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At the close of the movement occurs one of Berlioz's most novel and realistic effects—the imitation of the rumbles of distant thunder produced by four kettle-drums tuned in a very peculiar way (see page 75 of the orchestral score, Breitkopf and Härtel edition). In the fourth movement, Marche au Supplice, four measures of l'idée fixe are introduced just at the moment when the head of the hero is to be chopped off. This is done for purely theatric purposes and certainly makes our flesh creep—as Berlioz no doubt intended. The most spectacular effect, however, is in the last movement, Songe d'une Nuit du Sabbat, where the theme is parodied to typify the degraded appearance which the beloved one takes in the distorted dreams of her lover, e.g.
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The impression made by the Symphony depends largely upon the attitude of the hearer. In this work we are not to look for the sublimity and emotional depth of a Bach or Beethoven any more than we expect a whimsical comedy of Aristophanes to resemble an epic poem of Milton. But for daring imagination, for rhythmic vitality and certainty of orchestral effect, it was and remains a work[234] of genius.
The Carnaval Romain Overture
(See Supplement No. 57)
This work is one of Berlioz's most brilliant pieces, with an orchestral life and color all its own. The material is taken from his opera Benvenuto Cellini;[235] the checquered career of this artist having made an irresistible appeal to Berlioz's love of the unusual and the spectacular. The body of the work is based on the Italian national dance, the Saltarello; and with this rhythm as a steadying background Berlioz achieves a continuity sometimes lacking in his work. The mere thought of the sights, sounds and colors of that important event in the life of Rome would be enough to inflame his susceptible imagination, and so here we have Berlioz at his very best. The overture begins, allegro assai con fuoco, with a partial announcement of the saltarello theme by the violins and violas, freely imitated by the wood-wind instruments, e.g.
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After a sudden prolonged silence and some crescendo trills the first periodic melody is introduced, sung by the English horn—the tune taken from an aria of Benvenuto in the first act. The melody is soon repeated in the dominant key by the violas and then, treated canonically, by the 'cellos and violins. The canon really tells and shows that Berlioz, as is often alleged, was not altogether lacking in polyphonic skill. The rhythm is now gradually quickened and leads to the main body of the work, in 6/8 time, based on the Italian folk-dance—the Saltarello which, as its name implies, is of a "skipping" nature. The music is freely developed from the two following themes; there is no second theme proper, e.g.
Toward the close there is a return to the introductory melody which is treated contrapuntally by the bassoons and other wind-instruments. The saltarello resumes its sway and is worked up to a fiery ending; especially brilliant are the closing chords scored for full brass with trills on the cornets.
Two of Berlioz's most poetically conceived descriptive pieces are the Menuet des Feux-Follets and the Ballet des Sylphes, incidental orchestral numbers from the Damnation of Faust; for they illustrate convincingly what one means by the claim that Berlioz thought in terms of orchestral color and suggestion. To give a musical picture of such airy and fantastic imaginings by the mere repetition of conventional formulae would obviously be of no avail. Berlioz's genius is equal to the situation; and as we listen to the music we can really see the flickering of the Will o' the Wisps and feel the graceful swaying of the Sylphs as they hover about the sleeping Faust. To suggest the Feux-Follets Berlioz ingeniously gives the theme to two piccolos in thirds, which are supported by a rich but subdued mass of wind instruments, horns and trumpets, e.g.
With equal felicity does he create the picture of the delicate, graceful Sylphs. Any boisterous rhythmic activity would be quite out of place; and so, above a sustained ground tone on muted 'cellos and basses (which continues through the piece), and the slightest suspicion of motion on the second violins and violas, there floats in the first violins one of the most perfectly rounded and exquisite melodies in existence, e.g.
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In the closing measures there is a charming shadowy dialogue between kettle-drums (struck with sponge-headed sticks) and harps, in harmonics, carrying out Berlioz's stage directions—"Les esprits de l'air se balancent quelque temps autour de Faust endormi et disparaissent peu à peu." The piece ends with a chord barely whispered on the clarinets, pppp, which, as Hadow aptly suggests, reminds us of vanishing soap bubbles.
Berlioz's most sustained and perfect work, both in content and treatment, is universally acknowledged to be the Harold en Italie Symphony[236] in four movements for full orchestra and solo viola. There is little actual correspondence between the scenes of Byron's poem and the musical portrayal; and in fact, as Liszt says, "The title clearly shows that the composer wished to render the impression which the magnificent nature of Italy could not fail to make on a soul such as that of Harold languishing in sorrow." The significant features of the work are the melody for solo viola, recurring[237] in each movement, which typifies Harold—that "melancholy dreamer," e.g.,
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and the dazzling sensationalism of the Finale (Orgy of Brigands) which, when it was once played "con amore" by a fine orchestra, called forth from Berlioz the following eulogy,—"Sublime! I thank you, gentlemen, and I wonder at you; you are perfect brigands." The finale is also notable in that the opening portion is a reminiscence, a passing in review, of the chief themes of the preceding movements. Berlioz, we may surmise, was following the precedent established by Beethoven in the finale of the Ninth Symphony, and, although his treatment is rather mechanical and lacking in any such dramatic logic as justified Beethoven, a certain organic connection between the movements is undoubtedly secured. A portion of the second movement, March of Pilgrims singing the evening prayer, is cited in the Supplement (See No. 58) chiefly because it is one of Berlioz's noblest inspirations, giving an eloquent picture of a procession approaching, passing by and losing itself in the distance—a long crescendo and diminuendo. At every eighth measure the March melody is interrupted by the muffled chant of the pilgrims, very effectively scored for brass instruments, pianissimo. In the middle of the piece a contrast is gained by the introduction of a religious chant. The closing measures of this movement are of haunting beauty—a mysterious effect being produced by an intentional mixture of tonalities (the sustained B in the flute and oboe being answered by a C on the horns and harp, while beneath are heard fragments of the March theme in the main key on the pizzicato double basses).[238] Berlioz's most pretentious orchestral composition is that called in the full title "Romeo and Juliet, dramatic symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and a prologue in choral recitative, composed after Shakespeare's tragedy." Notwithstanding many touches of genius, it is a very uneven work and is too much a conglomerate of styles—narrative, lyrical, dramatic, theatric and symphonic—for the constructive ability of the author to weld into a living whole. There are several portions which, however noble and glorious may have been Berlioz's conception,[239] and however inspired by Shakespeare's genius, do not "come off." Two of the numbers, on the other hand, are worthy of the highest praise—the Love Scene and the Queen Mab Scherzo. Of the latter Saint-Saëns writes—"The famous Scherzo is worth even more than its reputation. It is a miracle of lightness and gracefulness. Beside such delicacies and transparencies the finesses of Mendelssohn in the Midsummer Night's Dream seem heavy." The main theme is fascinating in its daintiness and sparkle, e.g.
