A Croatian Composer | Project Gutenberg

This melody, which contains no Magyar characteristics, either of figure, scale, or stanza, is compressed from that of the Siri Kolo, as commonly danced in Bosnia and Dalmatia. The complete tune runs:—

a typical rustic dance, which in Haydn’s hands has gained not only by compression, but by a more artistic accompaniment.

(5) In addition to the dance measure, Haydn has adopted other instrumental forms, e.g., marches, bag-pipe melodies, and the like. Here is one, with a strange rhythm, from the Pianoforte Scherzando in F major:—

and here, from the Finale of the B♭ Symphony (Salomon, No. 9), is the march which is commonly played in Turopol at rustic weddings:—

Another Croatian march beginning—

has been identified by Dr. Kuhač from an unpublished Symphony in A major, and there is a further example from the Allegro of the B♭ Quartet (Op. 71, No. 1)—

(6) The two most remarkable instances are yet to come. According to a well-known story, Prince Esterházy once discussed with his Kapellmeister the question whether Church music could not be made “at the same time religious and popular.” It is hard to realise that Haydn’s Masses were ever regarded as too severe; in any case, the Prince felt dissatisfied, and wanted a change. He had recently returned from his annual pilgrimage to Maria Zell. He had heard there music which pleased him, and he seems to have suggested that in the Eisenstadt chapel there was too much counterpoint and too little melody. Haydn listened, sent to Maria Zell for information, bided his time, and, when next year the day of the pilgrimage was approaching, wrote a “Mass” or Service to German words,[27] despatched it to the famous church, had it secretly practised, and finally found an excuse for slipping off on a holiday. The Prince came back more dissatisfied than ever. “I have heard,” he said, “a service of Church music composed and played in a style which you will never equal.” “Your Highness,” answered Haydn, “the composition was mine, and I was the organist.”

From this “Mass,” of which at present no other trace seems to be discoverable, Dr. Kuhač quotes seven melodies on the authority of the Dominican Alois Russwurm, who was a personal friend of Haydn, and by whom the story was originally recorded.

The first, “Hier liegt vor Deiner Majestät,” is the opening theme of the first number—

and comes from the Croatian tune—

The second, “Gott soll gepriesen werden”—

is the song “Ti jabuka,” as sung in Velik-Borištov—

The third, “Allmächtiger, vor Dir im Staube,”—

begins remarkably like the Slavonian drinking song, “Draga moja gospodo.”[28]

The fourth, “O Vater, sieh vor Deinem Throne”—

may fairly be regarded as a variant of the Dalmatian song, “Jedna Ciganka”—

The fifth, “Betrachtet ihn in Schmerzen”—

is almost identical in both parts with the following Croatian melody:—

The sixth—“Nun ist das Lamm geschlachtet”—

is derived partly from two separate strains in the Croatian and Slavonian versions of a convivial chorus—“Vivla compagnija”—

partly from a Croatian sacred song—“Stani gori gospodar.”

The seventh—“Dich wahres Oesterlamm”—which is the concluding phrase of the canticle for the Celebration,—

borrows its exact sequence and its curious halting rhythm from the Croatian “Miši prave svatove”—

Clearly, in Haydn’s vocabulary “popular” meant Slavonic.

It may be objected that this example proves nothing. Grant that Haydn was living in a certain district, and that he was asked for once to write in a popular style; what more natural than that he should adapt himself to his surroundings, and use the idioms that he found in common currency? A man readily drops into dialect when he is addressing a rural audience, and does not become a countryman by seasoning his discourse with a few country proverbs and metaphors. This rejoinder would be of more effect if the “Mass” were an isolated phenomenon: it somewhat loses weight when we remember that the music only turns to Church use the tendencies that have already been noted in symphony and quartet. Still, our case would undoubtedly be stronger if we could find Haydn appealing, in the same tongue, to the Austrian Empire at large, and using the native Slavonic for some great political or ceremonial occasion. Here, at any rate, is a test which we may reasonably regard as crucial, and which, if successfully applied, should go some way towards settling the question.

