Title: Famous composers and their works, Vol. 3 (of 4)
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration: FAMOVS COMPOSERS AND THEIR WORKS VOL. 3]



                    Famous Composers and their Works


                               Edited by

                           John Knowles Paine
                    Theodore Thomas and Karl Klauser


                              Illustrated

[Illustration: [Logo]]

                                 Boston
                          J. B. Millet Company



                          Copyright, 1891, by
                         J. B. MILLET COMPANY.

[Illustration:

  JOSEPH JOACHIM RAFF

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, made in 1878 by Mondel &
    Jacob, in Wiesbaden._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                          JOSEPH JOACHIM RAFF


Joseph Joachim Raff, was the son of an organist and teacher, Franz
Joseph Raff, who early in 1822 left the little Würtemberg city of
Weisenstetter in the Horb district of the Black Forest to settle in
Lachen on the lake of Zurich in the canton Schwyz. Here on May 27 of the
same year the boy was born. In his early childhood he displayed that
mental ability which does not always fulfill its promise in years of
maturity. He was able to translate Homer at the age of seven and
generally preferred books to rude outdoor sports. He displayed musical
tendencies, too, learning to play the organ and to sing in the choir;
but no special attention was given to his musical training, probably
because his facility in this art was regarded as only an evidence of his
general activity of mind. He was first put to school at the Würtemberg
Institute, and after a thorough preparation there, was sent to the
Schwyz Jesuit Lyceum. He was graduated with distinction, carrying off
prizes in Latin and mathematics, but his means were not sufficient to
enable him to take a university course. He obtained the post of tutor of
Latin at St. Gallen, where he remained a short time, afterward going as
a teacher to Rapperswyl. He was at this time hardly twenty years of age.
He now began his study of music, for which his fondness had been
growing. He was unable to afford a teacher, but he diligently practised
at the piano and made many earnest attempts at composition.

The patron saint of musical Germany in 1842 was Mendelssohn and in
August of that year he set off on one of his tours in Switzerland. No
date is recorded, but we may be sure that Raff seized upon this visit as
his opportunity. Mendelssohn, with his customary promptness in
recognizing and assisting aspirants, gave the young man a warm letter of
recommendation to the great publishing house of Breitkopf & Härtel. So
effective were the master’s words that Raff’s first work was published
in January, 1843. Thenceforward the current of his life could not be
checked, and despite the opposition of his parents, he devoted his
future to music. No critical notice of Raff’s opus 1 has been found, but
opus 2 (“Trois Pièces Caracteristique” for piano) is mentioned with
kindness in Schumann’s journal, the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, of
Aug. 5, 1844. The critic found in the composition “something which
points to a future for the composer.” One readily discerns here the keen
insight of the greatest of all music critics, Schumann himself.
Favorable comments were made on the young composer’s works numbered opus
2 to 6 in the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_ of Aug. 21 in the same
year, and we may readily understand that with such encouragements Raff
bent his whole mind to the production of music.

In 1845 the wizard Liszt appeared in Switzerland. The great pianist was
not long in discovering Raff’s gifts and was equally quick to see that
the young man was struggling against privations that would have
overwhelmed a weaker nature. Liszt invited Raff to accompany him on a
concert tour, and thus laid the foundations of the beginner’s
reputation. Together they travelled in the principal German cities, the
tour ending at Cologne. Thence Liszt returned to Paris, but Raff
remained. This stay in Cologne was a happy one, for it led to a personal
acquaintance with Mendelssohn. The famous master, who had given the
young composer his first help, now displayed fresh interest in him and
made him a proposition to go to Leipsic and continue his studies under
Mendelssohn’s own guidance. Such an offer was not to be refused, but the
fates were not propitious. Just as Raff was making his preparations to
go to Leipsic in the fall of 1847 Mendelssohn’s untimely death put an
end to his hopes. He had not been idle while in Cologne, however, for he
had studied composition with great earnestness, and had sent to the
_Cäcilia_, published in Berlin by the noted contrapuntist, Siegfried
Dehn, many contributions displaying wide knowledge of musical science.
Later he published “Die Wagnerfrage” (“The Wagner Question”), a pamphlet
which attracted much attention, as did all discussions of the works of
the Bayreuth genius.

Raff now became anxious to make a permanent home for himself in one of
the larger German cities. He appealed once more to Liszt, who gave him a
letter of introduction to Mechetti, at that time a prominent publisher
of Vienna. It seemed as if ill luck relentlessly pursued Raff, for while
he was actually on the way to visit Mechetti, the latter died. In spite
of such obstacles to his advancement the composer continued his labors
with undaunted spirit. He returned to his old home at Würtemberg and
resumed his studies. For a short time he taught and studied at
Stuttgart, seeking in the latter city to fill the gaps in his early
training. That his ambition was unconquered is well proved by the fact
that in Stuttgart he wrote his first large work, an opera in four acts
entitled “King Alfred.” In Stuttgart, too, he was in some measure
recompensed for his many trials and adversities by making the
acquaintance of one who was destined to be his life-long friend and his
champion after death. This was Hans von Bülow, then a youth of barely
twenty, not yet the famous pupil of Liszt, but a law student who was
neglecting his studies for the pursuit of music. Von Bülow, no doubt,
perceived that to introduce to the public a new composer of merit would
add to his own success as a player, and he accordingly performed from
memory a recently finished composition of Raff’s, which he had seen for
the first time two days before. The result was a storm of applause for
both player and composer. This success cemented the friendship of the
two, and, as all who have often heard the pianist well know, Dr. von
Bülow very rarely plays a miscellaneous programme on which the name of
Raff does not appear.

It was in 1850 that the young man met Liszt again, this time in Hamburg,
and followed the magnet of attraction to Weimar. Here at last it seemed
as if Raff had found the atmosphere for which his spirit hungered.
Music, literature and art permeated the air; and the foreign artists who
came to lay their tributes of flattery before the throne of the musical
idol of the hour had smiles of approval for Raff, who basked in the
sunlight and let the essence of the new German ideas in music saturate
his soul. He went to work with renewed vigor, and inspired by the
presence of competent performers wrote his first chamber music (Quatuor
No. 1 in D minor for strings), some of his best piano suites, his
setting of Geibel’s “Traum König und Sein Lieb” (“Dream King and his
Love”), “Wachet auf” and other well known works. Raff made himself
popular and respected in the artistic circles of Weimar by his learning.
When Berlioz, who was ignorant of German, was there and a banquet was
given in his honor, Raff relieved the situation of some difficulty by
making the address to the guest in Latin, an attention which highly
delighted the Frenchman.

In the meantime Raff had found his domestic fate in Doris Genast, an
actress, grand-daughter of Goethe’s favorite actor. This young lady
having accepted an engagement in Wiesbaden, the composer followed her
thither in 1856. He speedily became the most popular music teacher in
the city, but his compositions still failed to find a ready market.
Nevertheless he employed his spare hours unceasingly in writing. In 1859
he and Fräulein Genast were married, and a daughter was the result of
their union. Previous to his marriage he composed in 1858 his second
violin sonata and the incidental music to “Bernhard von Weimar,” a drama
by Wilhelm Genast. The overture to this drama became a favorite and was
played frequently in many parts of Germany. In the summer of 1859,
however, he began the work which was to establish his fame. This was his
first symphony, “In the Fatherland.” It was ready for the publisher in
1861, when the composer was informed of the prize offered by the
“Society of the Friends of Music of the Austrian Empire” (“Gesellschaft
der Musikfreunde”), for the best symphony offered in competition. Raff
sent in his new work, and in 1863 a committee consisting of Ferdinand
Hiller, Carl Reinecke, Dr. Ambros, Robert Volkmann and Vincenz Lachner
adjudged it the best of thirty-two compositions. Other large works
followed, and their success enabled him to give up teaching to devote
himself wholly to composing. No artist’s life shows more plainly than
Raff’s the result of escape from poverty’s iron control. Hitherto he had
written copiously for the drawing-room, but now he sought to produce
works wholly artistic in purpose. His retirement after the beginning of
the year 1870 was almost idyllic, being broken only by the visits of
fellow artists. It is impossible to agree with the oft-repeated
statement that his best works date from this period, for the beautiful
“Im Walde” (“In the Forest”) symphony appeared in 1869; but there is
every proof of a higher purpose in the compositions after 1870 than in
the majority of those originating earlier than that year. Perhaps, too,
Raff’s lack of business ability may be accepted as an evidence of his
artistic sincerity. For his first, second and fourth symphonies he
received no cash payment; for the third (“Im Walde”) he got sixty
thalers, the same amount being paid him again, when the work was sold to
a French publisher. Thereafter, however, he seems to have acquired
courage enough to ask fair prices for his works.

In 1877 Raff left Wiesbaden to become director of the new Conservatory
of Music at Frankfort. He taught composition himself, arranged the
library, and conducted the institution upon such a broad-minded plan
that its success was assured from the beginning. He continued his labors
in composition, his symphonies after the seventh, having been written at
Frankfort together with other important works. Ignorant of the fact that
a mortal disease had fastened upon him he worked with undiminished zeal
till 1882, when on the night of June 24, heart disease ended his career.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph letter from Raff to a personal friend.
]

Raff’s principal works are the following: operas—“King Alfred,” Weimar,
1850; “Dame Kobold,” (comic) Weimar, 1870; “Benedetto Marcello,”
(lyric), not performed; “Samson” (opera seria), not performed.

For voices and orchestra—“Wachet Auf” (“Be on Guard”), opus 80;
“Deutschland’s Auferstehung” (“Germany’s Resurrection”), opus 100;
festival cantata for the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Leipsic;
“De Profundis” (Psalm CXXX.) for eight voices and orchestra, opus 141;
and “Morgenlied” (“Morning Song”), for mixed chorus and orchestra, opus
171.

For orchestra: symphonies—“In the Fatherland,” opus 96; No. 2, in C,
opus 140; No. 3, “Im Walde,” in F, opus 153; No. 4, in G minor, opus
167; No. 5, “Lenore,” in E, opus 177; No. 6, in D minor, opus 189; No.
7, “In den Alpen,” B flat, opus 201; No. 8, “Frühlingsklänge,” (“Sounds
of Spring”) in A, opus 205; No. 9, “Im Sommer” (“In the Summer”) in E
minor, opus 208; No. 10, “Im Herbstzeit” (“In Autumn”), F minor, opus
213; No. 11, “Der Winter,” A minor, opus 214; four suites in C, F, E
minor and B flat; and nine overtures, including those to “Romeo and
Juliet,” “Othello,” “Macbeth” and the “Tempest.”

For piano with orchestra—“Ode to Spring,” opus 76; concerto in C minor,
opus 185; and suite in E flat, opus 200.

For violin with orchestra—concerto No. 1 in B minor, opus 161; concerto
No. 2, in A minor, opus 206.

In addition to these principal works there is a great mass of chamber
music, piano compositions, songs and ’cello pieces.

It may, perhaps, be unfortunate for Raff’s fame that his dramatic works
are unknown in this country, though it is indisputable that none of them
has achieved high repute in German. It is probable, although we in
America know far less about the music of this gifted man than the
Germans do, the estimate of his abilities generally accepted on this
side of the Atlantic is a wise one. He is regarded as a composer who,
possessing exceptional fecundity of melodic invention and rare mastery
of orchestral tone-color, sought to impose upon music a definiteness of
expression somewhat beyond its power. This eagerness to delineate in
detail a chain of feelings or impressions led Raff into diffuseness of
style and to frequent sacrifices of those formal elaborations which are
regarded as essential to the construction of artistic music. He has been
generally thought to lack self-criticism and a want of restraint
resulting therefrom; but it has always seemed to the present writer that
Raff’s errors were not in the direction of criticism, but of fundamental
belief. In other words he let the beautiful vision of a genus of
pictorial programme music which is to be more expressive than speech run
away with his reason. The preface to his “In the Fatherland” symphony
clearly exhibits his idea of the possibilities of music.

Now it is neither necessary nor expedient to repeat here any of the
familiar discussion as to the expressive power of music. The most
serious thinkers about the art, even when they disagree in details, are
generally of the opinion that music can express only the broader
emotions, and requires text to make clear the cause of the feelings. We
are able to get great pleasure, and at times genuine emotional
exaltation from the music of Raff provided we are willing to approach it
in the only fair spirit in which programme music can be approached—that
of willingness to accept the composer’s premises. The first movement of
the “Fatherland” symphony has strength and aspiration, and we have only
to accept Raff’s explanation that he is singing of Germany to enter into
the heart of his composition. In the same way we are obliged to approach
the “Lenore,” the “Im Walde” and his other symphonies. The grisly story
of Burger’s “Lenore” is told in detail in the finale of the symphony,
but in order to follow the music we need the poem. Having that, we
perceive the aptness and peculiar fitness of the composer’s rhythmic and
melodic fancies. Nothing could have a more stimulating effect upon the
imagination—once the key to the secret is possessed—than the inexorable
persistence of the groups of a quaver and two semi-quavers by which the
infernal flight of the lovers is indicated. If perchance we find an
instrumental representation of a gallop not new (it having been invented
by Claudio Monteverde in the beginning of the seventeenth century) we
can at any rate get all the effect designed by Raff in his woodwind
shrieks of the nightbirds and his trombone hymn for the dead.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript of an “Album Leaf” by Raff.
]

He has achieved a greater fidelity of feeling and a subtler realism of
tones, however, in his “Im Walde,” which is generally looked upon as his
masterpiece. The first movement is intended to bring to the hearer’s
mind the woods in the sunlit beauty of noon. The second reveals them to
us in the suggestive shadow of twilight. In the third movement the
composer entertains us with an airy and delicate dance of Dryads, a
woodland scherzo in deed and in truth. In the fourth and last movement
we have a musical embodiment of the familiar German legend of the Wild
Huntsman. A gentle fugal thought pictures the repose of the woods.
Suddenly the rhythm of the galloping hunt is heard, as it were, in the
distance. Nearer and nearer it comes, till the whole orchestra thunders
with its riotous fury. It dies away in the distance, returns and dies
away again. Then comes the glory of sunrise. This symphony makes less
demands in the way of preparation than many of Raff’s other works. The
single suggestion that he is painting the forest and that there is a
wild hunt is all that the imagination needs to give it complete
enjoyment of this work. Freedom of form is a natural result of the kind
of composition in which Raff excelled and his ability to write quickly
and with little effort prevented his feeling the necessity of working
out his compositions with the care and science of the classical school.
One gets much less intellectual satisfaction, therefore, out of Raff’s
work than out of Schumann’s, who was his precursor, and still less than
out of Mozart’s. But the ear and the imagination are delighted by the
clear intelligibility of his melodic ideas, their unfailing poetic
sentiment and musical grace. It is these qualities of his themes,
together with the splendid colors in which his orchestral palette is so
rich, that have given to his symphonic works their wide popularity, and
have made the name of Raff recognized as that of one of the really
gifted followers of the romantic school founded by Schumann and
Schubert. In the general outline his symphonies follow the laws of the
earlier masters, notably in the distribution of the movements. His
separate movements, however, are not always built according to the old
rules, his finales being notably free and irregular. It can only be
said, then, in concluding this brief estimate of his symphonic writing,
that his works in the large orchestral form are admirable examples of
that class of modern composition in which structural skill and
scientific development are sacrificed to warmth of sentiment and
opulence of color. In a word, they belong to what may be called the
impressionist school of music.

Lest it be supposed that Raff was deficient in musical learning, let us
note that his chamber music, always melodious and graceful, frequently
displays profound mastery of the resources of his art. His sextet in G
minor, opus 178, deserves especial mention because it is one of his most
carefully written productions. It is written for two violins, two violas
and two ’cellos in six real parts, and every trick of canon and
imitation is introduced. One commentator enthusiastically describes it
as “a veritable triumph of counterpoint.” In his treatment of the first
subject of his “In the Fatherland” symphony, too, he writes a canon in
augmentation and double augmentation that would have delighted the eye
of Bach himself. Dr. Franz Gehring, of Vienna, in his article on Raff in
Grove’s “Dictionary of Music” calls attention to the interesting fact
that “in the pianoforte concerto in C minor (opus 185) in each movement
all the subjects are in double counterpoint with one another, yet this
is one of Raff’s freshest and most melodious works.” The composer’s
piano music is very popular, and some of it, notably the variations on
an original theme (opus 179) and most of the suites, is remarkable for
its fertility of resource as well as for the composer’s usual readiness
for the production of new melodies. His songs are equally rich in
tunefulness and many of them have attained the rare distinction of
becoming the common property of the German people.

Raff may not deserve a seat among the Titans of music. Yet his
originality, his grace of thought and his oriental gorgeousness of
utterance lift him above the level of mediocrity and stamp him as a man
possessed of rare and valuable gifts. His larger works show every
evidence of artistic earnestness, and had he been less imbued with
impressionistic ideas and more free from the burdens of poverty, he
might have attained perfection of art.

[Illustration: N. J. Henderson.]

[Illustration:

  JOHANNES BRAHMS

  _Reproduction of a triplex photograph from life, made in 1889 by
    Brasch._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                            JOHANNES BRAHMS


The spirit of modern civilization is preëminently a critical one. A vast
amount of knowledge and talent is constantly put in its service and it
seems as though education had no higher purpose than to enable man to
become as early as possible a critic of everything offered for material
or spiritual use or enjoyment. In no field have these tendencies become
more conspicuous than in the most delicate and complicated art of music.
Our generation is brought up not so much for a life-long devotion, study
and true appreciation, as for a most premature forming and uttering of
opinions as to the merits, and particularly the shortcomings, of any
production. Most of our critics, too, work in this wrong direction,
instead of preaching that modesty and prudence and earnest devotion
which alone enables us to become familiar with new talent or works of a
higher order. Goethe accuses critics in general, that they have the
habit of ignoring really great things and of showing an unusual interest
in mediocrity. He ascribes to them a bad influence upon creative
artists, saying that these can only follow the path dictated by their
nature, while arrogant criticism, which assumes to prescribe to them how
to do or not to do a thing, may destroy them. He doubts whether in
modern England, with the criticising daily press, such an astounding
appearance as that of a Shakespeare would be possible, and, as an
expert, declares that great things can be accomplished only in a state
of absolutely undisturbed, innocent, almost somnambulistic creation,
attained by complete isolation. That such self-chosen isolation, resting
upon a strong personal and artistic character, yet combined with a
hearty interest in all human concerns and the most comprehensive general
culture, is possible, even in our modern time, and that it can be
crowned with most wonderful results, is splendidly shown by the career
of Johannes Brahms, whose greatness rests mainly on this unswerving
fidelity to his genius in spite of all adverse criticism during the
years of his development and attained mastership.

He was born in Hamburg, May 7th, 1833, being the eldest of three
children of Johann Brahms, a remarkable musician, who played double bass
at the theatre, and Christiane Nissen, a lady of an affectionate, noble
character. There was never a doubt as to his becoming a musician. Under
the instruction first of O. Cossel and, from his tenth year, of Eduard
Marxsen, a most thorough musician and excellent teacher in the sister
city Altona, the boy made rapid progress on the piano. Marxsen soon
began also to give him theoretical instruction and was at once attracted
by the rare keenness of the intellect of his pupil. Indeed, in his first
productions he recognized a spirit which convinced him of a profound
latent talent. He therefore spared no effort to awaken and guide this
talent that his pupil might become another priest of art to “preach in a
new way what is high, true and imperishable.”

As a lad of fourteen Brahms played for the first time in public, pieces
of his favorite masters, Bach and Beethoven, and original variations on
a folk-song, thus showing an early liking not only for popular melodies,
but for a musical form which he has cultivated more assiduously and for
higher purposes than any other modern composer. Indeed this combination
of popular elements with most artistic and complicated forms has perhaps
remained the most characteristic feature of Brahms’ music.

After giving a few other concerts, Marxsen kept him for several years
from appearing in public, until in 1853 he could send him as a master of
his instrument upon his first journey with the Hungarian violin virtuoso
Remenyi. In Hanover, where he played much before the king, he met
Joachim, who became his life-long friend, and Joachim was especially
impressed when Brahms, in one of these concerts with Remenyi, transposed
on account of the low pitch of the piano, without any preparation and
even without notes, a Beethoven violin sonata, raising it a semitone.
Marxsen was not surprised; for years Brahms had been accustomed to
transpose great pieces at sight into any key, and so astonishing was his
memory, that he never carried notes with him upon a concert trip. The
compositions of Beethoven and Bach and a long list of modern concert
pieces were safely committed to memory by him. Brahms remained several
weeks in Weimar as the guest of Liszt, who delighted in playing the
young composer’s manuscripts. Then he parted from Remenyi and went with
Joachim’s recommendation to Robert Schumann in Düsseldorf. The
impression which his personality, playing, and works made upon the
latter was profound. Nothing in his later career, rich in honors and
triumphs, can be dearer to his memory than the enthusiastic greeting
with which Schumann introduced him to the musical world.

Without some citation from an oft-reprinted article in the “Neue
Zeitschrift für Musik” no sketch of Brahms’ life is complete. Schumann
greets him as the one whom he had expected to appear to utter the
highest ideal expression of his times, claiming the mastership not by a
gradual development, but appearing suddenly before us fully equipped as
Minerva sprang from the brain of Jupiter. “And he has come, a youth at
whose cradle graces and heroes kept watch.” “Sitting at the piano he
began to unveil wonderful regions. We were drawn into more and more
magical circles by his playing, full of genius, which made of the piano
an orchestra of lamenting and jubilant voices. There were sonatas, or
rather veiled symphonies; songs, whose poetry might be understood
without words; piano pieces both of a demoniac nature and of the most
graceful form; sonatas for violin and piano—string quartets—each so
different from every other, that they seemed to flow from many different
springs.” “Whenever he bends his magic wand, there, when the powers of
orchestra and chorus lend him their aid, further glimpses of the ideal
world will be revealed to us. May the highest genius strengthen him;
meanwhile the spirit of modesty dwells within him. His comrades greet
him at his first step into the world of art, where wounds may perhaps
await him, but bay and laurel also; we welcome him as a valiant
warrior.”

This cordial introduction created quite a sensation, yet it was by no
means a guaranty of an enthusiastic reception of the young composer’s
works. For, far from being an imitator of Schumann’s style, he appeared
at once in his own strong personality and as a stranger, who even in
Leipsic was not understood. Yet he found publishers for three pianoforte
sonatas, a scherzo, a trio and several songs. For years the interest in
him was confined to a small circle. He stayed for a while in Hanover,
making from there several concert tours with Joachim or Stockhausen, the
great singer, another devoted friend, visiting also Schumann in his
retreat in the Endenich hospital. In his variations on a theme from
Schumann’s Op. 99, he gave a touching expression to his sympathy with
the master’s sufferings. After the publication of these and the ballads
Op. 10, Brahms devoted several years to profound study. Schumann’s
praise had not spoiled him, nor was he discouraged by the lack of
success. For a few seasons he was the director of the orchestra and
chorus in Detmold, spending also some time in Hamburg and in travelling.
Meanwhile he finished many songs and choruses, two serenades for
orchestra, and two sextets. In Jan., 1859, he played in Leipsic his
first great pianoforte concerto; most of the criticisms thereon were,
however, such as to now excite our mirth. It was in Switzerland and
Vienna that his genius found a sincere recognition. About thirty years
ago the writer first saw Brahms in his Swiss home; at that time he was
of a rather delicate slim-looking figure, with a beardless face of ideal
expression. Since then he has changed in appearance, until now he looks
the very image of health, being stout and muscular, the noble, manly
face surrounded by a full gray beard. The writer well remembers singing
under his direction, watching him conduct orchestra rehearsals, hearing
him play alone or with orchestra, listening to an after-dinner speech or
private conversation, observing him when attentively listening to other
works, and seeing the modest smile with which he accepted, or rather
declined, expressions of admiration.

The Alpine summits and glaciers had great attractions for Brahms, but
also the welcome which he was always sure to find in Basel and Zürich.
For his permanent home he selected Vienna, in 1862, where he was
surrounded by the spirits of the classic masters. He was received most
favorably. His interpretation of Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Schumann
was particularly praised. He was appointed chorus master of the
Sing-Academie for a season, and prepared a memorable performance of
Bach’s Passion Music. Yet his genius would not allow him to devote much
time to such services, and once only in later years he accepted a
similar appointment, directing from 1872–1875 the concerts of the
“Society of the Friends of Music.” Aside from this all his time was
devoted to composing, interrupted only by frequent journeys to
performances of his works, and by giving valuable assistance in the
revision of the works of Couperin, Mozart and Chopin. During the first
years of his residence in Vienna he finished many important chamber
works, variations, waltzes and Hungarian dances for the pianoforte, and
vocal compositions of every kind. The first great success was won by the
“German Requiem,” begun after the death of his mother in 1866, and
completed, for the greater part, in Switzerland, in the two following
years. After the first famous performance in the Bremen Cathedral in the
spring of 1868, it was soon heard in other cities and was greatly
admired, although certain features were severely criticised. Other works
of high importance followed: the “Song of Destiny,” “Rinaldo,” the
“Rhapsody,” Op. 53, the “Song of Triumph” for the celebration of the
happy ending of the Franco-German war, besides many songs, chamber
works, and the charming Love-Song Waltzes. By all these works Brahms
rose gradually higher and higher in the general estimation both at home
and abroad. But he steadfastly avoided the one field in the reform of
which all musical interest seemed to centre,—the opera. Perhaps the time
will come when we may be fully informed as to his relation to dramatic
music and the reasons which kept him away from the stage. Much might be
guessed. But it is needless to pay attention to mere rumors and
suppositions. There were other fields in which he was called upon to
achieve great things. Nothing shows better the greatness of Brahms’
artistic character than the fact that, in spite of Schumann’s prophecy
and many early instrumental masterpieces, he waited with his first
symphony until he was a man of over forty years. Four great symphonies
have appeared between 1876 and 1885, preceded by orchestral variations
on a theme of Haydn; also, during the same time, two overtures, a second
pianoforte concerto, one for violin, two smaller choruses with
orchestra, chamber works, piano pieces and songs. Another great choral
composition, “Deutsche Fest-und Gedenksprüche,” a double concerto for
violin and violoncello, Gipsy songs and many other vocal and chamber
works complete the list of his more recent compositions. And more great
things may be expected from him. If there is anything inspiring in the
present aspect of musical art, it is the fact that Johannes Brahms is
still among us, physically and mentally as strong as if perpetual youth
were granted to him. Indeed, the graces and heroes have not only kept
watch at his cradle, but guided him throughout his long career.

[Illustration:

  JOHANNES BRAHMS.

  In early youth.
]

Those who have met him will never forget the impression of his strong
personality. Nor will those who saw him conduct or heard him play ever
enter into the superfluous discussion whether he was a great leader of
orchestra and chorus or a master of his instrument. For in both
directions he was not only equal to the most exacting demands, but
always appeared as if inspired, and inspiring everybody who sang or
played under him or listened to the genius of his music. At the
pianoforte and the conductor’s desk he is a king, but socially he
appears unaffected and easy, neither reticent nor predominating in
conversation, jolly and kind among friends and children. He has never
married. Many honors have been conferred upon him: the degrees of Doctor
of Music by the University of Cambridge, England, in 1877, and of Doctor
of Philosophy by the Breslau University in 1879; also several orders and
the membership of many societies and institutes. Throughout the musical
world his music, especially his instrumental works, is now received with
enthusiasm, although still finding a strong opposition on the part of
many critics of either too conservative or too progressive tendencies.
Yet the time is not far distant when it will be generally granted a high
position in the history of our art.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript of Canon by Brahms. “An Album Leaf.”
]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph letter from Johannes Brahms to Karl Klauser.
]

Three prominent characteristics of Brahms’ works command our admiration.
From the start he appeared as a strong individuality, and
notwithstanding a leaning towards Bach’s polyphonic art and harmonic
wealth, Beethoven’s virile pathos and ideality of purpose, and
Schubert’s melodic charm, he has spoken his own distinct language. In
every field of composition except the opera he has contributed
masterpieces which show that in each he has to-day no superior, and in
but few an equal. Throughout he impresses us by the fact that to him art
has always been something sacred, worthy of highest effort and noblest
purpose. In this respect one may well compare him to Bach or Beethoven
or Schiller, of whom Goethe so beautifully said, that “far behind him
lay that which conquers us all,—vulgarity.” Whoever honestly strives for
the sympathy of his genius must be filled with a like earnest spirit,
willing to be guided by his subtle art into ideal regions full of higher
joys than common musical amusements afford.

The wealth of his melodic, rhythmic and harmonic invention is truly
astonishing; his combinations are so new and often intricate, the
thematic material so rich or peculiar, its development so elaborate,
that it is a commonly expressed opinion that his music has to do more
with the intellect than with imagination and feeling. The truth is, that
no modern composer has expressed deeper and more fervent feelings,
either jubilant or sad, than Brahms. His great intellect only guides the
wealth of emotion in order to find a well balanced, wholly original and
artistic construction for the creatures of his rich imagination. And he
is an eminently modern composer; with all his so-called conservative
tendencies there is hardly a page in his works which could have been
written at an earlier stage of musical art. Familiar with all the
subtleties of modern expression and innovations of harmony, rhythm, and
instrumentation, he has himself introduced many new and bold features.

To speak in detail of the one hundred and fifteen published works of
Brahms would require a space far beyond the limits of this sketch. Thus
only a summary classification is possible. Looking first at the
instrumental compositions, one cannot praise Brahms too highly, that in
opposition to prevailing tendencies towards a neglect of cyclic forms in
favor of free, rhapsodic or programmatic fantasias, he has cultivated
the former with supreme devotion, enriching and modifying them in many
ways, but so that they still appear as worthy representatives of their
types.

The three pianoforte sonatas and the Scherzo Op. 4 reveal the cardinal
features of his later chamber and orchestral works: a most excellent
thematic material, consisting often of but a few notes, awakening
highest expectations; a rich, ingenious development, always coherent and
logical; a Beethovenish virility; distinct contrasts and wonderful
climaxes in the lively opening and closing movements, usually beginning
directly with the principal subject, the working-out section being
especially interesting and elaborate, the coda often of rare charm; the
slow movements of delicate or intense, always noble feeling, in the form
of variations or a long cantilena; the scherzos on a large plan, in
three-four or six-eight time, very spirited, with a quieter trio
preceding the finale, except in No. 3, where a short intermezzo is
interpolated. Everywhere we note an ample and effective use of
syncopations, a peculiar style of accompaniments, bold modulations and
rhythmic devices, occasionally even some programmatic suggestions. Few
masters have shown such originality and maturity in their first works.

Of independent pianoforte variations there are sixteen on a touching
theme of Schumann, eleven on a beautiful original theme, thirteen on a
Hungarian theme (with a combination of three-four and four-four time),
twenty-five splendid variations on a short theme of Handel ending with a
great fugue, some very difficult variations on a theme of Paganini,
and—in a more romantic spirit—nine for four hands on that peculiar theme
which Schumann had received “from the spirits of Schubert and
Mendelssohn.” Some of these important works have a suggestive and
refined sentimental character, others are virtuoso pieces of the highest
order. As regards free conception of the variation form and variety of
construction and mood, Brahms goes decidedly farther than Beethoven or
Schumann. He seems inexhaustible in this form, which he used later most
ingeniously also in chamber and orchestra works. The four poetic ballads
Op. 10, the capriccios and intermezzos Op. 76 and two Rhapsodies Op. 79
are fine concert pieces of a freer but always coherent style, often very
difficult. More popular are the famous Hungarian dances (fascinating
settings of melodies, the authorship of which Brahms has never claimed),
which he has orchestrated and arranged for four hands. His waltzes Op.
39, also for four hands, are short character-pieces of a bright,
graceful or passionate spirit, in certain features recalling Schubert
and Schumann, yet so original that they have been much imitated by
younger composers. Several piano works for technical study (after Weber,
Chopin and Bach), and fine arrangements of most of his chamber works and
orchestra serenades and of a gavotte of Gluck may at least be mentioned.
The difficulties of his pianoforte style, so rich in polyphonic
figuration, harmonic and rhythmic combinations, syncopations, and wide
stretches, especially abound in the two seldom-played concertos. Yet,
without the highest appreciation and sympathetic devotion, the greatest
virtuosity would never be able to make their inner life clear.

Like a giant appears the early written D minor concerto. Quick
modulations, syncopations, chains of trills and a Beethovenish
importance of themes and development impress us mightily in the
passionate first movement, divine sweetness in the long adagio, while
the finale, with its fantasia-like cadenza, rises from a simple mood to
the acme of enthusiasm. The B flat concerto Op. 83 has even four
movements, the long and romantic opening allegro being followed by an
allegro appassionato of a superior scherzo character, the delightful
andante by a highly effective allegro grazioso as finale. In spite of
the elaborate development and the variety of contrasting moods, the
whole work retains a bright and inspiring character. In both concertos
the important and richly scored symphonic accompaniment only raises the
solo part to greater prominence.

A fugue and a choral prelude with fugue are Brahms’ only but significant
compositions for the organ.

The chamber works secure our master a place of honor beside the greatest
representatives of this high branch of composition; they comprise three
sonatas for violin and two for violoncello and pianoforte, five
pianoforte trios (one with horn and one with clarinet), three string
quartets, three pianoforte quartets, three string quintets (one with
clarinet), one pianoforte quintet and two string sextets. In the older
works one feels often the struggle of a great soul with strong passions,
longings, hopes and anxieties, joys and pains, yet not lacking in
sunshine and humor, while in the more recent compositions a quieter,
more contemplative spirit prevails. The classic arrangement of four
movements forms the rule, most of them being very elaborate and
extensive, rich in themes of importance and beauty, the working out and
coda showing Brahms’ genius in the finest light, the treatment of the
different instruments being throughout masterly. The complicated
development often prevents an immediate enjoyment, but increases our
desire for a closer acquaintance; for this counterpoint goes always hand
in hand with true feeling. In the opening movements the first part is
not always repeated, and other novel features are introduced; the slow
movements in the form of variations or of a long developed cantilena
often lift us into high and unwonted regions; the scherzos are so full
of genius that one wonders why Brahms has not used this form in his
symphonies. The finales are of the highest order, seldom reached by
other modern composers. In the works with horn and clarinets these much
neglected instruments have received a wonderful treatment in music of
great beauty. Unusual and complicated rhythms appear frequently, but
treated in a surprisingly easy way. The details are throughout deeply
interesting, yet often strange, even the most peaceful movements
requiring closest attention. If one of all these great works must be
distinguished as the greatest, we would name the pianoforte quintet in F
minor, Op. 34. Yet the very latest work, the clarinet quintet, shows the
same freshness and originality of invention, wonderful thematic
net-work, variety of distinctly expressed moods, and the finale
displaying an unsurpassed skill in variations.

The two orchestra serenades are real gems of spirited, delightful, well
constructed music, one being for complete orchestra, the other for
violas, ’celli, basses, reed instruments and horns. Besides the lively
first and last movements and adagios they contain each a scherzo and one
of them two minuets.

The theme for the nine orchestra variations Op. 56 is taken from one of
Haydn’s divertimenti for wind instruments. They crown Brahms’ glorious
achievements in the writing of variations; for, far from being “mere
algebraic experiments,” they are delightful and ingenious tone pictures
of distinct character and mood, with a nearer or more remote relation to
the principal theme. The composer has thus initiated a new field of
independent orchestral music, already successfully followed by others.
The instrumentation is prominently interesting. It is generally admitted
that Brahms is very conservative compared with Wagner and Berlioz in the
matter of instrumentation. At least he never allows orchestral colors to
divert our attention from the higher, inner meaning of a work. Yet in
this score and in all his other works for or with orchestra, there are
many features either of wonderful brilliancy or peculiar colors, which
as novelties are worth studying. The finale, built upon a much repeated
bass figure, successively joined by the different groups of the
orchestra with other themes, reaches a beautiful climax in the pompous
return of the original melody.

[Illustration:

  JOHANNES BRAHMS.

  From an engraving by Weger, after a photograph from life.
]

The four symphonies in C minor, D, F and E minor are justly regarded as
the most important orchestral works of our generation. Much is still
written against them, and not everybody is willing or able to share the
enthusiasm which their good performance arouses among the majority of
cultivated audiences. Yet nothing can shake their high position among
all symphonic works written since the great master of the immortal Ninth
has left this earth. They have each a very individual character and,
although in the main the old form is retained, new features are to be
found in almost every movement. The first symphony opens with an
impressive sostenuto introduction, the others begin at once with the
principal subject of the allegro. Usually the first part of the latter
is brought to a formal close and repeated; only in the fourth symphony,
so rich in thematic material, no repetition occurs, but a very elaborate
working out prepares for the climax reached in the concentrated
recapitulation. Everywhere noble themes are finely contrasted,
wonderfully developed, wholly or in fragments, in the working out, so as
to hold the listener in breathless suspense. The allegros of the first
and second symphonies have particularly fine codas. The slow movements
are not very extensive and are easily enjoyed, their quieter and lofty
mood being but little disturbed. However, the adagio in No. 2 is more
complicated, has richer material, more frequent changes of key and
rhythm, a more elaborate figure work and a peculiarly intimate spirit. A
remarkable innovation is the consequent substitution for a minuet or
scherzo of a sort of intermezzo, full of grace, sunshine and innocent
playfulness, hardly disturbed by more serious episodes. Most extended is
this in No. 4, a rondo with themes of an almost grotesque character,
surprising details in their development and a spirit of true
Beethoven-like humor. Yet those of the first three symphonies are of no
less importance, having two distinct parts, of which the second one
(contrary to the older trio) has a livelier character. Especially that
of No. 2 is one of the most delightful orchestral pieces of modern
literature. That Brahms is indeed a symphonist of the highest rank, is
particularly evident in his finales. That of No. 1 is conceived in the
grandest spirit, opened by a solemn introduction of overwhelming beauty
and impressiveness, the allegro based on themes of rare inspiration,
their wonderful development rising from climax to climax like a great
triumphal procession. Still the finale of No. 2 is not less inspiring;
even more brilliant, with its glorious themes, the splendid
instrumentation and exciting coda. In No. 3 the closing movement has the
unusual minor key, is less dithyrambic, yet not lacking in life, a
choral-like episode forming a fine contrast, and the whole ending
happily in a long, quiet coda in F major with a poetic reminiscence of
the principal subject of the opening movement. One may justly regard the
finale of No. 4 as a musical wonder, a new experiment gloriously carried
out. It has the shape of a passacaglia, an old dance constructed upon a
ground bass. The theme consists of eight bars, each represented by a
chord, and is treated in about thirty variations of the most ingenious
contrapuntal devices, greatly contrasted, yet so coherently that it
sounds like an uninterrupted logical development, holding our interest
keenly alive and increasing our enjoyment till the splendid end is
reached.

We have thus seen how many strong features Brahms has introduced in the
symphonic form, without departing from its classic foundation; but it is
still more important that as a genius of a superior mind and noble soul
he had the right material in himself to fill this greatest form of
instrumental music with an adequate and original inner life, reflecting
the highest spirit of modern German civilization.

The characteristic feature of the Academic Festival Overture is the
successive introduction of several German student melodies, not in the
form of a potpourri, as it has been unjustly regarded, but as themes
developed with consummate art, expressing the inspiration of a solemn
festival, of loyalty to the fatherland, of merrymaking and youthful
exultation. Every page shows the hand of a superior master. Still
greater is the tragic overture, its spirit reflecting a heroic struggle,
gloom, solemnity, but also hope and comfort; its form being particularly
interesting by an ingenious combination of the working out and
recapitulation into a sort of free, yet coherent, wonderfully
constructed and deeply impressive fantasia.

How much we should like to speak in detail of the two concertos for
violin and for violin and ’cello! It would be a misnomer to call them
symphonies with obligato solo parts, notwithstanding the very elaborate
orchestral score, but more incorrect to compare them with any virtuoso
concertos. Enormous technical difficulties are to be conquered in the
service of high musical purposes. The arrangement is after the classic
model, in three movements. Of these the slow movements with their
melodic breadth are the more enjoyable, while the extensive outer
movements, with their rich development of peculiarly fine and original
themes, require repeated hearings to reveal all their innate beauty and
greatness. And these works, too, belong to the future and can afford to
await their time for a general appreciation.

Brahms’ earlier chorus works are an Ave Maria for female chorus and
orchestra, a funeral chant with wind instruments, four female choruses
with harp and two horns, seven Marianan songs, a setting of the 23d
Psalm for female chorus and organ, several motets and part songs for
four, five or six voices, sacred songs, and twelve romances for female
chorus, partly with piano accompaniment. Now and then we are reminded of
the style of Palestrina or old German folk-songs, then again of Bach’s
polyphonic art with fugues, simple and double canons, yet throughout of
a new, peculiar mode of expression, full of poetic sentiment. Among the
works of later years we mention two motets, which are praised as Brahms’
highest achievements in polyphonic writing, seven songs for mixed
voices, and many arrangements of old German folk-songs.

The German Requiem is of such great importance, that without a knowledge
of it neither a full estimation of Brahms’ individual genius nor of the
significance of the latest epoch of music in general can be obtained.
Taking from the old Latin funeral mass only the name, Brahms selected
certain verses from the Bible, expressing not only the sadness and
terror of death and judgment, but also hope and consolation,—even
thankfulness and praise. His work, independent of any church service and
to be sung in a living language, contains in each note music which came
from the depth of a noble soul and was written by a master of the
highest and most complicated field of vocal composition. Entirely free
from conventionalities or dry learning, each of the seven numbers gives
completely what his genius was able to accomplish. It is indeed the
great funeral chant of modern music, at least for Germans and
Protestants. Choruses I., IV., V. and VII. have a quiet character,
finely expressing the milder feelings above mentioned, yet with all
their seeming simplicity showing a consummate art in the details of
their construction, No. V. being mainly given to a difficult soprano
solo. No. II. (“Behold all flesh is as the grass”) is a peculiar funeral
march in three-four time, the chorus singing partly in unison to strange
and impressive orchestral music; after a touching animato (“Be patient
unto the coming of Christ”) the principal melody is repeated, followed
by a long fugue (“The redeemed of the Lord shall return again”). No.
III. opens with a baritone solo, lamenting the frailty of life, soon
joined by the chorus, rising to a climax expressive of hope. Then
follows that famous fugue, in an astonishingly rich polyphonic
treatment, moving over an uninterrupted, much criticised pedal point on
D to emphasize the words, that “the righteous souls are in the hand of
God.” No. VI. is regarded as the culmination of the work. After the
chorus’ lament that “Here on earth we have no continuing place,” comfort
is brought by the baritone voice unfolding the mystery of the
resurrection. The chorus repeat this and burst out in an ecstatic
vivace, “The trumpet shall sound, the dead shall be raised!...” “...
Grave, where is thy victory, death, where is thy sting?” In wonderful
modulations climax after climax is reached; finally in glorious C major
a double fugue is added, a hymn of praise to “the Lord of honor and
might,” whose proportion, art and impressiveness alone suffice to make
Brahms a compeer of the greatest masters of polyphonic music.
Throughout, chorus, orchestra and soloists have to overcome the greatest
difficulties, but seldom are their efforts directed to more ideal
purposes.

[Illustration:

  JOHANNES BRAHMS.

  From a photograph from life by Fr. Luckhardt, Vienna.
]

For the “Song of Triumph” Brahms selected some mysterious verses from
the Apocalypse. Of the three large numbers for double chorus, orchestra
and organ, some portions have been called direct imitations of Handel;
yet even there one finds enough of Brahms’ individuality and throughout
an intense heartiness and directness of feeling. In singing this music,
one is overwhelmed by its grandeur. The second number, more purely
Brahms’, is of particular beauty, the chorus “Let us rejoice” being
joined by a cantus firmus of the wood instruments on the choral “Now,
thank ye all the Lord!” In No. III., opened by a baritone solo, an
enthusiasm is reached in the Hallelujah surpassing any jubilant chorus
music written since the Ninth Symphony.

The “Deutsche Fest-und Gedenksprüche” have a uniform patriotic purpose.
There are again three large and most difficult numbers for double
chorus, without solo or accompaniment. No. I. refers to the battle of
Leipsic in 1813 and the regained liberty from the Napoleonic bondage
(“Our fathers hoped in thee, thou helpedst them,” etc.), and has an
imposing character of resolution and vigor. No. II., referring to the
collapse of the French in 1870, illustrates in lively contrasting colors
“a palace guarded by one strongly armed and remaining in peace” and “an
empire that falls in discord and becomes waste.” No. III. praises the
splendor of the new united empire, but warns its people “to beware and
guard thy soul well, that it shall never forget the story which thine
eyes have seen.” A deeply religious spirit also pervades this great and
but little known work.

The Rhapsody for alto solo, male chorus and orchestra treats a portion
of Goethe’s “Journey through the Hartz in Winter.” Once in 1777 the poet
left a hunting party to pay an incognito visit to a young admirer of his
genius, who was in a Wertherish despondent condition of mind. The
impression received by this adventure gave rise to one of his deepest
yet somewhat mysterious poems, which inspired Brahms to one of his
greatest works. The opening orchestral sounds touch our inmost heart;
sighs and the anguish of a trembling soul is their spirit; then the solo
voice in tones of intense feeling asks for comfort for one “who from the
fullness of love drank hate of man and in loneliness devours all that
hath worth in him.” A peculiar combination of three-two and six-four
time illustrates finely this anguish and restlessness. Gradually the
music becomes more quiet, till with a harp-like accompaniment, chorus
and soloist sing a hymn of indescribable beauty and loftiness, imploring
“the all-loving Father to enlighten the heart of the unfortunate, if but
one tone from his psalter can reach His ears.” The solo part requires a
truly inspired musician, whose voice is the instrument of his soul. The
short chorus is also a difficult task. Many times has the writer heard
this heavenly work, but never without its repetition being demanded and
given. Yet how little known it is in this country!

An extensive work for male chorus with tenor solo and orchestra is the
cantata “Rinaldo,” the text being again from Goethe. It deals with a
romantic story from Tasso’s “Jerusalem Delivered,” has partly a solemn,
partly a lively dramatic character and breathes the refreshing air of
the sea. The more or less extensive and elaborate choruses are very
different from the conventional style, the solo part is unusually
difficult and so exacting that an adequate performance is seldom
secured.

In three works Brahms has illustrated the relentlessness of Fate,
selecting poems of almost Greek grandeur and beauty. Hölderlin’s “Song
of Destiny” contrasts the blessed abode of the divine spirits with the
fate of the “restless, grief-laden mortals, who blindly wander from one
sad hour to another.” Schiller’s “Nänie” mourns “that even the Beautiful
fades and the Highest must die,” and “The Song of the Fates,” from
Goethe’s “Iphigenia,” warns the human race “to fear the gods, doubly
those whom they have exalted, for they turn from entire races the light
of their eyes.” The last work is for six, the others for four chorus
voices. Everywhere the orchestra is important, rich in weird,
characteristic effects. Bold modulations and rhythmic combinations
always in keeping with the composer’s high conception of the poetry
affect deeply ear and heart. Who but Brahms could have found music so
worthy of such profound poetical subjects! In the “Song of Destiny” he
even surpasses the poet by repeating at the end the wonderful orchestral
introduction indicating hope for our own final attainment of the abode
of the blessed spirits. The “Nänie” is dedicated to the mother of the
lamented painter Feuerbach, who had been a true art companion of Brahms.
Only a careful, sympathetic rendering will reveal the beauty of this
work. In the “Song of the Fates” there is a movement of a quiet,
melodious character, which many critics have declared to be entirely
contrary to the meaning of the text. To us it seems more like a well
justified, touching expression of pious submission, wonderfully calming
our excitement for the mysterious ending with its harmonies and
orchestral sounds never heard before.

Brighter is the character of some works belonging to a field which
Schumann had specially cultivated, yet where Brahms shows again such
originality that he has been much imitated. His delightful vocal
quartets with piano accompaniment, graceful and bright or deep and
gloomy, charm greatly by their artistic construction, beauty of thought,
feeling and sound and peculiarity of colors. Still more famous are the
two collections of Love-Song Waltzes for voices and piano for four
hands, resembling the sparkling pianoforte waltzes Op. 39, most varying
in shape and mood, the words being mainly from Daumer’s “Polydora,”
those of the fine, quiet closing movement in nine-four time being
selected from Goethe. The eleven Gipsy Songs Op. 102 are also meeting
with an enthusiastic reception, Hungarian spirit and rhythm giving them
a peculiar color, the moods being either humorous or passionate,
melancholy or exuberant, quartets alternating with solos, the
accompaniment being as elaborate as it is effective.

Of the twenty highly remarkable duets some have, in spite of many
harmonic and rhythmic finesses, quite a plain character, while others
are very elaborate, the voices either joining or alternating. As
particularly typical we mention “The Seas,” “The Nun and the Knight,”
“The Sisters,” “The Messengers of Love,” “Edward,” and “Let us wander.”

Finally we have reached the field in which Brahms has been especially
fertile and original, his “Lieder.” To speak of them only in a general
way is difficult indeed. Thirty-one of the published 115 works contain
nearly 200 songs. Throughout his whole career Brahms has been writing
songs; there was in his soul a lyric element, kindled again and again by
the beauty of feeling, thought and diction of the great German poets,
and he found a style of song-writing so independent, that in spite of
some more or less striking exceptions one can hardly trace his relation
to Schubert, Schumann and Franz. He is their equal as regards wealth of
invention, noble conception of the text, finishing of details. Yet in
treatment of the voice, relation between vocal and instrumental part,
and construction of the latter he opens a new path. In the selection of
poems he shows eminent knowledge and taste. Many half-forgotten poems of
a superior order he has awakened to fresh life; others, which on account
of their peculiar metre or meaning have been avoided, have found in him
an unexpectedly effective interpreter. However, it seems to us as if the
poems often suffer transformation. They have inspired the composer with
certain tone-pictures, which in turn impose upon them very distinctly
the spirit of his own strong individuality. This individuality is by no
means always deep and heavy, for smiles and dancing are no strangers to
it. Often the melodies are as plain as folk-songs, but always of great
nobility. With a few notes the composer reaches our hearts and lifts us
at once into a higher region. Other melodies again are as elaborate as a
dramatic scene. The accompaniment, inexhaustible in forms, yet never
conventional, simple or with great harmonic wealth and peculiar
figuration, rivals the singer in expressing the moods of the poem. Of
the so-called folk-songs (old German, Swiss, Bohemian, Scotch, Italian,
etc.) some are treated most artistically, others with a touching
simplicity. Very few poems composed by other masters are found among his
list, and the favorite poets Heine, Eichendorff, Chamisso are almost
avoided. A remarkable exception is the separately published
“Moon-night,” very different from Schumann’s jewel song, yet not
inferior. Goethe, Hölty, Platen, Tieck, Schenkendorf, Groth and Möricke
are fully represented, often by poems of an antique spirit and form.
Keller, Daumer, Heyse, Schack, Herder and many others inspired Brahms
too, and it is noteworthy that he had no music for meaningless
trivialities. The majority of these songs are devoted to love in all
possible phases and moods, often wonderfully reflected in scenes of
nature. There is perhaps more of twilight and autumn than of sunshine
and spring, but exultant and happy moods are well represented,—also
flowers, birds, woods, oceans and storms and the stillness of the
fields,—but all these more in a symbolic than realistic conception and
with a wonderful coloring of the prevailing mood. The sweet little
“Cradle song,” “Erinnerung,” “Minnelied,” “Wie bist du, meine Königin?”
“Meine Liebe ist grün,” “Von ewiger Liebe,” “Ruhe, Süssliebchen,”
“Mainacht,” “Vergebliches Ständchen” are only a few familiar jewels
among the rich collection; how many more deserve the same sympathy and
study from singers with noble artistic ambitions! Special mention is due
to the two fine songs for alto with viola obligato Op. 91 and to the
fifteen romances from Tieck’s half-forgotten fairy tale “Die schöne
Magelone,” which have a most elaborate form and an intensely emotional
character. Nowhere indeed can one get a better estimate of Brahms’ high
significance as a song writer than here, where the poet appears like a
dwarf in the light of the composer’s higher genius.

Greatness indeed remains Brahms’ characteristic feature, wherever we
look at him or at his works; greatness in ideas, purposes and powers;
greatness in self-criticism and faithfulness to the dignity of his art;
greatness in the devotion to past masters and independence of
contemporary influences; greatness in the sincerity and simplicity of
his manners and relation to the outer world. Never appearing as a
revolutionary spirit, yet he has himself introduced many strong
innovations in various fields, and for a long time his works will not
only afford profound enjoyment to earnest lovers of our art, but be a
source of the most valuable studies for those to whom its further
development will be entrusted. Long has he been ignored, patiently has
he waited, till the world has come to him to respect in him the noblest
musical genius of our time.

[Illustration:

  Louis Keeserborn
]

[Illustration:

  CARL GOLDMARK

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by J. Löwy in Vienna._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                             CARL GOLDMARK


The date of the birth of Carl Goldmark, the eminent Austrian composer,
is incorrectly given in the various biographical dictionaries to which
the writer has had access. For correct information on this point and for
the facts contained in the following sketch of the musician’s life,
thanks are due to Leopold Goldmark, his brother. Carl Goldmark was born
at Keszthely, Hungary, May 18, 1830. He came by his musical inclinations
naturally, for his father, Ruben Goldmark, was a precentor, much
esteemed on account of his fine voice. The son showed a fondness for
music at an early age and when very young began to take lessons on the
violin at the Musikverein of Oedenburg. His progress was such that at
the age of twelve his father permitted him to play in public. Soon
afterward he began to play professionally in theatre orchestras. He
continued to do so until the revolution of 1848, when he was obliged to
go into service in the army under the _landsturm_ law.

When his term of service had come to an end he went to Vienna, where,
with the assistance of his eldest brother, Dr. Joseph Goldmark, he
resumed his studies, becoming a pupil in the Böhm Conservatorium.
Unfortunately for the young man, Dr. Goldmark had been an active
participant in the insurrection and was suspected of implication in the
killing of Minister of War, La Tour. He was compelled to leave Austria
and came to America, where he died in 1863. His flight threw Carl on his
own resources, and the young musician succeeded in obtaining an
engagement in the theatre orchestra at Raab, Hungary. Toward the end of
1850, however, he returned to Vienna, where he secured employment in the
orchestra of the Theatre in the Josefstadt.

Young Goldmark at this time showed very plainly of what sort of material
he was made. His salary amounted to about $8 a month, but his ambition
was worth hundreds. He was consumed by a desire to learn to play the
piano, but he could not afford to pay a teacher. He managed, however, to
hire an instrument, and began to study by himself with occasional hints
from friends. Returning late from the theatre to his humble lodgings, he
would spend half the night in practising by the light of a tallow
candle. It may as well be said here that he became sufficiently
proficient as a pianist to give lessons in later years, and he also
taught himself the art of singing with such success that he became the
instructor of Mme. Bettelheim, a contralto who attained prominence on
the Austrian stage. With the exception of his violin lessons and a short
course in composition at the Vienna Conservatory under Sechter,
self-instruction was all the teaching enjoyed by young Goldmark. He
studied assiduously the scores of Mozart, Weber and Beethoven, and
attended the Helmesberger chamber music concerts in Vienna, thus gaining
a valuable acquaintance with the instrumental works of the best masters.
Goldmark was, however, not only a student of music. He made himself
conversant with the German, French, Italian and English Languages. He
also became a devoted student of philosophy, and learned to look up to
Schopenhauer with a truly Wagnerian admiration. In 1850 he became a
contributor to the _Grenzboten_ and to some of the Leipsic musical
papers. His writings have always shown evidence of his wide culture.

It was in 1855 that he began to compose, and in 1857 he gave a concert
of his own works at the Vienna Musikverein-Halle. The compositions
presented were an overture, a piano quartet, a ballad for tenor, chorus
and orchestra, and two songs. He was at that period of his career a
devoted follower of Mendelssohn, and the works played at his concert
were in that master’s style. Goldmark’s fondness for his early offspring
was short-lived and the works were not published. He outlived his
Mendelssohnian devotion and subsequently became a fervent admirer of
Schumann, whose influence is clearly discernible in some of his later
works.

The composer’s first decided success was the overture to “Sakuntala,”
opus 13, written in 1864, and now known favorably all over Europe and in
this country. In 1865, while walking in one of the principal streets of
Vienna, he saw a picture of the Queen of Sheba visiting Solomon. The
picture made a vivid impression on his imagination, and at length he
went to H. S. Mosenthal, the well known dramatist, author of “Leah, the
Forsaken,” and begged him to undertake the task of constructing a
libretto out of the story which had grown up in the composer’s mind. In
three years the opera was finished in its first shape, but Goldmark was
dissatisfied with it. Mosenthal made the desired changes in the book,
and about one-half of the score was rewritten, the work being finished
early in 1872. Goldmark then submitted it to Joseph Herbeck, conductor
of the court opera at Vienna. It is believed that Herbeck was jealous of
Goldmark, because the latter had defeated him in a competition for a
Government prize of 800 gulden. At any rate Herbeck kept the score of
“The Queen of Sheba” locked up for two years. Finally, at a musicale
given by the Princess Hohenlohe, whose husband was master of ceremonies
to the Emperor, Ignatz Brüll, then a rising young pianist, played some
selections from Goldmark’s opera. The Princess and others, pleased by
the music, asked Brüll some questions about the work, and the story of
Herbeck’s delay over the score came out. The influence of the Princess
and the Countess Andrassy led to an imperial command for the production
of the opera, and it was accordingly performed on March 10, 1875. The
success of the opera was great and the composer was called out nearly
forty times. “The Queen of Sheba” has been given in various European
cities, and was first performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera
House, New York, on Wednesday, Dec. 2, 1885, with the following cast:
Sulamith, Frau Lilli Lehman; the Queen, Frau Krämer-Wiedl; Astaroth,
Fräulein Marianne Brandt; Solomon, Herr Robinson; Assad, Herr Stritt;
Baal Hanan, Herr Alexi; High Priest, Herr Fischer. The conductor was
Anton Seidl. It was the most successful opera in the repertory of the
house that season, being presented fifteen times, to aggregate receipts
of $60,000. It was given four times the following season, and again five
times in the season of 1889–90, always to audiences of good size.

His second opera, “Merlin,” was produced in Vienna Nov. 19, 1886, and at
the Metropolitan Opera House Jan. 3, 1887, with the following cast:
Viviane, Lilli Lehmann; Morgana, Brandt; Artus, Robinson; Modred,
Kemlitz; Gawein, Heinrich; Lancelot, Basch; Merlin, Alvary; Dämon,
Fischer. The conductor was Walter Damrosch. It was performed five times
in the course of the season, but did not achieve the success of its
predecessor. While waiting for the production of “The Queen of Sheba,”
Goldmark wrote his B flat quartet and his suite for piano and violin.

Goldmark has devoted his life to composition. He takes no pupils and has
refused not only all orders and distinctions, but all offers of posts as
conductor. The only office he has ever held—and that but briefly—is the
presidency of the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein. His home is in Vienna, but
about May 1st of every year he goes to Gmunden, on the Traunsee in upper
Austria. There he remains till October, working incessantly except
during four weeks in midsummer. He then takes a vacation, going to the
Fusch valley, near Salzburg, where he spends six to eight hours a day in
mountain climbing. All his composing is done at Gmunden. He is a widower
and has a daughter twenty years of age.

Goldmark’s principal works are the two operas already mentioned, the
“Sakuntala,” “Penthesilea,” “Spring” and “Prometheus” overtures, the
symphony in E flat and the “Ländliche Hochzeit” symphony, and the violin
concerto in A minor, opus 28. These are the works by which he is best
known in this country, his chamber music being played infrequently. The
composer’s musical development is readily divided into two periods. He
made the division himself when, in 1875, he decided that he would
abandon his earlier style of writing, in which he had made extensive use
of Oriental melody and color. He imbibed a fondness for this style when
in his childhood he listened to the voice of his father in the
synagogue. He himself seems to have felt, however, that in giving his
music a local or racial coloring he was detracting from its
universality, and after the production of the “Queen of Sheba,” he said
to his friends that he would write no more eastern music. It was
doubtless this determination which led him to select the story of Merlin
as the subject for his next opera. The most thoughtful critics of
Goldmark’s music are of the opinion that he was not wise in his
determination. As an Oriental colorist in music, he certainly has no
superior, and probably no equal, while his “Merlin” is without the most
interesting manifestations of his individuality. Goldmark without his
color is Swinburne without his versification. The composer’s best works,
except the overture to “Prometheus,” are surely those written before the
resolution of 1875.

The story of “The Queen of Sheba” is not taken from the Bible, but is
purely imaginary. It deals with the fascination of Assad, a courtier, by
the beautiful Queen, who has indulged in a passage of love with him on
her journey to Solomon’s court. When Assad recognizes her in Solomon’s
palace, she denies having met him before, but both Solomon and Sulamith,
Assad’s promised bride, see that something is wrong. The Queen again
shows herself to Assad by night, and the next day in the palace. Assad
proclaims the truth. Solomon decrees that the youth must work out his
salvation by defeating the powers of evil, and banishes him to the
desert. Sulamith seeks him and he dies in her arms, while the Queen and
her caravan are seen in the distance returning homeward. Dr. Mosenthal’s
libretto is not a fine poetic achievement, but it is theatrically very
effective, blending spectacular and dramatic scenes in a telling manner.
The composer has made excellent use of his opportunities. Assad’s
recital of his first adventure with the Queen, is set to admirably
descriptive music, and it is followed by a most captivating ballet and
an inspiring chorus of greeting to the Queen. The ensuing scene is
richly dramatic. The duet between the Queen and Assad in the moonlit
garden is intensely passionate and glows with the warm color of eastern
melody. The instrumental richness of the score seems to be quite as
natural an outcome of the composer’s fancy as his easy adoption of
Oriental rhythms and cadences, which he handled as one to the manner
born. The most important objection which has been made to this music is
that it is “so unvaryingly stimulated that it wearies and makes the
listener long for a fresher and healthier musical atmosphere.” The
production of “The Queen of Sheba” in New York was one of the most
brilliant spectacles ever seen in America, and the performances were
rich in musical merit.

The comparative failure of “Merlin” was due largely to the effort of the
librettist, Herr Siegfried Lipiner, to mingle the supernatural with the
story of Merlin and Vivien and to drag in Goethe’s principle of saving
womanhood—a favorite theme with Wagner. Indeed, there are many things in
the libretto which indicate that it was suggested by Wagnerian works,
chiefly “Parsifal.” The librettist’s greatest success was in his
characterization of Vivien, which is excellent. The composer also fell
into the Wagnerian pit and strove vainly to handle the _Leitmotif_. His
music, moreover, suffered, as has already been intimated, from his
determined effort to rid himself of the Oriental color which was his
natural garb. Nevertheless it must be said in justice to Goldmark, that
no operatic writer of our time has shown a greater seriousness of
purpose than that manifested in “Merlin.” The musical dialogue of the
opera is nobly elevated in style, but lacks variety. The orchestration
is rich and glowing in color, yet is without complexity of construction,
and there is a delightful absence of the set forms of the old-fashioned
opera. But “Merlin” lacks the inspiration and the spontaneity of style
which are displayed by the composer when laboring in his congenial
Oriental field.

The “Ländliche Hochzeit” symphony is a symphony in name rather than in
fact. It is a series of descriptive movements, written with a little of
the composer’s characteristic tinge of Orientalism and with all of his
mastery of instrumental coloring. It is fluent, melodious and strongly
rhythmical. In short, it is music that pleases a miscellaneous audience
without offending the discriminating music-lover. The symphony in E
flat, like the violin concerto, the present writer regards as one of the
composer’s least happy achievements. It is but just to say, however,
that some good judges do not hold this opinion of the work. The first
movement is built on a flowing and rhythmic theme announced by the
violins, and from this the second subject is very happily deduced; but
neither is fruitful in itself. The scherzo is by far the best movement,
and is, indeed, a bit of writing of which any recent symphonist might be
proud. It is light and airy in theme and the instrumentation is
effective.

The violin concerto in A minor is lacking in spontaneity of thought.

When we turn to Goldmark’s overtures, however, we find the composer at
his best. All his overtures are admirable, one is exceptionally fine,
and another is great. The “Sakuntala” overture is deemed Goldmark’s best
by many critics, but the present writer prefers the “Prometheus.” The
story of the love of King Dushyanta for Sakuntala, daughter of the Saint
Viswamitra and the water nymph Menaka, is one of the most beautiful in
the Hindoo mythology. The maiden is reared in the forest by Kanwa, and
there Dushyanta, while hunting, meets and loves her. The principal
themes in Goldmark’s overture are the melodies representing Sakuntala’s
loneliness in the forest, the royal hunt, and the love of the king and
the maiden. The composition is opulent in its Oriental richness of color
and is full of the passionate intensity and vigorous aggressiveness of
the strongest scenes in the “Queen of Sheba.”

The “Prometheus” overture, a product of Goldmark’s maturity, is a superb
work, one of the most admirable produced in recent years, and one that
ought to live. The composer has chosen some of the salient features of
Æschylus’s sublime tragedy, and has expressed them eloquently. The
opening measures speak of the loneliness of the chained Prometheus,
surrounded by the empty infinity of space. A beautiful theme in the wood
is said to signify the prostrate god’s hope, but such an interpretation
is not justified by the tragedy. The writer prefers to regard it as an
expression of the repose of the sea, whence floats up a few measures
later the sympathetic chorus of sea-nymphs, represented by two themes,
one a lovely undulating melody in the wood, the other, speaking more
eloquently of their yearning over Prometheus, a flowing melody for the
strings. The bold, restless spirit of the god is finely expressed by the
allegro, with which the sea-nymph music is worked out in effective
contrast. An increase in tempo and a change in the melody near the end
of the work lead to a forcible proclamation of Jove’s sentence by the
trombones, and the whole closes with the music of space and the sea. In
form, in instrumentation and in elaboration, as well as in emotional
content, the overture is noble.

The “Penthesilea” overture is founded on the Homeric episode of the
emotion of Achilles over the beautiful corpse of the Amazon queen, slain
by him in battle. The composition is very clear in purpose and is well
written. The “Spring” overture is the least striking of the works under
consideration, yet it displays much of the composer’s mastery of
orchestral technique.

Goldmark’s music, on the whole, is distinguished by a deep and manly
warmth, a restless aggressiveness and a hyperbolic instrumental
language. In this latter respect it resembles Eastern poetry in the
extravagance of its forms of expression, at times approaching bombast.
At his best, however, as in the “Prometheus” overture, the composer is
capable of strong, serious, lofty feeling, noble dignity of utterance
and reposeful symmetry of form. It is because this overture exhibits
these powers of Goldmark in a higher form than his other compositions
that the present writer looks upon it as his greatest work. His operas
are eclectic in style and the result is something between Meyerbeer and
Wagner; but in his overtures the individuality of Goldmark is most
clearly revealed. Admirable as much of his chamber music is, it suffers
by comparison with his larger works because of the lack of those
instrumental colors which the composer uses with such dazzling effect.
It is impossible to predict the future of Goldmark’s music; but it
certainly belongs to the present, and some of it seems likely to live.

[Illustration: N. J. Henderson.]

[Illustration:

  MAX BRUCH

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by Falk in New York._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                               MAX BRUCH


In the latter part of the nineteenth century probably no composer has
done more for the development of the chorus, and especially of the
_Maennerchor_, than Max Bruch, and although he has achieved much in
orchestral scoring, and has written fine concertos, symphonies, and even
large operas, it is upon his great choruses that his fame as a composer,
and his right to admission to the ranks of the masters, chiefly rests.
He was born in Cologne, Jan. 6, 1838, and his musical powers developed
very early, for by the time that he had reached his fourteenth year, he
had already written upwards of seventy compositions, although wisely
forbearing to print them and thereby take rank as a “musical prodigy.”
One of these juvenile works was a symphony, and received a public
performance in Cologne in 1852. As with the first compositions of
Mendelssohn, however, these early works are to be regarded merely as
records of juvenile possibilities and are not reckoned with the great
and serious contributions to music which Bruch was able to make in riper
years.

His parents gladly aided his efforts to develop his musical abilities by
thorough training, and to his mother he owes much of the success of his
juvenile studies. This lady, once famous as Fräulein Almenräder, was
herself a distinguished singer, and came of a well-known musical family
of the lower Rhine country. She personally attended to the elementary
steps of Bruch’s musical curriculum, but he was early sent to Professor
Heinrich Karl Breidenstein of Bonn, who took charge of his theoretical
studies. These succeeded so well that the compositions of the
nine-year-old boy attracted the notice of Ferdinand Hiller, who soon
after took him in charge and developed his abilities so rapidly and
thoroughly that at fourteen years the boy was able to enter for the
Mozart scholarship awarded in Frankfort. The string quartette which he
wrote for this occasion won the prize. This obtained for him a yearly
_stipendium_ of four hundred gulden, which he enjoyed for four years,
and which enabled him to continue his studies with Hiller, and also to
obtain instruction from Professors Carl Reinecke and Ferdinand Breuning,
studying piano under the latter with especial zeal and success. Long
visits to Munich, Leipsic and other musical centers followed, and
continued to broaden the musical horizon of the young genius. At Munich
he made the personal acquaintance of the poet Emanuel Geibel, who had
much influence upon his later work in the large musical forms. The
winter of 1857–8, passed in Leipsic, seems to have also wielded a great
influence in awakening Bruch’s enthusiasm for the higher walks of music.
After this year, we find him once more in his native city of Cologne,
enjoying a reputation which even at that time was much more than local.
He had, until this time, published only compositions in the small forms,
piano pieces, songs, and duets, but with his first two choruses we find
the first ocular evidences of talent, and from the very beginning the
massing of voices seems to have possessed a peculiar charm for, and to
have been well understood by him.

In 1862, after the death of his father, Bruch began a two-years’ stay in
Mannheim, and his friendship with Vincenz Lachner, which began at this
time, undoubtedly had an influence on his compositions. In 1865, he went
to Coblentz to assume the directorship of the musical institute there,
and this was the beginning of the period of his greatest creative
activity. In 1867, he became director of the court orchestra in
Sondershausen, a position which had been held by such masters as Spohr
and Weber, and for three years we find him diligently perfecting himself
in the art of conducting, in which he has become very celebrated, being
one of the few composers who are successful on the conductor’s stand. In
1870, Bruch went to Berlin, where he lived some years, not accepting any
position, but busying himself entirely with composition. After this he
settled in Bonn for a short time. In 1878 he was called to Berlin to
succeed Julius Stockhausen as director of the famous Stern Gesangverein.
His next engagement took him across the seas, and he went to Liverpool
to succeed Sir Julius Benedict as director of the Philharmonic society
in 1880. This engagement ended in the Spring of 1883 (some biographies
commit an error here, in setting the date a year earlier), and he
immediately came to America where he conducted a number of his
compositions. In the summer of 1883 he returned to Germany, and from
September of that year he was the director of the Breslau Orchestral
Society.

[Illustration:

  MAX BRUCH

  From a wood engraving at the British Museum.
]

This continued until the spring of 1890, when he closed his labors as
conductor and settled in Friedenau, near Berlin, where he is at present;
but he is so fond of travel, so full of energy and activity, that he is
not likely to remain in retirement very long. In 1890 he received the
honorary title of Royal Professor.

In personal appearance Bruch is by no means as majestic as one would
suppose from his works. He is small of stature, and his dark eyes peer
through his spectacles with the sharp glance of a teacher rather than of
a creator of heroic cantatas. He is quick and nervous in motion and,
when directing an orchestra or chorus, his gestures are spontaneous and
expressive.

It is pleasant to notice that the juvenile compositions of Bruch had
their origin in filial affection and that one of the earliest of his
works is a prayer for his parents, which the nine-year-old boy arranged
as a song. But the actual career of the composer commenced with the
choruses, which he began to write in his twenty-first year.

The first of these choruses (Op. 8) bore the title of “Birken und Erlen”
(“Birches and Alders”), and the second (Op. 3) “Jubilate, Amen.” In both
of the works a soprano voice is used _obligato_ against four-part
chorus, and there are not only rich harmonies, but a wonderful blending
of the solo with the chorus part. Just before these works, Bruch had
written a little one-act opera, his Opus I, entitled “Scherz, List, und
Rache,” on Goethe’s libretto, but it made no very marked impression;
soon after, however, he turned his attention to larger opera, and the
result was that Emanuel Geibel’s libretto, “Loreley,” which had been
written years before, for Mendelssohn (that master was at work upon this
subject when he met his early death), was now brought to the operatic
stage by him. At first the poet opposed the thought of presenting the
work save on the concert platform, but finally consented to allow it a
trial at the theatre of Mannheim. The opera deals with one of the most
poetical conceptions of the Rhine-witch, which makes her appear at first
as a pure and beautiful maiden, named Leonore, but heartbroken and
frenzied by betrayal and desertion, she seals a bond with the spirits of
the stream, and with them wages war on mankind. Mendelssohn had already
composed the scene of the invocation of the river-demons, and the
festival of the vintagers, and Bruch’s music to these scenes bears the
test of comparison, which is saying much when it is considered that the
earlier setting was the last work of the more celebrated composer, and
this was composed at the beginning of Bruch’s career. Bruch’s “Vintage
Chorus” is frequently given by male choruses as a concert selection. The
performance at Mannheim was successful and the opera was afterwards
presented at many other theatres, and notably at Hamburg and Leipsic, in
both of which cities it won great applause from public and press. Yet
the work has now totally disappeared from the stage, since it is not
really a dramatic subject, the change of the heroine from an innocent
and confiding maiden to a fierce and revengeful spirit, a first cousin
to the Greek Sirens, is rather a metaphysical than a theatrical one, and
the plot occasioned some repetition of style which weakened the music.
About ten years later Bruch once more essayed opera, and failed. This
time Shakespeare was the librettist, and under the title of “Hermione”
the new work, which was the “Winter’s Tale,” was performed in Berlin and
Dresden, but in neither city did it win more than a _succès d’estime_.
It has disappeared from the repertoire altogether, yet the second act is
a gem that will bear rescuing from oblivion. It represents Hermione in
prison, and at her trial, and so well is the pathos and intensity of the
music fitted to the situation, that it is not exaggeration to speak of
this portion of the opera as being among the finest things that Bruch
has ever written, and it may be ranked with the very best of modern
music.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile manuscript of beginning of Adagio in Max Bruch’s first
    Violin Concerto.

  Original in possession of Prof. Dr. Emil Naumann, in Dresden.
]

We now approach the epoch when Bruch produced a work which at once drew
the attention, not of Germany alone, but of the entire musical world
towards his labors; we have intimated that the composer’s fame rests
chiefly on what he has done for chorus singing, and it is in the
treatment of male chorus that Bruch is unsurpassed; it was with such a
work,—“Frithjof” (Op. 23),—that he won his first great triumph. The
text, by Esaias Tegner, taken from the grand old Sagas, afforded a
sombre dignity that suited well to a massive use of _maennerchor_, and
once more Bruch added a female voice, not in combination, but rather in
contrast to the chorus work, to illustrate the character of the unhappy
Ingeborg. The baritone solos, the utterances of the viking Frithjof, are
full of expression, and the chorus of the returning heroes at the
beginning of the cantata is melodious in the highest degree. Seldom, in
a modern work, has so much of melody been employed, without weakening
the dramatic treatment, but the final chorus of the departing warriors
may be cited as a perfect example of this happy combination in Bruch’s
choruses. “Frithjof” may also stand as a model of condensation in
dramatic music; every note has its purport, and there is not a measure
in the entire work that is supererogatory. The contrasts are also
managed with a master-hand, so that the emotions of peace and war are
given in kaleidoscopic, yet logical, succession.

Immediately following this there came an almost equally important
contribution to the repertoire of mixed chorus; this was “Schön Ellen,”
a cantata for chorus combined with soprano and baritone solos. The
subject taken was again a warlike one, being founded on the fabulous
tale invented by a newspaper correspondent, that during the siege of
Lucknow, a Scotch girl named Jessie Brown heard the bagpipes of the
regiments sent to the relief of the place, long before they were audible
to the rest of the garrison, and was able thereby to prevent a surrender
to the merciless Sepoys surrounding it. Emanuel Geibel, the poet, turned
the mythical Jessie Brown into an equally mythical “Fair Ellen,” and
gave the libretto to the composer, who began its composition within
sound of the cannon at the battle of Sadowa the culmination of the
Austro-Prussian war. The subject was full of dramatic possibilities, and
Bruch used these in the condensed manner characteristic of the preceding
work. Naturally he was impelled towards Scotch music by the color of the
poem, and the entire cantata is founded on “The Campbells are comin’,”
which is omnipresent in it, and forms a grand climax to the whole as a
hymn of thanksgiving. Yet many may have blamed Bruch for departing from
the Scotch character of the theme in this lofty finale; few musicians
will join in this censure, for the composer has but allowed himself the
freedom of the Fantasie in this development of a folk-theme. It is not
the only time that a German composer has used this melody in a developed
musical work, for Robert Volkmann employed it in his overture “Richard
III.”; a Scotch theme written in 1568, in an English battle fought in
1485!

