VI
Merely to mention the composers who have written string quartets and to enumerate their works would fill a long chapter, and to little avail. Haydn gave the quartet a considerable place among the forms of musical composition. Mozart’s six quartets dedicated to Haydn are almost unique as an expression of his genius not influenced by external circumstances. The last Beethoven quartets are the final and abstract account of that great man’s conclusions with life and his art. Since the day of these three masters few composers have brought to the form such a special intention. Few string quartets since that day contain a full and special expression of the genius of the men who composed them. We look to other forms for the essentials of their contribution to the art of music. Indeed, among the men who have been discussed in this chapter there are few whose quartets are of real significance or of a merit that is equal to that of their other works.
As to form there has been little radical change down to the time of the recent composers who have abandoned deliberately all that it was possible to abandon of classical tradition. Of them and their work we shall speak presently. Schumann, Brahms, Tschaikowsky and Borodine, Smetana and Dvořák, and even César Franck and Vincent d’Indy have adhered closely to the classical model, varying it and adding to it, but never discarding it.
In the matter of style and technique most of the advance has been made in the direction of special effects, already described, and of increased sonority. With the result that the ancient and traditional quartet style has given way in most cases to an orchestral style, in which effects are essentially massive and broad, which is a tapestry, not a web of sound. Take, for example, three quartets by modern composers of yesterday: that of Tschaikowsky in D, Smetana’s Aus meinem Leben, and César Franck’s. If these are not the greatest since Schubert they have at least few companions; and they represent more than those of Brahms, we think, the development in technique as well as the change in style that the century brought. There are few pages in any one of them which do not show fine and sensitive workmanship; but the tone of all three is unmistakably orchestral, in the sense that it is massive, sensuous, and richly sonorous.
It is then with some surprise that we find what at the present day we call the modern movement expressed in three quartets which are as conspicuous for delicate quartet style as for the modernness of their forms and harmonies.
Debussy’s quartet was written comparatively early (1893), not more than three or four years after Franck had completed his. It is not a work of his first period, however, of the time when he was still a disciple of Wagner. Rather it belongs to the second period of which L’isle joyeuse, and Estampes, for piano, L’après-midi d’un faune, for orchestra, and the opera ‘Pelleas and Melisande,’ are, with it, representative works. It is written according to his own ideas of harmony, explained elsewhere in this series, and hence may be taken as the first quartet in which the classical tradition has been radically altered if not wholly disregarded. For the forms of sonata, symphony, and quartet were founded upon a system of harmony. Musical material, however freely disposed, rested upon a basis of key and contrasting keys common to all music of that era, the passing of which seems now before us. The Debussy quartet is constructed thematically in a way which in principle is old and familiar, but upon a basis which transforms the work beyond recognition of those to whom his harmonic series is not yet familiar.
There is little to be said of the plan of the work. The four movements are constructed upon a single phrase. Men wrote suites that way in the early seventeenth century. This phrase, in which there are two motives, is given out at once by the first violin, solidly supported by the other instruments. The movement is animé et très décidé. There is an impassioned abandon to sound. Secondary motives are given out: by the violin under which the three other instruments rise and fall in chords that whirr like the wind; by the cello, the same wind of harmony blowing high above. Then again the opening motives, growing from soft to loud; and a new motive (first violin and viola in tenths), over a monotonous twisting (second violin and cello in sixths). Then comes a retard. One would expect a second theme here. The harmony rests for a moment on F-sharp minor, and there is a snatch of melody (first violin). But for those broad harmonic sections of the sonata there is here no regard. The key flashes by. The melody was but a clever change rung upon the opening phrase. It comes again following an impetuous and agitated crescendo. Note how after this the music rushes ever up and up, and with what a whirling fall it sinks down almost to silence; how over a hushed triplet figure on an imperfect fifth (A-flat—D, cello) it gains force again, and the opening phrases recur, and something again of the secondary motives. There is perfect order of all the material, an order hardly differing from that of the classical sonata; but the harmonies melt and flow, they have no stable line, they never broaden, never rest. And so all seems new, and was, and still is new.
