras  concert,  and  was  played  for 
the  first  time  in  the  United  States  on  August  28,  1922,  under  the  direction  of  Louis 
Hasselmans,  a  conductor  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company,  at  Chicago.  Almost 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

everyone  knows  at  least  one  section  of  the  work — The  Swan,  which  alone  escaped 
the  prohibition  the  composer  issued  shortly  after  the  first  performance  in  Europe, 
against  public  performance  of  the  suite  as  a  whole,  until  after  his  death.  There 
are  other  familiar  melodies  interpolated  in  this  music,  among  them  a  theme  from 
Saint-Saens'  own  symphonic  poem,  Danse  macabre-,  two  phrases  from  Offenbach's 
Orpheus  m  Hades  $  a  theme  from  the  Ballet  des  sylfhes  from  Berlioz*  La  Damna- 
tion de  Faust;  a  motive  from  the  scherzo  of  Mendelssohn's  Midsummer  Nights 
Dream  music;  a  phrase  from  Rosina's  air  in  The  Barber  of  Seville;  and  a  number 
of  French  folk  songs. 

Introduction  md  Royal  March  of  the  Lion 

Quivers  of  anticipation  are  given  out  by  piano,  and  after  a  fanfare,  mighty 
Leo  himself  approaches,  accompanied  first  by  a  rather  Oriental  theme,  and  then 
chromatic  roars  in  the  bass.  The  King  of  Beasts  is  presently  dismissed,  and  in  a 
moment  we  are  listening  to 

H ens  and  Cocks 

Would  that  barnyard  sounds  were  even  as  musical  as  this  cacophony!  Hens 
cackle  with  the  aid  of  clarinet  and  strings;  whereas  the  lordly  rooster  projects  his 
morning  call  through  the  medium  of  the  piano* 

Wild  Asses 

In  the  original  score  this  section  bears  the  tide,  "Awmaux  veloces"  Later 
versions  give  the  title,  "Kemiones?  which  can  be  translated  as  "Wild  Asses." 
These  fleet-footed  beasts  trip  lightly  through  rapid  passages  assigned  exclusively 
to  the  pianos.  Curiously,  these  passages  are  played  without  change  of  rhythm  or 
dynamic  effect,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  sarcastic  Saint-Saens  here  made 
a  mock  of  those  technically  dazzling  performers  upon  the  piano  who,  if  their 
musicianship  were  equal  to  their  digital  dexterity,  would  be  musicians. 

Tortoises 

The  sluggish  fellows  go  their  lumbering  way  with  a  curious,  stubborn  inde- 
pendence, while  pianos  supply  a  pulsating  background  and  a  theme,  from  Orfheus, 
usually  played  at  dazzling  speed,  moves  with  grotesque  deliberation  through  the 
lower  ranges  of  the  strings. 

The  Elephant 

Again  the  pianos  establish  the  rhythm^-iiow  in  waltztime — and  then  basses 
aad  tellos  add  a  melody  essentially  gay  enough,  but  in  this  curious  and  awkward 


CHAKLES    CAMILLA    S AINT-S AE  NS  419 

projection,  amusingly  cumbersome  and  ungainly.  A  phrase  from  Berlioz'  Wdtz  of 
the  Sytyhs  is  deftly  interpolated — a  mischievous  touch  that  must  have  delighted 
everyone  but  Berlioz  ...  if  he  heard  it! 

Kangaroos 

The  curiously  sudden  yet  hesitant  movements  of  these  quaint  marsupials  are 
suggested  by  the  alternately  sounded  pianos. 

The  Aquarium 

There  is  pale  green,  translucent  water  in  the  lovely  sounds  that  flow  together 
to  make  this  interesting  section.  Flute  and  violin  sustain  a  purling  melody,  rippling 
arpeggios  from  the  pianos  suggest  the  movement  of  waters;  a  flic  of  celesta  might 
be  the  flirt  of  a  goldfish's  tail.  .  . . 

Personages  with  Long  Ears — Cuckoo  in  the  Woods 

Probably  anyone  who  hears  this  music  can  identify  the  creatures  depicted 
here  by  the  braying  first  and  second  violins-— without  departing  his  own  circle  of 
acquaintances!  We  are  referring  to  the  Personages,  not  to  the  Cuckoo!  As  to  the 
latter,  his  voice — imitated  by  clarinet  against  pianos — is  ingratiating  enough,  even 
though  his  morals  aren't! 

Birds 

The  flute  imitates  a  dozen  birds  at  once;  piano  tones  flicker  and  chirp  imita- 
tively,  and  a  tremolo  like  the  rushing  of  a  thousand  little  wings  sweeps  through 
the  orchestra.  From  this  picture  of  brilliant  and  active  vitality  we  come  suddenly 
upon 

Fossils 

where  the  ironical  composer  burlesques  and  ridicules  himself  and  others.  Against 
pizzicato  chords,  the  familiar  clattering  bones  of  Danse  macabre  are  suggested 
in  the  dry,  bright  notes  of  the  xylophone.  Mingled  with  this  theme  of  desiccated 
skeletons  are  fragments  from  several  old  popular  French  songs,  and  even  a  bit 
(played  by  clarinet)  from  Rossini's  Earber  of  Seville.  Were  all  these  tunes  fossilized 
$o  soon?  Or  perhaps  they  were  merely  too  popular  for  Saint-Saens. 

The  Swan 

Had  this  lovely  melody  been  written  prior  to  the  Carwvaly  it  is  probable  that 
it  would  have  been  included  under  "Fossils,"  for  ft  has  been  played  almost  to 
death.  Yet  the  copl  purity  of  the  music  still  Jias  charm,  in  spite  of  the  cellists, 


420  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

good  and  bad,  who  have  so  often  pkyed  it  and  the  foolish  sentimentality  of  the 
dancers  who  have  attempted  to  mime  it. 

Pianists 

We  all  know  pianists  who  should  be  confined  with  other  zoological  specimens, 
and  of  all  pianists,  certainly  students  given  to  practicing  the  endless  exercises  of 
the  great  teacher  Czerny  are  the  most  dangerous  species.  The  composer  pokes  fun 
at  them  here,  as  they  do  the  same  musical  problem  over  and  over — the  orchestra 
discreetly  limiting  itself  to  a  few  modulating  chords,  and  a  sly  remark  near  the 
end  of  this  number.  Then,  without  interruption,  the  music  proceeds  through  a 
brilliant  finale,  in  which  all  the  characters  of  the  Carnival  are  passed  in  review, 
with  the  Personages  with  Long  Ears  bringing  up  the  rear — and  having  the  last 
word. 


Le  Rouet  d'Omphale 
[Omphalos  S$mnwg-Wheel] 

BRIEF  as  this  charming  work  is,  it  nevertheless  can  be  classified  as  a  symphonic 
poem.  It  is  based  on  the  story  of  Hercules,  who  once  disguised  himself  as  a  woman 
to  avoid  becoming  involved  in  certain  unpleasant  circumstances,  and  who  was  put 
to  work  at  spinning  by  Omphale,  Queen  of  Lydia.  There  is  no  detailed  story,  but 
it  requires  little  imagination  to  discover  in  the  strings'  whirring  figure  the  sound 
of  the  busy  wheel;  and  in  the  lugubrious  theme  in  the  bass,  the  discomfiture  of 
mighty  Hercules.  Saint-Saens  here  gives  us  a  charming  proof  of  his  extraordinary 
taste  and  skill  in  the  difficult  art  of  orchestration. 


Danse  macabre 

THIS  weird  waltz  was  inspired  by  a  poem  of  Henri  Cazalis,  which  in  turn  is  based 
on  an  old  myth  regarding  the  revels  of  ghosts  on  the  night  of  All  Souls'  Day.  Like 
much  of  the  music  of  Saint-Saens,  the  music  is  not  without  irony — here  a  bitter 
and  grisly  irony. 

As  the  poem  goes,  Death  Is  a  fiddler  who  summons  the  white  skeletons  from 
their  graves  at  midnight,  to  dance  with  him  a  measure,  to  join  in  wild  indescribable 


CHARLES    CAMILLE    SAINT-SAENS  421 

celebrations  until  the  dawn.  The  harp  announces  "the  witching  hour"  with  twelve 
soft  clear  notes,  and  immediately  the  necropolis  opens  its  stony  walls,  and  into 
the  night  troops  a  ghastly  grinning  company  of  skeletons.  Death  the  Fiddler  leads, 
and  we  hear  him  wryly  tuning  his  violin.  With  horrid  flourishes  Death  seems  to 
encourage  the  orchestra,  and  after  a  few  notes  plucked  furtively  from  the  lower 
strings,  the  obscene  revels  begin. 

The  rhythm  is  that  of  the  waltz,  but  more  rapid,  rigid,  and  mechanical.  The 
dancers9  bony  heels  make  clacking  sounds  against  the  tombstones  (xylophone), 
snatches  of  the  Dies  Irae — a  part  of  the  requiem  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church — 
are  adapted  to  macabre  purpose.  We  can  imagine  horrid  yells  and  laughter,  and 
the  wagging  of  empty  skulls,  the  slapping  of  fleshless  feet  upon  cold  stones.  There 
is  a  pause;  the  oboe  crows  like  a  cock;  the  orchestra  sighs  a  little,  and  is  silent* 
The  fantasy  dissolves  in  the  light  of  coming  day. 


ARNOLD  SCHONBERG 

[Born  1874] 

AtfOLD  SCHONBERG,  one  of  the  most  individual  and  important  of  modern 
composers,  was  born  September  13,  1874,  at  Vienna.  The  poverty  in 
early  life  which  seems  to  be  almost  a  conventional  requirement  for  the 
development  of  a  musician  was  his,  and  even  as  a  child  he  found  solace  for  his  woes 
in  music.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was  a  good  violinist,  and  had  composed  a  number 
of  little  pieces  for  that  instrument.  As  a  schoolboy,  he  consorted  with  other  youths 
of  sympathetic  tastes,  and  before  long  was  a  member  of  a  little  chamber-music 
ensemble,  for  which  he  composed  trios  and  quartets.  It  is  perhaps  significant  that 
much  of  the  important  music  he  was  to  compose,  later  in  life,  is  influenced  by 
Schonberg's  early  interest  in  music  for  small  groups. 

When  Schonberg  was  twenty  years  old,  he  became  a  pupil  of  Alexander 
Zemlinsky,  who  was  later  to  become  related  to  him  through  marriage.  This  noted 
teacher  recognized  the  young  man's  talent  for  composition,  and  assisted  him  not 
only  by  his  intelligent  instruction,  but  by  bringing  Schonberg  into  a  circle  of  young 
musicians  of  similar  tastes  and  inclinations.  This  group  was  strongly  under  the 
influence  of  Wagner,  and  Schonberg  absorbed  much  of  this  atmosphere.  In  two 
of  his  most  important  compositions — Gurre-Lieder  and  Verklarte  Nacht — the 
Wagnerian  flavor  is  distinctly  marked,  both  works  revealing  that  Tristan  was  a 
definite  influence  in  their  creation.  Later  and  contemporary  works  of  Schonberg 
reveal  a  highly  individual,  a  radically  modern  style  not  always  agreeable  to  unaccus- 
tomed ears.  Pierrot  Lunaare,  a  recent  work  of  importance,  is  fairly  representative 
of  Schonberg's  mature  style. 

At  present  (1940)  Schonberg  is  living  in  America,  teaching  in  schools  of 
music  at  Boston  and  New  York.  His  accomplishments  and  prestige  have  given 
him  enormous  influence  with  younger  American  composers,  and  his  development 
of  a  musical  philosophy  of  his  own  has  won  him,  among  students,  a  following  more 
devoted  than  discriminating.  Schonberg  himself  frowns  upon  anyone  who  deliber- 
ately seeks  to  imitate  his  style,  rightly  believing  that  the  student  should  develop 
his  own  ideas  in  his  own  way,  from  a  basis  of  thorough  fundamental  knowledge 
and  artistic  sincerity. 


Verklarte  Nacht 
\The  Night  Transfigured] 

THIS  marvelous  exhibition  of  the  power,  range,  and  expressiveness  of  the  string 
orchestra  was  originally  composed  as  a  sextet  for  strings.  It  is  very  early  Schonberg 

422 


ARNOLD    SCHONBERG  423 

— and  sometimes  one  cannot  avoid  being  grateful  on  that  account.  It  is  numbered 
Opus  4,  and  was  completed  during  a  period  of  three  weeks  in  the  summer  of  1 899. 
Inspired  by  a  poem  of  Richard  Dehmel,  it  translates  into  music  the  power  and  the 
beauty  of  love  and  forgiveness  under  the  divine  influences  of  nature. 

The  music,  in  its  original  form,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the 
literature  of  chamber  music.  It  is  more  frequently  presented,  and  has  become 
known  to  a  much  larger  circle,  in  its  revised  and  transcribed  version  for  string 
orchestra,  which  materially  differs  from  the  original  only  in  the  doubling  of  the 
cello  parts  by  the  basses.  Thereby  it  gains  not  only  in  sonority,  but,  through  the 
deeply  expressive  quality  of  the  contrabass,  in  emotional  suggestiveness  also. 

The  poem  which  inspired  this  music  also  has  the  title,  Verkl'drte  Nacht)  and 
is  one  of  a  collection  entitled,  Wetb  und  Welt  (Woman  and  the  World),  The 
poem,  necessary  to  a  complete  appreciation  of  the  music,  is  as  follows: 

VERKLARTE  NACHT 
Gedicht  von  Richard  Dehmel 

Sie  geht  mit  ungelenkem  Schritt. 
Sie  schaut  emfor;  der  Mond  lauft 
Ikr  dunkLer  Blick  ertrmkt  in  Licht, 
Die  Stimme  eines  Mawnes  sfricht: 


Zwei  Menschen  gehn  durch 

kalten  Hfan; 
der  Mond  lauft  mit>  sie  schaun 

rwnein* 

Der  Mond  lauft  uber  hohe  Eichen 
kem  Wolkchen  trubt  das  Himmels- 


m  das  die  schwarxen  Zacken  r&chen* 
Die  Siwnme  ernes  Weibes  spicht: 

Ich  trag  ein  Kind,  und  nicht  von  Dir 

Ich  geh  m  Sunde  neben  Dir. 

Ich  bob  mich  schwer  an  mir  vergangen. 

Ich  glaubte  mcht  mehr  an  an  Gluck 
und  hatte  doch  em  schwer  Verlangen 
nach  Lebensmhalty  nach  Mutter  gluck 
und  Pflicht;  da  hob  ich  mich  erfrechty 
da  liess  Ich  schaudernd  mem  Geschlecht 
von  emem  jremden  Mann  umjangen) 
und  hob  mich  noch  dafur  gesegnet. 

Nun  hat  das  Leben  sich  geracht: 
nun  bin  Ich  Dir>  o  Dir  begegnet* 


Das  Kind;  das  Du  emfyimgen  hasty 
sei  Deiner  Seele  kerne  Last% 
o  sieh,  wie  klar  das  ^PeltoU 
mertl 

Es  ist  em  Glanz  um  dlles  her> 
Du  treibst  mit  mir  auf  kaltem  Meery 
doch  evne  eigne  War  me  flmmert 
von  Dir  in  michy  von  mir  in  Dich. 
'Die  wird  das  jremde  Kind  verklaren 
Du  wirst  es  rmrt  von  mar  Gebaren: 
Du  hast  den  Glan%  m  mich 
Du  hast  mich  selbst  zym  Kind 
gemachty 


Er  j&sst  Ae  um  die  star  ken  Huften\ 
Ihr  Atem  kusst  sich  in  den  Luften. 
Zwei  Menschen  gehn  durch  hohe> 
Nacht. 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  author  of  this  book  accepts  full  responsibility  for  the  following  prose 
version: 

The  Night  Transfigured, 

These  two  wander  through  chill  and  lonely  and  desolate  meadows.  Against 
the  distant  and  impersonal  moon,  tall  oaks  raise  their  arms,  naked  and  black. 
No  cloud  masks  the  moon's  full  white  light,  but  in  the  woman's  heart  are  shadows 
deep  and  terrible.  She  speaks: 

"Beloved,  we  walk  together  now,  but  never  can  we  go  side  by  side  along  the 
paths  of  life.  For  I  walk  in  sin;  my  soul  and  my  body  are  heavy  with  a  child  that 
is  not  yours!  My  sin  is  mortal;  the  white  flame  that  I  cherished  for  you  is  extin- 
guished. No  longer  can  I  believe  in  love,  nor  in  the  happy  destiny  that  seemed 
to  be  ours. 

"I  sought  to  know  Life,  and  Life  has  deceived  me.  I  craved  the  ecstasy  our 
love  had  promised  and,  seeing  only  you,  gave  my  shuddering  body  to  a  stranger. 
I  thought  of  woman's  high  destiny  and  duty  of  motherhood;  I  dreamed  not  of 
mothering  another  child  than  yours.  Now  Life  has  taken  bitter  vengeance  upon 
me." 

Heavily  she  walks,  and  turns  her  face  into  shadow,  and  away  from  the  cold 
pure  moon  that  walks  along  with  them.  And  then  her  lover  speaks: 

"My  heart's  love,  fear  not  and  hate  not  the  child  that  moves  within  you. 
Think  of  my  love — our  love,  that  has  surrounded  us  even  as  this  lovely  gleam 
that  lies  now  upon  the  world.  Still  it  will  surround  and  warm  us,  even  in  the  face 
of  this,  even  through  the  coldest  and  stormiest  stretches  of  life's  unfriendly  sea. 
Though  you  lay  in  the  arms  of  another,  the  child  that  lives  within  you  is  mine, 
and  by  me  you  shall  bear  him.  Even  in  the  reckless  ecstasy  that  begot  him,  I  was 
within  your  thought  and  I  am  his  father.  For  you  have  brought  the  light  and  the 
wonder  of  love  to  me;  you  have  made  me,  myself,  a  child,  with  a  child's  unques- 
tioning love,  and  blind  acceptance  of  those  he  loves." 

His  arms  are  about  her  once  lovely,  now  distorted  body.  Their  souls  are 
joined  in  a  kiss.  These  two  walk  again  through  the  moonlit  and  transfigured  night. 

Employing  only  the  strings,  Schonberg's  musical  version  of  the  touching  poem 
is  singularly  eloquent.  The  variety  of  expression,  the  really  tremendous  climaxes, 
the  warmth  and  vigor  and  tenderness,  the  wonder  of  the  transfiguration  of  love 
and  forgiveness  combine  to  provide  an  unforgettable  musical  experience.  With 
rigid  economy  of  means,  he  interprets  musically  the  pain  of  guilt,  the  agony  of 
confession,  and  the  terror  of  punishment;  the  ageless  mystery  of  gestation,  the 
magnificence  of  self-denial,  and  the  serene  loveliness  of  understanding  and 
forgiveness. 

The  music  is  Wagnerian  in  concept  and  often  in  detail.  To  make  this  asser- 


ARNOLD    SCHONBERG  425 

don  is  certainly  not  to  disparage  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  interesting  to  observe 
that  Schonberg,  a  youth  of  twenty-five  when  this  music  was  written,  rigorously 
avoids  certain  faults  of  his  idol,  and  where  his  music  is  derivative,  it  derives  from 
the  most  moving  pages  that  Wagner  left  us.  The  work  is  roughly  divided  into 
sections  similar  to  those  indicated  in  the  original  poem.  It  seeks  to  create,  and 
does  create,  a  succession  of  moods,  concluding  with  some  of  the  loveliest  and 
most  subtle  and  sensitive  music  for  strings  ever  written  by  anyone.  A  detailed 
analysis  would  profit  little,  for  the  outlines  of  the  structure  are  at  all  times  perfectly 
lucid,  and  the  effect  of  the  music  itself  apart  from  its  strictly  technical  beauty, 
though  comprehensible,  defies  analysis. 


The  Song  of  the  Wood  Dove 
[From  Gurre-Lieder] 

SCHONBERG'S  gigantic  cantata,  Gurre-Lieder,  is  without  doubt  his  greatest  work 
to  date,  though  it  is  probable  that  the  composer,  whose  progress  in  the  more 
remote  provinces  of  modern  harmony  has  taken  him  far  from  this  music,  would 
violently  disagree.  This  is  an  early  work.  It  was  written  in  1901,  but  the  necessities 
of  existence  compelled  the  composer  to  lay  it  aside  for  ten  years.  Meanwhile 
Schonberg  had  developed  along  very  definite  musical  lines,  and  so  the  later  pages 
of  this  work,  as  well  as  the  orchestration  in  frequent  instances,  reveal  more  clearly 
the  contemporary  Schonberg,  while  the  main  body  of  the  cantata  shows  the  younger 
man,  still  under  the  influence  of  Wagner. 

The  score  calls  for  a  gigantic  orchestra,  five  solo  singers,  three  four-part  male 
choruses,  an  eight-part  chorus  of  mixed  voices,  and  a  narrator.  The  instrumentation 
is  extraordinary.  The  usual  string  choirs  are  employed,  but  augmented.  For  the 
rest  of  the  orchestra,  Schonberg  asks  for  four  flutes,  four  piccolos,  three  oboes, 
two  English  horns,  three  B-flat  clarinets  and  two  in  E-flat,  two  bass  clarinets, 
three  bassoons  and  two  contrabassoons,  ten  horns,  four  Bayreuth  tubas,  six  trumpets 
and  one  bass  trumpet,  one  alto  trombone,  one  contrabass  tuba,  six  timpani,  tenor 
and  side  drums,  bass  drum,  cymbals,  glockenspiel,  triangle,  xylophone,  tam-tam, 
rattle,  four  harps,  celesta,  and,  finally,  some  heavy  iron  chains. 

The  music  is  a  setting  for  a  cycle  of  poems  by  Jens  Peter  Jacobsen,  a  Danish 
poet.  They  deal  with  the  legendary  tale  of  the  love  of  King  Waldemar  IV  for  the 
princess  Tove — a  love  that  was  hopeless  and  unconsummated  by  marriage  because 
of  the  enforced  union,  for  diplomatic  reasons,  of  Waldemar  and  Helvig  of 


426  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONT 

Schleswig.  The  King,  nevertheless,  remained  faithful  in  his  heart  to  Tove,  and 
maintained  her  in  a  castle  the  site  of  which  is  said  to  have  been  within  a  few  miles 
of  Elsinore. 

Queen  Helvig  was  not  of  the  type  that  humbly  accepts  the  amorous  vagaries 
of  a  husband.  Enraged  and  frantic  with  jealousy,  she  caused  the  death  of  Tove. 
Waldemar  was  nearly  mad  with  fury  and  grief.  In  his  distress  he  blasphemed 
horribly.  Divine  punishment  was  not  long  withheld.  He  was  condemned  to  ride 
the  skies  nightly,  after  his  death,  with  his  troops  of  ghostly  retainers,  never  resting 
from  dusk  until  dawn.  Waldemar's  love  for  Tove  persists  even  after  death,  and 
comforts  him,  so  that,  when  the  terrors  of  the  night  are  past,  he  sees  in  the  dawn 
and  the  loveliness  of  youthful  day  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  his  adored  princess. 

Gurre-LtedervtBS  first  performed  in  Vienna,  February  23,  1913,  under  Franz 
Schreker.  It  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  as  was  a  radio  presentation  in  England, 
January  27,  1928,  under  the  direction  of  the  composer.  The  first  American  per- 
formances were  given  at  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra 
under  Leopold  Stokowski,  April  8,  9,  n,  and  12,  1931.  During  the  next  season 
excerpts  were  given  by  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra  under  the  direction  of 
Frederick  Stock,  and  a  radio  broadcast  of  the  "Song  of  the  Wood  Dove"  was 
presented  as  the  last  of  a  notable  series  of  conceits  put  on  the  air  by  a  commercial 
organization  during  the  season  1933-34.  Schonberg  conducted,  and  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  in  the  part  of  the  Wood  Dove  the  beautiful  and  divinely  gifted 
contralto  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company,  Rose  Bampton.  It  was  her  per- 
formance of  this  role  in  the  first  American  presentation  that  focused  public  atten- 
tion upon  Miss  Bampton  as  a  singer  of  extraordinary  attributes;  her  recording  of 
the  Wood  Dove's  song,  and  her  subsequent  broadcast  of  it  under  the  direction  of 
Schonberg  himself,  established  her  finally  as  the  authoritative  and  supreme  inter- 
preter of  this  lovely  lament. 

The  infrequent  performances  of  Gttme~Lieder  in  the  past  and  the  remote 
possibility  of  frequent  presentations  in  the  future  hardly  justify  a  detailed  analysis 
of  the  work  within  the  confines  of  a  book  such  as  this.  The  Wood  Dove's  song, 
however,  appears  to  be  the  one  excerpt  which  can  be  and  is  given  public  per- 
formance, detached  from  the  main  body  of  the  cantata.  For  that  reason,  and 
because  it  exhibits  so  beautifully  certain  phases  of  Schonberg's  art,  it  must  be 
included  here. 

The  wonderful  orchestral  passages  that  precede  the  voice  of  the  Waldtaube 
(Wood  Dove)  constitute  some  of  the  most  dramatic  and  touchingly  beautiful 
episodes  in  the  entire  work.  There  is  mystery,  and  a  deathly  suggestion,  and  terror 
in  this  music;  and,  as  it  finally  hangs  suspended  from  the  fragile  note  of  the  oboe, 
the  warm  but  troubled  voice  of  the  Wood  Dove  enters.  "Come,"  she  cries  to  the 
doves  of  Gurre,  "come,  and  listen  to  my  woeful  tidings. "  And  she  sings: 


SCHONBERG  427 


Tauben  von  Gurre!  Sorge  qualt  michy  vom  Weg  fiber  die  Insel  her! 
Kommet!  Lauschet!  Tot  ist  Tove.  Nacht  ctuf  ihrem  Augey  das  der  Tag  des 
Konigs  war!  Still  ist  ihr  Herz  dock  des  Konigs  Herz  schlagt  wild,  tot  und  dock 
wild!  Seltsam  gleichend  einem  Boot  auj  der  Wage,  wenn  der,  zu  des  Emffang 
die  Planken  huldigend  sich  gekrumm£y  des  Schiffes  Steurer  tot — liegty  verstnckt 
m  der  Tieje  Tang.  Reiner  brtngt  ihnen  Botschafty  unwegsam  der  Weg*  Wie  zwei 
Strome  waren  ihre  Gedankeny  Strome  gleitend  Seit?  em-  Seite.  Wo  stromen  nun 
Toves  Gedanken?  Die  des  Kvnigs  windeny  sich  seltsam  dahmy  suchen  nach  denen 
ToveSy  finden  sie  nicht.  Weit  flog  ichy  Klag  suchf  ichy  jand  gar  viel!  Den  Sarg 
sah  ich  auf  Konigs  Schulterny  Henning  stutzf  ihn;  finster  war  die  Nachty  eine- 
emzige  Fackel  brannte  am  Weg;  die  Konigin  hielt  siey  hoch  auf  dem  Sollery 
rachebegierigen  Sinns.  Thranen  die  sie  nicht  weinen  wollte,  fankelten  im  Auge. 
Weit  flog  ichy  Klage  suchty  ichy  ]and  gar  viel!  Den  Konig  sah  ichy  mit  dem  Sarge 
fuhr  ery  im  Bauernw&ms*  Sein  Streitrossy  das  oft  *um  Sieg  ihn  getragen,  zog  den 
Sarg.  Wild  starrte  des  Konigs  Augey  suchte  nach  elnem  Blick!  Seltsam  lauschte  des 
Konigs  Herz  nach  einem  Wort.  Henwng  sfrach  zum  Konigy  aber  noch  immer 
suchte  er  Wort  und  Blick.  Der  Konig  of  net  Toves  Sargy  starrt  und  lauscht  mit 
bebendem  Lipfen,  Tove  ist  stumm.  Weit  flog  ichy  Klage  suchf  ichy  jand  gar  viel! 
Wollf  em  Mbnch  am  Seile  ziehny  Abendsegen  laitten;  dock  er  sah  den,  Wagen- 
lenker  und  vernahm  die  Trduerbotschaft. 

Sonne  sanky  indes  die  Glocke  Grab-gelaicte  tonte.  Weit  flog  ichy  Klage  such? 
ichy  und  den  Tod!  Helwigs  Falke  war**,  der  grausam  Gt&res  Taube  zerriss! 

A  free  translation  follows: 

Wood  doves  of  Gurre,  come!  Listen  to  the  dread  tidings  I  bear!  The 
light  that  shone  from  Tove's  eyes,  the  light  that  was  day  for  Tove's  king,  is 
darkened  by  night  forever.  Tove  is  dead  and  her  heart  is  still;  the  King's  heart 
beats  strongly  yet  but  he  is  dead.  For  he  is  like  a  storm-driven  and  rudderless 
boat,  twined  with  dead  weeds  of  the  sea  and  without  a  steersman.  Alone  he 
lies,  and  no  man  dares  speak  to  him. 

Like  two  meeting  streams  their  thoughts  flowed  together.  Whither  now 
flow  the  thoughts  of  Tove?  Whither  course  those  of  the  King,  seeking  and 
finding  not  their  sweet  companion? 

I  have  flown  far,  and  I  have  seen  the  griefs  of  the  world,  but  no  sorrow 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

like  this  which  has  come  to  pass.  I  saw  a  bier  uplifted  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
King;  I  saw  a  Queen  with  vengeance  flaming  in  her  heart;  a  torch  in  her 
hand  against  the  blackness  of  the  night,  and  tears  that  filmed  her  eyes,  that 
men  might  not  see  and  read.  O  far  I  have  flown,  griefs  I  have  seen,  but  no 
sorrow  like  unto  this! 

There  was  the  King,  standing  motionless  in  his  sackcloth,  standing  beside 
the  bier  of  his  love.  The  great  horse  that  had  borne  him  in  battle  waited  to 
draw  the  precious  burden.  And  ever  the  King's  wild  glance  rested  upon  the 
shadowed  dead  eyes  of  his  beloved;  ever  and  vainly  he  pleaded  for  a  word, 
a  glance.  But  Tove  lies  mute !  Over  far  places  of  the  earth  have  I  flown,  and 
griefs  I  have  seen,  but  no  dolor  such  as  this! 

At  evensong  I  heard  the  monk  ringing  the  great  bell,  as  he  saw  the  bier 
of  Tove  borne  along  and  heard  the  dread  tidings,  The  sun  went  down,  the 
bell  rang  in  solemn  mourning.  These  wings  have  carried  me  far,  these  eyes 
have  seen  mighty  woes,  and  now  have  I  found  Death !  And  it  was  thy  falcon, 
cruel  Helvig,  that  hath  slain  the  dove  of  Gurre! 

As  the  Waldtaube  sings  of  the  monk  and  the  tolling  bell,  there  begins  in  the 
orchestra  a  music  of  appalling  beauty.  It  advances,  swaying  dreadfully,  like  a  drunken 
figure  of  Death,  over  a  heavily  persistent  rhythm  of  plucked  strings  and  harp. 
A  climax  of  gigantic  proportions  is  erected  upon  this  theme;  subito  projections  of 
brass  and  woodwinds  and  strings  are  thrust  from  the  straining  orchestra,  and  the 
music  finally  ends,  with  mighty  strokes  upon  timpani,  in  an  atmosphere  of  grief 
and  terror. 

One  of  the  vital  requirements  of  any  valid  art  is  the  quality  of  universality. 
An  art  or  an  artistic  philosophy  that  needs  propaganda,  that  is  so  esoteric  as  to 
restrict  its  significance  to  the  few,  cannot  survive,  nor  is  it  important.  Here  is 
music  which,  regardless  of  its  derivations,  its  technical  plan,  its  perfect  craftsman- 
ship, is  important  chiefly  and  perhaps  only  because  it  stirs  and  moves  something 
deep  within  all  of  us.  However  advanced  and  ingenious  may  be  the  later,  the 
contemporary  Schonberg,  this  writer  can  say,  without  just  accusation  of  reactionary 
tendencies,  that  nothing  in  his  Pierrot  Lunairey  nothing  in  the  music  of  the  present 
Schonberg,  approaches  this  deathless  moment  of  Gurre-Uiecier  in  its  gripping 
beauty,  its  sanity,  and  its  strength. 


FRANZ  SCHUBERT 

[1797-1828] 

ENTANGLED  by  circumstance,  betrayed  by  fate,  Franz  Schubert  lived  and 
died  with  no  more  consciousness  of  his  true  greatness  than  had  his  con- 
temporaries. Some  few  there  were  who  dimly  saw  his  worth  and  rendered 
him  the  meed  of  praise,  yet  among  most  men  of  his  time,  and  indeed  among  many 
who  came  after  him,  his  was  the  proud  if  unhappy  privilege  of  speaking  in  a 
language  they  could  not  understand. 

And  with  a  final  ironical  gesture,  fate  again  has  pursued  him  even  beyond 
the  grave.  To  his  work  many  a  modern  composer  of  popular  music  has  gone  for 
inspiration  and  sometimes  for  material,  with  rewards  in  money  that  poor  Schubert, 
dogged  by  poverty,  could  scarcely  have  conceived. 

Old  Michael  Holzer,  the  local  choirmaster,  who  instructed  and  adored  the 
boy  Schubert,  outlived  him.  Yet,  departing  life  at  the  age  of  thirty-one,  the  com- 
poser left  a  treasury  of  music  rarely  excelled  by  any  composer  either  in  quantity  or 
quality.  The  number  of  his  matchless  songs  reached  the  hundreds,  and  in  larger 
musical  forms  he  worked  with  a  fluency  and  facility  seldom  equaled  before  or 
since  his  time.  His  music  is  a  faithful  reflection  of  the  warm,  genial,  lovable,  guile- 
less nature  that  was  his,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  its  peculiarly  direct  and  intimate 
appeal  touches  instantly  all  who  hear  it. 

Inadequately  taught  in  several  important  branches  of  the  art  of  composition, 
Schubert  left  his  mark  upon  practically  every  established  musical  form.  That  his 
was  a  rare  genius,  a  congenital  gift  of  song  far  richer  than  many  great  composers 
possessed,  cannot  be  denied.  Cultivated,  as  it  was,  in  a  more  or  less  haphazard 
fashion,  it  flowed  into  some  of  the  loveliest  music  ever  heard  by  mortal  ears.  What 
might  have  been,  had  not  the  world  permitted  him  to  starve,  is  indicated  in  the 
breath-taking  beauty  of  his  later  works.  Ranking  though  he  does  with  the  greatest 
musicians  of  all  time,  he  nevertheless  was  taken  off  long  before  his  powers  had 
achieved  their  full  maturity. 

Sir  George  Grove  says  of  him:  "The  spectacle  of  so  insatiable  a  desire  to  pro- 
duce has  never  before  been  seen;  of  a  genius  thrown  naked  into  the  world  and 
compelled  to  explore  for  himself  all  the  paths  and  channels  in  order  to  discover  by 
exhaustion  which  was  the  best  —  and  then  to  die." 

This  starved  immortal  left  an  estate  of  less  than  ten  dollars.  His  loved 
Viennese  have  erected  over  his  grave  (a  step  from  Beethoven's)  a  tablet  with  the 
inscription: 

Music  Has  Here  Entombed  a  Rich  Treasure 
But  Much  Fearer  Hofes 
Franz  Schubert  Lies  Here 


4*9 


43°  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  4  in  C  minor  ("Tragic") 

First  Movement 

THIS  symphony  dates  from  1  8  1  6,  Schubert's  nineteenth,  and  a  year  which  saw 
the  creation  of  more  than  one  hundred  different  works,  and  following  a  year 
during  which  Schubert  had  written  one  hundred  and  eighty-nine  compositions  in- 
cluding so  incontestable  a  masterpiece  as  the  Erlkonig.  But  Schubert's  musical  im- 
maturity was  far  behind  him  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  indeed  it  can  be  asserted 
that  the  full  flower  of  his  most  mature  genius  revealed  itself  here  in  this  symphony. 

As  usual,  Schubert  was  at  this  time  in  financial  difficulties  and  very  eager  to 
gain  the  appointment  as  teacher  in  the  Government  School  at  Laibach,  which 
carried  with  it  a  munificent  salary  of  approximately  $100  annually.  In  his  appli- 
cation for  the  job,  Schubert  wrote  of  himself  in  the  third  person,  saying,  "In  every 
branch  of  composition  he  has  acquired  such  knowledge  and  ability  in  the  playing 
of  the  organ,  violin,  and  in  singing,  that  according  to  the  enclosed  certificate  he  is 
declared  to  be  the  most  capable  among  all  the  petitioners  for  this  position."  (P,S.  — 
He  did  not  get  the  job.) 

There  are  few  moments  in  the  Fourth  Symphony  which  could  establish  any 
justification  for  its  subtitle,  "Tragic,"  which  Schubert  himself  appended  to  the  last 
page  of  the  score.  We  can  only  surmise  that  the  music  was  written  at  a  time  when 
his  circumstances  were  more  painfully  reduced  than  usual  and  when  perhaps  the 
neglect  of  the  symphony  rather  than  the  music  itself  was  tragic.  We  owe  the  re^ 
vival  of  this  music  in  this  country  largely  to  the  superb  performances  of  it  by  Mr. 
John  Barbirolli  and  the  Philharmonic  Symphony  Society  of  New  York.  Happily 
too,  we  need  not  wait  upon  the  exigencies  of  a  conductor's  program  making  for 
repetitions  of  the  work,  for  Mr.  Barbirolli  has  wisely  put  his  performance  on 
record. 

The  introductory  section,  adagio,  is  serious  but  hardly  tragic  in  character.  It 
is  based  on  a  subject  which,  after  the  introductory  tonic  chord  in  C  minor,  is  given 
to  the  violins,  then  to  the  cellos,  and  finally  disintegrated  among  woodwind  and 
strings.  The  principal  subject  of  the  movement,  which  runs  as  follows; 


is  informed  with  a  nervous  vigor  —  a  quality  which,  however,  never  eliminates  the 
curiously  plaintive  suggestion  that  is  almost  always  noticeable  in  Schubert's  music. 
Without  attempting  a  scholarly  analysis  of  the  movement,  which  presents 
many  unconventional  points  for  discussion,  one  must  point  out  a  striking  example 
of  Schubert's  unique  facilities  in  effecting  changes  of  key.  The  simplest  modula- 


FRANZ    SCHUBERT 


431 


tion  and  the  one  conventionally  required  by  the  sonata  form  would  be  to  the 
dominant  minor  or  relative  major — in  this  case  either  to  G  minor  or  to  E-flat 
major.  The  second  subject  appears  instead  in  the  key  of  A  flat,  which  so  far  as 
formality  is  concerned  has  no  immediate  relationship  to  the  key  of  the  movement. 


Second  Movement 

The  second  movement  is  one  of  those  incomparable  streams  of  melody  that 
Schubert  alone  of  all  the  great  composers  could  generate.  If  ever  a  man's  essential 
personal  qualities  were  reflected  in  his  music,  certainly  Schubert's  were,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  believe  that  this  movement,  with  its  gentleness  and  its  sweetness,  its  soft 
complaint  and  its  moments  of  passion,  brings  us  in  contact  with  the  spirit  of  this 
strange,  lonely,  weak,  lovable,  and  incomparably  gifted  man. 

The  principal  theme  is  one  of  those  almost  vocal  and  articulate  melodies  that 
go  to  a  heart  as  directly  as  they  came  from  one.  It  is  not  without  interest,  however, 
to  note  the  curious  resemblance  between  this  theme 


I  1  *t 


-      '**     -  ~y 

and  die  Impromptu  in  A-flat  major,  Opus  142,  No.  a,  which  in  its  opening  bars 
has  practically  the  identical  subject,  and  the  feeling  of  which  runs  quite  parallel  to 


432  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

that  of  this  movement.  It  is  of  further  notice  to  observe  that  the  four  Impromptus 
which  constitute  Opus  142  were  originally  intended  to  form  a  sonata,  of  which  the 
Impromptu  in  question  would  have  been  the  second  movement,  just  as  it  is  the  sec- 
ond movement  of  this  symphony.  The  piano  pieces  were  published  in  1838,  and 
the  symphony  was  written  twenty-two  years  before.  Could  it  be  that  Schubert, 
faced  with  some  material  crisis  or  the  importunities  of  a  publisher,  searched  in  his 
orchestral  works  for  material  easily  adapted  for  piano? 

Third  Movement 

There  are  many  instances  in  this  symphony  where  not  only  the  later  Schubert 
but  composers  of  a  later  day  and  as  far  removed  from  Schubert  as  Richard  Wagner 
are  foreshadowed.  The  curious  chromatic  line  of  the  melodic  elements  in  the 
minuet,  and  particularly  in  its  first  section,  is  neither  characteristic  of  Schubert's 
day  nor  of  the  modified  dance  form  in  which  this  movement  appears.  Nor  is  the 
syncopated  rhythm  any  more  typical.  By  the  displacement  of  the  rhythmic  emphasis 
normal  to  the  minuet,  Schubert  has  almost  created  a  new  dance  rhythm  here  and 
one  to  which  only  sluggish  blood  will  not  respond.  The  chief  melodic  element  of 
the  movement  runs  as  follows: 


Fourth  Movement 

The  fourth  movement  is  somewhat  discursive  with  a  plethora  of  melodies 
too  bright,  too  long,  and  too  generous  for  close  organization  into  any  strict  form. 
Here  again  the  forward-looking  Schubert  may  be  discerned,  particularly  in  the 
daring  (for  his  period)  treatment  of  the  brass,  notably  the  horns,  which  at  mo- 
ments sound  in  their  fullness  and  agility  and  significance  almost  Wagnerian. 


Symphony  No.  7  in  C  major 

HERE  is  the  symphony  that  is  generally  looked  upon  as  Schubert's  greatest.  It  is 
interesting  to  discover,  therefore,  that  at  some  of  its  first  performances  the  musi- 
cians of  the  orchestra  regarded  it  with  such  contempt  as  to  influence  their  playing 
of  it!  In  fact,  on  one  occasion,  when  Mendelssohn,  enthusiastic  as  he  was  in  bring- 
ing the  work  to  the  attention  of  the  public,  wished  to  conduct  it  at  a  concert  in 
England,  the  project  had  to  be  abandoned  because  of  the  attitude  of  the  orchestra 
-  players. 


FRANZ     SCHUBERT  433 

The  symphony  was  completed  early  in  Schubert's  last  year  of  life,  1828,  but 
like  the  "Unfinished"  B  minor,  was  never  heard  by  the  composer.  Robert  Schu- 
mann was  responsible  for  bringing  it  to  light  from  the  vast  mass  of  manuscripts  in 
the  hands  of  Ferdinand,  brother  of  the  composer,  and  eleven  years  after  Schubert's 
death  it  was  performed  in  Leipzig  under  the  baton  of  Felix  Mendelssohn.  It  was 
this  great  musician's  enthusiasm,  aroused  by  the  work  itself  and  the  warm  recep- 
tion given  it  in  Germany,  which  led  to  his  attempt  to  perform  it  in  England, 

This  symphony,  it  should  be  noted,  is  often  referred  to  as  Schubert's  Tenth.  It 
was,  in  fact,  his  last,  and  the  tenth  in  chronological  order,  but  was  marked  No.  7 
in  the  catalogs  of  Breitkopf  &  Hartel,  Schubert's  publishers;  since  then  it  has  been 
more  generally  known,  in  Europe  at  least,  as  the  Seventh. 

First  Movement 

The  present  symphony,  more  than  any  other,  perhaps,  reveals  something  of 
the  Schubert  that  might  have  been.  Somewhere  he  had  found  new  sources  of 
power*  The  wondrous  flow  of  lovely  melody  had  never  abated,  but  fortifying  this, 
and  supporting  it  with  a  compelling  vigor  and  virility;  lighting  it  with  a  superb 
grandeur;  vitalizing  it  with  new  and  mighty  forces  were  the  beginnings  of  full 
maturity  in  his  art.  In  the  Seventh  Symphony  Schubert  is  not  always  the  employer 
of  a  sweet  persuasiveness,  the  plaintive  sufferer,  the  gently  melancholy  poet.  These 
elements  exist  in  the  symphony,  to  be  sure;  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  page  from  Schu- 
bert's hand  where  they  are  not  present.  But  now  Schubert  evoked  from  some 
hitherto  undiscovered  reservoir  an  influx  of  driving  power,  irresistible  force,  majestic 
and  dominating  and  compelling  utterance  that  even  his  most  appealing  works  had 
not  known. 

The  strange,  the  prophetic  and  portentous  utterance  proclaimed  by  the  horns 
in  the  opening  measures  of  the  symphony  is  one  of  the  unforgettable  things  in 
music  Here  in  this  single  phrase  are  intimations  of  grandeur  and  of  glory,  of 
agonies  and  triumphs,  and  of  limitless  solemn  joys,  projected  with  all  the  eloquence 
and  insight  and  mystical  understanding  of  "thanatopsis."  The  solemn  pronounce- 
ment grows  in  boldness  and  is  answered  more  gendy  in  the  voices  of  woodwind. 
Trombones  presently  take  up  the  bolder  part  of  this  dialogue  in  a  figure  derived 
directly  from  the  opening  sentence  of  the  horns.  Now  the  strings,  in  an  agitated 
figure,  climb  upward  from  the  broad  melodic  foundation  laid  down  by  horns 
and  trombones;  a  swift  crescendo  develops  and  after  perhaps  four  minutes  of 
music  we  hear  the  bold  and  brilliant  theme  that  ushers  in  the  movement  proper. 


434  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

This  theme,  divided  between  strings  and  woodwind,  takes  the  form  of  a 
vigorous  dialogue,  the  three-bar  phrase  of  the  strings  answered  by  two  bars  in  the 
woodwind.  Now  it  is  expanded  into  a  mighty  paean,  joyous  and  triumphant,  vital 
and  vigorous  to  a  degree  suggestive  of  Beethoven  in  his  most  assertively  jovial 


moments.  The  second  theme  follows  closely  and,  in  spite  of  its  milder  character, 
is  by  no  means  of  secondary  importance  in  the  movement,  as  its  rhythm  provides 
the  motive  power  for  many  measures  of  this  part  of  the  symphony.  It  is  assigned 
to  the  oboes  and  bassoons  which,  together  with  other  members  of  the  woodwind 
family,  Schubert  uses  with  singular  felicity. 


Now  begins  the  development  section  of  the  movement,  extensive,  exhaustive 
as  only  the  melodic  facility  and  ingenuity  of  Schubert  could  have  made  it.  Yet 
there  is  never  a  suggestion  of  straining  for  effect,  never  the  artificial  device  of  the 
pedant,  but  always  the  inevitable  logic  and  coherence  and  intelligible  speech  of  the 
truly  great  composer. 

Even  when  the  two  principal  themes,  as  different  as  they  are,  become  welded 
together  and  developed  simultaneously,  the  clearness  of  the  melodic  line  is  never 
clouded.  Meanwhile  there  is  a  steady  growth  in  emotional  intensity  and  dynamic 
effect  .  .  .  suggestive  reminiscences,  .in  the  woodwind,  of  the  important  second 
theme  ,  .  .  violent  bursts  of  tone  punctuating  the  steady  advance  toward  a  climax, 
and  at  the  end,  a  movement  toward  and  finally  an  explicit  statement  of  the  power- 
ful theme  that  opened  the  introduction. 

Second  Movement 

A  few  measures  of  introduction,  intimating  what  is  to  come,  precede  the  main 
theme  of  the  movement,  in  which  Schubert  once  more  employs  the  woodwind — 
the  oboe  now,  accompanied  by  strings,  in  a  pensive  but  vital  and  moving  little 
theme  that  in  its  persistent  rhythm  belies  the  faint  melancholy  of  its  melody.  A  con- 


FRANZ    SCHUBERT  435 

tinuation  of  the  theme  in  the  clarinet's  reedy  voice  and  the  parallel  major  key  of  A 


...  a  few  violent  interjections  of  a  new  phrase  in  full  orchestra  ,  .  .  another  of 
those  unexpected  and  delightful  modulations  of  Schubert,  and  we  come  upon  the 
second  theme  of  the  movement.  It  sings  in  the  passionate  voices  of  the  strings,  and 
songlike  it  is  in  every  smooth  phrase.  This  theme,  too,  is  developed  and  extended. 
There  is  a  period  of  hesitation,  of  tentative  suggestions  of  the  first  and  chief  theme, 
and  we  enter  upon  the  further  development  of  the  thematic  material  given  out  in 
the  first  part  of  the  movement. 

It  is  worthy  of  reflection  that,  contrary  to  his  habit,  Schubert  revised  more 
carefully  than  usual  the  score  of  this  great  symphony.  Gifted  with  facility  in  creat- 
ing melody  as  was  no  man  before  or  since  his  time,  and  lacking  certain  technical 
elements  considered  necessary  to  the  composer,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  he  should 
spmetimes  have  failed  of  clarity  and  conciseness.  Even  his  friends,  who  were  by  no 
means  hypercritical,  remonstrated  with  him  on  this  score.  The  gentle  Schubert, 
amenable  as  always  to  their  persuasion,  studied  with  pathetic  earnestness  the  much- 
revised  and,  as  a  rule^  starkly  simple  scores  of  his  adored  Beethoven  „  .  .  and 
finally,  impatient,  gave  up  and  despaired  of  ever  following  a  method  so  painstak- 
ing and  laborious. 

Perhaps,  nevertheless,  he  had  some  inkling  of  the  greatness  and  immortality 
of  the  present  work,  for  he  corrected  and  revised  it  most  carefully.  The  results 
are  obvious  and  perhaps  particularly  so  in  this  movement.  Intricately  entangled 
melodies  remain  exquisitely  clear,  nor  can  the  charge  of  what  sometimes  seems  un- 
necessary and  almost  absent-minded  repetition  be  leveled  at  Schubert  with  respect 
to  this  symphony.  One  follows  the  smooth  and  clear  line  of  melody  like  a  guiding 
hand. 

A  melody  of  almost  agonizing  loveliness  sings  in  the  expressive  voice  of  the 
cello,  immediately  following  a  powerful  utterance  by  full  orchestra  and  a  preg- 
nant pause.  And  presently  the  oboe,  in  its  pensive  penetrating  tone,  joins  in  a 
countertheme.  This  marks  the  end  of  a  new  thematic  material,  and,  as  the  classic 
Greek  dramatists  would  have  it,  here  is  the  peripeteia  of  the  movement.  Just  as 
Schubert  had  led  us  to  this  point  through  the  unfolding  of  new  musical  ideas  and 
their  development,  so  we  are  led  to  the  emotional  and  dynamic  climax  of  the  move- 
ment by  a  review  of  those  ideas  and  their  logical  (musical)  consequences. 


436  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF     THE    SYMPHONY 

Third  Movement 

Forthright  vigor  and  energy  worthy  of  Beethoven,  and  a  certain  quasi- 
play fulness  more  delicate  and  light  than  we  might  find  even  in  the  writings  of  that 
monumental  figure,  mark  the  scherzo  of  the  Seventh  Symphony.  The  lively  if 
rugged  figure  bowed  so  emphatically  upon  the  strings  is  instantly  contrasted  with 
the  delicate  voices  of  the  woodwinds,  further  attenuated  by  the  violins,  and  pres- 
ently contrasted  in  its  later  developments  with  a  countertheme  proceeding  from 
the  cello  section.  Here  are  the  elements  upon  which  Schubert  rears  the  structure 
of  the  first  half  of  the  movement,  exploiting  their  possibilities  to  the  limit,  yet 
never  losing,  in  the  development  of  the  musical  figures,  the  energy  of  the  rhythm 
or  the  clearness  of  the  theme. 


The  trio,  or  second  part  of  the  movement,  opens  in  somewhat  chastened 
mood,  but  still  with  a  vital  and  moving  rhythm  underlying  the  woodwind  subject 
which  forms  its  important  theme.  Strings  in  arpeggios  accompany  the  woodwind. 
Presently  the  music  sounds  vaguely  familiar,  and  almost  before  we  realize  it  the 
original  vigorous,  dancelike  theme  of  the  first  section  of  the  movement,  in  some- 
what altered  form,  has  returned.  And  upon  great  chords  springing  from  this 
powerful  subject  the  movement  ends  abruptly. 

Fourth  Movement 

Here  is  a  finale  worthy  of  comparison  with  that  of  Beethoven's  gigantic 
"Choral"  Symphony.  Indeed,  in  a  sense  this  movement  is  superior  to  the  closing 
chapter  of  the  Beethoven  Ninth,  since  it  expressed  adequately  what  Schubert 
wished  to  express,  and  did  so  without  reference  to  resources  foreign  to  the  medium 
in  which  he  was  working.  In  the  qualities  of  grandeur  and  clarity  and  pure  musical 
delight,  in  its  magnificent  virility  and  invincible  vigor,  it  is  in  no  way  inferior  to 
Beethoven's  c*last  word  in  symphonic  music." 

But  comparison  should  not  be  the  basis  for  judging  it.  One's  own  mind  and 
senses,  after  all,  constitute  the  final  criterion  for  the  evaluation  of  any  artwork, 


FRANZ    SCHUBERT  437 

and  Schubert  will  not  suffer  if  that  standard,  and  none  other,  be  applied  to  this  or 
any  of  his  music. 

The  triplet  figure  which  appears  in  the  opening  measures  has  a  curious  part 
in  much  of  the  movement.  It  was  the  extraordinary  use  of  this  device  that  aroused 
the  uncomprehending  contempt  of  the  musicians  who  made  it  impossible  for  Men- 
delssohn to  conduct  the  symphony  in  England,  though  why  the  simple,  if  unusual, 
figure  should  arouse  their  ire  is  not  quite  dear.  Extensively  used  though  it  is,  the 
triplet  figure  is  not  the  chief  theme  of  the  movement.  That  appears  kter,  with 
scarcely  a  hesitant  moment  between  it  and  the  introduction,  but  with  the  triplet 
rhythm  still  distinctly  in  evidence.  And  never  during  the  subsequent  working  out 
of  the  chief  theme  is  the  vigorous  figure  absent  from  the  music.  In  fact,  even  when 
a  third  theme,  ushered  in  by  four  notes  upon  the  horn,  appears  in  a  prominent 
position  in  the  scheme  of  the  movement,  the  interrogative  triplet  still  can  be 
perceived. 


There  is  extensive  thematic  development,  a  return  to  the  four  notes  of  the 
horn,  which  in  turn  give  impetus  to  gigantic  forces  engaged  in  the  superb  elabora- 
tion of  the  horn  motive  itself.  And  as  always  in  Schubert,  the  movement  rarely  if 
ever  digresses  from  a  path  leading  straight  to  its  climax,  and  though  at  times  it 
seems,  from  the  overpowering  splendor  of  the  music,  that  that  climax  has  been 
reached,  new  and  dazzling  heights  of  magnificence  are  achieved.  Pelion  is  piled 
upon  Ossa — and  there  is  not  a  moment's  release  from  the  thrall  of  this  music  until 
the  last  mighty  chords  die  into  silence. 


Symphony  No.  8  in  B  minor 


THE  "Unfinished"  Symphony  dates  from  1822,  in  the  latter  part  of  which  year  it 
was  begun  by  Schubert.  It  was  destined  never  to  be  completed,  and  to  lie,  ignored 


438  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

or  forgotten,  until  1865.  From  that  year,  when,  long  after  the  death  of  the  com- 
poser, it  was  first  performed,  it  has  never  ceased  to  enthrall  every  listener.  Few 
symphonies  in  the  concert  repertoire  now  approach  it  in  the  universality  of  its 
appeal;  no  other,  perhaps,  has  the  singular  directness  of  contact  with  the  innermost 
places  of  the  human  soul  invariably  achieved  by  this  exquisitely  beautiful  music. 

To  call  it  the  "Unfinished"  Symphony  is,  in  a  sense,  to  apply  a  very  mislead- 
ing name  to  it,  It  is,  as  a  symphony  in  conventional  form,  incomplete;  for  there 
are  but  two  movements  instead  of  the  usual  four.  In  this  sense  only  is  it 
"unfinished."  But  in  a  larger  sense,  it  is  utterly  perfect  in  finish.  It  leaves  nothing 
unsaid.  It  explores  the  most  mysterious  regions  of  the  human  soul  and  heart.  In 
language  of  inexpressible  beauty  it  communicates  from  composer  to  hearer  an 
intensity  of  passionate  emotion,  a  degree  of  spiritual  exaltation,  a  completely  satisfy- 
ing and  wholly  expressive  message.  Music  can  go  no  further;  Schubert  himself, 
having  said  in  these  two  movements  all  that  even  he,  with  his  almost  inexhaustible 
flow  of  melodious  expression,  could  say,  gave  over  the  task  of  writing  two  more 
sections.  And  when  you  have  heard  the  "Unfinished"  several  times,  you  will  not 
wonder  that  even  genius  could  add  nothing  to  them. 

Schubert  never  heard  this  symphony.  His  work  on  it  was  not,  however,  inter- 
rupted by  death,  for  he  lived  several  years  after  having  kid  it  aside,  convinced, 
perhaps  (in  spite  of  his  sketches  for  a  third  movement),  that  there  was  nothing  to 
add  to  it.  It  is  amazing  to  realize  that  all  the  vast  wealth  of  new  and  distinctly 
original  tonal  colors,  melodies,  and  style  in  the  "Unfinished"  was  conceived  wholly 
in  the  imagination  of  the  composer;  his  external  senses  never  experienced  them! 
Consider,  then,  their  perfection,  their  beauty,  their  completely  satisfying  expressive- 
ness, their  utter  tightness  and  finality — and  you  can  never  think  of  this  deathless 
music  as  "unfinished." 

First  Movement 

Melody  sings  through  the  symphony  from  the  very  first  note.  The  opening 
phrase  is  a  somber  legend  in  the  vibrant  voices  of  the  cellos  and  basses,  and  high 
above  the  shimmering  tones  of  the  lighter  strings  that  respond  to  the  first  prophetic 
utterance,  a  second  song,  piercing  sweet,  flows  onward  in  the  pensive  notes  of  the 
oboe,  with  the  more  robust  voice  of  the  clarinet  heard  underneath.  You  will  not 
have  to  listen  for  these  lovely  streams  of  melody;  they  come  forth,  urged  by  the 
insistent  rhythm  beneath  them,  to  surround  you  and  envelop  you  in  a  gentle  tide 
of  glowing  tone. 


FRANZ     SCHUBERT  439 

On  the  repetition  of  the  woodwind  melody,  another  figure,  stronger,  more 
solid,  as  if  it  were  a  substance  compounded  of  the  ethereal  melodies  that  have 
gone  before,  appears.  It  is  well  to  mark  these  chords,  for  later  in  the  movement 
they  are  to  become,  temporarily,  of  first  importance.  Now  they  give  an  intimation 
of  a  thought  that  is  to  be  developed  more  fully  as  a  contrast  with  the  chief  theme 
of  the  movement — yet  that  is  still  withheld  from  us — the  antithesis  appearing 
before  the  thesis! 

Suddenly  the  horn  and  bassoon  speak  as  one  voice;  one  note  that  lingers, 
changing  color  as  it  fades  into  a  short  phrase  that  ushers  in  again  the  iridescent 
accompaniment  of  the  violins.  Now  comes  what  is  technically  known  as  the  "second 
theme"  of  the  movement.  Yet  this,  the  lovely,  languishing  song  of  the  cellos  is 
certainly  the  most  well-remembered  theme  in  the  entire  symphony;  certainly  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  melodies  ever  written  by  mortal  hand;  certainly  a  living, 
moving,  vital  song  that  lingers  ever  in  the  echoing  chambers  of  the  soul,  once  it 
has  penetrated  there. 


'ft/So 


-  _JL    T 


Now  the  movement  is  launched;  now  we  behold  the  marvelous  succession  of 
melodies,  and  the  infinitely  varied  versions  of  them  that  flow  in  a  smooth  and 
uninterrupted  stream  from  Schubert's  inspired  hand.  But  there  are  passionate  out- 
bursts, too,  and  intense  dramatic  utterances,  sometimes  taking  force  from  their  very 
f  aintness,  sometimes  from  their  vehemence,  as  they  are  shouted  forth  in  the  orches- 
tra's fullest  and  most  powerful  voice.  There  are  moments  of  spiritual  sadness  and 
exquisite  pain,  but  they  are  baknced  by  utterances  of  such  tremulous  ecstasy  as  to 
obliterate,  in  a  phrase,  what  memories  of  haunting  melancholy  appear,  as  they 
always  do  appear,  in  Schubert's  music. 

There  is  gentleness  —  a  gentle  persistence  —  in  the  constant  recurrence  of  the 
chief  song  of  the  movement;  a  reiteration  that  will  not  be  denied,  a  "pious  stub- 
bornness" that  will  not,  cannot,  be  thrust  aside  except  in  the  mighty  chords,  given 
in  full  orchestra,  that  close  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

.  The  essentially  lyric  quality  of  Schubert's  genius  is  exemplified  most  beautifully 
in  the  first  movement  of  the  symphony.  We  have  heard  there  a  succession  of 
exquisite  melodies,  contrasted  strikingly  with  dramatic  episode  as  well  as  with 
derived  forms  of  the  melodies  themselves.  Here  in  the  second  movement,  the  essen- 
tial beauty  and  contrast  is  achieved  more  particularly  by  another  characteristic  of 
Schubert's  inspired  musicianship—  namely,  modulations;  modulations  mysterious, 


44°  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

unexpected,  unconventional,  and  always  superlatively  beautiful.  Modulation  is,  in 
simple  terms,  a  radical  change  of  musical  effect,  caused  by  a  change  of  tonality,  or 
"key."  To  select  the  key  to  which  the  modulation  is  to  be  made,  then  to  make  it 
by  logical  musical  processes,  requires  skill  of  no  mean  order.  The  simplest  and 
most  obvious  and  easiest  modulation  is  from  the  key  of  the  tonic,  which  is  the 
note  "do,"  to  the  key  of  the  dominant,  which  is  the  note  "sol,"  for  example,  from 
the  key  of  C  to  the  key  of  G.  Recall,  for  the  moment,  the  first  few  measures  of 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner.  Suppose  it  to  be  written  in  the  key  of  C.  The  notes 
to  which  you  sing  "O  say  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  .  .  ."  are  in  the  key  of  C, 
but  on  the  next  phrase,  "early  light,"  there  is  a  perfectly  simple  and  natural  modu- 
lation to  the  dominant  key,  G,  ending  on  the  major  chord  of  the  dominant. 

The  most  difficult  modulations  are  those  from  the  tonic  key  to  one  lying  dose 
to  it  in  the  scale;  for  example,  from  C  to  D  flat.  It  is  impossible  to  illustrate  the 
difficulties  of  such  a  mutation  without  involving  a  highly  technical  discussion;  it 
is  sufficient  to  ^ay  that  Schubert  makes  such  difficult  modulations  so  deftly,  so 
naturally,  that  one  is  scarcely  conscious  of  the  means  by  which  the  entire  character 
and  significance  of  the  music  are  so  suddenly  and  so  subtly  altered. 

But  do  not  dwell  on  the  technical  skill  and  perfection  in  this  second  movement. 
Abandon  yourself  to  beauty,  and  this  music  will  surge  about  you  and  hold  you 
suspended  in  an  imponderable  substance  of  such  beauty  as  snatches  away  the  breath, 
and  arrests  momentarily  the  incessant  pulsings  of  life.  To  give  to  it  all  one's  soul 
is  to  enjoy  from  it  in  return  a  term  of  such  exquisite  spiritual  joy  and  solace  and 
deep  satisfaction  as  words  cannot  express.  Give  yourself,  then,  to  this  music,  and 
it  will  give  to  you  something  above  and  beyond  yourself;  some  brief  fleeting  sight 
of  that  unquenchable  flame  by  virtue  of  which  man  thinks  himself  immortal. 

The  mood  of  the  symphony  is  changed  as  the  second  movement  begins.  The 
bass  strings  intone  a  descending  passage  in  pizzicato,  portentous  like  the  footsteps 
of  an  advancing  fate.  This  melancholy  figure  persists,  and  then  gives  way  to  a 
pensive  dialogue  in  the  woodwind,  the  violins  singing  softly  in  the  background. 
Later  the  heavy  footfalls  of  destiny  draw  closer  and  closer,  stronger  and  more 
positive;  the  gentle  plaint  uttered  by  flutes  and  violins  and  clarinets  appears  again 


and  again — yet  we  begin  to  feel  in  the  music  a  certain  attitude  of  resignation,  of 
acquiescence,  that  is  typically  Schubertian.  Toward  the  close  of  the  movement  the 


FRANZ    SCHUBERT  44! 

final  version  of  the  early  woodwind  melody  appears,  mightily  augmented,  and  again 
comes  that  ominous  progression  of  bass  notes,  like  the  restless  pacing  of  some  giant 
creature,  underlying  all,  and  shadowing  the  bright  orchestral  colors  that  tint  every 
measure  of  the  symphony. 

There  follows  what  Schumann  names  as  the  best  discourse  upon  music — 
silence. 


Entr'acte  and  Ballet  Music  from  "Rosamunde" 

SCHUBERT  wrote  this  music  for  a  play  which  ran  to  only  two  performances,  and, 
according  to  all  accounts,  dramatically  it  deserved  not  even  one.  The  music  cer- 
tainly did  not  deserve  oblivion  with  the  pky,  but  came  perilously  close  to  it.  After 
the  second  unhappy  performance,  the  music  disappeared,  and  was  not  heard  again 
until  it  was  discovered  in  a  closet  at  the  house  of  a  Viennese,  by  Sir  George  Grove, 
the  great  musicologist,  and  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan — he  of  the  Gilbert  and  Sullivan 
operas. 

There  are  eleven  pieces  in  the  music  Schubert  wrote  for  Rosamunde.  Of  the 
several  entr'actes,  the  one  which  occurs  between  Acts  III  and  IV  is  often  selected 
for  concert  programs,  and  usually  associated  with  the  delightful  ballet  music  from 
the  last  act.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  discuss  this  music  in  detail;  nothing  in  it  could 
be  more  important  than  its  lovely,  expressive,  and  sometimes  wistful  melodies. 
Pianists  will  associate  the  first  songlike  strain  of  the  entr'acte  with  one  of  the 
Impromptus;  scholars  will  trace  down  other  borrowings  from  previously  published 
music  of  Schubert.  Listeners  will  listen,  and  be  delighted. 


ROBERT  SCHUMANN 
[1810-1856] 

THOSE  WHO  HOLD  that  environment  and  heredity  are  the  .two  determinants 
of  human  characteristics  would  be  at  some  pains  to  account  for  the  musical 
genius  of  Robert  Schumann.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1810  in  the  small 
provincial  town  of  Zwickau,  in  Saxony.  His  father  was  a  bookseller,  his  mother 
the  daughter  of  a  surgeon.  Neither  had  musical  ability  to  transmit  to  Robert,  and 
while  the  father  recognized  and  encouraged  the  talent  of  the  boy  when  it  appeared, 
the  mother,  widowed  when  her  son,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  had  to  choose  a  career, 
was  able  to  exert  so  much  influence  upon  him  that  he  matriculated  at  the  University 
of  Leipzig  as  a  student  of  law,  instead  of  devoting  himself  to  music,  as  he  wished 
to  do, 

The  Schumanns  were  middle-class  people  in  fairly  comfortable  circumstances. 
It  is  pleasant  to  relate  that  the  composer  never  experienced  the  woes  of  poverty 
that  made  the  lives  of  so  many  great  artists  tales  of  heartbreaking  misery.  Robert 
Schumann  was  sent  to  school  with  the  other  little  boys  of  the  town  and,  though 
a  very  quiet  child,  was  in  every  respect,  except  his  precocious  aptitude  for  music,  a 
normal  lad  of  his  years. 

Schumann  began  to  compose  at  the  age  of  seven  years;  he  soon  was  busy  with 
musical  young  friends  organizing  informal  chamber-music  concerts,  for  which  he 
wrote  most  of  the  music  himself.  He  appeared  in  public,  too,  as  a  pianist.  His 
formal  musical  education,  however,  was  interrupted  for  a  period  of  many  years.  In 
fact,  his  interest  in  music  seems  to  have  been  less  keen  during  his  adolescent  years, 
perhaps  because  of  the  pressure  of  his  duties  as  a  scholar  in  the  Academy  at 
Zwickau.  But  if  music  suffered  during  these  years  and  the  later  period  spent  at  the 
University  of  Leipzig,  there  was  some  compensation  in  Schumann's  avidity  for 
books  and  literature,  for  which  his  father's  bookstore  furnished  a  plentiful  supply 
of  the  best  material.  This  period  had  without  a  doubt  a  tremendous  influence  on 
Schumann's  later  activities  as  a  music  critic,  and  even  made  itself  felt  in  his  music. 
The  presence  of  strong  literary  and  musical  tastes  in  his  personality  resulted  in  a 
strange  but  happy  union  of  those  two  natural  enemies,  the  musician  and  the  critic 
of  music,  in  this  single  and  singular  nature. 

Schumann's  law-student  days  were  of  inactivity,  unless  dreaming  and  gloomy 
introspection  may  be  called  activity.  They  may,  if  we  agree  with  Rossetti: 

Unto  the  man  of  yearning  thought 

And  aspiration,  to  do  nought 
Is  in  itself  almost  an  acty — 

Being  chasm-fire  and  cataract 
Of  the  souPs  utter  deaths  unsealed. 
442 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  443 

Gentle  and  retiring,  he  could  not  partake  of  the  boisterous  student  life  with 
any  degree  of  pleasure;  dissatisfied  with  his  position,  he  found  refuge  in  the  writ- 
ings of  poets  whose  philosophies  coincided  too  nicely  with  his  own. 

In  1829  Schumann  left  Leipzig  for  the  University  of  Heidelberg.  He  and 
another  music-loving  student  were  wont  to  gather  at  the  house  of  a  professor  in  the 
university,  and  it  was  here  that  Schumann  first  met  Wieck,  the  father  of  the  girl 
who  was  to  be  his  wife  and  the  most  devoted  and  accomplished  interpreter  of  his 
works  for  the  pianoforte.  About  this  time  eight  works  for  the  piano,  a  quartet,  and 
a  number  of  songs  came  from  Schumann's  pen. 

After  three  years  of  study  of  the  law,  Schumann,  finding  quite  intolerable  the 
prospect  of  still  more  years  within  university  walls,  decided  to  abandon  all  else  for 
music.  His  mother,  after  much  persuasion,  agreed  to  permit  him  to  do  so  if  the 
consent  of  his  former  instructor,  Wieck,  could  be  obtained.  This  worthy  man 
advised  the  youth — Schumann  was  but  twenty  years  old — that  if,  after  serious  self- 
examination,  he  felt  that  music  was  truly  his  metier,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
devote  himself  to  it  wholeheartedly.  This  Schumann  did. 

After  leaving  Heidelberg,  he  resumed  his  study  of  the  piano  with  Wieck,  but 
unfortunately  after  a  year's  work  was  forced  to  give  up  his  playing*  Eager  to  attain 
a  perfect  technique  in  the  shortest  time,  he  had  devised  a  mechanical  arrangement 
which  he  expected  would  aid  him  in  developing  digital  dexterity.  By  means  of  this 
device  one  of  the  fingers  was  held  back  while  the  others  practiced  exercises*  The 
result  of  using  it  was  that  the  tendons  of  the  right  hand  were  strained  and  for  some 
time  the  member  was  powerless.  Eventually  Schumann  recovered  the  use  of  the 
hand,  but  his  ambition  to  become  a  great  concert  pianist  was  made  forever  impos- 
sible. The  happier  effect  of  this  unfortunate  occurrence  was  that  Schumann  was 
practically  forced  to  rely  entirely  upon  his  ability  as  a  composer  if  he  was  to 
continue  a  musical  career. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  his  life  Schumann  became  interested  in  Clara 
Wieck,  then  a  child  of  only  thirteen  years,  but  already  giving  evidence  of  pro- 
nounced talent  as  a  pianist.  The  composer  in  his  writings  betrays  even  at  this  early 
time  feelings  which  he  did  not  himself  recognize  until  some  years  later;  Clara 
Wieck  was  one  day  td  be  Clara  Schumann,  and  the  composer's  devoted  partner 
in  the  task  of  presenting  his  work  to  the  world* 

At  this  time,  although  Weber,  Beethoven,  and  Schubert  had  been  dead  but  a 
few  years,  and  Mendelssohn's  star  was  high  in  its  orbit,  music  was  not  in  its 
happiest  state.  The  compositions  of  the  day  werfe  trivial,  or  superficially  brilliant, 
or  hopelessly  mediocre,  yet  the  public  taste  tolerated  them;  they  were  received 
with  complacence.  Such  a  condition  of  affairs  was  irritating  to  Schumann  atid 
certain  friends,  who,  not  confident  of  their  ability  to  effect  a  reformation  through 
their  own  musical  productions,  decided  on  a  journal  of  criticism  as  the  best  means 
of  gaining  their  end — the  purification  and  elevation  of  musical  composition.  So,  in 


444  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

1834,  the  New  Journal  of  Music  made  its  appearance,  and  for  ten  years  there- 
after, under  the  editorial  guidance  and  with  the  energetic  participation  of  Schu- 
mann, the  Journal  carried  on  its  mission,  with  notable  results. 

In  1 840  the  marriage  of  Robert  Alexander  Schumann  and  Clara  Wieck  was 
celebrated  at  a  little  church  near  Leipzig.  This  event  marked  a  sudden  and  radical 
change  in  the  life  of  the  composer.  He  devoted  himself  to  composition,  withdrew 
more  and  more  from  the  world,  his  affections  and  his  interests  centering  in  his 
wife  and  in  the  beloved  children  who  were  the  delight  of  his  kter  days.  Clara 
Schumann  dedicated  herself  to  the  noble  task  of  standing  between  her  sensitive, 
retiring,  and  sometimes  irritable  husband  and  the  world  without;  of  interpreting 
to  the  world  the  works  of  his  hand  and  heart  and  intelligence.  Never  did  her 
devotion  falter;  never  did  she  grow  weary  of  her  task,  and  the  deep  joy  of  his 
married  life  must  have  had  a  profound  effect  upon  Schumann's  artistic  career. 

Schumann's  compositions  were  evolved  with  ease  and  frequency  now  for  a 
number  of  years.  The  composer  seemed  to  have  opened  up  new  springs  of  thought 
and  imagination,  and  a  wealth  of  musical  ideas  flowed  from  him  in  full  volume 
and  with  standing  rapidity.  The  mental  strain  of  producing  in  such  voluminous 
quantity  soon  began  to  tell  on  him.  He  had  never  been  robust,  and  now  signs  of 
breakdown  gradually  appeared.  A  change  of  scene  was  found  necessary,  and  the 
Schumanns  moved  from  Leipzig  to  Dresden.  Several  important  works,  notably  the 
C  major  Symphony,  were  produced,  and  Schumann's  health  improved  to  such  a 
degree  that  during  the  year  1849  alone  he  wrote  thirty  compositions.  His  manner 
of  living  became  less  circumscribed;  he  did  some  teaching,  occupied  a  chair  in  the 
Conservatory  of  Leipzig,  and  later  held  the  position  of  Kapellmeister  at  Diisseldorf, 
where  he  was  very  happy  and  active  for  a  time. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  nervous  troubles  that  had  beset  him  at  intervals 
throughout  his  life  reappeared,  manifesting  themselves  among  other  ways  in  a 
marked  desire  for  seclusion,  and  certain  eccentricities  of  conduct  in  public.  Schu- 
mann was  himself  conscious  of  his  infirmity,  which  indeed  closely  bordered  on 
insanity;  and  he  expressed  the  wish  that  he  be  placed  in  an  asylum.  One  day  in 
February,  1854,  he  left  his  home,  quietly  and  unobserved,  and  threw  himself  from 
a  bridge  into  the  Rhine.  Some  boatmen  rescued  him,  and  he  was  carried  home. 
A  period  of  perfect  mental  clearness  followed  this  unhappy  incident,  and  the  com- 
poser finished  the  variations  which  had  been  begun  just  before  his  attempted  suicide. 
But  the  end  was  not  far  off.  The  last  two  years  were  spent  in  a  private  asylum,  near 
Bonn,  where,  as  Sir  George  Grove  writes,  "gradually  the  pinions  of  his  soul 
drooped  and  fell,"  and  in  the  arms  of  his  loved  wife  he  died  on  July  29,  1856. 
He  was  buried  at  Bonn,  where  a  monument  was  erected  over  his  grave  in  1880. 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  445 

Symphony  No.  i  in  B-flat  major 

THE  tide,  "Spring"  Symphony,  so  often  attached  to  this  music,  has  more  justifica- 
tion than  the  usual  fanciful  names  that  somehow  become  associated  with  musical 
works.  Schumann  wrote  the  symphony  in  the  springtime  of  his  life,  during  that 
marvelously  productive  period  immediately  following  his  marriage.  He  wrote  to 
a  friend  that  it  was  inspired,  in  part,  by  "that  vernal  longing  which  influences 
men  until  they  grow  aged,  an  emotion  which  surprises  them  every  year."  On 
another  occasion  he  declared  that,  in  the  conception  of  the  idea  for  the  symphony, 
he  had  been  influenced  by  a  poem,  of  Adolph  Bottger,  upon  a  vernal  theme. 
Finally,  Schumann  himself  temporarily  entitled  the  work  "Spring"  Symphony, 
and  added  subtitles  of  appropriate  character.  These  facts  must  not,  however,  lead 
us  into  assuming  that  this  is  a  "program"  symphony,  for  the  composer  finally 
abandoned  the  titles,  and  wrote,  "I  do  not  wish  to  portray,  to  paint,  but  I  believe 
firmly  that  the  period  at  which  the  symphony  was  created  influenced  its  form  and 
character,  and  shaped  it  as  it  is." 

The  symphony  was  first  performed,  under  the  direction  of  Mendelssohn,  on 
March  31,  1841,  at  Leipzig.  It  was  an  immediate,  almost  a  sensational,  success. 
The  first  American  performance  was  given  at  Boston,  by  the  Musical  Fund  Society, 
on  January  15,  1853. 

First  Movement 

Schumann,  the  critic,  was  responsible  for  the  most  apt  of  musical  epigrams: 
"The  best  discourse  upon  music  is  silence."  He  must  have  meant  that  one  should 
not,  in  clinical  fashion,  dissect  music  to  discover  its  meaning.  Surely  he  was  not 
wrong  in  this.  The  ultimate  end  of  music  is  the  creation  of  beauty.  A  symphony,  a 
flower,  a  sculpture  is  not  beautiful  with  its  anatomy  laid  bare.  It  is  not  detail  of 
form  and  structure  that  normally  stimulates  our  imagination  and  emotion,  but 
the  effect  of  the  whole,  wrought  directly  upon  the  heart  through  the  senses.  It 
matters  little,  except  to  the  musicologist,  that  this  movement  is  in  sonata  form, 
that  it  is  preceded  by  a  short  introduction,  out  of  which  grows 'the  principal  theme; 
or  that  the  subsidiary  theme  is  given  to  woodwinds  (clarinet  and  bassoon). 

What  does  matter  is  this:  here  a  sensitive,  intelligent,  and  articulate  man 
communicates  to  us  the  joys  and  longings  and  mysteries  of  a  manhood  realized 
and  fulfilled;  and  he  communicates  through  the  one  most  sure  and  most  expressive, 
direct,  implicit  medium  .  .  .  music.  The  Cloud  Spirit,  "dark  and  pregnant  with 
storms,"  of  which  the  poet  Bottger  sang,  appears  but  briefly  upon  the  bright 
horizon  outlined  here,  and  it  is  by  no  means  difficult  to  observe  Schumann's 
instructions  to  "read  between  the  lines,  how  everywhere  it  begins  to  grow  green, 
and  how  a  butterfly  takes  wing." 

The  mysterious,  pale  light  of  springtime  illumines  many  a  passage  in  the 


446  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

movement,  and  many  are  briefly  darkened  by  swift-flying  clouds,  laden  not  with 
savage  storms  but  with  sweet  rains.  There  are  indeed  touches  of  sadness,  the  sad- 
ness and  nameless  pain  that  must  accompany  birth  and  growth;  but  the  music  is 
always  exalted,  always  filled  with  vitality,  and  there  are  climaxes  of  magnificent 
impetuousness.  The  movement  is  graceful  and  symmetrical  as  a  young  tree — and, 
at  the  final  climax,  touched  with  a  glitter  like  the  early  morning  sun  upon  quiver- 
ing, dew-wet  leaves. 

If  the  details  interest  you: 

The  second  theme  begins  in  a  strange  key,  but  ends  in  the  conventional  tone 
of  the  dominant.  Woodwinds  presently  fortify  it,  and  the  strings,  richly  figured, 
add  contrasting  color  and  movement*  Development  and  exposition  bring  constant 
transformation  of  both  first  and  second  themes,  with  wonderful  play  of  light  and 
shade  and  interesting  transfers  of  the  thematic  material  from  one  section  of  the 
orchestra  to  another.  The  tempo  relaxes  from  the  vigorous  allegro  from  time  to 
time,  but  ultimately  returns  to  it  toward  the  close  of  the  coda.  Here  the  brass 
projects  brilliant  missiles  of  tone,  and  a  series  of  bold  chords,  edged  with  the  hard 
glitter  of  the  triangle,  ends  the  movement. 

