The Art of Music, Volume Two (of 14) - Book II: Classicism and Romanticism

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Title: The Art of Music, Volume Two (of 14) - Book II: Classicism and Romanticism
Author: Daniel Gegory Mason, Edward B. Hill, Leland Hall, and César, - To be updated
Language: English
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The Art of Music

A Comprehensive Library of Information
for Music Lovers and Musicians

Editor-in-Chief

DANIEL GREGORY MASON
Columbia University

Associate Editors

EDWARD B. HILL LELAND HALL
Harvard University Past Professor, Univ. of Wisconsin

Managing Editor

CÉSAR SAERCHINGER
Modern Music Society of New York

In Fourteen Volumes
Profusely Illustrated

[Illustration]

NEW YORK
THE NATIONAL SOCIETY OF MUSIC

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Beethoven]
_After the painting by Karl Stieler
(Original owned by H. Hinrichsen, Leipzig)_

THE ART OF MUSIC: VOLUME TWO

A Narrative History of Music

Department Editors:

LELAND HALL
AND
CÉSAR SAERCHINGER

Introduction by
LELAND HALL
Past Professor of Musical History, University of Wisconsin

BOOK II
CLASSICISM AND ROMANTICISM

[Illustration]

NEW YORK
THE NATIONAL SOCIETY OF MUSIC
1915

A NARRATIVE HISTORY OF MUSIC

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME II

In the first volume of THE ART OF MUSIC the history of the art has
been carried in as straight a line as possible down to the death of
Bach and Handel. These two great composers, while they still serve as
the foundation of much present-day music, nevertheless stand as the
culmination of an epoch in the development and style of music which
is distinctly of the past. Many of the greatest of their conceptions
are expressed in a language, so to speak, which rings old-fashioned in
our ears. Something has been lost of their art. In the second volume,
on the other hand, we have to do with the growth of what we may call
our own musical language, with the language of Beethoven, Schubert,
Schumann, Wagner and Brahms, men with whose ideals and with whose modes
of expression we are still closely in touch. In closing the first
volume the reader bids farewell to the time of music when polyphony
still was supreme. In opening this he greets the era of melody and
harmony, of the singing allegro, the scherzo, the rondo, of the
romantic song, of salon music, of national opera and national life in
music.

We have now to do with the symphony and the sonata, which even to the
uninitiated spell music, no longer with the toccata and the fugue,
words of more or less hostile alarm to those who dread attention. We
shall deal with forms based upon melody, shall trace their growth from
their seeds in Italy, the land of melody, through the works of Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven. We shall watch the perfecting of the orchestra,
its enrichment in sonority and in color. We shall see the Lied spring
from the forehead of Schubert. We shall mark the development of the
pianoforte and the growth of a noble literature of pianoforte music,
rivalling that of the orchestra in proportion and in meaning. A new
opera will come into being, discarding old traditions, alien myths,
allying itself to the life of the peoples of Europe.

Lastly we shall note the touch of two great forces upon music, two
forces mysteriously intertwined, the French Revolution and the Romantic
Movement. Music will break from the control of rich nobles and make
itself dear to the hearts of the common people who inherit the earth.
It will learn to speak of intimate mysteries and intensely personal
emotion. Composers will rebel from dependence upon a patronizing class
and seek judgment and reward from a free public. In short, music
will be no longer only the handmaiden of the church, or the servant
of a socially exalted class, but the voice of the great human race,
expressing its passions, its emotions, its common sadness and joy, its
everyday dreams and even its realities.

The history of any art in such a stage of reformation is necessarily
complicated, and the history of music is in no way exceptional. A
thousand new influences shaped it, hundreds of composers and of
virtuosi came for a while to the front. Political, social and even
economical and commercial conditions bore directly upon it. To ravel
from this tangle one or two threads upon which to weave a consecutive
narration has been the object of the editors. Minuteness of detail
would have thwarted the purpose of this as of the first volume, even
if space could have been allowed for it. The book has, therefore,
been limited to an exposition only of general movements, and to
only general descriptions of the works of the greatest composers who
contributed to them. Many lesser composers, famous in their day, have
not been mentioned, because their work has had no real historical
significance. They will, if at all vital, receive treatment in the
later volumes.

On the other hand, the reader is cautioned against too easy acceptance
of generalities which have long usurped a sway over the public, such
as the statement that Emanuel Bach was the inventor of the sonata
form, or that Haydn was the creator of the symphony and of the string
quartet. Such forms are evolved, or built up step by step, not created.
The foundations of them lie far back in the history of the art. In the
present volume the attention of the reader will be especially called to
the work of the Italian Pergolesi, and the Bohemian Johann Stamitz, in
preparing these forms for Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven.

Just as, in order to bring into relief the main lines of development,
many men and many details have been omitted, so, in order to bring
the volume to well-rounded close, the works of many men which
chronologically should find their place herein have been consigned
arbitrarily to a third volume. Yet such treatment is perhaps not so
arbitrary as will at first appear. Wagner, Brahms, and César Franck
are the three greatest of the later romantic composers. They developed
relatively independently of each other, and represent the culmination
of three distinct phases of the romantic movement in music. Their
separate influences made themselves felt at once even upon composers
scarcely younger than they. Men so influenced belong properly among
their followers, no matter what their ages. Inasmuch as the vast
majority of modern music is most evidently founded upon some one of
these three men, most conspicuously and almost inevitably upon Wagner,
contemporaries who so founded their work will be treated among the
modern composers, as those men who lead the way over from the three
great geniuses of a past generation to the distinctly new art of
the present day. Notable among these are men like Max Bruch, Anton
Bruckner, Hugo Wolf, Gustav Mahler, and Camille Saint-Saëns. Some
of these men, by the close connection of their art to that of past
generations, might perhaps more properly be treated in this volume, but
the confusion of so many minor strands would obscure the trend of the
narrative. Moreover, exigencies of space have enforced certain limits
upon the editors. Thus, also, the national developments, the founding
of distinctly national schools of composition in Scandinavia, Russia,
Bohemia and elsewhere, directly influenced by the romantic movement in
Germany, have had to find a place in Volume III.

It is perhaps in order to forestall any criticism that may be made in
the score of what will seem to some serious omissions. Composers of
individual merit, though their music is of light calibre, are perhaps
entitled to recognition no less than their confrères in more ambitious
fields. We refer to such delightful writers of comic opera as Johann
Strauss, Millöcker, Suppé, etc., and the admirable English school of
musical comedy headed by Sir Arthur Sullivan. Without denying the
intrinsic value of their work, it must be admitted that they have
contributed nothing essentially new or fundamental to the development
of the art and are therefore of slight historical significance. The
latter school will, however, find proper mention in connection with the
more recent English composers to whom it has served as a foundation if
not a model. More adequate treatment will be accorded to their works in
the volumes on opera, etc.

In closing, a word should be said concerning the contributors to
the Narrative History. There is ample precedent for the method
here employed of assigning different periods to writers especially
familiar with them. Such collaboration has obvious advantages, for the
study of musical history has become an exceedingly diverse one and
by specialization only can its various phases be thoroughly grasped.
Any slight difference in point of view or in style will be more than
offset by the careful and appreciative treatment accorded to each
period or composer by writers whose sympathies have led them to a
careful and adequate presentation, in clear perspective, of the merits
of a given style of composition. The editors have endeavored as far
as possible to avail themselves of the able researches recently made
in Italy, Germany, France, etc., and they extend their acknowledgment
to such authors of valuable special studies as Johannes Wolf, Hermann
Kretschmar, Emil Vogel, Romain Rolland, Julien Tiersot, etc., and
especially to the scholarly summary of Dr. Hugo Riemann, of Leipzig. A
more extensive list of these works will be found in the Bibliographical
Appendix to Volume III.

LELAND HALL

CONTENTS OF VOLUME TWO
PAGE
INTRODUCTION BY LELAND HALL iii

PART I. THE CLASSIC IDEAL

CHAPTER

I. THE REGENERATION OF THE OPERA 1

The eighteenth century and operatic convention--Porpora
and Hasse--Pergolesi and the _opera buffa_--_Jommelli_,
Piccini, Cimarosa, etc.--Gluck’s early life; the Metastasio
period--The comic opera in France; Gluck’s reform;
_Orfeo_ and _Alceste_--The Paris period; Gluck and Piccini;
the Iphigénies; Gluck’s mission--Gluck’s influence; the
_opéra comique_; Cherubini.

II. THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE CLASSIC PERIOD 45

Classicism and the classic period--Political and literary
forces--The conflict of styles; the sonata form--The Berlin
school; the sons of Bach--The Mannheim reform: the
genesis of the symphony--Followers of the Mannheim
school; rise of the string quartet; Vienna and Salzburg
as musical centres.

III. THE VIENNESE CLASSICS: HAYDN AND MOZART 75

Social aspects of the classic period; Vienna, its court
and its people--Joseph Haydn--Haydn’s work; the symphony;
the string quartet--Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart--Mozart’s
style; Haydn and Mozart; the perfection of orchestral
style--Mozart and the opera; the Requiem; the
mission of Haydn and Mozart.

IV. LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN 128

Form and formalism--Beethoven’s life--His relations with his
family, teachers, friends and other contemporaries--His
character--The man and the artist--Determining
factors in his development--The three periods in his
work and their characteristics--His place in the history of
music.

V. OPERATIC DEVELOPMENT IN ITALY AND FRANCE 177

Italian opera at the advent of Rossini--Rossini and the
Italian operatic renaissance--_Guillaume Tell_--Donizetti
and Bellini--Spontini and the historical opera--Meyerbeer’s
life and works--His influence and followers--Development of
_opéra comique_; Boieldieu, Auber, Hérold, Adam.

PART II. THE ROMANTIC IDEAL

VI. THE ROMANTIC MOVEMENT: ITS CHARACTERISTICS AND ITS GROWTH 213

Modern music and modern history; characteristics of the
music of the romantic period--Schubert and the German
romantic movement in literature--Weber and the German
reawakening--The Paris of 1830: French Romanticism--Franz
Liszt--Hector Berlioz--Chopin; Mendelssohn--Leipzig
and Robert Schumann--Romanticism and classicism.

VII. SONG LITERATURE OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD 269

Lyric poetry and song--The song before Schubert--Franz
Schubert; Carl Löwe--Robert Schumann; Robert
Franz; Mendelssohn and Chopin; Franz Liszt as song writer.

VIII. PIANOFORTE AND CHAMBER MUSIC OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD 293

Development of the modern pianoforte--The pioneers:
Schubert and Weber--Schumann and Mendelssohn--Chopin
and others--Franz Liszt, virtuoso and poet--Chamber
music of the romantic period; Ludwig Spohr and others.

IX. ORCHESTRAL LITERATURE AND ORCHESTRAL DEVELOPMENT 334

The perfection of instruments; emotionalism of the romantic
period; enlargement of orchestral resources--The
symphony in the romantic period; Schubert, Mendelssohn,
Schumann; Spohr and Raff--The concert overture--The rise
of program music; the symphonic _leit-motif_; Berlioz’s
_Fantastique_; other Berlioz symphonies; Liszt’s dramatic
symphonies--Symphonic poem; _Tasso_; Liszt’s other symphonic
poems--The legitimacy of program music.

X. ROMANTIC OPERA AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHORAL SONG 372

The rise of German opera; Weber and the romantic opera;
Weber’s followers--Berlioz as opera composer--The _drame
lyrique_ from Gounod to Bizet--_Opéra comique_ in the
romantic period; the _opéra bouffe_--Choral and sacred music
of the romantic period.

PART III. THE ERA OF WAGNER

XI. WAGNER AND WAGNERISM 401

Periods of operatic reform; Wagner’s early life and
works--Paris: _Rienzi_, “The Flying Dutchman”--Dresden:
_Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_; Wagner and Liszt; the
revolution of 1848--_Tristan_ and _Meistersinger_--Bayreuth;
“The Nibelungen Ring”--_Parsifal_--Wagner’s musico-dramatic
reforms; his harmonic revolution; the _leit-motif_
system--The Wagnerian influence.

XII. NEO-ROMANTICISM: JOHANNES BRAHMS AND CÉSAR FRANCK 443

The antecedents of Brahms--The life and personality of
Brahms--The idiosyncrasies of his music in rhythm, melody,
and harmony as expressions of his character--His works for
pianoforte, for voice, and for orchestra; the historical
position of Brahms--Franck’s place in the romantic
movement--His life, personality, and the characteristics of
his style; his works as the expression of religious
mysticism.

XIII. VERDI AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES 477

Verdi’s mission in Italian opera--His early life and
education--His first operas and their political
significance--His second period: the maturing of his
style--Crowning achievements of his third period--Verdi’s
contemporaries.

A NARRATIVE HISTORY OF MUSIC

CHAPTER I
THE REGENERATION OF THE OPERA

The eighteenth century and operatic convention--Porpora and
Hasse--Pergolesi and the _opera buffa_--Jommelli, Piccini, Cimarosa,
etc.--Gluck’s early life; the Metastasio period--The comic opera in
France; Gluck’s reform; _Orfeo_ and _Alceste_--The Paris period;
Gluck and Piccini; the Iphigénies; Gluck’s mission--Gluck’s
influence; Salieri and Sarti; the development of _opéra comique_;
Cherubini.

While the deep, quiet stream of Bach’s genius flowed under the bridges
all but unnoticed, the marts and highways of Europe were a babel of
operatic intrigue and artistic shams. Handel in England was running
the course of his triumphal career, which luckily forced him into the
tracks of a new art-form; on the continent meantime Italian opera
reached at once its most brilliant and most absurd epoch under the
leadership of Hasse and Porpora; even Rameau, the founder of modern
harmonic science, did not altogether keep aloof from its influence,
while perpetuating the traditions of Lully in Paris. Vocal virtuosi
continued to set the musical fashions of the age, the artificial
soprano was still a force to which composers had to submit; indeed,
artificiality was the keynote of the century.

The society of the eighteenth century was primarily concerned with the
pursuit of sensuous enjoyment. In Italy especially ‘the cosmic forces
existed but in order to serve the endless divertissement of superficial
and brainless beings, in whose eyes the sun’s only mission was to
illumine picturesque cavalcades and water-parties, as that of the moon
was to touch with trembling ray the amorous forest glades.’ Monnier’s
vivid pen-picture of eighteenth century Venetian society applies, with
allowance made for change of scene and local color, to all the greater
Italian cities. ‘What equivocal figures! What dubious pasts! Law (of
Mississippi bubble fame) lives by gambling, as does the Chevalier
Desjardins, his brother in the Bastille, his wife in a lodging-house;
the Count de Bonneval, turbaned, sitting on a rug with legs crossed,
worships Allah, carries on far-reaching intrigues and is poisoned by
the Turks; Lord Baltimore, travelling with his physician and a seraglio
of eight women, with a pair of negro guards; Ange Goudar, a wit, a
cheat at cards, a police spy and perjurer, rascally, bold, and ugly;
and his wife Sarah, once a servant in a London tavern, marvellously
beautiful, who receives the courtly world at her palace in Pausilippo
near Naples, and subjugates it with her charm; disguised maidens, false
princes, fugitive financiers, literary blacklegs, Greeks, chevaliers of
all industries, wearers of every order, splenetic _grands seigneurs_,
and the kings of Voltaire’s _Candide_. Of such is the Italian society
of the eighteenth century composed.

Music in this artificial atmosphere could only flatter the sense of
hearing without appealing to the intelligence, excite the nerves and
occasionally give a keener point to voluptuousness, by dwelling on a
note of elegant sorrow or discreet religiousness. The very church,
according to Dittersdorf, had become a musical boudoir, the convent a
conservatory. As for the opera, it could not be anything but a lounge
for the idle public. The Neapolitan school, which reigned supreme in
Europe, provided just the sort of amusement demanded by that public. It
produced scores of composers who were hailed as _maestri_ to-day and
forgotten to-morrow. Hundreds of operas appeared, but few ever reached
publication; their nature was as ephemeral as the public’s taste was
fickle, and a success meant no more to a composer than new commissions
to turn out operas for city after city, to supply the insatiate thirst
for novelty. The manner in which these commissions were carried out
is indicative of the result. Composers were usually given a libretto
not of their choosing; the recitatives, which constituted the dramatic
groundwork, were turned out first and distributed among the singers.
The writing of the arias was left to the last so that the singers’
collaboration or advice could be secured, for upon their rendition
the success of the whole opera depended; they were, indeed, _written
for_ the singers--the particular singers of the first performance--and
in such a manner that their voices might show to the best advantage.
As Leopold Mozart wrote in one of his letters, they made ‘the coat
to fit the wearer.’ The form which these operas took was an absolute
stereotype; a series of more or less disconnected recitatives and
arias, usually of the _da capo_ form, strung together by the merest
thread of a plot. It was a concert in costume rather than the drama in
music which was the original conception of opera in the minds of its
inventors.

Pietro Metastasio, the most prolific of librettists, was eminently
the purveyor of texts for these operas, just as Rinuccini, the
idealist, had furnished the poetic basis for their nobler forerunners.
Metastasio’s inspiration flowed freely, both in lyrical and emotional
veins, but ‘the brilliancy of his florid rhetoric stifled the cry
of the heart.’ His plots were overloaded with the vapid intrigues
that pleased the taste of his contemporaries, with quasi-pathetic
characters, with passionate climaxes and explosions. His popularity
was immense. He could count as many as forty editions of his own works
and among his collaborators were practically all the great composers,
from Handel to Gluck and Cimarosa. As personifying the elements which
sum up the opera during this its most irrational period we may take
two figures of extraordinary eminence--Niccola Porpora and Johann Adolf
Hasse.

Niccola Porpora (1686-1766), while prominent in his own day as
composer, conductor, and teacher (among his pupils was Joseph
Haydn), is known to history chiefly by his achievements as a singing
master--perhaps the greatest that ever lived. The art of _bel canto_,
that exaltation of the human voice for its own sake, which in him
reached its highest point, was doubtless the greatest enemy to artistic
sincerity and dramatic truth, the greatest deterrent to operatic
progress in the eighteenth century. Though possessed of ideals of
intrinsic beauty--sensuousness of tone, dynamic power, brilliance, and
precision like that of an instrument--this art would to-day arouse
only wonder, not admiration. Porpora understood the human voice in all
its peculiarities; he could produce, by sheer training, singers who,
like Farinelli, Senesino, and Caffarelli, were the wonder of the age.
By what methods his results were reached we have no means of knowing,
for his secret was never committed to writing, but his method was most
likely empirical, as distinguished from the scientific, or anatomical,
methods of to-day. It was told that he kept Caffarelli for five or six
years to one page of exercises, and then sent him into the world as the
greatest singer of Europe--a story which, though doubtless exaggerated,
indicates the purely technical nature of his work.

Porpora wrote his own _vocalizzi_, and, though he composed in every
form, all of his works appear to us more or less like _solfeggi_. His
cantatas for solo voice and harpsichord show him at his best, as a
master of the florid Italian vocal style, with consummate appreciation
of the possibilities of the vocal apparatus. His operas, of which
he wrote no less than fifty-three, are for the most part tedious,
conventional, and overloaded with ornament, in every way characteristic
of the age; the same is true in some measure of his oratorios, numerous
church compositions, and chamber works, all of which show him to be
hardly more than a thoroughly learned and accomplished technician.

But Porpora’s fame attracted many talented pupils, including the
brilliant young German, Hasse (1699-1783), mentioned above, who,
however, quickly forsook him in favor of Alessandro Scarlatti, a slight
which Porpora never forgave and which served as motive for a lifelong
rivalry between the two men. Hasse, originally trained in the tradition
of the Hamburg opera and its Brunswick offshoot (where he was engaged
as tenor and where he made his debut with his only German opera,
‘Antiochus’), quickly succumbed to the powerful Italian influence.
The Italians took kindly to him, and, after his debut in Naples with
‘Tigrane’ (1773), surnamed him _il caro sassone_. His marriage with
the celebrated Faustina Bordoni linked him still closer to the history
of Italian opera; for in the course of his long life, which extends
into the careers of Haydn and Mozart, he wrote no less than seventy
operas, many of them to texts by the famed Metastasio, and most of
them vehicles for the marvellous gifts of his wife. While she aroused
the enthusiasm of audiences throughout Europe, he enjoyed the highest
popularity of any operatic composer through half a century. Together
they made the opera at Dresden (whither Hasse was called in 1731 as
royal kapellmeister) the most brilliant in Germany--one that even
Bach, as we have seen, was occasionally beguiled into visiting. Once
Hasse was persuaded to enter into competition with Handel in London
(1733), the operatic capital of Europe, where Faustina, seven years
before, had vanquished her great rival Cuzzoni and provided the chief
operatic diversion of the Handel régime to the tune of £2,000 a year!
Only the death of August the Strong in 1763 ended the Hasses’ reign in
Dresden, where during the bombardment of 1760 Hasse’s library and most
of the manuscripts of his works were destroyed by fire. What remains
of them reveals a rare talent and a consummate musicianship which,
had it not been employed so completely in satisfying the prevailing
taste and propitiating absurd conventions, might still appeal with the
vitality of its harmonic texture and the beauty of its melodic line.
Much of the polyphonic skill and the spontaneous charm of a Handel is
evident in these works, but they lack the breadth, the grandeur and
the seriousness that distinguish the work of his greater compatriot.
Over-abundance of success militates against self-criticism, which is
the essential quality of genius, and Hasse’s success was not, like
Handel’s, dimmed by the changing taste of a surfeited public. Hasse’s
operas signalize at once the high water mark of brilliant achievement
in an art form now obsolete and the ultimate degree of its fatuousness.

Hasse and Porpora, then, were the leaders of those who remained
true to the stereotyped form of opera, the singers’ opera, whose
very nature precluded progress. They and a host of minor men, like
Francesco Feo, Leonardo Vinci, Pasquale Cafaro, were enrolled in a
party which resisted all ideas of reform; and their natural allies in
upholding absurd conventions were the singers, that all-powerful race
of virtuosi, the impresarios, and all the great tribe of adherents who
derived a lucrative income from the system. Against these formidable
forces the under-current of reform--both musical and dramatic--felt
from the beginning of the century, could make little head. The protests
of men like Benedetto Marcello, whose satire _Il teatro alla moda_
appeared in 1722, were voices crying in the wilderness. Yet reform
was inevitable, a movement no less momentous than when the Florentine
reform of 1600 was under way--the great process of crystallization and
refinement which was to usher in that most glorious era of musical
creation known as the classic period. Like the earlier reform, it
signified a reaction against technique, against soulless display of
virtuosity, a tendency toward simplicity, subjectivity, directness of
expression--a return to nature.

Though much of the pioneer work was done by composers of instrumental
music whose discussion must be deferred to the next chapter, the
movement had its most spectacular manifestations in connection with
opera, and in that aspect is summed up in the work of Gluck, the
outstanding personality in the second half of the eighteenth century.
In the domain of absolute music it saw its beginnings in the more or
less spontaneous efforts of instrumentalists like Fasch, Foerster,
Benda, and Johann Stamitz. First among those whose initiative was felt
in _both_ directions we must name Giovanni Battista Pergolesi, the
young Neapolitan who, born in 1710, had his brilliant artistic career
cut short at the premature age of twenty-six.

Pergolesi was the pupil of Greco, Durante, and Feo at the
_Conservatorio dei Poveri_ at Naples, where a biblical drama and
two operas from his pen were performed in 1731 without arousing any
particular attention. But a solemn mass which he was commissioned to
write by the city of Naples in praise of its patron saint, and which
was performed upon the occasion of an earthquake, brought him sudden
fame. The commission probably came to him through the good offices of
Prince Stegliano, to whom he dedicated his famous trio sonatas. These
sonatas, later published in London, brought an innovation which had no
little influence upon contemporary composers; namely, the so-called
_cantabile_ (or singing) _allegro_ as the first movement. Riemann, who
has edited two of them,[1] calls attention to the richly developed
sonata form of the first movement of the G major trio especially, of
which the works of Fasch, Stamitz, and Gluck are clearly reminiscent.
‘The altogether charming, radiant melodies of Pergolesi are linked with
such conspicuous, forcible logic in the development of the song-like
theme, always in the upper voice, that we are not surprised by the
attention which the movement aroused. We are here evidently face to
face with the beginning of a totally different manner of treatment in
instrumental melodies, which I would like to call a transplantation of
the aria style to the instrumental field.’[2] We shall have occasion to
refer to this germination of a new style later on. At present we must
consider another of Pergolesi’s important services to art--the creation
of the _opera buffa_.[3]

We have had occasion to observe in another chapter the success of
the ‘Beggar’s Opera’ in England in 1723, which hastened the failure
of the London Academy under Handel’s management. Vulgar as it was,
this novelty embodied the same tendency toward simplicity which was
the essential element of the impending reform; it was near to the
people’s heart and there found a quick response. This ballad-opera,
as it was called, was followed by many imitations, notably Coffey’s
‘The Devil to Pay, or The Wives Metamorphosed’ (1733), which, later
produced in Germany, was adapted by Standfuss (1752) and Johann Adam
Hiller (1765) and thus became the point of departure for the German
singspiel. This in turn reacted against the popularity of Italian opera
in Germany. The movement had its Italian parallel in the fashion for
the so-called _intermezzi_ which composers of the Neapolitan school
began very early in the century to interpolate between the acts of
their operas, as, in an earlier period, they had been interpolated
between the acts of the classic tragedies (_cf._ Vol. I, p. 326 ff).
Unlike these earlier spectacular diversions, the later _intermezzi_
were comic pieces that developed a continuous plot independent of
that of the opera itself--an anomalous mixture of tragedy and comedy
which must have appeared ludicrous at times even to eighteenth century
audiences. These artistic trifles were, however, not unlikely, in their
simple and unconventional spontaneity, to have an interest surpassing
that of the opera proper. Such was the case with _La serva padrona_,
which Pergolesi produced between the acts of his opera _Il pigionier_
(1733). This graceful little piece made so immediate an appeal that it
completely overshadowed the serious work to which it was attached, and,
indeed, all the other dramatic works of its composer, whose fame to-day
rests chiefly upon it and the immortal _Stabat mater_, which was his
last work.

_La serva padrona_ is one of the very few operatic works of the century
that are alive to-day. An examination of its contents quickly reveals
the reason, for its pages breathe a charm, a vivacity, a humor which we
need not hesitate to call Mozartian. Indeed, it leaves little doubt in
our minds that Mozart, born twenty-three years later, must have been
acquainted with the work of its composer. At any rate he, no less than
Guglielmi, Piccini, Paesiello, and Cimarosa, the chief representatives
of the _opera buffa_, are indebted to him for the form, since, as
the first _intermezzo_ opera capable of standing by itself (it was
afterward so produced in Paris), it must be regarded as the first real
_opera buffa_.

Most of the later Neapolitans, in fact, essayed both the serious
and comic forms, not unmindful of the popular success which the
latter achieved. It became, in time, a dangerous competitor to the
conventionalized _opera seria_, as the ballad-opera and the singspiel
did in England and Germany, and the _opéra bouffon_ was to become
in France. Its advantage lay in its freedom from the traditional
operatic limitations (_cf._ Vol. I, page 428). It might contain an
indiscriminate mixture of arias, recitatives, and ensembles; its
_dramatis personæ_ were a flexible quantity. Moreover, it disposed
of the male soprano, favoring the lower voices, especially basses,
which had been altogether excluded from the earlier operas. Hence it
brought about a material change in conditions with which composers had
thus far been unable to cope. In it the stereotyped _da capo_ aria
yielded its place to more flexible forms; one of its first exponents,
Nicolo Logroscino,[4] introduced the animated ensemble finale with
many movements, which was further developed by his successors. These
wholesome influences were soon felt in the serious opera as well: it
adopted especially the finale and the more varied ensembles of the
_opera buffa_, though lacking the spicy parodistical element and the
variegated voices of its rival. Thus, in the works of Pergolesi’s
successors, especially Jommelli and Piccini, we see foreshadowed the
epoch-making reform of Gluck.

There is nothing to show, however, that Pergolesi himself was conscious
of being a reformer. His personal character, irresponsible, brilliant
rather than introspective, would argue against that. We must think of
him as a true genius gifted by the grace of heaven, romantic, wayward,
and insufficiently balanced to economize his vital forces toward a
ripened age of artistic activity. He nevertheless produced a number of
other operas, mostly serious, masses, and miscellaneous ecclesiastical
and chamber works. His death was due to consumption. So much legend
surrounds his brief career that it has been made the subject of two
operas, by Paolo Serrão and by Monteviti.

C.S.

III

About the close of Pergolesi’s career two men made their debuts whose
lives were as nearly coeval as those of Bach and Handel and who, though
of unequal merit, if measured by the standards of posterity, were both
important factors in the reform movement which we are describing. These
men were Jommelli and Gluck, both born in 1714, the year which also
gave to the world Emanuel Bach, the talented son of the great Johann
Sebastian.

Nicola Jommelli was born at Aversa (near Naples). At first a pupil of
Durante, he received his chief training under Feo and Leo. His first
opera, _L’Errore amoroso_, was brought out under an assumed name at
Naples when the composer was but twenty-three, and so successfully
that he had no hesitation in producing his _Odoardo_ under his own
name the following year. Other operas by him were heard in Rome, in
Bologna (where he studied counterpoint with Padre Martini); in Venice,
where the success of his _Merope_ secured him the post of director of
the _Conservatorio degli incurabili_; and in Rome, whither he had gone
in 1749 as substitute _maestro di capella_ of St. Peter’s. In Vienna,
which he visited for the first time in 1748, _Didone_, one of his
finest operas, was produced. In 1753 Jommelli became kapellmeister
at Ludwigslust, the wonderful rococo palace of Karl Eugen, duke of
Württemberg, near Stuttgart. Like Augustus the Strong of Saxony, the
elector of Bavaria, the margrave of Bayreuth, the prince-bishop of
Cologne, this pleasure-loving ruler of a German principality had known
how to _s’enversailler_--to adopt the luxuries and refinements of the
court of Versailles, then the European model for royal and princely
extravagance. His palace and gardens were magnificent and his opera
house was of such colossal dimensions that whole regiments of cavalry
could cross the stage. He needed a celebrated master for his chapel and
his opera; his choice fell upon Jommelli, who spent fifteen prosperous
years in his employ, receiving a salary of ‘6,100 gulden per annum, ten
buckets of honorary wine, wood for firing and forage for two horses.’

At Stuttgart Jommelli was strongly influenced by the work of the German
musicians; increased harmonic profundity and improved orchestral
technique were the most palpable results. He came to have a better
appreciation of the orchestra than any of his countrymen; at times
he even made successful attempts at ‘tone painting.’ His orchestral
‘crescendo,’ with which he made considerable furore, was a trick
borrowed from the celebrated Mannheim school. It is interesting to
note that the school of stylistic reformers which had its centre at
Mannheim, not far from Stuttgart, was then in its heyday; two years
before Jommelli’s arrival in Stuttgart the famous Opus 1 of Johann
Stamitz--the sonatas (or rather symphonies) in which the Figured Bass
appears for the first time as an integral obbligato part--was first
heard in Paris. The so-called _Simphonies d’Allemagne_ henceforth
appeared in great number; they were published mostly in batches, often
in regular monthly or weekly sequence as ‘periodical overtures,’ and
so spread the gospel of German classicism all over Europe. How far
Jommelli was influenced by all this it would be difficult to determine,
but we know that when in 1769 he returned to Naples his new manner
found no favor with his countrymen, who considered his music too
heavy. The young Mozart in 1770 wrote from there: ‘The opera here is
by Jommelli. It is beautiful, but the style is too elevated as well
as too antique for the theatre.’ It is well to remark here how much
Jommelli’s music in its best moments resembles Mozart’s. He, no less
than Pergolesi, must be credited with the merit of having influenced
that master in many essentials.

Jommelli allowed none but his own operas to be performed at Stuttgart.
The productions were on a scale, however, that raised the envy of
Paris. No less a genius than Noverre, the reformer of the French
ballet, was Jommelli’s collaborator in these magnificent productions;
and Jommelli also yielded to French influences in the matter of
the chorus. He handled Metastasio’s texts with an eye to their
psychological moments, and infused into his scores much of dramatic
truth. In breaking up the monotonous sequence of solos, characteristic
of the fashionable Neapolitan opera, he actually anticipated Gluck. All
in all, Jommelli’s work was so unusually strong and intensive that we
wonder why he fell short of accomplishing the reform that was imminent.
‘Noverre and Jommelli in Stuttgart might have done it,’ says Oscar Bie,
in his whimsical study of the opera, ‘but for the fact that Stuttgart
was a hell of frivolity and levity, a luxurious mart for the purchase
and sale of men.’

Jommelli’s last Stuttgart opera was _Fetonte_.[5] When he returned
to Italy in 1769 he found the public mad with enthusiasm over a new
_opera buffa_ entitled _Cecchina, ossia la buona figliuola_. In Rome it
was played in all the theatres, from the largest opera house down to
the marionette shows patronized by the poor. Fashions were all _alla
Cecchina_; houses, shops, and wines were named after it, and a host
of catch-words and phrases from its text ran from lip to lip. ‘It is
probably the work of some boy,’ said the veteran composer, but after he
had heard it--‘Hear the opinion of Jommelli--this is an inventor!’

The boy inventor of _Cecchina_ was Nicola Piccini, another Neapolitan,
born in 1728, pupil of Leo and Durante, who was destined to become the
most famous Italian composer of his day, though his works have not
survived to our time. His debut had been made in 1754 with _Le donne
dispettose_, followed by a number of other settings of Metastasio
texts. We are told that he found difficulty in getting hearings at
first, because the comic operas of Logroscino monopolized the stage.
Already, then, composers were forced into the _opera buffa_ with its
greater vitality and variety. Piccini’s contribution to its development
was the extension of the duet to greater dramatic purpose, and also of
the concerted finale first introduced by Logroscino. We shall meet him
again, as the adversary of Gluck. Of hardly less importance than he
were Tommaso Traetto (1727-1779), ‘the most tragic of the Italians,’
who surpassed his contemporaries and followers in truth and force of
expression, and in harmonic strength; Pietro Guglielmi (1727-1804), who
with his 115 operas gained the applause of all Italy, of Dresden, of
Brunswick, and London; Antonio Sacchini (1734-1786), who, besides grace
of melody, attained at times an almost classic solidity; and Giovanni
Paesiello (1741-1816), whose decided talent for _opera buffa_ made him
the successful rival of Piccini and Cimarosa.

Paesiello, with Domenico Cimarosa (1749-1801), was the leading
representative of the _buffa_ till the advent of Mozart. As Hadow
suggests, he might have achieved real greatness had he been less
constantly successful. ‘His life was one triumphal procession from
Naples to St. Petersburg, from St. Petersburg to Vienna, from Vienna
to Paris.’ Ferdinand of Sicily, Empress Catharine of Russia, Joseph
II of Austria, and even Napoleon were successively his patrons; and
his productiveness was such that he never had time, even had he had
inclination, to criticise his own works. Of his ninety-four operas
only one, ‘The Barber of Seville,’ is of historic interest, for its
popularity was such that, until Rossini, no composer dared to treat
the same theme. Cimarosa deserves perhaps more extended notice than
many others on account of his _Matrimonio segreto_, written in Russia,
which won unprecedented success there and in Italy. It is practically
the only one of all the works of composers just mentioned that has not
fallen a victim to time. Its music is simple and tuneful, fresh and
full of good humor.

The eighteenth century public based its judgments solely on mere
externals--a pleasing tune, a brilliant singer, a sumptuous
_mise-en-scène_ caught its favor, the merest accident or circumstance
might kill or make an opera. To-day a composer is carried off in
triumph, to be hissed soon after by the same public. Rivalry among
composers is the order of the day. Sacchini, Piccini, Paesiello,
Cimarosa, are successively favorites of Italian audiences; in London
Christian Bach and Sacchini divide the public as Handel and Bononcini
did before them; in Vienna Paesiello and Cimarosa are applauded with
the same acclaim as Gluck; in St. Petersburg Galuppi,[6] Traetta,
Paesiello, and Cimarosa follow each other in the service of the
sovereign (Catharine II), who could not differentiate any tunes but the
howls of her nine dogs; in Paris, at last, the leading figures become
the storm centre of political agitations. All these composers’ names
are glibly pronounced by the busy tongues of a brilliant but shallow
society. Favorite arias, like Galuppi’s _Se per me_, Sacchini’s _Se
cerca, se dice_, Piccini’s _Se il ciel_, are compared after the manner
of race entries. Florimo, the historian of the Naples opera, dismissed
the matter with a few words: ‘Piccini is original and prolific;
Sacchini gay and light, Paesiello new and lithe, Cafaro learned
in harmony, Galuppi experienced in stagecraft, Gluck a _filosofia
economica_.’ They all have their merits--but, after all, the difference
is a matter of detail, a fit subject for the gossip of an opera box.
Even Gluck is but one of them, if his Italian operas are at all
different the difference has escaped his critics.

But all of these composers, as well as some of their predecessors,
worked consciously or unconsciously in a regeneration that was slowly
but surely going forward. The working out of solo and ensemble forms
into definite patterns; the development of the recitative from
mere heightened declamation to a free arioso, fully accompanied,
and to the _accompagnato_ not followed by an aria at all; the
introduction of concertising instruments which promptly developed
into independent inner voices and broadened the orchestral polyphony,
the dynamic contrasts--at first abrupt, then gradual--which Jommelli
took over from the orchestral technique of Mannheim; the ingenious
construction of ensembles and the development of the finale into a
_pezzo concertanto_--all these tended toward higher organization,
individual and specialized development, though purely musical at
first and strictly removed from the influence of other arts. The
dramatic elements, the plastic and phantastic, which, subordinated at
first, found their expression in ‘laments’ and in _simile_ arias (in
which a mood was compared to a phenomena of nature), then in _ombra_
scenes, where spirits were invoked, and in similar exalted situations,
gradually became more and more prominent, foreshadowing the time when
the portrayal of human passions was to become once more the chief
purpose of opera.

The last and decisive step in the revolution was the coming of Gluck.
‘It seems as if a century had worked to the limit of its strength to
produce the flower of Gluck--the great man is always the composite
genius of all the confluent temporal streams.’[7] Yet he himself was
one of these composite forces from which the artistic purpose of his
life was evolved. The Gluck of the first five decades, the Gluck of
Italian opera, of what we may call the Metastasio period, was simply
one of the many Italians unconsciously working toward that end. His
work through two-thirds of his life had no more significance than that
of a Leo, a Vinci, or a Jommelli. Fate willed, however, that Gluck
should be impressed more strongly by the growing public dissatisfaction
with senseless Italian opera, and incidentally should be brought into
close contact with varied influences tending to the broadening of his
ideas. Cosmopolite that he was, he gathered the essence of European
musical culture from its four corners. Born in Germany, he was early
exposed to the influence of solid musicianship; trained in Italy he
gained, like Handel, its sensuous melody; in England he heard the
works of Handel and received in the shape of artistic failure that
chastisement which opened his mind to radical change of method. In
France, soon after, he was impressed with the plastic dramatic element
of the monumental Lully-Rameau opera. Back in Vienna, he produced
_opéra comique_ and held converse with lettered enthusiasts. Calzabigi,
like Rinuccini in 1600, brought literary ideas of reform. Metastasio
was relegated--yet not at once, for Gluck was careful, diplomatic.
He fed his reform to the public in single doses--diluted for greater
security, interspersed with Italian operas of the old school as sops to
the hostile singers, jealous of their power. Only thus can we explain
his relapses into the current type. He knew his public must first be
educated. He felt the authority of a teacher and he resorted to the
didactic methods of Florence--of his colleagues of 1600, whom Calzabigi
knew and copied. Prefaces explaining the author’s purpose once more
became the order of the day; finally the reformer was conscious of
being a reformer, of his true life mission. Except for what human
interest there is in his early life we may therefore pass rapidly over
the period preceding 1762, the momentous year of _Orfeo ed Euridice_.

Born July 2, 1714, at Weidenwang, in the upper Palatinate, Christoph
Willibald Gluck’s early years were passed in the forests of Bavaria
and Bohemia. His father, Alexander Gluck, had been a game-keeper,
who, having established himself in Bohemia in 1717, had successively
entered the employ of various territorial magnates--Count Kaunitz in
Neuschloss, Count Kinsky in Kamnitz, Prince Lobkowitz in Eisenberg,
and, finally, the grand-duchess of Tuscany in Reichstadt. His intention
toward his son had been at first to make of him a game-keeper, and it
is recorded that young Christoph was put through a course of Spartan
discipline with that end in view, during which he was obliged to
accompany his father barefooted through the forest in the severest
winter weather.

[Illustration: Birthplace of Gluck at Weidenwang (Central Franconia)]

From the age of twelve to eighteen, however, he attended the Jesuit
school at Kommotau in the neighborhood of the Lobkowitz estate and
there, besides receiving a good general education, he learned to sing
and play the violin and the 'cello, as well as the clavichord and
organ. In 1732 he went to Prague and studied under Czernohorsky.[8]
Here he was soon able to earn a modest living--a welcome circumstance,
for there were six younger children at home, for whom his father
provided with difficulty. In Prague he gave lessons in singing and on
the 'cello; he played and sang in various churches; and on holidays
made the rounds of the neighboring country as a fiddler, receiving his
payment in kind, for the good villagers, it is said, often rewarded
him with fresh eggs. Through the introductions of his patron, Prince
Lobkowitz, it was not long before he obtained access to the homes of
the music-loving Bohemian nobility, and when he went to Vienna in 1736
he was hospitably received in his protector’s palace. Prince Lobkowitz
also made it possible for him to begin the study of composition. In
Vienna he chanced to meet the Italian Prince Melzi, who was so pleased
with his singing and playing that he made him his chamber musician and
took him with him to Milan. Here, during four years, from 1737 to 1741,
Gluck studied the theory of music under the celebrated contrapuntist
Giovanni Battista Sammartini, and definitely decided upon musical
composition as a career.

His studies completed, he made his debut as a creative artist at
the age of twenty-seven, with the opera _Artaserse_ (Milan, 1741),
set to a libretto of Metastasio. It was the first of thirty Italian
operas, composition of which extended over a period of twenty years,
and which are now totally forgotten. The success of _Artaserse_ was
instantaneous. We need not explain the reasons for this success, nor
the circumstances that, together with its fellows, from _Demofoonte_ to
_La finta schiava_, it has fallen into oblivion.

His Italian successes procured for him, however, an invitation in 1745
to visit London and compose for the Haymarket. Thither he went, and
produced a new opera, _La caduta de’ giganti_, which, though it earned
the high praise of Burney, was coldly received by the public. A revised
version of an earlier opera, _Artamene_, was somewhat more successful,
but _Piramo e Tisbe_, a _pasticcio_ (a kind of dramatic potpourri
or medley, often made up of selections from a number of operas),
fell flat. ‘Gluck knows no more counterpoint than my cook,’ Handel
is reported to have said--but then, Handel’s cook was an excellent
bassist and sang in many of the composer’s own operas. Counterpoint,
it is true, was not Gluck’s forte, and the lack of depth of harmonic
expression which characterized his early work was no doubt due to the
want of contrapuntal knowledge. Handel quite naturally received Gluck
with a somewhat negligent kindness. Gluck, on the other hand, always
preserved the greatest admiration for him--we are told that he hung the
master’s picture over his bed. Not only the acquaintance of Handel,
whose influence is clearly felt in his later works, but the musical
atmosphere of the English capital must have been of benefit to him.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson of his life was the London failure
of _Piramo e Tisbe_. He was astonished that this _pasticcio_, which
presented a number of the most popular airs of his operas, was so
unappreciated. After thinking it over he may well have concluded
that all music properly deserving of the name should be the fitting
expression of a situation; this vital quality lacking, in spite of
melodic splendor and harmonic richness and originality, what remained
would be no more than a meaningless arrangement of sounds, which
might tickle the ear pleasantly, but would have no emotional power. A
short trip to Paris afforded him an opportunity of becoming acquainted
with the classic traditions of the French opera as developed by Lully
and Rameau. Lully, it will be remembered, more nearly maintained the
ideals of the early Florentines than their own immediate successors.
In his operas the orchestra assumed a considerable importance, the
overture took a stately though conventional aspect. The chorus and the
ballet furnished a plastic background to the drama and, indeed, had
become integral features. Rameau had added harmonic depth and variety
and given a new charm to the graceful dance melodies. Gluck must have
absorbed some or all of this; yet, for fifteen years following his
visit to London, he continued to compose in the stereotyped form of
the Italian opera. He did not, it is true, return to Italy, but he
joined a travelling Italian opera company conducted by Pietro Mingotti,
as musical director and composer. One of his contributions to its
répertoire was _Le nozze d’Ercole e d’Ebe_, which was performed in
the gardens of the Castle of Pillnitz (near Dresden) to celebrate the
marriage of the Saxon princess and the Elector of Bavaria in June,
1747. How blunted Gluck’s artistic sense must have been toward the
incongruities of Italian opera is shown by the fact that the part of
Hercules in this work was written for a soprano and sung by a woman. In
others the rôles of Agamemnon the ‘king of men,’ of demigods and heroes
were trilled by artificial sopranos.

After sundry wanderings Gluck established himself in Vienna, where in
1748 his _Semiramide reconosciuta_ had been performed to celebrate the
birthday of the Empress Maria Theresa. It was an _opera seria_ of the
usual type and, though terribly confused, it revealed at times the
power and sweep characteristic of Handel.

In Vienna Gluck fell in love with Marianna Pergin, the daughter of a
wealthy merchant whose father would not consent to the marriage. The
story that his sweetheart had vowed to be true to him and that he
wandered to Italy disguised as a Capucin to save expenses in order
to produce his _Telemacco_ for the Argentina Theatre in Rome has no
foundation. But at any rate the couple were finally married in 1750,
after the death of the relentless father. This signalized the close of
Gluck’s nomadic existence. With his permanent residence in Vienna began
a new epoch in his life. Vienna was at that time a literary, musical,
and social centre of importance, a home of all the arts. The reigning
family of Hapsburg was an uncommonly musical one; the empress, her
father, her husband (Francis of Lorraine), and her daughters were all
music lovers. Maria Theresa herself sang in the operatic performances
at her private theatre. Joseph II played the 'cello in its orchestra.
The court chapel had its band, the cathedral its choir and four
organists. In the Hofburg and at the rustic palace of Schönbrunn music
was a favorite diversion of the court, cultivated alike by the Austrian
and the Hungarian nobility. The royal opera houses at Launburg and
Schönbrunn placed in their service a long series of the famous opera
composers.

_Semiramide_ had recommended its composer to the favor of Maria
Theresa, his star was in the ascendant. In September, 1754, his comic
opera _Le Chinese_, with its tragic-comic ballet, _L’Orfano della
China_, performed at the countryseat of the Duke of Saxe-Hildburghausen
in the presence of the emperor and court, gave such pleasure that
its author was definitely attached to the court opera at a salary of
two thousand ducats a year. His wealthy marriage and his increasing
reputation, instead of tempting him to indulge in luxurious ease,
spurred him to increased exertions. He added to the sum total
of his knowledge by studies of every kind--literary, poetic, and
linguistic--and his home became a meeting place for the _beaux esprits_
of art and science. He wrote several more operas to librettos by
Metastasio, witnessed the triumph of two of them in Rome, after which
he was able to return to Vienna, a _cavaliere dello sperone d’oro_
(knight of the golden spur), this distinction having been conferred
upon him by the Pope. Henceforth he called himself _Chevalier_ or
_Ritter_ (not _von_) Gluck.

For the sake of continuity we are obliged at this point to resume
the thread of our remarks concerning the _opera buffa_ of Pergolesi.
In 1752, about the time of Gluck’s official engagement at the Vienna
opera, an Italian troupe of ‘buffonists’ introduced in Paris _La
serva padrona_ and _Il maestro in musica_ (Pergolesi’s only other
comic opera). Their success was sensational, and, having come at a
psychological moment, far-reaching in results, for it gave the impulse
to a new school, popular to this day--that of the French _opéra
comique_, at first called _opera bouffon_.

The latter part of the eighteenth century had witnessed the birth of
a new intellectual ideal in France, essentially different from those
associated with the preceding movements of the Renaissance and the
Reformation. Neither antiquity nor the Bible were in future to be the
court of last instance, but judgment and decision over all things
was referred to the individual. This theory, and others laid down by
the encyclopedists--the philosophers of the time--reacted equally on
all the arts. New theories concerning music were advanced by laymen.
Batteaux had already insisted that poetry, music, and the dance were,
by very nature, intended to unite; Diderot and Rousseau conceived
the idea of the unified work of art. Jean Jaques Rousseau,[9] the
intellectual dictator, who laid a rather exaggerated claim to musical
knowledge, and the famous satirist, Baron Melchior Grimm, now began a
literary tirade against the old musical tragedy of France, which, like
the Italian opera, had become paralyzed into mere formulas. Rousseau,
who had shortly before written a comic opera, _Le devin du village_
(The Village Seer), in French, now denounced the French language, with
delightful inconsistency, as unfit to sing; Grimm in his pamphlet, _Le
petit prophète de Boehmisch-Broda_, threatened the French people with
dire consequences if they did not abandon French opera for Italian
_opera buffa_.[10] This precipitated the widespread controversy
between Buffonists and anti-Buffonists, known as the _Guerre des
bouffons_, which, in this age of pamphleteers, of theorists, and
revolutionary agitators, soon assumed political significance. The
conservatives hastened to uphold Rameau and the cause of native art;
the revolutionists rallied to the support of the Italians. Marmontel,
Favart, and others set themselves to write after the Italian model,
‘Duni brought from Parma his _Ninette à la cour_ and followed it in
1757 with _Le peintre amoureux_; _Monsigny_[11] left his bureau and
Philidor[12] his chess table to follow the footsteps of Pergolesi;
lastly came Grétry from Rome and killed the old French operatic style
with _Le Tableau parlant_ and _Zémire et Azor_!’ The result was the
production of a veritable flood of pleasing, delightful operettas
dealing with petty love intrigues, mostly of pastoral character, in
place of the stale, mythological subjects common to French and Italian
opera alike. The new school quickly strengthened its hand and improved
its output. Its permanent value lay, of course, in the infusion of new
vitality into operatic composition in general, a rejuvenation of the
poetic as well as musical technique, the unlocking of a whole treasure
of subjects hitherto unused.

Gluck at Vienna, already acquainted with French opera, was quick to
see the value of this new _genre_, and he produced, in alternation
with his Italian operas, a number of these works, partly with
interpolations of his own, partly rewritten by him in their entirety.
Among the latter class must be named _La fausse esclave_ (1758);
_L’île de Merlin_ (1758); _L’arbre enchantée_ (1759); _L’ivrogne
corrigé_ (1760); _Le cadi dupé_ (1761); and _La recontre imprévue_
(1764). As Riemann suggests, it is not accidental that Gluck’s idea to
reform the conventionalized opera dates from this period of intensive
occupation with the French _opéra bouffon_. There is no question that
the simpler, more natural art, and the genuineness and sincerity of the
comic opera were largely instrumental in the fruition of his theories.
His only extended effort during the period from 1756 to 1762 was a
pantomimic ballet, _Don Giovanni_, but the melodramas and symphonies
(or overtures) written for the private entertainment of the imperial
family, as well as seven trio sonatas, varied in expression and at
times quite modern in spirit, also date from this time. It is well to
remember also that this was a period of great activity in instrumental
composition; that the Mannheim school of symphonists was just then at
the height of its accomplishment.

Gluck’s first reform opera, _Orfeo ed Euridice_, appeared in 1762.
The young Italian poet and dramatist, Raniero da Calzabigi, supplied
the text. Calzabigi, though at first a follower of Metastasio, had
conceived a violent dislike for that librettist and his work. A
hot-headed theorist, he undoubtedly influenced Gluck in the adoption
of a new style, perhaps even gave the actual initiative to the change.
The idea was not sudden. We have already pointed out how the later
Neapolitans had contributed elements of reform and had paved the way
in many particulars. They had not, however, like Gluck, attacked the
root of the evil--the text. Metastasio’s texts were made to suit only
the old manner; Calzabigi’s were designed to a different purpose: the
unified, consistent expression of a definite dramatic scheme. In the
prefaces which accompanied their next two essays in the new style,
_Alceste_ and _Paride_, Gluck reverted to almost the very wording of
Peri and Caccini, but nevertheless no reaction to the representative
style of 1600 was intended. Though he spoke of ‘forgetting his
musicianship,’ he did not deny himself all sensuous melodic flow in
favor of a _parlando_ recitative. Too much water had flowed under the
bridges since 1600 for that. Scarlatti and his school had not wrought
wholly in vain. But the coloratura outrage, the concert-opera, saw the
beginning of its end. The _da capo_ aria was discarded altogether, the
chorus was reintroduced, and the subordination of music to dramatic
expression became the predominating principle. Artificial sopranos
and autocratic _prime donne_ could find no chance to rule in such a
scheme; their doom was certain and it was near. In the war that ensued,
which meant their eventual extinction, Gluck found a powerful ally in
the person of the emperor, Francis I.

In that sovereign’s presence _Orfeo_ was first given at the
_Hofburgtheater_ in Vienna. Its mythological subject--the same that
Ariosti treated in his _favolo_ of 1574, that Peri made the theme of
his epoch-making drama of 1600, that Monteverdi chose for his Mantuan
debut in 1607--was surely as appropriate for this new reformer’s first
experiment as it was suited to the classic simplicity and grandeur of
his music. The opera was studied with the greatest care, Gluck himself
directing all the rehearsals, and the participating artists forgot
that they were virtuosi in order better to grasp the spirit of the
work. It was mounted with all the skill that the stagecraft of the
day afforded. Although it did not entirely break with tradition and
was not altogether free of the empty formulas from which the composer
tried to escape, it was too new to conquer the sympathies of the
Viennese public at once. Indeed, the innovations were radical enough to
cause trepidations in Gluck’s own mind. His strong feelings that the
novelty of _Orfeo_ might prevent its success induced him to secure the
neutrality of Metastasio before its first performance, and his promise
not to take sides against it openly.

Gluck’s music is as fresh to-day as when it was written. Its beauty
and truth seemed far too serious to many of his contemporaries. People
at first said that it was tiresome; and Burney declared that ‘the
subordination of music to poetry is a principle that holds good only
for the countries whose singers are bad.’ But after five performances
the triumph of _Orfeo_ was assured and its fame spread even to Italy.
Rousseau said of it: ‘I know of nothing so perfect in all that
regards what is called fitness, as the ensemble in the Elysian fields.
Everywhere the enjoyment of pure and calm happiness is evident, but
so equable is its character that there is nothing either in the
songs or in the dance airs that in the slightest degree exceeds its
just measure.’ The first two acts of _Orfeo_ are profoundly human,
with their dual picture of tender sorrow and eternal joy. The grief
of the poet and the lamentations of his shepherd companions, rising
in mournful choral strains, insistent in their reiteration of the
motive indicative of their sorrow, are as effective in their way as
the musical language of Wagner, even though they lack the force of
modern harmony and orchestral sonority. The principle is fundamentally
the same. Nor is Gluck’s music entirely devoid of the dramatic force
which has come to music with the growth of the modern orchestra. Much
of the delineation of mood and emotion is left to the instruments.
Later, in the preface to _Alceste_, Gluck declared that the overture
should be in accord with the contents of the opera and should serve as
a preparation for it--a simple, natural maxim to which composers had
been almost wholly blind up to that time. In Gluck’s overtures we see,
in fact, no Italian, but a German, influence. They partake strongly of
the nature of the first movements of the Mannheim symphonies, showing a
contrasting second theme and are clearly divided into three parts, like
the sonata form. Thus the new instrumental style was early introduced
into the opera through Gluck’s initiation, and thence was to be
transferred to the overtures of Mozart, Sacchini, Cherubini, and others.

In 1764 _Orfeo_ was given in Frankfort-on-the-Main for the coronation
of the Archduke Joseph as Roman king. The imperial family seems to
have been sympathetically appreciative of Gluck’s efforts with the
new style; but nevertheless his next work, _Telemacco_, produced at
the Burgtheater in January, 1765, though considered the best of his
Italian operas, was a peculiar mixture of the stereotype and the new,
as if for a time he lacked confidence. Quite different was the case
of _Alceste_ (Hofburgtheater, Dec. 16, 1767). In this, his second
classic music drama, the composer carried out the reforms begun in
_Orfeo_ more boldly and more consistently. Calzabigi again wrote the
text. The music was neither so full of color nor so poetic as that
of its predecessor, yet was more sustained and equal in beauty. The
orchestration is somewhat fuller; the recitatives have gained in
expressiveness; there are effects of great dramatic intensity, and
arias of severe grandeur. Berlioz called _Alceste’s_ aria ‘Ye gods
of endless night’ the perfect manifestation of Gluck’s genius. Like
_Orfeo_, _Alceste_ was admirably performed, and again opinions differed
greatly regarding it. Sonnenfels[13] wrote after the performance: ‘I
find myself in wonderland. A serious opera without _castrati_, music
without _solfeggios_, or, I might rather say, without gurgling; an
Italian poem without pathos or banality. With this threefold work of
wonder the stage near the Hofburg has been reopened.’ On the other
hand, there were heard in the parterre such comments as ‘It is meant
to call forth tears--I may shed a few--of _ennui_’; ‘Nine days without
a performance, and then a requiem mass’; or ‘A splendid two gulden’s
worth of entertainment--a fool who dies for her husband.’ This last is
quite in keeping with the sentiment of the eighteenth century in regard
to conjugal affection. It took a long while for the public to accustom
itself to the austerity and tragic grandeur of this ‘tragedy set to
music,’ as its author called it. Yet _Alceste_ in its dual form (for
the French edition represents a complete reworking of its original) is
Gluck’s masterpiece, and it still remains one of the greatest classical
operas.

Three years after _Alceste_ came _Paride ed Elena_ (Nov. 30, 1770), a
‘drama for music.’ In the preface of the work, dedicated to the duke
of Braganza, Gluck again emphasized his beliefs. Among other things he
wrote: ‘The more we seek to attain truth and perfection the greater the
need of positiveness and accuracy. The lines that distinguish the work
of Raphael from that of the average painter are hardly noticeable, yet
any change of an outline, though it may not destroy resemblance in a
caricature, completely deforms a beautiful female head. Only a slight
alteration in the mode of expression is needed to turn my aria _Che
faro senza Euridice_ into a dance for marionettes.’ _Paride ed Elena_,
constructed on the principles of _Orfeo_ and _Alceste_, is the least
important of Gluck’s operas and the least known. The libretto lacks
action, but the score is interesting because of its lyric and romantic
character. Much of its style seems to anticipate the new influences
which Mozart afterward brought to German music. It also offers the
first instance of what might be called local color in its contrasting
choruses of Greeks and Asiatics.

It is interesting to note that at the time of composing the lyrical
‘Alceste’ Gluck was also preparing for French opera with vocal
romances, _Lieder_. His collection of songs set to Klopstock’s odes
was written in 1770. They have not much artistic value, but they are
among the earliest examples of the _Lied_ as Mozart and Beethoven later
conceived it, a simple song melody whose mission is frankly limited
to a faithful emphasis of a lyrical mood. Conceived in the spirit of
Rousseau, they are spontaneous and make an unaffected appeal to the
ear. The style is nearer that of French _opéra comique_, at which Gluck
had already tried his hand, thus obtaining an exact knowledge of the
spirit of the French language and of its lyrical resources.

The wish of Gluck’s heart was to carry to completion the reforms he
had initiated, but Germany had practically declared against them.
His musical and literary adversaries at the Viennese court, Hasse
and Metastasio, had formed a strong opposition. Baron Grimm spoke of
Gluck’s reforms as the work of a barbarian. Agricola, Kirnberger, and
Forkel were opposed to them. In Prussia, Frederick the Great had a few
arias from _Alceste_ and _Orfeo_ sung in concert, and decided that the
composer ‘had no song and understood nothing of the grand opera style,’
an opinion which, of course, prevented the performance of his operas in
Berlin. In view of all this it is not surprising that he should turn to
what was then the centre of intellectual life, that he should seize the
opportunity to secure recognition for his art in the great home of the
drama--in Paris.

Let us recall for a moment Gluck’s connection with the French _opéra
bouffon_. Favart had complimented him, in a letter to the Vienna opera
director Durazzo, for the excellence of his French ‘déclamation.’
Evidently Gluck and his friend Le Blanc du Roullet, attaché of the
French embassy, had kept track of the _Guerre des bouffons_, and
had taken advantage of the psychology of the moment, for Rameau had
died in 1764 and the consequent weakening of the National party had
resulted in the victory of the Buffonists. Du Roullet suggested to
Gluck and Calzabigi that they collaborate upon a French subject for
an opera, and chose Racine’s _Iphigénie_. The opera was completed and
the text translated by du Roullet, who now wrote a very diplomatic
letter to the authorities of the Académie royale (the Paris opera).
It recounted how the Chevalier Gluck, celebrated throughout Europe,
admired the French style of composition, preferred it, indeed, to the
Italian; how he regarded the French language as eminently suited to
musical treatment, and that he had just finished a new work in French
on a tragedy of the immortal Racine, which exhausted all the powers
of art, simple, natural song, enchanting melody, recitative equal to
the French, dance pieces of the most alluring freshness. Here was
everything to delight a Frenchman’s heart; besides, his opera had been
a great financial success in Bologna, and so valiant a defender of the
French tongue should be given an opportunity in its own home.

The academy saw a new hope in this. It considered the letter in
official session, and cautiously asked to see an act of _Iphigénie_.
After examination of it Gluck was promised an engagement if he would
agree to write six operas like it. This condition, almost impossible of
acceptance for a man of Gluck’s age, was finally removed through the
intercession of Marie Antoinette, now dauphiness of France, Gluck’s
erstwhile pupil in Vienna.

Gluck was invited to come to Paris as the guest of the Académie
and direct the staging of _Iphigénie_. He arrived there with his
wife and niece[14] in the summer of 1773. Lodged in the citadel of
the anti-Buffonists, he incurred in advance the opposition of the
Italian party, but, diplomat that he was, he at once set about to
propitiate the enemy. Rousseau, the intellectual potentate of France,
was eventually won over; but, despite the fact that Gluck’s music
was essentially human and should have fulfilled the demands of the
‘encyclopedists,’ such men as Marmontel, La Harpe, and d’Alambert
were arrayed against him, together with the entire Italian party and
many of the followers of the old French school, who refused to accept
him as the successor of Lully and Rameau. Mme. du Barry was one of
these. Marie Antoinette, on the other hand, constituted herself Gluck’s
protector. It was the _Guerre des bouffons_ at its climax.

The _première_ of _Iphigénie en Aulide_ (April, 1774) was awaited with
the greatest impatience. Gluck had spared no pains in the preparation.
He drilled the singers, spoiled by public favor, with the greatest
vigor, and ruthlessly combatted their caprices. The obstacles were
many: Legras was ill; Larivée, the Agamemnon, did not understand his
part; Sophie Arnold, known as the greatest singing actress of her day,
sang out of tune; Vestris, the greatest dancer of his time--he was
called the ‘God of the Dance’--was not satisfied with his part in the
ballet of the opera. ‘Then dance in heaven, if you’re the god of the
dance,’ cried Gluck, ‘but not in my opera!’ And when the terpsichorean
divinity insisted on concluding _Iphigénie_ with a _chaconne_, he
scornfully asked: ‘Did the Greeks dance _chaconnes_?’ Gluck threatened
more than once to withdraw his opera, yielding only to the persuasions
of the dauphiness.

The second performance of the opera determined its triumph, a triumph
which in a manner made Paris the centre of music in Europe.[15]
Marie Antoinette even wrote to her sister Marie Christine to express
her pleasure. Gluck received an honorarium of 20,000 francs and was
promised a life pension. Less severe and solemn than _Alceste_,
_Iphigénie en Aulide_ and _Iphigénie en Tauride_ (written ten years
later to a libretto by Guillard and not heard until May 18, 1779) were
the favorites of town and court up to the very end of the _ancien
régime_. Not only are both more appealing and less sombre, but they are
also more delicate in form, more simple in sentiment, and more intimate
than _Alceste_.

Gluck’s fame was now universal. Voltaire, the oracle of France, had
pronounced in his favor. The nobility sought his society, the courtiers
waited on him. Even princes hastened, when he laid down his bâton, to
hand him the peruke and surcoat cast aside while conducting. A strong
well-built man, bullet-headed, with a red, pockmarked face and small
gray, but brilliant, eyes; richly and fashionably dressed; independent
in his manner; jealous of his liberty; opinionated, yet witty and
amiable, this revolutionary à la Rousseau, this ‘plebeian genius’
completely conquered all affections of Parisian society. He was at home
everywhere; every salon lionized him, he was a familiar figure at the
_levers_ of Marie Antoinette.

In August, 1774, a French version of _Orfeo_, extensively revised, was
heard and acclaimed. This confirmed the victory--the anti-Gluckists
were vanquished for the time. But a permanent connection with the
Paris opera did not at once result for Gluck, and the next year
he returned to Vienna, taking with him two old opera texts by
Quinault--Lully’s librettist--_Roland_ and _Armide_, which the
_Académie_ had commissioned him to set. He set to music only the
latter of the two poems, for, when he learned that Piccini likewise
had been asked to set the _Roland_, and had been invited to Paris by
Marie Antoinette, he destroyed his sketches. An older light operetta,
_Cythère assiegée_, which he recast and foolishly dispatched to Paris,
thoroughly displeased the Parisians. The opposition was quick to seize
its advantage. It looked about for a leader and found him in Piccini,
now at the head of the great Neapolitan school. He was induced to come
to Paris by tempting promises, but was so ill-served by circumstances
that, in spite of the manœuvres and the intrigues of his partisans, his
_Roland_ was not given until 1778.

On April 23, 1776, Gluck directed the first performance of his new
French version of _Alceste_. It was hissed. In despair Gluck rushed
from the opera house and exclaimed to Rousseau: ‘_Alceste_ has
fallen!’ ‘Yes,’ was the answer, ‘but it has fallen from the skies!’
In 1777 came _Armide_. In this opera Gluck thought he had written
sensuous music.[16] It no longer makes this impression--the passion
of ‘Tristan,’ the oriental voluptuousness of the _Scheherazade_ of
Rimsky-Korsakov, and the eroticism of modern dramatic scores have
somewhat cooled the warmth of the love music of _Armide_. On the other
hand, the passion of hatred is delineated in this opera powerfully
and vigorously enough for modern appreciation. _Armide_ is beautiful
throughout by reason of its sincerity.

Piccini’s _Roland_ followed _Alceste_ in a few months, January, 1778.
It was a success, but only a temporary one. After twelve well-attended
performances it ceased to draw. Nevertheless it fanned the flame of
controversy. The fight of Gluckists and Piccinnists, in continuation of
the _Guerre des bouffons_, of which the principals, by the way, were
quite innocent, was at its height. Men addressed each other with the
challenge ‘Êtes-vous Gluckiste ou Piccinniste?’ Piccini was placed at
the head of an Italian troupe which was engaged to give performances on
alternate nights at the _Académie_. The two ‘parties’ were now on equal
footing. Finally it occurred to the director to have the two rivals
treat the same subject and he selected Racine’s _Iphigénie en Tauride_.
Piccini was handicapped from the start. His text was bad, neither
his talent nor his experience was so suited to the task as Gluck’s.
The latter’s version was ready in May, 1779, and was a brilliant
success. According to the _Mercure de France_ no opera had ever made
so strong and so universal an impression upon the public. ‘Pure
musical beauty as sweet as that of _Orfeo_, tragic intensity deeper
than that of _Alceste_, a firm touch, an undaunted courage, a new
subtlety of psychological insight, all combine to form a masterpiece
such as throughout its entire history the operatic stage has never
known.’ Piccini, who meantime had produced his _Atys_, brought out his
_Iphigénie_ in January, 1781. Despite many excellences it was bound to
be anti-climax to Gluck’s. Needless to say it admits of no comparison.

Too great stress has often been laid on the quarrels of the ‘Gluckists’
and ‘Piccinnists,’ which, it is true, went to absurd lengths. As
is usually the case with partisanship in art, the chief characters
themselves were not personal enemies. The Italian sympathizers merely
took up the cry which the Buffonists had formerly raised against the
opera of Rameau. According to them Gluck’s music was made up of too
much noise and not enough song. ‘But the Buffonist agitation had been
justified by results; it had produced the _opéra comique_, which
had assimilated what it could use of the Italian _opera buffa_.’
Not so this new controversy. Hence, despite a few days of glory for
Piccini, his party was not able to reawaken in France a taste for the
superficial charm of Italian music. ‘The crowd is for Gluck,’ sighed La
Harpe. And when, after the glorious success of _Iphigénie en Tauride_,
Piccini’s _Didon_ was given in 1783, it owed the favor with which it
was received largely to the fact that in style and expression it
followed Gluck’s model.

In 1780, six months after the _Iphigénie_ première, Gluck retired
to Vienna to end his days in dignified and wealthy leisure. He had
accomplished his task, fulfilled the wish of his heart. In his
comfortable retreat he learned of the failure of Piccini’s _Iphigénie
en Tauride_, while his own was given for the 151st time on April 2,
1782! He also enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that _Les Danaïdes_,
the opera written by his disciple and pupil, Antonio Salieri, justified
the truth of his theories by its success on the Paris stage in 1784.
It was this pupil, who, consulting Gluck on the question of whether
to write the rôle of Christ in the tenor in his cantata ‘The Last
Judgment,’ received the answer, half in jest, half in earnest, ‘I’ll
be able before long to let you know from the beyond how the Saviour
speaks.’ A few days after, on Nov. 15, 1787, the master breathed his
last, having suffered an apoplectic stroke.

The inscription on his tomb, ‘Here rests a righteous German man, an
ardent Christian, a faithful husband, Christoph Ritter Gluck, the great
master of the sublime art of tone’ emphasizes the strongly moral side
of his character. For all his shrewdness and solicitude for his own
material welfare, his music is ample proof of his nobility of soul; its
loftiness, purity, unaffected simplicity reflect the virtues for which
men are universally respected.

In its essence Gluck’s music may be considered the expression of
the classic ideal, the ‘naturalism’ and ‘new humanism’ of Rousseau,
which idealized the old Greek world and aimed to inculcate the Greek
spirit; courage and keenness in quest of truth and devotion to the
beautiful. The leading characteristics of his style have been aptly
defined as the ‘realistic notation of the pathetic accent and passing
movement, and the subordination of the purely musical element to
dramatic expression.’ ‘I shall try,’ he wrote in the preface to
_Alceste_, ‘to reduce music to its own function, that of seconding
poetry by intensifying the expression of sentiments and the interest of
situations without interrupting the action by needless ornament. I have
accordingly taken great care not to interrupt the singer in the heat of
the dialogue and make him wait for a tedious _ritornel_, nor do I allow
him to stop on a sonorous vowel, in the middle of a phrase, in order
to show the agility of a beautiful voice in a long cadenza. I also
believed it my duty to try to secure, to the best of my power, a fine
simplicity; therefore I have avoided a display of difficulties which
destroy clarity. I have never laid stress on aught that was new, where
it was not conditioned in a natural manner by situation and expression;
and there is no rule which I have not been willing to sacrifice with
good grace for the sake of the effect. These are my principles.’ The
inscription, _Il préféra les Muses aux Sirènes_ (He chose the Muses
rather than the Sirens), beneath an old French copper-plate of Gluck,
dating from 1781, sounds the keynote of his artistic character. A
prophet of the true and beautiful in music, he disdained to listen for
long to the tempting voices which counselled him to prefer the easy
rewards of popular success to the struggles and uncertainties involved
in the pursuit of a high ideal. And, when the hour came, he was ready
to reject the appeal of external charm and mere virtuosity and to lead
dramatic musical art back to its natural sources.

VII

Gluck’s immediate influence was not nearly as widespread as his reforms
were momentous. It is true that his music, reverting to simpler
structures and depending on subtler interpretation for its effects
put an end to the absolute rule of _prime uomini_ and _prime donne_,
but, while some of its elements found their way into the work of his
more conventional contemporaries, his example seems not to have been
wholly followed by any of them. His dramatic teachings, too, while
they could not fail to be absorbed by the composers, were not adopted
without reserve by any one except his immediate pupil Salieri, who
promptly reverted to the Italian style after his first successes. Gluck
was not a true propagandist and never gathered about him disciples
who would spread his teachings--in short he did not found a ‘school.’
Even in France, where his principles had the weight of official
sanction, apostasy was rife, and Rossini and Meyerbeer were probably
more appreciated than their more austere predecessor. His influence
was far-reaching rather than immediate. It remained for Wagner to take
up the thread of reasoning where Gluck left off and with multiplied
resources, musically and mechanically, with the way prepared by
literary forces, and himself equipped with rare controversial powers,
demonstrate the truths which his predecessor could only assert.

Antonio Salieri (1750-1825) with _Les Danaïdes_, in 1781, achieved
a notable success in frank imitation of Gluck’s manner; indeed, the
work, originally intrusted to Gluck by the Académie de Musique, was,
with doubtful strategy, brought out as that master’s work, and in
consequence brought Salieri fame and fortune. Other facts in Salieri’s
life seem to bear out similar imperfections of character. He was,
however, a musician of high artistic principles. When in 1787 _Tarare_
was produced in Paris it met with an overwhelming success, but
Salieri nevertheless withdrew it after a time and partially rewrote
it for its Vienna production, under the title of _Axur, Rè d’Ormus_.
‘There have been many instances in which an artist has been taught by
failure that second thoughts are best; there are not many in which
he has learned the lesson from popular approbation.’[17] Salieri’s
career is synchronous with Mozart’s, whom he outlived, and against
whom he intrigued in ungenerous manner at the Viennese court, where
he became kapellmeister in 1788. He profited by his rival’s example,
moreover, but his music ‘falls between the methods of his two great
contemporaries, it is less dramatic than Gluck’s and it has less
melodic genuineness than Mozart’s.’

Prominent among those who adhered to Italian operatic tradition
was Giuseppe Sarti (1729-1802), ‘a composer of real invention, and
a brilliant and audacious master of the orchestra.’ We have W. H.
Hadow’s authority for the assertion that he first used devices which
are usually credited to Berlioz and Wagner, such as the use of muted
trumpets and clarinets and certain experiments in the combination of
instrumental colors. Sarti achieved truly international renown; from
1755 to 1775 he was at the court of Copenhagen, where he produced
twenty Italian operas, and four Danish singspiele; next he was director
of the girls’ conservatory in Venice and till 1784 musical director of
Milan cathedral,[18] and from 1784 till 1787 he served Catherine II of
Russia as court conductor. His famous opera, _Armida e Rinaldo_, he
produced while in this post (1785), as well as a number of other works.
In 1793 he founded a ‘musical academy’ which was the forerunner of the
great St. Petersburg conservatory, and he was its director till 1801.
His introduction of the ‘St. Petersburg pitch’ (436 vibrations for A)
is but one detail of his many-sided influence.

Not the least point of Sarti’s historical importance is the fact that
he was the teacher of Cherubini. Luigi Cherubini occupies a peculiar
position in the history of music. Born in Florence in 1760 and
confining his activities to Italy for the first twenty-eight years
of his career, he later extended his influence into Germany (where
Beethoven became an enthusiastic admirer) and to Paris, where he
became a most important factor of musical life, especially in that
most peculiarly French development--the _opéra comique_. His operatic
method represents a compromise between those of his teacher, Sarti, and
of Gluck, who thus indirectly exerts his influence upon comic opera.
Successful as his many Italian operas--produced prior to 1786--were,
they hardly deserve notice here. His Paris activities, synchronous with
those of Méhul, are so closely bound up with the history of _opéra
comique_ that we may well consider them in that connection.

The _opéra comique_, the singspiel of France, was comic opera with
spoken dialogue. Its earlier exponents, Monsigny, Philidor, and Gossec,
were in various ways influenced by Gluck in their work. Grétry,[19]
whose _Le tableau parlant_, _Les deux avares_, and _L’Amant jaloux_ are
‘models of lightness and brilliancy,’ like Gluck ‘speaks the language
of the heart’ in his masterpieces, _Zémire et Azor_ and _Richard Cœur
de Lion_, and excels in delineation of character and the expression
of typically French sentiment. Grétry’s appearance marked an epoch in
the history of _opéra comique_. His _Mémoires_ expose a dramatic creed
closely related to that of Gluck, but going beyond that master in its
advocacy of declamation in the place of song.

Gossec, also important as symphonist and composer of serious operas
(_Philemon et Baucis_, etc.), entered the comic opera field in 1761,
the year in which the Opéra Comique, known as the Salle Favart, was
opened, though his real success did not come till 1766, with _Les
Pêcheurs_. Carried away by revolutionary fervor, he took up the
composition of patriotic hymns, became officially connected with
the worship of Reason, and eventually left the comic opera field to
Cherubini and Méhul. Both arrived in Paris in 1778, which marks the
second period of _opéra comique_.

The peaceful artistic rivalry and development of this period stand in
peculiar contrast to the great political holocaust which coincides
with it--the French Revolution. That upheaval was accompanied by an
almost frantic search for pleasure on the part of the public, and
an astounding increase in the number of theatres (seventeen were
opened in 1791, the year of Louis XVI’s flight, and eighteen more
up to 1800). Cherubini’s wife herself relates how the theatres were
crowded at night after the guillotine had done its bloody work by day.
Music flourished as never before and especially French music, for the
storm of patriotism which swept the country made for the patronage of
things French. In the very year of Robespierre’s execution (1794) the
_Conservatoire de Musique_ was projected, an institution which has ever
since remained the bulwark of French musical culture.[20]

In 1789 a certain Léonard, _friseur_ to Marie Antoinette, was given
leave to collect a company for the performance of Italian opera,
and opened his theatre in a hall of the Tuileries palace with his
countryman Cherubini as his musical director. The fall of the Bastille
in 1794 drove them from the royal residence to a mere booth in the
Foire St. Germain, where in 1792 they created the famous Théâtre
Feydeau, and delighted Revolutionary audiences with Cherubini versions
of Cimarosa and Paesiello operas. Here, too, _Lodoïska_, one of
Cherubini’s most brilliant works, was enthusiastically applauded.
Meantime Étienne Méhul (b. Givet, Ardennes, 1763; d. Paris, 1817),
the modest, retiring artist, who had been patiently awaiting the
recognition of the _Académie_ (his _Alonzo et Cora_ was not produced
till 1791) had become the hero of the older enterprise at the Salle
Favart,[21] and there produced his _Euphrosine et Corradin_ in 1790,
followed by a series of works of which the last, _Le jeune Henri_
(1797), was hissed off the stage because, in the fifth year of the
revolution, it introduced a king as character--the once adored Henry
IV! This was followed by a more successful series, ‘whose musical force
and the enchanting melodies with which they are begemmed have kept them
alive.’ His more serious works, notably _Stratonice_, _Athol_, and
especially _Joseph_, a biblical opera, are highly esteemed. M. Tiersot
considers the last-named work superior to that by Handel of the same
name. Méhul was Gluck’s greatest disciple--he was directly encouraged
and aided by Gluck--and even surpassed his master in musical science.

Cherubini’s _Médé_ and _Les deux journées_ were produced in 1797 and
1800, respectively. The latter ‘shows a conciseness of expression and
a warmth of feeling unusual to Cherubini,’ says Mr. Hadow; at any
rate it is better known to-day than any of the other works, and not
infrequently produced both in France and Germany. It is _opéra comique_
only in form, for it mixes spoken dialogue with music--its plot is
serious. In this respect it furnishes a precedent for many other
so-called _opéras comiques_. Cherubini’s musical resources were almost
unlimited, wealth of ideas is even a fault with him, having the effect
of tiring the listener, but his overtures are truly classic, his
themes refined, and his orchestration faultless. In _Les deux journées_
he abandoned the Italian traditions and confined himself practically
to ensembles and choruses. He must, whatever his intrinsic value, be
reckoned among the most important factors in the reformation of the
opera in the direction of music drama.

Cherubini was not so fortunate as to win the favor of Napoleon, as
did his colleagues, Gossec and Grétry and Méhul, all of whom received
the cross of the Legion of Honor. He returned to Vienna in 1805 and
there produced _Faniska_, the last and greatest of his operas, but
his prospects were spoiled by the capture of Vienna and the entry
of Napoleon, his enemy, at the head of the French army. He returned
to France disappointed but still active, wrote church music, taught
composition at the conservatory and was its director from 1821 till
his death in 1842. The _opéra comique_ continued meantime under the
direction of Paesiello and from 1803 under Jean François Lesueur
(1760-1837) ‘the only other serious composer who deserves to be
mentioned by the side of Méhul and Cherubini.’ Lesueur’s innovating
ideas aroused much opposition, but he had a distinguished following.
Among his pupils was Hector Berlioz.

F. H. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Collegium musicum No. 29.

[2] Riemann: Handbuch, II³, p. 121.

[3] Usually Nicolo Logroscino is named as having gone before him,
but, as that composer is in evidence only from 1738 (two years after
Pergolesi’s death), the date of his birth usually accepted (1700) seems
doubtful (cf. Kretzschmar in _Peters-Jahrbuch_, 1908).--Riemann: _Ibid._

[4] Born in Naples, date unknown; died there in 1763. He was one of
the creators of _opera buffa_, his parodistic dialect pieces--_Il
governatore_, _Il vecchio marito_, _Tanto bene che male_, etc.--being
among its first examples. In 1747 he became professor of counterpoint
at the _Conservatorio dei figliuoli dispersi_ in Palermo.

[5] After his return to Naples his three last works, _Armida_,
_Demofoonte_, and _Ifigenia in Tauride_, passed over the heads of an
unmindful public. The composer felt these disappointments keenly.
Impaired in health he retired to his native town of Aversa and died
there August 25, 1774.

[6] Baldassare Galuppi, born on the island of Burano, near Venice, In
1706; died in Venice, 1785, was a pupil of Lotti. He ranks among the
most eminent composers of comic operas, producing no less than 112
operas and 3 dramatic cantatas in every musical centre of Europe. He
also composed much church music and some notable piano sonatas.

[7] Oskar Bie; _Die Oper_ (1914).

[8] Bohuslav Czernohorsky (1684-1740) was a Franciscan monk, native
of Bohemia, but successively choirmaster in Padua and Assisi, where
Tartini was his pupil. He was highly esteemed as an ecclesiastical
composer. At the time when Gluck was his pupil he was director of the
music at St. Jacob’s, Prague.

[9] Born 1712; died 1778. Though not a trained musician he evinced
a lively interest in the art from his youth. Besides his _Devin du
village_, which remained in the French operatic repertoire for sixty
years, he wrote a ballet opera, _Les Muses galantes_, and fragments of
an opera, _Daphnis et Chloé_. His lyrical scene, _Pygmalion_, set to
music first by Coignet, then by Asplmayr, was the point of departure of
the so-called ‘melodrama’ (spoken dialogue with musical accompaniment).
He also wrote a _Dictionnaire de musique_ (1767).

[10] _Le petit prophète de Boehmisch-Broda_ has been identified by
historians with the founder of the Mannheim school, Johann Stamitz,
for the latter was born in Deutsch-Brod (Bohemia), and but two years
before had set Paris by the ears with his orchestral ‘sonatas.’ The
hero of the Grimm pamphlet is a poor musician, who by dream magic is
transferred from his bare attic chamber to the glittering hall of
the Paris opera. He turns away, aghast at the heartlessness of the
spectacle and music.

[11] Pierre Alexandre Monsigny, born near St. Omer, 1729, died, Paris,
1817. _Les aveux indiscrets_ (1759); _Le cadi dupé_ (1760); _On ne
s’avise jamais de tout_ (1761); _Rose et Colas_ (1764), etc., are his
chief successes in opera comique.

[12] François-André-Danican Philidor, born, Dreux, 1726; died,
London, 1795. Talented as a chess player he entered international
contests successfully, and wrote an analysis of the game. His love
for composition awoke suddenly and he made his comic-opera debut in
1759. His best works are: _Le maréchal férant_ (1761); _Tom Jones_
(1765), which brought an innovation--the _a capelli_ vocal quartet; and
_Ernelinde, princesse de Norvège_ (1767), a grand opera.

[13] Sonnenfels, a contemporary Viennese critic, was active in his
endeavors to uplift the German stage. (_Briefe über die Wienerische
Schaubühne_, Vienna, 1768.)

[14] Gluck’s marriage was childless, but he had adopted a niece,
Marianne Gluck, who had a pretty voice and pursued her musical training
under his care. Both Gluck’s wife and niece usually accompanied him in
his travels.

[15] After _Iphigénie en Aulide_ Paris became the international centre
of operatic composition. London was more in the nature of an exchange,
where it was possible for artists to win a good deal of money quickly
and easily; the glory of the great Italian stages dimmed more and more,
and Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, and Munich were only locally important.
Operatic control passed from the Italian to the French stage at the
same time German instrumental composition began its victories.

[16] Gluck declared that the music of Armide was intended ‘to give
a voluptuous sensation,’ and La Harpe’s assertion that he had made
_Armide_ a sorceress rather than an enchantress, and that her part was
‘_une criallerie monotone et fatigante_,’ drew forth as bitter a reply
from the composer as Wagner ever wrote to his critics.

[17] W. H. Hadow: Oxford History of Music, Vol. V.

[18] During this period he produced his famous operas, _Le gelosie
vilane; Fernace_ (1776), _Achille in Sciro_ (1779), _Giulio Sabino_
(1781).

[19] André Erneste Modeste Grétry, born, Liège, 1742; died, near Paris,
1813. ‘His Influence on the _opéra comique_ was a lasting one; Isouard,
Boieldieu, Auber, Adam, were his heirs.’--Riemann.

[20] The Paris _Conservatoire de Musique_, succeeding the Bourbon
_École de chant et de déclamation_ (1784) and the revolutionary
_Institut National de Musique_ (1793), was established 1795, with
Sarrette as director and with liberal government support. Cherubini
became its director in 1822, and its enormous influence on the general
trend of French art dates from his administration.

[21] The two theatres, after about ten years’ rivalry, united as
the Opéra Comique which, under government subsidy, has continued to
flourish to this day.

CHAPTER II
THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE CLASSIC PERIOD

Classicism and the classic period--Political and literary forces--The
conflict of styles; the sonata form--The Berlin school; the sons of
Bach--The Mannheim reform; the Genesis of the Symphony--Followers of
the Mannheim school; rise of the string quartet; Vienna and Salzburg
as musical centres.

It is impossible to assign the so-called Classic Movement to a definite
period; its roots strike deep and its limits are indefinite. It
gathered momentum while the ideas from which it revolted were in their
ascendency; its incipient stage was simultaneous with the reign of
Italian opera. To define the meaning of classicism is as difficult as
it is to fix the date of its beginning. By contrasting, as we usually
do, the style of that period with a later one, usually called the
Romantic, by comparing the ideal of classicism with the romantic ideal
of subjective expression, we get a negative rather than a positive
definition; for classicism is generally presumed to be formal, and
antagonistic to that free ideal--a supposition which is not altogether
exact, for it was just the reform of the classicists that opened
the way to the free expressiveness which is characteristic of the
‘Romantics.’ On the other hand, the classic ideal of just proportions,
of pure objective beauty, did find expression in the crystallized
forms, the clarified technique, and the flexible articulation that
superseded the unreasonably ornate, the polyphonically obscure, or the
superficial, trite monotony of a great part of pre-classic music.

When Gluck’s _Alceste_ first appeared on the boards of the Imperial
Opera in 1768, Mozart, the twelve-year-old prodigy, was the pet of
Viennese salons; Haydn, with thirty symphonies to his credit, was
laying the musical foundations of a German Versailles at Esterhàz;
Emanuel Bach, practically at the end of his career, had just left
Frederick the Great to become Telemann’s successor at Hamburg; and
Stamitz, the great reformer of style and the real father of the modern
orchestra, was already in his grave. On the other hand, there were
still living men like Hasse and Porpora, whose recollection reached
back to the very beginnings of the century. These men belonged to
an earlier age, and so did in a sense all the men discussed in the
last chapter, with a few obvious exceptions. But their influence
extended far into the period which we are about to discuss; their
careers are practically contemporaneous with the classic movement. The
beginnings of that movement, the first impulses of the essentially new
spirit we must seek in the work of men who were, like Pergolesi, the
contemporaries of Bach and Handel.

To the reader of history perhaps the most significant outward sign of
the impending change is the shifting of musical supremacy away from
Italy, which had held unbroken sway since the days of Palestrina. We
have seen in the last chapter how with Gluck the operatic centre of
gravity was transferred from Naples to Paris. We shall now witness a
similar change in the realm of ‘absolute’ music--this time in favor
of Germany. The underlying causes of this change are fundamentally
the same as those which directed the course of literature and general
culture--namely the social and political upheaval that followed the
Reformation and ushered in a century of struggle and strife, that
kindled the Phœnix of a united and liberated nation, the Germany of
to-day. A glance at the political history of the preceding era will
help our comprehension of the period with which we have to deal.

The peace of Westphalia (1648) had left the German Empire a
dismembered, powerless mass. No less than three hundred ‘independent’
states, ruled over by petty tyrants--princes, dukes, margraves,
bishops--each of whom had the right to coin money, raise armies and
contract alliances, made up a nation defenseless against foes, weakened
by internal and military oppression, steeped in abject misery and
moral depravity. For over a hundred years it remained an ‘abortion,’
an ‘irregular body like unto a monster,’ as Puffendorf characterized
it. Despite its pretensions it was, as Voltaire said, ‘neither
holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.’ Flood after flood of pillaging
soldiery had passed across its fertile acres, spreading ruin and
dejection; the ravages of Louis XIV, the invasion of Kara Mustapha,
the Spanish, the Swedish, the Polish wars, left the people victims
of the selfish ambitions of brutish monarchs, men whose example set
a premium upon crime. These noble robbers had made of the map of
Europe a crazy-quilt, the only sizable patches of which represented
France, Austria, and Russia. Italy, like Germany, was divided, but
with this difference--its several portions were actually ruled by the
‘powers’--Austria had Tuscany and Milan, Spain ruled Naples and Sicily,
while France owned Sardinia and Savoy. Its superior culture, having
thus the benefit of a benevolent paternalism, penetrated to the very
hearts of the conquerors, to Vienna, Madrid, and Paris, and spread a
thin but glittering coat all over Europe. Germany, on the other hand,
was, under the sham of independence, so constantly threatened with
annihilation, so impoverished through strife, that the very idea of
culture suggested a foreign thing, an exotic within the reach only
of the mighty. Friedrich von Logau in the early seventeenth century
bewailed the influx of foreign fashions into Germany, while Moscherosch
denounced the despisers and traitors of his fatherland; and Lessing,
over a century later, was still attacking the predominance of French
taste in literature. We must not wonder at this almost total eclipse of
native culture. The fact that the racial genius could perpetuate its
germ, even across this chasm of desolation, is one of the astounding
evidences of its strength.

That germ, to which we owe the preservation of German culture, that
thin current which ran all through the seventeenth and the early
eighteenth century, had two distinct manifestations: the religious
idealism of the north, and the optimistic rationalism of the south,
which found expression in the writings of Leibnitz. The first of these
movements produced in literature the religious lyrics of Protestant
hymn writers, in music the cantatas, passions, and oratorios of a Bach
and a Handel. Its ultimate expression was the _Messias_ of Klopstock,
which in a sense combined the two forms of art; for, as Dr. Kuno
Francke[22] says, it is an ‘oratorio’ rather than an epic. As for
Leibnitz, according to the same authority, ‘it is hard to overestimate
his services to modern culture. He stands midway between Luther and
Goethe.... In a time of national degradation and misery his philosophy
offered shelter to the higher thought and kept awake the hope of an
ultimate resurrection of the German people.’ The one event which
signalizes that resurrection more than any is the battle of Rossbach in
1757. This was the shot that reverberated through Europe and summoned
all eyes to witness a new spectacle, a prince who declared himself
the servant of his people. With Frederick the Great as their hero the
Germans of the North could rally to the hope of a fatherland; their
poets, tongue-tied for centuries, broke forth in new lyric bursts; the
vision of a united, triumphant Germany fired patriots, philosophers,
scientists and artists with enthusiasm for a new ideal. This
idealism--or sentimentality--stood in sharp contrast to the somewhat
cynical rationalism of Rousseau, Diderot, and d’Alembert, but it had an
even stronger influence on art.

The immediate effect of this regeneration was an increased output of
literature and of music, a greater individuality, or assertiveness,
in the native styles, the perfection of its technique, and the
crystallization of its forms. In literature it bore its first fruits
in the works of Klopstock and Wieland. Already in 1748 Klopstock had
‘sounded that morning call of joyous idealism which was the dominant
note of the best in all modern German literature.’ This poet is an
important figure to us, for he is of all writers the most admired in
the period of musical history with which these chapters deal. His very
name brought tears to the eyes of Charlotte in Goethe’s _Werther_;
Leopold Mozart could go no further in his admiration of his son’s
genius than to compare him to Klopstock. Wieland, who lived less in
the realm of the spiritual but was fired with a greater enthusiasm
for humanity, was among the first to give expression to his hope of
a united Germany. He was personally acquainted with Mozart and early
appreciated his genius.[23]

A transformation was thus wrought in the minds of the people of
northern Europe. Much as in the humanitarian revelation of the Italian
Renaissance, men became introspective, discovered in the recesses of
their souls a new sympathy; men’s hearts became more receptive than
they had ever been; and, as, after the strife of centuries, Europe
settled down to a placid period of reconstruction, all this found
manifold expression in people’s lives and in their art.

The close of the Seven Years’ War in 1763 had brought an era of
comparative peace. Austria, though deprived of some territory, entered
upon a period of prosperity which augured well for the progress of art;
Prussia, on the other hand, proceeded upon a career of unprecedented
expansion under the enlightened leadership of the great Frederick. The
Viennese court, which had patronized music for generations, now became
what Burney called it, ‘the musical capital of Europe,’ while Berlin
and Potsdam constituted a new centre for the cultivation of the art.
Frederick, the friend of Voltaire, though himself a lover of French
culture, and preferring the French language to his own, nevertheless
encouraged the advancement of things native. He insisted that his
subjects patronize home manufactures, affect native customs, and,
contrary to Joseph II in Vienna, he engaged German musicians for his
court in preference to Italians. The two courts may thus be conceived
as the strongholds of the two opposing styles, German and Italian,
which in fusing produced the new expressive style that is the most
characteristic element of classic music.

To make clear this conflict of styles represented by the north and
the south, by Berlin and Vienna, respectively, we need only ask the
reader to recall what we have said about the music of Bach in Vol.
I and that of Pergolesi in the last chapter. In the one we saw the
culmination of polyphonic technique upon a modern harmonic basis,
a fusion of the old polyphonic and new monodic styles, enriched by
infinite harmonic variety, with a wealth of ingenious modulations and
chromatic alterations, and a depth of spirit analogous to the religious
idealism which we have cited as the dominant intellectual note of
post-Reformation Germany. In the other, the direct outcome of the
monodic idea, and therefore essentially melodic, we found a consummate
grace and lightness, but also a certain shallowness, a desire to
please, to tickle the ear rather than to stir the deeper emotions.
In the course of time this style came to be absolutely dominated by
harmony, through the peculiar agency of the Figured Bass. But instead
of an ever-shifting harmonic foundation, an iridescent variety of
color, we have here an essentially simple harmonic structure, largely
diatonic, and centring closely around the tonic and dominant as the
essential points of gravity, swinging the direction of its cadences
back and forth between the two, while employing every melodic device to
introduce all the variety possible within the limitations of so simple
a scheme.

While, then, the style of Bach, and the North Germans, on the one
hand, had a predominant _unity of spirit_ it tended to _variety of
expression_; the style of the Italians, on the other hand, brought a
_variety of ideas_ with a comparative simplicity of scheme or _monotony
of expression_, which quickly crystallized into stereotyped forms. One
of these forms, founded upon the simple harmonic scheme of tonic and
dominant, developed, as we have seen, into the instrumental sonata,
a type of which the violin sonatas of Corelli and his successors,
Francesco Geminiani, Pietro Locatelli, and Giuseppe Tartini, and the
piano sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti are excellent examples. Many
Italians managed to endow such pieces with a breadth, a song-like
sweep of melody, to which their inimitable facility of vocal writing
led them quite naturally. Pergolesi especially, as we have said,
deserves special merit for the introduction of the so-called ‘singing
allegro’ in the first movements of his sonatas. Germans were quick
to follow these examples and their innate tendency to variety of
expression caused them to add another element--that of rhythmic
contrast.[24] Indeed, although the Italian style continued to hold sway
throughout Europe long after 1700, we find among its exponents an ever
greater number of Germans. Their proclivity for harmonic fullness,
pathos, and dignity was, moreover, reinforced by the influence of
French orchestral music of the style of Lully and his successors. It
was reserved for the Germans, also, to develop the sonata form as we
know it to-day, to build it up into that wonderful vehicle for free
fancy and for the philosophic development of musical ideas.

Before introducing the reader to the men of this epoch, who
prepared the way for Haydn and Mozart, we are obliged, for a better
understanding of their work, to describe briefly the nature and
development of that form which serves, so to speak, as a background to
their activity.

Certain successive epochs in the history of our art have been so
dominated by one or another type of music that they might as aptly
derive their names from the particular type in fashion as the early
Christian era did from plain-chant. Thus the sixteenth century might
well be called the age of the madrigal, the early seventeenth the
period of accompanied monody, and the late seventeenth the epoch of
the suite. As the vogue of any of these forms increases, a chain of
conventions and rules invariably grows up which tends first to fix
it, then to force it into stereotypes which become the instrument of
mediocre pedants. The very rules by which it grows to perfection become
the shackles which arrest its expansion. Thus it usually deteriorates
almost immediately after it has reached its highest elevation at the
hand of genius, unless it gives way to the broadening, liberalizing
assaults of iconoclasts, and only in the measure to which it is capable
of adapting itself to broader principles is further life vouchsafed to
it. It continues then to exist beyond the period which is, so to speak,
its own, in a sort of afterglow of glory, less brilliant but infinitely
richer in interest, color and all-pervading warmth. All the types
above mentioned, from the madrigal down, have continued to exist, in a
sense, to our time, and, though our age is obviously as antagonistic
to the spirit of the madrigal as it is to that of plain-chant, we
might cite modern part-songs partaking of the same spirit which have
a far stronger appeal. The modern symphonic suites of a Bizet or a
Rimsky-Korsakoff as compared to the orchestral suite of the eighteenth
century furnish perhaps the most striking case in point.

