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[CONTENTS]

MUSIC: AN ART AND A LANGUAGE

BY

WALTER RAYMOND SPALDING

Price $2.50 net

THE ARTHUR P. SCHMIDT CO.

Copyright, 1920, by The Arthur P. Schmidt Co.
International Copyright Secured

A.P.S. 11788

TO MY COLLEAGUES
IN THE DEPARTMENT OF MUSIC
AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY
William Clifford Heilman, Edward Burlingame Hill,
Archibald Thompson Davison, Edward Ballantine

SUPPLEMENTARY
ILLUSTRATIONS
for
MUSIC:
an ART and a LANGUAGE
Vols. I & II now ready
(Schmidt's Educational Series No. 257-a, b)
Price $1.00 each volume

Preface

ALTHOUGH "of the making of books there is no end," this book, on so human a subject as music, we believe should justify itself. A twenty-years' experience in teaching the Appreciation of Music at Harvard University and Radcliffe College has convinced the author that a knowledge of musical grammar and structure does enable us, as the saying is, to get more out of music. This conviction is further strengthened by the statement of numerous students who testify that after analyzing certain standard compositions their attitude towards music has changed and their love for it greatly increased.

In the illustrations (published in a Supplementary Volume) no concessions have been made to so-called "popular taste"; people have an instinctive liking for the best when it is fairly put before them. We are not providing a musical digest, since music requires active coöperation by the hearer, nor are we trying to interpret music in terms of the other arts. Music is itself. For those who may be interested in speculating as to the connection between music and art, numerous books are available—some of them excellent from their point of view.

This book concerns itself with music as music. It is assumed that, if anyone really loves this art, he is willing and glad to do serious work to quicken his sense of hearing, to broaden his imagination, and to strengthen his memory so that he may become intelligent in appreciation rather than merely absorbed in honeyed sounds. Music is of such power and glory that we should be ready to devote to its study as much time as to a foreign language. In the creed of the music-lover the first and last article is familiarity. When we thoroughly know a composition so that its themes sing in our memory and we feel at home in the structure, the music will speak to us directly, and all books and analytical comments will be of secondary importance—those of the present writer not excepted. Special effort has been made to select illustrations of musical worth, and upon these the real emphasis in study should be laid.

The material of the book is based on lectures, often of an informal nature, in the Appreciation Course at Harvard University and lays no claim to original research. The difficulty in establishing points of approach makes it far more baffling to speak or write about music than about the other arts. Music is sufficient unto itself. Endowed with the insight of a Ruskin or a Pater, one may say something worth while about painting. But in music the line between mere statistical analysis and sentimental rhapsody must be drawn with exceeding care. If the subject matter be clearly presented and the analyses true—allowance being made for honest difference of opinion—every hope will be realized.

The author's gratitude is herewith expressed to Mr. Percy Lee Atherton for his critical revision of the text and to Professor William C. Heilman for valuable assistance in selecting and preparing the musical illustrations.

W.R.S.

Cambridge, Massachusetts
June, 1919

Contents

[Index]

[List of Compositions]

Music is the universal language of mankind.

—Longfellow.

—Addison.

Music is the sound of the circulation in nature's veins. It is the flux which melts nature. Men dance to it, glasses ring and vibrate, and the fields seem to undulate. The healthy ear always hears it, nearer or more remote.

—Thoreau.

—Browning.

All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments.

—Whitman.

Music: an Art and a Language

CHAPTER I

PRELIMINARY CONSIDERATIONS

IN approaching the study of any subject we may fairly expect that this subject shall be defined, although some one has ironically remarked that every definition is a misfortune. Music-lovers, however, will rejoice that their favorite art is spared such a misfortune, for it can not be defined. We know the factors of which music is constituted, rhythm and sound; and we can trace the historic steps by which methods of presentation and of style have been so perfected that by means of this twofold material the emotions and aspirations of human beings may be expressed and permanently recorded. We realize, and with our inborn equipment can appreciate, the moving power of music; but to define, in the usual sense of the term definition, what music really is, will be forever impossible. The fact indeed that music—like love, electricity and other elemental forces—cannot be defined is its special glory. It is a peculiar, mysterious power;[1] quite in a class by itself, although with certain aspects which it shares with the other arts. The writings of all the great poets, such as Milton, Shakespeare, Browning and Whitman, abound in eloquent tributes to the power and influence of music, but it is noticeable that no one attempts to define it. The mystery of music must be approached with reverence and music must be loved for itself with perfect sincerity.

Some insight, however, may be gained into the nature of music by a clear recognition of what it is not, and by a comparison with the more definite and familiar arts. Music consists of the intangible and elusive factors of rhythm and sound; in this way differing fundamentally from the concrete static arts such as architecture, sculpture and painting. Furthermore, instrumental music, i.e., music freed from a dependence on words, is not an exact language like prose and poetry. It speaks to our feelings and imaginations, as it were by suggestion; reaching for this very reason depths of our being quite beyond the power of mere words. No one can define rhythm except by saying that rhythm, in the sense of motion, is the fundamental fact in the universe and in all life, both physical and human. Everything in the heavens above and in the earth beneath is in ceaseless motion and change; nothing remains the same for two consecutive seconds. Even the component parts of material—such as stone and wood, which we ordinarily speak of as concrete and stationary—are whirling about with ceaseless energy, and often in perfect rhythm. Thus we see how natural and vital is the art of music, for it is inseparably connected with life itself.

As for the other factor, sound is one of the most elemental and mysterious of all physical phenomena.[2] When the air is set in motion by the vibration of certain bodies of wood, metal and other material, we know that sound waves, striking upon the tympanum of the ear, penetrate to the brain and imagination. Sound is a reciprocal phenomenon; for, even if there were systematic activity of vibrating bodies, there could be no sound without some one to hear it.[3] Good musicians are known for their power of keen and discriminating hearing; and the ear,[4] as Saint-Saëns says, is the sole avenue of approach to the musical sense. The first ambition for one who would appreciate music should be to cultivate this power of hearing. It is quite possible to be stone-deaf outwardly and yet hear most beautiful sounds within the brain. This was approximately the case with Beethoven after his thirtieth year. On the other hand, many people have a perfect outward apparatus for hearing but nothing is registered within.

Combarieu, the French aesthetician, defines music as "the art of thinking in tones."[5] There is food for thought in this statement, but it seems to leave out one very important factor—namely, the emotional. Every great musical composition reveals a carefully planned and perfect balance between the emotional and intellectual elements. And yet the basic impulse for the creation of music is an emotional one; and, of all the arts, music makes the most direct appeal to the emotions and to those shadowy, but real portions of our being called the imagination and the soul. Emotion is as indispensable to music as love to religion. Just as there can be no really great art without passion, so we can not imagine music without all the emotions of mankind: their loves, joys, sorrows, hatreds, ideals and subtle fancies. Music, in fact, is a presentation of emotional experience, fashioned and controlled by an overruling intellectual power.

We can now foresee, though at first dimly, what is to be our line of approach to this mystery. One of the peculiar characteristics of music is that it is both the most natural and least artificial of the arts, and as well the most complicated and subtle. On the one hand it is the most natural and direct, because the materials of which it is constituted—that is, sound and rhythm—make an instinctive appeal to every normally equipped human being.[6] Every one likes to listen to beautiful sounds merely for their sensuous effect, just as everyone likes to look at the blue sky, the green grass and the changing hues of a sunset; so the rhythm of music, akin to the human heart-beat and to the ceaseless change and motion, which is the basic fact in all life, appeals at once to our own physical vitality. This fact may be observed at a symphony concert where so many people are wagging their heads, beating time with their hands or even tapping on the floor with their feet; a habit which shows a rudimentary love of music but which for obvious reasons is not to be commended. On the other hand, music is the most complicated of all the arts from the nature of its constituent parts—intangible, evanescent sounds and rhythms—and from the subtle grammar and structure by which these factors are used as means of personal communication. This grammar of music, i.e., its methods of structure and of presentation, has been worked out through centuries of free experimentation on the part of some of the best minds in the world, and thus any great musical composition is an intellectual achievement of high rank. Behind the sensuous factors, sound and rhythm, lies always the personal message of the composer, and if we are to grasp this and to make it our own, we must go with him hand in hand so that the music actually lives again in our minds and imaginations. The practical inference from this dual nature of the art we are considering is clear; everyone can derive a large amount of genuine pleasure and even spiritual exaltation, can feel himself under the influence of a strong tonic force, merely by putting himself in contact with music, by opening his ears and drinking in the sounds and rhythms in their marvellous variety. The all-sufficient reason for the lack of a complete appreciation of music is that so many people stop at this point, i.e. for them music is a sensuous art and nothing more. Wagner himself, in fact, is on record in a letter to Liszt as saying, in regard to the appreciation of his operas: "I require nothing from the public but healthy senses and a human heart." Although this may be particularly true of opera, which is a composite form of art, making so varied an appeal to the participant that everyone can get something from its picture of life—historical, legendary, even fictitious—as well as from the actors, the costumes and the story, the statement is certainly not applicable to what is called absolute music, where music is disassociated from the guiding help of words, and expressed by the media of orchestra, string quartet, pianoforte, and various ensemble groups. For in addition to its sensuous appeal, music is a language used as a means of personal expression; sometimes in the nature of an intimate soliloquy, but far more often as a direct means of communication between the mind and soul of the composer and of the listener. To say that we understand the message expressed in this language just because we happen to like beautiful sounds and stimulating rhythms is surely to be our own dupes. We might as well say that because we enjoy hearing Italians or Frenchmen speak their own beautiful languages we are understanding what they say. The question, therefore, faces us: how shall we learn this mysterious language so as readily to understand it? And the answer is equally inevitable: by learning something of the material of which it is composed, and above all, the fundamental principles of its structure.

In attempting to carry out this simple direction, however, we are confronted by another of the peculiar characteristics of music. Music, in distinction from the static, concrete and imitative arts, is always in motion, and to follow it requires an intensity of concentration and an accuracy of memory which can be acquired, but for which, like most good things, we have to work. We all know the adage that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and that any work of art must be recreated in the imagination of the participant. The difficulty of this process of recreation, as applied to music, is that we have, derived from our ordinary daily experiences, so little to help us. Anyone can begin, at least, to understand a work of architecture; it must have doors and windows, and should conform to practical ideas of structure. In like manner, a painting, either a portrait or a landscape, must show some correspondence with nature herself, and so we have definite standards to help our imagination. But music has worked out its own laws which are those of pure fancy, having little to do with other forms of thought; and unless we know something of the constructive principles, instead of recreating the work before us, we are simply lost—"drowned in a sea of sound"—often rudely shaken up by the rhythms, but far from understanding what the music is really saying. As the well-known critic, Santayana, wittily says, "To most people music is a drowsy revery relieved by nervous thrills."