Second  Movement 

Youth  is  not  ended  by  union  with  the  perfect  mate,  nor  is  maturity  thereby 
accomplished.  The  "long,  long  thoughts"  of  a  boy  must  return  now  and  again 
to  the  young  man,  to  make  his  new  burdens  momentarily  heavy,  to  make  him 
wistful  for  boyhood  joys.  Perhaps  it  is  in  this  mood  that  the  second  movement 
reveals  itself.  The  single  basic  theme  is  a  melody  for  the  violins,  poignantly  sweet 
and  nostalgic,  sung  Against  the  subdued  voices  of  the  other  strings.  Now  the  cello's 
passionate  tones  repeat  it;  now  the  bittersweet  tones  of  the  oboe  combine  with  the 
suave  utterance  of  the  horn  in  the  same  pensive  utterance,  while  wandering  strings 
trace  around  it  an  intricate  figuration.  Presently  it  dies  away,  and  trombones  give 
forth  a  more  determined  thought,  repeated  by  the  strings,  and  leading  to  the 

Third  Movement 

The  last  melodic  idea  of  the  second  movement  becomes  the  inspiration  of 
the  third.  It  is  as  if  the  man  suddenly  asserted  himself,  putting  away  the  things 
of  youth  with  a  bold  assertion  of  vigor  and  purpose.  The  theme  is  delivered  with 
great  boldness. 

It  is  interesting,  historically,  to  note  here  the  combination  of  the  old-fashioned 
minuet-style  third  movement,  a  la  Haydn,  with  certain  elements  of  the  Beethoven 
scherzo.  The  first  part  of  this  section  is  rather  stylized  and  formal,  the  short  divi- 
sions repeating  and  returning  in  quite  the  classical  manner.  By  comparison,  the 
latter  section  of  the  movement  is  light  and  free  and  playful,  It  moves  with  great 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  447 

rapidity;  instead  of  the  stately  one-two-three  of  the  minuet  we  find  a  busy  agita- 
tion, crisp  staccato  scales,  a  romantic  interlude,  and  finally,  almost  as  if  Beethoven 
had  written  it,  a  whimsical  and  mischievous  return  of  the  scherzo  spirit  that  chases 
romance  and  formality  off  into  the  distance. 

Fourth  Movement 
"Yet  ah!  that  Sping  should  vanish  with  the  rose, 

— That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should  close" 

Schumann  felt  that  the  last  movement  is  "the  farewell  of  spring."  Such  a 
farewell  is  wistful  and  sad,  as  the  passing  of  youth  must  always  be.  Yet  spring's 
frivolities  are  soon  forgotten,  unregretted,  in  the  blazing  noonday  of  summer. 
The  earth  grows  big  with  life,  as  life  grows  great  with  living;  the  year's  full 
stature,  like  that  of  man,  is  a  thing  for  proud  rejoicing,  not  for  tears. 

The  music  here  suggests  both  the  passing  of  the  springtime  and  lusty  joy 
and  thanksgiving  for  summer's  coming.  Bold  chords  in  full  orchestra  inaugurate 
a  term  of  jubilation,  involving  a  brisk  tune  tossed  back  and  forth  between  first 
and  second  violins,  a  jaunty  air  for  bassoons  and  oboes,  and  swift  syncopated  scales 
for  the  nimble  strings*  At  moments  there  is  a  kind  of  hasty  piety  in  the  air,  and 
again,  a  sweetly  sad  utterance  of  woodwinds  that  sigh  briefly  for  departed  youth 
and  vernal  joys.  Schumann's  "farewell  of  spring,"  if  the  closing  measures  of  the 
movement  may  be  taken  as  an  indication  of  its  temper,  is  also  a  warm,  a  buoyant, 
and  exalted  welcoming  to  summer. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  C  major 

IF  THE  period  at  which  it  was  composed  influenced  the  character  of  the  First 
Symphony  of  Schumann,  the  converse  is  true  in  the  case  of  the  Second.  The 
composer  himself  has  written  down  the  fact  that  while  he  worked  on  this  music, 
he  was  suffering  greatly  from  physical  disorders,  and  indeed,  he  says  that  he 
deliberately  occupied  himself  with  the  exacting  kbors  of  composition  that  he  might 
be  distracted  from  his  pain. 

Surely  there  is  no  reflection  of  the  invalid's  petulance  or  weakness  in  this  deep 
and  sturdy  music*  Apart  from  the  slow  movement,  there  is  perhaps  a  degree  less 
of  the  feeling  of  romance  which  we  associate  so  often  with  Schumann's  music;  but 
there  is  power  and  muscularity;  there  is  vigor  and  assertiveness;  there  is,  on  the 
whole,  such  aptness  and  such  pointed  expression  that  the  music,  regardless  of  the 
circumstances  surrounding  its  creation,  ranks  with  any  that  Schumann  wrote* 


448  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  symphony  as  played  today  is  not  in  the  form  that  was  presented,  at  a 
concert  in  Leipzig  under  the  baton  of  Felix  Mendelssohn,  November  5,  1846. 
Schumann  was  not  satisfied  with  the  work,  and  extensively  revised  it,  particularly 
as  regards  orchestration;  and  it  was  not  played  in  its  present  form  until  some  years 
after  the  performance  of  the  original  version. 

First  Movement 

There  is  a  firmness  and  unity  in  the  texture  of  the  whole  work,  which  arises 
in  part  from  the  fact  that  Schumann  sought  to  integrate  the  four  movements  by 
thematic  and  structural  relationship  and  continuity.  Some  persistent  thought  or 
image  must  have  been  deep  in  his  mind,  for  the  opening  theme  of  the  introduction 
to  the  first  movement  can  be  discerned  as  a  vital  element  in  each  of  the  move- 
ments; and  it  has  within  it  the  germ  from  which  springs  the  chief  motive  of  the 
first  movement. 

Schumann  himself  reported,  not  long  before  the  completion  of  this  work,  that 
he  continually  imagined  the  sound  of  trumpets  in  the  key  of  C.  We  cannot  con- 
jecture what  that  strange  signal  meant,  but  as  the  introduction  begins,  we  hear 
the  "trumpets  in  C"  themselves,  sounding  with  other  brasses,  sounding  with  serious 
voices  a  noble  proclamation.  A  more  sentimental,  a  gentler  utterance  is  the  answer 
of  the  woodwinds,  and  it  is  wise  to  note  both  these  ideas,  for  we  shall  encounter 
them  again  as  the  music  progresses.  The  introduction  leads  swiftly  to  the  main 
body  of  the  movement,  and  quickly  two  themes  are  presented  for  development. 
The  first  is  assertive  and  dynamic  and  strong;  the  second,  touched  with  a  certain 
gentleness.  Since  Schumann  declared  that  the  first  movement  reflects  the  struggle 
between  his  aching  body  and  his  active  mind,  perhaps  it  is  not  unreasonable  to 
regard  these  two  themes,  and  their  development  in  contrast,  as  indicative  of  the 
composer's  pain  and  his  battle  with  it. 

A  long-held  note  in  the  basses  (to  be  technical,  a  "pedal  point")  leads  to  a 
return  of  the  principal  theme  of  the  movement,  and,  in  the  concluding  section, 
once  again  the  trumpets  are  sounded  in  C  as  at  the  beginning,  but  with  a  new  and 
curious  force  and  directness. 

Second  Movement 

The  gaiety  of  Schumann  is  rarely  reckless,  and  never  abandoned;  but  in  this 
delightful  and  rhythmically  fascinating  movement  he  makes  one  of  his  closest 
approaches  to  a  complete  outpouring  of  playful  happiness.  Yet  even  here  there  is 
a  remembrance  of  conflict  and  of  opposing  ideas,  expressed  both  by  contrary  rhythms 
and  by  opposing  melodic  lines.  Again,  there  are  two  sections,  differing  in  character 
much  as  the  two  themes  of  the  first  movement,  in  the  trio,  or  middle  part  of  the 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  449 

scherzo.  Yet,  toward  the  close,  the  ringing  assertion  of  horns  and  trumpets  again 
reminds  us  of  the  underlying  and  unifying  thought  of  the  symphony. 

Third,  Movement 

Here  is  the  Schumann  that  we  know  and  love  best — the  dreamer,  the  roman- 
ticist, the  lover.  If  this  lovely  music  does  not  speak  of  passionate  devotion,  of 
sentiment  exposed  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  heart,  then  no  music  ever  has  so 
spoken.  And,  though  the  music  is  touched  with  mekncholy,  it  is  never  too  sweet, 
never  too  sad;  but  simply  expressive  and  beautiful.  Here  is  a  glowing  web,  woven 
of  melodies.  The  first  comes  in  the  tremulous  and  eager  voices  of  the  strings;  the 
oboe  penetrates  with  its  peculiarly  pointed  tone,  and  presently  comes  the  bassoon, 
whose  sad  utterance  at  this  point  paradoxically  gave  Schumann  much  pleasure. 
The  upper  string  voices  continue  in  accompaniment,  and  another  melody  moves 
through  the  basses. 

A  second  theme  is  entrusted  to  strings  and  trumpet  and  horn,  and,  after  its 
close,  the  loving  melody  that  disengaged  itself  from  the  orchestra  at  the  beginning 
returns  to  haunt  us  again. 

Fourth  Movement 

We  should  not  always  think  of  Schumann  as  gentle  and  romantic — as  almost 
a  sentimentalist,  restrained  by  artistic  politeness  and  convention.  The  fact  is,  he 
often  is  exactly  so;  but  there  are  times,  and  this  movement  is  one  of  them,  when 
his  music  certainly  lacks  nothing  of  vigor,  of  virility  and  aggressiveness.  The 
cycle  of  fashion  and  of  public  taste  has  but  lately  returned  his  symphonies,  with  any 
degree  of  frequency,  to  the  concert  hall.  In  certain  respects — in  his  decorum  and 
restraint  and  poise,  in  grace  and  suavity — he  resembles  (musically  if  not  chronologi- 
cally) the  "gay  '90*5,"  yet  as  a  profound  and  intelligent  artist  he  undertook,  and 
sometimes  betrayed,  wrestlings  with  the  spirit  which  provoke  stirring  music.  Per- 
haps we  were  not  in  the  mood  for  Schumann  a  few  years  ago;  and  perhaps  the 
more  recent  and  more  difficult  days  have  made  us  turn  more  strongly  toward  his 
music,  and  welcome  it  because  it  can  lay  hold  of  and  move  us,  without  frenzies 
and  without  hysteria. 

A  swift  scale  passage,  which  is  to  be  used  now  and  again  during  the  move- 
ment, brings  us  quickly  to  the  bold  emphatic  utterance  of  the  principal  subject. 
The  lower  strings,  viola  and  cello,  together  with  clarinet  and  bassoon,  present 
another  thematic  idea  in  the  idiom  of  the  slow  movement.  The  scale  passage  that 
introduced  the  movement  is  again  employed  as  a  kind  of  connective  tissue  between 
the  two  chief  subjects,  and  the  first  subject  is  heard  again,  and  for  the  last  time  in 
the  movement*  There  is  a  climax  of  great  power  and  enthusiasm,  succeeded  by 
the  "still  small  voice"  of  the  oboe  in  a  new  musical  thought,  which  the  kte 


45O  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Lawrence  Oilman,  eminent  critic  of  the  New  York  Rerdd,  Tribune^  traced  back 
to  a  string  quartet  composed  by  Schumann  some  years  previous  to  the  completion 
of  the  present  work.  The  oboe's  theme  is  the  concluding  thought  of  the  movement 
but  Schumann  will  not  have  done  with  it  until  it  is  broadened  and  expanded  into 
a  magnificently  triumphant  utterance,  bringing  to  us,  finally,  the  noble  pronounce- 
ment of  the  brass  which  is  the  keynote  of  this  symphony. 


Symphony  No.  3  in  E-flat  major 
["Rhemsh"  Symphony} 

IF  THE  historians  do  not  err,  Schumann,  like  many  composers,  was  a  poor  con- 
ductor j  and  this  fact,  combined  with  the  thin  and  often  inept  orchestration  of 
the  Third  Symphony,  would  doubtless  account  for  the  fact  that  the  work  was 
unenthusiastically  received  (except  by  the  loyal  Clara  Schumann)  when  it  was 
first  presented,  Robert  Schumann  conducting,  at  Diisseldorf,  February  6,  1851. 
Its  popularity  on  concert  programs  today  is  not  be  accounted  for  by  any  increase 
in  powers  of  discernment  on  the  part  of  modern  audiences,  but  by  the  fact  that 
the  work  has  been  reorchestrated;  almost,  in  places,  rewritten,  by  intelligent  and 
sympathetic  musicians.  They  perceived  the  latent  beauty  of  the  work,  and  have 
done  their  best  to  discover  it  to  us.  By  far  the  most  successful  version  of  the  sym- 
phony is  that  arranged  by  Frederick  Stock,  conductor  of  the  Chicago  Symphony 
Orchestra;  and  it  is  this  version  which  we  usually  hear  in  public  performances. 
The  name  "Rhenish"  is  implicitly  authorized  by  the  composer,  who  said  that 
he  wished  to  convey  through  it  some  of  the  spiritual  atmosphere  of  the  Rhineland, 
and  who,  it  is  recorded,  was  inspired  in  the  writing  of  the  fourth  movement  after 
witnessing  the  installation  of  a  cardinal  in  the  cathedral  of  Cologne. 

•  First  Movement 


The  rhythmic  figure  in  34  t^w  which  underlies  the  first  statement  of  the 
opening  theme  (full  orchestra,  at  the  beginning  of  the  movement)  is  essentially  the 
vitalizing  principle  of  this  section  of  the  work,  and  can  be  felt  almost  always 
through  the  elaborations  of  the  thematic  material,  After  the  first  bold  prodama- 
,tion,  the  lower  strings  take  to  themselves  the  melodic  line  of  the  opening  subject, 
while  above  them  the  violins  weave  a  melody  of  their  own.  The  nobility  and  vigor 
in  which  the  movement  began  is  somewhat  modified  presently,  with  the  introduc- 
tion of  a,  new  subject,  reflective  and  sad,  by  clarinet  and  oboe,  with  responses  by 
strings  and  woodwind.  With  these  two  ide.as  in  mind,  the  composer  builds  before 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  451 

our  eyes  and  ears  a  beautifully  articulated  structure,  full  of  contrast  yet  almost 
perfectly  balanced,  inclining  slightly  but  happily  in  the  direction  of  the  proud  and 
powerful  motive  with  which  the  music  began.  Yet  at  the  very  moment  when  it 
would  seem  this  noble  expression  is  to  dominate  and  triumph,  there  are  fascinating 
anticipations  and  suspensions  and  delays,  until  with  all  their  jubilant  sonority  the 
horns  put  forth  a  brilliant  version,  conclusively  establishing  the  brighter  spirits  in  a 
position  to  conquer.  The  concluding  passages  rise  to  a  climax  of  tremendous  power. 

Second  Movement 

The  second  movement  approaches  the  form  and  character  of  the  conventional 
scherzo  more  closely  than  any  other  section  of  the  symphony.  Aside  from  its  light- 
ness and  engaging  rhythms  it  has  several  features  of  musical  interest.  It  employs, 
as  its  basic  theme,  a  version  of  an  old  German  drinking  song;  in  the  ntodern 
orchestration  by  Mr.  Stock,  we  hear  at  least  two  instruments  which  were  hot  in 
the  original  score — cor  anglers  and  triangle.  The  Rheinwemlied  is  sung  by  cellos 
and  violas,  and  is  answered  by  a  gay  tune  in  counterpoint. 

The  middle  section  of  the  movement  modifies  the  prevailing  jollity  somewhat. 
It  begins  with  the  theme  in  cor  anglais  (in  the  original  score,  clarinet).  The  first 
part  of  the  scherzo  is  repeated,  but  in  much  more  colorful  instrumental  apparel, 
accented  with  fiery  sparks  from  the  triangle  and  the  tinkling  of  the  tambourine. 

Third  Movement 

Schumann  is  definitely  himself  in  this  movement — quiet,  romantic,  full  of 
tenderness  and  restrained  passion.  Yet  the  Stock  version  of  the  symphony  takes 
as  great  liberties  with  this  movement  as  with  any  of  the  five;  not  only  in  orchestra- 
tion, but  in  certain  alterations  of  the  melodic  line.  Mr.  Stock3s  version  certainly 
improves  the  music  as  regards  fullness  of  tone. 

A  melody  of  notable  smoothness  and  lovely  contour  opens  the  movement,  in 
woodwind  voices,  clarinet  predominating.  The  cor  angles  is  employed  in  the 
modern  orchestration  to  present,  with  strings,  the  second  theme — another  flowing 
melody.  Upon  these  two  little  songs  Schumann  develops  a  sentimental  interlude 
of  appealing  tenderness. 

Fowrth  M6*v&mew 

This  music  has  often  been  called  "the  cathedral  scene"  5  and  not  without 
some  justification,  for  Schumann  originally  labeled  it,  "In  the  character  of  an  ac- 
companiment to  a  solemn  ceremony."  The  rites  attendant  upon  the  elevation  of  a 
cardinal,  which  took  place  in  the  magnificent  cathedral  at  Cologne,  and  which 
Schumann  witnessed,  impressed  him  deeply  and  inspired  this  sonof  §us  and  dignified 
music. 


452  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Trombones  and  horns  announce  the  organlike  motive  5  it  becomes  the  firm 
basis  upon  which  the  composer  erects  an  edifice  of  tone,  as  elaborated,  lofty,  and 
dignified  as  a  Gothic  arch.  Powerful  utterances  of  trombones  are  faintly  echoed  in 
woodwind  and  strings.  The  movement  is  intimately  connected,  thematically  and 
otherwise,  with  the 

Fifth  Movement 

into  which  the  music  passes  without  pause.  This  section  may  represent  the  festivals 
of  the  people  in  honor  of  the  installation  of  their  exalted  ecclesiastic.  It  is  swift 
and  joyous  and  brilliant.  In  the  original  version  there  are  suggestions  of  folk  music 
of  the  Rhineland,  which  Mr.  Stock  has  somewhat  emphasized  in  his  rearrange- 
ment; there  are  also  references  to  the  preceding  movement  and  its  ecclesiastical 
motive.  A  climax  of  great  brilliance  and  majesty  is  developed,  the  movement  end- 
ing in  a  festive  mood. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  D  minor 

IN  THE  version  in  which  it  is  usually  presented  today,  this  is  the  last  as  well  as  the 
greatest  of  Schumann's  symphonies.  Chronologically,  it  is  the  second  of  his  works 
in  this  form.  Schumann  himself  was  dissatisfied  with  it,  especially  on  the  ground 
that  the  orchestration  lacked  sonority  and  color,  and  for  this  reason,  he  withdrew 
it  after  its  first  performance  in  1841.  Ten  years  later  he  reorchestrated  it,  and  it 
was  played,  tinder  the  composer's  direction,  at  Dusseldorf,  March  3,  1853.  Mean- 
while he  had  completed  the  two  works  now  known  as  the  Second  and  Third 
("Rhenish")  Symphonies,  and  the  one  which  we  are  considering  now  was  pub- 
lished as  his  Fourth. 

The  Fourth  is  the  least  "polite"  and  most  passionate  utterance  of  Schumann 
in  the  symphonic  form.  By  no  means  lacking  in  those  romantic  and  melodious 
qualities  which  have  endeared  his  music  to  generations  of  audiences,  the  Fourth 
often  exhibits  a  vehemence,  an  intensity,  and  power  for  which  we  look  in  vain  to 
the  other  symphonies.  It  is  not  spectacular,  but  it  is  strong  and  sane  and  sweet. 
It  is  not  an  ideal  vehicle  for  the  virtuoso  conductor,  but  for  one  who  possesses  in- 
sight and  sincerity,  it  is  eminently  satisfying. 

First  Movement 

By  the  device  of  thematic  relationship,  the  composer  sought  to  achieve  in  this 
music  a  coherence  and  unity  more  intimate  than  usual  in  the  conventional  sym- 


ROBERT  SCHUMANN  453 

phony  of  four  movements.  It  is  intended  that  the  movements  shall  be  played  with- 
out pause;  indeed,  Schumann  himself,  in  the  title  to  the  work,  mentioned  that  it  is 
"in  one  movement,"  Various  editions  nevertheless  divide  the  work  into  three,  four, 
and  even  five  sections,  using  the  composer's  subtitles:  introduction,  allegro,  romanze, 
scherzo,  and  finale.  Since  the  introduction  and  allegro  are  logically  indivisible 
they  shall  be  considered  here  as  one  movement. 

The  somberness  and  restraint  of  the  introduction  are  expressed  through  the 
important  first  theme,  which  is  heard  at  once  in  the  strings  against  a  coldly  perfect 


octave.  Almost  from  the  first  note  there  is  a  continuous  accession  of  power  and 
emphasis,  growing  to  passionate  utterance  as  all  the  strings  are  involved,  searching 
the  upper  and  lower  registers  for  tones  sufficiently  expressive  for  their  message. 
A  quickened  pace,  and  still  more  exigent  evocations  of  the  orchestral  powers,  bring 
about  a  brief  but  tense  moment  of  anticipation,  and  the  movement  proper — the 
allegro — begins. 


The  basic  idea  of  the  movement  is  expressed  through  a  theme  given  at  once 
to  the  violins — a  flashing  figure  that  darts  swiftly  about  amidst  the  emphatic  chords 
of  the  full  orchestra;  chords  which  seem  to  give  it  impetus,  and  from  which  it  re- 
bounds continually  with  undiminished  force  and  with*  clearer  accent.  There  is  no 
formal  treatment  of  the  thematic  material,  nor  is  there  any  other  subject  in  the 
movement,  so  conspicuously  placed  or  developed,  as  to  entitle  it  to  the  importance 
of  a  conventional  second  theme.  The  first  subject  alone  seems  to  contain  within 
Itself  possibilities  of  development  and  variation  which  are  quite  satisfying,  and  to 
the  free  exploitation  of  these  possibilities  the  movement  is  devoted.  The  driving 
rhythm  rests,  now  and  again,  on  strong  octaves  delivered  forte  by  wind  instru- 
ments; then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  it  is  again  in  fierce  and  restless  motion.  There 
is,  presently,  a  brief  lyric  passage,  against  which  the  nervous  fluctuations  of  the 
first  subject  are  presented — but  it  is  merely  an  episode,  quickly  overcome  by  the 
impetuous  leapings  and  swift  rhythms  of  the  original  theme  and  its  developments. 


454  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Second  Movement 
[Romanze] 

The  grave  sentiment,  the  romantic  melancholy  so  often  disclosed  in  Schu- 
mann's music,  are  beautifully  evident  in  the  second  movement.  There  is  a  sad 
little  melody,  sung  by  oboe  and  cello,  against  a  string  accompaniment,  pizzicato. 


Here  are  both  resignation  and  complaint,  and,  as  if  to  nullify  both,  there  appears, 
suddenly  and  surprisingly,  the  more  passionate  theme  of  the  introduction;  richly 
harmonized,  and  put  forward  in  the  string  choir's  warmest  tones.  A  solo  violin 
presently  winders  with  feminine  grace  through  a  curved  and  descending  figure  of 
more  cheerful  emotional  content  5  but  the  plaintive  song  of  the  oboe  and  cello 
return  at  the  end* 

Third  Movement 
[Scherzo] 

The  scherzo  is  the  only  movement  of  this  symphony  which  is  in  conventional 
form*  Its  spirit,  however,  is  not  precisely  as  playful  as  the  title  scherzo  would  imply. 
Though  the  rhythm  is  strong  and  lively,  the  gaiety  seems  calculated  and  forced. 
But  neither  is  there  morbidity  or  cynicism.  The  downright  and  forceful  accents 
maintained  by  timpani  seem  to  keep  the  music  moving  away  from  reflectiveness,  or 
seriousness,  or  cryptic  meanings.  The  trio,  the  contrasting  section  of  the  move- 
ment, brings  a  definitely  cheerful  spirit  to  the  music,  and  a  bright  touch  of  lyric 
grace  in  contrast  to  the  heavy  humor  of  the  first  part.  After  the  formal  re-presenta- 
tion of  the  main  portion  of  the  movement,  there  is  a  long  passage  of  declining 
power,  which  leads  without  pause  into  the 

Fourth  Movement 
[Finale] 

The  final  movement  recalls  the  fact  that  Schumann  first  conceived  this  music 
as  a  kind  of  fantasia,  unified  and  coherent.  The  extensive  use  in  the  concluding 
section  of  the  work  of  themes  and  material  from  the  first  movement  is  significant. 
Here  they  are  transformed  and  even  glorified;  the  former  restraints  are  joyously 
cast  aside,  and  we  have  in  this  movement  a  powerful,  a  virile,  and  optimistic  ex- 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  455 

pression.  In  rhythm  and  in  dynamics,  Schumann  here  exacts  a  great  measure  of 
the  orchestra's  resources,  and  accomplishes  a  revelation  of  his  own  powers  quite 
unique  in  his  symphonic  music. 

After  the  diminuendo  in  which  the  previous  movement  ended,  there  are  sur- 
prising recollections,  in  the  violins,  of  the  main  theme  of  the  first  movement.  The 
brass,  too,  projects  powerfully  a  phrase  derived  from  the  opening  section  of  the 
symphony,  and  it  is  upon  this  phrase  that  the  present  movement  is  largely  founded. 
There  is  a  quickening  of  the  tempo,  a  stubbornly  held  chord  in  full  orchestra,  and 
the  main  section  of  the  movement  begins  with  further  reference  to  the  first  part 
of  the  symphony  and  the  introduction  of  new  thematic  ideas,  partly  in  strings, 
partly  in  woodwind.  These  are  magnificently  developed  in  a  broad  and  free  style; 
strong  and  often  syncopated  rhythms  urge  always  onward;  fierce  outbursts  of  the 
full  orchestra  punctuate  long  and  eloquent  and  vehement  musical  sentences.  The 
concluding  passages  have  a  vitality  and  abandon  that  leave  no  question  of  the  joy 
and  exaltation  that  brought  forth  this  music. 


Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

THIS  concerto  was  not  written  as  a  complete  entity.  The  first  movement  was  fin- 
ished at  Leipzig  during  the  summer  of  1841,  and  was  called  "Phantasie  in  A 
minor."  Not  until  1845  were  the  second  and  third  movements  written.  Clara 
Wieck  Schumann,  as  the  foremost  exponent  and  ardent  champion  of  her  husband's 
work,  had  the  honor  of  first  playing  the  concerto  as  a  whole  in  public.  She  played 
it  from  manuscript  at  a  concert  in  Dresden  in  the  winter  of  1845,  the  composer 
having  been  unsuccessful  in  his  efforts  to  get  the  work  published  at  that  time.  It  is 
worthy  of  note  that  the  movements  of  the  concerto  then  bore  the  directions  allegro 
affetuoso,  andantino,  and  rondo.  At  present  the  movements  are  designated  by  the 
words  allegro,  intermezzo-andantino  grazioso,  and  allegro  vivace. 

Perhaps  the  first  really  notable  performance  of  the  work  was  given  at  Vienna, 
on  New  Year's  Day,  1847,  w^en  Mme  Schumann  undertook  the  solo  part  and  the 
composer  himself  conducted  the  orchestra. 

Although  the  orchestral  part  of  the  concerto  cannot  be  said  to  te  heavily 
scored,  you  will  find  beautiful  tonal  contrasts,  impressive  volume  and  sonority,  and 
accurate  balance  between  the  piano  and  the  orchestra. 

First  Movement 

In  the  distant  days  when  Rome  was  the  artistic  as  well  as  the  political  capital 
df  the  world,  the  art  oi  the  orator  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  noblest,  and  from 


456  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  assiduous  study  given  it  by  the  patrician  youth  under  the  tutelage  of  masters, 
the  formula  for  a  good  oration  has  come  down  to  us.  That  is,  to  speak  so  as  to 
render  the  audience  "attentos,  benevolos,  et  dociles"  ;  first,  to  gain  their  interest 
and  attention  5  second,  to  engender  in  them  a  disposition  favorable  to  the  orator  and 
his  cause,  and  finally,  to  make  them  "teachable,"  open-minded  to  the  substance  of 
the  argument. 

Here  in  Schumann's  great  concerto  we  have  two  remarkable  musical  analogies 
to  the  classical  oration.  One  appears  in  the  concerto  as  a  whole;  another  in  the 
first- movement  considered  as  a  complete  entity.  So  nearly  perfect  is  the  parallel 
that  the  terms  descriptive  of  the  parts  of  the  oration  might  be  applied  with  almost 
equal  descriptiveness  to  this  music  of  Schumann,  Surely  the  formal  yet  forceful 
and  compelling  prelude,  delivered  emphatically  by  piano  and  orchestra,  is  a  skillful 
exordium  that  instantly  commands  attention  and  in  the  same  moment  begets  an 
attitude  of  anticipation.  Then,  cleverly  articulated  with  the  last  chord  of  the  prel- 
ude— indeed,  growing  directly  out  of  it  as  the  gentle  woodwind  separates  itself 
from  the  rest  of  the  orchestra — comes  the  thesis  of  the  movement.  It  is  recognized 
by  every  German  as  the  "Leben  Sie  wohl"  (fare  you  well),  a  touching  phrase  in 
Schubert's  Wanderer's  Nightsong;  it  was  used  with  similar  significance  by  Men- 
delssohn in  his  overture,  A  Calm  Sea  and  a  Prosperous  Voyage;  Beethoven  intro- 
duced it  in  the  sonata,  Farewell,  Absence,  and  Return,  and  Wagner  employed  it, 
first  as  the  "Salvation"  motive  in  The  Flying  Dutchman,  and  kter,  with  such  dra- 
matic force,  as  a  motive  of  the  knightly  Lohengrin  himself.  The  solo  piano  speaks 
the  antithesis,  which  is  almost  an  exact  duplication  of  the  first  thematic  phrase,  and 
immediately  orchestra  and  solo  instrument  move  on  in  sweeping  passages  to  the 
development  and  exposition  of  the  melodious  subject.  So  would  a  Cicero,  perhaps, 
carry  his  audience  on  the  pinions  of  his  first  flight  of  eloquence  into  his  high  plane 
of  thought. 


IT  nt^    ] — = ==  *  ^_ 

With  piano  and  orchestra  alternately  to  the  forefront,  the  music  sweeps  on- 
ward now.  The  solo  instrument  has  some  exquisite  passages.  Presently,  in  slightly 
changed  form,  the  first  subject  of  the  movement  reappears  in  the  relative  major  key 
of  C,  and  a  new  development,  in  swiftly  altering  modulations,  unfolds  under  the 
leadership  of  the  piano  like  a  bud  opening  in  the  morning  sun. 

Gradually  the  bright  orchestral  colors  fade,  and  presently  piano  and  clarinet 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  457 

become  engaged  in  a  brief  and  pensive  dialogue.  Upon  this  slender  thread  of  sound 
the  orchestra  rears  a  bulk  of  varicolored  tone,  growing  more  massive  and  gaining 
impetus  from  its  own  increasing  weight  as  it  moves  toward  its  completion.  At  the 
end  of  this  part  of  the  movement  a  gentler  phrase  appears — not  the  final  word,  but 
a  promise  of  further  adumbration  of  the  composer's  idea. 

A  lyric  mood  was  vaguely  suggested  in  the  first  portion  of  the  movement,  yet 
the  songlike  melody  that  flows  so  sweetly  from  the  piano  as  the  second  part  begins 
appears  rather  surprisingly.  At  first  hearing,  it  seems  wholly  foreign  to  the  subject 
matter  of  the  movement  as  given  out  in  the  first  section ;  nevertheless,  if  you  listen 
closely,  you  will  find  it  but  a  new  version  of  the  first  thesis  of  this  part  of  the  con- 
certo. Even  its  rhythm,  disguised  though  it  may  be  by  the  arpeggio  figure  in  the 
left  hand,  differs  but  little  from  that  of  the  first  pensive  phrase  pronounced  by  the 
woodwind  immediately  following  the  prelude.  It  is  as  if  one  looked  at  a  finely 
faceted  jewel,  wondering  at  the  many-colored  refractions  of  light  within  its 
marvelous  structure ;  though  it  is  touched  by  but  a  single  white  ray,  it  showers  forth 
color  rich  and  varied.  So  with  the  basic  theme  as  it  is  touched  by  genius;  it  reveals 
itself  in  almost  infinitely  varied  lights  and  colors. 

It  is  largely  by  means  of  such  variety,  and  such  contrast,  that  the  A  minor 
Concerto  maintains  its  hold  upon  the  interest  of  both  audiences  and  great  per- 
formers. The  concerto  form  is  a  temptation  to  the  composer  to  be  mathematical, 
scholarly,  pedantic — and  therefore  dull.  In  its  beauty,  form  and  structure  play  so 
large  a  part  that  it  is  difficult  for  anyone  of  less  artistic  stature  than  a  genius  to 
remember  that  the  appeal  of  music  is  first  of  all  to  the  senses  and  the  emotions.  But 
in  Schumann  we  find  a  true  master  composer,  to  whom  music  is  at  once  a  sensuous 
and  an  intellectual  pleasure;  the  happy  result  is  that  his  music  pleases  even  the 
determinedly  intellectual  while  it  delights  the  less  thoroughly  tutored  music  lover. 

The  final  section  presents  a  portion  of  the  first  movement  which  corresponds 
to  the  peripeteia  of  a  Greek  drama.  The  basic  scheme  of  the  movement  has  been 
unfolded;  its  elements  have  reached  their  fullest  development  and  each  has  been 
allotted  its  logical  degree  of  prominence;  opposing  figures  have  been  weighed  and 
balanced;  the  denouement  of  this  part  of  the  concerto  is  imminent.  Nor  is  it  long 
delayed.  A  contemplative  moment,  with  the  piano  giving  out  a  melodious  subject, 
and  repeating  it  with  rich  ornaments  in  arpeggio  form,  gradually  attracts  various 
sections  of  the  orchestra  until  the  full  ensemble  rises  to  tHe  most  powerful  measures 
of  the  entire  movement.  Timpani  and  piano  vigorously  maintain  the  rhythm  of 
these  closing  measures,  while  wind  and  strings  speak  with  a  swiftly  rising  inflec- 
tion. A  glittering  arpeggio,  touching  the  silvery  upper  register  of  the  piano  and 
descending  again  into  emphatic  octaves  in  the  bass,  ends  this  section  of  the  first 
movement 

The  ekborate  cadenza  written  by  Schumann  for  the  final  section  of  this 
movement  is  not  the  conventional  display  of  musical  fireworks  but  rather  partakes 


458  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

of  the  more  serious,  more  intellectual,  and  not  less  beautiful  character  of  thematic 
exposition  and  variation.  Nevertheless,  there  is  an  exigent  demand  for  manual 
dexterity.  The  piano,  solo,  very  deliberately  plays  with  a  dainty  figure,  turning  it 
this  way  and  that,  with  right  hand  and  left  engaging  in  a  kind  of  duet;  presently 
a  trill,  as  bright  and  live  as  quicksilver,  spurts  from  the  upper  section  of  the  instru- 
ment. Against  the  flickering  iridescences  of  this  brilliant  figure,  the  first  subject  of 
the  movement  is  introduced  in  the  left  hand,  but  only  for  a  moment  is  this  remi- 
niscence allowed  us.  There  is  a  rapid  succession  of  scales  and  arpeggios  from  the 
piano,  and  at  length  a  final  trill  which  in  a  moment  engages  the  orchestra  in  the 
full  swing  of  the  concluding  passages  of  the  movement. 

An  analogy  between  the  concerto  and  the  classical  oration  was  suggested  at 
the  opening  of  the  work;  it  applies  quite  as  accurately  to  the  concluding  part  of 
the  movement.  Here  we  have  a  masterly  peroration,  a  recapitulation  of  preceding 
ideas  so  ingeniously  constructed  as  to  have  all  the  interest  of  new  and  diiferent 
thoughts;  we  have  even  a  final  fillip  to  our  interest  in  the  new  figure  introduced 
very  near  the  end.  The  four  concluding  chords  rouse  nerves  and  intellect  to  even 
higher  pitch,  and  unequivocally  mark  the  consummation  of  the  composer's  plan 
for  the  first  movement. 

Second  Movement 
\lntermezzd\ 

It  is  interesting  in  connection  with  Schumann's  use  of  an  intermezzo  as  the 
second  movement  of  the  A  minor  Concerto  to  inquire  into  the  origin  of  this  charm- 
ing form;  it  is  surprising  to  find  that  it  was  in  its  earliest  stages  of  development, 
not  a  musical,  but  a  dramatic  device.  It  was  an  entertainment,  of  cheerful  and 
amusing  character,  introduced  between  the  acts  of  a  serious  drama  or  grand  opera, 
either  to  give  the  persons  of  the  drama  an  opportunity  to  relax  after  intense  emo- 
tional activity,  or  to  allow  the  same  respite  to  the  wrought-up  nerves  of  the 
audience;  usually  it  accomplished  both  purposes,  and  sometimes  served  merely  as  a 
distraction  while  large  scenic  or  dramatic  effects  were  being  prepared.  Its  presence 
can  be  detected  in  every  dramatic  form  from  the  Roman  comedy  and  the  medieval 
miracle  pky  to  early  Italian  drama,  the  Passion  Play  of  Oberammergau,  and  such 
comparatively  modern  works  as  Shakespeare's  Midsummer  Nights  Dream,  and 
grand  opera.  Music  soon  won  its  place  in  the  intermezzo,  and  in  fact  that  place 
became  a  dominating  one ;  from  the  simple  hymn  or  madrigal  introduced  into  the 
miracle  play,  the  intermezzo  developed  into  a  more  or  less  ekborate  instrumental 
composition. 

Schumann,  and  other  composers  who  introduced  the  intermezzo  into  their 
works,  did  so  for  a  reason  analogous  to  that  which  brought  the  device  into  the 
structure  of  the  ancient  <lrama — to  allow  both  musicians  and  audience  a  period  of 
relaxation  after  the  tense  emotional  pitch  reached  in  the  preceding,  and  to  prepare 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  459 

for  it  in  succeeding,  movements.  Here  in  the  concerto,  the  first  movement  ends 
rather  suddenly  after  intellect  and  emotions  have  been  spurred  to  intense  activity 
and  sensitiveness,  there  is  a  distinct  "shock"  in  the  final  chords.  To  continue  in 
the  same  strain  would  be  to  fatigue  the  sensibilities  to  the  point  of  exhaustion; 
therefore,  in  order  to  relax  the  nerves  of  the  audience,  and  prepare  them  for  the 
final  movement;  to  enable  the  musicians  to  recoup  their  energy  and  restore  their 
emotional  capacity,  this  intermezzo,  suave,  dainty,  almost  playful,  comes  grate- 
fully as  a  cool  breeze  on  a  fevered  brow. 

It  opens  with  a  fragment  of  dialogue  between  the  piano  and  the  string  section 
of  the  orchestra,  gentle,  with  swelling  interjections  from  the  orchestra  as  a  whole. 
A  wistful  phrase  in  strings  and  woodwind  interrupts  this  colloquy  at  intervals,  but 
it  appears  again,  the  solo  instrument  and  orchestra  repeating  the  phrase  and  making 
of  it  a  miniature  fugue.  There  is  an  interlude,  with  exclamatory  phrases  from  the 
orchestra  and  a  leisurely  scale  clambering  up  from  the  lower  section  of  the  key- 
board. A  distinct  melody  appears  in  the  strings,  and  it  becomes  the  theme  of  the 
larger  portion  of  the  movement,  with  the  piano  supplying  ornamental  accompani- 
ment. Close  to  the  end  the  opening  figures  of  the  intermezzo,  with  a  lingering  on 
delicious  chords  from  the  piano,  are  resumed  and  maintained  to  the  final  measures. 

Third  Movement 

In  the  music  of  the  preceding  movements,  Schumann  has  given  to  the  piano  a 
variety  of  utterance.  It  has  been  a  lyrical,  a  melancholy,  even  a  prophetic  voice,  but 
it  has  not  as  yet — with  the  exception  of  a  few  chords  in  the  very  introduction — 
spoken  with  the  commanding  sonority  of  which  it  is  capable.  The  electric  brilliance 
and  agility  of  the  instrument,  its  potent  and  sometimes  brassy  lower  and  middle 
registers — these  have  been  reserved,  cannfly  enough,  for  the  final  movement.  And 
here  at  the  very  beginning  the  composer  imperiously  'calls  them  forth.  The  vigorous, 
the  elastically  rhythmic  chords  that  appear  at  the  beginning  of  the  movement  are 
but  the  first  response  to  his  command;  mightier  pronouncements,  brilliant  ringing 
clusters  of  notes,  and  dexterous  passages  are  to  follow.  The  thematic  phrase  from 
which  they  proceed  is  this: 


These  chords  in  turn  become  the  first  important  subject  of  the  movement. 
Piano  and  orchestra  swing  into  a  lively  and  vigorous  rhythm,  suggesting  a  hunting 


460  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

song.  Succeeding  passages  give  the  pianist  an  uncommon  opportunity  for  display, 
with  pearly  scales  and  decorative  figures  of  ravishing  tonal  beauty.  Shifting  rhythms 
and  tone  colors  come  now  in  swift  procession;  tones  whose  clarity  and  color  seem 
to  float  on  the  air  like  iridescent  vapors,  drifting  and  shining  in  sunlight. 

The  beauty  of  the  music  of  Robert  Schumann  is  invariably  dependent  in  a 
great  degree  upon  tone  color.  He  was  not  a  great  master  of  counterpoint;  Schubert 
surpassed  him  in  melody;  other  composers  wrote  more  effectively  for  the  orchestra 
and  for  the  instrumental  quartet  or  trio;  still  others  knew  better  than  did  Schu- 
mann how  to  exact  from  the  performer  the  last  measure  of  technical  ability.  But 
he  was  a  master  of  the  pure  style  and  of  form,  and  his  music,  in  the  hands  of  artists 
whose  perceptions  and  abilities  enable  them  to  lay  over  the  perfection  of  structure 
a  richness  and  variety  of  tone  color,  becomes  a  thing  of  inexhaustible  beauty  and 
deep  delight.  Most  of  all,  Schumann  was  the  romanticist;  the  sensitive,  poetic,  and 
sometimes  even  sentimental  artist,  who  made  form  and  style  his  servants,  not  his 
masters;  who  made  his  mastery  of  technique  a  means  of  profound  expression,  not 
an  end  in  itself. 

Excepting  some  details  of  orchestration,  the  major  part  of  the  concluding  sec- 
tion of  the  movement  is,  in  the  orchestra,  but  a  repetition  of  matter  that  has  gone 
before.  There  are,  however,  added  difficulties  for  the  pianist,  and  his  mastery  of 
them  is  a  delight  to  perceive.  Careful  listening  to  the  piano  part  will  disclose  almost 
hidden,  but  nevertheless  intricate,  passages  in  which  the  technique  of  the  solo  artist 
is  subjected  to  imperative  and  exacting  demands.  There  are  groups  of  six  notes, 
played  at  flashing  speed,  with  an  even  more  rapid  mordent  ornamenting  the  first 
note  of  the  group;  there  are  whole  measures  of  trilling  in  the  right  hand  against 
melody  or  chord  in  the  left;  there  are  crashing  chords  that  must  be  dominant  over 
the  orchestra's  forte;  there  are  imposed  upon  the  pianist  those  tests  of  his  skill 
which  only  the  master  composer  can  devise. 

Finally,  there  is  the  atmosphere  of  joyous  abandon  which  permeates  the  entire 
coda.  Heretofore  the  composer  has  written,  as  it  were,  under  restraints,  with  de- 
votion to  formal  perfection  and  grace,  with  passion,  though  present,  subordinated 
to  the  more  intellectual  qualities.  Now,  as  the  work  approaches  its  end,  the  feelings 
which  so  carefully  have  been  kept  in  check  burst  forth  almost  unrestrained.  Yet, 
though  they  come  to  the  fore,  Schumann  does  not  permit  them  to  shake  the  firm 
outlines  of  structure  which  he  had  so  carefully  erected  and  followed  throughout 
the  building  of  the  concerto;  so  to  the  end  he  pursues  the  ideal  of  beautiful  form 
while  laying  on  the  more  superficial,  yet  necessary,  beauty  of  color. 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  461 

Concerto  in  D  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

THE  history  of  this  important  work  is  clouded  by  time  and  confused  by  con- 
tradictions. Claims  and  counterclaims,  assertions  and  denials,  by  almost  everyone 
who  has  ever  had  anything  to  do  with  the  work,  have  mounted  to  such  a  mass  of 
bewildering  detail  that  it  may  require  years  to  collate  and  estimate  all  the  facts  in 
the  case.  Regardless  of  the  welter  of  information  and  misinformation,  however, 
it  is  reasonable  to  accept  two  conclusions:  first,  that  a  major  work  by  a  great  com- 
poser should  have  been  repressed  by  a  great  executant  and  his  heirs  is  a  strange 
thing  and  of  dubious  propriety,  regardless  of  the  reasons  for  it;  second,  the  music 
lovers  of  the  world  should  have  an  opportunity  to  hear  and  judge  such  a  work 
for  themselves. 

The  more  romantic  commentators  and  the  press  generally  have  referred  to 
this  work  as  the  "lost"  concerto.  It  has  never  been  lost.  Upon  its  completion  by  the 
composer,  October  3,  1853,  it  was  dispatched  at  once  to  the  violinist  Joachim,  in 
the  form  of  violin  part  and  piano  score,  and  ten  days  later  the  completed  orchestral 
score  was  in  the  hands  of  the  violinist,  together  with  a  letter,  from  which  we  quote: 

<cHere  is  something  new.  It  will  give  you  a  picture  of  a  sincere  earnestness 
behind  which  often  reigns  a  happy  mood.  Often  I  saw  you  in  my  imagination 
when  I  wrote  the  concerto.  Tell  me  everything,  of  the  parts  that  are  'unausfuhr- 
barkelt  schmekf  (seem  unplayable).".  .  . 

Schumann  wished  nothing  more  than  an  early  performance  of  the  concerto, 
but,  through  circumstances  never  entirely  explained,  he  was  denied  this  final  reward 
of  the  creative  musician.  Joachim,  though  he  frequently  referred  to  the  work  with 
words  of  praise,  procrastinated  so  far  as  a  public  performance  was  concerned;  but 
he  frequently  played  it  in  private.  Later  he  would  not  play  it  at  all,  and  finally 
refused  even  to  discuss  it.  But  in  a  letter  to  his  biographer,  Moser,  he  wrote 
"certain  pages  (how  could  it  be  otherwise?)  testify  to  the  deep  sensibility  of  the 
composer,  this  by  contrast  unhappily  makes  the  weaker  parts  more  evident."  And 
again,  he  spoke  of  the  second  movement  as  "rich,  beautiful  in  sentiment,  truly 
typical  of  Schumann";  again  referred  to  the  concerto  as  "deep,  characteristic,  and 
full  of  feeling,"  "spirited,"  and  "not  lacking  in  interesting  details."  Finally  he 
wrote,  nevertheless,  that  in  worshipful  memory  of  Schumann,  he  "could  not  allow 
the  publication  of  the  work,  however  much  desired  by  the  public."  It  is  interesting 
to  compare  his  attitude  with  that  of  Brahms,  who  wrote  to  Clara  Schumann  on  the 
question  of  posthumous  publication  of  her  husband's  works,  "All  that  we  do  is  but 
the  work  of  human  hands.  The  world  likes  to  see  the  weaknesses  of  its  great  men, 
and  sooner  or  later  it  is  bound  to  discover  them.  ..."  As  one  commentator  adds, 
"The  world  demands  likewise  to  know  each  particular  of  their  strength,  and  in  the 
leisurely  course  of  time  that  discovery  too  is  bound  to  come." 

On  the  death  of  Joachim  in  1907,  the  Berlin  State  Library  acquired  the 


462  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

manuscript  of  the  Schumann  violin  concerto,  under  an  agreement  that  it  should  not 
be  published  until  one  hundred  years  should  have  elapsed  after  the  death  of  the 
composer  (1956).  The  manuscript  never  "disappeared,"  never  was  "lost";  its 
existence  was  known,  and  known  familiarly,  to  Herr  Geofg  Schunemann,  head  of 
the  music  department  of  the  Berlin  State  Library,  ever  since  its  acquisition.  He, 
acquainted  with  the  prohibitions  that  had  been  imposed  by  the  Joachim  family, 
naturally  did  not  promote  the  idea  of  performance  or  publication.  But  Herr 
Wilhelm  Strecker,  head  of  the  publishing  firm  of  B*  Schott's  Sohne,  at  Mainz, 
became  interested,  and  in  April,  1937,  submitted  to  Yehudi  Menuhin,  photostatic 
copies  of  the  manuscript.  Menuhin  expressed  tremendous  enthusiasm  for  the  score 
and  his  eagerness  to  perform  it,  but  insisted  that  the  Urtext  (original  edition)  be 
used.  Permission  for  publication  and  performance  was  obtained,  and  a  definitive 
performance  was  the  ultimate  result.  At  this  point  it  might  be  well  to  interpolate 
the  following  facts:  The  first  public  performance  of  the  work  was  given  by  the 
Berlin  Philharmonic  Orchestra  with  Georg  Kulenkampf  as  soloist,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Karl  Boehm,  November  26,  1937.  Yehudi  Menuhin  gave  the  first 
American  performance  with  piano  rather  than  orchestra,  in  New  York,  December 
6,  1937.  The  first  performance  with  orchestra  in  America  was  on  December  23, 
1937,  with  Yehudi  Menuhin  as  soloist,  and  the  St.  Louis  Symphony  Orchestra, 
under  the  direction  of  Vladimir  Golschmannj  and  other  performances  followed 
with  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  Eugene  Ormandy  conducting,  January  21,  1938, 
and  the  Philharmonic  Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  Georges  Enesco  conduct- 
ing, January  27.  The  work  was  played  by  Mr.  Menuhin  with  the  Boston  Sym^ 
phony  Orchestra,  Serge  Koussevitzky  conducting,  February  4, 

This  brief  history  of  the  concerto  should  not  be  completed  without  reference 
to  the  "spirit  messages"  supposed  to  have  been  received  by  Yelli  d'Aaranyi  and  her 
sister  Adfle  Fachiri,  both  players  of  the  violin,  and  grandnieces  of  Joachim.  These 
messages  purport  to  come  directly  from  Robert  Schumann,  and,  according  to  report, 
urge  the  "exhumation  of  a  Schumann  work  for  violin."  Another  message,  ostensibly 
from  Joachim,  testified  to  a  radical  change  of  opinion  no  doubt  brought  about  by 
association  with  Robert  Schumann  in  another  world,  and  reports  him  as  admitting 
that  "he  had  been  intolerant,  and  that  it  would  make  him  happy  Were  you  able  to 
correct  a  mistake  lie  has  committed  by  refusing  to  publish  such  a  work."  It  is 
asserted  that  these  messages  led  to  the  "discovery"  of  the  Schumann  concerto,  but 
nothing  is  said  relative  to  the  strange  fact  that  a  grandniece  of  Joachim  was 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  an  important  Schumann  manuscript  often 
mentioned  in  the  letters  of  both  Schumann  and  Joachim  and  of  definite  importance 
to  the  Joachim  family — which  letters  were  entirely  accessible  to,  and  probably 
well  known  to,  the  entire  group  of  Joachim  descendants* 

It  must  be  mentioned  here  also  that  the  first  public  performance  of  the  work 
by  Herr  Kulenkampf  involved  modifications  in  the  solo  part  entirely  unauthorized 


ROBERT    SCHUMANN  463 

by  the  composer;  and  that  the  version  played  by  Mr.  Menuhin  was  exactly  in 
accordance  with  the  Schumann  manuscript — including  all  the  "unplayable"  details; 
not  unplayable  to  a  Menuhin! 

First  Movement 
In  kraftigem,  nicht  zu  schnellem  Temfo 

Schumann  was  a  pianist,  wrote  for  and  loved  the  piano  as  few  composers  have 
done — and  composed  the  concerto  first  with  a  piano,  rather  than  an  orchestral 
accompaniment.  He  thought  in  terms  of  the  piano,  largely;  and  perhaps  here  we 
can  point  to  the  source  of  many  of  the  shortcomings  of  the  violin  concerto.  It 
would  be  ridiculous  for  anyone  to  assert  that  it  is  without  shortcomings;  and  it 
would  be  equally  absurd  to  deny  that  its  genuine  merit  fails  to  overbalance  these. 
To  begin  with,  Schumann  did  not  understand  the  violin  thoroughly,  as  has  often 
been  pointed  out.  He  was  not  able  to  detach  it,  in  his  mind,  from  the  orchestra; 
and  undoubtedly  he  had  no  clear  and  comprehensive  idea  of  its  technicalities.  When 
he  wrote  the  great  piano  concerto,  he  was  on  familiar  ground,  so  far  as  the  solo 
instrument  was  concerned — and  he  exploited  the  tonal  and  technical  resources  of 
the  piano  with  complete  understanding.  But  with  the  violin,  he  exacted  both  too 
much  and  too  little;  and  if  his  concerto  for  that  instrument  is  not  of  the  stature 
of  the  Brahms,  the  Beethoven,  or  the  Tchaikovsky,  it  is  because  in  it  he  asked  so 
often  for  the  impossible,  and  failed  to  ask  for  the  practicable. 

On  the  ground  of  its  orchestration  one  can  find  fault  with  the  concerto,  also; 
but  why  must  we  seek  the  flaws  instead  of  the  undeniable  loveliness  of  this  work? 
Suppose  Schumann  does  pose  the  solo  instrument  against  a  group  of  strings  in  the 
same  key  and  with  the  same  texture;  with  a  great  player  the  importance  of  such 
matters  disappears,  and  the  great  artist  "allows  for  these  difficulties  and  overcomes 
the  technical  problems  through  sheer  inspiration  and  a  great  desire  to  carry  out 
the  deeper  meanings  and  lofty  purposes  of  Schumann's  music." 

The  orcjiestra  produces  and  projects  a  strong  and  aggressive  idea,  formed 
mostly  of  broadly  fashioned  chords  quite  definite  in  rhythm.  There  is  a  change 
to  the  relative  key  of  F  major,  in  which  appears  a  melody  full  of  tender  sentiment 
and  of  undulating  grace.  Presently  the  violin  enters  with  a  difficult  section  of 
passage  work  against  the  orchestral  strings,  directed  ultimately  to  a  more  complete 
adumbration  of  the  F  major  subject.  The  orchestra  with  the  first  subject,  and  the 
$olo  violin  with  the  second,  elaborate  their  ideas,  but  there  is  little  real  development 
— nothing  of  the  complete  and  ekborate  exploration  of  the  thematic  material  that 
one  would  expect  of  a  Beethoven  or  a  Brahms.  There  is  some  interesting  treat- 
ment of  woodwinds,  notably  clarinet  and  oboe,  and — to  run  ahead  of  the  music 
a  bit — one  wishes  that  here  and  later  Schumann  had  pursued  his  ideas  in  this  direc- 
tion, for  too  often  the  orchestra  seems  so  definitely  subordinate  to  his  scheme  of 
things  that  it  ceases  even  to  provide  contrast  with  the  solo  instrument. 


464  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Second  Movement 
Langsam 

Unquestionably  the  second  movement  is  not  only  great  music,  but  Schumann 
at  his  romantic  and  most  engaging  best.  Here  is  a  great  song  that  flows  like  a  river, 
and  an  opportunity  for  the  violinist  to  display  his  most  luscious  and  warmest  tones — 
an  opportunity  which  the  able  and  sympathetic  artist  seizes  unfailingly.  It  would 
be  easy  for  a  violinist  of  lesser  stature  to  make  the  movement  a  sickly  outpouring 
of  sentimentality;  its  phrases,  long  and  broad,  tempt  the  soloist  to  the  lush  delights 
of  the  G  string,  with  its  depth  and  warmth  and  richness;  but  the  true  interpreta- 
tion of  the  movement  is  to  be  found,  as  Menuhin  has  unerringly  perceived,  in  sub- 
tlety of  phrase  and  nice  adjustment  of  shading.  Full  and  voluptuous  tone  is,  indeed, 
required  here,  but  only  as  one  element  in  the  lovely  texture,  woven  of  rhythm, 
of  color,  of  tone,  and  of  dynamics  which  an  observant  soloist  perceives  in 
Schumann's  exquisitely  designed  pattern. 

Third  Movement 
Lebhaft  dock  nicht  schneU 

Joachim  referred  to  his  pleasure  in  this  movement  in  a  letter  written  to 
Schumann  on  November  17,  1854:  "Oh,  those  were  glorious  days  when  you 
laughed  so  heartily  when  we  all  thought  that  the  last  movement  sounded  as  if 
Kosciusko  with  Sobiesky  opened  a  polonaise  .  .  ."  and  again  to  Clara  Schumann: 
"Your  Robert's  violin  concerto  we  must  play  often  together  in  Dresden.  The  last 
movement  is  so  difficult  for  the  violin,  but  I  begin  to  master  it  in  my  fingers.'5 

There  is  a  curious  element  of  unity  suddenly  brought  to  our  attention  in  this 
movement;  and  this  is  a  little  episode  based  upon  a  phrase  occurring  early  in  the 
movement,  and  in  turn  remotely  derived  from  a  fragment  of  the  preceding  move- 
ment. It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  this  is  more  than  coincidence,  for  in 
the  development  of  the  movement  there  is  no  relationship  established  between  it 
and  either  of  its  predecessors.  The  spirit  is  entirely  different.  Here  is  a  vigorous  and 
bouncing  rhythm,  alia  folacca  (but  hardly  a  polonaise!)  in  £4  rhythm,  during 
which  the  solo  violin  engages  in  rhapsodic  flights  against  the  orchestra's  urgent 
propulsion.  There  is  a  quieter  section  in  which  the  figurations  of  the  violin  resolve 
into  more  flowing  and  melodious  phrases,  and  there  are  references  to  the  serenity 
of  the  preceding  slow  movement. 


ALEXANDER  NIKOLAIEVICH  SCRIABIN 

[1872-1915] 

SCRIABIN  was  the  child  of  parents  who  met,  fell  in  love,  and  were  married 
while  both  were  students — the  father  at  the  law  school  of  the  Moscow  Uni- 
versity, the  mother  studying  piano  with  the  renowned  Leschetizky.  Between 
them  their  years  did  not  number  forty.  When  the  young  husband  completed  his 
course  at  the  university  he  began  the  practice  of  law;  and  the  wife  continued  her 
musical  studies  preparing  herself  for  a  concert  career.  Young  Alexander  was  but 
six  months  of  age  when  his  mother  developed  an  ominous  cough  which  necessitated 
removal  to  warmer  climes.  In  sunny  Italy  under  the  most  favorable  climatic  con- 
ditions the  illness  was  arrested  .  .  .  but  only  for  a  time.  She  died  there  in  1873. 

The  motherless  child  was  taken  to  the  home  of  his  paternal  grandmother 
and  given  into  the  care  of  a  maiden  aunt,  Lubov  Alexandrovna  Scriabin,  who 
attended  his  physical  needs  during  his  babyhood,  directed  his  education  during  his 
youth,  and  gave  him  the  sympathetic  companionship  his  sensitive  nature  required. 
His  unusual  musical  endowments  showed  themselves  at  an  early  age  in  a  remark- 
able ability  to  reproduce  with  absolute  correctness  music  which  he  hacl  heard  but 
once.  In  addition  he  had  an  independence  which  led  him  to  express  himself  indi- 
vidually rather  than  to  use  his  musical  means  exclusively  in  expressing  the  ideas  of 
others.  For  study  he  needed  no  incentive,  being  happiest  always  when  engaged  in 
some  creative  play.  By  the  time  he  was  eight  he  had  composed  a  few  simple  pieces 
and  had  even  written  some  short  poems. 

It  is  singular  that,  although  the  musical  fare  in  Moscow  was  made  up  largely 
of  opera,  which  young  Scriabin  attended  often,  his  interest  was  centered  more  in 
the  magical  sounds  of  the  orchestra  than  in  the  happenings  on  the  stage.  This  may 
account  for  the  fact  that  he  left  no  operatic  works;  indeed  no  vocal  music  to  speak 
of  save  the  "Choral  Epilogue"  to  his  First  Symphony  and  the  chorus  to  Prometheus 
in  which  the  singers  merely  vocalize. 

In  his  tenth  year  Scriabin  was  placed  in  the  Moscow  Army  Cadet  Corps 
where  he  remained  for  nearly  nine  years,  during  which  time  his  musical  talents 
were  developing  rapidly.  When  he  abandoned  military  life,  he  went  to  the  Con- 
servatory at  Moscow,  where  he  studied  composition  under  Taneiev,  piano  under 
Safonov,  and  won  a  gold  medal  in  1892.  A  tour  on  the  Continent  included  con- 
certs in  Paris,  Brussels,  Amsterdam,  and  other  cities  where  the  young  Russian  won 
fame  as  a  composer  and  pianist.  From  1898  to  1904  he  was  professor  of  piano- 
forte at  the  Moscow  Conservatory;  subsequently  he  devoted  himself  almost  ex- 
clusively to  composition,  winning  a  reputation  as  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  con- 
temporary Russian  composers. 


465 


466  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  3  in  C  minor 
[Le  Dwin  Poeme] 

SCRIABIN  presents  a  curious  and  unique  problem  to  the  interpreter  and  to  the 
listener  as  well.  In  his  maturer  years,  his  music  became  imbued  with  his  rather 
remarkable  religiophflosophical  ideas,  and  finally  was  made  the  vehicle  for  their 
expression.  These  ideas  were  in  themselves  vague  and  formless,  clouded  in  an 
abstruse  mysticism  that  approached — as  nearly  as  it  approached  any  system  of 
thought — the  tenets  of  theosophy.  Naturally  a  music  designed  to  embody  the  com- 
poser's philosophical  ideas  would  likewise  be  vague  and  mystical. 

But  Scriabin  went  further.  His  music  was  designed  neither  as  an  intellectual 
nor  as  a  sensuous  pleasure,  but  rather  as  a  rite;  an  act  of  connection  with  the 
Divine  Power  in  which  performers  and  hearers  took  part.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
suggest  that,  commonly,  neither  musicians  nor  audiences  so  regard  this  music,  and 
unless  one  is  an  advanced  student  of  either  music  or  obscure  philosophies  or  both, 
it  is  wiser,  and  far  more  agreeable,  to  be  concerned  primarily  with  the  purely 
musical  and  sensory  delights  of  Scriabin's  music. 

These  pleasures 'are  many  and  various.  Indeed,  for  a  philosophical  point  of 
departure,  we  might  reasonably  assume  that  this  music  is  a  sublimation  of  the  de- 
lights of  the  senses.  Scriabin  himself  was  by  no  means  insensible  to  these.  Prome- 
theus, another  of  this  series  of  mystical  tone  poems,  requires  not  only  the  full 
resources  of  the  symphony  orchestra,  but  a  "color  organ"  as  well,  by  which  ab- 
stract forms  in  colored  light  were  to  be  projected  with  the  music.  At  the  time  of 
his  death  the  composer  was  engaged  upon  still  another  work  in  this  manner,  in 
which  not  only  light,  but  perfumes  and  dances  were  to  be  integrated  with  the 
music. 

The  Divine  Poem  itself  is  perfumed  and  lighted  with  rare  harmonies  and 
exotic  orchestral  color.  Minute  analysis  of  the  orchestration  and  thematic  material 
can  add  little  to  the  mystical  significance  of  this  music  or  to  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
it.  The  wife  of  the  composer  has,  however,  given  us  with  his  permission  a  broad 
outline  of  the  work. 

The  first  movement  proper  begins  at  the  fourteenth  bar,  and  portrays  the 
struggle  between  the  concept  of  man  as  a  creature  dominated  by  a  personal  God, 
and  that  of  man,  himself  a  part  of  the  supreme  being,  and  therefore  free.  The 
pantheistic  idea  is  triumphant,  but  not  so  decisively  that  man  dares  proclaim  his 
own  divinity.  The  second  section  presents  a  kind  of  psychological  reaction;  man, 
victorious  but  yet  weak  and  uncertain,  abandons  himself  to  sensuous  delights.  Yet 
(third  movement)  the  godhood  in  him  ultimately  asserts  itself,  and  by  degrees  he 
is  raised  from  the  abyss  of  sensual  pleasures  to  heights  of  untrammeled  freedom 
and  "divine  activity."  The  three  movements  are  entitled  "Luttef  (Struggles), 


ALEXANDER     NIKOLAIEVICH     SCRIABIN  467 

(Sensuous   Delights),   and  "Jeu  dwm"   (The   Exercise  of  Divine 
Powers) . 

The  first  performance  of  the  work  was  given  in  New  York  by  the  Russian 
Symphony  Society,  under  the  direction  of  Modest  Altschuler,  March  14,  1907. 


The  Poem  of  Ecstasy 

[Opus  54,  in  C] 

SCRIABIN  wrote  five  symphonies.  Of  these  the  Fourth,  The  Poem  of  Ecstasy,  and 
the  Fifth,  Prometheus y  are  often  called  tone  poems. 

The  Poem,  of  Ecstasy  sets  forth  as  its  fundamental  message  the  "Joy  of 
Creative  Activity.35  The  composer  has  sought  to  express  the  emotional  side  of  his 
philosophy  of  life.  There  is  a  Prologue  which  has  two  motives.  The  first,  assigned 
to  the  flute,  symbolizes  "Strife  After  the  Ideal."  The  second,  played  by  the  clarinet, 
is  the  theme  of  the  Ego,  representing  the  gradual  "Awakening  of  the  Soul."  These 
two  motives,  exquisitely  blended  and  interwoven,  lead  to  another  subject  intro- 
duced by  the  flute.  This  subject  marks  the  beginning  of  the  sonata  form,  which 
establishes  the  work  as  symphonic  in  treatment.  It  immediately  includes  the  two 
motives  of  the  Prologue,  and  conveys  the  idea  of  the  spirit  in  flight,  soaring  ever 
higher  and  higher  in  an  effort  to  find  itself.  A  second  subject  is  in  two  partsj  the 
upper,  a  violin  solo  of  exquisite  tenderness,  typical  of  "Human  Love,"  the  lower,  in 
serious  character,  stated  by  the  English  horn.  Suddenly  a  commanding  trumpet 
theme  (third  subject)  summons  the  Will  to  rise  .  .  .  and  the  creative  force  climbs 
in  a  series  of  ascending  fourths  to  vertiginous  heights.  There  follow  expression?  of 
dreamy  charm;  climaxes  of  frenzied  passion;  moments  full  of  tragic  implications 
and  of  deepest  despair,  with  only  a  hint  at  previous  happiness.  The  three  subjects 
are  repeated  and  richly  developed.  They  culminate  in  an  ecstatic  swift  flight.  The 
trumpet  theme  grows  triumphantly  majestic,  resolving  itself  finally  into  an  Epi- 
logue of  immensity  and  grandeur.  Here  is  music  of  wondrous  beauty,  full  of  lovely 
themes,  artfully  entangled  in  sound  and  symbolism,  and  colored  with  a  harmony 
which,  up  to  the  time  of  the  first  performance  at  Moscow  in  1909,  had  not  yet 
been  heard.  The  simplicities  and  the  complexities  of  the  work  are  still  susceptible 
of  various  interpretations,  and  sometimes  its  validity  is  debatable;  but  there  is  no 
question  of  its  inexplicable  charm  and  mysterious  loveliness. 


468  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Prometheus:  The  Poem  of  Fire 

[Opus  60,  in  F  sharp] 

THIS  tone  poem  is  Scriabin's  last  orchestral  work.  He  began  it  in  Brussels  in  1909 
and  completed  it  after  his  final  return  to  Moscow  in  April,  1910.  The  poetic  in- 
spiration of  the  music  is  one  of  the  oldest  stories  of  Greek  mythology.  Scriabin's 
application  of  the  myth  portrays  not  the  Titan  chained  to  the  rock  with  a  vulture 
tearing  at  his  vitals,  but  a  kter  Greek  Prometheus  ...  one  of  the  "Sons  of  the 
Flame  of  Wisdom"  who  was  interested  in  the  spiritual  development  of  mankind, 
and  who  in  the  dim  ages  gave  to  man  the  sacred  spark  which  eventually  grew  into 
human  personality  and  intelligence.  In  the  embryonic  stage  mankind,  without  the 
Promethean  spark,  lacked  self-consciousness.  On  receiving  it  they  became  possessed 
of  creative  power  and  human  consciousness.  Those  more  advanced  in  the  scale  of 
evolution  understood  the  gift  and  used  it  properly;  those  more  ignorant  turned 
the  gift  to  gross  purposes  and  so  brought  evfl  to  the  world.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
Promethean  gift  of  fire  proved  both  a  blessing  and  a  curse,  since  it  resulted  in  good 
and  evil. 

Prometheus  is  scored  for  a  large  orchestra  in  which  the  solo  piano  is  promi- 
nent The  piano,  incidentally,  is  intended  to  represent  Man,  as  distinct  from  the 
Cosmos — the  orchestra — in  which  he  has  his  being.  A  chorus  of  mixed  voices  is 
heard  in  a  vocalise  near  the  end  of  the  composition.  Scriabin's  addition  of  a  color 
keyboard,  a  tastiera  fer  luce,  an  instrument  by  which  colors  thrown  on  a  screen 
were  intended  to  induce  the  mood  of  the  music,  was  a  new  and  to  some  extent  an 
effective  device. 

Here  we  have  the  elements  of  a  psychological  program  ...  the  crepuscular  $ 
shapeless,  lacking-in-consciousness  stage  of  humanity;  the  awakening  of  the  Will 
to  create,  and  its  development  in  two  phases  .  .  .  one  good  and  the  other  evil;  the 
moods  of  bliss  and  anguish  as  the  two  conflict;  and  the  final  union  of  the  human 
and  the  divine. 

A  characteristic  Scriabin  chord  opens  the  composition  .  .  .  one  that  creates  a 
nebulous,  mystical,  chaotic  atmosphere.  This  is  followed  by  a  theme  gently  intoned 
by  the  horns.  Presently  a  trumpet  call  is  heard  signifying  the  creative  Will.  At  first 
incomplete,  it  is  followed  by  an  arresting  theme  in  thoughtful  mood  symbolizing 
dawning  consciousness.  Once  again  the  trumpet  call  rings  out  vividly  and  the  "Joy 
of  Life"  enters  with  the  piano  figure.  The  stirrings  of  self-consciousness,  a  desire 
for  more  intense  life  .  .  .  "Human  Love"  springs  forth  as  a  result  of  the  Prome- 
thean spark.  The  influence  of  the  two  phases  of  the  gift  and  the  conflict  between 
them  are  expressed  in  passages  of  dissonance  and  beauteous  harmony.  Humanity  is 
merged  in  the  Cosmos,  and  the  work  ends  in  a  triumphant  blaze. 


DMITRI  SHOSTAKOVICH 

[Born.  1906] 

A  FIRST  glance  it  might  seem  curious  that  two  different  surveys  of  Russian 
music  made  a  few  years  ago  omitted  mention  of  Dmitri  Shostakovich — yet 
within  the  past  few  years  several  of  his  works  have  been  played  by  leading 
American  orchestras,  and  almost  overnight  he  has  been  recognized  as  one  of  the 
most  important,  if  not  the  most  important,  of  composers  living  within  the  Soviet 
Union. 

Shostakovich  was  born  at  St.  Petersburg  (Leningrad)  and  now  lives  there.  He 
studied  under  Glazunov  at  the  Conservatory,  Leningrad,  and  some  of  his  earlier 
scores  distinctly  show  the  influence  of  his  teacher.  Doubtless  in  the  belief  that  art 
should,  in  a  proletarian  state,  mirror  the  life  of  the  proletariat,  some  of  his 
symphonies  attempt  to  be  political  in  purpose  and  flavor,  but  it  is  significant  that 
neither  of  these  has  been  successful  outside  of  Russia.  He  has  written  in  many  forms, 
and  has  had  performed  a  satiric  opera,  several  ballets,  incidental  music  for  the 
drama,  and  music  for  the  sound  film.  There  is  also  some  chamber  music,  and  we 
know  of  many  smaller  pieces  for  the  piano. 

Shostakovich  aroused  vigorous  comment  both  in  Russia  and  the  United  States 
with  his  second  opera,  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  District  of  Mzensk.  The  official  news- 
paper, Pravda,  ran  an  article  against  it,  and  for  a  while  it  seemed  as  if  government 
displeasure  would  fall  upon  the  composer.  At  the  New  York  production,  on 
February  5,  1935,  many  members  of  the  audience  were  shocked  by  the  unblushing 
realism  of  the  orchestral  noises  that  accompanied  the  love  scene. 


Symphony  No.  i 

THE  composition  bears  the  simple  title,  "Symphony  for  Orchestra,  Opus  10."  The 
score  requires  a  krge  modern  orchestra,  including  a  piano.  There  are  no  polemics 
in  this  music,  so  far  as  a  capitalist  can  discover — in  which  respect  the  music  differs 
from  the  composer's  "May"  and  "October"  Symphonies. 

First  Movement 

Highly  original  as  this  music  is,  there  are  definite  traces  of  the  later  romantic 
composers — particularly  of  Strauss  and  Wagner — discernible  in  it.  The  second  divi- 

469 


47O  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

sion  of  the  theme  of  the  introduction,  sounded  in  the  dry  tones  of  the  bassoon,  is  not 
very  unlike  a  theme  from  Strauss3  Heldenleben,  and  is  similarly  treated;  it  forms  a 
starting  point  for  the  development  section  of  the  movement. 

This  is  a  singularly  lucid  yet  compact  score.  Its  harmony,  while  quite  defi- 
nitely modern,  is  not  shocking,  and  long  before  the  symphony  is  played  through  it 
ceases  to  sound  harmonically  unusual  While  strict  form  is  certainly  not  observed 
in  the  movement,  the  texture  of  the  music  is  firm,  the  direction  of  its  movement 
always  logical,  its  contours  satisfying. 

The  main  thought  of  the  movement  is  proposed,  after  some  measures  of  intro- 
duction, in  a  melody  given  to  the  clarinet,  with  the  string  section  supplying  a  forth- 
right and  vigorous  rhythm.  In  spite  of  the  vitality  of  the  music,  there  is  a  certain 
cold  detachment,  a  surgical  exactness  about  it  which,  while  highly  interesting,  is  not, 
in  the  present  movement  at  least,  exciting  emotionally. 

A  few  measures  in  which  the  strings,  pizzicato,  inaugurate  a  change  of  mood, 
precede  the  introduction  of  a  theme  somewhat  more  sentimental,  and  heard  vari- 
ously from  woodwinds  and  horn.  Periods  of  agitation  and  Vehemence  alternate  with 
gentler  expressions,  and  the  movement  concludes  with  recollections  of  its  opening 
theme. 

Second  Movement 

There  is  a  wry,  sardonic  humor  in  the  second,  the  scherzo  movement  of  the 
symphony.  Gaiety  is  at  a  premium  in  Russia  these  days;  everyone  is  so  busy.  Here 
the  orchestra  seems  very  busy,  too,  and  almost  quarrelsome  in  the  struggle  for  pos- 
session of  the  theme,  a  swift  descending  scale  passage,  given  out  by  piano  after  a 
short  introduction  by  woodwind  and  string  bass.  There  are  wonderful  pianissimo 
effects,  and  a  charming,  rather  naive  little  theme  first  sounding  in  flutes,  clarinets, 
and  then  oboe,  and  finally  made  into  a  climax  of  great  force  by  blaring  brasses. 
There  is  a  further  climax,  and  a  period  of  great  agitation;  then  fortissimo  chords 
punctuate  the  end  of  this  mood. 

Third  Movement 

The  tearful  voice  of  the  oboe  projects  a  sad  strain,  over  an  accompaniment  of 
tremulous  strings,  as  the  central  thought  of  this  movement.  Again,  a  solo  cello 
phrases  the  melancholy  thought,  giving  to  it  a  touch  of  warmth  and  sentiment  such 
as  has  occurred  but  rarely  in  the  symphony  up  to  this  point.  There  is  an  interlude  of 
brooding,  expressed  through  strings  and  brass,  and  a  second  theme  for  oboe.  This, 
instead  of  subsiding  under  the  pervading  gloom,  is  developed  into  a  powerful  utter- 
ahce  of  the  brass,  bold  and  sinister.  The  opening  ideas  of  the  movement  return,  and 
then,  with  a  crescendo  roll  of  the  military  drum  the  music  passes  directly  into  the- 


DMITRI    SHOSTAKOVICH  471 

Fourth  Movement 

Here  is  the  most  interesting  movement  in  the  symphony — chiefly  because  of 
the  waywardness  of  its  moods,  the  almost  freakish  variations  of  color  and  tempo, 
and  the  skillful,  often  unusual  use  of  the  orchestral  instruments.  A  curious  and 
effective  quality  of  tone  is  produced  by  the  violins,  playing  sul  fonticello  (near  the 
bridge)  in  strange  harmonies;  a  solo  for  timpani,  with  abrupt  yet  delicately  shaded 
variations  from  forte  to  piano,  and  a  gigantic  climax,  involving  the  enormous 
orchestra  with  all  its  powers  and  its  swiftest  pace,  are  striking  features  of  the 
movement. 


JEAN  SIBELIUS 

[Born  1865] 

SEBELIUS,  the  son  of  a  medical  officer  in  military  service,  was  born  at  Tavas- 
tehus,  Finland,  December  8,  1865;  he  now  lives  at  Jarvenpaa.  He  was 
left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  and  was  educated  by  his  grandparents,  who 
intended  for  him  a  classical  training  with  the  ultimate  aim  of  the  boy's  becoming 
a  lawyer.  Even  as  a  child,  however,  Sibelius  determined  to  become  a  musician,  and 
though  he  obediently  went  to  school  and  later  to  the  University  of  Helsingfors, 
from  which  he  was  graduated,  he  began,  immediately  he  was  his  own  master,  to 
study  the  violin.  But  from  boyhood  he  had,  informally  but  intensely,  studied  music, 
and  was  in  some  degree  prepared  for  the  strenuous  work  which  he  now  began. 

In  1889  Sibelius  left  Finland  for  Berlin,  to  study  composition;  two  years 
later,  he  went  to  Vienna,  where  he  was  a  pupil  of  Karl  Goldmark.  He  remembers 
that  the  first  performance  of  any  of  his  works  was  given  at  Helsingfors,  in  1887; 
it  was  a  series  of  variations  for  string  quartet. 

The  composer  soon  developed  a  highly  individual  style,  founded,  it  is  true, 
upon  the  music  of  the  classical  masters,  yet  so  informed  with  Sibelius'  own  unique 
spirit  and  character  as  to  seem  very  far  removed  from  the  compositions  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  His  is  a  music  which,  fortunately,  cannot  be  at  once  assimilated; 
yet  even  regarded  superficially,  it  has  a  strange  charm  which  deepens  to  fascination 
the  more  the  music  is  heard.  Sibelius'  music  has  been  the  dubious  beneficiary  of  a 
powerful  propaganda,  both  in  America  and  England.  This  has  brought  about  more 
frequent  playing  of  his  works,  but  has  also  aroused  the  skepticism  of  a  considerable 
section  of  the  discriminating  public — a  skepticism,  let  it  be  added  hastily,  which  is 
only  in  rare  instances  justified.  He  has  suffered,  too,  from  quasi-authoritative  in- 
terpretations by  completely  unskilled  and  inferior  conductors,  both  in  Europe  and 
America — a  circumstance  which  contributes  little  to  the  impression  his  enthusiastic 
but  misguided  propagandists  seek  to  create  for  his  music. 

Sibelius  has  visited  America.  In  1914  he  came  to  the  United  States  to  conduct 
several  of  his  works  at  a  music  festival  at  Litchfield,  Conn.;  he  visited  Boston  and 
several  other  centers  of  musical  interest.  It  was  during  this  visit  that  Yale  Uni- 
versity conferred  upon  the  composer  the  degree  doctor  of  music;  several  of  his 
works  were  played  during  the  commencement  program. 

The  Finnish  master  now  lives  in  a  small  village,  not  distant,  yet  by  its  char- 
acter infinitely  remote  from  the  capital  city  of  Helsingfors,  Finland.  He  prefers 
seclusion  and  simplicity,  yet  is  gracious  and  hospitable  to  those  who  find  the  diffi- 
cult way  to  his  threshold.  He  has  written  seven  symphonies,  as  well  as  numerous 
other  works;  and  it  is  reported  that  he  is  at  work  upon  an  eighth  symphony.  The 

472 


JEAN    SIBELIUS  473 

first,  second,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  of  the  seven  are  included  here,  because  it  is  for 
these  that  conductors  and  public  have  expressed  their  preference. 


Finlandia 

SMALL,  but  with  nobility  and  power  in  the  rugged  beauty  of  her  countryside  and 
in  the  hearts  and  bodies  of  her  stalwart  children,  Finland  is  honored  and  aptly 
represented  in  this  brief  music,  the  work  of  her  favored  and  most  famous  son.  So 
remarkably  has  Sibelius  captured  here  the  essential  spirit  of  his  native  land  that  it 
has  often  been  assumed  that  the  melodies  used  in  the  tone  poem  are  folk  tunes.  The 
fact  is,  according  to  the  composer's  own  word,  that  there  is  not  a  note  here  except 
what  is  original  with  Sibelius  himself. 

There  is  sullen  menace  in  the  powerful  chords,  in  brass,  that  introduce  the 
music,  but  the  antithetical  phrase  in  prayerful  woodwind  and  strings  is  contradic- 
tory. It  is  sad,  yet  soothing,  and  persists  even  against  growing  agitation  and 
vehemence  in  the  bass  (strings  and  brass).  Now  follows  a  subject  of  blazing 
brilliance,  with  powerful,  strangely  accented,  and  persistent  rhythms,  leading  to  a 
superb  climax.  Here  is  conflict;  here  too  is  a  certain  feeling  of  assurance  and  victory. 


Presently  a  hymnlike  subject  that  might  almost  suggest  mourning  for  the 
fallen  in  battle  takes  prominence  in  the  music.  In  its  reiteration,  it  reveals  a  grow- 
ing feeling  of  triumph,  and  its  final  cadence  is  the  basis  for  the  conclusion  of  the 
music  in  a  climax  of  terrific  power  and  eloquence. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  Finns  would  become  so  aroused  on  hearing  this 
music  that  its  public  performance  had  to  be  prohibited.  Certainly  it  has  every 
attribute  that  would  make  it  exciting;  certainly  it  touches  the  limits  of  the  emo- 
tions, from  timid  prayerfulness  to  blazing  triumph.  If  the  natives  of  Finland  saw 
in  it  the  reflection  of  their  own  national  characteristics,  their  agitation  can  be  under- 
stood and  forgiven. 