It may be fitting in this place to speak of the influence which the
Scotch folk-music exerted upon Bruch. He once assured the writer of this
article that he was familiar with over four hundred of the Scotch
folk-songs. After the completion of “Fair Ellen” his taste in this
direction was again shown in the “Scotch Fantasie” (Op. 46) for violin
and orchestra, which is one of Sarasate’s favorite solos, and he also
arranged twelve Scotch folk-songs with considerable success. Yet it may
fairly be doubted whether Bruch has ever been able to reproduce the lilt
so characteristic of Gaelic music; in this failure, however, he is not
alone, for Beethoven, Schumann, and others among the German masters have
attempted this vein fruitlessly; Mendelssohn alone, among the ranks of
these, accomplished the transplanting of the delicate flower of Scotch
folk-music into German classical works.

The immense success that followed the production of “Frithjof,” and the
almost equal favor extended to “Fair Ellen,” was reflected on Bruch’s
earlier works, and the “Roman Song of Triumph” (Op. 19, No. 1) was
brought into popularity in its wake, and once more we hear the stern
notes of war and victory sounding in the massive chords of the male
chorus. Soon after the triumph of “Frithjof” we find the composer
returning to the subject, and Op. 27 deals with “Frithjof at the grave
of his father,” but it was like Milton’s “Paradise Regained” after
“Paradise Lost,” a weak work after a masterpiece, and this concert-scene
for baritone solo, female chorus, and orchestra, fell rather flat.

The true successor of “Frithjof” was to come later in the shape of
another warrior, this time a Grecian; in the “Odysseus,” Op. 41, with
Ulysses as his hero, we find the composer rising to the height of the
preceding subject, but in another and less stern manner. This had been
preceded by yet another tone-picture of warriors, in the
“Normannen-zug,” a stately union of baritone solo, with unison male
chorus and orchestra (all the above-mentioned cantatas have orchestral
accompaniment) but in “Odysseus” all the resources of modern scoring are
employed and both mixed and male choruses are present in most effective
numbers. “Odysseus” exhibits Bruch’s instrumentation in the best light,
and proves him a master of the modern orchestral resources. These
instrumental forces are always employed with the most perfect taste, and
the accompaniment of the great unison male chorus of the Rhapsodes by
tremendous pizzicato chords, as of a giant harp, is a touch of
indescribable dignity; some of the finest mixed choruses which the
composer has written are to be found in this work.

Other large compositions for solo voices, chorus, and orchestra,
followed. “Arminius” (this time a German warrior was the hero) may not
be ranked with the inspired works mentioned above, but is nevertheless a
favorite with the composer, and all creators in art have the privilege
of loving their weakest children best; “The Song of the Bell,” on
Schiller’s great poem, although a fine work, full of power and majesty,
does not bring out all the dramatic possibilities of the subject, but is
never-less far more effective than the Romberg setting; “Achilleus”
(again a martial theme) is one of the most recent works of the master,
and in his Op. 52 he turns again to Scotia and in the “Fiery Cross” we
find Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” appearing in some of its
warlike phases.

So much for the chief vocal works of this master; it will be seen that
he loves historic pictures, and the poets Geibel, Lingg, and Scheffel
have helped him by libretto and advice in this direction; and he sings
so constantly of war and warriors, that he may be called the Tyrtæus of
modern music. But it must not be supposed that his entire work has been
in this field only; he has won much success in some of the large
instrumental forms as well. His three symphonies in E flat, F minor, and
E major, are but seldom performed, but it is difficult to discover the
cause of this neglect; possibly the earnest, sombre, even gloomy tints
of the second are not to the taste of those who seek only pleasure in
music. But the third symphony in E is genial and attractive and would
please almost any cultured audience although it is not in the strictest
form. The first two symphonies are built in classical style, and Bruch
seems to have taken Beethoven for his model in this field. It must be
confessed, however, that none of the three works has yet received due
appreciation. Vastly different is it with the two violin concertos, the
first of which is dedicated to Joachim, the second to Sarasate; these
are very frequently heard in our concert rooms and the first, (in G
minor, Op. 26) may be mentioned as one of the chief works in this form,
and equal, and by some held superior, to Mendelssohn’s well-known violin
concerto.

The third violin concerto is scarcely known yet in America. It was
played at the music festival of Düsseldorf, by Joseph Joachim, with
great success. It has a dreamy, prayerful, second movement, and a most
martial and brilliant finale, but its first movement is prolix when
compared with the power of the themes of the G minor concerto.

It may be of interest to append a list of the most important of Bruch’s
published compositions; they are as follows:—

  Op. 1. “Scherz, List und Rache.” (Goethe.) A comic opera in one act.

  Op. 3. “Jubilate, Amen.” For Soprano, Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 8. “The Birches and the Alders.” Soprano solo, Chorus and
    Orchestra.

  Op. 9. String Quartette. C minor.

  Op. 10. Quartette in E major. (Both rather too broad in their ideas
    for the vehicle of expression.)

  Op. 12. Six pieces for Piano. (Simple, yet beautiful in expression,
    and showing the composer in a very different field from that of his
    majestic cantatas.)

  Op. 16. “Loreley.” Grand romantic opera.

  Op. 19. “Römischer Triumphgesang”; “Wessobrunner Gebet.” Male choruses
    with orchestra; the first has become celebrated.

  Op. 20. “The Flight of the Holy Family.” (Libretto by Eichendorff.) A
    great work for Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 22. Does not exist! By a clerical error the Frithjof music was
    numbered Opus 23 instead of 22.

  Op. 23. “Frithjof.” (See above.)

  Op. 24. “Schön Ellen”: “Fair Ellen.” (See above.)

  Op. 25. “Salamis.” Words by Lingg. Male Chorus and Orchestra. One of
    the large choral works; a grand historical tone-poem.

  Op. 26. Violin Concerto. No. 1. G minor. (See above.)

  Op. 27. “Frithjof at his Father’s Grave.” Baritone. Female Chorus and
    Orchestra.

  Op. 28. Symphony in E flat.

  Op. 29. “Rorate Coeli.” Chorus, Orchestra, and Organ. Probably this is
    the loftiest of Bruch’s sacred works.

  Op. 31. “The Flight into Egypt,” and “Morning Hours.” (By Lingg.)
    Soprano, Female Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 32. “Normannen-zug.” Baritone, Chorus in unison and Orchestra.

  Op. 34. “Römische Leichenfeier”: “Roman Funeral Sacrifice.” Mixed
    Chorus and Orchestra. (Has been erroneously classified as a male
    chorus.)

  Op. 35. “Kyrie, Sanctus and Agnus Dei.” Choral work.

  Op. 36. Symphony in F minor.

  Op. 37. “Song of the German Emperor.” Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 39. “Dithyrambe.” (Schiller.) Tenor voice, Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 40. “Hermione.” (“Winter’s Tale.”) Grand Opera.

  Op. 41. “Odysseus.” (See above.)

  Op. 43. “Arminius.” A large work for Chorus and Orchestra. Sometimes
    classified as an oratorio.

  Op. 44. Violin Concerto. No. 2. D minor.

  Op. 45. “The Song of the Bell.” (Schiller.) Chorus, four solo voices,
    Orchestra and Organ. This is the most ambitious work of the
    composer; by some it is accounted his greatest, but whoever
    undertakes the setting of this masterpiece of a great poet, will
    find his music overshadowed by the grandeur of the poetry.

  Op. 46. Scotch Fantasie. Violin and Orchestra.

  Op. 47. “Kol Nidrei.” A wonderfully effective setting of the ancient
    Hebrew hymn (many believe this to be the oldest piece of Hebrew
    music in existence) for Violoncello and Orchestra.

  Op. 50. “Achilleus.” Solo voice, Chorus and Orchestra.

  Op. 51. Third Symphony. E major. The most free in form, and the
    brightest in character, of all of Bruch’s symphonies.

  Op. 52. “The Fiery Cross.” Dramatic Cantata upon portions of Scott’s
    “Lady of the Lake” (arranged by H. Bulthaupt). Solo, Chorus and
    Orchestra.

  Op. 53. “Thermopylae”; “War Song of Tyrtaeus.” Two Male Choruses, with
    Orchestra.

  Op. 54. Songs. (Text by Heyse.) Piano and Violin accompaniment.

  Op. 55. Canzone. ’Cello and Orchestra.

  Op. 56. Adagio on Celtic Melodies. ’Cello and Orchestra.

  Op. 57. Adagio Appassionato. Violin and Orchestra.

  Op. 58. Third Violin Concerto. (D minor.) Dedicated to Joachim.

  Without Opus number. One Male Chorus, and a set of Hebrew Melodies for
    Chorus, Orchestra and Organ.

[Illustration: Louis C. Elson]

[Illustration:

  JOSEPH RHEINBERGER

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, made by Fr. Muller, in
    Munich._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                       JOSEPH GABRIEL RHEINBERGER


Most of the more or less prominent German composers of the present time
may be easily divided in two different classes. On one side we may place
those who seem to be all their lives in a period of “Sturm und Drang;”
who are always bitterly in earnest, ever appearing either melancholy or
passionate, always longing and striving for the unattainable, often
mournful, despairing and reticent. These composers present, even in
their normal state, gloomy D minor physiognomies, quite in harmony with
the prevailing pessimistic philosophy. On the opposite side are those
who look more at the bright and sunny side of life and art, who are the
good friends and neighbors of their fellow beings, with simpler, quieter
feelings, perhaps also with less high, less far fetched aspirations, and
who are less anxious to introduce in every work some new and original
feature. The musical physiognomies of this class reflect more the
peaceful F, the lively D or the festive E flat keys. To be sure, this is
rather a queer and fanciful generalization of the truth, and the most
remarkable exceptions could be named on either side, both in regard to
the sincerity of such domineering tendencies and to the degree of
acquired knowledge and ability or inborn talent of the respective
composers. There are particularly some of the second class, to whom art
is as high and sacred as it is to the others, and who are worthy of a
more prominent position, owing to the possession of rare creative powers
and a complete mastery in the use of old and modern means of musical
expression, as well as of all the different forms of composition. Such a
master is Rheinberger. Joseph Gabriel Rheinberger was born the 17th of
March, 1839, being the son of a revenue officer in Vaduz, the small
capital of the principality of Lichtenstein, between Switzerland and
Tyrol. At a very early age it became evident that nature had destined
for him a musical career. He was not five years old, when the piano
lessons of his eldest sister attracted his attention in a way which
induced her teacher to also begin a musical instruction with the little
boy; and so great and rapid was his progress, both on the pianoforte and
the organ, that after two years he was competent to fill the position of
organist at the church. Even his productive instincts manifested
themselves in these tender years, and the little tot of eight years was
allowed to have a short mass in three parts with organ accompaniment of
his own composition performed at church. Thus his musical vocation was
beyond all question, and fortunately the best possible professional
education was granted to him very early in life.

From 1851 till 1854 young Rheinberger was a pupil of the Royal
Conservatory at Munich, having as teachers Leonard for the pianoforte,
Herzog for the organ, and Maier for composition. Since then the Bavarian
capital has been Rheinberger’s second home. When he had graduated with
high honors, he took his permanent residence there as a music teacher,
and in 1859 was appointed Leonard’s successor at the Conservatory, which
was then directed by Hauser, the famous baritone and vocal teacher.
Later on he began teaching composition, a work in which he has won
particular distinction. In 1865 Hauser was pensioned, the conservatory
reorganized, and Rheinberger appointed as solo-repetitor of the Opera,
but in 1867, when Bülow assumed the directorship of the newly organized
“Royal Music School,” Rheinberger again received a call as Professor and
Inspector at the new institution. This position he has held ever since,
teaching composition and organ. For many years he has also conducted the
Munich Oratorio Society, and after Wüllner’s departure in 1877, for some
time he led the choir of the Royal Chapel, which was once so justly
celebrated for its marvelous rendering of unaccompanied choral works,
but which unfortunately has now disappeared from Munich’s musical life.
Rheinberger has been the recipient of many honors, titles and orders,
and is an honorary member of the Berlin Academy of fine Arts, and of
numberless choral societies in and outside of Germany. Yet he has found
the most intimate sympathizer with his artistic work in his wife, the
poetess Franziska von Hoffnaass, who has written the text to so many of
his best known choral works.

As Munich has been Rheinberger’s home since boyhood, it may be
interesting to examine the influence, which the life in this metropolis
of arts, sciences, literature, music and drama, must necessarily have
had upon the development of his talents. It is well known how much the
musical life of Munich has changed during the last thirty years. At the
time of Rheinberger’s arrival there, Franz Lachner stood in the zenith
of his long musical career; he was the highly respected, influential
General Music Director of Bavaria and a representative of the old
strictly methodical art of composition, and of the old-fashioned,
strictly objective mode of rendering the works of the classic masters in
the field of opera and concert. Twelve years later King Max II., who had
surrounded himself with eminent poets, artists and scientists, was
succeeded by Ludwig II., the young enthusiastic admirer of R. Wagner and
his ideas. The great opera reformer was invited to live in Munich and
his ardent pupil Bülow was appointed as court pianist and director of
the orchestra and of the new Music School. How soon master and pupil had
to leave Munich again every one knows. Nevertheless their powerful
influence remained, especially at the Royal opera house, which became
the headquarters of Wagner’s music-dramas. The change in the concert
life was slower. Gradually the musicians and the public were forced to
become accustomed to Brahms and other modern composers, whose art rests
mainly upon the classical models, till of late Berlioz and Liszt also
have found at last a more general recognition.

Besides Lachner, Wagner and Bülow we may name as the principal
representatives of Munich’s musical life, and the colleagues of
Rheinberger during the last thirty years, Peter Cornelius, the long
neglected composer, intendant and composer von Perfall, Max Zenger,
directors Wüllner, Levi, Fischer and Porges, the æstheticians Riehl,
Nohl and Carrère, the pianists Baermann and Bussmeyer, the violinists
Walter, Abel, Venzl, all the famous singers of the opera and many
others. Through his position at the opera and at the Music School,
Rheinberger stood in a close personal and active relation to almost all
these men, as well as to this transformation of the musical life of
Munich. Yet it certainly speaks very well in his favor, and honors both
the originality of his talent and his artistic character, that under all
these circumstances he has never been untrue to himself and his
individuality, has never stepped beyond his sphere nor trodden a path
unsuited to him. An early knowledge of his own nature happily protected
him, and his early acquired thorough technical and theoretical education
stood him in good stead.

A review of Rheinberger’s published compositions shows at once his great
versatility; no field was neglected by him, in many he has written
excellent works, in others, if he did not reach the same degree, at
least his musical skill and fine musicianship awaken our sincere
interest and high consideration. If he was not in every work guided by
inspiration, his rare knowledge, ability and artistic instinct preserved
him against failure or triviality. Even in his compositions of smaller
forms the hand of a master is always to be recognized. What a truly
musical character have his themes, how clever and tasteful is his use of
all the different instrumental or vocal means, how broad and melodic his
cantilena, how fine and charmingly rich and varying his modulations, how
fresh and energetic his rhythm, how well does he understand how to find
the right tone for the intended mood, and how carefully are all the
details finished and connected into a most harmonious whole! Often his
pieces give the impression that the composer had really found the truest
expression and most beautiful form for what he wished to say or
illustrate. Certain chamber works, piano or organ pieces, are so
delightful, that they awaken a desire for their immediate repetition,
and there are quite a number of his choral compositions which one cannot
hear or sing often enough.

[Illustration:

  JOSEPH RHEINBERGER.

  From a photograph by Karl Lützel, Munich.
]

As a sincere Catholic, Rheinberger has contributed very considerably to
the sacred literature of his church, these works being directly intended
for the service more than for concert purposes. They are partly in a
plain, easy style, and partly on a grander scale, where the composer
found ample opportunity to show his complete mastery of contrapuntal and
polyphonic art, especially of the fugue. Yet he always keeps himself
free from uninteresting features and all mere exhibition of learning. A
mood of pious devotion prevails in these works, among the large number
of which special mention must be made of the great mass for double
chorus, dedicated to Pope Leo XIII., two settings of the Stabat Mater
and the Requiem for the victims of the war of 1870–71; besides many
hymns and motets. Of even greater importance are Rheinberger’s
compositions for the musical instrument of the church, the organ. His
many sonatas, belong to the most valuable contributions to organ
literature. They have the usual three or four movements, an intermezzo
taking the place of the less appropriate scherzo, and a great fugue
forming the finale. And they are by no means tedious, antiquarian
imitations of old masters, but are full of warm, modern sentiment, in
spite of the strictness of form bearing a thoroughly modern physiognomy,
yet never going beyond the limits of dignity, becoming this sacred
instrument. Some movements have become especially famous and are
favorite numbers of organ recitals, as for instance, the Passacaglia of
No. 8. Not less valuable are the many monologues and fughettes and the
organ concerto with accompaniment of strings and horns.

A review of Rheinberger’s pianoforte compositions may justly be opened
with his beautiful concerto in A flat, dedicated to Carl Baermann. It is
written in a truly symphonic style and contains throughout in its three
extended movements noble and sympathetic music, rich in colors,
contrasts and climaxes, the orchestra accompaniment being raised to
great importance, yet the solo part always remaining brilliant and
effective, especially in the splendid cadenza. The same thorough mastery
of the classic forms also appears in several of the great sonatas for
either two or four hands; yet the old forms breathe all the modern
romantic spirit and even their construction occasionally shows modern
influences. Particularly interesting is the great “symphonic sonata,”
opus 47, with a charming minuet and a magnificent tarantella in the last
movement, the entire work betraying quite a distinct influence of Brahms
and his early sonatas. In tarantellas Rheinberger has been as fertile as
successful, illustration being found in the violin sonata in E flat and
in several independent piano works for two, four, or even eight hands.
This happy combination of old strict forms with modern expression and
feeling is also the distinguishing feature of his several toccatas, some
of which require a great virtuosity of playing. And thus it is with his
Fugues, Capriccios, Gavottes, Scherzinos, Etudes, etc., while many other
pieces such as Humoresken, Romances, Mazurkas or the collections “From
Italy” and “Vacation Pieces” remind us more of the character-pieces
which Mendelssohn and Schumann had cultivated. With a Scherzoso and
Capriccio on a theme by Handel, Rheinberger paid a special tribute to
his admiration of the genius of Brahms, whereas a most interesting
improvisation on themes from Mozart’s “Magic Flute” bears some
resemblance to Liszt’s virtuoso style, yet showing a decidedly better
musical workmanship

In looking at Rheinberger’s chamber works we at once admire his complete
familiarity with the old quartet style, and his eminent skill in
counterpoint, but these do not hide the bright, charming, sympathetic
character of his music, the energetic life of the allegros, the broad,
smooth, coherent cantilena of the slow movements, and the grace and
spirit of the Scherzos. Beauty of feeling and sound go most happily hand
in hand. Of the two violin sonatas in E flat major and E minor the
former has become particularly well known, and the effective treatment
of this string instrument makes us regret that Rheinberger has never
written a complete violin concerto in a great symphonic style. He has,
however, composed several suites for violin or violoncello with organ.

In E flat major, which is apparently a favorite key with our master, are
the splendid and justly famous pianoforte quartet, opus 38, and the more
recently written nonet for horn, four string and four wood instruments.
Besides these there are three pianoforte trios, a great pianoforte
quintet in C, a string quintet in A minor, variations for five strings,
and his latest contribution to this class of music, the string quartet
in F. This very remarkable and noble production is distinguished by the
most masterly treatment of attractive themes, by the charm and grace of
the middle movements and an unsurpassed skill in the closing fugue.

It is not surprising, that a composer of such prominent qualities both
in regard to the mastery of the old sonata form and the excellent use of
the different instruments, has written some works for complete
orchestra; rather are we surprised that he has not cultivated this field
more. However his works of this kind are certainly not his best and it
is not unlikely that a clear estimation of his own powers has prevented
him from further attempts in this field. Of his two symphonic works the
more recent one entitled “Florentine Symphony” is far less known and
appreciated than the symphonic tone-picture, “Wallenstein,” which was
composed much earlier. Both in the old and new world this work still
appears in concert programmes, the part performed most frequently being
the fascinating Scherzo “Wallenstein’s Camp” with the amusing sermon of
the garrulous capuchin in the trio. The opening Allegro is superscribed
“Prelude,” the adagio “Thekla,” the finale “Wallenstein’s Death.” The
latter is unduly long, and without the help of a direct programme hardly
comprehensible and enjoyable. In spite of the undeniably noble and high
purpose, the marked skill in technical respects and the truly musical
character of the thematic material, we doubt whether Rheinberger, an
ever growing representative of old theories and absolute music, would
to-day write another such programmatic work. The above mentioned
passacaglia for organ, has, in a most magnificent orchestral
arrangement, found a very sympathetic reception in many concert rooms,
and quite often one reads of performances of his overtures to
Shakespeare’s “Taming of the Shrew,” and to Schiller’s “Demetrius.”

We now approach the theatre, for which Rheinberger has also written. He
was once connected in a practical way with the operatic stage, and at
that time composed the incidental music to dramas of Raimund and
Calderon, as well as a great romantic fairy opera, “The Seven Ravens.”
The writer remembers with pleasure an excellent performance of this
delightful work at the Munich Opera House, though it was many years ago.
There was a wealth of beautiful, delicate or strong music full of poetry
and romanticism of a truly fairy character, yet not lacking in stronger
dramatic emotions. This work was followed later on by a comic opera,
“Thürmer’s Töchterlein,” which was quite successfully given on the
Munich stage. The preludes of both operas are often heard in orchestral
concerts. One of Rheinberger’s most recent works is a little “Singspiel”
for young folks, in two acts, with piano accompaniment, “das
Zauberwort.”

At last we reach in our review the field, in which Rheinberger has been
especially fertile and successful, his many choral compositions. As a
writer of chorus-ballads, he occupied a similar high position as that
held by Loewe for solo ballads, and as by far the worthiest successor of
Schumann and Gade, if not in some respects their superior. His choral
works afford ample opportunity to admire his fine sense for novel,
charming vocal effects, for a correct, grateful and always effective
treatment of the human voice, a careful finishing of details, a great
variety of colors and a distinct and fine characterization of the
various moods of the poems. Whenever a piano or orchestra accompaniment
is added, it is most refined, truly musical, and adequately arranged.
Many such happy features could be quoted, but it is impossible to enter
further into details. Most of these works do not require a very large
chorus or the mastery of unusual difficulties, and have therefore justly
become favorites with smaller choral societies. Others however,
particularly those for male voices, demand numerous, well-trained voices
and a very thorough study, as their difficulties are quite
extraordinary.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript written by Jos. Rheinberger in Munich
    in 1891.
]

Of the large works for mixed chorus, soli and orchestra, we mention the
often sung cycle of romances, “Toggenburg,” “Montfort” (a saga from the
Rhine), “Christoforus” (an old Christian legend), and his latest work,
“The Star of Bethlehem,” a Christmas cantata, the words of all of which
were written by Rheinberger’s wife, Fanny von Hoffnaass. Less extensive
and with only a pianoforte accompaniment are “King Erich,” “The Willow
Tree,” “The Water Sprite,” “The Shepherdess from the Country,” “The Dead
Bride,” “May Dew,” “Harald,” “Night,” etc. Of smaller part songs for
mixed voices we mention those contained in the collection, “Love’s
Garden,” and some sacred hymns. Those for male voices are of greater
prominence and rise far above the plane of the conventional
“Liedertafel” style. They are true works of art in every respect, of a
very noble, interesting and impressive musical character, sweet and
characteristic melodically, richly colored and surprisingly original
harmonically, while each one is a real tone-picture, clearly reflecting
the various poetical moods and situations. Some, too, are quite
extensive and have a piano or orchestral accompaniment, such as the
wonderful “Valley of the Espingo,” “The Roses of Hildesheim,”
“Wittekind,” and “St. John’s Eve.” Most of the part songs, too, are
perfect gems of modern male chorus music, although they are very
difficult as vocal music and require the most careful preparation.
Rheinberger has also written a number of solo songs, some of which in
cyclic form such as “Love’s Life,” “On the Seashore,” etc.

In reviewing this great number of compositions, we must admit that
Rheinberger does not rank as an epoch-making genius in musical history.
But in sincere admiration and gratitude we recognize that the latest
period of German music is not wanting in those whose music reflects the
sunshine and serenity of a clear blue sky, the happiness of a sound
heart and refined mind, whose first purpose it is, by a masterly and
thoughtful use of all musical means of expression, to delight hearers
and performers alike.

This, then, is Rheinberger’s position as a composer. We will not,
however, forget to do full justice to his eminent ability as a teacher,
which enables him to impart to his pupils that thorough and systematic
theoretical education, which must remain the indispensable basis for the
productions of even the most gifted composers, especially at a time when
many are inclined to parade with immature experiments of a fiery, but
inordinate imagination, long before the necessary technical ability
corresponds with their enthusiastic, and perhaps really worthy
intentions.

[Illustration: Louis Kellerbaum]

[Illustration:

  _Reproduction of a steel engraving made by Krauss, after a
    photograph._
]



[Illustration: WAGNER]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                             RICHARD WAGNER


The life of the great German reformer of the lyric stage is a most
instructive story. In no respect is it more so than in its illustration
of the fact that genius sometimes requires development, that the
aspirations of a young man of promise may be altogether out of the line
of the inspirations of maturity. Wagner began his musical career as the
admirer and imitator of that which was most popular and facile in the
lyric drama, and became at last the regenerator of that art which some
of his early models had dragged in the mire of time-service and gain.
There seems to have been a special providence in the utter failure of
his inartistic attempts, which forced him in his despair to write what
was in him without hope of pecuniary reward. Destiny drove him toward
the goal of fame with the stinging whip of adversity.

Wilhelm Richard Wagner was born in Leipsic, May 22, 1813. His father,
Friedrich Wagner, a man of considerable education though simply a police
superintendent, died in October of the same year of a nervous fever
caused by the carnage at the battle of Leipsic. Left with a family of
seven children, of whom Albert, the oldest, was only fourteen, the widow
married again. Her second husband was Ludwig Geyer, an actor at the
Dresden Court Theatre. He was a man of artistic tastes, a poet, and a
portrait painter, and withal a kindly man, who had a fatherly regard for
his stepchildren. After removing with his family to Dresden, Geyer died
in 1821, and Wagner was once more without a father. The day before his
death Geyer bade little Richard play two simple pieces which he had
learned to strum on the piano, and said feebly to the mother, “Has he
perchance a talent for music?” The next day, when the stepfather lay
dead, Wagner’s mother said to him, “He hoped to make something of thee.”
And the composer adds in his autobiographic sketch, “I remember, too,
that for a long time I imagined that something indeed would come of me.”

In his ninth year Wagner went to the Kreuzschule, where he studied
Greek, Latin, mythology, and ancient history, and in secret worshipped
Weber, whom he saw daily passing by. The boy received some piano
lessons, but beguiled his time with attempts to play “Der Freischütz”
overture with “fearful fingering.” He never became a good pianist. More
important for his future were his poetic studies. On the death of a
schoolfellow he wrote a lament which was printed. He made a metrical
translation of Romeo’s monologue, and he built a terrible tragedy,
compounded of “Lear” and “Hamlet,” in which forty-two persons died, most
of them returning as ghosts to finish the play. In 1828 he left Dresden
and entered the Nicolaischule in Leipsic. At the Gewandhaus concerts he
heard Beethoven’s music. The effect he afterwards described thus: “One
evening I heard, for the first time, a Beethoven symphony. I then fell
sick of a fever, and when I recovered I found myself a musician.” He
tried to write music for one of his tragedies, but discovered that he
needed instruction. Gottlieb Müller tried to teach him, but found his
pupil too wilful. His wilfulness, however, secured the performance of an
overture at the theatre in 1830. The public laughed at it because of the
persistent thumping of the bass drum. Fortunately he realized his lack
of knowledge, and applied to Theodore Weinlig, cantor at the
Thomasschule. Weinlig led him in the right direction, and in less than
six months dismissed him as competent to “solve with ease the hardest
problems of counterpoint.” The immediate results of this course were an
overture, applauded at a Gewandhaus concert, and a symphony in C major,
modelled on Beethoven and Mozart.

In 1832 he wrote his first opera libretto, “Die Hochzeit” (“The
Wedding”), the music for which he abandoned after a few numbers. In 1833
he visited his brother Albert, tenor and stage manager at the Würzburg
theatre, and accepted the position of chorus master. He now had leisure
to write another opera. This was “Die Feen” (“The Fairies”), founded on
Gozzi’s “La Donna Serpente.” Beethoven, Weber, and Marschner were his
models. The work was accepted by Ringelhardt, of the Leipsic Theatre,
but not produced. It was resurrected, however, in 1891, and was
performed ten times in Germany. In 1834, Wagner heard Wilhelmina
Schroeder-Devrient sing in Bellini’s “Montecchi e Capuletti,” and her
power as an actress seems to have set his mind to work on the
possibility of an intimate union of music with acting. A performance of
“Massaniello,” with its quick succession of incidents, completed the
formulation of his idea of the road to success. As Adolphe Jullien
remarks, his object was “first to imagine an animated scene of action,
then to write music easy to sing, and of a nature to catch the public
ear.” He now began his second opera, “Das Liebesverbot” (“The Love
Veto”), based on Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure,” but so altered as
to become practically a glorification of free love.

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER’S BIRTHPLACE IN LEIPSIC.

  From a photograph.
]

In 1834 he secured the post of musical director at the Magdeburg
Theatre, and there, in the season of 1835–36, he produced his new work
after only ten days’ rehearsals. The result was failure, penury, and
debt. In Magdeburg he fell in love with Wilhelmina Planer, an actress,
and following her to Königsberg, when she was engaged there, he became
conductor at the theatre. On Nov. 24, 1834, they were married. In 1837
he read Bulwer’s “Rienzi,” and conceived the idea of using it as an
opera plot. In the fall of that year he became conductor at Riga, where
in 1838 he finished his libretto and began the music. He now wrote
without hope of an immediate production, but with a view to future
performance at some theatre of large resources. His mental eye, however,
fixed itself on Paris, and his “Rienzi” began to develop along lines
suggested by the popular composers of the time, Spontini, Meyerbeer,
Bellini, and Rossini. In 1839 he and his wife started for Paris, by way
of London, on a sailing ship. Stormy weather and the legend of “The
Flying Dutchman,” told by the sailors, sowed in his mind seed which grew
and subsequently blossomed. At Boulogne he became acquainted with
Meyerbeer, who gave him letters to Parisians of note in music, and in
September, 1839, he arrived in the French capital.

“Das Liebesverbot” was accepted by Jolly, director of the Renaissance
Theatre, which went into bankruptcy before the work was rehearsed.
Wagner wrote “A Faust Overture,” which also failed to come to a
performance, and other attempts were fruitless. He was now reduced to
arranging music for a publisher, and contributing to a musical journal.
He wrote at this time some charming songs and his notable article, “A
Pilgrimage to Beethoven,” and he worked hard at his “Rienzi.” An
overture, “Columbus,” was played, but was not liked. He tried to get a
position as a chorus singer at a small theatre, but was rejected. In
“the last stage of his misery,” Meyerbeer arrived, and Leon Pillet,
under his influence, allowed Wagner to have hopes of preparing a work
for the Grand Opéra. He wrote a sketch of the book of “Der Fliegende
Holländer” (“The Flying Dutchman”), and to his disgust, Pillet proposed
to buy it of him and have some one else write the music. Finally,
reserving the German rights, he did sell the sketch to Pillet for five
hundred francs. Then he wrote the libretto and began to compose his own
fine music. He had not composed for so long a time that he doubted his
powers. “As soon as the piano had arrived,” he writes, “my heart beat
fast for very fear; I dreaded to discover that I had ceased to be a
musician. I began first with the ‘Sailors’ Chorus’ and the ‘Spinning
Song’; everything sped along as though on wings, and I shouted for joy
as I felt within me that I still was a musician.” His sketch, sold to
Pillet, was made into a French opera under the title of “Le Vaisseau
Fantôme,” music by Dietsch, and failed signally. Wagner, taking no
thought for the future, but working according to his own artistic
impulses, completed his own version in seven weeks, and began to develop
the system which was to remodel opera. In the mean time “Rienzi” had
been accepted by the Dresden Court Theatre, and early in 1842 the
“Holländer” was accepted. “As regards Paris itself,” he writes, “I was
completely without prospects for several years; I therefore left it in
the spring of 1842. For the first time I saw the Rhine; with hot tears
in my eyes, I, poor artist, swore eternal fidelity to my German
fatherland.”

[Illustration:

  LUDWIG GEYER.

  Reproduction of a portrait painted by himself. Original now in
    possession of the Brockhaus family in Leipsic.
]

“Rienzi” was produced on Oct. 20, 1842, with the following cast: Rienzi,
Tichatschek; Irene, Frl. Wüst; Stefano, Dettmer; Adriano, Mme.
Schroeder-Devrient; Paolo, Wachter; Raimondo, Rheinhold; Baroncelli,
Vestri; Cecco, Risse; Messenger, Frl. Thiele. The opera achieved an
immediate and emphatic success, which fifty years of popularity have
approved. “Der Fliegende Holländer” was now hurried upon the stage, and
produced at Dresden, Jan. 2, 1843, with Schroeder-Devrient as Senta, and
Mitterwurzer as Vanderdecken. The great change in style from “Rienzi,”
the sombreness of the story, the simplicity of the action, and the
originality of the music surprised and disappointed the public. Only
Spohr seemed to perceive its real value. He said, “Among composers for
the stage _pro tem._, Wagner is the most gifted.” Spohr produced the
“Holländer” at Cassel on June 5, 1843, and was to the end an admirer of
Wagner.

Immediately after finishing this work in Paris, Wagner cast about for
new material. He read a new version of the story of “Tannhäuser,” which
set him to work to trace to its source the connection of this tale with
that of the Wartburg song contest. Thus he came to read “Der
Wartburgkrieg,” which introduces the story of “Lohengrin,” and Wolfram
von Eschenbach’s “Parzival”; “and thus,” as he says, “an entirely new
world of poetical matter suddenly opened before me.” Before the
rehearsals of “Rienzi” he began the book of “Tannhäuser.” He completed
the opera (though he afterwards made some changes) on April 13, 1844. In
the mean time (January, 1843) he was made court conductor at Dresden,
where he served seven years, producing the masterpieces of Gluck,
Mozart, Weber, Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Spontini, and even Palestrina in
the most artistic manner. He produced “Tannhäuser” at Dresden, Oct. 19,
1845, with Tichatschek in the title rôle; Schroeder-Devrient as Venus;
his niece, Johanna Wagner, as Elizabeth; and Mitterwurzer, as Wolfram.
The work pleased neither the public nor the critics. The music, except
the simple broad march and chorus of Act. II., was pronounced ugly. Even
the mellifluous “Evening Star” song was disliked; Tannhäuser’s dramatic
story of his pilgrimage was called “a pointless and empty recitation,”
and Wagner was blamed for not marrying his hero and heroine. Even Spohr,
though he saw much that was “new and beautiful,” was troubled. Schumann
alone declared of the work: “It contains deeper, more original, and
altogether an hundred-fold better things than his previous operas; at
the same time, a good deal that is musically trivial.” Wagner was
discouraged, but instead of losing faith in his ideals, he decided on a
course of literary propagandism: “to induce the public to understand and
participate in my aims as an artist.” From this resolve sprang his
subsequent theoretical writings: “Art and Revolution” (1849), “The Art
Work of the Future” (1850), “Opera and Drama” (1851), etc.

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER’S MOTHER.

  Reproduction of a portrait painted by Ludwig Geyer. Original now in
    possession of the Brockhaus family in Leipsic.
]

Before the production of “Tannhäuser,” he had made sketches for the
books of “Lohengrin” and “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg” (“The
Mastersingers of Nuremberg”). He finished the former work in March,
1848. In the mean time failure had brought debt and trouble upon him.
Even his wife, though an admirable woman in other respects, did not
comprehend his intellect, and grieved at his preference of artistic
works over paying operas of the familiar sort. Restless and irritated,
he plunged into the revolutionary movement and gave utterance to radical
opinions, even arguing in a lecture that the king ought to proclaim
Saxony a free state. In May, 1849, Dresden streets were barricaded
against troops sent to disperse rioters, and in spite of assertions to
the contrary, there is good evidence that Wagner was fighting on the
people’s side.[1] The Prussian troops scattered the revolutionists, and
Wagner fled to Weimar, where he was received with open arms by Franz
Liszt, thenceforward his most devoted friend. The police were on his
track, however, and he hastened by way of Paris to Zurich, Switzerland.

Wagner’s exile lasted from 1849 till 1861, and this period embraces the
climax of his creative labors. He began his career as a citizen of
Zurich by pouring forth a long series of literary works, of which those
above mentioned and “Judaism in Music” may be regarded as the most
important. There will be occasion to speak later of those bearing on his
operatic ideas, but the “Judaism” article produced bitter comment at the
time, and has remained a source of offence to many. It was published in
the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, over the _nom de plume_ K. Freigedank.
The chief contentions of the article were that the Jews, being of no
nation, but of all nations, are without national feeling; that their art
work, especially in music, lacks that genuineness which is one of the
products of nationality; and that an instinct for gain causes them to
sacrifice pure art for the profitable fashion of the time. His examples
were Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, the latter of whom he again censured in
“Opera and Drama.” The authorship of the strictures on the Jews was
speedily suspected, and a host of pamphlets appeared in answer to it.
The principal result was that Wagner’s writings sold well. In a letter
written in 1847 he declared that he esteemed Meyerbeer as a man, but as
a composer viewed him as the embodiment of “all that is repellent in the
incoherency and empty striving after outward effect of the operatic
music of the day.” This was his only answer to the charge that he had
repaid Meyerbeer’s early assistance with ingratitude.

[Illustration:

  VILLA TRIEBSCHEN.

  Richard Wagner’s Residence on Lake Lucerne, where the “Meistersinger,”
    “Rheingold,” and “Götterdämmerung” were composed.
]

His opera, “Lohengrin,” was produced by Liszt at Weimar, Aug. 28, 1850,
with the following cast: Lohengrin, Beck; Telramund, Milde; King Henry,
Höfer; Elsa, Frl. Agthe; Ortrud, Frl. Faisstlinger. It was received very
much as “Tannhäuser” had been, but it gradually won its way through
Germany, being brought out at Wiesbaden in 1853, Leipzic, Schwerin,
Frankfurt, Darmstadt, Breslau, and Stettin, in 1854; Cologne, Hamburg,
Riga, and Prague, 1855; Munich and Vienna, in 1858; Berlin and Dresden,
1859. In the mean time Wagner was laboring on the largest, if not the
greatest, of his works, “Der Ring des Nibelungen” (“The Nibelung’s
Ring”). In 1848 he had considered two subjects, the story of Frederick
Barbarossa and that of Siegfried, the hero of the “Nibelungen Lied.” The
latter was his choice, and he wrote an essay entitled “Der Nibelungen
Mythus als Entwurf zu einem Drama” (“The Nibelung Myth as Subject for a
Drama”). Immediately afterward, in the fall of 1848, he wrote
“Siegfried’s Tod” (“Siegfried’s Death”) in three acts and a prologue,
and even conceived some of the musical ideas for the setting. In May,
1850, he had this poem printed and read parts of it as illustrations in
a lecture on the music-drama delivered at Zurich. The prospects of
“Lohengrin” moved him to take it up again, and we find him writing to
Liszt thus:—

“You offer to me the artistic association which might bring ‘Siegfried’
to light. I demand representatives of heroes, such as our stage has not
yet seen; where are they to come from? Not from the air, but from the
earth, for I believe you are in a good way to make them grow from the
earth by dint of your inspiring care.... Well, then, as soon as you have
produced ‘Lohengrin’ to your own satisfaction, I shall also produce my
‘Siegfried,’ but only for you and for Weimar. Two days ago I should not
have believed that I should come to this resolution; I owe it to
you.”[2]

[Illustration:

  WAHNFRIED.

  The home of Richard Wagner in Bayreuth. From a photograph.
]

The immediately subsequent letters are full of his determination soon to
begin work on “Siegfried’s Death”; but when he attempted it, he found
that there was too much explanatory matter, and he decided to embody
that in a prefatory drama to be called “Young Siegfried.” Here again,
however, he found the same difficulty, and on Nov. 20, 1851, he writes
to Liszt that “this ‘Young Siegfried’ also is no more than a fragment.”
He continues thus:—

“Two principal motives of my myth, therefore, remain to be represented,
both of which are hinted at in ‘Young Siegfried,’ the first in the long
narrative of Brünnhilde after her awakening (Act III.), and the second
in the scene between Alberich and the Wanderer in the second act, and
between the Wanderer and Mime in the first. That to this I was led not
only by artistic reflection, but by the splendid and, for the purpose of
representation, extremely rich material of these motives, you will
readily understand when you consider the subject more closely. Think
then of the wondrously fatal love of Siegmund and Sieglinde, of Wotan,
in his deep, mysterious relation to that love, in his dispute with
Fricka, in his terrible self-contention when, for the sake of custom, he
decrees the death of Siegmund; finally of the glorious Valkyrie
Brünnhilde, as, divining the innermost thought of Wotan, she disobeys
the god, and is punished by him; consider this wealth of motive
indicated in the scene between the Wanderer and the Wala, and at greater
length in the above-mentioned tale of Brünnhilde, as the material of a
drama which precedes the two ‘Siegfrieds’; and you will understand that
it was not reflection, but rather enthusiasm, which inspired my latest
plan. That plan extends to three dramas: (1) ‘The Valkyrie’; (2) ‘Young
Siegfried’; (3) ‘Siegfried’s Death.’ In order to give everything
completely, these three dramas must be preceded by a grand introductory
play, ‘The Rape of the Rhinegold.’ The object is the complete
representation of everything in regard to this rape; the origin of the
Nibelung treasure, the possession of that treasure by Wotan, and the
curse of Alberich, which in ‘Young Siegfried’ occur in the form of
narration.”

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER’S STUDIO IN BAYREUTH.

  From a photograph of a painting by R. Steche.
]

Thus we find him impelled by the demands as well as the artistic
possibilities of a fruitful story to the construction of his great
tetralogy, consisting of the dramas eventually named “Das Rheingold”
(“The Rhinegold”), “Die Walküre” (“The Valkyrie”), “Siegfried,” and “Die
Götterdämmerung” (“The Dusk of the Gods”). A further incentive to the
creation of this four-part work was his belief that the true lyric play
should be modelled after the Greek drama, in whose literature he found
the trilogy of Æschylus—the “Agamemnon,” “Chœphoræ,” and “Eumenides” and
“The Seven against Thebes,” believed to have been the final play of a
tetralogy. He began to labor at this gigantic undertaking without any
definite hope of its performance; indeed, with doubts as to his living
to complete it. So great, however, was his enthusiasm that, in spite of
the formidable artistic problems which he had to solve and the novelty
and complexity of his own musico-dramatic system, now to be developed
for the first time to its logical outcome, he had the poem completed and
printed for private circulation early in 1853.[3]

“During the summer of 1853 he visited a place near Saint Maurice, and
from there he undertook a trip into the North of Italy.... It was during
a sleepless night at Spezzia that the first ideas of the ‘Rheingold’
music passed through his mind. He brought his journey to an end, and
hastened to regain his tranquil home at Zurich, that he might not
commence such a work on Italian soil.”[4] The score of “Das Rheingold”
was completed in May, 1854. The next month he began “Die Walküre” and
finished all save the instrumentation in the winter of 1854–55. The
score was done in 1856, and in 1857 most of the first two acts of
“Siegfried” were composed and orchestrated. His labors had been
interrupted by the production of “Tannhäuser” at Zurich in 1855, by a
visit from his best of friends, Liszt, and by a journey to London to
conduct the concerts of the Philharmonic Society from March to June,
1855. He felt that he must accept this engagement or, as he said in a
letter to Praeger, “renounce the public and all relations with it once
and for all.”[5]

[Illustration:

  BAYREUTH HILL AND THE THEATRE OF THE FESTIVALS.

  From a photograph.
]

A more important interruption, however, was to come. In 1851, Arthur
Schopenhauer’s “Parerga und Paralipomena” was published, and created a
sensation which called attention to his earlier philosophical work, “The
World as Will and Representation” (1818), hitherto unnoticed in the
glare of Hegel’s and Schelling’s success. Wagner plunged into
Schopenhauer’s pessimistic philosophy with ardor. At the same time he
was reading Godfrey von Strassburg’s “Tristan,” and conceived the idea
of embodying Schopenhauer’s pessimism in a story of unhappy passion. He
read Strassburg’s poem to Praeger, who was visiting him, and spoke of
its adaptability to operatic treatment. The next morning at breakfast,
in a fit of abstraction, he conceived some of the love music. Now the
desire seized him to write a work which could be completed and produced.
Moreover he needed money. And to end all, a mysterious agent appeared
with a commission for an opera from the Emperor of Brazil. Wagner
hesitated about the commission, but he began “Tristan and Isolde.” He
finished the poem early in 1857, the music of the first act in the
winter, the second act in Venice, March 2, 1859, and the third act in
Lyons, August, 1859.

[Illustration:

  THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE, SHOWING RESIDENCE OF RICHARD WAGNER.

  From a photograph.
]

In September of the same year he went to Paris with a faint hope of
getting the new work, or one of his earlier ones, produced. M. Carvalho,
of the Théâtre-Lyrique, was favorably inclined toward “Tannhäuser,” but
afraid. Wagner gave a concert and lost money. Then help came from an
unexpected quarter. Under the persuasion of the Princess de Metternich
the Emperor ordered a production of “Tannhäuser” at the Grand Opéra. The
text was translated into French, a great number of rehearsals was held,
$40,000 were spent on the mounting, and Wagner was allowed to select his
own singers. The cast he chose was as follows: Tannhäuser, Niemann;
Elizabeth, Mlle. Saxe; Venus, Mlle. Tedesco; the Shepherd, Mlle. Reboux;
the Landgrave, Cazaux; and Wolfram, Morelli. In his first interview with
the director of the Opera, Wagner was informed that a ballet in the
second act was an absolute necessity, because the subscribers, chiefly
members of the Jockey Club, never arrived till the middle of the
evening, and they demanded a ballet at that time for their especial
delectation. Wagner refused to introduce a meaningless dance into his
second act, but “saw in the first act, at the luxurious court of Venus,
a most perfect opportunity for a choreographic scene of some real
meaning.”[6] In accordance with this idea he rewrote the Venus scene,
arranging what is now known as the Paris version of “Tannhäuser.” M.
Adolphe Jullien’s account of the production on March 13, 1861, and the
ensuing performances (Chap. VIII.) is careful and candid; and it settles
conclusively the fact that the failure of the work was due to the
persistent opposition of the members of the Jockey Club, who blew
hunting whistles, indulged in hisses and catcalls, and otherwise made
such a disturbance that the work did not get a fair hearing. Wagner
withdrew it after three performances, in spite of the increase of
receipts, which ran as follows: first, 7,491 francs (subscription,
2,790); second, 8,415 francs (subscription, 2,758); third, 10,764 francs
(subscription, 230). The smallness of the subscription at the third
performance is accounted for by its having been given on Sunday night in
order to get rid of the irate subscribers, who, nevertheless, went _en
masse_, buying admission tickets. Wagner fully comprehended the meaning
of it all. “Never,” he said, “have I been in the least disposed to doubt
the Parisian public when it is upon an impartial ground.”

Through the intercession of the Princess de Metternich he received
permission in 1861 to return to Germany. The succeeding three years,
owing to the smallness of the royalties on his operas, were years of
pecuniary distress. His hopes in “Tristan” were shattered, for after
fifty-seven rehearsals at Vienna it was shelved as impracticable. In
1861 (May 15) at Vienna he had the pleasure of hearing “Lohengrin” for
the first time. He was encouraged to begin a new work, and he took up
his old sketch of “Die Meistersinger” made in 1845. In “Tannhäuser” he
had drawn a picture of a contest of song among knightly minnesingers; in
this comic opera he gave a humorous representation of a contest among
the common people. In the winter of 1861–62 he finished the libretto,
though he afterwards made alterations. He went to a little place
opposite Mayence to work on the music. He gave a number of concerts to
keep the wolf from the door, and in 1864 published the poem of “Der Ring
des Nibelungen” with a pathetic renunciation of all hope of living to
see it completed or performed. Pecuniary distress finally broke his
spirit, and in 1864 he accepted an invitation to live in Switzerland. He
was on his way thither when his earthly providence intervened.

This providence was the young King Ludwig II. of Bavaria, a sincere
lover of art and a warm admirer of Wagner. Hardly had he mounted the
throne before he sent a messenger after the composer with the words,
“Come here and finish your work.” Wagner’s joy may be imagined. He went
to Munich, where he was provided with a stipend of $500 a year from the
king’s private purse. One of the musician’s first acts was to compose
his familiar “Huldigungs Marsch” (“March of Allegiance”). He received
the royal order to complete the “Nibelungen” in the fall of 1864; his
allowance was increased, and a house given him. The king began to talk
about building a theatre for the production of the tetralogy; “Tristan
und Isolde” was put in preparation, and Hans von Bülow was summoned to
conduct it. On June 10, 1865, this formidable work was produced in exact
accordance with the composer’s ideas. The original cast was as follows:
Tristan, Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld; Isolde, Frau Schnorr von
Carolsfeld; King Mark, Zottmayer; Kurvenal, Mitterwurzer; Melot,
Heinrich; Brangäne, Frl. Deinet; Shepherd, Simons; Steersman, Hartmann.
In December, 1865, the composer went to live at the Villa Triebschen, on
Lake Lucerne, where he finished “Die Meistersinger,” twenty-two years
after he had made the first sketch. It was produced under Von Bülow at
Munich on June 21, 1868, with these principals: Eva, Frl. Mallinger;
Magdalena, Frau Dietz; Hans Sachs, Betz; Walther, Nachbauer; David,
Schlosser; Beckmesser, Hölzel. While at Triebschen he also continued his
work on the “Nibelungen,” and in June, 1870, had finished the first act
of “Die Götterdämmerung.”

It was in this year that he married a second time. His first wife had
never understood his artistic ideas, and the two were wholly without
sympathy, though Wagner never ceased to speak with kindness of Mina. His
professional intercourse with Von Bülow led to his intimate acquaintance
with Cosima von Bülow, the daughter of Liszt. Wagner found in her the
comprehension and sympathy which he craved. Mina was unable to endure
the supremacy of the more brilliant woman, and in 1861 left her husband
and went to Dresden. She died in 1866, and in 1870, Cosima, having
secured a divorce from Von Bülow, became Mme. Wagner, destined to
survive her husband and perpetuate his triumphs.

Now began the remarkable series of events with which Wagner’s career
culminated. The king abandoned his idea of building a Wagner theatre in
Munich, and the composer selected Bayreuth as a place adapted, by reason
of its seclusion, to the consummation of his ambitious plans. Money had
to be raised, and Emil Heckel, of Mannheim, conceived the notion of
Wagner Societies. The success of his scheme was beyond expectation. Such
organizations were founded all over the world—even in Milan and New
York—and more than $200,000 was subscribed. Wagner settled in Bayreuth
in April, 1872, and on May 22 gave a concert to celebrate the beginning
of the building of the theatre. The music of the tetralogy was finished
in November, 1874, and rehearsals were begun under Hans Richter. The
first performances were given on Aug. 13, 14, 16, and 17. The work was
twice repeated in the same month. The principals were: Wotan, Betz;
Loge, Vogel; Alberich, Hill; Mime, Schlosser; Fricka, Frau Grün; Donner
and Gunther, Gura; Erda and Waltraute, Frau Jaïde; Siegmund, Niemann;
Sieglinde, Frl. Schefzky; Brünnhilde, Frau Materna; Siegfried, Unger;
Hagen, Siehr; Gutrune, Frl. Weckerlin; Rhinedaughters, Frl. Lili and
Marie Lehmann and Frl. Lambert; concert-master, Wilhemj; conductor, Hans
Richter. The performances, like all successive festivals at Bayreuth,
attracted music lovers from all over the world and called forth volumes
of criticism, favorable and bitterly unfavorable.

[Illustration:

  PALAZZO VENDRAMIN, VENICE, WHERE RICHARD WAGNER DIED.

  From a photograph.
]

A very large deficit caused Wagner to try the experiment of grand
concerts in London in 1877; but he made only $3,000 out of that venture.
Wagner’s last work was now well under way. Early in life, as already
noted, he had read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s “Parzival,” and in 1857, at
Zurich, he began his own “Parsifal,” with a sketch of the Good Friday
music. The completed libretto was published Dec. 25, 1877. The sketch of
the first act was finished early in 1878, and the whole was completed
April 25, 1879. The instrumentation was finished at Palermo, Jan. 13,
1882.[7] The first performance took place at Bayreuth on July 25, 1882,
and the work was given altogether sixteen times that summer. The
performers who alternated in the principal parts were as follows:
Parsifal, Winklemann, Gudehus, and Jäger; Kundry, Materna, Brandt, and
Malten; Gurnemanz, Scaria and Siehr; Amfortas, Reichmann and Fuchs;
Klingsor, Hill, Degele, and Plank. Conductors, Hermann Levi and Franz
Fischer. “Parsifal” was assailed fiercely by the now numerous opponents
of Wagner’s musical system, but it has continued to draw great crowds to
Bayreuth years after its creator’s death. The power of this and the
other dramas was due not only to their inherent truth and beauty, but
also to the manner of their production. As an American newspaper
correspondent (W. S. B. Mathews) wrote:—

“‘Parsifal,’ as here given, is a revelation. The performance is of such
a consistently elevated character, and so evenly carried out in every
department, as to make one realize that in his whole life he has never
before witnessed an artistic presentation of opera.”

[Illustration:

  LUIGI TREVISAN.

  Richard Wagner’s Venetian Gondolier. Drawn by Giacomo Favretto.
]

In the autumn of 1882, Wagner went to live in Venice. His health had
been failing. He recuperated sufficiently to conduct a performance of
his youthful Symphony in C; but on Tuesday, Feb. 13, 1883, as M. Jullien
relates, “as he was about to step into his gondola, some discussion
arose, and he gave way to a fit of anger; suddenly he started up from
his seat, choking, and cried, ‘I feel very badly!’ He fell fainting.
They carried him to his bed, and when his physician, Dr. Keppler,
arrived, in all haste, he found him dead in the arms of his wife, who
believed him sleeping.” On Feb. 18 he was buried in the garden of his
villa, “Wahnfried” (“Fulfillment of Ideal”), at Bayreuth. He left one
son, Siegfried, the fruit of his second union.

This outline of a remarkable career, in which artistic success was
pursued by pecuniary embarrassment, in which envy, malice, and
vituperation barked at the heels of progressive intellect, will best be
closed by the quotation of a few lines concerning the man’s personality.
M. Jullien, who writes with kindness and yet with candor, says:—

“The most striking thing about Richard Wagner, at first sight, was the
extraordinary life and energy which animated this insignificant body,
surmounted by a very large head, with an enormous frontal
development.... His bright eyes and pleasant glance softened the
strongly marked face, and his mouth, notwithstanding the undue
prominence of nose and chin, had a singular expression of sweetness and
affability. With his extreme rapidity of movement, gait, and gesture, he
gave from the first an impression of unusual and powerful originality;
he fascinated by his conversation, so animated was he on all subjects
which interested him, and he always acted out his discourse. He was
violent, even explosive in temper; with him gayety, like wrath, was
tempestuous and overflowing.”

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, made in 1877, by Elliott &
    Fry in London._
]

Mr. Dannreuther, who knew him well, testifies that he was most amiable
among his friends, with whom he was a very different person from “the
aggressive critic and reformer who addressed himself to the public.”
There is no doubt that Wagner was fully convinced of the tremendous
importance of his own work, and that he developed to its fullest extent
the exasperating egotism of a man whose whole soul is absorbed in his
aims. He was intolerant of opposition, and ungenerous in his views of
other musicians. He was dogmatic in style, even when most logical in
thought; and like many another genius, he had some very small
weaknesses, such as a sybaritic love for silk and satin clothing, and a
belief that the world ought to gratefully pay the expenses of his
support while he completed his great works. With all his peculiarities,
which were largely the outcome of his fierce struggle for recognition,
he possessed “a simple kindness of heart, an extreme sensibility.” As to
his manner of work, Dr. Praeger has given testimony:—

“Wagner composed at the piano, in an elegantly well-arranged studio.
With him composing was a work of excitement and much labor.... He
labored excessively. Not to find or make up a phrase; no, he did not
seek his ideas at the piano. He went to the piano with his idea already
composed, and made the piano his sketch book wherein he worked and
reworked his subject, steadily modelling his matter until it assumed the
shape he had in his mind.”

The names, dates of production, and principal singers of his
music-dramas have already been given, together with some mention of his
minor compositions. An overture (“Faust”), three marches, the “Siegfried
Idyll,” built on themes from the drama, a chorus, a male quartet, a
funeral march for Weber, five piano pieces, a few lovely songs (two of
them studies for “Tristan” music), and nearly a dozen arrangements
(among them piano scores of “La Favorita,” and “L’Elisir d’Amore,”
pathetic mementoes of his starving days in Paris), are the musical
remains of this genius, outside of his operatic works. The lyric stage
was the theatre of his career, and in the works prepared for it he
expended the force of his intellect, and developed the ideas that
proclaim him an epoch-maker. Let us, therefore, turn our attention to
the Wagner theories, and their practical exposition in the so-called
“music of the future,” which has become so intensely that of the
present. What is the Wagnerian theory of the opera? How does it differ
from that which preceded it? From what germs did Wagner develop it? How
has he embodied it? These are questions which naturally arise, and which
demand answers.

It may well be questioned whether Wagner had a wholly comprehensive view
of the essence and results of his own artistic theories. There can be no
doubt that much of his work was the fruit of what were in his own mind
vaguer inspirations, which he himself was unable to reduce to
theoretical formulæ. Therefore, while we may appeal to his prose
writings for evidence as to the sincerity and direction of his
intentions, we may readily agree with the assertion of Mr. Hadow that
“the arguments which have established the Wagnerian theory of opera are
to be found not in ‘Opera and Drama,’ but in the pages of ‘Tristan’ and
‘Parsifal.’”[8] It behooves us, therefore, to endeavor to trace the
development of the Wagnerian theory in the mind of its inventor, and in
order to do that we must follow the plan of Mr. Krehbiel,[9] and make
some inquiry into “the origin and nature of the lyric drama.”

Of the origin of the drama it is not the province of this article to
speak, but we may note that the introduction of music into plays was a
natural movement. In Italy, where the opera was born, choruses had been
sung in plays as far back as 1350, but up to 1597 the ecclesiastical
contrapuntal style prevailed, and in that year the speeches of a single
personage, in a comedy of Orazzi Beechi’s, were sung in five-part
choruses of sombre canonic form. The younger and more progressive minds
in Florence began to perceive the unsuitability of this kind of music to
the drama. In their search after a new form they were guided by the
revival of interest in classic antiquity, known as the Renaissance; and
they set about reconstructing the musical declamation of the Greeks.
Their work began with the production of “monodies,” or what we should
call to-day dramatic scenes for one voice. Encouraged by their success
in this direction, two of these enthusiasts, Ottavio Rinuccini, poet,
and Jacopo Peri, musician, wrote a pastoral called “Daphne.” This had
all the elements of modern opera, and its favorable reception at a
private performance led the two men to try again. This time they wrote
“Eurydice,” performed in public in 1600, and recognized as the first
opera. The pregnant achievement of Peri in these works was the
foundation of dramatic recitation. It was nothing like the recitation of
the Greeks, but it was a new and noble art form, in which music strove
to imitate the nuances of speech without ceasing to be music. “Soft and
gentle speech he interpreted by half-spoken, half-sung tones [modern
_parlando_], on a sustained instrumental bass; feelings of a deeper
emotional kind, by a melody with greater intervals, and a lively tempo,
the accompanying instrumental harmonies changing more frequently.”[10]
Peri’s theory, in short, was that recitative should copy speech, and
that his new art form, which was christened _drama per musica_, should
follow the Greek tragedies as its models. Claudio Monteverde advanced
along the path indicated by Peri, and furthermore began to make the
orchestra a potent factor in the musical exposition. But instrumental
music now exercised a baneful effect on the opera, and in Cavalli’s
“Giasone,” produced in 1649, we find the germs of the operatic aria,
modelled on the simple cyclical forms used by the fathers of the sonata.
Cavalli was opposed to recitative, and furthered the cause of simple
rhythmical tune in opera. This new style was easy of comprehension and
popular. Alessandro Scarlatti took it up and developed the aria so that
it became the central sun of the operatic system. The result was
inevitable. The person who could most beautifully sing an aria captured
the public heart; the singer became the dominating power in opera, and
the composer was relegated to a secondary place. From that time onward,
the history of the artistic development of opera is a series of contests
between the singer and the composer, with the supremacy mostly on the
side of the former. The result of this was the imposition upon the opera
of a number of meaningless, artificial forms, in which a musical purpose
was manifest, but a dramatic design wholly undiscernible. In Handel’s
time this artificiality had reached an absurd stage. The different kinds
of arias were labelled with extreme minuteness in the matter of
distinctions, and the composer was required to produce just so many in
each opera and in each act. No vocalist might have two consecutive
arias, nor might two arias of the same kind be sung in succession. But
in the second and third act the hero and the heroine each had a claim to
one grand scena followed by an _aria di bravura_, the latter being
designed simply to display agility in ornamental passages. These laws
were afterwards modified, but down to the time of Wagner’s supremacy an
opera librettist was expected to construct his book so that arias,
duets, trios, quartets, and ensemble numbers should be found at places
suitable to the composer. In short, the nature and purpose of the opera
had been lost sight of; it was no longer _drama per musica_, but _drama
pro musica_,—a vastly different thing.

The first resolute opposition to this style of thing was made by Gluck,
who had the same high regard for the classics of antiquity as Peri and
his confreres had. Gluck’s theories and purposes are succinctly
expressed in his preface to “Alceste.” He says:—

“I endeavored to reduce music to its proper function, 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 figure without
altering the outlines.... 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.”

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph letter from Richard Wagner, written in Zurich,
    May 30, 1853, addressed to some musical director, and advising him
    to give “Tannhäuser” before producing “Lohengrin.”
]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph musical manuscript written by Richard Wagner for
    lithographic reproduction. Opening bars of the “Song to the Evening
    Star,” from the full score of his “Tannhäuser” thus reproduced. The
    original is in the Bibliotheca Musica Regia in Dresden.
]

These words make it plain that Gluck distinctly perceived the
fundamental principle of artistic truth in opera,—that the music must be
considered as a means and not an end. He felt that the music should be
devoted, not to the exploitation of musical possibilities, but to the
faithful expression of the emotions of the characters on the stage. His
reforms met with determined opposition, and some of his contemporaries
complained bitterly that they were compelled to pay two florins “to be
passionately excited and thrilled instead of amused.” But while Gluck
made sweeping changes for the better, he failed to reach the root of all
evil. He did not abolish from the operatic stage the set forms, which
made the musician the superior officer of the poet, commanding the
insertion of here a solo and there a duet. The continuance of these
forms was conserved, too, by the splendid genius of Mozart, who breathed
into them a verisimilitude which they had not before possessed. The
glorious boy had no reformer’s blood in his veins, but with the instinct
of spontaneous mastership he made the spirit of his music vital, even
though its form was conventional. He founded no school, but he was an
excuse for the continuance of old traditions by others less gifted than
himself. So only twenty-six years after Gluck’s death all Europe went
mad over “Ditanti palpiti,” and the name of Rossini became the watchword
of the lyric stage. The opera was regarded as a parade ground for great
singers, and its music was expected to be cast in the simplest melodic
moulds, so that it could be hummed, strummed, whistled, or indifferently
sung by the most poorly equipped amateurs. All conception of the opera
as a drama employing music as a means of expression had been lost, and a
man who asserted that its model had originally been and ought always to
be the Greek play would have been stared at as one unsound of mind. That
there were a few who were ready to raise from triviality so splendid an
art form was proved by the gathering of warm and faithful adherents
around the banner of reform raised by Wagner.

Like most young artists he began his career by imitating the work of the
acknowledged masters of his time. As we have already seen, he had no
novel ideas in the composition of “Die Feen.” He simply tried to imitate
Beethoven, Weber, and Marschner. At this time the music of Beethoven was
his ideal. Heinrich Dorn has testified that no young musician could
possibly have known the works of the immortal symphonist more
thoroughly. But Wagner soon saw very clearly that it was not in his
power to adopt the Beethovenian style to the lyric drama. For models for
his second work, therefore, he chose Auber and Bellini. The former’s
“Massaniello” had opened his eyes to the value of action with brisk
music to accompany it. The latter’s “Montecchi e Capuletti,” or rather
Schroeder-Devrient’s inspiring performance of Romeo, had given him
suggestions as to the dramatic possibilities of vocal melody. In his
second work, “Das Liebesverbot,” he tried to effect a combination of the
styles of these two masters. It must not be supposed that he was
searching merely for popular applause. He was intensely in earnest even
at that stage of his career, and his aim was to produce real art. He did
not yet perceive the utter falsity of the prevailing system, though he
was honest in his endeavor to make it tell the truth. In his
autobiographical sketch he records thus the ideas raised in his mind by
the Bellini performance:—

“I grew doubtful as to the choice of the proper means to bring about a
great success; far though I was from attaching to Bellini a signal
merit, yet the subject to which his music was set seemed to me to be
more propitious and better calculated to spread the warm glow of life
than the painstaking pedantry with which we Germans, as a rule, brought
naught but laborious make-believe to market. The flabby lack of
character of our modern Italians, equally with the frivolous levity of
the latest Frenchmen, appeared to me to challenge the earnest,
conscientious German to master the happily chosen and happily exploited
means of his rivals, in order then to outstrip them in the production of
genuine works of art.”

Artistic sincerity of purpose, then, was already the man’s moving force.
The immediate impulse which led him to take the first step in the
development of his own individuality was the conviction that the
provincial public of the smaller German cities was incapable of forming
a judgment as to the value of a new work. He, therefore, began “Rienzi”
with a determination to write an opera which could be produced only at a
grand opera house, and he decided not to trouble his mind as to what
theatre of that rank would give him an entrance. He says:—

“I allowed naught to influence me except the single purpose to answer to
my subject. I set myself no model, but gave myself entirely to the
feeling which now consumed me, the feeling that I had already so far
progressed that I might claim something significant from the development
of my artistic powers, and expect some not insignificant result. The
very notion of being consciously weak or trivial, even in a single bar,
was appalling to me.”

Wagner never wrote words fraught with greater significance. To sit down
with a determination to not be weak or trivial in a single bar, and to
be always faithful to his subject, and yet to construct his opera on the
prevailing models, was for a man of Wagner’s intellectual power and
artistic temperament to discover the radical defects of the opera of his
day. He could not follow his models without being consciously weak or
trivial at times. An examination of the libretto of “Rienzi” shows that
while there is carelessness in the poetry, the dramatic construction is
excellent. No better opera libretto dates from the time of its
production. But it was constructed, as Wagner confessed, to enable him
“to display the principal forms of grand opera, such as introductions,
finales, choruses, arias, duets, trios, etc., with all possible
splendor.” Consequently, while there is much in the music that is noble,
dignified, and characteristic of Wagner, there is more that is weak,
trivial, and imitative. “Rienzi” is a very good opera of the old sort,
and the dramatic force of its book, together with the excellence of much
of its music, has kept it favorably before the public. But it lacks
artistic coherency, because its fundamental principle is false; and
Wagner knew it before he had completed the work. The writer of this
article does not believe that this master, as some of his warmest
admirers have asserted, began “Rienzi” with a deliberate intention of
catering to a depraved public taste for the sake of success. Wagner
earnestly craved success at that time; he needed money, and he yearned
for public recognition; but his own words show that he was deluded into
supposing that artistic work could be done on the lines of the popular
opera of his day. It required the writing of “Rienzi” to bring to his
mind the convictions, which were put to test in “The Flying Dutchman,”
after he had abandoned the hope of pecuniary success. This is not the
place for a discussion of the relative importance of objectivity and
subjectivity in art; but it is certain that “The Flying Dutchman” is the
result of an overwhelming desire for self-expression. Wagner at this
period of his mental growth could have cried with Omar Khayyám:—

            “I sent my soul through the Invisible,
              Some letter of that after-life to spell;
            And by and by my soul returned to me,
              And answered, ‘I myself am heaven and hell.’”

Overcome by his first real draught of the bitterness of life, he found
that his emotional moods were clamoring for expression. With the
splendid egotism of genius, he discerned the sorrow of a world in his
own suffering. To dramatize this became his burning desire. The legend
of the Ahasuerus of the sea, cursed by his own determination to overcome
obstacles, opposed by all the powers of nature, seemed to Wagner the
embodiment of his own experience; and he turned to the work of making an
opera out of it, with no purpose except a complete and convincing
expression of the prevailing moods of his own soul. And it was thus that
he came upon the fundamental principles of the theory which set the
musical world agog and raised up lions in his path. The first conviction
that came to him was that of the superiority of a legendary over a
historical story. He subsequently wrote of it thus:—

“In this and all succeeding plans, I turned for the selection of my
material once for all from the domain of history to that of legend....
All the details necessary for the description and presentation of the
conventionally historic, which a fixed and limited historical epoch
demands in order to make the action clearly intelligible,—and which are
therefore carried out so circumstantially by the historical novelists
and dramatists of to-day,—could be here omitted. And by this means the
poetry, and especially the music, were freed from the necessity of a
method of treatment entirely foreign to them, and particularly
impossible as far as music was concerned. The legend, in whatever nation
or age it may be placed, has the advantage that it comprehends only the
purely _human_ portion of this age or nation, and presents this portion
in a form peculiar to it, thoroughly concentrated, and therefore easily
intelligible.... This legendary character gives a great advantage to the
poetic arrangement of the subject for the reason already mentioned,
that, while the simple process of the action—easily comprehensible as
far as its outward relations are concerned—renders unnecessary any
painstaking for the purpose of explanation of the course of the story,
the greatest possible portion of the poem can be devoted to the
portrayal of the inner _motives_ of the action,—those inmost motives of
the soul, which, indeed, the action points out to us as necessary,
through the fact that we ourselves feel in our hearts a sympathy with
them.”[11]

The second conviction that came to him was that of the folly of writing
music at random, instead of clinging to the musical investiture of a
mood once formed. This led him to the abandonment of the set forms of
the established opera, and to the adoption of his own plan of making the
music and poetry an artistic unit. His words in regard to this matter
are worth quoting:—

“The plastic unity and simplicity of the mythical subjects allowed of
the concentration of the action on certain important and decisive
points, and thus enabled me to rest on fewer scenes with a perseverance
sufficient to expound the motive to its ultimate dramatic consequences.
The nature of the subject, therefore, could not induce me, in sketching
my scenes, to consider in advance their adaptability to any particular
musical form, the kind of musical treatment being in each case
necessitated by these scenes themselves. It could, therefore, not enter
my mind to engraft on this my musical form, growing, as it did, out of
the nature of the scenes, the traditional forms of operatic music, which
could not but have marred and interrupted its organic development. I
therefore never thought of contemplating on principle and as a
deliberate reformer the destruction of the aria, duet, and other
operatic forms; but the dropping of those forms followed consistently
from the nature of my subjects.”[12]

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER.

  From a photograph from life taken in Vienna about 1875 by Fr.
    Luckhardt.
]

He found the germs of his future musical system in the ballad of Senta.
In this the legend of the unhappy Hollander is told, and in its musical
investiture Wagner invented two melodic themes with distinct purposes.
The first was intended to illustrate the personality of the Dutchman as
an embodiment of yearning for rest. The second was designed to represent
the redeeming principle, the _ewig weibliche_, the eternal womanhood,
which became the ruling ethical feature of all Wagner’s lyric works.
Here are the two themes:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

[Illustration: [Music]]

These two themes being designed to represent certain ideas, it was
inevitable that the composer should use them whenever those ideas
recurred. As he tells us himself in the essay quoted above:—

“I had merely to develop, according to their respective tendencies, the
various thematic germs comprised in the ballad, to have, as a matter of
course, the principal mental moods in definite thematic shapes before
me. When a mental mood returned, its thematic expression also, as a
matter of course, was repeated, since it would have been arbitrary and
capricious to have sought another _motive_ so long as the object was an
intelligible representation of the subject, and not a conglomeration of
operatic pieces.”

We have now traced the origin of the three elementary principles out of
which Wagner elaborated his system: First, the dramatic advantage of
mythological or legendary subjects; second, the “intelligible
representation of the subject”; and third, the use of the representative
theme, “typical phrase” or _leit motif_. In “The Flying Dutchman” we
find his system in its embryonic state, but the perfected system, as
displayed in “Tristan” and “The Ring,” is only a logical outcome of
these first thoughts, intensified, as it were, by his realization that
the whole thing was simply a modernization of the practice of the
greatest Greek dramatists. This realization caused him to question
whether, through the medium of an art founded on his theories, the
modern stage could not acquire a national importance and influence, such
as the Greek theatre possessed. It will undoubtedly be easier for the
reader now to take a comprehensive survey of the full-blown Wagnerian
system than to try to follow its growth through the transitional stage
of “Tannhäuser” and “Lohengrin.”

Wagner’s first law, as formulated succinctly by W. F. Apthorp in a
magazine article, is: “That the text—what in old-fashioned dialect was
called the libretto—once written by the poet, all other persons who have
to do with the work—composer, stage architect, scene painter, costumer,
stage manager, conductor, and singing actors—should aim at one thing
only: the most exact, perfect, and lifelike embodiment of the poet’s
thought.” So far as the composition of the music is concerned, this is
precisely what Peri and Gluck believed. But Peri had to invent dramatic
recitative; and standing, as it were, just on the hither side of chaos,
he could not be expected to produce at once a perfected art world. The
materials of operatic art were in process of making; the first builder
had not the wherewith to rear a musical cathedral. Gluck erred in
preserving the cut-and-dried operatic forms which made it impossible for
him to achieve his sincere design,—“to reduce music to its proper
function, 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.” It was comparatively
easy to get rid of the “superfluous ornament”; but the methodical
distribution of the old forms was found to interrupt the action. It
remained for Wagner to see that these forms were unavailable for the
composer who aimed at the complete embodiment of the poet’s thought; and
it remained for him also to discern that the ideal lyric drama demanded
an ideal harmony among its various elements. In other words, the
perfected Wagnerian theory of the lyric drama contemplates the compact
union of poetry, music, painting, action, and all the other factors of
dramatic illusion on a basis of common interdependence, so binding that
it shall be impossible to say that one is more important than another,
so perfect that no separation can be made without a loss of vital force.

Wagner discerned in the theatre the source of such art influence as
reached the great mass of the people. Looking upon its managers and its
public as they actually appeared before his eyes, he saw the theatre in
the hands of those to whom art was nothing and gain everything, while
the public, jaded and sated, ceaselessly clamored for new sensations.
Continued attempts of the money-seeking managers to satisfy this public
demand, which was in its very nature insatiable, had led to a condition
of opera in which the music had no organic connection with the text, the
pageantry and ballets no logical relation to the pictorial ensemble.
Turning his gaze backward to the home of true art, Greece, he saw a
drama in which poetry, action, and music were indissolubly united.

“Thus,” he says, “we can by no means recognize in our theatrical art the
genuine drama; that one, indivisible, supreme creation of the mind of
man. Our theatre merely offers the convenient _locale_ for the tempting
exhibition of the heterogeneous wares of art manufacture. How incapable
is our stage to gather up each branch of art in its highest and most
perfect expression—the drama—it shows at once in its division into the
two opposing classes, play and opera; whereby the idealizing influence
of music is forbidden to the play, and the opera is forestalled of the
living heart and lofty purpose of actual drama. Thus on the one hand the
spoken play can never, with but few exceptions, lift itself up to the
ideal flight of poetry; but, for very reason of the poverty of its means
of utterance,—to say nothing of the demoralizing influence of our public
life,—must fall from height to depth, from the warm atmosphere of
passion to the cold element of intrigue. On the other hand the opera
becomes a chaos of sensuous impressions jostling one another without
rhyme or reason, from which each one may choose at will what pleases
best his fancy; here the alluring movements of a dancer, there the
_bravura_ passage of a singer; here the dazzling effect of a triumph of
the scene painter, there the astounding efforts of a Vulcan of the
orchestra....”