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Berlioz considered the Love Scene his finest inspiration and there are few pieces comparable with it for passionate utterance. The orchestration is wonderful for richness and variety.[240]
After a careful study of the foregoing examples the reader, we hope, is in a position to make a fair estimate of Berlioz's power and to realize his great significance. It should be understood that this music is intensely subjective and so requires a sympathetic and cultivated attitude on the part of the listener. To the writer at least, there remains one vital lack in Berlioz's music,—that of the dissonant element. It often seems as if his conceptions could not be fully realized for want of sheer musical equipment, largely due to insufficient early training. For what is music without dissonance? Surely "flat, stale and unprofitable" even if, in Berlioz's case, this deficiency is offset by great rhythmic vitality and gorgeous color. Yet in his best works[241] there is such a strong note of individuality, indeed such real character, that they are deserving of sincere respect and admiration, although by everybody they may not be deeply loved. We should, furthermore, always remember that, if Berlioz's poverty of harmonic effect is sometimes annoying, he never falls into the humdrum ruts of those who have had a stereotyped academic training. His genius was unhampered by any conventional harmonic vocabulary, and hence it could always express itself freely. That he was a real genius no one can fairly doubt.
All the qualities which have been enumerated as typical of the romantic temperament: warmth of sentiment, broad culture, love of color and the sensuous side of music, freedom of form, and stress laid on the orchestra as the most eloquent means of expression, reach their climax in Franz Liszt (1811-1886). Born near Vienna of a Hungarian father and a German mother, but chiefly associated with Paris, Weimar, Budapest and Rome, he is certainly the most picturesque and versatile figure in the music of the 19th century; for he worked and won fame as a pianoforte virtuoso—probably the greatest the world has known—as a prolific composer for pianoforte, orchestra and voice, as a teacher, conductor and man of letters, and withal spent a large part of his time, strength and fortune in helping young artists and in producing works which otherwise might never have seen the light. His life is of constant and varied interest, so spectacular at times that it seems like a fairy tale.[242] As a mere boy he began to receive adulation for his precocity; at the height of his career he was loaded with honors and wealth; in his old age he was a favorite with everyone of distinction and influence in France, Germany, England and Italy. Nevertheless he preserved, throughout, the integrity of his character and the nobility of his disposition. Whatever may be the final estimate of his powers as a creative artist, as a man he has earned nothing but eulogy;[243] for seldom has any one been freer from the faults of vanity, petty jealousy and envy which so often mar the artistic temperament. Liszt's generous encouragement and financial support of Wagner in the struggling days of his unpopularity have never been surpassed in the brotherhood of art.
Liszt is akin to Berlioz in many respects; we feel the same natural tendency to derive musical inspiration from external sources, poetic, pictorial or from the realm of Nature. Purely as a musician, however, Liszt was far greater, with a wider vocabulary and more power in thematic development. His work also is somewhat uneven; moments of real beauty alternating with passages which are trivial, bombastic or mere lifeless padding. When we bear in mind Liszt's unparalleled versatility, his output in quantity and variety is so amazing—there being well over 1,000 works of about every kind—that it is unfair to expect the style to be as finely wrought as the original conception is noble. A serious and unbiased study of his best compositions will convince one that Liszt is entitled to high rank as a musician of genuine poetic inspiration. The average music-lover is prone to dwell upon him as the composer of Les Préludes, the Hungarian Rhapsodies, and as the somewhat flashy transcriber of operatic potpourris, such as the Rigoletto Fantasie. But Les Préludes, notwithstanding a certain charm and the clever manner in which the music (without becoming minutely descriptive) supplements the poem of Lamartine, is yet barred from the first rank by its mawkishness of sentiment and by its cloying harmonies. The most significant among the symphonic poems are Orpheus with its characteristic crescendos and diminuendos; Tasso of great nobility and pathos, and Mazeppa, a veritable tour de force of descriptive writing. To hear any one of these masterpieces can not fail to alter the opinion of those who may have considered Liszt as exclusively given over to sensational effects. As for the Hungarian Rhapsodies, which Liszt intended as a kind of national ballade and so, for the basic themes and rhythms, drew largely on Hungarian Folk music, here again the public, with its fondness for being dazzled, has laid exclusive stress on the flashy ones to the detriment of those containing much that is noble and of enduring worth. In his transcriptions of standard songs Liszt did as valuable a public service as any popularizer, and has thereby made familiar the melodies of Schubert and Schumann to hundreds who otherwise would know nothing of them. In considering Liszt's pianoforte works we must remember that he was a born virtuoso with a natural fondness for exploiting the possibilities of his instrument, and with an amazing technique as a performer. When the sincerity of a composer is in question there is a great difference as to what should be the standard of judgment, whether the work be for orchestra or for pianoforte. In writing for orchestra the composer naturally centres himself on the pure ideas and their treatment, as the execution is something entirely external to himself. In works for pianoforte, however, the composer who is also a virtuoso will often, and quite justifiably, introduce passages of purely pianistic effect which in other circumstances would amount to a confession of deficient imagination. That Liszt at times abused his facility in decoration need not be gainsaid, and yet how poetic and eloquent are his best pianoforte compositions!—the Études, the Waldesrauschen, the Ballade and, above all, the Sonata in B minor.[244] Much unjust criticism has been expended upon Liszt for treating the pianoforte like an orchestra. As a matter of fact he widened, in a perfectly legitimate way, the possibilities of the instrument as to sonority, wealth and variety of color-effect. According to the testimony of contemporary colleagues, Rubinstein, Taussig and von Bülow who, had they not been convinced of his supremacy, might well have been jealous, Liszt was incontestably the greatest interpreter of Bach, Beethoven and Chopin; and his power as a Beethoven scholar is attested by the poetically annotated edition of the Sonatas. It is often asserted that Liszt lacked spontaneous melodic invention. This is a hard saying unless taken in a relative sense. We may grant that Liszt was neither a Schubert nor a Mozart, and yet recognize in his works some extremely haunting melodies. His creative power was acknowledged by Wagner and in a very practical manner. In fact, after a comparative study of their works, one is amazed at the number of melodies which Wagner borrowed from Liszt and at the generous complaisance of the latter. The reactive influence of Liszt and Wagner, each upon the other, is an interesting chapter in the development of modern art. Liszt was undoubtedly encouraged in his revolutionary aims by Wagner's fiery courage. Wagner, on his side, owed much to Liszt's unselfish generosity; and with his more powerful constructive gifts worked up into enduring form motives which, internal evidence clearly shows, came from Liszt himself.
