BERLIOZ.
Hector Berlioz, one of the most renowned of modern French composers, and an acute critic and skilful conductor as well, was born, Dec. 11, 1803, at La Côte St. André, in France. His father was a physician, and intended him for the same profession. He reluctantly went to Paris and began the study of medicine; but music became his engrossing passion, and medicine was abandoned. He entered the Conservatory as a pupil of Lesueur, and soon showed himself superior to all his masters except Cherubini, which aroused a strong opposition to him and his compositions. It was only after repeated trials that he took the first prize, which entitled him to go to Italy for three years. On his return to Paris he encountered renewed antipathy. His music was not well received, and he was obliged to support himself by conducting at concerts and writing articles for the press. As a final resort he organized a concert-tour through Germany and Russia, the details of which are contained in his extremely interesting Autobiography. At these concerts his own music was the staple of the programmes, and it met with great success, though not always played by the best of orchestras, and not always well by the best, as his own testimony shows; for his compositions are very exacting, and call for every resource known to the modern orchestra. The Germans were quick in appreciating his music; but it was not until after his death that his ability was conceded in France. In 1839 he was appointed librarian of the Conservatory, and in 1856 was made a member of the French Academy. These were the only honors he received, though he long sought to obtain a professorship in the Conservatory. A romantic but sad incident in his life was his violent passion for Miss Smithson, an Irish actress, whom he saw upon the Paris stage in the rôle of Ophelia, at a time when Victor Hugo had revived an admiration for Shakspeare among the French. He married her, but did not live with her long, owing to her bad temper and ungovernable jealousy; though after the separation he honorably contributed to her support out of the pittance he was earning. Among his great works are the opera, “Benvenuto Cellini;” the symphony with chorus, “Romeo and Juliet;” “Beatrice and Benedict;” “Les Troyens,” the text from Virgil’s “Æneid;” the symphony, “Harold in Italy;” the symphony, “Funèbre et Triomphe;” the “Damnation of Faust;” a double-chorused “Te Deum;” the “Symphony Fantastique;” the “Requiem;” and the sacred trilogy, “L’Enfance du Christ.” Berlioz stands among all other composers as the foremost representative of “programme music,” and has left explicit and very detailed explanations of the meaning of his works, so that the hearer may listen intelligently by seeing the external objects his music is intended to picture. In the knowledge of individual instruments and the grouping of them for effect, in warmth of imagination and brilliancy of color, and in his daring combinations and fantastic moods, which are sometimes carried to the very verge of eccentricity, he is a colossus among modern musicians. He died in Paris, March 8, 1869.
Romeo and Juliet.
“Dramatic symphony, with choruses, solos, chant, and prologue in choral recitative” is the title which Berlioz gives to his “Romeo and Juliet.” It was written in 1839, and its composition commemorates an interesting episode in his career. In the previous year he had written his symphony “Harold in Italy,” the subject inspired by Byron’s “Childe Harold.” Paganini, the wonder of the musical world at that time, was present at its performance, and was so pleased with the work that he sent Berlioz an enthusiastic tribute of applause as well as of substantial remembrance.[14] The composer at that time was in straitened circumstances, and in his gratitude for this timely relief he resolved to write a work which should be worthy of dedication to the great violinist. His Autobiography bears ample testimony to the enthusiasm with which he worked. He says:—
“At last, after much indecision, I hit upon the idea of a symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and choral recitatives, on the sublime and ever novel theme of Shakspeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ I wrote in prose all the text intended for the vocal pieces which came between the instrumental selections. Émile Deschamps, with his usual delightful good-nature and marvellous facility, set it to verse for me, and I began....
“During all that time how ardently did I live! How vigorously I struck out on that grand sea of poetry caressed by the playful breeze of fancy, beneath the hot rays of that sun of love which Shakspeare kindled, always confident of my power to reach the marvellous island where stands the temple of true art! Whether I succeeded or not it is not for me to decide.”
The work opens with a fiery introduction representing the combats and tumults of the two rival houses of Capulet and Montague, and the intervention of the Prince. It is followed by a choral recitative for four altos, tenors, and basses (“Long smouldering Hatreds”), with which is interwoven a contralto solo (“Romeo too is there”), the number closing with a passionate chorus (“The Revels now are o’er”). A beautiful effect is made at this point by assigning to the alto voice two couplets (“Joys of first Love”) which are serious in style but very rich in melody. A brief bit of choral recitative and a few measures for tenor—Mercutio’s raillery—lead up to a dainty scherzetto for tenor solo and small chorus (“Mab! bright Elf of Dreamland”), and a short choral passage brings this scene to a close.