“The public art of the Greeks, which reached its zenith in their
tragedy, was the expression of the deepest and the noblest principles of
the people’s consciousness; with _us_ the deepest and noblest principle
of man’s consciousness is the direct opposite of this, namely, the
denunciation of our public art. To the Greeks the production of a
tragedy was a religious festival, where the gods bestirred themselves
upon the stage and bestowed on men their wisdom; _our_ evil conscience
has so lowered the theatre in public estimation that it is the duty of
the police to prevent the stage from meddling in the slightest with
religion; a circumstance as characteristic of our religion as of our
art. Within the ample boundaries of the Grecian amphitheatre the whole
populace was wont to witness the performances: in our superior theatres
loll only the affluent classes. The Greeks sought the instruments of
their art in the products of the highest associate culture: we seek ours
in the deepest social barbarism. The education of the Greek, from his
earliest youth, made himself the subject of his own artistic treatment
and artistic enjoyment in body as in spirit: our foolish education,
fashioned for the most part to fit us merely for future industrial gain,
gives us a ridiculous, and withal arrogant, satisfaction with our own
unfitness for art, and forces us to seek the subjects of any kind of
artistic amusement outside ourselves.”[13]

Making due allowance for the heated utterance of one to whom the
questions at issue had such grave personal importance as to prevent
judicial calmness of speech, we cannot fail to perceive that Wagner had
penetrated to the essence of the difference between the stage of Greece
and that of Europe in his day. The compact union of the arts tributary
to the stage had been at once the outcome and the embodiment of that
intensely national art-feeling which he contrasted so bitterly with the
modern European lack of art-feeling, as he saw it. With the downfall of
the Athenian, state tragedy fell also, and “art became less and less the
expression of the public conscience.” In Wagner’s mind this downfall
resembled that of the tower of Babel, with its subsequent dispersion of
the tribes. The dramatic union of arts was dismembered. Poetry,
painting, music, rhetoric, all separated, and each went its own way in
pursuit of its own ends. No one who has reviewed the history of the fine
arts in the Middle Ages can fail to have observed how blindly they
seemed to grope their way toward the gates of truth until the guiding
light of the Renaissance, with its new revelation of the classic
antiquity, was turned upon Italy by the scholars driven out of
Constantinople by the fall of Rome’s Eastern Empire. Wagner has reviewed
the dissevered condition of the arts and their employment as means, and
not ends, in a few terse sentences in the essay already quoted; and then
he says:—

“Each one of these dissevered arts, nursed and luxuriously tended for
the entertainment of the rich, has filled the world to overflowing with
its products; in each great minds have brought forth marvels; but the
one true art has not been born again, either in or since the
Renaissance. The perfect art work, the great united utterance of a free
and lovely public life, the _Drama_, _Tragedy_,—howsoever great the
poets who have here and there indited tragedies,—is not yet born again;
for the reason that it cannot be reborn, but must be born anew.”[14]

This, then, was the herculean task which this self-appointed reformer of
the drama set before him; to demonstrate that the modern theatre had the
power to bring itself into the same relation to the noblest ideal life
of man as the Greek theatre had; and in order that this might be
achieved it was necessary, in his opinion, to return to that union of
the arts, which has been mentioned so often. He believed that in his day
each art had done all that it could do without the aid of the other.
Music unaided could go no further than it had in Beethoven’s symphonies.
Indeed, even the mighty Ludwig had called in the help of poetry to
complete his Ninth Symphony. Poetry could rise no higher than the wings
of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller had carried her. At this point,
then, must come that fusion of the arts, in which each would sacrifice
something of its egotism for the sake of the splendid whole; and that
whole would be the art work of the future, the drama for the people. In
order fairly to appreciate Wagner’s purposes we must pause here to
inquire, what people? The answer to this question lies at the root of
the whole controversy which has arisen about Wagner’s works; or perhaps
it would be more accurate to say that it is the neglect to make and
properly answer this inquiry which leads insufficiently informed persons
to look upon Wagner as a rabid iconoclast. The people for whom he sought
to rear anew the ideal drama was the German people. As Mr. Krehbiel has
expressed it: “Wagner believes that the elements of the lyric drama
ought to be adapted to the peculiarities, and to encourage the national
feeling of the people for whom it is created.... One of Wagner’s most
persistent aims was to reanimate a national art spirit in Germany. The
rest of the world he omitted from his consideration.”[15] This was an
inevitable result of his conviction, acquired from study of the Greek
stage, that the ideal drama should be national in spirit.

We have already seen that, according to his ideas, the union of poetry,
painting, music, and action in the “art work of the future” could be
effected only by some sacrifice on the part of each art. Wagner plainly
saw, as we must see, that the special feature which must yield to the
necessary modification was _form_, or, more strictly speaking,
_formality_. It was not form in the abstract that must be sacrificed,
but forms in the concrete,—forms which owed their preservation to
tradition, and not to any intrinsic worth or imperative demand of art.
To preserve the old-fashioned operatic forms would have been to continue
the dominance of music in the drama; for the poet would still have been
a mere librettist, bound to provide for the aria, the duet, and the
finale. To introduce a distinctive kind of versification, such as the
Alexandrine, or the Spencerian stanza, would have made poetry the
controlling element. The first problem set before Wagner, then, was to
find subjects which would admit of the utmost freedom and
unconventionality of treatment. Already in the embryonic state of his
theories, the myth had forced itself upon his mind as the necessary kind
of subject; and in the final working out of those theories to their end,
the myth stood the test, with this important corollary, that it must be
a myth embodying one of the great elementary thoughts of mankind. Turn
which way he would, he found support for his belief. Did the legendary
beings of the Greek stage lack the humanity and the ethical conditions
necessary for great tragedy? On the contrary, as Mr. Stedman has put
it:—

“The high gods of Æschylus and Sophocles for the most part sit above the
thunder: but the human element pervades these dramas; the legendary
demigods, heroes, _gentes_, that serve as the personages,—Hermes,
Herakles, the houses of Theseus, Atreus, Jason,—all are types of human
kind, repeating the Hebraic argument of transmitted tendency, virtue and
crime, and the results of crime especially from generation to
generation.”[16]

And when Wagner turned from the Greek drama to the philosophy of his
beloved Schopenhauer, he found the same convictions forced upon him
again by his teacher’s art theory. This theory is propounded in Book
III. of “The World as Will and Representation.” The writer begs leave to
quote a summary of it which he has made in a study of “Tristan”:—

“Divested of its robes of metaphysical terminology, it is this: When the
human mind rises from the study of the location, period, causes, and
tendencies of things to the undivided examination of their essence, and
when, further, this consideration takes place, not through the medium of
abstract thought, but in calm contemplation of the immediately present
natural object, then the mind is brought face to face with eternal
ideas. Art, the work of genius, repeats these eternal ideas, which are
the essential and permanent things in the phenomena of the world. In
other words, art endeavors to exhibit to us the eternal essence of
things by means of prototypes.”[17]

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER.

  From a family group, photographed shortly before his death.
]

Of course, Wagner could not find prototypes embodying “the eternal
essence of things” in the small and shallow stories to which the
librettists of the majority of the popular operas of his time had
turned. He must seek for material which had its roots in the great heart
of the people; which was not the fancy of a single mind, but the
formulation of a people’s ideal. To the myth, then, he turned, impelled
by his own reasoning, by the arguments of divine philosophy, as he read
them, and by the equally eloquent example of revered antiquity. And,
indeed, we must all admit that the true myth is the individualization of
an abstract ideal, and if we accept the Wagnerian theory, that abstract
ideal should be embodied in the personages of the drama, we must also
accept the myth. Even if we refuse to believe that ideals, or even
types, should be the actors in a drama, we shall probably have no
hesitation in admitting that for _musical exposition_ only the broad,
elementary emotions of humanity are well suited; and these are always
found most freely and powerfully displayed in the great world-thoughts
of mythology. Thus Wagner’s Tristan and his Isolde are plainly intended
to be embodiments of the elementary man and woman, standing in primeval
barbarian grandeur at gaze one upon the other, and overwhelmed by the
tragic power of mastering passion. The history of the Tristan legend,
which has found its way in different forms into the literature of
several languages, is proof that the world has so regarded it. For six
hundred years poets have accepted Tristan and Isolde as the most
convincing representatives of the mastery and the misery of love. In
this they stand sharply distinguished from the hero and heroine of
Wagner’s comedy, “Die Meistersinger.” Walther and Eva, moving in a story
whose design is to touch the manners of a time with the gentle reproof
of satire, are not the embodiments of elementary thoughts, but are
circumscribed by the manifest environments of locality and period. But
Tristan and Siegfried are the unfettered, unconventioned man of all
times and places; while Brünnhilde and Isolde are visible forms of the
highest of Wagner’s ideals, the eternal womanhood. It is a significant
fact that this master, in the first works produced after he had
abandoned the old style,—“The Flying Dutchman,” and “Tannhäuser,”—dealt
with these eternal types, while in “Lohengrin” he confined himself
within comparatively narrower limits, returning to his first position
when he had fully formulated the theories whose promptings rose within
him as only vague, artistic instincts in his early works. And having
cleared his theories from all doubts in his own mind, he emphasized the
humanity of his mythical characters by some of his finest touches.

“The northern Scalds created tremendous myths. The spirit of their poems
was colossal. Passions and sweetness stood side by side and were
delineated with master strokes. Lofty sentiment and heroic deed were
darkened by unspeakable crime and black tragedy. The German bards
denuded these old poems of their glory and made their personages small.
The heroes and heroines of the Sagas were enormous unrealities; those of
the Nibelungen Lied were almost pretentious nonentities. Wagner seized
upon every trait of character and every incident that was most human and
made masterly use of it. It is the ease with which we recognize in the
people of ‘Der Ring des Nibelungen’ primeval human types that makes us
receptive of their influence and movable by their greatness.”[18]

Having found his people, the next object of the poet-composer was to
select a flexible and yielding form for their utterance. He must find a
form of verse which could be organically united with music, which would
suggest a rhythmical basis for the melody, yet not control its
construction. The various forms of modern versification, founded on the
rhetorical accent of words, offered him no advantages, but, on the
contrary, placed difficulties in the path of his movement. Rhyme, for
instance, has no value whatever for the composer, unless he constructs
the phrases and sections of his melody with the same number of feet and
the same metrical pauses as are found in the verse; and this method, of
course, gives the mere formalism of the poetry the government of the
process of composition. On the other hand, blank verse is bound to find
the same treatment in music as prose does. Wagner, therefore, turned to
the metrical basis of all Teutonic poetry, namely, the alliterative
line, as it is found in the “Eddas.” The peculiarity of this line is the
emphasizing of its rhythm by the employment of similar sounds at the
beginning of the accented syllables. A fair specimen of it is the
opening of Siegmund’s love song in “Die Walküre”:—

                          “Winterstürme wichen
                          Dem Wonnemond;
                          In milden Lichte
                          Leuchtet der Lenz;
                          Auf linden Lüften,
                          Leicht und lieblich,
                          Wunder webend
                          Er sich wiegt.”

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER AT BAYREUTH.—By G. Papperitz.
]

A clause such as “Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond” readily suggests to
the ear the position of musical accents which will be identical with
those of the verse, but which leave the composer wholly free in his
melodic treatment of _lines_. A single glance will demonstrate to the
reader that the above words can be placed in lines three or four times
as long without making the slightest change in the rhythmical effect
produced by the alliteration.

We now come to Wagner’s musical method, the nature of which has already
been briefly indicated in the account of the birth in his mind of his
new ideas. In his search after a modern substitute for the sustained
intonation of the Greek drama, he had before him for study the dramatic
recitative of Peri and the dramatic _arioso_ style of Gluck. The former
was wholly unavailable. Years of use had fastened upon it a collection
of traditional phrases, familiar to the ear of every one who goes often
to hear opera or oratorio. These traditional phrases, hopelessly
inflexible, made dramatic recitative a thing of conventionalities, and
unconventionality was the only hope for Wagner’s system. The Gluck
_arioso_ style was equally unsuited to his purpose, because, as we have
been obliged to note before, it preserved the formalities of the
old-fashioned opera,—those very formalities which Wagner felt that he
must abandon if he would secure his compact union of the arts tributary
to the stage. He needed a style of composition which would permit the
music to flow freely from the words and which would impose no obligation
on the composer to repeat certain words or lines in order that certain
passages of music might be rounded out to a pretty close as in the
old-fashioned aria. He was in search of lyric expressiveness freed from
lyric conventionality. He therefore decided that each act of any one of
his music-dramas must consist of one unbroken stream of melody. In other
words, as long as there were persons or scenes before the audience,
there must be a musical exposition of their moods, and that exposition
must be unbroken and apparently unartificial in form, just as a train of
moods is.

But to make the actors sing without cessation would fatigue both them
and the audience; and, moreover, it would be untrue to nature, since men
and women do not frame every thought and emotion in words. Hence Wagner
conceived the idea of allotting the voicing of the ceaseless melody to
the orchestra, while the personages of the drama should utter their
words in a form of lyric recitative based on the broader principles of
Peri, as expressed in his preface to “Eurydice,” but freed from acquired
conventions and modified according to the promptings of Wagner’s own
musical genius. Naturally, then, the question arose in the composer’s
mind, “What form is my melody to have?” For he knew as well as Schumann
did that music demands first of all things form. Now, the basis of
musical form is the repetition of melodic phrases. There is no form, and
therefore no coherence, no sense, in music consisting of disjointed
phrases, each of which is heard once and never again. Yet to repeat them
in any of the old-fashioned ways would have been to load himself down
with some one of the set forms which he was trying to escape.
Consequently this formidable problem was before him: How was he to make
his endless melody intelligible to the auditor, to give it a palpable
significance, to convey through it to the hearer the emotional moods of
his personages, and yet impose upon it musical form, based upon
repetition, but free from the artificiality of the older formulas? He
found the solution in the suggestion which had come to him when he
invented the two principal themes of Senta’s ballad in “The Flying
Dutchman.” The solution of the problem was the perfection of this system
of representative themes, each designed to stand for a particular
person, thought, mood, or action, and to be repeated by the orchestra or
vocalist whenever its subject had significance, though not necessarily
presence, in the scene before the audience.

How are these representative themes obtained? Does Wagner construct a
melody arbitrarily according to his fancy, and label it the “Siegfried”
motive, the “Brünnhilde” motive? A moment’s reflection will suffice to
convince the reader that such a system would be worse than puerile. It
would not be in any sense as good as the method of Donizetti, who could
at least give a pathetic color to the aria of his moribund tenor.
Wagner’s high purpose was to make an indissoluble organic union between
the poem and the music, and this purpose forbade all arbitrary or
haphazard procedure in the construction of a _leit motif_. Music has a
certain power of emotional expression; therefore Wagner’s endeavor was
to invent themes representative of characteristic traits or emotional
tendencies of his personages. In some cases when he required a musical
representation of an inanimate object, he invented a theme which would
suggest the object by suggesting emotions associated with it. Another
class of themes is descriptive of externals, and belongs to what has
been well called scenic music. The last class is the smallest, for, as a
rule, Wagner’s scenic music serves its purpose but once. When it is
intended for only one hearing, it is simply descriptive music, freely
composed. When intended for more than one hearing, it has a deeper
significance. Let us make a closer examination of the master’s processes
in the construction of these leading motives, and that we may be
logical, let us begin with the lowest order, the scenic.

[Illustration:

  RICHARD WAGNER, IN 1877.

  After a portrait by Herkomer, etched by himself.
]

The central and the most picturesque character of “The Rheingold” is
Loge, the god of fire. In this prologue of the tetralogy he appears as
the evil counsellor of Wotan, and while his character is indicated in
many striking ways, his entrance is heralded by a purely scenic bit of
music known as the magic fire music.

[Illustration: [Music]]

This music is intended solely to represent the flickering, ascending
fire. It reappears with most picturesque effect at the close of “Die
Walküre,” when Wotan, having put Brünnhilde to sleep upon her rock,
summons the fire from the earth to keep her couch inaccessible to all
save the yet unborn hero who shall know no fear.[19] Examples of the
free descriptive or scenic music, composed without leading motives, may
be found in “Tristan” (the sailors’ music, and the shepherd’s piping),
in “Siegfried” (the familiar “Waldweben”), and in “Parsifal” (the dance
of the flower maidens). Of the class of music a step higher in respect
of significance,—that in which an inanimate object is represented by an
appeal to the emotions associated with it,—the most brilliant example is
the sword motive. The sword of Siegmund, which is to be welded anew by
Siegfried and used by him in wresting the Rhine treasure from the grasp
of the giant Fafner, is one of the most potent agents in the advancement
of the action of the tetralogy. It is always indicated musically by this
bold, martial theme, whose brilliant challenge rings with the pride of
combat:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

It is a notable evidence of the depth of Wagner’s artistic purpose that
he first uses this motive in “Das Rheingold,” before the sword has been
fashioned, when only the idea of creating the race of Siegmund has
dawned in Wotan’s mind. Another motive of this kind is that which
represents the tarn helm, the magic cap whose possessor can make himself
invisible or change his appearance. The motive is so uncertain in its
tonality—a quality obtained by the use of the empty fifth—that it
adequately depicts the mysterious nature of the tarn helm.

[Illustration: [Music]]

But the most beautiful and significant development of this remarkable
musical system is to be found in the construction of those motives which
are designed to illustrate the emotions and dramatic principles of the
plays. Of these there are some which have also a scenic aspect and at
first will seem to the new hearer of Wagner’s works to belong wholly to
the external class. The most easily comprehended is that commonly
described as the smithy motive. The Nibelungs were dwarfs, dwellers in
the hollows of the earth, and workers in precious metals. They were a
crushed, tyrannized race, and after one of their number, Alberich, had
obtained power over the worldly possession of a ring of Rhine gold, they
became the most abject of slaves. Two things appeal to us in the
contemplation of this race: first, ceaseless labor at the smithy;
second, the bitterness of spirit caused by the drudgery. Wagner invented
for the theme representative of this race the smithy motive, founded on
a rhythm imitative of the beating of hammers.

[Illustration:

  A HUMOROUS COMPOSITION ADDRESSED TO LOUIS KRAFT.

  The host of Hotel de Prusse, in Leipsic.
]

[Illustration: [Music]]

It seems at first as if this theme could picture for us only that
beating. But in the second act Alberich’s brother, Mime, who has been
plotting to get the Rhine treasure for himself, is slain by Siegfried.
Then Alberich, who is concealed in the forest and witnesses the scene,
laughs aloud in bitter scorn of his fallen foe; and his laugh consists
of that Nibelung theme sung fortissimo. Then we perceive that the theme
fully embodies both of the characteristics of the dwarfs, of which the
second is the product of the first. To rise a step higher, in the first
act of “Die Walküre,” when Siegmund and Sieglinde, the only living
members of the race of Volsungs, are gazing into one another’s eyes and
learning to sympathize with one another’s sorrows, the orchestra, always
revealing to us the most secret feelings of the actors, plays this
passage:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

The bass phrase is the motive of the Volsung race, and its melancholy
character is intended to remind us that this is a race of tragic heroes
whose heritage is woe. The treble phrase is the motive of sympathy. It
is, therefore, written in thirds, the closest and most elementary of
those harmonic agreements called consonances, and it is, in melody as
well as harmony, expressive of sympathy. In the second act of the drama
of “Siegfried,” when the young hero lies under the tree in the forest
and wonders what manner of being his mother was, the orchestra reminds
us that he is a Volsung by intoning the motive in this form:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

And again when Siegfried in “Die Götterdämmerung” has sobbed forth his
last words and lies dead among Gunther’s appalled vassals, the basses of
the orchestra once more wail out this sad motive, accentuated by
muttered beats of the kettle drums. Thus we see that this motive is
always heard when the two thoughts—Volsung race and its woe—are
especially significant in the drama. We learn that it refers to these
two things by the text with which it is associated, and we then find
that it intensifies for us the feeling of that text.

[Illustration:

  UNFINISHED BUST OF RICHARD WAGNER.

  Last work of Lorenz Gedon, in possession of Friedrich Schön, of Worms.
]

The association with the text is, of course, the key-note of Wagner’s
_leit motif_ system. There can be no successful refutation of the
assertion that a few of the leading themes of the Bayreuth music-dramas
are arbitrary in their formation. There are themes which are intended to
represent purely intellectual processes, and this is something that
music cannot do. But we need never be at a loss as to Wagner’s intent.
No lecturer nor handbook is necessary as a guide through the music of
these works when the hearer has once grasped the idea that every _leit
motif_ is associated with the words or the acts which explain its
design, and this, too, almost invariably on its first appearance. All
that the hearer needs to know is the text. It was not a part of Wagner’s
theory that his listeners should commit to memory a string of titles of
motives, such as the “Love Renunciation Motive,” the “Hero Idea,” the
“Love Thrills,” the “Decree of Fate.” Many of these titles have been
invented by the handbook makers, who, in their eagerness to explain
Wagner to the world, have done much to persuade the world that he is
incomprehensible. The student of Wagner needs no translation of the
music, except the text. Wagner did not believe, as many have asserted,
that music was capable of definite expression as words are. On the
contrary, in his prose works, he again and again declared that music was
incapable of telling a story, that it demanded the assistance of text,
and that the two must be joined in such close wedlock that they would
operate upon the mind and emotions of the hearer as a single indivisible
force. Therefore the student of these works needs only to make himself
master of the poems, and then to note carefully the music that
accompanies every sentiment or deed. In the Nibelung tetralogy, the
music of “Rheingold” is the foundation of all that follows, and it must
be known first. As each new motive appears in that work, it is
explained. Two or three illustrations will suffice. In the first scene,
the three Rhine-maidens sing this:—

[Illustration:

  Rhinegold, Rhinegold, lustrous delight,
  Thou laughest in radiance rare.
]

When Siegfried, having slain the dragon, comes out of the cave, that
music is heard in the orchestra. Does any one need a handbook to tell
him that it refers to the hero’s being now the master of the Rhine gold?
Again, after telling Alberich that he who can make a ring out of the
Rhine gold will have unlimited power, one of the girls sings this:—

[Illustration:

  But he who passion’s power forswears,
  And from delights of love forbears,
  But he the magic commandeth the prize to mould to a ring.
]

Here the text fully identifies the music as the motive of renunciation,
and as such we recognize this melody when Wotan in the last scene of
“Die Walküre” parts from his best beloved daughter, Brünnhilde. This
first identification of a theme enables the composer to attain some of
his finest effects, for he makes some motives have an air of prophecy.
For instance, two motives are especially connected with Siegfried, and
one of them refers to his being a great hero. This motive is first heard
in the last scene of “Die Walküre” before Siegfried is born, and before
Brünnhilde knows that he is to be her lover. Yet it is Brünnhilde who
voices it in foretelling his birth to Sieglinde:—

[Illustration:

  The highest hero of worlds hid’st thou,
  O wife, in sheltering shrine.
]

Thenceforward we know that melody to be the theme of Siegfried, the
hero. Immediately following this is introduced a theme which appears
again in the full voicing of the orchestra after Brünnhilde has restored
the Rhine gold to its rightful owners and immolated herself on
Siegfried’s funeral pyre at the end of the last drama of the series. If
we wonder at its meaning there, we refer to its first appearance in “Die
Walküre,” and find that Sieglinde utters it as a proclamation of the
divine womanhood of Brünnhilde:—

[Illustration:

  Oh, marvelous sayings,
  Maiden divine.
]

Another example will show how a representative theme may be modified,
according to the development of the person whom it represents, without
losing its identity. The theme which has special reference to
Siegfried’s buoyancy of spirit, the producer of youthful enthusiasm, is
intoned by the hero on his horn thus:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

In “Die Götterdämmerung,” when Siegfried has become a fully developed
man, this melody is modified so as to signify his mature heroism. It is
then proclaimed by the orchestra thus:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

As the writer has had occasion to say elsewhere, “The alteration to
which the music is subjected is one of rhythm. The _motif_ changes from
six-eight to common rhythm. The effect produced is one of those which
are founded upon the nature of music. A six-eight rhythm is light and
tripping; a four-beat rhythm is firm and solid.” This alteration of the
representative theme, then, “develops the character of the melody along
the same lines as Siegfried’s character has developed,—from lightness
and ebulliency to firmness and solidity.” These examples should be
sufficient to give the reader a tolerable comprehension of the manner in
which Wagner worked out his new operatic form. It seems necessary now
only to lay special stress upon the suggestion already offered, that the
listener at the performance of a Wagner music-drama does not treat
either himself or the composer fairly when he busies his mind wholly
with the identification of the themes as they present themselves
successively to his hearing. The proper effort is to get at the organic
connection between action or thought and the music, to read each by the
light of the other, and to see whether it is not possible to penetrate
by means of the two into the spirit of the drama. If the hearer
accomplishes this, he will have at least the right to say that he has
approached the consideration of this art work of Wagner’s in a spirit of
fairness; and though he may not know the title of a single theme, he
will have a far better understanding of their meaning than they who have
committed to memory some one of the thematic handbooks.

This exposition of Wagner’s theories will have failed to achieve its
purpose if the reader does not now clearly perceive that its fundamental
postulate is that the opera is a _drama_ in which music is merely the
chief vehicle of expression. This ruling idea led Wagner not only to
abandon the old formulæ, but to do many things which would, perhaps, be
inexpedient to attempt in absolute music. The great Bayreuth master has
been severely censured, by those who cling to the belief that music
should always be pretty, for having written many harsh progressions and
for having indulged in remarkable boldness in his harmonies. These
so-called sins of the master must find their justification in the fact
that he was not aiming at purely musical beauty. The whole purpose of
his work was “exact and lifelike embodiment of the poet’s thought.” When
the emotion of an actor was harsh, the music had to be harsh. When the
emotions were grand and beautiful, the music had to be of a similar
character. It is for these reasons that we find the snarling anger of
Alberich and Mime, the bitter hatred of Ortrud, the fury of Isolde,
voiced in music which is not pretty, but which is truthful. But on the
other hand, when Wagner has to express the sorrows of the Volsungs, the
fierce and sudden passion of Siegmund and Sieglinde, the awful revulsion
of feeling in the death of Siegfried, or the highest elevation of
woman’s love in the last moments of Isolde, he rises to a sublime height
of melody, an overwhelming dignity of harmony, and an irresistible
eloquence of instrumentation not equalled by any other composer. As
Louis Ehlert, not a Wagnerite, has well said: “Wagner’s music always
impresses us with the idea that we are in the presence of genius. It may
at times be ugly, obtrusive, and noisy; but it is never silly and
insignificant.”[20]

Much of the pungency of Wagner’s music, which makes it disagreeable to
timid ears, is due to his progressiveness in the matter of harmony. He
has gone to the furthest limit in the use of passing notes, as primarily
embodied in the polyphony of Bach. He has followed the rule thus
formulated by Dr. Parry:—

“Suspensions are now taken in any form and position which can in the
first place be possibly prepared even by passing notes, or in the second
place be possibly resolved even by causing a fresh discord, so long as
the ultimate resolution into concord is feasible in an intelligible
manner.”[21]

Many of Wagner’s harmonic progressions belong to that class which
instruct rather than obey the theorists. These progressions have all
been found capable of justification by analysis, and will therefore
remain as part of Wagner’s contributions to the development of musical
science and art. In considering these novelties, we must remember that
genius is usually in advance of its day, and what sounded strange at
first by reason of its novelty will in good time become part of the
common diction of the art. In instrumentation, Wagner also made many
innovations, and it is indisputable that he was the greatest master of
the art of scoring who has ever lived. He showed a profounder insight
into the individual capacity of every instrument than any composer
except Berlioz, and in fecundity of combination he excelled even the
gifted Frenchman. He enriched the body of tone of the modern orchestra
by the employment of the tenor tuba, and emphasized the value of the
neglected bass trumpet. His addition to the customary number of horn
parts splendidly improved the mellow tone and solidity of the brass
choir, and his use of the bass clarinet, not simply as a solo
instrument, but as a re-enforcement of the organ-like bass of the
woodwind department, was a stroke of genius. He further developed the
expressiveness of the woodwind band by the novelty of his distribution
of harmony among its members. Not only did he allot solos to them with
unerring judgment, but departing from the conventional style of the
classic symphonists, who used their wood instruments in pairs playing in
thirds and sixths, he wrote for these instruments in a marvellously
effective dispersed harmony. In writing for the strings, Wagner divided
them more frequently than his predecessors had done, often making six or
eight real parts among the violins alone. Altogether his instrumentation
is richer in its polyphony and more solid in its body of tone than that
of any other composer. He has been accused of being noisy, but power of
sound is not necessarily noise. There is more noise in some of Verdi’s
shrieking piccolo passages, accentuated with bass-drum thumps, than in
the loudest passage that Wagner ever wrote.

Taking him by and large, as the sailors say, Wagner is the most striking
figure in the history of music. Whether the future will or will not
accord to him the position granted by the musical world of the
present—that of the greatest genius (though not the profoundest
musician) the art has produced—he will remain fixed upon the records as
the most commanding intellect that ever sought to express its thought
and accomplish its purposes though the medium of music. His influence
upon his contemporaries has been larger than that of any other master
since the science of modern music began. One has only to study the
latest operas of that real genius, Verdi, to perceive how one of the
most gifted musical minds of our time was forced to yield to the
convincing truth of Wagner’s ideas. As for those of less original force
than Verdi, they have one and all—even Mascagni, who is as purely
Italian as Wagner was purely Teutonic—been swayed by his irresistible
influence. Even the symphonic writers have been guided by him, and no
man can ever again write an orchestral score as if Wagner had not lived.
The futile controversy about his theories and his style will probably be
kept alive for some years by those who persistently refuse to remodel
their inflexible conceptions of what ought to be after the splendid
pattern of what is. But Wagner’s theories will live, for he was the
fulfillment of the prophetic words of Herder on Gluck: “The progress of
the century led us to a man, who, despising the frippery of wordless
tones, perceived the necessity of an intimate connection of human
feeling and of the myth itself with his tones. From that imperial height
on which the ordinary musician boasts that poetry serves his art he
stepped down and made his tones only serve the words of feeling, the
action itself. He has emulators, and perhaps some one will soon outstrip
him in zeal, overthrowing the whole shop of slashed and mangled
opera-jingle, and erecting an Odeon, a consistently lyric edifice, in
which poetry, music, action, and decoration unite in one.”

[Illustration: N. J. Henderson.]

[Illustration:

  THE ANIMATED FORGE MOVEMENT.
]

[Illustration:

  PANTHEON OF GERMAN MUSICIANS

  (1740–1867.)

  _Reproduction of a painting by W. Lindenschmit._
]



[Illustration: Music in Germany]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                            MUSIC IN GERMANY


Germany, the foremost of musical nations, owes her present supremacy not
only to the genius of her great masters, from Bach to Wagner, but also
in a large degree to the native impulse of her people, who for centuries
have been distinguished for their earnest love of music.

In the Middle Ages the Germans possessed in their folk-songs
(Volkslieder), Minnesongs and church chorals a rich fund of music,
inexpressibly dear to the people. These precious heirlooms have been
cherished and preserved, and their peculiar earnestness, purity of
style, and depth of sentiment have rendered them sources of lofty
inspirations to the great masters who have achieved for Germany her
world-wide fame in music. It is unfortunate that our knowledge of German
popular music in the Middle Ages is not as full and trustworthy as that
concerning the beginnings of contrapuntal art in the Netherlands,[22]
and the development of Catholic Church music. We have the best
inferential evidence that the sense of melody and rhythm existed in
definite form among the people earlier than in church music. This
evidence comes to us from an observation of the devices to which the
monks of St. Gallen resorted, in order to popularize the Gregorian song
in Germany. For, whereas the plain chant of Gregory seems never to have
been musically enjoyable to the Germans, certain _sequentiæ_ introduced
by these monks, notably by Notker, surnamed the Stammerer († 912),
became universally popular among the people. These “sequences” should
not be confounded with the so-called sequences defined in our modern
treatises on harmony. A sequentia was a hymn, with words in rhymed Latin
set to fitting music. Such sequentiæ were sung by trained choirs at
certain moments in the service, and the congregation joined in the
phrases like “Kyrie” and “Alleluia” which followed. “Veni Sancte
Spiritus,” “Stabat Mater,” and “Dies Iræ” are sequences of this sort.
These sequences are really concessions to the popular taste of the time.
The mass of the people loved melody and rhythm, characteristics which
were ultimately recognized as necessary to church music.

The folk-songs of Germany are quite unlike the Minnelieder (love-songs).
This is evident both in the words and melodies. The folk-song is more
naïve, tender and rhythmical than the heavy and solemn Minnelied. In
most cases the latter resembles the choral in having slow and equal
notes. Comparatively few of the old folk-songs have come down to us
unchanged, and of still fewer do we know the date of composition.
Probably we owe many of them to travelling minstrels, who went about
from place to place.

During the sway of the Troubadours, the love of poetry and song spread
over Europe, and Germany was directly influenced by them. The
Minnesingers were a similar class of knightly lyrists. Their favorite
meeting-place was the Wartburg, near Eisenach, at the Court of Hermann,
Landgrave of Thuringia. Among the most celebrated of these poet-singers
were Wolfram von Eschenbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, Heinrich
Schreiber and Heinrich von Zwetschin. The influence of the Minnesingers
was greatest in the thirteenth century, and rapidly died out in the
following. They were succeeded by the Mastersingers who were of the
burgher class, and included in their ranks schoolmasters, clerks and
mechanics. The foremost Mastersinger was Hans Sachs, the famous
poet-cobbler, who lived in Nuremberg in the sixteenth century. The music
of the Mastersingers was in general heavy and expressionless, very much
like church psalmody.

Wagner has immortalized both classes of mediæval singers in his
“Tannhäuser” and “Mastersingers,” but the true source of his inspiration
was not their music, but the poetic and dramatic characteristics of the
picturesque life of those days.

The folk-songs were more rhythmical and melodious than either the
Minnesongs or Mastersongs. It is certain that as an element of influence
in the practice and development of music in the latter part of the
Middle Ages and at the time of the Reformation, popular music in Germany
had risen to an eminence hardly second to the Gregorian song.

Some of the music of the Minnesingers was a direct outgrowth from the
folk-songs. Their poems were composed principally to interest those who
lived at court, but the music, so far as it had melodic character, was
imitated and developed from the melodies of the people. A rude and
simple instrumental accompaniment was characteristic of these
productions. The element of declamation, too, must have been very
important, for even up to the thirteenth century the “singing” and the
“saying” of poetry were identical in meaning.

The folk-songs had great influence, as we have seen, on the melodic
invention of composers of the Reformation. Other influences were potent,
however, in determining the various forms of composition. The
development of counterpoint in the Netherlands, and the higher _a
capella_ church style in Italy, were important for Germany. Attempts
were made to treat secular melodies in the elaborate style of the
Netherlanders, with the melody in the tenor, accompanied by several
contrapuntal parts.

Heinrich Isaak, who was a member of the choir of the Emperor Maximilian
from 1493 to 1519, enjoyed Italian training, and wrote sacred and
secular music in the prevailing Flemish style. He won for himself the
title of the “German Orpheus.” His contemporary, Heinrich Finck, was
likewise famous and beloved. Also Stephan Mahu, a singer in the choir of
Ferdinand I., was of the same school, and wrote motets and
“lamentations” in a simple but sublime style. The earliest Protestant
music was in the style of these masters, and the choral with
contrapuntal accompaniment was suggested by their treatment of sacred
chants and secular melodies. Under the influence of the Reformation,
sacred music was cultivated with renewed fervor.

Martin Luther, the head and front of the great movement, took a profound
interest in music, which he exemplified by his noble “Ein’ feste Burg,”
and other melodies and hymns. Associated with him were the musicians
Johann Walther and Louis Senfl. Their labors did not extend beyond the
middle of the sixteenth century, and may be said to mark the first
period of Protestant Church music. Walther was court musician at Torgau
when called by Luther to Wittenberg to collaborate with the singer,
Conrad Rupff, concerning the arrangement of the German mass. Walther’s
choral book was the first one published. It appeared at Wittenberg in
1524, under the supervision of Luther, who wrote a preface to the work.

[Illustration:

  LUDWIG SENFL.
]

The most able musical character of the period was Ludwig Senfl. He was
born and educated in Switzerland, and was a pupil of Heinrich Isaak. He
became a member of the choir of Emperor Maximilian, and in 1530 was
chosen director of church music at the Bavarian court in Munich, a
position afterward held by Orlando Lasso.

Senfl was not only a composer of motets and other church music, but
also, according to the custom of his day, set to music many ancient
odes, particularly those of Horace. A collection of these odes was
published in 1534 at Nuremberg. Senfl did not compose original chorals,
but in his contrapuntal treatment of them displayed a higher degree of
skill and taste than his contemporaries, and he was clearly the
forerunner of masters like Eccard and Michael Prætorius. A pure,
religious spirit animates his works, and the chaste style of his themes
and counterpoint renders his music interesting. Among other masters of
this period who were influenced by the Flemish school may be mentioned
Heinrich Finck, Rahw, Resinarius, Agricola, Duces, Dietrich and Stolzer.
Finck is especially noted for his motet-like arrangements of chorals;
and Rahw published in 1544 a collection of chorals to which the
above-named composers and others contributed.

As has been said, this activity in Protestant music was not without
parallel in Catholic music. Indeed, the works of these same composers
were sung in the Catholic cathedrals of their native land. Heinrich
Isaak, who has already been mentioned, was the only noteworthy composer
of this time who devoted himself exclusively to Catholic Church music.
His work, in common with that of a multitude of lesser masters, was
surpassed infinitely by the achievements of Orlando Lasso. This great
musician, although a Belgian by birth, spent much of his life in
Germany, and from his prominent position at Munich wielded a powerful
influence on the musical life of his age.

The second period in the development of Protestant Church music may be
said to have begun about the middle of the sixteenth century, when it
became the fixed custom to place the melody in the highest part of the
harmony. When given to the tenor, the melody could never assert its
rights, for it was often lost in the polyphonic complexity of the other
voices. Its transference to the soprano—a reform suggested by the _stile
familiare_ of Josquin de Près and by the Italian _frottole_ and
_villanelle_—had been determined by the Calvinist psalm collections of
1542 and later. This new style of composition was assiduously cultivated
during the latter half of the century, and its ablest representatives
were Hassler, Eccard and Michael Prætorius.

Hans Leo Hassler was born at Nuremberg in 1564, and died in 1612. He was
educated in music by Andreas Gabrieli at Venice. He was one of the first
organists of his time, and a clever contrapuntist and composer. Although
a disciple of the Venetian school, his compositions have a genuine
German simplicity and strength; but the most justly celebrated German
composer of the century was Johannes Eccard, who was born at Mülhausen
in 1553. It was conjectured that he was a pupil of Lasso. Eccard’s music
is simple compared with that of his contemporaries of the Venetian and
Roman schools. He was content to use his gifts in a less pretentious
way, but nevertheless his Festival Songs deserve a place among the best
church music. They are a perfect embodiment of religious devotion, and
show a complete mastery of the peculiar form which he adopted in his
music. In his works the melody appears in the soprano, but is not
sufficiently individualized to be separated from the harmony. The parts
are generally five in number, they move freely, and are well adapted to
the voices of the singers. Eccard was likewise the composer of sacred
songs, which are noble in comparison with similar music of his day; but
his attention was devoted chiefly to church music. Two of his pupils
became celebrated musicians, Johann Stobäus and Heinrich Albert. The
latter had an important influence on the early development of the German
Lied.

[Illustration:

  HANS LEO HASSLER.
]

[Illustration:

  TITLE-PAGE OF “SYNTAGMA MUSICUM.”

  (See page 573.)
]

One of the most prominent masters of the early part of the seventeenth
century was Michael Prætorius (1571–1621). He witnessed the great change
which was then taking place in music, but contributed nothing to it
himself. He endeavored, however, to educate his countrymen to appreciate
the new style of secular music which, in Italy, was then making rapid
headway in the operas of Peri, Caccini and others. For a number of years
he was organist and director of music at Brunswick, where he died. In
his great admiration and study of the new Italian masters, he did not,
like his eminent successor, Heinrich Schütz, lose his nationality. The
number of works he composed, collected, and elaborated is two thousand.

His most important contribution to music, however, is his “Syntagma
Musicum,” a theoretical work of great value to students of musical
history. Concerning instruments and the theory of music, it is a rich
source of knowledge.

During the seventeenth century the opera was invented and ardently
cultivated in Italy. With the adoption of the new lyric style of
recitative and aria, much greater scope was possible for artistic
instrumental music than ever before. The violas and other bowed
instruments were brought into prominence, and in the course of the
seventeenth century formed the basis of the orchestra. Yet, during the
latter half of the sixteenth century considerable use was made of
instrumental accompaniment in church music. In the choir, directed by
Orlando Lasso, in Munich, from 1569 till 1595 there were twelve bass
singers, fifteen tenors, thirteen altos, twenty sopranos, and thirty
instrumentalists. The Dresden band had ninety-three wind and percussion
instruments, and only thirteen stringed instruments. The curious
character of some of these combinations is indicated in the clearest
possible way on the title-page of Prætorius’ “Syntagma Musicum.” Here we
see three separate choruses, each accompanied by a separate organ. In
the first of these (at the left of the illustration) the voices are
supported by stringed instruments, in the second (at the right), by reed
instruments, and in the third, by trombones and bassoon.

Hand in hand with the development of orchestral accompaniment, the
seventeenth century witnessed a wonderful development of organ and
clavier playing. In this also Italy took the lead. The first great
artists in organ playing were Italians; the most prominent of whom were
Claudio Merulo and Giovanni Gabrieli, appointed organists at St. Mark’s
in Venice in 1551 and 1557. A noted disciple of this Venetian organ
school was the Netherlander, Jan Pieters Sweelinck, who studied under
Zarlino and Cyprian de Rore. Later he was the teacher of various German
organists, among whom was Samuel Scheidt (1587–1654). The “father of
true organ playing,” Girolamo Frescobaldi (1587–1640), organist of St.
Peter’s in Rome, wielded even greater influence on Germany through his
famous pupils, Caspar Kerl and Jacob Froberger. Various forms of
composition, whose names suggest their Italian origin, became common in
Germany at this time; such as the capriccio, the canzona, the toccata
and the ricercata. In all these forms fugal imitation is predominant,
and the modern fugue begins to take determined shape. Pachelbel
(1653–1706), a pupil of Kerl, was the first to combine the various
advantages of both the German and Italian schools, and his works also
mark the establishment of the modern tonal system. He made important
advances in fugal art. We of to-day recognize the wonderful artistic
consistency of Bach’s master-works in the fugue form. We note that they
are composed of various sections which include separate developments of
a principal theme, and that these sections are connected by episodical
passages of a character similar to that of the rest of the composition.
But we are apt to lose sight of the fact that this perfection of form
was of very gradual growth. Pachelbel was the first to feel the
necessity of attaining such artistic unity by careful attention to these
details of construction. His successful endeavors to individualize and
to group his ideas give a hitherto unknown clearness of form to his
organ fantasias and toccatas. In his fantasias especially he employs
rich figurations, but always with the evident purpose of making such
ornamentation naturally grow out of the thematic material of the work,
and all is carefully designed with reference to the nature of the
instrument. His contemporary, Johann Adam Reinken, who died in 1732, at
the age of ninety-nine, was, as composer and player, a veritable
virtuoso. Sebastian Bach made two journeys to Hamburg for the purpose of
hearing this master play. But, among all the predecessors of Bach in
this branch, the most prominent was Dietrich Buxtehude, organist at
Lübeck from 1669 to 1707. In all respects he elevated the art of organ
composition and organ playing. The structure of his themes shows the
greatest appreciation of the peculiar character of the instrument. Two
years before Buxtehude’s death Bach became his pupil, and the influence
of Buxtehude[23] is seen in the earlier organ compositions of Bach.

Clavier, or clavichord, composition was of later growth. At first,
indeed, the same principles were applied to both instruments. The
earlier English and Italian clavier masters used the various forms of
organ composition with little regard for the different construction of
the instruments. But as time went on the less ponderous of the two
instruments became the exponent of the gayer moods, as represented by
various forms of the dance. Under French masters, especially, the
clavier began to have a style of its own. The clavier suite, or
_partita_, was the favorite form, and consisted of a succession of dance
movements. The name sonata, now of such definite meaning in connection
with chamber music, was at first represented by short Venetian organ
pieces. Subsequently, in the seventeenth century, the sonata was a
composition for one or more violins with clavier. This originated in
Italy under Corelli and others, and was imitated in England by Purcell,
and in Germany by Biber and others. The first application of the name
sonata to a solo for clavier was made by Johann Kuhnau, Bach’s
predecessor as cantor of the St. Thomas School at Leipzig. His “Fresh
Clavier Fruits; or, Seven Sonatas of good Invention and adapted to the
Clavier,” shows by its title that this branch of composition was
receiving some attention at a time which has been wholly eclipsed by the
splendor of the succeeding period.

From this rapid sketch of the progress of organ and clavier music during
this period, which produced but few works that have survived, we see how
steady was the development of the art which became grand and ultimate in
the works of Sebastian Bach, and how intimate was this master’s
connection with the musical activity of his time. A similar review of
the course of the opera and the oratorio will enable us to trace the
growth of certain other art forms which took definite shape before the
dawn of Germany’s musical greatness.

We have already spoken of the important influence exerted by the
folk-song on the German church music of the sixteenth century. Hassler
was the first to attain a blending of the folk-song style with that of
older counterpoint. He was aided in his striving by a study of the
Italian madrigals and villanelle. His dance-songs are especially rich in
melodic feeling, and show that in the art of melodic phrasing he
followed closely in the footsteps of the Italians. With the development
of the instrumental accompaniment early in the seventeenth century there
came certain changes of style. The ever-increasing tendency of the time
to allow the melody to stand forth more prominently began to modify the
nature of the harmonic setting. The songs of Jeep (1582–1650), and of
his rival, Valentin Hausmann, show degeneracy, while the songs of Adam
Krieger (1634–66) and Johann Krieger (1652–1736) are noble examples of
the new style. The melodies of Johann Krieger are particularly charming,
and show strong rhythmical character and real artistic power. He employs
simple harmonies, yet shows more freedom and naturalness in modulation
than any of his predecessors.

We perceive in the music of these German masters the universal sway
which Italian opera already began to exercise. The opera—as the special
article on Italian music fully describes—had its beginning in Italy just
at the dawn of the seventeenth century. “Mysteries” and “liturgical
dramas”—both of them crude stage representations of episodes in biblical
history—had been common in Germany long before this time; and the church
musicians—Isaak, Senfl, Walther, Lasso and others—had worked to some
extent in this field. But it was not until the great Monteverde
(1568–1643) had embodied in his operatic works the results obtained by
the Bardi society of connoisseurs, and not until Carissimi had done
similar service for the oratorio, that the new principles began to take
root and develop in Germany. Johann Kapsberger, a composer, who resided
at Rome from 1610 to 1630, was the first German to adopt, to a
considerable extent, the new ideas concerning vocal composition. But
there soon arose in Germany a number of composers who cultivated the new
style, especially the oratorio, without losing their German
characteristics. Johann Gottlieb Staden (1581–1636), for instance, was a
Nuremberg composer of operettas. He had for his motto in art, “Italians
know not all, for Germans, too, have thoughts.” The works of Staden show
that the Germans from the outset had a tendency to characterize the
personages of the drama by the accompanying music. Unfortunately the
music of the first serious opera, “Dafne,” by Heinrich Schütz, the words
of which were translated from the text of Rinuccini, has been lost.
Although a considerable amount of creative energy was bestowed on
“Singspiele” and operas, especially by amateurs, it was not until
theatres were established in Germany that the opera enjoyed a
cultivation equal to that of the oratorio and church music.

The experiment of a permanent theatre was first made at Hamburg in 1678.
The determined zeal of Gerhard Schott, an influential jurist of that
city, made the attempt successful, and as long as he lived the opera did
not lack encouragement. This period embraces over sixty years. The first
performance at this theatre was a musical play by Johann Theile
(1646–1724), who had been under the instruction of Schütz in Weissenfels
and a former choir-master in Gottorp. This sacred, allegorical work was
succeeded by a number of similar pieces by the same composer. Other
successful masters of the same period were Franck, Strungk, the
celebrated violinist; also Förtsche, Conradi and Kusser. The
last-mentioned composer was appointed conductor in 1693, and was a
worthy forerunner of Keiser.

[Illustration:

  HEINRICH SCHÜTZ
]

Reinhard Keiser was twenty-one years old when, in 1694, he was appointed
director of the Hamburg opera. He was a man of undoubted genius. His
productivity as a composer was immense. His works number about one
hundred and twenty operas, many of which contain, in addition to
choruses, recitatives, etc., no less than forty airs. In all his serious
operas there was no spoken dialogue. His works were very popular
throughout Germany. His activity was not confined to the stage, for he
composed church music, passion music and cantatas. He had a rare and
seemingly inexhaustible gift of melody, and his recitatives are
masterly, but his music lacks the breadth and massive strength of his
successor, Handel. “All that Keiser wrote,” says Mattheson, “was
uncommonly easy to sing, and was so easily caught by the ear that one
enjoys it without feeling any respect or intense admiration for it.”
Keiser lacked earnestness, and did not exert an enduring influence for
good on the Hamburg opera. He was willing to lend his art to the most
trivial and nonsensical farce, in order to afford amusement to the rough
and common people. Mattheson compares him with his more earnest
contemporary, Rosenmüller, whose sonatas were “like the fresh blue
salmon of the Elbe,” while Keiser’s light music was “like the smoked
golden herrings of the North Sea, which tickle the palate, but awake a
thirst for drink.” In place of the sacred spectacles and plays which at
the outset had formed the subject of the drama on the Hamburg stage, in
the course of time the gods and heroes of mythology, and vulgar farces,
began to divide the attention of the public. The stage spectacle grew
more and more sensational. Fireworks, devils, serpents, dragons, battle
scenes and all kinds of noises and sights were introduced. Not content
with mere humanity on the stage, various animals became personages in
the drama, and mingled their outcries with the music of the orchestra.
Then again, in some operas, no less than four different languages were
spoken and sung indiscriminately; yet in spite of all these absurdities,
the Hamburg opera remained worthy of the services of a Handel or a
Mattheson.

[Illustration:

  FIRST SCENE IN KEISER’S OPERA OF “HANNIBAL.”
]

John Mattheson was a Hamburger by birth, and began his musical career as
a singer at the opera. He made his last appearance in that capacity in
Handel’s “Nero” in 1705. Mattheson was a man of remarkable versatility
of talent. He was a very prolific composer, but did not possess great
originality nor depth of conception. He was a good actor, singer, and a
finished performer on the harpsichord. As a literary musician he still
holds an eminent place. He used his facile pen in the composition of an
opera, or passion, or in the preparation of a musical essay; also in the
translation of some such pamphlet as that on “The Properties and Virtues
of Noble Tobacco.” His music, which once found so many enthusiastic
admirers, is no longer performed, but his writings are still of value to
students of musical literature. His most famous books are “The Complete
Art of Conducting,” “The Newly Opened Orchestra,” and the “Triumphal
Arch.” The last is especially valuable as a source of information
concerning the lives of musical artists. These works have a place in
every complete musical library.

A more gifted musician was Georg Philipp Telemann, who was born four
years earlier than Handel and Bach. Telemann was the last famous
composer for the Hamburg theatre. His works are more distinctly German
than the majority of those of the period, which was thoroughly under the
influence of Italy in all matters pertaining to opera Telemann’s name
marks the decline of the Hamburg stage. The time was not yet ripe for a
distinctively national style of opera. It was destined for Gluck and
Mozart, half a century later, to reform and develop German opera.

It has already been said that the oratorio enjoyed at first a steadier
and more constant development in Germany than the opera. Heinrich
Schütz, whom we have mentioned as the author of the first opera given in
Germany, was also the first prominent oratorio composer. He was born in
1585. By frequent visits to Venice, where he studied with Gabrieli, he
kept himself in touch with the musical life of Italy. Although Dresden
was the scene of his principal labors, the last twenty-five years of his
life were spent in Weissenfels, where he died in 1672. His larger works
are “The Passion” according to the four Evangelists, the “Story of the
Resurrection,” and the “Seven Last Words.” In the second of these works,
produced in Dresden in 1623, the form of the modern oratorio is clearly
defined. The customary “Introitus” is for six-part chorus, and the words
of the Evangelist are intoned. The more significant passages of the text
are selected for characteristic music. The _dramatis personæ_—the
Saviour, the Angel, Mary Magdelene, and some of the disciples—are given
prominence and individuality in various _cantilene_ movements, sometimes
for one or two voices. This distinguishes the new form of oratorio from
the older, in which everything was performed by choral masses. In
Schütz’s sacred symphonies and concertos he attained far greater finish
and variety in the solo numbers, and greater mastery in general. By his
attempts to tell the story in dramatic form, without the aid of scenery
or action, Schütz became the real founder of the modern German oratorio.
We cannot suppose, however, that Handel was acquainted with the music of
Schütz, for before the end of the seventeenth century his works were
generally forgotten; but his greater freedom of treatment, and dramatic
interest, established ideals in Germany which prevented the oratorio
from yielding in that country to the degenerating theatrical influence
which had such baneful effect on all forms of sacred music in Italy at
this period.

Contemporary with Schütz was J. H. Schein, who was noted for his sacred
concertos. Johannes Rosenmüller, who died in 1680, effected a more
regular construction of the concerto. His works in this form consist of
a series of separate movements, which show unity of character by the
repeated presence of some principal thought. Thus the form of the
cantata was established, in which Bach afterwards displayed such
wonderful activity. The immediate predecessors of Bach were Johann
Rudolph Ahle (1625–73), and his son Georg Ahle (1650–1706). In the
oratorios of the latter the form of the aria is clearly defined.

The account that has been given of the development of Protestant Church
music, and organ and clavier music, previous to Handel and Bach, may
serve to show the foundations on which their monumental works were
built. It was Handel’s mission to reconcile the church and secular
styles in his great oratorios. His long career as a dramatic composer
served as an admirable school for his talents; and when in middle life
he abandoned the field of Italian opera for the oratorio, he was so well
equipped that his triumphs were but as the natural result of his former
discipline. His forty operas shared the fate of all operas of that time;
not one holds a place on the modern stage. The operas of Handel are not
musical dramas in the sense of the present day. They consist chiefly of
a string of airs, with little or no dramatic action. His stage heroes
are generally trivial and insipid. It was destined for Gluck and Mozart
to reform the traditional Italian opera. Handel was content to avail
himself of the conditions of the opera as they then existed. His opera
airs are the best of his time; they are lyric, but not dramatic.

The dramatic talent of Handel did not find expression in his operas but
in his oratorios. The great heroes of Jewish history, like Samson, Saul
and Judas Maccabæus, are represented in a combined narrative and
dramatic form. Many of his oratorio solos are more dramatic than his
opera airs.

In the oratorio of “Samson,” for instance, the characters of Samson,
Delila, Minoah and Micah naturally suggest the dramatic scene. But it is
especially in the conflicting ideas and emotions of the people—the
chorus of Israelites, in opposition to the chorus of Philistines, the
heathen priests of Dagon, and the chorus of Virgins of Delila—that the
dramatic conflict is sharply defined with sublime choral effects. His
choruses are elemental in their irresistible and overwhelming power when
sung by large masses of voices. In this respect his choruses are unique
and have never been equalled. While Handel’s oratorios in general hold
the middle ground between the secular and church style of his time,
Bach’s great choral works belong more distinctly to the older church
style of Schütz and others.

As Palestrina marks the culmination of the unaccompanied (_a capella_)
church music of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, so Bach is the
highest representative of Protestant Church music. Yet he is more than
this, for in his sacred cantatas and passions he reveals a nature more
profoundly religious than even Handel or Palestrina. His Passion music
to St. Matthew has no rival in its special form. It is the sublimest
conception in music of the trials and death of Jesus. Among similar
works before and during Bach’s time, his passions are the only ones that
have lived. The oratorio has replaced the passion; but the older form as
perfected by Bach possesses a certain reality and intensity of religious
fervor that not even the grandest oratorios of Handel can match, except
possibly the “Messiah.” Notwithstanding the sublimity, variety and vocal
effectiveness of the latter work, the St. Matthew Passion surpasses it
in lyric pathos and dramatic fire. Handel’s long experience with the
public, his Italian vocal training, the example of Purcell and other
masters of the English anthem, were important factors in his artistic
development, and enabled him to carry the art of solo and chorus
composition to the highest perfection. On the other hand, Bach’s
difficult choral style suggests the organ, and his airs, though full of
religious pathos, are often stiff and archaic in style.

Great as Bach is in his vocal works, he is still greater in his
instrumental music. Through him, for the first time in history,
instrumental music reaches a point of influence where it predominates.
He is justly considered as the true progenitor of modern instrumental
music, and largely to his influence we owe the subsequent wonderful
development of this youngest branch of art. Handel, on the other hand,
had little influence on instrumental music. His counterpoint is more
vocal than instrumental; he makes a more limited use of dissonances and
modulation. Bach stood far in advance of his time in these respects, and
anticipated many of the effects of the present day. His remarkable use
of chromatic and enharmonic modulation is exhibited in all his principal
works, especially in such movements as the great organ Fantasia in G
minor. (Volume II., Peters’ Edition.)

As a master of the fugue, nay, of all polyphonic writing, Bach stands
pre-eminent, a model for all time. We are overcome by the inexhaustible
wealth of his ideas, that seem as boundless as the forces of nature, and
we constantly feel the emotional depth and romantic sentiment of this
wonderful artist.

He not only perfected the stricter forms of counterpoint, but the older,
lighter forms found their ideal in his charming clavier suites, violin
sonatas, etc. His “Well-Tempered Clavichord” is a unique work, one of
the corner-stones of modern music.

Above all, his organ works are the very central point and acme of his
achievement. The great Prelude and Fugue in A minor, the Fantasia and
Fugue in G minor, the Toccata in F, the Passacaglia, and other organ
compositions are to be classed with Beethoven’s symphonies as among the
greatest works of art.

Notwithstanding the attempt to establish German opera at Hamburg,
Italian opera held full sway in Germany until the influence of Gluck and
Mozart was felt.

At the time when the great achievements of Sebastian Bach were almost
entirely unrecognized and unappreciated by his countrymen, his
contemporaries, Hasse and Graun, were lauded to the skies, and the
operas of the Neapolitan school, with their singer-triumphs, held all
Europe in subjection.

The Italians Steffani, Cimarosa, and Jomelli lived in Germany, and their
works were often given in the principal opera houses. It was then only
natural that Germans should seek public favor by adopting the prevailing
musical style. Chief among the writers in the Italian style were Johann
Adolf Hasse (1699–1783), Karl Heinrich Graun, and Johann Gottlieb
Naumann. The number of Hasse’s compositions is extremely great. They
include operas, oratorios, masses, cantatas, and instrumental movements
of every kind. The florid style of Italian vocal composition
predominated in his music. The harmonic structure is of the simplest
nature, and his instrumentation is without individuality. He had better
taste than most Italians of his time, and showed greater dramatic
instinct. On the whole it may be said that he represents the highest
attainment of the Italian opera of the school of Scarlatti. The music of
Graun, who was born in 1701, is not so purely Italian in style, and
certain of his sacred works, notably his passion music, entitled “Tod
Jesu” (Death of Jesus), are known at the present time. His recitatives,
like those of Hasse, are dry and insignificant. On the contrary, his
arias are more pleasing, and show the influence of Keiser. The songs of
Graun deserve mention. The compositions of Naumann (1741–1801) display
perfect facility in the Italian style; his career, however, was
interrupted by the appearance of Gluck and Mozart in the operatic field.

Gluck had a long experience as a dramatic composer before he entered on
the path which has rendered his name illustrious in the annals of music.
He was already advanced in years when he turned his back on the Italian
opera, and disclosed his plan of reform. His principles applied only in
their full force to the degenerate _opera seria_ of that period. These
ideas were by no means original with him; they had previously been
accepted, and realized by other musicians. They were, however, first
brought into the foreground by the production of his “Alcestis,”
“Orpheus,” “Iphigenia,” and other mature works, and divided the musical
world of that time into opposite parties.

[Illustration:

  R. Bong. X.A.

  KARL HEINRICH GRAUN.
]

It is remarkable that Gluck, who fought against the musical
inconsistencies and defects of his time, should not have felt the
necessity of reforming the dramatic construction of the opera, for he
showed a much keener insight and appreciation of dramatic effect than
the poets whose librettos he composed. He knew how to give
characteristic expression to the personalities of the play. His
characters may be read like an open book. In simplicity and dignity of
style he approached the Greek ideal.

While Gluck increased the significance of accompanied recitative and
insisted on truer methods of declamation, he would not allow the air the
same prominence that the Italians did. His airs are divested of all
richness of ornament and colorature. Many of them are noble in their
simplicity, but in general they lack sensuous charm and beauty. The
chorus was a very important feature of his operas, and fulfilled
something like its original object in ancient tragedy. In his dramatic
use of the orchestra, Gluck stood in advance of his time. He added new
instruments, and produced original and impressive effects which render
his orchestration interesting to musicians of the present day.

Notwithstanding the nobility and grandeur of his conceptions, he neither
fulfilled the ideal of the musical drama from the point of view of
Wagner, nor of the opera as perfected by Mozart. The latter embodied
Gluck’s ideas in works which surpass his in every respect except
dramatic simplicity.

The field of music in which Mozart stands pre-eminent is the opera. He
was endowed by nature and favored by opportunity to bring this form to
ideal perfection, at least as regards the musical element of the opera
of his time. He learned first of the Italians and then of Gluck, and
surpassed the highest accomplishments of both. “Don Giovanni” and
“Figaro” are the greatest of Italian operas. No one has ever united more
perfectly than Mozart precision and energy of dramatic expression with
the richest and purest melody. His dramatic characters are thoroughly
individualized by the music. Each one appears on the stage to remain
true and consistent to his or her individuality in every phase of
passion and conflict of action. This power of contrasting characters is
especially vivid in his concerted music, in the inimitable quartets and
sextets of his latest operas. For this purpose, Mozart exercised his
perfect command of vocal composition and polyphony.

Before his time the orchestra, as a means of dramatic expression and
coloring, was not appreciated, although Gluck pointed out the way. Under
Mozart it became more symphonic and massive in character. The solo
instruments became refined organs of feeling, giving color and sensuous
beauty to the vocal parts. The orchestration intensified the dramatic
fire of the scene from beginning to end. In his operas every feeling of
the heart finds utterance. A divine harmony and classic purity of form
distinguish his dramatic music, as, indeed, all his music, from the
little minuets which he composed as a child to his last operas and
symphonies. During the time of Gluck and Mozart the German operetta came
into existence. Mozart’s “Entführung” (Belmont and Constanza) is the
noblest example of this style. This new form of musical drama was
suggested by the French comic opera. It adopted the spoken dialogue for
the less dramatic moments of the play. It resembled, however, the French
operetta only externally, and soon developed a genuine German character.
This new species of musical play sought to do that which the brilliant
and conventional Italian opera could not accomplish, namely, interest
the great masses of the people. This was at first possible only through
inartistic exaggeration of the realities of life, and by the
introduction of humorous elements of a distinctly coarse kind. But the
general demand for musical plays of this class gradually attracted to
their composition writers of real musical and dramatic ability.

Johann Adam Hiller (1728–1804) was the first German who became prominent
as a composer of operettas. “Lottchen at Court,” “Rustic Affection,” and
“The Hunt” are his principal operettas. The last named was given not
less than forty times during a short theatre season in Berlin in 1771.
Even before this time the operetta had become so generally popular that
a writer had had occasion to remark that tragedies and legitimate
comedies were being driven to the wall. Yet there was one serious
obstacle to the operetta’s rapid artistic development. The good singers
were monopolized by theatres giving Italian opera, and operetta managers
had to take what was left.

Vienna soon began to acquire the prominence in operetta performances for
which it is distinguished at the present day. In 1778, the erection by
Joseph II. of the “Deutsches Nationalsingspiel” was a sign of the
growing popularity of this new form of entertainment, and gave a
powerful incentive to the composers of such works. Operettas of Gluck,
Mozart, Salieri, Umlauf, Schenck and others attained great popularity
here. In 1786, Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf scored a signal success with
his “Doctor and Apothecary.” This versatile musician soon became a
favorite of the entire nation. Born at Vienna in 1739, he first became
prominent as a violinist. Later his symphonies, concertos, quartets,
oratorios, etc., became well known. In all these forms, however, he was
surpassed by others. He possessed, it is true, much cleverness, but his
counterpoint was not faultless, and he wrote too much and too
superficially. In comedy and farce he took the lead. His melodies are
lively and flowing, characteristic and very catching. He learned much
from Haydn, but something also from French composers. His “Doctor and
Apothecary,” “Jeremiah Knicker,” and “Red Riding Hood” gained for him
great popularity. In all, he wrote twenty-eight such works. His
autobiography, published in 1801, two years after his death, is also a
work of remarkable freshness and interest.

In Gotha, the conductor, George Benda (1721–99), produced operas which
became popular in Germany. His melodramas, in which the text was spoken
to the accompaniment of fitting music, were novelties, and became even
more favorably known. Munich was identified with more serious
undertakings in dramatic music through Peter von Winter (1754–1825),
Court Kapellmeister. This once highly esteemed master composed numerous
operas, the most popular of which were “The Labyrinth,” “Marie of
Mantalban,” and “Unterbrochene Opferfest.” The last is still
occasionally performed. Likewise Mannheim—which from Mozart’s time until
to-day has been devoted to the highest interests of music—became the
scene of serious operatic endeavors. Ignaz Holzbauer (1711–83) wrote
several operas during his conductorship of the theatre in that city.

The most prominent of the composers who succeeded Dittersdorf was Johann
Friedrich Reichardt, whose interesting literary work, “Letters of an
Observant Traveller,” is full of useful information. Born in 1752, he
became orchestral conductor to Frederick the Great in 1775, and was
salt-inspector in a town near Halle, at the time of his death in 1814.
He was liberally educated, travelled much, and was acquainted with many
of the prominent persons of his time. Few of his works have lived, and
those which have survived are chiefly songs. He produced, however, an
enormous amount of music. His imagination was not equal to his
understanding or his artistic intentions, and, indeed, he was to a great
extent a mere copyist. A single new form is due to him, the
“Liederspiel,” the musical part of which, as the name suggests, consists
only of songs.

The development of the opera in Germany, during the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, has now been traced, and next we will turn our
attention to the progress of instrumental music after Sebastian Bach.

No more remarkable instance of lack of appreciation of a great man’s
genius has ever been known than that furnished by the history of Bach’s
works. The reasons for this are perhaps twofold. Like Shakespeare, Bach
must have been ignorant of the supreme excellence of his artistic
creations. Hence, like many other great men, he occupied himself little
with the dissemination of his works, except those used in teaching. Not
only the musical world, but even Bach’s immediate family and pupils were
unable to appreciate his significance and to use his compositions in a
way most advantageous to the development of music. It would indeed be
interesting to know what difference it might have made in the
development of music in Germany if Haydn, and especially Mozart, had
enjoyed opportunities of intimate acquaintance with Bach’s works.[24]

[Illustration:

  JOHANN FRIEDRICH REICHARDT.
]

Only a few of his organ compositions, the “Well-Tempered Clavichord” and
some of his other clavier music, seem to have been generally known in
Haydn’s and Mozart’s time. It was only indirectly through his sons and
other pupils that his powerful influence on instrumental music was then
felt.

Among Bach’s numerous pupils the most noted, besides his own sons, were
Krebs, Altnickol, Agricola, Vogler, and the theorists, Marpurg and
Kirnberger. His most distinguished sons were, Wilhelm Friedemann, Carl
Philipp Emanuel, Johann Christoph Friedrich, known as the Bückeburg
Bach, and Johann Christian, called the Milanese Bach. Wilhelm Friedemann
Bach (1710–84) was the eldest son of Sebastian Bach. He was a genius,
and his father bestowed great care on his musical training, and had
great hopes of his future. He studied at the St. Thomas School and
university of Leipsic, where he distinguished himself in mathematics.
For a number of years he held a position as organist at Dresden. In 1747
he became director and organist at Halle. In later years he led a wild
and wandering life, and finally died in utter want and misery in Berlin.
He was perhaps the greatest organist of his time, and was famous for his
wonderful improvisations. He wrote a large number of compositions, many
of which are preserved in the Berlin Royal Library, but few of which are
published.

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach was born at Weimar in 1714. In his youth he
studied law thoroughly, and busied himself with music rather as an
amateur than as one who intended to make it a profession. His attention
was devoted chiefly to piano playing and the art of improvisation,
which, thanks to his father’s rare teaching, he carried to the highest
degree of perfection. He was destined, after all, to make music his
life-work. He had hardly completed his university studies when he
received an invitation from the crown prince of Prussia, afterward
Frederick the Great, to accept a musical position at court. He accepted,
and remained in his service for a number of years. In 1767 he became
successor of Telemann as conductor of the opera at Hamburg, where he
remained until his death. By his daily practice in improvisation,
Emanuel Bach acquired a freedom and elegance of style equalled by no
other German master except his father. His position and intercourse with
the best society were not without good influence on his music. He
possessed hardly a tithe of his father’s genius; but, as he lived more
in the world, he became a man of fashion and popularity. In his day his
name was far better known than that of his father, and musicians looked
upon Emanuel Bach as the great authority. Even Mozart said of him: “He
is the father; we are mere children. Those of us who can do anything
right in music have learned it of him. Although we could not be
satisfied nowadays to do what he did, nevertheless, no one was able to
equal him in what he did.” He was an inferior vocal composer. It was
chiefly as a clavichord player and composer that he took first rank. His
refined style and uncommon finish of execution excited universal wonder.
Emanuel Bach’s vocal works embrace two oratorios; twenty-two passions;
sacred cantatas; Singspiele; sanctus for two choirs; sacred and secular
songs, etc. His works for clavier are very numerous, consisting of
sonatas, concertos and solos. Eighteen of his orchestral compositions
are published by Breitkopf and Härtel.

Emanuel Bach’s talent as a teacher was evinced in his celebrated
treatise, “On the True Art of Playing the Clavichord,” which contains
the principles of all good piano playing. But his greatest services to
modern music were rendered in his sonatas and symphonies, in which he
not only enlarged the form, but also increased the means of expression
and of instrumental effects. Emanuel Bach exercised a great influence on
the clavier sonata, and first brought it into prominence. The so-called
sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti were single, brilliant movements which
resembled the prelude. Sebastian Bach’s sonatas for the organ, clavier
and violin, etc., in three or four movements, were more or less fugal
and strict. Emanuel Bach combined the solidity of the style of his
father with the brilliancy and lightness of Scarlatti. Although it
remained for Haydn to develop fully the principle of free thematic
music, the germ of the modern style existed in the sonatas of Emanuel
Bach. The habit of improvisation gave full scope to the play of his
imagination, and consequently his works are characterized by a certain
ease and brilliancy which distinguish him from his predecessors. He made
more use than formerly of contrasted themes in the several movements of
the sonata, and they were brought into relation to each other by means
of free passages. His “Salon” style is distinguished for its elegance
and grace, ornateness and playfulness, and well represents the polite
world in which he lived.

Having traced the early development of organ and clavier music, we will
turn our attention, for a moment, to the growth of orchestral music to
the advent of Haydn, and the so-called classical period of modern
instrumental music. During the first half of the seventeenth century the
instruments used in connection with the opera served a subordinate
position. The accompaniments of the recitatives and arias consisted of a
ground bass (_basso continuo_) for chittarone, organ, clavier, etc.,
which supplied the chords indicated by figures. In the opera-madrigals
the orchestral accompaniment was simply a reproduction of the vocal
parts, on wind and stringed instruments. In the course of time
instrumental ritornelli were introduced to relieve the solo voices, and
melodic phrases were given to the instruments. The first operas
generally opened with a flourish of trumpets or with a madrigal played
by the instruments alone; sometimes dances played by the instruments
were introduced in course of the opera.

The opera overture was invented subsequently, probably by Lully. It
consisted, at first, of three short movements, slow, quick, slow.
Scarlatti and his contemporaries adopted the overture, and changed the
order of the movements to _allegro_, _adagio_, _allegro_.

With the perfection of the violin and the other stringed instruments,
about the beginning of the eighteenth century, solo playing became more
and more artistic. With Corelli, sonatas and suites for one or more
violins and clavier became the fashion. At this time the orchestra was
well organized, so far as the true relation of the string band to the
wind instruments is concerned.

The cultivation of chamber music was encouraged by titled and
fashionable people, and virtuosos on various orchestral instruments
appeared. Thus instrumental music began to be cultivated independent of
the opera and church music.

[Illustration: CHARLES PHILIPPE EMMANUEL BACH]

The three-movement form suggested by the overture was the type of this
independent orchestral music, under the names of symphony, concerto, or
suite. Such were the orchestral symphonies of Sammartini, the famous
Milanese conductor of the first half of the eighteenth century. His is
the first prominent name in this field. He was soon followed by German
composers, among whom were Stamitz, J. C. Bach, Abel, Wagenseil,
Cannabich and Emanuel Bach.

Among noted German instrumental soloists of this period were Johann
Georg Pisendel (1687–1755), who was celebrated as a violinist, and
composed concertos for solo violin and string quartet, which were
considered as among the best of that time.

Franz Benda (1709–86), Georg Benda and Ignaz Holzbauer (1711–83) were
likewise able masters of the violin, and had large experience as
orchestral musicians.

Under Stamitz and Cannabich the Mannheim orchestra became a famous
organization.

Johann Karl Stamitz, who was born in 1719, became in 1745 director of
music for the Elector of Mannheim. His works have no interest for the
hearers of to-day, but in the characteristic elements of the modern
form, they represent a distinct advance over those of his predecessors.
In general, they are imitations of the symphonies of Sammartini. The
pupil and successor of Stamitz, Christian Cannabich, was born in 1731.
Considering the superlative praise which Mozart bestowed upon this
conductor, we cannot doubt that the playing of the Mannheim band was of
great service to Mozart in his orchestral works, by increasing his
knowledge of instrumental expression.

In 1756, the year of Mozart’s birth, this orchestra had two concert
masters, ten first and ten second violins, four violas, four
violoncellos, two contra-basses, two flutes, two oboes, two bassoons,
four horns, twelve trumpets, two kettle drums, two organists, besides
twenty-four singers. About 1767 clarinets were added, and years later
Mozart learned how to use the clarinets from hearing them in the
Mannheim orchestra.

Burney says of the Mannheim orchestra, “This is the birthplace of the
crescendo and diminuendo”; and the philosopher, Schubart, is recorded as
saying of the orchestra under Cannabich, “Here the forte is a thunder,
the crescendo a cataract, the diminuendo a crystal stream babbling away
into the far distance, the piano a breeze of spring.” As for the
symphonies of Cannabich, they do not seem to represent any advance
toward the establishment of modern form.

From the preceding account it will be seen that the external form of the
symphony was already partly determined when Haydn began his artistic
career. Under his treatment and that of his successors its growth, in
all respects, was marvellous.

Haydn is justly called the real creator of the modern symphony and
string quartet. He enlarged the works, as a whole, extended the separate
movements in their larger and smaller divisions, and developed the
so-called art of free thematic treatment. He first gave musical
clearness, order and variety to the form, and adapted it to the
expression of the multitude of different phases of musical thought. The
stricter thematic imitations of the older masters gave way to that free
thematic play which has been an element of all concert music since his
time.

In Haydn’s development of this principle we recognize a power of
invention and fertility of imagination only equalled by few others. The
originality of Haydn cannot be over-estimated. He discovered a new world
in music. An infinite variety of musical effect was produced by his new
art of motive-building. Haydn also laid the foundation of modern
orchestration. He understood, as no one before his day, the true scope
of the combined stringed instruments. In his string quartets, even more
than his symphonies, his mastery of the technical effects of the solo
strings is most complete; for though the possibilities of tone-color are
greater with the full orchestra, yet in Haydn’s quartets there is a
wealth of musical expression and a certain charm of style which place
them beside those of Mozart and Beethoven.

The tragic fire and grandeur of thought so characteristic of Beethoven
have their counterpart in the geniality, humor and playfulness of Haydn.
The symphonies of Beethoven may be compared with tragedies, Haydn’s with
comedies. “Papa” Haydn is never tragic nor sarcastic. His seriousness is
imbued with contentment, never tinged with despair. He overflows with
good humor, and is fond of a musical joke now and then; yet he is
intensely serious at heart, and his mirthful compositions never leave
the impression of superficiality. Haydn prepared the ground for Mozart
and Beethoven. One master cannot be considered without reference to the
other. Mozart and Beethoven obtained the form of the symphony from
Haydn; on the other hand, it was not until Mozart’s last works had
appeared that Haydn produced his finest symphonies and quartets. In his
use of the wind instruments, Mozart was the indispensable teacher of
both Haydn and Beethoven.

