THE HUNGARIAN GYPSY MUSIC.
“The Hungarian gypsy merely plays Hungarian; he sings little or not at all; and what is his principal instrument, and at the same time the principal instrument of the Hungarian popular music? It is the dulcimer or cimbalo. This instrument, consisting of a triangular wooden frame, with a bottom and sounding board, over which wires by twos or threes are stretched upon bridges, which are struck with two wooden hammers, covered on the upper part with cloth or leather, is peculiarly fitted to infuse into the little gypsy orchestra that palpitating, feverish, tremulous essence, by which the performance of a Magyar nota gains so much. With this are associated the string quartet, together with the contra-basso and also quite willingly the clarinet. On the contrary all other instruments, as oböes, flutes, fagotti, horns, trumpets, etc., are entirely excluded from a Hungarian gypsy orchestra.
“What does the gypsy produce with these instruments? Is his music, is the popular instrumental music any mere dance music? Essentially, perhaps; but ere the dancing mood begins, ere joy and appetite for pleasure hurry the Magyar ember into dance and play, and make him forget himself, he must first, in the slow, sustained tones of a Lassu (Adagio) in the minor, pour out his complainings, roll away the sighs which hold his soul imprisoned in a melancholy gloom. Not suddenly can his soul plunge into the fresh major tones of his national dances; nay, he often clings to the dear minor mood after his sadness is supposed to have given place to idle joy and pleasure. The kind of music which we would here indicate is called in general Csardas. This signifies both the dance itself and the dance music; and as every Hungarian dance is preceded by an introductory Lassu, this also is included in the term. The Lassu, soaring beyond the possibility of being represented as a dance, is usually followed by a Frisded, or Allegretto, of a quicker movement, but usually kept also in the minor, yet shaped already to the dance, but only for the solo dance of men. If the Magyar ember allows himself to be drawn away from his sombre mood into a dance, it is at first only a solo dance; self-satisfied, he spins round in a circle and as yet covets not an object for his love; only when the third part in this psychological economy of the dance, with its quick, strong strokes, has hurried him completely out of himself, does he begin to know no moderation and no goal. His eye sparkles, his feet stamp, like those of an untamed horse. To think, it is good that a man do not remain alone, and to grasp at a maiden, are one act, and he begins with her that wild, unbridled dance, which is called Csardas in the narrower sense of the word, or by way of distinction, Friss (i. e., Allegro, Presto). Already in the Lassu, the dull brooding in which the soul of the Magyar ember swims, is crossed by some occasional gleams of enthusiasm; but in the Frisded the dark clouds of sadness begin first to break away, and the Friss tears away entirely the thin veil which yet lay on his soul and left him in a self-contented solitude. Now no repose is longer to be thought of; from melancholy it becomes impetuous passion; from pain unbounded pleasure; in short, his Me, delivered from itself, riots and storms away until his feet refuse their service.”—Neue Zeitschrift fuer Musik.
HEINE ON LISZT.
“That such a restless head, driven and perplexed by all the needs and doctrines of his time, feeling the necessity of troubling himself about all the necessities of humanity, and eagerly sticking his nose into all the pots in which the good God brews the future, that Franz Liszt can be no still piano-forte player for tranquil townsfolks and good-natured nightcaps is self-evident. When he sits down at the piano, and has stroked his hair back over his forehead several times, and begins to improvise, he often storms away right madly over the ivory keys, and there rings out a wilderness of heaven-high thoughts, amid which, here and there, the sweetest flowers diffuse their fragrance, so that one is at once troubled and beatified, but troubled most.
“I confess to you, much as I love Liszt, his music does not operate agreeably upon my mind; the more so that I am a Sunday child and also see the specters which others only hear; since, as you know, at every tone which the hand strikes upon the key-board the corresponding tone-figure rises in my mind; in short, since music becomes visible to my inward eye. My brain still reels at the recollection of the concert in which I last heard Liszt play. It was in a concert for the unfortunate Italians, in the hotel of that beautiful, noble and suffering princess who so beautifully represents her material and her spiritual fatherland, to wit, Italy and Heaven. * * * * (You surely have seen her in Paris, that ideal form which yet is but the prison in which the holiest angel soul has been imprisoned. * * But this prison is so beautiful that every one lingers before it as if enchanted, and gazes at it with astonishment.) * * It was in a concert for the benefit of the unhappy Italians when I last heard Liszt, last winter, play, I know not what, but I could swear he varied upon themes from the Apocalypse. At first I could not quite distinctly see them, the four mystical beasts; I only heard their voices, especially the roaring of the lion and the screaming of the eagle. The ox with the book in his hand I saw clearly enough. Best of all he played the Valley of Jehosaphat. There were lists as at a tournament, and for spectators, the risen people, pale as the grave and trembling, crowded round the immense space. First galloped Satan into the lists, in black harness, on a milk-white steed. Slowly rode behind him, Death on his pale horse. At last Christ appeared, in golden armor, on a black horse, and with His holy lance He first thrust Satan to the ground, and then Death, and the spectators shouted.”
Heinrich Heine.
A LETTER FROM BERLIOZ TO LISZT.
The following is an extract from a letter written by Berlioz to Liszt in 1843, as it appears in the former’s “Musical Wandering through Germany:”
“Proudly you can exclaim, like Louis XIV, ‘I am the orchestra! I am the chorus! At my grand piano I sing, dream, rejoice, and it excels in its rapidity the nimblest bows. Like the orchestra, it has its whispering flutes and pealing horns, and without any preparation can, like that, breathe the evening breeze from its silvery clouds of magic chords and tender melodies. It requires no scenes, no decorations, no spacious stage; I need not weary myself with tedious rehearsals; I want neither a hundred, nor fifty, nor twenty assistants; I need not one, and can even do without music. A large hall, a grand piano, and I am master of a whole audience. Applause resounds through the room.’ When his memory awakens brilliant fantasies under his fingers, shouts of enthusiasm welcome them. Then he sings Schubert’s Ave Maria, or Beethoven’s Adelaide, and every heart bounds to meet him, every breath is hushed in agitated silence, in suppressed amazement. Then, high in air ascend the thundering strife and glittering finale of these mighty fireworks and the acclamations of the admiring public. Now, amid a shower of wreaths and blossoms, the priest of harmony ascends his golden tripod, beautiful maidens approach, to kiss with tears the hem of his garment; to him belongs the sincere admiration of earnest minds, as well as the involuntary homage of the envious; to him bend noble forms, to him bow hearts who do not comprehend their own emotions.