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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
OTHER BOOKS BY DAVID EWEN
The Complete Book of 20th Century Music
The Home Book of Musical Knowledge
Panorama of American Popular Music
Complete Book of the American Musical Theater
A Journey to Greatness: The Life and Music of George Gershtoin
Richard Rodgers
The World of Jerome Kern
The Encyclopedia of the Opera
The Encyclopedia of Concert Music
Milton Cross* Encyclopedia of Great Composers and Their Music
(with Milton Cross)
Music for the Millions
Dictators of the Baton
Music Comes to America
The New Book of Modern Composers
Leonard Bernstein
The Story of America's Musical Theater
THE
WORLD
OF
GREAT
COMPOSERS
Edited by David Ewen
Prentice-Hall, Inc., Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey
(c) 1962 by Prentice-Hall, Inc.., Engletoood Cliffs, N. /.
All rights reserved, Including the right
to reproduce this book, or any portions
there of 5 in any form? except for the
inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 62-8731
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEBICA
96807-T
EDITOR'S PREFACE
The World of Great Composers was conceived to present a four-
dimensional study of thirty-seven great composers-from Palestrina
in the 16th century to Debussy on the threshhold of the 20th, Each
composer is discussed in four sections. First, a brief biography pro-
vides the basic facts of the composer's life, This is followed by an
intimate portrait of the composer as a man, usually by a contempo-
rary or friend, but sometimes by later writers who have been remark-
ably skilful in separating the man from his music, An eminent
musicologist then provides a critical analysis of the composer's work
Each section concludes with the composer speaking for himself-and
sometimes about himself-bringing the reader an even more pene-
trating insight into the genius under discussion,
Since each composer lives most vibrantly in his music, the heart
of the book lies in the critical evaluation of each composer's work,
For this purpose, the editor has gathered into a single volume-and
for the first time-some of the foremost musical scholars of the world.
Usually, collective biographies of the great composers are written by
a single critic, and are thus subject to the strengths and weaknesses,
the penchants and prejudices of that writer, Since no single musicolo-
gist or critic-however capable-is sufficiently equipped, or for that
matter sufficiently catholic in his tastes, to discuss every composer
of the past with equal penetration, such one-man efforts often suffer
appalling lapses of critical insight, After all, the Bach scholar is not
likely to do as well by Tchaikovsky, nor is the Mahler authority
usually able to do equal justice to Massenet. The editor, conse-
quently, decided to have each of the thirty-seven composers dis-
cussed by the critic best suited by scholarship and temperament to
EDITOR'S PREFACE
do so. Bach is discussed by Charles Sanford Terry; Handel, by Hol-
land; Monteverdi, by Henri Prunikes; Mozart, by W. J. Turner;
Beethoven, by Paul Bekker; Weber, by Alfred Einstein; Schubert,
by Sir Donald Francis Tovey; Mendelssohn, by Sir George Grove;
Wagner, by Prof. Edward J. Dent; Mussorgsky, by Gerald Abraham;
Verdi, by F. Bonavia. Each musicologist chosen is an undisputed
authority on the subject he is discussing; each gives an interpretation
and appreciation of the individual genius of the composer that is
based on lifelong research and scholarship.
But this volume goes even further than simply gathering some of
the best writing in existence on some of the world's greatest com-
posers.
A second dimension to each composer is provided by an intimate,
informal portrait, usually by someone who knew that composer well,
Thus we are given singularly revealing personal insights into Bee-
thoven by Franz Grillparzer and Anton Schindler; into Rameau by
Chabanon; into Haydn by Dies; into Mozart by Michael Kelly and
Schlichtegroll; into Schubert by Anselm Hiittenbrenner; into Men-
delssohn by Eduard Devrient; into Meyerbeer by Heinrich Heine;
into Chopin by George Sand and Franz Liszt; into Liszt by Coun-
tess Marie d'Agoult; into Franck by Vincent dlndy; into Tchaikov-
sky by his sister-in-law, Mme. Anatol Tchaikovsky; into Mahler by
his wife, Alma. All these writers have drawn their material from
many years of personal contact. Some of the other personal portraits,
however, come not from contemporaries but from later writers;
Deems Taylor tells us about Wagner; Slonimsky about Mussorgsky
and Rimsky-Korsakov; Rolland about Gluck and Saint-Saens; Gei-
ringer about Brahms; Oscar Thompson about Debussy,
The editor felt that still another dimension was needed to give a
well-rounded and complete study of each composer, and that dimen-
sion comes from the composer himself in comments derived from let-
ters, diaries, note books, published writings, and occasionally from
well-authenticated conversations. Sometimes the composers discuss
aesthetic aims and purposes; sometimes they record their ideas about
music in general or the creative impulse; sometimes they plumb deep
within their own emotional and personal lives to present such poign-
ant human documents as Beethoven's letter to his immortal beloved
vi
EDITOR S PREFACE
and his "Heiligenstadt Testament," or Schubert's revealing allegory
about a dream.
The appendices that follow the text include a listing of all the
principal works of each composer and, for further reading, a select
bibliography of works written in English.
CONTENTS
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA PALESTRINA (c. 1525-94)
The Man, Zoe Kendrick Pyne
The Composer, Hugo Leichtentritt
Palestrina Speaks
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI (1567-1643)
The Man, David Ewen
The Composer, Henri Prunidres
Monteverdi Speaks
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU (1683-1764)
The Man, Michel-Paul-Guide Chabanon
The Composer, Bernard Champigneulle
Rameau Speaks
ANTONIO VIVALDI (1669-1741)
The Man, Marc Pincherle
The Composer, Donald Jay Grout
Vivaldi Speaks
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH (1685-1750)
The Man, Johann Nikolaus Forkel, Albert Schweitzer
The Composer, C. Sanford Terry
Bach Speaks
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL (1685-1759)
The Man, Charles Burney, Newman Flower
The Composer, Romain Holland
Handel Speaks
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK (1714-87)
The Man, Romain Rolland
The Composer, William Foster Apthorp
Gluck Speaks
CONTENTS
JOSEPH HAYDN (1732-1809) 87
The Man, Albert Christoph Dies 88
The Composer, W. Oliver Strunk 91
Haydn Speaks 102
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756-91) 104
The Man, Michael Kelly, Adolph Heinrich von Schlichtegroll 106
The Composer, W. /. Turner 108
Mozart Speaks 119
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (1770-1827) 122
The Man, Anton Schindler, Franz Grillparzer 124
The Composer, Paul Bekker '^ 127
Beethoven Speaks 141
KARL MARIA VON WEBER (1786-1826) 146
The Man, Andr6 Coeuroy 147
The Composer, Alfred Einstein 150
Weber Speaks 153
fcRANZ SCHUBERT (1797-1828) 155
The Man, Anselm Hiittenbrenner 156
The Composer, Donald Francis Tovey 158
Schubert Speaks 175
HECTOR BERLIOZ (1803-69) 179
The Man, Romain Rolland 180
The Composer, W. H. Hadow 183
Berlioz Speaks 192
GIOACCHINO ROSSINI (1792-1868) 195
The Man, Francis Toye 19Q
The Composer, Francis Toye 200
Rossini Speaks 209
GIACOMO MEYERBEER (1791-1864) 211
The Man, Heinrich Heine 212
The Composer, R. A. Streatfeild 214
Meyerbeer Speaks 217
x
CONTENTS
1FELIX MENDELSSOHN (1809-47) 219
The Man, Eduard D'evrient 220
The Composer, Sir George Grove 223
Mendelssohn Speaks 230
ROBERT SCHUMANN (1810-36) 232
The Man, Gustav Jansen 233
The Composer, W. H. Hadow 235
Schumann Speaks 253
FREDERIC CHOPIN (1810-49) 255
The Man, George Sand, Franz Liszt 256
The Composer, Olin Downes 259
Chopin Speaks 267
CESAR FRANCK (1822-90) 270
The Man, Vincent d'Indy . 271
The Composer, Leland Hall 274
Franck Speaks 279
^GOUN^^^ 281
The Man, Howard Paul 282
The Composer, R. A. Streatfeild 283
Gounod Speaks 287
JULES MASSENET (1842-1912) 290
The Man, Herbert Peyser 291
The Composer, Martin Cooper 294
Massenet Speaks 299
FRANZ LISZT (1811-86) 303
The Man, Amy Fay, Countess Marie cFAgoult 305
The Composer, Cecil Gray 307
Liszt Speaks 318
RICHARD WAGNER (1813-83) 320
The Man, Deems Taylor 322
The Composer, Edtqard J. Dent 327
Wagner Speaks 338
xi
CONTENTS
JOHANNES BRAHMS (1833-87) 341
The Man, Karl Geiringer 342
The Composer, Daniel Gregory Mason 347
Brahms Speaks 354
BEDRICH SMETANA (1824-84) 356
The Man, Josef Schwarz 357
The Composer, Kurt Pahlen 359
Smetana Speaks 361
ANTONIN DVORAK (1841-1904) 363
The Man, Paul Stefan 364
The Composer, Vladimir Helfert 366
Dvorak Speaks 370
PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY (1840-93) 373
The Man, Ume. Anatol Tchaikovsky 375
The Composer, Richard Anthony Leonard 377
Tchaikovsky Speaks 387
MODEST MUSSORGSKY (1839-91) 391
The Man, Nicolas Slonimsky 892
The Composer, Gerald Abraham 395
Mussorgsky Speaks 398
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV (1844-1908) 400
The Man, Nicolas Slonimsky 401
The Composer, M. Montagu-Nathan 403
Rimsky-Korsakov Speaks 410
EDVARD GRIEG (1843-1907) 412
The Man, Gerhard Schjelderup, Percy Grainger 413
The Composer, Kristian Lange and Arne Ostvedt 416
Grieg Speaks 420
GIUSEPPE VERDI (1813-1901) 422
The Man, Franz Werfel 423
The Composer, F, Bonavia 426
Verdi Speaks 439
xii
CON:
GIACOMO PUCCINI (1858-1924)
The Man, Richard Specht
The Composer, Donald Jay Grout
Puccini Speaks
ANTON BRUCKNER (1824-96)
The Man, Gabriel Engel
The Composer, H. C. Colles
Bruckner Speaks
GUSTAV MAHLER (1860-1911)
The Man, Alma Mahler Werfel
The Composer, Bruno Walter
Mahler Speaks
HUGO WOLF (1860-1903)
The Man, David and Frederic Ewen
The Composer, Ernest Newman
Wolf Speaks
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS (1835-1921)
The Man, Philip Hale
The Composer, Romain Rolland
Saint-Saens Speaks
^CLAUDE DEBUSSY (1862-1918)
~~The Man, Oscar Thompson
The Composer, Paul Rosenfeld
Debussy Speaks
APPENDICES
I. Principal Works of the Great Composers
II. For Further Reading: A Select Bibliography in English
III. Contributors
Acknowledgments
Index
XII
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA
PALESTRINA
c . 1 5 2 5 - 1 5 9 4
GIOVANNI PIEBLUIGI DA PALESTRINA brought the first important
epoch in Western music— the age of polyphony— to its most ad-
vanced stage of technical perfection, and to its highest point of artis-
tic fulfillment. He was born Giovanni Pierluigi in or about 1525, but
he is known as Palestrina after the town of his birth, twenty miles
outside Rome. He attended the choir school of Santa Maria Maggiore
in Rome after which, in 1544, he became choirmaster and organist
of Sant' Agapit Cathedral in his native town. In 1551 he was ap-
pointed director of the Julian Choir in Rome where, three years
later, he published his first book of Masses, After that, Palestrina
served as a singer in the Pontifical Choir, as musical director of St.
John Lateran, and as musical director of Santa Maria Maggiore. In
1563 he published his first volume of motets, His masterwork, the
Missa Papae Marcelli, came out in 1567, a model for his contempo-
raries and immediate successors. There is a theory that this work
was directly responsible for frustrating the efforts of the Council of
Trent in 1562 to reform church music through a return from complex
polyphony to the simple plainsong, but it is legend and not fact.
In 1567, Palestrina left Santa Maria Maggiore and was employed
by Cardinal Ippolito d'Este, He returned to his old post as musical
director of the Julian Choir in 1571 and remained there to the end
of his life. He died in Rome on February 2, 1594 and was buried
in the Cappella Nuovo at the old St. Peter s Church.
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
THE MAN
ZOK KENDRICK PYNE
To Palestrina the practical and material side of his profession was
of utmost importance. It need hardly be said that the conditions of
life in a small town like Palestrina and in the great city of Rome
were absolutely different. In the Sabine Hills, a small settled income,
wines, and olives, probably provided as many amenities as the cir-
cumstances required, but now the exigencies of an official position
and a growing family pressed more heavily upon the composer. It
has been made a subject of implied reproach that he was never in-
different to the financial aspect of a question, nor ever neglected
an opportunity of attaching himself to a wealthy patron; but he
should rather be praised for precisely those qualities which prove
him to have been a good husband, careful father, and a prudent man,
qualities—all of them— by no means inseparable from genius. More-
over, it is fairly obvious that he could never have enriched the world
with the extraordinarily large number of his compositions had he
not possessed in a high degree the capacity for managing his affairs,
and thereby securing the necessary environment of calm and com-
parative ease for intellectual labors. The honeyed phrases of his
dedications were the usual custom ... and it has been wittily said
that a powerful patron might be considered in the light of a police-
man, by means of whom it was possible to redress one's private
wrongs, and make headway against one's enemies. . . .
His monthly salary at Santa Maria Maggiore amounted at first
to thirteen, later, sixteen scudi on the addition of another chorister
to the three already in his charge, in all about one hundred and
ninety-two scudi (approximately $750 a year). For this sum, Pales-
trina was expected to feed the boys and give them musical instruc-
tion. That is to say, he received six scudi as salary, and two scudi
and a half per head for each chorister. As quarters in the precincts
were always assigned to members of the choir, there would be no
expenditure necessary for housing. Presents were customary after the
2
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA PALESTBINA
great festivals of the Church. ... To these sources of income must
be added Palestrina's pension as ex-member of the Pontifical Choir,
amounting to a yearly sum of about $250. Then comes an uncertain
sum for dedications to rich patrons— habitual at the time— and the
organization of music for occasions festive or mournful. The present
was an epoch in which men of wealth and position desired to pose
as excellent musicians, so that there were always compositions to
be corrected and put into shape, or lessons to give. Professional
pupils according to the custom of the times lived in the master's
house and became part of his family. Palestrina also had property
and turned it to practical account. This was to be added to by the
death of his father, and until the close of his own life, documentary
evidences of the acquisition of small pieces of property show that
this tended to increase. He was certainly not rich, but, all things
considered, his income compares not unfavorably with many a
church musician of high repute today.
Through the Register of Deaths belonging to St. Peter's, we learn
that Lucrezia, Palestrina's wife, after a married life lasting thirty-
three years, died and was buried on July 23, 1580 in the Cappella
Nuovo of St. Peter's. The mother did not long survive the death
of her two sons. Palestrina, however, does not appear to have been
left entirely alone. His youngest son, Igino, married Virginia Guar-
nacci in 1577, and in the register of St. Peter's occurs an entry re-
ferring to the baptism of their son, Tommaso. But it is to be sur-
mised that the domestic situation was no easy one for Palestrina,
He had not only lost his beloved wife and two sons but also the head
of his household. As Master of the Julian Choir he had boys under
his care, and a young daughter-in-law with small children— a baby
was born only three days after Lucrezia's death— may quite con-
ceivably have lacked the experience and leisure for the management
of so complicated a household. Be this as it may, in 1581, Palestrina
married again, choosing a wife suitable for a man of advancing years
and failing health. Victoria Dormuli was a rich widow, and beyond
this little is known of her.
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSEBS
THE COMPOSER
HUGO LEICHTENTRITT
When the spirit of the Italian Renaissance is discussed, Palestrina
cannot be passed over lightly, for his music shows some of the most
characteristic aspects of Renaissance art in their purest form. He
spent his entire artistic career at Rome in the service of the Catholic
Church, most of the time at the famous Papal chapel of St. Peter's,
though he was absent from it for about seventeen years. This absence
illustrates very forcibly the tendencies of the Roman Counter Refor-
mation. In 1555, Pope Paul IV set up an iron rule. He pursued with
the greatest severity everything and everybody likely to injure
the Catholic Church in the eyes of the world. Michelangelo's glorious
fresco paintings in the Sistine Chapel were offensive to him because
of the nude bodies that were represented, and he ordered the painter
Daniel da Volterra to supply them with appropriate clothing. This
fact alone makes it manifest that the half-pagan Renaissance spirit,
with its delight in reminiscences of antiquity, was vanishing, that
a severe new bent of mind had become dominant. Another of Paul's
reforms was the removal of all married singers from the Papal chapel,
in order to enforce celibacy and accentuate the clerical character of
all the institutions of the Catholic Church. Palestrina had to quit
his post and was called back only years later, when another Pope of
less severity occupied the Papal throne, Palestrina's music does
not manifest in any way the characteristic traits of the spirit of the
Counter Reformation, which becomes evident only a generation
later in the music of the Baroque Age. Yet the astonishing fact re-
mains-one might call it an irony of fate-that this music of Pales-
trina's, so full of the Renaissance spirit, so traditional in its general
aspects, so unsensational in a propagandistic sense, was destined
to become the most powerful musical ally of the Catholic Church in
its combat with Protestantism. To this very day Palestrina s music
is justly admired as the most comprehensive, convincing, and sue-
4
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA P ALESTRIN A
cessful interpretation of the true Catholic spirit, not only in music
proper but in all the world of art.
In the music of Palestrina a student expert in problems of style
can find summed up the entire process of transformation which the
Dutch style underwent in Italy. Palestrina had learned his art from
the Dutch masters, and he himself finally mastered the Dutch tech-
nique of counterpoint and construction to perfection. Yet his music
would not have meant much to posterity had it remained only a
copy, however skilful, of the Dutch manner. What makes it unique
and incomparable is the fact that this master alone knew how to
apply to the severe and complex Dutch art of design and construction
the Italian melodic bent, sense of color and proportion, the Italian ac-
cent, voice and soul. The broad stream of these characteristic traits
of the Italian Renaissance carries along with it as smaller tributaries
of the traditional Dutch traits. Palestrina is not in the least a revo-
lutionary artist, bent on forcibly overthrowing a former state of
things; his music shows us a classical paradigm of evolution, of
gradual and legitimate transformation.
It is the general fare of revolutionary art to represent a new start
which is bound to be superseded by subsequent progress, where a
great evolutionary art means not a beginning but a conclusion, a
climax, an arrival at perfection. And Palestrina, like Orlando di
Lasso (1532-94), like Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Verdi, and Wagner
belongs among the great names of evolutionary art.
The lasting value of Palestrina^ art is based upon two essential
qualities: purity of style, and the coupling of ideal contents with
ideal form. Though Palestrina's music is narrower in scope than that
of other masters of the first magnitude— Bach, Mozart, Beethoven-
yet within its limits it must be called one of the sublime achieve-
ments of all art. It is the ideal ecclesiastical music, superior even to
Bach's church music. The Catholic spirit certainly has never found
a more congenial or more convincing artistic expression. As regards
its form, attention must be called to the perfect equilibrium that
is maintained between the logical construction of its contrapuntal
design and its wonderfully rich effects of sound, full of color, light,
and shade. Only in Mozart's music do we meet with a similar equi-
librium, though on a very different plane. Works like Palestrina's
5
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
Missa Assumpta Es (1567), Missa Papae Marcelli (1567), Stabat
Mater (1595), and Motets from the Canticle of Solomon (1584) show
us characteristic aspects of his art in various directions and prove
the immense range of his religious music, its peculiar combination
of seraphic mildness and exuberant brilliance, of ravishing beauty
and passionate outcry, of soaring heights of ecstasy and profound
seriousness of meditation.
Palestrina's motets and Masses are the musical counterparts of
the paintings of Perugino, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Fra Filippo
Lippi, Fra Bartolomeo, and Andrea del Sarto. In certain seraphic
sounds in Palestrina's motets and Masses we perceive a spirit akin
to that of the touching and adorable Fra Angelico da Fiesole, a cen-
tury earlier, whose frescoes in the convent of San Marco in Florence
are unique in their purity and childlike confidence. Whoever has
felt the mysterious power of Raphael's Sistine Madonna in the
Dresden Gallery, its inexplicable purity, grace, and simplicity cou-
pled with a sublime religious emotion, will also be touched pro-
foundly by Palestrina's music which is so similar in effect. The art
of sculptors like Donatello and Luca della Robbia also has its musical
reflection in the clearness, the wonderful precision and beauty of
Palestrina's plastic design, and such great Renaissance architects as
Palladio, Alberti, and Bramante helped Palestrina to acquire his won-
derful sense of harmonious proportion and of rhythmical and grace-
ful construction.
Ruskin, discussing the "division of arts" in his Aratra Pentelici,
speaks at length, with reference to painting, sculpture, and architec-
ture, of the "musical or harmonic element in every art" According
to Ruskin, "the science of color is, in the Greek sense, the more
musical, being one of the divisions of the Apolline power/7 He also
explains that " the second musical science, which belongs peculiarly
to sculpture (and to painting so far as it represents form) consists
in the disposition of beautiful masses. That is to say, beautiful sur-
faces limited by beautiful lines. Sculpture is defined by Ruskin as
"the art which by the musical disposition of masses, imitates any-
thing of which die imitation is justly pleasant to us; and does so
in accordance with structural laws having due reference to the
materials employed." All these observations of Ruskin's lose nothing
6
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA PALESTRINA
of their significance or validity if we change the observer's point
of view and look at the problems primarily from the angle of music.
With very slight modification those mutual relations can be beauti-
fully exemplified by Palestrina's music.
PALESTRINA SPEAKS
Our wisest mortals have decided that music should give zest to
divine worship, so that those whom pious devotion to religious
practice has led to the temple might remain there to delight in voices
blending in harmony. If men take great pains to compose beautiful
music for profane songs, they should devote at least as much thought
to sacred song, nay, even more than to mere worldly matters. There-
fore, though well aware of my feeble powers, I have held nothing
more desirable than that whatever is sung throughout the year,
according to the season, should be agreeable to the ear by virtue of
its vocal beauty, insofar as it lay in my power to make it so.
There exists a vast mass of love songs of the poets, written in a
fashion entirely foreign to the profession and name of Christians.
They are the songs of men ruled by passion, and a great number
of musicians, corrupters of youth, make them the concern of their
art and their industry; in proportion as they flourish through praise
of their skill, so do they offend good and serious-minded men by
the depraved taste of their work. I blush and grieve to think that
once I was of their number. But while I cannot change the past, nor
undo what is done, I have mended my ways. Therefore, I have
labored on songs which have been written in praise of our Lord,
Jesus Christ, and His Most Holy Virgin Mother, Mary; and I have
produced a work which treats of the divine love of Christ and his
spouse the Soul, the Canticle of Solomon.
Worldly cares of any kind . . . are adverse to the Muses, and par-
ticularly those which arise from a lack of private means. For, when
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
the latter afford a sufficiency (and to ask more Is the mark of a
greedy and intemperate man), the mind can more easily detach
itself from other cares; if not, the fault lies within. Those who have
known the necessity of laboring to provide this sufficiency, according
to their station and way of life, know full well how it distracts the
mind from learning and from a study of the liberal arts. Certainly,
I have known this experience all my life, and more especially at
present (1588). Yet I thank the Divine Goodness, first, that the
course is now almost finished, and the goal in sight; secondly, that
in the midst of the greatest difficulties I have never interrupted
my study of music. Dedicated to the profession since boyhood and
engrossed in it to the best of my abilities and energies, indeed, what
other interest could I have had? Would that my progress has
equalled my labor and my diligence!
I have composed and published much; a great deal more is lying
by me, which I am hindered from publishing because of the strait-
ened means of which I have spoken.
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI
1567-1643
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI— first significant composer of operas, and
personification of the transition between the polyphonic and Ba-
roque eras— was born in Cremona, Italy, in 1567. As a chorister at
the Cremona Cathedral he studied with Marc' Antonio Ingegneri,
and at fifteen published a volume of three-part motets. In or about
his twenty-third year he was employed as a madrigal singer and
viola player by the Duke of Mantua, rising to the post of Maestro di
Cappella in 1602. Between 1587 and 1605 he published five volumes
of madrigals. Soon after opera had come into being in 1594 (through
the efforts of the Camerata, a group of Florentine intellectuals who
hoped to restore classic Greek drama), Monteverdi was attracted to
the new medium. His first opera was Orfeo, introduced in Mantua on
February 22, 1607, the earliest opera in music history still per-
formed. In 1608 he completed a second opera, Arianna, of which
only the Lament has survived. From 1613 until the end of his life he
was the Maestro di Cappella of the San Marco Cathedral in Venice
where he wrote both religious music and operas. His last opera,
V Incoronazione di Poppea, was produced in Venice in the fall of
1642. He died in Venice on November 19, 1643.
THE MAN
DAVID EWEN
Unlike so many other famous musicians of his time, Monteverdi
could not shake works out of his sleeve. Others might manufacture
one work after another from a convenient matrix. He was, above
THE WORLD OF GKEAT COMPOSERS
everything else, the artist-craftsman, fashioning each of his compo-
sitions to its own measurements and design. He wrote copiously, but
only after long and fastidious preparation.
Temperamentally he was unsuited for the age of patronage that
demanded from its hirelings musical works on order— often tailor-
made to specifications. He was frequently in despair— sometimes
actually made physically ill—by the insistent commissions heaped
upon him by patrons who preferred facility and pleasing sounds to
careful structures and fastidious art. "I do most heartily pray your
Most Serene Highness, for the love of God, no longer to put so much
work on me and to give me more time for my great desire to serve
you," he was forced to write to his employer. "Otherwise the excess
of my fatigue will not fail to shorten my life/7
His only existing portrait shows a face both somber and strong.
The eyes, under massive brows, are grave, severe, and touched with
melancholy. The lips are pressed hard together. He was honest and
direct in all his dealings, a man without malice or guile, a man
of strong inner resources. He had suffered greatly throughout life.
Yet suffering could not weaken his formidable powers of creation.
Though he was interested in art and literature, and sometimes dab-
bled in alchemy, he was first and foremost a composer to whom
writing music was as essential as food and drink. Through work
he was able to forget not only his personal suffering but fatigue
and even the passing of time.
He was the modernist of his day. His unresolved discords created
confusion and dismay among the pundits of his time. Artusi, a gifted
musician in his own right, sneered at Monteverdf s music as appeal-
ing more to the senses than to reason. Monteverdi's restless intellect
groped constantly for new ways of expressing itself, just as it con-
tinually sought stimulation in classic literature (Plato especially)
and in great works of art. Throughout his life he remained sensitively
attuned to the new musical forms and styles arising in different
parts of Europe; and he always possessed the remarkable resiliency
to adopt these new methods when he felt they could serve his ar-
tistic purpose.
10
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI
THE COMPOSER
HENRI PRUNIERES
Claudio Monteverdi straddled the 16th and 17th centuries. Having
mastered the Renaissance forms, he was the chief molder of those
of the 17th century. The musico-dramatic reform might have been
a blind alley were it not for his advent. He was truly the man re-
quired to bring these rudimentary efforts to a successful issue.
In the service of the Duke of Mantua, Monteverdi had devoted
himself to the madrigal, rousing the anger of such upholders of
tradition as Artusi who censured his taste for dissonances and his
sacrifice of reason to the senses. His impetuous genius was uncon-
tainable in this form, and he approached the madrigal much as
Beethoven approached the symphonic form in his Ninth Symphony.
The Monteverdian madrigal contains in an embryonic form the mod-
ern harmonic language, the musico-dramatic style, and the descrip-
tive symphony. With Monteverdi individual expression took the place
of the generalized form of expression which the 15th century had
inherited from the Gothic musicians. Hence, among the older mas-
ters, his special appeal. The mighty agitation and passion were put
into a musical language which, in essentials, has subsisted up to the
present time. Monteverdi stands out from his contemporaries, like
Frangois Villon from the 15th-century poets: he conceived a new art.
In his first four books of madrigals, published between 1587 and
1603, Monteverdi goes no further than the harmonic processes of
Luca Marenzio (1553-99), Marc' Antonio Ingegneri (1545-92) and
others; but even here, in his use of these processes there is origi-
nality. His dissonances are produced, like theirs, by syncopations,
appogiaturas, and passing notes; the false relation is used for expres-
sive purposes, and dissonances for modulations. But whereas others
employed the dissonances for a passing accidental, soon left behind
for calmer prospects, Monteverdi cherished it as desirable in itself.
There is no repose resulting from the use of common chords in his
music; it is predominantly dissonant.
11
THE WORLD OF CHEAT GOMPOSEBS
Again, while earlier madrigals were of an essentially vocal charac-
ter, Monteverdi, particularly after the fourth book, seems to have
instruments rather than voices in mind, ... So convincing are the
proportions of Monteverdi's madrigals, so clearly is the thought ex-
pressed, that they may perfectly well be played by instruments, in-
deed they were originally. Many of the madrigals in the fourth and
fifth books were obviously intended to be sung by a solo voice, while
the lower parts were played by viols in the form of an accompani-
ment.
Thus Monteverdi, possibly under the influence of the rnusico-
dramatic reform which was engaging progressive minds at the end
of the 16th century, proceeds towards a form of accompanied
monody. He is the great craftsman in the evolution of the dramatic
cantata from the lyrical madrigal. Certain pieces of the fifth book
already disclose, in declamatory passages on repeated notes, their
rhythm following the prosody and the dramatic values, the recitative
style of the composer of Orfeo.
The fifth book not only contains the germ of the future orchestra
and the nionodic song, but is evidence of an harmonic revolution
which dominates the evolution of musical language during the 17th
century. For the first time chords of the dominant seventh and ninth
are used without preparation to determine the tonal cadences. The
major and minor modes had, of course, long been freely employed,
but in a doubtful manner. By his use of the dominant seventh in
tonal modulations, Monteverdi instinctively created the whole tech-
nique or successions of chords and tonalities, codified in Rameau's
Trait^ d'harmonie, and practised in the classical masterpieces of the
end of the 18th century.
The fact is that he was constructing a new harmonic language and
threatened the foundations of polyphony by the introduction of a
dramatic and personal sentiment.
The Duke of Mantua, Vincenzo Gonzaga, and also his sons, had
been won over to the cause of the musical drama. They encouraged
Monteverdi to set to music the libretto of Orfeo by the State secre-
tary, Alessandro Striggio, son of the famous madrigalist and poet.
12
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI
In the Carnival of 1607, the work was performed before a select
party at the Accademla degli Invaghiti and was repeated on Febru-
ary 24 and March 1 at the Court Theater. Its success was decisive.
Orfeo is beyond question the masterpiece of the riforma melo-
drammatica. Monteverdi identified himself with the Florentine
aesthetic, but refused to make music a slave of poetry, for he be-
lieved that each was equally capable of expressing the innermost
feelings.
After several successful attempts in his madrigals, Monteverdi
succeeded in Orfeo in rousing the passions in the manner of classical
antiquity. He enriched the form invented by the Camerata in Flor-
ence with a host of devices borrowed from the Italian madrigalists
and organists and from the French composers of court airs and
ballets,
In style, Striggio's tragedy is closely related to the pastorals of
Rinuccini and Chiabrera. One might criticize the same kind of
rather conventional nobility, but the work contains tragic scenes
treated with great restraint.
What is altogether peculiar to Monteverdi is his use of symphonic
pieces in the manner of leading motives, thereby assuring a formal
unity in the work. The piece entitled Ritornello may be considered
the Leitmotiv of Orfeo. It reappears several times, notably in the
seven-part symphony which stands out as an urgent supplication at
the end of the second act. The "Infernal Symphony," which opens
the third act, reappears following Orpheus's despair in Act V, as if
to suggest the abode of Eurydice.
The musical drama is dependent on the declamation, but we are
now far from the inorganic recitative of the Florentines. Monte-
verdi's recitative is melodically inflected. In the admirable recitation
of the Messenger, so moving in its simplicity, a few chromatic ac-
cents and a sudden change from the chord of E major to the one of
G minor create an impression of anguish and horror. In the opening
scene of Orpheus's despair the care in rendering every shade of
meaning is matched only by the dramatic power. . . .
Orfeo contains examples of all the then known forms of the aria.
The arioso, based on recitative, predominates. A melodic passage
followed by a recitation and the first passage repeated appears as
13
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
the prototype of the aria da capo. There are also many strophic airs,
but the most curious forms are those in which instruments are as-
sociated with the voices. The aria in the third act in which Orpheus
attempts to move the power of Hades is one of the oldest examples
of the concerted air.
Remarkable throughout the score is the extraordinary variety. In
the two Euridices of Jacopo Peri (1561-1633) and Giulio Caccini (a
1546-1618) there is never any gradation. Orfeo, on the other hand,
abounds in contrasts. The first act is a luminous fresco in pale
shades, consisting almost entirely of joyful choruses of shepherds,
danced or sung. The opening of the second act sets a mournful
tone: the music of Orpheus, who sings of his country, is grave and
solemn as if the hero were troubled by a foreboding; and when in
the distance the messenger utters her heartrending cries he immedi-
ately realizes his fate. An abrupt modulation from C to A major
marks Silvia's entry, producing the effect of a cloud obscuring the
scene, and the music remains darkly colored until the end of the
act. In the third act, Monteverdi substitutes brass instruments for
the strings and produces a lugubrious and fitting accompaniment for
a view of the infernal regions. The fourth act is in half-tones through-
out to suggest the eerie glow of the underground, and the last act
progressively proceeds from Orpheus's gloomy despair to the golden
light of an apotheosis in sound. In later works Monteverdi obtains
these effects of color solely by means of harmony and rhythm; in
Orfeo he relied on the orchestra, One sees that he realizes the expres-
sive power of each instrument, but it is often forgotten that others
realized as much before. Gradually the orchestra was simplified; the
balance was shifted, the foundations were made more secure, and
as a result it lost some of its variety and glamor,
We find in Orfeo a large number of instrumental pieces of various
models: ritornelli written to a strict metrical plan, homophonic and
polyphonic sinfonie, toccate, ricercari, and moresques. Besides the
dramatic recitatives are ariosi, strophic airs, metrical airs, syllabic
and contrapuntal choruses and ballets, mimed, sung, and danced.
Monteverdi brought to this new form of the tragedy in recitative
all the technical resources at the command of his genius. The aristo-
14
CL AUDIO MONTEVERDI
cratic spectacle of Florence became in his hands the modern musical
drama of passions.
On May 28, 1608, Arianna was given before an immense audience
at the palace of Mantua. From the score only the "Lament of
Arianna" survives. Written in recitative style, with the periodical
return of the plaint Lasciate mi morire! it is still of poignant and
even overwhelming effect. This is surely Monteverdfs finest dra-
matic page— a noble expression of grief recalling the masterpieces of
ancient Greece.
Almost nothing remains of the dramatic music which Monteverdi
composed between Orfeo and Arianna and the Venetian opera. II
Ritorno di Ulisse (1641) should be considered as an improvisation of
genius, a vast sketch in which certain parts have been worked out,
and the others scarcely outlined. Ulysses and Penelope are vigor-
ously drawn and certain episodic roles are fashioned with verve: the
shepherd Eumeus, the servant Melanto, the beggar Iro. The gods
express themselves in a solemn and high-sounding style. The or-
chestra rarely intervenes, though it does so notably in the scene of
the massacre of the suitors and, again, to accompany the beautiful
air of Penelope in the third act, which associates all Nature with
her happiness.
If L'Incoronazione di Poppea dates from the year of its perform-
ance (1642), Monteverdi was seventy-four years old. Nothing, how-
ever, in this vigorous and sensual score reveals signs of age. All of
the personages act with intensity. Monteverdi recreates for us Im-
perial Rome. The libretto, by Busenello, gave him the opportunity
to depict scenes of love, of crime, of orgies, of f£tes, of banquets.
Musically, Monteverdi renounces the sumptuous orchestra which
he used at the court of Mantua. Beyond the harpsichord and some
lutes and bass viols necessary to sustain the voices he scarcely uses
anything except a few violins and viols, and, for the descriptive
effects, trumpets and trombones, oboes and bassoon, perhaps also
some flutes and horns. But we cannot be sure of these details. The
scores rediscovered in Venice and in Naples are very schematic.
Monteverdi composed at the same time religious works which
15
THE WORLD OF GHKAT COMPOSERS
were very different from one another, some being in the traditional
polyphonic style, others in a very modern concerted style. His sin-
cere mysticism expressed itself in music of profound contemplation,
even ascetisin. But to proclaim his pious love for God, he used
melodic figures which could as well be addressed to an adored
mistress.
MONTEVERDI SPEAKS
I consider that the principal passions or emotions of the soul are
three: namely, anger, serenity, and humility or supplication. The
best philosophers affirm this. The very nature of our voice indicates
this by having high, low, and middle ranges. The art of music re-
affirms this in these three terms, "agitated," "soft/' and "moderate/*
In the works of the composers of the past I have found examples of
the "soft" and "moderate" types, but never of the "agitated" style
described by Plato in the third book of Rhetoric in these words,
"take that harmony that would fittingly imitate the brave man going
to war." Aware that contrasts move our soul, and that such is the
purpose of all good music as Boethius asserts by saying "music is a
part of us, and either ennobles or corrupts our behavior"— for this
reason I have applied myself diligently to the rediscovery of this
style.
Reflecting that all the best philosophers maintain that the pyrrhic
or fast tempo was used for lively, warlike dances, and that the slow
spondaic tempo for the opposite, I decided upon the semibrove
(whole note) and proposed that each semibreve correspond to a
spondee. Reducing this to sixteen semichromes (sixteenth notes),
struck one after the other and joined to words expressing anger and
scorn, I recognized in this brief example a resemblance to the emo-
tion which I was seeking, although the words did not follow the
rapid beats of the instrument.
To obtain better proof, I resorted to the divine Tasso, as a poet
who expresses most appropriately and naturally in words the emo-
tions which he wishes to depict, and I chose his description of the
16
CLAUDIO MONTEVEHDI
combat between Tancredi and Clorinda, as the theme for my music
expressing contrary passions aroused by war, prayer, and death.
In the year of 1624, 1 had this composition performed in the noble
house of the most Illustrious and Excellent Signor Girolamo Mo-
cenigo in Venice. It was received by the best citizens of that noble
city with much applause and high praise.
Having met success with my first attempt at depicting anger, I
proceeded with even greater zeal to make fuller investigations, and
composed other works—both ecclesiastical and chamber works.
These found such favor with other composers that they not only
spoke their praise by word of mouth but, to my great joy and honor,
wrote it by imitating my work. For this reason I have thought it best
to make known that the investigation and the first efforts in this
style— so necessary to the art of music and without which it can
rightly be said that music has been imperfect up to now, having had
but two styles, soft and moderate— originated with me.
I put my ideas into practice when I wrote the Lament of Arianna.
I found no book that could instruct me in the method of imitating
the emotions; still less, one that could make it clear to me that I
should be an imitator of nature. Plato was the exception, one of
whose ideas was, however, so obscure that, with my weak sight and
at such great distance, I could hardly apprehend the little he could
teach me. I must say that it cost me great effort to complete the
laborious work needed to achieve the little I have accomplished in
the imitation of nature. For this reason, I hope I shall not cause
displeasure. If I should succeed in bringing this work to a conclu-
sion, as I so dearly wish, I should count myself happy to be praised
less for modern compositions than for those in the traditional style.
17
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU
1683-1764
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU, who established the traditions of French
classic opera as well as the science of harmony, was born in Dijon,
France, on September 25, 1683. After studying the organ, harpsi-
chord, and violin, and attending the Jesuit College at Dijon, he
visited Italy briefly in 1701. In 1702 he served as assistant organist
in Avignon, and as first organist at Clermont-Ferrand. It was during
this period that he started writing music for the harpsichord. From
1705 to 1709 he lived in Paris and studied the organ with Louis
Marchand, in 1706 publishing the first volume of his Pieces de
clavecin. In 1709 he succeeded his father as organist of the Dijon
Cathedral. He later returned to Clermont-Ferrand where he pre-
pared his first book on musical theory, the Trait& de fharmonie, pub-
lished in Paris in 1722. The modern science of harmony can be said
to have originated with this volume. He returned to Paris in 1723
and remained there for the rest of his life. He was engaged by the
powerful music patron, Riche de la Pouplini<ke, as household music
master, organist, and conductor of a private orchestra. Rameau's
first important opera was Hippolyte et Aricie, introduced at the
Opera in 1733. Subsequent operas— the most significant being Castor
et Pollux (1737)— made him the most illustrious successor to Jean-
Baptiste Lully (1632-87) in setting French texts to music, establish-
ing a French style and tradition of dramatic music, and digressing
sharply from the pleasing lyricism of the Italians, But Rameau was
severely criticized for his complexity of style and emphasis on the
dramatic over the lyric. The climax of the attacks against him came
in 1752, just after a visiting Italian company had introduced to Paris
Pergolesfs little comic opera, La serva padrona. A musical war, now
known as "la guerre des bouffons" erupted in Paris between those
IS
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU
(people like Jean-Jacques Rousseau and other Encyclopedists) who
upheld the Italian manner and those (Voltaire among others) who
sided with Rameau. But Rameau lived to see the vindication of his
ideas and the complete annihilation of his enemies. He received
numerous honors during his last years which were passed mostly in
seclusion. He died in Paris on September 12, 1764.
THE MAN
MICHEL-PAUL-GUIDE CHABANON
Rameau was very tall, thin, and spare. He looked more like a
phantom than a man. ... He disclosed little of himself, spoke little
of himself, either to his friends or in the bosom of his family. This
is remarkable in a man so celebrated; it indicates a kind of self-
indifference rare among those whom nature has set apart with high
endowment. Rameau spent the greater part of the day strolling
about alone, seeing no one, and seeking no one. Seeing him thus, I
long believed that he was plunged in learned meditation; but one
day he assured me that he was not thinking of anything whatsoever,
that he was always pleased when I addressed him and drew him out
of this empty, idle revery. Thereafter I availed myself of this permis-
sion, but I never addressed him without getting the impression, in
the first moment, that he was returning from the depths of some
profound ecstasy; several times I had to mention my name before he
recognized me, although we had talked together only a few days
previously.
He loved glory, there is no doubt of that, since he acquired so
much of it; (this conclusion does not seem rash to me) but I am con-
vinced that he concerned himself little with his own fame. Some-
times it even seemed to vex him; he would hide himself at the
theater, take refuge from the gazing eyes of the public who pointed
him out to one another and applauded. This was no display of false
modesty; of that he was incapable, and he was a stranger to any
sort of affectation.
A year ago, after the first performance of Castor et Pollux ... I
19
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
caught sight of him walking about in a lonely, very poorly lighted
room; when I started running towards him to embrace him he took
abruptly to his heels and did not come back until he had heard my
name. Excusing the bizarre reception he had given me he said that
he was fleeing from compliments because they embarrassed him and
he did not know what to answer. On this same occasion, he told me
more on the subject of several innovations they had tried to make
him add to his opera. "My friend, I have more taste now than I
used to have, but I have no more genius left at all/"
He never prostituted his art and he could not do so; sufficient
unto himself, he lived only with and for his genius and neglected
even the society of men. The wise and tranquil independence he
enjoyed was in no sense the fruit of reflection; it was part "of his
nature. He was bom philosophical, just as the oak is born sturdy.
If he saw the great of this world it was only when they had need
of him, and then he behaved with them as he did with ordinary
men. He had his mind only on the business in hand and paid no at-
tention to the high personages with whom he dealt. One day he was
rehearsing an opera to be performed at court. The maitre de ballet
had for a long time been vainly remonstrating with Rameau that two
minuets were too long. The composer seemed not to hear. The
dancer finally hit upon what he regarded as a sure means of lending
authority to his advice and censure, attributing them to a personage
of high place. "So-and-so finds your minuets too long, Monsieur
Rameau!" "Monsieur," retorted Rameau, "if he hadn't been tolcl to
find them too long, he would have found them too short."
THE COMPOSER
BERNARD CHAMPIGNEULLE
In the early part of the 18th century-when there flourished so
many composers admirable for their fertility and creativity-Johann
Sebastian Bach appeared as a summit, majestically crowning the
musical world of his times. Pursuing his calling with simplicity and
dignity, the old cantor of the Thomasschde died without having
20
JEAN-PHILIPPE BAMEAU
exerted much of an influence on his contemporaries. During this
same time, Ranieau established the basic rules of harmony, and in
doing this inaugurated a new era for music.
Jean-Philippe Rameau was eighteen when his father, the organist
of the Dijon Cathedral, sent him to Italy to complete his musical
education. It seems that the young man acquired from this trip a
certain contempt for Italian music. He then became an organist at
Avignon, then at Clermont-Ferrand, and finally succeeded his own
father at Dijon. He was a recluse; he seemed to hate the world.
Loyal and upright by nature he was regarded by many of his con-
temporaries as a formidable character. Until his fortieth year he
consecrated himself in isolation to the study of the abstract science
of harmony. He was thunderstruck to remark how, in spite of the
documents of many masters, the theory of music lay in a state of
complete confusion. Since Lully, harmony had become the primor-
dial element in composition, giving direction to the writing of music.
Rameau now became active in trying to give a precise clarification
to its dominant role. Since the age of polyphony and the emergence
of monody, had not music, after all, become above all else an or-
dered succession of chords, containing within themselves the ma-
terial for expressive discourse? Rameau now tried to bind up the
scattered elements of harmony by setting basic rules, thus arriving
at an ultimate truth which could assure a definitive set of rules for
the creation of beauty in sound. The Traite de Tharmonie (1722)
caused a sensation in the musical world. Here its author presented
himself as one of the world's most illustrious musicians. The theo-
retical works he subsequently published— and most notably the
Nouveau systdme de musique theorique (1726)— only served further
to confirm his authority.
Except for his charming set of little pieces for the harpsichord
gathered in the first book of Pieces de clavecin in 1706, Rameau had
produced no genuine music of importance at the time he first be-
came famous as a theoretician. But then he became music master
to La Poupliniere, the generous patron, and was made director of
the concerts at his establishment. Thanks to the influence and gen-
erosity of his patron, Rameau was able to present, at the Opera,
Hippolyte et Aricie in 1733. His work aroused considerable and
21
THE WORLD OF CHEAT CQMPOSEES
heated controversy. There were those who accused Rameau of
utilizing bizarre harmonies, of assigning too much importance to
the orchestra, and all in all of being too complicated a composer. To
many, Rameau appeared as a pedant, a revolutionary who sought
audaciously to impose upon his musical writing theories and tech-
niques of music that belonged solely to the abstract world. Never-
theless his work made a strong impression and exerted a profound
influence. Les Indes galantes (1735), his masterwork Castor et Pollux
(1737), and Les FStes d'HebS (1739) were acclaimed in Paris. Rameau
emerged triumphant. He became composer of the king*s chamber
music, enlivening the proceedings at the court of Versailles with
performances of many comedy-ballets, opera-ballets, including La
Princesse de Navarre (1745), PlatSe (1749) and Les Surprises de
T amour (1757).
But Rameau later met with considerable opposition. . , , There
erupted in Paris in 1752 a war known as "la guerre des bouffons"
in which the author of Dardanus (1739) became a prey to the attacks
of such philosophers as Diderot, Rousseau, and Grimm. The "new
spirit" which glorified the Italian art as opposed to the French
leveled severe blows against him, and he was severely attacked. Al-
ways an irritable, even cantankerous, man, he became in his last
years enveloped in gloom. Fifteen years after his death none of his
operas survived in the repertory. Styles had changed, Gluck now
reigned supreme. The taste of the times was partial to the op6ra-
comique, to a simple, easy, sentimental style. But there was another
reason beyond the quality of Rameau s music itself, mitigating
against him. Rameau s operas-like the others which belonged to
what we may well describe as the "old regime'Wepresented ancient
characters dressed in highly stylized costumes. They were anachro-
nisms who could make no impression whatsoever on the senses. The
new spectacles favored in France rid themselves of these ridiculous
conventions, replacing them with others perhaps more readily un-
derstandable to audiences. The applause went out to sentimental
rhetoric speaking for Romanticism and the Revolution. After that
came the Italian invasion, and then Wagner. The Wagnerian legends
-more violent, more rugged-made a stronger appeal to the public
at the end of the 19th century than the myths sprung from Hal-
22
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU
lenic culture and sources which Rameau had handled for the delight
of a more genteel society.
However, his work as a theoretician continued to be studied, and
it became universally recognized that his principles of harmony
served as the foundation upon which rested all modern musical edu-
cation. But a return to Rameau, the composer, is in sight. In 1885
there was undertaken a monumental edition of all of Rameau's
works under the editorial supervision of Camille Saint-Saens and
Charles Malherbe. Debussy spoke of his unqualified admiration for
this master. If the characters of Rameau's operas did not express
themselves through recitatives and arias in a direct manner— and in a
more flowing style to touch the heart directly— this was not the fault
of the composer, but of a style and of conventions which he prac-
tised and followed. What appears remarkable to us today is that
Rameau, this theoretician, this mathematician of music, was en-
dowed at the same time with such poetic genius. Voltaire called
him "our Euclid-Orpheus." Rameau moved with equal ease through
many different levels— from serenity to passion, from intense decla-
mation to graceful badinage. He brought to music a remarkable
clarity of writing, a marvelous equilibrium of temperament, and a
nobility of style not often encountered in the music for the theater
of his age.
RAMEAU SPEAKS
Music is a science which ought to have certain rules. These rules
should be derived from a self-evident principle which cannot become
known to us without the help of mathematics. I must concede that,
despite all the experience I acquired in music through its practice
over a considerable period of time, it was only with the help of
mathematics that I was able to unravel my ideas, that light re-
placed an obscurity I had previously not recognized as such. If I
had been unable to distinguish principle from rule, the principle
soon presented itself to me in a simple and convincing manner. As a
result, it then led me to recognize the consequences as many rules
23
THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
related through them to the principle itself. The true sense of these
rules, their correct application, their relation to one another, and
the order they should observe among themselves (the simplest serv-
ing as an introduction to the less simple, and so on by degrees) and
finally the choice of terms-all this of which I had previously been
ignorant, developed with so much clarity and precision in my mind
that I could not avoid concluding that it would be most desirable to
have the musical knowledge of this century's composers equal their
capacity to create beauty.
To enjoy the effects of music fully we must lose ourselves in it
completely. To judge it, we must relate it to the source through
which we are affected by it. This source is nature. Nature endows us
with those feelings that move us in all our musical experiences; we
might call this gift, instinct. Let us permit instinct to inform our
judgments! Let us penetrate the mysteries it unfolds to us before we
pronounce our verdicts! . . .
A mind preoccupied while listening to music is never free to
judge it. If, for example, we think of attributing the essential beauty
of this art to changes from high to low, fast to slow, soft to loud-
means at arriving at a variety of sounds—we will then judge every-
thing according to this prejudice without a consideration of how weak
these means are, how scant merit there is in our use of them. We
wiE fail to perceive that they are foreign to harmony which is the
sole basis of music, the true source of its most glorious effects*
A truly sensitive spirit must judge in quite a different way. If the
spirit is not moved by the power of expression, by the vivid colors
of which the harmonist alone is capable, then it is not absolutely sat-
isfied. The spirit may, of course, lend itself to whatever may enter-
tain it, but it must evaluate things in proportion to the impact the
given experience exerts.
Harmony alone has the capacity to stir emotions. This is the one
source from which melody emanates and derives its power. Contrasts
between high and low, fast and slow, soft and loud make only super-
ficial modifications in a melody, and they add almost nothing.
24
ANTONIO VIVALDI
69-1741
ANTONIO ViVALDi~who brought instrumental music of the Baroque
Era to its most advanced stage of technical and artistic development
before Johann Sebastian Bach— was born in Venice, Italy, probably
on June 11, 1669. Although his father was a violinist in the orchestra
of the San Marco Cathedral and he himself was early given instruc-
tion in music (notably with Giovanni Legrenzi), Vivaldi was directed
not to a professional career in music, but to the Church. In 1693 he
began his studies for the priesthood and received holy orders about
a decade later. But he did not abandon music; all the while he de-
veloped himself as a violin virtuoso, and composed a considerable
number of pieces. In 1703 he became a teacher of the violin at the
Ospitale della Pieta in Venice, subsequently serving as its musical
director for many years. Meanwhile, he traveled about Europe a
good deal, achieving considerable renown as a violinist; and for a
four year period, probably between 1718 and 1722, he was Maestro
di Cappella to Prince Philip, Landgrave of Hesse-Darmstadt in
Mantua. In 1735, he was back at his post at the Ospitale in Venice,
one of its leading musical figures. In 1740, he went to Vienna with
the hope of finding a lucrative post at the court of Charles VI. He
failed to receive royal favor, and the last months of his life were
spent in that city in abject poverty and complete obscurity. He died
in Vienna in July 1741, and, like Mozart, was consigned to a pauper's
grave.
Vivaldi was an extraordinarily prolific composer. The catalogue of
his compositions include about fifty operas, besides two oratorios,
twenty-four secular cantatas, twenty-three sinfonias, seventy-three
solo or trio sonatas, and about four hundred and fifty concertos. It
was in the concerto-a form he inherited from Giuseppe Torelli
25
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
(1658-1709) and Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713) and passed on to
Johann Sebastian Bach-that he achieved his greatest triumphs.
THE MAN
MARC PINCHERLE
Let us try to discover the man. As to outward appearance, we
can summon up a rather exact image of Vivaldi without too much
difficulty. Five portraits are extant, two of which are worth describ-
ing in detail. There is the very lively sketch made by P. L. Ghezzi
in 1723. Vivaldi appears in profile, half-length. He is portrayed as
having long and curly hair, a somewhat receding forehead, a promi-
nent arched nose, widely dilated nostrils, a large mouth, half open,
and a pointed chin. His glance is lively, his expression interested and
wilful. The engraving by Francois Morellon de La Cave, a Dutch
artist of French origin, done two years later than the Ghezzi sketch,
is much more formally worked out but also much less expressive. The
composer is seen firmly planted before his writing desk; he holds in
his right hand, which is brought up against his chest, a notebook of
music paper where some measures typical of Vivaldi may be read.
The features of the face are vague and a little sheeplike, the hair
so well groomed that it may be taken for a wig. The full, round
cheeks give Vivaldi the look of a nice young man, well fed and
happy to be alive. Nevertheless, to express the turbulence of in-
spiration the portraitist has opened wide the collar of his shirt and
put in a ribbon that floats from it untied. . . .
Ghezzi's drawing has our confidence more than La Cave*s or his
plagiarists. All save Ghezzi were working on behalf of the general
public, if not for posterity; they try above all to be decorative.
Ghezzi had no ulterior motive in dashing off a likeness of his promi-
nent contemporary on a loose piece of paper. Besides, that deter-
mined and headstrong look is much more in line with Vivaldf s
character than the unctuous smile of the academic portraits.
It is known that he could at times express himself sharply. On the
manuscript of the Concerto in A dedicated to Pisendel he believed
26
ANTONIO VIVALDI
that in measures 61-66 of the finale he had to indicate by figures
some simple harmonies that should have been self-evident. And to
show clearly to the recipient that this precaution was not directed
to him and was aimed only at blockheads, he added in large letters,
"per li coglioni"
He also knew how to be playful. Caffi . . . mentions a certain
number of humorous compositions— Concerto de Cucchi (Concerto
of the Cuckoos}, Coro delle Monache (Choir of the Nuns), and
others— designed to serve as entertainment to the aristocrats.
If we cannot safely accept as accurate the kindly facial expres-
sion given to Vivaldi by La Cave and those who copied him, we can
place no more confidence in the air of robust health that they be-
stowed on the composer. ... He was weakly, having been afflicted
from birth with a serious illness. Indeed, this prohibited all physical
effort to such a degree that he could not travel without a retinue of
four or five persons.
He was not, however, prevented from being uncommonly hard
working and from combining the manifold activities of virtuoso,
teacher, composer, and impresario. Those of his letters that have
been preserved give an exact and picturesque idea of this last aspect
of his personality. They deal with a single opera season at Ferrara.
Vivaldi recruited the virtuosos and the dancers, discussed the tickets,
adjusted the length of the show to the nature of its expected public,
had the copies made, and resisted the whims of the dancers who
held it their right to do as they pleased. In all this correspondence
there is evidence of a good dose of practical common sense.
Also recorded in Vivaldi's letters is much docility and humbleness
before the great. In this the composer conformed to established prac-
tice. The few dedications of his that have lasted down to our time
do not hesitate to push eulogy to the point of patent flattery. This, it
is true, was apparently still the absolute rule at the close of the 18th
century as it had been ever since the 16th. . . .
So it is that Vivaldi appears to us, when we have collected all the
scattered testimony, as a man composed of contrasts— weak and
sickly, yet of a fiery temperament; quick to become irritated, quick
to become calm; quick to pass from worldly thoughts to a super-
stitious piety; tractable when necessary, but persevering; mystical,
27
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
yet ready to come down to earth again when a specific concern was
at issue, and by no means unskilful in handling his affairs. But above
all, he was possessed by music and moved, in the words of De
Brosses, "to compose furiously and prodigiously ,"
THE COMPOSER
DONALD JAY GROUT
A feature of the 18th century which is hard for us nowadays to
appreciate, yet which was incalculably important, was the constant
public demand for new music. There were no "classics/* and few
works of any kind survived more than two or three seasons. Bach
had to provide new cantatas every year for Leipzig and Handel a
new opera for London; and Vivaldi was expected to furnish new
oratorios and concertos for every recurring festival at the Ospitale
della Piet& in Venice. Such unceasing pressure accounts both for
the prodigious output of many 18th-century composers and for the
phenomenal speed at which they worked: Vivaldi perhaps holds the
record with his opera Tito Marilio, said to have been completed in
five days; and he prided himself on being able to compose a con-
certo faster than a copyist could copy it.
Like his contemporaries, Vivaldi composed every work for a defi-
nite occasion and for a particular company of performers. He was
commissioned to write forty-nine operas, most of them for Venice,
but a few also for Florence, Verona, Rome, and other Italian cities.
His duties at the Piet& required him to write oratorios and church
music, of which a large quantity survives in manuscript. Chiefly for
the Pietik, also, he wrote concertos, the form of instrumental music
commonly used at church festival services. About 440 concertos of
his are extant, in addition to twenty-three sinfonias and seventy-
three solo or trio sonatas.
Vivaldi is known today only as a composer of orchestral music;
the only works printed during his lifetime (mostly at Amsterdam)
were about forty spnatas and a hundred concertos. It is a mistake,
however, to ignore Vivaldi's achievements in opera, cantata, motet,
28
ANTONIO VIVALDI
and oratorio. So very little is known about tlie Italian opera of the
early 18th century that it is impossible to estimate Vivaldi's merits
in comparison with Alessandro Scarlatti (1660-1725), Antonio Lotti
(c. 1667-1740), Francesco Gasparini (1668-1727), Tomaso Albinoni
(1671-1750), C. F. Pollaroli (1653-1722), Antonio Caldara (1670-
1736), Handel, or others whose operas were produced at Venice
during the first third of the -century, But Vivaldi was certainly suc-
cessful in his day; during the years in which he was writing operas
(1713-39) the theaters of Venice staged more works of his than
of any other composer, and his fame was by no means limited to his
own city and country. The few accessible specimens of his church
music show that in this realm also Vivaldi was a composer of real
stature. The fact that many solo and choral passages in his works
sound as though they might have been written by Handel proves
merely that both composers used the international musical language
of the early 18th century.
Vivaldi is remembered now chiefly for his purely instrumental
music, partly because compositions like motets and concertos are
less attached than operas or oratorios to external conditions of per-
formance and hence are less liable to fall out of circulation when
performance conditions change. But it is also true that Vivaldi's
instrumental works, and especially the concertos, are perennially
attractive because of the freshness of their melodies, their rhythmic
verve, their skilful treatment of solo and orchestral string color, and
the balanced clarity of their form. Many of the sonatas, as well as
some of the early concertos, are in the 17th-century contrapuntal
style of Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713). However, in his first pub-
lished collection of concertos (op. 3, c. 1712) Vivaldi already showed
that he was fully aware of the modern trends towards distinct musi-
cal form, vigorous rhythm, and idiomatic solo writing exemplified by
Giuseppe Torelli (1658-1709) and Albinoni.
About two-thirds of Vivaldfs concertos are for one solo instru-
ment with orchestra— usually, of course, a violin, but with a con-
siderable number also for the violoncello, flute, or bassoon. In the
concertos for two violins the soloists are usually given equal promi-1
nence, producing the texture of a duet for two high voices typical
of the Late Baroque; but many works that call for several solo in-
29
THE WORLB OF GREAT COMPOSERS
struments are in effect solo or duet concertos rather than genuine
concerti grossi in that the first violin or the first and second violins,
and not infrequently the wind instruments as well, are treated in a
virtuoso manner that sets them markedly apart from the rest of the
concertino. There are also a few important concertos for solo instru-
ments with continue, without the usual ripieno strings.
Vivaldi's usual orchestra at the Pieti probably consisted of twenty
to twenty-five stringed instruments, with harpsichord or organ for
the continuo; this is always the basic group, though in many of his
concertos he also calls for flutes, oboes, bassoons, or horns, any of
which may be used either as solo instruments or in ensemble com-
binations. The exact size and makeup of Vivaldi's orchestra varied,
of course, depending on the players that might be available on a
particular occasion. Vivaldfs writing is always remarkable for the
variety of color he achieves with different groupings of the solo
and orchestral strings; the familiar La Primavera (Spring) concerto
—first of a group of four concertos, Le Quattro stagione (The Four
Seasons), in op, 8 (1725) representing programmatically the four
seasons— is but one of many examples of his extraordinary instinct
for effective sonorities in this medium.
Most of Vivaldi's concertos are in the usual eighteenth-century
pattern of three movements: an Allegro; a slow movement in the
same key or a closely related one (relative minor, dominant, or sub-
dominant); and a final Allegro somewhat shorter and sprightlier
than the first. Though a few movements are found in the older f ugal
style, the texture is typically more homophonic than contrapuntal—
but homophonic in the Late Baroque sense, with much incidental
use of counterpoint and with particular emphasis on the two outer
voices. Typical of the Late Baroque, also, is Vivaldfs constant use
of sequential patterns.
The formal scheme of the individual movements of Vivaldi's con-
certos is the same as in Torellfs works: ritornellos for the full or-
chestra, alternating with episodes for the soloist (or soloists). Vivaldi
differs from Torelli and all earlier composers not by virtue of any
innovation in the general plan of the concerto but because his musi-
cal ideas are more spontaneous, his formal structures more clearly
delineated, his harmonies more assured, his textures more varied, and
30
ANTONIO VIVALDI
his rhythms more impelling. Moreover, he establishes between solo
and tutti a certain dramatic tension; he does not merely give the
soloist contrasting idiomatic figuration (which Torelli had already
done) but makes him stand out as a dominating musical personality
against the ensemble as the solo singer does against the orchestra in
opera— a relationship inherent in the ritornello aria (the precursor
and model of the concerto form), but one which Vivaldi first brought
to full realization in a purely instrumental medium. "The tutti an-
nounces the propositions that are to be debated in the course of the
movement; and the arguments which these provoke give rise to the
musical contest between soloist and orchestra, ending in a reconcili-
ation or synthesis of emotions and ideas" (Brijon).
As a rule, all the thematic motives appear in the tutti, though oc-
casionally an important new theme may be announced in the open-
ing solo, as in the first movement of the concerto for three violins in
A minor, op. 3, no. 8. Vivaldfs tutti may be analyzed as a rather
loose series of related but separable musical ideas any of which can
be selected for development in the course of the movement; this
treatment represents a stage midway between the older Baroque
practice of spinning out a single theme and the later Classical prac-
tice of developing contrasted themes.
All of Vivaldfs opening themes are so constructed as to define the
tonality of the movement with the utmost precision: they consist
of emphatically reiterated primary triads, triadic melodies, scales, or
combinations of these elements. So stark a harmonic vocabulary
could result in monotony; but this danger is avoided, thanks to an
unflagging vitality that drives the music onward in an ever varied
but never ceasing rhythmic torrent from the beginning of a move-
ment to its very last measure. Moreover, once the main tonality is
firmly established, the harmony is varied not only by the usual cycle
of modulations but also by devices such as the use of minor thirds
and sixths in a major key, or of chromatic chords to signal the ap-
proach of a cadence. Triplet division of the beat is common. The
phraseology of themes and sections is often irregular and sometimes
quite subtle.
Vivaldi was the first composer to give the slow movement of a
concerto equal importance with the two Allegros. His slow move-
31
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
ment is usually a long-breathed expressive cantabile melody, like an
Adagio operatic aria or arioso, to which the performer was of course
expected to add his own embellishments. The slow movements show
a predilection for minor keys, especially E minor. There is no
standard formal scheme for these middle movements; many of them
have particularly interesting sonorities in the accompaniments,
which usually are lightly scored in contrast to the two Allegros,
In his program music, such as the widely admired Seasons con-
certos and a dozen or so others of similar cast, Vivaldi shared the
half-serious, half-playful attitude of the 18th century toward the
naive realism implied in such musical depictions. Although the pic-
torial intentions doubtless often suggested particular effects of color
or modification of the normal order of movements, the external pro-
gram is completely absorbed into the standard musical structure of
the concerto. The Seasons were among the first of many descriptive
symphonic works in the 18th century which are the predecessors of
Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.
In Vivaldi's music one can find traces of all the different changes
occurring in the first half of the 18th century. At the conservative
extreme are some of the sonatas and concertos in the style of Corelli;
at the progressive extreme are the solo concerto finales, the or-
chestral concertos (that is, those without solo instruments), and most
of the twenty-three works which Vivaldi called sinfonias. As usual in
this period, the terminology is imprecise, but the music, especially
that of the sinfonias, clearly demonstrates that its composer is en-
titled to be reckoned among the earliest forerunners of the pro-
Classic symphony: the conciseness of form, the markedly homo-
phonic texture, the melodically neutral themes, the minuet finale,
even many of the little mannerisms of style that were formerly
thought to have been invented by the German composers of the
Mannheim school— all are found in Vivaldi.
Vivaldf s influence on instrumental music in the middle and later
18th century was equal to that of Corelli a generation earlier.
Vivaldi was one of the most important figures in the transition from
Late Baroque to early Classical style; the assured economy of his
writing for string orchestra was a revelation; his dramatic conception
of the role of the soloist was accepted and developed in the Classi-
32
ANTONIO VIVALDI
cal concerto; above all, the concise themes, the clarity of form, the
rhythmic vitality, the impelling logical continuity in the flow of
musical ideas, all qualities so characteristic of Vivaldi, were trans-
mitted to many other composers and especially directly to Johann
Sebastian Bach. Bach copied at least nine of Vivaldfs concertos,
arranging six of them for harpsichord, two for organ, and one (origi-
nally for four violins) for four harpsichords and string orchestra.
Vivaldfs influence is apparent both in the general scheme and in
the details of many of Bach's original concertos, as well as in those
of his German contemporaries. Finally, Vivaldi, more than any other
single composer, through his concertos impressed on the 18th cen-
tury the idea of an instrumental sound in which the effect of solo-
tutti contrast was important, an idea that prevails not only in con-
certos of the period but in much of the other orchestral music and
keyboard music as well.
VIVALDI SPEAKS
It was twenty-five years ago (1712) that I said Mass for what will
be the last time, not due to interdiction or at anyone's behest, as His
Eminence can appraise himself, but by my own decision on account
of an ailment that has burdened me since birth. When I had barely
been ordained a priest I said Mass for a year or a little more. Then
I discontinued saying it, having on three occasions had to leave the
altar without completing it because of this ailment. For this same
reason I nearly always live at home, and I only go out in a gondola
or coach, because I can no longer walk on account of this chest ail-
ment, or, rather, this tightness in the chest. No nobleman invites me
to his house, not even our prince, because all are informed of my
ailment. Immediately after a meal I can usually go out, but not ever
on foot. Such is the reason I never say Mass. I have spent three
carnival seasons at Rome for the opera and ... I never said Mass.
... I have been called to Vienna and I never said Mass. I was at
Mantua ... in the service of the exceedingly devout prince of
Darmstadt with those same women who have always been treated
by His Serene Highness with great benevolence, and I never said
Mass.
33
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
1685-1750
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH, the most distinguished member of a
family that had produced professional musicians for several genera-
tions, was born in Eisenach, Germany, on March 21, 1685. His early
music study took place with his brother, Johann Chris toph, after
which he became a choirboy in Lxineburg. In 1703 he was engaged
as organist at Arnstadt where he wrote his first church cantatas and
music for the clavier. As an organist in Miihlhausen, he married
Maria Barbara in 1707. His first important appointment came in
Weimar in 1708 as court organist and chamber musician to Duke
Wilhelm Ernst. He held this post nine years, during which time he
became one of the most brilliant organ virtuosos of his time and
wrote numerous masterworks for this instrument. From 1717 to
1723 Bach was Kapellmeister and director of chamber music for
Prince Leopold of Anhalt at Cothen, an office that directed his cre-
ative energies toward the writing of orchestral and chamber music.
During this period he completed his famous Brandenburg Concertos
and suites for orchestra, concertos for various solo instruments and
orchestra, and solo sonatas and suites for single instruments. His first
wife died in Cothen in 1720, and one year later Bach married Anna
Magdalena. Between 1723 and his death, Bach was the Cantor of
the Thomasschule in Leipzig. His duties in that city included teach-
ing, playing the organ, and writing the music for and directing
church services. Some of his most monumental choral works were
completed in Leipzig, including the Mass in B minor and the Passion
According to St. Matthew. Towards the end of his life Bach suf-
fered from blindness. He died in Leipzig on July 28, 1750.
At the time of his death few recognized his real stature. He re-
mained a comparatively obscure and rarely performed composer
34
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
until, seventy-five years later, the revival of some of his crowning
choral works set into motion a worldwide revaluation of his music.
Until such a reevaluation was crystallized, several of Bach's sons
were considered far greater composers than he, notably Wilhelm
Friedemann (1710-84), Carl Philipp Emanuel (1714-88), and John
Christian (1735-82).
THE MAN
JOPIANN NIKOLAUS FORKEL
ALBERT SCHWEITZER
Besides Bach's great merit as an accomplished performer, com-
poser, and teacher, he had the merit of being an excellent father,
friend, and citizen. His virtues as a father he showed by the care
for the education of his children; and the others, by his conscientious
performance of his social and civil duties. His acquaintance was
agreeable to everybody. Whoever was in any respect a lover of the
arts, whether a foreigner or a native, could visit his house and be
sure of meeting with a friendly reception. These social virtues united
with the great reputation of his art, caused his house to be very
seldom without visitors.
As an artist he was uncommonly modest. Notwithstanding the
great superiority which he had over the rest of his profession, and
which he could not but feel; notwithstanding the admiration and
reverence which were daily shown him as so outstanding an artist,
there is no instance of his having ever assumed upon it. When he
was sometimes asked how he had contrived to master the art to
such a high degree, he generally answered: "I was obliged to be
industrious; whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally
well/' He seemed not to lay any stress on his greater natural talents.
All the opinions he expressed of other artists and their works were
friendly and equitable. Many works necessarily appeared to him
trifling . . . yet he never allowed himself to express a harsh opinion,
unless it were to one of his scholars, to whom he thought himself
35
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
obliged to speak pure and strict truth. Still less did lie ever suffer
himself to be seduced by the consciousness of his strength and su-
periority to display a musical bravado. , . . The many, sometimes
adventurous, pranks that are related of him—as for example that
occasionally dressed like a poor village schoolmaster he went into
church and begged the organist to let him play a chorale in order to
enjoy the general astonishment excited in the persons present by
his performance, or to hear the organist say he must be either Bach
or the devil, and so forth—are mere fables. He himself would never
hear of anything of the sort. Besides, he had too much respect for
the art thus to make a plaything of it. An artist like Bach does not
throw himself away.
In musical parties where quartets or fuller pieces of instrumental
music were performed and he was not otherwise employed, he took
pleasure in playing the viola. . . . When an opportunity offered, in
such parties, he sometimes also accompanied a trio or other pieces
on the harpsichord, If he was in a cheerful mood, and knew that the
composer of the piece, if lie happened to be present, would not take
it amiss, he used to make extempore, either out of the figured bass
or a new trio, or of three single parts of a quartet. . . .
He was fond of hearing the music of other composers. If he heard
in a church a fugue for a large body of musicians, and one of his two
eldest sons happened to stand near him, he always, as soon as he
had heard the first entries of the theme, said beforehand what the
composer ought to introduce, and what possibly might be intro-
duced. Now, if the composer had performed his work well, what
Bach had predicted happened; then he was delighted, and jogged
his son to make him observe it. This is a proof that he valued, too,
the skill of others. ...
Bach did not make what is caUed a brilliant success in this world.
He had, on the one hand, a lucrative office, but he had, on the other,
a great number of children to maintain and to educate from its in-
come. He neither had nor sought other resources. He was too much
occupied with his business and his art to think of pursuing those
ways which, perhaps, for a man like himself, especially in his times
would have led to a gold mine. If he had thought fit to travel he
would (as even one of his enemies had said) have drawn upon him-
36
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
self the admiration of the world. But he loved a quiet domestic life,
constant and uninterrupted occupation with his art, and was ... a
man of few wants.*
In the conflicts that agitated his life and embittered his soul,
Bach does not always appear in a sympathetic light. His irritability
and his stubborn belief that he was always in the right can neither
be excused nor glossed over. Least of all can we find excuse for the
fact that at first he would be too easy-going, would always remember
too late what he called his rights, and then, in his blind rage, would
make a great affair out of what was merely a trifle.
Such was Bach in his relations with people whom he suspected
of a desire to encroach upon his freedom. The real Bach, however,
was quite another being; all testimonies agree that in ordinary inter-
course he was the most amiable and modest of men. He was, above
all, upright and incapable of any injustice. His impartiality was well
known. . . .
In the portraits in which Bach's physiognomy has been preserved
for us we can read a good deal about the nature and bearing of the
man. Until recently virtually only two original portraits of the master
were known. . . . But . . . Professor Fritz Volbach of Mayence has
since discovered yet another portrait of Bach. It is a realistic piece
of work, showing the face of a man who has tasted of the bitterness
of life. There is something fascinating in the harsh expression of
these features, which are painted full face. Round the tightly com-
pressed lips run the hard lines of an inflexible obstinacy. It is thus
that the Cantor of St. Thomas's may have looked in his last years
as he entered the school where some new vexation or another was
awaiting him.
In the two other portraits, the severity is softened by a touch of
easy good nature. Even the short-sighted eyes look out upon the
world from their half-closed lids with a certain friendliness that is
not even negated by the heavy eyebrows arched above them. The
face cannot be called beautiful. The nose is too massive for that,
and the underjaw too prominent. How sharply this projected may
be estimated from the fact that the front teeth of the lower jaw are
* The above paragraphs are by Forkel; what follows below is by Schweitzer.
37
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
level with those of the upper, instead of closing within these
The longer we contemplate it, the more enigmatic becomes the
expression of the master's face. How did this ordinary visage be-
come transformed into that of the artist? What was it like when
Bach was absorbed in the world of music? Was there reflected in it
then the wonderful serenity that shines through his art?
In the last resort, the whole man is for the most part an enigma,
for to our eyes the outer man differs so much from the inner that
neither seems to have any part in the other. In the case of Bach,
more than in that of any other genius, the man as he looked and
behaved was only the opaque envelope destined to lodge the artistic
soul within, . . . His is a case of dualism; his artistic vicissitudes and
creations go on side by side with the normal and almost common-
place tenor of his work-a-day existence, without mixing with or
making any impression on this.
THE COMPOSER
C. SANFORD TERRY
Chronological exactitudes are generally misleading in measure as
they are precise. Still, it is a tenable thesis that modern music begins
with Bach and Handel. For of the masters before the Vienna dis-
pensation they alone speak a language we entirely comprehend.
That they were born in the same year is one of history's happy co-
incidences; that they never met, one of chancels most quippish
pranks. Emerging together, they dominated a musical sphere not
otherwise impressive. Gluck was under forty when Bach died, his
highest achievement unfulfilled; Haydn was eighteen. When Handel
followed his contemporary to the grave, Mozart was a child of three
and Beethoven's birth was eleven years distant. So, the earlier half
of the 18th century belongs to Bach and Handel They shine with
uncontested brilliance from a sky that holds no other suns.
It is a commonplace that to comprehend a genius we must ap-
proach him through the circumstances that surrounded his birth.
38
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
For, as Emerson remarked, the truest genius is "the most indebted
man" or colloquially, "genius is one part inspiration, and three parts
perspiration." Bach himself when asked the secret of his mastership
replied simply, "I worked hard." . . . Compared with Handel's, his
career was monastic in its seclusion, experimental in its habit. Before
he was ten he was furtively copying compositions of the masters of
the keyboard for his own instruction. Later, he transcribed the
accessible scores of Palestrina, Antonio Caldara (1670-1736), Antonio
Lotti (c. 1667-1740), Antonio Vivaldi and Giovanni Legrenzi (1626-
90); and of the French school, studied those of Frangois Couperin-
le-Grand (1668-1733), Nicolas de Grigny (1671-1703), Andre Raison
(c. 1687-1714), and Gaspard Le Roux (c. 1660-c. 1707). England,
too, came within the orbit of his curiosity. Indeed, there is little music
from Palestrina onwards of which there are not copies in his indus-
trious script. Handel, too, quarried, but with how different a purpose,
appropriating themes his indolent Muse found it inconvenient to
provide! But Bach . . . confronts us as a student, almost demoniacally
urged to unravel and discover the principles of his art. In no other
of the great masters was this call so insistent, none who faced such
obstacles to answer it. He paid his adventurous visits to those giants
of the North, Georg Bohm (1661-1733) and Johann Reinken (1623-
1722), while he was still in his teens. He was hardly settled in his first
employment at Arnstadt before he took French leave, and risked dis-
missal, in order to receive lessons from Dietrich Buxtehude (c. 1637-
1707) at Liibeck. Even in the maturity of his genius the neighborhood
of a fellow craftsman drew him always to seek his acquaintance, and
haply his instruction. Twice, and vainly, he sought Handel's conver-
sation. His famous Dresden encounter with Marchand is but an ex-
ample of his eagerness to learn from any who had knowledge to
impart. Unremitting study and self-criticism fashioned his individual
style. Indeed, if the early neglect that obscured his memory was due
in part to his failure to explore the art forms then coming to birth, it
was no less the result of meticulous self -discipline that refined his
work beyond the comprehension of the generations that knew and
followed him.
What, then, were the conditions out of which his genius emerged?
Why did he express himself in the forms in which he is familiar to
39
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
us? How comes it that, while Handel was fluent in opera. Bach was
careless, even contemptuous, of the stage? How is it that, unlike the
other masters of his period, we associate with him no new musical
form? And why do we group him as the last portent of the old dis-
pensation no less than the first of the new? These are questions
which invite a historical retrospect.
In the middle age of European civilization music was the hand-
maid, one might say the slave, of religion. Hence its earliest expres-
sion was ecclesiastical plain-song, monodic, unisonal. But, at an early
period, it achieved a complex technique distinguished as polyphonic
or contrapuntal, in which several melodies impose themselves on a
fixed theme or cantus, in such a way that each voice—for the original
art was vocal-adds a strand of accompanying melody to the main
theme, parallel to it, consonant with it, and yet in itself complete and
melodic. That it was practicable, and also agreeable, to sing two
melodies together at a fixed interval, instead of one in unison or at
the octave, was a discovery which sprang, we must believe, from cir-
cumstances rather than deliberate design. For men's voices, of which
the medieval choir was composed, fall naturally into two categories,
tenor and bass, pitched roughly a fourth or fifth apart. Consequently
a plainsong cantus low enough to suit the basses might be incon-
venient for the tenors, while a melody fitted to the tenors might soar
too high for the basses. Hence, perhaps in the 9th century, an "in-
spired precentor/' a recent pen has called him, had the happy
thought to invite his singers to recite the cantus at the convenient
pitch of their individual voices: a cacophony in consccutives we
probably should find it, but not disagreeable to the innovator, who,
unknowingly, made the first approach towards the art of weaving
simultaneous melodies into a coherent whole,
So, here was a primitive descant, the chief of the strands of com-
plex polyphony. And, since dissonance resulted where before there
was consonance, the new art was named diaphonia (dissonance), or
organum, after the organized voice (vox organalis), which sang at the
fourth or fifth, while the principal voice (vox principalis) declaimed
the foundation melody or cantus. Thus was brought to birth the
scheme of woven melody, of vocal polyphony, of which Bach's scores
afford the supreme example. It is not convenient here to trace its
40
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
development in the interval, from the tiny seed to the spacious tree.
But its general course is clear. In time, by experiment or accident,
other intervals, the third and sixth, were found as agreeable as the
fourth and fifth on which to pitch the organized voice. Or, the organ-
ized and principal voices were duplicated at the octave, thereby
producing four moving themes. But always their motions were
parallel to the cantus; if the cantus rose or fell, the vox organalis did
so sympathetically by a precisely similar interval. But eventually,
after a further interval of experiment, the cantus ceased to put chains
on the organized voices. Strict parallelism was abandoned, free
motion was attempted, the vox organalis moving up when the vox
principalis moved down, and vice versa, till at length, composers
were able to treat the organum as the vehicle of independent and
agreeable melody.
But, even at this stage of its development, music was separated
from Bach by a chasm we might suppose unbridgeable. For to him,
as to us, it predicated the correlation of three complementary factors
—melody, rhythm, harmony. In elementary form the first two are as
ancient as man's earliest vocal sounds. But harmony is an almost re-
cent ingredient. For the early polyphonists did not analyze music
vertically, as we do. Their preference was to build horizontal or
parallel melodies, capable of simultaneous utterance, linked rhythmi-
cally, exhibiting acoustic smoothness (i.e., harmony) at certain points
or cadences of repose, but elsewhere displaying a lack of harmonic
relevance which, to us, is disagreeable. Still, in the 16th century a
closer approximation to our modern harmonic system was gradually
achieved, until the polyphony of the Middle Ages found its highest
expression in Palestrina, a master unsurpassed by Bach himself in
the noble sincerity of his art.
With Palestrina we enter a golden age, when musical culture was
never so widespread, nor its votaries lit by a holier flame. Vocal
polyphony began to move in melodious obedience to rules; and har-
mony, though still immature, became ordered and expressive. And
yet, in their artistry, how immense an interval separates Palestrina's
Stabat Mater from Bach's Magnificat (1723)1 It could not astonish
us if the space between them was measured in centuries. In fact, only
ninety years, three generations, divide Palestrina's death in 1594 from
41
THE WORLD OF CHEAT C0MPOSEHS
Bach's birth in 1685. Thus, in the equipment Bach was familiar with,
music reached him after a surprisingly short period of incubation.
For Palestrina was barely in sight of the forms Bach employed. Music
was still obedient to the limitations of religious usage and tradition,
though no longer exclusively ecclesiastical in its uses. It was sung
a cappella and was exclusively vocal; it lacked instrumental accom-
paniment; it demanded a choir of singers, it ignored a solo voice;
the vocal aria was not invented; neither organ nor clavier had de-
veloped their technique, and the orchestra was not yet constituted.
Moreover, key-consciousness had not been attained, nor was the
principle of measured time comprehended. These developments
were revolutionary, and they were the achievement of the bustling
ninety years that separate Palestrina from Bach, in broad terms, the
17th century, that age of turmoil and yet of swift progress. It in-
vented new forms of musical expression. It set instrumental music
on an independent course. Beginning in bondage to the old modes,
it ended by preferring the Ionian and the Aeolian—the keys of C
major and A minor— and transposed them to various pitches to build
our major and minor scales. A pulsing century of rapid, organized
growth, perfected and crowned by the absorptive genius of Bach.
The first and crucial advance along this path of high adventure
was the so-called monodic revolution, conveniently synchronous with
Palestrina's death. Its impulse was the intellectual stirring we call
the Renaissance, that overpowering inclination of the individual to
express himself, to look out on the universe from his own windows,
and no longer through the spectacles tradition and authority had
fixed on his nose. Thus impelled, and seeking to become the vehicle
of individual emotion, music demanded fresh modes of utterance,
new forms in which to interpret the aspirations and accomplishments
of the human mind. Concretely, the pioneers of the "New Music,"
as these 16th century rebels against tradition styled it, asked that
music should no longer decorate only the unemotional corporate
worship of the Church Catholic, but should equip itself to interpret
secular themes, no longer in the staid formulas of the ecclesiastical
cantus, but in dramatic periods as naturally inflected as the tones of
an actor. In a word, the individual, who so far had been submerged
42
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
in the collective voice, now claimed a medium appropriate to his
self-expression.
But the distinction o£ Giovanni Bardi and his fellow innovators is
not so much that they introduced unisonous dramatic forms— the
recitative and aria— as that they sponsored them in the Academies,
in which till now polyphony alone was admitted and taught. So here
is the convenient starting point of modern music. Only six years after
Palestrina's death, Jacopo Peri (1561-1633) produced (1600) his
Eurydice at Florence, the first notable work of an operatic school
which maintained its continuity, though not its monopoly, thence-
forward till the era of Verdi and Puccini. And, with suggestive coinci-
dence—for the two forms are scarcely distinguishable— the same year
witnessed the Roman production of Rappresentazione di anima e di
corpo by Emilio del Cavalieri (c. 1550-1602), with scenery, dresses,
action, and recitative, closely similar to Perfs work in form and
style. Thus in Italy modern opera and modern oratorio came to birth
simultaneously. And in Italy opera survived. But oratorio, deserting
the land of its origin, fared northward, and eventually mated with
the genius of Bach.
Meanwhile the potentialities of instrumental music were not over-
looked by the revolutionary Florentines— indeed the word sonata,
signifying music mechanically sounded, came into simultaneous
vogue with cantata, the new music sung by the human voice. Monte-
verdi boldly employed every instrumental resource at his disposal to
elaborate his operatic scheme, and for purely instrumental effects.
So, the orchestra discovered an independent role. And conveniently
and coincidentally, superseding the antique viols, the violin family
presented it with its most cherished and effective member.
Probably few of us realize how recent was the vogue of the violin
in Bach's lifetime. It is not found in a music score before 1587.
Andrea Amati, who first gave it a form distinguished from a treble
viol, died (c. 1611) less than a century before Bach's birth. But An-
tonio Stradivari, the greatest of the Cremona makers, was his con-
temporary and predeceased him (d. 1737) by only thirteen years.
Giovanni Battista Vitali (c. 1644-92), the earliest master of the violin
sonata-form, died when Bach was a schoolboy at Eisenach. Giuseppe
Torelli (1685-1709) whose concert! grossi established the features
43
THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Bach himself accepted, published (1709) them actually after Bach
had reached manhood. Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713) died while
Bach was in service at Weimar, and his favorite Antonio Vivaldi
preceded him to the grave by only seven years. With his contempo-
rary, the brilliant Giuseppe Tartini (1692-1770), Bach, perhaps,
was not familiar. But the Italian school of violin-playing culminated
in him, and greatly surpassed the prevalent standards; to what an
extent is revealed by the fact that, when Corellf s sonatas reached
Paris in 1753, three years after Bach's death, not a violinist is said
to have been found there with ability to play them! The statement,
if correct, permits us to relate Bach's technique to that of his period.
If Bach's instrumental music largely declares an Italian parentage,
his clavier works associate him with another national school. For
their models he looked principally to France, and his introduction
to them at Cefle was an early experience of his career. France's
musical renaissance expressed itself in the clavier suite. The word is
French, but the music it denotes was not localized. It everywhere
comprehended a string of dance measures whose characteristics
were their profusion and diversity. Their contrasts, no doubt, origi-
nated the idea of bringing a number of them together in what be-
came the earliest cyclic art form. At the outset, no rigid principle
selected the movements admitted to the suite. But, by the middle
of the 17th century, four had established a universal claim for in-
clusion—the German Allemande, the French-Italian Courante, the
Spanish Saraband, and the Italian Gigue. You find them, and in that
order, in Bach's Suites and Partitas, in the whole eighteen of which
the Gigue is only once missing as the final movement. Arrangements
of this kind bore no general title. In England they were called
"Lessons" (as by Handel and John Christian Bach); in Germany
"Partitas" or "Partien" (as by Bach); in France "Suites" and "Ordres";
in Italy "Sonatas." But the French composers, especially Francois
Couperin and Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-87), so identified the form
with their own country that Bach not only took them as his models,
but distinguished his own compositions with a French label
On other grounds Bach was attracted to Couperin, though hardly
indebted to him. As he demonstrated in the famous "Forty-Eight/'
(1722-44) his adoption of equal temperament for the clavier enabled
44
JO H ANN SEBASTIAN BACH
him to play in every key, minor and major, and so brought the neg-
lected black notes into use. But this innovation, along with the com-
plexity of his music, necessarily jettisoned the old system of fingering,
which kept the thumb and every finger but the second and third on
each hand normally out of action. Bach, on the contrary, gave the
thumb its regular function in the scale and made the neglected
fourth finger pull its weight. Couperin also devised a system which
brought the thumb into use, though in a less methodical way. But
his treatise was not published till 1717, and Bach cannot have been
indebted to it. Yet, there are clear proofs that his French contempo-
rary—Couperin died in 1733—interested him deeply and had his ad-
miration.
France's influence on Bach is otherwise revealed. His Suite or
Overture in B minor, published in 1735, consists, like his French
Suites (c. 1722), of dance movements. But it differs in that it opens
with a slow introduction followed by a fugal Allegro, as do his or-
chestral overtures and those Handel wrote for the stage. The form
is that of the classic opera overture as Lully wrote it, and as it con-
tinued till Gluck reformed it after Bach's death.
Bach's intellectual curiosity was insatiable, and, excepting Bee-
thoven, unique among the masters. The compulsion of curiosity
which dragged him as a youth to Hamburg and Liibeck, invited him
to his contest with Marchand, and twice set him on the road in pur-
suit of Handel, moved him as urgently to investigate the music of
other countries. And his larger suites for the clavier appear to indi-
cate that the English school was not unfamiliar to him. They were
known to his sons as the "English Suites," (c. 1725) Forkel gathered,
because they were written for an Englishman of rank, an obvious
conjecture but improbable solution. Another explanation has been
found in the fact that the first Suite opens on the theme of a Gigue
by Charles Dieupart, a popular French harpsichordist in London
during Bach's early manhood. But I think a more satisfactory ex-
planation can be deduced from the fact that, unlike their French
fellows, each English Suite begins with a prelude, as do those of
Henry Purcell (c. 1659-95) and his precursors. Since Bach was ac-
quainted with Dieupart, Purcell would hardly be unknown to him—
indeed attributed to him in the Bachgesellschaft Edition is a Toccata
45
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
and Fugue by Purcell, the only Englishman whose place among the
great masters is universally conceded. It is agreeable to reflect that
Bach knew English music at a period of distinction it has never
excelled, but to-day boldly and confidently soars to approach.
So, with one reservation, the ancestry of Bach's keyboard and in-
strumental music is French and Italian. But that of his vocal works
is uncompromisingly German. They reveal him, indeed, as the very
flower of the German Renaissance, the greatest voice out of Ger-
many after Luther, and, in his most serious aspect, Luther's corollary.
That he should have emerged at this period is the more remarkable
when we reflect on Germany's musical insignificance to this point.
Herself an unwieldy system of noncohering states, lacking a com-
mon pivot, political or artistic, and controlled by no national instinct,
she had so far reacted feebly to those impulses shaping musical
culture elsewhere. Moreover, early in the century of Bach's birth
she plunged into the vortex of the Thirty Years' War, and emerged
from it less than forty years before he saw the light. Yet, so soon as
the Treaty of Westphalia gave peace, even a nebulous unity, to her
disjointed system, at a bound she achieved sovereignty in the realm
of music. It was, however, not in Handel's operas and operatic ora-
torios that her new voice was heard, but in utterances of noble ele-
vation in which Bach's genius displayed itself— the Passion, cantata,
chorale. Let me indicate concisely the paths by which they reached
him.
Sir Hubert Parry once deduced, from her late submission to it,
that Germany was less apt for music than her neighbors. Charles
Burney came to that conclusion twenty-five years after Bach's death.
In truth, music tardily fired Germany's soul, not as an aesthetic ex-
perience, but as the vehicle of religious emotion. It has been said that
the German Renaissance is only another name for the German Refor-
mation. Certainly it is so in the sphere of music, where the chorale
and cantata as clearly express Germany's Renaissance culture as the
galleries of Italy or the drama of England reveal the peculiar genius
of their peoples.
The Reformation stemmed the tide of church music in Germany
along the channels it so far had followed. For the Evangelical Church
rejected the musical apparatus of the ancient creed along with its
46
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
dogma and ritual, preferring its music, like its liturgy, to be congre-
gational in form and utterance. Luther set the new course in his
Achtliederbuch, the first Lutheran hymn-book, published in 1524,
the source of an expanding stream of dignified hymnody which is
Lutheran Germany's proudest heritage— "the Feste Burg of German
music," Sir Charles Stanford appropriately called it. Thus, reaching
out on one side to the severe plain-song of the Latin Church, and,
on the other, to popular folksong from which it did not disdain
to borrow, the chorale was deep rooted in the affection of the Ger-
man people within a century of Luther's death, and fed the genius
of her composers. Set in four-part harmony, it assisted the develop-
ment of a new harmonic structure. And, since it was essentially the
apparatus of religion, it aided and inspired the organist to develop
and perfect his technique.
So in the critical ninety years between Palestrina's death and the
birth of Bach the chorale became the most vital factor in Germany's
musical experience. Of the cantata, Passion, oratorio, motet, organ
prelude, fugue, and variation, it controlled the form and supplied
the material. Bach's art is inextricably associated with it. His earliest
and his last work as a composer was based on it. All the chorales
in common use he harmonized with matchless skill. They are rarely
absent from his cantatas and oratorios. They provide the core of
his Passions, the most intimate part of his motets. His organ tech-
nique was developed on them, and they are the theme of the bulk
of his music for that instrument. In brief, he associated them with
all he did in the service of God, embellishing them like precious
jewels in a holy shrine.
Historically, as its name declares, the cantata was Italian. But for
the composition the word came to denote Bach preferred the term
concerto, invented early in the 17th century to distinguish new style
concerted music from plain-song monotone. To Giacomo Carissimi
(1605-74), who died only eleven years before Bach's birth, are re-
ferred its distinctive features— the association of declamatory recita-
tives, solo arias, and orchestral interludes in a short work suitable
for the Church or concert room. In this shape it passed from Italy
to Germany, where it was forthwith admitted to the Lutheran Lit-
urgy, in which, at first, its use seems to have been restricted to
47
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
festival occasions. But it soon established itself as the Ilauptmusik
of the Sunday morning service. The earlier German cantatas, how-
ever, those of Heinrich Albert (1604-51), Heinrich Schiitz (1585-
1672), or Andreas Hammerschmidt (1612-75), for instance, were
modeled rather on the chamber cantata and had little affinity with
Bach's massive compositions, except in their use of the chorale. For
he brought to their creation the elaborate technique he had acquired
already on the organ. Yet, their virtuosity is not their most distinctive
characteristic. For, they were heard in a form of public prayer
closely coordinated. It pivoted on the Gospel for the day; the open-
ing motet anticipated it, the hymns were based on it, so was the
sermon, whose text was taken from it, and so was the cantata that
preceded it. Thus, Bach's cantatas are not wholly intelligible to us
unless we realize that, when writing them, he placed himself in the
pulpit, as it were, to expound the Gospel text in terms of music. To
the task he brought a mind well versed in theological dialectics, and,
with it, a devout spirit as profound as it was sincere, resolved to give
his exposition the most persuasive force of which his art was capa-
ble. His cantatas might aptly be termed sermons; for, in intention,
they are no less.
The Masses have the design and derivation of the cantatas— they
apply the new style to portions of the liturgy formerly polyphonic.
Bach's Mass in B minor (1733-58), in effect, consists of three can-
tatas, the Kyrie, Gloria, and Credo, with an epilogue. The Magnificat,
also, is an elaborate cantata, and in its first state actually was punc-
tuated with chorales. But the motets and Passions are in another
category. Their ancestry, in the one case, is patently German, and, in
the other, that strain predominates. Bach's motets are distinguished
from his cantatas in form and in purpose. They are a cappella music,
exclude the solo aria, dramatic recitative, operatic orchestra, and
are the finest flower of his polyphonic technique. But their austerity
was the consequence of their usage. For, with one possible exception,
they are funeral music, Trauermusik. Bach's talented relatives, Jo-
hann Christoph and Johann Michael, wrote similar motets, and so
did his predecessors in the Leipzig Cantorate. As we have it in
Bach's authorship, therefore, the motet is patently of German an-
48
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
cestry, an interesting association of the polyphonic tradition with
the Lutheran ritual.
The Passion music also sprang from a German source. For the
custom of chanting the Passion story in Holy Week was ancient, and
Luther's conservatism retained it. At Leipzig its performance took
place at the Vespers on Good Friday afternoon, either in St. Thom-
as's or in the sister church of St. Nicholas. But the elaborate compo-
sitions Bach wrote were only in Leipzig's very recent experience.
Until 1721 the setting used was contemporary with Lutherl Leipzig
heard the first musicirt Passion (a composition which, like Bach's, em-
ployed the resources of the new style) only two years before Bach
came to St. Thomas's. His St. John Passion, performed in 1723, was
but the second of its kind performed at Leipzig, where conservative
feeling was scandalized by the trespass of opera upon a domain
so sacred.
Assuredly Bach did not merit this resentment; it is his distinction
to have rescued the Passion from the trappings of the theater, and
to have placed it, in its noblest form, at the service of religion. For
the spirit that animated Palestrina passed from Italy when opera
was born, and the modern oratorio, of which Bach's are the perfect
example, was begotten of the exiled Italian tradition by its union
with the Passion music of Germany. They first met in Heinrich
Schiitz, the earliest German composer to free himself from Italian
conventions and so to evolve a national style. Born exactly one hun-
dred years before Bach, he exhibits in his Passions a reverent emo-
tionalism which makes him Bach's direct ancestor. He admits no
arias, uses no reflective chorales. But his recitative is flexible, his
choruses are terse and dramatic, and, like Bach, he sets forth his
text with reverent restraint. In a word, we first detect in him the
serious purpose which is the characteristic of German music. But a
generation later the influence of opera, established and vigorous at
Hamburg, threatened to deflect the Passion from its dignified and
appropriate course. In 1704 Reinhard Keiser (1674-1739), a man
eleven years Bach's senior, produced there a dramatic Passion which
contemptuously discarded the Bible text, ejected the chorale, and
unfolded the narrative in conventional rhymed stanzas. Some of his
imitators even inserted stage directions in the text! Thus, when
49
THE WORLD OF GKEAT COMPOSERS
Bach took office in Leipzig in 1723 the German Passion was in criti-
cal peril, It is not the least of his achievements to have rescued it
from Hamburg's contaminating secularism and completely to have
vindicated the German tradition. He reinstated the Bible text, in-
fused a religious intention into the secular forms oratorio borrowed
from opera, elevated the chorale to a height of emotional appeal
it had not yet attained, and produced a masterpiece, dramatic,, but
essentially devotional Its technical majesty excites our homage, But
chiefly we bow before the fact that it affords a presentation of the
Bible story deeply pondered, supremely reverent, fundamentally
devotional.
Of all the forms in which Bach expressed himself oratorio and
fugue were the modes of utterance most attuned to his nature. His
fugues are unique because, among his predecessors and contempo-
raries, he alone fully realized the romantic and artistic possibilities
of the fugal form. His personality is behind every bar of them. They
are the poetry of a master who found it natural and congenial to
express himself in that form. His relation to the fugue, in fact, is
that of Beethoven to the sonata, and Haydn to the quartet.
A natural adaptation of the vocal canonic form, the fugue reached
Bach through German models, though Forkel names the Italian
Girolamo Frescobaldi (1583-1643) among those he studied. In an
earlier generation the contrapuntist Andrea Gabrieli (c. 1520-86)
had been remarkable. Through his pupil Jan Pieterzoon Swcelinck
(1562-1621) his technique passed directly to Georg Bohtn and
Johann Reinken, and so to Bach, who sat at the feet of both of them.
Bach was also in intimate contact with the two masters of his early
years, Johann Pachelbel (1653-1706) and Dietrich Buxtehude. Of the
former his eldest brother and teacher was the pupil, and to hear the
second he journeyed to Liibeck in his teens, might indeed have suc-
ceeded him there if the charms of Fraulein Buxtehude had sufficiently
assisted her fathers design! From these mentors he received the
principles of his own more brilliant art. But, till he expounded it by
rule and example, the fugue was a contrapuntal, soulless exercise.
Among its masters Bach had high regard for Johann Josef Fux
(1660-1741) of Vienna, whose Gradus ad Parnassum, published in
1725, was a standard manual. But in Fux's hands the fugue was a
50
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
mechanical and lifeless exercise. "First choose a subject suitable to
the key you intend to compose in/' he directs, "and write it down
in that part in which you propose to begin. Then repeat the subject
in the second part, either at the interval of a fourth or fifth, adding
such notes in the first part as will agree with it." And so on, with
the prosaic precision of a cookery-book! Still, sanctioned in the gen-
eration that preceded Bach's birth, these elementary prescriptions
afforded the foundation on which he reared his more splendid art.
Applying the expanded key-system of his Well-Tempered Clavier,
and enriching his themes with a wealth of melody and contrapuntal
resource the fugue had never experienced, Bach evolved a nervous
organism out of Fux's skeleton and fashioned a poem from an exer-
cise.
We have reviewed, very inadequately, the language in which Bach
worked. And what is our conclusion? He spoke in forms that are now
archaic. He invented no new one. None was more firmly linked with
the past than he, none more obedient to its conventions. No other
of the great composers was so medieval in the circumstances of his
life. He spent it in one corner of Germany, and for the last twenty-
five years of it never, save once, travelled above a hundred miles from
his center. Indeed, he worked in such artistic isolation, was so shut
in upon himself, had such little opportunity to test his genius by ex-
periment, that we must suppose him driven to compose by sheer
compulsion from within.
But, medieval though he was in the forms in which he expressed
himself, his technical skill in them remains unique and unsurpassed.
No one has approached him in the miraculous complexity of his part-
writing, or in his ingenuity in weaving melodic strands into a single
fabric. No one equally displays his gift of melody, his sense of form,
the virile quality of his themes, the boldness of his technique, even
the daring of his harmonic coloring. Thus, even within the forms he
used, Bach is dateless, his art perennial, immortalized by the intense
individualism that informed it. Directed by a faith childlike in its
simplicity, he used it to interpret the infinite, saw the heavens
opened, and was prophetically oracular. Only Beethoven approaches
him in this quality, and both stand upon a peak of wonder, From
Mozart onwards his peers have done homage to his example, even
51
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
in forms lie never knew. So, he belongs to no age, at once remote
from us and yet intimately close. Schumann summed him up in a
sentence: "Music owes as much to Bach as a religion to its founder."
BACH SPEAKS
[From a letter to I. Erdmann, October 28, 1780, when Bach con-
sidered leaving his post in Leipzig.]
At first it was not wholly agreeable to me to become a Cantor [at
the Thomasschule in Leipzig] after having been a Kapellmeister,
on which account I delayed making a decision for a quarter of a
year. However, this post was described to me in such favorable terms
that finally— especially as my sons seemed inclined towards study—
I ventured upon it in the name of the Most High, and betook myself
to Leipzig, passed my examinations, and then made the move. Here,
by God's will, I am to this day. But now, since 1 find (1) that the
appointment here is not nearly so considerable as I was led to under-
stand, (2) that it has been deprived of many prerequisites, (3) that
the town is very dear to live in, and (4) that the authorities are
strange people, with little devotion to music, so that I have to endure
almost constant vexation, envy, and persecution, I feel compelled
to seek, with the Almighty's aid, my fortune elsewhere. Should your
Excellency know of, or be able to find, a suitable appointment in
your town for an old and faithful servant, I humbly beg you to give
me your gracious recommendation thereto; on my part I will not fail,
by using my best diligence, to give satisfaction and justify your kind
recommendation and intercession.
My position here is worth about seven hundred thalers, and when
there are rather more funerals than usual the perquisites increase
proportionately; but if the air is healthy the fees decrease, last year,
for example, being more than one hundred thalers below the average
from funerals. In Thuringia I can make four hundred thalers go
further than twice as many here, on account of the excessive cost
of living.
And now I must tell you a little about my domestic circumstances.
I am married for the second time, my first wife having died in
R9.
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
Cothen. Of the first marriage, three sons and a daughter are still
living, whom your Excellency saw in Weimar, as you may be gra-
ciously pleased to remember, My oldest son is Studiosus Juris, the
other two are one in the first and the other in the second class, and
the eldest daughter is still unmarried. The children of the other
marriage are still little, the eldest boy, being six years old. They are
one and all born musicians, and I can assure you that I can already
form a concert, vocal and instrumental, with my family, especially
as my wife sings a good soprano, and my eldest daughter joins in
quite well.
53
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
1685-1750
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL, genius o£ the oratorio, was born in Halle,
Saxony, on February 23, 1685. He studied music in his native city
with Friedrich Zachau. In 1703 Handel played the violin in the opera
orchestra in Hamburg where his first operas— -Almira and Nero— were
produced early in 1705. A year later he embarked on an extended
trip to Italy where he wrote two oratorios and some more operas.
In 1710 Handel became Kapellmeister at the court of the Elector
of Hanover. In 1711, he paid his first visit to London, where his
opera Rinaldo was successfully produced at the Haymarket Theater
on February 24. He returned to England in 1712 with the intention
of paying only another brief visit, but this time he stayed on for
the rest of his life. He became a British subject in 1727, From 1717
to 1720 he was Kapellmeister for the Duke of Chandos. When the
Royal Academy of Music was founded in London for the production
of Italian operas, Handel was made its director. For this theater
he wrote numerous operas beginning with Radamisto, given on April
27, 1720. In short order Handel became one of the most famous
composers in England. But he also made powerful enemies among
those who resented him because he was a foreigner, because he
was so successful, and because he had such boorish manners. To dim
the luster of his popularity, these enemies brought to London one
of Italy's most eminent opera composers, Giovanni Bononcini
(1670-1747). At first Bononcini proved extremely popular, but
with Ottone in 1723 Handel completely and permanently established
his ascendency over his rival. His triumph, however, proved short-
lived: English audiences were beginning to turn away from Italian
grand opera, particularly after the success of John Gay's The Beg-
gars Opera in 1728 which provided them with a more popular and
54
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
contemporary form of stage entertainment. The Royal Academy went
into bankruptcy. Undaunted, Handel started other opera companies,
but each carried him ever nearer to the brink of financial and physi-
cal ruin. wr""" ' -
After 1741 he abandoned opera to concentrate his formidable
energies and powers on the oratorio. Beginning with the Messiah,
introduced in Dublin on April 13, 1742, Handel completed a rich
library of oratorio music without parallel, including Semele, Judas
Maccabaeus, Solomon, Theodora, and Jephtha. It was in this medium
that he realized his fullest potentialities as a composer. Like Bach,
Handel suffered blindness in his last years. He died in London on
April 14, 1759, and was buried in Westminster Abbey where a monu-
ment by Roubliliac was erected showing the composer in front of his
desk on which rests the open score of the Messiah with the words
"I know that my Redeemer liveth."
THE MAN
CHARLES BURNEJ
NEWMAN FLOWER
The figure of Handel was large, and he was somewhat corpulent
and unwieldy in his motions; but his countenance . . . was full of fire
and dignity such as impressed ideas of superiority and genius. He
was impetuous, rough, and peremptory in his manners and conversa-
tion, but totally devoid of ill-nature or malevolence; indeed, there
was an original humor and pleasantry in his most lively sallies of
anger or impatience which, with his broken English, were extremely
risible. His natural propensity to wit and humor and happy manner
of relating common occurrences in an uncommon way enabled him
to throw persons and things into very ridiculous attitudes. Had he
been as great a master of the English language as Swift, his bon mots
would have been as frequent and somewhat of the same kind.
Handel wore an enormous white wig, and when things went well
at the oratorio, it had a certain nod or vibration which manifested
55
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
his pleasure and satisfaction. Without it, nice observers were certain
that he was out of humor.
Handel was in the habit of talking to himself so loud that it was
easy for persons not very near to him to hear the subject of his
soliloquies.
Handel's general look was somewhat heavy and sour, but when he
did smile it was like the sun bursting out of a black cloud. There
was a sudden flash of intelligence, wit, and good humor beaming in
his countenance which I hardly ever saw in any other/
When the curtain came down on Radarnisto on that June night
of 1720, Handel had completed a phase of his life-probably the
happiest phase of his life. All these works (Radamisto among them)
had been the achievements of youth, for, although he was now
thirty-five, both mind and body had all the strength of early youth.
That mind which knew no dullness, nor lost its brilliance, was to
mature; his body, as youth passed, to halt in its freshness. He never
studied his health. Only when illness pulled him away from his
work did he realize that "this infernal flesh," as he once called it, was
the master of him. He took no exercise save to go from one place
to another for business purposes, and he ate far heavier dinners
than he should have. He drank a great deal too much beer and
coffee, and he was a slave to tobacco. He rode when he could do so,
to save himself the trouble of walking. When composing, he sat
at work all day, on through the night and through the day following.
Food was put on his table and he ignored it. Sleep twitched at his
eyelids, and he forced it away. The claims of his body for rest were
always subservient to the demands of a mentality that could neither
rest nor be still.
The wonder is that he did not die before he was forty, for he
treated his body as some brute would treat a wretched mongrel that
followed at his heels. . . . Failures were to come, but out of every
failure he drew new strength. When the treasury was empty and
creditors were pressing, when enemies herded about him and brought
* The paragraphs above are by Burney; those below, by Flower.
56
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
the flail of hatred upon his back, he discovered a new vitality in the
silence of his room.
His music had brought to his feet women in plenty. The women
in London society crowded about him to get him to their salons. Old
women; young women. He had a peculiar way with them. He loved
a battle with a bright conversationalist of the other sex. But he had
no interest in the sex as such. Only on two occasions in his life did
the question of marriage ever seriously occur to him. Once he even
went so far as to become engaged. . . . The affaire ended abruptly,
for the mother of the girl in question objected to her daughter's
marrying a musician. He must give up music or her daughter. Handel
decided quickly. His art was his wife and his mistress, and he said so,
and went his way.
A second woman intrigued him. Again music was the difficulty.
A musician was only a roving mountebank, was the remark thrown
at him. Again he decided as before.
So youth crept forward and ripened. He matured. He liked the
society of women— those women who loved art. His courtesies, his
gentleness to them were extreme. The years passed. He became,
by easy stages, the accepted bachelor, sexless, safe. . . .
Handel, just past fifty years of age, was full of fight, just as his
body was becoming full of rheumatism. At times he could scarcely
move for the pain that racked his right side. The act of playing an
instrument gave him intense agony. Sleeplessness was beginning to
worry him. Heavy moods of depression assaulted him like grim
overhanging clouds, and endured for days. His temper became vio-
lent; some of his actions were almost brutish. As suddenly the rheu-
matic pains would depart, he would sleep for a couple of days like a
dog, then, waking, eat heavily and enjoy again his wine, his beer.
The scowls on his face, that kept those about him from approaching
unless driven to do so by actual necessity, departed with the other
ills, and the kindly smile would reappear like sunshine after the
rain. Then would he crack his jokes, fling his repartee across the
table at his colleagues like darts of fire, and go on working more
furiously than ever, careless of what his body would have to pay
for it. For the enemy of which he had the smallest fear was pain.
57
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
THE COMPOSER
ROMAIN HOLLAND
No great musician is more impossible to include in the limits of
one definition, or even of several, than Handel It is a fact that he
reached the complete mastery of his style very early (much earlier
than Bach), although it was never really fixed, and he never devoted
himself to any one form of art. It is even difficult to see a conscious
and a logical evolution in him. His genius is not of the kind which
follows a single path and forges right ahead until it reaches its ob-
ject. For his aim was no other than to do well whatever he under-
took. All ways were good to him— from his early steps at the cross-
ing of the ways, he dominated the country and shed his light on all
sides, without laying siege to any particular part. He is not one of
those who impose on life and art a voluntary idealism, either violent
or patient; nor is he one of those who inscribe in the book of life
the formula of their campaign. He is of the kind who drink in the
life universal, assimilating it to themselves. His artistic will is mainly
objective. His genius adapts itself to a thousand images of passing
events, to the nation, to the times in which he lived, even to the
fashions of his day. It accommodates itself to the various influences,
ignoring all obstacles. It weighs other styles and other thoughts, but
such is the power of assimilation and the prevailing equilibrium of
his nature that he never feels submerged and overweighted by the
mass of these strange elements. Everything is duly absorbed, con-
trolled, and classified. This immense soul is like the sea itself, into
which all the rivers of the world pour themselves without troubling
its serenity.
The German geniuses have often had this power of absorbing
thoughts and strange forms, but it is excessively rare to find amongst
them the grand objectivism and this superior impersonality which
is, so to speak, the hallmark of Handel. Their sentimental lyricism is
better fitted to sing songs, to voice the thoughts of the universe
in song, than to paint the universe in living forms and vital rhythms.
58
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
Handel is very different and approaches much more nearly than
any other in Germany the genius of the South, the Homeric genius
of which Goethe received the sudden revelation on his arrival at
Naples. This capacious mind looks out on the whole universe and on
the way the universe depicts itself, as a picture is reflected in calm
and clear water. He owes much of this objectivism to Italy, where
he spent many years and the fascination of which never effaced itself
from his mind, and he owes even more to that sturdy England which
guards its emotions with so tight a rein, and which eschews those
sentimental and effervescing effusions so often displayed in the
pious German art; but that he had all the germs of his art in himself
is already shown in his early works at Hamburg.
From his infancy at Halle, Zachau had trained him not in one
style but in all the styles of the different nations, leading him to
understand not only the spirit of each great composer but to as-
similate the styles by writing in various manners. This education,
essentially cosmopolitan, was completed by his three tours in Italy
and his sojourn of half a century in England. Above all he never
ceased to follow up the lessons learned at Halle, always appropriating
to himself the best from all artists and their works. If he was never
in France (it is not absolutely proved), he knew her nevertheless. He
was anxious to master the French language and musical style. We
have proofs of that in his manuscripts and in the accusations made
against him by certain French critics. Wherever he passed, he
gathered some musical souvenir, buying and collecting foreign
works, copying them, or rather (for he had not the careful patience
of J. S. Bach, who scrupulously wrote out in his own hand the entire
scores of French organists and the Italian violinists) copying down in
hasty and often inexact expressions any idea which struck him in the
course of reading. This vast collection of European thoughts, which
remains only in remnants at the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge,
was the reservoir, so to speak, from which his creative genius con-
tinually fed itself. Profoundly German in race and character, he had
become a world citizen like his compatriot Leibnitz, whom he had
known at Hanover, a European with a tendency for the Latin cul-
ture. The great Germans at the end of that century, Goethe and
Herder, were never more free or more universal than this great
59
THE "WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Saxon in music, saturated as he was with all the artistic thoughts of
the West.
He drew not only from the sources of learned and refined music
-the music of musicians; but also drank deeply from the founts of
popular music-that of the most simple and rustic folk. He loved the
latter. One finds noted down in his manuscripts the street cries of
London, and he once told a friend that he received many inspirations
for his best airs from them. Certain of his oratorios, like L3 'Allegro
ed 11 Pensoroso (1740), are threaded with remembrances of his walks
in the English country, and who can ignore the Pifferari (Italian
peasant's pipe) in the Messiah (1742), the Flemish carillon in Saul
(1739), the joyous popular Italian songs in Hercules (1745), and in
Alexander Balus (1748)? Handel was not an artist lost in introspec-
tion. He watched all around him, he listened, and observed Sight
was for him a source of inspiration, hardly of less importance than
hearing. I do not know any great German musician who has been
as much a visual as Handel Like Johann Adolph Hasse (1699-1783)
and Arcangelo Corelli (1658-1713), he had a veritable passion for
beautiful pictures. He hardly ever went out without going to a
theater or a picture sale. He was a connoisseur, and he made a col-
lection in which some Rembrandts were found after his death. It has
been remarked that his blindness (which should have rendered his
hearing still more sensitive, his creative powers translating every-
thing into sonorous dreams) soon paralyzed his hearing when its
principal source of renewal was withdrawn.
Thus saturated in all the European music of his time, impregnated
with the music of musicians and the still richer music which flows
in all Nature herself, which is specially diffused in the vibrations of
light and shade, that song of the rivers, of the forest, of the birds, in
which all his work abounds and which have inspired some of his
most picturesque pages with a semi-romantic color, he wrote as one
speaks, he composed as one breathes. He never sketched out on
paper in order to prepare his definite work. He wrote straight off
as he improvised, and in truth he seems to have been the greatest
improviser that ever was. He wrote his music with such an im-
petuosity of feeling and such a wealth of ideas that his hand was
constantly lagging behind his thoughts, and in order to keep apace
60
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
with them at all he had to note them down in an abbreviated man-
ner. But (and this seems contradictory) he had at the same time an
exquisite sense of form. No German surpassed him in the art of writ-
ing beautiful, melodic lines. Mozart and Hasse alone were his equals
in this. It was to this love of perfection that we attribute that habit
which, despite his fertility of invention, causes him to use time after
time the same phrases (those most important and dearest to him),
each time introducing an imperceptible change, a light stroke of the
pencil, which renders them more perfect. The examination of these
kinds of musical eaux-fortes in their successive states is very instruc-
tive for the musician who is interested in plastic beauty. It shows
also how certain melodies, once written down, continued to slumber
in Handel's mind for many years until they had penetrated his sub-
conscious nature and until they were applied at first, by following
the chances of inspiration, to a certain situation which suited them
moderately well. They are, so to speak, in search of a body where
they can reincarnate themselves, seeking the true situation, the real
sentiment of which they are but the latent expression; and once hav-
ing found it, they expand themselves with ease.
Handel worked no less with the music of other composers than
with his own. If one had the time to study here what superficial
readers have called his plagarisms, particularly taking, for example,
Israel in Egypt (1739), where the most barefaced of these cases
occur, one would see with what genius and insight Handel has
evoked from the depths of these musical phrases their secret soul,
of which the first creators had not even a presentiment. It needed his
eye, or his ear, to discover in the serenade of Alessandro Stradella
(1642-82) its Biblical cataclysms. Each read and heard a work of
art as it is, and yet not as it is; and one may conclude that it is not
always the creator himself who has the most fertile idea of it. The
example of Handel well proves this. Not only did he create music,
but very often he created that of others for them. Stradella and
Dionigi Erba (17th and 18th centuries) were only for him (however
humiliating the comparison) the flames of fire and the cracks in the
wall through which Leonardo saw the living figures. Handel heard
great storms passing through the gentle quivering of Stradella's
guitar.
61
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
This evocatory character of Handel's genius should never be for-
gotten. He who is satisfied with listening to this music without
seeing what it expresses-who judges this art as a purely formal art
and who does not feel his expressive and suggestive power, occa-
sionally so far as hallucination, will never understand it. It is a music
which paints emotions, souls, and situations, seeing the epochs and
the places which are the framework of the emotions, and which tint
them with their own peculiar moral tone. In a word, his is an art
essentially picturesque and dramatic. . . . The intimate sense of his
works was falsified in the century which followed his death by the
English interpretations, strengthened further still in Germany by
those of Mendelssohn and his numerous following, By the exclusion
of and systematic contempt for all the operas of Handel, by an
elimination of nearly all the dramatic oratorios, the most powerful
and the freshest, by a narrow choice more and more restrained to
the four or five oratorios, and even here, by giving an exaggerated
supremacy to the Messiah, by the interpretation finally of these
works, and notably of the Messiah, in a pompous, rigid, and stolid
manner with an orchestra and choir far too numerous and badly
balanced, with singers frightfully correct and pious, without any
feeling or intimacy, there has been established the tradition which
makes Handel a church musician after the style of Louis XIV, all
decoration— pompous columns, noble and cold statues, and pictures
by Le Bran. It is not surprising that this has reduced works executed
on such principles and degraded them to a monumental tiresomeness
similar to that which emanates from the bewigged Alexanders and
the very conventional Christs of Le Brun.
It is necessary to turn back. Handel was never a church musician,
and he hardly ever wrote for the church. Apart from his psalms and
his Te Deum, composed for the private chapels and for exceptional
events, he wrote instrumental music only for concerts and for open-
air f£tes, for operas, and for those so-called oratorios which were
really written for the theater. The first oratorios he composed were
acted. And if Handel resolutely abstained from theatrical represen-
tation—which alone gives the full value to certain scenes, such as
the orgy and the dream of Belshazzar, expressly conceived for acting
—on the other hand he stood out firmly for having his oratorios at the
62
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
theater and not in the church. There were not wanting churches any
less than dissenting chapels in which he could give his works, and
by not doing so he turned against him the opinion of religious people
who considered it sacrilegious to carry pious subjects on the stage,
but he continued to affirm that he did not write compositions for the
church, but worked for the theater— a free theater,
It remains for us, after having attempted to indicate the general
characteristics of Handel's art, to sketch the technique of the dif-
ferent styles in which he worked.
It is difficult to speak of the opera or of the oratorio of Handel. It
is necessary to say: of the operas or of the oratorios, for we do not
find that they point back to any single type. We can verify here what
we said at the commencement of this chapter about the magnificent
vitality of Handel in choosing amongst his art forms the different
directions of the music of his times.
All the European tendencies at that time are reflected in his
operas: the model of Reinhard Keiser (1674-1739) in his early works,
the Venetian model in his Agrippina (1709), the model of Alessandro
Scarlatti (1660-1725) and Agostino Steffani (1654-1728) in his first
early operas; in the London works he soon introduces English in-
fluences, particularly in his rhythms. Then it was Bononcini whom he
rivaled. Again, those great attempts of genius to create a new musical
drama, Giulio Cesar e (1724), Tamerlano (1724), Orlando (1733); later
on those charming ballet-operas inspired by France, Ariodante
(1735), Alcina (1735); later still, those operas which point toward the
opera-comique and the light style of the second half of the century,
Serse (1738), Deidamia (1741). . . . Handel continued to try every
other style without making any permanent choice as did Gluck, with
whom alone he can be compared.
One sees what a variety of forms and styles he used. Handel was
too universal and too objective to believe that one kind of art only
was the true one. He believed in two kinds of music only, the good
and the bad. Apart from that he appreciated all styles. Thus he has
left masterpieces in every style, but he did not open any new way in
opera for the simple reason that he went a long way in nearly all
63
THE WOBLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
paths already opened up. Constantly he experimented, invented,
and always with his singularly sure touch. He seemed to have an
extraordinarily penetrating knowledge in invention, and conse-
quently few artistic regions remained for him to conquer. He made
as masterly a use of the recitative as Gluck, or of the arioso as
Mozart, writing the acts of Tamerlane, which are the most touching
and heartrending dramas, in the manner of Iphigenie en Tawide,
the most moving and passionate scenes in music such as certain
pages of Admeto (1727) and Orlando, where the humorous and the
tragic are intermingled in the manner of Don Giovanni. He has ex-
perimented happily here in new rhythms. There were new forms, the
dramatic duet or quartet, the descriptive symphony opening the
opera, refined orchestration, choruses, and dances. Nothing seems
to have obsessed him. In the following opera we find him returning
to the ordinary forms of the Italian or German opera of his time.
Still less can we say that he held to a rigid form with his operas,
which were continually adapted to the changing tastes of the
theater public of his age and of the singers whom he had at his dis-
posal; but when he left the opera for the oratorio he varied no less.
It was a perpetual experiment of new forms in the vast framework
of the free theater (the&tre en libertS) of the concert drama; and the
sort of instinctive ebb and flow in creation seems to have caused his
works to succeed one another in groups of analogous or related com-
positions, each work in a nearly opposite style of feeling and form,
In each one Handel indulged momentarily in a certain side of his
feelings, and when that was finished he found himself in the pos-
session of other feelings which had been accumulating whilst he was
drawing on the first. He thus kept up a perpetual balance, which is
like the pulsation of life itself. After the realistic Saul comes the im-
personal epic of Israel in Egypt. After this colossal monument ap-
pear the two genre pictures, The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day (1739)
and L* Allegro ed II Penseroso. After the Herculean Samson (1743), a
heroic and popular tragic comedy sprang forth, the charming flower
of Semele (1744), an opera of romanticism and gallantry.
But if the oratorios are so wonderfully varied, they have one
64
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
characteristic in common even more than the operas; they are musi-
cal dramas. It was not that religious thought turned Handel to this
choice of Biblical subjects, but as Kretzschmar has well shown, it was
on account of the stories of the Bible heroes being a part of the very
life-blood of the people whom he addressed. They were known to all
whilst the ancient romantic stories could only interest a society of
refined and spoiled dilettanti. Without doubt, these oratorios were
not made for representation, did not seek scenic effects, with rare
exceptions, as for instance the scene of the orgy of Belshazzar (1745),
where one feels that Handel had drawn on the direct vision of the-
atrical representation, but passions, spirits and personalities were
represented always in a dramatic fashion. Handel is a great painter
of characters, and the Delilah in Samson, the Nitocris in Belshazzar,
the Cleopatra in Alexander Bolus, the mother in Solomon (1749), the
Dejanira in Hercules, the beautiful Theodora, all bear witness to the
suppleness and the profundity of his psychological genius. If in the
course of the action and the depicting of the ordinary sentiments he
abandoned himself freely to the flow of pure music, in the moments
of passionate crises he is the equal of the greatest masters in musical
drama. Is it necessary to mention the terrible scenes in the third act
of Hercules, the beautiful scenes of Alexander Bolus, the Dream of
Belshazzar, the prison scenes in Theodora (1750), or in the first act
of Soul, and dominating all, like great pictures, certain of the cho-
ruses of Israel in Egypt, in Esther (1732) and in Joshua (1748), and in
Chandos Anthems (1717-20), which seem veritable tempests of pas-
sion, great upheavals of overpowering effect? It is by these choruses
that the oratorio is essentially distinguished from the opera. It is in
the first place a choral tragedy. These choruses, which were nearly
eliminated in Italian opera during the time of the Barberini, held a
very important place in French opera, but their role was limited to
that of commentator or else merely decorative. In the oratorio of
Handel they became the very life and soul of the work. Sometimes
they took the part of the ancient classical chorus, which exposed the
thought of the drama when the hidden fates led on the heroes to
their destinies— as in Saul, Hercules, Alexander Balus, Susanna (1749).
Sometimes they added to the shock of human passions the powerful
65
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
appeal of religion and crowned the human drama with a supernatu-
ral aureole, as in Theodora and Jephtha (1752). Or finally they be-
came the actual actors themselves, or the enemy-people and the God
who guided them. It is remarkable that in his very first oratorio,
Esther, Handel had this stroke of genius. In the choruses there we
see the drama of an oppressed people and their God who led them
by his voice superbly depicted. In Deborah (1733) and Athalia (1733)
also, two nations are in evidence. In Behhazzar there are three, but
his chief work of this kind, Israel in Egypt, the greatest choral epic
which exists, is entirely occupied by Jehovah and His people,
The oratorio being a "free theater/' it becomes necessary for the
music to supply the place of the scenery. Thus its picturesque and
descriptive role is strongly developed, and it is by this above all that
Handel's genius so struck the English public. Camilla Saint-Saens
wrote in an interesting letter to C. Bellaigue, "I have come to the
conclusion that it is the picturesque and descriptive side, until then
novel and unreached, whereby Handel achieved the astonishing
favor which he enjoyed. This masterly way of writing choruses, of
treating the fugue, had been done by others. What really counts
with him is the color— that modern element which we no longer hear
in him. ... He knew nothing of exoticism. But look at Alexander's
Feast (1736), Israel in Egypt, and especially V Allegro ed II Pen-
seroso, and try to forget all that has been done since. You find at
every turn a striving for the picturesque, for an effect of imitation,
It is real and intense for the medium in which it is produced, and it
seems to have been unknown hitherto."
Perhaps Saint-Saens lays too much weight on the ^masterly way
of writing his choruses/* which was not so common in England, even
with Henry Purcell (c. 1659-95). Perhaps he accentuates too much
also the real influence of the French in matters of picturesque and
descriptive music and the influence which it exerted on Handel.
Finally, it is not necessary to represent these descriptive tendencies
of Handel as exceptional in his time. A great breath of nature passed
over German music and pushed it toward tone-painting. Georg
Philipp Telemann (1681-1767) was even more than Handel a painter
in music and was more celebrated than Handel for his realistic ef-
fects, But the England of the 18th century had remained very con-
66
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
servative in music and had devoted itself to cultivating the masters
of the past. Handel's art was then more striking to them on account
of "its color" and "its imitative effects/' I will not say with Saint-
Saens that "there was no question of exoticism with him/' for Handel
seems to have sought this very thing more than once; notably in the
orchestration of certain scenes for the two Cleopatras, of Giulio
Cesare, and of Alexander Bolus. But that which was constantly with
him was tone-painting, the reproduction through passages of music
of natural impressions, a painting very characteristic and, as Beetho-
ven put it, "more an expression of feelings than painting," a poetic
evocation of the raging tempests, of the tranquility of the sea, of the
dark shades of night, of the twilight which envelops the English
country, of the parks by moonlight, of the sunrise in springtime,
and of the awakening of birds. Acis and Galatea (1708), Israel in
Egypt, L* Allegro, the Messiah, Solomon, all offer a wondrous picture
gallery of Nature, carefully noted by Handel with the sure stroke of
a Flemish painter and of a romantic poet at the same time. This ro-
manticism struck powerfully on his time with a strength which
would not be denied. It drew upon him both admiration and violent
criticism. A letter of 1751 depicts him as a Berlioz or Wagner, rais-
ing storms by his orchestra and chorus.
"He cannot give people pleasure after the proper fashion," writes
this anonymous author in his letter, "for his evil genius will not allow
him to do this. He imagines a new grandioso kind of music, and in
order to make more noise he has it executed by the greatest number
of voices and instruments which one has ever heard before in a
theater. He thinks thus to rival not only the god of musicians, but
even all the other gods, like lole, Neptune, and Jupiter: for either
I expected that the house would be brought down by his tempest or
that the sea would engulf the whole. But more unbearable still was
his thunder. Never have such terrible rumblings fallen on my head."
Similarly Goethe, irritated and upset, said after having heard the
first movement of the Beethoven C minor Symphony, "It is mean-
ingless. One expected the house to fall about one's ears."
It is not by chance that I couple the names of Handel and Bee-
thoven. Handel is a kind of Beethoven in chains. He had the un-
approachable manner like the great Italian artists who surrounded
67
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
him: the Porporas, the Hasses; and between him and them there
was a whole world. Under the classic ideal with which he covered
himself burned a romantic genius, precursor of the Sturm und Drang
period; and sometimes this hidden demon broke out in brusque fits
of passion— perhaps despite itself.
The orchestral music of Handel comprises twelve Concetti Grossi,
op. 6 (1739), the Oboe Concertos (1740), the symphonies from his
operas, oratorios, and his open-air music— Water Mmic (1717), Fire-
works Music (1749)— and Concertos for two horns.
Although Handel was in art a visualist and though his music had
a highly descriptive and evocatory power, he made only a very re-
strained use of instrumental tone color. However, he showed on oc-
casion a refined intelligence in its use. The two oratorios written at
Rome when he found himself in the society of the Cardinal Otto-
boni, and his great virtuoso works, the Triumph of Time and The
Resurrection of 1708, have a fine and well-varied orchestration. In
London he was one of the first to introduce the use of the horn into
the orchestra of the opera. "He was the first/* says Volbach, "to
assert the expressive personality of the violoncello/' From the viola
he knew how to secure many curious effects of indefinite and dis-
quieting half-tones, he gave to the bassoons a lugubrious and fan-
tastic character, he experimented with new instruments, small and
great, he used the drum (tambour) solo in a dramatic fashion for
Jupiter's oath in Semele. For special situations, by instrumental tone
colors he secures effects not only of dramatic expression but also of
exoticism and local color. It is so in the two scenes from the two
Cleopatras, Giulio Cesare and Alexander Ealus.
But great painter as Handel was, he did not work so much through
the brilliancy, variety, and novelty of his tone colors as by the beauty
of his designs and his effects of light and shade. With a voluntarily
restrained palette and by satisfying himself with the sober colors of
the strings, he yet was able to produce surprising and thrilling ef-
fects. Volbach has shown that he had less recourse to the contrast
and mixing of instruments than to the division of the same family of
instruments into different groups. On the other hand, Handel, when
68
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
he considered it advisable, reduced his instrumental forces by sup-
pressing the viola and the second violin, whose places were taken
by the harpsichord. All his orchestral art is in the true instinct of
balance and economy, which, with the most restricted means in
managing a few colors, yet knows how to obtain as powerful impres-
sions as our musicians of today, with their crowded palette. Nothing,
then, is more important if we wish to render this music truly than
the avoidance of upsetting the equilibrium of the various sections of
the orchestra under the pretext of enriching it and bringing it up
to date. The worse fault is to deprive it, by a useless surplus of tone
colors, of that suppleness and subtlety of nuance which is its princi-
pal charm.
Let us consider his concerti grossi. None of his works are more
celebrated and less understood. Handel attached to them a particu-
lar value, for he published them by subscription, a means which was
usual in his day, but which he himself never adopted except under
exceptional circumstances.
One knows that the kind of concerti grossi, which consists chiefly
in a dialogue between a group of solo instrumentalists (the concer-
tino) and the full body of instruments (concerto grosso), to which is
added the cembalo, was, if not invented, at least carried to its per-
fection and rendered classical by Corelli. The works of Corelli,
aided by the efforts of his followers, had become widely known in
Europe. Francesco Geminiani (1687-1762) introduced them into
England, and without doubt Handel did not hesitate to profit by the
example of Geminiani, who was his friend; but it is much more
natural to think that he learned the concerto grosso at its source at
Rome from Corelli himself during his sojourn there in 1708. Several
of the concertos in his Opus 3 date from 1710, 1716, 1722. The same
feature shows itself right up to the time of his apprenticeship at
Hamburg; in any case he might have already known the Corellian
style, thanks to the propaganda of Georg Muffat (1653-1704), who
spread this style very early in Germany. After Corelli came Pietro
Locatelli (1695-1764), and especially Vivaldi, who singularly trans-
formed the concerto grosso by giving it the free character of pro-
gram music and by turning it resolutely toward the form of the
sonata in three parts. But when the works of Vivaldi were played in
69
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
London In 1723, and the works which aroused such a general en-
thusiasm became thoroughly known to Handel, it was always to
Corelli that he gave the preference; and he was very conservative in
certain ways even about him. The form of his concerto, of which
the principal movements varied from four to six, oscillated between
the suite and the sonata and even glanced toward the symphonic
overture. It is this for which the theorists blame him, and it is this
for which I praise him. For he does not seek to impose a uniform
cast on his thoughts but leaves it open to himself to fashion the
form as he requires, so that the framework varies accordingly, fol-
lowing his inclinations from day to day.
