It is evident, we trust, from the foregoing somewhat condensed estimates that the modern French school is very much alive, that it has to its credit numerous distinct achievements and that it contains the promise of still further growth. The French nature, which is highly emotional and yet, at its best, always controlled[304] by a regard for fitness and clarity of thought, is particularly suited to express itself worthily in music, for in no other form of artistic endeavor is this balance more requisite. Music without emotion is, to be sure, like "sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal" and dies in short order. On the other hand, music which is a mere display of crude emotion soon palls. The works of modern French composers deserve enthusiastic study for their charm, their finish and their refined emotional power.
CHAPTER XIX
NATIONAL SCHOOLS—RUSSIAN, BOHEMIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN
BEFORE beginning an account of Tchaikowsky, the most noted though not necessarily the greatest of the Russian composers, a few words may be said concerning nationalism in music, the chief representatives of which are the Russians, the Bohemians, the Scandinavians and the Hungarians. Of these, however, the present-day Russian School is the most active and contributes constantly new factors to musical evolution. This grafting of forms of expression derived from the outlying nations on to the parent-stock of music—which for some three hundred years had been in the exclusive control of Italy, Germany and France—has been a stimulating factor in the development of the last half-century. For the idiom of music was becoming somewhat stereotyped, and it has been noticeably revitalized by the incorporation of certain "exotic" traits, of which there run through all national music these three: (1) the use, in their folk-songs, of other forms of scale and mode than are habitual with ourselves; (2) the preference given to the minor mode and the free commingling of major and minor; (3) the great rhythmic variety and especially the use of groups foreign to our musical sense, such as measures of 5 and 7 beats, and the intentional placing of the accent on parts of the measure which with us are ordinarily unaccented. Every country has its folk-songs—the product of national rather than individual genius—but Russia, in the number and variety of these original melodies is most exceptional. The Russian expresses himself spontaneously in song, and so we find appropriate music for every activity or incident in daily life: planting songs, reaping songs, boating songs, wedding songs, funeral songs; Russian soldiers sing on the march and even enter upon a desperate charge with songs on their lips. In certain battles of the Crimean War this fact caused much comment from the English officers. For many centuries the bulk of the Russian people has been downtrodden; and the country, with its endless steppes and gloomy climate, is hardly such as to call forth the sparkling vivacity found in the Scandinavian and Hungarian songs. The prevalent mood in Russian folk-songs is one of melancholy or of brooding, wistful tenderness—very often in the old Greek modes, the Aeolian, Dorian and Phrygian. From this we see the close connection existing between the Russian and Greek Churches. The Russian liturgy is exceedingly old, and Russian church music, always unaccompanied, has long been celebrated for its dignified character, especially those portions rendered by men's voices, which are capable of unusually low notes,[305] as majestic as those of an organ.
