People usually associate the brass instruments with noise. But as a matter of fact, wonderfully rich and soft tone effects can be produced on the brass by a composer who knows how to score for it. Just as the pianissimo of many violins is a finer pianissimo than that of a solo violin, so a much more exquisitely soft effect can be produced on a large brass group than on a few brass instruments or a single one. When modern composers increase the number of instruments in the brass group, it is not for the sake of noise, but for richer effects.
The trumpet is the soprano of the brass family. The fanfare in “Fidelio” when at the critical moment aid approaches; the Siegfried Motive and the Sword Motive, in the “Ring of the Nibelung,” need only be cited to prove the effectiveness of the instrument in its proper place; and Richard Strauss instances the demoniacal and fateful effect of the deep trumpet tones in the introduction to the first act of Bizet’s “Carmen.”
Although the notes of the trombone are produced by a slide, this instrument belongs to the trumpet family. For this reason, in the “Ring of the Nibelung,” Wagner, in addition to the usual three tenor trombones, reintroduced the almost obsolete bass trombone. He wanted a trombone group complete in itself, and thus to be able to utilize the peculiar tone color of the instrument; as witness in the Walhalla Motive, where it is scored for the three tenor trombones and bass trombone, resulting in a wonderfully rich and velvety quality of tone. Excepting Wagner and Richard Strauss, 192 there probably is not a composer who would not have used the bass tuba here instead of taking the trouble to revive the bass trombone. But Wagner wanted an unusually rich tone which should be solemn without a trace of sombreness, and his keen instrumental color sense informed him that he could secure it with the bass trombone, which, as it belongs to the trumpet family, has a touch of trumpet brilliancy, whereas the tone of the bass tuba is darker.
Mozart employed the trombone with fine effect in Sarastro’s solo in the “Magic Flute”; Schubert showed his genius for instrumentation by the manner in which he used them in the introduction to his C major symphony, as well as in the first movement of that symphony, in which a theme is given out by three trombones in unison; and another familiar example of good scoring for trombones is in the introduction to the third act of “Lohengrin.” In the Death Prophecy scene in the second act of “Die Walküre,” a trumpet melody is supported by the four trombones, another instance of Wagner’s sense of homogeneity in sound, since trumpets and trombones belong to the same family. In fact, throughout the “Ring,” as Strauss points out, Wagner wrote for his trombones in four parts, adding the bass trombone in order to differentiate wholly between 193 it and the tuba, which latter he used with the horns, with which it is properly grouped.
Wagner has a tremendous tuba recitative in a “Faust Overture,” and in the Funeral March in the “Götterdämmerung” he introduces tenor tubas in order, again, to differentiate between the tone color of tubas and trombones and not to be obliged to employ trombones in this particular scene, the general tone color of the tuba being far more sombre than that of the trombone.
To mention tubas and trombones before the horns is very much like putting the cart before the horse, but I have reserved the horns for the last of the brass on account of the great tribute which Richard Strauss has paid them. In the early orchestras one rarely found more than two horns. Beethoven used four in the Ninth Symphony, and now it is not at all unusual to find eight.
“Of all instruments,” says Richard Strauss, “the horn is perhaps the one that best can be joined with other groups. To substantiate this in all its numerous phases, I should be obliged to quote the entire ‘Meistersinger’ score. For I do not think I exaggerate when I maintain that the greatly developed technique of the valve horn has made it possible that a score which, with the addition of a third trumpet, a harp and a tuba, employs the same instruments as Beethoven used in his Fifth Symphony, has become with every bar something entirely different, something wholly new and unheard of.
“Surely the two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets and two bassoons of Mozart have been exhausted by Wagner in every direction of their technical possibilities and plastically combined with an almost weird perception of all their tone secrets; the string quintet, through the most refined divisions into parts, and with added brilliance through the employment of the harp, produces innumerable new tone effects, and by superb polyphony is brought to a height and warmth of emotional expression such as never before was dreamed of; trumpet and trombones are made to express every phase of solemn or humorous characterization—but the main thing is the tireless participation of the horn, now for the melody, now for filling out, now as bass. The ‘Meistersinger’ score is the horn’s hymn of praise. Through the introduction and perfection of the valve horn the greatest improvement in the technique of scoring, since Berlioz’s day, has been made possible.
“To illustrate exhaustively this Protean character of the horn, I should like (again!) to go through the scores of the great magician, bar by bar, beginning with ‘Rheingold.’