Notwithstanding, however, the peculiar nature of music and the difficulty of gaining logical impressions as the sounds and rhythms flood in upon us, there is one simple form of coöperation which solves most of the difficulties; that is, familiarity. It is the duty of the composer so to express himself, to make his meaning so clear, that we can receive it with a minimum of mental friction if we can only get to know the music. All really good music corresponds to such a standard; that is, if it is needlessly involved, abstruse, diffuse, or turgid, it is in so far not music of the highest artistic worth. In this connection we must always remember that music does not "stay put," like a picture on the wall. We cannot walk through it, as is the case with a cathedral; turn back, as in a book; touch it, as with a statue. It is not the expression of more or less definite ideas, such as we find in prose and poetry. On the other hand, it rushes upon us with the impassioned spirit of an eloquent orator, and what we get from it depends almost entirely upon our own intensity of application and upon our knowledge of the themes and of the general purpose of the work. Only with increased familiarity does the architecture stand revealed. Beethoven, it is said, when once asked the meaning of a sonata of his, played it over again and replied, "It means that." Music is itself. The question for every music-lover is: can I equip myself in such a way as to feel at home in this language, to receive the message as directly as possible, and finally with perfect ease and satisfaction? This equipment demands a strong, accurate memory, a keen power of discrimination and a sympathetic, open mind.

Another paradoxical characteristic of music on which it is interesting to reflect is this: Music is the oldest as well as the youngest of the arts, i.e., it has always[7] existed generically, and all human beings born, as they are, with a musical instrument—the voice—are ipso facto musicians; and yet in boundless scope of possibilities it is just in its infancy. For who can limit the combinations of sound and rhythm, or forecast the range of the human imagination? The creative fancy of the composer is always in advance of contemporary taste and criticism. Hence, in listening to new music, we should beware of reckless assertions of personal preference. The first question, in the presence of an elaborate work of music, should never be, "Do I like it or not?" but "Do I understand it?" "Is the music conveying a logical message to me, or is it merely a sea of sound?" The first and last article in the music-lover's creed, I repeat, should be familiarity. When we thoroughly know a symphony, symphonic poem or sonata so that, for example, we can sing the themes to ourselves, the music will reveal itself. The difference between the trained listener and the person of merely general musical tendencies is that the former gains a definite meaning from the music often at a first hearing; whereas, to the latter, many hearings are necessary before he can make head or tail of the composition. Since the creative composer of music is a thinker in tones, our perceptions must be so trained that, as we listen, we make sense of the fabric of sounds and rhythms.

It is evident from the foregoing observations that our approach to the subject is to be on the intellectual side. Music, to be sure, is an emotional art and so appeals to our emotions, but these will take care of themselves. We all have a reasonable supply of emotion and practically no human being is entirely deficient in the capacity for being moved by music. We can, however, sharpen our wits and strengthen our musical memories; for it is obvious that if we cannot recognize a theme or remember it whenever it appears, often in an amplified or even subtly disguised form, we are in no condition to follow and appreciate the logical growth and development of the themes themselves which, in a work of music, are just as real beings as the "dramatis personae" in a play. The would-be appreciator should early recognize the fact that listening to music is by no means passive, a means of light amusement or to pass the time, but demands coöperation of an active nature. Whether or not we have the emotional capacity of a creator of music may remain an open question; but by systematic mental application we can, as we listen to it, get from the music that sense which the composer meant to convey. Music—more than the other arts—demands, to use a happy expression of D.G. Mason, that we "mentally organize our sensations and ideas"; for the language of music has no such fixed grammar as verbal modes of expression, and the message, even when received, is suggestive rather than definite. In this way only can the composition be recreated in our imaginations. For acquiring this habit of mind, this alertness and concentration, the start, as always, is more than half the battle. Schumann's good advice to young composers may be transferred to the listener: "Be sure that you invent a thoroughly vital theme; the rest will grow of itself from this." Likewise in listening to music, one should be sure to grasp the opening theme, the fundamental motive, in order to follow it intelligently and to enjoy its subsequent growth into the complete work.[8]

Every piece of music, with the exception of intentionally rhapsodic utterances, begins with some group of notes of distinct rhythmic and melodic interest, which is the germ—the generative force—of the whole, and which is comparable to the text of a sermon or the subject of a drama. This introductory group of notes is called, technically, a motive or moving force and may be defined as the simplest unit of imaginative life in terms of rhythm and sound, which instantly impresses itself upon our consciousness and, when heard several times, cannot be forgotten or confused with any other motive. A musical theme—a longer sweep of thought (to be explained later)—may consist of several motives of which the first is generally the most important. Just here lies the difference between the Heaven-born themes of a truly creative composer and the bundle of notes put forth by lesser men. These living themes pierce our imaginations and sing in our memories, sometimes for years, whereas the inept and flabby tunes of certain so-called composers make no strong impression and are forgotten almost as soon as heard. Motives obviously differ from each other in regard to the intervals of the tones composing them, i.e., the up and down relationship in pitch, the duration of the tones and their grouping into metric schemes. But a real motive is always terse, concise, characteristic and pregnant with unrevealed meaning. The chief glory of such creative tone-poets as Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms and Franck is that their imaginations could give birth to musical offspring that live for ever and are loved like life itself. The first step, then, in the progress of the appreciator of music is the recognition of the chief motive or motives of a composition and the development of power to follow them in their organic growth. This ability is particularly necessary in modern music: for frequently all four movements of a symphony or string-quartet are based upon a motive which keeps appearing—often in altered form and in relationships which imply a dramatic or suggestive meaning. A few of such motives are cited herewith, taken from works with which, as we proceed, we shall become familiar.

César Franck: Symphony in D minor

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Brahms: First Symphony in C minor

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Tchaikowsky: 5th Symphony

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Dvořák: Symphony From the New World

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

It is now necessary for the student to know something about the constructive principles by which large works of music are fashioned; not so much that he could compose these works himself, even if he had the inspiration, but to know enough, so that the reception of the music is not a haphazard activity but an intellectual achievement, second only to that of the original creator. Every genuine work of art in whatever medium, stone, color, word or tone, must exhibit unity of general effect with variety of detail. That is, the material must hold together, be coherent and convince the participant of the logical design of the artist; not fall apart as might a bad building, or be diffuse as a poorly written essay. And yet, with this coherence, there must always be stimulating and refreshing variety; for a too constant insistence on the main material produces intolerable monotony, such as the "damnable iteration" of a mediocre prose work or the harping away on one theme by the hack composer. In no art more than music is this dual standard of greater importance, and in no art more difficult to attain. For the raw material of music, fleeting rhythms and waves of sound, is in its very nature most incoherent. Here we are not dealing with the concrete, tangible and definite material which is available for all the other arts, but with something intangible and elusive. We know from the historical record[9] of musical development, that, only after centuries of experimentation conducted by some of the best intellects in Europe, was sufficient coherence gained so that there could be composed music which would compare with the simplest modern hymn-tune or part-song. And this was long after each of the other arts—architecture, sculpture, painting and literature—had reached points of attainment which, in many respects, have never since been equalled.

Before carrying our inquiries further, something must be said about the two main lines of musical development which led up to music as we know it to-day. These tendencies are designated by the terms Homophonic and Polyphonic. By homophonic,[10] from Greek words signifying a "single voice," is meant music consisting of a single melodic line, as in the whole field of folk-songs (which originally were always unaccompanied) or in the unison chants of the Greeks and the Gregorian tones of the early church, in which there is one melody though many voices may unite in singing it. Later we shall see what important principles for the growth of instrumental music were borrowed from the instinctive practise associated with the folk-song and folk-dance. But history makes clear that the fundamental principles of musical coherence were worked out in the field of music known as the Polyphonic. By this term, as the derivation implies, is meant music the fabric of which is made by the interweaving of several independent melodies. For many centuries the most reliable instrument was the human voice and the only art-music, i.e., music which was the result of conscious mental and artistic endeavor, was vocal music for groups of unaccompanied voices in the liturgy of the church. About the tenth century, musicians tried the crude experiment,[11] called Organum, of making two groups of singers move in parallel fifths e.g.,

Tu Patris sempiternus es Filius.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

but during the 13th and 14th centuries a method was worked out by which the introductory tune was made to generate its own subsequent tissue. It was found that a body of singers could announce a melody of a certain type and that, after they had proceeded so far, a second set of singers could repeat the opening melodic phrase—and so likewise often a third and a fourth set—and that all the voices could be made to blend together in a fairly harmonious whole.[12] A piece of music of this systematic structure is called a Round because the singers take up the melody in rotation and at regular rhythmic periods.[13] The earliest specimen of a Round is the famous one "Sumer is icumen in" circa 1225 (see Supplement of musical Examples No. 1), which shows to what a high point of perfection—considering those early days—musicians had brought their art. For, at any rate, by these systematic, imitative repetitions they had secured the first requisite of all music, coherence. This principle, once it was sanctioned by growing musical instinct, and approved by convention, was developed into such well-known types of polyphonic music as the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue; terms which will be fully explained later on. It is of more than passing interest to realize that these structural principles of music were worked out in the same locality—Northern France and the Netherlands, and by kindred intellects—as witnessed the growth of Gothic architecture; and there is a fundamental affinity between the interweavings of polyphonic or, as it is often called, contrapuntal[14] music and the stone traceries in medieval cathedrals. During the 13th and 14th centuries northern France, with Paris as its centre, was the most cultivated part of Europe, and the Flemish cities of Cambrai, Tournai, Louvain and Antwerp will always be renowned in the history of art, as the birthplace of Gothic architecture, of modern painting and of polyphonic music.[15] A great deal of the impetus towards the systematic repetition of the voice parts must have been caused by practical necessity (thus justifying the old adage); for, before the days of printed music, or even of a well-established tradition—when everything had to be laboriously written out or transmitted orally—whole compositions could be rendered by the singers through the simple device of remembering the introductory theme and joining in from memory whenever their turn came. Compositions in fact were often so recorded.[16] The following old English round (circa 1609) shows clearly how the voices entered in rotation.

1 Three blind mice, three blind mice
2 ran around thrice, ran around thrice; The
3 miller and his merry old wife ne'er laugh'd so much in all their life.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

For a Round in strict canonic imitation by the famous English composer William Byrd (1542-1623) see the Supplement, Example No. 2. In due time singers of that period became likewise very proficient in improvising free parts about a given melody or cantus firmus, a practice indicated by the term "musica ficta" which was beneficial in stimulating the imagination to a genuine musical activity.