The second scene, which is for orchestra only, an impressive declamatory phrase developing into a tender melody, representing the sadness of Romeo, set in tones against the brilliant dance music in the distance accompanying the revel of the Capulets, is one of the most striking effects Berlioz has accomplished, and illustrates his astonishing command of instrumentation. The third scene represents Capulet’s garden in the stillness of night, the young Capulets passing through it, bidding each other adieu and repeating snatches of the dance music. As their strains die away in the distance the balcony scene between Romeo and Juliet is given by the orchestra alone in a genuine love-poem full of passion and sensuousness. No words could rival the impassioned beauty of this melodious number. The fourth scene is also given to the orchestra, and is a setting of Mercutio’s description of Queen Mab. It is a scherzo intensely swift in its movement and almost ethereal in its dainty, graceful rhythm. The instrumentation is full of subtle effects, particularly in the romantic passages for the horns.
In the fifth scene we pass from the tripping music of the fairies to the notes of woe. It describes the funeral procession of Juliet, beginning with a solemn march in fugue style, at first instrumental, with occasional entrances of the voices in monotone, and then vocal (“O mourn, O mourn, strew choicest Flowers”), the monotone being assigned to the instruments. It preludes a powerful orchestral scene representing Romeo’s invocation, Juliet’s awakening, and the despair and death of the lovers.[15] The finale is mainly for double chorus, representing the quarrel between the Montagues and Capulets in the cemetery, which is written with great dramatic power and conceived on the large scale of an operatic ensemble both in the voice parts and instrumentation, and the final reconciliation through the intercession of Friar Laurence, whose declamatory solos are very striking, particularly the air, “Poor Children mine, let me mourn you.” The work is one of almost colossal difficulty, and requires great artists, singers and players, to give expression to its daring realism. Among all of Berlioz’s programme-music, this tone-picture of the principal episodes in Shakspeare’s tragedy stands out clear and sharp by virtue of its astonishing dramatic power.
[14] My dear Friend,—Beethoven is dead, and Berlioz alone can revive him. I have heard your divine composition, so worthy of your genius, and beg you to accept, in token of my homage, twenty thousand francs, which will be handed to you by the Baron de Rothschild on presentation of the enclosed.—Your most affectionate friend,
Nicolo Paganini.
Paris, Dec. 18, 1838.
[15] Composer’s Note. The public has no imagination; therefore pieces which are addressed solely to the imagination have no public. The following instrumental scene is in this case, and I think it should be omitted whenever this symphony is given before an audience not having a feeling for poetry, and not familiar with the fifth act of Shakspeare’s tragedy. This implies its omission ninety-nine times out of a hundred. It presents, moreover, immense difficulties of execution. Consequently, after Juliet’s funeral procession a moment of silence should be observed, then the finale should be taken up.
The Damnation of Faust.
The “Damnation of Faust,” dramatic legend, as Berlioz calls it, was written in 1846. It is divided in four parts, the first containing three, the second four, the third six, and the fourth five scenes, the last concluding with an epilogue and the apotheosis of Marguerite. It was first produced in Paris in November, 1846, and had its first hearing in this country Feb. 12, 1880, when the late Dr. Leopold Damrosch brought it out with the assistance of the New York Symphony, Oratorio, and Arion Societies.
Berlioz has left in his Autobiography an extremely interesting account of the manner in which he composed it. Though he had had the plan of the work in his mind for many years, it was not until 1846 that he began the legend. During this year he was travelling on a concert-tour through Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, and Silesia, and the different numbers were written at intervals of leisure. He says:—
“I wrote when I could and where I could; in the coach, on the railroad, in steamboats, and even in towns, notwithstanding the various cares entailed by my concerts.”
