Second, it is evident from the construction of the work throughout that it was his purpose simply to give free rein to his fancy and to express, even at the risk of being theatrical, the emotions of sublimity, terror, and awe called up by the associations of the subject. This he could not have done with a free hand had he been bound down to the set forms of the Mass.
After a brief but majestic instrumental introduction, the voices enter upon the "Requiem,"--a beautiful and solemn strain. The movement is built upon three melodies set to the words, "Requiem æternam," "Tu decet Hymnus," and the "Kyrie," the accompaniment of which is very descriptive and characteristic. The "Kyrie" is specially impressive, the chant of the sopranos being answered by the tenors and basses in unison, and the whole closing with a dirge-like movement by the orchestra.
The "Dies Iræ" is the most spirited as well as impressive number of the work. It is intensely dramatic in its effects, indeed it might be called theatrical. Berlioz seems to have fairly exhausted the resources of instruments to produce the feeling of awful sublimity and overwhelming power, even to the verge of the most daring eccentricity and, as [73] one prominent critic expressed it, "terrible cataclysms." The first part of the "Dies Iræ" will always be remarkable for the orchestral arrangement. After the climax of the motive, "Quantus tremor est futurus," there is a pause which is significant by its very silence; it is the hush before the storm. Suddenly from either angle of the stage or hall, in addition to the principal orchestra in front, four smaller bands of trombones, trumpets, and tubas crash in with overwhelming power in the announcement of the terrors of the day of judgment. The effect is like that of peal upon peal of thunder. At its culmination the bass voices enter in unison upon the words, "Tuba mirum," in the midst of another orchestral storm, which is still further heightened by an unusual number of kettledrums. From the beginning to the close, this part of the "Dies Iræ" is simply cyclopean; words cannot describe its overwhelming power. It is a relief when the storm has passed over, and we come to the next verse ("Quid sum miser"), for the basses and tenors, though mostly for the first tenors. It is a breathing spell of quiet delight. It is given in the softest of tone, and is marked in the score to be sung with "an expression of humility and awe." It leads to the andante number ("Rex tremendæ majestatis"), which is sung fortissimo throughout, and accompanied with another tremendous outburst of harmonious thunder in crashing chords, which continues up to the last eight bars, when the voices drop suddenly from the furious fortissimo to an almost inaudible pianissimo [74] on the words "Salve me." The next verse ("Quærens me") is an unaccompanied six-part chorus in imitative style, of very close harmony. The "Dies Iræ" ends with the "Lachrymosa," the longest and most interesting number in the work. It is thoroughly melodic, and is peculiarly strengthened by a pathetic and sentimental accompaniment, which, taken in connection with the choral part against which it is set, presents an almost inexhaustible variety of rhythms and an originality of technical effects which are astonishing. Its general character is broad and solemn, and it closes with a return to the "Dies Iræ," with full chorus and all the orchestras. This finishes the "Dies Iræ" section of the work.
The next number is the "Offertorium," in which the voices are limited to a simple phrase of two notes, A alternating with B flat, which is never varied throughout the somewhat long movement. It never becomes monotonous, however, so rich and varied is the instrumentation. The "Hostias et Preces,"--sustained by the tenors and basses, a very solemn and majestic movement,--displays another of Berlioz's eccentricities, the accompaniment at the close of the first phrase being furnished by three flutes and eight tenor trombones, which one enemy of the composer says represents the distance from the sublime to the ridiculous. The "Sanctus," a tenor solo with responses by the sopranos and altos, is full of poetical, almost sensuous beauty, and is the most popular number in the [75] work. It closes with a fugue on the words "Hosanna in Excelsis." The final number is the "Agnus Dei," a chorus for male voices, in which the composer once more employs the peculiar combination of flutes and tenor trombones. In this number he also returns to the music of the opening number, "Requiem æternam," and closes it with an "Amen" softly dying away. Thus ends the Requiem,--a work which will always be the subject of critical dispute, owing to its numerous innovations on existing musical forms and the daring manner in which the composer has treated it.