[Illustration:

  BERLIN OPERA HOUSE.

  _From a photograph._
]

Mozart did not enlarge the general form of the symphony, etc., as given
by Haydn, but he rounded and beautified the details of the several
movements. His themes and melodies are more beautiful and expressive,
and their working up more impressive and emotional. Mozart’s last works
have that perfection of form and depth of sentiment which belong only to
the highest manifestations of genius. Mozart left his stamp on all
branches of music; he is rightly considered as the universal master. It
was his mission to unite and beautify the national differences of style,
and give them the impress of his own rare individuality. European music,
for the first time in history, was concentrated in him.

Beethoven in his earlier period shows the influence of Haydn and Mozart,
yet he set the stamp of originality on his very first works. He was
destined to bring the higher forms of instrumental music to the highest
point of development. Although he ultimately revealed a new world in his
mature works, he remained true to the “sonata” form from first to last.
He did not seek to revolutionize musical form; on the contrary, he built
on the solid foundations already laid. Great as were his achievements as
a musician, in the grand outlines and proportions, dynamic expression,
thematic treatment and instrumentation of his works, we lose sight of
the musician in contemplating the greater tone-poet, who touched every
chord of the heart, who uplifted and broadened the minds and souls of
men, whose long struggle to rise above the sorrows and ills of life
endowed his music with a spirituality and religiousness beyond that of
all others, and which places him among the greatest poets and prophets
of humanity. Further considerations on Beethoven as composer are
contained in the special article of this work. (See page 337.)

Before Beethoven fully entered on his great life-work, Haydn and Mozart
had spread the fame of German music throughout the world. Their
influence was universal, and they had many disciples and imitators, of
whom Gyrowetz, Pleyel, Wranitsky, Kozeluch, Romberg, F. E. Fesca,
Eybler, Süssmayer and Seyfried were prominent. These composers enjoyed
great popularity for a time, and assisted in spreading the love of
instrumental music among the people; but as their music was devoid of
originality and marked individuality, it has not survived. Of these
masters, perhaps the most noteworthy were Pleyel, Romberg and Gyrowetz.

Ignaz Joseph Pleyel (1757–1831) was the favorite pupil of Haydn, who had
a high opinion of Pleyel’s abilities. Though not so productive as his
teacher, Pleyel was a very facile and pleasing composer; his many
symphonies, quartets and quintets were very popular for a long time.
Greater things were expected of him than he fulfilled; even Mozart, on
hearing one of Pleyel’s earlier quartets, thought that he might some day
replace Haydn. But Pleyel did not progress; his later works copied
Haydn’s style without his spirit, and consequently his music has
entirely died out.

Andreas Romberg (1767–1821) sprang from a very musical family, which
counted among its members a number of noted musicians. His cousin,
Bernhard Romberg, was the celebrated violoncello virtuoso and composer.

Andreas began his career as a concert violinist; subsequently he was
court chapelmaster at Gotha. He composed several operas, church music,
six symphonies, and chamber music. His most popular cantata, “The Lay of
the Bell,” is still occasionally sung in England and America. The music
of Romberg is pleasing and well written. Mozart was evidently his model.

The most eminent of all these epigones was Adalbert Gyrowetz
(1763–1850), who presents the melancholy example of an able and worthy
master who entirely outlived his fame. As a young man he had a brilliant
reputation in France and England. From 1804 to 1831 he was conductor of
the Imperial Opera at Vienna, where many of his operas were produced.
Gyrowetz composed thirty operas, Singspiele, and melodramas, and over
forty ballets.

Among his best operas were “Der Augenarzt,” “Die Prüfung” (which
Beethoven liked), “Agnes Sorel” and “Helene.” He also composed four
Italian operas, nineteen masses, besides many other vocal works. He was
equally prolific in all forms of instrumental music, and wrote over
sixty symphonies and as many string quartets, besides quintets,
overtures, serenades, marches and dances and numerous sonatas, trios,
nocturnes, etc., for the pianoforte. Gyrowetz possessed many of the
qualifications of a great composer, yet he lacked the one thing
needful,—originality. His facility betrayed him into weakness, and
unconsciously he became an imitator of Haydn and Mozart. He witnessed
the entire rise and culmination of Beethoven’s genius. As he outlived
Beethoven by twenty-three years, he must have fully realized the
epoch-making character of his great works. Gyrowetz suffered from
neglect and poverty in his old age. None of his music is known to the
present age, and his name is hardly remembered, except by those familiar
with musical history. In the annals of music there is no more striking
example of one who accomplished so much who was destined to see it all
pass away and fall into oblivion.

In the course of the eighteenth century, under the sway of the opera and
the free forms of instrumental music, the style of church music in
general became more melodious, ornate, and sensuous, but less earnest
and religious in tone, than in the time of Bach and Handel. Eberlin and
Michael Haydn were prominent representatives of this lighter style.
Mozart’s earlier church compositions were modelled on theirs.

Michael Haydn (1737–1806), brother of Joseph Haydn, wrote a large number
of masses, requiems, litanies, vespers, offertories, oratorios,
cantatas, German sacred songs, as well as operas. Mozart and his father
had a high opinion of his church music; Joseph Haydn considered it
superior to his own: time, however, has reversed his judgment. Michael
Haydn’s mass in D minor, “Lauda Sion,” and “Tenebræ” in E flat are still
prized by musicians, but the mass of his works are forgotten.

Representatives of the more severe church style in Germany during the
eighteenth century were Fux, Fasch and Albrechtsberger. Johann Joseph
Fux (1660–1741) was chapelmaster of St. Stephan’s and court composer in
Vienna.

Fux had a rare mastery of counterpoint, which he exercised in his
numerous church compositions. His “Missa canonica” is a marvel of
canonic skill and ingenuity, and replete with effects of modulation. His
fame, however, rests on his transcendent abilities as a musical
theorist. His treatise on counterpoint, “Gradus ad Parnassum,” has
remained in use for more than a century and a half. There have been many
editions; it has been translated from the original Latin into German,
French, Italian and English. Both Joseph and Michael Haydn were indebted
to the “Gradus” for their knowledge of counterpoint, and Mozart studied
it with equal diligence.

Carl Friedrich Christian Fasch (1736–1800) is known chiefly as the
founder of the celebrated Singakademie of Berlin. Fasch was industrious
as a composer in the _a capella_ style. His sixteen-part mass is his
most important work.

Johann Georg Albrechtsberger (1736–1809) was court organist and
chapelmaster at St. Stephan’s of Vienna. He composed over two hundred
and sixty works, among which his “Te Deum” is best known.
Albrechtsberger was especially distinguished as a musical theorist and
teacher. Among his pupils were Beethoven, Hummel, Seyfried and Eybler.
His strict system did not satisfy Beethoven; yet the exercises published
as Beethoven’s “Studienbuch” show the benefit that he had received from
Albrechtsberger’s instruction.

One of the most curious and remarkable characters of this period was
George Joseph Vogler, called Abt Vogler (1749–1814), whose exact place
in musical history is not easy to determine. In his own day a wide
divergence of opinion was expressed as to his merits; by some, including
Mozart, he was considered to be a veritable charlatan, by others an
“epoch-making” artist. Want of space precludes an extended account of
his career, which was full of picturesque incidents. Vogler travelled
much, and tried his fortune in various places; wherever he went he drew
attention by his organ playing, his revolutionary ideas on teaching
harmony, and innovations in organ building. Vogler was a religious
devotee; at Rome he was made Chamberlain to the Pope, Knight of the
Golden Spur, and Abbé. He was remarkably active as composer, teacher,
organ player, and theorist. He wrote for the theatre as well as the
church. Although most of his music is shelved, his Requiem and Symphony
in C are not forgotten. Mendelssohn bought out his symphony at the
Gewandhaus; the Requiem contains original and impressive effects.

Vogler’s vanity led him to harmonize chorals in order to show how much
he could improve on Sebastian Bach. His organ playing was degraded by
descriptive “thunder-storms” and other claptrap effects. With all his
faults, he was a man of ideas, and as a teacher aroused genuine
enthusiasm among his pupils. His attacks on various established errors
and prejudices of music appealed strongly to his young disciples, Von
Weber and Meyerbeer, and fired them with knightly ardor. All his pupils
were devoted to him; he was equally fond of them, and called them his
“boys.” The picture of Vogler’s home life at the Tonschule at Darmstadt
is charming. His pupils were his friends and companions. Weber wrote, on
hearing of Vogler’s death, “Our beloved master will ever live in our
hearts.” Browning has celebrated Abt Vogler in his remarkable poem
bearing that name.

During the later half of the eighteenth century the pianoforte gradually
superseded the older clavichord. With the rapid improvements in
piano-making, piano playing and composing became more and more artistic.
Haydn, Mozart and Clementi were influenced at first by the clavier style
of Emanuel Bach, but soon developed new features in their piano works.
Clementi, especially, carried technique to a point beyond others of his
time. His celebrated studies, “Gradus ad Parnassum,” are indispensable
in the training of pianists.

[Illustration:

  JOHANN LUDWIG DUSSEK.

  Portrait from a bust by Callamard, engraved by Quenedey.
]

Mozart brought the piano concerto into prominence, and set the example
followed by Beethoven and others in this form. The concertos of Mozart
are his chief compositions for the pianoforte. The best of them have a
place beside his last symphonies and string quartets. The grace and
elegance of his piano style, and the perfect balance between the solo
instrument and the orchestra, render his concertos models of form and
beauty. Among the contemporaries and followers of Mozart and Clementi in
this branch were Steibelt (176 –1823), Sterkel (1750–1817), Kozeluch
(1753–1814), Hässler (1747–1822), Gelinde (1757–1825), Dussek, Woelfl,
Hummel, Cramer and Field. Johann Ludwig Dussek (1760–1872) was a
brilliant representative of the piano style, who showed originality in
his modulations and use of dissonances. There is a certain romantic
feeling that characterizes his best piano compositions, as for instance,
his “La Consolation” and “La Chasse.”

Joseph Woelfl (1772–1812) had a brilliant career as a piano virtuoso. He
visited Paris and London and other cities, where his playing created
great astonishment. At Vienna he met Beethoven (in his younger days) as
a friendly rival in extemporaneous playing. Notwithstanding the partisan
feeling among their audiences, personally they appeared to have a mutual
respect for each other. Though Woelfl had greater execution and equal
facility in improvising, Beethoven excelled him and all others in
imagination and inspiration, in the power of moving the feelings of his
listeners. Woelfl was noted for his breadth of style, as well as his
breadth of hand-grasp; with his enormous hands he could cover two thirds
of the key-board.

Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778–1837) was the favorite pupil of Mozart. To
Mozart’s example Hummel owed his delicate touch, his elegant and
finished execution, his skill in improvisation, the clearness and solid
construction of his pieces,—characteristics which rendered him in his
prime the best representative of the expressive style. For a time he was
even considered as the equal of Beethoven as a piano composer. Nowadays
Hummel is underrated and called a “dull classic.” His septet in D minor
is a masterpiece, and a few of his best piano concertos and sonatas are
worthy of study. His two masses are sterling works. Johann Baptist
Cramer (1771–1858) forms the link between Clementi and Hummel. Cramer
was noted for his expressive touch on the piano. His numerous sonatas,
etc., are shelved, but his noble piano studies live as classical models.
They hold almost a unique place, for they combine beautiful musical
ideas with systematic technical training. In these respects they excel
the “Gradus” of his teacher, Clementi. They are indispensable to every
thorough student of the instrument.

Two other talented pupils of Clementi should be mentioned: Ludwig Berger
(1777–1838), the distinguished pianist, composer, and teacher of
Mendelssohn, Taubert, Henselt and others; and August Klengel
(1784–1852), who is less known as a pianist than as the composer of
canons and fugues, which show a remarkable command of counterpoint.

Beethoven’s great influence on piano music is dwelt upon in the special
article (see page 337). His pupil, Ferdinand Ries (1784–1838), was one
of the leading pianists of his day, and was also a productive composer
in all branches of music. As he was under the spell of Beethoven’s
genius, he failed to show any marked individuality of style.

His contemporary, Wenzel Tomaschek (1774–1850), displayed more
originality, though he, too, was overshadowed by Beethoven’s greatness.
Tomaschek, during his long career, was highly esteemed as a composer,
pianist and teacher. His admirers called him the “Schiller of music,” on
account of his pure and elevated musical thought. His numerous piano
compositions merit more appreciation than they have generally received.
Schumann admired his music. His “Eclogues” and “Rhapsodies” are
charming, naïve, imaginative and original.

Having given an account of the principal contemporaries of Haydn, Mozart
and Beethoven in dramatic, church and instrumental music, a few words
should be added on the subject of German song composers prior to
Schubert.

The national sentiment which encouraged native opera led also to a
revival of interest in the German Lied. It was not until the second half
of the century, when operettas had become the rage in Germany, that
talented musicians turned their attention to this neglected branch.

[Illustration:

  JOHANN NEPOMUK HUMMEL.

  Portrait by F. H. Müller, engraved by Esslinger.
]

Emanuel Bach and two other pupils of his father, Christian Nichelman
(1717–81) and Johann Friedrich Agricola (1720–74), devoted themselves
considerably to song composing. All the operetta composers we have
previously mentioned composed separate songs, which, together with
single numbers of their operettas, attained widespread popularity. One
of the best song composers of the time was Johann Peter Schulz
(1747–1800). His “Lieder in Volkston” were modelled on the old
folk-songs of Germany. Schulz had true German lyric feeling; he pointed
out the way followed by Schubert a generation later. Schulz’s songs have
long been universal favorites. It is a strong evidence of the innate
naturalness and strength of his songs that they should have retained
their place in the affections of the youth of Germany. They are still
sung in German school-rooms.

As German literature began to free itself from French influence, which
had been so potent during the reign of Frederick the Great, poets arose
who gave voice to true German feeling and sentiment. The lyrics of
Hagedorn, Gellert, Klopstock, Gleim, Kleist and others furnish material
for composers. Bürger, the celebrated author of “Lenore,” enriched
German literature with his ballads, many of which became popular in
musical form. It was Herder who revived true enthusiasm and feeling for
the old Volkslied, and with the rise of Goethe’s genius a new era dawned
on lyric poetry, and inspired song composers to take higher flights.
Johann Rudolph Zumsteeg (1760–1803) was the pioneer composer of ballads.

Reichardt, of whom mention has already been made, was the first to win
general approbation by his settings of Goethe’s lyrics. Carl Friedrich
Zelter (1758–1833) was more closely identified with Goethe, both as
friend and composer. In 1800, Zelter became director of the Berlin
Singakademie. He established the first male chorus club
(Männergesangverein) of Germany, which became the model of the many
similar clubs.

Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven did not devote special attention to song
composing; their life-work was accomplished in a larger field. Yet the
canzonets of Haydn, the charming “Veilchen” of Mozart and the romantic
“An die ferne Geliebte” of Beethoven are songs of much greater merit
than any others of their time, prior to Schubert.

The example and presence of Beethoven inspired Schubert to take the
highest flights in his music. Like his great pattern and guide, he lived
withdrawn from the public, and devoted himself heart and soul to the
pursuit of his beloved calling. Schubert’s numerous symphonies,
quartets, sonatas, masses, cantatas and oratorios are among the
priceless possessions of musical art. It is, however, as a song composer
that Schubert stands forth as a great and original master. In Schubert’s
instrumental music the fecundity of musical ideas, the profusion and
beauty of melody, which never failed him,—in a word, the wealth of his
lyric power,—often stand in the way of the clear and cogent thematic
development of his music.

Schubert speaks the sincere language of the heart, and captivates the
ear with the exquisite beauty of his melody. He gave new significance to
the instrumental accompaniment, using it both to intensify the emotional
expression and to enhance the effectiveness of the vocal part. His
rhythm is manifold and animated; his harmony strong and daring. “He
understood how to make the hearer believe that the keys of C major and F
sharp minor are twin sisters,” says a well-known critic. Nor is it alone
the lyric power which moves us in listening to Schubert’s songs. When
the situation demands it, certain epic and dramatic characteristics come
to light: as in the “Erlking,” perhaps the most popular of all ballads.
The unflagging spontaneity which distinguishes his songs has not been
matched by any of his successors; and his productiveness was something
marvellous. “If fruitfulness,” says Schumann, “be a characteristic of
genius, Schubert is certainly one of the greatest.”

[Illustration:

  JOHANN BAPTIST CRAMER.

  (See page 589.)
]

It has been the custom among historians of music to consider the epoch
of the older masters as the “classic period,” and to apply the term
“romantic school” to a long list of modern composers of which Schubert,
Schumann, Mendelssohn, Spohr and Weber are the most important names.
Such a classification is of considerable convenience; particularly as
the so-called romantic movement which pervaded literature was not far
from contemporary with the appearance of these composers. But it would
be difficult to define and enumerate the various elements which enter
into the adjective “romantic” as used in this connection; for nearly all
the praiseworthy characteristics of these later composers are present in
certain great works of the so-called classical composers, not excepting
him who is considered so “unsympathetic” by many of the enthusiastic
admirers of modern music, Sebastian Bach. It is certainly true that the
tone-poems of Beethoven possess romantic characteristics which have been
misunderstood or ignored by those who claim for his successors a wholly
new direction of musical development. But in a general way we recognize
in modern “romantic” music the tendency to set less value on musical
construction or form for its own sake than on the subjective expression
of musical ideas. Further than this there has been a tendency to enlarge
the scope of descriptive music, not only in connection with the drama,
but in the application of fanciful titles to instrumental movements as
exemplified by the piano pieces of Schumann.

[Illustration:

  JOHANN PETER SCHULZ.
]

As we have said, the same period was not without strong indications of
similar changes in the domain of letters. We have not space to give
details of literary history, but it may suffice to point out that, with
the advent of the music of Weber, Schumann and others, Germany was
overflowing with intense sympathy and enthusiasm for the writings of
Byron and of the prose-poetizer, Jean Paul Richter.

In the general mental and emotional tendencies of the epoch, classic
calm and reflectiveness began to be lost in “romantic” storm and stress.
The first indications of the new school of composition are to be found
in the works of two musicians whose lack of appreciation of Beethoven’s
genius is one of the anomalies of musical history. Both of them—Spohr
and Weber—were great men, epoch-makers in certain things. The
compositions of the former have, indeed, been eclipsed by later
achievements in music; but we ought not to underrate Spohr’s progressive
zeal. His musical individuality was narrowed by mannerism; and yet
within the limits of that individuality the variety of his work is
enormous. In the development of violin technique his activity as teacher
and soloist has borne rich fruit. His double quartets for strings have
become well known, but perhaps the general popularity of Spohr’s works
in this exceptional form has militated against their performance, and
consequently against the appreciation of other interesting works for odd
combinations of a small number of instruments, as for instance his octet
and nonet.

[Illustration:

  CARL FRIEDRICH ZELTER.
]

Weber, more than Spohr or any previous master, realized for the German
people their ideal of a truly national style of opera. His “Der
Freischütz” appealed irresistibly to the popular taste for the romantic
and supernatural, a phase of imagination embodied in the fairy tales and
domestic poetry of Germany. Spohr, in his “Berggeist,” “Faust” and
“Jessonda,” had already worked in this field with considerable success;
but Weber, with greater musical genius, created in his “Der Freischütz”
an opera which was destined to take as deep a root in the hearts of the
German people as the “Zauberflöte” of Mozart, or “William Tell” of
Schiller.

On the other hand, “Euryanthe,” the most important work of Weber from
the musical dramatic point of view, did not win universal favor at
first; but nowadays it is estimated at its true worth. In this
masterpiece, Weber pointed out the direction which Wagner instinctively
followed, a new path which led to stupendous results in his
music-dramas.

Heinrich Marschner as a dramatic composer was stimulated and influenced
by his friend and associate, Weber. “Hans Heiling” is considered his
masterpiece. We feel the influence of Weber and Marschner in the earlier
operas of Wagner, though almost from the outset his powerful originality
asserted itself. Lesser lights of the so-called romantic school were
Lindpaintner (1791–1858) and Reissiger (1798–1856). The best of
Lindpaintner’s numerous operas were “Der Vampyr,” “Der Bergkönig” and
“Die Sicilianische Vesper.” Some of his symphonies, overtures, etc.,
were highly esteemed by his contemporaries, but his most popular works
were his songs, of which his “Roland” and “Standard Bearer” are
celebrated. Lindpaintner was one of the foremost orchestral conductors
of his time. Reissiger succeeded Weber as conductor of the Royal Opera
at Dresden. His most popular operas were “Turandot,” “Ahnenschatz” and
“Adele von Foix.” They are no longer given on the German stage.
“Kapellmeister” music well describes the works of both Reissiger and
Lindpaintner. They had nothing in particular to say, and said it
thoroughly.

Before Wagner’s conquest of the stage the opera-loving public of Germany
were largely under the sway of foreign composers. The sudden and
universal popularity of Rossini, Bellini and other Italian composers
absorbed public attention, and native composers were cast into the
shade. The example of Meyerbeer was hardly stimulating to the national
musical feeling. Meyerbeer, it is true, was a German, trained by German
masters, but his masterpieces were written for the Paris Opera: his
“Robert,” “Prophet” and “Huguenots” are eclectic in character, in which
Italian, French and German elements of style are blended; hence his
world-wide influence has not been as a German, but as a cosmopolitan in
music.

This indifference of the German public was not confined to the field of
opera; even Beethoven was neglected during the era of Rossini, and did
not live to see his symphonies appreciated by the many. With the rise of
Mendelssohn and Schumann, however, a new impulse was given to German
music, and the great public trained to appreciate the older as well as
newer masters. Under the shadow of the St. Thomas School of Leipsic,
with its glorious musical traditions, a group of gifted artists
assembled, who represent a new and bright epoch in the further
development of modern music. Mendelssohn’s noble character as a man, his
earnest, aspiring devotion to his art, cannot be over-estimated. His
remarkable gifts as composer, pianist, and conductor served to gain the
attention of the public everywhere; and this advantage, combined with
his personal magnetism, enabled him to accomplish more for the
advancement of music than others of his time.

Mendelssohn’s genius was exercised in almost every form of musical
composition, except the opera.

There are two peculiar phases of his musical individuality which are
most remarkable: first, the fantastic, imaginative vein so happily
brought to light in his scherzos, the most charming of which is the
scherzo in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream”; second, the lyric element,
which is not only characteristic of his “Songs without Words,” but of
nearly all his slow movements. His most poetical and romantic works are
his concert overtures to “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “Fingal’s Cave,”
“Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage,” “Melusina” and “Ruy Blas.” These
overtures are “program” music in the best sense of the term, and hold a
unique place among the foremost.

Mendelssohn’s genial and refined nature mirrored itself in his music.
Nevertheless, with all the beauty, sweetness, classic form, and purity
of his music, one thing is missed,—tragic depth and fire. He did not
touch the deepest chords of the heart like Beethoven and Bach, perhaps
because his existence was not clouded by adversity, or because he
arrived without serious struggles at the complete development of his
artistic powers.

[Illustration:

  CONSERVATORY OF MUSIC IN LEIPSIC
]

Schumann, on the contrary, for years was denied the artistic
opportunities and companionships for which he longed. It was only in his
maturity that he acquired the technical facility which had become second
nature with Mendelssohn long before he was of age.

In depth of sentiment and emotional power, Schumann was the worthy
successor of Beethoven. Like Mendelssohn, he was an earnest student of
Bach’s music, and we perceive the influence of the older master in such
compositions as Schumann’s fugues on Bach’s name, the finales of his
piano quartet and quintet, and the grand polyphonic opening of his C
major Symphony. Like the old Leipsic cantor, Schumann was a subtle
ponderer and deep thinker. As a harmonist he showed more freedom and
boldness than Mendelssohn. In his orchestration he followed the
footsteps of Mendelssohn, but does not show equal mastery. His piano
works stand higher, and here he owed much to Chopin, whom he appreciated
more keenly than did Mendelssohn, and followed his example in the use of
extended chords, unusual figures of accompaniment, pedal effects, etc.,
as well as in poetical imagination, that rendered every little dance or
melody a miniature poem in tones.

In his four great symphonies, Schumann ranks next to Beethoven and
Schubert. As a song composer he stands nearest to Schubert in
spontaneity and poetic feeling. In spite of the gloomy melancholy that
broods in some of his music, he, like Beethoven, was a true humorist.
Schumann did not abandon the symphonic form, as perfected by Beethoven,
but, like Schubert and others, stamped it with his own individuality;
his poetical and romantic nature are revealed in all his creations.

Among the gifted associates and disciples of Mendelssohn and Schumann
were the following composers:—

Niels Wilhelm Gade (1817–91) first attracted attention by his “Ossian”
overture. The production of his first symphony, under Mendelssohn’s
direction at the Gewandhaus in Leipsic, made his name generally known;
and subsequently Gade was associated with Mendelssohn as conductor of
the Gewandhaus concerts. Although Gade was under the influence of
Mendelssohn and Schumann, his musical nature was not the reflex of
theirs; on the contrary, his Danish nationality comes to light in his
works. His style is truly poetical and vigorous.

William Sterndale Bennett (1816–75), the most gifted English composer
since Purcell, should be mentioned here as the friend of Mendelssohn and
Schumann. He profited by their advice and enthusiasm, but his style is
his own, although undoubtedly influenced by Mendelssohn. His charming
overtures, “The Naiads” and “The Wood Nymph,” have a place among
classical orchestral music.

[Illustration:

  FERDINAND HILLER.

  From a photograph from life by Eilender, of Cologne.
]

Ferdinand Hiller (1811–85) followed more or less in the footsteps of
Mendelssohn, and his works, though finished in form and pleasing, lack
strong individuality, and, with few exceptions, have remained unfamiliar
except to cultivated musicians. His pianoforte concerto in F sharp
minor, and his oratorio “Destruction of Jerusalem” are among his best
works. Hiller occupied a very influential position as a pianist,
conductor and writer. His extended and intimate acquaintance with most
of the musical celebrities of his time renders his writings of
particular value. His “Aus dem Tonleben” and “Persönliches und
Musikalisches” are delightful reading and the source of useful
information.

Julius Rietz (1812–77) was closely associated with Mendelssohn and
influenced by his style. His concert overture in A major, Lustspiel
overture, and Symphony in E flat are his most successful works. His best
reputation rests on his great abilities as an orchestral conductor and
his technical scholarship.

[Illustration:

  CARL REINECKE.

  From a photograph from life by Brokesch, of Leipsic.
]

While Rietz was conductor of the Gewandhaus orchestra, from 1848 to
1860, he accomplished the most important work of his life, namely, the
correction of errors that had crept into the scores of the great
masters. In the complete edition of Beethoven’s works, published by
Breitkopf and Härtel, Rietz edited the symphonies. He was also editor of
the complete edition of Mendelssohn’s works. Carl Reinecke (born 1827),
the present conductor of the Gewandhaus concerts, stands at the head of
musical life in Leipsic. As a composer he is to be considered to some
extent as a follower of Schumann. He has been productive in nearly all
forms of composition, and exhibits everywhere thorough practical
experience and refined musical taste, yet few of his larger works have
won great prominence. On the other hand, his smaller piano compositions
are highly prized. His overture, “König Manfred,” and his piano concerto
in F sharp minor are favorites.

Woldemar Bargiel (born 1828) is considered as one of the foremost
disciples of Schumann. Some of his chamber music and especially his
noble overture to “Medea” have taken high rank among later compositions.

Adolph Jensen (1837–79) was an enthusiast for Schumann, and took him as
his model. He wrote cantatas and piano compositions that are much
admired, and his songs have made his name famous. Jensen was a born song
composer, and his melodies have rare sensuous charm and sentiment.

Friedrich Robert Volkmann (1815–83) belongs also to the romantic school.
Schumann exercised a great influence on him in his piano works, which
bear fanciful titles.

His two symphonies and his string quartets are admired for their solid
style, yet this music is not sufficiently spontaneous in melody and
marked in style to gain universality.

Norbert Burgmüller (1810–36) and Hermann Goetz (1846–76) were not spared
to fulfil the promise of their gifts. Burgmüller left two symphonies, an
overture, and other compositions which are of decided merit. Schumann
declared that since the untimely death of Schubert there was no more
deplorable event than the loss of Burgmüller.

Goetz was first made known to the musical world by his opera, “The
Taming of the Shrew,” which achieved a rapid success. He did not live to
finish his second opera, “Francesca di Rimini,” which was subsequently
completed by his friend Frank. His Symphony in F has been played in
Europe and America.

Franz Lachner (1804–90) was one of the most popular composers of South
Germany. He sprang from a musical family. His father was an organist,
and his brothers Ignaz and Vincenz were prominent musicians. Like so
many other “Kapellmeister” composers, Lachner has been wonderfully
prolific and facile in all forms of music, without accomplishing
anything truly original or great. His best symphonies are those in C
minor, D minor and D major. His suite in D has been much admired.
Kalliwoda, Vierling, Dorn, and Taubert belong to this same class.

Wilhelm Taubert (born 1811) was fellow-student with Mendelssohn under
Ludwig Berger. He was a brilliant pianist and well-trained composer. For
many years he was conductor of the Royal Opera at Berlin. His operas,
symphonies and other large works have not prominence, but his songs have
a pleasing quality that has made them universal favorites.

Mention should be made of Julius Otto Grimm (born 1827), whose ingenious
and effective “Suite in Canon form” has found a place everywhere on
concert programmes; and Salomon Jadassohn (born 1831), the eminent
musical theorist of the Leipsic Conservatorium. His treatises on
Harmony, Counterpoint, Fugue, etc., are among the best. His powers as a
composer have been displayed in his symphonies, chamber music, etc. His
serenades for orchestra are especial favorites. He shows great facility
in canonic writing.

[Illustration:

  FRIEDRICH ROBERT VOLKMANN.

  From a photograph from life by Keller & Borsos, of Budapest.
]

Among German composers of choral works, during the present century, the
following have been prominent:—

Friedrich Schneider (1786–1853) was eminent as a teacher and conductor,
and as a composer excelled in the church and oratorio style. His
oratorios, “Das Weltgericht” and “The Deluge,” are his best known works.
(Robert Franz was one of his pupils.) Bernhard Klein (1793–1832) was
also a worthy representative of the sacred style. His oratorio of “Job,”
his motets and other church compositions are pure and religious in
feeling.

Moritz Hauptmann (1792–1868), one of the most eminent musical theorists
of the nineteenth century, was also a composer of true merit. His
earlier compositions were mainly for the violin, in which he showed his
affinity with Spohr. His vocal works are more important, and include two
masses, motets, three-part vocal canons, and sacred songs; these works
hold a place among classical church music.

Eduard Grell (1800–86), director of the Berlin Singakademie, was an able
representative of _a capella_ choral music. His sixteen-part mass is a
masterpiece of polyphonic skill.

Friedrich Kiel (1821–85) is pre-eminent among recent masters of sacred
music for his depth of religious feeling and perfect polyphonic art. His
“Requiem,” “Missa Solemnis” and oratorio, “Christus,” are noble and
profound works.

Albert Becker (born 1834), the well-known Berlin conductor, is the
composer of a “Reformation Cantata” and “Mass in B flat minor” which
take high rank among compositions of their class. Among numberless works
for male voices, none have been more highly esteemed than those of Carl
Friedrich Zöllner (1800–60) and Heinrich Esser (1818–75). The latter is
distinguished for his refined and melodious style. His numerous songs
and part songs are universal favorites, and are held in high esteem by
cultivated musicians. His symphonies and suites are also well known.
Wagner entrusted Esser with the arrangement of his “Meistersinger” for
the piano. Esser’s arrangements for orchestra of Bach’s organ
“Passacaglia” and “Toccata in F” are skilfully done.

The lighter style of opera has been well represented in Germany, during
the present century, by Lortzing, Flotow, Von Suppe, Brühl, Johann
Strauss and others.

Albert Lortzing (1803–51) is known and loved by all Germans in his
operas, “Die beiden Schützen,” “Czar und Zimmermann,” “Der Wildschütz”
and “Der Waffenschmied.” These are stock pieces in the repertory of
every German theatre, and never fail to delight audiences. The “Czar und
Zimmermann” is a universal favorite. His serious opera, “Undine,” on the
contrary, is a labored effort in an uncongenial field; but it has
succeeded in holding its place on the German stage. As a composer of
comic opera, Lortzing is thoroughly delightful in his naturalness and
straightforwardness. His opera texts—written by himself—are full of
movement and variety, and their _naïveté_ is never synonymous with
dulness. His “character” _rôles_ are especially full of possibilities
for clever actors. Lortzing’s pleasing operas have shed the light of
wholesome and lively entertainment into many millions of lives.

The “Nachtlager in Granada,” by Conradin Kreutzer (1782–1849), is
familiar enough to all German theatregoers, although its composer has
retained his popularity rather by his songs and male choruses.

More famous than Lortzing, though less meritorious, was Friedrich Flotow
(1812–83). Of his fifteen or more operas, “Stradella” and “Martha” are
the only ones universally known. The artistic aim of Flotow was not
high, yet his talent enabled him to make a distinct contribution to the
“light literature” of music. Certain of the melodies of “Stradella” and
“Martha” have more sentiment than is usual with the music of this class.
Nevertheless, the popularity of these two operas seems to be on the
wane, and it is possible that Flotow may be known only by name to the
next generation.

[Illustration:

  FRANZ LACHNER.

  From a photograph from life by Luckhardt, of Vienna.

  (See page 595.)
]

Otto Nicolai (1810–49), director of the Domchor and Royal Opera of
Berlin, composed a number of conventional Italian operas and other
works. His “Merry Wives of Windsor” is one of the most popular comic
operas of the present time. The overture is especially charming, and a
great favorite in the concert-room.

Franz von Suppe (1820–92), “the German Offenbach,” composed an immense
number of pleasing operettas and vaudevilles, of which his “Fatinitza”
is celebrated. His overture to the “Poet and Peasant” is one of the most
popular light overtures ever written.

Ignaz Brüll in his opera “Golden Cross,” and Victor Nessler in his
“Piper of Hamelin” and “Trumpeter of Säkkingen,” have achieved success.
Their great popularity in Germany is an illustration of the fact that
the opera public in general have a different standard of taste than
cultivated musicians.

Johann Strauss (born 1825), the younger, has won great success with his
operettas. His “Fledermaus” and “Der Lustige Krieg” are known all over
the world.

In the field of dance music Germany leads the world. The strains of
Lanner, Gungl, Waldteufel and Strauss are heard in every land. For
piquancy, sensuous charm of melody, rhythmical swing, thematic contrast
and effective orchestration, the waltzes of Lanner and Strauss are to be
classed with the most artistic productions of modern Germany.

Since Schubert’s day, the German Lied-form has been cultivated by many
composers, the noblest of whom are Loewe, Schumann, Franz, Rubinstein
and Brahms. Loewe and Franz were specialists, but their songs are very
unlike. In Germany, Loewe has been especially popular with the masses,
while Franz, by his exquisite taste and feeling, appeals more strongly
to cultivated musicians. In certain respects Franz and Schumann share
with Schubert in the fulfilment of the highest ideal of the German Lied.

Carl Loewe (1796–1869) was a productive composer in various fields of
music, but his reputation rests on his merits as a ballad composer.

The number of his ballads which have gained universal popularity is very
great. Among them may be mentioned “Edward,” “Herr Oluf,” “Abschied,”
“Goldschmieds Töchterlein,” “Der Wirthin Töchterlein,” “Die Braut von
Corinth,” “Heinrich der Vogler,” “Erlkönig,” and “Die Gruft der
Liebenden.” His musical style is remarkable for its dramatic
picturesqueness and justness of declamation. With him everything is made
to contribute to a full rendering of the meaning of the text. His works
have become very popular, and their popularity is by no means on the
wane. It is remarkable, however, that beyond the boundaries of Germany
his ballads are but little known.

The musical productiveness of modern Germany has been displayed in no
single branch so overwhelmingly as in songs. It may truly be said that
every composer, great and small, has produced his sets of Lieder, though
it has been vouchsafed to only a chosen few to merit distinction in this
over-crowded field. Among the multitude who have composed songs in a
light style are several whose services to popular music ought not to be
underestimated. The most prominent of this class are Heinrich Proch
(1809–78), Friedrich Kücken (1810–82), and Franz Abt (1819–85). Of
these, Abt is the ablest and the most widely known. Most of his songs
are trivial in character, but a few, like “When the Swallows Homeward
Fly,” have touched the popular heart and deserve their widespread fame.

The preceding brief account of the minor composers of Germany, belonging
to the “classical” and “romantic” periods, may serve to show that in art
as well as nature the “survival of the fittest” seems to be the
governing principle of evolution. Comparatively few works of musical art
are monumental, and survive the changes of fashion, the inconstancy of
the public, and the ravages of time. Among the crowd of masters who are
grouped around the central figures are some who merit a better fate than
has befallen them. Some day, no doubt, their now forgotten works will be
revived, just as those of neglected poets and painters have been. Surely
fame is to some extent the accident of fortune. The case of Sebastian
Bach is the most striking illustration. Of the majority of imitators or
epigones, however, it may briefly be written, as the abstract of the
historian’s page,—they lived—and died.

[Illustration:

  SALOMON JADASSOHN.

  From a photograph from life by Naumann, of Leipsic.

  (See page 595.)
]

We come now to the more recent and widely celebrated composers, Raff,
Brahms, Rubinstein, Goldmark, Bruch and Rheinberger, who form the
subject of special articles in this work. These masters are not to be
classed with the new movement inaugurated by Berlioz and Liszt in
concert music and by Wagner in the music-drama, but with the
“classical-romantic” masters. Raff, it is true, wrote “program” music,
but he differs from Berlioz and Liszt in holding almost strictly to the
regular construction of the symphonic form. Though Raff, in his earlier
days, was a warm advocate of the ideas of Wagner, his own music bears
little relation to the great works of the musical dramatist. Raff has a
style of his own. He never repeated himself, notwithstanding the
enormous amount of music he composed. This fertility of ideas was in
fact a source of weakness, since it rendered him careless in the choice
of themes, and blunted his feeling for what was truly refined and
elevated. He often failed to keep to the high level of the true
symphonic spirit and style. His “salon” style crops out here and there.
The “Lenore” and “Im Walde” symphonies are his most celebrated works.

[Illustration:

  MORITZ HAUPTMANN.

  From a portrait loaned for reproduction by C. Weikert, of New York.

  (See page 595.)
]

No living German composer represents the tragic and intellectual side of
modern subjective music so impressively as Brahms. The strong outlines
of his character are impressed on all his music. He is entirely opposed
to the so-called “new German school” of Liszt and Wagner, and adheres
strictly to the classical forms. No comparison, however, ought to be
made between him and Wagner, as Brahms has never turned his attention to
dramatic music. Brahms defends his own art-principles on the ground of
absolute music. His love for the strict, logical process of thematic
development proves his affinity with Bach. The leading theme is the germ
of the whole movement; and notwithstanding the episodes and secondary
themes, he is not usually drawn away from the main idea. Brahms has no
living peer in the art of developing themes; here he shows wonderful
ingenuity and infinite skill. In general, however, his themes do not
captivate us like the heaven-born melodies of Schubert and Schumann.
Strength, purity, nobility and profundity of thought, rather than
sensuous beauty, grace, lightness, naturalness and spontaneousness, are
his leading characteristics as a composer. A certain heaviness of spirit
and gloom, nay, asceticism, prevail in his music. He appears at his best
in his “German Requiem,” which many musicians consider to be his
greatest work. His symphonies and other instrumental compositions occupy
the foreground at present. Although musicians are still divided in
opinion as to the ultimate position of Brahms among the great masters,
no one can deny that his music is gaining public appreciation year by
year. He is universally recognized as the foremost living composer of
Germany.

The so-called “musical reform,” inaugurated in Germany more than a
generation ago, was not incited by Germans, but by the adopted
composers, Berlioz and Liszt. Their aim was simply to make poetical
ideas the motive and governing principle of the form and material of
their tone-works. The idea of “program” music, however, was not original
with them; in fact, it is centuries old. Beethoven was the first great
master to write elaborate program music; but his “Pastoral Symphony”
was, in his own words, “more expression of emotions than tone-painting.”
In this short statement of his faith he has clearly defined the true
scope of descriptive music. He gave poetic titles to certain other
works, as, for instance, the “Heroic Symphony,” the “Passionate” and
“Farewell” sonatas, which serve to indicate in a general way the
poetical motive that swayed his imagination. Spohr, Mendelssohn,
Schumann, Raff, Rubinstein and other later composers have followed
Beethoven’s example. Most of the program music of these masters does not
modify the traditional form of musical construction. Berlioz went much
further, and conceived the idea of using elaborate word descriptions to
give a detailed and minute exposition of his pseudo-symphonies. Berlioz
shot beyond his mark. Berlioz made his program serve as a kind of
running commentary on the music. Liszt did not attempt this; his aim was
a simpler and a better one. Symphonic Poem is the happy name for an
original form which he created in orchestral music. Some character or
event was chosen as a poetical motive easily realizable in music; as,
for instance, the Lament and Triumph of Tasso, in which the passion and
struggle of the great poet are vividly portrayed, or the wild ride of
Mazeppa, which, as in Victor Hugo’s poem, has a symbolical meaning.
Mazeppa represents the gifted man, or genius, tied down by fate, but
destined to free himself and ultimately to triumph over evil. The
galloping horse is suggested by wild triplets, and the final triumph is
expressed in the march with which the work culminates.

The symphonic poems of Liszt, and those who follow strictly his example,
are not divided into a number of distinct, separate movements like the
symphony, but the changes of tempo or movement follow each other without
break. Liszt made a prominent use of the Leitmotiv (leading-motive)
principle, which he adopted from Wagner. It will be observed that the
result, however, is wholly different, for Wagner in the course of one of
his music-dramas uses a variety of dissimilar and strongly contrasted
leading motives. His music, therefore, is based on the _polythematic_
principle, whereas the symphonic poems of Liszt are generally
_monothematic_. The leading-motive is one thing in connection with the
drama, another as employed in the concert-room. In the latter case it
serves the same purpose that it has in the fugues of Bach (mostly
founded on one theme) or in certain movements of symphonies. It is
simply the working up on the imitative principle of a leading idea,
which is modified, enlarged, curtailed and varied according to the
conditions of counterpoint, harmony, rhythm, etc. So far as thematic
imitation is concerned, the symphonic poem is an offshoot of the
symphony or overture. What the symphonic poem has gained in conciseness
of form it has lost in grandeur and impressiveness. The symphonic poem
relates to the symphony as a noble and beautiful church does to a grand,
awe-inspiring cathedral. In treating his grandest subjects—“The Divine
Comedy” of Dante, and “Faust” of Goethe—Liszt returned to the general
outlines of the symphony.

[Illustration:

  ALBERT LORTZING

  (See page 595.)
]

The symphonic poem is a welcome addition to modern music, but it is
capable of further development both in form and character. There is no
reason why the polythematic principle should not be applied to it, or
why the movements should not be extended. In the future the symphonic
poem may rival the symphony, but is not likely to supplant it. The
symphony has undergone many changes of detail since Beethoven, and in
the course of time it is probable that new forms of instrumental music
will be invented, but it will be difficult to reach as high an ideal as
that attained by the great masters of the symphony. In grandeur,
emotional intensity, thematic variety, contrast of movements, the
symphonies of Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms and others stand on
a higher plane than the symphonic poems of Liszt, Saint-Saëns and many
less conspicuous composers who have cultivated this form.

It would much exceed the narrow limits set by this article to attempt to
discuss the far-reaching questions connected with the great musical and
dramatic reform of Wagner. This forms the subject of an able special
article, to which the reader is referred. Wagner’s world-wide influence
has not been confined to the dramatic stage. His bold independence of
thought and creative originality served to break down the barriers of
formalism and conservatism, which held back German music after the death
of Mendelssohn and Schumann. The Napoleon of music cleared the way, not
only for himself, but other young composers who were struggling for
recognition. Since his death no German has yet appeared able to follow
in his footsteps, or to strike out a path for himself in dramatic music.
At the same time all serious dramatic composers, Italian, French, etc.,
of the present day, have consciously or unconsciously been affected by
Wagner’s musico-dramatic ideas.

Among all the German composers who have gathered inspiration from the
theories and music of Wagner, only a single one seems to have produced a
musical drama which bears the stamp of real genius and clearly defined
individuality.

[Illustration:

  FRIEDRICH von FLOTOW.

  From a steel portrait engraved from a photograph by Weger, of Leipsic.

  (See page 596.)
]

Peter Cornelius (1824–74) first became prominent at the time when Liszt
at Weimar was doing so much for the advancement of the so-called “new
German school of composition.” Cornelius at once identified himself with
this modern movement. It was on account of the indifference of the court
and the public toward Cornelius’s “The Barber of Bagdad” that Liszt gave
up his directorship of the theatre at Weimar in 1858. In the same year,
Cornelius’s opera, “The Cid,” was produced at Weimar. The completion of
a third opera, “Gunlöd,” was prevented by his death, which occurred at
Mayence in 1874.

His comic opera, “The Barber of Bagdad,” gives Cornelius a unique
position among the composers of the new German school. This seems to be
the only work of genius which has been produced in Germany as a result
of the Wagnerian cult; and it remains the single but the sufficient
ground for a denial of the charge made by disbelievers, that the
theories of Wagner can lead to nothing beautiful and good in opera. The
opera-poem is by Cornelius himself, and is a marvel of bubbling humor
and literary ingenuity; and the music is of exceeding complexity and
intensely difficult to render. The methods of treatment are distinctly
Wagnerian, but there is not a suggestion of Wagner in the character of
the melodies or in the instrumentation. All is delightful and
individual, in short, the work of a genius. On the other hand, in the
“Cid,” a tragic opera founded on Herder’s poem, Cornelius was not so
successful. It is certain that “The Barber” will ultimately be
appreciated; for its sparkling wit and delightful music are
irresistible, matched only among German composers by the “Figaro” of
Mozart.

Cornelius was far from being a Wagner, but he has done one thing which
Wagner probably could not have done: he has written an opera libretto
which is considered superlatively witty and entertaining by other people
than Germans, and set it to music which is noble, charming and
characteristic.

Anton Bruckner has also been prominently identified with the new German
school. In his heavy and massive instrumentation and style of writing he
is pronouncedly Wagnerian, but he has not endeared himself to the lovers
of sweet sounds.

Another prominent disciple of Liszt and Wagner is Felix Draeseke, born
1835, who became enthusiastic for the new school, and contributed to the
literature devoted to the propagation of the ideas of Berlioz, Liszt and
Wagner. He was one of the few who were openly praised by Wagner. His
numerous compositions consist of symphonies, chamber music, songs and
piano pieces. Draeseke has written two operas, “Herrat” and “Gundrun,”
the latter of which has been performed with success. Among his latest
orchestral productions are two symphonic preludes to dramas by Calderon
and Kleist.

Jean Louis Nicodé (born 1853) is another staunch believer in the new
tendencies in modern music. His compositions for orchestra include
“Symphonic Variations,” the symphonic poem, “Maria Stuart,” Suite in B
minor, Introduction and Scherzo. He has written piano and chamber music,
and several large choral works. His “Symphonic Variations” are
especially admired. Nicodé manifests the most astounding technique in
composition, and delights in producing startling orchestral effects.

Edward Lassen (born 1830), though a Dane by birth, has been identified
with music in Germany for the greater part of his life. He was first
made known as a composer through the kind offices of Liszt, who produced
on the Weimar stage Lassen’s “Le Roi Edgard,” “Frauenlob,” and “Der
Gefangene.” These operas met with a decided success. Lassen succeeded
Liszt as chief director of the Weimar opera, and still holds that
position. His published works include the music to Hebbel’s
“Nibelungen,” Sophocles’ “Œdipus,” Calderon’s “Circe,” and Goethe’s
“Faust” and “Pandora,” “Fest Cantate,” “Te Deum,” and several
symphonies. During the last few years he has occupied himself
principally with the composition of songs, which are much admired. His
latest work of importance is his violin concerto.

Another worthy representative of the new German music is Alexander
Ritter, the composer of numerous vocal works, including operas. There is
no doubt concerning the seriousness of his artistic endeavors, nor of
his great abilities; but, as with Nicodé, he has large utterance, and
but little of real importance to say.

[Illustration:

  FRANZ von SUPPE.

  From a photograph from life by Luckhardt, of Vienna.

  (See page 596.)
]

By far the most interesting and the most promising of this class of
modern composers is Richard Strauss. He is not related to the Vienna
Strauss family. Young Strauss is now Lassen’s assistant director at the
Weimar theatre, and has shown remarkable ability both as an opera and
concert conductor. Although not yet thirty years old, he has produced a
considerable number of large works and numerous smaller ones. His
earlier efforts show the influence of Brahms, but for the last few years
he has adopted the Wagner-Liszt manner. Three symphonic poems, “Death
and Redemption,” “Macbeth” and “Don Juan,” as well as a symphonic
fantasia, “In Italy,” have been greatly admired. Evidently this young
composer has a more promising future than any of his young
contemporaries.

Felix Weingartner, the talented conductor of the Royal Opera of Berlin,
is a young composer of promise. Besides numerous songs and a serenade
for string orchestra, he has written two operas. The second of these,
“Genesius,” was produced in Berlin in November, 1892, but, as might have
been expected, it was not warmly received by the public. Weingartner,
like Strauss, is extremely modern in his musical tendencies, and his
works, although interesting to connoisseurs and lauded by certain
critics, will not at once find public recognition.

It would far exceed the limits of this article to give a complete
account of pianoforte playing and composition in Germany since
Beethoven’s time. The influence of the piano on modern music has been
greater than that of any other single instrument. It is not only the
favorite of the amateur, but is _par excellence_ the composer’s
instrument. As almost every modern German composer has written for the
piano, its literature is far more voluminous than that of any other
instrument, and piano players are as countless as the sands of the sea.

Modern representatives of piano style may be classed as follows:

1. Composers with whom technical execution is held subordinate to
musical thought and feeling, perfect form, and poetic beauty. Beethoven,
Schubert, Von Weber, Mendelssohn, Schumann, represent this class. 2.
Piano specialists who have brought manual execution into the foreground
and have carried it to an extreme, chiefly for its own sake; as for
example, Kalkbrenner, Herz, Henselt, Döhler, Thalberg, Dreyschock,
Litolff and Liszt in the earlier period of his career. 3. Remarkable
teachers of technique and style, like Czerny, Moscheles, Kullak and
Wieck. 4. Virtuosos who unite great technique with remarkable powers of
interpretation, like Tausig, Von Bülow and others. 5. Composers who are
likewise great virtuosos and interpreters, like Liszt and Rubinstein.

[Illustration:

  FRANZ ABT.

  (See page 597.)
]

Between 1830 and 1840 piano virtuosity as regards mere technical
execution was at its height. Kalkbrenner, Herz, and other “finger
knights” created furore everywhere by their pyrotechnic feats. This was
the era of the “opera fantasia.” Let us be thankful that audiences
nowadays demand a different kind of musical pabulum. Thalberg (1812–71)
marks the highest attainment of this style. He was pre-eminent for his
finished execution and rich singing quality of tone. His scales,
octaves, arpeggios, trills, and every detail of technique were of
marvellous perfection. His style influenced a number of pianists, as for
example, Leopold de Meyer, Goria, Döhler, Willmers and Prudent.

Under Thalberg, Liszt, Tausig, Rubinstein, Paderewski, etc., piano
virtuosity has reached its apex. Mr. Ernst Pauer, the noted pianist and
editor of “Alte Clavier Musik,” justly observes: “With regard to
rapidity, force, ingenuity of combinations, and dazzling effect, it is
not too much to assert that the highest point has been gained, and that
with respect to _quantity_ of notes and effects our present players are
unrivalled; whether the _quality_ is as good as it formerly was may be
questioned.”

The world-wide influence of Chopin and Liszt on piano style is discussed
in special articles of this work.

In the time of Bach and Handel the organ was the foremost instrument as
the exponent of musical ideas even more than the pianoforte is during
the present century. To-day it has its own high place in the temple of
art, and counts among its devotees artists of great repute and dignity.
During the present century German organists have followed the school of
Sebastian Bach, of whom the most prominent are Rink, Johann Schneider,
Hesse, Fischer, Thiele, Haupt, Ritter, Becker, Merkel, Herzog, Faisst
and Rheinberger. August Haupt and Johann Schneider were remarkable
interpreters of Bach’s organ works. The former was also a rare teacher,
beloved and venerated by his American and German pupils. The most
important organ compositions of modern German masters are the difficult
and massive concert pieces of Thiele, and the noble sonatas, etc., of
Mendelssohn, Schumann, Ritter, Merkel and Rheinberger.

In solo violin playing Germany at first followed the lead of Italy.
Mention has been made of the most noted German violinists of the last
century. About the beginning of the present century Paris was the centre
of violin playing under Viotti, Rode, Kreutzer and Baillot. These
masters laid down the principles of violin playing as practised to-day.
They were followed by Alard, the modern French teacher, and the
so-called Belgian school of De Beriot, Vieuxtemps, Wieniawski and
others. As regards finish, brilliancy of style, and purity of tone these
Franco-Belgian masters have had a strong influence on Germany. In violin
playing Spohr is considered as the direct heir of Rode and Viotti. The
contemporaries of Spohr in Germany were Schuppanzigh, Mayseder, Maurer,
Molique, Lipinski and others, all of whom contributed to violin
literature. Spohr’s most distinguished pupil was Ferdinand David
(1810–73). He was eclectic and many-sided in his taste and knowledge. As
regards technique and style he set high value on the French masters of
the violin. He was the first to play Bach’s difficult violin solos in
public. Among his numerous pupils was the famous virtuoso, Wilhelmj, who
is unsurpassed for his wonderful tone and execution. Joachim also
benefited by David’s advice.

The violin school, of Vienna, founded by Joseph Boehm (1798–1876), has
had a wide influence in training virtuosos. Ernst, G. Helmesberger,
Ludwig Strauss, Joachim, J. Helmesberger, Auer and Neruda were trained
in this school. Pupils of Pixis at Prague were the renowned violinists
Kalliwoda and Ferdinand Laub (1832–74). The latter was a wonderful
quartet player, and stood in the front rank as a virtuoso.

Joseph Joachim (born 1831) is the most eminent of living violinists. He
has had the widest influence of any violin master as an interpreter of
the great masters. Perfect technique, a rich and full tone, purity and
elevation of style, and fidelity of interpretation are the leading
characteristics of Joachim as a violinist. It may be said of Joachim, as
of Liszt, that he not only interprets but _recreates_ the music of the
great masters. He is equally great as a quartet player and as a soloist.
Joachim’s compositions are chiefly for the violin. His style is grave
and earnest, and suggestive of Schumann. His most important work is the
“Hungarian Concerto,” which has noble characteristics.

The most noted masters of the violoncello are Bernhard Romberg
(1767–1841), Kummer (1797–1879), and his successor in the Dresden
orchestra, Grützmacher (born 1832), and the virtuoso composers, Popper,
Davidoff and De Swert.

[Illustration:

  PETER CORNELIUS.

  From a photograph by Albert, of Munich.

  (See page 600.)
]

Among the many fine solo players on wind instruments were the renowned
clarinetists, Joseph Baermann (1784–1847) and his son Carl (1811–1885).
Von Weber was intimately associated with the elder Baermann, and wrote
for him the fine clarinet concertos and concert pieces which have become
classical. The high artistic character and ability of this family of
musicians is exemplified in the person of the thorough musician and
gifted pianist, Carl Baermann, Junior. He was formerly professor at the
Munich Royal Conservatory, and is now a resident of Boston, where he
exerts a noble influence as concert pianist and teacher. Germany has not
produced so many singers of world-wide fame as composers or virtuosos,
yet during the last half-century, and especially in connection with the
Wagnerian drama, the number of celebrated singers has increased. As
dramatic artists these German singers are surpassed by none, though in
pure vocalism they may not rank as high as those of the Italian and
French school. Among the most renowned are Sontag, Milder, Tichatschek,
Pauline Lucca, Gerster, Unger, Wachtel, Formes, Stockhausen, Staudigl,
Henschel, Wranitzky, Loewe and Schröder-Devrient (1804–60). This
last-named singer was one of the most highly gifted artists who ever
appeared on the operatic stage. She created the part of Leonore in
Beethoven’s “Fidelio.” In later years she appeared in Wagner’s earlier
operas, and was of great assistance to him in realizing his ideal of
dramatic singing. In his writings Wagner eulogizes her. The musical
dramas of Wagner have not only been the high school for orchestral
virtuosos and conductors, but above all for dramatic singers. The most
famous German singers of the present day have been associated with
Bayreuth and the established opera houses of Germany where Wagner’s
works are performed. The most noteworthy of these Wagner singers are
Frau Materna, Marianne Brandt, Malten, Lehmann-Kalisch, Mallinger,
Dietz, Kindermann, Ludwig, Schnorr von Carolsfeld, to whom Wagner pays
such a tribute of praise in the eighth volume of his collected writings;
Winkelmann, Vogl, Gura, Niemann, Scheidemantel, Van Dyck, Alvary, Betz,
Scaria and Emil Fischer.

[Illustration:

  RICHARD STRAUSS.

  From a photograph from life by Hanfstaengl, of Munich.

  (See page 601.)
]

One of the results of Germany’s high development in music, and
consequent “division of labor” in the executive part of the art, has
been to give great importance to the conductors of orchestras and of
large musical societies. Until recently there have been but few cases of
really great conductors who were not at the same time prominent
composers. Weber, Wagner, Spohr, Mendelssohn, Marschner, Lindpaintner,
Rietz and Hiller were all Kapellmeister-composers. The remarkable
advance in orchestral technique and the increased work demanded of
conductors have given rise to the necessity of training men exclusively
for this exacting profession. There are at present in Germany a
half-dozen specialists in this branch who are particularly
distinguished. Foremost among them is the gifted Hans von Bülow (born
1830). Great as are this master’s merits as a piano virtuoso, it is
chiefly as a conductor that he has had important influence upon the
musical activity of his time. His long connection with the Meiningen
orchestra, at a period when it made frequent concert tours through
Germany, was of great service in raising the standard of orchestral
interpretation throughout the country.

Hans Richter (born 1843) also enjoys an international reputation as a
conductor. He is chief conductor of the Imperial opera and Philharmonic
concerts of Vienna. He has also frequently conducted the concerts of the
London Philharmonic Society. Richter was intimately associated with
Wagner, and directed the first Bayreuth performance in 1876.

A conductor of perhaps even greater ability, but of less extended
reputation, is Hermann Levi (born 1839), the chief conductor of the
Munich theatre. He also was intimately associated with Wagner, and
conducted the first performance of “Parsifal” at Bayreuth in 1882. He is
at present the conductor-in-chief at Bayreuth. His principal claim to
superiority lies in the fact that he conducts equally well the daintiest
Haydn symphony and the most complex Wagner music-drama. He is as a
conductor what Liszt was as a pianist, universally sympathetic in his
interpretations.

Felix Mottl (born 1856) of Carlsruhe, and Ernst Schuch (born 1848) of
Dresden, are worthy to be grouped with Germany’s great conductors. The
former is one of the Bayreuth conductors. The young composers, Strauss
and Weingartner, are also able Kapellmeister.

Any consideration of the history of music in Germany would be incomplete
without some mention of her great achievements in musical criticism,
history, theory, philosophy and æsthetics. In these departments of
literary and scientific work, Germany has accomplished infinitely more
than any other nation. We have already had occasion, in speaking of
certain composers, to mention their literary works. But the majority of
writers on music have left no record as artists.

During the eighteenth century the most noted German writers on musical
history and criticism were Forkel, Gerbert, Mattheson, Scheibe,
Reichardt and J. A. Hiller; on musical theory and instruction, Fux,
Albrechtsberger, Marpurg, Kirnberger, Sorge, Knecht, Quantz, Em. Bach
and Leopold Mozart. During the present century the principal writers on
the general subject of musical history have been Brendel, von Dommer,
Reissmann, Naumann, Langhans and August Wilhelm Ambros (1816–76). For
original research, profound learning, and remarkable critical insight
the “Geschichte der Musik” by Ambros ranks first among all works on the
subject.

R. G. Kiesewetter (1773–1850), the uncle of Ambros, shows equal
thoroughness in treating the special subjects of musical history. His
monographs on the Netherland masters, on secular song, on Arabian music,
etc., are sources of important information. Carl von Winterfeld is the
great authority on German church music. His “Der Evangelische
Kirchengesang” is a work of great learning.

In the field of musical biography the list is a long one, and includes
Marx, Schindler, Nohl, Nottebohm, Lenz, Bitter, Chrysander, Jahn and
Spitta.

[Illustration:

  HANS von BÜLOW.

  From a photograph from life by Bieber, of Hamburg.
]

Otto Jahn’s “Life of Mozart,” and Philipp Spitta’s “Life of Bach,” are
masterly biographies, which are an honor to the authors and the nation
that produced them. They are monuments of exhaustive research and
profound critical analysis. Mention should be made of the biography of
Beethoven by Alexander W. Thayer, which was published in Germany as the
fruits of many years of patient and thorough investigation. The author
is an American by birth and education, but has long been identified with
German musical literature, and is considered as the authority in all
that pertains to the life of the great composer.

Musical criticism has been well represented by Friedrich Rochlitz
(1770–1808), the founder of the “Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung” of
Leipsic; Adolf Bernhard Marx (1799–1866), one of the most broadly
educated musical writers of his time; Gottfried Weber (1779–1839),
editor of the musical periodical, “Cæcilia”; Thibaut, whose “Purity in
Musical Art” is a highly esteemed essay; Schumann, the composer, who
gave a new and higher direction to musical criticism in his “Neue
Zeitschrift für Musik.” Schumann’s gifted poetical nature is revealed in
his critical reviews as well as in his music, and he set an example
followed by others, though at a distance, among whom Eduard Hanslick, of
Vienna, is perhaps the most worthy of mention; Wilhelm Tappert, the
editor of the “Allgemeine Deutsche Zeitung,” is a zealous partisan of
Wagner. His “Wagner Lexicon” is a curious compilation of all the slang
and abuse that have been hurled at the composer and his friends.

Among the imaginative writers on musical subjects, the most remarkable
was Ernst T. R. Hoffmann, whose romantic tales have given him a
prominent place in German literature. He was composer, poet, singer,
teacher, conductor and theatrical manager; he was especially gifted as
an improvisator. Everything this eccentric genius did, he did well.
Among his works are eleven operas and two symphonies. Schumann was much
influenced by the fantastic tales of Hoffmann. His “Kreisleriana” was
suggested by Hoffmann’s fragments of the imaginary “Kreisler the
Kapellmeister.” Beethoven wrote a humorous canon addressed to Hoffmann,
and Weber loved him.

[Illustration:

  VIENNA OPERA HOUSE

  From a photograph.
]

Germany, during the present century, has produced almost endless works
on musical theory and speculation. The most prominent representatives
are G. Weber; Hauptmann, whose “Harmony and Metre” is a profound work;
Marx and Lobe, whose general systems treat of all branches of musical
composition, including instrumentation, and are valuable as books of
reference; E. F. Richter and Jadassohn, whose treatises on harmony,
counterpoint and fugue are excellent text-books. Other well-known
theoretical writers are Weitzmann, Paul, Sechter, Riemann, Friedrich and
Heinrich Bellermann and Westphal.

[Illustration:

  THE CONCERT HALL IN THE GEWANDHAUS IN LEIPSIC.

  From an engraving published about 1860.
]

The æsthetics of music have been extensively treated by the foremost
German philosophers. Hegel and his followers Vischer and Kahlert, laid
the foundation of a comprehensive consideration of the subject. The
philosophers outside the Hegelian school, Krüger, Schelling, Krause,
Carriere, Karl Köstlin, Fechner, Wundt and Lötze, have included in
larger works more or less extensive treatments of musical æsthetics, and
the interest which Wagner felt for the theories of Schopenhauer is well
known. In addition to these, several writers—Schubart, Hand, Schilling,
Heinrich Köstlin, Reissmann, Riemann, Kullak, Stumpf, Engel—have written
large treatises devoted exclusively to the subject. The object has been
to establish, if possible, the psychological relations of music, and to
deduce the _raison d’être_ of the various musical forms; but no one has
yet established conclusions which have been generally accepted. Opposed
to these writers are a small number of advocates of a purely formalistic
theory of music,—Herbart, Zimmermann and Hanslick. The last-named is the
author of a book entitled “Concerning the Musically Beautiful,” which
has been perhaps more generally read and commented upon than any other
single work on musical æsthetics. It is safe to assert that this work of
Hanslick does not solve the mystery of the power of music on the soul.
Certainly it seems to be a superficial idea of Hanslick that music has
no inward meaning (or Inhalt), and is only a mere play of form
(Formspiel). But this interesting little book is so brilliantly written
and so carefully considered that it still holds its own, and is known
throughout the musical world.

In this connection mention should be made of “The Sensations of Tone,”
published in 1863 by Hermann Helmholtz, the great Berlin physicist. This
work is not only one of the greatest achievements of German science, but
is also unique among all works published on the subject of music. It
embodies the results of exhaustive research into all phenomena connected
with the production of tone and its perception by the human
consciousness. In a word, it establishes a firm physical foundation for
all future philosophical speculations concerning music.

It is commonly and truly said that the time is not yet ripe for an
exhaustive history of music. An enormous amount of material, it is true,
has been collected, but in most divisions of the subject the sources of
information have not yet been thoroughly explored. At present Germany is
distancing all other nations in the contributions made to the sum of
historical knowledge concerning music. Not to mention the numberless
treatises and monographs which are continually appearing, the regularly
published musical periodicals are numerous and excellent, and frequently
make important contributions to musical scholarship.

Although the present article is far from professing to present a
complete account of all that Germany has accomplished in music, it may
serve to show the many-sided character of musical culture in that land.
Not one of the many branches of musical activity has failed to feel the
influence of Germany, and in only a few branches does she hold any other
than the leading position. In our own day her musical zeal remains
unabated. The number of musical compositions and books published year by
year in Germany is enormous, and the proportion of her young men who
enter on the career of teacher or performer seems to be increasing
rather than diminishing. While it is true that there are very few great
composers now living in Germany, and that they are rivalled by the
living composers of other nationalities, and even though in the latest
music of over-cultivated Germany there is a want of freshness,
naturalness and _naïveté_ that belong only to musical youth, yet there
is no reason for supposing that any other nation will, in the near
future, usurp Germany’s well-merited title of “laureate amongst all
musical nations.”

[Illustration: John K. Paine]

[Illustration: Leo R. Lewis]

[Illustration:

  JEAN BAPTISTE LULLY

  _Reproduction from the rare folio print engraved by Roullet, after
    Mignard._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                          JEAN BAPTISTE LULLY


Lully is justly considered the founder of opera in France, although he
was not the first to compose operas in the French language. Several of
his biographers assure us that he was of noble birth, supporting their
statements by the letters of naturalization granted him by Louis XIV.,
in December, 1661, in which the composer is called the son of Laurent
Lully, a man of quality, and Catherine del Sarte. It is, however, more
probable that he was the offspring of an obscure country miller who
dwelt near Florence, as stated by Guichard in a celebrated memoir which
he drew up at the time of his lawsuit for dissolution of partnership
with Lully, who had co-operated with him in the management of the Opéra.

By chance it came to pass that the Chevalier de Guise, when travelling
in Italy, discovered young Baptiste Lully in Florence, his native place.
The nobleman was impressed by the precocious intelligence that sparkled
so brightly in the boy’s eyes. He who was destined to become the founder
of lyric tragedy in France was singing popular songs, accompanying
himself upon the guitar, from instinct rather than training, for he had
never been taught to play that instrument, and possessed, as yet, only
the most primitive ideas regarding music. He was then about twelve years
of age.

At that time, people were not very musical in France, Italy being much
more advanced in that respect. In the era of Le Grande Monarque, “Le Roi
Soleil,” there were neither orchestras nor singers in the true sense of
the words, and opera was, so to speak, quite unknown.

The first musical play ever seen in France was produced on the occasion
of the marriage of Mlle. de Vaudemont, Marguerite de Lorraine,
sister-in-law of King Henri III., to the Duc de Joyeuse. It was
performed on the 15th of October, 1579, at the Château de Moustier, in
presence of ten thousand spectators, and the Italian, Baltazarini,
fulfilled the duties of impressario. He was ever afterwards known by the
name of Baltazar de Beaujoyeuse, and in this way the Duc de Joyeuse may
be said to have ennobled him.

This Italian had been brought to France by the Comte de Brissac, and
Catherine de Médicis appointed him musical director, with the dignity of
valet, to her court. He played the violin after the manner of a
virtuoso—for his time. It was this same Baltazarini who composed the
dance music in the opera-ballet “Cérès,” of which Claudin wrote the
vocal score.

Cardinal Mazarin was fond of musical plays, and in 1644 he caused to be
brought from Italy dramatic singers who, in the hall of the
Petit-Bourbon and in presence of the king, Louis XIV., gave a
representation of the “Festa della finta pazza,” a melodrama in five
acts interspersed with comic interludes. Two years later, the Abbé
Mailly organized a representation of a lyric tragedy entitled “Akebar,
Roi du Mogol,” which was given in one of the halls of the episcopal
palace of Carpentras.

The taste for music was gradually extending in the ranks of cultivated
French society, and Mlle. de Montpensier had asked the Chevalier de
Guise to bring for her from Italy—the cradle of opera—“a young musician
to enliven my house.”

“Will you come with me to Paris?” asked the Chevalier, addressing the
little singer and guitarist: to which the lad, without a moment’s
hesitation, and as if impelled by his destiny, joyfully answered, “Yes.”
Thereupon the twain set out for the French capital, and the Chevalier
_gave_ his Italian musician to “Mademoiselle.”

The grand-daughter of Henri IV. received Baptiste as she would have
received a pug dog,—an animal then very fashionable. For a few days she
amused herself with her little musician, then wearily cast him aside,
finally relegating him to her kitchens, where he was enrolled among the
scullions. It was thus that the nobility and clergy of that day were
wont to treat musicians, great and small. It must not be forgotten that
the Archbishop of Salzburg, who kept the divine Mozart in his service
for a certain time, made him wear livery and sent him to take his meals
in the kitchen with the servants.

While washing the dishes or stirring the kitchen fire, and possibly
while tasting the sauces, unknown to the _chef_, the little Florentine
lifted up his voice in song. In his spare time he played the guitar or
practised the violin, upon which instrument he is said to have become an
accomplished player.

Occasionally he was given verses, which he set to music with great
facility. To Lully is attributed the air which became so popular and
which is still sung, more particularly in the country districts, to the
words “Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot.”

One day were sent to him some couplets that were far from laudatory of
the proud princess, his mistress. The verses greatly diverted Baptiste,
who composed a pretty air to the words, and sang it to every one. This
afforded much amusement in the kitchen of haughty “Mademoiselle,” who,
hearing of the insult, caused her audacious and disrespectful
scullion-composer to be expelled from her house.

In his secret heart, the great musician, that was to be, felt glad when
thus disgraced. He was free; penniless, it is true, but courageous and
full of hope in the future. He began to study harmony under Gigault, the
organist of St. Nicolas-des-Champs, and ultimately succeeded in gaining
admittance to the Grande Bande des Violons du Roi, which consisted of
forty performers. Some few airs which he wrote for the violin were
favorably received and rendered in the presence of the Le Grande
Monarque himself. His Majesty was, indeed, so pleased with the young
artist (Lully was then nineteen), that he appointed him Inspector of the
violins. And this was not all, for the king organized for Lully’s
satisfaction another band of musicians, called Les Petits Violons, in
order to distinguish them from the “Grande Bande.”

From that moment a brilliant future awaited the composer. His agreeable
manners, docile spirit, and a certain wild audacity, that did not
diminish his profound deference for his benefactor, the king, won and
retained the royal favor; genius did the rest.

The little band of violinists, thanks to their skilful training under
the direction of Lully, achieved wonders, far outstripping the original
band in regard to both time and accuracy of execution.

Being now in high favor at court, Lully was authorized to compose dance
tunes for the ballets that Louis XIV. caused to be performed nearly
every year, and in which his Majesty himself participated. Later he
composed the entire musical portion of these entertainments, which were
sometimes called “Mascarades.” He was uniformly successful, and Fortune
had evidently chosen him for her own.

Enterprising and full of confidence in his talent and _savoir-faire_,
Lully, having formed a friendship with Molière, did not hesitate to
appear as a comedian and to perform in the pieces that were represented
in the great dramatist’s theatre. In 1669, he took the _rôle_ of
Pourceaugnac in the piece of that name, and the Mufti in “Le Bourgeois
Gentilhomme.”

Certain writers, contemporaries of Lully, foremost among whom must be
mentioned the great Racine and the no less illustrious La Fontaine, have
passed a somewhat harsh judgment on the composer’s character. It is true
that he sometimes showed himself a most abject sycophant in presence of
the nobility at court, and especially before the king. But what courtier
was not humble in presence of the sovereign of that court? Still, in
spite of his humility before the great, Lully did not completely lose
his dignity. On certain occasions his retorts to influential persons at
court, and even to the king himself, were characterized by remarkable
boldness. Two examples may be given to show the droll and daring humor
of the celebrated composer.

It happened, one day, that the Marquis de Louvois, the powerful minister
of Louis XIV., taunted Lully with having secured the king’s friendship
solely by his talent for buffoonery. To this the musician, drawing up
his head proudly, made the fearless reply, “Zounds! you would do as much
if you could!”

Again, at the first performance of “Armide” at Versailles, Félix Clément
tells us, some unforeseen difficulties prevented the raising of the
curtain at the appointed time. The king, becoming impatient at the
delay, sent one of the officers of his guard to inform Lully of his
dissatisfaction. The words, “The king is waiting,” elicited from the
composer a reply as sharp as it was wanting in respect. “The king,” said
he, “is master here, and nobody has the right to prevent him waiting as
long as he likes!”—a quip more witty than prudent. The courtiers
believed that the man who dared to make such a reply was irretrievably
lost; and when “Armide” was given at the Royal Academy of Music on the
15th of February, 1686, the audience, fearful of compromising themselves
if they applauded the work, received it in a depressingly frigid manner.
Convinced of the merit of his score, Lully had it executed a few days
later for his own satisfaction (as did the king of Bavaria, recently,
with Wagner’s lyric dramas at the theatre of Bayreuth). Louis XIV.
hearing of this, and feeling that a work which had been pronounced good
by _his_ musician could not be otherwise, set the seal of his praise on
the score of “Armide,” which immediately obtained a signal success and
was even proclaimed the best work that Lully had written.

[Illustration:

  JEAN BAPTISTE LULLY.

  From an engraving by Bonnart at the British Museum.
]

It has also been said that the founder of French opera, though humble
and abject in the presence of the powerful, was proportionately insolent
and despotic with his artists and the persons employed at the Opéra. It
is true that Lully often flew into a passion and accused the performers
of clumsiness, and he went so far, on one occasion, as to break the
violin belonging to one of the members of the orchestra upon the head of
the unfortunate performer, because he had failed to render a somewhat
difficult passage in a satisfactory manner. The composer made amends for
his violence, however, by presenting to the insulted violinist three
times the value of the broken instrument, and also by inviting him to
dinner.

Apart from the acts he committed in moments of passion, Lully was a
model director and far outshone any who preceded him. He found time to
do everything; he composed, attended the court, saw to the
_mise-en-scène_ of his operas, and superintended the rehearsals of both
the vocal and instrumental elements of the piece. He paid great
attention to the scenic effects, which were very complicated in that
day, and being a clever comedian and an accomplished dancer, he acted as
stage manager and general director of all dramatic performances.

Lully married the daughter of Lambert, who is mentioned by Boileau in
his third satire; and their union was a happy one. In the course of time
the composer became wealthy, and the owner of several houses in Paris.
His death was brought about by a curious accident. Louis XIV. having
been ill, on his recovery, Lully composed, as a thanks-offering, a “Te
Deum” which was performed under his direction at the Feuillants in the
Rue Saint-Honoré, on the 8th of February, 1687. During one of the
rehearsals Lully was beating time with his cane, and, in so doing,
accidentally struck his toe, inflicting a bruise. The injury, which
seemed at first nothing more than a slight concussion, speedily
developed into a serious sore; an abscess appeared, and of such a
malignant character that the doctors considered it would be necessary to
amputate the affected part. Lully hesitated to sanction this extreme
step, and in a short time it became a question, not of amputating merely
the toe, but the entire foot. The patient would not consent to this,
however, and the disease, making rapid progress, soon affected the whole
leg, and the one hope of saving his life lay in the amputation of that
member. Unfortunately, at the very moment when he appeared willing to
undergo the operation, a quack came on the scene and offered to cure the
patient without recourse to amputation; but the efforts of this
empirical pretender were in vain, and the illustrious composer passed
away at Paris, on Saturday, the 22d of March, 1687, aged fifty-four
years. Of him Mme. de Sévigné wrote, after listening to some of his more
serious music, “If there be music in heaven, it must be the music of
Lully.”