We can now begin to realize the importance of polyphonic music. In fact, it is not too much to assert that systematic repetition in some form or other (several aspects of which we shall describe in due season) is the most important constructive principle in music, necessitated by the very nature of the material. This statement can be corroborated by a glance at almost any page of music considered merely as a pattern, quite regardless how the notes sound. We observe at once that some portions of the page look much or exactly like other portions. Frequently whole movements or long parts of a work are based entirely upon some terse and characteristic motive. Famous examples of this practise are the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in C minor which, with certain subsidiary themes to afford contrast, is entirely based on the motive:

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

the Finale of Wagner's opera The Valkyrie (see Supplement, Example No. 3) the chief motive of which

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

is presented in every phase of modulatory and rhythmic development, and the middle portion of the Reconnaissance from Schumann's Carnaval (see Supplement, Example No. 4.)

Music, just because its substance is so elusive and requires such alert attention on the part of the listener, cannot continually present new material[17] without becoming diffuse; but instead, must make its impression by varied emphasis upon the main thought. Otherwise it would become so discursive that one could not possibly follow it. From these historical facts as to the structure of music certain inferences may be drawn; the vital importance of which to the listener can hardly be exaggerated. As polyphonic treatment (the imitation and interweaving of independent melodic lines) is the foundation of any large work of music, be it symphony, symphonic poem or string quartet, so the listener must acquire what may be called a polyphonic ear. For with the majority of listeners, the whole difficulty and the cause of their dissatisfaction with so-called "classic music" is merely lack of equipment. Everyone can hear the tune in the soprano or upper voice, for the intensity of pitch makes it stand out with telling effect; and, as a fact, many of the best tunes in musical literature are so placed. But how about the tune when it is in the bass as is the case so frequently in Beethoven's Symphonies or in Wagner's Operas? Some of the most eloquent parts of the musical message are, indeed, often in the bass, the foundation voice, and yet these are entirely ignored by the average listener. Then what of the inner voices; and what—most important of all—when there are beautiful melodies in all parts of the musical fabric, often sounding simultaneously, as in such well-known works as César Franck's Symphony in D minor and Wagner's Prelude to the Mastersingers! As we face these questions squarely the need for the listener of special training in alertness and concentration is self-evident. A very small proportion of those who attend a symphony concert begin to get their money's worth—to put the matter on a perfectly practical plane—for at least 50% of the musical structure is presented to ears without capacity for receiving it. In regard to any work of large dimensions the final test is this: can we sing all the themes and follow them in their polyphonic development? Then only are we really acquainted with the work; then only, in regard to personal like or dislike, have we any right to pass judgment upon it. The absurd attitude, far too common, of hasty, ill-considered criticism is illustrated by the fact that while Brahms is said to have worked for ten years on that Titanic creation, his First Symphony, yet persons will hear it once and have the audacity to say they do not like it. As well stroll through Chartres Cathedral and say they did not think much of it!

We must now speak of the two other manifestations of the principle of repetition. Fundamentally, to be sure, they are not connected with polyphonic music; the third type, in fact,—restatement after contrast—being instinctively worked out in the Folk-Song (as will be made plain later) and definitely ratified as a structural principle by the Italian opera composer Alessandro Scarlatti in the well-known Aria da capo. These further applications of the principle of imitation are Transposition, i.e., the repetition of the melodic outline, and often of the whole harmonic fabric, by shifting it up or down the scale; and the Restatement of the original melody after an intervening part in contrast, thus making a piece of music, the formula for which may be indicated by A, B, Á. Anyone at all familiar with musical literature must have observed both of these devices for securing coherence and organic unity; in fact, the principle of restatement after contrast is at the foundation of any large work, and supplies the connecting link between the structure of the Folk-Song and that of the most elaborate modern music. A convincing illustration of the use of Transposition may be found in Schumann's Arabesque,

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

and in the opening theme of Beethoven's Waldstein Sonata, op. 53.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

It was a favorite device of Beethoven to impress the main theme upon the hearer by definite repetitions on various degrees of the scale.[18] For an elaborate example of Transposition nothing can surpass the opening movement of César Franck's D Minor Symphony, the entire first part of which consists of a literal repetition in F minor of what has been previously announced in D minor.

Pieces of music which embody the principle of Restatement after Contrast are so numerous that the question is merely one of selecting the clearest examples. In the Folk-Songs of every nation, as soon as they had passed beyond the stage of a monotonous reiteration of some phrase which pleased the fancy, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

we find hardly one in which there is not a similarity between the closing measures and something which had gone before. (See Supplement, Example No. 5.) For the most elementary artistic experience would establish the fact that the only way to avoid a monotonous repetition of the same theme is to change to a different one. And the next step is equally axiomatic—that, presupposing the first theme gives pleasure on its initial appearance, it will be heard with heightened pleasure at its reappearance after intervening contrast. A psychological principle is herein involved which cannot be proved but which is self-justified by its own reasonableness and is further exemplified by many experiences in daily life. Sweet things taste the sweeter after a contrast with something acid; we like to revisit old scenes and to return home after a vacation. No delight is keener than the renewal of some aesthetic experience after its temporary effacement through a change of appeal.[19] This practice is associated with the inherent demand, spoken of above, for Variety in Unity. No theme is of sufficient import to bear constant repetition; in fact, the more eloquent it is, the more sated should we become if it were continued overlong. Monotony, furthermore, is less tolerable in music than in the other arts because music cuts deeper, because the ear is so sensitive an organ and because we have no way of shutting off sound. If a particular sight or scene displeases, we can close our eyelids; but the ear is entirely unprotected and the only way to escape annoying sounds is to take to flight.[20] We inevitably crave contrast, change of sensation; and nothing gives more organic unity than a return to whatever impressed us at the outset. This cyclic form of musical expression, early discovered through free experimentation, has remained the leading principle in all modern works, and—because derived directly from life and nature—must be permanent. We return whence we came; everything goes in circles. We can now understand still more the need of a strong and accurate memory; for if we do not know whether or not we have ever heard a theme, obviously the keen pleasure of welcoming it anew is lost to us. Furthermore, this principle of Restatement has in modern music some very subtle uses, and presupposes the acquisition of a real power of reminiscence. For example, Wagner's tone-drama of Tristan and Isolde begins with this haunting motive

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which, with its dual melodic lines, typifies the passionate love of the two chief characters in the story. After three hours or more of tragic action and musical development this motive is again introduced in the very closing measures of the drama, to show that even in the presence of transfiguring death this love is still their guiding power.

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For those who can appreciate the significance of such treatment, this reminiscence is one of the most sublime touches in all musical drama. The fascinating orchestral Scherzo of Richard Strauss's Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks likewise begins with a characteristic motto,

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which says, in the language of music—I now have a story to tell you of a certain freakish character; and then we are regaled with the musical portrayal of a series of Till's pranks. As an Epilogue, Strauss improvises on this opening theme as much as to say—you have listened to my musical story, now let us indulge in some reflections as to the fate of poor Till, for after all he was a good fellow. (See Supplement, Example No. 6.)

It is evident, therefore, from the foregoing examples that the basic principles of musical structure are coherence, refreshing variety and such unity of general impression as may be gained chiefly by a restatement, after contrast, of themes previously heard. Our subsequent study will simply illustrate these natural laws of music in their wider application.

CHAPTER II

THE FOLK-SONG

IN the preceding chapter we made some general inquiries into the nature of music and of those methods by which emotion and thought are expressed. We shall assume therefore that the following facts are established: that in music, by reason of the intangibility and elusiveness of the material, sound and rhythm, the principle of Unity in Variety is of paramount importance; and that the hearer, if he would grasp the message expressed by these sounds and rhythms, must make a conscious effort of coöperation and not be content with mere dreamy apathy. Furthermore, that Unity and Coherence are gained in music by applying the principle of systematic Repetition or Imitation. (We shall see, as we continue, how Variety has been secured by contrasting themes, by episodical passages and by various devices of rhythmic and harmonic development.)

We may now investigate the growth of musical structure and expression, as manifested in the fields of the Folk-Song and of Polyphonic music, beginning with the Folk-Song—historically the older and more elemental in its appeal. We cannot imagine the time when human beings did not use their voices in some form of emotional outpouring; and, as far back as there are any historical records, we find traces of such activity. For many centuries these rude cries of savage races were far removed from anything like artistic design, but the advance towards coherence and symmetry was always the result of free experimentation—hence vitally connected with the emotions and mental processes of all human effort. One of the most significant of the many sayings attributed to Daniel Webster is that "Sovereignty rests with the people"; and it is an interesting inquiry to see what wider application may be made of this statement in the field of art. For it is a fact that there has seldom been an important school of music, so-called—in any given place and period—which was not founded on the emotional traits, the aspirations and the ideals of the people. Surely one of the distinct by-products of the Great War is to be the emancipation of the art of music, along with that of all the other arts. Such a realization of its nature and powers will result that it shall no longer be a mere exotic amusement of the leisure and wealthy classes, but shall be brought into direct touch with the rank and file of the people; even, if you will, with the so-called "lower classes"—that part of humanity from which, indeed, it sprung and with which it really belongs—just human beings, just people. So in music also we may assert that "Sovereignty rests with the people." Although all art reflects popular sentiment to a certain extent, in no one of the arts—as painting, sculpture and architecture—is there such a vital record of the emotions and artistic instincts of humanity as we find in the realm of folk-song.[21] During the early period of Church music, while theorists and scholars were struggling with the intricate problems of polyphonic style, the people in their daily secular life were finding an outlet for their emotions, for their joys and sorrows, in song and in dance. This instinct for musical expression is universal, and just because the products of such activity were unfettered by rules, they exercised in process of time much influence upon the development of modern style. Folk-songs are characterized by a freshness and simplicity, a directness of utterance, which are seldom attained by the conscious efforts of genius. "Listen carefully to all folk-songs," says Schumann. "They are a storehouse of beautiful melody, and unfold to the mind the innate character of the different peoples." They are like wild flowers blooming unheeded by the wayside, the product of the race rather than the individual, and for centuries were only slightly known to cultivated musicians. It should be understood that words and music were inextricably bound together and that, with both, dancing was naturally associated; the very essence of a people's life being expressed by this tripartite activity. Tonal variety is a marked feature in folk-songs, many of them being in the old Gregorian modes, while others show a decided inclination to our modern major and minor scales. Great is the historical importance of Folk-music, because in it we see a dawning recognition of the principles of instrumental form, i.e., the need of balanced phrases, caused in the songs by the metrical structure of the words, and in the dances by the symmetrical movements of the body; a recognition above all, of the application of a definite system of tonal-centres, and of repetition after contrast. In fact, as we look back it is evident that the outlines of our most important design, that known as the Sonata Form are—in a rudimentary state—found in folk-music. Folk-melodies and rhythms play a large part in the music of Haydn, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Grieg, Tchaikowsky and Dvořák. It seems as if modern composers were doing for music what Luther Burbank has done for plant life; for by grafting modern thought and feeling on to the parent stock of popular music, they have secured a vigor attainable in no other way. Thus some of the noblest melodies of Brahms, Grieg, and Tchaikowsky are actual folk-tunes with slight variation or original melodies conceived in a folk-song spirit.[22]