“Whether it rings through the primeval German forest with the sunny exuberance of Siegfried’s youthful heart and joy of living; whether in Liszt’s ‘Mazeppa’ it dies out in the last hoarse gasp of the Cossack prince nigh unto death in the vast desert of the steppes; whether it conjures the childlike longing of Siegfried for the mother he never has known; whether it hovers over the gently undulating sea which is to bring Isolde’s gladdening form to the dying Tristan, or nods Hans Sachs’ thanks to the faithful ’Prentice; whether in 195 Erik’s dream it causes in a few hollow accents the North Sea to break on the lonely coast; bestows upon the apples of Freia the gift of eternal youth; pokes fun at the curtain-heroes (‘Meistersinger,’ Act III); plies the cudgels on Beckmesser with the jealous David and his comrades, and is the real instigator of the riot; or sings in veiled notes of the wounds of Tristan—always the horn, in its place and to be relied on, responds, unique in its manifold meanings and its brilliant significance.”
Famous horn passages in the works of other composers are in the trio of the Scherzo in the “Eroica Symphony”; in the second movement of Schubert’s C major symphony, the passage of which Schumann said that the notes of the horns just before the return of the principal subject were like the voice of an angel; in the opening of Weber’s “Freischütz” overture; in the introduction to Michaela’s romance in “Carmen”; and in the opening theme of the slow movement of Tschaikowsky’s Fifth Symphony, which is the perfection of a melodic phrase for solo horn.
Instruments of Percussion.
In the “battery” the instruments of prime importance are the tympani. Beethoven gave the cue to what could be accomplished with these in the scherzo of the Fifth Symphony and also in the octave thumps in the scherzo of the Ninth Symphony, while for a weirdly sombre effect there is nothing equal to the faint roll of the tympani at the beginning and end of the Funeral March in “Götterdämmerung.” Cymbals are 196 used in several ways. Besides the ordinary clash, Wagner has produced a sound somewhat like that of a gong, by the sharp stroke of a drum-stick on one cymbal, and also a roll by using a pair of drum-sticks on one cymbal.
Among composers since Beethoven, Weber, Liszt, Saint-Saëns, Dvorak, Tschaikowsky, and, of course, Richard Strauss—it hardly is necessary to mention either Berlioz or Wagner again—have shown brilliant technique in orchestration. On the other hand, Schumann and Brahms do not appear to have understood or to have taken the trouble to understand the individual characteristics of orchestral instruments, and, as a result, their works for orchestra are not as effective as they should be. Their orchestration has been called “muddy.”
It is Richard Strauss’s opinion that the next advancement in orchestration will be brought about by adding largely to certain groups of instruments which now have only comparatively few representatives in the orchestra. He instances that at the Brussels Conservatory one of the professors had Mozart’s G minor symphony performed for him on twenty-two clarinets, of which four were basset horns (alto clarinets), two brass clarinets, and one contra-bass clarinet; and he suggests that it will be along such lines that the orchestra of the future will be enlarged. With an orchestra with all the family groups of instruments complete in the manner suggested by Strauss, and used by a musical genius, a genius who combines with melodic invention virtuosity of instrumentation, marvellous results are yet to be achieved.
I have said that music, like all other arts, had a somewhat formless beginning, then gradually acquired form, then became too rigidly formal, and in modern times, while not discarding form, has become freer in its expression of emotion.
Instrumental music, since the beginning of the classical period, has been governed largely by the symphony, which the reader should bear in mind is nothing more than a sonata for orchestra, the form having first developed on the pianoforte and having been handed over by it to the aggregation of instruments. Sir Hubert Parry, from whose book, “The Evolution of the Art of Music,” I have had previous occasion to quote, has several apt paragraphs concerning the earlier development of the sonata, which of course apply with equal force to the symphony. After stating that the instinct of the composers who first sought the liberation of music from the all-predominating counterpoint, impelled them to develop movements of wider and freer range, which should admit of warm melodic expression, without degenerating into incoherent, rambling ecstasy, Sir Hubert continues: “They had the sense to see from the first that mere formal continuous melody is not the most suitable type for instrumental music. 198 There is deep-rooted in the matter of all instrumental music the need of some rhythmic vitality. These composers then set themselves to devise a scheme in which, to begin with, the contour of connected melodic phrases, supported and defined by simple harmonic accompaniment, gave the impression of definite tonality—that is, of being decisively in some particular key and giving an unmistakable indication of it. They found out how to proceed by giving the impression of using that key and passing to another without departing from the characteristic spirit and mood of the music, as shown in the ‘subjects’ and figures; and how to give the impression of relative completeness, by closing in a key which is in strong contrast to the first, and so round off one-half of the design.