The distinguishing qualities of Lully’s dramatic music are nobility of
style, correct declamation, and truth of sentiment, dramatic and scenic.
Most of the ornate effects in vocal music which were then fashionable in
Italy were excluded from French opera by Lully.

In “Alceste,” a lyric tragedy in five acts, with prologue, the words by
Quinault, Lully’s third work, performed in the month of January, 1674,
we find the celebrated air sung by Charon. It is a veritable masterpiece
of lyric declamation, and is still frequently sung and has not become
old-fashioned, for it embodies that supreme quality that knows no date,
human sentiment voiced in a truthful manner.

“Cadmus et Hermione” was the first great work produced by Lully. The
master had just taken possession of the Palais-Royal hall, as director
of the Opéra, by royal favor, and it was with this piece that he
inaugurated his control. So far, the composer had written only
interludes, interspersed with songs and dance music, among which the
most important were those written for pieces by Molière, “Le Bourgeois
Gentilhomme,” “La Princesse d’Elide,” “Le Mariage Forcé,” “L’Amour
Médecin,” “Monsieur de Pourceaugnac,” and “Psyché.” He had also written,
prior to his brilliant _début_ as a dramatic composer, the music for the
ballets “La Raillerie,” “Le Ballet des Muses,” “Cariselli,” “Les Amours
Déguisés,” and several others.

Before his first tragic work, Lully had produced the pasticcio, composed
of airs borrowed from his own _répertoire_, “Les Fêtes de l’Amour et de
Bacchus,” a pastoral in three acts for which Molière, Benserade, and
Quinault wrote the words. The composer, ever fortunate, had the pleasure
of seeing, at a performance at which the king was present, the Duke of
Monmouth, the Duc de Villeroy, and the Marquis de Rassen dance in this
pastoral; for, with a view to acquire graceful deportment, they were
content to mix with professional dancers. This fact is significant of
the manners of society during that period in the history of France, and
the applause bestowed by Louis XIV. upon the noble dancers, also
redounded to the credit of Lully and contributed to his promotion.

“Atys” was a particularly fortunate piece, for it gave especial pleasure
to Le Grande Monarque, who might have said, without undue exaggeration,
“La France, c’est moi!” This work, on which Quinault collaborated, was
produced for the first time at the Château of St. Germain, in the month
of January, 1678, in the presence of Louis XIV., and was not brought to
the notice of the Parisians before the month of August of the following
year. “Atys” was therefore called the “Opéra du Roy.”

[Illustration:

  LULLY.

  From an engraving in Clément’s Musiciens Célèbres. Probably suggested
    by the Mignard portrait, although the face is reversed.
]

The first performance of this lyric tragedy at St. Germain was made
especially attractive because the dances were executed by lords and
ladies of the court, in conjunction with the ordinary dancers of the
Royal Academy of Music. Many of the morceaux in “Atys” are worthy of
mention. The critics of the time have greatly eulogized the air “Le
Sommeil” in the third act, on account of the persistence of the rhythm
in the bass (four quarter notes).

Just as “Atys” was called the “King’s Opera,” so “Isis” received the
name of the “Musicians’ Opera.” A music critic of the times writes as
follows concerning the work: “This opera is the most erudite ever
written by Lully, who spent an infinite time upon it. At the court
performance, the great number of instruments, played by the most
accomplished masters, contributed not a little to emphasize the beauties
of the music.”

M. de Lajarte, formerly the librarian of the Opéra library, and one of
the principal collaborators of the publisher, Michaelis, of Paris, has
recently realized the happy idea of reconstituting and condensing, with
piano accompaniment, the masterpieces of the French opera of the
seventeenth century, and he makes the following interesting remark
respecting this “great number” of instruments: “The extraordinary number
spoken of by Fresneuse dwindles down to trumpets in the prologue, and
flutes at the end of the third act. But, by a happy coincidence, these
two symphonic members of the work which so astonished our forefathers
are also a subject of astonishment for us modern critics, at least in
the matter of the trumpets. The degree of skill and certainty in
tonguing displayed by the trumpet players in Lully’s orchestra was
nothing short of marvellous.” The trumpet parts in the works of Bach and
Handel are not less difficult of execution, and at this day it would
seem that they could not possibly be played.

Now that the music known as imitative has made such notable progress,
frequently exceeding the limits of good taste, now that Meyerbeer,
Berlioz, and, above all, Wagner have carried to such perfection the
complicated art of orchestration, it is very interesting to read in the
score of “Isis” the air imitative of the noises in nature and called the
“air de Pan.” It enables us to realize the extraordinary progress made
in instrumentation since Lully’s time. This air was exceedingly popular
at that day. In addition to the sounds heard in nature, which are not
made very prominent, however, this page of music is rich in declamation,
and is not without charm. But sweeter to the ear, in our opinion, is the
duet of nymphs in the second act. It is simple, clear, and remarkably
graceful.

It will be readily understood that the limits of this biography will not
admit of an exhaustive criticism of Lully’s works. We can only point
out, in a somewhat cursory manner, the finest passages of his
better-known operas, “Psyché,” “Bellerophon,” “Proserpine,” “Armide,”
etc. In “Bellerophon” one is fain to quote the entire prologue, in order
to show the _ideas_, the _subjects_, or, to put it in another way, the
mere melody. This grand spectacular lyric tragedy was performed with
great success during ten consecutive months, and it was afterward
reproduced several times.

“Phaéton”—for some inexplicable cause—has been called the “people’s
opera,” just as “Armide” has been styled the “women’s opera.”

Lully’s “Armide,” although much inferior to the “Armide” of Gluck, must
nevertheless be included among his works best adapted for the stage, and
the most concentrated in style. Only eight years before the appearance
of Gluck’s immortal “Armide,” that is to say, in 1764, the Academy of
Music performed the opera of the same name by Lully for the last time,
and with brilliant success.

“Persée” is, without doubt, one of Lully’s finest works. The score
abounds with charming morceaux, the product of a skilled and fertile
pen. This opera held its place for long in the _répertoire_, and each
time it was revived the public accorded it a favorable reception. The
libretto, by Quinault, the faithful collaborator of the musician, is
written in a superior style, offering excellent situations for the
musician. Nor should we forget to mention “Proserpine,” Lully’s tenth
opera in order of representation.

We have already observed that the distinguishing trait of the dramatic
music of Lully, as compared with his contemporaries, is pre-eminently
the grandeur of his style, with a declamation so exact that it may be
described as perfect. His music is the embodiment of the art of
moderation in the recitative, and the accessories of song so lavishly
employed by nearly all the Italian composers of the seventeenth century
are not permitted by him to overwhelm the essential note of the melody.
Lully shows less variety, less flexibility in the ensemble of his
productions, than do Carissimi, Léo, Pergolèse, and Marcello, but he
comes nearer dramatic truth than any of these masters. His music, for
the most part, has the killing frost of age upon it; but that he was a
man of genius is scarcely in need of demonstration. He was an innovator,
as surely as was Gluck, and, moreover, was an epoch-maker in operatic
music. As a musician he was not without learning, as an examination of
his overtures will clearly evidence. Some charming pieces for the
clavecin show him as a pleasing and skilful writer for that instrument.
The student can still find much in Lully’s scores that will repay
thoughtful attention.

The name of Lully is inseparable from that of his faithful collaborator,
Quinault, the versatile and imaginative poet who aided the composer by
providing him subjects which were not only suited to the taste of the
time, but contained situations adapted for the purposes of the musician.
Before all and beyond all, Quinault, who in no wise deserved the bitter
satires that Boileau showered upon him, thoroughly understood the genius
of Lully, and knew how to adapt that genius to the tragedies which he
was thereby inspired to write.

It will be understood why we do not give a facsimile reproduction of
Lully’s musical manuscript, when we say that neither in the musical
library of the Opéra, nor in that of the Conservatoire, nor at the
National Library of Paris, nor anywhere else, can a single note of music
from the pen of the founder of French opera be discovered. The same is
true of his handwriting, not a line of which has come down to us. All
that remains of it are three signatures. The composer of the music of
“Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme” has this in common with its author, Molière,
of whose writing only two or three signatures are extant.

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  JEAN PHILIPPE RAMEAU

  _Reproduction of an excellent lithograph portrait of Rameau._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                          JEAN PHILIPPE RAMEAU


Just as Lully was the glory of the seventeenth century, so French
musical genius is represented in the eighteenth by Rameau, the most
learned theorist and illustrious composer of his time.

Jean Philippe Rameau was born at Dijon on the 25th of September, 1683.
His father and mother were amateur musicians, and they carefully taught
their son the elements of the art of which he was destined to become
such a celebrated master. The little Rameau made very rapid progress,
and his numerous biographers are agreed that at the age of seven there
was no musical score which he could not execute at sight on the
harpsichord.

In spite of his extraordinary talent for music, Rameau’s parents did not
wish him to become an artist. They desired that he should enter the
magistracy, and placed him as a student in the care of the Jesuits. He
did not make much progress, however, and did not get beyond the fourth
class in Latin; for his head was full of music and he could not apply
himself to study, insomuch that he became a deplorable example for his
school-fellows. His copy-books were annotated with fragments of music
which passed through his mind and which he took a great pleasure in
putting upon paper. He was at last sent away from the Jesuit college as
an intractable pupil; he had but a very slight knowledge of Latin,
French, or history, and the same might be said of other subjects.

On returning to his family he gave himself up completely to the study of
the harpsichord and the organ, and also learned to play upon the violin.
As regards harmony, the youthful Rameau failed to get beyond the first
principles of that art-science, as he could not find in Dijon any
musician sufficiently well informed on the rules and practice of
counterpoint to perfect his knowledge of harmony. Who knows whether it
was not precisely this unfortunate blank in his studies which caused him
later on to undertake the theoretical inquiries into the formation of
chords that are the subject of his admirable treatises on harmony?

Before he had thoroughly learned the laws of harmony, Rameau, as yet a
beardless youth, yielded to the law laid down by the little winged god
whose name is Cupid. He fell madly in love with a widow who was his
neighbor. Everybody knows that nothing exercises a more unfortunate or
more beneficial influence over the mind of a young lover than the advice
given him by the woman he loves. Happily the widow gave good advice to
her adorer. She went so far one day as to reproach him with his
ignorance of the French language. “You spell like a scullion!” she told
him. Rameau did not die on the spot in consequence of this outrage, for
he was a strong-minded youth; but his face became scarlet, and he
promised to study—a promise he kept.

Rameau’s father, however, who desired to put an end to the intrigue
carried on by his son—who was as precocious in passionate gallantry as
he was talented on the harpsichord—broke off the liaison by sending him
to travel in Italy. Rameau did not tear himself away from his fair
neighbor without great emotion, his heart beating _prestissimo
appassionato_; but he was bound to obey the paternal behest.

The future author of “Castor and Pollux” was not yet eighteen years of
age when he arrived in Milan. The works of the Italian composers then in
vogue did not at all modify his taste, which was entirely the outcome of
his own peculiar character. He heard the music of Scarlatti, Lotti,
Duni, Caldara, Leo, and it caused him surprise rather than satisfaction.
He remained but a short time in the capital of Lombardy, and did not
continue his Italian excursion further than that point. He had but one
desire, and that was to return to France. Chance having brought him into
contact with a theatrical manager, who had come to Milan to get together
an orchestra and an operatic troupe for a tour in the south of France,
Rameau accepted an engagement as violinist. It was several years later
when he returned to Dijon. Whether or not he sought the widow for whom
he had felt such an affection history does not say. We are rather
inclined to think that he did not see her again, as he remained at Dijon
but a very short time. Henceforth, he patiently awaited the moment when
he should be able to go to Paris, to sit at the feet of eminent masters
who would perfect him in the art of composition.

Finally he left for the French capital, and arrived there in the course
of the year 1717, being then about thirty-four years of age. It was very
late to commence the study of an art of which he as yet only imperfectly
understood the technique. Especially was it late to dream of attaining
celebrity in theatrical music, access to which was always very difficult
for unknown composers.

Rameau at last believed that he had found a protector and a professor
who would be disposed to complete his musical education, in the person
of the organist Marchand, who was held in great esteem in Paris. But
Marchand at once detected the superior genius—although it was then in a
latent state—of the Dijon musician, and under the influence of fear and
jealousy he sent him away. He acted indeed in a most culpable manner
towards Rameau and showed unjust partiality to others, as we shall see.

The position of organist at the Church of St. Paul becoming vacant, it
was submitted to public competition. Rameau, being obliged to work to
keep the pot boiling, presented himself as a competitor against one
Daquin, who was an indifferent organist, and still more indifferent
composer. Marchand was appointed judge of the competition. According to
the testimony of all who were present at this interesting trial, Rameau
stood forth immensely superior to Daquin. Nevertheless Marchand decided
in favor of the latter, and consequently the position was given to him.
After this check, Rameau was obliged to accept a place as organist at
Lille. He left Paris regretfully; but his departure was a source of
great satisfaction to Marchand, who feared his presence there.

Rameau did not remain long at Lille. He had a brother at Clermont, in
Auvergne, who was a musician of some talent, and organist of the
cathedral of that city. Wishing to retire, he offered Jean Philippe the
position which he was leaving, and the place being a remunerative one,
Rameau accepted. He was, however, to his deep regret, obliged to enter
into an engagement for a certain number of years, for towards Paris his
eyes were ever turned.

Situated in the midst of the mountains, the town of Clermont was at that
time very little visited by strangers, and Rameau concentrated himself
in his own personality. He wrote motets and pieces for the harpsichord.
There, too, he reflected upon the natural laws governing the formation
of chords, the theory of which had not then been expounded. After deep
and continuous study—like Newton when he discovered the law of
gravitation—Rameau at last discovered the secret of harmony. To him
belongs the glory of being the first to formulate these laws, in his
first work, of which we shall speak presently.

Four years had passed away, yet Rameau was bound to remain at Clermont
for several years more, in accordance with the terms of his agreement;
but he still saw Paris in his dreams, Paris, the only city where he
could produce his compositions and his book on theory. He was, however,
held in great esteem at Clermont, and in spite of his repeated attempts
to cancel the agreement he was unable to do so. He then devised a plan
by which he should be sent away from his church for reasons contrary to
those which were advanced by the friends and admirers who desired him to
remain there. They thought that he was an inspired organist and that his
harmonies were of an elevated and powerful character. Rameau suddenly
began to play on his noble instrument like an ignorant musician,
destitute of ideas, bringing forth such discordant and frightful sounds
that the clergy were scandalized and the faithful stopped their ears.
Remonstrances were made to him. He answered that he could do no better;
that it was in this wise that the noble art of the organist had been
suddenly revealed to him, and that he should always play in this manner.
He was accordingly dismissed and received his discharge with infinite
joy. At the last service which he attended, when his successor sat by
his side, he ceased his practical joking and played upon the organ in
such a manner as to compel the admiration of all who heard it. He was
determined that they should regret his departure, and he succeeded
marvellously.

Thus Rameau returned to Paris, where, in the course of a short time, he
published his treatise on harmony. But the subject was so novel and the
explanations given by the author so abstruse that musicians failed to
understand it. This, however, did not prevent them from speaking of it
malevolently, with the naive and base assurance born of ignorance and
vanity. Profoundly saddened but not discouraged by this result, he
turned to composition for the renown which was not accorded to him as a
theorist.

Rameau wrote with rare facility cantatas with choruses, sonatas, and
other pieces for the harpsichord, which caused him to be regarded with
great interest by the public. Pupils came to him and he obtained the
position of organist at the church of Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. He
would have been perfectly happy in this position, had he not yearned for
a grander destiny, of which mention has already been made—success as a
composer of grand opera.

To test his strength he made his debut in a small theatre, as the author
of the scores for several pieces written by his fellow-Dijonais, the
poet Piron, of happy memory, with songs and dance-tunes, which did not
pass unnoticed. Then, resuming his labors on musical theory, he
published his second book on the subject. This book, like the first, did
not escape the malevolent criticism of ignorant persons; but this tended
to spread abroad the name of the author, which came to be talked of in
spite of the efforts made to keep it secret. Rameau’s instrumental music
began to be sought after, and his pieces for the harpsichord were played
everywhere. This result was not what he had hoped to attain: conscious
of his superiority as a dramatic composer, his goal, as we know, was the
Académie de Musique. He applied to the echoes of the neighborhood, that
is to say, to all the lyric poets who had a reputation. These turned a
deaf ear to his request, being fearful of collaborating at the debut
(always an uncertain matter) of a composer in so difficult, so complex
an art as lyric tragedy.

[Illustration:

  JEAN PHILIPPE RAMEAU.

  From a lithograph at the Paris Opera Library, made after a drawing by
    E. Nesle.
]

At last, however, Rameau found the golden key which, so the proverb
says, opens every door, even the door of the Opera, in the person of the
great financier, M. de la Popelinière, whose wife was one of his pupils
and took lessons on the harpsichord. M. de la Popelinière arranged a
meeting at his house between the most illustrious Voltaire and Rameau,
the humble aspirant to musical glory. Voltaire promised to write an
opera for the protégé of the great Farmer-General, and this piece
appears in the complete works of Voltaire under the title of “Samson.”
The literary masterpiece of the great writer pleased Rameau greatly, and
he set to work upon the accompanying music with great enthusiasm. When
the score was finished the musician rendered it at de la Popelinière’s
house, in presence of Voltaire and a chosen few. Rameau emerged from the
ordeal triumphant; but, alas! there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.
The director of the Académie de Musique would have nothing to do with
the piece, which he considered unsuitable for the opera, because founded
on a biblical subject. It is interesting to remember what Voltaire has
written on this question.

“Rameau,” says he, in speaking of “Samson,” “Rameau, the greatest
musician in France, set this opera to music about the year 1732. It was
about to be produced, when the same cabal which at a later date
succeeded in causing the representations of ‘Mahomet’ (one of Voltaire’s
tragedies) to be suspended, prevented the production of ‘Samson’ at the
Opéra.”

I do not know whether the cabal spoken of by the author of the
“Dictionnaire Philosophique” was responsible in this matter. I should be
inclined to think that the director of the Opéra simply took counsel
with himself. Whatever the fact, Voltaire adds:

“And at the very time when permission was given for this piece
(“Samson”) to be played at the Theatre of the Comédie Italienne, and
when ‘Samson’ worked miracles conjointly with Arlequin, permission was
not granted for the same subject to be represented in a noble and worthy
manner at the Theatre of the Académie de Musique. Our musician has since
made use of nearly all the airs in ‘Samson’ in other lyric compositions,
which envy was unable to suppress.”

It is quite true that Rameau utilized, but long afterwards, a part of
the music in “Samson” for his opera “Zoroastre.” This work was not his
début at the opera. The composer appeared before the Académie de Musique
with “Hippolyte et Aricie,” by the Abbé Pellegrin, a worldly abbé if
there ever was one, and a great playwright, concerning whom these verses
were written:

                Le matin catholique et le soir idolâtre,
                Il dîne de l’autel et soupe du théâtre.

M. de la Popelinière advanced 500 livres to the Abbé to secure him
against the possible failure of the piece, and Rameau set to work again.
This opera was given on the first of October, 1733. The composer
attained renown in his fiftieth year: he was old in years but young in
fame, as we have seen.

[Illustration:

  RAMEAU.

  From a copperplate engraved by J. W. Bellinger, Berlin, 1802.
]

Before examining the dramatic works of Rameau and forming an opinion as
to their influence upon French art, we will add a few words concerning
the composer’s personal appearance. He was tall in stature and
extraordinarily thin. His face was furrowed by deep wrinkles; he had an
aquiline nose, a broad and open forehead and prominent cheek-bones. The
mouth was large, the look frank and bold and indicative of energy,
perseverance and will power. One might have supposed him a person of
delicate health, although he was never seriously ill, owing to the very
sober regime which he had adopted. Given much to reflection, he was not
talkative and never spoke of himself. He married a young lady named
Marie Louise Mangot, who was a good musician and had a very fine voice,
and she made her illustrious husband very happy in his home circle by
her amiable character and her kindness of heart. He had by her three
children, one son and two daughters. Rameau died at the age of about
eighty-one, in the same month as that which saw his birth—the 12th of
September, 1764—leaving behind him a considerable quantity of dramatic
music, although he had only begun to write for the theatre, as we know,
at an age when many men have finished their career.

[Illustration:

  STATUE OF RAMEAU IN PARIS OPERA HOUSE

  Reproduced from a photograph made for this work by special permission.
    One of four life-size statues placed in the vestibule of the Opera
    House, at the foot of the grand marble staircase.
]

“Hippolyte et Aricie” met with but doubtful success, about which there
was difference of opinion. Accustomed as the public was to the flowing
music of Lully, that of Rameau was considered brusque and his harmonies
rough and dissonant. They were indeed very bold for the time. What
astonished the amateurs and put to rout the imitators of Lully, such as
Colasse, Desmarets, Blamont, was the novelty of the modulation, the
suddenness of the changed chords, the character and style of the
instrumentation. With Rameau, the flutes, hautbois, bassoons, manifested
themselves at intervals, without any interruption of the general theme
of the symphony. Rameau sought to give and gave to each instrument its
own particular force and value, which enhanced the interest without
detracting in any degree from the unity of style of the piece.

At a later date, when he had attained the full measure of his
experience, Rameau certainly produced better work than “Hippolyte et
Aricie.” At the same time this first opera of the great French master is
full of dramatic beauty and attractive conceptions. We may cite, as an
example, the charming chorus of nymphs in the prologue, the graceful
gavotte which was sung: “A l’Amour rendons les armes.” And again, the
fine air sung by Aricie in the first act, the chorus, “Dieux vengeurs,
lancez le tonnerre”; with a purely instrumental page to imitate the
thunder, which certainly does not equal the storm of the pastoral
symphony, but which at the same time is not wanting in effect,
particularly the violin arpeggios. The second act, the scene of which is
laid in the infernal regions, is characterized by a boldness of harmony
and a striking novelty for the period. The two first movements of the
first scene are simply pure Weber. The rest is of the same fantastic
character.

There is no musician, however humble his attainments, who does not know
and admire the trio of the Fates, “Quelle soudaine horreur.” The
succession of chords on the words, “Où cours-tu, malheureux?” are
striking in their expression. This would appear even at the present day
as a happy and wonderfully effective discovery.

“Les Indes Galantes,” an heroic ballet, was the second work that Rameau
gave to the Opéra. He was then fifty years of age. The public, who had
become more accustomed to the musician’s peculiarly characteristic
style, received this work in the most favorable manner. From that time
forth, the master who had experienced such difficulty in obtaining
access to the Opéra, was rewarded with one long series of triumphs. He
reigned in the opinion of the musicians and the habitués of the Académie
de Musique as an omnipotent sovereign of the art. “Les Fêtes d’Hébé,”
“Dardanus,” “Zoroastre,” “Anacréon,” “Platée,” “Les Fêtes de Polymnie,”
“Les Fêtes de l’Hymen et de l’Amour,” are works which bear the impress
of Rameau’s genius. His talent appeared to the most advantage, however,
in “Castor et Pollux,” his dramatic masterpiece, which indeed is a fine
example of theatrical music.

We mentioned above the theoretical works of Rameau, and now propose to
make further reference to them. Rameau’s theory, which threw a flood of
light upon what before his time was darkness and empiricism, is entirely
based upon the eternal law governing the creation of chords by the
resonances of the monochord. Rameau found in these resonances the
_fundamental bass_ of the different chords composed of a succession of
thirds. This discovery of the fundamental bass showed the true nature of
the inversions of chords which before the theoretical exposition of the
great Dijon master had been considered as so many peculiar kinds of
chords.

Rameau had discovered the natural formation of chords, a thing wonderful
in itself and sufficient to make his name immortal; but in thus
establishing the principles of harmony he had not established all its
laws. He left to his didactic successors the work of laying down the
important rules of the attraction of notes for the determination of
chords, as also the rules governing their movement in modulation. It is
thus that we find in Rameau’s work certain hazardous harmonies which are
more due to the non-observance of these laws than offences against good
taste or fancies of the composer’s imagination. We see, indeed, in the
music of this artistic genius successions of fifths, faulty relation of
notes, brusque modulations offensive to the ear, which are nothing more
than faults in writing. Thus he who has been truly called the “Father of
Harmony,” made mistakes in harmony which, even at the present day, in
spite of the great liberty taken by composers of the advanced school
with their successions of modified chords, still remain faults in
musical grammar.

Rameau wrote his last opera, “Les Paladins,” at the age of
seventy-seven. In reading this score we find nothing to indicate any
failing of the vigorous mind of this extraordinary musician, who,
following Lully, was the pioneer in the great field of dramatic music
that Gluck was destined to cover with incomparable power and genius.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Rameau.

  Reproduced from original in the Paris Opera Library.
]

This article would be very incomplete were we not to say a few words
concerning the pieces for the harpsichord composed by Rameau, which form
such an important item in the fine work by A. Mereaux, “Les
Clavecinistes,” containing a selection of pieces by these musicians from
1637 to 1790, classed in their chronological order, and revised,
annotated and accented with the variations and ornaments of the period
and in full notation. What pianist of the present day has not delighted
in playing, from amongst the numerous compositions by Rameau for the
harpsichord, his “Musette,” “Tambourin,” “Poule,” “Rappel des Oiseaux,”
“Fanfarinette,” “Egyptienne,” and “Entretiens des Muses,” etc. Few
pianists, however, have succeeded in executing these delightful
inspirations on the instrument for which they were written, and which
gives them their full effect, with all the freshness of idea, color, and
ingenious accompaniment. It is a feast for a musical epicure to hear
music by Couperin, or Frescobaldi, or Scarlatti played by an educated
musician and pianist of taste, in conjunction with music by Rameau
executed upon a well-preserved or newly-manufactured harpsichord. For
the celebrated piano manufactory of Pleyel, Wolff et Cie., of Paris,
yielding to the desire expressed by a few artists and amateurs, has made
for them a limited number of harpsichords which out-rival in a
remarkable manner, both as to quality of sound and the number of pedals,
the finest instrument of the celebrated Taskin.

In 1888, the Paris Society of Musical Composers gave an exclusively
artistic soirée in the Salle Pleyel, the memory of which yet remains. By
the side of magnificent grand pianos, the most noble instruments
produced by this musical establishment, was a harpsichord, which gave
promise of great things. It was not found wanting when put to the test;
for, in the hands of M. Diémer and Mme. Roger-Miclos, two virtuosos
whose reputation is well established, it rendered the music of the
composers who wrote for the harpsichord in a wonderful manner,
particularly the pieces by Rameau.

A statue has been erected to the memory of Rameau in his native town of
Dijon, due to the initiative of a Dijon composer of considerable talent,
M. Poisot, who opened a subscription in order to put on record the
public admiration for this great and illustrious musician of Burgundy.

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  TRIUMPH OF RAMEAU.

  From a rare engraving by Fessard.
]

[Illustration:

  ANDRÉ ERNEST MODESTE GRÉTRY

  _Reproduction of a portrait by Quenedey painted in 1808._

  _Grétry at the age of sixty-seven._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                      ANDRÉ ERNEST MODESTE GRÉTRY


André Ernest Modeste Grétry, the author of “Richard Cœur de Lion,” was
born at Liège on the 11th of February, 1741. At the age of seven years
he was placed by his father, a poor musician and one of the violinists
of the Collegiate Church of St. Denis, as a chorister in that church.

The unfortunate little boy, who was of a delicate constitution and who
suffered from hemorrhages throughout the whole of his laborious
existence, was obliged to walk six times every day from his home to the
church—a distance of about a mile—in order to take part in the services.
Matins were sung, even in the most rigorous days of winter, between five
and six o’clock in the morning. One day the child arrived somewhat late
at this early service, and although he was not to blame, the
choir-master obliged him to remain upon his knees for two hours in the
midst of his fellow choristers. This punishment had such an effect upon
little Grétry, who was naturally of a timid disposition, that he would
awake several times during the night in a state of fear lest he should
arrive too late. “Without considering the hour or the weather, I would
often start off as early as three o’clock in the morning, through snow
and ice, and would sit down at the door of the church, warming my hands
at my little lantern, which I held on my knees. In this way I used to
sleep more peacefully, because I was sure that they could not open the
door without waking me.”

Grétry finally emancipated himself from this choir, which was a
veritable scholastic place of torment, having learned scarcely anything
of music. His first professor of any importance was the organist of the
Church of St. Pierre at Liège, M. Renekin, who gave him lessons in
counterpoint for two years, and kindly encouraged him in his early
essays in instrumental music. The young musician also studied under
Moreau, a talented musician and a methodical and conscientious
professor.

In order to finish his musical studies and because of an ardent desire
to visit other countries, Grétry conceived the idea of going to Rome to
establish himself there. The idea of separation was not a pleasant one
for his father. He opposed it for two reasons: his son’s delicate
health, and the expense which would necessarily be incurred. However,
there was no choice but to yield before the determination expressed by
this young aspirant to musical glory; and Grétry, who was then eighteen
years of age, started from Liège for Rome. He set forth on foot—being
destitute of the means which would enable him to make this long journey
by coach or on horseback—after having seen performed a mass of his own
composition, in recognition of which a present was made him by the
canons of St. Denis.

With a small stock of money and a pair of pistols given him by his
grandfather to defend himself against the highwaymen—there were
highwaymen then, and many of them on the roads of beautiful Italy—Grétry
set out with a guide named Remacle, who, in spite of his sixty years,
was accustomed to travel on foot from Liège to Rome, and from Rome to
Liège, regularly twice a year. His ostensible profession was that of a
guide, but he also followed the less respectable and more remunerative
calling of smuggler. Remacle fraudulently carried into Rome quantities
of fine Flanders lace, while from Rome he brought back relics and Popes’
slippers which he supplied to the convents in the Netherlands. Whether
these slippers had really been worn by his Holiness and whether the
relics had the origin ascribed to them by the honest Remacle, it is not
necessary to inquire here: rumor said so, and by faith we attain
salvation.

When the day fixed for the departure of the young musician arrived, the
guide went to the house of Grétry’s parents. His coming might be likened
to the appearance of a spectre to this poor couple, so deeply affected
were they by the departure of their child. Without a word the little
fellow laid hold of his valise and strapped it on his back; then knelt
down with his hands clasped before his father and mother and asked their
blessing. “God bless thee, dear child!” were the simple words pronounced
by the broken-hearted parents, and then the traveller disappeared with
his guide.

The son was not less moved than his father and mother, whose kindly
faces were bathed in tears and wore the ashy hue of death. “As soon as I
was able to think calmly,” writes the musician, “I felt tears trickling
down my cheeks, and I said: ‘O God, grant that thy poor creature may one
day become the support and consolation of his unfortunate parents!’” How
touching is this simple scene, how eloquently does it speak in favor of
this patriarchal household which Grétry, by his genius, has made
illustrious; and how strongly are our sympathies moved by the
immortality earned for it by this most sensible of sons!

The brave youth, who was accompanied by a young surgeon, walked
regularly ten leagues a day with his knapsack upon his back. Those were
hard day’s marches. At Trèves the two young men began to fear that they
would not be able to go any farther, but their energetic determination
gave them strength, and they continued their journey, still at the rate
of ten leagues a day. They passed through the Tyrol, singing the while,
and braved the dangers of the avalanches, and a few days later stood in
rapt admiration of the beautiful land of the Milanese. They afterward
visited the artistic curiosities of Florence. Every part of Italy was in
their eyes an enchanted region. At last Grétry saluted the Eternal City,
which he entered by the Porta del Popolo. He had ample time to make
himself thoroughly familiar with Rome and to carefully study the works
of the Italian masters, then so greatly renowned; for he remained at
least nine years in Italy. Here he made his early efforts in sacred and
in theatrical music, but without achieving any brilliant success. He was
then feeling his way, and did not as yet know for what particular style
of music he was best fitted. Chance, however, brought to his notice a
comic opera by Monsigny, and he at once felt that his true vocation was
the music best suited to comedy. But as Paris was the only field which
offered him the means of making himself known to advantage in this
branch of musical art, he resolved to settle in the French capital.

In this biography of Grétry it would be unjust to omit the name of the
Swedish Envoy, the Comte de Creutz, who raised the musician’s hopes and
helped him to continue his struggle at times when he felt greatly
depressed. M. de Creutz had divined the degree of genius exhibited in
the early attempts of our musician, although they had not been publicly
successful, and it is fitting that his name should be mentioned in
connection with the successes of his illustrious protégé. Grétry never
lost an opportunity of testifying his deep gratitude to M. de Creutz.

When, after his long sojourn in Italy, the composer was guided by his
lucky star to settle in Paris, he had neither harpsichord nor
pianoforte, and it appears that for some time he pursued his studies
without having one of these instruments which are of the first necessity
for a composer. It was upon a clavichord lent him by M. Louet that the
composer wrote: “Les Mariages Samnites,” “Lucile,” “Le Huron,” “Le
Tableau Parlant,” “Le Sphinx,” “Les Deux Avares,” “L’Amitié à
l’Epreuve,” and “Zemire et Azor.”

In the clavichord, which was the predecessor of the spinet, brass rods
are used instead of pen nibs to make the chords vibrate. Grétry’s
clavichord, which may be found in the interesting collection of the
Instrumental Museum at the Paris Conservatoire, possesses only four
octaves and two notes, as was usually the case with the clavichords of
the seventeenth century. We asked permission of M. Pillaut, the learned
conservator of the Instrumental Museum, to take a photograph of this
clavichord, which is not only highly interesting in itself, but because
it was the faithful confidant of the master’s inspiration. M. Pillaut
gave the permission asked, and we think it right to tender him our
thanks.

[Illustration:

  GRETRY’S CLAVICHORD AT THE INSTRUMENTAL MUSEUM AT THE PARIS
    CONSERVATOIRE.

  From a photograph made by special permission.
]

Grétry passed the last years of his life at Montmorency, near Paris, in
a house called the _Hermitage_, where the celebrated writer Jean Jacques
Rousseau lived for some time and died. Here, retired from the world,
Grétry received his faithful friends of the last days, notably D’Alayrac
and Boieldieu, who lived in a cottage near the _Hermitage_. The old
master loved to talk about his art to those who succeeded him in the
career, and he lavished upon them the precious counsels of his
experience. It was in acknowledgment of this great service that
Boieldieu dedicated to Grétry his charming _Opera-Comique, “Jean de
Paris.”_ During the latter part of his life Grétry composed nothing, and
after the death of his wife, which occurred March 17, 1807, he very
rarely visited the theatre. In 1812 Grétry partially rewrote his score
of _Elisa_, which was his last bit of composition. On Sept. 12, 1813,
feeling very ill, he wrote the following letter to M. Le Breton, life
secretary of the department of Fine Arts at the Institute:—

“My dear colleague: It is impossible for me to be present at the
Institute for the judgment of the musical prize. On arriving at the
Hermitage, still convalescent, I was attacked with a hemorrhage which
lasted three days, and from which I lost a pint and a half of blood,
leaving me extremely weak. I now await the end of my long sufferings. I
am resigned, but in leaving this life, I feel that one of my keenest
regrets will be never again to meet my dear colleagues whom I love no
less than I honor them. I pray you to let them see this letter. Adieu,
my dear colleague; I embrace you with all my heart.

                                                                GRÉTRY.”

[Illustration:

  GRÉTRY’S TOMB AT THE HERMITAGE.
]

A few days later, Sept. 26, 1813, the author of _Richard Cœur de Lion_
passed away. The funeral ceremony took place in Paris, with great
solemnity. The pall-bearers were Méhul, Berton, Marsallier and Bouilly.

Grétry’s heart has been the object of much discussion, and even a
tedious law suit. The composer had often expressed in his lifetime the
desire that his heart should be offered to his native city, Liège. M.
Flamand, one of Grétry’s nephews, having obtained from the prefect of
police at Paris the authorization to have the body exhumed in order to
send the heart to Liège, wrote to the mayor of that city and offered him
this precious token of the illustrious composer’s ardent love for his
native country. The mayor responded in such terms as to cause M. Flamand
to reconsider his proposition, and the heart was kept at the Hermitage.

In 1821 the city of Liège reclaimed the bequest which had been made it,
but this time M. Flamand absolutely refused to deliver it up. A lawsuit
followed which was decided by the court substantially as follows: that
since the extraction of Grétry’s heart had been demanded by the family
and granted by public authority solely for the purpose of paying homage
to the city of Liege, which had prepared a monument to receive it,
therefore it should be withdrawn from the garden of the Hermitage, and
sent to the commissioners of the city of Liège. This decree was not
carried out. The prefect of the Seine and the minister of the interior
objected. The question was then carried before the council of state, and
in 1828, fifteen years after Grétry’s death, the precious leaden box
containing the heart of the illustrious composer was carried to Liège.

[Illustration:

  GRÉTRY’S HERMITAGE.

  Formerly inhabited by Jean Jacques Rousseau.
]

[Illustration:

  GRÉTRY’S HERMITAGE.

  View from the garden behind house.
]

[Illustration:

  MEMORIAL CHAPEL.

  Erected by M. and Mme. Flamand Grétry in Enghien, Montmorency, to
    receive the heart of the illustrious Grétry.
]

[Illustration:

  INTERIOR OF CHAPEL.
]

We cannot close this biography of the most celebrated musician of
Liège—one of the most musical cities in Europe—without mentioning the
Musée Grétry at the conservatory in the capital of the Walloon country.
This most interesting museum, where may be seen the objects which either
formerly belonged to the celebrated composer or serve to remind us of
him, is the personal work of the present director of the Liège
Conservatoire, the learned and distinguished composer, Theodore Radoux.
We have had the pleasure of visiting this museum—a veritable
shrine—accompanied by M. Radoux, who described the various objects
exhibited, in a most lucid and instructive manner.

Grétry left Rome for Geneva in the month of January, 1767. A short time
before, Favart’s “Isabelle et Gertrude” had been represented at the
Comédie Italienne in Paris. It was a success, but the music seemed to be
weak. Grétry seized upon this comedy and wrote new airs for it.
“Isabelle et Gertrude” was represented at Geneva, and was very well
received.

In Paris Grétry was present at a representation of “Dardanus,” by
Rameau, which he did not altogether understand, and which, as he
admitted later, he found to be almost wearisome. He was still too full
of the memories of Italian music—although it had exercised very little
real influence on his genius—to be able to thoroughly appreciate at its
proper value this essentially dramatic French music, which was at times
somewhat crude as to harmony and melodious expression, but always suited
to the action. Nevertheless, although this work of the immediate
predecessor of Gluck did not appeal to him strongly, Grétry was not long
in recognizing its true merit. He told himself that Music, although not
merely the humble handmaid of Poesy, with which she is allied, ought to
aid her to express her feelings with due effect, and that consequently
theatrical music should, as far as possible, be subject to the rules of
pure elocution. Following the example of Lully—for whom Grétry always
expressed great admiration—he was wont to attend the Théâtre-Français to
find the notes, so to speak, of spoken declamation, and unite it
intimately with song and melody. Moreover, the difficulty he experienced
in finding a piece to set to music gave him a good deal of leisure;
indeed the first two years of Grétry’s stay in Paris were devoted to a
search for a poem. At last he obtained from an unknown poet named du
Rozoy, “Les Mariages Samnites,” a piece in three acts which was destined
for the Comédie Italienne but was not accepted at that theatre and was
afterwards rewritten for the Opera. The work was represented there, but
with great difficulty and bitter mortification for the composer.

This essay, which failed to impress the public of the Académie de
Musique, was followed by “Le Huron,” a comedy in two acts by Marmontel,
which was represented for the first time at the Italiens on the 20th of
August, 1769. The piece was unanimously and we might say even
enthusiastically applauded, both by the audience and by the critics.
Above all, the care taken by the composer as to good prosody and the
proper feeling peculiar to the _dramatis personæ_, was greatly
applauded. The songs were considered very happy, although they did not
exhibit that graceful variety of form and contour then characteristic of
the music which the public were accustomed to hear at the Italiens by
masters like Piccinni, Pergolèse, Jomelli, Galuppi, etc.

After “Le Huron” was given “Lucile,” also a poem by Marmontel, in which
a quartet on the words: “Où peut-on être mieux qu’au sein de sa
famille?” was long celebrated. But in reality “Le Tableau Parlant,” the
comic opera which followed “Lucile,” consisting of one act in verse by
Ansaume, produced at the Italiens, was the starting point of Grétry’s
fortune. While fully preserving the good humor of the subject of the
piece and the words which are sung during its progress, the composer
succeeded in clothing the work of the author of the words with
impressive sonorousness, the telling and well-chosen passages being at
the same time instinct with frank gaiety.

From that day forth, it may be said that the celebrated composer
thoroughly realized his capacity, and it was easy to see that he would
take his place in the first rank of comedy in music.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Grétry; from Cherubini’s
    collection.

  The name in upper left-hand corner was written by Cherubini.
]

Grétry did not and could not succeed in grand opera music. Nature had
not endowed him with the lofty sentiment of lyric tragedy; he would have
needed a courage bordering upon temerity or a high-strung imagination to
dare to measure himself with the formidable Gluck, surnamed the Æschylus
of music. But if lyric tragedy was a closed book to him, he nevertheless
succeeded at the theatre of the Grand Opera in lyric comedy, which he
was the first to bring to the notice of the Academy. Grétry himself
takes care to tell us this fact in the following passage of his book:
“When I introduced lyric comedy on the stage of the opera, I was looked
upon as a culpable innovator, and yet I saw that the public was weary of
tragedy, which was always on the boards. I heard many lovers of dancing
murmur because their favorite art was only allowed to play a subsidiary
and frequently a useless rôle in tragedy. I saw the managers who were
desirous of adopting the best possible productions, and were feeling
their way, unsuccessfully revive fragments or pastorals of former times,
and I said as often as I had the opportunity that two styles of music
placed in opposition lent each other mutual charms; that the French
comedians alternately produced tragedy and comedy, and that if they were
obliged to give up these two styles they would not know what to do.” It
would appear that the public of the Grand Opera shared Grétry’s opinion,
as the composer gave several comedies to that theatre which were
brilliantly successful, in particular “La Caravane du Caire,” which had
a long and fashionable run. This piece was represented for the first
time before the Court at Fontainebleau in October, 1783, and a little
later at the Opera. At court, as before the general public, the piece
and its music gave the greatest delight to the spectators. The short but
brilliant and extremely graceful overture of this work speedily became
popular, not only in France but all over Europe. The morceaux of song
are gay but elevated and are all agreeable, although the public would
have liked them better had they been more strongly tinged with oriental
color than they are. If Grétry did not possess the dramatic afflatus in
lyric tragedy, he exhibited in all his operas of a semi-character an
elevated style which, combined with his exceptional wealth of melody,
places him in the first rank of the French masters of the last century.
He gave to pathetic scenes a wonderful sublimity, an admirable instance
of which may be found in the beautiful prison scene in “Richard Cœur de
Lion.” In this work, the fruit of such a rich imagination, Grétry has
exhibited the full measure of his genius and all the talent of which he
was possessed as a harmonist. It is interesting to remark in regard to
this opera that Grétry made of certain portions of the celebrated
ballad, “Une Fievre brûlante,” a sort of _leit motiv_ after the manner
of Wagner. Indeed, this fragmentary theme returns again and again under
different aspects at least nine times in the course of the score. But we
shall see later that Grétry was Wagner’s predecessor not only for the
_leit motiv_, but that he was also the first to suggest an invisible
orchestra such as that of the theatre of Bayreuth. As to the
characteristic theme of “Richard Cœur de Lion” (the fragmentary ballad
considered in its transformations as playing the part of the modern
_leit motiv_), it is curious to notice that Grétry used it in this comic
opera with exactly the same idea as Wagner in his lyric dramas. Whenever
allusion is made to the royal prisoner, described in the ballad sung by
Blondel, a fragment of this air appears. And when Blondel sings to this
same air, but in common measure, the following words:

                       Sa voix a pénétré mon âme,
                       Je la connais, Madame,

“is it not,” writes Grétry, “as though he said: ‘His voice has gone to
my heart while he sang the air which he made for you.’”

[Illustration:

  GRÉTRY

  From an engraving after a painting by Mme. Vigée-Lebrun, in 1785, the
    year of the first representation of “Richard Cœur de Lion.”
]

“Richard Cœur de Lion”—the denouement of which was changed by the author
of the piece, Sedaine, at least three times—marks the culminating point
of the master’s career. The piece had a great and lasting success, and
it remains still in the répertoire of the Opéra Comique. The
instrumentation has been reconstructed in a very careful and happy
manner by Adolphe Adam.

After this work Grétry produced several others, which did not, however,
meet with the same good fortune. Nevertheless, Grétry occupies a place
of honor in the history of theatrical music, and his style is remembered
as original. If he never acquired the dexterity of the adepts at
counterpoint then in renown, and if his harmonies are at times awkward
and even faulty, they still have a peculiar attraction which makes them
not only acceptable but original and charming.

One day when I went to see Auber in his little house in the Rue St.
Georges I found the author of “La Muette de Portici” and the “Domino
Noir” at the piano with one of Grétry’s scores in front of him. “Just
look at this passage,” said Auber, “it is very curious, considered as to
the succession of chords. This harmony is certainly not correct, and
would never have entered the mind of what is called a musical savant.
And yet if you try to change it you may make it more accurate, but it
will be wanting in relief and expression.” That is because the
awkwardness of Grétry is the awkwardness of an artistic genius, and
awkwardness of that kind is a thousand times better than the accuracy of
the cold and unimaginative musician.

I said above that Grétry had the first intuition of the _leit motiv_ in
“Richard Cœur de Lion,” as a device for recalling to the spectator
either an event, a scene, an essential object or a personage, with their
distinctive peculiarities, at the same time preserving unity of style in
the general construction of his work;—I said that he also imagined an
invisible orchestra such as that which exists in the Wagner Theatre at
Bayreuth. Grétry speaks as follows in his work, “Mémoires et Essais sur
la Musique,” in the chapter entitled: “Plan for a new Theatre”:

“I should like the auditorium of my theatre to be small, holding at the
most a thousand persons, and consisting of a sort of open space without
boxes, small or great, because these nooks only encourage scandal or
worse. I should like the orchestra to be concealed so that neither the
musicians nor the lights on their music-stands would be visible to the
spectators. The effect would be magical, the more so as it is always
understood that the orchestra is not supposed to be there. A solid stone
wall ought, in my opinion, to separate the orchestra from the theatre,
so that the sound may reverberate in the auditorium.”

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  GRÉTRY CROSSING THE STYX.

  “Grétry in crossing the Styx plays upon his lyre to beguile the time.
    ‘Why do you not row?’ he asks Charon.... ‘Because I am listening!’”

  Drawn by Joly and engraved by Duplessi-Berlaus.
]

[Illustration:

  FRANÇOIS ADRIEN BOIELDIEU

  _Reproduction of a lithograph portrait by Grevedon, 1826, after a
    painting by Riesener._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                       FRANÇOIS ADRIEN BOIELDIEU


On December 15, 1775, there was born in Rouen a composer who was to
leave an indelible imprint of his abilities upon the operatic music of
France. At the beginning of his career there was nothing in his
circumstances that could have presaged his future greatness. He was the
son of the secretary of Archbishop Larochefoucauld, and his mother kept
a small millinery store in the old-fashioned city. His parents did not
enjoy perfect conjugal felicity, and finally their quarrels led to a
divorce, soon after which the father married again. The young Boieldieu
was designed for a musical career, and his father soon sent him to the
cathedral as a choir-boy. In those days music was frequently made a
matter of apprenticeship, and was studied almost as if it had been a
handicraft; it is therefore not surprising to find the lad indentured to
the cathedral organist Broche, who led him a sorry life. Those who are
familiar with the early life of Haydn will recall how that composer was
forced for a time to be merely the lackey of Porpora; Boieldieu was in
still worse case, for his master was both a drunkard and a martinet, and
many a corporal punishment was inflicted on the apprentice merely
because of errors in musical exercises. It seems strange that the rough
induction into the art did not cause the lad to hate music and finally
desert it, but, as was the case with Beethoven, the tears of childhood
only seem to have cemented the foundation of his education. Broche made
the curriculum hard and dry enough, and the companions of the lad (“le
petit Boiel” they called him then) added to his discomforts by laughing
at his shyness and awkward ways.

Naturally enough Boieldieu stood in mortal terror of his brutal
taskmaster, and the culmination of his fright came one day when he
accidentally upset an ink bottle on one of Broche’s books; expecting
nothing less than capital punishment for such a heinous crime, the boy
took to his heels, and, at the age of twelve, ran away to Paris. How he
managed to get there without money or assistance is not clearly known,
but he eventually arrived and sought out some relatives who dwelt in the
French metropolis. These gave him shelter, but at the same time notified
his parents, who soon took him back to his musical and menial drudgery.
Nevertheless his condition seems to have been bettered by his escapade,
for Broche was warned to use milder measures with him, and he remained
at his studies with the organist until he was sixteen. During these four
years his taste for operatic music began to awaken, and he was a
constant attendant at the performances in the provincial theatre. As he
had no money he was obliged to resort to all kinds of expedients to
obtain admission, and there are many anecdotes extant of his ingenious
efforts to hear this or that opera without going through the slight
preliminary of paying for his admission. At times he would slip into the
theatre early in the morning, carrying a bundle of music, as if he had
been sent as messenger to some of the orchestra, and then, by hiding
through the day, often without food, he managed to stand through the
performance in the evening, after which he would hurry home well
contented with his good fortune. The operas which he heard at this
period of his career were chiefly those of Grétry or of Mehul, as both
composers were much in vogue at that time, and he was much influenced by
their light and melodious style. It was not long before his ambition was
awakened to an attempt to imitate them and to compose an opera himself.
He was eighteen years old when he accomplished this task. He had sought
in vain for a libretto, and finally had recourse to his father, who gave
him the text for an opera which enjoyed an evanescent success. “La Fille
Coupable” was the name of this Opus 1, which was completed in 1793 and
has now disappeared. One can imagine that the audiences were neither
over-refined or hypercritical in those days of the Reign of Terror, but
a more cultivated era soon followed, and the second opera, which came
two years later, and was entitled “Rosalie et Myrza,” was less favorably
received. Boieldieu was not yet ripe for operatic composition, but at
least these works furthered his career in that they obtained him the
privilege of free entrance to other operatic performances, and thus his
experience and taste were gradually expanded.

[Illustration:

  BUST OF BOIELDIEU BY DANTAN.

  From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
]

The partial success fired his heart sufficiently for him to leave Rouen
and seek Paris for the second time. This time he carried with him thirty
francs, an operatic score, and an abundance of self-confidence. He was
now nineteen years old. His reception was the chilling one usually
accorded to young composers in Paris, and very soon he began to feel the
nippings of hunger, which put the thoughts of public success out of his
head for the nonce, and drove him to teaching piano. He however had the
good fortune to make the acquaintance of the celebrated tenor Garat, and
this gentleman became interested in him, and finally sang some of his
_chansons_ in public and in fashionable drawing-rooms. These little
songs soon found favor, and Boieldieu became gradually known through
them. M. Cochet, the publisher, paid him twelve francs each for these
productions, a figure which seems ridiculous until one remembers that
Schubert sometimes accepted a franc or two for some of his immortal
_lieder_. Some of these early works of Boieldieu are still in the
musical repertoire, and are occasionally heard in concerts, as for
example, “O toi que j’aime,” and “Menestrel,” and they served at the
time to spread the social success of the composer. Finally Boieldieu
made the acquaintance of Fiévée, the novelist, who wrote for him a short
libretto in one act, “La Dot de Suzette,” and this opera, after many
intrigues and jealousies, achieved performance and success, thanks to a
bright libretto, sparkling melodies, and the excellent performance of
Madame St. Aubin.

Boieldieu’s prospects now changed with Aladdin-like suddenness, for his
next opera, “La Famille Suisse,” was performed at the Theatre Feydeau
for thirty nights in alternation with Cherubini’s “Medee,” and thus
early began that connection with the great Italian maestro, at that time
the best musician in France, which was to be so fruitful of good results
to the new favorite. In 1798 Boieldieu turned for a while from operatic
work, and composed a number of piano sonatas, piano and harp duets, and
a piano concerto. Although these exercised no permanent influence on the
art, they obtained for him the appointment of professor of piano at the
Paris Conservatoire, two years later. In this position, however he was
not very successful; he was too much wrapped up in composition to make a
good teacher. The musical historian Fétis, who was his pupil, confirms
this estimate; but the post at the Conservatoire led to a close
acquaintance with Cherubini, by which Boieldieu began to remedy his lack
of knowledge of counterpoint and fugal work. Although Fétis denies that
Boieldieu was ever the pupil of Cherubini, there is every reason to
believe that this was the case, even if a regular stipend was not paid
for the tuition. The very fact that in 1799 the two worked in
collaboration on “La Prisonnière” might tend to show that Boieldieu was
anxious to attain something of Cherubini’s musical learning, and his
submission of many later operas to the judgment of this master proves
that he was willing to be guided by him.

About this time Boieldieu produced two operas that carried his fame
beyond his native country; these were the Polish “Benjowski” and the
very tuneful “Caliph of Bagdad,” both of which will receive further
mention in the analytical portion of this article. A little later there
appeared a more advanced work,—“Ma Tante Aurore.” The success was now so
well established that all Parisian managers sought for works from the
gifted pen, and opera followed opera.

[Illustration:

  TOMB OF BOIELDIEU IN PÈRE LACHAISE, PARIS.

  From a lithograph.
]

Boieldieu now lived on contentedly in Paris until 1802, when he almost
wrecked his career in the same manner that his father had done; on March
19th of that year he married a ballet-dancer named Clotilde Mafleuroy,
and immediately began to taste the bitterness of conjugal misery. He
suddenly left Paris on this account and sought employment in Russia. He
was received in St. Petersburg with open arms, and the Czar Alexander at
once appointed him _capellmeister_ of the court. He produced little on
this barren soil however, and although he stayed there eight years, and
his contract called for three new operas and a number of military
marches annually, scarcely anything of this period has been preserved.
In 1810 the political horizon began to darken, and trouble between
Russia and France became so imminent that our composer again suddenly
packed up and returned to his beloved Paris, arriving at the beginning
of 1811. Here however he found everything changed. The Napoleonic wars
had exerted a deleterious influence on operatic patronage, and the
taste, too, had changed in some degree; Cherubini and Mehul were silent,
and Isouard alone ruled _Opera Comique_. Considerable jealousy of
Boieldieu was at this time displayed, and at first he was unsuccessful
in having any of the works he had written in Russia performed in Paris;
therefore he set himself to producing an original work, and in 1812,
“Jean de Paris,” a masterpiece of its kind, was produced at the Theatre
Feydeau. Again a success was won, although not such a phenomenal one as
the “Caliph of Bagdad” had attained, and for the next six years another
series of operas proved that the composer had not lost his hold upon the
Parisian public, and in addition to his own operas Boieldieu
collaborated with Cherubini and Isouard. Two years later a great success
attended the first production of “Le Chaperon Rouge,” but the composer
was so exhausted by this effort that he was obliged to rest for a while
from further composition. He now received the position of professor of
composition at the Conservatoire, taking the place of Mehul, and for
seven years he produced nothing more in opera. The crowning work was
however to come later. During a stay at his brother’s farm in Cormeilles
Boieldieu began composing once more. This time it was something far
beyond his previous efforts, it was a _chef d’œuvre_ in the domain of
comic opera,—the ever-beautiful “La Dame Blanche.” This masterwork was
performed in December, 1825, and at once awakened boundless enthusiasm.
Boieldieu was not much exhilarated by the result, for he seemed to feel
that he could never hope to equal this work again. Nevertheless he soon
attempted another subject, as if to ascertain if his surmises were
correct. Bouilly’s dull libretto, “Les Deux Nuits” was accepted, as much
from friendship as from any other motive. The new opera was finished in
1829, and made a flat failure, a result which hurt Boieldieu’s feelings
in an inordinate degree. He had brought back a pulmonary trouble from
Russia, and his disappointment seemed to aggravate the disease. He gave
up his position at the Conservatoire, feeling too weak to continue
teaching. The director of the _Opera Comique_ had given Boieldieu a
pension of 1200 francs for his great services to the art, but the
expulsion of Charles X. now came about, a new direction was installed,
the institution was found to be bankrupt, and the income from this
source ceased just when it was most needed. He had married again in
1827, and this time the union was a fortunate one, for in these final
days of trial, sickness, and pecuniary difficulty, his wife sustained
his drooping spirits with unswerving fidelity. She was a singer, Philis
by name, and was the mother of Boieldieu’s only son, a composer of good
attainments, but overshadowed by his father’s ability. Finally Louis
Philippe was established on the throne of France, and his minister, M.
Thiers, made speedy recognition of the value of Boieldieu’s work by
granting him an annual pension of 6,000 francs. It could not give back
the composer’s health, however, and, after a tour to Pisa he came back
worse. He had been obliged by poverty to take back his old position at
the Conservatoire, and made a brave effort to continue in it, but it was
useless; in another tour in hopeless search for health, he died at
Jarcy, October 8th, 1834. At the tomb his old companion and teacher,
Cherubini, gave a last tribute to the modest and talented nature that
had passed away so prematurely.

Boieldieu may be summed up in a single phrase as a Parisian Mozart. He
had Mozart’s gift of melody and grace, and in his later years something
of Mozart’s skill in harmonic and contrapuntal combination, but, unlike
Mozart, his work can be divided into three epochs, the third only being
comparable in _ensemble_ to the works of the German master. Boieldieu
has been ranked as the best composer of _opera comique_ that France ever
produced, and it is not too much to say that only Bizet has approached
him in characteristic touches and poetic inspiration. Three works are at
present the chief representatives of Boieldieu’s fame, “The Caliph of
Bagdad,” which shows his earliest method, “Jean de Paris,” which is a
good example of his second period, and “La Dame Blanche,” which is the
finest of all his operas, the best outcome of the French _opera comique_
school, and shows the composer in his third and best period of growth.

Boieldieu was never misled by the popular applause which was showered
upon him before it was fairly deserved. It has been well said that
“there is no heavier burden than a great name acquired too soon,” and it
is to the credit of Boieldieu that, although he acquired this burden
with “The Caliph of Bagdad,” which has had over a thousand performances
in France, he did not continue in the rather frivolous vein which had so
captivated his earliest audiences. His modest desire to advance may be
proven by the fact that when this opera was achieving its greatest
success, Cherubini reproached him with “Malheureux! are you not ashamed
of such an undeserved success?” when Boieldieu mildly begged for further
instruction, that he might do better in the future. He even courted the
opinions of his pupils in the Conservatoire as to portions of his work,
a rather dangerous meekness. Pretty tunes and marked rhythms are the
characteristics of this period. “Zoraime et Zulnare,” although at
present almost unknown, always remained a favorite of the composer, but
it is only another example of musicians not being the best judges of
their own works.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Boieldieu.
]

“Benjowski” is a transition towards his second period. It has a Polish
plot written by Kotzebue, and its music has much local color. It was
composed in 1800, but was retouched by Boieldieu a quarter of a century
later, when he wittily said, “It smells of Russia leather!” The opening
quartette in this work is very dramatic.

“Ma Tante Aurore” may be said to begin the second period. It preserves
the brightness of the first period, but is much finer in its scoring,
and it is no exaggeration to say that in this matter Boieldieu surpassed
all of his contemporaries in France, with the sole exception of
Cherubini. The versatility displayed in this period speaks of growth.

The eight years spent in Russia may be passed over with but slight
comment, for of all that he wrote there, he cared to preserve but three
operas, “Rien de Trop,” “La Jeune Femme,” and “Les Voitures Versées.”
One cause of the weakness of the works of this period was the fact that
no good librettos were obtainable, and the composer was even obliged to
use many that had been set by other musicians.

Some commentators class “Jean de Paris” in the third period of
Boieldieu’s work. It is a beautiful and characteristic opera; the song
of the Princess, full of charming grace, the bold and dashing measures
of the page, and the stiff, ceremonious style of the music of the
Seneschal, are a few of the striking touches that go to make up a very
brilliant work which has not yet disappeared from the repertoire, but
when compared with “La Dame Blanche” the ensemble-writing is seen to be
inferior. In this latter opera, the climax of his works, Boieldieu did
not depart from the melodious character of his first and second periods,
but rather added to it. All through his career he clung to the
folk-song, and exactly as “Der Freischütz” was evolved by Weber from the
German _Volkslied_, so “La Dame Blanche” had its root in the French
_Chanson_. The libretto was evolved by Scribe from Scott’s works by
amalgamating the “Monastery” and “Guy Mannering,” but spite of the
introduction of “The Bush aboon Traquier” and “Robin Adair” (the latter
not a true Scotch song) the flavor is by no means Scotch either in
libretto or music. The harmonization of the finales of this opera is
beyond anything that has been attained in French _opera comique_, and
shows Boieldieu as a master in a school of which we find no traces in
“The Caliph of Bagdad.” Yet through all the three periods one finds the
thread of the _Chanson_ running melodiously. Music that is sincerely
national can never die, and the secret of the success of Boieldieu’s
operas, and their perennial freshness may be found in the fact that the
composer builded upon the music of his country, and there is no firmer
foundation possible.

[Illustration: Louis C. Elson]

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

[Illustration:

  ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL

  _Reproduced from an aquatint portrait by Quenedey._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                         ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL


One of the most unique and interesting figures in the French musical
world of the close of the eighteenth century is Etienne Nicolas Méhul.
Sprung from comparative obscurity, he mounted to a world-wide fame.
Starting out in life with the scantiest educational advantages, he
reached a high degree of elegant culture. Living in a most dissolute
period, he retained through life an irreproachable character. The son of
a cook in a regimental barracks, he was tendered the position of
chapelmaster by the great Napoleon.

Méhul was born at Givet, in the Ardennes, June 22, 1763. Like many other
great composers, he was of low degree, had but few opportunities for
study at the start, and struggled hard to gain his musical footing. His
talent displayed itself at an early age and he himself never had a doubt
as to his ultimate vocation in life, though his naturally religious
disposition had predetermined his parents to send him to a monastery. At
ten years of age he played in the Franciscan Church at Givet, such
qualifications as he may have had being the result of his studies with a
blind organist. Shortly after this time, Wilhelm Hauser, a distinguished
German organist, arrived at the neighboring convent of La Val Dieu,
whither the boy repaired to pursue his studies. He was fortunate enough
to attract the favorable attention of the Abbé Lissoir, under whose
auspices he studied for three years with Hauser. He made such rapid
progress that he soon equalled his master and was appointed deputy
organist at the convent. It is altogether probable that he would have
been his successor had not good fortune attended him again. His playing
attracted the notice of an officer of the garrison, who was a musical
amateur, and it needed but little solicitation to induce the boy to go
to Paris. He arrived at the capital in his sixteenth year and placed
himself under the tuition of Edelmann, a Strasburg composer of eminence,
who some years afterward deserted music for politics and perished
ultimately upon the same scaffold to which he had consigned many a
victim. With Edelmann he studied both the piano and composition,
supporting himself meanwhile by giving lessons and writing sonatas and
minor compositions for that instrument. The genius of his good fortune
did not desert him in these days of stress. It was shortly after his
arrival in Paris that Gluck’s “Iphigénia en Tauride” was placed in
rehearsal. The popular interest in the performance had been heightened
by the feud which had raged so bitterly between the Gluck and Piccini
factions. Méhul caught the infection and, being without the money to
purchase a ticket, he smuggled himself into the theatre the day before,
intending to remain in concealment until the next eventful evening. He
was discovered, however, by one of the inspectors, and as the latter was
on the point of ejecting him, Gluck’s attention was drawn to him. He
made some inquiries, and upon learning the facts in the case gave the
young man a ticket. It was the turning-point in his career and decided
the direction he should take; for Gluck followed up the chance
acquaintance, took a decided interest in Méhul, gave him the benefit of
his experience and advice and instructed him in the dramatic qualities
of music. The young composer already had produced a cantata at the
Concert Spirituel, written upon the subject of Rousseau’s Sacred Ode,
and was ambitious to become known as a composer of church music, for the
religious element was always strong in him; but Gluck changed all this
and set his feet in the path of the opera, which he was destined to
follow to the end of his life.

[Illustration:

  MÉHUL.

  From a lithograph portrait loaned by the British Museum.
]

Méhul began his dramatic work by writing three operas (“Psyché et
l’Amour,” “Anacréon” and “Lausus et Lydie”) merely for the sake of
practice. He was testing his wings before flight. He made his debut
before the public with “Euphrosine et Coradin” in 1790 and achieved a
brilliant success, though his first opera was “Cora et Alonzo,” which
was produced later and met with only a moderately favorable reception.
He was now in the full tide of musical activity, and opera after opera
came from his prolific genius. “Stratonice” followed “Euphrosine,” and
by many was considered his masterpiece, especially for the fine
treatment of the ’cello parts, which instrument he had specially
studied, and for the general excellence of the orchestration as well as
its dramatic strength, in which quality he showed his close study of
Gluck. The revolutionary period which now ensued was not favorable to
the opera, and as if in sympathy with the depressing character of the
time, Méhul brought forward such works as “Doria,” “Horatius Cocles,”
“La Caverne,” and others, which did not add to his reputation. There
were others, however, that proved an exception to the rule. “Le jeune
Henri” for instance, was hissed because it introduced a royal personage,
but the overture, with its lively and picturesque representation of the
chase, was demanded several times over at the close of the performance.
The overtures to both “Adrien” and “Ariodant” were also general
favorites, as well as the romanzas in the latter. It was about this time
(1799) that Méhul had his first encounter with some of the French
critics, particularly Geoffroy, a well-known writer, who declared that
he could not write in any other than a severe and heavy style. Shortly
afterwards the opera of “Irato,” written in the Italian style, appeared
anonymously. After its first performance the journalist wrote: “This is
the way in which Méhul should compose.” The composer had his revenge on
declaring himself the author and followed it up with another opera, “Une
Folie,” in which his critic was satirized. Soon afterwards, however, he
lapsed into the serious style. In 1806 he produced “Uthal,” in which he
made the daring innovation, at the suggestion of Napoleon it is said, of
doing away with the violins entirely and filling their places with the
violas, as better adapted to the sombre Ossianic character of the
composition. The result was so depressing that Grétry, who was present
at the first performance, made the remark: “I would give a louis to hear
the sound of a chanterelle, or the E string of the violin.” Undismayed
by the reception of “Uthal,” Méhul followed it up with “Joanna,”
“Hélène,” “Les Amazones” and “Gabrielle d’Estrées,” all written in the
same serious style, showing high scholarship in counterpoint, but
lacking in those light and elegant graces of composition which were so
popular with the French. His activity was great during this period.
Between 1791 and 1807 he wrote no less than twenty-four operas, besides
six symphonies; music to poems of Chénier, Arnault and Sontanes,
composed in honor of the Republican fêtes at which Napoleon presided,
among them the “Chant du Départ,” “Chant de Victoire” and “Chant de
Retour”; choruses to the tragedy of “Timoleon”; the incidental music to
“Oedipus” and the drama of “The Hussites”; four ballets, “Le Jugement de
Paris” (1793), “La Dansomanie” (1800), “Le Retour d’Ulyss” (1807), and
“Persée et Andromède” (1810); besides many operettas and smaller works.
He had enjoyed the favor of Napoleon to such an extent that upon the
death of Paisiello he was offered the position of chapelmaster. Méhul,
who was a devoted friend of Cherubini, was anxious that the latter
should share the office with him, but Napoleon, who was incensed at a
sharp reply Cherubini had made him in Vienna, sent word back to Méhul:
“What I want is a chapelmaster who will make music and not noise,” and
at once nominated M. Sueux to the position. Méhul was not without his
honors, however, having been appointed a member of the Institute in
1795, and of the Legion of Honor in 1802.

In 1807 he achieved the crowning success of his career. “Joseph,”
written on a Biblical subject, was produced and spread his fame all over
France and Germany. Though not often heard in this country, it still
remains a great favorite to-day among the Germans by its dignity,
nobility and elevated style. It made ample compensation for his many
failures and regained for him all the advantages he had lost. After 1810
he wrote but little, “Le Prince Troubadour” (1813) and “L’Oriflamme”
(1814), written with Berton, Kreutzer and Paer, being his most important
works.

[Illustration:

  MÉHUL

  From a portrait in Clément’s “Les Musiciens Célèbres.”
]

Méhul made his parting bow to the public with the opera of “La Journée
aux Aventures,” which was produced in 1817 with considerable success.
The same year closed his earthly labors. He had been in ill health for
some time, and shortly after the production of his last opera he went,
upon the advice of friends, to the south of France, where he had a
residence, hoping thereby to regain his strength. His ailment,
consumption, however, had so weakened his constitution that the change
was fruitless. Moreover, he was homesick for Paris. In writing to a
friend he mournfully says: “I have broken up all my habits. I am
deprived of all my old friends, I am alone at the end of the world,
surrounded by people whose language I can scarcely understand—and all
this sacrifice to obtain a little more sun. The air which best agrees
with me is that which I breathe among you.” He returned to Paris, warmly
welcomed by his friends and the public. He made one, and only one more
visit to the opera. He was soon stricken down in his last illness and
died Oct. 18, 1817, in his fifty-fourth year, universally lamented both
in France and Germany, for, like his pupil Hérold, he was as much of a
favorite in the latter country as in the former. In fact neither of
these composers was appreciated to the full extent of his ability in
France, at least until after death, a neglect which was not confined to
them, however: Berlioz shared the same fate. More than one French
composer indeed has made his greatest success in Germany. Tributes of
respect and admiration were shown to his memory in both countries. His
funeral was attended by a great concourse of persons, and the pupils of
the Conservatory with which he had been identified so many years,
covered his grave with flowers. On the day of his interment memorial
services were held in many places in Germany and France at which public
addresses were made. Méhul married a daughter of Dr. Gastoldi, but
having no children adopted his nephew, M. Daussoigne, a young musician
of excellent promise. His posthumous opera, “Valentine de Milan,” was
finished by the nephew and was performed in 1822, upon which occasion
the composer’s bust was publicly crowned. The popular success, indeed,
which he achieved as a composer, was unquestionably expedited by his
high character as a man. His uprightness and natural tenderness had
commended him to all the pupils of the Conservatory, and his strong
affections did the same service for him with his friends. His generosity
and benevolence were proverbial. The utter absence of jealousy in his
disposition especially commended him to musicians. He had a particular
abhorrence of intrigue and of those small rivalries which were abundant
at that time, and which sometimes developed into great wars, as has
already been hinted at in the reference to the famous struggle between
the factions of Gluck and Piccini, which not only enrolled musicians,
composers and opera-goers in opposing ranks, but even brought courtiers,
the nobility and members of the royal family into fierce antagonism. In
the midst of all this small turbulence Méhul had carried himself with
even poise, working for the best interest of his art and always true to
its canons, though he made many tentative innovations when fortune
frowned upon him. At a time of more than ordinary dissipation and
immorality, he maintained the highest moral principles and a sterling
manhood. It was but natural, therefore, that such a man should have been
mourned sincerely, and it may have added to public admiration that he
had reached his high distinction by his own efforts, rising from rude
and obscure beginnings to the summit of European fame.

Méhul was the legitimate successor of Gluck. It was that composer’s
“Iphigénie,” as we have seen, that first caught his fancy, fired his
ambition and directed his attention to dramatic composition. It was
owing to Gluck himself, who at once recognized the ability of the young
musician, that his feet were set in the right path, and it was to his
advice and instruction—the instruction of a friend rather than of a
teacher—that he owed his discovery and appreciation of the dramatic
quality of music. Other composers, among them Cherubini, had a certain
influence upon him, but Gluck was the all in all of his system, the
source of his inspiration and the dominant element of his methods of
treatment. He clung to dramatic truth with as much tenacity as did the
great author of “Orpheus” and the “Iphigénias” and strove with the same
earnestness to make his music a close and perspicuous illustration of
the text, and to keep it elevated in style. Meanwhile his own nature was
assisting him. Style and character are closely related, and Méhul’s
music is a reflection of his own personal traits, namely, refinement of
sentiment, seriousness and earnestness of presence, strong religious
tendencies as shown in the opera—or shall we not call it oratorio—of
“Joseph,” and nobility of character as shown in all his dramatic work.
His style is always elevated, though at times he made the effort to
unite light and graceful melodies of the effervescent and short-lived
sort which find so much favor on the French stage. He was not successful
in these, however. He was more at home in passion and pathos, in strong,
broad motives, rich harmony and ingenious and elaborate accompaniments.
In a word, his standards, like those of Gluck, in whose steps he
followed so closely, were classical and of the highest romantic type. At
times he was daring and ingenious in his innovations, as in “Ariodant,”
where four horns and three ’cellos carry on an animated conversation; in
“Phrosine et Mélidore,” where four horns have a full part in the score;
and in “Uthal,” where the violas are substituted for the violins, as
already has been mentioned. These, however, were only experiments,
though they serve to show his originality of conception as well as his
curious scholarship—a scholarship all the more remarkable when the
poverty of his early training is considered. And yet he did more than
almost any other of his contemporaries to elevate the Opera Comique, and
has come down in musical history as one of the principal founders of the
modern French School.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile musical manuscript by Méhul, from Cherubini’s collection.

  Méhul’s name, in upper left-hand corner, was written by Cherubini.
]

Méhul’s activity was almost incessant. He has left forty operas, of
which the following are the more important: “Alonzo et Cora” and
“Euphrosine et Coradin” (1790); “Stratonice” (1792); “Le jeune Sage et
le vieux Fou” (1793); “Horatius Cocles,” “Arminius,” “Phrosine et
Mélidore” and “Scipion” (1794); “La Caverne,” “Tancrède et Chlorinde”
and “Sesostris” (1795); “Le jeune Henri” and “Doria” (1797); “Adrien”
and “Ariodant” (1799); “Epicure” (with Cherubini) and “Bion” (1800);
“L’Irato” (1801); “Une Folie,” “Le Trésor Supposé,” “Joanne” and
“L’Heureux malgré lui” (1802); “Helena” and “Le Baiser et la Quittance,”
with Kreutzer, Boieldieu and Nicolo (1803); “Uthal,” “Les deux Aveugles
de Tolède” and “Gabrielle d’Estrées” (1806); “Joseph” (1807); “Les
Amazones” (1811); “Le Prince Troubadour” (1813); “L’Oriflamme” with
Berton, Kreutzer and Paer, (1814); “Le Journée aux Aventures” (1816);
and the posthumous opera, “Valentine de Milan,” finished by his nephew,
M. Daussoigne, and first performed in 1822. Besides these dramatic works
he has left four ballets, several symphonies, songs, operettas and
incidental dramatic music to which reference has been made in the body
of this article. Méhul’s literary ability, though never specially
cultivated, was of a surprising kind, considering his early
disadvantages. He has left two reports which have been greatly
admired,—one upon the future state of music in France and the other upon
the labors of the pupils in the Conservatory. Taken all in all, he was
one of the most earnest, high-minded, conscientious and thoroughly
artistic composers France has produced. He carried on the great work of
Gluck and is one of the important links in the evolution of music which
led up to Richard Wagner and his music-dramas.