474  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Rakastava:  The  Lover 

[Opus  14] 

As  is  apparent  from  the  opus  number,  this  short  symphonic  poem  is  fairly  early 
Sibelius.  As  one  might  expect,  it  does  not  reveal  the  markedly  individual  charac- 
teristics to  be  noted  in  the  great  symphonies,  En  Saga,  and  similar  advanced  works; 
but  curiously  enough,  compounded  with  its  more  or  less  derivative  elements  we  find 
a  prophecy  of  things  to  come,  and  a  relationship,  not  with  the  more  obvious  of 
Sibelius'  symphonies,  but  with  the  cryptic  and  mystical  Fourth  Symphony. 

There  is  no  explicit  program  for  this  work;  while  it  speaks  in  the  national 
idiom  that  the  composer  used  so  powerfully  in  such  works  as  Pohjolefs  Daughter, 
The  Origin  of  Firey  and  other  works  based  upon  national  mythology,  it  does  not 
attempt  to  give  us  a  detailed  story.  The  first  section,  "The  Lover,"  reveals  some 
extraordinary  contrasts  and  conflicts  in  color,  harmony,  and  rhythm,  remarkably 
accomplished  with  the  economy  of  tonal  resources  within  which  the  orchestra  is 
confined.  In  this  movement  particularly,  specifically  when  the  lower  strings  in  their 
agitation  disturb  the  sweet  tranquillity  established  in  the  first  part  of  the  symphony, 
one  can  detect  suggestions  of  certain  episodes  in  the  Fourth  Symphony. 

The  second  section  of  the  work — "The  Lover's  Path" — contradicts  the  old 
adage,  for  it  does  run  smooth.  There  are  breathless  agitations,  but  from  the  music 
one  can  deduce  only  that  the  lover's  cares  must  have  been  small  and  few.  An  end- 
less and  bright  rhythm  leads  the  upper  strings  through  a  path  that  goes  straight 
to  its  goal,  without  material  deviation,  complication,  or  interference.  Those  who 
think  that  Sibelius  is  always  dour  and  forbidding  should  hear  this  music! 

The  "Goodnight"  and  "Farewell"  naturally  alter  the  emotional  texture  of 
the  music.  There  are  poignant  cries,  and  strange  reminders  of  the  pathway  that 
has  been  so  merrily  trod;  but  there  seems  to  be  no  tragedy.  The  ending  is  properly 
melancholy,  but  one  does  not  associate  with  it  a  feeling  of  despair.  We  should 
hesitate  to  add  that  this  is  the  most  important  music  of  Sibelius;  but  it  can  be 
asserted  without  fear  of  successful  contradiction  that  it  is  characteristic  of  a  Sibelius 
"period";  that  it  is  filled  with  a  strange  and  captivating  charm;  that  it  is  beauti- 
fully and  understandingly  performed,  and  that  everyone  who  loves  the  music  of 
this  great  master  should  listen  to  it. 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  475 

Pohjola's  Daughter 
[Opus  49] 

SIBELIUS  has  often  been  concerned,  in  his  music,  with  the  rich  mythology  of  his 
country,  and  in  the  great  Finnish  epic  Kalevala,  he  found  frequent  and  profound 
inspiration.  The  present  work  is  one  for  which  the  literary  background  is  extracted 
from  that  epic  —  to  be  precise,  from  the  eighth  and  ninth  cantos  of  the  poem.  The 
music,  like  any  music  from  the  hand  of  this  master,  is  exciting  and  enjoyable  as 
absolute  music;  but  since  it  has  a  kind  of  program,  some  association  of  the  poem 
with  the  music  certainly  will  lend  added  interest  and  pleasure  to  the  latter. 

The  score  dates  from  1906,  during  a  period  when  the  composer  was  more 
interested  in  "program"  music  than  he  has  since  been.  Daughter  of  the  North  y  as 
this  work  is  sometimes  called,  deals  with  the  strange  happenings  that  befell 
Vainamoinen,  described  as  "a  great  culture  hero,  patriarch,  and  minstrel,"  and  a 
"vigorous  old  man,"  during  his  courtship  of  a  jeesque  maiden  —  the  Daughter  of 
the  North. 

Vainamoinen  is  journeying  "from  the  gloomy  land  of  Pojha,"  and  has  not 
proceeded  far  before  he  hears  above  his  head  a  strange  whizzing  sound;  as  he 
gazes  upward  he  beholds  a  rainbow  arching  across  the  dark  skies,  and,  seated  upon 
it,  a  lovely  maiden  engaged  in  weaving  a  golden  tapestry;  it  is  the  sound  of  her 
weaving  that  first  attracts  his  attention.  Bearing  in  mind  that  Vainamoinen  is  "al- 
ways described  as  a  vigorous  old  man,"  we  are  not  entirely  surprised  to  discover 
that  "he  stays  his  horse  and  asks  the  maiden  to  seat  herself  beside  him  in  the  sledge 
and  return  with  him."  She  is  rather  coquettish,  and  while  not  absolutely  refusing, 
archly  replies  that  a  maiden  at  home  is  happier  than  a  matron  in  a  husband's  house, 
where  her  state  would  be  like  that  of  a  "house  dog,  tightly  fettered."  And  she  adds, 

To  a  slave  comes  rarely  pleasure, 
To  a  wedded  damsel 


Vainamoinen,  old  and  wise  in  the  ways  of  women,  refuses  to  be  deterred  by 
this  apparent  cynicism,  and  persists  in  his  wooing.  To  try  him,  the  maiden  proposes 
various  impossible  demonstrations  of  his  powers,  such  as  splitting  a  hair  with  a  blunt 
knife,  tying  an  egg  in  knots,  and  hewing  to  pieces  a  lump  of  ice  without  making 
any  splinters.  Nothing  daunted,  Vainamoinen  accomplishes  these  fantastic  tasks, 
yet  the  maiden  is  not  satisfied,  and  insists  on  one  more  test.  She  demands  that  the 
old  man  carve  out  from  the  fragments  of  her  spindle  and  shuttle  a  boat,  which 
shall  sail  and  steer  itself  upon  the  waters  without  human  hand  upon  spar  or  helm 
or  sweep.  His  eyes  filled  with  her  beauty  and  his  heart  with  an  old  desire, 
Vainamoinen  undertakes  even  this  task,  and  is  making  good  progress  with  it  until 
upon  the  third  day  evfl  spirits  beset  him,  and  an  accident  occurs* 


476  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Husi  turned  the  edge  against  him 

And  an  evil  stroke  delivered. 

On  the  rocks  the  axe-blade  glinted^ 

On  the  hill  the  blade  rang  loudly  > 

From  the  rock  the  axe  rebounded^ 

In  the  flesh  the  steel  was  buried, 

In  the  victim's  knee  'twas  buriedy 

In  the  toes  of  Vainamoinen; 

In  the  flesh  did  Lem^o  drive  it, 

To  the  veins  did  Hnsi  guide  ity 

From,  the  wound  the  blood  flowed  freely  y 

Bursting  forth  in  streaming  torrents. 

(Translation  by  W.  F.  Kirby) 

The  wound  will  not  heal,  and  for  days  the  old  hero  tries  his  spells  and  what 
remedies  he  and  others  can  devise ;  but  at  length  he  finds  an  ancient  man  who 
succeeds  in  halting  the  blood  flow,  and  who  binds  and  heals  the  wound.  Then  the 
old  hero,  reflecting  upon  all  that  has  transpired,  concludes,  with  grateful  out- 
pourings for  his  recovery,  that  our  fates  are  shaped  not  by  "the  foresight  of  the 
heroes,  Nor  the  might  of  all  the  great  ones,"  but  by  an  all-wise  and  protective 
Providence. 

There  is  not  in  the  score  a  single  instance  of  authentic  association  of  a  theme 
with  any  given  person,  situation,  or  thing;  yet  with  the  story  in  mind  no  one  will 
miss  the  significance  of  various  passages.  The  grave  opening,  with  its  somber 
chords,  certainly  suggests  Vainamoinen,  the  old,  wise,  and  vigorous,  setting  out 
upon  his  journey;  and  apparently  his  strength  and  liveliness  increase  with  each 
succeeding  league,  for  the  music  grows  more  agitated  and  purposeful  as  it  pro- 
gresses, with  the  lively  figure  in  the  strings  hurrying  along  with  developments  of 
the  cello  figure  heard  shortly  near  the  beginning. 

The  picture  of  the  maiden  seated  on  the  rainbow  is  not  hard  to  find,  and  im- 
possible to  mistake — muted  strings  and  harp  paint  it  in  softly  glowing  colors. 
Woodwinds  (oboe,  cor  anglais,  flutes)  engage  in  conversations  that  might  well  be 
the  talk  of  lovers.  After  a  while  the  hero  sets  about  his  labors,  and  the  maiden, 
occasionally  spinning  a  few  strands  of  golden  thread  to  show  her  indifference, 
laughs  at  the  old  man's  struggles.  His  efforts  become  more  and  more  desperate 
with  each  succeeding  task,  and  the  music  becomes  frenzied.  Finally,  his  wound 
troubling  him  deeply,  Vainamoinen  leaves  in  search  of  a  cure,  and  we  hear  again 
a  suggestion  of  his  journey.  He  reflects  upon  the  happier  beginnings,  and,  too,  the 
tragic  events  of  this  journey,  and,  after  finally  being  healed,  accomplishes  a  phil- 
osophical serenity  and  peace. 

Pohjolnfs  Daughter  is  scored  for  two  flutes  and  piccolo,  two  oboes,  cor  anglais, 


JEAN     SIBELIXJS  477 

two  clarinets,  bass  clarinet,  two  bassoons  and  contrabassoon,   four  horns,  two 
trumpets,  two  cornets,  three  trombones,  tuba,  harp,  timpani,  and  strings. 


Symphony  No.  i  in  E  minor 

THE  First  Symphony  of  Sibelius  was  written  in  1899,  wnen  the  composer  was  to 
a  certain  extent  under  the  influence  of  Tchaikovsky  5  and  this  influence,  at  brief 
intervals,  is  quite  marked  in  this  work.  Sibelius  is  one  of  the  most  distinctly  indi- 
vidual and  original  of  composers,  but  as  a  young  man,  naturally  he  was  conscious 
of  the  heritage  left  by  the  preceding  great  masters.  The  later  symphonies  depart 
almost  entirely  from  any  "influence";  the  first — and  it  is  not  said  in  disparage- 
ment— is  the  most  derivative  and  least  individual  of  the  seven  that  Sibelius  has  so 
far  written.  It  is  not  less  interesting  for  that  reason;  on  the  contrary,  as  the  last 
great  symphony  of  its  type,  it  has  a  very  special  interest. 

The 'first  performance  of  this  music  was  at  a  concert  devoted  to  Finnish  music, 
given  in  Berlin,  under  Robert  Kajanus,  July  18,  1900.  The  first  performance  in 
America  was  by  the  orchestra  which,  more  than  any  other,  has  devoted  itself  to 
the  works  of  the  Finnish  master:  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra — January  5, 
1907. 

First  Movement 

The  symphony  opens  with  an  introduction  in  which  the  clarinet  sings  a 
wandering  melody  of  singular  appeal — a  lonely  voice  moving  in  solitary  loveliness 
over  the  ominous  rumblings  of  drums.  The  song  of  the  clarinet  is  like  a  thesis  for 
the  symphony;  abandoned  presently,  it  nevertheless  reappears  later  with  new  sig- 
nificance and  importance. 


The  chief  subject  of  the  movement  proper  is  suggested  by  the  strings — violins 
first,  with  derivations  of  the  theme  presented  by  cellos  and  violas.  The  contrasting 
and  subordinate  thematic  material  is  divided  rather  definitely  between  strings  and 
wind,  but  there  is  always  a  close  relationship  between  the  items  assigned  to  either 
group.  Once  we  have  observed  the  principal  and  the  subordinate  thematic  matter, 
there  is  a  short  period  of  development,  ending  in  a  climax  of  great  intensity;  with 
full  orchestra  thrusting  out  savagely  in  great  masses  of  tone,  and  a  terrific  thunder- 


478  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ing  of  timpani.  The  second  chief  theme,  closely  following  this  outburst,  is  sung 
by  the  flute  against  a  transparent  screen  woven  of  the  tones  of  violin,  viola,  and 
harp. 

The  development  and  conclusion  of  the  movement  are  broad  and  free,  and 
are  built  mainly  upon  a  titanic  struggle  for  dominance,  carried  on  between  the 
various  thematic  elements  that  have  been  introduced.  There  are  references,  both 
rhythmic  and  melodic,  to  the  principal  themes,  and  even  a  suggestion,  in  the  in- 
continent cries  of  the  woodwind,  of  the  melody  of  the  introduction.  Rhythmically, 
the  movement  from  this  point  onward  is  for  the  most  part  developed  out  of  the 
second  of  the  two  principal  subjects,  but  the  subject  itself,  imminent  from  time  to 
time,  is  never  permitted  another  explicit  statement  of  itself  and  is  abandoned  with 
finality  when  the  brass  so  mightily  asserts  itself  near  the  end. 

Second  Movement 

The  second  movement  is  filled  with  a  nostalgic  loveliness.  There  is  nothing 
here  of  Tchaikovsky's  passionate  yearnings,  nor  even  of  the  more  reticent  and  per- 
haps deeper  Sehnsucht  of  a  Brahms  slow  movement;  but  we  feel  a  gentle  and 
pathetic  desire  for  some  remembered  and  intangible  joy,  as  of  a  dream  that,  on 
awakening,  seems  both  ephemeral  and  real. 

Violins  and  cellos  sing  of  this  sweet  and  pathetic  desire  $  then  the  earnest 
voices  of  bassoons  and  other  woodwinds  emphasize  it  with  a  new  melody.  The 
music  broods  upon  these  subjects  for  a  while,  and  presently  a  third  theme*  now 
in  horns  accompanied  by  harp,  intrudes.  But  it  is  a  remembrance  of  the  first  theme 
that  brings  about  the  most  vigorous  development  of  the  movement. 

Third  Movement 

The  basis  of  the  entire  movement  is  the  almost  brutally  violent  figure  given 
out  by  three  timpani  at  the  beginning.  With  all  its  power,  this  figure  somehow 
suggests  a  heavy-handed  humor;  the  humor,  perhaps,  of  the  northern  peasant, 
whose  sense  of  the  absurd  is  his  chief  stimulus  to  mirth.  The  second  theme,  though 
contrastingly  lighter,  is  clearly  influenced  by  the  rhythm  of  the  first,  and  only  in  the 
trio,  which  is  much  more  restrained  and  gentle,  do  we  escape  from  the  fierce  asser- 
tive gesture  that  lies  in  the  first  thunderous  utterance  of  the  timpani.  At  the  end, 
there  is  a  swift  accelerando,  a  growth  in  power,  and  the  great  drums,  with  the 
whole  orchestra,  thunder  once  again  and  for  the  last  time. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  finale  is  like  a  series  of  three  mountainous  waves,  rising  to  terrifying 
heights  of  power,  subsiding  to  simple,  if  not  precisely  placid,  fluxes  of  orchestral 
tone.  The  opening  subject  is  developed  clearly  from  the  song  of  the  clarinet  in  the 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  479 

introduction  to  the  first  movement;  but  its  character  has  undergone  a  marked 
change.  Where  it  once  sang  of  loneliness  and  contemplation,  it  now  assumes  a  dark 
and  tragic  significance.  As  if  it  had  provoked  them,  suggestions  of  the  imminent 
chief  theme  of  this  movement  are  heard  deep  in  the  strings;  the  theme  itself  ap- 
pears, against  ominous  beatings  of  drums,  in  the  woodwind.  With  this  impetus,  the 
first  great  wave  of  the  movement  takes  form,  and  rushes  out  from  the  orchestra  In 
powerful  and  resistless  surgings,  moving  toward  a  mighty  crashing  climax. 

The  second  theme  is  in  marked  contrast  with  the  first.  It  appears,  presently,  in 
the  violins  and,  a  little  later,  is  compared  with  the  original  theme.  Now  the  second 
great  wave  form  of  the  movement  gathers  itself  for  another  climax.  It  is  not  long 
in  developing,  and  at  its  peak  demands  almost  the  ultimate  of  the  orchestral  re- 
sources. A  presentation  of  the  second  theme  in  clarinet  is  the  interrupting  idea 
which  begets  the  formation  of  the  third,  and  final,  wave  of  tone  which  sweeps  the 
orchestra  like  a  storm. 


Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major 

IN  THE  Second  Symphony,  Sibelius  makes  a  definite  break  with  the  influences  and 
derivations  that  can  be  marked  in  the  First;  he  establishes  himself  here  as  a  com- 
poser of  distinct  individuality,  with  a  style  and  idiom  uniquely  his  own.  Here  also 
we  can  observe  the  two  most  characteristic  features  of  Sibelius'  music — its  strongly 
national  character  and  the  amazing  economy  and  efFectiveness  of  its  orchestration. 
This  is  the  real  Sibelius,  terse,  powerful,  and  convincing;  devoid  of  the  factitious 
and  the  unnecessary,  naked  and  pulsating  and  enormously  vital. 

This  may  be,  as  some  commentators  assert,  Sibelius'  "pastoral33  symphony, 
but  it  is  scarcely  more  descriptive  of  his  native  land  than  others  of  his  musical 
works.  The  spirit  of  Finnish  folk  music  is  always  strong  in  Sibelius;  images  and  at- 
mosphere of  fiord  and  crag  and  gray  unfriendly  seas,  of  sparsely  covered  meadows 
and  acrid  salt  marshes,  are  always  evoked  by  it.  In  this  particular  work,  however, 
we  can  feel  something  more  powerful;  something  of  the  aroused  patriotism  of 
Finhmdia,  as  well  as  the  laconic  finality  exhibited  so  wonderfully  in  the  Fourth 
Symphony. 

First  Movement 

The  uncanny  certainty  with  which  the  composer  selects  the  one  most  effective 
voice  through  which  his  melodies  shall  be  projected  is  beautifully  revealed  through- 
out this  music.  It  has  been  said  that  Sibelius  conceives  a  melody  and  its  instru- 
mental expression  simultaneously;  that  he  is  incapable  of  dissociating  melody  and 


480  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

instrument.  If  so,  he  has  developed  this  valuable  faculty  to  the  point  of  papal  in- 
fallibility, for  when  a  melody  sings  out  from  the  orchestra  of  Sibelius,  we  somehow 
feel  that  that  is  the  one  inevitable  voice  through  which  the  given  melody  could  be 
proclaimed. 

The  first  movement  is  filled  irith  the  subdued  light  of  a  Finnish  landscape. 
At  once  the  foundation  of  the  movement  is  laid — &  markedly  rhythmic  figure  in 
the  strings  which  is  at  once  an  intimation  of  a  musical  thought  presently  to  be 
expressed  and  a  dominating  idea  in  the  symphony.  The  first  theme  itself  is  given 
out,  briefly,  by  oboes  and  clarinets;  the  accompaniment  of  the  throbbing  strings 
continues.  Both  ideas  are  developed  freely  and  at  some  length,  but  the  orchestra- 
tion remains  superbly  simple.  An  atmosphere  of  severity  rather  than  of  gloom, 
of  a  harsh  relentless  vitality  asserting  itself  with  quiet  strength  rather  than  with 
bombastic  proclamations,  colors  the  whole  movement.  New  thematic  material,  pre- 
sented by  woodwind  in  octaves,  above  the  pulsing  figure  heard  from  the  first  in 
strings,  reveals  the  picture  in  another  aspect  and  in  new  colors,  but  does  not  alter 
its  outlines.  At  the  end  the  mesmerizing  throbbing  of  the  strings,  having  wrought 
its  charm  and  created  its  mood,  sounds  less  assertively. 

Second  Movement 

The  stubborn  and  sometimes  gloomy  patriotism  of  his  fellow  countrymen 
seems  to  be  the  moving  spirit  of  this  strange  music.  In  it  are  outlined  grim  fore- 
bodings, and  the  realization  of  them;  sturdy  opposition,  tragic  defeats,  and  a  kind 
of  wild  and  suppressed  nobility.  The  timpani,  pregnant  with  thunders,  give  out 
threatening  rumblings;  then  the  low  strings,  pizzicato,  sketch  the  melodic  line  of 
the  movement.  The  weirdest  voice  in  the  orchestra — that  of  the  bassoon — sings 
sadly  of  sorrows  and  tears  and  terrors,  and  there  is  menace  in  the  dull  roar  of  the 
great  drums  that  sound  below.  Such  an  atmosphere  rarely  endures  for  long  in  the 
music  of  Sibelius;  presently  it  is  dissipated  in  a  stormy  climax  that  evokes  the  or- 
chestra's fullest  powers. 

The  folk-song  influence  is  distinctly  felt  in  the  presentation  of  the  second 
principal  theme.  It  must  be  remembered  here,  as  always  in  the  music  of  Sibelius, 
that  the  composer  does  not  borrow  his  melodies  from  the  folk  music  of  Finland; 
but  so  intensely  feels  and  loves  the  native  music  that  his  own  melodies  quite  nat- 
urally adopt  its  characteristic  outlines. 

The  strings,  divided,  present  the  poignant  melody,  and  at  the  same  time  ac- 
company themselves;  later  added  color  is  given  by  woodwinds.  The  palette  is 
reversed,  after  a  few  moments,  with  the  theme  in  the  woodwind  and  accompani- 
ment by  strings.  There  is  a  distinct  lightening  of  the  gloom  that  has  heretofore 
pervaded  the  movement,  and  with  each  succeeding  climactic  wave  the  feeling  of 
strength  and  assertiveness  and  hope  grows  stronger.  Though  there  are  frequent 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  481 

disjointed  remembrances  of  thematic  fragments  scattered  throughout  the  move- 
ment, its  unity  and  power  and  vitality  are  maintained,  even  though  its  dynamics 
are,  temporarily,  held  in  restraint.  The  final  climax  is  of  crushing  power  and 
vehemence. 

Third  Movement 

If  there  were  a  program  for  this  symphony,  the  third  movement  would  un- 
doubtedly be  regarded  as  the  "call  to  arms,"  the  "awakening  of  national  pride 
and  spirit,"  the  taking  up  of  a  struggle  against  oppression.  The  movement  springs 
into  agitated  life  with  the  very  first  note.  The  violins  have  a  lightfooted  figure, 
which  not  only  establishes  the  mood  of  the  scherzo,  but  also  supplies  a  rhythmic 
basis  against  which  other  thematic  elements  are  projected.  A  curious  combination 
of  glitter  and  shadow — flute  and  bassoon — utters  the  second  chief  subject,  still 
animated  and  nervous  like  the  first. 

The  trio,  or  middle  section  of  the  scherzo,  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  first. 
Here  the  piercing  tones  of  the  oboe  are  arranged  in  a  simple  and  appealing  melody, 
its  thinness  and  sharpness  relieved  by  the  warm  and  softly  sonorous  accompani- 
ment of  bassoon  and  horn.  The  strings  are  momentarily  invoked,  but  during  its 
brief  moments  this  part  of  the  movement  maintains  a  calm  and  pastoral  atmos- 
phere. The  elastic  rhythms  of  the  opening  section  return,  and  after  a  final  refer- 
ence to  the  quiet  melody  of  the  trio,  a  long  crescendo  begins,  and  leads  with 
ever-developing  power  directly  into  the 

Fourth  Movement 

Here  the  blazing  and  imperious  proclamations  of  this  music  sound  a  mighty 
song  of  triumph.  This  is  the  Sibelius  of  FMandia$  this  is  boldness  and  spacious- 
ness and  powerful  uncomplicated  assertiveness.  The  main  theme  is  brief,  strong^ 
and  simple.  The  strings,  down  to  and  including  cellos,  pronounce  it  with  vigor. 


—  -^-      ^  — 

Woodwinds  present  a  second,  and  strongly  rhythmical,  idea,  and  the  two  are 
developed  in  a  series  of  climaxes  piled  upon  one  another  like  mountains.  Yet 


there  is  here,  as  in  most  of  Sibelius'  moments  of  excitement  or  grandeur,  something 
of  godlike  passionless  detachment  5  as  if  some  remote  being  handled  mighty  in- 


482  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

tractable  forces  with  unerring  firm  hands,  and,  inexorable  and  unperturbed, 
molded  them  to  his  will.  It  is  curious  that  this  music,  that  can  be  so  moving  and 
so  mighty,  can  at  the  same  moment  be  so  cold.  It  has  the  beat  and  the  breath  of 
life,  but  its  life  stream  moves  deliberately,  inevitably,  fatefully,  and  never  passion- 
ately. That  the  music  of  this  composer  rarely  has  in  it  the  quality  we  call  sensu- 
ousness  is  one  of  the  many  apparent  contradictions  we  find  in  it,  for  though  it 
seems  to  omit  this  quality,  it  is  the  very  character  of  the  sounds  Sibelius  makes 
the  orchestra  produce  that  most  fascinates  our  ears  and  most  powerfully  calls  forth 
our  response  to  this  music. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  A  minor 

THE  Fourth  Symphony  of  Sibelius  is  incomparably  his  finest.  Here  is  music  as 
compact,  as  ungracious,  as  refractory  and  fantastic  as  a  rock  carven  by  the  beating 
of  timeless  oceans.  Indeed,  it  is-  music  of  stony  caverns  and  of  dark  northern  seas. 
Sibelius,  the  confessed  devotee  of  nature,  here  casts  his  deep  and  austerely  loving 
glance  across  the  bare  landscapes  of  his  native  land,  and,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
paints  them  in  their  strong  dark  color  and  rugged  outline.  Only  a  pale  and  chill 
sunlight  shines  here;  only  in  strange  piercing  harmonies,  like  the  distant  cries  of 
wild  sea  birds,  does  brilliance  come  to  this  music.  Yet  it  is  not  gloomy.  It  is 
thoughtful  and  strong  and  gaunt,  as  a  man  grows  who  lives  a  long  life  in  the 
winters  of  rugged  Finland;  its  melancholy  is  contemplative  and  contained,  rather 
than  doleful  and  abandoned.  It  is  like  a  play,  a  story  without  a  heroine,  for  it 
has  no  trace  of  sensuousness  or  passionate  yearning;  yet,  far  from  being  sexless, 
it  is  music  that  is  definitely  masculine. 

The  assertion  that  the  music  of  Sibelius  contains  no  padding  is,  like  most  dog- 
matic assertions,  untrue.  The  rocky  and  rough-hewn  structures  which  he  has 
erected  frequently  contain,  in  their  interstices,  some  very  plastic  and  adhesive  mate- 
rial, sometimes  made  of  fine  particles  of  the  basic  structure,  sometimes  of  foreign 
matter.  But  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  such  in  this  stark  and  rawboned  sym- 
phony. Through  its  lean  and  firm  and  compact  flesh  one  sees  the  very  skeleton,  yet 
it  is  strangely  complete  and  highly  finished  music. 

F*rtf  Movement 

The  power,  achieved  by  rare  economy  of  means,  that  Sibelius  exhibits  in  this 
movement  is  almost  terrifying — almost  like  the  elemental  strivings  of  the  brute 
forces -of  nature.  The  savage  bowing  of  the  low  strings  on  their  monotonous  and 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  483 

limited  phrase  is  as  pitiless  as  the  grinding  of  great  stones  in  some  subterranean 
cavern;  the  solo  cello  that  presently  suggests  a  theme  is  not  the  romantic  voice 
we  know,  but  a  grimly  regretful  one  without  passion  and  almost  without  emphasis. 
There  is  no  brilliance,  but  only  wildness  and  keenness  even  when  the  upper  strings, 
bowed  with  ever-growing  force,  begin  an  advance  toward  a  discordant  and  unre- 
solved climax.  Brasses  vehemently  thrust  out  threatening  lances  of  tone,  bright  and 
deadly  5  again  strings  shriek  like  wild  winter  winds.  From  a  few  phrases  the  com- 
poser builds  a  brief  but  mighty  movement,  free  in  form,  yet  tremendously  restrained 
and  laconic  and  stern.  He  dwells  upon  his  thought  until  it  is  clear,  in  the  simplest 
and  strongest*  terms;  he  proceeds,  with  merciless  logic,  to  the  next*  There  is  no 
lingering  upon  a  lovely  phrase — though  there  are  phrases  of  strange  harsh  beauty; 
there  is  no  sweeping  and  brilliant  and  persuasive  peroration;  only  a  swift  dissolu- 
tion of  the  music  into  pale  harmonies  immaterial  and  distant  as  Northern  mists. 

Second  Movement 

Perhaps  the  uncommunicative  Finn  has  humor  like  this — terse  and  rough  and 
wry.  The  man  who  wrests  his  living  from  nature's  grudging  hands  has  little  time 
for  laughter.  But  here  is  laughter,  harsh  and  unaccustomed,  bold  and  sardonic.  The 
peasant's  cruelly  acute  sense  of  the  ridiculous  is  almost  his  only  stimulus  to  mirth, 
and  here,  perhaps,  is  an  illustration  of  it.  The  curious  cry  of  the  oboe  is  almost 
pathetic,  and  it  is  roughly  elbowed  aside  by  rude  interjections  of  the  strings.  In 
contrast  comes  an  almost  waltzlike  passage,  definitely  reminiscent  of  Tchaikovsky. 
Contrabassoon  and,  later,  after  a  swift  descent  of  strings,  an  almost  painfully 
vehement  protestation  from  the  brass  banish  temporarily  the  mood  of  labored 
humor  and  recall  the  fierce  brazen  interruptions  of  the  first  movement.  Woodwinds 
in  a  graceful  descending  figure  achieve  gaiety  once  more,  but  that  sullen  remem- 
brance of  the  preceding  movement  has  vitiated  the  spirit  of  this  one,  and  it  dies, 
abruptly  and  unexpectedly^  in  £  feeble  flicker  of  tone, 

Third  Movement 

In  this  truly  beautiful  and  affecting  movement  Sibelius  makes  the  closest 
approach  to  sustained  melody  that  can  be  found  in  the  symphony.  Flute  informs 
us  of  a  lovely  theme,  of  pastoral  simplicity,  clarinet  continues  it;  both  are  sup- 
ported by  soft  harmonies  in  the  strings.  A  solemn  chorus  of  brass  warms  and 
weights  the  orchestra's  tone,  and,  kter,  a  bassoon  suggests  a  more  serious  thought. 
It  is  the  cello,  however,  which  holds  forth  upon  the  basic  theme,  against  a  trem- 
ulous string  accompaniment.  And  the  elements  of  this  theme,  as  well  as  of  others, 
are  strangely  dissipated  through  the  movement,  though  often  there  are  brief 
passages  of  very  moving  melody.  The  string  orchestra,  for  a  space,  has  almost 
complete  possession  of  the  composer's  thought,  rising  to  a  climax  that  is  all  but 


484  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

passionate,  and  then  resigning  once  more  in  favor  of  flute  and  clarinet,  which  pre- 
sent their  respective  phrases  much  as  at  the  beginning. 

The  strange  insolvent  harmony  of  Sibelius  is,  paradoxically,  occasionally  re- 
solved here  into  even  such  usual  things  as  chords  built  upon  tonic  and  dominant. 
Yet  at  the  end,  where  the  unsatisfying  harmony  gradually  attenuates  to  a  unison 
C  sharp  in  muted  horns  and  violas,  against  which  a  succession  of  thematic  frag- 
ments are  thrown  by  woodwind  and  strings,  there  is  no  relaxation  of  the  rigors  of 
this  music.  It  closes  in  a  kind  of  hypnotized  weariness,  wan  and  without  color, 
given  life  and  motion  only  by  the  ominous  and  inconclusive  notes  plucked  from 
the  basses. 

Fourth  Movement 

It  is  curious  that  Sibelius  can  convey  an  effect  of  richness  and  color  and 
fantasy,  entirely  without  any  feeling  of  warmth.  He  accomplishes  this  notably  in 
the  fourth  movement,  with  a  hard  brilliance  of  orchestration,  and  with  imagina- 
tive resourcefulness  not  easily  surpassed  in  symphonic  music.  It  is  with  difficulty 
that  one  defines  the  mood  of  the  music,  or  its  significance,  if  it  has  any  particular 
significance,  for  it  encompasses  every  emotional  state  except  sentimentality. 

There  is  merriment,  and  grotesquerie,  and  arresting,  forbidding  passages  of 
ominous  portent.  There  are  bright  jinglings  in  the  icy  tone  of  the  glockenspiel 5 
wild  bells  and  powerful  ring  out,  further  on;  an  oddly  syncopated  figure  in  the 
strings  suggests  awkward  dancing;  eventually  the  trumpet,  beginning  pianissimo 
and  gradually  forcing  out  a  flaming  tongue  of  tone,  recalls  the  ominous  brazen 
utterance  of  the  first  movement.  But  the  harmonies  are  dry  and  hard  and  unre- 
lenting, even  to  the  end. 


Symphony  No.  5  in  E-flat  major 
[Opus  82] 

THE  Fifth  Symphony  of  Sibelius  is  certainly  the  most  popular  of  his  works  in  this 
form;  and  very  possibly  the  greatest.  There  is  evidence  to  indicate  that  the  com- 
poser himself  regarded  it  as  one  of  his  most  important  works,  for  upon  it  he  lavished 
his  labor,  and  revised,  altered,  corrected,  and  rewrote  it  with  a  passionate  deter- 
mination to  make  it  say,  finally,  what  he  wished  it  to  say.  That  he  has  accom- 
plished this  may  possibly  be  established  by  the  public's  present  estimate  of  the  work. 
This  music  was  written  during  the  distressful  period  of  the  great  war — mostly 
during  1915.  Between  the  Fourth  (1911)  and  the  Fifth,  Sibelius  had  been  con- 
cerned with  "program"  music  to  a  considerable  extent  (The  Dryad^  Scenes 
The  £ard>  Les  Qceanides}  and  had  considered  the  writing  of  a  ballet 


JEAN     SIBfcLlUS  485 

to  be  called  King  Fjalar — an  idea  which  he  ultimately  rejected.  It  is  clear  from  his 
conversation  and  correspondence,  at  this  time,  that  he  wanted  to  write  purely 
symphonic  music  again,  and  that  ideas  for  it  were  taking  form  in  his  head.  The 
necessity  for  income,  and  the  importunings  of  publishers,  alike  pressed  upon  him 
and  alike  were  distasteful.  He  wrote,  "I  cannot  become  a  prolific  writer.  It  would 
mean  killing  all  my  reputation  and  my  art.  I  have  made  my  name  in  the  world  by 
straightforward  means.  I  must  go  on  in  the  same  way.  Perhaps  I  am  too  much 
of  a  hypochondriac.  But  to  waste  on  a  few  fas  a  motif  that  would  be  excellently 
suited  to  symphonic  composition!" 

Sibelius  has  always  been  reluctant  to  discuss  his  own  work,  though  voluble 
enough  about  other  music  and  other  musicians.  It  is  evident,  however,  that  he 
made  for  himself  a  definite  decision  to  devote  all  his  life  and  energies  to  the  com- 
position of  the  music  he  felt  nascent  within  him,  and  to  turn  from  the  immediate 
and  profitable  demands  to  the  necessities  of  sincere  self-expression.  He  adopted  a 
mode  of  living  in  which  solitude  played  a  vital  part 5  he  withdrew  from  the  turmoil 
of  warring  Europe  and  immersed  himself  in  the  flood  of  his  own  inspiration  that 
now  seemed  to  release  itself.  He  wrote  in  his  diary  (1915)  about  "this  life  that 
I  love  so  infinitely,  a  feeling  that  must  stamp  everything  I  compose."  And  again, 
in  September,  1915:  "In  a  deep  dell  again.  But  I  begin  already  dimly  to  see  the 
mountain  that  I  shall  certainly  ascend.  .  .  .  God  opens  His  door  for  a  moment  and 
His  orchestra  plays  the  Fifth  Symphony." 

The  first  mundane  performance  of  the  work  was  given  at  Helsingfors,  under 
the  direction  of  the  late  Robert  Kajanus,  on  December  8,  1915 — the  birthday  of 
the  composer.  It  is  evident  that  the  version  heard  on  this  occasion  differed  mate- 
rially from  what  we  now  know  as  the  Fifth.  Less  than  a  year  after  the  first  per- 
formance, Sibelius  decided  upon  a  revision,  and  rewrote  the  symphony  in  a  greatly 
condensed  form.  This  new  edition  of  the  work  was  performed  on  December  14, 
1916,  at  Helsingfors,  the  composer  conducting.  He  was  still  unsatisfied  with  the 
music,  and  planned  further  revision.  In  early  1918  he  was  busily  engaged  upon 
this,  and  it  can  safely  be  said  that  the  final  version  of  the  work  represents  a  really 
radical  rewriting.  Sibelius  himself,  in  a  letter  dated  May  20,  1918,  comments 
upon  it.  He  writes:  "The  Fifth  Symphony  in  a  new  form,  practically  composed 
anew,  I  work  at  daily.  The  first  movement  is  entirely  new,  the  second  movement 
is  reminiscent  of  the  old,  the  third  movement  reminiscent  of  the  end  of  the  first 
movement  of  the  old.  The  fourth  movement  the  old  motifs,  but  stronger  in 
revision.  The  whole,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  vital  climax  to  the  end.  Triumphal." 

The  final  revision  of  the  Fifth  Symphony  was  completed  late  in  1919,  and 
performed,  at  Helsingfors,  with  Sibelius  conducting,  on  November  24.  The  first 
performance  in  America  was  given  by  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  Mr.  StokowsH 
conducting,  October  21,  1921.  The  Boston  Symphony  programmed  the  work 
during  the  same  season,  and  played  it  on  April  7,  1922. 


486  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Some  reference  must  be  made  to  the  divisions  of  the  symphony  into  move- 
ments. Cecil  Gray,  whose  admiration  of  Sibelius  is  idolatrous  and  whose  knowledge 
is  encyclopedic,  regards  the  tempo  molto  moderate  and  the  allegro  moderate,  ma 
foco  a  foco  stretto  as  one  movement  (the  first) ;  and  he  justifies  this  by  two 
pertinent  facts — the  recurrence  of  thematic  material,  and  the  fact  that  in  the  score 
Sibelius  did  not  number  the  movements.  Of  course  the  letter  quoted  above  clearly 
establishes  the  fact  that  Sibelius  regarded  the  work  as  in  four  movements.  The 
point  is  of  little  moment  certainly — except  to  the  type  of  mind  that  attaches  more 
importance  to  such  details  than  to  the  nature  and  effect  of  the  music  itself.  The 
symphony  is  scored  for  a  quite  conventional  orchestra — woodwinds  in  pairs,  three 
trumpets,  three  trombones,  four  horns,  timpani,  and  strings. 

First  Movement 
Molto  moderato 

Seekers  after  occult  meanings,  revelations  of  personal  griefs  and  joys,  and 
similar  matters  would  be  hard  put  to  it  to  find  in  this  music  any  reflections  of  the 
troubled  world  in  which  Sibelius  lived  when  it  was  written.  The  truth  is  that, 
while  his  music  is  utterly  individual,  it  is  not  personal;  it  is  cosmic  and  universal, 
as  any  great  art  work  must  be.  The  storms  that  sometimes  sweep  across  his  pages 
are  never  the  secret  and  morbid  paroxysms  that  gripped  a  Tchaikovsky,  nor  even 
the  earthy  passions  that  Wagner  sometimes  sang.  Rather  they  are  born  of  earth 
and  sky  and  water;  of  solitudes  and  reflections;  of  a  consciousness  of  the  littleness 
of  man  and  the  magnificence  of  nature.  This  is  not  to  imply  that,  at  least  in  his 
symphonies,  Sibelius  is  describing  anything  of  the  material  world;  quite  the  con- 
trary. This  work  happened  to  come  into  existence  not  long  after  the  composer  had 
been  concerned  with  certain  descriptive  works;  and  when  questioned  about  it,  he 
replied  with  both  diffidence  and  asperity,  "I  do  not  wish  to  give  a  reasoned  exposi- 
tion of  the  essence  of  symphony.  I  have  expressed  my  opinion  in  my  works.  I  should 
like,  however,  to  emphasize  a  point  that  I  consider  essential;  the  directly  symphonic 
is  the  compelling  vein  that  goes  through  the  whole.  This  in  contrast  to  the 
depicting." 

In  his  sturdy  assertion  that  his  music  speaks  for  itself,  and  the  implication  that 
any  music  which  jieeds  to  be,  or  can  be,  explained  needs  not  to  have  been  written, 
Sibelius  comes  nearest  to  justifying  Ernest  Newman's  daring  but  penetrating  dictum 
associating  Sibelius  and  Wagner  in  the  same  company.  "The  truest  analogue  to 
him"  (Sibelius),  writes  Newman,  "is  to  be  found  in  a  rather  unsuspected  quarter. 
Sibelius  has  never  been  influenced  by  Wagner,  or,  indeed,  been  particularly 
attracted  to  him.  Nevertheless  he  is,  in  a  way,  of  the  company  of  Wagner — not  in 
virtue  of  the  contents  of  his  music,  for  no  two  mental  worlds  could  well  be  (more) 
different,  but  in  virtue  of  the  artistic  type  of  which,  at  bottom,  they  both  conform. 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  487 

.  .  .  With  Wagner,  music  was  not  music  unless  it  was  the  expression  of  some- 
thing— not  necessarily  the  expression  of  a  poetic-  or  pictorial  concept,  but  still 
expression;  that  is  to  say,  the  musician  must  come  to  his  job  full  of  something  that 
on  the  one  hand  cannot  be  said  in  any  other  way  but  that  of  music,  while  on  the 
other  hand  it  must  say  itself  according  to  the  inexorable  laws  of  its  own  inner 
being,  making  its  own  form  as  it  goes  along,  not  keeping  anxiously  before  it,  all  the 
time,  a  derived  formula  to  which,  at  all  costs,  it  must  for  propriety's  sake  conform/' 
Certainly  this  statement  is  as  true  of  Sibelius  as  it  is  of  Wagner;  certainly  no  one 
has  been  more  indifferent  to  form  for  the  sake  of  form  than  Sibelius;  no  one  has 
done  more  violence  to  accepted  forms,  and  with  such  irrefragable  logic;  no  one 
has  made  music  which  so  infallibly  created  and  justified  its  own  inevitable  forms. 

While  Sibelius  himself  has  testified  that  in  the  revisions  of  this  symphony  it 
became  considerably  condensed,  one  cannot  find  the  extraordinary  compactness, 
density,  and  tension  that  mark  the  unique  Fourth.  The  thematic  basis  of  the  first 
movement  is  simple — first,  the  horn  melody  heard  at  the  beginning,  developed  in 
wind  instruments  and  timpani;  second,  a  brief  clear  utterance,  of  quite  contrasting 
character,  in  the  woodwind.  Strings  are  used  with  extraordinary,  though  subdued 
effect,  particularly  where  used  in  harmonics  of  ghostly  quality;  they  are  brought 
forward  very  little  in  the  first  part  of  the  movement. 

There  is  a  melancholy  figure  given  to  the  bassoons — and  at  this  the  mood  of 
the  music  reaches  its  not  very  profound  nadir — and  the  second  subject  is  exten- 
sively developed.  Always  there  is  remarkable  integration  of  thematic  material — 
especially  remarkable  in  Sibelius,  who  is  often  discursive  and  episodic;  and  the 
unified,  the  almost  cyclic  character  of  the  movement  is  emphasized  by  occasional 
references  to  the  principal  subject,  especially  in  its  presentation,  triumphantly,  at 
the  end  of  the  allegro  moderato. 

The  second  section  of  the  movement,  because  of  the  dancelike  rhythm  and 
much-quickened  pace,  is  regarded  by  many  as  a  true  scherzo,  and  by  some,  includ- 
ing Sibelius,  as  a  movement  in  itself;  though  there  is  no  break  between  it  and  the 
preceding  section.  The  mood  becomes  lighter;  the  texture  of  the  music  less 
weighty;  the  sentences  contracted  and  more  crisply  uttered,  and  there  is  new 
thematic  material.  A  solo  trumpet  in  rather  brisk  J^  emphasizes  the  more  vigorous 
rhythm  in  contrast  to  the  previously  prevailing  12/8,  with  a  figure  which  is  bril- 
liantly developed  toward  the  conclusion,  where  once  more  the  orchestra  shouts 
bravely  out  the  triumphal  version  of  the  opening  theme. 

Second  Movement 
Andante  mosso,  quasi  allegretto 

This  is  a  rather  placid  movement,  devoted  for  the  most  part  to  the  exposition 
of  a  simple  theme  and  a  set  of  variations.  The  theme  appears  after  a  series  of 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

introductory  chords  given  out  by  the  winds,  and  a  few  tentative  pizzicati  from  the 
lower  strings.  It  conies  first  in  the  flutes — a  simple,  charming  melody  in  thirds, 
now  ascending,  now  descending,  always  shifting  in  outline  but  always  borne  by 
the  same  rhythmic  impulse.  The  entire  movement  is  devoted  to  the  exploitation  of 
this  theme  in  variations  that  pose  no  problem  for  anyone,  though  the  dissonant 
seconds  that  appear  occasionally  are  a  little  surprising  in  view  of  the  generally 
sweet  and  tranquil  character  of  the  movement. 

Third  Movement 
Allegro  molto 

There  are  frequently  moments  in  the  music  of  Sibelius  when  one  hears  almost 
inevitably  the  beat  and  whir  of  wings  invisible,  and  this  strange  and  characteristic 
effect  almost  always  presages  something  magnificently  portentous.  We  have  it  here. 
The  strings  create  it  and,  by  gradually  drawing  in  the  woodwind,  intensify  it; 
the  inevitable  burst  comes  then  in  the  horns,  with  a  vigorous  presentation  of  a 
strong  passage  in  thirds,  in  sustained,  forte  half-notes.  This  theme  is  the  very 
heartbeat  of  the  movement;  and  in  fact,  as  noted  by  Cecil  Gray,  it  has  animated 
foregoing  portions  of  the  symphony  as  well  as  this  one — notably  in  an  accompani- 
ment figure  in  the  slow  movement.  There  is  a  subsidiary,  but  important,  thematic 
role  assigned  to  woodwind  and  cellos,  against  horns  and  the  upper  strings;  and 
there  are  unexpected  mutations  to  other  tonalities.  That  which  occurs  just  before 
the  coda,  to  G-fiat  major,  is  rather  startling  in  method  and  effective  in  achieving 
the  required  mistenoso  atmosphere;  and  it  leads  to  the  magnificent  proclamation 
at  the  end  which,  as  Lawrence  Gilman  has  written,  "is  the  crown  of  the  work, 
and  is  in  many  ways  the  most  nobly  imagined  and  nobly  eloquent  page  that  Sibelius 
has  given  us." 


Symphony  No.  6  in  D  minor 
[Opus  104] 

IT  is  significant  that  when  the  terrifying  news  of  the  attack  upon  Finland  startled 
the  radio  listeners  of  the  United  States,  the  first  thought  in  a  million  minds  was 
for  the  safety  of  Sibelius.  Few  composers  have  in  their  own  time  commanded  the 
attention,  the  reverence,  and  the  affection  with  which  the  world  has  paid  tribute 
to  the  great  Finnish  master.  There  are  those,  and  their  numbers  are  not  incon- 
siderable, who  hold  that  Sibelius  is  vastly  overrated  as  a  composer,  but  there  seem 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  489 

to  be  none  who  would  temper  the  world's  estimate  of  him  as  a  man,  or  the  affec- 
tion in  which  the  musical  world  holds  him.  That  the  specter,  if  not  the  spectacle, 
of  war  should  approach  him,  a  man  so  sensitive  and  so  full  of  love  for  his  fellow 
men,  seems  a  ghastly  crime  on  our  so-called  civilization. 

It  is  fortunate  that  there  exists  on  records  a  performance  of  the  Sixth  Sym- 
phony of  Sibelius,  and  one  which  some  day  may  be  regarded  as  a  priceless  historical 
document.  The  performance  is  as  authentic  as  we  could  expect,  for  it  is  done  by 
Sibelius'  own  countrymen  with  an  enthusiasm  and  possibly  with  a  penetration 
hardly  to  be  found  elsewhere. 

First  Movement 
Allegro  molto  moderato 

There  are  a  number  of  curious  features  in  this  symphony  which  set  it  apart 
from  all  others  of  Sibelius.  Though  loosely  integrated,  as  most  of  his  symphonies 
are,  there  is  a  unity  of  spirit  and  a  similarity  of  thematic  material  running  through 
all  four  movements  that  are  really  remarkable.  Again,  rather  paradoxically,  while 
the  music  represents  Sibelius  in  his  most  mature  period,  it  has  passages  that  could 
quite  logically  have  been  written  by  a  Wagner  or  a  Debussy.  This  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  the  opening  phrases  5  and  while  they  are  in  no  sense  imitative,  it  is 
rather  difficult  to  listen  and  not  recall  the  wonderful  music  that  accompanies  young 
Siegfried's  miraculous  contacts  with  the  speaking  birds.  The  harmonies  are  clear 
and  open  as  those  of  Debussy,  the  spirit  is  mystical  and  full  of  melodious  charm, 
but  the  hand  is  that  of  Sibelius  nevertheless.  As  the  opening  phrases  grow  in  inten- 
sity, and  especially  upon  the  dissonant  entry  of  basses,  we  finally  make  up  our 
minds  that  though  Sibelius  certainly  knew  the  music  of  Wagner  and  Debussy,  no 
one  but  himself  could  have  written  this  particular  passage. 

The  mystery  and  cold  dark  beauty  of  the  northland  make  themselves  felt  in 
this  music,  as  almost  invariably  they  do  in  the  music  of  this  composer.  One  cannot 
divorce  the  idea  of  great  sea  birds  planing  among  dark  rocks  and  narrow  fiords. 
A  remembrance  of  that  incomparable  tone  poem  The  Swan  of  Tuonela  comes 
again  and  again,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  hear  the  fluttering  of  wings  and  the  wild 
harsh  cries  in  the  figures  which  the  composer  assigns  to  strings  and  woodwind. 

Thematically  the  movement  is  loosely  articulated,  but  its  rhapsodic  spirit  is 
consistent  and  continuous  until  toward  the  end,  when  the  low  brasses,  with  some 
violence  in  tone,  give  somber  pronouncements  and  quiet  the  rushing  evolutions  of 
imaginary  birds  and  half-imagined  spirits.  The  use  of  chromatic  and  diatonic  scales 
is  characteristic,  and  some  interesting  harmonic  clashes  are  developed.  The  move- 
ment as  a  whole,  however,  is  quietly  rhapsodic  rather  than  formal,  and  we  find 
in  it  no  release  of  those  mighty  powers  which  Sibelius  alone  of  moderns  can 
summon  from  the  orchestra. 


490  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Second  Movement 
Allegro  moderate 

But  for  some  change  the  rhythm  of  the  second  movement  might  almost  be  a 
continuation  of  the  first.  The  strange  dissonant  cries  of  the  woodwinds  and  the 
quiet  conflict  of  rhythms  as  well  as  of  tones  suggest  a  more  intense  emotional 
atmosphere  however.  The  occasional  passing  of  unrelated  tonalities  produces  an 
atmosphere  of  restlessness,  of  struggle,  almost  of  bewilderment,  and  the  acidulous 
comment  of  the  oboe  is  a  protesting  voice  rising  sharply  from  a  soul  that  seems 
to  be  in  turmoil  and  confusion. 

Third,  Movement 
Poco  vivace 

The  third  movement  is  probably  the  shortest  of  Sibelius*  symphonic  move- 
ments. The  composer  has  often  asserted  that  he  does  not  use  in  his  music  the  folk 
song  of  Finland.  Granting  the  accuracy  of  this,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the 
spirit  of  Finnish  folk  song  is  often  present  in  his  music,  and  occasionally  even 
authentic  details  of  folk  music  are  noticeable.  The  constantly  reiterated  notes 
which  we  observe  in  this  and  other  movements  of  the  symphony  represent  a 
common  characteristic  of  Finnish  folk  song,  and  the  use  of  5/4  rhythm  is  very 
frequent  in  Sibelius>  and  almost  invariable  in  Finnish  folk  music.  As  this  brief 
movement  develops  we  feel  the  unleashing  of  orchestral  forces  and  the  composer 
begins  to  call  with  more  insistence  for  the  orchestra's  mightiest  utterances. 

Fourth  Movement 
Attegro  molto 

The  fourth  movement  is  marked  by  a  much  brighter  melodic  line  than  the 
composer  has  heretofore  employed  in  the  symphony.  The  beautiful  thematic  strain 
introduced  at  the  beginning  is  very  possibly  of  folk-song  origin,  or  if  it  is  not, 
certainly  it  is  modeled  very  precisely  along  the  lines  of  many  native  Finnish 
melodies.  Later  we  observe  a  marvelous  effect  of  distance  and  mystery,  accom- 
plished by  deft  orchestration  involving  woodwind  and  horns.  Still  later  an  organ 
point  in  the  brasses  against  a  long  descending  figure  provides  a  source  of  interesting 
harmonics  and  dissonances.  The  movement  is  almost  like  a  succession  of  songs, 
but  as  so  often  happens  in  the  music  of  Sibelius,  it  is  distinctly  episodic,  and  accom- 
plishes unity  of  mood  not  only  within  itself  but  with  the  other  movements  of  the 
work  without  having  to  labor  for  structural  or  formal  unity.  The  music  fades 
and  dies  on  a  long-held  minor  chord  in  the  strings,  bringing  the  symphony  to  a 
dose. 


JEAN     SIBELIUS  49! 

Concerto  in  D  minor  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

SIBELIUS  would  naturally  look  with  speculative  eye  upon  the  possibilities  of  the 
violin,  for  it  is,  as  musicians  say,  "his  instrument";  he  specialized  in  it  as  a  student. 
Yet  in  another  sense,  the  violin  in  its  usual  manifestations  is  not  Sibelius'  instru- 
ment at  all.  We  are  accustomed  to  warmth  and  sensuousness  and  brilliance  from 
the  violin,  and  Sibelius  makes  it  utter  speech  of  a  quite  different,  though  not  less 
interesting,  character.  If  it  is  "his  instrument,"  it  is  his  in  a  peculiarly  individual 
way,  for,  whether  it  sings  solo  or  happens  to  be  in  intimate  union  with  the  orchestra, 
the  violin  utters  things  here  which  it  has  spoken  for  no  other  composer, 

It  is  unfortunately  unusual — unfortunate  that  it  is  unusual — to  note  that  a 
concerto  by  a  great  European  composer  had  its  first  American  performance  by 
an  American  artist.  This  work  was  presented  for  the  first  time  in  the  United  States 
by  the  late  Maude  Powell,  with  the  New  York  Philharmonic  Society,  November 
30,  1906.  The  first  performance  anywhere  was  by  Karl  Halir,  at  Berlin,  October 
19,  1905.  Recent  notable  interpretations  have  been  given,  in  the  United  States 
and  elsewhere,  by  the  incomparable  Heifetz, 

First  Movement 

Sibelius'  romanticism,  here  as  always,  suggests  the  reflections  of  a  remote  and 
detached  mind;  instead  of  the  gypsylike  ardors  of  the  usual  violin  showpiece,  we 
have  a  somewhat  aloof  and  serious  utterance.  The  first  movement  is  broad  and 
free,  its  material  more  quasi  fantasia  than  in  anything  resembling  strict  form.  Its 
basis  is  the  subject  announced  by  the  solo  violin,  against  the  muted  tones  of  its 
orchestral  companions.  After  some  development  of  this  theme,  the  orchestra  has 
an  interlude,  which  is  followed  by  the  second  important  theme,  also  in  the  $olo 
instrument. 

Development  by  the  orchestra  is  rather  extensive,  and  produces  a  climax  of 
considerable  intensity;  then  passages  for  the  solo  violin  progress  toward  the  unac- 
companied cadenza.  These  fireworks  are  cold  and  lambent  as  the  firefly,  yet  their 
brilliance  is  engaging,  and  reveals  the  composer  as  capable  of  extracting  all  that 
the  violin  has  to  give. 

The  bassoon,  with  the  soloist  above  it,  returns  to  the  chief  theme  of  the  move- 
ment; there  is  also  a  representation  of  the  second  theme  in  somewhat  altered  form. 
The  coda  is  brilliant  for  both  solo  instrument  and  orchestra,  the  former  recalling 
the  fir$t  theme  at  the  end* 

Second  Movement 

Here  is  one  of  the  most  ingratiating  passages  in  all  the  music  of  Sibelius;  one 
in  which  he  comes  almost  to  the  point  of  becoming  sentimental;  one  that  is  richly 


492  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

colored  and  lyrically  emotional.  There  is  a  short  introduction;  then  the  solo  violin 
sings  its  lovely  song — a  free  and  rich  and  expressive  melody,  delivered  against  the 
darkly  glowing  background  provided  by  horn  and  bassoon.  The  solo  theme  con- 
tinues against  a  shifting  orchestral  accompaniment,  and  later,  when  the  ensemble 
is  attracted  to  the  main  theme,  the  violin  gracefully  moves  above  it  in  rounded 
shapes  of  tone. 

Third  Movement 

Sibelius  often  achieves  in  his  music  a  curious  dark  brightness;  a  fire  without 
warmth,  emotion  without  passion,  and  mysterious  implications  attached  to  dear 
and  simple  devices.  He  accomplishes  such  effects  here — for  example,  in  the  stub- 
born reiterations  of  the  timpani  and  strings,  in  the  strangely  rhythmed  figures  for 
the  solo  violin,  and,  near  the  end  of  the  movement,  the  glassy  octaves  assigned  to 
that  instrument.  There  is  little  here  that  violinists  have  not  been  asked  to  do  before, 
yet  one  feels  that  new  possibilities  of  the  instrument  have  been  revealed.  The  coin- 
cidence of  Sibelius'  inscrutable  harmony  and  peculiar  melodic  line,  applied  to  the 
violin  and  orchestra,  extend  to  the  solo  instrument  the  singular  quality  of  this  com- 
poser's music,  and,  in  so  doing,  provide  the  solo  violinist  with  a  unique  opportunity 
for  the  exploitation  of  his  instrument. 


The  Swan  of  Tuonela 

AFTER  considering  the  symphonies,  one  might  expect  Tuonela,  the  Hell  of  Finnish 
mythology,  to  be  painted  grim  and  dark  upon  Sibelius'  musical  canvas.  But  it  is  not 
so;  in  this  sad  and  wistful  music  there  is  no  bitterness,  no  glowering  of  the  fateful 
gods,  but  only  a  tender  and  brooding  melancholy.  The  music  is  drawn  from  a  suite 
entitled  Kalevala,  based  upon  the  mythology  of  Finland.  It  pictures  the  ultimate 
passage  of  the  disembodied  soul  to  the  caverns  of  Tuonela,  before  reaching  which 
nine  seas  and  a  river  must  be  crossed.  Upon  the  darkly  shining  bosom  of  the  river 
moves  the  sacred  Swan  in  majesty,  now  singing  her  strange  wild  song,  now  float- 
ing with  almost  imperceptible  motion  among  the  gloomy  crags,  now  slowly  flapping 
her  great  white  wings  above  the  silent  and  deadly  whirlpool. 

The  Swan  sings  her  song,  a  song  of  terrible  loneliness  and  passionate  melan- 
choly, in  the  dark  voice  of  the  cor  anglais;  strings,  con  sordino,  and  the  remote 
rumblings  of  bass  drum,  suggest  mists  and  shadows  through  which  great  stony 
portals  loom  like  giants.  The  strings  reach  soaring  and  soul-searching  climaxes  of 
passion,  and  sigh  again,  through  viola,  through  cello,  as  if  in  brief  lament  for  some 


JEAN    SIBELIUS  493 

passing  soul  on  its  journey  to  Tuonek.  The  great  climax  is  one  of  incredible  in- 
tensity and  beauty,  the  strings  taking  on,  in  place  of  their  misty  and  diaphanous 
quality,  a  fierce  brilliance  like  lightning  over  a  sunless,  subterranean  sea.  Then 
comes  an  exquisite  pianissimo,  the  strings  achieving  a  curious  and  effective  tone  by 
playing  col  legno.  The  snow-white  pinions  of  the  Swan  are  drooping  as  she  sings 
once  again,  the  lovely  and  distant  and  melancholy  close. 


Valse  triste 

THIS  is  the  music  by  which — unfortunately — Sibelius  is  best  known  in  America. 
Unfortunately — not  because  the  music  is  unworthy,  for  it  is  full  of  poetry  and 
melody  and  a  shadowy,  macabre  beauty — but  because  it  seems  necessary  to  culti- 
vate very  cautiously  and  carefully  the  taste  of  the  American  public  for  the  larger 
and  more  important  works  that  are  essentially  Sibelius.  It  seems  to  be  the  fate  of 
more  than  one  composer  to  be  known  and  respected  for  the  little  things  that  he 
does.  Witness  the  C-sharp  minor  Prelude  of  Rachmaninoff — fundamentally  an 
interesting  and  valid  piece  of  music,  reduced  by  overpopularity  to  inanity.  Witness 
the  vapid  and  meretricious  "Negro  spiritual"  by  a  kind  of  musical  miscegeny  de- 
rived out  of  the  slow  movement  of  Dvorak's  Fifth  Symphony — or  Kumoresque; 
but  why  go  on? 

Valse  triste  is  extracted  from  incidental  music  to  a  drama  Kuolemay  written 
by  the  brother-in-law  of  Sibelius,  Arvid  Jarnefelt  The  scene  is  pathetic,  and  mys- 
tical, and  ghostly — but  not  grisly.  A  young  man  has  been  watching  at  the  bedside 
of  his  dying  mother,  and  he  is  weary  of  his  watching.  He  sleeps.  A  glowing  light 
materializes  in  the  room;  there  is  a  sound  of  distant  and  hesitating  music  that 
comes  nearer  and  nearer.  Presently  we  are  conscious  of  the  rhythm  and  the  melody 
of  a  waltz,  strongly  and  sadly  flowing  from  stringed  instruments. 

The  woman  rises  out  of  the  coma  of  death.  At  first  halting,  then  with  sweep- 
ing and  flowing  rhythm,  with  her  long  white  garment  flaring  like  a  ball  gown, 
she  moves  to  and  fro;  she  dances,  she  waltzes  like  a  wraith  in  the  strange  light  that 
pervades  the  room.  She  summons  unseen  partners;  she  mingles  with  an  invisible 
throng,  but  not  one  of  them  will  look  into  her  face.  She  sinks  back  on  the  bed, 
breathless  and  spent;  rises  up  again  to  dance  with  even  more  energy.  There  is  a 
loud  knock  at  the  door,  as  if  bony  fists  assaulted  it.  Suddenly  the  spectral  dancers 
are  gone,  the  music  dies,  and  turning  to  the  opened  door,  the  women  utters  a 
dreadful  cry  as  she  looks  into  the  face  of  Death* 


BEDRICH   SMETANA 
[1824-1884] 

THE  COMPOSER  was  born  in  Bohemia.  As  a  child  he  revealed  conspicuous 
talent,  and  became  a  virtuoso  of  the  piano.  Later  he  became  conductor  of 
the  Philharmonic  Society  of  Gothenburg  (Sweden)  and  spent  some  years 
of  his  life  in  that  country.  When  opportunity  offered,  however,  he  returned  to 
Bohemia  and  accepted  the  post  of  chief  conductor  at  the  National  Theater  at 
Prague.  Meanwhile  he  found  time  for  composition,  and  his  works,  though  not  very 
numerous,  are  important  musically  both  for  their  inherent  charm  and  for  their 
exploitation  of  Bohemian  musical  characteristics.  Not  the  least  of  Smetana's  contri- 
butions to  music  was  his  interest  in  Antonin  Dvorak,  who  played  under  him  in  the 
orchestra  of  the  National  Theater. 

Smetana  wrote  several  operas  in  the  Bohemian  idiom,  the  most  important  of 
which  is  Die  verkaujte  Braut—The  Bartered  Bride — -a.  comic  opera  of  exceeding 
grace  and  musical  attractiveness.  Mem  Vaterland,  a  symphonic  poem  conceived 
along  extremely  broad  yet  definitely  nationalistic  lines,  is  his  chief  work  in  sym- 
phonic form.  A  quartet,  A  us  mdnem  Lebeny  a  remarkably  beautiful  work*  is  un- 
usual in  the  fact  that  it  attempts,  with  some  success,  to  be  autobiographical. 

Smetana  was  afflicted  with  deafness  in  his  later  years,  and  was  further  troubled 
by  the  failure  of  Some  of  his  work.  His  physical  and  mental  health  were  impaired, 
and  he  died  in  an  asylum  for  the  insane. 


Overture  to  "The  Bartered  Bride" 

SMETANA'S  opera,  as  opera,  has  never  been  an  unqualified  success  outside  of  the 
composer's  native  land,  but  the  overture  is  one  of  the  choicest  little  morsels  in  the 
symphonic  repertoire.  The  good-humored  simplicity  of  the  opera  is  reflected  in  the 
delightful  melodies  of  the  overture,  which,  however,  are  not  simple  in  their  ingeni- 
ous working  out.  Strings  and  woodwind  propose  the  first  theme,  against  sonorous 
brass  and  accented  kettledrums.  A  vigorous  and  lively  fugue  is  developed  from  the 
first  melody;  it  ends  with  a  sturdy  assertion  of  the  theme  in  unison,  as  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  overture.  The  swiftly  paced  fugal  treatment  is  characteristic  of  the  whole 
overture,  though  other  themes,  some  quite  fragmentary  but  all  delightfully  melodi- 
ous, are  introduced  from  time  to  time.  The  closing  passages  are  exceedingly  brilliant 
and  merry;  they  are  derived  from,  and  occasionally  interrupted  by,  the  main  theme 
of  the  overture. 

494 


BEDRICH     SMETANA  495 

The  charm  of  the  music  lies  in  its  melody,  and  particularly  in  the  vivacity  and 
clarity  with  which  the  themes  are  handled.  The  natural  sprighdiness  of  the  music 
makes  it  a  temptation  to  the  superficial  type  of  conductor,  and  it  is  sometimes  played 
at  a  speed  which  obscures  its  clean  and  fine-drawn  lines.  Reasonable  restraint  in 
tempo  and  clear  marking  of  the  melodic  lines  will  usually  bring  about  a  good  per- 
formance from  any  symphony  orchestra. 


The  Moldau 


THE  symphonic  cycle  Ma  Vlast  (Mein  Vaterland:  My  Fatherland)  is  a  series  of 
six  symphonic  poems  composed  by  Smetana  to  depict  various  phases  and  scenes 
of  Bohemian  life.  The  second  of  the  series,  entitled  Vltava  —  The  Moldau  —  is  the 
most  popular  and  the  best  known,  because  of  its  extraordinary  wealth  of  beautiful 
melody  and  the  lovely  pastoral  scenes  it  so  vividly  suggests. 

The  music  is  frankly  programmatic.  In  a  preface  to  the  score,  the  composer 
indicates  the  scenes  through  which  the  great  river  passes  in  Bohemia.  The  river 
itself,  he  tells  us,  is  a  union  of  two  streams  that  meet  in  the  forest  —  one  cool  and 
calm,  the  other  warm  and  vivacious.  It  rushes  through  the  woods,  where  sounds  the 
wild  call  of  the  hunter's  horn;  it  flows  through  groves,  where  happy  peasants  cele- 
brate a  wedding  feast  with  dancing  and  with  song.  It  falls  in  mighty  rapids;  it  hides 
within  fts  depths  the  revelry  of  sprites  at  nighttime;  it  comes,  finally,  to  the  great 
city  of  Prague,  where  its  channel  broadens,  and  where  it  flows  in  calm  majesty  on 
its  way  to  the  sea. 

The  transparency  and  ceaseless  motion  of  the  woodland  brooks  are  vividly 
suggested  in  woodwind  and  violin  and  harp.  Flowing  melodies,  as  dear  and  smooth 
as  sylvan  stream,  are  discoursed  by  violin  and  woodwind,  harp  supplying  a  rippled 
accompaniment.  "The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill,"  as  the  composer 
promised,  and  dancers  on  the  green  celebrate  alfresco  nuptials  in  a  gay  and  vigorous 
rhythm.  The  flute,  like  Pan  with  his  pipes,  dallies  with  a  dainty  melody  to  suggest 
the  playings  of  water  nymphs.  "In  these  waves  are  reflected  many  a  fortress  and 
castle  —  witnesses  of  the  bygone  splendor  of  chivalry,  and  the  vanished  martial  fame 
of  days  that  are  no  more."  (Brass  sounds  portentously,  with  tuba.)  The  waters  rush 
over  rocks  and  through  gorges  as  they  approach  the  rapids,  and  the  orchestra  attains 
a  mighty  power*  Then  as  the  channel  widens,  the  peace  and  majesty  of  the  river 
are  again  dominant^  and,  as  in  a  dream,  the  shining  stream  fades  from  sight 


JOHN  CHRISTOPHER  SMITH 

[1712-1795] 

JOHN  CHRISTOPHER  SMITH  was  probably  born  Johann  Christian  Schmidt, 
named  after  his  father,  Johann  Christian  Schmidt  of  Anspach,  who  was  a 
college  friend  of  Handel  and  who  in  later  years  acted  as  Handel's  secretary, 
treasurer,  manager,  and  agent.  Schmidt  and  Handel  quarreled,  we  understand,  over 
some  inconsequential  matter  four  years  before  Handel's  death  and  the  two  were  not 
reconciled  until  within  a  few  weeks  of  Handel's  passing,  and  then  through  the 
intervention  of  John  Christopher,  the  son. 

Handel  was  much  interested  in  the  younger  Smith.  He  educated  the  boy  at  his 
own  expense  at  Mr.  Clare's  Academy,  and  much  to  Handel's  delight  and  admira- 
tion, the  lad  exhibited  musical  talents  of  no  mean  order.  Upon  discovering  this, 
Handel  took  John  Christopher  into  his  own  house,  taught  him  music,  and  regarded 
him  almost  as  a  son.  When  eventually  Handel  became  blind,  Smith  devoted  him- 
self entirely  to  his  master,  acting  as  his  secretary,  copyist,  and  amanuensis.  Many  of 
Handel's  compositions  were  dictated  to  Smith,  and  to  him  Handel  bequeathed  his 
manuscripts,  his  harpsichord,  and  many  other  items  of  value.  Upon  the  death  of 
Handel,  Smith's  prestige  had,  through  his  association  with  the  master,  mounted  to 
such  heights  and  his  popularity  had  become  so  great  that  it  seemed  he  had  won  a 
permanent  place  among  the  great  names  of  English  music,  but  with  the  passing 
years  his  compositions  were  heard  less  and  less  frequently  and  today  he  is  scarcely 
known  outside  the  esoteric  circles  of  musicologists. 


Miniature  Suite 

AMONG  Smith's  most  important  works  was  an  opera  based  on  Shakespeare's  Mid- 
summer Nights  Dream  entitled  The  Fairies.  He  wrote  another  opera  based  on 
Shakespeare's  The  Tempest^  and  several  songs  extracted  from  this  score  became 
popular  favorites  in  England.  Smith  wrote  extensively  for  the  harpsichord,  and 
among  the  most  interesting  of  his  writings  for  this  instrument  were  volumes  of  short 
works  published  annually,  which  he  called  My  Rand  and  Mustek  Book,  a  title  de- 
rived from  his  music-publishing  shop  in  Coventry  Street  which  bore  the  same  name. 
The  Miniature  Suite>  freely  transcribed  for  orchestra  by  Harl  McDonald,  is 
based  on  material  taken  from  Smith's  My  Hand  and  Mustek  Eooky  published  in 
London  in  1784.  Only  an  examination  of  the  original  manuscript,  which  Dr. 
McDonald  studied  in  the  British  Museum,  can  reveal  with  what  loving  care  and 

496 


JOHN     CHRISTOPHER    SMITH  497 

consummate  skill  the  transcriber  has  brought  to  life  the  mere  sketch  left  to  us  in 
Smith's  manuscript.  The  truth  is  that  this  music  is  more  Dr.  McDonald's  than 
Smith's,  and  yet  had  Dr.  McDonald's  name  not  been  associated  with  this  work  it  is 
unlikely  anyone  would  question  that  it  was  completely  original,  definitely  eighteenth 
century,  and  probably  Handelian.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  so  far  as  the  influence  of 
Handel  is  concerned,  this  work  might  well  have  been  written  in  its  original  form 
by  Handel  himself,  for  researchers  have  found  more  than  a  little  evidence  that 
Smith,  like  many  other  composers,  did  not  hesitate  to  borrow  from  his  fellow  artists, 
and  Smith  of  course  had  excellent  opportunity  for  doing  so. 

This  suite  consists  of  a  prelude,  air,  and  allemande.  The  prelude,  with  its  well- 
marked  rhythm,  suggests  a  not  too  dignified  dance  form.  It  is  developed  with  the 
simplicity  that  often  conceals  a  very  sophisticated  art,  with  a  clear  and  strong 
melodic  line  of  singular  charm  and  grace. 

The  second  movement  is  an  unforgettable  melody  reminiscent  of  both  Bach 
and  Handel  and,  indeed,  comparable  in  its  charm  to  some  of  the  best  melodies  left 
us  by  those  masters.  This  simple  song  is  prodigiously  moving,  poignant,  and  memo- 
rable, and  in  Dr.  McDonald's  transcription  sings  for  itself  with  a  minimum  of 
embellishment. 

The  third  movement,  which  is  in  a  dance  rhythm,  is  delightfully  vigorous  and 
gay  and  yet  possesses  a  certain  dignity  which  is  seldom  dissociated  from  the  best 
music  of  the  period.* 


*  Dr.  McDonald  wrote  this  suite  originally  as  a  model  of  eighteenth-century  compo- 
sition for  his  classes  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  After  its  playing  and  recording 
by  the  Boston  "Pops"  under  Arthur  Fiedler,  the  work  became  so  generally  popular  and 
so  aroused  the  curiosity  of  the  musicologists  that  Dr.  McDonald  made  the  whole  story 
clear  and  revealed  the  fact  that  the  contribution  of  Smith  to  this  suite  consisted  only  of 
a  few  bars. 


LEO  SOWERBY 

[Born  1895] 

E SOWERBY  was  born  at  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan  5  at  present  he  lives  in  Chi- 
cago, where  he  has  been  a*  notable  figure,  musically,  almost  from  the  time 
he  moved  with  his  family  to  that  city  in  1909.  He  studied  piano  with 
Calvin  Lambert  and  with  Percy  Grainger;  composition  and  theory  with  Arthur 
O.  Anderson.  In  1917  he  enlisted  in  the  United  States  army,  and  saw  service  over- 
seas. His  musical  talents  were,  miraculously  perhaps,  discovered  in  the  army,  and 
he  had  considerable  activity  as  bandmaster,  directing  the  regimental  band  of  the 
332d  Field  Artillery.  He  was  honorably  discharged  from  the  army  in  1919. 

Mr.  Sowerby  is  the  first  American  composer  to  have  won  the  American  Prix 
de  Rome.  In  consequence  of  his  capture  of  this  prize,  he  spent  several  years  in 
Europe,  particularly  in  Rome.  He  is  an  organist  and  pianist  of  conspicuous  gifts; 
he  has  appeared  with  leading  orchestras  both  here  and  abroad;  he  holds  the  post  of 
professor  of  theory  and  composition  in  the  American  Conservatory  of  Music  at 
Chicago,  and  is  organist  and  choirmaster  at  the  Episcopal  Cathedral  of  St.  James 
in  that  city. 

His  works  have  been  numerous,  effective,  and  characterized  in  the  main  by  a 
sturdy  and  highly  individual,  possibly  "American"  quality.  His  music  has  a  certain 
masculine  and  forthright  strength  entirely  consonant  with  Mr.  Sowerby's  own 
career  as  man  and  musician.  Certain  of  his  works,  in  which  no  attempt  is  made  to 
devise  or  incorporate  an  American  idiom,  are  nevertheless  of  great  interest.  He  has 
investigated  the  great  field  that  lies  open  to  the  man  who  can  compose  for  organ 
and  orchestra,  and,  as  a  finished  organist  himself,  as  well  as  an  intelligent  fabricator 
of  music,  he  has  written  distinguished  works  for  these  two  greatest  of  instruments 
(organ  and  orchestra).  Mr.  Sowerby  was  one  of  the  first  composers  to  introduce 
the  jazz  spirit  and  idiom  into  serious  music  in  the  larger  forms,  and  in  this  he  has 
been  at  least  as  successful  as  anybody  else,  and  more  so  than  some  of  the  over- 
publicized  and  overrated  Broadway  maestros.  In  much  of  his  music  he  exhibits  a 
rare  and  priceless  quality — a  sense  of  humor,  something  which  musicians  as  a  class, 
and  especially  organists,  generally  and  sadly  lack;  he  gives  considerable  play  to  this 
happy  quality  in  such  works  as  Monotony ;  in  his  modern  piano  arrangements,  and 
orchestrations  like  that  of  The  Irish  Washerwoman. 


498 


LEO     SOWERBY  499 

Prairie 
A  Poem  for  Orchestra 

THIS  interesting  and  very  American  work  was  performed  for  the  first  time  by  an 
orchestra  of  amateurs — the  orchestra  of  the  National  High  School  Association.  It  is 
probable  that  it  has  never  had  a  better  or,  at  least,  a  more  enthusiastic  performance, 
for  this  group  of  talented  and  disciplined  boys  and  girls,  with  their  vigor  and  un- 
jaded  musical  curiosity,  is  the  equal,  technically,  of  many  a  professional  band,  and 
in  spirit  the  superior  of  some.  Prairie  was  conducted  on  this  occasion  by  the  com- 
poser. The  first  professional  performance  was  by  the  Detroit  Symphony  Orchestra, 
under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Howard  Hanson. 

The  piece  is  based  on  a  characteristic  poem  by  Carl  Sandburg,  the  famous  biog- 
rapher, bard,  and  ballad  singer  of  Chicago.  From  the  poem,  also  entitled  Prairie, 
the  following  lines  are  selected  and  prefixed  to  Mr.  Sowerby's  score : 

Have  you  seen  a  red  sunset  drip  over  one  of  my  cornfields,  the  shore  of 
night  stars,  the  wave-lines  of  dawn  u*p  a  wheat-valley? 

Rave  you  heard  my  threshing  crews  yelling  in  the  chaff  of  a  strawpile, 
and  the  running  wheat  of  the  wagon-boards,  my  corn-huskersy  my  harvest 
hands  hauling  crop,  singing  dreams  of  women,  worlds,  horizons? 

This  Whitmanesque  expression  is  the  germ  of  the  idea  which  Sowerby  so 
beautifully  develops  in  his  poem.  The  composer  says,  in  notes  appearing  in  the  pro- 
gram of  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra,  that  he  "prefers  to  make  no  detailed 
analysis  of  the  purely  musical  contents  of  the  score,  as  he  feels  this  scarcely  right  or 
necessary  in  the  case  of  a  symphonic  poem.  Though  he  desires  to  make  clear  that 
he  has  not  wished  to  write  program  music,  he  asks  only  of  the  listener  that  he 
imagine  himself  alone  in  an  Illinois  cornfield,  far  enough  away  from  railways, 
motorcars,  telephones,  and  radios  to  feel  himself  at  peace  and  at  one  with  the 
beauty  that  is  about  him.  If  the  situation  has  something  of  the  'homely'  about  it,  so 
much  the  better  for  the  situation." 

The  "situation,"  at  the  beginning,  is  one  of  terrible  and  complete  isolation  and 
loneliness.  The  composer's  injunction  to  imagine  oneself  alone  is  easily  obeyed  when 
this  music  sounds.  Vast  and  sunny  spaces,  still  and  hot  and  monotoned,  stretch  end- 
lessly and  without  horizon.  This  is  the  Midwest,  the  great  heart  of  America.  Im- 
posed upon  this  broad  canvas  are  the  scenes  suggested  in  the  excerpt  from  the  poem, 
the  stars  and  the  still  dawn,  the  sunset,  the  boisterous  workmen,  the  brawny  and 
inarticulate  fellows  who  dream  dreams  and  sing  ribald  verses  to  hide  an  easy  and 
ashamed  and  tender  sentimentality. 

It  is  the  wish  of  the  composer  that  hearers  be  not  concerned  with  the  technical 


5OO  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

and  internal  musical  details  of  this  music.  He  prefers  to  create — and  succeeds  in 
creating — an  atmosphere  and  a  mood,  against  which  he  projects  moving  and  very 
vital  figures  to  stir  the  imagination.  And  at  the  end,  again  the  silent  and  empty 
reaches  of  the  plains;  silent  only  with  the  almost  audible  silence  of  growing  things, 
empty,  yet  teeming  with  hidden  life  and  the  seeds  of  life. 


RICHARD  STRAUSS 

[Born  1864] 

ONE  OF  THE  most  extraordinary  musical  personages  of  today  is  Richard 
Strauss.  Born  in  1864;  informed  with  the  classical  musical  traditions  of 
Haydn,  Mozart,  Bach,  and  Beethoven;  regarding,  at  twenty-one  years  of 
age,  such  composers  of  the  fin  de  siecle  as  Chopin,  Schumann,  and  Brahms  as  not 
quite  conservative,  Strauss  stands  today,  though  full  of  years  and  prolific  of  accom- 
plishments, one  of  the  most  modern,  most  radical  of  composers. 