“But this point being in apposition to the starting point, leaves the mind dissatisfied and in expectation of fresh disclosures; so they made the balance complete by resuming the subjects and melodic figures of the first part in extraneous keys, and working back to the starting point; and they made their final close with the same figures as were used to conclude the first half, but in the principal key instead of the key of contract.” This is a somewhat more elaborate method of describing the sonata form than I have adopted in the division of this book relating to the pianoforte.
Later on in his book, Sir Hubert, in discussing the type of sonata movement which was fairly established by the time of Haydn and Mozart, gives a simpler 199 esthetic explanation, pointing out that the first part of the movement aims at definiteness of subject, definiteness of contrast of keys, definiteness of regular balancing groups of bars and rhythms, definiteness of progressions. By the time this first division is over the mind has had enough of such definiteness, and wants a change. The second division, therefore, represents the breaking up of the subjects into their constituent elements of figure and rhythm, the obliteration of the sense of regularity by grouping the bars irregularly; and aims, by moving constantly from key to key, to give the sense of artistic confusion; which, however, is always regulated by some inner but disguised principle of order. When the mind has gone through enough of the pleasing sense of bewilderment—the sense that has made riddles attractive to the human creature from time immemorial—the scheme is completed by resuming the orderly methods of the first division and firmly re-establishing the principal theme which has been carefully avoided since the commencement.
The earlier symphonic writers usually wrote their symphonies in three movements: the first or sonata movement; a second slow movement in a simpler type of form, usually of the song, aria, or rondo type; and a final movement in lively time, also usually adapted to the rondo form. Concerning this three-movement symphony of the early writers, it was said by an old-time wit that they wrote the first movement to show what they could do, the second movement to show what they could feel, and the third movement to show how glad they were it was over—and this may be said 200 to describe the view of the ultra-modern music-lover toward rigidity of form in general.
Regarding form in music there is much prejudice one way or the other. The sonnet in poetry certainly is a rigid form; and yet those poets who have mastered it have produced extremely effective and highly artistic poems, and poems abounding in profound emotional expression. Walt Whitman, on the other hand, was quite formless, and yet he is sure to be ranked in time as one of the greatest poets of his age. Wagner’s idea was that the symphonic form had reached its climax with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony; yet it is by no means incredible that if Wagner in his maturer years had undertaken to compose a symphony, the result would have disproved his own theory.
The symphonic form, however, or, to be more exact, the sonata form, seems to hamper every modern composer when he writes for the pianoforte, and the fact that most of Beethoven’s pianoforte music was written in this form appears to be the reason for his works somewhat falling into disuse. On the other hand, the form is undoubtedly holding out better in the orchestral version of the sonata, the symphony, because the tone color of orchestral instruments gives it greater variety. Tschaikowsky, Dvorak and Brahms have worked successfully, and the two former even brilliantly, in this form; and if Brahms in his symphonies appears too continent, too classically reserved, it would seem to 201 be not so much the form itself which is to blame, as his lack of skill in instrumentation.
My own personal preference is for the freer form developed by Liszt in the symphonic poem, in which a leading motive, or possibly several motives skillfully varied dominate the whole composition and give it esthetic and psychological unity; and for the still freer development of instrumental music in the tone poem of Richard Strauss. But neither the symphonic poems of Liszt nor the tone poems of Strauss are formless music. That should be well understood, although it should be borne in mind with equal distinctness that these manifestations of the genius of two great composers show a complete liberation from the shackles of the classical symphony. In the end the test is found in the music itself. If the music of a symphonic poem which sets out to express a given title or a given motto, if the music of a tone poem which starts out to interpret a programmatic story or device, is worthy to be ranked with the great productions of the art, it not only is profoundly interesting as music, but gains immensely in interest through its incidental secondary meaning. It is the old story of art for art’s sake—art for the purpose of merely gratifying the eye or the ear—or art for the purpose of conveying something besides itself to the beholder or the listener; and it seems to me that, in the history of the art, art for art’s sake has always been the more primitive expression and eventually has been obliged to give way.
At the risk of repeating what already has been said of the sonata, the symphony may be described as a work in four movements—the first movement, usually an Allegro, sometimes with a slow introduction, but more frequently without one; a second movement, ordinarily called the slow movement, and usually in Adagio or Andante; a third movement, either minuet or scherzo; and a final movement in fast time and usually in rondo form. It was Haydn who pretty definitely established these divisions of the symphony. He composed in all one hundred and twenty-five symphonies, of which only a few appear on modern concert programs, and even these but occasionally. Their music is marked by a simplicity bordering on naïveté, and the orchestration is a string quartet with a mere filling out by other instruments. Mozart was of a deeper and more dramatic nature than Haydn, and the expression of his thought was more intense. In the same way, there is a greater warmth and color in his orchestration. Nevertheless, the three finest of his forty-nine symphonies, the E flat, G minor and Jupiter, composed in 1788, seem almost childlike in their artless grace and beauty to us moderns.