[Illustration: Geo. P. Upton]

[Illustration:

  LOUIS JOSEPH FERDINAND HÉROLD

  _Reproduction of Hérold’s best known portrait, drawn from life on
    stone by his friend L. Dupré with the epigraph_ “_Virtute non
    ambitu, laurum meruit._”
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                     LOUIS JOSEPH FERDINAND HÉROLD


Louis Joseph Ferdinand Hérold, who played a conspicuous part in the
elevation and enrichment of the opera comique, though now principally
known by only two of his many operas, “Zampa” and “Le Pré aux Clercs,”
was born at Paris, Jan. 28, 1791. His father, François Joseph, an
Alsatian by birth, was a musician of more than ordinary ability. He had
been a pupil of Philip Emmanuel Bach, was a professor of the piano, and
also composed music for that instrument. Little is known of the mother
except that she sympathized with her son’s talent, which displayed
itself at a very tender age, for in his sixth year the precocious boy
was writing little pieces for the piano. Upon the advice of Grétry, the
composer, whom the parents consulted, he was sent to the Institution
Hix, where he had his first lessons in music. He made such rapid
progress that in 1806, the year in which his father died, he was
encouraged by Fétis and other competent critics to make music his
profession. He entered the Conservatory in the same year as a member of
the piano class of Louis Adam, his godfather, and won his first honor by
taking the piano prize in 1810. He subsequently extended his curriculum,
studying harmony with Catel, the violin with Kreutzer, and composition
with Méhul, who years afterward said of him on his deathbed: “I can die
now that I know I leave a musician to France.” The success which marked
his career in the Conservatory is indicated by his securing the Prix de
Rome in 1812 with his cantata, “Mlle. de la Vallière.” The coveted honor
opened wide the doors of music to him with the added advantages of
foreign travel. The next two years were spent by the young musician in
Italy, during which period there was a notable change in his style of
composition. His first works were a hymn for four voices, two symphonies
in C and D, and three quartets in D, C and G minor. The quality of these
works, which are now treasured in the Conservatory, gives ample promise
that he would have been a successful instrumental composer, but
circumstances ordered otherwise. During his stay in Naples he was
attached to the court of Queen Caroline as pianist, and to please her
majesty he devoted himself to dramatic composition with an enthusiasm
which soon aroused an ambition to excel in this class of writing. His
aspirations were still further heightened by the success of his first
dramatic work, “La Jeunesse de Henri V,” produced in 1815, and to the
opera he now devoted himself with an industry that never flagged. Well
schooled and practiced as he might have been in instrumental writing, it
evidently had limitations which were not agreeable to a composer of
strong emotions, vivid imagination and distinctly dramatic tendencies.

Hérold returned to Paris shortly after the successful production of his
first opera, stopping en route in Vienna, where he made many musical
acquaintances. Arrived at the French capital he at once made his
arrangements for an active and busy season of writing for the stage. His
first concern was to find a libretto adapted to his purpose, and it was
while engaged in this difficult search that good fortune came to him in
the request of Boieldieu that he would write the last half of an opera
upon which he was then engaged, “Charles de France,” and which was
brought forward in June, 1816. Collaboration of this kind was far from
being uncommon at that period, particularly in France. He not only wrote
“Charles de France” with Boieldieu, but “Vendome en Espagne” with Auber,
and “L’Auberge d’Auray” with Carafa, while in “La Marquise de
Brinvilliers” no less than nine composers of prominence were
represented—Hérold, Auber, Batton, Berton, Blangini, Boieldieu, Carafa,
Cherubini and Paër. The rage for collaboration also spread to literature
and has been continued even into our time by Erckmann-Chatrian. The
results of such work are more tolerable however in literature than in
music, where unity of style is one of the essentials. His association
with Boieldieu was of special advantage in introducing him to the
theatrical world of writers, and he soon was at no loss to find
libretti, good, bad and indifferent, many of them, it must be confessed,
of the last two sorts. His first opera after the Boieldieu collaboration
was “Les Rosières,” in three acts, (1817), which proved to be a success.
Flushed with the prestige of this work the young composer immediately
set about another, and before the year closed had finished “La
Clochette,” which not only was successful, but as its fresh and taking
airs caught the popular fancy, at once made him a favorite in the gay
city. His industry now became prodigious. He was seized with the very
demon of work and while in this mood he eagerly accepted everything that
was offered him in the way of a libretto as affording a new outlet for
his musical activity. The result was detrimental. Year after year he
produced operas for the stage, some of which had but one or two
hearings, while others were vigorously hissed, not on account of the
music, but by reason of the weakness and commonplaceness of the stories
and their utter lack of dramatic merit. Among such operas were “Le
premier Venu” (1818); “Les Troqueurs” (1819); “L’Auteur mort et vivant”
(1820); “Lasthénie” (1823); and “Le Lapin Blanc” (1825). Now and then,
however, an opera was produced which made compensation for so many
failures, and among these was “Le Muletier” (1823), which was highly
esteemed, especially by those whose opinions were of value. In fact
Hérold had no idle moments. During all of this period, and for two or
three years later (1820–29), he was actively connected with the stage.
In 1820 he accepted the position of piano accompanist for the Italian
Opera and held it for seven years. In 1821 he was dispatched to Italy
with a commission to engage artists, and from 1827 to 1829 was chorus
master at the Académie de Musique. All this was practical experience of
a valuable kind in the accessories and environments of his profession,
and undoubtedly contributed many of the elements which led up to his
ultimate success as an operatic composer by giving him a knowledge of
the details of the stage, the habits and peculiarities of singers, and
the limitations of the dramatic art which are so essential to the
complete equipment of the composer. During a portion of this period he
turned to other forms of composition. In 1827, he devoted himself to
ballets. Of these, “Astolphe et Joconde,” “La Sonnambule,” “La Fille mal
gardée,” “La Belle au bois dormant” and “Sylvie” are the most
conspicuous. All of them are characterized by the same graceful and
romantic style which is to be found so often in his operas. During this
same period he wrote a voluminous amount of piano music, such as
sonatas, caprices, rondos, fantasies, divertissements and variations,
the most notable being a sonata in A flat, the “L’Amante disperato”
sonata, the Rondo Dramatique, the “Pulcinella” caprice, variations on
“Au clair de la lune,” “Marlbrook,” an arrangement of the “Moses in
Egypt” of Rossini, whose music largely influenced his style, and
incidental music to the drama of “Missolonghi,” which was produced at
the Odeon. A letter written by his friend Chanlieu refers to this
period. In speaking of the failure of some of his operas, M. Chanlieu
says: “How many times in our solitary walks he lamented lost time and
forced inaction! Disgust mastered him and made itself felt even in his
piano music which, with the exception of two or three other works, was a
species of current money to which he attached no value. It was, however,
at that time that he wrote his fantasias on themes by Rossini, which had
a great sale and at which he was the first to laugh. The spirit of youth
still sustained him; he was gay and vivacious in private, but in public
morose and caustic.” Rossini not alone influenced his musical style. It
was through his courteous and kindly offices that Hérold received the
decoration of the Legion of Honor, Rossini going so far even as to
refuse it for himself unless it were also awarded to his friend.

[Illustration:

  BUST OF HÉROLD.

  Reproduction of a proof before letters of an etching.
]

To return to his operatic compositions, there were some others during
this gloomy period of frequent failures which achieved success, among
them, “Vendome en Espagne” (1823), which he wrote with Auber, “Le Roi
Réné” composed for the fête of Louis XVIII., “Marie” (1826) and
“L’Illusion” (1829), which enhanced his reputation and paved the way for
the two works which were to be the crowning successes of his life.
“Zampa” was produced May 3, 1831, and aroused something like a furor in
Paris, though its most enduring success has been made in Germany. It
still keeps the boards upon the continent, and though rarely heard in
this country, its overture remains a conspicuous feature of concert
programmes. With “Zampa” Hérold’s success was firmly grounded, though
the work bears unmistakable indications of German influence and is
written in the broad, serious style characteristic of the German
composers. It is for this reason that it has been more favorably
received in Germany than in France, though its merit was fully
recognized by Hérold’s own countrymen. It restored the waning fortunes
of the Opera Comique, saved it from ruin, and made Hérold a popular
favorite. At this time he was chorus master, but a few weeks after his
success he was dismissed by the new director upon the excuse that it was
necessary to retrench. He had only a verbal contract, but he appealed to
the courts, and his appeal was sustained after nine months of
litigation, the courts holding that there was an implied contract. He
accordingly was reinstated, but soon the fortunes of the Opera were
involved in another financial crisis. The director sought to retrieve
them with a sensation and in 1831 brought out the musical play of the
“Marquise de Brinvilliers.” Scribe and Castil-Blaze wrote the text
together, and nine composers, whose names have been given elsewhere,
arranged the musical setting. The combined efforts of the collaborators,
however, failed to produce anything more than a nine days’ wonder, and
the doors of the Opera were reluctantly closed. Six months later a new
location was chosen and the opera once more made its appeal to the
public with a new work by Hérold, “La Médecine sans Médecin.” Its
success fell far short of that which “Zampa” had enjoyed, but it served
the purpose of keeping the Opera on its feet until Hérold had finished
another work which was destined to complete his fame and to restore the
Opera Comique to its old prestige. It was, alas, his swan song. “Le Pré
aux Clercs” was performed Dec. 15, 1832. It had a success of enthusiasm.
Unlike “Zampa,” it was a purely national opera, with an historical theme
treated with genuine French grace and spirit, and abounding in
characteristic French music which commended it to the Parisians. Its
reception was attended with a remarkable display of excitement and
popular acclamations. The audience rose to a man and called for the
composer but he was unable to make an appearance. The fatigues of
rehearsals and the tumultuous events of the evening were too much for
his already enfeebled condition. He was taken home, but had hardly
arrived there when he had a dangerous hemorrhage. He lived but four
weeks after his great success, dying of consumption Jan. 19, 1833, the
same disease which had proved fatal in his father’s case. His funeral
took place on the 21st. He was buried at Père la Chaise, near Méhul, and
addresses were made at the grave by Fétis and Saint-George. He left a
widow, Adèle Elise Rollet-Hérold, to whom he was married in 1827, and
three children, Ferdinand, an attorney, Adèle, and Eugenie who also was
a musician. “Le Pré aux Clercs” was not his last work in the list of
performances, for after his death the overture and four numbers of
another opera, “Ludovic,” were found among his papers. The work was
completed and produced with success by Halévy. His biographer, M.
Jouvin, says of it: “In what proportion did this posthumous child of
Hérold belong to its father and its godfather? I know not. I have not
the opera of ‘Ludovic’ under my eye. I have not been admitted into the
secret of the work done by the musician who two years later wrote ‘La
Juive’ and ‘L’Eclair’ without taking breath. I only charge myself to
report, without guaranteeing, a tradition which attributes to Hérold the
overture and four pieces in the first act of this lyric drama.”

[Illustration:

  HÉROLD’S TOMB IN PÈRE LA CHAISE, PARIS.
]

The peculiarities of Hérold’s style which distinguished him from the
other operatic composers of his period were the freshness and
originality of his ideas, the grace and refinement of his conceptions,
which are displayed to special advantage in his ballets, the variety of
his melodies, and the highly emotional and imaginative character of the
man himself. He was the legitimate successor of Boieldieu and reflected
his romantic moods, and it will be remembered coöperated with him in his
first work after his return to Paris from Italy. With these purely
subjective qualities he combined an instrumentation that is always rich
in color and dramatic in effect, an intimate knowledge of the stage and
its resources, and a superior degree of literary taste and culture,
though the latter distinction did not always save him from accepting
commonplace and sometimes worthless libretti. The reason for this is
probably to be found in his prodigious activity, which induced him to
accept such poor books in the hope that his music would excuse them,
rather than spend his time in idleness. Though possessed of undoubted
originality if not of actual inspiration, he was greatly influenced by
the works of the composers, though in no sense can he be considered a
copyist. During his Italian visit he was much impressed with Paisiello.
In a letter to his mother about the year 1815 he says: “I have fallen
into one error here—that of neglecting M. Paisiello.... I can say that I
study much the music of Paisiello and find it delicious.” The Italian
influences did not last long however. Upon his return to Paris he was
devoted to the music of Méhul, with whom he had studied in the
Conservatory. Rossini influenced him greatly for a time and how far he
had studied Mozart is shown in “Zampa,” which was constructed upon the
lines of “Don Juan.” In this connection, M. Scudo, in his criticism of
“Zampa,” makes the following pertinent remarks: “The side of this work
that stands open to criticism is, as nearly always with Hérold,
confusion of styles. The austere and sober phrase of Méhul is found in
company with Italian bravura. The chansonette disperses with its
importunate cockcrow all the phantoms worked from the supernatural.
Mozart, Méhul, Weber, Rossini, Auber, how many more?—may be found in the
hybrid formation of this superb monster. Under the mobile structure of
that orchestra, so full of presentiments and mysteries, you distinguish
Weber. Those duets, those Venetian colored finales, conceived, worked
with the vigorous authority of a master, speak to you of Rossini, while
here and there the small details, the grace, the spirit, the lively and
piquant features murmur in your ears the names of Boieldieu and Auber.”
His own thoughts which he committed to paper, however, and which were
found among his documents after his death, will give a clue to his style
and to his ideas of what constituted artistic excellence. Among many
other things he says: “Melodies must come from the soul to reach the
soul of the auditors.” “Try to find a just medium between the vague
music of Sacchini and the vigor of Gluck. Think often of Mozart and his
beautiful _airs de mouvement_.” “Lean always to the side of melodies
free from platitude.” “In all arts, and particularly in music for some
time past, people are skilful in finishing and polishing without
reflecting how much more important is a good general design.” “Of melody
as much as possible.” “Declaim with truth and strength.” “Find themes
which bring tears.” “‘Great sorrows are silent’ observed Seneca. Thus
Hero seeing the floating corpse of Leander held her peace. He who goes
to the Opera only to hear the music had better frequent the
concert-room. The musical tragedian ought above all to sing but ever in
agreement with the situation.” And then, as if to answer the comments of
some of his critics: “Why not use several styles in a great work? A
chief priest can sing in the ancient manner, the others in the modern.”
“Church music ought to pray for those who listen to it, as said
Salieri.” M. Gustave Chouquet, the keeper of the Museum of the Paris
Conservatory, has well summed up the characteristics of Hérold in his
analysis of “Zampa”: “In a word we recognize in ‘Zampa’ the hand of a
master, who to the spirit of Italian music unites the depth of the
German and the elegance of the French School.”

The principal works of Hérold include twenty-two operas, one cantata,
five ballets, three sonatas, three string quartets, two symphonies,
seven caprices, seventeen rondos and divertissements, seven fantasies
and three variations. Of the operas the following have been the most
successful: “La jeunesse de Henri V.” (1815); “Charles de France”
(1816); “Les Rosières” (1817); “La Clochette” (1817); “Le Muletier”
(1823); “Vendome en Espagne” (1823); “Marie” (1826); “L’lllusion”
(1829); “Zampa” (1831); “La Médecine sans Médecin” (1832) and “Le Pré
aux Clercs” (1832). Though none of these works can be called familiar in
this country, it can hardly be doubted that the two operas “Zampa” and
“Le Pré aux Clercs,” which saved the Opera Comique, and which paved the
way for Ambroise Thomas, Bizet, Massenet and the modern French school,
would repay revival and achieve fresh popularity.

[Illustration: Geo. P. Upton]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Hérold.
]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph letter from Hérold to his mother.
]

[Illustration:

  MEDALLION OF HÉROLD.

  By David d’Angers, in 1816.
]

[Illustration:

  DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER

  _From an engraving by C. Deblois, 1867._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                      DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER


A life more peaceful, happy and regular, nay, even monotonous, or one
more devoid of incident than Auber’s, has never fallen to the lot of any
musician. Uniformly harmonious, with but an occasional musical
dissonance, the symphony of his life led up to its dramatic climax when
the dying composer lay surrounded by the turmoil and carnage of the
Paris Commune. Such is the picture we draw of the existence of this
French composer, in whose garden of life there grew only roses without
thorns; whose long and glorious career as a composer ended only with his
life; who felt that he had not lived long enough, and who clung
tenaciously to life, energetically refusing to drop this mantle of
mortality, postponing the final moment by the mere strength of his
powerful determination to live.

Auber, the most Parisian of Parisians, who could never tear himself away
from his dear native city, even for a short excursion in the summer, was
born,—as it happened—at Caen, towards the end of the month of January,
1782. I say, “as it happened,” because the composer’s parents were not
settled in that town and were only staying there temporarily when the
future author of “La Muette de Portici” made his entrance upon the stage
of life. His father was a print-seller in Paris. Being a thorough
business man he wished his son to become a business man also. To this
end, when his child had received a somewhat summary education, and had
almost reached man’s estate, he sent him to London to begin his career
in a house of business.

Even at this early period the young Auber was considered a distinguished
amateur musician. He played the piano well, and had made successful
attempts at minor composition, such as ballads, small morceaux for the
piano, etc. Realizing that he was not fitted for a business life, but
for that of a musician, Auber returned to Paris, where he was not long
in making for himself a reputation in the fashionable world. He was
looked upon as an agreeable pianist and a graceful composer, with
sparkling and original ideas. He pleased the ladies by his
irreproachable gallantry and the sterner sex by his wit and vivacity.
During this early period of his life Auber produced a number of
_lieder_, serenade duets, and pieces of drawing-room music, including a
trio for the piano, violin and violoncello, which was considered
charming by the indulgent and easy-going audience who heard it.
Encouraged by this success, he wrote a more important work, a concerto
for violins with orchestra, which was executed by the celebrated Mazas
at one of the Conservatoire concerts. He also composed, for his friend
Lamare, concertos which were applauded by the general public. This
Lamare was a violoncellist of great talent and erudition, but so barren
of musical creative power that he could not originate the simplest
melody nor compose a note for his own instrument. Auber adapted his
music so cleverly to the playing of the eminent instrumentalist that
Lamare said to him: “Nobody would think, my dear Auber, that I was not
the composer of these concertos, so strongly are they impressed with my
personality.” To which Auber replied: “Since that is so, my dear Lamare,
the concertos shall be published in your name.” And as a matter of fact
they were so published, successively, under the name of the
violoncellist. The public thought he was the author of them, but
musicians were aware of the truth, which has been an open secret for a
considerable time.

It is evident that although Auber made his début as a dramatic composer
at a late period, he early practised this art as an amateur, producing
his compositions in the Paris drawing-rooms. These drawing-rooms were
his academy of music up to the time when, convinced that he had still
much to learn in the practice of counterpoint, he sought assistance from
the illustrious Cherubini, whom he was destined one day to succeed as
director of the Paris Conservatoire.

The first work that Auber submitted to public judgment was a comic opera
in one act, entitled “Le Séjour Militaire,” which was produced at the
Théâtre Feydeau in 1813. Auber was then thirty-two years old. This piece
was not his first attempt in theatrical work, however; for he had
previously written a comic opera for the Prince de Chimay, and before
this, still another work for a small orchestra, which was represented in
an amateur theatre. He had also composed a Mass, with orchestra, in
which occurred the admirable chant which he used at a later date in the
famous prayer in his masterpiece, “La Muette de Portici.” “Le Séjour
Militaire” may be regarded merely as marking a date in the biography of
the French composer. This piece, of somewhat doubtful buffoonery, passed
unnoticed by the general public. Indeed the musician himself was very
slightly impressed with it, being but imperfectly inspired when he wrote
it. Nevertheless a writer then celebrated, M. Martinville, discovered in
this score several pretty _motifs_ and a great deal of wit.

From 1813 to 1819 Auber remained silent, and it might have been thought
that he had ceased to exist. What became of him during this long period?
He still continued to appear in society and, when in the humor, to write
as an amateur fugitive pieces of music set to subjects of the same
character. He asked dramatic poets to write pieces for him, but they
were not very anxious to do so after the failure of “Le Séjour
Militaire.”

About this time the composer’s father died, leaving a widow and two sons
without fortune. During this period, when the eminent musician that was
to be was still pursuing his studies, he found himself face to face with
pecuniary difficulties; but he supported them bravely, never
complaining.

Planard, the most fashionable librettist of that day, was accustomed to
gather around him in his little house at Passy—which was not then
considered one of the districts of Paris—a company of amateurs and
artists. There was music, and Auber, one of the most assiduous habitués
of the house, accompanied on the piano. In this way it came to pass that
Madame Planard took a great interest in Auber and espoused his cause.

“My dear,” she said to her husband, “can you not entrust one of your
poems to poor Auber, who is so well-bred, so witty, and so good an
accompanist? I am convinced that he will earn himself a name among our
composers. It is a pity that he should compose operatic airs without
words because he has none to work on.”

Women always gain the day, whenever they plead in favor of the unknown
and the lowly, and Auber was then both unknown and lowly. Madame Planard
pleaded so well in this particular instance that her protégé obtained
from Planard two pieces instead of one to set to music. The first was a
piece in one act, entitled “Le Testament et le Billet Doux,” which
unfortunately met with a much less favorable reception from the public
than “Le Séjour Militaire,” and that had been a failure. The next
venture was “La Bergère Châtelaine,” in three acts, and it made ample
amends for all previous mortifications. Its success was unanimous and
brilliant. None too soon indeed. Had the author lost this opportunity
his future as a composer would have been irretrievably ruined, for no
poet would have entrusted him with a libretto.

At the time when Auber produced “La Bergère Châtelaine,” the
turning-point in his artistic career, he was thirty-eight years of age,
just a year younger than Rossini when he closed his with that immortal
masterpiece “Guillaume Tell.”

Planard, having witnessed the failure of “Le Testament,” would have
liked to take back the libretto of “La Bergère Châtelaine” which he had
handed over to Auber some time before. But now he was very happy to have
another of his pieces, in three acts, entitled “Emma,” set to music by
the composer. This work was represented at the Théâtre Feydeau in 1821,
and was an extraordinary success. The high road to fortune was now open,
and for more than forty years the composer’s career was one long series
of triumphs, which continued to the last day of his life. One might have
thought, after the complete success of the two last comic operas upon
which Auber and Planard collaborated, that they would have continued to
work together for a long time; but it was not so. Scribe had just then
attained his brilliant position as a writer of vaudevilles. Fate had
decided that there should be a partnership between him and Auber, a
partnership which of all the combinations that ever existed between
word-writer and musician was the happiest and most lasting.

What was the secret of the union of these two minds, these two talented
beings who were so well constituted to understand each other that they
seem to have been born the one for the other, to work together for their
common glory and to the great delight of the public who applauded them
so well? It was in this wise.

A vaudeville by Scribe had just been accepted at the Théâtre de Madame,
which he rightly expected would meet with success. For a certain morceau
to be sung during the progress of the play he thought that the air of
the round in “La Bergère Châtelaine” was wonderfully well adapted.
Although he had never yet had an opportunity of seeing Auber, Scribe did
not on that account hesitate to write to him. This historic letter and
Auber’s reply to it have been preserved, and they are too interesting
not to be reproduced here, the more so as they are comparatively
unknown. They are as follows:

“TO MONSIEUR AUBER:—

“Will you kindly permit me, Sir, to place in a vaudeville which I am
just now writing for the Théâtre de Madame, your round from ‘La Bergère
Châtelaine’ which is so delightful and justly popular? I will not
conceal from you, Sir, that I have promised my director to make the
piece succeed, and that I have counted upon using your charming music.”

This note is quite gallant, but Auber replies to it with just as much
gallantry:

“TO MONSIEUR SCRIBE:—

“My round is but a trifle, Sir, and you are so gifted that you can
dispense with my poor assistance. However, if I grant you what you ask,
although you do not really need it, and you will allow me to lend you at
the same time the fine voice and pretty face of Mme. Boulanger, I think
we should both do a good stroke of business.”

The good stroke of business consisted in the thrice-happy collaboration
which resulted from this exchange of letters, a collaboration only
broken by the death of Scribe, which took place many years before that
of Auber. On one occasion Auber said to me: “I owe my successes to
Scribe. Without his assistance I feel that I should never have obtained
the place I occupy in the musical world.” Without detracting in any
degree from the value of Auber’s music, it may be said that this
statement is true; for the composer needed a librettist of such
versatile wit and resource of imagination that I do not see amongst the
comic-opera librettists a single poet who could have taken Scribe’s
place in this work. During the whole of his life Auber was accustomed to
compose the principal airs of his operas before the libretto was written
and almost without regard to the character of the scene in which these
airs would be used; and to these melodies Scribe wrote words with
extraordinary ease. Auber sang the airs, accompanying himself on the
piano, while Scribe, pencil in hand, instantly found the verses
naturally suited to the character of the music, cleverly adapting
himself to its rhythm, oftentimes very strange. I may mention the
“Seguidille” in “Le Domino Noir,” which was a singularly difficult test
of Scribe’s powers. Another instance is the song of Henriette in
“L’Ambassadrice,” which was also written by Auber without words. It was
an astonishing feat on the part of Scribe to find the comic and original
verses which he adapted to this melody, the scansion of which is so very
singular.

[Illustration:

  CARICATURE OF AUBER.

  From the Paris Charivari.
]

[Illustration:

  BUST OF AUBER.

  By Danton; in the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
]

It was on horseback or while riding in his carriage during his daily
excursions to the Bois de Boulogne that Auber found his happiest
_motifs_. On returning home he set them to music and inserted them in
the opera upon which he was working, and then Scribe supplied the words.
In the principal scenes, however, Auber wrote to the verses of his
collaborator, and he would begin to work on his return from the theatre,
whither he went nearly every evening. In this way he would write on a
little table by the side of his piano up to four or five o’clock in the
morning. As often as not, he did not go to bed, but slept in his
arm-chair. Many of his scores bear traces of the ink which dropped from
his pen as he let it fall from his hand when overcome by slumber. The
manual of his old square piano bears numerous inkstains on the white
keys of the upper octave, which indicate the moment when Auber fell
asleep at his work. The musician never needed more than from three to
four hours of sleep daily, and throughout his life he took only one meal
in twenty-four hours, namely, dinner. On rising, he would drink a cup of
camomile, which he swallowed fasting. This was sufficient to sustain him
without undue fatigue to the digestive organs up to the time of his only
meal at six o’clock. He frequently invited to his table, frugal as it
was, young professional lady singers, for he was extremely susceptible
to the attractions of the fair sex, and remained a worshipper of beauty
even unto death. Venus was his goddess, and he ever adored her most
conscientiously.

Auber had eight domestics in his service, and never was man worse served
than he. One evening he invited to dinner several professional ladies,
as also the learned Mr. Weckerlin, librarian of the Conservatoire. The
dinner was good and well served. Music and song followed the repast. One
of the ladies being thirsty, the master rang for a glass of water. There
was no answer. The housekeeper, the old Sophie, whose face had been
familiar for half a century to all Auber’s friends, had gone to bed; the
cook had followed her example; the valet-de-chambre had gone out for a
walk with John, the English coachman, who remained more than thirty
years in the composer’s service: in short, all the servants had
disappeared. Auber did not fall into a passion: he never became angry at
anything. “As we cannot get anything here,” said he to his guests, “let
us go and take an ice at Tortoni’s.”

We have already referred to the numerous inkstains on the old piano,
made by the pen which fell from Auber’s hand as sleep overpowered him
during his long nocturnal labors, and we now propose to give some
details of this interesting and historic instrument, which remains an
object of curiosity to all the admirers of the master who visit the
instrumental museum at the Conservatoire, and of which we have been able
to take a photograph by the gracious permission of M. Pillaut, the
learned Conservator of the Museum.

This piano, oblong in form, very light and built of mahogany, was bought
by Auber on the 17th of February, 1812, in the showrooms of the
celebrated Erard. The manufacturer’s number is 8414. It is a
double-stringed instrument, and its compass is only five and a half
octaves. When, in 1842, Auber succeeded Cherubini as director of the
Conservatoire, he had this piano brought thither and placed it in his
study. It was upon this instrument, from which the master could never be
separated, and which had become his true friend and harmonious
confidant, an indefatigable and never-failing source of inspiration,
that Auber composed those charming and _spirituel_ comedies which, so
often performed and always with success, have remained models of French
comic opera in common with the works of Monsigny, Dalayrac, Grétry,
Boïeldieu, Hérold, and other great masters.

Besides the old piano which stood in his private room at the
Conservatoire, Auber had another at home, in his house in the Rue St.
Georges. This latter was an upright piano which I have often seen. Like
his oblong piano, it was stained with ink on the two upper octaves.
Auber never thought, like Ambroise Thomas and Charles Gounod, of having
made by the firm of Pleyel what is called a composer’s piano, which is
both an excellent instrument and a secretary.

[Illustration:

  AUBER’S PIANO AT THE PARIS CONSERVATOIRE MUSEUM.

  Reproduced from a photograph made by special permission.
]

Auber once related to me that two days before the first performance of
“La Muette” (which he completed in three months!) the overture was not
yet ready. He composed it with all the fervor which comes of
improvisation. The evening before the first production the orchestra
rehearsed it for the first time, and the musicians accorded this
instrumental preface an enthusiastic reception. On the first night the
public were so enchanted with it that it received a double _encore_. I
have never seen this fact mentioned in any of the biographies of the
illustrious composer, but I learnt it from Auber himself.

[Illustration:

  AUBER’S RESIDENCE IN PARIS.

  From a photograph.

  In this house Auber lived for forty years, and it was here that he
    died in May, 1871, during the battle with the Paris Commune.
]

It has been a matter of astonishment that this French musician, who did
not know Italy, who never left Paris—with the exception of a journey to
London when he was a very young man—should have been able to introduce
into “La Muette” so much of Italian local color, and assimilate in so
wonderful a manner the musical genius of the Neapolitans. We are in
imagination as thoroughly in Naples as it is possible to be without
actually being there, the moment we hear that victorious march, so full
of freedom, rhythm and melody, and see on the stage the crowd of
triumphant lazzaroni now masters of the land. One would gladly learn in
what circumstances this beautiful and marvellously characteristic air
came into the mind of the Parisian composer. Jouvin will tell us, and he
has made no mistake, for this curious information reached him from the
lips of the composer himself: “Would you know where the composer found
the _motif_ of this march, the melody of which is so free and
unconventional? He found it in a shaving dish! It was when he was
shaving himself, with his face covered with soap, that there came upon
him the rhythm and melody of this inspiration; and he seized and secured
it before it was lost. Such is the origin of the inspiration which twice
in the overture and at the end of the fourth act, so powerfully appeals
to the spectator in the auditorium. O Genius, behold thy handiwork! Have
not sixty winners of the grand Prix de Rome passed no inconsiderable
time seeking inspiration in the land of classic song and returned home
without a single idea? M. Auber, who could never tear himself away from
Paris, discovers the sky of Naples in the lather at the bottom of a
basin!”

[Illustration:

  AUBER’S TOMB IN PÈRE LACHAISE, PARIS.

  From a photograph.
]

The extraordinary effort made by Auber in the composition of “La
Muette,” in less time than would have been needed by a copyist to
transcribe this voluminous score, completely deprived him of his mental
powers for the moment, and he was obliged to take absolute rest for some
time. His ideas were exhausted, and he would have found it impossible
even to find a melody for a simple song. He thought that the fountain of
musical invention was dried up within him, and for all time. But his
faculties, thank God, were not extinguished, and there yet remained in
the composer’s brain living fountains from whence were to gush forth his
best, his most characteristic works, and those which are most strongly
impressed with the author’s style and personality.

In many respects, Auber was not an irreproachable director of the
Conservatoire, where he remained, however, a number of years. He was all
his life too fashionable a man, too kind, too weak to direct with the
necessary firmness a school so difficult to govern as the Ecole
Nationale de Musique et de Déclamation of Paris. He attempted no
improvements in the arrangement of the studies, and while all public
institutions throughout France were being modified in accordance with
progressive ideas, the Conservatoire alone remained stationary and, as
it were, fossilized in its ancient condition. Ultimately the
Administration des Beaux-Arts became alarmed at this state of things,
and on the 2d of April, 1870, the following order was issued:—

“In the name of the Emperor, the Minister of Fine Arts issues the
following order:

“Art. 1. A committee is hereby formed the mission of which shall be to
revise the present government of the Conservatoire, and to consider and
propose such modifications as may be made, especially in regard to the
teaching in this institution, so that the studies pursued there may be
made as profitable as possible.

“Art. 2. This committee, which shall sit under the presidency of the
Minister of Fine Arts, shall be constituted as follows:

“MM. Auber, Emile Augier, Edmond About, Azévédo, Chaix d’Estange, de
Charnacé, Oscar Comettant, Félicien David, Camille Doucet, Théophile
Gautier, Gevaert, Charles Gounod, Guiroult, Jouvin, Ernest Legouvé,
Nogent-Saint-Laurens, Emile Perrin, Prince Poniatowski, H. Prévost,
Reber, Ernest Reyer, de Saint-Georges, de Saint-Valry, Albéric Second,
Edouard Thierry, Ambroise Thomas, J. Weiss.”

The sittings of this committee were of a most interesting character.
Auber, then eighty-eight years of age, was never absent from any of
them; but he remained silent all the while. It seemed as though he were
there in the presence of judges rather than before a committee in which
he had full and complete liberty of discussion. Of all the propositions
made by the committee only one was ever put into execution, by Ambroise
Thomas, who succeeded Auber as director of the Ecole Nationale de
Musique et de Déclamation of Paris. This proposition was that Sol-fa
classes should be established especially for the pupils of both sexes in
the singing classes.

Auber was Maître-de-chapelle to the Emperor Napoleon III. He was a Grand
Officer of the Legion of Honor, and he received a number of foreign
decorations. He never married.

It was Auber’s misfortune to see the siege of Paris and the terrible
deeds of the Commune. At that time he had two horses to which he was
very much attached, named Figaro and Almaviva. When famine began to
stalk through the land he was called upon to give up the first-named
animal to be used as food. The other met with perhaps a still more cruel
fate, for it was taken from the elegant coupé of the composer to draw a
cart at St. Denis. In the midst of the successive misfortunes which
befell his beloved city of Paris, Auber became deeply downcast. His
strength rapidly ebbed away, and after a terrible struggle lasting
several days, during which he fought desperately with death—for he still
clung tenaciously to life,—he breathed his last, cared for in turn by
Ambroise Thomas, Marmontel and Weckerlin, on the 12th of May, 1871. When
public order had been re-established, he was accorded a solemn public
funeral on the 15th of July following.

Auber’s labors were devoted to one long series of sparkling comic operas
due to the happy partnership of Scribe and Auber, a partnership in which
Mélesville was often associated. The first comic opera produced by the
triple partnership was “Leicester,” the subject of which was taken by
the authors from Sir Walter Scott’s romance, “Kenilworth.” Although,
from the character of the dramatis personæ, “Leicester,” was somewhat
remarkable compared with the plays usually produced at the Théâtre
Feydeau, it was nevertheless well received by the public.

After this came “La Neige,” a pretty score which, however, the critics
(who in those days were generally literary men not at all competent to
judge of musical matters) declared bore some resemblance to the work of
Rossini. But at that time what musician was there who could entirely
withstand Rossini’s style, which had conquered the universe, not even
excepting Germany?

“La Neige” was succeeded by “Le Maçon,” in which there occur at least
two or three morceaux that are marvels of wit and grace.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph musical manuscript by Daniel François Auber.
]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph letters from Auber to Alfred de Beauchesne,
    Secretary of the Conservatoire.
]

“Le Maçon” was followed by “Le Timide,” “Fiorella,” “La Muette de
Portici,” a grand opera in five acts, produced by Scribe and Casimir
Delavigne, which was represented at the Académie de Musique on the 19th
of February, 1828. It had considerable success the first night and the
succeeding representations only strengthened the good opinion formed of
it. After more than sixty years and in spite of certain features which
are now looked upon as old-fashioned, as well as an orchestration which
would better suit present ideas were it more powerful and contrapuntal,
at least in certain parts of the score, this admirable work would still
be quite presentable anywhere. The impartial public, which does not
yield to the influence of schools of music and does not hide its
impressions, would still warmly applaud in this rich treasury of sweet
melody the chorus, “O Dieu puissant”; the barcarolle, “Amis, la matinée
est belle”; the duet by the two men, “Amour Sacré de la Patrie”; the
market scene; the beautiful and impressive prayer; the delicious air of
“Sleep”; the air sung by the woman in the fourth act, “Arbitre d’une
Vie,” which has become classical; and that other barcarolle, “Voyez du
haut de ce rivage”; the tarantella, etc.

The original and singularly bold idea of making a dumb girl the heroine
of a grand opera was received at the outset with censure on the part of
the critics; and it must be admitted as a general principle that the
critics were perfectly right. Slowly, however, the public became
accustomed to this creation, and it has now for a long time been
admitted that the rôle of Fenella is a mark of genius. The whole of this
part played in dumb show seems to be voiced, as it were, by the
orchestra, which renders in a wonderfully happy manner and with
extraordinary dexterity the sentiments felt by the sister of the fisher
Massaniello.

As to the overture, it has earned public approval in every part of the
world where an orchestra can be found capable of executing it. It is
brilliant, dramatic, pathetic, and the _motif_ of the triumphal march
which constitutes the _allegro_ is superb and truly irresistible in its
power to move the audience.

Space would fail us were we to stop, even for a moment, to speak of each
one of his works, and we cannot do more than name them. Yet their names
alone will sing in the reader’s memory those varied songs, so
_spirituel_, so well suited to the works which they designate that they
have nearly all continued to hold the musical stage of Europe ever since
they were first produced. They are as follows: “La Fiancée,” “Fra
Diavolo,” “Le Dieu et la Bayadère,” “Gustave III.,” “Lestocq,” “Le
Cheval de Bronze,” “Actéon,” “Les Chaperons Blancs,” “L’Ambassadrice,”
“Le Domino Noir,” “Le Lac des Fées,” “Zanetta,” “Les Diamants de la
Couronne,” “Le Duc d’Aloune,” “La Part du Diable,” “La Sirène,” “La
Barcarolle,” “Haydée,” “L’Enfant Prodigue,” “Zerline, ou la Corbeille
d’Oranges,” “Marco Spada,” “Jenny Bell,” “Manon Lescaut,” “La
Circassienne,” “La Fiancée du Roi de Garbes,” “Le Premier Jour de
Bonheur,” “Rêve d’Amour.” This last-named comic opera was the last of
the long series of the dramatic works of our author. It was represented
on the 20th of December, 1869, and truth compels us to state that it was
received with some reserve. Quite the reverse was the fate of “Le
Premier Jour de Bonheur,” which obtained a full measure of success. In
this opera occurs an exquisite melody that speedily became popular, “Les
Djinns.”

Rossini has described Auber’s talent in a remarkably pithy manner.
“Auber,” said he, “may have produced light music, but he produced it
like a great musician.” So much meaning could not be condensed into
fewer words. Even so, Auber, in spite of the slight appearance of his
work, was one of the most learned musicians of his time. But he took as
much pains to conceal his knowledge as others do to exhibit theirs. His
great desire was, evidently in obedience to the nature of the man, to be
always clear, melodious, lovable, _spirituel_, attractive in every way;
never wearisome. In this he was perhaps wrong. Possessing as he did the
science of counterpoint and a wonderful dexterity in instrumentation, he
would have done well to make himself, from time to time at least, more
obscure, mystical, symbolical and enigmatical, for in so doing he would
have risen in the esteem of the pedants who affect to like only that
kind of music which is wearisome and to understand only that which is
incomprehensible. Such obscurity on his part would have thrown into
still higher relief the inspirations born of his truly creative
faculties, I mean his songs and his _motifs_. Whenever he desired to do
so, Auber well knew how to rise to the lofty and pathetic, and he could
produce what is called grand high class music. Let such as doubt this
read the fourth act of “Manon Lescaut,” and they will be convinced that
there was in the mind and heart of Auber something more than dance
music. We have there grand and beautiful music, and I find it difficult
to mention any orchestration richer or more impressive and more
beautifully conceived than that which occurs in “La Circassienne.” We
have only to read the many _solfeggios_ that he wrote during the long
years when he was director of the Conservatoire for competition among
the pupils learning the sol-fa system, and we shall find in these minor
masterpieces the sure hand of an eminent and profound harmonist.

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  MEDALLION OF AUBER

  by David.

  From Paris Opera Archives.
]

[Illustration:

  J. F. E. HALÉVY

  _Reproduction of a portrait by Weger, engraved after a photograph._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                JACQUES FRANÇOIS FROMENTAL ELIAS HALÉVY.


Jacques François Fromental Elias Halévy was born in Paris, May 27, 1799,
of Jewish parents, whose family name was Lévi. The same considerations
of expediency that induced Meyerbeer to change his name from Beer to
that which he afterwards made famous, proved similarly potent with
Halévy. His father was by birth a Bavarian, his mother was born in
Lorraine. The former was greatly honored among French Israelites for his
upright character and as a Hebrew scholar profoundly versed in the
Talmud. While yet very young, Halévy developed such remarkable musical
precocity that he was sent to the Conservatory when only ten years of
age. He was at once placed in the class of Berton, then in the full
flush of his triumph as the composer of “Montano et Stéphanie,” his
masterpiece. Berton outlived his fame, and his music is now forgotten.
It may be mentioned in passing, that Berton was greatly piqued by the
success of Rossini, and published two acrimonious pamphlets attacking
the Italian composer. One of these was entitled, “De la Musique
Mécanique et de la Musique Philosophique,” and the other, “Epître à un
célèbre compositeur Français précédée de quelques observations sur la
Musique Mécanique et la Musique Philosophique.” Of course, “la musique
mécanique” was the music of Rossini, and “la musique philosophique” was
that of Berton. The “célèbre compositeur” was Boieldieu, who was greatly
mortified by a dedication that identified him with sentiments wholly in
conflict with those he entertained toward Rossini.

Halévy prosecuted his studies so industriously under the guidance of
Berton, who was an admirable musician, and progressed so rapidly, that
one year after he entered the Conservatory, he won a prize in solfeggio,
and the year following, the second prize in harmony was bestowed on him.
From Berton’s instruction he passed to that of Cherubini, who subjected
him to a rigid course of counterpoint, fugue and composition. Here
again, he advanced with such speed that at the end of seven years, and
while yet a boy of seventeen, he competed for the Grand Prix de Rome,
obtaining the second prize for his cantata, “Les dernières moments de
Tasse.” The next year the second prize again fell to his lot, and the
year following, 1819, he reached the height of his ambition, carrying
off the Grand Prix itself for his “Herminie.”

This much-coveted distinction is awarded at the annual competitive
examinations of the Académie des Beaux-Arts. The successful candidates
become government pensioners for four years, and as such are sent to
Rome, where they reside in the Villa Medici, in the Académie de France.
The prize composition was, at first, a cantata for one voice and
orchestra, and after, for one male and one female voice and orchestra.
The prize was established in 1803, and since then, a winner has been
sent, at the cost of the government, to Rome, every year, except in
those years when no composition was considered worthy the prize. It is
somewhat curious that of the sixty and odd students whose achievements
and future promise won for them this honor, so few attained to permanent
fame. The only prize-winners whose names have made the tour of the world
are Hérold, Halévy, Berlioz, A. Thomas, Gounod, Bizet, and Massenet.

Before his departure for Rome, he composed a Funeral March and a “De
Profondis” on the death of the Duc de Berri (1820), for three voices and
orchestra. He dedicated it to Cherubini, and it was performed in the
synagogue in Rue St. Avoye. In Italy he devoted himself with his
accustomed energy to serious and unflagging study; wrote an opera, which
was not performed, and some works for the church, which remain
unpublished. At the end of his prescribed term abroad, he returned home,
eager to prove to his fellow countrymen that he had not studied in vain.
He turned his eyes in the direction of the opera stage, but experienced
the usual disappointments, in his early attempts to obtain a hearing,
and was almost in despair at the discouraging difficulties that stood in
his way. He composed “Les Bohémiennes” and offered it to the Grand
Opera, but it was not accepted. He was more successful with “Pygmalion,”
which was received and placed in rehearsal, but it was suddenly
withdrawn and never performed. An opera comique, “Les deux Pavillons,”
met the same depressing fate. Halévy began to lose hope, when in 1827,
and when he was twenty-eight years of age, the Théâtre Feydeau accepted
his “L’Artisan,” which was produced in the same year without making any
very marked impression. It is an unambitious work of no special
interest, except for some piquant couplets, and a well-written chorus.
The following year he collaborated with Rifaut in the score of “Le Roi
et le Batelier,” written for the fête of Charles X. In the same year
“Clari” was given at the Théâtre Italien. This was a three-act opera,
and up to that time, his most important work. Malibran sung the
principal part, and for the first time the young composer experienced
the intoxication of success. There is, however, nothing in the score to
indicate the Halévy of “La Juive” and of “L’Eclair.”

In 1829 he was appointed, at the Théâtre Italien, to share with Hérold
the duties of chef du chant. In that year was produced, at the Opera
Comique, his “Le Dilletante d’Avignon,” a parody on Italian opera
librettos, which was heartily applauded, and of which the chorus, “Vive,
vive l’Italie,” was hummed and whistled and attained to the honor of
adoption by vaudeville writers. His next work was “La Langue Musicale,”
which, despite some pretty music, failed, owing to the silliness of the
libretto. In the spring of 1830, “Manon Lescaut,” a ballet, charming in
melody and brilliant in orchestration, was produced with great success,
and was published. Then came in 1832 the ballet-opera, “La Tentation,”
written in collaboration with Casimir Gide, and though it was well
received it brought no fame to Halévy. He had worked faithfully and
indefatigably, but as yet without winning the recognition for which he
so fervently hoped. Opera after opera was composed with remarkable
rapidity, to meet with no greater prosperity than a _succès d’estime_. A
one-act comic opera, “Les Souvenirs de Lafleur,” brought him no better
fortune. Hérold dying in 1833, and leaving his opera, “Ludovic,”
unfinished, Halévy completed it, composing for the first act a fine
quartet that was always encored, and writing the whole of the second
act. Still, the composer failed to win fame; but the clouds were about
to dissipate suddenly and to display his sun at once, in its fullest
glory.

In 1835, “La Juive” was given at the Grand Opera, and Halévy was hailed
as a master composer. The work was received with a frenzy of delight,
and in the wild enthusiasm it aroused, the composer enjoyed all that
follows recognized genius and well-earned fame in the capital of France.
This work opened to him every opera house in Europe, and a career of
brilliant success. In the same year in which this masterpiece saw the
light, he produced a work of a character so wholly different as to
excite wonder that it could have come from the same composer. It is,
however, no less great in its way, and was no less overwhelmingly
successful. This was “L’Eclair,” a musical comedy for two tenors and two
sopranos only, and without choruses. It is exquisitely charming, a model
of artistic skill and profound knowledge gracefully employed. These
works won for him admission to the Institute, where he succeeded Reiche.
Halévy was then thirty-seven years old, and had reached his highest
point of greatness, for though he wrote many more operas, he never again
equalled “La Juive” and “L’Eclair.”

The year after “La Juive” was produced, Meyerbeer’s “Les Huguenots”
appeared and proved to be an epoch-making opera. Its instant and
enormous success had an unfavorable effect on Halévy, for he abandoned
his own peculiar individuality of style, and became a follower, if not
an imitator of Meyerbeer. Still worse, for in his eagerness to compose,
he was not particular in his choice of librettos, and accepted any to
which music could be written. The result was a series of opera books,
mostly of a gloomy turn, that no music could deprive of their
tiresomeness or make interesting. Under this unwise course of action he
soon exhausted his musical invention and became nearly as dull as were
his librettos. “Les Mousquetaires de la Reine,” and “Le Val d’Andorre,”
two fine operas, must be excepted.

His industry was astonishing, as will be seen by the following complete
list of the works that succeed his two crowning triumphs: “Guido et
Ginevra,” grand opera, five acts, 1838; “Les Treize,” comic opera, three
acts, and “Le Shérif,” comic opera, three acts, 1839; “Le Drapier,”
comic opera, three acts, 1840; “Le Guiterrara,” comic opera, three acts,
and “La Reine de Chypre,” grand opera, five acts, 1843; “Le Lazzarone,”
comic opera, two acts, 1844; “Les Mousquetaires de la Reine,” comic
opera, three acts, 1846; “Le Val d’Andorre,” comic opera, three acts,
1848; incidental music for “Prométhée Enchainé,” and “La Fée aux Roses,”
comic opera, three acts, 1849; “La Tempesta,” grand opera, three acts,
and “La Dame de Pique,” comic opera, three acts, 1850; “Le Juif Errant,”
grand opera, five acts, 1852; “Le Nabab,” comic opera, three acts, 1853;
“Jaquarita l’Indienne,” comic opera, three acts, 1855; “Valentine
d’Aubigny,” comic opera, three acts, 1856; “La Magicienne,” grand opera,
five acts, 1858; “Noé,” grand opera, five acts (unfinished); “Les Plages
du Nil,” cantata with chorus and orchestra, besides numerous vocal
pieces and some music for the pianoforte. Of all these operas only “Les
Mousquetaires” and “Le Val d’Andorre” survive through occasional
performances. The latter, when originally produced, saved the Opéra
Comique from bankruptcy, and ten years later relieved the
Théâtre-Lyrique from pecuniary difficulties against which it then
struggled.

[Illustration:

  CARICATURE OF HALÉVY BY DANTAN.

  From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
]

In addition to the production of this immense mass of operatic music,
Halévy was able to fill the part of one of the principal professors at
the Conservatoire. In 1831 he was made professor of counterpoint and
fugue, and in 1840 he became professor of composition. He wrote a book
of instruction, entitled, “Leçons de lecture musicale,” which first
appeared in 1857. It remains, in a revised form, the accepted text-book
for teaching solfeggio in the primary schools of Paris. Among his more
distinguished pupils were Gounod, Victor Massé, Bazin and Bizet, the
last-named of whom married Halévy’s daughter.

In 1854 he was made permanent secretary of the Académie des Beaux-Arts.
It was a part of his duties in this office to pronounce eulogiums. These
he published, with additions, in 1869, under the title, “Souvenirs et
Portraits, études sur les beaux arts.” They are gracefully written, and
are entertaining and edifying reading. In 1861 the severe work to which
he had subjected himself, began to tell on his health. A southern
climate was ordered by his physicians. He selected Nice, whither he
departed with his family in December, 1861. It was too late, and
moreover, in the comparative quiet of his new abode he missed the
excitement to which he had been accustomed. His debility rendered work
almost impossible, and his depression in consequence was painfully
intensified. The end came March 17, 1862. His body was taken to Paris
and buried on the 24th of the same month, with great ceremony. “La
Juive” was revived at the Grand Opera in honor of his memory, on the
29th of May, and his bust, the work of his widow, was crowned on the
stage.

[Illustration:

  HALÉVY’S TOMB IN PÈRE LACHAISE, PARIS.

  From a photograph made specially for this work.
]

Halévy was a highly gifted man. In addition to his genius for music, he
had innate talent for writing and was an excellent poet and a brilliant
literateur. He was acquainted with German, Italian, English and Latin
and also with Hebrew and Greek. As a composer, though he was a musician
of rare talents, he wrote too much, too rapidly and too carelessly, to
do himself full justice. His two masterpieces are almost immeasurably
above any of his other operas. In these latter, we meet, now and then,
with moments of great beauty, with scenes of thrilling dramatic power,
but they are in the midst of much that is oppressively dull owing to the
rigid obscurity of style in which they are written. He seems to have had
so sensitive a fear of falling into commonplace that he went to the
opposite extreme, even avoiding clearly marked rhythms. His mannerisms
were a persistent resort to the minor key, a fondness for a soft
pianissimo effect on the lower notes, long held, to be regularly and
suddenly opposed by a loud crash of the whole orchestra on the upper
notes; unexpected and violent contrasts in dynamics that are mere
capricious effects without any logical cause; prolixity and
over-deliberately following a sombre strain with one of great
brilliancy, and vice versa. In all his scores, however, his fine genius
is manifested, and it is impossible to study one of them carefully
without becoming impressed by the vigor, the affluence and the
flexibility of his genius. He was equally at home in the gloom of
tragedy and the gaiety of piquant comedy. In scenes of pomp in which the
stage is crowded with characters concerned in some high festivity, he is
peculiarly felicitous. He was a master of passion in its every aspect,
and when he is at his best here, he never sounds a false note. His
characters are always strongly defined, and no composer has left behind
him a more masterly collection of vivid stage portraits than has he. He
was essentially the bard of melancholy, as his many exquisitely tender
and mournful melodies testify. One of the typical characteristics of his
music is its refined distinction. His abhorrence of triviality was so
keen that it caused him often to go too far out of his way to avoid it,
and the result was that he overfrequently fastened on his music a
labored aspect that was fatal to the impression of spontaneity in
effect. When he was less self-conscious, however, his music flows with
delightful ease, lucidity and naturalness. His instrumentation is that
of a thorough master. He had a fine sense of tone-color, and his scores
are rarely overloaded. He was an innovator in the use and treatment of
wind instruments, and anticipated many effects that have been claimed
for those who came after him.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript by Halévy in possession of the Paris
    Opera Library.
]

In “La Juive” the orchestration is, in point of richness, originality
and variety of powerful contrasts, much in advance of anything
previously known in French opera; and his instrumentation of “L’Eclair,”
in its freshness, vivacity and piquancy, was no less innovating, and
notable in a lighter direction. In “La Juive” he had a libretto which is
among the finest that were ever set to music. Its tragic story is told
with immense effect, and the poet’s knowledge of the needs of a composer
is manifested with masterly ability. Halévy never again obtained such a
book. How felicitously it inspired him, is seen in the first act in the
impressive reply of the Cardinal to Eleazar’s contempt for the
Christians; in the romance sung by Leopold to Rachel; in the chorus of
the people at the fountain which runs with wine; in the magnificent
chorus and march which precede the brilliant entrance of the Emperor,
and ending with the stirring Te Deum and the welcome to the Emperor. In
the second act, the Passover scene in Eleazar’s house is full of
interest in its Jewish elements, with which Halévy, himself a Jew, must
have been in complete sympathy. In the same act there are the fiery duet
between Eudoxia and Leopold, and the other duet, equally spirited and
intense in effect, between Rachel and Leopold, both masterpieces in
their way, and speedily followed by the no less splendid dramatic aria
sung by Rachel to her father, and in which she announces her love for
Leopold; the climax of this wonderful act being reached in the thrilling
trio, in which Eleazar pronounces the curse. The next act, with its
brilliant pageantries, falls short of that which precedes it, but has an
immensely dramatic, concerted number which culminates in the anathema by
the Cardinal. The fourth act rises to the level of the second, with its
noble duet between Eleazar and the Cardinal, the tremendous scene of the
Jew in which he savagely defies his Christian foes and welcomes death.
The last act is for the most part declamatory, and has no such numbers
as those we have named, but the impressive dramatic intensity of the
work is maintained to the end.

In “Guido et Ginevra,” he tries to repeat the success of “La Juive,” but
despite several fine flights of genius he failed, not only owing to the
morbidly sad and dull nature of the play, but to the heaviness of the
music. He was more successful with “La Reine de Chypre,” an essentially
spectacular opera, which, by the way, was analyzed by Wagner in one of
his Paris letters (1841). The score is often brilliant and melodious,
and it contains some movingly pathetic melodies, but it is uneven in
excellence, and has pages on pages of music so obscure in meaning and so
dull in effect that its interest is often impaired. Almost the same
criticism may be made on his next grand opera, “Charles VI.” Moreover,
by this time, Meyerbeer’s “Les Huguenots” had been produced, and Halévy,
carried away by the enthusiasm with which that work filled him,
consciously or otherwise, deserted his own marked individuality and
became, to all intents and purposes, a follower of Meyerbeer, at least
in grand opera. In his “Le Val d’Andorre” he became himself again, for
the time being, and produced a lyric drama that fell little short of
perfection in the complete sympathy with which the composer identified
himself with the poet. There Halévy sounded the very depths of
passionate grief, in the music he has given to Rosa after her lover has
been drawn as conscript. In “Les Mousquetaires de la Reine” he produced
a delightful score, sparkling, chivalrous in spirit and full of
beauties. For the rest there is little to be said that would not be in
the way of repetition. His “La Tempesta,” written for Her Majesty’s
Theatre, London, was received there with enthusiastic favor, but
although there are some genuine beauties in the work, especially in the
finely characteristic music given to Caliban, it has nothing in it that
entitles it to live. Halévy was greatly piqued that the one melody most
praised by the artists, and that was hummed by everybody, was Dr. Arne’s
“Where the bee sucks,” which he had retained for Ariel. With all his
fecundity in melody Halévy rarely wrote one that achieved general
popularity. The most noted exception is “Quand de la nuit l’épais nuage”
from “L’Eclair,” a charming air, simple, chaste, and delicious in its
tender grace. He seldom, however, vouchsafed so unaffected a tune, the
harmonies of which are for the most part confined to the tonic and
dominant. The romance “Pendant la fête une inconnue,” from “Guido et
Genevra,” is another morceau, scarcely less naïve and delicate, that
long survived the opera in which it appeared, but it did not make the
tour of the world as did the other. His comic operas abound in
fascinating music which is buried, and must remain so, in the
uninteresting librettos that he so thoughtlessly accepted. In that
dreary book, “Le Drapier,” there is a glorious duet, “Ah! devenez mon
père.” But there is not an opera of his in which some perfect gem is not
to be found. His fecundity in melody is impressively exemplified in the
fairy opera “La Fée aux Roses,” of which the score is affluent in
charming music, sensuously oriental in style, beautiful in local color,
and of striking originality in orchestral treatment. He made an attempt
to revive the enharmonic scale of the Greeks in his “Prométhée
Enchainé,” the translation of which had been made by his brother. It was
a bold adventure, but it failed. It must be confessed that it is
monotonous because of lack of variety in the orchestration, owing to the
almost continuous use of wind instruments to the neglect of the strings.
The recitatives are noble, and the chorus of the Océanides is one of his
most classical and beautiful compositions.

[Illustration:

  CARICATURE OF HALÉVY BY CARJAT.

  From the Paris illustrated paper “Le Gaulois.”
]

Halévy, despite all his industry and the fame he enjoyed through his
greatest successes, made no lasting impression on the music of his day.
Even “La Juive,” notwithstanding its power and its brilliancy, found no
imitators, and “L’Eclair” still stands alone, the only example in its
_genre_. It is sad that an artist should have labored so long and so
well, should have been a thorough master of his art, and yet have fallen
almost into obscurity thirty years after his death. A careful
examination of some of his more ambitious operas shows that he was, in
some respects, slightly in advance of his time, especially in his
tendency to avoid purely rhythmical airs in favor of what is now called
“Endless Melody,” but there is no likelihood that the future will revive
his works. It was his misfortune that Meyerbeer’s star rose so early
after the appearance of “La Juive,” and that Halévy was drawn into the
vortex that the rage for the composer of “Les Huguenots” made. If he had
followed the example of the latter, had written music to none but good
librettos, economized his talents instead of wasting them in a reckless
ambition to produce music; if he had also adhered firmly to his own
individual originality instead of permitting himself to be unreasonably
influenced by the success of another, his operas might have had a
stronger claim than they have on the favorable consideration of
posterity. When Halévy wrote “La Juive,” the time was ripe for a great
revolution in French grand opera, and he just escaped becoming an
epoch-maker at his art. Meyerbeer appeared at that moment, and to him
fell the honor that was just within Halévy’s grasp. Whether the latter
would have seized it if his rival’s career had been delayed, it is hard
to say, for his lack of discrimination in the choice of opera books was
already deep-seated. Saint Beuve says of him: “‘La Juive,’ ‘Guido,’ ‘La
Reine de Chypre,’ ‘Charles VI,’ are true lyric tragedies on which are
the seal of beauties that time cannot obliterate. Some works, that
appeal more readily to the tastes of the masses, have been dowered with
greater popularity, but the decision of those who know is the only one
that appeals to a conscientious artist, and of this, Halévy received an
ample share. We think we are not mistaken in saying that as musical
education becomes more widespread, the popularity of Halévy will grow.”
This, however, is doubtful, and it is more than probable that Halévy
himself felt that he had not wholly accomplished his mission, for Saint
Beuve, who knew him well, also says, “It is strange that this estimable
man, always full of work, should sometimes have nursed a secret sorrow.
What it was, not even his most cherished and trusted friends ever knew.
He never complained.” Who shall say that this secret sorrow, so silently
guarded, was not born of a sense of failure, or at least, of
self-disappointment! It is not improbable that toward the close of his
busy art-life he saw, with prophetic eye, the fate that was to attend
the greater part of what he had composed; that he had written for his
own time and not for the future. Already he has become little more than
a name to nearly all, except students of musical history. The works on
which his fame chiefly rests are seldom performed, and the others,
admirable as many of them are, have gone into oblivion, and in all
probability, never to see the light again. That he was a master in his
art, is unquestionable, but it would seem also that he was lacking in
that highest quality of genius that confers immortality on its
possessor.

[Illustration: B. E. Woolf]

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

[Illustration:

  HECTOR BERLIOZ

  _Reproduction of a portrait engraved by A. Gilbert after a painting by
    G. Courbet._
]



[Illustration: BERLIOZ]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                             HECTOR BERLIOZ


More than a score of years have passed since Berlioz died, in Paris,
that city which was the object of his youthful dreams, the scene of his
bitter struggles and his sublime defeats. It was in the midst of those
Parisians, who had accorded him little more than mockery and scorn, that
he had wished to die, weighed down by sadness and discouragement,
supported by a few intimate friends and rare disciples. Moreover, did he
not foresee that sad end when writing the following lines which
subsequent events proved only too true? “It was about that time of my
academic life that I experienced again the attack of a cruel malady
(moral, nervous, imaginary, whatever you like) which I will call
sickness of isolation, and which will kill me some day.... This is not
spleen, though it leads to that later on; it is the boiling away, the
evaporation of the heart, the senses, the brain, the nervous fluid.
Spleen is the congelation of all that, it is the block of ice.”
Therefore death was for him a blessed release. For some years before,
there remained of Hector Berlioz nothing but an earthly frame, an inert
and suffering body; the moral being was crushed. The fall of _The
Trojans_ was the rudest possible shock to that nature so well tempered
to receive it; hitherto the proud artist had returned blow for blow;
never had a defeat, however grave, completely overthrown him. For the
first time, in witnessing the downfall of the work of his predilection,
the athlete had faltered. He had laid down his arms and thenceforth,
weary of life and of the struggle, had contented himself with the hollow
diversions which the capital offered him, “preoccupied solely with
material interests, inattentive and indifferent to that which impassions
poets and artists, having a morbid taste for scandal and mockery,
laughing with a dry and mirthless laugh when this strange taste is
gratified.” A certain heartache, a vague suffering of the soul, vain
regrets, preyed upon him at least as much as bodily ills; his shade
alone wandered among us, dumb, taciturn, _isolated_, and one beautiful
morning in the month of March it vanished.

Berlioz’s militant career may be divided into two distinct periods; that
in which he struggles for position, and which lasts from his arrival in
Paris until after _Romeo and Juliet_ and the _Funeral and Triumphal
Symphony_, in 1842; that in which, tired of struggling without profit
though not without glory, he starts off to establish his reputation
outside the frontier, and to return afterwards to Paris, victorious and
triumphant; this lasts until his death. So soon as he achieved a success
abroad, great or small, “Be sure that Paris knows it!” was the cry to
his friends. And Paris, being informed of it, had forgotten it
instantly. It was during the intervals between these tours, when he came
back to France to see if his foreign successes had given him a better
standing in the eyes of his countrymen, that his last principal works
were produced: _The Damnation of Faust_, _The Childhood of Christ_, _The
Te Deum_ and _Beatrice and Benedict_, finally _The Trojans_.

It was towards the end of 1821 that Berlioz came to Paris, ostensibly to
study medicine, but with a secret longing to devote himself to music. He
was then nearly eighteen years of age, being born at La Côte Saint-André
(Isère), Dec. 11, 1803, and had already received some lessons in music
from the poor stranded artists at La Côte. We are indebted to Berlioz
himself for the names of these artists, which were Imbert and Dorant.

On arriving at Paris, where his father, a simple health officer, but a
devotee to the sciences and to medicine, had allowed him to come on the
express condition that he should follow exactly the course of the
Faculty, he set to work as best he could to carry out this program. But
one evening he goes to the Opera to hear Salieri’s _Danaïdes_:
immediately music regains possession of his soul, and he spends all his
spare time in the library of the _Conservatoire_, studying the scores of
Gluck’s operas; there he meets a pupil of Lesueur who introduces him to
that master, and he attaches himself with much affection to the author
of the _Bardes_, who admits him to his class. At length he informs his
family of his settled determination to devote himself to music, and he
has performed at Saint-Roch a mass which he burns almost immediately
after, saving only the _Resurrexit_ which obtains grace in his sight, at
least for a time. He then took part in the preparatory concours for the
prize of Rome, and was not even judged worthy to be a competitor.
Immediately summoned home by his parents, who had no faith in his
“pretended irresistible vocation,” he arrived there so sad, so crushed,
so misanthropic, that his father, uneasy about him, permitted him to
return to try once more his fortune in Paris. He came back for the
winter of 1826, having nothing to live on but a small allowance from his
family, on which he was obliged to economize in order to pay back,
little by little, a loan which a friend had made him for the execution
of his mass. His existence at this time, which was shared by another
student, his friend Carbonnel, was a very miserable one, their meals
consisting on certain days of vegetables and dried fruits. He gave
lessons in solfeggio at a franc a lesson, and even applied for the
position of chorus singer at the _Théâtre des Nouveautés_. But artistic
pleasures counterbalanced the material privations, and his heart danced
for joy whenever he could go to the _Opéra_ or to the _Odéon_ and hear
some masterpiece by Spontini, Gluck or Weber; his fourth god, Beethoven,
was not revealed to him till two years later, when Habeneck founded the
_Société des concerts du Conservatoire_ for the dissemination of the
works of that prodigious genius. He continued however in the classes of
Lesueur and Reicha, so that he was able to pass the preliminary
examination for the concours of 1828. The subject given out by the board
of examiners was a scene from _Orpheus torn to pieces by Bacchantes_,
and Berlioz’s music was declared by the judges as _impossible to be
played_. His only response was to prepare for its performance at the
concert to be given at the Conservatoire, the superintendent of the
Beaux-Arts, M. de Larochefoucauld, to whom he had been recommended,
having placed that hall at his disposal, notwithstanding the violent
protestations of the director, Cherubini. But chance favored the
self-love of the members of the Institute, for Berlioz was obliged to
give up his plan, on account of an indisposition of the singer Alexis
Dupont.

It would have been strange indeed, if Berlioz, with his ardent
imagination and brain always on fire, had allowed the romantic movement
to pass by without attaching himself to it with all the fury and passion
which he threw into everything. He soon became one of the leaders of the
new school, poor enough in musicians, counting only himself and Monpau,
whereas it abounded in writers and artists. Like all his comrades in
romanticism, even exceeding them all, Berlioz was an enthusiastic and
constant visitor at the _Odéon_, where some of Shakespeare’s plays were
then being given by a company of English tragedians. Here he received a
double blow; from Shakespeare who floored him, as he said, and from Miss
Smithson who intoxicated him. It was to attract the attention of the
beautiful tragedienne that he organized, with his overtures to
_Waverley_ and _Francs-Juges_ and his cantata of _la Mort d’Orphée_, a
concert which she never heard anything about. It was also this idea of
reaching her through the medium of music which inspired him to write his
_Fantastic Symphony_, in which he put himself in the scene with his
beloved, and which, in fact, was to end by gaining him Miss Smithson’s
heart.

As these first attempts of Berlioz are little known, it is well to
specify them, if for no other reason than because one may find in these
forgotten pieces the plan of certain pages of the _Damnation of Faust_
and the _Childhood of Christ_. His overtures to _Waverley_ and to the
_Francs-Juges_ were performed for the first time at the concert which he
gave at the Conservatoire, in honor of Miss Smithson, May 26, 1828; on
this occasion he also had played the _Resurrexit_ from his first mass,
in place of _The Death of Orpheus_, which could not be given owing to
the illness of Alexis Dupont, a march of the Magi going to visit the
manger, and a grand scene on the Greek Revolution. Finally, on the 1st
of November, 1829, he had his two overtures repeated, together with his
_Resurrexit_ under a new title, _The Last Judgment_, and a new work
entitled _Chorus of Sylphs_, the plan of which is as follows:
“Mephistopheles, in order to excite in Faust’s soul the love of
pleasure, assembles the sprites of the air and bids them sing. After a
prelude on their magic instruments, they describe an enchanted country,
the inhabitants of which are intoxicated with perpetual delights.
Gradually the charm operates, the voices of the Sylphs die away and
Faust, fallen asleep, remains plunged in delicious dreams.” Everybody
knows to-day what this adorable bit has become.

In the meantime Berlioz obtained the “Prix de Rome” in July, 1830, after
having tried for it four times in vain. He set out at once for Rome,
first giving, however, a farewell concert at which was played his
cantata of _Sardanapalus_ and the _Fantastic Symphony_, aimed at Miss
Smithson whom Berlioz execrated because of her ignorant indifference,
and who, moreover, had not the slightest suspicion of his mad passion
and frantic hatred. The young composer departed quite proud of his
success and also of the sharp response of Cherubini who said, when asked
if he was going to hear the new production of Berlioz, “I do not need to
go to find out _how things should not be done_.” He stayed in Italy
nearly two years, in order to conform to the regulations of the Academy,
but it was time wasted for him from an artistic point of view. With his
just and profound distaste for Italian music, he was in no condition to
be benefited by it. The only comfort he took was in fleeing to the
country, where he strolled with his new friend Mendelssohn; but this
companionship proved uncongenial and was short-lived. He shortened his
sojourn in Italy as much as possible, and as soon as the director Horace
Vernet gave him leave, he returned to Paris, taking with him an overture
to King Lear and the monodrama of _Lelio or the Return to Life_, a
series of old pieces worked over, which completed the _Fantastic
Symphony_. This work he could have done just as well in Paris as in
Rome; indeed he would probably have accomplished more by remaining in
Paris, instead of strolling about the country near Rome playing on his
guitar and frittering away his time.

[Illustration:

  MISS SMITHSON.

  Reproduction of a French lithograph portrait by Francis—published in
    1827.
]

On his return to Paris he felt a reawakening of his passion for Miss
Smithson, who had been temporarily forgotten and patronizingly dubbed
“the Smithson girl,” while his heart was interested elsewhere. At the
time of his setting out for Rome, he had thoughts for none but the young
and attractive pianiste, Marie Moke, whom he had known through his
friend Ferdinand Hiller; to her he had shown some attention, finally
declaring to her his uncontrollable passion.

This young lady had coolly married Camille Pleyel—a name which she was
to make famous as a virtuoso—while her mad lover, her pretended fiancé,
was in Italy.

He made haste, as soon as he got back to Paris, to organize a concert
for the purpose of performing in honor of Miss Smithson, the _Fantastic
Symphony_, and on that day (Dec. 9, 1832) he experienced a double
triumph, since this masterpiece, which she believed to be inspired by
herself, deeply touched the tragedienne and won her heart for Berlioz.
Little did she suspect that this composition had been written with a
view to stigmatize her, at the time when Berlioz was madly in love with
Mademoiselle Moke, and that before going to Rome he had it played in
honor of Mademoiselle Moke, as it was now being given in Miss Smithson’s
honor. Meanwhile, the families of the two lovers made just opposition to
their fine projects for the future; but Berlioz and his fiancée taking
the lead, strove their utmost to overcome these obstacles, and to tie
the indissoluble bond which was to render them equally miserable.

During all these negotiations the English Theatre of Paris was obliged
to close its doors, and Miss Smithson, who had assumed direction of it,
found herself without resources, not having enough to pay the debts of
the enterprise. To make matters worse, she broke her leg while getting
out of a carriage, in which she was going about to organize a benefit
concert. While she was confined to the house by her accident, Berlioz
had the customary “respectful summons” to make to her family, and as
soon as she was well he married her; “she was mine,” he said, “and I
bade defiance to every thing!” The young household was not rolling in
wealth; the wife had nothing but her debts, and the husband had but
three hundred francs which a friend had lent him. No matter, even a sad
life is not without its sunshine. Berlioz was obliged to have recourse
to his pen, and began to write for the newspapers through sheer
necessity, a thing which he had hitherto done through love of
controversy and in self-defence.

His first appearance in literature was made in 1829 in the
_Correspondent_, with a pretty well developed article on Beethoven, whom
the artists and amateurs of Paris were just beginning to know, thanks to
Habeneck and his _Société des Concerts_ at the Conservatoire. He also
furnished some articles to the _Revue Européenne_ and the _Courrier de
l’Europe_; finally, that influential paper, the _Gazette musicale de
Paris_, which in 1881 ended a glorious career of forty-seven years,
espoused Berlioz’s cause, and worked faithfully for his success. Shortly
after, in 1835 he allied himself with the _Journal des Débats_ as
musical critic, a post which he held for thirty years, finding in its
proprietors, MM. Bertin, staunch friends and protectors. Besides giving
him a comfortable living, Berlioz’s articles served him at first in
establishing relations with the press, as much as they injured him later
by exciting bitter jealousy and enmity.

It was in the midst of financial difficulties that Berlioz wrote the
symphony _Harold in Italy_, inspired no doubt by his own excursions in
the vicinity of Rome. In this he introduced a viola part for Paganini,
but the part was too much subordinated to the orchestra to suit the
great violinist, who desired a veritable concerto with a simple
orchestral accompaniment; fortunately Berlioz did not give heed to this
demand. The performance of _Harold_ (Nov. 23, 1834) made Berlioz known
to connoisseurs, and soon after M. de Gasparin, Minister of the
Interior, ordered of him a Requiem for the anniversary service of the
victims, not of the Revolution of 1830, but of the Fieschi outrage. This
_Requiem_ did not reach its destination, but was performed at the
celebrated service in the church of the _Invalides_, Dec. 5, 1837, for
the French soldiers and General Danrémont, killed at the siege of
Constantine.

Fortune seemed at last to smile on the persistent efforts of the young
composer, when a failure came to overturn his fond hopes. His opera
_Benvenuto Cellini_, written on a poem by Léon de Nailly and Auguste
Barbier, was performed at the _Opéra_ Sept. 10, 1838; it was well
sustained by Mmes. Stolz and Dorus-Gras, but badly rendered by Duprez,
and disappeared from the bills after three performances, the celebrated
tenor not wishing to appear in a work in which he was quite eclipsed by
the two prima donnas. Berlioz, in order to recover from the effect of
this failure, organized two Conservatoire concerts, thinking that the
performance of the _Fantastic Symphony_ would recompense him for the
loss of his rights at the _Opéra_. The first concert barely covered
expenses, but the second had a memorable result. Scarcely was the
symphony ended when a man jumped upon the platform, and kissed the hands
of the stupefied composer. The next day Berlioz received a letter in
which, as a token of admiration, he was asked to accept a sum of twenty
thousand francs, and this letter was signed by the enthusiastic listener
of the evening before, Nicolo Paganini. This sum—whether it was, as some
think, a secret manifestation of Bertin’s liberality, or whether it was
really given by Paganini for the purpose of defending himself in the
eyes of the Parisians against an accusation of avarice—made Berlioz easy
in his finances for some little time, and enabled him to work with an
unperturbed mind. He profited by the first hours of leisure which he had
found since his return, and wrote first his symphony with solos and
choruses, _Romeo and Juliet_, which he dedicated to his official
benefactor and which was first heard Nov. 24, 1839, and then the grand
_Funeral and Triumphal Symphony_, performed at the inauguration of the
column of July in 1840. He also wrote, about this time, a number of
songs or choral compositions, and the brilliant overture _Le Carnival
Romain_.

[Illustration:

  NICOLO PAGANINI.

  From a drawing by Ingres in Rome, 1818. Engraved by Calamatta.
    Paganini in his thirty-fourth year.
]

The year 1842 was an important date in Berlioz’s career. From that time
his life was a divided one. Misunderstood in his own country,
disheartened by his unsuccessful attempts to win the heart of the great
public, inconsolable for the failure of _Benvenuto_ which closed to him
forever the doors of the Academy of Music, he resolved to undertake an
artistic tour through Europe, and began with Belgium in the latter part
of the year 1842. He met with rather more success there than in France,
though he was still the subject of heated discussion. He took with him a
decidedly mediocre singer, Mademoiselle Martin Recio, who had made a
failure at the Opéra, and had managed to attach herself to him. He
married her later, soon after the death of Miss Smithson, from whom he
had been separated; but he was no happier in his second marriage than in
his first; his first wife drank, his second made unjustifiable
pretensions as a singer, which always exasperated him. After this little
excursion to Belgium, Berlioz determined to try his fortune in Germany,
where already some of his works had found their way; from this time
onward, his life was nothing more than a series of journeys through
France and foreign countries. His first grand tour was through northern
Germany. At Leipsic he saw Mendelssohn, whom he met on the best of
terms, forgetting all about their youthful quarrels; at Dresden he
inspired an equal devotion on the part of Richard Wagner, who received
him as a brother and treated him as a master; at Berlin he was no less
warmly welcomed by Meyerbeer, who recruited the necessary artists for
him and enabled him to direct a part of his _Requiem_.

On his return to Paris he organized, first, a monster festival at the
Exposition of the Products of Industry, in August, 1844, then four grand
concerts at the Circus of the Champs Elysées, early in 1845; but these
gigantic concerts which it had always been his aim to direct, brought
him no profit. Not discouraged by this, however, he gave grand concerts
at Marseilles and at Lyons, the modest success of which was due partly
to curiosity, partly to surprise. After that he went to Austria, Bohemia
and Hungary; this tour was scarcely finished when he rushed off to Lille
to organize a grand festival there on the occasion of the inauguration
of the Northern railroad. Finally in the summer of 1846 he returned to
Paris, and after having given a magnificent performance of his _Requiem_
in the Saint Eustache church, he decided to bring before the public his
most important work, _The Damnation of Faust_. The first performance
took place on December 6, before a small audience. The solos were sung
by Roger, Hermann, Leon, Henri, and Madame Duflôt-Maillard, who had no
better comprehension of the music than the public. The second
performance was given on Sunday the 20th, before an equally small house,
with a tenor who had to omit the _Invocation to Nature_. This convinced
Berlioz that he was still far from having conquered his own country. He
departed for Russia, deeply wounded by the indifference of his
countrymen.

