The No. 12 begins with a slow, gloomy recitative delivered with an impressive dignity so exaggerated as to border on the bombastic; a tale of strange adventures, it may be, narrated by the chief of the tribe at the evening camp-fire, while the flickering firelight plays upon the picturesque figures grouped about against the somber background of the pines, and the thunder mutters sullenly in the distance. Then a quiet bit of lyric, evidently a love-song, gives a touch of softness to the scene, and hints at a covert courtship among the shadows. Later, the crisp, piquant music of the “frischka” calls the young people to the dance, which gradually increases in speed and brilliancy, till it finally merges in the “czardas,” in which all join, and which is given with the greatest possible dash and abandon.
No. 15 is founded upon, and mainly consists of the Rakoczy March, composed by a gipsy musician in honor of Rakoczy, that Hungarian patriot, popular general, and hero, whose daring exploits as leader, in the Hungarian struggle for independence, made him a prominent historical figure of his time, and the idol of his countrymen. This march has been adopted as the national march of Hungary, and Liszt’s setting of it for piano is among his most stupendous works.
These few illustrations may serve as guides in forming a correct conception of all the Rhapsodies. I have given to the foregoing article more space than seems, at first thought, to be warranted; partly, because it gives a somewhat unusual point of view in considering Liszt, not only as a composer, but as a thoughtful and philosophic student of esthetics, and as an eloquent, forceful writer; partly, because I hope it may produce in the minds of some readers a more favorable, because more justly discriminating, attitude of mind toward these Hungarian Rhapsodies as musical art works; but mainly, because it emphasizes, with the powerful support of Liszt’s authority, certain general principles of art which seem to me all-important, but which are too often ignored in considering the special art of music.
| RUBINSTEIN | ||
| 1830 | 1894 | |
Rubinstein: Barcarolle, in G Major
Strictly speaking, the “barcarolle” is an Italian boat-song—“barca” being the Italian word for boat. But in musical terminology it has been localized and signifies distinctly a Neapolitan boat-song associated as exclusively with the Vesuvian bay as is the gondoliera with the lagoons and canals of Venice. In each case it is the song of the local boatman, sung to the rhythmical accompaniment of the swinging oar, and enhanced in poetic charm by the beauty and romantic atmosphere of the surroundings. In each case also it has served as a suggestive and grateful artistic subject for musical treatment, used by nearly all the modern composers, great and small, and one which is particularly suited to the pianoforte and facilely adapted to its characteristic resources.
In many respects the barcarolle, in this its idealized form as a musical art work, closely resembles the gondoliera, similarly developed; for instance, in its graceful six-eight rhythm, its gliding, swaying boat-like movement, its suggestions of dipping oar and rippling water, and in its sustained song-like melody which we may easily consider as representing the voice of the boatman.
These descriptive elements are common to all works of both classes, but the characteristic mood of the typical barcarolle is less tender and passionate, more cheery and fanciful than that of the gondoliera. It has less of the human element, more of the sea and its slumbering mystery; less of the lover’s sigh, and more of the half-seen witchery of sea-sprites and mermaids in the clear depths of inverted sky beneath. To appreciate this mood to the full, one must have drifted, with suspended oars, in a small boat, upon the far-famed bay of Naples, just as evening fell, with the lofty banner of blue-black smoke waving majestically above the summit of Vesuvius, in the distance, like the pennon of some mighty earth giant, an ominous reminder of his terrible, through slumbrous, power; with the city rising in the background, terrace on terrace, from the water’s edge to the stern old ducal castle, which crowns the height and looms dark and forbiddingly against the sky, a memory in stone, with the fairy island of Capri lying to seaward and the cool breath of the Mediterranean filling the sails of the countless fishing-boats gliding shoreward, while the boatmen sing to the subdued accompaniment of the evening chimes softened by distance. Seen at midday from the height, under the glare and scorch of the noonday sun, with the discordant, jangling sounds of busy life rising harshly to one, like the cries from some pit of torment, Naples seems a hell; but at the evening hour, viewed from the bay, it is a veritable dream of heaven.