The period which this and the following chapters attempt to describe is
dominated by the sonata form. Not a composer of instrumental music--and
it was essentially the age of instrumental music--but essayed that form
in various guises. Even the writers of opera did not fail to adopt
it in their instrumental sections, and even in their arias. But the
decades which are our immediate concern represent a formative stage,
because there is much variety, much uncertainty, both in nomenclature
and in the matter itself. Nomenclature is never highly specialized at
first. A name primarily denotes a variety of things which have perhaps
only slight marks of resemblance. Thus we have seen how _sonata_,
derived from the verb _suonare_, to sound, is at first a name for any
instrumental piece, in distinction to _cantata_, a vocal piece. The
_canzona da sonar_ (or _canzon sonata_) symbolized the application
of the vocal style to instruments, and the abbreviation ‘sonata’ was
for a time almost synonymous with _sinfonia_, as in the first solo
sonatas (for violin) of Bagio Marini about 1617. The sonata in its
modern sense is essentially a solo form; but, during a century or more
of its evolution, the most familiar guise under which it appeared was
the ‘trio-sonata.’ That, as we have seen, broadened out to symphonic
proportions (while adapting some of the features of the orchestral
suite) and the sonata became more specifically a solo piece, or,
better, a group of pieces, for the sonata of our day is a ‘cyclical’
piece. But through all its outward manifestations, and irrespective of
them, it underwent a definite and continuous metamorphosis, by which it
assumed a more and more definite pattern, or patterns, which eventually
fused into one.

The ‘cycle sonata’ undoubtedly had its root idea in the dance suite,
and for a long time that derivation was quite evident. The minuet,
obstinately holding its place in the scheme until Beethoven converted
it into the scherzo, was the last birthmark to disappear. The variety
of rhythm that the dance suite offers is also clearly preserved in
the principle of rhythmic contrasts _between the movements_. These
comprise usually a rapid opening movement embodying the essentials
of the ‘sonata form’; a contrasting slow movement, shorter and
in less conventional form--sometimes aria, sometimes ‘theme and
variations’--stands next; the finale, in the lighter Italian form, was
usually a quick dance movement or short, brilliant piece of slight
significance; in the German and more developed examples it was often
a rondo (one principal theme recurring at intervals throughout the
piece with fresh ‘episodical’ matter interspersed), and more and more
frequently it was cast in the first-movement form. Between the slow
movement and the finale is the place for the minuet (if the sonata is
in four movements). Haydn, though not the first so to use it, quickened
its tempo and enriched it in content. A second minuet (Menuetto II)
appears in the earlier symphonies of Haydn and Mozart, which by and
by is incorporated with the first as ‘trio’--the familiar alternate
section always followed by a repeat of the minuet itself.

Of course, the distinguishing feature of the sonata over all other
forms is the peculiar pattern of at least _one_ of its movements--most
usually the first--the outcome of a long evolution, which, in its
finally settled form, with the later Mozart and with Beethoven, became
the most efficient, the most flexible, and the most convincing medium
for the elaboration of musical ideas. The ‘first-movement form,’ as it
has been called, appears in the eighteenth century in either of two
primary patterns: the _binary_ (consisting of two sections), and the
_ternary_ (consisting of three). The binary, gradually introduced by
the Italians, notably Pergolesi and Alberti, is simply a broadening
of the ‘song-form’ in two sections (each of which is repeated),
having one single theme or subject, presented in the following key
arrangement (‘A’ denoting the tonic or ‘home’ key and ‘B’ the dominant
or related key): |:A--B:| |:B--A:|. This, with broadened dimensions
and more definite thematic distinction, within each section gave way
to: |:A¹--B²:||:B¹--A²:| (¹ and ² representing first and second theme,
respectively). In this arrangement the second section simply reproduces
the thematic material of the first, but in the reverse order of keys
or tonality. It should be added that the ‘second theme’ was usually,
at this early stage of development, a mere suggestion, an embryo with
very slight individuality. The leading representatives of this type of
form as applied to the suite as well as the sonata were Pergolesi,
Domenico Alberti, Handel, J. S. Bach, J. F. Fasch, Domenico Scarlatti,
Locatelli, and Gluck, and most of the later Italians, who continued to
prefer this easily comprehended form, placing but simple problems of
musicianship before the composer. It was eminently suited to the easy
grace of polite music, of the ‘salon’ music of the eighteenth century.

But in the works of German suite writers especially the restatement of
the first theme after the double bar displays almost from the beginning
a tendency toward variety, abridgment, expansion, and modulation of
harmony. Gradually this section assumed such a bewildering, fanciful
character, such a variety of modulations, that the subject in its
original form was forgotten by the hearer, and all recollection of the
original key had been obliterated from the mind. Composers then grasped
the device of restating the first theme in the original key after
this free development of it, and then restating the second theme as
before. Both the tonic and the dominant elements of the first section
(or exposition) are now seen to be repeated in the tonic key in the
restatement section (or recapitulation) and the form has assumed the
following shape:

||:A¹--B²:||:(A²) | Development or | A¹--B¹:|
‘Working-out’

This is clearly a three-division form, and as such is closely allied
to the ballad form, or _ternary_ song-form, which is as old as the
binary. Already Johann Sebastian Bach in his Prelude in F minor, in
the second part of the ‘Well-tempered Clavichord,’ gives an example
of it, and in Emanuel Bach and his German contemporaries this type
becomes the standard. But it is curious to observe how strongly the
Italian influence worked upon composers of the time, for, whenever
the desire to please is evident in their work, we see them adopt the
simpler pattern, and even when the ternary form is used the so-called
‘working-out’ is little more than an aimless sequence of meaningless
passage work intended to dazzle by its brilliance and its grandiose
effects, with but little relation to the subject matter of the piece.
Even Mozart and Haydn veered back and forth between the two types until
they had arrived at a considerably advanced state of maturity.

The second theme, as time went on, became more and more individualized
and, as it assumed more distinct rhythmic and melodic characteristics,
it lent itself more freely to logical development, like the principal
subjects, became in fact a real ‘subject’ on a par with the first.
With Stamitz and the Mannheim school, at last, we meet the idea of
_contrast between the two themes_, not only in key but in spirit, in
meaning. As with characters in a story, these differences can readily
be taken hold of and elaborated. The themes may be played off against
each other, they may be understood as masculine and feminine, as bold
and timid, or as light and tragic--the possibilities of the scheme are
unlimited, the complications under which an ingenious mind can conceive
it are infinite in their interest. Thus only, by means of _contrast_,
could states of mind be translated into musical language, thus only was
it possible to give voice to the deeper sentiments, the new feelings
that were tugging at the heart-strings of Europe. Only with this great
principle of emotional contrast did the art become receptive to the
stirrings of _Sturm und Drang_, of incipient Romanticism, thus only
could it give expression to the graceful melancholy of a Mozart, the
majestic ravings of a Beethoven.

III

Having given an indication of the various stages through which the
sonata form passed, we may now speak of the men who developed it. We
are here, of course, concerned only with those who cultivated the
later and eventually universal German type.

In the band of musicians gathered about the court of Frederick the
Great we find such pioneers as Joachim Quantz, the king’s instructor
on the flute;[25] Gottlieb Graun, whose significance as a composer of
symphonies, overtures, concertos, and sonatas is far greater than that
of his brother Karl Heinrich, the composer of _Der Tod Jesu_; and the
violinist Franz Benda, who was, however, surpassed in musicianship
by his brother Georg, _kapellmeister_ in Gotha. All of these and a
number of others constitute the so-called Berlin school, whose most
distinguished representative by far was Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach,
the most eminent of Johann Sebastian’s sons. He has been called, not
without reason, the father of the piano sonata, for, although Kuhnau
preceded him in applying the form to the instrument, it is he who made
it popular, and who definitely fixed its pattern, determined the order
of its movements--Allegro; Andante or Adagio; Allegro or Presto--so
familiar to all music-lovers.

Emanuel Bach was born in Weimar in 1714. He was sent to Frankfort
to study law, but instead established a chorus with himself as its
leader. In 1738 he went to Berlin, where, two years later, we see
him playing the accompaniments to ‘Old Fritz’s’ flute solos. The
royal amateur’s accomplishments were of doubtful merit, but Bach
stood the strain for twenty-seven years, at the end of which the king
abandoned the flute for the sword, and Bach abandoned the king to
finish his days in Hamburg as director of church music. But church
music was not his _métier_. His cantatas were ‘pot-boilers.’ Emanuel
was made of different stuff from his father. He fitted into his
time--a polished courtier, more witty than pious, more suave than
sincere, more brilliant than deep, but of solid musicianship none the
less--the technician _par excellence_, both as composer and executant,
a clean-cut formalist, a thorough harmonist ‘crammed full of racy
novelty,’ though not free from pedantry, and preferring always the
_galant_ style of the period. The ‘polite’ instrument, the harpsichord,
was essentially his. The ‘Essay on the True Manner of Playing the
Clavier,’ which he wrote in Berlin, is still of value to-day. His
technique was, no doubt, derived from that of his father, but he
introduced a still more advanced method of fingering.

His great importance to history, however, lies in his instrumental
compositions, comprising no less than two hundred and ten solo
pieces--piano sonatas, rondos, concertos, trio-sonatas of the
conventional type (two violins and bass), six string quartets and the
symphonies printed in 1780. These works exercised a dual force. While
yielding to the taste of the time, they held the balance to the side
of greater harmonic richness and artistic propriety; on the other
hand, they played an important part in the further development of the
prevailing forms to a point where they could become ‘free enough and
practical enough to deal with the deep emotions.’ ‘As yet people looked
on the art as a refined sort of amusement. Not until Beethoven had
written his music did its possibilities as a vehicle for deep human
feeling and experience become evident.’[26] By following fashion Bach
became its leader, and so exercised a widespread influence over his
contemporaries and immediate followers. For a few years, says Mr. W. H.
Hadow, the fate of music depended upon Emanuel Bach; Mozart himself,
though directly influenced by him only in later life, called him ‘the
father of us all.’

Bach may hardly be said to have originated the modern ‘pianistic’
style--the free, brilliant manner of writing particularly adapted
to the requirements of the instrument. Couperin and the astonishing
Domenico Scarlatti were before him. Naturally the instrument which he
used was not nearly so resonant or sonorous as the piano of our day;
an instrument the strings of which were plucked by quills attached
to the key lever, not hit by hammers as the strings of our piano,
was, of course, devoid of all sustaining power. This fact accounts
for the infinite number of ornaments, trills, mordents, grace notes,
bewildering in their variety, with which Bach’s sonatas are replete.
Despite the technical reason for their existence we cannot forego the
obvious analogy between them and the rococo style prevalent in the
architecture and decorations of the period. Emanuel Bach’s music was as
fashionable as that style, and his popularity outlasted it. Strange as
it may seem, ‘Bach,’ in the eighteenth century and beyond, always meant
‘Emanuel’!

Quite a different sort of man was Emanuel’s elder brother, Wilhelm
Friedemann Bach, the favorite son of his father and thought to be
the most gifted, too. But the definition of genius as ‘an infinite
capacity for taking pains’ would not fit his gifts. Wilhelm preferred
a good time to concentrated labor, hence his name is not writ large in
history. Yet his work, mostly preserved only in manuscript--concertos,
suites, sonatas and fantasias--shows more real individuality, more
_Innigkeit_ and, at times, real passion than does his brother’s. And,
moreover, something that could never happen to his brother’s works
happened to one of his. It was ascribed to his father and was so
published in the Bach Society’s edition of Sebastian’s works. In the
examples of his work, resurrected by the indefatigable Dr. Riemann,
we are often surprised by harmonic vagaries and rhythmic ingenuities
that recall strongly the older Bach; the impassioned fancy of that
polyphonic giant finds often a faint echo in the rhapsodic wanderings
of his eldest son.

Friedemann Bach’s life was, like his work, rambling, irregular. Born
in 1710, he was organist in Dresden from 1733 to 1747; then at Halle,
in the church that was Handel’s drilling ground under old Zachau. His
extravagances cost him this post and perhaps many another, for he roved
restlessly over Germany for the rest of his life until, a broken-down
genius of seventy-four, he ended his career in Berlin in 1784.

In sharp contrast to the career of the oldest son of Bach stands that
of the youngest, Johann Christian (born 1734, in Leipzig), chiefly
renowned as an opera composer of the Italian school. He has been
called the ‘Milanese Bach,’ because from 1754 to 1762 he made that
Italian city his home and there wrote operas, and became a Catholic
to qualify as the organist of Milan Cathedral; and the ‘London Bach’
because there he spent the remaining twenty years of his life, a most
useful and honorable career. His first London venture was in opera,
too, but his historic importance does not lie in that field. Symphonies
(including one for two orchestras), concertos for piano and various
other instruments, quintets, quartets, trios, sonatas for violin, and
numerous piano pieces which did much to popularize the new instrument,
are his real monuments. Trained at first by his brother Emanuel, he
was bound to follow the polite, elegant style of the period, and more
so perhaps because of his Italian experience. For that reason his
value has been greatly underestimated. But he is, nevertheless, an
important factor in the stylistic reform that prepared the way for the
great classics, and the upbuilding of German instrumental music. Of
his influence upon Mozart and Haydn we shall have more to say anon.
That influence was, of course, largely Italian, for Bach followed the
Italian pattern in his sonatas. It was he that passed on to Mozart the
_singing allegro_ which he had brought with him from Italy, and so he
may be considered in a measure the communicator of Pergolesi’s genius.

As the centre of London musical life Christian Bach exercised a
tremendous influence in the formation of popular taste.[27] The
subscription concerts which he and another German, Carl Friedrich Abel
(1725-1787), instituted in 1764, were to London what the _Concerts
spirituels_ were to Paris. Not only symphonies, but cantatas and
chamber works of every description were here performed in the manner of
our public concerts of to-day, and the higher forms of music were thus
placed for the first time within the reach of a great number of people.
After 1775 these concerts took place in the famous Hanover Square Rooms
and were continued until 1782. In the following year another series,
known as the ‘Professional Concerts,’ was begun and since that time the
English capital has had an unbroken succession of symphonic concerts.

The writer of musical history is confronted at every point with the
problem of classification. The men whom we have discussed can, though
united by ties of nationality and even family, hardly be considered
as of one school. We have taken them as the representatives of the
North German musical art; yet, as we were obliged to state, Southern
influence affected nearly all of them. Similarly, we should find
in analyzing the music of the Viennese that a more or less rugged
Germanism had entered into it. J. J. Fux (1660-1741), the pioneer of
the ‘Viennese school’; Georg Reutter, father and son (1656-1738, and
1708-1772); F. L. Gassmann (1723-1774); Johann Georg Albrechtsberger
(1736-1809); Leopold Hoffman (1730-1772); Georg Christoph Wagenseil
(1715-1777); and Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf (1739-1799), who, with
others, are usually reckoned as of that school, are all examples of
this Germanism. Indeed, these men assume a historic importance only in
the degree to which they absorb the advancing reforms of their northern
_confrères_. All of them are indebted for what merit they possess to
the great school of stylistic reformers who, about the year 1750,
gathered in the beautiful Rhenish city of Mannheim, and whose leader,
Johann Stamitz, was, until recently, unknown to historians except as an
executive musician. His reappearance has cleared up many an unexplained
phenomenon, and for the first time has placed the entire question of
the origins of the Classic, or Viennese, style, the style of Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven, in its proper light. Much of the merit ascribed
to Emanuel Bach, for instance, in connection with the sonata, and to
Haydn in connection with the symphony belongs rightfully to Stamitz. We
may now safely consider the Viennese school, like that of Paris, as an
offshoot of the Mannheim school and shall, therefore, discuss both as
subsidiary to it.

The Mannheim reform brought into instrumental music, as we have said,
one essentially new idea--the idea of contrast. Contrast is one of the
two fundamental principles of musical form; the other is reiteration.
Reiteration in its various forms--imitation, transposition, and
repetition--is a familiar element in every musical composition. The
‘germination’ of musical ideas, the logical development of such ideas,
or motives--into phrases, sentences, sections, and movements, is in
practice only a broadening of that principle. All the forms which we
have discussed--the aria, the canzona, the toccata, the fugue, and the
sonata--owe their being to various methods of applying it. Contrast,
the other leading element of form, may be applied technically in
several different ways, of which only two interest us here--contrast
of _key_ and dynamic contrast. Contrast of key is the chief requisite
in the most highly organized forms, such as the fugue and the sonata,
and as such had been consciously employed for practically two hundred
years. But dynamic contrast--the change from loud to soft, and _vice
versa_, especially gradual change, which, moreover, carries with it the
broader idea of varying expression, contrast of _mood_ and _spirit_,
never entered into instrumental music until the advent of Johann
Stamitz. It is this duality of expression that distinguishes the new
from the old; this is the outstanding feature of Classic music over all
that preceded it.

Johann Stamitz was born in Deutsch-Brod, Bohemia, in 1717, and died at
Mannheim in 1757. In the course of his forty years he revolutionized
instrumental practice and laid the foundations of modern orchestral
technique, created a new style of composition, which enabled Mozart and
Beethoven to give adequate expression to their genius; and originated a
method of writing which resulted in the abolition of the Figured Bass.
When, in 1742, Charles VII had himself crowned emperor in Frankfort,
Stamitz first aroused the attention of the assembled nobility as a
violin virtuoso. The Prince Elector of the Palatinate, Karl Theodor,
at once engaged him as court musician. In 1745 he made him his concert
master and musical director. Within a year or two, Stamitz made the
court band into the best orchestra of Europe. Burney, Leopold Mozart,
and others who have left their judgment of it convince us that it was
as good as an orchestra could be with the limitations imposed by the
still imperfect intonation of certain instruments. It was, at any
rate, the first orchestra on a modern footing, whose members were
artists, bent upon artistic interpretation. It is curious to read
Leopold Mozart’s expression of surprise at finding them ‘honest, decent
people, not given to drink, gambling, and roistering,’ but such was the
reputation musicians as a class enjoyed in those days.[28]

We may recall how Jommelli introduced the ‘orchestral crescendo’ in the
Strassburg opera. That he emulated the Mannheim orchestra rather than
set an example for it seems unquestionable; for Stamitz had already
been at his work ten years when Jommelli arrived. The gradual change
from _piano_ to _forte_, and the sudden change in either direction
to indicate a change of mood, not only within single movements, but
_within phrases and even themes_, was bound to lead to important
consequences. While fiercely opposed by the pedants among German
musicians, the practice found quick acceptance in the large centres
where Stamitz’s famous Opus 1 was performed. These Six Sonatas (or
Symphonies), ‘_ou à trois ou avec toutes (sic) l’orchestre_,’ were
brought out in 1751 at the _Concerts spirituels_ under Le Gros.[29]
Stamitz’s ‘Sonatas’ were performed with drums, trumpets, and horns.
Another symphony with horns and oboes, and another with horns and
clarinets (a rare novelty), were brought out in the winter of 1754-55,
with Stamitz himself as conductor. These ‘symphonies’ were, as a
matter of fact, trio-sonatas in the conventional form--two violins
and Figured Bass--such as had been produced in great number since
the time of Pergolesi. But there was a difference. The Figured Bass
was a fully participating third part, not depending upon the usual
harpsichord interpretation of the harmony. The compositions were,
in fact, true string trios. But they were written for (optional)
orchestral execution, and when so performed the added wind instruments
supplied the harmonic ‘filling.’ This means, then, the application of
the classic sonata form to orchestral music, and virtually the creation
of the symphony.[30]

While not, by a long way, parallel with the symphonies of Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven, these works of Stamitz are, nevertheless, true
symphonies in a classic style, orchestral compositions in sonata form.
They have the essential first-movement construction, they are free from
the fugato style of the earlier orchestral pieces, and, instead of the
indefinite rambling of passage work, they present the clear thematic
phraseology, the germination of ideas, characteristic of the form.
Their sincere phraseology, says Riemann, ‘their boldness of conception,
and the masterly thematic development which became an example in the
period that followed ... give Stamitz’s works lasting value. Haydn and
Mozart rest absolutely upon his shoulders.’[31]

Following Stamitz’s first efforts there appeared in print a veritable
flood of similar works, known in France as _Simphonies d’Allemagne_,
most of them by direct pupils of Stamitz, by F. X. Richter, his
associate in Mannheim, by Wagenseil, Toeschi, Holtzbauer, Filtz, and
Cannabich, his successor at the Mannheim _Pult_. Stamitz’s own work
comprises ten orchestral trios, fifty symphonies, violin concertos,
violin solo and violin-piano sonatas, a fair amount for so short a
career. That for a long time this highly interesting figure disappeared
from the annals of musical history is only less remarkable than the
eclipse of Bach’s fame for seventy-five years after his death, though
in Stamitz’s case it was hardly because of slow recognition, for
already Burney had characterized him as a great genius. Arteaga in 1785
called him ‘the Rubens among composers’ and Gerbert (1792) said that
‘his divine talent placed him far above his contemporaries.’

From these contemporaries we shall select only a few as essential links
in the chain of development. Three men stand out as intermediaries
between Stamitz and the Haydn-Mozart epoch: Johann Schobert, chiefly
in the field of piano music; Luigi Boccherini, especially for stringed
chamber-music; and Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf, for the symphony.
These signalize the ‘cosmopolization’ of the new art; representing, as
it were, its French, Italian, and South German outposts.

Schobert is especially important because of the influence which he and
his colleague Eckard exercised upon Mozart at a very early age.[32]
These two men were the two favorite pianists of Paris _salons_ about
the middle of the century. Chamber music with piano obbligato found
in Schobert one of its first exponents. A composer of agreeable
originality, solid in musicianship, and an unequivocal follower of the
Mannheim school, he must be reckoned as a valiant supporter of the
German sonata as opposed to its lighter Italian sister, though French
characteristics are not by any means lacking in his work.

As one in whom these characteristics predominate we should mention
François Joseph Gossec, familiar to us as the writer of _opéras
comiques_, but also important as a composer of trio-sonatas (of the
usual kind), some for orchestral performance (like those of Stamitz,
_ad lib._), and several real symphonies, all of which are clearly
influenced in manner by Stamitz and the Mannheimers. Gossec was, in a
way, the centre of Paris musical life, for he conducted successively
the private concerts given under the patronage of La Pouplinière,
those of Prince Conti in Chantilly, the _Concert des amateurs_, which
he founded in 1770, and, eventually, the _Concerts spirituels_,
reorganized by him. The _Mercure de France_, in an article on Rameau’s
_Castor et Pollux_, calls Gossec France’s representative musician among
the pioneers of the new style. Contrasting his work with Rameau’s the
critic refers to the latter as being _d’une teneur_ (of one tenor),
while Gossec’s is full of _nuance_ and contrast. This slight digression
will dispose of the ‘Paris school’ for the present; we shall now
proceed to the chief _Italian_ representative of Mannheim principles.

In placing Boccherini before Haydn in our account of the string quartet
we may lay ourselves open to criticism, for Haydn is universally
considered the originator of that form. But, as in almost every case,
the fixing of a new form cannot be ascribed to the efforts of a single
man. Although Haydn’s priority seems established, Boccherini may more
aptly be taken as the starting point, for, while Haydn represents a
more advanced state of development, Boccherini at the outset displays a
far more finished routine.

In principle, the string quartet has existed since the sixteenth
century, when madrigals[33] and _frottole_ written in vocal polyphony
and for vocal execution were adapted to instruments. The greater part
of the polyphonic works of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
was written in four parts, and so were the German _lieder_, French
_chansons_, and Italian _canzonette_, as well as the dance pieces
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In instrumental music
four-part writing has never been superseded, despite the quondam
preference for many voices, and the one hundred and fifty years’ reign
of Figured Bass. But a strictly four-part execution was adhered to
less and less, as orchestral scoring came more and more into vogue for
suite and sonata. Hence the string quartet, when it reappeared, was as
much of a novelty in its way as the accompanied solo song seemed to
be in 1600. _Quartetti_, _sonate a quattro_ and _sinfonie a quattro_
are, indeed, common titles in the early seventeenth century, but their
character is distinctly different from our chamber music; they are
_orchestral_, depending on harmonic thickening and massed chordal
effects, while the peculiar charm of the string quartet depends on
purity and integrity of line in every part, and while, at the same
time, each part is at all times necessary to the harmonic texture.
Thus the string quartet represents a more perfect fusion of the
polyphonic and harmonic ideals than any other type. The exact point of
division between ‘orchestral’ and true quartets cannot, of course, be
determined, though the distinction becomes evident in works of Stamitz
and Gossec, when, in one opus, we find trios or quartets, some of which
are expressly determined for orchestral treatment while others are not.

It is Stamitz’s reform again which ‘loosened the tongue of subjective
expression,’ and, by turning away from fugal treatment, prepared the
way for the true string quartet. Boccherini’s first quartets are
still in reality symphonies; and in Haydn’s early works, too, the
distinction between the two is not clear. Boccherini’s, however, are
so surprisingly full of new forms of figuration, so sophisticated in
dynamic nuances, and so strikingly modern in style that, without the
previous appearance of Stamitz, Boccherini would have to be considered
a true pioneer.

Luigi Boccherini was born in 1743 in Lucca. After appearing in Paris
as ‘cellist he was made court virtuoso to Luiz, infanta of Spain, and
accordingly he settled in Madrid. Frederick William II of Prussia
acknowledged the dedication of a work by conferring the title of court
composer on Boccherini, who then continued to write much for the king
and was rewarded generously, like Haydn and Mozart after him. The
death of his royal patron in 1797 and the loss of his Spanish post
reduced the composer to poverty at an old age (he died 1805). He has
to his credit no less than 91 string quartets, 125 string quintets, 54
string trios and a host of other works, including twenty symphonies,
also cantatas and oratorios. To-day he is neglected, perhaps unjustly,
but in this he shares the fate of all the musicians of his period
who abandoned themselves to the lighter, more elegant _genre_ of
composition.

The relation of Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf to the Mannheim school
is, in the symphonic field, relatively the same as that of Schobert
in regard to the piano, and Boccherini in connection with the string
quartet. Again we must guard against the criticism of detracting
from the glory of Haydn. Both Haydn and Dittersdorf were pioneers in
developing the symphony according to the Mannheim principles, but, of
course, Haydn in his later works represents a more advanced stage, and
will, therefore, more properly receive full treatment in the next
chapter. Ditters probably composed his first orchestral works between
1761 and 1765, while kapellmeister to the bishop of Grosswardein in
Hungary, where he succeeded Michael Haydn (of whom presently). Though
Joseph Haydn’s first symphony (in D-major) had already appeared in
1759, it had as yet none of the ear-marks of the new style.

Ditters was doubtless more broadly educated than most musicians of his
time,[34] and probably in touch with the latest developments, a fact
borne out by his works, which, however, show no material advance over
his models.

These works include, notably, twelve orchestral symphonies on Ovid’s
_Metamorphoses_, besides about one hundred others and innumerable
pieces of chamber music, many of the lighter social _genre_, and
several oratorios, masses, and cantatas. His comic operas have a
special significance and will be mentioned in another connection.
Ditters was more fortunate in honors than material gain. Both the
order of the Golden Spur, which seems to have been a coveted badge of
greatness, and the patent of nobility came to him; but after the death
of his last patron, the prince bishop of Breslau, he was forced to
seek the shelter of a friendly roof, the country estate of Ignaz von
Stillfried in Bohemia, where he died in 1799.

His Vienna colleague, Georg Christian Wagenseil,[35] we may dismiss
with a few words, for, though one of the most fashionable composers
of his time, his compositions have hardly any historic interest--they
lack real individuality. But he was in the line of development under
the Mannheim influence, and he did for the piano concerto what
Schobert did for the sonata--applied to it the newly crystallized
sonata form. His concertos were much in vogue; little Mozart had them
in his prodigy’s repertoire--and no doubt they left at least a trace of
their influence on his wonderfully absorbent mind. Wagenseil enjoyed a
favored existence at court as teacher of the Empress Maria Theresa and
the imperial princesses, with the rank of imperial court composer. The
Latin titles on his publications seem to reflect his somewhat pompous
personality. Pieces in various forms for keyboard predominate, but the
usual quota of string music, church music, and some symphonies are in
evidence. His sixteen operas are a mere trifle in comparison with the
productivity of the period.

* * * * *

Before closing our review of the minor men of the period which had its
climax in the practically simultaneous appearance of Haydn and Mozart,
we must take at least passing notice of two men, the brother of one
and the father of the other, who, by virtue of this close connection,
could not fail to exercise a very direct influence upon their greater
relatives. By a peculiar coincidence these two had one identical scene
of action--the archiepiscopal court of Salzburg, that Alpine fastness
hemmed in by the mountains of Tyrol, Styria, and Bohemia. Hither
Leopold Mozart had come from Augsburg, where he was born in 1719, to
study law at the university; but he soon entered the employ of the
Count of Thurn, canon of the cathedral, as secretary, and subsequently
that of the prince archbishop as court musician, and here he ended his
days at the same court but under another master of a far different
sort. Johann Michael Haydn became his confrère, or rather his superior,
in 1762, having secured the place of archiepiscopal _kapellmeister_,
left vacant by the death of the venerable Eberlin. Before this he had
held a similar but less important post at Grosswardein (Hungary) as
predecessor to Ditters, and, like his slightly older brother Joseph,
had begun his career as chorister in St. Stephen’s in Vienna.

Salzburg had always been one of the foremost cities of Europe in its
patronage of musical art. Not only the reigning prelates, but people
of every station cultivated it. At this time it held many musicians
of talent; and its court concerts as well as the elaborate musical
services at the cathedral and the abbey of St. Peter’s, the oratorios
and the occasional performances under university auspices contributed
to the creation of a real musical atmosphere. The old Archbishop
Sigismund, whose death came only too soon, must, in spite of the elder
Mozart’s misgivings on the subject, have been a liberal, appreciative
patron, for the interminable leaves of absence, for artistic and
commercial purposes, required by both father and son were sufficient to
try the patience of anyone less understanding. Leopold’s chief merit
to the world was the education of his son, for the sake of which he
is said to have sacrificed all other opportunities as pedagogue. His
talents in that direction were considerable, as his pioneer ‘Violin
method’ (1756) attests. It experienced several editions, also in
translations, some even posthumous. His compositions, through the
agency of which his great son first received the influence of Mannheim,
were copious but of mediocre value. Nevertheless, their formal
correctness and sound musicianship were most salutary examples for the
emulation of young Wolfgang. Leopold had the good sense to abandon
composition as soon as he became aware of his son’s genius and to bend
every effort to its development. The elder Mozart received the title
of court composer and the post of _vice-kapellmeister_ under Michael
Haydn, when the latter came to Salzburg.

Michael Haydn’s career in Salzburg was a most honorable one. It placed
him in a state of dignity which, though eminently gratifying, was
less calculated to rouse inspiration and ambition than the stormier
career of his greater brother. Notwithstanding this fact, he has left
something like twenty-eight masses, two requiems, 114 graduals, 66
offertories, and much other miscellaneous church music; songs, choruses
(the earliest four-part _a capella_ songs for men’s voices); thirty
symphonies (not to be compared in value to his brother’s), and numerous
smaller instrumental pieces! But a peculiar form of modesty which made
him averse to seeing his works in print confined his influence largely
to local limits. It is a most fortunate fact that within these limits
it fell upon so fertile a ground. For young Mozart was most keen in his
observation of Haydn’s work, appreciated its value and received the
first of those valuable lessons that the greater Joseph taught him in
this roundabout fashion.

C. S.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] History of German Literature (1907).

[23] ‘The Emperor Joseph, who objected to Haydn’s “tricks and
nonsense,” requested Dittersdorf in 1786 to draw a parallel between
Haydn’s and Mozart’s chamber music. Dittersdorf answered by requesting
the Emperor in his turn to draw a parallel between Klopstock and
Gellert; whereupon Joseph replied that both were great poets, but that
Klopstock must be read repeatedly in order to understand his beauties,
whereas Gellert’s beauties lay plainly exposed to the first glance.
Dittersdorf’s analogy of Mozart with Klopstock, Haydn with Gellert (!),
was readily accepted by the Emperor.’ Cf. Otto Jahn: ‘Life of Mozart,’
Vol. III.

[24] Johann Friedrich Fasch (1688-1758) was, according to Riemann, the
first to introduce this contrast. He was one of the most interesting of
the minor composers of Bach’s time. Cf. Riemann’s _Collegium Musicum_,
No. 10.

[25] His compositions were chiefly for that instrument, and he achieved
lasting merit with his _Anweisung die Flöte traversière zu spielen_
(1752). He was born in 1697 and died in 1773.

[26] Surette and Mason: ‘The Appreciation of Music.’

[27] He was music master to the queen and in a way entered upon the
heritage of Handel.

[28] For further details concerning the Mannheim orchestra we refer the
reader to Vol. VIII, Chap. II.

[29] The _Concerts spirituels_, founded in 1725 by Philidor, were so
called because they were held on church holidays, when theatres were
closed. Mouret, Thuret, Royer, Mendonville, d’Auvergne, Gaviniès, and
Le Gros succeeded Philidor in conducting them till the revolution
in 1791 brought them to an end. Another series of concerts, though
private, is important for us here, because of its early acceptance of
Mannheim principles. This was inaugurated by a wealthy land owner, La
Pouplinière, who had been an enthusiastic protector of Rameau. ‘It
was he,’ said Gossec, ‘who first introduced the use of horns at his
concerts, _following the counsel of the celebrated Johann Stamitz_.’
This was about 1748, and in 1754 Stamitz himself visited the orchestra,
after which Gossec became its conductor and developed the new style.

[30] Riemann cites Scheibe in the _Kritische Musikus_ to the effect
that symphonies with drums and trumpets (or horns) were already common
in 1754, but we may safely assume that they were not symphonies in
our sense--orchestral sonatas--for it must be recalled that the
word _Sinfonia_ was applied to pieces of various kinds, from a
note-against-note canzona (seventeenth century) to interludes in
operas, oratorios, etc., and more especially to the Italian operatic
overture as distinguished from the French. The German dance-suite,
too, from 1650 on, had a first movement called _Sinfonia_, which
was superseded by the overture (in the French style) soon after. In
the early eighteenth century the prevailing orchestral piece was an
_overture_, usually modelled after the Italian Sinfonia. Not this,
indeed, but the chamber-sonata was the real forerunner of the symphony,
as our text has just shown.

[31] _Handbuch der Musikgeschichte_, II². We are indebted to Riemann
for this entire question of Stamitz, whose findings are the result of
very recent researches.

[32] The first four piano concertos ascribed to Mozart in Koechel’s
catalogue have now been proved to be merely studies based on Schobert’s
sonatas. Cf. T. de Wyzewa et G. de St. Foix: _Un maître inconnu de
Mozart_.

[33] The majority of madrigals were, however, written in five parts.

[34] This education he owed to the magnanimity of Prince Joseph of
Hildburghausen, whom in his youth he attended as page. In 1761 the
prince secured him a place in the Vienna court orchestra which he held
till his engagement in Grosswardein.

[35] Born, Vienna, 1715; died there 1777.

CHAPTER III
THE VIENNESE CLASSICS: HAYDN AND MOZART

Social aspects of the classic period; Vienna, its court and its
people--Joseph Haydn--Haydn’s work; the symphony; the string
quartet--Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart--Mozart’s style; Haydn and Mozart;
the perfection of orchestral style--Mozart and the opera; the
Requiem; the mission of Haydn and Mozart.

We have prefaced the last chapter with a review of the political and
literary forces leading up to the classic period. A brief survey
of social conditions may similarly aid the reader in supplying
a background to the important characters of this period and the
circumstances of their careers. First, we shall avail ourselves of
the picturesque account given by George Henry Lewes in his ‘Life
of Goethe.’ ‘Remember,’ he says, ‘that we are in the middle of the
eighteenth century. The French Revolution is as yet only gathering
its forces together; nearly twenty years must elapse before the storm
breaks. The chasm between that time and our own is vast and deep. Every
detail speaks of it. To begin with science--everywhere the torch of
civilization--it is enough to say that chemistry did not then exist.
Abundant materials, indeed, existed, but that which makes a science,
viz., the power of _prevision_ based on _quantitative_ knowledge, was
still absent; and alchemy maintained its place among the conflicting
hypotheses of the day.... This age, so incredulous in religion, was
credulous in science. In spite of all the labors of the encyclopedists,
in spite of all the philosophic and religious “enlightenment,” in
spite of Voltaire and La Mettrie, it was possible for Count St. Germain
and Cagliostro to delude thousands; and Casanova found a dupe in the
Marquise d’Urfé, who believed he could restore her youth and make
the moon impregnate her![36] It was in 1774 that Messmer astonished
Vienna with his marvels of mystic magnetism. The secret societies of
Freemasons and Illuminati, mystic in their ceremonies and chimerical
in their hopes--now in quest of the philosopher’s stone, now in quest
of the perfectibility of mankind--a mixture of religious, political,
and mystical reveries, flourished in all parts of Germany, and in all
circles.

‘With science in so imperfect a condition we are sure to find a
corresponding poverty in material comfort and luxury. High-roads, for
example, were only found in certain parts of Germany; Prussia had no
_chaussée_ till 1787. Mile-stones were unknown, although finger-posts
existed. Instead of facilitating the transit of travellers, it was
thought good political economy to obstruct them, for the longer they
remained the more money they spent in the country. A century earlier
stage coaches were known in England; but in Germany public conveyances
were few and miserable; nothing but open carts with unstuffed seats.
Diligences on springs were unknown before 1800,’ ... and we have the
word of Burney and of Mozart that travel by post was nothing short of
torture![37]

If we examine into the manners, customs, and tastes of the period
we are struck with many apparently absurd contradictions. Men whose
nature, bred in generations of fighting, was brutal in its very
essence outwardly affected a truly inordinate love of ceremony and
lavish splendor. The same dignitaries who discussed for hours the
fine distinctions of official precedence, or the question whether
princes of the church should sit in council on green seats or red, like
the secular potentates, would use language and display manners the
coarseness of which is no longer tolerated except in the lowest spheres
of society. While indulging in the grossest vulgarities and even vices,
and while committing the most wanton cruelties, this race of petty
tyrants expended thousands upon the glitter and tinsel with which they
thought to dazzle the eyes of their neighbors. While this is more true
of the seventeenth than of the eighteenth century, and while Europe was
undergoing momentous changes, conditions were after all not greatly
improved in the period of Haydn and Mozart. The graceful Italian
melody which reigned supreme at the Viennese court, or the glitter
of its rococo salons, found a striking note of contrast in the broad
dialect of Maria Theresa and the ‘boiled bacon and water’ of Emperor
Joseph’s diet. A stronger paradox than the brocade and ruffled lace of
a courtier’s dress and the coarse behavior of its wearer could hardly
be found.

The great courts of Europe, Versailles, Vienna, etc., were imitated
at the lesser capitals in every detail, as far as the limits of the
princes’ purses permitted. As George Henry Lewes says of Weimar, ‘these
courts but little corresponded with those conceptions of grandeur,
magnificence, or historical or political importance with which the name
of court is usually associated. But, just as in gambling the feelings
are agitated less by the greatness of the stake than by the variations
of fortune, so, in social gambling of court intrigue, there is the
same ambition and agitation, whether the green cloth be an empire or
a duchy. Within its limits Saxe-Weimar, for instance, displayed all
that an imperial court displays in larger proportions. It had its
ministers, its chamberlains, pages, and sycophants. Court favor and
disgrace elevated and depressed as if they had been imperial smiles or
autocratic frowns. A standing army of six hundred men, with cavalry of
fifty hussars, had its war department, with war minister, secretary,
and clerk. Lest this appear too ridiculous,’ Lewes adds that ‘one of
the small German princes kept a corps of hussars, which consisted of a
colonel, six officers and two privates!’ Similarly every prince, great
or petty, gathered about him, for his greater glory, the disciples of
the graceful arts. Not a count, margrave, or bishop but had in his
retinue his court musicians, his organists, his court composer, his
band and choir, all of whom were attached to their master by ties of
virtually feudal servitude, whose social standing was usually on a
level with domestic servants and who were often but wretchedly paid. We
have had occasion to refer to a number of the more important centres,
such as Berlin, where Frederick the Great had Johann Quantz, Franz
Benda, and Emanuel Bach as musical mentors; Dresden, where Augustus
the Third had Hasse and Porpora;[38] Stuttgart, where Karl Eugen gave
Jommelli a free hand; Mannheim, where Karl Theodor gathered about him
that genial band of musical reformers with Stamitz at their head; and
Salzburg, where Archbishop Sigismund maintained Michael Haydn, Leopold
Mozart, and many another talented musician.

As for the greater courts, they became the _nuclei_ for aggregations
of men of genius, to many of whom the world owes an everlasting
debt of gratitude, but who often received insufficient payment,
and who, in some cases, even suffered indignities at the hands of
their masters which are calculated to rouse the anger of an admiring
posterity. London and Paris were, of course, as they had been for
generations, the most brilliant centres--the most liberal and the
richest in opportunities for musicians of talent or enterprise. At
the period of which we speak the court of George II (and later George
III) harbored Johann Christian Bach, Carl Friedrich Abel, and Pietro
Domenico Paradies; at the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette
Rameau was in his last years, while Gluck and Piccini were the objects
of violent controversy, while Philidor, Monsigny, and Grétry were
delighting audiences with _opéra comique_, and while a valiant number
of instrumentalists, like Gossec, Gaviniès, Schobert, and Eckhard, were
building up a French outpost of classicism. Capitals which had but
recently attained international significance, like Stockholm and St.
Petersburg, assiduously emulated the older ones; at the former, for
instance, Gustavus III patronized Naumann, and at the latter Catherine
II entertained successively Galuppi, Traetto, Paesiello, and Sarti.

But Vienna was now the musical capital of Europe. It was the
concentrated scene of action where all the chief musical issues of the
day were fought out. There the Mannheim school had its continuation,
soon after its inception; there Haydn and Mozart found their greatest
inspiration--as Beethoven and Schubert did after them--it remained the
citadel of musical Germany, whose supremacy was now fairly established.
It is significant that Burney, in writing the results of his musical
investigations on the continent, devotes one volume each to Italy
and France but two to Germany, notwithstanding his strong Italian
sympathies. However, the reason for this is partly the fact that
Germany was to an Englishman still somewhat of a wilderness, and that
the writer felt it incumbent upon him to give some general details of
the condition of the country. We can do no better than quote some of
his observations upon Vienna in order to familiarize the reader with
the principal characters of the drama for which it was the stage.[39]

After describing the approach to the city, which reminds him of Venice,
and his troubles at the customs, where his books were ‘even more
scrupulously read than at the inquisition of Bologna,’ he continues:
‘The streets are rendered doubly dark and dirty by their narrowness,
and by the extreme height of the houses; but, as these are chiefly
of white stone and in a uniform, elegant style of architecture, in
which the Italian taste prevails, _as well as in music_, there is
something grand and magnificent in their appearance which is very
striking; and even those houses which have shops on the ground floor
seem like palaces above. Indeed, the whole town and its suburbs appear
at the first glance to be composed of palaces rather than of common
habitations.’

Now for the life of the city. ‘The diversions of the common people
... are such as seem hardly fit for a civilized and polished nation
to allow. Particularly the combats, as they are called, or baiting
of wild beasts, in a manner much more savage and ferocious than our
bull-baiting, etc.’ The better class, of course, found its chief
amusement in the theatres, but the low level of much of this amusement
may be judged from the fact that rough horse-play was almost necessary
to the success of a piece. Shortly before Burney’s visit the customary
premiums for actors who would ‘voluntarily submit to be kicked and
cuffed’ were abolished, with the result that theatres went bankrupt
‘because of the insufferable dullness and inactivity of the actors.’
By a mere chance Burney witnessed a performance of Lessing’s _Emilia
Galotti_, which as a play shocked his sensibilities, but he speaks in
admiring terms of the orchestra, which played ‘overtures and act-tunes’
by Haydn, Hoffman, and Vanhall. At another theatre the pieces were so
full of invention that it seemed to be music of some other world.

Musically, also, the mass at St. Stephen’s impressed him very much:
‘There were violins and violoncellos, though it was not a festival,’
and boys whose voices ‘had been well cultivated.’ At night, in the
court of his inn, two poor scholars sang ‘in pleasing harmony,’ and
later ‘a band of these singers performed through the streets a kind of
glees in three and four parts.’ ‘Soldiers and common people,’ he says,
‘frequently sing in parts, too,’ and he is forced to the conclusion
that ‘this whole country is certainly very musical.’

Through diplomatic influence our traveller is introduced to the
Countess Thun (afterwards Mozart’s patron), ‘a most agreeable lady of
very high rank, who, among other talents, possesses as great skill
in music as any person of distinction I ever knew; she plays the
harpsichord with that grace, ease, and delicacy which nothing but
female fingers can arrive at.’ Forthwith he meets ‘the admirable poet
Metastasio, and the no less admirable musician Hasse,’ as well as his
wife, Faustina, both very aged; also ‘the chevalier Gluck, one of the
most extraordinary geniuses of this, or perhaps any, age or nation,’
who plays him his _Iphigénie_, just completed, while his niece, Mlle.
Marianne Gluck, sang ‘in so exquisite a manner that I could not
conceive it possible for any vocal performance to be more perfect.’
He hears music by ‘M. Hoffman, an excellent composer of instrumental
music’; by Vanhall, whom he meets and whose pieces ‘afforded me such
uncommon pleasure that I should not hesitate to rank them among the
most complete and perfect compositions for many instruments which the
art of music can boast(!)’; also some ‘exquisite quartets by Haydn,
executed in the utmost perfection’; and he attends a comic opera by
‘Signor Salieri, a scholar of M. Gassman,’ at which the imperial
family was present, his imperial majesty being extremely attentive
‘and applauding very much.’[40] ‘His imperial majesty’ was, of course,
Joseph II, who we know played the violoncello, and was, in Burney’s
words, ‘just musical enough for a sovereign prince.’ The entire
imperial family was musical, and the court took its tone from it. All
the great houses of the nobility--Lichtenstein, Lobkowitz, Auersperg,
Fürnberg, Morzin--maintained their private bands or chamber musicians.
Our amusing informant, in concluding his account of musical Vienna,
says: ‘Indeed, Vienna is so rich in composers and incloses within its
walls such a number of musicians of superior merit that it is but just
to allow it to be among German cities the imperial seat of music as
well as of power.’

It need hardly be repeated that Italian style was still preferred by
the society of the period, just as Italian manners and language were
affected by the nobility. Italian was actually the language of the
court, and how little German was respected is seen from the fact that
Metastasio, the man of culture _par excellence_, though living in
Vienna through the greater part of his life, spoke it ‘just enough to
keep himself alive.’ Haydn, like many others, Italianized his name to
‘Giuseppe’ and Mozart signed himself frequently Wolfgango Amadeo Mozart!

This, then, is the city in which Haydn and Mozart were to meet for the
first time just one year after Burney’s account. Though the first was
the other’s senior by twenty-four years their great creative periods
are virtually simultaneous. They date, in fact, from this meeting,
which marks the beginning of their influence upon each other and their
mutual and constant admiration. Both already had brilliant careers
behind them as performers and composers, and it becomes our duty now to
give separate accounts of these careers.

C. S.

II
JOSEPH HAYDN

The boundaries of Hungary, the home of one of the most musical peoples
of the world, lies only about thirty miles from Vienna. Here, it is
said, in every two houses will be found three violins and a lute. Men
and women sing at their work; children are reared in poverty and song.
In such a community, in the village of Rohrau, near the border line
between Austria and Hungary, lived Matthias Haydn, wagoner and parish
sexton, with Elizabeth, his wife. They were simple peasant people,
probably partly Croatian in blood, with rather more intelligence than
their neighbors. After his work was done Matthias played the harp and
Elizabeth sang, gathering the children about her to share in the simple
recreation. Franz Joseph, the second of these children, born March 31,
1732, gave signs of special musical intelligence, marking the time and
following his mother in a sweet, childish voice at a very early age.
When he was six he was put in the care of a relative named Frankh,
living in Hainburg, for instruction in violin and harpsichord playing,
and in singing. Frankh seems to have been pretty rough with the
youngster, but his instruction must have been good as far as it went,
for two years later he was noticed by Reutter, chapel master at St.
Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, and allowed to enter the choir school.

Reutter was considered a great musician in his day--he was ennobled in
1740--but he did not distinguish himself by kind treatment of little
Joseph, who was poorly clad, half starved, and indifferently taught.
The boy, however, seems, even at this early age, to have had a definite
idea of what he wanted, and doggedly pursued his own path. He got what
instruction he could from the masters of the school, purchased two
heavy and difficult works on thoroughbass and counterpoint, spent play
hours in practice on his clavier, and filled reams of paper with notes.
He afterwards said that he remembered having two lessons from von
Reutter in ten years. When he was seventeen years old his voice broke,
and, being of no further service to the chapel master, he was turned
out of the school on a trivial pretext.

The period that followed was one that even the sweet-natured man must
sometimes have wished to forget. He was without money or friends--or at
least so he thought--and it is said he spent the night after leaving
school in wandering about the streets of the city. Unknown to himself,
however, the little singer at the cathedral had made friends, and with
one of the humbler of these he found a temporary home. Another good
Viennese lent him one hundred and fifty florins--a debt which Haydn not
only soon paid, but remembered for sixty years, as an item in his will
shows. He soon got a few pupils, played the violin at wedding festivals
and the like, and kept himself steadily at the study of composition. He
obtained the clavier sonatas of Emanuel Bach and mastered their style
so thoroughly that the composer afterward sent him word that he alone
had fully mastered his writings and learned to use them.

At twenty Haydn wrote his first mass, and at about the same time
received a considerable sum for composing the music to a comic opera.
He exchanged his cold attic for a more comfortable loft which happened
to be in the same house in which the great Metastasio lived. The poet
was impressed by Haydn’s gifts and obtained for him the position of
music master in an important Spanish family, resident in Vienna.

In this way, step by step, the fortunes of the young enthusiast
improved. He made acquaintances among musical folk, and occasionally
found himself in the company of men who had mounted much higher on
the professional ladder than himself. One of these was Porpora,
already successful and of international fame. Porpora was at that time
singing master in the household of Correr, the Venetian ambassador at
Vienna, and he proposed that Haydn should act as his accompanist and
incidentally profit by so close an acquaintance with his ‘method.’
Thus Haydn was included in the ambassador’s suite when they went to
the baths of Mannersdorf, on the border of Hungary. At the soirées
and entertainments of the grandees at Mannersdorf Haydn met some of
the well-known musicians of the time--Bonno, Wagenseil, Gluck, and
Ditters--becoming warmly attached to the last-named. His progress in
learning Porpora’s method, however, was not so satisfactory. The mighty
man had no time for the obscure one; the difficulty was obvious. But
Haydn, as always, knew what he wanted and did not hesitate to make
himself useful to Porpora in order to get the instruction he needed.
He was young and had no false pride about being fag to a great man for
a purpose. His good-natured services won the master over; and so Haydn
was brought into direct connection with the great exponent of Italian
methods and ideas.

In 1755 he wrote his first quartet, being encouraged by a wealthy
amateur, von Fürnberg, who, at his country home, had frequent
performances of chamber music. Haydn visited Fürnberg and became
so interested in the composition of chamber music that he produced
eighteen quartets during that and the following year. About this time
he became acquainted with the Count and Countess Thun, cultivated and
enthusiastic amateurs, whose names are remembered also in connection
with Mozart, Gluck, and Beethoven. Haydn instructed the Countess Thun
both in harpsichord playing and in singing, and was well paid for his
services.

The same Fürnberg that drew the attention of Haydn to the composition
of string quartets also recommended him to his first patron, Count
Morzin, for the position of chapel master and composer at his private
estate in Bohemia, near Pilsen. It was there, in 1759, that Haydn wrote
his first symphony. He received a salary of about one hundred dollars a
year, with board and lodging. With this munificent income he decided to
marry, even though the rules of his patron permitted no married men in
his employ.

Haydn’s choice had settled on the youngest daughter of a wig-maker of
Vienna named Keller; but the girl, for some unknown reason, decided to
take the veil. In his determination not to lose so promising a young
man, the wig-maker persuaded the lover to take the eldest daughter,
Maria Anna, instead of the lost one. The marriage was in every way
unfortunate. Maria Anna was a heartless scold, selfish and extravagant,
who, as her husband said, cared not a straw whether he was an artist
or a shoemaker. Haydn soon gave up all attempts to live with her,
though he supplied her with a competence. She lived for forty years
after their marriage, and shortly before she died wrote to Haydn, then
in London, for a considerable sum of money with which to buy a small
house, ‘as it was a very suitable place for a widow.’ For once Haydn
refused both the direct and the implied request, neither sending her
the money nor making her a widow. He outlived her, in fact, by nine
years, purchased the house himself after his last visit to London and
spent there the remainder of his life.

To go back, however, to his professional career. Count Morzin was
unfortunately soon obliged to disband his players and the change that
consequently occurred was one of the important crises of Haydn’s life.
He was appointed second chapel master to Prince Anton Esterhàzy, a
Hungarian nobleman, whose seat was at Eisenstadt. Here Haydn was to
spend the next thirty years, here the friendships and pleasures of his
mature life were to lie, and here his genius was to ripen.

The Esterhàzy band comprised sixteen members at the time of Haydn’s
arrival, all of them excellent performers. Their enthusiasm and support
did much to stimulate the new chapel master, even as his arrival
infused a new spirit into the concerts. The first chapel master,
Werner, a good contrapuntal scholar, took the privilege of age and
scoffed at Haydn’s new ideas, calling him a ‘mere fop.’ The fact that
they got on fairly well together is surely a tribute to Haydn’s good
nature and genuine humbleness of spirit. The old prince soon died,
being succeeded by his brother, Prince Nicolaus. When Werner died some
five years later Haydn became sole director. Prince Nicolaus increased
the orchestra and lent to Haydn all the support of a sympathetic lover
of music, as well as princely generosity. He prepared for himself a
magnificent residence, with parks, lakes, gardens, and hunting courses,
at Esterhàz, where royal entertainments were constantly in progress.
Daily concerts were given, besides operas and special performances for
all sorts of festivals. The seclusion of the country was occasionally
exchanged for brief visits to Vienna. In 1773 the Empress Maria
Theresa--she who, as Electoral Princess, had studied singing with
Porpora--was entertained at Esterhàz and heard the first performance
of the symphony which bears her name. In 1780 Haydn wrote, for the
opening of a new theatre at Esterhàz, an opera which was also performed
before royalty at Vienna. He composed the ‘Last Seven Words’ in 1785,
and in the same year Mozart dedicated to him six quartets in terms of
affectionate admiration.

By the death of Prince Nicolaus, in 1790, Haydn lost not only a patron
but a friend whom he sincerely loved. His life at Esterhàz was, on
the other hand, full of work and conscientious activity in conducting
rehearsals, preparing for performances, and in writing new music. On
the other hand, it was curiously restricted in scope, isolated from
general society, and detached from all the artistic movements of
his period. His relations with the prince were genial and friendly,
apparently quite unruffled by discord. Esterhàzy, though very much the
grandee, was indulgent, and not only allowed his chapel master much
freedom in his art, but also recognized and respected his genius. The
system of patronage never produced a happier example of the advantages
and pleasures to be gained by both patron and follower; but, after
all, a comment of Mr. Hadow seems most pertinent to the situation:
‘It is worthy of remark that the greatest musician ever fostered by
a systematic patronage was the one over whose character patronage
exercised the least control.’ It is Haydn, of course, who is the
subject of this remark.

There was, at that time, an enterprising violinist and concert
manager, Johann Peter Salomon, travelling on the continent in quest of
‘material’ for his next London season. As soon as news of the death
of Prince Nicolaus reached Salomon, he started for Vienna with the
determination to take Haydn back with him to London. Former proposals
for a season in London had always been ignored by Haydn, who considered
himself bound not to abandon his prince. Now that he was free,
Salomon’s persuasions were successful. Haydn, nearly sixty years of
age, undertook his first long journey, embarking on the ocean he had
never before seen, and going among a people whose language he did not
know. He was under contract to supply Salomon with six new symphonies.

They reached London early in the year 1791, and Haydn took lodgings,
which seemed very costly to his thrifty mind, with Salomon at 18
Great Pulteney street. The concerts took place from March till May,
Salomon leading the orchestra, which consisted of thirty-five or forty
performers, while Haydn conducted from the pianoforte. The enterprise
was an immediate success. Haydn’s symphonies happened to hit the
taste of the time, and his fame as composer was supplemented by great
personal popularity. People of the highest rank called upon him, poets
celebrated him in verse, and crowds flocked to the concerts.

Heretofore Haydn’s audiences had usually consisted of a small number
of people whose musical tastes were well cultivated but often
conventional; now he was eagerly listened to by larger and more
heterogeneous crowds, whose enthusiasm reacted happily upon the
composer. He wrote not only the six symphonies for the subscription
concerts, but a number of other works--divertimenti for concerted
instruments, a nocturne, string quartets, a clavier trio, songs, and a
cantata--and was much in demand for other concerts. At the suggestion
of Dr. Burney, the University of Oxford conferred upon him the degree
of Doctor of Music. The prince of Wales invited him to visit at one
of the royal residences; his portrait was painted by famous artists;
everybody wished to do him honor. The directors of the professional
concerts tried to induce him to break his engagements with Salomon,
but, failing in this, they engaged a former pupil of Haydn’s, Ignaz
Pleyel from Strassburg, and the two musicians conducted rival
concerts. The rivalry, however, was wholly friendly, so far as Haydn
and his pupil were concerned. He visited Windsor and the races, and was
present at the Handel commemoration in Westminster Abbey, where he was
much impressed by a magnificent performance of ‘The Messiah.’

After a stay of a year and a half in London Haydn returned to Vienna,
travelling by way of Bonn, where he met Beethoven, who afterward came
to him for instruction. Arriving in Vienna in July, 1792, he met with
an enthusiastic reception. Early in 1794 Salomon induced him, under
a similar contract, to make another journey to London, and to supply
six new works for the subscription concerts. Again Haydn carried all
before him. The new symphonies gained immediate favor; the former set
was repeated, and many pieces of lesser importance were performed. The
famous virtuosi, Viotti and Dussek, took part in the benefits for Haydn
and Salomon. Haydn was again distinguished by the court, receiving
even an invitation to spend the summer at Windsor, which he declined.
In every respect the London visits were a brilliant success, securing
a competence for Haydn’s old age, additional fame, and a number of
warm personal friendships whose memory delighted him throughout the
remaining years of his life.

On his return to Vienna fresh honors awaited the master, who was never
again to travel far from home. During his absence a monument and bust
of himself had been placed in a little park at Rohrau, his native
village. Upon being conducted to the place by his friends he was much
affected, and afterwards accompanied the party to the modest house in
which he was born, where, overcome with emotion, he knelt and kissed
the threshold. In Vienna concerts were arranged for the production of
the London symphonies, and many new works were planned. One of the
most interesting of these was the ‘National Hymn,’ composed in 1797,
to words written by the poet Hauschka. On the birthday of the Emperor
Franz II the air was sung simultaneously at the National Theatre in
Vienna and at all the principal theatres in the provinces. Haydn also
used the hymn as the basis of one of the movements in the Kaiser
Quartet, No. 77.

The opportunity afforded Haydn in London of becoming more familiar with
the work of Handel had a striking effect upon his genius, turning it
toward the composition of oratorios. His reputation was high, but it
was destined to soar still higher. Through Salomon, Haydn had received
a modified version of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’ compiled by Lidley.
This, translated into German by van Swieten, formed the libretto of
‘The Creation,’ composed by Haydn in a spirit of great humbleness
and piety. It was first performed in Vienna in 1798 and immediately
produced a strong impression, the audience, as well as the composer,
being deeply moved. Choral societies were established for the express
purpose of giving it, rival societies in London performed it during the
season of 1800, and it long enjoyed a popularity scarcely less than
that of ‘The Messiah.’ Even with this important work his energy was
not dulled. Within a short time after the completion of ‘The Creation’
he composed another oratorio, ‘The Seasons,’ to words adapted from
Thomson’s poem. This also sprang into immediate favor, and at the time
of its production, at least, gained quite as much popularity as ‘The
Creation.’

But the master’s strength was failing. After ‘The Seasons’ he wrote but
little, chiefly vocal quartets and arrangements of Welsh and Scottish
airs. On his seventy-third birthday Mozart’s little son Wolfgang, aged
fourteen, composed a cantata in his honor and came to him for his
blessing. Many old friends sought out the aged man, now sick and often
melancholy, and paid him highest honors. His last public appearance
was in March, 1808, at a performance of ‘The Creation’ at the
university in Vienna, conducted by Salieri. Overcome with fatigue and
emotion Haydn was carried home after the performance of the first part,
receiving as he departed the respectful homage of many distinguished
people, among whom was Beethoven. From that time his strength waned,
and, on May 31, 1809, he breathed his last. He was buried in a
churchyard near his home; but, in 1820, at the command of Prince Anton
Esterhàzy, his body was removed to the parish church at Eisenstadt,
where so many years of his tranquil life had been spent.

It is of no small value to consider Haydn the man, before even Haydn
the musician, for many of the qualities which made him so respected
and beloved as a man were the bedrock upon which his genius was built.
There was little of the obviously romantic in his life, nearly all of
which was spent within a radius of thirty miles; but it glows with
kindness, good temper, and sterling integrity. He was loyal to his
emperor and his church; thrifty, generous to less fortunate friends
and needy relatives, generous, also, with praise and appreciation.
Industrious and methodical in his habits, he yet loved a jest or a
harmless bit of fooling. He was droll and sunny tempered, modest in his
estimate of himself, but possessing at the same time a proper knowledge
of his powers. He was not beglamored by the favor of princes; and,
while steadfast in the pursuit of his mission, seemed, nevertheless, to
have been without ambition, in the usual sense, even as he was without
malice, avarice, or impatience. Good health and good humor were the
accompaniment of a gentle, healthy piety. These qualities caused him
to be beloved in his lifetime; and they rank him, as a man, forever
apart from the long list of geniuses whose lives have been torn asunder
by passions, by undue sensitiveness, by excesses, or overweening
ambition--all that is commonly understood by ‘temperament.’ The flame
of Haydn’s temperament burned clearly and steadily, even if less
intensely; and the record of his life causes a thrill of satisfaction
for his uniform and consistent rightness, his few mistakes.

It remains now to consider the nature of the service rendered by this
remarkable man to his art, through the special types of composition
indissolubly connected with his name. These are the symphony and the
quartet.

III

The early history of the development of the symphony is essentially
that of the development of the sonata, which we have described in
the last chapter. When Joseph Haydn actually came upon the scene
as composer, the term symphony, or ‘sinfonia,’ had been applied to
compositions for orchestra, though these pieces bore little resemblance
to modern productions. They were usually written in three movements,
two of them being rather quick and lively, with a slow one between, and
were scored for eight parts--four strings, two oboes or two flutes, and
two ‘cors de chasse,’ or horns. Often the flutes or oboes were used
simply to reinforce the strings, while the horns sustained the harmony.
The figured bass was still in use, often transferred, however, to the
viol di gamba, and the director used the harpsichord. The treatment
of the parts was still crude and stiff, showing little feeling for
the tone color of the instruments, balancing of parts, or variety of
treatment.

The internal structure, also, was still very uncertain. The first
movement, now usually written in strict sonata form, did not then
uniformly contain the two contrasting themes, nor the codas and
episodes of the modern schools; and the working-out section and
recapitulation were seldom clearly defined. Even in the poorest
examples, however, the sonata scheme was generally vaguely present;
and in the best often definitely marked. We must not lose sight,
however, of the epoch-making work of Stamitz and his associates at
Mannheim, both in the fixing of symphonic form and the advancement of
instrumental technique. Stamitz’s Opus I appeared, it will be recalled,
in 1751; Dittersdorf’s emulation of the Mannheim symphonies began about
1761. The intervening decade was a period of experiment and constant
improvement. Haydn, though his first symphony, composed in 1759, showed
none of the new influence, must have been cognizant of the advance.

Haydn’s first symphony, written when he was twenty-seven, is described
by Pohl as being a ‘small work in three movements, for two violins,
viola, bass, two hautboys, and two horns; cheerful and unpretending
in character.’ From this time on his experiments in the symphonic
form were continuous, and more than one hundred examples are credited
to him. He was so situated as to be able to test his work by actual
performance. To this fortunate circumstance may be attributed the fact
that he made great improvements in orchestration, and that he gained
steadily in clearness of outline, variety of treatment, and enlargement
of ideas.

In five years Haydn composed thirty symphonies, besides many other
pieces. His reputation spread far beyond the bounds of Austria, and
the official gazette of Vienna called him ‘our national favorite.’ His
seclusion furthered his originality and versatility, and his history
seems a singularly marked example of growth from within, rather than
growth according to the currents of contemporary taste. By 1790 the
number of symphonies had reached one hundred and ten, and the steps
of his development can be clearly traced. There are traces of the
old traditions in the doubling of the parts, sometimes throughout an
entire movement; in the neglect of the wind instruments, sometimes for
the entire adagio; and in long solo passages for bassoon or flute.
Such peculiarities mark most of the symphonies up to 1790. Among these
crudities, however, are signs of a steady advance in other respects. In
the all-important first movement he more and more gave the second theme
its rights, felt for new ways of developing the themes themselves,
and elaborated the working-out section. The coda began to make its
appearance, and the figured bass was abandoned. He established the
practice of inserting the minuet between the slow movement and the
finale, thus setting the example for the usual modern practice. The
middle strings and wind instruments gradually grew more independent,
the musical ideas more cultivated and refined, his orchestration
clearer and more buoyant. His work is cheerful and gay, showing solid
workmanship, sometimes deep emotion, rarely poetry. Under his hands the
symphony, as an art form, gained stability, strength, and a technical
perfection which was to carry the deeper message of later years, and
the message of the great symphonic writers who followed him.

During Haydn’s comparative solitude at Eisenstadt, however, a wonderful
youth had come into the European musical world, had absorbed with the
facility of genius everything that musical science had to offer, had
learned from Haydn what could be done with the symphony as he had
learned from Gluck what could be done with opera, and had outshone and
outdistanced every composer living at the time. What Haydn was able
to give to Mozart was rendered back to him with abundant interest.
Mozart made use of a richer and more flexible orchestration, achieved
greater beauty and poignancy of expression; and Haydn, while retaining
his individuality, still shows marked traces of this noble influence.
The early works of Haydn were far in advance of his time, and were
highly regarded; but they do not reveal the complete artist, and they
have been almost entirely superseded in public favor by the London
symphonies, composed after Mozart’s death. In these he reaches heights
he had never before attained, not only in the high degree of technical
skill, but in the flood of fresh and genial ideas, and in new,
impressive harmonic progressions. The method of orchestration is much
bolder and freer. The parts are rarely doubled, the bass and viola have
their individual work, the parts for the wind instruments are better
suited to their character, and greater attention is paid to musical
nuances. In these last works Haydn arrived at that ‘spiritualization of
music’ which makes the art a vehicle not only for intellectual ideas,
but for deep and earnest emotion.

Parallel with the growth of the symphonic form and its variety of
treatment came also a real growth of the orchestra. The organization
of 1750, consisting of four strings and four wind instruments, had
become, in 1791, a group of thirty-five or forty pieces, consisting of,
besides the strings, two flutes, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns,
two trumpets and drums. To these were sometimes added clarinets, and
occasionally special instruments, such as the triangle or cymbals.
Thus, by the end of the century, the form of the symphony, according to
modern understanding, was practically established, and the orchestra
organized nearly according to its present state. Haydn represents the
last stage of the preparatory period, and he was, in a very genuine
and literal sense, the founder, and to some degree the creator, of the
modern symphony.

The string quartet had its birth almost simultaneously with the
symphony, and is also the child of Haydn’s genius. Its ancestors are
considered by Jahn to be the divertimenti and cassations designed for
table music, serenades, and such entertainments, and written often
in four or five movements for four wind instruments, wind instruments
with strings, or even for clavier. This species of composition was
transferred, curiously enough, to two violins, viola and bass--the
latter being in time replaced by the 'cello. This combination of
instruments, so easily available for private use, appealed especially
to Haydn, and his later compositions for it are still recognized as
models.

The quartet, like the symphony, is based on the sonata form, and
developed gradually, in a manner similar to the larger work. Haydn’s
first attempt in this species was made at the age of twenty-three,
and eighty-three quartets are numbered among his catalogued works.
The early ones are very like the work of Boccherini, and consist
of five short movements, with two minuets. As Haydn progressed his
tendency was to make the movements fewer and longer. After Quartet No.
44 the four-movement form is generally used, and his craftsmanship
grows more delicate. Gradually he filled the rather stiff and formal
outline with ideas that are graceful and charming, even though they
may sound somewhat elementary to modern ears. He recognized the fact
that in the quartet each individual part must not be treated as solo,
nor yet should the others be made to supply a mere accompaniment to
the remainder. Each must have its rôle, according to the capacity of
the instrument and the balance of parts. The best of Haydn’s quartets
exhibit not only a well-established form and a fine perception
of the relation of the instruments, but also the more spiritual
qualities--tenderness, playfulness, pathos. He is not often romantic,
neither is there any trace of far-fetched mannerisms or fads. He gave
the form a life and freshness which at once secured its popularity,
even though the more scientific musicians of his day were inclined to
regard it with suspicion, as a trifling innovation. Nevertheless,
it was the form which, together with the symphony, was to attest the
greatness of Mozart and Beethoven; and it was from Haydn that Mozart,
at least, learned its use.

It is impossible to estimate rightly Haydn’s service to music
without taking into account one of his most striking and original
characteristics--his use of simple tunes and folk songs. Much light has
been thrown on this phase of his genius by the labors of a Croatian
scholar, F. X. Kuhac, and the results of his work have been given to
the English-speaking world by Mr. Hadow. As early as 1762, in his
D-major symphony, composed at Eisenstadt, Haydn began to use folk
songs as themes, and he continued to do so, in symphonies, quartets,
divertimenti, cantatas, and sacred music, to the very end of his
career. In this respect he was unique among composers of his day. No
other contemporaneous writer thought it fitting or beautiful to work
rustic tunes into the texture of his music. Mozart is witty with the
ease of a man of the world, quite different from the naïve drollery
of Haydn, whose humor, though perhaps a trifle light and shallow, is
always mobile, fresh, and gay. It is pointed out, moreover, by the
writers above mentioned that the shapes of Haydn’s melodic phrases
are not those of the German, but of the Croatian folk song, and that
the rhythms are correspondingly varied. Eisenstadt lies in the very
centre of a Croatian colony, and Rohrau, Haydn’s birthplace, has
also a Croatian name. Many of its inhabitants are Croatian, and a
name, strikingly similar to Haydn’s was of frequent occurrence in
that region. Add to this the fact that his music is saturated with
tunes which have all the characteristics, both rhythmic and melodic,
of the Croatian; that many tunes known to be of that origin are
actually employed by him, and the presumption in favor of his Croatian
inheritance is very strong.

But Haydn’s speech, like that of every genius, was not only that of his
race, but of the world. He had the heart of a rustic poet unspoiled by
a decayed civilization. Like Wordsworth, he used the speech of a whole
nation, and lived to work out all that was in him. Although almost
entirely self-taught, he mastered every scientific principle of musical
composition known at his time. He was able to compose for the people
without pandering to what was vicious or ignorant in their taste. He
identified himself absolutely with secular music, and gave it a status
equal to the music of the church. He took the idea of the symphony and
quartet, while it was yet rather formless and chaotic, floating in the
musical consciousness of the period as salt floats in the ocean, drew
it from the surrounding medium, and crystallized it into an art form.

Something has already been said concerning Haydn’s popularity in
England, and the genuine appreciation accorded him in that country.
Haydn himself remarked that he did not become famous in Germany
until he had gained a reputation elsewhere. Even in his old age he
remembered, rather pathetically, the animosity of certain of the Berlin
critics, who had used him very badly in early life, condemning his
compositions as ‘hasty, trivial, and extravagant.’ It is only another
proof that Beckmesser never dies. Haydn was his own best critic, though
a modest one, when he said, ‘Some of my children are well bred, some
ill bred, and, here and there, there is a changeling among them.... I
know that God has bestowed a talent upon me, and I thank Him for it.
I think I have done my duty, and been of use in my generation by my
works.’ He rises above all his contemporaries, except Mozart, as a
lighthouse rises above the waves of the sea. With Mozart and Beethoven
he formed the immortal trio whose individual work, each with its own
quality and its own weight, are the completion and the sum of the
first era of orchestral music.

F. B.

IV
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

Radically different from the career of Haydn is that of Mozart, which,
indeed, has no parallel in the annals of music or any other art.
It partakes so much of the marvellous as to defy and to upset all
our notions of the growth of creative genius. What Haydn learned by
years of endeavor and experience Mozart acquired as if by instinct.
The forms evolved by the previous generation, that new elegance of
melodic expression, the _finesse_ of articulation and the principles
of organic unity, all these were a heritage upon which he entered with
full cognizance of their meaning and value. It was as though he had
dreamed these things in a previous existence. They made up for him a
language which he used more easily than other children use their mother
tongue. It is a fact that he learned to read music earlier than words.
What common children express in infantile prattle, this marvel of a
boy expressed in musical sounds. At three he attempted to emulate his
sister at clavier playing and actually picked out series of pleasing
thirds; at four, he learned to play minuets which his father taught him
‘as in fun’ (a half-hour sufficed for one), and, at five, he composed
others like them himself. At six, these compositions merited writing
down, which his father did, and we have the dated notebook as evidence
of these first stirrings of genius. At the age of seven Mozart appeared
before the world as a composer. The two piano sonatas with violin
accompaniment which he dedicated to the Princess Victoire have all the
attributes of finished musical workmanship, and, even if his father
retouched and corrected these and other early works, the performance,
as that of a child, is none the less remarkable.

The extraordinary training and the wise guidance of the father, a
highly educated musician, broad-minded and progressive, were the second
great advantage accruing to Mozart, whose genius was thus led from
the beginning into proper channels. Leopold Mozart, himself under the
influence of the Mannheim school, naturally imparted to his son all the
peculiarities of their style. Through him also the influence of Emanuel
Bach became an early source of inspiration. Pure, simple melody with
a natural obvious harmonic foundation was the musical ideal to which
Mozart aspired from the first. Nevertheless, the study of counterpoint
was never neglected in the training which his father gave him, though
it was not until later, under the instruction of Padre Martini, that he
came to appreciate its full significance and elevated beauty.

With Mozart the musical supremacy of Germany, first asserted by the
instrumental composers of Mannheim and Berlin, is confirmed and
extended to the field of vocal music and the opera. Mozart could
accomplish this task only by virtue of his broad cosmopolitanism,
which, like that of Gluck, enabled him to gather up in his grasp the
achievements of the most diverse schools. To this cosmopolitanism he
was predisposed by the circumstances of his birth as well as of his
early life. The geographical position of Salzburg, where he was born in
1756, was, in a sense, a strategic one. Situated in the southernmost
part of Germany, it was exposed to the influence of Italian taste;
inhabited by a sturdy German peasantry and bourgeoisie, its sympathies
were on the side of German art, and the musicians at court were, at
the time of Mozart’s birth, almost without exception Germans. Yet the
echoes of the cultural life not only of Vienna, Munich, and Mannheim,
but of Milan, Naples, and Paris, reached the narrow confines of this
mountain fastness, this citadel of intolerant Catholicism.

But Mozart’s cosmopolitanism was broader than this. He was but six
years of age, gifted with a marvellous power of absorption, and
impressionable to a degree, when his father began with him and
his eleven-year-old sister, also highly talented and already an
accomplished pianist, the three-years’ journey--or concert tour, as we
should say to-day--which took them to Munich, to Vienna, to Mannheim,
to Brussels, Paris, London, and The Hague. They played before the
sovereigns in all these capitals and were acclaimed prodigies such
as the world had never seen. How assiduously young Mozart emulated
the music of all the eminent composers he met is seen from the fact
that four concertos until recently supposed to have been original
compositions were simply rearrangements of sonatas by Schobert,
Honauer, and Eckhardt.[41] Similarly, in London he carefully copied out
a symphony by C. F. Abel, until recently reckoned among his own works;
and a copy of a symphony by Michael Haydn, his father’s colleague in
Salzburg, has also been found among his manuscripts. But the most
powerful influence to which he submitted in London was that of Johann
Christian Bach, who determined his predilection for Italian vocal style
and Italian opera.

Already, in 1770, when he and his father were upon their second
artistic journey, he tried his hand both at Italian and German opera,
with _La finta semplice_ and _Bastien und Bastienne_, and it is
significant that during their production he was already exposed to the
theories of Gluck, who brought out his _Alceste_ in that year. But it
must be said that neither of the two youthful works shows any traits of
these theories. The first of them failed of performance in Vienna and
was not produced until later at Salzburg; the other was presented under
private auspices at the estate of the famous Dr. Messmer of ‘magnetic’
fame. But in the same year Mozart, then fourteen years of age, made his
debut in Italian _opera seria_ with _Mitradite_ at Milan. This was the
climax of a triumphal tour through Italy, in the course of which he was
made a member of the Philharmonic academies of Verona and Bologna, was
given the Order of the Golden Spur by the Pope, and earned the popular
title of _Il cavaliere filarmonico_.

Upon his return to Salzburg young Mozart became concert master at
the archiepiscopal court, and partly under pressure of demands for
occasional music, partly spurred on by a most extraordinary creative
impulse, he turned out works of every description--ecclesiastical and
secular; symphonies, sonatas, quartets, concertos, serenades, etc.,
etc. He had written no less than 288 compositions, according to the
latest enumeration,[42] when, at the age of twenty-one, he was driven
by the insufferable conditions of his servitude to take his departure
from home and seek his fortune in the world. This event marked the
period of his artistic adolescence. Accompanied by his mother he went
over much of the ground covered during his journey as a prodigy, but
where before there was universal acclaim he now met utter indifference,
professional opposition and intrigue, and general lack of appreciation.
However futile in a material sense, this broadening of his artistic
horizon was of inestimable value to the ripening genius.

While equally sensitive to impressions as before, he no longer
merely imitated, but caught the essence of what he heard and welded
it by the power of his own genius into a new and infinitely superior
musical idiom. Now for the first time he rises to the heights, to the
exalted beauty of expression which has given his works their lasting
value. Already in the fullness of his technical power, equipped with
a musicianship which enabled him to turn to account every hint, every
suggestion, this virtuoso in creation no less than execution fairly
drank in the gospel of classicism. Mannheim became a new world to him,
but in his very exploration of it he left the indelible footprints of
his own inspiration.

If he met the Mannheim musicians on an equal footing it followed
that he could approach those of Paris with a certain satirical
condescension. But, if his genius _was_ recognized, professional
intrigue prevented his drawing any profit from it--he was reduced
to teaching and catering to patronage in the most absurd ways, from
writing a concerto for harp and flute (both of which he detested) to
providing ballets for Noverre, the all-powerful dancer of the Paris
opera. His adaptability to circumstances was extraordinary. But all
to no avail; the total result of his endeavors was the commission to
write a symphony for the _Concerts spirituels_ then conducted by Le
Gros. Nowhere else has he shown his power of adaptability in the same
measure as in this so-called ‘Paris Symphony.’ It is, as Mr. Hadow
says, perhaps the only piece of ‘occasional’ music that is truly
classic. The circumstances of its creation appear to us ridiculous
but are indicative of the musical intelligence of Paris at this time.
The _premier coup d’archet_, the first attack, was a point of pride
with the Paris orchestra, hence the piece had to begin with all the
instruments at once, which feat, as soon as accomplished, promptly
elicited loud applause. ‘What a fuss they make about that,’ wrote
Mozart. ‘In the devil’s name, I see no difference. They just begin
all together as they do elsewhere. It is quite ludicrous.’ For the
same reason the last movement of the Paris Symphony begins with a
unison passage, _piano_, which was greeted with a hush. ‘But directly
the _forte_ began they took to clapping.’ Referring to the passage
in the first _Allegro_, the composer says, ‘I knew it would make an
effect, so I brought it in again at the end, _da capo_.’ And, despite
those prosaic calculations, the symphony ‘has not an unworthy bar
in it,’ and it was one of the most successful works played at these
famous concerts. Yet Paris held out no permanent hope to Mozart and he
was forced to return to service in Salzburg, under slightly improved
circumstances.[43]

It is nothing short of tragic to see how the young artist vainly
resisted this dreaded renewal of tyranny, and finally yielded, out of
love for his father. His liberation came with the order to write a
new opera, _Idomeneo_, for Munich in 1781. This work constitutes the
transition from adolescence to maturity. It is the last of his operas
to follow absolutely the precedents of the Italian _opera seria_, and
its success definitely determined the course of his artistic career. In
the same year he severed his connection with the Salzburg court (but
not until driven to desperation and humiliated beyond words), settled
in Vienna, and secured in a measure the protection of the emperor. But
for his livelihood he had for a long time to depend upon concerts,
until a propitious circumstance opened a new avenue for the exercise of
his talents. Meantime he had experienced a new revelation. His genius
had been brought into contact with that of Joseph Haydn, whom he
met personally at the imperial palace in 1781 during the festivities
occasioned by the visit of Grand Duke Paul of Prussia.[44] This
master’s works now became the subject of his profound study, which bore
almost immediate results in his instrumental works.

The propitious circumstance alluded to above lay in another direction.
Joseph II had made himself the protector of the German drama in Vienna
and had given the theatre a national significance. His patriotic
convictions induced him to adopt a similar course with the opera,
though his own personal tastes lay clearly in the direction of Italy.
At any rate, he abolished the costly spectacular ballet and Italian
opera and instituted in their stead a ‘national vaudeville,’ as the
German opera was called. The theatre was opened in February, 1778, with
a little operetta, _Die Bergknappen_, by Umlauf, and this was followed
by a number of operas partly translated from the Italian or French,
including _Röschen und Colas_ by Monsigny, _Lucile_, _Silvain_, and
_Der Hausfreund_ by Grétry; and _Anton und Antonette_ by Gossec. In
1781 the emperor commissioned Mozart to contribute to the repertoire
a _singspiel_, and a suitable libretto was found in _Die Enführung
aus dem Serail_. It had an extraordinary success. In the flush of his
triumph Mozart married Constanze Weber, sister of the singer Aloysia
Weber, the erstwhile sweetheart of Mannheim. This again complicated his
financial circumstances; for his wife, loyal as she was, knew nothing
of household economy. Not until 1787 did Mozart secure a permanent
situation at the imperial court, and then with a salary of only eight
hundred florins (four hundred dollars), ‘too much for what I do, too
little for what I could do,’ as he wrote across his first receipt. His
duties consisted in providing dance music for the court! Gluck died in
the year of Mozart’s appointment, but his position with two thousand
florins was not offered to Mozart. To the end of his days he had to
endure pecuniary difficulties and even misery.

Intrigue of Italian colleagues, with Salieri, Gluck’s pupil, at their
head, moreover placed constant difficulties in Mozart’s way, and when,
in 1785, his ‘Marriage of Figaro’ was brought out in Vienna it came
near being a total failure because of the purposely bad work of the
Italian singers. But at Prague, shortly after, the opera aroused the
greatest enthusiasm, and out of gratitude Mozart wrote his next opera,
_Don Giovanni_, for that city (1787). In Vienna again it met with no
success. In this same wonderful year he completed, within the course of
six weeks, the three last and greatest of his symphonies.

In a large measure the composer’s own character--his simple, childlike
and loyal nature--stood in the way of his material success. When, in
1789, he undertook a journey to Berlin with Prince Lichnowsky Frederick
William II offered him the place of royal _kapellmeister_ with a salary
of three thousand thalers. But his patriotism would not allow him to
accept it in spite of his straitened circumstances; and when, after
his return, he was induced to submit his resignation to the emperor,
so that, like Haydn, he might seek his fortune abroad, he allowed his
sentiment to get the better of him at the mere suggestion of imperial
regret. The only reward for his loyalty was an order for another opera.
This was _Così fan tutte_, performed in 1790.

During his Berlin journey Mozart had visited Leipzig and played upon
the organ of St. Thomas’ Church. His masterly performance there so
astonished the organist, Doles, that, as he said, he thought the spirit
of his predecessor, Johann Sebastian Bach, had been reincarnated. It
is significant how thus late in life Bach’s influence opened new
vistas to Mozart--for he had probably known so far only the Leipzig
master’s clavier compositions. It is related how, after a performance
of a cantata in his honor, he was profoundly moved and, spreading
the parts out on the organ bench, became immersed in deep study. The
result is evident in his compositions of the last two years. During
the last, 1791, he wrote _La clemenza di Tito_, another _opera seria_,
for Prague, and his last and greatest German opera, _Die Zauberflöte_,
for Vienna. The _Requiem_, by some considered the crowning work of his
genius, was his last effort; he did not live to finish it. He died
on December 5th, 1791, in abject misery, while the ‘Magic Flute’ was
being played to crowded houses night after night on the outskirts of
Vienna. The profits from the work meantime accrued to the benefit of
the manager, Schikaneder, the ‘friend’ whom Mozart had helped out of
difficulties by writing it. Mozart was buried in a common grave and the
spot has remained unknown to this day.

* * * * *

Thus, briefly, ran the life course of one of the greatest and, without
question, the most gifted of musicians the world has seen. Within
the short space of thirty-six years he was able to produce an almost
countless series of works, the best of which still beguile us after a
century and a half into unqualified admiration. They have lost none of
their freshness and vitality, and it is even safe to say that they are
better appreciated now than in Mozart’s own day. The tender fragrant
loveliness of his melodies, the caressing grace of his cadences will
always remain irresistible; in sheer beauty, in pure musical essence,
we shall not go beyond them. Much might be said of the eternal
influence of Mozart on the latter-day disciples--we need only call to
mind Weber, Brahms, Tschaikowsky, and Richard Strauss, whose own work
is a frank and worthy tribute to his memory.

It has been said that Mozart’s is the only music sufficient unto
itself, requiring no elucidation, no ‘program’ whatever. Hence its
appeal is the most immediate as well as the most general. It has
that impersonal charm which contrives to ingratiate itself with
personalities ever so remote, and to accommodate itself to every
mood. Yet a profoundly human character lies at the bottom of it all.
Mozart the simple, childlike, ingenuous, and generous; or Mozart the
witty, full of abandon, of frank drollery and good humor. With what
fortitude he bore poignant grief and incessant disappointment, how he
submitted to indignities for the sake of others, is well known. But
every attack upon his artistic integrity he met with stern reproof,
and through trial and misery he held steadfast to his ideal as an
artist. To Hoffmeister, the publisher, demanding more ‘salable’ music,
he writes that he prefers to starve; Schikaneder, successful in making
the master’s talent subserve his own ends, gets no concession to the
low taste of his motley audience. Inspired with the divinity of his
mission, he subordinates his own welfare to that one end, and he
breathes his last in the feverish labor over his final great task, the
_Requiem_, ‘his own requiem,’ as he predicted.

We have endeavored to point out in our brief sketch of Mozart’s life
the chief influences to which he was exposed. The extent to which he
assimilated and developed the various elements thus absorbed must
determine his place in musical history. ‘The history of every art,’
says Mr. W. H. Hadow, ‘shows a continuous interaction between form and
content. The artist finds himself confronted with a double problem:
what is the fittest to say, and what is the fittest manner of saying
it.... As a rule, one generation is mainly occupied with questions of
design, another takes up the scheme and brings new emotional force to
bear upon it, and thus the old outlines stretch and waver, the old
rules become inadequate, and the form itself, grown more flexible
through a fuller vitality, once more asserts its claim and attains
a fuller organization.’ The generation preceding Mozart and Haydn
had settled for the time being the question of form. Haydn said, as
it were, the last word in determining the design, applying it in
the most diverse ways and pointing the road to further development.
Mozart found it ‘sufficient to his needs and set himself to fill it
with a most varied content of melodic invention.’ The analogy drawn
by Mr. Hadow between the Greek drama and the classic forms of music
is particularly apt: in both the ‘plot’ is constructed in advance and
remains ever the same; the artist is left free to apply his genius to
the poetic interpretation of situations, the delineation of character,
the beauty of rhythm and verse. It was in these things that Mozart
excelled. He brought nothing essentially new, but, by virtue of his
consummate genius, he endowed the symphonic forms as he found them with
a hitherto unequalled depth and force of expression, an individuality
so indefinable that we can describe it only as ‘Mozartian.’ In no sense
was Mozart a reformer. In opera, unlike Gluck, he did not find his
limitations irksome, but knew how to achieve within these limitations
an ideal of dramatic truth without detracting from the quality of his
musical essence. His style is as independent of psychology as it is
of formal interpretation, it is ‘sufficient unto itself,’ ineffable
in its beauty, irresistible in its charm. This utter independence and
self-sufficiency of style enabled him to use with equal success the
vocal and instrumental idioms. And in his work we actually see an
assimilation of the two styles and an interchange of their individual
elements.

Mozart’s inspiration was primarily a melodic one and for that reason
we see him purposely subordinating the harmonic substructure and often
reducing it to its simplest terms. If he employs at times figures of
accompaniment which are obvious and even trite, it is done with an
evident purpose to throw into relief the individuality of his melodies,
those rich broideries and graceful arabesques which Mozart knew how to
weave about a simple ‘tonic and dominant.’ No composer ever achieved
such variety within so limited a harmonic range. On the other hand,
it has been truthfully said that Mozart was the greatest polyphonist
between Bach and Brahms. He was able to make the most learned use of
contrapuntal devices when occasion demanded, but never in the use
of these devices did he descend to dry formalism. His _incidental_
use of counterpoint often produces the most telling effects; the
accentuation of a motive by imitation, a caressing counter-melody to
add poignancy to an expressive phrase, the reciprocal germination of
musical ideas, all these he applies with consummate science and without
ever sacrificing ingenuous spontaneity. Again in his harmonic texture
there are moments of daring which perplexed his contemporaries and even
to-day are open to dispute. The sudden injection of a dissonant note
into an apparently tranquil harmonic relation, such as in the famous
C-major Quartet, which aroused such violent discussion when first
heard, or in the first Allegro theme of the _Don Giovanni_ overture, is
his particularly favorite way of introducing ‘color.’

This chromaticism of Mozart’s is one of the striking differences
between his music and Haydn’s. ‘Haydn makes his richest point of color
by sheer abrupt modulation; Mozart by iridescent chromatic motion
within the limits of a clearly defined harmonic sequence.’[45] In
drawing a further comparison between the two Viennese masters we find
in Haydn a greater simplicity and directness of expression, a more
unadorned, unhesitating utterance, as against Mozart, to whom perfectly
chiselled phrases, a polished, graceful manner of speech are second
nature, whether his mood is gay or sad, his emotions careless or deep.
The distinction is aptly illustrated by the juxtaposition of the
following two themes quoted in Vol. IV of the ‘Oxford History of Music.’

[Illustration: Haydn: Finale of Quartet in G (Op. 33, N.º 5)]

[Illustration: Mozart: Finale of Quartet in D-minor (K. 421)]

But the difference is not so much in phraseology as in the broader
aspects of invention and method. The fundamental division lies, of
course, in the character of the two men. Haydn, the simple, ingenuous
peasant, whose moods range from sturdy humor to solid dignity; Mozart,
the keen, vivacious, witty cosmopolitan, whose humor always tends to
satire, but whose exalted moments are moments of soulful, subjective
contemplation. His music is accordingly more epigrammatic, on the one
hand, and of a deeper, rounder sonority, on the other. Mozart and
Haydn first became acquainted with each other in 1780, when both had
behind them long careers full of creative activity. It is significant,
however, that practically all the works which to-day constitute our
knowledge of them were created after this meeting, and neither their
music nor the fact of their admiration for each other leaves any doubt
as to the power and depth of their mutual influence. Mozart profited
probably more in matters of technique and structure; Haydn in matters
of refinement and delicacy.

The complete list of Mozart’s works includes no less than twenty-one
piano sonatas and fantasias (besides a number for four hands);
forty-two violin sonatas; twenty-six string quartets; seven string
quintets, several string duos and trios; forty-one symphonies;
twenty-eight divertimenti, etc., for orchestra; twenty-five piano
concertos; six violin concertos; and eighteen operas and other
dramatic works, besides single movements for diverse instruments,
chamber music for wind and for strings and wind, songs, arias, and
ecclesiastical compositions of every form, including fifteen masses.
But only a portion of these is of consequence to the music lover of our
day; the portion which constitutes virtually the last decade of his
activity. The rest, though full of grace and charm, has only historical
significance.

His piano sonatas, we have seen, followed the model of Schobert and, in
some measure, of Emanuel Bach, but the style of these works, available
to the amateur and valuable as study material, is more individual
than that of either of the earlier masters and their musical worth
is far superior. The first of them were written about 1774 for Count
von Dürnitz, of Munich, and represent his contribution to the light,
elegant style of the period. In some later ones he strikes a more
serious note; dashing or majestic allegros alternate with caressing
cantabiles, graceful andantes or adagios of delicious beauty and
romantic expressiveness. The violin sonatas, though supposed to
have been written chiefly for the diversion of his lady pupils (the
instrument was still considered most suitable for feminine amusement),
are full of beauty, strength, and dramatic expression.

The string quartets, the first of which he wrote during his Italian
journey of 1770, are in his early period slight and unpretentious but
lucid and delicate compositions, in which we may trace influences of
Sammartini and Boccherini. From 1773 on, however, the influence of
Haydn’s genius is apparent. By 1781, when Mozart took up his residence
in Vienna, quartet-playing had become one of the favorite pastimes of
musical amateurs. Haydn was the acknowledged leader in this popular
field and ‘whoever ventured on the same field was obliged to serve
under his banner.’ During the period of 1782 to 1785 Mozart wrote a
series of six quartets, which he dedicated to that master ‘as the fruit
of long and painful study inspired by his example.’ After playing them
over at Mozart’s house (on such occasions Haydn took the first violin
part, Dittersdorf the second, Mozart the viola, and Vanhall the 'cello)
Haydn turned to Leopold Mozart and said: ‘I assure you solemnly and as
an honest man that I consider your son to be the greatest composer
of whom I have ever heard.’ Like Haydn and Boccherini, Mozart was
commissioned to write some quartets for the king of Prussia (William
II), and, since his royal patron himself played the 'cello, he
cleverly emphasized that instrument without, however, depriving the
other instruments of their independent power of expression. Mozart’s
partiality for quartet writing is evident from the many sketches in
that form which have been preserved. They are among the masterpieces
of chamber music, as are also his string duos, trios, and, especially,
his four great string quintets. The celebrated one in G minor is,
as Jahn says, a veritable ‘psychological revelation.’ Few pieces in
instrumental music express a mood of passionate excitement with such
energy.’

Mozart’s concertos for the piano and also those for the violin
were written primarily for his own use. The best of them date from
the period preceding his Paris journey, when he expected to make
practical use of them, for he was a virtuoso of no mean powers on both
instruments. There are six concertos for either instrument, every
one full of pure beauty and a model of form. In them he substituted
the classic sonata form for the variable pattern used in the earlier
concertos, and hence he may be considered the creator of the classic
concerto, his only definite contribution to the history of form. They
are not merely brilliant pieces for technical display, but symphonic,
both in proportion and import. In them are found some of the finest
moments of his inspiration. ‘It is the Mozart of the early concerti to
whom we owe the imperishable matter of the Viennese period,’ says Mr.
Hadow, ‘and the influences which helped to mold successively the style
of Haydn, Beethoven, and Schubert.’

Of Mozart’s symphonies and serenades, terms which in some cases are
practically synonymous, there are about eleven that are of lasting
value and at least three that are imperishable. With the exception of
the Paris symphony, ‘a brilliant and charming _pièce d’occasion_,’
which was referred to above, all of them were written during the Vienna
period, and the three great ones flowed from the composer’s pen within
the brief space of six weeks in 1787, the year of _Don Giovanni_. In
the matter of form again Mozart followed in the tracks of the Mannheim
school. The usual three movements remain, but, like Haydn, he usually
adds the minuet after the slow movement. The ‘developed ternary form’
is applied in the first and more and more frequently also in other
movements, especially the last, where it takes the place of the lighter
rondo. But the musical material is richer and its handling far more
ingenious than that of his predecessors, just as the spiritual import
is much deeper. The movements are more closely knit, they have a unity
of emotion which clearly points in the direction of Beethoven’s later
works. There is, if not an _idée fixe_, at any rate a _sentiment fixe_.
It is manifested in a multiplicity of ways: more consistent use of the
principal thematic material in the ‘working-out,’ reassertion of themes
after the ‘transition’ (the section leading from the exposition to the
development), introductions which are, as it were, improvisations on
the mood of the piece, and codas ‘summing up’ the subjective matter.
This same unity exists between the different movements; a note of grief
or passion sounded in the first movement is either reiterated in the
last or else we feel that the composer has emerged from the struggle in
triumph or noble joy. Only the minuet, an almost constant quantity with
Mozart, brings a momentary relief or abandon to a lighter vein, if it
is not itself, as in the G minor symphony, nobly dignified and touched
with sadness.

In the use of orchestral instruments, too, Mozart emulated the
practice of the Mannheim composers. Their works were usually scored
for eight parts, that is, two oboes _or_ flutes and two horns, besides
the usual string body. Clarinets were still rare at that time, and
parts provided for them were for that reason arranged for optional
use, being interchangeable with the oboe parts. Mozart, although he
had heard them as early as 1778 at Mannheim, used them only in his
later works,[46] and even then did not often employ that part of
their range which reaches below the oboe’s compass (still thinking of
them as alternates for that instrument). But in the manner of writing
for instruments Mozart’s works show a real novelty. In the Mannheim
symphonies the wood wind instruments usually doubled the string parts,
but occasionally they were given long, sustained notes and the brass
even went beyond mere ‘accent notes’ (_di rinforza_) to the extent
of an occasional sustained note or any individual motive. Haydn and
Mozart at first confirmed this practice, but in their later works they
introduced a wholly new method, which Dr. Riemann calls ‘filigree
work’ and which formed the basis of Beethoven’s orchestral style. ‘The
idea to conceive the orchestra as a multiplicity of units, each of
which may, upon proper occasion, interpose an essential word, without,
however, protruding itself in the manner of a solo and thus disturbing
in any way the true character of the symphonic ensemble, was foreign
to the older orchestral music.’[47] A mere dialogue between individual
instruments or bodies of instruments was, of course, nothing new,
but the cutting up of a single melodic thread and having different
instruments take it up alternately, as Haydn did, was an innovation,
and immediately led to another step, viz., the interweaving of
individual melodic sections, dove-tail fashion, thus:

[Illustration: Haydn: Finale, 36^{th} Symphony]

and this in turn brought, with Mozart, the coöperation of _groups of
instruments_ in such dove-tail formations, and led finally to the more
sophisticated disposition of instrumental color, as in the second theme
of the great G minor symphony:

[Illustration: Music score]

This sort of figure has nothing in common with the old polyphony,
in which there is always one predominating theme, shifting from one
voice to another. The equal and independent participation of several
differently colored voices in the polyphonic web is the characteristic
feature of modern orchestral polyphony, the style of Beethoven and his
successors down to Strauss.