Unfortunately, the Croatian melodies are not, as a rule, well suited for such a purpose. They are bright, sensitive, piquant, but they seldom rise to any high level of dignity or earnestness. They belong to a temper which is marked rather by feeling and imagination than by any sustained breadth of thought, and hence, while they enrich their own field of art with great beauty, there are certain frontiers which they rarely cross, and from which, if once crossed, they soon return. One limitation in particular will have been observed by every student. It frequently happens that a Croatian or Servian tune will begin with a fine phrase, and then fall to an anti-climax—either losing sight of its tonality, or wavering in its rhythm, or ending with a weak or commonplace cadence. In almost all the examples quoted above, it is the opening of the tune which Haydn has borrowed; its conclusion he has nearly always improved or re-written.[29] And the reasons that impelled him to this practice may be illustrated by the following variants, in all of which are apparent the same touch of inspiration, and the same weakness of development.

(a) The song “Stal se jesem,” as sung in Marija Bistric[30]—

(b) The same song as it appears in the district of S. Ivan Zeline—

In these versions the last four bars appear to have been loosely attached to the rest of tune; at any rate, they are often found, apart from the first phrase, in Croatian carols and drinking songs. Again, among other districts there has been some rearrangement of the words, with corresponding changes in the music. Either the opening line is not repeated, which leads to the excision of the third bar, and a consequent alteration of cadence; e.g.—

(d) Variant from Kolnov (near Oedenburg)—

or it is inserted again after the second, so as to give the stanza an alternation of masculine and feminine endings; e.g.—

(e) Variant from Čembe—

The rest is easily divined. When in 1797 Haydn was commissioned to set the National Anthem, he must have had this tune before his eye, and have determined to use it as the pedestal of the monumentum ære perennius which his loyalty erected.[31] And here a word may be said as to the manner in which the great tune appears to have been written. It was no momentary inspiration, no sudden impromptu that should come into existence at full growth; like most of Beethoven’s music, it was made carefully, and by deliberate weighing of alternatives. By a piece of singular good fortune, we are for once admitted to the master’s workshop, and allowed to take our lesson in melody by the observation of his practice.

Now the second strain of the folk-tune is too short to fit the second line of the poem; accordingly, Haydn began by extending its cadence, and instead of—

wrote—

following it with repeat-marks, after the common method of primary form. Two other changes explain themselves. The measure is dignified by the broader time-signature, and the accent shifted from arsis to thesis by the rearrangement of the bars. Otherwise, in the first half of the stanza the folk-tune remains unaltered.

But for the second half it was manifestly insufficient. Both the possible variants are too trivial, and one too brief, to afford the requisite climax. As a natural consequence, Haydn discarded both, and proceeded to supply their place with two original strains, which in the Autograph sketch[32] run as follows:—

Still, he was dissatisfied with the result, and it is easy to suggest the reason. In the former of these two strains there is a passage which carries tonic harmony—out of place at this stage of the tune—and its cadence, moreover, rhymes awkwardly with that of the half-stanza. The latter of the two comes down from its point of stress with a fine sweeping movement, but, three bars from the end, breaks its melodic curve into two distinct pieces, and so loses continuity of line. Both were accordingly corrected, one on the same page, the bottom stave of which bears, in hasty manuscript, the amended form—

the other, with a few more minute alterations, at a later period of the work. And thus, of such diverse metal as Cellini cast his “Perseus,” did Haydn beat out the melody by which he has given voice to a nation’s patriotism.

It is to be hoped that these examples will not encourage any reader to pursue Haydn with the cry of plagiarist. No accusation could be more unfounded or more unreasonable. He poached upon no man’s preserve, he robbed no brother-artist, he simply ennobled those peasant-tunes with the thought and expression of which he was most nearly in accord. The whole extent of his indebtedness is at most an occasional melody, and is often but a single phrase; the treatment, the setting, the workmanship belong as truly to him as Faust to Goethe, or Cymbeline to Shakespeare. The master who has written a hundred and twenty first-rate symphonies, and eighty-three first-rate quartets, may surely claim the right to take his wealth where he finds it; and if we are churlish enough to deny this, at least we may allow him the privilege of speaking in his native tongue. To Haydn, the folk-tunes were little more than the words of his accustomed speech, hardly obscured when the Church asserted her contrapuntal dignity, and reappearing in full significance when he returned to the untrammelled orchestra and the freedom of the four magic strings. It is more important to note how closely his special melodic gift is in sympathy with that of his people. Many of the tunes quoted above are among those which a critic would select as especially characteristic: there are literally hundreds of his invention by which, in a more or less degree, the same qualities are exhibited. No doubt he was not only the child of his nation, he had his own personality, his own imaginative force, his own message to deliver in the ears of the world. But through all these the national element runs as a determining thread. That “les grands artistes n’ont pas de patrie” is a sentence abundantly refuted by its very author; it assuredly finds no support in the life of the Croatian peasant who has made immortal the melodies of his race.