The second movement (assez vif et bien rythmé) is in the nature of a scherzo. Four pizzicato chords begin, and then the viola gives out the chief idea, an easily-recognized variant of the fundamental idea announced at the beginning of the first movement. But this is used first as a tenore ostinato (if one may speak of it so). It is repeated by the viola fourteen times without variation; then five times by first violin, and twice, dying away, by cello. Meanwhile the other instruments are at something the same monotonous game. Nothing is clear. There are cross-rhythms, broken phrases, a maze of odd movements, independent of each other.
Then follows a passage of different character. The lower instruments weave a network of faint sound, and the violin has a phrase, clearly related to the fundamental motive, though greatly augmented. Then the queer rioting chatter of the first part comes hack, all the instruments pizzicato, the time 15/8.
The third movement (andantino, doucement expressif) presents the motive (first violin) wrapped so to speak in a veil of melody and thus disguised. The last movement, beginning slowly and working up to frenzy, brings every sort of fragmentary suggestion of this motive. It is particularly noticeable in augmentation (first violin) about the middle of the movement; and this middle section is developed to a tremendous climax at the height of which the first violin gives out the whole phrase (avec passion et très contenu) in broad octaves. A short coda (très vif) brings yet another transformation.
The style of the whole quartet is decidedly homophonic. There are some measures, now and then passages of several measures, in which there is only an harmonic effect; but for the most part there is one instrument treated as the solo instrument; usually the first violin. Page after page presents the familiar scheme of melody and accompaniment. There is almost no trace of a polyphonic method, none of conventional counterpoint, of fugal imitations.
Such devices were essential to the older quartet style. Accompaniment figures were abominable in music which passed through definite and long harmonic sections. Even the tremolo was not often satisfactory, and, being indistinct, tended to make the style orchestral. But here we have to do with a fluent harmony that is almost never still, that does not settle, as it were, into well-defined lakes of sound on which a theme may start forth with all sail set. Hence the accompanying parts move with a free and wide motion. The style is flexible and animated, and thoroughly suited to the quartet.
The fineness of Debussy’s conceptions offers the key to the subtlety of his technique. He handles the instruments with a touch the delicacy of which has hardly been equalled. He has new things to whisper. The whirring figures beginning in the thirteenth measure, the triplet figures (in sixth) after another statement of the principal motive, over which, or interlaced with which, there is a melody for violin, followed strangely by the viola; the wide accompanying figures for violin and cello in contrary motion, not long before the end of the first movement; all these are effects proper, though somewhat new, to the quartet style. The first section of the second movement is a masterpiece of quartet writing. Each instrument is at odds with the others. In listening one could hardly say how many different parts were at work in the music. Nowhere has the pizzicato been used with better effect. The second section of the same movement offers a contrasting effect of vagueness and quiet. The slow movement is newly beautiful, and the last movement dramatic. By the treatment of the instruments the quartet may stand as a masterpiece, the most conspicuous development properly in quartet technique since the last quartets of Beethoven.
The quartet in F major by Maurice Ravel shows an instinct for the instruments not less sensitive or delicate, and in a few places even more bold. But the form of the work is more conventionally organized than that of Debussy. There are distinct themes, regularly constructed in four-measure phrases, and occurring regularly according to established plans. The harmonies, however, are all fluent, so that the sound of the work belies its close kinship to the past.
And Ravel is a master of the quartet style. The opening measures have a suave polyphonic movement. There is polyphony in the treatment of the second theme as it is taken up by second violin and woven with a counter-melody by the first. And when he is not polyphonic he has the same subtlety of harmonic procedure that distinguishes Debussy’s quartet. The beginning of the second movement (assez vif—très rythmé) seems to me not so extraordinary as the beginning of the second movement in Debussy’s quartet, but it offers a brilliant example of the use of pizzicato effects. The muted sections in the middle of this movement; the accompaniment figures quasi arpa; the same sort of figures in the following slow movement combined with pizzicato notes of the cello; and the extraordinary figures in the 5/4 section of the last movement, indeed all the last movement, are all signs of the new development in a quartet style which is not an orchestral style.