Just a few closing words as to Liszt's specific contributions to the expansion of musical structure. He was an advanced leader in the "program school," being endowed with considerably more constructive power than Berlioz, who often fell between two stools: in that while his subject demanded the freest treatment, he lacked the vigor to break away from the formal routine of his classic models. In Liszt's orchestral works, however, the term "Symphonic Poem"—one of his own invention—is fully justified, i.e., they are symphonic in that they have organic unity, although this is not attained by preserving the classic number and arrangement of themes; and they are also poetic, being not a presentation of abstract tone patterns, but illustrative of some external idea which shapes the course of the music entirely to its own needs.[245] The distinguishing quality of the Symphonic Poem is its unbroken continuity. Although objective points are reached, and while there are broad lines of demarcation with reference to the varied moods of the poem to be illustrated, there are no rigid stops—everything is fused together into a continuous whole. Liszt was an advocate of persistent development, i.e., the music going out into space like a straight line instead of returning on itself. Inner evidence shows, however, that although he avoided many needless and conventional repetitions, he could not entirely throw overboard the cyclical law of restatement; for there is not one of his Symphonic Poems which does not repeat, at the end, thematic material already heard. Liszt carried the principle of theme transformation still further than Berlioz; and, as a German, tended to lay stress rather on the psychological aspects of character than on those outward theatric events which appeal to French taste. The difference is well shown by a comparison of the Damnation of Faust with Liszt's Faust Symphony, considered his most inspired orchestral work. Liszt must not be forgotten as a song-writer, especially for his settings to Goethe's poems; which, as Huneker says, are masterpieces and contain, in essence, all the dramatic lyricism of modern writers, Strauss included. In these songs the instrumental part is of special import; Liszt in pianistic treatment anticipating Hugo Wolf with his "Songs for Voice and Pianoforte," i.e., the voice and the instrument are treated as coequal factors.
The works of Liszt selected for analytical comment are the Symphonic Poem Orpheus, the Faust Symphony and the Pianoforte Étude, Waldesrauschen. The student, however, should become familiar with several others[246] of the Symphonic Poems, notably Tasso, Les Préludes and Mazeppa; with the Pianoforte Sonata in B minor in one movement, in which Liszt works on the same plan as Schumann in the Fourth Symphony; with the descriptive pianoforte pieces and études; and with the songs, of which Kennst du das Land, Die Lorelei and Du bist wie eine Blume are beautiful examples.
Symphonic Poem, Orpheus
In this work, as must always be the case in poetically suggestive music, the composer trusts to the general intelligence and insight of the listener. For a mere mention of the name Orpheus may well call up the vision of a majestic, godlike youth proclaiming his message of joy and peace to soften the unruly passions of men and animals.
It is said that Liszt's imagination was kindled by a beautiful representation of Orpheus playing on the lyre, which decorates an Etruscan vase in the Louvre. The aim of the music was thus to intensify and supplement the visual effect. The Poem begins with soft, sustained calls on the horns, creating a mood of expectancy, interspersed with modulatory arpeggios on the harp serving to complete the legendary picture. In these Symphonic Poems, we must always observe how closely the nature of the themes and the whole import of the music are involved with the orchestral dress. For Liszt, though not perhaps so brilliant and sensational as Berlioz, was equally a great master of orchestral coloring and poetic suggestion by means of appropriate instruments; often, too, more delicate and refined. In measure 15 begins for sustained strings the stately march which typifies the gradual approach of Orpheus. The second phrase of the march, beginning in measure 38, has received the compliment of being appropriated, almost literally, by Wagner in the second act of the Valkyrie for the march motive with which Wotan is ushered in. Some beautiful modulatory developments of the march theme, with which the original horn calls are united, lead to the impassioned theme in E major, sung by an English horn, which is the message of Orpheus to the sons of men, e.g.
The theme is expanded by means of striking modulations until, in measure 102, it is presented by the full orchestra. Some rather meaningless repetitions, in detached phrases, of the Orpheus theme bring us, in measure 130, to a return of the original march which is finally proclaimed ff with great power and sonority. It seems to typify the triumphant justification of Orpheus's appearance. The dissonant modulations in the following passage, beginning measure 155, (in which the double basses take a dramatic part) have been thought by some to represent realistically the uncouth roars of forest monsters. These outcries finally subside and in the Coda, beginning at measure 180, we have first a beautiful reminiscence of Orpheus's message and then a last announcement of the march theme, which is now presented in the form of a long diminuendo, as if the God-like apparition were slowly withdrawing from our sight. A series of shifting modulations (adagio and pianissimo) seems to bring a cloud before our enraptured senses, and the work closes with a long sustained chord in C major, ppp, giving an elemental idea of peace and satisfaction. From the standpoint of musical structure the work is a crescendo followed by a diminuendo and, poetically considered, is a convincing picture in terms of music of the effect made upon Liszt's imagination by the legend of Orpheus. Observe that, although the composition is free in form, it is not formless.[247] The main lines are the familiar ones of statement, contrast and restatement, i.e., three-part form, and the key-relationship is clear and carefully planned.