The spontaneity of his thought, which has already been shown by
the extreme rapidity with which the concerti were composed—each
in a single day at a single sitting, and many each week—constitutes
the great charm of these works. They are, in the words of Kretz-
schmar, grand impression pictures, translated into a form at the same
time precise and supple, in which the least change of emotion can
make itself easily felt. Truly they are not all of equal value. Their
conception itself, which depended in a way on mere momentary
inspiration, is the explanation of this extreme inequality. One ought
to acknowledge here that the Seventh Concerto, for example (the
one in B-flat major), and the last three have but a moderate interest.
They are amongst those least played, but to be quite just we must
pay homage to these masterpieces, and especially to the Second
Concerto in F major, which is like a Beethoven concerto: for we
find there some of the spirit of the Bonn master.
Let us now come to that class of Handel's instrumental music to
which historians have given far too little attention, and in which
Handel shows himself a precursor, and at the same time a model. I
refer to his open-air music.
This took a prominent place in the English life. The environs of
London were full of gardens where, Pepys tells us, "vocal and instru-
mental concerts vied with the voices of the birds." Handel wrote
pieces especially intended for these garden concerts. Generally
speaking, he attached very little importance to them, They were
little symphonies or unpretentious dances like the Hornpipe, com-
posed for the concert at Vauxhall in 1740,
70
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
But he composed on these lines some works tending toward a
much vaster scale: in 1717 the famous Water Music, written for the
royal procession of barges on the Thames, and the Fireworks Music
made to illustrate the fireworks display given in Green Park on
April 27, 1749, in celebration of the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.
The Water Music has a grand serenade in the form of a suite com-
prising more than twenty movements. It opens with a pompous
opera overture; then come dialogues, with echoes of horns and
drums, where the brass and the rest of the orchestra, which are
arranged in two sections, respond. Then follow happy and soothing
songs, dances, a bourree, a hornpipe, minuets, popular songs which
alternate and contrast with the joyful and powerful fanfares. The
orchestra is nearly the same as in his usual symphonies except that
considerable importance is given to the brass. One even finds in
this works certain pieces written in the chamber-music style, or in
the theatrical manner.
With the Fireworks Music the character of open-air music is even
more definitely asserted, quite as much by the broad style of the
piece as by the orchestration, which is confined entirely to the wind
instruments. The composition is divided into two parts: an overture
which was to be played before the grand fireworks display, and a
number of little pieces to be played during the display, which cor-
responded to certain allegorical set pieces. The overture is a sort of
stately march in D major, and has some resemblance to the over-
ture of the Ritterballet (Huntsman's Dance) of Beethoven, and which
is, like it, joyful, equestrian, and sonorous. The shorter movements
comprise a bourree, a Largo a la Siciliana, entitled Peace, of a beau-
tiful, heroic grace, which lulls itself to sleep; a sprightly Allegro
entitled The Rejoicing, and two minuets for conclusion. It is an in-
teresting work for the organizers of our popular fetes and open-air
spectacles to study. If we have said that after 1740 Handel wrote
hardly any other instrumental music than the Fireworks Music and
the two monumental concertos, a due cori (for two horns), we have
the feeling that the last evolution of his thought and instrumental
style led him in the direction of music conceived for the great
masses, wide spaces, and huge audiences. He had always in him a
popular vein of thought. I immediately call to mind the many popu-
71
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
lar inspirations with which his memory was stored and which vivify
the pages of his oratorios. His art, which renewed itself perpetually
at this rustic source, had in his time an astonishing popularity. Cer-
tain airs from Ottone (1723), Scipione (1726), Arianna (1734), Bere-
nice (1737), and such other of his operas, were circulated and
vulgarized not only in England but abroad, and even in France
(generally so unyielding to outside influences).
It is not only of this popularity, a little banal, of which I wish to
speak, which one could not ignore— for it is only a stupid pride and
a small heart which denies great value to the art which pleases
humble people; what I wish to notice chiefly in the popular charac-
ter of Handel's music is that it is always truly conceived for the
people, and not for an elite dilettanti, as was the French opera
between Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-87) and Gluck Without ever
departing from his sovereign ideas of beautiful form, in which he
gave no concession to the crowd, he reproduced in a language im-
mediately "understanded of the people" those feelings in which all
could share. This genial improviser, compelled during the whole of
his life (a half-century of creative power) to address from the stage
a mixed public, was like the orators of old who had the cult of style
and instinct for immediate and vital effect. Our epoch has lost the
feeling of this type of art and men: pure artists who speak to the
people and for the people, not for themselves or for their confreres.
Today the pure artists lock themselves within themselves, and those
who speak to the people are most often mountebanks. The free Eng-
land of the 18th century was in a certain measure related to the Ro-
man Republic, and indeed Handel's eloquence was not without
relation to that of the epic orators, who sustained in the form their
highly finished and passionate discourses, who left their mark on the
shuddering crowd of loiterers. This eloquence did on occasion ac-
tually thrust itself into the soul of the nation as in the days of the
Jacobite invasion, where Judas Maccdbaeus (1747) incarnated the
public feeling. In the first performances of Israel in Egypt some of
the auditors praised the heroic virtues of this music, which could
raise up the populace and lead armies to victory.
By this power of popular appeal, as by all the other aspects of
his genius, Handel was in the robust line of Pier Francesco Cavalli
72
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
(1602-76) and of Gluck, but he surpassed them. Alone, Beethoven
has walked in these broader paths and followed along the road
which Handel had opened.
HANDEL SPEAKS
I believe the question can be reduced to this: whether one should
prefer an easy and more perfect method to another which is ac-
companied by great difficulties capable not only of disgusting pupils
with music, but also of wasting precious time that could be better
utilized in probing more deeply into this art and in developing one's
talent. It is not that I should like to declare that one can draw no
benefit from solmization, but since one can acquire the same knowl-
edge in much less time by the method used so successfully at pres-
ent, I do not see why one should not take the road that leads more
rapidly and easily to the desired end. As regards the Greek modes
... no doubt knowledge of them is necessary to those who would
study and play ancient music, which was composed according to
those modes, but since we have freed ourselves from the narrow
limits of ancient music, I do not see what use can be made of Greek
modes in modern music.
[On writing the "Hallelujah Chorus" from the Messiah.] I did
think I did see all Heaven before me— and the great God himself.
. . . Where I was in my body or out of my body as I wrote it I know
not. God knows.
[To a nobleman after the first London performance of the Mes-
siah.] I should be sorry, My Lord, if I gave pleasure to men; my aim
is to make them better.
73
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
1714-1787
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD HITTER VON GLUCK followed Rameau in the
revolt against the Italian opera school, thus paving the way to music
drama. Born in Erasbach, Upper Palatinate, on July 2, 1714, he re-
ceived music instruction in various village schools. At eighteen he
was earning his living playing dance music and singing in church
choirs in Prague. In 1736 he found employment as chamber musi-
cian in Prince Lobkowitz's palace in Vienna. The year after he
traveled to Italy, where he studied with the eminent Italian opera
composer, Giovanni Battista Sammartini (1701-75). On December
26, 1741, Gluck's first opera, Artaserse, was successfully introduced
in Milan. After completing several more Italian operas, produced
both in Italy and London, he returned tto Vienna in 1748 where his
Semiramide riconosciuta successfully reopened the Burgtheater on
May 14. In 1750 he married Marianna Pergin, and in 1754 he was
appointed Kapellmeister of the Vienna Court Theater. In this office
he wrote numerous operas, and a considerable amount of music
for ballet and various entertainments. Now increasingly impatient
with the formal and stilted procedures of Italian opera (particularly
those whose flowery, historical librettos were provided by Pietro
Metastasio, the Viennese court poet) and strongly influenced by
Rameau, Gluck sought to write operas with greater simplicity and
dramatic truth, sincerer emotion and sounder musical values. En-
couraged by Count Giacomo Durazzo, director of the Viennese
court theaters, and with Raniere de Calzabigi as his librettist, Gluck
wrote Orfeo ed Euridice, produced at the^Burgtheater on October
5, 1762. Also in this new style were Alceste, produced on Decem-
ber 16, 1767, and Paride e Elena, produced on November 30, 1770.
In 1773, Gluck came to Paris where his new opera, IphigSnie en
74
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
Aulide, proved a major success when it was presented at the Opera
on April 19, 1774-this despite the many obstacles placed in the way
of its production by many Frenchmen who esteemed Italian opera
highly. After the success of the French premiere of Orfeo ed Eurid-
ice, Gluck's enemies hoped to counteract his victories by bringing
to Paris one of Italy's most renowned opera composers, Niccolo
Piccini (1728-1800). The climax of the rivalry between the two com-
posers came when both were commissioned by the Opera to write
music for the same subject, Iphigenie en Tauride. Gluck's opera was
given first (May 18, 1779) and was a triumph. Piccini's opera was
received coldly. Gluck's victory was now complete. His last years
were spent in Vienna as an invalid, due to partial paralysis. He died
in Vienna of an apoplectic stroke on November- 15, 1787.
THE MAN
ROMAIN HOLLAND
Gluck's appearance is known to us through the fine portraits of
the period: through Houdon's bust, Duplessis' painting, and several
written descriptions— notes made by Burney in 1772 in Vienna, by
Christian von Mannlich in 1773 in Paris, by Reichardt in 1782 and
1783 in Vienna.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, strong, moderately stout, and of
compact and muscular frame. His head was round, and he had a
large red face strongly pitted with the marks of smallpox. His hair
was brown, and powdered. His eyes were gray, small and deep-set
but very bright; and his expression was intelligent but hard. He had
raised eyebrows, a large nose, full cheeks and chin, and a thick neck.
Some of his features rather recall those of Beethoven and Handel.
He had little singing voice, and what there was sounded hoarse
though expressive. He played the harpsichord in a rough and boister-
ous way, thumping it but getting orchestral effects out of it.
In society he often wore a stiff and solemn air, but he was quickly
roused to anger. Burney, who saw Handel and Gluck, compared
75 '
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
their characters. "Cluck's temper/' he said, "was as fierce as Han-
del's, and Handel's was a terror to everybody." Gluck lacked self-
control, was irritable, and could not get used to the customs of so-
ciety. He was plain-spoken to the verge of coarseness, and, according
to Christian von Mannlich, on the occasion of his first visit to Paris,
he scandalized twenty times a day those who spoke to him. He was
insensible to flattery but was enthusiastic about his own works. That
did not prevent him, however, from judging them fairly. He liked
few people— his wife, his niece, and some friends; but he was un-
demonstrative and without any of the sentimentality of the period;
he also held all exaggeration in horror and never made much of his
own people. He was a jolly fellow, nevertheless, especially after
drinking— for he drank and ate heartily until apoplexy killed him.
There was no idealism about him, and he had no illusions about
either men or things. He loved money and did not conceal the fact.
He was also very selfish, "especially at the table/' von Mannlich
says, "where he seemed to think he had a natural right to the best
morsels."
On the whole he was a rough sort and in no way a man of the
world, for he was without sentiment, seeing life as it was and born
to fight and break down obstacles like a wild boar with blows of its
snout. He had unusual intelligence in matters outside his art and
would have made a writer of no small ability if he had wished, for
his pen was full of sharp and acrid humor and crushed the Parisian
critics and pulverized La Harpe. Truly he had so much revolutionary
and republican spirit in him that there was no one to equal him in
that direction. No sooner had he arrived in Paris than he treated the
court and society in a way no other artist had ever had the courage
to do. On the first night of IphigSnie en Aulide, and at the last mo-
ment, after the king, the queen, and all the court had been invited,
he declared that the performance could not be given because the
singers were not ready; and in spite of accepted custom and people's
remarks, the piece was put off until another time- He had a quarrel
with Prince H&iin because he did not greet the prince properly
when they met at a party, and all Gluck said was, "The custom in
Germany is to rise only for people one respects." And-sign of the
76
GHRISTOPH WILLIBALD CLUCK
times— nothing would induce him to apologize; more than that,
Prince Henin had to go to Gluck when he wished to see him.
Gluck allowed the courtiers to pay him attentions. At rehearsals
he appeared in a nightcap and without his wig and would get the
noble lords present to help him with his toilet, so that it became an
honor to be able to hand him his coat or his wig. He held the duchess
of Kingston in esteem because she once said that "genius generally
signified a sturdy spirit and a love of liberty ."
In all these traits one sees the Encyclopedists' man— the mistrustful
artist jealous for his freedom, the plebeian genius, and Rousseau's
revolutionary.
THE COMPOSER
WILLIAM FOSTER APTHORP
In the year 1741, when Handel's last opera, Deidamia, was given
in London, Gluck's first, Artaserse, was brought out in Milan, a co-
incidence to be deemed significant by superstition. The grand auto-
crat of the old regime makes his parting bow just as the herald of
the new comes upon the scene: "le roi est mort! vive le roiF . . .
Even in this, his first opera, he determined to cut loose from many
of the traditions of the "oratorio" school, and write music that should
be at once dramatic and more scenic. But he told no one of his in-
tention, and finished his score—all but one aria— to suit himself. With
this one aria lacking, the opera was put into rehearsal, and every
musical dabster present pooh-poohed the "new style" most con-
temptuously. This Gluck had counted on; before the final rehearsal
he wrote the missing aria wholly in the conventional style, and a still
larger gathering of cognoscenti than had been at the first rehearsal
praised it highly, even suspecting it of coming from the pen of Gio-
vanni Battista Sammartini. The audience on the opening night
straightway quashed this verdict, though, crying out that that par-
ticular aria was simply insipid and quite unworthy of the rest of the
score. Thus did our young Oberpfdlzer slyboots score one off his
first judgesl
77
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
So Gluck had from the first this ambition to make the opera more
dramatic than his predecessors and contemporaries had clone. But
he had as yet no definite formula; his innovations were still evolu-
tionary rather than revolutionary; he did nothing that could be
called radical. Yet what he did was new enough to scare the critics
who, as academic policemen, guarded nothing more carefully than
the inviolable sacredness of the traditional form. But, if severely
handled at times by the critics, Gluck would now and then get com-
pensating sympathy from others. When a certain passage in the aria
"Se mai senti spirarti sul volto" in his Clemenza di Tito (1751) was
scathingly criticized, it was shown to old Francesco Durante (1684-
1755) who said: "I do not feel like deciding whether this passage is
entirely in accordance with the rules of composition; but this I can
tell you, that all of us, myself to begin with, would be very proud
of having thought of and written such a passage/'
From 1741 on, Gluck continued writing Italian operas; with enor-
mous success in Italy and Vienna, in spite of the critics. He traveled
a good deal, and the hearing of some Rameau operas in Paris must
have given him wholesome food for meditation. From about 1755
to 1761 he showed signs of lapsing into mere conventionalism and
seemed to treat opera-writing as sheer practice work, to gain tech-
nical facility. He had plainly become dissatisfied with the scope and
efficacy of his dramatic innovations in opera, and was meditating
a more thorough and logically formulated reform.
At last, in or about 1760, he met the right man to help him: the
Italian poet, Raniere de Calzabigi. With him he talked the problem
over: the defects of the Italian opera seria and how these defects
were best to be cured. The two pitched upon the following items as
lying at the root of the reigning evil: the irresponsible vanity of the
virtuoso singer, and the flaccid conventionality of the Metastasio
libretto— full of poetic beauty (of a sort) but almost totally lacking
dramatic quality, especially such as could be intensified by music,
The practical upshot was that Calzabigi wrote the text of Orfeo
ed Euridice and Gluck set it to music. One cannot help smiling at
the work's having first to be submitted to Metastasio, to avoid the
foregone conclusion of a fiasco; the court poet's influence was not
to be trifled with! Still more one must smile at Metastasio's carry-
78
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
ing his friendship for Gluck and Calzabigi to the point of "agreeing
to offer no active opposition to the new work/* sure in his good heart
that the public would take the trouble of damning it off his hands;
he little dreamt that he was digging his own grave!
Orfeo, brought out at the Vienna Burgtheater on October 5,
1762, was the first cannon-shot of the new revolution. It was no
"Veni, uidi, vici" being considerably discussed at first; but the pub-
lic came to it gradually. Much the same was true of Alcest e— libretto
by Calzabigi after Euripides— given on December 16, 1767. This
work fairly separated the sheep from the goats in the Viennese
public; the more seriously inclined saw that it was on a still higher
plane of tragic grandeur than Orfeo, but a large mass of opera goers
found it rather too much of a good thing. "If this is the sort of
evening's entertainment the Court Opera is to provide, goodbye; we
can go to church without paying two gulden!" Gluck had to find out
that fighting long-established convention is no bed of roses, and
that impeccably attired patrons of aristocratic opera are much in-
clined to resent seriousness that has not been cured of its deformity
by sweetly-warbling divinities of the virtuoso species. But unques-
tionable success came with time, and Alceste established Cluck's
position even more firmly than Orfeo had done.
Passing over Paride e Elena (1770)— a strong work, but ill re-
ceived by the public— we come to Cluck's meeting with the second
poet who was to have a determining influence on his destiny: Du
Rollet, attache to the French legation in Vienna. Du Rollet en-
couraged Cluck's already-formed wish to go to Paris. . . . [Gluck]
had become dissatisfied with the executive means he found in
Vienna and longed for the Academie de Musique where there were
"well-skilled and intelligent actors, who combined a noble and soul-
ful play of gesture with the art of song." Du Rollet took Racine's
Iphigenie en Aulide and turned it into a libretto, Gluck set to work
forthwith upon the score; even before it was completed it was pro-
nounced to be just the thing for Paris.
To wish to go to Paris was one thing; to get officially invited there,
another. It seemed to French chauvinism that Paris already had
quite enough foreigners to put up with in resident Italian musicians,
and that the prospect of having to do with an admittedly strong
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THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSEBS
German, and an aesthetic revolutionary to boot, was rather appalling.
There was plotting and counterplotting galore, letter-writing with-
out end. At last Marie Antoinette's influence carried the clay— she
had been Gluck's pupil in Vienna before her marriage.
When Gluck came to Paris in 1773 with Iphigcnie all ready for
the boards, his expectations of the personnel of the Academic de
Musique were not wholly fulfilled. He found the acting as good as
he had expected, but the principals, chorus, and orchestra had
fallen into the most deplorable musical habits; it took all his per-
sonal force, indomitable Teutonic pertinacity, and skill as a con-
ductor to whip them up to the mark. lie succeeded though, and
Iphigenie en Aulide was brought to a satisfactory performance on
April 19, 1774. Then the storm broke loosel
The chief contestants in this famous Gluck controversy were, on
Gluck's side, the Abbe Arnaud and the Anomjnie de Vauglrard
(really Suard by name); on the opposing side, Marmontel, La Ilarpe,
Guinguen6, d'Alembert, the Chevalier de Chastilleux, Framery, and
Coqueau. Grimm held a dignifiedly neutral position, or tried to
make believe he did; two of the most important of Gluck's favorers
were Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire, but neither of the two
took any active part in the fight. La Ilarpe— whose sharp wit fairly
took the bit in its teeth and got beyond his own or any one's control
—was the enfant terrible of the whole business, and did his own side
as much harm as good; the Anonyme de Vaugirard took an especial
delight in getting a rise out of him and prodding him to desperation.
Upon the whole, with all the wit, acute thought, and literary
ability brought to bear upon the matter, first and last, this once-great
controversy is not very edifying reading now. It is always the same
old story. . . . Read the discussion between Monteverdi and Artusi
. . . , the pen-and-ink tiffs between Wagnerians and anti-Wagnerians
. . . , and you will have read practically all that was urged for and
against Gluck. . . . The anti-Gluck side of the controversy is well
summarized by Schmid: "These criticisms had two different pur-
poses: first they tried to prove that the Ritter von Gluck lacked all
power of song, and next, that he set things to music that were not
appropriate to song."
The impression produced by Iphig&nie en Aulide as the perform-
80
GHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
ances wore on was still strengthened by Orfeo ed Euridice given in
August 1774. Gluck returned to Vienna for a while, taking with
him a remodelled version of the text of his Alceste by du Rollet and
Quinault's libretto of Armide, meaning to retouch the former score
and reset the latter text for Paris. He was at work on both scores
in Vienna when he got the news of the latest trick of his opponents
in Paris: the Italian, Niccolo Piccini had been invited and was to
set Quinault's Roland for the Academie de Musique. Gluck's pride
was bitten to the quick; a flaming letter of his to du Rollet found its
way (without his leave) into the Annee litteraire, and only served
still further to exasperate the opposition. The Italophiles now had a
champion of their own, and the Gluck controversy became the
Gluck-Piccini war, compared to which the old Handel-Bononcini
business in London was a mere squabble.
In 1776, Gluck came back to Paris, and Alceste was given at the
Academie de Musique on April 23. It was a bad night for the
Gluckists; the opera was roundly hissed, the disappointed composer
whimpering out "Alceste e$t tombee!" upon a friend's shoulder.
"Oui, tombee du del" replied the latter, fain to seek consolation in
an epigram. But the fiasco was only for a while; the gradual success
of Alceste in Vienna was repeated in Paris, and Gluck once more
ended by carrying the day.
On September 23, 1777, Armide was brought out; the immediate
result was about the same as usual, only that indifference took the
place of hissing. For one thing, the anti-Gluckists could not howl at
Gluck's "impudence" in daring to reset a text already set by the
great Lully, as it had been feared they would; for their own Piccini
had put them in a glass house by setting Quinault's Roland of which
Lully was also the original composer. Moreover, Gluck had paid
French taste no mean compliment in taking Quinault's Armide ex-
actly as it stood, without subjecting it to those modifications which
he had had in all his previous classical libretti. But the indifference
with which Armide was greeted at first soon wore off, and by the
time Piccini was ready with his Roland Gluck's position was again
very strong, indeed. Piccini, to say the truth, was a rather laggardly
champion, taking an infinite time in coming up to scratch, which
is partly to be accounted for by the poor man's not knowing a word
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THE WORLD OF GBEAT COMPOSERS
of French when he first set out to work on his score. But on Janu-
ary 27, 1778, Roland was at last brought out, after endless trouble
and squabbling at rehearsals; as a first cannon-shot into the Gluckist
camp, it did a certain amount of execution, at least the controversy
became doubly acrid after it. It remained at white heat until the
final "duel" settled matters.
It was agreed that both Gluck and Piccini should write an opera,
Iphigenie en Tauride; they could thus fight it out between them on
the same ground. Gluck took a libretto by dullard; Piccini, one by
Dubreuil. This "duel," as usual, was rather a long one, Gluck's
opera being given on May 18, 1779, Piccinfs not until January 23,
1781, some time after Gluck had left Paris for good. The result,
however, was decisive; GlucFs Iphigenie capped the climax of his
Paris success, and was indeed the first of his Paris operas that won
unquestionable public favor on the opening night, whereas Piccim s
had a mere succes d'estime even with its own party, the more eager
of whom tried to explain its quasi-failure with the general public
by the undeniable fact that, on the second night, the beauteous
Laguerre (who sang Iphig6nie) was hopelessly the worse for strong
]iqaor~-"Iphig£nie en champagne!" said pert Sophie Arnould, who
had sung Gluck's first Iphig6nie.
It is quite plain that the success of Gluck's Iphigenie en Tauride
was thoroughly genuine, based on the quality of the work itself. No
less strong an opera could have so utterly routed Pieeinfs as it did;
especially as Gluck, after his IphigSnie, had had a palpable failure
with his Echo et Narcisse on September 24, 1779, thus leaving Paris
with his latest opera on record as a fiasco. Piccini was, in truth, no
weakling at all; he was even something of a dramatic reformer in
opera himself, quite as much as Gluck in his earlier Italian and
Viennese days. But Gluck had far outstripped him since then, and
. . . Piccini was swept from the stage into oblivion, not because he
was weak, but because Gluck was stronger. . . . Had he not been
inadvisedly brought to Paris to take part in that unequal contest with
the doughty Austrian, he might have gone comfortably down in his-
tory as a worthy forerunner of the Gluck reform; but, being brought
face to face with and in opposition to it, he was crushed.
82
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
Echo et Narcisse was Gluck's last work for the stage; with it he
leaves the history of opera.
As a reformer, Gluck was but little of a radical, hardly anything of
a theorist. The best confession of artistic faith we have from his pen,
his preface to Alceste, stands in history with Euridice of Jacopo Peri
(1561-1633) and Victor Hugo's to Cromwell as one of the most
famous of its kind. But there is very little theorizing in it; it is, for
the most part, negative in character, pointing out what is most to
be avoided in opera writing. It is a document of sheer sound artistic
common sense, not a philosophico-scientific marshalling of prin-
ciples to a firmly based theory; admirable as far as it goes, but not
going far. Had Gluck's reform rested with this document alone,
there would have been little life in it.
The real essence and mainspring of this much talked-of reform was
Gluck's own intrinsic dramatic genius; his true strength as a reformer
lay in his work, not in his doctrine. In him the old dramatic spirit
of Peri, Monteverdi, and Pier Francesco Cavalli (1602-76) breathed
forth fresh and strong again; and it was the vigorous expression he
gave to this spirit in his music that won him adherents, while his
ruthless sacrifice of the time-honored conventional operatic frippery
to this expression made him enemies among those to whom old
habits were dear.
What was new in Gluck was his musico-dramatic individuality,
his style, for there was little really new in his principles. Not only
did these date back, as far as they went, to the earliest days of opera,
but the artistic sins and abuses he stigmatized— the slavish subservi-
ency of composers to the whims of the virtuoso singer, the sacrifice
of dramatic interest to irrelevant musical developments— had been
pointed out and deplored by more than one musician before him.
Gluck's reform did not lack precursory heralds; the evils he set
himself to cure had long been recognized as such, and he was not
the first to attempt to cure them. But he was the first to strike the
decisive blow, to go, if not quite to the root of the matter, at least
as near to the root as was necessary for his purpose. And, as for his
lack of radicalism, note how, in his preface, all of his negative theses
have their conditioning if and when. He does not oppose vocal
ornamentation, for instance, absolutely and along the whole line, but
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
only when it becomes damaging to dramatic common sense. He
showed the same lack of uncompromising radicalism in his practice:
there is many a vocal show-piece in his operas, but brought in the
right place, not into the midst of an ardent dramatic action,
Gluck is fairly to be regarded as the father of modern opera; a
sufficient commentary on this is the very fact that his are the earliest
operas that hold the stage to this day. He followed Karl Philipp Eman-
uel Bach (1714-88) and Haydn in employing a standard composition
of the orchestra, and banished the time-honored harpsichord from
it; he was thus the first opera composer to write out his scores
completely, leaving nothing to be added by the harpsichordist. He
was equally great in impassioned or pathetic melody and in every
form of recitative; his dramatic use of the chorus can hardly be sur-
passed in mastery. The opening scenes of the first and second acts
of Orfeo— Euridice's funeral rites and Orfeo's entrance into Hades-
are still unsurpassed masterpieces in this last particular.
Like most "new" men, Gluck was terribly fastidious about the
style in which his works were to be given. Concerning Orfeo's aria,
"Che fard senza Euridice?" he writes to the Duke of Braganza: "Were
one to make the slightest change in it, in the tempo or the mode of
expression, it would become an air for the marionette stage. In a
piece of this order, a more or less sustained note, a forcing of the
tone, a neglect of the proper tempo, a trill, roulade, etc., can en-
tirely destroy the effect of a scene." He was an inexorable rehearser,
infinitely hard to satisfy.
In a specific sense, Gluck's great achievement was to fix the form
of French grand opera for nearly a century, taking the form as
already established by Lully and Rameau for a basis, What may be
called the Gluck formula subsisted with but slight modification in
France until Meyerbeer came above the horizon. From Orfeo ed
Euridice to IphigSnie en Tauride, his operas are distinctly grand
operas; to produce their proper effect, they need not only fine acting
and singing and a competent orchestra, but a vast, well-equipped
stage and the most copious spectacular paraphernalia, especially a
superb ballet. They are essentially spectacular operas.
Gluck united in an unparallelled degree warmth of tempera-
ment with a certain classic reserve in expression; he was at home
84
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD CLUCK
in classical and mythological subjects, in the stately classic manner.
The true "romantic" strenuousness he had not; he would have made
but a poor hand at it with a Shakespearian libretto. But it would
be a dull ear that could not catch the poignancy that lurks behind
his measured dignity o£ expression, a dull heart that did not beat
responsively to the expansive force of his emotional heat. Perhaps
he is at his most poignant in his musical pictures of perfect happi-
ness; in grief and pathos he is great; but in serene, unalloyed bliss,
greater still. There is a deeper well of tears in the chorus of the
beatified spirits in his Orfeo than in "Che fard senza Euridice?" or
"Malheureuse Iphigenie!" Few men have produced such overwhelm-
ing effects on the lyric stage with so beautiful a simplicity of means;
let us part from him with his pet maxim (whether wholly true or
not matters little) on his lips: "Simplicity and truth are the sole right
principles of the beautiful in works of art."
GLUCK SPEAKS
When I undertook to set the opera Alceste to music, I resolved to
avoid all those abuses which had crept into Italian opera through
the mistaken vanity of singers and the unwise compliance of com-
posers, and which had rendered it wearisome and ridiculous, instead
of being, as it once was, the grandest and most imposing stage work
of modern times. I endeavored to reduce music to its proper func-
tion, that of seconding poetry by enforcing the expression of the
sentiment, and the interest of the situations, without interrupting
the action, or weakening it by superfluous ornament. My idea was
that the relation of music to poetry was much the same as that
of harmonious coloring and well-disposed light and shade to an
accurate drawing, which animates the figures without altering their
outlines. I have therefore been very careful never to interrupt a
singer in the heat of a dialogue in order to introduce a tedious ritor-
nelle, nor to stop him in the middle of a piece either for the purpose
of displaying the flexibility of his voice on some favorable vowel, or
that the orchestra might give him time to take breath before a long
85
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
sustained note, Furthermore, I have not thought it right to hurry
through the second part of a song if the words happened to be the
most important of the whole, in order to repeat the first part regu-
larly four times over; or to finish the air where the sense does not
end in order to allow the singer to exhibit his power of varying the
passage at pleasure. In fact, my object was to put an end to abuses
against which good taste and good sense have long protested in vain.
My idea was that the overture ought to indicate the subject and
prepare the spectators for the character of the piece they are about
to see; that the instruments ought to be introduced in proportion to
the degree of interest and passion in the words; and that it was
necessary above all to avoid making too great a disparity between
the recitative and the air of a dialogue, so as not to break the sense
of a period or awkwardly interrupt the movement and animation
of a scene.
I also thought that my chief endeavor should be to attain a grand
simplicity, and consequently I have avoided making a parade of
difficulties at the cost of clearness; I have set no value on novelty as
such, unless it was naturally suggested by the situation and suited
to the expression. In short, there was no rule which I did not con-
sider myself bound to sacrifice for the sake of effect.
86
JOSEPH HAYDN
1732-1809
FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN was born in Rohrau, lower Austria, on March
31, 1732. As a child he went to live in the house o£ a relative, Jo-
hann Matthias Frankh, who gave him a thorough musical training.
Between 1740 and 1748 Haydn was a chorister at St. Stephen's
Cathedral in Vienna. During that period he earned his living by
teaching, playing the harpsichord, and doing hack work, but all the
while immersing himself deeply into serious music study. In 1755
^he was engaged by Karl Joseph von Fiirnberg as conductor of his
orchestra, for which he wrote various nocturnes and divertimentos. It
was during this period that he also created his first string quartets.
While employed at the palace of Count Morzin, between 1758 and
1760, he wrote his first symphonies. In 1760 he married Maria Anna
Keller, a marriage that proved unhappy from the beginning and
soon gave way to a permanent separation. In 1761, Haydn became
second Kapellmeister for Prince Paul Anton Esterhazy at his estate
in Eisenstadt. When the Esterhazys built a new palace at Esterhaz,
Haydn assumed the status of full Kapellmeister (1766) and held this
postffor almost a quarter of a century. For the many concert and
opera performances at Esterhaz, Haydn produced a vast repertory
of compositions in virtually every field and form, arriving at full
maturity as creative artist. He rarely left Esterhaz, except for occa-
sional visits to Vienna where he met Mozart and became one of
his most devoted friends and admirers.
In 1790, Haydn withdrew from his Esterhaz post and went to
live in Vienna. In 1791 and 1794, Johann Peter Salomon, impresario
and violinist, invited him to London to lead orchestral concerts.
For these performances Haydn wrote twelve celebrated symphonies
now identified as the London or Salomon Symphonies. Back in
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Vienna after the second visit, Haydn wrote in 1797 a patriotic
hymn which became the Austrian national anthem. Between 1798
and 1801 he completed two choral masterworks, The Creation and
The Seasons, his first attempts at writing oratorios. He died in Vienna
on May 31, 1809, and was buried in the Hundsthurm churchyard;
in 1820 his remains were reinterred in the upper parish church of
Eisenstadt.
THE MAN
ALBERT CHRISTOPH DIES
Haydn was something under middle height. The lower half of his
figure was too short for the upper. This is frequently to be observed
with small people of both sexes, but in Haydn it was very notice-
able because he kept to the antiquated style of trousers reaching only
to the hips, . . . His features were rather regular, his glance speak-
ing, fiery and yet temperate, kindly and inviting. When he was
in a serious mood his features, along with his glance, expressed
dignity; otherwise he readily assumed a smiling mien in conversation.
I never heard him laugh out loud. Haydn had a moderately strong
build; his muscles were spare. His hawk nose (he suffered much from
a nasal polyp which doubtless actually enlarged this organ) as well
as the rest of his face was deeply marked with smallpox. The nose
itself was pockmarked, so that the nostrils each had a different
shape.
Haydn considered himself ugly and mentioned to ine a prince
and his wife who could not stand his appearance "because," he said,
"I was too ugly for them." But this supposed ugliness lay not at all
in the cut of his features but solely in the skin, eaten away with
pockmarks and of a brown tint.
For the sake of cleanliness, Haydn wore, even in his youth, a
wig with a braid and a few side curls. Fashion had no influence on
the shape of his wig; until his death he remained faithful to the
same style and wore the wig only two inches above his eyebrows, so
that his forehead looked disproportionately low.
JOSEPH HAYDN
Orderliness seemed as native to him as industry. Tidiness and
cleanliness were conspicuous in his person and in his whole house-
hold. He never, for instance, received visits before he was fully
dressed. If surprised by a friend, he sought to gain at least enough
time to put on his wig again.
His love of order prompted Haydn to arrange a careful schedule
of work and business hours; he was displeased when necessity forced
him to a deviation. It would be far from true, however, to say he
was a man who lived by the clock. At the end I will set forth his
daily schedule; from this the reader will be able to observe how the
hours were divided and assigned. He was a sensible manager of
money. I several times heard him accused of avarice by people who
did not know him very well. I had opportunity enough to inquire
into this charge and found it false. The miser has no feeling for the
want of others and does not help even his nearest relatives. When
Haydn needed money he was most energetic about earning it; but
as soon as it had been acquired and was in his hands, he felt the
disposition to share it. He could often call his household together
with the words, "Children, here is money!" and give to each, accord-
ing to his service, five, ten, fifteen or twenty florins.
There was in his character much cheerfulness, sport and mischief,
the more popular and also the more subtle, but always the most
highly original musical wit. People have often called it humor and
have traced back to it, with justice, his predilection for musical
teasing.
He was a man of gratitude. As soon as he could, he secretly repaid
kindnesses done him in his youthful years— but did not forget, mean-
while, his numerous relatives. Honor and fame were the two driving
forces that dominated him; yet no instance is known to me when
they degenerated to a greed for renown. His natural modesty pre-
vented this. He never disparaged other musicians.
In younger years he was said to have been highly susceptible to
love. Of this I would have said nothing, but I noticed that into old
age he remained most courteous to women and even kissed their
hands.
His division of the hours and the order that resulted may strike
some of my readers as machine-like. But if you consider the many
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THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
works that flowed from Haydn's pen you will admit that he simply
used his time wisely. He had observed his body and knew what he
could expect of it; idle he could not be; change gratified him; order
had come to be second nature to him; and so his daily schedule
took shape.
In the warmer season Haydn got up at half-past six and shaved
himself at once. This task he left to no other hand until he was
in his seventy-third year. Then he dressed completely. If a pupil
was present while he was dressing, he had to play the lesson assigned
on the piano. The mistakes were noted, principles thereon ex-
pounded, and a new assignment then given for the next lesson.
At eight o'clock Haydn took his breakfast. Right after that he sat
down at the piano and improvised until he found ideas that served
his intent. These he immediately committed to paper. Thus were
born the first draft of his compositions.
At half-past eleven he received visitors or took a walk and paid
visits himself. The hour from two to three was set aside for dinner.
After dinner he always undertook some little domestic chore or
else he went into his library and took a book to read.
At four o'clock he went back to his musical labors. He took the
drafts sketched out in the morning and orchestrated them. To this
work he devoted three or four hours. At eight o'clock in the evening
he usually went out but came home at nine and either set to work
on his scores again or took a book and read until ten o'clock. The
time around ten was reserved for the evening meal. Haydn had
made it a rule to consume nothing in the evening but bread and
wine; this rule he violated only now and then when he was invited
somewhere for supper. He loved gay talk at the table; in general
he liked cheerful conversation. At half -past eleven he went to bed;
in his old age, even later.
Winter time, as a rule, made no difference to his daily schedule
except that he rose half an hour later in the morning; everything
else remained as in the summer.
In advanced age, especially in the last five or six years of his life,
bodily weakness and illness ruined the schedule described above.
The active man could at last no longer work.
90
JOSEPH HAYDN
THE COMPOSER
W. OLIVER STRUNK
In Haydn's London diary, among the entries for 1791, there
is this note: "On December 5 there was a fog so thick that one might
have spread it on bread. In order to write I had to light a candle
as early as eleven o'clock." Could Haydn have known what had
happened in Vienna on that critical morning, he would not have
cared to write at all. As it was, he wrote on; two weeks later he
received news of Mozart's death. "I am as pleased as a child at the
thought of coming home and embracing my good friends," he writes
to Marianne von Genzinger on the 20th. "My one regret is that
the great Mozart will not be among them, if it be true, as I trust
it is not, that he is dead. Not in a hundred years will posterity see
such a talent again."
Though the Haydn who penned these lines was no longer a young
man, his vitality was unimpaired, his productivity unabated. "I am
still sprightly and in the full possession of my strength," he had
assured Mozart before leaving Vienna; early in 1792 he reports
with evident satisfaction to Frau von Genzinger that he has never
written so much in one year as in that just passed. His reputation,
already distinguished, now assumed such proportions that, in later
life, he often insisted that he had become famous in Germany only
by way of England. Strangers stopped to stare at him, exclaiming:
"You are a great man!" Within less than a year three fashionable
artists had painted his portrait. Honored with a Doctor's degree
conferred by Oxford University, feted by professional and amateur
musicians, sought after by peer and commoner alike, Haydn took
most satisfaction, perhaps, in his new-found independence. "How
sweet a little liberty tastes!" he writes. "I used often to sigh for
freedom—now I have it, in a measure. I appreciate it, too, though my
mind is burdened with a multitude of tasks. The knowledge that
I am no longer a hired servant repays me for all my trouble." For
thirty years Haydn had written for select group of connoisseurs;
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
now, at fifty-nine, the opportunity to address a wider audience had
come to him at last. The change brought with it a new sense of
responsibility— to art and to society—a sense of responsibility that
found ultimate expression in his great oratorios, The Creation (1798)
and The Seasons (1801).
As Mozart's biographer, Otto Jahn, once observed, the difficult
task is to portray the Haydn of the 50?s, 60's, and TOY "Thus far we
know little, if anything, about him and about the conditions and in-
fluences to which he was subject. The Haydn everyone knows is
not Mozart's forerunner, but his contemporary and successor/" Our
knowledge of the musical environment from which Haydn sprang
goes further than Jahn's, but for most of us the works of his earlier
years still remain uncharted territory. Let us begin, then, on familiar
ground— with the music of the post-Mozartian Haydn. We will
follow him the more easily through the vicissitudes and complexities
of his upward climb if we have first seen the goal at which he aimed.
And we will recognize the more readily that his music is something
more than an introduction to Mozart and Beethoven, that his role
in musical history is something more than a pioneer, if we take as our
starting point the works of his last period.
During the London years Haydn is preoccupied with instrumental
composition; after his return to Vienna., "the father of the symphony"
tends more and more to write for voices. Up until the time of the
composition of The Seasons there is no slackening of his pace. The
piano variations in F minor (1793), the three last piano sonatas
(c. 1794), a set of three piano trios dedicated to Mrs. Schrocter, his
"invariable and truly affectionate" correspondent (c. 1795), another
for Mrs. Bartolozzi, the wife of the London engraver (1795-96),
the six "Apponyf string quartets (1793), and the twelve "London"
symphonies (1791-95)-these major instrumental works are surely
no mean achievement for a man in his sixties. To the next five years
belong the eight string quartets dedicated to Count Erdody and to
Prince Lobkowitz (c. 1799), four of the last six Masses (1796*99),
the Te Deum in C (c. 1798), and the two oratorios. With the compo-
sition of The Seasons, Haydn's creative activity is practically ended.
In 1801 he writes the Schopfungsmesse and in 1802 the Harmonie-
messe. Then, in 1803, he completes two movements of his last string
92
JOSEPH HAYDN
quartet (1803), dedicated to Count Fries. It was never finished. "I
am no longer able to work at anything big," he writes to Thomson
in the following year. "My age weakens me more and more." Yet
for a time his imagination remains as keen as ever: in 1806, on his
seventy-fourth birthday, he expresses the conviction that there are
no limits to music's possibilities, that what may still be accomplished
in music is far greater than what has been accomplished in the past.
Often, he says, there come to him ideas through which the art
might be advanced much further; his physical limitations, however,
no longer permit him to undertake their expression.
"The secret of music's effect lies essentially in this: that in compo-
sition everything comes as it must come, yet otherwise than we
expect." However one-sided his view of the romantic scene may
have been, Eduard Hanslick was a shrewd judge of classical values;
in its application to the music of the last quarter of the 18th century
this brilliant aphorism of his comes very near the mark. The kind
of effect he has in mind is not possible in every stage of the develop-
ment of a style. In the experimental stage its presence is inconceiv-
able; in the conventional stage, which follows, we seldom meet with
it. Only when the rules of the game are well established is it feasible
for the composer to play on the expectation of his listener. And even
then, to play on expectation he must first arouse it. To secure em-
phasis he must first exercise self-control. He cannot afford to be
continually surprising his listener. He must be simple before he is
complex, regular before he is irregular, straightforward before he is
startling. The composer of the Surprise Symphony understood the
working of these first principles. He could be simple, regular, and
straightforward; this is a point that need not be brought home to the
modern reader, who is only too apt to exaggerate the extent—or mis-
understand the purpose-of this side of Haydn's writing. He could
also be original without being eccentric; this the more generous
among his contemporaries were always ready to concede. "That
sounds queer," Kozeluch once remarked to Mozart, startled by a
bold transition in a Haydn quartet, "would you have written it that
way?" "Scarcely," Mozart replied, "but do you know why? Because
neither you nor I would have hit on the idea."
Eminently suited to the display of the particular sort of originality
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
that consists in playing on the expectation of the listener is the sonata
form, as Haydn saw it toward the end of his career. In this type of
movement the climax of interest regularly coincides with the begin-
ning of the third part— the return of the principal tonality and the
principal idea; artistic success or failure depends largely on the way
this climax is hastened or delayed and on the angle from which it is
approached. Once the third part has begun the listener's recollection
of what has gone before leads him to anticipate the composer's every
step; in this part of the design each deviation from the familiar path
is a potential source of aesthetic pleasure or disappointment.
The compositions Haydn wrote for London are so full of this kind
of originality that it is difficult to single out any one work to illustrate
it. Let us choose one of the most familiar— the last of the three sym-
phonies of 1795, the last of all Haydn's symphonies, the so-called
"London" Symphony in D. Turn to the finale and observe how skill-
fully Haydn prepares the "return/' growing more and more deliber-
ate as he approaches the critical point, wandering further and fur-
ther from the key at which he intends to arrive, then thinking better
of it and making an unlooked-for close that is at once the end of the
second part and the beginning of the third; before we have realized
it, the "return" has been accomplished. Or turn to the first move-
ment, compare the third part with the first, and observe how artfully
Haydn delays restatement of the "second subject"— as is quite usual
with him, it is the "first subject" all over again;— only when we have
almost given up hope of hearing it does he bring it in at last. It is
in the original treatment of just such details as these that the su-
periority of the London Haydn over the rank and file is most evident.
In the compelling audacity of their design, the compositions Haydn
wrote for London represent the final development of form in classical
music. While he was writing these compositions, plans were already
taking shape in his mind for a work that was to make his name last
in the world.
"Since time immemorial the Creation has been regarded as the
most exalted, most awe-inspiring picture that mankind can contem-
plate. To accompany this great drama with suitable music can surely
have no other result than that of intensifying these sacred emotions
in men's hearts and of making them more submissive to the benevo-
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JOSEPH HAYDN
lent omnipotence of their Creator/' These lines from a letter Haydn
wrote in 1801— three years after he had completed The Creation—
throw a revealing light on the frame of mind in which the aging
master approached this most exacting of all the tasks he set himself.
For the devout Catholic who habitually began and ended his manu-
scripts with the words, "In nomine Domini" and "Laus Deo/7 the
subject was made to order. The work of composition occupied him
for two full years. "I spend much time on it/' he said, "because I in-
tend it to last a long time." For once, the composer who "never wrote
until he was sure of himself" made systematic sketches. To Grie-
singer, his first biographer, he confessed that he had half finished
his score before its success was apparent to him. "I was never so
devout as during the time I was working on The Creation" Grie-
singer quotes Haydn as saying. "Every day I fell on my knees and
prayed God that he might give me strength to bring this work to a
satisfactory conclusion." Early in 1798, shortly after the composer's
sixty-sixth birthday, that satisfactory conclusion was announced. Be-
fore the oratorio had been publicly performed, Haydn was at work
on The Seasons.
"With the decrease of my mental powers, my inclination and the
urge to work seem almost to increase/' Haydn wrote in June, 1799,
to the publishers Breitkopf & Hartel. "Every day I receive many
compliments— even on the fire of my last works; no one will believe
what trouble and strain I endure to produce them/' Goethe's friend
Zelter called The Seasons "a work of youthful vigor and mature
mastery." Schiller's friend Streicher came nearer the truth in 1809
when he called it "a musical debauch." "Without it," he added,
"Haydn would assuredly have enjoyed ten more years of activity/'
Haydn himself said that The Seasons had "finished" him.
Haydn often regretted that he was never able to visit Italy. But it
is a question whether he would have profited half as much from such
a visit as he did from his two visits to England. Without them neither
The Creation nor The Seasons would have been written. The two
oratorios owe something to English poetry— one is based on an adap-
tation from Milton's Paradise Lost, the other on Thomson's Seasons.
They owe more to the English audience and to the Anglicized Han-
del, whose music was virtually new to Haydn when he arrived in
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
London. The Handel Commemoration in 1791 and the "Concerts
of Ancient Music" were revelations. To the English composer,
Shield, who asked his opinion of The Nations Tremble in Handel's
Joshua, Haydn replied that he had long been acquainted with music,
but never knew half its powers before he heard it; when Shield
praised the recitatives in Haydn's early oratorio II Ritorno di Tobia
(1775), Haydn declared that the recitative Deeper and Deeper Still
in Handel's Jephtha surpassed them in pathos and contrast. Power,
pathos, and contrast— these are the secrets of Handel's greatness, and
when Haydn returned to Vienna he took them with him. Written
for the concerts of the "Society of Noble Amateurs,'' The Creation
and The Seasons speak to the plain man.
One type of artist is concerned with design, another with expres-
sion. Haydn is concerned with both. The classic perfection of the
"London" symphonies and the "Apponyi" quartets has its counter-
part in the romantic intensity of the works of his last years in Vienna.
In the light of later development Haydn's romanticism may appear
somewhat restrained to us; to his contemporaries it was bold and
even startling. The rich sonorities of his last quartets and orchestral
accompaniments point to Beethoven and to Weber, The simple piety
of his Creation is no less affecting than the artless realism of his
Seasons. The ordered lawlessness of his Representation of Chaos
breaks down old barriers. "It is impossible and contrary to rule that
so excellent a piece should be accepted, universally and at once, for
what it is and alone can be," Zelter wrote in Breitkopfs journal.
"Certain deep-rooted theories, derived from the works of an earlier
period, remain eternally at odds with the spirit of progress, leading
inevitably to the kind of criticism that is always demanding, but
does not know how to accept." Haydn thanked Zelter for praising
the Chaos by saying: "You could and would have written it just as
I did." To which Zelter replied, modestly and with perfect truth: "I
could never have written it as you did, great master, nor shall I ever
be capable of doing so."
As he approached the end of his career, Haydn became increas-
ingly sensible of the social responsibility of the artist, and of all the
testimonials showered on him during his declining years he prized
those most that bore witness to his honorable discharge of this obli-
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JOSEPH HAYDN
gation. He took particular pride, Griesinger tells us, in the honorary
citizenship conferred on him by the municipal authorities of Vienna,
seeing in this an illustration of the old saying, "Vox populi, vox Dei."
Another tribute of the same kind, simpler, perhaps, but no less sin-
cere, moved him to write what is at once the most revealing and
the most touching of all his letters. From the little town of Bergen,
capital of the island of Riigen in the Baltic, a society of amateurs
wrote to thank him for the pleasure that performing his Creation
had given its membership.
"Gentlemen: (Haydn replied) It was a truly agreeable surprise to
me to receive so flattering a letter from a quarter to which I could
never have presumed that the productions of my feeble talent would
penetrate. Not only do you know my name, I perceive, but you per-
form my works, fulfilling in this way the wish nearest my heart: that
every nation familiar with my music should adjudge me a not wholly
unworthy priest of that sacred art. On this score you appear to quiet
me, so far as your country is concerned; what is more, you give me
the welcome assurance— and this is the greatest comfort of my de-
clining years— that I am often the source from which you, and many
other families receptive to heartfelt emotion, derive pleasure and
satisfaction in the quiet of your homes. How soothing this reflection
is to me!
"Often, as I struggled with obstacles of all kinds opposed to my
works—often, as my physical and mental powers sank, and I had
difficulty in keeping to my chosen course— an inner voice whispered
to me: There are so few happy and contented men here below—
on every hand care and sorrow pursue them— perhaps your work may
some day be a source from which men laden with anxieties and
burdened with affairs may derive a few moments of rest and re-
freshment/ This, then, was a powerful motive to persevere, this the
reason why I can even now look back with profound satisfaction
on what I have accomplished in my art through uninterrupted effort
and application over a long succession of years."
The fifty most active years of his life— the fifty years between the
first compositions and his Seasons— coincide with one of the most
restless and fruitful half-centuries in all musical history— the half-
century between Bach's death in 1750 and Beethoven's first sym-
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THE WOULD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
phony in 1800. Old forms and old methods had gone the way of
old ideals; pathos had yielded to sentiment, severity to informality;
music had become less comprehensive, more individual, less uniform,
more many-sided, less intellectual, more spontaneous. Tastes had
changed, and a combination of forces— social, cultural, and artistic-
had brought about a complete reversal of musical values. Before the
pre-classical movement had reached its height in the music of Bach
and Handel, these forces were already working toward its dissolution;
by the middle of the century they had undermined the old structure
and laid out in bold outline the ground plan of the new.
"We have gradually rid ourselves of the preconceived idea that
great music is at home only in Italy. Respect for those illustrious
names in ini and elli is disappearing, and Germans, formerly occu-
pied with the modest business of accompaniment, have raised them-
selves to the first place in the orchestra of the powers. We no longer
listen to the swaggering foreigners, and our scribes, who only yes-
terday were so bent on propagating fair copies of the empty eccen-
tricities of Italians devoid of ideas, now vie with one another for
the honor of making the works of their countrymen known/'
So Marpurg wrote in 1749, and it is noteworthy that this somewhat
rhetorical declaration of his, far from being a random observation
stands at the very beginning of his Critical Musician. That just at
this time there should have been a belated reawakening of national
feeling among German musicians is highly significant. Having assimi-
lated all that Italy could give, Germany was ready to strike out for
herself, and in her leading musical centers-Berlin, Mannheim, and
Vienna— native musicians were even now contending for the su-
premacy.
It was at this moment that Haydn, dismissed at seventeen from
the cathedral choir-school in Vienna, faced the problem of shifting
for himself. His immediate musical environment, while not precisely
dominated by the Italian tradition, was less aggressively German
than that of Berlin or Mannheim; what is perhaps more important,
it was an eminently popular environment, related in a variety of
ways to the everyday life of the community. The popular theater
was in a flourishing condition. Georg Christoph Wagenseil (1715-
77), Josef Starzer (1726-87), and Johann Adam Karl Georg von
98
JOSEPH HAYDN
Reutter (1708-72) were putting the music of the street and the
dance-hall to artistic uses in their serenades and divertimenti;
Georg Matthias Monn (1717-50), another Viennese musician of the
older generation, is thought to have been the first to introduce the
minuet in a symphony. Haydn, true to his surroundings, began by
composing music of just this kind. One of his earliest experiments
was a serenade, and, according to one account, it was an improvised
performance of this piece that brought him his first commission and
led to the composition of his first "opera," Der krumme Teufel
(1752). To the same category belong his earliest quartets, written for
his first patron, Baron Fiirnberg in Weinzierl, and the numerous di-
vertimenti for various combinations that he wrote before and during
his brief service as musical director to Count Morzin in Lukavec.
Le Midi (1761), one of his first symphonies, already contains a min-
uet. To recognize the Haydn we know in the compositions of this
early period is no easy matter; at no other time in his life is the
Italian influence more marked. While contemptuously repudiating
the "scribbler" Giovanni Battista Sammartini (1701-75), whom Mys-
liweczek had called the father of his style, Haydn was always ready
to acknowledge his debt to Niccolo Porpora (1686-1768). Berlin
and Mannheim are negligible factors, so far, though by 1760 Haydn
was not only a fervent admirer of Bach's son Carl Philipp Emanuel
(1732-95), but had already gone so far as to dedicate one of his
compositions to Stamitz's patron, the Elector Karl Theodor. "I
wrote industriously, but not quite correctly," Haydn said himself,
and when in 1805 a score of his first mass was discovered and
brought to him after fifty-three years, his comment was: "What
pleases me most in this work is a certain youthful fire."
The next few years brought important changes in Haydn's out-
ward circumstances and in the kind of music he was called upon to
supply. In 1761, on his appointment as second Kapellmeister to
Prince Paul Anton Esterhdzy at Eisenstadt, he found himself in a
responsible and highly desirable position exceedingly favorable to
the development of his gifts and reputation; in 1762, on Paul Anton's
death and the arrival of his brother and successor, Prince Nicholas,
his responsibilities were materially increased, for the new employer
was not only an ardent music-lover, but an amateur performer as
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
well, and the demand for new compositions was relentless and almost
unlimited. Then, in March, 1766, Haydn was made first Kapell-
meister, and a few months later the opening of the magnificent
residence Prince Nicholas had built at Esterhaz— with its opera house
seating four hundred and its marionette theater— again increased his
responsibilities, obliging him to devote serious attention to operatic
composition, a branch of music in which he had thus far had little
experience.
Haydn's first fifteen years at Eisenstadt and EsterMz constitute a
period that is surely one of the most interesting of his long career: it
is the period during which the foundation of his later reputation was
laid; during which the works of his first maturity were written; dur-
ing which he ceased to feel the influence of his lesser contemporaries
and, abandoning their conventions, became himself a determining
influence in the career of the younger Mozart. Entering the Ester-
hdzy service an almost unknown musician, Haydn began at once to
attract attention, not only in Vienna, but in other musical centers.
In 1763, Breitkopf s catalogues announce eight "quadros" and six
trios for strings, with two concertos and a divertimento for the harp-
sichord, as available in manuscript; from the same year dates one
of the earliest notices of Haydn on record, a manuscript note in an
interleaved copy of Walther's Lexikon now in the Library of Con-
gress: "Haydn, an incomparable musician and composer, lives in
Vienna and distinguishes himself in the writing of fine quartets,
trios, and symphonies." The first recorded publication of a work of
Haydn's occurred in March of the following year, when the Paris
publisher Venier advertised an edition of one of the early quartets
in his series Sinfonie a piu Stromenti Composte da Vari Autori
(Opera Decima Quarto) under the title Les noms inconnus bons d
connoitre (Unknown names worth knowing) in company with com-
positions by Van Maldere, Beck, Pfeiffer, Schetky, and Franzl By
1775 a formidable array of Haydn's sonatas, duos, trios, quartets, and
symphonies had been engraved (apparently without the composer's
authorization!) in Paris, Amsterdam, and London; the Vienna edi-
tions began in 1774 with Kurtzbock's printing of six sonatas. As early
as 1766 Haydn is mentioned in magazines published in Leipzig and
Hamburg, while in Vienna he was already being called "the darling
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JOSEPH HAYDN
of our nation/' So universal, in fact, was die recognition accorded
Haydn by the end of this period that in responding in 1776 to a
request for an autobiographical sketch he could write: "In my
chamber music I have had the good fortune to please almost every-
where, save in Berlin!"
Successively considered, the compositions of the decade 1765 to
1775 reveal Haydn's steadily increasing mastery of form and con-
tent. Not satisfied with the facile polish of his fourth series of string
quartets (op. 9, 1769), he strove in those that followed toward greater
refinement of workmanship, toward more intense formal concentra-
tion, toward the suppression of the episodic and conventional (op.
17, 1771), resorting in the last series written during this period (op.
20, 1772) to time-honored contrapuntal devices to enhance the in-
terest and insure the balance of his texture. At the same time Haydn
contrived to give his music a more individual note. In their book
on Mozart, Wyzewa and Saint-Foix draw attention to certain par-
ticularly striking examples of this tendency in the works of the early
1770's-the C minor Piano Sonata (1771), the quartets op. 20, "a la
fois patMtiques et savants9 (1772), the Trauersymphonie (c. 1772)
the Farewell Symphony (1772)— and speak of the year 1772 as the
"romantic crisis" of Haydn's artistic career. A year or two later, the
same writers tell us, still another change took place in Haydn's
manner. Now he surrenders to the "galant" style, and henceforward
his principal aim is to impress us agreeably or to amuse us with
ingenious turns of musical rhetoric.
Then, in 1781, came the publication of the "Russian" quartets, op.
33, the series that ushered in the style Haydn himself described as
"entirely new." Here is the turning point in his career. Until now
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach had been Haydn's principal model; with
the appearance of the "Russian" quartets Mozart began to take
Bach's place. In the "Paris" symphonies (1786), the Oxford Symphony
(1788), and the two sets of quartets written in 1789 and 1790 for the
Viennese wholesale merchant Johann Tost, Haydn attained full
maturity, and the transition to the works of the last decade was only
a step.
While Haydn had been at work, a new kind of music had grown
from tentative beginnings to conscious maturity; his own music had
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
itself passed through every stage in that growth, now following in
a path cleared by others, now leading the way. With the possible
exception of Handel, no great composer was ever more prolific; with
the possible exception of Beethoven, no great composer ever main-
tained so fresh an outlook. Keeping pace with contemporary develop-
ments and more often anticipating them, Haydn ended even more
progressively than he had begun.
HAYDN SPEAKS
As soon as I caught an idea, all my efforts were bent to make it
conform to the rules of art and be supported by them. In this way
I tried to help myself. It is in this that our new composers are most
lacking: they line up one small passage after another and break off
when they have hardly begun. Nothing remains in the memory of
the hearer after he has listened to such works.
When I judged a thing to be beautiful, that is to say, when my
ear and mind were satisfied with it, I preferred to let a little solecism
creep in rather than to sacrifice it to a dry academic rhetoric.
I never was a quick writer, and always composed with care and
deliberation. That alone is the way to compose works that will last,
and a real connoisseur can see at a glance whether a score has been
written in undue haste or not.
It is the air which is the charm of music, and it is that which is
most difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is the work
of genius. ... In vocal composition the art of producing beautiful
melody may now almost be considered as lost; and when a composer
is so fortunate as to throw off a passage that is really melodious, he
is sure, if he be not sensible of its excellence, to overwhelm and
destroy it by the fullness and superfluity of his instrumental parts.
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JOSEPH HAYDN
Art is free and must not be enslaved by mechanical regulations. The
cultivated ear must decide, and I believe myself as capable as anyone
of making laws in this respect. . . . Supposing an idea struck me
as good and thoroughly satisfactory both to the ear and the heart.
I would far rather pass over some slight grammatical error than sacri-
fice what seemed to me beautiful to any mere pedantic trifling.
I have had converse with emperors, kings, and great princes and
have heard many flattering praises from them; but I do not wish
to live on a familiar footing with such persons, and I prefer people
of my own class.
Since God has given me a cheerful heart, He will forgive me for
serving Him cheerfully. Whenever I think of the dear Lord, I have
to laugh. My heart jumps for joy in my breast.
103
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
1750-1791
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART was born in Salzburg, Austria, on
January 27, 1756. He began to study the harpsichord when he was
four, and wrote his first compositions at five. His childhood exploits
in music have become legends, the yardstick by which all prodigies
were henceforth measured. In his boyhood he made sensational
appearances in European courts. Before he reached his fourteenth
birthday he had four violin sonatas published in Paris, his first
symphonies performed in London, and an opera buffa commissioned
from the Austrian Emperor.
Strange to say, he was appreciated least of all in his native city.
Despite his triumphs elsewhere in Europe, he was treated by his
employer— the Salzburg Archbishop—like a menial servant, subjected
to considerable abuse. In 1777 he sought escape from his ignomini-
ous existence by seeking a lucrative post elsewhere. He traveled
throughout Germany, and in 1778 came to Paris. But the mature
musician—even though a musician of formidable endowments and
achievements— was much less electrifying than a child prodigy.
Only insignificant ofFers came his way. Mozart had to return to
Salzburg, to his humble post in the Archbishop's court.
The successful premiere of his opera, Idomeneo, in Munich on
January 29, 1781, once again made him impatient with Salzburg.
In 1782, he broke permanently with the city of his birth, and with
his employer, and went to live in Vienna, from then on his perma-
nent home. A commission from the Emperor to write an opera-
Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail (The Abduction from the Seraglio),
introduced on July 16, 1782-encouraged him to believe that a turn
of fortune had finally come. Optimistic about his future, Mozart
married Constance Weber on August 4, 1782. But in Vienna, as in
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WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
Salzburg, he encountered only frustrations and disappointments.
He made powerful enemies, most notably the influential court com-
poser, Antonio Salieri (1750-1825), who did everything he could to
impede Mozart's progress. Besides this, the frugal Emperor made no
attempt to employ him. Compelled to earn a living by teaching and
performing, Mozart lived in abject poverty. But nothing was able-
to stem the tide of his production. He wrote masterwork after master-
work in every conceivable form, of a quantity and a quality to
stagger the imagination. Some in Vienna recognized Mozart's genius;
one of these was Joseph Haydn who described the younger man
as "the greatest composer I know either personally or by name."
There were some major successes, to be sure: that of Le Nozze
di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro), introduced at the Burgtheater
on May 1, 1786; that of Don Giovanni, at Prague on October 29,
1787. There was even a post at the Viennese court: When Gluck
died late in 1787, Mozart succeeded him as court composer and
chamber musician, but at a sharply reduced salary. ^
Mozart's personal fortunes remained at a low ebb for the rest
of his life. He was often compelled to turn to friends for sadly-
needed loans to keep body and soul together. Impoverished, his
spirit crushed, his body now wracked with pain through illness, he
nevertheless continued to create crowning works of music. In the
last year of his life— with his spiritual fend physical resources at their
lowest— he completed the opera Die Zauberflote (The Magic Flute),
introduced in Vienna on September 30, 1791; the Requiem, which
was left unfinished by his death and was completed by his pupil,
Siissmayr; the Aoe Verum, for chorus; the B-flat major Piano Con-
certo; and the E-flat major String Quintet. He died in Vienna on
December 5, 1791. After a pitiful ceremony, attended only by a
handful of friends, Mozart was buried in a pauper's section of St.
Marx Cathedral, with no tombstone or cross to identify the place.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
THE MAN
MICHAEL KELLY
ADOLPH HEINRICH VON SCHLICHTEGROLL
He was a remarkably small man, very thin and pale, with a pro-
fusion of fine hair, of which he was rather vain. He gave me a
cordial invitation to his house, of which I availed myself, and
passed a great part of my time there. He always received me with
kindness and hospitality. He was remarkably fond of punch, of which
beverage I have seen him take copious draughts. He was also fond
of billiards, and had an excellent billiard table in his home. Many
and many a game have I played with him, but always came off
second best. He gave Sunday concerts, which I always attended. He
was kindhearted, and always ready to oblige, but so very particular
when he played that, if the slightest noise were made, he instantly
left off. . . . He conferred on me what I considered a high compli-
ment. I had composed a little melody to a canzonetta of Metastasio
which was a great favorite wherever I sang it. It was very simple,
but had the good fortune to please Mozart. He took it and composed
variations upon it, which were truly beautiful; and he had the
further kindness and condescension to play them whenever he had
an opportunity/
Mozart never reached his natural growth. During his whole life
his health was delicate. He was thin and pale, and though the form
of his face was unusual, there was nothing striking in his physiog-
nomy but its extreme variableness. The expression of his counte-
nance changed every moment, but indicated nothing more than the
pleasure or pain which he experienced at the instant. He was re-
markable for a habit which is usually the attendant of stupidity.
His body was perpetually in motion; he was either playing with his
* The above paragraph is by Kelly; those below are by von ScUichtegroll.
106
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
hands or beating the ground with his foot. There was nothing extraor-
dinary in his other habits, except his extreme fondness for the
game of billiards. He had a table in his house on which he played
every day by himself when he had no one to play with. His hands
were so habituated to the piano that he was rather clumsy in every-
thing else. At table he never carved, or if he attempted to do so, it
was with much awkwardness and difficulty. His wife usually under-
took the office.
The same man who, from his earliest age, had shown the greatest
expansion of mind in what related to his art, in other respects re-
mained a child. He never knew how properly to conduct himself.
The management of domestic affairs, the proper use of money, the
judicious selection of his pleasures, and temperance in the enjoy-
ment of them, were never virtues to his taste. The gratification of the
moment was always uppermost with him. His mind was so absorbed
by a crowd of ideas, which rendered him incapable of all serious
reflection, that, during his whole life, he stood in need of a guardian
to take care of his temporal affairs. His father was well aware of his
weakness in this respect and it was on this account that he persuaded
his wife to follow him to Paris in 1777, his engagements not allowing
him to leave Salzburg himself.
But this man, so absent, so devoted to trifling amusements, ap-
peared a being of a superior order as soon as he sat down to a
piano. His mind then took wing, and his whole attention was di-
rected to the sole object for which nature designed him, the harmony
of sounds. The most numerous orchestra did not prevent him from
observing the slightest false note, and he immediately pointed out,
with surprising precision, by what instrument the fault was com-
mitted, and the note which should have been played.
Music was his constant employment and his most gratifying recre-
ation. Never, even in his earliest childhood, was persuasion required
to get him to go to the piano. On the contrary, it was necessary to
take care that he did not injure his health by application. He was
particularly fond of playing in the night. If he sat down to the
instrument at nine o'clock in the evening, he never left it before
midnight, and even then it was necessary to force him away from
it, for he would have continued to modulate, to play voluntaries, the
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whole night. In his general habits he was the gentlest of men, but
the least noise during the performance of music offended him vio-
lently. He was far above that affected or misplaced modesty which
prevents many performers from playing till they have been repeat-
edly entreated. The nobility of Vienna often reproached him for
playing with equal interest before any person that took pleasure in
hearing him.
Of his operas, Mozart esteemed most highly Idomeneo and Don
Giovanni. He was not fond of talking of his own works; or, if he
mentioned them, it was in a few words, Of Don Giovanni he said
one day: "This opera was not composed for the public of Vienna,
it is better suited to Prague; but to say the truth, I wrote it only for
myself and my friends."
The time which he most willingly employed in composition was
the morning, from six to seven o'clock when he got up. After that,
he did no more for the rest of the day unless he had to finish a piece
that was wanted. He always worked very irregularly. When an idea
struck him, he was not to be drawn from it. If he was taken from
the piano, he continued to compose in the midst of his friends, and
passed whole nights with his pen in his hand. At other times he had
such a disinclination to work that he could not complete a piece tiU
the moment of its performance.
THE COMPOSER
W. J. TURNER
Bernard Shaw once remarked that nothing could be more un-
characteristic of Mozart than the portraits of the beautiful young
man exhibited above his name in all the music shops of the world
today. These portraits show Mozart as the most handsome, the most
regular-featured of all great composers. These ''classic" proportions
seem at first sight to be peculiarly appropriate to a composer who
is today universally admired as the classic of classics. Where else
in music shall we find those qualities of serenity, limpidity, sim-
plicity, lucidity, which we concentrate in one adjective: Mozartian?
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WOLFGANG AMADETJS MOZABT
It is impossible to find a parallel to that flawless perfection. Whether
we take a whole opera— such as The Marriage of Figaro (1786)— or
a mere scrap scribbled impromptu on the page of a visitors' book--
such as the Gigue written in 1789 for the Leipzig organist, Engel-
we are confronted with a completely finished musical composition
in which there is not a superfluous bar, not a redundant or meaning-
less note. There is no waste in Mozart— no overlapping, no exag-
geration, no strain, no vagueness, no distortion, no suggestion. He
is so simple that he is meaningless. His music disappears, like the air
we breathe on a transparent day. Everybody who has really ap-
preciated Mozart will admit that at one time or another they have
felt a Mozart masterpiece as one would feel a still, bright, perfect,
cloudless day. Such a day has no meaning, none of the suggestive-
ness, the "atmosphere," the character of a day of cloud or storm, or
of any day in which there is a mixture of warring elements whose
significance has yet to appear. Such a day does not provoke or in
the faintest degree suggest one mood rather than another. It is in-
finitely protean. It means just what you mean. It is intangible, im-
material—fitting your spirit like a glove.
Thus, as Sir Charles Stanford has said, when you are a child
Mozart speaks to you as a child— no music could be more simple,
more childlike— but when you are a man you find to your astonish-
ment that this music which seemed childlike is completely adult
and masculine. At every age this pure pellucid day, this intangible
transparency, awaits you and envelops you in its unruffled light.
Then suddenly there will pass through you a tremor of terror. A
moment comes when that tranquility, that perfection will take on a
ghastly ambiguity. That music still suggests nothing, nothing at all;
it is just infinitely ambiguous. Then you remember the phrase of a
German critic who wrote of the "demoniacal clang" of Mozart. Then
you look at a genuine portrait of Mozart, and instead of that smooth
Praxitelean young beauty, you see a straight jutting profile with a
too-prominent nose and an extraordinary salience of the upper lip,
and for an instant you feel as if you have had a revelation. But that
revelation escapes you as suddenly as it came, and you are left
face to face with a mask whose directness and clarity is completely
baffling.
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In endeavoring to explain Mozart to oneself, it is well to remem-
ber first of all that he was the most remarkable example of a child
prodigy that has ever been known, He played the harpsichord in
public at five years old. At seven he composed, and played on the
harpsichord, the organ, and the violin. In 1764, at the age of eight,
after touring Europe, he came to London and played before the
Royal Family; in London he published his third set of sonatas and
wrote an anthem for four voices entitled God is Our Refuge, which
was presented to the British Museum. At the age of ten he wrote an
oratorio which had a great success in Holland, and a year later, in
Vienna, he wrote an opera buffa, La Finta Semplice, for the Em-
peror Joseph II. At fourteen he was taken to Italy by his father, and
in Rome during Holy Week he went to the Sistine Chapel to hear
the famous Miserere of Gregorio Allegri (1582-1652). Immediately
on returning to his lodging he wrote down the Miserere from mem-
ory, note for note. The same year he was subjected to the severest
possible examination by the Bologna Accademia Filarmonica, passed
it successfully, and was awarded the degree of compositorey although
the regulations did not admit of any candidates under twenty years
of age. This exercise is Number 86 in Kochel's catalogue, and, in
Professor Donald Tovey's words, is "written in the severe ecclesi-
astical style of the sixteenth century," and abounds in "points of
ingenious imitation and device/' In 1770, at the age of fourteen, he
wrote an opera entitled Mitridate R£ di Panto for La Scala, of
Milan. The orchestra of La Scala was at that time the largest in
Europe; Mozart directed it seated at the harpsichord as the fashion
then was. The opera was received with enthusiasm and ran for
twenty nights.
From the age of fourteen onwards Mozart poured forth a constant
stream of compositions of all kinds. What is astonishing is that this
immense early productivity seems in no way to have harmed the
natural growth of his mind, for although there are pieces of church
music written before the age of fifteen which the best critics claim
as masterpieces, yet there is perceptible in his music a real develop-
ment of his natural powers which ends only with his death.
It is suggested by some writers that the fact that Mozart acquired
at the age of fourteen a technique equal to, if not surpassing, that of
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WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
any living composer explains why he was able to pass through the
critical years of adolescence from fourteen to twenty in ceaseless
musical composition without straining his mind. For Mozart had to
acquire the usual education, and his letters suggest— as later his in-
vention in the Seraglio of the character of Osmin, words and all,
proves— that he had great literary ability and possibly the same in-
exhaustible fertility in language that he had in music. But Mozart's
intellectual force was a quality inherent in the structure of his mind.
One day the physiologists will be able to show us in a physiological
generalization Mozart's peculiar gift for form. Many writers on
aesthetics think music is the most abstract of the arts, but it is cer-
tainly true that Mozart's are the purest works in music. One may
speak of a movement of Mozart just as a mathematician might speak
of a beautiful proposition of Euclid. Whereas in the music of most
composers it is a case of content and structure, it is with Mozart a
case of structure only, for there is no perceptible content— ubi ma-
teria ibi geometria. Nowhere, perhaps, is this more strikingly shown
than in the overture to The Marriage of Figaro. I would suggest to
the reader that he should buy the phonograph records of this over-
ture and of Rossini's overture to The Barber of Seville, and compare
them. The difference is astonishing, Rossini was born the year after
Mozart's death; he also had the advantage of following instead of
preceding Beethoven, and he was a composer of striking natural
genius. But, after Figaro, listen to the Barber of Seville overture,
with its alluring tunefulness over its easy tum-ti, tum-ti, tum-ti, turn-
ti bass, and you will be struck with its straggling formlessness. Its
tunes are very engaging, but you can carry them away with you and
hear them mentally on a penny whistle, a cornet, or any instrument
you like. They are like bright threads in a commonplace piece of
stuff, which you can pull out without compunction as there is no
design to spoil. But you can do nothing of the sort with the Figaro
overture. There are no bright threads to pull out. There is no melodic
content as such. You cannot even hear the music in your memory
apart from the rush of the strings and the accents of the wood wind.
It cannot be played upon the piano. Take away a note of it and the
whole is completely disintegrated. Nor can anyone put his hand upon
his heart and say what feeling that music arouses in his breast. It
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is completely without expression, as expression is vulgarly under-
stood; but the oftener you hear it the more excited you become, the
more passionate grow your asseverations that there was never music
like this before or since. Its effect upon the mind is out of all propor-
tion to its impingement on the senses. To hear it is as though one had
been present at a miracle and had seen a mountain of matter blown
into a transparent bubble and float vanishing into the sky. Your de-
sire to hear that overture again and again and again is the simple
but intense desire to see the miracle repeated. It is an astonishing
experience, and it is an experience which only Mozart can give us.
It would be useless to attempt to explain this peculiar intellectual
gift which was Mozart's in a degree that separates him from all other
composers. It must just be stated and left. But there are certain facts
known about Mozart which are so relevant to this point that they
should be mentioned now. He was exceptionally good at dancing
and playing billiards, which were his two chief pleasures. He was
small, but his limbs, feet, and hands were beautifully proportioned.
He composed away from any musical instrument, entirely in his
head, and could complete the whole of a work, from the first note
to the last and then write it down— often some weeks or more later
—from memory. Thus the overture to Don Giovanni, written on the
night of October 28th, 1787, for the first performance of the opera
in Prague on the next day, while his wife kept him awake by telling
him fairy stories, was not composed on that night but merely copied
out from memory. He would often compose at meals, and while com-
posing would take his napkin by two corners and continually fold
and refold it very neatly and exactly. To me this is all extraordinarily
illuminating. Conciseness— even conciseness so unparalleled and
amazing as Mozart's— is not surprising in a composer who could
work in this way. One also cannot but think that his invariable
serenity and good temper—upon which all who knew him have left
comment—was yet another sign of perfect physical and mental poise.
It is on record that Mozart never used glasses and that his eyesight
was perfect at his death in spite of the strain which manuscript
music imposes. This, also, is not without significance. Mozart may be
bracketed with Schubert as one of the two composers whose fertility
in melodic invention exceeds all others, but the listener never feels
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that Mozart is being swept along the current of his own emotions as
he feels Schubert is. In listening to such works as Schubert's Octet
or his Unfinished Symphony, one is conscious sometimes of a dis-
solution, almost a liquefaction, of the composer's sensibility, which
streams into the music like treacle. It is this that makes Schubert's
music often so formless. The composer is simply melting helplessly
away, and it seems as if only death can conclude the process. Yet
melting, tender, exquisitely sweet as Schubert's melodies can be,
they are never in themselves intrinsically sweeter or tenderer than
Mozart's, but only in their effect. They seem sweeter because of the
absence of that intellectuality, that lucid precision which was so
integral a part of Mozart's mind. There are passages in Mozart's
piano concertos which are so piercing in their intense sweetness that
I have often stopped playing and laughed aloud with excess of
pleasure; but Mozart's mental grip never loosens; he never aban-
dons himself to any one sense; even at his most ecstatic moments his
mind is vigorous, alert, and on the wing. It is from this astounding
elasticity that his conciseness largely derives. Most artists are un-
able to tear themselves away from their most delightful discoveries;
they linger on them and handle them fondly, but not Mozart. He
dives unerringly on to his finest ideas like a bird of prey, and once
an idea is seized he soars off again with undiminished power.
Yet impossible as it is in Mozart's music to separate form from
content— which is his great, his unique intellectual distinction, the
quality in which he surpasses all other composers— we can range his
forms in a hierarchy of value. The overture to Figaro is perfect.
There is nothing to be altered, there is not a note we could wish
different, and nobody but Mozart could have written it; but, never-
theless, the overture to The Magic Flute (1791) is a finer work. It also
is perfect, but it is artistically greater than Figaro. Wherein is it
greater? Well, I believe we shall go least astray if we make the com-
parison in purely quantitative terms. The overture to The Magic
Flute is a greater composition than the overture to Figaro because
while form and content are equally one, while "matter" has once
again been turned to "form/7 more matter has been involved in the
operation. It was a bigger and more difficult bubble to blow.
I am conscious that some readers will dislike the manner in which
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
I have put this comparison of Figaro with The Magic Flute. They
will wonder why I do not use the familiar terms: Figaro is a comic
opera, The Magic Flute is a more serious work. It expresses Mozart's
religious feeling, his idealism; that is why, they will say, The Magic
Flute overture is superior. Such expressions, I admit, are not without
meaning, but they are misleading. The world is full of music which
is none the less worthless because it is "serious" or "religious." What
we can say is that there is present in the music of The Magic Flute a
quality which is not present in Figaro, and a quality which we in-
stinctively feel to be infinitely more precious. That "infinitely" is a
concession to my own feeling. I hope it will appease the fanatical
admirers of Beethoven, but my reason urges me to take it out. How-
ever, it must be recognized that Beethoven almost consistently at-
tempted to blow bigger bubbles than Mozart. That he so frequently
failed, that his bubbles so often burst instead of sailing off beauti-
fully, as Mozart's do, into the upper regions of the mind, will not
prevent his admirers ranking him instead of Mozart as the greatest
of all musicians. I do not really object to this very seriously, because
one or two of Beethoven's biggest bubbles do float off successfully,
although I confess I always watch them with anxiety, never with that
utter confidence which Mozart inspires. But when we remember
that Mozart died at the age of thirty-five, and reflect upon such
works as Don Giovanni (1787), the Requiem (1791), The Magic Flute,
and much of his earlier church music, it is permissible to believe
that he would have successfully achieved even bigger things.
Personally, I would go farther. I very much doubt if Beethoven or
any other composer has exceeded Mozart in vital energy. The last
movement of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony has been called the
"apotheosis of the dance," and in actual "sound and fury" it far ex-
ceeds anything Mozart ever wrote; but I do not feel there is as
quick, as tense a "rush" in it as there is in the Figaro overture; there
is only a bigger volume of noise. It is the rumble of thunder com-
pared with the flash of lightning. Nor is there in all Beethoven's
great and intensely dramatic overtures anything more impressive,
more dramatically effective than the use made of the opening chords
in The Magic Flute overture; but Mozart secures this dramatic in-
tensity with a far greater economy of sound. He never bludgeons the
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WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZABT
senses into recognition of his powers, as so many inferior composers
do; he appeals directly to the imagination.
It is not astonishing that a mind so well-balanced as Mozart's
should show so great a sense of humor. In this he surpasses all other
composers, and as the sense of humor is essentially intellectual, it is
natural that Mozart, the most intellectual of composers, should be
the greatest master of comic opera. But what is altogether unex-
pected is his power to make one's flesh creep. Nothing has ever
been written of such truly diabolical verve as the aria for the Queen
of the Night in The Magic Flute. It is the rarest event to find a light
soprano who can sing this at all; it is certain that we shall never have
it sung so as to do full justice to its startlingly coldblooded ferocity.
And yet that aria has the smooth, glassy surface of a mere bit of
coloratura virtuosity; but it is the surface of ice beneath which is a
fathomless black water. This sinister ambiguity is a quality quite
apart from the more familiar power of striking the imagination which
he shows in the music which announces and accompanies the en-
trance of the statue at the supper-party in the last act of Don Gio-
vanni. This is the most famous of Mozart's dramatic touches, and
nobody can deny that there is not a more thrilling moment than this
in the whole of Wagner's Ring, or, indeed, in any opera that has
ever been written.
Yet I would like to insist that there is another and even more
troubling quality in Mozart's music. Linked with the "demoniacal
clang" which is probably the result of that bareness which makes
Mozart's music appear a mere rhythmical skeleton beside the work
of more sensuous composers such as Brahms and Wagner (but a
skeleton of electric vitality!), there is a profoundly disturbing melan-
choly. It is never active in Mozart's work as it is frequently in the
work of Tchaikovsky, in Brahms, in Chopin, and even in Beethoven.
It is a still, unplumbed melancholy underlying even his brightest
and most vivacious movements. It is this which gives his music that
ambiguity to which I drew attention at the beginning of this essay.
It would be an interesting psychological study to try to discover its
meaning. It may be that Mozart's life was a profoundly unhappy one
—he was certainly unfortunate in his environment, far more unfor-
tunate than Beethoven, for he never had Beethoven's comparative
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financial security, nor did he ever enjoy such appreciative and dis-
criminating friends. It is probable that his extreme sensitiveness in
unfavorable surroundings caused him great suffering, and that he
was unfortunate in his relations with women; but such in varying
degree are the trials of all artists of genius, and I do not think they
will account for the peculiar, all-pervading, transparent gloom of
Mozart's music. I am not even sure that "gloom" and "melancholy"
are the right words to use. Mozart is very mysterious—far more mys-
terious than Beethoven, because his music seems to express much
less of his human character. I believe that Mozart's personal life was
a failure. In his last years he abandoned himself to frivolous gaiety.
Without being dissipated, he wasted his time and strength upon
masked balls, dancing, feasting, and idle gallantry. It is impossible
to believe that he found such a life satisfactory. Why, then, did he
pursue it?
Mozart was not without that sense of spiritual life which we call
religious. On the contrary, he had this sense as highly developed as
his sense of humor— he was no La Rochefoucauld. The Requiem, The
Magic Flute, Don Giovanni, the Twelfth Mass in C major (1776), and
a great deal of purely instrumental music exist to prove it. If it were
not so, Mozart would be enormously less important. But Mozart ob-
viously lacked that quiet, steady, flaming faith which burns so in-
tensely in Bach and Beethoven. This is the secret of that aH-pervad-
ing gloom, that quiet hopelessness. I do not mean, merely, that
Mozart was a child of the 18th century and consequently a realist
and a skeptic. The true 18th-century man of the world is not troubled
by any religious feelings at all; he entirely lacks spiritual sensibility.
All men are materialists, because all life is "matter/' even if that
"matter" resolve itself into positive and negative electricity— though
God alone knows what that means! But "matter" varies in its sentient
power. One piece of matter "Mr. A" can see but cannot hear: he is
deaf, for him sounds do not exist; another piece of matter "Mr. B"
hears but cannot see; another, "Mr. C" hears and sees, but he is
color-blind: for him colors do not exist, yet he, living among the
blind and deaf, may easily convince himself that he misses nothing,
and that these "colors" of which a few odd people talk, are fantastic
or sentimental illusions. This is the position of the true 18th-century
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WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
"materialist/' Mozart was not one of these; he was vividly aware of
the spiritual colors of life, they were to him as concrete as heat and
cold.
But something else was lacking. I am conscious of it, but I do not
quite know how to describe it. I can only point to Beethoven's
Ninth Symphony and declare that I find it unmistakably present
there. Mozart could not have written the last movement of that
symphony. He was not capable of it. It expresses an emotion he had
never felt. To describe this emotion as "joy" is utterly inadequate
and ridiculous. It is a spiritual sublimity which surpasses in value all
other human emotions, and which only the few supreme spirits of
this earth have ever expressed. In many millions of years from now,
men—if there are still men or descendants of men living on this
planet— may be able to explain in biological terms the value of this
emotion; or, rather, it will have become intelligible to them— as the
value of the abstract feeling for justice is today becoming intelligible.
At present it is the rare emotional possession of the few, but nothing
can prevent its slowly dominating mankind. Its power is irresistible
because it is latent in us all. Bach and Beethoven knew this, and
therefore— to use the extraordinarily apt and suggestive words of the
Jacobean translators of the old. Hebrew folk-tales— they "walked
with God." Mozart did not. Mozart danced with the masked daugh-
ters of Vienna and wasted his spirit, not in passion or in sudden
excesses of lust— which might not have harmed him, which might
even have been beneficial to him— but in the aimless dissipation of
the man without faith. This spiritual "faith" in which Beethoven
and Bach lived is altogether different from that romantic faith in
themselves which came into fashion for artists and men of genius
in Europe at the beginning of the 19th century, when Napoleon
began to talk about his "star" and Byron set the fashion of extrava-
gant, egoistic gestures. Bach had none of this, and in so far as Bee-
thoven indulged in it it did him harm. Mozart was not handicapped
through having lived before the invention of that comfortable
padded cell of the soul, that lotus-island, the Nietzschean vanity of
the superman-artist; and of all artists who have ever lived Mozart
was least likely to fall a victim to such a snare. He had too penetrat-
ing an intelligence, too keen a sense of humor. No, he was deficient
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in an active power which Beethoven and Bach possessed, and I think
he was deficient in nothing else. In all else he was indeed superior
to Beethoven and Bach, and, consequently, to all others.
But now that I have put my finger on what I believe to be the
radical weakness of Mozart, and have given my explanation of the
melancholy of his music— namely, that Mozart had extreme spiritual
sensitiveness but no spiritual faith in life (and by that I do not mean
acceptance of any theological dogma)— I think I can give a different
interpretation of one of Mozart's apparent failures. In Donald
Tovey's brilliant article on "sonata form" in the Encyclopaedia Bri-
tannica, he says: "The sonata style never lost with him (Mozart) its
dramatic character, but while it was capable of pathos, excitement
and even vehemence, it could not concern itself with catastrophes and
tragic climaxes." He then goes on to say that the G minor Symphony
(1788) shows poignant feeling, but that it is not an embodiment of
sad experiences. So far Professor Tovey, although writing about the
"sonata form," is accusing Mozart of a lack of emotional content, but
then he continues: "In the still more profound and pathetic G minor
Quintet (1787) we see Mozart for once transcending his limits. The
slow movement rises to a height not surpassed by Beethoven him-
self until his second period; an adequate finale is unattainable with
Mozart's resources, and he knows it!' But in what way, may one ask,
has Mozart transcended his limits in this work if the slow movement
only rises to a height surpassed by Beethoven in his second period
and his resources do not admit of his writing an adequate finale?
That the slow movement of the G minor Quintet is surpassed by
Beethoven in his second period I should be inclined to deny. That
the technical resources of the man who wrote that wonderful Al-
legro, that astonishing minuet, that rich and tragic slow movement,
and those poignant introductory bars, were inadequate to a satisfac-
tory finale is to me unbelievable. That Mozart-whose technical mas-
tery at every point surpasses Beethoven's in the opinion of, I should
imagine, ninety-nine per cent of scholars-should have been in-
capable of satisfactorily concluding an admitted masterpiece through
lack of technical resource is completely unconvincing. What, then,
does Professor Tovey mean? Let us examine that last movement of
the G minor Quintet. What is wrong with it? In my opinion, this:
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Mozart has written a really great work, he has taken plenty of room,
the design of the Quintet is magnificently spacious, and he can fill
it. Not only has he all the technical resources necessary— to talk of
Mozart ever lacking technical resources seems to me ludicrous— but
he is in the rich, abundant, creative mood to fill it, and so to fill it
that it strikes Professor Tovey as "profound and pathetic"— words
which he does not use lightly. The third movement, Adagio, is tragic
in its intensity. But what, then, happens? Mozart concludes with a
finale, light, sparkling, and gay, but once more masking an abyss of
black melancholy. A finale that is utterly inadequate— admitted! But
why inadequate? It is not technically inadequate. To spin that light-
hearted gossamer Allegro so that, after what we had heard, it should
captivate and delude, not shock and disgust, the listener, called for
that technical skill which Mozart alone possessed. But, still, inade-
quate! That finale is beyond all denial inadequate. Why? Because
after the poignant, heart-breaking intensity of the slow movement
some affirmation of the soul is inexorably demanded. Mozart could
not make that affirmation. He could not even attempt to make it. If
he had attempted but had failed, then we could speak of inadequate
resources. But he had no faith, he could not lift up his heart and
sing from the bottom of that abyss, he could not stretch his wings
and rise up out of it, he could only shrug his shoulders and blow us
another bubble. Therefore, and therefore only, he is not the world's
greatest composer.
MOZART SPEAKS
If one has talent it pushes for utterance and torments one; it will
out. And then one is out with it without questioning. And, look you,
there is nothing in this thing of learning out of books. Here, here,
and here [the ear, the head, the heart] is your school. If everything
is right there, then take your pen and down with it; afterwards ask
the opinion of a man who knows his business.
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Melody is the essence of music. I compare a good melodist to a
fine racer, and contrapuntists to hackpost horses. Therefore be ad-
vised, let well alone, and remember the old Italian proverb, "Who
knows most, knows least."
I cannot write poetically. I am no poet. I cannot divide and sub-
divide my phrases so as to produce light and shade. I am no painter.
I cannot even give expression to my sentiments and thoughts by
gestures and pantomime. I am no dancer. But I can do it with tones.
I am a musician.
It is a mistake to think that the practice of my art has become
easy to me. I assure you no one has given so much care to the study
of composition as I. There is scarcely a famous master in music
whose works I have not frequently and diligently studied.
In opera, willy nilly, poetry must be the obedient daughter of
music. Why do Italian operas please everywhere, even in Paris, as
I have been a witness, despite the wretchedness of their librettos?
Because in them music rules and compels us to forget everything
else. All the more must an opera please in which the plot is well
carried out, and the words are written simply for the sake of the
music and not here and there to please some miserable rhyme which,
God knows, adds nothing to a theatrical representation, but more
often harms it. Verses are the most indispensable things in music,
but rhymes, for the sake of rhymes, the most injurious. Those who
go to work so pedantically will assuredly come to grief along with
the music. It were best if a good composer who understands the
stage, and is himself able to suggest something, and a clever poet
could be united in one, like a phoenix.
When I am at peace with myself, and in good spirits— for instance,
on a journey, in a carriage, or after a good meal, or while taking a
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WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
walk, or at night when I can't sleep—then thoughts flow into me most
easily and at their best. Where they come from and how— that I can-
not say; nor can I do anything about it. I retain the ideas that please
in my mind, and hum them— at least so I am told. If I hold fast to
one, that I think is suitable, others, more and more, come to me, like
the ingredients for a pate, from counterpoint, from the sound of the
various instruments, and so forth. That warms my soul, that is if I
am not disturbed, and keep on broadening those ideas and making
them clearer and brighter until the whole thing is fully completed
in my mind.
I'd be willing to work forever and forever if I were permitted to
write only such music as I want to write and can write— which I
myself think good.
121
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
1770-1827
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN was born in Bonn, Germany, on December
16, 1770. Taught first by his father (a singer in the Electoral Choir)
and later by some local teachers—of whom Christian Gottlieb Neefe
was the most influential— Beethoven made outstanding progress in
his music studies. His first public appearance took place when he
was eight; at eleven he wrote several piano sonatas; and at twelve
he served as court organist. In 1787 he paid a brief visit to Vienna
were he improvised for Mozart who declared "You will some day
leave a mark on the world." Back in Bonn he was employed at court,
gave private lessons, and wrote a good deal of music. His talent
made a deep impression on some of Bonn's most influential citizens,
including Frau von Breuning and Count Waldstein who remained
among his most ardent friends and admirers.
A few months after his father's death in 1792 Beethoven left Bonn
for good and set up permanent abode in Vienna. For a while he
studied with Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and Salieri. Despite his un-
couth manners and the fiery independence of his spirit, he soon made
rapid headway as a performer in leading Viennese palaces and
salons, as a teacher in the households of the rich, and as a composer.
On his first public appearance in Vienna (March 29, 1795), when he
introduced his Piano Concerto in B-flat major, he was described by
one Viennese critic as a "giant among pianoforte players." On April
20, 1800 he made his bow as a composer of symphonic music when
he directed the premiere of his first symphony in Vienna.
If the convenient demarcation of Beethoven's creative evolution
into three periods is acceptable, then the first ended in or about 1800.
By then he had Completed, among other works, his first six string
quartets, his first ten piano sonatas, his first four piano trios, his
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
septet, and his first symphony. In 1802, between the end of this first
period, and the flowering of the second, tragedy struck: Beethoven
realized he was going deaf. His abject despair is voiced in a remark-
able document now known as the "Heiligenstadt Testament/' Under
the pressure of his nearing isolation from the world of sound,
Beethoven became increasingly eccentric, suspicious, and insulting.
But he also uncovered such new depths of musical expression, and
such new areas for musical cultivation, that many of his friends,
including members of nobility, continued to shower on him their
admiration and financial rewards. In this period, about which he
himself said he was "making a fresh start," he produced the Eroica,
Fourth, JESfthTT^ symphonies; the Moonlight,
Wa^st&w^ and Appassionato, piano sonatas; the Fourth and Fifth
piano concertos; the opera, Fidelio; the violin concerto; the three
Rasoumovsky string quartets; and many other masterworks.
A pause from this Titanic achievement occurred between 1812
and 1818. After that there emerged the third of Beethoven's creative
periods, during which he completed the Ninth Symphony, the
Missa Solemnis, the last piano sonatas and the last string quartets.
Beethoven never married. Throughout his life he was strongly
attracted to women, but usually the object of his love was someone
out of his reach, either because of her youth or social position. An
extraordinary document was found after Beethoven's death— a letter
to his "immortal beloved"— in which he speaks of his suffering in
being unable to find a woman to share his life. But whether this
"immortal beloved" was any single woman or womankind in gen-
eral has never been discovered.
Though totally deaf, Beethoven directed the premiere of his Ninth
Symphony in Vienna on May 7, 1824. This was his last public
appearance. He died in Vienna on March 26, 1827.
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THE MAN
ANTON SCHINDLER
FRANZ GRILLPARZER
Beethoven's height was about five feet four inches. His body was
stodgy, of firm bone structure and strong muscles. His head was
unusually large, with long bristly hair, almost entirely gray, and
usually neglected and hanging around his head, giving him a some-
what savage appearance, particularly when his beard had reached
abnormal length, which was often the case. His forehead was high
and broad; his brown eyes were small and— when he laughed— almost
entirely hidden in his head; on the other hand, they would, at times,
appear excessively large, rolling and flashing, with pupils turned
upwards. Sometimes, when an idea took possession of him, they
would become immovable and he would stare before him. Beetho-
ven's entire appearance would then undergo a striking change, take
on an inspired and imposing aspect, and the small figure— corre-
sponding to the stature of his soul— would seem to rise to gigantic
heights. These moments of inspiration occasionally came to him in
the gayest company and in the street, when he excited the attention
of all passerbys. What was going on within him was expressed only
by his glowing eyes and face; he never gesticulated either with his
hands or head. ... His nose was broad. His smile illumined his
countenance, and gave it a surpassingly kind and sweet expression
which was particularly encouraging to strangers. His laughter was
loud and ringing, and distorted somewhat the spiritualized and
strongly marked face: the big head began to swell, the face grew
still broader, and very often resembled a grinning mask. It was a
good thing that this effect passed quickly. His chin had a dimple,
and two longish dents on either end, lending a rather peculiar ap-
pearance on the whole. His skin was of a yellowish coloring which,
however, disappeared in the summer when on his long wanderings
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
in the open air it would take on a brownish-reddish tint, covering
his full red cheeks like varnish.
A dress coat of fine blue cloth (the favored color in those days)
with metal buttons, became him excellently. Such a one, and another
of green cloth, were never missing from his wardrobe. In summer, he
was always seen wearing white pantaloons, shoes, and white stock-
ings (the fashion at the time). Vest and tie were always white and
immaculate, no matter what the season. In addition to this attire
imagine a light gait and an upright carriage— these ever characteriz-
ing the master—and you have before you Beethoven's personality.*
I was a boy when I saw Beethoven for the first time. It may have
been 1804 or 1805, at a musical soiree in the house of my uncle
Joseph Sonnleithner, at that time head of an art and music firm in
Vienna. Together with Beethoven were present Cherubini and Abbe
Vogler. Beethoven was, at that time, slender, and dressed in black
and with great elegance. He wore spectacles which I so well remem-
ber, because in later years he never used this aid to sight. ... A
few years later I resided with my parents in the village of Heiligen-
stadt, near Vienna. Our apartment faced the garden, while Beetho-
ven rented the rooms facing the street. Both apartments were con-
nected by a common corridor, which led to the stairway. My brother
and I paid little attention to the queer man (he had in the meantime
grown stouter and was carelessly, even untidily dressed), when he
shot by grumbling. . . .
In one of the following summers, I visited my grandmother who
had her summer residence in Dobling. Beethoven, too, lived there
at the time. Opposite the windows of my grandmother there stood
a decrepit house owned by a man named Flehberger, notorious for
his debauchery. This Flehberger had a daughter, Lise, who was
pretty, but had not the best reputation. Beethoven seemed to take
great interest in the girl. I still see him, coming down the Hirschen-
gasse, his white handkerchief, in his right hand, trailing on the
ground. He stopped at the portal of the Flehberger court, where the
giddy beauty, standing on a hay wagon or a manure cart, was tossing
her pitchfork vigorously and laughing all the time. I never noticed
that Beethoven addressed her; he simply stood and gazed at her
'' The paragraphs above are by Schindler; those below, by Grillparzer.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
until the girl (whose taste ran more in the direction of peasant lads)
provoked his anger by a derisive word, or by persistently ignoring
him.. Then with a sudden turn he ran away, but never failed to return
and to stop at the Flehberger portal the next time. Yes, his interest
in her went so far, that, when her father, because of a drunken brawl,
was sent to the village jail, he personally intervened with the village
community, and pleaded for his release, whereby, however, he so
stormily handled the councillors, that he was almost forced un-
willingly to share his imprisoned protege's society. . . .
I received word from the director of the two theaters, Graf Moritz
Dietrichstein, that Beethoven had prevailed upon him to induce me
to write an opera for him. . . . Schindler, at that time Beethoven's
business manager, and the author of a biography of Beethoven,
came to see me. He begged me in the name of his lord and master,
who was unwell, to come to see him. I got dressed, and we at once
started to Beethoven's home which was somewhere in the suburbs.
I found him in a dirty night dress lying on an untidy bed, a book in
hand. . . . When we entered, Beethoven arose from his bed, shook
hands with me, overflowing with friendliness and began to speak of
the opera. "Your work is living here," he said, pointing to his breast.
"I am leaving for the country in a few days, and I shall then begin
to compose it''. . . .
In the course of the summer, Schindler and I accepted an invita-
tion from Beethoven to visit him in Hetzendorf . I do not remember
whether Schindler told me on the way there, or whether I had heard
it previously, that Beethoven had been prevented from starting to
work on the opera because of urgent orders. I, therefore, avoided
mentioning the subject. We went out walking and conversed as well
as it was possible, half speaking and half writing. I am still deeply
moved when I think of Beethoven himself bringing in five bottles of
wine when we were seated at the table. He set one before Schindler's
plate, one before his own, and three before mine, probably in his
good-natured, wild-naive manner, to give me to understand that I
was welcome to drink as much as I pleased.
When I left without Schindler, who was staying on, Beethoven
insisted on accompanying me. He sat next to me in the open carriage,
but instead of getting out at the country limits, he went all the way
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
to the city with me, got out at the city limits, shook hands with me
most cordially, and started off on his long way back home. After he
had descended, I saw a piece of paper lying where he had sat. I
thought he had forgotten it, and hailed to him to come back for it.
But he shook his head, and laughing out aloud as though at a good
joke, ran all the faster in the opposite direction. I unwrapped the
paper and found that it contained the exact amount for the fare that
I had bargained for with the driver. So estranged was he from the
customs and manners of the world that he did not realize what an
insult might lie in such an act, under different circumstances. I took
it as it was meant, and laughingly gave the driver the money thus
presented.
Later I saw him again only once. I do not remember where. He
told me: "Your opera is finished/' Whether he meant just in his head,
or whether he was alluding to the innumerable notations which he
was in the habit of making ... I cannot say. It is certain, however,
that after his death, not a single note was found referring to the
work planned by us.
THE COMPOSER
PAUL BEKKER
Beethoven was not a revolutionary musician. He was born in the
Sturm und Drang period, but was not of it. He felt indeed no need
for rebellion; the work of his predecessors did not restrict him, it
saved him from wasting time and energy on experiment. . . . Bee-
thoven . . . avoided anything speculative wherever possible. When
he varied from tradition he did so in no spirit of wilfulness, but in
obedience to the demands of the poetic idea which inspired him and
upon which his whole work was based. Music was to him an ex-
quisitely and delicately adapted vehicle for the expression of a
spiritual and intellectual creed, a faithful mirror of his inner life and
experience. Words and their attendant images, the limitations in-
separable from exact definition, are not evaded but are spiritualized
and transcended and expressed upon a higher plane of abstraction
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through the power of music. Instrumental tone is used to reflect and
interpret the occurrences of a world far removed from actuality, a
world, however, which is an abstract representation of an actual
region of the intellectual and emotional life, and is consequently
subject to the motions and laws of its prototype.
Beethoven entertained no doubts as to the psychological bases of
his art. As Neefe's pupil he had early received and accepted the
doctrine of a necessary correspondence between things musical and
things spiritual in the mind of the musician. This was a point of
view to which he clung throughout his life. Neefe was both by
nature and by training a musician of the type which is distinguished
rather for philosophic and aesthetic interest in the art of music than
for exact knowledge of musical science. There is no doubt that
Beethoven was strongly influenced by Neefe's teaching, for in later
years his interest developed and expanded upon the lines suggested
by Neefe; he studied aesthetics, was ready to argue upon the subject
and to defend certain clear convictions. There is a widespread but
erroneous idea that Beethoven approached his art only from the
practical side, that he set aside or even despised theoretical discus-
sions as to essence and content. On the contrary, he constantly
sought an aesthetic basis for artistic expression. He endeavored to
think clearly, to get at the meaning of things, to develop the artistic
instinct on logical and regular lines. His work is sprinkled with ques-
tion marks; letters, diaries, and conversations testify alike to his keen
critical intellect and grasp of aesthetics. Unfortunately, the majority
of Beethoven's associates were intellectually insignificant, so that
the recorded results of his thinking have come down to us for the
most part only in some comment preserved by chance, some bril-
liantly illuminating remark, but when he came in contact with more
independent and stimulating minds, he quickly took fire and became
communicative. With the poet, Hofrat Kuffiner, he discussed ora-
torio; with Grillparzer, opera; and those parts of the notebooks
which touch on these conversations show that Beethoven's mental
activity was keen and his judgment acute upon various aesthetic
problems.
It did not occur to him to regard his work as "absolute" music, in
the false sense of that term, meaning music for its own sake, devoid
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
of content. In later years lie complained to Schindler that the times
were imaginatively bankrupt, "When I wrote my sonatas/' he said,
"people were more poetic and such indications [of the music's mean-
ing] were superfluous. At that time everyone recognized that the
Largo of the Sonata in D, op. 10, no. 3 (1796-98) expressed a mel-
ancholic state of mind, that it portrayed every subtle shade, every
phase of melancholy, without the need of a title to give a clue to the
meaning, and similarly, everyone saw that the two sonatas, op. 14
(1795-99), represented a struggle between two opposing principles,
an argument between two persons; its interpretation is as obvious as
that of the other work." About the same date, Beethoven, presum-
ably in connection with his complaint about the decay of imagina-
tion in music lovers, declared his intention of giving poetic titles to
his earlier works. One can scarcely regret that he did not carry out
his plan. Such titles would have helped intelligent listeners very
little, while the addition of a written "program*' would not make up
for the lack of imagination in the unintelligent. For a proper under-
standing of Beethoven's work prolonged and sympathetic experience
and intense mental application are essential; hints in the form of a
program and tags of verse will carry no one very far.
A short-sighted view of aesthetics has wrongly deduced that def-
inite content in music is unnecessary and that a clear intellectual
grasp of pure musical creations is impossible. Feeble and unclear
thinking of this kind was entirely foreign to Beethoven. He de-
manded intellectual cooperation. He regarded listening to music as
a living experience, and with him the terms "to compose" and "to
write poetry" were interchangeable. "Read Shakespeare's Tempest'9
he replied when questioned as to the meaning of the D minor Sonata,
op. 31, no. 2 (1802), and the F minor Sonata, Appassionato,, op. 57
(1804). When composing he kept a definite mental image before him
and worked to it. His works were "inspired by moods which the poet
translates into words and I into music; they rage and storm in my
soul till they stand before me in the form of notes of music." On the
title pages of his Consecration of the House Overture, op. 124
(1822), he writes with naive self-confidence not "composed" but
"made into poetry by Ludwig van Beethoven."
It is but a short step from such a viewpoint to program music.
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THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Beethoven is, indeed, more of a program-music writer than is gen-
erally supposed. The gap which exists today between program and
other music was unknown to him. He knew and valued the possibili-
ties of a program and accepted it as a part of his musical heritage.
Where it suited his purpose he used it; where it did not, he dispensed
with it. He brought free artistic judgment to bear on each problem
of musical expression as it arose.
The heights which he could attain in program music when he
spent time and effort upon it are revealed in the Pastoral Symphony,
the Sixth, op. 68 (1807-8). Here we have a conventional program,
not differing in form from the work of former generations. Scenes
of country life which afforded opportunity for tone painting are
strung loosely together without any particular grace of thought.
The subject delighted him, reminding him of his own experiences
of the secret charms of Nature which he savored with the senti-
ment proper to a true disciple of Rousseau. His program was a
foundation upon which his own imagination could build, the tan-
gible course of an intangible train of imaginative thought. This
program within a program is designated by Beethoven as "an ex-
pression of feeling." He tells us expressly that "anyone who has the
least understanding of the countryside will know at once what
the author wishes to express." Emphasis upon the author's "wish to
express" and upon the necessity of responsive thought in the hearer
proves that the composer's poetic intention oversteps the limits of
a conventional title. Beethoven is silent about his program, not
because he has none, but because he takes it for granted that his
hearer will understand his meaning and that descriptive words are
superfluous.
There is, nevertheless, something aesthetically hybrid about the
Pastoral Symphony. The composer's imagination was hampered and
limited to some extent by the necessity of suiting his emotional
expression to the different sections which he had previously marked
out. He realized this difficulty himself and, as a rule, subsequently
avoided a program divided into scenes or sections. He substituted
short characteristic titles, sufficient to give his fancy an objective
without confining it strictly to a certain course with fixed halting
places. Napoleon, Egmont, Coriolanus, Leonora thus provided
ISO
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
themes upon which Beethoven's mighty imagination could exercise
its full powers untrammeled. A spark was sufficient to kindle his
poetic fire. The impression is none the less vivid because lie painted
with a bold sweep of the brush and did not tie himself to detail. He
had transcended words and no longer needed their support Why
should he seek to fold the full-blown rose in the bud once more?
He had substituted bold emotional painting for the detailed picture
series of the older program music, and the superiority of his method
was self-evident. Beethoven discovered a new aesthetic basis for
his program music which in his hands became emotional revelation
instead of superficial description.
He produced a considerable number of works of this type. Each
enshrines a particular poetic concept and each bears witness to
Beethoven's view of a particular problem. They form a connecting
link between the lower type of program music— from which they
differ by their greater imaginative freedom, and the music without
a program— the meaning of which they help to make clear. They
mirror certain ideas, certain habits of thought which provide a clue
to Beethoven's inner life.
The whole world revealed to us is one of tremendous events and
visions. It is manifested in many forms, but a single principle
vitalizes the whole. The principle is the heroic struggle for absolute
freedom of personality, and it persists throughout Beethoven's
program music, diversely clothed by the imagination, like manifold
variations upon a single Leitmotiv. Handel had worked before him
upon not dissimilar lines. His personality also was strong, straight-
forward, sympathetic, capable of appreciating greatness, and on
this account he had Beethoven's wholehearted admiration. Handel
took his material without exception from the remote past. Heroes
of the Old Testament or of classical antiquity fired his imagination.
His ideal man was a powerful spectacular figure, imposing his will
upon the world of lesser men surrounding him, and he represented
such heroes with scrupulous effect. Beethoven's idea of a hero was
essentially different. . . . He was more interested in the inward
workings of the hero's soul than in his startling effect upon his
fellows. He sought special characteristics, probed into motives, com-
pared and assimilated them to his own thoughts and opinions, so
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
that his portrait became a critical study. He took account of Ms
hero's circumstances and surroundings and attempted to recon-
struct mentally the world in which he had lived and worked. Living
as he did in a time of upheaval and revolution, political events
held first place in his interest.
Beethoven is frequently described as a republican, without refer-
ence to the fact that he was by nature uncompromisingly, almost
arrogantly, aristocratic. He was, indeed, a curious mixture of the
aristocrat and the democrat. Like every true artist, conscious of
his high calling, he believed in the principle of authority. He went
as a freedom-loving Rhinelander to Vienna and there saw the full
disadvantages of the old, aristocratic, political order. While there
he heard news of an oppressed people's violent bid for freedom, of
their abolition of abuses such as were perpetrated daily before his
eyes. He heard of the rapid progress of liberated France and saw
that a Republic, such as had long been considered an impracticable
Utopia, was possible for a modern state. Looking back he compared
it to Greece at the height of her glory— to the artist' s golden age
of human culture. He thus became a theoretical republican, partly
from hatred of the abuses of the monarchical system, partly from
sympathetic enthusiasm for a political ideal of the future, but his
democratic opinions could hardly have stood this practical test.
His pride as an artist knew no compromise, and he would have
set his face like flint against any notions of equality or fraternity
which would allow others to approach his throne without due
respect. He was, moreover, creatively inspired, not by the move-
ment of an entire people towards freedom, but by the nobility of
certain outstanding leaders. In his works he celebrates the political
hero who leads his people through battle to freedom and happiness.
At that time Beethoven believed in the coming of such a hero. He
believed, too, that freedom thus achieved was the end to which
human development tended, and that the deeds of the expected
leader would represent the most exalted plane of practical human
endeavor.
Beethoven turned his gaze from the affairs of nations and peoples
to the affairs of the sexes and of the family. Here again, even in the
tenderest idyll, he dealt with human idiosyncrasies upon the heroic
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
plane. He was interested in love as a plighting of eternal troth be-
tween a man and a woman, as a self-sacrificing devotion able to
withstand the hardest test. Unselfish love between husband and
wife, as distinct from mere sensuous attraction or desire for posses-
sion, was his theme and gave him a fresh source of spiritual inspira-
tion. The idea behind the Leonore Overture No. 8, op. 72b (1806),
is that of freedom of the individual achieved through loving sacrifice;
it is the "heroic theme" once more in a new form, in relation to the
lives of two people instead of to the common weal. Glorification of
personal freedom follows glorification of political freedom; the
Leonore Overture follows the Eroica Symphony, the Third, op. 55
(1803). The next development was a philosophical contemplation of
the self. Victory is no longer won by a hero as representative and
savior of his fellows, as in the Eroica, nor by the love of a man and
woman as in the Leonore Overture and in the opera Fidelio (1803-5),
but by a hero who stands alone in a hostile world. The Egmont
Overture, op. 84 (1810), and the Coriolon Overture, op. 62 (1807),
are Beethoven's great tragic creations. They stand out not for out-
ward freedom but for freedom of will, and, though victorious, their
victory proves their ruin. They indicate a period of transition in
Beethoven's inner life, a period when he believed deliberately chosen
annihilation of self to be the desirable consummation of effort. Yet
he drew fresh power from the depths of pessimism which threatened
to overwhelm him. He gained a new assurance and proceeded to
greater heights than had hitherto been within his reach.
Despair over the world's travail and over his own fate now lay
behind him; he had pierced the veil of life and had looked fearless
upon the naked truths of existence. It did not break him; he did not
become either a perpetual penitent or a prophet of the transitoriness
and nothingness of earthly things. He had done with life's hard prob-
lems and he lifted his eyes to free and sunny heights. He still loved
this present life for the very struggles and sorrows which it brings,
for through pain he had found joy. A new heroic ideal began to dawn
in him. He seems to have felt himself lifted above earth's confusion,
to have received a promise and a foretaste of eternal bliss. In his
own person he became an incarnation of his own ripened conception
of the heroic character, raised above the many griefs and scanty joys
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
of this troublous life, yet not out of love with it. The love of life
which no sorrow could stifle rings through his last works, bringing
to those who are able to hear news of the salvation of joy which he
had found, whose praises he sounds in a paean of ecstasy, as in the
Ode to Joy, in the Ninth Symphony, op. 125 (1825).
Beethoven's program music affords a comprehensive view of his
work as a whole, but it is not the only window to the world of his
thought. His opera and his songs are a valuable supplement to his
instrumental program music. They are not numerous but they are
grandly conceived and are artistically perfect.
His greatest lyrical vocal work, on the contrary, the famous Missa
Solemnis, op. 123 (1818-23), far surpasses his instrumental program
music with its inherent limitations. In intention it is the most power-
ful and ambitious of his works. It is based on a formula originally
intended to be a confession of faith of an ideal, universal human
society, but he makes it the perfect expression of one man's faith-
his own.
Beethoven's relations with the organized religion of his day were
always cool. Neither as man nor as artist could he blindly accept
dogma as true and indefeasible. He was brought up in a formalized
Catholic doctrine whose narrowness left him coldly indifferent.
Protestantism was too prosaic to appeal to his hot artist's imagina-
tion. As a result he kept aloof from church matters, and he satisfied
his religious needs in contemplating Nature, which revealed to him
more than the words of any priest had been able to do. The more he
penetrated the metaphysical sources of life the deeper became his
philosophic understanding of the relationship of the individual to
the universe; the higher his spirit climbed to transcendental regions,
where he discovered that the true Godhead dwelled in man, the
more he longed to express his new vision of things in terms of the old
creed of Christendom. He found that what was narrow and limited
in the Christian doctrine was not of its essence, but had been
artificially grafted upon it by short-sighted and illiberal interpreters.
As a free-thinking artist who had thrown off petty superstition, he
now attempted to give artistic expression to his own religious per-
ceptions of creed, he dared to make use of the lofty words which
had served for centuries as the symbol of faith in God, Nature was
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
Beethoven's divinity; from her he had learned to accept all phe-
nomena as reflections of the Godhead. He felt himself to be a
chosen vessel of supernatural revelation, a hero, a savior, who had
suffered, and rising, had felt the divine life within him. In Bee-
thoven's faith, in his sense of the God in man, was something more
than the pantheism of Spinoza and Goethe. It was closely bound up
with the idea of personality. To the doctrine of Nature in God and
God in Nature, he added a mystical apprehension of God as
dwelling in one single artistically creative individual.
The sum of his message was freedom, artistic freedom, political
freedom, personal freedom of will, of art, of faith, freedom of the
individual in all the aspects of life, and he gives it symbolic expres-
sion through the heroic idea in drama and in poetry. . . . He
preserved a jealous, personal independence, taking what the world
offered as due tribute and giving what he had to give as an act of
grace. He was never more obstinate and autocratic than any
previous musician, with the possible exception of Handel; and he
proclaimed the individual's unalienable right to act freely within
the body politic. He strove for the ideal conscious freedom in faith
and knowledge, echoing the battle cries of his epoch, "the Rights
of Man," and "all men are born free and equal." Freedom, as he
understood it, however, did not mean libertinism and caprice. . . .
Thus, Coriolanus perishes through inordinate pride of power, and
Napoleon's name is erased from the score of the Eroica because he
made himself a tyrant. Beethoven's idea of freedom rests upon a
firm ethical basis. It is a happiness to be achieved only through a
stern conflict with fate, the very opposite of effeminate self-in-
dulgence; for only by self-discipline and steady devotion to duty
can the depths of the true self be revealed and qualities be de-
veloped which make hard-won freedom worth having.
Thus Beethoven developed the poetic idea and expressed it in his
program music and songs in a manner comprehensible to the
senses, but he was not confined to music of this type. His char-
acteristic handling of material made a further development in the
direction of abstraction logically inevitable. The whole body of his
thought could not be contained in the program themes which
chance suggested and which he used so frugally, nor in his vocal
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music. Many of his spiritual experiences, expressed in music— and
particularly in his last quartets— were inexpressible in words. For
these it was useless to seek suitable texts or titles. They are, never-
theless, conveyed immediately to the mind through the ear. Objec-
tivity, hard and fast intellectual concepts, everything material is set
aside. Beethoven no longer speaks in parables, but proclaims the
faith attained through parables. He has found the realities behind
appearances and now recalls them, stripped of material disguises,
through the musician's world of sound. Only one sensible symbol
remains, the form of the tone phenomena— form not in its narrowest,
pedagogic, but in its widest sense, as a deliberate, artistic organiza-
tion of all the elements available to music at that time: melody,
harmony, tone color, dynamic phrasing. Analysis of the forms thus
constructed and close study of their inherent emotional and spiritual
effects will bring aesthetic understanding of this last section of
Beethoven's creative work.
In his non-programmatic, instrumental music, which forms the
greater part of his work, Beethoven uses the most mysterious and
yet the most direct means of human communication. He has himself
provided a few sign posts such as "Marcia funebre sulla morte d'un
eroe" in the Eroica; "La malinconia" in the B-flat Major String
Quartet, op. 18, no, 6 (1798-1800); "Das LebewohT in the E-flat
Major Piano Sonata, op. 81a (1809), which are very nearly "pro-
grams." comments such as "lamentation sinking to exhaustion," "re-
viving little by little" in the A-flat Major Piano Sonata, op. 110 (1821),
"devout Thanksgiving to God on recovery from sickness" in the
A minor quartet, op. 132 (1825), "straightened" in the Biblical sense
in the Cavatina of the B-flat Major Quartet, op. 130 (1825), and
"resolution in the face of difficulty" in the String Quartet in F major,
op. 135 (1826) exceed the limits of customary musical directions.
How revealing are the remarks inserted in the great A-flat Major
Piano Sonata: "rather lively and with the most intense feeling,"
"lively with a marching swing," "slowly and with yearning," and
"quickly, but not too quickly and with decision." They are a strange
development from the generalized tempo suggestions of tradition.
They are almost programmatic in their clearness and definition,
1S6
LXJDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
and form a kind of summary of the contents of a poem which is
sketched out only on broad emotional lines.
Beethoven's use of the stereotyped Italian terms is also significant*
He uses moto legato, espressive marcato, ritardando, a tempo, dolce,
and cantabile with the utmost prodigality, using them to express
the poet's meaning rather than as mechanical indications to the
performer. Calculated "effects" are indeed steadily rejected, and in
the last piano concerto, the Emperor, op. 73 (1809), the one oppor-
tunity for virtuosity which he had hitherto preserved—the cadenza-
is omitted. The work is a delicately and intricately conceived organ-
ism in which the personality of the exponent finds no opportunity to
spread itself. Hitherto the composer's directions had been used and
regarded as hints from which the performer could proceed to his
own individual interpretation; they now become ineluctible com-
mands. They have ceased to serve as the scaffolding of a program,
but they give the emotional meaning of the composition in crystal-
lized form. They may be compared to the projecting towers and
spires of a submerged city, rising above the surface of the waters
and inciting imagination to seek for its hidden glories through
depths of ocean. Beethoven soon found the traditional Italian terms
inadequate. He sometimes strung them together into whole sen-
tences, dealing with the intricate score part by part. He indicated
the rhythm of groups of bars, and for a time expected miracles
from the use of the metronome. He hunted out complicated Italian
phrases and, where these were insufficient, he employed German
comments. In the end he came to use all these methods simultane-
ously, the metronome, Italian and German marks of expression.
This careful attention to detail implies more than the fear that
his work might be misinterpreted or inexactly rendered. He believed
indications of tempo and style of performance to be just as much
an organic part of his work, an expression of his poetic meaning,
as signs of pitch and phrasing. The complete artist, he took noth-
ing for granted; he would allow no vagueness, knowing exactly
what he wished to express and how to make every detail contribute
to his meaning.
Just as Beethoven made poetry out of the old mechanical "marks,"
so he increased the expressiveness of musical dynamics. Dynamic as
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a means of suggesting emotional grades was, of course, known to
former generations of musicians. The earliest instrumental music
borrowed the method of contrasting tones of various strengths from
choral music. . . . [But] shades of emotion too delicate to find
expression in terms of melody, rhythm, or harmony are perfectly
mirrored in Beethoven's dynamics. Abrupt transitions of mood,
which one would believe it impossible to link up, are made convinc-
ing by dynamic changes: for example, in the third and fourth move-
ments of the Fifth Symphony in C minor, op. 67 (1805-7), and in
the last part of the Egmont Overture. His dynamic methods are as
serviceable and delightful for the expression of lesser, more delicate,
emotional impulses—for the sudden turning of a rising tone mass,
for the stifled pangs of restrained passion, the unexpected damping
and extinction of hot emotion, alternations of vacillation and de-
cision—as for bolder contrasts. He estimates the value of these things
with absolute exactitude and presses them into the service of his
central idea, the poetic idea, which gives unheard-of persuasiveness
to the language of dynamics and musical marks of expression.
Through these means, it also controls form in the narrower sense
of the word, careful juxtaposition and sequence of rhythm, melody,
harmony, and coloring. Here, again, Beethoven built upon the work
of his predecessors, transfiguring it in the light of creative genius.
In his hands these media attained fresh significance; one feels, in-
deed, that their origin, construction, and raison d'etre are revealed
for the first time. Beethoven's characteristic forms owe their origi-
nality not so much to their outward scheme of construction as to the
superiority with which they adapt themselves to, and reflect, ideas
which they were built to enshrine.
Thought associations and emotional associations alternate in Bee-
thoven's work. They even cross, unite, separate, contrast with each
other and supplement each other; but they remain essentially and
recognizably distinct. On the one hand is pure lyricism, confined
to the exposition of purely emotional impulses; on the other, a more
explicit, more descriptive, more argumentative side of musical art.
The latter arises in intermingled train of thought, the former is
direct and simple in origin; the former makes for breadth, the latter
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
for the heights and depths. They find expression in Beethoven's
two most important musical forms, the sonata and variations.
The sonata form represents "drama" in instrumental music. Its
construction is determined by a multiplicity of intellectual activities,
by spiritual conflicts, by spiritual events, peaceful or tragic. It arises
in the interaction of contradictions, in the energy of conflicting
claims and assertions. Within the framework of the sonata, an
organically developed action, a logical sequence of scenes, an exact
opposition of character take place. It is unnecessary to conceive
this dramatic action in absolutely material terms, yet its existence
as the constructive principle of the sonata cannot be disregarded
without misrepresentation of its aesthetic character.
Variation is the sonata's artistic antithesis. It does not bring a
number of melodic entities into relation, but takes a single melody
and analyzes it. It grows, not by addition of matter from without,
but by inward subdivision; its changes all spring from the same
root. The essential quality of a single underlying concept is dis-
played in a series of metamorphoses. It consists, not in the mingling
of many elements, as in the sonata, but in the analysis of a single
element. It thus exploits one selected mood to the limits of thought,
but it lacks the fructifying effect of contradiction. The aesthetic
character of variation is passive, that of the sonata active; but the
former, perfected by Beethoven and blended with fugal elements
of pure emotional expansiveness, is the highest form of lyrical music.
It springs from the original lyrical form, the song; and may be re-
solved into its elements, mood-atoms, which revolve for a time
about a center, like planets round the sun, to be presently re-
absorbed into the mass from which they were detached. Sometimes
this activity presents the vitality, richness, and variety of phe-
nomena of a great planetary universe; at other times it appears
the product of a whim, a merely superficial, kaleidoscopic play. The
latter is the variation form more frequently to be met, but Bee-
thoven contributed to deepen it, to free it from mere virtuosity,
to make it a great medium of emotional expression. He bent the
thought-architecture of the sonata to his will and ennobled the emo-
tional range of the variation, thereby giving eternal value to the two
greatest musical forms, other than program music.
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The active and comprehensive tendencies of the sonata deter-
mine the relationship of its several parts. It remains for the
musician's skill to construct a higher synthesis out of the contradic-
tion of these parts, and the sharper the contrasts offered, the more
strikingly will the idea of the whole be reflected from the several
angles. The consequent need of change in the form of the move-
ments explains why Beethoven gradually made the variations (as
the greatest possible contrast to the sonata phase) the most im-
portant member after the leading development movement, of the
cyclic sonata form.
Between the two extremes stands, as a connecting link, the rondo,
a hybrid of variation and sonata. It differs from the variation form
in being based on not one but several concepts; yet it strings them
together but loosely, avoiding the strict logic of the sonata. The
rondo consists in an almost rhapsodic multiplicity of moods; it
may occasionally be used to express spiritual depths, but is usually
confined to a stimulating play of pleasant, trifling thoughts or feel-
ings. It had a long history behind it when Beethoven took it over,
probed, as usual, to the root of its value and achieved wonder with
it. His creative capacities were various and inexhaustible. He was
not always upon the heights or in the depths, but he knew and
prized the norm of life and thought. He found the rondo useful,
for not every thought can support the merciless logic of the sonata-
form proper, nor every emotion endure the keen analysis of the
variation form.
Beethoven's genius rescued him from the degrading power of
the commonplace in everyday life, even when it pressed upon him
most heavily. It is customary to overlook this aspect of his life;
yet the picture of Beethoven, as man and musician, is incomplete
without it. Reaction from the high tragedy of his dreams, from
high intellectual tension, from ecstatic visions, took the form, not
of pleasant, ordinary light-heartedness, but of resounding, almost
hysterical outbursts of laughter; moods of super-sensitiveness gave
place suddenly to explosive demoniac humors. As a pianist, Bee-
thoven had a knack of breaking in upon the hush which followed
his imaginative interpretations with peals of harsh laughter, bring-
ing his hearers back from supernal regions to earth with brutal
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
suddenness, and lie did the same thing as a composer. He abolished
the quiet elegance, the cheerfulness, and grace of the old minuet,
substituting terrific natural force, freed from narrow rhythmic con-
ventions, restless, sometimes darkly passionate, sometimes full of
wild joy, sometimes showing the reverse side of things with quiet
humor, sometimes resolving deep pathos in lightly swinging dance
rhythms. It ceases to be a dance of polite society, formal and con-
ventional, and becomes a dance of elemental spirits. From the old
minuet, with its drawing-room associations, is derived the humorous
musical poem— the characteristic scherzo of Beethoven.
We have now touched on all the principal forms used by Bee-
thoven. They were based on the nature of things; they were no
mere devices, but characteristic embodiments of certain poetic ideas
through the symbols of music. They provided the aesthetic founda-
tions of a highly abstract art. In Beethoven a composer arose who
completely understood the possibilities of that art and ruled its form
with the absolute confidence of an infallible despot. He knew the
secret forces of his spiritual kingdom. He worked with unremitting
critical consideration, tireless experiment, a constantly increasing
consciousness of his own enormous power. He was artist enough to
enforce his will without breaking with tradition, and was able to
improve upon forms which came down to him in an apparently com-
plete and unadaptable state. He breathed his own spirit into them,
till it filled them almost to the bursting point. The might of his
inspiration made light of the rules of etiquette. The last secrets of
a soul, of an elemental stormy personality, are revealed without
reserve. The impulse to self-revelation came from within, not from
without. He made himself the subject of artistic exposition, choos-
ing as his medium an art magically expressive of all thoughts and
feelings of mankind— wordless instrumental music.
BEETHOVEN SPEAKS
From where do I get my ideas? I cannot say with certainty. They
come uncalled, directly, indirectly. I could grasp them with my
hands: in the open, from Nature, in the forest, in the quiet of the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
night, in the early morning. Sometimes moods which the poet
expresses in words come to me in tones. They ring, storm, and roar
until they finally stand before me in notes.
I must write— for what weighs on my heart, I must express.
I live only in my music, and I have scarcely begun one thing when
I start another. . . . With whom need I fear to measure my
strength?
Music is a higher revelation than any wisdom or philosophy. It
is the wine that inspires new creations, and I am the Bacchus, who
presses out this wine for men, and make them spiritually drunk. . .
I have no friend, and must live alone, but I know that in my art
God is nearer to me than to others. I approach Him without fear.
I have always known Him. Neither am I anxious about my music,
which no adverse fate can overtake, and which will free him who
understands it from the misery that afflicts others.
The Heiligenstadt Testament (1802)
O ye men who regard or declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or
cynical, how unjust ye are toward me. You do not know the secret
cause of my seeming so. From childhood onward my heart and mind
prompted me to be kind and tender, and I was ever inclined to ac-
complish great deeds. But only think that during the last six years,
I have been in a wretched condition rendered worse by unintelligent
physicians. Deceived from year to year with hopes of improvement,
and then finally forced to the prospect of lasting infirmity (which
may last for years or be totally uncurable).
Born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptive of the
diversion of society, I had soon to retire from the world, to live a
solitary life. At times, even, I endeavored to forget all this, but how
harshly was I driven back by the redoubled experience of my bad
hearing! Yet it was not possible for me to say to men: "Speak louder,
shout, for I am deaf." Alas! How could I declare the weakness of a
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LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
sense which in me ought to be more acute than in others— a sense
which formerly I possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such
as few in my profession enjoy, or even have enjoyed. No, I cannot
doit.
Forgive, therefore, if you see me withdraw, when I would will-
ingly mix with you. My misfortune pains me doubly, in that I am
certain to be misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in
the society of my good fellow creatures, no refined conversations,
no interchange of thought. Almost alone, and only mixing in society
when absolutely necessary, I am compelled to live as an exile. If
I approach near to people, a feeling of hot anxiety comes over me
lest my condition be noticed— for so it was during these past six
months which I spent in the country. . . , But how humiliating it
was when one standing close to me heard a distant flute, and I heard
nothing, or a shepherd's singing, and again I heard nothing. Such
incidents almost drove me to despair; at times I was on the point
of putting an end to my life. Art alone restrained my hand. Oh! it
seemed as if I could not quit this earth until I had produced all
I felt within me, and so I continued this wretched life— wretched,
indeed, with so sensitive a body that a somewhat sudden change
can throw me from the best into the worst state . . .
Patience, I am told, I must choose as my guide. . . . Oh, my
fellow men, when one day you read this, remember that you were
unjust to me, and let the unfortunate console himself if he can find
one like himself, who in spite of all obstacles which nature has
thrown in his way has still done everything in his power to be
received into the ranks of worthy artists and men. . . .
So let it be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it comes before I
have had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will
come, my hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably
wish it later— yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver
me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall
face thee courageously. Farewell, and when I am dead, do not
entirely forget me. This I deserve from you, for during my lifetime,
I often thought of you and how to make you happy. Be ye so. ...
Thus I take my farewell of you— and indeed sadly— yes, that fond
hope which I entertained when I came here, of being at any rate
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
healed up to a certain point, must be entirely abandoned. As the
leaves of autumn fall and fade, so it has withered away for me;
almost the same as when I came here do I go away— even the high
courage which often in the beautiful summer days quickened me,
that has vanished. O Providence, let me have just one more day of
joy; so long is it since true joy filled my heart. Oh when, oh when,
oh Divine Being, shall I be able once again to feel it in the temple
of nature and men. Never— no— that would be too hard.
To the Immortal Beloved (1812)
My angel, my all, my very self. A few words today, only, and in
pencil (your pencil). . . . Why this profound sadness where neces-
sity speaks? Can our love exist otherwise than through sacrifice—
through demanding less than all— can you help it that you are not
wholly mine, and that I am not wholly yours?— Oh, GodI gaze into
the loveliness of nature and solace your heart with a sense of the
inevitable. Love demands everything and love is wholly right,
thus it is for me with you, and for you with me— only, you are so
prone to forget that I must live for myself and for you as well; were
we wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I. ... We
shall, I fancy, see one another soon, besides, I cannot this morning
share with you all that has passed through my mind during the
last few days about my life. Were our hearts always close to one
another I would have no thoughts of this kind. My heart is full— to
tell you so much; ah— there are moments when I feel that speech in
itself is nothing after all— be of good cheer— remain my true, my only
treasure, my all, as I am yours; the gods must send us the rest, that
which must be for us and shall be.