As music, unlike the other arts, lacks any model in the realm of nature, it has had to work out its own laws, and its spontaneity and directness are the result. It has not become imitative, utilitarian or bound by arbitrary conventions. As Berlioz says in the Grotesques de la Musique: "Music exists by itself; it has no need of poetry, and if every human language were to perish, it would be none the less the most poetic, the grandest and the freest of all the arts." When we reach the centuries in which definite records are available, we find a wealth of folk-songs from the Continental nations: Irish, Scotch, English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, etc.[23] In these we can trace the transition from the old modes to our modern major and minor scales; the principles of tonality and of rudimentary modulation, the dividing of the musical thought into periodic lengths by means of cadential endings, the instinct for contrast and for the unity gained by restatement. No better definition of Folk-songs can be given than that of Parry in his Evolution of the Art of Music where he calls them "the first essays made by man in distributing his notes so as to express his feelings in terms of design." In folk-tunes this design has been dominated by the metrical phraseology of the poetic stanzas with which they were associated; for between the structure of melody and that of poetry there is always a close correspondence. In Folk-songs, therefore, we find a growing instinct for balanced musical expression and, above all, an application of the principle of Restatement after Contrast. The following example drawn from Irish Folk-music[24]—which, for emotional depth, is justly considered the finest in the world—will make the point clear.

THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS

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The statement is sometimes made that the principles of our modern system of tonality and of modulation are derived from Folk-music. This is only partially true, for pure Folk-songs always developed under the influence of the old medieval modes, long before the establishment of our fixed major and minor scales. Furthermore, as these were single unaccompanied melodies, they showed slight connection with modulation or change of key in the modern sense of the term—which implies a system of harmonization in several voices. It is true that there was an instinctive and growing recognition of the importance of the three chief tonal centres: the Tonic or Keynote, the Dominant (a perfect fifth above) and the Subdominant (a perfect fifth below) and at times the relative minor. All these changes are illustrated in the melody just cited; e.g., in the fourth measure[25] there is an implication of E minor, in measures seven and eight there is a distinct modulation to D major, the Dominant, and in the ninth measure to C major, the Subdominant. This acceptance of other tonal centres—distant a fifth from the main key-note—doubtless arose from their simplicity and naturalness, and was later sanctioned by acoustical law; the interval of a perfect fifth having one of the simplest ratios (2-3), and being familiar to people as the first overtone (after the octave) struck off by any sounding body—such as a bell or an organ pipe. The Venetian composers, notably Willaert, had also quite fully developed this principle of Tonic, Dominant and Subdominant harmony in order to give homogeneity to their antiphonal choruses. Even to-day these tonal centres are still used; for they are elemental, like the primitive colors of the spectroscope. But modulation, in the modern sense of a free shifting of the centre of gravity to any one of the twelve semitones of our chromatic scale, was not developed and accepted until after the acoustical reforms of Rameau, and the system of tuning keyed instruments embodied in that work called the Well-tempered Clavichord of Sebastian Bach. Both these men published their discoveries about the year 1720.

As we have just used the term modal, and since many Folk-songs in the old modes sound peculiar or even wrong (hence the preposterous emendations of modern editors!) because our ears can listen only in terms of the fixed major and minor scales, a few words of explanation concerning the nature of the medieval modes should here be given. Their essential peculiarity is the freer relationship of tones and semitones than is found in the definite pattern of our modern scales. It is of great importance that the music-lover should train himself to think naturally in these modes; for there has been a significant return to their freedom and variety on the part of such modern composers as Brahms, Tchaikowsky, Dvořák, d'Indy, Debussy and others, and some of their most individual effects are gained through the introduction of modal types of expression. The following modes are those most commonly employed in the formation of Folk-songs.

DORIAN

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PHRYGIAN

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LYDIAN

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MIXOLYDIAN

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AEOLIAN

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IONIAN

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The Dorian mode, at the outset, is identical with our modern minor scale; its peculiarity lies in the semitone between the 6th and 7th degrees and the whole tone between the 7th and 8th. An excellent example of a modern adaptation of this mode may be found in Guilmant's March for organ (see Supplement, Example No. 7). The mysterious opening measures of Debussy's opera Pelléas et Mélisande also owe their atmosphere to this mode, e.g.

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The Phrygian mode is one of the most individual to our modern ears with its first step a semitone and with the whole tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. Under the influence of harmonic development there was worked out a cadence, known as Phrygian, which is often found in modern music, e.g.

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The opening measures of the slow movement of Brahms's Fourth Symphony are an excellent example of a melody in the Phrygian mode, e.g.

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The contrast between these measures, with their archaic flavor, and the sudden change in measure four to the modern tonality of E major, is very striking. Bach's well-known choral, O Sacred Head now wounded also begins in the Phrygian mode, e.g.

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For a beautiful modern example of this Phrygian mode see the introduction to F.S. Converse's Dramatic Poem Job, for voices and orchestra.

The Lydian mode is identical with our major scale except for the semitone between the 4th and 5th degrees. That this change, however, gives a very characteristic effect may be seen in the passage by Beethoven from his String-Quartet op. 132—Song of Thanksgiving in the Lydian mode (see Supplement Ex. No. 8). The Mixolydian mode is also identical with our modern major scale except for the whole tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. This mode has had very slight usage in modern music; because, with the development of harmony,[26] the instinct became so strong for a leading tone (the 7th degree)—only a semitone distant from the upper tonic—that the original whole tone has gradually disappeared. The Aeolian Mode, mainly identical with our customary minor scale, has the characteristic whole tone between the 7th and 8th degrees. Examples of this mode abound in modern literature; two excellent instances being the first theme of the Finale of Dvořák's New World Symphony, e.g.,

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and the following passage from the Legend for à capella voices of Tchaikowsky, e.g.

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The Ionian mode corresponds exactly with our modern major scale, and the common people among all nations early showed a strong predilection for its use. The Church, in fact, because of this popularity with the people, named it the "modus lascivus" and prohibited its use in the ecclesiastical liturgy. One of the very earliest Folk-tunes extant—"Sumer is icumen in" (already referred to)—is in the Ionian mode and, according to Cecil Sharp,[27] the majority of English Folk-tunes are in this same mode.

We now cite a few typical folk-songs (taken from national sources) which, in their structure, show a natural instinct for balance of phrase and oftentimes for that organic unity of effect gained by restatement after contrast.

THE TRUE LOVERS’ FAREWELL

Old English

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The pattern of this song, in the Aeolian mode, is A, A, A, B. Unity is secured by the three-fold appearance of the first phrase; and a certain balance, by having the second phrase B twice as long (four measures) as A.

THE SHIP IN DISTRESS

Old English

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The formula of this characteristic song in the Dorian mode is A, A, B, A; merely an extension, through repetition, of the simple type A, B, A which, in turn, is the basis of the fundamental structure known as the three-part form. This will later be studied in detail. It is evident to the musical sense how complete a feeling of coherence is gained by the return to A after the intervening contrast of the phrase B; evident, also, that this song is a perfect example of the principle of unity combined with variety.

We further cite a few examples from Scottish, Irish, French, Hungarian and Russian sources. They all illustrate quaint melodic intervals and an instinct for balance and symmetry.

WANDERING WILLIE

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This song[28] expresses that note of pathos often found in Scottish folk-music and is noteworthy also because the lyric poet, Robert Burns, wrote for it words of which we give the first stanza.

WOULD GOD I WERE THE TENDER APPLE BLOSSOM

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This Irish tune[29] is certainly one of the most perfect that can be imagined, remarkable alike for its organic unity, gained by the frequent use of the first ascending motive, and for the manner in which the successive crises are reached. Note in particular the intensity of the final climax, in measure 13, attained by a repetition of the preceding phrase.

EN PASSANT PAR LA LORRAINE AVEC MES SABOTS

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This charming song[30] from Lorraine exemplifies that rhythmic vivacity and lightness of touch so characteristic of the French.

Observe the piquant effect, in the final phrase, produced by the elision of a measure; there being in the whole song 31 measures instead of the normal 32 (16 + 16).

Old Hungarian Folk-song

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Hungarian folk-music[31] is noted for its syncopated rhythm and its peculiar metric groupings. It is also often highly embroidered with chromatic notes; the Hungarian scale, with two augmented intervals, being an intensification of our minor mode, e.g.

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Russia is fortunate in her musical inheritance; for not only has she a wealth of folk-songs, but her famous composers, Balakireff, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakoff—who are men of letters as well—have published remarkable editions of these national melodies. The Russian folk-songs express, in general, a mood of sombreness or even depression—typical of the vast, bleak expanses of that country, and of its downtrodden people. These songs are usually in the minor mode—often with sudden changes of rhythm—and based on the old ecclesiastical modes, the Russian liturgy being very ancient and having an historical connection with that of the Greek church. The folk-music of no nation is more endowed with individuality and depth of emotion. Five characteristic examples are herewith cited:

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This last melody is of particular significance, because Tchaikowsky has used it so prominently in the Finale of his Fourth Symphony.

The growing interest in folk-music in America is a tendency concerning which the progressive student should inform himself. For a national basis of creative work, our country has always been at a disadvantage in comparison with nations which, as their birthright, have much music in their blood. Moreover, with the exception of the tunes of the aboriginal Indians and the plantation melodies of the Negroes, it has been asserted that America could boast no folk-songs. Recent investigations have shown, however, that this is not entirely true. Cecil Sharp, Henry Gilbert, Arthur Farwell and other musical scholars have proved that there are several regions of our country, settled by colonists from England, Ireland and Scotland, where folk-songs exist practically in the condition in which they were first brought over. One of the best collections of such material is the set of so-called Lonesome Tunes from the Kentucky Mountains, taken down by Miss Lorraine Wyman and Mr. Howard Brockway directly from the mountaineers and other dwellers in that region. These melodies have great individuality, directness and no little poetic charm. It is certainly encouraging to feel that, in this industrial age, there are still places where people express their emotions and ideals in song; for a nation that has not learned to sing—or has forgotten how—can never create music that endures.