Beethoven’s first two symphonies were written under the influence of Haydn and Mozart, but with the third he becomes distinctly epic in his musical utterance; and this symphony, both in regard to variety and depth of expression and skillful use of orchestral instruments, is as great an advance upon the work of his predecessors as, let us say, Tschaikowsky is upon Mendelssohn.
There are apparent in the sequences of Beethoven’s symphonies certain climaxes and certain rests. Thus the Third is the climax of the first three. The Fourth is far less profound; the master relaxes. But the Fifth, with its compact, vigorous theme, which Beethoven himself is said to have described as Fate knocking at the door, and his skillful introduction of this theme in varied form in each of the movements, is by many regarded as his masterpiece—even greater than the Ninth. After this he seems to have relaxed again in the Sixth, Seventh and Eighth, in order to prepare himself for the climax of his career in his final symphonic work, the Ninth. In the slow movement of the Sixth (the “Pastoral”), in which he imitates the call of birds, he gives the direction: “mehr Empfindung als Malerei” (more feeling than painting), a direction which often is quoted by opponents of modern program music; notwithstanding the fact that Beethoven, in spite of his own qualifying words, straightway indulged in “painting” of the most childish description. The Seventh Symphony is an extremely brilliant work and the Eighth an exceedingly joyous one, while with the Ninth, as though he himself felt that he was going beyond the limits of orchestral music, he introduced in the last movement solo singers and a chorus, but not with as much effect as the employment of this unusual scheme might lead one to anticipate, because, unfortunately, his writing for voices is extremely awkward.
Like Beethoven, Schubert wrote nine symphonies, but the “Unfinished,” which was his eighth, and the C major, his ninth, which was discovered by Schumann in the possession of Schubert’s brother and sent to Mendelssohn for production at Leipzig, are the ones which seem destined to survive. They are among the most beautiful examples of orchestral music—the first movement of the “Unfinished Symphony” full of dramatic moments as well as of exquisite melody, the slow movement a veritable rose of orchestration; while as regards the C major symphony, Schumann’s reference to its “heavenly length” sufficiently describes its inspiration.
Mendelssohn’s Italian and Scotch symphonies are his best known orchestral works. They are clear and serene, and for any one who thinks a symphony is something very abstruse and wants to be gradually familiarized with its mysteries, they form an easily taken and innocuous dose—the symphony made palatable. Of Schumann’s four symphonies, the one in E flat, the “Rhenish,” supposed to represent a series of impressions of the Rhine country, the fourth movement especially, to represent the exaltation which possessed his soul during a religious ceremony in the cathedral at Cologne; and the D minor, which latter really is a fantasia, deserve to rank highest. In the D minor the movements follow each other without pause; there is a certain thematic relationship between the first and the last movements, and this connection gives the work a freer and more modern effect. But Schumann was 205 either indifferent to, or ignorant of, the advance in orchestration which had taken place since Beethoven. Practically the same thing applies to Brahms, who, however, deserves the credit for introducing into the symphony a new style of movement, the intermezzo, which takes the place of the scherzo or minuet. Rubinstein deserves “honorable mention”; but the most modern heroes of symphony are Dvorak, with his “New World,” and Tschaikowsky, with his “Pathétique.” Such works are life-preservers that may help keep a sinking art form afloat. But modern orchestral music is tending more and more toward the symphonic poem and the tone poem.
Liszt has written two symphonies: the “Faust Symphony,” consisting of three movements, which represent the three principal characters of Goethe’s drama, Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles; and a symphony to Dante’s “Divina Commedia.” In both these symphonies a chorus is introduced. Of his symphonic poems, the best known are “Les Préludes,” and “Tasso, Lamento e Trionfo.” In these symphonic poems Liszt has made use of the principle of the leitmotif in orchestral music. They are dramatic episodes for orchestra, superbly instrumentated, profoundly beautiful in thought and intention—great program music in fact, because conceived in accordance with the highest canons of the art, and infinitely more interesting than “pure” music because they mean something. By some people Liszt is regarded as a mere charlatan, by others as a great composer. Not only was he a great composer, but one of the very greatest.