You are suffering, you my dearest creature. Only now have I
learned that letters must be posted very early in the morning.
Mondays— Thursdays— the only days when the post goes from here
to K.— You are suffering. Ah, wherever I am, you are there with
me. ... I hold converse with myself, and you, I arrange things
so that I may live with you, what a life!!!! thus!!! without you—
pursued hither and yon by the kindness of humanity, which in my
opinion— I little deserve and as little care to deserve. The humility
144
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
of men to men— it pains me— and when I consider myself in con-
nection with the universe, what am I and what is he— whom one
calls the greatest (?)— and yet— herein again the divine is immanent
in the human—
I weep when I think that you probably will not have the first
news from me until Saturday evening— much as you love me— my
love for you is stronger— but do not ever hide your real self from
me—Good night— as I am taking the baths I must go to sleep. . , .
Oh God— so near! so far! is not our love a truly celestial abode—
but also immovable as the firmament!
Even from my bed my thoughts press out to you, my immortal
beloved, from time to time joyfully, then again sadly, waiting to
learn whether fate will lend ear to us— Life is possible for me either
wholly with you or not at all— yes, yes I have resolved to wander far
from you until I can fly to your arms and say that there I am truly
at home, can send my soul enfolded by you into the realm of spirits.—
Yes, unhappily it must be so.— You will be courageous, the more so
because you know my fidelity to you, never can another possess
my heart, never— never!— O God, why must one part from what
one loves; and yet my present life in Vienna is a grievous life—
your love makes me at once the happiest and unhappiest of men— at
my age I now need a certain uniformity and regularity of life— are
these compatible with our relations?
Angel, I have just learned that the post goes every day, and so
I must close, that you may receive the L. at once. Be calm, only by
a calm consideration of our existence can we attain our purpose of
living together— be calm— love me— today— yesterday— what tearful
yearnings for you— you— you— my life— my all— farewell Oh, keep on
loving me— never misjudge the faithful heart of your beloved L.
Ever yours— ever mine— ever for one another.
145
KARL MARIA VON WEBER
1786-1826
KABL MABIA VON WEBER, first significant composer of German
Romantic operas, was born in Eutin, Oldenburg, on November
18, 1786. At ten he started taking lessons in piano with J. P.
Heuschkel, and in his eleventh year he spent a few months in
Salzburg studying counterpoint with Michael Haydn. After addi-
tional study with various teachers, including Abb6 Vogler, Weber
became conductor of the Breslau Theater in 1804. Meanwhile he
had completed several operas, two of which were performed unsuc-
cessfully! In 1806 he assumed the post of Musik-Intendant to Duke
Eugen of Wiirttemberg, and in 1807 he was employed as secretary
and music master to Duke Ludwig of Stuttgart. A period followed
in which Weber made successful concert appearances throughout
Germany as pianist/In 1810, the premiere of his opera, Silvana, in
Frankfort brought him his first success as a composer, and was
followed a year later by the equally impressive first performance
of his comic opera, Abu Hassan, in Munich. In 1813 Weber assumed
his first significant post, conductor of German operas in Prague.
Three years later he became musical director of German opera in
Dresden. There he instituted numerous reforms in performances
which made his company one of the most distinguished in Europe.
His position in Dresden made secure by an appointment confirmed
for life, Weber married Caroline Brandt, a singer, on November 4,
1817.
Weber's high-minded efforts in behalf of German ppera, in per-
formances of the highest order, awakened in him the ambition to
create a national German opera based on a German text and empha-
sizing German traditions, backgrounds and culture. This task took
him three years, but with the completion of his masterwork, Der
146
KARL MARIA VON WEBER
Freischutz, introduced with phenomenal success in Berlin on June
18, 1821, the German romantic movement in opera was launched
and established.
Weber wrote two more significant German operas after that.
Euryanthe was commissioned for Vienna by the impresario, Dome-
nico Barbaja, and introduced in that city on October 25, 1823. Weber
wrote his last opera, Oberon, for Covent Garden, in London. Though
his health was poor at the time, he went to London to help prepare
rehearsals and to direct the opera's premiere on April 12, 1826. The
task proved fatal. He died in his sleep in London on June 5, 1826,
and was buried in that city. Eighteen years later his remains were
removed to a new burial place in Dresden, when Richard Wagner
delivered an oration and directed the performance of a piece he had
written expressly for this occasion.
THE MAN
COEUROY
Heinrich Heine, who met Weber in Berlin in 1822, describes him
in one of his letters as follows: "Weber's appearance does not make
a very favorable impression. Short, with ugly legs and a long face,
he has not a single attractive feature. But what a stern expression in
that face! What a pensive look! It bears the same calm strength of
will, the same serene resolution, which attract us with magnetic
force in the portraits of the Old German School." This description
evidently comes near to the truth. But Heine omitted an essential
characteristic: sound humor, which in Weber was always associated
with his calmness and seriousness. He possessed a natural gaiety,
often gaminerie, which even his sufferings could not obliterate.
In Stuttgart (1808) he was a member of the club, Faust's Hollen-
fahrt, where everyone was known by a nickname: Hiemer was called
"Good Rhymer," Danzi, "Lamb's Lettuce," and Weber, "Cabbage
Salad." Weber was fond of giving everybody nicknames: Gretchen
Lange was called by him "Puzzicaca"; Caroline Brandt, "Muckerl,"
"Mucks," "Mucki," "Schneefuss" (Snow Foot) or "Krokodil "
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THE WORLD OF GKEAT COMPOSERS
In one of his letters to Gansbacher, he gives his sweethearts the
names of musical keys "on which he would still like to modulate."
In Darmstadt he had a dog whom he named "Miss," so that when
he called it in the street all the girls would turn around. Later, in
Hamburg (1820), he bought a monkey, and gave him the name
of his enemy, Spontini. Sometimes he went too far in his humor.
Once, after having been severely reprimanded by the King of
Wurttemberg, he met in the castle an old woman who asked him
where she could find the washerwoman of the Court. "There," said
Weber, pointing to the King's private apartment. The King, furious
at this jest, had Weber immediately arrested and put into prison.
There, on October 24, 1808, he composed his song, Ein steter Kampf
ist unser Leben.
These and other similar adventures which we have not the space
to recount here, do not fit in with the ethereal portrait which Berlioz
or Musset made of him. His love adventures show that he was not
inclined to platonic views. It is true that he was less licentious than
many romantics of his time, but, nevertheless, up to the time of his
marriage he passed from one love to another. He is continuously in
search of "a heart whom he can trust/' but fails to find it. In 1813 he
writes from Prague to his friend Gansbacher: "With slight variations
it is always the same theme, and you know what I think of this
melody." At about that time he began to despise women, though he
admitted that they were "born artists." They had played with his
feelings, and none had come near his ideal woman. He wrote: "I
feel that I must love. I adore women, and at the same time I hate
and despise them," Even when, in 1814, his lasting love for Caroline
Brandt began, he hesitated between his love for the woman and his
love of music. "It is indeed a hard necessity to have to sacrifice the
man to the artist." He finally decided to marry her (and wisely
persuaded her to abandon her career as an artist), and never had to
regret his choice. She became his perfect companion, and her in-
telligent advice was most useful to him; she was his "seruante de
Molidre" and jokingly he called her his "popular gallery." It was
she, for instance, who persuaded him to cut out the allegoric scene
which Kind had written as a prologue to the Freischutz. There are
many allusions to his domestic happiness in his letters to Gans-
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KAKL MARIA VON WEBER
bacher: "How happy I am in my house, how my dear Lina beautifies
my life! Indeed I am a happy man, and wish you the same" (1818).
It was a calm and modest life. His wife acted also as cook, and we
read in his diary: "Today I have eaten for the first time our person-
ally cooked food" (unser personliche Ruche).
Weber had found his balance of mind. If a sense of humor cannot
always fight against suffering, a solid and sincere faith brings com-
fort. In his illness he often said, "God's will be done/' and after every
success he thanked his Master. After composing the first act of
Oberon, he asked for God's protection; and though he was com-
missioned to write his two Masses, he wrote them as a work of love
and faith. On the last page of the second Mass we read: Soli Deo
Gloria.
His filial devotion was equally great, Although he had no reason to
be grateful to his father, who exploited him as a child prodigy, he
paid his debts and supported him to the end. Of his mother he
always spoke in affectionate terms, praising her sweetness and the
good influence which she had on him. Weber resembled her very
much. To her he owed that great sensitiveness which caused the
least adverse criticism, even in insignificant papers, to be a torture
to him, and made the coldness with which Goethe received him
upset him deeply. This trait of his character was very marked in his
youth, during which he had no playmates, and was given to reading
sensational novels. But his strong manly ideal, "proud humility and
humble pride," saved him; it was the humility of the man and the
sinner, the pride of the creative artist. He was ambitious, but aimed
rather at honest artistic success than at money and honor. After a
performance of Silvana at Berlin (1812), Dieberg, a composer and a
friend of his, reproached him with monotony. Weber at once wrote
in his diary: "If there is no variety in my ideas, I lack genius. Must
I then give my life, my work, my love, to an art for which God has
not given me the true vocation? This doubt makes me most unhappy,
for on no account do I wish to be one of the many thousand mediocre
composers. If I cannot reach a high position, it would be better to
beg for my bread by giving piano lessons. But I will uphold my
motto: 'Tenacious to the last/ and time will show if I have lived up
to it."
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Weber's greatest endeavor was to "have a clear insight into his
own self/' and this maxim governed his entire work. A long period
of incubation preceded the creation of each composition.
After the success of his Silvana he took heart again. "Even my
enemies say that I have genius," he wrote; "thus, while fully aware
of my shortcomings, I shall not lose my self-confidence, and while
watching myself carefully proceed on the path which art has traced
for me."
Straightforwardness, honesty in art, a keen sense of duty, devotion
to work, and greater orderliness; these were the true characteristics
of Weber.
THE COMPOSER
ALFRED EINSTEIN
The material of Romantic opera had long been available. In
French opera-comique, in opera buffa, in the German Singspiel, and
notably in the SingspieFs coarse base-born brother, the fairy panto-
mime (Zauberposse), all its elements were latent. There had been
a number of attempts in the 18th century to create a German
national opera, for instance by Ignaz Holzbauer (1711-83) on a
German historical subject, and by Anton Schweitzer (1735-87) on
affecting texts by Wieland, dealing with classical antiquity and
medieval England. The result, however, was little more than Italian
opera performed in German. The movement received its vital
impetus from the German romantic spirit, which had owed nothing
to these experiments, but much to Gluck, to the Mozart of Don
Giovanni and Die Zauberflote, and to the whole Beethoven.
What do we mean by the Romantic spirit of opera? In the first
place it was a question of subject matter. In spite of the respect felt
for Gluck, there set in a revulsion from classical antiquity and with
it a growing taste for folklore. Quite a new idea of "wonder" was
conceived. In the older opera it had merely meant fantasy and sur-
prise, an opportunity for stage engineers; in Romantic opera it be-
came the moving spirit in everything that happened. Legend and
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KARL MARIA VON WEBER
superstition provided a world of marvels, filling the air and exerting
horrifying or beneficent influences upon human destinies. All Na-
ture's secret forces took on an individual life and were more or less
personified, E. T. A, Hoffmann (1776-1822) was the first in the field
with his opera Undine, based on Fouque's ingenuous, pathetic, fairy
tale, and in the demoniacal spirit Kiihleborn created its typical
character. Almost simultaneously Ludwig Spohr (1784r-1859) tackled
the subject of Faust and arrested the attention of his contemporaries,
particularly with the note he struck in the Witches' Dance. The
actual birth of Romantic opera, however, must be held to date from
the creation of a master musician who by force of a peculiarly
sensuous quality in his melodic style was from the outset something
more than a mere follower of Mozart. I refer to Karl Maria von
Weber and his Freischutz.
Hoffmann was right in saying, after the first indescribably exciting
performance of this work in Berlin in 1821, that since Mozart's time
there had been two outstanding achievements in German opera,
Beethoven's Fidelio and this Freischiitz. Here, in Der Freischutz,
the musician's art is no longer merely draughtsmanship; it is also
coloring. Here the German woodland comes to life with all its magic
in the horn music of the huntsmen's choruses and all its eeriness in
the evocation of the haunted glen; here a born dramatist breathed
abounding life into the girlish figures of Agathe and Annchen (the
latter a portrait of the composer's wife), into the weak-willed young
huntsman— a truly tragic figure, this— and, above all, created with a
couple of strokes of genius the character of Caspar, "the monster,"
in Beethoven's words, "that stands there like a house." But Der
Freischutz was in point of form only a Singspiel. Weber had higher
ambitions. Euryanthe (1823) represents his endeavor to establish
"grand Romantic opera," the German equivalent of opera seria. The
worthy Spohr, an ever enterprising if not always successful inno-
vator, had anticipated him in this with his noble Jessonda; never-
theless the historic point of departure is the "programmatic" purpose
of Euryanthe. That purpose Weber himself put into words in answer
to a proposal from Breslau for a concert performance of the work.
"Euryanthe" he said, "is a dramatic essay, counting upon the col-
laboration of all the sister arts for its effect, and assuredly ineffectual
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if deprived of their assistance." And again on an occasion when it
was suggested that the opera might be improved by cuts: "With so
organic a whole as a grand opera must be, to make excisions is
excessively difficult when the composer has thoroughly thought out
his work."
The problem of the unity of opera was Weber's preoccupation,
and the efforts it cost him are obvious when we compare Euryanthe
with Der Freischiitz; but the result of those efforts was to make
plain the way for the greatest of his successors. Weber employed
various means of unification. Recitatives, linking the formal numbers
of the opera, were in Weber so much enriched in melodiousness, in
expressive power, and in the accompanying orchestral commentary
as to undermine the prevailing system of set pieces. Yet more effec-
tive and radical as a means towards melodic consistency was the
use of recurring musical ideas at dramatically significant points, in
both the vocal and orchestral parts. Gluck and Mozart had already
employed unifying basic motifs, in the finer sense of the word, to
characterize their personages; Luigi Cherubini (1760-1842) in Les
Deux journees had made important use of a motif for associative
and evocative effect, and Weber had done the same thing several
times with great subtlety in Der Freischiitz, the finest example oc-
curring in the Wolfs Glen music, when the hapless marksman shakes
off his last misgivings before committing his mad act, to the strains
from the orchestra of the peasants* mocking chorus. But in Eury-
anthe this principle was much more deliberately employed, and with
the psychological penetration of genius. When Emma's grim funeral
music—already familiar to the audience from the magnificent over-
ture to the work— announced in its transformation at the end of the
opera that the sinner is redeemed, the seed was planted from which,
at Wagner's hands, the whole form of music drama was to grow.
Wagner did more than perform an act of piety when he began his
career at Dresden with a performance of Euryanthe.
The most admirable aspect of the consistency of Weber's opera,
however, lies in its characteristic coloring. This was a quality with
which he endowed each one of his operas. It was derived from his
singular power, typical of the true romantic, of so handling the or-
chestra that the individual instruments yielded peculiar and hitherto
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KARL MARIA VON WEBER
unknown effects, while colors were mingled in the most varied ways.
As in Der Freischutz the homeliness of the German woodland and
its dark mystery turn into music, so in Euryanthe does the chivalry
of medieval France, in Preciosa (1821) the racial traits of the Span-
ish gypsy, in Oberon (1826) the gorgeous fantasy of the Orient and
the fairyland of the West. All turn to music, which clothes each of
these works in a veil of magical radiancy.
WEBER SPEAKS
To appraise a contemporary work of art properly, there is needed
that calm, dispassionate mood which, while sensitive to all kinds of
impressions, is protected against preconceived judgments and feel-
ings. There is needed a mind completely open to the material under
consideration. Only then is the artist given the power to go forth in
the world with those feelings and images which he has created,
which he, the master of each passionate emotion, allows us to ex-
perience with him and through him: pain, pleasure, horror, joy,
hope, and love. We can ascertain almost immediately whether he is
capable of creating a mighty and enduring structure, or whether he
has captured our interest with details rather than the work as a
whole.
In no type of art work is this more difficult to avoid (and conse-
quently more often present) than in opera. By opera I mean, of
course, that which satisfies Germans : an art work complete in itself,
in which the partial contributions of related arts are fused into each
other, disappear, and finally emerge again to create a new world.
Generally, a few striking numbers decide the success of the whole.
Seldom do these excerpts— pleasant at first hearing—fuse into the
over-all effect at the close, as they should, since it is a complete work
that should first win over the listener, who, only after greater famili-
arity, finds delight in the separate parts.
The nature and inner essence of opera, a whole made up of wholes,
presents this immense difficulty which only the outstanding giants of
music succeed in overcoming. Each musical composition within it
gives the impression of an independent, organic, self-contained unit.
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Yet it should become a part of the over-all structure when the latter
is viewed in its entirety.
Here lies the great, the mysterious secret of music, felt yet not
expressed. The opposing natures of anger and love, the torment of
ecstatic suffering in which salamander and sylph embrace, are here
united. In a word, what love is to man, music is to the arts and to
mankind. For music is truly love itself, the purest, most ethereal
language of the emotions, embodying all their changing colors in
every variety of shading and nuance. While it is understood at once
by a thousand different people it contains only a single basic truth.
This truth is musical speech, however unusual the form in which
it may appear, and this truth asserts its rights in the end. Creative
and important works of art of all eras prove this contention again
and again. What, for example, could have sounded stranger and
more alien than the works of Gluck when everyone was overwhelmed
by the sensual floods of Italian music?
154
FRANZ SCHUBERT
1797-1858
FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT was born in Vienna, Austria, on January
31, 1797. In early boyhood he received instruction on the violin, piano,
organ, in singing and thorough bass from his father and Michael
Holzer. Between 1808 and 1813, as a member of the Vienna Court
Choir, he attended the "Konvict" School for choristers. There he
wrote his first compositions, including his first song Hagars Klage in
1811, and his first symphony in 1813. In the latter year his voice
broke and he had to leave the Konvict From 1814 to 1816 he was a
teacher in his father's school. In 1814 he completed a Mass, an opera,
two string quartets, piano pieces and songs, among the last being
a masterpiece, Gretchen am Spinnrade. In 1815 he produced^ almost
150 songs (including the Erlkonig), two symphonies, two Masses, an
opera, four operettas, and four piano sonatas.
In 1816 he gave up the teaching profession, went to live with his
friend Franz von Schober, and devoted himself henceforth exclu-
sivelyf to composition. He lived on the generosity of several friends
who recognized his genius and loved him— the prominent opera
singer Johann Michael Vogl, the poet Johann Mayrhofer, Schober,
and Joseph von Spaun among 'others. On two occasions— in the
summers of 1818 and 1824— Schubert worked as a music teacher at
the family estate of Count Esterhazy in Zelesz, Hungary. Otherwise
he never held a job, though he applied for several, and earned only
a pittance for his music. The rare occasions when his compositions
were publicly performed proved disastrous : the operettas Die Zwill-
ingsbruder and Die Zauberharfe, produced in 1820, and Rosamunde,
a play with his incidental music, in 1823. His first publication, a
volume of songs that included the Erlkonig, issued in 1821, was
made possible only through the bounty of his friends.
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The disintegration of his health after 1823 contributed to deepen
the depressions caused by his failure to gain recognition. Yet neither
sickness nor pain, poverty nor frustration could keep him from cre-
ative work. He completed hundreds of compositions, producing one
masterpiece after another. At long last, on March 26, 1828, a con-
cert of his music aroused considerable enthusiasm. Convinced that
the tide had now turned in his favor, Schubert planned not only
many new ambitious works but also some additional study of coun-
terpoint with Simeon Sechter. But none of these plans materialized.
He died in Vienna on November 19, 1828, and by his own request
was buried in a grave near Beethoven's. Only many years after his
death was his true greatness appreciated by the music world at large.
Patient research by several notable musicians— including Robert
Schumann, George Grove, and Arthur Sullivan— helped locate many
of Schubert's manuscripts which had long been reposing, forgotten
and dishevelled, on dusty shelves.
THE MAN
ANSELM HVTTENBRENNER
Schubert's outward appearance was anything but striking and
prepossessing. He was of short stature, rather stout, with a full round
face. His brow had an agreeable curve. Because of his near-sighted-
ness, he always wore eyeglasses. He never concerned himself with
dress, and he detested going into high society because it meant care-
ful dressing. He could not bring himself to discard his spoiled frock
coat for a black suit. To bow or scrape or cringe in society was
odious to him, and to hear words of flattery about himself disgusted
him.
When Schubert and Mayrhofer were living together in the Wip-
plingerstrasse, the former would sit at his writing desk every day at
six o'clock and compose without a break until one o'clock in the
afternoon, smoking a few small pipes. If I came to see him in the
morning, he would play to me what he had ready and waited to hear
my opinion. If I praised any song especially he would say: "Yes,
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
that was a good poem, and when one has something good the music
comes easily, melodies just stream into one, so that it is a real joy.
With a bad poem, everything sticks. One may make a martyrdom
of it, but nothing but dry stuff comes out."
Schubert never composed in the afternoon. After the noonday
meal he would go to a cafe-house, drink a small portion of black
coffee, smoke for an hour or two, and read newspapers at the same
time. Ordinarily, Schubert drank beer at the Schwarze Katze in An-
nasstrasse or the Schnecke near St. Peter's. . . . But when we were
more affluent we would drink wine. Before a glass of wine, Schubert
became most loquacious. His opinions on musical matters were
acute, succinct, penetrating and to the point. When, at social gather-
ings, there was serious conversation about music, Schubert enjoyed
listening and rarely joined in. But if a presumptuous amateur would
show complete ignorance, Schubert's patience would snap and he
would bark: "Better say nothing about things you do not under-
stand at all, and never will!" Schubert rarely spoke about his works
or himself, and when he did it was usually in a few well chosen
words. His favorite subjects were Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven. He had the highest esteem of all for Beethoven. Schubert
was enchanted by the operas of Mozart. His favorite works were: the
Messiah of Handel, Don Giovanni and the Requiem of Mozart, and
the Fifth Symphony and the Mass in C major of Beethoven.
He was not an elegant pianist but was always sure of himself
and played with facility. He played the violin and viola, and he
also sang. His voice was weak but very agreeable. When Schubert
would sing his own Lieder in the company of musicians he generally
accompanied himself. When others sang them, he would sit in a
remote corner of the room, or even in another room, and listen
quietly.
Schubert was very religious and believed implicitly in God and
the immortality of the soul. His religious ardor was reflected in
many of his songs. At times when he was in dire need he never lost
courage and if, at times, he had more than he needed, he willingly
shared it with others who appealed to him.
Once, while taking a walk with Schubert in the country in 1821,
I asked him if he had ever been in love. As he was generally cold and
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
uncommunicative to women at parties, I was inclined to believe he
disliked them. "Oh, no!" he said. "I loved someone very dearly, and
she loved me, too. She was the schoolmaster's daughter [Theresa
Grob], somewhat younger than I was. She sang the soprano part in
a Mass I had composed— most beautifully and with great feeling. She
was not exactly pretty, and her face had pockmarks. But she had a
heart of gold. For three years she hoped I would marry her. But I
was unable to find a position which would have provided for us.
She then acceded to the wishes of her parents by marrying some-
body else. I still love her and there has been no one who has ap-
pealed to me so much."
THE COMPOSER
DONALD FRANCIS TOVEJ
Schubert's masters at the "Konvict," or court chapel choir school,
have been severely blamed for neglecting his education and allowing
him to compose without restraint. One of these masters left on record
the honest remark that when he tried to teach Schubert anything, he
found the boy knew it already. . . . But we are not yet justified in
inferring that the master really taught Schubert nothing. And there
is abundant evidence that the child taught himself with remarkable
concentration, if not with severity. One of the most trying tasks ever
imposed on a young musician is that . . . which consists of compos-
ing an instrumental movement that follows, phrase by phrase, the
proportions and modulations of a selected classical model. . . . Now
the earliest song of Schubert that we possess is Hagars Klage (1811),
an enormous rigmarole with at least twelve movements and in-
numerable changes of key; evidently (one would guess) a typical
example of childish diffuseness. It turns out, however, to be ac-
curately modelled, modulations and all, on a setting of the same
poem by Johann Rudolf Zumsteeg (1760-1802), a composer of some
historical importance as a pioneer in the art of setting dramatic
narrative for voice with piano accompaniment. ... Yet within the
limits of Hagars Klage Schubert makes decisive progress, begin-
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
ning by following his model closely until about the middle of the
work. At this point, Zumsteeg's energy begins to flag, and the child's
energy begins to rise. Schubert's declamation improves, and before
he has finished his long task he has achieved a sense of climax and a
rounding-off which Zumsteeg hardly seems to have imagined pos-
sible. Songwriting, whether on a large or a small scale, was still in
its infancy. A few masterpieces appear sporadically among the ex-
periments, themselves few and heterogeneous, of Haydn, Mozart,
and Beethoven. The real development of the art-forms of song was
worked out by the child Schubert with the same fierce concentration
as that with which the child Mozart laid the foundations of his
sonata forms.
Within the four years from this first attempt to "play the sedulous
ape," Schubert had written three stout volumes of songs of all shapes
and sizes, besides a still larger quantity of instrumental music. A
professional copyist might wonder how the bulk was achieved by
one penman within the time. And as the songs lead up to and in-
clude Gretchen am Spinnrade (1814) and Erlkonig (1815), it seems
futile to blame Schubert's teachers for not teaching him more before
he was seventeen. The maturity of this famous couple of master-
pieces remains as miraculous when we know the mass of work by
which the boy trained himself for them as when we know them only
in isolation. Gretchen am Spinnrade, the earlier of the two, is an
even more astonishing achievement than Erlkonig. There is no diffi-
culty in understanding how the possibilities of Erlkonig would fire
the imagination of any boy, though only a genius could control to
artistic form the imagination thus fired. Schubert's Erlkonig is as
eminently a masterpiece in musical form as in powerful illustration
of the poem. It has the singular luck to be rivalled, and to some tastes
surpassed by the setting of Karl Loewe (1796-1869), a work not
much later in date but much more in touch with modern methods.
Loewe brings out the rationalistic vein of Goethe's ballad by setting
the Erlking's words to a mere ghostly bugle call which never leaves
the notes of its one chord. Schubert uses melodies as pretty as the
Erlking's promises. In other words, Loewe's point of view is that of
the father assuring the fever-stricken child that the Erlking, with
his daughter and his whisperings, are nothing but the marsh-mists
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THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and the wind in the trees; while Schubert, like the child, remains
unconvinced by the explanation. His terror is the child's; Loewe's
terror is the father's. Schubert has already at the age of seventeen
mastered one of his cardinal principles of song-writing, which is that
wherever some permanent feature can be found in the background
of the poem, that feature shall dominate the background of the
music. The result is that, after all, he naively achieves a more com-
plete setting of the poem with his purely musical apparatus than
Loewe with his rational adroitness. Loewe has almost forgotten that
the father, with his child in his arms, is riding at full gallop in the
hope of reaching shelter before the marsh-fever takes its toll. Schu-
bert, composing, like Homer, "with his eye on the object," repre-
sents the outward and visible situation by means of an "accompani-
ment" the adequate performance of which is one of the rarest tours
de force in piano playing. . . . But Schubert's accompaniment also
realizes the inward and spiritual situation. With the Erlking's
speeches, the accompaniment, while still maintaining its pace, takes
forms which instantly transfer the sense of movement from that of
a thing seen by the spectator to that of the dazed and frightened
child in the rider's arms. To some critics this may seem a small point;
but it is decisive, not of the superiority of one version over the
other, but of the completeness of Schubert's view. Against it all
cavil at the "prettiness" of the Erlking's melodies is as futile as a
cavil against the prettiness of the Erlking's words. Schubert at seven-
teen is a mature master of the ironies and tragedy of nature. He is
also a better realist than Loewe. . . .
Gretchen am Spinnrade is a far more astonishing achievement for
a boy of seventeen than Erlkonig. If, for the sake of argument, we
summon up the naive impertinence to ask where this shy choirboy,
absorbed incessantly in writing and only just out of school, could
have obtained the experience, not of Faust, but of the victim of
Faust and Mephistopholes, the answer is not easily guessed; for
Faust, though published, had not yet been presented on the stage.
But plenty of good drama was cultivated in Viennese theaters, and
we need not suppose that Schubert avoided it. He then kept his eye
on the object, in this case the spinning wheel. And he knew, as
Parry has admirably pointed out in The Art of Music, not only that
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
the climax comes at the words "Und ach! sein Kuss!" but that with
that climax the spinning is interrupted, and resumed only with dif-
ficulty. With these points settled, all that remains to be postulated
is the possession of a noble and totally unsophisticated style, together
with some individual power of modulation to secure variety in sim-
plicity throughout a song which is too dramatic to be set to repeti-
tions of a single strophic melody. The style Schubert already had;
the individual power of modulation shows itself at the third line of
the poem. Before Schubert, only Beethoven would have thought of
moving from D minor to C major and straight back again without
repeating C as the dominant of F. This modulation is here entirely
Schubert's own, for the influence of Beethoven on Schubert had not
yet at this time produced in him any directed result beyond a de-
cided opinion that Beethoven was responsible for the bizarrerie of
most contemporary music. Beethoven and Schubert were, in fact,
developing the resources of key-relationship on identical principles;
but this fact is not one that ever appears in the guise of any external
points of their styles, Schubert's idolatry at this time was devoted to
Mozart; and in the art-forms of song there was even less room for
Mozart's style than for Beethoven's. With the forms of opera and
of instrumental music the position was very different; and, now that
we have illustrated Schubert's amazing early maturity in the pioneer
work of the song with piano accompaniment, it is time to direct our
attention to his work in other and older art forms. ...
Just as Schubert's juvenile work in song writing culminates at
seventeen in Gretchen am Spinnrade and Erlkonig, so does the
equally huge pile of work in larger forms culminates at the same age
in the Mass in F (1814). . . . Schubert's first Mass, is, in its way, a
not less astonishing phenomenon than Erlkonig; and it is far more
perfect in form, and even in style, than the ambitious efforts of his
later years, the Masses in A-flat (1819-22) and E-flat (1828). ... I
am not acquainted with any models Schubert can have had for the
very definite style of church music he here achieves. Possibly he
heard a Mass or two by Cherubini, whom Beethoven considered the
greatest composer of the age. . . . There is nothing remotely like it
in the church music of either Mozart or Haydn. The triumphant
performance of this important choral and orchestral work by the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
choir of Schubert's school was an experience such as very few mod-
ern Conservatory students can obtain at the age of seventeen. . .
Schubert's boyhood, then, culminated in two of his most powerful
songs, and a uniquely charming piece of church music. ... In his
early instrumental music there is nothing so important, though the
quantity is not less enormous. The earliest pieces, including the
earliest string quartets, are fantasies of such ubiquitous rambling
that the catalogue-maker cannot specify their keys. . . . Apart from
the earliest child's play, the quartets and symphonies of his adoles-
cence [are] ... for the most part stiff exercises in the outward
forms of Mozart with a certain boyish charm of hero-worship in their
melodies. The stiffness is anything but Mozartean; it is, in fact, the
typical angularity of a conscientious student. Six symphonies, about
a dozen string quartets, another dozen of piano sonatas, and a vast
number of fragments, show him pursuing a consistent line of work, of
observation and experiment; if with ideas in his head, then so much
the better for the result; if without, then so much better for the
practice. . . .
The first instrumental work which shows his peculiar power be-
ginning to rise up against his greatest weakness of form is the am-
bitious Quintet in A major (1819) for the unusual combination of
piano, violin, viola, cello and double bass. It is known as the Forellen
Quintet because the fourth of its five movements (the most perfect,
though not the most important) is a set of variations on his pretty
song Die Forelle (The Trout). The Scherzo is another successful
movement in one of those small melodic and sectional forms which
nobody denies to be thoroughly within Schubert's grasp. But the
important things are the first movement, the slow movement in F,
and the finale. In all three cases the first half of the movement is the
boldly drawn exposition of a design on the grandest scale, while the
rest, with the exception of a well-managed modicum of development
in the first movement, is a mere exact recapitulation of this exposition
starting in such a key as to end in the tonic. In the first movement
and in the finale Schubert adds insult to the crudity of this pro-
cedure by giving the usual direction that the exposition shall be
repeated!
Now, the sonata forms, which are here in question, depend largely
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
on the balance and distinction between three typical organic mem-
bers: an exposition, a development, and a recapitulation. Of these
the most delicate is the recapitulation, on which the symmetry of
the whole depends. In works like the Forellen Quintet Schubert was
exhausted by the effort of his grand expositions and fell back with
relief upon a mere copyist's task by way of recapituation. This was
wrong; but the a priori theorist is not less wrong who regards ex-
tensive recapitulation as a weakness in the classical schemes. There
is no surer touchstone of Schubert's, as of Mozart's, Beethoven's,
and Brahms's, treatment of form, than the precise way in which then-
recapitulations differ from their expositions; and where Schubert
is at the height of his power this difference is of classical accuracy
and subtlety. . . . Two great movements notorious for their re-
dundancies and diffuseness are the first movement of the String
Quartet in G major (1826) and the first movement of the Piano
Sonata in B-flat (1828), Schubert's last composition. In both of
them the whole interest converges upon the return to what is called
the "first subject," involving the return to the main key after the
wanderings of a long and dramatic development. The method of
that return is entirely different in the two cases; both passages may
rank with the most sublime inspirations of Beethoven. In the G
major Quartet the return has an overpowering pathos, which is the
more surprising since the tone of the whole movement, though at
the acme of romance and picturesqueness, is by no means tragic.
Yet this passage is the most "inevitable," as well as the most unex-
pected part of the whole design. The original first subject began with
a soft major chord which swelled out and exploded in an energetic
phrase in the minor key. The next phrase repeated this event on the
dominant. In the return, which is long expected, the soft tonic chord
is minor, and the energetic phrase is calm and in the major key. The
subsequent theme is not less wonderfully transferred in another
way. In the B-flat Sonata the return is more subtle. The whole move-
ment, as in the case of the G major Quartet, runs a course not un-
usual in Schubert's large designs; opening with a sublime theme of
the utmost calmness and breadth; descending, by means of a good
though abrupt dramatic stroke, from the sublime to the picturesque,
and then drifting from the picturesque through prettiness to a gar-
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rulous frivolity. But then comes meditation. The frivolous theme it-
self begins to gather energy in the course of the development. It
originates a dramatic passage which begins picturesquely, and rises
from the picturesque to the sublime. When the calm has become
ethereal a distant thunder is heard. That thunder has been twice
heard during the opening of the movement. At present the key (D
minor) is not far from the tonic. The main theme appears softly at a
high pitch, harmonized in this neighboring key. The distant thunder
rolls again, and the harmony glides into the tonic. The theme now
appears, still higher, in the tonic. An ordinary artist would use this
as the real return and think himself clever. But Schubert's distant
thunder rolls yet again, and the harmony relapses into D minor. The
tonic will have no real weight at such a juncture until it has been
adequately prepared by its dominant. The theme is resumed in D
minor; the harmony takes the necessary direction, and expectancy is
now aroused and kept duly excited, for a return of the first subject
in full. Accordingly, this return is one in which transformations
would be out of place; and so Schubert's recapitulations of his first
subject is unvaried until the peculiarities of his transition themes
compel the modulations to take a new course.
At the risk of entering into further technicalities, we must now
consider Schubert's dealings with what the idiotic terminology of
sonata form calls the "second subject/' The grounds for this term
appear to be that there are no rules whatever to determine how
many themes a sonata-exposition shall contain, nor how its themes
shall be distributed; but that whatever is contained in or about the
tonic key, from the outset to the first decisive change of key shall be
called the first subject, and that whatever is contained from that
decisive change of key to the end of the exposition shall be called
the second subject. The material that effects the decisive change of
key will obviously be called the transition. But as for what and where
the different themes are, Haydn may run a whole exposition on one
theme, Mozart may reserve one of his best themes for the develop-
ment, and Beethoven may have one-and-a-half themes in his first
subject, a very definite new theme for his transition, five-and-a-half
themes in his second subject, and still a new one in the course of
his development. And in all three composers you will have no reason
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
to expect any two works to be alike; and all three composers may
adopt each other's procedures.
The real fixed points in the matter are that there is at the outset a
mass of material clearly establishing the tonic key; that there then
follows a decisive transition to another key; and that in that other
key another mass of material completes the exposition. In any case,
the exposition asserts its key in order to maintain them.
Schubert's first subjects are generally of magnificent breadth, and
the length of his big movements is not actually greater than their
openings imply. If Beethoven had to set to work from any one of
Schubert's finest openings two things are certain: that he would
have produced quite as long a movement, and that its materials
would have been very differently distributed, especially as regards
the continuation of the second subject. Up to that point all is well
with Schubert. . . . His transition is usually an abrupt and some-
times primitive dramatic stroke; whereas with Mozart it is, when not
merely formal, an occasion of magnificent musical draughtsmanship
such as Schubert achieved for another purpose in the passage in the
B-flat Sonata which we have just discussed. Schubert, in avoiding
the problems of such draughtsmanship, is only doing as Beethoven
often did in his best early works; for Beethoven, too, found it easier
to be either clever or abrupt at this juncture than to achieve Mozart's
calm breadth of transition until his own style and scale of form had
passed altogether beyond Mozart's horizon. Meanwhile, why should
he or Schubert reject more startling methods which perfectly suit
the circumstances of their early works (for Schubert did not know
that his early works were going to last)? An author is perfectly justi-
fied in simply saying, "Then a strange thing happened" on two con-
ditions: first, that what happens is really strange; secondly, that the
strange event is not a mere device of the author to get out of a diffi-
culty.
Schubert's strange event is usually the beginning of his second
subject in a quite unexpected key, remote from that in which it is
going to continue. The masterly examples are to be found in the
following first movements: in the great String Quartet in C (1813);
in the Symphony in C (1828); the E-flat Piano Trio (1827); the Grand
Duo for piano four hands (1824); and, once more, the Sonata in
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B Flat. This last case is on the borderline; but the device is a true
art form, widely different from the things in Beethoven which may
have suggested it (see Beethoven's Sonatas, op. 10, no. 3, and op.
28); and Schubert's ways of bringing the unexpected key round to
the orthodox one are thoroughly masterly. The trouble begins after
this problem is solved. Then Schubert, feeling that the rest of his
exposition must not be less spacious than its enormous opening, fills
up most of what he guesses to be the required interval with a vigor-
ous discussion of the matter already in hand. Even if the discussion
does not lead him too far afield, it inevitably tends to obliterate the
vital distinction between the exposition and the development, a dis-
tinction universal in the arts . . . quite irrespective of their names
and shapes. The cruellest irony in this situation is that Schubert,
whether he knows it or not, is only following or anticipating the ad-
vice so constantly given nowadays to orthodox young composers "to
stick to the main themes and not dissipate energy on a multitude of
new ones." Schubert is commonly cited as the awful example of such
dissipation, which is supposed to lead to the bottomless pit of Liszt's
symphonic poems. But these nefarious works are, in point of fact,
fanatical efforts to evolve a new kind of music out of transformations
of a single musical germ. And the first and greatest of the symphonic
poems on Liszt's principles happens to be Schubert's Wanderer Fan-
tasy (1822), a masterpiece of independent form which the Lisztianer
were desperately anxious to explain away.
The real classical procedure with the continuation of a big second
subject, the procedure of Mozart and Beethoven, is to produce a
series of new sentences, all conspicuously shorter than the main
themes, but not less sharply contrasted in length and shape among
themselves. If the key of the second subject is not remote, one of
these themes will probably have a strong admixture of a remote key
within its own single phrase. This instantly serves all the purpose of
Schubert's widest digressions. I have here sometimes called these
items "themes," and sometimes "sentences." It does not matter a pin
whether they are new themes or old; what matters is that they have
the manner of exposition and not of development. They are epi-
grams, not discussions. That is why they make paragraphs that will
bear recapitulation in the later stages of the movement, while Schu-
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
bert's expositions will not, though there is no other means of dealing
with them. Schubert himself achieves the right kind of paragraph to
perfection in the unique case of the Unfinished Symphony (1817);
the very case which is most often quoted against him as illustrating
his besetting sin of "vain repetitions/' because its admirably terse and
rhythmically uneven phrases persistently recur to the same theme.
But Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven would have recognized that
Schubert had in this case grasped the secret of their own technique.
So far, then, we already see that it is no technical matter to sift
"right" and "wrong" from Schubert's instrumental form, even with
the earlier great masters to guide us. But when we find (as, for in-
stance, in the first movement of the great C major Symphony) that
some of the most obviously wrong digressions contain the profound-
est, most beautiful, and most inevitable passages, then it is time to
suspect that Schubert, like other great classics, is pressing his way
towards new forms. In any case, where a work of art, or a human
being, has ubiquitous great quantities together with a manifest lack
of unity, there may be great difficulty (and, perhaps, small profit) in
determining which of its conflicting personalities is the more real.
If the progress is (as we have seen in the Sonata in B-flat) from the
sublime to the garrulous, we shall naturally appeal from Schubert
garrulous to Schubert sublime; but in the G major Symphony the
whole tone is sublime, and nowhere more so than in the grotesque
finale which fell on a blind spot in Hans von Billow's sense of values.
It is impossible in a summary non-technical statement to demon-
strate what were the new forms towards which Schubert was tend-
ing; and the mechanical triviality of the accepted doctrines of
sonata-form makes even a detailed technical demonstration more
difficult than work on an unexplored subject. I must therefore beg
permission to leave this matter with the dogmatic statement that
the fruition of Schubert's new instrumental forms is to be found in
Brahms, especially in the group of works culminating in the Piano
Quintet, op. 34. ...
Schubert's larger works belong to the main stream of our musical
history; their weaknesses are relaxations of their powers, and
Schubert has no devices (unless we count the absurdities of the
Forellen Quintet) for turning them into an artificial method with a
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point of its own. Hence it is as easy for a later master in the main
stream of musical thought to absorb and develop the essentials of
Schubert's ideas as it is for a poet similarly situated to absorb the
essentials of Shakespeare's. Neither Shakespeare nor Schubert will
ever be understood by any critic or artist who regards their weak-
nesses and inequalities as proof that they are artists of less than the
highest rank. . . .
Other elements in Schubert's sonata form are in much the same
condition as his expositions; a condition in which weakness in the
actual context is often indistinguishable from new power in some
future art. The part of a sonata movement known specially as the
development is, of course, already at an almost hopeless disadvan-
tage in Schubert because his exposition will have already digressed
into developments of its own. But nothing could be wider of the
mark than the orthodox statement that Schubert is weak in this
part of his form. His best developments are in themselves magnifi-
cent; but he has in some four or five cases committed an indiscretion
which is a characteristically youthful result of the impression made
upon him by the first movement of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony,
the development of which produces a brilliant cumulative effect in
its earlier stages by reproducing its first topic in another key after
an energetic different line of argument has been worked out. This
procedure Beethoven handles so tersely as to give a feeling of enor-
mous breadth to a development elsewhere crowded with other mat-
ters; but when Schubert decides to resume his first topic in this
manner he has no room for much beyond a plain transposed repro-
duction of the two pages of argument it has already cost him. After
thus repeating his argument he generally has in store some stroke of
genius by which its end shall bring about a beautiful return to the
tonic; and the most primitive of Schubert's developments is more
highly organized than that of the first movement of Schumann's
Piano Quintet, in which Schubert's simplest plan is very successfully
carried out in terms not so much of a mosaic as of a Dutch-tile fire-
place. ...
The most notorious of Schubert's developments is that in the first
movement of the E-flat Piano Trio; where he goes over his argument,
itself a cumulative slow crescendo, three times. When the third
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
statement begins, its effect is, at the moment, disastrous, but it leads
grandly enough to the return of the main theme in the tonic; and
thus even here what is wrong is not the scheme in itself, but the im-
possible scale on which it is worked. In the first movement of the
String Quintet in C major (1828), where the process consists of twice
two stages, the one lyric and the other (on the same theme) energetic,
the total impression is by no means unsuccessful, though proces-
sional rather than dramatic. There is no reason why it should not
indicate a new type of form, such as Schumann actually produced,
with less than his usual hardness of outline, in his D minor Sym-
phony.
In both the E-flat Piano Trio and the String Quintet there can be
no doubt as to the magnificence of the harmonies and changes of
key, not only from one moment to the next, but as an entire scheme.
This is still more eminently the case with the considerable number of
Schubert's developments, some of them long and some short, that
have no redundancy in their plan. I have already described the won-
derful end of the development in Schubert's last composition, the
Piano Sonata in B-flat; the whole development is a masterpiece, the
more remarkable in that it all arises from the weakest part of the
exposition. It would be a mistake to ascribe any part of its effect to
its origin in that weakness; Schubert, in the year of his death, had
not yet attained the power of Shakespeare and Beethoven in blend-
ing tragedy and comedy; though he had long overcome his early
resentment against Beethoven's use of that power. It is impossible
to set limits to what he might have achieved in a longer life; both
Beethoven and Shakespeare were older than Schubert before they
could be sure of finding the right continuation and the right contrast
to any note as sublime as that of Schubert's greatest openings.
At least two of Schubert's first movements may be considered flaw-
less; at all events, that is by far the best assumption on which to in-
terpret them. The first movement of the Unfinished Symphony has
already been cited; its development is in superb dramatic contrast
to the exposition, and nothing can be more characteristic of the
greatest composers than the subtlety, pointed out by Sir George
Grove, of alluding to the syncopated accompaniment of the second
subject without the theme itself. The other masterpiece among Schu-
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THE WOKLD OF CHEAT COMPOS EKS
bert's first movements is little known, and not easily accessible. It is
the first movement of an unfinished piano sonata in C (1815), not
included in the usual collections of his piano works. Perhaps it is the
most subtle thing he ever wrote. To describe it would involve a full
account of Schubert's whole range of harmonic ideas, which are here
sounded to their utmost depths. And these depths are not such that
later artistic developments can make them seem shallow. Schubert's
harmonic range is the same as Beethoven's; but his great modula-
tions would sound as bold in a Wagner opera as in a Beethoven sym-
phony. We have now seen in what ways the weaknesses of Schubert's
expositions and developments are intimately involved in tendencies
towards new kinds of form; and it remains to consider his recapitula-
tions and codas. When Schubert's instrumental works are at their
best his handling of the recapitulation (that is to say, of what follows
after his development has returned to the tonic) is of the highest
order of mastery where the original material permits. He shows an
acumen not less than Beethoven's in working out inevitable but un-
expected results from the fact that his second subject (or his transi-
tion to it) did not begin in the key in which it was destined to settle,
To describe these results would be too technical a procedure; but
the reader may go far to convince himself of their importance by
taking the cases of the Unfinished Symphony and the C major Sym-
phony and comparing what actually happens in the recapitulation
with what would have been the course of modulations with a plain
transposition to the second subject into such a key as would lead to
the tonic automatically. . . .
Since the indiscretions of Schubert's expositions, though they
may spoil the effect of his developments, do not prevent him from
almost always developing magnificently and sometimes faultlessly,
we may say that up to the end of the recapitulation, Schubert's
energy stands the strain of his most impracticable designs. Further
it seldom goes, and the codas of his first movements, with the soli-
tary exception of the C major Symphony, are all in the manner of
an expiring flame, often supremely beautiful, sometimes abruptly
dramatic, but never revealing new energies like the great codas
of Beethoven. In the codas of finales Schubert's energy is capable
of expansion, for the enormous sprawling forms of the typical Schu-
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
bert finales are the outcome of a sheer irresponsibility that has in-
volved him in little or no strain, though he often shows invention
of the highest order in their main themes. Here, again, there are
two exceptional masterpieces of form, in both of which the grotesque
is the veil of the sublime: the finales of the String Quintet and the
C major Symphony.
But the mention of Schubert's finales opens up the whole ques-
tion of his range of style. In the present discussion I have been com-
pelled to make frequent use of the word "sublime," not by way
of mere reaction against the current impression that Schubert is a
composer of secondary importance in his larger works, but by way
of accurate definition. The only qualification the term needs is that
in Schubert it is still associated with the picturesque and the un-
expected; it is, in fact, as sublime as any artist's earlier works can be.
No one calls the clear night sky picturesque; and when Beethoven
was inspired by it to write the slow movement of his String Quartet
in E minor he was older than Schubert lived to be. It is, however, one
thing to write under the direct inspiration of the night sky, and
another thing to set a description of it to music; and there is a
wonderful song for tenor solo with male voice chorus and piano,
in which the piano part, representing the innumerable multitude of
stars, achieves the sublime by Schubert's characteristic picturesque-
ness (Die Nacht). In the voice parts Schubert is, of course, already
an older and more experienced artist; more experienced, in fact,
than Beethoven, and so in this way, as in many others from Erlkonig
onwards, the spacing of the words and the turns of melody are as
severe and indistinguishable from familiar forms or formulas as the
lines of a Greek temple. Now, it is in this matter of the sublime
use of formulas that we can trace gradations of Schubert's style.
When he begins a big instrumental piece with a formal gesture (as
in the big A major Piano Sonata, 1828, and the Forellen Quintet),
his intention and achievement are usually grandiose; and this applies
to most of his argumentative sequences and processes of develop-
ment. He can seldom rise above the grandiose when either his
musical forms or his verbal subjects give him a sense of responsibility.
On official occasions he is rustic, if not awkward; and though the
beautiful figures of his last two Masses (in A-flat and E-flat) out-
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weigh the clumsiness of their officially necessary fugues, it is perhaps
only in the Incarnatus of the A-flat Mass that his church music re-
veals the depths of the Schubert vein of imagination. In a Kyrie or
a Benedicts there is a vein of beauty which rises far above, but
which is not incompatible with, a vein of rather too comfortable piety
prevalent in the religious poetry of the period; and we have an ex-
cellent opportunity for measuring the difference between the wrong
and the right stimulus to the imagination of a rustic tone poet by
comparing Schubert's grandiose song, Die Allmacht (1825), . . .
with its origin, as to modulations and general aspirations, in the
aria known in English as "In Native Worth" in Haydn's Creation.
Here it is Haydn, another rustic composer, who quietly reaches the
sublime in describing man made in God's image; while Schubert,
dealing with verses that begin with the Almighty speaking through
thunderstorms and end with the heart of man, achieves Haydn's
finest modulation twice in a plainly repeated passage instead of once
as a divinely unexpected variation.
It is tempting, but dangerous, to draw inferences unsupported
by musical facts, from the statistics of Schubert's song-text, . . ,
from the merits of the poems he set to music. His friend, Mayrhofer,
who was said to toss him song after song across a table to be set as
fast as the next poem could be written, was no Goethe, nor does he
compare with the unpretentious Wilhelm Muller; yet most of the
Mayrhofer songs rank with the Goethe and Wilhelm Muller songs
among the greatest of Schubert's or any musician's achievements in
lyric music* At his own best Mayrhofer will "do." . . . Yet Viola,
eine Blumenballade inspired Schubert at the height of his power
to one of the last of his very long songs, a masterpiece of form, using
every suggestion of the words to purposes of an imagination as true
as Wordsworth's.
Muller, the poet of Schubert's two great song cycles, we are in
some danger of underrating; he deserves at all events fuU credit
for the quality ascribed by Pope to Homer and by Johnson to Thom-
son, of always writing "with his eye on the object"; and his style
is absolutely free from affectation. It is, like all German poetry of its
class, untranslatable without disastrous injustice. . . .
The cumulative pathos of Die schone Mullerin (1823) owes its
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
force to the radiant happiness which culminates in the middle of the
song cycle when the younger miller in his Wanderjahr is accepted by
his beloved miller's daughter, who afterwards deserts him. The
story of the Winterreise (1827) is as simple, but is not directly told;
all we know is that the wanderer sets forth in mid-winter to leave
the town where his beloved has jilted him, and that everything he
sees reflects back upon lost happiness and forward to death that will
not come. The text of each song is a straightforward verse description
of some common scene of country life. . . . These two song cycles,
Die schone Miillerin and Die Winterreise, must be taken as two
single works. To regard them as forty-four songs will only lead us to
the endless shallows of a criticism occupied with questions of which
is the prettiest, the most important, or the most distinguished. The
prettiness and perfection of any single member does, no doubt, seem
sufficient to itself, . . . but the cumulative effect of the whole cycle
is overwhelmingly greater than the sum of its parts. Even taken by
itself, Trockne Blumen has a pathos that makes us grudge Schubert
forgiveness for subsequently writing on it a set of variations, which
was a bad thing to do; and writing them for flute, which was worse;
and making some of them brilliant, which was blasphemous. But in
its context Trockne Blumen is a song which many a singer has found
difficult to learn because its pathos destroys all control of the voice.
The final song, Des Baches Wiegenlied, is not less difficult, and its
supreme art lies in its being merely strophic, with melody and accom-
paniment unaltered throughout all its stanzas. The criticism of vocal
music will never attain what should be regarded as its ordinary
professional competence until it recognizes that the merely strophic
song with a single melody for all stanzas is no mere labor-saving
device, but, as Brahms always maintained, the highest accomplish-
ment of the song-composer's invention, compared to which the de-
clamatory song is child's play. Schubert himself has produced too
many masterpieces of declamatory song, such as Der Wanderer
(1816), Der Doppelgdnger from the Schwanengesang (1828), and
Der Tod und das Madchen (1817), not to stultify any theory of song-
writing that does not accept Wagner and Hugo Wolf as masters of
the theory of musical declamation; but a criticism that regards that
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
theory as constituting the whole, or even the highest art of vocal
music, is fundamentally incapable of understanding verse.
One technical principle, not difficult to understand, suffices to dis-
pose of any a priori objections to what has been called the "lazy"
method of the strophic song with the same tunes to all stanzas. The
objection rests on an ignorant belief in the bar-stroke as a genuine
and rigid musical unit, together with the idea that no other basis of
accent counts. Composers with poor rhythmic invention produce
melodies in accordance with these limitations; and they are rightly
afraid of deviating from them; since they cannot do so with con-
viction. But great masters like Schubert play with all possible occa-
sions of musical accent as great poets play with verse accents; and
the various occasions of accent coincide only in order to make
special points. The first notes of the first song in the Winterrem
show the method at once, The first note is off the beat (in anacrusis);
but is higher than the second. The beat comes on the second, which
is an expressive discord. The height of the first note provides enough
accent to fit any prosodic inversion without interrupting by declama-
tory pedantries the dogged march of the jilted lover as he leaves
the town of his joy and sorrow. But the note is not so high as to
make an accent where the iambic feet of the verse are normal. Then
the sensitive discord on the first note of the bar asserts itself.
Schubert is not less masterly in the handling of paragraphs as
wholes. He never over-punctuates, as is the inveterate tendency of
the conscientiously declamatory composers. Dass sie hier gewesen,
a series of statements that the air, the flowers, and so forth, prove
that the beloved has been there, is set by Schubert, strophically, to
a musical paragraph beginning outside the key and corresponding
in every point of musical analysis to the grammatic structure of the
poem, so that it is as impossible to lose the thread of its series of
dependent clauses as to misunderstand its sentiment. In the first
of the Schwanengesang (a publisher's title for a selection of Schu-
bert's last songs) Rauschendes Bachlein, the Bachlein continues its
movement while the thought of the beloved hanging her head in
a pensive mood is expressed at a tempo twice as slow as that of the
rest of the setting. In short, Schubert the songwriter is as great
a master of movement (which is form) as Mozart or Beethoven. All
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FRANZ SCHUBERT
his structural devices seem so absurdly simple, when pointed out,
that only the cumulative effect of their number, variety, and effi-
ciency will suffice to undo the injuries that our understanding of
Schubert's art has suffered from overemphasis on his incapacity
to theorize in words, and from academic ignorance of the nature
of musical art forms on a large scale. Vogl, the singer, who, in Schu-
bert's own lifetime, recognized and produced his songs, spoke of
his insight into poetry as "clairvoyant"; and that praise was useful
in his day. At present we cannot too strongly emphasize the fact
that, clairvoyance or common sense, Schubert's mastery in his songs
includes an immense technique consciously developed and polished
from childhood in over six hundred extant examples, many of them
several times rewritten. His inability to explain himself in verbal or
analytic theory is the inability of a master to explain an art to people
who, thinking they know all about it, do not, in fact, know that it
exists. . . .
When all the pretty and picturesque things, and even all the
dramatic things in Schubert's songs, have had their due; even after
Der Doppelgdnger, which many consider the greatest of his songs,
has been revered for its awful transcendence of Heine's grim pathos;
still the full measure of Schubert is revealed when, unoppressed by
ceremonies and official responsibilities, he joins Beethoven and
Wordsworth in Nature- worship. The classical interests of Goethe and
Schiller contribute largely to this strain, and Schubert is magnifi-
cently himself when dealing with Greek subjects, and with "cosmic
emotion," as in Mayrhofer's Auflosung (1824) ... or, in a less re-
mote vein, the great long Waldesnacht.
It is in this mighty framework that the sorrows of the Miller and
the banished Winter Traveler become universal; and the calm of
Du bist die Ruh (1823) is as mystic as the glory of Beatrice's eyes
which drew Dante from heaven to higher heaven.
SCHUBERT SPEAKS
Everybody was astounded at the piety I expressed in a hymn
to the Holy Virgin (the Ave Maria), and which, it would seem, moves
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
everyone's soul and puts people in a devout frame of mind. I be-
lieve that arises from the fact that I never force myself into a de-
vout mood, and never compose such hymns or prayers except when
I am unconsciously inspired by Her. Then, however, it is generally
real, true devotion.
All I have created is born of my understanding of music, and by
my own sorrow. It is the latter that seems to interest the world
least of all.
O imagination! Man's greatest treasure, inexhaustible source at
which both Art and Learning come to drink! O remain with us,
though recognized and venerated only by the few, so that we may
be safeguarded from the so-called enlightenment, that hideous
skeleton without blood or flesh.
Sorrow strengthens the understanding and strengthens the char-
acter, whereas happiness seldom troubles about the former, and
only makes for weakness or frivolity in the latter.
Picture to yourself someone whose health is permanently injured
and who, in sheer despair, does everything to make it worse instead
of better. Picture to yourself, I say, someone whose brilliant hopes
have come to nothing, someone to whom love and friendship are
at most a source of bitterness, someone whose inspiration (whose
creative inspiration, at least) for all that is beautiful threatens to
fail, and then ask yourself if that is not a wretched and unhappy
being, "Meine Ruh is hin, mem Herz ist schwer, ich finde sie nimmer
und nimmer mehr." That could be my daily song now, for every
night when I go to sleep I hope never to wake again, and each
morning I am only recalled to the griefs of yesterday. So I pass
my days, joyless and friendless (1824).
176
FRANZ SCHUBERT
My Dream*
I was a brother among many brothers. Our parents were good
folk. I was devoted to them with a deep love.— Father once took us
to a banquet. There my brothers grew exceedingly merry. But I
was sad. Then Father came and ordered me to enjoy the delicious
food. But I could not. So he grew angry and banished me from his
sight. I turned away and, with a heart full of boundless love for
those who scorned it, I wandered far from there. For years I felt
divided between the utmost grief and the greatest love. Then came
tidings of my Mother's death. I hastened to see her; and Father,
whose heart was softened by sorrow, did not prevent me. Then I
beheld her corpse. Tears flowed from my eyes. I saw her lying there
like the happy old past, in the spirit of which, according to the
desire of the departed one, we were to live, as she herself had lived.
And in sorrow we followed her corpse, and the coffin sank into the
earth.— From that day on I lived again at home. Then once more
Father led me to his favorite garden. He asked me if I liked it. But
I hated the garden and dared not say so. Then, flushing, he asked
me for the second time if I liked the garden. Trembling I said no.
Then Father struck me and I fled. And for the second time I turned
my steps and, with a heart full of boundless love for those who
scorned it, again I wandered far away. For long, long years I sang
songs. When I would sing of love, it turned to pain. And again, when
I would sing of pain, it turned to love.
Thus love and pain divided me.
And once I had word of a saintly maiden who had just died. And
a circle was formed about her grave wherein many youths and old
men forever paced as though in bliss. Softly they murmured, so as
not to arouse the maiden.
From her tombstone heavenly thoughts, like delicate sparks whose
sound was scarcely audible, seemed forever to be showered upon
the youths. Sorely I longed to walk there too. But they said: nothing
* This prose-poem allegory was written by Schubert on July 3, 1822. The
Freudian psychoanalyst, Dr. Edward Hitschmann, wrote that "this serious
visionary narrative may be rightly regarded as an allegorical mirroring of his
inner development."
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
short of a miracle can bring you into this circle. However, with
slow steps and lowered gaze I approached the tombstone and, be-
fore I was aware, I found myself in the circle, which gave forth a
sound of wondrous loveliness; and I felt as though eternal bliss were
being pressed into a single moment. Father too I beheld, reconciled
and loving. He folded me in his arms and wept. But not as much
as I.
178
HECTOR BERLIOZ
0 3 -"~I 8 6 9
HECTOR-LOUIS BERLIOZ, son of a physician, was born in Cote-Saint-
Andre, France, on December 11, 1803. In 1821 lie was sent to Paris to
study medicine, but three years later he deserted the sciences to con-
centrate on music. In 1825, while attending the Paris Conservatory,
his Mass was successfully introduced at the St. Roch Church. Two
concert overtures were heard in 1828, and on December 5, 1830 there
took place the premiere of his first masterwork, the Symphonie
fantastique, inspired by his unrequited love for the Shakespearean
actress, Harriet Smithson, whom he had not even met personally.
Meanwhile, in October of 1830, Berlioz had won the Prix de Rome.
But, hating Italy, he did not complete the required three-year stay
in Rome. Returning to Paris in 1832, he arranged a performance of
his Symphonie fantastique to make an impression on Harriet Smith-
son, and they met for the first time. A stormy courtship followed,
culminating in marriage on October 3, 1833. But theirs was a violent
clash of temperaments from the beginning. After the birth of a son,
they separated permanently.
That second performance of the Symphonie fantastique proved a
sensation. Paganini, who was present, commissioned Berlioz to write
a major work, which turned out to be Harold in Italy, introduced on
November 23, 1834. The opera Benvenuto Celliniy introduced at the
Opera on September 10, 1838, the dramatic symphony, Romeo and
Juliet., heard in 1839, the concert overture Le Carnaual romain in
1844, and the dramatic legend The Damnation of Faust in 1846
placed Berlioz among the most provocative, exciting and iconoclastic
composers in France at that time— even though neither Benvenuto
Cellini nor The Damnation of Faust were successful when intro-
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
duced. In 1842, Berlioz began the first of several extensive tours
conducting programs of his music in Europe and Russia; in 1852
and again in 1855, he was a guest of Liszt in Weimar for the
celebration on each occasion of a "Berlioz Week." In 1856 he was
elected a member of the Institut de France.
From 1852 until his death Berlioz was the librarian of the Paris
Conservatory. He did not remarry until 1854, when his estranged
wife died. His second wife, Maria Recio, brought him no greater
happiness than the first. The death of Berlioz's son in 1867, and the
shattering effects of a nervous ailment, combined to embitter Ber-
lioz's last years. He died in Paris on March 8, 1869.
Berlioz had distinguished himself not only as a composer and
conductor, but also as a trenchant music critic for several Paris
journals and as the author of one of the most celebrated musical
autobiographies and an epoch-making treatise on orchestration,
Traite d instrumentation et d orchestration modernes.
THE MAN
ROMAIN HOLLAND
Everything about Berlioz was misleading, even his appearance.
In legendary portraits he appears as a dark southerner with black
hair and sparkling eyes. But he was really very fair and had blue
eyes, and Joseph d'Ortigue tells us they were deep-set and piercing,
though sometimes clouded by melancholy or langor. He had a
broad forehead furrowed with wrinkles by the time he was thirty,
and a thick mane of hair, or, as E. Legouve puts it, "a large
umbrella of hair, projecting like a movable awning over the beak of
a bird of prey." His mouth was well cut, with lips compressed and
puckered at the corners in a severe fold, and his chin was prominent.
He had a deep voice, but his speech was halting and often tremulous
with emotion; he would speak passionately of what interested him,
and at times be effusive in manner, but more often he was un-
gracious and reserved. He was of medium height, rather thin and
angular in figure, and when seated he seemed much taller than he
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HECTOR BERLIOZ
really was. He was very restless and inherited from his native land,
Dauphine, the mountaineer's passion for walking and climbing and
the love of a vagabond life which remained with him nearly to his
death. He had an iron constitution, but he wrecked it by privation
and excess, by his walks in the rain and by sleeping out-of-doors in
all weathers, even when there was snow on the ground.
But in this strong and athletic frame lived a feverish and sickly
soul that was dominated and tormented by a morbid craving for
love and sympathy, "that imperative need of love which is killing
me. . . ." To love, to be loved— he would give up all for that. But
his love was that of a youth who lives in dreams; it was never the
strong, clear-eyed passion of a man who has faced the realities of
life and who sees the defects as well as the charms of the woman he
loves. Berlioz was in love with love and lost himself among visions
and sentimental shadows. To the end of his life he remained "a poor
little child worn out by a love that was beyond him." But this man
who lived so wild and adventurous a life expressed his passions with
delicacy; and one finds an almost girlish purity in the immortal love
passages of Les Troyens or the "nuit sereine* of Romeo et Juliette.
And compare this Virgilian affection with Wagner's sensual raptures.
Does it mean that Berlioz could not love as well as Wagner? We
only know that Berlioz' life was made up of love and its torments.
The theme of a touching passage in the introduction of the
Symphonic fantastique has been identified by Julien Tiersot, in his
interesting book, with a romance composed by Berlioz at the age of
twelve when he loved a girl of eighteen "with large eyes and pink
shoes"— Estelle, Stella montis, Stella matutina. These words— per-
haps the saddest he ever wrote— might serve as an emblem of his
life, a life that was a prey to love and melancholy, doomed to wring-
ing of the heart and awful loneliness; a life lived in a hollow world
among worries that chilled the blood; a life that was distasteful and
had no solace to offer him in its end. He has himself described this
terrible "maZ de Tisolement" which pursued him all his life, vividly
and minutely. He was doomed to suffering, or, what was worse, to
make others suffer.
Who does not know his passion for Harriet Smithson? It was a
sad story. He fell in love with an English actress who played Juliet.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSEKS
(Was it she or Juliet whom he loved?) He caught but a glance of
her, and it was all over with him. He cried out, "Ah, I am lostl"
He desired her; she repulsed him. He lived in a delirium of suffering
and passion; he wandered about for days and nights like a madman
up and down Paris and its neighborhood without purpose or rest or
relief until sleep overcame him wherever it found him— among the
sheaves in a field near Villejuif, in a meadow near Sceaux, on the
bank of the frozen Seine near Neuilly, in the snow, and once on a
table in the Cafe Cardinal, where he slept for five hours, to the
great alarm of the waiters, who thought he was dead. Meanwhile,
he was told slanderous gossip about Harriet, which he readily
believed. Then he despised her and dishonored her publicly in
his Symphonie fantastique, paying homage in his bitter resentment
to Camille Moke, a pianist, to whom he lost his heart without delay.
After a time Harriet reappeared. She had now lost her youth and
her power; her beauty was waning, and she was in debt. Berlioz'
passion was at once rekindled. This time Harriet accepted his ad-
vances. He made alterations in his symphony and offered it to her
in homage of his love. He won her and married her, with fourteen
thousand francs' debt. He had captured his dream— Juliet! Ophelia!
What was she really? A charming Englishwoman, cold, loyal, and
sober-minded, who understood nothing of his passion; and who,
from the time she became his wife, loved him jealously and sincerely
and thought to confine him within the narrow world of domestic
life. But his affections became restive, and he lost his heart to a
Spanish actress (it was always an actress, a virtuoso, or a part) and
left poor Ophelia and went off with Maria Recio, the Ines of
Favorite, the page of Comte Onj— a practical, hardheaded woman,
an indifferent singer with a mania for singing. The haughty Berlioz
was forced to fawn upon the directors of the theater in order to
get her parts, to write flattering notices in praise of her talents,
and even to let her make his own melodies discordant at the con-
certs he arranged. It would all be dreadfully ridiculous if this weak-
ness of character had not brought tragedy in its train.
So the one he really loved and who always loved him remained
alone without friends in Paris, where she was a stranger. She
drooped in silence and pined slowly away, bedridden, paralyzed,
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HECTOR BERLIOZ
and unable to speak during eight years of suffering. Berlioz suffered
too, for he loved her still and was torn with pity— "pity, the most
painful of all emotions/' But of what use was this pity? He left
Harriet to suffer alone and to die just the same. And what was
worse, as we learn from Legouv6, he let his mistress, the odious
Recio, make a scene before poor Harriet. Recio told him of it and
boasted about what she had done. And Berlioz did nothing— "How
could I? I love her."
THE COMPOSER
W. H. HADOW
In criticizing the works of a great composer there are only two
questions which it is of any moment to consider. We may ask what
was his power of imagination, we may ask what was his command
of technical resource, and there inquiry must stop. . . .
There can be no two opinions as to the existence of great imagina-
tive power in Berlioz's work. The very pace at which he often com-
posed is in itself sufficient evidence. The "March to the Gallows"
from the Symphonie fantastique (1830-31) was written in one night;
the "Pilgrim's March" in Harold in Italy (1834), improvised in a
couple of hours; the Megie (1831), one of the wildest and most
complicated songs in existence, was created in a single flash, while
for the Lachrymosa in his Requiem (1837) he had to invent a system
of shorthand in order to embody the ideas that came too fast for
ordinary notation. And it must be remembered that this rapid
production is not like the facility of a Johann Adolph Hasse (1699-
1783) or an Adalbert Gyrowetz (1763-1850), flowing with a diluted
repetition of a current commonplace. The thought here is ab-
solutely new, and is presented with a fullness of detail which none
but a master could have conceived. There may be in the earlier
compositions some traces of Beethoven's influence, and even some
echoes of Gluck, and perhaps Gasparo Spontini (1774-1851); but
every artist must be the child of his circumstances in the initial
stages of his work. Beethoven himself begins under the shadow of
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Mozart, and nevertheless he emerged later into the free light and
air of an artistic personality. Indeed we may assert roundly that
there is not one composer in the history of music who has more
claim to originality than Berlioz.
On the other hand we must confess, unwillingly enough, that
the purity of his imagination was not on a level with its force, and
that he wholly lacked that sense of reticence and repression that
should be its necessary complement. His thought is sometimes im-
paired and degraded by that touch of defilement which pathologists
note as a possible symptom of insanity; and he never seems to have
reflected that, even in the spiritual language of music, there are
some things which it is better not to say. Two stories will make
this clear. During his stay at Rome he conceived the plan of a
grand opera (fortunately never carried out) in which an impious
and licentious potentate should organize a burlesque Last Judgment
as a mockery to the prophets who denounced him, and find, as the
curtain fell, that his pygmy trumpets were silenced by the four
angels who announced the real coming of Christ. Again, during his
second visit to London he attended the children's service at St.
Paul's, and was immensely impressed by its beauty, as Haydn had
been before him, and on leaving the cathedral fancied that he saw
the whole scene travestied in Pandemonium. It is to this unwhole-
some morbid element in his nature that we owe the orgies in Harold,
the "Chorus of the Devils" in The Damnation of Faust (1846), and
worse than either, the horrible "Witches' Sabbath" in the Symphonie
fantastique. And as an inevitable consequence, he is almost en-
tirely wanting in the real epic touch, the white Alpine sublimity
of Beethoven's Mass in D or Brahms's Song of Fate. He can inspire
wonder but not awe, terror but not reverence, and much of the
work which he intended to be most impressive resolves itself into
a series of scenes which sometimes rise to the level of the Inferno,
and oftener sink to that of the Musee Wiertz.
One region, then, and that of the highest, must be regarded as
closed to him. He has left no work which breathes the same serene
ether as the Missa Papae Marcelli or the Messiah. He comes near
the line in the Sanctus of his Requiem and perhaps the final chorus
of the Enfance du Christ (1850-54). But as a general rule his at-
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HECTOR BERLIOZ
tempts to express pure religious emotion are either dull, like the
"Easter Hymn" in Faust, or preoccupied, like the "Pilgrim's Chorus"
in Harold. Still there is much opportunity for noble achievement
in lower fields of poetry, and of this he has made abundant use. Like
Ben Jonson in Swinburne's estimate, if he does not belong to the
Gods of melody, at any rate he may be numbered among the Titans.
In the first place he has a complete mastery over the whole
gamut of fear and pain. The stupendous crashing force of the
Tuba mirum, the Lacrymosa echoing with the agony of a panic-
stricken world, the Judex Crederis from the Te Deum (1849), which
reiterates higher and higher the expectation of the Great Judge and
the appeal to His mercy, are conceived with a vastness of scale, and
carried out with an unerring certainty of effect to which we shall
hardly find a parallel. ... On a lower level, but no less remarkable
in execution, is the ride to the Abyss, where Faust and Mephistoph-
eles gallop through a pestilential air, filled with "horrid shapes
and shrieks and sights unholy," till the end comes, and the most
tragic figure in all dramatic poetry sinks with a despairing cry to
meet his doom. To say that these things are not worth portraying
is simply to remove the landmarks of artistic expression. Every-
thing is worth portraying which is not essentially foul or obscene,
and even a degraded subject may sometimes be ennobled by a
dignity of treatment. No doubt the story of Faust is intrinsically
horrible, and Berlioz had fixed upon its least sympathetic aspect.
But it is not until we come to the hideous chorus of gibbering fiends
that we feel that the legitimate bound is exceeded and that horror
passes into loathing.
A second noticeable point is his treatment of the passion of
love. . . . Apart from the Symphonie fantastique to which further
allusion will later be made, we have the trio in Faust, and the
exquisite Adagio in the Romeo and Juliet symphony (1839) to sound
the note of an emotion which knows that it is true and tries to
cheat itself into the belief that it is happy. For there is always an
undercurrent of melancholy in his love-making, a sense of present
pain, or an apprehension of coming trouble, till tragedy reaches its
limit in the heart-broken Elegie and the vindictive despair of Les
Troyens (1856-59).
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Pathos and humor are proverbially akin, and we need feel no
surprise that the composer of La Captive (1832) should also have
written the fencing scene in Benvenuto Cellini (1834U38) and Som-
arone's delightful "Wedding Cantata" in Beatrice et Benedict (1860-
62). There is plenty of rough fun, too, in the Auerbach's Keller episode
of Faust, and above all in the rollicking Carnaval romain Overture
(1844). But as a rule Berlioz wrote his music seriously and kept his
jokes for his feuilletons. He did not, perhaps, altogether realize the
opportunities for comedy which can be turned to account in a
quaint phrase or an unexpected tone. . . . Indeed, if there is any
matter for astonishment at all it is that a man who possessed so keen
a sense of the ludicrous should not have given it fuller expression
in the art which draws as readily from the springs of laughter as it
does from the fount of tears.
There remains to be considered one class of poetical ideas which
may be called "spectacular": those in which the music is intended
to call up some scenic display, religious, chivalrous, martial, or
what not, which it presents to us in repose, with no direct appeal to
emotion and little exhibition of present activity. Such, for instance,
is the intermezzo in Les Troyens, which represents a forest during
a hunting scene; such is the Hymne a la France (1844), with its
stately chorus, such the strong movement of the Menace des Francs
(1851), and the sturdy industrialism of the Chant des Ouvriers, and
such undoubtedly is the Kyrie in the Requiem, which suggests some
vague remote picture of a cathedral interior, with dim lights and
white-robed priests and a hanging cloud of incense. Under this
category may come the concert overtures, where Berlioz for once
abandons his program, and is content to indicate rather than
prescribe; and at its extreme verge may be placed the Symphonic
funebre et triomphale (1840) which brings us back again to the
world of actual drama.
So far we have examined Berlioz's imaginative power in the light
of his own principle: that music is a definite language capable of
communicating definite ideas. It is in defense of this principle that
he prefaces so many of his instrumental works with a scheme or
program describing in set words the emotion which his melodies are
186
HECTOR BERLIOZ
expected to arouse, or the scene which they are intended to por-
tray. . . .
Berlioz's most uncompromising piece of program music is the
Symphonie jantastique. In his letter to Ferrand (April 16, 1830) the
composer tells the story which the work is intended to express with
a fullness of detail which at least shows that he has the courage of
his opinions. The opening Adagio presents a young artist with a
lively imagination and a sensitive temperament, plunged in that
half-morbid revery which French writers explain as the "besoin
d'aimer" In the Allegro which follows he meets his fate, "the
woman who realizes the ideal of beauty and charm for which his
heart has yearned" and gives himself up to the passion which she
inspires. His love is typified by a rather sentimental melody, given
in full at the opening of the movement, and repeated in various
thematic forms throughout the whole work. The second movement
proper is an Adagio, in which the artist wanders alone through the
fields, listening to the shepherd's pipe and the mutterings of a distant
storm, and dreaming of the newborn hope that has corne to sweeten
his solitude. Next comes a ballroom scene, in which he stands
apart, silent and preoccupied, watching the dancers with a listless,
careless gaze, and cherishing in his heart the persistent melody. In
a fit of despair he poisons himself with opium, but the narcotic
instead of killing him produces a horrible vision in which he
imagines that he has killed his mistress and that he is condemned to
die. The fourth movement is the march to the scene of execution,
a long, grim procession, winding up with the idee fixe and the sharp
flash of the guillotine. Last comes the pensee d'une tete coupee: a
hideous orgy of witches and demons who dance around the coffin,
perform a burlesque Dies Irae for its funeral rite, and welcome with
diabolic glee a brutalized and degraded version of the original
subject. And so the symphony ends with an indescribable scene
of chaos and fury, of fiendish mockery and insult, a delirium of
passion, mad, riotous, and unrestrained.
Not a very noble or exalted romance it may be, but this is not
the point at issue. The only question is how far Berlioz has succeeded
in expressing it through the medium employed, and, with all rec-
ognition of his marvelous ingenuity of workmanship, we must admit
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
that he has failed. It is inconceivable that any hearer should write
down the story from the music unless he had already some knowl-
edge of its outline, and even with the program before us we only
feel that a set of vague indeterminate forms are being unduly
specialized. The recurrent melody may no doubt symbolize "a
white woman's robe/' as Heine said, but it could equally well
symbolize a hundred other things. The vigor and rush of the open-
ing Allegro no doubt suggests agitation, but it may be one of its
various forms. The ball scene, with its exceedingly beautiful waltz
melody, contains no necessary thought of despair—much less such
despair as would lead to suicide. The "March to the Gallows" is
fierce and gloomy enough, but it might be a battle hymn or the
funeral march of a warrior, and so with the other movements. They
all suggest some generic form under which the particular idea may
be classified, but they do not indicate the particular idea itself. And
this is not through any inadequacy on the part of the composer, for
Berlioz had employed all the resources of a vivid imagination to
give shape and color to his idea; it is simply because he has tried
to make music perform a task, of which from its very nature it will
always be incapable. There is a great deal of fine and noble work
in the Symphonie fantastique, notably in the three middle move-
ments, but it pleases in spite of the program, not in consequence
of it.
The same is the case with the Harold in Italy symphony where
the scenes are loosely strung together . . . and still more with the
RSverie et caprice (1839), for violin.
But it is a pleasanter task to turn and consider the second of the
two points of discussion—the estimate of Berlioz as a musician pure
and simple. After all, his belief in programs is nothing worse than
an aberration of genius, which does not really impair the intrinsic
value of the work that it interprets; and the contention has been,
not that he is lacking in dramatic power, for he possesses it in a very
high degree, but that its action is restricted by the necessary limits
of the art to which it belongs. So far as inspiration is concerned his
claim to immortality is incontestable; and it only remains to examine
the ability that he displayed in dealing with the various modes of
expression.
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HECTOR BERLIOZ
Now there can be no question but that Berlioz ha;> left us some
melodies of very great worth. La Captive is a complete and final
answer to the critics who have regarded its composer as un-
melodious. The love scene in Romeo and Juliet is as beautiful as
an Adagio of Schubert; the great septet in Les Troyens, the Choeur
des bergers in the Enfance du Christ, Hero's song Je vai$ le voir in
Beatrice et Benedict, the Sanctus in the Requiem are only random
instances of work which places him incontrovertibly in the first
rank of musicians. Equally successful, though expressive of a more
easily attainable ideal, are Mephistopheles* Serenade in Faust, the
ball scene in Symphonie fantastique, and Aubade from Feuillets
d' album (1845-55). The Harold motif, too, with its curious reminis-
cence of the opening Allegro in Beethoven's Seventh Symphony,
is full of a noble melancholy, while the famous idee fixe, though
certainly of less value, has nevertheless a marked expression and
character of its own.
But every man, as George Sand said, has the defects of his
qualities. Berlioz was one of the greatest masters of rhythm and
modulation that the world has ever seen, and he frequently ruins
his effects in consequence. He varies his meters till he destroys the
homogeneity of his stanza, he changes his key with a forcible
wrench that surprises without pleasing, in one word, he is so
suspicious of monotony that he often falls into restlessness.
And yet how fine his rhythms are! Look at the opening phrase
in the King Lear Overture (1831), at the accompaniment figure in
the Lacrymosa, at the fascinating tune of the "Dance of the Sylphs"
in Faust, and the whole carnival scene in Benvenuto Cellini, and a
hundred others. Modulation is a lesser gift . . . but only a genius
of the highest order could have devised a metrical system of such
variety and extent. And it must be remembered that devices which
seem to us familiar, like the persistent figure of the Choeur des
ombres in Lelio (1831), or the alternation of tempo in the various
presentations of the idee fixe, were comparatively or entirely new in
Berlioz's day. Rhythm was then, as he says in A travers chants, the
least developed of all modes of musical expression, and we may well
forgive him if he sometimes lost control of a pioneer's enthusiasm
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and treated as an end in itself the power which his predecessors
had underestimated even as a means.
Melody and harmony are so closely interconnected that it may
perhaps seem unnecessary to give the latter any detailed criticism,
But, as a matter of fact, every great composer has his own special
manner of harmonization, by which he can be distinguished almost
as readily as by his mastery of form or his power of melodic inven-
tion. In this respect Berlioz does not have such an advantage as in
some other of the details of his art. His harmony is rarely rich,
except where it is used as a vehicle of remote or recondite modula-
tion, and it does not often atone for its commonplace character by
any real strength or solidity. Like Gluck he is fond of massing the
tenor and bass at the bottom of the chord and separating them from
the treble and alto by a wide interval, witness the "Pilgrim's Chorus"
in Harold and the "Shepherd's Chorus" in the Enfance du Christ,
but this device though often successful in the strings, produces an
unequal "knotty" effect when used for voices. No doubt he writes
his parts with extreme rhythmic independence. Many of his choral
works read like operatic ensembles, in which each voice has a char-
acter and personality of itself, but even this result can sometimes
be compatible with a small minimum of variety in the harmonic
progression. A similar weakness is observable in his counterpoint,
except of course when he used it for purposes of burlesque. When
he attempted it seriously, as in the first chorus of Te Deum, he
usually betrayed a want of mastery, which is intelligible enough, if
we realize the immense labor and concentration which the method
demands, and the antagonism which he felt for it throughout. On
the other hand, the "Amen Chorus" in Faust is an admirable
travesty and better still is the "Wedding Cantata" in Beatrice et
Benedict, with the unanswerable logic of its text and the angular
trills and flourishes of its oboe obbligato.
The last point of consideration is his power of orchestral effect in
which, perhaps, may be found his most indisputable claim to the
admiration of posterity. . . . He possessed in a high degree every
quality which successful scoring implies, a complete knowledge
of the strength and weakness of each instrument, great skill in
the treatment and combination, ready invention, and boundless
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HECTOR BERLIOZ
audacity. Further he displays in this department of his art that
sense of economy and reticence which has been noticed as absent
elsewhere. He can be as light-handed as Mozart, witness the
Invitation to the Dance, the opening of the Rakoczy March, the
first number of the Tempest Fantaisie, and yet when the moment
comes to be vigorous or impressive there is no one more strong to
wield the thunderbolt and direct the whirlwind. Even the crude
violence of his "Brigands' Orgy" or his "Witches' Sabbath" becomes
almost humanized when we observe, the marvelous, matchless skill
with which its horrors are presented.
Even in his smaller works he usually writes for an orchestra of
more than normal size, using by preference four bassoons instead
of two, and often reinforcing his trumpets with cornets-a-piston,
the one piece of doubtful policy in his whole scheme. In the
Requiem and the Te Deum his forces are enormous, the winds
doubled, an immense mass of strings (of which he is careful to
specify the exact number), and for the Tuba Mirum and Lacrymosa
four small bands of brass instruments at the four cornets, and eight
pairs of kettledrums, in addition to big drums, gongs, and cymbals.
The rest of his distinctively orchestral works lie between these two
extremes, though it may be noted that in the Tempest Fantaisie he
tries as an experiment his cherished idea of employing the piano,
not as a solo instrument, but as a coordinate with strings or wood-
wind. It would be an endless task to enumerate his triumphs, but we
may specify the wonderful viola chords in the Agnus Dei, the use
of strings and flutes in the Sanctus— forerunner of a similar effect
in the Prelude to Lohengrin— the trombone in the Francs \uges
(c. 1827) and in the magnificent final chorus of the Te Deum, and the
exquisite woodwind figures, like vanishing soap bubbles, at the
end of the "Dance of the Sylphs" as conspicuous examples of poetic
conception and unerring certainty of touch. His work, in short, marks
a new era in instrumentation, and has been directly or indirectly the
guide of every composer since his day.
The final verdict, then, would seen to be that Berlioz possessed
undoubted genius, in the highest sense of the term, but that he
was confined within limits from which he never succeeded in ex-
tricating himself. No composer of equal gifts has made so many
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THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
mistakes: no musician of such little learning has ever attained to
similar heights.
BERLIOZ SPEAKS
When I hear a piece of music ... I feel a delicious pleasure in
which reason has no part. The habit of analysis comes afterwards
to give birth to admiration. The emotion increasing in proportion to
the energy or the grandeur of the ideas of the composer soon
produces a strange agitation in the circulation of the blood; tears,
which generally indicate the end of the paroxysm, often indicates
only a progressive state of it, leading to something still more intense.
In this case I have spasmodic contraction of the muscles, a trembling
in all my limbs, a complete torpor of the feet and hands, a partial
paralysis of the nerves of sight and hearing. I no longer hear, I
scarcely hear—vertigo ... a semi-swoon.
Music is the most poetic, the most powerful, the most living of
all the arts. She ought to be the freest, but she is not yet. . . .
Modern music is like the classic Andromeda, naked and divinely
beautiful. She is chained to a rock on the shores of a vast sea and
awaits the victorious Perseus who shall loose her bonds and break
in pieces the chimera called Routine.
I am for free music. Yes, I want music to be proudly free, to be
victorious, to be supreme. I want her to take all she can, so that
there may be no more Alps or Pyrenees for her. But she must
achieve her victories by fighting in person and not rely upon her
lieutenants. I should like to have, if possible, good verse draw up
in order of battle; but, like Napoleon, she must face the fire herself
and, like Alexander, march in the front ranks of the phalanx. She
is so powerful that in some cases she would conquer unaided;
for she has the right to say with Medea, "I, myself, am enough."
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HECTOK BERLIOZ
The musical problems I have tried to solve are unusual, and
called for unusual methods. In the Requiem, for example, I use four
distinct brass orchestras, answering each other at certain distances
around the principal orchestra and chorus. In the Te Deum, the
organ at one end of the church answers the orchestra and the two
choirs that are placed at the other end, while a third large choir
represents the people participating from time to time in the sacred
performance. But it is the form of these compositions, their breadth
of style, their deliberate progressions that provide these compositions
with their strangely immense physiognomy and appearance. The
result of this gigantic form is that one either misses the direction
of the whole or is overwhelmed by an overpowering emotion. At a
performance of the Requiem I have seen one man listening in
terror, stirred to the roots of his being, while another could not
comprehend a single idea, however much he might try to do so.
My large scale works include the Symphonie funebre et triom-
phale for two orchestras and chorus; the Te Deum; the Judex
crederis, which is undoubtedly my most grandiose creation; the
cantata L'Imperiale, for two choirs; and above all, the Requiem. As
for those of my compositions conceived along more ordinary designs
and formats, and requiring no exceptional methods of performance,
it is their inner fire, their expression, the originality of rhythm that
have been most injurious to them because of the kind of perform-
ance they demand. To perform them properly, performers— and the
conductor particularly— must feel as I do. These compositions call
for a combination of precision and verve, controlled passion, dreamy
tenderness, and an almost morbid melancholy without which the
main characters of my figures are either changed or entirely effaced.
For this reason, as a rule, it is extremely painful for me to hear
my compositions conducted by anybody but myself. . . .
If you were to inquire to which of my compositions I show the
greatest preference, my answer would be the same as that of most
artists: the love scene in Romeo and Juliet.
The prevailing characteristics of my music are passionate ex-
pression, intense ardor, rhythmical animation, and unexpected
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPQSEBS
effects. When I say passionate expression I mean an expression
determined on enforcing the inner meaning of its subject, even
when the feeling to be expressed is gentle or tender or even pro-
foundly calm. This is the sort of expression that has been found in
the Enfance du Christ, in the del scene of The Damnation of Faust,
and in the Sanctus of the Requiem.
194
GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
1792-1868
GIOACCHINO ANTONIO ROSSINI was born in Pesaro, Italy, on Febru-
ary 29, 1792. He received some training at the harpsichord and in
singing before entering the Bologna Conservatory at fifteen. Finan-
cial difficulties in his family compelled him to leave the Conservatory
before completing the course of study. In 1810, his first work for
the stage— an opera buffa, La Cambiale di matfnmomo— was pro-
duced in Venice. Several more of his operas were given before he
achieved resounding success. This came in Venice in 1813 with a
serious opera, Tancredi, and an opera buffa, Ifltaliana in Algeri.
Now one of Italy's best-loved opera composers, Rossini was
engaged in 1815 by Domenico Barbaja to write two operas a year
for performances in Naples, Milan, and Vienna. Since this contract
allowed Rossini to accept other commissions, he wrote his master-
work— and one of the most popular opera buffas ever created— for
the Argentina Theater in Rome: The Barber of Seville, a text
previously set with outstanding success by Giovanni Paisiello (1740-
1816). The premiere of Rossini's opera on February 20, 1816, was a
pronounced failure— due partly to the organized efforts of Paisiello's
admirers to discredit Rossini and create a scandal, and partly to a
series of unhappy accidents that marred the performance. The
second presentation went much better; and in short order Rossini's
version swept Paisiello's opera into complete obscurity.
On March 16, 1822, Rossini married the Spanish opera singer,
Isabella Colbran. Soon after that, Rossini left Italy for the first time,
and was triumphantly acclaimed in Vienna and London. In 1824,
he became the musical director of the Theatre Italien in Paris.
Under the terms of this agreement he wrote his last opera, William
Tell, introduced on August 3, 1829.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Rossini was now thirty-six years old, at the height of his fame
and creative powers yet, though he lived another thirty-nine years
he never wrote another opera. The reasons for what has since been
described as "the great renunciation" have never been adequately
explained, though many have tried to provide logical possibilities. In
any event, after 1829, Rossini devoted himself mainly to the writing
of piano pieces, choral music, and some insignificant instrumental
compositions.
In 1837, Rossini was separated from his wife. After her death in
1845, he married Olympe Pelissier. Between 1836 and 1848 he
was the honorary president of the Bologna Conservatory, and from
1855 on he lived in Paris. Most of the time after 1840 Rossini suffered
severely from neurasthenia and physical deterioration. He died of
a heart attack in Passy, France, on November 13, 1868. His remains,
buried at Pere Lachaise in Paris, were subsequently removed to the
Santa Croce Church in Florence.
THE MAN
FRANCIS TOYE
In considering the reasons that induced Rossini to retire from
active musical life, it is perhaps unnecessary to stress the fact that
the phenomenon is unique in the history of music and difficult to
parallel in the whole history of art. When Rossini wrote William
Tell he was thirty-six years old; even at the time he settled down
in Bologna, when his mind seems to have been definitely made up,
he was only forty-four. Is there any other artist who thus, de-
liberately, in the very prime of life, renounced that form of artistic
production which had made him famous throughout the civilized
world?
Though countless people endeavored at one time or another to
extract an explanation from Rossini himself, few ever succeeded
in getting an answer at all. It was the subject above all others
that he desired to avoid. For instance, when Aguado once wrote
begging him to compose another opera for Paris, he merely replied
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
that lie had just sent off the two finest sausages to be found in Bo-
logna, accompanied by precise instructions to Aguado's cook how to
prepare them! If this was all Aguado, to whom he owed so much,
could get out of him, it may be imagined that there was little chance
for the ordinary person. Most of the answers he did give were in fact
given many years later, when time had cast a veil over some of
the pain and bitterness.
By 1848 he was incapable of serious effort and so remained for
many years. The political troubles of the times came to aggravate
his already aggravated maladies. He was a nervous and physical
wreck. Had the dangerous benefits of psychoanalysis been revealed
to the world in the 30's, they might have saved Rossini for music;
in the 40's, it would have been too late. Possibly they would have
availed nothing, however, unless the discoveries of Wasserman and
Ehrlich had already been anticipated by a century. It is difficult
not to think that some of Rossini's troubles were of a venereal origin;
his later symptoms, disease of the bladder and urinary tract, his
premature baldness and toothlessness, seem revelatory. His acute
neurasthenia, too, though inherent in his constitution may well
have been intensified by the same cause.
Needless to say, these troubles were not so acute in the 30*s and
early 40's as they became later, but the seeds of them were present
and explain much. Nobody except Radiciotti has sufficiently em-
phasized Rossini's poor health almost immediately after William
Tell. His nerves in particular were a torture to him. Even granted
that the first experience of a railway train may have been terrifying
and unpleasant, it is impossible to imagine the journey from
Antwerp to Brussels causing anybody to faint! Which is what
happened to Rossini in 1836. . . .
It is a fact, no doubt, that Rossini felt mortified by the cavalier
treatment meted out to William Tell by the Opera authorities after
the revolution, especially when contrasted with the lavishness shown
in respect to Meyerbeer's operas. This, however, by no means justifies
the assumption that the failure of William Tell and a dislike of
Meyerbeer were responsible for his retirement. To begin with, it
must be emphasized, it was not a failure. So to describe a work
that earned for its composer the highest regard of the whole musical
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
world, and achieved in his own lifetime five hundred performances
at the Op6ra alone, is a sheer misuse of words.
As regards Meyerbeer, the question is a little more complex.
Radiciotti has tried to prove that the relations of the two men, far
from being antagonistic, were something more than cordial. In my
opinion he has failed to establish his case. No doubt Meyerbeer
was at great pains to show Rossini every sign of affection and
veneration on every possible occasion; but that was Meyerbeer's
way. There is some reason, indeed, to think that Rossini saw through
the maneuver. There is a well-authenticated story that Rossini, when
out walking one day with a friend, happened to meet Meyerbeer,
who asked anxiously after his health. Rossini replied with a recital
of various distressing symptoms, so, when Meyerbeer had gone, the
friend suggested an immediate return home. "Not at all," said
Rossini, "I feel perfectly well, but dear Meyerbeer would be so
delighted to hear of my death tomorrow that I hadn't the heart to
deny him a little pleasure today." . . .
Possibly this aspect of the case is best summed up by saying that
it was the exclusiveness of the fashionable craze for Meyerbeer's
music rather than the success of the music as such that discouraged
Rossini.
There is no reason to doubt that the modesty he showed in his
conversations with Weber and Wagner was wholly genuine, and
that, when he reproached his friend Pacini for having, in his
Memoirs, "turned me into an exclamation mark in the history of
music instead of a wretched comma," he meant what he wrote. It
is generally advisable to take everything said by Rossini about
himself with a pinch of salt, but nothing in his career encourages
us to think that he had an unduly exalted opinion of his gifts. "Which
of all your operas do you like best?" once asked an admirer. "Don
Giovanni!" came the rapier-like reply. His excellent common sense
saved him from being deceived by the flattery so freely lavished on
him by his worshipers. He never pretended that he did not write
music to make money, so when he had accumulated enough to
live on, he felt at perfect liberty to retire, free from the illusion,
entertained by so many lesser composers, that the world could
not go on without him.
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
Nor did Rossini retire from sheer laziness. Yet this explanation is
often taken for granted. Indeed, an English critic once summed up
Rossini as a composer who was so lazy that he wrote his music in
bed and retired in early middle age to enjoy social life and the
pleasures of the table. Since nearly all the fallacies current about
Rossini are contained in this diverting piece of impertinence it
may be as well to dispose of them severally.
Scarcely anything about Rossini has been more maligned than
the pleasures he took in food and drink. Except in his early years
when, like most Italians, he ate and drank with a copiousness un-
known to the modern, but not the contemporary, Englishman, he
was essentially fastidious in these matters. He took trouble to
secure good wines from all over the world, including those from
Peru, of all unlikely countries; and in later days he was unashamedly
proud of his cellar. He delighted in certain Bolognese products.
Nothing, for instance, gave him greater pleasure than the various
cheeses, sausages, and hams that friends sent to him in Paris from
time to time. He valued these more highly, he wrote to one of
them, than all the decorations, orders, and crosses in the world. He
took considerable interest in recipes, and his weakness for pate de
foie gras is enshrined in the still famous tournedos Rossini. Gen-
erally speaking, however, rich food does not seem to have appealed
to him; which in view of the nature of his maladies is not surprising.
What he mainly cared about was that the simple products, like
those mentioned above, should be genuine. In short, Rossini, like
Debussy, was an epicure; not a glutton like Brahms. . . .
With regard to society, he frequented it not more, but less, after
his retirement . . . and in any case it was the illustrious people
who came to see him rather than he who sought them out. As a
matter of fact, Rossini's social activities throughout his working life
were, in general, eminently practical. . . . With regard to the
writing in bed it is based presumably on the well-known story of
the occasion when Rossini preferred to write a new number rather
than get out of bed to pick up one already half completed. As a
generality it is not even worth discussing.
Remains the laziness. Rossini himself took great pleasure in
emphasizing it on every possible occasion, but that means precisely
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THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
nothing. The world had decided to call him lazy; he would be the
first to say how right the world was. Thus, attention would be
diverted from his hidden inner secrets which he guarded so jealously.
Such was the procedure adopted by Rossini in many matters, and
it worked out surprisingly well. No man has ever taken more
pleasure in maligning himself. What did a reputation for idleness,
cynicism, and greed matter so long as the reality of suffering and
decay remained unsuspected? . . .
The only real justification of the charge of laziness against Rossini
lies in his excessive self -borrowings. He did undoubtedly make too
frequent use of old material in his various operas. On the other
hand, it is only fair to remember that the practice was traditional
in his early days; even Gluck adopted it, while no Italian composer
would have dreamed of questioning its necessity. Rossini's fault lay
in pushing it to an extreme. Even if the number of operas he wrote
be discounted in proportion, however, there remains a sufficient
quantity to absolve Rossini from anything that can possibly be
called indolence. Rossini was not indolent; he was deficient in
aesthetic conscientiousness. He needed, that is to say, to drive
him into action, a definite stimulus like a contract or a desire to
please some particular person, or even, occasionally, an enthusiasm
for some particular subject.
THE COMPOSER
FRANCIS TOJE
It has been said that Rossini, despite the brilliance of his genius
and the greatness of his popularity, exercised little influence on the
main current of music, that his whole career was, in fact, a kind
of backwater. . . . The various reasons for holding a contrary view
may with advantage be summarized.
Curiously enough, it is not, I think, the Italian operatic stage
where his influence was most felt except, of course, in the general
sense. His young contemporary Vincenzo Bellini (1801-35) shows
a marked reaction against Rossinian fioriture and, except in that
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
little gem Don Pasquale, there is not, perhaps, very much in common
between Rossini and Gaetano Donizetti (1797-1848) beyond a
certain conventional layout of arias and ensembles. Verdi owed him
much more. Not to mention the early arias and ensembles, the
spendid choruses of Nabucco and I Lombardi suggest the influence
of Mose (1818); the Miserere in II Trovatore was clearly inspired by
the finale of the first act of Semiramide (1823); various devices in the
vocal parts of the early and middle-period operas had been an-
ticipated by Rossini. Moreover, though Verdi, in I Vespri siciliani,
Don Carlo, and perhaps Aida, indulged in a definite flirtation with
Meyerbeer, he never quite forgot his William Tell (1829), while
Falstaf is definitely a pendant for The Barber (1816).
A case might be made out, too, for considering La Gazza ladra
(1817) as the ancestor of the realistic school of opera associated with
Puccini, Pietro Mascagni (1863-1945), and company. Here, how-
ever, it is the subject rather than the musical treatment which is in
question. The lighter operas of Ermanno Wolf-Ferrari (1876-1948)
also derive to a large extent from Rossini.
As regards French opera, Rossini's great influence can scarcely
be questioned. William Tell has been described as the foundation
stone of French grand opera. This is incorrect, because the admir-
able Masaniello of Daniel-Frangois-Esprit Auber (1782-1871),
though it may have been written about the same time, was in fact
produced a year earlier. The era of grand opera was inaugurated by
Le Siege de Corinthe (1826); closely followed by Mo'ise (1827). But
it may truthfully be said, I think, that William Tell, owing to its
great merit, standardized the form; without it Meyerbeer, the
protagonist par excellence of French grand opera, could scarcely
have written Robert le diable and Les Huguenots; while, inciden-
tally, the influence of the earlier Rossini on Meyerbeer's Italian
operas seems to have been far more potent than is usually sup-
posed. . . .
Even in Germany and Austria Rossini left deeper traces than is
sometimes thought. Wagner has himself told us how after conduct-
ing William Tell in Dresden, he could not get the tunes out of his
head for days, and ... he remembered one, if not two, of them
to very good purpose. Professor Dent has further shown that Ros-
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THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
sinf s influence on Schubert is by no means confined by the compara-
tively unimportant Schubertian operas, but is distinguishable in the
great C major Symphony, where, he says, the opening theme of
the Andante is reminiscent of "Di tanti palpiti" and the rattle of
the rhythm in the last movement comes directly from Rossini. .
According to Dent, many characteristic devices in Weber, despite
his antagonism, are of Rossinian origin. . . .
It is not usually considered that Rossini achieved anything revolu-
tionary in music, but such was by no means the opinion of his con-
temporaries. One of the principal reasons for the success of Tancredi
(1813) was that the public felt for the first time a new sense of ease
in the hitherto stilted opera seria. Indeed, Rossini, apart from a new
freshness in his style as a whole, may have the credit of having
grafted onto opera seria many of the more elastic conventions of
opera buffa, the employment of an important bass soloist being one
notable instance. Nor must it be imagined that Rossini's innovations
in this respect did not meet with oppositionjMany cultured amateurs
shared Lord Mount Edgcumbe's dislike of the fusion of the two
styles; both courage and genius was necessary successfully to carry
through such a reform£Once started on the road, Rossini progressed
with rapidity, arriving not only at an unprecedented complexity in
ensemble-writing and at operatic Prayers with the backing of a full
chorus, but at the introduction of a military band on the stage.
Further* ... at the very outset of his career, Rossini had trouble
with his singers on account of the unprecedented importance he
attached to the orchestra?! I am not concerned at the moment to
stress the orchestra progress shown in his Paris operas. . . . There
was nothing particularly remarkable in writing well for the orchestra
in a city familiar with Gluck and Weber. . . . But in Italy it was
different. [There was no encouragement, rather the reverse, for
Rossini to take trouble with the orchestra, to enlarge, as he did,
the role played by the woodwind, especially the clarinets. To use
the orchestra for the accompaniment of recitatives, as was done for
the first time in Elisabetta (1815)7 must have seemed a veritable
revolution. Indeed, we know that the traditionalists of the Con-
servatory at Naples, where most of his important orchestral ex-
periments were made, did regard him as a wanton and dangerous
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
revolutionary who, not content with allowing himself the use of
consecutive fifths and other harmonic and contrapuntal licenses,
actually wrote for a third and fourth horn and no less than three
trombones! To them he was the apostle of noise and chaos. . . .
The question of Rossinfs reform in the matter of writing down
for the first time the actual fioriture to be performed by his singers
is, needless to say, of the first importance. Here, too, it must not be
imagined that the innovation commanded universal acceptance.
Many of his contemporaries, including Stendhal, deplored the pass-
ing of the improvisations that had been the singer's prerogative.
Rossinfs method, they argued, tended to crystallize these ornaments;
no scope was left for the singer to vary, as he or she used to do,
the ornament or the cadenza according to the circumstances and
his or her mood. It was not quite such a foolish attitude, I think, as
is often assumed, particularly in view of the extreme musical and
technical skill of many of the singers. ... It must be emphasized
that tKese ornaments were not merely what we call "fireworks/* To
contemporary audiences they possessed a definite expressive value,
difficult though it may be for us to appreciate the fact,
fjiossmi, who beyond question understood the human voice as
few others have understood it, appears to have thought that he
could obtain the same results without the musical sense being
endangered by some singer incompetent to grasp it. He took for
granted the high level of technical ability usual in those days, and,
be it remembered, he wrote less and very different fioriture when
he had to deal with French singers whose technique was not so
brilliant^ . . .
The precise balance to be struck between the merits and defects
of Rossini as a composer must always remain perforce a matter of
opinion. His music will never appeal greatly to those who attach
supreme value to profundity of feeling or intellect. The latter, at
any rate, could scarcely be expected of him. Rossini was clear-
headed, shrewd, urbane, but in no way intellectual. The extraor-
dinary thing is rather, with an education so neglected, with a career
during the first thirty years of his life so feverish and so vagabond,
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
that he should have risen to the heights he did. Partly, no doubt,
his lack of profound feeling can be ascribed to the same cause.
Fetis observed with considerable perspicacity that, till he left Italy
after Semiramide, Rossini never could have had the time to cultivate
a genuine friendship. Thrown constantly into contact with thousands
of people in one town after another, his life must have passed in a
kind of delirium of sensations; and I think that this was reflected in
his music. Doubtless, there was a great change in later life, when
he made many real friends, but early habits leave an ineradicable
mark, and, in any case, it must be remembered that he wrote very
little music after the age of thirty-six.
Every student of Rossini has noticed, moreover, his comparative
inability to portray the emotion of love in its more tender aspect.
For my part, I doubt if he ever felt it. The countless amorous in-
trigues of his youth seem to have been nothing but the usual fleeting
affairs of theatrical life. He must at one time have felt a certain
amount of passion for Isabella Colbran and she, poor woman,
certainly grew to love him, but one has an uneasy suspicion, that
in that alliance material considerations counted at least as much as
affection. In all probability he cared more deeply for Olympe Pelis-
sier. By then, however, he had practically given up composition,
and was, moreover, a sick man, full of self-pity, who needed
protection and care, not stimulus to artistic creation. The most
poignant emotion he ever knew was undoubtedly adoration of his
mother, which some biographers have found reflected in certain
pages of William Tell. It may be so. In any case, such filial devo-
tion, however passionate, has nothing to do with the point.
To his faulty education, too, must be ascribed that indifference
to the literary value of words and situations so noticeable in many
of his operas. Any music would serve to express them provided it
sounded agreeable in itself. His sluggishness and extraordinary
facility combined further to induce in him a regrettable lack of self-
criticism. Much of his subject-matter suffers from excessive
similarity; he was far too easily satisfied with ideas as they first
presented themselves, far too tolerant of repetitions and the con-
tinuous employment of stereotyped devices such as the famous
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
crescendo. His excessive borrowings . , . were in reality part and
parcel of the same attitude of mind.
Rossini's operatic career might be summarized as a tragedy of
bad librettos, for only once, in fact, was he really well served. But
he must bear some of the responsibility. Had he, like Verdi, pos-
sessed the character and the determination to insist on his own way
and reject even one third of the fifteen librettos that he set to music
in the space of four years; had he, like Beethoven, written three
overtures for one opera instead of fitting one overture to three
operas, there would have been a very different tale to tell. At the
same time it must be remembered that the conditions of the Italian
theater made any such proceeding exceedingly difficult. We should
not so much blame Rossini as commiserate him on having been
unable to rise above the handicaps of his life and circumstances.
All things said and done, what he did in fact accomplish remains
little less than a miracle.
Besides, as regards some of his defects, there is, to say the least,
another side to the medal. His carelessness in the setting of words,
for instance, proceeded to some extent from the remarkably pure
musicality of his inspiration. Music as pure sound, rhythm as pure
rhythm, meant everything to him; words very little. ... He could,
and did, compose music under any kind of conditions, amidst the
chatter of friends, and clamor of copyists, out fishing, and in bed.
Now this musicality is, perhaps, his principal attraction; to it must
be ascribed the spontaneity, the vivacity, the charm that are char-
acteristic of his work. He did not always make the best of his
extraordinary natural gift in this respect, but he rarely allows us
to forget that he possessed it, His music is never anything but in-
disputably musical, the precise reverse of Meyerbeer's, indeed, that
is why most musicians have kept somewhere in their hearts a warm
spot for Rossini, be his faults what they may. The "storms" in some
half dozen of his operas provide a good instance of this musicality.
They are never just imitative, but always translated into purely
musical terms, often subtly attuned, as for instance in Cenerentola
(1817), to the psychology of that particular score. In fact, one of
the very few abstract principles which he laid down as a dogma, was
that music should be "ideal and expressive/' not imitative.
20S
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Generally speaking, however, Rossini never dogmatized; his ap-
proach to music was instinctive rather than intellectual. This is
shown in his famous saying that there are only two kinds of music
the good and the bad; or that other, less known, where he states
that every kind of music is good except the boring kind. These are
scarcely the utterances of a man who attached any value to
aesthetic theories as such. The fact of the matter is that Rossini
regarded himself as an artist craftsman producing music when and
where required, entirely devoid of the pretentious invented sub-
sequently by the Romantic movement, which at no time affected
Italy as it affected Germany, France, or England, and, before he
went to Paris, had made no impression whatever south of the Alps.
Besides, there is always a tendency to forget that for all practical
purposes Rossini's musical career ended in 1829. To some extent,
therefore, he remains in essence more akin to an 18th-century than
to a 19th-century composer.
As regards Rossini's technical ability there can scarcely be two
opinions. No man not a consummate technician could have written
William Tell, while the wonderful ensembles in the earlier operas
suffice by themselves to attest to his mastery. These ensembles lack
as a rule the power of characterization later attained by Verdi, but
as examples of skill and effectiveness in vocal part-writing they are
supreme. Yet Rossini always professed indifference to scholastic
ingenuity as such. "Voila du temps perdu" he added in pencil after
writing some eight-part contrapuntal essay or other. He disliked
the pedants as much as they disliked him, and I have a shrewd
suspicion that many of the "irregularities" in his music were due as
much to a wanton pleasure in annoying them as to carelessness and
indifference.
His excellence in orchestration, too, has not, I think, been suf-
ficiently emphasized. None of his Italian contemporaries, not even
Verdi till the Ballo in Maschera period, scored as well as he did. It
has been said, indeed, that with his retirement in 1829, Italian writ-
ing for the orchestra took a definite step backward. All through the
Rossini operas we find instruments treated with great skill, with an
unerring instinct for their potentialities of expression. The over-
tures, in particular, deserve the highest praise in this respect. Take,
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GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
for instance, the writing for the cellos in the William Tell Overture.
It is so masterly that the famous cellist Servais told Rossini that he
had no need to be informed that the composer had himself studied
the cello in his youth. As for sheer brilliance and effectiveness the
rest of the orchestration is equally remarkable. Nor should the com-
parative simplicity of the effects in the earlier overtures such as
L'ltaliana in Algeri (1813), The Barber of Seville, La Gazza ladra,
and Semiramide blind us to the surety of touch, the felicity of in-
spiration, that were necessary to invent them at that time. Every-
thing "comes off" as well today as it ever did! ... As a matter of
fact, these overtures are little masterpieces from every point of view.
In them we find displayed to the best advantage that rhythm in
which Rossini so excelled, to which he attached so much importance,
saying that in it resided all the power and expressiveness of music.
The subject-material itself is nearly always excellent and highly in-
dividual; the form is as clear as the treatment. Possibly the very
attractiveness of these overtures has led some of our musicians
unduly to underrate them.
Finally, Rossini's exceptional knowledge and love of the human
voice cannot be too strongly insisted upon. Himself a singer from
childhood, he understood it as scarcely any other composer has
understood it, and his writing for it sets a standard. There is no
question here of demanding effects, as Verdi too often does, mainly
from notes at the extremity of the singer's compass; the whole range
of the voice is expected to pay its due contribution, while it is
scarcely possible in all the operas and songs to find a vocal phrase
that, granted the technique prevalent at the time, is not delightfully
singable. It is not surprising that he should have excelled in this
respect, for, of all forms of musical expression, Rossini loved singing
the best. Inevitably, such enthusiasm on the part of so famous a
composer produced its effect, particularly in France, where Rossini's
influence is said to have altered for the better the whole style of
French singing. The gradual decline of the art during the last thirty
years of his life . . . filled him with dismay. He told Michotte,
indeed, that his main ambition in the Petite Messe was to leave a
final legacy that might serve as an example of how to write for the
voice. Yet he never willingly suffered the tyranny of singers, and
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
he refused to allow that they had any share in the work of artistic
creation. . , ,
In view of all the reproaches that have been leveled at Rossini
for writing solely to show off the virtuosity of his singers, this in-
sistence is decidedly interesting. There is no reason to think that
he did not in the main succeed in putting it into practice, though
there were occasions in particular where Isabella Colbran was con-
cerned, when he certainly did not, In fact, Isabella, quite uninten-
tionally, did him definite harm, in that in all probability a desire
to minister to her particular talents led him to write opera seria
when, as Beethoven suggested and he himself admitted, he would
have been better employed in writing opera buff a. A man of stronger
character would have noted the pitfall, to bridge or avoid it, but
once again it must be insisted that there was nothing grand or
heroic about Rossini; for him the easiest path was the obvious, the
only path. Can one imagine Verdi advising a young friend, as
Rossini did, to get out of a difficulty by a lie, if necessary? His gen-
eral attitude towards music has not been fairly described as indica-
tive of a pronounced taste rather than passion or semi-religious ven-
eration. His real justification is that he possessed in an exceptional
degree the most essential attributes of a composer, melodic and
rhythmical inventiveness, and that he brought into music a great
healthy laugh that will always endear him to the artist if not to the
educationalist. Wagner who . . . described him as the first man he
had met in the world of art who was truly great and worthy of
reverence, wrote after his death an epitaph that was alike kind,
wise, and just: "Rossini can scarcely be handed to posterity in a more
false guise than by stamping him as a hero of Art on the one hand,
or degrading him to a flippant wag on the other. . . . No, Rossini
will never be judged aright until someone attempts an intelligent
history of the culture of our current century. . . . Were this char-
acter of our age correctly drawn, it would then be possible to allot to
Rossini also his true and fitting station in it. And that station would
be no lowly one, for with the same title as Palestrina, Bach, and
Mozart belonged to their age, Rossini belongs to his. . . . Then and
not till then will it be possible to estimate Rossini at his true and
quite peculiar worth; for what fell short of full dignity would have
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GIOACCHINO KOSSINI
to be accounted to neither his natural gifts nor his artistic conscience,
but simply to his public environment, which made it difficult for a
man of his nature to raise himself above his age and thereby share
the grandeur of the veritable art-heroes."
ROSSINI SPEAKS
These are my opinions on the present state of music.
Formerly Haydn began to corrupt purity of taste by introducing
into his works strange chords, artificial passages, and daring innova-
tions. He still preserved so much sublimity and ancient beauty, how-
ever, that his errors could be forgiven. Then came Cramer and
Beethoven with their compositions so lacking in unity and natural-
ness and so full of oddities and personal caprice that they com-
pletely corrupted the quality of instrumental music. In opera at the
present time, Johann Simon Mayr has replaced the simple and
majestic measures of Sarti, Paisiello, and Cimarosa with his ingenious
though vicious harmonies, and the accompaniment drowning out
the melody, and he is imitated by the young opera composers of the
German school.
Many of our singers born outside of Italy have renounced purity
of music (for which Italy has always been the center) to please the
capitals of Europe and they have adopted the unwholesome style of
the foreigners. When they returned to Italy they brought with them
and spread the germ of bad taste. . . . Warblings, wild leaps and
jumps, trills, misuse of semi-tones, notes all tangled up— this is the
kind of singing that now holds sway. That is why the measure, the
essential part of music, without which melody is unintelligible and
harmony becomes disordered, is neglected and violated by singers.
They arouse our astonishment rather than our emotion, and whereas
in better times the performers tried to make their instruments sing,
our singers now try to make their voices play. In the meantime the
crowd, applauding such poor style, does to music what the Jesuits
did to poetry and oratory when they preferred Lucan to Virgil and
Seneca to Cicero.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
I maintain that in order to perform his part well, the singer must
be nothing but an able interpreter of the ideas of the master, the
composer, and he should try to express them with great skill and all
the brilliance of which they are susceptible. Therefore the per-
formers should be nothing but accurate executants of what is written
down. In short, the composer and the poet are the only true creators.
Sometimes a clever singer will burst into additional ornamentation
and would like to call this his creation, but it often happens that
this creation is false, and even more often that it ruins the com-
poser's ideas, robbing them of the simplicity and expression they
should have.
The French use the term creer un role— an example of French
vanity— which should be applied to those singers who demand a
leading part in a new opera, hoping to prove thereby that they will
set the example to be followed later by other singers who perform
the same part. Here, too, the word "create" seems rather inappro-
priate since to create means to dig up from nowhere. Instead the
singer works with something already made, he follows the poetry
with the music, which are not his creations.
210
GIACOMO MEYERBEER
1791-1864
GIACOMO MEYERBEER was a German-born composer who received
much of his training in Italy and helped to create the traditions of
French grand opera. He was born in Berlin on September 5, 1791,
his name originally Jakob Liebmann Beer. His grandfather, Meyer
Liebmann Wulf , left him a fortune as legacy on the condition he
add the name "Meyer" to his own. Thus "Beer" became "Meyerbeer";
Jakob was changed to Giacomo when he initiated a career as com-
poser of Italian operas.
Exceptionally gifted, he made an impressive public appearance
as pianist when he was seven, and at ten wrote a cantata. He studied
piano with Clementi and theory with Zelter, Anselm Weber and
Abbe Vogler. While Vogler's student, Meyerbeer completed two
operas, both dismal failures when introduced between 1812 and
1813. The second of these, Alimelek— accepted for performance in
Vienna— brought Meyerbeer to the Austrian capital in 1813. There
he became so impressed by Hummers piano playing that he went
into a ten-month period of retirement to perfect his technique, from
which he emerged a remarkable virtuoso. But he did not lose his
determination to succeed as a composer. On the advice of Salieri,
court composer in Vienna, Meyerbeer went to Italy where he was
caught in the then prevailing vogue for Rossini. Meyerbeer now
assumed an Italian name and began writing operas in the Italian
manner. The first such work— Romilda e Costanza, produced in
Padua in 1817— was followed by several others of which II Crociato
in Egitto, given in Venice in 1824, proved a huge success.
In 1826, Meyerbeer came to Paris to help prepare a French pro-
duction of the last-named work. For the next few years he devoted
himself to the study of French opera, history, and culture. When he
THE WOBLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
returned to composition he embarked upon the third, and most
significant, phase of his creative evolution. His German and Italian
experiences as composer were now merged with French backgrounds
and traditions to help him evolve the spectacle opera. In this new
manner he wrote Robert le diable, a sensation when introduced at
the Paris Opera on November 21, 1831, With Les Huguenots
(February 29, 1836), and Le Prophete (April 16, 1849) he became
celebrated as the foremost creator of French grand opera,
The last of his masterworks, L'Africaine, took him a quarter of a
century to complete. He was still making revisions on this score
when he died in Paris on May 2, 1864. It was produced posthu-
mously, on April 28, 1865.
THE MAN
HEINRICH HEINE
Not long after the July Revolution, Meyerbeer appeared before
the public with a new work, which had sprung from his heart during
the storm of the Revolution. It was Robert le diable. . . . Meyerbeer
was at that time rightly called a worried genius. He lacked trium-
phant confidence in himself. He was afraid of public opinion. The
least reproof dismayed him. He flattered all the caprices of his
public, and shook hands zealously everywhere, as if even in music
he acknowledged the sovereignty of the people, and wanted to
establish his preeminence by majority vote.
He is not yet free of this anxiety. He is still deeply concerned
about public opinion. But the success of Robert le diable had the
happy effect of freeing him from this anxiety while at work, and he
composed with far greater assurance. He let the great will of his
soul reveal itself in his creations. With this expansive freedom of
soul he wrote Les Huguenots from which all his doubts have
vanished.
Recently I stood in company of a friend before the cathedral of
Amiens, and looked with awe and pity on the towering monument
of giant strength and indefatigable dwarfish patience revealed in
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GIACOMO MEYEKBEER
the stone-carving. How does it happen, he asked, that we no longer
can build such piles? I said, "Dear Alphonse. In those days people
had convictions. We moderns have opinions, but it takes more than
opinions to build this Gothic dome/'
That is the nub of the matter. Meyerbeer is a man of convictions.
I am not referring to the social questions of the day, though here
too Meyerbeer has more firm and settled opinions than other artists.
Despite the fact that he has been overwhelmed by the princes of the
earth with honors and decorations, for which distinctions he has a
great weakness, Meyerbeer has a heart that glows for the sacred
interests of humanity, and he openly avows his adoration of the
heroes of the Revolution. . . . Yet his convictions are not really
political, much less religious in character. Meyerbeer's true religion
is that of Mozart, Gluck, Beethoven. It is music. He believes in it,
in it alone does he find happiness. His convictions are here. In point
of depth, passion, and duration they are like those of an earlier age.
Yes, I would venture to say that he is the apostle of this faith. All
that touches his music, he treats with apostolic zeal and passion.
Other artists are content if they compose something beautiful; and
often lose interest in their work the moment it is completed. With
Meyerbeer, one might say, the more severe birth-pangs do not begin
till after childbirth. He is not satisfied until the creation of his genius
manifests itself to others in full splendor, until the whole audience
is edified by his music, and the opera has poured its feelings into
every heart— feelings which he wishes to preach to the whole world
and to communicate to all mankind.
Music is Meyerbeer's conviction— and that may be the cause of
all those worries and anxieties which the great master so often
betrays and which so often makes us smile. One should see him at
work while preparing an opera for production; he is the bane of all
musicians and singers, whom he torments with endless rehearsals.
He is never satisfied. A false note in the orchestra stabs him like the
point of a dagger— and he takes it as a mortal blow. This anxiety
follows him even after the opera has been produced and thunder-
ously acclaimed. He is still worried; and I believe he remains dis-
contented until some thousands of persons who have admired his
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
work have died and are buried. He does not have to fear that they
will turn renegades. Their souls are secured for his cause.
On the day his opera is to be produced, not even God can satisfy
him. If it rains or is chilly, he is worried lest Mademoiselle Falcon
catch cold; if the evening is fine and warm, he is afraid that the good
weather may keep people out in the open, and the theater will re-
main empty. Nothing is to be compared with the meticulous care
with which Meyerbeer corrects the proofs of his printed music, for
which he has become a byword among the artists of Paris. But one
can keep in mind the fact that music is dearer to him than anything
else on earth— certainly even than life itself. When the cholera broke
out in Paris, I implored him to leave as soon as possible, but he had
a few days' urgent business— he had to arrange for an Italian version
of the libretto of Robert le diable.
THE COMPOSER
R. A. STREATFEILD
French music owes much to foreign influence, but very few of the
strangers to whom the doors of Parisian opera houses were opened
left a deeper impression upon the music of their adopted country
than Meyerbeer. Giacomo Meyerbeer, to give him the name by
which he is now best known, was in his youth intimate with Weber,
and his first visit to Italy introduced him to Rossini, whose brilliant
style he imitated successfully in a series of Italian works which are
now completely forgotten. From Italy Meyerbeer came to Paris and
there identified himself with the French school so fully that he is
now regarded with complete propriety as a French composer pure
and simple. Meyerbeer's music is thoroughly eclectic in type. He was
a careful student of contemporary music, and the various phases
through which he passed during the different stages of his career
left their impress upon his style. It says much for the power of his
individuality that he was able to weld such different elements into
something approaching a harmonious whole. Had he done more
than he did, he would have been a genius; as it is, he remains a man
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GIACOMO MEYERBEER
of exceptional talent, whose influence on the liistory of music is
still important, though his own compositions are now slightly super-
annuated.
Robert le diable, the first work of his third or French period, was
produced in 1831. The libretto, which, like those of all the com-
poser's French operas, was by Eugene Scribe, is a strange tissue of
absurdities, though from the merely scenic point of view it may be
thought fairly effective. It was an immense success when first pro-
duced. The glitter and tinsel of the story suited Meyerbeer's showy
style, and besides, even when the merely trivial and conventional
had been put aside, there remains a fair proportion of the score
which has claims to dramatic power.
The triumph of Robert militated against the success of Les
Huguenots in 1836, which was at first rather coldly received. Before
long, however, it rivalled the earlier work in popularity, and is now
generally looked upon as Meyerbeer's masterpiece. The libretto
certainly compares favorably with the fatuities of Robert. Les
Huguenots shows Meyerbeer at his best. Even Wagner, his bitterest
enemy, admitted the dramatic power of the great duet in the fourth
act, and several other scenes are scarcely inferior to it in sustained
inspiration. The opera is marred as a whole by Meyerbeer's invinci-
ble self-consciousness. He seldom had the courage to give his genius
full play. He never lost sight of his audience, and wrote what he
thought would be effective rather than what he knew was right.
Thus his finest moments are marred by lapses from sincerity into the
commonplace conventionality of the day. Yet the dignity and power
of Les Huguenots are undeniable.
In Le Prophete (1849), Meyerbeer chose a subject which, if less
rich in dramatic possibility than that of Les Huguenots, has a far
deeper psychological interest. Unfortunately, Scribe, with all his
cleverness, was quite the worst man in the world to deal with the
story of John of Leyden. In the libretto which he constructed for
Meyerbeer's benefit the psychological interest is conspicuous only
by its absence, and the character of the young leader of the Ana-
baptists is degraded to the level of the merest puppet. Meyerbeer's
music, fine as much of it is, suffers chiefly from the character of the
libretto. The latter is merely a string of conventionally effective
215
THE WOKLD OF GEEAT COMPOSERS
scenes, and the music could hardly fail to be disjointed and scrappy.
Meyerbeer had little or no feeling for characterizations, so that the
opportunities for really dramatic effect which lay in the character of
John of Leyden have been almost entirely neglected. Once only, in
the famous cantique, "Roi du del" did the composer catch an echo
of the prophetic rapture which animated his youthful enthusiast.
Meyerbeer's besetting sin, his constant search for the merely effec-
tive, is even more pronounced in Le Prophete than in Les Hugue-
nots. The "Coronation Scene" (with its famous march) has nothing
of the large simplicity necessary for the proper manipulation of mass
of sound. The canvas is crowded with insignificant and confusing
detail, and the general effect is finicking and invertebrate rather than
solid and dignified.
Meyerbeer was constantly at work upon his last opera, L'Africaine,
from 1838 until 1864, and his death found him still engaged in re-
touching the score. It was produced in 1865. With a musician of
Meyerbeer's known eclecticism, it might be supposed that a work of
which the composition extended over so long a period would exhibit
the strangest conglomeration of styles and influences. Curiously
enough, L'Africaine is the most consistent of Meyerbeer's works.
This is probably due to the fact that in it the personal element is
throughout outweighed by the picturesque, and the exotic fascina-
tion of the story goes far to cover its defects.
The characters of L'Africaine, with the possible exception of
Selika and Nelusko, are the merest shadows, but the music, though
less popular as a rule than that of Les Huguenots, or even Le
Prophete, is undoubtedly Meyerbeer's finest effort. In his old age
Meyerbeer seems to have looked back to the days of his Italian
period, and thus, though occasionally conventional in form, the
melodies of L'Africaine—Bxid particularly the tenor aria, O Paradiso
—have a dignity and serenity which are rarely present in the scores
of his French period. There is, too, a laudable absence of that cease-
less striving after effect which mars so much of Meyerbeer's best
work.
Besides the great works already discussed, Meyerbeer wrote two
works for the Opem-Comique, L'Etoile du nord (1854) and Le
Pardon de Ploermel, the latter better known as Dinorah (1859).
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GIACOMO MEYERBEER
Meyerbeer was far too clever a man to undertake anything he could
not carry through successfully, and in these operas he caught the
trick of French opera-comique very happily. UEtoile du nord deals
with the fortunes of Peter the Great. The lighter parts of this opera-
comique are delightfully arch and vivacious and much of the con-
certed music is gay and brilliant.
Dinorah shows Meyerbeer in a pastoral and idyllic vein. The
music is bright and tuneful, and the reaper's and hunter's songs
(which are introduced for no apparent reason) are delightful; but
the libretto is so impossibly foolish that the opera has fallen into
disrepute, although the brilliant music of the heroine— the "Shadow
Song/' for example— makes it a favorite role with coloratura sopranos.
Meyerbeer was extravagantly praised in his lifetime; he is now as
bitterly decried. The truth seems to lie, as usual, between the two
extremes. He was an unusually clever man, with a strong instinct
for the theater. He took immense pains with his operas, often re-
writing the entire score; but his efforts were directed less towards
ideal perfection than to what would be most effective, so that there
is a hollowness and a superficiality about his work which we cannot
ignore, even while we admit the ingenuity of the means employed.
His influence upon modern opera has been extensive. He was the
real founder of the school of melodramatic opera.
MEYERBEER SPEAKS
Italy was enjoying the delights of a sweet ecstasy. The people had,
so it seemed, found at last their longed-for paradise; all that was
needed to complete their bliss was the music of Rossini. I was
caught like the rest ... in this fine web of sound. I was bewitched
in a magic garden which I had no wish to enter, but which I could
not avoid. All my thoughts, all my faculties became Italian; when I
had lived there a year, I thought of myself as a native. I became
completely acclimated to the splendid glory of nature, art, and the
gay, congenial life, and could therefore enter into the thoughts,
feelings, and sensibilities of the Italians. That so complete a trans-
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
formation of my inner life must have had a radical effect upon the
style of my music will readily be understood. I did not want, as is
commonly supposed, to imitate Rossini or to write in the Italian
manner, but I had to compose in the style which I adopted under
the compulsion of my state of mind.
I am delighted at what you tell me of the good opinion which the
Director of the Opera [in Paris] has of my feeble talents. You
enquire whether I would like to work for the French stage, I assure
you that I should consider it a greater glory to have the honor of
composing for the French Opera than for all the theaters in Italy,
in which, moreover I have given my works. Where else than in Paris
should I find the immense resources which the Opera affords to an
artist who wishes to write really dramatic music? . . , You may
ask me why, in view of these considerations, I have not tried so far
to write for Paris. It is because I am told here that the Op£ra is
hedged about with difficulties and one must normally wait years and
years before getting a hearing. That gives me pause. I confess that,
perhaps, I have been spoiled on this score in Italy, where they have
up to now sought me out.
No one will ever equal Gluck in simplicity, naturalness, and
powerful dramatic expression. When I am enjoying his majestic
works, I often feel so humiliated that I would like never again to
write a note.
218
FELIX MENDELSSOHN
1809-1347
JACOB LUDWIG FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BAHTHOUDY was born in Ham-
burg, Germany, on February 3, 1809. His grandfather was the cele-
brated philosopher, Moses Mendelssohn, and his father, Abraham,
a banker, so Felix was raised in a setting of culture and wealth in
which his formidable musical talent could flourish. In his boyhood,
his immediate family was converted from Judaism to Protestantism,
an occasion upon which it added the name "Bartholdy" to its own to
distinguish themselves from the other Mendelssohns who had re-
mained Jewish. Felix began music study early, first with his mother,
then with Ludwig Berger and Karl Friedrich Zelter. He made his
first public appearance as pianist when he was nine; at ten he made
his debut as composer when the Berlin Singdkademie performed one
of his choral works; and by the time he was twelve he had completed
numerous compositions, including symphonies and operas. In 1826
came his first masterwork, the A Midsummer Night's Dream Over-
ture. A year after that, his opera Die Hochzeit des Camacho was
introduced in Berlin.
Mendelssohn first made music history, as a conductor rather than
as a composer, on March 11, 1829 when he directed Bach's Passion
According to St. Matthew (the first performance since Bach's own
time). The concert proved so successful that it was repeated, and
became the first major event in the revival of Bach's long neglected
music that swept Europe during the next half-century.
In the spring of 1829 Mendelssohn paid his first visit to England
where he introduced some of his compositions; later the same year
he was made honorary member of the Philharmonic Society. This
marked the beginning of the vogue for Mendelssohn's music in
England which continued throughout his life; indeed no foreign-
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
born musician since Handel had been so highly regarded. In
1830-32 Mendelssohn toured Germany and Austria, after which he
paid his second visit to England, this time to introduce his Fingal's
Cave Overture, the Capriccio brilliant for piano and orchestra, and
the G minor Piano Concerto, and to publish the first volume of his
Songs Without Words.
In 1833 Mendelssohn was appointed musical director in Dtissel-
dorf, but he held this post only a few months. Between 1835 and
1840 he was the conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra in Leipzig
which, through his efforts, became one of the most significant sym-
phonic organizations in Europe. During this period, on March 28,
1837, he married Cecile Jeanrenaud, who bore him five children.
In 1841, Emperor Friedrich Wilhelm IV invited Mendelssohn to
become head of the Academy of Arts then being projected in Berlin.
Because of violent differences with the Court and fellow musicians,
Mendelssohn resigned from this post in the fall of 1842; but the
Emperor prevailed on him to accept an honorary appointment as
General Musical Director. Mendelssohn now returned to Leipzig
where he resumed his activity as conductor and where, in 1843, he
helped found the Leipzig Conservatory.
In 1844, 1846, and 1847, Mendelssohn paid additional visits to
England. On the first occasion he gave guest performances with the
London Philharmonic; in 1846 he directed the premiere of his ora-
torio, Elijah; and in 1847, on his tenth and last visit, he gave a
command performance for Queen Victoria. The death of his beloved
sister, Fanny, on May 14, 1847, was a blow that shattered Mendels-
sohn's already delicate health. He died a few months after that, in
Leipzig, on November 4, 1847.