The Faust Symphony
This work, although embodying Liszt's favorite ideas of dramatic characterization and transformation of theme as found in the Symphonic Poems, more nearly resembles the ordinary symphony in that it is in three distinct movements—with pauses between—which stand, respectively, for the three chief characters in Goethe's drama: Faust, Gretchen and Mephistopheles. In the Faust Symphony the principle of transformation or metamorphosis of themes is of such importance that it may be defined as their rhythmic, melodic and harmonic modification for the purpose of changing the meaning to correspond with a modification in the characters for which they stand. The first movement sets before us five themes illustrative of the most prominent traits in the complex nature of Faust; the three most important being (a) typical of brooding, speculative inquiry, (b) the longing of love, (c) the enthusiasm and chivalry of Faust, e.g.
The development of these themes is entirely free, the musical texture being held together by a general application of the principle of contrast and by a logical key-scheme. The second movement has two main themes, e.g.
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which portray eloquently the sweetness and dreamy ecstacy of Gretchen's nature. In the course of this portrayal there appear several themes from the first movement showing, by their transformation, the effect upon the introspective Faust of the awakening influence of love. Thus the love theme appears as—
and also later in this form—
Towards the close of the movement there is a subtle reference to the chivalrous theme, as follows—
Much of the appeal of the music depends upon the orchestration which throughout is of remarkable beauty.
In the final movement, entitled Mephistopheles, there are a few independent themes which portray the malign influence of the spirit of Evil—the movement is marked Allegro vivace ironico!—but most of the material is a transformation of the Faust themes which are here burlesqued, parodied; as if all the noble aspirations of Faust were being mocked and set at naught. This treatment is a perfectly logical result of the correspondence, for which Liszt was striving, between the music and the spirit of the underlying drama. As for the final impressiveness of his artistic message, the composer may well have felt that the effect would be indefinite without the specific meaning which words alone can give. For the style is very subjective throughout; that is, if the hearer is in a responsive condition, an effect is produced on his imagination—otherwise, not. To close the work, therefore, in the most moving and dignified manner, Liszt, with unerring instinct and following the precedent of Beethoven in the Ninth Symphony, introduces a chorus of men's voices—marked Andante Mistico—which intones the famous stanza "Alles Vergängliche"[248] at the close of the second part of Faust; while, above this chorus, a solo tenor proclaims the motto of the redeeming love of woman, "Das ewig Weibliche"—a sentiment so dear to the German[249] mind and one that plays such an important part in the music dramas of Wagner. A dramatic and musical connection between the movements is established by using, for this solo part, the melody (intensified by augmentation) which in the second movement typified the love and charm of Gretchen, e.g.
Notwithstanding the ultra sensationalism in some of Liszt's works there is no doubt that, in the closing pages of Faust, he has produced an effect of genuine power and of inspired musical beauty.[250] Faust, in fact, may be called a great work because of the character of its leading melodies, its freedom of structure and expression and its wealth of appropriate orchestral color. For these merits we may overlook certain dreary passages where it would surely seem as if the imagination of the composer were not able to translate into tones all the phases of Goethe's stupendous drama.[251]
In a book such as this, chiefly concerned with broad principles of structure and style, it would be out of place to attempt a detailed account of Liszt's numerous and varied pianoforte compositions. But they can by no means be left out of consideration by anyone who wishes to gain a comprehensive estimate of his influence. For although the fundamental principles of pianoforte style, both in writing for the instrument and in playing upon it, are derived from Chopin and Schumann,[252] Liszt so amplified the work of these men and added so many novel features of his own in pianistic effect and especially in execution that he is rightly considered a genius of the instrument. He certainly brought out of the pianoforte a sonority and wealth of color which heretofore had been associated only with the orchestra. The chief groups of the pianoforte works are (1) the transcriptions of songs, notably of Schubert and Schumann, and of operas, particularly of Wagner. In this group should also be included the remarkable arrangement for solo-pianoforte of all the Beethoven Symphonies. (2) The Études, especially the set entitled "Études d'exécution transcendante"—a description which clearly shows the idea Liszt set before himself and indubitably attained; of this set the one in F minor is particularly fine. (3) The world-famed Hungarian Rhapsodies, fifteen in number, based on national melodies and rhythms. In these Liszt aspired to be the poet of his nation, and they are still among the most important manifestations of the national spirit so prominent in our modern music. Perhaps the most eloquent and celebrated are the 2d, the 12th and the 14th. Even if at times they are overencrusted with effects meant primarily for display, the rhythmic vitality and color of the melodies cannot be withstood.
Concert Étude, Waldesrauschen
(See Supplement No. 59)
This composition begins with a swaying, cantabile theme for the left hand very characteristic of Liszt, which stands out in relief against some beautifully placed arabesque figures in the upper register of the instrument—the whole to be played una corda, dolce con grazia. It really is a poetic picture, in terms of music, of the delicious murmur of the woods. In the 15th measure the theme is transferred to the right hand, in octaves, over sonorous, widely extended groups below. The theme is expanded through a series of striking modulations and then returns, in measure 30, to the left hand in a single melodic line. This middle portion, measures 30-50, is very beautiful in its genuine atmospheric treatment. Towards its close, however, Liszt's fondness for sensational effect rather runs away with him and there is a good deal, in measures 50-60 (marked martellato, strepitoso and fff), which is rather difficult to reconcile with the poetic subject. Perhaps a mighty wind is roaring through the trees! In measure 61 the theme is once more presented in amplified form by the right hand, più mosso and molto appassionata, and worked up to a brilliant climax—ending with an interlocking trill and a long, descending passage of delightful sensuous effect. The closing measures, una corda and dolcissimo, afford a reminiscence of the haunting appeal of the chief melody. All in all, in spite of a certain admixture of alloy, here is a poetic composition, a real tone-picture of the woods and of the effects implied by the title. Certainly a piece which, in its picturesque suggestiveness and pianistic treatment, may fairly be called the ancestor of much that is beautiful in such modern composers as Debussy and Ravel.
As a final estimate of Liszt and as a suggestion for the student's attitude we cite from Niecks the following quotation, since, in our opinion, it is true and forcibly expressed:
"Liszt's works are too full of originality and striking expressiveness to deserve permanently the neglect that has been their lot. Be, however, the ultimate fate of these works what it may, there will always remain to Liszt the fame of a daring striver, a fruitful originator and a wide-ranging quickener."