He began with Faust’s invocation to Nature, which was finished “in my old German post-chaise.” The introduction was written in an inn at Passau, and at Vienna he finished up the Elbe scene, Mephistopheles’ song, and the exquisite Sylph’s ballet. As to the introduction of the Rákóczy march, his words deserve quoting in this connection, as they throw some light on the general character of the work. He says:—
“I have already mentioned my writing a march at Vienna, in one night, on the Hungarian air of Rákóczy. The extraordinary effect it produced at Pesth made me resolve to introduce it in Faust, by taking the liberty of placing my hero in Hungary at the opening of the act, and making him present at the march of a Hungarian army across the plain. A German critic considered it most extraordinary in me to have made Faust travel in such a place. I do not see why, and I should not have hesitated in the least to bring him in in any other direction if it would have benefited the piece. I had not bound myself to follow Goethe’s plot, and the most eccentric travels may be attributed to such a personage as Faust without transgressing the bounds of possibility. Other German critics took up the same thesis, and attacked me with even greater violence about my modifications of Goethe’s text and plot; just as though there were no other Faust but Goethe’s, and as if it were possible to set the whole of such a poem to music without altering its arrangement. I was stupid enough to answer them in the preface to the ‘Damnation of Faust.’ I have often wondered why I was never reproached about the book of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ which is not very like the immortal tragedy. No doubt because Shakspeare was not a German. Patriotism! Fetichism! Idiotcy!”
One night when he had lost his way in Pesth he wrote the choral refrain of the “Ronde des Paysans” by the gaslight in a shop; and at Prague he arose in the middle of the night to write down the Angels’ Chorus in Marguerite’s apotheosis. At Breslau he wrote the Students’ Latin Song, “Jam nox stellata velamina pandit;” and on his return to France he composed the grand trio in the work while visiting a friend near Rouen. He concludes:
“The rest was written in Paris, but always improvised, either at my own house, or at the café, or in the Tuileries gardens, and even on a stone in the Boulevard du Temple. I did not search for ideas, I let them come; and they presented themselves in a most unforeseen manner. When at last the whole outline was sketched, I set to work to re-do the whole, touch up the different parts, unite and blend them together with all the patience and determination of which I am capable, and to finish off the instrumentation, which had only been indicated here and there. I look upon this as one of my best works, and hitherto the public seems to be of the same opinion.”
This opinion, however, was of slow growth, for of the first performance of the work he says:—
“It was the end of November, 1846; snow was falling; the weather was dreadful. I had no fashionable cantatrice to sing the part of Marguerite. As for Roger, who did Faust, and Herman Léon, who took the part of Mephistopheles, they might be heard any day in this same theatre; moreover, they were no longer the fashion. The result was that Faust was twice performed to a half-empty room. The concert-going Parisian public, supposed to be fond of music, stayed quietly at home, caring as little about my new work as if I had been an obscure student at the Conservatoire; and these two performances at the Opéra Comique were no better attended than if they had been the most wretched operas on the list.”
The opening scene introduces Faust alone in the fields at sunrise on the Hungarian plains. He gives expression to his delight in a tender, placid strain (“The Winter has departed, Spring is here”). It is followed by an instrumental prelude of a pastoral character, in which are heard fragments of the roundelay of the peasants and of the fanfare in the Hungarian march, leading up to the “Dance of Peasants,” a brisk, vivacious chorus (“The Shepherd donned his best Array”), beginning with the altos, who are finally joined by the sopranos, tenors, and basses in constantly accelerating time. The scene then changes to another part of the plain and discloses the advance of an army to the brilliant and stirring music of the Rákóczy march.[16]
The second part (Scene IV.) opens in north Germany and discloses Faust alone in his chamber, as in Gounod’s opera; he sings a soliloquy, setting forth his discontent with worldly happiness, and is about to drown his sorrow with poison, when he is interrupted by the Easter Hymn (“Christ is risen from the Dead”), a stately and jubilant six-part chorus, in the close of which he joins. As it comes to an end he continues his song (“Heavenly Tones, why seek me in the Dust?”), but is again interrupted by the sudden apparition of Mephistopheles, who mockingly sings, “Oh, pious Frame of Mind,” and entraps him in the compact. They disappear, and we next find them in Auerbach’s cellar in Leipsic, where the carousing students are singing a rollicking drinking-song (“O what Delight when Storm is crashing”). The drunken Brander is called upon for a song, and responds with a characteristic one (“There was a Rat in the Cellar Nest”), to which the irreverent students improvise a fugue on the word “Amen,” using a motive of the song. Mephistopheles compliments them on the fugue, and being challenged to give them an air trolls out the lusty lied, “There was a King once reigning, who had a big black Flea,” in the accompaniment of which Berlioz makes some very realistic effects. Amid the bravas of the drunken students they disappear again, and are next found in the flowery meadows of the Elbe, where Mephistopheles sings a most enchanting melody (“In this fair Bower”). Faust is lulled to slumber, and in his vision hears the chorus of the gnomes and sylphs (“Sleep, happy Faust”), a number of extraordinary beauty and fascinating charm. Its effect is still further heightened by the sylphs’ ballet in waltz time. As they gradually disappear, Faust wakes and relates to Mephistopheles his vision of the “angel in human form.” The latter promises to conduct him to her chamber, and they join a party of soldiers and students who will pass “before thy beauty’s dwelling.” The finale of the scene is composed of a stirring soldiers’ chorus (“Stoutly-walled Cities we fain would win”) and a characteristic students’ song in Latin (“Jam nox stellata”), at first sung separately and then combined with great skill.