Daring,  insistence  upon  individuality  of  expression,  radicalism — call  it  what 
you  will — is  supposed  to  be  the  prerogative  of  the  young.  Strauss  outdoes  the 
younger  generation  of  composers  in  daring — but  with  this  difference;  there  is  a 
rationale  in  his  music  that  places  it  in  a  class  quite  apart  from  the  often  meaningless, 
deliberately  strident,  and  ugly  manifestations  of  the  musical  impulses  of  certain 
modern  composers.  Strauss  is,  indeed,  modern — but  his  music  is  never  freakish, 
never  novel  for  the  sake  of  novelty,  never  daring  for  the  sake  of  self-advertisement. 

Strauss  was  born,  not  into  the  family  of  Johann  Strauss,  the  "Waltz  King" — 
to  whom  he 'bears  no  relationship — but  the  son  of  Franz  Strauss,  leading  horn- 
player  of  the  Munich  Opera  Orchestra,  who  recognized  and  fostered  the  musical 
talent  of  his  child.  The  boy's  training  was  rigidly  classical,  and  his  precocious  gifts 
fed  upon  the  works  of  the  musical  giants  exclusively.  Not  until  he  was  a  young 
man  of  twenty-one  did  he  become  familiar  with  the  more  recent  of  the  great 
composers. 

When  but  a  child  he  wrote  his  first  composition.  He  was  only  twenty  when 
Theodore  Thomas,  beloved  founder  and  conductor  of  the  Chicago  Symphony  Or- 
chestra, played  a  symphony  of  Strauss'  at  a  concert  in  New  York.  One  year  later 
the  composer  attained  to  a  position  of  eminence  in  the  music  world,  by  succeeding 
to  the  conductorship  previously  held  by  von  Billow. 

The  career  of  Strauss  presently  took  a  curious  turn.  Acclaimed,  twenty  years 
ago  or  more,  as  unquestionably  the  most  modern  as  well  as  the  most  gifted  of  living 
composers,  he  had  the  musical  world  at  his  feet.  His  concerts  were  crowded  to  the 
doors;  enthusiasm  was  tremendous.  A  few  years  later,  the  same  Strauss  found 
almost  more  musical  enemies  than  friends.  Critics  attacked  him  savagely;  his  new 
ideas,  definite  and  reasonable  as  they  seem  now  in  contrast  to  the  nebulous  fancies 
and  impossible  theories  of  some  musical  poetasters,  were  scorned,  or  discounted, 
contradicted,  and  angrily  denied.  The  audiences  that  had  practically  worshiped  him 
had  almost  disappeared.  He  had  become  a  "radical." 

Today,  though  Strauss,  like  every  man  of  eminence,  has  his  antagonistic  critics, 
he  is  accepted  as  one  of  the  greatest  living  composers,  if  not  the  greatest.  Though 
the  processes  of  time  have  not  yet  caused  his  so-called  radicalism  to  seem  conserva- 
tive, the  essential  soundness  and  sanity,  and  the  strange  and  compelling  beauty  of 


5O2  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

his  music,  are  strikingly  in  contrast  with  both  classical  and  ultramodern  music.  He 
has  developed  and  perfected  the  tone  poem,  the  possibilities  of  which  Liszt  first  per- 
ceived. He  has  elaborated  the  leitmotiv,  or  musical  phrase  attached  to  a  definite 
person,  place,  thing,  or  situation.  He  has  projected  a  new  conception  of  counter- 
point, in  which  simultaneous  melodies  are  considered  separately  as  melodies,  without 
regarding  their  mutual  harmony  or  dissonance. 

His  music  is  alive  with  vigor  and  vitality  .  .  .  full  of  conflict,  as  indeed  it  must 
be  to  express  the  subjects  which  Strauss  sets  forth  to  illustrate.  It  is  music  of  im- 
mense vigor  and  vitality.  It  is  music  of  glowing  color — for  Strauss  is  a  master 
among  masters  of  the  art  of  orchestration. 

And — what  will  be  of  interest  to  the  great  bulk  of  music  lovers  to  whom 
music  is  a  stimulant  of  imaginative  pictures — Strauss  above  all  present-day  compos- 
ers depicts  in  tone  the  phenomena  of  the  material  world.  To  call  his  music  merely 
"programmatic"  is  to  slander  it.  For  he  seldom  descends  to  mere  imitation  of 
familiar  sounds  or  stereotyped  musical  idioms  for  the  suggestion  of  "falling  waters" 
or  "galloping  horses,"  or  similar  picturesque  incidents  of  ordinary  "program  music." 
With  Strauss,  a  fanfare  of  brass  may  mean  not  merely  a  call  to  arms,  but  the  causes 
of  an  empire's  downfall;  a  fluttering  of  strings  may  signify  not  a  springtime  zephyr, 
but  a  storm  within  the  soul.  Though  it  may  revolve  about  material  beings  and 
objects,  the  music  of  Strauss  is  nevertheless  powerfully  subjective  and  symbolic. 


Ein  Heldenleben 

A  Hero's  Life  is  not  a  musical  biography  of  some  actual  or  mythical  human  being. 
It  is,  rather,  the  depiction  of  the  life  of  an  ideal  man — a  hero  only  in  the  sense  that 
he  meets  his  problems,  victories,  and  defeats,  the  forces  of  evil  and  of  destruction, 
the  supreme  experience  of  love,  the  demands  upon  his  physical  and  spiritual  powers, 
and  the  autumnal  peace  of  his  closing  years,  with  all  the  nobility  and  vitality  of  his 
manhood. 

The  Hero  is,  then,  an  ideal,  a  subjective  personage.  We  must  not  therefore 
look  to  the  music  for  too  well-defined  incidents.  The  underlying  idea  is  treated 
broadly,  subjectively,  and  with  symbolism.  Yet  the  Hero  is  human;  he  lives  and 
loves;  knows  victory  and  defeat,  tears  and  laughter.  He  wields  a  sword,  and 
achieves  even  more  powerfully  in  fields  of  peace  .  . .  and  at  length,  himself  knows 
the  great  peace  of  fulfillment. 

Whether  or  not  he  wishes  to  be  so  considered,  Richard  Strauss  is  generally 
regarded  as  being  the  hero  of  Em  Heldenleben — not,  as  has  been  implied  above,  as 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  503 

a  singular  and  well-defined  personality,  but  as  experiencing,  in  his  own  career, 
much  of  the  antagonism  and  much  of  the  superb  defiance  of  his  adversaries  that 
distinguishes  the  Hero  of  the  tone  poem.  He  created  this  musical  epic,  certainly  not 
in  any  mood  of  self-glorification,  but  perhaps  with  much  the  attitude  which  begot 
Wagner's  Meistersinger.  Wagner  lampooned  his  enemies,  burned  them  with  bitter 
irony.  Strauss  has  perhaps  a  broader  viewpoint  in  the  matter,  and  shows,  not  only 
the  struggle  and  the  immediate  triumph  over  his  antagonists,  but  the  gentleness  and 
complacence  that  come  with  years  and  fulfillment. 

While  Richard  Strauss,  in  the  score  of  A  Hero's  Life,  sets  forth  no  argument, 
no  program,  no  clue  to  the  story  which  lies  implicit  in  the  music,  the  following  may 
be  accepted  as  a  broad  outline  of  the  Hero's  life: 

At  the  opening  of  the  music,  the  Hero  is  in  the  full  powers  of  young  manhood. 
His  personal,  spiritual  characteristics  are  distinguished  and  noble.  He  is  proud,  sensi- 
tive, imaginative,  sympathetic,  and  powerful  of  will.  When  such  a  personality  comes 
in  contact  with  meanness,  there  is  conflict.  The  conflict  of  the  Hero  with  his  adver- 
saries, who  are  pictured  as  stupid,  envious,  malicious,  together  with  the  Hero's  dis- 
quietude, make  up  the  second  section  of  the  work. 

The  third  section  introduces  the  Hero's  Beloved,  in  her  various  engaging 
moods.  She  is  playful,  seductive,  angry,  scornful,  and  demure  by  turns.  He  woos 
her  with  a  quiet  passion  that  one  feels  must  eventuate  in  his  triumph  in  the  lists  of 
love,  as  indeed  it  does.  The  fourth  section  sees  the  Hero  torn  from  his  Beloved  to 
face  the  heat  and  strife  of  battle.  The  military  note  is  unmistakable.  The  Hero 
departs  for  the  battle  front,  and  there  are  marvelous  pictures  of  flashing  swords, 
of  uproar  and  of  slaughter;  and  we  hear  the  conflict  of  the  Hero's  theme  with  that 
of  his  adversaries.  Occasionally  there  are  recollections  of  the  theme  of  his  Beloved 
that  urge  him  on,  supporting  him  until  at  last  the  victory  is  won. 

The  fifth  section  of  Em  Heldenleben  depicts  the  Hero's  victories  in  the  fields 
of  peaceful  endeavor.  These  are  victories  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  and  it  is  this  section 
of  the  work  that  implies  most  strongly  that  Strauss  himself  is  the  Hero.  At  least, 
important  events  in  his  own  musical  career  would  qualify  him  for  the  part! 

Now  we  hear  musical  allusions  to  and  quotations  from  his  previous  works  .  .  . 
works  which  achieved  success  only  after  the  most  vitriolic  criticism  and  unrelenting 
attack. 

The  final  section  of  the  tone  poem  is  perhaps  the  most  subtle.  Here  we  dis- 
cover that,  though  the  Hero  has  triumphed,  his  achievements  are  belittled  by  his 
stupid  adversaries,  and  his  reward  is  envy  and  contempt.  At  first  he  rebels;  then 
gradually  he  realizes  that  his  true  triumph  lies  in  the  inward  satisfaction  of  his  own 
spirit  and  conscience,  and  though  there  are  occasional  distressing  memories  of  scenes 
of  strife  and  bitterness,  peace  finally  broods  gently  over  the  Hero's  soul.  It  is  the 
peace  of  fulfillment  and  of  contentment.  His  work  is  achieved— and  nobly.  He 
knows  that  in  the  depths  of  his  soul.  Thereafter  nothing  can  disturb  his  tranquillity* 


504 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


First  Section 


There  is  no  prelude.  The  mighty  theme  of  the  Hero  himself  springs  from  the 
darkness  of  low  horns  and  strings,  striding  magnificently  across  three  octaves.  At 
once  the  superlative  skill  of  Strauss  in  the  art  of  orchestration  is  evident.  This  com- 
pelling phrase,  the  most  important  figure  of  the  whole  tone  poem,  is  given  an 
unforgettable  orchestral  color;  bold,  incisive,  yet  with  a  certain  wild  beauty  that  is 
most  ingratiating.  Here  in  its  first  presentation,  the  theme  depicts  a  youth,  full  of 
youthful  fire  and  of  the  first  full  surge  of  his  natural  powers. 

Here  are  the  opening  few  bars  of  the  theme: 

THE  HERO 


The  development  of  the  Hero  theme  is  intended  to  suggest  the  character  of 
the  Hero  in  its  many  aspects.  His  intelligence,  his  ambition,  his  sensitiveness,  his 
power  of  will  are  implied  in  the  material  growing  out  of  the  phrases  quoted  above. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  a  mere  succession  of  musical  ideas,  of  themes  and 
phrases,  cannot  constitute  an  integrated  musical  work.  There  must  be  rational 
musical  development;  adherence  to  the  form  within  which  the  composer  has  cast 
his  work;  and  coherence  of  its  essential  parts.  The  wonder  of  Ein  HeldenLeben  is 
not  only  the  wealth  of  musical  ideas  set  forth  in  it,  or  the  marvelous  invention,  but 
the  skill  and  logic  with  which  the  ideas  are  presented,  combined,  and  developed. 
Thus  the  bare  structure  of  the  Hero  theme,  presented  as  the  music  begins,  is 
mightily  developed  as  the  tone  poem  progresses;  as  the  many  varying  qualities  of 
the  Hero's  spirit  reveal  themselves  as  outgrowths  of  his  essential  nature. 

You  will  feel  this  growth  as  you  listen,  and  you  cannot  but  perceive,  as  the 
first  section  of  the  work  ends  in  a  mighty  projection  of  sound,  that  here  is  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  the  Hero  in  all  the  pride  and  glowing  power  of  his  young 
manhood. 

Second  Section 

The  Hero's  adversaries,  petty,  snarling,  cynical,  and  small  beside  his  own 
spiritual  bulk,  are  depicted,  caricatured,  and  scorned  as  the  second  section  of  the 
tone  poem  opens.  Here  again,  Strauss'  uncanny  perception  of  the  color  possibilities 
of  the  orchestral  instruments,  and  their  infallible  expressiveness,  is  signally  demon- 
strated. Listen,  two.  or  three  times,  to  the  crackling,  spiteful  phrases  of  the  wood- 
wind that  open  this  section  of  the  work.  They  constitute  the  motive  of  the  Hero's 
opponents: 


RICHARD     STRAUSS  505 

THE  HERO'S  ENEMIES 


The  whole  woodwind  section — flutes,  oboes,  clarinets,  English  horn,  and  pic- 
colo— utter  these  acid,  penetrating  phrases,  so  significant  of  mockery,  of  pettiness, 
of  niggling  natures  and  nagging  criticism.  And  the  Hero,  though  by  no  means 
lacking  in  strength  or  aggressiveness,  is  taken  aback.  He  is  at  first  surprised  and 
wounded,  and  in  the  sweetly  melancholy  phrase  of  cellos  and  double  basses,  we 
hear  his  protest — gentle,  but  growing  in  strength  and  deep  with  passion.  Presently, 
the  music  communicates  unmistakably  the  thought  that  the  Hero  has  resolved  to 
"take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles,  and  by  opposing,  end  them."  A  warlike  fanfare 
in  the  brass  introduces  passages  of  more  forceful  and  assertive  character.  We  feel 
that  the  Hero  is  about  to  plunge  into  a  warfare  with  his  adversaries — but  suddenly 
a  new  voice  is  heard.  A  violin  solo  sweetly  gives  forth  the  lovely  little  song  that 
portrays  the  Hero's  Beloved: 

THE  HERO'S  BELOVED 


The  introduction  of  the  Beloved  brings  us  to  the 

Third  Section 

of  the  tone  poem,  covering  the  period  of  the  Hero's  life  during  which  he  woos  and 
wins  his  lady. 

In  answer  to  the  maidenly  salutation  of  the  Beloved  comes  again  the  voice  of 
the  Hero,  deep  and  manly,  incisive  and  strong  in  accent;  we  hear  it  in  the  plangent 
tones  of  cellos  and  basses,  their  strings  briskly  plucked  rather  than  bowed.  Again  the 
voice  of  the  Beloved,  in  the  solo  violin  ...  a  bit  coquettish  for  a  moment,  but  end- 
ing presently  on  a  dreamy  and  ethereal  harmonic. 

Now  opens  a  marvelous  duet  between  solo  violin  and  orchestra — the  one  a 
figure  of  the  coy,  demure,  petulant,  tender,  coquettish,  naive,  angry,  gentle,  scold- 
ing, and  loving  Beloved  5  the  other  suggesting  the  deliberate,  determined,  quietly 
passionate  spirit  of  the  Hero  himself.  Now  you  will  know  the  expressiveness  of  the 
violin  in  the  hands  of  a  master.  Every  characteristic  with  which  Strauss  informed 
the  Hero's  lady  is  portrayed  with  incredible  accuracy  and  absolute  conviction  by 


506  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  solo  violin.  And  in  the  long  dialogue  with  the  orchestra  it  seems  that  every 
device  of  violin  technique  is  called  upon  by  the  composer,  and  put  to  use  by  the 
soloist.  Chords,  arpeggios  (harplike  figures),  simultaneous  melodies  are  but  the 
more  obvious  demands  made  upon  the  concertmeister;  an  examination  of  the  score 
reveals  further  and  more  subtle  exigencies  which  he  must  meet  with  a  superb  indif- 
ference to  their  difficulties. 

It  is  by  no  means  difficult  to  imagine  here  the  sprightly  girl,  cajoling  her 
lover  .  .  .  mocking  him  gently  .  .  .  scolding  him  for  his  deliberateness  .  .  .  evading 
him  when  she  seems  within  his  grasp  .  .  .  coquetting  when  he  feigns  indifference 
. .  .  and  finally  arousing  him  to  more  and  more  vehement  protestations  of  his  love. 
Almost  immediately  we  can  perceive  the  shyly  yielding  note  in  the  curving  melody 
of  the  violin  5  a  passionate  but  gentle  utterance  in  the  orchestra  that  can  signify 
nothing  but  love's  ultimate  triumph. 

The  closing  parts  of  this  section  are  as  tonally  lovely,  as  touching  in  sentiment, 
as  exquisitely  conceived  and  unified,  as  anything  in  modern  music.  Passion  glows  in 
them,  but  there  is  a  sweetness,  too,  that  tempers  the  flaming  vehemence  of  preced- 
ing passages  of  the  work.  A  final  subtle  touch  appears  in  the  closing  bars,  where  the 
almost  hypnotic  calm  is  faintly  disturbed  now  and  then  by  a  fleeting  ripple  of 
quiet  ecstasy. 

Fourth  Section 

The  first  fierce  flame  of  love  has  steadied  into  a  lambent  glow.  Yet  hardly  has 
serenity  established  its  calm  sway  when  the  Hero  is  troubled  by  memories  of  his 
bitter  adversaries,  whose  mocking  cries  and  poisonous  sneers  once  more  intrude 
upon  his  consciousness.  Again  he  feels  the  old  pain,  the  old  hurt  surprise;  and  we 
hear  in  the  strings  an  expression  of  his  distress;  a  fragment  of  melody,  gradually 
disappearing  in  a  most  exquisite  pianissimo. 

But  a  new  force,  a  new  urge  and  impulse,  have  come  into  the  Hero's  life;  he 
has  a  mate,  a  helpmate.,  an  inspiration  in  the  person  of  his  Beloved.  And,  before  the 
loveliness  of  the  phrase  just  mentioned  has  quite  faded  into  silence,  the  Hero  feels 
the  infusion  of  new  vigor  and  assertiveness.  Instead  of  nursing  the'  spiritual  wounds 
his  enemies  have  inflicted,  he  determines  to  go  forth  and  fight.  A  thrilling  fanfare 
of  the  trumpet;  two  trumpets  .  .  .  and  now  three.  The  battle  is  on. 

THE  BATTLEFIELD 


Now  Strauss,  through  the  orchestra,  pictures  the  tumult  and  shouting,  the 
clashing  of  swords,  the  headlong  rush  of  massed  warriors,  the  downfall  of  battle- 


RICHARD     STRAUSS  507 

ments,  the  clang  of  steel  upon  steel.  The  battle  rages  at  its  height.  Ever  and  anon 
the  trumpet  cries  its  wild  alarum  .  .  .  now  a  clear  imperative  summons,  now  muted 
as  by  the  clouds  of  smoke  that  sweep  across  the  battlefields.  Violins  rage  up  and 
down  the  scale  with  incredible  rapidity;  strange  cries  and  shouts  arise  from  brass 
and  woodwind;  drums  rattle  and  boom,  and  punctuate  the  music  with  sounds  like 
those  of  machine-gun  fire  and  of  cannon.  Once  the  motive  of  the  Hero,  brief  and 
broken,  appears  for  an  instant  in  the  sonorous  voices  of  the  string  bass,  as  if  the 
smoke  of  conflict  had  lifted  for  a  moment  to  reveal  him  in  Olympian  rage  dashing 
up  and  down  the  opposed  battle  lines. 

What  has  gone  before  is  but  a  whisper  of  the  storm  of  tone  now  projected  by- 
the  gigantic  orchestra  as  it  reaches  toward  the  limits  of  its  dynamic  powers.  Yet  in 
all  this  wild  confusion  there  is  the  most  marvelous  welding  together  of  the  central 
musical  thoughts  that  give  the  music  its  essential  meanings.  It  is  entirely  possible  to 
withdraw  oneself  from  the  emotional  aspects  of  the  work,  and  concentrate  upon  its 
technical  and  academic  characteristics — -and  the  soundest  and  most  reasonable  struc- 
ture will  be  found  underlying  and  supporting  the  Gargantuan  edifice  of  sound 
which  Strauss  rears  skyward  in  this  magnificent  scene. 

There  is  a  steady  growth  from  climax  to  vertiginous  climax,  and  we  feel  in  an 
imminent  place  the  presence  of  a  dominant  and  compelling  thought.  The  trumpet 
climbs  to  incredible  heights.  Twice  it  reaches  the  high  C;  its  penetrating  tone  usher- 
ing in  the  grand  climax  of  the  scene.  Now  we  hear,  in  triumphant  mood,  the  noble 
theme  of  the  Hero,  a  certain  suavity  informing  its  broad  and  rugged  lines  as  it  is 
projected  in  the  massed  voices  of  the  entire  string  section.  From  time  to  time  a 
thought  of  his  Beloved  has  strengthened  the  Hero  in  the  fight;  now  his  own  great 
theme  is  finally  re-created  in  the  fullness  of  its  strength  and  beauty.  Above  there  is 
.the  chanting  of  a  victory  paean  .  .  .  but  still  the  Hero  rejoices  alone;  the  world  as 
yet  neglects  him. 

FiftA  Section 

Echoes  of  the  preceding  section  of  the  tone  poem  persist  for  a  moment,  but  we 
enter  into  the  fifth  section,  announced  by  the  chief  theme  typifying  the  Hero's 
works  of  peace,  his  intellectual  and  spiritual  accomplishments.  This  is  a  bright  and 
cheerful  utterance,  occurring  after  the  brief  interlude  in  strings  that  follows  the 
heroic  sentences  at  the  beginning  of  this  section.  The  "works  of  peace"  motive  is 
assigned  to  the  clear  and  golden  voice  of  the  trumpet.  We  quote  the  subject: 

THE  HERO'S  WORKS  OF  PEACE 


508  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

It  is  this  section  of  the  tone  poem  that  gives  rise  to  the  belief  that  Strauss  him- 
self is  largely  the  Hero*  For  here,  if  we  listen  with  closest  attention,  we  will  pres- 
ently discover  musical  thoughts,  themes,  actual  quotations  from  several  other  com- 
positions of  Strauss  mostly  from  the  tone  poems,  though  it  is  possible  to  find  motives 
from  other  works  as  well.  Indeed,  this  section  of  the  work  is  not  far  in  progress 
before  we  discover  a  bold  theme  from  Strauss*  tone  poem  Don  Juan — a  forceful 
pronouncement  in  the  horns,  doubled  with  cello.  Here  is  the  motive: 

DON  JUAN 

_^~^  _-„————,.— ^-  ......:-    i. ««...  -— 


And  there  are  others.  The  mood  is  a  serene  and  contemplative  one,  some- 
times richly  and  elaborately  colored,  sometimes  filled  with  a  pale  translucent  mist. 
The  symbolism  of  the  musical  quotations  is  unmistakable;  the  marvel  is  that  they 
can  be  and  are  incorporated  with  such  subtlety,  coherence,  and  aptness.  For  most 
of  them,  one  must  listen  with  closest  attention,  or  even  examine  the  elaborate  score 
itself.*  Such  phrases  as  this  however,  taken  from  Tod  und  Verklarung  and  given 
here  to  the  solo  violin,  are  easily  discernible: 

TOD  UND  VERKLARUNG 

/~±  -f^m^     ^ 


As  well  as  seeking  outstanding  subjects  from  his  earlier  works,  Strauss  also  com- 
bines items  from  previous  sections  of  Ein  Heldenleben,  making  apparently  new 
motives  of  them.  Thus  he  contributes  to  the  unity  and  continuity  of  his  work,  estab- 
lishes a  connection  between  foregoing  events  in  the  "life/'  and  shows  their  bearings 
upon  the  ultimate  denouement. 

In  this  section  you  will  note  a  curious  feature  that  often  occurs  in  Strauss,  and 
particularly  in  Em  Heldenleben;  one  which  shortsighted  and  misunderstanding 
critics  viewed  with  horror  and  attacked  with  bitterness.  It  has  been  hinted  at 
previously  in  these  notes — the  progression  of  two  distinct  melodies  which  in  their 
course  follow  no  established  rule  of  counterpoint  but,  on  the  contrary,  go  along 


*  Strauss  introduces,  among  others,  themes  from  Till  Eulensfagel,  Also  sfrach 
SZaratfiustra,  Tod  und  VerklSrung>  Don  Juan,  Don  Quixote,  Traum  dutch  die  Damn 
mtruttg,  and  Macbeth— tone  poems  from  his  pen,  prior  to  the  composition  of  Ein 
Heldtnlebtn. 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  509 

their  independent  ways  without  regard  to  harmony  or  dissonance.  So  acpustomed 
have  our  modern  ears  become  to  musical  incidents  of  this  kind  that  listening  to  the 
melodies,  it  is  often  possible  to  plot  their  courses  in  imagination  and  to  anticipate  the 
inevitable  clash  when  they  touch  unconventional  intervals.  And  we  are  not  shocked! 
Toward  the  close  of  the  fifth  section  of  the  tone  poem  you  will  come  upon  an 
extraordinary  tour  de  force  of  orchestral  writing.  Here  is  a  broad,  serene  theme, 
nobly  spoken  by  the  tenor  tuba,  viola,  and  bass  clarinet,  and  taken  from  Strauss' 
Traum  durch  die  Dammerung  (Dream  at  Twilight).  And  it  is  marvelously  com- 
bined in  counterpoint  with  still  another  motive  from  a  previous  Strauss  work — 
Don  Quixote,  which  moves  underneath  in  voices  of  horn,  cello,  and  cor  anglais. 
The  wonder  is  not  so  much  the  introduction  of  the  themes  or  yet  their  ingenious 
combination,  but  the  subtle  fluency  and  aptness  with  which,  even  in  combination, 
they  fit  into  the  scheme  of  Ein  Heldenleben.  They  appear  so  logically  and  smoothly 
that  for  a  moment  they  seem,  not  quoted  from  the  composer's  earlier  works,  but 
integral  with  the  present. 

Sixth  Section 

The  sixth  section  of  the  tone  poem  follows  closely  upon  the  passage  men- 
tioned above.  The  Hero  has  recited  his  "works  of  peace"  .  .  .  and  still  his  triumph 
is  known  only  to  himself — and  perhaps  to  his  Beloved.  Motives  from  the  preced- 
ing section  appear 5  there  is  a  thick-voiced  grumbling,  a  projection  of  turgid  har- 
monies from  the  low  brass,  as  thoughts  of  his  uncomprehending  critics  again  beset 
the  Hero  and  move  him  once  more  to  heroic  rage. 

Presently  a  mood  of  tranquillity  succeeds  the  frenzy  of  the  orchestra;  the 
Hero's  anger  cools  as  he  contemplates  the  fact  that  spiritual  triumph  is,  after  all, 
not  a  matter  of  recognition  by  the  world,  but  rather  of  peace  with  one's  own  con- 
science. A  lovely  figure  is  pronounced  by  the  cor  anglais  with  an  accompaniment, 
softly  in  the  strings,  flute,  and  brass,  with  gentle  beatings  upon  the  timpani. 

Then,  a  little  later,  we  hear  the  chief  subject  of  the  final  section — the  motive 
that  signifies  the  Hero's  detachment  from  the  world.  The  theme  is  in  the  strings,  as 
follows: 

FULFILLMENT  OF  THE  HERO'S  LIFE 

;—%——%" """J  "V  7J-V-,— V5S5T1— 9  =» 

This  theme  has  interesting  connotations.  It  is  compounded  of  two  subjects 
previously  used  in  the  tone  poem;  one  an  important  and  easily  recognized  phrase 
signifying  the  Hero's  spiritual  achievements  or  works  of  peace,  the  other  fllustrat- 


510  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ing  one  aspect  of  the  character  of  the  Beloved.  What  subtlety!  Final  tranquillity 
and  spiritual  calm,  compounded  of  love  and  spiritual  triumph! 

We  are  once  more  reminded  of  the  presence  and  influence  of  the  Beloved, 
through  the  medium  of  the  solo  violin.  There  is  a  golden  tranquillity — but  under- 
neath it  a  new,  a  fully  developed,  deliberate,  and  certain  power.  And  here  appears, 
in  the  solo  violin,  such  lovely  and  moving  melody  as  Strauss  has  not,  throughout 
the  preceding  sections  of  the  work,  permitted  to  flow  through  his  music. 

Once  more  the  motive  of  the  Hero  presents  itself,  broad,  clear,  and  majestic, 
the  shining  point  of  a  gigantic  mass  of  tone  that  is  built  up  as  the  poem  draws  to 
a  close. 


Salome's  Dance 

The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils 

THIS  highly  dramatic  and  frantically  voluptuous  music  is  extracted  from  Strauss' 
musical  setting  of  the  one-act  drama  SaLome,  written  by  Oscar  Wilde.  It  does  not 
necessarily  depict  the  tense  situation  in  which  the  dramatic  action  is  suspended  at  the 
moment  when  Salome  begins  her  choreographic  undoing  of  Herod,  but  it  does  very 
powerfully  suggest  the  succeeding  waves  of  voluptuous  excitement  and  exhaustion 
which  marked  the  dancing  of  the  vengeful  and  sadistic  Salome. 

The  cries  of  John,  imprisoned,  fill  the  dancer  with  sweet  torment.  She  burns 
with  the  "fury  of  the  woman  scorned"  5  she  pants  for  revenge,  yet  at  the  same 
agonizing  moment  she  is  tortured  with  love  for  her  intended  victim.  Upon  the 
bloated  Herod  she  casts  a  mysterious  glance,  languishing  and  submissive,  yet  de- 
termined; promising,  yet  remote.  From  the  forbidding  countenance  of  her  mother, 
the  governor's  wife,  she  turns  her  face  away. 

The  music  begins,  and  Salome,  as  if  waiting  for  a  significant  phrase,  stands 
motionless,  beautiful,  and  deadly.  The  mad  excitement  of  the  music  is  restrained  as 
she  begins  the  sinuous  weaving  and  posturing,  the  fluid  rhythms  that  beguile  and 
seduce  the  sensual  Herod,  the  half-revealing,  half-concealing  veils  floating  like  a 
rosy  mist  about  her.  In  the  orchestra  the  viola  and  flute  put  forth  a  wickedly  in- 
nocent phrase,  and  again,  a  lovely  line  of  melody  is  traced  by  horn  and  strings  and 
woodwind,  with  the  Oriental  accent  of  the  cor  anglais  lending  warm  dark  color. 
The  fainting  ecstasies  of  the  dancer,  and  hard  upon  them  new  influxes  of  power 
and  passion,  are  reflected  in  the  changing  rhythms  and  intensities  of  the  music, 
until  in  a  wild  and  abandoned  climax,  the  orchestra  indicates  the  last  convulsive 
leaps  and  whirlings  of  the  dancer's  white  body — and  afterward,  her  quivering 
prostration  at  the  feet  of  Herod. 


RICHARD    STRAUSS 


For  the  sake  of  preserving  precious  illusions,  it  is  better  to  see  this  dance 
through  the  merciful  suggestiveness  of  the  music.  It  is  doubtful  if  in  the  relatively 
few  productions  of  Salome  on  the  operatic  stage,  there  has  ever  been  a  perform- 
ance of  "The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils"  which  has  not  been  completely  ridiculous. 


Till  Eulenspiegels  lustige  Streiche 

[Till  Etdenspe  gel's  Merry  Pranks'] 

IT  is  not  important  whether  or  not  Till  Eulenspiegel  ever  existed  in  the  flesh;  cer- 
tainly he  lives  now,  in  this  merry,  naughty,  diabolically  ingenious  music.  In  provid- 
ing this  delicious  musical  entertainment,  Strauss  indulges,  as  he  has  done  nowhere 
else  in  his  scores,  a  sardonic,  a  wry,  and  sometimes  macabre  humor,  none  the  less 
apparent  because  of  the  extraordinarily  complicated  orchestration.  It  is  possible, 
though  not  at  all  necessary,  to  fit  this  music  into  a  rough  form;  the  thematic  treat- 
ment lends  itself  to  such  a  humorless  diversion.  It  is  much  more  pleasant,  however, 
to  sit  back  and  listen  and  kugh,  and  perhaps  sometimes  not  to  laugh — noting, 
meanwhile,  such  details  as  seem  to  be  of  indubitable  significance. 

Here  again  Strauss  indicates,  by  the  title,  a  theme  that  is  certainly  program- 
matic; yet  he  has  never  authorized,  though  he  has  tolerated,  the  publication  of  a 
"story"  or  program  for  this  music.  To  search  painfully  through  the  score,  and  to 
detach  therefrom  every  phrase  that  can  be  detached  without  dislocating  the  whole 
structure;  and  to  identify  every  such  phrase  with  some  particular  activity  or  char- 
acteristic of  Till,  is  a  distasteful  task  that  may  well  be  left  to  the  more  pedantic  of 
the  scholars.  There  is  no  authentic  story.  But  we  should  know  this: 

Till  Eulenspiegel  (Till  Owlglass)  is  a  wickedly  mischievous  fellow  much 
given  to  practical  jokes.  He  rides  his  horse  through  a  crowded  market  place,  scat- 
tering housewives,  merchants,  and  goods  in  every  direction;  he  disguises  himself  as 
a  member  of  the  clergy,  or  a  dandy,  or  an  ordinary  respectable  citizen,  and  while 
so  disguised  perpetrates  his  most  annoying  mischiefs — some  of  them  too  nasty  for 
description;  he  makes  love  to  village  maidens,  playing,  so  to  speak,  "touch  and  go" 
with  them.  But  eventually  he  is  caught,  tried,  and  (.in  the  musical  version)  hanged. 
The  last  joke  is  on  TflL 

The  atmosphere  of  the  introduction  clearly  suggests  the  folk-tale  Inspiration 
of  the  music.  Considerable  thematic  material  is  introduced  here,  and  a  climax  in 
which  most  of  the  orchestra  joins  brings  us  to  the  point  at  which  Till  first  walks, 
hops,  skips,  or  jumps  upon  the  scene.  He  appears  in  a  sly  phrase  of  die  clarinet — 


512  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


J    v»- 


one  to  mark  well,  for  in  various  guises  and  mutations  this  motive  will  appear  often 
and  meaningly.  There  is  some  sport  with  the  theme,  developing  into  a  dimax  of 
considerable  power.  Then  we  hear  Till  again.  He  is  putting  on  his  Sunday  best, 
and  presently  appears  in  silken  string  tone,  in  viola,  and  basses;  even  in  the 
polished  tones  of  the  flute. 

The  first  of  his  naughty  pranks  is  the  insolent  trampling  down  of  the  stalls  in 
the  market  place,  as  he  spurs  his  horse  through  chattering  crowds  (woodwind). 
Crashing  of  household  utensils  as  they  are  scattered  about,  and  TilFs  precipitate 
flight,  are  clearly  indicated  in  the  music. 

Now  our  hero  has  an  inspiration.  He  adopts  the  protection  of  "the  cloth," 
masquerading  as  a  priest  of  exceptionally  unctuous  appearance  and  manner.  He 
doesn't  quite  know  how  to  handle  a  cassock,  however,  and  through  the  quasi- 
religious  atmospere  we  can  see  the  rascal  (clarinet:  Till  theme)  beneath  the  priestly 
robes.  And  again  the  theme  of  Till  comes,  now  bold  and  somewhat  military  in 
suggestion.  Till  is  a  plumed  knight,  a  very  devil  of  a  fellow,  a  gay  Lothario.  How 
the  ladies  love  him — or  do  they? 

Episode  after  episode,  each  delineated  in  the  most  ingenious  orchestration, 
keep  us  wondering  "what  next?";  wondering  too,  at  the  really  marvelous  mastery 
of  the  orchestra's  resources  the  composer  displays  here.  Till  gets  into  and  out  of 
trouble  time  after  time,  but  eventually  he  is  caught.  He  is  arrested;  he  is  brought 
into  court.  And  terribly  the  court  thunders  its  accusations.  Till  answers  with  cus- 
tomary insouciance  (Till  theme).  The  court  recalls  another  of  his  crimes;  Till 
denies  it.  He  is  found  guilty  anyway,  perhaps  on  the  theory  that  even  if  he  had  not 
done  what  he  was  presently  charged  with,  he  should  be  punished  anyway  for  other 
crimes,  unknown  to  the  court.  So  they  hang  him,  and  there  is  a  grisly  humor  in 
the  squeakings  of  the  orchestra  as  poor  Till  does  his  airy  dance. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Strauss  that  he  is  not  through  with  Till  until  he  has  for- 
given the  rascal.  The  concluding  measures  at  least  suggest  such  an  attitude  to  some 
listeners.  The  original  themes  reappear;  Till  is  seen  in  the  light  of  distance  and 
legend.  The  laughs  that  he  caused  are  remembered;  the  cruelty  and  coarseness  are 
forgotten.  Yet  the  concluding  bars,  presented  fortissimo,  leave  the  problem  un- 
solved. 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  513 

Tod  und  Verklarung 
[Death  and  Transfiguration] 

IT  is  comforting  to  believe  that  Death  can  be,  after  the  struggles  and  the  frustra- 
tions of  life,  the  glorious  and  serene  and  exalted  experience  that  Strauss  makes  it 
in  this  magnificent  apotheosis  of  man's  last  and  most  futile  gesture.  But  unless  we 
are  at  the  moment  directly  under  the  spell  of  this  divinely  pitying  and  valiant  music, 
it  is  difficult  to  take  unto  ourselves  that  belief.  For,  most  of  our  days,  we  are  in 
the  midst  of  life,  and  engrossed  with  the  pleasures  and  the  agonies  and  the  boredom 
of  living;  Death  seems  a  dreadful  stranger,  who  visits  our  neighbors  occasionally, 
never  ourselves.  When,  momentarily,  we  do  reflect  that  one  day  that  grim  visitor 
will  come  knocking  at  our  door,  the  thought  is  too  perturbing  and  too  painful  5  we 
dismiss  it. 

The  Death  who  so  implacably  stalks  and  brings  down  his  pitiful  quarry,  in 
these  pages  of  wonderful  music,  is  an  ugly,  a  violent,  and  viciously  cruel  thing; 
like  a  fierce  impersonal  beast  that  kills  without  passion,  without  feeling,  without 
pleasure  or  reluctance,  simply  because  its  nature  is  to  kill.  But  in  those  superlatively 
beautiful  passages  that  constitute  the  epilogue  of  this  swift  and  terrible  drama, 
Strauss  makes  us  see  that,  though  Death  is  victorious,  he  had  not  conquered;  that 
disintegrating  flesh  does  not  take  with  it  into  nothingness  the  indissoluble  spirit,  but 
only  frees  it;  that  man,  when  he  has  for  the  last  time  turned  his  eyes  backward 
over  the  past,  can  also  look  forward  and,  fearlessly  returning  the  cold  gaze  of 
Death,  can  envision  a  light  beyond  the  world. 

This  tone  poem  dates  from  1889,  at  which  time  it  very  naturally  aroused  the 
ire  of  the  critics,  some  of  whom  went  so  far  as  to  resent  the  too  literal  suggestion  of 
a  scene  of  death  in  the  opening  pages.  The  score  bears,  on  the  flyleaf,  a  poem  far 
too  stupid  and  banal  to  have  been  the  inspiration  of  the  music.  What  shall  we  say, 
then,  when  we  discover  that  the  music  actually  did  inspire  the  poem?  The  only 
possible  reply  is  that  fortunately  Strauss  as  musician  is  rather  better  than  Alexander 
Ritter  as  poet! 

The  first  performance  of  Tod  und  Verklarung  was  given,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  composer,  at  a  concert  of  the  Allgemeiner  Deutscher  Musikverein,  at 
Eisenach,  June  21,  1890.  The  Philharmonic  Society  of  New  York,  under  the 
direction  of  Anton  Seidl,  gave  the  first  American  performance  on  January  9,  1892. 
Two  years  kter  Strauss  himself  conducted  the  work  with  the  Boston  Symphony 
Orchestra,  in  Symphony  Hall,  Boston. 

One  must  be  cold-blooded  indeed  to  be  able  to  dissect  this  magnificent  music 
while  listening  to  it.  An  examination  of  the  score  in  silence,  however,  reveals  in- 
teresting details  which  do  contribute  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  music.  It  is  broad  but 
closely  articulated  in  structure,  and  falls  into  four  general  divisions: 


5*4 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


I.  In  slow  tempo,  the  rhythm  marked  in  syncopation  by  strings.  A  piteous 
little  melody,  first  heard  in  woodwind,  and  permissibly  denoted  as  the  "childhood" 
theme,  and  a  figure  in  horn,  harp,  and  woodwind,  suggesting  a  dying  man's  review 
of  his  happy  childhood,  are  conspicuous  features. 


2.  The  first  onslaught  of  Death,  toward  the  end  of  which  we  hear  in  brass 
and  strings  the  first  intimations  of  the  "transfiguration"  motive. 


*5ag:a.»  «— s=— — SgagSg:*  ^-;*  ^^•M^^v.p^^x^ 

-  •-.  -  -  ;.--  -^-*  •  -r  -  i    pi      '^    i/r     == 


^   ^  " 

3.  The  dreams  of  the  dying.  The  struggles  of  life.  A  new  attack  by  Death. 
A  more  powerful  "intimation  of  immortality."  The  man  passes. 


4,  "Transfiguration/1 


The  room  is  dank  and  cold.  On  the  bed  lies  the  wasted  figure  of  a  man,  ex- 
hausted by  fever  and  by  struggle.  The  feeble  light  of  a  single  candle  reveals  his 
wan  face,  damp  with  the  dew  of  death,  distorted  by  the  memory  of  past  agonies. 
Now  he  sleeps,  but  his  fluttering  pulse  and  painful  breathing  give  warning  that 
Death  has  breached  the  wall. 

There  is  a  grisly  suggestion  of  failing  heartbeats  in  the  strange  rhythm  that 
begins,  pianissimo,  in  the  strings:  and  of  a  breath  that  is  half  sigh  and  half  groan 
in  the  melancholy  beauty  of  a  new  and  strongly  bowed  phrase  for  the  same  in- 


RICHARD    STRAUSS 

struments.  But  presently,  half  conscious,  the  dying  man  recalls  the  innocent  happi- 
ness of  his  youth.  A  brief  but  lovely  phrase,  in  the  wistful  voice  of  the  oboe,  is 
established  as  the  motive  of  childhood. 

Now  Death,  catlike,  pounces  and  seizes  his  victim.  This  respite  has  been  a  de- 
ception, an  instrument  of  torture,  an  ambush.  Fiercely  he  attacks,  and  the  man, 
filled  with  that  sudden  brief  energy  that  is  so  often  the  harbinger  of  his  end,  fights 
desperately  back.  They  are  quick,  hard,  irregular  blows  that  Death  strikes  as  he 
grapples  with  his  prey;  and  his  cold  and  bony  hands  are  like  steel  traps. 

In  the  orchestra  the  struggle  sweeps  like  a  storm.  Mighty  chords  are  hurled 
out,  and  a  delirium  rages  through  the  fearfully  dissonant  strings.  Climax  is  piled 
upon  climax,  until  the  music  seems  to  reach  the  uttermost  limits  of  violence.  Even 
then,  new  fevers  burn  in  it,  new  and  incredibly  brutal  and  startling  climaxes  are 
achieved.  Terrifying  and  intolerable,  savage  and  shrieking  and  deadly,  Death  rides 
powerfully  upon  the  exhausted  frame  of  his  victim — when  suddenly  we  hear,  so 
gratefully,  so  serenely,  the  first  intimations  of  the  great  theme  of  transfiguration. 

Death,  momentarily  abashed,  withdraws  his  forces,  and  in  the  brief  respite  the 
poor  victim  dreams.  He  sees  himself  as  a  boy  again,  filled  with  a  boy's  happiness 
(harp  and  woodwind) ;  he  lives  again  the  long  struggle  of  life,  tastes  again  life's 
triumphs,  hopes  again  life's  hopes.  Death  is  but  toying  with  him,  and  tiring  of  the 
sport,  suddenly  grasps  and  fiercely  shakes  his  weakened  victim.  Past  furies  are  as 
nothing,  compared  with  the  dreadful  turmoil  that  now  rages  through  the  orchestra. 
Hoarse  trombones  and  booming  drums  announce  the  dark  powers,  and  now,  with 
final  supreme  might,  Death  overcomes  all — childhood  and  the  struggles  of  life, 
hope  and  dreams  and  aspirations.  A  swift  series  of  ascending  harmonies,  eerie  as  the 
night  wind,  signal  the  last  feverish  and  tortured  protest  of  the  victim,  and  the 
solemn  metallic  roar  of  the  gong  (tam-tam)  accompanies  the  departure  of  the 
spirit. 

To  what  has  the  spirit  departed?  We  cannot  answer;  but  listening  to  the  un- 
earthly beauties  of  the  music  now,  we  must  believe  that  it  is  to  something  glorious 
and  serene  and  comforting.  Perhaps,  as  Strauss  suggests  through  the  reintroduction 
of  the  childhood  motive  in  sweetly  vibrant  strings,  it  is  to  a  state  of  innocent  hap- 
piness that  we  have  lost  with  the  mounting  years.  Perhaps,  as  the  glorious  theme  of 
transfiguration  now  takes  fully  developed  form  in  the  majesty  and  power  of  the 
brass,  it  is  to  splendors  and  visions  beyond  words.  At  least,  the  fading  light,  and 
the  last  resolving  dissonance  of  a  single  golden  trumpet  against  strings,  assure  us 
that  Death  ultimately  is  beautiful;  that  in  his  stern  implacable  fac$  there  is  a 
promise  of  deliverance  5  that  he  is  cruel  only  to  be  kind. 


516  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Don  Juan 

Don  Juan  is  one  of  the  early  tone  poems  with  which  Richard  Strauss  aroused  the 
musical  world.  As  in  certain  other  cases,  a  literary  poem — the  Don  Juan  of  Niko- 
laus  Lenau,  a  Hungarian  poet — was  the  inspiration  of  the  work.  Notwithstanding 
certain  features  of  the  tone  poems  which,  by  their  importance  and  treatment  in 
the  score,  suggest  a  cryptic  significance,  Strauss  has,  as  a  rule,  coyly  refrained  from 
adumbrating  them  for  the  benefit  of  his  listeners — not  to  mention  his  commen- 
tators. Since,  however,  the  score  of  Don  Juan  bears  upon  the  flyleaf  certain  ex- 
tracts from  Lenau's  poem,  it  is  only  reasonable  to  assume  that  there  is  in  the  music 
a  certain  programmatic  significance.  The  intricacy  of  the  score  forbids  detailed 
analysis  here,  nor  is  such  analysis  in  any  case  particularly  desirable  or  necessary.  As 
in  Zarathustra,  as  in  Tod  und  Verklarungy  and  in  certain  other  works,  it  is  rea- 
sonably clear  that  in  this  music  the  composer  wishes  to  create  a  mood  that  is  the 
result  of  a  philosophical  attitude.  Once  admitted  to  his  point  of  departure,  it  is 
easy,  through  the  music,  to  sense  this  mood. 

This  work  was  the  first  of  the  tone  poems  to  be  published,  but  another — 
Macbeth — preceded  it  in  the  order  of  composition.  The  first  performance  was 
given  at  Weimar,  under  the  direction  of  the  composer,  court  conductor  there  at 
the  time,  in  1888.  It  was  played,  probably  for  the  first  time  in  America,  at  a  con- 
cert of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  under  the  direction  of  the  unforgettable 
Arthur  Nikisch,  October  31,  1891. 

The  story  of  Don  Juan  has  been  treated  by  many  writers,  usually  with  a 
great  deal  of  tongue  licking  over  the  amorous  adventures  which  seem  to  have  been 
the  chief,  if  not  the  sole,  occupation  of  his  life.  Richard  Strauss  adopts  the  Don 
Juan  of  Lenau,  and  Lenau  would  have  us  regard  his  hero,  not  as  merely  a  liber- 
tine and  debauchee,  but  as  an  idealist  in  endless  quest  of  the  one  woman  who  unites 
in  herself  all  possible  perfections  of  the  female.  Since  the  Don's  methods  were,  ap- 
parently, strictly  empirical,  one  can  readily  imagine  that  his  philosophy,  as  set  forth 
by  the  poet,  was  a  convenient  one. 

The  law  of  compensation  operates,  however,  even  in  the  case  of  a  legendary 
prince  of  sensualists.  After  each  of  numerous  conquests,  Don  Juan  turns  from  his 
victim  in  disgust.  Repetition  turns  disgust  into  boredom — boredom  with  women 
and  love  and  life  itself,  so  that,  in  indirect  and  niggardly  and  certainly  not  condign- 
satisfaction  for  his  evil-doing,  Don  Juan  permits  himself  to  be  killed  in  a  duel  with 
the  father  of  a  man  he  himself  has  slain. 

Bearing  in  mind  Strauss'  abhorrence  of  a  program  where  none  was  intended 
by  the  composer,  we  shall  have  to  be  content  with  the  broadest  outline  of  the  work. 
It  is  perfectly  possible  to  subject  the  poem,  and  then  the  music,  to  detailed  and 
comparative  analysis,  and  by  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  fortuitous  repetitions  and 
prominences,  and  by  attaching  to  them  whatever  tenuous  significance  we  can 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  $17 

possibly  discover  in  the  poem,  arrive  at  a  detailed  program  for  the  music.  Let  us 
rather  confine  ourselves  to  the  few  definite  clues  the  music  affords  and,  once  ac- 
quainted with  them,  resign  ourselves  to  what  moods  the  music  can  itself  project  and 
create* 

The  first  theme,  with  its  hot  and  esurient  vehemence,  scarcely  needs  identifi- 


cation as  a  motive  of  desire.  A  second,  following  closely,  cannot  be  definitely  as- 
signed any  particular  significance,  but  is  rather  extensively  used  as  the  music  pro- 


gresses.  The  third,  and  a  brilliant,  rather  pompous  utterance  it  is,  may  be  taken  as 
suggesting  the  person  of  the  knightly  Don  himself.  Horizontally  developed  har- 


mony  unifies,  in  a  sense,  these  three  ideas,  and  it  may  not  be  unreasonable  for  us  to 
assume  that  they  represent  the  Don  in  three  aspects:  his  unruly  desires,  the  object 
of  them,  and  his  personal  appearance. 

With  each  conquest — and  they  are  neither  long  in  appearing  nor  in  enduring 
— we  find  the  motive  of  desire  glowing  with  more  warmth  and  luster;  yet  after 
each  conquest  comes  the  scale  figure  in  woodwind  (bassoon,  clarinet)  that  is  sup- 
posed to  indicate  the  lassitude  and  physical  distaste  that  follow  hard  upon  satiety. 
Since  on  the  first  appearance  of  this  chromatic  theme  it  is  associated  with  the 
second  of  the  group  of  three  mentioned  in  the  preceding  paragraph,  there  is  some 
evidence  that  the  second  theme  of  the  composition  indicates  either  the  object  of 
Don  Juan's  desires,  or  the  act  of  seduction.  Here  it  is  heard  reduced  to  a  ridiculous 
version  of  itself,  given  by  the  harp.  Are  we  to  suppose  then,  that  after  seducing  her, 
the  gallant  Don  belittles  the  lady? 

There  are  many  episodes  which  seem  to  indicate  a  similar  series  of  circum- 
stances. It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  all  of  Don  Juan's  adventures  are 


5l8  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

so  easily  accomplished,  or  so  unsatisfactory,  as  the  first.  There  is  a  delightful  inci- 
dent in  which  violin,  solo,  suggests  the  Don's  interest  in  a  lady  of  refinement,  and 
a  scene  of  ardent  love-making  follows.  It  is  not  so  abandoned,  however,  that 
Strauss  cannot  indulge  in  a  little  classical  touch — the  introduction  of  an  imitative 
figure,  in  canon  form,  in  the  second  violins;  it  is  derived  from  a  preceding  the- 
matic fragment  which  we  have  heard  in  horn  and  woodwind.  The  scene  reaches 
a  climax  of  intensity  on  a  violent  chord,  tutti:  and  the  cellos,  their  normally  rich 
tone  deliberately  made  stale  and  colorless,  suggest  again  the  theme  of  desire. 

It  is  not  long  before  our  hero  finds  another  victim,  and  this  time  he  meets 
with  resistance  that  whets  his  desire  to  the  point  of  fury.  The  oboe  sings  of  pas- 
sionate longing,  and  ultimately  this  woman — this  haughty  and,  we  suppose,  vir- 
tuous maid,  surrenders.  And  hardly  has  she  yielded,  hardly  have  ecstasies  become 
memories  when,  typically  masculine,  the  Don,  disgusted  because  he  has  possessed 
and  destroyed  what  he  so  passionately  desired,  rushes  away  to  obliterate  his  disap- 
pointment in  new  orgies,  vinous  and  venal. 

It  is  the  time  of  carnival.  Into  the  feverish  gaiety  of  the  fiesta  the  drink- 
maddened  knight  plunges  desperately.  Wherever  his  bleared  eyes  turn  are  women, 
creatures  of  seductive  eyes  and  rounded  bosoms,  of  deft  and  delicate  and  knowing 
hands,  of  perfumed  hair  and  slim  young  bodies.  He  is  surrounded,  he  is  bedeviled, 
he  is  mad;  and  he  falls  unconscious.  Reluctantly  he  turns  to  his  senses,  but  never 
again  to  sensuality.  The  fires  are  cold,  the  ashes  bitter  and  dry;  and  Don  Juan, 
the  insatiable  lover  of  life,  is  sated  and  sick  with  disgust.  What  is  worse,  he  is  bored. 
He  welcomes  a  quarrel  for  the  opportunity  it  offers  to  die.  He  purposely  drops  his 
sword;  he  is  run  through.  A  violent  crash  in  the  whole  orchestra,  a  long  and  ter- 
rible silence,  and  we  know  that  he  is  dead.  Strings  and  woodwinds  softly  mourn 
even  this  despicable  mortal,  but  a  villainously  dissonant  lance  of  trumpet  tone 
pierces  their  soft  utterance*  Yet  at  last,  as  almost  always  in  the  tone  poems,  there 
is  a  note  of  beautiful  complacence. 


Don  Quixote 

IT  CANNOT  well  be  asserted  that  in  Richard  Strauss'  music  humor  is  generally  con- 
spicuous; the  tone  poems,  particularly — the  medium  through  which  he  seems  most 
completely  to  express  himself — are  devoted  to  sober,  somber,  heroic,  tragic,  phil- 
osophical things,  for  the  most  part.  Yet  neither  can  it  be  asserted  that  Strauss  lacks 
either  humor  or  an  egregious  gift  for  expressing  it  musically.  When  he  does  so  ex- 
press himself  as  in  Don  Quixote^  we  find  a  humor  not  only  rich,  pointed,  graphic, 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  519 

but  one  that  is  happily  balanced  with  a  sense  of  pathos,  a  sympathy  with  man  in 
his  endless  striving,  his  endless  failures  and  his  endless  hope. 

So  extraordinary  is  the  power  of  this  musician  to  delineate  character  and  sit- 
uation in  music  that  even  one  unfamiliar  with  Cervantes'  classic  tale  might  extract 
from  this  delightful  concourse  of  sounds  very  definite  images  of  persons,  of  action, 
and  of  environment.  Like  all  great  music,  it  is  convincingly  beautiful  whether  re- 
garded either  in  relation  to  its  "program"  or  quite  subjectively.  Its  illustrative 
power  is  demonstrated,  however,  by  the  fact  that,  although  the  composer  gives  it 
no  "program,"  and  the  orchestral  score  bears  scarcely  an  indication  of  the 
progress  of  the  narrative,  even  the  casual  listener  is  rarely  at  a  loss  to  identify  the 
particular  incident  in  Cervantes'  tale  of  de  la  Mancha's  brief  but  eventful  career. 

Don  Quixote  is  the  sixth  of  the  famous  Strauss  tone  poems,  dating  from  1897, 
just  before  Ein  Heldenleben,  which  is  perhaps  the  greatest  of  them  all.  The  first 
performance  was  in  March,  1898,  at  Cologne. 

Appropriately  the  work  is  cast  in  the  form  of  theme  and  variations,  with  an 
introduction  and  finale.  Appropriately,  because  Strauss  wishes  to  show  not  only  the 
mad  Don's  progress  through  his  physical  exploits,  but  also  a  kind  of  cycle  from 
mental  and  spiritual  soundness,  through  various  gradually  modified  stages  of  in- 
sanity, to  mental  health  again  at  the  hour  of  death.  In  a  word,  spiritual,  mental, 
and  physical  variations  are  depicted  in  musical  ones,  with  the  underlying  theme, 
typifying  Don  Quixote  himself,  the  connective  tissue  about  which  these  aberrations 
circulate. 

Theme  and  variations  do  not  suggest  a  form  that  would  appeal  to  the  radical 
modernist,  yet  at  the  time  when  this  work  was  written,  and  for  a  considerable 
period  before  and  afterward,  Strauss  was  regarded  by  the  majority  in  both  Europe 
and  America  as  a  radical  of  the  boldest  stripe.  A  decade  or  so  proved,  however, 
that  he  was  not  so  much  radical  as  original,  and  today  one  hears  his  most  daring 
dissonances  unperturbed.  For  we  have  been  listening  to  our  own  radicals — to 
Schonberg  and  Stravinsky,  Poulenc  and  Varese,  and  to  countless  others  who  in  a 
few  years  may  seem  no  more  revolutionary  than  Strauss  and  Wagner  seem  today. 

/.  Introduction 

A  subject  that  is  "knightly  and  gallant" — and  it  is  so  marked  in  the  con- 
ductor's score — is  given  to  the  sweet  and  gay  voices  of  the  woodwinds  as  the 
music  begins.  Presently  we  shall  see  that  this  debonair  little  tune  is  the  seed  from 
which  springs  the  theme  of  Don  Quixote  himself,  but  at  the  moment  it  typifies 


52O  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

knight-errantry  itself,  the  beau  ideal  which  the  good  Don  has  absorbed  all  too 
well  from  his  wide  and  varied  reading  of  old  romances.  The  scene  is  placid  in  tone, 
suggesting  in  mood  and  in  detail  the  Don,  reclining  perhaps,  and  at  ease  in  the 
midst  of  the  squalor  he  has  has  brought  upon  himself  by  his  reckless  expenditures 
for  ancient  books  of  chivalrous  tales,  meditating  upon  his  reading,  and  conjuring 
from  his  active  imagination  a  host  of  fantastic  visions.  Presently  he  envisages  the 
fair  Dulcinea,  that  embodiment  of  ideal  womanhood,  that  paragon  of  virtue  and 
beauty,  to  whom  he  shall  do  his  devoirs.  A  lovely  song  of  the  oboe,  against  muted 
strings  and  the  harp,  presents  her. 


MU  •  mmm*mm  ••••  •  •• 

Now  the  lady  is  surrounded  by  giants  and  hostile  warriors;  muted  brasses  in 
ponderous  chords  sound  boldly  and  ominously,  but  a  gallant  comes  to  succor  Dul- 
cinea.  Confusion  increases  as  the  music  progresses;  snatches  of  incompleted  melody, 
terrifying  chords,  and  rushing  incoherent  passages  indicate  the  swift  crumbling  of 
poor  Quixote's  mind,  and  at  last  it  is  obvious  that  the  gentleman  is  quite  mad. 

IL  Theme 

As  the  orchestral  forces  reach  a  point  of  great  intensity,  there  occurs  a  pause, 
and  the  theme  of  the  knightly  Don  himself  is  introduced  in  the  manly  voice  of  the 
cello:  a  theme  which,  it  will  be  immediately  observed,  is  a  curious  distortion  of  that 


which  was  presented  at  the  beginning  of  the  introduction.  After  some  reflection 
upon  this  theme,  Sancho  Panza,  the  knight's  fat  and  faithful  squire,  is  personified 
in  a  somewhat  ludicrous  utterance  of  the  bass  clarinet  doubled  with  the  tenor  tuba 
...  a  hearty,  coarse,  and  yet  somehow  ingratiating  voice,  this!  Panza's  phrase 


•          -  ^        ^«      U       '  ^  -          U^        -* 1     — - - 

forms  the  latter  part  of  the  main  theme,  and  in  its  mutations  we  shall  hear  not  only 
comment  on  the  character  of  the  burly,  paunchy  squire,  but  even  a  suggestion,  now 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  521 

and  again,  of  the  nimbly  trotting  feet  of  the  unfortunate  donkey  that  bears  him 
hither  and  yon  in  the  wake  of  the  rickety  Rosinante,  Quixote's  crow-bait  steed. 

Variation  I 

Now  Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  take  to  the  road,  the  knight  filled  with  high 
thoughts  of  chivalry  and  possible  maidens  in  distress,  his  companion  doubtless 
curious,  if  not  anxious,  as  to  the  source  of  the  next  meal.  From  this  point  on  the 
figure  suggesting  the  squire  appears  usually  in  the  solo  viola  rather  than  in  the 
woodwind  voices  which  first  presented  it. 

As  the  two  worthies  ride  along,  they  come  upon  some  great  windmills  which 
to  the  fevered  imagination  of  the  knight  are  malevolent  giants  (note  the  heavy 
descending  figure  in  strings,  woodwind  and  brass).  The  groaning  and  squeaking 
of  the  great  sails  as  they  revolve,  plain  enough  in  the  music,  do  not  frighten  Don 
Quixote  who,  aroused  to  a  high  pitch  of  courage  and  daring,  sets  lance  in  rest  and 
charges  the  Gargantuan  enemies.  He  is  promptly  unhorsed  for  his  effort. 

Variation  II 

Our  gallant  knight,  nothing  daunted  by  his  humiliating  experience  with  the 
windmills,  remounts  and  proceeds,  carefully  reconnoitering  the  terrain  with  a  view 
to  surprising  any  possible  ambushed  enemy.  He  regards  with  suspicion  an  approach- 
ing cloud  of  dust,  and  presently  through  its  murk  he  descries  an  enormous  army, 
made  up  of  all  the  nations  of  earth,  and  led  by  a  mighty  emperor  in  full  panoply. 
Over  against  them  is  yet  another  army,  and  the  daring  Don  welcomes  this  colossal 
opportunity  to  prove  his  mettle.  Unmoved  by  Sancho  Panza's  protestations  that  the 
armies  are  but  flocks  of  sheep  (the  muted  brass  bleats  most  realistically)  the  Don 


f  ~~  i1""  ~       ^  ^      -^ju*-IV!~ap      .^j—       =r# 

puts  spurs  to  his  nag,  and  lays  about  him  so  lustily  that  no  less  than  seven  of  the 
"enemy"  lie  weltering  upon  the  ground,  and  perhaps  even  more  would  have  known 
the  bite  of  his  steel  had  not  the  shepherds  stoned  him  from  his  horse. 

Variation  III 

With  the  third  variation,  the  Don  and  his  faithful  squire  indulge  in  a  long  dis- 
cussion, arguing,  protesting,  soothing,  questioning,  with  the  knight  floating  as  usual 
among  idealities  and  dreams,  and  Panza  with  his  feet  very  firmly  on  the  ground. 
Some  of  the  most  interesting  developments  of  the  two-part  theme  delineating  these 
characters  appear  in  'the  third  variation,  together  with  suggestions  of  Quixote's 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

chivalrous  thoughts  and  his  rapturous  dreams  of  Dulcinea.  The  Don  finally  be- 
comes sufficiently  aware  of  the  nature  of  Sancho's  comment  to  cause  the  latter  to 
become  mute  very  suddenly. 

Variation  IV 

As  this  strange  pair  resume  their  errantry  they  come  upon  a  band  of  pilgrims, 
who  are,  in  the  bellicose  mind  of  the  knight,  not  pilgrims  at  all  but  banditti  and 
criminals.  He  sets  upon  them,  and  as  usual  is  badly  beaten;  struck  senseless,  in  fact, 
while  the  pilgrims,  once  more  restored  to  the  delights  of  perambulatory  contempla- 
tion, resume  their  way.  Whether  by  sheer  force  of  numbers  they  overcame  the 
doughty  Quixote,  or  whether  they  were  Christians  of  the  muscular  variety,  history 
— nor  music — does  not  relate,  yet  in  the  amusing  burlesque  of  an  ecclesiastical 
phrase  which  indicates  the  pilgrims'  procession  there  is  a  downrightness  of  rhythm 
that  would  suggest  the  more  vigorous  type  of  holy  man. 

Variation  V 

Now  the  music  is  given  over  to  a  delineation  of  Don  Quixote's  ceremonial 
vigil  kept  beside  his  arms  throughout  the  night.  Here  the  music  is  meditative,  for 
the  most  part,  except  where  marked  sehnsuchttg  (yearningly)  in  the  score,  as  Don 
Quixote  thinks  of  his  love  for  Dulcinea;  and  where  a  glittering  glissando  of  the  harp 
and  an  ecstatic  cadenza  for  the  strings  overlay  the  warmer  tones  of  the  solo  cello 
with  coruscations. 

Variation  VI 

Suddenly  we  are  on  the  road  again  with  Quixote  and  his  squire.  They  meet 
three  rustic  maidens,  not  according  to  tradition  all  "peaches  and  cream,"  but  some- 
what on  the  heavy  side  and  none  too  comely.  The  girls,  Sancho  informs  his  master, 
are  riding  upon  "three  pie-bellied  belfries,"  and  when  the  Don  corrects  him,  im- 
pressing the  greater  dignity,  not  to  mention  the  accuracy,  of  "three  piebald  pal- 
freys," Panza  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  great  difference.  The  Don  makes  bold 
to  gaze  into  the  face  of  the  girl  whom  he  believes  to  be  his  darling  Dulcinea,  but  sud- 
denly realizes  that  she  is  an  unlovely  and  common  wench,  and  decides  in  fury  that  a 


magician  has  transformed  his  princess  into  this  ugly  duckling.  Here  the  music  is 
both  ingenious  and  amusing,  with  a  caricature  of  the  "Ideal  Woman"  theme, 
which  we  heard  very  early  in  the  work,  now  in  nimble  thirds  upon  the  oboe;  un- 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  523 

mistakably  the  rhythm  is  that  of  a  trotting  ass's  little  feet  ...  yet  underneath,  in 
Sancho  Panza's  viola  voice,  the  suggestion  of  the  lovely  Dulcinea  herself  is  insistent. 

Variation  VII 

The  seventh  variation  delineates  Don  Quixote's  imaginary  ride  through  the 
air,  blindfolded,  and  astride  a  wooden  horse.  Fanned  by  a  great  bellows,  the  adven- 
turers fancy  themselves  blown  through  the  empyrean  blue,  as  their  themes  become 
entangled  with  soaring  gusts  from  the  whole  orchestra.  They  are  suddenly  be- 
calmed, however,  on  a  long-held  note  of  the  bassoon,  which  carries  us  over  into  the 
next  variation. 

Variation  VIII 

Here  our  heroes  embark — literally — upon  a  new  adventure.  Coming  to  the 
banks  of  a  river,  Don  Quixote  observes  a  little  boat  moored  to  a  tree,  and  though 
unfortunately  it  has  no  oars,  the  knight  decides  that  some  kindly  spirit  has  left  it 
there  for  his  use  in  succoring  someone  in  distress.  With  his  companion  he  gets 
aboard,  and  the  coracle,  perhaps  somewhat  influenced  by  the  bulk  and  ungainliness 
of  Sancho,  promptly  sinks  under  their  feet.  They  manage  to  scramble  ashore,  and 
piously  thank  God  for  their  deliverance,  in  a  religious  strain  assigned,  in  the  or- 
chestra, to  flute,  clarinet,  and  horn. 

•  Variation  IX 

In  the  ninth  variation,  once  again  the  doughty  knight  is  involved  in  combat 
with  innocent,  and  no  doubt,  surprised  victims;  once  again  ecclesiastics — a  pair  of 
Benedictines  this  time — arouse  his  ire,  for  as  they  on  their  ambling  mounts  proceed 
along  the  road,  the  Don  mistakes  them  for  villains  who  are  abducting  the  occupants  of 
the  coach  which  follows  behind.  For  once  Quixote  is  victorious,  and  the  frightened 
monks  pull  their  cassocks  up  to  their  plump  knees,  and  foot  it  right  merrily  down 
the  road.  The  encounter  is  brief  but  vigorous;  we  can  find  the  war  cries  and  im- 
precations of  Quixote  in  the  strings  as  they  rage  up  and  down  the  scale,  and  the 
well-fed  clergy  can  be  located  in  the  unctuous  voices  of  the  bassoon  in  solemn  duet. 
The  music  continues  into 

Variation  X 

Now  Don  Quixote  is  to  meet  his  Waterloo,  if  an  anachronism  may  be  per- 
mitted. One  of  his  townsmen,  either  out  of  irritation  because  of  his  antics  or  from  a 
shrewd  understanding  of  the  man,  undertakes  to  administer  a  beating  for  its  pos- 
sible salutary  effect  upon  the  crazy  Don.  The  musical  painting  of  this  scene  opens 
with  vigorous  and  low-voiced  scale  passages  in  the  strings,  with  interjections  and 
answers  from  the  woodwind,  Don  Quixote  is  overcome. 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Reflecting  on  his  fate,  the  vanquished  knight  falls  prey  to  despair.  Under  the 
conditions  of  the  contest,  he  must  return  home  and  remain  there  for  a  year,  and 
with  the  faithful  Panza  at  his  heels,  he  now  rides  disconsolately  homeward. 
Meanwhile  he  meditates  his  lofty  but  unapproachable  ideals  with  growing  resigna- 
tion; and  the  ultimate  flowing  together  of  the  disorganized  integers  of  his  intellect 
is  slowly  foreshadowed.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  ingratiating  achievements  of 
the  composer  in  this  work  occurs  now,  with  the  gradual  clearing  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  clarification  of  the  music's  countless  incoherences  and  half-finished  thoughts 
that  have  been  accumulating  almost  since  the  beginning.  Weary  and  battered  and 
bruised,  indeed,  is  Don  Quixote;  sad,  too,  but  despair  gives  way  to  resignation,  and 
bewilderment  to  understanding;  and  finally,  melancholy  to  a  beautiful  and  com- 
forting peace. 

Finale 

The  Death  of  Don  Quixote 
Pathos  still  sounds  its  touching  note  here  in  the  grave  voice  of  the  cello,  yet  a 


_'ce??o  r 


growing  calm  pervades  the  music,  and  the  occasional  moments  of  excitement  are 
but  echoes  of  the  trying  times  that  have  gone  before.  Don  Quixote  has  regained 
the  powers  of  his  mind,  which  lately  had  been  "like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of 
tune";  he  realizes  that  he  is  an  old  man,  but  too,  that  he  is  a  happy  and  com- 
placent one.  The  conclusion  is  simple,  but  exceedingly  lovely,  bringing  us  to  a 
bright  major  tonic  chord  as  touching,  as  ineffably  bright,  as  the  smile  that  lingers 
on  the  face  of  the  happy  dead. 


Also  sprach  Zarathustra 
{Thus  S$ake  Zar<rthustra\ 

IT  is  curious  but  measurably  true  that  this,  the  most  abstract,  and  in  some  of  its 
connotations,  the  most  farfetched  of  the  Strauss  tone  poems,  is  as  popular,  and  as 
appreciatively  received,  as  the  more  programmatic  works  in  this  genre.  Perhaps  this 
is  because  it  has  been,  to  the  older  generation  at  least,  the  most  familiar.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  utter  impossibility  of  intelligently  associating  it  with  the  philosophy 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  525 

of  Friedrich  Nietzsche,  upon  which  it  is  in  a  measure  based,  may  have  forced 
listeners  to  abandon  themselves  to  the  music  as  such,  and  to  forget  its  philosophical 
connotations.  Such  a  procedure  is  certain  to  make  any  great  music  popular. 

Strauss  himself  wrote  in  a  letter:  "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  Ubermensch.  The  whole  symphonic  poem  is  intended  as  iny  homage  to 
Nietzsche's  genius,  which  found  its  greatest  exemplification  in  his  book,  Thus 
Sfa&e  Zarathustra"  Perhaps  the  last  sentence  of  the  quotation  comes  nearest  to  the 
mark.  The  music  pays  tribute  to  the  great  German  philosopher  by  adopting,  as  the 
basis  for  certain  more  or  less  illustrative  musical  developments,  passages  from  the 
philosophical  poem  of  the  same  name.  Music  cannot  convey  an  idea  of  the  devel- 
opment of  the  human  race,  except  in  an  historical  and  evolutionary  sense.  The  test 
of  that  statement  is  this:  how  much  of  the  history  of  the  race,  or  its  religious  and 
scientific  development,  would  be  deduced  from  this  music  if  it  had  no  title? 

The  first  performance  of  Also  sfrach  Zarathustra  was  given  at  Frankfort- 
am-Main,  under  the  direction  of  the  composer,  November  27,  1896. 

Dr.  Alexander  Tflle,  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  made  a  translation  of 
the  Nietzsche  philosophical  poem  in  1896,  and  in  discussing  it  he  gave  some  clues 
which  will  be  of  use  in  listening  to  the  music: 

The  scene  of  Zarathustra  is  laid,  as  it  were,  outside  of  time  and  space. 
.  .  .  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 
Sfakff  Zarathustra  is  a  kind  of  summary  of  the  intellectual  life  of  the  nine- 
teenth 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  hun- 
dred years.  .  *  • 

The  score  is  prefaced  by  a  rather  lengthy  excerpt  from  the  poem,  as  an  intro- 
duction but  not  as  a  guide,  to  the  music.  Definite  dues  to  the  music  are  given  in 
the  quotations  from  the  poem,  used  as  headings  in  various  sections  of  the  score. 
The  first  of  these  is  "Von  den  Hinterweltern"  (Of  the  People  of  the  Hinterland), 
in  which  Nietzsche  speaks  of  those  who  have  sought  to  solve  the  problems  of  man- 
kind through  religion.  There  is  a  solemn  introduction,  distinguished  by  a  reflective 
pronouncement  in  the  brazen  voice  of  the  trumpet;  then  begins  the  first  section 
proper,  with  a  magnificent  crescendo  involving  full  orchestra  and  organ.  The  l^orns 
proclaim  a  solemn  ecclesiastical  theme,  pointedly  significant  of  the  music  of  the 


526  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

medieval  church.  "Then  the  world  seemed  to  me,"  says  Zarathustra,  "the  work  of 
a  suffering  and  tortured  god  .  .  .  alas!  that  god,  whom  I  created,  was  man's  work 
and  man's  madness,  like  all  gods." 

And  now  the  poet  and  the  music  speak  "Von  der  grossen  Sehnsuchtf*  (Of 
the  Great  Longing).  Cellos  and  bassoons  climb  from  the  depths  of  the  orchestra  in 
a  theme  of  urgent,  yearning  beauty,  nor  does  the  other  soothing  woodwind  satisfy 
the  questioning  plaint. 


The  next  quotation  in  the  score  is  "Von  den  Freuden  und  Leidens  chapter?* 
(Of  Happiness  and  Misfortunes).  Here  the  orchestra  raises  an  intense  and  melan- 
choly song,  in  a  voice  compounded  of  strings  and  woodwind  and  horn;  here  the 
composer  refers  to  a  tender  passage  in  the  poem,  in  which  the  philosopher  reflects 
upon  his  passions,  once  regarded  as  evil  and  the  source  of  all  misfortune,  yet,  when 
directed  and,  controlled,  becoming  the  basis  of  virtue. 


"Grablied"  (The  Song  of  the  City  of  the  Dead).  This  is  not  a  dirge  for  dead 
loved  ones,  but  a  sweet  and  sad  reflection  upon  the  lost  hours  of  youth  and  life, 
which  are  personalized  and  envisioned  as  sepulchered  in  a  green  and  distant  island, 
yet,  like  departed  friends,  always  present  in  the  heart  and  mind.  The  song  is  given 
to  the  oboe,  and  against  it  we  hear  the  motive  of  Sehnsucht  from  the  second  section 
of  the  work. 


The  succeeding  passage,  treated  fugally  in  the  divided  lower  strings,  bears 
above  it  in  the  score  the  notation  "Von  der  Wissenschafi?'  (Concerning  Science). 
Aptly  the  composer  chooses  the  most  mathematical  and  restricted  of  musical  forms 
for  the  expression  of  his  thought  upon  this  subject,  and  the  strings,  like  the  birds 
in  the  poem,  "f all  into  the  net  of  his  cunning."  There  is  furious  development,  and 
sometimes  wickedly  dissonant  outbursts  from  the  orchestra;  and  these  are  always 
the  result  of  the  fugal  treatment,  as  if  to  imply  that  the  meticulous  and  dose  and 
systematised  reasoning  of  science  leads  but  to  confusion  and  despair. 


RICHARD    STRAUSS 


527 


I  -  (  -  -  1    L 

- 


The  succeeding  section  relieves  this  feeling.  It  comes  under  the  caption  "Der 
GenesendeP  (The  Convalescent),  where  the  theme  can  be  located  in  cellos  and 


violas.  There  is  now  an  atmosphere  of  restrained  joy,  of  ease  and  sanguine  reflec- 
tiveness. This  changes  definitely  to  jubilation  in  the  succeeding  section,  "TanzKed" 


introduced  by  not  wholly  gay  figures  in  the  woodwind.  The  "Dance  Song"  is 
neither  a  dance  nor  a  song,  but  expresses  the  essential  joy  and  spiritual  outgiving 
of  both.  It  is  succeeded  by  "Nachtlied,"  (Song  of  Night),  and  by  the  intensively 
dramatic  "Nachtwandertied"  (Song  of  the  Night- Wanderer).  The  latter  is  intro- 


%  >^l^#^^s^>T^F^5hX5^'f^! 





528  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

duced  by  an  arresting  stroke,  fortissimo,  on  the  bell,  which,  sounding  twelve  times, 
indicates  with  each  stroke  a  sentence  in  the  Wanderer's  song.  English  translations 
are  available,  and  give  in  detail  the  meanings  of  this  strange  and  somehow  beauti- 
ful utterance — the  essence  of  which  is  that  human  joys  desperately  want  to  prolong 
themselves  into  eternity. 

The  strange  conclusion  of  the  work  has  puzzled  the  commentators  more  than 
any  other  section,  and  the  reasons  for  its  curious  treatment  have  not  been  disclosed 
or  even  imagined.  Here  Strauss  anticipated  the  polytonalists — or  the  atonalists! — 
for  the  orchestra  distinctly  and  frankly  plays  in  two  different  and  unrelated  tonal- 
ities— B  major  and  C  major.  There  is  a  mysterious  dissonance,  which,  it  is  believed, 
has  some  special  significance  j  but  no  one  has  ever  reasonably  explained  it.  It  is 


made  of  a  suspension  in  the  brass,  on  C,  E,  and  F  sharp,  stubbornly  held  against  the 
B  major  harmonies,  high  in  woodwind,  and  the  tonic  and  dominant  C  and  G,  in 
C  major,  pizzicato,  of  the  contrabasses. 


Sinf  onia  domestica 
[Opus  53] 

MANY  students  of  the  music  of  Richard  Strauss  regard  the  Stnjonm  domestica  as 
his  greatest  work — at  least  in  the  sense  that  it  exhibits  his  unique  talents  and  some 
times  strange  style  of  composition  more  thoroughly  than  any  of  his  other  works 
in  the  larger  forms.  Other  critics  regard  the  work  lightly  and  even  scornfully,  and 
some  have  not  been  able  to  reconcile  the  employment  of  talents  like  those  of 
Strauss  and  a  great  symphony  orchestra  and  the  sacred  symphony  form  to  depict 
the  trivia  of  family  life.  When  the  work  was  first  performed  under  the  direction 
of  the  composer  at  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York,  on  March  21,  1904,  the  attitude  of 
the  critics  was  quite  diversified. 

The  New  'York  Sun,  in  its  headlines,  was  inclined  to  treat  the  event  face- 
tiously, Some  of  the  headlines  were  as  follows: 


RICHARD   STRAUSS  529 

"THE  SYMPHONY  DOMESTICA — HOME  SWEET  HOME  AS  WRITTEN  BY 
RICHARD  STRAUSS — PAPA  AND  MOMMA  AND  BABY  CELEBRATED  IN  A  HUGE 
CONGLOMERATION  OF  ORCHESTRAL  Music/3 

Two  days  after  the  concert,  the  Musical  Courier  printed  a  comment  which, 
although  it  may  have  been  taken  seriously  at  the  time,  can  now  be  regarded  only  as 
ironical: 

"Monday  evening,  21  March,  1904,  Carnegie  Hall  was  the  scene  of  a  mu- 
sical event  so  important  that,  by  comparison,  everything  else  pales  in  significance 
that  has  been  done  here  in  music,  since  the  first  production  of  the  Wagner 
'Nibelungen*  Operas.  On  Monday  evening,  21  March — the  date  will  play  a 
role  in  history — a  vast  auditorium  full  of  enthusiastic  men  and  women  heard  the 
first  public  performance  on  any  concert  stage  of  Richard  Strauss'  latest  and  greatest 
work  of  orchestra,  his  Sinjonta  domestica.  The  conductor  was  Richard  Strauss  and 
the  players  were  the  Wetzler  Symphony  Orchestra. " 

Ernest  Newman,  certainly  one  of  the  most  penetrating  and  profound  of 
present-day  critics,  has  a  wholesome  respect  and  regard  for  this  remarkable  work. 
He  has  written  as  follows: 

"The  work  made  a  sensation  at  the  time,"  he  wrote,  "partly  because  the 
simplicity  of  the  subject — papa,  momma  and  baby — brought  the  programme,  at 
any  rate,  within  the  scope  of  the  intelligence  of  the  average  man.  People  who  were 
puzzled  almost  to  the  point  of  insanity  by  Zarathustra  and  its  Ubermenschen,  and 
its  Genesende,  and  all  the  rest  of  that  queer  fauna,  could  recognize  at  once  when 
the  baby  was  squealing  in  its  bath  or  the  lullaby  was  being  sung  over  it;  and  they 
had  a  kindly  fellow-feeling  for  the  terrible  musician  who  now  seemed  to  be  even 
such  a  one  as  themselves/* 

Notwithstanding  the  association  of  the  music  with  the  commonplace  events 
that  take  place  in  the  typical  home  every  day,  Strauss  refused,  before  the  first  per- 
formance, to  permit  the  music  to  be  accepted  as  program  music.  "This  time,"  said 
Strauss,  "I  wish  my  music  to  be  listened  to  purely  as  music."  Yet  a  year  later  he 
contradicted  himself,  as  he  has  done  more  than  once  before  and  since.  An  official 
program  for  the  symphony  was  published  prior  to  its  first  performance  in  London, 
and  here  were  described  the  domestic  details  which  the  music  was  intended  to  rep- 
resent. As  has  happened  so  often,  once  a  story  or  program  of  any  kind  is  attached 
to  a  piece  of  music,  it  becomes  thereafter  inseparable,  and  since  these  domestic 
details  have  some  official  sanction,  we  are  perfectly  justified  in  accepting  them  as 
being  musically  described  in  the  symphony. 

