Those who studied this deep subject most profoundly at the time agreed that the aria was to be divided into some five classes, to wit: aria bravura—brilliant, rapid, difficult; aria cantabile—smooth, long drawn out, designed to exhibit purity of tone and manipulation of the breath; aria buffa—humorous; aria di portamento—simple in outline, playing with the singer’s trick of swelling out on long-sustained tones; and aria parlante—simulating rapid spoken speech, a type peculiarly grateful to the Italian language. These classes had their subdivisions, as, for instance, the aria parlante, which might be agitata, or infuriata, or fugata, or what not. The lore of aria was endless. Except that the form continued into Italian opera of the middle nineteenth century it would scarcely be worth recalling. But the greatest of the arias (with considerable musical value added) are among the latest. The ‘Factotum’ aria which opens Rossini’s ‘Barber of Seville’ is a perfect example of the buffa and might also come under the head of the parlante; and Leonora’s first aria in Il Trovatore is in the true manner of the bravura. In addition to the arias proper we should mention the cavatina and the arioso; the former a short aria, rather more musical and graceful than was considered necessary in the longer forms; and the latter a brief lyrical strain, free as to form, planned truly to express an emotion in its momentary passing. All these forms have little more than an archeological interest to us now (though the da capo idea remains one of the most fruitful in all music), except for the purposes of vocal study. But this exception is considerable. The arias were designed to exhibit the utmost of vocal virtuosity. They serve to-day to develop and exercise the same, so far as modern music and musical taste demand it, for the rather more artistic purposes of the twentieth century.
V
The ‘odes’ and ‘arias,’ which in early eighteenth-century Germany stood in the place of songs, began to give place toward the middle of the century to music of a more national character. The work of Johann Sebastian Bach, though not widely recognized at the time, spoke for a solid tradition of native German singing. And the wars of Frederick the Great, who reigned from 1740 to 1786, did much to arouse patriotism in outward life. Any vigorous cultural life in Germany during these wearing conflicts was, of course, impossible, but after the close of the Seven Years’ War (1756-63) Prussia and Saxony began to revive, and with them revived a consciousness of German nationality and German identity. The courts were, of course, thoroughly Parisian, but the middle class was more than ever national in feeling. And among this class in the last third of the century arose a type of dramatic entertainment which corresponded to the opéra comique in France and was quite as national—the Singspiel. The founder of this type was Johann Adam Hiller (1728-1804), first director of the famous Leipzig Gewandhaus orchestra and one of the most noted musicians of his day. The Singspiel was not greatly unlike the English ballad opera in form, though much more sincere in spirit. It was a simple play, usually light in character, with frequent interspersing of songs and choruses. The plot was usually drawn from German village life and the characters were all familiar types. These were, on the whole, so truly observed that the Singspiel became a truly national art. Moreover, its artistic value was often high; the songs and choruses were usually organic parts of the action, and the best musicianship frequently went into their composition. The Singspiel was the direct parent of German opera, as has been narrated in another place.[16] But its value to the art of song was even more important. For, while in the Singspiel the nobles and aristocratic characters sang arias modelled on the French style, the peasants and middle class people sang true songs in the spirit of folk-music. Accordingly the Singspiel, with its immense popularity, spread abroad the knowledge and love of the German volkstümliches Lied. It was for more than a quarter of a century the direct continuer of the tradition of German song.
But Hiller’s place in the history of song is even more distinctive than this. For he is generally conceded to have been the first composer of the durchkomponiertes Lied. Durchkomponiert, which literally means ‘composed all the way through,’ is used to describe that type of song which does not follow any abstract formal scheme but fits the words in all their variations of meaning, leaving each song to find its own form according to its own requirements. Thus the aria form which would require the repetition of the first section at the close of the song would be wholly unsuitable for a poem which showed an emotional development from joy to sorrow, or from sorrow to joy. In the same way the strophic form, which sets each verse of the poem to the same tune, would be unsuitable for a poem expressing contrasting emotions in its verses. A true regard for the spirit of the words required that the song composer should be free to write expressive music according to the requirements of each line of the poem. This was first done, tentatively enough, it is true, by Hiller. From that time on German song writers showed a certain amount of freedom in their song forms. It must be admitted that they did not make much use of their freedom, since they did the greater part and the best part of their work in the strophic form. But Hiller has the credit of originating a type of procedure which was further developed by Beethoven and brought to glorious fruition by Schubert.