Some of his Paris friends had clubbed together to furnish him the means
to go to St. Petersburg, whence he had received some brilliant offers.
He achieved the greatest success there, with musicians as well as with
the public, and the fact of his having formerly befriended Glinka at
Paris had its effect in enlisting sympathies for him in Russia. On his
way back he stopped at Berlin, where the _Damnation of Faust_ was given
with little enough appreciation, but where he received recognition from
the sovereign and the princess of Prussia. When he got back again to
Paris, crowned with laurels, and with money enough to settle all the
debts incurred by the performance of the _Damnation of Faust_ at the
_Opéra Comique_, he worked hard to get the appointment at the Opéra of
Duponchel and Roqueplan, who were talking of an immediate revival of
_Benvenuto Cellini_, of mounting _la Nonne sanglante_, etc. Berlioz
succeeded in getting them nominated directors, through the aid of the
Bertins, but they no sooner had the official notice in their pockets
than they utterly ignored Berlioz. The latter understood that he was
holding a restraint upon them, and since, as he said, he was accustomed
to this sort of proceedings, he took himself off to London in order to
rid them of his troublesome presence. The affair of the Drury Lane
concerts, unwisely entered into with the eccentric conductor Julien,
terminated in bankruptcy, and the Revolution which followed in 1848
would have left Berlioz without a sou had not Victor Hugo and Louis
Blanc obtained for the sworn disciple of the romantic school the humble
post of librarian at the Conservatoire.

In August, 1848, Berlioz experienced one of the keenest sorrows of his
life in the loss of his father. He went to Grenoble to attend his
father’s funeral, and in his Mémoires he gives a most touching account
of the sad visit. It was about this time that his little _Chœur de
Bergers_ was given under the pseudonym of Pierce Ducré, at the concerts
of the Philharmonic Society, Saint Cecilia hall, Chaussée d’Antin. In
1852 his _Benvenuto_ was given with great success at Weimar under the
fervent direction of Liszt, but the next year the same opera utterly
failed in London, where the Italians, said Berlioz, conspired to ruin
it. By “Italians” Berlioz meant the orchestral conductor Costa and his
party. Berlioz had accepted the preceding year the leadership of the New
Philharmonic, and had made by his success, and attacks, a bitter enemy
of the leader of the old _Philharmonic Society_.

[Illustration:

  HECTOR BERLIOZ.

  Reproduced from a portrait engraved after a painting by M.
    Signol—Rome—1831.
]

After the Empire had been restored in France, Berlioz would have liked
to see reëstablished in his own favor the high position which his master
Lesueur had occupied under the first Empire; but all that he obtained
was the privilege of performing a Te Deum, which he was holding in
reserve for the coronation of the new sovereign, and it was Auber who
was appointed master of music of the Imperial Chapel. In December, 1854,
his sacred trilogy of the _Childhood of Christ_, completed and
remodelled, was given with great success, and if it was performed but
twice, it was only because Berlioz,—he had taken great care to announce
it in advance,—was on the point of departing for Gotha, Weimar, and
Brussels, where there was great eagerness to hear this new work. He
returned to Paris the following March, and on the evening of April 30,
1855, the day preceding the Universal Exposition, he gave in Saint
Eustache church the first performance of his grand _Te Deum_ for three
choruses, orchestra and organ. Afterwards when it became a question of
engraving it, Berlioz was able to see how greatly he was admired in
foreign lands, for the first subscribers were the kings of Hanover,
Saxony, Prussia, the emperor of Russia, the king of Belgium and the
queen of England. The following year he published a final and much
enlarged edition of his excellent _Treatise on Modern Instrumentation
and Orchestration_, originally brought out in 1844; he dedicated this
work to the king of Prussia. On the 21st of June, 1856, after four
_tours de scrutin_, he was nominated member of the Académie des
Beaux-Arts, replacing Adolphe Adam, who had refused to vote for him two
years before and had helped to form the majority in favor of Clapisson.
The following years were spent by Berlioz in organizing concerts at
Weimar and in England, and above all in the composition of the great
work on which he built his supreme hope of success in France, his
tragedy of _Les Troyens_. Since 1856 he had been invited every year to
Baden by Bénazet, contractor for the gaming tables, to organize grand
concerts for the benefit of the visitors. Thus when the king of Baden,
as Bénazet was called, concluded to build a new entertainment hall, it
occurred to him at once that it would be a fine idea to get Berlioz to
write something for its inauguration, and the latter, from the first
mention of the subject, felt a reawakening of the desire which had been
haunting him for thirty years, to write a comic opera, at once
sentimental and gay, on certain scenes arranged by himself after
Shakespeare’s comedy _Much Ado About Nothing_. He acquitted himself of
this agreeable task by fits and starts; the performance of the work at
Baden took place three days sooner than he hoped, and the success was
great enough with that cosmopolitan audience, in which the French
predominated, to find an immediate echo at Paris. The following year
Mesdames Viardot and Vendenheuvel-Duprez sang the delicious nocturne
which closes the first act. For an instant Berlioz indulged in the hope
that they were going to play his bit of comedy at the Opéra Comique, and
in this fond hope he wrote two more things and had them engraved; but he
was soon obliged to recognize that it would be impossible with such a
director as Emile Perrin, and so thought no more about it. Besides, he
was entirely occupied with his dear _Troyens_ and the production of this
beloved work absorbed his every thought. In 1857 he was all in the heat
of the composition; he talked about his antique tragedy to M. Bennett,
to Auguste Morel, to Hans von Bülow; in default of the music he read his
poem at the salons, sometimes at M. Edouard Bertin’s house, sometimes at
his own, and everywhere he received the warmest congratulations. At a
soirée at the Tuileries, the Empress spoke to him at length in regard to
it, and immediately he proposed to read his poems to the sovereigns if
the Emperor could find an hour to give him, but not until three acts
were completed, so that they might order the immediate study of it at
the Opéra. Alas, the Emperor, unlearned in matters of music, did not
respond favorably to Berlioz’s demands; he took no notice of his poem,
and did not give the longed-for order to mount _Les Troyens_ at the
_Opéra_. But while Berlioz was chafing with impatience at seeing _La
Favorite_ and _Lucie_, translated by Alphonse Royer, played over and
over again, and Halévy’s _La Magicienne_ and Félicien David’s
_Herculanum_ pass him by, the Emperor, through the solicitations of the
princess Metternich, opened the doors of the _Opéra_ to Richard Wagner,
and decreed that his _Tannhäuser_ should be given with great pomp and
magnificence.

The blow was a cruel one, and Berlioz, beside himself with rage and
disappointment, attacked this unexpected rival and his opera with a fury
that knew no bounds. He did not understand, unhappy man, that his cause
was closely allied to that of Richard Wagner; the public, influenced by
such critics as Scudo, Jouvin, Lasalle, Azevedo and Chadeuil, was
equally hard on both of them and classed them together as a couple of
dangerous madmen; no distinction was made between the two. The fall of
_Tannhäuser_, towards which Berlioz had worked with all his energies,
resulted in closing to him the stage of the Opéra, and it also assured
in advance the unpopularity of _les Troyens_ with the public ready to
extol or condemn the two innovators without discrimination. Moreover he
saw Gounod, Gevaert and many others gain access to the Opéra in
preference to himself. At last quite worn out with disappointment,
Berlioz decided to accept the offers of M. Carvalho. This manager had
just reopened the _Théâtre-Lyrique_ and wished to make a great hit in
order to obtain from the government a subsidy of a hundred thousand
francs.

But it was no longer a question of playing the whole of _les Troyens_ at
the _Théâtre-Lyrique_; they would content themselves now with playing
the first three acts, subdivided into five, under the title of _les
Troyens à Carthage_. The first part of the work Berlioz had published as
_la Prise de Troie_, but he never heard it performed. _Les Troyens à
Carthage_ was given at the _Théâtre-Lyrique_ Nov. 4, 1863, and scored a
failure, although nothing particularly hostile or unpleasant occurred on
the opening night; the poor author even entertained faint hopes of
future success. It was the cumulative effect of the scornful articles in
nearly all the large newspapers, the ridicule of the smaller press and
of the theatrical parodies, above all the absolute indifference of the
public, leaving his cherished work to drag itself miserably through a
score of performances, that disheartened Berlioz and killed him. His
whole life, indeed, had hung upon this last hope of success, and with
the conviction of genius, at the close of the general rehearsal he had
exclaimed with tears coursing freely down his cheeks, “It is beautiful,
it is sublime!” He retired to his house and lived there, taciturn,
desolate, seeing only a few chosen friends who tried to console him, and
cared for like a child by his mother-in-law; he had buried his second
wife (June, 1862) by the side of the first, in Montmartre cemetery.

Thanks to the income from his compositions he was able to give up his
post of musical critic of the _Débats_, which had become insupportable
to him, and was made an officer of the Legion of Honor. He had been a
chevalier for twenty-four years, having been appointed by M. de Gasparin
in 1839, six months before the performance of _Romeo and Juliet_. At
Paris he found some consolation in listening to selections from the
_Childhood of Christ_ at the concerts of the _Conservatoire_, and in
seeing people give serious attention to his compositions and sometimes
applaud them heartily, at the Popular Concerts recently founded by
Pasdeloup. Only two or three times did he consent to go out of France;
once to direct the _Damnation of Faust_ at Vienna, whither he was
invited by Herbeck, court capellmeister; once to conduct the _Harold_
Symphony at Cologne by the invitation of Ferdinand Hiller; finally to
St. Petersburg at the very urgent solicitations of the grand duchess
Helen, an enthusiastic admirer of his works. But on the eve of his
departure he learned of the death of his son Louis in a distant country.
It was a terrible blow to Berlioz, who was devotedly attached to this
son, a frail, dissipated youth, always discontented with his lot, and
little more than a source of anxiety to his father. He set out for St.
Petersburg with a broken heart, and though overwhelmed with successes
and triumphs, entertained and received like a friend by his young
admirer, the grand duchess, he felt his health failing and his strength
leaving him day by day. On his return he went south, thinking that the
Mediterranean might have a beneficial effect upon his health and
spirits; but twice while walking on the beach, once at Monaco,
afterwards at Nice, he was attacked with vertigo, and fell fainting to
the ground. He returned to Paris, and at the end of two months believed
himself cured of these fainting spells, but the nervous trouble
increased daily. He still had desire and strength enough left to drag
himself to Grenoble in August, 1868, to attend a musical solemnity at
which he was made honorary president by his colleagues, who were proud
of him at last. This was the end; on Monday morning the 8th of March,
1869, Hector Berlioz quietly and painlessly breathed his last.

[Illustration:

  HECTOR BERLIOZ.

  Reproduced from a Russian photograph, selected by von Bulow as being
    the best likeness of Berlioz in his later years.
]

Just a year later the conversion of the public to Berlioz music was
accomplished by means of a grand festival at the _Opéra_ in honor of the
master, organized by his disciple Ernest Reyer. Even up to this time it
was possible to hear Berlioz’s music only at the Popular Concerts, and
then often in the midst of confusion and protestations. The announcement
of this concert gave rise to many pleasantries, and people agreed, with
nods and chuckles, that the best way to pay honor to such a man was to
play music as unlike his as possible. However, the festival took place
on the day appointed, with a program made up entirely of the master’s
works, and some of the pieces, such as the _Waltz of the Sylphs_, and
the _Hungarian March_, caused the liveliest surprise. They had come to
laugh and they listened; they even applauded, and better than with the
tips of their fingers. This was the signal for a reaction, and from that
day the sudden change of opinion was only intensified as the musical
public, who had hitherto tolerated only a few selections, familiarized
themselves with the superb creations of this master and insisted on
hearing successively all his complete works.

His wonderful _La Damnation de Faust_ in particular, so little
appreciated at first, finally had an amazing success and an irresistible
attraction for the crowd, perhaps because the result was assisted by two
or three concert performances. But there is nothing half-way about a
French audience, it has no lukewarm sentiments, and it praises as
immoderately as it condemns. Having once taken the stand, it accepted
and applauded everything from Berlioz’s pen, and when it had exhausted
mere bravos, it easily persuaded itself to erect a monument to his
memory. First it was a question of a simple bust to be placed upon his
tomb in Montmartre Cemetery, then it was proposed to erect a statue to
him in his native city; but Paris did not wish to do less than
Côte-Saint-André, and so it happened that Alfred Lénoir’s statue of the
composer was erected in Vintimille square near the rue de Calais, the
quarter where he spent a long period of his life and where he died. An
exact duplicate of the statue was erected at Côte-Saint-André in 1890,
and surely two statues are not too many to honor the great artist of
whom Auber said with a little spice of wickedness,—“Yes, this Berlioz is
certainly worth something, but what a pity that his education began so
late.”

To-day Berlioz is at the topmost height of fame, and this renown he has
achieved by one work. To the whole musical world he is the composer of
_La Damnation de Faust_, and neither _Romeo et Juliette_, nor _L’Enfance
du Christ_, nor the _Requiem_, each a masterpiece in its way, has
obtained the widespread success of the first-named work. It is singular
that a purely orchestral composition, _La Symphony Fantastique_, should
be accorded a second rank in the general judgment. Strictly speaking,
this symphony and _La Damnation_ present, outside the music written by
him for the stage, the quintessence of Berlioz’s genius. They are the
two poles between which his affluent inspiration oscillates. In the
former of these scores is to be found all the romantic exuberance of
youth; the fury of a latent rebellion against discipline and yet wholly
master of itself; a dazzling wealth of instrumentation; a poetic and
delightful coloring. In the other, of which the style is more varied,
burst forth a passion, an irony, a burning heat, a prodigious intuition
of the effects of vast numbers, a fantastic raillery, a power of
dramatic expression without equal. It is none the less true that genius
radiates from many pages of his other works: the _Pilgrim’s March_ in
_Harold_: the _Offertory_ and the _Tuba Mirum_ in the _Requiem_; the
_Repose of the Holy Family_ in _L’Enfance du Christ_; the _Night of the
Ball_, and the _Love Scene_ from _Roméo et Juliette_; the nocturne-duet
from _Béatrice et Bénédict_; the love-duet, the quintet and the septet
in _Les Troyens_ are all bright inspirations among creations of the
highest worth, that met with great favor, although the works of which
they are a part had not the power to win the masses as they were won by
_La Symphonie Fantastique_ and _La Damnation de Faust_. These last
gratify the public taste (using the term in its broadest acceptation)
because they are not merely concert music, but have a close affinity
with the stage, in the dramatic stories they illustrate. I believe that
the minute descriptive programme which Berlioz has attached to _La
Symphonie Fantastique_ has been largely instrumental in assuring the
success of this work with a public that mentally follows the imaginary
drama, step by step as the orchestra depicts the various episodes; now
melodramatic, now rustic, now loving, sanguinary and demoniac. Such is
still more the case with _La Damnation de Faust_. Berlioz’s work has
certainly benefited by the attention drawn to Goethe’s poem by M.
Gounod’s opera; the great mass of the public knew nothing of the
original when _La Damnation_ was first heard by them in 1846. Nowadays
music lovers everywhere are equally well informed on this point; they
understood, from the time that the opera was given, the meaning of what
was recited to them by Berlioz’s singers, clad in black dress suits and
white neckties; they filled in the gaps in his libretto from what the
opera of Faust taught them; they compared number with number; in fact,
by reason of placing side by side two works so widely unlike each other,
they learned to appreciate the warm, passionate and magnificent power of
Berlioz’s older composition. Thus little by little this product of
genius has forced itself on general admiration as the model on which
Gounod’s Faust was planned.

It is no exaggeration to proclaim _La Damnation de Faust_ a work of
genius, and it excites all the more admiration when we know that certain
numbers, among others, the scene in which Faust is lulled to sleep by
elfins, came from the brain of a composer only twenty-five years old,
and appeared almost perfect in the _Huit scènes de Faust_ which Berlioz
published in 1829, not being able to have it performed, and which he
dedicated to M. de Larochefoucauld. This fine scene, therefore, dates
back to 1828, as does the beautiful song _La Fête de Pâques_ and also
the joyous rondo sung by the peasants. In fact, not only the grand
choruses, but the shorter pieces, the songs of _Le Rat_ and of _La
Puce_; the ballad, _Le Roi de Thule_; the romance of Marguerite, joined
arbitrarily to the soldiers’ chorus and _La Sérenade du diable_ are all
fragments of his youthful work that Berlioz retained in the score of his
maturer period and had the skill to combine anew in several scenes of
extraordinary poetic beauty and richness of effect. How inspired the
pretty rustic scene into which he has inserted, judiciously or
otherwise, his admirable _Rakoczy March_, written to gain the good will
of the Hungarians; the superb monologue of the doctor, introducing the
Easter chorus; the animated scene at the Auerbach tavern with its
bizarre songs and the ironical fugue on the word _Amen_; the marvellous
scene on the banks of the Elbe with the fine appeal to the demon; the
delightful slumber chorus of the spirits and the exquisite ballet of the
sylphs; the double chorus of students. Does it not seem that they were
all conceived, composed and written down at a white heat and without a
pause between them? How fascinating and impressive appears the really
devilish serenade of Mephisto, the charming _Ménuet des Follets_ after
the ecstatic air of Faust, the archaic ballad of Marguerite, the
extremely tender love-duet, and the grand final trio with its chorus of
neighbors. The last part is, from beginning to end, absolutely above
criticism. It opens with Marguerite’s sad lament interrupted by the
chorus of students and leads up to the sublime invocation of nature; to
the fantastic path of the abyss; to the lovely song of Seraphim after
the furious suggestions of hell. What a splendid culmination!

Surely _La Damnation de Faust_ is a masterpiece; but _Roméo et Juliette_
is another and should have enjoyed as great a success. That it did not
is perhaps owing to the fact that in Berlioz’s symphony, vocal music has
only a small place, the instruments alone translating the sentiments of
the characters, the two not being in juxtaposition as they are in many
of the familiar operas of _Romeo and Juliet_ by Gounod and others which
ought to have led to an appreciation of Berlioz’s score. The seven
movements that form this composition are all of marked worth and are
appropriate to the strange plan of the work. In the first place, the
prologue, imitated from Shakespeare, and of which M. Gounod, later,
adopted Berlioz’s idea, presents a résumé of the work at once complete,
grand and delightful, and comprises the fine verses that Berlioz,
strangely enough, caused to be sung by a Muse in honor of Shakespeare
and Poetry. The opening part includes three incomparable numbers: the
poetic and piquantly agitated revery of Romeo wandering in the garden
during the ball; the love scene between Juliet and Romeo, a masterpiece
of orchestration; the Queen Mab movement, a model of fantastic airiness;
also three numbers in the second part, the funeral of Juliet, with its
penetrating sadness; the death of Romeo, in which Berlioz has given free
rein to his passion for descriptive music, and the oath of
reconciliation, preceded by a stirring recitative and the noble prayer
of the monk. These are so many magnificent fragments, which, placed side
by side according to the composer’s design, form a creation of a wholly
superior order.

[Illustration:

  HECTOR BERLIOZ.

  From an engraving by Auguste Hüssener.
]

After _Faust_ and _Romeo_, comes the _Requiem_,—another triumph; a
romantic composition of the first class, written with feverish
enthusiasm by a master who rather sought to paint a striking picture to
each line of the _Requiem_ than to probe to the literal sense of the
Latin text. The _Kyrie_ is the least eccentric and the most expressive
number. The _Tuba Mirum_, in particular, produces a tremendous effect
with its four orchestras of brass; an idea that Félicien David and Verdi
borrowed from this. Berlioz has given to the _Lacrymosa_ a searching
pathos. Perhaps the finest movement in the work to which Schumann
rendered such ample justice, is the _Offertorium_. The requiem ends with
a _Sanctus_ for tenor solo, seraphic in sentiment, followed by a
beautiful _Agnus_ and a lovely, unfugued _Amen_. It is fitting to bring
together, for comparison, this composition and the _Te Deum_ written
about 1850, of which the finest page is the hymn of the seraphim, _Tibi
omnes angeli_, that rises to a magnificent crescendo and dies away at
the close on a long and distant chord of the organ. The prayer for tenor
solo, _Te ergo quæsumus_ is equally perfect, and the final chorus is a
majestic number to which Berlioz has attached a brilliant and thrilling
triumphal march for the “presentation of flags.” It recalls by the
vastness of its proportions and its orchestral massiveness, his
_Symphonie funèbre et triumphale_, so much admired by Richard Wagner,
and of which the peroration, entitled _Apothéose_, forced a flattering
exclamation of praise from even the savage Habeneck.

The _Symphonie Fantastique_, to return to the most applauded work of
Berlioz, after _Faust_, is one of the most bizarre eccentricities ever
hatched in a composer’s brain; but it is also one of the most
impressive. The first movement, _Rêveries-passions_, at once so sad and
tender, is, however, excelled by the _Scène aux champs_, which soothes
and charms us with its peacefulness. It is the most inspired movement of
the symphony. _Le Bal_ and the _Marche au supplice_ are aflame with the
extraordinary verve of the composer, who, taking motives that are
neither very striking nor very original in themselves, develops them
with extraordinary power, and with such fullness that each movement
attains an almost incredible expressiveness. Though in the _Songe d’une
nuit de Sabbat_, the _Dies Iræ_ is burlesqued and degraded by the
mocking accents of the piccolo, the tinkling of bells, the bellowing of
ophicleides, yet this last part produces an irresistible effect and
drags the hearer along in the train of the hellish turmoil. In _Harold
en Italie_ Berlioz pushes this seeking for extremely varied tone-colors,
and unexpected contrasts, and curious surprises for the ear so far, that
he frequently falls into excess. The fine _Marche des Pélerins_ has
eclipsed the other portions of the symphony, but the first movement,
_Harold aux montagnes_, is full of poetic melancholy, and the _Serénade
d’un montagnard_, breathes a tranquil peace with which the fiery and
tumultuous _Orgie de brigands_ forms a powerful, nay, almost exaggerated
contrast.

In the exquisite religious legend _L’Enfance du Christ_, and the
graceful opera comique, _Béatrice et Bénédict_ we make the acquaintance
of a Berlioz tempered by age and who no longer seeks to “make a noise in
the world.” The second part of his oratorio-drama _La Fuite en Egypte_,
is universally known through its delightful chorus of shepherds and its
lovely tenor recitative; there is also much charm in the first duet of
Mary and Joseph as they watch over Jesus. The third part includes a
powerfully dramatic scene in which the fugitives knock in vain at every
door, followed by a patriarchal scene with the beautiful phrase of the
father of the family welcoming Jesus, and the trio, with two flutes and
harps, of young Ishmaelites. This is music that delights the world. It
is the same with the famous duet-nocturne in _Béatrice et Bénédict_,
whose beauty dwells in the opening strain of Hero’s air, and in the
splendid andante, à la Gluck, sung by Beatrice. What gaiety, perhaps a
little forced now and then, emanates from the mocking duet between
Beatrice and Benedict; from the trio of men and the trio of women. What
exquisite sweetness there is in the _Chant d’hyménée_ heard from afar;
what verve in the piquant rondo sung at the close by the reconciled
lovers!

_Benvenuto Cellini_, a work that has never been revived, is not one of
the finer achievements of Berlioz; in it we meet too many concessions to
the virtuosity of the conventional opera prima-donna, but it is pervaded
by a spirit wholly youthful, set off by sparkling instrumentation. The
trio of the first act, and the sad air of Teresa; the grand quartet in
the Place Colonne with its different themes ingeniously blended and
strongly marked; the couplets of Ascanio; the narrative air of Cellini;
the scene in which the poltroon Fieramosca simulates a duel; the
charming love-duet between Teresa and Cellini,—here, indeed, are page
after page of limpid melody that delight their hearers, as did the
opening brilliant overture with the following long carnival scene, which
reproduces with extraordinary effect the mutterings and rumblings of a
crowd. This is, in truth, the climax of the work. To this opera must be
joined the overture, _Le Carnaval Romain_, written later by Berlioz, and
perhaps the most beautiful of his isolated overtures. In any case, it is
that which has had the greatest success, eclipsing the overture, _Les
Francs Juges_, even in Germany where it was at first so much applauded,
as well as the overtures, _Waverly_, _The Corsair_, and _King Lear_, the
last, though so expressive, having never enjoyed equal favor with _Le
Carnaval Romain_.

The tragedy _Les Troyens_, imitated from Virgil, marked the return to
first principles made by Berlioz when maturity had calmed the
effervescence of youth and the ebulition of middle age. It was taken up
again in a moment of classic aspiration and shows how much the teachings
of Lesueur influenced him. _La Prise de Troie_ and _Les Troyens à
Carthage_, separate works, but performed together for the first time at
Carlsruhe in December, 1870, are of equal worth and of a superior order.
In _La Prise de Troie_ the despairing appeals of Cassandra, the tender
replies of Corèbe; the fiery choruses, the ballet music, of which the
local color is so appropriate; the epic grandeur of the benediction of
Astyanax by Paris; the excited joy of the Trojan people welcoming the
entrance of the wooden horse; the woe-fraught prophecies of Cassandra.
In _Les Troyens à Carthage_ the peaceful songs of the Trojans; the
sublimely touching melodies of Dido; the caressing responses of Anna;
Æneas’ call to arms, and the stirring orchestral scene of the royal
hunt; the third act, an unmistakable masterpiece, with its pretty dance
tunes, its quintet, its incomparable septet, and its fine love-duet; the
last two acts, with the sweet plaint of the sailor, Hylas; the pathetic
farewell of Æneas and the splendid death scene of Dido,—all prove that
both parts of _Les Troyens_ must be placed in the same rank as two great
works that blend into one perfect whole.

Berlioz, in addition to his large symphonic and vocal works, wrote
numerous detached songs with orchestral or pianoforte accompaniment. _La
Captive_, which was greatly extended from the original sketch written in
Italy; _Le 5 mai_, a magnificent song glorifying the first Napoleon;
_Sara la baigneuse_, and _La Mort d’Ophélie_, lovely works for two
female voices; a fine _Hymne à la France_; _Neuf mélodies Irlandaises_,
a youthful effort, inspired by the poems of Thomas Moore; _Les nuits
d’été_, six settings of poems by Théophile Gautier, are the most notable
of this class of compositions. By adding to these the pieces collected
to form _Lelio; Rêverie et Caprice_, for violin solo and orchestra; a
charming _Meditation religieuse_, after Thomas Moore; and a striking
_Marche Funêbre_ for the interment of Hamlet; we have enumerated all the
works of Berlioz, great and small, that are worth remembering.

The true domain of Berlioz, that in which he is really king, is the
orchestra. He gave an extraordinary impetus to the art of
instrumentation,—even after Beethoven and Weber, on whom he leaned,—by
his marvellous instinct for blending the various timbres of orchestral
instruments, by his indefatigable search for new combinations of tone,
by his constant effort to add to the power and the expressiveness of the
orchestra in order to make it translate the most diverse sentiments,
thus giving to his music a stronger relief, a more animated color. The
prodigious result was, that he almost recreated the art of
orchestration, opened a new horizon to it, and therefore deserves the
title of the French Beethoven. Is it not also astonishing that his
genius, audaciously innovating in regard to instrumentation, exercised
an influence not only on all those musicians who began their career
after his success was established, but on others who were his elders by
age and reputation, such as Meyerbeer, or somewhat younger, such as
Richard Wagner? These two composers, not the least able of their day,
having heard the works of Berlioz at a time when very few took him
seriously, had an intuition of his worth and from the very first felt
instinctively even more than Schumann, that it was necessary to respect
this young man gifted with such extraordinary imagination.

[Illustration:

  CARICATURE OF BERLIOZ.

  By Benjamin—Nov. 1, 1838.
]

Thenceforward Meyerbeer, one of those rare musicians, be it said to his
honor, who feel a concern for other creations than their own, took a
lively and permanent interest in all that Berlioz produced. Wagner, on
his side, admitted to friends that he no sooner reached Paris than he
made a profound study of Berlioz’s instrumentation; that he had since
reread his scores many times, and that he had often profited by the
works of “that devilishly clever man.” Moreover, from 1841, he regarded
Berlioz as a musician filling a place of his own, mingling with none,
while loving, understanding, worshipping Beethoven; dreaming perhaps to
be German in the hours when his genius urged him to write in imitation
of this great master; but unable to assimilate French love of external
effect with Beethoven’s profound symphonic style; possessing a wonderful
fancy, an imagination of extraordinary energy; torn between his artistic
impulses and the tastes of his fellow countrymen, whom he wished to win;
incapable of asking or of receiving advice; possessed of that virtue,
rare even among Germans, of not wishing to write for money; turning his
back on all musical triviality; eminently fitted by reason of these
qualities and of these faults to create great works, popular or national
as in the _Symphonie de Juillet_, the best in his eyes, of Berlioz’s
works, and the only one which, to him, seemed destined to live.

[Illustration:

  CARICATURE OF BERLIOZ.

  By Carjat.
]

The portrait is pretty, and coming from the pen of Wagner, is flattering
enough, save in its conclusion, which appears somewhat absurd to-day.
But this amazing aptitude for obtaining from an orchestra more than any
other composer had been able to compass, was exactly the origin of the
misunderstanding between Berlioz and the public. Certainly the so-called
learned criticisms of the most serious journals and the chaffing of the
less dignified press, contributed much to transform Berlioz, in the eye
of the masses, into a species of charlatan hungry for fame and banging
his drum vigorously to attract the mob; denying him genius except for
drawing attention to himself. These slurs, however, would not have taken
a firm hold in the minds of their readers if the adverse criticisms had
been wholly without an appearance of justice. In brief, with what did
they reproach him? of lacking melodic invention and of replacing it by
inextricable orchestral tangles; of rejoicing in diabolical noise and of
entertaining a positive contempt for all music except his own.
Nevertheless, Berlioz was not wanting in melody. His themes, when
separated from their complicated accompaniments, have even a family
likeness to the romanzas of 1840 in the style of Madame Duchambage or of
Blangini; his themes, vocal or instrumental, have generally a dreamy
melancholy, which seem to recall his birthplace, with its tender and
tremulous songs so loved by the peasants of Dauphiny. These perfectly
clear melodies, whenever he was content to give them simple
accompaniments, met with instant recognition and success from the
public. Among them is _La Captive_ in its first version; also the tenor
recitative in _La Fuite en Egypte_. It seemed surprising that the
composer of these delicate melodies should be the one who wrote such
complicated music, and so the ignorant were taught that these melodic
treasure-troves were wholly exceptional with this troublesome, demented
and blustering composer.

What repelled the public and assisted its misunderstanding on this
point, were the intricacies of his deeply-studied and curiously-strange
method of orchestration. In carrying out the idea that by the aid of the
most varied tone combinations every shade of meaning in a piece of music
can be made clear to the listener, Berlioz, imbued as he was with the
teachings of Lesueur, had a tendency to overcharge the more novel
touches of his musical picture, in order to indicate the secondary
details with that distinctness which seemed indispensable to him. From
this practice arose confusion in the mind of the inexperienced hearer,
and produced cloudiness in the music from which the dominant idea could
not be detached without an effort. On the other hand he gave utterance
to many noble and touching thoughts with pathetic declamation, poetic
and richly-colored orchestration, and impressive sonority; essential
qualities in Berlioz that are really wonderful and on which his enemies,
notably Fétis, were careful not to throw light. On the contrary, they
did their uttermost to discourage the public from bestowing attention on
these works, and they succeeded only too well and too long.

Here then is one of the causes that made amateurs rebel, on principle,
against the innovations of this great composer; but another cause,
inherent in the soul of Berlioz, repelled timid people. It was his
spirit of intolerance and of exclusive self-admiration. Carried along by
the impulse of the time and the desire to insure victory for his art
theories, Berlioz did not hesitate to attack the reputations of the most
cherished idols of the hour; therefore, whether he wrote, or whether he
spoke, he indulged his natural disposition to exaggerate everything with
virulent indignation, and outbursts of mad enthusiasm in support of the
artistic faith that swayed him. The public did not and could not
understand him, and irritated by his fierce aggressive tone, held itself
instinctively on guard against the creations of this fighting innovator
and stood ready to pay him the price of his contempt for it. Between a
rancorous public offended by the disdain this iconoclast manifested for
its tastes, and an artist who never exhausted the taunts he had in store
for it, there was always an antagonism, skilfully intensified by the
personal foes of the master and which ceased only at his death.

Antagonism is the true word, for Berlioz in his vocal works at least
never departed from the models so dear to the public. In fact, so far as
opera is concerned, he remained ever the disciple and admirer of
Spontini and of Gluck, without dreaming that he was destined soon to
initiate a revolution in this branch of musical art. Even when, at the
height of his own romantic fervor, he broke down the barriers of the
symphony, there always remained in Berlioz an instinctive respect for
consecrated forms; and as soon as he passed from the concert-room to the
stage he conformed in the most ingenious manner imaginable to the old
methods in all his works written with an eye to the opera house. He was
deliberately revolutionary in the symphony only, and that chiefly in
respect to instrumentation.

With this creator, endowed with a phenomenal genius in a certain way,
the ideas regarding the essential conditions of musical art were so
unsettled, and changed so often from one time and from one style to
another, that he would have been puzzled to formulate them with any
exactness. He emitted fire and flames, he hurled curses and roared
bitter denunciations, but when it came to deciding the ideal that an
artist should follow or the absolute principles he should adopt, he did
nothing.

There exists a radical difference between the two great musicians who
have convulsed the musical world in the second half of this century. The
later-comer, Richard Wagner, pursued a fully defined ideal, a single
problem, on the solving of which he had long concentrated his thoughts
and all the force of his genius, viz.:—the fusion of music and the
drama. He kept steadily in this one path and brought the music-drama to
the highest point it is possible for it to attain. Berlioz, on the
contrary, realized at one stroke all the modifications that seemed to
him desirable to fasten upon the symphony and the opera. He did not seek
an integral reform, but simply wished to enrich each branch of musical
art with new descriptive and picturesque elements. But while his
flexible brain turned now toward the stage, now toward the church, or
the concert-room, he did not deviate much from the traditional forms,
though he endowed them with new and wonderful characteristics.

Warmly romantic with Shakespeare, purely classic with Virgil, who were
his literary deities, he was eclectic in literature as in music. The
splendid lyric accents of Gluck are not in full harmony with the deep
poetic and chivalric inspiration of Weber, and the lack of resemblance
between Spontini and Beethoven is still more striking, yet Berlioz loved
them all. It matters not that Berlioz confounded these masters in his
religious admiration of them and made for himself a double personality,
repudiating all rule and tradition when he wrote for the orchestra and
for the concert stage, and becoming a pious observer of hallowed forms
when he turned to the theatre. In his _Les Troyens_, the voice parts are
of a wholly classic purity while the orchestra abounds in modern
romanticism; in _Béatrice et Bénédict_, delightful inspirations,
exquisite in their poetry, are mingled with the conventional forms that
Berlioz mercilessly condemned in the works of others: inexplicable vocal
flourishes, repetitions of words, outrages on prosody, the clipping of
rebellious words; all this by a composer in whose eyes correct
declamation was a fundamental essential of song.

Such was the composer Berlioz, such the critic, and the critic was not
unhelpful to the composer. In fact, all that he was in France, all that
he was able to win, during his lifetime, he owed to his position as a
writer for the press and as the friend of influential journalists. But
he made many enemies, less by the aggressiveness of his writings than by
his caustic wit. There was in him an imperative necessity to tell the
public his hates and his loves, and if he did not always feel free to
give bold expression to the disgust with which certain works filled him,
he invariably let his contempt be seen through his polished and even
laudatory phrases. At least, nobody was ever deceived. The musician in
Berlioz is impassioned, now tender, now vigorous. It is the same with
the writer. His style is picturesque and incisive, sometimes trivial.
Side by side are exclamations of admiration and contempt; quasi
religious respect and genuinely holy anger, all equally energetic and
sincere—the word and the blow. To appreciate this at its full value, it
suffices to select at hazard one of the collection of articles published
by himself in book form under the titles, _Les Soirées de l’orchestra,
Les Grotesques de la musique_, in which the humorist tone prevails and
_A travers chants_, which contains his most serious thoughts; the two
volumes of letters published after his death, _Correspondance inédite et
lettres intimes_; and finally his amusing and fascinating _Mémoires_, in
which he travesties himself unreservedly and confuses somewhat the dates
and facts. This book is a genuine romance.

Berlioz, bitter and unsympathetic as it here pleases him to appear, was
wholly unconventional; he was the athlete constantly stripped for the
combat, and armed for the fight. How different from the Berlioz seen in
his profession and in society! As much as those, who knowing him but
slightly, judged him hard and unsociable, so much did those to whom his
affections went out, laud his extreme kindness and his tenderness of
feeling. He was not prepossessing in appearance or manner. His esteem
and friendship had to be won little by little, in order to open by some
means or other, the way to his heart. He no sooner found himself among
friends, than his spirits rose and often urged him into countless
pleasantries. Nevertheless, even toward these he showed the most
variable disposition: he would arrive sullen and morose, and then
without warning, would break into wild and infectious gaiety, to fall
just as suddenly into icy reserve. A troublesome thought would suffice
for this, and it only needed an inopportune word to make him
intractable. If he chanced to be in the mood for brilliant paradoxes or
merry persiflage, it was necessary to refrain from interrupting or
opposing him. In the heat of conversation, no matter how serious, he
loved to utter wretched puns, and absurd verbal extravagances. These
irrepressible sallies, at which he was generally the only one to laugh,
were something very serious in his eyes. “Genius is akin to madness.”

“Berlioz, one of the most eminent musicians of all time, perhaps the
most extraordinary artist in every way who ever lived.” Thus he was
characterized by M. Reyer in speaking at the foot of Berlioz’s statue.
He was, truly, an extraordinary artist in every sense; apostle and
sectarian at one and the same time; one who conceived great things and
sometimes partly realized them; who was in turn sarcastic and
sentimental, emotional and passionate almost to weeping; who nourished
an intolerant worship of his art and never knew moderation in his
judgments; who was gifted with admirable creative faculties and opened
new paths to the art of instrumentation; who was in perpetual strife
with the pretenders of true melody, to whom he never yielded; who aimed
to be at once as noble and as majestic as Spontini, as imaginative and
as impassioned as Weber, as sweet and as tender as Virgil, as sublime
and as trivial as Shakespeare, as grand and pathetic as Goethe and
Beethoven, yet who knew how to be himself by force of will and loftiness
of genius. Berlioz had a rare grasp of mind, and was keenly sensitive to
the beauties of certain great literary works, hence the “romantic
movement” in France deeply influenced him. With enormous will power and
bordering on insanity, he aspired in his youthful dreams to be
considered, some day, the Victor Hugo, the Delacroix of musical art,
and, in some respects, his aspiration was more than realized—after he
was dead!

[Illustration: Ad. Julien]

[Illustration:

  AMBROISE THOMAS

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, by E. Pirou, Paris._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                     CHARLES LOUIS AMBROISE THOMAS


Ambroise Thomas was born in Metz on the fifth day of August, 1811. He
was the son of a musician and received his first instruction in music
from his father. In his earliest childhood he developed a talent for
music and when only four years of age he began his musical studies.
Three years later he had instruction on the violin and piano, for which
latter instrument he manifested a special gift, and he was already an
excellent performer on it, when, in 1828, at the age of seventeen, he
was admitted to the Paris Conservatoire and became the pupil of
Zimmermann in piano playing, of Dourien for harmony, and of Lesueur for
composition. Kalkbrenner, then in the height of his fame, took a great
interest in the boy and aided his study of the piano, while Barbereau
gave him lessons in counterpoint. He was a diligent student, and one
year after his entrance to the Conservatoire he won the first prize for
piano playing. The year following, he carried off the first prize for
harmony, and two years later the Grand Prix was awarded him; and when
only twenty-one, he went to Italy at the expense of the State, remaining
there for the prescribed three years, and studying conscientiously.
During this period he wrote a string quintet; a quartet for strings; a
trio for pianoforte, violin, and ’cello; a fantasia for pianoforte and
orchestra; a fantasia on Scotch melodies, for piano; six capriccios in
the form of waltzes, for piano; two nocturnes for piano, a rondo for
four hands, for the same instrument; six Italian songs; three motets,
with organ, and a requiem, with orchestra. These works were all
published, as was also his prize cantata “Hermann and Ketty.” They are
now forgotten, but they were then evidences of great industry and of a
leaning in the direction of what was most worthy in the art into which
the young musician had been born, and they attracted earnest critical
attention.

He returned to Paris early in 1836, and at once sought for a hearing at
the Opéra Comique, the first ambition of a young French composer. He did
not have long to wait, for in August, 1837, his one-act opera, “La
Double Echelle,” was performed, and so favorably received that he
obtained a firm foothold at the opera house and produced there “Le
Perruquier de la Régence,” three acts (1838); “Le Panier Fleuri,” one
act (1839). In the meanwhile, encouraged by his success, he aspired to
the Académie, and in 1839 produced there, in collaboration with Benoist,
La “Gipsy,” a ballet in two acts. He also composed for the same
establishment “Le Comte de Carmagnola” (1841); “Le Guerillero” (1842);
and “Betty,” a ballet in two acts (1846). None of these was successful.
At that time Auber, Halévy, Meyerbeer and Donizetti were composing for
the Académie, and it was not easy for a young artist to hold his own
against them. Thomas had not neglected the Opéra Comique, for which he
wrote “Carline” (1840); “Angélique et Médor” (1843); “Mina” (1843), all
of which failed to make any favorable impression on the public.
Discouraged by the lack of success that attended his efforts, he ceased
to write for the lyric stage, and for five years remained silent. When
he was heard again it was in “Le Caïd,” a three-act comic opera, which
was produced in 1849, and achieved a brilliant success, making a tour of
Europe. It was followed in 1850 by “Le Songe d’une nuit d’été,” in three
acts. This opera was no less fortunate in the reception accorded it, and
at once gave Thomas a foremost place among the young French composers of
the day. Then came “Raymond,” three acts (1851); “La Tonelli” (1853);
“La Cour de Célimène” (1855); “Psyché” (1857); “Le Carnaval de Venise”
(1857); “Le Roman d’Elvire.” Some of these obtained slight temporary
success, but not one of them won the popularity that attended “Le Caïd”
and “Le Songe.” Again Thomas retired from view, and this time it was six
years before he produced another opera.

In 1851 he became a member of the Institute, and in 1852, Professor of
Composition in the Conservatoire. Up to this time Thomas had
distinguished himself as a fluent and refined melodist, and by his
piquant orchestration; he was also noted as a master of musical comedy.
Nevertheless he had not yet been able to win for himself a rank equal to
that of Auber, and in French comic opera, “Le Maçon,” “Fra Diavolo,” “Le
Domino Noir,” and “Les Diamants de la Couronne,” which had been composed
before Thomas went into his second seclusion, still surpassed all that
the latter had produced, and survive to this day, while, with the
exception of “Le Caïd,” none of Thomas’s operas antecedent to 1850 are
ever performed.

In 1866 “Mignon” was heard, and Thomas at once leaped to world-wide
fame. The work had an overwhelming success, and has been given in every
opera house in the world. Two years later this masterpiece was followed
by “Hamlet,” which was equally successful in France, though it has not,
elsewhere, proved as popular as “Mignon.” On the strength of these two
fine operas he was appointed, in 1871, to fill the position of Director
of the Conservatoire, left vacant by the death of Auber. His other
compositions, not yet mentioned, are a cantata composed for the
inauguration of a statue to Lesueur (1852); a “Messe Solennelle” (1857);
a “Marche Réligieuse” (1865); “Hommage à Boïeldieu,” composed for the
centenary of Boïeldieu (1875), and many part songs, among them “La
Vapeur,” “Le Chant des Amis,” “Le Tyrol,” “France,” “L’Atlantique,” “Le
Carnaval de Rome,” “Le Traineaux,” “Le Temple de la Paix,” “La Nuit du
Sabbat,” some of which are works of the highest merit, in their order.
In 1874 was produced “Gille et Gilleton,” a one-act comic opera,
written, however, in 1861. “Psyché” was revived in 1878 with additions,
but though the music is full of graceful beauty, and was warmly praised,
it made no marked impression on the general public. After “Hamlet,”
Thomas did not bring forward another opera for fourteen years, and then
he made another brilliant success with “Françoise di Rimini” (1882), in
which was some of the finest music he had ever written, especially in
the prologue and in the fourth act. He was now seventy-one years of age,
and could well rest on the laurels he had won. From that date until the
present (1893), he has produced no new lyric work, his only contribution
to the stage of the opera being a ballet founded on “The Tempest,” by
Shakespeare (1889), which, though remarkable as the effort of a man
seventy-eight years old, was not destined to be numbered among his
successes. In fact, with this work his career as a composer appears to
have ended. He received the grand Cross of the Legion of Honor in 1880.
At the age of eighty-two, he is still fulfilling his duties at the
Conservatoire, in which institution he has worked many important and
useful reforms. He has improved the method of instruction, has
instituted lectures on the general history of music; has founded an
orchestral class and compulsory vocal classes for reading at sight, and
has raised the standard of solfeggio teaching. Not only this, but he has
been largely instrumental in increasing the salaries of the professors,
and has enlarged the prosperity of the institution until it has reached
a point that makes it almost self-paying. Thomas has lived a wholly
artistic life and has, fortunately, escaped most of the severer trials
experienced by the majority of those who have devoted themselves to that
branch of his art which has brought him fame and competence. He is given
to physical exercise, is fond of country life, has a villa at Argenteuil
and an island home at Zillieo, in Brittany. He is not without literary
talent and his tastes are refined. He is an enthusiastic collector of
bric-a-brac, and rarely fails attendance at any of the more important
auctions at the Hotel Druot.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript of an “Album Leaf” written by Ambroise
    Thomas.
]

Ambroise Thomas’ life as a composer for the Paris opera houses covered
fifty-two years. In that time he wrote much charming music, but he never
developed any individuality of style, never wrote anything so
distinctively his own that it could at once be attributed to him by
reason of any characteristics belonging peculiarly and distinguishingly
to him. His earlier operas, produced between 1837 and 1848, are marked
by refinement of taste, and graceful finish in workmanship. After that
and until 1860 his method underwent a change, and he sought brilliancy
and piquancy, as instanced in “Le Caïd,” and gradually warmed into
poetic feeling and deeper sentiment, departing, in the meanwhile, from
the conventionalities that Rossini and other Italian composers had
fastened on French opera music. His growth in his art has been steady
from the very outset, but if he has ceased to write after “Le Roman
d’Elvire,” which ended this period of his musical development, his fame
as a composer would hardly have survived down to the present time. From
the opera just named to “Mignon” was an enormous stride, and the
brilliant reputation this work made for him was sustained by “Hamlet”
and “Françoise di Rimini.” But even these, his masterpieces, do not
present him in the light of a composer who had something to say that had
not been said before. His art evolution had enlarged his method of
thought and had enabled him to give a wider scope to his talents, but it
had not endowed him with a style that set him apart from other
composers. We hear of the style of Auber, and it brings a clear idea of
a strongly marked musical individuality to our mind. The same may be
said of the style of Meyerbeer and also that of Gounod; but to speak of
the style of Thomas would be to convey no such distinct and instant
suggestion of a definite and an unmistakable originality, like that
which pertains essentially to Bizet.

The music of Thomas is always polished and delicate; his operas show
that he has an innate feeling for dramatic effect; his musical comedies
are models for the intimate blending of music with the spirit of the
words and the stage situations. His harmonies are rich and flowing, and
impart to his work a decided air of refined elegance. His
instrumentation emphasizes convincingly his thorough mastery over the
resources of the modern orchestra and a sensitive appreciation of the
characteristic tone-color of the different instruments. His scores are
never overloaded, and as the rule the right touch is always put by him
in the right place. The voice is never overwhelmed by the orchestra.
With all these merits he is rarely if ever emphatic, and strength and
intensity of passion are not among his musical gifts. Love, melancholy,
gaiety and poetic tenderness are the sentiments in which he excels.
Fire, and a vigorous sweep of emotional feeling are not within his power
to depict. The changes in the style of his scores are the changes that
the varying musical tastes of the times brought about. He never formed
these tastes, but he invariably followed them. His earlier operas are in
the vein of Auber or of Rossini, sometimes of both in combination. When
the fashion of the day called for more dramatic expression he followed
in the footsteps of Halévy. Later, when brilliancy, tunefulness and
graceful commonplace were the vogue, he had no scruple against modelling
himself on Clapisson. It was not until Gounod had risen into fame and
“Faust” became the rage, filling the music-loving world with delight,
that Thomas found it possible to write “Mignon” and “Hamlet,” in both
which operas the influence of the younger composer is shown on almost
every page. Thomas has not the gift of originality, but he has the gift
of receptivity and the faculty of assimilation largely developed. Twice
he went into seclusion, and each time when he reappeared it was with a
style in harmony with that of the favorite opera composers of the hour.
There is nothing culpable in this, for it proves conclusively, that
Thomas was always an untiring student. It is undeniable, that on every
occasion his style underwent a radical change, it showed an advance in
the broader and more impressive essentials of his art, and added to the
fame of the composer. The works in which he will live are those which
belong to his last period.

[Illustration:

  AMBROISE THOMAS.

  Reproduction of a lithograph portrait published by Becquet of Paris.
]

Not so with his greater confrère Halévy, whose first grand successes,
“La Juive” and “L’Eclair,” were his only masterpieces. Thomas has not
reached the height to which Halévy soared in either of these operas.
“Mignon” and “Hamlet” are, however, works of no common order. The former
has won a place in the repertory of every opera house in Europe. There
is much of genuine poetic feeling in the music, and the score, as a
whole, is distinguished by grace, melodiousness, delicacy of taste, and
that effect of spontaneity that is understood as inspiration. Fine
discrimination has been shown in giving each character its appropriate
musical expression, and the skill with which the people of the story are
contrasted cannot be too warmly praised. The “Connais-tu le pays,” the
“swallow” duet, the prayer of Mignon, the romance of Wilhelm, the
polonaise of Felina, have become justly celebrated. The orchestration is
exquisite in its delicate finish and its ingeniously varied but always
artistic color. That it has achieved a permanent place on the opera
stage is beyond question. “Hamlet” is more ambitious, and though not
without a certain nobility of style, is little else than a more
elaborate “Mignon.” In it the composer says nothing that he has not
already said in the last-named work, the only change being a somewhat
more earnest method of expression. In this opera it was claimed that
Thomas “has indicated to young composers the line at which the new
school should stop, under penalty of exceeding the bounds of lyric art”;
but Thomas, though undoubtedly a musician of talent, knowledge and
experience, has never shown such originality as to entitle him to be
considered a reformer, and as yet there has not been, even in his own
country, any propaganda to spread a knowledge of him through the world.
“Hamlet” may be considered the extreme point that French grand opera had
reached in the direction of the Wagnerian music-drama up to the time
that it appeared. The Gounod influence is still clearly apparent in it,
but the Wagner influence also makes itself felt in the effort to break
away from conventional models and to substitute expressive declamation
for more rhythmical melody. The mad song of Ophelia is, perhaps, the
most effective number in the opera. “Françoise de Rimini” went a step
further than did “Hamlet” toward a predetermined departure from the old
school of operatic music to the new. The composer authorized the
statement that the prologue to the work would be a profession of musical
faith, which he had long contemplated and in which he would mark
definitely how closely symphonic music can be allied with the lyric
drama; after which the curtain was to rise on music essentially
“theatrical,” or, if a better word should be demanded, “human.” The
prologue is certainly as strong and masterly, but it has in it nothing
of a symphonic quality, and, as a profession of faith, proved to be of
no permanent value save as an evidence of the highest point which the
composer’s musical development had reached. This portion of the opera
and the fourth act are by far the finest achievements of Thomas. The
orchestra through the whole opera is treated with consummate power,
notably in the beautiful effects obtained by unaccustomed groupings of
the different instruments. In the ingenious blendings of tone-color that
are produced by combining widely varying timbres with a skill as
profound as felicitous; the richness, ripeness, and perfection of the
scoring generally; as well as the masterly discretion observed in
maintaining a judicious balance between the orchestra and the singers,
the score may be justly given a place among the most masterly that
modern musical art has produced. For the rest, despite some splendid
dramatic moments in the work and the faultless finish of its workmanship
as a whole, it is to be doubted if it will live. But how few works do
live! Many glorious operas have been written since “Don Giovanni” and
“Fidelio” saw the light, and yet not one has appeared that has yet been
accorded a place by their side. Hundreds of operas that met with a
brilliant and deserved success in their day, have fallen gradually into
the background; operas by Spontini, who, in “La Vestale,” just escaped
producing an immortal masterpiece; by Cherubini, whose “Les Deux
Journées” came nearer winning the third place than any opera since; by
Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi, Meyerbeer, whose “Les Huguenots” is
his only work that bids fair to survive; by Weber, whose “Der
Freischütz” alone promises to last. The supreme operas of the world
might be named on the fingers of one hand. Mention of Wagner has been
avoided because he is yet to experience the test of time,—that
incorruptible and most pitiless of critics. It is the fate of some
admirable and justly honored composers to learn their ultimate
reputation with posterity during their lifetime. Among these, we think,
is Ambroise Thomas, and that reputation will include respectful
consideration for an eminent and able musician, who constantly grew in
his art; while it will accord him a prominent place in the ranks of
wholly estimable opera composers of the second order.

[Illustration: B. E. Woolf]

[Illustration:

  GEORGES BIZET

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, by Carjat & Cie., Paris._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                     ALEXANDRE CÉSAR LÉOPOLD BIZET.


Alexandre César Léopold Bizet was born in Paris, Oct. 25th, 1838. His
godfather called him “Georges,” and as “Georges,” Bizet is known to the
world at large.

The father of Bizet was an artisan, who, at the age of twenty-five,
studied music, and became a teacher of singing. He outlived his son. The
mother was a sister of the wife of Delsarte. She was a pianist of
ability, a “first prize” of the Conservatory. From her Bizet learned the
alphabet and musical notation. From his father he learned the use of the
pianoforte, and the elements of harmony.

The boy did not wish to be a musician; he hankered after the literary
life. “When I was a child,” Bizet told Gallet, “they hid my books to
keep me from abandoning music for literature.”

Although he was not of the required age, Bizet passed brilliantly, in
his tenth year, the entrance-examination of the Conservatory, where he
studied the pianoforte under Marmontel, the organ under Benoist,
counterpoint and fugue under Zimmermann; and after the death of the
latter, he studied composition under Halévy. He won a prize before he
was eleven years old, the first of many prizes:—

First solfeggio prize (1849); second pianoforte prize (1851), and the
first pianoforte prize (1852); first “accessit d’orgue” (1853), second
prize (1854), first prize (1855); second prize in fugue (1854), first
prize (1855); second “grand prix de Rome” of the Institute (1856), and
first “grand prix” (1857).

In 1856 Offenbach, manager of the Bouffes-Parisiens, proposed a
competition in operetta. The libretto was “Doctor Miracle.”
Seventy-eight composers appeared; six were found worthy, and the prizes
was awarded _ex aequo_, to Bizet and Lecocq. The music of the latter was
first heard April 8th, 1857; the music of Bizet was heard April 9th. The
public was impartially cold.

Toward the end of 1857 Bizet started on his journey to Rome. He
journeyed leisurely, and entered the city Jan. 28, 1858. It was in 1859
that he sent, according to rule, a composition to the “Académie des
Beaux-Arts”; it was not a mass however; it was an operetta in Italian:
“Don Procopio,” in two acts. The reviewer, Ambroise Thomas, praised the
ease, the brilliancy, “the fresh and bold style” of the composer, and he
deplored the fact that Bizet had not given his attention to a work of
religious character. The score of this operetta is lost. In 1859 Bizet
traveled in Italy and obtained permission to remain in Rome during the
one year, that, according to tradition, should be spent in Germany. He
sent to the Académie “Vasco de Gama,” a descriptive orchestral
composition with choruses; three numbers of an orchestral suite; and, if
Pougin is correct, an operetta in one act, “La Guzla de l’Emir”; but
Pigot claims that this latter work was not begun until after the return
to Paris.

He returned and found his mother on her deathbed. He was without means,
without employment; and he was crushed by the death of the one for whom
he was eager to work day and night. He once wrote to her from Rome,
“100,000 francs, the sum is nothing! Two successes at the Opéra Comique!
I wish to love you always with all my soul, and to be always as to-day
the most loving of sons.”

He was a “prix de Rome,”—too often an honor that brings with it no
substantial reward. He was a “prix de Rome,” as was the unfortunate
described by Legouvé:

                   “Listen to the wretched plight
                   Of a melancholy man,
                   A young man of sixty years,
                   Whom they call ‘un prix de Rome.’”

Burning with desire to write for the operatic stage, he gave music
lessons. Dreaming of dramatic situations and grand finales, he made
pianoforte arrangements of airs from operas written by others.

The Count Walewski granted Carvalho, the manager of the Théâtre-Lyrique,
a subsidy of 100,000 francs, on the condition that an important work by
a “prix de Rome” should be produced each year. Bizet was the first to
profit thereby. He wrote the music for “The Pearl Fishers.” The text was
by Carré and Cormon, and the opera was produced with gorgeous scenic
setting, Sept. 30, 1863. The opera was given eighteen times, and it was
not sung again in Paris until 1889, at the Gaité, and in Italian, with
Calvé and Talazac, when it was only heard six times.

It is stated in Pigot’s “Bizet et son Œuvre” that Blau and Gallet wrote
a libretto, “Ivan, the Terrible,” which was set to music by Bizet in the
style of Verdi. Gallet says that neither he nor Blau wrote a word of
such a libretto.

In 1866 Bizet worked at the orchestral composition which three years
later was played at a Concert Pasdeloup and was then called “Souvenirs
de Rome”; he temporarily abandoned it on the receipt of a libretto by
Saint-Georges and Adenis, founded on Sir Walter Scott’s “The Fair Maid
of Perth.” While he composed the music of this opera, he supported
himself by giving lessons, correcting proofs, arranging dance music for
orchestra, and writing songs. He often worked fifteen or sixteen hours a
day. His letters of this year end with one and the same cry: “I must
make my living.” This pursuit of a living brought early death.

The score of “The Fair Maid of Perth” was finished in six months, but
the opera was not produced at the Théâtre-Lyrique until the 26th of
December, 1867. There were twenty-one representations. In 1890 there
were eleven representations at the Eden Theatre (Théâtre-Lyrique).

It was in 1867 that Bizet wrote the first act of “Malbrough,” an
opérette bouffe, which was given at the Athénée. In 1868 or 1869 he
wrote the music of an opérette-vaudeville, “Sol-si-ré-pif-pan,” for the
Menus-Plaisirs, and he did not sign the score.

It was also in 1867 that he appeared as a writer on musical subjects.
His first and last article was published in the first number of the
Revue Nationale, Aug. 3rd. His pseudonym was “Gaston de Betzi.”

And then Bizet busied himself in the completion of “Noah,” a biblical
opera left unfinished by Halévy; in arranging operas for pianoforte
solo; in original compositions for the pianoforte, as his “chromatic
variations.” He wrote music for the text of “The Cup of the King of
Thule”; he called it “wretched stuff” and destroyed it. His “Souvenir de
Rome, fantaisie symphonique” was played at a Concert Populaire in 1869.
In that same year, June 3rd, he was married to Geneviève Halévy, the
daughter of the composer. After the invasion of France, Bizet served in
the National Guard, and his letters during those bloody days reveal the
depth of his patriotism and his disgust at the incompetence and
corruption in high places.

In 1872 (May 22) a little work in one act was brought out at the Opéra
Comique. It was called “Djamileh”; the text was by Gallet, the music was
by Bizet. It was given ten or eleven times; and Saint-Saëns, infuriated
at the Parisian public, wrote biting verses:

“The ruminating bourgeois, pot-bellied and ugly, sits in his narrow
stall, regretting separation from his kind; he half-opens a glassy eye,
munches a bon-bon, then sleeps again, thinking that the orchestra is
a-tuning.”

Carvalho, manager of the Vaudeville, dreamed of reviving the melodrama.
He first caught his playwright, Daudet; he secured Bizet as the
musician; the result was “L’Arlésienne,” which was first produced Oct.
1, 1872. The music included twenty-four numbers, orchestral and choral.
The score was designed for the particular orchestra of the Vaudeville.
Bizet rearranged for full orchestra the numbers that make up the Suite
No. 1, and the Suite was first played at a Concert Populaire Nov. 10,
1872. He also revised the other numbers, and the revision was used at
the revivals at the Odéon in 1885 and 1887. The Suite No. 2 was arranged
by Ernest Guiraud.

The overture, “Patrie,” was first played at a Concert Populaire in
February, 1874. Bizet experimented with texts suggested for an opéra
comique; he finally chose “Carmen,” the text of which was drawn by
Meilhac and Halévy from a tale by Merimée. The opera was produced at the
Opéra Comique, March 3, 1875, with the following cast: Carmen,
Galli-Marié; Micaëla, Marguerite Chapuis; Don Jose, Lhérie; Escamillo,
Bouhy. It was about this time that Bizet was decorated with the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

“Carmen” was no more successful than its predecessors. Bizet mourned its
failure. For some time he had fought bravely against melancholy. At the
age of thirty-six, he exclaimed, “It is extraordinary that I should feel
so old.” Attacks of angina had been periodical for some years. He would
jest at his suffering: “Fancy a double-pedal, A flat, E flat, which goes
through your head from ear to ear.” He had abused his strength by
over-work. Suddenly, at midnight, he died in Bougival, where he was
resting. It was June 3rd, three months after the first performance of
“Carmen.” The widow was left with a five-year-old son.

[Illustration:

  BIZET’S TOMB IN PÈRE LACHAISE. PARIS.

  From a photograph made specially for this work.
]

Bizet left few manuscripts. He burned many shortly before his death. The
fragments of “Don Rodrigue” and “Clarisse Harlowe” were left in a
curious notation that is nearly hieroglyphical, not to be deciphered.

When Louis Gallet first met Bizet, he saw a forest of blonde hair, thick
and curly, which surrounded a round and almost child-like face. Bizet’s
figure was robust. In later years his features were firm, and his
expression was energetic, tempered by the trust, the frankness, and the
goodness that characterized his nature. He was very short-sighted, and
he wore eyeglasses constantly. His mouth lent itself as easily to
expression of mocking wit as to kindness. His love for his parents has
been already mentioned; his devotion toward his wife was such that she
told Gounod there was not one minute of the six years of marriage which
she would not gladly live over. He was a welcome companion, fond of jest
and paradox, frank and loyal. At the house of Saint-Saëns he played
gladly the part of Helen in Offenbach’s operetta. He was ever firm, even
extravagant in friendship, as when at Baden-Baden in ‘62 he challenged a
man who spoke lightly of Gounod’s “Queen of Sheba.” When the talk was
concerning musicians whom he loved, Bach, Mozart, Rossini, Verdi,
Gounod, his voice would lose its peculiar sibilance, and his hot
eloquence showed honesty as well as nimble wit and power of expression.
In all of the recollections of troops of friends, in his letters to
acquaintances and friends there is not a suggestion of mean action,
scheming purpose, low or narrow thought.

At the age of fourteen Bizet was a master of the pianoforte; his
technique was above reproach; he was particularly skilful in mixing his
colors: an exquisitely defined melody had its proper and characteristic
background. Halévy and Liszt are of the many witnesses to his
extraordinary talent for reading from score at sight. Reyer speaks of
his remarkable memory. And yet Bizet never appeared in public as a
pianist; although in certain salons of Paris his abilities excited
lively admiration.

So too his gifts as a composer for orchestra were more than ordinary;
but whenever he had an opportunity to write for the stage, he abandoned
any instrumental work that had interested him.

For Bizet obeyed the instincts of the French musician and looked to the
stage for enduring fame.

There is no need of close examination of “The Pearl Fishers,” and “The
Fair Maid of Perth.” We know the later works of Bizet, and therefore we
find hints of genius in the early operas. With the exception of the duet
of Nadir and Zurga and of a few pages saturated with local color, there
is little in “The Pearl Fishers” to herald the arrival of a master of
the stage. There are delightful examples of instrumentation in “The Fair
Maid of Perth”: the opera as a whole is conventional, and the solo
passages and the ensemble are often reminiscent: there is continual
homage to famous men: Gounod, Halévy, Verdi, Thomas, _et al._ Bizet had
not yet found the use of his own voice.

Nor would “Djamileh,” the satisfaction of the longing of Camille du
Locle for ideal musical revery, the sounding of the revolt against the
school of Scribe, carry the name of Bizet to after years. Its perfume is
subtle and penetrating; its colors delight trained eyes. It is a _tour
de force_. It has the affected frankness of a pastel in prose. The
hearer must be mastered by the spirit of the Orient to thoroughly enjoy.
The three comedians should be seen as in an opium dream.

The fame of Bizet must rest eventually on two works: “L’Arlésienne” and
“Carmen.”

I believe “L’Arlésienne” is the more artistic, the greater work. In
“Carmen” is the greater promise of what Bizet might have done. The music
of “L’Arlésienne,” is inseparably associated with success or failure of
the play itself and the abilities of play-actors. If the concert-suite
is played, it pleases; but apart from the representation of the dramatic
scenes, the music loses its true significance. The saxophone solo in the
Prelude, with its marvellous accompaniment, gratifies the ear in the
concert-room; but its haunting and melancholy beauty is intensified
tenfold when it is associated with the apparition of “The Innocent.” It
is impossible to over-rate the beauty, the passion, the dramatic fitness
of the music that accompanies the various scenes in the simple and
terrible drama of Daudet. The dialogue between _Mère Renaud_ and
_Balthazar_ when they meet after fifty years is touching; but the
_adagietto_, that softly tells of humble heroism, love preserved without
shame, the kiss given at last and without passion, longings and regrets
endured in silence, rises to a height of pathos that is beyond the reach
of words or pantomime. In connection with the scene and the dialogue the
_adagietto_ is irresistible in its effect; in the concert room, it is
simply a beautiful piece for muted strings. This play of Daudet is so
simple, so devoid of trickery that its popular and universal success is
extremely doubtful. The average spectator would fain see the unworthy
_Woman of Arles_ for whom _Fréderi_ burns in agony; the shepherd
_Balthazer_ seems to him a good, tiresome old man with a beard; _The
Innocent_, unless the part is played with rare finesse, becomes almost
ludicrous. Not until there is a return to the appreciation of simplicity
will this music of Bizet be known as the supreme example of music in the
domain of melodrama.

Meilhac and Halévy in the libretto of “Carmen,” feel constantly the
pulse of the audience.

The opera is not a sustained masterpiece. The want of action in the
third act is not atoned for by a display of musical inspiration. With
the exception of the trio of card-players, the music of this act is far
below that of the other three. But, with the omission of this act, how
frank, how intense, how characteristic, is the music that tells of a
tragedy of universal and eternal interest.

For _Carmen_ lived years before she was known by Merimée. She dies many
deaths, and many are her resurrections. When the world was young, they
say her name was Lilith, and the serpent for her sake hated Adam. She
perished that wild night when the heavens rained fire upon the Cities of
the Plain. Samson knew her when she dwelt in the valley of Sorek. The
mound builders saw her and fell at her feet. She disquieted the
blameless men of Ethiopia. Years after she was the friend of Theodora.
In the fifteenth century she was noticed in Sabbatic revels led by the
four-horned goat. She was in Paris at the end of the last century, and
she wore powder and patches at the dinners given by the Marquis de Sade.
In Spain she rolled cigarettes and wrecked the life of _Don José_.

The dramatic genius of Bizet is seen fully in his treatment of this
character. She sings no idle words. Each tone stabs. There are here no
agreeable or sensuous love passages; as Bellaigue remarks, there is not
a touch of voluptuousness in the opera. The soldier is under the spell
of a vain, coarse, reckless gipsy of maddening personality. He knows the
folly, the madness of his passion; he sees “as from a tower the end of
all.” These characters are sharply drawn and forcibly painted. There is
free use of the palette knife; there is fine and ingenious detail. The
singers sing because it is the natural expression of their emotions;
they do not sing to amuse the audience or accommodate the stage
carpenter. The orchestra with wealth of rhythm and color italicizes the
song; prepares the action; accompanies it; or moralizes. Apart from the
technical skill shown in the instrumentation, the great ability of Bizet
is seen in his combining the French traditions of the past and the
German spirit of the present without incongruity. Here is a departure
from old models, and yet a confirmation. The quintet is sung because
thereby the feeling of the scene is best expressed; five people are not
introduced because the quintet is an agreeable combination of voices.
The unmeaning vocal ornaments found in the earlier operas of Bizet have
disappeared. He uses his own manly, intense speech. He expresses his own
thoughts in his own way. He does not care whether his work is opéra
comique or grand opera, or melodrama. His sole object is to tell his
story as directly and as forcibly as possible.

In a world of art that is too often ruled by insincerity, a lusty,
well-trained voice aroused the attention. Suddenly the voice was hushed.
Only with the silence, came the hearty approval of the great audience.
Bizet met with no popular success during his lifetime. Now “Carmen”
holds the stage; “L’Arlésienne” excites the admiration of all musicians;
the earlier operas have been revived and sung in foreign languages. In
his own country he was from the start known vulgarly as “one of the most
ferocious of the French Wagnerian school”: an absurd charge: for in no
one of his operas is there recognition of the peculiar theories of
Wagner. Bizet followed the traditional formulas: he used the air, the
concerted pieces, the formal divisions and subdivisions. The orchestra
assists the singer; it does not usurp his place. Without doubt he
learned from Wagner in the matter of orchestral expression, as Wagner
learned from Weber and Meyerbeer; as one sensible man does from his
predecessors. There was nothing new in Bizet’s use of the typical
motive; it was similarly employed by Grétry, Auber, Halévy.

Melody, expressive harmony, ingenious counterpoint, an unerring sense of
the value of a peculiar tone of an instrument or the advantage of a
combination of instruments,—these were used by the Bizet of later years
simply to express truth. This was the purpose of his life; this was the
motto of his existence. No one could be more refined than he in musical
expression; no one could be more seemingly brutal. The glowing words
that he wrote concerning Verdi in the Revue Nationale show his one
prevailing thought: “Let us then be frank and true; let us not demand of
a great artist qualities which he lacks, and let us profit from the
qualities which he possesses. When a passionate, violent, even brutal
temperament; when a Verdi presents us with a strong and living work full
of gold and mud, of gall and blood, let us not go to him and say coldly,
‘But, my dear Sir, this is wanting in taste, it is not _distingué_.’
_Distingué!_ Are Michael-Angelo, Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Beethoven,
Cervantes, and Rabelais _distingués_?”

It is presumptuous, it is impossible to anticipate the verdict of Time
the Avenger. It is not improbable, however, that the future historian of
the opera will class Bizet with Wagner and Verdi as the men of mighty
influence over the opera of the last years of this century. “Carmen”
was, perhaps, a promise, a starting point, rather than a fulfillment.
But if the young and fiery composers of Italy of to-day turn reverently
toward Verdi and Wagner, they also read lovingly the score of “Carmen.”

[Illustration: Philip Hale]

[Illustration: [Music]]

[Illustration:

  CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life, by Eug. Pirout, Paris._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                          CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS


The eminent composer, Camille Saint-Saëns, was born in Paris, October 9,
1835. While yet an infant he manifested an innate gift for music. We are
informed by the most reliable of his biographers, his grand-aunt, that,
observing the deep attention with which the child listened to music, she
gave him his first lessons on the piano when he was scarcely three years
old. It would not be easy to find a record of earlier precocity. His
mother relates, when her son began to play the first exercise, C, D, E,
F, G, she discovered him playing it with only the right hand, using the
other hand to press the weak little fingers down, in order to sound each
note distinctly. It was ingenious, almost virtuosity! That a child like
Saint-Saëns should make rapid progress was inevitable. When his fingers
were sufficiently strong to strike the keys of the pianoforte without
great effort, his grand-aunt, believing that she had reached the end of
her task with him, placed him in charge of a professional teacher of the
pianoforte. It was not long before this teacher was replaced in turn, by
a master worthy of such a pupil, and wholly capable of guiding his
studies. This master was Stamaty, and the choice was admirable. In
addition to Stamaty, who was only a teacher of the pianoforte, M.
Maledan, an able instructor in harmony and theory and a man of decided
talent, was engaged to guide the more serious musical studies of young
Saint-Saëns.

The boy was ten years old when his mother resolved that he should make
the acquaintance of some of the notabilities of the musical world before
making his first appearance in public. To this end she gave a private
soirée at her house, the result of which was echoed through the press of
Paris. The lad performed, with Stamaty, one of Mozart’s Sonatas for four
hands with surprising ease and in remarkable sympathy with the
composer’s style. Then, with a quartet accompaniment, he performed some
of the works of the great masters, including fugues by Bach, a concerto
by Hummel, and Beethoven’s concerto in C minor.

A few months later, he made his début before the public in a concert
given in the Pleyel Salon, so much favored of artists, and where Chopin
and Rubinstein, not to name other great pianist-composers, also made
their first bow before a Parisian audience. Little Camille, as he was
then styled, achieved a flattering success. The most eminent critics
sang his praises and predicted a great future for him. Never did they
prophesy with more true foresight than they did on that occasion.
_L’Illustration_ published his portrait, and there were some who went so
far as to draw a comparison between him and the incomparable Mozart!

This brilliant début in nowise spoiled the young pianist; on the
contrary, its effect only increased his zeal for study. He attended the
course of lessons in composition under Halévy at the Conservatoire as an
_élève auditeur_, literally, a listening pupil, for one year. He then
obtained admission to the organ class where he won the first prize.
Encouraged by his success he next appeared as a competitor at the
Institut (Prix de Rome), but failed. He never again crossed the
threshold of the Institut de France until long afterward, when he was
received with honor and glory as a member of the “Section Musicale.”
When he competed for the Prix de Rome, he was only seventeen years of
age, but he had already attained celebrity as a pianist and an organist,
and had also distinguished himself as the composer of several important
scores. One of these was an ode to St. Cecilia, for chorus, solo, and
grand orchestra, which was performed by the Société Sainte Cécile, of
which Seghers was the leader. The newspapers were as severe upon
Saint-Saëns as a composer, as they had been satisfied with his début as
a pianist. “In the absence of inspiration of the first order, or of
brilliant genius,” writes the critic of the Gazette Musicale, “it could
be wished that the composer showed a little more _fougue_ and dash, were
it only in a few paltry flights which reveal a young artist’s desire to
create for himself an individual style.”

With Saint-Saëns inspiration came later, and it was pure inspiration,
without fault, and was not wanting in originality.

The young composer soon avenged himself for these harsh criticisms, by
composing his first symphony, in E flat, which was also executed by the
Société Sainte Cécile. The great artist of the future had not then
reached his sixteenth year. The work was well calculated to encourage
the highest hopes for the future of the symphonist, and these hopes were
abundantly realized by his last and admirable symphony in C minor, a
composition which indeed may be considered a genuine masterpiece. The
first symphony by the lad of sixteen met with a full measure of
applause; it has been published and is still frequently played with
success. It appears in the catalogue of his complete works as the
musical leaflet No. 2. The second symphony, in F major, was performed
for the first time in 1856 by the Philharmonic Society of Bordeaux, and
also met with a warm welcome. A third symphony in D does not appear in
the catalogue, which also does not mention the second symphony, the only
symphonies named being those in E flat, in A minor (Leaflet 56) and in C
minor (Leaflet 78). It would seem, therefore, either that two of the
five symphonies written by Saint-Saëns have not been published, or that
this _complete_ catalogue, printed by his publishers, Durand et
Schoenewerk, of Paris, is _incomplete_.

I have purposely omitted to mention four concertos for piano and
orchestra, because these productions, which are of a high order, have
brought to mind an incident which is worthy a special place in this
biography.

These four fine works were brilliantly performed on the same evening in
the Salle Pleyel by Mme. Marie Jaëll, the pianist so famous for her
extraordinary, not to say marvellous, powers of execution. This was,
indeed, a feat on the part of the virtuoso as well as an interesting
exhibition of artistic talent, and its success was complete. The
performances began at nine o’clock in the evening and ended at half-past
eleven. Throughout this long and difficult test there was not the
slightest momentary defect, either in the playing of the orchestra or in
that of the experienced and skilful pianist. For the success of so
difficult a task the most subtle artistic feeling and exceptional
muscular force were necessary. Mme. Jaëll possessed these qualities in
such measure that the soirée devoted to the four concertos of
Saint-Saëns will never fade from the memory of those who were present.
Besides these concertos we should mention a concerto-fantaisie for piano
and orchestra written in 1891 for Mme. Roger-Niclos, which she played
with great success at the Colonne concerts. This work has recently been
published.