CHAPTER III

POLYPHONIC MUSIC; SEBASTIAN BACH

WE have traced, in the preceding chapter, some of the fundamental principles of design in musical expression, as they were manifested in the Folk-music of the different nations. All music of this type was homophonic, i.e., a single melodic line, either entirely unaccompanied or with a slight amount of instrumental support. Hence however perfect in itself, it was necessarily limited in scope and in opportunity for organic development. Before music could become an independent art, set free from reliance on poetry, and could attain to a breadth of expression commensurate with the growth in other fields of art, there had to be established some principle of development, far more extensive than could be found in Folk-music. This principle[32] of "Thematic Development"—the chief idiom of instrumental music—by which a motive or a theme is expanded into a large symphonic movement, was worked out in that type of music known as the Polyphonic or many-voiced; and Polyphonic music became, in turn, the point of departure for our modern system of harmony, with its methods of key relationship and of modulation. As we have stated in [Chapter I], the principle of systematic repetition or imitation—first discovered and partially applied by the musicians[33] of the early French School and by the Netherland masters—finally culminated in the celebrated vocal works (à capella or unaccompanied) composed by Palestrina and his contemporaries for the Roman Catholic Liturgy. Up to this point the whole texture of music had been conceived in connection with voices; but with the development of the organ, so admirably suited for polyphonic style, and the perfection of the family of stringed instruments, the principles of polyphony were carried over and applied to instrumental treatment. The composer who, through his constructive genius, most fully embodied these principles[34] was John Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). We are now prepared to explain the characteristics of polyphonic music and then to analyze some typical examples from Bach and other polyphonic composers. The essential difference between homophonic and polyphonic style is implied by the terms themselves. When there is but one melody, the skill of the composer and the attention of the listener are concentrated upon this single melodic line; and even if there be an accompaniment, it is so planned that the chief melody stands out in relief against it. The pre-eminence of this chief melody is seldom usurped, although the accompaniment often has interesting features of its own. As soon as we have more than one melody (whether there be two, three or still others) all these voice-parts may be of coequal importance, and the musical fabric becomes an interwoven texture of a number of strands. The genius and skill of the composer is now expended on securing life and interest for each of these voices—soprano, alto, tenor, bass—which seem to be braided together; and thus a much more comprehensive attention is required of the listener. For instead of the single melody in the soprano, or upper voice, of the Folk-song, we now must listen consciously to the bass and to both of the inner voices.[35] Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon the recommendation that, in appreciating music, the first task is to train the ear to a wide range of listening. These differences in style are often apparent just as a pattern of design—to be seen from the following examples:

Homophonic Style. Irish Folk-Song

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Polyphonic Style. Bach: Fugue in C Minor

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In the latter example it is evident that there is an interweaving of three distinct melodic lines.

The polyphonic instrumental works of Bach and his contemporaries were called by such names as Preludes, Fugues, Canons, Inventions, Toccatas and Fantasies; but since a complete account of all these forms would lead too far afield, we shall confine ourselves to a description of the Canon, the Invention and the Fugue. A Canon (from the Greek Κανών, meaning a strict rule or law) is a composition in which there is a literal systematic imitation, carried out to the end, between two or more of the voices (often with subsidiary voices filling in), and may be considered a kind of musical dialogue in which the second, or answering, part reënforces the message previously uttered by the leading voice. This imitation may take place at any degree of separation; and Canons are in existence at the interval of the second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. The most effective Canons, however, are those in which the answering voice is an octave away from the leading one. Although the Canon is not a form employed frequently by modern composers for an entire composition, Canonic imitation appears so often in all large works for orchestra, string quartet or ensemble combinations, that the music-lover should acquire a certain ease in listening to a structure of this type. The Canon, moreover, is an integral factor in the style of César Franck, d'Indy and Brahms; and illustrations of its use abound in their works. The organ is particularly well suited to the rendition of Canons; since, by its facilities for tone-color, the two voices may be clearly contrasted. Those interested in organ literature should become acquainted with the following excellent examples: The Canon in B-flat major, op. 40, by Guilmant; the 4th movement of the Fifth Organ Symphony by Widor; the Canon in B minor, op. 54, by Schumann; the Canon in F-sharp major, op. 30, by Merkel, and the set of Ten Canonic studies, op. 12, by G.W. Chadwick. In other fields of composition the following should be cited: The set of Pianoforte Pieces in Canon form, op. 35, by Jadassohn; a like set by Rheinberger, op. 180; the Canonic Vocal Trios, op. 156, by Reinecke and the famous Canon from the first act of Beethoven's opera Fidelio. There is also a beautiful bit of Canonic imitation between two of the upper voices in the introduction of Berlioz's Carnaval Romain Overture for orchestra. One of the most appealing Canons in modern literature is the setting for soprano and barytone, by Henschel, of the poem Oh that we two were Maying by Charles Kingsley. This example alone would sufficiently corroborate the statement that the firmness of structure inherent in the canonic form is perfectly compatible with genuine freedom and poetry of inspiration. In the first movement of César Frank's Symphony in D minor, at the recapitulation (page 39 of the full score) may be found a magnificent example of the intensity of effect gained by a canonic imitation of the main theme—in this instance between the lower and upper voices. Possibly the finest example of canonic writing in all literature is the Finale of César Franck's Sonata in A major for Violin and Pianoforte in which, for several pages, there is an eloquent dialogue between the two contrasting instruments. The movement is too long for citation but it should certainly be procured and studied. In the Trio of the Scherzo in Beethoven's Seventh Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte there is a free use of canonic imitation which will repay investigation. Lastly, the Aria with 30 Variations—the so-called Goldberg Variations of Bach—is a perfect storehouse of every conceivable canonic device.

A few standard examples are to be found in the Supplement. These should be played over and studied until they are thoroughly familiar—not only for the pleasure to be derived, but for the indispensable training afforded in polyphonic listening.

Ex. No. 9 Canon by Thomas Tallys (1510-1585).

Ex. No. 10 Canonic Variation by Schumann from the Études Symphoniques.

Ex. No. 11 of Bach's Goldberg Variations.

Ex. No. 12 Canon in B-flat minor, op. 38, Grieg.

Ex. No. 13 Canon in F-sharp major, op. 35, Jadassohn.

One of the most simple and direct types of polyphonic composition is the form known as the Invention in which, as the term implies, the composer—through his inventive genius and by means of the polyphonic devices of imitation and transposition—develops to a logical conclusion some short and characteristic motive. We are fortunate in having from Bach himself, that consummate master of polyphony, two sets of such Inventions: fifteen for two voices, and fifteen for three. These flights of fancy—in which art so subtly conceals art—though originally composed for the clavichord and harpsichord (the precursors of the pianoforte), are very effective on our modern instrument and should be in the possession of every music-student.[36] A brief analysis is now given of the first one in the set for two voices, and Nos. 4, 8 and 10 in this set are particularly recommended for study; also Nos. 2, 6 and 14 among those for three voices. The opening motive

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is the foundation of the entire composition and is at once imitated, canonically, in the lower voice. Then the two voices play about, with figures clearly derived from the motive, until we reach, in measures three and four, a systematic downward transposition of the material. Such transpositions or shiftings up or down in pitch are called Sequences. They are very frequent in all polyphonic composition, give a strong sense of unity to melodic progression and are generally carried out in groups of three, i.e., the original figure and two repetitions. After the sequence the music naturally works toward the most nearly related key (the dominant) and in the seventh measure reaches in that key its first objective. These Inventions of Bach, as well as the Dance forms soon to be studied, are almost invariably in what is known as Two-part form, i.e., the music consists of two main divisions, clearly marked off by cadences[37]; the first of which modulates to the dominant or some related key while the second part, starting in this key, works back to a final close in the home key. In Inventions it early became customary in the second part to begin with the same motive as the first—but in the opposite voice. Thus we see, in the Invention now being discussed, that the seventh measure begins with the original motive in the bass which, in turn, is imitated by the Soprano—a process just the reverse of that in the opening measures.

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In pieces in this Two-part form the second portion is generally longer than the first; for the composer, by the time he has reached this second part, may consider the material sufficiently familiar to be expanded and varied by excursions into more remote keys, and by more intricate manipulations of the chief motive. In measure 11 we find a modulation to D minor and then, after some free treatment of the motive, we reach—in measure 15—a cadence in A minor. A long sequential passage brings us, through a modulation to the subdominant key of F major (in measures 18 and 19), to a strong closing cadence in the home key. It should be noticed that in this Invention and in some of the dance forms there is shown a strong leaning towards a tripartite division of the material as is indicated by the three cadences in measures 7, 15 and 22. Since, however, the middle part is lacking in any strong contrast—which is such an essential factor in the fully developed three-part form—it seems better to consider this piece, and others like it, as a tendency rather than as a complete embodiment of tripartite arrangement. It is expected that the music lover will take these Inventions for what they really are and not search in them for those notes of intense subjectivity and dramatic power so prevalent in modern music. They are merely little pieces—a "tour de force" in polyphonic ingenuity; music rejoicing in its own inherent vitality. Accepted in this spirit they are invigorating and charming.