Introduction  and  Scherzo 

There  are  three  principal  themes  assigned  respectively  to  the  husband,  the 
wife,  and  the  child.  The  theme  of  the  husband  is  divided  into  three  sections, 


53° 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


marked  respectively  gemaMch   (easygoing),  traumerish  (dreamy),  and  feurig 
(fiery),  and  which,  taken  together,  offer  a  characterization  of  the  father. 


The  wife's  theme  is  the  second  theme  of  the  composition,  divided  into  two 
sections  marked  sehr  lebhajt  (very  lively)  and  gtfuhlvoll  (with  feeling)  : 


The  child's  theme  is  the  third  and  is  described  by  Strauss,  as  being  of  "almost 
Haydnesque  simplicity .** 


\tery  -fender. 
P  iJgib  2.  !  —  i  1  —  «  j  i  ^  =•  —  Hi 

..   ib^ll 

P^= 

^-*-. 

*** 

\=?=m 

It  is  played  on  the  oloe  <Pamorey  an  all  but  obsolete  instrument,  and  its  re- 
vival in  the  Smfonia  domestica  is  worth  notice.  It  is  built  a  minor  third  lower  than 
the  ordinary  oboe,  with  a  hollow  globular  bell  in  place  of  the  customary  conical 
one.  The  tone  compared  with  that  of  the  ordinary  oboe  is  more  veiled,  and  per- 
haps, rather  more  pathetic  in  character.  It  is  met  with  considerably  in  Bach,  a 
famous  example  of  its  use  occurring  in  the  Christmas  Oratorio. 

Following  the  entrance  of  the  child  theme,  there  is  a  passage  which  has  been 
interpreted  as  describing  the  child  taking  a  bath.  Toward  the  end  of  the  introduc- 


RICHARD    STRAUSS  53! 

tion,  we  have  one  of  the  most  frequently  commented  upon  examples  of  the  ex- 
tremeness of  Strauss'  programmaticism.  The  child's  bath  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  relatives,  who  discuss  the  important  question  of  whom  does  the  child  resemble. 
In  the  muted  trumpets  and  clarinets  the  figure  is  accompanied  on  the  score  by  the 


written  notation:  "Aunts:  cjust  like  his  papa.' "  Whereupon,  an  answering  figure, 
given  to  trombone,  horns,  and  oboes,  is  noted:  "Uncles:  'Just  like  his  momma.'  " 


In  the  "official"  program  the  scherzo  is  described  as  dealing  with  Elterngluck 
(joy  of  the  parents)  and  kindliche  Sfiele  (child  playing).  The  child  theme  oc- 
cupies considerable  attention  in  this  movement.  In  the  lullaby  scene,  where  the 
child  is  being  put  to  sleep,  we  stumble  upon  an  interesting  musical  coincidence. 
Quite  by  accident,  no  doubt,  the  music  is  identical  for  a  few  measures  with  the 
very  famous  "First  Venetian  Gondola  Song"  from  the  first  book  of  Mendelssohn's 
Songs  Without  Words. 

Sinfonia  Domestica 


Mendelssohn 
_  I   / 


Adagio 

The  programmatic  divisions  of  the  adagio  movement  are  given  as  Schaffen 
und  Schauen  (doing  and  thinking),  Liebescene  (love  scene),  and  Traume  und 
S  or  gen  (dreams  and  worries). 

The  family  is  asleep  and  their  gradual  awakening  is  depicted  by  a  subtle  rest- 
lessness which  creeps  into  the  music.  The  rhythmic  variants  of  the  previous  themes 
are  developed  with  remarkable  ingenuity.  The  movement  is  an  excellent  example 
of  the  rich  palette  which  Strauss  uses  for  his  orchestral  coloration  and  also  of  his 


532  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

tremendous  ability  for  polyphonic  elaboration.  The  glockenspiel  sounding  seven 
times  at  the  close  of  the  movement  indicates  that  it  is  7  :oo  A.M. 

Finale 

<cln  this  way,"  runs  the  program,  "we  reach  the  final  fugue.  The  principal 
subject  of  this  is  also  a  new  version  of  the  child  theme.  Its  subtitle  is  lustiger  Streit 
(Merry  Argument),  frohlicher  Beschluss  (Happy  Ending),  the  subject  of  the 
dispute  between  the  father  and  mother  being  the  future  of  the  son.  The  fugue 
(the  chief  subject  of  which  is  another  variant  of  the  child  theme)  is  carried  on  with 
unflagging  spirit  and  humor  and  great  variety  of  orchestration." 


IGOR  STRAVINSKY 

[Born  1882] 

,  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  contemporary  composers,  was  born 
at  Oranienbaum,  near  St.  Petersburg,  Russia,  June  17,  1882.  His  father 
was  an  opera  singer  at  the  Imperial  Opera  House  and  naturally  hoped  for 
talent  in  his  little  son.  He  found  it;  and  saw  to  it  that  it  was  thoroughly  developed. 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew,  for  later,  when  the  father  wished  Igor  to  adopt 
the  law  as  a  career,  he  found  that  the  young  man  had  become  so  enamored  of 
music  that  he  would  not  abandon  it  Although  he  entered  the  University  at  St. 
Petersburg  for  legal  studies,  love  of  music  eventually  tempted  him  away,  and 
when  in  1902  he  met  Rimsky-Korsakov  he  made  the  final  decision.  Rimsky  accep- 
ted Stravinsky  as  a  pupil,  and  from  that  time  onward  his  development  was  swift 
and  sensational. 

Stravinsky  lost  little  time  in  producing  a  number  of  works  of  great  interest, 
but  nowadays  not  considered  among  his  most  important  compositions.  In  1910 
came  The  Firebird,  which  though  it  showed  definitely  the  musical  background  and 
the  influences  which  had  had  their  effect  on  the  composer,  nevertheless  also  re- 
vealed flashes  of  the  Stravinsky  who  was  to  startle  and  even  to  captivate,  for  a 
time,  the  whole  musical  world.  fetrouchkay  dating  from  the  following  year,  estab- 
lished Stravinsky  as  a  highly  individual  and  even  revolutionary  composer.  Two 
years  later  came  Le  Sacre  du  ^rintem^S)  and  this  astonishing  work  not  only  fortified 
Stravinsky  as  one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  original  of  composers,  but  touched  off 
a  conflagration  of  discussion  of  his  music  that  has  not  ceased  to  the  present  day. 
The  three  works  mentioned  are  unquestionably  the  greatest  from  the  hand  of 
Stravinsky.  In  them  he  not  only  developed,  but  exhausted,  the  particular  line  which 
he  was  following.  Realizing  this,  he  has  shown  new  methods  in  subsequent  works, 
such  as  Les  "Noces  (1923),  Oedtyus  Rex  (1926),  and  Afollon  Musagetes  (1928). 
The  Symphony  of  Psalms  represents  still  another  departure.  In  these  works  Stravin- 
sky has  almost  entirely  abandoned  his  earlier  style,  and  has  adopted  an  attitude  of 
great  reserve  and,  at  times,  almost  ascetic  simplicity.  None  of  these  kter  composi- 
tions has  had  anything  approaching  the  success  of  the  earlier  three. 

Stravinsky  has  continued  composing,  not  always  greatly,  in  recent  seasons, 
but  if  he  were  never  to  write  music  again,  it  seems  reasonable  to  believe  that  his 
position  among  the  first  of  the  twentieth-century  composers  would  be  absolutely 
and  permanently  established. 


533 


534  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Suite  from  "L'Oiseau  de  feu" 
\The  Firebird} 

L'Oiseau  de  feu  ranks  with  Petrouchka  and  Le  Sacre  du  j>rintemp  as  the  most 
important,  the  most  significant,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  Stravinsky's  composi- 
tions. The  Firebird,  a  ballet  or  conte  danse  (a  story  told  in  dance  and  pantomime), 
is  older  than  either  Petrouchka  or  Le  Sacre.  The  ballet  itself  was  first  performed 
at  the  Paris  Opera,  in  1910.  A  magnificent  performance  it  must  have  been,  for  it 
commanded  the  services  of  a  glittering  group  of  artists.  Fokine,  peerless  ballet 
master  and  mime,  evolved  the  scenario  5  the  dancers  were  under  the  direction  of 
Diaghilev  (who,  incidentally,  also  gave  the  first  performance  of  Petrouchka  in 
this  country)  ;  the  scenery  was  by  Bakst  and  Golovine,  and  the  orchestra  conducted 
by  the  famous  Pierne.  New  York  first  witnessed  The  Firebird  ballet  in  January, 
1916. 

There  are  marked  differences  between  The  Firebird  and  Petrouchka  or 
Le  Sacre  du  pwtemfs.  The  Firebird  is  full  of  fantasy;  Petrouchka  is  starkly 
realistic,  and  Le  Sacre  is  "of  the  earth,  earthy."  Both  the  later-mentioned  are 
full  of  arresting  dissonances,  of  converging  lines  of  color  counterpoint  that  produce 
sounds  which  the  conventional  listener  has  found  difficult  to  assimilate;  The  Fire- 
bird has  a  larger  proportion  of  harmonies  agreeable  to  the  radical  and  conservative 
alike.  Too,  there  is  in  The  Firebird  more  of  sustained  melody1 — of  song,  let  us  say 
- — than  in  either  Petrouchka  or  Le  Sacre.  Petrouchka  is  loosely  articulated,  episodic, 
purposely  confused,  and  purposely  avoiding  unity;  Le  Sacre  is  as  deliberately 
formless. 

The  Story  of  the  Ballet 
UOiseau  ie  feu  .  .  .  The  Firebird 

The  Firebird  appears  in  Russian  folklore  as  a  mysterious  and  wonderfully 
beautiful  creature,  whose  feathers  shine  like  gold)  whose  eyes  gleam  like  jewels, 
and  whose  glowing  body  shines  like  a  conflagration  in  the  nighttime. 

Kastchei,  another  character  in  the  ballet,  is  one  of  the  many  embodiments  of 
the  Evil  One.  He  may  take  any  of  various  forms,  but  usually  appears  as  a 
grotesque  and  horrible  being,  half  serpent  and  half  man.  Other  characters  in  the 
ballet  are  defined  in  the  following  outline  of  the  action,  for  which  we  are  indebted 
to  Lawrence  Oilman  and  the  management  of  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra: 

Into  the  domain  of  the  Ogre  Kastchei  there  wandered  one  night,  after  a 
long  day's  hunting,  the  young  Prince  Ivan  Tsarevitch.  In  the  shadows  of  an 
orchard  he  discerned  a  marvelous  golden  bird,  with  plumage  that  shone 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  535 

through  the  darkness  as  if  its  wings  had  been  dipped  in  flame.  The  wondrous 
creature  was  sybaritically  engaged  in  plucking  golden  apples  from  a  silver  tree 
when  Ivan  gleefully  laid  hold  of  her;  but  melted  by  her  entreaties,  he  soon 
released  her,  and  she  flew  away,  leaving  with  him,  in  gratitude,  one  of  her 
shining  plumes. 

As  the  night  lifted,  Ivan  saw  that  he  was  in  the  park  of  an  ancient 
castle,  and  as  he  looked,  there  issued  from  it  twelve  lovely  maidens,  and  then  a 
thirteenth,  who,  despite  her  sinister  number,  seemed  to  Ivan  infinitely  desir- 
able. Hiding  himself,  he  watched  the  damsels,  who  he  knew  at  once  to  be 
princesses  because  of  the  easy  grace  with  which,  as  to  the  manner  born,  they 
played  with  the  golden  apples  and  danced  among  the  silver  trees.  When  he 
could  no  longer  restrain  himself,  he  went  among  them;  and  then,  because  he 
was  young  and  comely,  they  made  him  a  present  of  some  14-karat  fruit,  and 
besought  him  to  depart  in  haste,  warning  him  that  he  was  in  the  enchanted 
realm  of  the  maleficent  Kastchei,  whose  prisoners  they  were,  and  whose 
playful  habit  it  was  to  turn  to  stone  whatever  venturesome  travelers  he  could 
decoy.  But  Ivan,  with  his  eyes  on  the  beautiful  thirteenth  princess,  was  undis- 
mayed, and  would  not  go.  So  they  left  him. 

Then  the  Prince,  made  bold  by  love,  flung  open  the  gates  of  the  castle, 
when  out  swarmed  a  grotesque  and  motley  throng  of  slaves  and  buffoons, 
soldiers  and  freaks,  the  Kikimoras  and  the  Bolibochki  and  the  two-headed 
monsters — subjects  and  satellites  of  the  Ogre — and  finally  the  terrible 
Kastchei  himself,  who  sought  to  work  his  petrifying  spell  upon  Ivan*  But  the 
Firebird's  golden  feather,  which  Ivan  still  carried,  proved  to  be  a  magic  talis- 
man, against  which  the  wicked  power  of  the  Ogre  could  not  prevail. 

And  now  the  Firebird  herself  appeared.  First  she  caused  the  Ogre  and 
his  crew  to  begin  a  frenzied  dance,  which  grew  ever  wilder  and  wilder.  When 
they  had  fallen  to  the  ground  exhausted,  the  Firebird  disclosed  to  Ivan  the 
absurdly  simple  secret  of  Kastchei's  immortality:  In  a  certain  casket  the  Ogre 
preserved  an  egg.  If  the  egg  were  broken,  Kastchei  would  die.  It  did  not  take 
Ivan  long  to  find  the  egg  and  dash  it  to  the  ground,  whereupon  Kastchei 
expired,  and  the  castle  vanished,  and  the  captive  knights  who  had  been  turned 
to  stone  came  to  life  and  joined  in  the  general  merry-making,  while  Ivan  and 
the  Tsarevna,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Princesses,  gazed  expectantly  into 
each  other's  eyes. 

For  concert  use,  the  music  of  The  Firebird  has  been  condensed  in  a  suite, 
embodying  the  following  sections:  "Introduction";  "Dance  of  the  Firebird"; 
"Dance  of  the  Princesses";  "Dance  of  King  Kastchei";  "Berceuse'*;  "Finale." 


536  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

L  Introduction 
II.  Dance  of  the  Firebird, 

A  deep  and  powerful  surging  of  tone,  arising  portentously  from  the  low 
strings,  introduces  a  mood  of  anticipation  and  of  mystery,  and  leads  us  presently 
into  the  music  accompanying  the  appearance  of  the  Firebird,  and  later,  into  the 
dance  of  the  glorious  creature. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Prince  Ivan,  the  Tsarevitch,  discovered  the  Bird 
feeding  upon  golden  apples  under  the  low-hanging  branches  of  dark  trees.  Here 
the  music  pictures  the  incredible  beauty  and  glow  of  the  Firebird's  flaming  wings, 
as,  all  unconscious  of  imminent  capture,  she  wanders,  like  a  moving  pool  of  light, 
from  tree  to  somber  tree,  plucking  daintily  at  the  valuable  fruit  which  Mr. 
Oilman,  in  his  notes,  assayed  so  accurately.  The  wayward  rhythm,  the  glittering 
orchestration,  the  adroit  use  of  strings,  woodwind,  and  percussion  suggest  the 
graceful  motion  of  the  Bird  .  .  .  suggest,  indeed,  that  glittering  coruscations  seem 
to  detach  themselves  from  her  glowing  body  and  to  float  impalpable  upon  scented 
night  airs. 

Swift  spirals  of  tone  leap  from  the  strings,  as,  we  suppose,  Ivan  springs  to 
seize  her  ...  as  she  turns,  this  way  and  that,  vainly  seeking  to  hide  her  betraying 
brilliance  under  a  giant  fern,  straining  to  reach  some  covert,  struggling  to  be  free 
of  tangled  flowers  and  knotted  vines.  But  the  Tsarevitch  lays  hold  of  a  wing; 
she  is  captured.  Piteously  she  pleads  for  freedom  .  .  .  kindly,  he  frees  her,  and  in 
gratitude  she  leaves  in  his  hand  a  single  golden  feather.  Swiftly  she  takes  wing, 
and  with  her  passing  the  darkness  closes  in  with  an  almost  audible  suddenness 
and  blackness,  signified  in  the  sudden  chord  that  ends  the  first  section  of  the  suite. 

III.  Dance  of  the  Princesses 

The  night  passes  ...  the  eastern  sky  bends  gray  over  the  world,  like  the  shell 
of  a  pearl  over  its  nucleus  of  sand.  A  rosier  light  ...  a  bird's  awakening  song  .  .  . 
a  scintillation  of  myriad  dewdrops  .  .  .  and  it  is  day. 

Emboldened  by  the  light,  Ivan  Tsarevitch  explores  the  wood  in  which  he 
finds  himself.  He  discovers  that  it  is  the  park  of  a  crumbling  castle,  the  gates  of 
which,  even  as  he  watches,  slowly  unfold  before  a  procession  of  lovely  princesses. 
Quickly  he  seeks  the  friendly  shelter  of  a  tree,  and,  from  his  concealment,  watches 
the  princesses  dancing  and  at  play.  Thirteen  there  are,  and  upon  the  last  the 
Tsarevitch  turns  adoring  eyes,  for  she  is  beautiful  beyond  compare. 

The  Dance  of  the  Princesses  suggests  most  charmingly  the  dignity  and  grace 
of  the  royal  ladies,  the  lyrical  wonder  of  dawn,  and  the  poignant  if  suddenly  con- 
ceived love  of  the  Tsarevitch  for  the  thirteenth  princess.  There  is  an  introductory 
passage  for  two  flutes  projecting  their  pale  tones  over  the  warmer  sustained  note 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  537 

of  the  horns  .  .  .  and  then,  in  penetrating  loveliness,  the  main  theme  of  the  dance 
is  given  out  by  the  oboe,  with  mellow  flutterings  of  the  harp  in  accompaniment. 
Now  the  strings  sweetly  intone  a  cadence  of  the  melody,  muted  in  ethereal  delicacy 
of  tone.  Successively,  cello,  clarinet,  and  bassoon,  soliy  deliver  their  versions  of  the 
main  song,  and  again,  the  muted  strings  draw  ghostly  filaments  of  melody,  like 
strands  of  morning  mist,  across  the  lovely  picture. 

Here  is  Stravinsky  in  a  mood  which,  to  those  who  know  his  music  only  as  it  is 
exemplified  in  Petrouchka  or  Le  Sacre  du  ^rintemfcy  will  be  unfamiliar.  It  is 
a  mood  gentle,  gracious,  and  grave  .  .  .  expressed  in  music  glowing  with  sentiment, 
enchanted,  dreamy,  warmly  emotional.  Melody  and  harmony,  highly  original 
though  they  are,  do  no  violence  to  musical  tradition  or  convention.  Stravinsky 
finds  apt  use  for  established  canons  of  the  technique  of  composition,  of  the  science 
of  harmony,  thus  proving  himself,  in  the  light  of  this  and  other  works,  not  a 
revolutionary  but  an  explorer. 

IV.  Dance  of  King  Kastchei 

It  will  be  recalled  from  the  story  of  the  ballet  that  Ivan  the  Tsarevitch,  after 
filling  his  eyes  with  the  beauty  of  the  thirteen  princesses  and  his  heart  with  love 
for  the  thirteenth,  revealed  himself  to  these  sportive  maidens.  They  were  terrified 
.  .  .  not  for  themselves,  for  he  was  princely  and  handsome,  but  for  him,  since  he 
had  ventured  into  the  dreadful  country  of  Kastchei  the  Ogre  King.  So  they 
endeavored  to  persuade  him  to  depart  before  this  monster  discovered  him,  else  he 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  turned  to  stone,  or  suffer  some  equally  uncomfortable 
fate.  Intoxicated  with  beauty  and  love,  Ivan  refused  to  depart,  and  the  princesses 
forthwith  disappeared. 

Now  Ivan  dares  open  the  gates  of  the  castle,  and  from  them  issues  a  horrid 
crowd  of  freaks  and  monsters,  blackamoors  and  dwarfs,  slaves  and  soldiery v  and, 
bringing  up  the  rear,  the  dreaded  Kastchei  himself.  This  Evil  One  immediately 
projects  his  most  potent  charms  and  spells,  purposing  the  petrifi cation  of  Ivan, 
but  the  latter  is  left  unscathed  because  of  the  protection  afforded  him  by  the 
glowing  feather  of  the  Firebird.  The  Bird  herself  appears,  and  fills  the  Ogre 
King  and  his  company  with  madness,  so  that  they  begin  a  wild  dance  which  ends 
in  their  exhaustion. 

Here  we  have  the  music  which  accompanies  that  furious  choreography.  A 
fierce  fortissimo  chord  in  full  orchestra,  edged  with  the  metallic  clang  of  the 
tubular  bell,  ushers  in  the  wild  dance  of  Kastchei  and  his  grotesque  court.  Here 
is  the  familiar  Stravinsky  ,  .  .  here  are  his  impatient  rhythms,  clashing  harmonies 
and  dissonances  .  .  .  here  is  full  play  for  his  gift  in  depicting  the  bizarre,  the  weird, 
the  ominous  and  threatening.  The  basses  mutter  of  nameless  terrors  .  .  .  wood- 
winds snarl  and  crackle  .  .  .  brasses  brazenly  sneer  .  .  .  piercing  cries  of  strings 


538  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    QF    THE    SYMPHONY 

are  answered  with  ribald  shouts  of  the  trombones  ...  but  presently  these  same 
strings  in  their  strongest  utterance  recall  the  melodious  figure  accompanying  the 
play  of  the  Princesses  in  the  preceding  section,  with  an  intimation  of  future 
freedom  from  the  powers  of  the  King  Kastchei. 

The  wild  dance  continues,  and  ends  after  final  frenetic  bursts  on  a  full 
orchestral  chord  of  crushing  force.  The  hush  that  succeeds  it  is  prelude  to  the 
"Berceuse,"  which  follows  without  interruption. 

V.  Berceuse 

This  lovely  music  accompanies,  in  the  ballet,  the  sleep  charm  which  is  cast 
upon  the  thirteenth  princess  in  order  to  protect  her  from  the  base  designs  of  the 
dread  Kastchei.  It  is,  indeed,  almost  hypnotic  in  its  mystical  dreaminess,  its 
persuasive  and  gentle  rhythm,  and  the  soothing  voices  to  which  its  appealing 
melody  is  assigned.  The  bassoon  broods  dreamily  over  the  opening  phrases,  in  a 
solo  accompanied  by  muted  strings,  and  punctuated  by  single  notes  of  the  harp. 
The  oboe  sings  a  contrasting  phrase  .  .  .  sudden  brief  emphasis  is  lent  by  subito 
utterances  of  the  orchestra,  edged  with  glittering  roulades  of  the  harp.  Yet  the 
mesmeric  rhythm  persists  always,  and  slumber  hangs  imminent  over  the  head  of 
the  Princess.  HigR,  thin,  and  penetrating  harmonies  suggest  the  swift  coursing  of 
wings  through  the  upper  air,  darting  through  twilight  shadows.  Anon  the  slum- 
brous melody  of  the  bassoon,  the  suggestive  intonations  of  the  harp,  the  thin  cries 
of  the  oboe  return,  and  the  song  closes  with  remembrances  of  its  beginning. 

VI.  Finale 

The  "Berceuse"  flows  imperceptibly  into  the  "Finale5'  ...  the  music  which, 
in  the  ballet,  follows  the  death  of  the  King  Kastchei,  and  marks  the  disintegration 
of  the  Ogre's  evil  influence,  and  the  restoration  to  life  of  the  victims  he  had 
petrified.  The  music,  after  the  lovely  horn  solo  against  flutterings  of  the  strings, 
has  an  easy,  full,  and  joyous  rhythm.  Powerful — but  not  overpowering;  jubilant — 
yet  not,  precisely,  exuberant,  the  music  expresses  a  deep  and  glowing  joy,  a  keen 
vitality  and  wholesomeness  contrasting  with  the  suspended  animation  and  porten- 
tous mystery  of  some  preceding  parts.  Toward  the  end,  thrilling  with  power  and 
eloquence,  the  strings  in  their  fullest  utterance,  against  rising  scales  in  the  brass, 
pour  forth  the  sweet  paean  of  joy  intimated  but  a  few  moments  before  in  the 
dulcet  voice  of  the  horn. 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  539 

Le  Sacre  du  printemps 
[The  Rite  of  Spring] 

FEW  will  quarrel  with  the  dictum  that  Le  Sacre  is  the  most  significant,  the  most 
original,  though  not  necessarily  the  most  ingratiating  of  Stravinsky's  works.  There 
are  musicians  of  rank  who  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that  it  is  the  most  significant 
work  in  modern  music.  No  "modern"  composition  has  provoked  so  much  dis- 
cussion; none — at  the  time  of  the  premiere  of  Le  Sacre — had  departed  so  dar- 
ingly, so  radically,  and  so  finally  from  the  accepted  canons  of  harmony  and 
structure;  none  since  has  been  received  with  such  a  commingled  uproar  of  praise 
and  condemnation. 

We  need  not  be  concerned  with  the  academic  discussions  of  this  work  or 
with  the  opinions  of  the  critics,  the  musicians,  and  the  musicologists;  but  in  order 
to  appreciate  it,  and  to  form  our  own  intelligent  opinion  (which  certainly  is  more 
important  to  us  than  any  other),  it  is  necessary  to  recall  for  a  moment,  first,  the 
composer's  musical  development,  and  second,  his  intent  in  evoking  this  music. 

Acquaintance  with  Stravinsky's  two  most  important  earlier  works,  UQiseau 
de  feu  and  Petrouchka,  establishes  definitely  the  direction  of  his  development  as  a 
creative  musician.  Even  in  The  Firebird  there  are  indications  that  conventional 
ideas  of  harmony  and  rhythm  and  orchestration  did  not  seem  adequate  to  express 
his  ideas.  Petrouchka  went  farther  in  the  direction  of  freedom,  and  here  musical 
ideas,  melodies,  incidents  were  presented  simultaneously  and  independently — let 
the  dissonances  fall  where  they  would.  Yet,  daring  though  Petrouchka  seemed 
when  first  heard,  there  were  many  passages  which  were  not  shocking  then  and 
seem  quite  conventional  today.  Petrouchka  was  a  logical  development  of  the 
germinal  ideas  found  in  The  Firebird;  there  were  more  than  vestigial  remains  of 
the  conventional  harmony  learned  under  the  great  Rimsky-Korsakov;  there  was 
evidence  that  the  daring  and  the  originality  of  certain  features  rested  upon  the 
sure  foundation  of  classical  composition.  To  become  familiar  with  the  three 
greatest  works  of  Stravinsky,  therefore,  is  to  discover  that  his  dissonances,  or,  let 
us  say,  his  freedom  in  the  use  of  dissonances,  is  due  neither  to  insufficient  knowl- 
edge of  or  lack  of  interest  in  conventional  harmony,  nor  to  a  vulgar  desire  to  be 
startlingly  different.  - 

Mr.  Elmer  Olsen,  commenting  upon  this  music  in  the  admirable  brochure 
issued  with  Stokowski's  recorded  version  of  the  work,  makes  an  interesting  and 
valid  point  in  establishing  the  logic  and  sincerity  of  Stravinsky: 

There  are  musical  revolutionaries  who  would  destroy  all  feeling  for  any 
tonality  (key)  in  their  compositions.  Not  so  Stravinsky.  His  music  is  firmly 
invested  with  a  feeling  for  some  definite  tonality,  as  firmly  as  with  Bach  or 


54°  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Beethoven.  And  even  in  the  passages  where  he  writes  in  more  than  one  key 
at  a  time,  one  of  these  predominates,  the  other  serving  to  add  a  biting,  pungent 
quality  to  the  musical  texture.  This  is  but  progressing  a  step  farther  than 
Bach,  who  sometimes  writes  canons  in  which  the  second  voice  is  in  reality 
in  a  tonality  different  from  that  of  the  first,  although  both  are  set  to  har- 
monies in  the  principal  key.  A  close  examination  of  his  scores  leads  many 
musicians  to  the  conclusion  that  Stravinsky's  dissonances  are  the  product  of  no 
mere  whim  to  be  shocking,  but  are  a  natural  expression  of  the  composer's 
ideas  and  are  based  on  a  sound  musical  logic. 

Stravinsky's  originality  in  rhythm  and  orchestration  are  just  as  striking 
as  his  originality  in  harmony.  One  has  only  to  listen  to  the  thrilling  alternation 
of  measures  of  the  "Conflict  of  the  Rival  Tribes"  ...  to  appreciate  that  here  is 
a  new  and  vital  force  in  music.  And  his  knowledge  and  skill  in  writing  for  the 
orchestral  instruments  is  unexcelled.  Who  would  have  thought — or  dared — 
to  write  the  opening  phrase  of  Le  Sacre  for  bassoon?  Yet  in  so  doing  he 
obtains  just  the  tone-quality,  eerie  and  undreamed-of,  a  plaint  that  evokes 
early,  vaguely  remote  times.  And  so,  throughout  Le  Sacre,  he  makes  use  of 
his  instruments,  sometimes  in  the  most  startlingly  original  manner,  but  always 
with  a  definitely  expressive  purpose. 

One  can  with  difficulty  expect  a  composer  to  symbolize  primitive  man — the 
man  who  lived  thousands  of  years  beyond  the  dawn  of  history — with  sweetly 
conventional  harmonies.  Such  a  man  was  not  greatly  elevated  above  the  animals 
he  hunted  or  which  hunted  him;  he  was  direct,  harsh,  brutal.  So  is  Le  Sacre, 
often.  Yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  Stravinsky  did  not,  when  considering  the 
embryonic  idea  of  this  music,  regard  it  as  a  picture  of  primitive  life.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  says,  the  chief  ideas  came  to  him  as  purely  abstract  music,  rough  and 
vital  themes,  and  they  themselves  suggested  the  earth  worship  of  primitive  man 
as  a  pretext  for  their  existence.  The  idea  of  the  Rite,  as  choreography,  came  from 
the  music;  not  the  music  from  the  dance. 

The  composer  has  always  asserted  that  the  music  is,  really,  "absolute  music, 
without  any  definite  story  or  program,  and  that  when  presented  as  a  ballet,  it 
should  be  accompanied  by  a  choreographic  representation  as  purely  abstract  as 
possible."  Though  generally  presented  on  the  concert  stage  without  the  accom- 
paniment of  ballet,  and  fully  entitled  to  its  position  in  the  symphonic  repertoire 
as  "absolute"  music,  it  is  distinctly  helpful  in  listening  to  associate  the  music  and 
the  action  of  the  ballet.  Many  a  convert  to  this  strange  and  wonderful  music  was 
made  during  the  performance,  with  ballet,  in  April  1930,  by  the  Philadelphia 
Orchestra  under  the  direction  of  Leopold  Stokowski.  In  the  following  notes  con- 
siderable attention  is  given  to  the  action  of  the  ballet  as  a  clue  to  the  significance 
of  the  music. 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  54! 

First  Tableau 
Adoration  of  the  Earth 

A  desolate  valley  lies  shadowed  between  barren  hills  that  crouch  above  it 
like  great  brooding  beasts.  In  the  foreground  is  a  mound  of  earth,  and  partly 
surrounding  it  a  semicircle  of  great  stones,  and  poles  surmounted  by  the  heads  of 
wild  animals.  On  one  side  is  a  group  of  young  girls  and  on  the  other  young  men; 
all  are  quiet  in  thought. 

Now  from  the  orchestra  comes  a  solitary  voice,  brooding,  ageless,  imme- 
morial, that  sings  the  call  of  awakening  nature.  Now  the  whole  orchestra  comes 
to  life,  each  instrument  forceful  and  distinct,  yet  all  joined  in  a  powerful  utterance 
that  signifies  the  birth  of  spring.  A  bearded  Sage?  bowed  under  the  burden  of 
years,  comes  forward  and  approaches  the  dancers.  The  girls  circle  around  him 
as  he  leads  them  toward  the  mound  of  earth,  which  he  ascends  with  dignity.  There 
is  a  pause  in  the  music;  the  first  plaintive  phrase  returns,  and  here  the  men  arouse 
themselves. 

The  orchestral  strings  intone  a 'persistent  monotonous  background,  and  the 
adolescents  begin  their  primitive  dance.  A  wavering  figure  remains  conspicuous; 
above  it  the  woodwinds  move  with  strange  twitterings.  There  is  constantly  increas- 
ing excitement  both  in  the  music  and  among  the  dancers,  and  presently  comes  a 
momentary  and  dramatic  pause.  The  horn  announces  a  bright  theme,  and  the 
orchestra  joins  in  it.  Again  there  is  increasing  excitement,  color,  and  motion,  in 
which  trumpets  give  a  brief  but  conspicuous  moment  to  a  phrase  which  we  will 
discover  later,  in  more  important  form,  in  the  Vernal  Dance. 

Suddenly  the  girls  cease  their  dance  and  drop  abruptly  to  the  earth  as  if  in 
fear.  With  a  piercing  utterance  of  the  orchestra,  the  Ritual  of  Abduction  begins. 
The  youths  leap  to  their  feet,  and  with  threatening  glances  and  terrifying  gestures 
start  toward  the  women.  They,  on  their  part,  with  mock  terror,  leap  to  their  feet 
and  simulate  a  mixture  of  fear  and  interested  curiosity.  The  music  grows  more 
and  more  tumultuous  as  the  two  groups  move  relentlessly  toward  each  other.  At 
a  sudden  crash  in  the  orchestra,  there  is  a  pause.  For  a  moment  the  youths  draw 
apart.  The  approach  and  the  retreat  are  repeated  again  and  again,  as  if  youth 
threw  itself  repeatedly  against  an  invisible  barrier,  only  to  be  thrust  back  into 
itself  by  a  force  it  knew  not  and  could  not  see. 

Presently  we  hear  from  the  clarinets  a  strange  and  timeless  melody,  filled 
with  primitive  yearnings,  and  with  warm  desire,  while  above  it  tremulous  flutes 
give  out  trills  of  compounded  ecstasy  and  terror.  Now  each  man  chooses  a  girl 
and  drags  her  away,  but  four  of  each  remain  on  the  scene.  The  four  men  toss  the 
girls  upon  their  shoulders  and  with  precise  and  heavy  steps  begin  the  Vernal  Dance. 
Heavily  accented  chords  in  the  orchestra  mark  their  footsteps.  As  the  music  grows 


542  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

more  powerful  and  more  strident  others  join  in  the  dance,  and  at  the  climax  the 
penetrating  motive  of  the  Ritual  of  Abduction  recurs. 

Now  comes  a  mock  battle  between  two  opposing  groups,  and  in  the  ballet 
we  behold  here  some  of  the  most  exhausting  gymnastics  ever  incorporated  into 
choreography.  In  the  orchestra  this  dancing  is  accompanied  by  a  conspicuous 
melody,  supported  and  driven  forward  by  a  curious  and  powerful  alternation  of 
rhythm.  The  dance  and  the  music  approach  a  brilliant  climax,  and  at  its  peak 
the  Sage  reappears,  making  his  way  through  the  maze  of  dancers.  In  the  pompous 
and  powerful  tones  of  the  tuba  we  hear  the  theme  associated  with  the  Sage.  At 
its  appearance  there  is  a  pause  in  the  games  and  a  sudden  fierce  interjection  of 
the  horns;  then  a  vague  rumbling  suggesting  the  awe  of  the  young  people  at  the 
sudden  appearance  of  their  Sage.  In  a  moment  their  awe  turns  to  terror  as  the 
seer  looks  frowningly  about  him,  and  the  orchestra  for  a  space  is  in  a  frenzy. 

It  is  curious  to  note  here,  as  in  many  other  instances  in  Stravinsky's  music, 
the  extraordinary  potency  and  significance  of  silence  as  an  element  in  music.  It  is 
not  only  the  sudden  cessation  of  sound  that  by  its  very  suddenness  arrests  our 
attention;  it  is  rather  the  sustained  and  pulsating  absence  of  utterance  that  seems 
pregnant  with  awful  meanings.  It  is  like  the  momentary  blindness  that  succeeds 
the  flash  of  lightning,  and  holds  us  in  agonized  and  trembling  anticipation  of  the 
earth-shaking  detonation  that  is  to  come. 

There  is  such  a  silence  here;  then  a  soft  chord  and  ominous  drumbeats;  a 
whisper  from  the  strings,  and  all  lie  prostrate  in  adoration  of  the  earth.  Now 
follows  the  Dance  of  the  Earth,  a  curious,  rhythmically  monotonous,  but 
dynamically  and  orchestrally  varied  movement  that  grows  and  recedes  in  power 
as  it  gradually  approaches  its  final  vehemence.  On  the  last  chord  the  curtain  falls 
on  the  First  Tableau. 

Second  Tableau 
The  Sacrifice 

The  curtain  rises  upon  a  scene  lit  by  the  red  incandescence  of  a  great  fire, 
built  at  the  foot  of  the  mound  of  earth.  Around  it  are  seated  the  Sage  and  the 
girls,  unmoving,  lost  in  deep  contemplation  of  the  capital  sacrifice  in  which 
presently  they  wfll  be  involved ;  for  the  girls  are  to  choose  from  among  themselves 
one,  the  Elect,  a  maiden  who  as  a  sacrifice  to  nature  is  to  dance  until  she  dies. 

The  music  here  is  certainly  as  eloquent  of  melancholy  as  any  we  know.  It 
is  a  melancholy  that  is  almost  pain;  that  partakes  of  the  character  of  the  grief, 
the  searing,  wrenching,  terrible  grief  that  accompanies  birth,  rather  than  the 
spiritual  and  subjective  sorrow  with  which  we  look  upon  the  face  of  death.  We 
are  witnessing — and  the  music  symbolizes — the  birth  pains  of  a  world;  a  world 
undeveloped,  primitive,  and  almost  purely  physical.  For  here  Stravinsky  celebrates 
and  propitiates  the  mystic  power,  fertility;  and  his  music  is  powerful  and  mystical. 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  543 

Woodwinds  move  in  somber  chords;  strings  give  forth  clear  harmonics.  Muted 
trumpets,  incredibly  remote,  and  muted  horns  succeed  in  curious  harmonies,  and 
presently  the  young  girls  rise  to  begin  the  Dance  of  Mysterious  Circles. 

The  dance  is  contemplative,  almost  mesmeric,  at  first,  for  an  invisible  and 
mysterious  force  is  directing  the  dancers  in  their  movements.  At  the  incidence  of 
a  curious  swaying  figure,  the  dancers  move  more  freely,  swaying  their  bodies  and 
bending  low  toward  the  earth.  Presently  the  young  men  grotesquely  garbed  in  the 
rough  hides  of  animals  re-enter,  and  the  girls  quickly  withdraw  to  one  side — all 
save  one.  As  an  urgent,  a  compelling,  figure  arises  from  the  brass,  the  girls  extend 
their  arms  toward  Her,  the  Chosen  One;  and  with  a  mad  surge  of  the  orchestra 
they  rush  toward  and  surround  Her. 

Now  begins  the  dance  of  the  Glorification  of  the  Chosen  Virgin.  The  crassly 
brilliant  light  -  of  early  morning  falls  upon  a  scene  of  wild  animation  as  the  young 
women  dance  furiously  about  Her,  and,  at  the  end,  flee  and  leave  Her,  doomed 
and  lonely  in  the  center  of  the  scene.  She  stands  as  one  bewitched,  motionless  and 
silent.  The  men  rush  forward,  and  to  softly  reiterated  chords  signify  by  their  weird 
dance  the  transfer  to  the  soil  of  their  own  energy.  They  join  their  arms  over  and 
around  the  Chosen  One;  thus  they  effect  unity  with  Her.  There  arise  from  the 
basses  muffled  and  monotonous  tones,  like  the  sounding  of  ceaseless  primordial 
drums,  changeless  in  rhythm,  wearying  yet  unwearied.  There  comes  from  the 
English  horn  a  rude  song,  a  primitive  incantation — the  Ritual  of  the  Ancestors. 
All  on  the  scene  are  shaken  by  a  great  terror,  quivering  with  the  unutterable  dread 
of  the  Unknown  that  motivated  the  occult  ceremonies  of  primitive  man,  and  is 
the  basis  of  much  in  the  religions  of  civilized  people.  Now  the  music  takes  on  new 
and  lurid  colors;  fragments  of  melody  appear  and  are  snatched  away;  drums 
sound  again,  and  cease;  and  presently  the  Chosen  One  is  left  alone  to  begin  the 
Sacrificial  Dance. 

From  this  point  onward,  the  music  suggests  a  tenseness  of  anticipation,  and 
a  feverish  excitement  that  are  utterly  beyond  description.  Nor  are  these  feelings 
begotten  by  force  alone;  indeed,  the  passages  of  secretive  mutterings  and  of  sus- 
pended animation  which  alternate  with  those  of  flaming  brilliance  and  relentless 
violence  are  the  more  exciting.  The  choreography  faithfully  reflects  the  music. 
The  Chosen  One  alternately  stands,  rigid,  yet  trembling,  her  face  an  abstraction 
of  all  the  faces  of  all  the  women  of  alTtKe  ages;  then  suddenly  she  starts,  she 
leaps,  she  sinks  again  to  the  earth  in  rapt  contemplation. 

Presently  the  mood  of  the  music  becomes  one  of  dreadful  foreboding,  and  the 
Chosen  One  seems  seized  with  a  divine  rage.  A  spirit  is  upon  Her;  and  long  past 
the  point  of  natural  exhaustion,  she  dances  in  a  fierce  and  relentless  frenzy.  She 
falters  for  a  moment,  and  at  this  her  fellows  rush  toward  and  follow  her  like 
rapacious  animals.  She  recovers  herself;  she  leaps  madly  about  in  renewed  frenzy 
— and  suddenly  falls  dead.  Quickly  the  men  seize  her  and  carry  her  to  the  foot  of 


544  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

the  mound.  There,  during  the  last  shuddering  dissonance  of  the  violins,  she  is  held 
'aloft — a  maiden  undefiled,  offered  to  the  brooding,  breeding  earth.  A  final 
orchestral  crash  and  the  Rite  of  Spring  is  fulfilled. 


Suite  from  "Petrouchka" 

Petrouchka  was  originally  a  ballet;  from  the  music  to  the  ballet  the  present 
suite  was  arranged  by  Serge  Koussevitzky,  eminent  conductor  of  the  Boston  Sym- 
phony Orchestra,  in  collaboration  with  the  composer  himself.  It  is  generally  agreed 
that,  while  the  art  of  Stravinsky  has  progressed  toward  its  goal,  while  his  musical 
philosophy  is  deepening  and  broadening,  he  has  never  surpassed  the  music  of 
Petrouchka.  It  was  published  in  1911,  and  the  ballet  has  been  performed  in  all 
the  great  musical  centers  of  the  world.  One  particularly  beautiful,  and  memorable, 
performance  of  the  work  was  that  presented  by  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company, 
some  years  ago,  with  the  finest  of  talent  on  the  stage  and  in  the  orchestra,  and  a 
magnificent  scenic  setting  painted  especially  for  the  occasion  by  the  world-famous 
Serge  Soudeikine. 

The  Story  of  the  Bdlet  Petrouchka 

The  action  of  the  ballet  takes  place  in  a  great  public  square  in  St.  Petersburg;' 
the  time,  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  central  characters  are  a  Showman  who  exhibits 
animated  puppets,  his  three  principal  characters  being  a  Ballerina,  or  dancing  girl; 
a  Blackamoor,  informed  with  a  wild  and  fiery  nature,  and  Petrouchka,  a  clown. 

The  music  represents  not  only  the  action  of  the  puppet  show,  but  that  of  the 
entire  carnival  which  is  taking  place  in  the  public  square.  The  first  episode  of  the 
ballet  depicts  in  music  and  dance  and  scene  the  hurry  and  bustle  and  merriment 
of  the  carnival  crowd;  the  excited  cries  of  children,  the  tipsy  shouts  of  drunken 
revelers,  the  sound  of  a  hand  organ  and  of  a  music  box  ...  in  a  word,  all  the 
color  and  life  and  sound  that  such  a  scene  would  in  actuality  present. 

Presently  the  Showman  plays  upon  his  flute,  the  effect  being  that  the  crowd's 
attention  is  attracted,  and  the  puppets  are  suddenly  animated.  To  the  delight  of 
the  crowd,  they  perform  a  characteristic  Russian  dance  .  .  *  incidentally,  one  of 
the  most  delightful  and  boisterous  sections  of  the  ballet  action  and  of  the  orchestral 
music. 

The  puppet  drama  now  begins  in  earnest.  Poor  Petrouchka,  misshapen,  ugly, 
suffering,  is  kicked  into  his  room,  an  unhappy  creature  created  against  his  will,  and 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  545 

haplessly  made  aware  of  desires  and  feelings  which  he  cannot  possibly  satisfy  or 
assuage.  After  a  time,  the  Ballerina  is  introduced,  and  the  uncouth  Petrouchka, 
amazed  and  enthralled  by  her  beauty,  loves  and  makes  love  to  her.  She,  half 
amused  and  half  frightened,  repulses  him.  The  Blackamoor  is  more  successful. 

We  are  again  permitted  to  watch  the  carnival  scene,  toward  evening,  when 
revelry  is  at  its  height,  and  the  peasant  crowd,  enlivened  by  holiday  and  other 
spirits,  is  gay  and  noisy.  There  is  dancing  by  various  groups  of  servants  and 
countrymen  .  .  .  confusion  when  a  man  approaches,  leading  a  bear  that  walks  on 
its  hind  legs  .  .  .  and  a  shriek  of  terror  from  the  crowd  when  across  the  stage  of 
the  puppet  theater  Petrouchka  is  wildly  pursued  by  the  Moor  who,  with  one 
vicious  stroke  of  his  sword,  crushes  the  poor  clown's  head.  Petrouchka  dies  as  the 
crowd  gathers  about,  muttering  threateningly  against  the  Showman,  who  has  dis- 
appeared. Someone  goes  to  find  a  policeman  (elusive  as  always! )  and  the  Showman 
is  finally  brought  back  and  made  to  explain  that  the  actors  on  his  stage  are  but 
straw  men,  incapable  of  real  feeling.  The  crowd,  mollified,  disperses  ...  but  the 
ghost  of  Petrouchka  appears  above  the  Showman's  booth  and  terrifies  the  latter 
with  grimaces.  The  curtain  falls. 

The  suite  from  Petrouchka  omits  various  portions  considered  by  Stravinsky 
as  not  essential  to  a  concert  performance  of  the  work,  A  scene  with  the  Ballerina 
and  the  Moor,  and  the  slaying  of  Petrouchka,  as  well  as  the  apparition  of 
Petrouchka  at  the  close  of  the  ballet,  are  usually  omitted.  A  special  conceit  ending 
is  substituted  for  the  conclusion  of  the  ballet  version. 

Parti 

Rimsky-Korsakov,  master  of  modern  orchestration,  had  an  apt  and  eager 
pupil  in  Igor  Stravinsky.  In  the  works  of  Stravinsky's  period  of  full  development 
— Petrouchka  is  one  of  these — there  is  no  trace  of  Rimsky  the  composer,  but 
there  is  concrete  evidence  of  the  flowering  of  Stravinsky's  latent  gift  for  orchestra- 
tion under  the  tutelage  of  the  older  master.  Orchestration — the  assignment  of 
instrumental  color  to  his  melodic  material — is  perhaps  more  important  to  Stravinsky 
than  any  other  detail  of  composition.  His  gift  of  melodic  invention  is  prodigious, 
and  in  addition  to  the  variety,  ingenuity,  and  volume  of  his  melodies,  they  possess 
an  aptness,  a  finality  of  orchestral  color,  that  is  emphatically  the  outstanding 
feature  of  Stravinsky's  music.  He  seems  to  conceive,  simultaneously,  a  melody  and 
its  inevitable  instrumental  expression.  Nor  does -he  stop  with  assigning  one  melody 
to  one  instrument  or  choir  of  instruments.  Sometimes  the  same  theme  is  given  at 
once  to  instruments  of  sharply  contrasting  timbre;  sometimes,  contrasting  instru- 
ments are  given  contrasting  themes.  Related  instruments,  instruments  somewhat 
akin  or  particularly  harmonious  in  timbre,  are  used  more  frequently  in  thematic 
development  by  the  conventional  composer:  by  Stravinsky,  rarely  if  ever. 


546  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Nor  is  this  a  mere  striving  for  startling  effect;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  directly 
an  expression  of  Stravinsky's  philosophy  of  music,  which  in  the  main  might  be 
summed  up  in  this  statement:  get  the  precise  shade  of  expression  and  color  that 
is  desired,  by  any  possible  means. 

So  it  is  that,  in  Petrouchka  and  other  music  of  Stravinsky,  we  find  not  only 
contrasting  musical  themes  or  ideas,  but  one  or  more  ideas  simultaneously  depicted 
in  contrasting  musical  colors.  Instead  of  complicating  the  music,  this  construction 
really  simplifies  it,  for  by  their  sharply,  sometimes  violently,  contrasted  colors  the 
themes  are  the  more  discernible,  their  relationship  and  position  in  the  tonal'  struc- 
ture more  clear.  What  someone  has  described  as  "color  counterpoint"  as  well  as 
the  counterpoint  of  melodies  is  thus  achieved. 

The  music  begins  with  the  Russian  dance  from  the  opening  scene  of  the 
ballet.  A  lusty,  boisterous,  merry  dance  it  is,  played  first  by  the  full  orchestra,  and 
then,  in  its  different  rhythm  and  developments,  by  a  variety  of  instruments. 
Through  it  all,  Stravinsky  has  preserved  the  bustling  and  confused  atmosphere 
of  the  carnival  viewed  as  a  whole — yet  without  sacrificing  for  a  moment  the 
emphatic  and  definitely  marked  rhythm  of  the  dance.  Such  instruments  as  the 
piano  and  xylophone  are  invoked  for  the  expression  of  the  angular  lines  of  this 
stiff-legged  doll  dance  ,  .  .  and  these  instruments,  unconventional  in  the  symphony 
orchestra,  are  but  commonplaces  of  a  Stravinsky  orchestration. 

Part  II 

Now  the  door  of  Petrouchka's  room  is  thrown  open;  he  is  kicked  through 
it;  falls  to  the  floor — and  the  door  is  slammed  behind  him.  The  music  expresses 
the  dismay  and  pitying  remarks  of  the  crowd  as  the  poor  down  is  so  cavalierly 
treated — but  in  a  moment  all  are  distracted  by  the  entrance  of  the  dainty  and 
beautiful  Ballerina,  and  Petrouchka's  baffled  maledictions  are  forgotten. 

Now  comes  a  fortissimo  chord,  followed  by  a  brief  but  complete  silence.  Then 
the  piano,  in  a  dainty  little  solo  which  could  not  possibly  have  been  written  for 
any  other  instrument,  anticipates  the  appearance  of  the  Ballerina.  After  some  play 
of  piano  and  flute,  there  is  another  brief  but  eloquent  piano  solo,  indicating  that 
the  dancing  girl  has  actually  appeared  on  the  scene. 

Petrouchka  is  love-smitten,  but  despairing,  and  his  piteous  cries,  his  impotent 
curses,  are  symbolized  in  the  welter  of  tone  put  forth,  after  the  piano  cadenza,  by 
the  woodwind,  with  muted  trumpets  ejecting  cynical  phrases.  The  mournful  horns 
join  in  a  brief  expression  of  pity,  and  the  trumpets  and  cornets,  with  mutes 
removed,  give  forth  a  rapid  penetrating  phrase  that  accompanies  the  lowering  of 
the  curtain  on  the  puppet  stage. 

(The  following  scene  of  the  ballet,  between  the  Moor  and  Ballerina,  is 
omitted  in  the  concert  version.) 


IGOR    STRAVINSKY  547 

Part  III 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  pictures  in  tone  ever  painted  by  the  gifted  Stravinsky 
is  the  carnival  scene.  We  are  distracted  temporarily  from  the  little  drama  of  the 
puppets,  and  the  composer  asks  us  to  view  the  festival  scene  as  a  whole.  It  is  a 
scene  of  confusion  and,  precisely  as  confusion,  is  literally  presented  in  the  music. 
With  the  tremendous  concourse  of  sound  in  our  ears,  it  requires  little  effort  of 
the  imagination  to  picture  the  surging  crowd,  the  gay  if  heavy-footed  peasants  in 
brightly  colored  shawls,  the  scurrying  children,  the  happily  drunken  muzhiks,  the 
cries  of  hucksters  and  fakirs,  the  crude  music  of  carrousels  and  hand  organs  .  .  . 
every  detail  of  an  old-fashioned  street  fair.  Various  groups  engage  in  impromptu 
dances  .  .  .  but  at  the  end  of  the  scene  the  crowd,  with  frightened  cries,  scatters 
as  a  peasant  comes,  leading  a  trained  bear. 

Part  IV 

The  peasant  plays  a  little  tune  on  his  pipe,  and  the  huge  bear  suddenly  rises 
and  walks  on  his  hind  legs  .  .  .  "Pours  marche  sur  ses  $attes  d,e  d,err%ere"  as  the 
composer  puts  it  in  the  quaint  French  idiom.  Heavy  sounds  from  the  basses  indicate 
the  ponderous  and  labored  strides  of  the  bear,  while  the  fascinated  crowd  watches 
from  a  safe  distance.  But  the  latter  is  presently  distracted  by  the  arrival  of  a  rich 
merchant,  who  amuses  himself  by  scattering  money  among  the  throng.  A  band  of 
gypsies  surround  him,  dancing  and  snatching  at  the  wind-blown  bank  notes  *  .  . 
and  presently  they  too  disappear.  Now  merry  groups  of  .coachmen  and  hostlers, 
powerfully  built  men  with  great  boots  and  livery,  dance  a  vigorous  but  heavy- 
footed  dance  to  a  characteristic  Russian  rhythm. 

Part  V 

The  coachmen's  dance  continues  for  a  space.  But  it  is  drawing  toward  night  j 
the  first  lights  flicker  amidst  the  smoke  of  campfires  and  the  shadows  of  hastily 
erected  tents.  The  masquerade  is  beginning;  grotesque  figures  in  the  bass  indicate 
the  appearance  of  weirdly  disguised  merrymakers.  A  clown  and  a  devil  frolic 
together  in  crude  buffoonery;  men  disguised  as  pigs  and  she-goats  ramble  hither 
and  thither,  frightening  small  children  and  flirting  with  their  mothers. 

With  this  picture  the  music  ends.  The  drama  of  Petrouchka  is  but  an  enter- 
taining incident  of  the  fair,  after  all  ...  the  pathos,  the  acrid  satire,  the  sentiment 
and  sweetness  that  shyly  appear  in  the  suite  from  time  to  time  are  buried  and 
forgotten  under  the  impression  of  bucolic  gaiety  with  which  Stravinsky  ends  the 
music. 


DEEMS  TAYLOR 

[Born  1885] 

DEEMS  TAYLOR,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  and  successful  of  American 
composers,  was  born  in  New  York  City,  and  most  of  his  life  has  been 
spent  in  -that  teeming  island.  He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  and 
at  New  York  University.  Musically,  his  training  was  founded  on  study  of  the 
piano,  and  his  development  in  the  art  has  been  entirely  American  in  background. 
Mr.  Taylor  is  a  writer  of  force  and  charm  in  fields  other  than  musical,  but  was 
recognized  first  as  a  personage  in  the  musical  world  by  the  brilliance  and  justice 
of  his  musical  criticisms  in  the  columns  of  the  old  New  York  World,  where  he 
succeeded  the  incomparable  James  Gibbons  Huneker  as  music  reviewer.  Since 
1925,  Mr.  Taylor  has  devoted  himself  mainly  to  composition,  and  in  that  period 
has  contributed  significantly  to  American  music. 

In  the  field  of  opera,  Mr.  Taylor's  work  The  King's  Henchman,  with 
libretto  by  Edna  St.  Vincent  Mfllay,  brought  a  refreshing  new  spirit  to  the  reper- 
toire of  the  Metropolitan,  and  established  him  in  the  very  front  rank  of  American 
musicians.  Another  opera,  Peter  Ibbetson,  while  successful  perhaps  more  because 
of  its  literary  associations  than  for  its  musical  score,  nevertheless  revealed  original 
thought  and  development,  and  while  it  is  unlikely  to  remain  in  the  operatic  reper- 
toire, it  confirmed  the  recognition  of  Deems  Taylor  as  definitely  the  ranking 
American  composer  in  this  field.  • 

Mr.  Taylor's  charm  and  wit,  and  his  enormous  fund  of  information  regard- 
ing music  and  the  theater,  have  brought  a  welcome  note  to  otherwise  conventional 
radio  programs,  and  have  made  him  known  to  countless  thousands  of  Americans. 
Hollywood  beckoned,  and  Mr.  Taylor  went  there  in  1934  to  write  music  for 
filmed  entertainment. 


Suite:  Through  the  Looking  Glass 

THIS  charming  music  was  inspired  by  Lewis  Carroll's  immortal  story — the  sequel 
to  Alice  in  Wonderland, — of  which  five  episodes  are  used  as  points  of  departure 
for  the  suite.  It  was  originally  written  for  a  chamber  orchestra,  but  later  Taylor 
revised  it,  elaborating  the  orchestration  and  adding  one  section.  In  the  revise.d 
version  Through  the  Looking  Glass  was  first  performed  by  the  New  York  Sym- 
phony Orchestra,  under  the  direction  of  Walter  Damrosch.  It  has  since  been 
played  by  the  leading  orchestras  in  America. 

548 


DEEMS    TAYLOR  549 

For  the  first  performance  Mr.  Taylor  wrote  his  own  program  notes;  it  would 
be  difficult  to  improve  upon  them.  They  are  quoted  by  permission  of  the  composer: 

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. 

I.  (0)  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  $ure  unclouded  brow 

And  dreaming  eyes  of  wonder! 
Though  the  time  be  fleet,  and  I  and  thou 

Are  half  a  mile  asunder, 
Thy  loving  snuLe  will  surely  hail 

The  love-gift  of  a  fairy-tale. 

A  simple  song  theme,  briefly  developed,  leads  without  pause  to 

I.  (b)  The  Garden  of  Live  Flowers 

Shortly  after  Alice  had  entered  the  looking-glass  country  she  came  to  a 
lovely  garden  in  which  the  flowers  were  talking: 

"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  talk- 
ing to." 

"And  can  all  the  flowers  talk?" 

"As  well  as  you  can,"  said  the  Tiger-Lily,  "and  a  great  deal  louder." 

The  music  reflects  the  brisk  chatter  of  the  swaying,  bright-colored 
denizens  of  the  garden. 

IL  Jabberwocky 

This  is  the  poem  that  so  puzzled  Alice,  and  which  Humpty-Dumpty 
finally  explained  to  her: 


550 


THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 


*Twas  brilligy  and  the  slithy  toves 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  In  the  vyabe; 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves> 
And  the  mome  roths  outgrabe: 


Beware  the  Jabberwock^  my  son! 

The  jaws  that  bitey  the  claws  that 

catch! 
Beware  the  Jubjub  bird,  and  shun 

The  jruminous  Bandersnatch! 


He  took  his  vorpal  sword  m  hand; 

Long  time  the  maxome  joe  he 

sought —  . 
So  rested  he  by  the  Tumtum  tree. 

And  stood  awhile  in  thought. 


And,  as  in  uffish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwocky  with  eyes  of 

flame, 
Came  whiffling  through  the  tulgey 

woody 
And  burbled  as  it  came! 

One,  two  I  One,  two!  And  through 

and  through 

The  vorpal  blade  went  snicker- 
ma  ckl 

He  left  it  dead,  and  with  its  head 
He  went  galumphing  back. 

And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock? 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish 

boy! 
O  frabjous  day!  Callooh!  C allay! 

He  chortled  in  his  joy. 


'Twas  brHlig>  and  the  slithy  tovesy 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wake} 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves, 
And  the  mome  roths  outgrabe. 

The  theme  of  that  fruitful  beast,  the  Jabberwock,  is  first  announced  by 
the  full  orchestra.  The  clarinet  then  begins  the  tale,  recounting  how,  on  a 
"brfllig  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  fight- 
ing 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  strain  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. 


DEEMS    TAYLOR  55  I 

///.  Looking-Glass  Insects 
The  score  contains  this  extract: 

This  was  anything  but  a  regular  bee;  in  fact,  it  was  an  elephant — as 
Alice  soon  found  out,  though  the  idea  quite  took  her  breath  away  at  first*.  . .  „ 

The  gnat  (for  that  was  the  insect  she  had  been  talking  to)  was  balancing 
itself  on  a  twig  just  over  her  head,  and  fanning  her  with  its  wings.  It  certainly 
was  a  very  large  gnat:  "About  the  size  of  a  chicken,"  Alice  thought. 

" then  you  don't  like  all  insects'*"  the  gnat  went  on,  as  quietly  as  if 

nothing  had  happened. 

"I  like  them  when  they  can  talk,"  Alice  said.  "None  of  them  ever  talk, 
where  I  come  from.  .  .  ." 

"Half-way  up  that  bush,  you'll  see  a  Rocking-horse  fly,  if  you  look.  Look 
on  the  branch  above  your  head  . .  .  and  there  you'll  find  a  Snapdragon-fly. . » * 
Crawling  at  your  feet,  you  may  observe  a  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,"  Alice  remarked  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  Snapdragon-fly, 
and  the  Bread-and-butter-fly.  There  are  several  themes,  but  there  fe  no  use 
trying  to  decide  which  insect  any  one  of  them  stands  for. 

IV.  The  White  Kwght 

He  was  a  toy  Don  Quixote,  mild,  chivalrous,  ridiculous,  and  rather 
touching.  He  carried  a  mousetrap  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,  daredevil  fellow*  The  second  is  bland,  mellifluous,  a  little 
sentimental — much  more  like  the  Knight  as  he  really  was.  The  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  thfe 
Knight  rides  off,  with  Alice  waving  her  handkerchief — he  thought  it  would 
encourage  him  if  she  did. 


PIOTR  ILYICH  TCHAIKOVSKY 

[1840-1893] 

Af  but  the  most  exhaustive  biography  of  the  great  Russian  composer 
Tchaikovsky  must  confine  itself  to  the  more  salient  features  of  the  life 
and  character  of  the  man.  Little  of  his  inward  life  was  ever  unveiled  even 
to  his  intimates.  Those  who  were  closest  to  him  were  not  able  to  penetrate  the 
remoter  recesses  of  his  being,  at  least  not  beyond  discovering  that  Tchaikovsky 
himself  did  not  understand  his  own  mind  and  heart.  Thus  the  composer  takes  his 
place  in  music's  hall  of  fame  as  one  of  its  most  mysterious  personalities. 

Piotr  Ilyich  Tchaikovsky  was  born  on  May  7,  1840  (according  to  the 
Gregorian,  not  the  Russian  calendar),  at  Votkimsk,  in  the  province  of  Viatka, 
Russia.  Young  Piotr  was  given  the  conventional  education  of  the  better  classes, 
his  training  including  some  study  of  the  piano.  He  did  not  in  his  boyhood  exhibit 
in  music  the  precociousness  which  distinguished  his  accomplishments  in  other  fields 
of  learning.  He  obeyed  with  docility  when  at  the  age  of  ten  he  was  sent  to  a  school 
preparatory  to  study  of  the  law,  and  at  nineteen  was  graduated,  drifting  com- 
placently into  a  government  clerkship,  and  with  somewhat  more  interest  into  the 
life  of  a  young  man  of  the  world. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  until  the  aimlessness  of  his  existence  became 
apparent  to  the  always  introspective  Tchaikovsky,  and  he  discovered  that  the  life 
of  a  law  clerk  was  not  for  him.  Music  had  always  been  his  great  pleasure ;  he  had 
studied,  though  up  to  this  time  he  had  not,  apparently,  regarded  the  art  with  any 
great  seriousness.  Now  it  dawned  upon  him  that  it  was  for  music  that  his  restless 
soul  yearned,  and  accordingly  he  set  about  studying  seriously.  With  this  decision 
came  the  necessity  for  giving  up  his  government  position  and  seeking  a  livelihood 
from  some  other  source;  so,  in  1863,  he  deliberately  chose  the  precarious  existence 
of  a  musician.  He  undertook  and  in  1865  completed  a  rigorous  course  of  instruc- 
tion at  the  St.  Petersburg  Conservatory,  graduating  with  honors.  Here  he  had 
come  into  contact  with  Anton  Rubinstein,  whose  personality  so  dominated  and 
stimulated  the  languid  Tchaikovsky  that  he  put  forth  his  best  effort  if  only  to 
please  the  master  for  whom  he  had  conceived  an  affection  bordering  on  adoration 
— a.  sentiment,  which,  by  the  way,  was  never  reciprocated  by  Rubinstein. 

Not  long  afterward  Tchaikovsky  was  offered  the  post  of.  professor  of  har- 
mony at  the  newly  organized  Moscow  Conservatory,  and  while  teaching  was 
distasteful  to  him,  and  the  salary  small,  here  was  an  honorable  position  in  a  musical 
atmosphere,  with  the  pleasure  and  benefit  of  the  society  of  other  musicians.  His 
new  position  gave  the  composer  time  to  produce  several  important  works,  among 
them  his  First  Symphony. 

The  next  several  years  were  devoted  by  Tchaikovsky  to  orienting  himself 
in  both  his  personal  life  and  his  position  as  a  musician.  He  now  came  in  contact 

55* 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  553 

with  the  group  of  young  national  musicians — among  them  Balakirev  and  Rimsky- 
Korsakov  who  were  then  looked  upon  as  musical  radicals.  Though  doubtless 
influenced  by  them,  Tchaikovsky  could  not  sympathize  with  them  completely,  and 
indeed  cannot  himself  be  reckoned  as  strictly  Russian  in  his  music,  as  they  sought 
to  be. 

During  this  period  Tchaikovsky's  financial  resources  were,  as  they  had  always 
been,  at  a  low  ebb.  Information  as  to  his  troubles  as  well  as  his  gifts  and  aspira- 
tions came  to  the  ears  of  a  wealthy  widow,  Nadejda  von  Meek.  This  generous 
woman  was  passionately  devoted  to  music,  and  on  learning  many  of  the  details  of 
Tchaikovsky's  life,  she  determined  to  assist  him.  With  the  utmost  tact  she  man- 
aged to  place  herself  in  the  position  of  patron,  and  established  for  him  an  annual 
income  which  greatly  relieved  his  anxiety  regarding  money  matters.  The  optimistic 
spirit  of  his  Fourth  Symphony,  published  soon  after  this  happy  event,  must  reflect 
the  mental  state  that  resulted  from  his  liberation  from  material  worries.  When  the 
income  had  to  be  discontinued,  after  thirteen  years,  because  of  Mme  von  Meck's 
financial  difficulties,  there  was  a  misunderstanding  which  saddened  Tchaikovsky 
for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

The  Fifth  Symphony  was  written  in  a  little  country  house  where  Tchaikovsky 
had  sought  and  found  peace  and  quiet.  Here  he  spent  the  happiest  days  of  his  life, 
albeit  they  were  followed  by  his  gloomiest  season.  The  death  of  several  friends  and 
dear  relatives,  indifferent  success  of  certain  of  his  works,  and  homesickness  caused 
by  necessary  travels  outside  Russia's  frontiers  preyed  upon  his  sensitive  soul  and 
kept  him  constantly  in  mental  misery.  Success  in  conducting  several  of  his  own 
works  in  England  brought  him  some  cheer,  however,  and  perhaps  encouraged  him 
in  his  projected  journey  to  America.  This  was  not  interrupted  even  by  the  death 
of  his  beloved  sister,  and  six  concerts  were  given  in  the  United  States  in  the  spring 
of  1891,  in  New  York,  Boston,  Baltimore,  and  Philadelphia.  All  were  extraor- 
dinarily successful. 

In  character  and  temperament  Tchaikovsky  was  typically  Russian.  His  musk, 
however,  while  it  does  in  truth  portray  some  emotional  phases  of  his  personality, 
is  not  nationalistic.  He  was  not  steeped  in  the  folklore  and  the  folk  music  of  his 
people  as  were  Glinka  and  Balakirev  and  Mussorgsky  and  Rimsky-Korsakov. 
Rather,  as  he  tells  us  himself,  his  devotion  to  the  music  of  Mozart  and  his  love  for 
the  Italian  school  dated  from  his  sixth  year.  His  thought  is  Russian,  but  its  expres- 
sion is  colored  with  the  richer  hues  of  the  South.  The  combination  is  a  happy  one, 
at  least  to  cosmopolitan  ears;  it  may,  too,  account  for  Tchaikovsky's  more  pro- 
nounced success  in  countries  other  than  his  own. 

If  durability  is  the  criterion  of  the  greatness  of  music,  Tchaikovsky  will  prob- 
ably always  be  ranked  among  the  greatest  composers  of  his  time.  His  message  has 
the  quality  of  universality;  it  is  eloquent,  and  it  is  beautiful.  He  expresses  a  senti- 
ment which  is  probably  felt  at  one*  time  or  another  by  every  human  being — the 


554  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

realization  of  the  impotence  of  man,  the  ephemeral  quality  of  his  achievements,  the 
certainty  of  death.  While  human  nature  remains  unchanged,  such  feelings  will 
occasionally  arise  to  demand  expression  and  such  music  as  Tchaikovsky's  will 
express  them  more  eloquently  than  any  other  means  we  now  know. 


Capriccio  italien 

OVERBRILLIANT,  shallow,  and  effective,  this  music  constitutes  a  case  wherein 
Tchaikovsky's  dangerous  facility  enabled  him  to  achieve  a  maximum  of  effect  with 
a  minimum  of  material.  This  is  not  Italianate  Tchaikovsky,  such  as  we  sometimes 
find  elsewhere  in  this  composer's  music.  This  is  not  Tchaikovsky  at  all,  but  music 
that  might  have  been  conceived  for  an  Italian  band  by  an  Italian  hand.  Its  brilliant 
flashing  is  constant  and  blinding;  its  color  raw  and  violent;  its  thematic  matter 
trivial. 

The  work  was  composed  during  1880,  at  which  time  Tchaikovsky  was  enjoy- 
ing a  stay  in  Italy.  The  first  performance  was  given  at  Moscow,  December  18, 
1 8  80 ;  the  first  in  America,  under  the  baton  of  Walter  Damrosch  at  a  concert  of 
the  Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  November  6,  1886. 

Italian  dance  rhythms  and  melodies  are  freely  used.  The  prominent  figure 
for  the  trumpet  is  said  to  have  been  borrowed  by  the  composer  from  a  bugle  call 
he  heard  from  an  Italian  military  post  in  Rome.  The  music  passes  from  a  some- 
what melancholy  mood  to  one  of  fervid  exaltation,  from  subdued  to  abandoned 
outpourings  of  orchestral  sonority,  from  andante  to  presto,  in  quite  melodramatic 
manner.  The  principal  thematic  idea  is  derived  from  a  characteristic  Italian  popular 
song,  which  the  composer  works  until  it  disappears  under  the  weight  of  its  own 
elaborations.  The  climaxes,  full  of  power  and  brilliance,  are  obviously  inspired 
by  the  mad  whirling  rhythms  of  the  tarantella,  and  it  is  in  this  rushing  figure, 
punctuated  by  sforzcmdo  chords  in  full  orchestra,  that  the  music  ends. 


Marche  slav 

PERHAPS  the  most  popular  of  Tchaikovsky's  smaller  compositions  for  orchestra, 
this  stirring  music  remains  in  the  repertoire  in  spite  of  much  gross  mishandling 
and  too  frequent  playing.  It  bears  Some  Striking  similarities  to  the  "1812*'  Over- 


PJOTR    II,YICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  '555 

ture,  including  the  composer's  use  of  the  Russian  national  anthem;  but  it  is  much 
more  "Russian"  in  character,  and  though  brief,  a  decidedly  more  interesting 
composition  than  the  "1812." 

Low  woodwinds  create  a  somber  mood,  but  flashing  interjections  of  the 
trumpet  dissipate  the  rather  gloomy  atmosphere,  and  the  patriotic  music,  played 
buoyantly,  brings  about  a  new  and  vigorous  spirit.  There  is  a  highly  dramatic 
moment  in  the  sforzando  attack  in  timpani,  diminishing  at  once  to  piano,  and 
establishing  a  sturdy,  rhythmic  figure  on  the  tonic  and  dominant  that  keeps  the 
music  moving  always.  The  climax  is  in  Tchaikovsky's  gaudier  style,  but  rarely  fails 
of  impressiveness. 


Francesca  da  Rimini 

\Fantasia\ 

THIS  violently  dynamic  and  brilliantly  descriptive  music  was  inspired  by  the  com- 
poser's reading  of  Dante's  Inferno;  more  particularly  by  the  affecting  lines  which 
describe  Dante's  meeting  with  Francesca,  and  her  relation  of  the  story  of  her  love. 

Francesca  da  Rimini  was  the  daughter  of  an  aristocratic  Italian  family,  whose 
parents  married  her  off  to  a  brave  and  noble  courtier,  unfortunately  deformed 
and  older  than  his  bride.  He  had,  however,  a  young  and  handsome  brother  Paolo, 
who  fell  in  love  with  Francesca  and  she  with  him.  The  illicit  affair  was  discovered 
by  the  husband,  who  forthwith  attempted  to  kill  Paolo  5  but  Francesea  came 
between,  and  the  dagger  plunged  into  her  breast.  The  husband  thereupon  killed 
the  lover  and  went  his  way. 

Dante  encounters  Francesca  in  that  terrible  domain  of  Hell  reserved  especially 
for  those  condemned  because  of  sins  of  the  flesh.  This  is  the  Second  Circle  of 
Inferno;  here  the  damned  are  ceaselessly  driven  about  and  assaulted  by  fierce 
tempests. 

The  music  is  broadly  divided  into  three  sections*  The  first  depicts  the  Second 
Circle,  with  its  frightful  blasts  of  black  winds,  the  screaming  and  wailing  of  the 
damned,  the  dark  and  nameless  terrors  that  haunt  the  place.  The  middle  section 
suggests  Francesca's  pathetic  story,  and  the  final  section  again  presents  the  horrors 
of  Inferno. 

The  music  is  loud  and  long.  It  is  usually  played  with  many  cuts,  for  its  series 
of  climaxes  and  its  almost  constant  evocation  of  the  orchestra's  ultimate  powers 
grow  exceedingly  wearisome.  There  is  little  relaxation  in  it,  except  in  the  middle 
section,  where  the  lovely  melody  of  the  clarinet,  against  an  accompaniment  by 


556  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

plucked  strings,  tenderly  suggests  Francesca's  narrative.  The  final  delineation  of 
the  horrors  of  Hell  is  presented  with  terrific  violence. 


Concerto  No.  i  in  B-flat  minor  for  Piano  and  Orchestra 

[Opus  23] 

THIS  great  work  has  a  history  of  rather  unusual  interest.  It  occupied  the  composer 
during  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1874-75,  having  been  completed  in  February 
of  the  latter  year.  When  the  last  note  had  been  set  down  Tchaikovsky  inscribed 
on  the  title  page  the  name  of  Nikolai  Rubinstein,  a  pianist  of  eminent  standing  and 
brother  of  the  composer,  Anton. 

Instead  of  being  complimented,  Rubinstein  was  offended  that  the  composer 
should  have  completed  his  maiden  work  in  this  form  without  consulting  him  on 
matters  of  piano  technique;  he  bitterly  criticized  the  work.  It  is  not  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  his  criticism  was  merited,  to  some  degree.  Tchaikovsky,  unlike 
most  great  composers  and  particularly  those  among  his  own  countrymen,  had 
displayed  no  great  facility  in  writing  for  the  piano,  and  possibly  the  free  flow  of 
musical  ideas  was  impeded  by  his  unfamiliarity  with  the  requirements  of  that 
instrument. 

He  was  deeply  offended  at  Rubinstein's  attitude,  and  substituted  the  name 
of  Hans  von  Billow  in  the  dedication.  This  great  artist  praised  the  work  highly, 
and  took  it  on  a  concert  tour  to  America,  where  it  was  a  great  success.  Rubinstein 
eventually  became  enamored  of  the  concerto,  and  was  regarded  as  one  of  its  greatest 
interpreters.  Tchaikovsky,  too,  adopted  a  changed  attitude,  and  in  1889  revised 
the  concerto  completely.  The  version  used  today  is  the  final  result  of  that  revision. 

F*ntf  Movement 

For  sheer  brilliance  and  grandeur;  for  variety  and  intensity  of  color;  for 
commanding  breadth  of  conception,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  in  any  music 
of  this  type  a  rival  to  the  first  movement  of  the  concerto.  Particularly  is  this  true 
of  the  introduction  with  the  tremendous  chords  from  the  piano  ringing  clear  and 
powerful  even  against  the  concerted  might  of  the  orchestra.  Presently  a  broad 
singing  melody  appears,  chiefly  in  the  strings,  and  accompanied  in  sweeping  chords 
and  sonorous  voice  by  the  piano.  Throughout  the  introduction  this  melody  is  the 
.underlying  subject  of  the  music  of  both  piano  and  orchestra. 

Now  we  come  to  the  main  body  of  the  movement,  inaugurated  by  a  distinct 


PIOTR    ILYICH     TCHAIKOVSKY  557 

change  from  the  sweeping  rhythm  of  the  introduction  to  a  more  angular  and 
abrupt  motion,  which  the  piano  introduces.  There  is  some  interesting  development 
of  this  motive,  and  after  a  series  of  ponderous  bass  harmonies  for  the  piano,  we 
come  upon  a  second  important  theme — and  one  of  the  loveliest  in  the  entire  work — 
given  forth  by  the  woodwind  and  tenderly  repeated  by  the  solo  instrument.  Upon 
these  two  subjects  the  entire  first  movement  is  constructed;  Tchaikovsky  turns 
them,  as  it  were,  this  way  and  that,  and  extracts  from  them  the  last  measure  of 
beauty.  Tonal  colors  of  exceeding  richness  flow  from  orchestra  and  solo  instru- 
ment; strings,  bright  and  keen  or  mellow  and  muted,  contrast  with  the  piano's 
varied  tone;  woodwind  sweetly  sighs  its  comment  on  the  theme. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  movement  appears  one  of  the  most  interesting  items, 
from  the  piano  lover's  viewpoint,  in  the  concerto — a  gigantic  cadenza,  or  display 
passage,  for  the  solo  instrument.  Built  up  of  the  thematic  material  already 
presented,  it  leads  to  the  finale  which  in  its  superb  brilliance  and  vigor  recapitulates 
the  entire  movement. 

Second  Movement 

Tchaikovsky  shared  the  typical  Russian's  love  of  color  and  of  contrast.  The 
first  is  exemplified  in  the  foregoing  music;  the  second  in  the  utter  grace  and  the 
almost  pastoral  simplicity  of  the  present  movement  as  opposed  to  the  grandilo- 
quence of  the  first,  Here  is  music  that  pleases  the  ears  of  the  most  unsophisticated 
and  the  initiate  as  well — for  there  is  sometimes  a  more  subde  art  in  straight- 
forwardness than  in  magnificence. 

The  theme  appears,  after  a  few  gently  plucked  notes  from  the  strings,  like 
the  clear  soft  call  of  a  shepherd's  pipe,  in  the  loveliest  register  of  the  flute.  Now 
the  bassoons  and  muted  strings  erect  a  shimmering  background  of  tone  while  the 
silvery  clear  notes  of  the  piano  form  themselves  into  the  simple  design  of  the  theme; 
again,  the  pleading  voice  of  the  cello  takes  up  the  song,  with  the  solo  instrument 
ornamenting  it  with  a  sparkling  design  of  the  loveliest  tone  texture.  Even  when  a 
new  voice — the  oboe — is  interwoven,  the  atmosphere  of  clarity  is  maintained. 

The  second  part  of  the  movement  presents  a  change  in  both  rhythm  and 
emotional  significance.  Here  Tchaikovsky  made  use  of  an  old  French  chansonette, 
"II  jout  syamu$ery  danser  et  nre"  (We  must  amuse  ourselves,  and  dance  and  be 
gay.)  You  will  hear  this  merry  tune  in  the  strings  while  the  piano  disports  in 
brilliant,  playful  figuration  above  it. 

A  brief  interlude  and  cadenza  for  the  piano  bring  about  a  return  to  the  first 
theme,  and  on  it  the  movement  ends. 

Third  Movement 

The  rondo,  into  which  form  the  third  movement  is  cast,  is  the  musical  parallel 
of  the  verse  form  of  the  same  name  but  different  spelling — the  rondeau.  It  has  a 


558  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

principal  theme  and  incidental  themes,  but  returns  at  intervals  to  the  original 
subject  in  the  original  key.  In  verse  the  analogy  is  completed  by  the  recurrence 
of  the  same  line,  with  commentary  upon  it  between  each  repetition  of  the  dominant 
thought. 