CHAPTER XVI
BRAHMS
AFTER the novel and brilliant work of the Romanticists had reached its height in the compositions just studied, it seemed as if there were nothing more for music to do. Wagner, with his special dramatic aims and gorgeous coloring, loomed so large on the horizon that for a time all other music was dwarfed. It is, therefore of real significance that just in this interregnum two men, born in the early years of the 19th century, were quietly laying the foundations for eloquent works in absolute or symphonic music. These men were Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) and César Franck (1822-1890). Following a few preliminary remarks about the significance of symphonic style in general, the next chapters will be devoted to an account of their works and influence.
A striking feature in the development of music since 1850 is the number of symphonies produced by the representative composers of the various nations; and the manner in which these works embody certain phases of style and manifest national tendencies is a subject of great interest. Ever since Beethoven, there has been a universal feeling that the symphony is the form in which a composer should express his highest thoughts. If Wagner and Richard Strauss seem to be exceptions, we must remember that their work for orchestra is thoroughly symphonic both in material and in scope. The difference is chiefly one of terms. Wagner claimed that he merely applied to dramatic purposes Beethoven's thematic development; and the tone-poems of Strauss are symphonies in essence though on a free poetic basis. Every composer has taken up the writing of a symphony with a serious purpose and often comparatively late in life. To be sure, Beethoven's first Symphony, op. 21, was composed in his thirtieth year; but for the works which manifest most strongly his personality, such as the Third, Fifth and Ninth, we have to wait until a later period. Schumann essayed symphonic composition only after his technique had been developed in every other field. Brahms's first Symphony, on which he is said to have worked ten years, is op. 68. César Franck looked forward to a Symphony as the climax of his career. The day has passed when a composer could dash off symphonies by the dozen; quality and genuine personality in each work are the modern requirements. Thus from Brahms we have four symphonies, from Tchaikowsky six, from Bruckner nine—a dangerously large number!—from Sibelius five, from Elgar two, from d'Indy three; and, even if a composer write but a single really inspired and noble symphony—as for example, César Franck—he is in so far immortal. For the symphonic form is the product of too much intense striving (think of Beethoven's agonies of conception!) to be treated lightly. Beginning with the operatic overture of Lully and Scarlatti, called "Sinfonia avanti l'opera," down through the labors of Stamitz, Gossec, Emmanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart, this form, as we know it to-day, is the result of at least a century and a half of sustained, constructive work. A musician who wishes to compose a symphony is brought face to face with the formidable question, "Have I a real message to utter and the technical skill to present it in communicable form?" There are no accessory appeals to the other senses in the way of a dramatic story, scenic effect, dancing and costumes—as in opera—to cloak poverty of invention and to mollify the judgment of the listener. I grant that the composition of an original opera is a high achievement, but we know how many composers have won success in the operatic field from whom we should never expect a symphony. From comparatively few have we great works in both forms. Consider, furthermore, how complicated a tool is the present orchestra, as a tool, to say nothing of the invention of ideas. Many years of study are required to attain a certainty of calculation in sonority and nuance, and the mere writing out the score of a symphony requires unremitting toil. We all pay homage to life: human life in men, women and children, and the life of nature in animals, birds, trees and flowers. Let us ever remember that the imagination also has its products and the themes of a symphony may certainly be considered its children. The public often seems to have slight idea of the sanctity and mystery of a musical idea. Composers are considered people with a kind of "knack" in writing down notes. In reality, a musical idea is as wonderful a thing as we can conceive—a miracle of life and yet intangible, ethereal. The composer apparently creates something out of nothing, pure fancy being wrought into terms of communication. Since the close of the Romantic period proper, the Symphonic composers of universal recognition have been Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy, Sibelius, Bruckner, Mahler, Dvořák, Elgar, and a few lesser men of the Russian and French schools. Their works carry still further the principles which can be traced from Beethoven down through the Romantic School, i.e., the chief themes are of a highly subjective nature, often in fact being treated like actual characters in a drama; and great freedom is shown in regard to mood and order of the usual symphonic movements—this being particularly true of Mahler and Bruckner. A distinct feature of interest in the work of Tchaikowsky, Dvořák and Sibelius is the introduction of exotic types of melody and rhythm, drawn from national sources. Thus Tchaikowsky, who said that he wished all his instrumental music to sound like a glorified Russian folk-song, uses rhythms of 5 and (in his chamber music) 7 beats a measure, with frequent touches of old modal harmony. Dvořák founds his harmony and modulations on the exceedingly chromatic scale of the Bohemians; and his piquant and dashing rhythms could come only from a nation which has no less than forty national dances. In listening to Sibelius, we are conscious of the wild sweep of the wind, of unchained forces of nature; and there are the same traits of virile strength and grim dignity which have made the Kalevala, Finland's national poem, one of the great epics of the world. Although Brahms never lets us forget that he is a Teuton, there are frequent traces in his compositions of the Hungarian element—so dear to all the Viennese composers—as well as of German folk-songs; and the most artistic treatment we have of Hungarian rhythms is found in his two sets of Hungarian dances.
It is manifestly beyond the scope of a single book to treat comprehensively each of the symphonists in the list just cited, so I shall dwell chiefly upon the characteristics of Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy as probably the greatest, and touch only incidentally upon the others, as of somewhat lesser import; though if anyone take issue with this preference in regard to Mahler and Bruckner I shall not combat him. For I believe Mahler to be a real genius; feeling, however, that his wonderful conceptions are sometimes not expressed in the most convincing manner. There is no doubt that Mahler has not yet received his bigger part in due valuation, but his time will surely come. As for Bruckner, we have from him some of the most elemental and powerful ideas in modern music—witness the dirge in the Seventh Symphony with its impressive scoring for trombones and Bayreuth tubas, a movement Beethoven might have signed; although with the virgin gold there is mixed, it must be confessed, a large amount of crude alloy, and there are dreary stretches of waste sand.
Johannes Brahms, like Beethoven, with whom his style has many affinities, was a North-German, born in 1833 in the historic seaport town of Hamburg.[253] Brahms came of lowly though respectable and intelligent parents, his father being a double-bass player in one of the theatre orchestras. That the positiveness of character, so conspicuous in his famous son, was an inherited trait may be seen from the following anecdote. The director of the theatre orchestra once asked father Brahms not to play so loud; whereupon he replied with dignity, "Herr Kapellmeister, this is my double-bass, I want you to understand, and I shall play it as loud as I please." The music of Brahms in its bracing vigor has been appropriately compared to a mixture of sea air and the timbre of this instrument.