To Mozart Dr. Riemann gives the credit for the first impulses to this
free disposition of orchestral parts. It is evident, however, only in
his last works, and notably the three great symphonies--the mighty
‘Jupiter’ (in C) with the great double fugue in the last movement,
the radiantly cheerful E-flat, and the more deeply shaded, romantic
G-minor, ‘the greatest orchestral composition of the eighteenth
century,’ works which alone would have assured their creator’s
immortality. It would be futile to attempt a description of these
monumental creations, but we cannot forego a few general remarks about
them. They preach the gospel of classicism in its highest perfection.
Beauty of design was never more potent in art. It is Praxitelean
purity of form warmed with delicate yet rich color. The expositions
are as perfect in form as they are rich in content; the developments a
world of iridescent color, of playful suggestions and sweet reminders.
The clean-cut individuality of his themes, as eloquent as Wagner’s
leit-motifs, so lend themselves to transmutation that a single motive
of three notes, revealed in a thousand new aspects, suffices as
thematic material for an entire development section. We refer to the
opening theme of the G minor:

[Illustration: Music score]

A fascinating character displayed in every conceivable circumstance
and situation would be the literary equivalent of this. But often the
characters are two or three, and sometimes strange faces appear and
complicate the story.

Mozart is the master of subtle variants, of unexpected yet not
unnatural turns in melody. His recapitulations therefore are rarely
literal. The essence remains the same, but it is deliciously
intensified by almost imperceptible means. Compare the second theme
of the last movement of the G minor in its original form with its
metamorphosis:

[Illustration: Music score]

What infinite variety there is within the limits of these three
symphonies! The allegros, now majestic, noble; now rhythmically alert,
scintillant, joyous; now full of suggestions of destiny; the andantes
sometimes grave or sad, sometimes a caressing supplication followed by
radiant bliss; the finales triumphant or careless, a furious presto or
a mighty fugue--it is a riot of beauty and a maze of delicate dreams.
But nowhere is Mozart more himself than in his minuets. The minuet was
his cradle song. The first one he wrote--at four--would have set the
feet of gay salons to dancing, but later they took real meaning, became
alive with more than rhythm. Whether they go carelessly romping through
flowery fields, full of the effervescence of youth, as in the Jupiter
symphony, whether they sway languidly in sensuous rhythms or race
ahead in fretful flight, with themes flitting in and out in breathless
pursuit, they are always irresistible. And what balmy consolation, what
sweet reassurance there lies in his ‘trios.’ Haydn gave life to the
minuet; Mozart gave it beauty.

The outstanding feature, however, not only of Mozart’s symphonies,
but of all his instrumental music, is its peculiarly melodic quality,
the constant sensuous grace of melody regardless of rhythm or speed.
Other composers had achieved a cantabile quality in slow movements, but
rarely in the allegros and prestos. Pergolesi, perhaps, came nearest to
Mozart in this respect and there is no doubt that that side of Mozart’s
inspiration was rooted in the vocal style of the Italians. Here, then,
is the point of contact between symphony and opera. Mozart is the
‘conclusion, the final result of the strong influence which operatic
song had exerted upon instrumental music since the beginning of the
eighteenth century.’[48] On the other hand, Mozart brought symphonic
elements into the opera, in which, so far, it had been lacking; and
it is safe to say that only an ‘instrumental’ composer could have
accomplished what Mozart accomplished in dramatic music.

[Illustration: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart]
_After an unfinished portrait by Josef Lange_

Great as were Mozart’s achievements in the field of symphonic music,
his services to opera were at least as important. Recent critics,
such as Kretzschmar,[49] are wont to exalt the dramatic side of his
genius above any other. It is certain, at any rate, that his strongest
predilection lay in that direction. Already, in 1764, his father writes
from London how the eight-year-old composer ‘has his head filled’
with an idea to write a little opera for the young people of Salzburg
to perform. After the return home his dramatic imagination makes
him personify the parts of his counterpoint exercises as _Il signor
d’alto_, _Il marchese tenore_, _Il duco basso_, etc. Time and again he
utters ‘his dearest wish’ to write an opera. Once it is ‘rather French
than German, and rather Italian than French’; another time ‘not a
_buffa_ but a _seria_.’ Curious enough, neither in _seria_ nor in the
purely Italian style did he attain his highest level.

But his suggestions, and much of his inspiration, came from Italy.
In serious opera, Hasse, Jommelli, Paesillo, Majo, Traetto, and even
minor men served him for models, and, of course, his friend Christian
Bach; and Mozart never rose above their level. Lacking the qualities
of a reformer he followed the models as closely as he did in other
fields, but here was a form that was not adequate to his genius--too
worn out and lifeless. Gluck might have helped him, but he came too
late. And so it happened that _Mitridate_ (1770), _Ascanio in Albo_ (a
‘serenata,’ 1771), _Il sogno di Scipione_ and _Lucio Silla_ (1772),
_Il rè pastore_ (dramatic cantata, 1775), _Idomeneo_ (1781), and even
_La Clemenza di Tito_, written in his very last year, are as dead
to-day as the worst of their contemporaries. But with _opera buffa_
it was otherwise. Various influences came into play here: Piccini’s
_La buona figluola_ and (though we have no record of Mozart’s hearing
it) its glorious ancestor, Pergolesi’s _Serva padrona_; the successes
of the _opéra comique_, Duni, Monsigny, Grétry, even Rousseau--all
these reëchoed in his imagination. And then the flexibility of the
form--the thing was unlimited, capable of infinite expansion. What if
it had become trite and silly--a Mozart could turn dross to gold, he
could deepen a puddle into a well! This was his great achievement; what
Gluck did for the _opera seria_ he did for the _buffa_. He took it
into realms beyond the ken of man, where its absurdities became golden
dreams, its figures flesh and blood, its buffoonery divine abandon. The
serious side of the story, too, became less and less parody and more
and more reality, till in _Don Giovanni_ we do not know where the point
of gravity lies. He calls it a _dramma giocosa_, but the joke is all
too real. Death, even of a profligate, has its sting.

But what a music, what a halo of sound Mozart has cast about it all.
What are words of the text, after all, especially when we do not
understand them? These melodies carry their own message, they _cannot_
be sung without expression, they are expression themselves. Is there
in all music a more soul-stirring beauty than that of _Deh vieni non
tardar_ (Figaro, Act II), or _In diesen teuren Hallen_ (Magic Flute,
Act II)? Or more delicious tenderness than Cherubino’s _Non so più_ and
_Voi che sapete_, or Don Giovanni’s serenade _Deh vieni alla fenestra_;
or more dashing gallantry than _Fin ch’an dal vino_? Were duets
ever written with half the grace of _La ci darem la mano_, in _Don
Giovanni_, or the letter scene in _Figaro_? They are jewels that will
continue to glow when opera itself is reduced to cinders.

The purely musical elements of opera are Mozart’s chief concern. If
he gives himself wholly to that without detriment to the drama, it is
only by virtue of his own extraordinary power. Mozart could not, like
Gluck, make himself ‘forget that he was a musician,’ and would not if
he could; yet his scenes _live_, his characters are more real than
Gluck’s; all this despite ‘set arias,’ despite coloratura, despite
everything that Gluck abolished. But in musical details he followed
him; in the portrayal of mood, in painting backgrounds, and in the
handling of the chorus. Gluck painted landscape, but Mozart drew
portraits. In musical characterization his mastery is undisputed.
Again we have no use for words; the musical accents, the contour of
the phrase and its rhythm delineate the man more precisely than a
sketcher’s pencil. Here once more beauty is the first law, it sheds its
evening glow over all. No mere frivolity here, no dissolute roisterers,
no faithless wives--Don Giovanni, the gay cavalier, becomes a ‘demon of
divine daring,’ the urchin Cherubino is made the incarnation of Youth,
Spring, and Love; the Countess personifies the ideal of pure womanhood;
Beaumarchais, in short, becomes Mozart.

_La finta semplice_ (1768), _La finta giardiniera_ (1775), and some
fragmentary works are, like Mozart’s _serious_ operas, now forgotten,
but _Così fan tutte_ (1790), _Le nozze di Figaro_ (1786), and _Don
Giovanni_ (1787) continue with unimpaired vitality as part of every
respectable operatic repertoire. The same is true of his greatest
German opera, _Die Zauberflöte_, and in a measure of _Die Entführung
aus dem Serail_. Germany owes a debt of undying gratitude to the
composer of these, for they accomplished the long-fought-for victory
over the Italians. Hiller and his singspiel colleagues had tried it
and failed; and so had Dittersdorf, the mediocre Schweitzer (allied
to Wieland the poet), and numerous others. Now for the first time
tables were turned and Italy submitted to the influence of Germany.
Mozart had beaten them on their own ground and had the audacity to
appropriate the spoil for his own country. Without Mozart we could have
no _Meistersinger_, cries Kretzschmar, which means no _Freischütz_, no
_Oberon_, and no _Rosenkavalier_! But only we of to-day can know these
things. Joseph II, who had ‘ordered’ the _Entführung_ and whose express
command was necessary to bring it upon the boards, opined on the night
of the première that it was ‘too beautiful for our ears, and a powerful
lot of notes, my dear Mozart.’ ‘Exactly as many as are necessary, your
majesty,’ retorted the composer. It was an evening of triumph, but a
triumph soon forgotten; for, after a few more attempts, the lights went
down on German opera--the ‘national vaudeville’--and Salieri and his
crew returned with all the wailing heroines, the strutting heroes, the
gruesome ghosts, and all the paraphernalia of ‘serious opera!’

However, the people, the ‘common people,’ liked Punch and Judy better,
or, at least, its equivalent. ‘Magic’ opera was the vogue, the absurder
the better; and Schikaneder was their man. Some eighteenth century
‘Chantecler’ had left a surplus of bird feathers on his hands--and
these suggested Papageno, the ‘hero’ of another ‘magic’ opera--‘The
Magic Flute.’ The foolishness of its plot is unbelievable, but Mozart
was won over. _Magic_ opera! Why--any opera would do. Now we know how
he loved it! And now he used his _own_ magic, his wonderful strains,
and lo, nonsense became logic, the ‘silly mixture of fairy romance and
free-masonic mysticism’ was buried under a flood of sound; Schikaneder
is forgotten and Mozart stands forth in all the radiance of his glory.
Let the unscrupulous manager make his fortune and catch the people’s
plaudits--but think of the unspeakable joy of Mozart on his deathbed
as every night he follows the performances in his imagination, act by
act, piece by piece, hearing with a finer sense than human ear and
dreaming of generations to come that will call him master!

The _Requiem_, which Mozart composed for the most part while
_Zauberflöte_ was ‘running,’ is the only ecclesiastical work which
does not follow in the rut of his contemporaries. All his masses,
offertories, oratorios, etc., are ‘unscrupulous adaptations of the
operatic style to church music.’ The _Requiem_, completed by his pupil,
Süssmayr, according to the master’s direction, shows all the attributes
of his genius--‘deeply felt melody, masterful development, and a
breadth of conception which betrays the influence of Handel.’ ‘But,’
concludes Riemann, ‘a soft, radiant glow spreading over it all reminds
us of Pergolesi.’ Yes, and that influence is felt in many a measure of
this work--we should be tempted to use a trite metaphor if Pergolesi’s
mantle were adequate for the stature of a Mozart. As perhaps the finest
example, in smaller form, of his church music we may refer the reader
to the celebrated _Ave verum_, composed in 1791, which is reprinted in
our musical supplement.

* * * * *

Through Haydn and Mozart orchestral music emerged strong and well
defined from a long period of dim growth. Their symphonies are, so to
speak, the point of confluence of many streams of musical development,
most of which, it may be remarked, had their source in Italy. The
cultivation of solo melody, the development of harmony, largely by
practice with the figured bass, until it became part of the structure
of music, the perfection of the string instruments of the viol type
and of the technique in playing and writing for them, the attempts
to vivify operatic music by the use of various _timbres_, all these
contributed to the establishment of orchestral music as an independent
branch of the art. The question of form had been first solved in music
for keyboard instruments or for small groups of instruments and was
merely adapted to the orchestra. These lines of development we have
traced in previous chapters. The building up of the frame, so to speak,
of orchestral music was synthetical. It had to await the perfection of
the various materials which were combined to make it. This was, as we
have said, a long, slow process. The symphony was evolved, not created.
So, in this respect, neither Haydn nor Mozart are creators.

But once the various constituents had fallen into place, the perfected
combination made clear, new and peculiar possibilities, to the
cultivation of which Haydn and Mozart contributed enormously. These
peculiar possibilities were in the direction of sonority and tone
color. In search of these Haydn and Mozart originated the _orchestral_
style and pointed the way for all subsequent composers. In the Haydn
symphonies orchestral music first rang even and clear; in those of
Mozart it was first tinged with tone colors, so exquisite, indeed, that
to-day, beside the brilliant works of Wagner and Strauss, the colors
still glow unfaded.

If Haydn and Mozart did not create the symphony, the excellence of
their music standardized it. The blemish of conventionality and
empty formalism cannot touch the excellence of their best work. Such
excellence would have no power to move us were it only skill. There
is genuine emotional inspiration in most of the Salomon symphonies
and in the three great symphonies of Mozart. In Haydn’s music it
is the simple emotion of folk songs; in Mozart’s it is more veiled
and mysterious, subtle and elusive. In neither is it stormy and
assertive, as in Beethoven, but it is none the less clearly felt. That
is why their works endure. That is the personal touch, the special
gift of each to the art. Attempts to exalt Beethoven’s greatness by
contrasting his music with theirs are, in the main, unjust and lead to
false conclusions. Their clarity and graceful tenderness are not less
intrinsically beautiful because Beethoven had the power of the storm.
Moreover, the honest critic must admit that the first two symphonies
of Beethoven fall short of the artistic beauty and the real greatness
of the Mozart G minor or C major. Indeed, it is to be doubted if any
orchestral music can be more beautiful than Mozart’s little symphony in
G minor, for that is perfect.

We find in them the fresh-morning Spring of symphonic music, when the
sun is bright, the air still cool and clear, the sparkling dew still
on the grass. After them a freshness has gone out of music, never to
return. Never again shall we hear the husbandman whistle across the
fields, nor the song of the happy youth of dreams stealing barefoot
across the dewy grass.

C. S.

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Superstition was still so widespread that Paganini was actually
forced to produce evidence that he did not derive his ‘magic’ from the
evil one.

[37] Burney in describing his travels says: ‘So violent are the jolts,
and so hard are the seats, of German post wagons, that a man is rather
kicked than carried from one place to another.’ Mozart in a letter
recounting to his father his trip from Salzburg to Munich avows that he
was compelled to raise himself up by his arms and so remain suspended
for a good part of the way!

[38] After Augustus’ death, in 1763, musical life at this court
deteriorated, though Naumann was retained as kapellmeister by Charles,
Augustus’s son.

[39] _Cf._ Charles Burney: ‘The Present State of Music in Germany,’
London, 1773.

[40] Among other musicians he met is old Wagenseil, who was confined
to his couch, but had the harpsichord wheeled to him and ‘played me
several _capriccios_ and pieces of his own composition in a very
spirited and masterly manner.’ Merely mentioned are Ditters, Huber,
Mancini, the great lutenist Kohaut, the violinist La Motte, and the
oboist Venturini.

[41] Johann Schobert especially caught the boy’s fancy, though both
his father and Baron Grimm, their most influential friend in Paris,
depreciated his merits and tried to picture him as a small, jealous
person. T. de Wyzewa and G. de St. Foix, in their study _Un maître
inconnu de Mozart_ (_Zeitschrift Int. Musik-Ges._, Nov., 1908), and in
their partially completed biography of Mozart, have clearly shown the
powerful influence of the Paris master on the youthful composer.

[42] T. de Wyzewa and G. de St. Foix in their scholarly work ‘W.-A.
Mozart’ have catalogued and fixed the relative positions of all the
Mozart compositions. This in a sense supersedes the famous catalogue
made by Ludwig von Koechel (1862, Supplement 1864).

[43] Mozart’s mother, ill during the greater part of the Paris sojourn,
died about the time of the symphony première. Grief-stricken as he
was, he wrote his father all the details of the performance and merely
warned him that his mother was dangerously ill. At the same time he
advised a close Salzburg friend of the event and begged him to acquaint
his father with it as carefully as possible.

[44] Another incident of this veritable carnival of music was the
famous pianoforte competition between Mozart and Clementi.

[45] W. H. Hadow, in ‘The Oxford History of Music.’

[46] It is a well-known fact that the moment of his first acquaintance
with the instrument Mozart became enamored of its tone. No ear ever was
more alive to the purely sensuous qualities of tone color.

[47] Riemann: _Handbuch der Musikgeschichte_, II.

[48] Riemann: _Op. cit._

[49] Hermann Kretzschmar: _Mozart in der Geschichte der Oper_
(_Jahrbuch der Musikbibliothek Peters_, 1905).

CHAPTER IV
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

Form and formalism--Beethoven’s life--His relations with his family,
teachers, friends, and other contemporaries--His character--The man
and the artist--Determining factors in his development--The three
periods in his work and their characteristics--His place in the
history of music.

The most important contributions of the eighteenth century to the
history of music--the establishment of harmony and the new tonalities,
the technical growth of the various forms, especially of the sonata and
the development of opera--have been treated in preceding chapters; and
we now only glance at them momentarily in order to point out that they
typify and illustrate two of the predominating forces of the century,
the desire for form and the reaction against mere formality. The first
is well illustrated in the history of the sonata, which, at the middle
of the century, was comparatively unimportant as a form of composition
and often without special significance in its musical ideas. By
1796 Mozart had lived and died, and the symphonic work of Haydn was
done; with the result that the principles of design, so strongly
characteristic of eighteenth century art, were in full operation in
the realm of music; the sonata form, as illustrated in the quartet and
symphony, was lifted to noble position among the types of pure music;
and the orchestra was vastly improved.

The second of these forces, the reaction against formality and
conservatism, is connected with one of the most interesting phases
of the history of art. For a large part of the century France held a
dominating place in drama, literature, and the opera. The art of the
theatre and of letters had become merely a suave obedience to rule,
and even the genius of a Voltaire, with his dramatic instinct and
boldness, could not lift it entirely out of the frigid zone in which
it had become fixed. Germany and England, however, were preparing to
overthrow the traditions of French classicism. Popular interest in
legends, folk-lore, and ballads revived. ‘Ossian’ (published 1760-63)
and Percy’s ‘Reliques’ (1765) aroused great enthusiasm both in England
and on the continent. Before the end of the century Lessing, Goethe,
and Schiller had placed new landmarks in the progress of literature in
Germany; and in England, by 1810, much of Wordsworth’s best poetry had
been written. The study of early national history and an appreciation
of Nature took the place of logic and the cold niceties of wit and
epigram. The comfortable acquiescence in the existing state of things,
the objectiveness, the decorous veiling of personal and subjective
elements, which characterize so many eighteenth century writers,
gave place to a passionate, lyrical outburst of rapture over nature,
expression of personal desire, melancholy visions, or romantic love.
In politics and social life there was a strong revival of republican
ideas, a loosening of many of the more orthodox tenets of religion, and
again a strong note of individualism.

That this counter-current against conventionality and mere formalism
should find expression in music was but natural. The new development,
however, in so far as pure instrumental music is concerned, was a
change, not in form, but in content and style, an increase in richness
and depth, which took place within the boundaries already laid out by
earlier masters, especially Haydn and Mozart. The musician in whom we
are to trace these developments is, of course, Ludwig van Beethoven,
who stands, like a colossus, bridging the gulf between eighteenth
century classicism and nineteenth century romanticism. He was in a
profound sense the child of his age and nation. He summed up the wisdom
of the older contrapuntists, as well as that of Mozart and Haydn; and
he also gave the impulse to what is most modern in musical achievement.

‘The most powerful currents in nineteenth century music (the
romanticism of Liszt, Berlioz; the Wagnerian music drama) to a large
extent take their point of departure from Beethoven,’ writes Dickinson;
and the same author goes on to say: ‘No one disputes his preëminence
as sonata and symphony writer. In these two departments he completes
the movements of the eighteenth century in the development of the
cyclical homophonic form, and is the first and greatest exponent of
that principle of individualism which has given the later instrumental
music its special character. He must always be studied in the light of
this double significance.’[50]

Although born in Germany and of German parents, Beethoven belonged
partly to that nation whose work forms so large a chapter in the
history of music, the Netherlanders. His paternal grandfather, Louis
van Beethoven, early in the century emigrated from Antwerp to Bonn,
taking a position first as bass singer then as chapel master in the
court band of the Elector of Cologne. He was an unusually capable man,
highly esteemed as a musician, and, although he died when Ludwig was
but three years of age, left an indelible impression on his character.
The father, Johann or Jean, also a singer in the court chapel, was
lacking in the excellent qualities of the elder Beethoven. The mother
was of humble family, a woman with soft manners and frail health,
who bore her many sorrows with quiet stoicism. Ludwig, the composer,
christened in the Roman Catholic Church in Bonn, December 17, 1770, was
the second of a family of seven, only three of whom lived to maturity.
The house of his birth is in the Bonngasse, now marked with a memorial
tablet.

At a very early age the father put little Ludwig at his music, and,
upon perceiving his ability, kept him practising in spite of tears.
Violin and piano were studied at home, while the rudiments of education
were followed in a public school until the lad was about thirteen.
As early as the age of nine, however, he had learned all his father
could teach him and was turned over, first to a tenor singer named
Pfeiffer and later to the court organist, van den Eeden, a friend
of the grandfather. In 1781 Christian Gottlieb Neefe (1748-1798)
succeeded van den Eeden and took Beethoven as his pupil. It is said
that during an absence he left his scholar, who had now reached the
age of eleven and a half years, to take his place at the organ, and
that a few months later this same pupil was playing the larger part
of Bach’s _Wohltemperiertes Klavier_. There seems to be abundant
evidence, indeed, that not only Neefe but others were convinced of the
boy’s genius and disposed to assist him. At the age of fifteen he was
studying the violin with Franz Ries, the father of Ferdinand, and at
seventeen he made his first journey to Vienna, where he had the famous
interview with Mozart. His return to Bonn was hastened by the illness
of his mother, who died shortly after.

Domestic affairs with the Beethovens went from bad to worse, what
with poverty, the loss of the mother, and the irregular habits of the
father. At nineteen Ludwig was virtually in the position of head of the
family, earning money, dictating the expenditures, and looking after
the education of the younger brothers. At this time he was assistant
court organist and viola player, both in the opera and chapel, and
associated with such men as Ries, the two Rombergs, Simrock, and
Stumpff. In July, 1792, when Haydn passed through Bonn on his return
from the first London visit, Beethoven showed him a composition and
was warmly praised; and, in the course of this very year, the Elector
arranged for him to go again to Vienna, this time for a longer stay and
for the purpose of further study.

His life thenceforth was in Vienna, varied only by visits to nearby
villages or country places. His first public appearance in Vienna
as pianist was in 1795, and from that time on his life was one of
successful musical activity. As improviser at the pianoforte he was
especially gifted, even at a time when there were marvellous feats
in extempore playing. By the year 1798 there appeared symptoms of
deafness, which gradually increased in spite of the efforts of
physicians to arrest or cure it, and finally forced him to give up
his playing. His last appearance in public as actual participant in
concerted work took place in 1814, when he played his trio in B flat,
though he conducted the orchestra until 1822. At last this activity was
also denied him; and when the Choral Symphony was first performed, in
1824, he was totally unaware of the applause of the audience until he
turned and saw it.

During these years, however, Beethoven had established himself in favor
with the musical public with an independence such as no musician up
to that time ever achieved. From 1800 on he was in receipt of a small
annuity from Prince Lichnowsky, which was increased by the sale of many
compositions. In 1809 Jerome Bonaparte, king of Westphalia, appears to
have offered him the post of master of the chapel at Cassel, with a
salary of $1,500 a year and very easy duties. The prospect of losing
Beethoven, however, aroused the lovers of music in Vienna to such an
extent that three of the nobility--Princes Kinsky and Lobkowitz and
Archduke Rudolph, brother of the emperor--guaranteed him a regular
stipend in order to insure his continued residence among them. This
maintenance, moreover, was given absolutely free from conditions
of any sort. In 1815 his brother Caspar Carl died, charging the
composer with the care of his son Carl, then a lad about nine years
of age. The responsibility was assumed by Beethoven with fervor and
enthusiasm, though the boy, as it proved, was far from being worthy of
the affectionate care of his distinguished uncle. Moreover, Beethoven
was now constantly in ill health, and often in trouble over lodgings,
servants, and the like.

In spite of these preoccupations the composition of masterpieces went
on, though undoubtedly with difficulty and pain, since their author
was robbed of that peace of mind so necessary to health and great
achievements. The nephew kept his hold on his uncle’s affection to the
end, was made heir to his property, and at the last commended to the
care of Beethoven’s old advocate, Dr. Bach. In November, 1826, the
master, while making a journey from his brother’s house at Gneixendorf,
took cold and arrived at his home in Vienna, the Swarzspanierhaus,
mortally ill with inflammation of the stomach and dropsy. The disease
abated for a time and Beethoven, though still confined to his bed,
was again eager for work. In March of the following year, however,
he grew steadily worse, received the sacraments of the Roman Church
on the twenty-fourth, and two days later, at evening during a
tremendous thunder storm, he breathed his last. Stephan von Breuning
and Anton Schindler, who had attended him, had gone to the cemetery
to choose a burial place, and only Anselm Hüttenbrenner, the friend
of both Schubert and Beethoven, was by his side. His funeral, March
twenty-ninth, was attended by an immense concourse of people,
including all the musicians and many of the nobility of Vienna. In the
procession to the church the coffin was borne by eight distinguished
members of the opera; thirty-two musicians carried torches, and at the
gate of the cemetery there was an address from the pen of the most
distinguished Austrian writer of the time, Grillparzer, recited by the
actor Anschütz. The grave was on the south side of the cemetery near
the spot where, a little more than a year later, Schubert was buried.
In 1863 the bodies of both Schubert and Beethoven were exhumed and
reburied after the tombs were put in repair, the work being carried out
by _Die Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde_ of Vienna.

Such is the bare outline of a life filled with passionate earnestness
and continuous striving after unattainable ideals of happiness.
Beethoven’s character was a strange combination of forces, and is not
to be gauged by the measuring rod of the average man. Some writers
have made too much of the accidents of his disposition, such as his
violent temper and rough manners; and others have apparently been
most concerned with his affairs of the heart. What really matters in
connection with any biography has been noted by the great countryman
and contemporary of Beethoven, Goethe: ‘To present the man in relation
to his times, and to show how far as a whole they are opposed to him,
in how far they are favorable to him, and how, if he be an artist,
poet, or writer, he reflects them outwardly.’[51]

It is the purpose of this chapter to present a few of the more
salient qualities of this great man, as they have appeared to those
contemporaneous and later writers best fitted to understand him; and
to indicate the path by which he was led to his achievements in music.
More than this is impossible within the limitations of the present
volume, but it is the writer’s hope that this chapter may serve
at least as an introduction to one or more of the excellent longer
works--biographies, volumes of criticism, editions of letters--which
set forth more in detail the character of the man and artist.

In relation to the members of his family it cannot be said that
Beethoven’s life was happy or even comfortable. Two amiable and gentle
figures emerge from the domestic group, the fine old grandfather,
Louis, and the mother. For these Beethoven cherished till his death
a tender and reverent memory. In the autumn of 1787 he writes to the
Councillor, Dr. von Schaden, at Augsburg, with whom he had become
acquainted on his return journey from Vienna: ‘I found my mother still
alive, but in the worst possible state; she was dying of consumption,
and the end came about seven weeks ago, after she had endured much
pain and suffering. She was to me such a good, lovable mother, my best
friend. Oh! who was happier than I when I could still utter the sweet
name of mother, and heed was paid to it.’ The gentle soul suffered
much, not only in her last illness, but throughout her married life,
for her husband, the tenor singer, was a drunkard and worse than a
nonentity in the family life. He died soon after the composer’s removal
to Vienna. The two brothers contributed little to his happiness or
welfare. Johann was selfish and narrow-minded, penurious and mean,
with a dash of egotistic arrogance which had nothing in common with the
fierce pride of the older brother, Ludwig. Acquiring some property and
living on it, Johann was capable of leaving at his brother’s house his
card inscribed _Johann van Beethoven, Gutsbesitzer_ (land proprietor).
This was promptly returned by the composer who had endorsed it with
the counter inscription, _L. van Beethoven, Hirnbesitzer_ (brain
proprietor). The brother Caspar Carl was a less positive character, and
seems to have shown some loyalty and affection for Ludwig at certain
periods of his life, sometimes acting virtually as his secretary and
business manager. But, though he was more tolerable to Ludwig than the
_Gutsbesitzer_, his character was anything but admirable. Both brothers
borrowed freely of the composer when he was affluent and neglected him
when he most needed attention. ‘Heaven keep me from having to receive
favors from my brothers!’ he writes. And in the ‘Heiligenstadt Will,’
written in 1802, before his fame as a composer was firmly established,
his bitterness against them overflows. ‘O ye men who regard or
declare me to be malignant, stubborn, or cynical, how unjust are ye
towards me.... What you have done against me has, as you know, long
been forgiven. And you, brother Carl, I especially thank you for the
attachment you have shown toward me of late ... I should much like one
of you to keep as an heirloom the instruments given to me by Prince L.,
but let no strife arise between you concerning them; if money should
be of more service to you, just sell them.’ This passage throws light
on the characters of the brothers, as well as on Beethoven himself.
It was at the house of the brother Johann, where the composer and his
nephew Carl were visiting in 1826, near the end of his life, that he
received such scant courtesy in respect to fires, attendance and the
like (being also asked to pay board) that he was forced to return to
his home in Vienna. The use of the family carriage was denied him and
he was therefore compelled to ride in an open carriage to the nearest
post station--an exposure which resulted in his fatal illness.

Young Carl, who became the precious charge of the composer upon
Caspar’s death, was intolerable. Beethoven sought, with an almost
desperate courage, to bring the boy into paths of manhood and virtue,
making plans for his schooling, for his proper acquaintance, and for
his advancement. Carl was deaf, apparently, to all accents of affection
and devotion, as well as to the occasional outbursts of fury from
his uncle. He perpetually harassed him by his looseness, frivolity,
continual demands for money, and lack of sensibility; and finally he
attempted to take his own life. This last stroke was almost too much
for the uncle, who gave way to his grief. Beethoven was, doubtless, but
poorly adapted to the task of schoolmaster or disciplinarian; but he
was generous, forgiving to a fault, and devoted to the ideal of duty
which he conceived to be his. But the charge was from the beginning a
constant source of anxiety and sorrow, altering his nature, causing
trouble with his friends, and embittering his existence by constant
disappointments and contentions.

Some uncertainties exist concerning Beethoven’s relations with his
teachers. The court organist, van den Eeden, was an old man, and could
scarcely have taught the boy more than a year before he was handed over
to Neefe, who was a good musician, a composer, and a writer on musical
matters. He undoubtedly gave his pupil a thoroughly honest grounding
in essentials, and, what was of even greater importance, he showed a
confidence in the boy’s powers that must have left a strong impression
upon his sensitive nature. ‘This young genius,’ he writes, when
Beethoven was about twelve years old, ‘deserves some assistance that
he may travel. If he goes on as he has begun, he will certainly become
a second Mozart.’ During Neefe’s tutelage Beethoven was appointed
accompanist to the opera band--an office which involved a good deal
of responsibility and no pay--and later assistant court organist. His
compositions, however, even up to the time of his departure for Vienna,
do not at all compare, either in number or significance, with those
belonging to the first twenty-two years of Mozart’s life. This fact,
however, did not dampen the confidence of the teacher, who seems to
have exerted the strongest influence of an academic nature which ever
came into the composer’s life. Upon leaving Bonn, Beethoven expresses
his obligation. ‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘for the counsel you have so
often given me in my progress in my divine art. Should I ever become a
great man, you will certainly have assisted in it.’[52]

His relations with Haydn have been a fruitful source of discussion
and explanation. On his second arrival in Vienna, 1792, Beethoven
became Haydn’s pupil. Feeling, however, that his progress was slow,
and finding that errors in counterpoint had been overlooked in
his exercises, he quietly placed himself under the instruction of
Schenck, a composer well known in Beethoven’s day. There was at the
time no rupture with Haydn, and he did not actually withdraw from his
tutorship until the older master’s second visit to London, in 1794.
Beethoven then took up work with Albrechtsberger, but the relationship
was mutually unsatisfactory. The pupil felt a lack of sympathy and
Albrechtsberger expressed himself in regard to Beethoven with something
like contempt. ‘Have nothing to do with him,’ he advises another pupil.
‘He has learned nothing and will never do anything in decent style.’
Although in later years Beethoven would not call himself a pupil of
Haydn, yet there were many occasions when he showed a genuine and
cordial appreciation for the chapel master of Esterhàzy. The natures of
the two men, however, were fundamentally different, and could scarcely
fail to be antagonistic. Haydn was by nature and court discipline
schooled to habits of good temper and self-control; he was pious,
submissive to the control of church and state, kindly and cheerful in
disposition. Beethoven, on the contrary, was individualistic to the
core, rough often to the point of rudeness in manner, deeply affected
by the revolutionary spirit of the times, scornful of ritual and
priest, melancholy and passionate in temperament. Is it strange that
two such diverse natures found no common ground of meeting?

Beethoven, however, aside from his formal instruction, found
nourishment for his genius, as all great men do, in the work of the
masters of his own and other arts. He probably learned more from an
independent study of Haydn’s works than from all the stated lessons;
for his early compositions begin precisely where those of Haydn and
Mozart leave off. They show, also, that he knew the worth of the
earlier masters. Concerning Emanuel Bach he writes: ‘Of his pianoforte
works I have only a few things, yet a few by that true artist serve
not only for high enjoyment but also for study.’ In 1803 he writes
to his publishers, Breitkopf and Härtel: ‘I thank you heartily for
the beautiful things of Sebastian Bach. I will keep and study them.’
Elsewhere he calls Sebastian Bach ‘the forefather of harmony,’ and
in his characteristic vein said that his name should be Meer (Sea),
instead of Bach (Brook). According to Wagner, this great master was
Beethoven’s guide in his artistic self-development.

The only other art with which he had any acquaintance was poetry, and
for this he shows a lifelong and steadily growing appreciation. In
the home circle of his early friends, the Breunings, he first learned
something of German and English literature. Shakespeare was familiar to
him, and he had a great admiration for Ossian, just then very popular
in Germany. Homer and Plutarch he knew, though only in translation. In
1809 we find him ordering complete sets of Goethe and Schiller, and in
a letter to Bettina Brentano he says: ‘When you write to Goethe about
me, select all words which will express to him my inmost reverence and
admiration.’ At the time of his interest in his physician’s daughter,
Therese Malfatti, he sends her as a gift Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_ and
Schlegel’s translation of Shakespeare, and speaks to her of reading
Tacitus. Elsewhere he writes: ‘I have always tried from childhood
onward to grasp the meaning of the better and the wise of every age. It
is a disgrace for any artist who does not think it his duty at least to
do that much.’ These instances of deliberate selection show the strong
tendency of his mind toward the powerful, epic, and ‘grand’ style of
literature, and an almost complete indifference toward the light and
ephemeral. His own language, as shown in the letters, show many minor
inaccuracies, but is, nevertheless, strongly characteristic, forceful,
and natural, and often trenchant or sardonic.

In his relation to his friends, happily his life shows many richer and
more grateful experiences than with his own immediate family. Besides
the Breunings, his first and perhaps most important friend was Count
Waldstein, who recognized his genius and was undoubtedly of service to
him in Bonn as well as in Vienna. In the album in which his friends
inscribed their farewells upon his departure from Bonn Waldstein’s
entry is this: ‘Dear Beethoven, you are travelling to Vienna in
fulfillment of your long cherished wish. The genius of Mozart is still
weeping and bewailing the death of her favorite. With the inexhaustible
Haydn she found a refuge, but no occupation, and is now waiting to
leave him and join herself to someone else. Labor assiduously and
receive Mozart’s spirit from the hands of Haydn. Your true friend,
Waldstein. Bonn, October 29, 1792.’[53]

From the time of his arrival in Vienna, his biography is one long story
of his connection with this or that group of charming and fashionable
people. Vienna was then in a very special sense the musical centre of
Europe. There Mozart had just ended his marvellous career, and there
was the home of Haydn, the most distinguished living musician. Many
worthy representatives of the art of music--Salieri, Gyrowetz, Eybler,
Weigl, Hummel, Woelfl, Steibelt, Ries--as well as a host of fashionable
and titled people who possessed knowledge and a sincere love of music,
called Vienna their home. Many people of rank and fashion were pleased
to count themselves among Beethoven’s friends. ‘My art wins for me
friends and esteem,’ he writes, and from these friends he received
hospitality, money, and countless favors. To them, in return, he
dedicated one after another of his noble works. To Count Waldstein
was inscribed the pianoforte sonata in C, opus 53; to Baron von
Zmeskall the quartet in F minor, opus 95; to Countess Giulia Guicciardi
the _Sonata quasi una fantasia_ in C sharp minor (often called the
Moonlight Sonata); the second symphony to Prince Carl Lobkowitz, and so
on through the long, illustrious tale. He enjoyed the society of the
polite world. ‘It is good,’ he says, ‘to be with the aristocracy, but
one must be able to impress them.’

The old order of princely patronage, however, under which nearly all
musicians lived up to the close of the eighteenth century, had no
part nor lot in Beethoven’s career. Haydn, living until 1809, spent
nearly all his life as a paid employee in the service of the prince
of Esterhàzy, and even his London symphonies and the famous Austrian
Hymn were composed ‘to order.’ Mozart, whose career began later and
ended earlier than Haydn’s, had the hardihood to throw off his yoke of
servitude to the archbishop of Salzburg; but Beethoven was never under
such a yoke. He accepted no conditions as to the time or character of
his compositions; and, although he received a maintenance from some of
his princely friends, he was never on the footing of a paid servant. On
the contrary, he mingled with nobility on a basis of perfect equality
and shows no trace of humiliation or submission. He was furiously
proud, and would accept nothing save on his own terms. Nine years
before his death he welcomed joyfully a commission from the London
Philharmonic Society to visit England and bring with him a symphony
(it would have been the Ninth). Upon receiving an intimation, however,
that the Philharmonic would be pleased to have something written in his
earlier style, he indignantly rejected the whole proposition. For him
there was no turning back and his art was too sacred to be subject to
the lighter preferences of a chance patron. Though the plan to go to
England was again raised shortly before his last illness (this time by
the composer himself) it never came to a realization.

A special place among his friends should be given to a few whose
appreciation of the master was singularly disinterested and deep.
First among these were the von Breunings, who encouraged his genius,
bore with the peculiar awkwardness and uncouthness of his youth, and
managed, for the most part, to escape his suspicion and anger. It was
in their house at the age of sixteen or seventeen that he literally
first discovered what personal friendship meant; and it was Stephen von
Breuning and his son Gerhart who, with Schindler, waited on him during
his final illness. No others are to be compared with the Breunings; but
more than one showed a capacity for genuine and unselfish devotion.
Nanette Streicher, the daughter of the piano manufacturer, Stein, was
among these. Often in his letters Beethoven declares that he does
not wish to trouble anyone; and yet he complains to this amiable and
capable woman about servants, dusters, spoons, scissors, neckties,
stays, and blames the Austrian government, both for his bad servants
and smoking chimneys. It is evident that she repeatedly helped him
over his difficulties, as did also Baron von Zmeskall, court secretary
and distinguished violoncellist, to whom he applied numberless times
for such things as quills, a looking glass, and the exchanging of a
torn hat, and whom he sent about like an errand boy. Schuppanzigh, the
celebrated violinist and founder of the Rasoumowsky quartet, which
produced for the first time many of the Beethoven compositions, was
a trustworthy and valuable friend. Princes Lichnowsky and Lobkowitz,
Count von Brunswick, the Archbishop Rudolph, Countesses Ertmann,
Erdödy, Therese von Brunswick, and Bettina Brentano (afterward von
Arnim)--the list of titled and fashionable friends is long and all
of them seem to have borne with patience his eccentricities and
delinquencies in a genuine appreciation of his fine character and
genius. Among the few friends who proved faithful to the last, however,
was a young musician, Anton Schindler, who for a time was Beethoven’s
housemate and devoted slave, and became his literary executor and
biographer. Schindler has been the object of much detraction and
censure, but both Grove and Thayer regard him as trustworthy, in
character as well as in intelligence. He had much to bear from his
adored master, who tired of him, treated him with violence and
injustice, and finally banished him from his house. But when Beethoven
returned to Vienna from the ill-fated visit to Johann in 1826, sick
unto death, Schindler resumed his old position as house companion.
Both Schindler and Baron von Zmeskall collected notes, memoranda, and
letters which have been of great service to later biographers of the
composer.

Beethoven’s friendships were often marked by periods of storm, and many
who were once proud to be in his favored circle afterward became weary
of his eccentricities, or were led away to newer interests. It was
hard for him to understand some of the most obvious rules of social
conduct, and impossible for him to control his tongue or temper. Close
and well-tried friends, falling under his suspicion or arousing his
anger, were in the morning forbidden his house, roundly denounced, and
treated almost like felons; in the afternoon, with a return of calmness
and reason, he would write to them remorseful letters, beg their
forgiveness, and plead for a continuance of their affection. Often
the remorse was out of all proportion to his crime. After a quarrel
with Stephan von Breuning he sends his portrait with the following
message: ‘My dear, good Stephan--Let what for a time passed between us
lie forever hidden behind this picture. I know it, I have broken _your
heart_. The emotion which you must certainly have noticed in me was
sufficient punishment for it. It was not a feeling of _malice_ against
you; no, for then I should be no longer worthy of your friendship.
It was passion on your part and on mine--but mistrust of you arose
in me. Men came between us who are not worthy either of you or of me
... faithful, good, and noble Stephan. Forgive me if I did hurt your
feelings; I was not less a sufferer myself through not having you near
me during such a long period; then only did I really feel how dear to
my heart you are and ever will be.’ Too apologetic and remorseful,
maybe; but still breathing a kind of stubborn pride under its genuine
and sincere affection.

Although Goethe and Beethoven met at least once, they did not become
friends. The poet was twenty-one years the elder, and was too much the
gentleman of the world to like outward roughness and uncouth manners in
his associates. He had, moreover, no sympathy with Beethoven’s rather
republican opinions. On the other hand, Beethoven had something of the
peasant’s intolerance for the courtier and fine gentleman. ‘Court air,’
he writes in 1812, ‘suits Goethe more than becomes a poet. One cannot
laugh much at the ridiculous things that virtuosi do, when poets, who
ought to be looked upon as the principal teachers of the nation, forget
everything else amidst this glitter.’

In spite of his deafness, rudeness, and eccentricity Beethoven
seems to have had no small degree of fascination for women. He was
continually in love, writing sincere and charming letters to his
‘immortal Beloved,’ and planning more than once, with almost pathetic
tenderness, for marriage and a home. There is a genuine infatuation,
an ardent young-lover-like exultation in courtship that lifts him
for a time even out of his art and leaves him wholly a man--a man,
however, whose passion was always stayed and ennobled by spiritual
bonds. License and immorality had no attraction for him, even when
all his hopes of marriage were frustrated. Talented and lovely women
accepted his admiration--Magdelena Willman, the singer, Countess Giulia
Guicciardi, Therese Malfatti, Countess von Brunswick, Bettina Brentano,
the ‘Sybil of romantic literature’--one after another received his
addresses, possibly returned in a measure his love, and, presently,
married someone else. Beethoven was undoubtedly deeply moved at these
successive disappointments. ‘Oh, God!’ he writes, ‘let me at last find
her who is destined to be mine, and who shall strengthen me in virtue.’
But, though he was destined never to be happy in this way, his thwarted
love wrecked neither his art nor his happiness. He writes to Ries
in 1812, in a tone almost of contentment and resignation: ‘All kind
messages to your wife, unfortunately I have none. I found one who will
probably never be mine, nevertheless, I am not on that account a woman
hater.’ The truth is, music was in reality his only mistress, and his
plans for a more practical domesticity were like clouds temporarily
illumined by the sun of his own imagination, and predestined to be as
fleeting.

As has been noted, toward the end of his life most of the intimacies
and associations with the fashionable circles of Vienna gradually
ceased. During the early part of his last illness the brother Johann,
a few musicians and an occasional stranger were among his visitors,
and until December of the year 1826 the nephew made his home with
Beethoven. But Johann returned to his property, Carl rejoined his
regiment, much to the added comfort of the sick man, and the visits
from outsiders grew fewer in number. The friends of earlier days--those
whom he had honored by his dedications or who had profited by the
production of his works, as well as those who had suffered from his
violence and abuse--nearly all were either dead or unable to attend
him in his failing strength. Only the Breunings and Schindler remained
actively faithful till the last.

With his publishers his relations were, on the whole, of a calmer and
more stable nature than with his princely friends. It must be noted
that Beethoven is the first composer whose works were placed before
the public in the manner which has now become universal. Although
music printing had been practised since the sixteenth century, the
publisher in the modern sense did not arrive until about Beethoven’s
time. The works of the eighteenth century composers were often
produced from manuscript and kept in that state in the libraries of
private houses, and whatever copies were made were generally at the
express order of some musical patron. Neither Mozart nor Haydn had a
‘publisher’ in the modern sense--a man who purchases the author’s work
outright or on royalties, taking his own risk in printing and selling
it. The greater part of Beethoven’s compositions were sold outright
to the distinguished house of Breitkopf and Härtel, and, all things
considered, he was well paid. In those days it took a week for a letter
to travel from Vienna to Leipzig, and Beethoven’s patience was often
sorely tried by delays not due to tardiness of post. The correspondence
is not lacking in those frantic calls for proof, questions about dates
of publication, alarms over errors, and other matters so familiar to
every composer and author. In earlier days, Simrock of Bonn undertook
the publication of some of the master’s work, but did not come up to
his ideas in respect to time. The following letter, concerning the
Sonata in A, opus 47, shows that even the impatient Beethoven could
bear good-naturedly with a certain amount of irritating trouble:

‘Dear, best Herr Simrock: I have been all the time waiting anxiously
for my sonata which I gave you--but in vain. Do please write and tell
me the reason of the delay--whether you have taken it from me merely
to give it as food to the moths or do you wish to claim it by special
imperial privilege? Well, I thought that might have happened long ago.
This slow devil who was to beat out this sonata, where is he hiding?
As a rule you are a quick devil, it is known that, like Faust, you are
in league with the black one, and on that very account _so beloved_ by
your comrades.’

It is said that Nägeli of Zürich on receiving for publication the
Sonata in G (opus 31, No. 1), undertook to improve a passage which he
considered too abrupt or heterodox, and added four measures of his own.
The liberty was discovered in proof, and the publication immediately
transferred to Simrock, who produced a correct version. Nägeli,
however, still retained and adhered to his own version, copies of which
are still occasionally met with.

More than once Beethoven shows himself to be reasonable and even
patient with troublesome conditions. In regard to some corrections in
the C minor symphony he writes to Breitkopf and Härtel: ‘One must not
pretend to be so divine as not to make improvements here and there
in one’s creations’--and surely the following is a mild protest,
considering the cause: ‘How in heaven’s name did my Fantasia with
orchestra come to be dedicated to the King of Bavaria?’ This was no
slip of memory on Beethoven’s part, for he was very particular about
dedications. Again he writes to his publishers, after citing a list
of errors: ‘Make as many faults as you like, leave out as much as you
like--you are still highly esteemed by me; that is the way with men,
they are esteemed because they have not made still greater faults.’
His letters reveal the fact, not that he was disorderly and careless,
but that, on the contrary, when he had time to give attention, he
could manage his business affairs very sensibly indeed. Usually he
is exact in stating his terms and conditions for any given piece of
work; but occasionally he was also somewhat free in promising the
same composition to more than one publisher, and in setting off one
bid against another in order to get his price. But it is impossible
to see, even in such acts, any very deep-seated selfish or mercenary
quality. Full of ideas, pushed from within as well as from without,
he knew himself capable of replacing one composition with another of
even richer value. He was always in need of money, not because he
lived luxuriously, but because of the many demands made upon him from
his family and by reason of the fact that absorption in composition,
frequent illness, and deafness rendered him incapable of ordering his
affairs with any degree of economy. Whenever it was possible he gave
his services generously for needy causes, such as a benefit for sick
soldiers, or for the indigent daughter of Bach. Writing to Dr. Wegeler,
the husband of Eleanore von Breuning, he says: ‘If in our native land
there are any signs of returning prosperity, I will only use my art for
the benefit of the poor.’

In respect to other musicians Beethoven was in a state of more or less
open warfare. Bitterly resentful of any slight, it was not easy for
him to forgive even an innocent or kindly criticism, much less the
open sneers that invariably attend the progress of a new and somewhat
heretical genius. If, however, he considered other musicians worthy, he
was glad of their recognition. Although he did not care for the subject
of _Don Giovanni_, he writes that Mozart’s success gave him as much
pleasure as if it were his own work. To his publishers he addresses
these wise words concerning young musicians: ‘Advise your critics
to exercise more care and good sense with regard to the productions
of young authors, for many a one may become thereby dispirited, who
otherwise might have risen to higher things.’

III

Perhaps the most obvious element of his character was his essential
innocence and simplicity, with all the curious secondary traits that
accompany a nature fundamentally incapable of becoming sophisticated.
Love of nature was one part of it. To an exceptional degree he loved
to walk in the woods and to make long sojourns in the country. Lying
on his back in the fields, staring into the sky, he forgot himself
and his anxieties in a kind of ecstatic delight. Klober, the painter,
writes: ‘He would stand still, as if listening, with a piece of paper
in his hand, look up and down, and then write something.’ Not always
was he quiet, but often strode impatiently along, humming, singing,
or roaring, with an occasional pause for the purpose of making notes.
In this manner dozens of sketch books were filled with ideas which
enable the student to trace, step by step, the evolution of his
themes. An Englishman who lived in intimate friendship with him for
some months asserts that he never ‘met anyone who so delighted in
nature, or so thoroughly enjoyed flowers, clouds, or other natural
subjects. Nature was almost meat and drink to him; he seems positively
to exist upon it.’ This quality is emphasized by Beethoven’s letter
to Therese Malfatti, in which he says: ‘No man on earth can love the
country as I do. It is trees, woods, and rocks that return to us the
echo of our own thought.’ Like the Greeks, he could turn the dancing
of the Satyrs into an acceptable offering on the altar of art. Of this
part of his nature, the Sixth (Pastoral) Symphony is the monument.
It is as if he took special occasion, once for all, to let speak the
immediate voice of Pan within him. It is full of the sights and sounds
of nature, not, however, as Beethoven himself says, a painting, but an
expression of feeling. In an analysis of the _allegro_, referring to
the constant repetition of short phrases, Grove says: ‘I believe that
the delicious, natural, May-day, out-of-doors feeling of this movement
arises in a great measure from this kind of repetition. It causes a
monotony--which, however, is never monotonous--and which, though no
_imitation_, is akin to the constant sounds of nature--the monotony
of rustling leaves and swaying trees, and running brooks and blowing
wind, the call of birds and the hum of insects.’ And he adds, as a
summing up of its beauty: ‘However abstruse or characteristic the mood
of Beethoven, the expression of his mind is never dry or repulsive. To
hear one of his great compositions is like contemplating, not a work of
art or man’s device, but a mountain, a forest, or other immense product
of nature--at once so complex and so simple; the whole so great and
overpowering; the parts so minute, so lovely, and so consistent; and
the effect so inspiring, so beneficial, and so elevating.’

Another phase of this deep, unworldly innocence was the very exhibition
of temper that so often brought him into trouble. Sophistication and
conformity remove these violences from men’s conduct, and rightly
so; often with them is also removed much of the earnestness, the
spontaneous tenderness, and the trustfulness of innocence. What but a
deeply innocent, unsophisticated mind could have dictated words like
these, which were written to Dr. Wegeler, after a misunderstanding: ‘My
only consolation is that you knew me almost from my childhood, and--oh,
let me say it myself--I was really always of good disposition, and in
my dealings always strove to be upright and honest; how, otherwise,
could you have loved me.’ Together with this yearning for understanding
from his friends was a consciousness also of genius, which was humble,
the very opposite of vanity and self-conceit: ‘You will only see me
again when I am truly great; not only greater as an artist, but as a
man you shall find me better, more perfect’; and again, ‘I am convinced
good fortune will not fail me; with whom need I be afraid of measuring
my strength?’ This is the language of self-confidence, and also of a
nature thoroughly innocent and simple.

Still another, and perhaps the most remarkable, phase of his character
was a certain boisterous love of fun and high spirits, which betrayed
itself on the most unexpected occasions, often in puns, jests,
practical jokes, and satiric comment. He was, in fact, an invincible
humorist, ready, in season or out of season, with or without decorum,
to expend his jocose or facetious pleasantry upon friend or enemy.
If he could deliver a home thrust, it was often accompanied with a
roar of laughter, and his sense of a joke often overthrew every other
consideration. Throwing books, plates, eggs, at the servants, pouring a
dish of stew over the head of the waiter who had served him improperly;
sending the wisp of goat’s hair to the lady who had asked him for a
lock of his own--these were his sardonically jesting retorts to what
he considered to be clumsiness or sentimentality. The estimable
Schuppanzigh, who in later life grew very fat, was the subject of many
a joke. ‘My lord Falstaff’ was one of his nicknames, and a piece of
musical drollery exists, scrawled by Beethoven on a blank page of the
end of his sonata, opus 28, entitled _Lob an den Dicken_ (Praise to the
fat one), which consists of a sort of canon to the words, _Schuppanzigh
ist ein Lump, Lump, Lump_, and so on. Beethoven writes to Count von
Brunswick: ‘Schuppanzigh is married--they say his wife is as fat as
himself--what a family!’ Nicknames are invented for friend and foe:
Johann, the _Gutsbesitzer_, is the ‘Brain-eater’ or ‘Pseudo-brother’;
his brother’s widow is ‘Queen of the Night,’ and a canon written to
Count Moritz Lichnowsky is set to the words, _Bester Herr Graf, du
bist ein Schaf!_ Often his humor is in bad taste and frequently out
of season, but it is always on call, a boisterous, biting, shrewd
eighteenth century gift for ridicule and jest.

It must be admitted, however, that he was usually blind to the jest
when it was turned on himself. There is an anecdote to the effect that
in Berlin in 1796 he interrupted Himmel, the pianist, in the midst of
an improvisation, asking him when he was intending to begin in earnest.
When, however, months afterward, Himmel attempted to even up the joke
by writing to Beethoven about the invention of a lantern for the blind,
the composer not only did not see the point but was enraged when it
was pointed out to him. Often, however, the humorous turn which he was
enabled to give must have assisted in averting difficult situations,
and not always was his jesting so heavy handed. He speaks of sending
a song to the Princess Kinsky, ‘one of the stoutest, prettiest ladies
in Vienna,’ and the following note shows his keen understanding of the
peculiarities of popular favorites. Anna Milder, a celebrated German
singer, was needed for rehearsal. ‘Manage the affair cleverly with
Milder,’ he writes; ‘only tell her that you really come in my name,
and in advance beg her not to sing anywhere else. But to-morrow I will
come myself in order to kiss the hem of her garment.’

Another phase of the essential simplicity, as well as greatness, of
his mind is in his direct grasp of the central thought of any work.
He overlooked incidental elements, in order to get at the fundamental
idea. This quality, as well as his own innate tendency toward the
heroic and grand, led him to such writers as Homer, Plutarch, and
Shakespeare, and made it impossible for him to find any interest
in trivial or frivolous themes. He was always looking for suitable
subjects for opera, but could never bring himself to regard seriously
such a subject as Figaro or Don Giovanni. The less noble impulses
were not, for him, worthy themes for art. ‘He refused with horror,’
Wagner notes, ‘to write music to ballet, shows, fireworks, sensual love
intrigues, or an opera text of a frivolous tendency.’

‘Mozart, with his divine nonchalance, snatched at any earthly
happiness, any gaiety of the flesh or spirit, and changed it instantly
into the immortal substance of his music. But Beethoven, with his
peasant seriousness, could not jest with virtue or the rhythmical
order of the world. His art was his religion and must be served
with a devotion in which there was none of the easy pleasantness of
the world.’[54] This same ability of grasping the fundamental idea,
however, led him also sometimes to set an undue valuation upon an
inferior poet, such as Klopstock, whom it is said he read habitually
for years. Something in the nobility and grandeur of the ideas at the
bottom of this poet’s work caused Beethoven to overlook its pompousness
and chaotic quality. The words meant less for him than the emotion and
conception which prompted them. Beethoven himself, however, says that
Goethe spoiled Klopstock for him, but it was only, fortunately, to
provide him with something better. His taste for whatever was noble
and grand in art never left him; and, so far as he was able, he lived
up to the idea that it was the artist’s duty to be acquainted with the
ancient and modern poets, not only so as to choose the best poetry for
his own work, but also to afford food for his inspiration.

Beethoven from the first faced the world with a defiant spirit and a
sort of wild independence. His sordid childhood nourished in him a
rugged habit of self-dependence, and the knowledge of his own powers
was like a steady beacon holding him unfalteringly to a consciousness
of his high destiny. He _believed_, with all the innocence of a great
mind, that gifts of genius were more than sufficient to raise their
possessor to a level with the highest nobility; and, with such a
belief, he could not pretend to a humility he was far from feeling
in the companionship of social superiors. This feeling was perfectly
compatible with the genuine modesty and clearness of judgment in regard
to his own work. ‘Do not snatch the laurel wreaths from Handel, Haydn,
and Mozart,’ he writes; ‘they are entitled to them; as yet I am not.’
But his modesty in things artistic was born, after all, of a sense
of his own kinship with the greatest of the masters of art. He could
face a comparison with them, knowing full well he belonged to their
court; but to courts of a more temporal nature he did not and could
not belong, however often he chanced to come under a princely roof.
The light ease of manner, the assured courtesies, the happy audacities
of speech and conduct which are native to the life of the salon and
court were foreign to his nature. The suffrage of the fashionable world
of Vienna he won by reason of qualities which were alien to them, but
yet touched their sympathies, satisfied their genuine love of music,
and pricked their sensibilities as with a goad. His is perhaps the
first historic instance of ‘artistic temperament’ dominating and
imposing itself upon society. Byron to a certain extent defied social
customs and allowed himself liberties which he expected to be excused
on account of his genius and popularity; but he was fundamentally
much more closely allied to the world of fashion than Beethoven, who
was a law unto himself and in sympathy with society only so far as it
understood and applauded his actions.

Theoretically, at least, he was an ardent revolutionist. During the
last decades of the eighteenth century the revolution in France had
dwarfed all other political events in Europe, and republicanism was in
the air. Two years after Beethoven left Bonn the Electorate of Cologne
was abolished, and during the succeeding period many other small
principalities were swallowed up by the larger kingdoms. The old order
was changed and almost all Europe was involved in warfare. In 1799
the allied European states began to make headway against the invading
French armies, and, as a consequence, the Directory fell into disfavor
in France. Confusion and disorder prevailed, the Royalists recovering
somewhat of their former power, and the Jacobins threatening another
Reign of Terror. In this desperate state of affairs Napoleon was looked
to as the liberator of his country. How he returned in all haste from
his victorious campaign in Egypt, was hailed with wild enthusiasm,
joined forces with some of the Directors, drove the Council of Five
Hundred from the Chamber of Deputies (1799) and became First Consul--in
fact, master of France--need hardly be recounted here.

Beethoven regarded Napoleon as the embodiment of the new hopes for
the freedom of mankind which had been fostered by the Revolution.
That he had also been affected by the martial spirit of the times
is revealed in the first and second symphonies. It was the third,
however, which was to prove the true monument to republicanism. The
story is one of the familiar tales of musical history. Still full of
confidence and faith in the Corsican hero, Beethoven composed his great
‘Eroica’ symphony (1804) and inscribed it with the name ‘Buonaparte.’
A fair copy had already been sent to an envoy who should present it to
Napoleon, and another finished copy was lying on the composer’s work
table when Beethoven’s friend Ries brought the news that Napoleon had
assumed the title of emperor. Forthwith the admiration of Beethoven
turned to hatred. ‘After all, then,’ he cried, ‘he is nothing but an
ordinary mortal! He will trample all the rights of man underfoot, to
indulge his ambition, and become a greater tyrant than anyone!’ The
title page was seized, torn in half and thrown on the floor; and the
symphony was rededicated to the memory of _un grand’ uomo_. It is said
that Beethoven was never heard to refer to the matter again until the
death of Napoleon in 1821, when he remarked, in allusion to the Funeral
March of his second movement, ‘I have already foreseen and provided for
that catastrophe.’ Probably nothing, however, beyond the title page
was altered. ‘It is still a portrait--and we may believe a favorable
portrait--of Napoleon, and should be listened to in that sense. Not as
a conqueror--that would not attract Beethoven’s admiration--but for
the general grandeur and loftiness of his course and of his public
character. How far the portraiture extends, whether to the first
movement only or through the entire work, there will probably be always
a difference of opinion. The first movement is certain. The March is
certain also, as is shown by Beethoven’s own remark--and the writer
believes, after the best consideration he can give to the subject, that
the other movements are also included in the picture, and that the
_poco andante_ at the end represents the apotheosis of the hero.’[55]

It is in vain, however, that one looks for a parallel between the life
and the work of the master. In everyday matters he was impatient,
abrupt and often careless; while in his art his patience was such as
to become even a slow brooding, an infinite care. His life was often
distracted and melancholy; his music is never distracted or melancholy,
except in so far as great art can be melancholy with a nobly tragic,
universal depth of sadness. In political matters a revolutionist and
in social life a rebel, in his art he accepted forms as he found
them, expanding them, indeed, but not discarding them. Audacious and
impassioned not only in private conduct but in his extempore playing,
in his writing he was cautious and selective beyond all belief. The
sketch books are a curious and interesting witness to the slow and
tentative processes of his mind. More than fifty of these--books of
coarse music paper of two hundred or more pages, sixteen staves to the
page--were found among his effects after death and sold. One of these
books was constantly with him, on his walks, by his bedside, or when
travelling, and in them he wrote down his musical ideas as they came,
rewrote and elaborated them until they reached the form he desired.
They are, as Grove points out, perhaps the most remarkable relic that
any artist or literary man has left behind him. In them can be traced
the germs of his themes from crude or often trivial beginning, growing
under his hand spontaneously, as it seemed, into the distinguished and
artistic designs of his completed work. A dozen or a score attempts at
the same theme can often be found, and ‘the more they are elaborated,
the more spontaneous they become.’ In these books it can also be seen
how he often worked upon four or five different compositions at the
same time; how he sometimes kept in mind a theme or an idea for years
before finally using it, and how extraordinary was the fertility of his
genius. Nottebohm, the author of ‘Beethoveniana,’ says: ‘Had he carried
out all the symphonies which are begun in these books, we should have
at least fifty.’ Thus we see his method of work, and the stages through
which his compositions passed. ‘He took a story out of his own life,
the life of a friend, a play of Goethe or Shakespeare--and he labored,
eternally altering and improving, until at last every phrase expressed
just the emotions he himself felt. The exhibition of his themes, as
expressed in the sketch books, show how passionately and patiently he
worked.’

Although he certainly sometimes allowed his music to be affected
by outside events, as has been traced, for example, in the Eroica
Symphony, yet in most instances his work seems to be independent of the
outward experiences of his life. One of the most striking examples of
the detachment of his artistic from his everyday life is in connection
with the Second Symphony, written in 1802, the year in which he wrote,
also, the celebrated ‘Heiligenstadt Will.’ This document was prompted
by his despair over his bad health, frequent unhappiness on account of
his brothers, and his deafness, which was now pronounced incurable. In
it he says:

‘During the last six years I have been in a wretched condition--I am
compelled to live as an exile. If I approach near to people, a feeling
of hot anxiety comes over me lest my condition should be noticed.
At times I was on the point of putting an end to my life--art alone
restrained my hand. Oh, it seemed as if I could not quit this earth
until I had produced all I felt within me, and so I continued this
wretched life--wretched, indeed, with so sensitive a body that a
somewhat sudden change can throw me from the best into the worst state.
Lasting, I hope, will be my resolution to bear up until it pleases
the inexorable Parcæ to break the thread. My prayer is that your life
may be better, less troubled by cares, than mine. Recommend to your
children _virtue_; it alone can bring happiness, not money. So let it
be. I joyfully hasten to meet death. O Providence, let me have just one
pure day of _joy_; so long is it since true joy filled my heart. Oh,
when, Divine Being, shall I be able once again to feel it in the temple
of Nature and of men.’

Such was his expression of grief at the time when the nature of his
malady became known to him; and who can doubt its depth and sincerity?
In it the man speaks from the heart; but in the same year also the
Second Symphony was written, and in this the artist speaks. What
a wonderful difference! ‘The _scherzo_ is as proudly gay in its
capricious fantasy as the _andante_ is completely happy and tranquil;
for everything is smiling in this symphony, the warlike spirit of the
_allegro_ is entirely free from violence; one can only find there
the grateful fervor of a noble heart in which are still preserved
unblemished the loveliest illusions of life.’[56]

There seem to be two periods--one from 1808 to 1811, during his love
affair with Therese Malfatti, and again after his brother’s death
in 1815--when outward circumstances prevailed against the artist
and rendered him comparatively silent. Unable to loosen the grip of
personal emotion, during these periods he wrote little of importance.
‘During all the rest of his agitated and tormented life nothing,
neither the constant series of passionate and brief loves, nor
constant bodily sickness, trouble about money, trouble about friends,
relations, and the unspeakable nephew, meant anything vital to his
deeper self. The nephew helped to kill him, but could not color a
note of his music.’[57] If, as in the case of the ‘Eroica,’ music was
sometimes the reflection of present emotion, it was still oftener, as
in the case just cited, his magic against it, his shelter from grief,
the rock-wall with which he shut out the woes of life.

In the development of his artistic career three circumstances may
be counted as strongly determining factors: his early experience in
the theatre at Bonn, his skill on the pianoforte, and his lifelong
preference for the sonata form.

In regard to the first, it is clearly evident that, although Beethoven
was moved least of all by operatic works, yet his constant familiarity
with the orchestra during the formative years of his life must have
left a strong impression. From 1788 to 1792 at the National Theatre
in Bonn he was playing in such works as _Die Entführung_, _Don
Giovanni_, and _Figaro_ by Mozart, _Die Pilgrime von Mekka_ by Gluck,
and productions by Salieri, Benda, Dittersdorf, and Paesiello. That
in after life he wrote but one opera was probably due to a number
of causes, one of which was his difficulty in finding a libretto to
his liking. His diary and letters show that he was frequently in
correspondence with various poets concerning a libretto, and that the
purpose of further operatic work was never dismissed from his mind.
But he always conceived his melodies and musical ideas instrumentally
rather than vocally, and never was able or willing to modify them to
suit the compass of the average voice. One consequence of this was that
he had endless trouble and difficulty in the production of his opera,
_Fidelio_, which was withdrawn after the first three performances. Upon
its revival it was played to larger and more appreciative audiences,
but was again suddenly and finally withdrawn by the composer after a
quarrel with Baron von Braun, the intendant of the theatre.

It was but natural that such difficulties and vexations should turn
the attention of the composer away from operatic production, but
he undoubtedly hoped that better fortune would sometime attend his
endeavors. In one respect, at least, he reaped encouragement from
the experience with _Fidelio_, for it helped him to overcome his
sensitiveness in regard to his deafness. On the margin of his sketch
book in 1805 he writes: ‘Struggling as you are in the vortex of
society, it is yet possible, notwithstanding all social hindrances, to
write operas. Let your deafness be no longer a secret, even in your
art.’ Great as _Fidelio_ is, it does not possess the vocal excellences
even of the commonplace Italian or French opera of its day. Its merit
lies in the greater nobility of conception, the freedom and boldness of
its orchestral score, and in its passionate emotional depth. The result
of Beethoven’s early practice with the theatre, undoubtedly, was of far
deeper significance in relation to his symphonies than to his operatic
work.

During the early days in Vienna his reputation rested almost entirely
upon his wonderful skill as player upon the pianoforte, or, more
especially, as improviser. It was a period of great feats in extempore
playing, and some of the greatest masters of the time--Himmel, Woelfl,
Lipawsky, Gelinek, Steibelt--lived in Vienna. They were at first
inclined to make sport of the newcomer, who bore himself awkwardly,
spoke in dialect, and took unheard-of liberties in his playing; but
they were presently forced to recognize the master hand. Steibelt
challenged him at the piano and was thoroughly beaten, while Gelinek
paid him the compliment of listening to his playing so carefully as to
be able to reproduce many of his harmonies and melodies and pass them
off as his own. Technically, only Himmel and Woelfl could seriously
compare with Beethoven, the first being distinguished by clearness and
elegance, and the second by the possession of unusually large hands,
which gave him a remarkable command of the keyboard. They, as well as
Beethoven, could perform wonders in transposition, reading at sight,
and memorizing, just as Mozart had done. But Beethoven’s reputation
as the ‘giant among players’ rested upon other qualities--the fire of
his imagination, nobility of style, and great range of expression.
Understanding as he did the capabilities of the pianoforte, he endowed
his compositions for this instrument with a wealth of detail and depth
of expression such as had hitherto not been achieved. Czerny, himself
an excellent pianist, thus describes his playing: ‘His improvisation
was most brilliant and striking; in whatever company he might chance
to be he knew how to produce such an effect upon every hearer that
frequently not an eye remained dry, while many would break out in loud
sobs; for there was something wonderful in his expression, in addition
to the beauty and originality of his ideas, and his spirited style of
rendering them.’[58] Ries and other artists have also borne testimony
to his skill, wealth of imagery and inexhaustible fertility of ideas.
Grove says: ‘He extemporized in regular form; and his variations, when
he treated a theme in that way, were not mere alterations of figure,
but real developments and elaborations of the subject.’

In close connection with his work as pianist, and exercising a
powerful influence not only upon Beethoven but also upon all later
composers, was the mechanical development of the pianoforte. The
clavichord and clavicembalo, which had occupied a modest place during
the eighteenth century merely as accompanying instruments to string
or wind music, were now gradually replaced by the _Hammer-clavier_,
as it was called, which, by the middle of the century, began to be
considered seriously as a solo instrument of remarkable powers.
Important piano manufacturers, such as Silbermann in Strassburg, Späth
in Regensburg, Stein in Augsburg, Broadwood in London, and Érard in
Paris, did much to bring about the perfection of the instrument and
so indirectly assisted in the development of pianoforte music. In
1747 Sebastian Bach had played a Silbermann piano before Frederick
the Great in Potsdam, but the important development came after the
middle of the century. In London, in 1768, Johann Christian Bach used
the pianoforte for the first time in a public concert, and we know
that Mozart possessed instruments both from Späth and Stein, and that
in 1779 some of his work was published ‘for Clavier or Pianoforte.’
An immediate consequence of this sudden rise of the pianoforte into
popularity was, of course, the appearance of a new musical literature
adapted to the peculiarities of the instrument. Among the first of the
technical students of the pianoforte was Muzio Clementi,[59] whose
_Gradus ad Parnassum_, or hundred exercises ‘upon the art of playing
the pianoforte in a severe and elegant style’ made a deep impression
upon the rising generation of musicians and are still considered of
the highest educational value. Some of these exercises were published
as early as 1784, though the collection was not made until 1817.
An extract from the writing of one of Clementi’s best pupils throws
some light upon the standard of taste in regard to pianoforte playing
which prevailed in Beethoven’s early days. He says: ‘I asked Clementi
whether, in 1781, he had begun to treat the instrument in his present
(1806) style. He answered _no_, and added that in those early days
he had cultivated a more brilliant execution, especially in double
stops, hardly known then, and in extemporized cadenzas, and that he had
subsequently achieved a more melodic and noble style of performance
after listening attentively to famous singers, and also by means of
the perfected mechanism of English pianos, the construction of which
formerly stood in the way of a cantabile and legato style of playing.’
It is evident that Beethoven came upon the scene as pianoforte player
not only when the improved instrument was almost in the first flush of
its popularity, but also when virtuosity and the ability to astonish
by difficult technical feats were sometimes mistaken for true artistic
achievement.

By the time Beethoven’s career as a composer began the sonata had
already been developed, as we have seen, especially by Haydn and
Mozart, into a model form whose validity was established for all time.
Technically, it was a compromise between the German effort toward a
logical and coherent harmonic expression, as represented by Emanuel
Bach and others, and the Italian tendency toward melodic beauty and
grace. The first thirty-one published instrumental compositions of
Beethoven, as well as the great majority of all his works, are in
this form, which seemed, indeed, to be the ‘veil-like tissue through
which he gazed into the realm of tones.’[60] With Haydn this form
had reached a plane where structural lucidity was almost the first
consideration. ‘Musicians had arrived at that artificial state of mind
which deliberately chose to be conscious of formal elements,’ says
Parry, ‘and it was only by breathing a new and mightier spirit into the
framework that the structure would escape becoming merely a collection
of lifeless bones.’ It was this spirit which Beethoven brought not only
to the pianoforte sonata, but also to the symphony and quartet. His
spirit, as we have seen, both in daily intercourse and in art, was of
the sort to scoff at needless restrictions and defy conventionality.
While, however, his rebellion against conventionality of conduct and
artificiality in society was often somewhat excessive and superfluous,
in his art it led him unerringly, not toward iconoclasm or even
disregard of form, but toward the realities of human feeling.

Beethoven’s works extend to every field of composition. They include
five concertos for piano and orchestra, one concerto for violin and
orchestra, sixteen quartets for strings, ten sonatas for piano and
violin, thirty-eight sonatas for piano, one opera, two masses, nine
overtures and nine symphonies--about forty vocal and less than two
hundred instrumental compositions in all. The division of the work into
three periods, made by von Lenz in 1852 is, on the whole, a useful
and just classification, when due allowance is made for the periods
overlapping and merging into each other according to the different
species of composition. The ideas of his mature life expressed
themselves earlier in the sonatas than in the symphonies; therefore the
first period, so far as the sonatas are concerned, ends with opus 22
(1801), while it includes the Second Symphony, composed, as has been
noted, in 1802. Individual exceptions to the classification also occur,
as, for example, the Quartet in F minor, which, though composed during
the first period, shows strongly many of the characteristics of the
second. In general, however, the early works may be said to spring from
the pattern set by Haydn and Mozart. In regard to this Grove says: ‘He
began, as it was natural and inevitable he should, with, the best style
of his day--the style of Mozart and Haydn, with melodies and passages
that might be almost mistaken for theirs, with compositions apparently
molded in intention on them. And yet even during this Mozartian epoch
we meet with works or single movements which are not Mozart, which
Mozart perhaps could not have written, and which very fully reveal the
future Beethoven.’

In spite of being fully conscious of himself and knowing the power
that was in him, Beethoven never was an iconoclast or radical. He was
rather a builder whose architectural traditions came from ancient,
well-accredited sources, in kinship probably somewhat closer to Haydn
than to Mozart, though traces of Mozart are clearly evident. ‘The
topics are different, the eloquence is more vivid, more nervous, more
full-blooded--there is far greater use of rhythmic gesture, a far
more intimate and telling appeal to emotion, but in point of actual
phraseology there is little that could not have been written by an
unusually adult, virile, and self-willed follower of the accepted
school. It is eighteenth century music raised to a higher power.’[61]

The promise of a change in style, evident in the Kreutzer Sonata
(1803) and in the pianoforte concerto in C minor, is practically
completed in the Eroica Symphony (1804)--a change of which Beethoven
was fully conscious and which he described in a letter as ‘something
new.’ It began the second period, lasting until 1814, to which belongs
a striking and remarkable group of works. In the long list are six
symphonies, the third to the eighth inclusive, the opera _Fidelio_
with its four overtures, the Coriolan overture, the Egmont music,
the pianoforte concertos in G and E flat, the violin concerto, the
Rasoumowsky quartets, and a dozen sonatas for the piano, among which
are the D minor and the Appassionata. It was a period characterized
by maturity, wealth of imagination, humor, power, and individuality
to a marvellous degree. If Beethoven had done nothing after 1814, he
would still be one of the very greatest composers in the field of
pure instrumental music. His ideas increase in breadth and variety,
the designs grow to magnificent proportions, the work becomes more
harmonious and significant, touching many sides of thought and emotion.

In this period he broke through many of the conventions of composition,
as, for example, the idea that certain musical forms required certain
kinds of treatment. The rondo and scherzo, formerly always of a certain
stated character, were made by him to express what he wished, according
to his conception of the requirements of the piece. Likewise the number
of his movements was determined by the character and content of the
work, and the conventional repetition of themes was made a matter of
choice. Moreover, the usual method of key succession was used only if
agreeable to his idea of fitness. In the great majority of sonatas by
Haydn and Mozart, if the first theme be given out in a major key, the
second is placed in the dominant; or, if the first is in minor, the
second would be in the relative major. Beethoven makes the transition
to the dominant only three times out of eighty-one examples, using
instead the subdominant, the third above, or the third below. He
changes also from tonic major to tonic minor, and _vice versa_. With
him the stereotyped restriction as to key succession was no longer
valid when it conflicted with the necessity for greater freedom.

Again, Beethoven ignored the well-established convention of separating
different sections from one another by well-defined breaks. It was
the custom with earlier masters to stop at the end of a passage,
‘to present arms, as it were,’ with a series of chords or other
conventional stop; with Beethoven this gives place to a method of
subtly connecting, instead of separating, the different sections, for
which he used parts of the main theme or phrases akin to it, thus
making the connecting link an inherent part of the piece. He also
makes use of episodes in the working-out section, introduces even
new themes, and expands both the coda and the introduction. These
modifications are of the nature of enlargements or developments of a
plan already accepted, and seem, as Grove points out, ‘to have sprung
from the fact of his regarding his music less as a piece of technical
performance than his predecessors had perhaps done, and more as the
expression of the ideas with which his mind was charged.’ These ideas
were too wide and too various to be contained within the usual limits,
and, therefore, the limits had to be enlarged. The thing of first
importance to him was the idea, to be expressed exactly as he wished,
without regard to theoretical formulæ, which too often had become dry
and meaningless. Therefore he allows himself liberties--such as the
use of consecutive fifths--if they convey the exact impression he
wishes to convey. Other musicians had also allowed themselves such
liberties, but not with the same high-handed individualistic confidence
that Beethoven betrays. ‘In Beethoven the fact was connected with the
peculiar position he had taken in society, and with the new ideas which
the general movement of freedom at the end of the eighteenth century,
and the French Revolution in particular, had forced even into such
strongholds as the Austrian courts.... What he felt he said, both in
society and in his music.... The great difference is that, whereas
in his ordinary intercourse he was extremely abrupt and careless
of effect, in his music he was exactly the reverse--painstaking,
laborious, and never satisfied till he had conveyed his ideas in
unmistakable language.’[62]

In other words, conventional rules and regulations of composition which
had formerly been the dominating factor were made subservient to what
he considered the essentials--consistency of mood and the development
of the poetic idea. He becomes the tone poet whose versatility and
beauty of expression increase with the increasing power of his thought.
Technical accessories of art were elevated to their highest importance,
not for the sake of mere ornamentation, but because they were of use in
enlarging and developing the idea.

During these years of rich achievement the staunch qualities of his
genius, his delicacy and accuracy of sensation, his sound common sense
and wisdom, his breadth of imagination, joy, humor, sanity, and moral
earnestness--these qualities radiate from his work as if it were
illuminated by an inward phosphorescent glow. He creates or translates
for the listener a whole world of truth which cannot be expressed by
speech, canvas, or marble, but is only capable of being revealed in the
realm of sound. The gaiety of his music is large and beneficent; its
humor is that of the gods at play; its sorrow is never whimpering; its
cry of passion is never that of earthly desire. ‘It is the gaiety which
cries in the bird, rustles in the reeds, shines in spray; it is a voice
as immediate as sunlight. Some new epithet must be invented for this
music which narrates nothing, yet is epic; sings no articulate message,
yet is lyric; moves to no distinguishable action, yet is already awake
in the wide waters out of which a world is to awaken.’[63]

The transition to the third period is even more definitely marked than
that to the second. To it belong the pianoforte sonatas opus 101 to
111, the quartets opus 127 to 135, the Ninth Symphony, composed nearly
eleven years after the eighth, and the mass in D--works built on even
a grander scale than those of the second epoch. It would almost seem
as if the form, enlarged and extended, ceased to exist as such and
became a principle of growth, comparable only to the roots and fibres
of a tree. The polyphony, quite unlike the old type of counterpoint,
yet like that in that it is made up of distinct strands, is free and
varied. Like the other artifices of technique, it serves only to
repeat, intensify, or contrast the poetic idea. The usual medium of
the orchestra is now insufficient to express his thought, therefore he
adds a choral part for the full completion of the idea which had been
germinating in his consciousness for more than twenty years. Moreover,
these later works are touched with a mysticism almost beyond any words
to define, as if the musician had ceased to speak in order to let the
prophet have utterance. ‘He passes beyond the horizon of a mere singer
and poet and touches upon the domain of the seer and the prophet;
where, in unison with all genuine mystics and ethical teachers, he
delivers a message of religious love and resignation, identification
with the sufferings of all living creatures, depreciation of self,
negation of personality, release from the world.’[64]

More radical than the modifications mentioned above were the
substitution of the scherzo for the minuet, and the introduction of
a chorus into the symphony. It will be remembered that the third
symphonic movement, the minuet, originally a slow, stately dance, had
already been modified in spirit and tempo by Mozart and Haydn for the
purpose of contrast. In his symphonies, however, Beethoven abandoned
the dance tune almost entirely, using it only in the Eighth. Even in
the First, where the third movement is entitled ‘menuetto,’ it is in
fact not a dance but a scherzo, and offers almost a miniature model of
the longer and grander scherzos in such works as the Fifth and Ninth
Symphonies, where, as elsewhere, he made the form subservient to his
mood.

Of the second innovation mentioned, the finale of the Ninth Symphony
remains as the sole, but lasting and stupendous, monument. This whole
work, the only symphony of his last period, deserves to be studied not
only as the crowning achievement of a remarkable career and the logical
outcome of the eight earlier symphonies with their steadily increasing
breadth and power, but also as in itself voicing the last and best
message of the master. Its arrangement, consisting of five parts, is
rather irregular. The _allegro_ is followed by the scherzo, which in
turn is followed by a slow movement. The finale consists of a theme
with variations and a choral movement to the setting of Schiller’s
‘Ode to Joy.’ The thought of composing a work which should express
his ideals of universal peace and love had been in his mind since the
year 1792. It seems as if he conceived the use of the chorus as an
enlargement and enrichment of the forces of the orchestra, rather than
as an extraneous addition--as if human voices were but another group of
instruments swelling that great orchestral hymn which forms the poetic
and dramatic climax to the work, ‘carrying sentiment to the extremest
pitch of exaltation.’ The melody itself is far above the merely
æsthetic or beautiful, it reaches the highest possible simplicity and
nobility. ‘Beethoven has emancipated this melody from all influences of
fashion and fluctuating taste, and elevated it to an eternally valid
type of pure humanity.’[65]

The changes in technical features inaugurated by Beethoven are of far
less importance, comparatively, than the increase in æsthetic content,
individuality, and expression. As has been noted, he was no iconoclast;
seeking new effects in a striving for mere originality or altering
forms for the mere sake of trying something new. On the contrary, his
innovations were always undertaken with extreme discretion and only
as necessity required; and even to the last the sonata form, ‘that
triune symmetry of exposition, illustration, and repetition,’ can be
discerned as the basis upon which his most extensive work was built.
Even when this basis is not at first clearly apparent, the details
which seemed to obscure it are found, upon study, to be the organic and
logical amplification of the structure itself, never mere additions. It
should be pointed out, however, that the last works, especially those
for the piano, are of so transcendental or mystic a nature as to make
it impossible for the average listener to appreciate them to their
fullest extent; indeed, they provide a severe test even for a mature
interpreter and for that reason they will hardly ever become popular.

VII

In spite of Beethoven’s own assertion that his work is not meant to
be ‘program music,’ his name will no doubt always be connected with
that special phase of modern art. We have seen how distinctly he
grasped the true principles of program or delineative music in his
words, _Mehr Ausdruck der Empfindung als Malerei_ (the expression of
feeling, not a painting); never an imitation, but a reproduction of
the effect. More than any musician of his own or earlier times was he
able to saturate his composition with the mood which prompted it. For
this reason the whole world sees pictures in his sonatas and reads
stories into his symphonies, as it has not done with the work of Haydn,
Emanuel Bach, or Mozart. With the last-named composer it was sufficient
to bring all the devices of art--balance, light and shade, contrast,
repetition, surprise--to the perfection of an artistic ensemble, with
a result which satisfies the æsthetic demands of the most fastidious.
Beethoven’s achievement was art plus mood or emotion; therefore the
popular habit of calling the favorite sonata in C sharp minor the
‘Moonlight Sonata,’ unscholarly though it may be, is striking witness
to one of the most fundamental of Beethoven’s qualities--the power by
which he imbued a given composition with a certain mood recognizable
at once by imaginative minds. The aim at realism, however, is only
apparent. That he is not a ‘programmist,’ in the accepted sense, is
evident from the fact that he gave descriptive names to only the two
symphonies, the _Eroica_ and _Pastoral_. He does not tell a story, he
produces a feeling, an impression. His work is the notable embodiment
of Schopenhauer’s idea: ‘Music is not a representation of the world,
but an immediate voice of the world.’ Unlike the artist who complained
that he disliked working out of doors because Nature ‘put him out,’
Beethoven was most himself when Nature spoke through him. This is
the new element in music which was to germinate so variously in the
music drama, tone poems and the like of the romantic writers of the
nineteenth century.

In judging his operatic work, it has seemed to critics that Beethoven
remained almost insensible to the requirements and limitations of a
vocal style and was impatient of the restraints necessarily imposed
upon all writing for the stage; with the result that his work spread
out into something neither exactly dramatic nor oratorical. In spite of
the obvious greatness of _Fidelio_, these charges have some validity.
With his two masses, again, he went far beyond the boundaries
allotted by circumstance to any ecclesiastical production and arrived
at something like a ‘shapeless oratorio.’ His variations, also, so
far exceed the limit of form usually maintained by this species of
composition that they are scarcely to be classed with those of any
other composer. For the pianoforte, solo and in connection with other
instruments, there are twenty-nine sets of this species of music,
besides many brilliant instances of its use in larger works, such as
the slow movement in the ‘Appassionata,’ and the slow movements of the
Fifth and Ninth Symphonies. Sometimes he keeps the melody unchanged,
weaving a varied accompaniment above, below, or around it; again he
preserves the harmonic basis and embellishes the melody itself, these
being types of variation well known also to other composers. Another
method, however, peculiar to himself, is to subject each part--melody,
rhythm, and harmony--to an interesting change, and yet with such skill
and art that the individual theme still remains clearly recognizable.
‘In no other form than that of the variation,’ remarks Dannreuther,
‘does Beethoven’s creative power appear more wonderful and its effect
on the art more difficult to measure.’

It is, however, primarily as symphonist and sonata writer that
Beethoven stands preëminent. At the risk of another repetition we must
again say that with Beethoven’s treatment the sonata form assumes a new
aspect, in that it serves as the golden bowl into which the intensity
of his thought is poured, rather than the limiting framework of his
art. He was disdainful of the attitude of the Viennese public which
caused the virtuoso often to be confused with the artist. Brilliant
passages were to him merely so much bombast and fury, unless there
was a thought sufficiently intense to justify the extra vigor; and
to him cleverness of fingers could not disguise emptiness of soul.
‘Such is the vital germ from which spring the real peculiarities and
individualities of Beethoven’s instrumental compositions. It must now
be a form of spirit as well as a form of the framework; it is to become
internal as well as external.’ A musical movement in Beethoven is a
continuous and complete poem; an organism which is gradually unfolded
before us, rarely weakened by the purely conventional passages which
were part of the _form_ of his predecessors.

It must be noted, however, that Beethoven’s subtle modifications in
regard to form were possible only because Mozart and Haydn had so well
prepared the way by their very insistence upon the exact divisions
of any given piece. Audiences of that day enjoyed the well-defined
structure, which enabled them to follow and know just where they were.
Perhaps for that very reason they sooner grew tired of the obviously
constructed piece, but in any case they were educated to a familiarity
with form, and were habituated to the effort of following its general
outlines. Beethoven profited by this circumstance, taking liberties,
especially in his pianoforte compositions, which would have caused
mental confusion and bewilderment to earlier audiences, but were
understood and accepted with delight by his own. His mastery of musical
design and logical accuracy enabled him so to express himself as to
be universally understood. He demonstrated both the supremacy and the
elasticity of the sonata form, taking his mechanism from the eighteenth
century, and in return bequeathing a new style to the nineteenth--a
style which separated the later school of Vienna from any that had
preceded it, spread rapidly over Europe, and exercised its authority
upon every succeeding composer.

His great service was twofold: to free the art from formalism and
spirit-killing laws; and to lift it beyond the level of fashionable
taste. In this service he typifies that spirit which, in the persons
of Wordsworth, Lessing, Schiller, and Goethe, has rescued literary
art from similar deadening influences. Wagner expressed this feeling
when he said, ‘For inasmuch as he elevated music, conformably to its
utmost nature, out of its degradation as a merely diverting art to the
height of its sublime calling, he has opened to us the understanding
of that art in which the world explains itself.’ Herein lies his
true relation to the world of art and the secret of his greatness;
for almost unchallenged he takes the supreme place in the realm of
pure instrumental music. His power is that of intellect combined with
greatness of character. ‘He loves love rather than any of the images of
love. He loves nature with the same, or even a more constant, passion.
He loves God, whom he cannot name, whom he worships in no church built
with hands, with an equal rapture. Virtue appears to him with the same
loveliness as beauty.... There are times when he despairs for himself,
never for the world. Law, order, a faultless celestial music, alone
exist for him; and these he believed to have been settled before time
was, in the heavens. Thus his music was neither revolt nor melancholy,’
and it is this, the noblest expression of a strange and otherwise
inarticulate soul, which lives for the eternal glory of the art of
music.

F. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[50] Edward Dickinson: ‘The Study of the History of Music.’

[51] _Dichtung und Wahrheit._

[52] Thayer, Vol. I, p. 227.

[53] Nottebohm: _Beethoveniana_, XXVII.

[54] Arthur Symons, Essay ‘Beethoven.’

[55] Grove: ‘Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies,’ pp. 55-56.

[56] Berlioz: _Étude critique des symphonies de Beethoven_.

[57] Arthur Symons, Essay ‘Beethoven.’

[58] Thayer: Vol. II, p. 10.

[59] Muzio Clementi (1752-1832) is now remembered chiefly by his
technical studies for the pianoforte, though a much greater portion of
his work deserves recognition. He was a great concert pianist, a rival
of whom Mozart was a little unwilling to admit the ability. A great
part of his life was spent in England. He composed a great amount of
music for the pianoforte which has little by little been displaced by
that of Mozart; and in his own lifetime symphonies which once were
hailed with acclaim fell into neglect before Haydn’s. His pianoforte
works expanded keyboard technique, especially in the direction of
double notes and octaves, and were the first distinctly pianoforte
works in distinction to works for the harpsichord.

[60] Wagner, Essay ‘Beethoven.’

[61] ‘Oxford History of Music,’ Vol. V.

[62] Grove, Vol. I, p. 204.

[63] Arthur Symons, Essay ‘Beethoven.’

[64] Dannreuther, ‘Beethoven,’ Macmillan’s Magazine, July, 1876.

[65] Richard Wagner, Essay ‘Beethoven.’

CHAPTER V
OPERATIC DEVELOPMENT IN ITALY AND FRANCE

Italian opera at the advent of Rossini--Rossini and the
Italian operatic renaissance; _Guillaume Tell_--Donizetti and
Bellini--Spontini and the historical opera--Meyerbeer’s life and
works--His influence and followers--Development of _opéra comique_;
Auber, Hérold, Adam.

Operatic development in Italy and France during the first half of the
nineteenth century represents, broadly speaking, the development of the
romantic ideal by Rossini and Meyerbeer; a breaking away from classic
and traditional forms; and the growth of individual freedom in musical
expression. Rossini, as shown by subsequent detailed consideration of
his works and the reforms they introduced, overthrows the time-honored
operatic conventions of his day and breathes new life into Italian
dramatic art. Spontini, ‘the last great classicist of the lyric stage,’
nevertheless forecasts French grand opera in his extensive historical
scores. And French grand opera (as will be shown) is established
as a definite type, and given shape and coherence by Rossini in
_Tell_, by Meyerbeer in _Robert_, _Les Huguenots_, _Le Prophète_, and
_l’Africaine_.

In this period the classical movement, interpreting in a manner the
general trend of musical feeling in the eighteenth century, merges
into the romantic movement, expressing that of the nineteenth. A
widespread, independent rather than interdependent, musical activity
in many directions at one and the same time explains such apparent
contradictions as Beethoven and Rossini, Schubert, Cherubini, Spontini,
Weber and Meyerbeer, all creating simultaneously. To understand the
operatic reforms of Rossini and their later development a _résumé_
of the leading characteristics of the Italian opera of his day is
necessary.

As is usually the case when an art-form has in the course of time
crystallized into conventional formulas, a revolution of some sort
was imminent in Italian opera at the beginning of the nineteenth
century. In France Gluck had already banished from his scores the
dreary _recitativo secco_, and extended the use of the chorus. The
_opéra comique_ had come to stay, finding its most notable exponents
in Grétry, Méhul, and Boieldieu. Cherubini’s nobly classic but cold
and formal scores gave enjoyment to a capital which has at nearly all
times been independent and self-sufficient. Mozart, in _Zauberflöte_,
had already unlocked for Germany the sacred treasures of national
art, and Weber,[66] following the general trend of German poetry and
fiction, had inaugurated the romantic opera, a musical complement
of the romantic literary movement, to which he gave its finest and
fullest expression. Utilizing fairy tale and legend, he had secured for
opera ‘a wider stage and an ampler air,’ and no longer relegating the
beauties of Nature to the background, but treating them as an integral
part of his artistic scheme, he laid the foundation upon which was
eventually to rise the modern lyric drama.

But in Italy, beyond innate refinement of thought and grace of style,
the composers whose names are identified with what was best in opera
during the closing years of the eighteenth century had nothing to
say. Cimarosa, Paesiello, Piccini (the one-time rival of Gluck)
were prolific writers of the sort of melodious opera which had once
delighted all Europe and still enchanted the opera-mad populace of
Naples, Florence, Rome, and Venice. They had need to be prolific
at a time when, as Burney says, an opera already heard was ‘like a
last year’s almanac,’ and when Venice alone could boast thirteen
opera houses, public and private. Each had to compose unremittingly,
sometimes three or even four operas a year, and it is hardly surprising
that their works, for all their charm, were thin and conventional
in orchestration, and had but scant variety of melodic line. The
development of the symphonic forms of _aria_ and _ensemble_ by Mozart,
the enlargement of the orchestra, and the exaggerated fondness for
virtuoso singing encouraged these defects, and gave these Italian
composers ‘prosaically golden opportunities of lifting spectators and
singers to the seventh heaven of flattered vanity.’ There was little or
no connection between the music and its drama. Speaking generally, the
operatic ideals of Italy were those of old Galuppi, who, when asked to
define good music, replied: ‘_Vaghezza, chiarezza e buona modulazione_’
(vagueness, tenderness, and good modulation).

With all its faults the music of these eighteenth century masters
excelled in a certain gracious suavity. Cimarosa, Paesiello and their
contemporaries represent the perfection of the older Italian _opera
buffa_, the classical Italian comic opera with secco-recitative,
developed by Logroscino, Pergolesi, and Jommelli, a form which then
reigned triumphant in all the large capitals of Europe. In the more
artificial _opera seria_ as well Cimarosa and Paesiello in particular
achieved notable successes, and their works are the link which connects
Italian opera with the most glorious period the lyric drama has known
since the elevation of both Italian and German schools. But the
criticism of the Abbé Arnaud, who said, ‘These operas, for which their
drama is only a pretext, are nothing but concerts,’ is altogether just.

The reforms of Gluck and the romantic movement in Germany in no
wise disturbed the trend of Italian operatic composition. Weber’s
influence was negligible, for Italian operatic composers were, as a
rule, indifferent to what was going on, musically, outside their own
land. Those who, like Francesco Morlacchi (1784-1841) or the Bavarian
Simon Mayr (1763-1845), were brought into contact with Weber or his
works, showed their indebtedness to him rather in their endeavors to
secure broader and more interesting harmonic development of their
melodies and greater orchestral color than in any direct working
out of his ideals. But one native Italian was destined to exert an
influence, the constructive power of which, within the confines of
his own land, equalled that exerted by Weber in Germany. The time
was at hand when in Italy, the citadel of operatic conventionality
and formalism, a reaction against vapidity of idea, affectation, and
worn-out sentimentality was to find its leaders in Rossini, the ‘Swan
of Pesaro,’ and his followers and disciples, Bellini and Donizetti.

Gioacchino Antonio Rossini, his father a trumpeter, his mother a
baker’s daughter, was born in Pesaro, February 29, 1792, and had
his first musical instruction, on the harpsichord, from Prinetti, a
musician of Novara, who played the scale with two fingers only and
fell asleep while giving lessons. He soon left his first teacher, but
when, at the age of fifteen, he was admitted to the counterpoint class
of Padre P. S. Mattei, he read well at sight, and could play both
the pianoforte and the horn. At the Conservatory of Bologna, under
Cavedagni, he also learned to play the 'cello with ease.

His insight into orchestral writing, however, came rather from the
knowledge he gained by scoring Haydn’s and Mozart’s quartets and
symphonies than from Mattei’s instruction. For counterpoint he never
had much sympathy; but, though the stricter forms of composition did
not appeal to him, he was well enough grounded in the grammar of his
art to enable him at all times to give the most effective expression to
the delicious conceptions which continually presented themselves to his
mind.

In 1808 the Conservatory of Bologna awarded him a prize for his cantata
_Il pianto d’armonia per la morte d’Orfeo_, and two years later the
favor of the Marquis Cavalli secured the performance of his first
opera, _Il cambiale di matrimonio_, at Venice. Rossini now produced
opera after opera with varying fortune in Bologna, Rome, Venice, and
Milan. The success of _La pietra del paragone_ (Milan, 1812), in which
he introduced his celebrated _crescendo_,[67] was eclipsed by that of
_Tancredi_ (Venice, 1813), the only one among these early works of
which the memory has survived. In it the plagiarism to which Rossini
was prone is strongly evident; it contains fragments of both Paer
and Paesiello. But the public was carried away with the verve and
ingenuity of the opera, and the charm of melodies like _Mi rivedrai, ti
rivedrò_, which, we are told, so caught the public fancy that judges
in the courts of law were obliged to call those present to order for
singing it. Even the arrival of the Emperor Napoleon in Venice, which
took place at the time, could not compete in popular interest with the
performances of _Tancredi_. In 1814 Rossini’s _Il turco in Italia_ was
heard in Milan, and in the next year he agreed to take the musical
direction of the Teatro del Fondo at Naples, with the understanding
that he was to compose two operas every year, and in return to receive
a stipend of 200 ducats (approximately one hundred and seventy-five
dollars) a month, and an annual share of the gaming tables amounting to
one thousand ducats (eight hundred and seventy-five dollars)!