The Saint-Saëns symphonic poems, “Rouet d’Omphale,” 206 “Phaeton,” “Danse Macabre,” should be mentioned as successful works of this class, but considerably below Liszt’s in genuine musical value. And then, there are the orchestral impressions of Charles Martin Loeffler, among which the symphonic poem, “La Mort de Tintagiles,” is the most conspicuous. A separate chapter is devoted to Richard Strauss.
Wagner is not supposed to have been a purely orchestral composer. Theoretically, he wrote for the theatre, and his orchestra was (again theoretically) only part of a triple scheme of voice, action and instrumental accompaniment. But put the instrumental part of any of his great music-drama episodes on a concert program, and with the first wave of the conductor’s baton and the first chord, you forget everything else that has gone before!
Richard Strauss—a new name to conjure with in music! His banner is borne by a band of enthusiasts like those who, many years ago, carried the flag of Wagner to the front. “Did not Wagner put a full stop after the word ‘music’?” some will ask in surprise. “Did he not strike the final note? Are the ‘Ring,’ ‘Tristan’ and ‘Parsifal’ not to be succeeded by an eternal pause? Is there something still to be achieved in music as in other arts and sciences?”
Something new certainly has been achieved by Richard Strauss. It forms neither a continuation of Wagner nor an opposition to Wagner. It has nothing to do with Wagner, beyond that Strauss appropriates whatever in the progression of art the latest master has a right to take from his predecessors. Strauss is, in fact, one of the most original and individual of composers.
He has been a student, not a copyist, of Wagner. Thus, where others who have sat at the feet of the Bayreuth master have written poor imitations of Wagner, and have therefore failed even to continue the school, giving only feeble echoes of its great master, Strauss has struck out for himself. With a mastery of 208 every technical resource, acquired by deep and patient study, he has given wholly new value and importance to a form of art entirely different from the music-drama. The music of the average modern Wagner disciple sounds not like Wagner, but like Wagner and water. Richard Strauss sounds like Richard Strauss.
One reason for this is that his art work, like Wagner’s, has an independent intellectual reason for being. Let me not for one moment be understood as belittling Wagner, in order to magnify Strauss. Wagner is the one creator of an art-form who also seems destined to remain its greatest exponent. Other creators of art-forms have been mere pioneers, leaving to those who have come after them the development and rounding out of what with them were experiments. The story of the sonata form may be said to have begun with Philipp Emanuel Bach and to have been “continued in our next” to Beethoven, with “supplements” ever since. The music-drama had its tentative beginnings in “The Flying Dutchman,” its consummation in “Parsifal.” The years from 1843 to 1882 lay between, but the music-drama was guided ever by the same hand, the master hand of Richard Wagner. No, it would be self-defeating folly to make Wagner appear less in order to have Strauss appear more.
Nor does Richard Strauss require such tactics. He has made three excursions into music-drama and he may make others. But his fame, at present, rests mainly upon what he has accomplished as an instrumental composer, 209 and in the self-created realm of the Tone Poem. Tone poem is a new term in music. It stands for something that outstrips the symphonic poem of Liszt, something larger both in its boundaries and in its intellectual and musical scope. Strauss does not limit himself by the word symphonic. He leaves himself free to give full range to his ideas. A composer of “program music,” his works are so stupendous in scope that the word symphonic would have hampered him. His “Also Sprach Zarathustra” (“Thus Spake Zarathustra”) and “Ein Heldenleben” (“A Hero’s Life”) are not symphonic poems, but tone poems of enormous proportions. These, his last two instrumental productions, together with the growing familiarity of the musical public with his beautiful and eloquent songs, established his reputation in this country. To-day, a Strauss work on a program means as much to the musically elect as a Wagner work meant a quarter of a century ago. In fact, to advanced musicians, to those who are not content to rest upon what has been achieved, but are ready to welcome further serious effort, Strauss’s works form the latest great utterance in music. Let me repeat verbatim a conversation that occurred on a recent rainy night, the date of an important concert.
He: “Are you going to the concert to-night?”
She: (Looking out and seeing that it still is raining hard) “Do they play anything by Richard Strauss?”
He: “Not to-night.”
She: “Then I’m not going.”
This woman could meet the most enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven or Wagner on his own ground. But when she heard “Ein Heldenleben” under Emil 210 Paur’s baton at a concert of the New York Philharmonic Society, she heard what she had been waiting twenty years for—something new in music that also was something great; something that was not merely an imitation of what she had heard a hundred times before, but something which pointed the way to untraveled paths. It always is woman who throws the first rose at the feet of genius.