THE MAN
EDUARD DEVRIENT
Of middle height, slender frame, and of uncommon muscular
power, a capital gymnast, swimmer, walker, rider, and dancer, the
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
leading feature of his outward and inner nature was an extraordinary
sensitiveness. Excitement stimulated him to the verge of frenzy,
from which he was restored only by his sound, deathlike sleep. This
restorative he had always on hand; he assured me that he had but
to find himself alone and unoccupied in a room where there was a
sofa, to go straightway to sleep. His brain had from childhood been
taxed excessively, by the university course, study of modern lan-
guages, drawing, and much else, and to these were added the study
of music in its profoundest sense. The rapidity with which he
mastered a score; his perfect understanding of the requirements of
new compositions, the construction and complications of which were
at once transparent to him; his marvelous memory, which placed
under his hand the entire range of great works; these wondrous gifts
filled me with frequent doubts as to whether his nervous power
could possibly sustain him through the length of an ordinary life.
Moreover, he would take no repose. The habit of constant occu-
pation, instilled by his mother, made rest intolerable to him. To
spend any time in mere talk caused him to look frequently at his
watch, by which he often gave offense; his impatience was only
pacified when something was being done, such as music, reading,
chess, and so forth. He was fond of having a leaf of paper and pen
at hand when he was conversing, to sketch down whatever occurred
to him.
His manners were most pleasing. His features, of the Oriental
type, were handsome; a high, thoughtful forehead, much depressed
at the temples; large, expressive, dark eyes, with drooping lids, and
a peculiar veiled glance through the lashes; this, however, sometimes
flashed distrust or anger, sometimes happy dreaming and expec-
tancy. His nose was arched and of delicate form, still more so the
mouth, with its short upper and full under lips, which was slightly
protruded and hid his teeth when, with a slight lisp, he pronounced
the hissing consonants. An extreme mobility about his mouth be-
trayed every emotion that passed within.
His bearing retained from boyhood the slight rocking of the head
and upper part of the body, and shifting from foot to foot; his head
was much thrown back, especially when playing; it was always easy
to see whether he was pleased or otherwise when new music was
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going on, by his nods and shakes of the head. In society his manners
were . . . distinguished. The shyness that he still retained left him
entirely during his subsequent travels, but even now, when he
wished to propitiate, he could be most fascinating, and his attentions
to young ladies were not without effect. In his affections filial love
still held the foremost place; the veneration with which he regarded
his father had in it something religious and patriarchal; with his
sisters the fondest intimacy prevailed; from his brother, disparity of
age still somewhat divided him. His elder sister, Fanny, stood
musically most closely related to him; through her excellent nature,
clear sense, and rich fund of sensibility (not perceptible to every one)
many things were made clear to him. For his youngest sister,
Rebecca, he had an unbounded admiration, sensitive as he was to
all that was fair and lovely.
Felix's nature fitted him particularly for friendship; he possessed
... a rich source of intimates, which increased as he advanced in
life. To his friends he was frankly devoted, exquisitely tender; it
was indeed felicity to be beloved by Felix. At the same time it must
be confessed that his affection was exclusive to the utmost; he loved
only in the measure that he was loved. This was the solitary dark
speck in his sunny disposition. He was the spoiled child of fortune,
unused to hardship or opposition; it remains a marvel that egotism
did not prevail more than it did over his inborn nobleness and
straightforwardness.
The atmosphere of love and appreciation to which he had been
nurtured was a condition of life to him; to receive his music with
coldness or aversion was to be his enemy, and he was capable of
denying genuine merit in anyone who did so. A blunder in manners
or an expression that displeased him, could alienate him altogether.
. . . About small things he could be unforgiving, for he could not
accustom himself to hearing what displeased him, and he never had
been compelled to conform cheerfully to the whims of anyone.
But his irritability, his distrustfulness even toward his most inti-
mate friends, were sometimes quite incredible. A casual remark, a
stupid jest that he often accepted from me with perfect good temper,
would sometimes suddenly cause him to drop his lids, look at me
askance, and ask doubtfully: "What do you mean by that? Now I
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
want to know what you wish me to understand by that?" and it
was difficult to restore his good humor. These peculiarities in
Mendelssohn caused him, though much beloved, to be judged often
unfavorably; but those who knew him intimately accepted these few
faults, the natural product of his exceptional position, and prized
none the less all that was excellent in him.
He was exquisitely kind-hearted and benevolent, even toward
dumb animals. I recollect him, when a boy of thirteen, ardently
pleading for the life and liberty of a small fish which had been given
to his brother Paul, who wished to have it fried for himself. ... I
often thought of that fish when I later saw Felix take the part of
those who were in trouble.
THE COMPOSER
SIR GEORGE GROVE
Mendelssohn's very early works show in certain points the traces
of his predecessors— of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber. But
this is only saying what can be said of the early works of all com-
posers, including Beethoven himself. Mendelssohn is not more but
less amenable to this law of nature than most of his compeers. The
traces of Bach are the most permanent, and they linger on in the
vocal works even as late as St. Paul (1836). Indeed, Bach may be
tracked still later in the solid construction and architectonic arrange-
ment of the choruses, even of the Lobgesang (1840), the Walpurgis-
nacht (1843) and Elijah (1846), works in all respects emphatically
Mendelssohn's own, not less than in the religious feeling, the union
of noble sentiment with tender expression, and the utter absence of
commonness or vulgarity which pervade all his music alike.
In the instrumental works, however, the year 1826 broke the spell
of all external influence, and the Octet, the Quintet in A, and, above
all, the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, launched him upon
the world at seventeen as a thoroughly original composer. The con-
cert overtures Fingal's Cave (1832), Meersstille und gliickliche
Fahrt (1832), and Die schone Melusine (1833); the three great
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
symphonies; the two piano concertos; and the Violin Concerto
(1844) fully maintain this originality, and in thought, style, phrase,
and clearness of expression, no less than in their symmetrical struc-
ture and exquisite orchestration, are eminently independent and
individual works. The advance between the Symphony in C minor
(1824)— which we call No. 1, though it is really No. 13— and the
Italian Symphony (1833) is immense. The former is laid out quite on
the Mozart plan, and the working throughout recalls the old world.
But the latter has no model. The melodies and the treatment are
Mendelssohn's alone, and while in gaiety and freshness it is quite
unrivalled, it is not too much to say that the slow movement is as
great a novelty as that of Beethoven's Piano Concerto in G. The
Scotch Symphony (1842) is as original as the Italian, and on a much
larger and grander scale. The opening Andante, the Scherzo, and
the finale are especially splendid and individual. The concert over-
tures are in all essential respects as original as if Beethoven had not
preceded them by writing Coriolon—&s true a representative of his
genius as Fingal's Cave is of Mendelssohn's. The Midsummer Night's
Dream, which brought the fairies into the orchestra and fixed them
there, and which will always remain a monument of the fresh feeling
of youth; the FingaTs Cave with its intensely somber and melancholy
sentiment, and the Melusina with its passionate pathos,— -these also
have no predecessors in sentiment, treatment, or orchestration.
Ruy Bias (1839) is brilliant and as full of fire as the others are of
sentiment, and does not fall a step behind them for individuality.
In these works there is little attempt at any modification of the
established forms. Innovation was not Mendelssohn's habit of mind,
and he rarely attempts it. The Scotch Symphony is directed to be
played throughout without pause, and it has an extra movement in
form of a long coda which appears to be a novelty in pieces of this
class. There are unimportant variations in the form of the concertos,
chiefly in the direction of compression. But with Mendelssohn, no
more than with Schubert, do these things force themselves on the
attention. He has so much to say, and says it so well, the music is
so good and so agreeable, that it never occurs to the hearer to inquire
if he has altered the external proportions of his discourses.
His Scherzos are still more peculiarly his own offspring, and really
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
have no prototypes. That in a movement bearing the same name
as one o£ Beethoven's most individual creations, and occupying the
same place in the piece, he should have been able to strike out so
entirely different a path as he did, is a wonderful tribute to his
originality. No less remarkable is the variety of the many Scherzos
he has left. They are written for orchestra and chamber, concerted
and solo alike, in double and triple time indifferently; they have no
fixed rhythm, and notwithstanding a strong family likeness— the
impress of the gay and delicate mind of their composer— are all
independent of each other. In his orchestral works Mendelssohn's
scoring is remarkable not more for its grace and beautiful effect than
for its clearness and practical efficiency. What the composer wishes
to express comes out naturally, and each instrument has with rare
exceptions the passages best suited to it. ...
His great works in chamber music are on a par with those for
the orchestra. The Octet, the two string quintets, the six string
quartets are thoroughly individual and interesting, nothing far-
fetched, no striving after effect, no emptiness, no padding, but
plenty of matter given in a manner at once fresh and varied. Every
bar is his own, and every bar is well said. The accusation which is
sometimes brought against them that they are more fitted for the
orchestra than the chamber, is probably to some extent well founded.
Indeed, Mendelssohn virtually anticipates this charge in his preface
to the parts of the Octet, which he desires may be played in a
symphonic style; and in that noble piece, as well as in parts of the
String Quintet in B-flat (1845) and the string quartets in D major
(1838) and F minor (1847), many players have felt that the composer
has placed his work in too small a frame, that the proper balance
cannot always be maintained between the leading violin and the
other instruments, and that to produce all the effect of the com-
poser's ideas they should be heard in an orchestra of strings rather
than in a quartet of solo instruments. On the other hand, the Piano
Quartet in B minor (1825), the two piano trios in D minor (1839)
and C minor (1845) have been criticized, probably with some
justice, as not sufficiently concertante, that is as giving too prominent
a part to the piano. Such criticism may detract from the pieces in
a technical respect, but it leaves the ideas and sentiments of the
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music, the nobility of the style, and the clearness of the structure,
untouched.
His additions to the technique of the piano are not important.
Hiller tells a story which shows that Mendelssohn cared little for the
rich passages of the "modern school"; his own were quite sufficient
for him. But this is consistent with what we have just said. It was
the music of which he thought, and as long as that expressed his
feelings it satisfied him, and he was indifferent to the special form
into which it was thrown. Of his piano works the most remarkable
is the set of seventeen Variations serieuses (1841); but the Fantasy
in F-sharp minor (1830), the three great Caprices (1834), the
Preludes and Fugues, and several of the smaller pieces, are splendid
works too well known to need further mention. The Songs Without
Words (1829-45) stand by themselves, and are especially interest-
ing ... on account of their great popularity. ... It was some
time before the Songs Without Words reached the public; but when
once they became known, the taste for them quickly spread, and
probably no pieces ever were so much and so permanently beloved.
The piece, like the name, is virtually his own invention. Not a few
of Beethoven's movements— such as the Adagio of the Sonata
pathetique, or the Minuet of op. 10, no. 3— might be classed as
"Songs Without Words," and so might the Nocturnes of John Field
(1782-1837); but the former of these are portions of larger works, not
easily separable, and the latter were little known; and neither of
them possess that grace and finish, that intimate charm, and above
all that domestic character, which have ensured the success of
Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words. . . . His own feelings to-
wards them was by no means so indulgent. It is, perhaps, impossible
for a composer to be quite impartial towards pieces which make
him so very popular, but he distinctly says, after the issue of Book
III, that he does "not mean to write any more at that time, and
that if such animalculae are multiplied too much no one will care
for them." It is difficult to believe that so stern a critic of his own
productions should not have felt the weakness of some of them, and
the strong mannerism which, with a few remarkable exceptions,
pervades the whole collection. We should not forget, too, that he is
not answerable for the last two books, which were published after
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
his death, without the great alterations which he habitually made
before publication. One drawback to the excessive popularity of the
Songs Without Words is, not that they exist— for we might as well
quarrel with Goethe for the Wanderers Nachtlied or the Heiden-
rdslein-nor yet the number of imitations they produced, but that
in the minds of thousands these graceful trifles, many of which were
thrown off at a single sitting, are indiscriminately accepted as the
most characteristic representatives of the composer of the Violin
Concerto and the Fingal's Cave Overture.
His songs may be said to have introduced the German Lied to
England, and to have led the way for the deeper strains of Schu-
mann, Schubert and Brahms in English houses and concert audi-
toriums. No doubt the songs of those composers do touch lower
depths of the heart than Mendelssohn's do; but the clearness and
directness of his music, the spontaneity of his melody, and a certain
pure charm pervading the whole, have given a place with the great
public to some of his songs, such as Auf Flugeln des Gesanges (1834).
Others, such as the Nachtlied (1847), the Volkslied (1839), and the
Schilflied (1847) are deeply pathetic; others, as the Lieblings-
platzchen (1841) are at the same time extremely original; others, as
0 Jugend, the Jagdlied (1834), and An die Entfernte (1847) the soul
of gaiety. He was very fastidious in his choice of words, and often
marks his sense of the climax by varying the last stanza in accom-
paniment or otherwise, a practice which he was perhaps the first to
adopt.
Ever since Handel's time, oratorios have been the favorite public
music in England. Mendelssohn's works of this class, St. Paul (1836),
Elijah (1846), the Lobgesang (1840) soon became well known. They
did not come as strangers, but as the younger brothers of the
Messiah and Judas Maccdbaeus and we liked them at once. Not only
liked them; we were proud of them, as having been produced or
very early performed in England; they appealed to our national love
for the Bible, and there is no doubt that to them is largely owing the
position next to Handel which Mendelssohn occupies in England.
Elijah at once took its place, and it is now on a level with the
Messiah in public favor. Apart from the intrinsic quality of the
music of his large vocal works, the melody, clearness, spirit, and
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symmetry which they exhibit, are in common with his instrumental
compositions. There is one thing which remarkably distinguishes
them, and in which they are far in advance of their predecessors— a
simple and direct attempt to set the subject forth as it was, to think
first of the story and next of the music which depicted it. The
thoughts and emotions are the first things, and the forms of expres-
sion second and subordinate. We may call this "dramatic" in as much
as the books of oratorios are more or less dramas; and Mendelssohn's
letters to Schubring in reference to Elijah, his demand for more
"questions and answers, replies and rejoinders, sudden interruptions"
etc., show how thin was the line which in his opinion divided the
platform from the stage, and how keenly he wished the personages
of his oratorios to be alive and acting, "not mere musical images,
but inhabitants of a definite active world." But yet it was not so
much dramatic in any conscious sense as a desire to set things forth
as they were. Hauptmann has stated this well with regard to the
three noble Psalms, "Judge Me, O God/' "Why Rage Fiercely the
Heathen?" and "My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?" (1844).
He says that it is not so much any musical or technical ability that
places them so far above other similar compositions of the time, as
the fact that Mendelssohn has "just put the Psalm itself before him;
not Bach, or Handel, or Palestrina, or any other style or composer,
but the words of the Psalmist; and the result is not anything that
can be classed new or old, but the Psalm itself is thoroughly fine
musical effect; the music not pretending to be scientific, or anything
on its own account, but just throwing life and feeling into the dry
words. Any one who knows these Psalms will recognize the truth
of this description. It is almost more true in reference to the 114th
Psalm, "When Israel Out of Egypt Came" (1839). The Jewish blood
of Mendelssohn must surely for once have beat fiercely over the
picture of the great triumph of his forefathers, and it is only the
plain truth to say that in directness and force his music is a perfect
match for the spendid words of the unknown Psalmist. It is true
of his oratorios also, but they have other great qualities as well.
St. Paul, with all its great beauties, is an early work, the book of
which, or rather perhaps the nature of the subject, does not wholly
lend itself to forcible treatment, and it is an open question whether
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
it can fully vie with either the Lobgesang or still more Elijah. These
splendid compositions have that air of distinction which stamps a
great work in every art, and which a great master alone can confer.
As instances of this, take the scene of the Watchman, and the con-
cluding chorus in the Lobgesang, "Ye Nations." Or in Elijah the
double quartets; the arioso "Woe Unto Them" which might be the
wail of a pitying archangel; the choruses, "Thanks Be to God/'
"Be Not Afraid," "He Watching Over Israel," "Behold! God the Lord
Passed By"; the great piece of declamation for soprano which opens
the second part; the unaccompanied trio, "Lift Thine Eyes"; the
tenor air, "Then Shall the Righteous." These are not only fine as
music, but are animated by that lofty and truly dramatic character
which makes one forget the vehicle, but live only in the noble
sentiment of the scene as it passes. . . .
We must now close this . . . attempt to set Mendelssohn forth
as he was. Few instances can be found in history of a man so
amply gifted with every good quality of mind and heart; so care-
fully brought up among good influences; endowed with every
circumstance that would make him happy; and so thoroughly ful-
filling his mission. Never perhaps could any man be found in whose
life there were so few things to conceal and to regret.
Is there any drawback to this? Or, in other words, does his music
suffer at all from what he calls his "habitual cheerfulness"? It seems
as if there was a drawback, and that arising more or less directly
from those very points which we have named as his best char-
acteristics—his happy healthy heart, his single mind, his unfailing
good spirits, his simple trust in God, his unaffected directness of
purpose. It is not that he had not genius. The great works enumer-
ated prove that he had it in large measure. No man could have
called up the new emotions of the Midsummer Night's Dream Over-
ture, the wonderful pictures of FingaTs Cave, or the pathetic distress
of the lovely Melusina, without genius of the highest order. But his
genius had not been subjected to those fiery trials which seem neces-
sary to ensure its abiding possession of the depths of the human
heart. "My music," says Schubert, "is the product of my genius and
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
my misery; and that which I have written in my greatest distress is
that which the world seems to like best/' Now Mendelssohn was
never more than temporarily unhappy. He did not know distress as
he knew happiness. Perhaps there was even something in the con-
stitution of his mind which forebade his harboring it, or being per-
manently affected by it. He was so practical, that as a matter of duty
he would have thrown it off. In this as in most other things he was
always under control. At any rate he was never tried by poverty, or
disappointment, or a morbid temper, or neglect, or the perfidy of
friends, or any of the other great ills which crowded so thickly
around Beethoven, Schubert, or Schumann. Who can wish that he
had been? That that bright, pure aspiring spirit should have to be
dulled by distress or torn with agony? It might have lent a deeper
undertone to his songs, or have enabled his Adagios to draw tears
where now they only give a saddened pleasure. But let us take the
man as we have him. Surely there is enough of conflict and violence
in life and in art. When we want to be made unhappy we can turn
to others. It is well in these agitated days to be able to point to one
perfectly balanced nature in whose life, whose letters, and whose
music alike, all is at once manly and refined, clever and pure, bril-
liant and solid. For the enjoyment of such shining heights of good-
ness we may well forego for once the depths of misery and sorrow.
MENDELSSOHN SPEAKS
So much is said about music and yet so little is said! I am of the
belief that words alone are inadequate for this purpose. Were I to
find them adequate, I should probably no longer write music. People
complain that music is too ambiguous, and that no one really knows
how to interpret it, while words are readily comprehended. But the
opposite holds true for me, not only an entire speech, but even
with single words. These seem to hold for me many meanings, tend
to become ambiguous, vague, and thus easily misinterpreted. Music,
on the other hand, fills one's soul with a thousand nobler feelings
and sentiments than words can ever do. Thoughts expressed to me
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FELIX MENDELSSOHN
by music I love are not too indefinite to be put into words, but on
the contrary, too definite. I find that in every effort to express such
thoughts something is right and at the same time something is
lacking as well. ... If you ask me what I was thinking of when
I wrote it, I would say: just the song as it stands. And if I happen
to have had certain words in mind for one or another of these songs
[Songs Without Words], I would never want to tell them to anyone,
because the same words never mean the same things to different
people. Only the song can say the same thing, can arouse the same
feelings in one person as in another, a feeling which is not expressed,
however, by the same words.
Resignation, melancholy, the praise of God, a hunting song do
not conjure up the same thoughts in everybody. What signifies
melancholy to one may seem resignation to another, while a third
person may perhaps be incapable of forming either conception. To
anyone who is by nature a sportsman, a hunting song and the praise
of God might come to pretty much the same thing, and to him the
sound of a hunting horn would actually be praise of God, while to
us it would be nothing more than a hunting song. However long
we might discuss it with him we should not get very far. Words have
meanings, but music we both can understand correctly.
As time goes by I think more and more sincerely of writing only
as I feel, and less and less with regard to the outward results of
my compositions. When I have produced a piece of music that has
flowed from my heart, I am not at all concerned whether it will later
bring me fame, honors, orders, or snuff boxes!
231
ROBERT SCHUMANN
1810-1656
ROBERT ALEXANDER SCHUMANN was born in Zwickau, Saxony, on
June 8, 1810. He started studying the piano at six. At eight he wrote
his first compositions, and by the time he was eleven had produced
several ambitious choral and orchestral works. Between 1820 and
1828 he attended the Zwickau Gymnasium. In the latter year he
entered the University of Leipzig to study law, continuing these
studies in Heidelberg a year later. His musical activity, however, was
not relaxed. His first published composition appeared in 1830: the
Abegg Variations, for piano.
By fall of 1830, Schumann became convinced that music and not
law was his goal. He began an intensive period of piano study with
Friedrich Wieck in Leipzig, with the hopes of becoming an out-
standing virtuoso. An attempt to make the fourth finger as flexible
as the others— by means of an artificial device to keep it suspended-
resulted in partial paralysis of the right hand in 1832. His dreams
of a virtuoso career now shattered, Schumann directed his gifts
and energies into creative channels. For a while he studied compo-
sition with Heinrich Dorn. Then, in 1832, he completed Papillons
and the first set of the Paganini Etudes, both for the piano. The piano
remained his principal medium for artistic self-expression until
1840. In that time he completed such masterworks as the Carnaval,
the Etudes symphoniques, the Fantasiestiicke, and the C major
Fantasy.
While thus creating a new epoch in piano literature, Schumann
also distinguished himself as a critic and editor. In 1833 he helped
form a musical society of idealistic young musicians who called
themselves the Davidsbundler. This society aimed to destroy philis-
tinism in music. A year later, Schumann helped found a musical
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EGBERT SCHUMANN
journal, the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, which he edited until 1844.
Through its columns Schumann was able to introduce the then-un-
sung and unrecognized gifts of such young masters as Chopin and
Brahms.
The years between 1836 and 1840 were turbulent ones. He had
fallen in love with Clara, the sixteen-year-old daughter of his
teacher, Wieck. The autocratic opposition of Clara's father put every
possible obstacle in their way for four years. Finally, Schumann
brought suit against Wieck and, winning his case, was able to marry
Clara on September 12, 1840. It was a truly happy marriage, and it
helped bring Schumann to new creative heights and to arouse in
him an unprecedented artistic fertility.
During the first year of his marriage, Schumann turned to the
Lied, creating about 140 songs. In 1841, he passed on to orchestral
music by completing his first symphony, the first movement of the
A minor Piano Concerto, and the first draft of the D minor Sym-
phony. The year 1842 was mainly devoted to chamber music, with
three string quartets, the Piano Quintet, and the E-flat major Piano
Quartet as his principal works.
His health began deteriorating in 1844 when he was compelled
to give up most of his activities outside of composition and live
quietly in Dresden. Between 1850 and 1853 he was the municipal
music director in Diisseldorf. While holding this post he became
increasingly morbid. He began to hear voices and sounds that
tortured him, and showed alarming signs of lapsing memory. After
an unsuccessful attempt to commit suicide by drowning, he was
committed to an insane asylum in Endenich, near Bonn, Germany,
where he died on July 29, 1856.
THE MAN
GUSTAV JANSEN
His figure was stately, powerfully built, and his bearing was dis-
tinguished and aristocratic. He never tried to impress by outward
appearances, never wore striking clothing. H. Truhn described him
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in the following way: "He had a large, spacious and truly German
head, topped off with soft, dark blond hair; his face was full and
beardless, with lips shaped in such a way that they almost seemed
to begin a whistle. His eyes were a beautiful blue, but they were not
large and suggested neither energy nor power; they appeared to be
penetrating deep into and listening intently to his soul. He stood
rigid and erect in posture, but walked with a soft and flexible step
almost as if his strong, broad-shouldered body lacked bones. He
was comparatively short, made much use of the lorgnette but without
any trace of snobbery." In his conversation he was generally la-
conic, rarely displaying any kind of social sophistication. He was
incapable of talking much and saying little.
After completing his day's work Schumann used to frequent
Poppe's Kaffeebaum during the late hours of evening, a popular
gathering place for young people of various professions. Schumann
occupied no position of special importance in this circle. Not at all!
Good cheer would prevail as far removed from any feeling of snob-
bishness nor cliques as it was from uninhibited revelry. Schumann
preferred a hidden corner. "He used to sit at the table sideways,"
says Brendel, "so that he would be able to lean head on hand. From
time to time he would stroke back his hair which would frequently
fall over his forehead. Eyes half-shut, he would withdraw into him-
self and lapse into dreams. Then there would be something to in-
spire him to an interesting exchange of ideas with his companions.
Suddenly he would become alive, talkative, animated. You could
almost see him awaken from his dreams, returning from his inner
to the outer world. You could almost see his eyes, a moment before
turned backward and looking deep within himself, turn toward
the world outside. He would then reveal a penetrating intelligence."
In the company of high-spirited people Schumann was always
perfectly at ease. He would sit always in the same seat, at the end
of the table, a cigar ever in his mouth. He never had to call for a
fresh glass of beer, since he had taken care with the waiter to have
fresh glasses of beer brought to him as soon as he had drained his
glass. As soon as he was through with his beers he silently paid his
bill and left a tip. Most evenings the company at Kaffeebaum was
small, and Schumann never stayed past an hour usual for simple,
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ROBEKT SCHUMANN
middle-class people. Sometimes he left the place suddenly and pre-
cipitously, as if on military order, rushing out of the cafe without
bidding anybody good night; and these were the times when his
head was filled with music that he had to get down on paper at
home.
For a number of years before 1836 Schumann often changed his
rooms. Then in 1836 he rented a room situated agreeably, and he
stayed here until his marriage. This room was in a house named
"the red college/' with a delightful court, and a view of a park, its
window facing the woodiest section of the promenade that circles
old Leipzig. His room was so quiet and peaceful that when the
leaves rustled outside the window you could imagine yourself to be
in some lonely castle in the woods. . . . Sitting in that room, it
was impossible to believe you were in the very midst of busy Leip-
zig. ... At the window, set off high above the floor, was a table
on a kind of platform, with an inkstand and a hook on which a watch
could hang. There was also a delightful miniature— the head of a
pensive girl leaning against the inkstand. Schumann's watch also
hung there. I was not allowed to ask him who the girl in the picture
was. Although this little oblong room had only one window, it was
sufficiently large to contain a grand piano and a sofa with an end
table against the opposite wall. Here Schumann used to work.
THE COMPOSER
W. H. HADOW
Schumann's whole life was an endeavor to unite two ideals. In
spirit he is a romantic of the romantics, directing his music towards
the outside world with a hundred hints and explanations. In form
lie recognized Bach as his master, and strove to express his ideas in
the most elaborate language of the old polyphony. He does not, like
Berlioz, splash on his colors principally with an eye to effect. On the
contrary, he pays the utmost attention to detail and finish. In a word,
his Davidsbund, like the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, was an
attempt to adapt ancient methods to modern subjects, with this
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difference, that whereas the English Pre-Raphaelitism sometimes
lost its hold of the theme in its attention to the treatment, Schumann
regards the theme as paramount, and adapts the treatment to it as
best he can. Hence the first requisite in estimating his work is to
examine the character of his ideas, and especially to explain the
contention, already advanced, that in forming them he was much
influenced by the romantic movement in literature.
Now, as among the musicians of his time, Schumann was excep-
tionally well read. His classical attainments were probably allowed
to rust during his long life as composer and journalist; but as late
as 1854 he was ransacking Greek authors for passages about music,
and, even if he took Voss's Homer instead of the original, must have
gained some acquaintance with the spirit of the Iliad and the Odys-
sey. Among the English poets he was a thorough student of Byron
and Shakespeare, and knew something at least of Burns and Scott.
Of the Italians he certainly read Dante and Petrarch, and possibly
others as well; while the romantic writers of his own country were
almost as familiar to him as his own works. He knew his Richter as
some Englishmen know Dickens, his Heine as some Frenchmen know
Musset. He not only studied Goethe, but interpreted him. Of Riickert,
Geibel, Eichendorf, Chamisso, and many other contemporary poets,
he was the closest reader and the most valuable commentator. Fur-
ther, he was himself endowed with some not inconsiderable talent
for authorship.
In his earlier days music and literature divided his allegiance; at
Heidelberg he could astonish his friend Rosen with verse translations
of Petrarch's sonnets. During his Russian journey in 1844 he kept
an intermittent "Poetical Diary/' which must at least have implied
some facility in meter. His projected romance on the Davidsbund
never seems to have come into existence, but in the Neue Zeitschrift
he treats that society in a manner which shows that he possessed
something of the novelist's gift. Florestan, Eusebius, and Raro are
distinct living characters, drawn, it may be, from life, but still "seen
through a temperament," and contrasted with remarkable skill and
consistency. To the last he retained his appreciation of style. The
essay on Brahms which closed his career as a journalist is written
with the same care as the essay on Chopin which began it. Through-
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
out the whole course he uses his medium like an artist, and endeavors
not only to say what he means, but to say it in accordance with the
best literary traditions of his time.
Again he acknowledges the debt which his music owed to the
study of his favorite author, "I learned more counterpoint from Jean
Paul than from my music-master/' he tells Simonin de Sire; and
writing to Henrietta Voigt a propos of the Papillons (1832) he adds,
"I might tell you a good deal about them had not Jean Paul done
it so much better. If you ever have a moment to spare, please read
the last chapter of the Flegeljahre, where you will find it all in black
and white, down to the seven-league boot, in F-sharp minor. (At the
end of the Flegeljahre I always feel as if the piece was over but the
curtain still up.) I may further mention that I have adapted the text
to the music and not vice versa. Only the last of all, which by a
happy chance became an answer to the first, owes its existence to
Jean Paul/' It is difficult for us to see in the last number of the
Papillons Wult's departure or Wult's fantastic dream, but the point
is that Schumann saw it. The mind that conceived that dainty
finale was brought into its particular mood by a literary influence.
Thirdly, in one important point Schumann's method of composition
stands in closest relation to the earlier romantic movement in Ger-
man poetry. "The plastic figures in antique Art/' says Heine, "are
identical with the thing represented. The wanderings of the Odyssey
mean nothing more than the wanderings of the man called Odysseus,
the son of Laetres and the husband of Penelope. It is otherwise in
Romantic Art: here the wanderings of the knight have an esoteric
signification; they typify, perhaps, the mazes of life in general. The
dragon that is vanquished is sin: the almond tree that wafts its fra-
grance to the hero is the Trinity. . . . Classical Art had to portray
only the finite, and its form could be identical with the artist's idea.
Romantic Art had to represent, or rather to typify, the infinite and
the spiritual, and therefore was compelled to have recourse to a
system of traditional parabolic symbols." So it is with music. The
tunes in a sonata of Mozart are satisfied to be beautiful melodies
and nothing more: no question arises as to their meaning or char-
acter. The tunes of Schumann, like the colors of Rossetti, are always
trembling on the verge of symbolism. Not, of course, that music
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can be tied down to any definite signification: on this point the
failure of Berlioz is complete and conclusive. But though it cannot
work on the same lines as articulate thought, it may possibly work
on parallel lines:— that is to say, it may express some broad generic
type of emotion with which the articulate thought may be brought
into sympathy. For instance, a great many of Schumann's pianoforte
pieces have specific names— Warum, Erster Verlust, Botschaft, and so
on. It would be impossible for us to supply the names from hearing
the piece; but if we know the names already we shall recognize that
the musical treatment is appropriate. This was precisely what Schu-
mann intended. He writes to Dorn, "I have never come across any-
thing more absurd than Rellstab's criticism of my Kinderscenen.
He seems to imagine that I got hold of a crying child and sought
for inspiration from its sobs. I don't deny that certain children's
faces hovered before my mind while I was composing, but the
titles were of course added afterwards, and are, as a matter of
fact, merely hints as to the treatment and interpretation." At the
same time his indications are curiously detailed, He distinguishes the
Kinderscenen (1838) from the Album fur die Jugend (1848) on the
ground that the former are the recollection which a grown man
retains of his childhood, while the latter "consists of imaginings and
expectations of young people." He finds the story of Hero and
Leander in the fifth of the Fantasiestucke (1837): he accompanies
two of the Davidsbundlertanze (1837) with a running commentary of
Florestan and Eusebius; while as climax he declares that in one
of Schubert's pianoforte works he and a friend discovered exactly the
same pageant, "down to the name of the town in which it was held."
Even his directions for performance show something of the same
tendency. In the ordinary indications of tempo he is notoriously care-
less; it is a well-known joke against him that the finale of the Concerto
without Orchestra begins, So schnell als moglich and ends piu presto,
while there is still a controversy whether the coda of the slow move-
ment in his F major quartet should be marked piu mosso or piu
lento. But on the other hand he often suggests the manner of inter-
pretation by such phrases as Etwas kokett, or mit humor, or mit
innigkeit. Once he gets as far as Etwas hahribuchen, a hint which
pianists must find some difficulty in taking. The great pianoforte
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
Fantasia in C (1836) has a motto from Schlegel, the fourth of the
Waldscenen (1848-49) has one from Hebbel, and similar texts were
appended to the earliest edition of the Davidsbiindlertanze and of
one of the Novelletten (1838). Everywhere we find the evident in-
tention of establishing a parallelism between music and some in-
fluence from outside. In one word, Schumann did not wish his melo-
dies to tell a definite story or paint a definite picture, but he did
wish to bring his hearers into a condition of mind from which they
could "go on romancing for themselves."
One example of this parallelism deserves a special word of com-
ment, partly from its intrinsic importance, partly because hitherto
it has been somewhat underrated. The Kreisleriana (1838) certainly
owe more than their title to Hoffmann's fantastic sketches. Critics
who tell us that Schumann "is expressing his own sorrows, not
those of Dr. Kreisler," and that 'lie might just as well have
called his pieces "Wertheriana/ or any other name," have missed a
point which it is of some moment to observe. Among Hoffmann's
Fantasiestucke in Callot's manier there are two sets of Kreisleriana,
loose, disconnected papers, dealing with music and musical criticism
very much in the style which Schumann afterwards adopted for the
Neue Zeitschrift. The essay on Beethoven might have been signed
"R.S.," Florestan and Eusebius might have been members of the
Musico-Poetical Club, the Musikfeind was a well-known figure in
die editorial sanctum at Leipzig. Even Dr. Johannes Kreisler himself
—"the little man in a coat the color of C-sharp minor with an E major
colored collar"— is not far removed in spirit from the party who
listened to Chopin's Opus 2, or tried experiments with the "psychom-
eter." In short, of all German artists Schumann approaches most
nearly to Hoffmann in standpoint. Both deserted law for music, both
were at the same time composers and journalists, both employed the
manner and phraseology of Richter to the advancement of the new
school of composition. The differences between them, which no
doubt are sufficiently wide, lie mainly outside the domain of the art:
within that domain they fought for the same cause with the same
weapons. Hence in calling his pieces Kreisleriana Schumann is ex-
pressing a real connection of thought, a real recognition of alliance.
They are, in fact, Fantasiestucke in Hoffmanns manier, and bear
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more intimate relation to the creator of Dr. Kreisler than all the
copper-plates that ever issued from Callofs studio.
The connection is interesting because it illustrates the attempt to
relate musical to literary influences under the most favorable of con-
ditions. We have here two men possessed of somewhat similar gifts
and united by a common aim. Hoffmann is enough of a composer
to have a full understanding of music; Schumann enough of an
author to be closely in touch with literature. Both desire to recon-
cile the two, so far as such reconcilation is possible; each sets himself
to the work from his own side. Hence in estimating the result of their
efforts we shall see once for all the limitations of musical romanti-
cism. It is a unique opportunity for determining in what sense effects
of tone and effects of word can be held to react upon one another.
Now in the second series of Hoffmann's Kreisleriana is described a
meeting of the Musico-Poetical Club, a precursor of the Davidsbund,
which assembled in the Kapellmeister's rooms to hear him play, and
to profit by his instructions. Unfortunately at the outset there is an
accident to the piano, attempts to remedy it only make matters worse,
and at last so many of the strings are broken that the instrument be-
comes practically useless. But the doctor is equal to the occasion.
He seats himself at the keyboard, and striking at intervals such notes
as are still available, supplies the place of his fantasia with a long
rhapsodical description of its poetical meaning. The performance, in
fact, is the exact reverse of a song without words— it is a pianoforte
piece without music. We may notice that Hoffmann is wise enough
not to attempt any definiteness of outline. There is no portraiture of
hero or heroine, no detailed description of incident, all is left vague,
shadowy, indeterminate. Literature has become all but melodic, it
is standing on the extreme verge and stretching out its hands over
a gulf which it cannot cross. In like manner the Kreisleriana of
Schumann are all but articulate. In no other of his piano works is
the expression of emotion so clear and so intelligible; the voice is
eloquent even though we cannot catch the precise words of its
utterance. Here also is no attempt to depict any specific scene or
occurrence; the music is suggestive, not descriptive; the end is
attained purely and simply by the indication of broad general types
of feeling. This, then, would seem to be the conclusion of the whole
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ROBEKT SCHUMANN
matter. The most determinate effects of tone produce in die hearer
a mental impression analogous to that caused by the least determi-
nate effects of word. As language becomes more definite, as music
becomes more abstract, so the two recede from one another until
they arrive at poles, which have as little in common as a page of
Macaulay with a melody of Mozart. At their nearest they can never
be brought into contact, for music is in more senses than one a
universal language, and cannot be adequately translated by the con-
crete particulars of our accustomed speech. But, near or far, their
closest points of convergence are the two Kreisleriana.
So far we have considered the character of Schumann's ideas, and
the external or literary influences by which his mind was trained for
their conception. It would now follow to complete the account of his
education by pointing out the influence exercised upon him by the
work of previous composers. Among these, of course, Bach was para-
mount. Schumann almost passes over the great triumvirate to whom
we owe the sonata, the quartet, and the symphony. Mozart and
Haydn hardly affected him at all; Beethoven "mainly in his later
compositions"; it is to Bach that he looks as the second fountain-head
of his inspiration. "Bach and Jean Paul had the greatest influence
upon me in former days/' he writes to Kossmaly, and as late as
1851 he makes the same acknowledgment. "There are three to whom
I always go for advice: the simple Gluck, the more intricate Handel,
and the most intricate of all— Bach. Only study the last-named thor-
oughly and the most complicated of my works will seem clear." Half
his admiration for Mendelssohn was devoted to "the master who was
the first, by the strength of his own enthusiasm, to revive the memory
of Bach in Germany"; almost the last work which occupied his fail-
ing powers was a set of pianoforte accompaniments to the violin
and violoncello sonatas of the great Cantor. No doubt he gained
something from Weber and Schubert, but his relation to them was
far less intimate. From first to last his ideal in musical expression
was "the great and lofty art of the ancestor of harmony."
Bach and Jean Paul— polyphony and romance— these are the two
keys which unlock the mystery of Schumann's work as a composer.
His own individuality remains unimpugned; all artists are in some
degree indebted to the continuous growth and development of pre-
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vious work; and Schumann's method is no more derivative than that
of Beethoven or Handel. The formative conditions of genius are
those by which it is trained, not those by which it is created, only
in all cases the training must be efficient if creation is to lead to
maturity. At the same time it is of considerable interest to notice
three main points in which his education told upon his style. It
may be impossible to explain the life; it is both possible and profit-
able to dissect the organism.
First, his career as a composer is unique in the history of music.
There is no other instance of a musician who applies himself suc-
cessively to each department of his art, masters it, and passes on to
the next. Almost all his great piano works were written before 1840;
then came a year of song writing, then a year of symphony, then a
year of chamber music, then Paradise and the Peri (1841-43). Schu-
bert's songs cover the whole period of his productive life; Beetho-
ven's first piece of concerted music is Opus 1 and his last Opus 135;
Haydn's symphonies extend over nearly half a century. The other
great masters, in short, seem either to have had the forms always at
hand, or, like Wagner and Berlioz, to have left some altogether
untouched. Schumann employs every medium in turn; but he fetches
it from outside, and puts it back when he has finished with it. No
doubt he wrote songs after 1840, and orchestral compositions
after 1841; but it is none the less noticeable that he devoted himself
exclusively to the different forms when they first came under his
hand, and that almost all his best work may be divided into a series
of detached groups, each produced in one particular manner at one
particular time. Surely we have here the indirect working of a logical,
deliberative mind— a mind that has been trained into special habits
of purpose and selection. In the very character of his method Schu-
mann is actuated by psychological forces different from those of his
predecessors in the art.
The second distinctive point is his system of melody. All tune im-
plies a certain fundamental unity— otherwise it would be chaotic;
and a certain variation of detail— otherwise it would be monotonous.
This identity in difference can be attained in two ways, which we
may call respectively the continuous and the discrete. In the former
a series of entirely different elements is fused into a single whole:
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
no two of them are similar, yet all are so fitted together that each
supplies what the others need. In the latter a set of parallel clauses
are balanced antithetically: the same rhythmic figure is preserved in
all, and the differences depend entirely upon qualities of tone and
curve. The former is the typical method of Beethoven, the latter that
of Schumann. Take, for instance, the opening subject of Beethoven's
Violoncello Sonata in A, No two bars present the same figure, yet
the whole is a unity. Take the longer melody which opens the slow
movement of the Sonata pathetique. It contains almost as many
figures as there are bars, yet the effect is of a single and perfect sen-
tence. Of course Beethoven employed both methods, as he employed
every other mode of musical expression, but it is incontestable that
in the power of varying and developing his figures is to be found
one of his greatest claims to supremacy as an artist. This power
Schumann seldom or never brought into active operation. In the
opening movement of his Piano Quintet (1842), to take an instance
from the most familiar of all his works, the first four bars contain two
clauses, upon which are built the whole of the first subject and the
transition; while the first two bars of the second subject contain
the clause upon which the whole of the succeding melody is con-
structed. In the last movement of the D minor Piano Trio (1847), in
the cantabile tune of the first Novellette, in the well-known theme of
the Bilder aus Osten (1848) and, in a hundred other examples we find
a definite square-cut scheme, exactly analogous to the structure
of a stanza of verse. There are very few of Beethoven's instrumental
melodies to which it would be possible to adapt metrical words;
there is scarcely one of Schumann's which could not be so treated.
His relation to poetry extends even to the fact of versification.
Hence his melodies are much easier to analyze than those of Bee-
thoven. Indeed it often happens that the melodic phrase is obvious—
almost commonplace— and that the value of the tune depends upon
the skill of its treatment, and especially the richness of its harmoni-
zation. The charming little waltz in the Papillons is simply an ascend-
ing and descending diatonic scale; the very effective opening sub-
ject in the slow movement of the E-flat major Piano Quartet (1842)
is a series of sevenths; and similar instances may be found in the
Scherzo of the Piano Quintet and in many of the songs. Sometimes,
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too, he took his theme from the "musical letters" in a word, witness
the Abegg Variations (1830), the Carnaual (1834-35), and the fugues
on the name of Bach (1845), and though this has been done by other
composers, yet none have treated the matter so seriously or with
such earnestness of purpose. The Carnaval, in particular, is an aston-
ishing instance of the effects that can be produced out of five notes.
But it is only very rarely that Schumann's tunes approach the
"divine unconsciousness" of the Appassionata or the A major sym-
phony. They have their own character, their own vitality, but the
genius that gave them birth was to some degree affected by the
preoccupations of an external interest.
The third point is Schumann's comparative indifference to what is
technically known as musical form. When he writes about the con-
stituent elements of music he almost always specifies them as melody
and harmony— the "king and queen of the chess board"— without any
mention of that relation of subjects and distribution of keys by which
the laws of structure are constituted. This indifference is still more
noticeable in his estimate of other men's work. Schubert's C major
symphony, the Piano Sonata of Ludwig Schunke (1810-34), are dis-
cussed with little or no reference to their construction; while,
strangest of all, Berlioz's Symphonic Fantastique is treated as the
legitimate outcome of the system established by Mozart and Beetho-
ven. So it is with his own compositions. Except the Symphony in
B-flat (1841) all his orchestral works are in some degree experimental,
and in one of them, the Symphony in D minor (1841-52), he practi-
cally abandons the old scheme altogether; his piano sonatas are only
sonatas in the sense in which Don Juan is an epic; his quartets, al-
though they keep the elementary laws, yet show that there is much
difference between obeying rules and mastering them. His two finest
examples of structure are the Piano Quintet and the overture to
Manfred (1848-49); and even these exhibit a sense of effort which
place them on a lower level than the concealed art of Beethoven or
Brahms. No doubt it is perfectly admissible to seek after new forms.
In this respect, as in every other, music must be allowed free per-
mission to advance. But, if we are to acquiesce in a substitute for the
earlier methods, we must be assured that it is at least as capable as
they of satisfying our requirements. And at present it is not too much
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
to say that, except in the one detail of the "transference of themes,"
classical structure has not seen any discovery of importance since the
publication of the Rasoumovsky quartets. It must be remembered
that in this respect there is a marked difference between Schumann
and Berlioz. The latter simply shows a want of acquaintance with
the laws of construction. The former knows the laws, but underrates
their importance. Schumann is far the greater musician of the two,
but though his error is less apparent it is not less existent.
There are three possible reasons why a composer of such brilliant
genius and such unwearied industry should have displayed this weak-
ness. First, that Bach wrote before the great cyclical forms were
established and could therefore give his devoted student little or no
assistance in dealing with them. Second, that of all modes of musical
expression form is the most abstract— the most essentially musical.
Melody and harmony may have some rough analogues outside the
limits of the art: the laws of structure have none. Hence they con-
stitute an inner shrine to which only the most single-hearted musi-
cians can penetrate; and he who visits the Temple with any other
prepossession— even of poetry itself— must be content to worship
among the people. Third, that the whole tone of Schumann's thought
was lyric. A very large number of his works consist of short detached
pieces, in which there is neither need nor scope for any elaborate
system of construction. Hence he grew habituated to the methods
of conciseness and concentration, and his sustained efforts were
hardly more congenial than the tragedies of Heine or the historical
dramas of Uhland.
In one further respect the character of his work was affected by his
general habit of mind. No other composer has ever submitted his
music to so much alteration and recension. The later editions of the
Davidsbundlertanze, the Etudes symphoniques (1834), the Impromp-
tus on a Theme by Clara Wieck (1833), and other of the piano com-
positions, are full of variant passages, which range in importance
from the correction of a detail to the complete restatement of a
whole number. No doubt this form of self-criticism has existed to
some extent among artists of all ages: Handel rewrote part of the
Messiah, Berlioz of the Symphonie -fantastique, and Brahms, late in
life, gave to the world a new version of his first piano trio; but in
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no other case has the faculty manifested itself so persistently or at-
tached itself so frequently to the printed page. Here again we have
evidence of a mind trained in a different school from that of Haydn
and Mozart. They made their point once for all with an unerring
certainty of intuition: Schumann weighs, deliberates, and finally
revises.
As a writer for the piano he may be said to rank beside Schubert
He has less melodic gift, less sweetness, perhaps less originality, but he
appreciates far more fully the capacities of the instrument, and pos-
sesses more power of rich and recondite harmonization. His polyph-
ony was a new departure in the history of piano music, based upon
that of Bach, but exhibiting a distinctive color and character of its
own. The beauty of his single phrases, the vigor and variety of his
accompaniments, the audacity of his "bitter sweet discords," are all
so many claims on immortality: hardly in the whole range of art
have we such intimate household words as Warum, and Traumerei,
Carnaval and Humoreske, Kreisleriana and Novelletten. His spirit,
too, is essentially human. No composer is more companionable, more
ready to respond to any word and sympathize with any emotion.
Among minute points may be mentioned his frequent use of synco-
pation, sometimes picking out the melody for emphasis, sometimes
retarding it to half-speed, oftener traversing the rhythm altogether;
his fondness for long sustained organ chords, as in the Humoreske
(1839) and at the end of the Papillons; and his peculiar habit of plac-
ing his theme in the middle of the harmony and surrounding it on
both sides with a "transparent fabric" of arpeggios. Of more im-
portance is his employment of new lyric and narrative forms for the
piano: the former of which may be illustrated by the detached yet
interconnected numbers of the Blumenstuck (1839), a Liederkreis
without words; the latter by the structure of the first Novellette, in
which the distribution of keys is based upon the interval of a major
third, instead of the old stereotyped relations of tonic and dominant.
A special word should be said on Schumann's position as a writer
of variations. There are two points of view from which this device
can be regarded. The composer may consider the melody as the
essential feature of the theme, and occupy himself solely with
embroideries and arabesques; or he may take his stand upon its
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EGBERT SCHUMANN
harmonic structure, and reproduce the thought that it contains in
different modes of expression and phraseology. The one is, roughly
speaking, the method of Mozart and Haydn— it is simpler, more rudi-
mentary, more easily exhausted; the other, which is practically inex-
haustible, is the method of Brahms. Beethoven represents the turn-
ing point between the two. In the slow movement of his Piano Trio
in C minor, op. 1, no. 3, he gives us a developed example of the
earlier form; in the Diabelli Variations we have the finest existing
instance of the later. Schumann, of course, is an uncompromising
exponent of the second system. Indeed he is sometimes over-zealous
in his anxiety not to adhere too closely to the melody of his subject.
The set of variations for two pianos (1843), though it atones for
its freedom by its extraordinary beauty and charm, yet contains two
episodes in which the theme is practically abandoned. It is in the
Etudes symphoniques that his power of variation is shown at its
best. They also push freedom to its utmost limit, but they never lose
touch with their original text, and in richness, brilliance, and vitality
they are almost worthy to rank beside the highest efforts of Schu-
mann's great successor.
After the piano works come the songs. Here again Schumann's
position can be stated by a single contrast. As absolute music his
songs have less value than those of Schubert, as he has never given
us a time like the Litanei or Sei mir gegriisst; as illustrations of lyric
poetry they are unsurpassed in the whole history of art. With him
the terms "words'* and "setting," "melody" and "accompaniment" lose
their distinctive meanings; all are fused into a single whole in which
no part has the preeminence. He follows every shade of the poet's
thought with perfect union of sympathy, he catches its tone, he
echoes its phrase, he almost anticipates its issue. It is not too much
to say that no man can understand Heine who does not know
Schumann's treatment of the Buch der Lieder.
His songs are interesting also in certain matters of form. He was
the first composer who ventured to end with an imperfect cadence,
if the words were abrupt or inconclusive, as for instance Im tounder-
schonen Monat Mai (1840). Often, too, he ends his earlier verses
with a half -close, and so makes the song continuous throughout, as
in Mondnacht (1840), and the Lieder der Suleika (1840). Another
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point is his curious use of declamatory passages, neither exact
melody nor exact recitative, as in Ich grolle nicht (1840). But no
analysis can do justice to the beauty, the variety, and the profusion
of his lyrics. The composer of Fruhlingsnacht (1840) and Widmun?
(1840), of Die Lowenbraut (1840) and Die beiden Grenadiere (1840)
has assuredly some claim to be considered the most poetical of
musicians.
The qualities required for a successful treatment of the orchestra
are precisely those in which, comparatively speaking, Schumann was
most deficient, and it is not therefore surprising that his orchestral
compositions should be of less value than his works for the voice or
the piano. The symphony stands to music as the epic to poetry; it is
the broadest, most sustained, most heroic of all forms of expression.
Hence it cannot easily be attained by a composer whose gift is for
short flights and rapid movements, whose manner of thought is con-
crete, whose best writings are those which give most scope for the
display of brevity and concentration. No doubt Schubert has left
us one brilliant instance of a lyric symphony, but, apart from the
difficulty of judging a work by two movements, it remains an ex-
ception. Schumann, at any rate, seems to lose his bearings among
the "swelling and limitless billows/' In the opening Allegro of his C
major Symphony (1845-46), for instance, the exposition is vigorous
and concise enough, but before the end of the movement his boat
has refused to answer to the helm and gone drifting off into strange
and unknown regions. Again, in the finale of the same work, he finds
that the materials presented at the outset are inadequate, discards
them half-way through, and introduces an entirely fresh subject. It
is hardly unfair to say that the only thing which holds the movement
together is a single two-bar phrase containing a diatonic scale. The
same vagueness of outline is to be found in his Symphony in D minor,
originally called by the more appropriate name of Symphonfcche
fantasie. And it may be submitted that these are not really new forms,
since they lack the organic unity which the form implies. If they
are to be taken as experiments it must be in Bacon's sense of mero
palpatio.
On the other hand the lyric movements-the Scherzos and Adagios
-are always beautiful. Here Schumann was in his element, he was
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ROBEKT SCHUMANN
dealing with forces which he knew how to control, and his success
was complete and indisputable. It is only necessary to recall the
Larghetto of the first symphony, or the exquisite romance from the
second, or the Volkslied from the third, the Rhenish (1850), to see
that within the limits of a narrower form Schumann could well dis-
play his power of musical expression. Indeed his first symphony is
almost a masterpiece throughout, and his others, even the most inde-
terminate, contain separate thoughts and phrases for which we may
well be grateful. It is only when we compare him with the great
symphonic writers, Brahms and Beethoven and Mozart, that we see
evidence of weakness and imperfection.
It is usual to depreciate Schumann's power of orchestration, and
indeed there can be little doubt that the general texture of his scor-
ing is somewhat thick and heavy, and that he too frequently writes
passages that seem to owe their inspiration to the piano. Still, he
has supremely good moments— the bassoon in the Adagio of the C
major Symphony, the trumpets in the Manfred Overture, the violin
solo of the Symphony in D minor— and often what he loses in trans-
parency he supplies in warmth and richness of color. Among his
mannerisms may be mentioned a persistent habit of breaking up his
string phrases into rapid repeated notes, and an almost restless
change of pitch in his use of the transposing instruments.
Of his various concertos, that for piano in A minor (1841-45) is the
best known and the most valuable. It consists of a brilliant opening
fantasia, a light, graceful intermezzo in which the second subject is
ingeniously developed out of a phrase in the first, and a stirring finale
in Schumann's best style of composition. The Concertstiick for Four
Horns (1849) is seldom or never given, owing to the extreme difficulty
and compass of its first solo part; but it may be noticed that the Alle-
gro is more regular in form than the general run of Schumann's or-
chestral works, and that the romance is scored with unusual care.
The Violoncello Concerto (1850) has a fine manly first movement, a
very beautiful though very short Adagio, and a rather diffuse finale,
in which, however, the capacities of the solo instrument are treated
with considerable skill.
A composer who writes piano passages for the orchestra has but
an ill augury in approaching the special technique of the string
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quartet. No form of composition demands more exact perfection of
style, more intimate sympathy with the medium employed. Every
phrase is salient; every note shows through; there is no possibility of
covering weak places or condoning uncertainty of outline. Hence
there is little wonder that Schumann's three essays in this field (1842)
should rank among his comparative failures. The three opening
Allegros have great charm of melody, and in two of them the struc-
ture is firm and solid; the sectional movements exhibit Schumann's
usual power of dealing with lyric forms, but the rest show a con-
tinuous sense of effort which is inadequately repaid. Many passages,
too, even in the more successful numbers, are alien to the style of the
quartet, and recall methods of treatment which would be more ap-
propriate to the orchestra. The case is very different in the concerted
works for piano and strings. Here the medium is pastel in place of
water-color; the new instrument brings with it an entirely new
means of expression, and one, moreover, of which Schumann was a
consummate master. At the keyboard he was once more at home, and
his work in this department of the art may rank among the most
genial of his inspirations. Indeed, this particular form lay most em-
phasis on the qualities of romance and least on the technical gifts
of absolute music. Mozart's piano trios are weaker than his string
quartets; Schumann, who is beaten by the strings alone, has only to
add the piano and his victory is assured.
As a dramatic writer he displays the same strength and weakness
as Byron, with whom he has often been compared. Both possessed
a considerable gift of description; both were steeped in romanticism;
both were too intensely subjective to succeed in that essential of the
drama— characterization. In Genoveva (1847-50), for instance, the
whole background of the opera is vividly depicted in the strong
chivalrous overture, but the dramatis personae are drawn with an
uncertain hand and even the situations are imperfectly presented.
Colo's first song is far too beautiful to be wasted on a villain; the
supernatural element is clumsily treated throughout; Siegfried, ex-
cept for one moment, is a mere lay figure; and even the heroine fails
to retain the interest which ought to center about a title-role. No
doubt in this, as in Weber's Euryanthe, much allowance must be
made for a weak libretto, but it may be remembered that Schumann
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
himself chose the subject and modeled the words. He treated it, in
short, as a psychological study, than which the stage can follow no
more fatal ideal.
Much may be said of Manfred. The incidental music is most suc-
cessful where it deals with description, least so where it deals with
action, and at best does not approach the superb force and splendor
of the overture. In this Schumann's orchestral writing reaches its
highest point. From the first note to the last, it is as magnificent as
an Alpine storm, somber, wild, impetuous, echoing from peak to
peak with the shock of thunder-clouds and the clamor of the driv-
ing wind.
In Scenes from Goethe's Faust (1844-53) we rise above the tem-
pest. The overture and the earlier scenes need not here be con-
sidered, for they were written when Schumann's powers were be-
ginning to fail under the stress of disease, and so cannot justly be
estimated in relation to his normal work. But in the scene of Faust's
salvation, we have an incontestable masterpiece. It may be, as some
critics have asserted, that the last half of the Chorus Mysticus is
something of anti-climax, that in neither of its two alternative ver-
sions does it breathe the pure serene" of the other numbers. In any
case the whole work is noble music, vast in scale, lofty in spirit, a
worthy interpretation of the great poem that summoned it into
being, The only fit analogue with which it may be compared is the
third act of Parsifal, opening with the solemn quietude of the Her-
mitage and closing with the Eucharistic strains that ascend to the
gate of Heaven itself.
Among Schumann's cantatas Paradise and the Peri stands pre-
eminent. It is easy to see how readily he would be attracted by the
subject, and how fully he would avail himself of the opportunities
afforded by its warm imagery and its suggestions of Oriental color.
The artificial glitter of Moore's verse is mercifully obscured in a
translation: only the thought is left for the composer to decorate as
he will. Nowhere is Schumann's treatment of a libretto more thor-
oughly characteristic. All his favorite devices are here— long rhetori-
cal passages, hovering between tune and recitative, single melodic
phrases of great beauty, rich, almost sensuous, harmonization, even
the broad sustained chords which form such a distinctive feature in
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSEBS
his pianoforte music. It is, in short, an abstract and epitome of the
romantic movement, a scene of fairyland admirably painted against
a background of human interest and emotion. Of other choral
works for the concert room two deserve special mention: the ex-
quisite Requiem for Mignon (1849) and the bright, tuneful Pil-
grimage of the Rose (1851). The rest belong to Schumann's period
of exhaustion, and lie outside the limits of fair criticism.
At the same time no account of his compositions would be com-
plete without some reference to the sacred music, which he declared
to be the "highest aim of every true artist/' Yet his own work in this
field is singularly scanty. . . . We have only two works— the Mass
(1852) and the Requiem (1852) left for examination.
Of these the Requiem is undoubtedly the finer. In the Mass Schu-
mann is approaching too closely the unfamiliar region of absolute
music; its style demands an austerity, a self-repression to which he
had never grown accustomed. Further, with all his experience as a
song writer, he had not concerned himself with the peculiar capaci-
ties of the voice, and hence was unprepared for the special treat-
ment of counterpoint which all tradition has connected with the
kyrie and the credo. Hence, although his Mass contains some good
episodes, notably the Offertorium, which he added to the orthodox
text, it cannot be regarded as certainly successful. In the Requiem,
on the other hand, we have two of the finest things that Schumann
ever wrote: the opening number, and the portion which contains the
Qui Mariam absolvisti, the Confutatis and the Lacrymosa. It is hard
to believe that the mind which conceived that wonderful music was
already tottering to its fall.
It may be that much of his work will not survive the attack of time.
There are few men who do not find that the greater part of their
life's record is written in water. But something at least will remain.
He is not only the best representative but the virtual founder of a
distinct style in music; his sense of beauty is often exquisite; his
feeling pure, manly and chivalrous. So long as melody possesses the
power to soothe, to comfort, to sympathize, so long shall we turn in
gratitude to one who could transmute the sorrows of his own heart
into an elixir for the cure of others. After all we have no right to re-
quire that an artist's whole gift should consist of masterpieces. We
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ROBERT SCHUMANN
do not judge . . . Shelley by his two attempts at burlesque; we take
the ode and the sonnets, Prometheus and Adonais, and let the fail-
ures go. In like manner we can discard some of Schumann's compo-
sitions as uninspired., but when we have done so there will still be
left a legacy that may enrich music to the end of the world. It
matters little whether his monument be large or small; in either case
it is imperishable.
SCHUMANN SPEAKS
People err if they think that a composer puts pen to paper with
the predetermination of expressing or depicting some particular fact.
Yet we must not estimate outward influences and impressions too
lightly. . . . The more elements congenially related to music which
the tone-picture contains within it, the more poetic and plastic will
be the expression of the composition, and in proportion to the
imaginativeness and receptivity of the composer will be the elevat-
ing and touching quality of his work.
The ill-educated man can scarcely believe that music possesses
the power of expressing particular passions, and therefore it is diffi-
cult for him to comprehend the more individual masters. We have
learned to express the finer shades of feeling by penetrating more
deeply into the mysteries of harmony.
Everything that occurs in the world affects me— politics, literature,
humanity. I ponder over everything in my own way until the
thoughts then break forth and clarify themselves in music. But for
this reason many of my compositions are so difficult to understand,
because they are associated with remote interests. Often also they
are significant because everything strange moves me, and I must
then begin to express it musically.
There are moments when music possesses me so completely, when
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only sounds exist for me to such a degree that I am unable to write
anything down.
Melody is the battle cry of amateurs. Naturally music without
melody is nothing. But realize well what is meant by melody. An
easily grasped rhythmically pleasing sweet tune is for some "melody."
But there are melodies of a different character, and when you read
Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, they gaze at you in a thousand varied
ways. The scant monotony, particularly of modern Italian opera
melodies will, I hope, soon tire you.
When you begin to compose, do it in your mind. The fingers must
do what the mind wills, not the other way around.
If heaven has given you a vivid imagination, you will, in lonely
hours, often sit at the piano, as though glued to it, ready to express
your inmost feelings. These are the happiest hours of youth. But
beware of yielding too often to a talent that may tempt you to waste
time and energy, so to say, on shadowy pictures. The mastery of
form, the power of clear creation, will be gained only by the firm
symbol of script. Therefore write more and improvise less.
Get a good knowledge of all the other arts and disciplines.
The laws of life are also those of art.
There is no end to learning.
234
FREDERIC CHOPIN
1810-1649
FRANCOIS FBEBEBIC CHOPIN, the foremost creator of music for the
piano, was born in Zelazowa Wola, near Warsaw, Poland, on Feb-
ruary 22, 1810. His musical studies began at six with piano lessons
from Zwyny. One year later Chopin made a public appearance and
completed several compositions, one of which (a polonaise) was pub-
lished. For a three-year period, beginning with 1826, he received a
comprehensive musical training from Joseph Eisner, director of the
Warsaw Conservatory. After being graduated from the Conserva-
tory in July 1829, Chopin paid a visit to Vienna where he gave two
impressive concerts in which he introduced several of his own works.
He was soon to leave his native land for good: in August 1831 he
was touring Germany when he received the news in Stuttgart that
Warsaw had fallen to the Russians. His first impulse was to rush back
to Poland and join in the fight but, dissuaded by his mother and
friends, he sublimated his patriotic feelings by writing the Revolu-
tionary Etude.
He went on to Paris which, from then on, remained his permanent
home. His first concert there, on February 26, 1832, established him
as a preeminent pianist and composer. He moved as a notable figure
in leading Parisian music circles and salons; aristocratic families
sought him out as a teacher for their children. One Parisian critic
described him as "the Ariel of the piano."
His personal life experienced a violent upheaval in 1837 when he
was introduced by Liszt to the novelist, George Sand. At first he was
repelled by her masculinity, brusque mannerisms, and lax morals.
But before long he felt himself helplessly attracted to her dynamic
personality and brilliant mind. The passionate liaison that ensued
affected Chopin's nervous system profoundly; but it also stimulated
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
him to write some of his greatest music. They spent the winter of
1838 in Majorca where the bad weather, poor food, and the suspi-
cious antagonism of neighbors played havoc with Chopin's delicate
health. Nevertheless he managed to complete his remarkable prel-
udes during his stay.
Back in France, still involved emotionally with Sand, Chopin
embarked upon the composition of some of his most ambitions
works, including the B-flat minor Sonata (with the funeral march),
the F minor Fantaisie, ballades, and impromptus. But his health was
deteriorating, afflicted by tuberculosis. In addition, he suffered
severely from the final and permanent rupture with Sand, which
had taken place in 1847.
Despite his bad health, Chopin toured Great Britain in 1848 for
seven months. By the time he returned to France it was obvious he
did not have much longer to live. Unable to earn a living from con-
certs or teaching, he was compelled to live on the bounty of friends.
During his last months he was a complete recluse. He died in Paris,
on October 17, 1849, and was buried in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.
THE MAN
GEORGE SAND
FRANZ LISZT
He was a man of the world par excellence, not of the too formal
and too numerous world, but of the intimate world, of the salons of
twenty persons, of the hour when the crowd goes away and the
habitues crowd around the artist to wrest from him by amiable im-
portunity his purest inspiration. It was then only that he exhibited
all his genius and all his talent. . . . He visited several salons every
day, or he chose at least every evening a different one as a milieu.
He had thus by turns twenty or thirty salons to intoxicate or to
charm with his presence.
He was modest on principle and gentle by habit, but he was im-
perious by instinct, and full of a legitimate pride that did not know
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FKEDERIC CHOPIN
itself. ... He was the same in friendship [as in love], becoming
enthusiastic at first sight, getting disgusted, and correcting himself
incessantly, living on infatuations full of charms for those who were
the object of them, and on secret discontents which poisoned his
dearest affections. . . . When angry, Chopin was alarming, and as
... he always restrained himself, he seemed almost to choke and
die.
His creation was spontaneous and miraculous. He found it without
seeking it, without foreseeing it. It came on his piano suddenly,
complete, sublime, or it sang in his head during a walk, and he was
impatient to play it himself. But then began the most heart-rending
labor I ever saw. It was a series of efforts, of irresolutions, and of
frettings to seize again certain details of the theme he had heard.
... He shut himself up in his room for whole days, weeping, walk-
ing, breaking his pens, repeating and altering a bar a hundred times,
writing and effacing it as many times, and recommencing the next
day with a minute and desperate perseverance. He spent six weeks
over a single page to write it at last as he had noted it down at the
very first.*
The ensemble of his person was harmonious, and called for no
special commentary. His blue eyes were more spiritual than
dreamy, his bland smile never writhed into bitterness. The trans-
parent delicacy of his complexion pleased the eye, his fair hair was
soft and silky, his nose slightly aquiline, his bearing so distinguished
and his manners stamped with so much high breeding that involun-
tarily he was always treated en prince. His gestures were many and
graceful; the tone of his voice was veiled, often stifled; his stature
was low, and his limbs slight.
His manners in society possessed that serenity of mood which dis-
tinguishes those whom no ennui annoys, because they expect no
interest. He was generally gay, his caustic spirit caught the ridicu-
lous rapidly and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the
eye. He displayed a rich vein of drollery in pantomime. He often
* The paragraphs above are by George Sand; those below, by Franz Liszt.
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amused himself by reproducing the musical formulas and peculiar
tricks of certain virtuosos, in the most burlesque and comic improvi-
sations, imitating their gestures, their movements, counterfeiting
their faces with a talent which instantaneously depicted their whole
personality. His own features would then become scarcely recog-
nizable, he could force the strangest metamorphoses upon them,
but while mimicking the ugly and the grotesque, he never lost his
own native grace. Grimace was never carried far enough to dis-
figure him; his gaiety was so much the more piquant because he al-
ways restrained it within the limits of perfect good taste, holding at
a careful distance all that could wound the most fastidious delicacy.
He never made use of an inelegant word, even in moments of the
most entire familiarity; an improper innuendo, a coarse jest would
have been shocking to him. . . .
On some occasions, although very rarely, we saw him deeply agi-
tated. We saw him grow so pale and wan, that his appearance was
actually corpse-like. But even in moments of the most intense emo-
tion, he remained concentrated within himself. A single instant for
self-recovery always enabled him to veil the secret of his first im-
pression. . . .
He could pardon in the most noble manner. No rancor remained in
his heart toward those who had wounded him, though such wounds
penetrated deeply into his soul, and festered there in vague pain
and internal suffering, so that long after the exciting cause had been
effaced from his memory, he still experienced the secret torture. By
dint of constant effort, in spite of his acute and tormenting sensi-
bilities, he subjected his feelings to the rule rather of what ought to
be than of what is; thus he was grateful for services proceeding
rather from good intentions than from a knowledge of what would
have been agreeable to him. Nevertheless the wounds caused by
such awkward miscomprehensions are, of all others, the most diffi-
cult for nervous temperaments to bear. . . .
The reserve which marked his intercourse with others extended
to all subjects to which the fanaticism of opinion can attach. His own
sentiments could only be judged by that which he did not do
within the narrow limit of his activity. His patriotism was revealed
in the course taken by his genius, in the choice of his friends, and in
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FREDEKIC CHOPIN
the preferences given to his pupils, and in the frequent and im-
portant services which he rendered to his compatriots; but we can-
not remember that he took any pleasure in the expression of this
sentiment. If he sometimes entered upon the topic of political ideals,
so violently attacked, so warmly defended, so frequently discussed
in France, it was rather to point out what he deemed dangerous or
erroneous in the opinions advanced by others than to win attention
for his own. In constant association with some of the most brilliant
political figures of the day, he knew how to limit his relations with
them to a personal attachment entirely independent of political in-
terests.
THE COMPOSER
OLIN DOWNES
It is no exaggeration to say that Chopin is the most popular and
widely appreciated of the great masters. And not only this: he has
left behind him less bad music— meaning less music which is imma-
ture, imperfect, or routine— than any other ranking composer. More-
over, a greater percentage of his music is alive in the repertory than
that of any other significant composer. The fact is of course strongly
conditioned by the reflection that Chopin wrote for the piano; that
thousands can play a piano piece, well or badly, where communities
may have to travel miles to hear an opera or a symphony. As for the
Titans of music— the Bachs, Mozarts, Beethovens, and other towering
few of their stature— they composed in practically all forms and for
most instruments, taking the keyboard instruments in their stride as
they did so. They loosed floods of tone which swept everything be-
fore them, overpowered every obstacle, inundated every channel.
To them the piano was but a vehicle for their thought, accessory to
their purpose. The fact emphasizes the lasting distinction and beauty
of Chopin's expression, of his unparalleled realization of the true
nature of the keyed instrument, and the depth and craftsmanship
which usually go unrecognized because of the apparent simplicity
and immediate sensuous appeal of his style. Indeed there are those
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to whom such simplicity and such appeal are incongruous with
greatness. They cannot believe that an art can be profound and yet
attractive to the multitude. But art does not confine, or confide, its
marvels to the estimates of snobs or academicians.
Chopin's existence was full of paradoxes. He was by nature ex-
clusive in his life and his art, yet he proved to be the composer of
composers for his fellow-beings. Because of the exceptionally per-
sonal and emotional character of his expression, he is a Romantic
composer; yet he stands forth, through his perfection of form and
proportion, the classic master of the romantic epoch. His music is
national in its very essence, which lies much deeper than the quo-
tation of folk melodies or other obvious insignia of race yet he speaks
the passions of humanity with international, indeed universal, sig-
nificance. He left Poland early in his career, never to return to his
native soil. But the Polish earth was in his heart, and national
memory and sensibility so deep in his nature that he remained cre-
atively independent of every influence of European thought or
aesthetic. The environment of the French capital was so sympa-
thetic, indeed indispensable to him, that he remained there for the
rest of his days— yet also remained, for all the future, the first great
Slavic composer whose works became a part of and a profound ele-
ment in European music. To that music he brought qualities which
it had previously been without and which greatly enriched its sub-
stance. At the same time he was farthest from self-conscious na-
tionalism and would have been the first to decry any such attitude
on a musician's part. In this connection it is interesting to observe
that in only one of Chopin's compositions is there the direct quota-
tion of a Polish folk theme. It is the melody of the old Noel which
makes the trio of the B minor Scherzo (1831-32).
Chopin, who distrusted democracy, was to outward appearances
a most accomplished man of the world, who mingled almost instinc-
tively and on equal terms with the "best society." To those unaware
of his background and innermost purpose he could easily have ap-
peared as something of a snob, which was in no sense his nature.
Conditions propitious to his over-sensitivity, a regime which never
violated the order he had to have about him, or the good taste
which was a basic necessity of his environment, he craved, and
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FR£I>ERIC CHOPIN
established. Yet it is perceptible that among those eminent minds
and personages who mingled in his salon, and to whom he was the
perfect host, he was actually aloof and unapproachable. He ob-
served in his daily existence precisely the selectiveness and the pri-
vacy of soul that he conveyed in his music. In both aspects of his
life he was equally disdainful of verbal revelation. It was to his
score paper, as Liszt put it, that he fully confided "those unex-
pressible sorrows to which the pious give vent in their communica-
tion with their Maker. What they never say except upon their knees,
lie said in his palpitating compositions."
Exclusivity, then, was an inalienable characteristic of this lonely
artist. From everyone and everything, underneath his perfect man-
ners and finished conversation, he kept his distance. His artistic in-
dependence remains almost unparalleled. With the exception per-
haps of Berlioz there is no great composer who owes less to those
who preceded him or who left fewer disciples after him. It appears
as if Chopin could neither be prophesied nor imitated. And one may
well ask how he achieved his mastery. By what steps of evolution
did Chopin conceive his wholly individual approach to form? Where
lay the secret, or conscious process, of his creative development? We
know that he had as good a general education as was accessible in
Poland to a young man of good family and breeding on general sub-
jects, though this must have been a comparatively superficial aspect
of his culture. We also know— though the fact has not been properly
emphasized— that among the noble families and on the part of the
Polish church and by a few individual composers who had culti-
vated the national dance forms, such as those of the mazurka and
the polonaise, there were certain precedents for the nationalistic
traits that appear in Chopin's art. But these are only partial ex-
planations of his achievement, or of the fact that when he arrived
in Paris as a youth of twenty-one he was already a composer of pro-
nounced individuality., acknowledged as an artist to be reckoned
with and not to be confused with any other musician of the day.
Chopin had as his birthright all that was requisite for the per-
fect musician: his Fortunatus's purse of melody, which is and al-
ways will remain the core of music; his rare harmonic imagination
which summoned from the invisible world new vistas of tone, subtle
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colors, and discovered new relations of supposedly distant chords
and keys; and qualities of rhythm, in part a racial attribute, obeying
inner laws which are not those of the regimented down beat. And
here we approach the matter of the Chopin rubato, and the free
spacing of the beats— especially the almost imperceptible Luftpause
which so frequently conditions the "two" and "three*' of the mazurka,
or sets at liberty the song with the wonderful exotic ornaments—
sometimes with the imprint of Eastern cantillation upon them-of
the nocturnes and other passages. These however are details of his
work. Should we seek to find in some single aspect of this art one
that epitomized the nature of his accomplishment, we would name
Chopin's interpretation of form. The word is used in its broadest
and most inclusive sense. It means not only of melodic form or har-
monic form, but the artist's treatment, in his own creative image, of
the form's innermost elements. In no case is the form treated by
Chopin in a merely exterior manner. Thus, the dance forms which
he variously selects with special objectives are never mere literal
dances. They are dance spiritualizations. Chopin's sister, Isabelle,
understood this well when she wrote him indignantly of the per-
formance at a ball of the Zamoyskis, of the playing "almost through-
out the evening" of the B-flat Mazurka (1832-33), the first of op. 17
for dancing. "What do you say," she writes to her brother, "to this
profanation. Do write and tell me whether in your heart you wrote
it as dance music. Perhaps we misunderstood you." As a matter of
fact this happens to be a mazurka dansant—one that can be and often
has been danced. But that is not the primary purpose of the music.
There never have been such revelations of all the mazurka can mean
and say to us as the pieces which Chopin composed in this form. In
not a measure does he lose sight of the fundamental musical ele-
ments. Nor does he in a single measure merely repeat himself or fail
to strike every emotional chord that this, the most popular of all the
national Polish dances, permits. Each mazurka has the concision
and concentration necessitated by seldom more than one to three
minutes of music. In this space, short motives, often of disparate
character, may be bound together in a manner which seems almost
like an improvisation, yet achieves a remarkable unity. Among the
means that Chopin employs here to achieve his swift transitions are
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FRED£KIC CHOPIN
the enharmonic modulations and the chromaticism which he so
subtly developed, in pages prophetic of a whole period.
Contrast with this the grand lines and striding phrase-lengths of
the polonaises, with their bardic evocations of the past, and battles
heroically lost, and deathless ancestral glory. Everything is cut here
to the grand pattern, whether it is the explosive outburst of the first
of the polonaises in C-sharp minor (1834-35), or the trumpet-calls
and visions of advancing hosts of the famous A-flat Polonaise (1842),
or that great fresco of battle with the mournful interpolation of the
mazurka danced by ghosts, in the Polonaise in F-sharp minor (1840-
41). The polonaises, the scherzi, the great Fantasy (1840-41) are of
the grander and most dramatic aspects of Chopin's genius. The
scherzi are very far from the classic movement as conceived by Bee-
thoven or the later Brahms. The triple rhythm is maintained but the
form is vastly extended and dramatized. Of another concept are
the two sets of etudes, op. 10 (1829-32) and 25 (1832-36), with
the three supplementary pieces which Chopin contributed to the
Mfohode des methodes of Moscheles and Fetis, wherein technical
figures are so treated as to become tone poems. The nocturnes are
free lyrical outpourings, dreams, "Harmonies poetiques et reli-
gleuses" as Liszt would have put it. They probably were suggested
by the nocturnes of the gifted and eccentric Irishman, John Field
(1782-1837), whom Chopin met and heard play in Paris in 1834.
One has only to compare any two nocturnes by these respective com-
posers to realize the transforming distinction which exists between
talent and genius. The Preludes (1836-39), entirely free in form, and
most strikingly contrasted in contents, are nevertheless no haphazard
succession of pieces. Probably the title owes something to the free
preludes which precede the fugues in all the twelve keys of Bach's
Well-Tempered Clavier— Bach whom Chopin always practiced be-
fore a concert and whose keyboard music he so loved and admired.
These pieces, beginning in the key of C, follow each other in the
traditional fifth relationships upward through the sharp keys,
downward through the flats, and establish a new interpretation, in
Chopin's spirit, of the system of equal temperament! They are
dramas of the spirit, in which, as George Sand truly remarked,
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Chopin expressed in a few measures more than many composers in
an act of an opera.
The form which Chopin elected for perhaps the freest and proud-
est expression of his imaginative genius, in which he is utterly lib-
erated, comes with the four great ballades, no one of the four in the
least like the others, each one a masterpiece from the legendary
utterance in G minor (1831-35) which is the first of the set, to that
supreme embodiment of lyrical development and variation, the
fourth in F minor (1842).
One form, perhaps— at least in its academic interpretation— Chopin
did not master. It is that of the sonata. Or it might be more just to
quote the writer— he was Henry T. Finck— who remarked that if
Chopin did not master this classic form, the form on the other
hand never succeeded in mastering him! Certainly there is no tradi-
tional procedure to be discovered in the four movements of the
Sonata in B-flat minor (1839), which in its implicit suggestions, at
least, comes nearer a species of program music than Chopin at-
tempted in any other instance. This is the sonata of an out and out
romanticist, and not one who obeys formal dictates. The B minor
Sonata (1844) on the other hand is as near so-called "absolute" and
formal music as Chopin could come. It follows generally the ac-
cepted succession of movements, keys, themes, and developments,
providing Chopin with a mold in which to pour some of his most
interesting melodic ideas.
From all this there stands out a sovereign fact, namely, that
Chopin was purely and only a musician! His expression has no rela-
tion whatever to literature, drama, philosophy, or ideologies of extra-
musical import. This is particularly remarkable when we compare
his tendencies with those of all the other composers of his period.
With Berlioz, Schumann, Weber, Wagner, Liszt, the boundaries of
music cross over those of other arts. These typical musicians of their
day wrote tone poems inspired by all sorts of subjects: piano pieces
suggested by the novels of Jean Paul or the tales of E. T. A. Hoff-
mann, fantastic symphonies, vast symbolic operas, settings, often
very eloquent ones, of romantic poetry in terms of song. They vari-
ously name their compositions to afford the listener an index to their
expressive purpose and in order to stimulate the imagination. Of
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FREDERIC CHOPIN
such proclivities Chopin would have none, any more than he coun-
tenanced the realistic, crowd-stunning methods from which so few
of the romantics were willing to refrain. Their explosive accents,
their volcanos of sensation and passion for color and rhetoric, were
not sympathetic to the man who in his creative expression held his
impulses under iron control and to inexorable measurement de-
manded by his conception of art. Chopin comes within nearest dis-
tance of explicit "meaning" when he gives a work a generic title such
as "Berceuse/' "Tarantella/' "Barcarolle/' Elsewhere he confines him-
self to the name of the form and the opus number. It is for us, if we
choose, to envision Venice and the night sky, amorous dialogue,
song and spray, when we listen to the matchless Barcarolle (1845-
46). Or, if our individual fancy should choose to do so, to think of
Foe's grisly tale of the fete interrupted by the apparition of the Red
Death, as we listen to the feverish gaiety, interrupted by the laconic
unisons and ending with the wild confusion of— Valse brilliant e, op.
42 (1840)! What shall be said— what fittingly can be said in words—
of the soul-sickness of Mazurka, op. 17, no. 4 (1832-33); of the primi-
tive scales, and thrummings and squealings of rude instruments of
op. 24, no. 2 (1834-35); of the gay Kermesse, interspersed with the
cry of the lonely spirit, op. 33, no. 3 (1837-38); of the great tragic
Mazurka, op. 41, no. 4 (1839) with the priceless D-natural, in the
C-sharp minor signature, the abandon which conceals despair, and
the transformation of the initial singsong melody into a war-chant
thundered out in octaves before the final relapse? One could speak
endlessly of the beauties, the intensities, the visions contained in
Chopin's music, but it would be a futile task, because we are at the
point where words are useless in music's presence. Chopin said once
that certain of the ballades had been inspired by the poems of his
contemporary and compatriot, Mickiewicz. But no one has found
in Konrad Wallenrod or in other of that great poet's writings any
tale which appears parallel to the musical narratives of the ballades.
The poems may possibly have served as a springboard for Chopin's
imagination., but it is difficult to believe that any music so liberated
and yet so completely obedient to its own organic laws could have
sprung from such exterior source. Or witness the composer's evasive
remark that the finale of the B-flat minor Sonata meant mourners
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gossiping together after the ceremony! It is the very impersonality
of this strange movement which makes it so impressive, so unparal-
leled in its time and so prophetic of tomorrow.
But this too is to be remembered and noted as one of the most
important of Chopin's creative principles: he never wrote music
uninhibited by emotion. He never conceived form as an artistic ab-
straction, as a matter of pure tonal design devoid of feeling. Yet
he was the "purest" in the sense of uncontaminated artistic mate-
rial and workmanship of perhaps all composers. The fact is sug-
gestive. The beauty and lasting value of the music based upon these
principles has perhaps a moral. We know that Chopin subjected his
compositions to endless and self -torturing revision and that he did
not wish some of the scores he left behind to be published. They
were issued, however, some years after his death by his friend, Fon-
tana, and on the whole the procedure is justified. Even somewhat
inferior Chopin is valuable to us, and certain of these works are of
a quality fully on a par with those published during his lifetime. The
explanation of this lies in the fact that Chopin had the admirable
habit of holding back works for publication till some time after he
had written them, and that he usually submitted them to the test
of public performance before making the final editorial revision.
Some of the scores he left unpublished would in due course have
been issued before his untimely end at the age of thirty-nine.
His purposes and convictions as an artist were never in doubt. He
has been called weak, indecisive, capricious, neurotic, feminine,
morbid, and other names. Physically frail, emotionally tortured, in
his art he did not once falter. He is shown to have been a soul of
purest purpose and indomitable courage in the face of obstacles
which would have defeated a less heroic spirit. He burned himself
out in approaching his goal. His reward is incontestable and still
immeasurable, even by the world which knows his music so well
and renders it homage today.
266
FR£D£BIC CHOPIN
CHOPIN SPEAKS
In order to become a great composer, one needs an enormous
amount of knowledge . , . which one does not acquire from listening
only to other people's music, but even more from listening to one's
own.
Every genius is a revolutionary who produces a good deal of com-
motion in the world. After he has abolished the old rules he writes
his own, new ones, which no one even half understands; and after he
has stupefied and bewildered everybody, he leaves the world neither
understood nor regretted. When he is no more, the people breathe
easier. Not always does the next generation comprehend and ap-
preciate him properly. Sometimes it may even take a whole cen-
tury.
It is a curious question: does the genius feel his own greatness?
. . . Does he understand how far his echo will reach into the cen-
turies? That only posterity can understand him is clear to me. When
you are contemplating a colossal piece of sculpture you can see it
well only from a certain distance because when standing near you
can never see the whole object, and looking at it part by part, you
will have a misshapen impression of it.
The genius is the strangest of men because he is so far ahead of
his contemporaries that they lose sight of him. Moreover, nobody
knows which generation is going to comprehend him.
Genius has a big nose and a splendid sense of smell which en-
able him to catch the direction of the wind of the future. Don't
think that I am imagining that I am a genius, possessing as I do an
enormous nose; you understand that I mean quite a different kind
of nose.
Don't talk to me of composition; creation is not a thing one can
learn. Every man sleeps, eats, and moves differently, and you wish
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
that all would create the same way. I am tormenting myself devil-
ishly over every piece.
I seem to have a beautiful and finished thought in mind, but
when I write it down, I realize that I have made a lot of holes in
it. Everything looks different on paper so that it drives me to despair.
And then begins the torture of remembering. Or I have several
themes, and am always so undecided as to which to choose.
I cannot complain of lack of themes, but sometimes those little
beasts drive me to tears when I have to make a choice. Often I
throw ready things away for a long time, to let time decide and
choose.
Ideas keep creeping into my head. Sometimes I write them down,
sometimes I just play with them and throw them away for the fu-
ture. One of them may be greater than the others; maybe I'll build
a polonaise upon it, but I am leaving it for later.
I myself get tired very quickly, because creating is a serious mat-
ter to me; and when I am tired, things don't work out so well. As
you know, I am very careful and do not like to toss off just anything
into the world. Maybe I shall become more efficient in time, get less
tired, indulge in shorter periods of rest, but 111 never reach the per-
fection of Mozart; that's a gift of nature.
A wise creator himself knows what is lacking in him. Whatever
can be attained by dint of sweat, he should try; but what is beyond
his possibilities, he would do better to leave alone, he will never
reach it. While admiring the art of others, one must know enough to
say to oneself: "Useless to climb, that's not my way."
He who has great aptitudes and talent but little knowledge is like
a carpenter who has good materials, and plenty of them, but has no
tools to work with. He who is very erudite but has no talent is like a
carpenter with a lot of the best tools but no material. Anyone can
obtain knowledge, but talent you cannot buy even with dia-
monds.
What today is considered apostasy from the old rules, tomorrow
may become original and great. It is even bad when people praise
too much and understand too well, because it means that there is
nothing in it that posterity alone could understand. Works which
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FKEDERIC CHOPIN
are perfectly clear to everybody are shallow and posterity will blow
them off like soap bubbles.
I myself can never finish anything at once. I have too many themes
and have rather an embarras de richesse, as the French say. But
when I write them down on paper, selecting the best pieces, I find
that the thing is full of holes. The best way out, then, is to throw
such an unborn child into a corner and forget it.
After a certain time a theme falls suddenly as if from heaven
which will fit exactly into one of those holes. Afterwards another
one . . . finally the whole thing is composed like a mosaic. You
would think that this is the happy ending. Not at all! Before I
finish it at last I lose a terrible amount of time, and I have plenty
of trouble, many tears, and sleepless nights. You women do not feel
so weak after giving birth as I feel after finishing a composition.
269
CESAR FRANCK
1822-1890
CESAR- AUGUSTE FRANCK was born in Liege, Belgium, on December
10, 1822. He was a child-prodigy pianist, winning first prize at the
Liege Conservatory when he was twelve, and giving concerts
throughout Belgium. Between 1837 and 1842 he was a pupil at the
Paris Conservatory, where he received many prizes in organ-play-
ing and fugue. On March 17, 1843 there took place in Paris a concert
of his chamber music, followed on January 4, 1846 by the premiere
of his first significant work, the oratorio Ruth. After that he concen-
trated on composition, while earning his living teaching piano and
solfeggio, and playing the organ. On February 22, 1848 he married
an actress, Mile. Desmousseaux. After holding several minor posts as
organist and maitre de chapelle, he assumed in 1858 the office lie
held for the rest of his life— that of organist at Ste. Clotilde. In 1872,
he combined this activity with teaching, having been appointed
professor of organ and composition at the Paris Conservatory. He
was largely responsible for bringing about at the Conservatory a
new interest in absolute as opposed to dramatic music. Through the
years he gathered about him pupils inspired by his idealism, hu-
mility, creative integrity, and immense musical gifts. They carried
on his own dedication to absolute instrumental music grounded in
some of the contrapuntal principles of Bach's organ works, in prefer-
ence to the prevailing vogue for the Wagner-Liszt school. These
disciples included some of France's most distinguished musicians,
including Vincent dlndy (1851-1931), Ernest Chausson (1855-99),
and Gabriel Pierne (1863-1937).
AH the while Franck was teaching and playing the organ, he was
completing masterpieces which were long ignored by both the gen-
eral public and the critics. These included the oratorio The Re-
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CESAR FRANCK
demption in 1874, the Variations symphoniques for piano and or-
chestra in 1885, and the Symphony in D minor. (The last was a fiasco
when introduced in Paris on February 17, 1889.) Except in the eyes
of his pupils and friends, Franck's importance rested more on his
remarkable powers as an organ virtuoso than on his creative work.
Partial recognition as composer came to him after his String Quartet
was successfully introduced in Paris on April 19, 1890. Franck died
of pleurisy the following winter, in Paris, on November 8, 1890.
THE MAN
VINCENT D'INDY
Physically, Franck was short, with a fine forehead and a vivacious
and honest expression, although his eyes were almost concealed un-
der his bushy eyebrows; his nose was rather large, and his chin
receded below a wide and extraordinarily expressive mouth. His face
was round, and thick gray side-whiskers added to its width. Such
was the outward appearance of the man we honored and loved for
twenty years; and— except for the increasing whiteness of his hair-
he never altered till the day of his death. There was nothing in his
appearance to reveal the conventional artistic type according to
romance, or the legends of Montmartre. Any one who happened to
meet this man in the street, invariably in a hurry, invariably absent-
minded and making grimaces, running rather than walking, dressed
in an overcoat a size too large and trousers a size too short for him,
would never have suspected the transformation that took place
when, seated at the piano, he explained or commented upon some
fine composition, or, with one hand to his forehead and the other
posed above his stops, prepared the organ for one of his great im-
provisations. Then he seemed to be surrounded by music as by a
halo, and it was only at such moments that we were struck by the
conscious will power of mouth and chin, and the almost complete
identity of the fine forehead and that of the creator of the Ninth
Symphony. Then, indeed, we felt subjugated— almost awed— by the
palpable presence of the genius that shone in the countenance of
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSEBS
the highest-minded and noblest musician that the 19th century has
produced in France.
The moral quality which struck us most in Franck was his great
capacity for work. Winter and summer he was up at half -past five.
The first two morning hours were generally devoted to composition
—"working for himself/' as he called it. About half -past seven, after
a frugal breakfast, he started to give lessons all over the capital, for
to the end of his days this great man was obliged to devote most of
his time to teaching the piano to amateurs, and even to take music
classes in various colleges and boarding schools. All day long he
went about on foot or by omnibus, from Auteuil to File Saint Louis,
from Vaugirard to the Faubourg Possonniere, and returned to his
quiet abode on the Boulevard Saint-Michel in time for an evening
meal. Although tired out with the day's work, he still managed to
find a few minutes to orchestrate or copy his scores, except when he
devoted his evening to the pupils who studied organ and composi-
tion with him, on which occasions he would generously pour upon
them his most precious and disinterested advice.
In these two early hours of the morning— which were often cur-
tailed—and in the few weeks he snatched during the vacation at the
Conservatory, Franck's finest works were conceived, planned, and
written.
The musical work which was his everyday occupation did not
prevent him from taking an interest in all manifestations of art, and
more especially of literature. During the holidays spent in the little
house that he rented for the summer at Quincy, he set aside a cer-
tain time for reading books, both old and new, and sometimes very
serious works. Once when he was reading in the garden with that
close attention he gave to all his pursuits, one of his sons, seeing him
smiling frequently, inquired what he was reading that amused him
so much. "Kant's Critique of Pure Reason" answered the father,
"it is really very amusing/'
If Franck was an arduous and determined worker, his motive was
neither glory, money, nor immediate success. He aimed only at ex-
pressing his thoughts and feelings by means of his art, for, above all,
he was a truly modest man. He never suffered from the feverish am-
bition that consumes the life of so many artists in the race for
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FRANCE
worldly honor and distinction. It never occurred to him, for in-
stance, to solicit a seat in the Institut; not because— like Degas or a
Puvis— he disdained the honor, but because he innocently believed
that he had not yet earned it.
This modesty, however, did not exclude that self-confidence which
is so necessary to all creative artists, provided it is founded on a
sound judgment and is free from vanity. In the autumn, when the
classes were resumed and the master, his face lit up with a broad
smile, used to say to us, "I have been working well these holidays; I
hope you will all be pleased/' we knew for certain that some master-
piece would soon blossom forth. On these occasions the great joy
of his busy life was to keep an hour or two in the evening in which
to assemble his favorite pupils around the piano while he played to
them the work he had just finished, singing the vocal parts in a voice
which was as warm as it was grotesque in quality. He did not even
scorn to ask his pupils' advice on the new work, or, better still, to act
upon it, if the observations they ventured to make seemed to him
really well founded.
Untiring assiduity in work, modesty, a fine artistic conscientious-
ness—these were the salient features in Franck's character. But he
had yet another quality— a rare one— namely, goodness: a goodness
that was serene and indulgent.
The word most often used by the master was the verb "to love."
"I love it," he would say of a work, or even of a detail which ap-
pealed to his sympathies; and in truth his own works are all inspired
by love, and by the power of love and his high-minded charity he
reigned over his disciples, over his friends, and over all the musi-
cians of his day who had any nobility of mind; and it is out of love
to him that others have tried to continue his good work.
We must not, however, infer from this that the master's tempera-
ment was cold and placid— far from it; his was a fervent nature, as
all his works undoubtedly bear witness.
Who among us can fail to recall his indignation against bad music,
his explosion of wrath when our awkward fingers went astray on the
organ in some ugly harmonic combination, and his impatient gesture
when the ball at the altar cut short the exposition of some promising
offertory? But such displays of irritability on the part of "a South-
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
erner from the North" were chiefly directed to artistic principles
very rarely to human beings. Never during the long years I spent in
his society did I hear it said that he had consciously given a mo-
ment's pain to anyone. How, indeed, could such a thing have hap-
pened to him whose heart was incapable of harboring an evil
thought? He would never believe in the mean jealousy that his talent
excited among his colleagues, not excluding those of some reputa-
tion, and to the day of his death he was always kindly in his judg-
ments upon the works of others. . . .
This untiring force and inexhaustible kindness were drawn from
the well-spring of his faith; for Franck was an ardent believer. With
him, as with all really great men, faith in his art was blended with
faith in God, the source of all art.
THE COMPOSER
LELAND HALL
The drift of romanticism toward realism is easy to trace in all the
arts. There were, however, artists of all kinds who were caught up, so
to speak, from the current into a life of the spirit, who championed
neither the glory of the senses, as Wagner, nor the indomitable
power of reason, as Brahms, but preserved a serenity and calm, a
sort of confident, nearly ascetic rapture, elevated above the turmoil
of the world, standing not with nor against, but floating above. Such
an artist in music was Cesar Franck, growing up almost unnoticed
between Wagner and Brahms, now to be ranked as one of the great-
est composers of the second half of the century. He is as different
from them as they are from each other. Liszt, the omniscient, knew
of him, had heard him play the organ in the church of Ste. Clotilde,
where in almost monastic seclusion the greater part of his life flowed
on, had likened him to the great Sebastian Bach, had gone away
marvelling; but only a small band of pupils knew him intimately and
the depth of his genius as a composer.
His life was retired. He was indifferent to lack of appreciation.
When, through the efforts of his devoted disciples, his works were
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CESAK FRANCK
at rare intervals brought to public performance, he was quite for-
getful of the cold, often hostile, audience, intent only to compare
the sound of his music as he heard it with the thought he had had in
his soul, happy if the sound were what he had conceived it would be.
Of envy, meanness, jealousy, of all the darker side of life, in fact, he
seems to have taken no account Nor by imagination could he pic-
ture it, nor express it in his music, which is unfailingly luminous and
exalted. Most striking in his nature was a gentle, unwavering, con-
fident candor, and in his music there is scarcely a hint of doubt, of
inquiring, or of struggle. It suggests inevitably the cathedral, the
joyous calm of religious faith, spiritual exaltation, even radiance.
He wrote in all forms, operas, oratorios, cantatas, works for piano,
for orchestra, and chamber music. It is significant that in several
fields his output was small: he wrote only one symphony, one string
quartet, one piano quintet, one violin sonata.
With the exception of a few early pieces for piano all his work
bears the stamp of his personality. Like Brahms, he has pronounced
idiosyncrasies, among which his fondness for shifting harmonies is
the most constantly obvious. The ceaseless alteration of chords, the
almost unbroken gliding by half -steps, the lithe sinuousness of all the
inner voices seem to wrap his music in a veil, to render it intangible
and mystical. Diatonic passages are rare, all is chromatic. Parallel
to this is his use of short phrases, which alone are capable of being
treated in this shifting manner. His melodies are almost invariably
dissected, they seldom are built up in broad design. They are re-
solved into their finest motifs and as such are woven and twisted
into the close iridescent harmonic fabric with bewildering skill. All
is in subtle movement. Yet there is a complete absence of sensuous-
ness, even, for the most part, of dramatic fire. The overpowering
climaxes to which he builds are never a frenzy of emotion; they are
superbly calm and exalted. The structure of his music is strangely
inorganic. His material does not develop. He adds phrase upon
phrase, detail upon detail, with astonishing power to knit and
weave closely what comes with what went before. His extraordinary
polyphonic skill seems inborn, native to the man. Arthur Coquard
said of him that he thought the most complicated things in music
quite naturally. Imitation, canon, augmentation, and diminution, the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
most complex problems of the science of music, he solves without
effort. The perfect canon in the last movement of the Violin Sonata
(1886) sounds simple and spontaneous. The shifting, intangible har-
monies, the minute melodies, the fine fabric as of a goldsmith's
carving, are all the work of a mystic, indescribably pure and radiant
Agitating, complex rhythms are rare. The second movement of the
Violin Sonata and the last movement of the Prelude, Aria, and Finale
(1886-87) are exceptional. The heat of passion is seldom felt. Faith
and serene light prevail, a music, it has been said, at once the sister
of prayer and of poetry. His music, in short, wrote Gustave Derepas,
"leads us from egoism to love, by the path of the true mysticism of
Christianity; from the world to the soul, from the soul to God."
His form, as has been said, is not organic, but he gives to all his
music a unity and compactness by using the same thematic material
throughout the movements of a given composition. For example, in
the first movement of the Prelude, Chorale, and Fugue (1884) for
piano, the theme of the fugue which constitutes the last movement
is plainly suggested, and the climax of the last movement is built up
out of this fugue theme woven with the great movement of the
chorale. In the first movement of the Prelude, Aria, and Finale, like-
wise for piano, the theme of the Finale is used as counterpoint; in
the Aria again the same use is made of it; in the Finale the Aria
theme is reintroduced, and the coda at the end is built up of the
principal theme of the Prelude and a theme taken from the closing
section of the Aria. The four movements of the Violin Sonata are
most closely related thematically; the Symphony (1886-88), too, is
dominated by one theme, and the theme which opens the String
Quartet (1889) closes it as well. This uniting of the several move-
ments of a work on a large scale by employing throughout the same
material was more consistently cultivated by Franck than by any
other composer. The Concerto for piano and orchestra in E-flat by
Liszt is constructed on the same principle; the D minor symphony
of Schumann also, and it is suggested in the first Symphony of
Brahms, but these are exceptions. Germs of such a relationship be-
tween movements in the cyclic forms were in the last works of
Beethoven. In Franck they developed to great proportion.
The fugue in the Prelude, Chorale, and Fugue and the canon in
276
C£SAR FRANCE
the last movement of the Violin Sonata are superbly built, and his
restoration o£ strict forms to works in several movements finds a
precedent only in Beethoven and once in Mozart. The treatment of
the variation form in the Variations Symphoniques (1885) for piano
and orchestra is no less masterly than his treatment of fugue and
canon, but it can hardly be said that he excelled either Schumann or
Brahms in this branch of composition.
Franck was a great organist and all his work is as clearly influ-
enced by organ technique as the works of Sebastian Bach were
before him. "His orchestra/' Julien Tiersot wrote in an article pub-
lished in Le Menestrel for October 23, 1904, "is sonorous and com-
pact, the orchestra of an organist. He employs especially the two
contrasting elements of strings (eight-foot stops) and brass (great-
organ). The woodwind is in the background. This observation en-
closes a criticism, and his method could not be given as a model; it
robs the orchestra of much variety of coloring, which is the richness
of the modern art. But we ought to consider it as characteristic of
the manner of Cesar Franck, which alone suffices to make such use
legitimate." Undeniably the sensuous coloring of the Wagnerian
school is lacking, though Franck devoted himself almost passionately
at one time to the study of Wagner's scores; yet, as in the case of
Brahms, Franck's scoring, peculiarly his own, is fitting to the quality
of his inspiration. There is no suggestion of the warmth of the senses
in any of his music. Complete mastery of the art of vivid warm tone-
coloring belongs only to those descended from Weber, and pre-
eminently to Wagner.
The works for the piano (and those for strings as well) are thor-
oughly influenced by organ technique. The movement of the rich,
solid basses, and the impracticably wide spaces call urgently for the
supporting pedals of the organ. Yet they are by no means unsuited
to the instruments for which they were written. If when played they
suggest the organ to the listener, and the chorale in the Prelude,
Chorale, and Fugue is especially suggestive, the reason is not to be
found in any solecism, but in the religious spirit that breathes from
all Franck's works and transports the listener to the shades of vast
cathedral aisles. Among his most sublime works are three Chorales
(1890) for organ, written not long before he died. These, it may
277
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
safely be assumed, are among the few contributions to the literature
for the organ which approach the inimitable master-works of Sebas-
tian Bach.
There are three oratorios, to use the term loosely, Ruth (1848-46),
The Redemption (1874), and The Beatitudes (1869-79), belonging
respectively in the three periods in which Franck's life and musical
development naturally fall. All were coldly received during his life-
time. Ruth, written when he was but twenty-four years old, is in the
style of the classical oratorios, The Redemption, too, still partakes of
the half dramatic, half epic character of the oratorio; but in The
Beatitudes, his masterpiece, if one must be chosen, the dramatic ele-
ment is almost wholly lacking, and he has created almost a new art
form. To set Christ's sermon on the mount to music was a tremen-
dous undertaking, and the great length of the work will always stand
in the way of its universal acceptance; but here more than any-
where else Franck's peculiar gift of harmony has full force in the
expression of religious rapture and the mysticism of the devout and
childlike believer.
It is curious to note the inability of Frances genius to express wild
and dramatic emotion. Among his works for orchestra and for or-
chestra and piano are several that may take rank as symphonic
poems, Les Bolides (1875-76), Le Chasseur Maudit (1882), and Les
Djinns (1884), the last two based upon gruesome poems, all three
failing to strike the listener cold. The symphony with chorus, later
rearranged as a suite, Psyche (1886-88), is an exquisitely pure con-
ception, wholly spiritual. The operas Hulda (1882-85) and Ghisele
(1888-90) were performed only after his death and failed to win a
place in the repertory of opera houses.
It is this strange absence of genuinely dramatic and sensuous ele-
ments from Franck's music which gives it its quite peculiar stamp,
the quality which appeals to us as a sort of poetry of religion. And
it is this same lack which leads one to say that he grows up with
Wagner and Brahms and yet is not of a piece with either of them. He
had an extraordinarily refined technique of composition, but it was
perhaps more the technique of the goldsmith than that of the sculp-
tor. His works impress by fineness of detail, not, for all their length
and remarkable adherence of structure, by breadth of design. His is
278
CESAR FRANCK
intensely an introspective art, wliicli weaves about the simplest sub-
ject and through every measure most intricate garlands of chromatic
harmony, It is a music which is apart from life, spiritual and exalted.
It does not reflect the life of the body, nor that of the sovereign
mind, but the life of the spirit. By so reading it we come to under-
stand his own attitude in regard to it, which took no thought of
how it impressed the public, but only of how it matched in per-
formance, in sound, his soul's image of it.
With Wagner, Brahms, and Cesar Franck the romantic movement
in music comes to an end. The impulse which gave it life came to its
ultimate forms in their music and was forever gone. It has washed
on only like a broken wave over the works of most of their suc-
cessors down to the present day.
FRANCK SPEAKS
I think you will be impressed by Ruth. You will find in it no trace
of the hand that wrote the trios, for it is extremely simple. Yet I
have some affection for it myself, both for the ideas it contains, and
for the individual atmosphere of the whole work. The choral and
orchestral writing is designed for performance under the most ordi-
nary conditions.
I finished the scoring [Redemption] but then I showed the piece
to a pupil in whom I have great faith and who pointed out a num-
ber of other changes, I ought to make. So I have rewritten it, and
now I fancy it is not too bad.
It [Symphony in D minor] is just music, nothing but pure music.
At the same time, while I was composing the Allegretto, especially
the first phrases, I did think— oh, so vaguely— of a procession of olden
times. . . . The finale, just as in Beethoven's Ninth, recalls all the
themes, but in my work they do not make their appearance as mere
279
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
quotations. I have adopted another plan and made each of them
play an entirely new part in the music. It seems to me successful in
practice. ... I have been very daring, I know; but you wait till
the next time. I shall go much farther in daring then.
You well know that I find it necessary to spend much time in
thought over a work before putting the actual notes on paper. Up
to now I have been casting around for the right colors. I have, so to
speak, stocked my musical palette.
I, too, have written some beautiful things.
280
CHARLES GOUNOD
18-1893
CHAJRLES.FJ^QOIS.GOUNOD, a dominant figure in the French lyric
theater of the 19th century, was born in Paris on June 17, 1818.
After completing his academic training at the Lycee St. Louis, he
entered the Paris Conservatory in 1836 where he studied under
Halevy, Lesueur, and Paer, and in 1839 received the Prix de Rome.
During his three-year stay in Italy he became interested in both
theology and church music and completed several ambitious choral
compositions including a Mass and a Requiem, the former intro-
duced in Rome, and the latter in Vienna, Upon returning to Paris,
where for a while he was the organist of the Missions Etrangeres,^
plunged, into a two-year £eriod of 5tudy of theology^ but finally de-
cided against taking .holy orders, His first attempt at writing for
the stage was a succes fiestime: the opera Sapho, introduced in
Paris on April 16, 1851, A comic, opera, Le Medetin malgre lui, on
January 15, 1858, and his crowning masterwork, Faust 3 on March 19,
1859 brought him to the front rank of French composers for the
theater. Among his latej_suixessfuL~op,eras .were Mireille, on March
19, 1864, and Romeo and JuU^ on April 27, 18^7.
Between 1852 and I860, .Gounod conducted the Orpheon Choral
Society in Paris. In 1870 he came to London where he founded and
directed another society. He returned to Paris in 1874, and during
the next decade wrote incidental music for several plays, and three
unsuccessful operas. In the closing years of his life he devoted him-
self mainly to the writing of religious music, His most significant
works included two choral trilogies: Le Redemption and Mors et
Vita, introduced at the Birmingham Festival in 1882 and 1885 re-
spectively. Gounod died in Paris on October 18, 1893.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
THE MAN
HOWARD PAUL
Despite the fact that lie was a tall, compactly built, solid-looking
man, with no suggestion o£ nerves, Gounod was singularly sensitive,
with a proneness to devotion which was quite feminine in its mani-
festations.
He was always a late riser. He protested he could do with a great
deal of sleep. He dressed with scrupulous care, and at home wore a
black velvet cap and very finely made patent leather shoes. When
his toilet was over, he repaired to his sanctum, drank a glass of milk,
and sat down at a table to work in an immense room with vaulted
ceiling suggesting a church, and principally furnished with an organ,
two grand pianos, and a fine musical library. He sometimes smoked
while he wrote. Then he received visitors, and at twelve o'clock
he breakfasted with his wife. His afternoons, four days a week,
were devoted to work. He was not a persistent diner out, though he
received numerous invitations. He was fond of passing his evenings
at the opera, occasionally the Boulevard theaters, and now and
again, by way of what he termed a naughty spree, he went to see
the broad farces at the Palais Royal, for with his constitutional seri-
ousness of character he liked an occasional laugh. He was not by
any means ascetic in temperament, but more like the monks of old,
perhaps, who, if the French chansons are to be depended on, had
a perfect appreciation of right good cheer. He was exceedingly fond
of walking in the Bois, and most Sundays he attended the meetings
of the Academie des Beaux Arts, where he fulfilled with assiduity
his functions as president and member of a number of musical
commissions and juries.
One day I dined with Gounod in the Place Malesherbes, at a
family party; there was but one other stranger present, the poet,
Frangois Coppee, who at the time was discussing the subject of
a libretto. The conversation of these two gifted men disclosed the
fact that they were deeply read in religious history. The discussion
282
CHABLES GOUNOD
was too long to follow in detail, but Gounod's concluding words
were eloquent and deserve recording. "It has been asserted/' he said,
"as a fundamental defect in Christianity, that the work of its founder
was left unfinished, and that the system of Mohammed is simpler
and more complete. Now to my mind, I detect in the simplicity of
Islam the cause of its intellectual barrenness. Neither philosophy nor
science has taken root in its thin soil. It possesses no principle of
development but is monotonous and inflexible " And he wound up
his observations with the remark that "Christianity is the richest of
religions. It is the heir of all the ages and the nursing mother of
all the higher forms of moral and spiritual life."
The dinner was a simple one of half a dozen courses, and we all
paid profound attention to the conversation of the two causeurs,
who were taking it at their best. When we joined the ladies in the
salon, Gounod sat down at the piano, and at the request of his
daughter, played the Funeral March of a Marionette and a lovely
little fragment called Ivy. After coffee in the salon the conversation
became more general, and it was evident the master could drop
into a lighter vein.
THE COMPOSER
R. A. STREATFEILD
If one were set upon paradox, it would not be far from the truth
to say that up to the middle of the 19th century the most famous
French composers had been either German or Italian. Certainly if
Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-87), Gluck, Rossini, and Meyerbeer— to
name only a few of the distinguished aliens who settled in Paris-
had never existed, French opera would be a very different thing
from what it actually is. Yet in spite of the strangely diverse person-
alities of the men who had most influence in shaping its destiny,
French opera is an entity remarkable for completeness and homo-
geneity, fully alive to tendencies, the most advanced, yet firmly
founded upon the solid traditions of the past.
Gounod was trained in the school of Meyerbeer, but his own sym-
283
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
pathies drew Mm rather towards the serene perfection of Mozart.
The pure influence of that mighty master, combined with the strange
mingling of sensuousness and mysticism which was the distinguish-
ing trait of his own character, produced a musical personality of
high intrinsic interest, and historically of great importance to the
development of music. If not the actual founder of modern French
opera, Gounod is at least the source of its most pronuonced char-
acteristics.
His first opera, Sapha (1851), a graceful version of the immortal
story of the Lesbian poetess's love and death, has never been really
popular, but it is interesting as containing the germs of much that
afterwards became characteristic in Gounod's style. In the final
scene of Sappho's suicide, the young composer surpassed himself,
and struck a note of sensuous melancholy which was new to French
opera. La Nonne sanglante (1854), his next work, was a failure; but
in Le Medecin malgr6 lui (1858), an operatic version of Moliere's
comedy, he scored a success. This is a charming little work, instinct
with a delicate flavor of antiquity, but lacking in comic power.
The year 1859 saw the production of Faust, the opera with which
Gounod's name is principally associated. The libretto, by Barbier
and Carre, does not of course claim to represent Goethe's play in
any way. The authors had little pretension to literary skill, but they
knew their business thoroughly. They fastened upon the episode of
Gretchen, and threw all the rest overboard. The result was a well-
constructed and thoroughly comprehensible libretto, with plenty of
love-making and floods of cheap sentiment, but as different in atmos-
phere and suggestion from Goethe's mighty drama as could well he
imagined. . . .
A good deal of the first and last acts is commonplace and con-
ventional, but the other three contain beauties of a high order. The
life and gaiety of the Kermesse scene in the second act, the sonorous
dignity of Valentine's invocation of the cross, and the tender grace
of Faust's salvation— the last passage which might have been written
by Mozart—are too familiar to need more than a passing reference.
In the fourth act also there is much noble music. Gounod may be
forgiven even for the soldiers' chorus, in consideration of the mascu-
line vigor of the duel terzetto— a purified reminiscence of Meyer-
284
CHABLES GOUNOD
keer_and die impressive church scene. But the most characteristic
part of the work is, after all, the love music of the third act. The
dreamy langor which pervades the scene, the cloying sweetness of
the harmonies, the melting beauty of the orchestration, all combine
to produce an effect which was at that time entirely new to opera,
and had no little share in forming the then modem school. With all
his admiration of Mozart, Gounod possessed little of his idol's genius
for characterization. The types in Faust do not stand out clearly,
Marguerite, for instance, is merely a sentimental school girl; she has
none of the girlish freshness and innocence of Goethe's Gretchen,
and Mephistopheles is much more of a tavern bully than a fallen
angel. Yet with all its faults, Faust remains a work of a high order of
beauty. Every page of the score tells of a striving after a lofty ideal,
and though as regards actual form, Gounod made no attempt to
break new ground, the aim and atmosphere of Faust, no less than
the details of its construction, contrast so strongly with the conven-
tional Italianism of the day, that it may well be regarded as the in-
auguration of a new era in French music.
Faust marks the zenith of Gounod's career. After 1859 he was
content for the most part merely to repeat the ideas already ex-
pressed in his chef d'oeuvre, while in form his later works show a
distinctly retrograde movement. He seems to have known nothing of
the inward impulse of development which led Wagner and Verdi
from strength to strength.
Philemon et Baucis (1860) is a charming modernization of a clas-
sical legend. ... It adheres strictly to the conventional lines of
opera-comique, and has little beyond its tuneful grace and delicate
orchestration to recommend it. Nevertheless it is a charming trifle,
and has survived many of Gounod's more pretentious works. La
Reine de Saba (1862) is now forgotten, but Mireille (1864), one of
the composer's most delightful works, still enjoys a degree of popu-
larity. . . . Gounod's music seems to have borrowed the warm
coloring of the Provengal poet's romance. Mireille glows with the life
and sunlight of the south. There is little attempt at dramatic force
in it, and the one scene in which the note of pathos is attempted
is perhaps the least successful in the whole opera. But the lighter
portions of the work are irresistible. Mireille has much of the charm
285
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
of Daudet's Provengal stories, the charm of warmth and color, in-
dependent of subject.
In 1867 was produced Romeo et Juliette, an opera which in the
estimation of the majority of Gounod's admirers, ranks next to Faust
in the catalogue of his works. The libretto, apart from one or two
concessions to operatic convention, is a fair piece of work, and at
any rate compares favorably with the parodies of Shakespeare
which so often do duty for libretti . . . The composer of the third
act of Faust could hardly fail to be attracted by Romeo and Juliet.
Nevertheless Gounod was too pronounced a mannerist to do justice to
Shakespeare's immortal love story. He is, of all 19th-century French
composers, the one whose method varies least, and throughout
Romeo et Juliette he does little more than repeat in an attenuated
form the ideas already used in Faust. Yet there are passages in the
opera which stand out in salient contrast to the monotony of the
whole, such as the exquisite setting of Juliet's speech in the balcony
scene beginning "Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,"
which conveys something more than an echo of the virginal inno-
cence and complete self-abandonment of Shakespeare's lines, or the
more commonplace but still beautiful passage at the close of the act,
suggested by Romeo's line, ''Sleep dwell upon thine eyes." The duel
scene is vigorous and effective, and the song allotted to Romeo's
page— an impertinent insertion of the librettists—is intrinsically de-
lightful. It is typical of the musician that he should put forth his
full powers in the chamber duet, while he actually omits the potion
scene altogether, which is the legitimate climax of the act. In the
original version of the opera there was a commonplace cavatina
allotted to Juliet at this point, set to words which had but a remote
connection with Shakespeare's immortal lines, but it was so com-
pletely unworthy of the situation that it was usually omitted, and
when the opera was revised for production at the Opera in 1888,
Gounod thought it wiser to end the act with the Friar's discourse
to Juliet, rather than attempt once more to do justice to a scene
which he knew to be beyond his powers. The last act is perhaps
the weakest part of the opera. Barbier and Carre's version of Shake-
speare's magnificent poetry is certainly not inspiring; but in any
286
CHARLES GOUNOD
case it is difficult to believe that Gounod's suave talent could have
done justice to the piteous tragedy of that terrible scene.
Gounod's last three operas— Cinq-Mars (1877), Polyeucte (1878),
and Le Tribut de Zamora (1881)— did not add to his reputation. In
Cinq-Mars much of the music is tuneful and attractive, though cast
in a stiff and old-fashioned form, and the masque-music in the sec-
ond act is as fresh and melodious as anything Gounod ever wrote.
In Polyeucte he attempted a style of severe simplicity in fancied
keeping with Corneille's tragedy. There are some noble pages in
the work, but as a whole it is distressingly dull. Le Tribut de Zamora,
like the other two, was also an emphatic failure.
Gounod's later works show a distinct falling ofl from the standard
attained in Faust as regards form as well as in ideas. As he grew
older he showed a stronger inclination to return to obsolete models.
Le Tribut de Zamora reproduces the type of opera which was pop-
ular in the days of Meyerbeer. It is cut into airs and recitatives, and
the accompaniment is sedulously subordinated to the voices. With-
out desiring to discredit the beauties of Mireille or Romeo et Juliette,
one cannot help thinking that it would have been better for Gou-
nod's reputation if he had written nothing for the stage after Faust.
GOUNOD SPEAKS
France is essentially the country of clean outlines, concision, mod-
eration, taste: that is to say, the antithesis of excess, pretentiousness,
disproportion, prolixity. A passion for the transcendental (I almost
wrote " a passion for the bogus transcendental") may put us com-
pletely on the wrong track, by which I mean that it may make us
mistake size for greatness, weight for worth, obscurity for depth,
vagueness for sublimity.
Let us not touch the works of the great; it is an example of danger-
ous discourtesy and irreverence, to which there would never be an
end. Let us not put our hands on the hands of that great race, for
posterity should be able to view their noble lines and solid structure
287
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and majestic elegance without any veil. Let us remember that it is
better to let a great master retain his own imperfections, if there
be any, than to impose our own upon him.
It is hardly necessary to say that in permitting personal whims
to replace obedience to the text, a gulf is created between the au-
thor and the auditor. What meaning is there, for example, in a pro-
longed pause on certain notes, to the detriment of the rhythm and
the balance of the rhythm and the balance of the musical phrase?
Do they reflect for an instant on the perpetual irritation caused
to the listener— to say nothing of the insupportable monotony of the
proceeding itself? And then what becomes of the orchestral design
in this constant subordination to the singer's caprice? It is impos-
sible to draw up a complete catalogue of abuses and licenses of all
sorts which in die execution alter the nature of the sense, and com-
promise the impression of a musical phrase.
There are works that must be seen or heard in the places for which
they were created. The Sistine Chapel is one of these exceptional
places, unique of its kind in the world. The colossal genius who
decorated its vaulted ceiling and the wall of the altar with his
matchless conceptions of the story of Genesis and of the Last Judg-
ment, the painter of prophets . . . will doubtless never have his
equal, no more than Homer or Phidias. Men of this stamp and
stature are not seen twice upon the earth; they are syntheses, they
embrace a whole world, they exhaust it, they complete it, and what
they have said no one can repeat after them,
The music of Palestrina seems to be a translation in song of the
vast poem of Michelangelo, and I am inclined to think that these
two masters explain and illustrate each other in the same light, the
spectator developing the listener, and reciprocally, so that, finally
one is tempted to ask if the Sistine Chapel—painting and music— is
not the product of one and the same inspiration. Music and painting
are found in a union so perfect and sublime that it seems as if the
whole were the twofold expression of one and the same thought,
288
CHARLES GOUNOD
the double voice of one and the same hymn. It might be said that
what one hears is the echo of what one sees.
The great geniuses suffer and must suffer, but they need not
complain; they have known intoxication unknown to the rest of
men and, if they have wept tears of sadness, they have poured
tears of ineffable joy. That in itself is a heaven for which one never
pays what it is worth.
289
JULES MASSENET
1842-1912
JULES-£MILE-FKEDERIC MASSENET was born in Montaud, in the
Loire, France, on May 12, 1842. Between 1851 and 1863 he
attended the Paris Conservatory, a pupil of Laurent, Savard, Reber,
and Ambroise Thomas. Massenet received first prizes in piano playing
and fugue and, in 1863, the Prix de Rome. His first opera was written
after his return from Rome. It was La Grand* tante, produced by the
Opera-Comique on April 3, 1867. Success came between 1872 and
1877, with the production of a comic opera, Cesar de Bazan, at the
Opera-Comique on November 30, 1872; with the incidental music
to Leconte de Lisle's Les Erynnies, which includes his popular
Megie, at the Odeon on January 6, 1873; and with Le Roi de Lahore,
given by the Paris Opera on April 27? 1877.
In 1878 Massenet became professor of composition at the Paris
Conservatory, holding this post until the end of his life. His influence
extended to an entire generation of French composers, including
Alfred Bruneau, (1857-1934), Gabriel Pierne (1863-1937), Henri
Rabaud (1873-1949), Florent Schmitt (1870-1958), and Gustave
Charpentier (1860-1956). In 1879, Massenet became the youngest
man elected to the Academie des Beaux-Arts, and in 1899 he was
made Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor.
Massenet wrote his most famous operas between 1880 and 1900,
achieving with them a preeminent position in the French lyric
theater. The most significant were: Herodiade, on December 19,
1881; Manon, on January 19, 1884; Werther, on February 16, 1892;
Thais, on March 16,1894; and Sapho, on November 27, 1897.
Though he created two significant operas after 1900— Le Jongleur
de Notre Dame in 1902 and Don Quichotte in 1910— his significance
and influence went into a sharp decline, as modern tendencies re-
290
JULES MASSENET
placed the sentimental and romantic in French music. Massenet
died in Paris on August 13, 1912.
THE MAN
HERBERT F. PEYSER
Massenet's dislike for the frequent intrusions of strangers, news-
paper people, importuning artists, and so forth, led him to move
from a more central part of Paris to 48 Rue de Vaugirard. The place
(an apartment house, of course; the Parisian masters seem particu-
larly partial to apartments however considerable their bank ac-
counts) overlooks the picturesque gardens of the Luxembourg, and is
situated within a few minutes' walk of the Cluny museum and the
Pantheon. The exterior is bare and unpretentious, and, to the aver-
age American, about as uninviting as the majority of Parisian houses.
The place is innocent of an elevator, but happily the premises of
the master are located au premier., thus necessitating the ascent
of only one flight of stairs.
The entrance hall and dining room are furnished with severe
simplicity. The highly polished floors are uncarpeted. On the dining-
room mantel some few simple pieces of bric-a-brac. In an opposite
corner, a black upright piano with a brass handle on each side. The
instrument is always closed, it appears, for Massenefs inspiration
needs no piano to guide, stimulate, or otherwise invite it. A half-
subdued light permeates the room, for its single window of leaded
glass looks out upon a court, not the street. Yet this light only em-
phasizes the reposeful and consistently tranquil atmosphere of the
place.
Massenet entered hastily from a side room where he had been
busily composing (as he subsequently informed me) since the small
hours of morning— his customary modus operandi.
Despite the fact that his face is thinner and more wrinkled and
his cheeks far more sunken than is apparent in any of his published
photographs, Massenet carries his seventy-odd years with surprising
ease. His gray hair, sparse in front, but still falling in the approved
291
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
musician's mode over his ears, is yet liberally streaked with the
black of earlier years. His eyes are luminous with a very youthful
fire, and his varied play of features acts as a sort of incessant com-
mentary on the import of his conversation. Massenet is loquacious,
speaking with rapidity and directness; trenchantly, pointedly, yet
with the utmost simplicity of expression. And the very polish of their
simplicity makes the task of recording his words laborious. But
though he fairly radiates geniality and bonhomie the observer is,
nevertheless, immediately and indelibly impressed by his vivacity,
animation, and supply of nervous energy. When particularly desir-
ous of emphasizing some point he will unconsciously, as it were,
grasp the listener's arm.
We sat close by the black piano with the brass handles, the
master resting his left arm upon the lid (for he seems to hold arm-
chairs in disdain). "You see," he said, "this is the most valuable usage
I can get out of this instrument. I never think of composing at it,
uoyez-vous! There are many people who do not believe me when I
tell them so, and therefore, their astonishment and amusement are
great, when they come here and see this one. 1 know it,' they say.
'Massenet does compose with a piano after all!' 'Mais pas du tout!
Not at all!' I answer them. "You see, I like to sit alongside it, voila
tout!' I am most comfortable when I am resting against it like this,
vous comprenez? That is what I use my piano for. But to compose on
it—jamais de la vie!"
Massenet, with all his arduous work, is an indefatigable traveler.
"Journeys do not interfere with my composing in the least, and I
can write just as comfortably in a crowded hotel, regardless of the
noise, as I can at home. Travel is one of the most essential elements
to stimulate creative powers. We must have change, we must sub-
mit to new impressions, we must add new words to our artistic
dictionaries. Not only do I travel considerably to quicken my imagi-
nation but I keep near me great numbers of photographs of other
countries, which I often look at, and which help to put me in the
right state of mind when I am composing a work dealing with some
specific locality. Moreover, I find true artistic pleasure in seeing
beautiful faces. Not long ago I was asked to go to America and one
of the inducements held out to me was that the New York women
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JULES MASSENET
were the most beautiful in the world. I replied, however, that I
did not believe it, that the loveliest ones were right here in Paris/'
Massenet has made it a practice to leave Paris when there is a
premiere of one of his operas. "The reason for this," the master ex-
plains, "is not in the least nervousness, however much people may
imagine that. When the time for the premiere is at hand my share
of the work is finished. I have no further instructions to give. I have
done my best. Why wait around any longer and be pestered with
people rushing up to me in the coulisses and in the streets asking
'are you satisfied?> or "are you happy?' and having to answer in some
dreadfully banal terms myself?"
It has been claimed at various times that Jongleur was Massenet* s
favorite among his own creations. To the present writer, however, he
would not confirm that opinion. "I have no favorite," he said, "or at
least, I never can say which my favorite will be. For all I can tell
it may be the one I shall write next; it may be the one I am writing
now. It may, perhaps, be even the one I write after my next."
An instance of the kind-heartedness of Massenet was an incident
which took place in Vichy, at the hotel where he was stopping. A
band of street musicians came to play in the garden where the
guests of the house, among whom was the composer, were drinking
their after-dinner coffee. No one took note of them until suddenly
the composer was struck by the fact that they played far better
and with vastly more musicianly style and finish than the average
organization of the kind. They were, as a matter of fact, graduates of
the Conservatory, some of them even having been prize winners
in their student days, whose fortunes had ultimately obliged them
to eke out a scanty living in this nomadic fashion. Massenet, deeply
struck by their work, went among them and complimented them
with fervor, to the amazement of the other guests of the hotel who
had not paid the faintest attention to the concert. The poor players
were quite overcome at the honor paid them by their distinguished
listener whose praise began to be echoed by all the rest of the au-
dience as soon as the master's identity was learned. It goes without
saying, moreover, that the composer was as liberal in his material
donations to the musicians as he had been in his praise.
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THE COMPOSER
MARTIN COOPER
Jules Massenet won the leading position as operatic composer in
France in the late 19th century. . . . The soliciting of the audience
during the 1880's was Massenet's specialty, brought by him to
such a degree of perfection that in his best works it assumes the
quality of an artistic gift. Of the four operas produced by Massenet
between 1880-90, the first two, Herodiade (1881) and Manon (1884)
were by far the most successful. Herodiade continues the tradition
of 'Terotisme discret et quasi-religieux" of the oratorios of the 1870's.
John the Baptist's love for Salome is at first mystical and half-pa-
ternal; his love-making is conducted through a religious medium and
only becomes frankly human when in the last act he is faced with
death. As usually happens with Massenet, he fails in the less emo-
tional and intimate scenes, in the political action of the story; and
the feeling between the Idumaean people and their Roman con-
querors, Herod's vacillation, even Herodias's enmity and jealousy, are
either coldly and conventionally treated or seen through the same
haze of mystical eroticism. Massenet seemed then to be incapable
of any musical expression except that which is concerned with
erotic, or sub-erotic, personal relationships.
It was the fact that he could capitalize this weakness which makes
Manon not only his finest work, but something very near a master-
piece. The whole of Prevost's story is set in an atmosphere of co-
quetry and amorous intrigue, which cries aloud for the accompani-
ment of music, such as Massenet's . . . "melodies which are delicate
and caressing rather than deeply felt, an orchestration rich in pretty
and clever filigree work but without any depth/7 From the open-
ing scene, in which Manon flirts with her cousin Lescaut, the story
is a succession of ambiguous erotic situations, none of which de-
mands any real depth of emotion. The gentle, swaying phrase which
depicts Manon's shyness and hesitation is brilliantly suggestive; and
the burst of facile emotion in the phrase expressing des Grieux's
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JULES MASSENET
passion for Manon is, of its kind, quite irresistible. ... In the
scenes of the Foire St. Germain and the gaming house, even in the
seminary of St. Sulpice, Massenet can legitimately preserve the
emotional atmosphere which was in reality the one string of his
lyre, because Prevost's story is a perfect emotional unity and, what-
ever the scene may be, it is no more than the decor for Manon's
amorous escapades. One may find this ceaseless harping on the
erotic interest tedious and cloying, but it is admirably suited to
Massenet's talent and called out the very best of which he was
capable. After Manon Massenet produced Le Cid (1885) and Esclar-
monde (1889), both inferior works. . . . Massenet did not repeat
the outstanding success of Manon with any of his productions until
Werther (1892) and Thais (1894). Werther is in some ways his master-
piece, one of the very few of his works with a male protagonist,
though Werther is an hysterical boy rather than an adult. The struc-
ture of the work is conventional but the musical language has points
of interest. There were already hints of a semi-Wagnerian use of
the orchestra in Manon, and in Werther Massenet went further along
the same path. Charlotte's soliloquy in Act III, for example, might
also come from the Meister singer, as far as the orchestral part is con-
cerned, though the vocal line, with its tendency to monotone, is in
the direct line from the recitative of Charles Gounod. Melodically,
Massenet was moving away, with the fashion, from the enclosed
and self-sufficient air, towards a freer and more fragmentary melody
of the kind foreshadowed by Meyerbeer in Act IV of Les Huguenots.
Thus Werther's monologue, "Q spectacle ideal c£ amour* starts infor-
mally, as it were. The final cadence is still purely traditional in the
Gounod manner and this "tame" ending is even more noticeable in
the theme which accompanies Werther's hopeless love throughout
the opera. On the other hand, the orchestral music which introduces
the scene of Werther's suicide in Act IV has an hysterical violence
most apt in the circumstances, and closely resembles the music of
Tchaikovsky.
Thais relies much more than Werther on external effect and on
the popularity, even so late in the day, of the theme of the "good
prostitute/' Massenet obviously hoped to repeat the success of
Herodiade, and to exploit once again, in the relationship between
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Thais and Athanael, the "erotisme discret et quasi religieux" which
dlndy had considered the distinguishing mark of Massenet's ora-
torio, Marie Magdeleine, twenty years earlier. The whole work is
more old-fashioned than Werther, and it was already anachronistic
in 1894 to make the climax of the ballet a ballroom waltz danced
by La Perdition. Like Puccini after him, Massenet was adept at
gleaning ideas from the methods of the modernists of the day; and
so we find, separating the first two scenes of Act II, a small sym-
phonic poem describing the loves of Venus and Adonis, while the
famous Meditation is a transformation (in the Lisztian and Franck-
ian sense) of the main theme from the orchestral interlude. It is
interesting, too, to observe the naive rhythmic associations— trace-
able to the opera-comique of the 18th century— which make Massenet
employ the voluptuous 12/8 or 9/8 rhythms for Thais before her
conversion, whereas afterwards she sings in a simple 4/4 time or at
most an occasional chaste 6/8 time ("Uamour est une vertu rare").
The famous song to her looking glass ("Dis-moi que ]e suis belle") is
a direct descendant of the N'est ce plus ma main in Manon.
Massenet's music has suffered from its fashionableness. No com-
poser has been more whole-heartedly despised by one section of
his contemporaries nor more popular with the general public. Mas-
senet's whole nature was centered in the desire to please, and this
has been enough to damn him in the eyes of intellectuals who, in
every generation, provide a strong— and generally wholesome-
puritan element in matters of taste. The desire to please creates
prettiness, that facile and doubtfully bred poor relation of beauty.
The appeal of the pretty is directly to the untrained senses, and,
through them, to the surface emotions. Massenet's music resembles
the pretty, superficial, and sentimental type of woman who relies
on her charm, her feminine instinct, her dressmaker, and her hair-
dresser to carry her through life. It is an eternal feminine type and
like all such types it has its biological and social justification; not
certainly as the highest nor— as misogynists would say— as the basic
type of woman, but simply as a type, despised by intellectuals and
adored by the public, which has an unreasoning instinct for what is
and remains indifferent to what ought to be. Massenet's operas,
something like twenty of them, are a portrait gallery of women, most
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JULES MASSENET
of whom conform to this type. Each new work after Herodiade is
a variation of the same theme— the feminine character in the most
striking point in which it differs from the masculine, Manon, Esclar-
monde, Thai's, La Navarraise, Sappho, Cinderella, Griselda, Ariadne,
Therese are all grand amoureuses and they all, in different ways, con-
form to the feminine type, accepted in Latin countries until re-
cently, for whom sexual love provides the central, and often the
only meaning of existence. Long before Massenet died in 1912 this
type had fallen into disrepute. . . . Beneath a new form of puritan-
ism the love-obsessed woman has been progressively degraded. We
find her in Strauss's Salome and again in Elektra where Chrysothe-
mis is the mere woman and the foil to her virile sister; and she has
sunk as low as it is possible to sink in Alban Berg's Lulu. In Puccinf s
Turandot, again, a woman's obsession with love has turned sour
and taken the form of cruelty and craving for power: the wheel has
gone full circle from the healthy, instinctive passion of Massenefs
heroines with their clinging caresses and their simple philosophy of
the world well lost for love. Love has been stripped of its idealistic
glamor and reduced to sex alone.