In Naples the presence of Zingarelli and Paesiello gave rise to
intrigue against the young composer, but all opposition was overcome
by the enthusiastic manner in which the court received _Elisabetta,
regina d’Inghilterra_, set to a libretto by Schmidt, which anticipated
by a few years the incidents of Scott’s ‘Kenilworth.’ As in _La
pietra del paragone_, Rossini had first made effective use of the
_crescendo_, so in _Elisabetta_ he introduced other innovations. The
classic _recitative secco_ was replaced by a recitative accompanied by
a quartet of strings.[68] And for the first time Rossini wrote out the
‘ornaments’ of the arias, instead of leaving them to the fancy of the
singers, on whose good taste and sense of fitness he had found he could
not depend.

A version by Sterbini of Beaumarchais’ comedy, _Le Barbier de Seville_,
furnished the libretto for his next opera. Given the same year at Rome,
at first under the title of _Almaviva_, it encountered unusual odds.
Rome was a stronghold of the existing conventional type of Italian
opera which Rossini and his followers in a measure superseded. There,
as elsewhere, Paesiello’s _Barbiere_ had been a favorite of twenty-five
years’ standing. Hence Rossini’s audacity to use the same libretto was
so strongly resented that his opera was promptly and vehemently hissed
from the stage. But had not Paesiello himself, many years before, tried
to dim the glory of Pergolesi by resetting the libretto of _La serva
padrona_? Perhaps Italy considered it a matter of poetic justice, for
the success of Rossini’s _Barbiere di Siviglia_, brightest and wittiest
of comic operas, was deferred no longer than the second performance,
and it soon cast Paesiello’s feebler score into utter oblivion.

Of the twelve operas which followed from Rossini’s pen between 1815
and 1823, _Otello_ (Rome, 1816) and _Semiramide_ (Venice, 1823)
may be considered the finest. In them the composer’s reform of the
_opera seria_ culminated. ‘William Tell’ belongs to another period
and presents a wholly different phase of his creative activity. In
the field of _opera buffa_, _La Cenerentola_ (Cinderella), given in
Rome in 1817, is ranked after _Il barbiere_. It offers an interesting
comparison with Nicolo Isouard’s[69] _Cendrillon_. In the French
composer’s score all is fragrant with the atmosphere of fairyland and
rich in psychic moods; in Rossini’s treatment of the same subject all
is realistic humor and dazzling vocal effect. He accepted the libretto
of _Cenerentola_ only on condition that the supernatural element
should be omitted! It is the last of his operas which he brought to a
brilliant close for the sake of an individual _prima donna_.

_La gazza ladra_, produced in Milan the same year, was long considered
Rossini’s best work. It is characteristic of all that is best in his
Italian period. The tuneful overture with its _crescendo_--with the
exception of the _Tell_ overture the best of all he has written--arias,
duets, ensembles, and finales are admirable. The part-writing in the
chorus numbers is inferior to that of none of his other works. Two
romantic operas, _Armida_ (1817)--the only one of Rossini’s Italian
operas provided with a ballet--and _Ricciardo e Zoraide_ (1818), both
given in Naples, are rich in imagination and contain fine choral
numbers.

In 1820 the Carbonarist revolution, which drove out

King Ferdinand IV, ruined Rossini’s friend Barbaja and induced Rossini
to visit Vienna. On his way, in 1821, he married Isabella Colbran,
a handsome and wealthy Spanish _prima donna_, seven years older
than himself, who had taken a leading part in the first performance
of his _Elisabetta_ six years before. Upon his return to Bologna a
flattering invitation from Prince Metternich to ‘assist in the general
reëstablishment of harmony,’ took him to Verona for the opening of the
Congress, October 20, 1822. Here he conducted a number of his operas,
and wrote a pastoral cantata, _Il vero omaggio_, and some marches for
the amusement of the royalties and statesmen there assembled, and
made the acquaintance of Chateaubriand and Madame de Lieven. The cool
reception accorded his _Semiramide_ in Venice probably had something
to do with his accepting the suggestion of Benelli, the manager of
the King’s Theatre in London, to pay that capital a visit. He went to
England late in the year and remained there for five months, receiving
many flattering attentions at court and being presented to King George
IV, with whom he breakfasted _tête-à-tête_. His connection with the
London opera during his stay netted him over seven thousand pounds.

Between the years 1815 and 1823--a comparatively short space of
time--Rossini had completely overthrown the operatic ideals of Cimarosa
and Paesiello, and by sheer intelligence, trenchant vigor, marvellous
keenness in measuring the popular appetite and ability to gratify it
with novel sensations he entirely remodelled both the _opera seria_ and
the _opera buffa_.

Rossini created without effort, for nature had granted him, as she has
granted most Italian composers, the power of giving a nameless grace to
all he wrote. Yet he was more than versatile, more than merely facile.
In spite of his weakness for popular success and the homage of the
multitude, he was no musical charlatan. Even his weakest productions
were stronger than those of the best of his Italian contemporaries.
His early study of Mozart had drawn his attention to the need of
improvement in Italian methods, and, as a result, his instrumentation
was richer, and--thanks to his own natural instinct for orchestral
color--more glowing and varied than any previously produced in Italy.
In his _cantabile_ melodies he often attained telling emotional
expression, he enriched the existing order with a wider range of novel
forms and ornamentations, and he abandoned the lifeless recitative in
favor of a more dramatic style of accompanied recitation.

In the Italy of Rossini the _prima donna_ was the supreme arbiter of
the lyric stage, and individual singers became the idols of kings and
peoples. Such singers as Pasta, whose voice ranged from a to high d;
the contraltos Isabella Colbran (Rossini’s first wife) and Malibran,
who, despite the occasional ‘dead’ tones in her middle register,
never failed of an ovation when she sang in Rome, Naples, Bologna, or
Milan; Teresa Belloc, the dramatic mezzo-soprano, who was a favorite
interpreter of Rossinian rôles; Fanny Persiani, so celebrated as a
coloratura soprano that she was called _la piccola Pasta_; Henriette
Sontag, most wonderful of Rosines; and Catalani, mistress of bravura;
the tenors Rubini, Manuel Garcia, Nourrit; the basses Luigi Lablache,
Levasseur, and Tamburini, these were the sovereigns of the days
of Rossini and Meyerbeer. But their reign was not as absolute as
Farinelli’s and Senesino’s in an earlier day. The new ideas which
claimed that the singer existed for the sake of the opera, and not the
opera for that of the singer, inevitably, though slowly, reacted in the
direction of proportion and fitness.

Rossini was the first to insist on writing out the coloratura cadenzas
and fioriture passages, which the great singers still demanded, instead
of leaving them to the discretion, or indiscretion, of the artists. It
had been the custom to allow each soprano twenty measures at the end
of her solo, during which she improvised at will. As a matter of fact,
the cadenzas Rossini wrote for his _prime donne_ were quite as florid
as any they might have devised, but they were at least consistent;
and his determined stand in the matter sounded the death-knell of the
old tradition that the opera was primarily a vehicle for the display
of individual vocal virtuosity. He was also the first of the Italians
to assign the leading parts to contraltos and basses; to make each
dramatic scene one continuous musical movement; and to amplify and
develop the concerted finale. These widespread reforms culminate, for
_opera buffa_, in _Il barbiere di Siviglia_, and for _opera seria_ in
_Semiramide_ and _Otello_.

_Il Barbiere_, with its witty and amusing plot and its entertaining and
brilliant music, is one of the few operas by Rossini performed at the
present time. It gives genuine expression in music to Beaumarchais’
comedy--a comedy of gallantry, not of love--and the music is developed
out of the action of the story. So perfect is the unity of the work
in this respect that its coloratura arias, such as the celebrated
one of Rosine’s, do not even appear as a concession made to virtuoso
technique. One admirer speaks of the score, in language perhaps a
trifle exaggerated, as ‘a glittering, multicolored bird of paradise,
who had dipped his glowing plumage in the rose of the dawn and the
laughing, glorious sunshine,’ and says that ‘each note is like a
dewdrop quivering on a rose-leaf.’ Stendhal says: ‘Rossini has had the
happy thought, whether by chance or deliberate intention, of being
primarily himself in the “Barber of Seville.” In seeking an intimate
acquaintance with Rossini’s style we should look for it in this score.’

In _Otello_, which offers a suggestive contrast with the treatment
of the same subject by Verdi at a similar point of his artistic
development, the transition from _recitativo secco_ to pure recitative,
begun in _Elisabetta_, was carried to completion. Shakespeare’s tragedy
was, in a measure, ‘butchered to make a Roman holiday,’ the Roman
public of Rossini’s day insisting on happy endings, which therefore had
to be invented. And it is claimed that there are still places in Italy
in which the Shakespearian end of the story can never be performed
without interruption from the audience, who warn Desdemona of Otello’s
deadly approach. _Otello_ is essentially a melodrama. In his music
Rossini has portrayed a drama of action rather than a tragedy. There
is no inner psychological development, but an easily grasped tale of
passion of much scenic effect, though in some of the dramatic scenes
the passionate accent is smothered beneath roulades. But if the musical
Othello himself is unconvincing from the tragic point of view, in
Desdemona Rossini has portrayed in music a character of real tragic
beauty and elevation. Two great artists, Pasta and Malibran, have
immortalized the rôle--‘Pasta, imposing and severe as grief itself,’
and Malibran, more restless and impetuous, ‘rushing up trembling,
bathed in her tears and tresses.’ _Semiramide_ composed in forty days
to a libretto by Rossi,[70] gains a special interest because of its
strong leaven of Mozart. In Rossini’s own day and long afterward it
was considered his best _opera seria_, always excepting _Tell_. The
judgment of our own day largely agrees in looking upon it as an almost
perfect example of the _rococo_ style in music.

Rossini’s removal to Paris in 1824, when he became musical director of
the Théâtre des Italiens, marks the beginning of another stage of his
development, one that produced but a single opera, _Guillaume Tell_,
but that one a masterpiece.

Owing to Rossini’s activity in his new position, which he held for only
eighteen months, the technical standard of performance was decidedly
raised. Among the works he produced were _Il viaggio a Reims_ (1825),
heard again three years later in a revised and augmented version as
_Le Comte Ory_, and Meyerbeer’s _Il Crociato_, the first work of that
composer to be heard in Paris. In 1826 Charles X appointed him ‘first
composer to the king’ and ‘inspector-general of singing in France,’ two
sinecures the combined salaries of which amounted to twenty thousand
francs. Rossini, who had a keen sense of humor, is said to have been in
the habit of stopping in the street, when some pavement singer raised
his voice, or the sound of song floated down from some open window,
and whispering to his friends to be silent ‘because the inspector of
singing was busy gathering material for his next official report.’

The leisure thus afforded him gave him an opportunity to revise and
improve his older works, and to devote himself to a serious study of
Beethoven. Between 1810 and 1828 he had produced forty distinct works;
in 1829 he produced the one great score of his second period, which in
most respects outweighs all the others. It was to be the first of a
series of five operas which the king had commissioned him to write for
the Paris opera, but the overthrow of Charles X made the agreement void
in regard to the others.

The libretto of _Guillaume Tell_, which adheres closely to Schiller’s
drama, was written by Étienne Jouy and Hippolyte Bis, and further
altered according to Rossini’s own suggestions. Though the original
drama contains fine situations, the libretto was not an ideal one for
musical treatment. Musically it ranks far above any of his previous
scores, since into the Italian fabric of his own creation he had
woven all that was best in French operatic tradition. The brilliant
and often inappropriate _fioriture_ with which many of the works of
his first period were overladen gave way to a clear melodic style,
befitting the simple nobility of his subject and better qualified than
his earlier style to justify the title given him of ‘father of modern
operatic melody.’ No longer abstract types nor mere vehicles for vocal
display, his singers sang with the dramatic accents of genuine passion.
The conventional _cavatina_ was deliberately avoided. The choruses
were planned with greater breadth and with an admirable regard for
unity. The orchestration developed a wonderful diversity of color, and
breathed fresh and genuine life through the entire score. The overture,
not a dramatic preface, but a pastoral symphony in abridged form, with
the obligatory three movements--_allegro_, _andante_, _presto_; the
huntsman’s chorus; the duet between Tell and Arnold; the finale of the
first act; the prelude to the second and Matilda’s aria; the grandiose
scene on the Rütli, the festival scene and the storm scene are,
perhaps, the most noteworthy numbers.

It cost Rossini six months to compose _Guillaume Tell_, the time in
which he might have written six of his earlier Italian operas. The
result of earnest study and deep reflection, it shows both French
and German influences; something of German depth and sincerity of
expression, a good deal of French _esprit_ and dramatic truth, and the
usual Italian grace are its composite elements. The ease and fluency of
Rossini’s style persist unchanged, while he discards mere mannerisms
and rises to heights of genuine dramatic intensity he had not before
attained. The new and varied instrumental timbres he employed no doubt
had a considerable share in forming modern French composers’ taste for
delicate orchestral effects.

_Tell_ marks a transitional stage in the history of opera. It is
to be regretted that it does not also mark a transitional stage in
the composer’s own creative activity, instead of its climax. There
is interesting matter for speculation in what Rossini might have
accomplished had he not decided to retire from the operatic field
at the age of thirty-seven. After the success of _Guillaume Tell_
he retired for a time to Bologna to continue his work according to
the terms of his Paris contract--he had been considering the subject
of _Faust_ for an opera--and was filled with ambitious plans for
the inauguration of a new epoch in French opera. When, in November,
1830, he returned to Paris his agreement had been repudiated by the
government of Louis Philippe, and the interest in dramatic music had
waned. In 1832 he wrote six movements of his brilliant _Stabat mater_
(completed in 1839, the year of his father’s death) and in 1836, after
the triumph of Meyerbeer’s _Les Huguenots_, he determined to give over
operatic composition altogether. His motive in so doing has always
been more or less a mystery. It has been claimed that he was jealous
of Meyerbeer’s success, but his personal relations with Meyerbeer were
friendly. One of Rossini’s last compositions, in fact, was a pianoforte
fantasia on motives of Meyerbeer’s _L’Africaine_, the final rehearsal
of which he had attended. And after his death there was found among his
manuscripts a requiem chant in memory of Meyerbeer, who had died four
years before. Another and more probable theory is that the successive
mutilation of what he regarded as his greatest work (it was seldom
given in its complete form) checked his ardor for operatic composition.
Again, as he himself remarked to a friend, ‘A new work if successful
could not add to my reputation, while if it failed it might detract
from it.’ And, finally, Rossini was by nature pleasure-loving and fond
of the good things of life. He had amassed a considerable fortune, and
it is quite possible that he felt himself unequal to submitting again
to the strain he had undergone in composing _Tell_. He told Hiller
quite frankly that when a man had composed thirty-seven operas he
began to feel a little tired, and his determination to write no more
allowed him to enjoy the happiness of not outliving his capacity for
production, far less his reputation.

His first wife had died in 1845. In the interval between the production
of _Tell_ and his second marriage in 1847, with Olympe Pelissier (who
sat to Horace Vernet for his picture of ‘Judith and Holofernes’),
the reaction of years of ceaseless creative work, domestic troubles,
and the annoyance of his law suit against the French government had
seriously affected him physically and mentally. His marriage with Mme.
Pelissier was a happy one, and he regained his good spirits and health.
Leaving Bologna during the year of his second marriage, he remained for
a time in Florence, and in 1855 settled in Paris, where his _salon_
became an artistic and musical centre. Here Richard Wagner visited
him in 1860, a visit of which he has left an interesting record. The
_Stabat mater_ (its first six numbers composed in 1832), completed in
1842, and given with tremendous success at the Italiens; his _Soirées
musicales_ (1834), a set of album leaves for one and two voices; his
Requiem Mass (_Petite messe solennelle_), and some instrumental solos
comprise the entire output of his last forty years. He died Nov. 13,
1868, at his country house at Passy, rich in honors and dignities,
leaving the major portion of a large fortune to his native town of
Pesaro, to be used for humanitarian and artistic ends.

It has been said, and with truth, that to a considerable extent the
musical drama from Gluck to Richard Wagner is the work of Rossini.
He assimilated what was useful of the old style and used it in
establishing the character of his reforms. In developing the musical
drama Rossini, in spite of the classic origin of his manner, may be
considered one of the first representatives of romantic art. And by
thus laying a solid foundation for the musical drama Rossini afforded
those who came after him an opportunity of giving it atmosphere and,
eventually, elevating its style. ‘As a representative figure Rossini
has no superior in the history of the musical drama and his name is the
name of an art epoch.’

Rossini’s remodelling of Italian opera, representing, as it did, the
Italian spirit of his day in highest creative florescence, could not
fail to influence his contemporaries. Chief among those who followed in
his footsteps were Donizetti and Bellini. Though without the artistic
genius of their illustrious countryman, they are identified with him
in the movement he inaugurated and assisted him in maintaining Italian
opera in its old position against the increasing onslaughts from
foreign quarters.

Gaetano Donizetti (1798-1848) was a pupil of Simon Mayr in his native
city of Bergamo, and later of Rossini’s master, Mattei, of Bologna.
His first dramatic attempt was an _opera seria_, _Enrico conte di
Borgogna_, given successfully in Venice in 1818. Obtaining his
discharge from the army, in which he had enlisted in consequence of
a quarrel with his father, he devoted himself entirely to operatic
composition, writing in all sixty-five operas--he composed with
incredible rapidity and is said to have orchestrated an entire opera
in thirty hours--but, succumbing to brain trouble, brought on by the
strain of overwork, he died when barely fifty years of age.

He added three unaffectedly tuneful and vivacious operas to the _opera
buffa_ repertory: _La fille du régiment_, _L’Elisir d’amore_, and _Don
Pasquale_. In these he is undoubtedly at his best, for he discards
the affectations he cultivated in his serious work to satisfy the
prevailing taste of his day and gives free rein to his imagination and
his power of humorous characterization.

_La fille du régiment_ made the rounds of the German and Italian
opera houses before the Parisians were willing to reconsider their
verdict after its first unsuccessful production at the Opéra Comique
in 1840. It presents a tale of love which does not run smooth, but
which terminates happily when a high-born mother at length allows her
daughter to marry a Napoleonic officer, her inferior in birth. Though
the music is slight, it is free from pretense and unaffectedly gay.
Like Rossini, Donizetti settled in France after his reputation was
established and suited his style to the taste of his adopted country.
In a minor degree the differences between Rossini’s _Tell_ and his
_Semiramide_ are the same as those between Donizetti’s _Fille du
régiment_ and one of his Italian operas. But there parallel ends. The
‘Daughter of the Regiment’ shows, however, that Donizetti’s lighter
operas have stood the test of time better than his more serious ones.

_L’Elisir d’amore_ (Milan, 1832) also contains some spontaneous and
gracefully fresh and captivating music. The plot is childish, but
musically the score ranks with that of _Don Pasquale_ (Paris, 1843),
the plot of which turns on a trick played by two young lovers upon
the uncle and guardian of one of them. This brilliant trifle made a
tremendous success, and in it Donizetti’s gay vivacity reached its
climax. It was the last of his notable contributions to the _opera
buffa_ of the Rossinian school. Written for the Théâtre des Italiens,
and sung for the first time by Grisi, Mario, Tambarini, and Lablache,
its success was in striking contrast to the failure of _Don Sebastien_,
a large serious opera produced soon afterward.

The vogue of Donizetti’s serious operas has practically passed away.
To modern ears, despite much tender melody and occasional dramatic
expressiveness, they sound stilted and lacking in vitality. _Lucia
di Lammermoor_, founded on Scott’s tragic romance ‘The Bride of
Lammermoor’ (Naples, 1835), immensely popular in the composer’s day,
is still given as a ‘prima donna’s opera,’ for the virtuoso display of
some favorite artist. The fine sextet enjoys undiminished popularity
in its original form as well as in instrumental arrangements, but
in general the composer’s subservience to the false standard of
public taste detracts from the music. An instance is the ‘mad-scene,’
ridiculous from the dramatic standpoint, with its smooth and polished
melody, ending in a virtuoso _fioritura_ cadenza for voice and flute!

The same criticism applies to the tuneful _Lucrezia Borgia_ (Milan,
1833), which, in spite of charming melodies and occasionally effective
concerted numbers, is orchestrated in a thin and childish manner. _Anna
Bolena_ (Milan, 1830), written for Pasta and Rubini, after the good
old Italian fashion of adapting rôles to singers, and _Marino Faliero_
(1835) were both written in rivalry with Bellini, and the failure of
the last-named opera was responsible for the supreme effort which
produced _Lucia_. More important is _Linda di Chamounix_, which aroused
such enthusiasm when first performed in Vienna, in 1842, that the
emperor conferred the title of court composer on its composer. But _La
Favorita_, with its repulsive plot, which shares with _Lucia_ the honor
of being the best of Donizetti’s serious operas, is superior to _Linda_
in the care with which it has been written and in the dramatic power of
the ensemble numbers. _Spirto gentil_, the delightful romance in the
last act, is perhaps the best-known aria in the score. In _Lucia_ and
_La Favorita_ Donizetti’s melodic inspiration--his sole claim to the
favor of posterity--finds its freest and most spontaneous development.

While Donizetti had an occasional sense of dramatic effect, his
contemporary, Vincenzo Bellini (1802-1835), the son of an organist
of Catania, showed a genius which, if wanting in wit and vivacity,
had much melancholy sweetness and a certain elegiac solemnity of
expression. He had studied the works of both the German and Italian
composers, in particular those of Pergolesi, and, like Donizetti,
he fell a victim to the strain of persistent overwork. Among his
ten operas--he did not attempt the _buffa_ style--three stand out
prominently: _La Sonnambula_ (Milan, 1831), _Norma_ (Milan, 1831), and
_I Puritani_ (Paris, 1835).

_La Sonnambula_, in which the singer Pasta created the title rôle, is
an admirable example of Bellini in his most tender and idyllic mood. A
graceful melodiousness fills the score and the closing scene attains
genuine sincerity and pathos. _Norma_ (Milan, 1831), set to a strong
and moving libretto by the poet Felice Romani, is a tragedy of Druidic
Britain, and in it the composer may be considered to have reached his
highest level. At a time like the present, when the art of singing is
not cultivated to the pitch of perfection that was the standard in the
composer’s own period, a modern rendering of _Norma_, for instance,
is apt to lose in dramatic intensity, since Bellini and the other
followers of Rossini were content to provide a rich, broad flow of
_cantilena_ melody, leaving it to the singers to infuse in it dramatic
force and meaning--something which Tamburini, Rubini, and other great
Italian singers were well able to do.

_Norma_ surpasses _I Puritani_ in the real beauty and force of its
libretto, and gains thereby in musical consistency; but the latter
opera, which shows French influences to some extent, cannot be
excelled as regards the tender pathos and sweet sincerity of its
melodies, which, like those in the composer’s other works, depend on
_bel canto_ for their effect. Triumphantly successful at the Théâtre
des Italiens in Paris, 1834, this last of Bellini’s works may well have
been that of which Wagner wrote: ‘I shall never forget the impression
made upon me by an opera of Bellini at a period when I was completely
exhausted with the everlasting abstract complication used in our
orchestras, when a simple and noble melody was revealed to me anew.’ In
a manner Bellini may be considered a link between the exuberant force
and consummate _savoir-faire_ of Rossini’s French period and the more
earnest earlier efforts of Verdi.

Though Donizetti and Bellini are the leading figures in the group of
composers identified with Rossini’s operatic reforms, a few other
names call for mention here: Saverio Mercadante, who composed both
_opera seria_ and _opera buffa_--a gifted but careless writer whose
best-known work is the tragic opera _Il Giuramento_ (Milan, 1837);
Giovanni Pacini, whose _Safo_, a direct imitation of Rossini, was
most successful; and Niccolò Vaccai, better known for his vocal
exercises--still in general use--than for his once popular opera
_Giuletta e Romeo_ (Milan, 1825). Meyerbeer’s seven Italian operas,
_Romilda e Constanza_, _Semiramide riconosciuta_, _Eduardo e
Christina_, _Emma di Resburgo_, _Margherita di Anjou_, _L’Esule di
Granata_, and _Il Crociato in Egitto_, which were due directly to
the admiration he had conceived for Rossini in 1815, and of which he
afterward repented, also properly belong in this enumeration.

III

Meanwhile the reform in Italian opera associated with Rossini made
itself felt in Germany, where, in opera, the Italian style was still
supreme, by way of one of the most remarkable figures in the history of
music. Gassaro Spontini (1774-1851), the son of a cobbler of Ancona,
had studied composition at the Conservatorio dei Turichi in Naples. By
1799 he had written and produced eight operas. Appointed court composer
to King Ferdinand of Naples the same year, he was compelled to leave
that city in 1800, in consequence of the discovery of an intrigue he
had been carrying on with a princess of the court. Two comic operas,
_Julie_ and _La petite maison_ (Paris, 1804), having been hissed, he
determined to drop the _buffa_ style completely. The production of
_Milton_ (one act) in 1804 was his first gage of adherence to the
higher ideals he henceforth made his own.

He was influenced materially by an earnest study of Gluck and Mozart
and through his friendship with the dramatic poet Étienne Jouy. _La
Vestale_ (1807), his first great success, was the result of three
years of effort, and upon its performance at the Académie Impériale,
through the influence of the Empress Josephine, a public triumph, it
won the prize offered by Napoleon for the best dramatic work. In _La
Vestale_, one of the finest works of its class, Spontini superseded
the _parlando_ of Italian opera with accompanied recitative, increased
the strength of his orchestra--contemporary criticism accused him of
overloading his scores with orchestration--and employed large choruses
with telling effect. _La Vestale_ glorified the pseudo-classicism of
the French directory; _Ferdinando Cortez_, which duplicated the success
of that opera two years later, represents an attempt on the part of
Napoleon to ingratiate himself with the Spanish nation he designed to
conquer.

The same year the composer married the daughter of Érard, the
celebrated piano-maker, and in 1810 he became director of the Italian
Opera. In this capacity he paid tribute to the German influences which
had molded his artistic views by giving the first Parisian performance
of Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_ and organizing concerts at which music by
Haydn and other German composers was heard. Court composer to Louis
XVIII in 1814, he was for five years mainly occupied with the writing
of _Olympie_, set to a clumsy and undramatic libretto, which he himself
considered his masterwork, though its production in 1819 was a failure.

Five months after this disappointment, in response to an invitation
of Frederick William III of Prussia, he settled in Berlin, becoming
director of the Royal Opera, with an excellent salary and plenty of
leisure time. In spite of difficulties with the intendant, Count
Brühl, he accomplished much. _Die Vestalin_, _Ferdinando Cortez_, and
_Olympie_, prepared with inconceivable effort, were produced with
great success in 1821. But in the same year Weber’s _Freischütz_,
full of romantic fervor and directly appealing to the heart of the
German nation, turned public favor away from Spontini. In _Nourmahal_
(1822), the libretto founded on Moore’s ‘Lalla Rookh,’ and _Alcidor_
(1825) Spontini evidently chose subjects of a more fanciful type in
order to compete with Weber. His librettos were poor, however, and the
purely romantic was unsuited to his mode of thought. In _Agnes von
Hohenstaufen_, planned on a grander scale than any of his previous
scores, he reverted again to his former style. It is beyond all doubt
Spontini’s greatest work. In grandeur of style and imaginative breadth
it excels both _La Vestale_ and _Ferdinando Cortez_. So thorough-going
were Spontini’s revisions that when it was again given in Berlin in
1837 many who had heard it when first performed did not recognize it.

Spontini’s suspicious and despotic nature, which made him almost
impossible to get along with, led to his dismissal, though with titles
and salary, in 1841. Thereafter he lived much in retirement and died
in 1851. His music belonged essentially to the epic period of the first
French empire. The wearied nations, after the fall of Napoleon, craved
sensuous beauty of sound, lullabies, arias, cavatinas, tenderness,
and wit rather than stateliness and grandeur. Thus the political
conditions of the time favored Rossini’s success and, in a measure, at
Spontini’s expense. Spontini was the direct precursor of Meyerbeer,
who was to develop the ‘historical’ opera, to which the former had
given distinction, with its large lines and stateliness of detail,
its broadly human and heroic appeal, into the more melodramatic and
violently contrasted type generally known as French ‘grand’ opera.

* * * * *

Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791-1863), first known as Jacob Meyer Beer, the son
of the wealthy Jewish banker Beer, of Berlin, was an ‘infant prodigy,’
for, when but nine years old, he was accounted the best pianist in
Berlin. The first teacher to exert a decided influence on him was
Abbé Vogler, organist and theoretician, of Darmstadt, to whom he went
in 1810, living in his home and, with Carl Maria von Weber, taking
daily lessons in counterpoint, fugue, and organ playing. Appointed
composer to the court by the grand duke two years later, his first
opera, ‘Jephtha’s Vow,’ failed at Darmstadt (1811), and his second,
_Alimelek_, at Vienna in 1814. Though cruelly discouraged, he took
Salieri’s advice and, persevering, went to Italy to study vocalization
and form a new style.

In Venice Rossini’s influence affected him so powerfully that, giving
up all idea of developing a style of his own, he produced the seven
Italian operas already mentioned, with brilliant and unlooked-for
success, which, however, did not impress his former fellow student,
Weber, who deplored them as treasonable to the ideals of German art.
Meyerbeer himself, before long, regretted his defection. In fact, the
last of the operas of this Italian period, _Il Crociato in Egitto_
(Venice, 1824), is no longer so evidently after the manner of Rossini.
It was given all over Italy, in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and
even at Rio de Janeiro. Weber considered it a sign that the composer
would soon abandon the Italian style and return to a higher ideal. The
success of _Il Crociato_ gave Meyerbeer an excellent opportunity of
visiting Paris, in consequence of Rossini’s staging it at the Italiens,
in 1826, where it achieved a triumph. The grief into which the death
of his father and of his two children plunged him interrupted for some
time his activity in the operatic field. He returned to Germany and
until 1830 wrote nothing for public performance, but composed a number
of psalms, motets, cantatas, and songs of an austerely sentimental
character, among them his well-known ‘The Monk.’ This was his second,
or German, period.

It is probable that in 1830 he planned his first distinctively French
opera, _Robert le Diable_, for which the clever librettist Eugène
Scribe wrote the book. The first performance of that work, typically
a grand romantic opera, on November 22, 1831, aroused unbounded
enthusiasm. Yet certain contemporary critics called it ‘the acme of
insane fiction’ and spoke of it as ‘the apotheosis of blasphemy,
indecency, and absurdity.’ Schumann and Mendelssohn disapproved of
it--the latter accused its music of being ‘cold and heartless’--and
Spontini, because of professional jealousy, condemned it. Liszt and
Berlioz, on the other hand, were full of admiration. There is no doubt
that text and music had united to create a tremendous impression. The
libretto, in spite of faults, was theatrically effective; the music
was pregnant, melodious, sensuously pleasing and rendered dramatic by
reason of shrill contrasting orchestral coloring. So striking was the
impression it made at the time--though from our present-day standpoint
it is decidedly _vieux jeu_--that its faults passed almost unobserved.

From the standpoint of the ideal, the work is lacking in many respects.
First intended for the _opéra comique_, its remodelling by Scribe and
Meyerbeer himself had built up a kind of romantic and symbolic vision
around the original comedy. The Robert (loyal, proud, and loving)
and Isabella (tender and kind) of the original were the same, but
the characters of Bertram and Alice had been elevated, respectively,
to the dignity of angels of evil and of good, struggling to obtain
possession of Robert’s soul, thus exalting the entire work. The change
had given the score a mixed character, somewhat between drama and
comedy, making it a romantic opera in the manner of _Euryanthe_ or
_Oberon_. Still, excess of variety in effects, the occasional lack of
melodic distinction, and want of character do not affect its forceful
expression and dramatic boldness. The influence of Rossini and of
Auber, whose _Muette de Portici_ had been given three years before, of
Gluck and Weber was apparent in _Robert le Diable_, yet as a score it
was different and in some respects absolutely novel. If Meyerbeer had
less creative spontaneity and freshness than Rossini and less ease than
Auber, in breadth of musical education he surpassed them both.

In a measure both Spontini and Rossini may be excused if they thought
that Meyerbeer, in developing their art tendencies, transformed and
distorted them. Spontini, no doubt, looked on him as a huckster who
bartered away the sacred mysteries of creative art for the sake of
cheap applause. The straightforward Rossini probably thought him
a hypocrite. And therein they both wronged him. An eclectic, ‘an
art-lover rather than an artist,’ Meyerbeer revelled in the luxury
of using every style and attempting every novelty, in order to prove
himself master of whatever he undertook. But he was undeniably honest
in all that he did, though he lacked that spontaneity which belongs
to the artist alone. And in _Les Huguenots_, his next work, first
performed in 1836, five years after _Robert_, he composed an opera
which in gorgeous color, human interest, consistent dramatic treatment
and accentuation of individual types, in force and breadth generally,
marked a decided advance on its predecessor.

_Les Huguenots_ was not a historical opera in the sense of _Tell_.
In _Tell_ Rossini showed himself as an Italian and a patriot. The
Hapsburgs of his hero’s day were the same who, at the time he wrote,
oppressed his countrymen. Gessler stood for the imperial governor of
Lombardy, his guards for Austrian soldiers; the liberty-loving Swiss
he identified with the Lombards and Venetians whose liberties were
attacked. But, though the subject of Meyerbeer’s opera is an episode
of the ‘Massacre of St. Bartholomew,’ that episode is merely used as a
sinister background, against which his warm and living characters move
and tell their story. _Les Huguenots_ may be considered Meyerbeer’s
most finished and representative score. Not a single element of color
and contrast has escaped him. In only two respects did its interest
fall short of that awakened by its predecessor. So successful had the
composer been in his treatment of the supernatural in _Robert_ that
the omission of that element now was regretted; and, more important,
the fifth act proved to be an anti-climax. The opera, when given now,
usually ends at the fourth act, when Raoul, leaping from the window
to his death, leaves Valentine fainting. In psychological truth _Les
Huguenots_ is undoubtedly superior to _Robert_. There is a double
interest: that of knowing how the mutual love of Valentine the
Catholic and Raoul the Protestant will turn out; and that of the drama
in general, _against_ which and not _out_ of which the fate of the
Huguenots is developed.

In the third act especially the opera develops a breadth and eloquence
maintained to the end. The varied shadings of this picture of Paris,
its ensembles, contrasted yet never confounded, constitute, in
Berlioz’s words, ‘a magnificent musical tissue.’ _Les Huguenots_, like
_Robert_, made the tour of the world. And, as _Tell_ was prohibited in
Austria, for political reasons, so Meyerbeer’s opera was forbidden in
strictly Catholic lands. This did not prevent its performance under
such titles as _The Guelphs_ or _The Ghibellines at Pisa_; a letter to
Meyerbeer shows that he refused an arrangement of the libretto entitled
_The Swedes before Prague_!

After _Les Huguenots_ had been produced Meyerbeer spent a number of
years in the preparation of his next works, _L’Africaine_ and _Le
Prophète_. Scribe[71] had supplied the librettos for both these works,
and both underwent countless revisions and changes at Meyerbeer’s
hands. The story of _L’Africaine_ was more than once entirely
rewritten. In the meantime the composer had accepted (after Spontini’s
withdrawal) the appointment of kapellmeister to the king of Prussia and
spent some years in Berlin. Here he composed psalms, sacred cantatas,
a secular choral work with living pictures, _Una festa nella corte di
Ferrara_; the first of his four ‘Torchlight Marches,’ for the wedding
of Prince Max of Bavaria with Princess Mary of Prussia, and a cantata
for soli, chorus and brasses, set to a poem of King Louis I of
Bavaria. In 1843 he produced _Das Feldlager in Schlesien_ (The Camp in
Silesia), a German opera, based on anecdotes of Frederick the Great,
the national hero of Prussia; which, coldly received at first, was at
once successful when the brilliant Swedish soprano, Jenny Lind, made
her first appearance in Prussia in it, as Vielka, the heroine. Three
years later he composed the incidental music for _Struensee_, a drama
written by his brother Michael. The overture is still considered an
example of his orchestration at his best.

His chief care, however, from 1843 to 1847 was bestowed on worthily
presenting the works of others at the Berlin Opera. Gluck’s _Armida_
and _Iphigenia in Tauris_; Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_, _Zauberflöte_;
Beethoven’s _Fidelio_; Weber’s _Freischütz_ and _Euryanthe_; and
Spohr’s _Faust_, the last a tribute of appreciation. He even procured
the acceptance of Wagner’s _Der fliegende Holländer_ and _Rienzi_, that
‘brilliant, showy, and effective exercise in the grand opera manner,’
whose first performance he directed in 1847.

In 1849 Meyerbeer produced _Le Prophète_ in Paris, after many months of
rehearsal. The score shows greater elevation and grandeur than that of
_Les Huguenots_, but it is marred by contradictions and inequalities of
style. In spite of its success and many undeniably beautiful sections,
it betrays a falling off of the composer’s creative power; and it
suffers from overemphasis. His two successful efforts to compete with
the composers of French _opéra comique_ on their own ground, _L’Étoile
du Nord_ and _Le pardon de Ploërmel_ (‘Dinorah’), were heard in Paris
in 1854 and 1859, respectively. _L’Étoile du Nord_ was practically _Das
Feldlager in Schlesien_, worked over and given a Russian instead of a
Prussian background. Its success was troubled by the last illness and
death of the composer’s mother, to whom he was passionately attached.
A number of shorter vocal and instrumental compositions were written
during the five years that elapsed between its _première_ and that of
his second comic opera. This, _Le Pardon de Ploërmel_, was set to a
libretto by Carré and Barbier. It is a charming pastoral work, easy,
graceful, and picturesque. Its music throughout is tuneful and bright,
but its inane libretto has much to do with the neglect into which it
has fallen.

From 1859 to 1864, besides the shorter compositions alluded to,
Meyerbeer worked on various unfinished scores: a _Judith_, Blaze
de Bury’s _Jeunesse de Goethe_, and others. He left a quantity of
unfinished manuscripts of all kinds at his death. But mainly during
this period he was busy with the score of _L’Africaine_, his last great
opera. When at length, after years of hesitation, he had decided to
have it performed and it was in active preparation at the opera, he was
seized with a sudden illness and died, May 2, 1864. He had not been
spared to witness the first performance of this which he loved above
all his other operas and on which he lavished untold pains. It was
produced, however, with regard to his wishes, April 28, 1865, and was
a tremendous success. Scribe’s libretto contains many poetic scenes
and effective situations and gave the composer every opportunity to
manifest his genius.

It is the most consistent of his works. In it he displays remarkable
skill in delineation of characters and situations. His music, in the
scenes that occur in India, is rich in glowing oriental color. Nowhere
has he made a finer use of the hues of the orchestral palette. And in
the fifth act, which crowns the entire work, he exalts to the highest
emotional pitch the noble and touching character of his heroine,
Selika, who sacrifices her love for Vasco da Gama, that the latter may
be happy with the woman he loves. In dignity and serenity the melodies
of _L’Africaine_ surpass those of the composer’s other operas. Its
music, though in general less popular than that of _Les Huguenots_,
is of a finer calibre, and the ceaseless striving after effect, so
apparent in much of his other work, is absent in this.

The worth of Meyerbeer’s talent has long been realized, despite the
fact that Wagner, urged by personal reasons, has ungratefuly called him
‘a miserable music-maker,’ and ‘a Jewish banker to whom it occurred
to compose operas.’ Granting that his qualities were those of the
master artisan rather than the master artist, admitting his weakness
for ‘voluptuous ballets, for passion torn to tatters, ecclesiastical
display, and violent death,’ for violent contrast rather than subtle
characterization, he still lives in his influence, which may be said to
have founded the melodramatic school of opera now so popular, of which
_Cavalleria rusticana_ is perhaps the most striking example. As long as
intensity of passion and power of dramatic treatment are regarded as
fitting in dramatic music his name will live. Zola’s eulogy, put in the
mouth of one of the characters in his _L’Œuvre_, rings true:

‘Meyerbeer, a shrewd fellow who profited by everything, ... bringing,
after Weber, the symphony into opera, giving dramatic expression to
the unconscious formula of Rossini. Oh, what superb evocations, feudal
pomp, military mysticism, the thrill of fantastic legend, the cries
of passion traversing history. And what skill the personality of the
instruments, dramatic recitative symphonically accompanied by the
orchestra, the typical phrase upon which an entire work is built.... An
ingenious fellow, a most ingenious fellow!’

* * * * *

The French grand opera of Rossini and Meyerbeer was the musical
expression of dramatic passionate sentiments, affording scope to every
excellence of vocal and orchestral technique and even to every device
of stage setting. It is not strange that it appealed to contemporary
composers, even Auber, Hérold, Halévy, and Adam, though more generally
identified with the _opéra comique_, attempted grand opera with varying
success.

Auber, in his _La muette de Portici_ (‘Masaniello’), given in 1828,
meets Spontini, Rossini, and Meyerbeer on their own ground with a
historical drama of considerable beauty and power. Its portrayal of
revolutionary sentiment was so convincing that its first performance
in Brussels (1830) precipitated the revolution which ended in the
separation of Holland and Belgium. Hérold united with Auber’s elegance
and polish greater depth of feeling. _Zampa_ (1831), a grand opera on a
fanciful subject, and _Le pré aux clercs_ (1832) are his best serious
operas. His early death cut short the development of his unusual
dramatic gift. Halévy even went so far as to distort his natural style
in the effort to emulate Meyerbeer. Of his grand operas, _La Juive_
(1835), _La Reine de Chypre_ (1841), _Charles VI_ (1834), _La Tempesta_
(1850), only the first, a work of gloomy sublimity, with fine melodies
and much good instrumentation, may be called a masterpiece. Adam’s few
attempts at grand opera were entirely unsuccessful, though his comic
operas enjoyed tremendous vogue.

But the influence of Rossini and Meyerbeer on grand opera has continued
far beyond their own time. The style of _La Patrie_ by Paladilhe is
directly influenced by Meyerbeer. Verdi, in his earlier works, _Guido_,
_Trovatore_, _I Lombardi_, shows traces of his methods. Gounod, in
the ‘dispute’ scene in the fourth act of _Romeo et Juliette_ likewise
reflects Meyerbeer; and Wagner was not above profiting from him whom he
most scornfully and unjustly belittled.

In summing up the contributions of Rossini and Meyerbeer to the history
of music, it may be said that their operas, and in particular those of
the latter, are a continuation and amplification of the heritage of
Gluck. Édouard Schuré says in his important work, _Le Drame Musical_:
‘The secret of the opera of Meyerbeer is the pursuit of effect for
effect’s sake.’ Yet it will be remembered that Gluck himself wrote in
the preface of his _Alceste_: ‘I attach no importance to formulas; I
have sacrificed all to the effect to be produced.’ The art of Gluck
and the art of Meyerbeer have the same point of departure, and each
is expressed in formulas which, while quite distinct and individual,
denote the highest dramatic genius. Both Rossini and Meyerbeer
increased the value of the orchestra in expressing emotion in all
its phases in connection with the drama; and helped to open the way
for the later development of French grand opera and the innovations
of Richard Wagner. Weber and Schubert had both died before Meyerbeer
began to play an important part. Succeeding Spontini and Rossini as
the dominant figure of the grand opera stage, his real successor was
Richard Wagner. But, though Rossini, Meyerbeer, and their followers
had enriched the technical resources of opera, had broadened the range
of topic and plot, yet they had not turned aside the main current of
operatic composition very far from its bed. The romantic and dramatic
tendencies which they had introduced, however, were to bear fruit more
especially in French romanticism and the development of the evolution
of the French _opéra comique_ into the _drame lyrique_.

An account of the origin and development of the French _opéra comique_
as a purely national form of dramatic musical entertainment has already
been given in the chapter dealing with Gluck’s operatic reform. Here
we will briefly show its development during the period of which he have
spoken.

François-Adrien Boieldieu[72] may be considered (together with Niccolò
Isouard) the last composer of the older type of _opéra comique_, to
which his operas _Jean de Paris_ and _La dame blanche_ gave a new
and lasting distinction. As Pougin says: ‘It is positive that comic
opera, as Boieldieu understood it, was an art-work, delicate in type,
with genuine flavor and an essentially varied color.’ Boieldieu was
especially successful in utilizing the rhythmic life of French folk
song, and _La dame blanche_ has those same qualities of solid merit
and real musical invention found in the serious _opéra comique_ of
Cherubini and Méhul. In fact, it was these three composers who gave
the _genre_ a new trend. In Scudo’s words, Boieldieu’s work is ‘the
happy transition from Grétry to Hérold and, together with Méhul and
Cherubini, the highest musical expression in the comic opera field.
After Boieldieu’s time the influence of Rossini became so strong that
_opéra comique_ began to lose its character as a distinct national
operatic form.’

The influence of Rossini was especially noticeable in the work of the
group of _opéra comique_ composers, including Auber, Hérold, Halévy,
Adam, Victor Massé, Maillard, who were to prepare the way for the lyric
drama of Thomas and Gounod. The contributions of Auber, Hérold and
Halévy to the ‘historical’ or grand opera repertory have already been
mentioned in the review of operatic development in Italy and France.
Here we will only consider their work as a factor in transforming the
French comic opera of Méhul and Boieldieu into the more sentimental
and fanciful type of which the modern romantic French opera was to be
born. One fact which furthered the transition from _opéra comique_ to
_drame lyrique_ was the frequent absence of the element of farce, with
the consequent encouragement of a more poetic and romantic musical
development.

Daniel-François-Esprit Auber (1782-1871) uninterruptedly busy from
1840 to 1871,[73] and his name identified with many of the greatest
successes of the comic opera stage of his time, has been somewhat
unjustly termed ‘a superficial Rossini.’ Auber undoubtedly borrowed
from Rossini in his musical treatment of the comic, and he had little
idea of powerful ensemble effects or of polyphonic writing; but grace,
sweetness, and brilliancy of instrumentation cannot be denied him.
‘The child of Voltaire and Rossini,’ from about 1822 on he wrote
operas in conjunction with the librettist Scribe. _Fra Diavolo_ (1830)
shows Auber at his best in comic opera. ‘The music is gay and tuneful,
without dropping into commonplace; the rhythms are brilliant and
varied, and the orchestration neat and appropriate.’ Incidentally, it
might be remarked that Auber has written an opera on a subject which
since his time has appealed both to Massenet and Puccini, _Manon
Lescaut_ (1856), which in places foreshadows Verdi’s ardently dramatic
art.

In spite of Auber’s personal and professional success (not only was
he considered one of the greatest operatic composers of his day, but
also he succeeded Gossec in the Académie (1835), was director of the
Conservatory of Music (1842), and imperial _maître de chapelle_ to
Napoleon III), he was essentially modest. With more confidence in
himself than Meyerbeer he was quite as unpretentious as the latter.
Though by no means ungrateful to the artists who contributed to the
success of his works he would say: ‘I don’t cuddle them and put
them in cotton-wool, like Meyerbeer. It is perfectly logical that
he should do so. The Nourrits, the Levasseurs, the Viardot-Garcias,
and the Rogers are not picked up at street corners; but bring me the
first urchin you meet who has a decent voice and a fair amount of
intelligence and in six months he’ll sing the most difficult part I
ever wrote, with the exception of that of Masaniello. My operas are a
kind of warming-pan for great singers. There is something in being a
good warming-pan.’

Hérold’s most distinctive comic operas are _Marie_ and _Le Muletier_
(1848). The last-named is a setting of a rather spicy libretto by Paul
de Kock, the novelist whose field was that of ‘middle class Parisian
life, of _guingettes_ and _cabarets_ and equivocal adventures,’ and
was highly successful. It seems a far cry from an operetta of this
style to the romanticism of the _drame lyrique_. But if an occasional
score harked back as regards vulgarity of subject to the equivocal
popular couplets which the Comtesse du Barry had Larrivée sing for the
entertainment of the sexagenarian Louis XV at Luciennes some sixty
years before, it only serves to emphasize by contrast the trend in the
direction of a finer expression of sentiment. Halévy’s masterpiece in
comic opera is _L’Éclair_ (1835). A curiosity of musical literature,
it is written for two tenors and two sopranos, without a chorus; ‘and
displays in a favorable light the composer’s mastery of the most
refined effects of instrumentation and vocalization.’ Wagner, while
living in greatly reduced circumstances in Paris, had been glad to
arrange a piano score and various quartets for strings of Halévy’s
_Guitarrero_ (1841).

The most famous of Auber’s disciples was Adolphe-Charles Adam
(1802-1856). Adam had been one of Boieldieu’s favorite pupils and
was an adept at copying Auber’s style. Auber’s music gained or lost
in value according to the chance that conditioned its composer’s
inspiration; but it was always spiritual, elegant, and ingenious,
hiding real science and dignity beneath the mask of frivolity. Adam,
on the other hand, was an excellent imitator, but his music was not
original. He wrote more than fifty light, exceedingly tuneful and
‘catchy’ light operas, of which _Le Châlet_ (1834); _Le postillon de
Longjumeau_ (1836), which had a tremendous vogue throughout Europe; _Le
brasseur de Preston_ (1838); _Le roi d’Yvetot_ (1842), and _Cagliostro_
(1844) are the best known. Grisar, another disciple of Auber, furnishes
another example of graceful facility in writing, combined with a lack
of originality. Maillart’s (1817-1871) _Les dragons de Villars_, which
duplicated its Parisian successes in Germany under the title of _Das
Glöckchen des Eremiten_, was the most popular of the six operas he
wrote. Victor Massé (1822-1884) is known chiefly by _Galathée_ (1852),
_Les noces de Jeanette_ (1853), and _Paul et Virginie_ (1876).

F. H. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] Although Weber was born before Rossini (1786) and his period is
synchronous with the present chapter, it has been thought best, because
of his close connection with the romantic movement in Germany, to treat
him in the next chapter.

[67] Two measures in the tonic, repeated in the dominant, the whole
gone over three times with increasing dynamic emphasis, constituted the
famous Rossini _crescendo_.

[68] The recitatives sung by the character of Christ in Bach’s St.
Matthew Passion are so accompanied. Bach likewise wrote out the vocal
ornaments of all his arias.

[69] Nicolo Isouard is a typical character of the time. He was born
on the island of Malta, educated in Paris, showing unusual ability as
a pianist, prepared for the navy and established in trade in Naples.
Finally against his father’s wishes he became a composer. To spare his
family disgrace he wrote under the name of Nicolo. He died in Paris in
1818.

[70] Gaetano Rossi (1780-1855), an Italian librettist, quite as
prolific as Scribe and as popular as a text-writer among his own
countrymen as the latter was in Paris, wrote the book of _Semiramide_.
Among his texts were: Donizetti’s _Linda di Chamounix_ and _Maria
Padilla_; Guecco’s _La prova d’un opera seria_; Mercadante’s _Il
Giuramento_; Rossini’s _Tancredi_; and Meyerbeer’s _Crociato in Egitto_.

[71] Eugène Scribe (1791-1861) was the librettist _de mode_ of the
period. Aside from his novels he wrote over a hundred libretti,
including Meyerbeer’s _Robert_, _Les Huguenots_, _Le Prophète_,
and _L’Africaine_; Auber’s _La Muette_, _Fra Diavolo_, _Le domino
noir_, _Les diamants de la couronne_; Halévy’s _La Juive_ and _Manon
Lescault_; Boieldieu’s _Dame blanche_; and Verdi’s _Les vêpres
siciliennes_.

[72] Born, Rouen, 1775; died, near Paris, 1834.

[73] When only a boy of eleven he composed pretty airs which the
_décolletées_ nymphs of the Directory sang between waltzes at the
soirées given by Barras, and he survived the fall of the Second Empire.
_Les pantins de Violette_, a charming little score, was given at the
Bouffes four days before he died.

CHAPTER VI
THE ROMANTIC MOVEMENT: ITS CHARACTERISTICS AND ITS GROWTH

Modern music and modern history; characteristics of the music of
the romantic period--Schubert and the German romantic movement
in literature--Weber and the German reawakening--The Paris of
1830: French romanticism--Franz Liszt--Hector Berlioz--Chopin;
Mendelssohn--Leipzig and Robert Schumann--Romanticism and classicism.

Modern history--the history of modern art and modern thought, as well
as that of modern politics--dates from July 14, 1789, the capture of
the Bastille at the hands of the Parisian mob. Carlyle says there
is only one other real date in all history, and that is one without
a date, lost in the mists of legends--the Trojan war. There is no
political event, no war or rumor of war among the European nations of
to-day which, when traced to its source, does not somehow flow from
that howling rabble which sweated and cursed all day long before the
prison--symbol of absolute artistocratic power--overpowered the handful
of guards which defended it and made known to the king, through his
minister, its message: ‘Sire, this is not an insurrection; it is a
revolution!’

For a century and a quarter the mob of July 14th has stood like a wall
between the Middle Ages and modern times. No less than modern politics,
modern thought and all its artistic expression date from 1789. For,
against the authority of hereditary rules and rulers, the mob of
the Bastille proclaimed another authority, namely that of facts. The
notion that forms should square with facts and not facts with forms
then became the basis of men’s thinking. This truth had existed as a
theory in the minds of individual thinkers for many decades--even for
many centuries. But the Parisian mob first revealed the truth of it
by enacting it as a fact. From that fact the truth spread among men’s
minds, forcing them, according to their lights, to bring all forms
and authorities to the test of facts. Babies, who were to be the next
generation’s great men, were brought up in this kind of thought and
were subtly inoculated with it so that their later thinking was based
upon it, whether they would or no. And so men have come to ask of a
monarch, not whether he is a legitimate son of his house, but whether
he derives his authority from the will of the nation. They have come
to ask of a philosophy, not whether it is consistent, but whether it
is true. And they have come to ask of an art-form, not whether it is
perfect, but whether it is fitting to its subject-matter.

When we come to compare the music of the nineteenth century with that
of the century preceding we find a contrast as striking as that between
the state of Europe as Napoleon left it with that as he found it. The
Europe of the eighteenth century was for the most part a conglomeration
of petty states, without national feeling, without standing armies in
the modern sense--states which their princes ruled as private property
for the supplying of their personal wants, with power of life and death
over their subjects; states whose soldiers ran away after the second
volley and whose warfare was little more than a formal and rather
stupid chess game; states whose statesmanship was the merest personal
intrigue of favorites. Among these states a few half-trained mobs of
revolutionary armies spread terror, and the young Napoleon amazed them
by demonstrating that soldiers who had their hearts in a great cause
could outfight those who had not.

So, in contrast to the crystal clear symphonies of the eighteenth
century and the vocal roulades and delicate clavichord suites, we
find in the nineteenth huge orchestral works, grandiose operas, the
shattering of established forms, an astonishing increase in the size
of the orchestra and the complexity of its parts, the association of
music with high poetic ideas, and the utter rejection of most of the
prevailing harmonic rules. And with this extension of scope there came
a profound deepening in content, as much more profound and human as
the Parisian mob’s notion of society was more profound and human than
that of Louis XVI. The revolution and the Napoleonic age, which had
been periods of dazzling personal glory, in which individual ability
and will power became effective as never before, had stimulated the
egotistic impulses of the nineteenth century. People came to feel that
a thing could perhaps be good merely because they wanted it. Hence
the personal and emotional notes sound in the music of the nineteenth
century as they never sounded before. The sentimental musings of
Chopin, the intense emotional expression of Schumann’s songs, the wild
and willful iconoclasm of Berlioz’s symphonies were personal in the
highest degree. And, as the complement to this individual expression,
there dawned a certain folk or mob-expression, for the post-Napoleonic
age was also an age of national awakening. The feeling of men that
they are part of a group of human beings rather than of a remote
empire is the feeling which we have in primitive literature, in the
epics and fairy stories, the ballads and folk epics. This folk-feeling
came to brilliant expression in Liszt’s Hungarian rhapsodies, and
the deep heroic note sounds quite as grandly in his symphonic poems.
Music took on a power, by the aid of subtle suggestion, of evoking
physical images; and, in deeper sincerity, it achieved something like
accurate depiction of the emotions. A thousand shades of expression,
never dreamed of before, were brought into the art. Men’s ears became
more delicate, in that they distinguished nuance of tone and phrase,
and particularly the individual qualities of various instruments, as
never before; it was the great age of the pianoforte, in which the
instrument was dowered with a musical literature of its own, comparable
in range and beauty with that of the orchestra. The instruments of
the orchestra, too, were cultivated with attention to their peculiar
powers, and the potentialities of orchestral expression were multiplied
many times over.

It was the great age of subdivision into schools and of the development
of national expression. The differences between German, French, and
Italian music in the eighteenth century are little more than matters of
taste and emphasis--variations from one stock. But the national schools
which developed during the romantic period differ utterly in their
musical material and treatment.

It was the golden age of virtuosity. The technical facility of such
men as Kalkbrenner and Czerny came to dazzling fruition in Liszt and
Paganini, whose concert tours were triumphal journeys and whose names
were on people’s lips like those of great national conquerors. This
virtuosity took hold of people’s imaginations; Liszt and Paganini
became, even during their lifetimes, glittering miracular legends.
Their exploits were, during the third and fourth decades of the
century, the substitute for those of Napoleon in the first fifteen
years. Their exploits expanded with the growing interrelation of modern
life. The great growth of newspaper circulation in the Napoleonic age,
and the spread of railroads through the continent in the thirties,
increased many times the glory and extent of the virtuoso’s great deeds.

But the travelling virtuoso was a symbol of a far more important
fact. For in this age musicians began to break away entirely from the
personal patron; they appealed, for their justification and support,
from the prince to the people. The name of a great musician was, thanks
to the means of communication, spread broadcast among men, and there
was something like an adequate living to be made by a composer-pianist
from his concerts and the sale of his compositions. From the time of
the revolution on it was the French state, with its Conservatory and
its theatres, not the French court, which was the chief patron of the
arts. And from Napoleonic times on it was the people at large, or at
least the more cultured part of them, whose approval the artist sought.
In all essentials, from the fall of Napoleon onward, it was a modern
world in which the musician found himself.

But it is evident that we cannot get along far in this examination
of romantic music without reviewing the outward social history
of the time. It is a time of colors we can never discover from a
mere observation of outward facts and dates, for it is a time of
complexities of superficial intrigue likely to obscure its meaning. We
must, therefore, see the period, not as most historians give it to us,
but as a movement of great masses of people and of the growing ideas
which directed their actions. Royal courts and popular assemblies were
not the real facts, but only the clearing houses for the real facts.
The balances, on one or the other side of the ledger, which they showed
bear only the roughest kind of relation to the truth.

It is well to skeleton this period with five dates. The first is the
one already met, 1789. The next is the assumption of the consulate by
Napoleon in 1799, which was practically the beginning of the empire.
The next is the fall of Napoleon, which we may place in 1814, after
the battle of Leipzig, or in 1815, after Waterloo, as we prefer. The
next is 1830, when, after conservative reaction throughout Europe, the
mobs in most of the great capitals raised insurrections, and in some
cases overthrew governments and obtained some measure of constitutional
law. And the last is 1848, when these popular outbreaks recurred in
still more serious form, and with a proletarian consciousness that made
this revolution the precursor of the twentieth century as certainly as
1789 was the precursor of the nineteenth.

We cannot here give the details of the mighty and prolonged
struggle--we shall only recall to the reader the astounding sequence
of cataclysms and exploits that shook Europe; roused its consciousness
strata by strata; remodelled its face, its thought, its ideals, its
laws, and its arts. Paris was the nervous centre of this upheaval, the
stage upon which the most conspicuous acts were paraded; but every blow
struck in that arena reëchoed, multiplied, throughout Europe, just as
every wave of the turmoil originating in any part of Europe recorded
itself upon the seismograph of Paris. From the tyranny and unthinking
submission of before 1789 we pass to a period of constitutional
tolerance of the monarchical form; thence to the aggressive propaganda
for republican principles and the terror; thence to the personal
exploits of a popular hero, arousing wonder and admiration while
imposing a new sort of tyranny. Stimulated imaginations now give
birth to new enthusiasms, stir up the feelings of national unity and
pride; to consciousness of nationality succeeds consciousness of
class--reactions and restorations bring new revolutions, successful
mobs impose terms on submissive monarchs, at Paris in 1833 as at
Berlin in 1848; then finally follows the communist manifesto. France,
Germany, Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, even England, were convulsed with
this glorious upheaval; and not kings and soldiers alone, but men
of peaceful moods--workingmen, men of professions, poets, artists,
musicians--were borne into this whirlpool of politics. Musicians of
the eighteenth century had no thoughts but of their art; those of
the nineteenth were national enthusiasts, celebrants of contemporary
heroes, political philosophers, propagandists, and agitators. What
wonder? Since the days of Julius Cæsar had there been any concrete
events to take hold of men’s imaginations as these did? They set all
men ‘thinking big.’ If the difference between a Haydn symphony of
1790 and Beethoven’s Ninth of 1826 is the difference between a toy
shop and the open world, is not the cause to be found mainly in these
battles of the nations? Not only Beethoven--Berlioz, Chopin, Liszt, and
Wagner, the political exile, were affected by the successive events
of 1789 to 1848. As proof of how closely musical history coincides
with the revolution wrought by these momentous years, let us recall
that Beethoven, the real source of romantic music, lived at the time
of Napoleon and by the _Eroica_ symphony actually touches Napoleon;
and that by the year 1848, which is the last of those dates which we
have chosen as the historic outline of the romantic movement in music,
Schubert and Weber were long dead, Mendelssohn was dead, Chopin was
almost on his deathbed, Schumann was drifting toward the end, Berlioz
was weary of life, and Liszt was working quietly at Weimar, which had
been for years one of the most liberal spots in Germany. And, as if
Wagner’s dreams of a mighty national music attended the realization of
the dream of all Germany, the foundation stone of the national theatre
at Bayreuth was laid hardly a year after the unity of the German empire
was declared at Versailles in 1871.

How shall we characterize the music of this period? In musical terms
it is almost impossible to characterize it as a whole, for the steady
stream of tradition had broken up violently into a multitude of
forms and styles, and these must be characterized one by one as they
come under our consideration. As a whole, it must be characterized
in broader terms. For the assertion of the Parisian mob was at the
bottom of it all. Previously men’s imaginations had been bounded by
the traditional types; they took it for granted that they must contain
themselves within the limitations to which they had been born. But
since a dirty rabble had overturned the power of the Bourbons, and an
obscure Corsican had married into the house of Hapsburg, men realized
that nothing is impossible; limitations are made only to be broken
down. The intellectual giant of the age had brought this realization to
supreme literary expression in ‘Faust,’ the epic of the man who would
include within himself all truth and all experience. And, whereas the
ideal of the previous age had been to work within limits and so become
perfect, the ideal of this latter age was to work without limits and so
become great. Throughout the first half of the nineteenth century this
sense of freedom to achieve the impossible was the presiding genius of
music.

And with it, as a corollary to it, came one thing more, a thing
which is the second great message of Goethe’s ‘Faust’--the idea that
truth must be personally experienced, that while it is abstract it
is non-existent. Faust could not know love except by being young and
falling in love. He could not achieve his redemption by understanding
the beauty of service; he must redeem himself by actually serving his
fellowmen. And so in the nineteenth century men came to feel that
beautiful music cannot be merely contemplated and admired, but must be
lived with and felt. Accordingly composers of this period emphasized
continually the sensuous in their music, developing orchestral colors,
dazzling masses of tone, intense harmonies and biting dissonances,
delicate half-lights of modulation, and the deep magic of human song.
The change in attitude from music as a thing to be admired to music
as a thing to be felt is perhaps the chief musical fact of the early
nineteenth century.

Let us now consider the great romantic composers as men living amid the
stress and turmoil of revolution. All but Schubert were more or less
closely in touch with it. All but him and Mendelssohn were distinctly
revolutionists, skilled as composers and hardly less skilled to defend
in impassioned prose the music they had written. As champions of the
‘new’ in music they are best studied against the background of young
Europe in arms and exultant.

But in the case of Franz Schubert we can almost dispense with the
background. His determining influences, so far as they affected his
peculiar contributions to music, were almost wholly literary. He was an
ideal example of what we call the ‘pure musician.’ There is nothing to
indicate that he was interested in anything but his art. He lived in or
near Vienna during all the Napoleonic invasions, but was concerned only
with escaping military service. Schubert was the last of the musical
specialists. From the time when his schoolmaster father first directed
his musical inclinations he had only one interest in the world, outside
of the ordinary amusements of his Bohemian life. If Bach was dominated
by his Protestant piety and Handel by the lure of outward success,
Schubert worked for no other reason than his love of the beautiful
sounds which he created (and of which he heard few enough in his short
lifetime).

Yet even here we are forced back for a moment to the political
background. For it is to be noticed that the great German composers
of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century found their
activities centred in and near Vienna: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and
Schubert are all preëminently Austrian. In the second quarter of the
nineteenth century--that is, after the death of Schubert--there is
not a single great composer living in Vienna for more than a short
period of time. The political situation of Vienna, the stronghold of
darkness at this time, must have had a blighting effect on vigorous and
open-minded men. At a time when the most stimulating intellectual life
was surging through Germany generally, Vienna was suffering the most
rigid censorship and not a ray of light from the intellectual world
was permitted to enter the city. Weber felt this in 1814 in Austrian
Prague. He wrote: ‘The few composers and scholars who live here groan
for the most part under a yoke which has reduced them to slavery and
taken away the spirit which distinguishes the true free-born artist.’
Weber, a true free-born artist, left Prague at the earliest opportunity
and went to Dresden, where the national movement, though frowned
upon, was open and aggressive. Schubert, on the contrary, because of
poverty and indolence, never left Vienna and the territory immediately
surrounding. In the preceding generation, when music was still flowing
in the calm traditions, composers could work best in such a shut-in
environment. (It is possibly well to remember, however, that Austria
had a fit of liberalism in the two decades preceding Napoleon’s
régime.) But with the nineteenth century things changed; when the
beacon of national life was lighting the best spirits of the time, the
composers left Vienna and scattered over Germany or settled in Paris
and London. Schubert alone remained, his imagination indifferent to the
world beyond. In all things but one he was a remnant of the eighteenth
century, living on within the walls of the eighteenth century Vienna.
But this one thing, which made him a romanticist, a link between the
past and the present, a promise for the future, was connected, like all
the other important things of the time, with the revolution and the
Napoleonic convulsions. It was, in short, the German national movement
expressed in the only form in which it could penetrate to Vienna;
namely, the romantic movement in literature. Not in the least that
Schubert recognized it as such; his simple soul doubtless saw nothing
in it but an opportunity for beautiful melodies. But its inspiration
was the German nationalist movement.

The fuel was furnished in the eighteenth century in the renaissance of
German folk-lore and folk poetry. The researches of Scott among the
Scotch Highlands, Bishop Percy’s ‘Reliques’ of English and Scottish
folk poetry, the vogue which Goethe’s _Werther_ gave to Ossian and
his supposed Welsh poetry, and, most of all, the ballads of Bürger,
including the immortal ‘Lenore,’ contributed, toward the end of the
century, to an intense interest in old Germanic popular literature.
Uhland, one of the most typical of the romantic poets, fed, in his
youthful years, on ‘old books and chronicles with wonderful pictures,
descriptions of travel in lands where the inhabitants had but one
eye, placed in the centre of the forehead, and where there were men
with horses’ feet and cranes’ necks, also a great work with gruesome
engravings of the Spanish wars in the Netherlands.’[74] When he looked
out on the streets he saw Austrian or French soldiers moving through
the town and realized that there was an outside world of romantic
passions and great issues--a thing Schubert never realized. Even
then he was filled with patriotic fervor and his beloved Germanic
folk-literature became an expression of it. In 1806-08 appeared Arnim
and Brentano’s _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, a collection of German folk
poetry of all sorts--mostly taken down by word of mouth from the
people--which did for Germany what Percy’s ‘Reliques’ had done for
England. Under this stimulus the German romantic movement became, in
Heine’s words, ‘a reawakening of the poetry of the Middle Ages, as it
had manifested itself in its songs, paintings, and architecture,’[75]
placed at the service of the national awakening.

But patriotic fervor was the ‘underground meaning’ of the romantic
movement. This hardly penetrated to Schubert. He saw in it only his
beautiful songs and the inspiration of immortal longings awakened
by ‘old books and chronicles with wonderful pictures.’ He had at
his disposal a wonderful lyrical literature. First of all Goethe,
originator of so much that is rich in modern German life; Rückert and
Chamisso, and Müller, singers of the personal sentiments; Körner, the
soldier poet, and Uhland, spokesman for the people and apologist for
the radical wing of the liberal political movement; Wieland and Herder;
and, in the last months of his life, Heine, ultra-lyricist, satirist,
and cosmopolite.

From this field Schubert’s instinct selected the purely lyrical,
without regard to its tendency, with little critical discrimination
of any sort. Thanks to his fertility, he included in his list of
songs all the best lyric poets of his time. And to these poets he
owed what was new and historically significant in the spirit of his
musical output. This new element, reduced to its simplest terms, was
the emotional lyrical quality at its purest. His musical training was
almost exclusively classical, so far as it was anything at all. He knew
and adored first Mozart and later Beethoven. But these composers would
not have given him his wonderful gift of expressive song. And since it
is never sufficient to lay any specific quality purely to inborn genius
(innate genius is, on the whole, undifferentiated and not specific),
we must lay it, in Schubert’s case, to the romantic poets. From the
earliest years of his creative (as opposed to his merely imitative)
life, he set their songs to music; he found nothing else so congenial;
inevitably the spontaneous song called forth by these lyrics dominated
his musical thinking. The romantic poets had taught him to create from
the heart rather than from the intelligence.

Franz Schubert was born at Lichtenthal, a suburb of Vienna, in
1797, one of a family of nineteen children, of whom ten survived
childhood. Instructed in violin playing by his father--nearly all
German school-masters played the violin--he evinced an astounding
musical talent at a very early age, was taken as boy soprano into the
Vienna court chapel, and instructed in the musical choir school--the
_Convict_--receiving lessons from Rucziszka and Salieri. At sixteen,
when his voice changed, he left the _Convict_ and during three years
assisted his father as elementary school teacher in Lichtenthal. But
in the meantime he composed no less than eight operas, four masses,
and other church works and a number of songs. Not till 1817 was he
enabled, through the generosity of his friend Schober, to devote
himself entirely to music; never in his short life was he in a position
to support himself adequately by means of his art: as musical tutor
in the house of Esterhàzy in Hungary (1818-1824) he was provided for
only during the summer months; Salieri’s post as vice-kapellmeister
in Vienna as well as the conductorship of the Kärntnerthor Theatre he
failed to secure. Hence, he was dependent upon the meagre return from
his compositions and the assistance of a few generous friends--singers,
like Schönstein and Vogl, who made his songs popular. Narrow as his
sphere of action was the circle of those who appreciated him. Public
recognition he secured only in his last year, with a single concert
of his own compositions. He died in 1828, at the age of thirty-one.
During that short span his productivity was almost incredible; operas,
mostly forgotten (their texts alone would make them impossible) and
some lost choral works of extraordinary merit; symphonies, some of
which rank among the masterpieces of all times; fourteen string
quartets and many other chamber works; piano sonatas of deep poetic
content, and shorter piano pieces (_Moments musicals_, impromptus,
etc.) poured from his magic pen, but especially songs, to the number of
650, a great many of which are immortal. Schubert was able to publish
only a portion of this prodigious product during his lifetime. Much
of it has since his death been resurrected from an obscure bundle of
assorted music found among his effects, and at his death valued at 10
florins ($2.12)! A perfect stream of posthumous symphonies, operas,
quartets, songs, every sort of music appeared year after year till the
world began to doubt their authenticity. Schumann, upon his visit to
Vienna in 1838, still discovered priceless treasures, including the
great C major symphony.

As a man Schubert never got far away from the peasant stock from which
he came. He was casual and careless in his life; a Bohemian rather
from shiftlessness than from high spirits; content to work hard and
faithfully, and demanding nothing more than a seidel of beer and a
bosom companion for his diversion. He was never intellectual, and what
we might call his culture came only from desultory reading. He was as
sensitive as a child and as trusting and warm-hearted. His musical
education had never been consistently pursued; his fertility was so
great that he preferred dashing off a new piece to correcting an old
one. Hence his work tends to be prolix, and, in the more academic
sense, thin. Toward the end of his life, however, he felt his technical
shortcomings, and at the time of his death had made arrangements for
lessons in counterpoint from Sechter. It is fair to say that we
possess only Schubert’s early works. Though they are some 1,800 in
number, they are only a fragment of what he would have produced had he
reached three-score and ten. By the age at which he died Wagner had not
written ‘Tannhäuser’ nor Beethoven his Third Symphony.

In point of natural genius no composer, excepting possibly Mozart,
excelled him. His rich and pure vein of melody is unmatched in all the
history of music. We have already pointed out the strong influence of
the great Viennese classics upon Schubert. In forming an estimate of
his style we must recur to a comparison with them. We think immediately
of Mozart when we consider the utter spontaneity, the inevitableness of
Schubert’s melodies, his inexhaustible well of inspiration, the pure
loveliness, the limpid clarity of his phrases. Yet in actual subject
matter he is more closely connected to Beethoven--it is no detraction
to say that in his earlier period he freely borrowed from him, for, in
Mr. Hadow’s words, Schubert always ‘wears his rue with a difference.’
Again, in his procedure, in his harmonic progression and the rhythmic
structure of his phrases, he harks back to Haydn; the abruptness of
his modulations, the clear-cut directness of his articulation, the
folk-flavor of some of his themes are closely akin to that master’s
work. But out of all this material he developed an idiom as individual
as any of his predecessors’.

The essential quality which distinguishes that idiom is lyricism.
Schubert is the lyricist _par excellence_. More than any of the
Viennese masters was he imbued with the poetic quality of ideas. His
musical phrases are poetic where Mozart’s are purely musical. They have
the force of words, they seem even translations of words, they are the
equivalents of one certain poetic sentiment and no other; they fit
one particular mood only. In the famous words of Lizst, Schubert was
_le musicien le plus poète qui fût jamais_ (the most poetic musician
that ever lived). We may go further. Granting that Mozart, too, was a
poetic musician, Schubert was a musical poet. What literary poet does
he resemble? Hadow compares him to Keats; a German would select Heine.
For Heine had all of that simplicity, that unalterable directness
which we can never persuade ourselves was the result of intellectual
calculation or of technical skill; he is so artless an artist that we
feel his phrases came to him ready-made, a perfect gift from heaven,
which suffered no criticism, no alteration or improvement.

Schubert died but one year after Beethoven, a circumstance which alone
gives us reason to dispute his place among the romantic composers. He
himself would hardly have placed himself among them, for he did not
relish even the romantic vagaries of Beethoven at the expense of pure
beauty, though he worshipped that master in love and awe. ‘It must be
delightful and refreshing for the artist,’ he wrote of his teacher
Salieri upon the latter’s jubilee, ‘to hear in the compositions of his
pupils simple nature with its expression, free from all oddity, such as
is now dominant with most musicians and for which we have to thank one
of our greatest German artists almost exclusively....’ Yet, as Langhans
says, ‘not to deny his inclination to elegance and pure beauty, he was
able to approach the master who was unattainable in these departments
(orchestral and chamber music) more closely than any one of his
contemporaries and successors.’[76] Yes, and in some respects he was
able to go beyond. ‘With less general power of design than his great
predecessors he surpasses them all in the variety of his color. His
harmony is extraordinarily rich and original, his modulations are
audacious, his contrasts often striking and effective and he has a
peculiar power of driving his point home by sudden alterations in
volume of sound.’[77] In the matter of form he could allow himself
more freedom--he could freight his sonatas with a poetic message that
stretched it beyond conventional bounds, for his audience was better
prepared to comprehend it. And while his polyphony is never like that
of Beethoven, or even Mozart, his sensuous harmonic style, crystal
clear and gorgeously varied, with its novel and enchanting use of the
enharmonic change and its subtle interchange of the major and minor
modes, supplies a richness and variety of another sort and in itself
constitutes an advance, the starting point of harmonic development
among succeeding composers. By these tokens and ‘by a peculiar quality
of imagination in his warmth, his vividness and impatience of formal
restraint, he points forward to the generation that should rebel
against all formality.’ But, above all, by his lyric quality. He is
lyric where Beethoven is epic; and lyricism is the very essence of
romanticism. Whatever his stature as a symphonist, as a composer in
general, his position as song writer is unique and of more importance
than any other. Here he creates a new form, not by a change of
principle, by a theoretically definable process, but ‘a free artistic
creative activity, such as only a true genius, a rich personality not
forced by a scholastic education into definitely limited tracks, could
accomplish.’

The particular merit of this accomplishment of Schubert will have more
detailed discussion in the following chapter. But, aside from that, he
touched no form that he did not enrich. By his sense of beauty, unaided
by scholarship or the inspiration of great deeds in the outer world,
he made himself one of the great pioneers of modern music. Together
with Weber, he set the spirit for modern piano music and invented some
of its most typical forms. His _Moments Musicals_, impromptus, and
pieces in dance forms gave the impulse to an entire literature--the
_Phantasiestücke_ of Schumann, the songs without words of Mendelssohn
are typical examples. His quartets and his two great symphonies (the
C major and the unfinished B minor) have a beauty hardly surpassed in
instrumental music, and are inferior to the greatest works of their
kind only in grasp of form. His influence on posterity is immeasurable.
Not only in the crisp rhythms and harmonic sonorities of Schumann, in
the sensuous melodies and gracious turns of Mendelssohn, but in their
progeny, from Brahms to Grieg, there flows the musical essence of
Schubert. Who can listen to the slow movement of the mighty Brahms C
minor symphony without realizing the depth of that well of inspiration,
the universality of the idiom created by the last of the Vienna masters?

Schubert’s music was indeed the swan-song of the Viennese period of the
history of music, and it is remarkable that a voice from that city,
more than any other in Europe bound to the old régime, should have sung
of the future of music. But so Schubert sang from a city of the past.
Meanwhile new voices were raised from other lands, strong with the
promise of the time.

III

The great significance of Weber in musical history is that he may
fairly be called the first German national composer. Preceding
composers of the race had been German in the sense that they were of
German blood and their works were paid for by Germans, and also in
that their music usually had certain characteristics of the German
nature. But they were not consciously national in the aggressive
sense. Weber’s works are the first musical expression of a German
patriotism, cultivating what is most deeply and typically German,
singing German unity of feeling and presenting something like a solid
front against foreign feelings and art. But we are too apt to wave away
such a statement as a mere phrase. At a distance we are too liable to
suppose that a great art can come into being in response to a mere
sentimental idea. But German patriotism was a passion which was fought
for by the best brains and spirits of the time. It was in the heat of
conflict that Weber’s music acquired its deep meaning and its spiritual
intensity.

To understand the state of affairs we must again go back to the
French Revolution. Germany was at the end of the eighteenth century
more rigidly mediæval than any other European country, save possibly
Russia and parts of Italy. The German patriot Stein thus described
the condition of Mecklenburg in a letter written in 1802: ‘I found
the aspect of the country as cheerless as its misty northern sky;
great estates, much of them in pastures or fallow; an extremely thin
population; the entire laboring class under the yoke of serfage;
stretches of land attached to solitary ill-built farm houses; in
short, a monotony, a dead stillness, spreading over the whole country;
an absence of life and activity that quite overcame my spirits. The
home of the Mecklenburg noble, who weighs like a load on his peasants
instead of improving their condition, gives me the idea of the den of
some wild beast, who devastates everything about him and surrounds
himself with the silence of the grave.’ If Stein was perhaps inclined
to be pessimistic in his effort to arouse German spirits, it is because
he has in his mind’s eye the possibility of better things, and the
actual superiority of conditions in France and England. Most observers
of the time viewed conditions with indifference. Goethe showed little
or no patriotism; ‘Germany is not a nation,’ he said curtly.

After the peace of Lunéville and the Diet of Ratisbon the greater part
of Germany fell under Napoleon’s influence. The German people showed
no concern at thus passing under the control of the French. The German
states were nothing but the petty German courts. Fyffe[78] humorously
describes the process of political reorganization which the territory
underwent in 1801: ‘Scarcely was the Treaty of Lunéville signed when
the whole company of intriguers who had touted at Rastadt posted off
to the French capital with their maps and their money-bags, the keener
for the work when it became known that by common consent the free
cities of the empire were now to be thrown into the spoil. Talleyrand
and his confidant, Mathieu, had no occasion to ask for bribes, or to
maneuver for the position of arbiters in Germany. They were overwhelmed
with importunities. Solemn diplomatists of the old school toiled up
four flights of stairs to the lodging of the needy secretary, or
danced attendance at the parties of the witty minister. They hugged
Talleyrand’s poodle; they played blind-man’s buff and belabored each
other with handkerchiefs to please his little niece. The shrewder of
them fortified their attentions with solid bargains, and made it their
principal care not to be outbidden at the auction. Thus the game was
kept up as long as there was a bishopric or a city in the market.’

Such were the issues which controlled the national destiny of Germany
in 1801. Napoleon unintentionally gave the impetus to the German
resurgence by forcing some vestige of rational organization upon
the land. The internal condition of the priest-ruled districts was
generally wretched; heavy ignorance, beggary, and intolerance kept
life down to an inert monotony. The free cities, as a rule, were sunk
in debt; the management of their affairs had become the perquisite
of a few lawyers and privileged families. The new régime centralized
administration, strengthened the financial system, and relieved the
peasants of the most intolerable of their burdens, and thus gave them a
stake in the national welfare.

Five years later Napoleon helped matters further by a rule of insolence
and national oppression that was intolerable to any educated persons
except the ever servile Prussian court. The battle of Jena and the
capture of Berlin had thrown all Prussia into French hands, and the
court into French alliances. Stein protested and attempted to arouse
the people. He met with indifference. Then came more indignities.
Forty thousand French soldiers permanently quartered on Prussian soil
taught the common people the bitterness of foreign domination. When
the Spanish resistance of 1808 showed the weakness of Napoleon a band
of statesmen and patriots, including the poet Arndt, the philosopher
Fichte and the theologian Schleiermacher, renewed their campaign for
national feeling, the only thing that could put into German armies
the spirit needful for Napoleon’s overthrow. In all this the House of
Hohenzollern and the ministers of the court of Potsdam played a most
inglorious rôle. The patriots were frowned upon or openly prosecuted.
Schill, a patriotic army officer, who attempted to attack the French
on his own account, was denounced from Berlin. Even when Napoleon was
returning defeated from Moscow, the jealousies of the court stood
out to the last against the spontaneous national uprising. Finally
Frederick William, the Prussian king, made a virtue of necessity and
entered the field in the name of German unity.

But the nationalist movement had become a constitutionalist, even a
republican, movement. The German soldiers, returning home victorious
after the battle of Leipzig, received the expected promise of a
constitution from Frederick William. After two years of delay the
promise had been practically withdrawn. Only the examples of Weimar,
Bavaria, and Baden, together with the propaganda of the liberals, kept
the issue alive and growing, until it came to partial culmination in
1848.

It was into this Napoleonic situation that Weber was thrown in his
most impressionable years. On a little vacation trip from Prague
he went to Berlin and saw the return of Frederick William and the
victorious Prussians from Paris after the battle of Leipzig. The
national frenzy took hold of him and, at his next moment of leisure, he
composed settings to some of Körner’s war songs, including the famous
_Du Schwert an meiner Linken_, which made him better known and loved
throughout Germany than all his previous works. To this day these
songs are sung by the German singing societies, and nothing in all
the literature of music is more truly German. To celebrate Waterloo
he composed a cantata, _Kampf und Sieg_, which in the next two years
was performed in a number of the capitals and secured to Weber his
nationalist reputation. It was well that he was thus brilliantly and
openly known at the time; he needed this reputation five years later
when his work took on a changed significance.

Carl Maria Freiherr von Weber was born at Eutin, Oldenburg, in 1786, of
Austrian parentage, into what we should call the ‘decayed gentility.’
His father was from time to time ‘retired army officer,’ director of a
theatre band, and itinerant theatre manager. His mother, who died when
he was seven, was an opera singer. The boy, under his stepbrother’s
proddings, became something of a musician, and, when left to his own
resources, a prodigy. His travellings were incessant, his studies a
patchwork.[79] Nevertheless he had success on his infantile concert
tours, and showed marked talent in his early compositions. At the age
of thirteen he wrote an opera, _Das Waldmädchen_, which was performed
in many theatres of Germany, and even in Russia. From the age of
sixteen to eighteen he was kapellmeister at the theatre in Breslau.
After some two years of uncertainty and rather fast life he became
private secretary to the Duke Ludwig of Württemberg. His life became
faster. He became involved in debts. Worse, he became involved in
intrigue. The king was suspicious. Weber was arrested and thrown into
prison. He was cleared of the charges against him, but was banished
from the kingdom. Realizing that the way of the transgressor is hard,
Weber now devoted himself to serious living and the making of music.
Then followed three undirected years, filled with literature and
reading, as well as music. In 1812, during a stay in Berlin, he amused
himself by teaching a war-song of his to the Brandenburg Brigade
stationed in the barracks. No doubt his life in the court of Stuttgart
had shown him the insincerity of aristocratic pretensions and had
turned his thoughts already to the finer things about him--that popular
liberal feeling which just now took the form of military enthusiasm. In
the following year he accepted the post of kapellmeister of the German
theatre at Prague, with the difficult problem of reorganizing the
opera, but with full authority to do it at his best. From this time on
his life became steady and illumined with serious purpose. He brought
to the theatre a rigor of discipline which it had not known before, and
produced a brilliant series of German operas.

Early in 1817 he accepted a position as kapellmeister of the German
(as opposed to the Italian) opera of Dresden. It was a challenge to
his best powers, for the German opera of Dresden was practically
non-existent. For a century Italian opera had held undisputed sway,
with French a respected second. The light German _singspiele_, the
chief representative of German opera, were performed by second-rate
artists. All the prestige and influence of the city was for the Italian
and French. For the court of Dresden, like that of Berlin half a
century before, was thoroughly Frenchified. The king of Saxony owed his
kingdom to Napoleon and aristocratic Germans still regarded what was
German as mean and common.

But there was a more significant reason for Weber’s peculiar position,
a reason that gave the color to his future importance. What was
patriotic was, as we have seen, in the eyes of the court liberal and
dangerous. To foster German opera was accordingly to run the risk of
fostering anti-monarchical sentiments. If, just at this time, the
court of Dresden chose to inaugurate a separate German opera, it was
as a less harmful concession to the demands of the populace, and more
particularly as a sort of anti-Austrian move which crystallized just at
this time in opposition to Metternich’s reactionism. But, though the
court wished a German opera, it felt no particular sympathy for it. In
the preliminary negotiations it tried to insist, until met with Weber’s
firm attitude, that its German kapellmeister should occupy a lower rank
than Morlacchi, the Italian director. And, as Weber’s fame as a German
nationalist composer grew, the court of Dresden was one of the last
to recognize it. In the face of such lukewarmness Weber established
the prestige of the German opera, and wrote _Der Freischütz_, around
which all German nationalist sentiment centred. But to understand why
_Freischütz_ occupied this peculiar position we must once more turn
back to history.

‘On the 18th of October, 1817,’ says the ever-entertaining Fyffe,
‘the students of Jena, with deputations from all the Protestant
universities of Germany, held a festival at Eisenach, to celebrate
the double anniversary of the Reformation and of the battle of
Leipzig. Five hundred young patriots, among them scholars who had been
decorated for bravery at Waterloo, bound their brows with oak-leaves
and assembled within the venerable hall of Luther’s Wartburg castle,
sang, prayed, preached, and were preached to, dined, drank to German
liberty, the jewel of life, to Dr. Martin Luther, the man of God,
and to the grand duke of Saxe-Weimar; then descended to Eisenach,
fraternized with the _Landsturm_ in the market-place, and attended
divine service in the parish church without mishap. In the evening
they edified the townspeople with gymnastics, which were now the
recognized symbol of German vigor, and lighted a great bonfire on the
hill opposite the castle. Throughout the official part of the ceremony
a reverential spirit prevailed; a few rash words were, however, uttered
against promise-breaking kings, and some of the hardier spirits took
advantage of the bonfire to consign to the flames, in imitation of
Luther’s dealing with the Pope’s Bull, a quantity of what they deemed
un-German and illiberal writings. Among these was Schmalz’s pamphlet
(which attacked the _Tugendbund_ and other liberal German political
institutions of the Napoleonic period). They also burnt a soldier’s
straitjacket, a pigtail, and a corporal’s cane--emblems of the military
brutalism of past times which was now being revived in Westphalia.’

The affair stirred up great alarm among the courts of Europe, an alarm
out of all proportion to its true significance. The result--more
espionage and suppression of free speech. ‘With a million of men
under arms,’ adds Fyffe, ‘the sovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon
trembled because thirty or forty journalists and professors pitched
their rhetoric rather too high, and because wise heads did not grow
upon schoolboys’ shoulders.’ The liberal passion, in short, was there,
burning for a medium of expression. It was not allowed to appear on
the surface. The result was that it must look for expression in some
indirect way--in parables; in short, in works of art. In such times art
takes on a most astonishing parallel of double meanings. The phenomenon
happened in striking form some forty years later in Russia, when the
growing and rigidly suppressed demand for the liberation of the serfs
found expression in Turgenieff’s ‘Memoirs of a Sportsman,’ which is
called ‘the Russian “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”’ The book was a mere series of
literary sketches, telling various incidents among the country people
during a season’s hunting. It showed not a note of passion, contained
not a shadow of a political reference. There was no ground on which the
censor could prohibit it, nor did the censor probably realize its other
meaning. But it proved the storm centre of the liberal agitation. And
so it has been with Russian literature for the last half century; those
whose hearts understood could read deep between the lines.

And this was the position of _Der Freischütz_. The most reactionary
government could hardly prohibit the performance of a fanciful tale of
a shooting contest in which the devil was called upon to assist with
magic. But it represented what was German in opposition to what was
French or Italian. Its story came from the old and deep-rooted German
legends; its characters were German in all their ways; the institutions
it showed were old Germanic; its characters were the peasants and the
people of the lower class, who were, in the propaganda of the time,
the heart of the German nation. And, lastly, its melodies were of the
very essence of German folk-song, the institution, above all else save
only the German language, which made German hearts beat in tune. The
opera was first performed in Berlin, at the opening of the new court
theatre, on the sixth anniversary of the battle of Waterloo--that is in
1821. The success was enormous and within a year nearly every stage in
Germany had mounted the work. It was even heard in New York within a
few months. At every performance the enthusiasm was beyond all bounds,
and, after nine months of this sort of thing, Weber wrote in his diary
in Vienna: ‘Greater enthusiasm there cannot be; and I tremble to think
of the future, for it is scarcely possible to rise higher than this.’
As for the court of Dresden, it realized slowly and grudgingly that it
had in its pay one of the great composers of the world.

After _Freischütz_ it was indeed ‘scarcely possible to rise higher,’
but Weber attempted a more ambitious task in a purely musical way
in his next opera, _Euryanthe_, which was a glorification of the
romanticism of the age--that of Jean Paul and E. T. A. Hoffmann, who
represented to the Germans of the time vigor of the imagination and
the freedom of the individual. Both _Euryanthe_ and _Oberon_, which
followed it, are very fine, but they could not repeat the success
of _Der Freischütz_, chiefly because Weber could not find another
_Freischütz_ libretto. The composer died in England on June 4, 1826,
after conducting the first performances of _Oberon_ at Covent Garden.

Personally we see Weber as a man of the world, yet always with a bit of
aristocratic reserve. He had been one of a wandering theatrical troupe,
had played behind the scenes of a theatre, had known financial ups and
downs, had lived on something like familiar terms with gentlemen and
ladies of the court, had been a _roué_ with the young bloods of degree,
had intrigued and been the victim of intrigue, had been a concert
pianist with the outward success and the social stigma of a virtuoso
musician, had been a successful executive in responsible positions,
had played the litterateur and written a fashionable novel, had been a
devoted husband and father, and had felt the meaning of a great social
movement. Certainly Weber was the first of that distinguished line of
musicians who cultivated literature with marked talent and effect; his
letters reveal the practised observer and the literary craftsman, and
his criticisms of music, of which he wrote many at a certain period,
have the insight of Schumann, with something more than his verve.
Finally, he was the first great composer who was also a distinguished
director; his work at Prague and Dresden was hardly less a creative
feat than _Der Freischütz_.

Musically Weber has many a distinction. He is the acknowledged founder
of German opera (though Mozart with _Zauberflöte_ may be regarded
as his forerunner), and the man who made German music aggressively
national. Wagner, as we know him, would hardly have been possible
without Weber. Weber is the father of the romanticists in his emphasis
upon the imagination, in his ability to give pictorial and definite
emotional values to his music. It is only a slight exaggeration of
the truth to call him the father of modern instrumentation; his use
of orchestral timbres for sensuous or dramatic effects, so common
nowadays, was unprecedented in his time. With Schubert he is the
father of modern pianoforte music; himself a virtuoso, he understood
the technical capacities of the piano, and developed them, both in the
classical forms and in the shorter forms which were carried to such
perfection by Schumann, with the romantic glow of a new message. He
is commonly regarded as deficient in the larger forms, but in those
departments (and they were many) where he was at his best there are
few musicians who have worked more finely than he.

[Illustration: Carl Maria von Weber]

The scene now shifts to Paris, a city unbelievably frenzied and
complex, the Paris that gives the tone to a good half of the music of
the romantic period.

‘As I finished my cantata (_Sardanapalus_),’ writes Berlioz in his
‘Memoirs,’ ‘the Revolution broke out and the Institute was a curious
sight. Grapeshot rattled on the barred doors, cannon balls shook the
façade, women screamed, and, in the momentary pauses, the interrupted
swallows took up their sweet, shrill cry. I hurried over the last pages
of my cantata and on the 29th was free to maraud about the streets,
pistol in hand, with the “blessed riff-raff,” as Barbier said. I shall
never forget the look of Paris during those few days. The frantic
bravery of the gutter-snipe, the enthusiasm of the men, the calm, sad
resignation of the Swiss and Royal Guards, the odd pride of the mob in
being “masters of Paris and looting nothing.”’

This was Paris in Berlioz’s and Liszt’s early years there. In Paris
at or about this time were living Victor Hugo, Stendhal, de Vigny,
Balzac, Chateaubriand, de Musset, Lamartine, Dumas the elder, Heine,
Sainte-Beuve, and George Sand among the poets, dramatists, and
novelists; Guizot and Thiers among the historians; Auguste Compte,
Joseph le Maistre, Lamennais, Proudhon, and Saint-Simon among the
political philosophers. It is hard to recall any other city at any
other time in history (save only the Athens of the Peloponnesian War)
which had such a vigorous intellectual and artistic life. Thanks to the
centralization effected by Napoleon, thanks to the tradition of free
speech among the French, the centre of Europe had shifted from Vienna
to Paris.

A few months before the political revolution of July, 1830, occurred
the outbreak of one of the historic artistic revolutions of the
capital. Victor Hugo’s ‘Hernani,’ on which the young romantic school
centred its hopes, was first performed on February 25, before an
audience that took it as a matter of life and death. The performance
was permitted, so tradition says, in the expectation that the play
would discredit the romantic school once and for all. The principal
actress, Mlle. Mars, was outraged by Hugo’s imagery, and refused
point blank to call Firmin her ‘lion, superb and generous.’ A goodly
_claque_, drawn from the ateliers and salons, brought the play to
an overwhelming triumph, and for fifteen years the dominance of the
romantic school was indisputable.

This romantic school was somewhat parallel to that of Germany, and,
in a general way, took the same inspiration. The literary influences,
outside of the inevitable Rousseau and Chateaubriand of France
itself, were chiefly Grimm’s recensions of old tales, Schiller’s
plays, Schlegel’s philosophical and historical works; Goethe’s
_Faust_, as well as our old friend _Werther_; Herder’s ‘Thoughts on
the Philosophy of History’; Shakespeare and Dante as a matter of
course; Byron and Sir Walter Scott; and any number of collections of
mediæval tales and poems, foreign as well as French. This much the
French and German romanticists had in common. But the movement had
scarcely any political tinge, though political influences developed
out of it. By a curious inversion the literary radicals were the
legitimists and political conservatives, and the classicists the
political revolutionists--perhaps a remnant of the Revolution, when the
republicans were turning to the art and literature of Greece for ideals
of ‘purity.’

For the French intellectuals had perhaps had enough of political
life, whereas the Germans were starved for it. At any rate, the French
romanticists were almost wholly concerned with artistic canons. To
them romanticism meant freedom of the imagination, the demolishing of
classical forms and traditional rules, the mixing of the genres ‘as
they are mixed in life’; the rendering of the language more sensuous
and flexible, and, above all, the expression of the subjective and
individual point of view. They had a great cult for the historic, and
their plays are filled with local color (real or supposed) of the
time in which their action is laid. They supposed themselves to be
returning to real life, using everyday details and painting men as they
are. In particular they made their work more intimately emotional;
they substituted the image for the metaphor, and the pictorial word
for the abstract word. This last fact is of greatest importance in
its influence on romantic music. The painting of the time, though
by no means so radical in technique as that of music, showed the
influences of the great social overturning. Subjects were taken from
contemporary or recent times--the doings of the French in the Far
East, the campaigns of Napoleon, or from the natural scenery round
about Paris, renouncing the ‘adjusted landscape’ of the classicists
with a ruined temple in the foreground. Scenes from the Revolution
came into painting, and the drama of the private soldier or private
citizen gained human importance. Géricault emphasized sensuous color as
against the severe classicist David. The leader, and perhaps the most
typical member, of the romantic school was Delacroix, a defender of the
art of the Middle Ages as against the exaggerated cult of the Greeks.
He took his subjects ‘from Dante, Shakespeare, Byron (heroes of the
literary romanticism); from the history of the Crusades, of the French
Revolution, and of the Greek revolt against the Turks. He painted with
a feverish energy of life and expression, a deep and poetic sense of
color. His bold, ample technique thrust aside the smooth timidities of
the imitators and prepared the way for modern impressionism.’[80]

But there was still another result of the suppression of political
tendencies in French romantic literature. In looking to the outer world
for inspiration (as every artist must) the writers of the time, turning
from contemporary politics, inevitably saw before their eyes Napoleon
the Great, now no longer Corsican adventurer and personal despot, but
national hero and creator of magnificent epics. The young people of
this time did not remember the miseries of the Napoleonic wars; they
remembered only their largeness and glory. Fifteen years after the
abdication of Napoleon the inspiration of Napoleon came to literary
expression. It was a passion for bigness. Victor Hugo’s professed
purpose was to bring the whole of life within the compass of a work
of art. Every emotion was raised to its nth power. Hernani passes
from one cataclysmic experience to another; the whole of life seems
to depend on the blowing of a hunting horn. The painting of the time,
under Géricault, Delacroix, and Delaroche, was grandiose and pompous.
The stage of the theatre was filled with magnificent pictures. A nation
comes to insurrection in _William Tell_; Catholicism and Protestantism
grapple to the death in _Les Huguenots_. But not only extensively but
intensively this cult of bigness was developed. Victor Hugo sums up
the whole of life in a phrase. The musicians had caught the trick;
Meyerbeer was of Victor Hugo’s stature in some things. He gets the epic
clang in a single couplet, as in the ‘Blessing of the Poignards’ or in
the G flat section of the fourth act duet from _Les Huguenots_. And
this heroic quality came to its finest expression in Liszt, some of
whose themes, like that of Tasso

[Illustration: Music score]

or that of _Les Préludes_

[Illustration: Music score]

seem to say, _Arma virumque cano_.