One first looks at Richard Strauss in mere amazement at the size of what he has produced. “Thus Spake Zarathustra” lasts thirty-three minutes, “A Hero’s Life” forty-five—considerable lengths for orchestral works. This initial sense of “bigness,” as such, having worn off, one becomes aware of marvellous tone combinations and orchestral effects. Listening again, one discovers that these daring instrumental combinations have not been entered into merely for the sake of juggling with the orchestra, but because the composer, being a modern of moderns, has the most modern message in music to deliver, and, in order to deliver it, has developed the modern orchestra to a state of efficiency and versatility of tonal expression beyond any of his predecessors. Richard Strauss scores, in the most casual manner, an octave higher than Beethoven dared go with the violins. Except in the “Egmont” overture, Beethoven did not carry the violins higher than F above the staff. What should have been higher he wrote an octave lower. All the strings in the Richard Strauss orchestra are scored correspondingly 211 high. But this is not done as a mere fad. What Richard Strauss accomplishes with the strings is not merely queer or bizarre. What he seeks and obtains is genuine original musical effects. Often the highest register is used by him in a few of the strings only, because, for certain polyphonic effects—the weaving and interweaving of various themes—he divides and subdivides all the strings into numerous groups. For the same reason, he has regularly added four or five hitherto rarely used instruments to the woodwind and scores, regularly, for eight horns, besides employing from four to five trumpets.
While he has increased the technical difficulties of every instrument, what he requires of them is not impossible. He does, indeed, call for first-rate artists in his orchestra; but so did Wagner as compared with Beethoven. He knows every instrument thoroughly, for he has taken lessons on all; and, therefore, when he is striving for new instrumental effects he is not putting problems which cannot be legitimately solved. His “Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks” makes, possibly, the greatest demand of all his works on an orchestra. But, if properly played, it is one of the most bizarre and amusing scherzos in the repertoire. In his “Don Quixote,” he has gone outside the list of orchestral instruments; and in the scene where Don Quixote has his tilt with the windmill, he has introduced a regular theatrical wind-machine. And why not? The effect to be produced justifies the means. There is an à capella chorus by Strauss for sixteen voices. These are not divided into two double quartets, or into four quartets, but the composition actually 212 is scored in sixteen parts. He shrinks from no musical problem.
When “A Hero’s Life” was produced in New York it was given at a public rehearsal and concert of the Philharmonic. It made such a profound impression—it was recognized as music, not as mere bulk and noise—that it had to be repeated at a following public rehearsal and concert, thus having the honor of four consecutive performances by the same society in one season. Previous performances of Strauss’s works, mainly by the Chicago Orchestra, under Thomas, and the Boston Symphony Orchestra, had begun to direct public attention to this composer. But the “Heldenleben” performances by the Philharmonic created something of a sensation. They made the “hit” to which the public unconsciously had been working up for several seasons. Large as are the dimensions of “A Hero’s Life,” Richard Strauss had chosen a subject that made a very direct appeal. Despite its wealth of polyphony and theme combination, the score told, without a word of synopsis, a clear intelligible story of a hero’s material victory, followed by a greater moral one. It placed the public on a human, familiar footing with a composer whom previously they had regarded with more awe than interest. Here was music interesting as mere music, but all the more interesting because it had an intellectual message to convey.
What is the difference between classical and modern music? Write a chapter or a book on it, and the difference still remains just this: Classical music is the expression of beauty; modern music the expression of life and truth. Modern music seems entering upon a new era with Strauss, which does not necessarily exclude beauty. It is beginning to illustrate itself, so to speak, like the author-artist who can both write and draw. To-day, music not only expresses truth, but represents it pictorially. How long will the time be in coming when a composer will wave his bâton, the orchestra strike a chord—and we be not only listeners but also beholders, hearing the chord, and seeing at the same time its image floating above the orchestra?
In his “Melomaniacs,” the most remarkable collection of musical stories I have read, Mr. Huneker has a tale called “A Piper of Dreams,” the most advanced piece of musical fiction I know of. This piper of dreams produces music which is seen. “Do you know why you like it?” Mr. Huneker asked me, when I told him how intensely I admired the story. “Because,” he continued, “the hero of the story is a Richard Strauss.”
Of course, this brilliantly written story was a daring incursion into a seemingly impossible future. Yet it points a tendency. When shall we have music that can be seen? Considering how closely related are the laws of acoustics and optics, is a “Piper of Dreams” so visionary? Who knows but that the music of the future may be visible sound—the work of a piper of 214 dreams? Sometimes, when listening to Strauss, I think Mr. Huneker’s Piper is tuning up.