A  brief  orchestral  introduction  precedes  the  first  appearance  of  the  theme, 
which  is  given  out  by  the  piano  alone.  The  rhythm  suggests  some  wild  and  vigorous 
Russian  dance;  it  leaps  into  flashing  life  under  a  master  hand  at  the  keyboard,  and 
springs  from  the  orchestra  almost  like  some  animated  being.  Both  orchestra  and 
piano  are  sportively  engaged  with  the  theme  for  the  greater  part  of  the  first  section 
of  the  movement. 

There  is  no  piano  passage  which  could  definitely  be  pointed  out  as  the  cadenza 
which  usually  occurs  toward  the  close  of  the  final  movement,  and  did  appear  in 
each  of  the  preceding  parts  of  the  concerto.  There  are,  however,  some  amazingly 
brilliant  feats  of  execution  for  the  solo  instrument,  notably  the  scale  passages  in 
the  first  section  of  the  movement.  These  ripple  and  glow  as  iridescent  as  a  shower 
of  pearls  when  a  great  artist  plays. 

Despite  the  brilliance  'that  has  gone  before;  despite  the  vigor  and  animation 
of  the  first  movement  and  the  opening  of  the  third,  new  climaxes  are  reached 
in  the  concluding  bars  of  the  concerto.  There  is  a  certain  emotional  tenseness 
heretofore  absent.  There  is  a  sweep  of  power  in  both  orchestra  and  piano  sur- 
passing anything  we  have  yet  heard,  growing  in  every  measure  as  the  final  crisis 
is  approached  and  achieved. 


Romeo  and  Juliet 

[Overture  Fawtasie] 

THIS  lovely  music,  so  rich  in  the  best  that  Tchaikovsky  ever  gave  to  his  world- 
wide audience,  was  written  when  the  composer  was  young,  vigorous,  and  romantic. 
It  was  inspired,  of  course,  by  Shakespeare's  deathless  tragedy — but  at  the  suggestion 
of  that  other  great  Russian  composer,  Mill  Balakirev.  The  latter  proposed  to 
Tchaikovsky  that  he  undertake  the  work,  and  indeed  gave  to  Piotr  Ilyich  ideas  as 
to  the  character  of  the  themes. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  was  written  in  1869,  when  Tchaikovsky  was  filled  with 
tragic  memories  of  his  unsuccessful  wooing  of  Desiree  Artot,  the  beautiful  French 
singer  who  jilted  him.  Although  the  composer  married  another,  this  was,  as  far 
as  we  know,  the  only  serious  love  affair  of  his  life,  and  its  unhappy  conclusion 
left  a  definite  mark  upon  him  and  his  character  as  a  musician. 


PIQTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  559 

An  overture  is,  in  the  general  modern  sense,  the  instrumental  introduction 
to  an  opera,  outlining  musically  the  characters  and  themes  to  be  developed  during 
the  action.  The  word  is  used  also  to  describe  an  independent  concert  piece  for 
orchestra,  often  free  but  sometimes  in  strict  sonata  form,  and  usually  of  descriptive 
or  dramatic  significance.  The  Romeo  and  Juliet  overture  contains  and  develops 
descriptive  themes  and  ideas — but  in  itself  embodies  also  complete  dramatic  action 
in  the  arrangement,  sequence,  conflict,  and  triumph  of  these  ideas.  Therefore,  it  is 
an  "overture,"  but  not  a  "prelude"  to  anything.  The  word  "fantasia"  is  added  to 
emphasize  the  freedom  of  form  in  which  the  composer  chose  to  work. 

While  there  i$  no  detailed  "program,"  or  story,  outlined  in  the  music,  there 
are  unmistakable  intimations  of  the  high  dramatic  moments,  the  clashings  of  pur- 
pose, the  idyllic  and  passionate  love,  the  grim  catharsis,  that  appear  in  Shakespeare's 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  Indeed,  Tchaikovsky  frankly  appended  to  his  title  the  deferential 
and  perhaps  dangerous  note,  "after  Shakespeare." 

The  quasi-ecclesiastical  harmonies  with  which  the  overture  opens  are  accepted 
as  symbolic  of  the  sympathetic  Friar  Laurence,  whose  ministrations,  though  rightly 
planned  and  executed,  result  indirectly  in  the  destruction  of  the  lovers.  We  hear 
this  solemnly  lovely  music  in  the  woodwind  section  (clarinets) ;  it  takes  the  form 
of  an  introduction  to  the  overture.  But  it  is  more;  it  is  a  basic  thought  in  the  first 
section  of  the  overture.  Against  its  calm  and  serious  tones,  swift  scales  in  plucked 
strings,  now  bold  and  menacing,  now  furtive  and  dark,  spring  upward  and  then 
seek  lower  and  darker  shadows — as  though,  under  cover  of  pious  protestations  and 
desperately  maintained  restraints,  the  feud  of  Montagu  and  Capulet  pursued  its 
dark  and  sinister  ways.  There  are  fragmentary  melodies  in  the  strings*  most  lovely 
voices  yet  they  are  disturbed  and  foiled  by  ominous  rumblings  of  the  kettledrums 
and  conflict  seems  imminent. 

As  the  next  section  begins,  the  conflict  is  even  more  powerfully  intimated, 
and  after  a  brief  interval  of  comparative  calm,  it  bursts  out  into  open  conflagration. 
From  opposing  sections  of  the  orchestra  crushing  masses  of  tone  are  hurled;  the 
picture  of  armed  men  is  boldly  painted  across  the  scene.  Yet  as  suddenly  as  they 
came,  they  disappear  into  the  shelter  of  deep  shadows. 

Now  comes  one  of  the  most  poignant  passages  ever  to  flow  from  under 
Tchaikovsky's  gifted  hand.  It  is  the  love  scene  ...  a  scene  which  any  composer 
would  delight  in  creating  under  any  circumstances,  and  one  to  which  Tchaikovsky, 
with  his  own  love  experiences  fresh  in  heart,  and  the  divine  inspiration  of 
Shakespeare  powerfully  exciting  his  skill,  would  naturally  give  most  lavishly  of 
his  art.  The  scene  is  a  strange  duet  of  two  poignantly  beautiful  melodies.  The  first 
melody  is  woven  of  a  tonal  fabric  composed  of  the  voices  of  cor  angles  (English 
horn),  violas  (muted),  and  an  accompaniment,  softly,  in  the  horns.  The  inde- 
scribable eloquence  of  this  phrase,  with  its  trembling  ardor,  its  faint  suggestion  of 
melancholy,  its  eagerness  and  gentleness,  fe  utterly  unforgettable. 


560  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

In  answer  comes  the  other  member  of  the  duet — in  strings,  divided  into  more 
than  the  usual  four  sections,  and  muted;  playing  in  lovely  chords.  But  the  embraces 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  like  their  lives,  are  brief  though  sweet,  and  once  again  a 
scene  of  strife  and  confusion  is  spread  upon  Tchaikovsky's  musical  canvas. 

Here  is  the  "development  section"  of  the  piece.  Obsessed  though  he  was  with 
the  romantic  story  that  inspired  this  poem  in  tone,  Tchaikovsky  was,  nevertheless, 
always  the  musician,  the  meticulous  craftsman,  the  student  of  form.  He  therefore 
bends  the  form  to  his  purpose  and,  while  with  characteristic  skill  developing  musical 
material  heretofore  introduced,  gives  us,  as  well,  a  thrilling  and  almost  terrifying 
picture  of  the  bitterness,  the  fierceness,  and  ugliness  of  armed  strife.  The  inter- 
vention of  Friar  Laurence  in  the  shape  of  the  thematic  material  introduced  at  the 
beginning  of  the  overture  is  without  effect. 

Presently  we  are  reminded,  more  and  more  powerfully,  of  the  lovers  them- 
selves, their  music  taking  on  a  vehemence,  a  tension,  that  it  has  not  known  before. 
And  the  beauty  of  the  themes  is  correspondingly  magnified. 

The  growing  force  and  passion  of  the  music  develop  it  into  such  proportions 
that  we  scarcely  notice  the  transition  to  the  gigantic  play  of  musical  forces  which 
constitutes  the  scene  of  struggle  and  violence — once  more  returning  with  even 
mightier  effect  than  before.  At  its  climax  it  breaks  off,  and  after  a  suggestive 
pause  a  shadowed  scene  is  laid  in  the  somber  colors  of  the  low  strings,  with  palpita- 
tions of  the  timpani  below.  Now,  once  again,  come  echoes  of  the  cloister,  but  sad 
and  dirgelike,  as  in  mourning  for  the  slain  lovers.  There  are  sad  recollections  of 
Romeo's  song — a  song  of  mourning  now,  as  it  is  subtly  transmuted  by  the  com- 
poser's skill.  Cellos  and  violins  and  bassoon  give  voice  to  this  lovely  threnody. 
Romeo  is  dead,  and  Juliet  lies  dead  beside  him.  There  is  a  little  mourning,  too  sad 
for  long  duration — and  the  music  is  done. 


Overture  solennelle  "1812" 

THIS  extraordinarily  powerful  and  melodramatic  music  has  been  called  the 
"world's  worst  and  noisiest  overture."  It  hardly  deserves  such  a  damning  estimate; 
others,  since  the  melancholy  Tchaikovsky,  have  written  much  worse  and  even 
noisier  music.  That  it  is  bizarre,  that  it  depends  more  upon  sonority  than  on  any 
other  quality  for  its  impressiveness,  that  it  is  rather  cheaply  programmatic  and 
illustrative,  cannot  be  denied;  neither  can  the  fact  that  it  is  extremely  effective. 
The  overture  was  written  to  dramatize  and  commemorate  the  withdrawal 
of  the  French  troops  under  Napoleon  in  1812,  a  strategic  retreat  which  the 
Russians  had  always  regarded  as  a  victory.  As  originally  planned,  the  music  was  to 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  561 

be  performed  by  a  gigantic  orchestra  assembled  in  a  public  square  in  Moscow, 
and  arrangements  were  made  for  the  inclusion  of  cannon  as  members  of  the 
percussion  section,  or  batterie  ( ! )  Fortunately  for  the  musicians,  the  guns  were 
to  be  located  at  quite  some  distance  from  the  orchestra,  and  were  to  be  fired  at 
proper  intervals  by  an  electric  connection  from  the  conductor's  stand.  There  is 
no  record  of  a  first  performance  with  the  scheduled  elaborations,  but  Sousa's  Band 
and  other  musical  organizations  have  played  the  overture  with  bombs  or  giant 
firecrackers  taking  the  place  of  cannon. 

The  music  begins  with  a  solemn  introduction  of  the  old  Russian  hymn  Gody 
Preserve  Thy  People^  in  woodwind  and  strings.  The  greater  part  of  the  overture 
is  devoted  to  an  all  too  realistic  musical  description  of  the  Battle  of  Borodino,  in 
which  the  progress  of  the  encounter  is  indicated  by  the  relative  prominence  given 
to  the  Marseillaise  and  the  Czarist  Russian  national  anthem,  God  Save  the  Czar. 
(Neither  was  in  use  by  the  respective  countries  at  the  time  of  the  famous  battle.) 
The  Russian  hymn  is  eventually  triumphant,  above  an  orchestral  clamor  that  can 
with  difficulty  be  matched  for  sonority  in  all  orchestral  literature.  To  cap  the 
climax,  the  tubular  chimes  are  thoroughly  pounded  during  the  closing  measures, 
as  if  all  the  bells  of  Moscow  rang  in  triumph.  It  is  all  quite  breathlessly  thrilling. 


Nutcracker  Suite 

A  LITTLE  poor  girl  dreams  on  Christmas  night  .  .  .  her  queer,  hopelessly  un- 
romantic  gift  of  an  ordinary  household  nutcracker  comes  to  life  .  .  .  commands  the 
lead  soldiers  in  battle  against  the  Mouse  King  and  his  lively  cohorts,  who  would 
have  triumphed  had  not  Claire  slain  their  furry  commander  with  her  slipper; 
whereupon  the  nutcracker  becomes  a  handsome  prince,  who  flies  with  Claire  to  the 
fascinating  domain  of  the  Sugarplum  Fairy,  somewhere  in  Araby,  where  toys  and 
sweetmeats  join  in  one  great  frolic  to  celebrate  the  romance  of  the  little  girl  and 
^her  Prince  Charming. 

Out  of  this  fantastic  little  story  comes  this  lovely  ballet  music — music  which 
only  a  Russian  could  delineate  in  the  dance.  The  story  of  the  ballet  derives  from 
a  French  interpretation  (by  Dumas  fere)  of  E.  T.  A.  Hoffman's  fairy  tale,  The 
Nutcracker  and  the  Mouse  King.  The  concert  version  of  the  music  differs  appre- 
ciably from  the  ballet  suite  only  in  the  titles  assigned  to  the  various  numbers.  You 
will  find  it  possessed  of  brilliance,  vitality,  and  barbaric  richness  of  tonal  color  and 
exotic  rhythm  that  are  really  captivating.  Not  a  note,  not  a  whisper  of  Tchaikov- 
sky's characteristic  melancholy  can  be  found  in  it. 


562  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

I.  Overture  Miniature 

The  "Overture  Miniature"  is  precisely  what  the  name  implies.  It  is  not  strictly 
choreographic  in  character,  though  nervously  alive  with  sprightly  charm.  The  or- 
chestration is  interesting,  basses  and  cellos  having  been  omitted  entirely,  with  the 
theme  and  its  elaborations  preponderantly  in  the  violins.  The  result  is  an  astonish- 
ing brightness  of  tone  quality,  a  penetrating  sweetness — and  withal  a  daintiness 
not  at  all  marred  by  the  very  distinctly  marked  climaxes. 

The  characteristic  device  of  Tchaikovsky — drawing  of  bright  scales  across  the 
principal  subjects — is  noted  here  as  well  as  elsewhere  in  the  suite.  Underneath  and 
again  above  the  chief  motive,  flying  notes  flutter  like  wings;  the  flute  spurts  a  glitter- 
ing rivulet  of  tone  that  flashes  as  in  sunlight  over  the  gracious,  almost  Mozartian 
theme — and  too  soon  the  quick  chords,  pizzicati,  joined  with  the  soft  clang  of  the 
celesta,  end  the  overture. 

2.  Marche 

The  shining  brasses  intone  a  pompous  little  phrase  that  opens  the  first  of  the 
characteristic  dances.  Horns  and  trumpets,  later  with  the  clarinet,  give  forth  this 
brave  sentence,  and  presently  the  somber  basses  come  to  life  in  hurrying  scales 
plucked  from  their  deep-voiced  strings.  Crashing  cymbals  emphasize  the  bold 
cadence  of  the  march;  more  sonorous  brass  takes  it  up  again,  and  in  a  final  rush 
of  tone  the  "Marche"  rises  to  a  swift  vigorous  climax  at  the  end. 

3.  Dmse  de  la  -fee  dragee 
[Dance  of  the  Sugwplum  Fdry\ 

Shortly  before  the  completion  of  the  "Nutcracker  Suite,  Tchaikovsky  heard  for 
the  first  time,  in  Paris,  the  celesta  which  had  just  been  invented  by  Mustel.  He  was 
utterly  fascinated  by  its  lovely  tone,  and  lost  no  time  in  writing  a  special  piece  for 
it.  Here  we  have  that  music;  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  also  that  the  first  per- 
formance of  the  Nutcracker  Suite  was  also  the  first  occasion  on  which  the  celesta 
was  used  in  the  orchestra. 

It  is  not  unfair  to  assume  that  the  Sugarplum  Fairy  was  somewhat  hampered 
in  her  movements  by  thd  gelatinous  nature  of  her  constitution;  the  rhythm  is  now 
somewhat  "lazy";  the  adhesive  sweetness  of  the  celesta  is  therefore  probably  the 
best  possible  instrument  here!  Tchaikovsky  was  too  much  the  artist,  however,  to 
permit  sweetness  to  become  cloying,  and  since  the  Fairy  was,  supposedly,  of  the 
(so  to  speak)  gentler  sex,  we  find  the  characteristic  and  compensating  acerbity  in 
the  tuneful  snapping  of  plucked  strings;  and  short-lived  soft  blandishments  in  the 
mellow  clarinet. 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  563 

4.  Trepak 
[Russian  Dance] 

Here  is  the  most  distinctly  Russian  music  in  the  Suite — and  incidentally,  the 
number  in  which  the  composer  is  least  like  himself,  as  we  would  judge  him  from 
his  major  instrumental  works.  The  chief  characteristics  of  these,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, are  their  lack  of  nationalistic  quality,  and  the  abysmal  melancholy  that 
pervades  them. 

But  here — here  are  blood-freezing  breezes,  flying  boots  encasing  feet  that 
must  be  warmed;  here  are  the  vigor,  the  naivete,  the  simple  delight  of  the  Russian 
peasant,  all  set  to  magnificent  music.  Here  for  the  first  time  the  full  power  of  the 
orchestra  is  felt.  A  wild  dance,  mightily  accented  with  tambourine  and  sounding 
drum;  fiercely  vehement  strings  have  the  chief  utterance,  trombones  sound  in 
mocking  laughter,  the  pace  quickens,  breath  comes  short  and  sharp  and  hurried — 
and  suddenly  the  full  might  of  the  orchestra  is  released  in  a  thrilling  rush  of  power. 

5,  Danse  arabe 
[Arab  Dance] 

Exotic,  languorous,  dreamy  with  the  mystical  dreams  of  the  East  is  the  Arab 
dance  in  the  Suite.  Scored  for  muted  strings  and  woodwind  only,  it  is  filled  with 
the  mellow  richness  inseparable  from  these  instruments,  yet  it  is  not  without  poign- 
ancy. A  drone  bass  is  made  the  foundation  of  a  fascinating  rhythmic  and  har- 
monic structure,  with  a  languishing  melody  in  the  lighter  strings  answered  con- 
trastingly by  the  woodwind.  Furtive  insinuations  of  the  tambourine  punctuate  and 
point  the  rounded  phrases;  bewitching  fragments  of  melody  sigh  from  the  oboe, 
the  cor  anglais,  and  the  bass  clarinet,  and  the  dance  drifts  off  into  silence  and  noth- 
ingness almost  as  imperceptibly  as  the  Oriental  mind  reaches  by  degrees  the  mys- 
terious delights  of  nirvana. 

6.  Danse  cfanoise 
[Chinese  Dance} 

"Scratch  a  Russian  and  you  find  a  Tartar!"  Sometimes  we  of  the  western 
world  do  not  fully  realize  the  intimacy  of  the  kinship  between  the  Russian  and  the 
Mongolian.  Geographically,  they  are  actually  neighbors  (remembering  the  gigantic 
reaches  of  Russia,  Siberia,  and  China) ;  ethnically,  the  relation  is  closer.  It  was 
apparently  easy  for  Tchaikovsky  to  work  in  a  pseudo-Chinese  musical  idiom,  as  this 
part  of  the  ballet  will  disclose;  perhaps  some  ancient  barbarian  brought  the  theme 
through  Gobi's  sand  devik  across  the  steppes  from  Tartary  and  left  it  as  a  seed  to 
blossom  in  the  music  of  the  West. 


564  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  dance  opens  with  droning  bassoons,  snapping  notes  plucked  from  the 
violins,  and  shrill,  excited  cries  in  the  flute's  keenest  voice;  swift  flights  in  the  wood- 
wind, crystalline  flashes  of  the  triangle,  silvery  showers  from  the  glockenspiel — 
and  always  the  droning  comment  of  the  bassoons  underneath  the  growing  tumult. 
The  end  comes  quickly  on  one  brief  chord. 

7.  Danse  des  mirlitons 
[Dance  of  the  Flutes] 

A  mirliton  is  something  similar  to  our  kazoo — a  toy  instrument,  simple  as  a 
comb  with  tissue  paper  wrapped  around  it,  and  with  a  tone  quality  much  the  same 
as  is  produced  by  that  most  eloquent  instrument  of  the  American  schoolboy.  The 
mirlitons  were  actually  used  in  the  ballet,  but  not  in  the  concert  arrangement  of 
the  suite.  Flutes  are  naturally  the  most  conspicuous  instruments  here. 

A  little  introduction  indicating  the  rhythm  of  the  dance,  and  the  flutes  appear 
in  a  figure  of  exquisite,  fairylike  delicacy — not  without  a  note  of  pensiveness,  yet  gay 
nevertheless.  Contrasted  with  this  delicate  rhythm  and  tone  color  is  the  more  robust 
dance  motive  given  the  trumpets  against  a  background  of  heavier  brass  which  pres- 
ently is  taken  up  by  all  the  orchestra,  excepting  the  flutes.  The  feesque  flute  dance 
of  the  opening  comes  again,  more  strongly  supported  now  and  rising  to  a  very 
definite  climax  at  the  end. 

8.  Vdse  des  fieurs 
[Waltz  of  the  Flowers] 

The  final  number  of  the  Suite  is  the  garland  of  flowers  that  crowns  it.  In  the 
universality  of  its  appeal,  in  its  intrinsic  loveliness,  it  stands  as  one  of  Tchaikov- 
sky's most  felicitous  utterances.  Instinct  with  life,  with  grace,  with  color,  and  mov- 
ing in  that  most  graceful  of  dance  rhythms,  the  waltz — it  is  not  difficult  to  see  why 
the  "Waltz  of  the  Flowers"  is  one  of  the  most  widely  known  and  best-liked  of  the 
great  Russian's  musical  expressions. 

Woodwind  delivers  an  introduction  containing  the  seeds  from  which  the  chief 
waltz  theme,  to  be  heard  presently,  is  developed.  The  harp  glitters  in  a  most  in- 
gratiating cadenza,  and  then  in  the  horns  we  find  the  captivating  waltz  theme 
upon  which  the  whole  piece  is  founded.  The  brilliant  strings  have  the  contrasting 
subject  and  elaborations  of  both,  the  first  part  of  the  waltz  ending  upon  this  sec- 
ondary idea. 

Halfway  through  the  piece,  a  new  melodic  idea  is  introduced  in  the  violin 
section  5  ever  the  accompaniment  maintains  the  flowing  waltz  rhythm.  The  climax 
is  reached  in  a  development  of  the  original  waltz  theme  of  the  horns,  the  phrase 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  565 

just  preceding  the  final  tremendous  chords  being  a  rhythmic  mutation  of  this 
subject. 


Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and  Orchestra 

DURING  the  winter  and  spring  of  1877  and  '78  Tchaikovsky  resided  in  cities  in 
Italy  and  Switzerland.  During  the  month  of  March  he  played  a  great  deal  of 
violin  music  with  the  violinist,  Kotek.  He  started  work  on  a  pianoforte  sonata,  a 
violin  concerto,  and  other  smaller  pieces.  He  soon  became  so  interested  in  the  con- 
certo that  the  other  compositions  were  forced  to  wait.  Regarding  the  first  move- 
ment of  the  concerto,  he  wrote  Mme  von  Meek,  "The  plan  of  this  movement 
sprang  suddenly  in  my  head,  and  quickly  ran  into  its  mold."  Several  of  the  themes 
in  the  concerto  are  of  a  Russian  character,  and  so  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  about 
this  time  he  wrote,  also  to  Mme  von  Meek,  that  sometimes  he  introduced  Russian 
themes  intentionally;  at  other  times  unintentionally.  He  continues: 

My  melodies  and  harmonies  of  folk-song  character  come  from  the  fact 
that  I  grew  up  in  the  country,  and  in  my  earliest  childhood  was  impressed  by 
the  indescribable  beauty  of  the  characteristic  features  of  Russian  folk  music; 
also  from  this,  that  I  love  passionately  the  Russian  character  in  all  its  expres- 
sion; in  short,  I  am  a  Russian  in  the  fullest  meaning  of  the  word. 

The  concerto  was  at  first  dedicated  to  the  late  Leopold  Auer,  then  professor 
of  violin  at  the  St.  Petersburg  Conservatory.  He  declared  the  technical  difficulties 
of  the  work  insurmountable.  So  it  remained  neglected  until  another  violinist,  Adolf 
Brodsky,  happened  to  see  the  music,  took  it  up  of  his  own  accord,  and  pkyed  it  in 
Vienna,  December  4,  1881,  As  has  happened  with  many  another  famous  work, 
the  concerto  was  at  first  received  with  bitter  antagonism  by  the  critics.  Auer,  who 
has  taught  many  a  violinist  to  do  the  impossible,  moderated  his  first  opinion,  and 
other  violinists  began  to  include  the  composition  in  their  repertoires.  At  the  present 
time  the  concerto  ranks  in  popularity  with  the  masterpieces  in  this  form  by  Bee- 
thoven, Mendelssohn,  and  Brahms. 

First  Movement 

The  orchestra  begins  with  an  introductory  passage  that  is  at  first  quiet  and 
contemplative,  then  increases  in  volume  and  animation  as  it  briefly  foreshadows  the 
first  theme.  After  a  short  cadenza,  the  solo  violin  announces  the  theme,  which  is 


566  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

notable  for  Its  songlike  character  and  fascinating  rhythm.  The  solo  instrument  pro- 
ceeds with  brilliant  ornamentation  that  leads  into  the  second  theme.  This  melody 
is  also  flowing  in  style,  and  rather  arresting  because  of  its  insistence  upon  a  coyly 
hesitant  little  melodic  figure.  The  violin  carries  the  theme  into  its  upper  brilliant 
register ;  then  while  the  orchestra  continues  the  melody,  it  supplies  a  background 
of  rapid  figuration.  The  tempo  quickens  and  the  soloist  introduces  a  brilliant  stac- 
cato passage  against  light  orchestral  chords.  The  exposition  ends  as  the  orchestra 
recalls  the  first  theme,  fortissimo. 

Instead  of  any  elaborately  evolved  symphonic  development,  the  solo  instru- 
ment brings  forth  a  brilliantly  conceived  variation  on  the  first  theme,  in  which 
rapid  legato  scales  are  effectively  contrasted  with  staccato  double-stops.  An  orches- 
tral tutti  is  the  signal  for  a  long  cadenza  for  the  violin,  unaccompanied.  In  the 
cadenza  are  notable:  arpeggios  of  wide  range;  effective — and  difficult — passages 
in  sixths;  a  brief  reminiscence  of  the  second  theme;  rapid,  descending  scales;  and 
a  final  trill.  While  the  violin  continues  the  trill,  the  orchestra  enters  softly  with  the 
first  theme.  The  melody  appears  in  a  modified  form,  and  is  led  into  the  second  sub- 
ject, now  more  intensely  songful,  and  developed  into  a  brilliant  climax.  Rapid  scales 
by  the  solo  violin,  against  a  series  of  strongly  accented  chords  in  the  orchestra,  serve 
as  a  coda  to  bring  the  movement  to  a  vigorous  conclusion. 

Second  Movement 
Cctnzonetta 

Woodwind  instruments  play  introductory  measures,  quaintly  harmonized,  and 
somewhat  Russian  in  character.  The  violin  sings  the  principal  theme,  charming  for 
its  veiled  melancholy,  and  typical  of  Tchaikovsky.  This  is  the  canzonettay  the  "little 
song,"  Tchaikovsky  mentions  in  the  title  of  the  movement.  Flute  and  clarinet 
follow  with  imitations  of  the  first  phrase  of  the  theme,  and  the  violin  continues 
with  another  melody  of  somewhat  more  vehement  accent.  It  soars  to  the  upper 
regions  of  the  instrument,  then  quietly  descends,  a  clarinet  continuing  downward 
with  the  phrase.  The  first  theme  returns,  a  flute  entering  in  brief  dialogue  with 
the  violin.  The  movement  is  brought  to  a  close  with  the  same  charmingly  quaint 
measures  with  which  it  opened.  Now,  "however,  they  are  led  into  a  short  transition 
that  continues  without  interruption  into  the 

Third  Movement 

After  an  orchestral  introduction,  and  an  unaccompanied  cadenza,  the  violin 
proposes  the  principal  theme  of  the  movement.  Suddenly  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  music  is  changed,  and  we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  vivacious  rhythm  and  un- 
restrained gaiety  of  a  Russian  peasants'  dance.  As  a  contrast  the  second  theme  is 


II«YICH     TCHAIKOVSKY  567 

slower, -almost  languorous,  in  style;  yet  like  the  first,  it  has  an  unmistakably  Rus- 
sian character,  particularly  in  the  constant  repetition  of  a  single  striking  motive. 
The  second  subject  is  pkyed  first  by  the  solo  instrument,  then  by  the  orchestra 
while  the  violin  indulges  in  rapid  scale  passages  mounting  to  a  fortissimo  climax. 
The  oboe,  clarinet,  and  bassoon  unassertively  suggest  a  new  idea.  The  violin  con- 
tinues this  for  a  time,  then  returns  to  the  first  theme  in  a  more  brilliant  form.  The 
second  theme  reappears,  and  is  again  followed  by  the  graceful  oboe  melody.  When 
the  principal  subject  returns  for  a  last  time,  its  impetuous  dancelike  character  is 
further  accentuated,  and,  as  the  excitement  increases,  violin  and  orchestra  answer 
one  another  with  sudden  exclamations.  The  dance  reaches  its  violent  climax.  A 
fragment  of  the  second  theme  is  loudly  insisted  upon  by  the  orchestra,  and  the 
violin  dashes  headlong  into  precipitous  and  scintillating  scales.  At  the  end  there  is 
a  rush  of  wild  and  carefree  merriment. 


Symphony  No.  4  in  F  minor 

THE  Tchaikovsky  F  minor  Symphony  is  the  first  of  what  might  be  considered  a 
cycle  of  symphonies — the  composer's  Fourth,  Fifth,  and  Sixth — in  which  three 
differing  aspects  of  his  dark  and  mysterious  personality  are  presented.  Piotr  Ilyich 
was  a  man  of  morbid  sensitiveness,  with  pronounced  leanings  toward  melancholy 
and  a  habit  of  introspection  which  carried  to  excess — as  it  was — contributed  heavily 
to  his  gloomy  and  pessimistic  outlook  upon  life. 

Tchaikovsky's  melancholia  is  exhibited  in  its  most  abject  depths,  its  abysmal 
despair,  its  intolerable  sadness,  in  his  Sixth  ("Pathetique**)  Symphony.  In  the  Fifth, 
there  are  indeed  moments  of  poignant  grief;  there  are  passages  shadowed  by  the 
dark  wings  of  melancholy.  But  we  find  in  the  music  a  note  of  defiance,  as  well;  a 
willingness  to  do  battle  against  unfriendly  fortune;  and  occasional  moments  of 
spiritual  repose.  In  the  present  symphony,  however,  there  is  no  overpowering 
gloom,  no  pervading  melancholy,  no  despair  or  desolation.  Its  superb  vitality  leaves 
no  room  for  morbid  speculation  and  introspections.  What  gestures  of  an  unkind 
fate  are  evident,  now  and  again,  are  overpowered,  crushed  down,  thrust  aside,  and 
treated  with  a  vehement  contempt  and  an  outpouring  of  vigorous  and  virile  utter- 
ance, and  even  with  humor. 

The  symphony  has  fully  come  into  its  own  only  during  recent  years.  The 
sentimentality  of  the  Sixth,  and  the  impressiveness  of  the  Fifth  brought  them  the 
more  swiftly  and  forcibly  to  public  attention;  and  their  more  obvious  charms  at 
once  established  them  in  the  concert  repertoire.  The  Fourth,  however,  by  its  whole- 
someness,  its  soundness,  its  magnificent  power  and  brilliance,  its  flashes  of  humor, 


568  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

and  its  marvelous  orchestral  coloring,  has  won  its  way  to  a  point  in  the  favor  of 
concert  audiences  which  places  it  on  an  equal  footing  with  its  successors.  Present 
indications  suggest  that  it  may  soon  be  even  more  popular  than  the  Fifth  and  Sixth. 
The  symphony  is  dedicated,  in  Tchaikovsky's  words,  "to  my  best  friend" — 
who  could  be  no  other  than  Mme  von  Meek. 

First  Movement 

There  is  an  introduction,  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  movement  as  a  whole  is 
rather  definitely  forecast.  Horns  and  bassoons  give  out  a  bold  figure,  somewhat 
military  in  character,  somewhat  ominous  in  significance,  and  treated  with  syncopa- 
tion, a  device  of  which  Tchaikovsky  makes  conspicuous  use  throughout  the  sym- 
phony. The  brazen  call  of  the  horns  is  answered,  at  intervals,  by  a  vigorous  chord 
in  full  orchestra,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  introduction,  as  the  warning  note 
becomes  less  insistent,  suave  utterances  of  the  strings  lead  us  gently  to  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  first  theme  of  the  movement. 

Here  Tchaikovsky  sighs.  It  is  not  the  suspiration  of  discouragement,  defeat, 
and  unutterable  woe  that  breathes  so  unhappily  in  the  long-drawn  agonies  of  the 
"PathetiqueP  .  .  .  nor  yet  the  sign  of  weariness  that  comes,  now  and  again,  in  the 
loveliest  music  of  the  Fifth.  Here  the  theme  seems  to  be  relief,  rather  than  resigna- 
tion; peace,  rather  than  pathos.  The  delicate  motive  appears  at  first  in  the  violins 
and  cellos,  accompanied  by  the  other  strings  and,  faintly  and  occasionally,  by  the 
horn.  Its  progress  upward  to  brighter  planes  of  emotion  is  significant  .  .  .  and  its 
subtly  syncopated  rhythm  gives  it  vitality,  motion,  and  grace.  When  it  is  presented, 
after  a  little,  in  the  woodwind,  it  grows  in  emphasis,  and  a  rather  strong  and  in- 
sistent accompaniment  in  the  strings  gives  it  still  more  assertiveness.  Its  character 
changes,  gradually  but  completely  until  we  can  scarcely  recognize  it  as  the  under- 
lying thought  in  the  swelling  torrent  of  tone  to  which  it  has  given  the  initial 
impetus.  There  are  fierce  thrusts  of  sound  from  one  section  of  the  orchestra  and 
another,  driven  along  by  an  irregular,  syncopated,  but  powerful  rhythm.  In  this 
marked  syncopation,  and  in  the  flying  scales  which  the  composer  draws  across  and 
through  the  main  texture  of  the  orchestral  utterance,  we  note  two  striking  char- 
acteristics of  Tchaikovsky's  music  which  are  frequently  and  most  strikingly  exhibited 
in  this  symphony. 

Another  thought,  a  bit  pensive,  yet  hopeful,  detaches  itself  from  the  main 
body  of  the  music  toward  the  end  of  the  first  division  of  the  movement.  The  clari- 
net utters  it  ...  the  dryly  humorous,  half-pathetic,  half-sardonic  bassoon  repeats  it 
imitatively.  More  definite,  as  the  second  section  begins,  this  idea  takes  shape  as  it  is 
molded  in  tone  once  more  by  bassoon  and  clarinet.  New  fragments  of  loveliest 
melody  mysteriously  materialize  from  the  nebulous  and  plastic  material  the  com- 
poser puts  before  us.  The  clarinet  diffidently  intrudes  with  a  gentle  little  song, 


PIOTR    ILYICH     TCHAIKOVSKY 


569 

strings  supplying  a  diaphanous  accompaniment  in  the  background,  and  flutes,  above, 
showering  little  cascades  of  glittering  notes  upon  the  curving  outlines  of  the  wood- 
wind's song. 


Two,  and  sometimes  three,  melodies  are  created,  move,  and  have  their  being 
simultaneously;  and  so  deftly  the  composer  writes,  that  while  these  lovely  songs 
progress,  while  they  are  perfectly  blended,  one  with  the  other,  they  nevertheless  can 
be  followed  as  certainly  through  the  wondrous  fabric  of  the  music  as  one  traces  a 
bright  thread  through  the  warp  and  woof  of  a  colorful  tapestry. 

Presently  the  composer  abandons  the  somewhat  elaborated  counterpoint  in 
order  to  demonstrate  its  antithesis.  Now  he  permits  us  to  hear  one  of  the  loveliest, 
and  strangest,  episodes  in  the  symphony — a  solo  for  strings,  with  contrasting  wood- 
wind, and  accompaniment  solely  by  timpani.  Here  is  one  of  the  most  charming,  and 
the  most  striking,  examples  in  all  music  of  the  subtlety,  the  versatility,  and  the 
eloquence  of  that  frequently  underestimated  instrument,  the  kettledrum.  The 
velvety  quality  of  tone,  the  definite  pitch,  the  inimitable  rhythmic  effect  of  this 
instrument,  under  the  hands  of  an  artist,  are  things  to  delight  in  and  to  wonder  at. 

The  almost  mesmeric  calm  invited  by  the  preceding  passage  endures  but 
briefly.  Succeeding  it  after  a  space  comes  one  of  the  thrilling  climaxes  of  the  sym- 
phony— a  climax  compounded  of  all  the  rhythmic  and  melodic  elements  that  have 
been  introduced;  a  climax  that  reaches  its  zenith  in  an  awe-inspiring  remembrance 
of  the  warning  call  that  introduced  the  symphony.  The  trumpets  put  forth  bright 
tongues  of  tone;  the  horns,  somewhat  veiled  and  ominous,  repeat  the  figure  in 
harmony.  And  the  swift  rhythm  goes  on  once  more. 

Now  thunderous  basses  urge  the  orchestra  onward  .  .  .  fragments  of  melody 
are  reviewed  .  .  .  impatiently  discarded  .  .  .  discovered  once  more.  Emotional  in- 
tensity reaches  a  new  degree  of  stringency.  Striking  through  the  whirling  masses 
of  tone,  the  warning  of  horn  and  trumpet  leaps  defiantly  out  from  and  above  the 
combined  might  of  a  hundred  instruments ...  yet  finally  the  unbidden  thought  of 
terror  and  strife  is  thrust  aside,  and  the  peaceful  if  pensive  song  of  the  woodwind 
returns. 

As  the  final  section  of  the  movement  begins,  the  duet  of  strings  and  timpani, 
with  the  contrasting  song  in  woodwind,  appears  again,  but  with  a  more  agitated 
spirit  than  before,  with  the  suggestion  of  disturbances  to  come,  with  the  full  mighty 


570  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

force  of  the  orchestra  lingering  on  the  brink  of  utterance.  Nor  does  this  imminent 
utterance  wait  long.  It  bursts  suddenly  in  a  flood  of  tone,  vigorous,  strongly  syn- 
copated, compelling.  There  is  a  brief  rehearsal  of  old  thematic  material,  and  the 
final  climax  slowly  unfolds. 

Second  Movement 

The  task  of  the  symphonic  composer  is  a  gigantic  one,  and  one  beset  with 
countless  difficulties.  The  symphony  that  is  conceived  in  his  heart,  that  lives  its 
gestative  period  in  his  intelligence,  that  is  born  under  his  hand,  must  not  only  com- 
municate to  his  audience  a  sequence  of  emotional  states.  It  must  either  be  brought 
within  the  range  of  existing  means  of  expression,  or  those  means  must  be  expanded 
to  such  dimensions  as  to  render  them  adequate  to  make  clear  his  meanings.  Again, 
the  discipline  that  is  the  soul  of  art  must  be  observed.  Principles  of  structure  are  as 
necessary  to  music  as  to  architecture,  and  by  them  the  musical,  as  well  as  the  mate- 
rial, edifice  stands  or  falls. 

No  matter  what  storms  of  the  spirit  assail  him,  the  composer  must  coolly  cal- 
culate to  a  nicety  the  degree  of  response  he  can  exact  from  his  hearers.  He  must 
make  his  meanings  clear  if  he  wishes  to  create  in  his  audience  the  emotional  state 
they  have  begotten  in  his  own  soul;  he  must  bring  this  idea  into  relief,  subdue  that 
one.  And  he  must  never  ask  of  his  listeners  the  utmost  of  excitement  for  a  period 
longer  than  they  can  sustain  it.  It  is  natural,  then,  that  the  second  movement  of 
the  symphony,  after  the  prolonged  and  exigent  spiritual  demands  of  the  first,  should 
be  pitched  on  a  lower  and  contrasting  plane  of  emotion. 

If  the  first  movement  represents,  as  it  might,  a  temporary  triumph  over,  or  a 
putting  aside  of,  a  troubled  mood,  the  second  may  be  considered  as  derived  from 
a  feeling  of  relief.  Emotional  tension  is  relaxed;  there  is  weariness,  almost  lethargy, 
but  yet  a  keen  consciousness  of  terrors  held  in  abeyance.  The  pulse  of  the  music, 
underlying  the  larmoyant  voice  of  the  oboe  as  the  movement  begins,  is  measured 
and  slow  ,  .  .  and  yet  of  such  vitality  that  the  strings  presently  themselves  take 
up  the  oboe's  sweet  lament.  There  comes  a  more  cheerful,  upward  inflection  of 


the  violins,  stronger  as  they  are  doubled  with  the  other  strings;  there  is  a  growth 
in  power  and  emphasis  and  sonority.  And,  when  the  violas  presently  take  up  the 
suave  opening  strain,  there  are  gay  little  decorative  figures  in  violin  and  woodwind. 
The  optimistic  spirit  grows  in  power  until  presently  it  is  quite  dominating.  A 
more  lively  figure,  like  a  grotesque  sort  of  dance,  appears  toward  the  end  of  the 
first  half  of  the  movement,  its  low-pitched  but  lilting  strain  assigned  to  bassoon  and 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  571 

clarinet,  its  rhythm  to  strings.  Presently  the  strings  themselves  sing  the  tune  in 
smoother  accent,  and  the  brighter  woodwinds  suggest  even  gayer  spirits.  Like 
spreading  light  the  melody  and  rhythm  color  all  the  orchestra,  and  a  magnificent 
growth  in  sonority  a'ccompanies  the  gradual  addition  of  instrumental  forces  until  a 
splendid  climax  is  reached. 

The  outburst  of  gay  spirit  is  brief.  The  opening  theme,  weary  but  not  too  sad, 
returns  again,  with  flashes  of  brightness  from  the  flute  illuminating  its  otherwise 
shadowy  colors.  The  movement  closes  in  serenity. 

Third  Movement 

Tchaikovsky's  marvelous  dexterity  in  the  use  of  scales,  in  the  invention  of 
syncopated  rhythms,  and  his  love  for  the  tone  of  the  plucked  string  are  given  full 
play  in  the  present  symphony,  and  nowhere  more  than  in  the  present  movement. 
Here  is  one  of  the  most  charming,  bright,  and  ingenious  passages  in  all  his  music. 
There  is  scarcely  a  shadow  in  it  j  all  is  life,  and  brilliance,  and  humor. 

The  pizzicato  string  gives  forth,  or  can  give  forth,  a  variety  of  emotional 
suggestions.  In  the  third  movement  of  the  monumental  Fifth  Symphony  of  Bee- 
thoven, the  string  orchestra  speaks  ominously  „  .  .  suggests  the  restless  pacing  of 
some  giant,  incredible  beast  lurking  in  impenetrable  shadows.  In  the  second  move- 
ment of  the  Schubert  "Unfinished"  it  touches  the  depths  of  sadness  and  longing. 
In  Tchaikovsky's  own  Fifth  (at  the  close  of  the  first  movement)  a  progression  of 
notes  plucked,  as  if  from  reluctant  strings,  seems  to  mark  the  departure  of  loved 
ones  into  cavernous  gloom.  And  here,  Tchaikovsky  uses  the  same  device  to  mirror 
gaiety  that  is  nothing  less  than  exuberant. 


Incidentally,  here  is  a  temptation  that  the  merely  virtuoso  conductor  rarely 
can  resist,  for  the  movement,  if  taken  at  a  tempo  much  faster  than  that  justified  by 
judgment  and  good  taste,  is  regarded  by  the  uninitiate  as  an  astounding  tour  de 
force.  Indeed,  to  whip  the  rhythm  and  tempo  to  breathless  speed  does  require  tech- 
nical facility  of  no  mean  order  on  the  part  of  the  orchestra — but  consequent  distor- 
tion of  melodic  line  and  burlesquing  of  the  composer's  intention  constitute  a  price 
much  too  dear  to  pay  for  mere  display.  A  properly  tempered,  restrained,  and 
subtly  molded  playing  of  this  movement  is  a  joy  to  hear.  The  rhythm  is  quick,  vital, 
and  distinctly  marked;  impeccable  intonation  from  the  strings,  beautifully  rounded 
phrasing,  and  full  justice  to  the  subtle  modifications  of  rhythm  of  which  the  move- 
ment is  capable  are  all  elements  which  can  combine  in  one  of  the  most  delightful 
passages  in  symphonic  music. 


572  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  opening  theme  is  tossed  about  like  a  bubble  in  the  hands  of  woodland 
sprites  at  play  ,  .  .  dainty  bits  of  melody  flicker  like  will-o'-the-wisps,  and  are  gone 
.  .  *  and  a  lightfooted  rhythm  keeps  the  plucked  notes  flying  like  sparks.  Up  and 
down  the  scale,  and  up  again,  to  rest  for  a  moment  on  a  shining  note  of  the  oboe. 
And  this  little  pause  is  but  the  starting  place  for  another  lighthearted  little  song, 
such  as  might  accompany  children's  games  in  the  garden.  Other  woodwinds  join  in 
the  merry  play  and,  after  a  space,  the  brass  gives  out  a  little  subject  that  suggests 
toy  soldiers  marching  across  the  grass,  with  a  miniature  fanfare  of  the  piccolo  to 
make  them  "stand  up  straight." 


And  in  a  moment  the  original  pizzicato  section  returns,  with  more  vigor  and 
sparkle  than  ever,  with  even  more  sublety  of  phrasing  and  nicety  of  accent,  But 
now  the  strings  invite  brass  and  woodwind  to  join  their  own  revel  .  .  .  and 
strangely,  subtly,  ominously  almost,  there  is  a  sudden  fierce  climax  that  we  are  to 
encounter  later  as  a  striking  feature  of  the  final  movement.  In  a  moment,  the 
vehement  utterance  passes  5  there  is  a  parting  flicker  of  humor  as  the  brasses  mimic 
and  burlesque  the  tiny  pompousness  of  toy  soldiers;  and  the  plucked  strings  end 
the  movement  in  a  lightfooted  rush  of  notes. 

Fourth  Movement 

Nowhere  in  symphonic  music  is  there  a  display  of  orchestral  forces  more  mag- 
nificent than  this  overpowering  movement.  Here  every  instrument  in  the  orchestra 
is  asked  for  its  utmost  in  dynamic  contrast,  in  agility,  in  sheer  power.  Here,  too, 
the  outstanding  characteristics  of  Tchaikovsky  are  exhibited  with  powerful  emphasis 
and  with  brilliance  of  effort  not  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  his  writings. 

Happily,  his  outstanding  spiritual  characteristic — melancholy — is  not  so  ex- 
hibited. Did  this  symphony  follow  the  lines  of  the  Fifth  and  Sixth,  we  should  have 
the  joyous  spirits  of  the  preceding  movement  put  to  flight  by  a  storm  of  baffied 
rage,  an  agony  of  melancholy,  and  an  abandonment  to  despair.  The  fourth  move- 
ment is,  rather,  the  final  justification  and  confirmation  of  the  brightening  spirits 
that  have  moved  throughout  the  symphony  ever  since  the  close  of  the  first  section. 
In  the  first  movement,  the  shadows,  the  warnings,  the  menaces  that  seemed  to 
hang  imminent  over  the  music  were  ignored,  thrust  aside,  forgotten.  The  second 
movement  suggested  rest  after  conflict;  the  third,  carefree  joy;  and  the  fourth  is  a 
magnificent  affirmation  of  the  fact  that  triumph  is  complete,  emphatic,  and  secure. 

The  entire  orchestra  bursts  into  a  furious,  a  vehement  utterance  at  the  very 
opening  of  the  movement.  Strings  and  woodwind  rush  fiercely  down  long  scales; 


PIOTR    IJLYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  573 

brass  and  drum  utter  their  boldest,  and  a  mighty  clashing  of  the  cymbals  is  like  a 
lancehead  that  flashes  at  the  head  of  the  great  concourse  of  sound.  Again  the  head- 
long rush  of  tone,  and,  after  a  tentative  utterance  of  plucked  cellos  and  basses,  the 
first  theme  is  given  out  in  flute,  clarinet,  and  bassoon.  This  theme  is  directly  derived 
from  an  old  Russian  folk  tune  that  every  peasant  knows.  Its  somewhat  dark  colors 


are  fiercely  denied  by  an  antithetical  outburst  of  the  strings,  and  in  sharp  altercation 
the  two  instrumental  groups  lead  once  more  to  the  all-powerful  utterance  that 
opened  the  movement.  Now  a  new  thought — a  broader,  still  mightier  phrase, 
rudely  altering,  by  its  syncopation,  the  prevailing  rhythm  of  the  music — enters  and 
leads  to  a  climax  of  stupendous  sonority  and  power. 

Stubbornly,  yet  with  no  emphasis  other  than  that  which  a  restrained  and 
tempered  utterance  always  carries,  the  little  minor  subject  so  brusquely  thrust  aside 
a  few  moments  ago  re-enters.  The  orchestra  is  held  in  check,  as  it  were,  listening. 
The  contrasting  subject  presents  itself  in  various  guises — in  oboe,  thin  and  insinuat- 
ing; in  the  pensive  flute;  in  horn,  in  sonorous  trombone,  in  mighty  bass;  in  tearful 
woodwind  once  again;  and  ever  the  lighter  strings  deride,  sneer,  make  sport  of  it, 
and  at  length  convert  it  into  a  figure  leading  directly  to  another  overwhelming 
•  pronouncement  of  the  triumphant  music  that  began  the  movement. 

But,  as  the  second  section  of  the  movement  opens,  we  find  that  the  disturbing 
thought  of  sadness,  by  its  very  persistence,  has  engaged,  the  attention  of  the  strings, 
too.  Yet  they  rob  it  of  melancholy  suggestion;  they  make  of  it  a  suave  and  gracious 
utterance;  they  grow  lyrical,  and  severe  melodic  lines  are  ornamented  with  glitter- 
ing cascades  of  tone  from  the  flute. 

However  the  sad  little  theme  is  treated  by  the  gusty  fanfares  of  the  orchestra, 
it  persists  .  .  .  persists  until^  strangely,  with  a  significance  that  gives  pause,  the 
dreadful  warning  that  opened  the  whole  symphony  returns.  There  is  a  space  during 
which  the  situation  hangs  in  the  balance.  Will  melancholy  triumph  .  .  .  have  those 
magnificent  outbursts  of  exuberance  been  premature,  after  all?  But  no  ...  the 
horns  subtly  inject  a  recollection  of  the  joyous  music  that  began  this  movement,  A 
few  instruments  catch  the  significance  of  this  utterance  ...  it  is  repeated,  and  its 
meaning  permeates  the  whole  orchestra.  A  powerful  reminiscence  of  the  mad 
music  that  occurred  near  the  close  of  the  third  movement,  and  once  more  the 
entire  orchestra  plunges  deliriously  into  the  fury  of  joy  and  exaltation  in  which  the 
final  movement  was  born. 


574  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Symphony  No.  5  in  E  minor 

TCHAIKOVSKY'S  Symphony  No.  5  will  probably  always  share  honors  with  the  Sixth, 
or  "Pathitique"  as  his  most  popular  symphonic  work,  and  with  his  Fourth  and 
Sixth  as  his  greatest.  It  embodies  many  of  the  qualities  of  the  other  two,  yet  is  per- 
haps somewhat  less  clearly  defined  in  emotional  pitch  than  either  of  them.  Its  joy 
is  never  exuberant,  like  the  mighty  finale  of  the  Fourth;  its  shadows  of  gloom  are 
not  so  darkly  painted  as  those  of  the  "Pathetique" 

The  symphony  presents  several  departures  from  conventional  form,  the  most 
notable  being  the  third  movement.  This  part  of  the  work  is  a  waltz,  rather  than 
the  classical  scherzo,  and  is  an  interruption  of  and  distraction  from  the  emotional 
plane  of  the  preceding  and  following  movements.  Tchaikovsky  never  sought  bizarre 
efforts  for  their  intrinsic  appeal,  nor  did  he  violate  accepted  canons  of  form  simply 
as  a  bold  gesture;  on  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  use  whatever  means  his 
message  seemed  to  require,  regardless  of  convention. 

First  Movement 

Melancholy  is  in  some  respects  the  most  beautiful  of  human  emotions.  Tchai- 
kovsky alone  of  all  the  great  composers  seemed  to  have  fully  understood  and  to 
have  given  most  eloquent  expression  to  its  sad  and  mystical  loveliness.  Purified  of 
ugliness  and  hatefulness  in  the  marvelous  alembic  of  his  music,  it  is  not  the  dull 
gloom  that  weighs  down  a  soul  by  sheer  oppressiveness;  rather  it  glows,  darkly 
and  richly,  as  royal  metal  tried  in  the  flame. 

You  feel  this  quality  in  the  very  first  measures.  The  first  subject,  pronounced 
without  prelude  in  the  reedily  sweet  voice  of  the  clarinets,  is  sad, 'yet  its  continual 


gentle  but  firm  movement  suggests  a  driving  force,  temporarily  vitiated,  perhaps, 
but  with  a  promise  of  a  new  influx  of  power.  Viola,  cello,  and  double  bass  accom- 
pany the  first  phrase  of  the  theme,  with  the  addition  of  the  brighter  second  violin 
in  the  responsive  sentence.  There  is  something  mesmeric  in  the  mysterious  associa- 
tion of  stirring  life  and  deadly  gloom  in  these  passages;  it  is  as  if  a  sleeper  moved 
restlessly  under  the  oppression  of  a  dream  of  terror,  then  relapsed  again  into  trou- 
bled slumber. 

There  is  a  subtle  change  in  rhythm  now,  with  the  entire  string  section  softly 
yet  with  ponderous  weight  intoning  a  swaying  figure  like  the  stealthy  pacing  of 


PIOTR     ILYICH     TCHAIKOVSKY  575 

some  huge  and  menacing  creature.  Against  this  new  rhythm  the  clarinet  appears 
with  a  second  theme,  now  reinforced  yet  shadowed  by  the  somber  note  of  the 


bassoon.  With  delicate  syncopation,  and  an  always  upward  inflection,  the  new  sub- 
ject proceeds  with  growing  brightness.  Presently  the  flutes  are  added,  doubling  with 
the  clarinet  for  a  phrase  or  two,  whereupon  the  subject  is  transferred  to  the  strings 
with  bright  and  pathetic  figures  of  the  flute,  like  coursing  tears,  playing  over  it. 
Now  the  struggle  begins  as  the  somnolent  spirit  writhes  and  heaves  under  the 
incubus  of  melancholy.  Between  crushing  masses  of  tone  that  seem  to  strike  at  each 
other  from  different  sections  of  the  orchestra  the  simple  syncopated  subject  persists 
and  cannot  be  entirely  obliterated  in  the  furious  duel  raging  about  it.  From  horns 
and  again  from  the  strings  it  comes  with  increasing  boldness,  to  disappear  only  at 
'the  pinnacle  of  the  climax  for  which  preparation  is  being  made. 

The  vehemence  that  marks  the  composer's  utterance  here  is  not  like  the  wild- 
ness  of  despair  that  so  often  rings  out  in  the  almost  intolerably  sad  measures  of  the 
"Pathetique" ;  rather  we  have  here  a  war  cry,  an  expression  of  resentment  and 
fierce  defiance  of  the  powers  of  darkness  almost  explosive  in  its  violence.  Enfolded 
in  the  warm,  dark  robes  of  melancholy,  the  spirit  had  almost  failed,  but  now,  with 
a  heroic  effort,  it  rouses  itself  in  a  thrilling,  almost  frenzied  burst  of  energy  as  it 
tears  and  disentangles  itself  from  the  trailing  weeds  of  woe. 

Hardly  has  the  orchestra,  the  full  powers  of  which  are  required  in  the  first 
few  measures,  given  forth  its  message  of  defiant  courage  when  a  moment  of  pure 
lyric  feeling  appears.  The  first  violins,  accompanied  by  the  remainder  of  the  string 
choir,  intone  a  lovely  if  fragmentary  melody,  with  bassoon  and  clarinet  in  the 
antiphonal  phrase  against  a  descending  scale  on  pizzicato  strings.  There  is  some 
development  of  this  idea,  with  more  and  more  brilliance  and  then  a  sudden  fading 
of  light  as  the  ghostly  voices  of  the  horns  come  uppermost.  But  an  incisive  chord 
is  plucked  from  the  whole  string  section,  ushering  in  a  new  figure  for  the  wood- 
wind— %  figure  that  suggests  the  quick-drawn,  panting  breath  of  a  desperate  war- 
rior struggling  for  very  life.  Presently,  in  clear  contrast,  there  is  an  answering  sen- 
tence in  the  strings,  the  string  and  woodwind  figures  alternating  in  two-bar  passages 
until  at  last  the  violins  become  uppermost  in  a  beautiful  cantabile. 

The  present  portion  of  the  work  is  one  of  swiftly  moving  episodes.  Panting 
weariness,  awakening,  defiance,  travail,  and  momentary  surcease  have  hitherto  been 
depicted  in  musical  color;  presently  the  struggle  is  resumed  with  renewed  vigor. 
It  is  as  if  the  spirit  beat  with  bruised  wings  against  the  impregnable  barriers  of  time 
and  circumstance — vainly,  but  never  entirely  without  hope.  Masses  of  tone  almost 


576  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

terrible  in  might  and  splendor  come  swiftly,  and  toward  the  end  there  are  combina- 
tions as  well  as  separate  appearances  of  several  subjects  already  heard  in  the  move- 
ment, notably  the  marchlike  rhythm  against  a  figure  based  on  the  principal  theme, 
and  the  short  sentence  for  the  horns  which  has  been  put  forward  at  intervals. 

A  return  to  the  principal  theme  is  intimated  as  the  music  proceeds,  such  a  re- 
turn being  of  course  in  consistency  with  the  sonata  form. 

Its  statement  and  the  development  of  figures  contingent  upon  and  succeeding 
it  are  much  the  same  as  in  the  first  section.  Yet  there  is  more  energy,  more  decision, 
as  the  chief  theme  is  resumed;  its  elaborations  are  stated  with  greater  determina- 
tion than  before.  Phrases  of  contrasting  color  and  emotional  character — one  bold, 
powerful,  vivid,  the  other  gentler  and  in  the  pastel  tints  of  the  woodwind — are 
now  heard  alternately,  and  then  the  entire  orchestra,  as  if  in  impatience,  rushes 
headlong  into  the  swift,  marchlike  rhythm  which  has  appeared  several  times  in 
preceding  portions  of  the  movement. 

The  eerie  voice  of  the  faintly  blown  horn  utters  once  more  its  soft  complaint, 
and  again  is  answered  tremulously  by  the  strings.  Then  from  the  very  hearts  of 
the  violins,  from  first  to  double  bass,  is  plucked  a  single  chord — the  signal  for  a 
new  burst  of  life  and  vigor  in  the  entire  orchestra.  Pizzicati  flutter  for  a  moment 
like  shining  wings,  and  wind  and  stringed  instruments  are  again  engaged  in  a 
strange  dialogue,  the  utterances  of  the  former  in  labored  suspirations,  the  latter  sure 
and  smooth  and  confident  in  their  brief  antiphonal. 

From  this  point  onward  the  music  rises  to  a  repetition  of  a  climax  terrible  in 
its  intensity  and  sheer  power.  But  at  the  end,  the  deep  and  ominous  mutterings  of 
the  double  bass  cast  a  shadow  over  all. 

Second  Movement 

Seven  measures  of  harmonies  deep  and  rich  and  solemn  in  the  strings  prepare 
for  the  utterance,  as  an  important  subject  of  the  second  movement,  of  one  of 
music's  loveliest  melodies — one  of  the  rare  songs  that  pierce  the  inmost  places  of  the 
heart;  a  languishing  melody,  burdened  with  nameless  longings,  poignant  with 
yearning,  yet  having  within  itself  the  element  of  joy  and  courage  and  hope,  in  the 
midst  of  sadness,  that  is  the  emotional  keynote  of  the  Fifth  Symphony.  To  the 


weirdly  beautiful  voice  of  the  horn  the  exquisite  song  is  given;  ethereally  it  floats 
above  the  gentle  intonations  of  the  strings  like  moonlight  over  misty  waters,  with 
now  a  flicker  of  light,  now  a  pale  ephemeral  glow,  and  always  with  life  and  motion. 


PIOTR     ILYICH     TCHAIKOVSKY  577 

We  have  learned  to  seek  and  find  in  the  drama  the  assuagement  of  the  grief 
and  terror  of  the  protagonist,  and  the  purgation  of  those  emotions  as  they  are  pro- 
duced in  the  soul  of  the  spectator.  Tchaikovsky  in  the  present  work,  and  partic- 
ularly in  the  present  movement,  achieves  an  analogous  effect.  The  utter  longing, 
the  bittersweetness  of  melancholy,  are  expressed  in  eloquent  accents,  albeit  without 
the  astonishing  candor  of  the  Sixth  Symphony's  complete  surrender  to  despair. 
Here  Tchaikovsky  is  more  reticent,  more  reserved,  and  therefore  even  more  elo- 
quent— yes,  the  note  of  sadness  is  keener  than  in  the  "Pathetique,"  if  only  because 
of  the  contrasting  note  of  hope. 

The  antithesis  of  the  first  theme  appears  now,  after  a  short  transitional  pas- 
sage, in  the  first  violins,  with  the  other  strings  and  the  entire  woodwind  section  in 


the  accompaniment.  Presently  certain  sinister  utterances  of  the  bass  presage  changes 
in  the  prevailing  sentiment — changes  which  the  following  section  of  the  move- 
ment will  reveal. 

That  a  climax  is  imminent  is  suggested  in  the  more  powerful  movement,  the 
increasing  agitation,  the  more  emphatic  voices  of  the  orchestra.  Woodwind  and 
strings  in  turn  color  with  their  various  interpretations  a  figure  much  like  that  first 
heard  in  the  clarinet  and  again  in  the  bassoon,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  exposition 
the  first  violins  interrupt  with  delirious  spirals  of  tone  that  whirl  upward,  through 
and  above  the  heavier  masses  of  sound,  hesitating  and  again  circling  upward  as  if 
seeking  a  moment's  resting  place.  Nor  indeed  is  that  resting  place  found,  for  after 
a  few  chromatic  phrases,  the  brass,  so  long  restrained,  bursts  the  bonds  of  silence 
and  speaks  suddenly  and  with  fierce  emphasis,  obliterating  the  thin  voice  of  the 
strings  in  its  commanding  power  and  majesty.  The  full  powers  of  the  orchestra  are 
now  invoked;  the  war  cry  of  the  powers  of  darkness,  the  demoniacal  laughter  of 
the  spirits  of  mad  despair,  ring  brazen  in  defiant  finality. 

But  it  is  not  finality  for  the  irrepressible  spirit  of  hope  that  can  be  felt  in  nearly 
every  measure  of  the  symphony's  first  two  movements.  There  is  a  sudden  pause,  a 
hesitation  in  a  slow  and  terrible  march  of  tremendous  notes  in  both  lighter  strings 
and  double  bass,  that  conjures  up  again  the  vision  of  some  Gargantuan  creature 
striding  toward  its  victim.  A  pause,  and  the  exquisite  melody  of  hopeful  longing 
returns;  a  melody  that  sings  a  "pleasure  that  is  all  but  pain" — now  in  the  vibrant 
strings,  with  the  tearful  oboe  in  the  answering  cadence  above.  In  the  background, 
yet  full  of  menace,  comes  the  heavy  pulse  of  the  plucked  double  bass,  the  cello,  the 
viola,  and  the  violins  of  the  second  section,  yet  bravely  the  first  violins  sing  on, 
carrying  their  melody  against  both  the  threat  of  the  dark  utterances  in  the  bass 


578  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

and  the  glitter  of  tears  dropped  by  the  woodwind  from  above.  Almost  imperceptibly 
the  chief  elements  of  the  present  portion  of  the  movement  are  being  gradually  com- 
bined, until  of  a  sudden  we  are  led  into  passages  of  most  skillful  counterpoint  into 
the  texture  of  which  the  colors  of  the  horn,  the  bassoon,  the  oboe,  and  clarinet, 
and  the  violins  have  been  marvelously  woven.  Here,  Tchaikovsky  has  not  only  art- 
fully combined  the  voices  of  a  variety  of  instruments,  but  at  the  same  time  has 
presented  simultaneously  the  motives  of  gently  persistent  hope,  of  tears  and  tempta- 
tion to  despair,  and  of  menace  and  terror  that  would  crush  hope — all  engaged  in  a 
quietly  fierce  struggle,  the  outcome  of  which  for  a  time  remains  in  doubt. 

There  is  a  session  of  stormy  music.  Rising  to  a  climax  of  almost  terrifying' 
power  the  tempest  of  tone  pours  6ut  its  final  violence  on  a  quick  succession  of 
chords  that  hesitate  and  then  are  silent;  a  small  voice  from  the  woodwind  gives 
evidence  that  the  brighter  theme  still  survives,  and  presently  we  hear,  more  gentle 
and  more  appealing  than  ever,  the  last  statement  of  the  chief  theme  of  the  move- 
ment. The  string  choir  divides  into  three  sections,  one  composed  of  violins  and 
violas  entering  into  the  theme  in  canon  form,  with  the  second  section — cellos  and 
second  violins — giving  back  the  same  figure  in  their  deeper  voices,  while  under- 
neath all,  the  third  section,  composed  of  double  basses  alone,  sends  forth  deep  but 
plangent  notes  from  its  gently  plucked  strings.  The  brass  is  silent  in  defeat,  but 
the  woodwind  chants  softly  in  rhythmical  triplets. 

Like  one  falling  into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  the  melody  sinks  into  deeper  and 
deeper  tones;  its  final  phrase  is  sung  once  by  each  section  of  the  string  choir,  violin, 
second  violin,  viola,  cello,  until  it  reaches  the  sonorous  double  bass.  Here,  after  a 
final  flicker  of  lambent  light  from  the  clarinet's  mellow  reed,  it  ends  in  silence. 

Third  Movement 

The  emotional  exhaustion  suggested  in  the  latter  part  of  the  preceding  move- 
ment is  something  more  than  a  mere  figure  of  speech.  The  heartstrings,  like  nerves, 
become  fatigued  and  unresponsive  if  too  violently  or  if  incessantly  played  upon. 
Tchaikovsky,  therefore,  at  the  precise  moment  when  he  is  suggesting  exhaustion 
as  well  as  causing  it  in  sensitive  listeners  by  the  sustained  intensity  of  the  second 
movement,  now  provides  a  welcome  and  charming  distraction  in  the  third.  The 
use  of  the  waltz  rhythm  in  symphonic  writing  is  not  common,  chiefly  because  it 
does  not  readily  lend  itself  either  to  the  classical  sonata  form  or  to  the  expression 
of  profound  feeling,  but  these  very  facts  provide  reasons  for  its  introduction  here 
in  the  third  movement  of  the  symphony.  There  is  no  attempt  to  invest  the  waltz — 
and  it  is  nothing  more — with  any  deep  significance,  there  is  no  spur  to  the  emotions, 
already  jaded  after  the  soul  struggles  of  the  second  movement. 

Contrarfly,  the  urbanity  of  the  principal  theme,  introduced  without  prelude 
as  the  movement  opens,  is  soothing  to  the  senses  and  gently  stimulating  intellec- 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  579 

tually.  Strings,  horns,  and  bassoons  appear  in  the  first  presentation  of  the  melody — 


the  theme  itself  being  assigned  to  the  first  violin,  with  the  other  strings  supplying 
a  pizzicato  accompaniment,  and  woodwind  punctuating  the  measure  with  gently 
blown  chords.  Though  always  the  swaying  three-beat  rhythm  is  maintained,  the 
composer  brings  to  it  a  variety  of  orchestration  and  a  skillful  play  of  internal 
movements  that  are  really  fascinating. 

So  it  is  that  the  first  arrangement  of  the  thematic  material  and  its  accompani- 
ment does  not  endure  for  long.  The  viola  presently  has  a  fragment,  the  woodwind 
answers  in  countermelodies,  and  then  oboes,  with  horns,  doubled,  have  a  short  solo 
— all  these  episodes  based  on  the  first  melody  of  the  movement. 

The  nervous  intensity  produced  in  the  first  and  second  movements  has  now 
been  thoroughly  relaxed.  Such  was  the  primary  purpose  of  the  present  portion  of 
the  symphony — but  there  was  a  further  one,  and  that  was  to  prepare  for  the  final 
movement,  not  only  by  distracting  the  attention  for  a  moment  from  the  emotional 
stress  of  the  first  movement,  but  to  suggest,  without  intruding,  the  somber  thought 
that  underlies  the  whole  work. 

Just  as  in  the  merriest  rout  it  is  always  possible  to  detect  a  hidden  note  of 
melancholy;  just  as  in  the  happiest  moments  there  sometimes  come  the  ghosts  of 
griefs,  more  anguishing  for  the  contrast,  so,  near  the  end  of  this  pleasant  space 
in  the  symphony,  the  first  important  theme  of  the  entire  work,  taken  from  the  first 
movement,  insinuates  itself  into  the  music,  the  clarinet  shrouded  in  the  shadowy 
tones  of  the  bassoon.  For  a  moment  the  lilt  of  the  waltz  seems  distant,  faint,  unreal, 
as  the  sober  reminder  of  the  troubled  past  hangs  nebulously  above  it — now  some- 
what brighter  in  rhythm,  to  be  sure,  and  in  the  major  mode  where  first  it  came 
in  the  minor,  but  awful  in  its  significance,  nevertheless. 

There  is  but  a  moment  of  gloomy  retrospection,  however.  Subtly  the  intoxi- 
cating rhythm  of  the  waltz  reasserts  itself ;  a  few  bars  of  chords,  quaintly  synco- 
pated, and  then  a  final  fanfare  that  speaks  of  determined  cheerfulness.  So  the 
movement  ends. 

Fourth  Movement 

The  final  movement  of  the  Fifth  Symphony  presents  a  number  of  interesting 
features,  some  of  them  entirely  new,  some  the  resultants  of  what  has  gone  before. 
In  the  first  section  of  the  movement  at  least,  there  fe  a  complete  change  in  tbe 
character  of  the  music,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  opening  theme  is  nothing  but 
the  principal  subject  of  the  first  movement.  It  appears  disguised  so-mewbat  in  3 


580  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

new  orchestration,  and  brightened  by  transposition  from  the  minor  to  the  major 
mode.  The  change  from  the  minor  to  the  major  effects  a  wonderful  transformation 
in  the  significance  of  this  theme.  Where  first  it  spoke  of  soul  desolation  and  melan- 

fi-ndarrfe  ma**teo  ^ 

*  •        •  *  —  *m**^-mm 


choly,  those  emotions  now  seem  in  the  heat  of  the  struggles  which  have  passed  to 
have  been  purified,  sublimated  into  a  calm  religious  joy.  Even  the  underlying  slow 
march,  that  once  suggested  the  irresistible  advance  of  a  destroying  monster,  has 
now  become  a  solemn  ecclesiastical  rhythm,  marking  the  slow  procession  of  peaceful 
thought  that  moves  across  the  scene. 

The  orchestration,  too,  has  been  subtly  altered  to  lend  the  appropriate  color 
to  the  present  moment.  Where  once  were  crawling  shades  of  gloom,  now  falls 
"a  dim  religious  light."  Even  in  the  rhythms  one  feels  subtle  but  significant  changes 
— the  development  of  the  latent  vitality  dimly  perceptible  in  the  original  theme  at 
its  very  first  appearance. 

In  its  most  solemnly  joyous  moments  the  music  is  nevertheless  undergoing  a 
continual  change.  There  is  a  feeling  that  the  relief  and  joy,  after  the  emotional 
stress  of  the  first  two  movements,  are  too  new,  too  powerful,  too  exuberant  to  be 
contained  within  the  stately  measures  of  the  present  portion  of  the  work.  Even 
while  the  brass  calls  out  a  summons  to  thanksgiving  and  prayerful  utterance,  a 
brighter,  more  thrillingly  vital  motive  is  taking  form  from  the  elements  already 
introduced  into  the  symphony.  The  heavy  dignity  of  the  dominating  religious  note 
keeps  down  the  less  serious  thought  for  a  while,  but  after  a  period  filled  with 
alternating  long-drawn  chords  in  brass  or  woodwind,  or  both,  against  tripleted 
figures  in  the  strings,  there  is  a  return  to  the  key  of  E  minor.  In  keeping  with  the 
structural  laws  of  symphonic  writing,  the  music  has  returned  to  the  original  tonality 
of  the  first  movement,  but  not  to  the  depressed  spirit  of  that  portion  of  the  work. 
On  the  contrary,  the  bright,  almost  dancelike  subject  introduced  with  the  change 
in  key  persists  in  its  exhilaration  and  vitality. 

All  the  barbaric  splendors  of  Tartary  burst  forth  in  blazing  color  and  exotic 
rhythms,  as  vivid  and  irregular  in  form  as  a  gigantic  pyrotechnical  display  against 
a  midnight  sky,  as  the  second  section  of  the  final  movement  unfolds.  Little  of  the 
orchestral  resources  are  left  unexplored  in  the  first  few  bars — utterances  of  seem- 
ingly blind  and  unreasoning  jubilation  which,  notwithstanding  their  superficial 
indefiniteness  of  form  and  structure,  can  be  found  on  a  closer  examination  to 
embody  the  basic  idea  of  the  symphony  as  it  was  elucidated  in  the  first  important 
theme  of  the  work  and  at  intervals  throughout  its  exposition.  In  fact,  'the  electrify- 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  581 

ing  sweep  of  fiery  brilliance  here  is  but  the  prelude  to  another  pronouncement  of 
this  theme  in  its  revised  and  triumphant  form.  Soon  one  hears  it  blown  upon  the 
majestic  brass,  now  in  magnificent  broad  phrases,  again  quickly  and  with  nervous 
emphasis.  Above  it  the  woodwind  delivers  itself  of  ecstatic  scales,  frenetically  joyful. 

The  essential  difference  of  Tchaikovsky's  Fifth  from  his  perhaps  more  famous 
Sixth  Symphony  ("Pathetique")  becomes  perfectly  apparent  now.  In  that  paean  of 
pessimism  were  embodied  the  cardinal  tenets  of  his  gloomy  creed  that  effort  is  vain, 
that  hope  is  vain,  that  all  is  vain.  And  at  the  end  despair  conquers.  But  here  the 
composer  must  have  written  in  one  of  those  rare  moments  when,  after  spiritual 
storms,  life  seemed  brighter  and  cleared  of  the  clinging  mists  of  melancholy; 
a  moment  in  which,  perhaps,  he  experienced  in  regard  to  his  creed,  such  as  it  was, 
the  uncertainty  that  must  sometimes  come  to  every  introspective  mind  that  sub- 
scribes to  dogma.  There  is  always  the  possibility  of  error,  and  let  us  suppose  that 
here  Tchaikovsky  happily  doubted  his  belief  that  spiritual  courage,  hope,  and 
energy  cannot  prevail  against  the  stern  realities  of  life.  Here,  certainly,  he  bears 
arms  bravely  against  the  dark  spirits  which  at  moments  throughout  the  symphony 
have  seemed  invincible. 

The  final  section  of  the  fourth  movement  is  one  of  the  greatest  pieces  of 
bravura  writing  in  the  orchestral  form  which  we  have  from  the  hand  of 
Tchaikovsky.  The  atmosphere  is  distinctly  Oriental  in  the  first  few  bars,  with 
bizarre  tonal  effects  and  syncopated  rhythms.  The  music  has  not  progressed  far, 
however,  before  we  come  once  more  upon  a  derived  form  of  the  principal  theme 
of  the  symphony,  following  the  exploitation  of  a  more  joyous  subject  in  strings  and 
woodwind.  The  brass  puts  forth  tongues  of  shining  tone,  illuminating  the  once 
somber  phrase  with  golden  light.  A  constantly  accelerated  f uguelike  figure  climbs 
swiftly  upward  from  beneath,  and  still  above  the  deep  mutter  of  the  double  bass 
the  aureate  tones  of  the  trumpet  and  trombone  ring  clearly.  There  is  a  reminiscent 
touch  of  the  religious  triumph.  Now  a  figure  based  on  the  first  short  introductory 
theme  of  the  opening  movement  is  combined  with  the  new  form  of  that  move- 
ment's principal  subject;  practically  the  whole  symphony  is  recapitulated  in  this 
closing  section  of  the  final  movement. 

The  Fifth  Symphony  is  in  many  respects  the  most  satisfying  of  Tchaikovsky's 
works  in  the  larger  forms.  Its  structure  is  not  so  close  an  approach  to  the  classical, 
perhaps  5  the  third  movement,  a  simple  waltz,  is  not  a  detail  which  commends  the 
work  particularly  to  the  pedant  and  the  purist.  Its  emotional  content  is  not  as  great, 
or  is  it  as  intense,  as  that  of  the  Fourth  or  Sixth  Symphonies,  yet  here  the  emotion 
is  disciplined,  restrained;  there  is  greater  artistic  reticence.  The  theme  is  the  eternal 
struggle  between  hope  and  despair,  and  its  development  is  so  reasonable,  so  logical 
in  its  processes,  and  so  definite  in  its  conclusion  that  those  whose  belief  in  the  power 
of  the  human  soul  to  triumph  over  the  vicissitudes  of  life  has  wavered  or  perhaps 
has  been  destroyed,  as  well  as  those  happier  pnes  who,  though  knowing  human 


582  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

weakness  and  fallibility,  still  bravely  face  the  world's  cruel  realities,  alike  should 
be  satisfied. 


Symphony  No.  6  in  B  minor 

["Pathetique"] 

WHETHER  or  not  he  so  intended,  this  is  Tchaikovsky's  last  musical  utterance,  his 
farewell  to  the  world.  The  strange  circumstances  surrounding  its  composition  and 
performance,  its  agonizing  melancholy,  its  inclusion  of  certain  unmistakably 
significant  passages,  have  given  rise  to  the  suspicion  that  Tchaikovsky'  wrote  it  as 
his  "swan  song,"  and  committed  suicide.  It  has  even  been  called,  rather  cruelly, 
"the  suicide  symphony."  There  is  much  external  evidence  to  disprove  the  suicide 
theory.  Tchaikovsky,  perhaps  like  every  introspective  and  pessimistic  man,  meditated- 
suicide  at  one  time  or  another;  but  to  speculate  upon  such  an  act  is  far  from 
committing  it.  Tchaikovsky  would  doubtless  have  appreciated  the  melancholy 
dramatic  possibilities  of  such  an  act  after  the  first  performance  of  music  so  intoler- 
ably sad — but  like  most  who  contemplate  self -slaughter,  he  might  have  been 
deterred  by  the  realization  that  he  would  not  be  present  to  enjoy  the  drama.  The 
composer  was  sensitive  to  adverse  criticism,  and  this  symphony  was  not  well  received 
— not  even  appreciated  by  the  musicians  in  the  orchestra.  But  he  was  not  so  sensitive 
that  the  cool  reception  of  his  work  would  have  driven  him  to  suicide;  if  he  had 
been,  his  career  as  a  musician  would  have  ended  long  before  it  did. 

The  fact  remains,  however,  that  this  music  laments  such  woes  as  few  have 
ever  suffered,  and  though  there  is  probably  no  connection  between  it  and  the  death 
of  the  composer,  it  could,  without  too  much  exercise  of  the  imagination,  be  regarded 
as  suggesting  the  bitter  griefs  of  life,  an  attempt  to  overcome  them  by  a  forced 
and  unreal  gaiety,  a  vigorous  and  manly  struggle  against  despair,  and,  finally, 
surrender  and  death. 

The  symphony  was  completed  in  October,  1893,  and  performed  for  the  first 
time  at  St.  Petersburg,  October  28,  1893,  under  the  direction  of  the  composer.  It 
was  a  succes  dfestrnie,  and,  of  course,  Tchaikovsky  was  not  satisfied.  A  few  weeks 
later  it  was  played  again — but  the  composer  was  not  there  to  witness  the  enthusiasm. 
He  was  dead. 

This  work  is  one  of  the,  few  pieces  of  absolute  music  which  has  been  acceptably 
named  by  a  person  other  than  the  composer.  Tchaikovsky  had  thought  of  calling 
it  a  "Program  Symphony,"  but  quite  reasonably  asked  himself,  "What  does  'pro- 
gram symphony3  mean  when  I  will  give  it  no  program?"  His  brother  Modest  sug- 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  583 

gested  "Tragic,"  but  the  composer  rejected  this.  Later,  as  an  afterthought,  Modest 
proposed  "Pathetic" — and  Piotr  Ilyich  agreed  with  enthusiasm. 

First  Movement 

A  melancholy  that  is  almost  gruesome  is  exposed  in  the  ominous  phrases  of 
the  solo  bassoon  that  crawl  like  serpents  in  shadow  from  the  darkest  tonal  recesses 


of  the  orchestra.  The  last  section  of  the  bassoon's  utterance  is  taken  from  It  by  pro- 
testing strings,  the  violas  laying  on  an  intolerant  accent  in  the  middle  of  their 
phrase,  above  the  sustained  and  pianissimo  background  of  cellos  and  basses.  The 
introductory  measures  are  repeated;  then  the  violins,  with  nervous  impatience, 
hurriedly  put  forth  a  contrasted  version  of  the  introductory  phrase,  and  the  move- 
ment proper  begins. 

The  melodic  fragment,  first  introduced  in  a  spirit  of  unhealthy  lethargy,  has 
now  become  completely  transformed.  It  flickers  briefly  in  strings  and  woodwinds; 
appears  here  and  there  in  the  orchestra,  now  powerful  and  dominating,  now  fur- 
tive and  feeble.  The  flute  disguises  it  with  brilliant  and  determinedly — and 
pathetically — gay  elaborations,  like  one  who  speaks  and  tries  to  smile  through  bright 
tears.  Other  woods  and  strings  seize  upon  this  fragment  of  woe  and  terror,  refus- 
ing to  let  it  rest,  refusing  its  melancholy  assertions,  parrying  its  persistence,  and 
masking  its  every  appearance  with  their  varying  colors  and  rhythmic  mutations — 
yet  this  condensed  version  of  the  orchestra's  first  ominous  pronouncement  tinctures 
the  whole  body  of  the  music  like  a  single  drop  of  poison  in  a  cup  of  rich  and  heady 
wine.  At  length  the  orchestra  grows  weary  of  the  struggle  to  ignore,  to  hide,  to 
fend  off  the  hateful  thought,  and  with  a  monotonous  repeated  figure  in  the  cellos, 
a  weary  and  tremulous  sigh  fading  in  the  thinner,  upper  tones  of  violas,  there 
comes  a  pause. 

