III
At the basis of the two greatest pianoforte works of César Franck, one discerns a classical foundation. The harmonies, it is true, are Romantic and strange; but the ideals are traditional. In the matter of form there is less a departure from old principles than a further development of them. They present a few new complications of structure; but as far as the pianoforte is concerned they have little new to show in the matter of effect. Their peculiar sonority is that of the organ, and remains not wholly proper to the pianoforte. On the whole, then, the music is easily related to that of Beethoven, of Liszt, and of Wagner. There is no striking departure from that road to which Beethoven may be said to have pointed.
Nor does one find, on the whole, less traditional loyalty in the pianoforte compositions of Franck’s pupil, Vincent d’Indy. These are not numerous. There are only a few sets of short pieces, and but two works of length. The little sonata, opus 9, is in classical form. There are three short waltzes in a set called Helvetia, opus 9; a Serenade, Choral grave, Scherzetto, and Agitato, opus 16, one or two pieces in classical dance forms, and three little romances in the style of Schumann, opus 30. Of the last the third is a most successful imitation of Schumann, resembling passages from the Kreisleriana in spirit and in technique. None of these short pieces, however, calls for more than mention, except as they all show a clear but not distinguished traditional and simple treatment of the keyboard. There is hardly the harmonic freedom of either Wagner or Franck in them.
The two long pieces are far more distinctly original. The first of these is a set of three fanciful pieces called Poëmes des Montagnes. The first of these—Le chant des bruyères—is divided into five parts: the song of the heather, or the heath, mists, a touch of Weber, a theme which is to be found in all three movements called La bien-aimée, and finally the song of the heath again, this time in the distance. The second movement is again subdivided, this time into dances amid which la bien-aimée makes a momentary appearance; and in the last movement—Plein-air—one finds a promenade, thoughts of great trees (hêtres et pins) on the side of the mountain, la bien-aimée, a bit of calm before a burst of wind, finally a pair of lovers united. At the beginning and at the end of the series there are a few broken chords, vaguely styled Harmonies, and at the very end again there is a reminiscence of the theme of la bien-aimée.
One cannot but find the whole series closely akin to Schumann. The romanticism is the romanticism of Schumann, carried a step into the open air and among the mountains, of his devotion to which d’Indy has left many a proof in music. The fleeting touch of Weber, and especially that d’Indy should have written Weber’s name over the measure in which it falls, is again characteristic of the composer who introduced Paganini and Chopin into his Carnaval. The identification of a theme with a beloved one is another instance. But even more definite than these tokens of a certain romanticism is the treatment of the piano, and even the nature of much of the thematic material. Le chant des bruyères and La bien-aimée are in the mold of Schumann. The Valse grotesque recalls in rhythm some of the Davidsbündler and the first of these Danses rhythmiques is like parts of the Pantalon and Colombine of the Carnaval.
On the other hand, there is something original and new in the section called Brouillard. The general mistiness of the harmonies, the long holding of the pedals with consequent vague obscurity of sound, and the irregular line of clear points in a sort of melody that is drawn against this inarticulate accompanying murmur, these indicate new ventures in pianoforte style. The rhythmical irregularity of the first of the dances and the irregularity in the form and recurrence of sections are further signs of the advent of something rich and strange. In fact the whole work loses somewhat by the frequent suggestion of bold experiment, and is hardly to be considered equal to the traditional standard of music, as represented by Schumann, nor sufficiently successful to establish a new one. Barring the Brouillard, the treatment of the keyboard lacks distinction.
Far, far different must be the verdict on the Sonata in E, opus 63. Here, though one still finds a classical ideal of form, there are bold, clashing harmonies, and endless complexities of rhythm. The scoring is tremendous, the effect big as an orchestra. The sonata is in three movements, all of which represent the development of one central idea. The first movement, which is preceded by a long and fiery introduction, is made up of a series of variations on this central idea. A subsidiary idea, which, as in the ‘Symphonic Variations’ of Franck, was suggested in the introduction, is woven into the music here and there. The complicated second movement, in 5/4 time, constantly suggests the subsidiary motives of the first; and in the last, which shows the broad plan of the classical sonata form, the theme of the first movement finds a full and glorious expression.
Technically the sonata is extremely difficult. Some of the variations of the first movement, with their trills, recall the pianoforte style of the last Beethoven sonatas, however. The interlocking of the hands in the second movement is in a measure new in effect, though not new in principle. The scoring of the last movement is not free of commonplaces.
On the whole, the sonata may be considered modern in harmonies, melodies, and rhythms, though a more or less classical harmonic foundation may be detected. The form is obviously a further development of the principles so clearly exemplified in the works of César Franck, which were drawn from Bach and Beethoven. It does not seem unfair to say that the scoring is rather orchestral than distinctively pianistic; so that the sonata may be considered more significant as a contribution to music in general than as one to pianoforte music in particular.