The form in which polyphonic skill reaches its highest possibilities is the Fugue; and the immortal examples of this form are the Fugues of John Sebastian Bach, found in his Well-tempered Clavichord and in his mighty works for the organ. The fundamental structure of a fugue is implied in the term itself (from the Latin "fuga"—flight); that is, in a fugue the main theme or subject is always announced in a single voice, and the remaining voices, appearing successively in accordance with definite principles of key-relationship, seem to chase each other about and to flee from pursuit. The several stratified entrances of the subject are relieved by intermediate passages called "Episodes." An Episode, as shown by the derivation (ἰπί ὁδός, by the way), is something off the beaten path—a digression; and it is in these episodical portions of a fugue rather than in the formalistic portions that the genius of the composer shines forth. This is especially true of Bach, for almost any well-trained musician can invent a subject which will allow of satisfactory fugal treatment according to accepted usage; but no one save Bach has ever invented such free and fanciful episodes—so daring in scope and yet so closely connected with the main thought. The general effect of a fugue is cumulative: a massing and piling up of voices that lead to a carefully designed conclusion which, in some of Bach's organ fugues, is positively overwhelming. A fugue may be called a mighty crescendo, like the sound of many waters. There is a popular conception, or rather misconception, that a fugue is a labored, dull or even "dry" form of composition, meant only as an exhibition of pedantic skill, and quite beyond the reach of ordinary musical appreciation. Nothing is farther from the truth, as a slight examination of musical literature will show. For we see that the fugal form has been used to express well-nigh every form of human emotion, the sublime, the tragic, the romantic; very often the humorous and the fantastic. When we recall the irresistible sparkle and dash of Mozart's Magic Flute Overture, of the Overture to the Bartered Bride by Smetana, of the Finale of Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, and of many of the fugues in the Well-tempered Clavichord, it is evident that to call a fugue "dry" is an utter abuse of language. It is true that there are weak, artificial and dull fugues, where the composer—frankly—had nothing to say and merely filled out the form; but the same may be said of every type of composition, i.e., among them all are examples inspired and—less inspired. This, however, is no indictment of the fugue per se, against which the only thing to be said is that it requires on the part of the listener an exceeding concentration. Some of the masterpieces of the world being wholly or partially in the fugal form, it is the duty of those listening to polyphonic music to train their powers to the same seriousness of attention expected and freely given in the appreciation of an oration, a drama or a cathedral. These latter manifestations of artistic expression, to be sure, are less abstract than the fugue and more closely related to daily life. Yet no effort is more repaying than the mental and emotional energy expended in listening to the interweavings of a good fugue; for, conscious of missing the periodic divisions of the Folk-song, we have to listen to more than one melody at a time. A fugue being a composition, as the French say, of "longue haleine," our attention, in order to follow its structure, must be on the "qui vive" every moment. The fugue, in fact, is an example of the intricate and yet organic complexity found in all the higher forms of life itself; and whenever a composer has wished to dwell with emphasis on a particular theme, he almost invariably resorts to some form of fugal treatment, strict or free. The most effective media for rendering fugues are the chorus of mixed voices, the organ (by reason of its pedal key-board always making the subject in the bass stand out majestically) and the stringed orchestra which, with the "bite" of the strings, brings out—with peculiar sharpness—the different entrances of the subject. The student should become familiar with standard examples in each of these classes and should, above all, seek opportunity to hear some of the organ fugues of Bach performed on a really fine instrument. A few well-known fugues are herewith cited in order to stimulate the student to some investigation of his own. In all the Oratorios of Handel and in the choral works of Bach, such as the B minor Mass, may be found magnificent fugues—as free and vital in their rhythmic swing as the ocean itself. Particular attention should be called to the fugue in the Messiah "And by His stripes we were healed." One of the most impressive fugues in modern literature is the à capella chorus Urbs Syon Unica from H.W. Parker's Hora Novissima. From among the organ works of Bach everyone should know the Fugues in G minor, in A minor, in D major[38] and the Toccata and Fugue in D minor. These have all been transcribed for the pianoforte by Liszt and so are readily available; they are often played at pianoforte recitals by Paderewski and other virtuosi. In hearing one of these masterpieces no one can remain unmoved or can fail to reverence the constructive genius which fashioned such cathedrals in tone. For orchestra we have the Prelude to Puccini's opera Madama Butterfly, and the beginning of the Prelude to the third act of Wagner's Mastersingers. There are striking fugal passages in Beethoven's Symphonies, e.g., the first movement of the Heroic Symphony and the rollicking Trio of the Scherzo in the Fifth Symphony. In more modern literature there is the fugal Finale to Arthur Foote's Suite for Orchestra and in Chadwick's Vagrom Ballad a humorous quotation of the theme from Bach's G minor Fugue for organ. One of the most superb fugues in free style is the last movement of César Franck's Prelude, Choral and Fugue in B minor for Pianoforte. This movement alone would refute all charges of dullness or dryness brought against the fugue by the unthinking or the unenlightened. A good fugue, in fact, is so full of vitality and demands such active comprehension[39] on the part of the listener that it is not difficult to imagine where the dullness and dryness are generally found.

At this point by an analysis of a fugue from the Well-tempered Clavichord, let us explain some of the technical features in fugal structure. We shall then be in a position to understand the more subtle devices of fugal treatment and to appreciate more enthusiastically some additional comments upon Bach's style in general.

Fugue in E-flat Major, No. VII, in the First Book.

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This fugue in three voices begins with a graceful subject, announced in the upper voice. In the third measure this is answered by an imitation of the subject in the alto; while the opening voice continues with a contrasting part called the counter-subject.[40] As the whole subsequent fabric is organically derived from these two motives, both subject and counter-subject should be played frequently and so committed to memory. Observe also the contrasts in rhythm and melodic outline between the subject and counter-subject. In measures 4 and 5 we have a short sequential passage leading, in measure 6, to the third entry of the subject in the bass. Then after another sequential passage, which includes an emphatic assertion of the subject in the soprano (measures 11 and 12), we enter upon a long episode which leads, at measure 17, to our first objective point of rest—a cadence in C minor. With the entry, in this measure, of the subject in the alto we have an interesting example of what is termed "shifted rhythm;" the subject beginning on the third beat instead of the first, as at the outset. In the middle portion of the fugue we have two appearances of the subject in the related keys of C minor (measures 17 and 18) and G minor (measures 20 and 21). Then, following two very vigorous sequences, a modulatory return is made to the subject in the home key, and with its normal rhythm at measure 26. A repetition, in more brilliant form, of one of the previous episodes, in measures 31 and 32, gives a strong impression of unity; leading in measures 34 and 35 to a last appearance of the subject, with a beautiful change in one of the intervals (E-flat-G-flat). The closing measures establish the main tonality of E-flat major, rendered still more expressive by the counterpoint associated with the last chord. As to the general structure of this fugue, it is evidently tripartite, the first part A presenting the material, the second part B affording variety by modulating into different keys, and the third part A´ reasserting the material of A and bringing the composition to a logical close in the home key. (See Supplement Ex. No. 15.)

We should now acquaint ourselves with the more subtle devices of fugal treatment; although but one of these is employed in the fugue just studied, which is comparatively simple in structure. I. Inversion; the melodic outline is turned upside down while identity is retained by means of the rhythm, e.g.

Bach: 3rd English Suite

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An excellent example from an orchestral work is the theme of the third movement of Brahms's C minor Symphony, the second phrase of which is an Inversion of the opening measures, e.g.

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II. Augmentation and Diminution; the length of the notes is doubled or halved while their metrical relativity is maintained, e.g.

Bach: Fugue No. 8, Book I

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Bach: Fugue No. IX, Book II

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Augmentation is very frequent in modern literature when a composer, by lengthening out the phraseology of a theme, wishes to gain for it additional emphasis. Excellent examples are the closing measures of Schumann's Arabesque, in which the reminiscence of the original motto is most haunting, e.g.,

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the Finale of Liszt's Faust Symphony, where the love theme of the Gretchen movement is carried over and intoned by a solo baritone with impressive effect, e.g.

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Das ewig Weibliche

III. Shifted Rhythm; the position of the subject in the measure is so changed that the accents fall on different beats, e.g.

Bach: Fugue No. V, Book II

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IV. Stretto; (from the Italian verb "stringere," to draw close) that portion of a fugue, often the climax, where the entrances are crowded together, i.e., the imitating voice enters before the leading voice has finished, e.g.

Fuga giocosa, J.K. Paine, op. 41

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The effect is obviously one of great concentration and dramatic intensity—with a sense of impending climax—and its use is by no means limited to fugal composition; being frequently found in all large symphonic works of the classic and modern school. For a magnificent example of the climactic effect produced by a Stretto, witness the last part of Bach's Fugue in G major (see Supplement, Ex. No. 16).

Although there is considerable complexity in any complete fugue, and although it requires great concentration on the part of the listener, we should avoid thinking of the form as mechanical in any derogatory sense, but rather as a means to a definite artistic end. Certainly no greater mistake can be made than that of considering Bach, the supreme master of polyphonic writing, as too austere, too involved, for the delight and edification of every-day mortals. Bach means brook, and the name[41] is most appropriate; for Bach is a never ceasing stream of musical life, the fountain-head from which spring the leading tendencies of modern music. In these days when stress is laid on the romantic element in music, on warm emotional appeal, it is well to consider the quality so prevalent in Bach of spiritual vitality. Exactly because the romantic element represents the human side of music, it is subject to the whims of fashion and is liable to change and decay. Bach carries us into the realm of universal ideas, inexhaustible and changeless in their power to exalt. Schumann says that "Music owes to Bach what a religion owes to its founder"; and it is true that a knowledge of Bach is the beginning of musical wisdom. By some, Bach is considered dry or too reserved for companionship with ordinary human beings. Others carelessly assert that he has no melody. Nothing can be further from the truth than these two misconceptions. Bach surely is not dry, because his work abounds in such vitality of rhythm. As Parry says, in his biography, "No composer ever attained to anything approaching the spontaneity, freshness, and winsomeness of his dances, such as the gavottes, bourrées, passepieds and gigues in the suites; while many of his great choruses and instrumental fugues are inspired with a force of rhythmic movement which thrills the hearer with a feeling of being swept into space out of the range of common things." The charge of a lack of melody is the same which used to be brought against Wagner. Instead of there being no melody, it is all melody, so that the partially musical, who lack the power of sustained attention, are drowned in the flood of melodic outpouring. A strong claim, in fact, may be made for Bach as a popular composer in the best sense of the term. Many of his colossal works, to be sure, are heard but seldom, for they require the most highly trained executive ability. But if the average music-lover will become familiar with the French and English Suites, with the Preludes and Fugues of the Well-tempered Clavichord, with some of the Violin Sonatas, he will find for his imagination and mental machinery a food which, once enjoyed, becomes indispensable. For his music has that greatest of qualities in art as in human relationships—it wears well and lasts. We all know that books which reveal everything at a first reading are soon thrown aside, and that people whose depth of character and sweetness of disposition we discern but slowly, often become our life-long friends. Music which is too easily heard is identical with that which is immediately forgotten. The first impulse created by any great work of art is our longing to know it better. Its next attribute is its power to arouse and hold our steady affection. These observations may be applied literally to Bach's music, which can be heard for a lifetime, never losing its appeal but continually unfolding new beauties. Furthermore, in Bach, we feel the force of a great character even more than the artistic skill with which the personality is revealed. In this respect Bach in music is quite on a par with Shakespeare in literature and Michael Angelo in plastic art. With many musicians, there is so disconcerting and inexplicable a discrepancy between their deeds as men and the artistic thoughts for which they seem to be the unconscious media, that it is inspiring to come into touch with one who rings true as a man whatever demands are made upon him; whose music is free from morbidity or carnal blemish, as pure as the winter wind, as elemental as the ocean, as uplifting as the stars. In Bach let us always remember the noble human traits; for the universal regard in which his work is held could never have come merely from profound skill in workmanship, but is due chiefly to the manly sincerity and emotional depth which are found therein. The revival of his works, for which the world owes to Mendelssohn such a debt, has been the single strongest factor in the development of music during the 19th century; and their influence[42] is by no means yet at an end, as may be seen from the glowing tributes paid to him by such modern composers as Franck, d'Indy and Debussy.[43]

Two additional fugues are now given in the Supplement (see Nos. 17 and 18) for the consideration of the student: the Cat-Fugue of Domenico Scarlatti, with its fantastic subject (said to have been suggested by the walking of a favorite cat on the key-board) and the Fuga Giocosa of John Knowles Paine, (the subject of which is the well-known street-tune "Rafferty's lost his pig"). This latter example is not only a brilliant piece of fugal writing but a typical manifestation of American humor.