Finally the quartet, opus 7, by Arnold Schönberg. The work was composed in 1905. Among earlier works there are songs, a string sextet, Verklärte Nacht, the Gurre-Lieder, for solo voices, chorus and orchestra, and a symphonic poem, ‘Pelleas and Melisande.’ Later works include a second string quartet (1907-8), five pieces for orchestra, a monodrama, Erwartung, and a few pieces for pianoforte.
The Verklärte Nacht is a work of rich, sensuous beauty. At the head of the score are printed lines from a poem by Richard Dehmals, which are either utterly decadent or naïve. They are beautiful, too. So prefaced, the sextet proves to be a symphonic poem, in which the composer has chosen to confine himself to the limited possibilities of tone color within the range of the six instruments. There are two violins, two violas and two cellos. The harmonies are richly varied and free, but not at all unfamiliar. The form is the progressive form made possible by the system of leading or characteristic motives. All follows the poem very closely. The opening is depressed and gloomy. The repeated low D’s (second cello and second viola) seem to suggest the lifeless tread of the man and woman, going unhappily through the cold barren grove. The sadly falling phrases (first viola, later with violins) are indicative of their mood. After considerable development, which clearly stands for the woman’s confession of sin and woe, comes a beautiful section in E major which seems to reflect her dream that in motherhood she should find happiness. This is roughly broken off. The situation demands it. For having come with child by a strange man for whom she had no love, she finds herself now walking with one whom she would have greatly preferred. However, the man is generous, finds that his love for her has made a child of him, and that he and she and the babe unborn are to be transfigured by the strength of that love. At the end, following this amorous exaltation, the music broadens and gradually takes on an almost unearthly beauty.
Technically, as regards the treatment of the instruments, the sextet is extraordinary. The additional cello and viola make it possible to employ the pronounced color of the upper tones of these instruments and at the same time reserve the resonant lower notes as a foundation. Much use is made of harmonics, especially toward the end, where full chords are given that ethereal quality so like a flute that one may easily be misled into thinking wind instruments must have joined in the ensemble.
The quartet is radically different. The sextet is emotionally rich and vital; the quartet is in the first place a vast intellectual essay. There are moments in the Adagio section, and toward the close, where music speaks in common language thoughts which are noble and inspired. For the most part, however, the quartet is in a language which whatever may be its future is incomprehensible to many today. One approaches it as through a new grammar. One must first seek to master the logic behind it, both in the matter of its broad form and in the idiom of its harmonies. There are many who feel this language a sort of Esperanto, artificial, not to say factitious. There are more and more who recognize naturalness and spontaneity in it.
As to the harmonic idiom and the mathematical polyphony back of it something has been written in an earlier volume. A detailed analysis of the form is not possible without many examples from the score, for which there is no space in this chapter. Only a few features of it may be touched upon here.
The work is in a single movement, within the limits of which movements which in earlier quartets were separate have been arranged and combined as sections corresponding to the triple divisions in the old-fashioned sonata-form, with a widely extended coda. Where in the classical sonata-form there are single themes, in these divisions there are many themes. Therefore one speaks of a first theme, really a chief-theme, group, of transitional groups, of episodic though broadly developed Scherzo and Adagio.
In the first theme group there are three distinct themes. The first is announced at once (D minor) by the first violin, a theme not unlike one of Richard Strauss’. In the fourteenth measure the second theme is brought in by the second violin (D-flat major). This is taken up by the first violin, the whole period being eight measures long. The third theme (etwas langsamer) is a combination of a melodic formula (first and second violins) and characteristic harmonies (viola and cello). There follow many pages of polyphonic working with this threefold material. The first theme of the group may be said to predominate. It appears in varied shape throughout the separate parts.