Richard Strauss’s tone poems are large in plan. In fact they are colossal. They show him to be a man of great intellectual activity, as well as an inspired composer. The latter, of course, is the test by which a musical work stands or falls. No matter how intellectually it is planned, if it is inadequate musically it fails. But if it is musically inspired, it gains vastly in effect when it rests on a brain basis.
That Richard Strauss is the most significant figure in the musical world to-day seems to me too patent to admit of discussion. The only question to be considered is, how has he become so? The question is best answered by showing what a Richard Strauss tone poem is. Take “Thus Spake Zarathustra” and “A Hero’s Life.” Without going into an elaborate discussion I must insist that, to consider Richard Strauss as in any way a development from Berlioz or Liszt, shows a deplorable unfamiliarity with his works. Berlioz wrote program music. Liszt wrote program music. Richard Strauss writes program music. But this point of resemblance is wholly superficial. Berlioz admittedly strove to adhere to the orthodox symphonic form. Liszt aptly named his own productions “symphonic poems.” They are much freer in form than Berlioz’s, and possibly pointed the way to the Richard Strauss tone poem. But when we examine the musical kernel, the difference at once is apparent. Polyphony, 215 that is, the simultaneous interweaving of many themes, was foreign to Berlioz and Liszt. Their style is mainly homophonic. Richard Strauss is a polyphonic composer second not even to Wagner, whose system of leading motives in his music-dramas made his scores such marvellous polyphonic structures. Such, too, are the scores of Richard Strauss’s tone poems. None but a master of polyphony could have attempted to express in music what Richard Strauss has expressed. For are not his tone poems literally tone dramas?
It was like a man of great intellectual activity, such as Richard Strauss is, to select for musical illustration the Faust of modern literature—Nietzsche’s “Zarathustra.” The composer became interested in Nietzsche’s works in 1892, when he was writing his music-drama, “Guntram.” The full fruition of his study of this philosopher’s works is “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” But this is not an attempt to set Nietzsche to music, not an effort to express a system of philosophy through sound. It is rather the musical portrayal of a quest—a being longing to solve the problems of life, finding at the end of his varied pilgrimage that which he had left at the beginning, Nature deep and inscrutable.
Musically, the great fortissimo outburst in C major, which, at the beginning of the work, greets the seeker on the mountain-top with the glories of the sunrise, is the symbol of Nature. The seeker descends the mountain. He pursues the quest amid many surroundings, among all sorts and conditions of men. He experiences joy, passion, remorse. In wisdom, perchance, lies the final solution of the problem of life. But the 216 emptiness of “wisdom” is depicted by the composer with the keenest satire in a learned, yet dry, five-part fugue. The seeker’s varied experiences form as many divisions of the tone poem. There is even a waltz theme. Unending joy! Therein he may reach the end of his quest.
But hark! a sombre strophe, followed twelve times by the even fainter stroke of a bell! Then a theme winging its flight on the highest register of modern instrumentation, until it seems to rise over the orchestra and vanish into thin air. It is the soul of the seeker, his earthly quest ended; while the theme which greeted him at sunrise on the mountain-top resounds in the orchestral depths, the symbol of Nature, still mysterious, still inscrutable.
Even this brief synopsis suggests that “Zarathustra” is planned on a large scale. It presupposes an intellectual grasp of the subject on the composer’s part. In its choice, in the selection and rejection of details and in outlining his scheme, Richard Strauss shows that he has thoroughly assimilated Nietzsche. But, at a certain point, the musician in Richard Strauss asserts himself above the litterateur. “Thus Spake Zarathustra” was not intended for a preachment, save indirectly. From what occurs during that vain quest, from the last deep mysterious chord of the Nature theme, let the listener draw his own conclusion. In the last analysis, “Thus Spake Zarathustra” is not a philosophical treatise, but a tone poem. In the last analysis, 217 Richard Strauss is not a philosopher, but a musician.
“A Hero’s Life” is another work of large plan. Like “Zarathustra,” it derives its importance as an art-work from its eloquence as a musical composition. With a musical work, no matter how intellectual or dramatic its foundation, its test ever will be its value as pure music. Richard Wagner’s theories would have fallen like a house of cards, had not his music been eloquent and beautiful. But as his music gained wonderfully in added eloquence and beauty by induction from its intellectual content, so does Strauss’s. The fact is, music is music, while philosophies come and go. Yesterday it was Schopenhauer; to-day it is Nietzsche; to-morrow it will be another. Doubtless, Wagner thought his “Ring” was Schopenhauer’s “Negation of the Will to Live” set to music. Possibly, Richard Strauss thought Nietzsche looked out between the bars of “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” In point of fact, neither Wagner nor Richard Strauss incorporated their favorite philosophers in their music. Wagner may have derived his inspiration from his reading of Schopenhauer, and Richard Strauss from Nietzsche, for one mind inspires another. But the real result, both in Wagner and Strauss, was great music.