The  violins,  muted  and  soft,  assure  us  that  "there  is  balm  in  Gflead."  A  sooth- 
ing, a  warm,  and  comforting  melody  is  drawn  from  them — and  from  the  cellos,  too. 
Here  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  sweetest,  one  of  the  most  pathetic  and  consoling, 


melodies  from  the  fluent  pen  of  this  composer.  It  is  not,  at  the  outset,  as  passionate 
as  it  fe  resigned;  but  after  the  flute  inserts  a  brighter  fragment  (shadowed  by  the 


584  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

mockingly  imitative  bassoon),  there  is  a  growth  in  intensity  of  expression,  and  the 
smooth  melodic  contours  are  troubled  by  more  vehement  ejaculations.  These,  too, 
pass;  and  the  lovely  song  of  the  strings  returns,  now  clear  and  senza  sordino,  but 
still  not  concealing  the  restless  rhythmic  figure  that  moves  through  the  other  sec- 
tions of  the  orchestra.  Almost  imperceptibly  the  melody  seems  to  lose  its  element 
of  courage,  its  strength,  and  the  impetus  of  its  rhythm;  transferred  to  the  sweetly 
sad  voice  of  the  clarinet,  ever  dolce  and  diminuendo,  it  falls  just  short  of  silence. 
The  last  four  notes  hang  imminently  in  the  low  range  of  the  bassoon  —  and  sud- 
denly we  are  assaulted  by  a  mighty,  a  fierce,  and  incontinent  discord,  torn  violently 
from  the  whole  orchestra,  and  instantly  crushing  down  all  possible  thoughts  of 
complacence  and  of  peace. 

There  is  a  resistless  outpouring  of  orchestral  power,  a  forcible  seizure  of  atten- 
tion, and  suddenly,  condensed  but  (as  the  composer  marks  it  in  the  score) 
ferociously,  the  opening  theme  returns  with  its  ominous  significance  magnified  by 
its  vehemence.  Violent  is  the  fierce  discourse  that  now  succeeds.  The  theme  rages 
through  the  orchestra;  masses  of  tone  are  hurled  like  missiles;  woodwinds  and 
strings  shriek  question  and  protest;  trumpets  put  out  hot  and  quivering  tongues 
of  flaming  tone.  Sonorous  brasses  in  grisly  suggestion  intone  a  fragment  of  the 
Russian  liturgy  for  the  dead.  A  climax  is  reached  after  a  period  of  passionate  agita- 
tion that  is  almost  painful.  There  are  sad  recollections  of  past  themes,  like  half- 
forgotten  songs,  like  words  of  a  departed  loved  one;  and  presently  we  come  upon 
one  of  the  loveliest,  most  intimately  and  poignantly  touching  passages  in  all 
Tchaikovsky's  music.  The  strings,  pizzicato,  move  softly  and  ever  downward; 
above  them  sounds  the  brass  in  a  mournful,  yet  tender  and  somehow  noble  phrase. 


IN  - 


>  Ar^T>^f\   I         I 


Again  and  again  it  is  repeated,  with  the  strings  ever  descending  more  deeply,  more 
softly,  into  the  depths  and  into  silence.  Who,  listening  to  this  music,  can  escape  the 
recollection  of  Omar's  lines  of  sweet  resignation: 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  vintage  rolling  Time  hath  fressed> 

Have  drunk  their  cuf  a  round  or  two  bejore 
And  one  by  one  cre$t  silently  to  rest* 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  585 

Second  Movement 

The  curious  and  somewhat  unnatural  rhythm  of  this  movement  is  significant. 
It  is  as  if  the  conscious  gaiety  of  the  movement  were  under  constraint;  directed, 
not  by  careless  joy,  but  by  a  determination  to  be  joyful,  quand-meme.  It  is  a  waltz 
that  is  not  a  waltz — for  it  lacks  a  rhythmic  member;  it  limps  and  falters.  The 
smooth  and  gracious,  though  low-pitched,  melody  that  moves  above  the  5/4 
rhythm,  first  in  cellos,  then  in  woodwind  against  pizzicato  strings,  has  a  ghostly 
and  unreal  life ;  and  it  is  not  untouched  by  accents  of  pathos  that  seem  to  grow 
directly  from  its  efforts  to  be  gay. 

The  first  theme  is  succeeded  by  a  second  melody,  descending  toward  the 
persistent  beating  of  the  timpani.  Happiness  is  still  elusive,  and  the  memory  of 
tragedy  persists.  Later  the  two  chief  ideas  of  the  movement  are  brought  to  bear 
simultaneously,  and  in  brief  antiphonal  phrases,  upon  the  orchestra.  The  result  is 
always  the  same — a  pensive  and  pathetic  grieving  that  will  not  be  comforted. 

Third  Movement 

Here  we  may  feel  that  Tchaikovsky  has  thoroughly  aroused  himself,  for  once, 
from  the  soul  weariness,  the  lethargy  of  melancholy,  that  so  persistently  beset  him. 
Here  he  "takes  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles/'  and  temporarily  at  least,  "by  oppos- 
ing, ends  them."  Here  is  a  fierce  and  apparently  triumphant  struggle;  the  hosts 
of  human  courage  and  vitality  march  with  a  quick  and  ever  more  determined  step 
toward  a  blazing  and  frenetically  joyful  victory. 

There  is  a  busy  rustling  in  the  orchestra,  a  gathering  of  orchestral  forces  at 
the  sound  of  an  imperative  summons,  first  proclaimed  in  the  small  but  penetrating 
voice  of  the  oboe,  then  gathering  power  and  authority  in  the  succeeding  voices  of 
sonorous  brass.  It  is  this  trumpedike  call  that  vitalizes  the  whole  movement,  urges 
it  on  from  its  litde,  secretive  beginnings,  and  drives  it  to  the  mighty  climax.  Always 
there  is  a  quick  and  nervous  rhythm;  always  a  growth  in  power,  until  the  entire 
orchestra,  urgendy  driven  along,  bursts  fortissimo  into  the  bold  rhythm.  The  theme 

fflfaro  9n0/f*  if /vice 

*W      .      .     .  > 


is  surrounded,  as  with  a  halo  of  flames,  by  a  blazing  fury  of  scales;  splendid  clash- 
ings  of  cymbals  seem  to  strike  fire  from  the  orchestra,  and  the  drums  resound. 

Fourth  Movement 

So,  all  triumph  is  empty,  all  effort  is  vain;  the  end  of  life  is  a  brief  lamentation, 
a  last  despairing  cry,  and  oblivion*  There,  very  obviously,  is  the  meaning  of  this 


586  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

movement.  No  one  has  ever  wrenched  from  the  orchestra  cries  of  such  complete, 
such  abject,  despair;  no  one,  in  musical  language,  has  ever  said  so  clearly  and  so 
finally,  "All  is  lost/3  Even  Tchaikovsky,  never  far  from  morbidity  in  his  preoccupa- 
tion with  melancholy  thoughts,  has  not  elsewhere  so  abandoned  himself  to  woe, 
The  movement  is  a  succession  of  pleading,  of  bitter  and  tearful  lamentations; 
but  they  are  richly  garbed  in  tone,  for  this  is  the  very  luxury  of  grief.  The  massed 
strings  pour  out  their  larmoyant  plaint;  the  bassoon  follows  with  hopeless  con- 
firmation. Again,  violins  and  cellos  sing  of  nameless  dolors  and  hearts  that  break; 
they  rise,  finally,  through  a  prolonged  access  of  passion,  to  a  vehement  climax. 


From  this  the  orchestra  descends,  with  increasing  violence  and  in  a  headlong  rush, 
into  dark  depths;  there  is  a  sudden  burst  of  tone.  It  is  the  end.  A  single  stroke 
upon  the  cymbal  announces  the  passing  of  a  soul;  and  the  orchestra's  brief  requiem 
fades  into  silence. 

It  is  this  rushing  passage  which  really  gives  the  due  to  the  movement.  It  is 
violent,  not  valiant;  it  is  surrender,  and  not  a  sortie  against  death  and  despair. 
With  a  gesture  that  cannot  be  misunderstood,  the  composer  abandons  all — his 
struggles,  his  sorrows,  and  his  grieving.  He  rushes  toward  death  not  as  toward  a 
powerful  enemy  that  must  bravely  be  met,  but  rather  as  to  a  welcome  relief  from 
the  necessity  for  effort  and  fortitude  of  soul.  The  movement  is  not  really  the 
apotheosis  of  sorrow,  but  a  declamation  of  despair.  If  the  opulent  richness  of  its 
presentation  suggests  insincerity,  let  us  not  forget  that  it  was  perfectly  possible 
for  the  neurotic  Tchaikovsky  to  view  his  woes  quite  objectively;  to  appreciate 
their  possibilities  as  musical  inspiration;  to  separate  his  artistic  from  his  personal 
self,  without  for  a  moment  abandoning  either*  He  was  happiest  when  he  was  sad. 


The  Sleeping  Beauty 
\Edlet  Suite} 

THIS  charming  music  ranks  with  Tchaikovsky's  most  agreeable  work.  The  master 
himself  was  particularly  pleased  with  it,  and  at  the  time  of  its  completion  (1890) 
regarded  it  as  one  of  his  best  compositions.  The  public,  and  royalty  who  also 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  587 

attended  its  first  performance,  were  not  of  the  same  opinion,  much  to  the  author's 
disappointment.  Nevertheless,  Tchaikovsky  lived  to  see  The  Sleeping  Beauty  estab- 
lished as  a  popular  favorite. 

It  was  such  music  as  this,  and  the  same  composer's  Nutcracker  Suite y  that  gave 
the  Russian  ballet  the  impetus  that  carried  it  to  a  degree  of  perfection  which  the 
art  had  never  before  attained.  It  is  more  than  strange,  perhaps,  that  Tchaikovsky, 
who  beyond  doubt  wrote  the  gloomiest,  the  most  morbid,  and  sentimental  music 
the  world  has  ever  known,  could  also  write  some  of  the  gayest.  His  ballet  music 
shows  little  trace  of  the  Tchaikovsky  of  the  Fifth  and  Sixth  Symphonies — at  least, 
in  emotional  significance.  Here  all  is  brightness  and  life — music  made  for  flying 
toes  and  gracefully  posturing  lovely  bodies:  in  a  word,  dance  music  in  its  most 
authentic  and  beautiful  form. 

The  suite  was  laid  down  by  Tchaikovsky  as  a  "prologue  and  three  acts/*  It 
is  a  series  of  short  dance  pieces  in  contrasting  style.  In  it,  Tchaikovsky  proves  again 
that  musical  material  of  no  great  profundity  can,  by  skillful  treatment  and  by  the 
application  of  the  orchestra's  virtually  unlimited  resources,  be  developed  into  music 
of  intense  and  permanent  interest. 

I.  La  Fee  des  lilas 
[The  Lilac  Fairy] 

There  is  a  vigorous  prologue,  brass  and  strings  engaging  themselves  in  assertive 
phrases  and  vigorous  rhythms.  A  roll  of  the  timpani  and  a  series  of  bold  chords 
introduce  a  lovely,  graceful  melody  in  the  cor  anglais  against  a  background  of 
plucked  and  bowed  strings,  and  woodwind.  Presently  the  violins  are  given  the 
fragrant,  swaying  melody,  with  the  trumpets  in  a  more  penetrating  fragment  con- 
trasting with  it.  Now  the  music  moves  on  broader  lines,  and  the  same  gentle 
melody  that  has  been  heard  almost  from  the  first  is  variously  colored,  assigned  to 
different  instrumental  voices,  returning  finally  to  cor  anglais  and  flute,  with 
trembling  strings  supplying  an  ethereal  accompaniment. 

II.  Adagio 
[A  Slow  Dance] 

The  "Adagio"  opens  in  a  style  powerfully  suggestive  of  the  "Valse  des  fleurs" 
from  the  Nutcracker  Suite  .  .  .  tentative  utterances  of  the  woodwind  ushering 
in  a  series  of  glittering  figures  for  the  harp,  followed  by  the  introduction  of  the 
chief  melody  of  the  dance  itself.  This  we  hear  in  the  singing  voices  of  the  strings, 
broad  and  smooth  and  suave,  although  the  internal  figures  are  rather  lively  and 
crisp. 


588  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Pas  faction 
\A  Vigorous  Dance] 

Without  a  break  the  music  flows  into  the  "Pas  dy action"  melodically  derived 
from  its  predecessor,  but  altered  in  rhythm  and  instrumental  color.  It,  too,  broadens 
in  line  toward  the  end,  and  closes  in  sweeping  but  vigorous  chords  in  full  orchestra. 

III.  Pas  de  c&ractere:  La  Chat  botte  et  la  chatte  blanche 
[Characteristic  Dance:  Puss-^n-Boots  and  the  White  Cat\ 

One  can  with  difficulty  escape  the  significance  of  the  quaint  figure  occurring 
at  the  beginning  of  this  dance;  it  is  the  cat's  miaow,  and  nothing  else.  A  dialogue 
in  feline  language  translated  into  the  accents  of  the  orchestra's  woodwind  is  inter- 
spersed with  sudden  strokes  of  armed  paws,  suggested  by  the  sudden  brief  chords 
that  leap  from  the  full  orchestra.  You  will  note  that  the  suggestion  of  the  cats' 
cries  is  not  an  attempted  literal  reproduction — which  would  be  wholly  possible,  not 
only  to  the  jazz  but  to  the  symphony  orchestra  as  well.  Yet  the  significance  is 
plain  enough,  and  much  pleasanter  and  more  appropriate  than  a  literal  reproduc- 
tion would  be.  The  feline  dialogue  is  continued,  with  Master  Puss  cajoling, 
persuading,  advancing,  retreating,  yet  always  met  and  menaced  by  flashing  claws 
and  warning  cries  of  the  White  Cat.  The  suggestion  of  the  antics  of  a  pair  of 
household  cats  is  very  amusingly  carried  out,  and  at  the  end  we  are  left  in  doubt 
as  to  the  outcome — whether  the  felines  overcome  their  strangeness  or  compose  their 
differences,  or  whether  a  final  foray  left  Puss  with  a  scratched  nose  and  damaged 
dignity. 

Panorama 

An  agitated  accompaniment  figure  appears,  shortly  followed  by  a  melody  of 
exceeding  grace  in  the  violins.  The  harp  tosses  off  shining  figures  from  its  plucked 
strings  ...  the  melody  soars  on,  later  to  take  a  new  form  with  coruscations  of  the 
harp  shining  even  more  brightly.  A  happy  scene  j  a  lovely  background  for  dancing 
figures,  colorful  and  moving  as  the  costumed  dancers  themselves. 

IV.  VaLse 

Tchaikovsky's  delight  in  the  waltz,  and  his  facility  in  creating  beautiful 
waltzes,  are  noticeable  characteristics.  The  "Waltz  of  the  Flowers"  is  in  the 
repertoire  of  every  orchestra  and  there  is  a  waltz  movement  in  his  great  Fifth 
Symphony.  The  Sleeping  'Beauty  suite,  like  the  Nutcracker,  ends  in  a  waltz,  and 
surely  it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  in  all  Tchaikovsky's  music. 

There  is  a  bold  and  impressive  introduction,  brass  and  strings  prominent. 


PIOTR    ILYICH    TCHAIKOVSKY  589 

Then  the  rhythm  is  indicated  in  an  accompaniment  figure  assigned  to  the  double 
basses  and  woodwind.  Now  the  strings  take  up  the  sweeping,  swaying  melody; 
the  violins  singing  in  their  richest  tone,  and  later,  the  violas  giving  greater  depth, 
if  less  sonority,  to  the  same  figure.  The  glockenspiel  presently  adds  glittering  points 
of  tone  to  the  melody,  which  in  all  its  mutations  retains  the  smooth  fluid  rhythm 
of  the  waltz. 

A  quieter  passage  ...  a  return  to  the  original  melody  . .  .  and  we  come  upon 
a  broad,  impressive  climax,  full  of  power,  employing  the  full  orchestral  resources 
from  the  rumble  of  the  kettledrums  to  the  most  sonorous  tones  of  the  brass. 


ANTONIO  VIVALDI 

[1675-1743] 

CONSIDERING  his  influence  upon  Bach  and  other  later  composers,  it  is  curious 
that  so  little  is  known  of  this  great  seventeenth-century  musician.  Even 
the  date  of  his  birth  is  doubtful,  and  comparatively  little  of  the  music  he  is 
known  to  have  written  is  available  today. 

Vivaldi  was  born  at  Venice.  He  was  priest  as  well  as  violinist,  and  probably 
master  of  music  at  St.  Mark's.  His  first  musical  ventures,  however,  were  outside 
his  native  land.  It  is  recorded  that  he  was  violinist  to  a  minor  German  nobleman; 
and  on  his  return  home,  he  was  given  a  post  in  a  girl's  school  which  kept  him  in 
this  world's  goods  until  he  died,  and  which  also  provided  him  with  leisure  for 
composition. 

Music  by  Vivaldi  is  not  the  kind  that  makes  audiences  stand  up  and  cheer, 
nor  is  it  noted  in  this  book  because  it  is  so  often  played.  However,  it  is  of  such 
historical  importance,  and  so  charming,  that  it  is  programmed  occasionally;  and 
certainly  should  have  some  attention  if  for  no  other  reason  than  its  marked  influence 
on  the  music  of  succeeding  composers. 


Concerto  grosso  in  D  minor 


GROUPED  under  the  tide,  .ZTEj^ra  harmonico,  Vivaldi  composed  twelve  works  in 
this  form,  of  which  this  one  is  the  eleventh.  The  music  was  for  a  long  time 
attributed  to  W.  F.  Bach,  son  of  Johann  Sebastian;  it  appeared  as  an  organ  work. 
Later  it  was  discovered  that  the  organ  version  was  not  the  work  of  W.  F.,  but  of 
Bach  the  Great;  and  that  he  in  turn  had  arranged  it  for  organ  from  the  music  of 
Vivaldi,  Nor  was  this  the  first  time  that  the  gifted  musician-priest  had  furnished 
not  only  melodies,  but  fully  developed  works,  to  the  musicians  who  came  after  him. 

A  concerto  grosso  }  as  distinguished  from  the  conventional  concerto  as  we 
know  it,  poses  a  little  group  of  instruments,  called  the  concertino,  against  the  rest 
of  the  orchestra.  Its  purpose  is  not  primarily  to  display  the  abilities  of  the  solo  instru- 
ments or  group,  but  to  contrast  in  various  ways  the  individual  and  collective  tone 
qualities  of  the  concertino  against  those  of  the  larger  orchestral  mass.  This  concerto 
is  for  string  orchestra,  with  the  solo  group  made  up  of  two  violins  and  cello.  In  the 
second  of  the  three  movements,  a  violin  is  used  solo. 

The  work  consists  of  an  allegro,  a  brisk  and  sturdy  movement;  an  intermezzo, 
more  sober  and  romantic,  and  a  concluding  allegro.  Considering  that  only  the 

590 


ANTONIO    VIVALDI  CQJ 

strings  of  the  orchestra  are  used,  some  massive  tonal  effects  are  achieved— largely 
through  the  canny  contrasts  brought  about  between  the  solo  group  and  the  main 
body  of  strings.  The  whole  work  is  full  of  vitality  and  strength  and  elasticity.  One 
does  not  expect  the  variety  or  powerfully  clashing  colors  of  the  full  orchestra,  and 
one  hardly  can  anticipate  the  subtle  but  definite  color  contrasts  that  are  effected 
with  such  economy  of  means. 


RICHARD  WAGNER 

[1813-1883] 

GENIUS  is  a  word  rather  recklessly  used  in  discussing  music  and  musicians. 
It  has  been  defined  as  the  "infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains";  as  com- 
posed of  "nine-tenths  perspiration  and  one-tenth  inspiration";  and  as  a 
form  of  mental  abnormality.  Perhaps  all  these  definitions  are  partly  true,  but  none 
of  them  wholly.  There  is  no  complete  definition  of  or  accounting  for  powers  that 
transcend  the  normal.  The  achievements  of  a  Mozart,  a  Haydn,  a  Beethoven  can 
be  logically  rationalized;  not  so  those  of  Richard  Wagner.  In  his  lifelong  ideal — the 
complete  synthesis  of  music  and  the  drama — he  failed;  yet  in  that  failure  he 
evolved  such  situations,  and  so  resolved  them  through  music,  as  to  move  and  shake 
the  human  heart  as  no  man  has  done,  before  or  since. 

*Wilhelm  Richard  Wagner  was  the  ninth  child  of  Carl  Friedrich  Wilhelm 
Wagner,  a  civil  servant  of  Leipzig,  and  his  wife  Johanna  Rosina  Patz.  The  parents 
were  comfortable,  middle-class  people,  with  normal  interest  in  the  arts,  and  special 
fondness  for  the  theater.  The  father  died  when  Richard  was  five  months  old,  leav- 
ing the  family  in  difficult  circumstances.  About  two  years  later,  Frau  Wagner 
married  Ludwig  Geyer,  an  actor,  which,  an  actor's  solvency  being  as  uncertain 
then  as  now,  naturally  did  not  bring  much  improvement  in  the  family  fortunes. 

Wagner  was  a  good  student  only  in  those  subjects  which  particularly  inter- 
ested him — literature,  ancient  and  contemporary;  the  drama,  and  music.  Even  in 
youth  he  attempted  to  write  plays  and  music,  and  some  of  the  essential  ideas  of 
Die  Meistersmger  occurred  to  him  when  he  was  little  more  than  a  child.  His  early 
music  teachers  found  him  a  defiant,  a  recalcitrant  pupil,  yet  by  the  time  he  was 
eighteen  Wagner  was  reputedly  better  acquainted  with  Beethoven's  music  than  any 
other  young  musician  of  the  period.  His  musical  and  literary  studies  were  erratic 
until  he  matriculated  at  the  University  of  Leipzig,  when,  just  at  the  time  he  might 
have  been  expected  to  devote  himself  to  the  prescribed  course  of  studies,  he  decided 
to  concentrate  on  music.  This  time  he  found  a  sympathetic  and  competent  teacher, 
Christian  Weinlig,  to  whom  Wagner  was  happy  to  pay  tribute  in  later  life. 

Wagner's  career  as  a  professional  musician  began  in  his  twentieth  year.  He 
managed  to  get  various  small  positions,  as  conductor,  chorus  master,  arranger,  and 
transcriber;  one  of  these  places  was  sufficiently  important  for  him  to  risk  marriage, 
in  1836.  Later,  sojourns  in  London  and  Paris  were  unprofitable  except  in  experience 
and  acquaintance  with  numerous  musicians  of  varying  degrees  of  prominence.  On 
Wagner's  return  to  Germany,  however,  he  began  to  be  recognized  as  a  musician 
of  growing  importance,  and  finally  was  successful  in  winning  an  appointment  as 
general  director  of  the  Royal  Opera  at  Dresden. 

*  For  a  detailed,  authoritative  yet  sympathetic  biography  of  Wagner,  the  reader  is 
referred  to  Ernest  Newman's  magnificent  study,  published  by  Alfred  Knopf,  New  York. 

592 


RICHARD     WAGNER  593 

From  this  time  onward  Wagner's  importance  in  the  musical  life  of  his  day 
gradually  increased.  Though  personally  liked  by  most  of  his  associates  and 
acquaintances,  he  had  many  enemies  among  the  musical  profession,  and  even 
managed  to  antagonize  the  civil  powers  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  exiled  for 
some  years.  His  affair  with  the  wife  of  his  friend  von  Billow — she  was  Cosima 
Liszt,  daughter  of  the  composer-pianist — won  him  few  friends,  but  did  give  him 
eventually,  as  his  second  wife,  a  woman  who  in  every  way  was  devoted  to  him 
and  to  his  work,  and  who  remained  to  the  day  of  her  death  (in  1930)  the  most 
ardent  and  intelligent,  though  sometimes  misguided,  proponent  of  his  work. 

Wagner  composed  some  of  the  greatest  music  ever  written — and  some  of  the 
worst  ever  left  us  by  a  great  composer.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this  apparent 
paradox.  Because  of  his  position  in  state-supported  theaters,  Wagner  was  com- 
pelled by  political  exigency  to  perform,  and  on  occasion  to  write,  pieces  for  which 
he  had  little  or  no  respect.  His  financial  situation  was  generally  precarious;  loans, 
which  harassed  him  more  by  the  limitations  they  imposed  on  his  credit  than  by  any 
obligation  to  repay  them,  made  constantly  new  sources  of  income  imperatively 
necessary.  Pieces  d'occasion,  rarely  of  great  musical  worth,  provided  a  relatively 
easy  way  of  acquiring  extra  money. 

The  "bad"  music  which  Wagner  wrote,  however,  is  almost  entirely  the 
product  of  his  youth,  and  little  of  it  shows  any  trace  of  the  mighty  genius  of  the 
later  operas.  Few  people  remember,  and  still  fewer  have  heard,  the  Grosser 
Festmarsch  which  he  was  commissioned  to  write  for  the  Centennial  Exposition  in 
Philadelphia  in  1876,  Though  written  when  his  powers  were  fully  matured,  it 
added  no  luster  to  his  name. 

An  interesting  letter  published  through  a  newspaper  syndicate  in  1933  reveals 
the  fact  that  at  one  time  Wagner  was  eager  to  come  to  live  in  America.  The 
financial  terms  on  which  he  was  willing  to  make  the  transfer  of  citizenship  and 
residence  suggest  that  even  then  the  United  States  was  looked  upon  as  a  source  of 
easy  money.  Perhaps  the  composer  thought  that  he  could  dispose  at  once  of  all  the 
creditors  who  harassed  him,  and  remove  himself  to  surroundings  where  civil  liberty 
prevailed,  a  relatively  new  and  eager  audience  awaited,  and  comfort  was  promised 
for  his  declining  years. 

The  recession  of  his  powers  set  in  some  time  before  Wagner's  death  at 
Venice,  February  13,  1883.  It  is  noticeable,  at  moments,  in  Parsifal — a  work 
which,  because  of  its  occasional  weakness,  and  the  inconsistency  of  its  motivation 
with  Wagner's  agnosticism,  and  his  sometimes  sybaritic  tendencies,  has  provoked 
much  bitter  controversy.  It  has  even  been  asserted  that  he  wrote  Parsifal  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  fact  remains  that  this  product  of  his 
sunset  and — possibly! — repentant  years  encompasses  some  of  the  most  touching 
and  magnificent  music  we  know. 

Wagner  was  distinctly  something  more  than  composer.  He  was  poet,  librettist, 


594  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

stage  designer  and  manager,  conductor,  architect,  politician.  He  designed  a  theater 
at  Bayreuth  particularly  for  his  own  music  dramas,  and  the  performance  of 
Parsifal  was  forbidden  elsewhere.  It  was  not  played  outside  of  Bayreuth  until 
1903,  when  despite  the  protest  and  legal  action  of  the  belligerently  jealous  guardian 
of  his  interests — his  widow  Cosima — the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  of  New 
York  gave  the  first  performance  of  Parsifal  outside  of  Bayreuth.  It  was  not  per- 
formed in  Europe,  except  at  Wagner's  theater,  until  the  copyright  expired  in 
1913.* 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  majority  of  music  lovers  prefer  the  music  of 
Wagner  in  concert  form — despite  the  fact  that  the  consuming  ambition  of  his 
life  was  to  write  music  absolutely  integrated  with  stage  action.  There  are  various 
reasons  for  the  public's  attitude.  The  music  of  these  operas — at  least  a  great  part 
of  it — can  be  considered  as  absolute  music,  without  reference  to  its  dramaturgical 
significance,  and  still  rank  with  the  greatest  compositions  ever  written.  Many 
listeners,  after  experience  with  it  in  operatic  form;  after  the  disillusionment  of 
improbable  scenery,  childish  histrionics,  unconvincing  and  sometimes  grotesquely 
inadequate  characterizations  by  lumpish  and  unappetizing  people,  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  is  better  to  listen  to  the  music,  even  in  its  operatic  connection, 
and  allow  the  imagination  to  supply  the  characters  and  the  action  of  the  drama. 
A  further  reason  is  that  a  listener  without  musical  training — and  considerable 
musical  training  at  that — or  without  close  and  devoted  study  of  the  score,  is  not 
able  to  disentangle  from  these  extraordinary  musical  pages  the  infinite  number  of 
leitmotives.  These  are  the  particular  musical  phrases  associated  with  a  'certain 
person,  place,  thing,  or  idea  in  the  drama.  A  generation  of  musical  scholars  have 
not  been  able  to  agree,  always,  on  the  significance  of  these  phrases.  Indeed,  Wagner 
himself  sometimes  applies  more  than  one  meaning  to  a  motive,  nor  did  he  leave 
sufficient  clues  as  to  their  meanings  to  enable  anyone  to  assert  with  finality  that 
this  means  thus-and-so. 

It  cannot  be  expected,  then,  that  the  rank  and  file  of  music  lovers  can  fully 
understand  or  thoroughly  appreciate  the  music  dramas  as  such;  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  entirely  natural  that  the  same  people  should  enjoy  these  works  as  strictly 
abstract  music.  We  take  the  liberty  of  suggesting  a  compromise  position.  The 
Wagnerian  orchestra  puts  out  the  loveliest  sounds  that  man  knows  how  to  make. 
Enjoy  them  as  such — as  music  should  be  enjoyed:  sensuously.  But  to  make  your 
pleasure  in  this  music  even  keener,  acquaint  yourself  with  a  few  of  the  funda- 
mental, easily  identified,  most  important  motives.  To  observe  the  poetic  justice  of 
their  incidence,  the  dramatic  significance  of  their  tempo,  color,  rhythm,  and  phras- 
ing will  add  a  hundredfold  even  to  the  purely  sensuous  pleasure  this  great  music 
can  give. 

*  The  Victor  Book  of  the  Of  era  gives  the  complete  story  of  Parsifal. 


RICHARD    WAGNER  595 

The  Wagnerian  ideal  of  a  complete  welding  of  orchestra  and  stage  action 
has  yet  to  be  achieved;  the  music  dramas  have  never  been  given,  could  not  have 
been  given,  strictly  according  to  the  composer's  idea.  One  day,  not  far  off,  we 
shall  see  and  hear  them  presented  even  more  beautifully  than  Wagner  could  have 
imagined  them.  The  sound  film,  with  color,  with  stage  effects  even  more  fantastic 
and  incredible  than  those  Wagner  desired;  with  physically  beautiful  people  miming 
the  action,  and  musically  beautiful  voices  singing;  with  an  invisible  orchestra  per- 
fectly reproduced;  with  the  unessential  and  the  nonimportant  trimmed  from  book 
and  score,  and  with  dramatic  pace  quickened  to  convincing  tempo — the  sound  film, 
the  possibilities  of  which  have  never  been  exploited,  will  give  us  this  and  other 
delights.  How  Richard  Wagner  would  have  loved  it! 


A  Faust  Overture 

WAGNER  was  one  of  the  many  composers  who,  at  one  time  or  another,  were 
attracted  to  the  Faust  legend,  particularly  as  set  forth  in  Goethe's  dramatic  poem. 
He  had  intended  to  write  a  symphony  upon  this  theme,  but  completed  only  one 
movement.  With  some  revision,  this  was  published  as  A  Faust  Overture* 

The  spiritual  disturbances,  dissatisfactions,  and  dissolution  of  Faust  would 
perhaps  have  a  particularly  strong  appeal  for  Wagner,  whose  music  was  capable 
of  expressing  the  emotional  upheavals  even  of  gods.  Certainly  here  is  an  eloquent 
suggestion  of  them.  The  introduction  recalls  the  despair  and  impatience,  the 
desperate  dissatisfaction  of  Faust  as  he  meditates  upon  his  spent  youth  and  declining 
powers.  Deep  brasses  and  woodwind,  with  timpani,  create  a  gloomy  atmosphere. 
Later,  strings  leap  along  a  quick  and  restless  melodic  line,  and  still  further,  a 
section  of  the  music  may  suggest  a  recollection  of  youthful  love.  This  is  Wagner's 
nearest  approach  to  a  formal  symphonic  movement,  and  in  the  succeeding  develop- 
ment of  his  theme  he  demonstrates  that  mighty  symphonies  might  have  come  from 
his  hand  had  he  chosen  to  devote  himself  to  absolute  music. 


Siegfried  Idyl 

SURELY  this  music  is  the  loveliest  birthday  gift  anyone  ever  received.  Hearing  it, 
one  cannot  but  believe  that  its  connection  with  Siegfried  fe  more  thaa  that  of 
identical  names;  one  senses  that  it  is  not  only  a  birthday  gift  of  Wagner  to  his 


59^  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF     THE     SYMPHONY 

wife,  but  a  reward  for  the  son  Siegfried  she  gave  to  him.  The  music  gestated  in 
Wagner's  mind  even  while  his  child  lived  within  the  body  of  the  mother. 

Cosima  Wagner  was  born  on  Christmas  Day,  1837,  the  daughter  of  Franz 
Liszt  and  the  Countess  d'Agoult.  On  Christmas  morning,  1870,  as  she  lay  with 
her  little  son  in  that  mysterious  region  that  lies  halfway  between  sleeping  and 
waking,  Cosima,  thinking,  we  may  believe,  that  she  was  still  dreaming,  heard  such 
music  as  might  have  comforted  another  Mother,  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy 
years  before.  On  the  stairs  before  her  door  stood  Wagner  and  his  little  orchestra, 
playing  with  their  skill  and  with  all  their  hearts  this  beautiful  and  intolerably 
poignant  serenade. 

There  is  something  infinitely  pathetic  and,  at  the  same  time,  almost  humorous 
in  this  situation.  Here  was  Wagner,  he  who  spoke  with  the  thundering  speech  of 
gods,  he  who  could  evoke  the  powers  of  storms  and  magic;  Wagner,  who  was  not 
a  person  but  a  force  in  the  world  of  music;  Wagner  the  sensualist,  the  cold  agnos- 
tic, the  politician,  the  artist — here  he  was,  reduced  to  the  stature  of  the  common 
man,  bringing  the  precious  gift  that  had  sprung  from  his  own  soul,  even  as  she  had 
brought  to  him  the  flowering  of  her  own  soul  and  body. 

But  it  is  in  the  music  even  more  than  in  this  romantic  situation  that  Wagner 
reveals  himself.  It  is  drawn  largely  from  Siegfried,  particularly  from  the  love 
music  of  the  third  act;  and  includes  the  old  German  cradle  song,  Schlaf,  mem 
Kind.  It  is  filled  with  the  breathless  tenderness  and  with  the  infinite  pity  and  fear 
that  so  terribly  claw  at  the  heart  of  a  young  father;  with  remembrances  of  the 
dreadful  piercing  agonies  of  childbirth,  and  with  such  ineffably  sweet  sounds  as 
would  efface  them.  The  curious  unreasoning  contrition  of  a  new  father,  the  dumb 
ecstasy  that  seizes  upon  him  when  first  he  beholds  his  child  in  its  mother's  arms — 
these  too  are  of  the  material  from  which  Wagner  the  omnipotent  wove  this  simple 
and  tender  music.  In  it  are  also  prophecies  and  hopes  for  Siegfried,  Son  of  the 
Woods;  Siegfried,  of  the  heroic  race  of  the  Walsungs;  Siegfried,  mate  of  a 
goddess.  That  these  were  realized  only  in  music  does  not  matter,  for  the  music  is 
as  surely  a  part  of  Wagner's  being  as  ever  son  could  be — and  where  but  in  music 
could  so  magnificent  a  creature  have  grown  and  lived  forever? 


Overture  to  "Der  fliegende  Hollander" 
[The  Flying  Dutchman] 

THE  legend  of  the  unfortunate  mariner  condemned  to  sail  the  seas  in  his  spectral 
ship  to  the  end  of  time  is  one  of  the  old  and  familiar  superstitions  connected  with 
the  sailor's  life.  Wagner  made  use  of  it  in  this  early  opera,  modifying  it  to  permit 


RICHARD    WAGNER  597 

the  inclusion  of  an  idea  that  seems  always  to  have  obsessed  him — the  power  and 
certainty  of  redemption  by  love.  The  story  as  Wagner  used  it  is  related  in  detail 
in  The  Victor  Book  of  the  Of  era. 

The  music  of  the  overture  has  found  its  way  into  the  repertoire  of  the  sym- 
phony orchestra  primarily  because  of  its  superb  descriptive  quality,  and  too,  because 
of  the  remarkable  feat  of  condensation  by  which  Wagner  makes  it  an  ideal  overture, 
embodying  in  embryo  not  only  every  vital  idea  of  the  opera  which  follows,  but 
these  ideas  in  their  positions  of  relative  importance  and  contrast. 

A  curiously  wild  yet  harmonically  unsatisfying  chord  in  strings,  colorless  yet 
strong  and  fierce  as  a  stormy  wind,  opens  the  overture.  The  motive  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Dutchman  immediately  follows,  projected  in  tones  of  horn  and  bassoon; 
then  begins  one  of  the  most  brilliant  storm  pictures  in  music.  The  wind  whistles 
through  the  rigging  and  tears  again  at  tattered  sails.  Crested  green  seas  come 
crashing  over  the  side,  and  the  seamen's  hoarse  cries  sound  in  the  midst  of  the  gale 
as  they  rush  about  the  decks  and  struggle  with  ice-crusted  rope  and  spar.  The  storm 
spent,  we  hear  calm  passages,  based  upon  the  air  known  as  "Senta's  Ballad,'*  the 
heroine's  song  extracted  from  the  second  act  of  the  opera.  There  is  a  jolly  sailors3 
dance,  and  with  daylight  and  fair  weather,  we  hear  more  strongly  the  beautiful 
phrase  from  "Senta's  Ballad,"  which  is  also  to  be  the  motive  of  redemption  by  love. 
It  is  delivered  several  times,  finally  by  the  full  orchestra;  derivations  of  it  appear 


CJtf.UM 


in  the  fading  and  peaceful  orchestral  light  in  which  the  overture  closes. 


Overture  to  "Rienzi" 

THE  long-drawn  "A"  of  the  trumpet  which  begins  this  music  and  figures  so 
importantly  in  it  from  time  to  time  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  feature  because 
it  is  one  of  the  earliest  of  Wagner's  approaches  to  the  idea  of  the  leitmotiv.  The 
music  itself  is  of  a  rather  superficial  brilliance,  somewhat  Italianate,  and  almost 
vulgar.  It  is,  of  course,  very  early  Wagner — it  was  written  in  1839 — and  follows 
quite  closely  the  models  set  up  by  the  composer's  predecessors. 

The  opera  to  which  it  is  the  introduction  deals  with  the  career  of  Rienzi,  the 
last  of  the  Roman  tribunes,  and  is  based  upon  Bulwer's  novel  of  the  same  name. 


598  THE     VICTOR     BOOK     OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

The  story  is  flamboyantly  melodramatic,  as  is  the  music.  The  overture  is  derived 
from  various  episodes  in  the  stage  work,  notably  "Rienzi's  prayer  for  the  people," 
and  a  battle  scene,  to  which  the  bold  trumpet  call  summons  us  near  the  end. 

The  opening  trumpet  leads  directly  into  the  solemn  music  derived  from 
Rienzi's  prayer.  This  we  hear  in  the  deep  and  heavily  bowed  tones  of  the  strings; 
another  version  comes,  with  pleading  accent,  in  the  woodwind.  This  material,  and 
certain  other  extracts  from  the  second  act  of  the  opera,  are  extensively  developed, 
with  the  arresting  cry  of  the  trumpet  bringing  occasional  dramatic  pauses.  A  climax 
of  great  sonority,  its  basic  material  drawn  from  the  battle  hymn  in  the  opera,  ends 
the  overture. 


Prelude  to  "Lohengrin"  * 

UNEARTHLY  harmonies,  like  pale-blue  aromatic  vapors  ascending,  steal  to  our 
enchanted  ears  as  this  strange  music  begins.  They  rise  from  strings  and  faintly 
blown  woodwinds;  they  are  warmed  and  colored  more  deeply  as  the  string  choir 
presently  descends  from  ethereal  harmonics  into  richer  and  stronger  tones.  Almost 
imperceptibly  a  crescendo  begins,  growing  to  an  impassioned  climax,  drawing  upon 
the  sonorities  of  the  mightiest  brazen  voices,  and  culminating  in  one  majestic  golden 
phrase — the  solemn  motive  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

In  the  few  minutes  of  this  serenely  beautiful  music  Wagner  presents  to  us  a 
miracle,  and  withdrawing  it  again,  leaves  us  lost  in  contemplation.  This  music  was 
written  to  suggest  the  apparition  of  the  Holy  Grail,  long  lost  to  sinful  man,  yet 
again  vouchsafed  to  him  in  momentary  vision  as  it  moved  across  heaven's  illimitable 
blue.  Escorted  by  crowds  of  angels,  the  vision  moves  closer  to  the  earth,  the  con- 
tours and  glowing  reflections  of  the  Grafl  ever  more  clear  and  wonderful,  until  its 
blazing  glory  enfolds  the  enchanted  beholder  and  strikes  him  blind  and  numb  with 
worship  and  with  awe. 

Away  into  the  vast  spaces  of  the  heavens  moves  the  incredible  beauty  of  the 
vision,  followed  by  its  celestial  choirs,  trailing  after  them,  like  disembodied  voices, 
the  strange  pale  harmonies  that  announced  their  coining. 


*  For  the  complete  story  of  the  opera  Lohengrin,  you  are  referred  to  The  Victor 
Book  of  the  Of  era. 


RICHARD    WAGNER 

Prelude  to  Act  III  of  "Lohengrin" 

HERE  is  one  of  Wagner's  briefest  and  most  brilliant  operatic  preludes— a  small  but 
intense  preparatory  utterance  preceding  the  moment  in  the  opera  when  Lohengrin, 
the  strange  and  powerful  knight  whom  Elsa  has  loved  and  wed,  and  Elsa  herself, 
are  escorted  to  the  nuptial  chamber.  Here  is  an  epithalamium  of  riotous  exuberance. 
Strings  and  woodwind  and  brass  join  in  highhearted  outpourings ;  the  masculine 
strength  of  the  trombones,  the  little  accents  of  timidity  in  the  lovely  woodwind 
passage  in  the  middle  section,  and  the  exalted  concluding  measures  magnificently 
portray  the  moment  of  supreme  happiness  which  presently  is  to  be  revealed  in  the 
following  scene  in  the  opera. 


Overture  to  "Die  Meistersinger" 

Die  Meistersinger  is  in  many  respects  the  most  engaging  of  Wagner's  operas,  or 
music  dramas,  as  he  chose  to  call  them.  The  element  of  humor,  a  humor  of  the 
lighter  kind,  enters  here,  in  refreshing  contrast  to  the  dreadful  irony  that  often 
touched  his  other  operatic  works.  Indeed,  Wagner  went  so  far  in ' M eister singer  as 
to  write  a  waltz!  Again,  there  are  the  lovely  lyric  melody,  the  "Prize  Song";  the 
delightful  mise  en  scene,  the  spirited  marches,  and  other  detafls  calculated  to  render 
the  opera  light  and  wholly  entertaining. 

But  Wagner  had  in  mind  a  more  serious  purpose  than  merely  to  entertain;  he 
wished  to  lampoon  his  critics  and  justify  his  principles,  and  sought  to  show,  by 
the  treatment  of  Walther  in  the  opera,  how  musical  "standpatters"  receive  the 
new  and  original. 

The  prelude,  or  overture,  contains  the  chief  thematic  material  used  by  Wagner 
throughout  the  opera.  The  important  items  are  the  two  powerful  march  tunes  and 
three  melodies  diametrically  opposed  to  them  in  character.  As  the  music  begins 
we  shall  see  how  the  composer  has  woven  these  melodies  together  to  form  a  musical 
digest,  so  to  speak,  of  the  whole  opera. 

The  motive  of  the  Meistersinger  (mastersingers)  themselves  is  the  opening 
phrase  of  the  prelude.  Bold,  strong,  downright,  and  inflexible,  with  a  certain  burly 
power  and  beauty  about  it,  this  a$sertiye  theme  well  typifies  the  character  of  the 
Meistersinger  guild,  with  their  indurated  ideas,  immovable  prejudices — and  never- 
theless solid  worth* 


6oo 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

THE  MEISTERSINGER 


After  a  transposition  and  reassertion  of  the  Meisterstnger  motive  in  another 
tonality,  there  is  a  very  pleasant  contrast  in  the  almost  pastoral  theme  (in  wood- 
wind) which  presently  appears — the  theme  of  Awakening  Love.  Those  familiar 
with  the  opera  will  recall  that  Walther's  love  for  Eva  dawned  as  he  sat  near  her 
in  church,  and  Wagner  very  adroitly  interwove  with  the  interlude  of  a  hymn  the 
motive  of  Awakening  Love;  for  it  was  during  this  brief  period  that  Walther  made 
an  appointment  with  Eva. 

WAKING  LOVE 


This  sweet  little  subject  endures  for  but  a  little  .  .  .  presently  the  motive  sym- 
bolizing the  Banner  of  the  Metstersmger,  the  sign  and  proud  emblem  of  their  craft, 
is  sounded.  Here  is  another  sturdy  march  tune  in  the  brass,  pompous  and  serene, 
and  appearing,  always  throughout  the  overture,  in  a  position  close  to  that  of  the 
Meutersmger  themselves,  just  as  in  any  procession  a  banner  is  carried  at  the  head 
of  the  group  it  represents. 

THE  BANNER 


Now  the  Banner  motive  is  developed  and  enriched  in  musical  embroidery,  just 
as  the  figure  of  King  David  playing  his  eloquent  harp  was  embroidered  upon  the 


RICHARD    WAGNER  6OI 

banner  itself  in  the  opera.  Derivations  of  the  Meistersinger  theme,  too,  appear  in 
the  elaboration  of  this  theme. 

As  the  second  section  of  the  prelude  opens,  we  hear  the  fourth  of  the  five 
important  themes  of  the  opera.  It  is  given  to  the  violins;  it  is  brightly  lyric,  as 
becomes  its  character  as  the  symbol  of  Love  Confessed.  It  is  easily  recognized  as 

LOVE  CONFESSED 


the  essential  melody  of  the  famous  "Prize  Song,"  the  impassioned  utterance  of 
Walther  in  the  final  competition  that  wins  him  his  bride.  It  grows  now  more  and 
more  agitated,  and  leads  in  a  moment  to  the  final  motive  of  the  five  which  dominate 
the  prelude — the  impetuous  little  subject,  again  in  strings,  which  signifies  Love's 
Ardor. 

LOVE'S  ARDOR 


Now  the  strictly  development  section  of  the  prelude  begins,  and  we  find  the 
five  motives  opposed,  or  counterbalanced,  or  contrasted  with  all  the  skill  that  was 
Wagner's.  The  Meistersinger  theme  particularly,  in  this  second  section  of  the 
prelude,  is  musically  burlesqued,  now  in  mincing  tones  of  the  oboe,  now  in 
exaggerated  pompousness  in  the  more  sonorous  bass  voice  of  the  orchestra.  As  the 
third  section  of  the  overture  begins,  we  find  the  Meistersinger  and  Confessed  Love 
motives  entangled  in  most  ingenious  counterpoint,  with  the  latter  dominant,  not 
through  mere  weight  and  volume  of  tone — but  through  the  more  penetrating  tonal 
color  given  it,  and  its  position  in  the  scale. 

The  motive  of  the  Meistersmger's  Banner  is  given  much  'the  same  treatment, 
and  provides  a  point  from  which  Wagner  builds  up  the  superb  climax  to  the  over- 
ture, involving  all  the  sonorities  and  all  the  lyricisms  that  have  gone  before. 


602  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Prelude  to  Act  III,  "Die  Meistersinger" 

IN  THIS  music  Wagner  exhibits  a  tenderness,  a  meditative  and  quiet  beauty  rare 
even  in  his  music.  The  brief  prelude  is  built,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  theme  of 
Hans  Sachs3  monologue,  wherein,  momentarily  despairing,  he  declares  that  all 


things  human  are  but  vanity;  and  there  is  also  development  of  the  sonorous  choral 
— here  expressed  in,  the  warmest  tones  of  the  brass — with  which  the  people  greet 
the  famous  shoemaker  in  the  last  scene  of  the  opera.  The  first  theme  is  sung  with 
deep  intensity  by  the  cellos  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  prelude;  the  second  is 
intoned  by  the  horns  and  Sachs'  philosophical  resignation  and  innate  tenderness 
are  suggested  in  the  lovely  close  of  the  strings. 


Dance  of  the  Apprentices,  "Die  Meistersinger" 

THE  populace  has  gathered,  for  the  contest  of  song,  in  a  field  outside  the  city  of 
Nuremberg.  They  hold  high  holiday,  and  crowds  come  pouring  upon  the  field,  in 
their  most  colorful  costumes,  laughing  and  singing  and  gesticulating.  The  trades- 
men march  in  procession  according  to  their  crafts — butchers  and  bakers  and  tailors, 
all  the  local  trade-unions  are  represented,  each  in  a  group  by  itself,  each  with  its 
own  banner  and  insignia.  A  crowd  of  youngsters,  apprentices  in  the  various  trades, 
dance  with  laughing  girls;  and  all  is  excitement  and  gaiety. 

This  is  the  scene  that  Wagner  presents  here — the  scene  immediately  preceding 
the  judging  in  the  content  of  song,  wherein  Beckmesser  fails  with  the  "Prize  Song" 
and  Walther  sings  it  winningly.  The  music,  sometimes  referred  to  as  Wagner's 
only  waltz,  is  light  and  gay  and  appealing;  it  needs  no  analysis  or  explanation* 


Prelude  to  "Parsifal" 

THE  Wagner  of  Parsifal  is  a  weary  Wagner,  full  of  power,  yet  touched  by  senility. 
The  gigantic  idea  underlying  the  music  drama,  the  idea  which  had  begotten  the 


RICHARD     WAGNER  603 

Ring  operas,  and  Tristan,  and  Meister singer— the  complete  and  perfect  union  of 
musical  expression  with  great  dramatic  ideas  and  action — seems  at  times  too  mighty, 
too  involved,  too  laborious  in  its  infinite  ramifications  for  the  failing  physical  powers 
of  the  Titan  of  Music.  Parsifal,  the  music  drama,  is  often  wavering,  often  unsure, 
often  tedious  and  redundant.  The  mighty  intellectual  force  that  drove  so  certainly, 
so  powerfully,  so  inevitably,  and  with  such  matchless  skiU  to  its  objectives  in  the 
Ring  sometimes  falters  in  Parsifal. 

Yet  Parsifal  embodies  some  of  the  most  sublime  music  ever  penned  by  mortal 
hand.  There  are  moments  in  which  Wagner  reaches  infallibly  to  the  most  secret, 
the  most  remote  and  unexplored  recesses  of  the  human  soul.  The  strange  and 
awful  legend  which  inspired  Parsifal)  the  weaving  together  of  ritual  and  drama 
and  religious  mysticism,  with  music  which  seems  at  moments  to  have  had  super- 
natural inspiration,  combine  to  produce  what  may  be,  despite  its  shortcomings, 
the  musical  masterpiece  of  all  time. 

The  Prelude  is  the  epitome  of  all  that  made  Wagner  the  figure  of  singular 
greatness  that  he  is.  Here  we  behold  the  act  of  creation,  as  that  power  is  given 
to  the  musician  alone;  here  the  leitmotiv,  dominant  characteristic  of  Wagnerian 
music,  is  used  continuously  and  with  most  touching  eloquence;  here  the  orchestra's 
loveliest  colors  are  employed  with  the  deftness,  the  fitting  significance,  the  artful 
juxtaposition,  the  nice  emphasis  that  characterized  the  ancient  Roman  orator's  use 
of  words,  and  won  for  his  periods  the  praiseful  tribute,  "collida  juncture"  Here, 
too,  we  tremble  under  the  orchestra's  mightiest  thunders  .  .  „  and  strain  to  listen 
lest  a  single  note  of  its  awed  whisperings  escape  us. 

Wagner's  personal  religious  beliefs  or  sentiments  are  largely  a  matter  of  con- 
jecture— with  some  probability  that  they  were  nonexistent.  Yet  the  great  motive 
of  Parsifd  is  Faith.  Surely  there  must  have  been  in  that  mighty  intellect  some 
atavistic  remnant  of  the  magnificent  blind  belief  of  a  Clovis,  a  Charlemagne,  a 
Richard- — or  of  the  more  cerebral,  yet  not  less  sturdy  creed  of  a  Luther,  that  knew 
the  weakness  of  humankind  and  urged  it  only  to  believe  more  powerfully  than  it 
sinned. 

No  one  can  hear  this  strangely  beautiful  music  without  coming  under  its  spell. 
Exalted,  steeped  in  mysticism  and  religious  fervor  though  it  is,  the  muse  of  Parstftd 
reaches  us  because  it  touches  earth  as  well  as  heaven.  It  deals  with  wrong,  as  well 
as  with  innocence;  of  earthly  passion,  and  of  passionate  adoration  of  what  is  sacred 
and  sublime.  It  speaks  of  the  cold  pure  fire  of  spiritual  emotion,  yet  reddens  the 
flame  with  divine  touches  of  humanity.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of  the  power  and  beauty 
of  human  faith. 

The  story  of  Parsifal  is  too  long  and  involved  for  detailed  description  here. 
It  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose  to  identify  various  items  musically  illustrated  in  the 
Prelude,  foremost  of  which  is  the  Grail.  The  Grail  is  the  chalice  into  which  flowed 
the  blood  of  Our  Lord  when  the  lance  was  thrust  into  His  side  as  He  hung  upon 


604  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Calvary;  it  is  also,  in  the  music  drama,  the  cup  from  which  was  drunk  the  com- 
munion of  the  Last  Supper.  The  Last  Supper  of  Christ  and  the  Apostles,  the  Lance 
that  pierced  the  side  of  the  Saviour  and  also  caused  the  wound  of  Amfortas,  chief 
of  the  Knights  of  the  Grail  in  the  music  drama;  the  supreme  thought — FAITH; 
all  these  elements  of  the  drama  are  musically  symbolized,  by  definite  motives,  in 
the  Prelude.  The  structure  of  the  Prelude  is  simple,  despite  the  fact  that  it  encom- 
passes the  essential  meanings  of  the  entire  music  drama.  But  it  is  simple  with  that 
sublime  simplicity  which,  extraneous  detail  having  been  done  away,  leaves  us  to 
ponder  more  certainly,  more  exclusively,  and  without  distraction  the  central 
thought  of  all  the  music. 

The  pomp  and  trappings  of  religiosity  are  absent.  There  is  no  labored  prepara- 
tion, no  hint,  no  suggestion  .  .  .  but  out  of  a  mystic  silence  the  motive  of  the  Last 
Supper — clear,  calm,  pure,  and  poignant — materializes  in  whitely  shining  tone; 
unaccompanied,  sure  of  its  lonely  majestic  power,  sounded  in  a  voice  compounded 
of  the  tones  of  violin,  cello,  English  horn,  clarinet,  and  bassoon.  It  is  the  motive  of 
the  Last  Supper;  of  sacrifice  and  self-obliteration,  of  memory  and  communion — 
and  therefore,  of  Love. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER 


On  its  final  note  we  are  permitted  to  behold  the  inchoate,  nebulous  mass  of 
tone  into  which,  it  seems,  Wagner  reaches  and  kys  hands  upon  solid  fragments; 
and  before  our  very  eyes  the  marvelous  synthesis  takes  place — and  again  the 
solemn  motive,  now  in  strings,  trumpets,  oboes,  rises  clear  of  the  entangling  figures 
that  surround  it,  and  soars  into  the  vast  mysterious  spaces  in  which  it  has  its  being. 
The  evolution  of  the  motive  occupies  about  five  minutes,  and  never  once,  in  those 
minutes  of  music,  does  a  great  conductor  permit  a  moment's  withdrawal  of  atten- 
tion from  the  miracle  of  phrasing  that  is  taking  place.  Even  the  pregnant  hiatus 
that  comes  toward  the  close  of  the  first  section  of  the  Prelude  is  as  truly  an  element 
of  Wagner's  plan  as  the  use  of  utter  absence  of  color  in  a  painter's  shadow. 

There  is  no  transitional  phrase  between  the  Last  Supper  and  Grail  motives. 
Only  a  trembling  in  the  woodwind  voices,  "breathless  in  adoration"  .  .  .  and  the 
motive  of  the  Grail  itself,  the  mystic  cup  that  contained  the  Lord  of  all  the  world, 
the  cup  of  communion  and  memory  and  love,  the  precious  symbol  of  human 
contact  with  the  divine,  sheds  its  lambent  light  through  the  music. 


RICHARD     WAGNER 

THE  GRAIL 


605 


This  is  the  famous  "Dresden  Amen,"  a  cadence  which  appears  in  the  Saxon 
liturgy  and  is  probably  still  sung  in  the  court  church  at  Dresden.  Mendelssohn,  as 
well  as  Wagner,  borrowed  it;  but  neither  originated  it,  and  its  antiquity  makes  it 
impossible  to  say  with  certainty  where  or  when  it  came  into  existence.  But  its  quiet 
solemnity  appealed  to  Wagner  very1  strongly  indeed  that  he  should  make  it  the 
central  theme  of  the  opera.  Immediately  upon  its  conclusion  comes  the  motive  of 
Faith,  strongly,  boldly  sung  in  majestic  brazen  voices,  and  twice  repeated,  each 

FAITH 


time  with  more  emphasis,  each  time  on  a  higher  plane.  Upon  its  last  note  comes 
again,  now  in  the  loveliest  tones  of  the  strings,  the  poignantly  beautiful  Grail  theme. 
Now  the  Faith  motive  appears  again,  livelier,  more  than  a  simple  affirmation — 
a  developing,  detailed,  all-inclusive  declaration  wrought  from  the  strongest  and 
loveliest  tonal  material  the  orchestra  supplies.  A  portentous  beating  upon  the  tim- 
pani ...  a  tremulous  bowing  of  the  bass  strings  .  .  .  and  suddenly  the  theme  of  the 
Last  Supper,  now  surrounded  with  new  and  strange  harmonies,  reappears.  From 
four  of  its  notes  Wagner  fashioned  the  motive  of  the  Lance,  the  Lance  that  pierced 
the  side  of  the  Saviour.  Again  and  again  it  appears,  insistent,  striking  in  the  various 
tonal  colors  and  tonalities  which  are  assigned  to  it,  powerful  and  penetrating. 

THE  LANCE 

-+  t  .       t  "N  t 


606  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Presently  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  awe  returns,  and  we  are  conscious 
of  a  passionate  questing  for  some  great  final  utterance  .  .  .  some  deathless  word 
that  will  give  ultimate  and  eloquent  expression  to  the  mystic  meanings  of  the 
music.  Upward  .  .  ,  upward  .  .  .  seeking  always  .  .  .  there  is  an  agony  of  suspense, 
an  almost  intolerable  emotional  tension,  a  piercing,  piteous  questioning,  and  then — 
the  climax  of  the  Prelude  bursts  in  the  sublime  and  final  pronouncement  of  Faith 
as  surcease  for  all  longing  and  all  pain* 


Good  Friday  Spell 
[Parsifal] 

THE  music  from  Parsifal  arranged  under  the  title  "Good  Friday  Spell"  is  spiritually 
akin  to  the  Prelude,  and  from  it  derives  certain  of  its  motives,  including  a  sugges- 
tion to  the  theme  of  Faith,  which  underlies  the  whole  work.  Parsifal,  the  innocent 
youth  who  is  to  be  the  salvation  of  the  unhappy  knights  of  the  Grail,  arrives  at 
Monsalvat  on  Good  Friday.  He  is  recognized  by  Gurnemanz,  who  tells  him  of  the 
sorrows  that  have  come  to  pass,  and  the  unhappy  condition  of  the  knights.  Parsifal 
faints  with  grief,  and  when  restored  by  the  attentions  of  Gurnemanz  and  Kundry, 
who  symbolically  bathes  his  feet  and  dries  them  with  her  hair,  the  young  man 
looks  about  him,  and  murmurs  of  the  peace  and  loveliness  of  the  fields  and  hills. 

"It  is  the  spell  of  Good  Friday,"  answers  Gurnemanz,  recalling  the  ancient 
legend  that  on  this  day  the  earth,  nourished  with  sacred  dews,  puts  forth  in  fresh- 
ness and  unequaled  loveliness  its  tribute  of  flowers  and  trees  to  the  Saviour. 

The  orchestra  itself  casts  a  spell  of  indescribable  beauty  in  this  music.  The 
half-remembered  winter  of  suffering  and  inquietude,  the  softness  and  solace  and 
promisings  of  spring — these  are  of  the  texture  of  this  music. 


Overture  and  Venusberg  Music  from  "Tannhauser" 
[Paris  Version] 

THE  story  of  the  conditions  which  resulted  in  the  "Paris  version"  of  this  music  is 
generally  known.  Napoleon  III,  who  had  never  heard  of  Richard  Wagner  and 
probably  was  not  in  the  least  interested,  commanded  a  performance  of  Tannhauser, 


RICHARD    WAGNER  .          607 

at  the  instance  of  the  Princess  Metternich,  a  friend  who  had  heard  and  admired 
Wagner's  music  in  Vienna.  But  no  sooner  were  plans  for  the  production  begun  than 
difficulties  arose.  The  invariable  rule  of  the  Opera  was  that  there  must  be  a  ballet 
in  every  production;  for  members  of  the  Jockey  Club,  a  powerful,  wealthy,  and 
aristocratic  organization,  were  supporters  of  the  Opera,  and  were  primarily  in- 
terested in  the  ballet.  Furthermore,  since  they  dined  fashionably  late,  and  came 
even  later  to  the  theater,  the  operatic  ballet  must  be  in  one  of  the  later  acts  of  the 
entertainment. 

Wagner  had  not  planned  for  anything  resembling  a  ballet  in  Twinhauser, 
although  the  basis  of  one  existed  in  the  revels  on  the  Venusberg.  It  was  suggested 
that  the  opera  be  cut  to  permit  the  performance  of  a  ballet  afterward — or  to  insert 
one  in  the  second  act.  Wagner  obdurately  refused  either  alternative.  He  agreed, 
however,  that  if  there  must  be  a  ballet,  it  should  occur  in  the  Venusberg  scene  in 
the  first  act,  where,  as  his  keen  artistic  sense  informed  him,  it  would  add  to,  rather 
than  detract  from,  his  dramatic  purposes.  So  this  plan  was  adopted,  and  rehearsals 
proceeded. 

At  the  performance,  March  13,  1861,  everything  went  fairly  well  until  the 
arrival  of  the  fashionable  young  men  of  the  Jockey  Club — too  late  for  the  scene  of 
revelry.  They  knew  that  this  would  happen,  and  came  prepared  to  express  their  in- 
dignation. This  they  did  so  effectively  and  so  noisily  that  the  performance  practically 
collapsed.  Nevertheless,  a  large  part  of  the  audience  was  enthusiastic  over  what 
they  had  heard,  and  although  the  opera  was  withdrawn,  its  artistic  success  was  un- 
questioned and  remembered.  (For  details  of  the  plot  the  reader  is  referred  to  The 
Victor  Book  of  the  Ofera*) 

The  overture  begins  with  the  solemn  chant  of  the  pilgrim  chorus,  distant  and 
soft  at  first,  but  swelling  powerfully  to  a  climax 5  then  dying  away  again  as  the 
pilgrims  pass  from  sight.  Sounds  of  unholy  celebrations  follow  hard  upon  the  pas- 
sage of  the  pious.  Brightly  palpitant  strings  weave  a  shining  fabric,  against  which 
we  hear  the  swift  upward-rushing  motive,  abandoned  and  wild,  that  typifies  the 
bacchanalian  revels  of  the  Venusberg — the  very  shrine  and  castle  of  the  goddess  of 
profane  love. 

Then  comes  what  is  perhaps  the  maddest  music  in  the  orchestral  repertoire; 
a  music  so  delirious,  so  powerfully  suggestive  of  forbidden  orgies,  of  insanely 
drunken  exuberance,  of  fearsome  passions  turned  loose  in  terrible  play,  of  frenzies 
and  rages  and  fierce  intolerable  ecstasies,  as  to  leave  the  senses  reeling  and  words 
stopped  in  the  mouth,  Yet  there  are  moments  when  this  music  is  seductive  and 
subtle,  as  when  the  clarinet  sings  the  alluring  song  of  Venus,  or  when  cellos  sigh 
of  love  and  other  strings  compound  an  almost  tangible  and  rosy  and  mystical  light. 

Wagner  himself  left  us  a  vivid  picture  of  the  Venusberg  scene  as  he  con- 
ceived it: 


608  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  scene  represents  the  interior  of  the  Venusberg  (Horselberg)  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Eisenach.  A  large  cave  which  seems  to  extend  to  an  in- 
visible distance  at  a  turn  to  the  right.  From  a  cleft  through  which  the  pale 
light  of  day  penetrates,  a  green  waterfall  tumbles  foaming  over  rocks  the 
entire  length  of  the  cave.  From  the  basin  which  receives  the  water  a  brook 
flows  towards  the  background,  where  it  spreads  into  a  lake  in  which  naiads  are 
seen  bathing  and  on  the  banks  of  which  sirens  are  reclining.  On  both  sides  of 
the  grotto  rocky  projections  of  irregular  form,  overgrown  with  singular, 
coral-like  tropical  plants.  Before  an  opening  extending  upwards  on  the  left, 
from  which  a  rosy  twilight  enters,  Venus  lies  upon  a  rich  couch;  before  her, 
his  head  upon  her  lap,  his  harp  by  his  side,  half  kneeling,  reclines  Tannhauser. 
Surrounding  the  couch  in  fascinating  embrace  are  the  three  Graces.  Beside 
and  behind  the  couch  innumerable  sleeping  Amorettes  (Cupids),  in  attitudes 
of  wild  disorder,  like  children  who  have  fallen  asleep  wearied  with  the  exer- 
tions of  a  combat.  The  entire  foreground  is  illumined  by  a  magical,  ruddy  light 
shining  upwards  from  below,  through  which  the  emerald  green  of  the  water- 
fall with  its  white  foam  penetrates.  This  distant  background  with  the  shores  of 
the  lake  seems  transfigured  by  a  sort  of  moonlight.  When  the  curtain  rises, 
youths  reclining  on  the  rocky  projections  answering  the  beckonings  of  the 
nymphs  hurry  down  to  them.  Beside  the  basin  of  the  waterfall,  the  nymphs 
have  begun  the  dance  designed  to  lure  the  youths  to  them.  They  pair  off; 
flight  and  chase  enliven  the  dance. 

From  the  distant  background  a  procession  of  Bacchantes  approaches, 
rushing  through  the  rows  of  the  loving  couples  and  stimulating  them  to  wilder 
pleasures.  With  gestures  of  enthusiastic  intoxication  they  tempt  the  lovers  to 
growing  recklessness.  Satyrs  and  fauns  have  appeared  from  the  cleft  of  the 
rocks  and,  dancing  the  while,  force  their  way  between  the  Bacchantes  and 
lovers,  increasing  the  disorder  by  chasing  the  nymphs.  The  tumult  reaches  its 
height,  whereupon  the  Graces  rise  in  horror  and  seek  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
wild  conduct  of  the  dancing  rout  and  drive  the  mad  roisterers  from  the  scene. 
Fearful  that  they  themselves  might  be  drawn  into  the  whirlpool,  they  turn  to 
the  sleeping  Amorettes  and  drive  them  aloft.  They  flutter  about,  then  gather 
into  ranks  on  high,  filling  the  upper  spaces  of  the  cave,  whence  they  send  down  a 
hail  of  arrows  upon  the  wild  revelers.  These,  wounded  by  the  arrows,  filled 
with  a  mighty  love  longing,  cease  their  dance  and  sink  down  exhausted.  The 
Graces  capture  the  wounded  and  seek,  while  separating  the  intoxicated  ones 
into  pairs,  to  scatter  them  in  the  background.  Then,  still  pursued  by  the  flying 
Amorettes,  the  Bacchantes,  fauns,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  youths  depart  in  various 
directions.  A  rosy  mist,  growing  more  and  more  dense,  sinks  down,  hiding  first 
the  Amorettes  and  then  the  entire  background,  so  that  finally  only  Venus, 
Tannhauser,  and  the  Graces  remain  visible.  The  Graces  now  turn  their  faces 


RICHARD     WAGNER  609 

to  the  foreground  5  gracefully  intertwined  they  approach  Venus,  seemingly  in- 
forming her  of  the  victory  they  have  won  over  the  mad  passions  of  her 
subjects. 

The  dense  mist  in  the  background  is  dissipated,  and  a  tableau,  a  cloud 
picture,  shows  the  rape  of  Europa  who,  sitting  on  the  back  of  a  bull  decorated 
with  flowers  and  led  by  Tritons  and  Nereids,  sails  across  the  blue  lake.  (Song 
of  the  Siren.)  The  rosy  mist  shuts  down,  the  picture  disappears,  and  the 
Graces  suggest  by  an  ingratiating  dance  the  secret  significance  that  it  was  an 
achievement  of  love.  Again  the  mists  move  about.  In  the  pale  moonlight  Leda 
is  discovered  reclining  by  the  side  of  the  forest  lake,  the  swan  swims  toward 
her  and  caressingly  lays  his  head  upon  her  breast.  (Again  the  Song  of  the 
Sirens.)  Gradually  this  picture  also  disappears  and,  the  mist  blown  away,  dis- 
closes the  grotto  deserted  and  silent.  The  Graces  curtsey  mischievously  to 
Venus  and  slowly  leave  the  grotto  of  Love.  Deepest  silence. 


Tristan  und  Isolde 

"Vorsfal"  (Prelude);  "Liebesnachf*  (The  Night  of  Love);  "IMestof*  (Death 

by  Love) 

WAGNER  made  of  the  music  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  the  mightiest  paean  of  love  and 
passion,  of  suffering  and  death  through  love,  that  mortal  ears  have  ever  heard. 
The  legend  of  the  Irish  princess,  Isolde  of  the  White  Hands,  and  Tristan,  knight 
of  ancient  Cornwall,  antedates  the  Wagnerian  opera  by  several  centuries;  stripped 
of  detail  and  the  circumstances  of  time  and  place,  it  is  ageless  as  humanity.  The 
musician  does  not  always  know  what  he  means  nor  what  he  says,  when  he  writes, 
for  often  he  is  but  a  channel  for  a  stream  of  thought  and  emotion  that  transcends 
articulate  meanings,  and  he  speaks  a  mystical  language  that  finds  its  understanding 
and  responses  only  in  some  remote  and  secret  recess  of  the  human  soul.  Tristan  is  a 
rather  long  opera,  with  most  of  the  faults  and  virtues  inherent  in  that  hybrid  form 
of  art.  Yet  its  music,  quite  apart  from  the  action,  and  reduced  to  its  mordant  and 
fiery  distillate,  becomes  the  mightiest  and  saddest  and  fiercest  utterance  of  human 
passion  that  music  can  pronounce. 

On  symphony  programs,  but  two  excerpts  are  commonly  played — the  Prelude, 
and  Isolde's  "Song  of  Love  and  Death."  They  are  usually  given  without  pause.  We 
prefer  to  discuss  here  the  "symphonic  synthesis"  arranged  by  Leopold  Stokowski, 
because  it  includes  not  only  the  Prelude  and  the  "Liebestod?  but  the  indescribable 


6io 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


love  music  from  the  second  act,  together  with  passages  taken  from  the  first  and 
third  acts.  In  the  Stokowski  arrangement,  though  it  includes  in  complete  form  the 
Prelude  and  the  "Liebestod"  of  Isolde,  the  music  is  presented  as  a  symphonic  poem, 
a  single,  unified  rhapsodic  utterance.  It  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  "excerpts"  from 
the  opera,  but  as  a  distinct  musical  work  with  a  climactic  scheme  of  its  own,  built 
of  the  synthesized  elements  of  the  music  without  regard  to  their  sequence  in  the 
stage  performance*  In  this  form,  and  according  to  its  mood,  the  music  can  be 
roughly  divided  into  three  sections,  the  Prelude,  the  "Liebesnacht?'  (Night  of 
Love),  and  the  "Liebestod"  (Isolde's  Death  through  Love). 

Prelude 

The  Prelude  is  filled  with  awe  and  yearning  and  dreadful  portents.  Within 
the  few  minutes  of  its  length,  it  traverses  the  entire  emotional  range  of  the  opera 
— from  the  cellos'  breathless  whisper  that  so  swiftly  grows  into  a  cry  of  fiercest 
longing  to  climaxes  of  such  unimaginable  intensity,  and  of  such  tragic  implication, 
that  the  heart  is  shaken  and  the  spirit  moved  and  troubled  with  this  potent  music. 
The  long  slow  phrase,  that  seems  at  once  agonizingly  repressed  and  indescribably 
eloquent,  is  but  half  uttered  by  the  cellos  when  it  is  joined  by  another,  briefer 
sentence  of  the  woodwinds — the  avowal  of  love,  and  the  kindling  of  desire. 


THE  AVOWAL  OF  LOVE 


DESIRE 


Presently  comes  the  poignant  motive,  powerfully  sung  by  the  orchestra,  that 
suggests  the  burning  yet  enigmatic  glance  that  the  "wild  and  amorous  Irish  maid" 
turns  upon  Tristan;  a  little  later,  deep  in  the  strings*  the  rich  smooth  fragment  of 
melody  suggesting  the  sweet  and  deadly  philter — the  distillation  of  love  and  death 


RICHARD    WAGNER  6ll 

so  innocently  and  so  bravely  shared  by  Isolde  and  Tristan.  These  eloquent  orches- 
tral utterances  compound  within  themselves  the  elements  of  the  fateful,  fatal  love 
of  knight  and  princess,  and  in  their  derivations  and  development  through  the  Prel- 
ude foreshadow  in  climaxes  of  wordless  vehemence  the  terror  and  conflict  and 
tragedy  by  which  that  love  was  encompassed — and  ended. 

It  is  beautifully  significant  that,  after  all  the  storms  of  the  Prelude,  the  theme 
of  love's  avowal  and  passion's  birth  persists  to  the  end,  and  is  the  last  we  hear  be- 
fore the  long  phrases,  disappearing  in  the  darkness  of  bass  strings  softly  bowed,  and 
the  ominous  strokes  upon  the  timpani,  usher  in  an  atmosphere  of  dreadful  ex- 
pectancy. Here  the  conventional  concert  performance  of  the  Prelude  ends>  and 
here,  in  the  opera,  the  curtain  rises. 

Liebesnacht 

The  ultimate,  and  the  only  complete  meeting  and  union  of  man  and  woman 
is  in  the  embrace  of  love.  The  poet  and  the  sentimentalist  sing  of  united  spirits — 
but  they  are  never,  in  this  world,  united;  for  the  thoughts  and  feelings,  the  mental 
processes,  the  emotions  in  both  kind  and  degree,  the  approach  to  a  common  deci- 
sion and  the  action  upon  it,  the  very  interpretation  of  words  and  significance  of 
deeds  are  inevitably  different  between  man  and  woman. 

Love  is  the  union  of  two  wills.  In  it  the  very  differences  in  mind  and  heart 
and  body,  that  in  everything  else  combine  to  hold  man  and  woman  apart  as  in- 
dividual beings,  compose  for  once  to  bring  them  into  intimate  and  perfect  oneness. 
It  is  the  desire  for  such  unity,  and  the  implacable  force  with  which  that  desire  seeks 
its  fulfillment,  that  is  the  basis  of  the  tragedy  of  Tristan  and  Isolde. 

It  is  no  disembodied  love,  immaterial,  spiritualized,  and  denatured,  that 
Wagner  celebrates  here.  No  such  incandescent  ecstasies  were  ever  born  of  meet- 
ings of  the  spirit.  Here  is  love  that  is  fierce  and  exigent  and  consuming  and  in- 
satiable; love  which  at  a  look,  a  word,  a  touch,  races  through  the  blood  like  flames; 
love  which  laughs  at  barriers,  forgets  enemies,  and  knows  no  loyalty  but  to  itself; 
love  which  is  normal  and  carnal  and  human. 

Now  through  the  long  night  that  passes,  Tristan,  all  dour  scruples  done  away, 
all  knightly  vows  forgotten  under  magic  and  the  spell  of  love,  holds  the  white 
loveliness  of  Isolde  in  his  arms.  Now  the  young  girl,  the  innocent,  the  beautiful 
princess  of  Ireland,  becomes  heiress  overnight  to  the  ageless  stratagems  and  arts  of 
womankind.  Now  are  celebrated  the  immemorial  rites  of  love,  the  lovers  heedless, 
careless,  forgetful  of  all  but  the  night,  and  their  own  hearts  beating  dose,  one  upon 
the  other.  Death  waits  without  the  door,  but  Isolde  has  put  out  the  light,  that  she 
may  see  no  face  but  Tristan's;  Death  paces  close,  but  hearts  beat  louder  than  his 
pacing;  Death  comes  with  the  day,  but  the  lovers  hear  no  dreadful  warning,  only 
broken  words  of  love. 


6l2  THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE     SYMPHONY 

Now  with  the  esurient  senses  appeased  come  interludes  of  exquisite  lethargy, 
sweet  warm  magical  languors,  mystical  moments  when  the  heart  eases  itself  of 

LOVE'S  LANGUORS 


burdens  and  confidences,  of  secret  hopes  and  longings.  Now  as  the  lovers  reflect 
upon  their  plight,  they  despair  and  long  for  death;  now  remembered  ecstasy  again 
besieges  them.  The  handmaiden  Brangane  warns  in  vain  of  approaching  day;  the 
henchman  Kurvenal  bursts  into  the  bower  but  a  step  before  envious  Melot  and 
outraged  king.  Tristan,  his  heart  in  Isolde's  body,  defends  himself  without  hope  or 
despair  or  fury,  and  takes  a  not  unwelcome  mortal  wound. 

Only  music,  vibrating  'in  the  invisible  air,  could  dramatize  such  a  moment. 
And  what  shall  one  say  of  such  music  as  this?  What  magic  is  there,  in  wood  and 
wind  and  brass,  that  can  make  this  deathless  song?  What  man  is  this  who  in  his 
music  evokes  so  surely  and  so  terribly  the  longings  and  sorrows  and  passion  of  all 
the  lovers  of  all  the  world?  Answer  there  is  none,  for  music  speaks  from  heart  to 
heart;  to  reason  with  it  is  to  slay  it.  Only  listen  to  the  soothing  loveliness  of  the 
strings  as  they  sing  of  love's  contentment;  hear  the  echoes  of  rekindled  passion,  of 
piteous  questioning  and  wild  despair,  in  the  terrible  poignancy  of  the  answering 
woodwind;  feel  this  music,  and  you  will  feel  heart's  ease  and  heart  hunger  and 
heartbreak.  Hear  it — and  "consider,  and  bow  the  head." 

Liebestod 

We  love  Death,  even  while  we  fear  it.  For  Death  is  the  answer  to  all  ques- 
tions; a  negation  of  all  torments  and  bitter  truths,  an  affirmation  of  the  intoler- 
ableness  of  passion  and  of  life.  Self-wrought,  it  can  be  a  magnificent  gesture  of 
contempt  or  indifference — or  of  indomitable  determination  to  follow  into  nothing- 
ness the  thing  that  makes  life — Lif e. 

Isolde,  finally,  was  not  Death's  victim.  Rather,  Death  was  her  servant  and 
her  friend.  She  was  not  slain  by  despair;  rather,  she  determined  to  die.  Her  spirit 
was  not  broken  when  for  the  last  time  the  face  of  Tristan,  bloodied  and  chill,  lay 
upon  her  breast;  but  her  fierce  will  drove  her  to  ecstasies  of  love  and  grief  she 
knew  her  frail  loveliness  would  not  withstand.  Her  song,  at  its  outset,  is  full  of 


RICHARD    WAGNER 

ISOLDE'S  SONG  OF  DEATH  BY  LOVE 


613 


ominous  purpose.  The  dark  orchestral  voice  (clarinet)  which  supports  Isolde's 
allows  no  accent  of  weakness  or  of  despair.  Swiftly  she  pursues  Death  with  ever 
wilder  passion,  and  with  passion  bends  Death  to  her  will.  Tristan  is  slain;  skin  she 
will  be  also.  But  no  dagger  shall  mar  the  loveliness  he  loved,  nor  spill  the  blood 
that  leaped  so  joyously  for  him.  She  will  die,  and  go  to  him  in  ecstasy  once  more; 
go  to  him  where  he  lies  in  silence  and  cold  impersonal  calm. 

ECSTASY 


[F^     S2BQ  ~i  * 
-~      •          b»i«- 


The  music  grows  in  terrible  beauty  as  it  mounts  from  Isolde's  first  quiet  words 
into  whirling  delirious  passion.  You  feel  it  forcing  itself  to  new  and  more  powerful 
utterance  .  .  .  never  resting,  never  resolving  into  perfect  and  satisfying  harmony, 
mounting  again  until  the  awful  climax  bursts  from  the  straining  orchestra. 

There  is  a  fading  of  orchestral  glory.  Isolde  has  left  the  loathed  light  of  day, 
and  has  sent  her  soul  to  join  her  lover.  Her  body  sinks  down  upon  his  heart,  and 
for  the  last  time,  now  resolving  into  peace,  the  orchestra  sings  the  motive  of 
Desire. 