What may be taken as a transitional section, leading to the second theme group, is a long fugato on a new subject. This is introduced by the second violin (first violin with secondary subject) after a considerable ritard and a pause. The passage grows rapidly faster, leading to a tremendous climax; after which the first of the second theme group is announced (first violin, zart bewegt, E-flat major). The second follows shortly after with a change of time (6/4). Here there is beautiful scoring. The first violin is at first silent, the second bearing the melody, the viola giving soft accompaniment figures, the cello sliding down, pianissimo, in long notes. Then the melody is taken by viola, the first violin has the long sliding phrases, the cello the breaking figure. The third part of this section (etwas bewegter) brings out in the first violin a rhythmically varied form of the first theme of the same group.
Now follows the first broad development section (erste Durchführung und Überleitung in Scherzo[80]), which leads to the Scherzo. The entrance of the Scherzo is prepared and easily heard, and the Scherzo itself is scored at first in note for note style. The principal theme is closely related to the subject of the transitional fugue. It works through many stages, now kräftig, now sehr zart, to a terrific climax, echoed in harmonics, and savagely terminated. A few mysterious measures, now muted and again without mutes, bring in the Trio (lebhaft, E major) the principal theme of which is of almost folk-song simplicity. The Scherzo is repeated, varied almost beyond recognition. The theme is given first to viola, between strange triplet figures (second violin and cello).
Then follows a second development section, working up again to an overpowering climax, leading to the first theme group, as to the restatement section in the sonata-form. This reëntrance of the theme is truly heroic. The second violin and viola actually dash down upon the opening notes, and the first violin and cello add a frenzy of accompaniment. Now we have the first theme group (shortened) again; and then, instead of the transitional fugue, a long and developed Adagio, page after page of muted music of unearthly, ghostly beauty. Two themes are recognizable, and the section may be divided into three parts, the first of which rests upon the first theme (first violin solo); the second upon the second theme, slower than the first (viola), and the third upon the first again, slightly modified.
After this adagio comes the second theme group, just as the second theme in the restatement section of the classical sonata form.
Finally there is a coda, in lively tempo, a rondo built upon three themes, the first two of which are taken from the adagio. The broad closing section brings back the opening theme of all, in major. The ending is very simple and quiet.
Hence we have one huge movement in sonata form, our old familiar exposition, with its first and second themes and its transitional passages; its development—in which a scherzo is incorporated; its restatement of both themes—with a new transitional passage between them in the shape of an adagio—and its broad, completing coda. The mind of a man has conceived it; and the mind of man can comprehend it.
The harmonies are often hideous, though no note in the entire quartet is without a logical justification in the new grammar. On the other hand, there are moments of ineffable beauty. Whatever the outcome, there can be no denying that the quartet has entered here upon a new stage, far removed from all other music. Only time can tell whether this is an advance, and then only by showing new work when this shall have proved itself a foundation on which to build.
Schönberg has since written another quartet (1907-8). It is not only shorter as a whole than the earlier one, but is divided by pauses into four separate movements. There is, however, a thematic relationship between all four; and the third movement—Litanie—occupies in the scheme the place of a Durchführung, a variation and weaving together of all the previous themes.
The first movement begins and ends in F-sharp minor, and there are two distinct themes: the opening theme (first violin), and, after a broad ritard, a second theme (first violin, sehr ausdrucksvoll). The time is measured yet often free. After a development of the two themes there is a fermata, and then a restatement of them; so that on the whole the movement is not difficult to follow, though the second half is complex and long.
The second movement (sehr rasch) is in the nature of a wild scherzo. The rhythmical motive with which it starts (cello, pianissimo) recalls the now ancient style of Wagner. There is no precedent for the following figure (second violin), which is one of the chief elements in this fantastical movement. It is taken up by viola immediately, while both violins present at the same time two equally important motives, one of which is a sort of syncopated shadow of the other. Then, etwas langsamer, the first violin and viola give out yet a fourth motive (in octaves) and out of these four, with many less audible, a cacophonous, spiteful tangle of sounds ensues. There is a Trio section (etwas rascher), and a return of the Scherzo. There is a short coda, sehr rasch, all instruments in unison (or octaves) until the last measures. Then the cello beats out the opening rhythmical figure, fortissimo, on D, the first violin shrieks G-C-sharp over and over again, the viola and second violin fall together through unheard of intervals. There is a hush, a roar, and a hush—a pizzicato note—unison—silence.