This is made clear by Strauss’s “A Hero’s Life.” Like “Zarathustra,” it would be effective as music without a line of programmatic explanation. The latter simply adds to its effectiveness by giving it the further interest of “fiction” and ethical import. In “A Hero’s Life” we hear (and see, if you like) the hero himself, 218 his jealous adversaries, the woman whose love consoles him, the battle in which he wins his greatest worldly triumph, his mission of peace, the world’s indifference and the final flight of his soul toward the empyrean. All this is depicted musically with the greatest eloquence. The battlefield scene is a stupendous massing of orchestral forces. On the other hand, the amorous episode, entitled “The Hero’s Helpmate,” is impassioned and charming.
In the world’s indifference to the hero’s mission of peace, there is little doubt that Strauss was indulging in a retrospect of his own struggles for recognition. For here are heard numerous reminiscences of his earlier works—his tone poems, “Don Juan,” “Death and Transfiguration,” “Macbeth,” “Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks,” “Thus Spake Zarathustra,” “Don Quixote”; his music-drama, “Guntram”; and his song, “Dream During Twilight.” These reminiscences give “A Hero’s Life” the same autobiographical interest as attaches to Wagner’s “Meistersinger.”
Strauss pays a tribute to Wagner in the one-act opera, “Feuersnot” (“Fire Famine”). According to the old legend on which this Sing-gedicht (song-poem) is founded, a young maiden has offended her lover. But the lover being a magician, casts a spell over the town, causing the extinction of all fire, bringing cold and darkness upon the entire place, until the maiden relents and smiles again upon him, when the spell is lifted and the fires once more burn brightly. The 219 young lover, Kunrad, in rebuking the people of the city, says:
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“In this house which to-day I destroy, |
Accompanying these lines, Strauss introduces themes from Wagner’s “Ring of the Nibelung.” Undoubtedly “Richard the Master,” in the above lines, is Richard Wagner.
While Mr. Paur was not the first orchestral leader who has played Strauss’s music in this country, he may justly be regarded as Strauss’s prophet in New York at least. Not only do we owe to him the performances of “A Hero’s Life,” which definitely “created” Strauss here, but it was he who brought forward “Thus Spake Zarathustra,” when he was conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. As long ago as 1889, when Mr. Paur was conductor at Mannheim, he invited Strauss to direct his symphony in F minor there. Strauss accepted and also brought with him his just completed “Macbeth,” asking to be allowed to try it over with the orchestra, as he wanted to hear it—a request which was readily granted. Afterward, at Mr. Paur’s house, Strauss’s piano quartet was played, with the composer himself at the piano and Mr. Paur at the violin. It is not surprising that when Mr. Paur came over here as the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, he championed Richard Strauss’s work, continued to do so after he became conductor of the New York Philharmonic Society, and probably still does as conductor of the Pittsburg Orchestra.
Strauss has become such an important figure in the 220 world of music that it is interesting to note what has been done to bring his work before the American public. Theodore Thomas, with the artistic liberality which he has always displayed toward every serious effort in music, produced Strauss’s symphony in F minor, which bears date 1883, as early as December 13, 1884, with the New York Philharmonic Society. It was the first performance of this work anywhere. Strauss was not, however, heard again at the concerts of this organization until January, 1892, when Seidl brought out “Death and Transfiguration.”
After he became conductor of the Chicago Orchestra, Thomas gave many performances of Richard Strauss’s works—in 1895, the prelude to “Guntram,” “Death and Transfiguration” and “Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks”; in 1897, “Don Juan” and “Thus Spake Zarathustra”; in 1899, “Don Quixote” and the symphonic fantasia, “Italy”; in 1900, “A Hero’s Life” (the first performance in this country) and the “Serenade” for wind instruments; in 1902, “Macbeth” (first performance in this country) and the “Feuersnot” fragment. Several of these works, besides those noted, had their first performance in this country by the Chicago Orchestra, and several have had repeated performances.
The Boston Symphony Orchestra also has a fine record as regards the performance of Richard Strauss’s works. Nikisch, Paur, and Gericke are the conductors under whom these performances have been given. Several of the works have been played repeatedly not only in Boston, but in other cities where this famous orchestra gives concerts.