The third part begins with a brief instrumental prelude, in which the drums and trumpets sound the tattoo, introducing a scene in Marguerite’s chamber, where Faust sings a passionate love-song (“Thou sweet Twilight, be welcome”), corresponding with the well-known “Salve dimora” in Gounod’s garden scene. At its close Mephistopheles warns him of the approach of Marguerite and conceals him behind a curtain. She enters, and in brief recitative tells her dream, in which she has seen the image of Faust, and discloses her love for him. Then while disrobing she sings the ballad “There was a King in Thule.” As its pathetic strains come to a close, the music suddenly changes and Mephistopheles in a characteristic strain summons the will-o’-the-wisps to bewilder the maiden. It is followed by their lovely and graceful minuet, in which Berlioz again displays his wonderful command of orchestral realism. It is followed by Mephistopheles’ serenade (“Why dost thou wait at the Door of thy Lover?”), with a choral accompaniment by the will-o’-the-wisps, interspersed with demoniac laughter. The last number is a trio (“Angel adored”) for Marguerite, Faust, and Mephistopheles, wonderfully expressive in its utterances of passion, and closing with a chorus of mockery which indicates the coming tragedy.
The fourth part opens with a very touching romance (“My Heart with Grief is heavy”), the familiar “Meine Ruh’ ist hin” of Goethe, sung by Marguerite, and the scene closes with the songs of the soldiers and students heard in the distance. In the next scene Faust sings a sombre and powerful invocation to Nature (“O boundless Nature, Spirit sublime”). Mephistopheles is seen scaling the rocks and in agitated recitative tells his companion the story of Marguerite’s crime and imprisonment. He bids him sign a scroll which will save him from the consequences of the deed, and Faust thus delivers himself over to the Evil One. Then begins the wild “Ride to Hell,” past the peasants praying at the cross, who flee in terror as they behold the riders, followed by horrible beasts, monstrous birds, and grinning, dancing skeletons, until at last they disappear in an abyss and are greeted by the chorus of the spirits of hell in a tempest of sound, which is literally a musical pandemonium (“Has! Irimiru Karabras,” etc.) in its discordant vocal strains and in the mighty dissonances and supernatural effects in the accompaniment. A brief epilogue, “On Earth,” follows, in which Faust’s doom is told, succeeded by a correspondingly brief one, “In Heaven,” in which the seraphim plead for Marguerite. The legend closes with “Marguerite’s Glorification,” a jubilant double chorus announcing her pardon and acceptance among the blest.
[16] This march, though the best known of all Hungarian airs, is liable to be confounded with others bearing the same name. It forms one of the group of national patriotic melodies called into existence by the heroism of the Transylvanian prince Franz Rákótzy, who at the beginning of the last century fought with rare valor, though little success, against the dominating power of Austria. Who composed it remains as unknown as the authorship of its less familiar companions; but though the origin of the tune, like that of so many others which nations cherish, is veiled in mystery, the march has enjoyed an enviable prominence. It was proscribed by the Austrian Government in the bad days when Hungary was treated as a conquered appanage of the Hapsburgs; its performance was a criminal act, and the possession of printed or written copies, if suspected, brought down domiciliary visits from the police.—Albert Hall Programmes, 1874.