Both the third and the fourth movements bring in a soprano voice. The words are from Stephan George;[81] the titles: Litanei and Entrückung. Here Schönberg has gone beyond the string quartet, and here properly we may leave him. The instruments are busy during the Litanei with motives from the first and second movements. The voice is independent of them. There is enormous dramatic force in the climax at the words:
Wacht noch ein Schrei
Töte das Sehnen...
Schliesse die Wunde!
Nimm mir die Liebe
Gieb mir dein Glück.
In the last movement there is no appreciable form. There is no harmony, i.e., no regular sequence of keys, though the end falls on a common chord. Even the melody has gone on into a new world.
Schönberg’s style is fundamentally polyphonic, and is in that regard fitting to the quartet. In the use of harmonics and pizzicato he stands a little ahead of his contemporaries. If we can follow Schönberg in his new conception of form and harmony, we should indeed be reactionary if we hesitated longer to admit harmonics and pizzicato into the category of effects proper to quartet music. Moreover, the examples offered by such exquisite masterpieces as the quartets of Tschaikowsky, Debussy and Ravel must give to such procedures the sanction of good usage. That Schönberg’s material is symphonic in character only goes to prove that the whole question of form and style is at the present day one which no man can definitely answer.
But having admitted the influence of modern virtuosity and of the modern love of sensuous tone coloring into the realm of the string quartet, we face a new idea of the combination of the four instruments of one type. The old idea of the quartet was given fullest expression in the quartets of Beethoven. In the expression of that idea little progress has since been possible. The changes that have come have made of the quartet something like a chamber symphony in which effects of solid sound and of brilliant and pronounced colors predominate, music that has salt for the senses as well as meaning for the spirit. Hence it has lost that traditional quality of abstractness, which was pure and unalloyed, and has become poignant, fiery, pictorial or dramatic. We hear in it now the strumming of wild zithers, now the beat of savage drums, madness and ecstasy, chords that are plucked, chords that float in air, even confusion and riot of sound. The four instruments still remain, but the old idea of the quartet has become lifeless or has passed from among the present ideals of men.
FOOTNOTES:
[75] The date is fixed by a fragment of the autograph found in 1901. See Richard Heuberger: Franz Schubert.
[76] See Max Kalbeck: Johannes Brahms, Vol. II, part 2, p. 442.
[77] Kalbeck has called attention to the resemblance between these two motives and the Erda-motif and the Walhalla-motif in Das Rheingold and Die Walküre.
[78] See William Ritter: Smetana. Paris, 1907.
[79] From the New World.
[80] See Schönberg’s own analysis in Die Musik, June 2, 1907.
[81] Der siebente Ring.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PIANOFORTE AND OTHER INSTRUMENTS IN CHAMBER MUSIC
The trio—Pianoforte quartets and quintets—Sonatas for violoncello and piano—The piano with wind instruments—Chamber music for wind instruments by the great composers.
The pianoforte has always played an important part in chamber music, if, indeed, the best pianoforte music may not itself be considered chamber music. Few instrumental works were written during the seventeenth century in which the harpsichord was not supposed to furnish a foundation of harmony, or was not expected to contribute more specifically to the texture of the music. The concertos and sonatas of Corelli and Vivaldi, of Bach and Handel, of Couperin and Rameau, of Purcell; all these were founded upon a figured bass, to be played by harpsichord, lute or viol, or contained a part written for the harpsichord. The figured bass gradually dropped out of music as composers gained skill to manage their combinations of instruments sonorously. Out of this skill grew up the orchestra, and, in the realm of chamber music, the string quartet. But meanwhile composers were developing a great technique in writing for the harpsichord, so that it came little by little wholly to supplant the lute, and to win a distinguished, independent place of its own as a solo instrument. There are concertos of Bach and Couperin in which the harpsichord plays almost as brilliant a part as in the modern concerto, and the violin sonatas of Bach are virtually in the style of trios, because the harpsichord is treated always as adding two parts to the one of the violin. Finally, the modern trio really grew up around the harpsichord or the pianoforte.