Brahms's mother was a deeply religious woman who imbued her son with a seriousness of purpose which runs through all his work. From his earliest years he was trained for music, as a matter of course, and showed marked precocity as a pianist, though it soon became evident that he also was endowed with rare creative gifts. The young student made such progress under Marxsen, a famous teacher of the period, that at the age of fifteen he gave a public concert, on the program of which stood some original pieces of his own. The next few years were spent in diligent study and in the composition of some of his early works, of which the Scherzo op. 4 is the most significant. Brahms was extraordinarily precocious and during these formative years manifested a trait which is noticeable throughout his career—that of knowing exactly what end he had in view and of setting to work quickly and steadily to attain it. Finally in 1853, when he was twenty, he was invited to participate in the memorable concert-tour with the Hungarian Violinist Remenyi, which was the cause of his being brought before the public under the auspices of three such sponsors as Schumann, Liszt and Joachim. It seems that, at one of the concerts in a small town, the pianoforte was a semitone too low, whereupon young Brahms transposed at sight a difficult Beethoven Sonata into the requisite higher key. This remarkable feat of musicianship so impressed Joachim, who was in the audience, that he gave Brahms two letters of introduction—one to Liszt at Weimar and one to Schumann at Düsseldorf on the Rhine. Following up these letters, Brahms now spent six weeks at Weimar with Liszt, assimilating important points of method and style. Although the two natures were somewhat unsympathetic, Liszt was so impressed with the creative power and character of Brahms's first compositions, that he tried to adopt him as an adherent of the advanced school of modern music; while Brahms was led, as some would claim, through Liszt's influence to an appreciation of the artistic effects to be found in Hungarian music. Brahms's visit to Schumann in the autumn of 1853 was in its consequences a significant incident. After hearing Brahms's music, Schumann wrote for the "Neue Zeitschrift" an article entitled "Neue Bahnen" ("New Paths") in which the young composer was heralded as the master for whom the world had been waiting, the successor of Beethoven in the symphonic style. Through Schumann's influence, the publishers Breitkopf and Härtel at once brought out Brahms's first works, which were by no means received by the public with general favor; in fact they provoked as bitter discussion as those of Wagner, and made headway slowly. For four years—from 1854 to 1858—Brahms was in the service of the Prince of Lippe-Detmold, a small principality near Hanover, where the court was a quiet one, thus affording ample time for composition and private study. Brahms's strength of purpose and unusual power of self-criticism are shown by the way in which this period was spent. Although he had made a brilliant début, Brahms now imposed upon himself a course of rigorous technical training, appeared seldom before the public and published no compositions; his object being to free himself from a narrow subjectivity and to give scope to his wide human sympathies and to his passion for perfection of utterance. It seemed to him that a plausible originality might degenerate into mere idiosyncrasy, and that universality of appeal should be a musician's highest goal. When he resigned his post and came before the public with his first large work, a concerto for pianoforte and orchestra, the gain made in increased power and resources was evident. The greatest tribute which can be paid Brahms is that he has summed up and united the classic principles of clearness and solidity of workmanship with the warmth and spontaneity of the Romantic School. In 1862 Brahms settled in Vienna where, for thirty-five years, his career was entirely free from external incidents of note; his time spent in quiet steady work and in the attainment of artistic ideals. His slow logical development is like that of Beethoven, due to the fact that his works were far from numerous, but finished with the greatest care. The standard of creative quality is also very high; comparatively few of Brahms's works are not altogether alive. Matthew Arnold's beautiful lines on labor are applicable to Brahms. "Work which in lasting fruit outgrows far noisier schemes; accomplished in repose; too great for haste; too high for rivalry." Brahms thus described to Mr. Henschel, a former conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his ideals concerning composing: "There is no real creating without hard work; that which you call invention is simply an inspiration from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit of mine." And again, "Whether a composition is beautiful is one consideration, but perfect it must be." The few of his compositions which show connection with outward events are the Deutsches Requiem, his best-known choral work (in commemoration of his mother's death) and the Academic Overture, composed in place of the conventional thesis, when—in 1880—the University of Breslau conferred on him a doctor's degree. This Overture, based on several convivial student songs, is on the whole his most genial composition for orchestra and has won a deserved popularity the world over.[254] For sustained fancy his most beautiful work for chorus and orchestra is the Schicksalslied (Song of Destiny). Symphonic composition, as has been said, came in the latter part of Brahms's career, his first work in that form being op. 68. After that, within a few years, three other symphonies were composed. His last works include the significant pianoforte pieces called Intermezzi—not all equally inspired, but many representing the finest flower of Brahms's genius; four serious songs for bass voice, and one posthumous work, Eleven Choral Preludes for Organ. Brahms died in 1897 and lies buried in Vienna not far from Beethoven and Schubert.
From Brahms we have beautiful works in every branch of composition save the opera and symphonic poem. (He once said he would risk neither an opera nor getting married!) Very few of his works have titles, and in this respect he stood somewhat aloof from that strong tendency in modern times—the connection between music and poetic and literary sources of inspiration. But he had a right to choose his own line of effort; it is for us to become familiar with his works as they are. They comprise about two hundred songs, three pianoforte sonatas and many lesser pieces, two concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, a wonderfully fine violin concerto, four symphonies—each with a character of its own—and a large group of chamber compositions: string quartets, sonatas for violin and pianoforte, trios, and a number of works for unusual ensemble combinations—the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte being the best known.
As to the nature of Brahms's music the following comments are submitted for consideration. He was not a colorist or a stylist in the broad sense of those terms, i.e., color and style were not the prime ingredients in his music. There is light and shade in Brahms but seldom that rich and varied glow found, for example, in Rimsky-Korsakoff—that supreme master of orchestral coloring. As for style, it may be said that his work fulfils Matthew Arnold's definition of that desirable quality, "To have something to say and to say it in the most simple and direct manner possible." We sometimes feel, however, that he is thinking more of what he has to say than of outward eloquence of expression. But when there are so many composers[255] in whom there is far more style than substance, we should not carp at Brahms for the "stuff" in his work. The matter might be put in a nut-shell by saying that Brahms is Brahms; you accept him or leave him, as you see fit. The bulk of his music not only has stood the test of time but becomes more potent each year; surely this is the highest possible endorsement. He is rightly considered a great master of pure melodic line and a consummate architect, especially in the conciseness and concentration of certain compositions, e.g., the Third Symphony, and in his superb mastery of the Variation form which is the basis of some of his most famous works for orchestra and for pianoforte. His texture is of marked richness and variety; seldom do we find verbiage or lifeless padding. He has been called the Browning of music—a deep thinker in tones. Genuine appreciation of Brahms presupposes work on the part of the music-lover; and the recognition should be more general that the imaginative stimulation gained only through work is one of the blessings music has to bestow.