During the entire 18th century the development of music in Russia was in the hands of imported Italians; the beginnings of a national type being first made in the works of Glinka, born 1804. By the middle of the 19th century two schools had arisen, the Neo-Russian group of Balakireff, Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakoff and Moussorgsky, who believed in the extreme development of national traits in melody, rhythm and color; and a second group which was more cosmopolitan in its tastes and believed that Russian music, without abandoning its national flavor, could be written in a style of universal appeal. The chief members of this group were Rubinstein and Tchaikowsky, and distinguished pupils of the latter, in particular Rachmaninoff and Glazounoff. To the world at large Tchaikowsky, of them all, has made the strongest appeal; though he himself said that Rimsky-Korsakoff as an orchestral colorist was more able, and certainly Moussorgsky has a more strongly marked individuality. Tchaikowsky (1840-1893) like so many of the Russian composers, began as a cultivated amateur who showed no special musical gifts, save a sensitive nature and a general fondness for the art. He studied in the school of jurisprudence and won a post in the Ministry of Justice. In 1861, however, his musical nature awaking with a bound, he gave up all official work and for the sake of art faced a life of poverty. Under the teaching of Nicholas Rubinstein at the Petrograd Conservatory he made such amazing progress that in five years he himself was Professor of Harmony at Moscow and had begun his long series of compositions—at first operas of merely local fame. There now followed years of great activity spent in teaching and composing—well-known works being the first String Quartet and the Pianoforte Concerto in B-flat minor, first performed by von Bülow at Boston in '88. At this period his health completely broke down, the immediate cause being an unhappy marriage. He finally rallied but had to travel abroad for a year, and for the rest of his life his temper, never bright, was overcast with gloom. There now entered Tchaikowsky's life Frau von Meck, the woman who played the part of fairy godmother. She greatly admired his music, was wealthy and generous and, that he might have entire leisure for composition, settled upon him a liberal annuity. Their relationship is one of the most remarkable in the annals of art; for, fearing that the ideal would be shattered, they met but once, quite by accident, and Tchaikowsky was "acutely embarrassed." We have a lengthy and impassioned correspondence, and Tchaikowsky's 4th Symphony, dedicated "à mon meilleur ami," is the result of this friendship. In 1891, invited to New York for the dedication of Carnegie Hall, he made his memorable American tour. His success was genuine, and was the beginning of the popularity his music has always enjoyed in this country. For several years Tchaikowsky had been working at his Sixth Symphony, to which he himself gave the distinctive title "Pathetic." This work ends with one of the saddest dirges in all literature, although Tchaikowsky, during its composition, as we know from his letters, had never been in a happier state of mind or worked more passionately and freely. He himself says, "I consider it the best, especially the most open-hearted of all my works." When, however, he suddenly died in 1893, there were rumors of suicide, but it is now definitely settled that his death was caused by cholera.[306]
To turn now to his achievements, it may be asserted that Tchaikowsky was marvellously versatile, composing in every form save for the organ; for productiveness, only Mozart, Schubert and Liszt can be compared with him. His works comprise eight operas, six symphonies, six symphonic poems, three overtures, four orchestral suites, two pianoforte concertos, a violin concerto, three string quartets, a wonderful trio, about one hundred songs and a large number of pianoforte pieces. In addition he made several settings of the Russian liturgy and edited many volumes of church music. Whatever may be the final estimate of his music, it assuredly has great vogue at present, for it is an intense expression of that mental and spiritual unrest so characteristic of our times. As Byron was said to have but one subject, himself, so all Tchaikowsky's music is the message of his highly emotional and feverish sensibility. He is invariably eloquent in the presentation of his material, although the thoughts are often slight and the impression made not lasting. He pours out his emotions with the impulsiveness and abandon so characteristic of his race, and this lack of serenity, of restraint, is surely his gravest weakness. We are reminded by his music of a fire which either glows fitfully or bursts forth into a fierce uncontrolled blaze, but where a steady white heat is too often missing. His style has been concisely described as fiery exultation on a basis of languid melancholy. To all this we may retort that what he lacks in profundity and firm control, he makes up in spontaneity, wealth of imagination and, above all, warmth of color. It is illogical to expect his music to be different from what it is. He expressed himself sincerely and his style is the direct outcome of his own temperament plus his nationality. Tchaikowsky was widely read in modern literature—Dickens and Thackeray being favorite authors—and had travelled much. The breadth of his cultivation is shown in the subjects of his symphonic poems and the texts of his songs, which are from Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe and Bryon. However much estimates may differ as to the import of Tchaikowsky's message, he is universally recognized as a superb "colorist," one of the masters of modern orchestral treatment; who, by his subtle feeling for richness and variety of tone, has enlarged the means of musical expression. This is especially shown in the characteristic use he makes of the orchestra in its lower ranges. As Brahms, for depth of thought, was compared with Browning, so Tchaikowsky may well be likened to such poets as Shelley and Swinburne, so exquisite is his instinct for tonal beauty and for delicacy of shading. At times, to be sure, he fairly riots in gorgeous colors—this being the result of his Slavic blood—but few composers have been able to achieve such brilliancy without becoming vulgar.