Ride  of  the  Valkyries 
[Die  Walkure] 

THE  stormiest  music  we  know,  the  wildest  and  fiercest  and  most  vividly  pic- 
turesque, is  this  music  from  the  third  act  of  Die  Wdkwre.  Much  has  been  set 
down  in  notes  to  illustrate  the  swift  rhythm  and  leapings  of  ridden  horses,  but 
nothing,  before  or  since,  has  had  the  superb  and  detailed  suggestiveness,  the  in- 
credible power  of  this  marvelous  tone  picture. 


6l4  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  Valkyries,  in  ancient  Scandinavian  mythology,  were  fierce  warlike 
daughters  of  Odin  (Wbtan),  whose  duty  it  was  to  snatch  up  the  fallen  in  battle 
and  to  bear  them  to  Valhalla.  They  were  themselves  warrior  maidens,  and  rode 
through  the  high  airs  upon  great  steeds,  accompanied  by  thunderclouds  and 
lightning. 

This  music  is  taken  from  the  scene  wherein  the  Valkyries  are  gathering  on  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  after  having  descended  to  earth  to  recover  the  bodies  of  heroes 
to  be  enlisted  in  the  hosts  of  Wotan.  Their  wild  cry,  and  the  rumor  of  their 
steeds5  swift  hooves,  are  heard,  and  closer  and  closer  the  thundering  band  ap- 
proaches. Now  the  orchestra's  mightiest  forces  are  summoned;  now  the  leaping 
rhythm  of  mighty  chargers  sways  and  moves  and  compels  the  band.  There  is  even 
the  gigantic  neigh  of  these  swift  steeds  in  the  woodwind;  the  upward-leaping 
rhythm  roars  through  the  brass  and  detonates  in  the  timpani.  Swiftly  the  marvelous 
spectacle  courses  on,  and  fades  from  view  along  a  steep  mountain  pass,  the  echoing 
hoofbeats  lingering  briefly  behind. 


Magic  Fire  Scene 
[Die  Walkilre] 

ONE  of  the  most  touching  and  powerful  scenes  in  Wagner's  music  dramas  pre- 
cedes and  continues  through  this  potent  music.  Briinnhilde,  loved  daughter  of  the 
god,  has  frustrated  his  command  but  not  his  secret  will  by  surrounding  with  her 
protection  the  sinful  union  of  Siegmund  and  Sieglinde.  Urged  on  by  the  termagant 
Fricka,  goddess  of  the  sanctity  of  marriage,  Wotan  decrees  a  strangely  beautiful 
punishment  for  his  daughter.  She  is  to  lie  in  charmed  sleep,  full  panoplied  and 
lovely,  in  a  remote  mountain  place;  leaping  flames  shall  protect  her -magic  slumbers, 
and  she  shall  know  no  awakening  until  a  hero,  fearing  nothing  in  heaven  or  on 
earth,  comes  to  summon  her  to  life  with  a  kiss. 

Bringing  upon  her  a  charmed  sleep,  Wotan  sorrowfully  bids  his  child  a  long 
farewell.  He  lays  her  down  in  a  shadowed  and  mossy  place,  lowers  the  visor  of 

Strings 


her  helmet,  and  covers  her  with  her  great  warshield.  A  lovely  motive  in  the  strings 
invites  her  slumbers.  Then  Wotan  stretches  forth  his  great  spear  and,  summoning 


RICHARD    WAGNER  615 

Brass 


the  fire  god  Loge,  surrounds  the  sleeping  figure  with  a  barrier  of  crackling  flames. 
Shrill  woodwinds  sound  the  motive  of  the  magic  fire,  and  as  the  flames  leap  upward 


'  [ 


and  enfold  the  motionless  form  of  Briinnhilde,  the  brass  sounds  prophetically  the 
suggestion  of  the  hero  who  one  day  shall  bring  a  glorious  awakening: 


And  Wotan  "turns  his  back  on  that  which  was  more  dear  to  him  than  anything 
save  pride  and  power,  and  disappears  slowly  down  the  mountainside.5* 


The  Forging  of  the  Sword 


THERE  has  been  many  a  song  of  the  forge,  and  many  a  stage  smithy  has  roared 
right  manfully  to  the  applause  of  admiring  multitudes;  but  there  is  not,  elsewhere 
in  music,  so  vivid  and  so  glowing  a  picture  of  one  of  Vulcan's  sons,  engaged  in  so 
heroic  a  task,  as  we  have  in  this  music.  Now  Siegfried  demands  of  Mime  the  sword 
of  his  father,  and  the  dwarf  blacksmith  is  forced  to  confess  that  he  cannot  weld 
again  the  broken  pieces  of  the  once  mighty  blade.  Siegfried,  suddenly  inspired,  de- 
cides that  he  himself  shall  forge  the  sword.  He  files  the  fragments  to  a  powder, 
pours  it  into  a  crucible,  and  puts  it  on  the  fire.  Then  he  sings  in  exuberance  and 
anticipation  while  he  blows  the  glowing  coals  into  white  heat;  he  sings  of 
"Nothung"  —  the  Needed  One  —  the  magical  sword  that  shall  be  his;  and  the  or- 
chestra paints  the  picture  in  incandescent  colors. 

Now  Siegfried  pours  the  molten  metal  into  a  mold,  and  hammers  the  rough- 
formed  blade  on  the  anvil.  (The  hammering  on  the  anvil  fe  heard  literally  in  tie 


6l6  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

orchestra.)  When  he  thrusts  the  blade  into  the  fire,  an  extraordinarily  realistic 
hissing  escapes  from  the  orchestra  like  white-hot  vapor;  and  when  at  last  in  fierce 
glee  the  young  hero  shakes  the  finished  blade  aloft,  we  hear  the  wild  call  of  the 
horn  that  means  "Siegfried,"  and  the  shining  fanfare,  the  Sword,  that  cleaves 
through  the  orchestra: 


Then  Siegfried,  swinging  the  great  blade  above  his  head,  brings  it  down  with 
a  terrifying  crash,  and  cleaves  the  anvil  from  top  to  bottom. 


Waldweben 
Forest  Murmwrings  from  Siegfried 

NOT  only  the  mysterious  communings  of  the  forest  within  itself,  the  susurrus  of 
wind-shaken  leaves,  birdcalls,  and  shadowed  glens  and  hidden  caverns — not  only 
these,  but  the  very  thoughts  of  the  young  hero  Siegfried  as  he  lay  beneath  the 
murmurous  trees,  are  captured  and  translated  and  made  intelligible  in  this  lovely 
music.  Siegfried,  defiant  of  the  world,  seeking  something  that  may  teach  him  the 
meaning  of  the  unknowable  word  "fear,3'  has  been  led  into  the  woods  by  the  ugly 
and  hateful  Mime,  who  promises  him  fear  in  satisfying  degree  when  he  shall 
meet  the  terrible  dragon,  Fafner.  Tiring  of  the  chatter  of  the  dwarf,  Siegfried 
reclines  on  the  grass  to  meditate  awhile. 

Strings 


The  orchestra  breathes  and  murmurs  sounds  of  the  wild — at  first  a  low  and 
almost  inaudible  muttering,  then  brighter  but  still  veiled  and  mystical,  in  muted 
violins.  In  this  hypnotically  beautiful  atmosphere  Siegfried  visions  again  scenes  and 
moments  out  of  his  youthful  past.  He  is  convinced  that  he  is  not,  as  he  has  been 
led  to  believe,  the  son  of  the  ugly  Mime,  and  he  speculates  upon  the  character  of 
his  father.  In  the  orchestra,  the  music  tactfully  recalls  that  he  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the 


RICHARD    WAGNER 

heroic  race  of  the  Walsungs.  (For  a  quotation  of  the  Walsung  motive,  see  the 
discussion  of  Siegfried's  "Death  Music.")  Presently  his  attention  is  distracted  by 
the  singing  of  the  birds,  which,  in  the  opera,  becomes  intelligible  to  him  and  gives 
him  information  of  great  importance.  The  clarinet,  then  the  flute,  give  out  songs 
of  tender  beauty: 

Clarinet     Flute 


l         "" 


Jllfc.  V-»  jtMr  mmf 


r  mmf  ••_•  mma—r 


After  Siegfried's  communication  with  the  birds,  there  follows,  on  the  stage, 
the  battle  with  and  slaying  of  the  dragon,  and  the  death  of  Mime.  There  are  no 
references  to  these  in  the  concert  arrangement  of  this  music. 

The  birds  tell  Siegfried,  among  other  things,  'that  a  wonderful  woman,  mag- 
ically asleep,  awaits  beyond  a  ring  of  fire  the  touch  of  a  hero  who  is  stranger  to 
fear;  and  in  the  orchestra  we  hear  faintly  the  slumber  music,  remembrances  of 
Loge's  magic  fire,  and  prophecy  in  the  shape  of  Siegfried's  own  horncall: 

Horn 


And  at  this  Siegfried  is  overjoyed.  Crying  aloud  for  someone  to  show  him 
the  way,  he  is  guided  by  the  talking  bird  toward  Briinnhilde's  fire-bound  rock. 


Prelude — The  Rainbow  Bridge — Entrance  of  the  Gods 

into  Valhalla 

[Das  RMngold] 

THE  second  and  third  of  the  excerpts  named  above  are  usually  played  together  on 
orchestral  programs;  the  Prelude  does  not,  with  such  great  frequency,  appear.  Yet 
the  Prelude  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  examples  of  nature  painting  in  all 
music,  giving  within  its  slow  and  crawling  harmonies  a  fantastic  yet  curiously  real 
and  convincing  image  of  the  river  bottom,  its  unnatural  lights  and  shapes  and 


6l8  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

shadows,  the  serpentine  movements  of  primitive  creatures  half  buried  in  the  ooze, 
and  pallid  gleams  from  above.  And  from  the  nadir  of  these  strange  and  awesome 
depths  the  music  takes  us  to  the  heavens'  very  zenith,  in  a  slow  and  certain  and 
irresistible  progression  that  is  completely  fascinating. 

The  curse  that  rests  upon  the  stolen  gold  of  the  Rhine  is,  in  the  closing  scene 
of  the  opera,  made  terribly  manifest.  The  giants,  Fasolt  and  Fafner,  who  had 
built  Valhalla,  the  home  of  the  gods,  have  claimed  all  the  world's  gold  in  sub- 
stitute payment  for  their  work,  since  happily  they  prefer  this  treasure  to  the  goddess 
Freia,  originally  promised  to  them  as  a  reward.  They  are  not  content  until  Wotan, 
ruler  of  the  gods,  throws  upon  the  heap  of  riches  the  magic  ring  which  has  been 
made  from  the  stolen  Rheingold,  and  which  bears  this  curse — that  it  may  bring 
death  and  destruction  to  all  who  possess  it.  Wotan  finally  yields,  casts  the  ring 
upon  the  piled-up  gold.  At  once  Fasolt  and  Fafner  quarrel  over  it,  and  the  latter 
kills  his  brother  giant.  The  gods,  horrified  by  the  immediate  effect  of  the  cursed 
ring,  stand  thunderstruck.  In  the  orchestra  there  is  a  tremendous  crescendo,  blind- 
ing brilliance,  and  a  terrific  crash.  Donner,  the  thunder  god,  has  summoned  a 
storm  to  dissipate  the  pervading  gloom.  At  once  the  air  seems  clearer;  across  a 
great  valley,  Valhalla  gleams  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  between  it  and  the 
assembled  gods,  stretches  a  bridge  glowing  in  the  prismatic  colors  of  the  rainbow. 
The  procession  of  the  gods  forms,  and  proceeds  in  majesty  across  the  rainbow 
bridge  toward  the  already  doomed  magnificence  of  Valhalla. 


Siegfried's  Rheinfahrt 

[Siegfried's  Rhine  Journey — A  note  by  Alfred  Reginald  Allen] 
From  Die  Gbtterdammenmg  (The  Twilight  of  the  Gods) 

AN  ATTEMPT  to  brief  Wagner's  famous  tetralogy  in  a  few  pages  would  indeed  be 
futile.  Nor  even  would  it  be  feasible  to  give  a  thimble  sketch  of  sb  mighty  and 
complex  a  music  drama  as  Die  G '-otter -dammerung.  To  those  who  are  genuinely 
interested  in  the  fascinating  mythological  narrative  portrayed  by  actors  and  music 
alike  that  constitutes  Der  Ring  des  Nibelungen,  we  can  recommend  the  concise 
sketches  of  these  operas  in  The  Victor  Book  of  the  Of  era  or  some  of  the  many 
exhaustive  works  on  Wagner. 

Die  G  otter dammerung  commences  with  a  Prologue  that  is  divided  into  two 
parts.  In  the  first  of  these  we  see  the  Norns  weaving  the  thread  of  destiny.  They 
correspond  to  the  Fates  of  Grecian  and  Roman  myths.  Then  there  is  a  musical 
interlude  connecting  this  scene  of  the  Norns  with  the  second  half  of  the  Prologue. 
The  music  of  this  interlude  depicts  the  rising  of  the  sun  on  the  morn  on  which 


RICHARD    WAGNER  619 

Siegfried  is  to  say  farewell  to  Brunnhilde  as  he  sets  out  on  fresh  conquests.  Then 
follows  the  scene  between  Siegfried  and  Brunnhilde.  They  bid  each  other  good-by, 
Siegfried  mounts  Grane,  Brunnhilde's  horse,  and  rides  down  the  mountainside. 
The  singing  stops  with  Siegfried's  departure  from  the  stage  and  Brunnhilde  stands 
silently  watching  him  wind  his  way  down  the  mountain. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  the  music  known  as  "Siegfried's  Rhine  Journey"  begins. 
This  selection  is  full  of  powerful  descriptive  melody.  It  is  a  great  favorite  among 
lovers  of  Wagner.  The  succession  of  leitmotives  is  readily  and  logically  followed 
to  the  end  when  the  curtain  rises  on  Act  I  of  the  opera. 

As  usually  arranged  for  concert  performance,  a  descending  passage  played  by 
the  full  orchestra  opens  the  Rhine  journey.  As  this  motive  appears  deeper  and 
deeper  in  the  bass  one  can  imagine  the  warrior  moving  lower  and  lower  down  the 
mountainside.  But  Brunnhilde  is  watching  him,  and  presently  the  Decision  to 
Love  is  heard  in  the  strings  and  clarinets.  In  a  moment  we  hear  another  motive 
— that  of  Siegfried,  Son  of  the  Woods — clearly  sounded  on  the  horn.  It  is  taken  up 
again  by  the  oboe  .  .  ,  and  then  suddenly  the  familiar  Fire  theme  appears  with  it. 

THE  DECISION  TO  LOVE 


With  the  violins  carrying  the  Fire  motive,  and  the  horns  still  sounding  the  Son  of 
the  Woods  in  the  bass,  we  have  a  spirited  musical  picture  of  Siegfried  descending 
through  the  magic  fire  with  which  Wotan  has  surrounded  the  mountain.  Finally 
the  entire  orchestra  is  at  work  on  this  vivid  portrayal.  And  then — as  though  follow- 
ing Siegfried's  train  of  thought — the  Decision  to  Love  takes  the  place  of  the  Son 
of  the  Woods  motive  and  is  played  in  the  bass,  while  the  Fire  motive  is  still 
dominant.  As  he  descends  through  the  fire  the  great  Siegfried  is  disposed  to  think 
longingly  of  the  fair  Brunnhilde  from  whom  he  has  just  parted. 

CALL  OF  THE  SON  OF  THE  WOODS 


An  entire  change  of  thought  now  comes,  and  with  it  a  change  of  kejy.  The 
swelling  melodious  Rhine  motive  appears  in  the  brass.  It  is  emblematic  of  Siegfried's 


620 


THE     VICTOR     BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


destination,  and  of  the .  basic  background  of  the  entire  tetralogy.  It  is  a  lovely 
theme,  and  grows  on  the  listener  even  as  it  grows  in  majesty  in  the  orchestra.  The 
portentous  sound  of  the  motive  of  the  gods'  Decline  is  heard — a  prophetic  outburst 

THE  RHINE 


"  '       v     > — =y=-=r= — ,~i ,-*•  =-= — ^|       —  -  =  i  i 


that  is  swiftly  covered  by  a  further  development  of  the  Rhine  by  the  brass  and 
violins.  This  motive — at  first  soft — gradually  swells  to  mighty  proportions  and  at 
the  climax  becomes  the  sorrowful  lamentation  of  the  Rhinemaidens.  The  Adora- 
tion of  the  Gold  is  heard,  behind  which  a  horn  continues  a  few  familiar  notes  from 
the  Son  of  the  Woods. 

ADORATION  OF  THE  GOLD 


The  melancholy  strains  of  the  Adoration  of  the  Gold  dominate  the  orchestra. 
In  the  middle  the  Rhinegold  Fanfare  is  heard;  then  the  Adoration  motive  is  re- 
peated; gradually  dwindling  away  until — almost  before  the  change  is  recognizable 
— the  woodwind  and  strings  are  sounding  the  motive  of  the  Ring.  It  is  the  baleful 
ring  as  well  as  the  gold  that  caused  the  intricate  plot,  and  it  is  the  ring  that  will  bring 
final  destruction  to  the  gods  in  the  acts  of  the  following  opera,  Die  Gotterdam- 
merung.  Hence  its  soft  insistence  here  at  the  close  of  the  Rhine  journey  may  be  in- 
terpreted as  either  retrospect,  or  as  an  ominous  prophecy  of  what  is  to  come.  The 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  RING 


final  chords  voice  a  few  measures  of  the  motive  of  Renunciation  of  Love,  which 


RICHARD    WAGNER  621 

harks  back  to  Alberich's  renunciation  when  he  stole  the  Rhinegold,  and  also  pre- 
dicts the  reappearance  of  Alberich  in  the  opera  that  follows.  Twenty-one  meas- 
ures later,  Act  I  of  Die  Gotterddmmerung  begins.  These  kst  measures  are  com- 
posed of  musical  material  that  suggests  the  action  of  the  opera  that  is  about  to 
begin.  In  them  is  heard  the  Nibelung's  Cry  of  Triumph,  and  then — four  measures 
before  the  end — the  curtain  rises  on  Die  G  otter ddmmerung* 


Siegfried's  Funeral  Music 
From  Die  Gotterd'dmmerung  (The  Twilight  of  the  Gods) 

THE  "Funeral  Music,"  called  improperly  but  popularly  "Siegfried's  Death  March," 
if  it  can  be  considered  without  reference  to  the  peculiar  significance  of  the  Wag- 
nerian  leitmotive,  is  an  heroic  symphony  of  grief;  gigantic  in  its  conception,  soul 
shaking  in  its  might,  ominous,  almost  terrifying  in  its  prophetic  utterance,  yet  with 
a  hopeful  gleam  at  the  end.  Wagner  intended  a  far  deeper  meaning,  a  broader 
significance  to  be  drawn  from  this  tremendous  music.  It  is  more  than  a  hero's 
threnody;  it  is  the  peroration,  so  to  speak,  of  the  titanic  tetralogy  of  The  Ring  of 
the  Nibelungs.  It  reviews,  in  ten  minutes  or  less  of  marvelously  fashioned  and  even 
more  marvelously  articulated  music,  the  four  music  dramas — Rkeingold,  Walkure, 
Siegfried,  and  Gotterdammerung — which  not  only  tell  the  significant  story  of  a 
disintegrating  godhood  and  a  humanity  supplanting  it,  but  which  also  comprehend 
a  strange  and  wonderful  mythology  that  is  peculiarly  Wagnerian. 

The  "Funeral  Music"  is  built,  practically  exclusively,  of  the  leitmotives  associ- 
ated with  various  scenes  and  characters  in  the  Ring  operas.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  are 
the  singular  gifts  of  Wagner  more  strikingly  illustrated.  Nowhere  do  these  motives 
appear,  combine,  contrast,  flow  one  into  the  other,  and  arrange  themselves  with 
such  inevitable  finality  as  here.  Nowhere  do  they,  in  their  respective  significance, 
align  themselves  with  more  felicity. 

Perfectly  to  enjoy  this  music,  or  any  music  from  the  Ring  operas,  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  principal  motives  is  necessary.  To  review  the  entire  story  of  the 
Ring,  which  is  easily  available  in  many  forms  (particularly  in  The  Victor  Book 
of  the  Oferd),  would  be  unnecessary  as  well  as  impracticable  here.  We  shall  in- 
dicate, therefore,  only  the  chief  motives  recalled  in  the  "Funeral  Music,"  in  the 
order  of  their  appearance. 

The  "Funeral  Music"  begins  immediately  after  Siegfried,  mortally  stricken 
by  the  treacherous  Hagen,  nevertheless  finishes  the  story  of  his  life,  and  falls  dead. 
This  is  in  Scene  II  of  the  third  act  of  Gotterdammerung.  At  the  outset,  after 


622  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

THE  WALSUNGS 


portentous  strokes  upon  the  timpani,  deep  and  grave  in  the  voices  of  tuba  and  horn, 
we  hear  the  theme  of  the  Walsungs,  the  heroic  race  of  which  Siegfried  is  the  last 
representative.  More  mutterings  of  the  drums,  and  the  theme  is  repeated  in  clarinets 
and  bassoons.  Now  come  thunderous  crashing  chords — JDeath,  and  hard  upon 
Death,  as  if  in  defiant  answer,  appears  the  powerful  motive  of  the  Heroism  of  the 
Walsungs. 

DEATH 


THE  HEROISM  OF  THE  WALSUNGS 


There  are  running  passages  in  the  bass,  serving  as  connective  tissue  between 
the  motives  and  sometimes  developed  from  them.  Presently,  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
short  phrase  of  this  kind,  the  touching  theme  of  Sympathy  (referring  to  the  feeling 
between  Sieglinde  and  Siegmund,  who  were  Siegfried's  parents)  appears  in  horn 
and  woodwind,  closely  and  appropriately  followed,  in  the  voice  of  the  oboe,  by  the 
theme  of  Love.  Here  will  be  noted  a  striking  example  of  the  matchless  skill  and 
the  extraordinary  mind  of  Wagner — for  the  bass  which  supports  the  motives  of 
Sympathy  and  Love,  both  of  which  contributed  to  the  race  of  the  Walsungs,  is  a 
development  of  the  Walsung  motive  itself. 


RICHARD     WAGNER 

SYMPATHY 


623 


LOVE 


At  the  close  of  the  first  half  of  the  music  is  that  magnificently  expressive 
theme  symbolizing  Siegfried's  Sword  .  .  .  bright  and  shining  in  the  penetrating 
voice  of  the  trumpet,  but,  in  its  final  cadence,  tempered  and  softened,  for  Siegfried 
and  his  sword  are  forever  stilled. 

THE  SWORD 


You  will  note,  as  the  latter  half  opens,  a  recurrence  of  the  Death  motive,  but 
now  appearing  in  the  full  glory  of  the  major  key  of  C,  whereas,  in  its  first  appear- 
ance, the  composer  cast  it  in  the  gloomy  tones  of  C  minor.  This  now  is  not  the 
theme  of  Death,  but  of  Glorification  in  Death.  By  what  subtle  and  simple  means 
Wagner  completely  alters  not  only  the  peculiar  significance  of  a  phrase,  but  actually 
its  effect  as  pure  music  upon  the  listener ! 

GLORIFICATION  IN  DEATH 


THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  Glorification  theme  crashes  out  in  all  the  orchestra's  mightiest  powers, 
sharpened  in  its  swordlike  thrusts  by  the  metallic  clang  of  the  cymbal  .  .  .  and  yet, 
in  a  moment,  moderated  to  the  motive  of  Siegfried  himself  given  in  horns  and  bass 
trumpet.  This  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  mightiest  theme  of  all  ...  quickly  succeeding, 
in  the  boldest  instrumental  voices:  Siegfried  the  Hero — derived  from  the  famous 
hunting  call  of  Siegfried's  horn,  long  familiar  from  foregoing  parts  of  the  Ring. 

There  is  but  one  musical  thought  left  unexpressed  to  complete  that  sympathy 
with  the  hero  which  is  an  essential  of  true  drama.  That  is  a  thought  of  Briinnhilde, 
whom  Siegfried  won  through  flame  and  danger  and  then  by  magic  forgot.  And 
presently  that  thought  comes,  expressed  somewhat  faintly,  sadly,  in  the  melancholy 
voices  of  clarinet  and  English  horn.  The  scene  closes  in  a  return  of  the  thought  of 
Death,  and  the  drums  of  death  sounding.  The  Twilight  of  the  Gods  has  fallen,  to 
be  illumined  but  once  more  in  the  final  scene  of  the  opera,  when  Briinnhilde  gazes 
long  and  sadly  and  finally  upon  the  dead  face  of  Siegfried,  and  immolates  herself 
upon  his*  funeral  pyre. 

BRttNNHILDE 


Brunnhilde's  Self-immolation 
Closing  Scene  from  Die  Gotterdammer<mg  (The  Twilight  o£  the  Gods) 

BRUNNHILDE  now  stands  and  gazes  inscrutably  upon  the  dead  face  of  Siegfried. 
The  ultimate  tragedy,  the  ultimate  punishments  have  come  about — but  no;  there 
is  one  more  sacrifice,  a  gravely  joyous  and  magnificent  one,  that  she  alone  can 
make.  There  is  yet  one  way  to  circumvent  the  fate  that  made  her  faithful  love  un- 
faithful, one  way  that  may  lead  to  him.  Her  voice,  in  the  concert  presentation, 
sounds  in  strings  and  other  eloquent  instruments  as  she  calls  upon  Wotan  and  the 
other  gods  to  witness  her  distress  and  their  own  disgrace.  She  orders  the  vassals 
to  place  the  body  of  Siegfried  upon  its  pyre,  and,  addressing  the  Rhinemaidens, 
charges  them  to  take  the  ring  from  her  ashes  and  Siegfried's,  that  the  curse  might 
forever  be  removed.  She  flings  a  torch  upon  the  funeral  pyre,  and,  leaping  to  the 
back  of  the  great  warhorse,  spurs  him  toward  the  flames. 

"Knowest  thou  whither  we  go?"  she  asks  the  charging  beast;  "there  lies  thy 


RICHARD    WAGNER  625 

master.  Would'st  thou  follow  him  in  the  flames?  In  my  heart,  too,  flames  are  glow- 
ing, fast  to  embrace  him,  with  him  to  be  forever  made  one  ...  Siegfried,  Briinn- 
hilde  greets  thee  in  bliss!" 

Sparks  of  the  magic  fire  dart  in  the  orchestra,  and  tremendous  surges  of  tone 
arise  like  flowing  waters — like  the  waters  that  now  overflow  the  banks  of  the  Rhine. 
The  song  of  the  Rhinemaidens  sounds,  the  sky  is  filled  with  fire,  and  through  it 
Valhalla  and  the  gods  crash  down  in  flames.  A  splintering  crash  in  the  orchestra 
signifies  the  downfall  of  the  powers,  and  finally,  irrepressibly  penetrating  and 
sweet,  the  violins  in  dying  ecstasy  sing  the  song  of  Redemption  by  Love. 


CARL  MARIA  VON  WEBER 

[1786-1826] 

WEBER  was  born  into  a  family  which  for  generations  had  been  actively 
engaged  in  making  music  in  one  form  or  another,  and  which,  in  the 
number  of  musicians  which  it  included,  almost  rivaled  the  incomparable 
Bachs.  Weber,  unlike  most  famous  composers,  showed  little  talent  in  his  very  early 
years  5  so  little,  in  fact,  that  his  father,  who  had  high  ambitions  for  little  Carl,  al- 
most despaired  of  making  a  musician  of  him. 

The  father  was  head  of  a  traveling  musical  company,  most  of  whom  were 
members  of  the  family,  and  it  was  perhaps  this  association  with  the  form  of  music 
in  which  he  was  to  gain  his  greatest  distinction — the  opera — that  finally  aroused 
the  latent  talent  of  young  Weber,  and  caused  him  to  devote  himself  wholeheart- 
edly, when  the  opportunity  offered,  to  study  of  the  piano  and  other  branches  of 
the  musical  art. 

It  would  indeed  have  been  difficult  for  Weber  to  avoid  musical  interests.  He 
was  related,  indirectly,  to  Mozart;  he  knew  Beethoven,  Josef  and  Michael 
Haydn,  and  studied  with  the  almost  legendary  Abt  Vogler.  His  life  and  his  studies 
were  irregular  for  many  years,  which  perhaps  accounts  for  the  fact  that  his  music, 
judged  from  the  standpoint  of  rigid  formality  and  scholasticism,  is  often  defective; 
but  even  his  unevenly  balanced  training  could  not  conceal  the  great  gifts  that  were 
his,  when  finally  they  were  developed,  or  stand  in  the  way  of  the  radical  de- 
partures he  originated  in  the  field  of  operatic  music. 

Perhaps  the  determining  event  in  Weber's  life  occurred  in  1813,  when  by  a 
stroke  of  fortune  he  won  an  appointment  to  the  directorship  of  the  opera  at 
Prague,  in  Bohemia.  Here  he  had  a  free  hand  for  the  practice  of  his  ideas;  a  suffi- 
cient income  to  eliminate  worry,  and  an  opportunity  to  develop  himself  and  his 
standing  as  a  musician.  Now  his  years  in  a  "hard-boiled"  operatic  road  company 
proved  their  priceless  value,  and  in  a  short  time  the  composer  was  not  only  con- 
ducting opera,  but  supervising  every  detail  of  production.  When  he  had  accom- 
plished its  total  regeneration,  he  bravely  gave  up  his  post. 

Weber's  compositions  in  purely  orchestral  form  constitute  the  smallest,  and 
not  the  most  important  part  of  his  works.  His  operas  Eurycmthe,  Oberony  and  Der 
Freischutz  would  assure  him  of  immortality,  and  it  is  mainly  from  these  works  that 
his  contributions  to  the  orchestral  repertoire  are  drawn.  His  music  reveals  an 
originality  and  freedom,  a  richness  and  imagination  beyond  any  similar  works  up 
to  his  time,  and  it  has  had  their  influence  upon  the  music  of  virtually  every  operatic 
composer  since  Weber. 

During  a  visit  to  London  in  1826  Weber,  whose  health  had  been  for  some 
time  seriously  impaired,  had  a  premonition  of  death.  Nevertheless  he  appeared 
there  as  conductor  in  several  musical  events,  and  with  tremendous  success.  After 

626 


CARL  MARIA  VON  WEBER  627 

fulfilling  his  engagements,  he  prepared  to  return  to  his  home  in  Germany,  but 
death  overtook  him  before  he  could  depart.  At  his  funeral  services,  the  Requiem 
of  Mozart,  who  was  always  Weber's  ideal  composer,  was  played.  The  body  was 
placed  in  a  crypt  in  Moorfields  Chapel,  but  some  years  later  was  brought  to 
Germany,  where  it  was  buried  at  Dresden  with  the  other  distinguished  dead  of 
the  Weber  family. 


Overture  to  "Der  Freischiitz" 

THE  opera  Der  Freischutz  dates  from  1820,  and  was  the  beginning  of  a  develop- 
ment in  German  opera  which  culminated  in  the  incomparable  music  dramas  of 
Richard  Wagner.  Indeed,  Weber's  use  of  the  orchestra,  particularly  in  the  over- 
ture, approaches  the  unapproachable  magnificence  of  Wagner's,  and  exacts  from 
the  instruments  such  dramatic  utterance  as  they  had  seldom,  even  in  the  sym- 
phonies of  Beethoven,  been  called  upon  to  deliver. 

The  opera,  to  satisfy  the  fashion  of  its  period,  deals  with  love  and  with  magic; 
and  the  overture,  as  a  good  operatic  prelude  should,  gives  us  the  atmosphere  and 
some  of  the  musical  details  of  the  dramatic,  work  which  follows  it.  We  need  not 
be  concerned  with  details  of  the  plot,  except  to  remember  the  sweet  and  virginal 
heroine,  Agatha,  who  is  represented  in  the  overture  by  a  clarinet  solo  of  appealing 
loveliness — the  more  striking  because  it  follows  a  wild  scene  in  which  dark  powers 
are  enkrged  by  incantation  and  made  dangerous  by  man's  villainy;  we  might 
recall  also  the  scene,  described  in  colorful  tone  painting  with  strings  and  wood- 
winds and  drums,  wherein  Caspar,  the  villain,  agrees  to  deliver  his  soul  to  the 
demon  Zamiel.  The  lovely  section  for  four  horns,  occurring  shortly  after  the  open- 
ing of  the  overture;  and  the  magnificent  final  climax — these  musical  episodes, 
though  of  no  particular  significance  in  the  story  of  the  opera,  speak  nobly  for 
themselves. 


Overture  to  "Euryanthe" 

Euryanthe,  one  of  Weber's  greatest  operatic  works,  although  from  the  popular 
point  of  view  a  failure,  contains  some  of  the  loveliest  music  he  wrote;  most  of  it 
is  in  the  overture,  which  even  at  the  unfortunate  first  performance  was  received 
with  acclaim.  It  has  since  been  in  the  orchestral  repertoire. 


628         ,  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

The  opera  deals,  in  a  libretto  sufficiently  bad  to  have  been  largely  responsible 
for  the  failure  of  the  work  on  the  stage,  with  the  love  of  Adolar  and  Euryanthe, 
and  the  difficulties  which  they  finally  circumvented.  How  powerful  and  richly 
colored  the  orchestra  sounds  in  this  music  5  particularly  if  we  recall  the  period  at 
which  it  was  written  (1823)  and  compare  it  with  other  music  of  the  time.  Con- 
trast its  noble  pronouncement  of  the  theme  at  the  beginning,  for  example,  with 
any  operatic  overture  by  Mozart — Weber's  ideal  composer!  Or  consider  the 
dreaming  of  the  strings,  a  little  later,  with  their  muted  passion  almost  as  intense  and 
warm  as  any  we  find  in  Tchaikovsky. 

The  overture  has  a  brilliant  and  highly  developed  concluding  section,  based 
on  the  more  prominent  thematic  subjects  heard  in  the  first  part. 


Invitation  to  the  Dance 

THIS  blithe  and  colorful  music  is  one  of  the  most  popular  lighter  numbers  in  the 
repertoire  of  the  symphony  orchestra;  and  in  the  piano  version,  a  salon  piece  of 
great  charm.  The  Invitation  is  often  played  today  in  the  orchestration  of  Felix 
Weingartner,  though  such  eminent  conductors  as  Toscanini  and  Stokowski  prefer 
that  of  Berlioz. 

There  is  a  simple  little  story  with  which  the  music  is  intimately  connected. 
The  scene  is  a  gay  ball;  a  young  man  approaches  the  lady  of  his  heart,  converses 
briefly  with  her,  asks  the  honor  of  a  dance;  she  assents,  they  dance,  converse  again 
for  a  moment,  and  go  their  separate  ways. 

The  first  few  measures,  in  the  importunate  phrases  of  the  cello  (Berlioz 
orchestration),  indicate  the  young  man's  invitation;  archly  the  woodwind  replies. 
His  plea  becomes  more  pressing,  and  she  consents.  Contrasting  phrases  in  strings 
and  woodwind  are,  supposedly,  to  convey  the  impression  of  a  preliminary  conversa- 
tion, and  finally,  with  a  joyous  burst  from  the  whole  orchestra,  the  dance  begins. 
It  happens  to  be  in  waltz  rhythm,  which  sometimes  had  led  to  incorrect  titling  of 
this  piece  as  Invitation  to  the  Waltz.  There  are  several  little  waltzes,  and  there 
is  gay  instrumental  treatment  of  them.  Through  the  rhythm  of  the  music  we  hear 
bits  of  the  lovers'  conversation.  There  is  a  whirling  and  vivacious  climax,  and  the 
dance  is  over.  To  eliminate  the  closing  measures,  which  is  sometimes  thought- 
lessly done,  is  to  ignore  the  courtesy  with  which  Weber's  young  man  takes  leave 
of  his  lady.  After  the  last  climax,  there  are  a  few  measures  quite  like  the  opening 
ones,  with  the  questioning  and  anxious  phrase  of  the  cellos  inverted  in  accents  of 
gratitude  and  satisfaction. 


JAROMIR  WEINBERGER 

[Born  1896] 

WEINBERGER  was  born  at  Prague,  and  in  1937  went  to  ^London  to  live. 
His  early  musical  education  was  received  under  Hoffmeister  and  Kricka, 
and  later  he  was  a  pupil  of  the  famous  composer  Max  Reger  at  the 
Leipzig  Conservatory.  Some  years  ago  Weinberger  visited  America,  and  taught 
composition  at  Cornell  to  advanced  students  during  his  stay  in-  this  country.  He  has 
written  largely  for  the  stage,  and  his  compositions,  in  addition  to  Schwanda  and 
another  opera,  include  incidental  music  for  several  Shakespearean  plays,  as  well  as 
miscellaneous  pieces  for  orchestra. 


Polka  and  Fugue  from  "Schwanda" 

Schwanda  der  Dudelsactyfeijer,  one  of  the  three  Weinberger  operas,  is  a  comic 
musical  play,  based  on  Bohemian  (Czech)  folk  music  and  legend.  The  opera  itself 
is  of  secondary  interest  to  American  audiences,  although  it  has  been  produced  with 
enormous  success  in  Europe.  It  has  been  admitted  to  the  repertoire  of  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  in  New  York,  and  given  with  moderate  success.  For  lovers 
of  orchestra,  it  is  enough  that  the  opera  has  produced  the  Polka  and  the  Fugue. 

These  two  pieces  are  so  closely  integrated  as  to  be,  in  reality,  one.  The  jolly 
if  somewhat  heavy-footed  theme  of  the  Polka,  with  its  peasant  flavor  and  pleasant 
rhythm,  is  the  source  of  the  material  from  which  the  fugue  is  built.  It  is  curious — 
and  ingenious — that  in  the  same  composition  we  find  a  simple  peasant  dance  and  a 
highly  sophisticated  and  formal  piece,  the  latter  directly  inspired  by,  and  growing 
from,  the  first. 

The  reckless  conductor  will  begin  the  Polka  in  a  tempo  altogether  too  fast. 
It  should  have  a  swinging,  not  a  racing,  rhythm  and  tempo.  The  first  four  measures 
reveal  the  fundamental  idea  and  melody,  not  only  of  the  Polka  but  of  the  Fugue 
as  well.  The  first  part  is  a  simple  country  dance  elaborated  with  the  handy  resources 
of  the  symphony  orchestra,  and,  with  its  obvious  tune  and  straightforward  rhythmic 
dance  figure,  commends  itself  to  everyone  who  can  feel  the  motion  of  a  dance. 
The  Fugue,  however,  is  beautifully  developed.  It  begins,  pianissimo,  in  the  violins, 
immediately  after  the  final  measure  of  the  Polka,  and  before  he  has  done,  Wein- 
berger employs  almost  every  instrument  in  the  orchestra  in  exploiting  the  thematic 
material  used  in  the  Fugue  and  drawn  from  the  Polka.  There  is  a  mountainous 
climax,  involving  not  only  the  orchestra's  fullest  powers  but  the  addition  of  a  pipe 

organ  as  well. 

629 


630  -  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

THE  MODERN  PHONOGRAPH;  RADIO 

THE  importance  to  music  of  modern  methods  of  reproducing  sound  is  parallel  to 
that  of  the  printing  press  to  literature,  philosophy,  and  the  whole  sum  of  the 
world's  knowledge.  There  is  this  vital  difference:  books  preserve  in  cold  type  the 
great  thoughts  of  the  ages,  priceless  even  though  disembodied,  but  electrical  repro- 
duction actually  re-creates  the  living  organism  of  music,  giving  it  voice  and  move- 
ment and  compelling  vitality. 

Lovers  of  music  are  guilty,  in  the  mass,  of  an  appalling  and  culpable  ignorance 
of  the  possibilities  of  modern  methods  of  reproducing  music.  A  few  years  ago, 
when  to  hear  great  music  through  either  radio  or  phonograph  was  to  hear  it  pitifully 
belittled  and  grotesquely  distorted,  there  was  justification  for  the  upturned  nose 
and  the  down-turned  corners  of  the  mouth  when  radio  and  phonograph  were 
mentioned  in  musical  circles.  There  is  no  such  justification  today — though  in  many 
cases  the  scornful  manipulations  of  the  features  are  still  in  evidence.  The  very 
ubiquity  of  radio  music  has  to  a  degree  delivered  it  from  its  former  low  estate,  at 
least  as  regards  the  quality  of  its  performance,  if  not  that  of  its  programs ;  but 
the  phonograph,  which  has  improved  more  rapidly,  and  to  a  noticeably  higher 
standard  of  performance,  still  languishes  in  "the  limbo  of  forgotten  things"  in  the 
minds  of  the  very  people  who  would  be  most  enthusiastic  about  it  had  they  an 
acquaintance  with  the  instrument  as  it  is  today. 

Symphony  programs  via  radio  are  no  novelty  today,  but  neither  their  relative 
infrequency  nor  the  quality  of  their  transmission  disturbs  anyone  who  knows 
what  today's  phonograph  and  records  can  do,  and  has  become  thoroughly  con- 
verted. The  priceless  right  of  exercising  one's  own  discrimination  in  selecting  a 
program,  the  possibility  of  fitting  music  to  a  mood,  the  independence  of  time,  space, 
and  atmospherej  the  availability  of  nearly  all  the  world's  great  music — these  are 
the  more  obvious  advantages  of  the  phonograph.  None  of  these,  however,  would 
persuade  anyone  to  the  record-playing  instrument  unless  it  offered  definite  advan- 
tages in  the  matter  of  musical  reproduction — in  fidelity,  in  power,  in  definition; 
briefly,  in  the  quality  of  realism.  The  phonograph  can  and  does,  in  every  detail  of 
reproduction,  give  a  more  realistic  and  convincing  performance. 

If  asked  to  prove  this  statement,  a  smart  advertising  man  would  doubtless 
reply,  "Go  hear  a  modern  record  on  a  modern  phonograph."  His  theory  would  be 
correct,  but  his  psychology  wrong.  The  one  thing  that  has  damned  the  phonograph 
is  the  fact  that  it  requires  a  certain  effort  to  place  a  record  on  the  turntable  and 
play  it  5  it  is  much  easier  to  turn  a  dial  and  take  what  comes.  If  the  advertising 
man  were  free  to  point  out  some  reasons  why  the  phonograph  is  superior  to  a 
radio  receiver,  he  could,  one  thinks,  arouse  much  more  interest.  Let  us  examine 
some  of  these  reasons. 

The  modern  phonograph  and  radio  set  owe  their  existence  to  the  same  device 


THE     MODERN     PHONOGRAPH;     RADIO  63! 

— the  vacuum  tube.  It  is  natural,  then,  that  both  should  be  manufactured  by  the 
same  people.  It  is  logical  that  a  manufacturer  will  not  emphasize  the  disadvantages 
of  one  of  his  products  as  compared  with  another,  especially  when  "public  accept- 
ance" of  the  first  is  active  and  easy,  and  of  the  second  comparatively  difficult  and 
involving  a  process  of  public  education.  Consequently,  the  facts  which  follow  have 
not  been  brought  to  public  attention  in  a  general  way. 

Sound  is  the  result  of  vibration.  The  pitch — highness  or  lowness— of  sound  is 
determined  by  the  rate  of  vibration.  The  lowest  musical  sound  is  produced  by  a 
body — a  string,  a  column  of  air,  or  anything  else — which  is  vibrating  at  the  rate 
of  sixteen  cycles  per  second.  The  highest  musical  sound  audible  to  the  average 
adult  ear  is  produced  by  a  vibration  of  about  fourteen  thousand  cycles  per  second* 
Many  adults  Can  hear  higher-pitched  sounds  5  dogs  and  babies  can  hear  as  high 
as  twenty-two  thousand  cycles  per  second.  Sounds  produced  by  more  -rapid  vibra- 
tions are  inaudible  to  human  ears,  though  they  can  be  detected  by  measuring 
instruments. 

The  symphony  orchestra,  through  its  many  instrumental  voices,  produces 
sounds  which  range  from  about  twenty  cycles  per  second  (double  bass,  contra- 
bassoon)  to  about  thirteen  thousand,  five  hundred  cycles  per  second  (cymbal). 
But  these  sounds  are  very  complex.  If  they  were  not,  all  instruments  sounding  the 
same  note  would  have  the  same  tone  quality,  and  the  ear  could  not  distinguish  a 
flute  from  an  oboe,  a  cello  from  a  viola,  a  trumpet  from  a  saxophone.  The  com- 
plexity arises  from  the  fact  that  each  instrument  sounds  a  fundamental  note,  which 
for  the  "A"  above  middle  "C"  is  440  cycles  per  second,  plus  a  more  or  less  com- 
plicated series  of  other,  weaker  tones,  which  mathematically  are  functions  of  the 
fundamental,  and  which,  by  their  number  and  intensity,  give  each  instrument  its 
characteristic  timbre,  or  tone  quality.  These  weaker  but  important  tones  are  called 
"harmonics."  The  harmonics  range  into  the  very  high  frequencies,  accordingly  as 
the  sonorous  body  vibrates  in  sections,  corresponding  to  its  aliquot  parts.  Thus  a 
violin  string  vibrates  not  only  in  its  entire  length,  as  a  unit  (which  produces  its 
fundamental  tone),  but  also  in  segments  (%,  %,  %,  etc.),  each  of  which  produces 
a  tone  of  its  own;  and  the  smaller  the  vibrating  segment,  the  higher  the  pitch  of 
the  harmonic  tone  it  produces.  It  is  the  number  of  audible  harmonics,  and  their 
strength  in  relation  to  the  fundamental,  that  makes  a  violin  sound  like  a  violin, 
and  not  like  any  other  instrument  in  the  orchestra.  The  same  conditions  exist  in 
the  case  of  every  orchestral  instrument. 

x  The  reason  why  these  not  particularly  interesting  figures  are  cited  is  that  the 
average  radio  receiver  fe  not  responsive  to  frequencies  much  above  3500  cycles 
or  below  too  cycles.  Furthermore,  the  average  radio  station  does  not  transmit 
frequencies  in  excess  of  5000,  though  a  very  few  broadcast  up  to  10,000  cycles. 
The  consequence  is  that  radio  transmission  and  reproduction  distort  tonal  values 
very  considerably  by  the  elimination  of  harmonics  which  give  orchestral  instru- 


632  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

ments  their  characteristic  tone  quality.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  phonographs 
which  exceed  by  several  thousand  cycles  the  frequency  response  of  the  average 
radio  set  in  reproducing  higher  tones,  and  which,  therefore,  give  a  very  much  more 
faithful  representation  of  the  orchestral  tone  quality  as  it  actually  is.  These  same 
phonographs  are  responsive  also  at  the  low  end  of  the  scale,  and  give  a  more 
sonorous  and  satisfying  quality  to  low  tones  than  radio  can.  It  cannot  be  urged 
that  the  phonograph  does  not  also  distort  musical  values,  because  commercial  instru- 
ments of  this  type  do,  but  their  sin  in  this  respect  is  much  less  grave  than  that  of 
the  radio.  Another  consideration  is  this:  that  broadcasts  of  symphonic  concerts  are 
usually  wired  from  the  concert  hall  to  the  broadcasting  station,  and  in  this  process 
there  is  a  further  element  of  distortion  because  of  transmission  over  a  telephone 
line,  which  is  not  capable  of  carrying  the  full  range  of  musical  sound.  Therefore, 
when  the  sound  is  delivered  at  the  transmitter,  to  be  put  on  the  air,  it  has  already 
been  very  considerably  distorted. 

There  is  another,  and  perhaps  even  more  important,  advantage  in  recorded 
music.  A  radio  performance,  no  matter  now  beautifully  given  at  the  concert  hall, 
no  matter  how  carefully  worked  out  by  the  conductor,  is  at  the  mercy  of  an  indi- 
vidual who  sits  at  a  control  board  and  does  his  fiendish  best  to  maintain  volume 
at  almost  a  dead  level.  He  is  called  a  "monitor  man"  and  his  job  is  to  emasculate 
orchestral  climaxes,  and  fatten  orchestral  pianissimos,  so  that  the  million  and  a  half 
bridge  players  in  the  audience  of  two  million  may  be  enveloped  in  a  pleasing  musical 
monotone.  Another  reason  for  his  existence  is  the  fact  that  broadcasting,  as  prac- 
ticed today,  does  not  lend  itself  to  an  expansive  range  of  dynamics,  being  limited 
to  a  range  of  approximately  25  decibels  (a  decibel  is  a  unit  of  transmitted  sound). 
The  fact  that  in  some  broadcastings  the  monitor  man,  to  whom  music  is  usually 
just  so  much  sound,  has  at  his  elbow  someone  who  can  read  an  orchestral  score  and 
who  is  expected  to  assist  him  musically  does  not  help  matters  very  much.  The 
score-reading  assistant  usually  succeeds  not  in  helping  to  effect  such  compromises 
as  may  satisfy  the  weakness  of  radio  and  at  the  same  time  achieve  an  artistic  per- 
formance, but  in  removing  all  probability  of  a  musically  convincing  reproduction 
by  giving  periodic  warnings  to  the  monitor  man,  so  that  the  last  possibility  of  a 
Valhalla's  crash  into  the  abyss  escaping  into  the  ether  is  expertly  removed  by  the 
twist  of  a  dial.  Phonograph  records,  however,  are  made  for  people  who  love  music 
for  its  own  sake,  and  the  interpretation  which  you  hear  from  them  is  not  that  of  a 
mechanic,  but  of  a  musician.  The  dynamic  range  of  modern  recording  as  it  is 
practiced  by  the  leading  record  manufacturer  is  45  decibels,  and  it  has  been  found 
possible,  by  the  development  of  an  incredibly  sensitive  and  intricate  apparatus,  to 
eliminate  99%  of  the  monitor  man's  work. 

Both  radio  and  phonograph  represent  compromises  with  reality,  and  under 
present  conditions  must  continue  to  do  so.  On  every  technical  basis,  however,  the 


THE     MODERN     PHONOGRAPH;     RADIO  633 

phonograph  is  the  superior,  and  its  advantages  of  permanence  and  selectivity  are 
too  obvious  to  require  comment. 

To  hear  either  radio  or  phonograph  at  its  best,  the  instrument  should  be 
played  at  a  volume  level  of  at  least  50%  of  its  possible  loudness.  This  is  recom- 
mended not  that  the  neighbors  be  annoyed,  or  the  lease  broken,  but  because  all 
electrical  reproducing  instruments  perform  more  efficiently  in  proportion  to  the 
increase  in  current  flowing  through  the  vacuum  tubes.  Of  course,  we  must  stop 
short  of  the  point  at  which  the  speaker  becomes  overloaded,  as  inferior  speakers 
will.  To  turn  the  volume  control  at  least  halfway  up  is  safe  and  fairly  satisfactory. 
If  the  music  is  then  too  loud  in  the  room,  leave  the  volume  control  as  it  is  and  go 
into  another  room.  The  music  will  sound  even  better.  With  some  instruments  it 
would  be  better  if  you  would  go  into  another  county,  but  we  are  not  discussing 
that  type  of  radio  or  phonograph  here. 

Manufacturers  have  of  recent  years  included  in  the  equipment  of  electrical 
phonographs  and  radios  a  device  usually  called  a  tone  control.  This  is  an  electrical 
filter  which  strains  out  a  good  many  of  the  upper  partials  or  harmonics,  and  which 
also  emphasizes  low  frequencies.  The  effect  is  much  like  that  of  a  mute  on  a  violin, 
and  a  quality  of  sound  which  is  quite  dull,  but  which  advertisers  are  pleased  to 
call  mellow,  is  achieved.  It  is  a  question  whether  a  tone  control  should  be  put  on 
any  radio,  because  any  use  of  it  whatever  is  a  distortion  of  the  music  and  a  perver- 
sion of  the  performer's  idea.  However,  in  a  limited  way  it  has  a  use.  If  your  room 
has  hard  plaster  walls  and  a  polished  floor,  with  few  draperies  and  little  upholstered 
furniture,  it  is  better  in  some  cases  to  turn  the  control  about  one  quarter  of  the 
way  back  from  the  full  open  position.  Hard  surfaces  tend  to  resonate  high  fre- 
quencies, and  in  the  average  room  this  may  give  a  harsh  and  unpleasant  effect. 
If  your  room  has  a  great  deal  of  absorbent  surface,  such  as  heavy  rugs,  curtains  of 
velvet,  monks  cloth,  or  similar  material,  together  with  overstuffed  furniture,  it  is 
well  to  play  with  the  tone  control  turned  full  on,  because  such  surfaces  as  these 
tend  to  absorb  high  frequencies  and  to  diminish  the  resonant  properties  of  the  room. 

The  science  of  sound  reproduction  is  not  sufficiently  exact  or  stabilized  to  per- 
mit the  assertion  of  anything  dogmatic.  A  reallocation  of  frequency  bands  assigned 
to  various  stations  may  result  in  genuine  high-fidelity  radio  reproduction  within 
the  next  couple  of  years.  If  there  were  but  five  or  six  really  first-class  radio  stations 
in  the  United  States,  each  of  relatively  moderate  power,  but  spreading  over  a 
wide  frequency  band  capable  of  transmitting  the  full  range  of  audio  frequencies, 
radio  would  at  once  come  into  its  own.  Such  a  condition  is  entirely  possible.  Mean- 
while, from  a  musical  point  of  view  and  disregarding  for  the  moment  its  incom- 
parable convenience  and  its  wonderful  quality  of  universality,  radio  is  a  rather 
primitive  thing.  Recorded  music,  also,  leaves  much  room  for  improvement.  Though 
many  of  today's  records  reveal  a  frequency  range  of  30  to  10,000  cycles,  there  is 


$34  TI*E    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    $YMPHQNY 

no  instrument  for. the  home  capable  of  reproducing  adequately  this  very  satisfying 
musical  quality.  Such  an  instrument  will  come,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  radio  and 
phonograph  will  proceed,  fari  $wsu,  toward  their  common  goal  of  perfect  musical 
reproduction,  the  one  with  ephemeral  timeliness,  the  other  with  timeless  permanence* 


GLOSSARY 


Accelerando:  A  gradual  speeding  up  of 
tempo. 

Accidental:  A  chromatic  alteration;  a  semi- 
tone or  fractional  division  of  a  whole 
tone  in  the  scale. 

Adagio:  Very  slow. 

Ad  libitum:  At  will  as  regards  tempo  and 
expressiveness. 

Alia  marcia:  Like  a  march. 

Allegro:  A  time  indication  meaning  quickly. 

Andante:  A  time  indication  meaning  mov- 
ing at  a  moderate  pace. 

Arpeggio:  Playing  the  components  of  a 
chord  individually  instead  of  as  a 
unit  of  harmony;  a  characteristic  of 
the  harp. 

Bravura:  Showy;  calculated  to  display  tech- 
nical facility  and  power. 

Cadenza:  A  brilliant  display  passage  de- 
signed to  reveal  dexterity  and,  in  some 
cases,  invention. 

Cantablle:  A  songlike,  or  singable,  passage. 

Cantilena:  See  cantabile. 

Chaconne:  Anciently  a  dance  form  in  three- 
beat  rhythm,  practically  identical  with 
fassacaglia.  Developed  as  a  variation 
form,  the  chaconne  usually  has  the 
subject  in  the  bass,  with  variations  in 
the  middle  and  upper  voices. 

Coda:  Literally,  a  tailpiece;  the  conclud- 
ing passages  of  a  movement. 

Col  legno:  A  direction  for  string  players, 
meaning  "with  the  wood";  to  play 
with  the  wooden  part  of  the  bow. 

Concerto  grosso:  A  music  form  in  which  a 
group  of  instruments  is  used  as  a  unit 
in  contrast  with  the  remainder  of 
the  orchestra. 

Con  sordino:  With  the  mute;  an  attach- 
ment for  altering  the  tone  of  various 
instruments. 

Counterpoint:  Horizontal  harmony;  distin- 
guished from  chords,  which  are  ver- 
tical harmony.  In  counterpoint  two 
individual  melodies  are  opposed  and 


harmonized,  whereas  iri  a  chord  in- 
dividual notes  are  similarly  treated. 

Crescendo:  A  gradual  increase  in  Sonority. 

Diminuendo:  A  gradual  decrease  in  sonority. 

Dolce:  Sweetly  and  tenderly. 

Embouchure:  (i)  The  mouthpiece  of  a 
wind  instrument.  (2)  The  arrange- 
ment of  the  mouth  and  other  vocal 
organs  for  producing  musical  tone  on 
a  wind  instrument. 

Finale:  Concluding  section  or  passage. 

Forte:  Powerfully. 

Fortissimo:  With  all  possible  power. 

Fugato;  In  the  style  of  a  fugue. 

Fugue:  A  musical  form  in  which  a  given 
theme  in  one  voice  is  announced  in 
others  and  developed  in  counterpoint. 

Gllssando:  A  sliding. 

Largo:  In  very  slow  tempo  and  broad 
phrase. 

Legato:  Connected;  smooth  and  flowing. 

Leitmotiv:  A  musical  phrase  used  to  repre- 
sent a  particular  person,  thing,  or 
situation. 

Motive:  A  significant  but  abstract  phrase, 
less  important  than  a  theme  but  simi- 
lar in  character. 

Passacaglla:  Virtually  the  same  as  chaconne^ 
but  a  somewhat  less  rapid  form,  in 
which  the  subject  may  appear  not 
only  in  the  bass,  but  in  any  part  of 
the  musical  structure. 

Pianissimo:  Softly  as  possible. 

Piano:  Softly. 

Pizzicato:  Plucked 5  applied  to  strings. 

Prestissimo:  As  rapidly  as  possible. 

Presto:  Very  rapidly. 

Rondo:  A  musical  form  analogous  to  the 
rondeau  in  verse,  in  which  the  subject 
matter  invariably  returns  after  each 
introduction  of  new  material. 

Roulades:  Brilliant  running  passages  on 
piano  or  harp. 

Saltando:  With  bouncing  bow. 


THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 


636 

Scherzo;  In  lively  and  playful  style;  a  sym- 
phonic movement  in  a  lively  mood, 
usually  with  a  middle  section  more 
restrained  in  character. 

Sforzando:  With  a  sudden  outburst  of 
power. 

Solfege:  General  musical  exercise  and 
study;  specifically,  voice  training  by 
singing  certain  syllables  on  various 
tones. 

Sficcato:  To  play  sharply  and  crisply:  de- 
tached. 

Staccato:  With  a  short,  sharp  accent,  the 
notes  clearly  detached. 

Sul  fonticello:  A  direction  to  string  players 
indicating  that  the  passage  is  to  be 
played  close  to  the  bridge.  A  peculiar 
tonal  effect  is  produced. 


Temfo:  Time,  in  the  sense  of  pace,  or 
speed. 

Theme:  The  musical  sentence  or  subject 
on  which  a  movement  is  constructed. 

Timbre:  Quality  of  tone. 

Tremolando:  See  tremolo. 

Tremolo:  An  alternate  partial  extension 
and  re-enforcement  of  a  tone,  produc- 
ing a  trembling  or  vibrating  effect. 

Tutti:  All  together. 

Vibrato:  A  rapid  alternate  flattening  and 
sharpening  of  pitch,  by  which  a  trem- 
bling effect  results. 

Vivace:  Lively  and  bright. 

Vocalise:  Strictly  a  melodious  and  wordless 
exercise  for  the  voice;  a  passage  or 
piece  of  music  in  similar  style. 


A  LIST  OF  MODERN  VICTOR  RECORDINGS 
OF  SYMPHONIC  MUSIC 

BACH,  JOHANN  SEBASTIAN 

"Brandenburg"  Concerto  No.  2  in  F 

major Siokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

"Brandenburg"  Concerto  No.  5  in  D 

major Cortot — Ecole  Normale  Orchestra 

Suite  No.  2  in  B  minor  for  Flute  and 

Strings    Stack — Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 

Suite  in  D — Air — Cello Pablo  Casals 

BACH-STOKOWSKI 

Adagio   (from  Organ  Toccata  in  C 

minor)    Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Chaconne   Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Choralvor spiel y  Christ  lag  in  Todes- 

banden Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Chorahorspiely  Wir  glauben  all9  an 

einen  Gott Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Choralvor spiel)  Nun  komm,  der  Heiden 

Heiland   , Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Fugue  in  C  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Fugue  in  G  minor  (The  "Little")  ....  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Fugue  in  G  minor  (The  "Great") Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Komm  susser  Tod Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Passacaglia  in  C  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Prelude  in  E  flat  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Saraband  (from  English  Suite  No.  2)  .  .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Toccata  and  Fugue  in  D  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

BALAKIREV,  MILI 

Islamey Simon  Barer 

BARBER,  SAMUEL 

Dover  Beach Samuel  Barber 

BEETHOVEN,  LUDWIG  VAN 

Symphony  No.  I  in  C  major Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  3  in  E-flat  major, 

"Eroica" Koussevitzky — London  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  4  in  B-flat  major Toscanini — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Leonora  Overture  No.  3 Walter — Vienna  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  5  in  C  minor Ronald — Royal  Albert  Hall  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  6  in  F  major,  "Pastoral" .  Toscanini — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  7  in  A  major Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  8  in  F  major. Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  9  in  D  minor 

("Choral") Stokowski— Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Concerto  No.  4  in  G  major  for  Piano 

and  Orchestra Schnabel — Sargent — London Philhar.Orckestra 


638  THE     VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Concerto  No.  5  in  E-flat  major  for 

Piano  and  Orchestra Schnabel — Sargent — London  Sym.  Orchestra 

Coriolanus — Overture Casals- — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Overture  to  Egmont Mengelberg — Philharmonic-Sym,  Or.  of  N<  Y. 

Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    . , Kreisler — Barbirolli — London  Phil.  Orch. 

Consecration  of  the  House Fiedler — Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 

Quartet  No.  16  in  F  major Toscanini — NBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

BERLIOZ,  HECTOR 

The  Damnation  of  Faust:  March— 

"Rakoczy"    Sfakowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Overture — Le  Carnaval  romain 

Overture — Benvenuto   Cellini   Monteux — Symphony  Orchestra  of  Paris 

Symphonic  fantestique  in  C  major, . . , ,  Monteu* — Symphony  Orchestra  of  Paris 

BIZET,  GEORGES 

Excerpts  from  L'Arlesiewte Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Excerpts  from  Carmen ,  . . , , , . .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

BLOCK,  ERNEST 

Concerto  grosso  for  String  Orchestra 

with  Pianoforte  Obbligato Curtis  Chamber  Music  Ensemble 

Schelomo    Feuermawnr-^Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orch. 

BORODIN,  ALEXANDER 

Polovtsian  Dances  from  Prince  Igor. . .  .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 
Symphony  No.  2  in  B  minor Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

BRAHMS,  JOHANNES 

Symphony  No.  I  in  C  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major ,.  ,  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  3  in  F  major, , Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  4  in  E  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Variations  on  a  Theme  by  Haydn Casals — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    Kreisler — London  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Hungarian  Dances  Nos.  5  and  6 Hertz — San  Francisco  Symphony  Orchestra 

Tragische  Overture Toscanini — British  Broadcasting  Co.  Orchestra 

Academic  Festival  Overture Walter — Vienna  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Concerto   No.    i    in    D    minor   for 

Piano  and  Orchestra Schnabel — Szell — London  Philharmonic  Orch. 

Concerto  No.  2  in  B-flat  major  for 

Piano  and  Orchestra Schnabel — Boult—«-BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

BRUCH,  MAX 

Concerto  in  G  minor Menuhin — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

BRUCKNER,  ANTON  "*" 

Symphony  No.  4  in  E-flat  major 

("Romantic") Bohm — Saxonian  State  Orchestra 

CARPENTER,  JOHN  ALDEN 

Adventures  in  a  Perambulator — Suite ..  Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 
Skyscrapers   ,..,., Shilkret — Victor  Symphony  Orchestra 


A  LIST  OF  MODERN   VICTOR  RECORDINGS  639 

CHABRIER,  ALEXIS 

Rhafsodie:  Esfana Gabrilowitsch — Detroit  Symphony  Orchestra 

CHADWICK,  GEORGE  WHITEPIELD 

Jubilee  (No.  I  from  Symphonic 

Sketches  Suite) * Hanson — Eastman-Rochester  Orchestra 

CHAUSSON,  ERNEST 

Poeme    * * ....  Menuhin — Enesco — Symphony  Orch.  of  Paris 

CHOPIN,  FRANgois  FREDERIC 

Concerto  No.  I  in  E  minor  for  Piano 

and  Orchestra Artur  Rubinstein — Barbirotti — London  Sym. 

Orchestra 
COPLAND,  AARON 

El  Salon  Mexico Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

DEBUSSY,  CLAUDE 

Nuages   Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Fetes    Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

La  Mer  Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

UAfres-midi  d*un  faune — Prelude ....  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Danses:  sacree  et  fro  fane Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Iberia  (Images,  Set  III,  No.  2) Barbirolli — Philharmonic-Sym.  Orch,  of  N.  Y. 

DOHNANYI,  ERNO 

Suite  for  Orchestra Stock — Chicago  Symfhony  Orchestra 

DUKAS,  PAUL 

L'Affrenti  sorcier Toscanini — Philharmonic  Sym,  Or,  of  N.  Y* 

DVORAK,  ANTONIN 

Carnival — Overture    Stock — Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  5  in  E  minor,  "From 

the  New  World" Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  B  minor  for  Cello Pablo  Casals— -Szell — Czech  Philharmonic  Or. 

Scherzo  cafriccioso  . Ormandy-t— Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

ELGAR,  SIR  EDWARD 

"Enigma"  Variations Boult — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  B  minor  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    * , *»,....,  Menuhin — El rgar-*~ -London  Symphony  Orch. 

FALLA,  MANUEL  DE 

Danza  Ritual  del  Fuego   (El  Amor 

Brujo)    Fiedler— Boston  "Pofs"  Orchestra 

>FRANCK,  CESAR 

Symphony  in  D  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

GLAZUNOV,  ALEXANDER 

Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    Heifetz — Barforoll*— London  PhU. 

GLIERE,  REINHOLD 

Yablochko    - * « .  Stoko&ski— Philadelphia  OreheOr* 

Ilia  Mourometz .Stokozosk*-— Philadelphia  Orsfostr* 

GLINKA,  MIKHAIL 

Overture  to  Russia*  and  Ludmilla $t$$k-*-Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 


640  THE     VICTOR    BOOK     OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

GLUCK,  CHRISTOPH 

Ballet  Suite,  No.  I Blech — Berlin  State  Of  era  Orchestra 

GRIEG,  EDVARD 

Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Piano  and 

Orchestra    DeGreef — Ronald — Royal  Albert  Hall  Orch. 

GRIFFES,  CHARLES  T. 

The  Pleasure  Dome  of  Kubla  Khan.  . . .  Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

HANDEL,  GEORGE  FRIDERIC 

Water  Music  (Organ) Dr.  E.  Bullock 

HANSON,  HOWARD 

Symphony  No.  2  ("Romantic") Hanson — Eastman-Rochester  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  3 Hanson — Eastman-Rochester  Orchestra 

Merry  Mount Hanson — Eastman-Rochester  Orchestra 

HARRIS,  ROY 

When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home 

— Overture Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  for  Voices  on  Poems  of 

Walt  Whitman Westminster  Choir — cond.  by  Williamson 

Symphony  No.  3 Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

HAYDN,  FRANZ  JOSEF 

Symphony  in  G  major,  "Oxf ord" . „ . .  Walter — Paris  Conservatory  Orchestra 
Symphony  No.  4  in  D  major,  "Clock" .  Toscanini — Philharmomc-Sym.  Or.  of  N.  Y. 
Symphony  No.  94  in  G  major,  / 

"Surprise"    Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  in  C. major  (Salomon  Set, 

No.  i)    Weisbach — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

HOLST,  GUSTAV 

The  Planets — Suite:   "Mars— The 

Bringer  of  Wars" Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

INDY,  VINCENT  D' 

Istar — Symphonic  Variations Coppola — Paris  Conservatory  Orchestra 

IPPOLITOV-IVANOV,  MlKHAIL 

Caucasian  Sketches — Suite Bourdon — Victor  Symphony  Orchestra 

KODALY,  ZOLTAN 

Hary  Janos — Suite Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

LALO,  VICTOR 

Symphonie  espagnole Menuhin — Symphony  Orchestra  of  Paris 

LIADOV,  ANATOL 

Russian  Folk  Songs Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

LISZT,  FRANZ 

Concerto  No.   I  in  E-flat  major  for 

Piano  and  Orchestra Levitzki — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Les  Preludes,  Symphonic  Poem,  No.  3 . .  Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphonic  Poem  No.  2 

A  Faust  Symphony 

Todtentanx Sanroma — Fiedler — Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 


A    LIST    OF     MODERN     VICTOR    RECORDINGS  64! 

MAHLER,  GUSTAV 

Das  Lied  von  der  Erde ' 

Symphony  No.  2  in  C  minor Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

MCDONALD,  HARL 

"Dance  of  the  Workers" Stokotoski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

"Rhumba"  Symphony — Rhumba Stokoztrski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

"Cakewalk"   (Scherzo)   from  Sym- 
phony No.  4 Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Concerto  for  Two  Pianos  and 

Orchestra    Behrend  and  Kelberine — Stokowskir—PMl.  Or. 

Two  Hebraic  Poems Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

San  Juan  Cafistrano Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.   I — "The  Santa  Fe 

Trail"    Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

MENDELSSOHN,  FELIX 

Symphony  No.  4  in  A  major — "Italian",. Panizza — La  Scala  Orchestra,  Milan 

Midsummer    Nights    Dream — Over- 
ture and  Wedding  March Fiedler — Boston  "Pofs"  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  E  minor  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    Menuhin — Enesco — Or,  des  Concerts  Colonne 

Symphony  No.  3  in  A  minor 

("Scotch")    Iturbi — Rochester  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

MOSSOLOV,  ALEXANDER 

Sov iet  Iron  Foundry Fiedler — Boston  "Pofs"  Orchestra 

MOZART,  WOLFGANG  AMADEUS 
Symphony  No.  41  in  C  major 

("Jupiter")     Walter — Vienna  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Symphony  in  D  major  ("Haffner," 

K.  385)   Toscanini — Philharmonic-Symphony  of  N+  Y. 

Symphony  No.  38  in  D  major 

("Prague") Walter — Vienna  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Overture  to  The  Magic  Flute Toscanini — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Overture  to  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro Krauss — Vienna  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  D  major  ("Adelaide") 

for  Violin  and  Orchestra Menuhin — Monteux — Symphony  Orch.of  Paris 

MUSSORGSKY,  MODEST 

A  Night  on  the  Bald  Mountain Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Entr'acte  from  Khovantchina Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Pictures  at  an  Exhibition  (Ravel) Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

MUSSORGSKT-STOKOWSKI 

Boris  Godunov — Symphonic  Synthesis.  .Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

PADEREWSKI,  IGNACE  JAN 

Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Piano  and 

Orchestra    Semroma — Fiedler — Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 

PAISIELLO,  GIOVANNI 

Barber  of  Seville — Overture Fiedler — Boston  "Pofs"  Orchestra 


642  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

PROKOFIEFF,  SERGE 

"Classical"  Symphony   Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Le  Pas  deader * Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Lieutenant  Kije Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Concerto  No.  2  in  G  minor  for  Violin 

and  Orchestra Heifetz — Koussevitzky — Boston  Sym.  Orch. 

Peter  and  the  Wolf Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

PURCELL,  HENRY 
.  Suite  for  Strings  (with  Horns,  Flutes, 

and  English  Horn) Barbirolli — Pfolharmonic-Sym.  Orch.  of  N.  Y. 

RACHMANINOFF,  SERGEI 

Concerto  No.  z  in  C  minor  for  Piano 

and  Orchestra Rachmaninoff — Stokowski — Phtla.  Orchestra 

Concerto  No.  3  in  D  minor  for  Piano 

and  Orchestra Horowitz — Coates — London  Symphony  Orch. 

Symphony  No.  2  in  E  minor Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

RAVEL,  MAURICE 

Mother  Goose — (Five  Children's 

Pieces)    Koussevitzky-— -Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

La   Valse Koussevitzky — Boston  Symfhony  Orchestra 

Bolero    Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Daphnis  et  Chloe  (Second  Suite)  . . .  * .  Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 
Rapsodie  espagnole Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

RESPIGHI,  OTTORINO 

The  Fountains  of  Rome Barbirolli — Philharmonic-Sym.  Orch.  of  N.  Y. 

The  Pines  of  Rome Coppola — Paris  Conservatory  Orchestra 

RlMSKY-KoRSAKOV,   NlKOLAI 

The  Russian  Easter — Overture Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Scheheraza<te~-Symphomc  Suite    . . .  * .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 
Capriccio  espagnol Fiedler — Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 

ROXJSSEL,  ALBERT 

Sinfonietta   Black — NBC  String  Symphony  Orchestra 

SAINT-SAENS,  CHARLES  CAMILLE 

Carnival  of  the  Animals Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Omphalos  Spinning-Wheel Mengelberg — Phil  harmonic  Symphony  of  N.  Y. 

Danse  macabre Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

SCHONBERG,  ARNOLD 

Verklarte  Nacht Ofmandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

Gurre-Liedef — "The   Song  of   the 

Wood  Dove"   Stokowski— Philadelphia  Orchestfa 

SCHUBERT,  FRANZ 

Symphony  No.  4  in  C  minor 

("Tragic") Barbirollir-Philhafmonic-Sym.  Orch.  of  N.  Y. 

Symphony  No.  7  in  C  major Blechr—London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  8  in  B  minor  ("Un- 
finished")  Stokowski— Philadelphia  Orchestra 


A    LIST    OF    MODERN    VICTOR    RECORDINGS  643 

Rosamunde:  Entr'acte  in  F-flat  major.  .Hertz — San  Francisco  Symphony  Orchestra 
Ballet  Music  in  G  major.  .Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

SCHUMANN,  ROBERT 

Symphony  No.  i  in  B-flat  major Kovssevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  2  in  C  major Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  3  in  ,E  flat — "Rhenish" .  Coppola — Paris  Conservatory  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  4  in  D  minor Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  A  minor  for  Piano  and 

Orchestra    Myra  H&* — Goeh — London  Symphony  Qrch. 

SCRIABIN,  ALEXANDER 

Prometheus ^  the  Poem  of  Fire Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

The  Poem  of  Ecstasy Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

SHOSTAKOVICH,  DMITRI 

Symphony  No.  I Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  5 Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

SIBELIUS,  JEAN 

Finlandia    Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Rakastava;  The  Lover Black — NBC  String  Symphony  Orchestra. 

Symphony  No.  I  in  E  minor Ormandy~Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  2  in  D  major Koussevitzky~Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  4  in  A  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  5  in  E-flat  major Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  6  in  D  minor Schneevoigt-r-Finnish  National  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  D  minor  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    Heifetz — Beecham — London  PhiL  Orchestra 

The  Swan  of  Tuonela Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Valse  triste Stokowski*— Philadelphia  Orchestra 

SMETANA,  BEDRICH 

The  Bartered  Bride — Overture Stock — Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 

The  Moldau   Kubelik — Czech  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

SMITH,  JOHN  CHRISTOPHER 

Miniature  Suite , Arthur  Fiedler**  Sinfometta 

STRAUSS,  RICHARD 

Ein  Heldenleben , Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

"Salome's  Dance/*  from  Salome Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Till  EulenspiegePs  Merry  Pranks Busch — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Tod  and  Verklarung. , Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Don  Juan ./....  Busch — London  Philharmonic  Orchestra 

Don  Quixote Feuermann — Ormandy — Philadelphia.  Oreh* 

Also  sprach  Zarathustra Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Sinfonia  domestica Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

STRAVINSKY,  IGOR 

Suite  from  UOiseau  de  feu Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Le  Sacre  du  printemps Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Suite  from  the  Ballet  Petrouchka Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra. 

TCHAIKOVSKY,  PJPTR 

Capriccio  italfan , ,  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orek&stf* 


644  THE    VICTOR    BOOK    OF    THE    SYMPHONY 

Marche  slav Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Franceses  da  Rimini Barbirolli — Philharmonic  Symphony  Orchestra 

Concerto    No.    I    in    B-flat   minor    for 

Piano  and  Orchestra Rubinstein — Barbirolli — London  Sym.   Orch. 

Romeo  and  Juliet Koussevitzky — Boston  Symphony  Orchestra 

Overture  solennelle  "1812" Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Nutcracker  Suite    Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Sleeping  Beauty   Fiedler — Boston  "Pops"  Orchestra 

Concerto  in  D  major  for  Violin  and 

Orchestra    Heifetz — Earbirolli — London  Phil.  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  4  in  F  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  5  in  E  minor Stock — Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 

Symphony  No.  6  in  B  minor, 

"Pathetique"     Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

VIVALDI,  ANTONIO 

Concerto  grosso  in  D  minor Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

WAGNER,  RICHARD 

Faust    Overture    Coates — London  Symphony  Orchestra 

Siegfried  Idyl   Toscanini — Philharmonic-Sym.  Or.  of  N.  Y. 

Der  fliegende  Hollander — Overture. .  .Mengelberg — P  hilharmonic  Symphony  of  N.  Y. 

Rienzi — Overture     Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Lohengrin: 

Prelude     Stokowskir. — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Prelude  to  Act  III Toscanini — Philbarmonic-Sym.  Or.  of  N.  Y. 

Meister singer: 

Overture     Muck — Berlin  State  Opera  Orchestra 

Prelude  to  Act  III Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Dance  of  the  Apprentices Ormandy — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Parsifal: 

Prelude     Muck — Berlin  State  Opera  Orchestra 

Prelude  and  Good  Friday  Spell . Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Tannhauser: 

Overture  and  Venusberg  Music Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Tristan  und  Isolde: 

Prelude — Liebesnacht — Liebestod     . .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Das  Rheingold: 

Prelude     Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

The   Rainbow   Bridge Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Entrance  of  the  Gods  into  Valhalla . .  Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Die  Walkiire: 

Ride  of  the  Valkyries Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Wotan's  Farewell  and  Magic  Fire 

Scene    Tibbett — Stokowski — Philadelphia    Orchestra 

Siegfried: 

Forest  Murmurs Mengelberg — Philharmonic-Sym.  Or.  of  N.  Y. 

Die  Gotterdammerung: 

Siegfried's  Rhine  Journey Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

Siegfried's  Death   Music Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 


A    LIST    OF     MODERN     VICTOR    RECORDINGS  645 

Brunnhilde's  Immolation   Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

(with  Agnes  Davis,  soprano) 

WEBER,  CARL  VON 

Der  Freischutz — Overture Hertz — San  Francisco  Symfhony  Orchestra 

Euryanthe    Boult — BBC  Symphony  Orchestra 

Invitation  to  the  Dance Stokowski — Philadelphia  Orchestra 

WEINBERGER,  JAROMIR 

Polka  and  Fugue  from  the  opera 

Schtvanda Ormandy — Minneapolis  Symphony  Orchestra 


ABOUT  THE  AUTHOR 

Charles  O*ConnelPs  phenomenal  career  began  almost  twenty  years  ego 
as  a  New  England  newspaperman.  In  1924,  he  went  to  Victor  Talking 
Machine  Company  (now  RCA  Manufacturing  Company ,  Inc.),  and 
has  been  with  them  since  in  various  key  positions.  He  was  largely 
responsible  for  the  comeback  of  records,  his  audacity  m  testing  market 
response  with  a  recording  of  &chonberg*s  vast  Gurrelieder,  with  Leopold 
Stokowski  and  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  being  still  pointed  to  as  a 
pioneering  classic.  As  chief  of  artist  relations  for  RCA-Victory  Mr. 
O'Connell  supervises  the  artistic  creation,  m  all  its  aspects,  of  that  com- 
pany's vast  output  of  gramophone  records.  Yet,  this  is  but  one  side  of 
Mr.  O'ConnelPs  activities.  A  finely  trained  musician,  he  has  conducted 
'major  orchestras  the  country  over.  He  is  also  a  tireless  writer  and  editor, 
the  wide  success  of  The  Victor  Book  of  the  Symphony  and  The  Victor 
Book  of  the  Opera  testifying  to  his  literary  0b$ty  and  extensive  mimed 
knowledge. 


A  List  of  Music  Books 

MEN  OF  MUSIC  by  WALLACE  BROCKWAY  and  HERBERT  WEINSTOCK 

OF  MEN  AND  MUSIC  by  DEEMS  TAYLOR 

THE  WELL-TEMPERED  LISTENER  by  DEEMS  TAYLOR 

THE  VICTOR  BOOK  OF  THE  OPERA  edited  by  CHARLES  o'cONNELL 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON 

and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

CHRISTMAS  CAROLS  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON  and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

FOLK  SONGS  WE  LOVE  TO  SING  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON 

and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

SONGS  AMERICA  SINGS  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON  and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

THE  SONGS  WE  SING  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON  and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

JOHANN  SEBASTIAN  BACH  by  HENDRIK  WILLEM  VAN  LOON 

and  GRACE  CASTAGNETTA 

FANTASIA  by  WALT  DISNEY  and  DEEMS  TAYLOR  with  a  foreword  by 

LEOPOLD    STOKOWSKI 

A  MUSICAL  GUIDE  TO  RICHARD  WAGNER?S  RING  OF  THE  NIBELUNG 
by    ERNEST   HUTCHESON 

BEETHOVEN'S  32  SONATAS  FOR  THE  PIANOFORTE  edited  by  ARTHUR  SCHNABEL 

REFLECTIONS  ON  MUSIC  by  ARTUR  SCHNABEL 

PUBLISHED  IN    194! 

A  HISTORY  OF  THE  OPERA  by  WALLACE  BROCKWAY  and  HERBERT  WEINSTOCK 
SYMPHONIC  THEMES  edited  by  DR.  RAYMOND  BURROWS  and  BESSIE  C.  REDMOND 


from    THE    INNER    SANCTUM    of 

SIMON  and  SCHUSTER 

PUBLISHERS  -1230  SIXTH  AVENUE 
ROCKEFELLER  CENTER  •  NEW  YORK  CITY 


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