It is often alleged, indeed, that to enjoy Brahms one has to work. Of course, but what repaying work! This may be said equally of Shakespeare, of Dante, of Browning, of Bach and of every poet with a serious message. The vitality of Brahms's creative power, like that of Beethoven, is seen in his rhythm. He had a highly developed rhythmic sense, and in his fondness for syncopations, for contrasted accents and for complicated metric groups he is the logical successor of Schumann. One of his favorite devices is the altered grouping of the notes in a measure, so that there is a contrast between duple and triple rhythm, e.g., the following passage in the Second Symphony, where an effect of great vigor is produced.
There are never in Brahms weak or conventional rhythms. He is also one of the great modern song-composers, representing with Strauss, Wolf and Mahler the culmination of the German Lied. In his songs there is a warmth and depth of sentiment as yet unsurpassed, and the accompaniment is always a highly wrought factor in the work. In estimating the value of Brahms's compositions as a whole, it is difficult to hold the balance true. Those to whom he is sympathetic through an affinity of temperament revere him as one of the great geniuses for all time, while to others his message is not of such convincing power. The effect of inborn temperament in the personal appeal made by any composer is vividly shown by the estimate which Tchaikowsky and Brahms had for one another. Each felt respect for the sincerity and artistic skill of his contemporary, at the same time regretfully acknowledging that the essence of the music meant little to him. To Tchaikowsky Brahms seemed cold and lacking in melodic spontaneity; to Brahms, on the other hand, Tchaikowsky seemed superficial, sensational. The gist of the matter is that Brahms was a Teuton and wrote with characteristic Teutonic reserve and dignity. Tchaikowsky, being a Slav, wrote with the impassioned lack of restraint and volatility of mood associated with that people. How could it be otherwise? Each was a genuine artist, expressing his natural feelings with clearness and conviction; and each should be respected for what he did: not one at the expense of the other. In Brahms, however, the question does arise of facility of expression versus worthiness of expression. He had an unparalleled technique in the manipulation of notes but whether there was always an emotional impulse behind what he wrote is debatable. For there are these two contrasting types in every art: works which come from the heart (remember Beethoven's significant inscription at the end of his Mass),[256] and those which come from the head. This brings us face to face with the perplexing question as to the essence of music. To some it is a record of intellectual activity tinged with emotion; to others, an emotional outpouring controlled by intellect. These two types of music will always exist, being the natural expression of the corresponding classes in human nature.
Brahms's music is sometimes called dry, but this is a misuse of terms. To draw an analogy from another sense, we might rejoin that the best champagne is "sec," all the superfluous, cloying sugar being removed. There is plenty of saccharine music in the world for those who like it. In Brahms, however, we find a potential energy and a manly tenderness which cannot be ignored even by those who are not profoundly thrilled by his message. He was a sincere idealist and composed to please his own high standards, never thinking of outward effect nor testing the pulse of the fickle public. As a man there is no doubt that he was warm-hearted and vigorous, but his was not the nature to come forward with captivating geniality. On the contrary he expects the hearer to come to him, and is too reserved to meet you more than half-way. That this austerity has proved a bar in the way of a wide-spread fame, while to be regretted, is unavoidable; remove these characteristics from Brahms and he ceases to be Brahms. Those, however, who may think that Brahms is always austere and grim, holding himself aloof from broad human emotion, should remember that he has done more than any other modern composer to idealize the Waltz; and, if the atmosphere of his symphonic style be too rarified, they may well begin their effort in appreciation with those charming Waltzes op. 39 (both for solo pianoforte and for a four-hand arrangement); the Hungarian Dances, and—most beautiful of all—the Liebeslieder Walzer for chorus and pianoforte (four-hands). Anyone who knows these works cannot fail to become a genuine lover of Brahms. To be of the earth and yet to strike the note of sublimity is a paradox. For, in Brahms at his best, we surely find more of the sublime, of true exalted aspiration, than in any other modern composer save César Franck. To strike this note of sublimity is the highest achievement of music—its proper function; a return, as it were, to the abode whence it came. Such music is far beyond that which is merely sensuous, brilliantly descriptive, or even dramatically characteristic. Much of present day music excites and thrills but does not exalt. Brahms, in his great moments, lifts us high above the earth. His universal acceptance is alike hindered by a deficiency which, though as natural as his reserve, may yet justly be cited against him—the occasional monotony of his color scheme. In the symphonies, notwithstanding the dignity and sincerity of thought, we find pages in the style of an engraving which would be more effective as a glowing canvas, e.g., in the slow movement of the Second Symphony and in the last two movements of the Fourth. Many consider, however, that Brahms's orchestral treatment is exactly suited to the seriousness of his ideas; so it comes down to a question of individual taste. That he had his own delicate feeling for color and sensuous effect is shown in many pages of the chamber music, especially in those works for unusual combinations, e.g., the Clarinet Quintet, and the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte. No one in modern times has used more eloquently that romantic instrument, the horn. See, for example, the Coda to the first movement of the D major Symphony and the slow movement of the Third Symphony. We must gratefully acknowledge the lasting quality of his music—without question it wears well. In fact, difficult though it be to comprehend at a first hearing, the more it is heard, the more it is enjoyed. Brahms's[257] music is steadily growing in popularity. His orchestral works and chamber music are applauded to-day, although twenty-five years ago they were received with apathy and scornful indifference.