No wonder that Massenet's operas have lost their popularity.
What of their musical value? Massenet was an opportunist, as any
purveyor of the pretty, the immediately catchy, must be; for pretti-
ness varies with the fashion while beauty, to the trained and discern-
ing eye, is immortal; but Manon must watch the fashions, in music
as in everything else. After Thais Massenet was aware of the storm
of realism which blew up from Italy with the appearance of Caval-
leria Rusticana and had already caused a minor disturbance in
France with Alfred Bruneau's Le Reve. La Navarraise (1894) was an
essay in the veristic manner— short, sharp, brutal, and designed to
work by direct action on the spectators, to galvanize instead of to
charm. This was not Massenet's true gift, but for a short time the
opera had a success; and in his next, Sapho (1897), based on AI-
phonse Daudet's novel, he tried again in a full-length work— La
Navarraise had only two acts—to portray the woman to whom love
brings simply tragedy. The theme associated with the heroine,
Fanny, is a direct descendant of the tragic theme in Carmen, and
Act III, in which Fanny tries to get her lover back from his family,
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is the nearest that Massenet ever approached to genuine tragedy.
In the first two acts, on the other hand, he expressed better even
than in Manon the precarious bliss of the clandestine affair, a Bo-
hemianism with the perpetual hint of tragedy. The conflict between
his mistress and his family in the young man's emotions, so natural
and moving to a 19th-century Latin audience, would probably seem
as unreal and exaggerated to a sophisticated modern audience as does
the parallel situation in Carmen. The moral feeling on which the
convention was based has, temporarily at least, been so weakened
that the dramatic point is lost. Even so, the pleading of Fanny
with Jean is irresistible, and the touching variation which follows is
typical of Massenet at his best.
Cendrillon (1899) is treated frankly as a fairy story, with some
excellent writing in the Italian buffo style. The music is largely
decorative, written to entertain and only touching and sentimental
here and there (the farewell to the old armchair in Act III, for ex-
ample, in the same vein as Manon's farewell to the furniture in the
room she had shared with des Grieux).
In Griselidis (1901) and Le Jongleur de Notre Dame (1902) Mas-
senet attempted a new field, medieval legend. . . . Le Jongleur is
one of Massenet's best works— paradoxically, because there is not
a single feminine character in the original version. It is the story
of a wandering player turned monk, ashamed of his ignorance and
lack of talent in the monastery and finally singing and dancing be-
fore the statue of Our Lady, who rewards his humility with a mira-
cle. It was first published by Gaston Paris twenty-five years before,
as Le Tombeur de Notre Dame, and was treated again later by Ana-
tole France in L'Etui de Nacre. Massenet obtains the contrast, neces-
sary to a work in which only male voices are used, by the under-
lining of the two elements which were at war in the Jongleur him-
self—the secular and the religious. The crowd scenes in Act I and
the blasphemous Alleluia du vin are followed in Act II by the re-
hearsing of a new motet in the cloister, brilliantly done, and by the
rival claims of the various monks for the supremacy of their various
arts— sculpture, painting, poetry, and music. Boniface, the cook, a
half-comic character and the only one who understands the Jon-
gleur, in one of Massenet's best minor roles; and the musical quality
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JULES MASSENET
of the whole work in winch there is no hint of a love interest, shows
that Massenet's lyre was not really one-stringed, and that circum-
stances of his own taste account to a large extent for the repetitive-
ness of his other librettos.
Both Cherubin (1905) and Ariane (1906) show signs of Massenet's
age. He had always been industrious, and industry combined with
a great natural f acility had led him to exploit to the full for over
thirty years a never very rich vein. After Le Jongleur de Notre Dame
he became simply repetitive and Therese (1907) was his last success.
This is an intimate two-act opera based on a story of the French
Revolution and the conflict of two allegiances— love and duty—in
the heart of the heroine. The old regime is characterized by a menuet
(f amour, which is a charming piece of pastiche, and the Revolution
by a simple march theme. Massenet had been able to adapt himself
to the first minor operatic revolution which threatened his popu-
larity—the appearance of lyrical realism. The school reached the
zenith of its popularity in 1900 when Gustave Charpentier (1860-
1956) produced his Louise, written in a skilfully modernized version
of Massenet's own style. After that Massenet was too old to com-
pete any more, and apart from his final success with Don Quichotte
(1910), the remaining operas written before his death added nothing
to his reputation.
MASSENET SPEAKS
I have made it a point to afford myself the necessary element of
contrast in the style of my every succeeding work. If I write one
in a lofty, passionate, tragic mood, I see to it that my next is in a
comic or otherwise different vein. And after a less serious piece,
again, something more exciting, more profound, more passionate. By
thus constantly changing the emotional atmosphere in which I am
immersed I avoid fatigue.
When I have completed a composition I experience a deep and
poignant grief. I have loved the work. I have had untold joy at see-
ing it grow. I have lived with my characters, have been happy and
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
have suffered with them. I have lost myself completely in my crea-
tion. I have totally merged my personality with the persons I have
brought into being. They are so intensely real to me! And then, alas,
when all is finished, I must tear myself away from them. I must give
them to the public. And therewith the charm of the heartfelt in-
timacy is over. I have, it almost seems to me, given away my chil-
dren in marriage and they have deserted me.
Fundamentally my style has not changed from year to year. But
what does determine the general character of my music is the kind
of subject it paints. This is a fact that one has often to explain to
people, to critics in particular, before they understand a work.
Critics do not take the time to study a composition intelligently be-
fore delivering their verdict.
I compose very easily, my ideas coming to me spontaneously and
without effort. I believe that ideas that can only be brought into
being by labor are worthless.
I have not been very deeply influenced by the developments
among the composers in France at present. I have no confidence
in the new scale which I feel sure has no future, and I still have
a great deal in the old one, which is by no means played out in spite
of all that may be said to the contrary. See all the chords you can
build on the tones of our familiar scale! And then, when you turn
to the other you find but one single chord— that of the augmented
fifth! And how monotonous this chord becomes after a short while!
In a way I should feel thankful to this new music, for it benefits
me. People turn to me all the more gratefully for what I have been
able to give them and I therefore gain a larger number of admirers
among the public.
Thoughts After Death
(Epilogue to Massenet's Autobiography)
I have departed from this planet and I have left behind my poor
earthly ones with their occupations which are as many as they are
useless; at last I am living in the scintillating splendor of the stars,
each of which used to seem to me as large as millions of suns. Of old,
I was never able to get such lighting for my scenery on the great
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JULES MASSENET
stage of the Opera where the backdrops were too often in darkness.
Henceforth there will be no letters to answer; I have bade farewell
to first performances and the literary and other discussions which
come from them.
Here there are no newspapers, no dinners, no sleepless nights.
Ah! if I could but counsel my friends to join me here; I would not
hesitate to call them to me. But would they come?
Before I came to this distant place where I now sojourn, I wrote
out my last wishes (an unhappy husband would have taken advan-
tage of the occasion to write with joy, "my first wishes"). I had in-
dicated that above all I wanted to be buried at Egreville, near the
family abode in which I had lived so long. Oh, the good cemetery
in the open fields, silent as befits those who live there! I asked that
they should refrain from hanging black draperies on my door, orna-
ments worn threadbare by use. I expressed the wish that a suitable
carriage should take me from Paris, the journey, with my consent, to
begin at eight in the morning.
An evening paper (perhaps two) felt it to be its duty to inform its
readers of my decease. A few friends— I still had some the day be-
fore—came and asked my concierge if the news were true, and he
replied, "Alas, Monsieur went without leaving his address." And his
reply was true for he did not know where that obliging carriage
was taking me.
At lunch, acquaintances honored me among themselves with their
condolences, and during the day here and there in the theaters they
spoke of the adventure.
"Now that he is dead, they'll play him less, won't they?"
"Do you know that he left still another work?"
"Ah, believe me, I loved him well. I have always had such great
success in his works." A woman's lovely voice said that.
They wept at my publishers, for there they loved me dearly.
At home, Rue de Vaugirard, my wife, daughter, grandchildren,
and great-grandchildren gathered and almost found consolation in
their sobs.
The family was to reach Egreville the same evening, the night
before my burial.
And my soul (the soul that survives the body) listened to all these
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sounds from the city left behind. As the carriage took me farther
and farther away, the talking and the noises grew fainter and fainter,
and I knew, for I had my vault built long ago, that the heavy stone
once sealed would be a few hours later the portal of oblivion.
302
FRANZ LISZT
1811-1886
FRANZ LISZT was born in Raiding, Hungary, on October 22, 1811.
After successful appearances as a prodigy pianist lie came to Vienna
in 1821 where he studied the piano with Czerny and theory with
Salieri. He was acclaimed on his Vienna debut as pianist on De-
cember 1, 1822. He then went to Paris to enter the Conservatory,
but was denied admission because he was a foreigner. For a short
period he studied composition with Reicha and Paer. A Paris debut
on March 8, 1824— followed by performances throughout Europe-
established his reputation as a virtuoso.
Settling in Paris in 1827, where he was caught in the cross-cur-
rents of its intellectual and political life, he decided to abandon
music for other endeavors. In turn he sought out philosophy, politics,
literature, and religion. But by 1830, his personal associations with
Chopin, Paganini, and Berlioz, carried him back to music-making.
Paganini's genius with the violin inspired Liszt to become the fore-
most piano virtuoso of his time. For two years he worked slavishly
on his piano technique, returning to the concert stage in 1833 one of
the most idolized and widely acclaimed pianists of his generation.
His virtuoso career was temporarily interrupted by a turbulent
love affair with Marie Countess d'Agoult. Though married and a
mother, she went to live with Liszt in Geneva in 1835. They stayed
together four years, in which time three children were born to
them, one of these being Cosima, destined to become the wife first
of Hans von Billow and later of Wagner. When Liszt and the
Countess separated in 1839, the former embarked on a series of
triumphant concert tours.
In 1848, Liszt was appointed Kapehneister to the Grand Duke
of Weimar. He held this post over a decade, devoting himself with
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
the highest artistic dedication to performances of opera and or-
chestral music, and to championing new music and unrecognized
contemporary composers. In Weimar, Liszt formed a new liaison—
with the brilliant though eccentric Princess Carolyne von Sayn-
Wittgenstein. Her bent for religion and mysticism reawakened in
Liszt his one-time religious ardor and eventually led him to seek
out the spiritual comforts of the church. After leaving Weimar in
1859, Liszt achieved minor orders, submitted to the tonsure in 1865,
then entered the Third Order of St. Francis of Assisi as abbe. The
Princess also influenced his career as musician, inspiring him to de-
vote more of his energies to creative work. Up to now, Liszt's com-
positions had been primarily for the piano, including such works
as the Annees de pelerinage, first two series (1835-36, 1838-39), the
Paganini Etudes (1838), the Consolations (1849-50), the extremelv
popular Liebestraum (1850), and the Etudes d'execution transcen-
dante (1851). Stimulated and encouraged by the Princess he now
sought to write larger and more ambitious works: vast religious com-
positions for chorus; huge programmatic orchestral compositions like
the Faust and Dante symphonies (1856-57); and twelve shorter
programmatic works for orchestra, including the famous Les Pre-
ludes (1854), with which he devised the form henceforth known as
the tone poem or symphonic poem. He also helped establish and
popularize the rhapsody form with his Hungarian Rhapsodies (1846-
85).
He broke off his friendship of many-years standing with Wagner
in 1866 when his daughter, Cosima, deserted her husband Hans von
Billow to go to live with the genius of the music drama. Liszt and
Wagner were not reconciled until six years later, when Liszt attended
the ceremonies for the laying of the cornerstone of the Festspielhaus
in Bayreuth and then to be present at the first Wagner festival there.
But Cosima never forgave her father. She refused to permit him to
attend Wagner's funeral in 1883 and would not have him as a guest
at her home.
Liszt continued making spasmodic concert appearances as pianist
until the end of his life, scoring a triumph in London in 1886. But
his last years were spent in poverty and asceticism. He died of pneu-
monia in Bayreuth, Bavaria, on July 31, 1886.
304
THE MAN
AMY FAY
COUNTESS MARIE D'AGOULT
Liszt is the most interesting and striking looking man imaginable.
He is tall and slight, with deep-set eyes, shaggy eyebrows, and long
iron-gray hair, which he wears parted in die middle. His mouth
turns up at the corners, which gives him a most crafty and Mephisto-
phelean expression when he smiles, and his whole appearance and
manner have a sort of Jesuitical elegance and ease. His hands are
very narrow, with long and slender fingers that look as if they had
twice as many joints as the other people's. They are so flexible and
supple that it makes you nervous to look at them. Anything like the
polish of his manner I never saw. When he got up to leave the box,
for instance, after his adieus to the ladies, he laid his hand on his
heart and made his final bow— not with affectation, or in mere gal-
lantry, but with a quiet courtliness which made you feel that no
other way of bowing to a lady was right or proper. It was most
characteristic.
But the most extraordinary thing about Liszt is his wonderful
variety of expression and play of feature. One moment his face will
look dreamy, shadowy, tragic. The next he will be insinuating, ami-
able, ironical, sardonic; but always with the same captivating grace
of manner. He is a perfect study. I cannot imagine how he must
look when he is playing. He is all spirit, but half the time, at least,
a mocking spirit. All Weimar adores him, and people say that
women still go perfectly crazy over him. When he walks out he
bows to everybody just like a king.
He is the most phenomenal being in every respect. All that youVe
heard of him would never give you an idea of him. In short, he
represents the whole scale of human emotion. He is a many-sided
prism and reflects back all the light in all colors, no matter how
you look at him.
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THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
"When I play, I always play for the people in the gallery so that
these people who pay only five groschen for the seat also hear some-
thing/' Then Liszt began to play, and I wish you could have heard
him! The sound didn't seem to be very loud, but it was penetrating
and far-reaching. When he had finished, he raised one hand in the
air, and you seemed to see all the people in the gallery, drinking in
the sound. That is the way Liszt teaches you, He presents an idea
to you, and it takes fast hold of your mind, and sticks there. Music
is such a real, visible thing to him, that he always has a symbol,
instantly, in the material world to express his idea.*
In politics, as in religion, he hated mediocrity, and his opinions
were audaciously advanced. He despised the bourgeois monarchy
of Louis Philippe and the government of the juste milieu; he cried
out with all his being for the reign of justice, that is to say, a re-
public as he conceived it. With the same effervescence he gave him-
self up to the new movements in letters and the arts that were then
menacing the old traditions. Childe Harold, Manfred, Werther,
Obermann, all the proud or desperate revolutionaries of romantic
poetry, were the companions of his sleepless nights. With their aid
he rose to a haughty disdain of conventions; like them he quivered
under the detested yoke of aristocracies that were founded on
neither genius nor virtue; he cried out for an end to submission,
an end to resignation, for a holy implacable hate that should avenge
all iniquities. , . . The voice of the young enchanter, his vibrant
speech, opened out before me a whole infinity, now luminous, now
somber, forever changing, into which my thoughts plunged and
were lost. . . .
* The paragraphs above are by Amy Fay; the one below, by the Countess
d'Agoult.
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FRANZ LISZT
THE COMPOSER
CECIL GRAY
The mere mention of Franz Liszt's name is enough to evoke in
response a string of epithets such as fustian, tinsel, pinchbeck, rhodo-
montade, tawdry, shoddy, garish, bedizened, and so on; but you
will generally find that those people who are most lavish in their
employment of this vocabulary know little of Liszt's music. Even
those who do know his work sufficiently well to be in a position to
judge it for themselves almost invariably approach it with an ad-
verse prejudice which is to a great extent quite unconscious, the
outcome of several decades of steady vituperation of Liszt on the
part of musicians of every conceivable creed and tendency. The
inevitable result is that they find in it precisely what they expect
to find, what they have been taught to find, what they subcon-
sciously wish to find.
Now, it need hardly be said that such hard-and-fast, cut-and-dried,
ready-made preconceived notions as these we have been examining
have always a certain basis of justification. It is undeniable that at
least some of the music of Liszt, and certainly most of it that is
known and most frequently performed, thoroughly merits the deni-
gratory epithets set forth above. Liszt's admirers, however, set
little store by the greater part of the works by which he is commonly
known; in fact, they might even agree with the conventional view
of him in so far as it is based upon such works as the Piano Concerto
No. 1 in E-flat (1849), the symphonic poem Les Preludes (1854), the
etude La Campanella (1838), the Hungarian Rhapsodies, and the
Liebestraum (1850), which are about all of Liszt that is familiar
to the average concertgoer, and all of which are among his least
successful productions. It is, or should be, a truism to say that a
composer should be judged by his best work, but Liszt, up to the
present time, has been condemned on account of his worst. It is true
that the music public frequently displays a disconcerting propensity
for taking to its heart the least significant productions of a great
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
master; in our time, for example, Elgar first achieved recognition
through Salut d'amour and Pomp and Circumstance,, and Sibelius
similarly through Valse triste and Finlandia.
In the course of time, however, their most important works have
come to be appreciated at their proper value, but although Liszt
has been dead over three-quarters of a century this consummation
has not yet taken place with regard to his music; in concert programs
he is still represented by works of the same order as those of Elgar
and Sibelius mentioned above. Les Preludes is of all his large orches-
tral works the weakest; La Campanella is the least admirable of his
studies in pianistic virtuosity; the Hungarian Rhapsodies, if hardly
deserving the abuse to which they are habitually subjected, are
quite unimportant; and the E-flat Concerto is admittedly a some-
what vulgar and flashy composition which, moreover, is played
too often. Indeed, the only great and important works of Liszt which
is comparatively well known to the ordinary concertgoing public is
the Piano Sonata (1852-53), and the fact that this truly superb work
should still elicit from many critical pens, whenever it is performed,
the same stale old cliches that I quoted at the outset of this essay,
provides the best illustration possible of my contention to the effect
that the writers of such nonsense are listening to the music with a
subconscious prejudice against the composer. To call such music as
this "tinsel" or "pinchbeck"— the two favorite words in the anti-
Lisztian vocabulary— is a critical aberration of the first magnitude.
The Piano Sonata is pure gold throughout, probably the most out-
standing achievement in piano music of the entire 19th century.
Whenever, then— and it is very often— one finds anyone giving
vent to the customary cliches concerning the music of Liszt, one
can be fairly sure that he is either totally ignorant of Liszt's work
as a whole, or else so hidebound with prejudice that his reaction
is not to the music itself but only to the associated idea. They may
be applicable to a certain restricted number of his works, which
happen unfortunately to be his best-known ones, but that is all. So
far, indeed, are they from being true of his work as a whole that the
exact opposite is very much nearer the truth, namely, that a chrono-
logical survey of his entire output reveals a steady and consistent
diminution in brilliant externality, ending in a bareness and austerity
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FRANZ LISZT
of utterance almost without parallel in music. Moreover, even in
many of those works which may seem to merit the opprobrious epi-
thets habitually cast at them, the faults lie entirely on the surface
and do not affect the sound core of the music.
In this respect there is a very close relation between the artist and
the man. In the earlier part of his career, in particular, with all
Liszt's splendor, brilliance, and generosity, one feels a certain ele-
ment of ostentation and display in his character which are not en-
tirely sympathetic, suggesting the artistic equivalent of a nouveau
riche—he is altogether too conscious of his genius. Underneath this
slightly vulgar exterior, however, there lay always the fineness and
nobility of character which have perforce been recognized even by
those who were, and are, most hostile to his art. In this connection
there is an interesting and instructive anecdote told by his friend
Legouve, to the effect that on one occasion when Liszt was posing
for his portrait, the French painter, Ary Scheffer, said to him rudely,
"Don't put on the airs of a man of genius with me; you know well
enough that I am not impressed by it." "You are perfectly right, my
dear friend," replied Liszt quietly, "but you must try to forgive me;
you cannot realize how it spoils one to have been an infant prodigy."
The reply shows all the greatness and fineness of sensibility which
underlay the superficial pose, involuntarily, unconsciously assumed,
out of sheer force of habit and upbringing. Precisely the same phe-
nomenon is to be observed in his art; the element of vulgarity and
display in it which has always aroused such violent critical censure
is just as superficial and skin-deep as it is with the man, and if his
critics had reproached him with it to his face he no doubt would
have replied to them as he replied to Ary Scheffer, saying that it was
the inevitable outcome of having begun his artistic career as a piano
virtuoso.
For this reason, the music of Liszt constitutes one of the most
searching tests of critical acumen that the art presents. The hasty
and superficial critic fails to penetrate through the frequently mere-
tricious outer shell to the solid worth beneath, and only the most
experienced and discerning assayer is able to determine correctly
the proportion of pure metal to base in the complex alloys which
many of his works are.
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THE WORLD OF GKEAT COMPOSERS
Even if one were to admit for the sake of argument that the
brilliance and glitter of much of Liszt's music are intrinsically con-
demnable, the stricture only applies to a part of his work. For in
the same way that Liszt began his career as a triumphant and opu-
lent virtuoso and then gradually and progressively withdrew himself
from the world until he finally took holy orders and died in poverty,
so his work, viewed as a whole, exhibits precisely the same steady,
unbroken process of recession from all that is superficial, decora-
tive, external, until in the writings of his last years he arrives at
a bareness and austerity of utterance which have no parallel in
music. Needless to say, these later works are entirely unknown to
those who prate so glibly of Liszt's flashiness and so forth. Not that
I would necessarily suggest that they are his most important compo-
sitions, any more than his assumption of holy orders was the con-
summation of his earthly life. On the contrary, it is probable that
the devout churchman in Liszt grew at the expense of the artist,
and that the asceticism of the later works denotes a similar weaken-
ing and impoverishment of the genius exhibited in some of his
earlier works. The fact remains that to ignore this process of de-
velopment and its ultimate phase is to misunderstand Liszt entirely;
to speak of him as an artist exclusively preoccupied with effects
of superficial brilliance and showiness is as if one were to represent
St. Augustine as the Don Juan of antiquity and St. Francis as the
Casanova of the Middle Ages, simply because they lived loose and
worldly lives in their youth. To concentrate almost exclusively
on the early Liszt, or even the Liszt of complete maturity, and to
ignore the latest works; to dwell at length on his dazzling triumphs
as a virtuoso in his youth and to forget the twilight of his closing
years and his tragic end, neglected and penniless, at Bayreuth of all
places-this is to misunderstand him altogether. That the composer
who, of all composers who have ever lived, has gone farthest in the
direction of austerity and asceticism, and finally pushed the modern
doctrine of the elimination of non-essentials to such an extreme
pitch that he often ended by eliminating essentials as well-that he
should invariably be held up to derision and contempt by musical
historians and critics and represented as the supreme charlatan
and trick showman of music— this is surely the most consummate
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stroke of ironic perversity in the history of music; for in such works
as the symphonic poem Von der Wiege bis zum Grabe (1882), the
third and last series of the Annees de pelerinage (1877), the later
piano pieces such as Nuages gris (1881), Sinistre (c. 1882), La lugubre
gondole (1882), and others, the last songs such as Tai perdu ma force
(1872), Sei still (1877), Gebet (c. 1878), Eimt (c. 1878), Verlassen
(1880), Und wir dachten (c. 1880)— in all these works with which he
concluded his creative career one finds quite a disconcerting bare-
ness of idiom and a complete sacrifice of every means of effect to
the purposes of expression. The conceptions, moreover, to which
expression is given in these later works are almost invariably of a
gloomy and tragic order, and again in this respect also one finds
merely the ultimate point of a constantly growing tendency through-
out his entire creative activity. The real fundamental Liszt, indeed,
is not the brilliant and facile rhetorician that he is invariably made
out to be, delighting principally in grandiose sonorities and tri-
umphant apotheoses; the essence of his art, on the contrary, consists
in a sadness, a melancholy, a disillusion, a despair, of a depth and
intensity unequalled, perhaps, in all music. No composer has ever
ventured farther into that City of Dreadful Night of which the
poet Thomson sings; none has expressed with greater poignancy
"that all is vanity and nothingness."
This is the essential Liszt. It is here that his true greatness lies,
here that he is original, unique, unsurpassed. Too often, however,
as a dutiful son of the Church, he felt himself constrained to give
the lie to his innermost convictions, of which, perhaps, he was not
himself fully and consciously aware; hence his pompous, triumphant
finales which are almost invariably the weakest sections of his works.
Hostile criticism, in fact, is fully justified here in a sense; it rightly
perceives in such things a certain hollowness, lack of conviction, and
seeming insincerity, but errs in diagnosing the cause of them. Too
often, indeed, Liszt went a long way toward spoiling his best works
through his assumption of a facile and shallow optimism which is
in opposition to his real self and stands in flagrant contradiction to
what has gone before. The ending of the Faust Symphony (1854-
57) is a case in point. The work should logically have concluded
with the Mephistopheles movement, and I believe I am right in
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
saying that such was the original conception, but scruples of con-
science and ethical considerations generally led him to tack on to
the end of it a choral epilogue, a kind of "happy ending" depicting
redemption, through womanly love, which not only impairs the pro-
fundity and originality of the conception as a whole, but also con-
stitutes a blot upon the otherwise perfect form and musical logic
of the work. This fault, however, does not prevent the Faust Sym-
phony from being probably, on the whole, his greatest work and
one of the highest achievements of the 19th century; for the rest,
however, his most completely satisfying compositions on a large
scale are those in which the sadness and despair which are at the
core of his thought and feeling are not thus contradicted, such as
the tone poems Ce quon entend sur la montagne (1848-49), Hervide
funebre (1849-50), Hamlet (1858), and the great Piano Sonata, the
closing page of which I never hear without thinking involuntarily of
that terrible little sentence of Pascal, "Le silence eternel de ces es-
paces infinis mefraie" of which it always seems to me to be the
perfect musical embodiment and equivalent. Even the finest of his
sacred music is not that wherein he celebrates the glories of the
Church militant and triumphant, as in so many grandiose pages of
the Grand Festmesse (1855), Die Legende von der heiligen Elisabeth
(1857-62), and Christus (1855-59), fine works though they are in
many ways, but in such things as his deeply moving setting of the
thirteenth Psalm, "How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? For ever?
How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?" Here again, however,
the beauty of the work is somewhat impaired by the exultant con-
clusion, which does not seem to ring entirely true.
Another widely prevalent misconception regarding the music of
Liszt is that, in the words of Dannreuther in his volume on The Ro-
mantic Period in The Oxford History of Music, "he devoted extraor-
dinary mastery of instrumental technique to the purposes of illus-
trative expression." All the tone poems, with the exception of
Orpheus, are, Dannreuther says, "impromptu illustrations, corre-
sponding to some poem, or picture, or group of concepts expressed
in words. They are mere sketches arranged in accordance with some
poetical plan, extraneous, and more or less alien, to music. . . .
From the point of view of musical design, a lax and loose concep-
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FRANZ LISZT
tion of art prevails more or less through all the poemes sympho-
niques. ... In lieu of musical logic and consistency of design, he
is content with rhapsodical improvisation. The power of persistence
seems wanting. . . . The musical growth is spoilt, the development
of the themes is stopped or perverted by some reference to extrane-
ous ideas. Everywhere the program stands in the way and the ma-
terials refuse to coalesce/'
The two chief accusations made against Liszt here, namely, a
lack of formal cohesion and a reliance on programmatic ideas alien
to music, are both entirely untrue. Out of the twelve symphonic
poems, which are the objects of these strictures, Hungaria (1854) and
Festklange (1853) have no program at all. Hamlet has no other than
is contained in the title and makes no attempt to illustrate the
drama. Hunnenschlacht (1857) is merely a battlepiece, also with no
further indication than the title. Tasso (1849), Mazeppa (1851), and
Prometheus (1850) are merely variants on the simplest of all possible
musical formulas. The alleged programs of Lamento e Trionfo (1849),
Les Preludes and Hero'ide funebre are the vaguest kind of romantic
schtodrmerei and contain no concrete images susceptible of illus-
tration. Orpheus (1853-54) is specifically exempted by Dann-
reuther himself from the strictures quoted above. Only two of the
twelve can be truly said to be program music in the strict sense of
the words, namely the first and the last, Ce quon entend sur la
montagne and Die Ideale (1857), to which may also be added the
Dante Symphony (1855-56), which is only a gigantic tone poem in
two movements. The first of these is based upon a poem of Victor
Hugo, which it no doubt follows closely enough in general outline,
but the poem itself is nothing more or less than a preliminary sketch
for a musical composition. This is hardly a program that can be
called "extraneous and more or less alien to music," it will be ad-
mitted. Rather it is true that Victor Hugo was guilty of writing a
poem which is based upon a musical program that is extraneous and
more or less alien to poetry.
In Die Ideale the composer followed an entirely different scheme
from the poem of Schiller on which it was ostensibly based. The or-
der of the verses inscribed in the score is not that of the poet, but
an arbitrary arrangement made by the composer; even then he does
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
not by any means follow the poem line by line, or even verse by
verse. Still, it is true that the literary element in Die Ideale remains
considerable, and without a knowledge of it the work is apt to seem
somewhat unintelligible. The same is true of the Dante Symphony,
but neither of these two works, though they are certainly among
Liszt's most ambitious efforts, is among his best. Of them it may be
admitted that the musical development is conditioned, and some-
times hindered, to a great extent by extraneous literary ideas, and
that the form is, in consequence, loose and unsatisfactory. But to
say of the rest of the large orchestral works, as Dannreuther and
others do, that they are completely formless and consist chiefly of
"rhapsodical improvisations" is entirely untrue, and can indeed be
proved untrue. If Liszt is not one of the great masters of form
—and he certainly is not— the reason is not that he relies on "rhap-
sodical improvisation" but precisely the opposite, namely, that his
form is often, perhaps generally, too mechanical, precise, logical, and
symmetrical, lacking the living, spontaneous, organic quality which
is characteristic of the highest achievements in musical form. In
some of his best works on a large scale, however, he does attain to
formal perfection, notably in the Piano Sonata, Hamlet, and— apart
from the slight flaw already indicated— the great Faust Symphony to
name only three.
The immense quantity of fine music that Liszt wrote for the piano
is almost entirely neglected by concert pianists, and is in conse-
quence virtually unknown to the general public, apart from a few
well-worn and hackneyed show pieces which are frequently in-
cluded in the final groups of recital programs solely in order to dis-
play the technical accomplishments of the performer. Many of the
best pieces, however, notably in the collections Annees de pelerinage,
and Harmonies poetiques et religieuses (1847-52), are not excep-
tionally difficult but, on the contrary, for the most part well within
the scope of the ordinarily proficient player, and among the finest
in the pianist repertory. On the other hand, the difficult Etudes
^execution transcendante are by no means mere virtuoso pieces,
but works of intrinsic merit as well, and even many of the greatly
abused operatic fantasias are in their way perfect masterpieces.
Saint-Saens has well said that such things are not necessarily any
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FRANZ LISZT
more negligible artistically than the overtures, which are generally
little more than fantasias on the themes of the opera which is to
follow. One might say that, while the overture prepares the listener's
mind for the drama which is to come, the Lisztian fantasia is in the
nature of an epilogue, a commentary or meditation upon the drama
after it is over. The transfiguring imaginative power which Liszt
brings to such things is seldom recognized criticism.
Two other neglected aspects of Liszt's phenomenally versatile
genius are the few, but superb, works, which he wrote for the organ
—probably the finest written for the instrument since Bach— namely,
the Fantasia and Fugue on the Theme B.A.C.H. (1855-56), the
Evocation in the Sistine Chapel (c. 1862) based upon Mozart's Ave
Vemm, the Fantasia and Fugue on the Chorale Ad Nos, Ad Salu-
tarem Undam (1850); and the fifty or so songs with piano accompani-
ments, some of which, such as Kennst du das Land? (1842), Es mus
ein Wunderbares sein (1857), Kling leise (1848), Ein Fichtenbaum
(1855), Konig im Thule (1842), Vatergruft (1844), Ich mochte hingehn
(1845), Ich scheide (1860), Enfant, si fetais roi (1844), and many
others too numerous to mention here, among the best songs written
since Schubert. Above all, however, does Liszt excel in his settings
of Heine, whose combination of sentimentality and irony, of lyricism
and cynicism, was particularly congenial and akin to his own tem-
perament.
This strain of irony and cynicism which so often underlies the
suave and sentimental exterior of his music is the active aspect of the
weariness and disillusionment which we have already noted in much
of his best work, and particularly in his later years— the combination
of medieval accidia and modern Weltschmerz which we find in his
Hamlet, for example, and in the last songs and piano pieces. There
it is, passive, despairing, almost resigned; in its more positive mani-
festations it takes the form of a withering and pitiless mockery of
which the most perfect expression is to be found in the third move-
ment of the Faust Symphony, the Second Mephisto Waltz (1880-
81), the Totentanz (1849), and other similar essays in the musical
macabre. It runs like a Leitmotiv, however, throughout his entire
work.
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THE WOELD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Whatever one's opinion may be concerning the intrinsic merit, or
the reverse, of Liszt's music, there can be no two opinions, concern-
ing the immense influence his work has had, for good or evil, and
possibly for both, on the history of the art— greater in all probability
than that of any other composer who has ever lived. No musician
has more generously lavished such superlative interpretative gifts, as
pianist, as transcriber, as conductor (during the Weimar period), on
his great predecessors and contemporaries; similarly none has more
richly endowed his contemporaries and successors with the fruits
of his creative activities. Liszt, indeed, quite simply is the father of
modern music. There is no composer of any importance during the
latter part of the 19th century, or the beginning of the 20th century,
who has not been influenced by him in some way or another. The
first and most important of all was, of course, Wagner. The Wag-
nerians have always attempted to minimize and gloss over this debt,
but Wagner himself, greatly to his credit, never tried to do so but,
on the contrary, openly proclaimed it. It is generally recognized
today that the immense step forward that Wagner made between
Lohengrin and Das Rheingold is in large part due to the influence
of Liszt.
There is no need to mention the enormous extent of the debt that
is owed to him by the most eminent modern German composers; it
speaks for itself. The Richard Strauss (1864-1949) of the tone poems,
for example, could not have existed without Liszt, and the same ap-
plied to innumerable others. Even Brahms himself, it is interesting
and instructive to note, was influenced by Liszt in his early works
such as the first and second piano sonatas, where he adopts the
Lisztian device of thematic transformation, and in the clearly poetic
elements of the third. In France, Saint-Saens was, of course, one
of the most fervent admirers and disciples of Liszt, and one of
his most sedulous imitators. Cesar Franck, is no less demonstrably
and effectually indebted to him, not merely in his tone poems but
in all his work, and the so-called Impressionists were anticipated by
him in many of their most characteristic effects and procedures,
sometimes by as much as half a century— see, for example, such
things as Au bord d'une source and the Jeux d'eaux a la Villa d'Este
S16
FRANZ LISZT
in the Annees pdlerinage, and the Predication aux oiseaux of the
Legendes (1863), also the augmented fifths and whole-tone scales
encountered in works written as early as the 30's. Again, James
Gibbons Huneker has described Liszt, not without justice, as "the
first cosmopolitan in music/' and as such he has numerous, if some-
what undistinguished, progeny in every country in Europe— the
Moszkowskis, Glazunovs, Rachmaninoffs, Dohnanyis, and so forth,
are all direct descendants of Liszt; equally justly, however, he can
be regarded as the first of the nationalists, not merely by virtue of
his Hungarian Rhapsodies and other similar works, which were
practically the first of their kind, but also on account of the en-
couragement and inspiration he gave to the formation of national
schools in many countries. Mily Balakirev (1837-1910), the founder
of the Russian nationalist school, Alexander Borodin (1833-87), to
say nothing of Rimsky-Korsakov, were deeply influenced by Liszt; so
also were the Bohemian nationalists, Smetana and Dvorak, Isaac
Albeniz (1860-1909) and through him the modern Spanish national-
ists, and even the Norwegian Grieg. Other eminent composers pos-
sessing no distinctively nationalist traits or anything else in common
who have likewise been deeply influenced by him are Ferruccio
Busoni (1866-1924), who is in many respects the very reincarnation
of Liszt, Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915), whose witch's cauldron
contains many ingredients stolen from him, and Sir Edward Elgar
(1857-1934). Traces of his thought can even be perceived where
no direct influence exists. For example, the passage of interlock-
ing common chords of C natural and F sharp in Petrouchka by
Igor Stravinsky (1882- ) is basically identical with an episode in
the posthumously published Concerto for Piano and Orchestra of
Liszt entitled Malediction (c. 1840)— a strange and arresting coinci-
dence, this, by the way. Even Arnold Schoenberg (1874-1951) and
the atonalists derive in many respects from Liszt. The perverse and
ironic romanticism of Pierrot Lunaire, for example, is only a develop-
ment of that in the amazing third movement of the Faust Symphony,
and in his last works Liszt clearly foreshadows the principles of
atonality.
There are many clear indications that the day is at last approach-
ing when Liszt will be recognized not merely as the most potent
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THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
germinative force in modern music, but also, in his own right, as the
inspired creator of some of the greatest and most original master-
pieces of the 19th century.
LISZT SPEAKS
Music embodies feeling without forcing it— as it is forced in most
other arts, and especially in the art of words— to contend and com-
bine with thought. If music has an advantage over other media
through which man expresses his soul, it owes this to its supreme
capacity to make each inner impulse audible without the assistance
of reason. . . . Music presents at one and the same time both the
intensity and the expression of feeling. It is the embodied, the in-
telligible essence of feeling. Capable of being apprehended by our
senses, this feeling permeates the senses, and fills the soul, like a
ray of light, or like the dew. If music calls itself the supreme art,
this supremacy lies in the hot flame of emotion that fires the heart
without the aid of reflection, without having to wait upon accident
for an opportunity for self assertion. . . . Only in music does ac-
tively and radiantly present feeling lift the ban which oppresses our
spirit with the suffering of an evil earthly power and liberates us
with the whitecapped floods of its free and warmth-giving might
from "the demon of thought/' brushing away for brief moments this
yoke from our furrowed brows. Only in music does feeling . . . dis-
pense with the help of reason and its means of expression-so inade-
quate in comparison with intuition, so incomplete in comparison
with its strength, delicacy, and brilliance. On the towering, sounding
waves of music, feeling lifts up to the heights that lie beyond the
atmosphere of our earth, shows us cloud landscapes and world
archipelagos that move about in ethereal space like singing swans.
On the wings of the infinite art, it draws us with it to regions into
which it alone can penetrate; where, in the ringing ether, the heart
expands and, in anticipation, shares in an immaterial, incorporeal,
spiritual life.
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FRANZ LISZT
I prefer certain faults to certain virtues, the mistakes of clever
people to the effects of mediocrity. In this sense there are failures
which are better than many a success.
In the region of liberal arts they [authority and liberty] do not
happily bring in any of the dangers and disasters that their oscil-
lations occasion in the political and social world. In the domain of
the Beautiful, genius alone is the authority. Hence, Dualism disap-
pearing, the notions of authority and liberty are brought back to
their original identity. Manzoni, in defining genius as "a stronger
imprint of divinity*' has eloquently expressed this very truth.
Come back to the Faith. It gives such happiness. It is the only,
the true, the eternal. However bitterly you may scorn this feeling, I
cannot help recognizing in it the way of salvation. I cannot help
yearning for it, and choosing it.
Love is not justice. Love is not duty. It is not pleasure, either, but
it mysteriously contains all these things. There are a thousand ways
of experiencing it, a thousand ways of practising it, but for those
whose heart is utterly and infinitely thirsty, there is one, eternally
one, without beginning or end. If it manifests itself anywhere on
earth, it is above all in the complete trust of one in the other, in this
supreme conviction of our angelic nature, inaccessible to any saint,
impenetrable to everything outside of it. ... If love is at the bot-
tom of our hearts, all has been said. If it has disappeared, there is
nothing more to say.
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RICHARD WAGNER
1813-1883
WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER, creator of the music drama, was born
in Leipzig, Germany, on May 22, 1813. His musical training was
spasmodic, with random instruction in piano, violin, theory, and
composition. Before he was twenty he completed a piano sonata
string quartet, concert overture, and symphony; the last two were
performed in Leipzig and Prague between 1830 and 1833. His first
attempt at opera was Die Hochzeit, in 1832, which was never
finished.
His first complete opera (for which, as was to be his practice, he
wrote libretto as well as music), was Die Feen, in 1833; it remained
unperformed until five years after the composer's death. In 1834,
Wagner became conductor of the Magdeburg Opera where he com-
pleted Das Liebesverbot, his libretto based on Shakespeare's Meas-
ure for 'Measure. Its premiere, on March 29, 1836, proved such a
fiasco that it helped send the company into bankruptcy. Wagner
now found a new post as conductor in Konigsberg.
After marrying Minna Planer, an actress, in 1836, Wagner served
as conductor of the Riga Opera from 1837 to 1839. Heavily in-
volved in debts, he had to flee the city by way of a smuggler's route
to escape imprisonment. On September 17, 1839 he came to Paris,
where he encountered little but frustration, poverty, and indifference.
To survive, he had to accept hack work; at one period he was im-
prisoned for debts. Nevertheless, he managed to complete Rienzi
and to work on The Flying Dutchman (Der fliegende Hollander). He
also wrote a concert overture, A Faust Overture (Eine Faust-ouver-
ttire).
Rienzi was given on October 20, 1842, and The Flying Dutchman
on January 2, 1843, both at the Dresden Opera. Their success led to
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RICHARD WAGNER
Wagner's appointment as director of the Dresden Opera in 1843
where, for six years, he maintained the highest artistic standards.
During his tenure of this office he completed Tannhduser and
Lohengrin, the first of these introduced in Dresden on October 19,
1845.
Threatened again by arrest, this time for involvement in the revo-
lutionary movement in Germany during 1848-49, Wagner was
forced to flee Saxony. For a brief period he visited Liszt in Weimar.
Then he settled in Zurich where, in pamphlets and essays, he
started to propound his revolutionary concepts of opera— concepts
which he was about to crystallize in his own dramas. Meanwhile,
Lohengrin proved a major success when introduced in Weimar under
Liszt's direction, on August 28, 1850, and soon thereafter was seen
throughout Germany.
By 1852, Wagner had completed the text of a giant project: a
trilogy of operas, with a prologue, based on the Nibelungen legends.
The prologue, The Rhinegold (Das Rheingold) was completed in
1854. The first of the three dramas, The Valkyries (Die Walkiire]
came in 1856, followed by Siegfried in 1869, and The Twilight of the
Gods (Die Gotterdammerung) in 1874. Thus, this Gargantuan task
took him almost a quarter of a century to complete. Meanwhile he
had written two more operas, both along the principles and aesthetics
he had set for himself in the Ring cycle. One was Tristan and Isolde
(1859), and the other, his only mature comic opera, The Master-
singers (Die Meister singer} in 1867.
In the summer of 1860, an amnesty permitted Wagner to return
to Germany. His wife, Minna, was no longer with him, their mar-
riage having collapsed through a conflict of temperaments and be-
cause of Wagner's continual pursuit of other women. After his re-
turn to Saxony, Wagner fell in love with Cosima von Biilow, wife of
the famous pianist-conductor and a passionate Wagnerite; she was
also Liszt's daughter. In 1865, a daughter, Isolde, was born to
Cosima and Wagner. After the birth of a second daughter, Cosima
deserted von Biilow to live with Wagner in Triebschen, on Lake
Lucerne, in Switzerland. There a son, ^iegfried, was born to them
in 1869. Only after that— on August 25, 1870— were Cosima and
Wagner married.
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In 1864, at a time when Wagner was in continual flight from
creditors, he suddenly found a powerful patron in Ludwig II, King
of Bavaria. Through the king's beneficence Tristan and Isolde was
introduced on June 10, 1865, The Mastersingers on June 21, 1868,
The Rhinegold on September 22, 1869, and The Valkyries on June
26, 1870— all in Munich. But still Wagner was not satisfied. He now
had a new dream: a festival theater built to his own specifications
and requirements where his music dramas could be performed ac-
cording to his own exacting standards of staging and performance.
The city of Bayreuth, in Bavaria, offered him a site for a building
in 1872. Now settling in Bayreuth— where, in 1874, he built for him-
self a permanent home, the Villa Wahnfried— Wagner moved heaven
and earth to realize his life's ambition. Most of the funds for his
theater came from public subscription; some, from concerts con-
ducted by Wagner. At long last, the festival theater (Festspielhaus)
opened, and the first Wagner festival was inaugurated on August 13,
1876 with the world premiere of the complete Ring of the Nibelungs
cycle. The last two of its operas (Siegfried and The Twilight of the
Gods) were being performed for the first time anywhere, the former
on August 16, the latter on August 17. Pilgrims from all parts of the
world attended the event; since that time Bayreuth has remained a
shrine of the Wagnerian music drama.
Wagner's last music drama was Parsifal, a "stage-consecrating
festival play," introduced in Bayreuth on July 26, 1882. Wagner
was on vacation with Cosima in Venice when he suffered a fatal
heart attack. He died there on February 13, 1883. His body was
brought back to Bayreuth and was buried in the garden of Villa
Wahnfried where it still reposes.
THE MAN
DEEMS TAYLOR
He was an undersized little man, with a head too big for his body
-a sickly little man. His nerves were bad. He had skin trouble. It
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RICHABD WAGNER
was an agony for him to wear anything next to his skin coarser than
silk. And he had delusions of grandeur.
He was a monster of conceit. Never for one minute did he look
at the world or at people except in relation to himself. He was not
only the most important person in the world to himself; in his own
eyes he was the only person who existed. He believed himself to be
one of the greatest dramatists in the world, one of the greatest
thinkers, and one of the greatest composers. To hear him talk, he
was Shakespeare, and Beethoven, and Plato rolled into one. And you
would have had no difficulty in hearing him talk. He was one of the
most exhausting conversationalists that ever lived. An evening with
him was an evening spent in listening to a monologue. Sometimes he
was brilliant; sometimes he was maddeningly tiresome. But whether
he was being brilliant or dull, he had one sole topic of conversation:
himself. What he thought and what he did.
He had a mania for being in the right. The slightest hint of dis-
agreement from anyone, on the most trivial point, was enough to set
him off on a harangue that might last for hours, in which he proved
himself right in so many ways, and with such exhausting volubility,
that in the end his hearer, stunned and deafened, would agree with
him, for the sake of peace.
It never occurred to him that he and his doings were not of the
most intense and fascinating interest to anyone with whom he came
into contact. He had theories about almost any subject under the
sun, including vegetarianism, the drama, politics, and music; and in
support of these theories, he wrote pamphlets, letters, books . . .
thousands upon thousands of words, hundreds and hundreds of
pages. He not only wrote these things, and published them— usually
at somebody else's expense—but he would sit and read them aloud
for hours to his friends and family.
He wrote operas; and no sooner did he have the synopsis of a
story, but he would invite— or rather summon— a crowd of his
friends to his house and read it aloud to them. Not for criticism.
For applause. When the complete poem was written, the friends had
to come again, and hear that read aloud. Then he would publish the
poem, sometimes years before the music that went with it was
written. He played the piano like a composer, in the worst sense of
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what that implies, and he would sit down at the piano before parties
that included some of the finest pianists of his time, and play for
them, by the hour, his own music, needless to say. He had a com-
poser's voice. And he would invite eminent vocalists to his house,
and sing them his operas, taking all the parts.
He had the emotional stability of a six-year-old-child. When he
felt out of sorts, he would rave and stamp, or sink into suicidal
gloom and talk darkly of going to the East to end his days as a
Buddhist monk. Ten minutes later, when something pleased him, he
would rush out of doors and run around the garden, or jump up and
down on the sofa, or stand on his head. He could be grief-stricken
over the death of a pet dog, and he could be callous and heartless
to a degree that would have made a Roman emperor shudder.
He was almost innocent of any sense of responsibility. Not only
did he seem incapable of supporting himself, but it never occurred
to him that he was under any obligation to do so. He was convinced
that the world owed him a living. In support of this belief, he bor-
rowed money from everybody who was good for a loan—men,
women, friends, or strangers. He wrote begging letters by the score,
sometimes grovelling without shame, at others loftily offering his
intended benefactor the privilege of contributing to his support, and
being mortally offended if the recipient declined the honor. I have
found no record of his ever paying or repaying money to anyone
who did not have a legal claim upon it.
What money he could lay his hands on he spent like an Indian
rajah. The mere prospect of a performance of one of his operas was
enough to set him to running up bills amounting to ten times the
amount of his prospective royalties. On an income that would re-
duce a more scrupulous man to doing his own laundry, he would
keep two servants. Without enough money in his pocket to pay his
rent, he would have the walls and ceiling of his study lined with
pink silk. No one will ever know— certainly he never knew— how
much money he owed. We do know that his greatest benefactor gave
him $6,000 to pay the most pressing of his debts in one city, and a
year later had to give him $16,000 to enable him to live in another
city without being thrown into jail for debt.
He was equally unscrupulous in other ways. An endless procession
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RICHARD WAGNER
of women marches through his life. His first wife spent twenty years
enduring and forgiving his infidelities. His second wife had been the
wife of his most devoted friend and admirer, from whom he stole
her. And even while he was trying to persuade her to leave her first
husband he was writing to a friend to enquire whether he could sug-
gest some wealthy woman—ant/ wealthy woman— whom he could
marry for her money.
He was completely selfish in his other personal relationships. His
liking for his friends was measured solely by the completeness of
their devotion to him, or by their usefulness to him, whether finan-
cial or artistic. The minute they failed him— even by so much as re-
fusing a dinner invitation— or began to lessen in usefulness, he cast
them off without a second thought. At the end of his life he had
exactly one friend whom he had known even in middle age.
He had a genius for making enemies. He would insult a man who
disagreed with him about the weather. He would pull endless wires
in order to meet some man who admired his work, and was able and
anxious to be of use to him— and would proceed to make a mortal
enemy of him with some idiotic and wholly uncalled for exhibition
of arrogance and bad manners. A character in one of his operas was
a caricature of one of the most powerful music critics of his day.
Not content with burlesquing him, he invited the critic to his house
and read him the libretto aloud in front of his friends.
The name of this monster was Richard Wagner. Everything that
I have said about him you can find on record— in newspapers, in po-
lice reports, in the testimony of people who knew him, in his own
letters, between the lines of his autobiography. And the curious
thing about this record is that it doesn't matter in the least.
Because this undersized, sickly, disagreeable, fascinating little
man was right all the time. The joke was on us. He was one of the
world's great dramatists; he was a great thinker; he was one of the
most stupendous musical geniuses that, up to now, the world has
ever seen. The world did owe him a living. People couldn't know
those things at the time, I suppose; and yet to us, who know his
music, it does seem as though they should have known. What if he
did talk about himself all the time? If he had talked about himself
twenty-four hours every day for the span of his life he would not
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have uttered half the number of words that other men have spoken
and written about him since his death.
When you consider what he wrote— thirteen operas and music
dramas, eleven of them still holding the stage, eight of them unques-
tionably worth ranking among the world's great musico-dramatic
masterpieces— when you listen to what he wrote, the debts and
heartaches that people had to endure from him don't seem much of
a price. Eduard Hanslick, the critic whom he caricatured in Die
Meistersinger and who hated him ever after, now lives only because
he was caricatured in Die Mefcter singer. The women whose hearts
he broke are long since dead; and the man who could never love
anyone but himself has made them deathless atonement, I think,
with Tristan und Isolde. Think of the luxury with which for a time,
at least, fate rewarded Napoleon, the man who ruined France and
looted Europe; and then perhaps you will agree that a few thousand
dollars' worth of debts were not too heavy a price to pay for the
if he was faithless to his friends and to his wives? He had
one mistress to whom he was faithful to the day of his death: Music.
Not for a single moment did he ever compromise with what he be-
lieved, with what he dreamed. There is not a line of his music that
could have been conceived by a little mind. Even when he is dull,
or downright bad, he is dull in the grand manner. There is greatness
about his worst mistakes. Listening to his music, one does not for-
give him for what he may or may not have been. It is not a matter
of forgiveness. It is a matter of being dumb with wonder that his
poor brain and body didn't burst with the torment of the demon of
creative energy that lived inside him, struggling, clawing, scratch-
ing to be released; tearing, shrieking at him to write the music that
was in him. The miracle is that what he did in the little space of
seventy years could have been done at all, even by a great genius. Is
it any wonder that he had no time to be a man?
S26
BICHAKD WAGNER
THE COMPOSER
EDWARD /. DENT
Richard Wagner was not merely the most striking figure in the
history of opera, but also one of the most vital forces in the cultural
life of his century.
From childhood he was attracted to the theater, and he was al-
ready writing plays before he had any thought of devoting himself to
music. Wagner is the first case of a composer who wrote all his own
librettos. His first attempt at opera was Die Feen (The Fairies) based
on a play of Gozzi; it was written in 1833-34 but never performed
until after his death. Next followed Das Liebesverbot (The Ban on
Love), performed only once at Magdeburg in 1836; tins is a comic
opera in the style of Daniel Fran§ois Esprit Auber (1782-1871),
based on the plot of Measure for Measure. It had the reputation of
being very licentious, but there is nothing in it that would frighten
a modern audience, and the chief tendency of its plot is to throw
ridicule on pompous authority. Rienzi (1838-40) is an imitation of
Meyerbeer, and is still performed fairly often in Germany. A more
original style began to appear in The Flying Dutchman (1841), in
which Wagner reverted towards the manner of Weber. The opera
is a curious mixture of styles, and this is not surprising when we
remember that Wagner had been a theatrical conductor for some
years and was familiar with all the repertory of the day. French
influences are still prominent in The Flying Dutchman; Auber was
not yet forgotten, and Senta's famous ballad is obviously suggested
by the "romance" indispensable to any French comic opera. Her
leap from a high rock into the sea is another relic of French tradition.
Tannhauser came out at Dresden in 1845; in 1849 Wagner became
involved in a revolution and had to fly from Germany. He took
refuge in Switzerland, and his next opera, Lohengrin, was performed
for the first time at Weimar in 1850, conducted by Liszt in Wag-
ner's absence. These are the two operas of Wagner best known to
the general public, and it is difficult to realize now why there should
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have been such an outcry against Wagner in those days and indeed
throughout most of his life.
In these last three works Wagner began to discover the field that
was to be peculiarly his own, that of old German legend; it is clear,
too, what a difference was made to Wagner's whole outlook on
opera by the fact that he was his own librettist instead of having to
accept a libretto from someone else. One can see quite easily that
Auber, like most of the composers of his time, is setting out to write
an opera, not to give musical expression to a drama. Opera is already
a going concern, with certain regular habitual features, such as
songs, duets, choruses, ensembles, etc. The ordinary professional
composer of that period did not want to achieve a new form of
drama; he wanted success, and that meant doing what somebody
else had done before. The problem of the librettist was to find a
story that could be utilized to provide all the stock attractions, and
the French librettists knew perfectly well how to set to work. So
did the Italians on the whole, though when they took French plays
as foundations, they found some difficulty in converting them into
librettos without losing some vital link in the dramatic chain.
Wagner in his first attempts at opera followed traditional lines,
and knew as well as any Frenchman what was wanted in the way of
a libretto with all the conventionalities. His literary skill gave him a
great advantage over other German musicians, for in the early his-
tory of German opera it is clear that composers were always severely
hampered by the general incompetence of German librettists. In
considering the rise of Wagner as an operatic composer we must
remember that his career began at a time when Germany possessed
an extraordinary wealth of literary genius. The two greatest poets,
Goethe and Schiller, had chosen the theater to be the focus of their
creative activity, and they, with the help of various other writers,
made the German theater a temple consecrated to the highest ideals
of the German nation, not merely a place of amusement as it was in
England, or a battleground of literary cliques as in Paris. This re-
ligious devotion to the theater naturally affected the development of
German opera, especially as all German Romanticism was insepar-
ably bound up with music. In no other country was literature so
conscious of music or music so closely associated with literature.
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BICHARD WAGNEK
France can show but one outstanding figure—Berlioz, who is a writer
as well as a musician; though we must not forget that in an earlier
generation Andre Gretry (1741-1813) and Jean Frangois Lesueur
(1760-1837) had been men of letters. But in Germany almost every
musician of eminence cherished literary ambitions— Weber, Ludwig
Spohr (1784-1859), Schumann, Ernst Theodor Ainadeus Hoffmann
(1776-1822) are the conspicuous examples. Later on come Liszt and
Peter Cornelius (1824r-74), though Liszt as a rule preferred to write
in French; and Mendelssohn, though never a journalist, was certainly
a man of literary cultivation. Most of the German poets knew some-
thing of music, and it was only natural that the Romantic age should
be at one and the same time the great period of German lyric poetry
and the great age of German song.
Germany in those days was proud to call itself "the land of poets
and thinkers," and Wagner may justly claim to belong to both these
categories. A new spirit becomes perceptible in Lohengrin which
was the fruit of solitude and meditation, whereas Wagner's previ-
ous operas had been written in the thick of professional life. Lohen-
grin looks forward to the last of Wagner's dramas, Parsifal; both are
concerned with the story of the Holy Grail and Lohengrin actually
informs us at the end of the opera that Parsifal is his father. The
French composers of the Revolution had tried curious experiments
in writing dramatic instrumental prologues to their operas instead of
conventional overtures; but the prelude to Lohengrin showed an en-
tirely new sort of theatrical imagination in its very first bars. It is
supposed to describe the descent of the Holy Grail to earth and its
return to Heaven. Most members of the audience probably knew
nothing about that and would not much care if they did; but every-
one must admit that it is one of the most beautiful pieces of music
ever written, and it may well stand as the movement which most
perfectly expressed that sense of "aspiration" which was character-
istic of the whole life and thought of the 19th century.
From this moment onwards Wagner's whole life was dedicated to
the accomplishment of an ideal— "the work of art of the future" that
was to unite in itself all the arts in the service of the musical drama.
Wagner never stopped to consider practicalities in the theater. His
new dramas were to be full of things which were contrary to all
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
tradition and had never been done before; these things have by now
become more or less normal and accepted.
In his later operas Wagner goes his own way. Although he habitu-
ally wrote his libretto complete before composing the music, he cer-
tainly had a good many of his musical ideas germinating in his mind
while putting the words into shape, so that we can regard these
operas as simultaneous conceptions of poetry and music. And we
must remember, too, that Wagner never lost contact with the con-
cert room. Italian composers of the time seem to have gone on com-
posing operas as if they never came across any other kind of music;
one might easily imagine that Vincenzo Bellini (1801-35) and Gae-
tano Donizetti (1797-1848) never heard a classical symphony in
their lives. Wagner on the other hand was keenly interested in con-
cert conducting, and in fact it was he who started the outlook on
orchestral music which has led to the modern idolization of the star
conductor. Hence he was able to absorb into the technique of the
theater the musical methods of Beethoven's symphonies and other
classical works. Purely operatic experience might well teach him how
to present characters on the stage and how to achieve obvious the-
atrical effects. From Beethoven, more than from anyone else, he
learned what one might call the technique of rumination upon the
events of the drama.
Beethoven, in Fidelio, often seems to forget the actual characters
on the stage and lose himself in the contemplation of a moral idea.
Wagner does the same thing, but with more deliberate intention and
with a new technique of his own. This could not become possible
until after Beethoven had perfected the process which in sonatas and
symphonies is called "development"; it was only this technique which
made it possible for Wagner to drop the old system of isolated songs
with opportunities for applause at the end, and create a continuous
style of music which allowed no thought of applause, not even a
moment of respite, until the end of each act. This forced audiences,
as Wagner was consciously determined to achieve, into a new atti-
tude towards opera. It was no longer possible to drop in and go away
just as one pleased, hear a particular singer and not bother about
the rest; an opera had to be taken seriously, and the audience had
to give themselves up to it, abandoning all independence of per-
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RICHAED WAGNER
sonality. . . . And this applied not only to the audience; the singers
and the orchestra, the scene-shifters too, were compelled to mate the
same utter self -surrender and become no more than atoms absorbed
into the one mighty stream of the composer's imagination. The doors
are shut, the lights go down, the conductor raises the stick; and from
that moment everyone is the slave of the music. There can be no
waiting while a scene is being changed; lighting and machinery must
function like instruments in the score, and with the same precision.
We are so accustomed to all this nowadays that we can hardly
imagine what operatic conditions were like before Wagner; yet those
whose memories go back to the 1890's will not have forgotten the
indignation of old habitues at Covent Garden when it was proposed
to darken the auditorium for The Ring and close the doors to late
arrivals. A German history of music gives a list of some six hundred
German operas produced between 1830 and 1900; hardly a single
one has remained in the ordinary German repertory, apart from a
few comic operas and musical comedies of the 1840's which are
still popular in their own country, though little known outside.
Throughout the whole of Wagner's influence the German theaters
were dependent mainly on French and Italian operas, just as they
were in the days of Mozart, and indeed right up to 1900 and later
certain old French comic operas survived in Germany, which had
long been shelved in France. It is necessary to insist on this in order
that the reader may realize the strength of the opposition to Wagner
and the immensity of the conquest which he finally achieved.
The most important of Wagner's later works is the great tetralogy
of The Ring (1853-74). Wagner's first idea was to write one drama
only, to be called Siegfried's Death, founded on an episode from
the ancient legendary epic of Germany, the Nibelungenlied. But he
found that the story required so much explanation that he would
have to write another opera as a prologue to it; and that led to an-
other and yet another, so that the four dramas of The Ring came to
be written in the inverse order of their natural sequence. During
the years occupied in this work Wagner's mind underwent changes,
so that the last of the four is much more like an old-fashioned opera
than the first. The suicide of the heroine, by throwing herself (on
horseback) on to the burning funeral pyre of her husband, at once
SSI
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
reminds us of Auber's Fenella who jumps into the crater of Vesuvius
and the Jewess of Jacques Halevy (1799-1862) who jumps into a
cauldron of boiling oil; and the final destruction of the palace by fire
looks back to Lodoiska of Luigi Cherubini (1760-1842), an opera
quite often performed in Germany in Wagner's younger days. And
Hagen's dive into the overflowing Rhine also has its parallel in vari-
ous old French operas; Wagner, with his usual eye to grandiose stage
effect, merely combined three stock operatic endings in one.
Apart from these relics of an earlier convention, The Ring breaks
away from all traditional systems, though one can still find alterna-
tions of recitative and aria— that is, of passages which are mainly
declamatory contrasted with lyrical episodes. Wagnerian music
drama professes to follow the free form of the poem, but Wagner
was far too good a musician to let his music become chaotic and
formless, and he clearly laid out his poems with a view to their
musical form. It was for this purpose that he adopted an entirely
new metrical system, derived from early medieval German poetry,
based on alliteration, and employing very short lines instead of the
long rhymed lines which make Lohengrin so tedious in general ef-
fect. English poetry had made use of alliterative verse in the early
15th century (e.g. Piers Plowman), but it does not lend itself easily
to modern English, and translations of Wagner have often provoked
smiles.
It was a terrible shock to Wagner's early audiences to find that lie
had abolished not only separate airs and numbers but also practically
all choruses and all ensembles. It is only in The Mastersingers (1862-
67) and Parsifal (1877-82) that the chorus has a really important
part. What Wagner wanted to get rid of was the conventionality of
the old-fashioned chorus, who did nothing but stand in a row and
bawl music that sounds like the middle parts of a brass band. In
the days of Bellini and Donizetti no chorus singers were expected
to read at sight; they learned everything by ear. They were miser-
ably paid and amounted to little more than supers; and it is very
noticeable that in all these old operas, French, German, or Italian,
the chorus is almost always exclusively male. Women are not kept
out altogether, but the amount they have to sing is very small com-
pared with that of the male choruses; and we learn from Weber
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KICHARD WAGNER
that in his day it was extremely difficult to obtain women chorus
singers at all. When Weber conducted La V 'estate by Gasparo Spon-
tini (1774-1851) at Dresden, he had to get boys from a church choir
school (the very school which Wagner attended as a boy) to take the
parts of Vestal virgins.
Living for so many years in exile, away from all contact with the
German theater, Wagner became more and more obsessed with the
grandeur of his own ideas. In 1861, he had paid a visit to Paris,
where he had had the humiliating experience of seeing his Tann-
hduser hissed off the stage; this was quite enough to set him against
France for many years, although in his last days he was very de-
voutly worshiped by a small group of French admirers, most of them
extremely distinguished people. As The Ring grew ever larger in his
conception, he began to see that this would never be realized unless
he could build himself a theater of his own, a place set apart, a
shrine of pilgrimage. Thanks to King Ludwig II of Bavaria, who
took him under his protection in 1864, the idea of a Festival Theater
became a practical possibility. The King's own wish had been to
build it at Munich, but Wagner's position in Munich had become
impossible in 1865 and he found it necessary to leave that city and
go back to Switzerland. Wagner finally decided that his theater
should be built at Bayreuth, a little town not very far from Nurem-
berg, which had formerly been the capital of a diminutive princi-
pality. The town authorities welcomed the scheme and the cost of
the theater was defrayed mostly by private subscription among
Wagner's friends and admirers. It was opened in August 1876, with
the first complete performance of The Ring.
The Ring has now passed into the stock repertory of every large
theater; it can be seen in Paris, London, Milan, or New York every
year. But it was a long time before even the German theaters had
the courage to undertake so vast a task, and in old days a perform-
ance even at Bayreuth was a rare event, and an unforgettable ex-
perience. If we see The Ring today, we see it just as one among many
other operas, probably with the same singers, the same orchestra,
and in the same theater— wherever it may happen to be—with its
boxes and galleries all around and its invariable mass of gilding all
about the proscenium, which even in a darkened touse glitters in
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the light reflected from the desks of the orchestra. At Bayreuth, one
was there to hear Wagner and for no other purpose. The theater
stood apart from the town, on a hill by itself; before each act began,
a group of brass instruments on the terrace sounded a fanfare from
the opera. Inside the theater everything was as plain and neutral
as possible; there were no galleries at the sides, only rows and rows
of gradually rising seats, all facing the stage directly, so that one was
hardly conscious of one's neighbors. The orchestra was in a sunken
pit, so that the players— and the conductor, too, thank goodness-
were completely invisible. There was nothing to see but the stage.
The scenic designs of those days were too strictly realistic for mod-
ern taste, but they were executed with astonishing skill, and no other
theater of that time could approach Bayreuth in stagecraft. Every-
thing combined to take one away from the ordinary world, even
from the ordinary world of music; one's whole receptive personality
was concentrated on the stage and on the product of Wagner's
imagination. Surrender was complete, not only to Wagner's work
of art, but to every principle of Wagner's outlook on the relation of
art to life.
At the present day there is a considerable feeling of reaction
against Wagner and all that he stood for. Music has moved on and
life has become filled with all sorts of new distractions. It is perhaps
natural that many of us should say we have no time to listen to
these slow-moving and interminable histories of primitive Teutonic
gods and heroes. The Ring has ceased to be a rare experience, and
producers take less and less trouble about it. But if you are young,
and have never seen it, it may still be one of the great experiences of
your life. If you have seen it so often that you are interested only
in comparing one singer or conductor with another, or in criticizing
divergences from orthodox tradition, then it is time you made up
your mind to relegate The Ring to the museum of memory, and
never go to see it again.
As regards Tristan (1857-59) and The Mastersingers, most people
are inclined to love one and hate the other, whichever it may be;
it is a question of personal temperament. Tristan is all chromatics,
and there are many people who find it "morbid," "decadent" and
utterly unbearable; The Mastersingers has always been the favorite
834
RICHARD WAGNER
of those clean-minded English people who want music to be
"healthy" above everything. It is a testimony to Wagner's greatness
that such criticisms should still be made now that Wagner has been
dead over seventy-five years. Surely it would be better to let him
pass over to the realm of the classics, and listen to Tristan simply
as a work of beauty. The same applies to The Master singers. . . .
In Germany this opera has become a national symbol.
In Parsifal, his last work, Wagner demanded an even more com-
plete surrender of his audience than ever before, and it was his wish
that Parsifal should never be performed outside his own theater in
Bayreuth. As long as it was protected by copyright law, it did remain
the exclusive possession of Bayreuth; but on December 24, 1903, a
performance was given at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York.
Paris heard it for the first time on January 1, 1914, and the first
performance in England followed a month later. In Germany
Parsifal is generally performed on Good Friday; in former times
theaters were always closed on that day, but Parsifal is considered
as a sufficiently sacred work, and it is sure to fill the house.
An opera which represented on the stage a ceremony that was
practically the same thing as the Catholic Mass was naturally the
subject of much discussion from the first. Some devout people
thought it blasphemous, but the general trend of opinion has been
to accept the work in the spirit in which it was supposed to have
been written, and to regard it as a solemn confession of faith. Other
people, perhaps not much concerned about faith, have felt offended
by Parsifal as being an insincere exploitation of religion by a man
whose whole life had stood for the very opposite of that doctrine of
renunciation preached in the opera.
Wagner's literary works, and his interpretations of his own
operas, may have been a valuable advertisement for them in his
own time, but most people of today will feel that they prefer to
think of him as a musician and as little else. The days of Wagnerian
controversy are over; the "music of the future" has become the
music of the past. We can enjoy Parsifal and derive spiritual benefit
from it, whether we believe in these things or not, and it is a matter
of no artistic moment whether Wagner himself believed in them.
There can still be no doubt that Parsifal, like Tristan, is a work of
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
extraordinary musical beauty; let us surrender to that and concen-
trate our minds upon it.
His political and philosophical views do not concern us, although
he often believed that they were intimately connected with his
music. As time passes on, all these things, once matters of acute
controversy, become forgotten; they are manifestations of their own
period, and the present age is content to leave them to the makers
of research dissertations. Poetry and music remain, though we have
to recognize that the heat of inspiration dies down, and the music
of the romantics is no longer as exciting and overwhelming as it was
in its own day.
Apart from the creation of these individual works of art, Wagner,
through his writings and through his own personal influence, has
converted the musical world, or a good part of it, to something like
a new outlook on music in general. It may be that he was mistaken
in supposing that the modern world could ever recover the attitude
of ancient Greece to the religious aspect of musical drama, but he
certainly induced it to take music, and especially opera, far more
seriously than it had ever done before. When one looks back over
the musical history of his century, and the developments which
brought Germany the musical leadership of Europe, it is astonishing
to think that opera played so small a part in them. What did Beetho-
ven leave us in opera? One work, and that reserved for veneration
rather than full-bloodedly enjoyed. Schubert? A dozen failures, the
very existence of which is unknown to the millions who can hum the
themes of the Unfinished Symphony. Schumann and Mendelssohn
made timid experiments; and Brahms had not even the courage for
that. Weber is the only name besides Wagner. ... In the orthodox
world of music, Weber was sometimes regarded as not quite on a
level with the rest of the great German masters; his symphonies, con-
certos and sonatas were thought showy rather than profound, and
his church music was considered operatic. "Operatic" was in fact
always a word of disparagement, almost of moral disapproval; and
if Wagner had been an Englishman, he would probably have used
it himself in that sense.
The serious musicians of the 19th century turned away from
opera as if it was an unclean trade; and there are music lovers who
336
RICHARD WAGNER
still maintain this point of view. Many hard things have been said
about Wagner, and as far as his private life was concerned, he de-
served a good many of them; but it could never be said of Wagner
that he was not a serious-minded musician. He had faith in himself,
and courage, which was what most of his contemporaries, however
distinguished, had not. It was mainly owing to the influence of
Wagner that a certain standard of artistic integrity has been brought
into most of the great opera houses and many of the small ones; we
owe to him the spirit of team-work and ensemble, of devotion to the
work of art on the part of every single member of the company and
staff. That was the spirit of Bayreuth, and from Bayreuth it has
spread all over the world.
We owe it to Wagner that the auditorium is darkened as a matter
of course during a performance, that the doors are shut and late-
comers made to wait outside; we owe it to him that a soft prelude
is heard in silence, and applause reserved for the end of an act. It
may be replied that there are still many theaters where silence is not
maintained, and that there are also many operas still in the repertory
which suffer from uncomfortable moments when the applause which
the composer expected is so reverently restrained. Nevertheless, the
Wagnerian attitude to performance is on the whole an advantage to
an opera of any style or period, for it gives us a chance of concen-
trating our attention on the drama itself.
These points of social observance are trivial compared with the
fundamental principle which was at the base of all Wagner's doc-
trines and labors— that a work of art should be a spiritual experience,
and that the summit of such experience could only be attained in
the theater, where all the arts were united in this sublime act of
worship. There can be no doubt that Bayreuth in the past did bring
to many people of various nationalities a spiritual experience such
as Wagner envisaged. It is obvious that such experiences can seldom
be repeated, and it is hardly credible that any human being can live
in a perpetual state of mystical ecstasy, especially in the modern
world of practical life. Besides, our sense of humor ... is always
breaking in, and at the most enraptured moments the stage cat is
sure to take the footlights. Every individual has to decide for himself
whether skepticism or credulity is the preferable state of mind; but
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
anyone who has ever known the complete surrender of the soul to
music and drama in the theater will never enter an opera house with-
out at least some faint hope that the experience may be renewed.
Many years passed before the next generation of German com-
posers began to divide Wagner's heritage between them. Imitation
Wagner was practicable only for theaters which had adopted the
machinery of Bayreuth, and that sort of stage reform was naturally a
long and gradual process, corresponding to the rate at which man-
agers and conductors resolved to put The Ring on their own stages,
The attempts to rival or surpass The Ring were none of them suc-
cessful, and musicians soon realized that new directions must be
taken. Wagner himself seemed to point many different ways, and
his followers could be grouped in families, according as they pur-
sued the "hearty" style of The Master singers, the erotics of Tristan,
the morbid religiosity and exploitation of suffering derived from
Parsifal, or attempted to scale the monumental heights of The Ring.
WAGNER SPEAKS
Can it possibly be doubted that in opera, music has actually been
taken as the end, the drama merely as the means? Surely not! The
briefest survey of the historic evolution of opera teaches us this
quite past disputing; everyone who has busied himself with the ac-
count of that development has, simply by his historical research,
unwillingly laid bare the truth. Not from the medieval folk plays, in
which we find the traces of a natural cooperation of the art of tone
with that of drama, did opera arise, but at the luxurious courts of
Italy— notably enough, the great lands of European culture in which
the drama never developed to any significance— it occurred to certain
distinguished persons, who found Palestrina's church music no
longer to their liking, to employ the singers engaged to entertain
them at their festivals, on singing arias, i.e., folk tunes stripped of
their naivete and truth, to which "texts" thrown together into a
semblance of dramatic cohesion were added waywardly as underlay.
The dramatic cantata, whose contents aimed at anything but
drama, is the mother of our opera; nay more, it is that opera itself.
338
RICHAKD WAGNER
The more it developed from this, its point of origin, the more con-
sistently the purely musical aria, the only vestige of remaining form,
became the platform for the dexterity of the singer's throat; the
more plainly did it become the office of the poet, called in to give
a helping hand to their musical diversions, to carpenter a poetic
form which should serve for nothing further than to supply the needs
both of the singer and of the musical aria with their verse require-
ments. Metastasio's great fame consisted in this, that he never gave
the musician the slightest harass, never advanced an unwonted claim
from the purely dramatic standpoint, and was thus the most obedi-
ent and obliging servant of the musician.
Has this relation of the poet to the musician altered by one hair's
breadth to our present day? To be sure, in one respect; that which
according to purely musical canons, is now held to be dramatic, and
which certainly differs widely from the old Italian opera. But the
chief characteristic of the situation remains unchanged. Today, as
one hundred fifty years ago, the poet must take his inspiration from
the musician, he must listen for the whims of music, accommodate
himself to the musician's bent, choose his stuff by the latter's taste,
mold his characters by the timbres and expedient for the purely
musical combinations, provide dramatic bases for certain forms of
vocal numbers in which the musician may wander at his ease— in
short, in his subordination to the musician, he must construct his
drama with a single eye to the specifically musical intentions of the
composer— or else, if he will not or cannot do all this, he must be
content to be looked on as unserviceable for the post of opera
librettist. Is this true, or not? I doubt that any can advance one jot
of argument against it.
The aim of opera has thus ever been, and still is today, confined
to music. Merely so as to afford music with a colorable pretext for
her own excursions, is the purposes of drama dragged on— naturally,
not to curtail the ends of music, but rather to serve her simply as a
means. ... No one attempts to deny this position of drama toward
music, of the poet toward the tone artist; only in view of the un-
common spread and effectiveness of opera, people have believed
that they must make friends with a monstrosity, nay, must even
credit its unnatural agency with the possibility of doing something
339
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
altogether new, unheard, and hitherto undreamed: namely, of erect-
ing the genuine drama on the basis of absolute music. ... By the col-
laboration of precisely our music with dramatic poetry a heretofore
undreamed significance not only can but must be given to drama.
340
JOHANNES BRAHMS
1833-1897
JOHANNES BRAHMS was born in Hamburg, Germany, on May 7,
1833. He received music instruction from his father, a double bass
player at the Hamburg Opera, Otto Cossel and Eduard Marxsen.
At fourteen he made his public debut as pianist, after which he
earned his living performing in taverns, teaching the piano, and
doing hack work, all the while pursuing serious, composition. In
1853 he became the piano accompanist for the Hungarian violinist,
Eduard Remenyi, with whom he toured Germany. He was now
given the opportunity to come into personal contact with such
eminent musicians as Joseph Joachim, Liszt, and Robert and Clara
Schumann, all of whom were impressed by his gifts. Schumann
hailed him in a now historic article in the Neue Zeitschrift filr Musik;
used his influence to get Brahms's three piano sonatas and some
songs published; and arranged for Brahms to give a concert in the
Gewandhaus in Leipzig. Brahms, in turn, became uniquely devoted
to Schumann, and, after the composer's death, to Schumann's widow,
Clara.
From 1857 to 1860, Brahms was music master for the Prince of
Lippe-Detmold. During this period he completed his first piano
concerto, which proved a failure when introduced in Hanover on
January 22, 1859. For three years, beginning with 1860, he con-
ducted a women's choir in Hamburg. Two piano quartets which he
completed during this interval were first heard in Vienna in 1862,
in a performance by the Hellmesberger Quartet, an occasion upon
which Joseph Hellmesberger described the young Brahms as "Bee-
thoven's heir."
In 1863, Brahms set his roots in Vienna where he conducted the
Vienna Singakademie, taught piano, and from 1871 to 1874 directed
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
orchestral concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreun.de. Mean-
while, he realized his first major public success with the first
complete performance of A German Requiem in Bremen, on April
10, 1868. His first significant work for orchestra came in 1873, the
Variations on a Theme by Haydn; his first symphony, in 1876.
With three additional symphonies, between , 1887 and 1894, he
became the most significant symphonist since Beethoven. One
of the foremost creative figures in music of his generation— the fore-
most living exponent of absolute music— he was honored through-
out Europe. In 1877 and 1879 he received honorary doctorates
from Cambridge and Breslau Universities; in 1886 he was made
Knight of the Prussian Ordre pour le merite and elected a member
of the Berlin Academy of Arts; in 1889 he was given the honorary
freedom of the city of Hamburg; and in 1890, the Order of Leopold
was conferred on him by the Austrian Emperor.
Through the years he expressed love for several women— and most
of all for Clara Schumann— but he never married. Though compara-
tively affluent, he lived simply in modest bachelor quarters in
Vienna for a quarter of a century, producing masterworks in all
forms except the opera. He died in Vienna on April 3, 1897.
THE MAN
KARL GEIRINGER
Brahms had not a firm, self-contained, homogeneous character. A
discord, a conflict of opposing forces, pervaded his whole existence.
Two powers fought in him, which we may roughly call an "urge
to freedom" and "a desire for subjection."
The simplicity that Brahms displayed in all matters of daily life
may be regarded as an inheritance from his forefathers. Even when
a famous man, he lived in a modest dwelling, dressed with greatest
economy, ate in the cheapest restaurants, and took pride in spending
little on his food. He had' no extravagant tastes, and he devoted only
comparatively small sums of money to his passion for collecting
original manuscripts by great masters.
342
JOHANNES BRAHMS
Nevertheless, Brahms was anything but a cynic or an ascetic. He
loved to eat well and to drink well, and when he was invited to
his friends7 homes he was easily persuaded to exchange his ordinary
plain fare for culinary delights on a higher plane.
Similar in origin was the pedantic love of order which Brahms
displayed in everything connected with his work and his intellectual
needs. He boasted that he could always instantly lay his hand on
those books he valued— for example, die Bible— even in the dark.
His manuscripts are covered with rapidly written script, which is,
however, clearly and methodically arranged, and even his sketches
can easily be deciphered. He was no less orderly in his reading:
with him it was a matter of course to correct, with pedantic con-
scientiousness, every mistake he found in a printed book or music
work.
Further, in all questions of money the bourgeois vein is apparent
in Brahms. His letters to his publishers show remarkable commercial
astuteness, and he insisted on being paid enormous fees for his
works.
Most bourgeois of all was his ambition to occupy a permanent
post, which would make it possible for him to settle down in his
own home. The existence of a wandering virtuoso was abhorrent
to him. He dreamed of a position as conductor that would keep
him in one place, assure him a secure income, and enable him to
marry and found a family. For Brahms this was by no means a vague
desire. It took a very definite shape; where he had spent his child-
hood and youth, where he felt at home, there Brahms wanted to live.
Had the fairy godmother of fiction stood before him, promising to
fulfil a single wish, the master would not have hesitated for a mo-
ment before asking for the conductorship of the Hamburg Phil-
harmonic Orchestra.
But all these traits of Brahms's character were opposed by others,
which were directly antithetical, hence the peculiar duality of his
character.
Brahms's love of order stopped short at his own person. He was
accustomed to wander through the streets of Vienna in garments
which were anything but the ideal of bourgeois respectability. His
trousers were always pulled up too far, his clothes were hopelessly
343
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
creased, an enormous safety pin held a plaid in place on his
shoulders, and he always carried his hat in his hand instead of on
his head. The cupboards containing his clothes and linen were in
the most terrible confusion which was a constant source of grief to
his landlady, Frau Truxa. His neglectfulness was too confined to
superficialities. Brahms never attended to a matter which must have
often occupied the mind of one who had from his youth kept his
eyes fixed upon death: the drawing up of his will. He left his last
will and testament half finished, and in a legally invalid form, al-
though it was practically completed six years before his death. The
meticulous love of order in everything that directly or indirectly
concerned his art was balanced on the other hand by a definite
carelessness and indifference in everyday affairs.
Once he had earned his money, Brahms, oddly enough, was as
careless with it as he had been conscientious in its making. He left
the management of his considerable fortune to his publisher
Simrock, and was not in the least unhappy when his friend had to
tell him that he had lost substantial sums belonging to Brahms in
some Stock Exchange speculation. He left whole bundles of bank
notes lying uncounted in his closet, and hardly ever took the trouble
to check on his bank balance.
Brahms attributed his attitude to marriage to external events and
especially to the grievous wrong done him at Hamburg. Again and
again he declared that he had been unable to marry in his youth
because he had not an adequate position and an assured income;
but also because the sympathy of a loving wife in his fight against
the hostility of the public would have shamed and hindered him
far more than it would have strengthened him. This corresponds
only to a certain extent with the external facts. For it was not
long before Brahms was earning a respectable income, and after the
success of his Requiem he was counted among the most highly
esteemed German composers of his time. In a deeper sense, however,
Brahms's explanation would seem to be justified. For that part of
his nature which longed for bondage, a marriage was conceivable
only on the basis of a fixed monthly income and the social esteem
paid to the holder of a prominent position. The artist in Brahms
might have been able to disregard such considerations had there
344
JOHANNES BRAHMS
not been, on his side, far greater obstacles to marriage. Yet the
composer was anything but a misogynist. He paid tribute to the
charms of the fair sex by unconditional worship. And when physical
beauty was coupled with intelligence and musical talent— and he
was especially fascinated by a beautiful voice— he was only too
ready to fall in love. He did so not once only, but again and again
in the course of his life. And not only the passionate handsome
youth, but also the mature artist, and even the master on the verge
of old age, had reason to be confident that his love would be
returned. Nevertheless he never formed a permanent connection;
he always shrank from the last decisive step. The thought of
sacrificing his personal liberty, his freedom from restraint, of adapt-
ing himself and surrendering part of his own being for the value of
a new and higher unity, was entirely abhorrent to Brahms. Dimly
he felt that he would be acting in defiance of his aim in life if he,
who had dedicated himself wholly to art, were to belong to an-
other.
We can at all events be sure that the renunciation of marriage
was anything but easy for the composer. He had always longed
for the comfort of a home, and further, he had ardently wished for
children, in whom he hoped to see his own gifts more strongly and
purely developed. As this was denied him, he bestowed his affection
on the children of others. During his summer holidays Brahms
quickly formed friendships with the young people of the village,
and even in Italy he scraped up his knowledge of the foreign lan-
guage in order to converse with the children. A great help in his
advances were the sweets which he used to keep in his pockets for
any little friend. . . . Brahms felt all the more drawn towards
children, for he himself, like many a great artist, had much of the
child in his nature. At the age of twenty, just when the blossoming
friendship with the Schumanns was growing into an imperishable
experience, he asked his mother to send his tin soldiers to Diisseldorf .
Even in his last years, when he visited the little prodigy, the violinist
Bronislaw Huberman, his attention was so held by the fascinations
of a stamp album that the fourteen-year old boy had to spend over
an hour initiating him into the secrets of his collection.
Brahms's life shows what an influence the abandonment of his
345
THE WOBLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
hopes and dreams had on the development of his character. In his
youth, Brahms, though modest and shy, was amiable, frank, and
enthusiastic. There was a decisive change after his experience with
Clara, and the changes became more and more marked after each
disappointment in his career or his personal life. Qualities that
slumbered in him but had rarely appeared, now came boldly to the
fore. When, at the end of the 70's, Brahms hid his smooth and still
boyish face behind a thick, full beard he seemed to have become
a far different person. The careless inconsiderateness which had dis-
tinguished Brahms even as a young man (and had certainly helped
him to achieve many of his artistic aims) increased alarmingly, and
was often coupled with rudeness. The reputation that Brahms en-
joyed in Vienna in this respect may be judged from the widely
circulated anecdote to the effect that the master, on leaving a com-
pany in which he had found himself for the first time, took his
departure with the words, "if there is anybody here whom I have
forgotten to insult, I beg him to forgive me."
Thus Brahms clothed himself in an armor of irony and coldness,
and this armor was so stout that sometimes even his best friends
could not hear the warm heart of their Johannes beating behind it.
When, on the other hand, help, sympathy, and advice were needed,
no one was so quickly on the spot as the reserved composer. He
who for months left letters unanswered forced himself, in the case
of a request for help, to respond immediately.
We can thus discern two totally different elements of his char-
acter—irony and reserve, coupled with genuine kindness and readi-
ness to help. The relations of those about him to the artist were
determined by their ability to penetrate the uncouth shell. At first
Brahms generally evoked timidity and embarrassment; a good judge
of men, however, soon discovered the secret of his double nature,
and those who gained an insight into the master's true character
remained loyally attached to him for life.
346
JOHANNES BRAHMS
THE COMPOSER
DANIEL GREGORY MASON
Of all the figures of Romantic music, brilliant and varied as they
are, impressing one with the many-sidedness and wide scope of the
art, there is perhaps only one, that of Johannes Brahms, which con-
veys the sense of satisfying poise, self-control, and sanity. Others
excel him in particular qualities. Grieg is more delicate and intimate,
Dvorak wanner and clearer in color; Saint-Saens is more meteoric,
Franck more recondite and subtle, and Tchaikovsky more impas-
sioned; but Brahms alone has Homeric simplicity, the primeval
health of the well-balanced man. He excels all his contemporaries in
soundness and universality. In an age when many people are un-
certain of themselves and the world, victims of a pervasive unrest
and disappointment, it is solacing to find so heroic and simple a
soul, who finds life acceptable, meets it genially, and utters his joy
and his sorrow with the old classic sincerity. He is not blighted by
any of the myriad forms of egotism— by sentimentality, by the itch
to be effective at all costs, or to be "original/' or to be Byronic, or
romantic, or unfathomable. He has no "message" for an errant
world; no anathema, either profoundly gloomy or insolently clever,
to hurl at God. He has rather a deep and broad impersonal love of
life; universal joy is the sum and substance of his expression.
It is hard to say whether the unique greatness of Brahms depends
more on this emotional wholesomeness and simplicity or on the
intellectual breadth and synthetic power with which it is combined.
Probably the truth is that greatness requires the interaction of the
two. At any rate, Brahms is equally remarkable, whether considered
as a man or as a musician, for both. In his personal character frank-
ness, modesty, simple and homely virtue were combined with the
widest sympathy, the most far-ranging intelligence, extreme catho-
licity and tolerance. In music he prized the simplest elements, like
the old German folk songs and the Hungarian dances, and the most
complex artistic forms that are evolved from them by creative
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THE WORLD OJF GREAT COMPOSERS
genius. Like Bach and Beethoven, he spanned the whole range of
human interests; deep feeling fills his music with primitive expres-
siveness, and at the same time great intellectual power gives it the
utmost scope and complexity. Lacking either trait he would not have
been himself, he could not have performed his service to music.
His meeting with Schumann was one of the important events of
his life. Probably no young composer ever received such a hearty
welcome into the musical world as Schumann extended to Brahms
in his famous article, "New Paths." "In sure and unfaltering accents,"
writes Mr. Hadow, "he proclaimed the advent of a genius in whom
the spirit of the age should find its consummation and its fulfillment;
a master by whose teaching the broken phrases should grow articu-
late, and the vague aspirations gather into form and substance.
The five-and-twenty years of wandering were over; at last a leader
had arisen who should direct the art into 'new paths,' and carry
it to a stage nearer to its appointed place/' It is not surprising that
Schumann, whose generous enthusiasm often led him to praise
worthless work, should have received the early compositions of
Brahms so cordially. Their qualities were such as to affect pro-
foundly the great romanticist. Although the essential character of
his mature works is their classical balance and restraint, these first
compositions show an exuberance, a wayward fertility of invention,
thoroughly romantic. His first ten opuses, or at any rate the three
sonatas (1852-53), and the four ballades for piano (1854), are fre-
quently turgid in emotion, and ill-considered in form. The massive
vigor of his later work here appears in the guise of a cyclopean
violence. It is small wonder that Schumann, dazzled, delighted,
overwhelmed, gave his ardent support to the young man. Brahms
now found himself suddenly famous. He was discussed everywhere,
his pieces were readily accepted by publishers, and his new com-
positions were awaited with interest.
But fortunate as all this was for Brahms, it might easily, but for
his own good sense and self-control, have turned out the most un-
fortunate thing to happen to him. For consider his position. He
was a brilliant young composer who had been publicly proclaimed
by one of the highest musical authorities. He was expected to go
on producing works; he was almost under obligation to justify his
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JOHANNES BKAHMS
impressive introduction. Not to do so would be much worse than
to remain a nonentity; it would be to become one. And lie had
meanwhile every internal reason for meeting people's demands. He
was full of ideas, conscious of power, under inward as well as out-
ward compulsion to express himself. Yet for all that, he was in
reality immature, unformed, and callow. His work, for all its bril-
liancy, was whimsical and subjective. If he had followed out the
path he was on, as any contemporary observer would have expected,
he would have become one of the most radical of romanticists. At
thirty he would have been a bright star in the musical firmament, at
forty he would have been one of several bright stars, at fifty he
would have been clever and disappointed. It required rare insight in
so young a man, suddenly successful, to realize the danger, rare
courage to avert it. When we consider the temptation it must have
been to him to continue these easy triumphs, when we imagine the
inward enthusiasm of creation with which he must have been on
fire, we are ready to appreciate the next event of the drama.
That event was withdrawal from the musical world and the initia-
tion of a long course of the severest study. When he was a little over
twenty-one, Brahms imposed upon himself this arduous training,
and commanded himself to forego for a while the eloquent but
ill-controlled expression hitherto his, in order to acquire a broader,
firmer, purer, and stronger style. For four or five years, to borrow
Stevenson's expression, he "played the sedulous ape" to Bach and
Beethoven, and in a minor degree to Haydn and Mozart. The com-
plex harmonies of his first period gave place to simple, strong suc-
cessions of triads; for an emotional and often vague type of melody
he substituted clearly crystallized, fluent, and gracious phrases,
frequently devoid of any particular expression; the whimsical
rhythms of the piano sonatas were followed by the square-cut
sections of the Serenade, op. 11 (1857). Yet Brahms knew what he
was about, and his first large work, the Piano Concerto in D minor,
op. 15 (1854-58), shows his individuality of expression entirely re-
gained, and now with immensely increased power and resource.
Nothing could exhibit better than this dissatisfaction with his
early work, and withdrawal from the world for study, that intel-
lectual breadth which we have noted as characteristic of Brahms.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
He was not a man who could be content with a narrow personal
experience. No subjective heaven could satisfy him. His wide human
sympathy and his passion for artistic passion alike, compelled him
to study unremittingly, to widen his ideals as his powers increased.
No fate could seem to him so horrible as that "setting" of the mind
which is the aesthetic analogue of selfishness. Originality, which so
often degenerates into idiosyncrasy, was much less an object to him
than universality, which is after all the best means of being service-
ably original. Dr. Deiters, in his reminiscences, after describing this
period of study, continues: "Henceforth we find him striving, after
moderation, endeavoring to place himself more in touch with the
public, and to conquer all subjectiveness. To arrive at perspicuity
and precision of invention, clear design and form, careful elabora-
tion and accurate balancing of effect, now became with him essential
and established his principles."
From this time until the end of his life, in fact, a period of only
a little less than forty years, Brahms never departed from the modes
of work and the ideals of attainment he had now set for himself. He
labored indef atigably, but with no haste or impatience. He was too
painstaking and conscientious a workman to botch his products by
hurrying them. Thus laboring always with the same calm persist-
ence, returning upon his ideas until he could present them with per-
fect clarity, caring little for the indifference or the applause of the
public, but much for the approval of his own fastidious taste, he
produced year by year an astonishing series of masterpieces.
A just conception of this broad scheme of Brahins's ideal and of
his thoroughness in working it out is necessary, we must insist,
not only to appreciation of the man himself, but to any true under-
standing of his relation and service to music. Brahms was enabled,
by the tireless training to which he subjected his fertile and many-
sided genius, to couch romantic feeling in classic form.
Without that severe training to which Brahms subjected himself
in his youth, he would have gone on doing brilliant work of the
romantic order, like his first compositions, but he would never have
attained the grasp and self-control that raised him above all his
contemporaries and that made possible his peculiar service to music.
That period of training was the artistic counterpart of what many
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JOHANNES BKAHMS
men undergo when they discover how many sacrifices and how long
a labor are necessary to him who would find a spiritual dwelling
place on earth. Many pleasures must be renounced before happiness
will abide; evil and suffering are opaque save to the steadfast eye.
So, in music, effects and eloquences and crises must be the hand-
maids of orderly beauty, and tones are stubborn material until one
has learned by hard work to make them transmit thoughts. Tech-
nique is in the musician what character is in the man. It is the power
to stamp matter with spirit. Brahms's long apprenticeship was there-
fore needed in the first place to make him master of his materials; in
the second place to teach him the deeper lesson that the part must
be subordinated to the whole, or, in musical language, expression to
beauty.
He achieved this subordination, however, not by the negative
process of suppression, but by conquest and coordination. In his
music emotion is not excluded, it is regulated; his work is not a
reversion to an earlier and simpler type, it is the gathering and
fusing together of fragmentary new elements, resulting in a more
complex organism. Thus it is a very superficial view to say that he
"went back" to Beethoven. He drew guidance from the same natural
laws that had guided Beethoven, but he applied these laws to a
material of novel thought and emotion that had come into being
after Beethoven. Had he repudiated the new material, even for the
reason that he considered it incapable of organization, he would
have been a pedant, which is to say a musical Pharisee. One masters
by recognizing and using, not by repudiating. And just as a wise man
will not become ascetical merely because his passions give him
trouble, but will study to find out their true relation to him and then
keep them in it, so Brahms recognized the wayward beauties of
romanticism, and studied how to make them ancillary to that order
and fair proportion which is the soul of music.
To this great artistic service he was fitted by both the qualities
which have been pointed out above as cooperating to form his
unique nature. His deep and simple human feeling, which put him
in sympathy with the aims of romanticists and enabled him to
grasp their meaning would not have sufficed alone; but fortunately it
was associated with an almost unprecedented scope of intellect and
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
power of synthesis. Brahms's assimilative faculty was enormous.
Like a fine tree that draws the materials of its beauty through a
thousand roots that reach into the distant pockets of earth, he
gathered the materials of his perfectly unified and transparent style
from all sorts of forgotten nooks and crannies of medieval music.
Spitta remarks his use of the old Dorian and Phrygian modes; of
complex rhythms that had long fallen into disuse; of those means of
thematic development, such as augmentation and diminution, which
flourished in the 15th and 16th centuries; of "the basso ostinato with
the styles pertaining to it— the passacaglia and the chaconne"; and
of the old style of variations, in which the bass rather than the
melody is the feature retained. "No musician," Spitta concludes, "was
more well read in his art or more constantly disposed to appropriate
all that was new, especially all newly discovered treasures of the
past. His passion for learning wandered, indeed, into every field,
and resulted in a rich and most original culture of mind, for his
knowledge was not mere acquirement, but became a living and
fruitful thing."
The vitality of his relation with the past is nowhere more strikingly
shown than in his indebtedness to the two greatest masters of pure
music, Bach and Beethoven. He has gathered up the threads of their
dissimilar styles, and knitted them into one solid fabric. The great
glory of Bach, as is well known, was his wonderful polyphony. In
his work every voice is a melody, everything sings, there is no dead
wood, no flaccid filling. Beethoven, on the other hand, turning to
new problems, to problems of structure which demanded a new
sort of control of key-relationship and the thematic development
of single "subjects" or tunes, necessarily paid less attention to the
subordinate voices. His style is homophonic or one-voiced rather
than polyphonic. The interest centers in one melody and its evolu-
tions, while the others fall into the subordinate position of ac-
companiment. But Brahms, retaining and extending the complexity
of structure, the architectural variety and solidity, that was Bee-
thoven's great achievement, has succeeded in giving new melodic
life also to the inner parts, so that the significance and interest of
the whole web remind one of Bach. His skill as a contrapuntist is
as notable as his command of structure. Thanks to his wonderful
352
JOHANNES BRAHMS
power of assimilating methods, of adapting them to the needs of
his own expression, so that he remains personal and genuine while
becoming universal in scope, he is the true heir and comrade of
Bach and Beethoven.
It was, perhaps, inevitable that in his great work of synthesis and
formulation he should sometimes be led into dry formalism. One
who concerns himself so indefatigably with the technique of con-
struction naturally comes to take a keen joy in the exercise of his
skill; and this may easily result, when thought halts, in the fabrica-
tion of ingenuities and Chinese puzzles. Some pages of Brahms con-
sist of infinitely dexterous manipulations of meaningless phrases.
And though one must guard against assuming that he is dry when-
ever one does not readily follow him, it certainly must be confessed
that sometimes he seems to write merely for the sake of writing.
This occasional over-intellectuaHsm, moreover, is unfortunately ag-
gravated by a lack of feeling for the purely sensuous side of music,
for clear, rich tone-combination, to which Brahms must plead
guilty. His orchestra is often muddy and hoarse, his piano style often
shows neglect of the necessities of sonority and cleverness. Dr.
William Mason testified that his touch was hard and unsympathetic,
and it is rather significant of insensibility or indifference to tone
color that his Piano Quintet (1864) was at first written for strings
alone, and that the Variations on a Theme of Haydn (1873) exist in
two forms, one for orchestra and the other for two pianos, neither of
which is announced as the original version. There is danger of
exaggerating the importance of such facts, however. Austere and
somber as Brahms's scoring generally is, it may be held that so it
should be in keeping with the musical conception. And if his piano
style is novel it is not really unidiomatic or without its own pecular
effects.
However extreme we may consider the weakness of sensuous
perception, which on the whole cannot be denied in Brahms, it is
the only serious flaw in a man equally great on the emotional and
the intellectual sides. Very remarkable is the richness and at the
same time the balance of Brahms's nature. He recognized early in
life that feelings were valuable, not for their mere poignancy, but
by their effect on the central spirit; and he labored incessantly to
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
express them with eloquence and yet with, control. It is only little
men who estimate an emotion by its intensity, and who try to
express everything, the hysterical as well as the deliberate, the
trivial and mischievous as well as the weighty and the inspiring.
They imagine that success in art depends on the number of things
they say, that to voice a temperament is to build a character. But
great men, though they reject no sincere human feeling, care more
to give the right impression than to be exhaustive; and the greatest
feel instinctively that the last word of their art must be constructive,
positive, upbuilding. Thoreau remarks that the singer can easily
move us to tears or laughter, but asks, "Where is he who can com-
municate a pure morning joy?" It is Brahms's unique greatness
among Romantic composers that he was able to infuse his music,
in which all personal passion is made accessory to beauty, with this
"pure morning joy." His aim in writing is something more than to
chronicle subjective feelings, however various "or intense. And that
is why we have to consider him the greatest composer of his time,
even though in particular departments he must take a second place
to others. Steadily avoiding all fragmentary, wayward, and distor-
tive expression, using always his consummate mastery of his medium
and his sympathetic power of thought to subserve a large and
universal utterance, he points the way for a healthy and fruitful
development of music.
BRAHMS SPEAKS
There is no real creating without hard work. That which you
would call invention, that is to say, a thought, is simply an inspira-
tion from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit
of mine. Yes, it is a present, a gift, which I ought even to despise
until I have made it my own by right of hard work. And there need
be no hurry about that either. It is as with the seed corn: it
germinates unconsciously and in spite of ourselves. When I, for
instance, have found the first phrase of a song, I must shut the book
there and then, go for a walk, do some other work, and perhaps not
think of it again for months. Nothing, however, is lost. If afterward
854
JOHANNES BRAHMS
I approach the subject again, it is sure to have taken shape. I can
now really begin to work at it.
One should not venture to experience sublimer and purer emo-
tions than the public. You can see from my case that if one dreams
merely the same dreams as the public and puts them into music,
one gets some applause. The eagle soars upwards in loneliness, but
rooks flock together. May God grant that my wings grow thoroughly
and that I belong at last to the other kind.
[Advice to a young composer.] Let it rest, and keep going back
to it and working it over and over again until it is completed as a
finished work of art; until there is not a note too much or too little,
not a bar you could improve upon. Whether it is beautiful also is an
entirely different matter, but perfect it must be. You see I am lazy,
but I never cool down over a work once begun until it is perfected,
unassailable. One ought never to forget that by actually perfecting
one piece one learns more than by beginning or half-finishing ten.
I must go my way alone and in peace. I have never yet crossed
the path of another.
Once in my life I wish I could know the feeling of happiness that
Schubert must have enjoyed when one of his melodies occurred to
him.
You have no idea how it feels to hear behind you the tramp of
a giant like Beethoven.
355
BEDRICH SMETANA
1824-188
BIOGRAPHY
BEDRICH SMETANA, Bohemia's first important nationalist composer,
was born in Leitomischl on March 2, 1824. Though as a chid he
was exceptionally gifted in music, he did not begin formal study
until he was nineteen. At that time he went to Prague to study piano
and theory with Josef Proksch. Smetana's first post was as music
teacher at the household of Count Thun. In 1848, with the help of
Liszt, he founded in Prague a successful music school. One year
later he married his childhood sweetheart, Katharina Kolaf, and in
1850 he was appointed pianist to Ferdinand I, former Emperor of
Austria.
Between 1856 and 1861, Smetana lived in Gothenburg, Sweden,
where he taught and played the piano, and conducted the Phil-
harmonic Society. There he wrote his first significant orchestral
compositions, including the tone poem Wallensteins Lager. In 1861
he was back in his native land ready to assume an active part in its
newly aroused nationalist movement after Austria had granted po-
litical autonomy to Bohemia. One of the consequences of this aroused
nationalist feeling was the creation in 1862 of the National Theater
in Prague for the presentation of Bohemian folk operas. For this
theater Smetana created his first opera, The Brandenburgers in
Bohemia, introduced on January 5, 1866.
Smetana's second opera came later the same year: his masterwork,
The Bartered Bride, a comic opera that became the foundation of
Bohemian musical nationalism. The first version, in 1866, was a
spoken play with songs and dances. But in later revisions all spoken
dialogue was replaced by recitatives, and new musical episodes
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BEDBICH SMETANA
(including two folk dances) were introduced. This definitive version
was first given in Prague in 1870 and proved a sensation. It went on
from there to conquer the world.
Smetana now assumed a place of first importance in the musical
life of his country. He was active as conductor of the National
Theater, as a music critic, teacher, and composer. In his compositions
he continued to espouse the cause of Bohemian nationalism with
numerous operas, the most important being Dalibor (1865-67) and
lAbusa (1869-72).
In the early 1870's, Smetana became afflicted with a serious
nervous disorder which, in 1874, brought on deafness. Nevertheless,
he continued producing important music, not only operas, but also
an autobiographical string quartet— Aus meinem Leben, or From
My Life, in 1876— and, between 1874 and 1879 a cycle of six national
tone poems for orchestra collectively entitled My Fatherland (Md
Vlast\ the most popular of these being The Moldau (Vltava). The
entire cycle received its premiere in Prague on November 2, 1882.
The severe criticisms encountered by his last opera, The DeviTs
War, in 1882, broke his spirit and precipitated a mental breakdown.
In 1883, Smetana went insane and had to be confined to an asylum
in Prague, where he died on May 12, 1884.
THE MAN
JOSEF SCHWARZ
Life in Jabkenice [1876-84] was, as is usual, quiet, without great
events. The master worked in his room on his compositions, often
singing to himself under his breath— usually from 9:30 till lunch
time, in the afternoon from two o'clock to 4:30.
After breakfast, around eight o'clock, and then in the evening, he
liked to go out for a walk, swinging a thin cane, either to the game
park surrounding the keepers lodge where the old woods with their
several ponds and long-legged deer provided a beautiful picture,
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
or to the heights surrounding Jabkenice from where there was a
beautiful view of the Dobrovice valley in which clean villages
framed by gardens nestle picturesquely, and speak eloquently of
the fertility of the countryside.
In the park, Smetana enjoyed the sight of the game and various
birds and often he would tell us how many huge stags and deer he
had seen. He was altogether a great friend of nature.
Sometimes, hardly had he left home, [than] he would return to
his room in great haste. In the beginning we could not imagine what
had happened until we realized that he had run in to write down
some new musical motive which had occurred to him during his walk
or in order to add a few lines to his compositions.
He willingly joined in the excursions and amusements of his
family, and if there was any dancing, he would smile at the "buf-
foonery" as he called it. For now, although he himself had been a
passionate dancer in his youth, it seemed comic to him not to hear
the music and to see the young people dancing around in such a
variety of ways.
In the summer he would bathe in the nearby large fishpond in the
same park in which the count's swimming pool had been built. In
winter, if I was not occupied with business, I would play chess with
Smetana. If I played badly, he would smile and sometimes break
out into a hearty laugh, but he could also become very angry if
I spoiled his plans. On such occasions he would say: "Even Franta
can play as well as that," and then I had to take back as many
chessmen as he would have me do. Only then did we continue with
the game. Sometimes when he had no luck at all, he grew so angry
that he swept all the chessmen off the board. But his outbursts of
irritability soon passed.
He liked to sit on after supper, and if he was satisfied with his
day's work, he would tell us amusingly of his experiences, adven-
tures, thoughts. He always looked forward to his night's sleep for,
as he often told us, he dreamed almost every night of the most
beautiful landscapes imaginable.
He read the newspapers diligently and wrote down all memorable
events in his diary, making shrewd comments the while. These
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BEDRICH SMETANA
calendar-diaries of a popular size also did service as account books
into which he wrote his receipts and expenditures.
He did not like to see strange guests in the house. But with ac-
quaintances, of whom there were usually enough, he liked to spend
tie time in lively talk.
THE COMPOSER
KURT PAHLEN
In Bedfich Smetana Czechoslovakia had a bard who succeeded
in attuning the richly flowing melodies of his native soil to European
Romanticism. His works truly embody the soul of his land, a land
which for centuries had been singing and had always been the home
of gifted musicians.
The melodies of the Czech people are less melancholy than those
of the Poles, less mystical than those of the Russians. In keeping
with the landscape, its green hills, its crystal brooks, its fertile lands,
and its lovely villages, die country's songs and dances, too, are more
pleasant and cheerful, although now and then we may hear one
of the nobly mournful airs which seem to be the common property
of all Slavs.
Smetana, a simple son of his people, set to music the history, the
legends, the joys and sorrows, of his fatherland. He was the com-
poser of one of the finest comic operas in existence, The Bartered
Bride (1866). In it, he managed to lift the folklike rhythms of the
polka to the same artistic level that Chopin had found for the
mazurka and Johann Strauss II for the waltz. Unfortunately his
serious operas— like Dalibor (1865-67) and Libusa (1869-72)-are
little known in other countries.
He poured forth all his love of home in the grandiose patriotic
ode My Fatherland (Md Vlast), a work consisting of six symphonic
poems (1874-79). The first, Vysehrad, is a depiction of the times of
Bohemia's ancient kings; the second, and best known, The Moldau
(or Vltava) follows the course of the picturesque stream, gliding
past festively decorated villages, listening to the nocturnal song of
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
water sprites, and finally solemnly saluting the old Prague which
witness to a richly colored past, rises from its banks; Sarka takes us
back to the legendary times of the bards; From Bohemias Fields
and Groves is a charming picturization of nature; Tabor gives sound
to old Hussite motifs from the historical days of the religious wars;
and Blanik gloriously rounds off the work like a hymn of victory
and of faith in the rebirth of the Cezch nation.
A striking contrast to this work is formed by Smetana's beautiful
string quartet, From My Life (Aus meinem Leberi), in 1876, a deeply
moving picture of the composer's soul. The first movement, in the
words of the composer himself, "depicts the love of art in my youth
. . . and also a kind of warning of future misfortune." The second
movement, the composer adds, recalls "the joyful dance of my youth,
when I composed dance music . . . and was known as a passionate
lover of dancing." The third movement recollects "the bliss of a first
love for the girl who afterward became my faithful wife." The finale
describes "the discovery that I could treat the national element in
music, and my joy in following this path until the catastrophe over-
whelmed me, the beginning of my deafness."
Smetana's life was a sad one. All the more admirable was the
energy which made him overcome all difficulties and enabled him
unflinchingly to pursue his way. The nationalist tendencies of his
early works aroused the suspicion of Austrian authorities who tried
to suppress every symptom of Bohemian separatism. Outside of his
country, there was but one man who did understand him, he who
had a sense for everything that was great: Liszt.
Smetana left his home land and settled in Sweden in 1856. But it
seemed as if his spirit continued to be active in his fatherland, for a
change was taking place there: the whole people contributed to-
wards the erection of a National Theater in Prague. And Smetana,
who had dreamt of such a thing, became its first director. The
solemn dedication of the house took place in 1866. But the years of
Smetana's happiness were brief. Both the tragedy of Beethoven and
that of Schumann befell him. Deaf since 1874, he died in a state of
mental derangement in 1884.
Smetana's death, however, did not serve to extinguish the torch of
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BEDRICH SMETANA
Bohemian music, as had happened in the case of Polish music when
Chopin died.
SMETANA SPEAKS
If anyone ever asked me why I had written some passage or other
in a particular way and not otherwise, and went into great detail,
I could only say to him that I had to write it that way according to
my feelings and my conscience.
My works do not belong to the category of "absolute music"
where you can find your way about with the aid of musical signs
and a metronome. These aids are not enough for my compositions.
All my work has sprung from the inner moods of my soul, and the
musician who is to play my work well must have a complete knowl-
edge of it if he is to put the listener in the same frame of mind.
It is, of course, quite certain, that this will not always be the case
and lack of this may often be responsible for a completely erroneous
interpretation of my compositions. And the consequence of this
mistake will be that the public's verdict will be unfavorable.
If I now look at my youthful work, I have to say that I did not
allow myself any short cuts, and that not even a finished artist would
have to be ashamed of such thorough apprentice work. And whoever
does not work through all the difficult forms in this way will remain
a dilettante to his death.
I hope that if I have not reached the goal I set myself I am at
least approaching it. And that goal is to prove that we Bohemians
are not mere practising musicians as other nations nickname us,
saying that our talent lies in our fingers, but not in our brains, but
that we are also endowed with creative force, yes, that we have
our own characteristic music.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
[The height of original expression is] when it is possible to say
after a few bars: this is Mozart—that is Chopin. Of other composers,
less original, it is impossible to say as much often even after a hun-
dred bars, indeed sometimes after the entire work. ... If only one
day it were possible to say after a few bars: this is Smetana!
362
ANTONIN DVORAK
1841-1904
ANTONIN DVORAK— who kept the fires of Bohemian national music
burning bright— was born in Miihlhausen on September 8, 1841.
When his father sent him to a nearby town to learn the German
language in preparation for a business career, the boy took lessons
in organ, piano, and viola from a local schoolmaster. Between 1857
and 1859, DvoMk attended the Prague Organ School.
For about a decade, beginning in 1861, Dvorak was the violist in
the orchestra of the National Theater in Prague. Its conductor,
Smetana, aroused Dvorak's national ardor and first encouraged him
to write national music. In 1873, Dvorak became the organist of the
St. Adalbert Church. That same year, on March 9, he attracted
attention as a composer with Ht/mnus. Two years later one of his
symphonies won the Austrian State Prize.
Now devoting more of his energies than heretofore to the writing
of national music, he completed a comic opera in a folk idiom, and
Airs from Moravia, a set of vocal duets. The latter received a prize
from the Austrian State Commission, one of whose members was
Brahms. Through Brahms's influence, the publishing firm of Simrock
commissioned Dvorak in 1878 to write a set of Slavonic Dances, for
piano four hands. They proved so successful throughout Europe that
Simrock had Dvorak orchestrate them; Dvorak wrote a second set
of these Dances in 1886.
In 1877, Dvorak left his organ post, and began filling invitations
as guest conductor with major European symphony orchestras. In
1884 he was acclaimed in London for his performance of his Stabat
Mater, He returned to England several times during the next few
years to direct the premieres of several major choral works at leading
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
festivals. In 1891 lie received an honorary doctorate from Cam-
bridge.
Between 1892 and 1895 Dvorak served as director of the National
Conservatory in New York. He now became deeply impressed with
Negro spirituals, and the tribal songs and dances of the American
Indian, and started to use some of these techniques and materials
for major works. The Negro spiritual inspired his most famous
symphony, From the New World, successfully introduced in New
York on December 15, 1893, as well as the B minor Cello Concerto;
with ideas derived from American Indian music he wrote the
F major String Quartet, the E-flat Major String Quintet, and the
Sonatina in G major for violin and piano.
After returning to Prague in 1895, Dvorak served for a while as
professor at the Prague Conservatory, then, from 1901 until his
death, as its director. Now the most celebrated musician in Bohemia,
he was made life member of the Austrian House of Lords in 1901,
the first musician thus honored. Dvorak died in Prague on May 1,
1904, a victim of Bright7 s disease. His funeral was, by government
decree, a national day of mourning.
THE MAN
PAUL STEFAN
In New York Dvofdk was surprised to find himself extraordi-
narily <eat home'*: the life of the times and the cleanliness of the
city both pleased him; he felt perfectly at ease with the unexacting
democratic ways of Americans. He considered it an exemplary
institution which permitted the laboring man to hear at popular
prices the same concerts to which the middle class had to pay higher
admission. "Why should not the ordinary citizen, hard at work all
week, be able to make the acquaintance of Bach and Beethoven?"
was the way he put it.
His daily life habits and hobbies remained as much as possible
the same. True, his hobbies required much more attention and con-
sumed more time than at home, but they brought him fresh revela-
364
ANTONIN DVORAK
tions. Chief among these was his passion for locomotives. A loco-
motive was to him the highest achievement of the human inventive
faculty, and he often said that he would give all his symphonies had
he been able to invent the locomotive.
In the New York of those days it was not easy to get to the rail-
way stations; they were inconveniently situated and only travelers
were allowed on the platforms. There was slight sympathy for
locomotive statisticians even when they were famous composers.
He used to drive one whole hour to the 155th Street station in order
to see the trains for Chicago go thundering by; Dvorak was tre-
mendously impressed by their speed.
The harbor, however, lay close at hand and on sailing days any-
body could go board ship. Dvorak did not wait to hear this twice.
He fell into the habit of visiting each great vessel that left New
York, making a thorough inspection of every feature from bow to
stern, interviewing captain, officers and crew until it was sailing
time. He remained on the pier until the last minute in order to see
the liners with their attendant tugs sheer off into midstream. When
he had to be at the Conservatory, he at least made every effort to
see them sail.
Twice a week he went down to the docks, twice a week he visited
a railway station, and the other two days he went walking in Central
Park. Evenings were spent in fascinating speculation as to where a
certain ship would be about that time and how many knots she
could make. He knew to the day and hour what ships were arriving
and departing, and prided himself on being able to address his
letters to Bohemia, stating exactly on which ship they would be
carried.
For the rest, his love of Nature had to be satisfied with Central
Park. There were pigeons, too, in this extraordinary town, though
you did not get to know them as well as in Vysoka.
He was always an early riser and persisted in going to bed at
an early hour. Social gatherings, theaters, and concerts that inter-
fered with bed time he avoided as much as possible. He and his
family took all their meals at a nearby boarding house. Nervous
about crossing the street, Dvorak never went for a walk except with
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
a companion, usually Kovafik. In the afternoon, he liked to read the
papers in the Cafe Boulevard on Second Avenue.
At home, in the evenings, he loved to play cards; Kovafik had to
learn the game. But when Dvorak had lost several times in suc-
cession he would become very angry and toss the cards in the air.
He soon got over it when Kovafik would propose to contribute his
winnings towards the doll they were going to take home to his
youngest daughter in Vysoka.
Dvorak's extreme sensibility was shown by his fear of thunder-
storms : he would have all the window shutters closed, and play the
piano as loud as he could. At meal times he always had a good
appetite, drank a great deal of coffee, and smoked so-called Virginia
cigars. ... He loved window shopping, but always preferred to
buy from peddlers and the market people, with whom he would
pass the time of the day.
THE COMPOSER
VLADIMIR HELFERT
Antonin Dvorak enriched Bohemian music in several new direc-
tions. In him, Bohemian music produced a genius of spontaneous
directness. In this he is related to Schubert, with whom he has much
in common. Dvorak's wealth of inspiration is surely unique in
Bohemian music. He is always full of fresh ideas and effervescent
melodies. Such an elemental creative directness may well conceal
some dangers under certain circumstances, especially where it be-
comes necessary to mold inspiration through creative work into a
logical design and shape. The work of musical reflection may easily
be set aside by his elemental directness. It is certain that this danger
is not always absent from Dvorak's work, especially in instances
where it is necessary to lead a work up to its logical culmination.
The problem becomes most acute in the final movements of his
cyclical works— symphonic and chamber music— and in operas. But
even in such instances Dvof ak knew how to counteract those dangers
S66
ANTONIN DVORAK
by means of a wealth of ideas and fascinating tone textures. In this
respect, there can be little question but that Dvofdk is the most
gifted of all Bohemian composers, a typical example of a full-blooded
musician.
Through Dvorak, Bohemian music gained in several important
respects. In the first place, Dvorak was a man of the common people,
natural in view of his humble origin; his music, therefore, has all
the vigor and directness of folk music. Secondly, Dvorak had a
passionate and lively temperament which had something elemental
about it. It was the temperament of the joy and passion of the
common man, often somewhat crude, but always spontaneous.
Hence the characteristic Dvorak rhythms which never fail to create
an immediate interest and impression and which are at their best in
his Slavonic Dances (1878, 1886).
But this fierce joyousness is not the only trait of Dvorak's music,
in which we also find an expression of piety— simple and sincere-
such as only a deeply religious person is capable of. From this piety
spring the touching Adagios and Lentos of his symphonies and
chamber-music works. A new voice is thus introduced into Bohemian
music, different from that, say, of Bedfich Smetana. As a true son
of late Romanticism, Dvorak showed a keen understanding of the
popular Romantic element, reflected in folk ballads and in the
beauties of Nature. Such sources provided Dvorak with material
enabling him to introduce new typical elements into Bohemian
music. Foremost among such compositions are his symphonic poems
based on the ballads of Erben (1896)— The Water-Goblin, The
Noonday Witch, The Golden Spinning Wheel, and The Wild Dove—
and particularly, the opera Rusalka (1900), which gives an excellent
impression of the mysterious fairy-tale atmosphere of the forests.
It was also due to Romanticism that Dvorak conceived the idea
of writing national Slavic music. Under the influence of Romantic
theories regarding folk music, he saw in Russian and Ukranian folk
songs a perfect example of native Slavic musical expression, un-
touched by Western civilization, and consequently purely racial.
From these songs he derived many of his melodic and harmonic
idioms. His efforts to create a Slavic music are reflected in the
Slavonic Dances (a parallel to the Hungarian Dances of Brahms),
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and further in his Slavonic Rhapsodies in 1878 (this time a parallel
to Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies); in the "dumky" introduced in his
chamber-music compositions as separate movements; and finally in
his opera, Dimitrij (1881-82), whose subject was taken from Russian
history, thus supplying him with a suitable opportunity to what he
regarded as Slavic music.
His prolific inspiration enabled Dvorak to write a great variety of
compositions in which new forms in Bohemian music were exploited,
previously avoided by Smetana. This applies in the first place to
Dvorak's absolute music, in so far as this term may be used for other
than program works. Smetana, raised on the neo-Romantic ideas of
Liszt, found his proper sphere of creative activity in opera and
symphonic poems, avoiding for the most part absolute music. For
this reason he wrote only one symphony, and even this has a definite
programmatic content. The same applies to his chamber music. On
the other hand, Dvorak— as an intuitive, direct musician who allowed
himself to be swept away by his ideas— sought out his proper sphere
of activity everywhere his turbulent temperament could find full
freedom of expression, as for example in his symphonies and cham-
ber music. Thus Dvorak became the foremost Bohemian symphonic
composer, a field in which he could prosper due to his natural gifts
at orchestration, a gift which found its roots once again in popular
and folk music.
Dvorak's symphonies provide an eloquent illustration of his artistic
growth and development, of his gradual emancipation from the in-
fluence brought to bear on him (Wagner, Liszt, Schubert, Beethoven,
and Smetana). His individuality found full expression in his beautiful
Fourth Symphony in G major (1889), and even more so in the highly
popular Fifth Symphony in E minor known as From the New World
(1893). No less valuable is his chamber music, especially his Quartet
in F major, known as the "American" (1893), the String Quintet in
E-flat major (1893), the Dumky Trio for piano and strings (1891),
and the Piano Quintet in A major (1887).
Dvorak further introduced for the first time the concerto into
Bohemian music. His famous Violin Concerto in A minor (1880) and
Cello Concerto in B minor (1895) are the foundations upon which
rest the Bohemian traditions of instrumental concertos. Another
S68
ANTONIN DVORAK
form of music new to Czech music of Dvorak's time is the oratorio.
Smetana never wrote any works in this form, since it was foreign to
his sense for the dramatic and the pictorial. On the other hand,
Dvofdk, a man of outstanding piety, found the oratorio a highly
suitable medium for self-expression. His Stabat Mater (1877), the
two secular oratorios, The Spectre's Bride (1884) and S*. Ludmilla
(1886), are among the best choral works of this type produced by
19th-century Bohemian music.
There is no doubt that such forms as the symphony, the concerto,
the quartet, the quintet, and the oratorio gave Dvorak's genius an
ample opportunity to sing his fluent, beautiful melodies, and to give
vent to his elemental urges of self-expression. On the other hand, in
less proscribed forms— guided not by conventional formulas, rules or
procedures but by a poetic idea or a logic dictated in creative re-
flection—Dvorak was much less successful. This was true of his
symphonic poems. Dvorak never could find a true balance between
the purely musical logic of a work and the postulates of a program.
He knew how to create a suggestive ballad atmosphere on writing
his symphonic poems on subjects from Erben's ballads, but from the
point of view of structural design he failed to solve the problem of
the symphonic poem. Similarly in his operas Dvorak was unable to
create a style of his own in the way Smetana had done. His operas
are full of high purpose, sound musical values, but they lack uni-
formity of style. Some are written in the manner of French grand
operas: Dimitrij and Armida (1902-3). Others are in the Wagnerian
idiom: Alfred (1870), The King and the Collier (1871), and Vanda
(1875). Still others are in the idiom of Smetana: The Pigheaded
Peasants (1874), Jakobin (1887-88), and The Devil and Kate (1898-
99). His best opera is probably Rusalka, a deeply poetic work which
is also the most original and stylistically distinctive of his operas.
Dvorak's manifold interest in varied forms also led him to write
songs, choral music, and piano pieces, in all of which lie reveals
himself (as elsewhere) to be a master of melody.
Dvorak's life presents the story of a rapid rise to success, and
continuous growth of fame and popularity. He was the first Bo-
hemian composer of his age to become famous outside his native
land. His music early gained success in Germany, then penetrated
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
into England, and finally to the United States. If we were to attempt
to uncover the reason for Dvorak's worldwide success, we might
find it in the situation prevailing in European music at the close
of the 19th century. Europe was sagging under the crushing weight
of Wagner's music dramas. In France, the reaction against Wagner
expressed itself in Impressionism, while Germany and England
hailed Dvorak— who combined the utmost seriousness of artistic pur-
pose with a spontaneous simplicity of melody— as a fresh and wel-
come relief from Wagnerism. This does not imply, of course, that
Dvorak himself opposed Wagner. He was simply a different kind of
composer, and he became a welcome complement to the music of
his day, supplying a need strongly and often unconsciously felt by
the music world around him.
DVORAK SPEAKS
I am satisfied that the future music of this country [the United
States] must be founded upon what are called the Negro melodies.
These can be the foundation of a serious and original school of
composition, to be developed in the United States. When first I came
here I was impressed with this idea, and it has developed into a
settled conviction. These beautiful and varied themes are the prod-
ucts of the soil. They are American. They are all the folk songs of
America, and your composers must turn to them. All the great
musicians have borrowed from the songs of the common people.
... I have myself gone to the simple, half-forgotten tunes of the
Bohemian peasants for hints in my most serious work. Only in this
way can a musician express the true sentiment of a people. He gets
in touch with the common humanity of a country. In the Negro
melodies of America, I discover all that is needed for a great and
noble school of music. They are pathetic, tender, passionate, melan-
choly, solemn, religious, bold, merry, gay, gracious, or what you will.
It is music that suits itself to any mood or any purpose. There is
nothing in the whole range of composition that cannot find a
thematic source here.
370
ANTONIN DVORAK
A while ago I suggested that inspiration for a truly national music
might be derived from the Negro melodies or Indian chants. I was
led to take this view partly by the fact that the so-called plantation
songs are indeed the most striking and appealing melodies that have
yet been found on this side of the water, but largely by the observa-
tion that this seems to be recognized, though often unconsciously, by
most Americans. All races have their distinctively national songs,
which they at once recognize as their own, even if they have never
heard them before. . . .
What songs, then, belong to the American and appeal more
strongly to him than any others? What melody could stop him on
the street if he were in a strange land and make the home feeling
well up within him, no matter how hardened he might be or how
wretchedly the time were played? Their number, to be sure, seems
to be limited. The most potent as well as the most beautiful among
them, according to my estimation, are certain of the so-called plan-
tation melodies and slave songs, all of which are distinguished by
unusual and subtle harmonies, the like of which I have found in no
other songs but those of old Scotland and Ireland. The point has
been urged that many of these touching songs, like those of Foster,
have not been composed by the Negroes themselves, but are the work
of white men, while others did not originate on the plantations, but
are imported from Africa. It seems to me that this matters but
little. . . . The important thing is that the inspiration for such
music should come from the right source, and that the music itself
should be a true expression of the people's real feelings. To read the
right meaning the composer need not necessarily be of the same
blood, though that, of course, makes it easier for him. The white
composers who wrote the touching Negro songs, which dimmed
Thackeray's spectacles so that he exclaimed, "Behold, a vagabond
with a corked face and a banjo sings a little song, strikes a wild
note, which sets the whole heart thrilling with happy pity!" had a
. . sympathetic comprehension of the deep pathos of slave life.
If, as I have been informed they were, these songs were adopted by
the Negroes on the plantations, they thus became true Negro songs.
Whether the original songs which must have inspired the composers
came from Africa or originated on the plantation mattered as little
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
as whether Shakespeare invented his own plots or borrowed them
from others. The thing to rejoice over is that such lovely songs exist
and are sung at the present day. I, for one, am delighted with them.
Just so it matters little whether the inspiration for the coming folk
songs of America is derived from the Negro melodies, the songs of
the Creoles, the red man's chant, or the plaintive ditties of the home-
sick German or Norwegian. Undoubtedly the germs for the best in
music lie hidden among all the races that are commingled in this
great country. The music of the people is like a rare and lovely
flower growing amidst encroaching weeds. Thousands pass it, while
others trample it under foot, and thus the chances are that it will
perish before it is seen by the one discriminating spirit who will
prize it above all else. The fact that no one has as yet arisen to make
the most of it does not prove that nothing is there.
375
PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
1840-1893
PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY was born in Votkinsk, Russia, on May
7, 1840. For nine years he attended the School of Jurisprudence in
St. Petersburg, after which he worked for three years as clerk in the
Ministry of Justice.
His early study of music had been spasmodic and without any
demonstrations of unusual talent. In 1861 he resumed music study
privately with Nicolas Zaremba. One year after that he resigned
from the Ministry to enrol in the newly founded St. Petersburg
Conservatory. There he" proved a remarkable pupil, and was gradu-
ated in 1865 with a silver medal. In 1866 he became professor of
harmony in the recently organized Conservatory in Moscow. In this
post he applied himself industriously to, composition, completed his
first symphony „ his first opera (The Voyevode), and in 1869 the first
draft of his earliest masterwork, the orchestral fantasy, Romeo and
Juliet.
On July 18, 1877, Tchaikovsky married Antonina Miliukova, a
young, high-strung and neurotic Conservatory student who had
come to him with avowals of adoration. Tchaikovsky did not love
her, nevertheless he impulsively embarked upon marriage with her,
in all probability to refute (or else to arrest) the mounting rumors
about his sexual aberration. This marriage proved a disaster from
the outset. Always hyperthyroid, morbid, and misanthropic, Tchai-
kovsky was now driven to such a state of mental torment by his
marital experience that on one occasion he tried to commit suicide.
After that he fled to St. Petersburg where his brother, a lawyer,
arranged for a legal separation.
While this gruesome experience was sapping his health and
373
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
nervous energy, Tchaikovsky entered upon another, and far more
beneficial relationship. In 1877, Nadezhda von Meek, a wealthy
widow and art patroness, wrote expressing interest in his music and
offering to be o£ financial assistance. Tchaikovsky replied gratefully,
setting off a chain reaction of correspondence that continued for
thirteen years. During a voluminous exchange of letters, Tchaikov-
sky confided to Mme. von Meek his most personal feelings,
thoughts, and fears, as well as his artistic hopes and aspirations, At
times his letters even gave voice to passionate expressions of love.
Yet in all those years, Tchaikovsky and Mme. von Meek never met
face to face— a stipulation the patroness had set down as a condition
for their relationship. The reason for her strange request has never
been satisfactorily explained.
Through Mme. von Meck's beneficence, Tchaikovsky was freed of
all financial problems. In 1877-78 he traveled extensively through-
out Europe, and in 1878 he resigned his post at the Moscow Con-
servatory to concentrate on composition. He now created a suc-
cession of masterworks with which he assumed leadership among
the composers of his country and his time. His first ballet, The Swan
Lake, was seen in Moscow on March 4, 1877. In 1878 came the
Fourth Symphony; in 1879, his greatest opera, Eugene Onegin; and
between 1880 and 1882, the Violin Concerto, the Piano Concerto
No. 1, and the Italian Caprice and Overture 1812 for orchestra. In
1884 the Czar conferred on him the Order of St. Vladimir, and in
1888 the government endowed him with a generous life pension.
While traveling in the Caucasus in 1890 he received word from
Mme. von Meek that she was suddenly terminating both her corre-
spondence and her subsidy. The reason for her decision was as
mysterious and inexplicable as her earlier insistence that they never
meet personally. The loss of his dearest friend— and for no apparent
reason— was a blow from which Tchaikovsky never fully recovered.
In 1891, Tchaikovsky paid his only visit to the United States,
making his debut in New York on May 5. After giving concerts in
New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, he returned to Russia. In a
mood of overwhelming depression he completed his last symphony,
the Pathetique, whose premiere he conducted in St. Petersburg on
374
PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
October 28, 1893. A victim of a cholera epidemic, Tchaikovsky died
in St. Petersburg on November 6, 1893.
THE MAN
MME. ANATOL TCHAIKOVSKY
From the year 1882 to his death in 1893 I saw him constantly.
He visited us regularly wherever he lived, and he stayed with us for
three or four months. During the first three years of my married life,
my husband had an appointment in Moscow. Every summer we took
a house with Peter Hitch in the country. In these surroundings, as he
himself admitted, he became the "real Petya." He was free. He loved
his brother, and he only saw his closest friends. He adored nature
and for that reason we always chose a house situated in the beauti-
ful country.
His capacity for labor was astonishing. There was even something
pedantic in his manner of organizing his day's work. He rose at eight
o'clock. At nine o'clock, after breakfast, he read Russian and foreign
papers and wrote letters. His correspondence was enormous, for it
was his principle to answer every letter, whether from Russian or
other sources. He read all newly published books and reviews and
played the piano. This occupied his morning. He dined at one
o'clock. Afterward he took long solitary walks in the woods and
fields. During these walks he thought out his compositions, making
notes in a little book he always carried with him. At half-past four
he came back for the tea which he so much adored. At five he
retired to his rooms to set work upon the inspiration of his afternoon
walk.