A new aspect of the question has been brought into prominence by recent history. The course of policy pursued in our own day by the Austrian Government is tending to reverse the relative importance of the Croatian colony and of the mother country from which it sprang. On the one hand, the central provinces are being steadily Germanised, the Slavonic language is beginning to die out, the Slavonic blood to be crossed by intermixture, and though yet the change is only in process, there is no lack of indication that it is operative. Along the western bank of the Leitha, German is now the prevailing speech, along the eastern bank it is disputing the palm with Hungarian, and between them the Slav, for all his tenacity, will some day be dislodged or absorbed. Hardly any inhabitant speaks of Požun now; the name is either Pozsony or Pressburg; Liesing has almost forgotten that it was once Lešnik, and though Oedenburg[33] still remains as a fortress, it is becoming more and more isolated as the years advance. But, on the other hand, a wider range of opportunity is being opened in Croatia proper. The impulse towards national life, started as we have already seen by Ljudevit Gaj, is being wisely fostered and encouraged by Imperial patronage; and Agram, which a century ago was a little country town, is now assuming the state and dignity of a capital. The University, founded in 1874, has already done much for the study of art and letters; the old market-place has become a fine square, with an opera-house in the centre; the waste ground to the south has been laid out in public gardens, and enclosed with galleries and museums. It is natural that the present race should follow these changes with keen enthusiasm; and should look forward eagerly and confidently to the days of coming greatness. Nor even to a stranger are the evidences lacking. The tone may be somewhat Chauvinist, the self-gratulation somewhat indiscriminate, the record of present achievement a little wanting in distinction; but as yet the movement is new, the resources are new, the whole field has to be contested step by step. It would be idle to expect another Haydn at present; the line has been broken, and must rally before it can advance. Enough for the moment that there are force and impetus and courage, that there is active and restless ability, that there is an unswerving determination to win the day. Who knows in what recruit’s knapsack the bâton of the field-marshal may be lying hidden?

For in all the music of this century there is no phenomenon more remarkable than the steady progress of the Slavonic race. As early as 1818 an English critic was far-sighted enough to predict the advent of Russia,[34] and though his readers never lived to see the presage fulfilled, though in his generation there appeared no greater name than that of Glinka, yet our own day has verified his words beyond the possibility of cavil. There may be some difference of opinion about Rubinstein, there can be none about Borodin or Tschaikowsky, and the traditions which they set are being ably followed by a whole school of younger composers. Toward the middle of the century came Chopin, whose chief ambition, as he himself said, was “to be the Uhland of his country,” and whose chief work was to stamp with the impress of a classic his national strains of polonaise and mazurka. Some thirty years ago Smetana’s brilliant comedy laid the foundation on which Dvořák has built, and rescued from disuse and oblivion the folksongs of Bohemia. It is not without interest that we see another Slavonic nation re-entering the field. In one sense it was the leader of them all, in another it is the latest accession to their ranks, and its fortunes, as it tries to regain a lost position, should be watched by us not only with encouragement, but with close and intimate sympathy.

For, de nobis fabula narratur. Western Europe also knows of a land which was once a leader in musical art, which forewent its trust, which suffered its voice to be silenced, which allowed its musicians to bid for popularity by adopting foreign names and foreign methods, which is now striving, with better opportunities than any Slavonic nation can possess, to recover the old ground, and recall the forgotten message. If we disdain the comparison we may learn humility by reading the estimate in which we have long been held by our neighbours. “English music,” says a recent German historian, “may be said to end with Purcell”; “English art,” say our French critics, “has long degenerated into imitation”; and though our present leaders are nobly refuting the charge, there is still with us too much of that cosmopolitan temper which is among the most insidious of our enemies. No doubt times are improving. In Leeds, in Birmingham, in Bristol, even in London, the Englishman may get a hearing, though unless he write Royalty ballads he will hardly find a publisher. But his audience is not yet attuned into proper sympathy with his work. We still judge too much by reference to alien ideals, we are still too indifferent to our own natural language, and our own natural cast of thought. And, until we shake off this indifference and learn to extend our patriotism to our art, we shall never resume our place as a great musical nation.