If ever a man was made to respond to this Paris of 1830 it was Franz
Liszt. Heroic virtuosity was a solid half of its Credo. Victor Hugo,
as a virtuoso of language, must be placed beside the greatest writers
of all time--Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, and whom else? No less can
be said for Liszt in regard to the piano. He was born in 1811 in
Raiding, Hungary. He is commonly supposed to be partly Hungarian in
blood, although German biographers deny this, asserting that the name
originally had the common German form of List. Almost before he could
walk he was at the piano. At the age of nine he appeared in public. And
at the age of twelve he was a pianist of international reputation. How
such virtuosity came to be, no one can explain. Most things in music
can be traced in some degree to their causes. But in such a case as
this the miracle can be explained neither by his instruction nor by
his parentage nor by any external conditions. It is one of the things
that must be set down as a pure gift of Heaven. Prominent noblemen
guaranteed his further education and, after a few months of study in
Vienna, under Czerny and Salieri, he and his father went to Paris,
which was to be the centre of his life for some twenty years. He was
the sensation of polite Paris within a few months after his arrival
and he presently had pupils of noble blood at outrageous prices. Two
years after his arrival--that is, when he was fourteen--a one-act
operetta of his, _Don Sanche_, was performed at the Académie Royale.
Two years later his father died and he was thrown on his own resources
as teacher and concert pianist. Then, in 1830, he fell sick following
an unhappy love affair, and his life was despaired of until, in the
words of his mother, ‘he was cured by the sound of the cannon.’

How did the Paris of 1830, and particularly the temper of Parisian
life, affect Liszt? ‘Monsieur Mignet,’ he said, ‘teach me all of French
literature.’ Here is a new thing in music--a musician who dares take
all knowledge to be his province. He writes, about this time: ‘For two
weeks my mind and my fingers have been working like two of the damned:
Homer, the Bible, Plato, Locke, Byron, Hugo, Lamartine, Chateaubriand,
Beethoven, Bach, Hummel, Mozart, Weber are about me. I study them,
meditate them, devour them furiously.’ He conceived a huge admiration
for Hugo’s _Marion de Lorme_ and Schiller’s _Wilhelm Tell_. Be sure,
too, that he was busy reading the artistic theories of the romanticists
and translating them into musical terms. The revolution of 1830 had
immediate concrete results in his music; he sketched a Revolutionary
Symphony, part of which later became incorporated into his symphonic
poem, _Heroïde Funèbre_. He made a brilliant arrangement of the
_Marseillaise_ and wrote the first number of his ‘Years of Pilgrimage’
on the insurrection of the workmen at Lyon.

The early manifestations of modern socialistic theory were then in the
making--in the cult of Saint-Simon--and Liszt was drawn to them. For
many years it was supposed that he was actually a member of the order,
though he later denied this. The Saint-Simonians had a concrete scheme
of communistic society, and a sort of religious metaphysic. This
latter, if not the former, impressed Liszt deeply, especially because
of the place given to art as expressing the ideal toward which the
people--the whole people--would strive. But a still stronger influence
over Liszt was that of the revolutionary abbé, Lamennais. Lamennais
was a devout Catholic, but, like many of the priesthood during the
first revolution, he was also an ardent democrat. He took it as
self-evident that religion was for all men, that God is no respecter of
persons. He was pained by the rôle of the Catholic Church in the French
Revolution--its continual siding with the ministers of despotism, its
readiness to give its blessing and its huge moral influence to any
reactionary government which would offer it material enrichment. He
felt it was necessary--no less in the interest of the Church than in
that of the people--that the Catholic Church should be the defender of
democracy against reactionary princes. He was doing precisely what such
men as G. K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc are trying to do in England
to-day. His influence in Paris was great and he became the rallying
point for the liberal party in the Church. Perhaps if his counsel had
prevailed the Church would not have become in the people’s minds the
enemy of all their liberties and would have retained its temporal
possessions in the war for Italian unity forty years later. Liszt had
always been a Catholic, and in his earlier youth had been prevented
from taking holy orders only by his father’s express command. Now he
found Lamennais’ philosophy meat to his soul, and Lamennais saw in
him the great artist who was to exemplify to the world his philosophy
of art. In 1834 Liszt published in the _Gazette Musicale de Paris_ an
essay embodying his social philosophy of art.

Several points in this manifesto are of importance in indicating what
four years of revolutionary Paris had made of Liszt the artist. Though
primarily a virtuoso, Liszt had been raised above the mere vain
delight of exciting admiration in the crowd. He had made up his mind
to become a creative artist with all his powers. He had asserted the
artist’s right to do his own thinking, to be a man in any way he saw
fit. He had accepted as gospel the romanticist creed that rules must be
broken whenever artistic expression demands it and had imbibed to the
full the literary and romantic imagery of the school. He had linked up
his virtuoso’s sense of the crowd with the only thing that could redeem
it and make it an art--the human being’s sense of democracy. And he had
outlined with great accuracy (so far as his form of speech allowed) the
nature of the music which he was later to compose. We can nowhere find
a better description of the music of Liszt at its best than Liszt’s own
description of the future ‘humanitarian’ music--which partakes ‘in the
largest possible proportions of the characteristics of both the theatre
and the church--dramatic and holy, splendid and simple, solemn and
serious, fiery, stormy, and calm.’ In this democracy Liszt the virtuoso
and Liszt the Catholic find at last their synthesis.

How many purely musical influences operated upon Liszt in these years
it is hard to say. We know that he felt the message of Meyerbeer and
Rossini (such as it was) and raised it to its noblest form in his
symphonic poems--the message of magnificence and high romance. But
it is fair to say, also, that he appreciated at its true value every
sort of music that came within his range of vision--Schubert’s songs,
Chopin’s exquisite pianistic traceries, Beethoven’s symphonies, and
the fashionable Italian operas of the day. He arranged an astonishing
number and variety of works for the piano, catching with wizard-like
certainty the essential beauties of each. But probably the most
profound musical influence was that of Berlioz, who seemed the very
incarnation of the spirit of 1830. Berlioz’s partial freeing of the
symphonic form, his radical harmony, and, most of all, his use of the
_idée fixe_ or representative melody (which Liszt later developed in
his symphonic poems) powerfully impressed Liszt and came to full fruit
ten years later.

One more influence must be recorded for Liszt’s early Parisian years.
It was that of Paganini, who made his first appearance at the capital
in 1831. Here was the virtuoso pure and simple. He excited Liszt’s
highest admiration and stimulated him to do for the piano what Paganini
had done for the violin. In 1826 Liszt had published his first études,
showing all that was most characteristic in his piano technique at
that time. After Paganini had stormed Paris he arranged some of the
violinist’s études for the piano, and the advance in piano technique
shown between these and the earlier studies is marked.

But Liszt had by this time thought too much and too deeply ever to
believe that the technical was the whole or even the most important
part of an artist. He appreciates the value of Paganini and the place
of technical virtuosity in art, but he writes: ‘The form should not
sound, but the spirit speak! Then only does the virtuoso become the
high priest of art, in whose mouth dead letters assume life and
meaning, and whose lips reveal the secrets of art to the sons of
men....’ Finally, note that, amid all this dogma and cocksureness,
Liszt understood with true humility that he was not expressing ultimate
truth, that he spoke for art in a transition stage, and was the
artistic expression of a transitional culture. ‘You accuse me,’ he said
to the poet Heine, ‘of being immature and unstable in my ideas, and
as a proof you ennumerate the many causes which, according to you, I
have embraced with ardor. But this accusation which you bring against
me alone, shouldn’t it, in justice, be brought against the whole
generation? Are we not unstable in our peculiar situation between a
past which we reject and a future which we do not yet understand?’ Thus
revolutionary Paris had made of Liszt a conscious instrument in the
transition of music.

For some ten years Liszt remained the concert pianist. His concert
tours took him all over Europe, ‘like a wandering gypsy.’ He even
dreamed of coming to America. In 1840 he went to Hungary and visited
his birthplace. He rode in a coach, thus fulfilling, in the minds of
the villagers, the prophecy of an old gypsy in his youth, that he
should return ‘in a glass carriage.’ In his book, ‘The Gypsies and
Their Music,’ he gives a highly colored and delightful account of how
he was received by the gypsies, how he spent a night in their camp, how
he was accompanied on his way by them and serenaded until he was out
of sight. The trip made a lasting impression on his mind. He had heard
once more the gypsy tunes which had so thrilled him in his earliest
childhood, and the Hungarian Rhapsodies were the result.

In 1833, in Paris, he was introduced to the Countess d’Agoult, and
between the two there sprang up a violent attachment. They lived
together for some ten years, concerning which Liszt’s biographer,
Chantavoine, says bluntly, ‘the first was the happiest.’ They had three
children, one of them the wife of the French statesman, Émile Ollivier,
and another the wife of von Bülow and later of Richard Wagner.
Eventually they separated.

In 1842 Liszt was invited by the grand duke of Weimar to conduct a
series of concerts each year in the city of Goethe and Schiller.
Soon afterward he became director of the court theatre. He gave to
Weimar ten years of brilliant eminence, performing, among other works,
Wagner’s _Tannhäuser_, _Lohengrin_, and ‘Flying Dutchman’; Berlioz’s
_Benvenuto Cellini_; Schumann’s _Genoveva_ and his scenes from
_Manfred_; Schubert’s _Alfonso und Estrella_; and Cornelius’ ‘The
Barber of Bagdad.’ The last work, an attempt to apply Wagnerian
principles to comic opera, was received with extreme coldness, and
Liszt in disgust gave up his position, leaving Weimar in 1861. But
during these years he had composed many of the most important of his
works.

[Illustration: Liszt at the Piano]
_After a painting by Josef Danhauser_

From this time until his death at Bayreuth in 1886 he divided his
life between Buda-Pesth, Weimar, and Rome. In the ‘Eternal City’ the
religious nature of the man came to full expression and he studied the
lore of the Church like a loyal Catholic, being granted the honorary
title of Abbé. The revolutionist of 1834 had become the religious
mystic. Rome and the magnificent traditions of the Church filled his
imagination.

Liszt’s compositions may be roughly divided into three periods:
first, the piano period, extending from 1826 to 1842; second, the
orchestral period, from 1842 to 1860 (mostly during his residence at
Weimar); and, third, his choral period, from which date his religious
works. The nature of these compositions and their contribution to
the development of music will be discussed in succeeding chapters.
Here we need only recall a few of their chief characteristics. Of his
twelve hundred compositions, some seven hundred are original and the
others mostly piano transcriptions of orchestral and operatic works
of all sorts. Certainly he wrote too much, and not a little of his
work must be set down as trash, or near it. But some of it is of the
highest musical quality and was of the greatest importance in musical
development. The most typical of modern musical forms--the symphonic
poem--is due solely to him. He formulated the theory of it and gave
it brilliant exemplification. His mastery of piano technique is,
of course, unequalled. He made the piano, on the one hand, a small
orchestra, and, on the other, an individual voice. While he by no means
developed all the possibilities of the instrument (Chopin and Schumann
contributed more that was of musical value), he extended its range--its
avoirdupois, one might almost say--as no other musician has done. His
piano transcriptions, though somewhat distrusted nowadays, greatly
increased the popularity of the instrument, and, in some cases, were
the chief means of spreading the reputations of certain composers. His
use of the orchestra was hardly less masterful than that of Berlioz and
Wagner; in particular he gave full importance to the individuality of
instruments and emphasized the sensuous qualities of their tone. More,
perhaps, than any other composer, he effected the union of pure music
with the poetical or pictorial idea. His use of chromatic harmony was
at times as daring as that of Berlioz and antedated that of Wagner, who
borrowed richly from him. Only his religious music, among his great
works, must be accounted comparatively a failure. He had great hopes,
when he went to Rome, of becoming the Palestrina of the modern Church.
But the Church would have none of his theatrical religious music, while
the public has been little more hospitable.

Intimate biographies of Liszt have succeeded in staining the brilliant
colors of the Liszt myth, but, on the whole, no composer who gained a
prodigious reputation during his lifetime has lived up to it better, so
to speak, after his death. As an unrivalled concert pianist, the one
conqueror who never suffered a defeat, he might have become vain and
jealous. There is hardly a trace of vanity or jealousy in his nature.
His appreciation of other composers was always generous and remarkably
just. No amount of difference in school or aim could ever obscure,
in his eyes, the real worth of a man. Wagner, Berlioz, and a host of
others owed much of their reputation to him. His life at Weimar was one
continued crusade on behalf of little known geniuses. His financial
generosity was very great; though the income from his concerts was
huge he never, after 1847, gave a recital for his own benefit. In our
more matter-of-fact age much of his musical and verbal rhetoric sounds
empty, but through it all the intellectuality and sincerity of the man
are unmistakable. On the whole, it is hardly possible to name another
composer who possessed at once such a broad culture, such a consistent
idealism, and such a high integrity.

In Hector Berlioz (b. 1803 at Côte St. André, Isère) we have one of
those few men who is not to be explained by any amount of examination
of sources. Only to a small extent was he _specifically_ determined by
his environment. He is unique in his time and in musical history. He,
again, is to be explained only as a gift of Heaven (or of the devil,
as his contemporaries thought). In a general way, however, he is very
brilliantly to be explained by the Paris of 1830. The external tumult,
the breaking of rules, the assertion of individuality, all worked upon
his sensitive spirit and dominated his creative genius. He was at
bottom a childlike, affectionate man, ‘demanding at every moment in
his life to love and be loved,’ as Romain Rolland says. In Renaissance
Florence, we may imagine, he might have been a Fra Angelico, or at
least no more bumptious than a Filippo Lippi. It was because he was so
delicately sensitive that he became, in the Paris of 1830, a violent
revolutionist.

His father was a provincial physician and, like so many other fathers
in artistic history, seemed to the end of his days ashamed of the fact
that he had a genius for a son. The boy imbibed his first music among
the amateurs of his town. He went to Paris to study medicine--because
his father would provide him funds for nothing else. He loyally
studied his science for a while, but nothing could keep him out of
music. Without his father’s consent or even knowledge he entered the
Conservatory, where he remained at swords’ points with the director,
Cherubini, who cuts a ridiculous figure in his ‘Memoirs.’ By hook and
crook, and by the generosity of creditors, he managed to live on and
get his musical education. His father became partially reconciled when
he realized there was nothing else to do. But how Berlioz took to heart
the lawlessness of the romantic school! Nothing that was, was right.
All that is most typically Gallic--clearness, economy, control--is
absent in his youthful work. ‘Ah, me!’ says he in his ‘Memoirs,’ ‘what
was the good God thinking of when He dropped me down in this pleasant
land of France?’

The events of his career are not very significant. He had a wild time
of shocking people. He organized concerts of his own works, chiefly
by borrowing money. After two failures he won the _Prix de Rome_,
and hardly reached Italy when he started to leave it on a picaresque
errand of sentimental revenge. He fell in love with an English actress,
Henriette Smithson, married her when she was _passée_ and in debt,
and eventually treated her rather shamefully. He gave concerts of his
works in France, Germany, England, Russia. He was made curator of the
Conservatory library. He was made an officer of the Legion of Honor.
He wrote musical articles for the papers. He took life very much to
heart. And, from time to time, he wrote musical works, very few of
them anything less than masterpieces. That is all. The details of his
life make entertaining reading. Very little is significant beyond an
understanding of his personal character. He was called the genius
without talent. Romain Rolland comes closer when he says, ‘Berlioz
is the most extreme combination of power of genius with weakness of
character.’ His power of discovering orchestral timbres is only
equalled by his power of making enemies. There is no villainy recorded
of his life; there are any number of mean things, and any number of
wild, irrational things. His artistic sincerity is unquestioned, but it
is mingled with any amount of the bad boy’s delight in shocking others.
Like Schumann, but in his own manner, he made himself a crusader
against the Philistines.

Of the unhappiness of his life it is quite sufficient to say that it
was his own fault. His creed was the subjective, sentimental creed of
the romanticists: ‘Sensible people,’ he exclaims, ‘cannot understand
this intensity of being, this actual joy in existing, in dragging
from life the uttermost it has to give in height and depth.’ He was
haunted, too, by the romanticists’ passion for bigness. His ideal
orchestra, he tells us in his work on Instrumentation, consists of 467
instruments--160 violins, 30 harps, eight pairs of kettle drums, 12
bassoons, 16 horns, and other instruments in similar abundance.

His great importance in the history of music is, of course, his
development of the orchestra. No one else has ever observed orchestral
possibilities so keenly and used them so surely. His musical ideas,
as played on the piano, may sound banal, but when they are heard in
the orchestra they become pure magic. He never was a pianist; his
virtuosity as a performer was lavished on the flute and guitar. For
this reason, perhaps, his orchestral writing is the least pianistic,
the most inherently contrapuntal of any of the period.

He was a pioneer in freeing instrumental music from the dominance of
traditional forms. Forms may be always necessary, but their _raison
d’être_, as Berlioz insisted, should be expressive and not traditional.
Berlioz was the first great exponent of program music; Liszt owes an
immense amount to him. He was also the first to use in a thorough-going
way the _leit-motif_, or the _idée fixe_, as he called it. Not that
he developed the theory of the dramatic use of the _leit-motif_ as
Wagner did, but he made extensive use of the melody expressive of a
particular idea or personage. His output was limited, both in range and
in quantity, but there are few composers who have had a higher average
of excellence throughout their work--always on the understanding that
you like his subject-matter. The hearer who does not may intellectually
admit his technical mastery of the orchestra, but he will feel that the
composer is sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

VII

Frédéric Chopin was far less influenced by external events than most
composers of the time. We have the legend that the C minor _Étude_ was
written to express his emotions upon hearing of the capture of Warsaw
by the Russians in 1831. We hear a good deal (perhaps too much) about
the national strain in his music. The national dance rhythms enter
into his work, and, to some extent, the national musical idiom, though
refined out of any real national expressiveness. Beyond this his music
would apparently have been the same, whatever the state of the world at
large.

Nor are the events of his life of any particular significance. He
was born near Warsaw, in Poland, in 1810, the son of a teacher
who later became professor of French in the Lyceum of Warsaw. His
father had sufficient funds for his education, and the lad received
excellent instruction in music--in composition chiefly--at the
Warsaw Conservatory. At nine he appeared as a concert pianist, and
frequently thereafter. He was a sensitive child, but hardly remarkable
in any way. There are child love affairs to be recorded by careful
biographers, with fancied influences on his art. In composition he was
not precocious, his Opus 1 appearing at the age of eighteen. A visit
to Vienna in 1829 decided him in his career of professional pianist,
and in 1830 he left Warsaw on a grand concert tour. In 1831 he reached
Paris, where he lived most of his life thereafter. His Opus 2 was
‘announced’ to the world by the discerning Schumann, in the famous
phrase, ‘Hats off, gentlemen. A genius!’ In 1837, through Liszt’s
machinations, he met Madame Dudevant, known to fame by her pen name,
George Sand. She was the one great love affair of his life. Their visit
to Majorca, which has found a nesting place in literature in George
Sand’s _Un Hiver à Majorque_, was a rather dismal failure. The result
was an illness, which his mistress nursed him through, and this began
the continued ill health that lasted until his death. After Majorca
came more composition and lessons in Paris, with summer visits to
George Sand at her country home, and occasional trips to England. Then,
in 1849, severe sickness and death.

All that was really important in Chopin’s life happened within himself.
No other great composer of the time is so utterly self-contained.
Though he lived in an age of frenzied ‘schools’ and propaganda, he
calmly worked as pleased him best, choosing what suited his personality
and letting the rest go. His music is, perhaps, more consistently
personal than that of any other composer of the century. It is
remarkable, too, that the chief contemporary musical influences on his
work came from second and third-rate men. He was intimate with Liszt,
he was friendly with the Schumanns. But from them he borrowed next to
nothing. Yet he worshipped Bach and Mozart. Nothing of the romantic
Parisian frenzy of the thirties enters into his music; the only
influence which the creed of the romanticists had upon him seems to
have been the freeing of his mind from traditional obstacles, but it is
doubtful whether his mind was not already quite free when he reached
Paris. All that he did was peculiarly his; his choice and rejection
were accurate in the extreme.

In his piano playing he represented quite another school from that of
Liszt. He was gentle where Liszt was frenzied; he was graceful where
Liszt was pompous. Or, rather, his playing was of no school, but was
simply his own. His imitators exaggerated his characteristics, carrying
his _rubato_ to a silly extreme. But no competent witness has testified
that Chopin ever erred in taste. The criticism was constantly heard,
during his lifetime, that he played too softly, that his tone was
insufficient to fill a large hall. It was his style; he did not change
because of his critics. He was not, perhaps, a virtuoso of the first
rank, but all agree that the things which he did he did supremely well.
The supreme grace of his compositions found its best exponent in him.
Ornaments, such as the cadenzas of the favorite E flat Nocturne, he
played with a liquid quality that no one could imitate. His rubato
carried with it a magical sense of personal freedom, but was never too
marked--was not a rubato at all, some say, since the left hand kept the
rhythm quite even.

As a workman Chopin was conscientious in the extreme. He never allowed
a work to go to the engraver until he had put the last possible touch
of perfection to it. His posthumous compositions he desired never to
have published. His judgment of them was correct; they are in almost
every case inferior to the work which he gave to the public. Just where
his individuality came from, no one can say; it seems to have been born
in him. From Field[81] he borrowed the Nocturne form, or rather name.
From Hummel[82] and Cramer[83] he borrowed certain details of pianistic
style. From the Italians he caught a certain luxurious grace that is
not to be found in French or German music. But none of this explains
the genius by which he turned his borrowings into great music.

Emotionally Chopin ranks perhaps as the greatest of composers. In
subjective expression and the evocation of mood, apart from specific
suggestion by words or ‘program,’ he is supreme. He is by no means
merely the dreamy poet which we sometimes carelessly suppose. Nothing
can surpass the force and vigor of his Polonaises, or the liveliness
of his Mazurkas. In harmony his invention was as inexhaustible as in
melody, and later music has borrowed many a progression from him.
Indeed, in this respect he was one of the most original of composers.
It has been said that in harmony there has been nothing new since
Bach save only Chopin, Wagner, and Debussy. But, however radical his
progressions may be, they are never awkward. They have that smoothness
and that seeming inevitableness which the artist honors with the
epithet, ‘perfection.’ Chopin’s genius was wholly for the piano; in
the little writing he did for orchestra or other instruments (mostly
in connection with piano solo) there is nothing to indicate that music
would have been the richer had he departed from his chosen field. In
a succeeding chapter more will be said about his music. As to the man
himself, it is all in his music. Any biographical detail which we can
collect must pale before the Preludes, the Études, and the Polonaises.

* * * * *

An ‘average music-lover,’ about 1845, being questioned as to whom
he thought the greatest living composer, would almost undoubtedly
have replied, ‘Mendelssohn.’ For Mendelssohn had just the combination
of qualities which at the time could most charm people, giving
them enough of the new to interest and enough of the old to avoid
disconcerting shocks. Our average music-lover would have gone on
to say that Mendelssohn had absorbed all that was good in romantic
music--the freshness, the pictorial suggestiveness, the freedom from
dry traditionalism--and had synthesized it with the power and clearness
of the old forms. Mendelssohn was the one of the romantic composers
who was instantly understood. His reputation has diminished steadily
in the last half century. One does not say this vindictively, for his
polished works are as delightful to-day as ever. But historically he
cannot rank for a moment with such men as Liszt, Schumann, or Chopin.
When we review the field we discover that he added no single new
element to musical expression. His forms were the classical ones, only
made flexible enough to hold their romantic content. His harmony,
though fresh, was always strictly justified by classical tradition.
His instrumentation, charming in the extreme, was only a restrained
and tasteful use of resources already known and used. In a history of
musical development Mendelssohn deserves no more than passing mention.

Of all the great musicians of history none ever received in his youth
such a broad and sound academic education. In every way he was one of
fortune’s darlings. His life, like that of few other distinguished
men of history (Macaulay alone comes readily to mind), was little
short of ideal. He was born in 1809 in Hamburg, son of a rich Jewish
banker. Early in his life the family formally embraced Christianity,
which removed from the musician the disabilities he would otherwise
have suffered in public life. His family life during his youthful
years in Berlin was that which has always been traditionally
Jewish--affectionate, simple, vigorous, and inspiring--and his
education the best that money could secure. His father cultivated
his talents with greatest care, but he was never allowed to become
a spoiled child or to develop without continual kindly criticism.
He became a pianist of almost the first rank, and was precocious in
composition, steadily developing technical finish and individuality. At
the age of 17, under the inspiration of the reading of Shakespeare with
his sister Fanny, he wrote the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ overture, as
finished and delightful a work as there is in all musical literature.
At twenty he was given money to travel and look about the world for his
future occupation. As a conductor (chiefly of his own works) and, to
a lesser extent, as a pianist he steadily became more famous, until,
in 1835, he was invited to become conductor of the concerts of the
Gewandhaus Orchestra at Leipzig. In this position he rapidly became the
most noted and perhaps the most immediately influential musician in
Europe. From 1840 to 1843 he was connected with Berlin, where Frederick
William IV had commissioned him to organize a musical academy, but in
1843 he did better by organizing the famous Conservatory at Leipzig, of
which he was made director, with Schumann and Moscheles on the teaching
staff. In 1847, after his tenth visit to England, he heard of the death
of his beloved sister Fanny, and shortly afterward died. All Europe
felt his death as a peculiarly personal loss.

What we feel in the man, beyond all else, is poise--one of the best
of human qualities but not the most productive in art. He knew and
loved the classical musicians--Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven--indeed,
the ‘resurrection’ of Bach dates from his performance of the Matthew
Passion in Berlin in 1828. He also felt, in a delicate way, the
romantic spirit of the age, and gave the most charming poetical
pictures in his overtures. All that he did he did with a polish that
recalls Mozart. His self-criticism was not profound, but was always
balanced. In his personal character he seems almost disconcertingly
perfect; we find ourselves wishing that he had committed a few real
sins so as to become more human. His appreciation of other musicians
was generous but limited; he never fully understood the value of
Schumann, and his early meeting with Berlioz, though impeccably polite,
was quite mystifying. His ability as an organizer and director was
marked. His work in Leipzig made that city, next to Paris, the musical
centre of Europe. Though his culture was broad he was scarcely affected
by external literary or political currents, except to refine certain
aspects of them for use in his music.

VIII

There were more reasons than the accidental conjunction of the
Schumanns and Mendelssohn for the brilliant position of Leipzig in
German musical life. For centuries the city had been, thanks to its
university, one of the intellectual centres of Germany. Being also
a mercantile centre, it became the logical location for numerous
publishing firms. The prestige and high standard of the _Thomasschule_,
of which Bach had for many years been ‘Cantor,’ had stimulated
its musical life, and even when Mendelssohn arrived in 1835 the
Gewandhaus Orchestra was one of the most excellent in Europe. The
intellectual life of the city was of the sort that has done most honor
to Germany--vigorous, scholarly, and critical, but self-supporting
and self-contained. Around Mendelssohn and his influence there grew
up the ‘Leipzig school,’ with Ferdinand Hiller,[84] W. Sterndale
Bennett,[85] Carl Reinecke,[86] and Niels W. Gade[87] as its chief
figures. Mendelssohn’s emphasis on classicism and moderation was
probably responsible for the tendency of this school to degenerate into
academic dryness, but this was not present to dim its brilliancy during
Mendelssohn’s life.

In the ‘Leipzig circle’ Schumann was always something of an outsider.
Though he was much more of Leipzig than Mendelssohn, he was too much
of a revolutionary to be immediately influential. Nor did he have
Mendelssohn’s advantages in laying hold on the public. For the first
twenty years of his life his connection with music was only that of the
enthusiastic dilettante. Though his father, a bookseller of Zwickau
in Saxony, favored the development of his musical gifts, his mother
feared an artistic career and kept him headed toward the profession
of lawyer until his inclinations became too strong. In the meantime
he had graduated from the Gymnasium of Zwickau, where he was born in
1810, and entered the University of Leipzig as a student of law. His
sensitiveness to all artistic influences in his youth was extremely
marked, especially to the efflorescent poet and pseudo-philosopher,
Jean Paul Richter (Jean Paul), on whom Schumann later based his
literary style. In his youth he would organize amateur orchestras
among his playfellows or entertain them with musical descriptions of
their personalities on the piano. When, at about seventeen, he arrived
in Leipzig to study in the University, he plunged into music, in
particular studying the piano under Frederick Wieck, whose daughter,
the brilliant pianist, Clara Wieck, later became his wife. An accident
to his hand, due to over-zeal in practice, shattered his hopes of
becoming a concert pianist, and he took to composition. He now devoted
his efforts to repairing the gaps in his theoretical education, though
not until a number of years later was he completely at home in the
various styles of writing. His romantic courtship of Clara Wieck
culminated, in 1840, in their marriage, against her father’s wishes.
Their life together was devoted and happy. The year of their marriage
is that of Schumann’s most fertile and creative work. His life from
this time on was the strenuous one of composer and conductor, with
not a few concert tours in which he conducted and his wife played his
compositions. But more immediately fruitful was his literary work as
editor of the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, founded in 1834 to champion
the romantic tendencies of the younger composers. Toward 1845 there
were signs of a failing in physical and mental powers and at times an
enforced cessation of activity. In 1853 he suffered extreme mental
depression, and his mind virtually gave way. An attempted suicide in
1854 was followed by his confinement in a sanatorium, and his death
followed in 1856.

Schumann is the most distinguished in the list of literary musicians.
His early reactions to romantic tendencies in literature were intense,
and when the time came for him to use his pen in defense of the music
of the future he had an effective literary style at his command. It
was the style of the time. Mere academic or technical criticism he
despised, not because he despised scholarship, but because he felt it
had no place in written criticism. He set himself to interpret the
spirit of music. True to romantic ideals, he was subjective before all.
He sent his soul out on adventures among the masterpieces--or, rather,
his souls; for he possessed several. One he called ‘Florestan,’ fiery,
imaginative, buoyant; another was ‘Eusebius,’ dreamy and contemplative.
It was these two names which chiefly appeared beneath his articles.
Then there was a third, which he used seldom, ‘Meister Raro,’ cool
judgment and impersonal reserve. He set himself to ‘make war on the
Philistines,’ namely, all persons who were stodgy, academic, and dry.
He had a fanciful society of crusaders among his friends which he
dubbed the _Davidsbund_. With this equipment of buoyant fancy he was
the best exemplar of the romantic idealism of his time and race.

The _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_, organized in connection with
enthusiastic friends, bravely battled for imagination and direct
expression in music during the ten years of Schumann’s immediate
editorship and during his contributing editorship thereafter.
Schumann’s ‘announcement’ of Chopin in 1831, and of Brahms in 1853,
have become famous. In most things his judgment was extraordinarily
sound. Though he was frankly an apologist for one tendency, he
appreciated many others, not excluding the reserved Mendelssohn, who
was in many things his direct opposite. Sometimes, particularly in his
prejudice against opera music, he disagreed with the tendencies of
the time. After hearing ‘Tannhäuser’ in Dresden he could say nothing
warmer than that on the whole he thought Wagner might some day be of
importance to German opera. But, though Schumann was thus limited, he
had the historical sense, and had scholarship behind his articles, if
not in them. During a several months’ stay in Vienna he set himself to
discovering forgotten manuscripts of Schubert, and the great C major
symphony, first performed under Mendelssohn at the Gewandhaus concerts
in 1839, owes its recovery to him.

Schumann worked generously in all forms except church music. At
first he was chiefly a composer for the piano, and his genre pieces,
‘pianistic’ in a quite new way, opened the field for much subsequent
music from other pens. In them his romantic fervor best shows itself.
They are buoyantly pictorial and suggestive, though avoiding extremes,
and they abound in literary mottoes. In 1840 begins his chief activity
as a song composer, and here he takes a place second only to Schubert
in lovableness and second to none in intimate subjective expression.
Between 1841 and 1850 come four lovely symphonies, uneven in quality
and without distinction in instrumentation, but glowing with vigorous
life. In the last ten years of his life come the larger choral works,
the ‘Faust’ scenes, several cantatas, the ---- and the opera ‘Genoveva.’
Throughout the latter part of his life are scattered the chamber works
which are permanent additions to musical literature. These works,
and their contributions to musical development, will be described in
succeeding chapters.

* * * * *

These are the preëminent romantic composers. What they have in common
is not so evident as seems at first glance. The very creed that
binds them together makes them highly individual and dispartite. At
bottom, the only possible specific definition of romantic music is a
description of romantic music itself. ‘Romantic’ is at best a loose
term; and it happens always to be a relative term.

But a brief formal statement of the old distinction between
‘romanticism’ and ‘classicism’ may be helpful in following the
description of romantic music in the following chapters. For the terms
have taken on some sort of precise meaning in their course down the
centuries. Perhaps the chief distinction lies in the æsthetic theory
concerning limits. The Greek temple and the Gothic cathedral are the
standard examples. The Greek loved to work intensively on a specific
problem, within definite and known limits, controlling every detail
with his intelligence and achieving the utmost perfection possible to
careful workmanship. The Greek temple is small in size, can be taken
in at a glance; every line is clear and definitely terminated; details
are limited in number and each has its reason for existing; the work
is a unit and each part is a part of an organic whole. The mediæval
workman, on the other hand, was impressed by the richness of a world
which he by no means understood; he loved to see all sorts of things in
the heavens above and the earth beneath and to express them in his art.
Ruskin makes himself the apologist for the Gothic cathedral when he
says: ‘Every beautiful detail added is so much richness gained for the
whole.’ The mediæval cathedral, then, is an amazing aggregation of rich
detail. Unity is a minor matter. The cathedral is never to be taken in
at a glance. Its lines drive upward and vanish into space; it is filled
with dark corners and mysterious designs. It is an attempt to pierce
beyond limits and achieve something more universal.

Here is the distinction, and it is more a matter of individual
temperament than of historical action and reaction. The poise and
control that come from working within pre-defined limits are the chief
glory of the classical; the imagination and energy that come from
trying to pass beyond limits are the chief charm of the romantic. Let
us never expect to settle the controversy, for both elements exist
in all artists, even in Berlioz. But let us try to understand how the
artist feels toward each of these inspirations, and to see what, in
each age, is the specific impulse toward one or the other.

H. K. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[74] ‘Uhland’s Life,’ by his widow.

[75] Heine: _Die romantische Schule._

[76] Wilhelm Langhans: ‘The History of Music,’ Eng. transl. by J. H.
Cornell, 1886.

[77] _Ibid._

[78] Fyffe: ‘History of Modern Europe’, Vol. I.

[79] He was a pupil first of his stepbrother, Fridolin, of Heuschkel
in Hildburghausen, of Michael Haydn in Salzburg (1797), of Kalcher in
theory, and Valesi in singing.

[80] Reinach’s ‘Apollo.’

[81] John Field, b. Dublin, 1782; d. Moscow, 1837; pianist and
composer; was a pupil of Clementi, whom he followed to Paris and later
to St. Petersburg, where he became noted as a teacher. Afterwards he
gave concerts successfully in London, as well as in Belgium, France,
and Italy. His 20 ‘Nocturnes’ for pianoforte are the basis of his
fame. Being the first to use the name, he may be considered to have
established the type. His other compositions include concertos,
sonatas, etc., and some chamber music.

[82] Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778-1837). Sec Vol. XI.

[83] Johann Baptist Cramer (1771-1858). See Vol. XI.

[84] Born, Frankfort, 1811; died, Cologne, 1885; was a man of many
parts, brilliant pianist and conductor, composer of fine sensibility
and mastery of form, and a talented critic and author; cosmopolite and
friend of many distinguished musicians, from Cherubini to Berlioz,
and especially of Mendelssohn. He left operas, symphonies, oratorios,
chamber music, etc., and theoretical works. His smaller works--piano
pieces and songs--are still popular.

[85] Born, Sheffield, England, 1816; died, London, 1875. See Vol. XI.

[86] Born in Altona, near Hamburg, 1824; a highly educated musician,
distinguished as pianist, conductor, composer, pedagogue, and critic.
As conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra and as professor of piano and
composition at the Leipzig Conservatory he exerted a long and powerful
influence. As composer he followed the school of Mendelssohn and
Schumann, was very prolific and distinguished by brilliant musicianship
and ingenious if not highly original imagination. Besides operas,
_singspiele_ cantatas, symphonies, etc., he published excellent chamber
music and many piano works.

[87] See Vol. III. Chap. I.

CHAPTER VII
SONG LITERATURE OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD

Lyric poetry and song--The song before Schubert--Franz Schubert; Carl
Löwe--Robert Schumann; Robert Franz; Mendelssohn and Chopin; Franz
Liszt as song writer.

Song in the modern sense (the German word _Lied_ expresses it) is
peculiarly a phenomenon of the nineteenth century. In the preceding
centuries it can hardly be said to have claimed the attention of
composers. Vocal solos of many sorts there had, of course, been;
but they were of one or another formal type and are sharply to be
contrasted with the song of Schubert, Schumann, and Franz. If a prophet
and theorist of the year 1800, foreknowing what was to be the spirit of
the romantic age, had sketched out an ideal art form for the perfect
expression of that spirit he would surely have hit upon the song. The
fact that song was not composed in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries proves how predominantly formal and how little expressive in
purpose the music of that time was.

It is strange how little of the lyrical quality (in the poet’s sense
of the term) there was in the music of the eighteenth century. The
lyric is that form of poetry which expresses individual emotion. It
is thus sharply to be contrasted in spirit with all other forms--the
epic, which tells a long and heroic story; the narrative, which tells
a shorter and more special story; the dramatic, which pictures the
characters as acting; the satiric, the didactic, and the other forms of
more or less objective intent. No less is the lyric to be contrasted
with the other types in point of form. For, whereas the epic, the
dramatic, and the rest can add detail upon detail at great length,
and lives by its quantity of good things, the lyric stands or falls
at the first blow. Either it transmits to the reader the emotion it
seeks to express, or it does not, and if it does not then the longer it
continues the greater bore it becomes. For all the forms of objective
poetry can get their effect by reproducing objective details in
abundance. But to transmit an emotion one must somehow get at the heart
of it--by means of a suggestive word or phrase or of a picture that
instantly evokes an emotional experience. The accuracy of the lyrical
expression depends upon selecting just the right details and omitting
all the rest. Thus the lyric must necessarily be short, while most of
the other poetic forms can be indefinitely extended.

And, besides, an emotion usually lasts in its purity only for a moment.
You divine it the instant it is with you, or you have lost it. It
cannot be prolonged by conscious effort; it cannot be recalled by
thinking about it. The expression of it will therefore last but for a
moment. It must be caught on the wing. And the power so to catch an
emotion is a very special power. Few poets have had it in the highest
degree. Those who have had it, such as Burns, Goethe, or Heine, can,
in a dozen lines or so, take their place beside the greatest poets
of all time. The special beauty of ‘My love is like a red, red rose’
or ‘_Der du von dem Himmel bist_’ or ‘_Du bist wie eine Blume_’ is
as far removed from that of the longer poem--say, ‘Il Penseroso’ or
Swinburne’s ‘Hymn to Man’--as a tiny painting by Vermeer is from a
canvas by Veronese. Emotional expression, of course, exists in many
types of poetry, but it cannot be sustained and hence is only a sort of
recurrent by-product. The lyric is distinguished by the fact that in it
individual emotional expression is the single and unique aim.

This lyric spirit is obviously seldom to be found in the ‘art’ music
of the eighteenth century. It is not too much to say that music in
that age was regarded as dignified in proportion to its length.
The clavichord pieces of Rameau or Couperin were hardly more than
after-dinner amusements; and the fugues and preludes of Bach, for all
the depth of the emotion in them and despite their flexible form, were
primarily technical exercises. The best creative genius of the latter
half of the century was expended upon the larger forms--the symphony,
the oratorio, the opera, the mass.

All the qualities which are peculiar to the lyric in poetry we find
in the song--the _Lied_--of the nineteenth century. A definition or
description of the one could be applied almost verbatim to the other.
The lyric song must be brief, emotional, direct. Like the lyric poem,
it cannot waste a single measure; it must create its mood instantly.
It is personal; it seeks not to picture the emotion in general, but
the particular emotion experienced by a certain individual. It is
unique; no two experiences are quite alike, and no two songs accurately
expressive of individual experiences can be alike. It is sensuous;
emotions are felt, not understood, and the song must set the hearer’s
soul in vibration. It is intimate; one does not tell one’s personal
emotions to a crowd, and the true song gives each hearer the sense
that he is the sole confidant of the singer. Musical architecture, in
the older sense, has very little to do with this problem. Individual
expression goes its own way, and the music must accommodate itself to
the form of the text. Abundance of riches is only in a limited way a
virtue in a good song. The great virtue is to select just the right
phrase to express the particular mood. Fine sensibilities are needed
to appreciate a good song, for the song is a personal confession, and
one can understand a friend’s confession only if one has sensitive
heart-strings.

Thus the song was peculiarly fitted to express a large part of the
spirit of the romantic period. This period, which appreciated the
individual more than any other age since the time of Pericles (with
the possible exception of the Italian Renaissance), which sought to
make the form subsidiary to the sense, which sought to get at the inner
reality of men’s feelings, which longed for sensation and experience
above all other things--this period expressed itself in a burst of
spontaneous song as truly as the drama expressed Elizabethan England,
or the opera expressed eighteenth century Italy.

Lyrical song begins with Schubert. Before him there was no standard of
that form which he brought almost instantaneously to perfection. It
is hard for us to realize how little respect the eighteenth century
composer had for the short song. His attitude was not greatly unlike
the attitude of modern poets toward the limerick. Gluck set his hand to
a few indifferent tunes in the song-form, and Haydn and Mozart tossed
off a handful, most of which are mediocre. These men simply did not
consider the song worthy of the best efforts of a creative artist.

If we take a somewhat broader definition of the word song we find that
it has been a part of music from the beginning. Folk-song, beginning
in the prehistoric age of music, has kept pretty much to itself until
recent times, and has had a development parallel with art music. From
time to time it has served as a reservoir for this art music, opening
its treasures richly when the conscious music makers had run dry. Thus
it was in the time of the troubadours and trouvères (themselves only
go-betweens) who took the songs of the people and gave them currency
in fashionable secular and church music. So it was again in the time
of Luther, who used the familiar melodies of his time to build up his
congregational chorales (a great part of the basis of German music from
that day to this). So it was again in the time of Schubert, who enjoyed
nothing better than walking to country merry-makings to hear the
country people sing their songs of a holiday. And so it has been again
in our own day, when national schools--Russian, Spanish, Scandinavian
and the rest--are flourishing on the treasures of their folk-songs. And
when we say that song began with Schubert we must not forget that long
before him, though almost unrecognized, there existed songs among the
people as perfect and as expressive as any that composers have ever
been able to invent. But these songs are constructed in the traditional
verse-form and are, therefore, very different from most of the art
songs of the nineteenth century, which are detailed and highly flexible.

Of the songs composed before the time of Schubert, mostly by otherwise
undistinguished men, the greater part were in the simple form and
style of the folk-song. A second element in pre-Schubertian song was
the chorale. The _Geistliche Lieder_ (Spiritual Songs) of J. S. Bach
were nothing but chorales for solo voice. And the spirit and harmonic
character of the chorale, little cultivated in romantic song, are to be
found in a good part of the song literature of the eighteenth century.
A third element in eighteenth century song was the _da capo_ aria of
the opera or oratorio. Many detached lyrics were written in this form,
or even to resemble the more highly developed sonata form--as, for
instance, Haydn’s charming ‘My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair,’ which is
otherwise as expressive and appropriate a lyric as one could ask for.
The effect of such an artificial structure on the most intimate and
delicate of art forms was in most cases deadly, and songs of this type
were little more than oratorio arias out of place.

It will be seen that each of these sorts of song has some structural
form to distinguish it. The folk-song, which must be easy for
untechnical persons to memorize, naturally is cast in the ‘strophic’
form--that is, one in which the melody is a group of balanced phrases
(generally four, eight, or sixteen), used without change for all the
stanzas of the song. The chorale or hymn tune is much the same, being
derived from the folk-song and differing chiefly in its more solid
harmonic accompaniment. And the _da capo_ aria is distinguished and
defined by its formal peculiarity.

Now it is evident that for free and detailed musical expression the
melody must be allowed to take its form from the words and that
none of these three traditional forms can be allowed to control the
musical structure. And the _Lied_ of the nineteenth century is chiefly
distinguished, at least as regards externals, by this freedom of form.
Such a song, following no traditional structure, but answering to
the peculiarities of the text throughout, is the _durchkomponiertes
Lied_, or song that is ‘composed all the way through,’ which Schubert
established once and for all as an art-type.

But in its heart of hearts the ‘art’ song at its best remains an own
cousin to the folk-song. This art, the mother of art and the fountain
of youth to all arts that are senescent, takes what is typical, what
is common to all men, casts it into a form which is intelligible to
all men, and passes through a thousand pairs of lips and a thousand
improvements until it is past the power of men further to perfect it.
Its range of subject is as wide as life itself, only it chooses not
what is individual and peculiar, but what is universal and typical.
It has a matchless power for choosing the expressive detail and the
dramatic moment. An emotion which shakes nations it can concentrate
into a few burning lines. It is never conscious that it is great art;
it takes no thought for the means; it is only interested in expressing
its message as powerfully and as simply as possible. In doing this it
hits upon the phrases that are at the foundation of our musical system,
at the cadences which block in musical architecture upon the structure
from which all conscious forms are derived.

This popular art, as we have said, has revivified music again and
again. It was the soul of the Lutheran chorale, which, the Papists
sneeringly said, was the chief asset of the Reformation, since it
furnished the sensuous form under which religion took its place in the
hearts of the people. It is the foundation of Johann Sebastian Bach’s
music from beginning to end. And it is therefore the foundation of
the work of Bach’s most famous son, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, from
whom the ‘art song’ takes its rise. In the fifties he published the
several editions of his ‘Melodies’ to the spiritual songs of Christian
Fürchtegott Gellert; these may be taken as the beginning of modern
song. In his preface Bach shows the keenness of his understanding,
stating in theory the problem which Schubert solved in practice. He
says that he has endeavored to invent, in each case, the melody which
will express the spirit of the whole poem, and not, as had been the
custom, merely that which accords with the first stanza. In other
words, he recognizes the incongruity of expecting one tune to express
the varying moods of several dissimilar stanzas. His solution was to
strike a general average among the stanzas and suit his tune to it.
Schubert solved the problem by composing his music continuously to suit
each stanza, line, and phrase--in other words, by establishing the
_durchkomponiertes Lied_, the modern art song.

Philipp Emanuel Bach thus saw that the _Lied_ should do what the
folk-song and the formal aria could not do. It is a nice question,
whether the conscious _durchkomponiertes Lied_ is more truly
expressive than the strophic folk-song. Mr. Henderson, in his book
‘Songs and Song Writers’[88] illustrates the problem by comparing
Silcher’s well-known version of Heine’s _Die Lorelei_ with Liszt’s.
Silcher’s eight-line tune has become a true folk-song. It keeps an
unvarying form and tune through three double stanzas, using, to express
the lively action of the end, the same music that expresses the natural
beauty of the beginning. Liszt, on the other hand, with masterful
imaginative precision, follows each detail of the picture and action
in his music. Mr. Henderson concludes that he would not give Liszt’s
setting for a dozen of Silcher’s. Some of us, however, would willingly
give the whole body of Liszt’s music for a dozen folk tunes like
Silcher’s. It is, of course, a matter of individual preference. But
we should give an understanding heart to the method of the folk-song,
which offers to the poem a formal frame of great beauty, binding the
whole together in one mood, while it allows the subsidiary details to
play freely, and perhaps the more effectually, by contrast with the
dominant tone. Whatever may be one’s final decision in the matter, a
study and comparison of the two settings will make evident the typical
qualities of the folk-song and ‘art’ song as nothing else could.

Emanuel Bach also showed his feeling for the lyrical quality of the
_Lied_ by apologizing, between the lines, for his poems, saying that,
although the didactic is not the sort of poetry best suited to musical
treatment, Gellert’s fine verses justified the procedure in his case.
There is in the melodies, as we have said, something of the feeling of
the folk-song and of the Lutheran chorale. And there is also in them an
indefinable quality which in a curious way looks forward to the free
melodic expression of Schubert.

Throughout the eighteenth century the chief representative of pure
German song was the singspiel, or light and imaginative dramatic
entertainment with songs and choruses interspersed with spoken
dialogue. The singspiel was not a highly honored form of art; it held a
place somewhat analogous to the vaudeville among us--that is, loved by
the people, but regarded as below the dignity of a first-class musician
(Italian opera being _à la mode_). Nevertheless, we find some excellent
light music among these singspiele. Reichardt’s _Erwin und Elmira_, to
Goethe’s text, contains numbers which in simple charm and finish of
workmanship do not fall far below Mozart. These singspiele maintained
the German spirit in song in the face of the Italian tradition until
Weber came and made the tinder blaze in the face of all Europe.
Reichardt felt the spirit of the time. He was one of those valuable
men who make things move while they are living and are forgotten after
they are dead. As kapellmeister under Frederick the Great he introduced
reforms which made him unpopular among the conservative spirits. His
open sympathy with the principles of the French revolution led to his
dismissal from his official post. From such a man we should expect
exactly what we find--an admiration for folk-songs and an insistence
that art songs should be founded on them. He was widely popular and had
a considerable influence on his time. He was thus a power in keeping
German song true to the best German traditions until the time when
Schubert raised it to the first rank. Reichardt was also the first
to make a specialty of Goethe’s songs, having set some hundred and
twenty-five of them.

Zelter,[89] likewise, was best known in his time for his settings of
Goethe’s lyrics, and the poet preferred them to those of Schubert.
This fact need not excite such indignation as is sometimes raised in
reference to it, for Goethe was little of a musician. Zelter kept
true to the popular tradition and some of his songs are still sung by
the German students. Zumsteeg[90] was another important composer of
the time, the first important composer of ballads, and a favorite with
Schubert, who based his early style on him.

Historically the songs of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven are of less
importance than those of the composers just named. Haydn’s are
predominantly instrumental in character. Mozart was much more of a poet
for the voice, and has to his credit at least one song, ‘The Violet,’
a true _durchkomponiertes Lied_, which can take its place beside the
best in German song literature. Beethoven’s songs are often no more
than musical routine. His early ‘Adelaide,’ a sentimental scena in
the Italian style, is his best known, but his setting to Gellert’s
‘The Heavens Declare the Glory of the Eternal’ is by far the finest.
Except that it is a little stiff in its grandeur it would be one of the
noblest of German songs. Yet Beethoven’s place in the history of song
rests chiefly upon the fact that he was one of the first to compose
a true song cycle having poetical and musical unity. In some ways he
anticipated Schumann’s practises.

With Schubert the _Lied_ appears, so to speak, ready made. After his
early years there is no more development toward the _Lied_; there is
only development _of_ the _Lied_. In his eighteenth year Schubert
composed a song which is practically flawless (‘The Erlking’) and
continued thereafter producing at a mighty pace, sometimes nodding,
like Homer, and ever and again dashing off something which is
matchless. In all he composed some six hundred and fifty songs. Many
of them are mediocre, as is inevitable with one who composes in such
great quantity. Many others, like the beautiful _Todesmusik_, are
uneven, passages of highest beauty alternating with vapid stretches
such as any singing teacher might have composed. He wrote as many as
six or seven songs between breakfast and dinner, beginning the new one
the instant he had finished the old. He sometimes sold them at twenty
cents apiece (when he could sell them at all). It is easy to say that
he should have composed less and revised more, but it does not appear
that it cost him any more labor to compose a great song than a mediocre
one. On the whole, it seems that Schubert measured his powers justly
in depending on the first inspiration. At the same time, it has been
established that he was not willfully careless with his songs--not,
at any rate, with the ones he believed in. A number were revised and
copied three and four times. But generally his first inspiration,
whether it was good or bad, was allowed to stand.

Now this facility is not to be confounded with superficiality.
Schubert, taking an inspiration from the poems he read, went straight
for the heart of the emotion. No amount of painstaking could have
made _Am Meer_ more profound in sentiment. His course was simply that
of Nature, producing in great quantity in the expectation that the
inferior will die off and the best will perpetuate themselves. The
range of his emotional expression is very great. It is safe to say that
there is no type of sentiment or mood in any song of the last hundred
years which cannot find its prototype in Schubert. His songs include
ballads with a touch of the archaic, like ‘The Erlking’; lyrics with
the most delicate wisp of symbolism, like _Das Heidenröslein_ (‘Heather
Rose’); with the purest lyricism, like the famous ‘Serenade’ or the
‘Praise of Tears’; lyrics of the deepest tragedy, like ‘The Inn,’ or
pathos, like ‘Death and the Maiden’; of the most intense emotional
energy, like _Aufenthalt_; of the merriest light-heartedness, like
‘Hark, Hark, the Lark’ or the _Wanderlied_; and of the most exalted
grandeur, like _Die Allmacht_.

It would be out of place here to estimate these songs in any detail.
For they have a personal quality which makes the estimating of them for
another person a ridiculous thing. Like all truly personal things, they
have, to the individual who values them, a value quite incommensurable.
Each of the best songs is unique, and is not to be compared with any
other. They are irreplaceable and their value seems infinite. Hence the
praise of one who loves these songs would sound foolishly extravagant
to another. We can here only review and point out the general qualities
and characteristics of Schubert’s output.

With one of his earliest songs--‘Gretchen at the Spinning
Wheel’--composed when he was seventeen, Schubert establishes the
principle of detailed delineation in the accompaniment, developed so
richly in the succeeding decades. The whole of the melody is bound
together by the whirring of the wheel in the accompaniment. But when
Gretchen comes to her exclamation, ‘And ah, his kiss!’ she stops
spinning for a moment and the harmonies in the piano become intense
and colorful. This principle of delineative detail, even more than
the _durchkomponierte_ form, constitutes the difference between the
‘art’ song and its prototype, the folk-song. The details become more
and more frequent in Schubert’s songs as his artistic development
continues. They are rarely realistic, as in Liszt, but they always
catch the mood or the emotional nuance with eloquent suggestiveness. A
free song, like _Die Allmacht_, follows the varying moods of the text
line for line. But Schubert did not follow his text word for word as
later song-writers did. He felt what the folk-singer feels, the formal
musical unity of his song as apart from the unity in the meaning of the
words. He was never willing to admit a delineative detail that involved
a harsh break in the flow of beautiful melody. It was his choice of
melody, much more than his choice of delineative detail, that gave
eloquence to his songs.

This melody is of great beauty and fluency from the beginning. The
lovely songs of the spectral tempter in ‘The Erlking’ could not
be more beautiful. Yet this gift of lovely melody becomes richer,
deeper, and even more spontaneous as Schubert grew older--richer and
more spontaneous than has been known in any other composer before or
since. It is nearly always based on the regular and measured melody of
folk-song, and rarely becomes anything approaching the free ‘endless
melody’ of Wagner. But beyond such a generalization as this it can
scarcely be covered with a single descriptive phrase. It was adequate
to every sort of emotional expression, and was so gently flexible in
form that it could fit any sort of poem without losing its graceful
contour.

‘The Erlking,’ perhaps Schubert’s best known song (it is certainly one
of his greatest), is a perfect example of the ballad, or condensed
dramatic-narrative poem, a type which had been cultivated by Zumsteeg,
but had never reached real artistic standing. It demands sharp
characterization of the speaking characters, and especially some means
of setting the mood of the poem as a whole, in order to keep the story
within its frame and give it its artistic unity. The former Schubert
supplies with his melodies; the latter with the accompaniment of
triplets, with the recurring figure representing the galloping of the
horse. Without interrupting the musical flow of his song he introduces
the delineative detail where it is needed, as in the double dissonance
at the repeated shriek of the child--a musical procedure that was
revolutionary at the time it was written. And, if there were nothing
else in the song to prove genius, it would be proved by the last line
in which, for the first time, the triplets cease and the announcement
that the child was dead is made in an abrupt recitative, carrying us
back to a realization of the true nature of the ballad as a tale that
is told, a legend from the olden times. It must always be a pity that
Schubert did not write more ballads. He is commonly known as a lyric
genius, but he could be equally a descriptive genius. Yet only ‘The
Young Nun,’ among the better known of his songs, is at all narrative in
quality.

Schubert’s form, as we have said, ranges all the way from the simple
strophe, or verse form, up to the verge of the declamatory. He was
extremely fond of the strophe, and usually used it with perfect
justice, as in the famous ‘Who is Sylvia,’ ‘Hark, Hark, the Lark,’ and
‘Ave Maria.’ Very often he uses the strophe form modified and developed
for the last stanza, as in _Du bist die Ruh_, or the ‘Serenade.’
Again, as in _Die Allmacht_ and _Aufenthalt_, the melody, while being
perfectly measured and regular, follows the text with utmost freedom.
And, finally, there is _Der Doppelgänger_, which is scarcely more than
expressive declamation over a delineative accompaniment. ‘The music of
the future!’ exclaims Mr. Henderson. ‘Wagner’s theories a quarter of a
century before he evolved them.’

A number of Schubert’s are grouped together in ‘cycles,’ a procedure
practised by Beethoven in his _An die Ferne Geliebte_, and brought to
perfection by Schumann. Schubert’s twenty-four songs, ‘The Fair Maid of
the Mill,’ to words by Müller, tell the story of a love affair and its
consequent tragedy, enacted near the mill, by the side of the brook,
which ripples all through the series. The songs tell a consecutive
story somewhat in the fashion of Tennyson’s ‘Maud,’ but the group has
little of the inner unity of Schumann’s cycles. The ‘Winter Journey’
series, also to Müller’s text, is more closely bound together by its
mood of old-aged despair. The last fourteen songs which the composer
wrote were published after his death as ‘Swan Songs,’ and the name has
justly remained, for they seem one and all to be written under the
oppressive fear of death. They include the six songs composed to the
words of Heine, whose early book of poems the composer had just picked
up. What a pity, if Schubert could not have lived longer, that Heine
did not live earlier! Each of, these Heine songs is a masterpiece.

Schubert’s literary sense may not have been highly critical, but it
managed to include the greatest poets and the best poems that were to
be had. His settings include seventy-two to words by Goethe, fifty-four
of Schiller, forty-four of Müller, forty-eight of his friend Mayrhofer,
nineteen of Schlegel, nineteen of Klopstock, nineteen of Körner, ten of
Walter Scott, seven of Ossian, three of Shakespeare, and the immortal
six of Heine. And, though he was not inspired in any very direct
proportion to the literary worth of his poems, he responded truly to
the lyrical element wherever he found it.

Writing at about the same time with Schubert were the opera composers
Ludwig Spohr, Heinrich Marschner, and Weber. The song output of these
men has not proved historically important, but they have to their
credit the fact that they were true to the German faith. Marschner’s
songs are not altogether dead to-day, and Weber’s are in a few
instances excellent. They come nearer than those of any other composer
to the true style and spirit of the folk-song, and reveal from another
angle the presiding genius of Weber’s operas.

The place for the ballad which Schubert left almost vacant in his
work was filled by Johann Carl Gottfried (Carl) Löwe, born only a
few months before him.[91] The numerous compositions of his long life
have been forgotten, except for his ballads. And these have lived,
in spite of their feeble melodic invention, by their sheer dramatic
energy. Löwe’s ballads depend wholly on their words--that is their
virtue; as music apart they have scarcely any existence. But Löwe’s
dramatic sense was abundant and vigorous. A study of his setting of
‘The Erlking’ as compared with that of Schubert will instantly make
evident the differences between the two men. The motif of the storm
is more complex and wild; the speeches of the Erlking are strange and
mystical, as far as possible removed from the suave melody of Schubert.
The voice part is at every turn made impressive rather than beautiful.
Superficially Schubert’s method looks the more superficial and
inartistic, but it conquers by the matchless expressive power of its
melody. Löwe’s ballads compel our respect, in spite of their lack of
melodic invention. They are carefully selected and include some of the
best poetry of the time. They are worked out with great care, and are
conscientiously true to the meaning of the words as songs rarely were
in his day. They are designed to make an impressive effect in a large
concert hall. They have a considerable range, from the mock-primitive
heroics of Ossian to the boisterous humor of Goethe’s ‘Sorcerer’s
Apprentice.’ And in their cultivation of the declamatory style and
of the delineative accompaniment they were important in the musical
development of the age.

III

Schumann was not, like Schubert, a singer from his earliest years. He
was at first a dilettante of the piano, and as he grew up dreamed
of becoming a virtuoso. He was enchanted by the piano, told it his
thoughts, and was fascinated by its undiscovered possibilities. His
genius came to its first maturity in his piano works, and all his
thoughts were at first for this instrument.

He did not write his first song until 1840; that is, until almost
the end of his thirtieth year. When he did take to song-writing he
wrote furiously. There was a reason for it. For after several years
of passionate love-making to his Clara, and of almost more passionate
stubbornness on the part of her father, the young people took the
law into their own hands (quite literally, since they had to invoke
the courts) and were married in 1840. The first happiness of married
life and the anticipations leading up to it seem to have generated
in Schumann that demand for a more personal and intimate expression
than his beloved piano could offer. Though he had never been a rapid
writer he now wrote many songs at a stretch, as many as three or four
in a day. He seemed unable to exhaust what he had to say. By the
time the year was over he had composed more than a hundred songs. He
declared himself satisfied with what he had done. He might come back to
song-writing, he said; but he wasn’t sure.

He did come back to it, but not until his creative powers were on the
wane. In the last six or seven years of his life he wrote more than a
hundred new songs, but hardly one of them rises above mediocrity. All
the songs that have made him famous, and all that are worthy of his
genius, date from the year of his marriage.

Just what, in a technical way, Schumann was trying to do in his first
songs we do not know. It is probable that the ammunition for his
unusual harmonic progressions and his freer declamatory style came
from his own piano pieces. Fundamentally we know he admired Schubert
almost without reserve, having already spent the best part of a year
in Vienna, unearthed a number of Schubert scores, and spread Schubert’s
reputation to the best of his ability. Yet there is hardly one of
Schumann’s songs that could for a moment be mistaken for Schubert’s,
so different was the musical genesis of the two composers in their
song-writing. Schumann is a part of the Schubert tradition; but he is
just so much further developed (whether for the better or for the worse
may be left to the theorists).

With Schumann the tendency of detailed musical description is carried
into a greater number of songs and into a greater variety of details.
The declamatory element increases, both in the number of songs which
it dominates and in the extent to which it influences the more melodic
songs. The part of the piano is tremendously increased, so much so that
the _Waldesgespräch_ has been called a symphonic poem with recitative
accompaniment by the voice. The harmony, while lacking in Schubert’s
entrancingly simple enharmonic changes, is more unusual, showing in
particular a tendency to avoid the perfect cadence, which would have
hurt Franz Schubert’s ear for a time. Schumann’s songs are commonly
called ‘psychological,’ and this much-abused word may be allowed to
stand in the sense that Schumann offered a separate statement of the
separate strands of an emotional state, while Schubert more usually
expressed the emotional state pure and simple. No songs could be more
subjective than some of Schubert’s later ones, but many, including
Schumann’s, have been more complex in emotional content. But perhaps
the first thing one feels on approaching the Schumann songs is that
they are consciously wrought, that they are the work of a thinker. This
is no doubt partly because Schumann, with all his gifts, did not have
at his disposal Schubert’s wonderfully rich melody and was obliged
to weigh and consider. But it is also quite to be expected from the
nature of the man. While Schumann’s songs are by no means so rich as
Schubert’s in point of melody, there are a few of his tunes, especially
the famous _Widmung_, which can stand beside any in point of pure
musical beauty. Still, it must be admitted that Schumann’s truly great
songs, even from the output of 1840, are decidedly limited in number.

To understand better what is meant by the word ‘psychological’ in
connection with Schumann’s songs, let us turn to his most famous
group, the ‘Woman’s Life and Love.’ The first of the group, ‘Since
My Eyes Beheld Him,’ tells of the young girl who has awakened to
her first half-consciousness of love. It is hero worship, but it is
disconcerting, making her strangely conscious of herself, anxious to be
alone and dream, surrounded by a half sensuous, half sentimental mist.
The music is hesitating and broken, with many chromatic progressions
and suspensions in the piano part which rob it of any firm harmonic
outline. In the whole of the voice part there is not a single perfect
cadence. The melody is utterly lovely, but it sounds indefinite, as
though it were always just beginning; only here and there it rises into
a definite phrase of moody longing. In the second song, the famous _Er,
der Herrlichste von Allen_ the girl has come to full consciousness of
her emotion. Her loved one is simply her hero, the noblest of men. The
music is straightforward and decisive; the main theme begins with the
notes of the tonic chord (the ‘bugle notes’). There is no lack of full
cadence and pure half cadences. In the third song the girl has received
the man’s avowal of love, and is overcome with amazement, almost
terror, that her hero should look with favor upon _her_. The voice part
is scarcely more than a broken recitative, and the accompaniment is
largely of short sharp chords. Only for one ecstatic instant the melody
becomes lyrically lovely, in the richest German strain: it is on the
words ‘I am forever thine.’ In the sixth song the mother is gazing at
her newborn baby and weeping. The voice part is free declamation, with
a few rich chords in the accompaniment to mark the underlying depth of
emotion. In the eighth and last song the husband has died. The form
of the song is much the same as that of the sixth, only the chords
are now heavy and tragic. As the lamenting voice dies away the piano
part glides into the opening song, played softly; the wife dreams of
the first awakening of her love. The effect is to cast the eight songs
into a long backward vista, magically making us feel that we have lived
through the years of the woman’s life and love.

This, easily the most famous of song cycles, is the type of all of
them. Beethoven wrote a true cycle, but his songs are by no means equal
to Schumann’s. Schubert wrote cycles, but none with the close bond and
inner unity of this one. Nor are Schumann’s other cycles--‘Myrtles,’
the _Liederkreis_, song series from Eichendorff and another under the
same name from other poets, the ‘Poet’s Love’ from Heine, the Kerner
cycle, and the ‘Springtime of Love’ cycle--so closely bound as this.
The song cycle, on this plane, is a triumph of the accurate delineative
power of music.

Almost as much as of this type of ‘psychology’ Schumann is master of
the delicate picture of mood, as in _Die Lotosblume_, _Der Nussbaum_,
and the thrice lovely _Mondnacht_. His musical high spirits often
serve him in good stead, as in Kerner’s ‘Wanderer’s Song.’ In ‘To the
Sunshine’ he imitates the folk-song style with remarkable success.
In the short ballad he has at least two works of supreme beauty,
the _Waldesgespräch_, already referred to, and the well known ‘Two
Grenadiers.’ There is a certain grim humor (one of the few lyrical
qualities which Schubert never successfully attempted) in his setting
of Heine’s masterly ‘The Old and Bitter Songs.’ And, finally, one
song that stands by itself in song literature--the famous _Ich grolle
nicht_, admired everywhere, yet not beyond its deserts. Here is tragedy
deep and exalted as in a Greek drama--though it is disconcerting to
note how much more seriously Schumann took the subject than did his
poet, Heine.

In 1843, when Schumann had made his first success as a song writer,
he received from an unknown young man a batch of songs in manuscript.
With his customary promptitude and sureness, he announced the young man
in his journal, the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_. This man was Robert
Franz, who, many insist, is the greatest song writer in the world,
barring only Schubert.[92] Franz, it seems, had had an unhappy love
affair, and had taken to song-writing to ease his feelings, having
burned up all his previous compositions as worthless. Schumann did for
Franz what he did for Brahms and to some extent for Chopin--put him on
the musical map--and that on the strength of an examination of only
a few early compositions. Through his influence Franz’s Opus I was
published, and thereafter, steadily for many years, came songs from
Franz’s pen. He wrote little other original music, save a few pieces
for church use. His reputation refused to grow rapidly, for there was
little in his work or personality on which to build _réclame_, but
it has grown steadily. The student of his songs will discover a high
proportion of first-rate songs among them--higher, probably, than in
any other song composer.

Franz is one of those composers of whose work little can be told in
print. It is all in the music. Unlike Schubert and Schumann, he limited
himself in his choice of subjects, taking mostly poems of delicate
sentiments, and avoiding all that was realistic. Unlike Schubert, he
worked over his songs with greatest care, sometimes keeping them for
years before he had fashioned them to perfection. His voice parts are,
on the whole, more independent than Schumann’s. They combine perfect
declamatory freedom and accurate observance of the text with a delicate
finish of melodic grace. The accompaniments are in many styles. Broken
chords he uses with distinction, so that the individual notes seem
not only harmonic but melodic in their function. In him, more than in
previous song writers, polyphony (deriving from his familiarity with
Bach) plays a prominent part. He is a master in the use of delicate
dissonance, and in some ways the poetry of his accompaniments looks
forward to the ‘atmospheric’ effects of what we loosely term the
‘impressionistic school.’ He does not strike the heights or depths of
emotion, but his music at times is as moving as any in song literature.
Above all, he stands for the perfect and intimate union of text and
music, in a more subtle way than was accomplished either by Schubert or
Schumann.

Mendelssohn wrote many songs during his days of fame, which had a
popularity far outshining that of the songs we have been speaking
of. They sold in great abundance, especially in England, and fetched
extraordinary prices from publishers. But by this time they have sunk
pretty nearly into oblivion. They are polished, as all his work is,
and have the quality of instantly pleasing a hearer who doesn’t care
to listen too hard. Needless to say, their musicianship is above
reproach. But their melody, while graceful, is undistinguished, and
their emotional message is superficial.

Chopin, however, composed a little book of Polish songs which deserves
to be immortal. They purported to be arrangements of Polish melodies
together with original songs in the same spirit. As a matter of fact,
they are probably almost altogether Chopin’s work. In them we find the
highest refinement of melodic contour, and an exotic poetry in the
accompaniments such as none but Chopin, at the time, could write. ‘The
Maiden’s Wish’ is perhaps the only one familiar to the general public,
and that chiefly through Liszt’s piano arrangement of it. But among the
others there are some of the first rank, particularly the ‘Baccanale,’
‘My Delights,’ and ‘Poland’s Dirge.’

In the intervals of his busy life Liszt managed to pen some sixty
or more _Lieder_, of which a large proportion are of high quality.
They suffer less than the other classes of his compositions from the
intrusion of banality and gallery play. In them Liszt is never the
poet of delicate emotion, but certain things he did better than either
Schubert or Schumann. The high heroism, often mock, which we feel in
his orchestral writing is here, too. He had command of large design; he
could paint the splendid emotion. His ballads are, on the whole, among
the best we have. In his setting of Uhland’s ‘The Ancestral Tomb,’ he
caught the mysterious aura of ancient balladry as few others have. When
there is a picture to be described Liszt always has a musical phrase
that suits the image. And in a few instances, as in his settings of
_Der du von dem Himmel bist_ and _Du bist wie eine Blume_, he achieved
the lyric at its least common denominator--the utmost simplicity of
sentiment expressed by the utmost simplicity of musical phrase. It was
a feat he rarely repeated. For in these songs he painted not only the
picture, but also the emotion. In Mignon’s song, ‘Know’st thou the
Land?’ he has put into a single phrase the very breath of homesickness.
His setting of ‘The Loreley’ has already been mentioned. It could
hardly be finer in its style. The preliminary musing of the poet, the
quivering of a dimly remembered song, the flow of the Rhine, the song
of the Loreley, the sinking of the ship, are all described. Still finer
is ‘The King of Thule,’ which, with all its elaboration of detail,
keeps to the sense of archaic simplicity that is in Goethe’s poem. In
his settings of Victor Hugo, Liszt was as appropriate as with Goethe,
and we find in them all the transparency of technique and the delicacy
of sentiment that distinguishes French verse. In all these songs Liszt
uses the utmost freedom of declamation in the voice part, with fine
regard for the integrity of the text.

H. K. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] W. J. Henderson: ‘Songs and Song Writers,’ pp. 182 ff.

[89] Carl Friedrich Zelter, b. Petzow-Werder on the Havel, 1758; d.
Berlin, 1832.

[90] Johann Rudolph Zumsteeg, b. Sachsenflur (Odenwald), 1760; d.
Stuttgart, 1802.

[91] In 1796 at Löbejün, near Köthen. He was educated in Halle,
patronized by King Jerome of Westphalia, Napoleon’s brother, and later
became municipal musical director at Stettin. He died in Kiel, 1869.

[92] Originally his name was Knauth, but his father changed it by royal
consent to Franz. He was born in Halle in 1815 and died there in 1892.
He became organist, choral conductor, and university musical director
in his native city. An assiduous student of Bach and of Handel, his
townsman, he combined a contrapuntal style with Schumannesque sentiment
in his songs, of which there appeared 350, besides some choral works.
His critical editions of Bach and Handel works are of great value.
Almost total deafness cut short Franz’s professional activity.

CHAPTER VIII
PIANOFORTE AND CHAMBER MUSIC OF THE ROMANTIC PERIOD

Development of the modern pianoforte--The pioneers: Schubert and
Weber--Schumann and Mendelssohn--Chopin and others--Franz Liszt,
virtuoso and poet--Chamber music of the romantic period; Ludwig Spohr
and others.

The striking difference between the pianoforte music of the nineteenth
century and that of the eighteenth is, of course, not an accident. That
of the eighteenth is in most cases not properly piano music at all,
since it was composed specifically for the clavichord or harpsichord,
which have little beyond the familiar keyboard in common with the
modern pianoforte. Both classes of instruments were known and in use
throughout the greater part of the eighteenth century, and the date
1800 may be taken as that at which the pianoforte displaced its rivals.
Much of the old harpsichord music is played to-day on the piano (as,
for instance, Bach’s preludes and fugues), but the structure of the
music is very different, and the effect on the piano gives no idea of
the effect as originally intended.

The most superficial glance shows eloquently the difference between
the two sorts of keyboard music. That of the nineteenth century
differs from its predecessor in its emphasis on long sustained
‘singing’ melody, in its greater range, in its reliance on special tone
qualities, in being (to a great extent) melodic instead of polyphonic,
in wide skips and separation of notes, and, above all, in its use of
sustained chords. Leaving aside the specific tendencies of the romantic
period, all these differences can be explained by the difference in the
instruments for which the two sorts of music were written.

The clavichord was a very simple instrument of keys and strings. The
length of the vibrating string (which determines its pitch) was set, at
the stroke which set it in vibration, by a metal ‘tangent’ on the end
of the key lever, being at once the hammer and the fret of the string.
The stroke was slight, the tone was extremely soft. The vibration
continued only a few seconds and was so slight that anything like
the ‘singing tone’ of the pianoforte was impossible. But within the
duration of a single note the player, by a rapid upward and downward
movement of the wrist which varied the pressure on the key, could
produce a wavering tone similar to the vibrato of the human voice and
the violin, which gave a faint but live warmth to the tone, unhappily
wholly lacking in the tone of the pianoforte. It was doubtless this
peculiar ‘live’ expressiveness which made the instrument a favorite of
the great Bach, and which, moreover, justifies the player in making
the utmost possible variety of tone in playing Bach’s clavier works on
the modern instrument. The sound of the instrument was something like
that of an æolian harp, and was therefore quite unsuited to the concert
hall. But it was of a sympathetic quality that made it a favorite for
small rooms, and much loved by composers for their private musings.

The harpsichord was the concert piano, so to speak, of the time.
Its strings were plucked by means of a short quill, and a damper
automatically deadened the tone an instant afterwards. The instrument
was therefore quite incapable of sustained melody, or of gradations of
volume, except with the use of stops, which on the best instruments
could bring new sets of strings into play. Its tone was sharp and
mechanical, not very unlike that of a mandolin.

Now what the modern pianoforte possesses (apart from its greater range
and resonance) is chiefly ability to control the power of the tone by
force or lightness of touch, and to sustain individual notes, by means
of holding down the key, or all of them together through the use of
the sustaining pedal. Theoretically, the clavichord could both control
power and sustain notes, but the tone was so slight that these virtues
were of little practical use. The ground principle of the pianoforte is
its rebounding hammer, which strikes the string with any desired power
and immediately rebounds so as to permit it to continue vibrating. Each
string is provided with its damper, which is held away from it as long
as the key is pressed down. The sustaining or damper pedal removes
all the dampers from the strings, so that any notes which are struck
will continue vibrating. The one thing which the piano cannot do is
to control the tone after it is struck. By great care in the use of
materials piano makers have been able to produce a tone which continues
vibrating with great purity and persistence, but this inevitably dies
out as the vibrations become diminished in amplitude. The ‘legato’ of
the pianoforte is only a second best, and is rather an aural illusion
than a fact. Any increasing of the tone, as with the violin, is quite
impossible. Any true sustaining of the tone is equally impossible, but,
by skillful writing and playing, the illusion of a legato tone can be
well maintained and a far greater beauty and variety of effect can be
reached than one might think possible from a mechanical examination of
the instrument.

Before 1770 (the date of Beethoven’s birth) clavier music existed only
for the clavichord and the harpsichord, though it could also be played
on the pianoforte. Beethoven grew up with the maturing pianoforte. By
the time he had reached his artistic maturity (in 1800) it had driven
its rivals from the field. Up to 1792 all Beethoven’s compositions were
equally adapted to the piano and the harpsichord. Up to 1803 they were
published for pianoforte _or_ harpsichord, though it is probable that
in the preceding decade he had written most of his clavier music with
the pianoforte in mind.

The earliest pianoforte (made in the first two decades of the
eighteenth century) had a compass of four and a half octaves, a little
more than that of the ordinary clavichord. The pianoforte of Mozart’s
time had five octaves, and Clementi added half an octave in 1793. By
1811 six and a half octaves had been reached, and in 1836 (about the
time of the publication of Liszt’s first compositions, barring the
youthful Études) there were seven, or seven and one-third, which have
remained the standard ever since. During all this time piano makers
had been endeavoring to increase the rigidity of the piano frame. This
was partly to take care of the greater size due to the adding of bass
strings, but chiefly to permit of greater tension. The quality and
persistency of the vibration depends to a great extent on the tension
of the strings. Other things being equal, the excellence of the tone
increases (up to a certain limit) with the tension. This led gradually
to the introduction of iron supports, and later to a solid cast iron
or steel frame, though up to 1820 only wood was used in the body of
the pianoforte, until the tension became so great and the pitch so
high (for the sake of tonal brilliancy) that the wooden frame proved
incapable of sustaining the strain. The average tension on each string
is, in the modern piano, some one hundred and seventy-five pounds, and
was up to recent times much higher. The present Steinway concert grand
suffers a strain of more than twenty tons, and, under the higher pitch
of former years, had to stand thirty. The weight of the instrument
itself is half a ton.

These improvements have made the piano second only to the orchestra for
all around usefulness and expressiveness. The size of the instrument
and the high tension of the strings made its tone sufficient for the
largest concert hall, and permitted a keyboard range almost double that
of the harpsichord. The individual dampers responsive to the pressure
of the key made a quasi-legato and true melody playing possible.
The rebounding hammer directly controlled by the key made possible
all varieties of soft and loud tone. And the sustaining or damper,
incorrectly called the loud pedal, made possible the sustaining of
chords in great richness. The usefulness of this last device is still
not half stated in saying that chords can be sustained; for, when all
the strings are left open, there occurs a sympathetic vibration in the
strings which are not struck by the hammers but are in tune with the
overtones of the strings that are struck. This fact increases to an
astonishing extent the resonance and sonority of any chords sounded
with the help of the sustaining pedal. It makes the instrument almost
orchestral in quality, opening to it an amazing range and variety of
effect which Chopin, Liszt, and many piano writers after them, used
with supreme and magical skill. The soft pedal opens another range of
effects. On the grand piano it shifts the hammers so that they hit but
one of the three strings proper to each note in the middle and upper
registers. Hence the direction _una corda_, written in the pianoforte
works of all great masters, including Beethoven.

The piano thus became an ideal sounding board for the romantic
movement. It was capable of luscious expressive melody. It could
obtain effects of great delicacy and intimate character. It could be
loud, astonishing and orchestral. Its tone was in itself a thing of
sensuous beauty. Its freedom in harmony was no less than its freedom
in melody, and enharmonic changes, beloved of all the romanticists,
became easy. It allowed the greatest liberty in the disposition of
notes, and harmonic accompaniment, with broken chords and arpeggios,
could take on an absolute beauty of its own. This sufficiently explains
the complete change in the method of writing clavier music in the
nineteenth century. One example of the way in which Mozart and Chopin
obtained harmonic sonority in accompaniments will show how far-reaching
the change was.

[Illustration: Music score: Mozart: Sonata in F major]

[Illustration: Music score: Chopin: Nocturne Op. 27, No. 2]

By the use of the damper pedal the Chopin formula gives the effect of
a sustained chord. On the harpsichord it would have sounded like a few
notes too widely scattered to be united in sonority.

With such an instrument every style of music became possible. Liszt
asserted that he could reproduce any orchestral effect on it, and
many of the best orchestral works of his time became generally known
first through his pianoforte arrangements of them. Equally possible
were the simple song-like melodies of some of Chopin’s preludes, or
the whimsical genre pieces of Schumann. As a consequence the wonderful
piano literature of the nineteenth century is equal to any music in
range, power, and emotional expressiveness.

Nearly all the qualities of romantic music find their beginnings in
Beethoven. But it is not always easy to disentangle the romantic from
the classical element in his music, and for convenience we begin
the history of the romantic period with Schubert and Weber. For
the specific and conscious tendencies of romanticism first showed
themselves in the fondness for smaller free pianoforte forms, which
Beethoven cultivated not at all, if we omit his historically negligible
_Für Elise_ and one or two other pieces of the same sort. Beethoven’s
later sonatas, while romantic in their breaking through the classic
form and seeking a more intense emotional expression, are rather the
prophets of romanticism than its ancestors.

When Schubert dared to write lovely pieces without any reference to
traditional forms he began the history of romantic piano music. This
he did in his lovely Impromptus, opus 90, and the famous _Moments
musicals_, both published in the year of his death, 1828. The
Impromptus were not so named by the composer, but the title can well
stand. They are essentially improvisations at the piano. They were
written not to suit any form, nor to try any technical task, but simply
because the composer became fascinated with his musical idea and
wanted to work it out, which is true (theoretically at least) of all
romantic music. In the very first of the Impromptus, that in C minor,
we can almost see Schubert running his fingers over his piano, timidly
experimenting with the discovery of a new tune, his childlike delight
at finding it a beautiful one, and his pleasure in lingering over
lovely cadences and enharmonic changes, or in working out new forms for
his melody. The very first note--the octave G struck fortissimo--is
a note for the pianoforte and not for clavichord or harpsichord.
For it is held, and with the damper pedal pressed down, so that the
other strings may join in the symphony in sympathetic vibration. And
throughout the piece this G seems to sound magically as the dominant
around which the whole harmony centres as toward a magnet. In other
words, we are meeting in this first Impromptu our old Romantic friend,
sensuous tone. The pleasure which Schubert takes in repeating the G,
either by inference or in fact, or in swelling his chords by the use
of the pedal, or in drawing out melodic cadences, or in coaxing out
the reverberating tones of the bass, or in letting his melodic tone
sound as though from the human voice--this, we might almost say, marks
the discovery of the pianoforte by the nineteenth century. And it is
equally romanticism’s growing realization of itself.

All the impromptus are of great beauty, and all are unmistakably of
Schubert. They have the fault of improvisations in that they are
too long, but if one is in a leisurely mood to receive them, they
never become a bore. The _Moments musicals_ are still more typical
of Schubert’s genius--some of them short, ending suddenly almost
before the hearer is aware that they have begun, but leaving behind a
definite, clear-cut impression like a cameo. They are the ancestors of
all the genre pieces of later times. Each of them might have a fanciful
name attached, and each has the directness of genius. Schubert’s
sonatas are important only in their possession of the qualities of
the Impromptus and _Moments musicals_. They are filled with beauties,
but as sonatas--as representatives of classical organization and
logic--they are negligible. Schubert cannot resist the charm of a
lovely melody, and, when he finds one, the claims of form retire into
the background. Certain individual movements are of high excellence,
but played consecutively they are uneven. The ‘Fantasia’ in C minor
(containing one of the themes from Schubert’s song, ‘The Wanderer,’)
is a fine imaginative and technical work, but its freedom of form is
of no historical importance, as Mozart wrote a long fantasia in C that
was even more daring. The dances, likewise, have no significance in
point of form, being written altogether after the usual manner of the
day (they were, in fact, mostly pot boilers), but they contain at times
such appealing beauty that they helped to dignify the dance as a type
of concert piano music. The ability to create the highest beauty _in
parvo_ is distinctive of the romantic movement, and Schubert’s dances
and marches have stimulated many another composer to simplicity of
expression. The influence of them is evident in the _Carnaval_ and the
_Davidsbündler Tänze_ of Schumann. Liszt elaborated them and strung
several together for concert use, and the waltzes of Brahms, who, more
perhaps than any other, admired Schubert and profited by him, are
derived directly from those of Schubert.

Liszt may be quoted once more, in his rhetorical style, but with his
sympathetic understanding that never misses the mark: ‘Our pianists,’
he says, ‘hardly realize what a noble treasure is to be found in the
clavier music of Schubert. The most of them play him through _en
passant_, notice here and there repetitions and retards--and then lay
them aside. It is true that Schubert himself is partly responsible for
the infrequent performance of his best works. He was too unconsciously
productive, wrote ceaselessly, mingling the trivial and the important,
the excellent and the mediocre, paying no heed to criticism and
giving his wilfullness full swing. He lived in his music as the birds
live in the air and sang as the angels sing--oh, restlessly creative
genius! Oh, faithful hero of my youthful heaven! Harmony, freshness,
power, sympathy, dreaminess, passion, gentleness, tears, and flames
stream from the depths and heights of your soul, and in the magic
of your humanity you almost allow us to forget the greatness of your
mastership!’

Along with Schubert, Weber stands as the progenitor of the modern
pianoforte style. (The comparative claims of the two can never be
evaluated.) Here, again, it was Liszt who chiefly made the importance
of the man known to the world. He took loving pains in the editing
of Weber’s piano works late in his life, and, with conscientious
concern for the composer’s intention, wrote out amplified paraphrases
of many of the passages to make them more effective in performance.
The absolute value of these works, especially the sonatas, is much
disputed. It is customary to call them structurally weak, and at
least reputable to call them indifferent in invention. Yet we are
constantly being reminded in them that their author was a genius,
and the genius who composed _Der Freischütz_. Certainly they deserve
more frequent performance. As sonatas, they are, on the whole, more
brilliant and more adequate than Schubert’s. Single movements, such
as the andante of the A flat sonata, opus 39, can stand beside
Beethoven in emotional dignity and tender beauty. But, whatever is
the absolute musical value of these works, they are an advance on
Beethoven in one particular, the quality which the Germans describe
with the word _klaviermässig_--suited to the piano. For Beethoven,
with all the daring of his later sonatas, got completely away from the
harpsichord method of writing only to write for piano in orchestral
style. He never began to exhaust the qualities of the pianoforte which
are distinctive of the instrument. Weber’s writing is more for the
pianoforte. Especially Weber enriched piano literature with dramatic
pathos and romantic tone coloring, with vigorous harmony and expressive
song-like melody. The famous ‘Invitation to the Dance’ shows him at his
best, giving full play to his love of the simple and folk-like tune,
separating the hands and the fingers, and slashing brilliant streaks
of light and shade in the piano keyboard. The famous _Konzertstück_, a
great favorite of Liszt, and the concerto, once the rival in popularity
of Chopin’s, are rapidly slipping back into the gloom of a forgotten
style. As show pieces they pointed the way to further development
of pianoforte technique; but that which made them brilliant is now
commonplace, the stock in trade of even third-rate pianists; and the
genuine emotional warmth which has made much of Schubert’s pianoforte
works immortal is absent in these _tours de force_ of Weber.

Historically Schubert leads the way to the piano style of Schumann, and
Weber to that of Liszt, and both in company to the great achievements
of the romantic period. But their style is a long way from modern
pianoforte style--much more closely related to Beethoven than to
Chopin. The dependence on the damper pedal for harmonic effects, the
extreme separation of the notes of a broken chord, the striving for
excessive power by means of sympathetic vibrations of the strings, and,
in general, the _pointillage_ use of notes as spots of color in the
musical picture, are only in germ in their works. The chorale method
of building up harmonies by closely adjacent notes still continues to
the detriment of the best pianistic effect. But in the work of the
composers immediately following we find the qualities of the piano
developed almost to the limit of possible effect.

III

Keyboard music now tended more and more away from the old chorale and
polyphonic style, in which eighteenth century music was ‘thought,’
toward a style which could take its rise from a keyed instrument
with pedals. Weber and Schubert achieved only at times this complete
freedom in their clavier music. It remained for Schumann, Liszt, and
Chopin to reveal the peculiar richness of the piano. Their styles are
widely differentiated, yet all truly pianistic and supplementary one
to the other. The differences can be derived from the personalities
and the outward lives of the three men. Schumann was the unrestrained
enthusiast, who was prevented by an accident from becoming a practising
virtuoso and was obliged to do his work in his work-room and his
inner consciousness. Liszt was, above all, the man of the world, the
man who loved to dominate people by his art and understood supremely
well how to do it. Chopin was by nature too sensitive ever to be a
public virtuoso; he reflected the Paris of the thirties in terms of
the individual soul where Liszt reflected it in terms of the crowd.
Each of them loved his piano ‘as an Arab his steed,’ in Liszt’s words.
Hence Schumann’s music, while supremely pianistic, has little concern
for outward effect, and was, in point of fact, slow in winning wide
popularity. With an influential magazine and a virtuoso wife to preach
and practise his music in the public ear, Schumann nevertheless had to
see the more facile Mendelssohn win all the fame and outward success.
Schumann’s reputation was for many years an ‘underground’ one. But
he was too much a Romantic enthusiast to make any concessions to the
superficial taste of the concert hall or drawing room, and continued
writing music which sounded badly unless it was very well played, and
even then rather austerely separated the sheep from the goats among its
hearers. Schumann is, above all, the pianists’ pianist. The musical
value and charm of his works is inextricably interwoven with the
executant’s delight in mastering it.

Liszt is, of course, no less the technician than Schumann--in fact,
much more completely the technician in his earlier years. But his
was less the technique of pleasing the performer than of pleasing
the audience. With a wizardry that has never been surpassed he hit
upon those resources of the piano which would dazzle and overpower.
Very frequently he adopts the too easy method of getting his effect,
the crashing repeated chord and the superficial fireworks. None of
Schumann’s technical difficulties are without their absolute musical
value; all of Liszt’s, whether they convey the highest poetry or the
utmost banality, are directed toward the applause of the crowd.

Chopin is much more than the elegant salon pianist, which is the part
of him that most frequently conditions his external form. He was the
sensitive harpstring of his time, translating all its outward passions
into terms of the inward emotions. Where Schumann had fancy Chopin had
sentiment or emotion. Chopin had little of Schumann’s vivid interest
in experimenting in pianistic resources for their own sake. Even his
Études are so preëminently musical, and have so little relation to a
pianistic method, that they show little technical enthusiasm in the
man. Chopin was interested in the technical possibilities of the piano
only as a means of expressing his abounding sentiments and emotions.
It is because he has so much to express and such a great variety of
it that his music is of highest importance in the history of piano
technique, and is probably the most subtly difficult of all pianoforte
music. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that there are twenty
pianists who can play the Liszt studies to one who can play those of
Chopin. The technical demands he makes upon his instrument are always
just enough to present his musical message and no more. Though he was
utterly and solely of the piano (as neither Schumann nor Liszt was) he
had neither the executant nor the public specifically in mind when he
composed.

Schumann’s first twenty-six published works (covering \ most of the
decade from 1830 to 1840) were almost exclusively for the piano. From
the beginning he showed his instinct for its technical possibilities.
Opus 1, published in November, 1831, was a set of variations, the theme
being the musical ‘spelling’ of the name of a woman friend of his, the
‘Countess Abegg,’ perhaps as much a product of the imagination as was
the music itself. The variations show the crudities of dilettantism, as
well as its enthusiasm and courage. They were far from being the formal
mechanical variations of classical clavier music. No change of the
theme but has a musical and expressive beauty apart from its technical
ingenuity. Especially they reveal a vivid sense of what the piano could
do as distinguished from what the clavichord or harpsichord could do.
Much better was opus 2, the _Papillons_, or ‘Butterflies,’ which is
still popular on concert programs. All that is typical of Schumann the
pianist is to be found in some measure in this opus 2. For, besides the
vivid joy they reveal in experimentation with pianistic effects, there
is the fact that they came, by way of Schumann’s colorful imagination,
out of literature. Here was romanticism going full tilt. From his
earliest years Schumann had adored his Jean Paul. He had equally adored
his piano. When he read the one he heard the other echoing. This was
precisely the origin of the _Papillons_, as Schumann confessed in
letters to his friends. The various dances of opus 2 are the portions
of the masked dance of the conclusion of Jean Paul’s _Flegeljahre_--not
as program music, nor even as pictorial music, but in the vaguest
way the creation of the sensitive musician under the stimulus of
literature. Schumann attached no especial value to the fanciful titles
which he gave much of his piano music; in his later revisions of it he
usually withdrew them altogether. He always insisted that the music and
not the literature was the important thing in his music. The names
which betitle his music were often afterthoughts. They were nearly
always given in a playful spirit. The literary music of Schumann is not
in the least music which expresses literature, but only music written
by a sensitive musician under the creative stimulus of literature.

The ‘Butterflies’ of opus 2 (_Papillons_) are by no means the
flittering, showy butterflies common to salons of that day. They are
free and fanciful dances, rich in harmonic and technical device, and
rich especially in buoyant high spirits. The canons, the free melodic
counterpoint, the recurrence of passages to give unity to the series,
the broken or rolling chords, the spicy rhythmical devices, the
blending of voices in a manner quite different from the polyphonic
style of old, and the use of single anticipatory or suspended notes for
changes of key--these gave evidence of what was to be the nature of
Schumann’s contribution to piano literature.

From now on until 1839, when Schumann began to be absorbed in song
writing, there appeared at leisurely intervals piano works from his
study, few of which are anything short of creations of genius. In the
Intermezzi his technical preoccupations were given fuller play; in
the _Davidsbündler Tänze_ our old friends ‘Florestan,’ ‘Eusebius,’
and ‘Meister Raro’ contribute pieces in their own special vein, all
directed to the good cause of ‘making war on the Philistines’--in
other words, asserting the claims of lovely music against those of
mechanical music, and of technically scholarly music against those of
sentimental salon music. Following this work came the Toccata, one of
Schumann’s earliest serious works later revised--an amazing achievement
in point of technical virtuosity, based on a deep knowledge of Bach and
polyphonic procedure, yet revealing the new Schumann in every bar. It
proved that the young revolutionist who was emphasizing musical beauty
over musical learning was not doing so because he was technically
unequipped.

He now wrote the _Carnaval_, perhaps the most popular of Schumann’s
piano works, with Schumann’s friends, including Clara Wieck, Chopin,
and Paganini, appearing among the ‘musical pictures.’ Schumann’s humor
is growing more noisy, for in the last movement the whole group join
in an abusive ‘march against the Philistines,’ to the tune of the
old folk-song, ‘When Grandfather Married Grandmother.’ Why should an
avowed revolutionist take as his patron theme a song which praises the
good old times ‘when people knew naught of Ma’m’selle and Madame,’ and
deprecates change? But the romanticists, especially of Schumann’s type,
prided themselves on nothing more than their historical sense and their
kinship with the past--especially the German past.

Next came more ambitious piano works, and interspersed among them the
_Phantasiestücke_ (‘Fantasy Pieces’), containing some of Schumann’s
most characteristic numbers, and the brilliant ‘Symphonic Études,’
masterpieces one and all. And still later the ‘Novelettes,’ the
_Faschingsswank_, the well-known ‘Scenes from Childhood,’ and the
_Kreisleriana_. This group Schumann felt to be his finest work. It
was taken, like the _Papillons_, from literature, this time E. T. A.
Hoffmann’s tales of the eccentric Kapellmeister Kreisler.

It is worth while to recall Hoffmann’s story, as an example of the
sort of literature to which Schumann responded musically. In Dr. Bie’s
words:[93] ‘The garden into which the author leads us is full of tone
and song. The stranger comes up to the young squire and tells him of
many distant and unknown lands, and strange men and animals; and his
speech dies away into a wonderful tone, in which he expresses unknown
and mysterious things, intelligibly, yet without words. But the castle
maiden follows his enticements, and they meet every midnight at the
old tree, none venturing to approach too near the strange melodies
that sound therefrom. Then the castle maiden lies pierced through
under the tree, and the lute is broken, but from her blood grow mosses
of wonderful color over the stone, and the young Chrysostom hears
the nightingale, which thereafter makes its nest and sings its song
in the tree. At home his father is accompanying his old songs on the
clavicymbal, and songs, mosses, and castle maiden are all fused in his
mind into one. In the garden of tone and song all sorts of internal
melodies rise in his heart, and the murmur of the words gives them
their breath. He tries to set them to the clavier, but they refuse to
come forth from their hiding places. He closes the instrument, and
listens to see whether the songs will not now sound forth more clearly
and brightly; for “I knew well that the tones must dwell there as if
enchanted.” Out of a world like this floated all sorts of compositions
in Schumann’s mind.... A thousand threads run from all sides into this
intimate web in which the whole lyrical devotion of a musical soul
is interwoven. The piano is the orchestra of the heart. The joys and
sorrows which are expressed in these pieces were never put into form
with more sovereign power. For the external form Bach gave the impulse;
for the content, Hoffmann. The garlanded roses of the middle section
of No. 1, the shimmering blossoms of the ‘inverted’ passage in the
_Langsamer_ of No. 2, the immeasurable depth of the emotions in the
slow pieces (4 and 6), the bass unfettered by accent, in the last bars
of No. 8, leading down to final whisperings, all are among the happiest
of inspirations.’