His generous nature laid him open to a kind of exploitation he
particularly disliked. Young students sought him out hoping for
advice and encouragement in the self -chosen career of composer or
executant. With all his sensitiveness Tchaikovsky had to choose be-
tween kindly insincerity and a frank counsel to look elsewhere for
a life's occupation. He had, again and again, to advise his visitors to
leave music for some more suitable career. On one occasion kindli-
375
THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
ness and integrity could meet. One interview and audition led him
to interrupt the solitude of his late afternoon to proclaim in our
presence the great name of Rachmaninoff. "For him/' he said, "I
predict a great future."
After supper we used to go for a stroll He would talk with much
animation about all kinds of things. He loved to speak of his child-
hood and early days, of people whom he liked and disliked. His
admiration for his mother was almost a cult. Although he had lost
her during his boyhood he still could not speak of her without tears
coining to his eyes. On the anniversary of her birthday it was his
custom to go to church where prayers were offered in her memory.
Neither in town nor in the country did he work during the eve-
ning. He played whist or went to theaters and concerts. His favorite
pastime was to go mushrooming. This was how he would spend his
Sundays in the country. When he found a mushroom he gave vent
to his feelings like a child. He could walk for miles and miles in
search of them.
He adored strong tea, saying that he could not play his hand at
whist without it. I had heard somewhere that if a pinch of soda were
added to the teapot the tea would look stronger than Russian tea
usually does. I tried this one evening. At first sight he was delighted.
He took one or two mouthfuls and then asked me what the con-
coction was. I did my best to reassure him. The next day I was up
to the same trick. At the very moment when I was slipping the soda
into the teapot someone sprang out from behind a curtain shouting,
"Petya has caught Panya out," and waltzed me furiously around the
kitchen.
These exuberant outbursts were nearly always followed by periods
of intense depression. He then seemed completely unaware of his
surroundings and bcame extremely absent-minded. One autumn day,
when it was very cold and windy, he announced his intention of
going to the chemist to buy me a pound of apples. To my great
astonishment he returned with an enormous load of cotton wool.
It appeared that the chemist had asked him whether a pound would
be enough. This sufficed to make him forget his commission. He left
his umbrella and the apples at the chemist's and was too shy to go
and recover them.
376
PETEK ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
He suffered to an almost incredible degree from an inferiority
complex. He was nearly always dissatisfied with liis compositions
and thought they won more applause than they deserved. When
Peter Hitch left for America we learned through the press that his
success was terrific. He was torn to pieces. He was carried shoulder
high. Poetry was written about him. But when he came back he
only told us his success was not deserved.
I used to tell him that he tried to conceal his age— actually he was
only fifty-two— by lavish expenditure on clothes. And in fact in Paris
he ordered far more clothes and hats than I did myself, and he had
a special liking for expensive perfumes.
In one of the recent biographies there occurs the statement that
Peter Ilitch loved money. This is not true. Certainly he liked to have
it at his command, but only that he might be able to give it lavishly,
right and left. Even when he was badly off he used to give it to
those who still had less. In his days of affluence he was downright
extravagant. I judge from my own experience, for he was constantly
giving me unnecessary and very expensive presents. At restaurants
it was always he who paid. He lent money to anyone who asked and
never demanded it back. In his presence nobody was allowed to
take out his purse.
Another legend will have it that he was so nervous as to be
constantly crying. It is true that he was extremely nervous. Some-
times in the middle of an animated conversation his expression
would change completely, a look of suffering would spread over his
features and he would relapse into silence. It is possible that he cried
when he was alone. He even mentioned it in his diary. But he never
gave way in the presence of others, even of those nearest to him.
I never saw him cry.
THE COMPOSER
RICHARD ANTHONY LEONARD
To Tchaikovsky must go the palm; He remains the most famous
and most popular of all Russian composers. That fact alone is a
377
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
distinction not easy to ignore, especially in view of the vicissitudes
through which this composer's music has passed in the half century
and more since his death. There has been no one in music quite like
him, and certainly there has been no music with so remarkable a
history of fortune and misfortune.
He remains for millions the arch-Russian nationalist, even though
during his lifetime his work was disdained by the Five and their
followers as too watery, a dilution of Russian and western European
styles. The rest of the world took him up with avidity, until in the
early decades of the present century the popularity of his music had
reached the stages of a public craze. The institution of the all-
Tchaikovsky program kept many a symphony orchestra out of the
red, and many a conductor enjoyed an easy ride to fame on this
composer s last three symphonies, his concertos, and his overtures.
Tchaikovsky, it is now quite evident, belonged among the most
extreme manifestations of Romanticism in music, and when the
entire movement threatened to collapse in the years following World
War I, it seemed that his work might be buried forever under the
ruins. By 1925, a large section of the public was utterly fed up with
him, a natural result of an orgy of overplaying. Critics who had long
preached against his excesses and his weaknesses redoubled their
efforts, until it became a rare thing for anyone to say a good word for
Tchaikovsky. There arose a new generation of modernist composers
to whom sentiment and romance were so much mildew of an old
age best forgotten, and for them the once-omnipotent Russian was
an object only for ridicule. It seemed for a time that nothing was
left for Tchaikovsky's music but to prepare the mortuary inscriptions.
Few of his detractors had reckoned with either the vitality of the
man's music or the extent of the public's affection for the remnants
of Romanticism itself. Romanticism may be dying, but it is not yet
dead. Today the people have returned to Tchaikovsky; their regard
for him is a sobered and more temperate one, it is true, but with all
his faults they love him still. An accolade of a sort has even been
accorded him by the special geniuses of Tin Pan Alley, who have
made themselves several fortunes by vulgarizing some of his best-
known melodies into popular songs. Thus the wheel turns full circle:
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PETEE ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
the work of a composer who freely availed himself of folk melodies
is returned again to the mass of the people.
One of the first products of Tchaikovsky's early years in Moscow
was his first symphony (1866). This was followed in 1872 by a
second, and in 1875 by a third. The fate of these three works is
unusual, considering the eminence which Tchaikovsky's music once
attained. During the height of the Tchaikovsky craze, when his last
three symphonies were played repeatedly all over the world, these
first three were almost totally ignored. It began to seem as if they
could not possibly be as bad as conductors implied by steadfastly
refusing to exhume them. La recent years they have been brought to
light, with isolated performances and on phonograph records. It
transpires that they are not bad works at all, but what defeats them
even more than lack of finished workmanship, is an absence of
sustained melodic interest. Melody, as we now know, was Tchai-
kovsky's greatest single asset. It is interesting to note that in these
early works— not only in the symphonies but in the operas and the
piano pieces— he had not yet struck the vein of melodic gold which
was to feed all the famous works of his maturity like ore from a
bonanza.
The first work in which the composer definitely hit his stride came
when he was twenty-nine years old. It was the overture-fantasy,
Romeo and Juliet (1869)— one of the finest works in his entire cata-
logue. Romeo and Juliet is a score of passionate intensity, rich in
melody, full of gorgeous harmonies, and making full use of the most
glamorous orchestral sound. His colors are all purple and gold and
crimson, the shadows are deep and dramatic, the highlights brilliant.
In Romeo and Juliet we come upon one of the first of the famous
melodies which have since sung their way around the world— the
dark, richly ornate theme for English horn and muted violins. It is
followed by another even finer— a theme of exquisite tenderness,
scarcely breathed by the muted strings. Lawrence Oilman wrote,
*Here Tchaikovsky outdid himself, here for a moment he captured
the very hue and accent of Shakespearean loveliness/' Not all of
Romeo and Juliet achieves this inspirational level. There are sections
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representing the conflict between the Montagues and the Capulets
which skirt close to bombast and mere noise, a failing which was to
become unfortunately common with this composer. But on the whole
the piece is one of the most successful of the tone-poem type. It is a
work of musical cohesion, in which some fine romantic melodies are
bound together with dramatic emphasis.
Five years elapsed before Tchaikovsky produced another large-
scale work of similar caliber. Meanwhile he was hard at work— on
several operas, various short piano pieces, two string quartets, his
second symphony— and though many of these were adding to his
reputation in Russia and abroad, the yield in comparison with his
later efforts was not a rich one. In the first string quartet in D major
(1871) another famous melody was born. Tchaikovsky made use of
a folk tune which he heard from the lips of a carpenter working in
his house. It appears in the movement marked Andante cantabile,
which became one of his most successful advertisements as a com-
poser of lush melodies, richly harmonized, gilded with sentiment
and melancholy. Like certain less important works of Chopin, it has
been played until it is now unbearable to many listeners. This is
unfortunate, for despite its sentimentality it has the essential core
of real melodic beauty.
Tchaikovsky was thirty-four years old when he composed his
Piano Concerto in B-flat minor (1874-75). The style is derived, of
course, from the piano concertos of Franz Liszt. The Russian simply
took all the Hungarian wizard's tricks and went him one better. The
soloist performs prodigies of dexterity and strength; at times the
piano and the orchestra are antagonists in a roaring war, and on the
next page they are lovers sighing out their hearts in close embrace.
The whole piece is dramatically constructed to shock an audience to
attention by a magnificently imposing opening and to keep them on
an emotional edge to the last note of a frantic finale. The popularity
of this concerto has been enormous, and even today after more than
half a century of battle it retains its vitality to an astonishing degree.
That it is bombastic and at times even meretricious is beyond ques-
tion, and Tchaikovsky's failing for saying unimportant things in the
grand manner is often perfectly exemplified. But again, he redeems
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PETEE ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
himself by sheer force of his melodic material. His are seldom great
themes in the noble sense that those of a Beethoven or a Brahms
are, but they certainly have staying power.
The B-flat minor Piano Concerto spread the name of Tchaikovslcy
far and wide until western Europe and America became aware of
a new phenomenon in music. Tchaikovsky had gotten the jump on
the Five, and it was years before they caught up with him. One of
the chief reasons for his popularity outside his native country was
the fact that his music was Russian, but not too Russian. It was soon
observed that he was eclectic in his procedures, and that he refused
to subscribe to the dogmas of the Five in maintaining a strict
nationalism. He mixed his Russian brew with a blend of German and
even Italian ideas, and as a result of his compromise he gained a
worldwide acceptance which was at first denied the others. His was
the popularity of one who simplifies and conventionalizes a new and
somewhat recondite movement to make it more immediately under-
standable to the general public.
The year 1877 had more significance in Tchaikovsky's life than
the nightmare marriage. In the midst of this turmoil he had been at
work on two major projects, the opera Eugene Onegin and his
Fourth Symphony. The latter was the more enduring work. It was
in fact the first of his three famous symphonies which were to form
a crescendo of popularity, interest, and importance, as well as the
inspirational climax of his entire career.
The Fourth Symphony in F minor is not one of Tchaikovsky's
more nearly perfect scores, but it is surely one of his most effective.
The opening bars are famous— a blaring of wind instruments, stirring
and portentious, which seems to presage events of great moment.
The movement which unfolds at length thereafter is melodious,
colorful, and highly theatrical. Tchaikovsky himself described his
"inner program" for this symphony in a letter to Mme. von Meek.
The introductory fanfare, he said, represented the Fatum, "the in-
exorable force that prevents our hopes of happiness from being
realized. . . . Despair and discontent grow stronger and sharper.
Would it not be wiser to turn from reality and sink into dreams?"
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The varying moods of this first movement are thus an alternation, as
in life itself, between "hard reality and evanescent dreams."
The three remaining movements are less convincingly explained
by the composer, but the truth is that his whole program is un-
necessary. Musically the slow movement is a disappointment. There
is a fine lyrical first theme, but the second is weak and repetitious.
Depth and dignity, two requisites for a symphonic slow movement,
are lacking. The third movement, on the other hand, is an instru-
mental tour de force which has delighted audiences from its first
hearing. The movement is made up of three contrasting orchestral
colors— strings (pizzicato throughout), woodwind, and brass. Each
group plays separately until the end, when they are joined. The
themes are not in themselves exceptional, but the scoring throughout
is original and charming. The finale is a whirlwind of melodrama.
At the height of the battle's fury the brasses interrupt with the
ringing fanfare of the introduction. It is a moment of great dramatic
effectiveness. Unfortunately, Tchaikovsky's surrounding melodic
material is commonplace, unequal to the splendor and vigor of his
bold design.
It was Tchaikovsky's lifelong ambition to write a successful opera
and there was hardly a time when he was not occupied with some
phase of the task. He finished eight operas in all, beginning with the
abortive Voyevode in 1868 and ending with lolanthe in 1891. Most
of them represent only a huge waste of creative effort. Tchaikovsky's
trouble was a common one. Whatever gifts he had for the musical
side of the task were canceled out by his ignorance of dramaturgy.
His pieces were usually all melody and no drama. As a result his
efforts in this field caused him some of his worst embarrassments.
Several were dismal failures; others enjoyed only a succes destime.
All died quickly, with the exception of Eugene Onegin and Pique
Dame (1890), wliich were real successes during the composer's life-
time. Onegin was especially a favorite both in Russia and abroad.
Today both these operas have begun to wilt, although they get
occasional performances outside of Russia. They are kept alive now
by a few isolated excerpts of lyric beauty.
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The years following Tchaikovsky's marriage and the creation o£
the Fourth Symphony were transitional, both in his life and in his
art. He had achieved a technical assurance and a fluency of inven-
tion, but he knew that his inspiration had receded rather than ad-
vanced since the Fourth Symphony. The works of this period are
seldom distinguished. The only exception is the Violin Concerto,
which was written in Switzerland in 1878, immediately after the
breakup of his marriage. The Concerto became one of the most
popular works ever written for the violin. It was a typical work of
the later 19th century, a period in which the repertory of the violin
was degraded almost beyond recovery by sentimentality and display.
That Tchaikovsky's Concerto could succeed in spite of its lopsided-
ness and its lack of formal beauty is both a tribute to the vitality of
his melodies and an indictment of the entire trend of violin compo-
sition during a period of a hundred years.
In 1887 an event occurred which changed the later course of
Tchaikovsky's life. He was finally persuaded to conduct a perform-
ance of one of his operas. The conducting experience of years before
had seared his soul, and he undertook the task, suffering agonies of
nervousness. To his astonishment he was able to acquit himself so
creditably that he received an ovation from the audience. As a
result, he made a tour of western Europe, conducting various noted
orchestras in performances of his own works. Thereafter he made
several international tours, one of which took him to America.
Shortly after his return to Russia from the first international tour,
Tchaikovsky set to work on his Fifth Symphony in E minor (1888).
The work is another laboratory specimen of the composer's mature
style— which means a mixture of his virtues and faults in unexplain-
able juxtaposition. It has lyric richness almost to excess; it has
brilliance, variety of mood, tremendous passion. It has also the
composer's characteristic melancholia, at times so deep that it can
be sopped up; and there is much of the throbbing rhythms which
so befit his moods of desperate sadness. There is an orchestration of
clarity, color, and resounding power; and finally, like pieces of glass
set in a diadem, there are some classic examples of bad taste.
The symphony makes a good beginning, as Tchaikovsky so often
does in his first movements. This one may be a patchwork of themes
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instead of a logical piece of sonata construction, but it lias melodic
interest, well sustained. The motto theme with which the work
begins is radically different from the Fatum of the Fourth Sym-
phony, being not a brassy fanfare, but a soft, gloomily intoned
melody for the clarinet. It runs through the whole symphony in
various guises, becoming in the last movement the main declamation
point of the entire work. The second movement presents another
celebrated Tchaikovsky melody. It is given at first to the solo horn
and is later entwined with an obbligato by the oboe. The movement
is remindful of a Chopin nocturne, extended and intensified with all
the swelling passions and colors of the great orchestra. It misses
being one of the supreme nocturnes, for its chief blemish is two
convulsive interruptions by the motto theme which are noisy and
tasteless. The third movement is marked Waltz, and for this the
composer has been doubly damned. The purists have said that a
waltz has no place whatever in a symphony, and anyway this is not
a real waltz at all. They may be right on both counts, but not many
listeners would sacrifice this particular movement. It is unpreten-
tious, melodious, and charming; and it serves to relieve the emotional
tension of the surrounding movements.
It is hard to forgive Tchaikovsky for the last movement of the
Fifth Symphony. Of all his lapses in taste and aesthetic judgment
this blotch is very likely the worst. His purpose was to end his
symphony with a resounding triumphal finale; his method in part
was to take the gloomy motto theme, turn it from minor to major,
and proclaim it to the skies. It so happens that this is one of the
hardest tests to which a composer may subject a theme— to have it
sung fortissimo by the brass. Better themes than Tchaikovsky's have
failed under this ordeal. Here the record is lamentable. The tune
takes on neither dignity nor beauty, only the banal trumpery of an
operatic march by Meyerbeer. The entire movement degenerates
into an orgy of noise and triviality.
With the Fifth Symphony out of the way, Tchaikovsky went on
another international tour early in 1889. All over the Continent and
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in England tie was received with acclaim, but lie was homesick and
depressed the entire time. During the next year he composed one
of his most successful operas, Pique Dame (The Queen of Spades),
which created a sensation at its premiere in St. Petersburg. During
the summer of 1891 he settled down in Russia to work on an opera
and a ballet which had been commissioned by the Imperial Opera
in St. Petersburg. The opera was lolanthe, his last, and a failure.
The ballet was one of his most treasured scores, the incomparable
Nutcracker (1891-92). The suite which was drawn from this score
has been deluged with performances for many years, so enormous
has been its popularity.
Tchaikovsky had already written two ballets, The Swan Lake
(1875-76) and The Sleeping Beauty, (1888-89), both melodious
though not consistent scores. The Nutcracker music is much superior
and is one of the best pieces of musical fantasy in existence. In a
flash Tchaikovsky revealed a lightness of touch, a feeling for decora-
tion and a sense of humor that would hardly be suspected of the
writer of the big, gloom-ridden symphonies. Let no one imagine
that because the music is 'light" it is also easy. There is more
melodic invention, more orchestral craftsmanship in these dainty
miniatures than in many a symphonic movement. They are as charm-
ing and often as subtle as exquisitely made toys.
The last two years of Tchaikovsky's life were an odyssey of utter
despair. In the autumn of 1892, the composer began to work on a
new symphony. Before it was finished he lost interest, decided it
was empty of inspiration, and destroyed the whole thing. Then late
in the year, on the way to Paris, he began thinking about another
symphony. "This time," he wrote, "a symphony with a program, but
a program that will remain an enigma to all. Let them guess for
themselves. . . . Often while composing it in my mind during the
journey, I shed tears." This was the genesis of Tchaikovsky's Sixth
Symphony in B minor (1893), the composer's masterpiece, and one
of the most celebrated works in symphonic literature.
To this day no one knows what enigmatic program lies hidden
under the notes of this score. Tchaikovsky had thought at first of
calling it simply "A Program Symphony," but on the morning after
its first performance he seized the suggestion of his brother, Modest,
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and called it Pathetic (Pathetique). Beyond that now famous title
we know nothing.
In form the work is totally unorthodox. The first movement is
almost as long as two full movements, the second is cast up in a
curious waltz-like 5/4 rhythm, the third is a Scherzo which winds
up like a finale, while the slow movement is placed at the end of
the work. Schumann's remark about Chopin's B-flat minor Sonata
might very well apply here: the composer "bound together four of
his maddest children." Similarly what holds the four movements
together is not a matter of technical device, or even of musical style;
rather, it is a prevailing mood. The Pathetic Symphony is what its
name indicates— an essay in pathos. Even the barbaric clamors of
the third movement are an exultation that hides but does not obliter-
ate a substratum of morbidity; it is a wild and desperate irony in the
face of terrible grief.
The first movement has been called a "convulsion of the soul."
It does not matter that the composer came not much closer than
usual to the structure and organic growth of the true sonata form.
He makes up for lack of strict form with emotional force. The
development, with its long pedal point of the timpani on the low
F sharp, the tortured writhing of the strings above and the relent-
less downward tread of the trombones, is like a descent into the
inferno— and one of the most gripping pages in Romantic music.
Tchaikovsky gave himself a huge span to fill in this long movement,
but for once his melodic ideas have the breadth and the dignity to
encompass it.
The second movement was long a novelty because of its unusual
5/4 rhythm. The graciousness, the felicity of the chief theme do not
prevail. It is joined to a second theme poignant with repressed
sorrow. The movement is interesting despite repetitiousness. The
third movement, Allegro molto vivace, begins like a conventional
Scherzo, but before long the racing, swirling figures have developed
into headlong flight, likened to the sweep of Tartar hordes across
the steppes. The furious energy, the Slavic violence of this music
was hardly paralleled before Tchaikovsky's time.
The stunning climax at the end of the third movement would have
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PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
meant the end of any conventional symphony; but Tchaikovsky,
displaying the artistic growth that is one of the attributes of genius,
had come to understand the emptiness of that kind of ending for a
symphony which began as this one did. He rounded off this work
with an Adagio lamentoso, an elegy which belongs with the noblest
expressions of human grief.
That the composer was contemplating death in this closing effort
of his life is almost certain. He found it intolerable; he protested
and struggled against it with all the creative strength he could
summon. Bruised and tormented by life, he was yet terrified and
revolted by this iniquitous end of all man's striving. It is "death
alone that can suddenly make man to know himself," said Raleigh.
Tchaikovsky proved those words in his poignant Adagio. He came
suddenly to know himself— a great artist whose powers had come at
last to their flood. He had time for this single effort in which, for
once, his grasp did not exceed his reach. After that, there was left
only the indisputable truth of Raleigh's words: "O eloquent, just,
and mightie Death! .... Thou hast drawne together aU the farre
stretched greatnesse, all the pride, crueltie, and ambition of man,
and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hie jacetr
TCHAIKOVSKY SPEAKS
You want to know my methods of composing? It is very difficult
to give a satisfactory answer to your question, because the circum-
stances under which a new work comes into the world vary con-
siderably in each case. (1) Works which I compose on my own
initiative— that is to say, from an invincible inward impulse. (2)
Works which are inspired by external circumstances; the wish of
a friend, or publisher, or commissioned works.
Here I should add that experience has taught me that the intrinsic
value of a work has nothing to do with its place in one or the other
of these categories. It frequently happens that a composition which
owes its existence to external influences proves very successful,
while one that proceeds entirely from my own initiative may, for
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various indirect reasons, turn out far less well. These indirect circum-
stances, upon which depends the mood in which a work is written,
are of the greatest importance. During the actual time of creative
activity, complete quiet is absolutely necessary to the artist. In this
sense every work of art, even a musical composition, is objective.
Those who imagine that a creative artist can— through the medium
of his art—express his feelings at the moment when he is moved,
make the greatest mistake. Emotions— sad or joyful— can only be
expressed retrospectively, so to speak. Without any special reason
for rejoicing, I may be moved by the most cheerful creative mood,
and vice versa, a work composed in the happiest surroundings may
be touched with dark and gloomy colors. In a word, an artist lives
a double life: an everyday human life and an artistic life, and the
two do not always go hand in hand.
In any case, it is absolutely necessary for a composer to shake off
all the cares of daily existence, at least for a time, and give himself
up entirely to his art life. Works belonging to the first category do
not require the least effort of will. It is only necessary to obey our
inward promptings, and if our material life does not crush our
artistic life under its weight of depressing circumstances, the work
progresses with inconceivable rapidity. Everything else is forgotten,
the soul throbs with an incomprehensible and indescribable excite-
ment, so that, almost before we can follow this swift flight of
inspiration, time passes literally unreckoned and unobserved.
There is something somnambulistic about this condition. On ne
s'entend pas vivre. It is impossible to describe such moments. Every-
thing that flows from one's pen, or merely passes through one's
brain (for such moments often come at a time when writing is an
impossibility) under these circumstances is invariably good, and if
no external obstacle comes to hinder the creative flow, the result
will be an artist's best and most perfect work. Unfortunately such
external hindrances are inevitable. A duty has to be performed,
dinner is announced, a letter arrives, and so on. This is the reason
why there exist so few compositions which are of equal quality
throughout. Hence the joints, patches, inequalities and discrepancies.
For the works in my second category, it is necessary to get into
the mood. To do so, we are often obliged to fight indolence and
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PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
disinclination. Besides this, there are many other fortuitous circum-
stances. Sometimes the victory is easily gained. At other times
inspiration eludes us, and cannot be recaptured. I consider it, how-
ever, the duty of an artist not to be conquered by circumstances.
He must now wait. Inspiration is a guest who does not care to visit
those who are indolent.
What has been set down in a moment of ardor must be critically
examined, improved, extended, or condensed, as the form requires.
Sometimes one must do oneself violence, must sternly and pitilessly
take part against oneself, before one can mercilessly erase things
thought out with love and enthusiasm. I cannot complain of poverty
and imagination, or lack of inventive power; but on the other hand,
I have always suffered from my want of skill in the management of
form. Only after strenuous labor have I at last succeeded in making
the form of my compositions correspond more or less with their
contents. Formerly I was careless and did not give sufficient atten-
tion to the critical overhauling of my sketches. Consequently, my
"seams" showed; there was no organic union between my individual
episodes. This was a very serious defect, and I only improved gradu-
ally as time went on; but the form of my works will never be
exemplary, because although I can modify, I cannot radically alter
the essential qualities of my musical temperament.
I never compose in the abstract; that is to say, the musical thought
never appears otherwise than in a suitable external form. In this
way I invent the musical idea and the instrumentation simultane-
ously. Thus I thought out the Scherzo of our Symphony [Fourth
Symphony] at the moment of its composition— exactly as you heard
it. It is inconceivable except as pizzicato. Were it played with the
bow, it would lose all its charm and be a mere body without a soul.
As regards the Russian element in my works, I may tell you that
not infrequently I begin a composition with the intention of intro-
ducing some folk melody into it. Sometimes it comes of its own
accord, unbidden (as in the finale of our symphony). As to this
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national element in my work, its affinity with the folk songs in some
of my melodies and harmonies comes from my having spent my
childhood in the country, and, from my earliest years, having been
impregnated with the characteristic beauty of our Russian folk
music. I am passionately fond of the national element in all its
varied expressions. In a word, I am Russian in the fullest sense of
the word.
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MODEST MUSSORGSKY
1839-1891
MODEST PETROVTTCH MUSSORGSKY was born in Karevo, Russia, on
March 21, 1839. Planning a military career, lie attended the Cadet
School of the Imperial Guard and in 1856 became an officer. One
year later, two prominent Russian composers— Alexander Dargo-
myzhsky (1813-69) and Mily Balakirev (1837-1910)— stimulated his
interest in music. As Balakirev's pupil, Mussorgsky completed his
first orchestral work, a Scherzo, introduced in St. Petersburg in 1860.
Mussorgsky now joined with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cesar Cui
(1835-1918), and Alexander Borodin (1833-87) in a school of national
composers henceforth identified as "The Russian Five" or "The
Mighty Five." Following principles and aesthetics first established
by Michael Glinka (1804-57) in two remarkable national operas,
A Life for the Czar and Rwlan and Ludmila, the "Russian Five'"
dedicated itself to the creation of music freed of French and German
influences: a Russian art inspired by native backgrounds, culture,
and history, and deeply rooted in the styles and idioms of Russian
folk songs, dances, and church music. Thus the first significant
nationalist movement in music history was launched.
When serfdom was abolished in Russia in 1861, Mussorgsky lost
his property and had to find a job. From 1863 to 1867 he was a clerk
in the Ministry of Communications. Composition, however, was not
neglected. In 1864 he finished the first act of The Marriage; between
1864 and 1865 he wrote his first song masterpieces; in 1866 came
A Night on Bald Mountain, his first important work for orchestra.
He was back in government service in 1869, in the department of
forestry and remained there eleven years. In that time he completed
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his crowning masterwork, the Russian folk opera Boris Godunov
first performed in St. Petersburg on February 8, 1874,
A drastic deterioration in his physical and mental health had
begun to manifest itself by 1865. As the years passed he suffered
increasingly from nervous disorders and melancholia. He became a
helpless victim of alcoholism and often moved in the most dis-
reputable company. Nevertheless, he did manage to produce some
extraordinary music: the song cycles Sunless and Songs and Dances
of Death; the suite for piano, Pictures at an Exhibition; and two
operas, Khovanchina and The Fair at Sorochinsk, neither one of
which he finished.
Mussorgsky died of an apoplectic stroke in St. Petersburg OP
March 28, 1881. After his death, his scores were revised by Rimsky-
Korsakov to remove technical imperfections and awkwardness in
harmony and orchestration. It was in Rimsky-Korsakov's editions
that Mussorgsky's music first became known outside Russia.
THE MAN
NICOLAS SLONIMSKJ
The image of Mussorgsky is fixed indelibly in our minds by
Repin's famous portrait painted a few weeks before Mussorgsky's
death: a heavy body, a bull's neck, a bulbous nose, an untrimmed
beard coalescing with a moustache, a full head of unkempt hair.
The large round eyes are averted and focused on some distant point.
Mussorgsky is shown wearing an embroidered Russian shirt with a
loose-fitting lounging robe over it. This robe was given to Mus-
sorgsky especially for the portrait-sitting by Cesar Cui; it was not
uncommon for Mussorgsky's friends to lend him clothes to wear or
buy second-hand suits for him when his own wearing apparel be-
came too shabby.
Mussorgsky suffered from chronic alcoholism, which undermined
his health and disrupted his work. Borodin wrote to his wife in 1873
about the thirty-four year old Mussorgsky: "He has begun to drink
heavily. Almost every day he holds a session at the Maloyaroslavetz
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MODEST MUSSORGSKY
on Morskaya Street, and drinks himself to the point of total inebria-
tion. What a pity! Why should a talented person like Mussorgsky
debase himself so? Sometimes he vanishes from sight altogether, and
when he reappears, he is sullen and uncommunicative, which is
unusual for him. But after a while, he pulls himself together, and
becomes his real self—genial, gay, friendly, witty. What a pity!"
Despite intense suffering and the most horrifying attacks of
delirium tremens, Mussorgsky refused to stop drinking and managed
to smuggle a bottle of wine even in the hospital during his last days
of life. His end was remarkably similar to the scene of the death of
Stepan Verkhovensky in Dostoyevsky's novel, The Possessed: The
same exaltation of spirit, the same unconcern about death, the same
rambling euphoria. Both Mussorgsky and the fictional Verkhovensky
represented the same type of talented but disorganized Russians of
the period.
Yet Mussorgsky possessed in his younger days all the graces neces-
sary for social advancement. He was a good dancer. He spoke
excellent French, the language of Russian aristocracy. He was con-
vivial and had many friends. What was the fault in his character
that drove him to ruin? As a youth he complained to Balakirev that
his habit of self-abuse was driving him to nervous prostration. He
idolized women, but his feminine associations seem to have been
platonic. During the last year of his life he lived in the house of the
contralto singer Leonova with whom he made a concert tour in
Southern Russian as her accompanist. He enjoyed her company, but
she was ten years older than he, and had a lover, a shady individual,
who apparently exploited her.
Mussorgsky was perpetually in need of money. Yet he was not a
pauper. He had some income from a family estate, and he earned
a salary as a government clerk. But in his finances, as in his working
habits, he was bezalabemy, a colorful Russian adjective which he
applied to himself, and which connotes a complex of disorderly traits
—inability to work methodically, habitual tardiness, procrastination,
and plain irresponsibility. He was systematically delinquent in pay-
ing the meager rent for his lodgings in a furnished apartment in St.
Petersburg, until one night, returning late, he found the door to his
room locked and his suitcase with his belongings in the hall outside.
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He picked it up and distractedly trudged along the embankment of
the Neva River, his pocket empty, his mind vacant. In the early
hours of the morning, he knocked at the door of one of his friends,
Naoumov, who received him with characteristic Russian hospitality,
and lodged him in his house for several years.
To the ravages of alcohol, there was added Mussorgsky's obsessive
smoking habit. He was constantly beset by bronchial ailments, and
his voice was hoarse much of the time. Yet, such was his enormous
vitality that upon occasion he could entertain his friends by singing
in a dramatic voice of great power, accompanying himself at the
piano— and he was an excellent pianist.
Symptomatically, Mussorgsky's moods varied between humility
and defiance. He launched the slogan "To the New Shores" out of
his deep conviction that he was destined to initiate a new art of
dramatic expression. He was enraged by Cuf s contemptuous criti-
cism of Boris Godunov, in which Mussorgsky was charged with
"indiscriminate, self-satisfied, hasty scribbling of notes, the method
that has led to such deplorable results in the works of Messrs.
Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky." He wrote to Stassov in white heat:
"This mad assault, this brazen falsehood makes me blind with rage.
I can't see anything in front of me, as though a quantity of soap
water were spread in the air obscuring the objects in the room."
In 1878, in a letter to Stassov, Balakirev reported a welcome
change in Mussorgsky's manner: "I was pleasantly surprised by
Mussorgsky. No trace of self-aggrandizement or self-adulation. Quite
to the contrary, he behaved very modestly, listened attentively to
what was being said, did not protest against the need of learning
harmony, and did not even object to the idea of studying with
Rimsky-Korsakov." And it is definitely known that during the last
year of his life, Mussorgsky was seriously contemplating taking
lessons from Rimsky-Korsakov's young pupil, Liadov!
Mussorgsky did not live long enough to improve his harmony.
He was a genius, but he was also bezalaberny. Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov recognized his genius but believed that for the
sake of Mussorgsky's survival in music history, his works had to be
reharmonized and reorchestrated. This task was faithfully fulfilled
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MODEST MUSSOBGSKY
by Rimsky-Korsakov. If in our modern age, Mussorgsky's uncouth,
rough, but striking harmonies appear prophetic of the new musical
vistas, this is something that no one, least of all Mussorgsky himself,
could possibly imagine.
THE COMPOSER
GERALD ABRAHAM
Mussorgsky's art is essentially that of "a man of the 60V The
phrase conveys little, perhaps, to the average Western reader. But
to a Russian it is as familiar and as precise in meaning as the words
"Elizabethan" or "Victorian" to an Englishman. The 60's mark an
epoch in Russian history; and the men of the 60's, alternately wor-
shiped as heroes and derided as back numbers, seem a race apart.
Coming after the appalling despotism of Nicholas I, the reign of
Alexander II (at least in its first half) appeared almost millennial.
With the freeing of the serfs, which altered so much and seemed to
have altered so vastly much more, Russia took one of the greatest
of all her clumsy strides from feudalism towards the modern West-
ern state. The freed mujik was suddenly elevated to a pedestal and
sentimentally worshiped— particularly by aristocrats like Tolstoy and
Mussorgsky who saw that he was free from the vices of their class
and were wilfully, happily blind to those of his own. To all that was
young and generous and intelligent in Russia it was a dawn as
blissful as that which intoxicated the young Wordsworth.
But the expression of this exuberant emotion took a surprising
form. Just as the business-like Western, in such moments of spiritual
intoxication, turns his back on harsh reality and kicks up his heels
in the most fanciful antics, the enthusiasm of the dreamy Slav takes
the form of fiery determination to be practical. He works himself
up to the facing of facts and grappling with them, enthusiastically
resolved to put behind him the seductions of mere sensuous beauty
to which he is generally so susceptible. Mussorgsky's art is a mani-
festation of bolt the spiritual and the intellectual exuberance, the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
intense aspirations of the period (toward the brotherhood of man
and so on), and a relentless determination to be truthful at all costs
a contempt for that which is merely beautiful. And at its best, when
these two elements are in perfect equilibrium, as in Boris Godunov
(1868-69), Mussorgsky transcends the 60's and rises to universality
as completely as Shakespeare transcends the Elizabethan age. If
Mussorgsky is in every fiber a Russian of the 60's, he is so only as
Shakespeare is, through and through, an Elizabethan Englishman.
Leaving aside all technical, purely musical considerations, the
head and front of Rimsky-Korsakov's offending against Boris is that
he has completely altered its values. It is as if Rubens had repainted
a Pieter Breughel. The "truth" is carefully toned down, the beauty
made correspondingly luscious. It is all very splendid— but it is the
negation of that which is Mussorgsky's special, and still unique,
contribution to music in general and opera in particular. But if
Rimsky-Korsakov is to be indicted for his well-intentioned crime,
practically the whole of musical Russia must go in to the dock with
him for aiding, abetting, and approving. For not only the rank and
file of professional musicians and cultured amateurs, but critics of
the high standing of Findeisen and Karatygin long agreed in pre-
ferring the Korsakov version to the original. The resuscitation and
revaluation of the genuine Boris is principally due to the efforts of a
few critics in France, Russia following suit only after the Revolution,
Professor Paul Lamm of Moscow must be given the highest praise
for his admirable edition of the authentic texts of Mussorgsky's com-
plete works.
Apart from his harmonic forthrightness and his consistent refusal
to "manufacture" music by conventional technical processes, the
most striking of Mussorgsky's musical innovations are in the field of
naturalism— truth to the spoken word, truth to the plastic movement:
the "writing" themes in Boris and Khovanschina (1872-80); the
"promenade" and the two Jews and so on in Pictures at an Exhibi-
tion (1874)— a naturalism equally effective in comedy and tragedy,
In all this, particularly as regards the musical opportunities offered
by humor, Mussorgsky was indebted to Dargomizhsky for a number
of hints; he would hardly have taken quite the course he did, but
for Dargomizhsky. Yet his actual musical style owes little to the
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MODEST MUSSORGSKY
older man, even in The Marriage (1868), or the most naturalistic of
his songs, (And neither Dargomizhslcy nor anyone else has possessed
anything like Mussorgsky's ability to get inside the mind of chil-
dren.)
Even if we object, on general aesthetic grounds, to Mussorgsky's
musical prose in his less inspired moments, when he is content to
give a mere literal translation of word and gesture into tone, we are
left with an extraordinary wealth not only of inspired "translation,"
of sheer lyrical loveliness and of racy, vital melody but— the seal of
Mussorgsky's genius— of dramatic points produced by non-natural-
istic means: the moving innocence of the "Tsarevitch" motif at its
first appearance in Boris, where it accompanies Pimen's words, "All
steeped in blood and lifeless lay DimitrT; the brass chords in the
second scene of the Prologue, just before Boris's words "Now let us
pay a solemn tribute to the tombs of Russia's rulers," chords (par-
ticularly the unexpected D major) almost as thrilling as those of
Mozart's trombones in Don Giovanni; the music which accompanies
Galitzin's departure into exile in Khovanschina (based on that of
Marfa's divination), so simple and beautiful, yet loaded with an
intolerable weight of tragic destiny; the irony of the lovely snatch
of folk song sung by Shaklovity over the body of the murdered
Khovansky; the equally effective, but more brutal, irony of the banal
march of the Preobrazhensky Guards in the last act of the same
opera. There is no end in these strokes of dramatic genius, astound-
ing in their simplicity, each as definite and final as an overwhelming
line of Shakespeare's.
What Mussorgsky's operas do on the large scale is done in minia-
ture by his songs. They cover an even wider field of emotion and
experience, and explore each corner with even greater daring. Things
like Savishna (1866), The Magpie (1867), The Peep-Show (1872), and
the Nursery cycle (1868) are unique in song literature; and each is an
adventure along a different line from the others. A man who had
written nothing but the Songs and Dances of Death (1875-77) and
Sunless (1874) would have to be given an important place among
the world's song composers. Nor have even 20th-century musicians
given us anything quite like the Pictures at an Exhibition for piano,
but better known to us in Ravel's orchestration And we owe
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
all this to a poor, drink-sodden, inefficient little government clerk,
more than half a child to the end of his life, a naughty child, vain,
affectionate, lovable— a pitiable creature who happened also to be a
genius.
MUSSORGSKY SPEAKS
What I want to do is to make my characters speak on the stage
as they would in real life, and yet write music that will be thoroughly
artistic.
I foresee a new kind of melody, which will be the melody of life.
With great pains I have achieved a type of melody evolved from
that of speech. Some day, all of a sudden, the ineffable song will
arise, intelligible to one and all. If I succeed, I shall stand as a
conqueror— and succeed I must.
• • « • •
The quest for artistic beauty for its own sake is sheer puerility-
is art in its nonage. The goal of the artist should be to study the
most subtle features of human beings and humanity in the mass.
To explore and conquer these unknown regions, and find therein a
healthy-giving pabulum for the minds of all men, that is the duty
and the joy of joys.
If you forget all operatic conventions and admit the principle of
musical discourse carried out in all simplicity, then The Marriage is
an opera. If I have managed to render the straightforward expression
of thoughts and feelings, as it takes place in ordinary speech, and if
my rendering is artistic and musicianly, then the deed is done.
To seek assiduously the most delicate and subtle feelings of human
nature— of the human crowd— to follow them into unknown regions,
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MODEST MUSSORGSKY
to make them our own: this seems to me the true vocation of the
artist ... to feed upon humanity as a healthy diet which has been
neglected— there lies the whole problem of art.
Mussorgsky [in his Memoirs the composer speaks of himself in the
third person] cannot be classed with any existing group of musicians,
either by the character of his compositions or by his musical views.
The formula of the artistic profession de foi may be explained by
his view of the function of art: art is the means of communicating
with people, not as an aim in itself. This guiding principle has de-
fined the whole of his creative activity. Proceeding from the con-
viction that human speech is strictly controlled by musical laws, he
considers the function of art to be the reproduction in musical
sounds not merely of feelings, but first and foremost of human
speech. Acknowledging that in the realm of art only artist-reformers
like Palestrina, Bach, Gluck, Beethoven, Berlioz, and Liszt have
created the laws of art, he considers these laws as not immutable but
liable to change and progress, like everything else in man's inner
world.
399
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
1844-1908
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV was born in Tikhvin, Russia, on March
18, 1844. In 1862 he was graduated from the Naval School in St.
Petersburg, and in the fall of the same year he went on a two-and-
a-half year cruise as naval officer. Back in Russia in 1865, he settled
in St. Petersburg where he began to devote himself seriously to
composition, even though his previous training had been haphazard.
In 1865 he completed a symphony (one of the earliest such works
by a Russian), introduced in St. Petersburg on December 31. Fired
by the nationalist ardor of Mily Balakirev (1837-1910), Rimsky-
Korsakov joined forces with Mussorgsky, Cesar Cui (1835-1918) and
Alexander Borodin (1833-87), under Balakirev's leadership, to create
the "Russian Five" or "Mighty Five/* music history's first significant
nationalist school. Like his colleagues, Rimsky-Korsakov set himself
the mission of creating Russian music steeped in Russian history and
backgrounds and influenced by the idioms of Russian folk songs and
dances and church music. His first major works in such an idiom
were the Antar Symphony (1868) and an opera, The Maid of Pskov,
written between 1868 and 1872vvThe latter proved so successful
when given in St. Petersburg on fanuary 13, 1873, that Rimsky-
Korsakov was able to give up his naval career for good and concen-
trate on music.
Meanwhile he was subjecting himself to a rigorous study of the
theoretical aspects of music from which he emerged a consummate
technician. In 1871 he embarked upon a long and distinguished
career as teacher with an appointment as professor of composition
and orchestration at the St. Petersburg Conservatory. With the
exception of a few months in 1905, he held this post until the end
of his life. The long roster of his pupils included some of Russia's
400
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KOBSAKOV
most renowned composers, including Alexander Glazunov (1865-
1936), Anton Arensky (1861-1906), Anatol Liadov (1855-1914), Alex-
ander Gretchaninoff (1864-1956) and Igor Stravinsky (1882- ).
Besides holding this post, Rimsky-Korsakov was Inspector of Mili-
tary Orchestras from 1873 to 1884, an office created expressly for
him; assistant director of the Court Chapel from 1883 to 1894; and
from 1886 to 1900, conductor of the Russian Symphony concerts.
He also made appearances as guest conductor in Paris and Brussels.
Between 1878 and 1881, Rimsky-Korsakov completed two impor-
tant operas, May Night and Snow Maiden. Some of his best known
works for orchestra were written between 1887 and 1890, including
Scheherazade, Russian Easter Overture, and Capriccio espagnol.
Opera was his principal medium after 1894, the most significant in
this area being Sadko (1894-96), The Tale of Tsar Saltan (1898-
1900), The Invisible City of Kitezh (1903-5), and Le Coq d'or
(1906-7).
He made his last appearance as conductor outside Russia in 1907,
directing two concerts of Russian music in Paris. He died of a heart
attack in St. Petersburg on June 21, 1908.
THE MAN
NICOLAS SLONIMSKV
Among Russian composers who were grouped alntost accidentally
as the "Mighty Five," Rimsky-Korsakov was the most professional,
and indeed professorial. The mentor of the group, Balakirev, stopped
composing midway of his long life. Borodin was more preoccupied
with teaching chemistry than with music; Cesar Cui was a specialist
in military fortification to whom music was a hobby.v Mussorgsky
was too erratic for a professional musician. V-
Tall, bespectacled, bearded, quiet in manner, friendly but not too
convivial in company, a model husband, an affectionate father,
Rimsky-Korsakov was the veritable personification of an old-fash-
ioned Russian intellectual.
With the exception of an early sea voyage as a marine officer,
401
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Rimsky-Korsakov led a sedentary life in St. Petersburg. He was a
modest man. He declined the proffered doctorate of Cambridge
University because lie did not regard himself a scholar. But he was
unyielding in matters of principle. His personal integrity was abso-
lute. When the Czarist regime ordered the expulsion of a number
of students of the St. Petersburg Conservatory accused of holding
an unauthorized political meeting, Rimsky-Korsakov registered a
vehement protest, and as a result was himself relieved of his position
as director and professor. But he refused to abandon his pupils and
continued to give them private lessons at home.
Another instance of Rimsky-Korsakov's quiet explosion occurred
in connection with the production of his last opera, Le Coq (for,
based on a famous fairy tale by Pushkin. The censors took exception
to the key line, "The tale is false but has a meaning, That may well
be worth perceiving." The cockerel's cry, "Cock-a-doodle-doo, rule
and sleep as some Czars do" seemed to be too pointedly apposite to
the disastrous conduct of the Russo-Japanese War by the Czar's
government. Rimsky-Korsakov fought furiously against this attempt
to tamper with Pushkin's verses, and as the odds seemed against him,
he wearily told his publisher: "So the Cockerel cannot be staged in
Russia. I have no intention of making any alterations/' The opera
was produced posthumously with the incriminating verses altered to
satisfy the censor. Not until the Revolution were Pushkin's lines
restored in the stage performances of Le Coq d'or.
Rimsky-Korsakov was adamant against unauthorized cuts in his
operas. When Diaghilev proposed drastic cuts in his Paris produc-
tion of Sadko, because French audiences would not sit through a
long opera, Rimsky-Korsakov wrote him in anger: "If to the
dressed-up but feeble-minded Paris operagoers who are guided in
their opinions by their venal press and their hired claque, my Sadko
in its present state is too heavy, then I would rather not have it
done at all/'
Rimsky-Korsakov's musical conscience made him his own severest
critic. Being human, he had his moments of creative fatigue, when
he seemed unable to work productively, but he regarded such dere-
liction of duty as unwarranted self-indulgence. He was at his hap-
piest in the final stages of orchestration. "What can be more satis-
402
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
fying than final scoring!" he wrote to a friend. "When I begin to
orchestrate, everything becomes crystal clear and precise in har-
mony, rhythm, melodic line, even in secondary parts. The soul is
calm, for the thread of the composition has been woven in, and in
a way the work already exists. And what a pleasure to correct un-
satisfactory passages and polish up the rough spots! As for the hope-
lessly bad sections, one simply gets used to them, and they cease
causing irritation/' This is, indeed, "an ode to professionalism and
technique," as Rimsky-Korsakov's son, Andrei, described it.
Rimsky-Korsakov's musical personality conceals a paradox. How
could this typical Russian music teacher, who led such an unevent-
ful life, have produced such resplendent pageants of sensuous color
as Scheherazade and Le Coq d'or? The answer is that Orientalism is
a part of Russian musical heritage. Rimsky-Korsakov's Orient was
the Near East, comprising countries with which Russia had a com-
mon frontier and carried on a flourishing trade.
The music of Rimsky-Korsakov is now, literally and figuratively,
in the public domain. It is used and abused in pseudo-oriental shows
and in popular songs, its carefully balanced harmonies filled with
extraneous notes, its flowing melodies deformed and cut to meet the
exigencies of the medium, its masterly instrumentation blatantly
inspissated. What a cry of anguish would Rimsky-Korsakov have
emitted at such ignominious treatment at the hands of musical
barbarians! No wonder that in Rimsky-Korsakov's cinematic biog-
raphy his life had to be distorted, too. In it he was made to compose
Scheherazade not in a Russian country house where he actually
wrote the score, but in an Algerian night club while watching the
performance of a danse du centre by a dark-eyed beauty.
THE COMPOSER
M. MONTAGU-NATHAN
Both the aims and the achievements of Rimsky-Korsakov were in
sharp contrast to those of Mussorgsky. A man of regular habits, he
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
had a respect for tradition which was to lead him into the firm con-
viction that his own advancement in matters artistic was best to be
secured by an evolutionary and not a revolutionary process. Thus it
was that after having made his mark as a composer he was attacked
by quahns that progress was impossible for him without a thorough
grasp of that scientific knowledge which has been accumulated by
successive observers of musical evolution. As to the actual effect
upon Rimsky-Korsakov of this retarded grounding in musical theory,
there are certain definite indications. We know that it did not choke
the flow of his inspiration, but at the same time one cannot help
feeling that it was these studies which awakened the latent academ-
icism to be held accountable for want of appreciation of Mus-
sorgsky's attempts to break down boundaries. Further, his adoption,
fairly late in life, of that type of symphonic development, regarded
by Russians as peculiarly non-Russian and typical of the Occidental
and more especially of the German mind, seems likely to have sprung
from the same origin. On more than one occasion, it is interesting to
note, Mussorgsky expressed himself with considerable force con-
cerning what seemed to him a thoroughly misguided step on his
friend's part, and when it is borne in mind that the two composers
lived together for some little time, one cannot but feel that the bond
of friendship must have been fairly tough to have withstood the
strain exerted upon it, not only by such a difference in temperament
as their opposed views suggest, but by the difference in the views
themselves.
The operatic precept of Alexander Dargomizhsky (1813-69) as
fulfilled in The Stone Guest became something of a burden to the
"group." A survey of his dramatic works shows that while Rimsky-
Korsakov was not unmindful of his obligation to produce operas of
the declamatory type, he could not settle down into an acceptance
of the hard and fast canons of Dargomizhsky. Classification of his
operas reveals a sort of wandering movement in search of a definite
procedure, and towards the end of his life he showed a very marked
sympathy with Wagner. But failure to render a consistent obeisance
to The Stone Guest does not imply a total secession from the tents
of Russian musical nationalism, and Rimsky-Korsakov is entitled to
be regarded as an upholder of the Glinkaist tradition, since, in
404
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KOBSAKOV
addition to Ms fund of melodic inspiration, he was a determined
advocate of folk music. He made a remarkable collection of popular
melodies and drew heavily upon it in building up his operas. His
persistent and felicitous employment of the elements of nationalism
not only in his operas, but in his orchestra works and in some of his
songs, seems to warrant our considering him as the culminating
figure in the nationalistic movement.
• • • • •
In 1867, while perusing some of the legends in which Russian
literature is so rich, Rimsky-Korsakov was so vividly impressed by
that of Sadko that he decided to compose a symphonic version of
the story. Sadko, op. 5 (1867), which is the first orchestral poem ever
composed by a Russian, was one of the first fruits of the poetic
inspiration. Its basis is an old legend concerning a merchant-minstrel
whose impassioned performance on the "guslee" during a sojourn in
a submarine kingdom causes storms and shipwrecks. Sadko is scored
for a full orchestra with bass-drum, cymbals, and gong, and, as a
piece of thorough-going program music is closely related to the
subject illustrated. It reveals the composer's early power of brilliant
orchestration, his feeling for splendid effects of color, and above all
his humor.
Soon after the completion of Sadko, Rimsky-Korsakov began his
orchestral fantasia on Serbian themes, op, 6 (1867). After that he
began to turn his attention to the composition of operas-a sphere
of work which was to form a permanent attraction for him and in
which he became the most fertile of all the Russian school. Despite
his vacillations in the matter of vocal writing, Rimsky-Korsakov will
be found to have adhered to one of the most important axioms
formulated by Cesar Cui (1835-1918) in his manifesto, namely, that
the music of an opera must have intrinsic value as music apart from
its interpretative mission. Another feature of his operatic work is his
faithfulness to Russian subject-matter. In his fifteen operas, there
are but three exceptions. One treats of Polish life and is by a Russian
librettist; the second is based upon a drama of ancient Rome; and
the third takes as its libretto a famous work of Pushkin.
In The Maid of Pskov, Rimsky-Korsakov's first opera—begun in
405
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
1868— we find evidence pointing to an anxiety to produce a work
thoroughly representative of the prevailing views as to operatic con-
struction. The solo-vocal portions are cast in mezzo-recitative. The
chorus is given great prominence, there is a liberal use o£ folk song,
and the subject, which belongs to Russian history, is taken from a
drama by a native poet, Lev Mey.
Meanwhile he had completed two symphonies and was working
on a third. His first symphony (1861-65) was written entirely on
classical lines— likewise his third (1866-73). But the work which we
now have to mention, Antar, op. 9 (1868), he called a symphonic
suite, adding a subtitle, "Second Symphony." In reality it is a
symphonic picture in four sections. Antar, scored for full orchestra,
is a remarkably fine piece of descriptive music. Its program, which
prefaces the score, is derived from an Arab story by Sennkovsky.
"In order to enhance the appeal of local color, Korsakov makes use
of three Arab themes and the symphony is invested with a con-
siderable cohesion by the circumstance that despite the dissimilarity
in character of the four sections the Antar theme has been intro-
duced into each" [Cesar Cui].
For the subject of his second opera, May Night, finished in 1879,
Rimsky-Korsakov went to one of Gogol's fantastically humorous tales
which were written at the suggestion of Pushkin. The work is not,
however, entirely comic in character, and, as a contrast to the
fantastic element in the second act, the music of the first is couched
in a vein of tender melancholy. In this opera, Rimsky-Korsakov's
delicate and capricious humor is fully displayed, as well it might be,
in the musical interpretation of such a master as Gogol.
Rimsky-Korsakov's next important venture was another opera
begun in the summer of 1880. The Snow Maiden (Snegourochka),
which is to be classified as a melodic opera, impresses one with the
intensity of the composer's love of Nature and his earnest observa-
tion of its various phenomena. It is clear that the rustic surroundings
of his youth must have engendered something more than a desire to
picture the people in song, for in The Snow Maiden, we are face to
face with a thoroughly poetic presentation of what may be called
their background. The text is drawn from a piece by one of the
greatest Russian dramatists, Ostrovsky. For the four acts and
406
prologue, the composer has found an ample fund of incident and
interest in the legend and the beliefs of pagan Russia, which are
referred to from time to time in its pages. They help to create an
atmosphere of nationality. There is quite a host of accessory char-
acters: birds, flowers, nobles and their wives, the Czar's entourage,
players of the guslee, the rebec, and the pipe, blind men, buffoons,
shepherds, youths and maidens, all helping to make a striking
pictorial effect.
In 1887, Rimsky-Korsakov completed that "colossal masterpiece
of instrumentation" (Tchaikovsky), the Capriccio espagnol, op. 34.
The work is thoroughly Spanish in character, brilliantly scored, and
contains some epoch-making combinations of instruments— that of
drums, tambourine, and cymbals, with the rest silent, following the
violin cadenza in the fourth movement is sufficiently uncommon—
and is a monument to the composer's remarkable flair for orchestral
color.
Another orchestral work which now enjoys an equal esteem and
an enhanced popularity was composed soon after the Capriccio
espagnol (1887). Scheherazade, op. 35 (1888) is a symphonic suite
written to a program based on stories from The Arabian Nights.
The score is remarkable for certain successful experiments in instru-
mentation, and also for the employment of the various instruments
as soloists, which procedure might well be supposed to have arisen
out of the composer's intense satisfaction at the first performance of
the preceding work. The interpretation of his program is carried out
with all the power and resource which Rimsky-Korsakov has at his
disposal, and which, together with his penchant for the Oriental,
place him, in works of this class at least, far beyond his contem-
poraries.
That the purely symphonic was exerting a fascination upon the
composer at this time is suggested by the appearance, shortly after
Scheherazade, of the Russian Easter Overture, op. 36 (1888), which
is based on Russian church tunes. Again there is an exceeding bril-
liance of orchestration; and the use of bell effects which accompany
the appearance of the Easter hymn is at once characteristic, ap-
propriate and masterly.
In 1889 began a remarkable series of operatic works which flowed
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THE WOBLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
from his pen with extraordinary rapidity. Of these the first was
Mlada (1889-90) followed by Christmas Eve (1894-95). His next
opera, on which he has been working since 1895, was Sadko (1894-
96). Rimsky-Korsakov had drawn from his operas The Snow Maiden,
Mlada, Christmas Eve and Tsar Saltan, the material for orchestral
suites. Here he reverses the process and elaborates the scheme of
a symphonic work to build up an opera. In Sadko the declamatory
style of vocalization is given somewhat wider scope and the melodic
element is less noticeable. Rimsky-Korsakov adopts a method of
recitative which lends itself to the narration of legendary lore, but
he indulges his gift for melody in many charming songs and dances,
and gives scope to his flair for the picturesque by introducing a
series of solos for three oversea merchants. Quite a feature of the
opera is the wonderful variety of rhythm, one of the most original
specimens being the song of Niejata, a minstrel from Kiev, in which
the rhythms of 6/4 and 9/4 appear in alternate bars. Among the
many beautiful numbers in the score may be mentioned the proces-
sion of the maidens (the king's daughters) and every kind of marine
marvel in the penultimate tableau (there are seven), the Hindu chant
better known as The Song of India, and Volkhova's slumber-song in
the last tableau.
No sooner had he launched the operas Boyarina Vera Sheloga
(1877) and The Tsars Bride (1898), when Rimsky-Korsakov came for-
ward with The Tale of Tsar Saltan (1898-1900), an opera in the
melo-declamatory style which, by virtue of its subject, its manner,
and its quality, is comparable to Sadko. The Tale of Tsar Saltan is
a popular Russian folk story, but is to be found in the lore of other
nations. The immediate source of Rimsky-Korsakov's libretto, which
was made by Belsky, is Pushkin's version of the story, and in some
portions of the text the original lines are preserved. With such a
libretto, Rimsky-Korsakov could hardly fail to produce the best
results of which he was capable. The Tale of Tsar Saltan contains in
its many arias and ariosos some delightful music. These vocal pieces,
it should be mentioned, are not divided off from the rest. Here again
the composer dispenses with the overture and the preludial matter
to each of the acts which is quite brief, with the exception of that pre-
ceding the second act. This, together with the introductions to the
408
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
first act and the final tableau, form the material of a symphonic suite,
which received performance before the opera itself.
The Invisible City of Kitezh (1903-5), Rimsky-Korsakovs last
opera but one, has for its subject a religious-mystic legend which
contains features recalling some of the stories from which certain of
his earlier works are derived. The element of the allegorical to be
found in The Snow Maiden, and the super-naturalistic phenomena
of Tsar Saltan, each has its counterpart in the literary material of
Kitezh. As to the significance of the work in relation to the aesthetic
development of the composer, this may be determined more or less
by reference to its resemblance, in virtue of its spiritual message, to
Parsifal. The operatic style of Kitezh is on the whole lyrical or
melodic, with occasional lapses into melo-declamation.
Le Coq dor (1906-7), his last opera, cannot perhaps be considered
as an impressive conclusion to the dramatic labors of its composer;
one would rather have seen in that position such earlier and more
thoroughly representative works as Tsar Saltan, Sadko, or The Snow
Maiden. But viewed as a satire on human foibles, as a specimen of
nationalistic art, or as a final chapter in the story of his musico-
dramatic development, it is a work which deserves attention. If in
Le Coq d'or we fail to discover the wealth of harmonic inspiration
which we are accustomed to expect from this composer, we shall
at least observe both that it contains the very essentials of Russian
musical nationalism and that the firm hand of experience has been
at work in tracing a steady course and thus overcoming the difficult
and ever-present problems of construction. The melo-declamatory
method has again been resorted to in the solo portions, the formal
overture is dispensed with, the leading motive has been used with
a lightness of touch that has contributed greatly to its effectiveness,
and the comic aspect of the story has been translated into music
in a fashion avoiding all appearances of undue emphasis. The story
is derived from Pushkin and while, as its librettist points out, its
subject is such as could win favor in any clime and at any period.
Rimsky-Korsakov can be said to have given it a dress which is
unmistakably Russian.
It has been said that Rimsky-Korsakov must verily have been
created for the National Epos in Russian music. In him we see the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Russian who, though not by any means satisfied with the Russia
as he finds it, does not set himself to hurl a series of passionate but
ineffective indictments against things as they are, but who raises an
ideal and does his utmost to show how best that ideal may be
attained. He has been compared with his own Fevronia from
Kitezh, seeking inspiration from Nature. His personality appears
to have been reflected by his choice of subject in his operatic works,
in which we find him so frequently glorifying the virtue of imagina-
tion, so plainly voicing the belief in the "fairies" which has been the
theme of more than one of our modern British dramatists.
RIMSKY-KORSAKOV SPEAKS
One can learn by oneself. Sometimes one needs advice, but one
has also to learn, that is, one must not neglect harmony and counter-
point and the development of a good technique and a clean leading
subject. All of us— Borodin and Balakirev, and especially Cui and
Mussorgsky— neglected this. I consider that I caught myself in time
and made myself get down to work. Owing to such deficiencies in
technique, Balakirev writes little; Borodin, with difficulty; Cui,
sloppily; Mussorgsky, messily and nonsensically. And all this consti-
tutes the very regrettable specialty of the Russian school.
Our post-Wagnerian epoch is the age of brilliance and imaginative
quality in orchestral tone-coloring. Berlioz, Glinka, Liszt, Wagner,
modern French composers-Delibes, Bizet and the others— those of
the new Russian School (Borodin, Balakirev, Glazunov, and Tchai-
kovsky) have brought this side of musical art to its zenith; they have
eclipsed as colorists, their predecessors, Weber, Meyerbeer, and
Mendelssohn, to which genius they are nevertheless indebted for
their own progress.
It is a great mistake to say: this composer scores well, or that
composition is well orchestrated. Orchestration is part of the very
soul of the work. A work is thought out in terms of the orchestra,
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NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
certain tone colors being inseparable from it in the mind of its
creator and native to it from the hour of its birth. Could the essence
of Wagner's music be divorced from its orchestration? One might
as well say that a picture is well drawn in colors.
The power of subtle orchestration is a secret impossible to trans-
mit, and the composer who possesses this secret should value it
highly, and never debase it to the level of a mere collection of
formulas learned by heart.
411
EDVARD GRIEG
1843-1907
EDVABD HAGERUP GBIEG, Norway's foremost composer and ex-
ponent of Norwegian musical nationalism, was born in Bergen, on
June 15, 1843. He studied the piano with his mother, then, begin-
ning in 1858, he attended the Leipzig Conservatory for several years,
and after that studied privately with Niels Gade in Copenhagen.
In that city Grieg befriended Rikard Nordraak, a young Norwegian
composer profoundly interested in musical nationalism. Just as Gade
was to direct Grieg to the writing of large, serious works, Nordraak
was to turn him to national idioms and folk materials. With Nor-
draak, Grieg founded the Euterpe Society promoting national
Scandinavian music. At the same time, Grieg started writing compo-
sitions with a pronounced Norwegian identity, beginning with the
Humoresque, op. 6, for piano. When Nordraak died in 1866, Grieg
became fired with the ambition of carrying on his young friend's
mission. Returning to his native land, Grieg arranged concerts of
Norwegian music; helped found the Norwegian Academy of Music;
served as conductor of the Harmonic Society which presented works
of Norwegian composers. He, himself, proceeded further in his aim
to create authentic Norwegian music with the completion of the
first book of Lyric Pieces, for piano, in 1866.
On June 11, 1867, Grieg married his cousin, Nina Hagerup, a
singer. On April 3, 1869, Grieg realized his first significant success
as composer with the premiere of his famous Piano Concerto in
A minor, introduced in Copenhagen. In 1872 Grieg was appointed
to the Swedish Academy, and in 1873 to the Leyden Academy.
Successive works placed Grieg with the foremost composers of
his time, the leading figure in Scandinavian music: the incidental
music to Peer Gynt, introduced in Oslo on February 24, 1876; the
412
EDVARD GRIEG
Norwegian Dances (1881), for orchestra and also for piano duet; the
second and third books of the Lyric Pieces (1883, 1884); die Holberg
Suite, for orchestra and also for piano solo (1884-85); the Violin
Sonata in C minor (1886-87); the last seven books of the Lyric Pieces
(1888-1901).
He was honored both at home and abroad. The Norwegian gov-
ernment endowed him with an annuity which made him financially
independent; his sixtieth birthday, in 1903, was a national holiday.
In 1890 he was made a member of the French Academy, and in 1894
and 1906 he received honorary doctorates from Cambridge and
Oxford.
He spent the last thirty years of his life in a beautiful villa,
Troldhaugen, outside Bergen. His last concert appearance took place
in London, in May 1906, in a program of his works. A year and a
half later, on September 4, 1907, he died of a heart attack in Bergen.
Pursuant to his wishes, his remains were buried in a grotto on the
grounds of Troldhaugen.
THE MAN
GERHARD SCHJELDERUP
PERCY GRAINGER
Grieg was of small stature, delicate but impressive. The fine
serene forehead he had in common with many a creative artist.
His light blue eyes under the bushy eyebrows sparkled like those of
a child when listening to a fairy tale. They mostly had a joyful
though gentle and dreamy expression, but when roused to sudden
anger or indignation they could flash like lightning. For with his
short stumpy nose, the fine flowing hair, the firm expressive mouth
under the strong moustache, and the resolute chin, he had dynamic
energy and an impatient and passionate temperament. As in Wag-
ner's features there was in his a marked contrast between the upper
and lower parts of the face. The forehead reveals the dreamer, the
mouth and chin a strong determination to live a life of untiring
413
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
activity. Grieg's astounding energy gave to his frail body an elastic
and impressive gait and more than once in his life he performed
true feats of endurance.*
Often I am asked the question, "What kind of a man was Grieg?"
And I think the simplest yet fullest answer is to say, "He was a
United Nations type of man." For he was constantly striving in his
life, his art, his thoughts for the same things as the United Nations
are fighting today. Grieg consistently championed the Jews against
their persecutors and supported the young, the unknown, the un-
tried, in whatever struggle they had with the old, the famous, and
the experienced. This was not because he was a rebel but because
he was a true progressive, and because he realized that progress
depends upon a reasonable degree of opportunity being granted to
the forces of change, as against the forces of established au-
thority. . . .
As protagonist for the Jewish cause in the Dreyfus case, Grieg's
actions are probably known to most musicians; but I mention them
briefly here for the benefit of those who may not have heard of this
typical episode. In 1899, when Dreyfus was still a prisoner, the
French conductor, Edouard Colonne, invited Grieg to conduct a
program of Grieg music at the Chatelet Theater in Paris; to which
invitation the composer replied, "Like all other non-Frenchmen I
am shocked at the injustice in your country and do not feel myself
able to enter into any relations whatsoever with the French public."
In 1903 he again was approached by Colonne, and this time he
accepted. But his pro-Dreyfus letter was remembered, and hissing
and shouting, as well as applause, broke forth as Grieg appeared on
the platform to conduct his music. Grieg (never a rabble-fearer)
simply waited until the hostile demonstration had subsided some-
what, whereupon he embarked upon the loud opening of his In
Autumn Overture, thereby drowning out what remained of the
shouting and hissing. At the end of the concert, of course, he was
* The paragraph above is by Gerhard Schjelderup; those below, by Percy
Grainger.
414
EDVARD GRIEG
acclaimed with that frenetic applause which crowds reserve for
those who are indifferent to them.
There was in Copenhagen a Danish opera composer who was
well known for his plagiarisms. Shortly after the performance of
one of his unoriginal operas, this composer dined with Grieg at the
latter's hotel. During the dinner, Grieg, who was always a charming
host, said nothing derogatory. But when the Dane had bid his host
good-bye and was looking for his umbrella, which he could not find,
Grieg heard him accuse one of the hotel bellhops of having stolen it.
This was too much for Grieg, who always was on the side of the
underdog. He burst forth from behind a curtain and thus admon-
ished the surprised plagiarist: "You dare to call anyone a thief! You,
who steal from us all!"
A few years before the master's death one of the world's greatest
piano manufacturing houses offered him a lovely grand piano, an
offer which Grieg accepted. But the piano firm, or its local agent,
neglected to pay the import duty on the piano. This aroused in
Grieg his typical Norwegian "independence," and also that blend of
frugality and generosity that is so deliciously Scandinavian. "I
wouldn't dream of paying import duty on a presentation piano," he
declared. Forthwith he proceeded to write to a few of his friends,
saying he would be glad to pass on the piano to the one who would
care to pay the import duty. So his closest friend, Frantz Beyer,
acquired the magnificent instrument. . . .
Grieg was impatient with needless authority. The little railroad
that operated between Bergen and his summer villa, Troldhaugen,
issued serial railroad tickets in a book, which tickets only the train
conductor was supposed to tear out. But when the conductor drew
near to collect the tickets, Grieg himself would ostentatiously tear
the tickets out of the book and hand them to the conductor.
Grieg was much chagrined by his inability to identify himself
with the Norwegian peasants and to feel at home with them in their
daily life. By birth and association he was a middle-class man.
The genius in Grieg (that heightened moral sense that drives a
single man to feel responsible for the feeling and thinking of his
whole nation or race) urged him to rise out of his middle-class
beginnings into becoming an all-round Norwegian. So, as part of
415
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
this all-roundness, he tried to mix with the peasants— to take part in
their festivities, On such occasions the communal beer-bowl is passed
around the table and every feaster is expected to drink from it. But
here Grieg's middle-class squeamishness (his sense of "personal
cleanliness") found him out. "When I saw the great bowl approach
me, its rim dark with tobacco juice, my heart sank within me/' he
told me. This urge, "to feel at one with the peasants" is a more vital
necessity for a Norwegian artist than a non-Norwegian might be
able to guess; and it was a vital necessity with Grieg.
THE COMPOSER
KRISTIAN LANGE and ARNE OSTVEDT
For two generations Edvard Grieg was the central figure in the
history of Norwegian music, symbolizing its very spirit and setting
a standard by which other composers have been measured. Only in
the last two generations have young Norwegian composers struck
out in other directions and shown that other ways and means than
those employed by Grieg can also be used to express the innately
national sense of melody. Today their music is felt to be just as
Norwegian as that of Grieg.
No one has hitherto attempted to define what exactly is covered
by the term "Norwegian musical feeling," nor can we point to any
specific factors which give us the immediate impression that a piece
of music is peculiarly Norwegian. But it is a fact that both Grieg
and more recent composers have been strongly influenced by Nor-
wegian folk music. A typical Grieg interval, "Grieg's leading note"—
octave, seventh and fifth— is a feature of many Norwegian folk
tunes. In a letter to Johan Halvorsen written on December 1, 1901,
Grieg writes: "This remarkable G-sharp and D major (in the Slatt
airs) was what drove me off my head in 1871. Of course I promptly
stole it for my pictures of folk life." The Hardanger fiddle airs held
an absorbing fascination for Grieg, though he did not discover the
complete secret of their mystery until the last few years of his life.
Every artist of genius sets his personal seal on the impulses he
416
EDVARD GRIEG
receives, and Grieg's music is just as much steeped in Ms own origi-
nal personality as in the spirit of Norwegian folk music. In a way it
is incorrect to consider Grieg as a prototype of Norwegian musical
feeling, but his music enjoys such a strong position that until the
last few years the term "Norwegian music" has been synonymous
with his form of expression.
In his youth Grieg made it his aim to present Norwegian folk
music, the Norwegian countryside and the Norwegian national
characteristics in a musical language that would be understood
throughout Europe. This Grieg achieved— in the Piano Concerto
(1868) and the Ballade (1875), in many of the Lyric Pieces (1867-
1901), in the songs, and in the String Quartet (1877-78). These have
been played and sung in concert halls and homes all over the world.
Few Norwegian names have spread so far abroad or made such a
profound impression as that of Grieg.
His success as a composer of international status really began
with a series of concerts which he gave in London in 1888, and ever
since he has appealed greatly to the English and Americans, less to
the Latins, and— in spite of good contracts with the publishing house
of Peters in Leipzig— least to the Teutonic peoples, at any rate in his
lifetime, though in the years after his death there have been signs of
growing popularity in the Germanic countries.
At the time of his London concerts Grieg had already completed
the bulk of his production— the Piano Concerto, the Ballade, the
String Quartet, and the Ibsen and Vinje songs. A few years before
these concerts he had arranged parts of the Peer Gynt music in two
orchestral suites (1876), which more than any other of his composi-
tions have made his name known and loved all over the world.
He maintained his popularity until the natural reaction against
Romanticism set in. His works are still published in their thousands
today, and the Lyric Pieces are stock favorites among amateur per-
formers in every country. But his name is no longer found so often
on concert programs. Opinion of the true worth of his achievement
as a composer has had many ups and downs, both in Norway and
abroad. But he still remains quite unchallenged as the dominant
figure of Norwegian music.
Grieg's music wafted like a cool breeze over the musical life of
417
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Europe during the last decades of the 19th century, with a new
melodic approach and a harmonic language all his own. Their fasci-
nation lay in their Norwegian flavor as well as the composer's own
bold personal touch. There was nothing new in exploiting a country's
folk music. Chopin, Michael Glinka (1804^57), Mussorgsky, Smetana,
Dvorak, Georges Bizet (1838-75) and many others had done it as
well. Already in Norway, while Grieg was still a student at the
Leipzig Conservatory, Otto Winter-Hjelm (1837-1931) had used a
Norwegian folk tune in a symphony. Halfdan Kjerulf (1815-68) had
made an attempt to weave country melodies into his songs and
Rikard Nordraak (1842-66), with his inspiring visions of the possi-
bilities of the native music, had shown Grieg the way he must go.
In Norway Grieg realized the ideas which during his youth were
gaining ground in other European countries, on the same basis and
overcoming the same difficulties as those facing contemporary com-
posers abroad.
His music arrived at the right time: the musical public was just in
the mood for the sentiments expressed in Grieg's music, on lines
already pioneered by other composers. He was like a breath of fresh
mountain air from the North, with his perfect blend of national
feeling and love of Nature expressed with the emotional intensity
demanded by the age.
In one sphere Grieg opened up fresh fields and influenced the
trend of European music— that of harmony. Here too he borrowed
from Norwegian folk music. . . . Grieg delighted in giving his har-
monies new and surprising sound combinations. He often introduces
a bass moving in diatonic or chromatic steps, combines different
types of chords, uses parallel fifths and sevenths. In the major key
he shows a predilection for a bi-triple chord, and blends major and
minor most ingeniously. The chords are often used purely for their
color effect. In many ways Grieg is a forerunner of Impressionism.
It is true that Debussy made strong personal attacks on Grieg.
But his music owes a great deal to the Norwegian master. Maurice
Ravel (1875-1937) declared that he never wrote a work that was not
influenced by Grieg, and Grieg also meant a great deal to composers
so diverse in their work as Frederick Delius (1862-1934), Edward
MacDowell (1861-1908), and Vladimir Rebikov (1866-1920). And
418
EDVARD GRIEG
even if Grieg is suffering a temporary eclipse, owing to the reaction
against Romanticism, his pioneer work will remain an important
and enduring contribution to the emancipation of harmony in the
19th century. Grieg seldom tackled the larger musical forms. A
symphony written in his youth remained in manuscript form, with
his own written instruction on the score, "Must never be perf ormed."
In his thirties, in collaboration with Bjornstjerne Bjornson, he
worked on the idea of writing an opera on the theme of the national
hero Olav Trygvason. But poet and composer fell out, and all that
came of the plan was a sketch describing the struggle between the
old pagan worship of the Vikings and Christianity. One reason for
his disagreement with Bjornson was that Grieg had been asked by
Henrik Ibsen to write the music for Peer Gynt. Grieg was not very
enthusiastic; he considered Peer Gynt the most unlikely musical
subject he could imagine. Nevertheless, he accepted, and after much
toil the score was ready within a year and a half. The music was
received with enthusiasm at its first public performance, and has
since, in countless arrangements, achieved fame all over the world.
The Piano Concerto in A minor, op. 16, ranks highest of all
Grieg's orchestral compositions. It was written during a stay at
Sollerod in Denmark in the summer of 1868. With its rhythmical
flexibility, and the intense feeling for Nature that pervades it, it has
become a favorite among pianists. The same lyrical freshness is ex-
pressed in the String Quartet which he composed while staying at
Lofthus, Hardanger, in the winter of 1877-78. Here he breaks away
from the traditional polyphonic style of quartet music, bursting the
restricted dynamic range of chamber music with an almost orchestral
sonority.
In the Piano Sonata, op. 7 (1865), Grieg adheres to the traditional
sonata form, while the three violin sonatas, opp. 8, 13, 45 (1865, 1867,
1886-87), are more episodic in structure, and owe their cohesion to a
single basic mood.
Grieg's main piano work is the Ballade, op. 24, written in the form
of free variations on a folk tune from Valdres. It is a self -revealing
work, testifying to an intense inner struggle. With great dramatic
power he builds up to a climax; then the composer returns in resig-
nation to the theme in its original simplicity. In ten volumes of
419
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Lyric Pieces Grieg has given a lively panorama, mainly of Nor-
wegian scenery and country life. These became exceedingly popular,
and in the last years of his life Grieg was somewhat reluctantly
compelled to produce more, to satisfy his public and his publisher,
He rounded off the collection by taking the same melody for the last
piece as for the first, harmonizing it in a new way that reveals the
development he had undergone during the span of thirty-four years
which separates the two pieces.
In his songs he puts his finger unerringly on the main thought and
sentiment in each poem, and presents its essence in a simple melodic
phrase. On his own confession he felt the urge to write his own
feelings into his romances and his choice of text was always depend-
ent on his personal experience. The early songs bear the mark of
German Romanticism but soon, in op. 5, The Heart's Melodies
(1864), written to the text of Hans Christian Andersen and including
I Love You., we can note the influence of the Danish school of Niels
Gade (1817-90). In his music written for Bjornson's poems in the
early 1870's we meet the real Norwegian touch. The high tide of
his song compositions is reached in the Ibsen songs, op. 25 (1876),
including A Swan, With a Water Lily, A Bird Song and the Vinje
songs, op. 33 (1880). Once more he reached the highest level with
the Haugtussa songs (1896-98) to the text of Arne Garborg, where
Grieg has caught the soft subdued "underground" mood of the poet's
words. In a class of its own stands The Enchanted,, where the text is
a folk poem describing a mortal who has lost his way into the en-
chanted forest and is trying in vain to find his way out again. It is
one of Grieg's most gripping works. In it he interprets his own
tragedy.
GRIEG SPEAKS
Artists like Bach and Beethoven erected churches and temples on
the heights, I wanted, as Ibsen expressed it in one of his last dramas,
to build dwellings for men in which they might feel at home and
happy.
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EDVAHD GRIEG
The artist is an optimist. Otherwise he would be no artist. He
believes and hopes in the triumph of the good and the beautiful.
He trusts in his lucky star till his last breath.
« » • • »
We are north-Teutons and in common with the Teutons have a
tendency to dreaminess and melancholy. But we do not . , . feel
the desire to pour out our souls in broad rivers of words; we have
always cared only for what was clear and pregnant. ... A study of
French music will help [our young composers] to find their way back
to themselves. It is French art, with its light, charming, and vivid
composition, with its crystal clearness, which saves the Northern
tone poet. . . . The Norwegian artist who has learned the secret
of expressing what is in his heart will never forget that it is France
which has taught him this secret and therefore we cherish a real
and deep sympathy for the artists of France.
• • • • •
It's nonsense to talk so much about being faithful to the ideals of
one's youth. There is room for development surely. I have always
felt happiest in life when I thought I had added if only a little to
the ideals of my youth. What is life more than a struggle for the
realization of truths? How could one stop at the ideals of one's
confirmation age? Today I love Schumann, but in a different way
than when I was seventeen, and I love Wagner but differently from
when I was twenty-seven. So one's love for music, like one's love for
a woman, changes its character as time passes and it is not less
beautiful for that but rather improves as wine does. Don't worry if
you can't feel in the same way as when you were seventeen, as long
as your feelings are true and sincere.
The realm of harmony has always been my dream-world, and my
own sense of it has mystified even myself. I have found that the
obscure depth of our folk tunes is due to their undreamed-of
capacity for harmony. In my treatment of them I have tried to ex-
press my sense of the hidden harmonies of our folk airs.
421
GIUSEPPE VERDI
1818-1901
GIUSEPPE VERDI, foremost Italian opera composer, was born in Le
Roncole, Italy, on October 10, 1813. As a child he received music
instruction from a village organist and from Ferdinando Provesi in
nearby Busseto. In 1832, Verdi went to Milan to enter the Conserva-
tory, but failing the entrance examinations, he had to study privately
with Vincenzo Lavigna. Between 1835 and 1838 he served as con-
ductor of the Busseto Philharmonic and director of a Busseto music
school. On May 4, 1836, he married Margherita Barezzi. Their mar-
riage ended with Margherita's death in 1840, after their two
children had died in infancy.
Verdi returned to Milan in 1838, and on November 17, 1839 his
first opera, Oberto, was successfully introduced at La Scala. His
second opera, a comedy— Un^giorno di regno— was a failure in 1840,
but a serious opera in 1842, Ndbucco, proved such a triumph that
Verdi became an idol in Milan overnight. The dozen or so operas
he completed and had pxoduced during the next decade made him
one of the most famous and prosperous opera composers in Italy.
The best were I Lombardi (1843), Ernani (1844), Macbeth (1847),
and Luisa Miller (1849).
What we today recognize as the first of Verdi's unqualified master-
works, Rigoletto, was produced in Venice in 1851. With this opera
a new and rich creative period opened for Verdi which yielded
II Trovatore and La Traviata, both in 1853, Les vSpres siciliennes or
I Vespri siciliani (1855), Simon Boccanegra (1857), Un Ballo in
maschera (1859), La Forza del destino (1862), Don Carlo (1867), and
Aida (1871).
On August 25, 1859, Verdi married Giuseppina Strepponi, a singer
who had appeared in Nabucco. In 1860 he was elected to the first
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GIUSEPPE VERDI
national Parliament when it was instituted by Cavour. But lie de-
tested politics and withdrew from this office five years later. In 1875
he accepted from the King an honorary appointment as Senator; but
when the king offered to make him a Marquis in 1893 he declined
the honor.
For fifteen years after Aida, Verdi wrote no more operas. His most
significant work during this period was the Requiem, written in
1874 in memory of the Italian writer, Manzoni. Verdi returned to
the stage with Otello, text by Boito based on Shakespeare; its pre-
miere at La Scala on February 5, 1887, attracted world attention.
After that Verdi wrote one more opera, his first comic opera in half
a century: Falstaff, again with a Shakespeare play adapted by Boito,
introduced at La Scala on February 8, 1893. This also proved to
be a crowning masterwork.
The death of his wife in 1897 made him lose the will not only to
work but also to live. After that he "Vegetated," as he himself said,
in a Milan hotel where he died on January 27, 1901. His passing was
mourned officially in the Italian Senate and unofficially by millions
of his admirers throughout Italy.
THE MAN
FRANZ WERFEL
At the same time of life when Giuseppe Verdi first came in contact
with foreign countries, with the great world, with Paris, he bought
a house, home, and fields on his native soil, not far from Roncole.
This considerable country estate is named after the hamlet of Sanf
Agata. Like the giant in the Greek myth, the Maestro now could
touch the earth from which he sprang, renewing his strength from
it. Though art and his own work might require long stays in Milan,
Genoa, Rome, Naples, Paris, yes, even St. Petersburg and Madrid,
though he had to violate his principles by making a European tour
as conductor of his Requiem in 1875, he was everywhere an impa-
tient guest; at Sant' Agata alone he was at home and under his
own roof.
423
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
The author o£ almost thirty opera scores, the composer of the
Requiem . . . was anything but the mere proprietor of a splendid
estate and a handsome country retreat. He was a conscientious
farmer, a large-scale, jjgris^^ through, and this not
in the ordinary but in the creative sense. He had his fair share of
all the work, plans, schemes, alarms, troubles, cares, joys and pains
of the real, serious landowner. The model estate of Sant' Agata
brought about reforms in the agriculture of the whole district. Con-
stant innovations and improvements surprised the conservative,
skeptical peasants of the province. Verdi dug canals, introduced
the threshing machine and the steam plow? started dairy farms
round about, built roads. ~—~~~
He^jpMncreasuig his holdings. The soil of Sant' Agata swallowed
a considerable part of the sums his operas earned. Music made
Verdi a rich man. He was proud of the fortune he owed to his pen.
No wonder that envy circulated every imaginable slander upon his
person. Verdi they said, was greedy and miserly. But this greedy
miser never worsh3^pBdT5ioney f6r~a~single hour of his life. He never
put his money to work on the stock exchanges, in the jwotibd-^f
shares and complicated inter^t. What he didr~n6t spend in living
and farming, he invested in the more patriotic than profitable Italian
funds. Verdi was never avaricious; he was the very opposite—he was
£b4fjy. And he could think and act selflessly, like a patriarch, in a
thrifty and constructive fashion, as the following episode shows.
About 1880, Italy went through a grave economic depression. Un-
employment waxed from month to month. People in town and coun-
try, and particularly in the country, could no longer earn their
bread. Emigration to America assumed alarming proportions. While
the romantic artists of the time simply took no notice of such things,
the Italian operatic composer Verdi immediately turned to his own
locality with a vigorous hand. In the middle of the winter he left
the comfortable Palazzo Dorio and went to Sant' Agata. There he
not only started a long-planned remodeling of the house, but had
three large dairy farms and agricultural establishments set up on his
own land, so that he could give work^aadJbread to two hundred
— - ••*"'"'~^--^^*>a— *"*" — -~ - -"""' " ~T ~ "*"'" ^t"-~~. . „
unemployed peasants and their nujnesous. Jcaniilies. Soon he could
424
GIUSEPPE VERDI
explain with satisfaction: "Nobody is emigrating from my village
now!"
Verdi was no friend of socialists, as indeed he was no friend of
any one political party. But his was a resolutely responsible social
spirit like that of no other musician in his day. And he saw not the
slightest contradiction between speech and action. He showed the
same integrity and purity of character in all questions of public wel-
fare. He hated it when it was only the alms to ease the consciences
of the well-to-do. He refused to participate in anything that smelled
of "benevolence" of "charity." He would take any burden upon him-
self, even that of doing good. For instance he not only built the hos-
pital in the neighboring town of Villanova out of his own pocket, but
supervised the administration of the place, looked after the wine,
milk, and meat, and made sure the patients were not stinted in any
way,
Here is the everyday routine of Sant' Agata. Giuseppe Verdi rises
early. Like most Italians, he takes nothing but a cup of unsweetened
black coffee. Then he goes out on horseback— in later years he has
the carriage hitched up—to inspect the work in the fields, barnyards,
and at the dairy farms, or to call on some of his tenants. He is the
squire, not the maestro. Between nine and ten he comes home.
Meanwhile, the mail has arrived. The mail is of course the great
daily event at any country house. Signora Giuseppina has sorted the
letters, separating the nuisances attendant on a celebrity from the
important correspondence. Some time is spent every day in dealing
with this. If guests come, they generally arrive about noon. Verdi's
equipage usually fetches them from the nearest railway station,
Firenzuola-Arda. His circle of friends is small, and grows no larger
despite the vast number of connections formed in the course of a
long, brilliant life. Only seldom does an outsider come in, like Mon-
sieur du Locle, the director of the Paris Grand Opera, who asks
Verdi in vain for a new work for his institution. After 1870, the group
of friends consists chiefly of the singer Teresina Stolz, a Czech with
a superb voice who created Aida at La Scala, Giulio Ricordi, and
Arrigo Boito, the poet-composer of Mefistofele, a vigorous talent
425
THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and more vigorous intellect who writes the masterly librettos of
Otello and Falstaf for Verdi.
The main meal comes at about six in the evening. Verdi has the
reputation of a lover and connoisseur of good cooking; though he
does not compare with Rossini in that respect, he sets a splendid
table. He loves the light wines of Italy and heavy Havana cigars,
nor does he disdain a game of cards after the evening meal.
Music seems to cut no great figure in the house. Verdi is not fond
of musical discussions. He warns some of his visitors that they will
find no scores in his house, and a piano with broken strings.
THE COMPOSER
F. BONAVIA
Verdi's last opera when first performed won a very qualified suc-
cess. Indeed, when it was known that he was writing Falstaf (1893)
the general impression was one of surprise not so much because of
the composer's age— he was nearly eighty years old— but because of
the comic subject chosen by the author of II Trovatore (1853). Otello
(1887) had been eminently successful; but popular opinion still
held to the belief that the secret of the good fortune that attended
Verdi's operas lay in an almost inexhaustible vein of rich, flowing
melody. Falstaff was received with every outward sign of favor.
Congratulations poured in from every part of the world, the press
published enthusiastic eulogies, but the public showed a curious
disinclination to go to the theater. With that marvelous sense of
reality found only in the perfect idealist, Verdi soon discovered how
things stood and answered his admirers by pointing to the box-
office returns— "the true barometer of success." Time did justice to
Falstaff and confounded those who had suggested that its composi-
tion had been undertaken merely to solace an old man's leisure. The
freshness of this great comedy, its tenderness and good humor, not
only cleared away prejudices but opened the way for closer and
more sympathetic study of an art as simple and as difficult as that
of Mozart.
426
GIUSEPPE VERDI
There is, of course, nothing more bewildering than simplicity for
the very good reason that no one can gauge its depth. It may be
shallow, it may be profound-only time and temperamental affinities
can help us discriminate. Complexity, on the other hand, inevitably
attracts both the thoughtful and the thoughtless, since the former
can exercise their ingenuity, and the latter, profiting by the other's
researches [can] lay claim to a knowledge they do not possess.
The slow but certain rehabilitation of Falstaff led to a revision of
former opinion and vindicated critics who . . . had made no secret
of their profound admiration. But earlier operas also profited by
the favorable atmosphere thus created. Performances became less
casual than they had been. Singers could not easily be weaned from
the affectations and abuses which had gone so long unchecked, but
a more earnest and thoughtful attitude came to be expected and
the possibility of revising earlier works was seriously considered.
In time the movement culminated in the revival of Macbeth
(1847) in Germany— a significant move since it could not be mistaken
for a passion for those sometimes coarse but full-blooded melodies
of the early Verdian period— and pointed to a new appreciation of
qualities not generally supposed to be characteristic of Verdfs
work. A gift for vigorous, popular melody was never denied him any
more than it had been denied to Vincenzo Bellini (1801-35) and
Gaetano Donizetti (1797-1848), whom he was held to have beaten
at their own game. The charge most frequently profferred against
him was of having allowed lyrical expression a greater and more
important share than musical drama can stand— if it is to be a
drama and not a succession of songs. It was admitted that his melo-
dies had greater vitality than those of his predecessors; but it was
urged, and with truth, that melody alone could not support the
weight of dramatic action.
Macbeth, produced three years before Lohengrin and forty before
Otello, shows clearly and unmistakably how quick Verdi's mind was
in appreciating the needs of the music drama and how well he knew
that, if trills and flourishes do not make a melody, sweet or im-
petuous tunes do not make an opera. It was characteristic of him
that he revealed it not in a manifesto but casually, in a letter pro-
testing against the choice of a singer who seemed to him unlikely
427
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
to understand what he required of Lady Macbeth. "Mme. Tadolini,"
he wrote, "whom you have chosen, sings to perfection and I prefer
the interpreter of Lady Macbeth not to sing at all." Rather signifi-
cant, this demand for a singer to refrain from singing in an age when
singers did not scruple to ask composers to add another aria or two
and refused a part like that of Senta if they thought it unworthy of
their talents.
One wonders how many who heard Macbeth when it was first
produced, or even later when it was revived in Paris in 1865, realized
all it meant to Verdi. There is authority for asserting that the dilet-
tanti of the time cherished above all else the baritone aria— probably
the least individual and interesting piece in the whole opera. Verdi,
however, knew well where its strength lay. He pinned his faith on
the duet between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and the sleep-walking
scene; if these failed in their effect, the whole opera, he said, must
collapse. And, it is important to note, in the aria which "was not to
be sung"— the sleep-walking scene— the orchestra becomes the pro-
tagonist. The whole musical interest is there.
We need go no further to see where Verdi differed from his Italian
contemporaries. With them it was the eloquence of melody that
counted; with him its dramatic fitness. Before Verdi a melody could
be transported from one situation to another without seeming ir-
relevant, With him and after him music acquired richer but also
more definite expression. There could be never again a question of
adapting, and still less of "borrowing." A melody such as that in
which Gennaro reveals himself to Lucrezia Borgia in Donizetti's
opera could fit equally well and equally vaguely any other occasion.
Lady Macbeth's aria cannot be translated elsewhere without making
nonsense of it.
Not all in Macbeth is of a piece with the sleep-walking scene. Pas-
sages and whole pages, if scored with greater ability, yet recall the
earlier manner. But once the principle of dramatic fitness had begun
to dominate Verdfs mind, it never again allowed him to stray from
it. The operas which immediately followed in rapid succession, I
Masnadieri (1847), and II Corsaro (1848), are less important in this
respect. But dramatic aptness is well in evidence in Luisa Miller
(1849), in La Battaglia di Legnano (1849), and gives all their force
428
GIUSEPPE VERDI
to the finest pages of Rigoletto (1851). Once the critical world ac-
cepted without scandal the substitution of one mistress for another;
the true marriage o£ words and music allowed no such latitude.
Donizetti and others who, like him, revelled in the new liberty
and range which the mmanticjjnptdse had given to music were apt
to overrate the value of a melodic style. It could not alone provide
sufficient contrast; it could not depict some degrees in the gamut of
passion; it could not discriminate with sufficient clearness between
different characters. That is what, of all the Italians, Verdi was the
first to learn.
He was not very well equipped by fortune for such a task. Born
and bred mostly in a small community where, we may be sure, no
one ever thought of questioning the existing order either in music
or in the drama, nothing could be further from his mind than to chal-
lenge it. But he had, apart from his musical genius, two immensely
valuable qualities— artistic honesty and an unusual amount of com-
mon sense. His honesty prevented him from pandering to what was
thought to be public taste. His common sense showed him where
reform was needed and how far it could be carried out. Paradoxical
as it may seem, this composer who so early won popular applause
had never to compromise with his own conscience . . . and passed
the greater part of his life away from the masses who acclaimed
him. When an opera was ready he appeared in public, trained his
singers, perhaps conducted and certainly supervised the first per-
formance, and then disappeared. Such a naturally modest and re-
tiring disposition does not suggest the eagerness of the born re-
former. If he came to carry out reforms it was because common
sense showed that they were indispensable. Nothing is more sig-
nificant than the answer he gave to a singer who asked for another
aria: "I cannot; for I have already done my best. It may be little;
but I can do nothing better." Verdi's whole character is summed up
in those brief sentences. He was strengthened in the conviction that
sincerity is the best policy by an almost superstitious reverence for
"inspiration," for those moments of exaltation in which new ideas
flashed into his mind. This criterion is not wholly sound; mediocre
429
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
ideas may also be conceived in moments of unnatural excitement.
The minor composer, even the unknown composer, may think of a
new idea, believe it excellent, and continue so to do, unless he
happens to be one of those exceptional men who accept the world's
verdict. But in Verdi's case this belief was confirmed by success, and
helped to steel the determination never to listen to the advice of
outsiders. . . . Undoubtedly the system suited his genius to perfec-
tion. His own revisions were seldom happy, and operas which were
completed in the shortest time have survived many a revolutionary
period in the history of music—the revelation of Wagner's genius,
the recognition of Brahms, the new Impressionism of Debussy, the
invasion of the picturesque art of Russia— and have lived into an era
when the really advanced discuss, like Milton's fallen angels,
Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
We speak of Verdian reform, but it would be more accurate to
speak of development. It is true that in comparing the formal divi-
sions into which the acts of the early operas fall with the later
operas, where the only law is that of dramatic development, one is
struck by the difference of shape, outlook, and craftsmanship. But
his reform was as gradual a growth as his technique— even more,
since at no time did he take up a position from which he later found
it desirable to withdraw. The development was as gradual and as
continuous as that of the child into the man. It was, above all, a
deepening of the understanding, a widening of sympathies, a quicker
and more generous, more intelligent response to the appeal of what-
ever passion sways the dramatis personae of the plays.
The unequal quality of the early operas was due partly, no doubt,
to a conventional conception of musical theory, but also to Verdi's
inability to conceal the fact that some situations did not quicken his
genius as well as others. There is no sin in this, since when Verdi
began writing, recitative was still in use— long stretches of which
were never meant to be treated otherwise than in a conventional
fashion. In Nabucco (1842), as in Oberto (1839), his finer powers are
awakened by situations meant to appeal to a warm and generous
rather than a very sensitive nature. Only occasionally does he prove
430
GIUSEPPE VERDI
to us that his nature was highly sensitive as well as generous, that
his musical instinct could be equal to subtlety of expression. Neither
La Battaglia di Legnano nor Luisa Miller shows anything like the
range and the sure touch of the later operas. Yet if we consider
them together— they were both produced in the same year (1849)—
we cannot but marvel that two such different subjects should appeal
to him in exactly the same degree, that the hand which wrote the
scene in Sant' Ambrogio of the former opera (outshining the once
famous conspiracy in Les Huguenots) should also have written the
delicate, sensitive arias of Luisa Miller.
These operas suffer today from the somewhat unadventurous na-
ture of the harmonies, which frequently repeat a more or less con-
ventional pattern and set limits to the melodic invention. To appraise
them it is necessary to approach them by different ways and bear
in mind the limitations of analysis and criticism so clearly defined
by Saint-Beuve: "However well the net is woven, something always
remains outside and escapes; it is what we call genius, personal
talent. The learned critic lays his siege to attack this like an engi-
neer. He trenches it about and hems it into a corner, under color of
surrounding it with all the outward conditions that may prove neces-
sary. And these conditions really do serve personal originality; they
incite it, they tempt it forth, they place it in a position to act and
react, more or less; but they do not make it. This particle which
Horace entitles divine and which in the primitive, natural sense of
the term really is such, has never yet surrendered to science, and
abides unexplained. That is no reason for science to throw down her
weapons and renounce her daring enterprise. The siege of Troy
lasted ten years; and there are problems which perhaps may last as
long as human life itself/'
Verdf s genius is all in that particle which abides unexplained. He
is not the great grammarian whose discoveries may be analyzed and
discussed; nor is he the symphonic composer whose essays in form
can be made the subject of profound study. His harmony is always
controlled by that more personal factor, taste. His conception of
symphonic form is evident only in the String Quartet (1873), which,
admirable work as it is in many ways, pales in importance by the
side of the operas. Nor is our task made easier by the curious stand-
4S1
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
ard applied by those who deny the name of music to anything which
does not conform to a preconceived pattern and make extravagant
claims for the easy melodies of the early period because they are
more extended in form. These fail to see what Verdi himself saw as
clearly as Monteverdi— the essential difference between the dra-
matic and the lyrical style. As long as the subject of opera was a
mere excuse for music, when the heroes were traditional figures of
mythology, Achilles or Alexander, the treatment did not matter very
much. The action was entirely conventional, and all the musician
was expected to do was to choose from the text those situations he
thought best adapted to his talents and temperament. When, how-
ever, the theme is Othello or Lear, the lengthening effects of music
at once become apparent; thoughts which should move quickly are
arrested by lyrical treatment and a mean must be struck between
the aria and the recitative; the gulf must be bridged somehow if a
constantly recurring anti-climax is to be avoided. The only alterna-
tive to Verdi's is the Wagnerian plan, with its deliberate cutting
down of the action to its bare essentials so as to make full allowance
for the expansion of music. In choosing a different way Verdi was
wise since in all his operas the action is swift and better suited to
his temperament.
Admittedly the expediency of a system is no proof of its worth.
The more dramatic style of Otello (1887) would be inferior to the
more lyrical style of Aida (1871) if its only justification lay in aptitude
to express more fittingly certain emotions. But if there is a beauty
of lyrical there is also a beauty of dramatic expression, even though
the apostles of lyricism or "pure music" may not agree to it. They
differ as the song of Schubert differs from that of Hugo Wolf; but
they both have beauty and their character is essentially "musical."
The one moves us with the wonder of a single perfect idea, the other
with a succession of thoughts more brief but not less poignant. The
old operatic style with its subdivisions of the scene into set pieces,
arias, duets, and the like, favored the first form; the second is exempli-
fied by the love duet in Otello where the music changes with every
new image that flashes in the mind of the characters.
Are the love duets of Ernani (1844) or Rigoletto or even Aida finer
musically than that of Otello? No one can seriously suggest it. In
432
GIUSEPPE VERDI
part, the superiority of Otello can be traced to finer workmanship-
greater wealth of technical resources, surer and more masterly touch
in exploiting them. But its chief merit rests mainly in a lyrical im-
pulse which, controlled, gains immeasurably in vigor and originality,
in depth and swiftness. It is not in the least necessary to deny virtue
and beauty to the melodies which enrich the scores of Ernani or
Trovatore (1853) in order to establish the claims of the later operas.
But the essence of the Verdian reform is just this schooling of the
lyrical instinct; and its evolution led to the fullest development of
a genius who began his career amongst the arrangements for brass
band found in the library of his patron, Barezzi.
No wonder Verdi was at first reluctant to leave the safe path of
the plainest of harmonic gambits. And perhaps today we are apt to
give too much importance to "freedom" of harmony; at any rate
some modern composers, for all their airs of independence and
dexterous camouflage, have already gone back a considerable way
towards simpler formulas. However this may be, it should be remem-
bered in attempting to gauge the extent of Verdian reforms that
amongst Verdi's immediate predecessors and contemporaries there
was no one to stimulate his genius, no one akin to him in tempera-
ment. Rossini, who should have taken the place in Verdi's mind and
heart which Beethoven had in Wagner's, was of a temperament so
different as to preclude the possibility of intimate understanding.
Thus he [Verdi] had to work out his own salvation and go step by
step, from the buoyant but undistinguished Nabucco to Macbeth,
where first he searched and found a dramatic effect removed from
lyricism; to Rigoletto, conceived, as he said, "without arias, without
final tableaux, just as an endless succession of duets" because this
form alone satisfied his dramatic instinct; to Traviata (1853) with its
glow of romantic passion; to the splendor and pathos of Aida; to the
most terrible of tragedies, Otello, and the most sparkling of come-
dies, Falstaff.
The last, indeed, embodies the experience of a lifetime. An artist's
view of life, however rich, of its pleasures and sorrows, nobilities
and futilities, does not constitute a philosophy. But it has the de-
tachment which philosophers, who are bound to justify their ways,
affect but do not always possess. The composer, like the poet, needs
433
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
no other justification than excellence. In Falstaf there is philosophic
detachment, a sense of pity, of finality, of complete harmony; foibles
and wits, vanities and love-making are blended together and have
a common factor— humanity. It is comedy in which no one is wiser
than his fellow. In an odd way it recalls not only Shakespeare's
Falstaff but also Shakespeare's rustic philosopher, Jaques, for behind
the comedy a more thoughtful spirit broods. The delicacy of the
fairy music composes the mind to such thoughts as become night
and the silence of a forest. When the uproarious fun of the last
fugue is past we feel as if we had seen a mighty ship slipping from
its mooring to make her way to unknown seas. The more serious
mood is evident even in the idyll of Fenton and Ann Page, for the
gentle sweetness of their songs hints that even their love-dream can
lead but to an awakening.
To seek in the character of the man traits which might explain
his art may be a hopeless venture in the cast of most musicians, who
often show their muse a countenance very different from that with
which they face the world. Verdi, in this respect, was the exception.
His life does not explain his genius but, at least, it was not at variance
with his practice of the art of music. A conviction of fairness and
honesty inspired them both. The instinct which bade him keep a
strict account of every commercial transaction made him scrupulous
in keeping faith with the public and give his best in all circum-
stances—sometimes against his better judgment, as when he sought
to meet the taste of the Parisians by planning Don Carlo (1867) on
the scale of a Meyerbeerian "grand" opera. Another trait evident in
the man and in the artist was his inborn conservatism which made
him suspicious of new-fangled ideas and thus resulted in the carry-
ing out of important reforms in so smooth a way that no one realized
at the time either how important or how very much his own they
were. Yet another is provided by the simplicity of his mode of life
and of his tastes, matching the directness of a style profound in
expression but never involved in texture. Most important perhaps
is the generosity of a nature always ready to champion the cause of
the weak. Unversed in the ways of statesmanship and political ex-
pediency, he resented bitterly what he conceived as the betrayal of
Italy by France after the peace of Villafranca (1859), but when
434
GIUSEPPE VERDI
France was beaten in 1870 he would have preferred to share in the
defeat than enjoy the advantages of what seemed to him a dishonor-
able neutrality. He chose the heroes and heroines of his operas in
the same spirit. Simon Boccanegra, Manrico the Troubadour, Vio-
letta, Bigoletto, Don Alvaro— what a gallery of unfortunates! It may
be thought perhaps that in this choice he was inspired by a romantic
ideal which together with the "grace of childhood and dignity o£
the untaught peasant" showed a new pity and a new understanding
of the poor and lowly. But opera lagged behind the drama, and when
Verdi began to write phantoms from the classical or biblical age were
still considered capable of firing a composer's imagination. Verdi's
Nabucco was one of the four operas of that name produced in the
19th century while nine of his contemporaries found the ideal hero-
ine in Judith. No wonder the censors of the time suspected Rigoletto
to be a revolutionary propagandist and took exception to Traviata
(long after La Dame aux camelias had been produced) on both moral
and aesthetic grounds.
Verdi stood well another test to which not a few men— distin-
guished and undistinguished— have succumbed: the test of success.
Indeed, he seems to have looked upon success with distrust. Perhaps
he learned its worth when, after all the praise that had been be-
stowed on Nabucco, he found himself without the means of satisfy-
ing his landlord— a trifle which his scruples magnified into a mountain.
Perhaps the loss of his first wife and two children within a few
weeks impressed him with the utter futility of human hopes and
wishes. At any rate the applause of the public, the eulogies of the
critics, never affected his development in the slightest. He was one
of the few composers who learned early to take critical buffets and
rewards with equal thanks.
To assign to him his place amongst famous men is difficult while
his works are still performed by those who have not the necessary
technique or intelligence, who never hesitate to deal arbitrarily with
his directions, by singers who turn every high note into an occasion
to display their endurance. But most of those who have taken the
trouble to clear away from his music the incrustations accumulated
during years of license, and have discovered how many moments
there are even in the earlier operas in which everything earthly has
435
THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
been fused away and only the fire of passion remains, will not hesi-
tate to place him amongst the great epic poets of music.
VERDI SPEAKS
I cannot tell what the outcome of the present [1875] movements
is likely to be. One man wants to be a melodist like Bellini; another
wants to specialize in harmony like Meyerbeer. I want neither the
one nor the other. I should like the young composer to resist any
desire to be a melodist, harmonist, realist, idealist, or futurist— may
the devil take all these pedantries! Melody and harmony are -the
means the artist has at hand to write music. If a day should come
when there will be no more talk of melody, of harmony, of schools,
of past and future, then the kingdom of art will perhaps begin. An-
other mischief of the present time is that these young men are
afraid. No one lets himself go; when they write they are afraid of
public opinion; they want to court the critics. You tell me that my
success is due to the blending of two schools. No such thought has
ever entered my head.
I am under the impression that an art, for which one has to beat
a drum, is not art at all, but a craft; that an artistic event sinks to the
level of a hunting party, to something after which one runs to gain,
not success, but notoriety.
I always like to remember the joys of my early days when I, al-
most without friends, without anyone having spoken to me, without
any influence, offered my work to an audience, and was happy if I
had made a good impression. But now—what a show! Journalists,
artists, choristers, directors, professors, and so on— they all must add
their little stone to the building up of my publicity, and to help
form a picture of little miseries that add nothing to the worth of an
opera but cover up its true significance. This is to be regretted,
deeply to be regretted.
436
GIUSEPPE VERDI
I know perfectly well that success is impossible for me if I cannot
write as my heart dictates, free of any outside influence whatsoever,
without having to keep in mind that I'm writing for Paris and not
for the inhabitants of, say, the moon. Furthermore, the singers
would have to sing as I wish, not as they wish, and the chorus
which, to be sure, is extremely capable, would have to show the
same good will. A single will would have to rule throughout: my
own. That may seem rather tyrannical to you, and perhaps it is. But
if the work is an organic whole, it is built on a single idea and
everything must contribute to the achievement of this unity.
I should have said to young pupils: "Practice the fugue constantly
and persistently until you are weary of it and your hands are supple
and strong enough to bend the music to your will. Thus you will
learn assurance in composition, proper part-writing, unforced modu-
lations. Study Palestrina, and some few of his contemporaries. Then
skip everything up to Marcello, and pay particular attention to the
recitatives. Attend but few performances of contemporary opera,
and don't be seduced by the profusion of harmonic and instrumental
beauties, or by the chord of the diminished seventh, that easy subter-
fuge for all of us who can't write four measures without half a
dozen sevenths."
When they have gone thus far and achieved a broad literary
background, I would finally say to these young students: "Now lay
your hands on your heart and go ahead and write. If you have the
stuff of artists in you, you will be composers. In any case, you will
not swell the legion of modern imitators and neurotics who seek
and seek but never really find, although they may do some good
things." In singing I would have modern declamation taught along
with time-honored studies. But to apply these few deceptively
simple principles, it would be necessary to supervise the instruction
so closely that twelve months a year would be almost too little.
Opera is opera, symphony is symphony; and I don't think it is a
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
good idea to insert a symphonic piece into an opera just for the
pleasure of letting the orchestra cut loose once in a while.
I would be willing to set even a newspaper or letter to music, but
in the theater the public will stand for anything except boredom.
Please don't think that when I speak of my extreme musical ig-
norance I'm merely indulging in a little blague. It's the truth, pure
and simple. In my home there is almost no music. I've never gone
to a music library, or to a publisher, to look at a piece of music. I
keep up with a few of the best operas of our day, not by studying
them, but only by hearing them now and then in the theater. In all
this I have a purpose that you will understand. So I repeat to you:
of all past or present composers I am the least erudite. Let's under-
stand each other. I tell you again that this is no blague with me: I'm
talking about erudition not about musical knowledge. I should be
lying if I denied that in my youth I studied long and hard. That is
why my hand is strong enough to shape the sounds as I want them,
and sure enough for me generally to succeed in making the effect I
have in mind. And when I write something that doesn't conform to
the rules, I do it because, in that case, the strict rule doesn't give
me what I need.
The artist must yield himself to his own inspiration, and if he has
a true talent, no one knows and feels better than he what suits him.
I should compose with utter confidence a subject that set my blood
going, even though it were condemned by all other artists as anti-
musical.
438
GIACOMO PUCCINI
1858-1924
GIACOMO PUCCINI, who was, next to Verdi the most successful and
significant of Italian opera composers, was born in Lucca, on De-
cember 22, 1858. Since his family had been professional musicians
for several generations, he was early directed to a musical career.
After some study at the Istituto Musicale of Lucca, he served as
organist in two local churches and began composing choral music.
A stipend donated by Queen Margherita then enabled him to com-
plete his musical education at the Milan Conservatory in 1883. One
of his teachers there, Amilcare Ponchielli (1834-86), the composer
of La Gioconda, directed him towards writing for the stage and en-
couraged him to enter a competition for one-act operas conducted
by the publishing house of Sonzogno. Puccini's entry, Le Villi, did
not win the prize but it was successfully introduced in Milan in
1884. Ricordi, Italy's foremost publishers, now became interested in
him and commissioned him to write Edgar, which proved only pass-
ingly successful when given by La Scala in 1889. Puccini's first real
triumph came immediately after that: Manon Lescaut, introduced in
Turin on February 1, 1893. With La Boheme (1896) and Tosca (1900)
Puccini achieved world-wide recognition as the foremost creative
figure in Italian opera since Verdi.
In 1903, though seriously incapacitated by an automobile accident
and confined for many months to an invalid's chair, Puccini com-
pleted a new opera, Madama Butterfly. Its first production, at La
Scala on February 17, 1904, was a dismal failure. He revised it ex-
tensively, and the new version of Madama Butterfly, introduced in
Brescia on May 28, 1904, went on to capture the enthusiasm of the
music world.
In 1907, Puccini visited the United States to assist in the produc-
439
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
tion of the American premiere of Madama Butterfly by the Metro-
politan Opera Company. On this occasion, the Metropolitan Opera
commissioned him to write a new work. For this assignment, Puccini
chose a text with an American setting, The Girl of the Golden West,
based upon a Broadway play by David Belasco. The premiere on
December 10, 1910, attracted world interest, but The Girl of the
Golden West never proved one of Puccinf s popular works. Puccini
followed this with La Rondine in 1917; a trilogy of one-act operas
in 1918 collectively entitled II Trittico and comprising II Tabarro,
Suor Angelica, and Gianni Schicchi; and Tumndot, which he did not
complete. He died in Brussels of a heart attack following an opera-
tion for cancer of the throat, on November 29, 1924.
THE MAN
RICHARD SPECHT
It was about the beginning of the Twenties, in 1921 or 1923-1
cannot recall which— in the resplendently illuminated hall of one of
the great hotels on the Ringstrasse, Vienna. A brilliant gathering had
assembled, and intellectual Vienna was present to a man, especially
all which that city contains in the way of musicians and singers,
. . . They had come to do honor to the Maestro, Giacomo Puccini,
who had arrived for the first performance of his Trittico. ... He
was now resting in an arm-chair, a little weary, with a happy sparkle
in his fine, dark eyes, veiled from time to time by their heavy lids,
and with a pleasant smile on his fastidious mouth, often drawn into
an expression of melancholy irony, and scarcely concealed by the
soft, full moustache. ... On this occasion, I was permitted to hold
his slender, powerful hand in mine and listen to his cordial voice,
observing from its slightly veiled tones that on good days it was a
voce bruna (deep voice), a cheerful, ringing baritone, though capable
on occasion of a harsh abruptness. Even during an animated conver-
sation, however, its full, healthy ring was dampened by a huskiness
foreshadowing the insidious disease that, within so terribly short a
time, was to snatch him, all unaware, from his equally unsuspecting
440
GIACOMO PUCCINI
friends. It may be observed in passing that his finely shaped, thor-
oughly manly hand, with its long, musical fingers, though very well
kept, was not altogether irreproachable, but suggested the suspicion
that, like so many of his fellow-musicians, he bit his nails during
moments of nervous impatience or tormenting doubt while meditat-
ing over composition— a surmise in which I was correct. Any one
who desires to call up the image of a striking personality at some
subsequent time knows that such a handclasp, together with the
characteristic timbre of the voice, however irrelevant the words
uttered by it, bring one closer to the magic of the living being, and,
without any rational explanation, throw more light upon the secret
of his work, than all critical analysis or the fullest accounts of him
derived from hearsay. Such a statement admits of no proof; but, not
for the first time, I felt the indisputable truth of it as I listened to
Puccini's voice and was able to look into his frank, noble counte-
nance, only occasionally clouded by a distressing languor, with the
vigorous chin and bold brow round which lustered the thick brown
hair slightly touched with gray. It was a face that need not neces-
sarily have belonged to an artist, though it was unquestionably that
of a man of breeding, with an active brain, easily kindled sensibili-
ties, and an eager receptivity, at once shy and conscious of his own
worth, full of strong vitality, sensuous curiosity, and an instinctive
repugnance for all that is vulgar; a man, too, in whom primitive,
popular elements were combined with a subtle culture, an uncon-
strained naivete with the acquired exterior of a man of the world and
a dash of eternal youthfulness that made an enchanting mixture.
Those who saw Puccini on that evening, at a time when death
had already sealed him as its own, carried away an impression of a
highly luxurious dweller in great cities, inordinately spoiled by the
ladies, somewhat capricious, and rather indifferent to his own fame,
though not in the least blase, who associated on the same easy foot-
ing with kings and peasants, and had long since lost the power of
being astonished, whether at the marvels of life or at those of nature.
Even when young he had never had the sun-clear, seeing eye for
these, in spite of his passion for sport and the fact that he simply
could not bear to live anywhere but in the country.
He was never fond of society; shy to the core and essentially help-
441
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
less as he was, he always felt constrained and ill at ease among the
bourgeoisie, and even in artistic circles in the town. In particular
when he had to appear at a banquet, and especially when he had to
make an after-dinner speech— which he found the greatest diffi-
culty in stammering out, even when he had notes, jotted down with
the utmost brevity—his annoyance and despair knew no bounds. He
loved to mix with his friends and with simple men in an atmosphere
of unpretentious jollity, and in such company he could feel quite at
his ease. Here, among the uncultured residents of Torre del Lago
and Viareggio, his two beloved retreats, he was the best and most
carefree of companions, for he had escaped from the "great Puc-
cini/' the part that he had to play outside in the world— though, as
a matter of fact, he did not do so. Here he took part in every prank,
nor did these spare even his own person; he smoked like a chimney,
indulged in strong language to his heart's content, helped the
needy, and felt quite at home. Yet amid all this fraternal simplicity
and easy jollity he was alone, thanks to his insuperable melancholy
and the artist's life that isolated him; but it was only here that he
could breathe, and only here that he could create. Life in the great
artistic centers would have been the ruin of him; here, among his
intimates, either shooting water fowl, a sport for which he had what
almost amounted to a monomania, or fishing, or making excursions
in his motor boat, he was entirely himself, and managed to endure
even those periods which he execrated so furiously, when the lack
of a suitable libretto condemned him to enforced and despairing
inaction. He insisted that his friends, whom he formed into a "La
Boheme Club" at Torre del Lago, and a "Gianni Schicchi Club" at
Viareggio, should appear at his house every evening, there to smoke,
drink, and play cards. Curiously enough these hours were his favorite
time for work. He did not feel the presence of his friends in the
least disturbing; on the contrary, it was a stimulus to him, and if by
chance they suddenly became aware that he was in a creative mood,
and fell into an awed silence, hanging upon some chord struck by
the Master on the little cottage piano, he would fly into a rage, hurl
some vigorous epithet at them, and ask them to go on arguing and
talking without bothering about him; "otherwise," he would say, "I
feel as if you were listening to me, and that makes me ill!" Where-
442
GIACOMO PUCCINI
upon the squabble over politics, or a game of cards that had got into
a muddle would be resumed, and those engaged in it would once
more disappear amid heavy clouds of tobacco. Puccini had, more-
over, a curious habit: in spite of his unusually thick hair, he almost
always kept his hat on, even in the house, and while working at the
piano or his writing table. One might almost have thought that he
went to bed in his favorite felt hat, whose dented form is now
gradually fading into oblivion: but I feel sure that during those
hours when he was committing to paper the heart-rending orches-
tral epilogue to La Boheme or the ominous strains that accompany
the execution in the third act of Tosca, he bared his head.
He would never have been able to create all those touching, and
often, in my opinion, sentimental feminine figures in his operas,
with their striking ardor and animation, had he not himself been the
lover and slave of feminine fascination throughout his whole life.
He was the type of the homme a femmes, and in some ways sur-
passed the type. He never lost himself in adventures; but he always
sought them and found them. To quote his own avowal: "I am al-
ways in love," and once, when he was taken to task for his love of
the chase, he answered calmly, "Yes I am a passionate hunter of
water fowl, good libretti, and women." ... It is small wonder that
an artist with his winning, manly exterior and aureole of world fame
-which he wore, be it said, as unconcernedly as he did his inevitable
felt hat— and with a melancholy reserve and noble bearing that
promised a still further attraction, and who was, moreover, a lover
of beauty with inflammable passion, should have had feminine
favors showered upon him without any effort on his part. It is not
surprising that he hardly ever had to waste much time in wooing a
woman whom he desired, and that he accepted without any serious
qualms of self-reproach every tribute paid, equally unrepentantly,
by feminine charm to this operatic composer accustomed to love
and raised to eminence by success— the "male siren" as Alfred Kerr
called him. Nor is it any wonder that Donna Elvira, his chosen com-
panion, did not have an easy life with such an inflammable person,
who regarded the slightest constraint as a wrong. She had to pre-
serve her own dignity and that of her home, and in spite of all her
loving indulgence, she had to overcome much vexation and jealousy
443
THE WORLD OF GKEAT COMPOSERS
as a result of the escapades of the man whom she loved; nor did she
always do so in silence. Perhaps indeed she did not always go the
right way to work to attach "Monsieur Butterfly" to his home for
good, and suffered bitterly in consequence; though perhaps she
made him suffer, too, for forcing her to play Donna Elvira, whose
name she bore, to his Don Juan. Yet, in spite of all, she loved him as
no other woman did in his life, filled though it was with all that was
rich and exquisite.
THE COMPOSER
DONALD JAY GROUT
The chief figure in Italian opera of the late 19th and early 20th
centuries was Giacomo Puccini, who resembles Massenet in his posi-
tion of mediator between two eras, as well as in many features of his
musical style. Puccini's rise to fame began with his third opera,
Manon Lescaut (1893), which is less effective dramatically than
Massenet's opera on the same subject (1884) but rather superior in
musical interest— this despite occasional reminiscences of Tristan,
which few composers in the '90*s seemed able to escape. Puccini's
worldwide reputation rests chiefly on his next three operas: La Bo-
heme (1896), Tosca (1900), and Madama Butterfly (1904). La BoMme
is a sentimental opera with dramatic touches of realism, on a libretto
adapted from Henri Murger's Scenes de la vie de Boheme (Scenes of
Bohemian Life); Tosca, taken from Victorien Sardou s drama of the
same name (1887) is a "prolonged orgy of lust and crime" made en-
durable by the beauty of the music; and Madama Butterfly is a tale
of love and heartbreak in a Japanese setting.
The musical characteristic of Puccini which stands out in all these
operas is the intense, concentrated, melting quality of expressiveness
in the vocal melodic line. It is like Massenet without Massenet's ur-
banity. It is naked emotion, crying out, and persuading the listener s
feelings by its very earnestness. For illustrations the reader need only
recall the aria Che gelida manina and the ensuing duet in the first
444
GIACOMO PUCCINI
act of La Boheme, the closing scene of the same work, or the familiar
arias Vim darie in Tosca and Un bel di in Butterfly.
The history of this type of melody is instructive. In Verdi we en-
countered from time to time a melodic phrase of peculiar poignancy
which seemed to gather up the whole feeling of a scene in a pure
and concentrated moment of expression, such as the Amami, Alfredo
in La Traviata, the recitative E tu, come sei pallida of Otello, or the
kiss motif from the same work. For later composers, lacking the
sweep and balance of construction found in Verdi at his best but
perceiving that the high points of effectiveness in his operas were
marked by phrases of this sort, naturally became ambitious to write
operas which should consist entirely (or as nearly so as possible) of
such melodic high points, just as the "Verismo" composers had tried
to write operas consisting entirely of melodramatic shocks. Both
tendencies are evidence of satiety of sensation. These melodic
phrases in Verdi are of the sort sometimes described as "pregnant";
their effect depends on the prevalence of a less heated manner of
expression elsewhere in the opera, so that they stand out by contrast.
But in Puccini we have, as an apparent ideal if not always an ac-
tuality, what may be called a kind of perpetual pregnancy in the
melody, whether this is sung or entrusted to the orchestra as a back-
ground for vocal recitative. The musical utterance is kept at high
tension almost without repose, as though it were to be feared that
if the audiences were not continually excited they would go to
sleep. This tendency towards compression of language, this nervous
stretto of musical style, is characteristic of the fin de siecle period.
The sort of melody we have been describing runs through all of
Puccini's works. In the early operas it is organized in more or less
balanced periods, but later it becomes a freer lien, often skilfully em-
bodying a series of Leitmotifs. The Leitmotifs of Puccini are ad-
mirably dramatic in conception and effectively used either for re-
calling earlier moments in the opera or, by reiteration, to establish
a mood, but they do not serve as generating themes for musical
development.
Puccini's music was enriched by the composer's constant interest
in the new harmonic developments of his time; he was always eager
to put current discoveries to use in opera. One example of striking
445
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
harmonic treatment is the series of three major triads (B-flat, A-flat,
E-natural) which opens Tosca and is associated throughout the
opera with the villainous Scarpia. The harmonic tension of the aug-
mented fourth outlined by the first and third chords of this progres-
sion is by itself sufficient for Puccini's purpose; he has created his
atmosphere with three strokes, and the chord series has no further
use but to be repeated intact whenever the dramatic situation re-
quires it. There is no use in making comparisons between Puccini's
procedure and that, for example, of Vincent d'Indy in Istar or
Sibelius in the Fourth Symphony, both of which works are developed
largely out of the same augmented fourth interval; but no contrast
could show more starkly the difference between good opera on the
one hand and good symphonic music on the other.
One common trait of Puccini's found in all his operas from the
early Edgar (1889) down to his last works, is the "side-slipping" of
chords; doubtless this device was learned from Verdi (compare the
passage Oh! come £ dolce in the duet at the end of Act I of Otello)
. . . but it is based on a practice common in much exotic and primi-
tive music and going back in European music history to medieval
organum and faux-bourdon. Its usual purpose in Puccini is to break
up a melodic line into a number of parallel strands, like breaking up
a beam of white light by a prism into parallel bands of color. In a
sense it is a complementary effect to that of intensifying a melody
by duplication at the unison and octaves— an effect dear to all
Italian composers of the 19th century and one to which Puccini also
frequently resorted. Parallel duplication of the melodic line at the
fifth is used to good purpose in the introduction to Scene 3 of La
Boheme to suggest the bleakness of a cold winter dawn; at the third
and fifth, in the introduction to the second scene of the same opera,
for depicting the lively, crowded street scene (a passage which may
or may not have been in the back of Stravinsky's mind when he
wrote the music for the first scene of Petrouchka); and parallelism
of the same sort, extended sometimes to the chords of the seventh
and ninth is found at many places in the later operas.
The most original places in Puccini, however, are not dependent
on any single device; take for example the opening scene of Act III
of Tosca, with its broad unison melody in the horns, the delicate
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GIACOMO PUCCINI
descending parallel triads over a double pedal in the bass, the Lydian
melody of the shepherd boy, and the faint background of bells, with
the veiled, intruding threat of the three Scarpia chords from time
to time—an inimitably beautiful and suggestive passage, technically
perhaps owing something to both Verdi and Debussy, but neverthe-
less thoroughly individual.
An important source of color effects in Puccini's music is the use
of exotic materials. Exoticism in Puccini was more than a mere
borrowing of certain details but rather extended into the very fabric
of his melody, harmony, rhythm, and instrumentation. It is naturally
most in evidence in the works on oriental subjects, Madama Butter-
fly and Turandot. Turandot, based on a comedy of the 18th-century
Carlo Gozzi, was completed after Puccini's death by Franco Alfano;
it is "so far the last world success in the history of opera." It shows
side by side the most advanced harmonic experimentation (compare
the bitonality at the opening of Acts I and II), the utmost develop-
ment of Puccinian expressive lyric melody, and the most brilliant
orchestration of any of his operas.
Puccini did not escape the influence of Verismo, but the realism
in his operas is always tempered by, or blended with, romantic and
exotic elements. In La Boheme, common scenes and characters are
invested with a romantic halo; the repulsive melodrama of Tosca is
glorified by the music; and the few realistic details in Madama But-
terfiy are unimportant. A less convincing attempt to blend realism
and romance is found in La Fanciulla del West (The Girl of the
Golden West) taken from a play by David Belasco, and first per-
formed at the Metropolitan Opera in 1910. Though enthusiastically
received by the first American audiences, La Fanciulla del West did
not attain as wide or enduring popularity as the preceding works.
The next opera, La Rondine, or The Swallow (1917) was even less
successful. A return was made, however, with the Trittico, or trip-
tych, of one-act operas performed at the Metropolitan in December
1918: II Tdbarro (The Cloak), a Veristic melodrama; Suor Angelica
(Sister Angelica), a miracle play; and Gianni Schicchi, the most popu-
lar of the three, a delightful comedy in the spirit of 18th-century
opera buffa. Puccini's comic skill, evidenced also in some parts of
La Boheme and Turandot, is here seen at its most spontaneous, in-
447
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
corporating smoothly all the characteristic harmonic devices of Ids
later period. Only the occasional intrusion of sentimental melodies
in the old vein breaks the unity of effect .
Puccini was not one of the great composers, but within his own
limits (of which he was perfectly aware) he worked honorably and
with mastery of technique. Bill Nye remarked of Wagner's music
that it "is better than it sounds"; Puccini's music, on the contrary,
often sounds better than it is, owing to the perfect adjustment of
means to ends. He had the prime requisite for an opera composer,
an instinct for the theater; to that he added the Italian gift of know-
ing how to write effectively for singers, an unusually keen ear for
new harmonic and instrumental colors, a receptive mind to musical
progress, and a poetic imagination excelling in the evocation of
dreamlike, fantastic moods. Even Turandot, for all its modernistic
dissonance, is essentially a romantic work, an escape into the exotic
in both the dramatic and the musical sense.
PUCCINI SPEAKS
That which I have dreamed is always very far from that which I
am able to hold fast and write down on paper. An artist seems to me
to be a man who looks at beauty through a pair of glasses which, as
he breathes, becomes clouded over and veils the beauty he sees. He
takes out his handkerchief. He cleans his glasses. He sees clearly
again. But at the first breath the absolute disappears. It is only the
veil, the approximation, that we can perceive.
These are the laws of the theater: to interest, to surprise, to move.
Musical drama must be "seen" in its music as well as heard.
We must appreciate the astounding conquests and the courage of
foreign composers in the technical field. We must be nourished by
them so that they can become a part of us, but we must never lose
sight of the fundamental characteristics of our art.
448
GIACOMO PUCCINI
I have the greatest weakness of being able to write only when my
puppet executioners are moving on the scene. If only I could be a
purely symphonic writer! I should then at least cheat time . . . and
my public. But that was not for me. I was born so many years ago—
oh, so many, too many, almost a century . . . and Almighty God
touched me with His little finger and said: "Write for the theater
—mind, only for the theater." And I have obeyed the supreme com-
mand.
When fever abates, it ends by disappearing, and without fever
there is no creation. Emotional art is a kind of malady, an exceptional
state of mind, over-exciting of every fiber and every atom of one's
being, and so on, ad aeternam. For me, the libretto is nothing to
trifle with. ... It is a question of giving life that will endure, to a
thing which must be alive before it can be born, and so on till we
make a masterpiece.
44B
ANTON BRUCKNER
1824-1896
ANTON BRUCKNER was born in Ansfelden, Austria, on September 4,
1824, the son of the village schoolmaster. As a boy he taught himself
to play the organ. Directed to teaching, he completed his academic
studies at the St. Florian School in Linz, and then for several years
served there as a teacher. In 1853, deciding to embrace a career in
music, he left Linz to go to Vienna where he studied counterpoint
with Simeon Sechter. In 1856 he became organist of the Linz Cathe-
dral, holding this post about a dozen years. He also conducted a
choral society in Vienna from 1860 on, with which group he made his
official debut as composer on May 12, 1861, by directing the pre-
miere of his Ave Maria.
The impact of Wagner's music dramas upon him at this time
proved overpowering. He not only became one of the master's most
dedicated disciples, but in his symphonic compositions he began
assimilating Wagner's stylistic mannerisms and artistic methods,
In 1867, Bruckner was appointed court organist in Vienna, and
a year after that he became teacher of theory and organ at the
Conservatory. Between 1869 and 1871 he scored major successes
in France and England as a virtuoso of the organ. In 1871 he rose
to the rank of professor at the Conservatory, and in 1875 he became
a lecturer on music at the University.
Despite his varied activities he continued to be a productive com-
poser. His first symphony was introduced in Linz on May 9, 1868;
his second, in Vienna on October 26, 1873; his third, dedicated to
Wagner, in Vienna on December 16, 1877. All were failures. He con-
tinued to write his music in obscurity and neglect— at times in the
face of the most violent opposition on the part of the anti- Wagner
clique in Vienna. A small measure of success came with his Fourth
450
ANTON BRUCKNER
Symphony, the Romantic, whose premiere was conducted in Vienna
by Hans Richter on February 20, 1881. His Seventh Symphony en-
joyed something of a triumph, not only upon its introduction in
Leipzig by Arthur Nikisch on December 30, 1884, but also in many
other cities of Germany and Austria under such distinguished con-
ductors as Karl Muck, Felix Mottl, and Hermann Levi. Now enjoying
the limelight of recognition, Bruckner became the recipient of many
honors. In 1891 he received an honorary degree from the University
of Vienna, and in 1894 the Emperor of Austria bestowed on him
an imperial insignia. Bruckner died in Vienna on October 11, 1896.
Since his death his symphonies have been widely performed (usually
in versions edited by Ferdinand Loewe or Franz Schalk) and ac-
claimed, mainly through the efforts of Bruckner Societies in Vienna
and New York. The publication of a Bruckner journal between 1929
and 1939, and the issue of a monumental edition of Bruckner's sym-
phonies in their original orchestrations, further helped to propagan-
dize the gospel of Bruckner.
THE MAN
GABRIEL ENGEL
He was a little above the average in height; but an inclination to
corpulency made him appear shorter. His physiognomy, huge-nosed
and smooth-shaven, as he was, was that of a Roman emperor; but
from his blue eyes beamed only kindness and childish faith. He wore
unusually wide white collars, in order to leave his neck perfectly
free; and his black loose-hanging clothes were obviously intended to
be above all comfortable. He had even left instructions for a roomy
coffin. The only thing about his attire suggestive of the artist was
the loosely arranged bow tie he always wore. About the fit and shape
of his shoes he was, according to his shoemaker, more particular
than the most exactingly elegant member of the fair sex. As he would
hurry along the street swinging a soft black hat, which he hardly
ever put on, a colored handkerchief could always be seen protruding
from his coat pocket.
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He lived in a small, simple apartment of two rooms and kitchen
which were kept in order by an old faithful servant, Kathi, who for
twenty years had spent a few hours each day attending to the bach-
elor's household. In the blue-walled room where he worked stood
his old grand piano, a harmonium, a little table and some chairs.