There is no need that we should offer a less cordial welcome to our foreign visitors, or a less cordial recognition of the immense service that they have done. “Was macht dieser Fremde hier?” is not patriotism, but discourtesy, a mark of the weakness which fears to meet the world frankly upon equal terms. At the same time we have no right either to neglect or to depreciate our own. A great artistic school is not built in a single moment or in a single generation; the work is long, heavy, difficult; it is easily discouraged, it is easily retarded, it needs all the care and diligence that it can command. And there is one way, and one only, in which we can bring it to a successful issue. Let us cut our timber from our own forests, let us quarry our stone from the bed-rock of our own nation, and then let our master-builders deal with the matter as their genius shall determine.

A most hopeful sign is the revival of interest in our national melodies. To the artists who have collected them, to the artists who are making them familiar, our cordial gratitude is due. But it is not enough to have them, we must use them; and it is not enough to use them, we must learn how to catch their spirit. Haydn had a far slighter material than ours, yet he could use it to a purpose which will be remembered when all our exotic romances are forgotten. And now that more than one English master is showing us the way, we have no excuse, we have no pretext for withholding our allegiance any longer.

It is now some years since a few English writers began to advocate the return to nationalism. Since then, much, no doubt, has been done, but much still remains to do, and to us hearers a great part of the reform is entrusted. We have listened to foreign tongues until our own sounds odd and unfamiliar. We have sat so long at Trimalchio’s banquet that we have no appetite left for our native fare. Extremes of passion, extremes of languor, inordinate appeals to sense, all these are alien from our national temper, and we are growing surfeited with them until our taste is spoiled and our palate vitiated. It is just the same in the world of letters. “No one reads Scott,” says one critic; “No one wants Shakespeare,” says another; “give us d’Annunzio and Sudermann and the Immoral Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche.” Fortunately English ethics and English literature may be left to look after themselves; they have both a continuity of tradition which will prevent them from falling very far askew. But our art of music is being restored from the heaps of ruin into which it was laid two centuries ago, and it is the business of all who care for art or country to lend a hand. At least we might try to discover what English music has to say, and estimate our composers according to their capacity for saying it.

This position is strengthened by all evidence of musical history. The same hand which made Germany a people enriched her with the “Marseillaise of the Reformation,” and so founded the long dynasty of her great composers. Art in France was at its lowest, when the chief occupation of Paris was to dispute between the claims of the Bavarian Gluck and the Italian Piccinni. Italy herself declined as she lost her national character, the Slavonic peoples have advanced as they have reasserted theirs. And what is true of nations is equally true of their leaders. “The greatest genius,” says Emerson, “is the most indebted man”; the man, that is, who can turn to the most noble and enduring use the traditions of his age and country. So it was with Haydn. Nothing can be more false than to regard him as merely a Court musician, writing with ready and facile talent the pièces d’occasion that were needed for the theatre or the reception-room. His life at Eisenstadt gave him opportunity such as no composer had ever before enjoyed, but the patronage was too enlightened and the character too strong to be satisfied with work that was mannered or artificial. Under the famous “livery of blue and silver” there beat the heart of a rustic poet, full of kindliness, of drollery, of good-fellowship, of the love of children and animals. His genius, trained by years of assiduous labour, gave him a complete mastery over the inherited resources of his art, his imagination extended them with fresh discoveries and inventions. But throughout the whole his favourite themes are pastoral, songs of the shepherd and the harvester, songs of country courtship, songs of the vintage feast and the jovial holiday. It is little wonder that he should speak in the language of his people, or recall the phrases that had been familiar from his childhood.

Yet it is no patois that he uses, but the speech of a whole nation; a living force that spreads wide and reaches to distant boundaries. Nor is he great because he has chosen this or that topic, this or that form of utterance; it is because he is great that there was no choice in the matter. He could not have written of set habit in the German idiom; he was Slav by race and Slav by temper, and his music is too genuine to present itself in foreign guise. It is from this point of view that we should understand him; not by loosely classifying him among a people with whom he had little in common, but by regarding him as the true embodiment of his own national spirit. The Greek proverb condemns a man of two tongues: through the world of art the condemnation is still in force, and at least some measure of it should fall on the ingenious critics who call patriotism parochial, and justify their epithet by obliterating frontiers.