It will be noticed that most of the piano works of Schumann which
we have mentioned are series of short pieces. Some of the series,
notably the _Papillons_, the _Carnaval_, and _Kreisleriana_, are
held loosely together by a literary idea. The twenty little pieces
which constitute the _Carnaval_ have, moreover, an actual relation
to each other, in that all of them contain much the same melodic
intervals. Three typical sequences of intervals, which Schumann called
‘Sphinxes,’ are the groundwork of the _Carnaval_, but very subtly
disguised. That _Pierrot_, _Arlequin_, the _Valse Noble_, _Florestan_,
and _Papillons_ are thus closely related is likely to escape even the
careful listener; and these are perhaps the clearest examples. But
this device of ‘Sphinxes,’ and other devices for uniting a long series
of short pieces, really accomplish Schumann’s purpose. On the other
hand, they never give to the works in question the broad design and
the epic continuity of the classical sonata at its best. The Beethoven
sonatas opus 101 and 110, for example, are carved out of one piece.
The Schumann cycles are many jewels exquisitely matched and strung
together. The skill in so putting them together was peculiarly his, and
is the more striking in that each little piece is separately perfect.

In general, it may be said that Schumann was at his best when working
on this plan. The power over large forms came to him only later, after
most of his pianoforte music had been written. The two sonatas, one
in F sharp and one in G minor, both belong to the early period; and
both, in spite of most beautiful passages, are, from the standpoint of
artistic perfection, unsatisfactory. In neither are form and content
properly matched. Exception must be made, however, for the Fantasia in
C major, opus 17. Here, what was uncertainty or insincerity becomes an
heroic freedom by the depth of ideas and the power of imagination which
so found expression. The result is a work of immeasurable grandeur,
unique in pianoforte literature.

After his marriage to Clara Wieck Schumann gave most of his attention
to music for voice and for orchestra. In this later life belongs the
concerto for piano and orchestra. No large concert piece in all piano
literature is more truly musical and less factitious; no large work of
any period in the history of music shows more economy in the use of
musical material and means. In it Schumann is as completely sincere as
in his smaller pieces, and, in addition, reveals what came more into
view in his later years--the fine reserve and even classic sense of
fitness in the man.

Mendelssohn as piano composer is universally known by his ‘Songs
Without Words,’ a title which he invented in accordance with the
fashion of the time. Like all the rest of his music, these pieces
are less highly regarded now than a few decades ago. Modern music
has passed far beyond the romanticism of the first half of the last
century, and the ‘Songs Without Words,’ with all their occasional
charm, have no one quality in sufficient proportion to make them
historical landmarks. They are never heard on concert programs; their
chief use is still in the instruction of children. Their finish and
fluidity would not plead very strongly for them if it were not for
the occasional beauty of their melodies. They remain chiefly as an
indication of the better dilettante taste of the time. And, as Mr.
Krehbiel has pointed out,[94] we should give generous credit to the
music which was engagingly simple and honest in a time when the taste
was all for superficial brilliance.

But Mendelssohn as a writer for the pianoforte is at his best in the
Scherzos, the so-called ‘Elf’ or ‘Kobold’ pieces, a type in which he
is in his happiest and freshest mood. One of these is a ‘Battle of
the Mice,’ ‘with tiny fanfares and dances, all kinds of squeaks, and
runnings to and fro of a captivating grace.’ Another is the well-known
‘Rondo Capriccioso,’ one of his best. In these ‘fairy pieces’
Mendelssohn derives directly from Schubert and the _Moments musicaux_.
In the heavier pianoforte forms Mendelssohn had great vogue in his day,
and Berlioz tells jestingly how the pianos at the Conservatory started
to play the Concerto in G minor at the very approach of a pupil,
and how the hammers continued to jump even after the instrument was
demolished.

The quality of the musical taste which Chopin and in part Liszt were
combatting is forcibly brought out in the ‘Recollections of the Life of
Moscheles,’ as quoted by Dr. Bie.[95] ‘The halls echo with jubilations
and applause,’ he says, ‘and the audiences, especially the easily
kindled Viennese, are enthusiastic in their cheers; and music has
become so popular and the compositions so banal that it seldom occurs
to them to condemn shallowness. The dilettantes push forward, the
circle of instruction widens the cheaper and better the pianos become.
They push themselves into rivalry with the artists, in great concerts.
From professional piano-playing--and they often played at two places
in an evening--the artists took recreation with the good temper which
never failed in those years. The great singer Malibran would sit down
to the piano and sing the “Rataplan” and the Spanish songs, to which
she would imitate the guitar on the keyboard. Then she would imitate
famous colleagues, and a Duchess greeting her, and a Lady So-and-so
singing “Home, Sweet Home” with the most cracked and nasal voice in the
world. Thalberg would then take his seat and play Viennese songs
and waltzes with “obbligato snaps.” Moscheles himself would play with
hand turned round, or with the fist, perhaps hiding the thumb under the
fist. In Moscheles’ peculiar way of playing the thumb used to take the
thirds under the palm of the hand.’

[Illustration: Frédéric Chopin]
_From a study by Delacroix_

The piano recital of modern times was then unknown. It was not until
1838 that Liszt dared give a recital without the assistance of other
artists, and it was not Liszt’s music so much as his overshadowing
personality that made the feat possible then. Chopin, coming to Paris
under excellent auspices, had little need to make a name for himself in
the concert hall under these conditions, and, as we may imagine, had
still less zest for it. He was chiefly in demand to play at private
parties and aristocratic salons, where he frequently enough, no doubt,
met with stupidity and lack of understanding, but where, at least, he
was spared the noisy vulgarity of a musical vaudeville. Taking the best
from his friends, and selecting the excellent from the atmosphere of
the salons which he adorned, Chopin went on composing, living a life
which offers little color to the biographer. By the time he had reached
Paris in 1831 he had several masterpieces tucked away in his portfolio,
but, though perfectly polished, they are of his weaker sentimental
style. The more powerful Chopin, the Chopin of the polonaises, the
ballades, the scherzos, and some of the preludes, was perhaps partly
the result of the intimacy with George Sand, whose personality was of
the domineering, masculine sort. But more probably it was just the
development of an extraordinarily sensitive personality. At any rate,
it was not long after his arrival in Paris that Chopin’s creative power
had reached full vigor.

After that the chronology of the pieces counts for little. They can
be examined by classes, and not by opus numbers, except for the
posthumous pieces (following opus 65), which were withheld from
publication during the composer’s life by his own wish, and were meant
by him to be burned. They are, in almost every case, inferior to the
works published during his lifetime. The works, grouped together, may
be summed up as follows: over fifty mazurkas, fifteen waltzes, nearly
as many polonaises, and certain other dances; nineteen nocturnes,
twenty-five preludes, twenty-seven études, four ballades, four
scherzos, five rondos, three impromptus, a berceuse, a barcarolle,
three fantasias, three variations, four sonatas, two piano concertos,
and a trio for piano and strings. All his works, then, except the
Polish songs mentioned in the last chapter, are written primarily for
the piano, a few having other instruments in combination or orchestral
accompaniment, but the vast majority for piano alone.

The dances are highly variable in quality. Of the many mazurkas, some
are almost negligible, while a few reveal Chopin’s use of the Polish
folk-manner in high perfection. They are not a persistent part of
modern concert programs. The waltzes, on the other hand, cannot be
escaped; they are with us at every turn in modern life. Theorists
have had fine battles over their musical value; some find in them the
most perfect art of Chopin, and others regard them as mere glorified,
superficial salon pieces. Certainly they concede more to mere outward
display than do most of his compositions, and the themes sometimes
border on the trivial. The posthumous waltzes are like Schubert’s in
that they are apt to be thin in style with occasional rare beauties
interspersed. Of the remaining waltzes, the most pretentious, such
as the two in A flat, are extremely brilliant in design, offering to
the executant, besides full opportunity for the display of dexterity,
innumerable chances for nuance of effect (which are, of course,
frequently abused, so that the dances become disjointed and specious
caricatures of music). The waltz in A minor is far finer, containing
the true emotional Chopin, by no means undignified in the dance form.
No less fine is the hackneyed C-sharp minor waltz, in which the
opportunities for legitimate refinement and variety of interpretation
are infinite. These waltzes retain little of the feeling of the dance,
despite the frequent buoyancy of their rhythm. Chopin was interested
in emotional expression and extreme refinement of style; it mattered
little to him by what name his piece might be called.

The Polonaises are a very different matter. Here we find a type of
heroic expression which Liszt himself could not equal. The fine energy
of the ‘Military’ polonaise in A major is universally known. The sound
and fury of this piece is never cheap; it is the exuberant energy of
genius. Even greater, if possible, are the polonaises in F sharp minor
and in A flat major. No element in them falls below absolute genius.
All of Liszt’s heroics never evoked from the piano such superb power.
The sick and ‘pathological’ Chopin which is described to us in music
primers is here hardly to be found--only here and there a touch of
moody intensity, which is, however, never repressive. The Chopin of
the waltzes and nocturnes would have been a man of weak and morbid
refinement, all the more unhealthy because of his hypersensitive
finesse. But, when we have added thereto the Chopin of the Polonaises,
we have one of the two or three greatest, if not the very greatest,
emotional poet of music. The Polonaises will stand forever as a protest
against the supposition that Chopin’s soul was degenerate.

The traditional ‘sick’ Chopin is to be found _ipsissimus_ in the
Nocturnes, the most popular, with the waltzes, of his works. In such
ones as those in E flat or G the sentiment is that of a lad suffering
from puppy-love and gazing at the moon. From beginning to end there is
scarcely a bar which could correspond to the feelings of a physically
healthy man. Yet we must remember that this sort of sentiment was
quite in the fashion of the time. Byron had created of himself a myth
of introspective sorrow. Only a few decades before, the Werther of
Goethe’s novel, committing suicide in his suit of buff and blue, was
being imitated by love-sick swains among all the fashionable circles
which sought to do the correct thing. Chateaubriand and Jean Paul had
cast their morbid spell over fashionable society, and this spell was
not likely to pass away from the hectic Paris of the thirties while
there were such men as Byron and Heine to bind it afresh each year
with some fascinating book of verse. From such an influence a highly
sensitive man like Chopin could not be altogether free. There is
something in every artistic nature which can respond sympathetically
to the claims of the morbid, for the reason that the artist is a man
to feel a wide variety of the sensations that pertain to humanity. No
one of the great creative musicians of the time was quite free from
this morbid strain; in the sensitive, retiring Chopin it came out in
its most effeminate guise. But the point is, it did not represent the
whole of the man, nor necessarily any essential part of him. It was
the response of his nervous organism to certain of the influences to
which he was subject. Chopin may have been physiologically decadent or
psychologically morbid; it is hardly a question for musicians. But his
music, taken as a whole, does not prove a nature that was positively
unhealthy. Its persistent emphasis of sensuousness and emotion makes
it doubtless a somewhat unhealthy influence on the nerves of children;
but the same could be said of many of the phases of perfectly healthy
adult life. And, whatever may be the verdict concerning Chopin, we must
admire the manner in which he held his powerful emotional utterance
within the firm restraint of his aristocratic sense of fitness. If he
has sores, he never makes a vulgar display of them in public.

The Preludes have a bolder and profounder note. They are the
treasure-house of his many ideas which, though coming from the best of
his creative spirit, could not easily find a form or external purpose
for themselves. We may imagine that they are the selected best of his
improvisation on his own piano, late at night. Some of them, like the
prelude in D flat major (the so-called ‘raindrop’ prelude) he worked
out at length, with conscientious regard for form. Others, like that
in A major, were just melodies which were too beautiful to lose but
were seemingly complete just as they stood. The marvellous prelude in
C-sharp minor is the ultimate glorification of improvisation with all
the charm of willful fancy and aimlessness, and all the stimulation of
a sensitive taste which could not endure having a single note out of
place. The Preludes are complete and unique; a careful listener can
hear the whole twenty-six successively and retain a distinct impression
for each. This is the supreme test of style in a composer, and in sense
of style no greater composer than Chopin ever lived.

The Études deserve their name in that they are technically difficult
and that the performer who has mastered them has mastered a great deal
of the fine art of the pianoforte. But they are the farthest possible
from being études in the pedagogical sense. It is quite true that each
presents some particular technical difficulty in piano playing, but the
dominance of this technical feature springs rather from the composer’s
sense of style than from any pedagogical intent. Certainly these
pieces could not be more polished, or in most cases, more beautiful,
whatever their name and purpose. They may be as emotional as anything
of Chopin’s, as the ‘Revolutionary’ étude in C minor, which, tradition
says, was written in 1831 when the composer received news of the fall
of Warsaw before the invading Russians. The steady open arpeggio of
the bass is supposed to represent the rumble of conflict, and the
treble melody alternately the cries of rage of the combatants and the
prayers of the dying. But for the most part the Études are pure grace
and ‘pattern music,’ with always that morose or emotional under-current
which creeps into all Chopin’s music. The peculiar virtue of the
Études, apart from their interest for the technician, consists in their
exquisite grace and freedom combined with perfection of formal pattern.

In the miscellaneous group of larger compositions, which includes the
Ballades, the Scherzos, the Fantasias, the Sonatas, and the Concertos,
we find some of Chopin’s greatest musical thoughts. The Ballades are
the musical narration of some fanciful tale of love or adventure.
Chopin supplied no ‘program,’ and it is probable that he had none in
mind when he composed them. But they tease us out of thought, making
us supply our own stories for the musical narration. They have the
power of compelling the vision of long vistas of half-remembered
experiences--the very mood of high romance. The Scherzos show Chopin’s
genius playing in characteristic perfection. They are not the ‘fairy
scherzos’ of Mendelssohn, but vivid emotional experiences, and Schumann
could well say of the first, ‘How is gravity to clothe itself if jest
goes about in dark veils?’ Though they seem to be wholly free and
fantastical in form, they yet are related to the traditional scherzo,
not only in their triple rhythm, but in the general disposition of
musical material. Traces of the old two-part song form, in which most
of the scherzos of Beethoven were written, are evident, and also of the
third part, called the Trio. On the other hand, elaborate transitional
passages from one part back to another conceal or enrich the older,
simpler form, and in all four there is a coda of remarkable power and
fire. The Fantasia in B minor, long and intricate, is one of the most
profoundly moving of all Chopin’s works; it leaves the hearer panting
for breath, as though he had waked up from an experience which had
sapped the energy of his soul. As for the Sonatas and the Concertos,
Chopin’s detractors have tried to deny them any particular merit--or
any excellence except that of incidental beauties. The assertion will
hardly stand. Chopin’s strength was not in large-scale architecture,
nor in what we might call ‘formal form.’ But the sonatas and concertos
have a way of charming the hearer and freeing his imagination in spite
of faulty structure, and one sometimes feels that, had a few more
of them been written, they would have created the very standards of
form on which they are to be judged. The famous ‘Funeral March’ was
interpolated as a slow movement of the B flat minor sonata, with which
it is always heard. Liszt’s eulogy of this may seem vainly extravagant
to our materialistic time, but it represents exactly what happens to
any one foolish enough to try to put into words the emotions stirred up
by this wonderful piece.

Chopin, as we have said, played little in public. He said the public
scared him. When he did play people were wont to complain that he could
not be heard. They were used to the bombastic tone of Kalkbrenner.
Chopin might have remedied this defect and made a successful concert
performer out of himself, but his physical strength was always delicate
and his artistic conscience, moreover, unwilling to permit forcing or
grossness; so he continued to play too ‘softly.’ The explanation was
his delicate finger touch, coming entirely from the knuckles except
where detached chords were to be taken, when the wrists, of course,
came into play. Those who were so fortunate as really to _hear_
Chopin’s playing had ecstasies of delight over this pearly touch,
which made runs and florid decorations sound marvellously liquid
and flute-like. No other performer before the public could do this.
Chopin’s pupils were in this respect never more than pupils.

People complained, on hearing Chopin’s music played by others, that
it had no rhythm, that it was all _rubato_. The inaccuracy of this
was evident when Chopin played his own compositions. For the melody,
the ornament, of the right hand might be _rubato_ as it pleased, but
beneath it was a steady, almost mechanical operation of the left hand.
It was a part of Chopin’s conscious method, and it is said he used a
metronome in practising. The point is worth emphasizing because of the
way it illuminates Chopin’s fine sense of self-control and fitness.

No technical method was ever more accurately suited to its task than
Chopin’s. He grew up in the atmosphere of the piano, and ‘thought
piano’ when composing music. He then drew on this and that piano
resource until, by the time he had ended his short life, he had
revealed the greater part of its potential musical possibilities--and
always in what he had needed in the business of expressing his musical
thoughts. With him the piano became utterly freed from the last traces
of the tyranny of the polyphonic and chorale styles. But he supplied a
polyphony of his own, the strangest, eeriest thing imaginable. It was
the combination of two or three melodies, widely different and very
beautiful, sometimes with the harmonic accompaniment added, sometimes
with the harmony rising magically out of the counterpoint, but always
in a new manner that was utterly pianistic. Chopin carried to its
extreme the widely broken chord, as in the accompaniment to the major
section of the ‘Funeral March.’

But it was in the art of delicate figuration (borrowed in the first
place from Hummel) that Chopin was perhaps most himself. This, with
Chopin, can be contained within no formula, can be described by no
technical language. It was inexhaustible; it was eternally fluid, yet
eternally appropriate. It somehow fused the utmost propriety of mood
with the utmost grace of pattern. Even when it is most abundant, as in
the F sharp major nocturne, it never seems exaggerated or in bad taste.

Harmonically Chopin was an innovator, at times a radical one. Here,
again, he seemed to appropriate what he needed for the matter in hand,
and exhibit no experimental interest in what remained. His free changes
of key are graceful rather than sensuous, as with Schubert, and, when
the modulation grows out of quasi-extemporaneous embellishment, as
in the C sharp minor prelude, it melts with an ease that seems to
come quite from the world of Bach. The later mazurkas anticipate the
progressive harmonies of Wagner.

Much of his manner of playing, as well as the notion of the nocturne,
Chopin got from the Scotchman, Field, who had fascinated European
concert halls with his dreaming, quiet performance, and with the free
melody of the nocturne genre which he had invented. From Hummel, as we
have said, Chopin borrowed his embellishment, and from Cramer he chose
many of the fundamentals of pianistic style. From the Italians (Italian
opera included) he received his taste for long-drawn, succulent melody;
in the composer of ‘Norma’ we see a poor relation of the aristocratic
Pole. Thus from second and third-rate sources Chopin borrowed or took
what he needed. He was surrounded by first-rate men, but dominated
by none. He took what he wanted where he found it, but only what he
wanted. He was constantly selecting--and rejecting. Therein he was the
aristocrat.

This is the place to make mention of several writers for the piano
whose works were of importance in their day and occasionally to-day
appear upon concert programs. Stephen Heller,[96] slightly younger than
Chopin, and, unlike the Pole, blessed with a long life, wrote in the
light and graceful style which was much in vogue, yet generally with
sufficient selective sense to avoid the vapid. About the same can be
said for Adolph Henselt (1814-1889), whose étude, ‘If I Were a Bird,’
still haunts music conservatories. His vigorous concerto for piano
is also frequently played. William Sterndale Bennett, who, after his
student years in Leipzig, became Mendelssohn’s priest in England, wrote
four concertos, a fantasia with orchestra, a trio, and a sonata in F
minor. His work is impeccable in form, often fresh and charming in
content, but without radical energy of purpose--precisely Mendelssohn’s
list of qualities. Finally, we may mention Joachim Raff (1822-1882),
writer of a concerto and a suite, besides a number of smaller pieces
which show programmistic tendencies.

Liszt, the supreme virtuoso of the piano, is the Liszt who wrote about
three-fourths of the compositions which bear his name. The other
fourth, or perhaps a quarter share of the whole, comes from another
Liszt, a great poet, who could feel the values of whole nations as
Chopin could feel the values of individual souls. It is not a paradox
to say that Liszt was so utterly master of the piano that he was a
slave to it. With it he won a place for himself among counts and
princesses, storming a national capital with twenty-four concerts at
a single visit by way of variety between flirtations. Having so deeply
in his being the pianistic formulas for conquering, it was inevitable
that when he set out to do other tasks the pianistic formula conquered
him. So it is, at least, in much of his music, which, with all its
supreme pianistic skill, is sometimes pretty worthless music. Only,
apart from this Liszt of the piano, there always stood that other
Liszt--the one who, as he tells us in his book on gypsy music, slept in
the open fields with the gypsies, studied and noted their tunes, and
felt the great sweeps of nature as strongly as he felt the great sweeps
of history. Both Liszts must be kept in mind if we would understand his
piano works.

Liszt’s piano style was quite the opposite of Chopin’s. The Pole
played for a few intimate friends; the Hungarian played for a vast
auditorium. He had the sense of the crowd as few others have ever had
it. His dazzling sweeps of arpeggios, of diatonic and chromatic runs,
his thunderous chords, piling up on one another and repeated in violent
succession, his unbelievable rapidity of finger movement, his way of
having the whole seven octaves of the keyboard apparently under his
fingers at once--in short, his way of making the pianoforte seem to be
a whole orchestra--this was the Liszt who wrote the greater part of
what we are about to summarize briefly.

Liszt’s piano style was not born ready made. Although he captured Paris
as an infant prodigy when he first went there, he had an immense amount
of maturing and developing to do. ‘It is due in great measure to the
example of Paganini’s violin playing that Liszt at this time, with
slow, deliberate toil, created modern piano playing,’ says Dr. Bie.
‘The world was struck dumb by the enchantment of the Genoese violinist;
men did not trust their ears; something uncanny, inexplicable, ran
with this demon of music through the halls. The wonder reached Liszt;
he ventured on _his_ instrument to give sound to the unheard of; leaps
which none before him had ventured to make, “disjunctions” which no
one had hitherto thought could be acoustically united; deep tremolos
of fifths, like a dozen kettle-drums, which rushed forth into wild
chords; a polyphony which almost employed as a rhythmical element the
overtones which destroy harmony; the utmost possible use of the seven
octaves in chords set sharply one over another; resolutions of tied
notes in unceasing octave graces with harmonies hitherto unknown of
the interval of the tenth to increase the fullness of tone-color; a
regardless interweaving of highest and lowest notes for purposes of
light and shade; the most manifold application of the tone-colors of
different octaves for the coloration of the tone-effect; the entirely
naturalistic use of the tremolo and the glissando; and, above all, a
perfect systematization of the method of interlacing the hands, partly
for the management of runs, so as to bring out the color, partly to
gain a doubled power by the division, and partly to attain, by the use
of contractions and extensions in the figures, a fullness of orchestral
chord-power never hitherto practised. This is the last step possible
for the piano in the process of individualization begun by Hummel and
continued by Chopin.’

The earliest of Liszt’s published études, published in 1826, are now
difficult to obtain. They were the public statement of his pianistic
creed, the ultimatum, so to speak, of the most popular pianist of the
day to all rivals. They seemed to represent the utmost of pianistic
skill. Then, in 1832, came Paganini to Paris, and Liszt, with his
customary justice toward others, recognized in him the supreme
executant, and, what was more significant, the element of the true
artist. Inevitably the experience reacted on his own art. He adapted
six of Paganini’s violin caprices for piano, achieving a new ‘last
word’ in pianoforte technique. These studies still hold their place
in piano concerts, especially the picturesque ‘Campanella.’ In 1838
Liszt sought to mark the progress of his pianism to date by publishing
a new arrangement of his earliest études, under the name of _Études
d’exécution transcendante_. These, while primarily technical studies,
are also the work of a creative artist. The _Mazeppa_ was a symphonic
poem in germ (later becoming one in actuality). The _Harmonies du
Soir_, experimenting with ‘atmospheric’ tone qualities on the piano,
is an ancestor of the modern ‘impressionistic’ school. The _Étude
Héroique_ foreshadows the _Tasso_ and _Les Préludes_. The significant
thing in this is the way in which Liszt’s creative impulse grew out of
his mastery of the piano.

A predominant part of Liszt’s earlier activity has in recent times
passed into comparative insignificance. We are nowadays inclined
to sneer at his pompous arrangements of everything from Beethoven
symphonies and Bach preludes to the popular operas of the day. But
these arrangements, by which his pianistic method chiefly became known,
were equally important in their effect on pianism and on musical taste.
The name and fame of Berlioz’s _Symphonie Fantastique_ went out among
the nations chiefly through Liszt’s playing of his arrangement of it.
Schubert’s songs, likewise, which one would suppose were possible only
for the voice, were paraphrased by Liszt with such keen understanding
of the melodic resources of the piano, and such pious regard for the
intentions of Schubert, that Liszt’s piano was actually the chief
apostle of Schubert’s vocal music through a great part of Europe. Liszt
was similarly an apostle of Beethoven’s symphonies. It is eternally to
his credit that Liszt, though in many ways an aristocrat in spirit, was
never a musical snob; his paraphrases of Auber’s and Bellini’s operas
showed as catholic a sense of beauty as his arrangements of Beethoven.
He could bow to the popular demand for opera _potpourris_ without ever
quite descending to the vulgar level of most pianists of his day,
though coming perilously near it. His arrangements were always in some
degree the work of a creative artist, who could select his themes and
develop them into an artistic whole. They were equally the work of an
interpretive artist, for they frequently revealed the true beauties and
meanings of an opera better than the conductors and singers of the day
did.

As Liszt travelled about the world on his triumphal tours, or sojourned
in the company of the Countess d’Agoult in Switzerland, he sought
to confide his impressions to his piano. These impressions were
published in the two volumes of the ‘Years of Pilgrimage,’ poetic
musical pictures in the idiom of pianistic virtuosity. The first
of these pieces was written to picture the uprising of the workmen
in Lyons, following the Paris revolution of 1830. Thereafter came
impressions of every sort. The chapel of William Tell, the Lake of
Wallenstein, the dances of Venice or Naples, the reading of Dante or
of Petrarch’s sonnets--all gave him some musical emotion or picture
which he sought to translate into terms of the piano. The musical
value of these works is highly variable, but at their best, as in
certain of the grandiose Petrarch sonnets, they equal the best of
his symphonic poems. In these works, too, his experiments in radical
harmony are frequent, and at times he completely anticipates the novel
progressions of Debussy--whole-toned scale and all. Along with the
‘Years of Pilgrimage’ may be grouped certain other large compositions
for the piano, such as the two ‘Legends’ of St. Francis, the six
‘Consolations,’ the brilliant polonaises, the fascinating ‘Spanish
Rhapsody,’ and the grandiose _Funerailles_. All of these works are
still frequently played by concert pianists.

The two grand concertos with orchestra--in E flat major and A
major--are of dazzling technical brilliancy. In the second in
particular the pianistic resource seems inexhaustible. The thematic
material is in Liszt’s finest vein and the orchestral accompaniment is
executed in the highest of colors. In the second, too, Liszt not only
connects the movements, as was the fashion of the day, but completely
fuses them, somewhat in the manner that a Futurist painter fuses the
various parts of his picture. Scherzo, andante, and allegro enter when
fancy ordains, lasting sometimes but a moment, and returning as they
please. In the same way is constructed the superb pianoforte sonata
in B minor, a glorious fantasy in Liszt’s most heroic style. It is
commonly said that as a sonata this work is structurally weak; it
would be truer to say that as a sonata it has no existence. It is the
nobility of the work, in its contrapuntal and pianistic mastership,
that carries conviction.

The Hungarian Rhapsodies, perhaps Liszt’s most typical achievement,
are universally known. They were the outcome of his visit to his
native land in 1840, and of the notes he made at the time from the
singing of the gypsies. His book, ‘The Gypsies and Their Music,’ is
well worth reading for any who wish to know the real impulse behind
the Rhapsodies. Liszt, beyond any of his time, understood the æsthetic
and ethical import of folk-music, and knew how to place it at the
foundation of all other music whatsoever. Without such an appreciation
he could not have caught so accurately the distinctive features of
Hungarian music and developed them through his fifteen rhapsodies
without ever once losing the true flavor. In them the gypsy ‘snap,’
the dotted notes, the instrumental character, the extreme emphasis on
rhythm, and the peculiar oriental scales become supremely expressive.
Liszt is here, as he aspired to be, truly a national poet. The Lassan
or slow movement of the second, and every note of the twelfth, the
national hymn and funeral march which open the fourteenth, are a
permanent part of our musical heritage. On the other hand, their real
musical value is unhappily obscured by virtuoso display. They are,
first and foremost, pieces for display, however much genuine life and
virility the folk melodies and rhythms on which they are based may
give them. As such they find their usual place at the end of concert
programs, to suit the listener who is tired of really listening and
desires only to be taken off his feet by pyrotechnics; as well as to
furnish the player his final opportunity to dazzle and overpower.

The romantic age produced many works in the quieter forms of chamber
music, but, perhaps because these forms were quieter, was not at
its best in them. Nearly all the German composers of the period,
save Liszt, wrote quantities of such music. The string quartet was
comparatively under a cloud after Schubert’s death, suffering a decline
from his time on. But no quartets, save those of Beethoven, are finer
than Schubert’s. He brought to them in full power his genius for
melody. Moreover, he showed in them a genius for organization which
he did not usually match in his other large works. In the best of
his quartets he escaped the danger to which a lesser melodist would
have succumbed--that of incontinently putting a chief melody into
the first violin part and letting the remaining instruments serve as
accompaniment In no musical type are all the voices so absolutely
equal as in the string quartet; the composer who unduly stresses any
one of the four is false to the peculiar genius of the form. But
Schubert feels all the parts: he gives each its individuality, not in
the close polyphonic manner of Bach, but in the melodist’s manner of
writing each voice with an outline that is distinctive. In these works
the prolixity which so often beset him is purged away; the musical
standard is steadily maintained. The movements show steady development
and coherence. The instruments are admirably treated with reference to
their peculiar possibilities. Often the quartets are highly emotional
and dramatic, though they never pass beyond the natural limitations
of this peculiarly abstract type of music. In his search for color
effects, too, Schubert frequently foreshadows the methods and feelings
of modern composers, but these effects, such as the tremolo climax,
are not false to the true nature of the instruments he is using. Some
of Schubert’s chamber works still hold their place in undiminished
popularity in concerts. A few make use of the melodies of some of his
best songs, such as ‘The Wanderer,’ ‘Death and the Maiden,’ and _Sei
mir gegrüsst_. The best are perhaps those in A minor, G major, and D
minor. To these we must add the great C major quintet, which uses the
melody of ‘The Trout’ in its last movement.

Contemporary with Schubert, and outliving him by a number of years
was Ludwig Spohr (1784-1859), whose quartets number as many as those
of Mozart and Beethoven put together. The only one which still holds
its place in concert programs is that in G minor, opus 27. His
quartets have the personal faults and virtues of their composer,
being somewhat tenuous and mannered, and inclined to stress solo
virtuosity. Schumann’s early quartets, especially the three in opus
41, show him very nearly at his best. These, written in the early
years of his married life, after a deliberate study of the quartets of
Beethoven, are thoroughly workmanlike, and are eminently successful as
experiments in direct and ‘aphoristic’ expression. They rank among the
best in string quartet literature. Not so much can be said for those
of Mendelssohn. They were, of course, immensely popular in their time.
But, though their style is polished, their content is not creative
in the finer sense. And, strangely enough, their composer frequently
committed in them faults of taste in his use of the instruments. The
best to be said of them, as of much of the rest of Mendelssohn’s music,
is that they were of immense value in refining and deepening the
musical taste of the time, when the greater works of every type were
caviar to the general.

In addition to the quartets of the romantic period we should mention
the vast quantity of chamber music written for various combinations
of instruments. Spohr in particular was very prolific, and his
combinations were sometimes highly unusual. For instance, he has to
his credit a nonet, four double quartets, a ‘nocturne’ for wind and
percussion instruments, a sextet for strings and a concerto for string
quartet with orchestral accompaniment. Mendelssohn’s octet for strings,
opus 22, is fresh and interesting, especially in the scherzo, where the
composer is at his best. And, to follow the great trios (piano, violin,
and 'cello) of Beethoven, we have two trios, D minor and C minor, by
Mendelssohn, and three trios, in D minor, F major, and G minor, by
Schumann, of which the first is the best. The later Schumann sonatas
for violin show only too clearly the composer’s declining powers.

The romantic period was naturally the time for great pianoforte
concertos. Weber, in his two concertos, in C and E flat, and in his
_Concertstück_ for piano and orchestra, foreshadowed the spirit of
great concertos that followed, though his technique was still one of
transition. Mendelssohn’s concerto in G minor was for years the most
popular of show pieces in conservatories, though it has since largely
dropped out of use. (His _Capriccio_, however, is still familiar
and beautiful.) But the great concerto of the period, and one of the
great ones of all time, was Schumann’s in A minor. This was originally
written as a solo piece of moderate length, but broadened into a
concerto of three distinct though joined movements, each representing
the best of Schumann’s genius. No concerto ever conceded less to mere
display, or maintained a more even standard of musical excellence.
And to-day, though the technical brilliance is somewhat dimmed by
comparison with more modern works, the idealistic sincerity of the
lovely concerto speaks with unlessened vigor. Numerous other concertos
for pianoforte were composed and were popular in the period we are
discussing, but most of them have dropped out of use, except for the
instruction of conservatory students. Among them we may mention the
concerto in F minor by Adolph Henselt (1814-1889), one of the famous
virtuosos of the time, whose work is exceedingly pianistic, elaborate
and graceful, but somewhat pedantic and lacking in force; that in A
flat by John Field (1782-1837); that in C sharp minor by Ferdinand Ries
(1784-1838); that in F minor by Sterndale Bennett (1816-1875); that in
F sharp minor by Ferdinand Hiller (1811-1885), a famous virtuoso of
the time, who was closely identified with the work and activities of
some of the greatest composers; and that in G minor by Joachim Raff
(1822-1882). Chopin’s two concertos, composed in his earliest years
of creative activity, are uneven, but in parts reveal the genius of
their composer and justly maintain their somewhat limited popularity in
modern concerts.

Ludwig Spohr, whom Rupert Hughes calls one of ‘the first of second-best
composers,’ was a virtuoso of the violin, and it is chiefly through
his writing for that instrument that he retains what position he has
in modern times. He first became known as a violinist and constantly
showed his predilection for the instrument in his writings. In his
day he seemed a dazzling genius, with his eleven operas, his nine
symphonies, and his great oratorio ‘The Last Judgment.’ Yet these
have hardly more than a historical value to-day--except for the quiet
pleasure they can give the student who takes the trouble to examine
the scores. It is as a composer for the violin that Spohr continues
to speak with some authority. His seventeen concertos still enter
largely into the training of young violin virtuosos, and figure to a
considerable though diminishing extent in concerts. As a master of the
violin Spohr represents the old school. His bowing, when he played,
was conservative. He drew from his instrument a broad singing quality
of tone. All his writing shows his intimacy with the instrument of
his personal triumphs. It has been said that ‘everything turned to a
concerto at his touch.’ His style, however, was not lurid, but rather
delicate and nuanced. Presently he was eclipsed by Paganini,[97] a
genius who was half charlatan, who stopped short of no trick with his
instrument provided it might procure applause. Spohr could see nothing
but the trickster in this man who thrilled Liszt and who has left
several pieces which are to-day in constant use and are not scorned
by the best of musicians. Spohr, however, had an individuality which
could not blend with that of the meteoric virtuoso. In some respects
he is extraordinarily modern. His harmony was continually striving
for peculiar and colorful effects. He was addicted, in a mild way,
to program music, and gave titles to much of his music, such as
the ‘Seasons’ symphony. But his genius always stopped short of the
epoch-making quality of supreme creativeness.

In violin literature we must mention one more work, one which has
never been surpassed in beauty of workmanship and which remains one
of the great things of its kind in all music. This is Mendelssohn’s
concerto. It is, outside of the concert overtures, the one work of his
which has not sunk materially in the eyes of musicians since its first
years. Its themes, though not robust, are of the very highest beauty.
Its technical qualities make it one of the best beloved of works to
violinists. And its unmatchable polish and balance of architecture make
it a constant joy to concert audiences.

H. K. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[93] Oskar Bie: ‘A History of the Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players,’
Chap. VIII.

[94] ‘The Pianoforte and Its Music,’ Chap. X.

[95] ‘The Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players,’ Chap. VII.

[96] B. Pesth, 1814; d. Paris, 1888.

[97] Niccolò Paganini, the greatest of all violin virtuosi, was born in
1782 in Genoa, and died, 1840, in Nizza.

CHAPTER IX
ORCHESTRAL LITERATURE AND ORCHESTRAL DEVELOPMENT

The perfection of instruments; emotionalism of the romantic period;
enlargement of orchestral resources--The symphony in the romantic
period; Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann; Spohr and Raff--The concert
overture--The rise of program music; the symphonic leit-motif;
Berlioz’s _Fantastique_; other Berlioz symphonies; Liszt’s dramatic
symphonies--The symphonic poem; _Tasso_; Liszt’s other symphonic
poems--The legitimacy of program music.

Most typical of the romantic period--more typical even than its
art of song--was its orchestral music. Here all that was peculiar
to it--individuality, freedom of form, largeness of conception,
sensuousness of effect--could find fullest development. The orchestra
in its eighteenth-century perfection was a small, compact, well-ordered
body of instruments, in which every emphasis was laid on regularity
and balance. The orchestra of Liszt’s or Berlioz’s dramatic symphonies
was a bewildering collection of individual voices and romantic tone
qualities. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that, whereas
a Haydn symphony was a chaste design in lines, a Liszt symphony was
a gorgeous tapestry of color. Between the two every instrument had
been developed to the utmost of tonal eloquence which composers could
devise for it. The number of kinds of instruments had been doubled or
trebled, thanks partly to Beethoven, and the size of the orchestra in
common use had been increased at least once over. The technique of
orchestral instruments had increased astonishingly; Schubert’s C major
symphony, which was declared unplayable by the orchestra of the Vienna
Musikverein, one of the best of the age, is a mere toy compared with
Liszt’s or Berlioz’s larger works. Such instruments as the horns and
trumpets were greatly improved during the second and third decades of
the century, so that they could take a place as independent melodic
voices, which had been almost denied them in Beethoven’s time. As an
instrument of specific emotional expression the orchestra rose from
almost nil to its present position, unrivalled save by the human voice.

It is doubtless true to say that this enlargement resulted from
the technical improvements in orchestral instruments and from the
increase of instrumental virtuosity, but the converse is much more
true. The case is here not so much as with the piano, that an improved
instrument tempted a great composer to write for it, but rather that
great composers needed more perfect means of expression and therefore
stimulated the technicians to greater efforts. For, as we have seen,
the musical spirits of the romantic period insisted upon breaking
through conventional limitations and expressing what had never before
been expressed. They wanted overpowering grandeur of sound, impressive
richness of tone, great freedom of form, and constant variety of color.
They wanted especially those means which could make possible their
dreams of pictorial and descriptive music. Flutes and oboes in pairs
and two horns and two trumpets capable of only a partial scale, in
addition to the usual strings, were hardly adequate to describe the
adventures of Dante in the Inferno. The literary and social life of the
time had set composers thinking in grand style, and they insisted upon
having the new and improved instruments which they felt they needed,
upon forcing manufacturers to inventions which should facilitate
complicated and extended passages in the wind, and the performers
to the acceptance of these new things and to unheard-of industry in
mastering them. Thus the mere external characteristics of romantic
orchestral music are highly typical of the spirit of the time.

Perhaps the most typical quality of all is the insistence upon sensuous
effect. We have seen how the denizens of the nineteenth century longed
to be part of the things that were going on about them, how, basing
themselves on the ‘sentimental’ school of Rousseau, they considered a
truth unperceived until they had _felt_ it. This distinction between
contemplating life and experiencing it is one of the chief distinctions
between the classical and the romantic spirit everywhere, and between
the attitude of the eighteenth century and that of the nineteenth in
particular. When Rousseau offered the feelings of his ‘new Heloïse’ as
justification for her conduct, he sent a shock through the intelligent
minds of France. He said, in substance: ‘Put yourself in her place
and see if you wouldn’t do as she did. Then ask yourself what your
philosophic and moral disapproval amounts to.’ Within some fifty years
it became quite the craze of polite society to put itself in the new
Heloïse’s place, and George Sand did it with an energy which astonished
even France.

Now, when one commences thoroughly to reason out life from
one’s individual feelings, it becomes necessary to reconstruct
philosophy--namely, to construct it ‘from the bottom up,’ from the
demands and relations of the individual up to the constitution of the
mass. And it is quite natural that when insistence is thus laid on
the individual point of view the senses enter into the question far
more largely than before. At its most extreme this view comes to an
unrestrained license for the senses--a vice typical of Restoration
France. But its nobler side was its desire to discover how the other
man felt and what his needs were, in place of reasoning on abstract
grounds how he ‘ought’ to act. Besides, since the French Revolution
people had been experiencing things so incessantly that they had
got the habit. After the fall of Napoleon they could not consent to
return to a calm observation of events. Rather, it was precisely
because external events had calmed down that they so much more needed
violent experience in their imaginative and artistic life. The classic
tragedies of the French ‘golden age’ were indeed emotional and in high
degree, but the emotions were those of types, not of individuals. They
were looked on as grand æsthetic spectacles rather than as appeals from
one human being to another. It was distinctly bad form to show too much
emotion at a tragedy of Racine’s; whereas in the romantic period tears
were quite in fashion. However great the human falsity of the romantic
dramas, they at least pretended to be expressions of individual
emotions, and were received by their audiences as such. The life of a
follower of the arts in Paris in the twenties and thirties (or anywhere
in Europe, for that matter) was one of laughing and weeping in the joys
and sorrows of others, moving from one emotional debauch to another,
and taking pride in making the feelings of these creations of art as
much as possible one’s own. It was small wonder, then, that musicians
did the same; that, in addition to trying to paint pictures and tell
stories, they should endeavor to make every stroke of beauty _felt_ by
the auditor, and felt in a physical sensuous thrill rather than in a
philosophic ‘sense of beauty.’

And nothing could offer the romantic musicians a finer opportunity for
all this than the timbres of the orchestra. The soft golden tone of the
horn, the brilliant yellow of the trumpet, the luscious green of the
oboe, the quiet silver white of the flute seemed to stand ready for the
poets of the senses to use at their pleasure. In the vibrating tone of
orchestral instruments, even more than in complicated harmonies and
appealing melodies, lay their chance for titillating the nerves of a
generation hungry for sensuous excitement. But we must remember that if
these instruments have poetic and colorful associations to us it is in
large measure because there were romantic composers to suggest them.
The horn and flute and oboe had been at Haydn’s disposal, yet he was
little interested in the sensuous characteristics of them which we feel
so acutely. In great measure the poetic and sensuous tone qualities of
the modern orchestra were brought out by the romantic composers.

The classical orchestra, as we have seen in an earlier chapter, had
originally been based on the ‘string quartet’--namely, the first
violins, the second violins, the violas, and the ‘cellos, with
the double basses reënforcing the 'cello part. The string section
completely supported the musical structure. This was because the
strings alone were capable of playing complete and smooth scales and
executing all sorts of turns and trills with nearly equal facility.
Wind instruments in the eighteenth century were in a very imperfect
condition. Some of them, like the trumpets, were capable of no more
than eight or ten notes. All suffered from serious and numerous
restrictions. Hence they were originally used for giving occasional
color or ornamentation to the music which was carried by the strings.
About the middle of the century the famous orchestra of the court
of Mannheim, under the leadership and stimulus of Cannabich and
of the Stamitz family, reached something like a solid equilibrium
in the matter of instrumentation, and from its disposition of the
strings and wind all later orchestration took its rise. The Mannheim
orchestra became renowned for its nuance of effect, and especially for
its organized crescendos and diminuendos. The ideal orchestra thus
passed on to Haydn and Mozart was a ‘string quartet’ with wood-wind
instruments for the occasional doubling of the string parts, and the
brass for filling in and emphasizing important chords. Gradually
the wood-wind became a separate section of the orchestra, sometimes
carrying a whole passage without the aid of strings, and sometimes
combining with the string section on equal terms. With this stage
modern instrumentation may be said to have begun. The brass had to
wait; its individuality was not much developed until Beethoven’s time.

Yet during the period of orchestral development under Haydn and Mozart
the strings remained the solid basis for orchestral writing, partly
because of their greater practical efficiency, and partly because the
reserved character of the violin tone appealed more to the classic
sense of moderation. And even with the increased importance of the
wood-winds the unit of writing was the group and not the individual
instrument (barring occasional special solos). The later history of
orchestral writing was one of a gradually increasing importance and
independence for the wood-wind section (and later for the brass)
and of individualization for each separate instrument. Mozart based
his writing upon the Mannheim orchestration and upon Haydn, showing
considerable sensitiveness to timbres, especially that of the
clarinet. Haydn, in turn, learned from Mozart’s symphonies, and in his
later works for the orchestra further developed freedom of writing,
being particularly fond of the oboe. Beethoven emancipated all the
instruments, making his orchestra a collection of individual voices
rather than of groups (though he was necessarily hampered by the
technically clumsy brass).

Yet, compared to the writing of Berlioz and Liszt, the classical
symphonies were in their orchestration rather dry and monochrome
(always making a reservation for the pronounced romantic vein in
Beethoven). Haydn and Mozart felt orchestral contrasts, but they used
them rather for the sake of variety than for their absolute expressive
value. So that, however these composers may have anticipated and
prepared the way for the romanticists, the difference between the two
orchestral palettes is striking. One might say it was the difference
between Raphael’s palette and Rubens’. And in mere externals the
romanticists worked on a much larger scale. The string orchestra in
Mozart’s time numbered from twenty-two to thirty instruments, and to
this were added usually two flutes and two horns, and occasionally
clarinets, bassoons, trumpets, and kettle-drums in pairs. Beethoven’s
orchestra was little larger than this, and the capabilities of
his instruments only slightly greater, but his use of the various
instruments as peculiar and individual voices was masterly. All the
great composers of the second quarter of the nineteenth century studied
his instrumentation and learned from it. But Beethoven, though he
sought out the individual character of orchestral voices, did not make
them sensuously expressive as Weber and Liszt did. About the time of
Beethoven’s death the use of valves made the brass possible as an
independent choir, capable of performing most of the ordinary diatonic
and accidental notes and of carrying full harmony. But it must be said
that even the most radical of the romantic composers, such as Berlioz,
did not avail themselves of these improvements as rapidly as they
might, and were characteristic rather in their way of thinking for
instruments than in their way of writing for them. The valve horns and
valve trumpets came into use slowly; Schumann frequently used valve
horns plus natural horns, and Berlioz preferred the vulgar _cornet à
pistons_ to the improved trumpet.

But the romantic period added many an instrument to the limited
orchestra of Mozart and Beethoven. Clarinets and trombones became the
usual thing. The horns were increased to four, and the small flute
or piccolo, the English horn, and the bass clarinet (or the double
bassoon), and the ophicleide became frequent. Various instruments,
such as the ‘serpent,’ the harp, and all sorts of drums were freely
introduced for special effects.

Berlioz especially loved to introduce unusual instruments, and
quantities of them. For his famous ‘Requiem’ he demanded (though he
later made concessions): six flutes, four oboes, six clarinets, ten
bassoons, thirty-five first and thirty-five second violins, thirty
‘cellos, twenty-five basses, and twelve horns. In the _Tuba Mirum_
he asks for twelve pairs of kettle-drums, tuned to cover the whole
diatonic scale and several of the accidentals, and for four separate
‘orchestras,’ placed at the four corners of the stage, and calling
for six cornets, five trombones, and two tubas; or five trumpets, six
ophicleides, four trombones, four tubas, and the like. His scores are
filled with minute directions to the performers, especially to the
drummers, who are enjoined to use a certain type of drumstick for
particular passages, to place their drum in a certain position, and
so on. His directions are curt and precise. Liszt, on the other hand,
leaves the matter largely to ‘the gracious coöperation of the director.’

Experimentation with new and sensational effects made life thrilling
for these composers. Berlioz recalls with delight in his Memoirs an
effect he made with his arrangement of the ‘Rackoczy March’ in Buda
Pesth. ‘No sooner,’ says he, ‘did the rumor spread that I had written
_hony_ (national) music than Pesth began to ferment. How had I treated
it? They feared profanation of that idolized melody which for so many
years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and
liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to
me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper, who, unable to curb his
curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist.’

'“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily.

'“Well?”

'“Well, I feel horribly nervous about it.”

'“Bah! Why?”

'“Your motif is introduced piano, and we are used to hearing it
fortissimo.”

'“Yes, by the gypsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have
such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the
score carefully; remember the end is everything.”

‘All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in
times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First
the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with
a pizzicato accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the
audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long
crescendo, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant
cannon), a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and,
as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and
thunder, they could contain themselves no longer. Their overcharged
souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair
with terror.’

This bass-drum beat pianissimo ‘as of distant cannon’ has never to this
day lost its wild and mysterious potency. But it must not be supposed
that the romanticists’ contribution to orchestration consisted mainly
in isolated sensational effects. Their work was marvellously thorough
and solid. Berlioz in particular had a wizard-like ear for discerning
and developing subtleties of timbre. His great work on Orchestration
(now somewhat passé but still stimulating and valuable to the student)
abounds in the mention of them. He points out the poetic possibilities
in the lower registers of the clarinets, little used before his day.
He makes his famous notation as to the utterly different tone qualities
of one violin and of several violins in unison, as though of different
instruments. And so on through hundreds of pages. The scores of the
romanticists abound in simple effects, unheard of before their time,
which gain their end like magic. Famous examples come readily to mind:
the muted violins in the high registers in the ‘Dance of the Sylphs’
from ‘The Damnation of Faust’; the clumsy bassoons for the dance of the
‘rude mechanicals’ in Mendelssohn’s incidental music to ‘A Midsummer
Night’s Dream’; the morose viola solo which recurs through Berlioz’s
‘Harold in Italy’; the taps and rolls on the tympani to accompany the
speeches of the devil in _Der Freischütz_ or the flutes in their lowest
register in the accompaniment to Agathe’s air in the same opera--all
these are representative of the richness of poetic imagination and
understanding of orchestral possibilities in the composers of the
romantic period.

It was inevitable that the pure symphonic form should decline in
esteem during the romantic period; for it is based primarily on a love
of pure design--the ‘da capo’ scheme of statement, development, and
restatement, which remains the best method ever invented for vividly
presenting musical ideas without extra-musical association or aid. It
is primarily a mold for receiving ‘pure’ musical material, and the
romantic period, as we have seen, had comparatively little use for
music without poetic association. Of the best symphonies of the time
the greater part have some general poetical designation, like the
‘Italian’ and ‘Scotch’ symphonies of Mendelssohn, or the ‘Spring’ and
‘Rhenish’ symphonies of Schumann. These titles were in some cases mere
afterthoughts or concessions to the demands of the time, and in every
case the merest general or whimsical suggestion. Yet they can easily
be imagined as fitting the musical material, and they always manage
to add interest to the work without interfering with the ‘absolute’
musical value. And even when they are without specific title they are
infused with the spirit of the age--delight in sensuous effects and
rich scoring, emotional melody, and varied harmonic support.

For all this, as for nearly everything else in modern music, we must
go back to Beethoven if we wish to find the source, but for purposes
of classification Schubert may be set down as the first romantic
symphonist. He adhered as closely as he could to the classical mold,
though he never had a predominant gift for form. A beautiful melody
was to him the law-giver for all things, and when he found such a
melody it went its way refusing to submit to the laws of proportion.
Yet this willfulness can hardly be regarded as standing in the way
of outward success; the ‘Unfinished’ symphony in B minor could not
be better loved than it is; it is safe to say that of all symphonies
it is the most popular. It was written (two movements and a few bars
of a scherzo) in 1822, was laid aside for no known reason, and lay
unknown in Vienna for many years until rescued by Sir George Grove. The
mysterious introduction in the ‘cellos and basses, as though to say,
‘It happened once upon a time’; the haunting ‘second theme’ introduced
by the ‘cellos; the stirring development with its shrieks of the
wood-wind--all are of the very stuff of romantic music. A purist might
wish the work less diffuse, especially in the second movement; no one
could wish it more beautiful. In the great C major symphony, written
in the year of his death, Schubert seems to have been attempting a
_magnum opus_. If he had lived, this work would certainly have been
regarded as the first composition of his ‘second period.’ He labored
over it with much more care than was his custom, and showed a desire to
attain a cogent form with truly orchestral ideas. The best parts of the
‘Unfinished Symphony’ could be sung by the human voice; the melodies
of the C major are at home only with orchestral instruments. The work
was all but unprecedented for its time in length and difficulty; it is
Schubert’s finest effort in sustained and noble expression, and, though
thoroughly romantic in tone, his nearest approach to ‘absolute’ music.
It seems outmoded and at times a bit childlike to-day, but by sheer
beauty holds its place steadily on orchestral programs. Schubert’s
other symphonies have dropped almost completely out of sight.

Mendelssohn’s four symphonies, including the ‘Italian,’ the ‘Scotch,’
and the ‘Reformation,’ have had a harder time holding their place. It
seems strange that Mendelssohn, the avowed follower of the classics,
should not have done his best work in his symphonies, but these
compositions, though executed with extreme polish and dexterity, sound
thin to-day. A bolder voice might have made them live. But the ‘Scotch’
and ‘Italian’ in them are seen through Leipzig spectacles, and the
musical subject-matter is not vigorous enough to challenge a listener
in the midst of modern musical wealth. As for the ‘Reformation’
symphony, with its use of the Protestant chorale, _Ein feste Burg_,
a technically ‘reformed’ Jew could hardly be expected to catch the
militant Christian spirit. Yet these works are at their best precisely
in their romantic picturesqueness; as essays in the ‘absolute’ symphony
they cannot match the nobility and strength of Schubert’s C major.

Schumann, the avowed romantic, had much more of worth to put into his
symphonies, probably because he was an apostle and an image-breaker,
and not a polite ‘synthesist.’ The ‘Spring’ symphony in B flat,
written in the year of his marriage, 1840 (the year of his most
exuberant productivity), remains one of the most beautiful between
Beethoven and recent times. The austerity of the classical form
never robbed him of spontaneity, for the ideas in his symphony are
not inferior to any he ever invented. The form is, on the whole,
satisfactory to the purist, and, beyond such innovations as the
connecting of all four movements in the last symphony, he attempted
little that was new. The four works are fertile in lovely ideas,
such as the graceful folk-song intoned by ‘cellos and wood-wind in
the third, or the impressive organ-like movement from the same work.
Throughout there is the same basic simplicity of invention--the
combination of fresh melodic idea with colorful harmony--which endears
him to all German hearts. It is customary to say that Schumann was a
mere amateur at orchestration. It is certainly true that he had no
particular turn for niceties of scoring or for searching out endless
novelties of effect, and it is true that he sometimes proved himself
ignorant of certain primary rules, as when he wrote an unplayable
phrase for the horns in his first symphony. But his orchestration is,
on the whole, well balanced and adequate to his subject-matter, and is
full of felicities of scoring which harmonize with the romantic color
of his ideas.

Of the other symphonists who were influenced by the romantic fervor
the greater part have dropped out of sight. Spohr, who may be reckoned
among them, was in his day considered the equal of Beethoven, and his
symphonies, though often manneristic, are noble in conception, romantic
in feeling, and learned in execution. Of a much later period is Raff,
a disciple of Liszt, and, to some extent, a crusader on behalf of
Wagner. Like Spohr, he enjoyed a much exaggerated reputation during
his lifetime. Of his eleven symphonies _Im Walde_ and _Leonore_
(both of a mildly programmistic nature) were the best known, the
latter in particular a popular favorite of a generation ago. Raff
further developed the resources of the orchestra without striking
out any new paths. Many of his ideas were romantic and charming, but
he was too often facile and rather cheap. Still, he had not a little
to teach other composers, among them the American MacDowell. Gade,
friend of Mendelssohn and his successor at Leipzig, was a thorough
scholarly musician, one of the few of the ‘Leipzig circle’ who did not
succumb to dry formalism. He may be considered one of the first of
the ‘national composers,’ for his work, based to some extent on the
Danish folk idiom, secured international recognition for the national
school founded by J. P. E. Hartmann. Ferdinand Hiller, friend of Liszt
and Chopin, wrote three symphonies marked by romantic feeling and
technical vigor, and Reinecke, for many years the representative of the
Mendelssohn tradition at Leipzig, wrote learnedly and at times with
inspiring freshness.

III

In the romantic period there developed, chiefly at the hands of
Mendelssohn, a form peculiarly characteristic of the time--the
so-called ‘concert overture.’ This was based on the classic overture
for opera or spoken drama, written in sonata form, usually with a slow
introduction, but poetic and, to a limited extent, descriptive, and
intended purely for concert performance. The models were Beethoven’s
overtures, ‘Coriolanus,’ ‘Egmont,’ and, best of all, the ‘Leonore No
3,’ written to introduce a particular opera or drama, it is true, but
summing up and in some degree following the course of the drama and
having all the ear-marks of the later romantic overture. From a mere
prelude intended to establish the prevailing mood of the drama the
overture had long since become an independent artistic form. These
overtures gained a great popularity in concert, and their possibilities
for romantic suggestion were quickly seized upon by the romanticists.

Weber’s overture to _Der Freischütz_, though written for the opera,
may be ranked as a concert overture (it is most frequently heard in
that capacity), and along with it the equally fine _Euryanthe_ and
_Oberon_. The first named was a real challenge to the Philistines. The
slow introduction, with its horn melody of surpassing loveliness, and
the fast movement, introducing the music of the Incantation scene, are
thoroughly romantic. Weber’s best known concert overture (in the strict
sense), the _Jubel Ouvertüre_, is of inferior quality.

Schumann, likewise, wrote no overtures not intended for a special drama
or a special occasion, but some of his works in this form rank among
his best orchestral compositions. Chief among them is the ‘Manfred,’
which depicts the morbid passions in the soul of Byron’s hero, as
fine a work in its kind as any of the period. The ‘Genoveva’ overture
is fresh and colorful in the style of Weber, and that for Schiller’s
‘Bride of Messina’ is scarcely inferior. Berlioz has to his credit a
number of works in this form, mostly dating from his earliest years of
creative activity. Best known are the ‘Rob Roy’ (introducing the Scotch
tune, ‘Scots Wha’ Hae’) and the _Carnival Romain_, but the ‘Lear’ and
‘The Corsair,’ inspired by two of his favorite authors, Shakespeare and
Byron, are also possessed of his familiar virtues. Another composer
who in his day made a name in this form is William Sterndale Bennett,
an Englishman who possessed the highest esteem of Mendelssohn and
Schumann, and was a valuable part of the musical life of Leipzig in
the thirties and later. The best part of his work, now forgotten save
in England, is for the piano, but the ‘Parisina’ and ‘Wood Nymphs’
overtures were at one time ranked with those of Mendelssohn. Like all
English composers of those times he was inclined to the academic,
but his work had much freshness and romantic charm, combined with an
admirable sense of form.

But it is Mendelssohn whose place in this field is unrivalled. His
‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ overture, written when he was seventeen, has
a place on modern concert programs analogous to that of Schubert’s
‘Unfinished Symphony.’ This work is equally the delight of the
musical purist and of the untechnical music-lover. It is marked by
all Mendelssohn’s finest qualities. Not a measure of it is slipshod
or lacking in distinction. Its scoring is deft in the extreme. Its
themes are fresh and charming. And upon it all is the polish in which
Mendelssohn excelled; no note seems out of place, and none, one
feels, could be otherwise than as it is. It is mildly descriptive--as
descriptive as Mendelssohn ever was. The three groups of characters in
Shakespeare’s play are there--the fairies, the love-stricken mortals,
and the rude mechanicals--each with its characteristic melody. The
opening chords, high in the wood-wind, set the fanciful tone of the
whole. For deft adaptation of the means to the end it has rarely been
surpassed in all music. In his other overtures Mendelssohn is even less
descriptive, being content to catch the dominant mood of the subject
and transmit it into tone in the sonata form. ‘Fingal’s Cave,’ the
chief theme of which occurred to him and was noted down on the supposed
scene of its subject in Scotland, is equally picturesque in its subject
matter, but lacks the buoyant invention of its predecessor. The ‘Calm
Sea and Prosperous Voyage’ is a masterpiece of restraint. The technical
means are exceedingly simple, for in his effort to paint the reigning
quiet of his theme Mendelssohn dwells inordinately upon the pure tonic
chord. Yet the work never lacks its composer’s customary freshness or
sense of perfect proportion. His fourth overture--‘To the Story of
the Lovely Melusina’--is only second to the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’
in popularity. In these works Mendelssohn is at his best; only the
‘Elijah’ and the violin concerto equally deserve long life and frequent
repetition. For the overtures best show Mendelssohn the synthesist. In
them he has caught absolutely the more refined spirit of romanticism,
with its emphasis on tone coloring and its association of literary
ideas, and has developed it in a classic mold as perfect as anything in
music. Nowhere else do the dominating musical ideas of the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries come to such an amicable meeting ground.

Yet this ‘controlled romanticism,’ which Mendelssohn doubtless hoped
would found a school, had little historical result. The frenzied
spirits of the time needed some more vigorous stimulation, and those
who had vitality sufficient to make history were not the ones to be
guided by an academic gourmet. The Mendelssohn concert overtures are a
pleasant by-path in music; they by no means strike a note to ring down
the corridors of time. ‘Controlled romanticism’ was not the message
for Mendelssohn’s age; for this age was essentially militant, smashing
idols and blazing new paths, and nothing could feed its appetite save
bitter fruit.

This bitter fruit it had in full measure in Berlioz’s romantic
symphonies, as in Liszt’s symphonic poems. Of the true romantic
symphonies the most remarkable is Berlioz’s _Symphonie Fantastique_,
one of the most astonishing productions in the whole history of music.
It seems safe to say that in historical fruitfulness this work
ranks with three or four others of the greatest--Monteverdi’s opera
_Orfeo_, in 1607; Wagner’s _Tristan_, and what else? The _Fantastique_
created program music; it made an art form of the dramatic symphony
(including the not yet invented symphonic poem and all forms of free
and story-telling symphonic works). At the same time it gave artistic
existence to the _leit-motif_, or representative theme, the most
fruitful single musical invention of the nineteenth century.

The _Fantastique_ seems to have no ancestry; there is nothing in
previous musical literature to which more than the vaguest parallel can
be drawn, and there is nothing in Berlioz’s previous works to indicate
that he had the power to take a new idea--two new ideas--out of the sky
and work them out with such mature mastery. One might have expected a
period of experimentation. One might at least expect the work to be the
logical outcome of experiments by other men. But Berlioz had no true
ancestor in this form; he had no more than chance forerunners.

Nevertheless program music, or at least descriptive music, in some
form or other, is nearly as old as music itself. We have part-songs
dating from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries which imitate the
cuckoo’s call, or the songs of other birds. Jannequin, contemporary
with Palestrina, wrote a piece descriptive of the battle of Marignan,
fought between the French and the Swiss in 1515. Even Bach joins the
other program composers with his ‘Caprice on the departure of his
brother,’ in which the posthorn is imitated. Couperin gave picturesque
titles to nearly all his compositions, and Rameau wrote a delightful
piece for harpsichord, suggestively called ‘The Hen.’ Many of Haydn’s
symphonies have titles which add materially to the poetry of the music.
Beethoven admitted that he never composed without some definite image
in mind. His ‘Pastoral Symphony’ is so well known that it need only
be mentioned, though strict theorists may deny it a place with program
music on the plea that, in the composer’s own words, it is ‘rather
the recording of impressions than painting.’ Yet Beethoven wrote one
piece of downright program music in the strict sense, for his ‘Battle
of Vittoria’ frankly sets out to describe one of the battles of the
Napoleonic wars. It is, however, pure hack work, one of the few works
of the master which might have been composed by a mediocre man. It is
of a sort of debased program music which was much in fashion at the
time, easy and silly stuff which pretended to describe anything from
a landscape up to the battle of Waterloo. The instances of imitative
music in Haydn’s ‘Creation’ are well known. Coming down to later
times we find the ophicleide imitating the braying of the ass in
Mendelssohn’s ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ overture, and since then few
composers, however reserved in manner and classic in taste, have wholly
disdained it.

Yet all this long, even distinguished, history does not fully prepare
the way for the program music of Berlioz. It is not likely that he was
familiar with much of it. And even if he had been he could have found
no programmistic form or idea ready at hand for his program pieces. The
program music idea was rather ‘in the air’ than in specific musical
works. From the literary romanticists’ theory of the mixing of the
genres and the mingling of the arts his lively mind no doubt drew a
hint. And the influence of his teacher, Lesueur, at the Conservatory
must be reckoned on. Lesueur was something of a radical and apostle
of program music in his day, having been, in fact, relieved of his
duties as director of music in Notre Dame because he insisted upon
attuning men’s minds to piety by means of ‘picturesque and descriptive’
performances of the Mass. Program music! Here was a true forerunner of
Berlioz--a very bad boy in a very solemn church. Perhaps this accounts
for Berlioz’s veneration of his teacher, one of the few men who doesn’t
figure somewhat disgracefully in the Memoirs. At any rate, the young
revolutionist found in Lesueur a sympathetic spirit such as is rarely
to be found in conservatories.

To sum up, then, we find that Berlioz had no precedent in reputable
music for a sustained work of a close descriptive nature. Works of
picturesque quality, which specifically do not ‘depict events’--like
the ‘Pastoral’ symphony--are not program music in the more exact
sense. Isolated bits of description in good music, like the famous
‘leaping stag’ and ‘shaggy lion’ of Haydn’s ‘Creation,’ offer no
analogy for sustained description. And the supposed pieces of sustained
description, like the fashionable ‘battle’ pieces, had and deserved no
musical standing. The _Fantastique_, as we shall see, was detailed and
sustained description of the first rank musically. The gap between the
_Fantastique_ and its supposed ancestors was quite complete. It was
bridged by pure genius.

As for the _leit-motif_, it is even more Berlioz’s own invention.
The use of a particular theme to represent a particular personage or
emotion was, of course, in such program music as had existed. But
only in a few isolated instances had this been used recurrently to
accompany a dramatic story. Mozart, in _Don Giovanni_, had used the
famous trombone theme to represent the Statue, first in the Graveyard
scene and later in the Supper scene. Weber had somewhat loosely used
a particular theme to represent the devil Samiel in _Der Freischütz_.
We know from Berlioz’s own description[98] how this work affected him
in his early Parisian years and we may assume that the notion of the
leit-motif took hold on him then. But the leit-motif in Mozart and
Weber is hardly used as a deliberate device, rather only as a natural
repetition under similar dramatic conditions. The use of the leit-motif
in symphonic music, and its variation under varied conditions belongs
solely to Berlioz.

True to romantic traditions, Berlioz evolved the _Fantastique_ out of
his own joys and sorrows. It originated in the frenzy of his love for
the actress, Henriette Smithson. He writes in February, 1830:[99]

‘Again, without warning and without reason, my ill-starred passion
wakes. She is in London, yet I feel her presence ever with me. I listen
to the beating of my heart, it is like a sledge-hammer, every nerve in
my body quivers with pain.

‘Woe upon her! Could she but dream of the poetry, the infinite bliss
of such love as mine, she would fly to my arms, even though my embrace
should be her death.

‘I was just going to begin my great symphony (Episode in an Artist’s
Life) to depict the course of this infernal love of mine--but I can
write nothing.’

Why, this is very midsummer madness! you say. But the kind of madness
from which came much good romantic music. For the work had been planned
in the previous year, not long after Miss Smithson had rejected
Berlioz’s first advances.

But the composer very soon found that he could write--and he wrote like
a fiend. In May he tells a friend that the rehearsals of the symphony
will begin in three days. The concert is to take place on the 30th.
As for Miss Smithson, ‘I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a
commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures of the
soul that she has never felt.’ Yet he wished that ‘the theatre people
would somehow plot to get _her_ there--that wretched woman! She could
not but recognize herself.’

The performance of the symphony finally came off toward the end of the
year. But in the meantime a new goddess had descended from the skies.
The composer’s marriage was to depend on the success of the concert--so
he says. ‘It must be a _theatrical_ success; Camille’s parents insist
upon that as a condition of our marriage. I hope I shall succeed.

‘P. S. That wretched Smithson girl is still here. I have not seen her.’

And a few weeks later: ‘I had a frantic success. They actually encored
the _Marche au Supplice_. I am mad! mad! My marriage is fixed for
Easter, 1832. My blessed symphony has done the deed.’

But not quite. He was rewriting this same symphony a few months later
in Italy when there came a letter from Camille’s mother announcing her
engagement to M. Pleyel!

As explanation to the symphony the composer wrote an extended
‘program’--in the strictest modern sense. He notes, however, that the
program may be dispensed with, as ‘the symphony (the author hopes)
offers sufficient musical interest in itself, independent of any
dramatic intention.’ The program of the _Fantastique_ is worth quoting
entire, since it stands as the prototype and model of all musical
programs since:

‘A young musician of morbid sensitiveness and ardent imagination
poisons himself with opium in an excess of amorous despair. The
narcotic dose, too weak to cause his death, plunges him into a heavy
sleep, accompanied by the strangest visions, while his sensations,
sentiments and memories translate themselves in his sick brain into
musical thoughts and images. The loved one herself has become for him a
melody, like a fixed idea which he rediscovers and hears everywhere.

‘First Part: Reveries, Passions. He first recalls that uneasiness of
the soul, that wave of passions, those melancholies, those reasonless
joys, which he experienced before having seen her whom he loves; then
the volcanic love with which she suddenly inspired him, his frenzied
heart-rendings, his jealous fury, his reawakening tenderness, his
religious consolations.

‘Second Part: A Ball. He finds the loved one at a ball, in the midst of
tumult and a brilliant fête.

‘Third Part: In the Country. A summer evening in the country: he hears
two shepherds conversing with their horns; this pastoral duet, the
natural scene, the soft whispering of the winds in the trees, a few
sentiments of hope which he has recently conceived, all combine to give
his soul an unwonted calm, to give a happier color to his thoughts; but
_she_ appears anew, his heart stops beating, painful misapprehensions
stir him--if she should deceive him! One of the shepherds repeats his
naïve melody; the other does not respond. The sun sets--distant rolls
of thunder--solitude--silence----

‘Fourth Part: March to the Gallows. He dreams that he has killed his
loved one, that he is condemned to death, led to the gallows. The
cortège advances, to the sounds of a march now sombre and wild, now
brilliant and solemn, in which a dull sound of heavy steps follows
immediately upon the noisiest shouts. Finally, the fixed idea reappears
for an instant like a last thought of love, to be interrupted by the
fatal blow.

‘Fifth Part: Dream of the Witches’ Festival. He fancies he is present
at a witches’ dance, in the midst of a gruesome company of shades,
sorcerers, and monsters of all sorts gathered for his funeral. Strange
sounds, sighs, bursts of laughter, distant cries and answers. The loved
melody reappears again; but it has lost its character of nobility and
timidity; it is nothing but an ignoble dance, trivial and grotesque;
it is she who comes to the witches’ festival. Sounds of joy at her
arrival. She mingles with the hellish orgy; uncanny noises--burlesque
of the _Dies Irae_; dance of the witches. The witches’ dance and the
_Dies Irae_ follow.’

The music follows this program in detail, and supplies a host of other
details to the sympathetic imagination. The opening movement contains
a melody which Berlioz avers he composed at the age of twelve, when he
was in love with yet another young lady, a certain Estelle, six years
his senior. And in each movement occurs the ‘fixed idea,’ founder of
that distinguished dynasty of leit-motifs in the nineteenth century:

[Illustration: Music score]

In the opening movement, when the first agonies of love are at their
height, this theme undergoes a long contrapuntal development which
is a marvel of complexity and harmonic energy. It recurs practically
unchanged in the next three movements, and at its appearance in the
fourth is cut short as the guillotine chops the musician’s head off.
In the last movement it undergoes the change which makes this work the
predecessor of Liszt’s symphonic poems:

[Illustration: Music score]

The structure of this work is complicated in the extreme, and it
abounds in harmonic and contrapuntal novelties which are strokes of
pure genius. Many a musician may dislike the symphony, but none can
help respecting it. The orchestra, though not large for our day, was
revolutionary in its time. It included, in one movement or another
(besides the usual strings) a small flute and two large ones; oboes;
two clarinets, a small clarinet, and an English horn; four horns, two
trumpets, two _cornets à pistons_, and three trombones; four bassoons,
two ophicleides, four pairs of kettle-drums, cymbals, bells, and bass
drum.

A challenge to the timid spirits of the time; and a thing of
revolutionary significance to modern music.

The other great dramatic symphonies of the time belong wholly to
Berlioz and Liszt. The Revolutionary Symphony which Berlioz had planned
under the stimulus of the 1830 revolution, became, about 1837, the
_Symphonie Funèbre et Héroïque_, composed in honor of the men killed
in this insurrection. It is mostly of inferior stuff compared with
the composer’s other works, but the ‘Funeral Sermon’ of the second
movement, which is a long accompanied recitative for the trombones, is
extremely impressive. ‘Harold in Italy,’ founded upon Byron’s ‘Childe
Harold,’ was planned during Berlioz’s residence in Italy, and executed
under the stimulus of Paganini. Here again we have the ‘fixed idea,’
in the shape of a lovely solo, representing the morose hero, given to
the viola. The work was first planned as a viola concerto, but the
composer’s poetic instinct carried him into a dramatic symphony. First
Harold is in the mountains and Byronic moods of longing creep over him.
Then a band of pilgrims approaches and his melody mingles with their
chant. Then the hero hears an Abruzzi mountaineer serenading his lady
love, and to the tune of his ‘fixed idea’ he invites his own soul to
muse of love. And, finally, Harold is captured by brigands, and his
melody mingles with their wild dance.

Berlioz’s melodies are apt to be dry and even cerebral in their
character, but this one for Harold is as beautiful as one could wish:

[Illustration: Music score]

The ‘Romeo and Juliet’ is by many considered Berlioz’s finest work.
It is in two parts, the first including a number of choruses and
recitatives narrating the course of the tragedy, and the second
developing various pictures selected out of the action. The love scene
is ‘pure’ music of the highest beauty, and the scherzo, based on the
‘Queen Mab’ speech, is one of Berlioz’s most typical inventions.

All these compositions antedate by a number of years the works of
Liszt and Wagner, which make extended use of Berlioz’s means. Wagner
describes at length how the idea of leit-motifs occurred to him during
his composition of ‘The Flying Dutchman’ (completed in 1841), but he
was certainly familiar with Berlioz’s works. Liszt was from the first a
great admirer of Berlioz, and greatly helped to extend his reputation
through his masterly piano arrangements of the Frenchman’s works. His
development of the leit-motif in his symphonic poems is frankly an
adaptation of the Berlioz idea.

Liszt’s dramatic symphonies are two--‘Dante’ and ‘Faust’--by which,
doubtless, if he had his way, his name would chiefly be known among
the nations. We have seen in an earlier chapter how deeply Liszt
was impressed by the great paintings in Rome, and how in his youth
he dreamed of some later Beethoven who would translate Dante into
an immortal musical work. In the quiet of Weimar he set himself to
accomplish the labor. The work is sub-titled ‘Inferno, Purgatory, and
Paradise,’ but it is in two movements, the Purgatory leading into, or
perhaps only to, the gate of Heaven. The first movement opens with
one of the finest of all Liszt’s themes, designed to express Dante’s

[Illustration: Music score]

lines: ‘Through me the entrance to the city of horror; through me the
entrance into eternal pain; through me the entrance to the dwelling
place of the damned.’ And immediately another motive for the horns and
trumpets to the famous words: ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here.’
The movement, with an excessive use of the diminished seventh chord,
depicts the sufferings of the damned. But presently the composer comes
to a different sort of anguish, which challenges all his powers as
tone poet. It is the famous episode of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini.
It is introduced by another motive of great beauty, standing for the
words: ‘There is no greater anguish than, during suffering, to think of
happier times.’ In the Francesca episode Liszt lavishes all his best
powers, and achieves some of his finest pages. The music now descends
into the lower depths of the Inferno, and culminates in a thunderous
restatement of the theme, ‘All hope abandon,’ by the horns, trumpets
and trombones. The second movement, representing Purgatory, strikes
a very different note, one of hope and aspiration, and culminates in
the Latin _Magnificat_, sung by women’s voices to a modal tune, which
Liszt, now once more a loyal Catholic, writes from the heart.

The ‘Faust’ symphony, written between 1854 and 1857, is hardly less
magnificent in its plan and execution. It is sub-titled ‘three
character-pictures,’ and its movements are assigned respectively to
Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles. Yet the last movement merges into
a dramatic narration of the love story and of Faust’s philosophic
aspirations, and reaches its climax in a men’s chorus intoning the
famous final chorus from Goethe’s drama: ‘All things transitory are
but a semblance.’ The Faust theme deserves quoting because of its
chromatic character, which has become so typical of modern music:

[Illustration: Music score]

The whole work is in Liszt’s most exalted vein. The ‘character
pictures’ are suggestive in the extreme, and are contrasted in the most
vivid manner. Liszt has rarely surpassed in sheer beauty the Gretchen
episode, the theme of which later becomes the setting for Goethe’s
famous line, ‘The eternal feminine leads us upward and on.’ These two
works--the ‘Dante’ and the ‘Faust’--are doubtless not so supremely
creative as Liszt imagined, but they remain among the noblest things in
modern music. Their great difficulty of execution, even to orchestras
in our day, stands in the way of their more frequent performance, but
to those who hear them they prove unforgettable. In them, more than in
any other of his works, Liszt has lavished his musical learning and
invention, has put all that was best and noblest in himself.

The most typical musical form of to-day--the symphonic poem--is wholly
the creation of Liszt. The dramatic symphony attained its highest
development at the hands of its inventor; later works of the kind,
such as Raff’s ‘Lenore Symphony,’ have been musically of the second or
third rate. It is quite true that a large proportion of the symphonies
of to-day have some sort of general program or ‘subject,’ and nearly
all are sufficiently dramatic in feeling to invite fanciful ‘programs’
on the part of their hearers. But few composers have cared or dared to
go to Berlioz’s lengths. The symphonic poem, on the other hand, has
become the ambition of most of the able orchestral writers of our day.
And, whereas Berlioz has never been equalled in his line, Liszt has
often been surpassed, notably by Richard Strauss, in his.

Curiously enough, Berlioz, who was by temperament least fitted to work
in the strict symphonic form, always kept to it in some degree. The
most revolutionary of spirits never broke away wholly from the past.
Liszt carried Berlioz’s program ideas to their logical conclusion,
inventing a type of composition in which the form depended wholly and
solely on the subject matter. This latter statement will almost serve
as a definition of the symphonic poem. It is any sort of orchestral
composition which sets itself to tell a story or depict the emotional
content of a story. Its form will be--what the story dictates, and no
other. The distinction sometimes drawn between the symphonic poem and
the tone poem is largely fanciful. One may say that the former tends
to the narrative and the latter to the emotional, but for practical
purposes the two terms may be held synonymous.

In any kind of musical narration it is usually necessary to represent
the principal characters or ideas in particular fashion, and the
leit-motif is the natural means to this end. And, though theoretically
not indispensable, the leit-motif has become a distinguishing feature
of the symphonic poem and inseparable from it. Sometimes the themes are
many (Strauss has scores of them in his _Heldenleben_), but Liszt took
a particular pleasure in economy of means. Sometimes a single theme
served him for the development of the whole work. He took the delight
of a short-story writer in making his work as compact and unified
as possible. In fact, the formal theory of the symphonic poem would
read much like Poe’s well known theory of the short story. Let there
be some predominant character or idea--‘a single unique effect,’ in
Poe’s language--and let this be developed through the various incidents
of the narration, changing according to the changing conditions,
but always retaining an obvious relation to the central idea. Or,
in musical terms, select a single theme (or at most two or three)
representing the central character or idea, and repeat and develop this
in various forms and moods. This principle brought to a high efficiency
a device which Berlioz used only tentatively--that of _transformation_.
To Liszt a theme should always be fluid, rarely repeating itself
exactly, for a story never repeats itself. And his musicianship and
invention show themselves at their best (and sometimes at their worst)
in his constant variation of his themes through many styles and forms.

But such formal statement as this is vague and meaningless without
the practical application which Liszt gave it. The second and in many
respects the noblest of Liszt’s symphonic poems is the ‘Tasso, Lament
and Triumph,’ composed in 1849 to accompany a festival performance of
Goethe’s play at Weimar on the hundredth anniversary of the poet’s
birth. The subject caught hold of Liszt’s romantic imagination. He
confesses, like the good romanticist that he is, that Byron’s treatment
of the character appealed to him more than Goethe’s. ‘Nevertheless,’
he says in his preface to the work, ‘Byron, in his picture of Tasso in
prison, was unable to add to the remembrance of his poignant grief,
so nobly and eloquently uttered in his “Lament,” the thought of the
“Triumph” that a tardy justice gave to the chivalrous author of
“Jerusalem Delivered.” We have sought to mark this dual idea in the
very title of our work, and we should be glad to have succeeded in
pointing this great contrast--the genius who was misjudged during his
life, surrounded, after death, with a halo that destroyed his enemies.
Tasso loved and suffered at Ferrara; he was avenged at Rome; his
glory still lives in the folk-songs of Venice. These three elements
are inseparable from his memory. To represent them in music, we first
called up his august spirit as he still haunts the waters of Venice.
Then we beheld his proud and melancholy figure as he passed through
the festivals of Ferrara where he had produced his master-works.
Finally, we followed him to Rome, the eternal city, that offered him
the crown and glorified in him the martyr and the poet.’ A few lines
further Liszt says: ‘For the sake, not merely of authority, but the
distinction of historical truth, we put our idea into realistic form
in taking for the theme of our musical hero the melody to which we
have heard the gondoliers of Venice sing over the waters the lines of
Tasso, and utter them three centuries after the poet.’ The theme is
one of the finest in the whole Liszt catalogue. We need hardly go to
the length of saying that its origin was a fiction on the part of the
composer, but doubtless he changed it generously to suit his musical
needs. Yet his evident delight in its pretended origin is typical of
the man and the time; romanticism had a sentimental veneration for
‘the people,’ especially the people of the Middle Ages, and a Venetian
gondolier would naturally be the object of a shower of quite undeserved
sentimental poetry. The whole story, and the atmosphere which
surrounded it, was meat for Liszt’s imagination.

[Illustration: Music score]

This is the theme--a typical one--which Liszt transforms, ‘according
to the changing conditions,’ to delineate his hero’s struggles, the
heroic character of the man; his determination to achieve greatness;
his ‘proud and melancholy figure as he passed through the festivals at
Ferrara’--the theme of the dance itself is developed from the Tasso
motif:

[Illustration: Music score]

and then his boisterous acclamation by the crowd in Rome:

[Illustration: Music score]

And here, for a moment, the listener hides his face. For Liszt has
become as cheap as any bar-room fiddler. His theme will not stand this
transformation. It happens again and again in Liszt, this forcing of a
theme into a mold in which it sounds banal. No doubt the acclamations
of the crowd _were_ banal (if Liszt intended it that way), but this
thought cannot compensate a listener who is having his ears pained. It
is one of the regrettable things about Liszt, whose best is very nearly
equal to the greatest in music, that he sometimes sails into a passage
of banality without seeming to be at all conscious of it. Perhaps in
this case he was conscious of it, but stuck to his plan for the sake
of logical consistency. (The most frenzied radicals are sometimes the
most rigid doctrinaires.) The matter is worth dwelling on for a moment,
because it is one of the most characteristic faults of the great man.
In the present case we are compensated for this vulgar episode by the
grand ‘apotheosis’ which closes the work:

[Illustration: Music score]

Such is the method, and it is in principle the same as that since
employed by all composers of ‘symphonic poems’--of program music in
fact.

Liszt’s symphonic poems number twelve (excluding one, ‘From the
Cradle to the Grave’ which was left unfinished at the time of his
death). When they are at their best they are among the most inspiring
things in modern music. But Liszt’s strange absence of self-criticism
mingles with these things passages which an inferior composer might
have been suspicious of. In consequence many of his symphonic poems
have completely dropped from our concert programs. Such ones as the
‘Hamlet,’ the _Festklänge_, and ‘What is to Be Heard on the Mountain,’
are hardly worth the efforts of any orchestra. _Les Préludes_, on the
other hand, remains one of the most popular of our concert pieces.
Nowhere are themes more entrancing than in this work, or his structural
form more convincing. ‘The Ideal,’ after Schiller’s poems, was one
of Wagner’s favorites among the twelve, but is uneven in quality.
‘Orpheus,’ which is less ‘programmistic’ than any of the others, in
that it attempts only an idealized picture of the mythical musician,
is worked out on a consistently high plane of musicianship. ‘Mazeppa,’
narrating the ride of Byron’s hero tied on the back of a wild horse,
is simply an elaboration and orchestral scoring of one of the piano
études published as Liszt’s opus 1 in 1826. The étude was even
entitled ‘Mazeppa,’ and was descriptive of the wild ride, so we may, if
we choose, give Liszt the credit of having schemed the symphonic poem
form in germ before he became acquainted with the works of Berlioz.
‘Hungaria,’ a heroic fantasy on Hungarian tunes, should have been, one
would think, one of the best of Liszt’s works, but in point of fact
it sounds strangely empty, and exhibits to an irritating degree the
composer’s way of playing to the gallery. The _Festklänge_ was written,
tradition says, to celebrate his expected marriage with the Princess
von Wittgenstein, and, in view of Huneker’s remark that Liszt accepted
the Pope’s veto to this project ‘with his tongue in his cheek,’ we may
assume that its emptiness was a true gauge of his feelings. In most
of these works there is more than one chief theme, and sometimes a
pronounced antithesis or contrast of two themes. In this classification
falls ‘The Preludes,’ which, in attempting to trace man’s struggles
preparatory to ‘that great symphony whose initial note is sounded by
death,’ makes use of two themes, each of rare beauty, to depict the
heroic and the gentle sides of the hero’s nature, respectively. The
antithesis is more pronounced in ‘The Battle of the Huns,’ founded on
Kalbeck’s picture, which is meant to symbolize the struggle between
Christianity (or the Church) and Paganism. The Huns have a wild minor
theme in triplets, and the Church is represented by the Gregorian hymn,
_Crux Fidelis_.

Thus by works as well as by faith Liszt established the musical type
which best expressed his fervent romantic nature. The symphonic poem
form, coming to something like maturity at the hands of one man, was
a proof of his intellectuality and his high musicianship. We may wish
that he had written less and criticized his work more, but many of the
pages are inescapable in their beauty. In them we are in the very
heart of nineteenth-century romanticism.

Since the early days of violent opposition to Berlioz and Liszt the
question of the ‘legitimacy’ of program music has not ceased to
interest theorists. There are not a few writers to-day who stoutly
maintain that the program and the pictorial image have no place in
music; that music, being constructed out of wholly abstract stuff, must
exist of and for itself. They wish to have music ‘pure,’ to keep it to
its ‘true function’ or its ‘legitimate place.’ Music, they say, can
never truly imitate or describe outward life, and debases itself if it
makes the unsuccessful attempt.

Yet program music continues to be written in ever-increasing abundance,
and, though from the practical point of view it needs no apologist, it
boasts an increasing number who defend it on various grounds. These
theorists point to the ancient and more or less honorable history of
program music, extending back into the dark ages of the art. They
mention the greatest names of classical music--Bach and Beethoven--as
those of composers who have at least tried their hand at it. They
show that the classic ideal of the ‘purity of the arts’ (by no means
practised in classical Greece, by the way) has broken down in every
domain, and that some of the greatest works have been produced in
defiance of it. And, arguing more cogently, they point out that whether
or not music _should_ evoke visual images in people’s minds, evoke them
it does, and in a powerful degree. When _Tod und Verklärung_ makes
vivid to the imaginations of thousands the soul’s agonies of death
and ecstasies of spiritual resurrection, it is no better than yelping
at the moon to moan that this music is not ‘pure,’ or is out of its
‘proper function.’

Undoubtedly it is true that music which attempts to be accurately
imitative or descriptive of physical objects or events is not worth
the trouble. Certainly bad music cannot become good merely by having
a program. But it is to be noted that all the great composers of
program music insisted that their work should have a musical value
apart from its program. Even Berlioz, as extreme as any in his program
music, recorded the hope that his _Fantastique_, even if given without
the program, would ‘still offer sufficient musical interest in
itself.’ As music the _Fantastique_ has lived; as descriptive music
it has immensely added to its interest and vividness in the minds of
audiences. And so with all writers of program music up to Strauss and
even Schönberg, with his _Pelleas und Melisande_ (though Schönberg is
one of the most abstract of musicians in temperament).

Further, good program music throws its emphasis much more on the
emotional than on the literal story to be told. Liszt rarely describes
outward events. He is always depicting some emotion in his characters,
or some sentimental impression in himself. And there are few, even
among the most conservative of theorists, who will deny the power of
music to suggest emotional states. If so, why is it not ‘legitimate’ to
suggest the successive emotional states of a particular character, as,
for instance, Tasso? The fact that a visual image may be present in the
minds of the hearers does not alter the status of the music itself. If
we admit this, then we can hardly deny that the composer has a right to
evoke this image, by means of a ‘program’ at the beginning.

The fact is that not one listener in a hundred has any sense of true
absolute music--the pure ‘pattern music’ which is as far from emotions
and sentiments as a conventional design is from a Whistler etching.
Even the most rabid of purists, who exhaust a distinguished vocabulary
of abuse in characterizing program music, may expend volumes of emotion
in endeavoring to discover the ‘meaning’ of classical symphonies.
They may build up elaborate significations for a Beethoven symphony
which its composer left quite without a program, making each movement
express some phase of the author’s soul, or detecting the particular
emotion which inspired this or that one. They will even build up a
complete programmistic scheme for _every_ symphony, ordaining that the
first movement expresses struggle, the second meditation, the third
happiness, and the last triumph--and more of the like. They will enact
that a symphony is ‘great’ only in so far as it expresses the totality
of emotional experience--of _specific_ emotional experience, be it
noted. This sort of ‘interpretation’ has been wished on any number of
classical symphonies which were utterly innocent of any intent save the
intent to charm the ear. And nearly always the deed has been done by
professed enemies of program music.

But, in spite of the fact that the instinct for programs and meanings
resides in nearly every breast, still there _is_ a theoretical case for
absolute music. There is nothing to prove that music, in and of itself,
has any specific emotional implications whatsoever. It is merely an
organization of tones. As such, since it sets our nerves tingling, it
can indeed arouse emotion, but not _emotions_. That is, it can heighten
and excite our nervous state, but what particular form that nervous
state will take is determined by other factors. In psychological
language, it increases our suggestibility. Under the nervous excitement
produced by music a particular emotional suggestion will more readily
make an impression, and this impression will become associated in our
minds with the music itself. The program is such a suggestion. In a
more precise way the words and actions of a music drama supply the
suggestion. Of course, we have been so long and so constantly under
the influence of musical suggestions that music without a particular
suggestion may have a more or less specific import to us. Slow minor
music we are wont to call ‘sad,’ and rapid major music ‘gay.’ But
this is because such music has nearly always, in our experience, been
associated with the sort of mood it is supposed to express. Somewhere,
in the course of our musical education, there came the specific
suggestion from outside.

But this discussion is purely theoretical. The practical fact is that
music, thanks to a complex web of traditional suggestion, is capable
of bringing to us more or less precise emotional meanings--or even
pictorial meanings, for there is no dividing line. And this fact must
be the starting point for any practical discussion of the ‘legitimacy’
of programme music. Starting with it, we find it difficult to exclude
any sort of music on purely abstract grounds. Any individual may
personally care more for ‘abstract’ music than for program music; that
is his privilege. But it is a very different thing to try to ordain
‘legitimacy’ for others, and legislate a great mass of beautiful music
out of artistic existence.

After all, the case reduces to this: that an ounce of practice is worth
a ton of precept. And the successful practice of program music is one
of the chief glories of the romantic movement. Whatever may have been
the faults of the period, it demonstrated its faith by deed, and the
present musical age is impregnated with this faith from top to bottom.

H. K. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[98] ‘Berlioz’s Memoirs,’ Chap. X.

[99] ‘Letters to Humbert Ferrand,’ quoted in Everyman English edition
of the Memoirs, Chapters XV and XVI.

CHAPTER X
ROMANTIC OPERA AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHORAL SONG

The rise of German opera; Weber and the romantic opera; Weber’s
followers--Berlioz as opera composer--The _drame lyrique_ from
Gounod to Bizet--_Opéra comique_ in the romantic period; the _opéra
bouffe_--Choral and sacred music of the romantic period.

If vivid imagery was one of the chief lusts of the romantic school it
would seem that opera should have proved one of its most typical and
effective art forms. And, throughout the time, opera flourished in the
theatres of Germany, and in Paris as a matter of course. Yet we cannot
say that the artistic output was as excellent as we might expect. Of
the works to be described in this chapter not more than eight are
to-day thoroughly alive, and two of these are overestimated choral
works. Yet in the most real sense the opera of the romantic period
prepared the way for Wagner, who would no doubt be called a romanticist
if he were not too great for any labels. And much of the music of the
period, though it has been displaced by modern works (styles change
more quickly in opera than in any other form) has a decided interest
and value if we do not take too high an attitude toward it.

Modern opera can be dated from _Der Freischütz_. Yet it goes without
saying (since nothing is quite new under the sun) that the work was
not as novel in its day as it seems to us after the lapse of nearly a
century. The elements of romanticism had existed in opera long before
Weber’s time. In Gluck’s ‘Armide’ the voluptuous adventures of Rinaldo
in the enchantress’s garden had breathed the spirit of the German
folk-lore awakening, though treated in Gluck’s style of classical
purity. Mozart, especially, must be counted among the romanticists of
opera. The final scene of _Don Giovanni_, with its imaginative playing
with the supernatural, to the accompaniment of most impressive music,
seems to be a sketch in preparation for _Freischütz_. And the spirit
of German song had already entered into opera in ‘The Magic Flute,’
which is in great part as truly German as Weber, except for its Italian
grace and delicacy of treatment. Moreover, ‘The Magic Flute’ was a
_singspiel_, or dramatic work with music interspersed with spoken
text--the form in which _Der Freischütz_ was written. Mozart’s opera
might have founded the German school, had conditions been different,
but beyond the fact that the story is obscure and distinctly not
national, the German national movement had not yet begun. We have seen
in a previous chapter how it took repeated invasions and insults from
Napoleon to arouse patriotism throughout the disjointed German lands,
and how the patriotic spirit had to fight the repression of the courts
at every turn. We have seen how it was hounded from the streets to the
cellars and how from beneath ground it cried for some work of art which
should symbolize and express its aspiration while it was in hiding.
It was this conjunction of conditions which gave _Freischütz_ such
peculiar popularity at the time--a popularity, however, which was fully
justified by its artistic value and could not have been achieved in
such overwhelming degree without it.

The Italian opera, before Weber’s time, had carried everything its own
way. Those patriots who longed for the creation of a German operatic
art had no sort of tradition to turn to except the _singspiel_. This
was never regarded highly, and was considered quite beneath the
dignity of the aristocracy and of those who prided themselves on being
artistically _comme il faut_. And it was frequently as cheap and thin
(not to say coarse) as a second-rate vaudeville ‘skit’ to-day. But it
had in it elements of good old German humor, together with occasional
doses of German pathos, and cultivated a German type of song, such as
then existed. At any rate, it was all there was. Weber had no turn
for the Italian ways of doing things, and little knowledge of them.
So when he sought to write serious German opera that should appeal to
a great mass of the people--the desire for national popularity had
already been stirred in him by the success of his _Leyer und Schwert_
songs--he was obliged to write in a tongue that was understood by his
fellow men. It is doubtful whether _Der Freischütz_ could have gained
its wide popularity had its few pages of spoken dialogue been replaced
by musical recitative in the Italian style. Such is the influence of
tradition.

But he had no need to be ashamed of the true German tradition to which
he attached himself. The _singspiel_, which represented all there
was of German opera, frequently cultivated a style of music which,
if simple, was genuinely musical and highly refined. Reichardt’s
singspiel, _Erwin und Elmire_, to Goethe’s text, has been mentioned
in the chapter on Romantic Song, and its Mozart-like charm of melody
referred to. The singspiel was a repository for German song, and
frequently drew upon German folk-lore or ‘house’ lore for its subject
matter. It needed only the right genius at the right time to raise it
into a supreme art form.

As early as 1810, when Weber was still sowing his wild oats and
flirting with a literary career, he had run across the story of the
_Freischütz_ in Apel’s newly published book of German ‘ghost-tales.’
The subject stirred his imagination and he planned to make an opera
of it. But he found other things to turn his hand to, and was unable
to hit upon a satisfactory librettist until in 1817 he met Friedrich
Kind, who had already become popular with his play, _Das Nachtlager von
Granada_. Kind took up with the idea, and in ten days completed his
libretto. Weber worked at it slowly, but with great zest. Four years
later, on the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, it was performed
for the first time, at the opening of the new Royal Theatre in Berlin.
Its electric success, as it went through the length and breadth of
Germany, has been described in a previous chapter.

Kind deserves a large share of the credit for the success of the work,
though it must be confessed that he did not wear his laurels with
much dignity. He protested rather childishly against the excision of
two superfluous scenes from his libretto, and was forever trying to
exaggerate his share in the artistic partnership. It seems to have been
pique which prevented him from writing more librettos for Weber--and
what a series of operas might have come out of that union! In 1843,
long after Weber’s death, he published a book, _Das Freischützbuch_, in
which he aired his griefs. The volume would have little significance
except for one or two remarkable statements in it. ‘Every opera,’ he
says, ‘must be a complete whole, not only from the musical, but also
from the poetical point of view.’ And again: ‘I convinced myself that
through the union of all arts, as poetry, music, action, painting, and
dance, a great whole could be formed.’ How striking these statements
sound in view of the art theories which Wagner was evolving for himself
five and ten years later! And it must be said, to Kind’s justice,
that he had worked consistently on this theory in the writing of the
_Freischütz_ libretto. He had insisted that Weber set his work as he
had written it, and his insistence seems to have been due to more than
a petty pride.

The opera tells a story which had long been told, in one form or
another, in German homes. Max, a young hunter, aspires to the position
of chief huntsman on Prince Ottokar’s domains. If he gains it he will
have the hand of the retiring chief huntsman’s daughter, Agathe, whom
he loves. His success depends upon overcoming all rivals in a shooting
contest. In the preliminary contest he has made a poor showing. In fear
of failure he listens to the temptation of one Caspar, and sells his
soul to the devil, Samiel, in return for six magic bullets, guaranteed
by infernal charms to hit their mark. A seventh, in Max’s possession,
Samiel retains for his own use. The bullets are charmed and the price
of the soul stipulated upon in dark Wolf’s Glen at midnight. In this
transaction Caspar acts as middleman in the affair in order to induce
Samiel to extend the earthly life of his soul, which has similarly been
sold. On the day of the shooting match Agathe experiences evil omens;
instead of a bridal wreath a funeral wreath has been prepared for her.
She decides to wear sacred roses instead. Max enters the contest and
his six bullets hit the mark. Then, at the prince’s commands, he shoots
at a passing dove--with the seventh bullet. Agathe falls with a shriek,
but she is protected by her sacred wreath and the bullet pierces
Caspar’s heart. Overcome with remorse Max confesses his sin. He is
about to be banished in disgrace when a passing hermit pleads for him,
urging his extreme temptation in extenuation, and he is restored by the
prince to all his happiness, on condition that he pass successfully
through a year’s probation.