The floor and most of the furniture were littered with music. On the
walls hung a large photograph and an oil painting of himself. From
this room a door led to his bedroom, the walls of which were covered
with pictures of his "beloved Masters." On the floor stood a bust
of himself which he was pleased to show his friends, who relate
that he would place his hand upon its brow, smile wistfully, and say,
"Good chap!" Against the wall stood an English brass bed presented
to him by his pupils. This he called "my luxury." At home he would
go dressed even more comfortably than on the street, merely donning
a loose coat if a guest was announced. Kathi knew exactly at what
hours guests were welcome. If the Master was composing no one
was permitted to disturb him. At other times he went in person to
meet the caller at the door.
Bruckner worked, as a rule, only in the morning; but sometimes
he would get up during the night to write down an idea that had
suddenly occurred to him. Possessing no lamp, he did this night
work by the light of two wax candles; but if Kathi saw traces of
these in the morning she scolded him severely, warning him to be
more careful about his health. When she insisted that he compose
only in the daytime, he would say contemptuously: "What do you
know about such things? I have to compose whenever an idea
comes to me."
Sometimes, other answers failing him, he tried naively to impress
her with his importance, crying: "Do you know whom you are
talking to? I am Bruckner!" "And I am Kathi," she retorted; and
that was the end of his argument. After his death, she said of him:
"He was rude, but good!"
Once, a maid in a Berlin hotel pressed a note into his hand on
his departure for Vienna, in which she expressed great concern for
the bodily welfare of her "dear Mr. Bruckner." Naturally, he re-
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ANTON BRUCKNER
sponded at once to the call, but insisted (this was a matter of princi-
ple with him) upon being introduced to the girl's parents. With them
an understanding was arrived at and a lively correspondence en-
tered upon, until Bruckner, despite the admonition o£ his horrified
friends, had made up his mind to marry the girl. He insisted, how-
ever, that she be converted to Catholicism (she being Protestant)
and this proved in the end the only stumbling block to one of the
weirdest matches on record. The girl simply would not sacrifice
her religion even for the privilege of nursing her "beloved Mr.
Bruckner/' He was seventy-one years old when this adventure with
Ida Buhz, the solicitous maid, came to an end.
Then there was also the affair with the young and pretty Minna
Reischl. Add to a pair of roguish eyes a thoroughly musical nature
and it is easy to see why the aged lover lost his heart in this case.
The girl, of course, must have been amusing herself at Bruckner's
expense, because when she went so far as to bring the composer
home to her parents, these sensible people of the world at once
awakened him out of his December dream. When he came to Linz
shortly after, his acquaintances, guessing the truth, teased him
saying: "Aha! So you have been out marrying again!" With Minna,
however, who soon married a wealthy manufacturer, Bruckner
remained very friendly until his death.
THE COMPOSER
H. C. COLLES
Anton Bruckner was untroubled by any of the misgivings in under-
taking the task of symphonic composition that beset his chief con-
temporary in Vienna, Brahms. Bruckner had, in fact, written four
symphonies for orchestra, though only two had attained a public
performance, before Brahms' No. 1 appeared in Karlsruhe in 1876.
Brahms once expressed a sense of thankfulness for having been pre-
served from the sin of spilling notes on to music paper; Bruckner's
life might be described as one long act of thanksgiving for the power
to do so. From the time of his Second Symphony in C minor (1872)
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSEKS
onwards, he was never without a large-scale work on the stocks.
When he died he left eight completed symphonies, and three move-
ments of a Ninth which surpasses all predecessors in length and
elaboration.
Brackne/s First Symphony in C minor, first played under his
own direction in his native town of Linz on May 9, 1868, was scored
for the normal symphonic orchestra with two trumpets, three trom-
bones (but no bass tuba), but this body was increased with nearly
every work. He used three trumpets in the Third Symphony in D
minor (1873-88), dedicated to Wagner "in tiefster Ehrfurcht" and
subsequently the constitution of his orchestra followed Wagnerian
precedent. A "stage" band of brass (three trumpets, three trombones,
bass tuba, and four horns additional to the same instruments in the
orchestra proper) was engaged to add weight to the peroration of his
Fifth Symphony in B-flat (1875-78). In the Seventh Symphony in
E major (1881-83) he employed a quartet of tenor and bass tubas
as devised by Wagner for The Ring, and in the Eighth Symphony in
C minor (1884-90) and the Ninth in D minor (1895-96), he revelled
in the full panoply of the Bayreuth orchestra, with triple woodwind,
eight horns (four to interchange with the tubas), and harps.
Bruckner's known admiration for Wagner and these externals of
his style labelled him a Wagnerian and brought him a certain amount
both of the obloquy and the admiration which belonged to such
an adherence, but while the technical influence of Wagner appears
in these externals of orchestration as well as in certain idiosyncrasies
of harmony, the spiritual one is chiefly discernible as an urge towards
magniloquence. It cannot be said of Bruckner that there is any of
that close fusion of color with line, making his orchestration an in-
tegral part of a symphonic scheme, in the way that Wagner's was
essential to a dramatic one. Bruckner did not gravitate towards the
program symphony which was Liszt's counterpart to the Wagnerian
music drama. He did not construct his movements on an elaborate
system of leading themes reappearing through the several move-
ments, which was Cesar Franck's application of the Leitmotivs
principle to symphonic form. To only one, the Fourth in E-flat (1873-
74), did he give a title Romantic, and that a term of such general
significance that one wonders at it having been appropriated by
454
ANTON BRUCKNER
one rather than by all his nine. He was indeed a Romantic of the
Romantics, too deeply imbued with a sense of vision in the act of
creation to submit it to any intellectual principles such as Franck's,
or to confine it with verbal explanations in the manner of the pro-
grammists.
Bruckner, a simple soul, whose career began as a country school-
master and organist, used the orchestra as he had been wont to use
the organ. When he found that Wagner had built a larger instrument
than the one he knew, he took the country organist's pleasure in
pulling out all the stops. What he played on this ever-increasing in-
strument, too, was like an organisfs improvisation. Each symphony
begins softly and each ends in a blazing fortissimo. The customary
opening is a soft pedal-point of some kind, a string tremolando, a
reiterated note or rhythmic figure; in the Fifth, a basso ostinato (piz-
zicato) replaces the pedal-point. Whatever the device may be, it
seems to suggest the organist's habit of listening to the tone of his
instrument before beginning to do something with it. Presently
some more positive feature is added, and so the music gets under
way. Once started Bruckner gives full rein to his fertile, if not dis-
tinguished, inventiveness. He is never at a loss for something to do
next, and he keeps just so much check on his wayward fancy as to
adhere to the old plan of a periodic recapitulation. This is a very
different thing from . . . Beethoven's method of building up from
nothing, or of giving life to the dry bones. There is indeed a notable
absence of bony matter from Bruckner's structures. . . .
Professor Tovey, in his essay on Schubert full of pregnant ideas
about the aesthetic principles of sonata form, pointed out that "there
is no surer touchstone of Schubert's, as of Mozart's, Beethoven's, and
Brahms's, treatment of form than the precise way in which their
recapitulations differ from their expositions," and he suggests that the
genius for form may be shown in the identity of the two sections as
much as in their differences. If we attempt to apply this "touch-
stone" to any one of Bruckner's sonata-form movements we get no
reaction at all. Neither identity nor difference in the recapitulation of
his ideas appears to be of the least consequence, because the ideas
have acquired little or no additional significance as a result of their
preceding development. This it is which puts Bruckner right outside
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symphony in the sense in which the classics have defined the term
for us. At the same time he cannot be said to be conspicuous as an
inventor of self-contained tunes, as so many minor composers, who
have mistaken themselves for symphonists, have been. Bruckner falls
between the two schools of the symphonic and lyrical styles.
To say this is not to deny that he had genius of a kind. He pursued
his art with religious devotion. He had a soaring imagination which
led him to project vast designs in orchestral tones which have com-
pelled admiration; he excelled in subtle effects of harmony height-
ened by the instrumental colors with which he clothed them.
Appreciation of Bruckner was slow in coming. Three of his sym-
phonies, the Fifth, the Sixth, and the unfinished Ninth were not per-
formed until several years after his death, even though in later
years, as professor of the organ and musical theory at the Vienna
Conservatory, he was the center of an admiring circle, and enjoyed
the affectionate support of pupils in well nigh as full a measure as did
Cesar Franck in Paris. Foreign musicians, especially English ones,
have felt some surprise at his posthumous fame. Allowing something
for that extravagant insistence on nationalism which has deflected
musical judgment in all countries since the beginning of the 20th
century, and remembering that "Bruckner can only be fully under-
stood through his own country, Upper Austria, much as Schubert
can only be completely understood through his own country, Lower
Austria, and through his attributes as a devout Catholic" [Alfred
Einstein], we still have to find a cause for the prevalence of his works
in the concert rooms of Europe outside Austria.
That cause is the establishment in the last generation of virtuoso
orchestras commanded by virtuoso conductors. The conductors
found that they could "make something'* of Bruckner, indeed that
he required them to make his music articulate. The classical sym-
phony having life in itself allows comparatively little scope for the
impress of the virtuoso conductor's personality. Bruckner's sympho-
nies became to the virtuosi of the baton what the concertos of Henri
Vieuxtemps (1820-81), Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst (1814-65), and
Henri Wieniawski (1835-80) had been to the virtuosi of the bow.
His successor in this line of composition was himself one of the
456
ANTON BRUCKNER
greatest of these virtuosi, Gustav Mahler, whose nine symphonies
He on the border-line of the two centuries.
BRUCKNER SPEAKS
It was sometime about the beginning of 1873 (for the Crown Prince
Frederick was just then at Bayreuth) that I asked the master's
[Richard Wagner's] permission to lay before him the scores of my
Second and Third Symphonies. He complained of the press of time
(theater construction, etc.) saying that it was not only impossible
for him to examine my music at that moment, but that he could not
even give the score of The Ring any attention. I said, "Master, I know
I have no right to deprive you of even a quarter of an hour, but I
thought that for you an instant's glance would be sufficient to grasp
the quality of my work." Then he tapped me on the shoulder and
said, "Well, then, come on in." We entered the salon together and
he opened the Second Symphony. "Yes, yes," he remarked, glancing
through it hastily, and I could see that it seemed too tame to him
(for they had at first succeeded in intimidating me at Vienna). Then
he began to look at the Third (in D minor) and at once exclaimed,
"Look! Look! Now this is surprising!" And so he went carefully
through the whole opening passage (he particularly remarked the
trumpet theme). Then he said, "Leave this score here; I want to look
through it more thoroughly after dinner." (It was twelve o'clock.)
"Shall I tell him now?" thought I, and Wagner, sensing my hesitation,
gazed inquiringly at me. Then with pounding heart, and trembling
voice, I said, "Master, there is something on my heart which I hardly
dare to tell!" And he said quickly, "Out with it! Don't be afraid!
You know how much I think of you." Thereupon I revealed my long-
ing, adding that I wished permission for the dedication only if the
master was really willing to grant it, for I feared above all to cast
any unworthy reflection upon his sacred name. He replied, "Come
and see me at Wahnfried at five this evening. Meanwhile I shall
have examined your D minor Symphony carefully and we shall then
be able to decide this matter." At five sharp I entered Wahnfried
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and the master of all masters hurried forward to greet me, embracing
me, while he exclaimed, "Dear friend, the dedication is truly appro-
priate; you have given me great joy with this symphony." For two
and a half hours thereafter I had the happiness of sitting beside him
while he spoke of the musical conditions in Vienna and continuously
served me with beer. Then he led me into the garden and showed
me his grave! I left Bayreuth the next day, and he wished me a
pleasant journey, reminding me, "Remember, where the trumpet
sounds the theme!"
During the years that followed, in Vienna and in Bayreuth, he
would often ask me, "Has the symphony been performed? It must
be performed. It must be performed."
In 1882, when he was already suffering from severe illness, he once
took my hand, saying, "Don't worry. I myself will perform the sym-
phony and all your works." Moved, I could only exclaim, "O master!"
Then he asked, "Have you heard Parsifal? How do you like it?" And
then, while he still held my hand, I knelt before him and, pressing
it to my lips, said, "O master, I worship you!" Then he said, "Be
calm, Bruckner," and a moment later, "Good night," and he left
me. On the following day he sat behind me during the Parsifal
performance and scolded me for applauding too loud.
458
GUSTAV MAHLER
1860-2911
GUSTAV MAHLER was born in Kalischt, Bohemia, on July 7, 1860.
After attending the Vienna Conservatory, and completing courses
in history and philosophy at the University, he received his first
appointment as conductor. Several more engagements in various
small German opera houses prepared him for the significant post
of principal German conductor of the Prague Opera in 1885. From
1886 to 1888 he was assistant to Artur Nikisch at the Leipzig Opera;
from 1886 to 1891, he was music director of the Royal Opera in
Budapest; and from 1891 to 1897, he held a similar post with the
Hamburg Opera. In 1897 he was appointed music director of the
Vienna Royal Opera which, under his exacting and uncompromising
leadership, became one of the world's foremost opera companies.
While holding this post he married Alma Maria Schindler in 1902;
they had two daughters, one of whom died in infancy.
Despite his world renown as conductor, Mahler placed a consider-
ably greater importance on his creative work. His first major compo-
sition was a song cycle, Songs of a Wayfarer (Lieder eines fahrenden
Geselleri), in 1885. Three years after that came his first symphony, a
failure when introduced in Budapest on November 20, 1889. He
wrote eight more complete symphonies after that. These, together
with his remarkable song cycles with orchestra— the Kindertoten-
lieder in 1904 and Das Lied von der Erde in 1910— gave him leader-
ship in the post-Romantic movement in Germany and Austria.
Confronted by continual obstruction placed in his way by rivals,
and incapable of maintaining the lofty standards he had established,
Mahler resigned from the Vienna Royal Opera in 1907. In 1908
he became the principal conductor of German operas at the Metro-
politan Opera in New York, and from 1909 to 1911 he was the music
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
director of the New York Philharmonic. He broke down physically
in 1911 and was brought back to Vienna where he died on May 18,
a victim of pneumonia,
Mahler's reputation as composer grew formidably after his death.
This was mainly due to the indefatigable efforts of some of his
disciples, among whom were Bruno Walter, Richard Strauss, and
Otto Klemperer. In 1955, the International Gustav Mahler Society
was formed in Vienna with Bruno Walter as honorary president.
THE MAN
ALMA MAHLER WERFEL
Mahler's daily program during the next six summers [1902-8]
at Maiernigg never varied. He got up at six or half -past six and rang
for the cook to prepare his breakfast instantly and take it up to the
steep and slippery path to his hut, which was in the woods nearby,
two hundred feet higher than the villa. The cook was not allowed to
take the usual path, because he could not bear the sight of her,
or indeed of anyone whatsoever, before setting to work: and so,
to the peril of the crockery, she had to scramble up a slippery, steeper
one. His breakfast consisted of coffee (freshly roasted and ground),
bread and butter, and a different jam every day. She put the milk
on a spirit-stove, matches beside it, and then beat a hasty retreat
by the way she had come in case she might meet Mahler climbing
up. He was not long about it; he was very quick in all he did. First
he lit the spirit-stove, and nearly always burned his fingers— not so
much from clumsiness as from a dreamy absence of mind. Then lie
settled down comfortably at the table and bench in front of the hut.
It was simply a large stone building with three windows and a door.
I was always afraid it was unhealthy for him, because it was sur-
rounded by trees and had no drainage; but he was so fond of this
retreat that I could do nothing about it.
He had a piano there and a complete Goethe and Kant on his
shelves; for music, only Bach. At midday he came noiselessly down
to the villa and went up to his rooms to dress. Up in the woods he
460
GUSTAV MAHLER
delighted in wearing his oldest rags. After that he went down to
the boathouse, where he had two beautiful boats. On each side
of it there was a bathing hut with a platform of planks in front. The
first thing he did was to swim far out and give a whistle, and this
was the signal for me to come down and join him. Once I had both
little children with me in the bathing hut. Mahler went off with one
under each arm and then forgot all about them. I was just in time
to catch one of them as she was falling into the water.
I usually sat down on the boathouse steps. When he came out of
the water we talked and he lay sun-bathing, until he was baked
brown; then he jumped into the water again. As I watched this pro-
cedure I always felt a terrible anxiety about his heart. I was ignorant
in those days, but I knew at least that it could not be good for him.
But nothing I could say could induce him to give it up, and he per-
sisted in heating himself up and cooling himself down, often four
or five times running. After this he felt invigorated and we went
home for lunch, making a tour of the garden on the way. He loved
the garden and knew every tree and plant in it. The soup had to be
on the table the moment we got in, and the food had to be simple,
even frugal, but perfectly cooked, and without tempting the appe-
tite or causing any sensation of heaviness. In fact he lived all his
life on an invalid's diet. Burckhard's opinion was that it was enough
to ruin a man's stomach for good and all.
We sat and talked for half an hour afterwards. Then up and out,
however hot or however wet it might be. Sometimes our walk was
on our side of the lake; sometimes we crossed to the other side
by the steamer and then set off on our walk— or run, rather. I see
now that his restless energy after meals was his way of escape from
the pressure of a full stomach on an overworked heart. It was purely
instinctive. He could not bear lying down after meals, but he never
knew the real reason.
Our expeditions were fairly long. We walked for three or four
hours, or else we rowed over the dazzling water, which reflected
the glare of the sun. Sometimes I was too exhausted to go on. We
invented a hypnotic cure for my collapse: he used to put his arm
around me and say, *1 love you/' Instantly I was filled with fresh
energy and on we tore.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Often and often he stood still, the sun beating down on his bare
head, and taking out a small notebook ruled for music, wrote and
reflected and wrote again, sometimes beating time in the air. This
lasted very often for an hour or longer, while I sat on the grass or
a tree trunk without venturing to look at him. If his inspiration
pleased him he smiled back at me. He knew that nothing in the
world was a greater joy to me. Then we went on or turned for
home if, as often happened, he was eager to get back to his studio
with full speed.
His remarkable egocentricity was often betrayed in amusing little
incidents. Sometimes he liked to break off work for a day or two
in order to go back to it with his mind refreshed. On one such
occasion we went to Misurina. My mother was with us and we
had three rooms next to each other. My mother was in my room
and we were whispering cautiously as our habit was, for Mahler's
ears detected the slightest sound and the slightest sound disturbed
him. Suddenly my door flew open and was banged shut and there
stood Mahler in a fury. "Do you hear that? Someone banging a door
again along the passage. I shall make a complaint." For a moment
we looked duly horrified and then burst out laughing.
"But, Gustav, you've just done the same thing yourself."
He saw the absurdity.
One of his favorite quotations was from The World as Will and
Imagination: "How often have the inspirations of genius been
brought to naught by the crack of a whip!"
His life during the summer months was stripped of all dross, al-
most inhuman in its purity. No thoughts of fame or worldly glory en-
tered his head. We lived on peacefully from day to day undisturbed
in mind, except for an occasional letter from the Opera which was
sure to bring trouble.
Soon after this our holidays came to an end and we returned
to Vienna. . . . Up at seven, breakfast, work. At nine, to the Opera.
Punctually at one, lunch. His servant telephoned from the Opera
as soon as he left, and as soon as Mahler rang the bell on the
ground floor, the soup had to be on the table on the fourth. The door
had to be open to avoid the slightest delay. He stormed through
all the rooms, bursting open unwanted doors like a gale of wind,
462
GUSTAV MAHLER
washed his hands, and then we sat down to lunch. Afterwards, a
brief pause, just as at Maiernigg; and then either a race four times
round the Belvedere or the complete circuit of the Ringstrasse.
Punctually at five, tea. After this he went every day to the Opera
and stayed there during part of the performance. I picked him up
there nearly every day and we hastened home to dinner. If he was
still busy in the office, I sometimes looked in at whatever opera
was on, but never stayed on after he was free.
Mahler lived the life of a Stoic— a small flat, no luxuries of any
sort. His one aim was to be unconscious of the body, so as to con-
centrate entirely on his work.
THE COMPOSER
BRUNO WALTER
The fundamental element in Mahler's work is the simple fact that
he was a genuine musician. At first he was a Romantic at heart— wit-
ness Das Tdagende Lied (1880-99) and the Lieder eines fahrenden
Gesellen (1885)— but his later development shows conflict between
and blending of Romantic and Classical elements. Classical is the
determination to give form to the music that gushed from him, to
control and master his virile power, imagination, and sensibility.
Romantic, in the wider sense, is the bold and unbounded range of
his fantasy: his "nocturnal" quality, a tendency to excess in ex-
pression, at times reaching the grotesque; above all, the mixture
of poetic and other ideas in his musical imagination. His was a
turbulent inner world of music, impassioned humanism, poetic
imagination, philosophic thought, and religious feeling. As he had
both a feeling heart and the urge and power of ardent expression, he
was able to subject his individual musical language to the tyranny
of symphonic form. This form came to dominate his creative activity;
he was to expand a content, at first rich, various, and dispersed, to
the point of chaos, to the creation of works ever richer and more
novel.
His First Symphony (1888), although conceived as a personal
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
credo, already showed how completely he was dedicated to the
symphonic idea. From the Second Symphony (1894) on, his advance
along the symphonic path was more and more conscious and de-
termined, and was characterized by the steady developments from
a thematic core whose musical completeness is deflected by no
poetic idea or musical interjection sacrificing the principle of or-
ganic coherence. He was to develop symphonic form and expand
its scale immensely, above all in his development sections, where he
heightened the use of the motif as created and employed by Bee-
thoven—always keeping the idea of the whole structure in mind
when forming the single parts. Here he simply follows in Beethoven's
tracks. The glorious, singing quality of many of his themes, like the
happy-go-lucky Austrian coloration of his melodies, shows traces
of the influence of Schubert and Anton Bruckner. The choral theme
in the Second Symphony, the breadth of its layout, and the traces
in it of solemnity, also recall Bruckner. There are echoes of Berlioz,
too, in the daring use of bizarre and grotesque means for the pur-
pose of reaching the utmost keenness of expression; he perhaps
learned more from the great French genius than from anyone else.
Has his rich personality given us music of equal stature? I put the
question fairly and squarely: did Mahler possess a "genuine faculty
of musical invention?"
In Mahler's symphonies the thematic materials reveals the in-
spiration of an authentic musician, genuine and sound: one who
could not work out a major thematic construction from motifs in
themselves paltry or artificial. For the sustained development of his
symphonic works he required the continuous stimulus of the inspired
idea, of the theme given in blessed moments of insight. In music, in
the broad sense of the word, everything depends on invention: both
the "material" and its symphonic development. Mahler's inventive
faculty carries, in the first place, the stamp of a personality whose
originality no one can deny.
I attach importance to recognition of the mingling of Classical and
Romantic in his thematic material, as in his nature. But where he
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GUSTAV MAHLER
draws on themes from the sphere of folklore, he never merely imi-
tates, let alone adapts; it is the genuine voice of the people with
which he speaks, and which comes from deep within his own
being. . . .
In general, Mahler made happy use of the Austrian musical dialect.
It sounds in the trio of the second movement of the First, with echoes
of Schubert, and with some of Haydn in the main theme of the first
movement of the Fourth (1901); there are Styrian touches in the
country dance in the Ninth (1910), to which I have already referred.
The traditional opening bar of the Austrian military band, played by
drums and cymbals, is wittily reproduced in the March of the Third,
and its Scherzo "sounds off" in true military fashion. There are echoes
of Vienna's folk songs in the secondary theme of the Fourth and
even a Viennese waltz in the Scherzo of the Fifth (1902); one of the
variations in the Andante of the Fourth behaves very Austrian in-
deed. Austrian military music, of which he was very fond, permeates
his marches. When he was a two-year old, his nurse used to leave
him in a barracks yard while she enjoyed the company of a soldier
friend: he listened to drums and trumpets, and watched soldiers
inarching; the romantic aspect of the military, often present in his
work, may perhaps derive from these infantile barracks impressions.
The reveille sounds twice; the Grosser Appell in the last movement of
the Second symbolizes the call to the dead to rise for the Last Judg-
ment; the first movement of the Fourth completes the picture, with
the finely modulated Kleiner Appell, as he called it. Military, again,
are the repeated trumpets in the introduction to the first movement
of the Third (1896), the wild music of the "charge," and the closing
march-rhythms on the drums. Military romance also colors songs
like Der Schildwache Nachtlied (1888), Der Tambourg'sell and Re~
velge (c. 1909).
Marches recur in Mahler's work. In his First and Fifth symphonies,
the funeral march carries a singular, tragic-ironic meaning; in the
finale of his Second, a vigorous quick march plays an important part.
A fiery march— Der Sommer marschiert ein— occupies a large portion
of the first movement of his Third. There are march rhythms in the
first movement of the Sixth (1905), the second movement of the
Seventh (1906), and the last movements of the Fifth and Seventh.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
With his Second Symphony, Mahler begins to think in contrapuntal
terms. Its polyphonic structure and artful formation and transforma-
tion of motifs show the work's classical affiliation. Mahler's absorp-
tion in problems of technique grew steadily right up to his Ninth; by
the time of the Fifth they had produced a radical change in style.
Far from being a poet setting poetic visions to music, he was
a musician pur sang. As such, he was primarily concerned to achieve
his aim by the plastic use of thematic material. This aim governs the
shape of every movement, the development of every theme: the
use of counterpoint, the molding of rondo, fugue, and so forth, in
the sonata form. His first four symphonies are infiltrated with ideas,
images, and emotions. From the Fifth to the Seventh inclusive,
purely musical forms dominate. Between these two periods, he was
absorbed in Bach: The Art of the Fugue had a profound influence on
his counterpoint. This is plain in the rondo-fugue of the Fifth, in
which a tendency to imaginative deepening of the rondo itself is also
evident. The exalted Veni, Creator Spiritus of the Eighth (1907), like
the contrapuntal mastery of the third movement of the Ninth, dedi-
cated to the "Brothers in Apollo," shows immense advance in his
polyphony. He was also particularly interested in the art of varia-
tions. He was a passionate admirer of Brahms" Variations onaTheme
of Haydn and loved to explain how high a standard Brahms in this
composition had given the whole concept of variations. Mahler's
use of variations is confined to the Andante of his Fifth, but the
"variant"— the transformation and elaboration of a given theme,
lying, as it does, at the basis of variation— is a significant element in
development, and one by which he was constantly preoccupied. In
each of his later symphonies, the art of variation is progressively
used, and enriches both recapitulation and coda.
There was, also, a notable advance in instrumentation, based in
his case on an unrivaled capacity for vivid sound-imagination and
on an intimate knowledge of the orchestra. Yet his imaginative mas-
tery of sound never seduced him into attaching too great importance
to coloration. He used his rare aural gifts to achieve the utmost or-
chestral lucidity. Where special color was needed to fulfill his in-
tentions, he mixed it on his own palette, as only one of his amazing
sensibility could do. The heightening of his polyphony, with its
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GUSTAV MAHLER
complex interweaving of vocal effects, taxed even his instrumental
mastery: in his Fifth he himself had difficulty keeping pace with
the growing complications of the structure. . . .
Mahler's first four symphonies reveal a significant part of his inner
history. In them the power of the musical language responds to the
force of the spiritual experience. They also have in common a con-
tinuous interchange between the world of sound and the world of
ideas, thoughts, and feelings. In the First the music reflects the
stormy emotions of a subjective experience; beginning with the
Second, metaphysical questions demand answers and solutions. The
reply is threefold, and is given from a fresh standpoint each time.
The Second is concerned with the meaning of the tragedy of human
life: the clear reply is its justification by immortality. Assuaged, he
turns in the Third, to Nature, and after traversing its cycle, reaches
the happy conviction that the answer is in "omnipotent love, all-
forming, all-embracing." In the Fourth he assures himself and us
through a lofty and cheerful dream of the joys of eternal life, that
we are safe.
Now the struggle to achieve a new vision of the universe in terms
of music is suspended. Now full of strength and equal to life's de-
mands, he is ready to write music as a musician. His Fifth Symphony
is a work full of power and sane self-confidence which turns its face
toward life and reality. Its movements are a powerful funeral march
leading into the agitated first movement; a Scherzo of imposing
scale; an Adagietto, and a rondo-fugue. Nothing in my talks with
Mahler, not a single note in the work, suggests that any extrinsic
thought or emotion entered into its composition. Here is music.
Passionate, wild, heroic, exuberant, fiery, solemn, tender, it covers
the whole gamut of feeling. But it is "merely" music. And not even
from afar do metaphysical questions cross its purely musical course.
But the musician in him tried all the more eagerly to develop his
symphonic craft, even to create new and higher forms. The Fifth
demanded, in its heightened polyphony, a renewing of his style of
orchestration. Here begins a new phase of his development, and we
now have in the Fifth a masterpiece that shows its composer at the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
zenith of his life, his powers, and his craft. There is a certain sense
in which the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh belong together. Both of the
latter are as unmetaphysical as music can be; in them the composer
is concerned to expand the symphonic idea. However, the Sixth is
bleakly pessimistic; it reeks of the bitter taste of the cup of life. In
contrast with the Fifth, it says "No," above all in its last movement,
where something resembling the inexorable strife of "all against
all" is translated into music. "Existence is a burden; death is desir-
able and life hateful/' might be its motto. Mahler called it his
"Tragic." The mounting tension and climaxes of the last movement
resemble, in their grim power, the mountainous waves of a sea that
will overwhelm and destroy the ship; the work ends in hopelessness
and the night of the soul. "Non placet" is his verdict on this world;
the "other world" is not glimpsed for a moment.
The Seventh likewise falls into the absolutely musical, purely
symphonic, group. These three works needed no words to clarify
their conceptual ideas, and consequently no voices are used. For
this reason, I cannot discuss them. I could never talk about the music
itself, and there is no need to analyze it; analysis on these lines has
long been available. Note, however, the reappearance of the seem-
ingly long-buried Romantic, significant and humanly illuminating,
in the three central movements of the Seventh. These three noc-
turnal pieces, steeped in the emotions of the past, reveal that the
master of the superb first movement and of the brilliant rondo is
again involved in that longing for fulfillment, that search for an-
swers to his questions about life, which always haunted him.
At this crucial juncture, he came upon the Hymn of Maurus and
turned all his highly developed symphonic powers to giving an
answer to the most heart-searching of all questions, by placing in a
full-scale musical context the Veni, Creator Spiritus and the belief
in immortality voiced by Goethe in the final scene of Faust. This
was his Eighth Symphony. No other work expresses so fully the im-
passioned "Yes" to life. "Yes" resounds here in the massed voices
of the hymn wrought by a master hand into the temple-like struc-
ture of a symphonic movement; it peals from the Faust words and
from the torrent of music in which Mahler's own emotion is re-
468
GUSTAV MAHLER
leased. Here, advanced in years, the seeker after God confirms, from
a higher plane, the assurance which his youthful heart had poured
out in the passion of the Second Symphony. In the later work the
relation between idea and music is absolutely clear; from the first,
the word is integral; from the first, eternity is the issue of which the
symphony is born, to which it is the reply.
Can the man who reared the structure of the Eighth "in harmony
with the Everlasting/' be the same as the author of the Trinklied
vom Jammer der Erde (Drinking Song of Earthly Wo0)— the man
who slinks alone, in autumn, to the trusty place of death in search
of comfort, who looks at youth with the commiserating eyes of age,
at beauty with muted emotion, who seeks to forget in drink the
senselessness of life and finally leaves it in deep melancholy? Is it
the same master who, after his gigantic symphonies, constructs a
new form of unity out of the six songs? He is scarcely the same as a
man or as a composer. All his previous work had grown out of his
sense of life. Now the knowledge that he had serious heart trouble
was, as with the wounded Prince Andrei in Tolstoy's War and Peace,
breaking his inner hold on life. The loosening of all previous ties al-
tered his entire outlook. Das Lied von der Erde (1910) is, in terms of
the sentence of Spinoza already quoted, written sub specie mortis.
Earth is vanishing; he breathes in another air, a new light shines on
him— and so it is a wholly new work that Mahler wrote: new in its
style of composition, new in invention, in instrumentation, and in
the structures of the various movements. It is more subjective than
any of his previous works, more even than his First. There, it was
the natural "I" of a passionate youth whose personal experience
obstructed his view of the world; here, while the world slowly sinks
away, the "F becomes the experience itself— a limitless range of
feeling opens for him who soon will leave the earth. Every note
carries his individual voice; every word, though based on a poem a
thousand years old, is his own. Das Lied von der Erde is Mahler's
most personal utterance, perhaps the most personal utterance in
music. His invention, which from the Sixth on had been significant
less in itself than as material for his formative hand, here achieves
a highly personal stamp. In this sense, it is accurate to call Das Lied
the most Mahlerian of his works.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Der Abschied (Farewell), title of the last song in Das Lied, might
serve as rubric for the Ninth Symphony. Its first movement is de-
rived from the mood of Das Lied, though in no sense musically re-
lated to it. It develops from its own thematic material into the kind
of symphonic form which he alone could now create. It is a noble
paraphrase of the Abschied, shattering in its tragedy. The movement
floats in an atmosphere of transfiguration achieved by a singular
transition between the sorrow of farewell and the vision of the radi-
ance of Heaven— an atmosphere derived not from imagination, but
from immediate feeling. Its invention is as Mahlerian as that of Das
Lied. The second movement, the old, familiar Scherzo in a new form
—this time the main tempo is broad—reveals a wealth of variations,
with a tragic undertone sounding through the happiness: "The dance
is over." The defiant agitato of the third movement shows once more
Mahler's stupendous contrapuntal mastery; the last voices a peaceful
farewell: with the conclusion, the clouds dissolve in the blue of
Heaven. In design, movement, technique, and polyphony, the Ninth
continues the line of the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh symphonies. It is,
however, inspired by an intense spiritual agitation: the sense of de-
parture. And although it is also purely orchestral music, it differs
from the middle group, is nearer to the earlier symphonies in its
deeply subjective emotional mood.
In our art the new, challenging, revolutionary, passes, in the course
of time, over into the known, accepted, familiar. The lasting validity
of Faust's great idea is not owing to the fact that he wrested new
territory from the encroaching sea; only when the new becomes the
old do thoughts and actions reveal their importance. Mahler, an
adventurer of the mind, left behind him in music a certain stretch of
newly conquered territory, but as the decades pass, his works should
no longer be expected to sound sensational. Yet, strangely enough,
they still generate excitement; Mahler's feeling and unrestricted
drive for self -revelation were far too elemental in his music for it to
become cozily familiar and be taken for granted. The daring spirit
flames high whenever the notes are heard. But should not the in-
terpreter be distrusted whose performance of the works of Bach,
470
GUSTAV MAHLER
Beethoven or Wagner conveys an impression of easy possession?
Have we not learned from Mahler's conducting that it is possible to
make such works always sound as if they were being performed for
the first time? Adequate performances of Mahler's own works today
will surely reveal a Titan. Anything new in music and the drama
needs the protection of congenial interpretation.
There is, however, a gradual fading of the sound, and as time
passes, the daring is bound to pale, to lose its edge, especially in
lesser interpretations. This raises the question on how much daring
and adventurousness really signify in a work of art. Mere daring,
aimed at challenge and novelty, is certain to wear off; only together
with profound and permanent values is it assured of lasting effect.
If the works of these Promethean masters are rewarded with im-
mortality, the reason lies in their creative power, depth of feeling,
and, above all, beauty. For beauty is immortal; it can preserve the
mortal charm of the merely "interesting" from decay.
So the supreme value of Mahler's work lies not in the novelty of its
being intriguing, daring, adventurous, or bizarre, but rather in the
fact that this novelty was transfused into music that is beautiful,
inspired, and profound; that it possesses the lasting values of high
creative artistry and a deeply significant humanity. These keep it
alive today, these guarantee its future.
MAHLER SPEAKS
I know that as long as I can express an experience in words, I
would certainly not express it in music. The need to express myself
in music, that is symphonic music, only comes when indefinable
emotions make themselves felt— when I reach the threshold that
leads to the other world— the world in which things are no longer
subject to time and space.
Just as I consider it trivial to invent music to a program, so I think
it unsatisfactory and futile to add to it a program. That does not
alter the fact that the incentive for a composition may have been
an experience in the life of the author, something real and tangible
471
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
enough to be clothed in words. We have now arrived— and I am sure
of it— at the crossroads where everybody who understands the na-
ture of music will see that the two divergent paths of symphonic
and dramatic music are able to separate forever.
If you compare a Beethoven symphony with a music drama by
Wagner, you will already see the essential differences between the
two. True, Wagner assimilated the devices of symphonic music just
as the symphonic writer of today will be fully entitled to borrow,
consciously, some of his means from a style of expression that was
developed by Wagner. In that sense all arts are linked with one
another, and even art with Nature. But as yet we have not thought
enough about this problem because we still lack the perspective for
it. I have not constructed this "system" and composed accordingly,
It was rather that, after writing a few symphonies and constantly
coming up against the same questions, I began to see the whole
matter. It is, therefore, just as well if the listener to whom my style
is unfamiliar is given, to begin with, signposts and milestones on his
journey, or, if you like, a chart of the stars so that he may find his
bearing in the night sky. That is all a program can be. The human
mind must start with familiar things, otherwise it goes astray.
Only when I experience do I compose— only when I compose do I
experience! ... A musician's nature can hardly be expressed in
words. It could be easier to explain how he is different from others.
What it is, however, perhaps he least of all would be able to explain.
It is the same with his goals, too. Like a somnambulist he wanders
towards them—he does not know which road he is following (it
may skirt dizzy abysses) but he walks towards the distant light,
whether this be the eternally shining stars or an enticing will-o'-the-
wisp.
472
HUGO WOLF
1860-1903
HUGO WOLF, probably the foremost composer of the art-song
(Lied) since Schubert, was born in Windischgraz, Austria, on March
13, 1860. He began music study early, first with local teachers, then
from 1875 to 1877, at the Vienna Conservatory. Impatient with the
discipline imposed on him there, and severely critical of some of his
teachers, he became a rebellious student and was expelled in 1877.
For a while he earned his living teaching music to children. At the
same time he started writing Lieder to texts by Goethe, Heine, and
other poets. In 1881 he worked as chorusmaster in Salzburg. Two
years after that he was appointed music critic of a Vienna music
journal where his passionate espousal of Wagner and "the music of
the future"— together with his bitter denunciation of Brahms—gained
him both enemies and disciples. For a while the enemies were
stronger than the friends. The Rose Quartet turned down his String
Quartet, completed in 1884; and while the Vienna Philharmonic
under Hans Richter did perform his Penthesilea Overture in 1886,
the severe public and critical reaction resulted in a fiasco. In 1887
Wolf gave up music criticism to devote himself completely to com-
position. In 1888 he completed the Moerike songs. His first published
volume of art songs appeared in 1889. In 1891 came the Spanish
songs, the Alte Weisen, and the first part of the Italian songs.
Performances of his most important songs by the Wagner Verein
in Vienna— and subsequently by various artists and groups in many
major music centers in Germany— soon brought him to a place of
preeminent importance among German writers of vocal music. In
1896 a Hugo Wolf Society was formed in Berlin to promote his
music in Germany, and a similar organization appeared in Vienna
a year later. On June 7, 1896, there took place in Mannheim the
473
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
world premiere of his opera, Der Corregidor—a. succes d'estime,
thanks to the presence of many of his admirers. With his creative
energies and gifts at their peak— and success apparently at hand-
Wolf suffered a nervous breakdown in 1897 and had to be institu-
tionalized. By early 1898 he had recovered sufficiently to be allowed
to travel in Austria and Italy. But his mental condition again de-
teriorated alarmingly. After an unsuccessful attempt at suicide, Wolf
requested that he be readmitted into an asylum in October 1898. He
died there, in Vienna, on February 22, 1903.
THE MAN
DAVID AND FREDERIC EWEN
He was small, of mean build, thin, and undernourished. His eyes
looked out wild and feverish. He seemed always on the brink of
hysteria. He was excitable in gesture and expression, his heart al-
ways pounding— either in admiration or hatred. The small body was
an inexhaustible storehouse of energy, of fiercely burning hysterical
energy. The poet Kleist had been like that. And Hugo Wolf under-
stood Kleist.
When he read his favorite poet, "his hands trembled ... his eyes
lit up, and he appeared transfigured, as if at the sight of higher,
brighter regions, the gates of which had suddenly sprung open. He
gasped for air." He responded to poetry with vehemence; a beautiful
line would enchant him; a bad one would bring on an almost physi-
cal disorder.
With equal passion he worshiped his musical gods. "Gluck, Mo-
zart, Wagner, these be our divine trinity— which Holy Three be-
come one in Beethoven." But he had other gods— in a lesser Pantheon
—whom he espoused no less ardently: Berlioz, Schumann, and,
later, Bruckner.
He was poor, most of the time penniless. But when he had a book
in his hand or a copy of a Beethoven sonata, which he would take
with him to the Prater, he was unassailable. "Restlessly, I am driven
to improve my weak talents, to extend my horizon, to endow my
474
HUGO WOLF
thoughts, my actions, my feelings with as ripe an expression as pos-
sible/'
When he was eighteen years old he was still a bohemian. For the
ordinary ways of living he was unfitted. He loved freedom above all,
and the life of a music teacher (which he tried for a while) galled
him. When he was employed, he earned something like thirty-six
gulden during the month, and could scarcely allow himself more
than one full meal a day. But his intemperate rages, and his honest
dread of mediocrity, lost him many students, so that most of the
time he was close to starvation. In 1881 he was recommended as an
assistant to Karl Muck at Salzburg, but here he lasted no more than
a few months. His fiery temper made intercourse impossible.
But he did not care. No bread; no roof; no bed. Somehow he
would survive. Already he was composing his own songs. By 1885
he had no less than fifty, and a symphonic poem, Penthesilea, based
on Kleist's tragedy.
The storm-tossed vagrant made friends who were glad to give
him a home. Edmund Lang offered him an attic in the Trattnerhof.
The poet, Hermann Bahr, who lived in the same house and had come
home very early one morning after a student Schmaus, has described
Wolf as he appeared at this time. "Heavy with drink and the en-
thusiasm of youth, we sought rest. Suddenly, the door opened, and
from another room appeared Hugo Wolf, dressed in a very long
shirt, and carrying a candle; very pale, and strange to look at, in the
gray, gloomy light; gesticulating now mysteriously, now scurrilously.
He laughed shrilly and mocked us. ... Then he began reading,
mostly passages from Penthesilea. He did this with such power, that
we became silent and dared hardly utter a word. When he spoke, he
was great. I have never in my life heard anyone read like him/*
In moments of lagging inspiration he replenished his spirit with
Wagner. He went to Bayreuth, and for a time was completely un-
done by Parsifal. An acquaintance of his, Dr. Zweybriicken, saw
him after the night of the performance, sitting on a bench in the
open, his head buried in his hands. "He seemed completely removed
from the world and shaken to the very depths."
The failure to obtain a hearing at the Royal Opera upset him. His
nervous organism— sustained, it seemed, even to this time, by a
475
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
miracle, but almost always on the point of breaking— now gave way
completely. On September 19, 1897 he began his aimless wandering
at three o'clock in the morning. The friends, whom in turn lie
sought out, failed at first to gauge the symptoms. They had seen him
distraught before. He spoke of himself as the director of the Vienna
Opera, raved in anger at his "subordinates." In the evening he sat
down at the piano and played a portion of Die Meistersinger. Sud-
denly his memory gave way. He became hysterical and violent.
He was brought to a sanatorium. . . . Here he lived his last years,
in heart-breaking solitude. In the world outside his fame grew— but
the little man with the pale, thin face and the blazing eyes was past
understanding or caring about it.
THE COMPOSER
ERNEST NEWMAN
Hugo Wolf, a remarkable musician in general and the most re-
markable of song writers, is to song what Beethoven is to the sym-
phony, Wagner to the opera, and Richard Strauss (1864-1949) to
the symphonic poem.
We get the key to Wolfs own tastes and ideals in his sharp criti-
cism of the songs of Robert Franz (1815-92). Of these he liked only
the Gewitternacht, "He made it a reproach against Franz," says one
of his friends, "that through his archaic leaning towards the four-
part structure he had forced back into narrower fields the song-
form that Schubert and Schumann had so greatly enlarged." The
criticism may, in its haste, pass over the real charm and beauty of
Franz, but, Hke all Wolfs criticisms, it is true and incisive; and it
throws a light on his own attitude towards the song. With him there
was to be no harking back to the past, no hampering reverence of
the great masters, no attempt to see things through the eyes of other
men, no matter how big they might be. He brings to bear upon the
song the same weight of contemporary thmking that Wagner
brought upon the opera and Strauss brought upon the symphonic
poem; that is, while admiring to the fullest the expression that Schu-
476
HUGO WOLF
bert and Schumann and the others were able to find for their own
conception of life, he realizes that his own conceptions are different
from theirs, that he lives in a different intellectual and emotional
and social world, and that to give natural expression to the life of
this world he must break the mold of the older form and recast the
thing from top to bottom, as Wagner and Strauss and Ibsen have all
had to do. And, as in the case of these other men, the sufficient
justification of the new manner is simply the newness of the outlook, "
The central point of Wolf's system is that the whole song— voice
part and piano part—is conceived in a piece. He does not write
"songs with piano accompaniment," any more than Wagner wrote
vocal scenes with orchestral accompaniment. In Wagner at his best
the conception is homogeneous throughout— the voice, the orchestra,
the gesture, the stage-setting, are all inseparable parts of an indis-
soluble whole; take one of them away and the full effect of the others
is lost. The aesthetic and psychological unity that Wagner achieved
in the music-drama has been achieved by Hugo Wolf in the song.
His work, indeed, is grounded on Wagner's— not by way of imitation,
but by way of assimilation of certain principles of which Wagner
was the first to see the main possibilities. It used to be said by some
of the older school of critics that Wagner had made the orchestra
more important than the voice. They had been used to the singer
being the center of attraction, and the orchestra "accompanying"
him, as Wagner said, like a big guitar. When they found that not
only the vocal part but the orchestral part was full of music, they
foolishly assumed that because there was 'more than usual in the or-
chestra there must be less than usual on the stage; it never occurred
to them that they were actually getting no less but more melody in
opera than they had ever had before. I have no doubt that a number
of people will say of Hugo Wolf what their fathers used to say of
Wagner. For in Wolfs songs the piano part (it is an error to call it
the accompaniment: he himself, indeed, always styles his works
"songs for voice and piano") acquires a pregnancy of meaning to
which there is no parallel in any previous or contemporary song
writer. Time after time you can ignore the vocal part, and the piano
part still constitutes a lovely piece of music, quite coherent in itself
and apparently quite complete: see, for example, Im Fmhling, An
477
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
den Schlaf, and Lebe toohl, all in the Moerike volume (1889). Here
the hasty man may feel inclined to say that in this case the voice part
must be superfluous— that Wolf must have conceived his songs as
piano pieces, and added the vocal portion afterwards as best he
could. It is not so, however, as you will find when you combine the
vocal part with the piano part. You will then see that while formerly
the piano part seemed to be completely satisfying in itself, its mean-
ing is enormously intensified by the verbal current that flows along
with it, and that henceforth the two are inconceivable in separation.
Here and there in Wagner we feel that, whatever he might say to
the contrary, the composer had in the first place written a certain
thing as an orchestral piece, afterwards forcing the words to go
along with it— which is the impression a great many of us have of
Isolde's Liebestod, for example. This is a feeling we rarely get with
Hugo Wolf. Examine such a song as Was fur ein Lied soil dir gesun-
gen werden in the Italienisches Liederbuch (1896) and you will see
how absolutely organic is the connection between voice part and
piano part. The one is not simply plastered on the other and induced
to fit where it will; the whole conception is one and indivisible. In
Nun bin ich dein, again, in the Spanisches Liederbuch (1891) or
Auf einer Wanderung in the Moerike volume, though the one figure
is kept going more or less persistently in the piano, the vocal melody
is never the slave of it. Now and then, perhaps, one suspects that
Wolf adheres too closely to the figure with which he begins— does
not vary it and break it up sufficiently; but I doubt whether the criti-
cism really holds good. His plan, in songs of this kind, is to fix the
general atmosphere of the words, as it were, in a suggestive piano
phrase, to keep this going practically all through the song with
comparatively little change, and to throw various lights upon it by
an exceedingly skilful and delicate manipulation of the voice part.
Look at the piano part alone, and you may possibly feel, at times,
that it is 'capable of more development than Wolf gives it; but I
think Wolfs reply to a criticism of this kind would have been that
he was perfectly aware of it, but that he chose to fix it as he did as a
kind of permanent background, across which there flit the infinitely
subtle nuances of feeling expressed by the voice.
It is only after a long familiarity with his songs that we realize
478
HUGO WOLF
how new and how consummate was his sense of vocal rhythm. Re-
call the flexibility of the plastic shapes into which Richard Strauss
fashioned his orchestral speech, transport these to the voice in com-
bination with the piano, and you get the art of Hugo Wolf. I once
suggested that in Strauss the poetry of music had given place to the
prose of music; in place of the old, regular, even structure and rec-
tangular balancing of phrases we have a mode of speech that flows
on more continuously, halts where it likes, takes up the rhythm again
where it likes, substituting a more complex and a more daring beauty
of line for the simpler and more timid line of classical music. We
have the same phenomenon in Hugo Wolf. Strauss's avoidance of
the square-cut musical paragraph is matched by the absolute free-
dom and ease of Wolf's sentences. Again I can only compare the
change from the methods of his predecessors to a transition from the
rhymed stanza of set shape and dimensions to natural and flexible
prose, or to the free verse-structure that we have in some of Hen-
ley's poems, in Whitman, in some of Traherne's work, or in Gabriele
D'Annunzio's Francesco, da Rimini. I do not for a moment mean to
try to discredit the other kind of writing; it also has its beauties,
and the palate that would be insensitive to the charm of the rhymed
stanza would, of course, be a most imperfect poetical or musical
organ. I only wish to point out that the evolution from the regular
to the irregular sentence is as perfectly natural a one in music as in
poetry, accounting as well for the change from Mozart to Strauss or
Wolf as for the change from Popean neatness to the blank verse of
Shelley, Wordsworth, and Keats. It may be that before long there
will be a reaction from this irregularity, as there has been from the
previous regularity; and that just as later poets like Tennyson have
shown what subtly gradated and varied rhythms can be got out of
the rhymed stanza, so some later musician may intoxicate us with
the new beauties he can evoke from the set and balanced musical
phrase. If this should come, well and good; meanwhile it is our duty
to appreciate the rich and copious effects that the present day men
are drawing from the supple rhythms they employ.
I have mentioned two points in which Hugo Wolf makes a quite
exceptional figure in the history of the song— the unusually intimate
connection he has established between the voice part and the piano
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
part, and the wonderful rhythmic ease and naturalness of his speech,
It only remains to say that on the purely expressive side his art is
extremely emotional and extraordinarily wide in its range. No other
song writer has composed anything like so wide a circle of interests
as he. Strauss ran him close with his hundred songs, many of which
are among the most original and most beautiful things the world
has ever seen; but Strauss's songs, though they would represent a
decent life's achievement for another man, are after all only a by-
product of his amazing fertility, little overflows of feeling that he did
not know where else to use. The greatest volume and whitest heat of
Strauss's thoughts went into his orchestral works and operas. Wolf,
concentrating all that is best of him upon the song, packs it with a
wealth and variety of thinking and feeling that in other men would
have sought expression in the larger forms. Hence the power of his
singing, its grip, its range. A ballad like Prometheus (1889) or Der
Feuerreiter from the Moerike set contains such a volume of mental
energy as was never put into any ballad before; while even in the
smaller things—yes, even the smallest of them— we feel that we are
watching the cerebration of a man of extraordinary psychological
insight. He greatly widened the scope of the song by showing tri-
umphantly how it can mate itself with the most unpromising subject;
and, with the rarest of exceptions, whatever he takes up he treats
with incisive convincingness. In Das verlassene Mdgdlein, in the
Moerike volume, he has painted a singularly pathetic picture of a
poor little maidservant getting up in the cold morning to light the
fire, and thinking of the faithless lover of whom she had dreamt in
the night. Examine this song carefully and you will realize the con-
summate art of it— its faultless suggestion of the cold gray atmos-
phere of the poem, its subtle gradations of feeling, its pure pathos
and big humanism. Who else could set such a song— but Strauss— I
do not know; I am quite certain no one else could make of it what
Wolf made of it. But indeed this volume of his is the richest treas-
ury of song bequeathed to us since Schubert— the charming and
profound and passionate reflections upon life of a great artist and a
great man. His rare faults— of which the chief is an occasional tor-
tuosity of harmonic sequence— are, at this time of day, not worth
dealing upon. It is much more to the point that those who realize
480
HUGO WOLF
what changes Wagner and Strauss have made in the map of music
should also realize that the name of Hugo Wolf is inseparable from
theirs.
WOLF SPEAKS
What I write now, I write for the future. . . . Since Schubert and
Schumann there has been nothing like it.
I am so happy—oh, happier than the happiest of kings. Another
new Lied! If you could hear what is going on in my heart! . . . the
devil would carry you away with pleasure! . . . Another two new
Lieder! There is one that sounds so horribly strange that it frightens
me. There is nothing like it in existence, Heaven help the unfortu-
nate people who will one day hear it! ... If you could only hear the
last Lied I have just composed, you would have only one desire left
—to die.
A man is not taken away, before he has said all he has to say.
For the last four months [August 13, 1891] I have been suffering
from a sort of mental consumption, which makes me think very seri-
ously of quitting the world forever. . . . Only those who truly live
should live at all. I have been for some time like one dead. I only
wish it were an apparent death; but I am really dead and buried
though the power to control my body gives me a seeming life. It is
my inmost, my only desire, that the flesh may quickly follow the
spirit that has already passed. For the past fifteen days I have been
living at Traunkirchen, the pearl of Traunsee. . . . All the comforts
that a man could wish for are here to make life happy— peace, soli-
tude, beautiful scenery, invigorating air, and everything that could
suit the tastes of a hermit like myself. And yet— and yet, my friend,
I am the most miserable creature on earth. Everything around me
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
breathes peace and happiness, everything throbs with life and ful-
fills its functions. ... I alone, oh God! ... I alone live like a beast that
is deaf and senseless. Even reading hardly serves to distract me now
though I bury myself in books in my despair. As for composition,
that is finished; I can no longer bring to mind the meaning of a
harmony or a melody, and I almost begin to doubt if the composi-
tions that bear my name are really mine. Good God! What is the
use of all this fame? What is the end of these great aims of misery,
what lies at the end of it? ... Heaven gives a man a complete genius
or no genius at all. Hell has given me everything by halves.
482
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS
1835-1921
CHABLES-CAMJGLLE SAINT-SAENS was born in Paris, France, on
October 9, 1835. He was remarkably precocious in music, making a
concert appearance before his fifth birthday and starting composi-
tion at six. After a period of piano study with Camille-Marie Stam-
aty, Saint-Saens made a highly successful formal debut as pianist
in Paris on May 6, 1846. From 1848 to 1852 he attended the Paris
Conservatory where he received many honors. His first successes as
composer came between 1852-53 when he won the Award of the
Societe Sainte-Cecile for his Ode a Sainte-Cecile and had his first
symphony performed. From 1853 to 1857 he was organist at the
Saint-Merry Church in Paris, and from 1858 to 1877 at the Made-
leine, where he received recognition as one of France's most eminent
organ virtuosos. His impressive career as teacher began in 1861
with an appointment as professor of piano at the Ecole Niedermeyer.
In 1871 he helped found the Societe nationale de musique in Paris
to promote the works of French composers. In 1875 he married
Marie Truffot who bore him two sons, both of whom died in infancy.
They were permanently separated in 1881, but never divorced.
All the while Saint-Saens continued writing music prolifically in
every possible form and medium, establishing his reputation as one
of France's most significant 19th-century composers. His tone poem
Le Rouet d'Omphale was introduced in 1871, followed in 1874 by his
popular Danse macabre. His fourth piano concerto in 1875, his opera
Samson and Delilah (introduced in Weimar on December 2, 1877),
and his third symphony in 1886 added further to his stature. He was
honored as the grand'homme of French music in 1881 through his
election to the Institut de France. In 1913 he attained the highest
possible rank in the Legion of Honor, that of Grand-Croix.
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Saint-Saens traveled extensively throughout the world as conduc-
tor and pianist in performances of his own works. In 1906 and 1915
he paid visits to the United States. He was eighty-one when he
embarked on an extended tour of South America, and in his eighty-
fifth year he performed in Greece and Algiers. He was on a holiday
in Algiers when he died there on December 16, 1921.
THE MAN
PHILIP HALE
An enemy of Saint-Saens— and Saint-Saens made enemies by his
barbed words— might have applied to him the lines of Juvenal:
Grammarian, painter, augur, rhetorician,
Rope-dancer, conjuror, fiddler, and physician,
All trades his own, your hungry Greekling, counts,
And bid him mount the sky— the sky he mounts.
For Saint-Saens was not satisfied with the making of music, or
the career of a virtuoso. Organist, pianist, caricaturist, dabbler in
science, enamored of mathematics, and astronomy, amateur come-
dian, feuilletonist, critic, traveler, archaeologist— he was a restless
man.
He was of less than average height, thin, nervous, sick-faced; with
great and exposed forehead, hair habitually short, beard frosted.
His eyes were almost level with his face. His eagle-beak would have
excited the admiration of Sir Charles Napier, who once exclaimed:
"Give me a man with plenty of nose." Irritable, whimsical, ironical,
paradoxical, indulging in sudden changes of opinion, he was faithful
to friends, appreciative of certain rivals, kindly disposed toward
young composers, zealous in practical assistance as well as in verbal
encouragement. A man that knew the world and sparkled in con-
versation; fond of society; at least on equal terms with leaders in
art, literature, fashion. A man whose Monday receptions were long
famous in Paris, eagerly anticipated by tout Paris; yet never so
happy as when acting Calchas to Bizet's or Regnault's Helen in
484
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS
Offenbach's delightful La Belle Helene, or impersonating in an ex-
traordinary costume Gounod's Marguerite surprised by the casket of
jewels. An indefatigable student of Bach, he parodied the Italian
opera of the 30's, 40's, 50's, in Gabriella di Vergi.
Then there is his amusing Carnaual des animaux which was
written, as was his Gabriella di Vergi, without intention of publica-
tion. A Parisian from crown of head to sole of foot; yet a nomad.
THE COMPOSER
ROMAIN HOLLAND
Saint-Saens had the rare honor of becoming a classic during his
lifetime. His name, though it was long unrecognized, commands uni-
versal respect. No artist had troubled so little about the public or
had been more indifferent to criticism whether popular or expert.
As a child he had almost a physical revulsion for outward success.
Later on, he achieved success by a long and painful struggle in
which he had to fight against the kind of stupid criticism that con-
demned him "to listen to one of Beethoven's symphonies as a pen-
ance likely to give him the most excruciating torture." And yet
after this, and after his admission to the Academy, after Henry III
(1883) and the Third Symphony With Organ (1886), he still re-
mained aloof from praise or blame and judged his triumphs with
sad severity.
The significance of Saint-Saens in art is a double one, for one must
judge him from the inside as well as the outside of France. He
stands for something exceptional in French music, something which
was almost unique until lately: that is, a great classical spirit and a
fine breadth of musical culture— German culture, we must say, since
the foundations of all modern art rests on the German classics.
French music of the 19th century is rich in clever artists, imagina-
tive writers of melody, and skilful dramatists; but it is poor in true
musicians and in good solid workmanship. Apart from two or three
splendid exceptions, our composers have too much the character of
gifted amateurs, who compose music as a pastime and regard it not
485
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
as a special form of thought but as a sort of dress for literary ideas.
Our musical education is superficial: it may be got for a few years
in a formal way at a conservatory, but it is not within the reach of
all; the child does not breathe music as, in a way, he breathes the
atmosphere of literature and oratory; and although nearly everyone
in France has an instinctive feeling for beautiful writing, only a very
few people care for beautiful music. From this arise the common
faults and failings in our music. It has remained a luxurious art; it
has not become, like German music, the poetical expression of the
people's thought.
To bring this about we should need a combination of conditions
that are very rare in France, though such conditions went to the
making of Camille Saint-Saens. He had not only remarkable natural
talent, but came of a family of ardent musicians who devoted them-
selves to his education. At five years of age he was nourished on the
orchestral score of Don Giovanni; as a little boy he "measured him-
self against Beethoven and Mozart" by playing in a public concert;
at sixteen years of age he wrote his First Symphony. As he grew
older he soaked himself in the music of Bach and Handel and was
able to compose at will after the manner of Rossini, Verdi, Schu-
mann, and Wagner. He wrote excellent music in all styles— the
Grecian style and that of the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. His
compositions were of every kind: Masses, grand operas, light operas,
cantatas, symphonies, symphonic poems, music for the orchestra,
the organ, the piano, the voice, and chamber music. He was the
learned editor of Gluck and Rameau and was thus not only an artist
but an artist who could talk about art. He was an unusual figure in
France— one would have thought rather to find his home in Ger-
many.
In Germany, however, while he was alive, they made no mistake
about him. There the name of Camille Saint-Saens stood for tlie
French classical spirit and was thought worthiest to represent us in
music from the time of Berlioz until the appearance of the school of
Cesar Franck. Saint-Saens possessed, indeed, some of the best quali-
ties of a French artist, and among them the most important quality
of all— perfect clearness of conception. It is remarkable how little
this learned artist was bothered by his learning and how free he was
486
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS
from all pedantry. . . . "Saint-Saens is not a pedant," wrote Gounod;
'lie has remained too much, of a child and become too clever for
that." Besides, he had always been too much of a Frenchman.
Sometimes Saint-Saens reminds me of one of our 18th century
writers. Not a writer of the Encyclopedie, nor one of Rousseau's
camp, but rather of Voltaire's school. He had a clarity of thought, an
elegance and precision of expression, and a quality of mind that
made his music "not only noble, but very noble, as coming of a fine
race and distinguished family."
He had also excellent discernment, of an unemotional land; and
he was "calm in spirit, restrained in imagination, and keeps his self-
control even in the midst of the most disturbing emotions." This
discernment is the enemy of anything approaching obscurity of
thought or mysticism; and its outcome was that curious book, Prob-
lemes et mysteres—a. misleading title, for the spirit of reason reigns
there and makes an appeal to young people to protect "the light
of a menaced world" against "the mists of the North, Scandinavian
gods, Indian divinities, Catholic miracles, Lourdes, spiritualism, oc-
cultism, and obscurantism."
His love and need of liberty was also of the 18th century. One may
say that liberty was his only passion. "I am passionately fond of
liberty," he wrote. And he proved it by the absolute fearlessness of
his judgments on art; for not only had he reasoned soundly against
Wagner but dared to criticize the weaknesses of Gluck and Mozart,
the errors of Weber and Berlioz, and the accepted opinions about
Gounod; and this classicist, who had nourished on Bach, went so
far as to say: "The performance of works by Bach and Handel to-
day is an idle amusement," and that those who wish to revive their
art are like "people who would live in an old mansion that has been
uninhabited for centuries." He went even further; he criticized his
own work and contradicted his own opinions. His love of liberty
made him form, at different periods, different opinions of the same
work. He thought that people had a right to change their opinions,
as sometimes they deceived themselves. It seemed to him better to
admit an error boldly than to be the slave of consistency. And this
same feeling showed itself in other matters besides art: in ethics
. . . and in metaphysics also, where he judges religions, faith, and
487
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
the Gospels with a quiet freedom of thought, seeking in Nature
alone the basis of morals and society.
His most characteristic mental trait seemed to be a languid melan-
choly, which had its source in a rather bitter feeling of the futility
of life; and this was accompanied by fits of weariness which were
not altogether healthy, followed by capricious moods and nervous
gaiety, and a freakish liking for burlesque and mimicry. It was his
eager, restless spirit that made him rush about the world writing
Breton and Auvergnian rhapsodies, Persian songs, Algerian suites,
Portuguese barcarolles, Danish, Russian, or Arabian caprices, souve-
nirs of Italy, African fantasias, and Egyptian concertos; and in the
same way, he roamed through the ages, writing Greek tragedies,
dance music of the 16th and 17th centuries, and preludes and fugues
of the 18th. But in all these exotic and archaic reflections of times
and countries through which his fancy wandered, one recognizes the
gay, intelligent countenance of a Frenchman on his travels who
idly follows his inclinations and does not trouble to enter very
deeply into the spirit of the people he meets but gleans all he can
and then reproduces it with a French complexion—after the manner
of Montaigne in Italy, who compared Verona to Poitiers, and Padua
to Bordeaux, and who, when he was in Florence, paid much less
attention to Michelangelo than to "a strangely shaped sheep, and an
animal the size of a large mastiff, shaped like a cat and striped with
black and white, which they called a tiger."
From a purely musical point of view there is some resemblance
between Samt-Saens and Mendelssohn. In both of them we find the
same intellectual restraint, the same balance preserved among the
heterogeneous elements of their work. These elements are not com-
mon to both of them because the time, the country, and the sur-
roundings in which they lived are not the same; and there is also a
great difference in their characters. Mendelssohn is more ingenuous
and religious; Saint-Saens is more of a dilettante and more sensuous.
They are not so much kindred spirits by their science as good com-
pany by a common purity of taste, a sense of rhythm, and a genius
for method, which gave all they wrote a Neo-Classic character.
As for the things that directly influenced Saint-Saens, they are so
numerous that it would be difficult and rather bold of me to pretend
488
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS
to be able to pick them out. His remarkable capacity for assimilation
had often moved him to write in the style of Wagner or Berlioz, of
Handel or Rameau, of Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632-87), or Marc-
Antoine Charpentier (1634-1704), or even of some English harpsi-
chord and clavichord player of the 16th century, like William Byrd
(1543-1623)— whose airs are introduced quite naturally in the music
of Henry VIII; but we must remember that these are deliberate imi-
tations, the amusements of a virtuoso, about which Saint-Saens
never deceived himself. His memory served him as he pleased, but
he was never troubled by it.
As far as one can judge, Saint-Saens' musical ideas were infused
with the spirit of the great classics belonging to the end of the 18th
century— far more, whatever people might say, with the spirit of
Beethoven, Haydn, and Mozart than with the spirit of Bach. Schu-
mann's seductiveness also left its mark upon him, and he has felt the
influence of Gounod, Georges Bizet (1838-75), and Wagner. But a
stronger influence was that of Berlioz, his friend and master, and,
above all, that of Liszt. We must stop at this last name.
Saint-Saens had good reason for liking Liszt, for Liszt was also
a lover of freedom and had shaken off traditions and pedantry and
scorned German routine; and Saint-Saens liked him, too, because
his music was a reaction from the stiff school of Brahms. He was en-
thusiastic about Liszt's work and was one of the earliest and most
ardent champions of that new music of which Liszt was the leading
spirit— of that "program" music which Wagner's triumph seemed to
have nipped in the bud but which suddenly and gloriously burst into
life again in the works of Richard Strauss. . . . This influence seems
to me to explain some of Saint-Saens' work. Not only is this influ-
ence evident in his symphonic poems— some of his best work— but
it is to be found in his suites for orchestra, his fantasias, and his rhap-
sodies, where the descriptive and narrative element is strong. . . .
And so we find that Saint-Saens had taken part in the vigorous
attempt of modern German symphony writers to bring into music
some of the power of the other arts: poetry, painting, philosophy,
romance, drama— the whole of life. But what a gulf divided them
and him! A gulf made up not only of diversities of style but of the
difference between two races and two worlds. Besides the frenzied
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
outpourings of Richard Strauss (1864-1949), who flounders uncer-
tainly between mud and debris and genius., the Latin art of Saint-
Saens rises up calm and ironical. His delicacy of touch, his careful
moderation, his happy grace, "which enters the soul by a thousand
little paths," bring with them the pleasures of beautiful speech and
honest thought; and we cannot but feel their charm. Compared with
the restless and troubled art of today, his music strikes us by its
calm, its tranquil harmonies, its velvety modulations, its crystal
clearness, its smooth and flowing style, and an elegance that cannot
be put into words. Even his classic coldness does us good by its re-
action against the exaggerations, sincere as they are, of the new
school. At times one feels oneself carried back to Mendelssohn, even
to Spontini and the school of Gluck. One seems to be traveling in
a country that one knows and loves; and yet in Saint-Saens* works
one does not find any direct resemblance to the works of other com-
posers; for with no one are reminiscences rarer than with this master
who carried all the old masters in his mind— it is his spirit that is
akin to theirs. And that is the secret of his personality and his value
to us; he brings to our artistic unrest a little of the light and sweet-
ness of other times. His compositions are like fragments of another
world.
"From time to time/' he said in speaking of Don Giovanni, "in the
sacred earth of Hellene we find a fragment, an arm, the debris of a
torso, scratched and damaged by the ravages of time; it is only the
shadow of the god that the sculptor's chisel once created; but the
charm is somehow still there, the sublime style is radiant in spite of
everything."
And so with this music. It is sometimes a little pale, a little too
restrained; but in a phrase, in a few harmonies, there will shine out
a clear vision of the past.
SAINT-SAENS SPEAKS
Music should charm unaided, but its effect is much finer when
we use our imagination and let it flow in some particular channel,
thus imagining the music. It is then that all the faculties of the soul
490
SAINT-SAENS
are brought into play for the same end. What art gains from this is
not greater beauty but a wider field for its scope—that is, a greater
variety of form and a larger liberty.
He who does not take delight in a simple well-constructed chord,
beautiful in its arrangement, does not love music. He who does not
prefer the first Prelude in the Well-Tempered Clavier played with-
out nuances, even as the composer wrote it for the instrument, to
the same prelude embellished with a passionate melody, does not
love music. For who does not prefer a folk tune of simple, lovely
character, or a Gregorian chant without any accompaniment, to a
series of dissonant and pretentious chords, does not love music.
I take very little notice of either praise or censure, not because I
have an exalted idea of my own merits (which would be foolish) but
because in doing my work and fulfilling the function of my nature,
as an apple tree grows apples, I have no need to trouble myself
with other people's views.
Having tried to release lyric drama from the fetters which caused
all clear-sighted spirits to sigh—one now has gone so far as to de-
clare all other music outside of modern lyric drama as unworthy of
the attention of intelligent people. Furthermore one has distorted
music by completely suppressing singing in favor of declamation,
and by placing the real element into an orchestra developed to ex-
cess. Whereby the latter has been robbed of balance, equilibrium,
it has gradually been shorn of all beauty of form and has trans-
formed it into a liquid, unfathomable pulp, which is intended to
arouse sensations, to affect the nervous system. And now they are
even trying to make us believe that, too, is already a standpoint of
the past. We are presented with a picture of a musical drama (the
term lyric drama is no longer adequate) as it should be conditioned
to reach perfection. A subject, essentially of a symbolic order, little
action, the persons regarded as personified ideas rather than acting
491
THE WORLD OF CHEAT COMPOSERS
beings of flesh and blood. And from one deduction to another, they
have finally come to the conclusion that the ideal drama is a
chimera not to be realized, and it is no longer proper to write for
the theater— meaning the stage as it now exists— but for an ideal
stage alone, after the pattern of Bayreuth. With such exaggerations,
we should arrive at feeling nothing for the old Italian opera but a
deep pity. That was a poor flat thing, but it was nevertheless a
finely chiselled, more or less gay golden frame, in which appeared
from time to time wonderful singers who had an excellent schooling.
That, at any rate, was better than nothing. If we have no ambrosia, it
is better to eat dry bread than to die of starvation.
492
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
1862-1918
ACHILLE-CLAUDE DEBUSSY, father of musical Impressionism, was
born in St. Germain-en-Laye, France, on August 22, 1862. For six
years, beginning in 1874, he attended the Paris Conservatory.
Though often impatient with academic routines and textbook rule,
he proved a brilliant student, winning many prizes. After graduating
in 1880, he worked for two summers as household pianist for Mme.
von Meek, Tchaikovsky's patroness and "beloved friend." In 1884,
Debussy received the Prix de Rome for the cantata, L'Enfant
prodigue. He was not happy in Rome— partly because he disliked
Italy, but mainly because the compositions ('envois'} he submitted
to the Prix de Rome authorities were severely criticized for their
unusual style and techniques. Returning to Paris without completing
the three years prescribed by the Prix, he became influenced by the
then flourishing Symbolist movement in literature and Impressionist
movement in painting, and also by the avant-garde tendencies and
iconoclastic approaches of the provocative French composer Erik
Satie (1886-1925). Such ideas, theories, and progressive viewpoints
helped Debussy to clarify his own aims as a composer. He soon
arrived at the style and technique of Impressionism with which he
achieved full maturity as a creative artist and with which he revolu-
tionized French music.
The first significant compositions in which this new manner was
fully crystallized were the Suite bergamasque for piano, in 1890 (in
which the popular Clair de lune is found), the String Quartet in
G Major in 1893, and the orchestral tone poem The Afternoon of a
Faun (UApres-midi dun faun) in 1894. After that came the master-
works with which Debussy became one of the most significant com-
posers of his generation: the opera, Pelleas et Melisande, intro-
493
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
duced at the Opera-Comique on April 30, 1902; the three Nocturnes
for orchestra, in 1899; the three symphonic sketches collectively
entitled La Mer, in 1905; the two series of Images for piano, between
1905 and 1907; the two books of piano preludes between 1910 and
1913.
In 1899 Debussy married Rosalie Texier. He abandoned her in
1904 to elope with Emma Bardac, wife of a banker, whom he
married later the same year after her divorce had been finalized.
They had one child, a daughter who died when she was fourteen.
During the last years of his life, Debussy was a victim of cancer.
Physical pain was combined with serious financial problems brought
on by World War I and with the bitter disappointment at failing to
gain a seat at the Academie de France. He died in Paris on March
25, 1918, a man broken in health and spirit. Due to the war, his
passing went unnoticed except by a meager handful of those who
had been closest to him.
THE MAN
OSCAR THOMPSON
Something feline in his nature was noted again and again by those
who knew Achille-Claude Debussy. He was catlike and solitary, as
he was artistic and amorous. . . . Feline ... is the adjective most
used to suggest his walk, his manner, his particular kind of acrid
wit, his playfulness, his sulks and, most of all, the voluptuousness
that colored his whole relation to life and art. He was a hedonist, a
sybarite, a sensualist. But his career was one of toil and narrow
means. The prodigal in him got him into difficulties he might other-
wise have avoided, but his extravagances were small, like the oppor-
tunities therefor. Successive affairs of the heart, each of the irregular
order that the French condone readily enough . . . were the chief
of these extravagances, so far as any or all of them may have
affected his career. Plainly there was no want of virility in Debussy's
attitude towards the affections. The man who set the Chansons de
Biltis of Pierre Louys and who conceived the Prelude to Mallarni#s
494
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
L'Apres midi dun faun was an epicure, but no epicene. Physically,
said Georgette Leblanc, who described him as he appeared at the
time of his first meeting with Maurice Maeterlinck, he gave the im-
pression of having been built for strength— a strength he had no
occasion, and no incentive, to acquire. Debussy was lazy in all except
his art. Until sickness sapped his vitality and weakened his will, he
worked steadily and conscientiously at composition. Otherwise, life
was nothing for a display of energy. He was no great reader. He was
much less an athlete, a sportsman, or a soldier. . . . Debussy's life
was sedentary and altogether civilian.
As for cats, he liked them and they were his house pets during
the successive liaisons that preceded and attended his two marriages.
His friend Rene Peter is authority for the statement that the cats
were always Angoras, and always gray. Moreover, since they were
taken in one at a time, the name of any cat encountered in the
Debussy domicile was always Line.
A natural bohemian, a man of Montmartre by instinct and habit,
it was inevitable that Debussy should be one of the celebrities who
frequented the famous cafe that in its title paid public tribute to
the dignities of catship, the historic Chat Noir. With the Brasserie
Pousset, the Chez Weber, and the Reynolds bar, it supplied the kind
of background that many remember when they think of "Claude de
France." There was sobriety in his conduct, as in his music. But he
relished late hours in places where painters, writers, stage folk, and
musicians congregated. He could be solitary as well as catlike there,
too. But he knew well many of the notables who frequented such
places and he was similarly well known.
The Debussy of the cafes, the mature Debussy, was the Debussy
of the black beard and mop of curly black hair that fell over one
eyebrow. Henri Lerolle has said that he looked exactly like a Syrian.
His rather delicate nose was sufficiently aquiline to comport with
the Levantine swarthiness. But his huge forehead dominated his
face. Of medium height, he was short-legged and large of trunk.
His shoulders were wide. His voice was low, but as Lerolle remem-
bered it, of a marked nasal quality. (Elsewhere it is described as
"sepulchral.") At forty, though still not a celebrity as a composer,
Debussy was a figure to be recognized in the surroundings of his
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choice. Strangers would ask who the "grand noir" was— the dark
fellow with the familiar faunlike beard, the cowboy hat, and the
Macfarlane overcoat, the wings of which sometimes gave him a
batlike appearance as he moved among the tables or on the
streets. . . .
Andre Suares has spoken of a sort of patina over his face. It is a
choice figure to describe the peculiar pallor that others found there
—a swarthy pallor— even in the days when he was assumed to be in
the best of health. According to Henri Regnier, Claude walked with
heavy, muffled tread. His figure was flabby and suggested indolence.
From the dull pastiness of his face shone his keen black, heavy-
lidded eyes. Over the huge head with its curious bumps drooped
his wayward, fuzzy hair. He was feline in movement, and something
gypsy-like, with a passionate strain discoverable under his lethargic
manner.
In manner Debussy was a being of many contradictions. One de-
scription refers to him as "that very materially minded fellow," "that
sleep-heavy creature," "always taciturn unless he wanted to get good
addresses for procuring caviar, for which he was on the lookout
and of which he was inordinately fond." An interviewer for Le
Figaro found he smiled readily and spoke quietly in a soft, melodious
voice (not "nasal" or "sepulchral" this time) but was almost monastic
in his reserve. Raymond Bonheur noted a certain brusqueness in his
speech. Often it was hesitating, "as often happens with people who
are not content with commonplace remarks and who think for them-
selves." Moreover, he spoke with a slight lisp. Rarely on first meeting
would he disclose anything of himself. While others talked, Claude
would turn the leaves of a book or examine an engraving, listening
but apparently not concentrating on what was said. Yet his eyes
would take on a look of singular intensity when he was really inter-
ested, and it was clear that although he was master of his comport-
ment he had difficulty in controlling his emotions.
The virtuosity with which he rolled a cigarette in paper always
devoid of glue without spilling the slightest speck of tobacco was a
source of wonder and admiration to great and humble alike among
the Parisians he encountered day by day. The opera he endured—
if only now and then. But the circus! There he would gladly have
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gone every day. He could admire Mary Garden or Maggie Teyte.
But the clowns! Debussy was like a child in his relish of their time-
honored slapstick. The card game he most enjoyed was called
bezique— Chinese bezique. When he played, Debussy would put his
pipe beside him, as a cowboy of American frontier times might have
placed his six-shooter. He would cheat, more or less openly, turning
down the tip of a card he might want to put in his hand later.
Consultation of an English dictionary brings a reminder that bezique
is a game similar to pinochle, save that it is played with piquet packs
in number equal to the players. Whether, with his training, Debussy
would have made an incomparable pinochle player is something not
to be determined by analysis of any of his chord sequences and
subtle evasions of settled tonalities.
Financially, Debussy was never out of difficulties. ... If he had
possessed more of the business acumen of Richard Strauss, and an-
other well-known Straussian characteristic which may be referred
to here as thrift, perhaps, he would have been a more comfortable,
even a happier man. But Debussy was too fond of life to stint himself
where his sort of modest pleasures were concerned; he could no
more live primarily for money than he could write for it. His was the
art aesthetic applied to life. Both life and art were governed by the
same bent for the sensuous, the select, the rare, the different. He was
fond of books, and bibelots— fonder of possession, in the case of the
former, than he was of reading— but, as Henri Regnier said, he al-
ways got back to music. It was there he really lived his life and, as
has been true of others who had a really seminal mission to fulfil, he
lived it largely in the music that was his own.
THE COMPOSER
PAUL ROSENFELD
Debussy's music is our own. All artistic forms lie dormant in the
soul, and there is no work of art actually foreign to us, nor can such
a one appear, in all the future ages of the world. But the music of
Debussy is proper to us, in our day, as is no other, and might stand
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
before all time our symbol) For it lived in us before it was born, and
after birth returned upon us like a release. Even at a first encounter
the style of Pelleas (1902) was mysteriously familiar. It made us feel
that we had always needed such rhythms, such luminous chords,
such limpid phrases, that we perhaps had even heard them, sounding
faintly, in our imaginations. The music seemed as old as our sense of
selfhood. It seemed but the exquisite recognition of certain intense
and troubling and appeasing moments that we had already en-
countered. It seemed fashioned out of certain ineluctable, mysterious
experiences that had budded, ineffably sad and sweet, from out our
lives, and had made us new, and set us apart, and that now, at the
music's breath, at a half-whispered note, at the unclosing of a
rhythm, the flowering of a cluster of tones out of the warm still
darkness, were arisen again in the fullness of their stature and be-
come ours entirely.
^For Debussy is of all musicians the one amongst us most fully. He
is here, in our midst, in the world of the city. There is about him
none of the unworldliness, the aloofness, the superhumanity that
distances so many of the other composers from us. We need not
imagine him in exotic singing robes, nor in classical garments, nor
in any strange and outmoded and picturesque attire, to recognize
in him the poet. He is the modern poet just because the modem
civilian garb is so naturally his. He is the normal man, living our own
manner of life. We seem to know him as we know ourselves. His
experiences are but our own^intensified by his poet's gift. Or, if they
are not already ours, they will become so. He seems almost ourselves
as he passes through the city twilight, intent upon some errand upon
which we, too, have gone, journeying a road which we ourselves
have travelled. We know the room in which he lives, the windows
from which he gazes, the moments which come upon him there in
the silence of the lamp. For he has captured in his music what is
distinguished in the age's delight and tragedy. All the fine sensuality,
all the Eastern pleasure in the infinite daintiness and warmth of
nature, all the sudden, joyous discovery of color and touch that
made men feel as though neither had been known before, are conT
tained in it. It, too, is full of images of the "earth of the liquid and
slumbering trees," the "earth of departed sunset," the "earth of the
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CLAUDE DEBUSSY
vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue." It is full of
material loveliness, plies itself to innumerable dainty shells-to the
somnolence of the Southern night, to the hieratic gesture of temple
dancers, to the fall of lamplight into the dark, to the fantastic gush
of fireworks, to the romance of old mirrors and faded brocades and
Saxony clocks, to the green young panoply of spring. And just as it
gives again the age's consciousness of the delicious robe of earth,
so, too, it gives again its sense of weariness and powerlessness and
oppression. The 19th century had been loud with blare and rumors
and the vibration of colossal movements, and man had apparently
traversed vast distances and explored titanic heights and abysmal
depths. And yet, for all the glare, the earth was darker. The light
was miasmic only. The life of man seemed as ever a brief and sad
and simple thing, the stretching of impotent hands, unable to grasp
and hold; the interlacing of shadows; the unclosing, a moment before
nightfall, of exquisite and fragile blossoms. The sense of the in-
firmity of life, the consciousness that it had no more than the
signification of a dream with passing lights, or halting steps in the
snow, or an old half-forgotten story, had mixed a deep wistfulness
and melancholy into the very glamour of the globe, and become
heavier itself for all the sweetness of earth. And Debussy has fixed
the two in their confusion.
(He has permeated music completely with his Impressionistic sensi-
bility: His style is an image of this our pointillistically feeling era.
(With him Impressionism achieves a perfect musical form. Struc-
turally, the music of Debussy is a fabric of exquisite and poignant
moments, each full and complete in itself) His wholes exist entirely
in their parts, in their atoms. If his phrase^ rhythms, lyric impulses,
do contribute to the formation of a single thing, they yet are extraor-
dinarily independent and significant in themselves. No chord, no
theme, is subordinate. Each one exists for the sake of its own beauty,
occupies the universe for an instant, then merges and disappears.
The harmonies are not, as in other compositions, preparations. They
are apparently an end in themselves, flow in space, and then change
hue, as a shimmering stuff changes. For all its golden earthiness, the
style of Debussy is the most liquid and impalpable of musical styles.
It is forever gliding, gleaming, melting; crystallizing for an instant
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in some savory phrase, then moving quiveringly onward. It is well-
nigh edgeless. It seems to flow through our perceptions as water
flows through fingers. The iridescent bubbles that float upon it burst
if we but touch them. It is forever suggesting water— fountains and
pools, the glistening spray and heaving bosom of the sea. Or, it
shadows forth the formless breath of the breeze, of the storm, of
perfumes, or the play of sun and moon. His orchestration invariably
produces all that is cloudy and diaphanous in each instrument. He
makes music with flakes of light, with bright motes of pigment. His
palette glows with the sweet, limpid tints of a Monet or a Pissarro
or a Renoir. His orchestra sparkles with iridescent fires, with
divided tones, with delicate violets and argents and shades of rose.
The sound of the piano, usually but the ringing of flat colored stones,
at his touch becomes fluid, velvety, and dense, takes on the prop-
erties of satins and liqueurs. The pedal washes new tint after new
tint over the keyboard. Reflets dans Teau (1905) has the quality of
sheeny blue satin, of cloud pictures tumbling in gliding water. Blue
fades to green and fades back again to blue in the middle section of
Hommage a Rameau (1905). Bright, cold moonlight slips through
Et la lune descend sur le temple que jut (1907); ruddy sparks glitter
in Mouvement (1905) with its Petrouchka-like joy; the piano is liquid
and luminous and aromatic in Cloches a trauers les feuilles (1907).
Yet there is no uncertainty, no mistiness in his form, as there is in
that of some of the other Impressionists. His music is classically firm,
classically precise and knit. His lyrical, shimmering structures are
perfectly fashioned. The line never hesitates, never becomes lost nor
involved. It proceeds directly, clearly, passing through jewels and
clots of color, and fusing them into the mass. The trajectory never
breaks. The music is always full of its proper weight and timbre.
It can be said quite without exaggeration that his best work omits
nothing, neglects nothing, that every component element is justly
treated. His little pieces occupy a space as completely as the most
massive and grand of compositions. A composition like Nuages, the
first of the three Nocturnes for orchestra (1893-99), while taking but
five minutes in performance, outweighs any number of compositions
that last an hour. L'Aprds-midi tfun faun (1892-94) is inspired and
new, marvelously, at every measure. The three little pieces that
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CLAUDE DEBUSSY
comprise the first set of Images for piano (1905) will probably outlast
half of what Liszt has written for the instrument. PelUas will some
day be studied for its miraculous invention, its classical moderation
and balance and truth, for its pure diction and economical orchestra-
tion, quite as the scores of Gluck are studied to-day.
For Debussy is, of all the artists who have made music in our time,
the most perfect. Other musicians, perhaps even some of the con-
temporary, may# exhibit a greater heroism, a greater staying power
and indefatigability. Nevertheless, in his sphere he is every inch as
perfect a workman as the greatest, Within his limits he was as pure
a craftsman as the great Johann Sebastian in his. The difference be-
tween the two is the difference of their ages and races, not the differ-
ence of their artistry. For few composers can match with their own
Debuss/s perfection of taste, his fineness of sensibility, his poetic
rapture, and profound awareness of beauty. Few have been more
graciously rounded and balanced than he, have been, like him, so
fine that nothing which they could do could be tasteless and in-
significant and without grace. Few musicians have been more nicely
sensible of their gift, better acquainted with themselves, surer of
the character and limitations of their genius. Few have been as
perseverantly essential, have managed to sustain their emotion and
invention so steadily at a height. The music of Debussy is full of
purest, most delicate poesy. Perhaps only Bach and Mussorgsky have
as invariably found phrases as pithy and inclusive and final as those
with which Pelleas is strewn, phrases that with a few simple notes
epitomize profound and exquisite emotions, and are indeed the word.
There are moments in Debussy's work when each note opens a
prospect. There are moments when the music of Pelleas, the fine
fluid line of sound, the melodic moments that merge and pass and
vanish into one another, become the gleaming rims that circumscribe
vast darkling forms. There are portions of the drama that are like the
moments of human intercourse when single syllables unseal deep
reservoirs. The tenderness manifest here is scarcely to be duplicated
in musical art. And tenderness, after all, is the most intense of all
emotions.
A thousand years of culture live in this fineness. In these perfect
gestures, in this grace, this certainty of choice, this justice of values,
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
this simple, profound, delicate language, there live on thirty genera-
tions of gentlefolk. Thirty generations of cavaliers and dames who
developed the arts of life in the mild and fruitful valleys of "the
pleasant land of France" speak here. The gentle sunlight and gentle
shadow, the mild winters and mild summers of the He de France,
the plentiful fruits of the earth, the excitement of the vine, con-
tributed to making this being beautifully balanced, reserved, re-
fined. The instruction and cultivation of the classic and French poets
and thinkers, Virgil and Racine and Marivaux, Catullus and Mon-
taigne and Chateaubriand, the chambers of the Hotel de Ram-
bouillet, the gardens and galleries of Versailles, the immense draw-
ing-room of 18th century Paris, helped form this spirit. In all this
man's music one catches sight of the long foreground, the long cycles
of preparation. In every one of his works, from the most imposing
to the least, from the String Quartet (1893) and Pelleas to the gracile,
lissome little waltz, La plus que lent (1910), there is manifest the
Latin genius nurtured and molded and developed by the fertile,
tranquil soil of France.
And in his art, the gods of classical antiquity live again. Debussy
is much more than merely the sensuous Frenchman. He is the man in
whom the old Pagan voluptuousness, the old untroubled delight in
the body, warred against so long by the black brood of monks and
transformed by them during centuries into demoniacal and hellish
forms, is free and pure and sweet once more. They once were
nymphs and naiads and goddesses, the Quartet and L'Apres-midi
dun faun and Sirdnes. They once wandered through the glades of
Ionia and Sicily, and gladdened men with their golden sensuality,
and bewitched them with the thought of "the breast of the nymph
in the brake." For they are full of the wonder and sweetness of the
flesh, of flesh tasted deliriously and enjoyed not in closed rooms,
behind secret doors and under the shameful pall of the night, but
out in the warm, sunny open, amid grasses and scents and the buzz-
ing of insects, the waving of branches, the wandering of clouds. The
Quartet is alive, quivering with light, and with joyous animality. It
moves like a young fawn; spins the gayest, most silken, most golden
of spider webs; fills one with the delights of taste and smell and sight
and touch. In the most glimmering, floating of poems, L'Aprds-midi
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CLAUDE DEBUSSY
Sun faun, there is caught magically by the climbing, chromatic
flute, the drowsy pizzicati of the strings, and the languorous sighing
of the horns, the atmosphere of the daydream, the sleepy warmth
of the sunshot herbage, the divine apparition, the white wonder of
arms and breasts and thighs. The lento movement of Iberia is like
some drowsy, disheveled gypsy. Even La plus que lent is full of the
goodness of the flesh, is like some slender young girl with unclosing
bosom. And in Sirenes, something like the eternal divinity, the
eternal beauty of woman's body, is celebrated. It is as though on
the rising, falling, rising, sinking tides of the poem, on the waves of
the glamorous feminine voices, on the aphrodisiac swell of the sea,
the white Anadyomene herself, with her galaxy of tritons and naiads,
approached earth's shores once more.
If any musical task is to be considered as having been accom-
plished, it is that of Debussy. For he wrote the one book that every
great artist writes. He established a style irrefragably, made musical
Impressionism as legitimate a thing as any of the great styles. That
he had more to make than that one contribution is doubtful. His art
underwent no radical changes. His style was mature already in the
Quartet and in Proses lyriques (1892-93), and had its climax in
Pelleas, its orchestral deployment in Nocturnes and La Mer (1903-5)
and IMria (1906-9), its pianistic expression in the two volumes of
Images for pianoforte. Whatever the refinement of the incidental
music to Le Martyre de Saint-Sebastien (1911), Debussy never really
transgressed the limits set for him by his first great works. And so,
even if his long illness caused the deterioration, the hardening, the
formularization, so evident in his most recent work, the Sonatas
(1915-17), the Epigraphes (1915), En blanc et noir (1915), and the
Berceuse heroique (1914), and deprived us of much delightful art,
neither it nor his death actually robbed us of some radical develop-
ment which we might reasonably have expected. The chief that he
had to give he had given. What his age had demanded of him, an
art that it might hold far from the glare and tumult, an art into
which it could retreat, an art which could compensate it for a life
become too cruel and demanding, he had produced. He had essen-
tially fulfilled himself.
The fact that Pelleas is the most eloquent of all Debussy's works
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
and his eternal sign does not, then, signify that he did not grow
during the remainder of his life. A complex of determinants made of
his music-drama the fullest expression of his genius, decreed that he
should be living most completely at the moment he composed it.
The very fact that in it Debussy was composing music for the
theater made it certain that his artistic sense would produce itself
as its mightiest in the work. For it entailed the statement of his
opposition to Wagner. The fact that it was music conjoined with
speech made it certain that Debussy, so full of the French classical
genius, would through contact with the spoken word, through study
of its essential quality, be aided and compelled to a complete
realization of a fundamentally French idiom. And then Maeterlinck's
little play offered itself to his genius as a unique auxiliary. It, too,
is full of the sense of the shadowiness of things that weighed upon
Debussy, has not a little of the accent of the time. This "vieille et
triste Ugende de la foret" is alive with images, such as the old and
somber castle inhabited by aging people and lying lost amid sunless
forests, the rose that blooms in the shadow underneath Melisande's
casement, M&isande's hair that falls farther than her arms can reach,
the black tarn that broods beneath the castle-vaults and breathes
death, Golaud's anguished search for truth in the prattle of the child,
that could not but call a profound response from Debussy's imagina-
tion. But, above all, it was the figure of Melisande herself that made
him pour himself completely into the setting of the play. For that
figure permitted Debussy to give himself completely in the creation
of his ideal image. The music is all Melisande, all Debussy's love-
woman. It is she that the music reveals from the moment Melisande
rises from among the rocks shrouded in the mystery of her golden
hair. It is she the music limns from the very beginning of the work.
The entire score is but what a man might feel toward a woman that
was his, and yet, like all women, strange and mysterious and un-
known to him. The music is like the stripping of some perfect flower,
petal upon petal. There are moments when it is all that lies between
two people, and is the fullness of their knowledge. It is the perfect
sign of an experience.
And so, since Debussy's art could have no second climax, it was
in the order of things that the works succeeding upon his master-
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CLAUDE DEBUSSY
piece should be relatively less important. Nevertheless, the ensuing
poems and songs and piano pieces, with the exception of those
written during those years when Debussy could have said with
Rameau, his master, "From day to day my taste improves. But I have
lost all my genius/* are by little less perfect and astounding pieces of
work. His music is like the peaks of a mountain range, of which one
of the first and nearest is the highest, while the others appear
scarcely less high. And they are some of the bluest, the loveliest,
the most shining that stretch through the region of modern music.
It will be long before humankind has exhausted their beauty.
DEBUSSY SPEAKS
For a long time I sought to compose music for the theater. But
the form I wished to employ was so unusual that after various efforts
I had almost abandoned the idea. Previous research in pure music
led me to hate classical development, whose beauty is merely tech-
nical and of interest only to the highbrows of our class. I desired for
music that freedom of which she is capable perhaps to a greater
degree than any other art, as she is not confined to an exact re-
production of Nature, but only to the mysterious affinity between
Nature and the imagination.
After several years of passionate pilgrimage to Bayreuth, I began
to entertain doubts as to the Wagnerian formula; or, rather, it
seemed to me that it could serve only the particular case of Wagner's
genius. He was a great collector of formulas. He assembled them
all into one, which appears individual to those who are ill ac-
quainted with music. And without denying his genius one may say
that he placed a period to the music of his time in much the same
way as Victor Hugo did for poetry. The thing, then, was to find
what came after Wagner's time but not after Wagner's manner.
The drama of Pelleas which, in spite of its fantastic atmosphere,
contains much more humanity than the so-called documents on
life, appeared to me to be admirably suited to my purpose. The
sensitiveness of the suggestive language could be carried into the
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
music and orchestral setting. I have also tried to obey a law of
beauty which appears to be singularly ignored in dealing with
dramatic music. The characters of this drama endeavor to sing like
real persons, and not in an arbitrary language built on antiquated
traditions. Hence the reproach levelled at my alleged partiality for
the monotone declamation in which there is no trace of melody.
To begin with, this is untrue. Besides, the feelings of a character
cannot be continually expressed in melody. Then, too, dramatic
melody should be totally different from melody in general. . . . The
people who go listen to music at the theater are, when all is said
and done, very like those one sees gathered around a street singer!
There, for a penny, one may indulge in melodic emotions. . . . One
even notices greater patience than is practised by many subscribers
to our state-endowed theaters and even a wish to understand which,
one might even go so far as to say, is totally lacking in the latter
public.
By a singular irony, this public, which cries out for something new,
is the very one that shows alarm and scoffs whenever one tries to
wean it from old habits and the customary humdrum noises. . . .
This may seem incomprehensible; but one must not forget that a
work of art or an effort to produce beauty are always regarded by
some people as a personal affront.
I do not pretend to have discovered everything in Pelleas; but
I have tried to trace a path that others may follow, broadening it
with individual discoveries which will, perhaps, free dramatic music
from the heavy yoke under which it has existed so long.
Music is a mysterious form of mathematics whose elements are
derived from the infinite. Music is the expression of the movement
of the waters, the play of curves described by changing breezes.
There is nothing more musical than a sunset. He who feels what he
sees will find no more beautiful example of development in all that
book which, alas, musicians read too little— the book of Nature.
We do not listen to the thousand sounds with which Nature sur-
rounds us. We are not sufficiently on the alert to hear this varied
music which she so generously offers. It envelops us, and yet we
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CLAUDE DEBUSSY
have lived in its midst until now, ignoring it. This, to my mind, is
the new path. But, believe me, I have but caught a glimpse of it.
Much remains to be done and he who does it ... will be a great
man.
Art is the most beautiful deception: and no matter how much a
man may wish to make it the setting for his daily life, he must still
desire that it remain an illusion lest it become utilitarian, and as
dreamy as a workshop. Do not the masses as well as the select few
seek therein oblivion, which is in itself a form of deception? The
smile of Mona Lisa probably never really existed— still its charm is
eternal. Let us then avoid disillusioning any one by clothing the
dream with too much reality. Let us be satisfied with interpretations
that are the more consoling because of their undying beauty.
507
APPENDIX I
Principal Works of the Great Composers
GIOVANNI PIERLUIGI DA PALESTRINA
Choral Music: 93 Masses, including Papae Marcelli (1567), As-
sumpta Es (1567), Aeterna Munera Christi (1590), and Ecco ego
Joannes; 256 motets, including the Canticle of Solomon (1584); 4
books of madrigals; 3 books of litanies; 3 books of lamentations; 2
books of madrigali spirituali; Stabat Mater (1595); hymns, offertories,
psalms,
CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI
Chord Music: 8 books of madrigals (1587, 1590, 1592, 1603, 1605,
1614, 1619, 1638); canzonette, scherzi musical!, motets, Masses,
magnificats,
Operas: La Favola d'Orfeo (1607); L'Arianne, from which only the
"Lament" has survived (1608); II Combattimento di Tancredi e
Clorinda (1624); Proserpina rapita (1630); II Ritorno di Ulisse (1641);
Le Nozze di Eneo con Lavinia (1641); L'Incoronazione di Poppea
(1642).
JEAN-BAPTISTE RAMEAU
Chamber Music: Pieces de clavecin en concert, for harpsichord,
violin or flute, and viol or second violin (1741).
Choral Music: Motets, cantatas,
Harpsichord Music: Pieces de clavecin (1706, 1724); Nouvelk suite
de pieces de clavecin.
Operas and Opera-Ballets: Hippolyte et Aricie (1733); Les Indes
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THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
galantes (1735); Castor et Pollux (1737); Les FStes d'Hebe (1739);
Dardanus (1739); Les Fetes de Polimnie (1745); Platee (1745); Les
FStes de THymen et de Tamour (1747); Zoroastre (1749); Acante et
Cephise (1751); Zephire (1754); Anacreon (1754); Les Paladins
(1760).
ANTONIO VIVALDI
Chamber Music: 73 sonatas.
Choral Music: 2 oratorios: Moyses Deus Pharaonis (1714), Juditha
triumphans (1716); cantatas; Gloria Mass.
Operas: Nerone fatto Cesare (1715); Arsilda regina di Ponto
(1716); Lflncoronzione di Dario (1716); Armida al campo d'Egitto
(1718); L'Inganno trionfante in amore (1725); Farnace (1726); La
Fida Ninfa (1732); Motezuma (1733); VOlimpiade (1734); Griselda
(1735); Feraspe (1739).
Orchestral Music: 23 sinfonias; about 500 concertos including
L'Estro armonico, op. 3 (c. 1712), La Stravaganza, op. 4, and II Ci-
mento dell' armonia e dell inuentione, op. 8 (1725); various concertos
for solo instruments and orchestra.
Vocal Music: 24 secular cantatas; 43 arias; Stabat Mater.
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
Chamber Music: 3 sonatas for unaccompanied violin (c. 1720);
3 partitas for unaccompanied violin (c. 1720); 6 sonatas, or suites,
for unaccompanied cello (c. 1720); 3 sonatas for cello and clavier
(1717-23); 3 sonatas for flute and clavier (1717-23); Das musikal-
isches Opfer (1747).
Choral Music: About 190 religious cantatas; secular cantatas in-
cluding the Trauer-Ode (1727), Phoebus and Pan (c. 1732), Cofee
Cantata (1732); and Peasant Cantata (1742); 2 magnificats (1723);
Passion According to St. John (1723); motets for unaccompanied
voices (1723-29); Passion According to St. Matthew (1729); Mass in
B Minor (1733-1738); Christmas Oratorio (1734); Easter Oratorio
(1736); Lutheran Masses (1737-40).
512
PBINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Orchestral Music: 6 Brandenburg Concertos (1721); 4 suites; var-
ious concertos for solo instruments and orchestra (1717-36).
Organ Music: Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor (1717); Or gel-
buchlein (1717); chorale preludes, toccatas, preludes, fugues, fan-
tasias.
Piano (Clavier) Music: Clavierbiichlein uor Anna Magdalena
(1720); Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue (1720-23); 6 French Suites
(c. 1722); The Well-Tempered Clavier (1722-44); 6 English Suites
(c. 1725); inventions (1725); 6 partitas (1731); Italian Concerto
(1735); Goldberg Variations (1742); Die Kunst der Fuge, for an un-
specified instrument but usually played on the harpsichord or piano
(1748-50); fantasias, little preludes, fughettas, fugues.
Vocal Music: Songs for voice and clavier including Bist du bei
mir, Komm susser Tod, Ich halte treulich still and O Jesulein suss.
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
Chamber Music: Various sonatas for solo instruments and accom-
paniment; trio-sonatas.
Choral Music: 19 oratorios, including: Esther (1732); Saul (1739);
Israel in Egypt (1739); Messiah (1742); Samson (1743); Belshazzar
(1745); Judas Maccabaeus (1747); Joshua (1748); Susanna (1749);
Solomon (1749); Theodora (1750); and Jephtha (1752).
Chandos Anthems (1717-20); Alexander's Feast (1736); Ode for
St. Cecilia s Day (1739); U Allegro ed ll Penseroso (1740); Dettingen
Te Deum (1743).
Operas: About 40 Operas, including: Almira (1705); Agrippina
(1709); Rinaldo (1711); Radamisto (1720); Acis and Galatea (1720);
Floridante (1721); Giulio Cesare (1724); Tamerlano (1724); Rodelina
(1725); Admeto (1727); Partenope (1730); Ezio (1732); Arianna
(1734); Alcina (1735); Atalanta (1736); Berenice (1737); Faramondo
(1738); Serse (1738).
Orchestral Music: Water Music (1717); 6 concerti grossi, op. 3
(1734); 12 concerti grossi, op. 6 (1739); Royal Fireworks Music
(1749); various concertos for solo instruments and orchestra; over-
tures.
513
THE WORLD OF GBEAT COMPOSERS
Piano (Harpsichord) Music; Fugues, sonatas, sonatinas, suites.
Vocal Music: 72 Italian cantatas for voice and accompaniment;
other cantatas for various voices and instruments; 22 Italian duets
with accompaniment; German songs; French songs; English songs.
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
Ballets: Don Juan (1761); Semiramide (1765).
Chamber Music: 6 sonatas for two violins and accompaniment.
Choral Music: Friihlingsfeier (1767); De Profundis (c. 1782).
Operas: Over 40 operas including: Semiramide riconosciuta (1748);
Ezio (1750); II re pastore (1756); L'lvrogne corrige (1760); Le Cadi
dupe (1761); Orfeo ed Euridice (1762); II Trionfo di Clelia (1763);
La Rencontre imprevue (1764); Alceste (1767); Iphigenie en Aulide
(1774); Paride ed Elena (1770); Armide (1777); Iphigenie en Tauride
(1779); Echo et Nardsse (1779).
Orchestra: Overtures.
JOSEPH HAYDN
Chamber Music: 82 string quartets including: 6 Sun Quartets, op.
20 (1772); 6 Russian Quartets, op. 33 (1781); 6 Prussian Quartets, op.
50 (1785-87); 6 Tost Quartets, op. 54-55 (1788); 6 Quartets, op.
64 (1790); 6 Apponyi Quartets, op. 71, 74 (1793); 6 Erdody Quar-
tets, op. 76 (1799); 2 Lobkowitz Quartets, op. 77 (1799).
35 piano trios; 18 string trios; 125 trios for other instrumental
combinations; sonatas, duos, quintets, sextets, divertimenti, noc-
turnes, cassations.
Choral Music: Mariazeller Mass (1782); Missa in tempore belli
(1796); Die Schopfung, or The Creation (1798); Nelson Mass (1798);
Theresien Mass (1799); Missa solennis (1801); Die Jahreszeiten, or
The Seasons (1801); Harmoniemesse (1802).
Operas: Lo Speziale (1768); II Mondo della luna (1777); Ulsola
disabitata (1779); Armida (1784); Orfeo ed Euridice.
Orchestral Music: 104 symphonies, including: No. 6, D Major, Le
514
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Matin (1761); No. 7, C Major, Le Midi (1761); No. 8, G Major, Le
Soir (1761); No. 45, F-sharp Minor, Farewell (1772); No. 82, C
Major, L'Ours (1786); No. 83, G Minor, La Poule (1785); No. 85,
B-flat Major, La Reine (1786); No. 88, G Major (1787); No. 92, G
Major, Oxford (1788); 12 "London" Symphonies, op. 93-104
(1791-95).
15 piano concertos, including Concerto in D Major, op. 21 (1783);
2 cello concertos, including Concerto in D Major (1783); 3 violin
concertos; 2 horn concertos; Seven Last Words of Christ (1785);
marches, notturnos, German dances, divertimenti, overtures, cas-
sations.
Piano Music: 52 sonatas, including: No. 35, C Major (1780); No.
37, D Major (1780); No. 43, A-flat Major (1785); No. 51, D Major
(1794); No. 52, E-flat Major (1794).
Andante con variazioni (c. 1774); Fantasia in C Major (1789);
Variations in F Minor (1793); various shorter pieces.
Vocal Music: 12 English canzonets (1794-95), including My
Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair, The Sailors Song, and She Never
Told Her Love; various other songs for voice and piano, including
the Austrian National Anthem, Gott erhlate Franz den Kaiser
(1797), Liebes Madchen, The Spirit's Song, and Heller Blick; arias,
solo cantatas, vocal duets, vocal trios, vocal quartets, canons, rounds,
and arrangements of folk songs.
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART
Chamber Music: 26 string quartets including the 6 Haydn Quar-
tets, K. 387, 421, 428, 458, 464, 465 (1782-85) and 3 Prussian Quar-
tets, K. 575, 589, 590 (1789-90).
5 string quintets including Quintet in G Minor, K. 516 (1787)
and Quintet in E-flat Major, K. 614 (1791).
42 violin sonatas, including Sonata in G Major, K. 379 (1781),
and Sonata in E-flat Major, K. 481 (1785).
7 piano trios; quintets for a wind instrument and strings; quintet
for piano and winds; flute quartets; oboe quartet; string trios; duets.
Choral Music: 15 Masses including the Credo Mass, K. 257 (1776),
515
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Coronation Mass, K. 317 (1799), and the Great Mass, K. 427, (1783).
Ave Verum, K. 618 (1791); Requiem, K. 626 (1791); 9 offertories,
4 litanies, magnificat,
Operas; Bastien and Bastienne, K. 50 (1768); La Finta semplice,
K. 51 (1768); Mitridate, Re di Ponte, K. 87 (1770); Ascanio in Alba,
K. Ill (1771); n Sogno di Scipione, K. 126 (1772); Lucio Silla, K.
135 (1772); La Finta giardiniera, K. 196 (1774); II Re pastore, K. 208
(1775); Thamos, Konig in Aegypten, K. 345 (1779); Idomeneo, Re
di Crete, K. 366 (1781); Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail, K. 384
(1782); Der Schauspieldirektor, K. 486 (1786); Le Nozze di Figaro,
K, 492 (1786); Don Giovanni, K. 527 (1787); Cosi fan tutte, K. 588
(1790); Die Zauberftote, K. 620 (1791); La Clemenza di Tito, K, 621
(1791).
Orchestral Music: 49 symphonies including: No. 29, A Major, K.
201 (1774); No. 31, D Major, Paris, K. 297 (1778); No. 34, C Major,
K. 338 (1780); No. 35, D Major, Hafner, K. 385 (1782); No. 36, C
Major, Linz, K. 425 (1783); No. 38, D Major, Prague, K. 504 (1786);
No. 39, E-flat Major, K. 543 (1788); No. 40, G Minor, K. 550 (1788);
No. 41, C Major, Jupiter, K. 551 (1788).
25 piano concertos including: F Major, K. 459 (1784); D Minor,
K. 466 (1785); C Major, K. 467 (1785); A Major, K. 488 (1786); C
Minor, K. 491 (1786); D Major, Coronation, K. 537 (1788); B-flat
Major, K. 595 (1791).
6 violin concertos including: No. 4, D Major, K. 218 (1775) and
No. 5, A Major, K. 219 (1775).
Various other concertos for solo instrument or instruments and
orchestra: 2 pianos; 3 pianos; flute and harp; flute; bassoon; clarinet;
horn.
Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major, for violin, viola and orchestra,
K. 364 (1779); divertimenti, cassations, serenades, minuets, German
dances, contredanses, marches, sonatas for organ and orchestra.
Organ Music: 14 sonatas for organ and strings; 3 sonatas for organ
and orchestra.
Piano Music: 17 sonatas for solo piano including: A Major, K. 331,
with the "Turkish March" movement (1778); C Minor, K. 457
(1785); D Major, K. 576 (1789).
516
PBINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Sonata for Two Pianos, in D Major, K. 448 (1781); Sonata for
Piano Four Hands in F Major, K. 497 (1786); 3 fantasias, 3 rondos,
minuets, fugues, allegros.
Vocal Music: About 30 Songs for voice and piano including Das
Veilchen, K. 476 (c. 1786) and An Chloe, K. 524 (1787).
27 arias for soprano and orchestra; various other arias and duets
for solo voices and orchestra; canons, trios, quartets.
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
Ballet: Die Geschopfe des Prometheus, op. 43 (1800-1).
Chamber Music: 16 string quartets: 6 Lobkowitz Quartets, op.
18 (1798-1800); 3 Rasoumovsky Quartets, op. 59 (1806); E-flat Major,
Harp, op. 74 (1809); F Minor, op. 95 (1810); E-flat Major, op. 127
(1824); B-flat Major, op. 130 (1825); C-sharp Minor, op. 131 (1826);
A Minor, op. 132 (1825); F Major, op. 135 (1826).
9 piano trios including: Trio in D Major, op. 70, no. 1 (1808)
and Trio in B-flat Major, Archduke, op. 97 (1811).
4 piano quartets; 5 string trios; 2 wind octets; 3 string quintets;
Septet in E-flat Major, op. 20 (1800); Grosse Fuge in B-flat Major,
for string quartet, op. 133 (1825).
10 violin sonatas including: F Major, Spring, op. 24 (1801); C
Minor and G Major, op. 30, nos. 2 and 3 (1802); A Major, Kreutzer,
op. 47 (1803).
5 cello sonatas including: Sonata in A Major, op. 69 (1808) and
Sonatas in C Major and D Major, op. 102, nos. 1 and 2 (1815).
Choral Music: Piano Fantasy, with chorus and orchestra, op. 80
(1808); Christus am Olberge, or Chrfct on Mt. Olives, op. 85 (1802);
Missa Solemnis, op. 123 (1818-23); cantatas.
Opera: Fidelio, op. 72 (1805).
Orchestral Music: 9 symphonies: No. 1, C Major, op. 21 (1800);
No. 2, D Major, op. 36 (1802); No. 3, E-flat Major, Eroica, op. 55
(1803); No. 4, B-flat Major, op. 60 (1806); No. 5, C Minor, op. 67
(1805-7); No. 6, F Major, Pastoral, op. 68 (1807-8); No. 7, A
Major, op. 92 (1812); No. 8, F Major, op. 93 (1812); No. 9, D Minor,
Choral, op. 125 (1823).
517
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
5 piano concertos: No. 1, C Major, op. 15 (1797); No. 2, B-flat,
op. 19 (1795); No. 3, C Minor, op. 37 (1800); No. 4, G Major, op!
58 (1806); No. 5, E-flat Major, Emperor, op. 73 (1809).
Triple Concerto in C Major, for piano, violin, cello and orchestra,
op. 56 (1805); Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 61 (1806).
2 Romances, for violin and orchestra, opp. 40, 50 (1802, 1803);
Coriolon Overture, op. 62 (1807); Ah, Perfido!, for voice and orches-
tra, op. 65 (1796); Fidelio Overture, op. 72c (1814); Leonore Over-
tures, Nos. 1, 2, and 3, opp. 138, 72a, and 72b (1805, 1806, 1807);
Egmont, incidental music to a play, including a famous overture,
op. 84 (1810); Wellingtons Sieg, op. 91 (1813); Konig Stephan, in-
cidental music to a play including overture, op. 117 (1811); Die
Weihe des Hauses Overture, op. 124 (1822); Deutsche Tanze, ecos-
saises, Landler, minuets, waltzes.
Piano Music: 32 sonatas including: No. 7, D Major, op. 10, No. 3
(1796-98); No. 8, C Minor, Pathetique, op. 13 (1798); No. 12, A-flat
Major, Funeral March, op. 26 (1801); No. 14, Quasi una fantasia, C-
sharp Minor, Moonlight, op. 27, No. 2 (1801); No. 15, D Major, Pas-
toral, op. 28 (1801); No. 17, D Minor, op. 31, No. 2 (1802); No. 21,
C Major, Waldstein, op. 53 (1804); No. 27, F Minor, Appassionata,
op. 57 (1804); No. 26, E-flat Major, Les Adieux, op. 81a (1809); No.
28, A Major, op. 101 (1816); No. 29, B-flat Major, Hammerklavier,
op. 106 (1818); No. 30, E Major, op. 109 (1820); No. 31, A-flat Major,
op. 110 (1821); No. 32, C Minor, op. Ill (1822).
33 Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli, op. 120 (1823); Andante
Favori, op. 170 (1804); 32 Variations in C minor, op. 191 (1806);
bagatelles, ecossaises, minuets, preludes, rondos, waltzes, various
variations.
Vocal Music: 6 Gellert Lieder, op. 48 (1803); An die feme Ge-
liebte, op. 98 (1816); Irish Songs, opp. 223, 224, 255 (1813-15); Scot-
tish Songs, op. 108, 227 (1815); Welsh Songs, op. 226 (1817);
12 Songs of Various Nationalities, op. 228 (1815).
Numerous individual songs for voice and piano including: Ade-
laide, op. 46 (1795); Andenken, op. 240 (1819); Ich liebe dich, op.
235 Canons. (1803); In questa tomba obscura, op. 239 (1807).
518
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
CARL MARIA VON WEBER
Chamber Music: Piano Quartet, op. 18 (1809); Nine Variations
on a Norwegian Air, for violin and piano, op. 22 (1808); 6 sonatas, or
sonatinas, for violin and piano (1810); Clarinet Quintet, op. 34
(1815); Grand Duo Concertant, for clarinet and piano, op. 48 (1816);
Flute Trio, op. 63 (1819).
Choral Music: 6 cantatas; 3 Masses; 2 offertories; part songs.
Operas: Peter Schmoll und seine Nachbarn (1803); Silvana (1810);
Abu Hassan (1811); Der Freischutz (1821); Euryanthe (1823);
Oberon (1826); Die drei Pintos (completed by Gustav Mahler).
Orchestral Music: 2 piano concertos: C Major, op. 11 (1810); E-
flat Major, op. 32 (1812).
2 clarinet concertos: F Minor, op. 73 (1811); E-flat Major, op.
74 (1811).
Sinfonia No. 2 in C (1807); Andante in D Minor and Variations
in F Major for cello and orchestra (1810); Clarinet Concertino in C
Minor-E-flat Major, op. 26 (1811); Andante e rondo ongarese in C
Minor, for bassoon and orchestra, op. 35 (1813); Tedesco in D Major
(1816); Jubel Overture, op. 59 (1818); Konzertstiick in F Minor-F
Major for piano and orchestra, op. 79 (1821).
Piano Music: 4 sonatas; Momenta capriccioso in B-flat Major, op.
12 (1808); Grande Polonaise in E-flat Major, op. 21 (1808); 18 Favorit
Walzer (1812); Air russe and Variations, op. 40 (1815); Seven Vari-
ations on a Gypsy Song, op. 55 (1817); Aufforderung zum Tanz, or
Invitation to the Dance, rondo brilliante in D-flat Major, op. 65
(1819); ecossaises; variations; pieces for piano duet.
Vocal Music: Songs, with piano or guitar; songs for several voices;
canons; solfeggi; duets; trios; quartets.
FRANZ SCHUBERT
Chamber Music: 15 string quartets including: No. 11, E-flat Major,
op. 125, No. 1 (1813); No. 12, Quartetsatz in C Minor (1820); No. 13,
A Minor, op. 29 (1824); No. 14, D Minor, Tod und das Madchen
(1826).
519
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
2 piano trios: B-flat Major, op. 99 (1827); E-flat Major, op. 100
(1827).
String Trio in B-flat Major (1816); Rondo brilliant in B Minor, for
violin and piano, op. 70 (1826); Piano Quintet in A Major, Die
Forelle, op. 114 (1819); 3 violin sonatinas, op. 137 (1816); Fantasy
in C Major, for violin and piano, op. 159 (1827); Violin Sonata in A
Major, op. 162 (1817); Sonata in A Minor, for arpeggione and piano
(1824); String Quintet in C Major, op. 163 (1828).
Choral Music: 7 Masses including: No. 1, in F (1814); No. 2, G
Major (1815); Deutsche Messe in F Major (1827).
Offertories, Salve Reginas, Stabat Maters, cantatas, psalms, Tan-
turn Ergos, part songs.
Operas: About 10 operas and operettas including: Die Zwillings-
briider (1819); Alfonso und Estrella, op. 69 (1822); Fierrabras, op.
76 (1823); Der hdusliche Krieg (1823).
Orchestral Music: 8 symphonies including: No. 4, C Minor,
"Tragic" (1816); No. 5, B-flat Major (1816); No. 7, sometimes also
designated as No. 9, C Major, The Great (1828); No. 8, B Minor,
Unfinished (1822).
7 overtures, including two in Italian style; incidental music to
Rosamunde, including famous overture (1823); Konzertstuck for
violin and orchestra (1816); Rondo in A Major, for violin and orches-
tra (1816); German dances, minuets.
Piano Music: 22 sonatas including: No. 9, A Major, op. 120 (1819);
C Minor, A Major, B-flat Major (posthumous).
Wanderer Fantasy in C Major, op. 15 (1822); Grand Duo, for
piano duet, op. 140 (1824); 8 impromptus, opp. 90, 142 (1827); 6
Moments musicaux, op. 94 (1823-27); ecossaises, German dances,
Landler, minuets, waltzes, piano duets.
Vocal Music: Die schone Mullerin, op. 25 (1823); Songs from Lady
of the Lake, op. 52 (1825); Die Winterreise, op. 89 (1827); Schwanen-
gesang (1828).
Over 500 individual songs for voice and piano including: Die
Allmacht, op. 79, No, 2 (1825); Am See (1814); An die Leier, op. 56,
No. 2 (1822); An die Mwik, op. 88, No. 4 (1817); Auf dem Wowser
zu singen, op. 72 (1823); Du bitf die Ruh*, op. 59, No. 3 (1823); Der
Erlkonig, op. 1 (1815); Die Forelle, op. 32 (1817); Gretchen am
520
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Spinnmde, op. 2 (1814); "Hark, Hark, the Lark" (1826); Heiden-
roslein, op. 3, No. 3 (1815); Im Abendrot (1824); Die \unge Nonne,
op. 43, No. 1 (1825); Der Tod und das Mddchen, op. 7, No. 3 (1817);
Der Wanderer, op. 4, No. 1 (1816); Who Is Sylvia?, op. 106, No. 4
(1826); Wiegenlied, op. 98, No. 2.
Vocal duets, vocal trios, vocal quartets.
HECTOR BERLIOZ
Choral Music: Requiem, Messe des morts, op. 5 (1837); Te Deum,
op, 22 (1849); La Damnation de Faust, op. 24 (1846); L'Enfance du
Christ, op. 25 (1850-54).
Operas: Benvenuto Cellini, op. 23 (1834-38); Les Troyens: I. La
Prise de Troie, II. Les Troyens a Carthage (1856-59); Beatrice et
Benedict (1860-62).
Orchestral Music: W overly, op. 2 bis (c. 1827); Les Francs-juges,
op. 3 (c. 1827); King Lear, op. 4 (1831); Rob Roy (1832); Reverie et
caprice, for violin and orchestra, op. 8 (1839); Le Carnaual romain,
op. 9 (1844); Symphonie fantastique, op. 14 (1830-31); Harold en
Italic, with solo viola, op. 16 (1834); Romeo et Juliette, with soloists
and chorus, op, 17 (1839); Le Corsaire, op. 21 (1855).
Vocal Music: Nuits d'ete, for voice and piano or orchestra, op. 7
(1834-41, 1843-56); La Captive, for voice and piano or orchestra,
op. 12 (1832).
GIOACCHINO ROSSINI
Chamber Music: 5 string quartets (1808); theme and variations,
for woodwind quartet (1812).
Choral Music: Mass (1808); Stabat Mater (1832, revised 1842);
Saul (1834); Petite messe solennelle (1863); cantatas, hymns.
Operas: About 40 operas including: La Scala di Seta (1812); II
Signor Bruschino (1813); Tancredi (1813); L'ltaliana in Algeri (1813);
Elisabetta (1815); II Barbiere di Siviglia (1816); Otello (1816); Cener-
entola (1817); La Gazza ladra (1817); Mose in Egitto (1818); Semir-
amide (1823); Le Comte Ory (1828); Guillaume Tell (1829).
Piano Music: P6cMs de vieillesse, 186 pieces.
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
GIACOMO MEYERBEER
Ballet: Der Fischer und das Mildmddchen (1810).
Choral Music: Gott und die Natur (1811); cantatas, psalms, Pater
Noster, Festal Hymn.
Operas: 16 operas including: Semir amide riconosciuta (1819)-
Margherita d'Anjou (1820); II Crociato in Egttto (1824); Robert le
diable (1831); Les Huguenots (1836); Ein Feldlager in Schlesien
(1844); Le Prophete (1849); L'EtoOe du nord (1854); Dinorah (1859)-
VAfricaine (1865).
Orchestral Music: 3 Torch Dances (1846-1853); Coronation March
(1863).
Vocal Music: Quarante melodies.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN
Chamber Music: 6 string quartets including: No, 1, E-flat Major
op. 12 (1829).
Violin Sonata in F Minor, op. 4 (1825); String Octet in E-flat
Major, op. 20 (1826); Piano Sextet in D Major, op. 110 (1824); 3
piano quartets; 2 piano trios; 2 cello sonatas.
Choral Music: St. Paul, op. 36 (1836); Lobgesang, op. 52 (1840);
Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 (1832, revised 1843); Elijah, op.
70 (1846); Psalms, anthems, church pieces, sacred pieces, sacred
choruses, part songs.
Operas: Die Hachzeit des Camacho, op. 10 (1825); Die Heimkehr
aus der Fremde, op. 89 (1829).
Orchestral Music: 5 major symphonies including: No. 3, A Minor,
Scotch, op. 56 (1842); No. 4, A Major, Italian, op. 90 (1833); No. 5,
D Major, Reformation, op. 107 (1830).
2 piano concertos: No. 1, G Minor, op. 25 (1831); No. 2, D Minor,
op. 40 (1837).
A Midsummer Night's Dream, overture and suite, op. 21, 61
(1826, 1842); Capriccio brilliant in B Minor, for piano and orchestra,
op. 22; FingaTs Cave, or Hebrides, op. 26 (1830, revised 1832);
Meeresstille und gliickliche Fahrt, or Calm Sea and Prosperous
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Voyage, op. 27 (1832); Rondo brilliant in E-flat Major, for piano
and orchestra (1834); Ruy Bias, op. 95 (1839).
Organ Music: 6 sonatas, op. 65 (1844-45); preludes and fugues.
Piano Music: Lieder ohne Worte, or Songs Without Words, 8
books: op. 19 (1829); op. 30 (1833-34); op. 38 (1837); op. 53 (1841);
op. 62 (1843-44); op. 67 (1843-45); op. 85 (183^45); op. 102
(1842-45).
3 sonatas; Seven Characteristic Pieces, op. 7; Rondo capriccioso
in E Major, op. 14; Variations serieuses in D Minor, op. 54 (1841); 6
Kinderstucke, op. 72 (1842); Capriccio in E Major, op. 118 (1837);
caprices, fantasies, Clavierstiicke, preludes and fugues, etudes,
scherzos, variations, preludes.
Vocal Music: About 75 individual songs for voice and piano in-
cluding: Auf -ftiigeln des Gesanges (1834); Jagdlied (1834); Volkslied
(1834); Das Schiffeln (1845); Nachtlied (1847); An die Entfernte
(1847).
ROBERT SCHUMANN
Chamber Music: 3 string quartets, op. 41 (1842); No. 1, A Minor;
No. 2, F Major; No. 3, A Major.
3 piano trios: No. 1, D Minor, op. 63 (1847); No. 2, F Major,
op. 80 (1847); No. 3, G Minor, op. 110 (1851).
2 violin sonatas: No. 1, A Minor, op. 105 (1851); No. 2, D Minor,
op. 121 (1851).
Piano Quintet in E-flat Major, op. 44 (1842); Piano Quartet in
E-flat Major, op. 47 (1842); Fantasiestucke, for piano trio, op. 88
(1842); Drei Romanzen, for oboe, op. 94 (1849).
Choral Music: Das Paradies und die Peri, op. 50 (1841-43); Scenen
aus Goethe's Faust (1844-53); Requiem fur Mignon, op. 98b (1849);
Der Rose Pilgerfahrt, op, 112 (1851); Mass, op. 147 (1852); Requiem,
op. 148 (1852); part songs for women's voices; part songs for mixed
voices.
Opera: Genoveva, op. 81 (1847-1850).
Orchestral Music: 4 symphonies; No. 1, B-flat Major, Spring, op.
38 (1841); No. 2, C Major, op. 61 (1845-46); No. 3, E-flat Major,
523
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Rhenfch, op. 97 (1850); No. 4, D Minor, op. 120 (1841-1852).
Overture, Scherzo and Finale, op. 52 (1840); Piano Concerto in A
Minor, op. 54 (1841-45); Overture to Die Braut von Messina, op.
100 (1850-51); Incidental music to Manfred, including famous over-
ture, op. 115 (1848-49); Overture to Julius Caesar, op. 128 (1851);
Cello Concerto in A Minor, op. 129 (1850); Fantasy in C Major, for
violin and orchestra, op. 131 (1853); Introduction and Allegro, in
D Minor, for piano and orchestra, op. 134 (1853); Overture to Her-
mann und Dorothea, op. 136 (1851); Violin Concerto in D Minor
(1853).
Organ Music: Six Fugues on the Name of B.A.C.H., op. 60 (1845).
Piano Music: 2 Sonatas: No. 1, F-sharp Minor, op. 11 (1833-35);
No. 2, G Minor, op. 22 (1833-38).
Variations on Abegg, op. 1 (1830); Papillons, op. 2 (1832); Paga-
nini Etudes, two sets, op. 3, 10 (1832, 1833); 6 Intermezzi, op. 4
(1832); Impromptus on a Theme by Clara Wieck, op. 5 (1833);
Davidsbundlertanze, op. 6 (1837); Toccata in C Major, op. 7 (1832);
Carnaval, op. 9 (1834-35); Fantasiestucke? op. 12 (1837); Studes sym-
phoniques, op. 13 (1834); Kinderscenen, op. 15 (1838); Kreisleriana,
op. 16 (1838); Fantasy in C Major, op. 17 (1836); Arabeske in C
Major, op. 18 (1839); Blumenstuck, in D-flat Major, op. 19 (1839);
Humoreske in B-flat Major, op. 20 (1839); 8 Novelletteny op. 21
(1838); 4 Nachtstiickey op. 23 (1839); Faschingsschwank aus Wien,
op. 26 (1839); 3 Romances, op. 28 (1839); 4 Clavierstucke, op. 32
(1838-39); Album fur die Jugend, op. 68 (1848); Waldscenen, op. 82
(1848-49); Bunte-Blatter, op. 99; Fantasiestucke, op. Ill (1851);
Albumblatter, op. 124 (1832-1845).
Vocal Music: Myrthen, op. 25 (1840); Gedichte aus Liebesfruh-
ling, op. 37 (1840); Liederkreis, op. 39 (1840); Frauenliebe und Leben,
op. 42 (1840); Dichterliebe, op. 48 (1840); Lieder und Gesdnge aus
Wilhelm Meister, op. 98a (1849).
Many individual songs for voice and piano including: Abendlied,
op. 107, No. 6 (1851-52); Alte Laute, op. 35, No. 12 (1840); Auftrage,
op. 77, No. 5 (1841-50); Die beiden Grenadiere, op. 49, No. 1 (1840);
Die Kartenlegerin,. op. 31, No. 2 (1840); O ihr Herreny op. 37, No.
3 (1840); Wanderlied, op. 35, No. 3 (1840).
Vocal duets, vocal trios, vocal quartets.
524
PBINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
FREDERIC CHOPIN
Chamber Music: Introduction and Polonaise, for cello and piano,
op. 3 (1829-30); Piano Trio in G Minor, op. 8 (1828-29); Cello
Sonata in G Minor, op. 65 (1845-46).
Orchestral Music: 2 piano concertos: No. 1, E Minor, op. 11 (1830);
No. 2, F Minor, op. 21 (1829).
Variations on "La ci darem" -from Mozart's Don Giovanni, op. 2
(1827); Andante spianato and Grande Polonaise briUiante, in E-flat
for piano and orchestra, op. 22 (1830-31).
Piano Music: Ballades, op. 23 (1835), op. 38 (1839), op. 47 (1841),
op. 52 (1842); Barcarolle in F-sharp Minor, op. 60 (1846); Berceuse
in D-flat, op. 57 (1843); Bolero in C Major, op. 19 (1834); Ecossaises,
op. 72 (1826); Etudes, op, 10 (1829-1832), op. 25 (1832-36); Fan-
taisie in F Minor, op. 49 (1840-41); Impromptus, op. 29 (1837); op.
36 (1839), op. 51 (1842), op. 66 (1842); Mazurkas, op. 6 (1830-31),
op. 7 (1830-31), op. 17 (1832-33), op. 24 (1834-35), op. 30 (1836-37),
op. 33 (1837-38), op. 41 (1839), op. 50 (1841), op. 56 (1843), op. 59
(1845), op. 63 (1846), op. 67 (1855), op. 68 (1849); Nocturnes, op. 9
(1880-81), op. 15 (1830-31), op. 27 (1834-35), op. 32 (1836-37), op.
37 (1838), op. 48 (1841), op. 55 (1843), op. 62 (1846), op. 72 (1827);
Polonaises, op. 26 (1834-35), op. 40 (1838-39), op. 44 (1840-41), op.
53 (1842), op. 61 (1845-46), op. 71 (1829); Preludes, op. 28 (1836-
39), op. 45 (1841); Rondo in E-flat, op. 16 (1832); Rondo in C Major,
for two pianos, op. 73 (1828); Scherzos, op. 20 (1831-32), op. 31
(1837), op. 39 (1839), op. 54 (1842).
3 sonatas: No. 1, C Minor, op. 4 (1827); No. 2, B-flat Minor, with
the Funeral March, op. 35 (1839); No. 3, B Minor (1844).
Tarantelle in A-flat, op. 43 (1841); Waltzes, op. 18 (1831), op. 34
(1838), op. 42 (1840), op. 64 (1846-47), op. 69 (1835), op. 70 (1829-
1835); Variations brilliantes, op. 12 (1833); Variations in F Major,
for piano duet (1826).
Vocal Music: 17 Polish songs (1829-31).
525
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
CESAR FRANCK
Chamber Music: Piano Quintet in F Minor (1878-79); Violin
Sonata in A Major (1886); String Quartet in D Major (1889).
Choral Music: Ruth (1843-46); Ave Maria (1863); Les Beatitudes
(1869-1879); Trois Offertoires (1871); Redemption (1871-72, revised
1874); Psyche (1886-88); Psalm CL (1888).
Operas: Le Valet de ferme (1851-52); Hulda (1882-85); Ghisele
(1888-90).
Orchestral Music: Ce quon entend sur la montagne (c. 1846);
Les Bolides (1875-76); Le Chasseur maudit (1882); Les Djinns,
for piano and orchestra (1884); Variations symphoniques, for piano
and orchestra (1885); Symphony in D Minor (1886-88).
Organ Music: Six Pieces pour grand orgue (1860-62); 44 Petites
Pieces (1863); Trois Pieces pour grand orgue (1878); L'Organiste,
55 pieces for harmonium (1889-90); Trois Chorals (1890).
Piano Music: Prelude, choral et fugue (1884); Danse lente (1885);
Prelude, aria, et final (1886-87).
Vocal Music: Individual songs for voice and piano including: Le
Manage des roses (1871); Nocturne (1884). Six vocal duets (1888),
CHARLES GOUNOD
Chamber Music: 3 string quartets; piano quintet (c. 1841); Petite
symphonic, for winds (1888).
Choral Music: Requiem (1873); La Redemption (1881); Mors et
Vita (1884); Te Deum (1886); La Contemplation de Saint Frangois
an pied de la croix (1890); Messe breve (1890); Tantum Ergo (1892);
Masses, motets, Stabat Maters, psalms.