Gluck, with his unfailing artistic sense, has supplied a bit of the literature of song development in his letter, written in 1777 to La Harpe, accompanying his settings of some of Klopstock’s poems, in which he said that ‘the union between air and words should be so close that the poem should seem made for the music no less than the music for the poem.’ Unfortunately, however, these ‘odes,’ the only true songs Gluck wrote, are dry and pedantic. Joseph Haydn, though he contributed nothing to the development of the art-song, has left a few lyric settings that are known and loved to-day. His earlier sets of songs (one group of twelve in 1781 and another in 1784) were so popular in England that he was besieged by the publishers with requests to write more. The result was the twelve famous ‘canzonets,’ of which the best known are the ‘Mermaid’s Song’ and ‘My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair.’[17] The latter, though still undimmed in musical beauty, is by no means a step in a forward direction. It is written in true aria style and the melody, while appropriate to the spirit of the words, is almost instrumental rather than vocal. The song might, in fact, have served as the allegretto to a symphony.
The other supreme German composer of the time, however, saw to the heart of the durchkomponiertes Lied and produced at least one song that wholly anticipated Schubert. Mozart published in all thirty-four songs that can justly be distinguished from arias. Most of them, like ‘The Song of Freedom,’ are little different from the ordinary strophic songs of the day. But Mozart’s setting of Goethe’s poem, ‘The Violet,’ is a miniature masterpiece of the art-song.[18] Retaining the delicate sense of architecture which Mozart’s work never lost, it still follows the import of the words with faithful accuracy. The violet loved a maiden who came daily to walk in the meadow. It hoped that she would notice it. She never did. But one day she stepped on it and crushed it. And the violet was happy to meet its death through its loved one. The short, gasping phrases on the words es sank, es starb (‘it sank, it died’) are imitated in the accompaniment so suggestively that one might almost call it realism. On the words, ‘und sterb ich denn’ (‘and though I die’) the music becomes quicker with the growing emotion of the dying flower. So sterb ich doch durch sie! continues the flower in ecstasy, and on the beloved word, sie, the voice attains its highest note and its emotional climax.
VI
The last half of the eighteenth century in France gave the world some of the loveliest songs of the age. The types continued for a time to be those mentioned above, but the gain in grace and fluency over the preceding century was enormous. Opéra comique was filled with romances and brunettes and bergerettes. Not a few songs, also, were composed independently. Among the latter class we should mention those of Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-78), literary adventurer and musical dilettante, who entwined himself so strangely into the whole cultural life of France. Rousseau never had an adequate musical education. He had served as tutor in music in Switzerland and did not improve himself much with his desultory self-education after he came to Paris. But he was a true journalist, and no inadequacy of preparation could daunt him. He had that rare journalistic gift of knowing what people wanted ten years before they themselves knew it. His opéra comique, Le devin du village (1752), still occasionally played, was the lightest of theatrical entertainments, but continued in unabating popularity for sixty years. Its success played no small part in setting or maintaining the tone of opéra comique for the next half century. Its songs were chiefly the romances which were popular in Paris; they showed, perhaps, no great creative ability, but were extraordinary, like all Rousseau’s work, in catching a certain popular quality which escapes analysis. The composer’s activity as essayist and novelist, which places him as one of the greatest social forces of modern times, prevented his ever doing much work in music and the world is perhaps not much the loser. But in his musical activity he was at least important as a fashion-follower and a fashion-setter. In 1781, after his death, there were published the hundred romances and duets which he called Les Consolations des misères de ma vie, containing some of his most typical melodies. Among them is the famous romance on three notes—Que le jour—which does not, indeed, escape a sense of melodic poverty from its limited compass, but reveals a delicate grace which makes it worth remembering apart from its interest as an experiment.
Mozart’s Manuscript of the first page of his setting
of Goethe’s ‘Das Veilchen’