This story may stand as a type of the romantic opera plots of the
time. Of first importance was its use of purely German materials--the
national element which gave it its political significance. Only second
in importance was the fact that it was drawn from folk-lore and hence
was material intelligible and interesting to everybody, as contrasted
with the classic stories of the operas and plays of eighteenth century
France, which were intelligible only to the upper class educated in the
classics, and which was specifically intended to exclude the vulgar
rabble from participation and so serve as a sort of test of gentility.
Third was the incidental fact of the form which this democratic and
national spirit took--an interest in the element of the bizarre, the
fanciful, and the supernatural. It was wholly suited to the tastes
of the romantic age that the devil Samiel should come upon the stage
in person and charm the seven bullets before the gaping eyes of the
audience.

The music shows Weber supreme in two important qualities, the folk
sense and the dramatic sense. No one before him had been able to
put into opera so well the very spirit of German folk-song, as he
did in Agathe’s famous moonlight scene, or in the impressive male
chorus, accompanied by the brass, in the first act. In power of
characterization Weber is second only to Mozart. The opening duet of
the second act, sung by the dreamy Agathe and the sprightly Ännchen,
gives to each character a melody which expresses her state of soul,
yet the two combine with utmost grace. In his characterization of the
supernatural Weber had no adequate prototype save the Mozart of the
cemetery and supper scenes in _Don Giovanni_, for Spohr’s operatic
setting of the Faust legend was classic in tone and method. The verve
of the music of Wolf’s Glen is exhilarating to the imagination. Samiel,
whose speeches are accompanied by rolls or taps on the kettle-drums,
seems to live to our ears and eyes, and as the bullets, one after
another, are charmed, the music rises until it bursts in a stormy fury.
Many of the tunes of _Der Freischütz_ have become folk-songs among
the German people, and the bridal chorus and Agathe’s scene may be
heard among the very children on their way home from school, while the
vigorous huntsmen’s chorus is a staple of German singing societies
wherever the German language is spoken.

From the earliest years of his creative activity Weber had been
composing operas. And they grew steadily better. The one just preceding
_Freischütz_ was _Abu Hassan_, a comic opera in one act telling the
difficulties of Hassan and his wife Fatima to escape their debts. The
dainty and bustling music has helped to keep the piece alive. But the
piece which Weber intended should be his _magnum opus_ was _Euryanthe_,
which followed _Freischütz_. The critics, differing with the public in
their opinion concerning the latter work, admitted Weber’s power of
writing in simple style, but asserted that he could not master longer
concerted forms. Weber accepted the challenge and wrote _Euryanthe_
as a work of pure romanticism, separated from the national element,
conceived on the broadest musical scale. It is a true opera, without
spoken dialogue. The music is in parts the finest Weber ever wrote,
and in more than one way suggests _Lohengrin_, which seems to have
germinated in Wagner’s mind in part from the study of _Euryanthe_.
Weber’s last opera, written on commission from Covent Garden, London,
and completed only a few months before his death, was ‘Oberon,’ a
return to the singspiel type, with much of the other-worldly in its
story. _Euryanthe_ had failed of popular success, chiefly through
its impossibly crude and involved libretto. ‘Oberon’ was better, but
far from ideal. It has, like ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Oberon,
Titania, Puck, and the host of fairies, together with mortal lovers
whose destinies become involved with those of the elves. The music
is often charming, revealing a delicacy of imagination not found in
_Freischütz_, but it is lacking in characterizing power, and reveals
its composer’s lessening bodily and mental vigor.

Weber had established German opera on a par with Italian, and there
stood men ready to take up his mantle. Chief of these was Heinrich
Marschner.[100] He is best known by his opera _Hans Heiling_, which
tells the adventurer of the king of the elves who takes human form as
the schoolmaster, Hans Heiling, in order to win a mortal maiden. The
music is full of romantic imagination and is generally supposed to have
influenced Wagner in the writing of ‘The Flying Dutchman.’ Marschner’s
other important operas are _Templer und Jüdin_, founded upon ‘Ivanhoe,’
and ‘The Vampire.’

Conradin Kreutzer (1780-1849) was a prolific contemporary of
Marschner’s, but little of his music has remained to our time outside
of _Das Nachtlager von Granada_ and a few songs. The music of the
opera is often thin, but now and then Kreutzer could catch the
German folk-spirit as scarcely any others could save Weber. Lortzing
(1801-1851) was a more gifted musician, and several of his operas are
occasionally performed now. Chief of these is _Czar und Zimmermann_,
which tells the adventures of Peter the Great of Russia working among
his shipbuilders. In more farcical vein is _Der Wildschütz_. The music
admirably suits the bustling comedy of peasant intrigue. E. T. A.
Hoffmann, who so deeply influenced Schumann, was a talented composer,
and a number of his operas, thoroughly in the romantic spirit, were
popular at the time. Nicolai’s[101] setting of Shakespeare’s ‘Merry
Wives of Windsor,’ dating from about this time, is a comic opera
classic, and Friedrich von Flotow’s ‘Martha’ is everywhere known. Its
composer (1812-1883) wrote numerous operas, German and French, and at
least one besides ‘Martha’ is still popular in Germany--‘Stradella.’
His music is, however, more French than German, though its rhythmic
grace and piquancy, its easy, simple melody are universal in their
appeal.

Two more important figures, musically considered, are Schumann, with
his one opera, ‘Genoveva,’ and Peter Cornelius, with several works
which deserve more frequent performance than they receive. Schumann had
well-defined longings toward dramatic activity, but had the customary
difficulties of discriminating musicians in finding a libretto. He hit
upon an adaptation of Hebbel’s _Genoveva_, a play drawn from a mediæval
legend, rather diffuse and uneven in workmanship, but suffused with
a noble poetic spirit that is only beginning to be appreciated. The
play lacks the dramatic elements necessary for successful operas, and
Schumann’s music, though filled with beauties, is not fully successful
in characterization, and hence tends to become monotonous. The
overture, however, is a permanent part of our concert programs. We feel
about Schumann as about Schubert (whose several operas, _Fierrabras_,
_Alfonso und Estrella_ and others, need be no more than mentioned),
that they might have produced great dramatic works had they been
permitted to live a little longer.

A man of ample musical stature and far too little reputation is
Cornelius.[102] He was an actor and painter before turning to music.
For some years he served Liszt as secretary and confidant at Weimar,
working hard at music while acting as a sort of literary press agent
for the more radical tendencies in music. He was one of the earliest
to understand and believe in Wagner’s music and theories (see Chapter
XI). As early as 1855 he was attempting to apply them to comic opera.
The result was the two-act opera ‘The Barber of Bagdad,’ which Liszt
thought highly of and brought to performance under his own direction
at the Weimar Court Theatre. But the denizens of Weimar were by this
time tired of the fad of being radical, and laughed the piece off the
stage. It was in disgust at this fiasco that Liszt decided to give up
his directorship in Weimar, and, after a few more months of gradually
slipping away from his duties, he left the town for Italy, returning
thereafter only for occasional visits. ‘The Barber of Bagdad’ (the
libretto by Cornelius himself) carries out Wagner’s theories concerning
the close union of text and music, the dramatic and meaty character of
the libretto, the fusion of recitative and cantilena style, and the
use of the leit-motif. It is full-bodied music, excellent in technique
and, moreover, filled with delightful musical humor and beautiful
melodies. But it insists on treating its sparkling plot with high
artistic seriousness, and this mystified the Weimar audience, who, no
doubt, failed to see why one should take a comic opera so in earnest.
Cornelius’ later opera, ‘The Cid,’ was a serious work in the Wagnerian
style and necessarily was overshadowed by Wagner’s great works, then
just becoming known. It is diffuse and uneven. But the last opera,
_Gunlöd_, left unfinished at the composer’s death and completed by
friends, contains much to justify frequent revival.

The movement which we have just discussed had its parallel in France,
though there the nationalistic element was lacking--conditions did not
call for it; the fight had long since been fought (cf. Chapter I). But
in France, like in Germany, the romantic opera, the _drame lyrique_,
was to grow out of the lighter type, the _opéra comique_, the French
equivalent of the _singspiel_. Before discussing that development,
however, we must consider for a moment the work of a composer who has
already engaged our attention and who cannot be classed with any of his
compatriots.

Hector Berlioz stood apart from the course of French opera. Fashionable
people in his day applauded the pomposity of Meyerbeer and Halévy, the
facility of Auber, but made short work of Berlioz’s operas, when these
were fortunate enough to reach performance. Berlioz might conceivably
have adapted himself to the popular taste, but he was too sincere an
artist and too impetuous an egotist. He continued to the end of his
life writing the best he was capable of--and contracting debts. His
operas were much in advance of his day, and are in many respects in
advance of ours. They continue to be appreciated by connoisseurs, but
the public has little use for the high seriousness of their music. A
daring French impresario recently brought himself to a huge financial
failure by attempting a series of excellent operas on the best possible
scale, and in his list was _Benvenuto Cellini_, which had no small
part in swinging the scale of fortune against him. The second part of
_Les Troyens_ was performed near the end of Berlioz’s life, and was
a flat failure; it did not even succeed in stirring up discussion;
the public was simply indifferent. The first part of ‘The Capture of
Troy’ did not reach the stage until Felix Mottl organized his Berlioz
cycle at Carlsruhe in 1893. Doubtless the chief factor which led to
the failure of these excellent works was their lack of balanced and
readily intelligible melody. Berlioz’s melodic writing was always a
little dry, and one must be something of a gourmet to get beneath the
surface to the rare beauty within. But on the whole it is fair to say
that the music fails of its effect simply because opera publics are too
superficial and stupid. Yet it is possible to see signs of improvement
in this respect, and we may hope for the day when Berlioz’s operas will
have some established place on the lyric stage.

‘Beatrice and Benedict,’ the libretto adapted by Berlioz from
Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ is a work filled to the brim
with romantic loveliness and animal life. It is one of that small class
of comic operas (of which ‘The Barber of Bagdad’ is a distinguished
member), which are of the finest musical quality throughout, yet
thoroughly in accord with the gaiety of their subjects. The thrice
lovely scene and duet which opens the opera has a pervading perfume
of romanticism not often equalled in opera, and the rollicking chorus
of drunken servants in the second act is that rarest of musical
achievements, solid and scholarly counterpoint used to express
boisterous humor. Shakespeare has rarely had the collaboration of a
better poet-musician.

_Benvenuto Cellini_ takes an episode in the artist’s life and narrates
it against the brilliant background of fashionable Rome in carnival
time. The music is picturesque and the carnival scenes are brilliant
and effective. But a far greater interest attaches to Berlioz’s double
opera ‘The Trojans.’ It was the work on which Berlioz lavished the
affection and inspiration of his last years, the failure of which
broke his heart. In it a remarkable change has come over the frenzied
revolutionist of the thirties. It is a work of the utmost restraint,
of the finest sense of form and proportion, of truly classical purity.
Romain Rolland has pointed out the classical nature of Berlioz’s
personality, and the paradox is amply justified by this last opera. In
Rolland’s view Berlioz was a Mozart born out of his time. His sensitive
soul, ‘eternally in need of loving or being loved,’ was seared by
the noise and bustle of the age, and reflected it in his music until
disappointment and failure had forced him to withdraw into his own
personality and write for himself and the muses. Berlioz’s admiration
for Gluck’s theories, music, and artistic personality is vividly
recorded in the earlier pages of the Memoirs. But in his student days
there was no opportunity for such an influence to show itself. In his
last years it came back--all Gluck’s refinement, high artistic aim and
classic self-control, but deepened by a wealth of technical mastery
that Gluck knew nothing of. We are amazed, as we look over the choruses
of ‘The Trojans,’ to see the utter simplicity of the writing, which is
never for a moment routine or commonplace--the simplicity of high and
rigid selection. The first division of the opera tells the story told
in the Iliad, of the finding of the wooden horse, the entrance into
Troy, the night sally, and the sack of the city. Cassandra, priestess
of woe, warns her people, but is received with deaf ears. Over the work
there hangs the tragic earnestness of the Iliad, which Berlioz loved
and studied. In the second division the Trojans are at Carthage, and,
instead of war we have the voluptuous lovemakings of Dido and Æneas,
and the final tragedy of the Trojan queen, all told with such emotional
intensity that the music is almost worthy to stand beside that of
Wagner.

‘The Damnation of Faust,’ which follows the course of Goethe’s
play with special emphasis on the supernatural elements (freely
interpolated), is best known as a concert work, being hardly fitted for
the stage at all. It is picturesque in the highest degree. Berlioz’s
mastery of counterpoint and orchestration is here at its highest. The
interpolated ‘Rackozcy March’ is universally known, and the ‘Dance
of the Sylphs’ is one of the stock examples of Berlioz’s use of the
orchestra for eerie effects. The chorus of demons is sung, for the
sake of linguistic accuracy, to the words which Swedenborg gives as the
authentic language of Hell.

Berlioz’s music admits of no compromise. Either it must come to us or
we must come to it. We have been trying ever since his death to patch
up some kind of middle course.

H. K. M.

III

As we have seen in an earlier chapter, the _opéra comique_ had
developed after Boildieu into a new type, of which Auber, Hérold,
Halévy, and Adam were the principal exponents. These were the men who
prepared the way for the new lyric drama which grew out of the _opéra
comique_--for the romantic opera of Gounod and Thomas. The romantic
movement in French literature had, we may recall, received its impulse
by Victor Hugo, whose _Hernani_ appeared in 1829. Its influence on
French music was most powerful from 1840 on. Composers of all schools
yielded to it in one way or another, from Berlioz, who followed the
ideals of Gluck, to Halévy, whose _Jaguarita l’Indienne_ pictures
romance in the tropics.

The direct result of this influence of literary romanticism was the
creation of the _drame lyrique_. Yet it must not be thought that Thomas
and Gounod deliberately created the _drame lyrique_ as a distinct
operatic form. Auber and others of his school had already produced
operas which may justly lay claim to the titles of lyric dramas. And
the earlier works of both Thomas and Gounod themselves were light in
character. In fact, Thomas’ _La double échelle_ and _Le Perruquier de
la Régence_ are _opéras comique_ of the accepted type; and _Le Caïd_
has received the somewhat doubtful compliment of being considered ‘a
precursor of the Offenbach torrent of _opéra bouffe_.’ In Gounod’s
_Médecin malgré lui_, wherein he anticipated Richard Strauss and
Wolf-Ferrari in choosing a Molière comedy for operatic treatment, the
composer achieved a success. Yet this opera, as well as that charming
modernization of a classic legend, _Philemon et Baucis_, both adhere
strictly to the conventional lines of _opéra comique_.

Gounod’s _Faust_ remains the epochal work of his career. His _Sapho_
(1851) never achieved popularity, but is of interest because it
foreshadows his later style in its departure from tradition; in the
final scene he ‘struck a note of sensuous melancholy new to French
opera.’ Adam (in his capacity as a music critic) even claimed that
in _Sapho_ Gounod was trying to revive Gluck’s system of musical
declamation.

In March, 1859, the first performance of _Faust_ took place at
the Théâtre Lyrique in Paris. In a manner it represents the ideal
combination of the brilliant fancy, dreamy mysticism, and picturesque
description that is the stuff of which romanticism is made. Goethe’s
masterpiece, which had already been used operatically by Spohr, and, to
mention a few among many, had also inspired Schumann, Berlioz, Liszt,
and Wagner, achieved as great a success in the land of Goethe as it did
in France. It was well received at its debut by the critics of the day,
but its success in Paris was gradual, notwithstanding the fact that the
_Révue des Deux Mondes_ spoke of ‘the sustained distinction of style,
the perfect good taste shown in every least detail of the long score,
the color, supreme elegance and discreet sobriety of instrumentation
which reveal the hand of a master.’ But it must be remembered that at
the time of its production Rossini and Meyerbeer were still regarded as
the very incarnation of music.

Gounod’s own style was essentially French, yet he had studied
Mendelssohn and Schumann, and the charm of the poetic sentimentality
that permeated his music was novel in French composition. For several
decades _Faust_ remained the recognized type of modern French opera,
of the _drame lyrique_, embodying the poesy of an entire generation.
The dictum ‘sensuous but not sensual,’ which applies in general to all
Gounod’s work, is especially appropriate to _Faust_. It shows at its
best his lyric genius, his ability to produce powerful effects without
effort, and that languorous seduction which has been deprecated as
an enervating influence in French dramatic art. In spite of elements
unsympathetic to the modern musician, _Faust_, taken as a whole, is a
work of a high order of beauty, shaped by the hand of a master. ‘Every
page of the music tells of a striving after a lofty ideal.’

In _Faust_ Gounod’s work as a creator culminates. His remaining operas
repeat, more or less, the ideas of his masterpiece. The four-act _Reine
de Saba_, given in England under the name of ‘Irene,’ contains noble
pages, but was unsuccessful. Neither did _Mireille_ (1864), founded
on a libretto by the Provençal poet Mistral, nor _Colombe_, a light
two-act operetta, win popular favor. _Romeo et Juliette_ (1867) ranks
as his second-best opera. The composer himself enigmatically expressed
his opinion of the relative values of the two operas in the words:
‘“Faust” is the oldest, but I was younger; “Romeo” is the youngest, but
I was older.’ _Romeo et Juliette_ was an instant success in Paris, and
was eventually transferred to the repertory of the Grand Opera, after
having for some time formed part of that of the Opéra Comique. Gounod’s
last operas _Cinq Mars_ and _Le Tribut de Zamora_, which is in the
style of Meyerbeer, were alike unsuccessful.

Gounod struck a strong personal note, and he may well be considered
the strongest artistic influence in French music up to the death of
César Franck. His art is eclectic, a curious mixture of naïve and
refined sincerity, of real and assumed tenderness, of voluptuousness
and worldly mysticism, and profound religious sentiment. The influence
of ‘Faust’ was at once apparent, and its new and fascinating idiom was
soon taken up by other composers, who responded to its romantic appeal.

Among these was Charles-Louis-Ambroise Thomas (1811-1896), who had
already produced five ambitious operas with varying success before the
appearance of _Faust_. But _Mignon_ (1866) is the opera in which after
_Faust_ the transition from the _opéra comique_ to the romantic poetry
of the lyric drama is most marked. Gounod’s influence acted on Thomas
like a charm. _Mignon_ is an opera of great dramatic truth and beauty,
one which according to Hanslick is ‘the work of a sensitive and refined
artist,’ characterized by ‘rare knowledge of stage effects, skill in
orchestral treatment, and purity of style and sentiment.’ Like Gounod,
Thomas had chosen a subject by Goethe on which to write the opera which
was to raise him among the foremost operatic composers of his day. Mme.
Galti Marie, the creator of the title rôle, had modelled her conception
of the part of the poor orphan girl upon the well-known picture by Ary
Scheffer, and _Mignon_ at once captivated the public, and remained
one of the most popular operas of the second half of the nineteenth
century.[103]

Again, like Gounod, Thomas turned to Shakespeare after having set
Goethe. His ‘Hamlet’ (1868) was successful in Paris for a long time.
And, though the music cannot match its subject, it contains some of
the composer’s best work. The vocal parts are richly ornamented; the
poetically conceived part of Ophelia is a coloratura rôle, such as
modern opera, with the possible exception of Delibes’ _Lakmé_, has not
produced, and the ballet music is brilliant. _Françoise de Rimini_
(1882) and the ballet _La Tempête_ were his last and least popular
dramatic works.

Léo Delibes (1836-1891), a pupil of Adam, is widely known by his
charming ballets. The ballet, which had played so important a part
in eighteenth century opera, was quite as popular in the nineteenth
century. If Vestris, the god of dance, had passed with the passing of
the Bourbon monarchy, there were Taglioni (who danced the Tyrolienne
in _Guillaume Tell_ and the _pas de fascination_ in Meyerbeer’s
_Robert le Diable_), Fanny Elssler, and Carlotta Grisi, full of grace
and gentility, to give lustre to the art of dancing. The ballet as
an individual entertainment apart from opera was popular during the
greater part of the nineteenth century, and was brought to a high
perfection, best typified by the famous Giselle, written for Carlotta
Grisi, on subject taken from Heinrich Heine, arranged by Théophile
Gautier, and set to music by Adam. To this kind of composition Delibes
contributed music of unusual charm and distinction. _La Source_ shows
a wealth of ravishing melody and made such an impression that the
composer was asked to write a divertissement, the famous _Pas des
Fleurs_ to be introduced in the ballet _Le Corsaire_, by his old master
Adam, for its revival in 1867. His ‘Coppelia’ ballet, written to
accompany a pretty comedy of the same name, and the grand mythological
ballet ‘Sylvia’ are considered his best and established his superiority
as a composer of artistic dance music.

The music of Delibes’ operas is unfailingly tender and graceful, and
his scores remain charming specimens of the lyric style. _Le roi l’a
dit_ (1873) is a dainty little work upon an old French subject, ‘as
graceful and fragile as a piece of Sèvres porcelain.’ _Jean de Nivelle_
has passed from the operatic repertory, but _Lakmé_ is a work of
exquisite charm, its music dreamy and sensuous as befits its oriental
subject, and full of local color. In _Lakmé_ and the unfinished
_Kassaya_[104] Delibes shows an awakening to the possibilities of
oriental color. Ernest Reyer’s (1823-1909) _Salammbo_ is in the same
direction; but it is Félicien David (1810-1876) who must be credited
with first drawing attention to Eastern subjects as being admirably
adapted to operatic treatment. He was a pupil of Cherubini, Reber[105]
and Fétis, and he was for a time associated with the activity of the
Saint-Simonian Socialists. Later he made a tour of the Orient from
1833 to 1835; then, returning to Paris with an imagination powerfully
stimulated by his long stay in the East, he set himself to express the
spirit of the Orient in music. The first performance of his symphonic
ode _Le Désert_ (1844) made him suddenly famous. It was followed by the
operas _Christophe Colomb_, _Eden_, and _La Perle du Brésil_, which
was brilliantly successful. Another great operatic triumph was the
delightful _Lalla Roukh_ which had a run of one hundred nights from May
in less than a year (1862-1863). At a time when the works of Berlioz
were still unappreciated by the majority of people, David succeeded
in making the public take an interest in music of a picturesque and
descriptive kind, and in this connection may be considered one of the
pioneers of the French _drame lyrique_. _Le Désert_ founded the school
which counts not only _Lakmé_ and _Salammbo_ but also Massenet’s _Le
Roi de Lahore_ and many others among its representatives.

No French composer responded more delightfully to the orientalism
of David than Georges Bizet (1838-1875) in his earlier works. His
_Pêcheurs de Perles_ (1863) tells the loves of two Cingalese pearl
fishers for the priestess Leila. It had but a short run, though its
dreamy melodies are enchanting. Several of its forceful dramatic scenes
foreshadow the power and variety of _Carmen_. His second opera _La
jolie fille de Perth_ (1867), a tuneful and effective work, was based
upon one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels; but in _Djamileh_ (1872), his
third opera, he returned to an Eastern subject. This was the most
original effort he had thus far made, and it was thought so advanced at
the time of its production, that accusations of Wagnerism--at that time
anything but praise in Paris--were hurled at the composer. He was more
fortunate in the incidental music he wrote for Alphonse Daudet’s drama
_L’Arlésienne_, which is still a favorite in the concert hall.

It has been said that the quality of Bizet’s operatic work, like that
of Gluck, depended in a measure on the value of his book. He was indeed
fortunate in the libretto of _Carmen_, adapted from Prosper Merimée’s
celebrated study of Spanish gypsy character, by Meilhac and Ludovic
Halévy, the best librettists of their day. The dramatic element in
the story as written was hidden by much descriptive analysis, but by
discarding this the authors produced one of the most famous libretti
in the whole range of opera. _Carmen_ was brought out at the Opéra
Comique in 1875. Bizet’s occasional use of the Wagnerian leading motive
was perhaps responsible for some of the coldness with which the work
was originally received. Its passionate force was dubbed brutality,
though we now know that it is a most fine artistic feeling which makes
the score of _Carmen_ what it is. _Carmen_ was to Bizet what _Der
Freischütz_ was to Weber. It represents the absolute harmony of the
composer with his work. In modern opera of real artistic importance
it is the perfect model of the lyric song-play type, and as such it
has exercised a great influence on dramatic music. It is in every way
a masterpiece. The libretto is admirably concise and well balanced,
the music full of a lasting vitality, the orchestration brilliant.
Unhappily, only three months after its production in Paris the genial
composer died suddenly of heart trouble. His early death--he was
no more than thirty-seven--robbed the French school of one of its
brightest ornaments, one who had infused in the _drame lyrique_ of
Gounod and Thomas the vivifying breath of dramatic truth. The later
development of French operatic romanticism in Massenet and others,
as well as Saint-Saëns’ revival of the classic model, are more fitly
reserved for future consideration. Our present object has been to
describe the development of the _drame lyrique_ out of the older comic
opera, and in a manner this culminates in _Carmen_.

We have still to give an account of the development of the _opéra
comique_ in another direction--that of farcical comedy, a task which
falls well within the chronological limits of this chapter. One
reason for the gradual approximation of the _opéra comique_ to the
_drame lyrique_ and grand opera, quite aside from the influence of
romanticism, lay in the appearance of the _opéra bouffe_, representing
parody, not sentiment. For if the _opéra comique_ and _drame lyrique_
of the first three quarters of the nineteenth century represented the
advance of artistic taste and the preference of the musically educated
for the essentially romantic rather than the merely entertaining; the
_opéra bouffe_ or farcical operetta, a small and trivial form, was the
delight of the musical groundlings of the second empire, at a time when
the pursuit of pleasure and the satisfaction of material wants were
the great preoccupations of society; Jacques Offenbach (1819-1880) was
in a sense the creator of this Parisian novelty. Though Offenbach was
born of German-Jewish parents in Cologne, the greater part of his life
was spent in Paris, and his music was more typically French than that
of any of his French rivals. The tone of French society during the
period of the Second Empire was set by the court. The court organized
innumerable entertainments, banquets, reviews, and gorgeous official
ceremonies which succeeded one another without interruption. Music
hall songs and _opéras bouffes_, races and public festivals, evening
restaurants and the amusements they provided, made the fame of this new
Paris. And the music of the music halls and _opéras bouffes_ was the
music of Offenbach, the offspring of ‘an eccentric, rather short-kilted
and disheveled Muse,’ who later assumed a soberer garb in the hands of
Lecocq, Audran, and Hervé.

In conjunction with Offenbach the librettists Meilhac and Ludovic
Halévy were the authors of these _operettes_ and _farces_ which
made the prosperity of the minor Parisian theatres of the period.
The libretto of the _opéra bouffe_ was usually one of intrigue,
witty, if coarse, and into the texture of which the representation
of contemporary whims and social oddities was cleverly interwoven.
Although the _opéras bouffes_ were broad and lively libels of the
society of the time, ‘they savored strongly of the vices and the
follies they were supposed to satirize.’ Offenbach was peculiarly
happy in developing in musical burlesque the extravagant character of
his situations. His melodic vein, though often trivial and vulgar,
was facile and spontaneous, and he was master of an ironical musical
humor.[106] The theatre which he opened as the ‘Bouffes Parisiens’
in 1855 was crowded night after night by those who came to hear his
brilliant, humorous trifles. _La grande duchesse de Gerolstein_, in
which the triumph of the Bouffes Parisiens culminated, is perhaps
the most popular burlesque operetta ever written, and it marked
the acceptance of _opéra bouffe_ as a new form worth cultivating.
Offenbach’s works were given all over Europe, were imitated by
Lecocq, Audran, Planquette, and others; and, being gay, tuneful, and
exhilarating, were not hindered in becoming popular by their want
of refinement. But after 1870 the vogue of parody largely declined,
and, though Offenbach composed industriously till the time of his
death and though his _opéras bouffes_ are still given here and there
at intervals, the form he created has practically passed away. As a
species akin in verbal texture to the _comédie grivoise_ of Collet,
adapted to the idiom of a later generation, and as a return of
the _opéra comique_ to the burlesque and extravagance of the old
vaudeville, the _opéra bouffe_ has a genuine historic interest.

But it must not be forgotten that Offenbach created at least one work
which is still a favorite number of the modern grand opera repertory.
This is _Les Contes d’Hoffmann_, a fantastic opera in three acts. It
appeared after his death. It is genuine _opéra comique_ of the romantic
type, rich in pleasing grace of expression, in variety of melodic
development, and grotesque fancy; and, though the music lacks depth, it
is descriptive and imaginatively interesting, wonderfully charming and
melodious, and has survived when the hundred or more _opéras bouffes_
which Offenbach composed are practically forgotten.

F. H. M.

Having described the trend of operatic development in various
directions, there remains only one class of composition which, though
partially allied to it in form, is usually so different in spirit as
to appear at first sight antagonistic--namely, choral song. Choral
song has had, especially in recent times, a distinct development
independent of the church, and in this broader field it has assumed
a new importance. The Romantic influence made itself felt even in the
church, though perhaps secondarily--for, like the Renaissance, it was
a purely secular movement. For purposes of convenience, however, the
secular and sacred works are here treated together.

[Illustration: Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy]

Of the choral church music of the German romantic period only two works
are frequently heard in these days--the ‘Elijah’ and ‘St. Paul’ of
Mendelssohn. The church had largely lost its hold over great composers,
and when it did succeed in attracting them it did so spasmodically and
by the romantic stimulus of its ritual rather than by direct patronage.
And the spirit of the time was not favorable to the oratorio form.
Mendelssohn’s great success in this field is due to his rare power of
revivifying classical procedure with romantic coloring. And his success
was far greater in pious and unoperatic England than in his native
land. The oratorio form did exercise some attraction for composers of
the period, but their activity took rather a secular form. Schumann,
who composed scarcely any music for the church, worked hard at secular
choral music.

Schubert, as a remnant of the classic age, wrote masses as a matter of
course. They are beautiful yet, and their lovely melodies rank beside
those of Mozart’s, though far below Mozart in mastery of the polyphonic
manner. Schubert’s cantata, ‘Miriam’s Song of Victory,’ written toward
the end of his life, is a charming work for chorus and soprano solo,
full of color and energy, conquering by its triumphantly expressive
melody.

In Byron’s ‘Manfred’ Schumann found a work which took his fancy, in
the morbid years of the decline of his mental powers. Byron’s hero
fell in love with his beautiful sister and locked himself up in a
lonely castle and communed with demons in his effort to live down his
incestuous affection. The soul of the man is shown in the well known
overture, and many of the emotional scenes have a tremendous power.
Perhaps best of all are the delicate choruses of the spirits. The great
vitality and beauty of the music make one wish that this work could
have been a music drama instead of disjointed scenes for concert use.
In ‘Paradise and the Peri’ Schumann found a subject dear to his heart,
but his creative power was failing and the musical result is uneven.
In the scenes from Goethe’s ‘Faust,’ especially in the mystical third
part, he rose higher, occasionally approaching his best level. The
spirit of these works, so intense, so genuine, so broad in conception,
so much more profound than that of his early piano pieces and songs,
make us want to protest against the fate that robbed him of his mental
balance, and robbed the world of what might have been a ‘third period’
analogous to Beethoven’s.

Mendelssohn was canny enough (whether consciously or not) to use the
thunder of romanticism in a modified form for his own profit. The
intensity of the romanticists had in his time achieved a little success
with the general public--to the extent of a love for flowing, sensuous
melody and a taste for pictorial music. This, and no more, Mendelssohn
adopted in his music. Hence he was the ‘sane’ romanticist of his time.
We can say this without depreciating his sound musicianship, which was
based on all that was greatest and best in German music. At times in
the ‘Elijah’ one can imagine one’s self in the atmosphere of Bach and
Handel. But not for long. Mendelssohn was writing pseudo-dramatic music
for the concert hall, and was tickling people’s love for the theatrical
while gratifying their weakness for respectable piety. At least this
characterization will hold for England, which took Mendelssohn with
a seriousness that seems quite absurd in our day. The ‘Elijah,’ in
fact, can be acted on the stage as an opera, and has been so acted
more than once. The wind and the rain which overtake the sacrifices
to Baal are vividly pictured in the music and throughout the work the
theatrical exploits of the holy man of God are made the most of. Yet
the choruses in ‘Elijah’ often attain a high nobility, and the deep
and sound musicianship, the mastery of counterpoint, and the sense of
formal balance which the work shows compel our respect. ‘St. Paul,’
written several years earlier, is in all ways an inferior work. There
is little in it of the high seriousness of Handel, and it could hardly
hold the place it still holds except for the melodic grace of some of
its arias. In all that makes oratorio dignified and compelling, Spohr’s
half-forgotten ‘Last Judgment,’ highly rated in its day, would have the
preference.

The bulk of the sacred music of the romantic period must be sought
for on the shelves of the musical libraries. Many a fine idea went
into this music. But it has never succeeded in permanently finding
a home in the church or in the concert hall. The Roman church, the
finest institution ever organized for the using of musical genius, has
steadily drawn away from the life of the world about it in the last
century. The Italian revolution of 1871, which resulted in the loss
of the Pope’s temporal power, was a symbol of the separation that had
been going on since the French Revolution. The church, drawing away
from contact whenever it felt its principles to be at stake, lost the
services of the distinguished men of art which it had had so absolutely
at its disposal during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Liszt,
pious Catholic throughout his later life, would have liked nothing
better than to become the Palestrina of the nineteenth century church,
but, though he had the personal friendship and admiration of the pope,
his music was always too theatrical to be quite acceptable to the
ecclesiastical powers. Since the distinguished men of secular music
have consistently failed to make permanent connections with the church
in these later days, it is a pity that the quality of scholarly and
excellent music which is written for it by the composers it retains
in its service is not known to the outside world. For the church has
a whole line of musicians of its own, but so far as the history of
European music is concerned they might as well never have existed.

Berlioz’s gigantic ‘Requiem,’ which is known to all music students,
is rarely performed. The reason is obvious; its vast demands on
orchestral and choral resources, described in the succeeding chapter,
make its adequate performance almost a physical as well as a financial
impossibility. The work is theatrical in the highest degree. Its four
separated orchestras, its excessive use of the brass, its effort after
vast masses of tone have no connection with a church service--nor were
they meant to have. On the whole, Berlioz was more interested in his
orchestra than in his music in this work. If reduced to the piano score
the ‘Requiem’ would seem flat and uninspired music. At the same time,
its apologists are right in claiming that outside of its orchestral and
choral dress it is not itself and cannot be judged. Given as it was
intended to be given, it is in the highest degree effective. Some of
the church music which Berlioz wrote in his earlier years has little
interest now except to the Berlioz student, but the oratorio ‘The
Childhood of Christ’ (for which the composer wrote the text) is a fine
work in his later chastened manner.

While Gounod is most usually known as a composer of opera, we must not
forget that he wrote for the church throughout his life, and that, in
the opinion of Saint-Saëns, his ‘St. Cecilia Mass,’ and the oratorios
‘The Redemption’ and _Mors et Vita_ will survive all his operas. In
all his sacred music Gounod has struck the happy medium between the
popularity which easy melodious and inoffensive harmony secure and the
solidity and strength due to a discreet following of the classic models.

Liszt wrote two pretentious choral works of uneven quality. The
‘Christus’ is obscured by the involved symbolism which the composer
took very seriously. But its use of Gregorian and traditional motives
is an idea worthy of Liszt, which becomes effective in establishing the
tone of religious grandeur. The ‘Legend of Saint Elizabeth’ is purely
secular, written to celebrate the dedication of the restored Wartburg,
the castle where Martin Luther was housed for some months, and the
scene of Wagner’s opera ‘Tannhäuser.’ This work is chiefly interesting
for its consistent and thorough use of the leit-motif principle. The
chief theme is a hymn sung in the sixteenth century on the festival of
St. Elizabeth--quite the best thing in the work. This appears in every
possible guise and transformation, corresponding with the progress of
the story. The scene which narrates the miracle of the roses is famous
for its mystic atmosphere, but on the whole the ‘legend’ has far too
much pomp and circumstance and far too little music.

In his masses Liszt touched the level of greatness. The Graner mass,
written during the Weimar period, is ambitious in the extreme, using an
orchestra of large proportions and a wealth of Lisztian technique. Here
the imagination of the man becomes truly stirred by the grandeur of the
church. But the most interesting of Liszt’s religious works, from the
point of view of the æsthetic theorist, is the ‘Hungarian Coronation
Mass,’ written for performance in Buda-Pesth. Here Liszt, returning
under triumphal auspices to his native land, tried an astonishing
experiment. He used for his themes the dance rhythms and the national
scales of his people. In the _Kyrie_ it is the Lassan--the dance which
forms the first movement to nearly all the Rhapsodies. It is there,
unmistakable, but ennobled and dignified without being distorted. The
well known cadence, with its firm accent and its subsequent ‘twist,’
continues, with more and more emphasis to an impressive climax, then
dies away in supplication. In the _Qui tollis_ section of the _Gloria_
Liszt uses a Hungarian scale, with its interval of the minor third,
utterly removed from the spirit of the Gregorian mass. Again, in the
_Benedictus_, the solo violin fiddles a tune with accents and grace
notes in the spirit of the extemporization which Liszt heard so often
among the gypsies in the fields. We are aghast at these experiments.
They have met with disfavor; the church naturally will have none of
such a tendency, and most hearers will pronounce it sacrilegious and go
their way without listening.

So we may perhaps hear no more from Liszt’s experiment of introducing
folk elements into sacred music. But it was done in the music of this
same Roman church in the fifteenth century. It was done in the Lutheran
church in the sixteenth century. The attitude of the church in regard
to this is an ecclesiastical matter. But it is impossible for an
open-minded music lover to hear the Hungarian Mass and pronounce it
sacrilegious.

H. K. M.

FOOTNOTES:

[100] Born, Zittau, Saxony, 1795; died, Hanover, 1861. Like Schumann,
he went to Leipzig to study law but abandoned it for music. A patron
took him to Vienna. He secured a tutorship in Pressburg and there wrote
three operas, the last of which Weber performed in Dresden in 1820.
There Marschner secured employment as musical director at the opera,
but after Weber’s death (1826) went to Leipzig as conductor at the
theatre. From 1831 till 1859 he was court kapellmeister in Hanover.

[101] Otto Nicolai, born Königsberg, 1810; died, Berlin, 1849.

[102] Born, Mainz, 1824; died there 1874.

[103] In 1894 Thomas’ _Mignon_ was given for the thousandth time in
Paris.

[104] Orchestrated by Massenet and produced in 1893.

[105] See Vol. XI.

[106] His best works are: _Orphée aux Enfers_ (1858), _La belle Hélène_
(1864), _Barbe-Bleue_ and _La vie parisienne_ (1866), _La grande
duchesse de Gerolstein_ (1867), _La Périchole_ (1868), and _Madame
Favart_ (1879).

CHAPTER XI
WAGNER AND WAGNERISM

Periods of operatic reform; Wagner’s early life and works--Paris:
_Rienzi_, ‘The Flying Dutchman’--Dresden: _Tannhäuser_
and _Lohengrin_; Wagner and Liszt; the revolution of
1848--_Tristan_ and _Meistersinger_--Bayreuth; ‘The Nibelungen
Ring’--_Parsifal_--Wagner’s musico-dramatic reforms; his harmonic
revolution; the leit-motif system--The Wagnerian influence.

The student or reader of musical history will perceive that it is
impossible to determine with any exactitude the dividing lines which
mark the epochs of art evolution. Here and there may be fixed a sharper
line of demarcation, but for the most part there is such a merging of
phases and confusion of simultaneous movements that we are forced,
in making any survey or general view of musical history, to measure
approximately these boundaries. It may be, however, noted that, as
in all other forms of human progress, the decisive and revolutionary
advances have been made by those prophetic geniuses who, in
single-handed struggle, have achieved the triumphs which a succeeding
generation proclaimed. It is the names of these men that mark the real
milestones of musical history and on that which marks the stretch of
musical road we now travel stands large the name of Richard Wagner.

That we may the more readily appreciate Wagner’s place as the author
of the ‘Music of the Future’ and the creator of the music drama, it
is necessary to review briefly the course of musical history and
particularly that of the opera as it led up to the time of Wagner’s
birth at Leipzig, May 22, 1813. A glance at our chronological
tables will show us that at the time Beethoven still lived and at
the age of forty-three was creating those works so enigmatic to his
contemporaries. Weber at the age of twenty-seven was, after the freedom
of a gay youth, settling down to a serious career, seven years later
to produce _Der Freischütz_. Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt, and Chopin
were in their earliest infancy, while Schubert was but sixteen and
Berlioz was ten. Thus may it be seen at a glance that Wagner’s life
falls exactly into that epoch which we designate as ‘romantic,’ and to
this same school we may correctly assign the works of Wagner’s earlier
periods. But, as we of to-day view Wagner’s works as a whole, it is at
once apparent that the label of ‘romanticist’ is entirely inadequate
as descriptive of his place in musical history. We shall trace in
this chapter the growth of his art and follow its development in some
detail, but for the moment it will suffice us if we recognize the fact
that Wagner arrested the stream of romantic thought at the point where
it was in danger of running muddy with sentimentality, and turning into
it the clearer waters of classic ideals, opening a stream of nobler
breadth and depth than that which had been the channel of romanticism.

Wagner’s service to dramatic art was even larger, for the opera was
certainly in greater danger of decay than absolute music. Twice had the
opera been rescued from the degeneration that now again threatened it,
and at the hands of Gluck and of Weber had been restored to artistic
purity. Gluck, it will be remembered, after a period of imitation
of the Italians, had grown discontent with the inadequacy of these
forms and his genius had sought a more genuine dramatic utterance in
returning to a chaster line of melody. He also adopted the recitative
as it had been introduced into the earlier French operas, employed the
chorus in a truly dramatic way, and, spurning the hitherto meaningless
accompaniment, he had placed in the orchestra much of dramatic
significance, thereby creating a musical background which was in many
ways the real precursor of all that we know to-day as dramatic music.

Weber we have seen as the fountain head of the romantic school, and
his supreme achievements, the operas, we find to be the embodiment of
all that romanticism implies; a tenderness and intense imaginativeness
coupled with a tragic element in which the supernatural abounds.
Musically his contributions to dramatic art were a greater advance than
that of any predecessor; melodically and harmonically his innovations
were amazingly original and in his instrumentation we hear the first
flashes of modern color and ‘realism’ in music.

It was on these two dramatic ideals--the classic purity and strength of
Gluck and the glowing and mystic romanticism of Weber--that Wagner’s
early genius fed. Wagner’s childhood was one which was well calculated
to develop his genius. With an actor as stepfather, brothers and
sisters all following stage careers, an uncle who fostered in him the
love of poetry and letters, the early years of Richard were passed in
an atmosphere well suited to his spiritual development. While evincing
no early precocity in music, we find him, even in his earliest boyhood,
possessed with the creative instinct. This first sought expression in
poetry and tragic drama written in his school days, but following some
superficial instruction in music and the hearing of many concerts and
operas, he launched forth into musical composition, and throughout
his youthful student days he persisted in these efforts at musical
expression--composing overtures, symphonies, and sonatas, all of which
were marked with an extravagance which sprang from a total lack of
technical training. In the meantime, however, he was not disdaining
the classic models, and he relates in his autobiography[107] his early
enthusiasm for Weber’s _Freischütz_, for the symphonies of Beethoven,
and certain of Mozart’s works. At the age of seventeen he succeeded in
obtaining in Leipzig a performance of an orchestral overture and the
disillusioning effect of this work must have had a sobering influence,
for immediately after he began those studies which constituted his
sole academic schooling. These consisted of several months’ training
in counterpoint and composition under Theodor Weinlich, at that time
musical director of the Thomaskirche. After these studies he proceeded
with somewhat surer hand to produce shorter works for orchestra
and a futile attempt at the text and music of an opera called _Die
Hochzeit_. In 1833, however, Wagner, at twenty-one, completed his
first stage work, _Die Feen_, and in the next year, while occupying
his first conductor’s post at Magdeburg, he wrote a second opera,
_Das Liebesverbot_. The first of these works did not obtain a hearing
in Wagner’s lifetime, while the second one had one performance which
proved a ‘fiasco’ and terminated Wagner’s career at Magdeburg. While
these early works form an interesting historical document in showing
the beginnings of Wagner’s art, there is in them nothing of sufficient
individuality that can give them importance in musical history. The
greatest interest they possess for us is the evidence which they bear
of Wagner’s studies and models. Much of Weber, Mozart, and Beethoven,
and--in the _Liebesverbot_, written at a time when routine opera
conducting had somewhat lowered his ideal--much of Donizetti.

[Illustration: Richard Wagner’s last portrait]
_Enlarged from an instantaneous photograph (1883)_

The six years which followed were troublous ones for Wagner. In the
winter of the following year (1837) he became conductor of the opera
at Königsberg, and while there he married Minna Planer, a member of
the Magdeburg opera company, whom he had met the previous year. After
a few months’ occupancy of this post he became conductor at Riga. Here
a season of unsatisfactory artistic conditions and personal hardships
determined him to capture musical Europe by a bold march upon Paris,
then the centre of opera. In the summer of 1839, accompanied by his
wife and dog, the journey to Paris was made, by way of London and
Boulogne. At the latter place Wagner met Meyerbeer, who furnished him
with letters of introduction which promised him hopes of success in the
French capital. Again, however, Wagner was fated to disappointment and
chagrin, and the two years which formed the time of his first sojourn
in Paris were filled with the most bitter failures. It was, in fact,
at this period that his material affairs reached their lowest point,
and, to keep himself from starvation, Wagner was obliged to accept the
drudgery of ‘hack’ literary writing and the transcribing of popular
opera scores. The only relief from these miseries was the intercourse
with a few faithful and enthusiastic friends[108] and the occasional
opportunity to hear the superior concerts which the orchestra of the
Conservatoire furnished at that time.

But the hardships of these times did not lessen Wagner’s creative
activities and from these years date his first important works:
_Rienzi_, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ and _Eine Faust Ouvertüre_.

Wagner, during his stay at Riga, had become fully convinced that in
writing operas of smaller calibre for the lesser theatres of Germany
he was giving himself a futile task which stood much in the way of
the realization of those reforms which had already begun to assume
shape in his mind. He resolved to seek larger fields in writing a
work on a grander scale. ‘My great consolation now,’ we read in his
autobiography, ‘was to prepare _Rienzi_ with such utter disregard of
the means which were available there for its production that my desire
to produce it would force me out of the narrow confines of this puny
theatrical circle to seek a fresh connection with one of the larger
theatres.’ Two acts of the opera had been written at Riga and the
work was finished during his first months at Paris. Wagner sent the
manuscript of the work back to Germany, where it created a friendly and
favorable impression, and the prospects of an immediate hearing brought
Wagner back to Germany in April, 1842. The work was produced in Dresden
on the twentieth of the following October and was an immediate success.

It is _Rienzi_ which marks the real beginning of Wagner’s career as an
operatic composer; the small and fragmentary works which preceded it
serve only to record for us the experimental epoch of Wagner’s writing.
It is this place as first in the list of Wagner’s work which gives
_Rienzi_ its greatest interest, for neither the text nor the music are
such as to make it of artistic value when placed by the side of his
later productions.

The libretto was written by Wagner himself after the novel by Bulwer
Lytton. The hand of the reformer of the opera is not visible in this
libretto, which was calculated, as Wagner himself frankly confessed, to
afford opportunities for the brilliant and theatrical exhibition which
constituted the popular opera of that time. While the lines attain to
a certain dignity and loftiness of poetic conception, there is no
trace of the attempt at the realization of those dramatic ideals which
Wagner was soon to experience. Everything is calculated to musical
effectiveness of a pronounced theatrical quality and the work presents
the usual order of arias, duets, and ensemble of the Italian opera. The
music for the greater part is matched to the spirit and form of the
libretto. Here again theatrical effectiveness is the aim of Wagner,
and to obtain it he has employed the methods of Meyerbeer and Auber.
Not that the deeper and more noble influences are entirely forgotten,
for there are moments of intensity when the worshipper of Beethoven
and Weber discloses the depths of musical and dramatic feeling that
were his. But of that style which Wagner so quickly developed, of
that marvellously individual note which was destined to dominate the
expression of future generations there is but a trace. A few slightly
characteristic traits of melodic treatment, certain figurations in
the accompaniment and an individual quality of chorus writing is all
that is recognizable. The orchestration shows the faults of the other
features of the work--exaggeration. It is noisy and theatrical, and,
excepting in the purely orchestral sections, such as the marches and
dances, it performs the function of the operatic orchestra of the day,
that of a mere accompaniment.

‘The Flying Dutchman’ was written in Paris and the inspiration for
the work was furnished by the stormy voyage which Wagner had made in
his journey to London. The account which he himself has given of its
composition gives an interesting idea of his methods of working and a
touching picture of the conditions under which it was written. He says
in the autobiography: ‘I had already finished some of the words and
music of the lyric parts and had had the libretto translated by Émile
Deschamps, intending it for a trial performance, which, also, never
took place. These parts were the ballad of Senta, the song of the
Norwegian sailors, and the “Spectre Song” of “The Flying Dutchman.”
Since that time I had been so violently torn away from the music that,
when the piano arrived at my rustic retreat, I did not dare to touch it
for a whole day. I was terribly afraid lest I should discover that my
inspiration had left me--when suddenly I was seized with the idea that
I had forgotten to write out the song of the helmsman in the first act,
although, as a matter of fact, I could not remember having composed it
at all, as I had in reality only just written the lyrics. I succeeded,
and was pleased with the result. The same thing occurred with the
“Spinning Song”; and when I had written out these two pieces, and on
further reflection could not help admitting that they had really only
taken shape in my mind at that moment, I was quite delirious with joy
at the discovery. In seven weeks the whole of the music of “The Flying
Dutchman,” except the orchestration, was finished.’

While one is prompted to group ‘Rienzi’ and ‘The Flying Dutchman’ as
forming Wagner’s first period, in the latter work there is such an
advance over the former in both spirit and style that we can hardly so
classify them.

In ‘The Flying Dutchman’ we see Wagner making a decided break from the
theatrical opera and turning to a subject that is more essentially
dramatic. The mystic element which he here infuses and his manner of
treatment are very decided steps toward that revolution of musical
stage works which was to culminate in the ‘music drama.’ In its form
the libretto presents less of a departure from the older style than in
its subject and spiritual import; there is still the old operatic form
of set aria and ‘scene,’ but so consistently does all hang upon the
dramatic structure that the entire work is of convincing and moving
force.

This same advance in spirit and dramatic earnestness rather than in
actual methods is that which also distinguishes the score of ‘The
Flying Dutchman’ from that of ‘Rienzi.’ The superficial brilliancy of
the latter gives place in ‘The Flying Dutchman’ to a dramatic power
which is entirely lacking in the earlier work. One important innovation
in form must be remarked: the use of the ‘leading motive,’ which we
find for the first time in ‘The Flying Dutchman.’ Wagner here begins
to employ those characteristic phrases which so vividly characterize
for us the figures and situation of the drama. In harmonic coloring
the score shows but slight advance over ‘Rienzi.’ We can observe in
the frequent use of the chromatic scale and the diminished seventh
chord an inclination toward a richer harmonic scheme, but, taken in its
entirety, the musical composition of the work belongs distinctly to
what we may call Wagner’s ‘classic’ period and is still far from being
the ‘music of the future.’

The success of ‘Rienzi’ brought to Wagner the appointment of court
conductor to the king of Saxony, in which his principal duties
consisted of conducting the opera at Dresden. Wagner occupied
this position for seven years; he gained a practical experience
of conducting in all its branches and a wide knowledge of a very
varied musical repertoire which broadened his outlook and increased
considerably his scope of expression. Besides the operatic
performances, the direction of which he shared with Reissiger, Wagner
organized for several seasons a series of symphony concerts at which
he produced the classic symphonies, including a memorable performance
of Beethoven’s ninth symphony on Palm Sunday, 1846.[109] Wagner threw
himself with great zeal into the preparation of this work, one of his
first sources of inspiration.

The result was a performance which thoroughly roused the community,
including the musical profession, which was well represented at the
performance, to a sense of Wagner’s greatness as an interpretative
artist. There were many other events of importance in Wagner’s external
musical life at Dresden. Among these he tells us of the visits of
Spontini and of Marschner to superintend the performances of their
own works and of a festival planned to welcome the king of Saxony as
he returned from England in August, 1844, on which occasion the march
from _Tannhäuser_ had its first performance by the forces of the opera
company in the royal grounds at Pillnitz. In the winter of the same
year we find Wagner actively interested in the movement which resulted
in the removal of Weber’s remains from London to their final resting
place in his own Dresden. In the ceremony which took place when Weber’s
remains were finally committed to German soil, Wagner made a brief but
eloquent address and conducted the music for the occasion, consisting
of arrangements from Weber’s works made by him. In the midst of a life
thus busied Wagner found, however, time for study, and, in the summer
months, for musical creation. His interest in the classic drama dates
from this period and it is to his studies in mediæval lore pursued at
this time that we may attribute his knowledge of the subjects which he
later employed in his dramas.

Two musical works are the fruit of these Dresden years. _Tannhäuser_
and _Lohengrin_. These two works we suitably bracket as forming the
second period of Wagner’s creative work; and, while his advance was so
persistent and so marked that each new score presents to us an advance
in spirit and form, these two are so similar in spirit and form that
they may be named together as the next step in the development of his
style.

_Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_ are designated by Wagner as romantic
operas, a title exactly descriptive of their place as musical
stage settings. While infusing into the spirit and action a more
poetical conception, their creator had not as yet renounced the more
conventional forms of the operatic text. The most important feature of
the opera to which he still adhered was the employment, both scenically
and musically, of the chorus. This, together with the interest of the
‘ensemble’ and a treatment of the solo parts more nearly approaching
the lyric aria than the free recitative of the later dramas are points
which these works share with the older ‘opera.’ The advance in the
musical substance of these operas over the earlier works is very
great. In _Tannhäuser_ we find for the first time Wagner the innovator
employing a melodic and harmonic scheme that bears his own stamp,
the essence of what we know as ‘Wagnerism.’ From the first pages of
_Tannhäuser_ there greets us for the first time that rich sensuousness
of melody and harmony which had its apotheosis in the surging mysteries
of _Tristan und Isolde_. Wagner here first divined those new principles
of chromatic harmony and of key relations which constituted the
greatest advance that had been made by a genius since Monteverdi’s bold
innovations of over two centuries before.

In his treatment of the orchestra Wagner’s advance was also great and
revealed the new paths which an intimate study of Berlioz’s scores had
opened to him. In these two scores, and particularly in _Lohengrin_, we
find the beginnings of the rich polyphonic style of _Tristan_ and the
_Meistersinger_ and the marvellously expressive and original use of the
wind instruments by which he attained, according to Richard Strauss, ‘a
summit of æsthetic perfection hitherto unreached.’

With the advent of these two music dramas there commenced that bitter
opposition and antagonism to Wagner and his works from almost the
entire musical fraternity and particularly from the professional
critics, the records of which form one of the most amazing chapters of
musical history. The gathering of these records and their presentation
has been the pleasure of succeeding generations of critics who, in
many cases, by their blindness to the advances of their own age, have
but unconsciously become the objects for the similar ridicule of their
followers. Great as may be our satisfaction in seeing history thus
repeat itself, the real study of musical development is more concerned
with those few appreciators who, with rare perceptive powers, saw the
truth of this new gospel and by its power felt themselves drawn to the
duty of spreading its influence.

Wagner once complained that musicians found in him only a poet
with a mediocre talent for music, while the appreciators of his
music were those outside of his own profession. This was in a large
measure true and the explanation may be easily found in the fact that
attention to the letter so absorbed the minds of his contemporaries
that the spiritual significance of his art entirely escaped them in
the consternation which they experienced in listening to a form of
expression so radically new. It is interesting to note, in passing,
the attitude toward Wagner’s art held by some of his contemporaries.
That of Mendelssohn as well as that of Schumann and Berlioz was at
first one of almost contemptuous tolerance, which in time, as Wagner’s
fame increased and his art drew further away from their understanding,
turned to animosity. It is somewhat strange to find in contrast to
this feeling on the part of these ‘romanticists’ the sympathy for
Wagner which was that of Louis Spohr, a classicist of an earlier
generation. The noble old composer of _Jessonda_ was a ready champion
of Wagner, and in producing his operas studied them faithfully and
enthusiastically until that which he at first had called ‘a downright
horrifying noise’ assumed a natural form. But he who was to champion
most valiantly the cause of Wagner, and to extend to him the helping
hand of sympathy as well as material support, was Franz Liszt.

Wagner’s acquaintance with Liszt dates from his first sojourn at Paris,
but it was only after Wagner’s return to Germany and the production
of _Rienzi_ that Liszt took any particular notice of the young and
struggling composer. From that time on his zeal for Wagner’s cause knew
no bounds. He busied himself in attracting the attention of musicians
and people of rank to the performances at Dresden, and made every
effort to bring Wagner a recognition worthy of his achievement. In 1849
Liszt produced _Tannhäuser_ at Weimar, where he was court conductor,
and in August of the following year he gave the first performance of
_Lohengrin_. During the many years of Wagner’s exile from Germany it
was Liszt who was faithful to his interests in his native land and
helped to obtain performances of his works. The correspondence of
Wagner and Liszt contains much valuable information and throws a strong
light on the reciprocal influences in their works. And so throughout
Wagner’s entire life this devoted friend was continually fighting his
battles, and extending to him his valuable aid, till, at the end,
we see him sharing with Wagner at Bayreuth the consummation of that
glorious life, finally to rest near him who had claimed so much of his
life’s devotion.

Wagner’s term of office as court conductor at Dresden ended with
the revolutionary disturbances of May, 1849. It is only since the
publication of his autobiography that we have been able to gain any
clear idea of Wagner’s participation in those stormy scenes. While the
forty pages which he devotes to the narration of these events give
us a very vivid picture of his personal actions, and settles for us
the heretofore much discussed question as to whether or not Wagner
bore arms, we can find no more adequate explanation of these actions
than those which he could furnish himself when he describes his state
of mind at that time as being one of ‘dreamy unreality.’ Wagner’s
independent mind and revolutionary tendencies naturally drew him
into intimate relations with the radical element in Dresden circles:
August Röckel, Bakunin and other leaders of the revolutionary party.
It was this coupled with Wagner’s growing feeling of discontent at the
conditions of art life and his venturesome and combative spirit rather
than any actual political sympathies which led him to take active part
in the stormy scenes of the May revolutions. While his share in these
seems to have been largely that of an agitator rather than of an actual
bearer of arms, the accounts he gives of his part in the disturbance
show us plainly that the revolution enlisted his entire sympathies. He
made fiery speeches, published a call to arms in the _Volksblatt_, a
paper he undertook to publish after the flight of its editor, Röckel,
and was conspicuous in meetings of the radical leaders. With the fall
of the provisional government Wagner found it necessary to join in
their flight, and it was by the merest chance that he escaped arrest
and gained in safety the shelter of Liszt’s protection at Weimar.
Wagner’s share in these events resulted in his proscription and exile
from Germany until 1861.

The following six years were again a period of wanderings. While
maintaining a household at Zürich for the greater part of this time,
his intervals of quiet settlement were few and he travelled restlessly
to Paris, Vienna, and to Italy, besides continually making excursions
in the mountains of Switzerland. While Wagner, during this period,
enjoyed the companionship of a circle of interested and sympathetic
friends, among whom were the Wesendoncks and Hans von Bülow, his
severance from actual musical environment acted as a stay to the flow
of his musical creative faculties. Aside from conducting a few local
concerts in several Swiss cities, his life seems to have been quite
empty of musical stimulus. But this lapse in musical productivity
only furnished the opportunity for an otherwise diverted intellectual
activity which greatly broadened Wagner’s outlook and engendered in him
those new principles of art that mark his entrance into a new phase
of musical creation. At the beginning of his exile Wagner’s impulse
to expression found vent in several essays in which he expounds some
of his new ‘philosophy’ of art. ‘Art and Revolution’ was written
shortly after his first arrival in Zürich and was followed by ‘The
Art Work of the Future,’[110] ‘Opera and Drama,’[111] and ‘Judaism in
Music.’[112] He also was continuously occupied with the poems of his
Nibelungen cycle, which he completed in 1853.

In the same year Wagner began work on the musical composition of the
first of the Nibelungen cycle, _Rheingold_, and at the same time he
conceived the poem for _Tristan und Isolde_, the spirit of which he
says was prompted by his study of Schopenhauer, whose writings most
earnestly attracted him at that time. Composition on the Ring cycle
meanwhile proceeded uninterruptedly, and 1854 saw the completion of the
second opera, _Walküre_.

In 1855 he passed four months in London as conductor of the
Philharmonic, an episode in his life which he recalls with seemingly
little pleasure. In the following year (1856) he had completed the
second act of _Siegfried_, when the impulse seized him to commence
work on the music of _Tristan und Isolde_, the text of which he had
originally planned in response to an order for an opera from the
emperor of Brazil. During the next two years Wagner was feverishly
immersed in the composition of this work. The first act was written in
Zürich, the second act during a stay in Venice in the winter of 1858,
and the summer of 1859 saw the work completed in Zürich.

While the earlier operas of the Ring, _Rheingold_, _Walküre_, and
a part of _Siegfried_, were composed before _Tristan und Isolde_,
it is the latter opera which definitely marks the next step in the
development of Wagner’s art. It is impossible to allot to any one
period of Wagner’s growth the entire Nibelungen cycle. The conception
and composition of the great tetralogy covered such a space of time as
to embrace several phases of his development. Between the composition
of _Lohengrin_ and that of _Rheingold_, however, stands the widest
breach in the theories and practices of Wagner’s art, for there does he
break irrevocably with all that is common to the older operatic forms
and adopts those methods by which he revolutionizes the operatic art
in the creation of the music drama. In first putting these theories
into practice we find, however, that Wagner passed again through an
experimental stage where his spontaneous expression was somewhat under
the bondage of conscious effort. The score of the _Rheingold_, while
possessing the essential dramatic features of the other Ring operas and
many pages of musical beauty and strength, is, it must be confessed,
the least interesting of Wagner’s works. It is only when we come to
_Tristan und Isolde_ that we find Wagner employing his new methods with
a freedom of inspiration which precludes self-consciousness and through
which he becomes completely the instrument of his inspiration.

III

The drama of ‘Tristan and Isolde’ Wagner drew from the Celtic legend
with which he made acquaintance as he pursued his studies in the
Nibelungen myths. As has been noted before, Wagner attributed the mood
that inspired the conception of ‘Tristan and Isolde’ to his studies
of Schopenhauer, and commentators have made much of this influence in
attempting to read into portions of ‘Tristan’ and the other dramas a
more or less complete presentation of Schopenhauer’s philosophy. But
Wagner’s own writings have proved him to belong to that rather vague
class of ‘artist-philosophers’ whose philosophy is more largely a
matter of moods than of a dispassionate seeing of truths. The key to
the situation is found in Wagner’s own remark: ‘I felt the longing
to express myself in poetry. This must have been partly due to the
serious mood created by Schopenhauer which was trying to find an
ecstatic expression.’ Wagner’s studies had developed in him a new
sense of the drama in which the unrealities of his early romanticism
entirely disappeared. A classic simplicity of action, laying bare the
intensity of the emotional sweep, and a pervading sense of fatalistic
tragedy--this was the new aspiration of Wagner’s art.

The score of ‘Tristan and Isolde’ is one of the highest peaks of
musical achievement. It is a modern classic which in spirit and form
is the prototype of almost all that has followed in modern dramatic
music. Wagner has in this music drama developed his ‘leit-motif’
system more fully than heretofore and the entire score is one closely
woven fabric of these eloquent phrases combined with such art that
Bülow, who was the first to see the score, pronounced it a marvel of
logic and lucidity. In his employment of chromatic harmony Wagner here
surpassed all his previous mastery. A wealth of chromatic passing
notes, suspensions and appoggiaturas gives to the harmony a richness
of sensuous color all its own; while the orchestral scoring attains to
that freedom of polyphonic beauty, to which alone, according to Richard
Strauss, modern ‘color’ owes its existence.

Wagner, on the completion of _Tristan und Isolde_, began to long for
its performance, a longing which he was compelled to bear for eight
years. During these he experienced the repetition of his past sorrows
and disappointments. Again he resumed his wanderings and for the next
five years we find him in many places. In September, 1859, he settled
in Paris, where he spent two entire seasons. After a series of concerts
in which he gave fragments of his various works, Wagner, through the
mediation of Princess Metternich, obtained the promise of a hearing of
_Tannhäuser_ at the Opéra. The first performance was given on March
13th after an interminable array of difficulties had been overcome.
Wagner was forced to submit to many indignities and to provide his
opera with a ballet in compliance with the regulations of the Opéra.
At the second performance, given on the 18th of March, occurred
the memorable and shameful interruption of the performance by the
members of the Jockey Club, who, prompted by a foolish and vindictive
chauvinism, hooted and whistled down the singers and orchestra. The
ensuing disturbance fell little short of a riot.

It was during this last residence of Wagner in Paris that he was
surrounded by the circle through which his doctrines and ideas were to
be infused into the spirit of French art. This circle, constituting the
brilliant _salon_ meeting weekly at Wagner’s house in the rue Newton,
included Baudelaire, Champfleury, Tolstoi, Ollivier and Saint-Saëns
among its regular attendants.

In 1861 Wagner, through the influence of his royal patrons in Paris,
was able to return unmolested to Germany. While the success of the
earlier works was now assured and they had taken a permanent place in
the repertoire of nearly every opera house, the way to a fulfillment of
his present aim, the production of ‘Tristan,’ seemed as remote as ever.
Vain hopes were held out by Karlsruhe and Vienna, but naught came of
them and Wagner was again obliged to obtain such meagre and fragmentary
hearings for his works as he could obtain through the medium of the
concert stage. In 1863 he made concert tours to Russia and Hungary
besides conducting programs of his works in Vienna and in several
German cities. These performances, while they spread Wagner’s fame, did
little to assist him toward a more hopeful prospect of material welfare
and thus in 1864 Wagner at the age of 51 found himself again fleeing
from debts and forced to seek an asylum in the home of a friend, Dr.
Wille at Mariafeld. But this season of hardship proved to be only
the deepest darkness before the dawning of what was indeed a new day
in Wagner’s life. While spending a few days at Stuttgart in April
of that year he received a message from the king of Bavaria, Ludwig
II, announcing the intention of the youthful monarch to become the
protector of Wagner and summoning him to Munich. Wagner, in the closing
words of his autobiography, says, ‘Thus the dangerous road along which
Fate beckoned me to such great ends was not destined to be clear of
troubles and anxieties of a kind unknown to me heretofore, but I was
never again to feel the weight of the everyday hardship of existence
under the protection of my exalted friend.’

Wagner, settled in Munich under the affectionate patronage of the king,
found himself in a position which seemed to him the attainment of all
his desires. He was to be absolutely free to create as his own will
dictated, and, having completed his works, was to superintend their
production under ideal conditions. During the first summer spent with
the king at Lake Starnberg he wrote the _Huldigungsmarsch_ and an
essay entitled ‘State and Religion,’ and on his return to Munich in
the autumn he summoned Bülow, Cornelius, and others of his lieutenants
to assist him in preparing the performances of ‘Tristan.’ These were
given in the following June and July with Bülow conducting and Ludwig
Schnorr as Tristan. Many of Wagner’s friends drew together at Munich
for these performances and the event took on an aspect which forecasted
the spirit of the Wagner festivals of a later day. Shortly after
these first performances of ‘Tristan’ there arose in Munich a wave of
popular suspicion against Wagner, which, fed by political and clerical
intrigue, soon reached a point where the king was obliged to implore
Wagner for his own safety’s sake to leave Bavaria. Wagner again sought
the refuge of his years of exile, and, thanks to the king’s bountiful
patronage, he was able to install himself comfortably in the house at
Triebschen on the shores of Lake Lucerne, which was to be his home for
the six years that were to elapse before he took up his final residence
at Bayreuth. It was here that Wagner found again ample leisure to
finish a work the conception of which dates from his early days at
Dresden when he had found the material for the libretto in Gervinus’
‘History of German Literature’ and at the composition of which he had
been occupied since 1861. This was his comic opera _Die Meistersinger
von Nürnberg_.

While the musical material of _Die Meistersinger_ is such as to place
it easily in a class with ‘Tristan’ as a stage work, it offers certain
unique features which place it in a class by itself. The work is
usually designated as Wagner’s only ‘comic’ opera, but the designation
comic here implies the absence of the tragic more than an all-pervading
spirit of humor. The comic element in this opera is contrasted with
a strong vein of romantic tenderness and the earnest beauty of its
allegorical significance. In _Die Meistersinger_ Wagner restores to the
action some of the more popular features of the opera; the chorus and
ensemble are again introduced with musical and pictorial effectiveness,
but these externals of stage interest are made only incidental in a
drama which is as admirably well-knit and as subtly conceived as are
any of Wagner’s later works, and it is with rare art that Wagner has
combined these differing elements. The most convincing feature of the
work as a drama lies in the marvellously conceived allegory and the
satirical force with which it is drawn. So naturally do the story and
scene lend themselves to this treatment that, with no disagreeable
sense of self-obtrusion, Wagner here convincingly presents his plea for
a true and natural art as opposed to that of a conventional pedantry.
The shaft of good-humored derision that he thrusts against the critics
is the most effective retort to their jibes, while the words of art
philosophy which he puts into the mouth of Hans Sachs are indeed the
best index he has furnished us of his artistic creed.

In the music, no less than in the libretto, of _Die Meistersinger_
Wagner has successfully welded into a cohesive unit several diffusive
elements. The glowing intensity of his ‘Tristan’ style is beautifully
blended with a rich and varied fund of musical characterization, which
includes imitations of the archaic, literally reproduced, as in the
chorales, or parodied, as in Köthner’s exposition of the mastersingers’
musical requirements. The harmonic treatment is less persistently
chromatic than that of ‘Tristan’ owing to the bolder diatonic nature of
much of its thematic material, a difference which, however, cannot be
said to lessen in any degree the wonderful glow of color which Wagner
had first employed in _Tristan und Isolde_. Polyphonically considered,
_Die Meistersinger_ stands as the first work in which Wagner brought
to an ultimate point his system of theme and motive combinations. The
two earlier operas of the Ring contained the experiments of this system
and in ‘Tristan’ the polyphony is one more of extraneous ornamentation
and variation of figure than of the thematic combination by which
Wagner is enabled so marvellously to suggest simultaneous dramatic and
psychological aspects.

_Die Meistersinger_ had its first performance at Munich on June 21,
1868, and the excellence of this first performance was due to the
zealous labors of those who at that time constituted Wagner’s able
body of helpers, Hans von Bülow, Hans Richter, and Karl Tausig. In
the following year, at the instigation of the king, _Rheingold_ and
_Walküre_ were produced at Munich, but failed to make an impression
because of the inadequacy of their preparation.

Wagner in the meantime was living in quiet retirement at Triebschen
working at the completion of the ‘Nibelungen Ring.’ From this date
commences Wagner’s friendship with Friedrich Nietzsche, a friendship
which unfortunately turned to indifference on the part of Wagner, and
to distrust and animosity on the part of Nietzsche.

On August 25, 1870, Wagner married Cosima von Bülow, in which union
he found the happiness which had been denied to him through the long
years of his unhappy first marriage. A son, Siegfried, was born in the
following year, an event which Wagner celebrated by the composition of
the ‘Siegfried Idyl.’

We now approach the apotheosis of Wagner’s career, Bayreuth and the
Festival Theatre, a fulfillment of a dream of many years. A dance
through Wagner’s correspondence and writings shows us that the idea of
a theatre where his own works could be especially and ideally presented
was long cherished by him. This idea seemed near its realization
when Wagner came under the protection of King Ludwig, but many more
years passed before the composer attained this ambition. In 1871 he
determined upon the establishment of such a theatre in Bayreuth.
Several circumstances contributed to this choice of location; his love
of the town and its situation, the generous offers of land made to him
by the town officials and the determining fact of its being within
the Bavarian kingdom, where it could fittingly claim the patronage of
Wagner’s royal protector. Plans for the building were made by Wagner’s
old friend, Semper, and then began the weary campaign for necessary
funds. Public apathy and the animosity of the press, which, expressing
itself anew at this last self-assertiveness of Wagner, delayed the
good cause, but May 22, 1872, Wagner’s fifty-ninth birthday, saw the
laying of the cornerstone. Four more years elapsed before sufficient
funds could be found to complete the theatre. Wagner in the meantime
had taken up his residence at Bayreuth, where he had built a house,
Villa Wahnfried. On August 13, 1876, the Festival Theatre was opened.
The audience which attended this performance was indeed a flattering
tribute to Wagner’s genius, for, besides those good friends and artists
who now gathered to be present at the triumph of their master, the
German emperor, the king of Bavaria, the emperor of Brazil, and many
other royal and noble personages were there as representatives of a
world at last ready to pay homage to genius. The entire four operas of
the ‘Ring of the Nibelungen’ were performed in the following week and
the cycle was twice repeated in August of the same season.

As has been noted, the several dramas of the ‘Ring’ belong to widely
separated periods of his creative activity, and, musically considered,
have independent points of regard. The poems, however, conceived as
they were, beginning with _Götterdämmerung_, which originally bore the
title of ‘Siegfried’s Death’ and led up to by the three other poems of
the cycle, are united in dramatic form and feeling. The adoption of the
Nibelungen mythology, as a basis for a dramatic work, dated from about
the time that _Lohengrin_ was finished. Wagner, in searching material
for a historical opera, ‘Barbarossa,’ lost interest in carrying out his
original scheme upon discovering the resemblance of this subject to
the Nibelungen and Siegfried mythology. He says: ‘In direct connection
with this I began to sketch a clear summary of the form which the
old original Nibelungen myth had assumed in my mind in its immediate
association with the mythological legend of the gods; a form which,
though full of detail, was yet much condensed in its leading features.
Thanks to this work, I was able to convert the chief part of the
material itself into a musical drama. It was only by degrees, however,
and after long hesitation, that I dared to enter more deeply into my
plans for this work; for the thought of the practical realization of
such a work on our stage literally appalled me.’

While the Ring poems constitute a drama colossal and imposing in its
significance, far outreaching in conception anything that had been
before created as a musical stage work, it is in many of its phases
an experimental work toward the development of the ideal music drama
which ‘Tristan and Isolde’ represents. Written at a time when Wagner
was in the throes of a strong revolutionary upheaval and when his
philosophy of art and life was seeking literary expression, we find
the real dramatic essence of these poems somewhat obscured by the mass
of metaphysical speculation which accompanies their development. In
Siegfried alone has Wagner more closely approached his new ideal and
created a work which, despite the interruption in its composition, is
dramatically and musically the most coherent and most spontaneously
poetic of the Ring dramas. It has been already noted that the break
between the musical style of _Lohengrin_ and that of _Rheingold_ is
even greater than that between the dramatic forms of the two works.
In the six years which separated the composition of these two operas
Wagner’s exuberant spontaneity of expression became tempered with
reflective inventiveness, and there pervades the entire score of
_Rheingold_ a classic solidity of feeling which by the side of the
lyric suavity of _Lohengrin_ is one of almost austere ruggedness.
We find from the start Wagner’s new sense of dramatic form well
established and the metrical regularity of _Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_
is now replaced with the free dramatic recitative and ‘leit-motif’
development. Of harmonic color and polyphonic richness _Rheingold_ has
less interest than have the other parts of the cycle, and one cannot
but feel that after the six years of non-productiveness Wagner’s
inventive powers had become somewhat enfeebled. With the opening scenes
of _Walküre_, however, we find again a decided advance, a melodic
line more graceful in its curve and the harmonic color enriched with
chromatic subtleties again lends sensuous warmth to the style to
which is added the classic solidity which _Rheingold_ inaugurates. In
polyphonic development _Walküre_ marks the point where Wagner commences
to employ that marvellously skillful and beautiful system of combining
motives, which reached its full development in the richly woven fabric
of _Tristan_, _Die Meistersinger_, and _Parsifal_.

Wagner has told us that his studies in musical lore were made, so to
speak, backward, beginning with his contemporaries and working back
through the classics. The influences, as they show themselves in his
works, would seem to bear out this statement, for, after the rugged
strength of Beethoven’s style which _Rheingold_ suggests, the advancing
polyphonic interest, which next appears in _Walküre_, reaches back to
an older source for its inspiration, the polyphony of Johann Sebastian
Bach. While, as has been remarked, _Siegfried_ in its entirety forms
a coherent whole, the treatment of the last act clearly displays the
added mastery which Wagner had gained in the writing of _Tristan_
and of _Die Meistersinger_. There is a larger sweep of melody and a
harmonic freedom which belongs distinctly to Wagner’s ultimate style.
In _Götterdämmerung_ we find the first manifestation of this latest
phase of Wagner’s art. A harmonic scheme that is at once bolder in
its use of daring dissonances and subtler in its mysterious chromatic
transitions gives added color to a fabric woven almost entirely of
leit-motifs in astounding variety of sequence and combination.

The inauguration of the Bayreuth Festival Theatre and the first
performances there of the Nibelungen Ring certainly marked the moment
of Wagner’s greatest external triumph, but it was a victory which by
no means brought him peace. A heavy debt was incurred by this first
season’s Bayreuth festival and it was six years later before the funds
necessary to meet this deficit and to provide for a second season
could be obtained. The second Bayreuth season was devoted entirely to
the initial performances of _Parsifal_, with the composition of which
Wagner had been occupied since 1877. The intervening six years had
brought many adherents to the Wagner cause and financial aid to the
support of the festival was more generously extended. After a series of
sixteen performances it was found that the season had proved a monetary
success and its repetition was planned for the following year, 1883.
The history of the Festival Theatre since that date is so well known
that its recitation here is unnecessary. Bayreuth and the Wagner
festival stand to-day a unique fact in the history of art. As a shrine
visited not only by the confessed admirers and followers of Wagner, but
by a large public as well, it represents the embodiment of Wagner’s
life and art, constituting a sacred temple of an art which, by virtue
of its power, has forced the attention of the entire world. Bayreuth,
moreover, preserving the traditions of the master himself, has served
as an authentic training school to those hosts of artists whose duty it
has become to carry these traditions to the various opera stages of the
world.

Wagner was fated not to see the repetition of the _Parsifal_
performances. In September, 1882, being in delicate health and feeling
much the need of repose, he again journeyed to Italy. Settling in
Venice, where he hired a part of the Palazzo Vendramin, he passed
there the last seven months of his life in the seclusion of his family
circle. On February 1, 1883, Wagner was seized with an attack of heart
failure and died after a few moments’ illness. Three days later the
body was borne back to Bayreuth where, after funeral ceremonies, in
which a mourning world paid a belated tribute to his genius, Richard
Wagner was laid to his final rest in the garden of Villa Wahnfried.

The first conception of an opera on the theme and incidents of which
_Parsifal_ is the expression dates from an early period in Wagner’s
life. The figure of Christ had long presented to him a dramatic
possibility, and it is from the fusion of the poetical import of his
life and character with the philosophical ideas he had gleaned from his
studies in Buddhism and Schopenhauer that Wagner evolved his last and
most profound drama.

It is the religious color and element in _Parsifal_ that calls forth
from Wagner the latest expression of his musical genius. We find in
those portions of the _Parsifal_ score devoted to the depiction of this
element a serenity and sublimity of ethereal beauty hitherto unattained
by him. As we listen to the diatonic progression of the ‘Faith’ and
‘Grail’ motives, we are aware that Wagner’s genius continually sent
its roots deeper into the soil of musical tradition and lore and that
in seeking the truly profound and religious feeling he had sounded the
depths of the art that was Palestrina’s.

The _Parsifal_ controversy has now become a matter of history. Wagner’s
idea and wish was to reserve the rights of performance of this work
solely for the Bayreuth stage. This plan was undoubtedly the outcome of
a sincere desire to have this last work always performed in an ideal
manner and under such conditions as would not always accompany its
production should it become the common property of the operatic world
at large. This wish of Wagner was disrespected in 1904 by Heinrich
Conried, then director of the Metropolitan Opera Company of New York,
who announced a series of performances of _Parsifal_ at that house
during the season of 1903. The Wagner family made both legal and
sentimental appeals in an attempt to prevent these performances, but
they were unheeded and the work was first heard outside of Bayreuth on
December 24, 1903. It must be said that the performance was a worthy
one, as have been subsequent performances of this work on the same
stage, and, apart from the sentimental regret that one must feel at
this disregard of Wagner’s will, the incident was not so deplorable as
it was then deemed by the more bigoted Wagnerites. By the expiration of
copyright, the work became released to the repertoire of European opera
houses on January 1, 1914, and simultaneous performances in every part
of Europe attested the eagerness with which the general public awaited
this work.

With Wagner’s musical works before us, the voluminous library of
discussion and annotation which Wagner himself and writers on music
have furnished us seems superfluous. Wagner’s theories of art reform
need little further explanation or support than those furnished by
the operas themselves; it is in the earnest study of these that we
learn truly to appreciate his ‘philosophy’ of art, it is in the
universal imitation of these models that we find the best evidence
of their dominating influence on modern art. The Wagnerian pervasion
of almost all subsequent music forms the most important chapter of
modern musical history, but before we turn to the consideration of
this phenomenon let us briefly summarize the achievements of Wagner in
this potent reform which Walter Niemann[113] says extends not only to
music, the stage, and poetry, but to modern culture in its entirety; a
sweeping statement, the proving of which would lead us into divers and
interesting channels of thought and discussion, but which we must here
renounce as not appertaining directly to the history of music in its
limited sense.

Wagner’s reformation of the opera as a stage drama, stated briefly,
consisted in releasing it, as it had before been released by Gluck and
by Weber, from the position which it had occupied, as a mere framework
on which to build a musical structure, the words furnishing an excuse
for the popularities of vocal music, the stage pictures and situations
providing further entertainment. It was to this level that all opera
bade fair to be brought at the time when Meyerbeer held Europe by the
ears. We have in the foregoing sketch of the composer’s life shown
briefly how at first Wagner, still under the spell of romanticism,
effected a compromise between the libretto of the older opera form
and a text which should have intrinsic value as poetry and convincing
dramatic force. Then after reflective study of classic ideals we find
him making the decisive break with all the conventionalities and
traditions of ‘opera,’ thus evolving the music drama in which music,
poetry and stage setting should combine in one unified art. Situations
in such a drama are no longer created to afford musical opportunities,
but text and music are joined in a unity of dramatic utterance of
hitherto unattained eloquence. Then as a final step in the perfection
of this conception Wagner clarifies and simplifies the action while, by
means of his inspired system of tonal annotation, he provides a musical
background that depicts every shade of feeling and dramatic suggestion.

That system may be termed a parallel to the delineative method employed
by Berlioz and Liszt in developing the dramatic symphony and the
symphonic poem. Like them, Wagner employs the leit-motif, but with a
far greater consistency, a more thorough-going logic. Every situation,
every character or object, every element of nature, state of feeling
or mental process is accompanied by a musical phrase appropriate and
peculiar to it. Thus we have motifs of fate, misfortune, storm, breeze;
of Tristan, of Isolde, of Beckmesser, of Wotan; of love and of enmity,
of perplexity, deep thought, and a thousand different conceptions. The
Rhine, the rainbow, the ring and the sword are as definitely described
as the stride of the giants, the grovelling of Mime or the Walkyries’
exuberance. So insistently is this done that the listener who has
provided himself with a dictionary, as it were, of Wagner’s phrases,
can understand in minute detail the comments of the orchestra, which
in a manner makes him the composer’s confidant by laying bare the
psychology of the drama. Such dictionaries or commentaries have been
provided by annotators without number, and in some measure by Wagner
himself, and labels have been applied to every theme, melody, passage
or phrase that is significantly reiterated. A certain correspondence
exists between motifs used in different dramas for similar purposes,
such as the heroic motif of Siegfried in B flat and the one for
Parsifal in the same key. Wagner goes further--in his reference to the
story of Tristan, which Hans Sachs makes in the _Meistersinger_, we
hear softly insinuating itself into the musical texture the motifs of
love and death from Tristan and Isolde, and so forth.

The efficacy of the system has been thoroughly proved and for a time it
seemed to the Wagnerites the ultimate development of operatic language.
Wagner himself indicated that he had but made a beginning, that others
would take up and develop the system after him. It has been ‘taken
up’ by many disciples but it has hardly been found capable of further
development upon the lines laid down by the master. Our age rejects
many of his devices as obvious and even childish. But in a larger sense
the method has persisted. A new sense of form characterizes the musical
substance of the modern, or post-Wagnerian, opera. The leit-motif, with
its manifold reiterations, modifications, variations, and combinations,
has given a more intense significance to the smallest unit of the
musical structure; it has made possible the Wagnerian ‘endless melody’
with its continuously sustained interest, its lack of full cadences,
and its consequent restless stimulation. That style of writing is one
of the essentially new things that Wagner brought, and with it came
the ultimate death of the conventional operatic divisions, the concert
forms within the opera. The distinction between aria and recitative is
now lost forever, by a _rapprochement_ or fusion of their two methods,
rather than the discontinuance of one. Wagner’s recitative is an
arioso, a free melody that has little in common with the heightened
declamation of a former age, yet is vastly more eloquent. It rises to
the sweep of an aria, yet never descends to vocal display, and even in
its most musical moments observes the spirit of dramatic utterance. It
is a wholly new type of melody that has been created, which was not at
first recognized as such, for the charge of ‘no melody’ has been the
first and most persistent levelled at Wagner.

Great as was the manifestation of Wagner’s dramatic genius, the fact
must ever be recognized that his musical genius far overtopped it in
its achievement and in its influence. It is as musical works that these
dramas make their most profound impression. The growth of Wagner’s
musical powers far surpassed his development as poet or dramatist. If
we take the poems of Wagner’s works and make a chronologically arranged
study of them, we shall see that, while there is the evolution in form
and in significance that we have noted above, the advancing profundity
of conception and emotional force may be largely attributed to the
advance which the music makes in these respects. It may be argued
that it was the progress of Wagner’s dramatic genius that prompted
and inspired the march of his musical forces, and, while this may be
to some extent true, it is the matured musicianship of Wagner which
removes _Götterdämmerung_ far from _Rheingold_ in its significance and
not the difference in the inspiration of the two poems, which were
written during the same period.

We have spoken of the immense influence of Wagner as a phenomenon.
Surely such must be called the unprecedented obsession of the musical
thought of the age which he effected. In rescuing the opera from its
position as a mere entertainment and by restoring to its service
the nobler utterances which absolute music had begun to monopolize,
Wagner’s service to the stage was incalculable. Opera in its older
sense still exists and the apparition of a ‘Carmen,’ a _Cavalleria
rusticana_, a truly dramatic Verdi, or the melodic popularities of a
Massenet or Puccini attest the vitality and sincerity of expression
which may be found outside of pure Wagnerism. It is, in fact, true that
as we make a survey of the post-Wagner operas the actual adoption of
his dramatic methods is not by any means universal, omnipresent as may
be the influence of his reforms. The demand for sincerity of dramatic
utterance is now everywhere strongly felt, but the music drama, as it
came from the hand of Wagner, still remains the unique product of him
alone whose genius was colossal enough to bring it to fruition.

More completely enthralling has been the spell of Wagner’s musical
influence, but before measuring its far-reaching circle let us consider
for a moment Wagner’s scores in the light of absolute music and remark
upon some of their intrinsic musical content. Wagner’s principal
innovations were in the department of harmonic structure. Speaking
broadly, the essence of this new harmonic treatment was a free use
of the chromatic element, which, radical as it was, was directly due
to the influence of Beethoven’s latest style. This phase of Wagner’s
composition first asserted itself, as we have before noted, in
_Tannhäuser_ and found its highest expression in ‘Tristan and Isolde.’
The chromatic features of Wagner’s melodic line are undoubtedly in a
measure an outgrowth of this harmonic sense, though it would perhaps
be truer to say that discoveries in either department reflected
themselves in new-found effects in the other. Volumes would not suffice
to enumerate even superficially the various formulæ which these
chromaticisms assume, but a very general classification might divide
them into two groups; the first consisting of passages of sinuous
chromatic leadings in conjunct motion. One of the earliest evidences
of this idiom is found in _Tannhäuser_:

[Illustration: Music score]

and the full development of its possibilities are exemplified in the
sensuous weavings of ‘Tristan’:

[Illustration: Music score]

The second type of harmonic formula is one in which remotely related
triads follow each other in chromatic order with an enharmonic
relationship. The following passage from _Lohengrin_ is an early
example of this type:

[Illustration: Music score]

and its ultimate development may be seen in the following passage from
the _Walküre_:

[Illustration: Music score]

The latter passage contains (at *) another striking feature of Wagner’s
harmonic scheme, namely the strong and biting chromatic suspensions
which fell on the ears of his generation with much the same effect
as must have had those earlier suspensions on the age of Monteverdi.
Wagner’s scores are replete with the most varied and beautiful examples
of these moments of harmonic strife. In these three features, together
with an exceedingly varied use of the chord of the ninth, lie many of
the principles upon which Wagner built his harmonic scheme, though it
would be folly to assert that any such superficial survey could give
an adequate conception of a system that was so varied in its idiom and
so intricate in its processes. It must be added that, although, as we
have stated, chromaticism was the salient feature of Wagner’s harmony,
his fine sense of balance and contrast prevented him from employing
harmonies heavily scented to a point of stifling thickness; he
interspersed them wisely with a strong vein of diatonic solidity, the
materials of which he handled with the mastery of Beethoven. We have
already cited the diatonic purity of certain of the _Parsifal_ motives
and we need only remind the reader of the leading _Meistersinger_
themes as a further proof of Wagner’s solid sense of tonality.

In rhythmical structure Wagner’s music possesses its most conventional
feature. We find little of the skillful juggling of motive and
phrase which was Beethoven’s and which Brahms employed with such
bewildering mastery. Wagner in his earliest work uses a particularly
straightforward rhythmical formula; common time is most prevalent and
the phrases are simple in their rhythmical structure, an occasional
syncopation being the only deviation from a regular following of
the beat and its equal divisions. The rhythmical development of his
later style is also comparatively simple in its following; rhythmical
excitement is largely in the restless figuration which the strings
weave round the harmonic body. These figures are usually well defined
groups of the regular beat divisions with an occasional syncopation and
no disturbance of the regular pulse of the measure. An examination of
the violin parts of ‘Tristan’ or the _Meistersinger_ will reveal the
gamut of Wagner’s rhythmical sense. Summing up we may say that Wagner’s
methods, radical as they appear, are built on the solid foundation of
his predecessors and, now that in our view of his art we are able to
employ some sense of perspective, we may readily perceive it to assume
naturally its place as a step after Beethoven and Schubert in harmonic
development.

It is with hypnotic power that these methods and their effects have
possessed the musical consciousness of the succeeding generation and,
becoming the very essence of modernity, insinuated themselves into the
pages of all modern music. The one other personality in modern German
music that assumes any proportions beside the overshadowing figure of
the Bayreuth master is Johannes Brahms. As it would seem necessary
for the detractors of any cause or movement to find an opposing force
that they may pit against the object of their disfavor, so did the
anti-Wagnerites, headed by Hanslick,[114] gather round the unconcerned
Brahms with their war-cries against Wagner. Much time and patience have
been lost over the Brahms-Wagner controversy and surely to no end.
So opposed are the ideals and methods of these two leaders of modern
musical thought that comparisons become indeed stupidly odious. To the
reflective classicist of intellectual proclivities Brahms will remain
the model, while Wagner rests, on the other hand, the guide of those
beguiled by sensuous color and dramatic freedom. That the two are not
irreconcilable in the same mind may be seen in the fact that Richard
Strauss showed a strong Brahms influence in his earlier works, and
then, without total reincarnation, became a close follower of Wagner,
whose style has formed the basis on which the most representative
living German has built his imposing structures. It is, indeed, Richard
Strauss who has shown us the further possibilities of the Wagner
idiom. Though he has been guided by Liszt in certain externals of form
and design, the polyphonic orchestral texture and harmonic richness
of Strauss’ later style, individual as they are, remain the distinct
derivative of Richard Wagner’s art. The failure of Strauss in his
first opera, _Guntram_, may be attributed to the dangerous experiment
of which we have spoken--that of a too servile emulation of Wagner’s
methods. In attempting to create his own libretto and in following too
closely the lines of Wagner, he there became little more than a mere
imitator, a charge which, however, cannot be brought against him as the
composer of _Salomé_ and _Rosenkavalier_.

In Humperdinck’s _Hänsel und Gretel_ we find perhaps the next most
prominent manifestation of the Wagnerian influence. Humperdinck met
Wagner during the master’s last years and was one of those who assisted
at the first _Parsifal_ performances. While his indebtedness to Wagner
for harmonic, melodic, and orchestral treatment is great, Humperdinck
has, by the employment of the naïve materials of folk-song, infused a
strong and freshly individual spirit into this charming work, which by
its fairy-tale subject became the prototype of a considerable following
of fairy operas.

To complete the catalogue of German operatic composers who are
followers of Wagner would be to make it inclusive of every name and
work that has attained any place in the operatic repertoire of modern
times.

In no less degree is his despotic hand felt in the realm of absolute
music. It was through the concert stage that Wagner won much of his
first recognition and it followed naturally that symphonic music must
soon have felt the influence of his genius. Anton Bruckner was an
early convert and, as a confessed disciple, attempted to demonstrate
in his symphonies how the dramatic warmth of Wagner’s style could be
confined within the symphony’s restricting line; a step which opened up
to those who did not follow Brahms and the classic romanticists a path
which has since been well trodden.

Outside of Germany the spread of Wagner’s works and the progress
of his influence forms an interesting chapter in history. We have
seen Wagner resident in Paris at several periods of his life; on
the occasion of his first two French sojourns his acquaintance was
largely with the older men, such as Berlioz, Halévy, Auber, and
others, but during his final stay in Paris, in 1861, Wagner came into
contact with some of the younger generation, Saint-Saëns and Gounod
among others. It was perhaps natural in a France, which still looked
to Germany for its musical education, that these two youthful and
enthusiastic composers should champion the cause of Wagner and become
imbued with his influence, an influence which showed itself strongly
in their subsequent work. While neither of these men made any attempt
at remodelling the operatic form after Wagner’s ideas, their music
soon showed his influence, though denied by them as it was on several
occasions. More open in his discipleship of Wagner and a too close
imitator of his methods was Ernest Reyer, whose _Sigurd_ comes from the
same source as Wagner’s ‘Ring’--the Nibelungen myths. Bizet is often
unjustly accused of Wagnerian tendencies; though he was undoubtedly an
earnest student and admirer of Wagner’s works and has, in _Carmen_,
made some slight use of a leading motive system, his music, in its
strongly national flavor, has remained peculiarly free from Wagner’s
influence. Massenet, on the other hand, with his less vital style,
has in several instances succumbed to Wagner’s influence, and in
_Esclarmonde_ there occurs a motive so like one of the _Meistersinger_
motives that on the production of the work Massenet was called by a
critic ‘Mlle. Wagner.’ Stronger still becomes the Wagner vein in French
music as we come down to our own day. Charpentier’s ‘Louise,’ despite
its distinctive color and feeling, leans very heavily on Wagner in its
harmonic and orchestral treatment. As a reactionary influence against
this encroaching tide of Wagnerism was the quiet rise of the new
nationalistic French school which César Franck was evolving through his
sober post-Beethoven classicism. That Franck himself was an admirer of
Wagner we learn from Vincent d’Indy,[115] who tells us that it was the
habit of his master to place himself in the mood for composition by
starting his working hours in playing with great enthusiasm the prelude
of _Die Meistersinger_. César Franck numbered among his pupils a great
many of those who to-day form the circle of representative French
composers. These writers all show the forming hand of their master
and faithfully follow in his efforts to preserve a noble, national
art. There has, however, crept into many of their pages the haunting
and unmistakable voice of the Bayreuth master. Vincent d’Indy, one of
the early champions of Wagner and one who, with the two conductors,
Lamoureux and Colonne, did much to win a place for Wagner’s music in
both opera house and concert room of Paris, is strongly Wagnerian in
many of his moments and the failure of his dramatic work is generally
attributed to his over-zealous following of Wagner. The strongest check
to Wagnerism in France and elsewhere is the new France that asserts
itself in the voice of him whom many claim to be the first original
thinker in music since Wagner--Claude Debussy. The founder of French
impressionism, himself at one time an ardent Wagnerite, tells us that
his awakening appreciation of the charm of Russian music turned him
from following in Wagner’s step. Whatever may have been its source
the distinctive and insinuatingly contagious style of Debussy has
undoubtedly been the first potent influence toward a reaction against
Wagnerism.

A brief word may be added as to the Wagner influence as we find it
in the other European nations. Of conspicuous names those of Grieg
and Tschaikowsky fall easily into our list of Wagner followers.
Undeniably national and individual as both have been, each had his
Wagner enthusiasm. Into the works of the former there crept so much of
Wagner that Hanslick wittily called him ‘Wagner in sealskins,’ while
Tschaikowsky, continually sounding his anti-Wagnerian sentiments,
is at times an unconscious imitator. From England there has come in
recent years in the work of one whom Strauss called ‘the first English
progressive,’ Edward Elgar, a voice which in its most eloquent moments
echoes that of Wagner. But perhaps the most significant proof of the
far-reaching influence of Wagner’s art is the readiness with which it
was welcomed by Italy. As early as 1869 Wagner found his first Italian
champion in Boïto and to him was due the early production of Wagner’s
works at Bologna. Wagner’s influence on Italian composers has been
largely in the respect of dramatic reform rather than actual musical
expression; the accusations of Wagnerism which greeted the appearance
of Verdi’s _Aïda_ were as groundless as the same cry against _Carmen_.
In _Aïda_ Verdi forsook the superficial form of opera text that had
been that of his earlier works and adopted a form more sincerely
dramatic. This was, of course, under the direct influence of Wagner’s
reform as was the more serious vein of the musical setting to this and
Verdi’s two last operas, ‘Othello’ and ‘Falstaff’; but in musical idiom
Verdi remained distinctively free from Wagner’s influence.

With this brief survey in mind the deduction as to the lasting value
of Wagner’s theories and practices may be easily drawn. Wagner, the
composer, has set his indelible mark upon the dramatic music of his
age and that of a succeeding age, and, becoming a classic, he remains
the inevitable model of modern musical thought. Wagner as dramatist
constitutes a somewhat less forceful influence. Despite the inestimable
value of his dramatic reform and its widespread influence on operatic
art Wagner’s music dramas must remain the unique work of their author
and so peculiarly the product of his universal genius that general
imitation of them is at once prohibited by the fact that the world will
not soon again see a man thus generously endowed.