Operas: Sapho (1851); La Nonne sanglante (1854); Le Medecin
malgre lui (1858); Faust (1859); Philemon et Baucis (1860); La Co-
lombe (1860); La Reine de Saba (1862); Mireille (1864); RomSo et
Juliette (1867); Cinq-Mars (1877); Polyeucte (1878); Le Tribut de
Zamora (1881).
Orchestral Music: 2 symphonies (1855); Saltarello (1871); Marche
romaine (1872); Marche fundbre d'une marionette (1873); Marche
526
PKINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
religieuse (1878); Les Rendezvous, waltzes for piano and orchestra
(1887).
Piano Music: 8 Melodies (1864); 5 Romances sans paroles; wed-
ding marches, valses, pieces.
Vocal Music: Italian songs (1872-73); English songs (1873); Quinze
melodies enfantines (1878).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: Au printemps
(1865); Aoe Maria (1859); Ou voulez-vous allerp (c. 1855); Serenade
(1855).
Vocal duets.
JULES MASSENET
Ballets: Le Carillon (1892); La Cigale (1904); Espada (1908).
Choral Music: Marie-Magdeleine (1873); £ve (1875); La Terre
promise (1900).
Operas: About 25 operas including: Le Roi de Lahore (1877);
Herodiade (1881); Manon (1884); Le Cid (1885); Werther (1892);
Thais (1894); Sapho (1897); Cendrillon (1899); Griselidis (1901); Le
Jongleur de Notre Dame (1902); Don Quichotte (1910); Cleopdtre
(1914).
Orchestral Music: Incidental music to numerous plays by Leconte
de Lisle, Hugo, Sardou, Racine and others including: Les Erynnies
(1873) which embraces the popular "Elegie"; Notre Dame de Paris
(1879); Ptedre (1900).
7 suites including: Scenes pittoresques (1874); Scenes alsaciennes
(1881).
3 concert overtures including Phedre (1873).
Visions (1890); Marche solennelle (1897); Fantaisie, for cello and
orchestra (1897); piano concerto (1903).
FRANZ LISZT
Choral Music: Grand Festmesse (1855); Christus (1855-59); Die
Legende von der heiligen Elisabeth (1857-62); Requiem (1867-68);
557
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Die heilige Cacilia (1874); Via Crucis (1878-79); Psalms, Pater Nos-
ters, Te Deums, responses and antiphons, chorales.
Orchestral Music: 12 tone poems including: Tasso (1849); Mazeppa
(1851); Orpheus (1853-54); Les Preludes (1854); Hungaria (1854)
and Hamlet (1858).
2 piano concertos: No. 1, E-flat Major (1849); No. 2, A Major
(1839, subsequently revised several times).
Totentanz, for piano and orchestra (1849); Hungarian Fantasy, for
piano and orchestra (1852); A Faust Symphony (1854-57); Dante
Symphony (1855-56); Two Episodes from Lenaus Faust (I860);
Second Mephisto Waltz (1880-81).
Organ Music: Fantasie and Fugue on the Chorale "Ad Nos, ad
salutarem undam (1850); Prelude and Fugue on the Name BA.C.PI.
(1855-56); Evocation in the Sistine Chapel, based on Mozart's Aue
Verum (c. 1862); Requiem (1883); Am Grabe Richard Wagners
(1883); Ztoei Vortragstucke (1884).
Piano Music: 19 Hungarian rhapsodies (1846-1885) including:
No. 2, C-sharp Minor; No. 9, E-flat Major, Carnaval de Pesth; No.
12, C-sharp Minor; No. 13, A Minor, also for piano and orchestra
as Hungarian Fantasy; No. 15, A Minor, Rakticzy March.
Annees de pdlerinage, three series (1835-36, 1838-39, 1877).
3 Liebestraume, including popular one in A-flat Major (1850).
2 concert etudes (1862): I. Waldesrauschen; II. Gnomenreigan.
2 legends (1863): I. St. Frangois d'Assise, La Prediction aux
oiseaux; II. St. Frangois de Paule marchant sur les flots.
Album dun voyageur (1835-36); Paganini Etudes (1838); Har-
monies po6tiques et religieuses (1847-1852); Consolations (1849-
1850); Etudes d'exfoution transcendante (1851); Sonata in B Minor
(1852-53); Weihnachtsbaum (1874-76); Nuages gris (1881); La
lugubre gondole (1882); Sinistre (c. 1882); Albumblatter, ballades,
caprices, Landler, mazurkas, and numerous transcriptions.
Vocal Music: Numerous songs for voice and piano including:
Einst (1878); Enfant, si f6tais roi (1844); Es muss ein wunderbares
sein (1857); Ein Fichtenbaum (1855); Gebet (c. 1878); Ich mochte
hingehn (1845); Ich scheide (1860); Tai perdu ma force (1872);
Kennst du das Land? (1842); Kling leise (1848); Konig in Thuk
(1842); Sei still (1877); Verlassen (1880).
528
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE CHEAT COMPOSERS
RICHARD WAGNER
Operas: Die Feen (1833-34); Das Liebesverbot (1835-36); Rienzi
(1838-40); Der fliegende Hollander (1841); Tannhauser (1843-44);
Lohengrin (1846-48); Der Ring des Nibelungen: I. Das Rheingold
(1853-54), II. Die Walkure (1854-56), III. Siegfried (1869-74), IV.
Gotterdammerung (1869-74); Tristan und Isolde (1857-59); Die
Meistersinger von Niirnberg (1862-67); Parsifal (1877-82).
Orchestral Music: Symphony in C Major (1832); Eine Faust Ouver-
tiire (1840); Huldigungsmarsch (1864); Siegfried Idyll (1870); Kaiser-
marsch (1871).
Piano Music: 2 sonatas (1829, 1831); Lied ohne Worte (1840);
Album-Sonata in E-flat Major (1853); 3 Albumbldtter (1861).
Vocal Music: 5 Gedichte von MathUde Wesendonk: I. Der Engel
(1857); II. Stehe still (1858); III. Im Treibhaus (1858); IV. Schmer-
zen (1857); V. Traume (1857).
Other songs for voice and piano; vocal duets.
JOHANNES BRAHMS
Chamber Music: 3 piano quartets; No. 1, G Minor, op. 25 (1861);
No 2 A Major, op. 26 (1862); No. 3, C Minor, op. 60 (1874).
3 string quartets: No. 1, C Minor, op. 51, No. 1 (1873); No. 2, A
Minor, op. 51, No. 2 (1873); No. 3, B-flat Major, op. 67 (c. 1875).
3 piano trios: No. 1, B Major, op. 8 (1853-54, revised 1890); No.
2 E-flat Major, op. 40 (1865); No. 3, C Major, op. 87 (1882).
3 violin sonatas: No. 1, G Major, Rain, op. 78 (1879); No. 2, A
Major, Thun, op. 100 (1886); No. 3, D Minor, op. 108 (1886-88).
2 string sextets: No. 1, B-flat Major, op. 18 (1859-60); No. 2, G
Major, op. 36 (1865).
2 string quintets: No. 1, F Major, op. 88 (1882); No. 2, G Major,
op. Ill (c. 1890).
2 ceUo sonatas: No. 1, E Minor, op. 38 (1862-63); No. 2, F Major,
op. 99 (1886).
2 clarinet (or viola) sonatas, op. 120 (1894): No. 1, F Minor; No.
2, E-flat Major.
529
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Piano Quintet in F Minor, op. 34 (1864); Clarinet Trio in A Minor,
op. 114 (1891); Clarinet Quintet, in B Minor, op. 115 (1891).
Choral Music: Em deutsches Requiem, op. 45 (1857-68); Rinaldo,
op. 50 (1863-68); Alto Rhapsody, op. 53 (1869); Schicksalied, op!
54 (1868-71); Triumphlied, op. 55 (1870-71); Gesang der Parzen,
op. 89 (1882); sacred choruses, motets, part songs, romances, psalms,
canons.
Orchestral Music: 4 symphonies: No. 1, C Minor, op. 68 (1876);
No. 2, D Major, op. 73 (1877); No. 3, F Major, op. 90 (1883); No. 4,
E Minor, op. 98 (1885).
2 serenades: No. 1, D Major, op. 11 (1857-58); No. 2, A Major, op.
16 (1859, revised 1875).
2 piano concertos: No. 1, D Minor, op. 15 (1854-58); No. 2, B-flat
Major, op. 83 (1881).
Variations on a Theme by Haydn, op. 56a, also for two solo
pianos (1873); Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 77 (1878); Akadem-
isches Festouverture, op. 80 (1880); Tragische Ouuertiire, op. 81
(1880); Double Concerto, for cello and violin and orchestra, op. 102
(1887); Hungarian Dances, Nos. 1, 3, and 10, also for piano duet.
Organ Music: 11 Chorale Preludes, op. 122 (1896); preludes and
fugues.
Piano Music: Ballades, op. 10 (1854), op. 118 (1893); Capriccios,
op. 76 (1878), op. 116 (1891-92); Hungarian Dances, four sets, for
piano duet (1858-80); Intermezzi, op. 76 (1878), op. 116 (1891-92),
op. 117 (1892), op. 118 (1893), op. 119 (1893); Rhapsodies, op. 79
(1879), op. 119 (1893).
3 sonatas: No. 1, C Major, op. 1 (1852-53); No. 2, F-sharp Minor,
op. 2 (1852); No. 3, F Minor, op. 5 (1853).
Variations on a Theme by Handel, op. 24 (1861); Variations on a
Theme by Paganini, op. 33 (1862-63); Waltzes, for piano duet, op.
39 (1865).
Vocal Music: 16 Romances from Magelone, op. 33 (1861-68);
Liebeslieder Waltzes, for vocal quartet and piano duet, op. 52a
(1868-69); Neue Liebeslieder Waltzes, for vocal quartet and piano
duet, op. 65a (1874); Zigeuenerlieder, for vocal quartet and piano,
op. 103 (1887); Vier ernste Gesange, op. 121 (1896).
Numerous individual songs for voice and piano including: Am
530
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Sonntag Morgen, op. 49, No. 1 (c. 1868); An die Nachtigall, op. 46,
No. 4 (c. 1868); Auf dem Kirchhofe, op. 105, No. 4 (c. 1886); Die
Botschaft, op. 47, No. 1 (c. 1868); Feldeinsamkeit, op. 86, No. 2
(1877-78); Der Gang zum Liebchen, op. 48, No. 1 (c. 1868); Gestillte
Sehnsucht, op. 91, No. 1 (c. 1884); Immerleiserwirdmein Schlummer,
op. 105, No. 2 (c. 1886); DerJager, op. 95, No. 4 (1884); Die Mainacht,
op. 43, No. 2 (c. 1868); Nicht mehr zu dir zu gehen, op. 32, No. 2
(c. 1864); O wusst ich doch den Weg zuruck, op. 63, No. 18 (1873-
74); Sappische Ode, op. 94, No. 4 (1884); Der Schmied, op. 19, No.
4 (1858-59) Sonntag, op. 47, No. 3 (c. 1868); Standchen, op. 106,
No. 1 (c. 1886); Der Tod das ist die kiihle Nacht, op. 96, No. 1
(c. 1884); Vergebliches Standchen, op. 84, No. 4 (c. 1878); Von ewiger
Liebe, op. 43, No. 1 (c. 1866) Wie bist du, meine Konigen, op. 32,
No. 9 (c. 1864); Wiegenlied, op. 49, No. 1 (c. 1868).
Canons, vocal duets, vocal quartets, arrangements and settings of
folk songs.
BEDRICH SMETANA
Chamber Music: 2 string quartets: No. 1, E Minor, Aus meinem
Leben (1876); No. 2, D Minor (1882).
Piano Trio in G Minor (1855); two pieces, for violin and piano
(1878).
Choral Music: Three Horsemen (1863); The Farmer (1868); Czech
Song (1868, revised 1878); Festive Chorus (1870); Sea Song (1877);
Prayer (1880); Our Song (1883).
Operas: The Brandenburgers in Bohemia (1862-63); The Bartered
Bride (1863-66); Dalibor (1865-67); LibuSa (1869-1872); Two
Widows (1873); The Kiss (1875-76); The Secret (1877-78); The
Devil's Wall (1879-1882).
Orchestral Music: Richard III (1858); Wallensteins Lager (1858-
59); Haakon Jarl (1860-61); Solemn Prelude (1868).
Md Vlast, a cycle of six tone poems (1874-79): I. Vysehrad; II.
Vltava, or The Moldau; III. Sdrka; IV. From the Fields and Groves
of Bohemia; V. Tabor; VI. Blanik.
The Prague Carnival (1883).
531
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Piano Music: Six Characteristic Pieces, two books (1848); Sonata
in One Movement (1849); Memories of Bohemia, two books (1861);
Dreams (1875); Czech Dances (1877-78); Bagatelles, impromptus,
polkas, waltzes.
Vocal Music: The Song of Liberty (1848); Evening Songs (1879).
ANTONIN DVORAK
Chamber Music: 13 string quartets, including Quartet in F Major,
American, op. 96 (1893); 4 piano trios, including Dumky Trio, op. 90
(1891); 3 string quintets, including Quintet in E»flat Major, op, 97
(1893); 2 piano quintets, including Quintet in A Major, op. 81 (1887).
String Sextet in A Major, op. 48 (1878); Violin Sonata in F Major,
op. 57 (1880); Four Romantic Pieces, for violin and piano, op. 75
(1887); Violin Sonatina in G Major, op. 100 (1893).
Choral Music: Stabat Mater, op. 58 (1877); Amid Nature, op. 63
(1882); The Spectre's Bride, op. 69 (1884); S*. Ludmilla, op. 71
(1886); Mass in D Major, op. 86 (1887); Requiem, op. 89 (1890); The
American Flag, op. 102 (1893); Te Deum, op. 103 (1892); Slavic folk
songs, part songs, choral songs.
Operas: King Alfred (1870); The King and the Collier, op. 14
(1871, revised 1874, 1887); The Pigheaded Peasants, op. 17 (1874);
Vanda (1875); The Cunning Peasant, op. 37 (1877); Dimitrij, op. 64
(1881-82, revised 1883, 1894); The Devil and Kate, op, 112 (1898-
99); Rusalka, op. 114 (1900); Armida, op. 115 (1902-3).
Orchestral Music: 7 published symphonies including: No. 1, D
Major, op. 60 (1880); No. 4, G Major, op. 88 (1889); No. 5, E minor,
From the New World, op. 95 (1893).
Piano Concerto in G Minor, op. 33 (1876); 3 Slavonic Rhapsodies,
op. 45 (1878); Slavonic Dances, two series, also for piano duet, opp.
46, 72 (1878, 1886); Violin Concerto in A Minor, op. 53 (1880); 10
Legends, op. 59, also for piano duet (1881); My Home, op. 62 (1881);
Scherzo capriccioso, op. 66 (1883); Symphonic Variations, op. 78
(1877); Nature, Life and Love, three overtures, opp. 91-93 (1891-
92): I. In Nature's Realm, II. Carnival, III. Othello. Cello Concerto
in B Minor, op. 104 (1895).
532
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
4 tone poems based on ballads by K. J. Erben, opp. 107-10 (1896):
I. The Water Sprite; II. The Midday Witch; III. The Golden Spin-
ning Wheel; IV. The Wood Dove.
Heroic Song, op. Ill (1897).
Piano Music: Silhouettes, op. 8 (1879); Theme and Variations in
A-flat, op. 36 (1876); From the Bohemian Forest, for piano duet, op.
68 (1884); Poetic Pictures, op. 85 (1889); Suite in A Major, Ameri-
can, op. 98 (1894); 8 Humoresques, op. 101 (1894); Dumky, waltzes,
mazurka.
Vocal Music: Evening Songs, op. 3, 31 (1876); Four Serbian
Songs, op. 6 (1872); Three Sacred Duets, op. 19 (1879); Moravian
Duets, op. 32 (1876); Gypsy Songs, op. 55 (1880), including "Songs
My Mother Taught Me"; Biblical Songs, op. 99 (1894).
PETER ILITCH TCHAIKOVSKY
Ballets: Swan Lake, op. 20 (1875-76); The Sleeping Beauty, op.
66 (1888-89); The Nutcracker, or Casse-Noisette, op. 71 (1891-92).
Chamber Music: 3 string quartets including, Quartet in D Major,
op. 11 (1871) with the famous Andante Cantabile; Souvenir (fun lieu
cher, for violin and piano, op. 42 (1878), with the famous Melody
in E-flat; Piano Trio in A Minor, op. 50 (1881-82); Souvenir de
Florence, string sextet, op. 70 (1887-90, revised 1891-92).
Choral Music: Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, op. 41 (1878);
Vesper Service, op. 52 (1881-82); Sir Church Songs (1885); Cantatas,
Choral Pieces.
Operas: The Voyevode, op. 3 (1867-68); Undine (1869); The Op-
richnik (1870-72); Vakula the Smith, op. 14 (1874, revised 1885);
Eugene Onegin, op. 24 (1877-78); The Maid of Orleans (1878-79,
revised 1882); Mazeppa (1881-83); The Sorceress (1885-87); Pique
Dame, or The Queen of Spades, op. 68 (1890); lolanthe, op. 69
(1891).
Orchestral Music: 6 symphonies: No. 1, G Minor, Winter Dreams,
op. 13 (1866, revised 1874); No. 2, C Minor, Little Russian op. 17
(1872, revised 1879); No. 3, D Major, op. 29 (1875); No. 4, F Minor,
533
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
op. 36 (1877); No. 5, E Minor, op. 64 (1888); No. 6, B Minor, "Pathe-
tique" op. 74 (1893).
4 suites: No. 1, D Minor, op. 43 (1878-79); No. 2, C Major, op. 53
(1883); No. 3, G Major, op. 55 (1884); No. 4, MozartianaJ op. 61
(1887).
3 piano concertos including No. 1, B-flat Minor, op. 23 (1874-75),
Tempest, op. 18 (1873); Romeo and Juliet (1869, revised 1870,
1880); Swan Lake Suite, op. 20 (1876); Serenade melancolique, for
violin and orchestra, op. 26 (1875); Marche slave, op. 31 (1876);
Francesca da Rimini, op. 32 (1876); Variations on a Rococo Theme,
for cello and orchestra, op. 33 (1876); Violin Concerto in D Major,
op. 35 (1878); Capriccio italien, op. 45 (1880); Serenade in C, for'
strings, op. 48 (1880); Ouverture solennelle, 1812, op. 49 (1880);
Manfred, op. 58 (1885); Sleeping Beauty Suite, op. 66 (1889); Hamlet,
op. 67a (1888); Nutcracker Suite, op. 71a (1892).
Piano Music: Souvenir de Hapsal, op. 2 (1867), including Chant
sans paroles; The Months, op. 37b (1875-76); Children's Album, op.
39 (1878); Twelve Pieces of Moderate Difficulty, op. 40 (1876-78),
including Chanson triste; 18 Pieces, op. 72 (1893); Sonata in C-sharp
Minor, op. 80 (1865).
Vocal Music: 16 Children s Songs, op. 54 (1883); 6 French Songs,
op. 65 (1888).
Many individual songs for voice and piano including: "Again, as
Before, Alone," op. 73, No. 6 (1893); At the Ball, op. 38, No. 3 (1878);
Don Juans Serenade, op. 38, No. 1 (1878); I Bless Jon Forests, op.
47, No. 5 (1880); It Was in Early Spring, op. 38, No. 2 (1878); None
But the Lonely Heart, op. 6, No. 6 (1869); Only Thou, op. 57, No. 6
(1886); Pimpinella, op. 38, No. 6 (1878); Why?, op. 6, No. 5 (1869),
Vocal duets.
MODEST MUSSORGSKY
Choral Music: Shamil's March (1859); The Destruction of Senna-
cherib (1867, revised 1874); Joshua (1874-77); 3 Vocalises (1880); 5
Russian Folksongs (1880).
Operas: Salammbd, unfinished (1863-66); The Marriage, first act
534
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
only (1868); Boris Godunov (1868-69, revised 1871-72); Khovan-
china, unfinished (1872-80); The Fair at Sorochinsk, unfinished
(1874-80).
Orchestral Music: A Night on Bald Mountain (1867); Intermezzo
symphonique in modo classico (1867); Triumphal March (1880).
Piano Music: From Memories of Childhood (1865); Duma (1865);
La Capricieuse (1865); The Seamstress (1871); Pictures at an Ex-
hibition (1874); On the Southern Shore of Crimea (1880); Album
Leaf (1880); Une Larme (1880).
Vocal Music: The Nursery (1868); Sunless (1874); Songs and
Dances of Death (1875-77).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: Forgotten (1874);
Hopak (1866); Night (1864); Savishna (1866); The Magpie (1864);
The Peep Show (1872); Song of the Flea (1879); Song of the Old
Man (1863).
NIKOLAI RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
Chamber Music: 3 string quartets (1875, 1879, 1897); String Sex-
tet in A Major (1876); Piano Trio in C Minor (1897); Serenade, for
cello and piano, op. 37 (1903).
Choral Music: 4 Variations and Fughetta on a Russian Folksong,
op. 14 (1875); 15 Hussion Folksongs, op. 19 (1879); Dragon-Flies, op.
53 (1897); Switezianka, op. 44 (1897); Song of Oleg the Wise, op. 58
(1899); Dubinushka, op. 61 (1905-6); Three-Part Choruses.
Operas: The Maid of Pskov (1868-72, revised 1877, 1891); May
Night (1877-79); Snegourchka, or Snow Maiden (1880-81); Mlada
(1889-90); Christmas Eve (1894-95); Sadko (1894-96); Mozart and
Salieri, op. 48 (1897); The Tsar's Bride (1898); The Tale of Tsar
Saltan (1898-1900); Kastchei the Immortal (1901-2); Pan Voye-
voda (1902-3); The Invisible City of Kitezh (1903-5); Le Coq dor
(1906-7).
Orchestral Music: 3 symphonies: No. 1, E-flat Minor, op. 1 (1861-
65); No. 2, Antar, op. 9 (1868); No. 3, C Major, op. 32 (1866-73).
Sadko, op. 5 (1867); Fantasia on Serbian Themes, op. 6 (1867);
Overture on Russian Themes, op. 28 (1866); Piano Concerto in C-
535
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
sharp Minor, op. 30 (1882-83); Sinfonietta on Russian Themes, op.
31 (1879); Fantasy on Russian Themes, for violin and orchestra,
op. 33 (1886); Capriccio espagnol, op. 34 (1887); Scheherazade, op.
35 (1888); Russian Easter Overture, or Grande pdque russe, op. 36
(1888); 2 Ariosos for Bass and Orchestra, op. 49 (1897); 2 Songs for
Soprano and Orchestra, op. 56 (1898); Suites from Le Coq dor,
Mlada, Christmas Eve.
Piano Music: 6 Variations on the Theme of B.A.C.H., op. 10
(1878); various pieces, fugues, variations.
Vocal Mujic: In Spring, op. 43 (1897); To the Poet, op. 45 (1897-
99); By the Sea, op. 46 (1897).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: It Is Not the
Wind, op. 43, No. 2 (1897); The Rose and the Nightingale, op. 2, No.
2 (1865).
EDVARD GRIEG
Chamber Music: 3 violin sonatas: No. 1, F Major, op. 8 (1865);
No. 2, G Minor, op. 13 (1867); No. 3, C Minor, op. 45 (1886-87).
String Quartet in G Minor, op. 27 (1877-78); Cello Sonata in A
Minor, op. 36 (1883).
Choral Music: At a Southern Convent's Gate, op. 20 (1871); Al-
bum, op. 30 (1877); Landsighting, op. 31 (1872); Four Psalms, op. 74
(1906).
Orchestral Music: In Autumn, op. 11 (1865, revised 1888); Piano
Concerto in A Minor, op. 16 (1868); Two Elegiac Melodies, for
strings, op. 34 (c. 1880); Norwegian Dances, op. 35 (1881), also for
piano duet; Holberg Suite, for strings, op. 40 (1884-85), also for
piano solo; Peer Gynt, two suites, op. 46, 55 (1876); Sigurd Jorsal-
far Suite, op, 56 (1872, revised 1892); Two Norwegian Melodies,
op. 63 (1894-95); Symphonic Dances, op. 64 (1898); Lyric Suite
(1891).
Piano Music: Lyric Suite, ten volumes, opp. 12, 38, 43, 47, 54, 57,
62, 65, 68, 71 (1867-1901).
Humoresque, op. 6 (1865); Sonata in E Minor, op. 7 (1865); Nor-
wegian Dances and Songs, op. 17 (1870); Scenes from Peasant Life,
536
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
op. 19 (1872); Ballade, op, 24 (1875); Album Leaves, op. 28, (1875);
Improvisations on Norwegian Folk Songs, op. 29 (1878); Norwegian
Folk Melodies, op. 66 (1896); Norwegian Peasant Dances, op. 72
(1902); Moods, op. 73 (1906).
Vocal Music: German Songs, opp. 2, 4, 48 (1862, 1863-64, 1889);
Danish Songs, opp. 5, 10 (1862-64); From Mountain and Fjord, op.
44 (1886); Norway, op. 58 (1894); Elegiac Poems, op. 59 (1894);
Children s Songs, op. 61 (1894-95); Haugtussa, op. 67 (1896-98).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: A Dream, op. 48,
No. 6 (1889); Eros, op. 70, No. 1 (1900); I Love Thee, op. 5, No. 3
(1864); Spring, op. 33, No. 2 (1880); A Swan, op. 25, No. 2 (1876);
While I Wait, op. 60, No. 3 (1894); The Wounded Heart, op. 33, No.
3 (1880).
GIUSEPPE VERDI
Chamber Music: String Quartet in E Minor (1873).
Choral Music: Inno alle nazione (1862); Manzoni Requiem (1874);
Pater Noster (1880); Ave Maria (1889); Stabat Mater (1898); Te
Deum (1898); Laudi alia Vergine Maria (1898); 2 secular cantatas.
Operas: About 30 operas including: Un giorno di regno (1840);
Nabucco (1842); I Lombardi (1843); Ernani (1844); Macbeth (1847);
Luisa Miller (1849); Rigoletto (1851); II Trovatore (1853); La Travi-
ata (1853); I Vespri siciliani, or Les Vdpres siciliennes (1855); Simon
Boccanegra (1857); Un Ballo in maschera (1859); La Forza del des-
tino (1862); Don Carlo (1867); Aida (1871); Otello (1887); Falstaf
(1893).
Vocal Music: Sei romanze (1838); Album di sei romanze (1845);
Ave Maria, for soprano and strings (1880); various individual songs
for voice and piano; vocal trio.
GIACOMO PUCCINI
Chamber Music: Scherzo, for string quartet (1880-83); String
Quartet in D Major (1880-83); Fugues, for string quartet (1883);
I Crisantemi, for string quartet (1889).
537
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Choral Music: I Figli dltalia bella (1877); Mass in A Major (1880).
Operas: Le Villi (1884); Edgar (1889); Manon Lescaut (1893); La
Boheme (1896); Tosca (1900); Madama Butterfly (1904); La Fanciulla
del West, or The Girl of the Golden West (1910); La Rondine (1917);
II Trittico (1918): I. II Tabarro, II. Suor Angelica, III, Gianni Schic-
chi; Turandot (completed by Franco Alfano after Puccini's death).
Vocal Music: Several songs for voice and piano.
ANTON BRUCKNER
Chamber Music: Aequali, for three trombones (1847); Abend-
klange, for violin and piano (1866); String Quintet in F Major (1878-
79); intermezzo, for string quintet (1879).
Choral Music: Requiem in D Minor (1848-49, revised 1854, 1894);
Missa Solemnis (1854); Mass in D Minor (1864, revised 1876, 1881-
82); Mass in E Minor (1866, revised 1885); Mass in F Minor, Grosse
messe (1867-68, revised 1871, 1890); Te Deum in C Major (1881-
84) Ave Marias, cantatas, chorales, choruses for male voices, grad-
uals, offertories, Psalms.
Orchestral Music: 9 symphonies including: No. 3, D Minor, "Wag-
ner (1873, revised 1876-77, 1888); No. 4, E-flat Major, "Romantic"
(1874, revised 1878-80); No. 7, E Major (1881-83); No. 9, D Minor
(1887-96).
March in D Minor (1862); Three Pieces (1862); Overture in G
Minor (1862-63).
Organ Music: Preludes, pieces, fugue.
Piano Music: Three Pieces, for piano duet (1852-54); Klavier-
stuck in E-flat Major (c. 1856); Errinerung (1866); Fantasy in E-flat
Major (1868).
Vocal Music: Several songs for voice and piano.
GUSTAV MAHLER
Orchestral Music: 9 symphonies including: No. 1, D Major, Titan
(1888); No. 2, C Minor, Resurrection (1894); No. 4, G Major (1901);
No. 5, C-sharp Minor (1902); No. 7, E minor (1906); No. 8, E-flat
538
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
Major, Symphony of a Thousand Voices (1907); No. 9, D major (1910);
Symphony No. 10 (unfinished).
Das klagende Lied, for soprano, contralto, tenor, chorus and
orchestra (1880-99); Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen, for voice and
orchestra (1885); Kindertotenlieder, for voice and orchestra (1904);
Das Lied von der Erde, for contralto, tenor, and orchestra (1910).
Vocal Music: Lieder und Gesange aus der Jugendzeit (1882); Des
Knaben Wunderhorn (1888), also for voice and orchestra; Five Songs
to Poems by Riickert (1902); Revelge (c. 1909); Der Tambourgsell
(c. 1909).
HUGO WOLF
Chamber Music: String Quartet in D Minor (1878-84); Intermezzo
in E-flat Major, for string quartet (1886); Italienische Serenade,
also for orchestra (1887).
Choral Music: Compositions for unaccompanied male-voices; un-
accompanied mixed chorus, male-voices and orchestra, and mixed-
chorus and orchestra.
Operas: Der Corregidor (1896); Manuel Venegas (unfinished).
Orchestral Music: Penthesilea (1883-85).
Piano Music: Variations (1875); Rondo capriccioso in B-flat Major
(1876); Humoreske (1877); Aus der Kinderzeit (1878); Canon (1882).
Vocal Music: Sechs Lieder fur eine Frauenstimme (1888); Sechs
Gedichte von Scheffel, Moerike, Goethe und Kerner (1888); Moerike
Lieder (1889); Eichendorff Lieder (1889); Goethe Lieder (1890);
Spanisches Liederbuch (1891); Alte Weisen (1891); Italienisches
Liederbuch, two parts (1892, 1896); Drei Gedichte von Robert
Reinick (1897); Drei Gesange aus Ibsens Das Fest auf Solhaug
(1897); Vier Gedichte nach Heine, Shakespeare und Lord Byron
(1897); Drei Gedichte von Michelangelo (1898).
CAMILLE SAINT-SAENS
Ballet: Javotte (1896).
Chamber Music: 2 string quartets: No. 1, E Minor, op. 112 (1899);
No. 2, G Major, op. 153 (1919).
539
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
2 piano trios: No. 1, F Major, op. 18 (1869); No. 2, E Minor, op.
92 (1892).
2 violin sonatas; No. 1, D Minor, op. 75 (1885); No. 2, E-flat
Major, op. 102 (1896).
2 cello sonatas: No. 1, C Minor, op. 32 (1873); No. 2, F Major,
op. 123 (1905).
Various other sonatas for solo instruments and piano; Piano
Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 41 (1875); Romance in D Major, for
cello and piano, op. 51 (1877); Septet, for trumpet, strings and
piano, op. 65 (1881); Havanaise, for violin and piano, op. 83; Trip-
tyque, for violin and piano, op. 136 (1912); Megie, for violin and
piano, op. 143 (1915).
Choral Music: Messe solennelle, op. 4 (1856); Psalm 18, op. 42
(1865); Le Deluge, op. 45 (1876); Requiem, op. 54 (1878); La Lyre
et la harpe, op. 57 (1879); La feu celetfe, op. 115 (1900); La Gkire,
op. 131; Le Printemps, op. 165; canticles, motets, other Psalms,
Operas: 12 operas including: La Princess jaune, op. 30 (1872);
Samson et Dalila, op. 47 (1877); Henry VIII (1883); Ascanio (1890);
Phryne (1893); L'Ancetre (1906); Dejanire (1911).
Orchestral Music: 3 symphonies: No. 1, E-flat Major, op. 2 (1855);
No. 2, A Minor, op. 55 (1878); No. 3, C Minor, with organ and two
pianos, op. 78 (1886).
5 piano concertos: No. 1, D Major, op. 17 (1858); No. 2, G Minor,
op. 22 (1868); No. 3, E-flat Major, op. 29 (1869); No. 4, C Minor, op.
44 (1875); No. 5, F Major, op. 103 (1895).
3 violin concertos: No. 1, A Minor, op. 20 (1859); No. 2, C Major,
op. 58 (1879); No. 3, B Minor, op. 61 (1880).
2 cello concertos: No. 1, A Minor, op. 33 (1873); No. 2, D Minor,
op. 119 (1902).
Le Rouet d'Omphale, op. 31 (1871); Marche heroique, op. 34
(1871); 3 Romances for solo instruments and orchestra, opp. 36, 37,
48 (1874, 1876); Phaeton, op. 39 (1873); Dame macabre, op. 40
(1874); Suite, op. 49 (1877); La Jeunesse tfHercule, op. 50 (1877);
Suite Algerienne, op. 60 (1879); Une Nuit a Lisbonne, op. 63 (1881);
Jota aragonesa, op. 64 (1881); Rapsodie dauuergne, for piano and
orchestra, op. 73 (1884); Le Carnaval des animaux, for two pianos
and orchestra (1886); La Fiancee du timbalier, for mezzo-soprano
540
PRINCIPAL WORKS OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS
and orchestra, op. 82 (1887); Sarabande et rigaudon, for strings, op.
93 (1892); Pallas Athene, for soprano and orchestra, op. 98 (1894);
Lola, for soprano and orchestra, op. 116 (1900); Ouverture de fete,
op. 133 (1910).
Incidental music to various plays including: Andromque (1903);
On ne badine pas auec I' amour (1917).
Organ Music: Fantasies, improvisations, preludes and fugues.
Piano Music: Variations on a Theme by Beethoven, for two pianos,
op. 35 (1874); Album, op. 72 (1884); Suite, op. 90 (1892); Theme
varie, op. 97 (1894); Valse mignonne, op. 104; Caprice hero'ique,
for two pianos, op. 106 (1897); 6 Etudes, for left hand, op. 135
(1912); Feuillet d'album, op. 169 (1921); Bagatelles, etudes, ma-
zurkas.
Vocal Music: Melodies persanes, op. 26 (1870); La Cendre rouge,
op. 146 (1915).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: La Bonheur est
un chose legere, La Cloche, Danse macabre, and La Pas d'armes.
Vocal duets, vocal quartets.
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
Ballets: Jeux (1912); Khamma (1912); La Boite a joujoux (1913).
Chamber Music: String quartet in G Minor (1893); Rapsodie, for
saxophone and piano (1903-5); Rapsodie, for clarinet and piano, also
clarinet and orchestra (1909-10); Cello Sonata (1915); Flute, Viola,
and Harp Sonata (1916); Violin Sonata (1916-17).
Choral Music: L' Enfant prodigue (1884); La Damoiselle elue
(1887-88); Trois chansons de Charles d'Orleans (1908).
Opera: Pelleas et Melisande (1902).
Orchestral Music: Printemps (1887); Fantaisie, for piano and
orchestra (1889); L'Apres midi d'un faun (1892-94); Nocturnes
(1893-99): I. Nuages, II. FStes, III. Sirenes; La Mer (1903-5); Danse
sacree et danse profane, for harp and strings (1904); Images
(1906-9): I. Gigues, II. Iberia, III. Rondes de printemps; Incidental
music to Le Martyre de Saint-Sebastien (1911).
Piano Music: Deux Arabesques (1888); Petite suite, for piano duet
541
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
(1888); Ballade (1890); Suite bergamasque, including Claire de
lune (1890-95); Pour le piano (1896-1901); Estampes (1903); L'Isle
joyeuse (1904); Masques (1904); Images, two sets (1905, 1907); Chil-
dren's Corner (1906-8); La plus que lente, also for orchestra (1910);
24 preludes, two books (1910-13); 24 etudes, two books (1915); Six
Epigraphes antiques, for piano duet (1915); En blanc et noir, for
two pianos (1915).
Vocal Music: Cinq poemes de Baudelaire (1887-89); Ariettes
oubliees (1888); Deux Romances (1891); Trois Melodies (1891); Fetes
galantes, two sets (1892, 1904); Proses lyriques (1892-93); Chansons
de Bilitis (1897); Trois Chansons de France (1904); Le Promenoir
des deux amants (1904-10); Trois Ballades de Francois Villon (1910);
Trois Poemes de Stephane Mallarme (1913).
Individual songs for voice and piano including: U Angelas (1891);
Beau soir (1878); Les Cloches (1887); Mandoline (1880); Noel des
enfants qui nont pas de maisons (1915); Romance (1887); Void que
le printemps (1887).
542
APPENDIX II
A Select Bibliography in English
COLLECTIVE BIOGRAPHIES
Bacharach, A. L. (editor): The Music Masters. Four volumes. Lon-
don. Pelican. 1942, 1957.
Blom, Eric. Some Composers of Opera. London. Oxford. 1952,
Blom, Eric. Some Great Composers. London. Oxford. 1944.
Brockway, Wallace, and Weinstock, Herbert. Men of Music. Sec-
ond revised edition. New York. Simon and Schuster. 1950.
Calvocoressi, M. D., and Abraham, Gerald. Masters of Russian
Music. New York. Knopf. 1936.
Cardus, Neville. A Composer's Eleven. London. Jonathan Cape.
1958.
Ewen, David. Composers of Yesterday. New York. H. W. Wilson.
1937.
Ewen, David, and Cross, Milton. Encyclopedia of Great Com-
posers. Revised edition. New York. Doubleday. 1962.
Foss, Hubert (editor). The Heritage of Music. Two volumes. Lon-
don. Oxford. 1927, 1951.
Horton, John. Some Nineteenth Century Composers. London.
Oxford. 1950.
Leonard, Richard Anthony. The Stream of Music. New York.
Doubleday. 1946.
Mason, Daniel Gregory. Beethoven and His Forerunners. Revised
edition. New York. Macmillan. 1940.
Mason, Daniel Gregory. The Romantic Composers. New York.
Macmillan. 1930.
Mason, Daniel Gregory. From Grieg to Brahms. New York. Mac-
millan. 1927.
543
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Parry, C. Hubert. Studies of Great Composers. New York. Button,
Date unknown.
Holland, Romain. Musicians of Today. New York. Holt. 1915.
Holland, Romain. Some Musicians of Former Days. New York.
Holt. 1915.
Zoff, Otto (editor). Great Composers Through the Eyes of Their
Contemporaries^ New York. Button. 1951.
INDIVIBUAL BIOGRAPHIES
PALESTRINA
Coates, Henry. Palestrina. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
Pyne, Zoe Kendrick. Giovanni Pierluigi Palestrina. London. John
Lane, The Bodley Head. 1922.
MONTEVERBI
Prunieres, Henri. Claudio Monteverdi. New York. Norton. 1926.
Redlich, Hans F. Claudio Monteverdi. London. Oxford. 1952.
Schrade, Leo. Monteverdi: Creator of Modern Music. New York.
Norton. 1950.
RAMEAU
Girdlestone, Cuthbert. Jean-Philippe Rameau. London. Cassell.
1957.
VIVALBI
Pincherle, Marc. Vivaldi. New York. Norton. 1957.
J. S. BACH
Bavid, Hans T., and Mendel, Arthur (editors). The Bach Reader.
New York. Norton. 1945.
Bickinson, A. E. F. The Art of Bach. Revised edition. London.
Hinrichson. 1950.
Forkel, Johann Nikolaus. Johann Sebastian Bach: His Life, Art
and Work. London. Boosey. 1820.
544
A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY IN ENGLISH
Parry, C. Hubert. Johann Sebastian Bach. Revised edition. New
York. Putnam. 1934.
Pirro, Andre. Johann Sebastian Bach. New York. Orion. 1957.
Schweitzer, Albert. Bach. London. Breitkopf and Hartel. 1911.
Spitta, Philipp. Johann Sebastian Bach. London. Novello. 1947.
Terry, Charles S. Bach: A Biography. London. Oxford. 1928.
Terry, Charles S. Bach: The Historical Approach. London. Ox-
ford. 1930.
HANDEL
Abraham, Gerald (editor). Handel: A Symposium. London. Ox-
ford. 1954.
Dent, Edward J. Handel New York. Wyn. 1949.
Deutsch, O. E. Handel: A Documentary Biography. New York.
Norton. 1955.
Flower, Newman. George Frideric Handel. Revised edition. New
York. Scribner. 1948.
Holland, Romain. Handel. New York. Holt. 1916.
Streatfeild, R. A. Handel. London. Methuen. 1909.
Weinstock, Herbert. Handel. Revised edition. New York. Knopf.
1959.
Young, Percy M. Handel New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1947.
GLUCK
Berlioz, Hector. Gluck and His Operas. London. Reeves. 1914.
Cooper, Martin. Gluck. London. Oxford. 1935.
Einstein, Alfred. Gluck. London. Dent. 1936.
Rolland, Romain. Some Musicians of Former Days. New York.
Holt. 1915.
HAYDN
Brenet, Michel. Haydn. London. Oxford. 1926.
Geiringer, Karl. Haydn: A Creative Life in Music. New York:
Norton. 1946.
Hadden, J. Cuthbert. Haydn. New York. Dutton. 1931.
Hughes, Rosemary. Haydn. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy.
1950.
545
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Jacob, H. E. Haydn: His Art, Times, and Glory. New York. Rine-
hart. 1950.
MOZART
Anderson, Emily (editor). The Letters of Mozart. New York. Mac-
miUan. 1938.
Biancolli, Louis (editor). The Mozart Handbook. New York.
World. 1954.
Blom, Eric. Mozart. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
Burk, John N. Mozart and His Music. New York. Random House.
1959.
Einstein, Alfred. Mozart, His Character and His Work. New York.
Oxford. 1945.
Jahn, Otto. W. A. Mozart. London. Novello, Ewer. 1889.
King, A. Hyatt. Mozart in Retrospect. London. Oxford. 1955.
Landon, H. C. Robbins and Mitchell, Donald (editors). The Mo-
zart Companion. New York. Oxford. 1956.
Turner, W. J. Mozart: The Man and His Works. New York. Knopf.
1945.
BEETHOVEN
Bekker, Paul. Beethoven. New York. Button. 1925.
Burk, John N. The Life and Works of Beethoven. New York.
Random House. 1943.
Hamburger, Michael. Beethoven: Letters, Journals, and Conversa-
tions. New York. Anchor. 1960.
Rolland, Romain. Beethoven the Creator. New York. Harper. 1929.
Schauffier, Robert Haven. Beethoven: The Man Who Freed Music.
New York. Tudor. 1947.
Specht, Richard, Beethoven as He Lived. New York. Macmillan.
1936.
Sullivan, J. W. N. Beethoven: His Spiritual Development. New
York. Knopf. 1927.
Thayer, A. W. The Life of Beethoven. New York. Beethoven
Association. 1921.
Turner, W. J. Beethoven: The Search for Reality. London. Dent.
1927.
546
A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY IN ENGLISH
WEBER
Saunders, William. Weber. London. Dent. 1940.
Stebbins, Lucy Poate and Stebbins, Richard Poate. Enchanted
Wanderer. New York. Putnam. 1940.
Weber, Max Maria von. Carl Maria von Weber. Boston. Ditson.
1865.
SCHUBERT
Abraham, Gerald (editor). Schubert: A Symposium. New York.
Norton. 1947.
Bie, Oscar. Schubert: The Man. New York. Dodd, Mead. 1928.
Brown, M. J. E. Schubert. New York. St. Martin s Press. 1958.
Deutsch, Otto Erich (editor). Schubert: Memoirs of His Friends.
New York. Macmillan. 1958.
Deutsch, Otto Erich (editor). Franz Schuberfs Letters and Other
Writings. New York. Knopf. 1928.
Einstein, Alfred. Schubert: A Musical Portrait. New York. Oxford.
1951.
Flower, Newman. Franz Schubert: The Man and His Circle. New
York. Scribner. 1928.
Kobald, Karl Franz Schubert and His Time. New York. Knopf.
1928.
Schuaffler, Robert Haven. Franz Schubert: The Ariel of Music.
New York. Putnam. 1949.
BERLIOZ
Barzun, Jacques. Berlioz and the Romantic Century. Boston.
Little, Brown. 1950.
Barzun, Jacques (editor). Berlioz, New Letters. New York. Colum-
bia University. 1954.
Berlioz, Hector. Memoirs of Hector Berlioz. Edited by Ernest
Newman. New York. Knopf. 1948.
Elliott, J. H. Berlioz. London. Dent. 1938.
Hadow, W. H. Studies in Modern Music. London. Seeley. 1893.
Rolland, Romain. Musicians of Today. New York. Holt. 1915.
547
THE WOULD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Turner, W. J. Berlioz: The Man and His Work. London. Dent.
1934.
Wotton, Tom S. Berlioz. London. Oxford. 1935.
ROSSINI
Toye, Francis R. Rossini: A Study in Tragi-Comedy. New York.
Knopf. 1934.
MEYERBEER
Hervey, Arthur. Meyerbeer. New York. Stokes. 1913.
MENDELSSOHN
Devrient, Eduard. Reminiscences of Mendelssohn. London. Bent-
ley. 1869.
Kaufman, Schima. Mendelssohn. New York. Crowell. 1934.
Radcliff, Philip M. Mendelssohn. London. Dent. 1954.
Seldon-Goth (editor). Mendelssohn's Letters. New York. Pan-
theon. 1945.
Young, Percy M. Introduction to the Music of Mendelssohn.
London. Dobson. 1949.
SCHUMANN
Abraham, Gerald (editor). Schumann: A Symposium. London.
Oxford. 1952.
Basch, Victor. Schumann: A Life of Suffering. New York. Knopf.
1931.
Bedford, Herbert. Schumann. New York. Harper. 1925.
Chissell, Joan. Schumann. London. Dent. 1948.
Harding, Bertita. Concerto: The Glowing Story of Clara Schu-
mann. New York. Bobbs-Merrill. 1961.
Niecks, Frederick. Robert Schumann. New York. Novello, Ewer.
1888.
Schauffler, Robert Haven. Florestan: The Life and Works of
Robert Schumann. New York. Holt. 1945.
CHOPIN
Bidou, Henri. Chopin. New York. Knopf. 1927.
548
A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY IN ENGLISH
Hadden, J. Cuthbert. Chopin. New York. Dutton. 1934.
Hedley, Arthur. Chopin. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
Liszt, Franz. Chopin. London. Reeves. 1913.
Maine, Basil. Chopin. New York. Wyn. 1949.
Mizwa, Stephen P. (editor). Chopin. New York. Macmillan. 1949.
Murdoch, William. Chopin: His Life. New York. Macmillan. 1935.
Porte, John F. Chopin: The Composer and His Music. New York.
Scribner. 1935.
Pourtales, Guy de. Chopin. New York. Holt. 1927.
Weinstock, Herbert. Chopin. New York. Knopf. 1949.
Wierzynski, Casimir. The Life and Death of Chopin. New York.
Simon and Schuster. 1949.
FRANCK
Demuth, Norman. Cesar Franck. New York. Philosophical Li-
brary. 1949.
dlndy, Vincent. Cesar Franck: A Study. New York. Dodd Mead.
1931.
Vallas, Leon. Cesar Franck. London. Harrap. 1951.
GOUNOD
Demuth, Norman. Introduction to the Music of Gounod. London.
Dobson. 1950.
Gounod, Charles. Autobiographical Reminiscences. London.
Heinemann. 1896.
MASSENET
Cooper, Martin. French Music. London. Oxford. 1951.
Finck, Henry T. Massenet and His Operas. New York. Lane. 1910.
Massenet, Jules. My Recollections. Boston. Small, Maynard. 1919.
LISZT
Hill, Ralph. Liszt. New York. Wyn. 1950.
Huneker, James Gibbons. Liszt. New York. Scribner. 1911.
Newman, Ernest. The Man Liszt. New York. Alfred A. Knopf*
1935.
549
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Pourtales, Guy de. Franz Liszt, Holt. 1926.
Searle, Humphrey. The Music of Liszt. London. Williams and
Norgate. 1954.
Sitwell, Sacheverell. Franz Liszt. New York. Houghton Mifflin.
1934.
Westerby, Herbert. Liszt, Composer and His Piano Works. Lon-
don. Reeves. 1936.
WAGNER
Bekker, Paul. Richard Wagner. New York. Norton. 1931.
Burk, John N. (editor). Letters of Wagner: The Burr ell Collection.
New York. Macmillan. 1950.
Gilman, Lawrence. Wagners Operas. New York. Farrar and Rine-
hart. 1937.
Henderson, W. J. Richard Wagner: His Life and His Dramas. New
York. Putnam. 1901.
Neumann, Angelo. Personal Recollections of Wagner. New York.
G. Schirmer. 1915.
Newman, Ernest. The Life of Richard Wagner. 4 Volumes. New
York. Knopf. 1933-1946.
Newman, Ernest. Wagner As Man and Artist. New York. Vintage.
1960.
Turner, W. J. Wagner. New York. Wyn. 1948.
Wagner, Richard. Prose Works. London. Reeves. 1892, 1899.
BRAHMS
Geiringer, Karl. Brahms: His Life and Work. Second Revised edi-
tion. New York. Oxford. 1947.
Latham, Peter. Brahms. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
May, Florence. The Life of Brahms. London. Reeves. 1948.
Niernann, Walter. Brahms. New York. Knopf. 1947.
Pulver, Jeffrey. Johannes Brahms. New York. Harper. 1926.
Schauffler, Robert Haven. The Unknown Brahms. New York.
Dodd, Mead. 1933.
Specht, Richard. Brahms. New York. Button. 1930.
550
A SELECT BIBLIOGBAPHY IN ENGLISH
SMETANA
Bartos, F. and Ocadlik, M. (editors). Letters and Reminiscences
of Smetana. Prague. Artea. 1955.
DVOMK
Robertson, Alec. Dvorak. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
Sourek, Otakar. Dvorak. New York. Philosophical Library. 1954.
-Stefan, Paul. The Life and Work of Anton Dvorak. New York.
Greystone. 1941.
TCHAIKOVSKY
Abraham, Gerald (editor). The Music of Tchaikovsky. New York.
Norton. 1946.
Abraham, Gerald. Tchaikovsky: A Short Biography. New York.
Norton. 1946.
Bowen, Catherine D., and Meek B. von. Beloved Friend. New
York. Dover. 1946.
Evans, Edwin. Tchaikovsky. New York, Pellegrini and Cudahy.
1949.
Lakond, Wladimir. The Diaries of Tchaikovsky. New York. Nor-
ton. 1945.
Shostakovich, Dimitri, and others. Russian Symphony: Thoughts
About Tchaikovsky. New York. Philosophical Library. 1947.
Weinstock, Herbert. Tchaikovsky. New York. Knopf. 1946.
MUSSORGSKY
Calvocoressi, M. D. Mussorgsky. London. Rockliff. 1956.
Leyda, Jay, and Bertenson, S. The Mussorgsky Reader. New York.
Norton. 1947.
Reisemann, Oskar von. Mussorgsky. New York. Knopf. 1935.
RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
Abraham, Gerald. Rimsky-Korsakov: A Short Biography. New
York. Wyn. 1949.
Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, My Musical Life. Third edition. New
York. Knopf. 1942.
551
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
GRIEG
Abraham, Gerald (editor). Grieg: A Symposium. Norman. Uni-
versity of Oklahoma. 1950.
Finck, Henry T. Grieg and His Music. New York. Dodd, Mead.
1909.
Horton, John. Grieg. London. Duckworth. 1950.
Johansen, D. M. Edvard Grieg. New York. Tudor. 1945.
VERDI
Bonavia, F. Verdi. London. Dobson. 1947.
Gatti, Carlo. Verdi, The Man and His Music. New York. Putnam.
1955.
Hussey, D. Verdi. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy. 1949.
Toye, Francis. Giuseppe Verdi: His Life and Works. New York.
Knopf. 1946.
Werfel, Franz, and Stefan, Paul (editors). Verdi: The Man in His
Letters. New York. L. B. Fischer. 1942.
Ybarra, T. R. Verdi, Miracle Man of Opera. New York. Harcourt,
Brace. 1955.
PUCCINI
Adami, Giuseppe (editor). Letters of Giacomo Puccini. Philadel-
phia. Lippincott. 1931.
Garner, Mosco. Puccini. New York. Knopf. 1959.
Marek, George R. Puccini: A Biography. New York. Simon and
Schuster. 1951.
Specht, Richard. Giacomo Puccini. New York. Knopf. 1933.
BRUCKNER
Engel, Gabriel. The Life of Bruckner. New York. Roerich Mu-
seum. 1931.
Newlin, Dika. Bruckner— Mahler— Schoenberg. New York. Kings
Crown. 1947.
Wolff, Werner. Anton Bruckner: Rustic Genius. New York. Dut-
ton. 1942,
552
A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY IN ENGLISH
MAHLER
Engel, Gabriel Mahler: Song Symphonist. New York. Bruckner
Society. 1932.
Mahler, Alma Maria. Gustav Mahler: Memories and Letters. New
York. Viking. 1946.
Stefan, Paul. Gustav Mahler: A Study of His Personality and His
Work New York. G. Schirmer. 1913.
Walter, Bruno. Gustav Mahler. Revised edition. New York. Knopf.
1957.
HUGO WOLF
Newman, Ernest. Hugo Wolf, London. Methuen. 1907.
Walker, Frank. Hugo Wolf: A Biography. Knopf. 1952.
SAINT-SAENS
Cooper, Martin. French Music. London. Oxford. 1951.
Hervey, Arthur, Saint-Saens. New York. Dodd, Mead. 1922.
Lyle, Watson. Camille Saint-Saens: His Life and Art.
DEBUSSY
Debussy, Claude. Monsieur Croche, the Dilettante Hater. New
York. Lear. 1948.
Dumesnil, Maurice. Claude Debussy: Master of Dreams. New
York. Washburn. 1940.
Lockspeiser, Edward. Debussy. New York. Pellegrini and Cudahy.
1949.
Myers, Rollo, H. Debussy. New York. Wyn. 1949.
SeroflF, Victor. Debussy: Musician of France. New York. Putnam.
1956.
Thompson, Oscar. Debussy, Man and Artist. New York, Dodd,
Mead. 1937.
Vaflas, Leon. Claude Debussy: His Life and Works. London. Ox-
ford. 1933.
553
APPENDIX III
CONTRIBUTORS
Abraham, Gerald, eminent English musicologist, is the author of
a biography of Rimsky-Korsakov, A Hundred Years of Music, and
(with M. D. Calvocoressi) Masters of Russian Music, and editor of
various symposiums on composers of past and present.
D'Agoult, Countess Marie, who played such a prominent role in
Liszt's life, was a celebrated authoress under the pen-name of Daniel
Stern. Her personal portrait of Liszt is derived from her Memoires
(1833-54).
Apthorp, William Foster, for many years the music critic of the
Boston Evening Transcript, was the author of The Opera, Past and
Present and other books.
Bekker, Paul, the German musicologist who resided in New York
from 1934 until his death, was the author of distinguished biogra-
phies of Beethoven and Wagner, and penetrating studies and surveys
of symphonic music and the opera.
Bonavia, Ferruccio, Italian-born critic and composer, was for
many years the music critic of The Manchester Guardian and the
London Daily Telegraph. His books include biographies of Verdi,
Mozart, and Rossini.
Burney, Charles, eminent 19th-century musical historian, was the
author of a monumental four-volume history of music, published in
England between 1776 and 1789.
Chabanon, Michel-Paul-Guide, distinguished 18th-century French
writer, was an intimate friend of Rameau. As a member of the
French Academy he delivered a eulogy of Rameau, a portion of
which is used in the personal portrait of that composer.
554
CONTRIBUTORS
Champigneulle, Bernard, French musicologist, is the author of
Histoire de la musique among other volumes.
Coeuroy, Andre, pen name of Jean Belime, was a distinguished
French critic and musicologist. His books include biographies of
Weber, Schumann, and Chopin, and studies of French and contem-
porary music.
Colles, H. C., English music scholar, was the editor of the third
and fourth editions of Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians
and the author of numerous books, including the seventh volume
(Symphony and Drama: 1850-1900) of the Oxford History of Music.
Cooper, Martin, is the music critic of the London Daily Telegraph,
and for several years was the editor of the Musical Times. He is the
author of French Music and biographies of Gluck and Bizet.
Dent, Edward L, one of England's foremost music scholars, is
Professor of Music at Cambridge, president of the International
Society of Musicology, and the author of several significant books
including biographies of Alessandro Scarlatti and Handel, Mozart's
Operas, Music of the Renaissance in Italy, and The Opera.
Devrient, Eduard, German writer, singer, playwright, and libret-
tist, was a friend of Mendelssohn, about whom he wrote a valuable
volume of personal reminiscences (1869).
Dies, Albert Christoph, an 18th-century German painter, knew
Haydn well and recorded his impressions and conversations with
that master in Biographische Nachrichten von Joseph Haydn (1810).
Downes, Olin, was the music critic of the New Yorfc Times from
1924 until his death in 1955.
Einstein, Alfred, one of Germany's outstanding musicologists, was
a member of the music faculty at Smith College until his retirement
in 1950. His many valuable contributions to musicology include
biographies of Gluck and Schubert, Music in the Romantic Era, A
Short History of Music, and a revision of the Kochel catalogue of
Mozart's works.
555
THE WOKLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Engel, Gabriel, American writer, was the author of brief biogra-
phies of Bruckner and Mahler.
Ewen, Frederic, is the co-author of Musical Vienna, and the editor
of The Poetry and Prose of Heinrich Heine.
Fay, Amy, American pianist, studied with Liszt in Weimar. Some
of her impressions of the composer are found in her book, Music
Study in Germany (1905).
Flower, Sir Newman, is the author of biographies of Handel, Schu-
bert, and Sir Arthur Sullivan.
Forkel, Johann Nikolaus, celebrated German music historian, was
the author of the first full-length biography of Johann Sebastian
Bach (1802), based on material provided him by Bach's sons.
Geiringer, Karl, is Professor of Music at Boston University and
for several years was president of the American Musicological So-
ciety. His books include biographies of Brahms, Haydn, and the
Bach family.
Grainger, Percy, eminent Australian-born and American pianist-
composer, received valuable counsel and encouragement from Grieg
early in his career. Grainger described his personal impressions of
Grieg in two articles for Etude.
Gray, Cecil, distinguished English musicologist, was the author of
biographies of Sibelius, Gesualdo and Peter Warlock, of a history of
music and a survey of contemporary music.
Grillparzer, Franz, is the distinguished 19th-century Austrian poet
and playwright who was personally associated with Beethoven and
Schubert.
Grout, Donald Jay, is Professor of Music at Cornell University
and author of A Short History of Opera and A History of Western
Music.
Grove, Sir George, was a distinguished English musicographer,
and editor of the monumental Dictionary of Music and Musicians
(1879-89).
556
CONTRIBUTOKS
Hadow, Sir William Henry, English musicologist and educator,
was the author of several important books including Studies of
Modern Music, the fifth volume in the Oxford History of Music
(The Viennese Period], and biographies of Beethoven and William
Byrd.
Hale, Philip, was the eminent music critic of the Boston Herald
and program annotator for the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
Hall, Leland, was a member of the music faculties of the Univer-
sity of Wisconsin and Columbia University and, for several years,
program annotator for the New York Symphony Society.
Heine, Heinrich, is the world-famous 19th-century German lyric
poet.
Helfert, Vladimir, Czech musicologist, was a noted professor of
musicology and editor in Prague, who wrote valuable essays and
books on many aspects of Czech music.
Hiittenbrenner, Anselm, an eminent Viennese musician, was a
close friend of Beethoven and Schubert. His personal impressions
of Schubert appeared in Errinerungen an Schubert (1906).
D'Indy, Vincent, distinguished French composer and conductor,
was first a pupil, then a devoted disciple, of Cesar Franck. He was
the author of a notable biography of that master.
Jansen, Gustau, was a German musician who knew Schumann in-
timately in Leipzig, and reported his impressions and recollections
of that master in Die Damdsbundler: Aus Robert Schumanns Sturm
und Drang Periode (1883).
Kelly, Michael, an Irish singer, was a close friend of Mozart in
Vienna, and recalled this association in Reminiscences (1826).
Lange, Kristian, and Ostvedt, Arne, are the authors of Norwegian
Music.
Leichtentritt, Hugo, distinguished German music scholar, was
for many years lecturer on music at Harvard University. His books
include Music, History and Ideas, Musical Form, Music of the West-
ern Nations, and biographies of Chopin, Handel, and Busoni.
557
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Leonard, Richard Anthony, is the author of The Stream of Music
and A History of Russian Music.
Liszt, Franz, the world-famous composer discussed within the
text of this volume, was the author of a biography of Chopin.
Mason, Daniel Gregory, eminent American educator and com-
poser, was the author of The Chamber Music of Brahms, Beethoven
and His Forerunners, The Romantic Composers, From Grieg to
Brahms, and other books.
Montagu-Nathan, M., English writer on music, is an authority on
Russian music. His books include A History of Russian Music, Con-
temporary Russian Composers, and a biography of Scriabin.
'Newman, Ernest, one of England's foremost music critics and
musicologists, was the author of a monumental four-volume biog-
raphy of Wagner, among numerous other books. His critical essay
on Wolf appeared in The Contemporary Review of London (May
1904).
Pahlen, Kurt, Viennese-born musicologist, has been active in
Buenos Aires for many years as educator and writer on musical sub-
jects. He is the author of Music of the World: A History.
Paul, Howard, was an American writer on musical subjects whose
articles have appeared in leading journals.
Peyser, Herbert F., was for many years, a music critic on various
American newspapers and journals, and a program annotator for the
New York Philharmonic Orchestra.
Pincherle, Marc, distinguished French musicologist, has been
professor at the ficole Normale in Paris and president of the French
Society of Musicology. His books include biographies of Corelli,
Vivaldi, and Albert Roussel.
Prunidres, Henri, outstanding French musicologist, was the
founder and for many years editor of La Revue musicale. He has
written valuable studies of various aspects of French music and
opera, together with a significant biography of Monteverdi.
558
CONTRIBUTORS
Pyne, Zoe Kendrick, was the author of the Palestrirut: His Life and
Times.
Holland, Romain, who received the Nobel Prize for literature in
1915, was one of France's most eminent musical scholars. He wrote
a biography of Handel, several volumes on Beethoven, and numer-
ous penetrating studies of the music of the past gathered in Some
Musicians of Former Days and A Musical Tour Through the Land
of the Past, among other books.
Rosenfeld, Paul, American author and music critic, was a pene-
trating commentator on the contemporary scene. His books include
Musical Portraits, Musical Chronicle and Discoveries of a Music
Critic.
Sand, George, French novelist whose real name was Amadine
Aurore Dupin, played a significant role in Chopin's life. She has
written about Chopin and her turbulent love affair with him, in
several books including Les Lettres d'un voyageur (1836), Un Hiver
en Majorca (1841), Consuelo (1842), and Histoire de ma vie (1855).
Schindler, Anton, was one of Beethoven's most intimate friends,
and the author of a significant biography of that master (1840).
Schjelderup, Gerhard, was a distinguished Norwegian composer
and writer, who was a personal friend of Grieg. He wrote a valuable
biography of that composer (1903), and a monograph on Wagner.
von Schlichtegroll, Adolph Heinrich, writer, historian and librarian,
was the author of the first extended biography of Mozart (in Eng-
lish, 1839).
Schwarz, Josef, is a Czech writer on musical subjects whose ar-
ticles have appeared in leading European journals.
Schweitzer, Albert, is the world-famous humanitarian, organist,
and physician who received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952. As an
organist he distinguished himself as one of the world's foremost
interpreters of Bach's organ music. He also wrote a definitive Bach
biography (1905).
Slonimsky, Nicolas, eminent American musicologist, is the author
559
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
of Music Since 1900, and Music of Latin America, editor of the fifth
edition of Baker's Biographical Dictionary, and compiler of the
Thesaurus of Scales and Melodic Patterns.
Specht, Richard, Austrian writer on music, was the founder, and
for many years editor, of Der Merker. His books include biographies
of Mahler, Johann Strauss II, Brahms, Richard Strauss, and Puccini.
Stefan, Paul, was the author of biographies of Mahler, Schoen-
berg, Schubert, Dvorak, Toscanini, and Bruno Walter.
Streatfeild, Richard Alexander, was for many years the music
critic of the Daily Graphic in London. His books include The Opera,
Modern Music and Musicians, and a biography of Handel.
Strunk, W. Oliver, American musicologist, is Professor of Music
at Princeton University and the editor of Source Readings in Music
History.
Taylor, Deems, is one of America's most eminent music critics,
composers, and program annotators. He was the music critic of the
New York World and New York American and editor of Musical
America. Among his books are Of Men and Music, The Well Tem-
pered Listener and Music to My Ears.
Tchaikovsky, Mme. Anatol, was the sister-in-law of the celebrated
composer, the wife of Anatol, twin brother of Modest.
Terry, Charles Sanford, eminent English musicologist, was an
outstanding authority on Bach. His books on the master and his
family include The Origins of the Family of Bach Musicians, Bach:
The Historical Approach, Bach's Orchestra, The Music of Bach, and
Bach: A Biography. He also translated Forkel's biography of Bach,
the German texts of all Bach cantatas, and edited a three-volume
work on Bach's chorales.
Thompson, Oscar, was the music critic of the New York Sun and
editor of Musical America. He was the author of an important biog-
raphy of Debussy and editor of the International Cyclopedia of
Music.
Tovey, Sir Donald Francis, distinguished English musicologist
560
CONTRIBUTORS
and pianist, was Professor of Music at Edinburgh University and the
author of a monumental six-volume opus analyzing the orchestral
repertory, Essays in Musical Analysis.
Toye, Francis, English music critic, was the author of important
biographies of Verdi and Rossini.
Turner, Walter James, English poet and writer on music, was for
many years the music critic of The New Statesmen in London. His
books on music include Mozart: The Man and His Work, Beethoven:
The Search for Reality, Wagner, and Berlioz: The Man and His
Work.
Walter, Bruno, one of the world's foremost conductors, has written
a significant biography of Mahler.
Werfel, Alma Mahler, widow first of Gustav Mahler and then of
Franz Werfel, is the author of Gustav Mahler: Memories and Letters.
Werfel, Franz, one of the outstanding literary figures of the 20th
century, wrote Verdi: A Novel of the Opera, and with Paul Stefan
edited Verdi: The Man in His Letters.
561
LIST OF COPYRIGHTS
AND SOURCES
For permission to reprint copyright material, the editor wishes to
express his gratitude to the following:
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.: critical essay on Mahler reprinted from
Mahler by Bruno Walter, copyright 1957 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.;
critical essay on Mussorgsky, reprinted from Masters of Russian
Music, by M. D. Calvocoressi and Gerald Abraham, copyright 1936
by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.; personal portrait of Puccini, from Giacomo
Puccini: The Man, His Life and His Work, by Richard Specht, by
permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., published in 1933 by Alfred A.
Knopf; the critical and personal essays on Rossini, reprinted from
Rossini: A Study in Tragi-Comedy, published in 1934 by Alfred A.
Knopf; and the critical essay on Weber, reprinted from A Short
History of Music, by Alfred Einstein, copyright 1937 by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc.
Bradley, Mrs. W, A., and the proprietors of the copyright, for the
critical essay on Monteverdi, from A New History of Music, by
Henri Prunieres, published by the Macmillan Company, 1943.
Charles Scribner's Sons, for personal portrait of Handel reprinted
with the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, from George Frideric
Handel: His Personality and His Times, pages 149-50, and 24445,
by Newman Flower, copyright 1948, Charles Scribner's Sons.
Citadel Press, for personal portrait of Meyerbeer by Heinrich
Heine, reprinted by permission of the publishers, from The Poetry
and Prose of Heinrich Heine, selected and edited by Frederic Ewen,
1948.
Columbia University Press for critical essay on Puccini, from A
Short History of Opera, by Donald Jay Grout, 1947.
Crown Publishers, for critical essay on Smetana, reprinted, from
562
COPYRIGHTS AND SOURCES
Music of the World, by Kurt Pahlen, copyright 1949 by Crown Pub-
lishers, Inc., and used by permission of the publisher.
Dobson Books, Ltd., for critical essay on Grieg, from Norwegian
Music, by Kristian Lange and Arne Ostvedt, 1958.
Dodd, Mead & Co., for personal portrait of Debussy, from De-
bussy: Man and Artist, by Oscar Thompson, 1937.
Doubleday and Company, for personal portrait of Saint-Saens,
reprinted from Philip Hole's Boston Symphony Program Notes,
1935; and the critical essay on Tchaikovsky, reprinted from The
Stream of Music, by Richard Anthony Leonard, 1945.
Downes, Mrs. Olin, for the critical essay on Chopin by Olin
Downes.
E. P. Button & Co., Inc., for the critical essay on Beethoven, from
Beethoven by Paul Bekker, translated and adapted from the German
by M. M. Bozman, published by E. P. Dutton & Co., and reprinted
with their permission; the personal portraits of Rameau by Michel-
Guide-Paul Chabanon and Schumann by Gustav Jansen, reprinted
from Great Composers: Through the Eyes of their Contemporaries,
edited by Otto Zoff, with translations by Phoebe Rogoff Cave, copy-
right 1951, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., reprinted by permission of
the publishers.
Harcourt, Brace, and World, for critical essay on Debussy, from
Musical Portraits, by Paul Rosenfeld, 1921.
Harvard University Press, for critical essay on Palestrina, re-
printed by permission of the publishers, from Music, History and
Ideas, by Hugo Leichtentritt, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univer-
sity Press, copyright 1938, 1947, by the President and Fellows of
Harvard College.
Mason, William B,, for critical essay on Brahms, from From Grieg
to Brahms, by Daniel Gregory Mason, published by the Macmillan
Company, 1927.
Music and Letters (London), issue of April 1940, for the personal
portrait of Tchaikovsky by Mme. Anatol Tchaikovsky.
Oxford University Press (London), for critical essay on Bach by
Charles Sanford Terry, from Bach: A Historical Approach (1930);
critical essay on Bruckner, from Symphony and Drama: 1850-1900,
the seventh volume of the Oxford History of Music (1934); critical
563
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
essay on Mozart by W. J. Turner, and on Schubert by Sir Donald
Francis Tovey, from The Heritage of Music, edited by Hubert J.
Foss, Vol. 1 (1927); the critical essay on Liszt by Cecil Gray and on
Verdi by F. Bonavia, from The Heritage of Music, edited by Hu-
bert J. Foss, Vol. 2 (1946).
Oxford University Press, Inc. (New York), for personal portrait
of Brahms, from Brahms: His Life and Work, by Karl Geiringer,
copyright 1947, by Oxford University Press, Inc., reprinted by per-
mission.
Penguin Books, Ltd., for critical essay of Wagner, from The
Opera, by Edward J. Dent, 1940.
Presses Universitaires de France, for critical essay on Rameau,
from UHistoire de la Musique, by Bernard Champigneulle (1951),
translated into English by George Reese.
Simon and Schuster for personal portrait of Wagner, copyright
1937 by Deems Taylor and reprinted from Of Men and Music, by
permission of Simon and Schuster, Inc., New York.
Strunk, Oliver W., for permission to reprint critical essay on
Haydn which he wrote originally for From Bach to Stravinsky,
edited by David Ewen, and published by W. W. Norton, 1931.
Viking Press, Inc., for personal portrait of Gustav Mahler, re-
printed from Gustav Mahler: Memories and Letters, by Alma Mahler
Werfel, copyright 1946 by Alma Mahler Werfel, reprinted by per-
mission of the Viking Press, Inc.
W. W. Norton, for critical essay on Vivaldi by Donald Jay Grout,
reprinted from A History of Western Music, copyright 1960 by
W. W. Norton & Co.; and personal portrait of Vivaldi by Marc
Pincherle reprinted from Vivaldi, copyright 1957 by W. W. Norton
& Co.
Essays, not listed above, were derived from the following sources:
Personal portrait of Palestrina from Giovanni Pierluigi da Pale-
strina; His Life and Times, by Zoe Kendrick Pyne (1922). Personal
portrait of Monteverdi from Pioneers of Music, by David Ewen
(1940). Personal portrait of Bach by Forkel from The Life of Johann
Sebastian Bach, by Johann Nikolaus Forkel (1820), and that by
Schweitzer from Bach, by Albert Schweitzer (1911). Personal por-
564
COPYRIGHTS AND SOURCES
trait of Handel by Charles Burney from An Account of the Musical
Performances in Westminster Abbey and the Pantheon Commemora-
tion of Handel (1785). Critical essay on Handel is a condensation by
David Ewen of material from Romain Holland's biography (1916)
authorized and approved by Holland and first used in From Bach to
Stravinsky, edited by David Ewen (1933). Personal portrait of Gluck
from Some Musicians of Former Days, by Romain Holland (1915),
and the critical essay on Gluck from The Opera, Past and Present,
by William Foster Apthorp (1905). Critical essay on Haydn by
W. Oliver Strunk was written on commission from David Ewen and
used in From Bach to Stravinsky, edited by David Ewen (1933).
Personal portrait of Mozart by Kelly from Reminiscences of Michael
Kelly (1826), and that by Schlichtegroll from The Life of Mozart
(1839). Personal portrait of Beethoven by Schindler from Beethoven
biography by Anton Schindler (1840), and that by Franz Grillparzer
from Recollections of Beethoven, by Grillparzer, reprinted in Music
and Letters (London), January 1923. Personal portrait of Weber by
Andre Coeuroy appeared in The Sackbut of London. Personal por-
trait of Schubert from Recollections of Schubert, by Anselm Hiitten-
brenner (1906). Critical essays of Berlioz and Schumann from Studies
in Modern Music, by W. H. Hadow (1893). Critical essays on Meyer-
beer and Gounod from The Opera, by R. A. Streatfeild (1909). Per-
sonal portrait of Mendelssohn from Recollections of Mendelssohn
by Eduard Devrient (1869). Critical essay on Mendelssohn by Sir
George Grove from Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1907).
Personal portrait of Chopin from Histoire de ma vie, by George
Sand quoted in Frederick Niecks' biography Chopin As Man and
Musician (1888). Critical essay on Chopin by Olin Downes from a
brochure prepared by Mr. Downes for Alexander Brailowsky s all-
Chopin cycle of concerts in New York. Personal portrait of Franck
from biography by Vincent d'Indy (1931). Critical essay on Franck
by Leland Hall was commissioned by David Ewen and used in
From Bach to Stravinsky, edited by David Ewen (1933). Personal
portrait of Gounod by Howard Paul appeared in The Musician, New
York. Personal portrait of Massenet by Herbert F. Peyser appeared
in Musical America, New York, August 17, 1912. Personal portrait
of Liszt by Amy Fay from Music Study in Germany (1905), and by
565
THE WORLD OF GREAT COMPOSERS
Countess Marie (TAgouIt from Memoir es (1927). Personal portrait of
Smetana by Josef Schwarz appeared in Letters and 'Reminiscences
of Smetana, edited by Bartos and Ocadlik (1933). Personal portrait
of DvoMk from Anton Dvordk, by Paul Stefan (1941). Critical essay
on Dvordk by Vladimir Helfert was commissioned by David Ewen
but never before published. Critical essay of Rimsky-Korsakov by M.
Montagu Nathan from History of Russian Music (1918). Personal
portraits of Rimsky-Korsakov and Mussorgsky by Nicolas Slonimsky
were written expressly for this book. Personal portrait of Grieg by
Gerald Schjeldrup from his biography of Grieg (1903), and that by
Percy Grainger appeared in Etude, Philadelphia, May-June 1943.
Personal portrait of Verdi by Franz Werfel from Verdi: The Man
in His Letters, edited by Franz Werfel and Paul Stefan (1942). Per-
sonal portrait of Bruckner by Gabriel Engel from The Life of Anton
Bruckner (1931). Personal portrait of Hugo Wolf from Musical
Vienna, by David and Frederic Ewen (1939). Critical essay on Wolf
by Ernest Newman was published in Contemporary Review of Lon-
don, May 1904.
566
INDEX
ABRAHAM, GERALD, 395, 554, 562
Academie de France, 413, 494
Accademia degli Invaghiti, 13
Albeniz, Isaac, 317
Albert, Heinrich, 48
Albinoni, Tomaso, 29
Albrechtsberger, Johann, 122
Alfano, Franco, 447
Allegri, Gregorio, 110
Amati, Andrea, 43
Andersen, Hans Christian, 420
Apthorp, William F., 77, 554, 565
Arabian Nights, The, 407
Arensky, Anton, 401
Argentina Theatre Rome, (Rome), 195
Aria, 13-14
Arnaud, Abbe, 80
Arnould, Sophie, 82
Artusi, Giovanni, 10, 11, 80
Atonalists, 317
Auber, Daniel, 201, 327, 328, 332
BACH, CARL PHILIPP, 35, 84, 99, 101
Bach, Johann Cristoph, 34, 38
Bach, Tohann Michael, 48
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 5, 20, 25, 26, 28,
34-53, 59, 98, 223, 228, 235, 241, 245, 274,
277, 399, 460, 501; Art of the Fugue, 466;
biography, 34-35, 544-45; Brahms, 349,
352-53; Brandenburg Concertos, 34; can-
tatas, 48; characteristics, 35-38, 39; cho-
rales, 47; church music, 5; composer,
38-52; death, 97; "English Suites," 45;
fingering, 45; "Forty-Eight," 44-45;
fugues, 50-51; Handel, 38-39, 40, 45, 55,
58; Magnificat, 41, 48; Mahler, 460, 466;
Mass in B minor, 34, 48; Masses, 48-49;
Overture in B minor, 45; Passions, 47,
49-50; principal works, 512-13; quoted,
52-53; St. John Passion, 49; St. Matthew
Passion, 34, 219; Saint-Saens, 485, 486,
487, 489; spiritual faith, 116-18; status,
51; universality, 348; Vivaldi, 33; Well-
Tempered Clavier, 51, 263, 491
Bach, John Christian, 35, 44
Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann, 35
Bahr, Hermann, 475
Balakirev, Mily, 317, 410; "Five, The, 391,
400, 401; Mussorgsky, 391, 393
Barbaja, Domenico, 147, 195
Barbier, Jules, 284, 286
Bardac, Emma, 494
Bardi, Giovanni, 43
Barezzi, Antonio, 433
Barezzi, Margherita, 422
Baroque, 4, 9, 25, 29, 30
Bartered Bride, The, 356-57, 359
Bayreuth (see under Wagner)
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 34, 38, 67, 75, 9A
96, 97, 102, 111, 121-45, 150, 156, 157,
161, 163, 167, 205, 208, 209, 213, 223,
230, 241, 242, 244, 399, 472, 474, 489;
A-flat Major Piano Sonata, 136; Appas-
sionata, 123, 129,244; biography, 115-16,
122-23, 126, 546; Brahms, 349, 351, 352-
53, 355; characteristics, 124-27, 140-41;
C minor Symphony, 67; codas, 170; com-
poser, 127-4lf 243, 247, 330, 455, 464;
Consecration of the House, 129; Cono-
lon, 133, 224; deafness, 123, 142; Egmont,
133, 138; Emperor Concerto, 137; Eroica,
123, 133, 135, 136, 168; Fidelia, 123, 133,
151, 330; Fifth Symphony, 138, 157; form,
174; Handel, 67-68, 70, 73; Heiligenstadt
Testament, 123, 142-44; hero, 131-32; in-
tellectual curiosity, 45; Leonore Overture,
133; Mass in C major, 157; melancholy,
115; Missa Solemnis, 123, 134, 184; Moon-
light Sonata, 123; Mozart, 114, 116-17,
118 122 183-84; Nature, 175; Ninth Sym-
phony, 11, 117, 123, 134, 279; Ode to Joy,
134- Pastoral Symphony, 32, 123, 130-31;
Pathetique, 226, 243; Piano Concerto in
B-flat major, 122; Piano Concerto in G,
224; power, 169; principal works, 517-18;
program music, 129-31, 135; quoted, 141-
45- Rasoumovsky quartets, 123; Ritter-
ballet, 71; Seventh Symphony, 114, 189;
sonatas, 50, 129, 139-40, 164-66; songs,
159- spiritual faith, 116, 117, 118, 134-35;
status, 51; String Quartet in E minor,
171; symphony, 249, 476; universality,
348; variations, 139; Violoncello Sonata
in A, 243; Waldstein Sonata, 123
Bezear's Opera, The, 54
Better, Paul, 127, 546, 554, 563
Belasco, David, 440, 447
Bellaigue, Camille, 66
Bellini, Vincenzo, 200, 330, 332, 427, 436
Berg, Alban, 297
Bersrer, Ludwig, 219
Berlin: Academy o£ Arts, 220, 342; Smga-
erutor, 67, 148, 179-94 235 238,
242, 245, 261, 303, 329, 399, 410, 464, 474,
486, 487, 489; Beatrice et Be'ne'dict, 186,
189* 190; Benvenuto Cellini, 179, 186,
189; biography, 181-82, 547-48; Captive
La 186, 189; Carnaval romam, Le, 17U,
186; characteristics, 180-83; composer,
183-92 264; Damnation of Faust, 179-80,
184, 185, 186, 189, 190, 194; Zttgie, 183,
185; Enhance du Christ, 184, 189, 190,
567
INDEX
194; Feuillets d'album, 189; Harold in
Italy, 179, 183, 184, 185, 188, 189, 190;
Invitation to the Dance, 191; Judex cre-
deris, 193; King Lear, 189; Lachrymosa,
183, 185, 189, 191; Mass, 179; Musee
Wiertz, 184; principal works, 521; quoted,
192-94; Rakdczy March, 191; religion,
185; Requiem, 183, 184, 186, 189, 191,
193, 194; Reverie et caprice, 188; Romeo
and Juliet symphony, 179, 181, 185, 189;
Symphonie fantastique, 179, 181, 182,
183, 184, 185, 187-88, 189, 244, 245; Sym-
phonie funebre et triomphale, 186, 193;
Te Deum, 185, 190, 191, 193; Tempest
Fantaisie, 191; Troyens, Les, 181, 185,
186, 189; Wagner, 181
Beyer, Frantz, 415
Birmingham Festival, 281
Bizet, Georges, 410, 489, 555; Carmen, 297,
298; nationalism, 418
Bjornson, Bjornstjerne, 419, 420
Boheme, La, 429, 443, 444-45, 446, 447
Bohm, Georg, 39, 50
Bo'ito, Arrigo, 423; Mefistofele, 425
Bologna: Accademia Filarmonica, 110;
Conservatory, 195, 196
Bonavia, Ferruccio, 426, 554, 564
Bonheur, Raymond, 496
Bononcini, Giovanni, 54, 63, 81
Borodin, Alexander, 317, 410; "Five, The,"
391, 400, 401; Mussorgsky, 392
Brahms, Johannes, 163, 233, 236, 244, 279,
316, 341-55, 363, 453, 473, 489; biography,
341-42, 550; characteristics, 199, 342-46,
347; composer, 245, 247, 274, 275, 347-54;
First Symphony, 276; German Requiem,
342, 344; Hungarian Dances, 367; melan-
choly, 115; Piano Concerto in D minor,
349; Piano Quintet, 167, 353; principal
works, 529-31; quoted, 354-55; Song of
Fate, 184; songs, 173; study, 349-51; uni-
versality, 347-48; Variations on a Theme
of Haydn, 342, 353, 466
Brandt, Caroline, 146, 147, 148-49
Breslau, Theater, 146
Breuning, Frau von, 122
Brosses, Charles de, 28
Bruckner, Anton, 450-58, 464; Ave Maria,
450; biography, 450-51, 552; character-
istics, 451-53; composer, 453-57; prin-
cipal works, 538; quoted, 457-58; sym-
phonies: First, 454; Second, 453, 457;
Third, 454, 457; Fourth (Romantic), 451,
545-55; Fifth, 454, 455, 456; Sixth, 456;
Seventh, 451, 454; Eighth, 454; Ninth,
454, 456; Wagner, 450, 454, 455, 457-58
Bruneau, Alfred, 290; Le Reve, 297
Budapest Royal Opera, 459
Bulow, Hans von, 167, 303, 304, 325; wife,
321, 325
Burney, Charles, 46, 55, 56n, 75, 554, 565
Busom, Ferruccio, 317, 557
Busseto Philharmonic, 422
Buxtehude, Dietrich, 39, 50
Byrd, William, 489, 557
Byron, Lord, 117, 236, 250, 347
CACCINI, GIULIO, Euridice, 14
Caldara, Antonio, 29, 39
Calzabigi, Raniere de, 74, 78-79
Carissimi, Giacomo, 47
Carre", Albert, 284, 286
Cavalieri, Emilio del, 43
Cavalli, Pier Francesco, 72, 83
Chabanon, Michel-Paul, 19, 554, 563
Chamisso, Adelbert von, 236
Champigneulle, Bernard, 20, 555, 564
Charpentier, Gustave, 290; Louise, 299
Charpentier, Marc-Antoine, 489
Chatelet Theater (Paris), 414
Chausson, Ernest, 270
Cherubini, Luigi, 125, 161; Deux journe'es,
152; Lodoiska, 332
Chopin, FrM&ic, 233, 236, 255-69, 303;
ballades, 264, 265; Barcarolle, 265; biog-
raphy, 255-56, 548-49; characteristics,
256-61; composer, 257, 259-68, 361, 362;
Fantasy, 256, 263; mazurka, 261, 262-63,
265, 359; melancholy, 115; nationalism,
418; nocturnes, 384; Polonaise, 261, 262,
263; Preludes, 256, 263-64; principal
works. 525; quoted, 267-69; Revolution-
ary Etude, 255; Scherzo, 260; Sonata in
B-flat minor (Funeral March), 256, 264,
265-66, 386; Valse brilliante, 265
Cimarosa, Domenico, 209
dementi, Muzio, 211
Coeuroy, Andre" (Jean Belime), 147, 555, 556
Colbran, Isabella, 195, 196, 204, 208
Colles, H. C., 453, 455
Colonne, fidouard, 414
Cooper, Martin, 545, 549, 553, 555
Coppe"e, Francois, 282-83
Coquard, Arthur, 273
Corelli, Arcangelo, 26, 29, 32, 44, 60, 69-70,
558
Cornelius, Peter, 329
Cossel, Otto, 341
Couperin-le-Grand, Francois, 39, 44, 45
Covent Garden, 331
Creation, The, 88, 92, 95, 96, 97, 172
Cui, C&ar, 405, 406, 410; "Five, The," 391,
400, 401; Mussorgsky, 392, 394
Czerny, Karl, 303
D'AcouLT, COUNTESS MARIE D', 303, 305,
306n, 554, 566
Damnation of Faust, The (see Berlioz)
Dannreuther, Edward, 312-14
D'Annunzio, Gabriele, 479
Danse macabre, 483
Dante Symphony, 304, 313, 314
Danzi, Franz, 147
Dargomyzhsky, Alexander, 391, 396-97;
Stone Guest, 404
Davidsbundlertanze, 238, 239, 245
Debussy, Claude, 23, 418, 447, 493-507;
Afternoon of a Faun, 493, 500, 502-3;
biography, 493-94, 553; characteristics,
199,494-97; Clair delunef493; composer,
568
INDEX
497-505; L'Enfant prodigue, 493; Hom-
mage a Rameau, 500; Iberia, 503; Images,
494, 501, 503; Impressionism, 430; La
plus que lent, 502, 503; Martyre de Saint-
Sebastien, 503; Mer, La, 494, 503; Noc-
turnes, 494, 500, 503; Nuages, 500; Pelleas
and MMsande, 493, 498, 501, 502, 503-4,
505-6; principal works, 541-42; Proses ly-
riques, 503; quoted, 505-7; Reflets dans
I'eau, 500; Sirenes, 502, 503; Sonatas, 503;
String Quartet, 493, 502, 503; Suite ber-
gamasque, 493
Delibes, L£o, 410
Delius, Frederick, 418
Dent, Edward J., 201-2, 327, 545, 555, 564
Derepas, Gustave, 276
Devrient, Eduard, 220, 555, 565
Diaghilev, Sergei, 402
Dies, Albert Christoph, 88, 555
Dietricshtein, Moritz, 126
Don Giovanni, (see Mozart)
Donizetti, Gaetano, 201, 330, 332, 427-29
Dorn, Heinrich, 232, 238
Downes, Olin, 259, 555, 563, 565
Dresden Opera, 320, 321
Durante, Francesco, 78
Durazzo, Giacomo, 74
Dvorak, Antonin, 318, 347, 363-72; Airs
from Moravia, 363; "American" quartet,
368; biography, 363-64, 551; Cello Con-
certo, 364, 368; characteristics, 364-66;
composer, 366-70; Dimitrij, 368, 369;
Dumky Trio, 368; Fourth Symphony,
368; Hymnus, 363; nationalism, 418; New
World Symphony, 364, 368; principal
works, 532-33; quoted, 370-72; Rusalka,
367, 369; St. Ludmilla, 369; Slavonic
Dances, 363, 367; Spectre's Bride, 359,
369; Stabat Mater, 363, 369; Violin con-
certo, 368
EGMONT OVERTURE, 133, 138
Einstein, Alfred, 150, 456, 555, 562
Elgar, Edward, 317; Salut d'amour, 308
Elijah, 220, 223, 227, 228, 229
Eisner, Joseph, 255
Emperor Concerto, 137
Encyclopedists, 19, 77
Enfancedu Christ, 184, 189, 190, 194
Engel, Gabriel, 109, 451, 556, 566
England: 18th century, 66-67, 72; Handel,
59, 60, 63, 66-67, 70; Haydn, 95-96; "Les-
sons," 44; music, 45-46
Erben, Karel, 367, 369
Erlkonig, 155, 159-60, 161, 171
Ernst, Heinrich Wilhelm, 456
Eroica Symphony, 123, 133, 135, 136, 168
Eugen Onegin, 374, 381, 382
Euryanthe, 147, 151-52, 153, 250
Euterpe Society, 412
Ewen, David, 9, 474, 543, 564-66
Ewen, Frederic, 474, 556, 562, 566
FALSTAFF, 201, 423, 426-27, 433-34
Fantasiestiicke, 232, 238
Farewell Symphony, 101
Faust (Gounod), 281, 284-85, 286, 287
Faust Overture, 320
Faust Symphony, 304, 311-12, 314, 315, 317
Fay, Amy, 305, 306n, 556
Festspielhaus (see Bayreuth)
Fetis, Frangois, 204, 263
Fidelia, 123, 133, 151, 330
Field, John, 226; Nocturnes, 263
Finck, Henry T., 264, 549, 552
Fingal's Cave Overture (see under Men-
delssohn)
Finlandia, 308
Fireworks Music, 68, 71
"Five, The Russian," 378, 381, 391, 400, 401
Flower, Newman, 55, 56n, 556, 562
Flying Dutchman, The, 320, 327
Forellen Quintet, 162, 163, 167, 171
Forkel, Johann, 35, 37n, 45, 50, 556, 560, 564
Forza del destino, 422
Foster, Stephen, 371
Fouque*, Friedrich, 151
France: Bach, 44-45; Handel, 63, 66; musi-
cal renaissance, 44; 19th century, 485-86;
opera, 1849, 22, 65, 72, 84, 201, 211, 283-
84; opera-comique, 217; "ordres," 44;
"suites," 44
France, Anatole, 298
Franck, Ce"sar, 270-80, 316, 347, 456, 486;
Beatitudes, The, 278; biography, 270-71,
549; characteristics, 271-75; composer,
274-79; Ghisele, 278; Hulda, 278; Leit-
motive, 454; Prelude, Aria, and Finale,
276; Prelude, Chorale and Fugue, 276,
277f principal works, 526; quoted, 279-
80; 'Redemption, The, 270-71, 278, 279;
religion, 274, 275, 277-78; Ruth, 270, 278,
279' String Quartet, 276; Symphony in
D minor, 271, 275, 276, 279; Variations
symphoniques, 271, 277; Violin Sonata,
276, 277
Frankh, Johann, 87
Franz, Robert, 476
Frescobaldi, Girolama, 50
Freischutz,Der, 147, 148, 151, 152, 153
Furnberg, Karl Joseph von, 87, 99
Fux, Johann Josef, 50-51; Gradus ad Par-
nassum, 50
GABRIELI, ANDREA, 50
Gade, Niels, 412, 420
Garborg, Arne, 420
Gasparini, Francesco, 29
Gay, John, The Beggar's Opera, 54
Geibel, Emanuel von, 236
Geiringer, Karl, 342, 545, 550, 556, 564
Geminiani, Francesco, 69
Genzinger, Marianne von, 91
German Requiem, 342, 344
Germany: chorale, 47; geniuses, 58-59;
Mannheim school, 32; motet, 48-49; mu-
sic, 46, 49, 485-86; opera, 150 (see Wag-
ner and Weber); painting in music, 66;
"Partitas," 44; Reformation, 46-47; Ren-
aissance, 46; Romanticism, 328-29; the-
ater, 328
569
Gewandhaus Orchestra (Leipzig), 220, 341
Ghezzi, P. L., 26
Gilman, Lawrence, 379, 550
Girl of the Golden West, 440, 447
Glazunov, Alexander, 317, 401, 410
Glinka, Michael, 404, 410; Life for the
Czar, 391; nationalism, 418; Ruslan and
Ludmilla, 391
Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 38, 45, 72, 73,
74-86, 150, 152, 154, 184, 190, 200, 202,
213, 218, 241, 283, 399, 474, 486, 487, 490,
501; Alceste, 74, 79, 81, 83, 85; Armide,
81; Artaserse, 74, 77; biography, 74-75,
545; characteristics, 75-77; Clemenza di
Tito, 78; composer, 77-85; controversy,
80-81; death, 105; £cho et Narcisse, 82,
83; Handel, 63, 64, 75-76; Iphigenie en
Aulide, 74-75, 76, 79, 80, 81; Iphigenie
en Tauride, 64, 75, 82, 84; Marie Antoi-
nette, 80; opera, 22, 77-84; Orfeo ed Euri-
dice, 74, 75, 78-79, 81, 84; Paride e Elena,
74, 79; Piccini, 81-82; principal works,
514; quoted, 84, 85-86; Semiramide rico-
nosciuta, 74
Goethe, Wolfgang von, 59, 95, 135, 159,
175, 227, 236, 328, 460, 473; on Beethoven,
67; Faust, 160, 284, 285, 468; songs, 172;
Weber, 149
Gogol, Nikolai, 406
Gonzaga, Vincenzo, 12
Gounod, Charles, 281-89, 295, 485; biogra-
phy, 281, 549; characteristics, 282-83;
Cinq-Mars, 287; composer, 283-87; Faust,
281, 284-85, 286, 287; Mass, 281; Mededn
malgrt lui, Le, 281, 284; Mireille, 281,
285-86, 287; Mors et Vita, 281; Mozart,
284, 285; Nonne sanglante, La, 284; Phi-
Umon et Baucis, 285; Polyeucte, 287;
principal works, 526-27; quoted, 287-89;
Redemption, Le, 281; Reine de Saba, La,
285; religion, 281, 283; Requiem, 281;
Romeo and Juliet, 281, 286, 287; Saint-
Saens, 487, 489; Sapho, 281, 284; Tribut
de Zamora, Le, 287
Gozzi, Carlo, 327, 447
Grainger, Percy, 413, 4l4n, 556, 566
Gray, Cecil, 307, 556, 564
Gretchanmoff, Alexander, 401
Gretchen am Spinnrade, 155, 159, 160, 161
Gre"try, Andr<§, 329
Grieg, Edvard, 317, 347, 412-21; Ballade,
417, 419; biography, 412-13; characteris-
tics, 413-16; composer, 416-20; Holberg
Suite, 413; Humoresque, 412; Ibsen songs,
417, 420; In Autumn, 414; Lyric Pieces,
412, 413, 417, 420; Norwegian Dances,
413; Peer G)>n*,412,4l7, 419; Piano Con-
certo, 412, 417, 419; Piano Sonata, 419;
principal works, 536-37; quoted, 420-21;
String Quartet, 417, 419; Vinje songs,
417, 420; Violin Sonata, 413, 419
Griesinger, Georg, 95, 97
Grigny, Nicholas de, 39
Grilparzer, Franz, 124, 125n, 128, 556, 565
570
INDEX
Grimm, Friedrich, 22, 80
Grout, Donald Jay, 28, 444, 556, 562, 564
Grove, George, 156, 169, 223, 556, 565
Gyrowetz, Adalbert, 183
HADOW, W. H., 183, 235, 348, 557, 565
Hagerup, Nina, 412
Hale, Philip, 484, 557, 563
Hal£vy, Jacques, 281, 332
Hall, Leland, 274, 557, 565
Halvorsen, Johan, 416
Hamburg Opera, 341, 459
Hamlet, 312, 313, 314, 315
Hammerschmidt, Andreas, 48
Handel, George Frideric, 28, 29, 44, 46, 54-
73, 75-76, 98, 102, 135, 157, 220, 227 228
241, 242, 486, 487, 489; Alcina, 63; Acts
and Galatea, 67; Admeto, 64; Agrippina
63; Alexander Balus, 60, 65, 67, 68; Alex-
ander's Feast, 66; Almira, 54; Arianna,
72; Ariodante, 63; Athalia, 66; Bach, 38-
39, 40, 45, 55, 58; Beethoven, 67-68, 73;
JBelshazzar, 65, 66; Berenice, 72; biogra-
phy, 54-55, 57, 545; blindness, 55, 60;
Chandos Anthems, 65; characteristics,
55-57; Cleopatra, 67, 68; Commemora-
tion, 1791, 96; composer, 58-73; Concert!
Grossi, 68, 69-70; Deborah,^-, Deidamia,
63, 77; Esther, 65, 66; Fireworks Music,
68, 71; Giulio Cesare, 63, 67, 68; Haydn,
95-96; Hercules, 60, 65; Hornpipe, 70;
Israel in Egypt, 61, 64, 65, 66, 67, 72;
Jephtha, 55, 66, 96; Joshua, 65, 96; Judas
Maccabaeus, 55, 72, 227; U Allegro ed II
Pensoroso, 60, 64, 66, 67; material, 131;
Messiah, 55, 60, 62, 67, 73, 157, 184, 227,
245; Nero, 54; Ode for St. Cecilia's Day,
64; open-air music, 70-72; operas, 63-64,
65, 72; oratorios, 55, 64-68, 72; Orlando,
63, 64; Ottone, 54, 72; Pifferari, 60; prin-
cipal works, 513-14; quoted, 73; Rada-
misto, 54, 56; Resurrection, 68; Rinaldo,
54; Samson, 64, 65; Saul, 60, 64, 65; Sci-
pione, 72; Semele, 55, 64, 68; Serse, 63;
Solomon, 55, 65, 67; Susanna, 65; Tamer-
lano, 63, 64; Te Deum, 62; Theodora,
55, 65, 66; Triumph of Time, 68; Water
Music, 68, 71
Hanslick, Eduard, 93, 326
Harold in Italy (see Berlioz)
Hasse, Johann Adolph, 60, 61, 183
Haydn, Joseph, 38, 84, 85, 87-103, 122, 157,
159, 161, 167, 184, 209, 241, 349, 465, 489;
"Apponyi" quartets, 92, 96; biography,
87-88, 95, 545-56; characteristics, 88-90;
composer, 91-102, 246, 247; Creation, 88,
92, 95, 96, 97, 172; Farewell Symphony,
101; Handel, 95-96; Harmoniemesse, 92;
II Ritornodi Tobia,$6; Krumme Teufel,
Der, 99; London Symphonies, 87, 92, 94,
96; Midi, Le, 99; Mozart, 87, 91, 93, 100,
101, 105; Oxford Symphony, 101; "Paris'*
symphonies, 101; principal works, 514-
15; quoted, 94-95, 96, 97, 101-3; Repre-
sentation of Chaos, 96; "Russian" quar-
INDEX
tets, 101; Schopfungsmesse, 92; Seasons,
The, 88, 92, 95, 96, 97; sonata, 94, 164-
65; Surprise Symphony, 93; Te Deum,
92; Trauersymphonie, 101
Haydn, Michael, 146
Haymarket Theater (London), 54
Heine, Heinrich, 147, 175, 188, 212, 236,
237, 245, 247, 473, 557; Liszt, 315
Helfert, Vladimir, 366, 557, 566
Hellmesberger, Joseph, 341
Herder, Johann von, 59
Heuschkel, J. P., 146
Hoffmann, E.T.A., 239-40, 264, 329; Un-
dine, 151
Holzbauer, Ignaz, 150
Holzer, Michael, 155
Homer, 172, 236, 288
Huberman, Bronislaw, 345
Hugo, Victor, 313, 505; Cromwell, 83
Huguenots, Les (see Meyerbeer)
Hummel, Johann, 211
Huneker, James Gibbons, 317, 549
Hungarian Rhapsodies (see Liszt)
Hiittenbrenner, Anselm, 156, 557, 565
IBSEN, HENRIK, 419, 420, 477; Grieg songs,
417, 420
Impressionism, 370, 418, 430, 493, 499-500,
503
Indy, Vincent d', 270-71, 296, 557; Istar,
446
Ingegneri, Marc' Antonio, 9, 11
Institut de France, 180, 273, 483, 485
Iphigenie en Aulide, 74-75, 76, 79, 80, 81
Israel in Egypt, 61, 64, 65, 66, 67, 72
Italy: Handel, 59, 60, 69; opera, 22, 29, 43,
49, 65, 74, 85; "sonatas," 44; violin play-
ing, 44
JAHN, OTTO, 92, 546
Jansen, Gustav, 233, 557, 563
Joachim, Joseph, 341
Jonson, Ben, 185
Julian Choir, 1, 3
KANT, IMMANUEL, 272, 460
Karatygin, Vyatcheslav, 396
Keats, John, 479
Reiser, Reinhard, 49, 63
Kelly, Michael, 106, 106n, 557, 565
Kerr, Alfred, 443
Kjerulf, Halfdan, 418
Kleist, Heinrich von, 474, 475
Klemperer, Otto, 460
Kolaf, Katharina, 356
"Konvict" School, 155, 158
Kozeluch, Leopold, 93
Kretzschmar, August, 65, 70
LA CAVE, Francois Morellon de, 26, 27
La Harpe, 76, 80
"Lament of Arianna," 15
Lamm, Paul, 396
Lange, Kristian, 416, 557, 563
La Scala, 110, 422, 423, 425, 439
Lavigna, Vincenzo, 422
Leblanc, Georgette, 495
Legouve, Ernest, 180, 183, 309
Legrenzi, Giovanni, 25, 39
Leibnitz, Gottfried von, 59
Leichtentritt, Hugo, 4, 557, 563
Leipzig: Conservatory, 220, 412, 418;
Opera, 459
Leonard, Richard A., 377, 558, 563
Lerolle, Henri, 495
Le Roux, Gaspard, 39
Lesueur, Jean Francois, 281, 329
Levi, Hermann, 451
Leyden Academy, 412
Liadov, Anatol, 394, 401
Liege Conservatory, 270
Lippi, Fra Filippo, 6
Lisle, Leconte de, 290
Liszt, Franz, 166, 180, 255, 274, 303-19, 329,
341, 356, 360, 399, 410, 454, 489, 501, 558;
Annees de pelerinage, 304, 311, 314, 317;
biography, 303-4, 549-50; Campanella,
La, 307, 308; characteristics, 305-6, 309;
Chopin, 256, 257n, 261, 263, 558; Chris-
tus, 312; composer, 264, 307-18; Concerto
in E-fiat, 276; Consolations, 304; Dante
Symphony, 304, 313, 314; fitudes d'exe-
cution transcendante, 304, 314; Faust
Symphony, 304, 311-12, 314, 315, 317;
Grand Festmesse, 312; Hamlet, 312, 313,
314, 315; Harmonies poetiques et reli-
gieuses, 314; Herolde funebre, 312, 313;
Hungarian Rhapsodies, 304, 307, 308,
317, 368; Ideate, Die, 313-14; Ugendes,
317; Liebestraum, 304, 307; Malediction,
317; modern music, 316; nationalism,
317; Paganini Etudes, 304; piano con-
certos, 307, 308, 380; Piano Sonata, 308,
312, 314; Preludes, Les, 304, 307, 308,
313; principal works, 527-28; quoted,
318-19; religion, 304, 309, 311; Second
Mephisto Waltz, 315; songs, 311, 315;
Totentanz, 315; Wagner, 304, 316, 321,
327
Locatelli, Pietro, 69
Locle, M. du, 425
Loewe, Ferdinand, 451
Loewe, Karl, 159-60
Lohengrin (see Wagner)
London Symphonies, 87, 92, 94, 96
Lotti, Antonio, 29, 39
Louys, Pierre, 494
Lucca, Instituto Musicale, 439
Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 18, 21, 44, 45, 72, 81,
84, 283, 489
Luther, Martin, 46, 47, 49
MACDOWELL, EDWARD, 413
Madame Butterfly (see Puccini)
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 495, 504
Magdeburg Opera, 320
Magic Flute, The (see Mozart)
Mahler, Gustav, 457, 459-72; Bach, 460, 466;
biography, 459-60, 553; characteristics,
460-63; composer, 463-72; Kindertoten-
lieder, 459; Klagende Lied, Das, 463; Lied
von der Erde, Das, 459, 469-70; principal
works, 538-39; quoted, 471-72; songs, 465,
571
INDEX
469-70; Songs of a Wayfarer, 459, 463;
symphonies, 459, 464: First, 463-64, 465,
466, 467; Second, 464, 465, 466, 467, 469;
Third, 465, 466, 467; Fourth, 465, 466,
467; Fifth, 465, 466, 467-68, 470; Sixth,
465, 466, 468, 469, 470; Seventh, 465, 466,
468, 470; Eighth, 466, 468-69; Ninth 465,
466, 470
Malherbe, Charles, 23
Mallarme*, Ste"phane, 494-95
Mannlich, Christian von, 75, 76
Manzoni, Alessandro, 319, 423
Marcello, Benedetto, 437
Marchand, Louis, 18, 39, 45
Marenzio, Luca, 1 1
Marie Antoinette, and Gluck, 80
Marivaux, Pierre, 502
Marmontel, Antoine-Frangois, 80
Marpurg, Friedrich, 98
Marriage of Figaro (see Mozart)
Marxsen, Eduard, 341
Mascagni, Pietro, 201; Cavalleria Rusti-
cana, 297
Mason, Daniel Gregory, 347, 558, 563
Mason, Dr. William, 353
Massenet, Jules, 290-302, 444; Ariane, 299;
biography, 290-91, 549; Cendrillon, 298;
Cdsar de Bazan, 290; characteristics, 291-
93; Cherubin, 299; Cid, Le, 295; com-
poser, 291, 294-300; Don Quichotte, 290,
299; tUgie, 290; Esclarmonde, 295;
Grand' tante, La, 290; Griselidis, 298;
Hdrodiade, 290, 294, 297; Jongleur de
Notre Dame, 290, 293, 298-99; Manon,
290, 294-95, 297, 298, 444; Marie Magde-
leine, 296; Navarraise, La, 297; principal
works, 527; quoted, 299-302; Sapho, 290,
297; Thais, 290, 295-96, 297; ThMse,
299; Werther, 290, 295, 296
Mayr, Johann Simon, 209
Mayrhofer, Johann, 155, 156, 172; Auflo-
sung, 175
Mazurka (see Chopin)
Meek, Nadezhda von, 374, 381, 493
Meistersinger, Die (see Wagner)
Mendelssohn, Felix, 62, 219-31, 241, 329,
410, 488, 490; biography, 219-20, 548;
Caprices, 226; Capriccio brillant, 220;
characteristics, 220-23, 229; composer,
223-30; Elijah, 220, 223, 227, 228, 229;
Fingal's Cave Overture, 220, 223, 224,
227, 229; G minor Piano Concerto, 220;
Italian Symphony, 224; Lohgesang, 223,
227, 229; Melustna, 224, 229; Midsum-
mer Night's Dream Overture, 219, 223,
224, 229; principal works, 522-23; quoted,
230-31; Ruy Bias, 224; St. Paul, 223, 227,
228-29; Scotch Symphony, 224; songs,
227; Songs Without Words, 220, 226-27,
231; Variations sdrieuses, 226; Violin
Concerto, 227; Walpurgisnacht, 223
Mendelssohn, Moses, 219
Messiah (see Handel)
Metastasio, Pietro, 74, 78-79, 106, 339
Metropolitan Opera, 335, 440, 447, 459
Mey, Lev, 406
Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 84, 201, 205, 211-18,
283, 327, 410, 436; Africaine, L', 212, 216;
Alimelek, 211; biography, 211-12; char-
acteristics, 212-14; composer, 214-17; Cro-
ciata in Egitto, II, 211; Dinorah, 216,
217, titoile du nord, U, 216, 217; Hugue-
nots, Les, 201, 212, 215, 216, 295, 431;
principal works, 522; Prophete, Le, 212,
215-16; quoted, 217-18; Robert le diable,
201, 212, 214, 215; Romilda e Costanza,
211; Rossini, 197-98, 217-18
Michelangelo, 4, 288, 488
Mickiewicz, Adam, 265
Milan Conservatory, 439
Milton, John, 95, 430
Moke, Camille, 182
Moliere, Jean Baptiste, 148, 284
Monet, Claude, 500
Monn, Georg Matthias, 99
Montagu-Nathan, M., 403, 558, 566
Montaigne, Michel, 488, 502
Monteverdi, Claudio, 9-17, 80, 83, 432;
Arianna, 9, 15; biography, 9, 544; char-
acteristics, 9-10; composer, 10, 11-16;
L'Incoronazione di Poppea, 9, 15; La-
ment of Arianna, 17; madrigals, 11-12,
13; motets, 9; Orfeo, 9, 12-14; principal
works, 511; quoted, 16-17; religious
works, 15-16; Ritornello, 13, 14; Ritorno
di Ulisse, 15
Morzin, Count, 87, 99
Moscheles, Ignaz, 263
Moscow Conservatory, 373, 374
Mottl, Felix, 451
Mozart, Leopold, 107
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 5, 38, 51, 61,
104-21, 151, 157, 161, 162, 163, 167, 184,
191, 213, 223, 224, 241, 249, 284, 349, 426,
474, 479, 487, 489; arioso, 64; Ave Verum,
105, 315; Beethoven, 114, 116-18, 122;
biography, 92, 104-5, 110, 546; chamber
music, 225-26; characteristics, 106-8, 112;
composer, 108-19, 246, 247, 362; death,
25, 91; Don Giovanni, 64, 105, 108, 112,
114, 115, 116, 150, 157, 397, 486, 490;
Finta Semplice, La, 110; form, 111-12,
113, 174; G minor Quintet, 118-19; God
Is Our Refuge, 110; Haydn, 87, 93, 100,
101; Idomeneo, 104, 108; Magic Flute,
The, 105, 113-14, 115, 116, 150; Marriage
of Figaro, 105, 109, 111, 113, 114; melan-
choly, 115-16; Mitridate Re di Ponto,
110; motifs, 152; principal works, 515-17;
quoted, 119-21; Requiem, 105, 114, 116,
157; Seraglio, 104, 110, 111; sonatas, 118,
159, 164-65, 166, 237; spiritual faith, 116-
17, 118, 119; superiority, 117-18; Twelfth
Mass, 116
Muck, Karl, 45 1,475
Muffat, Georg, 69
Muller, Wilhelm, 172
Murger, Henri, 444
572
INDEX
Music: 15th century, 11; 16th century, 12;
17th century, 12, 42; 18th century, 12,
28, 32, 97-98; Baroque, 32; Classical, 32-
33; religion and, 40
Musset, Alfred de, 148, 236
Mussorgsky, Modest, 391-99, 410, 501; biog-
raphy, 391-92, 551; Boris Godunov, 392,
394, 396, 397; characteristics, 392-95;
composer, 395-98; "Five, The Russian,"
400 401; Khovanschina, 392, 396, 397;
Marriage, The, 391, 397, 398; national-
ism, 418; Night on Bald Mountain, 391;
Pictures at an Exhibition, 392, 397, 397;
principal works, 534-35; quoted, 398-99;
Rimsky-Korsakov, 403-4; songs, 397;
Songs and Dances of Death, 392, 397;
Sunless, 392, 397
NABUCCO (see Verdi)
Naples Conservatory, 202
Napoleon, 117, 130, 135, 192, 326
Nationalism, in music, 356, 359, 363, 367-
68, 378, 381, 390, 400, 404-5, 412, 416, 417,
418, 456 (see "Five, The Russian")
Neefe, Christian Gottlieb, 122, 128
Neue Zeitschrift fur Musikf 233, 236, 239,
341
Newman, Ernest, 476, 549, 550, 553, 558,
New York: National Conservatory, 364,
365; Philharmonic, 460 (see Metropoli-
tan Opera)
Nikisch, Artur, 451, 459
Nocturnes (John Field), 226, 263
Nordraak,Rikard,412,418 ^
Norwegian Academy of Music, 412
ODEON (Paris), 290
Offenbach, Jacques, La Belle HeUne, 485
Orpheon Choral Society (Paris), 281
Ortigue, Joseph d', 180
Ospitale della Pieta (Venice) , 25, 28, 30
Ostrovsky, Alexander, 406
Ostvedt, Arne, 416, 557, 563
Otello (see Verdi)
Ottoboni, Cardinal, 68
PACHELBEL, JOHANN, 50
Paer,Ferdinando,281,303
Paganini, Niccol6, 179, 303; Etudes, 232,
304
Pahlen, Kurt, 558, 563
Paisiello, Giovanni, 195, 209
Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi, 1-8, 39, 41-
42, 49, 228, 288, 338, 399, 437; biography,
2-3, 544; Canticle of Solomon, 6, 7; com-
poser, 4-7; death, 43, 47; Masses, 1; Missa
Assumpta Es, 6; Missa Papae Marcelh,
1, 6; Motets, 6, 7; principal works, 511;
quoted, 7-8; Stabat Mater, 6, 41
Paris: Acad&nie des Beaux Arts, 282, 290;
Acade*mie de Musique, 79, 80, 81; Con-
servatory, 179, 180. 270, 281 290 303,
483, 493; Opta, 18, 21, 75, 179, 197-98,
218, 286, 290, 425; Ope*ra-Comique, 290,
494
Parry, Hubert, 46, 160, 544, 545
Parsifal (see Wagner)
Pascal, Jean Louis, 312
Pastoral Symphony, 32, 123, 130
Paul, Howard, 282, 558, 565
Paul, Jean, 237, 241, 264
Pelissier, Olympe, 196, 204
Pelleas and Melisande (see Debussy)
Pepys, Samuel, 70
Pergolesi, Giovanni: La serva paarona, 18
Peri, Jacopo: Eurydice, 14, 43, 83
Peter, Rene", 495
Petrarch, 236
Peyser, Herbert F., 291, 553, 565 t
Piccini, Niccolo, 75, 80-81; Iphigenie en
Tauride, 82; Roland, 82
Pierce", Gabriel, 270, 290
Pincherle, Marc, 26, 558, 564
Pisendel, Johann, 26
Pissarro, Camille, 500
Planer, Minna, 320, 321, 325
Plato, 10, 17, 323; Rhetoric, 16
Polonaises (see Chopin)
Ponchielli, Amilcare: La Giocanda, 439
Pontifical Choir, 1, 3
Pope, Alexander, 172, 479
Porpora, Niccol6, 68, 99
Poupliniere, Riche de la, 18, 21
Prague: Conservatory, 364; National The-
ater, 356, 357, 360, 363; Opera, 112, 459
Provost, Abb£, 294, 295
Proksch, Josef, 356
Provesi, Ferdinando, 422
Prunieres, Henri, 11, 558, 562
Puccini, Giacomo, 43, 201, 296, 439-49; bi-
ography, 439-40, 552; Boheme, La, 439,
443, 444-45, 446, 447; characteristics, 440-
44; composer, 444-48; Edgar, 439, 446;
Gianni Schicchi, 440, 447-48; Girl of the
Golden West, 440, 447; Leitmotifs, 445;
Madama Butterfly, 439, 440, 444, 445,
447; Manon Lescaut, 439, 444; principal
works, 537-38; quoted, 448-49; Rondine*
La, 440, 447; Suor Angelica, 440, 447;
Tabarro, 11, 440, 447; Tosca, 439, 443,
444, 445, 446-47; Trittico, 11, 440, 447;
Turandot, 297, 440, 447, 448; Verdi, 446,
447; Villi, Le, 439
Purcell, Henry, 45-46, 66
Pushkin, 402, 406, 408, 409
Pyne, Zoe Kendrick, 2, 559, 564
QUINAULT, PHILIPPE, 81; Roland, 81
RABAUD, HENRI, 290
Rachmaninoff, Sergei, 317, 376
Racine, Jean Baptiste, 79, 502
Radiciotti, Giuseppe, 197, 198
Raison, Andre", 39
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 387
Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 18-24, 74 78 84,
486, 489, 505; biography, 18-19, 544;
Castor et Pollux, 18, 19, 22; character-
istics, 19-20, 21, 22; composer, 20-23;
Dardanus, 22; Fetes d' Hebt, 22; har-
mony, 18, 21, 23, 24; Hippolyte et Ancte,
18 21-22; Indes Galantes, 22; Nouveau
573
systeme de musique thdorique, 21; Pieces
de clavecin, 18, 21; Plat^e, 22; Princesse
de Navarre, 22; principal works, 511-12;
quoted, 23-24; Surprises de I' amour, 22;
Trait^ de I'harmonie, 12, 18, 21
Raphael, 6
Ravel, Maurice, 397, 418
Reber, Napoleon-Henri, 290
Rebikov, Vladimir, 418
Recio, Maria, 180, 182, 183
Re"gnier, Henri, 496, 497
Reicha, Anton, 303
Reichardt, Johann, 75
Reinken, Johann, 39, 50
Remenyi, Eduard, 341
Renoir, Pierre, 500
Repin, Ilia, 392
Reutter, Johann von, 98-99
Richter, Hans, 451,473
Richter, Jean Paul, 236, 239
Ricordi, Giulio, 425
Riga Opera, 320
Rimsky-Korsakov, Andrei, 403
Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 317, 400-411;
Antar Symphony, 400, 406; biography,
400-1, 551-52; Boyarina Vera Sheloga,
408; Capriccio espagnol, 401, 407; cha-
racteristics, 401-3; Christmas Eve, 408;
composer, 403-10; Coq d'or, Le, 401, 402,
403, 409; "Five, The," 391, 400, 401; In-
visible City of Kitezh, 41, 409, 410; Maid
of Pskov, 400, 405-6; May Night, 401,
406; Mlada, 408; Mussorgsky, 392, 393,
394, 396, 403-4; principal works, 535-36;
quoted, 410-11; Russian Easter Overture,
401, 407; Sadko, 401, 402, 405, 408, 409;
Scheherazade, 401, 403, 407; Snow Maiden,
401, 406-7, 408, 409; Song of India, 408;
Tsar Saltan, 401, 408-9; Tsar's Bride, 408
Rinuccini, Ottavio, 13
Rochefoucauld, La, 116
Rolland, Remain, 58, 75, 180, 485, 559, 565
Romanticism, 150-51, 206, 279, 378, 417, 419
Rosenfeld, Paul, 497, 559, 563
Rossini, Gioacchino, 195-210, 211, 214, 283,
433, 486; Barber of Seville, 111, 195, 201,
207; biography, 195-96, 197, 204, 548;
Cambiale di matrimonio, 195; Ceneren-
tola, 205; characteristics, 196-200, 203-4,
208, 426; composer, 200-9; Don Pasquale,
201; Elisabetta, 202; "great renuncia-
tion," 196, 197, 198, 199; Italiana in Al-
geri, 195, 207; Mosd, 201; Petite Masse,
207; principal works, 521; quoted, 209-
10; Semiramide, 201, 204, 207; singing,
207-10; Tancredi, 195, 202; Wagner, 208-
9; William Tell, 195, 196, 197, 201, 204,
206, 207
Roubliliac, L. F., 55
Rousseau, Jean- Jacques, 19, 22, 77, 80, 130,
487
Royal Academy of Music (London) , 54, 55
Ruckert, Friedrich, 236
Ruskin, John, 6
574
INDEX
SAINT-BEUVE, CHARLES, 431
St. Petersburg: Conservatory, 373, 400, 402;
Imperial Opera, 385
Saint-Saens, Camille, 23, 314, 316, 347, 483-
92; biography, 483-84, 486, 553; Carnaval
des animaux, 485; characteristics, 484-85;
composer, 485-90; Danse macabre, 483;
First Symphony, 486; Fourth Piano
Concerto, 483; Gabriella di Vergi, 485;
Handel, 66, 67; Henry III, 485; Henry
VIII, 489; Ode a Sainte-CJcile, 483; or-
ganist, 483, 484; principal works, 539-41;
quoted, 490-92; Rouet d'Omphale, 483;
Samson and Delilah, 483; Third Sym-
phony, 483, 485
Salieri, Antonio, 105, 122, 211, 303
Salomon, Johann Peter, 87
Sammartini, Giovanni Battista, 74, 77, 99
Sand, George, 189, 255-56, 257n, 263, 559,
565
Sardou, Victorien, 444
Sarti, Giuseppe, 209
Satie, Erik, 493
Scarlatti, Alessandro, 29, 63, 555
Schalk, Franz, 451
Schiller, Fredrich von, 95, 175, 313, 328
Schindler, Alma Maria, 459
Schindler, Anton, 124, 125, 125n, 129, 559,
565
Schjelderup, Gerhard, 413, 414n, 559, 566
Schlegel, Friedrich von, 239
Schlichtegroll, Adolph von, 106, 106n, 559,
565
Schmitt, Florent, 290
Schober, Franz von, 155
Schoenberg, Arnold, 317, 560
Schubert, Franz, 113, 155-78, 189, 224, 230,
241, 246, 355, 456; Allmacht, Die, 172;
A major Piano Sonata, 171; Beethoven,
161, 170, 171, 174, 175; biography, 155-
56, 547; characteristics, 156-58; G major
Symphony, 167, 170, 171, 202, 244; com-
poser, 158-75; Doppelgdnger, Der, 175;
E-flat Piano Trio, 165, 168-69; Erlkonig,
155, 159-60, 161, 171; Forellen Quintet,
162, 163, 167, 171; Gretchen am Spinn-
rade, 155, 159, 160, 161; Hagars Klage,
155, 158-59; Mahler, 464, 465; Mass in
F, 161; Mozart, 112-13, 161, 162; Piano
Sonata in B-flat, 163-64, 165, 166, 167,
169; principal works, 519-21; quoted,
175-78, 229-30; Rosamunde, 155; Schwa-
nengesang, 174; sonatas, 164-66, 167, 168,
455; songs, 159-61, 172-75, 242, 247, 315,
432, 476-77, 480; String Quartet; in C
major, 165, 169, 171, in G major, 163-64;
Symphony in D minor, 244; Trockne
Blumen, 173; Unfinished Symphony, 113,
167, 169, 170, 336; Wanderer Fantasy,
166; Winterreise, Die, 173, 174; Zauber-
harfe, Die, 155; Zwillingsbruder, Die, 155
Schumann, Clara, 233, 341, 342, 345, 346
Schumann, Robert, 52, 156, 230, 232-54,
329, 341, 345, 348, 386, 474, 486, 489;
INDEX
Abegg Variations, 232, 244; Album fur
die Jugend, 238; Bilder aus Osten, 243;
biography, 232-33, 548; Blumenstiick,
246; Buck der Lieder, 247; Carnaval, 232,
244, 246; characteristics, 233-35; C major
Symphony, 248; composer, 235-53, 264;
Concerto without Orchestra, 238; Da-
vidsbundlertanze, 238, 239, 245; D minor
Piano Trio, 243; D minor Symphony,
276; E-flat major Piano Quartet, 243;
fitudes symphoniques, 232, 245, 247;
Fantasia in C, 232, 239; Fantasie-stucke,
232, 238; Genoveva, 250; Humoreske,
246; Impromptus on a Theme by Clara
Wieck, 245; Kinderscenen, 238; Kreis-
leriana, 239-41, 246; Manfred, 244, 249,
251; Novelletten, 239, 243, 246; Paganini
jSiudw,232; Papillons, 232, 237, 243, 246;
Paradise and the Peri, 242, 25 1-52; Piano
Quintet, 168, 243, 244; principal works,
523-24; quoted, 253-54; Requiem, 252;
Scenes from Goethe's Faust, 251; songs,
247-48, 476-77; Symphony in B minor,
248; Violoncello Concerto, 249; Wald-
scenen, 239
Schunke, Ludwig, 244
Schiitz, Heinrich, 48, 49
Schwarz, Josef, 357, 559, 566
Schweitzer, Albert, 35, 37n, 559, 564
Schweitzer, Anton, 150
Scott, Sir Walter, 236
Scriabin, Alexander, 317, 558
Scribe, Eugene, 215
Sechter, Simeon, 156, 450
Shakespeare, William, 168, 236, 286, 396,
423, 434; Measure for Measure, 320, 327;
power of, 169; Tempest, 129
Shaw, George Bernard, 108
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 253, 479
Sibelius, Jean: Finlandta, 308; Fourth Sym-
phony, 446; Valse triste, 308
Simrock, Nikolaus, 344, 363
Sire, Simonin de, 237
Slonimsky, Nicolas, 392, 401, 559-60, 566
Smetana, Bedfich, 318, 356-62, 363, 367,
368, 369; Bartered Bride, 356-57, 359;
biography, 356-57, 551; Brandenburgers
in Bohemia, 356; characteristics, 357-59;
composer, 359-61; Dalibor, 357, 359;
Devil's War, 357; From My Life, 357, 360;
Libusa, 357, 359; My Fatherland, 357,
359-60; nationalism, 41 8; principal works,
531-32; quoted, 361-62; Wallensteins
Lager, 356
Smithson, Harriet, 179, 181-83
Sonnleithner, Joseph, 125
Spaun, Joseph von, 155
Specht, Richard, 440, 560, 562
Spinoza, Baruch, 135, 469
Spitta, Philipp, 352, 545
Spohr, Ludwig, 329; Jessonda, 151; Witches'
Dance, 151
Spontini, Gasparo, 148, 183, 333, 490
Stamaty, Camille-Marie, 483
Stanford, Charles, 47, 109
Starzer, Josef, 98
Stassov, Vladimir, 394
Stefan, Paul, 364, 560, 561, 566
Steffani, Agostino, 63
Stolz, Teresina, 425
Stradella, Alessandro, 61
Stradivari, Antonio, 43
Strauss, Johann II, 359, 560
Strauss, Richard, 316, 460, 489-90, 497, 560;
Elehtra, 297; Salome, 297; songs, 480;
symphonic poem, 476-77, 479
Stravinsky, Igor, 401, 564, 565; Petrouchka,
317, 446
Streatfeild, R. A., 214, 283, 560, 565
Strepponi, Giuseppina, 422, 425
Striggio, Alessandro, 12, 13
Strunk, W. Oliver, 91, 560, 564, 565
Sturm und Drang, 68, 127
Suares, Andre, 496
Sullivan, Arthur, 156, 556
Siissmayr, Franz, 105
Swedish Academy, 412
Sweelinck, Jan Pieterzoon, 50
TARTINI, GIUSEPPE, 44
Tasso, Torquato, 16
Taylor, Deems, 322, 560, 564
Tchaikovsky, Mme Anatol, 375, 560, 563
Tchaikovsky, Modest, 385, 560
Tchaikovsky, Peter Hitch, 295, 347, 373-90,
410, 493; biography, 373-75, 551; char-
acteristics, 375-77; composer, 377-90; Eu-
gene Onegin, 374, 381, 382; First String
Quartet, 380; lolanthe, 382, 385; Italian
Caprice, 374; melancholy, 115; Nut-
cracker, 385; Overture 1812, 374; Piano
Concerto, B-flat minor, 380-81, No. 1,
374; Pique, Dame, 382, 385; principal
works, 533-34; quoted, 387-90; Romeo
and Juliet, 373, 379-80; Sleeping Beauty,
385; Swan Lake, 374, 385; symphonies,
379, 381, 383, 385-86: Fourth, 374, 381-
82, 383, 384, 389; Fifth, 383-84; Sixth
(Pathetique), 374, 385-87; Violin Con-
certo, 374, 383; Voyevode, 373, 382
Telemann, Georg Philipp, 66
Terry, C. Sanford, 38, 560, 563
Texier, Rosalie, 494
Teyte, Maggie, 497
Theatre Italien (Paris), 195
Thomas, Ambroise, 290
Thompson, Oscar, 494, 560, 563
Tiersot, Julien, 181, 277
Tolstoy, Leo, 395; War and Peace, 469
Torelli, Giuseppe, 25, 29-31, 43-44
Tovey, Donald, 110, 118, 119, 158, 455,
560-61, 564
Toye, Francis, 196, 200, 548, 552, 561
Truffot, Marie, 483
Turner, Walter J., 546, 548, 550, 561, 564
UHLAND, LUDWIG, 245
VERDI, GIUSEPPE, 5, 43, 201, 205, 206, 207,
422-38, 486; /Ma, 201, 422, 423, 425, 432,
433; Ballo in maschera, 206, 422; Bat-
575
taglia di Legnano, 428, 431; biography,
422-23, 552; characteristics, 208, 423-26;
composer, 285, 426-36; Corsaro, II, 428;
Don Carlo, 201, 422, 433; Ernani, 422,
432, 433; Falstaff, 201, 423, 426-27, 433-
34; Forza del destino, 422; Giorno di
regno, 422; Lombardi, I, 201, 422; Luisa
Miller, 422, 428, 431; Macbeth, 422, 427,
433; Masnadieri, 428; Nabucco, 201, 422,
430, 433, 435; Oberto, 422, 430; Otello,
423, 426, 427-28, 432, 433, 445, 446; prin-
cipal works, 537; quoted, 436-38; Re-
quiem, 423, 424; Rigoletto, 422, 429, 432,
433; Simon Boccanegra, 422; String Quar-
tet, 431; Tramata, 422, 433, 435, 445;
Trovatore, 201, 422, 426, 433; Vespri si-
ciliana, 422
Vienna: Burgtheater, 74, 79, 105; Conserv-
atory, 450, 456, 459, 473; Court Theater,
74; Opera 459, 462, 463, 475, 476; Phil-
harmonic, 473; Singakademie, 341
Vieuxtemps, Henri, 456
Vitali, Giovanni, 43
Vivaldi, Antonio, 25-33, 39, 44, 69; biog-
raphy, 25-26, 544; characteristics, 26-28;
composer, 25-33; Concerto de' Cucchi,
27; Concerto in A, 26-27; Coro delle
Monache, 27; Primavera, La, 30; princi-
pal works, 512; Quattro stagione, 30, 32;
quoted, 33; Tito Manlio, 28
Vogl, Johann Michael, 155, 175
Vogler, Abb6, 125, 146, 211
Volbach, Fritz, 37, 68
Voltaire, 19, 23, 80, 487
Volterra, Daniel da, 4
WAGENSEIL, GEORG CHRISTOPH, 98
Wagner, Cosima, 303, 304, 321, 322, 325
Wagner, Richard, 5, 67, 147, 152, 173, 181,
198, 201, 208-9, 215, 242, 279, 320-40, 370,
410, 411, 433, 472, 486, 487, 489; Bay-
reuth, 304, 322, 333-34, 335, 337, 338,
454, 492, 505; biography, 320-22, 550;
Bruckner, 450, 454, 455, 457-58; charac-
teristics, 322-26, 413; composer, 264, 274,
277, 285, 327-38, 432; Debussy, 504, 505;
Faust Overture, 320; Feen, Die, 320, 327;
Festspiel (see Bayreuth); Flying Dutch-
man, 320, 327; Gotterddmmerung, 321,
INDEX
322; Hochzeit, Die, 320; Liebestod, 478;
Liebesverbot, Das, 320, 327; Liszt, 304
316, 321, 327; Lohengrin, 191, 316 321
327, 329, 332, 427; Meister singer, Die
295, 321, 322, 326, 332, 334-35, 338, 476;
opera, 22, 337, 476-78; Parsifal, 322, 329
332, 335-36, 338, 409, 458, 475; principal
works, 529; quoted, 338-40; Rheingold,
316, 321, 322; Rienzi, 320, 327; Ring cy-
cle, 115, 322, 326, 331-32, 333, 338, 454,
457; Siegfried, 321, 322; Tannhauser, 321,
327, 333; Tristan and Isolde, 321, 322
326, 333, 335, 338, 444; Valkyries, 321 '
322; Wolf, 473, 474, 475, 477
Walter, Bruno, 460, 463, 561
Warsaw Conservatory, 255
Weber, Anselm, 211
Weber, Karl Maria von, 96, 146-54 198
202, 223, 241, 328, 329, 332-33, 336, 410,
487; Abu Hassan, 146; biography, 547;
characteristics, 147-50; composer, 150-53,
264, 277; Ein steter Kampf ist unser
Leben, 148; Euryanthe, 147, 151-52, 153,
250; Freischiltz, 147, 148, 151, 152, 153;
Oberon, 147, 149, 153; opera, 146-47, 153-
54; Preciosa, 153; principal works, 519;
quoted, 153-54; Silvana, 146, 149, 150
Werfel, Alma Mahler, 460, 561, 564
Werfel, Franz, 423, 552, 561, 566
Wieck, Friedrich, 232, 233
Wieniawski, Henri, 456
Winter-Hjelm, Otto, 418
Wolf, Hugo, 173, 473-82; Alte Weisen, 473;
biography, 473-74, 553; characteristics,
474-76; composer, 476-81; Corregidor,
474; Lied, 473, 481; Moerike songs, 473,
477-78, 480; Penthesilea Overture, 473,
475; principal works, 539; Prometheus,
480; quoted, 481-82; songs, 432, 473 ff.;
String Quartet, 473; Wagner, 473, 474,
475, 477
Wolf-Ferrari, Ermanno, 201
Wordsworth, William, 175, 395, 479
ZACHAU, FRIEDRICH, 54, 59
Zaremba, Nicolas, 373
Zelter, Karl Friedrich, 95, 96, 211, 219
Zumsteeg, Johann Rudolf, 158-59
576
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