As to the charge of pessimism often made against Tchaikowsky, he was a thinker, an explorer into the mysteries of human aspiration and disappointment,[307] and his music seems weighted down with the riddle of the universe. This introspective dejection, however, is a natural result of his temperament and his nationality. If to us of a more hopeful outlook upon life it seems morbid, we should simply remember that our conditions have been different. A distinction must likewise be made between the expression of such feelings in art and their influence in actual life. As a man Tchaikowsky was practical, conscientious, and did not in the least allow his feelings to emasculate him. He was a prodigious worker and throughout his career, in the face of ill health and many adverse circumstances, showed immense courage. His creed was no ignoble one—"To regret the past, to hope in the future, and never to be satisfied with the present; this is my life." And to a gushing patroness of art who asked him what were his ideals, his simple reply was "My ideal is to become a good composer." Certain English critics in their fault-finding have been particularly boresome, because, forsooth, Tchaikowsky's music does not show the serenity of Brahms or the solidity or stolidity of their own composers. To the well-fed and prosperous Briton "God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world" is hardly an expression of faith, but a certainty of existence. Not so with the Russian, upon whom the oppression of centuries has left its stamp. This same note of gloomy or even morbid introspection is found in some of the great literature of the world—in the Bible, the Greek Tragedies and in Shakespeare. Granted that optimism is the only working creed for every-day life, until the millenium arrives a sincere and artistic expression of the sorrows of humanity will always strike a note in oppressed souls.
Each of Tchaikowsky's last three symphonies is a remarkable work. The Fourth is most characteristically Russian and certainly the most striking in its uncompromising directness of expression. The first movement announces a recurrent, intensely subjective motto typical of that impending Fate which would not allow Tchaikowsky happiness.[308] The slow movement is based upon a Russian folk song of a melancholy beauty, sung by the oboe, and another, already cited (see [Chapter II], [p. 33]), is incorporated in the Finale. The Scherzo is unique as an orchestral tour de force; for, with the exception of a short middle portion for wood-wind and brass, it is for the string orchestra playing pizzicato throughout. The effect is extremely fantastic and resembles that of ghosts flitting about in their stocking-feet or of sleep-chasings, to use Whitman's expression.[309] The Finale is a riot of natural, primitive joy, a picture—as the composer says—of a popular festivity. "When you find no joy within you, go among the people, see how fully they give themselves up to joyous feelings." Fate sounds its warning, but in vain; nothing can repress the exultation of the composer. "Enjoy the joy of others and—you still can live." The work is sensational, even trivial in places; but it reveals sincerity and elemental life. The composer lays himself bare and we see a real man—not a masked hypocrite—with all his joys and sorrows, caught, as Henley would say, "in the fell clutch of circumstance," bludgeoned by Fate.
The Sixth Symphony, the Pathetic, is the most popular and, on the whole, Tchaikowsky's most sustained work. It owes its hold upon public esteem to the eloquent way in which it presents that "maladie du siècle" which, in all modern art,[310] is such a prominent note. The mood may be a morbid one but we cannot mistake the conviction with which it is treated. The work is likewise significant because of the novel grouping of movements. The first is in complete sonata form and for finished architecture will stand comparison with any use of that form. The themes are eloquent, well contrasted and organically developed. The orchestration is a masterpiece.[311] The second movement is the one famous for its use of five beats a measure throughout; and its trio, on a persistent pedal note D, is a striking example of the Russian tendency to become fairly obsessed with one rhythm. It is an intentional, artistic use of monotony and may be compared to the limitless Russian Steppes. If it seem strange to Western Europeans, it should be remembered that the music is Russian and portrays a mood perfectly natural to that people. The third movement is a combination of a scherzo and a march—of a most unbridled fury. The Finale is a threnody, one of overpowering grief, the motto of which might be "vanity of vanities, all is vanity." It abounds in soul-stirring orchestral eloquence and invariably makes a deep impression.