Several eulogies of the fugue are to be found in literature; three of the most famous are herewith appended.

Throughout, a most fantastic description of fugal style.

"Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite cathedral to its agony; then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ which as yet had but sobbed and muttered at intervals—gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense—threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and antichoir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying Trumpeter! with thy love which was victorious, and thy anguish that was finishing, didst enter the tumult; trumpet and echo—farewell love and farewell anguish—rang through the dreadful Sanctus."

—From De Quincey's [Dream Fugue in the "Vision of Sudden Death]."

Truly a marvellous picture of the effect of a fugue in a great medieval cathedral!

CHAPTER IV

THE MUSICAL SENTENCE

BEFORE passing on to an explanation of the fundamental types of musical structure, we must give some idea of the constituent parts of the Period in music. Every art has its units of expression: the straight line, the curve, the arch, the poetic stanza and the prose sentence. Just as poetry and prose are a series of stanzas or sentences, so a musical composition is a succession of definitely organized portions of thought and emotion, in terms of rhythm and sound. In the heart of a composition, to be sure, we often find a great freedom in the phraseology, comparable to blank verse or to a rhapsodic kind of prose; but with few exceptions, such as a Fantasie, every composition always begins with one or two periods which, in regard to subdivision, balance and directness of statement, are carefully planned and are complete in themselves. Before it is possible to follow intelligently the structure of a musical sentence we must gain a clear idea of what is meant by the frequently used terms Tonality and Modulation. Since the evolution and acceptance of our three modern scales:[44] the major, the minor and the chromatic—which gained their sanction chiefly through the investigations and compositions of Bach and Rameau—every melody and the accompanying harmony are said to be in a certain "tonality" (or "key") which takes its name from the first tone of the scale in question, e.g., C, E-flat, F sharp, etc. Hence this first tone is called the Tonic or chief tone and from it ascend the other tones of the scale. That is, a melody in E-flat major will employ only those tones found in the scale of E-flat major, and is said to be in that "key," or "tonality." The same would be true of the harmony involved, i.e., the chords would consist of combinations of the different tones of this scale. When a melody, as is often the case, employs tones not found in the scale in question, these are called chromatic[45] changes, and may or may not effect a "modulation" or departure into another key, e.g.

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The most important means of gaining unity and coherence in a composition is to have it written in a clearly defined tonality, especially at the outset. This definite tonality is the "centre of gravity," so to speak, about which the whole composition revolves. If this tonal centre were uncertain or wandering, we should have a feeling of vagueness and perplexity which, except for special dramatic effect, is never found in works of the great composers. Thus we speak of a Symphony in C minor, of a Quartet in F major and of a Sonata in B-flat minor;[46] this foundation key being comparable to the basic color-scheme of a painting. There is also a particular aesthetic effect and color-appeal associated with each key; and the listener should train himself to be sensitive to the brilliance of such keys as D major and E major, the richness of B major, the dignity of E-flat major, the almost cloying sweetness of D-flat major and of G-flat major and the tragic depth of B minor and G minor. No piece, however, should remain for long in the same key; for music cuts so deeply into the consciousness that there would result an intolerable monotony.[47] Even in the simplest folk-songs, therefore, we often find manifested an instinct for those changes of tonal centre which are technically called "Modulations." All the keys founded on the twelve semitones of the chromatic scale are related—though in varying degrees of closeness; and in modern music, no matter how complex the modulations often sound, we may be sure that the composer plans them as carefully as the painter adjusts his color-scheme. For definite acoustical[48] and harmonic reasons, however, the keys most closely related to a given tonal centre are those situated a perfect fifth above—the Dominant; a perfect fifth below—the Subdominant; and the Relative Minor, the key-note of which is a minor third below, e.g., A minor in relation to C major, C minor to E-flat major. The relative minors of the Dominant and Subdominant also bear a close relationship to a given tonic; and into these five keys is made a large majority of the modulations in any piece of music.[49]

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Beginning with Beethoven, a modulation into what are known as the mediant keys became frequent; and is, in fact, a favorite change in all modern music—the mediant keys being those situated half-way between a Tonic and Dominant or a Tonic and Subdominant, e.g.

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Anyone at all familiar with Beethoven's style will remember how often his second theme, instead of following the more conventional line of dominant relationship, is in a mediant key. Good examples may be found in the first movement of the Waldstein Sonata and in the first and last movements of the 8th Symphony. A little thought will make clear that the relationships just set forth include nearly all the possible ones save those of 2nds and 7ths. Even into these apparently distant keys, e.g., to D-flat major or to B major from C major, modulations may easily be made by means of the "enharmonic"[50] relationship found in that frequently used modern chord—the Augmented Sixth, e.g.

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Next to rhythm, modulation is the most stimulating and enchanting element in music. No composition of any scope can be considered truly great unless it abounds in beautiful modulations. Certain composers, to be sure, have in this respect more genius than others—notably Schubert, Chopin, Wagner and Franck whose music seems to waft us along on a magic carpet of delight. But just as Unity depends upon a definite basic tonality, so Variety is gained by this very freedom of modulation. Without it is monotony; with too much modulation, an irritating restlessness. By the perfect balance in his works of these two related elements a genius may be definitely recognized.

The simplest and on the whole most frequent type of musical sentence or period consists of eight measures, subdivided into two balancing phrases of four measures[51] each—the component parts plainly indicated by various cadences and endings soon to be explained. These four-measure phrases are often, though not invariably, still further subdivided into two sections of two measures each. Let us now corroborate these statements by an examination of the opening sentence of the Scherzo of Beethoven's Second Sonata for Pianoforte. This concise sentence is an epitome of the chief principles of organic musical expression. At the outset[52] we see the leading motive, which consists of an ascending broken chord twice repeated. We see also

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the first phrase of 4 measures and the second phrase[53] of similar length, alike subdivided into two sections of 2 measures each. In the third measure we find a modulation into the dominant key (indicated by the D-sharp) and in the fourth measure a cadence with a feminine ending in this key. The second—or after—phrase corresponds exactly to what has gone before: we have the same repetition of the motive in a different part of the scale; and finally, in the 8th measure, a cadence in the home key, also with feminine ending.

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When the sentence is played, it is evident how unsatisfactory would be the effect if a complete stop were attempted at the 4th measure; and how symmetrical and convincing is the impression when the eight measures are considered an unbroken sweep of musical thought.[54] There are, in fact, a few complete compositions in musical literature which contain but a single sentence of eight measures. As an example may be cited the song from Schumann's Lieder Album für Jugend, op. 79, No. 1. (See Supplement No. 19.) For purposes of practical appreciation[55] it is enough to state that a cadence is an accepted combination of chords (generally the tonic, dominant and subdominant) which indicates that some objective, either temporary or final, has been reached. When the dominant chord or any dominant harmony is immediately followed by the tonic the cadence is called perfect or final, and may be compared to a period in punctuation, e.g.

A reversal of this order produces what is called the half-cadence, akin to the semicolon, e.g.

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The union of the subdominant and tonic chords is known as the Plagal Cadence, e.g.,

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and always gives a feeling of religious dignity and impressiveness. Magnificent examples may be found in the closing measures of Wagner's Overture to the Mastersingers and of Brahms' First Symphony in C minor. In the final cadence of Debussy's humorous piece for pianoforte, Minstrels, the effect is burlesqued, e.g.

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When dominant harmony is followed by some unexpected chord we have the so-called Deceptive Cadence, which is not unlike the mark of interrogation (?) or even exclamation (!) e.g.

Wagner: Overture to the Mastersingers

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Tchaikowsky: 5th Symphony

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This last cadence gives an effect of dramatic surprise—certainly an exclamation of great force. One of the glories of modern music is the daring novelty of cadential effect which has been achieved by such composers as Franck, Debussy and Ravel; the student should try to become more and more familiar with such harmonic combinations. A beautiful example[56] is cited from César Franck's Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte.

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The two endings for phrases are classified as Masculine and Feminine and they correspond exactly to the same effects in the metre of a poetic stanza. When the second chord of the cadence, whatever it may be, coincides with a strong beat, i.e., the first beat of the measure, the ending is Masculine, e.g.

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When the chord is carried over to a weak beat of the measure the ending is Feminine, e.g.

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We now give two more examples of the eight measure Sentence which clearly exemplify the principles just stated, e.g.

Beethoven: 3rd Sonata

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In this vigorous and clear-cut sentence we find in the 4th measure an effect of surprise and suspense; for the chord on the first beat is an inverted position of the dominant chord in the dominant key. Both the endings are masculine, i.e., the chords which end the phrases coincide with the strong beats.

Beethoven: 1st Sonata

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This graceful sentence is noteworthy for the clear division of the first phrase into two contrasting sections; whereas, in the second phrase, a climactic effect is gained by having no marked subdivision. In the fourth measure occurs a good example of a half-cadence. All the endings are feminine, i.e., the cadential chord occurs on a weak beat of the measure.[57]

Music, however, would be very rigid and would seem measured off with a yard-stick if the sentences were equally of eight measures. The "sing-song" effect of much so-called popular music is due to the stereotyped metrical pattern. You can always tell just where and how you are coming out. In order to gain a free and elastic phraseology, composers early began to combine three four-measure phrases into a twelve measure sentence. It is obvious that with three phrases there can be more subtle effects of contrast and balance than with two, as the following chart makes plain:

Beethoven: 6th Sonata

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In this sentence it is evident that we cannot stop at the 8th measure and that our first definite conclusion is in measure 12. Let the student observe the varied melodic outline in the three phrases, and question himself as to the types of cadence and ending.

Minuetto of Beethoven’s First Sonata.[58]

In this beautifully constructed twelve-measure sentence we have the main motive of the entire movement set forth in measures 1 and 2; then a contrasting secondary motive in measures 3 and 4. The second four-measure phrase, i.e., measures 5, 6, 7 and 8, repeats the material exactly, but with a modulation into the relative major. In measures 9 and 10 we find the secondary motive appearing in the alto voice (which should be brought out in performance), and in measures 11 and 12 a free ending in the relative major. The closing measures, 13 and 14, give an echo-like effect, which will be explained when we come to extended sentences. Such a sentence is not to be considered as one of 14 measures, although the literal counting gives that number; for the first complete cadence occurs in the 12th measure at the end of the third four-measure phrase; the remaining measures being supplementary.[59]

The last type of simple, normal sentence is that of 16 measures, divided into 4 phrases of 4 measures each. A clear distinction must be drawn between two successive sentences of 8 measures and the long sweep of a genuine 16 measure sentence. In the latter case there is no complete and satisfactory stop until we reach the cadence in the 16th measure.