In his work entitled “Virtuoses Contemporains,” our dear master and
friend, Marmontel, has felicitously described the style of piano playing
characteristic of Saint-Saëns. “Saint-Saëns is as accomplished a pianist
as he is an organist. He attacks the piece in hand with great energy,
and keeps perfect time. His fiery and brilliant execution is flawless
even in the most rapid passages. His powerful but admirably modulated
playing is full of majesty and breadth; and the only fault that can be
found with his masterly execution is, perhaps, the excess of rhythmical
precision. Ever master of himself, Saint-Saëns leaves nothing to chance
and does not, perhaps, always yield sufficiently to the pathetic. On the
other hand, the virtuoso always acquits himself with irreproachable
accuracy.”

For many years Saint-Saëns has quitted Paris in the winter, to seek the
warm sunshine under the blue skies of those favored countries to which
the sun remains ever faithful. In order to travel and pass his time free
from all annoyance, the composer has adopted the excellent custom of
departing from Paris without any flourish of trumpets, without informing
anyone where he intends to sojourn, and often without knowing, himself,
exactly where he will pitch his tent. On leaving Paris on the 30th of
November, 1889, he charged his worthy friend and colleague, Guiraud, of
the Institut, now no more, alas! in case the Académie de Musique should
authorize the rehearsals of his “Ascanio,” to begin during the
composer’s absence. It was put in hand, and M. Guiraud, with score
before him, followed the rehearsals with the utmost care and assiduity.

[Illustration:

  CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS.

  Reproduction of a photograph from life by Raschkow, Jr.—Breslau.
]

The preparations for the opera had made great progress, and everybody
expected, at any moment, the composer’s return. Not only did he refrain
from reappearing in Paris to assist at the last rehearsals and to give
his final hints to the singers and the orchestra, but he did not even
write to anyone. Nobody knew where he had concealed himself. This
extraordinary and unheard-of act of a composer, who goes abroad to amuse
himself by chasing butterflies or collecting plants, while at home the
theatrical managers are making preparations for the first performance of
a work of such importance as a grand five-act opera, excited all Paris.
It even disturbed the Government, which caused inquiry to be made for
the musician by its diplomatic agents throughout the world. The search
was a vain one. It was generally thought that Saint-Saëns had died in
some part of Ceylon, where certain French travellers believed they had
seen him as he was making his way to Japan. The first performance of
“Ascanio” was given at a moment when it was in doubt whether Saint-Saëns
was dead or alive. Happily, he was still of this world and in very good
health; but careless of his glory, was basking in the sunshine of the
Canary Islands, busily engaged in finishing a volume of verse which
appeared in Paris last year; for Saint-Saëns is a poet as well as a
musician. It was a relief to the public when an announcement was at last
made by Louis Gallet, the composer’s fellow-worker and friend, that the
fugitive, at the very moment when “Ascanio” was under active rehearsal
at the Opéra, was peacefully and contentedly breathing the warm and
balmy air of Palma. As soon as the newspapers betrayed his sojourn in
this verdant and flowery retreat, the authorities of the city and the
principal inhabitants proposed to confer honors upon the master. But the
composer had not gone all the way to Teneriffe for this purpose, and
thanking the authorities for the homage they wished to pay him,
immediately disappeared again!

Saint-Saëns is a husband and a father, but his married life has
unfortunately not been a very happy one. His two children both died at
an early age. One of them fell from the balcony of his father’s house,
and was killed, while the other suddenly died a short time afterward.
Thus it sometimes happens that a man may have, like Saint-Saëns,
everything that goes to make up the sum of human happiness—talent,
success, honor and fortune,—and yet yearn in vain for that complete
felicity which is denied him. Concealed like the statue of Isis, whose
veil no mortal has ever been permitted to draw aside, is the condition
of unalloyed happiness on this earthly sphere. We know that it exists;
we seek it; ofttimes we think it within our grasp, and yet it eludes us!

We cannot more fitly terminate this sketch of the great personality of
Saint-Saëns than by adding that he is one of the most masterly readers
of piano and organ music who has ever lived, and an improviser of the
first rank.

As a child pianist and composer, Camille Saint-Saëns was what is called
an infant prodigy. The child has come to man’s estate and is, at the
present moment, one of the most learned and able artists in every branch
of his art, that can be found in the ranks of modern musicians. Since
the death of Beethoven, Schumann and Mendelssohn, he wields in Europe
the sceptre of symphony; he is renowned as a composer for the church and
the theatre, and as an organist; and the mastery he has shown in the
concerto, the oratorio and chamber music, of which he has produced a
large number of works, is of world-wide fame.

Of his purely instrumental music we may mention, in chronological order:
“Tarentelle,” for flute and clarinet with orchestra; “Orient et
Occident,” a military march; Ballade for piano, organ and violin;
Introduction and Rondo Capricioso, for violin and piano; “Le Rouet
d’Omphale,” a symphonic poem; Concerto for violoncello in A minor;
Sonato for piano and violoncello; Heroic March for full orchestra;
Ballade for horn or violoncello and piano, in F; Ballade for flute or
violin and piano; Lullaby for piano and violin, in B flat; “Phaéton,” a
symphonic poem; “Danse Macabre,” for Orchestra, arranged for piano, for
one or two performers, and for one or two pianos; also for piano duet,
with violin or violoncello; for military band, etc; Quartet for piano,
violin, alto and violoncello; Allegro appassionata, for violoncello and
piano; Ballade for violin and piano, in C; Suite for orchestra; prelude,
saraband, gavotte, ballade and finale; “La Jeunesse d’Hercule,”
symphonic poem; Ballade for violoncello and piano in D; Concerto for
violin in C major; “Suite Algérienne,” for orchestra; Concerto for
violin, in B minor; Concert piece for violin and piano; “Une Nuit à
Lisbonne,” barcarolle for orchestra; “La Jota Aragonaise,” for
orchestra; Septet for trumpet, two violins, alto, violoncello,
contra-bass and piano; Hymn to Victor Hugo, for orchestra; Sonata for
piano and violin in D minor; “Wedding-Cake,” Caprice Valse for piano and
stringed instruments; Caprice on Danish and Russian airs, for flute,
oboe, clarinet and piano; “Havanaise” for violin and piano; “La Fiancée
du Timbalier,” for orchestra; etc., etc.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph musical manuscript contributed by the composer
    for use in this work
]

We bear in mind several scores by Saint-Saëns which do not appear in the
general catalogue of his works. First of all, there is a very fine
composition for a military band, which the illustrious musician was good
enough to write at my request, in 1868, for the celebration of Hoche’s
centenary at Versailles. A short time ago I asked Saint-Saëns why he had
not published this beautiful work, written as a tribute to the memory of
the great French general, and which is so full of stirring patriotic
sentiment. The composer replied that he did not know what had become of
this music since the day on which it was solemnly performed before the
statue of Hoche at Versailles. The full score and the orchestral parts
have remained undiscovered up to the present time. I may also mention,
as among the compositions of Saint-Saëns, which are not included in the
catalogue of his works, an extremely original, bright and thoroughly
artistic work written for several instruments and called “Le Carnaval
des Animaux.” Only one of the animals in this merry Carnival has been
honored by publication, viz.: “The Swan,” whose song is interpreted in
this zoölogical symphony by the violoncello.

The works by Saint-Saëns for piano solo, duet, and for two pianos are
very numerous. All of them are vigorously characteristic of the decided
and learned style of the master, and are also marked by a certain
individuality peculiar to this famous pianist-composer.

It is well known that the composer is one of the most renowned organists
in Europe. As might be expected, he has written specially for this
instrument, which, figuratively speaking, is the embodiment of all other
instruments. We will only mention the Rhapsodies on the Breton
canticles; also the “Bénédiction Nuptiale” and “Elévation et Communion,”
which are noble works for the King of Instruments.

Saint-Saëns succeeded Lefébvre Wely as organist at the Madeleine. Among
his church compositions he has composed a Grand Mass for four voices,
soli and orchestra; “Tantum Ergo,” a Chorus; a “Christmas Oratorio” for
chorus, soli and orchestra; Psalm XVIII.—“Cœli enarrant” for soli,
chorus and orchestra; “Le Déluge,” biblical poem for soli, chorus and
orchestra; and a Requiem which, with the oratorio “Le Déluge,” we
include among his best works. There is also a collection of twenty
separate motets for the Holy Communion, motets to the Virgin, and other
miscellaneous motets.

We may further mention among the characteristic compositions which are
not in the religious or the dramatic style:—Scene from Corneille’s “Les
Horaces,” for soprano, baritone and orchestra; six Persian melodies,
vocal and instrumental (piano); “Les Soldats de Gédéon,” double chorus
without accompaniment; “Chanson du Grand-papa,” chorus for female
voices; “Chanson d’un Ancêtre,” chorus for male voices with baritone
solo; “La Lyre et la Harpe,” soli, chorus and orchestra; two choruses
with piano accompaniment: “Calme des Nuits” and “Les Fleurs et les
Arbres”; two choruses for male voices without accompaniment: “Les Marins
de Kermor” and “Les Titans”; “Les Guerriers,” chorus for male voices;
several other choruses, besides some fifty duets and melodies with piano
accompaniment. We abridge the list in order to mention the composer’s
dramatic works: “Le Timbre d’Argent”; “La Princesse Jaune,” comic opera
in one act; “Proserpine,” lyric drama in four acts; “Etienne Marcel,”
opera in four acts; “Samson et Dalila,” biblical opera in three acts;
“Henry VIII.,” opera in four acts; and lastly, “Ascanio,” opera in five
acts.

It has been said with truth that Saint-Saëns is of all composers the one
who differs most from himself, in his dramatic works. We mean by this
that he has emancipated himself from the hard and fast lines of any
particular school; that he has no system and is guided wholly by his own
inspiration, tempered and strengthened by great musical learning. He
could, if he so desired, write according to the theories or in the
manner of this or of that composer, but he prefers to write as his
genius follows its own individual vein, agreeing, no doubt, with his
famous colleague and friend, Charles Gounod, that if there are many
systems of composition, there are, after all, only two kinds of music:
that which is good and that which is bad. His admiration for all the
great masters is profound, but he strives to imitate none, this has
caused certain critics to subject him to the reproach of eclecticism. He
has expressed himself on this point with frank sincerity (for
Saint-Saëns is a man as well as a musician) in a highly interesting
volume entitled “Harmonie et Mélodie.” After declaring that he had never
belonged to any religion in music, he adds: “I claim to preserve my
liberty, to like what pleases me and to reject the rest; to believe good
that which is good, discordant that which is discordant, absurd that
which is absurd. This is precisely what the more ardent disciples of
Wagner refuse to concede. They grasp you by the throat, and insist that
you must admire everything Wagnerian, no heed what it may be. With them
there is something beyond love of art: the spirit of sectarianism. I am
afraid of sectarians, and so keep myself prudently aloof from them.”

It was of these Wagnerian critics, who carry their love for the composer
of “music-dramas” to the point of fanatic intolerance, even of ferocity,
that Saint-Saëns was thinking when he wrote these lines, as well as
others that we shall quote presently; and these same critics accused our
composer of the crime of refusing to enlist under the banner of the
master of Bayreuth. They sought to crush Saint-Saëns in their criticisms
of his last great opera, “Ascanio,” by saying, not only had he here
perpetrated the heresy of adhering to that form of opera that prevailed
before Wagner propounded his theories of the “lyric drama,” but that he
had also forgotten himself so far as to write airs in the Italian style!
These amiable censors showed themselves more royalist than the king
himself, for as a matter of fact Wagner by no means despised Italian
airs; on the contrary, he liked them very much if we may believe what he
has said. The following words of the composer of “Lohengrin” are worth
remembering: “After listening to an opera by Bellini, that has delighted
us, we discover on reflection, that its charm is owing to the clear
melody, to the simple, lofty and beautiful song of the Italian composer.
To treasure in the memory these delightful melodies is certainly no
grave sin. Nor is it a heavier one to pray to heaven, before retiring to
rest, that it may inspire German composers with the secret of these
melodies and a like manner of using them.”

The truth is that in music, as in all other arts, we do what we can
rather than what we should most like to do, and he is wisest who is
guided by his own genius. The genius of Camille Saint-Saëns is so rich
in resources that he can safely trust himself and let the spirit work
within him as it wills. There are composers who, forgetting that beauty
is inseparable from high art, strive after eminence by seeking
originality at any cost, and who do not disdain to make that art,
harmonious before and beyond all other arts, the art of torturing our
ears with music that is _per se_ inharmonious. Is not Saint-Saëns right
when, in speaking of these psychological and hysterical composers, he
says with peculiar felicity: “It is certain that we cannot work too hard
to instil in the public a taste for pleasures of an elevated order; but
to offer it what is ingeniously described as ‘painful pleasure,’ to
offer a feast consisting of ‘exquisite suffering’ and ‘poetic
perversion,’ merely ends in mortification. When we wish to mortify our
souls we do not go to the theatre but to a convent.”

We may be asked for the opinion of the composer of “Faust,” “Roméo et
Juliette” and “Mireille,” concerning the composer of “Samson et Dalila,”
“Henry VIII.” and “Ascanio.” I am in a position to answer the question.
Gounod has spoken of Saint-Saëns in connection with his last opera as
follows: “That in the lyric drama, music should coalesce with the drama
and blend in one harmonious whole is an excellent theory, but only on
condition that in this indissoluble union, music shall still be true and
beautiful music; otherwise the union is no more than a cruel bondage for
one of the arts so joined, and that art is Music. Throughout the works
of Saint-Saëns we are in communion with an artist who never for an
instant forgets or sacrifices his art; everywhere and always is the
great musician present, and everywhere, too, the drama appears before
him as a _law_, not as a _yoke_. Passions, characters, situations, are
felt by him with the same certainty of discernment, whether in song,
declamation, recitative, or in the dramatic part which must be played by
his orchestra; and all this in an idiom and a form which are musically
irreproachable, insomuch that he has created true and lasting ‘morceaux
de musique’ even where the librettist did not provide the frame-work
expected of him.”

Were we not limited as to space, it would be a pleasing task to present
here a technical and æsthetic analysis of the operas of the French
master concerning whom we write thus briefly; but this would carry us
too far. Suffice it, from what we have already written, for the reader
to form a satisfactory judgment on the instrumental and vocal works of
Saint-Saëns. In the “Timbre d’Argent,” which has something in common
with the fable of “Faust,” we are in the midst of a musical and
choreographic fantasy. This score is very attractive and well emphasizes
a very pretty performance.

“La Princesse Jaune” transports us into the East, where reality seems as
a dream. It is a drawing-room comedy, the scene of which is laid in a
Japanese village, where Dutch tulips grow as rank as does the grass in
the fields; where the sky is blue, where everything is full of color and
appears smiling, joyous and lovable.

In “Etienne Marcel,” the illustrious Prévôt des Marchands, we have
historical drama, in the civil war waged for the triumph of communal
liberties. The rioters force a violent entrance into the Palais de la
Cité, and the voices of scoffers are heard alternating with the cries of
raving fanatics. It is terrible, and quite characteristic of the
Parisian mind in the troublous times when the streets became one great
battle-field. Love, of course, finds its place in “Etienne Marcel,” a
love gentle and searching. Some of the contrasts are most happy, the
choruses are superb, the volume of sound is sublime.

“Samson et Dalila,” as is sufficiently indicated by the title, is a
biblical opera, almost an oratorio, reminding us of the “Joseph” of
Méhul. I was overflowing with enthusiasm on coming out from the
representation of “Samson et Dalila.” This score and the symphony in C
minor are, I believe, the two finest jewels in the crown of this musical
king. They are works full of the highest inspiration, of a most sublime
cast, wonderfully elaborate in style, and masterpieces in the fullest
sense of the word.

The gloomy subject of “Henry VIII.” opened up new fields to Saint-Saëns,
and afforded him a local color that influenced his music. The moment the
score opens, we feel that we know exactly where we are and whither we
are going. The principal personages in the drama have been each and all
instantaneously portrayed and their diverse characters are accurately
represented. The king of England, the Pope’s nightmare and the terror of
his queenly wives and victims, is, from a musical point of view,
especially well portrayed in his wild orgies and brutal amours. Anne
Boleyn fails to hide the pride that lies behind her love, although its
expression is not less charming on that account. Catherine of Arragon,
the noble and unfortunate forsaken one, is superb in her insulted
majesty, her pathetic and sweet melancholy. The choruses are treated in
a masterly manner, and there is one important “morceau d’ensemble” which
is a signal triumph of expressive and dramatic counterpoint. The airs in
the ballet impress us as being thoroughly English. As to the orchestra,
the importance of which cannot be over-estimated, it plays in a measured
and finished style and produces the effect of a powerful organ. Here we
have local color again, cleverly used.

“Ascanio” is the last dramatic work of Saint-Saëns. The fanatical
partisans of the Wagnerian theories, as we have already observed, were
not sparing of bitter criticism. Saint-Saëns must have found ample
consolation for this in the continuous applause showered upon him by the
public which always cordially welcomes whatever affords it pleasure.
“Ascanio” is indeed equal in all respect to “Henry VIII.,” and worthy
the composer, which is saying not a little of a man who has given such
treasures to all lovers of music.

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  JULES MASSENET

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life by Nadar of Paris._
]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                     JULES EMILE FRÉDÉRIC MASSENET


Jules Emile Frédéric Massenet was born on the 12th of May, 1842, at
Montaud, in the department of the Loire, and was the eleventh child of
his parents. His musical talent developed at an early age. When only
eleven years old he was sufficiently acquainted with the theoretical
elements of the art to take his place in François Bazin’s harmony class
in the Conservatoire. It is by no means uncommon for a professor to
mistake the capacity of his pupils. Unfortunately Bazin failed to
foresee the splendid future reserved for his young pupil Massenet: on
the contrary, he believed him to be destitute of all musical talent and
requested that he might be dismissed from his class. The poor little
musician felt so deeply humiliated by this insult that he was almost
inclined to renounce music forever. It was five years before he
reappeared at the Conservatoire, but luckily, at the end of that long
term, he returned to study under the learned Henri Reber in the harmony
class.

One day, shortly after Massenet joined this class, Reber addressed him
thus in presence of his fellow-pupils: “Monsieur, I urge you, for your
own welfare, to quit my class and go into a higher one, a class where
fugue and composition are taught. You understand as much of harmony, so
called, as I can teach you, and you will waste your time if you remain
with me. Follow my advice, for if I am a true prophet, you will make
your mark.”

Thus it was that, dismissed from Bazin’s harmony class as a dunce,
Massenet was advised to leave Reber’s class because he learned too
rapidly. The youngster followed the advice given by the composer of “Le
Père Gaillard” and “La Nuit de Noël,” and studied fugue and composition
with Ambroise Thomas, the composer of “Mignon” and “Hamlet,” who had
been appointed director of the school after the death of Auber.

In the composition class young Massenet so distinguished himself by his
ardor and application to study, that he won, and ever after retained,
the friendship of Ambroise Thomas. At each lesson he submitted to his
master, in addition to fugues and exercises in counterpoint,
instrumental and vocal works of various kinds, each bearing witness to
his lively imagination and to his instinct to produce something new. Of
course all these efforts of the future composer of “Manon” were not
irreproachable, and sometimes his comrades rallied him on what they
called his fits of musical intoxication. “Let him sow his wild oats,”
said Ambroise Thomas, “and you will find that when he has sobered down
and become more reflective he will achieve something. He is a genius.”

The time was close at hand when Massenet was to fulfil this flattering
prophecy. In the very same year, 1863, he obtained the first prize in
counterpoint and fugue at the Conservatoire and the Grand Prize for
musical composition (Grand Prix de Rome) at the Institut de France. He
was then, we believe, already married, although physically he did not
look more than fifteen years of age.

As he had an annual allowance accorded him by the State, he set out for
the Eternal City and made a tour in Italy, proceeding thence to Germany
to seek inspiration from the masters of symphony. The winner of the
Grand Prix de Rome is expected during his sojourn abroad, to send at
least one work to the Institute as a proof that he has turned his time
to good account and has made due progress. Whether or not young Massenet
left his light-heartedness behind him when he crossed the French
frontier we cannot say; but the composition he sent from Rome was a
Requiem. Massenet wrote a large work for solo voices, chorus and
orchestra, entitled “Pompéia,” which in form as well as in
instrumentation showed the influence of Berlioz. This indicated an
inquiring and meditative mind in the young composer, who was thus
feeling his way through the boldest and most modern school of music.

Massenet sent a second envoy from Rome, which was his first orchestral
suite. With this suite is associated an event of great importance in the
musical career of the composer. Massenet tells the story himself.

The composer had just returned to France, after passing in Italy and
Germany the regulation period accorded the laureates of the Institute.
While walking in the street, he met Pasdeloup, the founder and director
of the celebrated “Popular Concerts.” Pasdeloup was one of the best men
in the world, but he had the habit of treating young composers in a
brusque and patronizing manner. He had only seen Massenet once, and that
was during the performance of the cantata for which he was awarded the
Grand Prize. As has already been stated, Massenet always looked much
younger than he really was, and from his twentieth to his twenty-fourth
year he had the face and air of a boy of sixteen. Pasdeloup accosted him
with a frown, as though he had something disagreeable to tell him, and
speaking in an offensively familiar and condescending manner, said:—

“Ah, so you have returned to France. What have you been doing during
your absence?”

“I have been writing music, M. Pasdeloup.”

“That is all very well; but it is not sufficient to write music; you
must write good music. Is your music really good?”

“Sir, it is not for me to pass judgment upon it.”

“You have written, I believe, an orchestral suite?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, but everybody writes orchestral suites. Is yours a good one? Are
you satisfied with it yourself?”

“Well, Monsieur Pasdeloup, I feel obliged to admit that it pleases me
when I play it on the piano, but I have not yet heard it performed by an
orchestra.”

“Of course it pleases you. But how much music is there that pleases its
composer, and yet is not worth a button. Can I see your manuscript?”

“You do me too much honor, Monsieur Pasdeloup. I will send my score to
you this very evening.”

“Good. I will tell you what I think of it and whether it pleases me as
much as it pleases you. Let me say that I think very little of the music
of young men who win the Prix de Rome. They only know how to imitate the
faults of the masters they study. However, we shall see.”

And Pasdeloup quitted Massenet with an air of utter dissatisfaction.

The young composer hastened home and told his family of the interview
and of the faint hope he cherished that his suite might possibly be
performed at the famous Popular Concerts. He then rolled up his score,
took it to Pasdeloup’s residence, and left it with the concierge. Ten
days later Massenet received, by post, a gift which filled him with
equal joy and surprise. It was a ticket admitting him to a rehearsal. He
was invited to the Cirque d’Hiver, where the Popular Concerts were
given, to hear a rehearsal of his orchestral suite.

Next day, full of excitement, he set out for the rehearsal. On arriving
at the door, however, he had not sufficient courage to enter, so
overcome was he by his emotions. “Perhaps,” thought he, “the orchestral
effect may not be what I intended,” and he felt that he had not strength
to brave the severe criticisms of Pasdeloup and the jeers of the members
of the orchestra.

Massenet returned home without having dared to listen to the rehearsal
of his work and wholly discontented with himself. He called himself a
coward and a pretender, and as he passed along the boulevard, his eye
mechanically seeking the announcement of the performances at the
theatres and concerts, he was suddenly astounded to see his own name on
the programme of the Pasdeloup Concert to be given on the following
Sunday. They were really going to play his suite! He ran rather than
walked home to announce the glorious news.

“They play—my suite—Sunday—Popular Concert!—Oh! how my heart beats!”

And the great composer, as the memory of the beginning of his musical
career came back to him, bowed his head on my breast and burst into
tears. I wept with him.

“Ah!” said he, “I was happier then than I am to-day. Anticipation is
better than the reality.”

[Illustration:

  MASSENET IN HIS STUDY.

  Reproduced from a photograph from life made by Dornac & Co., Paris,
    1891.
]

The opera “Manon” has a curious history which Massenet related to me one
day. Everybody knows in what singular circumstances the author of “Manon
Lescaut” (Abbé Prévost) took refuge at The Hague. It was in that city
that he wrote his “Mémoires d’un Homme de Qualité” to which “Manon
Lescaut” seems to belong as a species of postscript or sequel. In a like
manner, and in that Dutch town, Massenet, owing to certain
circumstances, chanced to write the score of “Manon” the substance of
which is taken from the Abbé Prévost’s romance. Wishing to remain apart
from the rest of the world, in order to be quite undisturbed, he took
lodgings as a boarder under an assumed name at a house in The Hague. To
prevent all suspicion as to identity, he did not send for a piano, for,
unlike some composers, Massenet does not need a piano to enable him to
compose. He thinks out his music, which he hears inwardly, already
arranged for the orchestra. Absorbed in his work, the composer labored
unceasingly. He never went forth to take necessary exercise until after
nightfall, that he might run no risk of being recognized. After his
walk, which lasted about an hour, he returned home with coat collar
turned up to conceal his face.

He was accustomed to write at a large table littered with music-paper,
each sheet bearing thirty staves. When not actually engaged in composing
he amused himself by reading the Abbé Prévost’s romance, written by the
French author in that same foreign town, possibly even in that same
house, more than a century before. And Massenet’s artistic imagination
saw in this fact a happy prognostic. “Why,” thought he, “should not my
score of ‘Manon’ be as successful as was Prévost’s immortal novel?
Grant, O, Sovereign God of Inspiration, that I may cause the sweet and
loving Manon to sing, after a lapse of a hundred years, under the same
sky, far away from Paris, and in the same happy strain as that in which
the most worldly of abbés made her speak!”

The existence of the mysterious foreigner who was always writing music
but who never played any instrument, greatly exercised Massenet’s
landlord. The inmates of the house were not less mystified than was he.
The gossips agreed that this French musician was a choir-master—and a
very original one. At last the composer was recognized, and the next day
the newspapers informed the public that Massenet had been for some time
at The Hague. People flocked to see him, and his apartments were
speedily crowded with friends or with persons who came from mere
curiosity. Happily, however, the score of “Manon” was completed.

Massenet is one of the most estimable of men, kind and sympathetic to a
fault, and possessed of great delicacy and consideration for others. He
would enjoy the friendship of all men, were he less talented and
consequently less liable to inspire jealousy. Of medium stature, spare
but well made and of striking appearance, he has always looked younger
than he really was, a happy privilege among the many others enjoyed by
this favored son of genius, who is an honor and glory of the present
generation of French composers. He is now a member of the Institute of
France, a professor of composition at the National Conservatory of Paris
and an Officer of the Legion of Honor.

As we close this biographical sketch, the distinguished composer has
just given the first performance of his latest opera, “Werther,” at the
Grand Theatre of Vienna, where it met with brilliant success. Massenet
has been kind enough to bestow on us a page of the work to place in this
biography, with a specimen of his handwriting, and we tender him our
warmest thanks. By the time these lines meet the eye of the reader,
“Werther” will have been put upon the stage at the Opéra Comique, in
Paris.

Massenet’s debut in theatrical work dates from the third of April, 1866,
when “La Grand’tante,” a pretty little piece full of melody and
freshness, was represented at the Opéra Comique. It was he who, on the
Emperor’s fête, August 12 of the following year, wrote the official
cantata performed at the Opéra.

After this first attempt in theatrical music, and his cantata, Massenet
produced various concert works, among others, “Poèmes et Souvenirs” and
“Poèmes d’Avril,” the words of which are by Armand Sylvestre; also a
_bouffe_ scene entitled “L’Improvisateur.” His second Suite
d’Orchestre,—a Suite Hongroise, was played at the Concerts Populaires.
For the Société Classique Armingaud he composed “Introductions et
Variations,” a quartet for stringed and wind instruments. In 1872 he
produced his second dramatic work, “Don César de Bazan,” at the Opéra
Comique; but the public did not give it a very cordial reception. It had
been written under unfavorable conditions, improvised, as it were, in
three weeks. The managers of the theatre proposed terms to the young
composer which he was obliged to accept or decline without amendment.
Massenet took his revenge for this treatment, however, in the very same
year, with the delightful scenic music for the drama, “Les Errynies,” by
the Comte de Lisle, which was represented at the Odéon. The next year,
1873, the composer produced one of his most exquisite scores, which
shows his warm poetic talent in the most characteristic manner. This was
“Marie Madeleine,” a sacred drama in three acts, which has had a
world-wide success. So successful was it indeed that Massenet was
encouraged to write “Eve,” a mystery in three acts. This latter, so
intimately related in character to “Marie Madeleine,” has been given at
the concerts of sacred harmony established by Lamoureux. In this, too,
the composer’s personality is emphasized by exquisitely delicate and
poetic touches. The same may be said of “La Vierge,” a sacred legend in
four parts, written for the Opéra concerts and played for the first time
in 1880. The “Sleep of the Virgin” in this legend is one of those
inspirations which prove beyond all doubt the measure of a composer’s
genius.

A year before the production of “La Vierge,” Massenet had given the
French National Academy of Music his first great opera, “Le Roi de
Lahore,” in five acts, the success of which was not at first evident.
The public considered this beautiful music slightly cold, and
instrumental rather than vocal. They said the composer had shown himself
wanting in melody, and that he had sacrificed too much to his love for
scientific combinations, although wild applause greeted a certain number
of happily-conceived songs, among others the aria so splendidly rendered
by Lassalle and which has always been honored with an encore.

It is only when great works are reproduced after a certain interval of
time that we can determine whether they are really worthy a place in the
musical repertory. The reproduction at the Opéra of the “Roi de Lahore”
was a great success, and it has always been enthusiastically received in
the principal theatres of Europe and America.

The Théâtre de la Monnaie, at Brussels, enjoyed the privilege of giving,
in 1881, the first performance of Massenet’s second grand opera,
“Hérodiade” in three acts and five tableaux. This time success was
beyond all doubt, and from the first representation onward, the piece
was received with enthusiasm. Whatever M. Massenet may hereafter give to
the world, “Hérodiade” will undoubtedly remain one of the finest works
that have originated in the fertile brain of this distinguished
musician. Throughout the work the divine afflatus is maintained, and
melody fills the auditorium. The opera is full of passion and sentiment,
at once human and religious, just as in “Marie Madeleine.” It might be
said that “Hérodiade” is the same sacred drama brought upon the stage,
with this difference, that Madeleine becomes Salome, and Christ is
transformed into John.

After “Hérodiade,” in Brussels, we had, in 1884, “Manon” at the Opéra
Comique in Paris. Were I asked to make a definite choice between
“Hérodiade” and “Manon” I should hesitate; but I should choose “Manon.”
From the first to the last note the work is delightful. It is not less
beautiful when softly sung at home to the accompaniment of the piano,
than in the theatre, where our delight never for an instant moderates.

Following “Manon” in 1885, Massenet’s “Le Cid” in four acts, was
performed at the Grand Opéra in Paris, and although reproduced several
times, this work still maintains its place in the repertory.

In 1889, the indefatigable composer returned to the Opéra Comique with
“Esclarmonde,” which drew crowds to this theatre during several months.

In the chronological order of the musician’s dramatic works,
“Esclarmonde” is followed by “Le Mage,” a grand opera in four acts and
six tableaux, the poem by M. Richepin, performed at the National Academy
of Music in Paris. I have witnessed several renderings of this work, and
have read the piano score. The more I have studied the opera the more am
I impressed by its wonderful beauty. The individuality of the work, its
passion and grace and delicacy, its originality as to form and harmony,
are so numerous that it is unnecessary to criticise it more
particularly.

All lovers of music know the extent of Massenet’s skill as a master of
harmony. He is a master in the full meaning of the expression. It would
be impossible for a musician to carry to a higher degree than he has
done the complex art of orchestration or of counterpoint, so much
honored of late years, though so often abused; or to have more happy
facility as a harmonist. Were I to presume to criticise anything in the
author of “Le Mage,” I should limit myself to mentioning his too clearly
apparent striving after _effect_ by means of fresh combinations of
instruments. Massenet has too great a wealth of truly musical ideas for
him to labor so hard for _material_ effects. The true effects in music
are produced by the thought, by the idea, apart from the application of
the thought or idea to any special instrument. There is scarce any charm
of emotion produced by music save through the musician’s imagination,
that is, by the invention which results from the inward and profound
emotion felt by the composer. Were it only necessary to be learned in
any given art, only necessary to possess the power of cleverly combining
notes and the tones of musical instruments, so as to produce fine
musical works, every artist now living would write masterpieces; for, in
truth, the study of technique has never been carried so far as it has
been during the past twenty years. Technique is undoubtedly
indispensable, but of itself it serves no purpose and is of no value,
unless it be used as the exponent of the melodic conception which is the
very soul of music.

M. Massenet has published seven suites for orchestra, which may be found
in the repertory of every great musical society. To him we owe various
scenes for chorus and orchestra: “Narcisse,” and “Biblis”; a symphonic
poem entitled “Visions,” and a large number of fugitive melodies with
pianoforte accompaniment. He has also completed the score of a ballet,
“Le Carillon,” as yet unpublished.

[Illustration: Oscar Comettant]

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile of musical manuscript written by Massenet.
]

[Illustration:

  CHARLES GOUNOD

  _Reproduction of a photograph from life by Nadar, of Paris._
]



[Illustration: GOUNOD]



[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

                             CHARLES GOUNOD


Gounod, the greatest living musician of France is descended from a
family of artists. His grandfather, a very distinguished enchaser, bore
the title of “sword cutler to the king,” and as such occupied an
apartment in the Louvre buildings, a favor which was granted to only
artists of renown. His son, Jean François Gounod, who was born about
1760, was a painter of considerable talent. He was a pupil of Lépicié,
and he and Carle Vernet, who occupied the same studio, competed at the
Académie des Beaux-Arts for the “Prix de Rome.” Carle Vernet obtained
the first prize at this concours in 1782, and Jean François Gounod
carried off the second in 1783. The latter, however, devoted himself
especially to engraving, in order that he might always live with his
father who was getting old and needed all his care and attention.

J. F. Gounod was serious, melancholy and quite original in character, as
was shown by his conduct on the death of his father, who lived to be
over ninety years of age. This loss was a great grief to him, and in the
hope of diverting his mind and driving off melancholy, he undertook a
tramp to Versailles. He had very little money in his pocket. However,
being fatigued by his journey he entered a public house and went to bed.
He remained several days at Versailles, but, far from being relieved of
his sad thoughts, he was so overwhelmed by them that he dreaded to
return to his rooms in the Louvre, where he had witnessed his father
breathe his last. He wrote to a friend to say that he should not return
to Paris, but intended to start immediately for Italy; he begged him to
go to his room, take from his secretary all the money he might find
there, and bring it to him at Versailles, receiving at the same time his
adieux. Once in possession of his money, Gounod, who disliked
encumbrance of any sort, furnished himself with a light carpet bag, and
with this baggage set off on a journey which was at that time very long
and very difficult. He travelled all over Italy, remaining there four or
five years; then he returned to Paris, and to his rooms where nothing
had been disturbed, and resumed work as if he had left it only the
evening before.

One of J. F. Gounod’s friends has written the following lines concerning
him: “M. Gounod has made a reputation in engraving. He has produced
little and his income could scarcely have been enough to suffice him.
Nevertheless, he liked to work and engraving offered him the quiet and
deliberation which suited his disposition. In general he spoke but
little. When he was obliged to quit the Louvre, he was quite helpless in
regard to the great confusion which always characterized his apartment;
it was one mass of books, pasteboard, drawings and articles of all sorts
scattered about, including a dismembered skeleton, whose bones were all
pretty effectually separated from each other. Fortunately one of his
cousins undertook to transfer for him everything that was transferable,
otherwise Gounod would have abandoned all. He concluded to marry, for it
was absolutely necessary that somebody should aid him in finding himself
again. He was, nevertheless, a good and excellent man. His wife was
charming, a very good musician, and it was she who educated her son. He
was getting along in years when he married, and at his death this son
was still very young.”

Very young indeed, for the future author of “Faust,” “Roméo et Juliette”
and “Mireille,” Charles Gounod, was scarcely five years old when he lost
his father, whom he had not learned to know. Like Hérold, like Adam,
like Halévy, Charles Gounod was born at Paris, where he first saw the
light June 17, 1818. His mother, a woman of fine character and high
intelligence, neglected nothing that could contribute to his literary
and artistic education. She was his first music teacher. He began very
young to feel an intense love for this art, which he was to make
illustrious. A pupil of the Saint Louis lyceum, he was already an
excellent pianist while still pursuing his classical studies at this
establishment, and before completing these studies he took up a course
of harmony with the famous theoretician, Reicha. He took the degree of
bachelor when he was little more than sixteen years old, and was
admitted to the Conservatoire in the class of counterpoint and fugue
directed by Halévy, and soon after in the composition class of Lesueur,
one of the greatest masters that ever glorified the French school. In
the following year Gounod took part in the concours of the Institute for
the “Prix de Rome,” and carried off without opposition a second grand
prize. He was thus exempted from the military service, since the rules
of the “Concours de Rome” established at that time this exemption for
any pupil having obtained a prize before the age of twenty. This was in
1837, and Gounod was only nineteen.

At the close of this same year Lesueur died, and Gounod passed under the
instruction of Paër, with whom he finished his studies. In 1838 he
presented himself again at the Institute, this time without success, but
in 1839 he carried off a brilliant first prize with a cantata entitled
“Fernand,” the words of which were written by the marquis de Pastoret.
This first prize was almost unanimously awarded to him, twenty-five
votes out of twenty-seven being in his favor. He left at once for Rome
and there devoted himself almost exclusively for three or four years, to
the study and composition of religious music, being especially charmed
and influenced by the works of the great Palestrina. In 1841 he had
performed in the Saint-Louis-des Français church, on the occasion of the
fête of king Louis-Philippe, a grand orchestra mass, with contralto and
tenor solos. Towards the end of the following year he made a trip
through Germany, pausing for a time in Vienna, where he gave in the
Saint Charles church a Requiem mass which produced upon its hearers a
most profound impression. Some idea of the effect produced may be had
from an account addressed to one of the Paris papers of the day, and
which seemed invested with a spirit of prophecy: “On All Soul’s Day”
said this writer, “there was performed at the Saint Charles church a
Requiem, a quite recent work by M. Charles Gounod. One recognizes in
this composition not only a very marked musical talent which has already
obtained by its assiduity and experience a high degree of independence,
but one sees in it also a great and wholly individual comprehension,
which breaks away from the beaten tracks in order to create new forms.
In the melodic phrases there are things which deeply touch and impress
the hearer, things which disclose a grandeur of conception become very
rare in our day, and which engrave themselves ineffaceably upon the
soul, things which would do honor to any musician, and which seem to
point to a great future. The solos were sung perfectly, and the choruses
as well as the orchestra likewise deserve praise. M. Gounod directed in
person the performance of his work.”

It is plain that the pace of the young musician was not that of an
ordinary artist, and that his first steps were directed toward glory,
for rarely does one hear such praise accorded a composer of twenty-five
years.

Meanwhile Gounod, already haunted by an idea which was long to pursue
him, had dreamed of bidding farewell, not to his art, but to the world,
and had seriously considered taking ecclesiastic orders. His mind
possessed by this fancy, he had, during the latter part of his stay at
Rome, left the villa Médécis, where at that time the French school was
established, and had retired to the seminary. As soon as he returned to
Paris, he entered as precentor the Missions Etrangères, where he wore
the long robe and costume of the conventual house, and his resolution
seemed thenceforth so certain that it was accepted as an accomplished
fact. Indeed a special sheet, the _Revue et Gazette Musicale_, published
the following under date of Feb. 15, 1846: “M. Gounod, composer and
former winner of the grand Institute prize, has just taken orders.” From
this moment, Gounod was called “l’Abbé Gounod,” just as, sixty years
before, his master Lesueur was called “l’Abbé Lesueur,” when he became
precentor of the Metropolitan church. There was this difference,
however, that Lesueur had never desired to become a priest, but
according to the usage then in vogue at the Notre Dame church, Paris, he
was obliged, in order to fulfill the functions of precentor, to don the
priestly garb. Gounod, on the other hand, seemed to have made up his
mind to a religious life, since in 1846 a publisher brought out a series
of religious choruses entitled “Offices of Holy Week, by the Abbé
Charles Gounod.”

In his retreat Gounod continued to occupy himself with religious music,
and in 1849 he had performed at the Saint Eustache church a grand solemn
mass which was very well received. At this moment he seemed absolutely
lost to profane art, and as he was brought very little before the
public, people began to forget about him, when there appeared in the
London Athenæum early in 1851, an article which was immediately
republished in the _Revue et Gazette Musicale_ of Paris, and which
contained an enthusiastic eulogium on several of Gounod’s compositions
recently performed at a concert at St. Martin’s Hall. “This music,” said
the writer, “brings before us no other composer ancient or modern,
either by the form, the melody or the harmony. It is not new in the
sense of being bizarre or whimsical; it is not old, if old means dry and
stiff, the bare scaffolding, with no fine construction rising behind it;
it is the work of an accomplished artist, it is the poetry of a new
poet. * * * * * That the impression produced upon the audience was great
and real there can be no doubt, but it is the music itself, not its
reception, which to our minds presages for M. Gounod an uncommon career;
for if there be not in his works a genius at once true and new, then
must we go back to school and relearn the alphabet of the art and of
criticism.”

This article fell like a thunderclap on Paris, where people were
scarcely giving Gounod a thought. A very distinguished French musical
critic, Louis Viardot, was then in London with his wife, the worthy and
noble sister of Malibran. This Athenæum article was attributed to him,
not without reason, I think, and it was soon known that Mme. Viardot,
whose experience, taste and musical knowledge everyone knows, was struck
by the music of the young master, and that she was far from concealing
her admiration for a talent so pure, so elegant and so exquisite.

Excited by such a success Gounod at once renounced his orders, and
entered without more delay upon the militant career of the art
interrupted for so many years. He soon produced in public a pretty
symphony in E flat, which, performed in a remarkable manner by the Saint
Cecilia Society, then a worthy rival of that of the Conservatoire, won
him the congratulations and sincere encouragement of the critics. Then,
thanks to the assistance of Mme. Viardot, he was charged with writing
for the _Opéra_ the score of a work in three acts, “Sapho,” the libretto
of which had been confided to a young poet, Emile Angier, who was
likewise in the morning of his career, and likewise destined for glory,
and in this work the great artist whom we have just named, was to take
the principal rôle. Notwithstanding all, “Sapho” was not well received
by the public, or at least only moderately so and scarcely achieved more
than what is called in France a success of esteem. Yet the work was an
exceedingly good one, but the first step on a stage so important as that
of the _Opéra_ is so difficult for a young composer to make! It must be
said, however, that if the work as a whole was not judged entirely
satisfactory, especially in regard to the scenic effects, etc., it
presented a value which a fastidious critic stated in these terms: “The
opera of “Sapho,” without being a good dramatic work, is the work of a
distinguished musician who has style and lofty tendencies. M. Gounod has
perfectly seized and happily rendered all the lyric parts of the subject
which he has treated, but he has been less happy in trying to express
the conflict of passions and the contrast of characters.” Certain pages
in the score of “Sapho” were remarked as being quite individual in
flavor, and the public were especially delighted with the beautiful song
of the young shepherd, “Brontez le Thym, Brontes mes chêvres,” as well
as the admirable couplets of “Sapho,” of a character so melancholy, and
an inspiration so full of a delicate poetry. The work was performed on
the 16th of April, 1851.

A year later the Comédie-Française produced a tragedy by Pousard,
“Ulysse,” for which Gounod had written a number of beautiful choruses,
redolent with the perfume of antiquity and full of a manly energy. Very
soon the young composer appeared again at the _Opéra_ with a grand work
in five acts called “La Nonne Sanglante,” the libretto of which,
although signed by the names of Scribe and Germain Delavigne, was
absolutely devoid of interest. He made a mistake in accepting this
libretto, previously refused by several of his colleagues, among others
Meyerbeer and Halévy, and which could not excite his inspiration.
Notwithstanding some remarkable bits, some vigorous and beautiful
scenes, the score of “La Nonne Sanglante” was really only secondary in
value, and the work achieved a very mild success when it was produced
Oct. 18, 1854, with Mlles. Werthermber, Poinsot and Dameron, MM.
Gueymard, Depassio and Merly for interpreters. Its career was short, and
it only lived through eleven performances. Gounod had not yet found his
vein.

But better fortune was in store for him, and after a few years of
silence he began the series of his successes by giving to the
_Théâtre-Lyrique_, then very flourishing and very brilliant under the
direction of M. Carvalho, “Le Médécin Malgré Lui.” The libretto of this
had been arranged for _Opéra Comique_ by MM. Jules Barbier and Michel
Carré, who had preserved the greater part of Molière’s prose. Although
from a general point of view the comic sentiment may not be the dominant
quality of his talent, yet that quality is far from lacking in Gounod,
as is proved by “Le Médécin Malgré Lui,” which remains one of the most
curious and most original of his attempts. In this work, which was
performed Jan. 15, 1858, the composer revived with a rare cleverness the
old forms of French music, while adding thereto the most ingenious and
most piquant artifices of the modern science, and by clothing the whole
with his masterly style he produced a work of a very unique color,
flavor and character. “Le Médécin Malgré Lui,” which the public received
with marked favor, seemed to prepare the great day of Gounod’s artistic
life. Fourteen months after the appearance of this work, that is to say,
on March 19, 1859, the composer gave to the same theatre the work which
was to establish his fame upon a fixed basis. The reader of course
divines that I refer to “Faust,” that masterpiece which can boast of
such a brilliant, prolonged and universal success, and which will
remain, perhaps, the author’s best title to the remembrance and
recognition of posterity.

But let it not be supposed that the triumphal career of “Faust” was not
confronted at the outset with difficulties and obstacles which appeared
insurmountable. When it was carried by the authors to the
_Théâtre-Lyrique_, there was in preparation at the Porte Saint Martin
theatre another drama built on Goethe’s poem, and bearing the same name.
M. Carvalho told Gounod that it would be necessary to await the result
of the “Faust” at the Porte Saint Martin, for if that work won a
success, it would be very difficult and very hazardous to offer another
“Faust” to the public. So they waited, and the drama not proving a
success, it was decided to proceed with the study of the opera. Gounod’s
“Faust” was presented in the form styled in France _Opéra Comique_, that
is to say, the singing parts being interspersed with spoken dialogue.
(It was not until later when “Faust” passed into the repertoire of the
_Opéra_ that this dialogue was replaced by recitatives.) The rôle of
Marguerite was first given to Mme. Ugalde, but Mme. Carvalho having
expressed a desire to take the rôle, after becoming acquainted with the
music, the authors transferred it to her and consoled Mme. Ugalde by
giving her the part of Mélodine in Victor Massé’s opera, “La Fée
Carabosse,” which was being mounted at the same time. The rehearsals of
“Faust” were very laborious. M. Carvalho, disconcerted by the new and
daring character of the music, and by the poetic sentiment revealed in
it, which he judged incompatible with stage requirements, picked a
quarrel with the composer, declared his score too much developed, and
constantly demanded new cuts and changes. Gounod, made uneasy by this
lack of confidence, had yielded to several of these demands and had
already consented to several suppressions, when at last M. Carvalho came
to him one day with a proposition to suppress the beautiful final scene
in the garden, fearing that this quiet scene, with no outburst or noise
of any kind, would seem cold to the public and fail to produce an
effect. This time Gounod, who had faith in his work and was conscious of
its value, stood fast and immovable, declaring he would rather withdraw
his score than to yield this point and consent to such a sacrifice. In
short, after a whole series of combats and discussions of this sort,
which were renewed daily, the work was finally brought out. Truth
compels the confession that it was not fully understood at first; that
the critics stood hesitating and undecided in the presence of a work so
new in form, and that the public itself was of two minds regarding the
value of the work, some applauding with enthusiasm while others harshly
criticised. It is certain that the first reception was more cold and
reserved than could have been desired, but gradually people began to
understand and appreciate the beauties abounding in this exquisite
score, and at last its success was complete, brilliant and
incontestable, spreading first throughout France, then over Europe, then
over the entire world, where “Faust” is to-day, and long has been,
considered a great masterpiece, and its author’s best work. “Faust” has
been played in all countries and translated into all languages. It is
one of the first French works which Italy, before then so hostile and
impenetrable to French music, has applauded with a sort of furor. In
Germany, where for a number of years Spohr’s “Faust” reigned supreme, it
was received in a triumphal manner, and completely dethroned the latter.
It excited enthusiasm, not only in Vienna, Berlin, Dresden, Hamburg,
Baden, Leipsic, Frankfort, Stuttgart and Darmstadt, not only in Milan,
Rome, Venice, Naples, Florence, Genoa, Parma and Bologna, but in London,
Moscow, St. Petersburg, Varsovie, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Brussels,
Amsterdam, Madrid, Barcelona, Lisbon, etc., and even finally crossed the
seas and became popular in the two Americas. It is perhaps the first
work by a French composer which had such a rapid, complete and universal
success. In Paris, “Faust” had been played more than four hundred times
at the _Théâtre-Lyrique_ when the _Opéra_ signified a desire to
appropriate it. The authors consented; but certain modifications were
necessitated by this change of scene, and first of all the spoken
dialogue had to be suppressed and replaced by recitatives. These changes
effected, the work made its appearance at the _Opéra_ March 3, 1869, and
there continued its successful career, counting five hundred
performances in the space of eighteen years. The five hundredth was
given on the 4th of November, 1887, and the six hundredth took place in
the beginning of the year 1892, so that in Paris alone, “Faust” has
already reached its thousandth performance. Such a success is without
parallel in the annals of the theatre in France.

[Illustration:

  CHARLES GOUNOD.

  Reproduction of an engraving made from a photograph in 1859, about the
    time of the first production of Faust, Gounod being then in his
    forty-first year.
]

Gounod had borrowed “Le Médécin Malgré Lui” from Molière; he had
appropriated material from Goethe’s “Faust;” it was La Fontaine who
furnished him the subject of a pretty opera, somewhat light in
character, called “Philémon et Baucis,” performed at the
_Théâtre-Lyrique_, Feb. 18, 1860. The score of “Philémon et Baucis” is a
pleasant one, full of charm, in which tenderness and grace alternates
with fun and buffoonery. The work, which was in three acts, achieved
only a moderate success at the _Théâtre-Lyrique_; its real success dates
from its transfer to the _Opéra Comique_, reduced to two acts. Since
then it has never been taken from the repertoire of that theatre. But
soon Gounod was to appear on the grand stage of the _Opéra_ with a work
of large proportions, “La Reine de Saba.” Notwithstanding the fame which
his previous works had made for him, he was no more fortunate with “La
Reine de Saba” (Feb. 29, 1862) than he had been with “La Nonne
Sanglante.” It is true that this time the trouble lay principally in the
libretto of his collaborators, which was absolutely devoid of interest.
For it is but just to say that if the score of “La Reine de Saba” is of
unequal merit and of a secondary character, it nevertheless contains
some superb and exquisite pages, like the noble air of Balkis, and the
beautiful chorus of the Jewesses and the Sabians. However, it only lived
through fifteen performances at Paris, though it should be remarked that
in certain foreign cities it was received with great favor, and that in
Brussels and Darmstadt, among others, its success was considerable.

Gounod’s unfortunate attempts at the _Opéra_ led him to turn his
attention anew to the _Théâtre-Lyrique_, where he brought out, March 19,
1864, a work entitled “Mireille,” the subject of which was taken from a
pretty provincial poem by Frederic Mistral, bearing the same title,
(Mireio). This poem is an exquisite pastorale, written in that
provincial language at once so musical, so sweet and harmonious, a
language which is melody in itself. Unhappily, the libretto which Gounod
set to music on this subject was badly chosen, being ill adapted to the
stage, and therefore militated against the composer’s work, although the
latter contained some truly charming pages. The first act, particularly,
radiant with light and sunshine, is charmingly poetic, and especially
deserving of mention is the beautiful chorus of the magnarelles and the
touching duet of Mireille and Vincent. The score contains still other
charming bits, such as Magali’s beautiful song and Taven’s couplets:
Voici la saison, mignonne. However, the defective libretto stood in the
way of the success of the work, which at first remained undecided. It
was found necessary to entirely rewrite the work, to make large
suppressions, and reduce it from five to three acts, which did not
result in its being any better received by the public. It was not until
later, when it was transferred to the _Opéra Comique_ after having been
subjected to still further revisions and cast in its final form, that
“Mireille” at last found the success which its incontestable musical
value merited. Thereafter, it never left the repertoire of that theatre.

No particular importance can be attached to a little work in two acts,
“La Colombe,” which Gounod gave to the _Opéra Comique_ in 1866, and
which he had written some years before for the theatre at Baden; it was
a sort of salon operetta, without special character or consequence. But
the composer was yet to carry off one of the most brilliant victories of
his career with “Roméo et Juliette” which made its first appearance at
the _Théâtre-Lyrique_ on the 27th of April, 1867. More fortunate than
“Faust” and “Mireille,” whose success had been so difficult to
establish, “Roméo et Juliette” was well received from the very outset,
and this superb score in which the passion of love and the sentiment of
chivalry are so happily united, immediately found favor with the public.
Nor has it ever ceased to excite public sympathy, and it has changed its
biding-place from the _Théâtre-Lyrique_ to the _Opéra Comique_, and from
that theatre to the _Opéra_ without experiencing any diminution of
public interest. “Roméo et Juliette” has exceeded the number of five
hundred performances in Paris, one hundred of which were at the
_Théâtre-Lyrique_, about three hundred at the _Opéra Comique_ and more
than one hundred at the _Opéra_. Outside of France it has not been less
successful, and it has made a part of the repertoire of all the great
theatres of Europe.

Moreover, “Roméo et Juliette” marks the culminating point in the career
of Gounod, who since then has not been able to equal its success. In
1870 the master went to London where he remained for several years,
working and producing much. There it was that he wrote, among other
things, an opera called “George Dandin,” to the prose of Molière, which
has not yet been performed; it was there also that he wrote, for the
Universal Exposition at London in 1871, a grand cantata entitled
“Gallia,” which was performed later at Paris, where it was very
favorably received. A warm welcome was also given to the music which
Gounod wrote for “Jeanne d’Arc,” a drama in verse by Jules Barbier which
was performed at the Gaiety on Nov. 8, 1873. This music consisted of
melodramas, interludes, choruses, etc., and contained some very
interesting pages. The preceding year the Ventadour theatre had brought
out a drama in verse by Ernest Legouvé for which Gounod had written a
score of the same kind; this drama was called “Les Deux Reines de
France.”

In these two works the music was merely an accessory, and the composer
was only the humble servant of the poet, whom he discreetly aided and
supplemented. But Gounod had not given up the idea of appearing again
before the public as a true dramatic musician. Ten years had elapsed
since he had given “Roméo et Juliette,” and the public were growing
impatient for a new work from him, when in 1877 the _Opéra Comique_
announced the performance of “Cinq-Mars.” This was an artistic treat in
which all Paris desired to participate, but which did not wholly justify
the hopes which it had raised. The score of “Cinq-Mars” was certainly
far from being worthless; it was written in a musical language that was
superb and noble in style, but aside from a few exquisite pages, it did
not have the freshness, the abundance and the generosity of inspiration
which had hitherto characterized Gounod’s work. It was unequal, cold at
intervals, and one no longer felt that vigor of youth, that warmth of
accent which had made the triumph of the master’s great productions. In
a word “Cinq-Mars” was received with sympathy but not enthusiasm, and as
soon as the novelty had passed it disappeared without causing any
disquietude.

[Illustration:

  GOUNOD’S RESIDENCE ON BOULEVARD MALESHERBES IN PARIS.

  From a photograph made in April, 1891.
]

The following year Gounod presented himself again at the _Opéra_. For a
long time past he had felt the desire to attempt one of the Corneille’s
masterpieces, and he had formed the plan of setting “Polyeucte” to
music, and transforming it into a lyric drama. It was a subject half
religious, half profane, which seemed peculiarly suited to his
intellectual temperament. He charged his friend, Jules Barbier, with
fashioning a libretto from Corneille’s celebrated tragedy, which the
latter followed step by step, even preserving some of the great poet’s
verses, and he wrote the music of this new “Polyeucte,” which was
performed at the _Opéra_, Oct. 7, 1878. But it was said that the author
of “Faust” and “Roméo,” both so successful at the _Opéra_, after having
been born and bred elsewhere, could never succeed at that theatre with a
work written expressly for it. “Polyeucte,” indeed, was not well
received, and scarcely deserved to be, and its career ended with a
series of twenty-nine performances. The composer was not much more
fortunate with “Le Tribut de Zamora,” another work which he gave to the
_Opéra_, April 1, 1881. This work, however, had been staged with great
splendor and magnificence, the costumes and decorations were very rich
and elaborate, and what was still more important, the two principal
rôles were taken by artists of the first rank, M. Lassalle and Mme.
Gabrielle Krauss, the latter especially being very fine in the character
of Xaïma. But nothing could counteract the insipidity and insignificance
of the work, and notwithstanding the luxury brought to its support,
notwithstanding the incontestable talent of its interpreters, “Le Tribut
de Zamora” scarcely lived through fifty performances. This was the last
dramatic effort of Charles Gounod, who seems to-day to have finally
given up the theatre, and whose health has been steadily declining for a
number of years.

But Gounod has not confined himself exclusively to the theatre; his very
remarkable fertility has exercised itself in all directions,
particularly in the religious genre, so well suited to his nature.
Gounod’s religious compositions are very numerous, and since he has
renounced the stage he has achieved some striking successes in oratorio.
“La Redemption,” (1882) a sacred trilogy, of which he wrote the music
and the French words, and “Mors et Vita,” another sacred trilogy, the
Latin text of which he arranged himself from the Catholic liturgy and
the Vulgate, won for him triumphs which the great merit of these
beautiful compositions fully justified. Since his youth Gounod has
produced a great number of sacred works, several of which are of rare
beauty, such as the “Messe des Orphéonistes” (1853), the “Messe de
Sainte Cécile” (1855), a mass in C minor (1867), a mass of the Sacred
Heart (1876), a mass to the memory of Joan of Arc (1887), a mass for two
voices, a short mass in C major, three solemn masses, two Requiem
masses, a “Stabat Mater,” a “Te Deum,” a hymn to Saint Augustin, “Les
Sept Paroles du Christ,” “Jésus sur le lac de Tibériade,” a choral
psalmody, “Tobie,” a little oratorio, and a considerable number of
motets of different kinds.

In profane music, and aside from the theatre, Gounod has shown himself
scarcely less fertile. His two symphonies, (first in D, second in E
flat) and his “Temple de l’Harmonie,” cantata with choruses, are all
compositions of great merit. I would mention also “Biondina,” a pretty
little lyric poem, and especially would I call attention to his
beautiful male choruses, and to his songs of which he has written more
than a hundred, and among which are to be found veritable masterpieces
of poetry and sentiment, such as “Le Vallon,” “Le Soir,” “Medjé,”
“l’Envoi de Fleurs,” “Le Printemps,” “La Prière du Soir,” “Venise,” etc.
In this style of composition Gounod’s repertoire is varied, substantial
and charming, and few French writers have given us a note so personal
and original.

In attempting to characterize the genius of Gounod, and to determine the
place which he should occupy in the history of contemporaneous art, it
is necessary to consider principally “Faust” and “Roméo et Juliette.”
These are his two masterpieces, and it is through these works that the
composer has truly revealed his personality and his genius; it is
through these works that his name has become famous and will go down to
posterity. It is of these works, then, that we must demand the secret of
that powerful influence which Gounod has exerted for more than a quarter
of a century over the art, over artists and over the public.

[Illustration:

  Fac-simile autograph manuscript from Gounod’s “Romeo and Juliet.”
]

Although not performed until a year after “Le Médécin Malgré Lui,”
“Faust” was written first. In this work the musician had been
intelligently served by his collaborators, who had taken from Goethe’s
masterpiece all that which pertained to the action and to the dramatic
passion, and left judiciously alone all the psychological, philosophical
and metaphysical dissertations. The libretto was admirably cut for the
stage, varied in tone and coloring, and contained a fair quota of that
fantastic element so effective on the stage and so well liked by the
public. And never was the musician better inspired. The Kermesse scene
is full of warmth and sunshine; the garden scene is one of an ethereal
and enchanting poetry, and the words of passion are by turns softly
languishing or full of an intense energy; the scene in the church, where
Mephistopheles, pursuing Marguerite even to the very shades of the
sanctuary, tries to arrest her prayer, and prevent the unfortunate
victim from taking refuge in the Divine mercy, is stamped with a rare
feeling of grandeur, and reveals a profoundly dramatic character.
Finally, the episode of the death of Valentine and his malediction of
Marguerite forms a pathetic and superb scene, which, with its numerous
and varied incidents is surely one of the best of this remarkable work.

It is a singular thing that the two musicians whose personal and
original genius characterize in some sort, from points of view otherwise
very different, the reform tendencies of the present French school,
should both fall upon these two great masterpieces, “Faust” and “Roméo
et Juliette,” each interpreting them after his own manner and according
to his own temperament. It was Berlioz who first conceived the idea of
appropriating them, and long before Gounod had dreamed of such a thing,
had given us “Roméo et Juliette” and his “Damnation de Faust.”
Comparison between the works of these two artists is impossible, because
of the dissimilarity of their natures and aspirations. In regard to
“Faust,” however, we may say that Berlioz, who did not make an opera of
it, but a grand musical legend, preserving thus one of the peculiar
characteristics of the original work, treated especially the energetic
and picturesque part of the drama, whereas Gounod chose rather to
reproduce the love poetry, the exalted reverie and that mystic and
supernatural perfume which characterizes Goethe’s poem. Although the
charming Kermesse scene in Gounod’s score, which is an episode apart
from the action, is very well executed, highly colored, of a really
exceptional musical interest, it cannot be denied that in picturesque
sentiment Berlioz has singularly surpassed his rival in the various and
typical episodes of his “Damnation de Faust,” the latin song of the
students, the soldier’s chorus, the Hungarian march, the ballet of the
sylphs, the military retreat, the chorus of the sylphs and gnomes, etc.
On the other hand, whatever is tender and emotional, dreamy and poetic,
has been admirably treated by Gounod, and it is by certain unobtrusive
fragments, certain almost hidden passages in his score that the hand of
a master, the inspiration of a poet is betrayed, that the man of genius
is revealed. Witness Marguerite’s response to Faust as he approaches her
at the entrance of the chapel:

            “Non, monsieur, je ne suis demoiselle ni belle,
            Et je n’ai pas besoin qu’on me donne la main.”

or Marguerite’s reflection in her garden,

          “Je voudrais bien savoir quel était ce jeune homme,
          Si c’est un grand seigneur et comment il se nomme.”

Not only are these two fragments perfect, finished, exquisite, from a
musical point of view, but they exhale besides I know not what
mysterious perfume. They give the hearer so complete a perception of the
sentiment which Marguerite is fated to prove for “Faust,” that they
have, aside from the scenic import, a kind of mystic and profound
meaning which seems impossible to translate into music, and which
strikes, nevertheless, the most indifferent ears. It is this peculiar,
we may say hitherto unknown sense, which gives Gounod’s “Faust” its true
color, its character at once tender and dreamy, mysterious and
fascinating, melancholy and passionate, and which assigns to it a place
apart, a unique place among the number of the most original works of
contemporary art. It is easy to see in this work that Gounod’s
intellectual tendencies, his youthful sympathies, his leanings toward a
religious and monastic life, have not been without influence on his
musical temperament, and on the very nature of his talent.

If “Faust” is an exquisite work, “Roméo et Juliette” is a superb one, of
a grand and spirited style, in which the external and material picture
of a chivalric world contrasts strikingly with the internal analysis of
a passionate love, constrained to conceal itself from all eyes, yet from
this very cause becoming all the more powerful. If one wished to enter
into what might be called a psychological analysis of the score, it
would be necessary to discover how great were the difficulties of the
composer in writing “Roméo” without repeating himself, after having
written “Faust.” For, although the subjects of the two works differ
widely, we see the same situations reproduced in each, under the same
scenic conditions, and the stumbling block was all the more troublesome
since these situations were the most salient ones, and constituted, as
it were, the very core of the dramatic action. Witness the balcony scene
of “Roméo” and the garden scene of “Faust” or the duel of Roméo and
Tybalt with the death of the latter, in the first, and the duel of Faust
and Valentine, also mortal, in the second. Truly a musician must have a
singular power, a very remarkable faculty of reiteration, to attempt
successfully such a repetition of similar episodes.

[Illustration:

  GOUNOD IN HIS STUDY.

  Reproduction of a photograph from life made by Dornac & Cie., Paris.
]

And what scene so marvelous as that balcony scene of Roméo, chaste and
passionate throughout! What earnest and trembling accents on the lips of
the two fond lovers whom the world—a world of strife and
contention—seems bound to separate forever! And what newness, what a
winning fearlessness, what a balmy freshness in the melodic sentiment
which the composer employs to express the sensations which stir the
hearts of his tender heroes! Could love be expressed in a more exquisite
and more touching manner?

On the other hand, and by contrast, what scene more striking in its
grandeur, more spirited, more manly, than that of the double duel,
Tybalt and Mercutio, Roméo and Tybalt! Here the musician has so
wonderfully colored his inspiration that he has raised up a world of the
past before our very eyes, and, while listening, we feel that surely we
must be present at one of the cruel episodes of that long and bloody
struggle between the Capulets and the Montagues. The insult slung by
Tybalt in the face of Roméo, agitated, but contained, Mercutio’s
objurgations, the first duel of the latter with Tybalt, who strikes him
to the heart, Roméo’s rage at seeing his friend expire, the fury with
which he throws himself in his turn upon Tybalt, and the second combat,
fatal to the latter, all this the composer has rendered in an admirable
manner, with a spirit, a verve, a power, a dramatic movement and a
picturesque feeling which make of this episode a page full of grandeur,
and worthy to compete with the painting of a Titian or of a Veronese. In
considering this remarkable score, so rich from beginning to end and so
varied in its unity, we cannot pass over the austere and touching
marriage scene, the lark duo and the episode of the death of the two
lovers. Truly, it is a work of the highest order, which yields in
nothing to “Faust,” and is perhaps superior to it in certain parts and
in certain ways.

It is in “Faust” and “Roméo” that Gounod has not only given the full
measure of his genius, but has made most conspicuous the true personal
tendencies of that genius and his own originality. It is there that his
musical phrase, so fascinating, so new in form and characteristic in
outline, is developed in all its fullness and all its freedom. It is
there that his harmonies, so rich, so refined, so piquant, and sometimes
so unexpected, are the most abundantly and happily displayed. It is
there that his ingenious instrumentation, full of color and grace and
always elegant, that transparent instrumentation we might say, at the
same time dignified and full, has embraced those exquisite passages
which always thrill delicate and sensitive ears. It is there that
passion speaks a truly enchanting language, that emotion attains the
highest limits of its power, and it is the aggregate of all these
qualities which make the master’s genius stand out in bold relief and
which shows it off in the most complete and striking fashion.

But if “Faust” and “Roméo” are worthy of so much admiration, that does
not mean that no importance or sympathy should be attached to the
composer’s other works, which, though less perfect and less lofty in
character, are none the less deserving of the most active appreciation
on the part of the public and of true artists. “Philémon et Baucis,”
“Mireille,” “Le Médécin Malgré Lui,” are productions of unquestionable
merit, and even in “Sapho” and “La Reine de Saba,” weak and unequal as
they undoubtedly are, one may find pages of the rarest beauty. It should
be remarked that even in his least successful works, what we may always
admire in Gounod is the noblesse of his language and the splendor of his
style. It is necessary to add that if, as is generally believed,
fertility is a sign of force, Gounod deserves to be classed among the
strongest! Few artists, indeed, have produced more or in greater
variety, opera, oratorio, symphony, religious music, cantatas, vocal
chamber music, (set to French, English or Italian words) choruses with
or without accompaniment, compositions for piano or organ, he has
touched them all, and in all has given proof of the most substantial and
brilliant qualities.

A very convincing proof of the power of Gounod’s personality is the
influence which he has exerted for more than quarter of a century on the
young French school of music. The author of Faust has brought into the
art a note entirely new and unknown before him. This dreamy, poetic note
is stamped with a grace and melancholy which characterizes all of
Gounod’s work, and vainly have young musicians sought to reproduce and
tried their best to imitate the methods of a master whose genius they
did not possess, and who remained for them inimitable. Nevertheless,
this influence of Gounod is the sign and the proof of his creative
power.

One could scarcely pass over, in speaking of such an artist, his
literary proclivities, and the desire which he manifested on different
occasions to set forth his ideas and the principles which he professed
in matters of art. All French musicians of the present period are
afflicted with a mania for writing. Not only great artists like Reyer
and Saint-Saëns, following the example of Berlioz, Halévy and Adolpe
Adam, undertake to criticise and make themselves the judges of their
colleagues, but the most inconsequential composer of operettas gives
himself to-day the airs of a writer, and believes himself called upon to
deliver himself of long esthetic and philosophic discussions on the art
of which he deems himself one of the noblest representatives.

Gounod has not escaped the general contagion. It is only just to state,
however, that he has not abused his pen in this connection, and that
usually it has been occasion, rather than preconceived desire, that has
caused him to take it up. The most important writing which we owe to
Gounod is the remarkable volume which he has published under the title
of “Le ‘Don Juan’ de Mozart,” in which he expresses very clearly his
profound admiration for the master, of whom he declares himself to be
one of the most ardent, respectful and faithful of disciples. In
addition to this Gounod has given to various journals or periodicals
some articles of running criticism or of musical philosophy (“De la
Routine en Matière d’Art,” “Le Public,” “La Critique,” “Les Compositeurs
Chefs d’Orchestre,” “La Propriété Artistique,” “l’Enseignement,” “La
Critique Musicale Anglaise,” “Les Pères de l’Eglise de la Musique,”
etc.) He has also given an interesting preface to the volume of “Lettres
Intimes” by Berlioz, and he has published a preface intended to
accompany his score of “George Dandin,” a score which has not yet seen
the light and perhaps never will. He enumerated and discussed in this
curious preface the reasons which led him to set prose to music—and what
prose! That of Molière; in other words, the most compact, substantial
and solid prose which it is possible to imagine. Some years since a
report was spread abroad that Gounod was preparing a book in which he
would refute the doctrines and theories of Richard Wagner. I do not know
whether he really ever conceived such a project, but if he did I regret
that he did not put it in execution. For it seems to me that whatever
might be his ideas on this subject it would be an exceedingly
interesting thing, to have an artist like Gounod express his opinions on
an artist like Wagner.

I return to Gounod the composer. However little enthusiasm his
detractors—for he has them—may feel for his genius, they are none the
less obliged to confess that genius, and the power and influence exerted
by him upon the public—a public which everywhere, in all the countries
of the world, has applauded his works. The artists who are sharply
discussed are usually the ones who possess true worth. More noble than
majestic, more tender than pathetic, more pensive than enthusiastic,
more deliberate than spontaneous, the immense talent of the author of
“Faust” glitters with a multitude of rare qualities, and in that talent
one may almost say that study, constant and indefatigable study, has as
great a part as inspiration. Not only is Gounod a fine man of letters,
well versed in the knowledge of the languages and of masterpieces, but,
from a musical point of view, few artists have, like him, been nourished
by the marrow of lions. There is no great musician whom Gounod does not
know, as it were, by heart, and he has only enthusiastic admiration for
the old masters. It was he, who, listening one day at the Conservatoire
to Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, ran up to a friend and cried, his face
all aglow and wildly waving the score, “It is the Bible of the
musician!” On another occasion when, at a certain salon, conversation
fell on music, and the proper rank of the different musicians was under
discussion, he delivered himself of the following sentiment. “If the
greatest masters, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, could be annihilated by an
unheard-of cataclysm, as the painters might be by fire, it would be easy
to reconstruct all the music with Bach. In the firmament of art, Bach is
a nebula which has not yet condensed.”

I have said that study is almost as great a part as inspiration in the
talent of Gounod, which may be said of all truly superior artists; one
might add that this talent acquired a very individual color from the
alliance of the artist’s almost mystic sentiments with a very keen
comprehension of the human passions and the storms of the heart. There
has remained by Gounod a sort of recollection of his first years vowed
by him to theological studies and of his leaning toward a monastic life
and the seclusion of the cloister; possibly it is this which
characterizes his genius in such a special way, which gives it its
originality, its peculiar and its exceptional flavor, although it is
difficult to determine with precision how much his artistic personality
gained and how much it lost by the influence of the ideas and
aspirations of his youth upon his later imagination.

Musically and dramatically Gounod is more of a spiritualist than
materialist, more poet than painter, more elegiac and vigorous than
deeply pathetic; this is perhaps the reason that some have pronounced
him lacking in dramatic sense. In this they are mistaken, for it is not
dramatic sense, that is to say, impassioned perception, which sometimes
fails Gounod; it is, properly speaking, temperament. But after all is
said, the author of “Faust,” of “Mireille” and of “Roméo” remains a true
poet, an inspired creator, an artist of the first rank, and if not one
of those who illumine the world with a dazzling light, at least one of
those who charm it, who touch it, who make it listen and make it think,
His part is a sufficiently beautiful one, with which he may well be
satisfied.

[Illustration: Arthur Pougin]

[Illustration: [Composer]]

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.—Since the foregoing was written, the death of Charles
Gounod has been announced. On October 16, 1893, he was stricken with
apoplexy, and lingered until the 18th. He died at St. Cloud, and was
buried in the family vault at Auteuil.

-----

Footnote 1:

  Compare Ferdinand Praeger’s “Wagner as I knew Him,” Chaps. XIV. and
  XV., with “1849: A Vindication,” by W. Ashton Ellis. See also letter
  of Aug. 9, 1849, to Theodore Uhlig. [Letters to Uhlig, Fischer, and
  Heine, London, H. Grevel & Co.]

Footnote 2:

  “Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt,” Vol. I., p. 77. H. Grevel & Co.,
  London.

Footnote 3:

  “You are a truly wonderful man, and your Nibelungen poem is surely the
  most incredible thing which you have ever done.”—_Letter of Liszt,
  Feb. 20, 1853._

Footnote 4:

  See Praeger’s “Wagner as I knew Him,” Chaps. XVIII. and XIX., for full
  account of this visit.

Footnote 5:

  “Richard Wagner; his Life and Works,” by Adolphe Jullien. Boston, J.
  B. Millet Co.

Footnote 6:

  “Production of ‘Tannhäuser’ in Paris,” Wagner, translated by E. L.
  Burlingame, in “Art Life and Theories of Wagner.” Henry Holt & Co.

Footnote 7:

  “Wagner,” by Edward Dannreuther, in Grove’s Dictionary of Music. Also
  “The ‘Parsifal’ of Richard Wagner,” by Maurice Kufferath.

Footnote 8:

  “Studies in Modern Music,” by W. A. Hadow. Macmillan & Co.

Footnote 9:

  “Studies in the Wagnerian Drama,” by H. E. Krehbiel. Harper & Bros.

Footnote 10:

  “History of Music,” Emil Naumann, Vol. I., p. 524. Cassell & Co.

Footnote 11:

  “The Music of the Future,” E. L. Burlingame’s translation.

Footnote 12:

  Condensation, by F. Hueffer, of a passage from “A Communication to my
  Friends.”

Footnote 13:

  “Art and Revolution,” W. Ashton Ellis’s translation.

Footnote 14:

  The writer of this article does not wish to be understood as agreeing
  with Wagner in all the utterances quoted; the selections have been
  made with the design of throwing light upon the workings of Wagner’s
  mind in the formulation of his theories.

Footnote 15:

  “Studies in the Wagnerian Drama.”

Footnote 16:

  E. C. Stedman, “The Nature and Elements of Poetry,” p. 99.

Footnote 17:

  “Preludes and Studies,” p. 112.

Footnote 18:

  “Preludes and Studies,” p. 48.

Footnote 19:

  See Kleinmichel piano score of “Die Walküre,” p. 304.

Footnote 20:

  “From the Tone World,” by Louis Ehlert. Charles Tretbar, New York.

Footnote 21:

  Article “Harmony,” in Grove’s Dictionary of Music, by C. H. H. Parry.

Footnote 22:

  See articles on “Music in Italy,” and on the Netherland masters.

Footnote 23:

  A complete edition of Buxtehude’s works has recently been published in
  Leipzig.

Footnote 24:

  Mozart, it will be remembered, saw none of Bach’s choral works until
  two years before his death.

------------------------------------------------------------------------



                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


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