As a representative work in each of the four fields in which Brahms created such masterpieces we have selected, for detailed analysis, the First Symphony, the Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte in A major, the Ballade in G minor and the Song, Meine Liebe ist grün wie der Fliederbusch. All four of Brahms's symphonies may justly be considered great, each in its own way. For Brahms is not a man with a single message and has not written one large symphony in different sections, as, in a broad sense, may be said of Tchaikowsky. The Second, on account of the spontaneity and direct appeal of its themes, is undoubtedly the most popular. It contains a first movement of a quasi-Mendelssohnian suavity and lyric charm; a slow movement which is a meditation of the profundity of Bach himself; a third movement, allegretto, based on a delightful waltz of the Viennese Ländler type and a Finale of a Mozartian freshness and vigor—the second theme being specially notable for its broad sweep. The whole work is a convincing example of Brahms's vitality and "joie de vivre." The Third symphony is a marvel of conciseness and virile life. The Fourth, though not in all respects so inspired as the others, is famous for its beautiful slow movement—with an impressive introduction in the Phrygian mode (Brahms often showing a marked fondness for old modal harmony)—and for the Finale, which is an illustration of his polyphonic skill in modernizing the variation form, the Passacaglia or ground bass. But the First,[258] it seems to us, is the greatest, in scope, in wealth of material, in its remarkable combination of dramatic, epic and lyric elements and in an intensity of feeling and sublimity of thought peculiar to Brahms. It is extremely subjective, of deep ethical value, and sets forth a message of optimism and undying hope. The structural basis is a motto, often recurring in the work, which (whatever it may mean) is evidently—like the theme of the C minor symphony—some fierce protest against fate. The symphony, as a whole, represents a triumphant progress from darkness to light; and this meaning is made evident by the ever-brightening mood of the successive movements, the tone of which is strengthened by the scheme of key-relationship—based on an ascending series of major thirds, e.g.
The work is somewhat uneven—never weak—but at times a bit labored; as if the composer were consciously wrestling with great thoughts. This, however, is nothing against it, because equally true of large works in other fields of art, e.g., the Agamemnon of Aeschylus or Wagner's Tetralogy. It cannot be understood, much less appreciated, without close attention and earnest thought, for it presents the struggles and aspirations of mankind and is not meant solely to delight or entertain. When the hearer has made it his own it is a priceless possession for all time. The Prelude to the first movement, un poco sostenuto, is of impressive solemnity, developed from the motto, and based on the almost persistent iteration of the pedal notes C and G—the tonic and dominant. It proclaims that a serious meaning is to be revealed, and this meaning is accentuated by the orchestration which with its stratified grouping of melodic lines has a grim strength characteristic of Brahms.
The first movement proper, Allegro, in complete sonata-form, begins with a ff announcement of the impassioned, chromatic motto, e.g.
Note the cutting effect of the dissonant tones F-sharp and A-flat! From this motto grows the melodic part of the first theme in two balancing phrases, e.g.
Then follow some stormy measures of dissonant chords and warring rhythms until the theme rages itself out, in measure 52. The transition begins with some sharp staccato chords, as if summoning to further attention. It gradually cools down through a series of beautiful modulations and, in measure 84, the second theme—introduced by calls on the horn and sung by the oboe—enters in the relative major key of E-flat. This also is based on the ascending, chromatic line of the motto; still further organic unity being gained by the bass, which has the same melodic figure as the second phrase of the first theme, e.g.
Much of the previous fierceness, however, has abated and the remainder of the second theme is of a rare loveliness, with mysterious answering calls between oboes, clarinets and horns. The pp dominant ninth chords at the beginning of the closing portion (measures 120-122) give a positively shuddering effect and then the combat of clashing rhythms is renewed. The development begins with a series of shifting harmonies, at first ff and then pp—a lull before the storm—as if preparing the way for a still more terrific assault upon our emotions. It is tempestuous throughout; based at first on material taken from the preceding codetta and ending with an extended presentation of the motto over an iterated pedal note on the dominant, e.g.
The fusion of the development with the recapitulation is skillfully handled, and the motto is proclaimed, beginning at measure 298, in a series of ascending strata, with overwhelming force. The third part, with slight abridgment and necessary adjustment of key-relationship, conforms exactly to the exposition. There is the same agitato closing portion as before, and then the Coda proper, beginning at measure 421, emphasizes with fiery accents the mood of storm and stress characteristic of the movement as a whole. After the fury has subsided, the dramatic motto asserts itself in the closing measures, poco sostenuto; the problem is still unsolved and the last C major chord is but a ray of light cast on troubled waters.
The second movement, andante sostenuto—in three-part form—begins with a tender melody expressing a mood of deep resignation and religious hope. No sooner has it started, however, than there creeps in the sinister motto, as if to remind us that life is undeniably stern and grim, e.g.
In measure 17 there enters a closing theme, sung by the oboe, of ineffable beauty which is used in the third part as the climax of the movement. It surely seems to come from another world and is one of the most sublime melodies by Brahms or any one else. Its climax is impressively united with the main theme in the bass, e.g.
The middle portion, beginning in measure 38, is a meditation—in dialogue form—for solo oboe and clarinet, worked up to an eloquent climax in the key of the relative minor, C-sharp. The third part, beginning measure 66, with the addition of some lovely modulatory changes, corresponds to part one; save that the melody is varied by Brahms's favorite device of three notes to a beat in one voice against two in another. Beginning in measure 90, the wondrous closing theme of the first part is sung by a solo violin, reinforced by oboe and horn. It is finally entrusted, in the home key, to the horn alone, above which the solo violin soars in ecstacy, e.g.
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Some diminuendo, descending passages lead to a reminiscent portion of the first theme and then, in measure 116, the grim motto enters, but this time without prevailing; for, in measures 122-124, it is finally exorcised and the movement closes with the seraphic calm of a soft, rich chord in E major, above which is heard a star-like note on the solo violin.
The third movement is an Allegretto; it being Brahms's custom in each[259] of his symphonies to substitute a movement of this type in place of the conventional Scherzo or Minuet. This movement clearly in three-part form, is thrown in to furnish relief after the emotional tension of the movement preceding. It has no obvious organic connection with the other movements, but is just the right thing in its surroundings, with a note of vitality which does much to brighten the scene and to prepare the way for the Finale. The opening theme in A-flat major is in two phrases of five measures each—a favorite rhythm with Brahms—given out by the clarinet over a pizzicato bass in the 'cellos. The melodic formation is unusual in that the latter phrase is an inversion of the first, e.g.