The following sketch of the first performance of the Requiem, taken from Berlioz's Autobiography, will be found interesting in this connection. It is necessary to preface it with the statement that the director of the Beaux-Arts had insisted that Habeneck should conduct the work. As Berlioz had quarrelled with the old conductor, and had not been on speaking terms with him for three years, he at first refused; but subsequently consented, on condition that he should conduct at one full rehearsal. Berlioz says:--
"The day of the performance arrived in the Church of the Invalides, before all the princes, peers, and deputies, the French press, the correspondents of foreign papers, and an immense crowd. It was absolutely essential for me to have a great success; a moderate one would have been fatal, and a failure would have annihilated me altogether.
"Now, listen attentively.
[76]
"The various groups of instruments in the orchestra were tolerably widely separated, especially the four brass bands introduced in the 'Tuba mirum,' each of which occupied a corner of the entire orchestra. There is no pause between the 'Dies Iræ' and 'Tuba mirum,' but the pace of the latter movement is reduced to half what it was before. At this point the whole of the brass enters, first altogether, and then in passages, answering and interrupting, each a third higher than the last. It is obvious that it is of the greatest importance that the four beats of the new tempo should be distinctly marked, or else the terrible explosion which I had so carefully prepared, with combinations and proportions never attempted before or since, and which, rightly performed, gives such a picture of the Last Judgment as I believe is destined to live, would be a mere enormous and hideous confusion.
"With my habitual mistrust, I had stationed myself behind Habeneck, and, turning my back on him, overlooked the group of kettledrums, which he could not see, when the moment approached for them to take part in the general mêlée. There are perhaps one thousand bars in my Requiem. Precisely in that of which I have just been speaking, when the movement is retarded and the wind instruments burst in with their terrible flourish of trumpets; in fact, just in the one bar where the conductor's motion is absolutely indispensable,--Habeneck puts down his baton, quietly takes out his snuffbox, and proceeds to take a pinch of snuff. I always had my eye in his direction, and instantly turned rapidly on one heel, and, springing before him, I stretched out my arm and marked the four great beats of the new movement. The orchestras followed me each in order. I conducted the piece to [77] the end, and the effect which I had longed for was produced. When, at the last words of the chorus, Habeneck saw that the 'Tuba Mirum' was saved, he said: 'What a cold perspiration I have been in! Without you we should have been lost.' 'Yes, I know,' I answered, looking fixedly at him. I did not add another word.... Had he done it on purpose?... Could it be possible that this man had dared to join my enemy, the director, and Cherubini's friends, in plotting and attempting such rascality? I don't wish to believe it ... but I cannot doubt it. God forgive me if I am doing the man injustice!
"The success of the 'Requiem' was complete, in spite of all the conspiracies--cowardly, atrocious, officious, and official--which would fain have hindered it."
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BRAHMS.
Johannes Brahms, one of the most eminent of living German composers, was born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833. His father was a double-bass player in the orchestra in that city, and devoted his son at a very early age to his own profession. His first piano teacher was Cossell; but to Eduard Marxsen, the Royal Music Director, he owes his real success as a composer. Brahms remained in Hamburg until 1853, when he went upon a concert-tour with Reményí, the eccentric and somewhat sensational Hungarian, who has been a familiar figure upon the American concert-stage. He remained with him, however, but a very short time, for in October of that year they parted company. Brahms had attracted the notice of Liszt and Joachim; and it may have been through their advice that the musical partnership was dissolved. In any event, soon after leaving Reményí he went to Düsseldorf and visited Schumann. It was the latter who announced him to the world in such strong words as these:--
"In following with the greatest interest the paths of these elect [Joachim, Naumann, Norman, Bargiel, Kirchner, Schäffer, Dietrich, and Wilsing], I thought that after such forerunners there would, and must at last, all on a sudden appear one whose mission it would be to utter the highest expression of his time in an ideal manner,--one who would attain mastery, not by degrees, but, like Minerva, would at once spring completely armed from the head of Cronion.... May the highest genius give him strength for that of which there is hope, as in him dwells also another genius, that of modesty! We bid him welcome as a strong champion."