Added proof of the enormous interest which has attached itself to
Wagner and his works is found in the large and constantly increasing
mass of Wagner literature, more voluminous than that heretofore
devoted to any musician. The ten volumes which comprise Wagner’s own
collected writings,[116] contain much of vital interest, as well as a
mass of unimportant items. Besides the poems of the operas, beginning
with _Rienzi_, we find all of those essays to which reference has
been already made, in which he advances his æsthetic and philosophic
principles. There is besides these a quantity of exceedingly
interesting autobiographical and reminiscent articles and many valuable
pages of hints as to the interpretation of his own and of other
works. Of greater interest to the general reader is the two-volume
autobiography.[117] This work covers Wagner’s life from childhood to
the year 1864, the year in which he met King Ludwig. Dictated to his
wife and left in trust to her for publication at a stated time after
his death, the book was eagerly awaited and attracted wide attention
on its appearance in 1911. In its intense subjectivity, it gives us
a vivid and intimate picture of Wagner’s artistic life, and in its
narration of external events several episodes of his life, which
had before been matters of more or less mystery, are explained. The
publication of this autobiography was the signal for a last and faint
raising of the voice of detraction against Wagner’s character in its
egotistical isolation. The unrelenting attitude of aggressiveness that
he adopted was only the natural attendant upon his genius and its
forceful expression. To him who reads aright this record of Wagner’s
life must come the realization that self-protection often forced
upon him these external attitudes of a selfish nature, and that his
supreme confidence in his own power to accomplish his great ideals
warranted him in overcoming in any way all obstacles which retarded the
accomplishment.

B. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[107] ‘My Life,’ Vol. I.

[108] Kietz, the painter, E. G. Anders and Lehrs, philologists, were
the most intimate of these friends.

[109] The pamphlet which Wagner wrote and caused to be circulated
publicly in explanation of the symphony is found in Vol. VIII of his
collected works (English edition).

[110] ‘Prose Writings,’ Vol. I.

[111] _Ibid._, Vol. II.

[112] _Ibid._, Vol. III.

[113] _Die Musik seit Richard Wagner_, Berlin, 1914.

[114] Eduard Hanslick, celebrated critic, Brahms champion and
anti-Wagnerite, b. Prague, 1825; d. Vienna, 1904.

[115] ‘César Franck,’ Paris, 1912.

[116] ‘The Prose Writings of Richard Wagner’ (8 vols.), translated by
W. Ashton Ellis, London, 1899.

[117] _Mein Leben_, 1913 (Eng. tr.: ‘My Life,’ 1913).

CHAPTER XII
NEO-ROMANTICISM: JOHANNES BRAHMS AND CÉSAR FRANCK

The antecedents of Brahms--The life and personality of Brahms--The
idiosyncrasies of his music in rhythm, melody, and harmony as
expressions of his character--His works for pianoforte, for voice,
and for orchestra; the historical position of Brahms--Franck’s
place in the romantic movement--His life, personality, and the
characteristics of his style; his works as the expression of
religious mysticism.

In the lifetime of Beethoven tendencies became evident in music which
during the nineteenth century developed extraordinarily both rapidly
and far, and brought about new forms and an almost wholly new art of
orchestration. Music underwent transformations parallel to those which
altered the face of all the arts and even of philosophy, and which
were closely dependent on the general political, social, and æsthetic
forces set loose throughout Europe by the French Revolution. In the
music of Beethoven himself many of these alterations are suggested,
foreshadowed, actually anticipated. The last pianoforte sonatas, the
Mass in D, the Ninth Symphony and the last string quartets were all
colored by an intense subjectivity. The form was free and strange.
They were and are to-day incomprehensible without deep study, they
are not objectively evident. They are dim and trackless realms of
music, hinting at infinite discoveries and possibilities. They were
not models, not types for his successors to imitate, but gospels of
freedom and messages from remote valleys and mountains. They cast a
light over distances yet to be attained. At the same time they were the
expression of his own soul, profoundly personal and mystical. We need
not, however, look here for traces of the French Revolution nor signs
of the times. This is not proud and conscious glorification of the
individual, nor the confident expression of a mood, at once relaxed and
self-assertive. This is the music of a man who was first cut off from
the world, who was forced within himself, so to speak, by illness, by
loneliness, by complete deafness, whose heart and soul were imprisoned
in an aloofness, who could find inspiration but in the mystery and
power of his own being. What he brought forth from such heights and
depths was to be infinitely suggestive to musicians of a later age.

During the last half dozen years of Beethoven’s life, two younger
men, strongly affected by the new era of freedom, were molding and
coloring music in other ways. Schubert, fired by the poetry of the
German romanticists, was pouring out songs full of freshness and the
new spirit, expressing in music the wildness of storm and night,
the gruesome forest-rider, the fairy whisperings of the brook, the
still sadness of frosty winter. Under his hands the symphony became
fanciful, soft, and poetical. He filled it with enchanting melody,
with the warm-blooded life of folk-songs and native rhythm, veiled
it in shifting harmonies. Beside him reckless Weber, full of German
fairy tales, of legends of chivalry, sensitive to tone-color, was
writing operas dear to the people, part-songs for men loyal to Germany,
adorning legend and ballad with splendid colors of sound. Schubert
had little grasp of form, which is order in music; Weber had hardly
to concern himself with it, since his music was, so to speak, the
draperies of a form, of the drama. For each, poetry and legend was the
inspiration, romantic poetry and wild legend, essentially Teutonic;
for each, rapture and color was the ideal. So it was at the death of
Beethoven. Weber was already dead, Schubert had but a year to live. On
the one hand, Beethoven the mystic, unfathomed, infinitely suggestive;
on the other, Schubert and Weber, the inspired rhapsodist, the genial
colorist, prototypes of much to come. On every hand were imminent
needs, unexplored possibilities.

In the amazingly short space of twenty-five years there grew up from
these seeds a new music, most firmly rooted in Schubert and Weber,
at times fed by the spirit of Beethoven. The rhapsodist gloried in
his mood, the colorist painted gorgeous panoramas; there were poets
in music, on the one hand, and painters in music, on the other. The
question of form and design, the most vital for music if not for all
the arts, has been met in many ways. The poets have limited themselves,
or at any rate have found their best and most characteristic
expression, in small forms. They publish long cycles made up of short
pieces. Often, as in the case of Schumann’s _Papillons_, _Carnaval_,
or _Kreisleriana_, the short pieces are more or less closely held
together in their relationship to one fanciful central idea. They
are scenes at a dress ball, comments and impressions of two or three
individualities at a fête, various expressions in music of different
aspects of a man’s character. Or they may have no unity as in the case
of Chopin’s preludes, studies, sets of mazurkas, or Mendelssohn’s
‘Songs Without Words,’ or Schumann’s _Bunte Blätter_. The painters in
music have devised new forms. They prefer to paint pictures of action,
they become narrative painters in music. The mighty Berlioz paints
progressive scenes from a man’s life; Liszt gives us the battle between
Paganism and Christianity in a series of pictures, the whole of life in
its progress toward death, the dreams, the torture and the ultimate
triumph of Mazeppa, of Tasso. They have acquired overpowering skill
with the brush and palette, they write for tremendous orchestras, their
scores are brilliant, often blinding. Their narratives move on with
great rush. We are familiar with the story, follow it in the music.
We know the guise in music of the characters which enact it, they
are constantly before us, moving on, rarely reminiscent. The bands
of strict form break before the armies of characters, of ideas, of
events, and we need no balance, for the story holds us and we are not
upset. But these painters, and we in their suite, are less thrilled by
the freedom of their poem and by the stride of their narrative than
bewitched and fired by the gorgeousness of the colors which they employ
with bold and masterly hand.

We shall look relatively in vain for such colors in the music of the
‘poets.’ They are lyricists, they express moods in music and each
little piece partakes of the color of the mood which it enfolds--is in
general delicate and monochrome. The poets are essentially composers
for the pianoforte. They have chosen the instrument suitable for
the home and for intimate surroundings, and their choice bars the
brilliancy of color from their now exquisite now passionate and
profoundly moving art. They are musicians of the spirit and the mood,
meditative, genuine, passionate, tearful and gay by turn. The others
are musicians of the senses and the act, dramatists, tawdry charlatans
or magnificently glorious spokesmen, leaders, challengers, who speak
with the resonance of trumpets and seduce with the honey of soft music.

Now the poets are descended from Schubert and the painters from Weber.
Both are unwavering in their allegiance to Beethoven, but the spirit of
Beethoven has touched them little. The poets more than the painters are
akin to him, but they lack his breadth and power. The painters have
something of his daring strength, but they stand over against him, are
not in line with him. Such is the condition of music only twenty-five
years after the death of him whom all, save Chopin, who worshipped
Mozart, hailed as supreme master.

In September, 1853, Brahms came to Schumann, then conductor at
Düsseldorf on the Rhine, provided with a letter of introduction from
Joseph Joachim, the renowned violinist, but two years his senior.
Brahms was at that time just over twenty years of age. He brought
with him manuscripts of his own composing and played for Schumann. A
short while before he had played the same things for Liszt at Weimar.
Of his three weeks’ stay as Liszt’s guest very bitter accounts have
been written. If Brahms was tired and fell asleep while Liszt was
playing to him, if Liszt was merely seeking to impose himself upon
the young musician when he played that young man’s scherzo at sight
from manuscript, and altered it, well and good. Brahms was, at any
rate--thanks in this case, too, to Joachim--received in the throne-room
of the painters in music, and nothing came of it. He departed the
richer by an elegant cigar-case, gift from his host; and in later years
still spoke of Liszt’s unique, incomparable and inimitable playing. But
in the throne-room of the poets he was hailed with unbounded rejoicing.
Schumann took again in his gifted hand the pen so long idle and wrote
the article for the _New Journal of Music_, which proclaimed the advent
of the true successor of Beethoven. It was a daring prophecy and it
had a tremendous effect upon Brahms and upon his career; for it was a
gage thrown to him he could not neglect and though it at once created
an opposition, vehement and longstanding, it screwed his best and most
genuine efforts to the sticking place. Never through the rest of his
life did he relax the self-imposed struggle to make himself worthy of
Schumann’s confidence and hope.

Meanwhile, among the painters, directly in the line from Weber, another
man had come to the fore, a colossal genius such as perhaps the world
had never seen before nor is like to see again. Richard Wagner, at
that time just twice the age of Brahms, was in exile at Zürich. He had
written _Rienzi_, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ _Tannhäuser_, and _Lohengrin_.
All had been performed. The libretto of the Ring was done and the music
to _Rheingold_ composed and orchestrated. Schumann disapproved. It is
hard to understand why he, so recklessly generous, so willing to see
the best in the music of all the younger school, the ardent supporter
of Berlioz, should have turned away from Wagner. One must suspect a
touch of personal aversion. He was not alone. No man ever had fiercer
battle to wage than Wagner, nor did any man ever bring to battle a
more indomitable courage and will. Liszt was his staunch supporter;
and to Liszt, too, both Schumann and his wife had aversion, easier to
understand than their aversion to Wagner. For Liszt, the virtuoso, was
made of gold and tinsel. Liszt, the composer, was made so in part.
But Wagner, the musician, was incomparably great, that is to say, his
powers were colossal and unlike those of any other, and therefore not
to be compared. That Schumann failed to recognize this comes with
something of a shock to those who have been amazed at the keenness of
his perception, and yet more to those who have rejoiced to find in the
musician the nobility and generosity of a great-hearted man. It is
obvious that the divergence between poets and painters had by this time
become too wide for his unselfish, sympathetic nature to bridge; and
thus when Brahms, a young man of twenty, was launched into the world
of music he found musicians divided into two camps between which the
hostility was to grow ever more bitter. Liszt at Weimar, Schumann at
Düsseldorf, were the rallying points for the opposing sides, but within
a year Schumann’s mind failed. The standard was forced upon Brahms, and
Liszt gave himself up to Wagner.

It was almost inevitable that the great part of the world of music
should be won over by Wagner. One by one the poets seceded, gave way
to the influence of Wagner’s marvellous power, an influence which
Clara Schumann never ceased to deplore. The result was that Brahms was
regarded, outside the circle of a few powerful friends, as reactionary.
He led, so to speak, a negative existence in music. He was cried down
for what he was not, not for what he was. There is no reason to suppose
that Brahms suffered thereby. The sale of his compositions constantly
increased and after the first few probationary years he never lacked a
good income from them. Still, perhaps the majority of musicians were
blinded by the controversy to the positive, assertive, progressive
elements in Brahms’ music. On the other hand, the adherents of Brahms,
the ‘Brahmins,’ as they have been not inaptly called, retaliated by
more or less shameful attacks upon Wagner, which later quite justly
fell back upon their own heads, to their merited humiliation. They
failed to see in him anything but a smasher of tradition, they closed
their eyes to his mighty power of construction. In the course of
time Wagner’s triumph was overwhelming. He remained the successful
innovator, and Brahms the follower of ancient tradition.

The life of Brahms offers little that is striking or unusual. He was
born in Hamburg, the northern city by the sea, on the 7th of May,
1833, of relatively humble parents. His father was a double-bass
player in a theatre orchestra. His mother, many years older than his
father, and more or less a cripple, seems to have had a deep love for
reading and a remarkable memory to retain what she had read. In his
earliest childhood Brahms commenced to acquire a knowledge of poetry
from his mother, which showed all through his later life in the choice
of poems he made for his songs. His ability to play the piano was so
evident that his father hoped to send him as a child wonder to tour
the United States, from which fate, however, he was saved by the
firmness of one of his teachers. Twice in November, 1847, he appeared
with others in public, playing conventional show pieces of the facture
of Thalberg; but in the next year he gave a recital of his own at
which he played Bach, a point of which Kalbeck[118] makes a trifle
too much. The income of the father was very small, and Brahms was not
an overwhelming success as a concert pianist. To earn a little money,
therefore, he used to play for dancing in taverns along the waterfront;
forgetful, we are told, of the rollicking sailors, absorbed in books
upon the desk of the piano before him. His early life was not an easy
one. It helped to mold him, however, and brought out his enormous
perseverance and strength of will. These early days of hardship were
never forgotten. He believed they had helped rather than hindered him,
a belief which, it must be admitted, is refreshingly manly in contrast
to the wail of despised genius so often ringing in the ears of one who
reads the lives of the great musicians as they have been penned by
their later worshippers. Not long before he died, being occupied with
the question of his will and the disposal of his money, he asked his
friend, the Swiss writer J. V. Widmann for advice. Widmann suggested
that he establish a fund for the support and aid of struggling young
musicians; to which Brahms replied that the genius of such, if it were
worth anything, would find its own support and be the stronger for the
struggle. The attitude is very characteristic.

Occasional visitors to Hamburg had a strong influence upon the youth.
Such were Joachim and Robert and Clara Schumann, though he did not
then meet the latter. At the age of nineteen, having already composed
the E-flat minor scherzo, the F-sharp minor and C-major sonatas and
numerous songs, he went forth on a concert tour with the Bohemian
violinist Remenyi. On this tour he again came in touch with Joachim,
who furnished him with letters to Liszt at Weimar and the Schumanns at
Düsseldorf. Of his stay at Weimar mention has already been made. At
Düsseldorf he was received at once into the heart of the family. In
striking contrast with the gruffness of later years is the description
given by Albert Dietrich of the young man come out of the north to the
home of the Schumanns. ‘The appearance, as original as interesting,
of the youthful almost boyish-looking musician, with his high-pitched
voice and long fair hair, made a most attractive impression upon me. I
was particularly struck by the characteristic energy of the mouth and
serious depths in his blue eyes....’ One evening Brahms was asked to
play. He played a Toccata of Bach and his own scherzo in E-flat minor
‘with wonderful power and mastery; bending his head down over the keys,
and, as was his wont in his excitement, humming the melody aloud as he
played. He modestly deprecated the torrent of praise with which his
performance was greeted. Everyone marvelled at his remarkable talent,
and, above all, we young musicians were unanimous in our enthusiastic
admiration of the supremely artistic qualities of his playing, at times
so powerful or, when occasion demanded it, so exquisitely tender, but
always full of character. Soon after there was an excursion to the
Grafenberg. Brahms was of the party, and showed himself here in all
the amiable freshness and innocence of youth.... The young artist was
of vigorous physique; even the severest mental work hardly seeming an
exertion to him. He could sleep soundly at any hour of the day if he
wished to do so. In intercourse with his fellows he was lively, often
even exuberant in spirits, occasionally blunt and full of wild freaks.
With the boisterousness of youth he would run up the stairs, knock at
my door with both fists, and, without awaiting a reply, burst into the
room. He tried to lower his strikingly high-pitched voice by speaking
hoarsely, which gave it an unpleasant sound.’

All accounts of the young Brahms lay emphasis on his lovableness,
his exuberant good spirits, his shining good health and his physical
vitality. Clara Schumann wrote in her diary: ‘I found a nice stanza in
a poem of Bodenstedt’s which is just the motto for Johannes:

’“In winter I sing as my glass I drain,
For joy that the spring is drawing near;
And when spring comes, I drink again,
For joy that at last it is really here.”'

Clara, too, admired his playing, and she was competent to judge. ‘I
always listen to him with fresh admiration,’ she wrote. ‘I like to
watch him while he plays. His face has a noble expression always, but
when he plays it becomes even more exalted. And at the same time he
always plays quietly, i. e. his movements are always beautiful, not
like Liszt’s and others’.’ He was always devoted to Schubert and she
remarked that he played Schubert wonderfully. Later in life his playing
became careless and loud.

Not half a year after Brahms was received at Düsseldorf Schumann’s mind
gave way. In February, 1854, he attempted suicide, and immediately
after it became necessary to send him to a private sanatorium at
Endenich. For two years longer he lived. They were years of anguish
for his wife, during which Brahms was her unfailing refuge and support.
She wrote in her diary that her children might read in after years
what now is made known to the world. ‘Then came Johannes Brahms. Your
father loved and admired him as he did no man except Joachim. He came,
like a true comrade, to share all my sorrow; he strengthened the heart
that threatened to break, he uplifted my mind, he cheered my spirits
whenever and wherever he could, in short, he was in the fullest sense
of the word my friend.’

Brahms was profoundly affected by the suffering he witnessed and by
the personal grief at the loss of a friend who had meant so much to
him. The hearty, boisterous gaiety such as he poured into parts of
his youthful compositions, into the scherzo of the F-minor sonata,
for instance, and into the finale of the C-major, never again found
unqualified expression in his music. His character was set and
hardened. From then on he locked his emotions within himself. Little
by little he became harsh, rejected, often roughly, kindness and
praise--made himself a coat of iron and shut his nature from the
world. Ruthlessly outspoken and direct, seemingly heedless of the
sensibilities of those who loved him dearly and whom he dearly loved,
he presents only a proud, fierce defiance to grief, to misfortune,
even to life itself. What such self-discipline cost him only his music
expresses. Three of his gloomiest and most austere works came first
into his mind during the horror of Schumann’s illness; the D-minor
concerto for the piano, the first movement of the C-minor quartet, and
the first movement of the C-minor symphony.

Meanwhile he was earning a precarious living by giving concerts here
and there, not always with success; and he had begun a relentlessly
severe course of self-training in his art. Here Joachim and he were
mutually helpful to each other. Every week each would send to the
other exercises in music, fragments of compositions, expecting in
return frank and merciless criticism. In the fall of 1859 he accepted
a position at Detmold as pianist and leader of the chorus. A small
orchestra was at his service, which offered him opportunity to study
instrumental effects, especially wind instruments, and for which he
wrote the two serenades in A and in D major. Likewise he profited by
his association with the chorus, and laid at Detmold the foundation
for his technique in writing for voices, which has very rarely been
equalled. Duties in this new position occupied him only during the
musical season, from September to December. At other times he played in
concert or went back to his home in Hamburg. At one concert in Leipzig
in 1859 he was actually hissed, either because his own concerto which
he played or his manner of playing it was offensive. The critics were
viciously hostile. Brahms took the defeat manfully, evidently ranked
it as he did his days of playing for the Hamburg sailors, among the
experiences which were in the long run stimulating. At Hamburg he
organized a chorus of women’s voices for which many of his loveliest
works were then and subsequently composed. In the chorus was a young
Viennese lady from whom, according to Kalbeck, he first heard Viennese
folk-music. With Vienna henceforth in mind he continued in his work at
Detmold until 1862, when he broke away from North Germany and went to
establish himself in the land of his desire. He came before the public
first as a pianist, later as a composer. For a year he was conductor of
the _Singakademie_. Afterward he never held an office except during the
three years 1872-1875, when he was conductor of the _Gesellschaft der
Musikfreunde_.

The death of his mother in 1867 aggravated his tendency to forbidding
self-discipline. The result in music was the ‘German Requiem,’ which
even those who cannot sympathize with his music in general have
willingly granted to be one of the great masterpieces of music. As it
was first performed at a concert of the _Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde_
in Vienna in April, 1867, it consisted of only three numbers. To these
he later added four, and in this form it was performed on Good Friday,
April 10, 1868, in Bremen. Clara Schumann, who was present, wrote in
her diary that she had been more moved by it than by any other sacred
music she had ever heard. It established Brahms’ reputation as a
composer, a reputation which steadily grew among conservatives. A group
of distinguished critics, musicians, and men of unusual intellectual
gifts gathered about him in Vienna. Among them were Dr. Theodor
Billroth, the famous surgeon, probably his most intimate friend; Eduard
Hanslick and Max Kalbeck among the critics, K. Goldmark and Johann
Strauss among the musicians. Joachim was a lifelong friend, Von Bülow
and Fritz Simrock, the publisher, were staunch admirers, and in Dvořák
he later took a deep interest. Journeys to Italy and to Switzerland
took him from Vienna for some time every year, and he often spent a
part of the summer with Clara Schumann at various German watering
places.

A few works were inspired by unusual events, such as the ‘Song of
Triumph’ to celebrate the victory of the German armies in the war
against France, and the ‘Academic Festival Overture,’ composed in
gratitude to the university at Breslau which conferred upon him the
degree of Doctor of Philosophy. A similar degree was offered by the
University of Cambridge, which Brahms was forced to refuse because he
was unwilling to undertake the voyage to England.

He was an omnivorous reader and an enthusiastic amateur of art. Regular
in his habits, a stubborn and untiring worker, he composed almost
unceasingly to the time of his last illness and death in April, 1897.
The great works for the orchestra comprise ‘Variations on a Theme of
Haydn’s,’ the ‘Academic Festival Overture,’ and the ‘Tragic Overture,’
four great symphonies, the second concerto for piano and orchestra,
the concerto for violin and orchestra, and a concerto for violin and
violoncello. The great choral works are the ‘Requiem,’ ‘The Song of
Triumph,’ and ‘The Song of Destiny,’ a cantata, ‘Rinaldo,’ and a great
number of songs. Besides these there are many sets of works for the
piano, all in short forms, generally called caprices or intermezzi, and
several sets of variations, one on a theme of Paganini, one on a theme
of Handel; sonatas for piano and violin, and piano and violoncello;
the magnificent quintet in F-minor for piano and strings, sonatas for
clarinet and piano, string quartets, piano quartets, and trios.

III

Brahms is to be ranked among the romantic composers in that all his
work is distinctly a reflection of his own personality, in that every
emotion, mood, dream, or whatever may be the cause and inspiration
of his music is invariably tinged with the nature through which it
passed. The lovable, boisterous frankness which was characteristic of
him as a young man was little by little curbed, subdued, levelled,
so to speak. He cultivated an austere intellectual grasp of himself,
tending to crush all sentimentality and often all sentiment. We may not
hesitate to believe his own word that Clara Schumann was dearer to him
than anyone else upon the earth, nor yet can we fail to read in her
diary that she suffered more than anyone else from his uncompromising
intellectuality. If she attempted to praise or encourage him she met
with a heartless intellectual rebuke. Not long after Schumann died, he
wrote a letter to reprimand her for taking his own cause too much to
heart. ‘You demand too rapid and enthusiastic recognition of talent
which you happen to like. Art is a republic. You should take that as a
motto. You are far too aristocratic.... Do not place one artist in a
higher rank and expect the others to regard him as their superior, as
dictator. His gifts will make him a beloved and respected citizen of
this republic, but will not make him consul or emperor.’ To which she
replied: ‘It is true that I am often greatly struck by the richness
of your genius, that you always seem to me one on whom heaven has
poured out its best gifts, that I love and honor you for the sake of
many glorious works. All this has fastened its roots deep down in my
heart, so, dearest Johannes, do not trouble to kill it all by your
cold philosophizing.’ Clara exerted herself to bring his compositions
before the public. A short extract from her diary will show how Brahms
rewarded her efforts. ‘I was in agonies of nervousness but I played
them [variations on a theme of Schumann’s] well all the same, and
they were much applauded. Johannes, however, hurt me very much by his
indifference. He declared that he could no longer bear to hear the
variations, it was altogether dreadful to him to listen to anything
of his own and to have to sit by and do nothing. Although I can well
understand this feeling I cannot help finding it hard when one has
devoted all one’s powers to a work, and the composer himself has not a
kind word for it.’ The tenderness which would have meant much to her
he failed to show. He made himself rough and harsh, stern and severe.
That a man could write of him as ‘a steadfast, strong, manly nature,
self-contained and independent, striving ever for the highest, an
uncompromisingly true and unbending artistic conscience, strict even
to harshness, rigidly exacting,’ wins the adherent, wins loyalty and
admiration, hides but does not fill the lack.

Undoubtedly, as a son of a gloomy northern land, the tendency to
self-restraint was a racial heritage. Outward facts of his life show
that he was himself conscious of it and that he tried in a measure to
escape from it. His love of gay Vienna, his journeys into Switzerland,
his oft-repeated search for color and spontaneous emotion in Italy, are
all signs of a man trying to be free from his own nature. ‘But that, in
spite of Vienna,’ writes Walter Niemann, ‘he remained a true son of the
sea-girt province, we know from all accounts of his life. Melancholy,
deep, powerful and earnest feeling, uncommunicativeness, a noble
restraint of emotion, meditativeness, even morbidness, the inclination
to be alone with himself, the inability both as man and as artist to
get away from himself, are characteristics which must be ever assigned
to him.’[119]

There is something heroic in this, a grim strength, the chill of
northern forests and northern seas, loneliness and the power to endure
suffering in silence. It is an old ideal. The thane, were he wanderer
or seafarer, never forgot it was his duty to lock his sorrow within his
breast. That it might lead and has led to morbidness, to taciturnity,
on the one hand, is no less evident than that, on the other, it may
lead to splendid fortitude and nobility. This old ideal has found its
first full expression in music through Brahms. We come upon a paradox,
the man who would express nothing, who has in music expressed all.

It is striking how the man reveals himself in his music. The rigorous
self-discipline and restraint find their counterpart in the absolute
perfection of the structure, the polyphonic skill, the intellectual
poise and certainty. There is a resultant lack of obvious color, a
deliberate suppression of sensuousness, so marked that Rubinstein could
call him, with Joachim, the high-priest of virtue, a remark which
carries the antidote to its own sting, if one will be serious. And the
music of Brahms is essentially serious. In general it lacks appealing
charm and humor. Its beauties yield only to thoughtful study, but the
harvest is rich, though often sombre. He belongs to the poets, not the
painters, in that his short pieces are saturated with mood, even and
rather monochrome. The mood, too, is prevailingly dark, not light. That
he could at times rise out of it and give way to light-heartedness
and frank humor no one can deny who will recall, for instance, the
‘Academic Festival Overture,’ where the mood is boisterous and full of
fun, student fun. The Passacaglia in the Fourth Symphony hints at it
as well, and some of the songs, and the last movement of the violin
concerto. But these are in strong contrast to the general spirit of
his music. His happier moods are ever touched with wistfulness or
with sadness. In such vein he is often at his best, as, for example,
in the allegretto of the first and of the second symphonies. Such a
mischievous humor as Beethoven expressed in the scherzo of the Eroica
Symphony, such peasant joviality as rollicks through the scherzo of
the Pastoral, such wit as glances through the eighth symphony, were,
if he had them at all within him, too oppressed to find utterance and
excite laughter or even smiles. As a boy, it will be remembered, he was
often overbrimming with good spirits, full of freakish sport. The first
three sonatas reflect this. Then came the illness of Schumann, his
adored friend, and, knowing what grief and suffering were, he fortified
himself against them. He took a wound to heart and never after was off
his guard.

It cannot be said that his music is wholly lacking in humor. Reckless,
‘unbuttoned’ humor is indeed rarely if ever evident; but the broader
humor, the sense of balance and proportion, strengthens his works
almost without exception. If it can be said that he was never able to
free himself from a mood of twilight and the northern sea, it cannot be
said that he was so sunk in this mood as to lose himself in unhealthy
morbidness, to lose perspective and the power of wide vision. Above
all else his music is broadly planned. It is wide and spacious, not to
say vast. There is enormous force in it, vigor of mind and of spirit,
too. Surcharged it may not be with heat and color, but great winds blow
through it, it is expansive, it lifts the listener to towering heights,
never drags him to ecstatic torture in the fiery lake of distressed
passion and hysterical grief. For this reason Liszt could say of some
of it that it was ‘sanitary,’ and here again we must be serious not to
smart with the sting.

No musician ever devoted himself more wholeheartedly to the study of
folk-music, but he failed to imbue his works with the spirit of it. One
has but to contrast him with Haydn or with Schubert to be convinced.
The _Liebeslieder_ waltzes, and the set of waltzes arranged for four
hands, charming as they are, lack the true folk-spirit of spontaneity
and warmth. For all their seeming simplicity they hold back something;
they are veiled and therefore suggestive, not immediate. They breathe
of the ever-changing sea, not of the warm and stable earth. His
admiration for Johann Strauss is well known. That he himself could not
write waltzes of the same mad, irresistible swing was to him a source
of conscious regret. Yet the accompaniments which he wrote for series
of German folk-songs are ineffably beautiful. In them, he interprets
the spirit of the northern races to which by birth and character
he belonged. That which would have made him the interpreter of all
mankind, that quick emotion which is the essence of the human race,
the current of warm blood which flows through us all and makes us all
as one, he bound and concealed within himself. He cannot speak the
common idiom.

Hence his music will impress the listener upon the first hearing as
intellectual, and, as a rule, study and familiarity alone reveal the
depth of genuine emotional feeling from which it sprang. Therefore it
is true of him in the same measure as it is true of Bach and Beethoven
that the beauty of his music grows ever richer with repeated hearings,
and does not fade nor become stale. It is not, however, intellectual
in the sense that it is always deliberately contrived, but only in so
far as it reflects the austere control of mind over emotion which was
characteristic of him as a man. One is conscious always of control and
a consequent power to sustain. In rhythm, in melody and in harmony this
control has left its mark. It is to be doubted if the music of any
other composer is so full of idiosyncrasies of expression. Strangely
enough these are not limitations. They are not mannerisms in the sense
that they are habits, mere formulas of expression, unconsciously
affected and riding the composer to death. They are subtly connected
with and suitable to the quality of emotion which they serve to
express, that emotion which, as we have seen, is always under control.
They are signs of strength, not of weakness.

His rhythm is varied by devices of syncopation which are not to be
found used to such an extent in the works of any other of the great
composers. Especially frequent is the alteration of two beats of
three values into three beats of two, an alteration practised by the
early polyphonic writers and called the _hemiola_. Brahms employed
it not only with various beats of the measure but with the measures
themselves. Thus two measures of 3/4 time often become in value three
measures of 2/4 time. Notice, for instance in the sonata for piano in
F-minor the part for the left hand in measures seven to sixteen of
the first movement. In this passage the left hand is clearly playing
in 2/4 time, the right in 3/4; yet the sum of rhythmical values for
each at the end of the passage is the same. It is to be noted that,
whereas Schumann frequently lost himself in syncopation, or, in other
words, overstepped the mark so that the original beat was wholly lost
and with it the effect of syncopation, at any rate to the listener,
Brahms always contrived that the original beat should be suggested if
not emphasized, and his employment of syncopation, therefore, is always
effective as such. He acquired extraordinary skill in the combination
of different rhythms at the same time, and in the modification of tempo
by modification of the actual value of the notes. The variety and
complexity of the rhythm of his music are rarely lost on a listener,
though often they serve only to bewilder him until the secret becomes
clear. Within the somewhat rigid bounds of form and counterpoint his
music is made wonderfully flexible, while by syncopation he actually
makes the natural beat more relentless. Mystery, rebellion, divergence,
the world-old struggle between law and chaos he could express either in
fine suggestions or in strong contradictions by his power over rhythm
in music. In the broader rhythm of structure, too, he was free. Phrases
of five bars are constantly met with in his music.

His melodies are indescribably large. They have the poise of great and
far-reaching thought and yet rarely lack spontaneity. Indeed, as a
song writer he is unexcelled. In his instrumental music there is often
a predominance of lyricism. Though he was eminently skillful in the
treatment of melodic motifs, of small sections of melody, though his
mastery of polyphonic writing is second to none, except Bach, parts of
the symphonies seem to be carried by broad, flowing melodies, which in
their largeness and sweep have the power to take the listener soaring
into vast expanses. To cite but one instance, the melodies of the first
movement of the D-major symphony are truly lyrical. In them alone there
is wonderful beauty, wonderful power. They are not meaningless. Of that
movement it is not to be said what a marvellous structure has Brahms
been able to build out of motives in themselves meaningless, in the
hands of another insignificant. The beauty of the movement is largely
in the materials out of which it is built. Of the melodies of Beethoven
it may be said they have infinite depth, of those of Schubert that they
have perennial freshness, of those of Schumann romance and tenderness,
but of Brahms that they have power, the power of the eagle to soar.
They are frequently composed of the tones of a chord, sometimes of the
simple tonic triad. Notice in this regard the first melodies of all the
symphonies, the songs ‘Sapphic Ode,’ _Die Mainacht_, _Wiegenlied_, and
countless others.

His harmonies are, as would be expected from one to whom softness was
a stranger, for the most part diatonic. They are virile, almost never
sensuous. Sharp dissonances are frequent, augmented intervals rare, and
often his harmonies are made ‘thick’ by doubling the third even in very
low registers. There is at times a strong suggestion of the old modal
harmony, especially in works written for chorus without accompaniment.
Major and minor alternate unexpectedly, the two modes seeming in his
music interchangeable. He is fond of extremely wide intervals, very low
and very high tones at once, and the empty places without sound between
call forth the spirit of barren moorland, the mystery of dreary places,
of the deserted sea.

In all Brahms’ music, whether for piano, for voices, combinations of
instruments, or for orchestra, these idiosyncrasies are present. They
are easily recognized, easily seized upon by the critic; but taken
together they do not constitute the sum of Brahms’ genius. They are
expressive of his broad intellectual grasp; but the essence of his
genius consists far rather in a powerful, deep, and genuine emotional
feeling which is seldom lacking in all that he composed. It is hard to
get at, hard for the player, the singer, and the leader to reveal, but
the fact none the less remains that Brahms is one of the very great
composers, one who truly had something to say. One may feel at times
that he set himself deliberately to say it in a manner new and strange;
but it is none the less evident to one who has given thought to the
interpretation of what lies behind his music, that the form of his
utterance, though at first seemingly awkward and willful, is perfectly
and marvellously fitting.

Brahms’ pianoforte works are with comparatively few exceptions in
small forms. There are rhapsodies and ballades and many intermezzi and
capriccios. Unlike Schumann he never gives these pieces a poetic title
to suggest the mood in which they are steeped, though sometimes, rarely
indeed, he prefixes a motto, a stanza from a poem, as in the andante of
the F-minor sonata, or the title of a poem, as in the ballade that is
called ‘Edward,’ or the intermezzo in E-flat major, both suggested by
Scotch poems. The pieces are almost without exception difficult. The
ordinary technique of the pianist is hardly serviceable, for common
formulas of accompaniment he seldom uses, but rather unusual and wide
groupings of notes which call for the greatest and most rapid freedom
of the arm and a largeness of hand. Mixed rhythms abound, and difficult
cross-accents. For one even who has mastered the technical difficulties
of Chopin and Liszt new difficulties appear. He seems to stand out of
the beaten path of virtuosity. His aversion to display has carefully
stripped all his music of conventional flourish and adornment, and his
pianoforte music is seldom brilliant never showy, but rather sombre.
What it lacks in brilliance, on the other hand, it makes up in richness
and sonority; and when mastered will prove, though ungrateful for the
hand, adapted to the most intimate spirit of the instrument. The two
sets of variations on a theme of Paganini make the utmost demands upon
hand and head of the player. It may be questioned if any music for
the piano is technically more difficult. One has only to compare them
with the Liszt-Paganini studies to realize how extraordinarily new
Brahms’ attitude toward the piano was. In Liszt transcendent, blinding
virtuosity; in Brahms inexhaustible richness.

The songs, too, are not less difficult and not more brilliant. The
breadth of phrases and melodies require of the singer a tremendous
power to sustain, and yet they are so essentially lyrical that the
finest shading is necessary fully to bring out the depth of the feeling
in them. The accompaniments are complicated by the same idiosyncrasies
of rhythm and spacing which are met with in the piano music, yet they
are so contrived that the melodies are not taken and woven into them as
in so many of the exquisite songs of Schumann, but that the melodies
are set off by them. In writing for choruses or for groups of voices,
he manifested a skill well-nigh equal to that of Bach and Handel.
He seems often to have gone back to the part-songs of the sixteenth
century for his models.

Compared with the scores of Wagner his orchestral works are sombre and
gray. The comparison has led many to the conclusion that Brahms had
no command of orchestral color. This is hardly true. Vivid coloring
is for the most part lacking, but such coloring would be wholly out
of place in the expression of the emotion which gives his symphonies
their grandeur. His art of orchestration, like his art of writing for
the pianoforte, is peculiarly his own, and again is the most fitting
imaginable to the quality of his inspiration. It is often striking.
The introduction to the last movement of the first symphony, the
coda of the first movement of the second symphony, the adagio of the
fourth symphony are all points of color which as color cannot be
forgotten; and in all his works for orchestra this is what Hugo Riemann
calls a ‘gothic’ interweaving of parts, which, if it be not a subtle
coloration, is at any rate most beautiful shading. On the whole, it is
inconceivable that Brahms should have scored his symphonies otherwise
than he has scored them. As they stand they are representative of the
nature of the man, to whom brilliance and sensuousness were perhaps too
often to be distrusted. Much has been made of the well-known fact that
not a few of his works, and among them one of his greatest, the quintet
in F minor for pianoforte and strings, were slow to take their final
color in his mind. The D minor concerto for piano and orchestra was
at one time to have been a symphony, the great quintet was originally
a sonata for two pianos, the orchestral variations on a theme of
Haydn, too, were first thought of for two pianos, and the waltzes
for pianoforte, four hands, were partially scored for orchestra. But
this may be as well accounted for by his evident and self-confessed
hesitation in approaching the orchestra as by insensitiveness to tone
color. The concerto in D minor is opus 15, the quintet opus 34, the
Haydn variations opus 56. The first symphony, on the other hand, is
opus 68. After this all doubt of color seems to have disappeared.

Analysis of the great works is reserved for later volumes. The
‘Requiem,’ the quintet for piano and strings, the ‘Song of Destiny,’
the overwhelmingly beautiful concerto for violin and orchestra,
the songs, the songs for women’s voices with horn and harp, the
‘Academic Festival Overture,’ and the ‘Tragic Overture,’ the works for
pianoforte, the trios, quartets and quintets for various instruments,
the four mighty symphonies--all bear the stamp of the man and of his
genius in ways which have been hinted at. No matter how small the form,
there is suggestion of poise and of great breadth of opinion. It is
this spirit of expanse that will ever make his music akin to that of
Bach and Beethoven. Schumann’s prophecy was bold. Some believe that it
has been fulfilled, that Brahms is in truth the successor of Beethoven.
Whether or not Brahms will stand with Bach and Beethoven as one of the
three greatest composers it is far too early to say. The limitations
of his character and of his temperament are obvious and his music has
not escaped them. On the other hand, the depth and grandeur, the heroic
strength, the power over rhythm, over melody, and over harmony belong
only to the highest in music. He was of the line of poets descended
from Schubert through Schumann, but he had a firmer grasp than they.
His music is more strongly built, is both deeper and higher. Its
sombreness has been unjustly aggravated by comparison with Wagner, but
the time has come when the two men are no longer judged in relation
to each other, when they are found to be of stuff too different to
be compared any more than fire and water can be compared. They are
sprung of radically different stock. It might almost be said that they
are made up of different elements. If with any composers, he can only
be compared with Bach and Beethoven. His perfect workmanship nearly
matches that of the former; but Bach, for all the huge proportions of
his great works, is a subtle composer, and Brahms is not subtle. The
harmonies of Bach are chromatic, those of Brahms, as we have seen,
are diatonic. His forms are near those of Beethoven, and his rugged
spirit as well. His symphonies, in spite of the lyrical side of his
genius which is evident in them, can stand beside those of the master
of Bonn and lose none of their stature. But he lacks the comic spirit
which sparkles ever and again irrepressibly in the music of Beethoven.
He is indubitably a product of the movement which, for lack of a more
definite name, we must call romantic; and, though it has been said with
truth that some of the music of Beethoven and much of Bach is romantic,
it cannot be denied that the romantic movement brought to music
qualities which are not evident in the works of the earlier masters.
The romanticists in every art took themselves extremely seriously as
individuals. From their relationship to life as a whole, to the state,
and to man they often rebelled, even when making a great show of
patriotism. A reaction was inevitable, tending to realism, cynicism,
even pessimism. Brahms stood upon the outer edge of romanticism, on
the threshold of the movement to come. He took himself seriously, not
however with enjoyment in individual liberty, with conscious indulgence
in mood and reverie, but with grim determination to shape himself
and his music to an ideal, which, were it only that of perfect law,
was fixed above the attainment of the race. If, as it has been often
written, Beethoven’s music expresses the triumph of man over destiny,
Brahms may well speak of a triumph in spite of destiny. That over which
Beethoven triumphed was the destiny which touches man; that in spite
of which and amid which the music of Brahms stands firm and secure is
the destiny of the universe, of the stars and planets whirling through
the soundless, unfathomable night of space, not man’s soul exultant but
man’s reason unafraid, unshaken by the cry of the heart which finds no
consolation.

The drift of romanticism toward realism is easy to trace in all the
arts. There were, however, artists of all kinds who were caught up, so
to speak, from the current into a life of the spirit, who championed
neither the glory of the senses, as Wagner, nor the indomitable power
of reason, as Brahms, but preserved a serenity and calm, a sort of
confident, nearly ascetic rapture, elevated above the turmoil of the
world, standing not with nor against, but floating above. Such an
artist in music was César Franck, growing up almost unnoticed between
Wagner and Brahms, now to be ranked as one of the greatest composers of
the second half of the century. He is as different from them as they
are from each other. Liszt, the omniscient, knew of him, had heard him
play the organ in the church of Ste. Clotilde, where in almost monastic
seclusion the greater part of his life flowed on, had likened him to
the great Sebastian Bach, had gone away marvelling; but only a small
band of pupils knew him intimately and the depth of his genius as a
composer.

His life was retired. He was indifferent to lack of appreciation. When,
through the efforts of his devoted disciples, his works were at rare
intervals brought to public performance, he was quite forgetful of
the cold, often hostile, audience, intent only to compare the sound
of his music as he heard it with the thought he had had in his soul,
happy if the sound were what he had conceived it would be. Of envy,
meanness, jealousy, of all the darker side of life, in fact, he seems
to have taken no account. Nor by imagination could he picture it, nor
express it in his music, which is unfailingly luminous and exalted.
Most striking in his nature was a gentle, unwavering, confident candor,
and in his music there is scarcely a hint of doubt, of inquiring, or
of struggle. It suggests inevitably the cathedral, the joyous calm of
religious faith, spiritual exaltation, even radiance.

His life, though not free in early years from hardship, was relatively
calm and uneventful. He was born in Liège in December, 1822, eleven
years after Wagner, eleven years before Brahms, and from the start was
directed to music by his father. In the course of his early training at
Liège he acquired remarkable skill as a virtuoso, and his father had
hopes of exploiting his gifts in wide concert tours. In 1835 he moved
with his family to Paris and remained there seven years; at the end of
which, having amazed his instructors and judges at the Conservatoire,
among whom, be it noted, the venerable Cherubini, and won a special
prize, he was called from further study by the dictates of his father
and went back to Liège to take up his career as a concert pianist. For
some reason this project was abandoned at the end of two years, and he
returned to Paris, there to pass the remainder of his life.

At first he was organist at the church of Notre Dame de Lorette, later
at Ste. Clotilde, and in 1872 he was appointed professor of the organ
at the Conservatoire. To the end of his life he gave lessons in organ
and pianoforte playing, here and there, and in composition to a few
chosen pupils. He was elected member of the Legion of Honor in 1885;
not, however, in recognition of his gifts as a composer, but only of
his work as professor of organ at the Conservatoire. He died on the 8th
of November, 1890. At the time of his marriage, in 1848, he resolved
to save from the pressure of work to gain a livelihood an hour or two
of every day for composition--time, as he himself expressed it, to
think. The hours chosen were preferably in the early morning and to the
custom, never broken in his lifetime, we owe his great compositions,
penned in those few moments of rest from a busy life. He wrote in
all forms, operas, oratorios, cantatas, works for piano, for string
quartet, concertos, sonatas, and symphonies.

With the exception of a few early pieces for piano all his work
bears the stamp of his personality. Like Brahms, he has pronounced
idiosyncrasies, among which his fondness for shifting harmonies is
the most constantly obvious. The ceaseless alteration of chords, the
almost unbroken gliding by half-steps, the lithe sinuousness of all the
inner voices seem to wrap his music in a veil, to render it intangible
and mystical. Diatonic passages are rare, all is chromatic. Parallel
to this is his use of short phrases, which alone are capable of being
treated in this shifting manner. His melodies are almost invariably
dissected, they seldom are built up in broad design. They are resolved
into their finest motifs and as such are woven and twisted into the
close iridescent harmonic fabric with bewildering skill. All is in
subtle movement. Yet there is a complete absence of sensuousness,
even, for the most part, of dramatic fire. The overpowering climaxes
to which he builds are never a frenzy of emotion, they are superbly
calm and exalted. The structure of his music is strangely inorganic.
His material does not develop. He adds phrase upon phrase, detail
upon detail with astonishing power to knit and weave closely what
comes with what went before. His extraordinary polyphonic skill seems
inborn, native to the man. Arthur Coquard said of him that he thought
the most complicated things in music quite naturally. Imitation,
canon, augmentation, and diminution, the most complex problems of the
science of music, he solves without effort. The perfect canon in the
last movement of the violin sonata sounds simple and spontaneous. The
shifting, intangible harmonies, the minute melodies, the fine fabric as
of a goldsmith’s carving, are all the work of a mystic, indescribably
pure and radiant. Agitating, complex rhythms are rare. The second
movement of the violin sonata and the last movement of the ‘Prelude,
Aria, and Finale’ are exceptional. The heat of passion is seldom
felt. Faith and serene light prevail, a music, it has been said, at
once the sister of prayer and of poetry. His music, in short, wrote
Gustave Derepas, ‘leads us from egoism to love, by the path of the true
mysticism of Christianity; from the world to the soul, from the soul to
God.’

His form, as has been said, is not organic, but he gives to all his
music a unity and compactness by using the same thematic material
throughout the movements of a given composition. For example, in the
first movement of the ‘Prelude, Chorale, and Fugue’ for piano, the
theme of the fugue which constitutes the last movement is plainly
suggested, and the climax of the last movement is built up out of this
fugue theme woven with the great movement of the chorale. In the first
movement of the ‘Prelude, Aria, and Finale,’ likewise for piano, the
theme of the Finale is used as counterpoint; in the Aria again the same
use is made of it; in the Finale the Aria theme is reintroduced, and
the coda at the end is built up of the principal theme of the Prelude
and a theme taken from the closing section of the Aria. The four
movements of the violin sonata are most closely related thematically;
the symphony, too, is dominated by one theme, and the theme which opens
the string quartet closes it as well. This uniting of the several
movements of a work on a large scale by employing throughout the same
material was more consistently cultivated by Franck than by any other
composer. The concerto for piano and orchestra in E-flat by Liszt is
constructed on the same principle; the D minor symphony of Schumann
also, and it is suggested in the first symphony of Brahms, but these
are exceptions. Germs of such a relationship between movements in the
cyclic forms were in the last works of Beethoven. In Franck they
developed to great proportion.

The fugue in the ‘Prelude, Chorale and Fugue’ and the canon in the last
movement of the violin sonata are superbly built, and his restoration
of strict forms to works in several movements finds a precedent only
in Beethoven and once in Mozart. The treatment of the variation form
in the _Variations Symphoniques_ for piano and orchestra is no less
masterly than his treatment of fugue and canon, but it can hardly be
said that he excelled either Schumann or Brahms in this branch of
composition.

Franck was a great organist and all his work is as clearly influenced
by organ technique as the works of Sebastian Bach were before him.
‘His orchestra,’ Julien Tiersot wrote in an article published in
_Le Ménéstrel_ for October 23, 1904, ‘is sonorous and compact, the
orchestra of an organist. He employs especially the two contrasting
elements of strings (eight-foot stops) and brass (great-organ). The
wood-wind is in the background. This observation encloses a criticism,
and his method could not be given as a model; it robs the orchestra
of much variety of coloring, which is the richness of the modern art.
But we ought to consider it as characteristic of the manner of César
Franck, which alone suffices to make such use legitimate.’ Undeniably
the sensuous coloring of the Wagnerian school is lacking, though
Franck devoted himself almost passionately at one time to the study
of Wagner’s scores; yet, as in the case of Brahms, Franck’s scoring,
peculiarly his own, is fitting to the quality of his inspiration. There
is no suggestion of the warmth of the senses in any of his music.
Complete mastery of the art of vivid warm tone-coloring belongs only to
those descended from Weber, and preëminently to Wagner.

The works for the pianoforte are thoroughly influenced by organ
technique. The movement of the rich, solid basses, and the
impracticably wide spaces call urgently for the supporting pedals of
the organ. Yet they are by no means unsuited to the instrument for
which they were written. If when played they suggest the organ to
the listener, and the Chorale in the Prelude, Chorale and Fugue is
especially suggestive, the reason is not be found in any solecism,
but in the religious spirit that breathes from all Franck’s works and
transports the listener to the shades of vast cathedral aisles. Among
his most sublime works are three Chorale Fantasias for organ, written
not long before he died. These, it may safely be assumed, are among the
few contributions to the literature for the organ which approach the
inimitable master-works of Sebastian Bach.

There are three oratorios, to use the term loosely, ‘Ruth,’ ‘The
Redemption,’ and ‘The Beatitudes,’ belonging respectively in the three
periods in which Franck’s life and musical development naturally fall.
All were coldly received during his lifetime. ‘Ruth,’ written when
he was but twenty-four years old, is in the style of the classical
oratorios. ‘The Redemption,’ too, still partakes of the half dramatic,
half epic character of the oratorio; but in ‘The Beatitudes,’ his
masterpiece, if one must be chosen, the dramatic element is almost
wholly lacking, and he has created almost a new art-form. To set
Christ’s sermon on the mount to music was a tremendous undertaking,
and the great length of the work will always stand in the way of
its universal acceptance; but here more than anywhere else Franck’s
peculiar gift of harmony has full force in the expression of religious
rapture and the mysticism of the devout and childlike believer.

It is curious to note the inability of Franck’s genius to express wild
and dramatic emotion. Among his works for orchestra and for orchestra
and piano are several that may take rank as symphonic poems, _Les
Éolides_, _Le Chasseur maudit_, and _Les Djinns_, the last two based
upon gruesome poems, all three failing to strike the listener cold.
The symphony with chorus, later rearranged as a suite, ‘Psyche,’ is an
exquisitely pure conception, wholly spiritual. The operas _Hulda_ and
_Grisèle_ were performed only after his death and failed to win a place
in the repertory of opera houses.

It is this strange absence of genuinely dramatic and sensuous elements
from Franck’s music which gives it its quite peculiar stamp, the
quality which appeals to us as a sort of poetry of religion. And it
is this same lack which leads one to say that he grows up with Wagner
and Brahms and yet is not of a piece with either of them. He had an
extraordinarily refined technique of composition, but it was perhaps
more the technique of the goldsmith than that of the sculptor. His
works impress by fineness of detail, not, for all their length and
remarkable adherence of structure, by breadth of design. His is
intensely an introspective art, which weaves about the simplest subject
and through every measure most intricate garlands of chromatic harmony.
It is a music which is apart from life, spiritual and exalted. It does
not reflect the life of the body, nor that of the sovereign mind, but
the life of the spirit. By so reading it we come to understand his own
attitude in regard to it, which took no thought of how it impressed the
public, but only of how it matched in performance, in sound, his soul’s
image of it.

With Wagner, Brahms and César Franck the romantic movement in music
comes to an end. The impulse which gave it life came to its ultimate
forms in their music and was for ever gone. It has washed on only like
a broken wave over the works of most of their successors down to the
present day. Now new impulses are already at work leading us no one
knows whither. It is safe to say that the old music has been written,
that new is in the making. An epoch is closed in music, an epoch which
was the seed time of harmony as we learned it in school, and as,
strangely enough, the future generations seem likely to learn it no
more.

Beethoven stood back of the movement. From him sprang the two great
lines which we have characterized as the poets and painters in music,
and from him, too, the third master, César Franck. It would indeed
be hardihood to pronounce whether or not the promise for the future
contained in the last works of Beethoven has been fulfilled.

L. H.

FOOTNOTES:

[118] Max Kalbeck: ‘Johannes Brahms,’ 3 vols. (1904-11).

[119] Walter Niemann: _Die Musik seit Richard Wagner_, Berlin, 1914.

CHAPTER XIII
VERDI AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES

Verdi’s mission in Italian opera--His early life and education--His
first operas and their political significance--His second period: the
maturing of his style--Crowning achievements of his third period--His
contemporaries.

One can hardly imagine the art of music being what it is to-day without
Bach or Mozart or Beethoven, without Monteverdi or Gluck or Wagner.
It has been said that great men sum up an epoch and inaugurate one.
Janus-like, they look at once behind and before, with glances that
survey comprehensively all that is past and pierce prophetically
the dim mists of the future. Unmistakably they point the way to the
seekers of new paths; down through the ages rings the echo of their
guiding voice in the ears of those who follow. So much is this so
that the world has come to measure a man’s greatness by the extent of
his influence on succeeding generations. The test has been applied to
Wagner and stamps him unequivocally as one of the great; but a rigid
application of the same test would seem to exclude from the immortal
ranks the commanding figure of his distinguished contemporary, Giuseppe
Verdi.

Yet, while it is still perhaps too early to ascertain Verdi’s ultimate
place in musical history, there are few to-day who would deny to him
the title of great. Undoubtedly he is the most prominent figure in
Italian music since Palestrina. The musical history of his country for
half a century is almost exclusively the narrative of his remarkable
individual achievement. Nevertheless, when he passed away, leaving to
an admiring world a splendid record of artistic accomplishment, there
remained on the musical soil of Italy no appreciable traces of his
passage. He founded no school; he left no disciples, no imitators. Of
all the younger Italians who aspired to inherit his honored mantle
there is not one in whom we can point to any specific signs of his
influence. Even his close friend and collaborator, Boïto, was drawn
from his side by the compelling magnetism of the creator of _Tristan_.
Some influence, of course, must inevitably have emanated from him;
but it was no greater apparently than that exercised even by mediocre
artistic personalities upon those with whom they come immediately in
contact. It is curious to note, in contrast, the influence on the
younger Italians of Ponchielli, a lesser genius, and one is inclined to
wonder why ‘the noblest Roman of them all’ inspired no one to follow in
his footsteps.

The reason, however, is not far to seek. Verdi was no innovator, no
explorer of fresh fields. He had not the passionate desire that Wagner
had for a new and more adequate form of expression. The fierce contempt
for conventional limitations so common to genius in all ages was
unknown to him. Verdi was temperamentally the most _bourgeois_ of great
artists. He was conservative, prudent, practical, and self-contained.
The appearance of eccentricity was distasteful to him. He had a proper
respect for established traditions and no ambition to overturn them.
The art forms he inherited appeared to him quite adequate to his
purposes, and in the beginning of his career he seems to have had no
greater desire than to imitate the dramatic successes of Rossini,
Mercadante, and Bellini. His growth was perfectly natural, spontaneous,
unconscious. He towered above his predecessors because he was
altogether a bigger man--more intelligent, more intense, more sincere,
and more vital. He was not conscious of the need for a more logical
art form than the Italian opera of his time, and unquestioningly he
poured his inspiration into the conventional molds; but as time went on
his sure dramatic instinct unconsciously shaped these into a vehicle
suitable to the expression of his genius. It thus became the real
mission of Verdi to develop and synthesize into a homogeneous art form
the various contradictory musical and dramatic influences to which he
fell heir; and, having done that, his work was finished, nor was there
anything left for another to add.

The influences which Verdi inherited were sufficiently complex. The
ideals of Gluck and Mozart were strangely diluted by Rossini with the
inanities of the concert-opera school, of which Sacchini, Paesiello,
Jommelli, and Cimarosa were leading exponents. _Il Barbiere_, it
is true, is refreshingly Mozartian and _Tell_ is infused with the
romantic spirit of Weber and Auber; but even these are not entirely
free from the vapidity of the Neapolitans. With Rossini’s followers,
Bellini, Donizetti, and Mercadante, Italian opera shows retrogression
rather than advance, though _Norma_ is obviously inspired by _Tell_
and _La Favorita_ is not lacking in traces of Meyerbeer. The truth
is that Italian opera during the first few decades of the nineteenth
century was suffering from an epidemic of anæmia. It was not devoid of
spontaneity, of inspiration, of facile grace; but it was languid and
lackadaisical; it was like the drooping society belle of the period,
with her hothouse pallor, her tight corsets and fainting spells and
smelling salts. To save it from degenerating into imbecility there was
necessary the advent of an unsophisticated personality dowered with
robust sincerity, with full-blooded force and virility. And fortunately
just such a savior appeared in the person of Giuseppe Verdi.

The career of Verdi is in many ways the most remarkable in musical
history. None other covers such an extended period of productive
activity; none other shows such a very gradual and constant
development; none other delayed so long its full fruition. Had Verdi
died or stopped writing at the same age as did Mozart, Beethoven,
Weber, Schubert, or Schumann--to mention only a few--his name would be
to us merely that of a delightful melodist whose genius reached its
fullest expression in _Rigoletto_ and the _Traviata_. He would rank
perhaps with Rossini and Donizetti--certainly not higher. But at an age
which is usually considered beyond the limit of actual achievement he
gave to the world the crowning masterpieces which as far surpass the
creations of his prime as _Tristan_ and _Die Meistersinger_ surpass
_Das Liebesverbot_ and _Rienzi_.

Giuseppe Fortunino Verdi was born on October 10, 1813, in the little
village of Le Roncole, about three miles from Busseto. His parents were
Carlo Verdi and Luigia Utini, peasants and innkeepers of Le Roncole.

Happily, the narrative of Verdi’s early years is comparatively free
from the wealth of strange and wonderful legends that cluster like
barnacles around the childhood of nearly every genius. There was
something exceptional, however, in the sympathetic readiness with
which the untutored innkeeper encouraged his son’s taste for music by
the gift of a spinet and in the eager assiduity with which the child
devoted himself to the instrument. In encouraging his son’s taste for
music it was the far-fetched dream of Carlo Verdi that the boy might
some day become organist of the church of Le Roncole. At the age of
eleven Verdi justified his father’s hopes. Meantime he went to school
at Busseto and subsequently became an office boy in the wholesale
grocery house of one Antonio Barezzi.

Barezzi was a cultivated man. He played with skill upon the flute,
clarinet, French horn, and ophicleide, and he was president of the
local Philharmonic Society, which held its meetings and rehearsals
at his house. There Verdi’s talent was recognized by the conductor
Provesi, who after a few years put the young man in his place as
conductor of the Philharmonic Society and frequently used him as his
substitute at the organ of the cathedral.

Eventually, however, Verdi exhausted the musical possibilities of
Busseto, and his loyal friends, Barezzi and Provesi, decided that he
should go to Milan. Through the influence of Barezzi he was awarded one
of the bursaries of the _Monte di Pietà_,[120] and, as this was not
sufficient to cover all his expenses, the good Barezzi advanced him
money out of his own pocket.

Verdi arrived in Milan in June, 1832, and at once made application in
writing for admission as a paying pupil at the Conservatory. He also
went through what he afterward called ‘a sort of examination.’ One
learns without surprise that he was not admitted. The reason for his
rejection is one of those profound academic secrets about which the
world is perfectly unconcerned. He was simply advised by Provesi’s
friend, Rolla, a master at the Conservatory, to choose a teacher in the
town, and accordingly he chose Vincenzo Lavigna. With him Verdi made
rapid progress and gained a valuable practical familiarity with the
technique of dramatic composition. From this period date many forgotten
compositions, including pianoforte pieces, marches, overtures,
serenades, cantatas, a _Stabat Mater_ and other efforts. Some of these
were written for the Philharmonic Society of Busseto and some were
performed at La Scala at the benefit concerts for the _Pio Istituto
Teatrale_. Several of them were utilized by Verdi in the scores of his
earlier operas.

From 1833-36 Verdi was _maestro di musica_ of Busseto. During that
time he wrote a large amount of church music, besides marches for
the _banda_ (town band) and overtures for the orchestra of the
Philharmonic. Except as preparatory exercises, none of these has any
particular value. The most important event of those three years was
Verdi’s marriage to Margarita Barezzi, daughter of the enlightened
grocer who so ably deputized Providence in shaping the great composer’s
career. This marriage seems to have kindled a new ambition in Verdi,
and as soon as the conditions of his contract with the municipality of
Busseto were fulfilled he returned to Milan, taking with him his wife,
two young children and the completed score of a musical melodrama,
entitled _Oberto, Conte di San Bonifacio_, of which he had copied all
the parts, both vocal and instrumental, with his own hand.

Verdi returned to Milan under most promising auspices, having already
attracted the favorable notice of some of the leading social and
artistic factors of that musical city. A few years before, when
he was studying in Milan, there existed a society of rich musical
_dilettanti_, called the _Società Filodrammatica_, which included
such exalted personages as Count Renato Borromeo, the Duke Visconti,
and Count Pompeo Belgiojoso, and was directed by a _maestro_ named
Masini. The society held weekly artistic meetings in the hall of the
Teatro Filodrammatico, which it owned, and, at the time we speak of,
was engaged in preparing Haydn’s ‘Creation’ for performance. Verdi
distinguished himself by conducting the performance of that work,
in place of the absent _maestri_. Soon afterward Count Borromeo
commissioned Verdi to write the music for a cantata for voice and
orchestra on the occasion of the marriage of some member of his family,
and this commission was followed by an invitation to write an opera for
the Philodramatic Theatre. The libretto furnished by Masini was altered
by Temistocle Solera--a very remarkable young poet, with whom Verdi had
cultivated a close friendship--and became _Oberto di San Bonifacio_.

III

This was the opera with which Verdi landed in Milan in 1838. Masini,
unfortunately, was no longer director of the Philodramatic Theatre, but
he promised to obtain for _Oberto_ a representation at La Scala. In
this he was assured the support of Count Borromeo and other influential
members of the Philodramatic, but, beyond a few commonplace words of
recommendation--as Verdi afterward remarked--the noble gentlemen did
not exert themselves. Masini, however, succeeded in making arrangements
to have _Oberto_ produced in the spring of 1839. The illness of one of
the principal singers set all his plans awry; but Bartolomeo Merelli,
who was then _impresario_ of La Scala, was so much impressed with the
possibilities of the opera that he decided to put it on at his own
expense, agreeing to divide with Verdi whatever price the latter might
realize from the sale of the score.[121] _Oberto_ was produced on the
seventeenth of November, 1839, and met with a modest success. Merelli
then commissioned Verdi to write within two years three operas which
were to be produced at La Scala or at the Imperial Theatre of Vienna.
None of the librettos supplied by Merelli appealed to Verdi; but
finally he chose what appeared to him the best of a bad lot. This was
a work in the comic vein, called _Il Finto Stanislao_ and renamed by
Verdi _Un Giorno di Regno_.

It was the supreme irony of fate that set Verdi just then to the
composition of a comic opera. Poverty, sickness, and death in rapid
succession darkened that period of his life. Between April and June,
1840, he lost, one after the other, his baby boy, his little girl,
and his beloved wife. And he was supposed to write a comic opera! _Un
Giorno di Regno_ naturally did not succeed, and, feeling thoroughly
disheartened by his successive misfortunes, Verdi resolved to abandon a
musical career. From this slough of despond he was finally drawn some
months later by the attraction of a libretto, written by his friend
Solera, which Merelli had succeeded in inducing him to read. It was
_Nabucco_.[122]

The opera _Nabucco_ was finished in the fall of 1841 and was produced
at La Scala on March 9, 1842. Its success was unprecedented. The first
performance was attended by scenes of the wildest and most fervent
enthusiasm. So unusually vociferous was the demonstration, even for
an Italian theatre, that Verdi at first thought the audience was
making fun of him. _Nabucco_, however, was a real sensation. It had a
dramatic fire and energy, a massiveness of treatment, a richness of
orchestral and choral color that were new to the Italians. The chorus
of the Scala had to be specially augmented to achieve its magnificent
effects. Somewhat crude it was, no doubt, but it possessed life and
force--qualities of which the Italian stage was then sorely in need.
One is amused at this date to read the complaints of an eminent English
critic--Henry Fothergill Chorley of the _Athenæeum_, to wit--touching
its noisiness, its ‘immoderate employment of brass instruments,’ and
its lack of melody. Familiar charges! To the Italians _Nabucco_ was
the ideal of what a tragic music drama should be, and certainly it
approached that ideal more nearly than any opera that had appeared in
years.[123]

The great success of _Nabucco_ placed Verdi at once on an equal footing
with Donizetti, Mercadante, Pacini, Ricci, and the other musical idols
of contemporary Italy. The management of La Scala commissioned him to
write the _opera d’obbligo_[124] for the grand season of the Carnival,
and Merelli gave him a blank contract to sign upon his own terms.
Verdi’s demands were sufficiently moderate, and within eleven months he
had handed to the management of La Scala the completed score of a new
opera, _I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata_.

With _I Lombardi_ began Verdi’s long and troublesome experience with
the Austrian censorship. The time was almost ripe for the political
awakening of Lombardo-Venetia, and some of the patriotic feeling which
Verdi, consciously or unconsciously, expressed in _Nabucco_ had touched
an answering chord in the spirit of the Milanese which was partly
responsible for the enthusiasm with which the opera was received. Such
demonstrations were little to the taste of the Austrians, and when _I
Lombardi_ was announced they were prepared to edit it into complete
political innocuousness. Accordingly, in response to an ill-tempered
letter from Cardinal Gaisruk, Archbishop of Milan, drawing attention
to the supposed presence in _I Lombardi_ of several objectionable and
sacrilegious incidents, the director of police, Torresani, notified
the management of La Scala that the opera could not be produced without
important changes. After much discussion Torresani finally announced
that, as he was ‘never a person to cut the wings of a young artist,’
the opera might go on provided the words _Salve Maria_ were substituted
for _Ave Maria_.[125]

_I Lombardi_ was produced in February, 1843, and met with a reception
rivalling that which greeted _Nabucco_. As in the case of the latter
opera a certain amount of this excitement was political--the audiences
reading into many of the passages a patriotic meaning which may or
may not have been intended. The chorus, _O Signore, dal tetto natio_,
was the signal for a tremendous demonstration similar to that which
had been aroused by the words, _O, mia patria, si bella e perduta_ in
_Nabucco_. Additional political significance was lent to the occasion
by the interference of the police to prevent the repetition of the
quintet. In truth, Verdi owed much of his extraordinary success of his
early operas to his lucky coincidence with the awakening patriotic and
revolutionary sentiment of the Italian people. He put into fervent,
blood-stirring music the thoughts and aspirations which they dared not
as yet express in words and deeds. We cannot believe that he did this
altogether unconsciously, for he was much too near the soil and the
hearts of the people of Italy not to feel with them and in a measure
express them. Indeed, as he himself acknowledged, it was among the
common people that his work first met with sympathy and understanding.

After the success of _I Lombardi_ Verdi was beset with requests for
a new work from all the leading opera houses in Italy. He finally
made a contract with the Fenice in Venice and chose for his subject
Victor Hugo’s drama _Ernani_, from which a mediocre libretto was
arranged at his request by a mediocre poet named Francesco Maria
Piave. The subject appealed strongly to Verdi and resulted in a score
that was a decided advance on _Nabucco_ and _I Lombardi_. It brought
Verdi again into collision with the Austrian police, who insisted on
certain modifications; but, in spite of careful censorship, it still
furnished an opportunity for patriotic demonstrations on the part of
the Venetians, who read a political significance into the chorus, _Si
ridesti il Leon di Castiglia_. Under the circumstances one cannot say
to what extent, if any, the artistic appeal of _Ernani_ was responsible
for the enthusiasm which greeted its _première_ at La Fenice on March
9, 1844. Some of the other Italian cities--notably Florence--received
it coolly enough; but, on the whole it was very successful in Italy.
Abroad the impression it produced was less favorable. It was the first
Verdi opera to be given in London, where Lumley opened the season of
1845 with it at Her Majesty’s Theatre. The manner of its reception may
be described in the words of a contemporary wag, who declared after
the performance: ‘Well, the “I don’t knows” have it.’ In Paris it was
presented at the Théâtre Italien, in January, 1846, but, owing to the
excusably strenuous objections of Victor Hugo, its name was changed to
_Il Proscritto_ and the name of its characters were also altered. Hugo
did not admire Piave’s version of his drama; neither did it succeed
with the Parisian public.

Verdi’s next effort was _I due Foscari_, a long-winded melodrama
constructed by Piave, which was produced in 1844, and received without
enthusiasm. Its merit is far below that of its three immediate
predecessors; nor was its successor, _Giovanna d’Arco_, of much more
value, though it had the advantage of a good poem written by Solera.
_Giovanna d’Arco_ was followed, respectively, by _Alzira_ and _Attila_,
neither of which attained or deserved much success. Great enthusiasm,
it is true, marked the reception of _Attila_ in Italy, but it is
attributable almost solely to the susceptible patriotic fervor of the
people, who were aroused to almost frantic demonstrations by such
lines as _Avrai tu l’universo, resti l’Italia me_. In London _Attila_
attracted to the box-office the magnificent sum of forty dollars,
though in Paris a fragment of the work produced what was described
as ‘a startling effect,’ through the medium of the statuesque Sophie
Cruvelli.[126]

Yet during all this time Verdi was advancing, as it were, under cover.
His failures were not the result of any decline in his powers. They
showed no loss of the vigor and vitality that gave life to _Nabucco_,
_I Lombardi_, and _Ernani_. Simply, they were less felicitous, but no
less the crude and forceful efforts of a strong man not yet trained
to the effective use of his own strength. Some of their defects,
too, were no doubt due to the poverty of the libretti, for Verdi was
essentially a dramatic genius, dependent for inspiration largely upon
the situations with which he was supplied. Certainly the quality of
his works seems to vary precisely with the quality of their libretti.
Thus, _Macbeth_, an adaptation of Shakespeare’s tragedy, made by Piave,
proved a distinct advance on its immediate predecessor, _Attila_--even
though Piave did not improve on Shakespeare. It was produced at La
Pergola, Florence, on March 14, 1847, with complete success. Like so
many other Verdi operas, ‘Macbeth’ provided an excuse for patriotic
demonstrations, and in Venice the Austrian soldiery had to be summoned
to quell the riotous and seditious excitement aroused by Palma’s
singing of the verse:

_La patria tradita
Piangendo c’invita
Fratelli, gli oppressi
Corriamo a salvar._

‘Macbeth’ was followed by _I Masnadieri_, which was written for the
stage of Her Majesty’s Theatre, London. It was originally intended that
Verdi should write an opera for the English stage on the subject of
King Lear, and it is to be regretted that circumstances prevented him
from carrying out his project, for he seems to have found a special
inspiration in the Shakespearean drama. The libretto of _I Masnadieri_
was written by Andrea Maffei, but that excellent poet had the bad
judgment to single out for treatment _Die Räuber_ of Schiller, which
had already been shamefully mauled and mangled by other librettists. It
was a complete failure in London, where Verdi himself conducted it; it
also was a complete failure everywhere else.

Notwithstanding this Verdi was offered the post of _chef d’orchestre_
at Her Majesty’s Theatre, but had to refuse because of contract
engagements. His next two operas were mere hack work--_Il Corsaro_
and _La Battaglia di Legnano_. The latter, being a deliberate attempt
to dramatize a revolution rather than to express the feelings that
underlie revolutions, was an artistic failure.

With _Luisa Miller_ begins what is usually known as Verdi’s second
period--the period in which he shook himself free from the grandiose
bombast, from which none of his earlier works is entirely free. In this
so-called second period he becomes more restrained, more coherent,
more _net_; he leans somewhat more to the suave _cantabile_ of
Bellini and Donizetti, a little more--if the truth be told--to the
trite and mawkish. Cammarano fashioned the libretto of _Luisa Miller_
from Schiller’s immature _Kabale und Liebe_. It was a moderately good
libretto and moderately good, perhaps, sufficiently describes the music
which Verdi wrote to it. _Stiffelio_, a work of little merit, with a
poem by Piave, was the next product of Verdi’s second manner. It was
given without success at the Grand Theatre, Trieste, in November, 1850.

After _Stiffelio_, however, there came in rapid succession from Verdi’s
pen three works whose enormous success consummated his fame and whose
melodiousness has since reëchoed continuously from every opera stage
and street organ in the universe. When _Stiffelio_ was produced he was
under contract with the _impresario_ Lasina to write an opera for the
Fenice of Venice. At his request Piave again made free with Victor
Hugo, choosing this time the unsavory melodrama, _Le roi s’amuse_,
which he adopted under the title of _La Maledizione_. When the Italian
police got wind of the project, however, there was serious trouble.
_Le roi s’amuse_ contains some implied animadversions on the morals
of royalty, and the censorship absolutely forbade the appearance in
Italy of such an iniquitous trifling with a sacrosanct subject. Verdi,
who possessed a generous share of obstinacy, refused to write an opera
on any other subject, to the despair of the Fenice management who had
promised the Venetians a new opera by the illustrious _maestro_. A
way out of the _impasse_ was finally found by a commissary of police
named Martello, who advised some substitution in the names of the
characters--such as the duke of Mantua for the king--and also suggested
the title _Rigoletto, Buffone di Corte_. These suggestions proved
acceptable to Verdi and within forty days the score of _Rigoletto_ was
written and orchestrated from first note to last. Its _première_, on
March 11, 1851, was an unqualified success. The too famous _canzone_,
‘_La donna e mobile_,’ caused a sensation which was so accurately
foreseen by the composer that he would not put it to paper until a few
hours before the performance. _Rigoletto_ was presented at the Italian
Opera, Covent Garden, London, in the season of 1853 and at the Théâtre
Italien, Paris, on January 17, 1857. Its London reception was very
cordial.

Certainly _Rigoletto_ marks a decided advance on its predecessors.
It is simpler in design, more economical of material, more logically
developed and dramatically more legitimate--notwithstanding such
puerilities as Gilda’s eccentric and irrelevant aria in the garden
scene. There are present also signs which seem to indicate the
influence of Meyerbeer; but it is difficult to trace specific
influences in the work of a man of such absorbing individuality as
Verdi.

After _Rigoletto_ came _Il Trovatore_, which was produced at the
Apollo Theatre, Rome, on January 19, 1853, and was received with
extraordinary enthusiasm. From Rome it spread like wildfire throughout
Italy, everywhere achieving an overwhelming success. In Naples three
houses gave the opera at about the same time. Soon all the capitals
in Europe were humming its ingratiating melodies. Paris saw it at the
Théâtre Italien in December, 1854; London at Covent Garden in May,
1855--even Germany extended to it a warm and smiling welcome. Truly,
_Il Trovatore_ is, to an extent, unique in operatic annals. It probably
enjoys the distinction of being the most popular and least intelligible
opera ever written. The rambling and inchoate libretto was made by
Cammarano from _El Trovador_ of the Spanish dramatist, Antonio Garcia
Gultierez, and nobody has ever lived who could give a succinct and
lucid exposition of its story. For that reason probably the work as a
whole is such as to deserve the name of ‘a concert in costume,’ which
someone has aptly applied to it. Verdi could not possibly have woven a
dramatic score of consistent texture round such a literary nightmare.
What he did do was to write a number of very pleasing solos, duets,
and trios, together with some theatrical and ingratiating orchestral
music. Anyone inclined to question the theatricalism of the score may
be interested in comparing the ‘Anvil Chorus’ of _Il Trovatore_ with
the ‘Forging of the Sword’ episode in _Siegfried_. Still, one cannot
deny distinct merit to a work which has held a place in the affections
of millions of people for more than half a century. Its amazing
popularity when it first spread contagiously over Europe aroused a
storm of critical comment which reads amusingly at this day. In the
eyes of Verdi’s enthusiastic protagonists _Il Trovatore_ naturally
marked the zenith of operatic achievement, while his antagonists placed
it unequivocally at the nadir of uninspired and commonplace triviality.

_La Traviata_ sounds like a feminine counterpart of _Il Trovatore_,
which it followed and with which it has been so often associated on
operatic bills. The two works, however, are drawn from widely different
sources and are about as dissimilar in every way as any other two
operas of Verdi which might be mentioned. Piave made the libretto of
_La Traviata_ from _La Dame aux Camélias_ of Alexandre Dumas, _fils_.
The subject does not appear to be an ideal one for musical treatment;
but it is of a style which seems to have a peculiar appeal to
composers, as witness _Bohème_, _Sappho_, _Manon_, and many others. One
is inclined to award to the _Traviata_ a very high place among Verdi’s
works. It stands alone among them, absolutely different in style and
manner from anything else he has done. There is in it a simplicity, a
sparkle, a grace, a feminine daintiness, an enticing languor, a spirit
quite thoroughly Gallic, suggesting, as Barevi has observed, the
style of the _opéra comique_ (_cf._ Chap. I). _La Traviata_, produced
at Venice in 1853, was a flat failure, partly owing to the general
incapacity of the cast; about a year later, with some changes, it was
reproduced in Venice and proved a brilliant success.

Two years of silence followed _La Traviata_. During that time Verdi
was engaged on a work which the management of the Paris Opera--passing
over Auber, Berlioz, and Halévy--had commissioned him to write for
the Universal Exhibition of 1855. The libretto was made by Scribe and
Duveyrier and dealt with the sanguinary episode of the French-Italian
war of 1282, known as the Sicilian Vespers--a peculiar subject to
select under the circumstances. After an amount of delay, caused by
the eccentric disappearance of the beautiful Sophie Cruvelli, idol
of contemporary Paris, _Les Vêpres Siciliennes_ was produced at the
Opéra in 1855. It was received with great enthusiasm, but did not
outlive the popularity of its first prima donna. It was followed by
_Simon Boccanegra_, composed to a poem adapted by Piave from Schiller’s
_Fieschi_, which, produced at the Fenice, Venice, in 1857, with little
success, was later revised by that excellent poet, Arrigo Boïto, and,
with the music recast by Verdi, was received at La Scala, Milan, in
1881 with distinct favor.

Verdi’s next opera, _Un Ballo in Maschera_, has a peculiar history,
turning on the curious interaction of art and politics which is such
a feature of Verdi’s career. It was adapted from the ‘Gustave III’ of
Scribe, which Auber had already set to music for the Paris Opera, and
was at first entitled _La Vendetta in Domino_. Written for the San
Carlo Theatre, Naples, it was about to be put into rehearsal when word
arrived of the attempted assassination of Napoleon III by Orsini. The
Italian police, morbidly sensitive in such matters, at once forbade the
representation of _Un Ballo in Maschera_ without radical modifications,
and Verdi, with his customary obstinacy, emphatically refused to
make any alteration whatsoever. Even when the San Carlo management
instituted a civil action against him for two hundred thousand francs
Verdi declined to budge. He was openly supported in his attitude by the
entire population of Naples, which greeted his appearance everywhere
with enthusiastic shouts of _Viva Verdi!_. Eventually, feeling that the
affair would create a revolution on its own account, the authorities
requested Verdi to take himself and his opera out of Naples. The opera
was then secured by Jacovacci, the famous _impresario_ of the Apollo
Theatre in Rome, who swore he would present it in that city at any
cost. ‘I shall arrange with the censure, with the cardinal-governor,
with St. Peter if necessary,’ he said. ‘Within a week, my dear
_maestro_, you shall have the libretto, with all the _visas_ and all
the _buon per la scena_ possible.’ Nevertheless the papal government
did not prove so tractable, and, before _Un Ballo in Maschera_ could
appear in Rome the scene of the action had to be shifted from Sweden
to America and the character of Gustave III transmogrified into the
Earl of Warwick, Governor of Boston! Indifferent to historic accuracy,
however, Rome received the opera with enthusiasm, when it was produced
in February, 1859. Upon the occasion of its presentation at the
Théâtre Italien, Paris, on January 13, 1861, the scene was shifted to
the kingdom of Naples--where it still remains--because Mario refused
to wear the costume of a New England Puritan at the beginning of the
eighteenth century. _Un Ballo in Maschera_ was given in London in 1861
and was received very cordially.

It is, in effect, one of the most mature works of Verdi’s second
manner. Still more mature and suggestive of what was to come is _La
Forza del Destino_, which was written for the Imperial Theatre of St.
Petersburg, and was produced there on November 10, 1862, encountering
merely a _succès d’estime_. Repellantly gloomy and gruesome is the
story of _La Forza del Destino_, adapted by Piave from _Don Alvar_,
a tragedy in the exaggerated French romantic vein by Don Angel de
Saavedra. The oppressive libretto perhaps accounted in large measure
for the lack of success which attended the opera, not only in St.
Petersburg, but in Milan, where it was produced at La Scala in 1869,
and in Paris where the Théâtre Italien staged it in 1876. Yet _La
Forza del Destino_ contains some of the most powerful, passionate
and poignant music that Verdi ever wrote, and one can see in it more
clearly than in any of his other works suggestions of that complete
maturity of genius which was to blossom forth in _Aïda_, _Otello_, and
_Falstaff_.[127]

Notwithstanding the indifferent reception accorded _Les Vêpres
Siciliennes_ in Paris, the management of the opera again approached
Verdi when a new gala piece was needed for the Universal Exhibition of
1866. The opera management was singularly unfortunate in its experience
with Verdi. For this occasion the composer was supplied by Méry and
Camille du Locle with an indifferent libretto called _Don Carlos_, and
he was unable to rise above its level.

_Don Carlos_, however, was but the darkness before the dawn of a
new period more brilliant and glorious than was dreamed of even by
those of Verdi’s admirers who did him highest reverence. At that time
Wagner had not yet come into his own, and, in the eyes of the world
at large Verdi stood absolutely without peer among living composers.
Consequently, when Ismaïl Pasha, Khedive of Egypt, wished to add lustre
to the beautiful opera houses he had built in Cairo he could think
of nothing more desirable for the purpose than a new work from the
pen of the great Italian. That nothing might be wanting to make such
an event a memorable triumph, Mariette Bey, the distinguished French
Egyptologist, sketched out, as a subject for the proposed work, a
stirring, colorful story, recalling vividly the picturesque glories of
ancient Egypt. This story set fire to Verdi’s imagination. Under his
direction a libretto in French prose was made from Mariette’s sketch
by Camille du Locle and done into Italian verse by A. Ghislanzoni.
So ardently did Verdi become enamoured of the work that within a few
months he had handed to Ismaïl Pasha the completed score of _Aïda_.
The opera was to be performed at the end of 1870, but owing to a
number of causes--including the imprisonment of the scenery within
the walls of Paris by the besieging Germans--its performance was
delayed for a year. It was finally given on December 24, 1871, before
a brilliant cosmopolitan audience and amid scenes of the most intense
enthusiasm.[128] The success of _Aïda_ was overwhelming; nor was it
due, as in the case of so many other Verdi operas, to causes extraneous
to the work itself. Milan, which heard _Aïda_ on February 7, 1872,
received it with an applause which rivalled in spontaneous fervor the
enthusiasm of Cairo, and the verdict of Milan has been emphatically
endorsed by every important opera house in the world. Within three
years, beginning on April 22, 1876, the Théâtre Italien presented
it sixty-eight times to appreciative Parisian audiences, and later,
at the Opéra, its reception was still enthusiastic. England, hitherto
characteristically somewhat cold to Verdi, greeted _Aïda_ warmly when
it was given at Covent Garden in 1876, and bestowed upon the work the
full measure of its critical approval.

[Illustration: Giuseppe Verdi]

_Aïda_ was the storm centre around which raged the first controversy
touching the alleged influence of Wagner on Verdi. In _Aïda_,
apparently, we find all the identifying features of the modern
music-drama as modelled by Wagner. There is the broad declamation, the
dramatic realism and coherence, the solid, powerful instrumentation,
the deposition of the voice from its commanding position as the
all-important vehicle, the employment of the orchestra as the principal
exponent of color, character, expression--putting the statue in the
orchestra and leaving the pedestal on the stage, as Grétry said of
Mozart. Yet, in spite of all this, in spite of much specious critical
reasoning to the contrary, _Aïda_ is altogether Verdi, and there is in
it of Wagner not a jot, not a tittle! It is, of course, impossible to
suppose that Verdi was unacquainted with Wagner’s works, and equally
impossible to suppose that he remained unimpressed by them. But Verdi’s
was emphatically not the type of mind to borrow from any other. He was
an exceptionally introspective, self-centred and self-sufficient man.
Besides, he was concerned with the development of the Italian lyric
drama purely according to Italian taste, and in directions which he
himself had followed more or less strictly from the beginning of his
career. From the propaganda of Wagner he must inevitably have absorbed
some pregnant suggestions as to musical dramatics, particularly as
Wagner was in that respect the voice of the _zeitgeist_; but of
specific Wagnerian influence in his music there is absolutely no trace.
Anyone who follows the development of Verdi’s genius from _Nabucco_
can see in _Aïda_ its logical maturing. No elements appear in the
latter opera which are not appreciable in embryo in the former--between
them lies simply thirty years of study, knowledge and experiment.

During a period of enforced leisure in 1873 Verdi wrote a string
quartet, the only chamber music work that ever came from his fertile
pen. His friend, the noble and illustrious Manzoni, passed away in
the same year, and Verdi proposed to honor his memory by composing
a _requiem_ to be performed on the first anniversary of his death.
The municipality of Milan entered into the project to the extent of
planning an elaborate public presentation of the work at the expense of
the city. Verdi had already composed a _Libera me_ for a mass which,
in accordance with a suggestion made by him to Tito Ricordi, was to be
written in honor of Rossini by the leading composers of Italy. For some
undiscovered reason or reasons this mass was never given. The _Libera
me_ which Verdi wrote for it, however, served as a foundation for the
new mass in memory of Manzoni. On May 22, 1874, the Manzoni _Requiem_
was given at the church of San Marco, Milan, in the presence of
musicians and _dilettanti_ from all over Europe. Later it was presented
to enthusiastic audiences at La Scala, at one of the _Matinées
Spirituelles_ of the Salle Favart, Paris, and at the Royal Albert Hall,
London.

Hans von Bülow, with Teutonic emphasis, has characterized the _Requiem_
as a ‘monstrosity.’ While the description is perhaps extreme, it
is, from one point of view, not altogether unjustified. Certainly a
German critic, having in mind the magnificent classic structures of
Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, could hardly look with tolerance upon
this colorful expression of southern genius. The Manzoni _Requiem_
is, in fact, a complete contradiction of itself, and as such can
hardly be termed a successful artistic achievement. The odor of the
_coulisses_ rather than that of the sanctuary hangs heavily about it.
But, if one can forget that it is a mass and listen to it simply as a
piece of music, then the _Requiem_ stands revealed for what it is--a
touching, noble, and profound expression of love and sorrow for a
friend departed. This is Verdi’s only important essay in sacred music,
though mention may be made of his colorful and dramatic _Stabat Mater_,
written in 1898.

A five-act opera entitled _Montezuma_ which Verdi wrote in 1878 may
be passed over with the remark that it was produced in that year at
La Scala, Milan. Then for nearly ten years Verdi was silent. The
world was content to believe that his silence was permanent, that
the marvellously productive career of the great master had come to a
glorious and fitting close in _Aïda_ and the _Requiem_. Nobody then
could have believed that _Aïda_, far from making the culmination of
Verdi’s achievement, was but the beginning of a new period in which
his genius rose to heights that dwarfed even the loftiest eminence
of his heyday. There is nothing in the history of art that can
parallel the final flight of this man, at an age when the wings of
creative inspiration have usually withered into impotence, or crumbled
into dust. Under the circumstances one can, of course, very easily
overestimate the æsthetic value of the last works of Verdi, surrounded
as they are in one’s imagination with the halo which the venerable
age of their creator has inevitably lent to them. As a matter of
fact, the ultimate place of Verdi’s last works in musical history it
is not within our power to determine. The mighty weapon of popular
approval--which bestows the final accolade or delivers the last
damning thrust, according to one’s point of view--has as yet missed
both _Otello_ and _Falstaff_. Critics differ, as critics will and ever
did. Musically, dramatically, formally, and technically _Otello_ and
_Falstaff_ are the most finished examples of operatic composition
that Italy has ever given to the world; and even outside Italy--if
one excepts the masterpieces of Wagner--it is doubtful if they can be
paralleled. Whether, also, they possess the divine spark which alone
gives immortality is a moot point. We cannot say.

The goddess of fortune, who on the whole kept ever close to Verdi’s
side, secured for him in his culminating efforts the collaboration of
Arrigo Boïto, a poet and musician of exceptional gifts. Undoubtedly
Boïto made very free with Shakespeare in his libretto of _Otello_,
but, compared with previous attempts to adapt Shakespeare for operatic
purposes, his version is an absolute masterpiece. Even more remarkable,
and much more faithful to the original, is his version of _Falstaff_,
which, taken by and large, is probably the only perfect opera libretto
ever written. _Otello_ is a story which might be expected to find
perfect understanding and sympathy in the mind and temperament of an
Italian, and consequently the faithful preservation of the original
spirit is not so remarkable; but that an Italian should succeed in
retaining through the change of language the thoroughly English flavor
of _Falstaff_ is truly extraordinary.

_Otello_ was produced on February 5, 1887, at La Scala, Milan. That it
was a brilliant success is not artistically very significant. Verdi to
the Milanese was something less than a god and more than a composer.
Its first performance at the Lyceum Theatre, London, in July, 1889, and
at the Paris Opéra on October 12, 1894, were both gala occasions, and
the enthusiasm which greeted it may safely be interpreted in part as
a personal tribute to the venerable composer. Outside of such special
occasions, and in the absence of the leather-lunged Tamagno, _Otello_
has always been received with curiosity, with interest, with respect,
with admiration, but without enthusiasm and, generally speaking,
without appreciation. A certain few there are whose appreciative love
of the work is fervent and sincere; but the attitude of the public at
large toward _Otello_ is not sympathetic.

Much the same may be said of the public attitude toward
_Falstaff_--though the public, for some reason difficult to fathom, is
provided with comparatively few opportunities of becoming familiar with
this greatest of all Verdi’s creations. Excepting _Die Meistersinger_
and _Le Nozze di Figaro_ there is nothing in the literature of
comic opera that can compare with _Falstaff_, and in its dazzling,
dancing exuberance of youth and wit and gaiety it stands quite alone.
‘_Falstaff_,’ says Richard Strauss, ‘is the greatest masterpiece
of modern Italian music. It is a work in which Verdi attained real
artistic perfection.’ ‘The action in _Falstaff_,’ James Huneker writes,
‘is almost as rapid as if the text were spoken; and the orchestra--the
wittiest and most sparkling _riant_ orchestra I ever heard--comments
upon the monologue and dialogue of the book. When the speech becomes
rhetorical so does the orchestra. It is heightened speech and instead
of melody of the antique, formal pattern we hear the endless melody
which Wagner employs. But Verdi’s speech is his own and does not
savor of Wagner. If the ideas are not developed and do not assume
vaster proportions it is because of their character. They could not
be so treated without doing violence to the sense of proportion.
Classic purity in expression, Latin exuberance, joyfulness, and an
inexpressibly delightful atmosphere of irresponsible youthfulness
and gaiety are all in this charming score....’ Nowhere in _Falstaff_
do we find the slightest suggestion of Wagner. Its spirit is much
more that of Mozart. Naturally it invites comparison both with _Die
Meistersinger_ and with _Figaro_, but the comparison in either case is
futile. In form and content _Falstaff_ is absolutely _sui generis_.

La Scala, which witnessed the first Verdi triumph, also witnessed
his last. _Falstaff_ had its _première_ there on February 9, 1893,
in the presence of ‘the best elements in music, art, politics and
society,’ to quote a contemporary correspondent of the London _Daily
Graphic_. The audience, so we are informed, grew wildly riotous in its
enthusiasm. Even the ‘best elements’ so far forgot themselves as to wax
demonstrative; while that part of the population of Milan which was
not included in the audience held a demonstration of its own after the
performance in front of Verdi’s hotel, forcing the aged composer to
spend most of the night walking back and forth between his apartment
and the balcony that he might listen to reiterated appreciations of
an opera which the majority of the demonstrators had not heard. Paris
heard _Falstaff_ at the Opéra Comique in April, 1894, and London at
Covent Garden in the following month. _Falstaff_ was the crowning
effort of a distinguished genius, of a composer who had shed great
lustre on the fame of Italian music, of a man venerable in age and
character and achievement. It was Verdi’s swan-song. He died in Milan
on January 27, 1901.[129]

Verdi’s extended career brings practically every nineteenth-century
Italian composer of note within the category of his chronological
contemporaries; but of contemporaries in the philosophical sense he
had practically none worthy of mention. Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti,
Mercadante, Frederico and Luigi Ricci all outlived the beginning of
Verdi’s artistic career. _I Puritani_ first appeared in 1834, _Don
Pasquale_ in 1843, the _Crispino e la Comare_ of the Ricci brothers in
1850.

Rossini died only three years and Mercadante only one year before
_Aïda_ was produced, though both had long ceased to compose. But all
of these men belong artistically to a period prior to Verdi. Many of
the younger Italians, including Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and Puccini,
had already attracted attention when _Falstaff_ appeared; but they
again belong to a later period. Boïto[130] is hard to classify. He
is the Berlioz of Italian music, on a smaller scale--a polygonal
figure which does not seem to fit into any well-defined niche. His
_Mefistofele_ was produced as early as 1868, yet he seems to belong
musically and dramatically to the post-Wagnerian epoch. Apart from
those who were just beginning or just ending their artistic careers
Italy was almost barren of meritorious composers during most of Verdi’s
life. It would appear as if that one gigantic tree absorbed all the
nourishment from the musical soil of Italy, leaving not enough to give
strength to lesser growths. Of the leading Italian composers chosen to
collaborate on the mass in honor of Rossini, not one, except Frederico
Ricci and Verdi himself, is now remembered.[131] There remains
Amilcare Ponchielli (1834-86) who is important as the founder of the
Italian realistic school which has given to the world _I Pagliacci_,
_Cavalleria Rusticana_, _Le Gioje della Madonna_, and other essays in
blood-letting brutality. His operas include _I Promessi Sposi_ (1856),
_La Savojarda_ (1861), _Roderica_ (1864), _La Stella del Monte_ (1867),
_Le Due Generale_ (1873), _La Gioconda_ (1876), _Il Figliuol Prodigio_
(1880), and _Marion Delorme_ (1885). Of these only _La Gioconda_, which
still enjoys an equivocal popularity, has succeeded in establishing
itself. Ponchielli wrote an amount of other music, sacred and secular,
but none of it calls for special notice, except the _Garibaldi Hymn_
(1882), which is likely to live after all his more pretentious efforts
have been forgotten.

There is nothing more to be said of Verdi’s contemporaries. The history
of his career is practically the history of Italian music during the
same time. He reigned alone in unquestionable supremacy, and, whatever
the future may have in store for Italy, it has not yet disclosed a
worthy successor to his vacant throne.

W. D. D.

FOOTNOTES:

[120] The _Monte di Pietà e d’Abbondanza di Busseto_ is an institution
founded primarily for the relief of the poor and secondarily to help
poor children of promise to develop their talent for the sciences or
fine arts.

[121] This does not sound like extravagant generosity on Merelli’s
part, but it must be remembered that in those days it was customary for
an unknown composer to bear the expense of having his operas produced.
The score of _Oberto_ was purchased by Giovanni Ricordi, founder of the
publishing house of that name, for two thousand Austrian _liri_ (about
three hundred and fifty dollars).

[122] _Nabucco_ is a common Italian abbreviation of Nabucodonosor.

[123] The part of Abigail in _Nabucco_ was taken by Giuseppina
Strepponi, one of the finest lyric _tragédiennes_ of her day, who
afterward became Verdi’s wife.

[124] The _opera d’obbligo_ is the new work which an _impresario_ is
pledged to produce each season by virtue of his agreement with the
municipality as lessee of a theatre.

[125] This ludicrous concession to archiepiscopal scruples recalls
the production of _Nabucco_ in London, where the title was changed
to _Nino, Rè d’Assyria_, in deference to public sentiment--because,
forsooth, Nabucco was a Biblical personage. One can fancy how the
British public of that day would have received Salomé!

[126] _Attila_ in its entirety was never given in Paris.

[127] For the sake of completeness we may mention here as the
chronologically appropriate place Verdi’s _L’Inno delle Nazione_,
written for the London International Exhibition of 1862 as part of
an international musical patch-work in which Auber, Meyerbeer, and
Sterndale Bennett also participated. _L’Inno delle Nazione_ may be
forgotten without damage to Verdi’s reputation.

[128] Contrary to a widespread impression _Aïda_ was not written for
the opening of the Khedival Opera House, that event having taken
place in 1869. It may also be observed that the story of _Aïda_ has
no historical foundation, though it was written with an expert eye to
historical and archæological verisimilitude.

[129] Space does not permit us to speak of Verdi’s personality, his
private life, or the many honors and distinctions which came to him.
The reader is referred to ‘Verdi: Man and Musician,’ by F. J. Crowest,
New York, 1897, and ‘Verdi: An Anecdotic History,’ by Arthur Pougin,
London, 1887.

[130] Arrigo Boïto, b. Padua, 1842, composer and poet, studied at the
Milan Conservatory. See Vol. III.

[131] Besides Verdi and Ricci the list included Buzzola, Bazzini,
Pedrotti, Cagnoni, Nini, Boucheron, Coccia, Jaspari, Platania,
Petrella, and Mabellini. Mercadante was omitted because his age and
feeble health rendered it impossible for him to collaborate in the
work. Jaspari is still in some repute as a musical historiographer.

Transcriber's note:

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

The book cover has been modified by the Transcriber and is included in
the public domain.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Art of Music, Volume Two (of 14) - Book II: Classicism and Romanticism" ***

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