First Sentence of the First Movement of the Twelfth Sonata.

No difficulty will be found in following the cadences and endings of this sentence, the long-drawn out lines of which give an impression of repose and tranquillity. Two more excellent examples of 16 measure sentences may be found in the Adagio of the Fifth Sonata, and in the Scherzo of the Third; the latter movement is remarkable for the polyphonic treatment of the opening motive.

Although the three types of sentence just studied, i.e., of 8, 12 and 16 measures are the normal ones, and would include a majority of all sentences—especially in smaller works—in large compositions there would be an unendurable monotony and rigidity were there invariably to be cadential pauses at every 4th measure. We all know the deadening effect of poetry which has too great uniformity of metric pattern; and verses of "The boy stood on the burning-deck" type are considered thoroughly "sing-song." It is obvious that elasticity may be gained, without disturbing the normal balance, by expanding a sentence through the addition of extra measures, or contracting it by the logical omission of certain measures or by the overlapping of phrases.

The simplest and most common means of enlarging a sentence is by the extension, or repetition, of the final cadence—that effect which is so frequent in the chamber and symphonic music of Haydn, and which has its comic manifestation in the so-called "crescendo" of the Rossini Operatic Overture.[60]

Haydn: Quartet, op. 74, No. 2

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As Haydn was an important pioneer in freeing instrumental structure from dependence on the metre of words, his periods are always clearly organized; the closing measures of this example seem, as it were, to display a flag, telling the listener that the first breathing-place is reached. Very often both the fore-phrase and the after-phrase have cadential prolongations, an example of which may be found in Haydn's Quartet, op. 71, No. 3. The two following illustrations (the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth Sonata and the third movement of the Fourth) furnish remarkable examples of extended 16 measure sentences; each sentence being normal and symmetrical at the outset and then, as the fancy of the composer catches fire, expanding in a most dramatic fashion. Sometimes the additional measures, in an extended sentence, are found at the start; a clear example of this is the first sentence (with its repeated opening measure) of the Largo of the Seventh Sonata. Sentences are also often expanded by the insertion of one or more measures in the middle of the phrase, e.g., the beginning of the first movement of the Seventh Sonata and the corresponding place in the Fourth. In the former sentence the first phrase is perfectly regular, but as we reach our final cadence only in the tenth measure, we must account for some additional measures. The polyphonic imitation of the descending motive of measure 5 makes clear that this measure has two repetitions. In the latter case we reach the end of the sentence in the 17th measure and careful counting, and consideration of the melodic outline, will convince us that the 9th measure, emphasized by the sf mark, is repeated.

When an extra measure is systematically introduced into each phrase of 4 measures we have what is known as "five-bar rhythm"—so prevalent in the works of Schubert and Brahms.

Schubert: Sonata in E♭ major

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Brahms: Ballade in G minor

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As everyone is familiar with the latter composition, only the melody is cited. This propulsion of the mind forward beyond the accustomed point of rest always produces a stimulating rhythmic effect.[61]

The normal phraseology of four and eight measures is altered at times by the omission of certain measures. This often takes place at the beginning of the sentence, as may be seen from the structure of the so-called Anglican chant, familiar to all Protestants, e.g.

Savage

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The beginning of Mozart's Overture to Figaro is also well known, e.g.

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The elision of a measure often takes place in the middle of a phrase as may be seen from the theme of Mendelssohn's familiar Spring-Song.

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Just as in the case of the systematic insertion of an extra measure, which produces "five-bar rhythm," so when a measure is omitted in each phrase which would usually consist of four measures, we have "three-bar rhythm." This gives an effect of great concentration and intensity and is a prevalent feature in Scottish and Hungarian folk-music, e.g.

Scotch

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Hungarian

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Additional examples of three-bar rhythm may be found in the Scherzo of Beethoven's Tenth Sonata and in the Minuet of Mozart's G minor Symphony—the latter, one of the most striking examples in literature.

When a measure is systematically omitted from the normal structure of the 8 measure sentence we have "seven-bar rhythm"; of which beautiful examples may be found in the Scherzo of Beethoven's Sonata in B-flat major, op. 106, and in Mozart's Quartet in F major, No. 23. As these examples are readily accessible they are not quoted. The humorous effect produced, in the Beethoven example, by the unexpected elision of the 7th measure is very marked.

Flexibility in the structure of a sentence is often gained by what is known as "overlapping"[62] of phrases, i.e., where the closing measure of a sentence, the 8th or 12th for example, is identical with the first measure of the following phrase. A clear example is this passage from the first movement of Beethoven's Third Sonata, e.g.

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As the principles of sentence-formation are closely involved with the general subject of rhythm, something must be known about the number of beats within the measure itself. While it is true that we Anglo-Saxons tend to think in terms of 2 and 3 or their multiples, i.e., our customary measures consist of 2 or 4 beats or of 3, 6, 9 and 12, in modern music—particularly that of other races (the Slavs, Hungarians, etc.)—we often find measures with 5 and 7 beats and even phrases containing a mixture of rhythms. Three excellent examples of compositions with measures of 5 beats each are the Slow Movement of Chopin's Sonata in C minor, op. 4, the F-sharp major portion of d'Indy's Symphonic Variations, Istar, and the second movement of Tchaikowsky Sixth Symphony, e.g.

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A delightful example of a melody with 7 beats a measure is the Andante Grazioso of Brahms's Trio in C minor, op. 101—the result undoubtedly of his well-known fondness for Hungarian music, e.g.

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The following theme from Tchaikowsky's Quartet in F major, notwithstanding the time signature, certainly gives the effect of a long, seven-beat measure, e.g.

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Those who wish to do a little investigating of their own in the field of modern music will find interesting examples of 5/4 and 7/4 metres in Ravel's Daphnis and Chloe, in d'Indy's Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte and in the Ballet music of Stravinsky.

We even find passages where, for special effect, the usual beats are elided or extra beats inserted. Schumann was one of the most daring experimenters in this respect and such fantastic effects are frequent in his pianoforte works—notably in the Carnaval, op. 9, and in the Phantasiestücke, op. 12, e.g.

Schumann: Carnaval

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With reference to all the foregoing principles and comments the music-lover is cautioned against the assumption that music, from the standpoint of the composer or the listener, is merely a matter of mechanical counting; or that the "swing" of music is as regular as that of a sewing-machine. But, as order is Heaven's first law, it is true that music tends to move in definite, symmetrical groups; and where departure is made from this practise the effect is one most carefully planned. The matter deserves earnest consideration, for, in what is known as the "rhythmical sense," Americans—as a people, in comparison with foreign nations—are still woefully deficient. As rhythm is the basic element in all music, there is nothing in which the listener should more definitely train his faculties than in intelligent coöperation with the freedom of the composer.

CHAPTER V

THE TWO-PART AND THREE-PART FORMS

NOW that a clear insight has been gained into the formation of the normal sentence, we are in a position to understand how sentences may be combined to make complete compositions. The simplest and most primitive structure is that which contains two complete sentences; dividing itself naturally into two parts and hence known as the Two-Part Form. This form by reason of its simplicity and directness is often found in the short pianoforte pieces of Schumann, Tchaikowsky, Brahms, Grieg and Debussy. For a long period there was no attempt at differentiation between vocal and instrumental style; music, in fact, during the 15th and 16th centuries was often entitled "buon da cantare ou suonare," i.e., equally well suited for voices or instruments. When instrumental players were in search of pieces, they simply transferred to their instruments the voice-parts of the Madrigals and Canzonas which were then so fashionable.[63] With the development of instruments—especially of the Violin family—and with the desire for an instrumental style which should be independent of words, principles of coherent design had to be evolved; and they were suggested by the definite metre in the stanzas of the Folk-song and, above all, by the symmetrical phrases of the Folk-dance, used to accompany the rhythmical motions of the body. By a utilization of these principles of balanced phrases, of contrasted keys and of periodic themes, instrumental music gradually worked out a structure of its own,[64] of which we find examples in National dances and in the compositions of such pioneers of instrumental style as the Italians Corelli and Vivaldi, the Frenchmen Lully, Couperin and Rameau, and the Englishman Purcell.

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In this rhythmic and sprightly dance of exactly 8 measures (an old French Tambourin taken from Weckerlin's Echos du Temps Passé) we see clearly the influence of the metrical stanza of words and of the balanced phrases in the instrumental part, necessary to accompany the steps of the dancers. The melody of the accompaniment was played on a flute or some simple kind of pipe, and the bass on a Tambour de Basque—a rude form of drum, which repeated continually the tonic and dominant of the key; the same effect which we associate with the Bagpipe and Hurdy-gurdy.

Purcell: Jig.

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In this Jig, which was a favorite type with the English peasantry—divided into three sentences of exactly 8 measures each—the dance rhythm is very sharply defined. From various dance-patterns a structural type was gradually evolved, of which the chief features will now be indicated. The music was divided into two distinct halves and it became the convention to gain length by repeating each half—in the early days of the form, literally (with a double bar and sign of repeat); later, as composers gained freedom, with considerable amplification. Each half presented the same material (it was a one-theme form) but the two halves were contrasted in tonality, i.e., the first part, beginning in the home-key, would modulate to some related key—generally the dominant; the second part, starting out in this key, gradually modulated back to a final cadence in the original key, and often—especially in Haydn and Mozart—repeated the entire main sentence of the first part. The general effect of such a form has been wittily described[65] as resembling the actions of "the King of France who, with twenty thousand men, marched up the hill and then marched down again"—but he surely had no exciting adventures in between! It is evident that this form, while favorable to coherence and unity, is lacking in scope and in opportunity for variety and contrast. It did, however, emphasize the principle of recapitulation; in fact it became the convention (as we shall see in the dances of the Suite) for the closing measures of the second part to be an exact duplicate in the home-key of that which had been presented at the end of part one. We shall observe, as we continue our studies, that the trend of musical composition gradually swung over to the Three-part form, the essential feature of which is restatement after intervening contrast.

For illustrations of the Two-part Form see the Supplement Nos. 20, 21, 22, 23, 24.

Only in such comparatively simple examples as those just cited is found this perfect balance in the length of the two parts. We often observe extended sentences in the first part; and it became the custom for the second part to be considerably lengthened, to include modulations into more remote keys and even to display certain developments of the main material. For a striking example of a movement which, although definitely in Two-part form, (i.e., it is in two clear divisions and has but one theme) is yet of considerable scope and variety, see the Allegretto of Beethoven's Fourth Sonata. It was, in fact, this instinct for contrasting variety in the second part[66] which (as can be shown from historical examples)[67] gradually led to the developing and establishment of the Three-part form.

The essentials of this structure, so frequent in all pianoforte literature, are the existence of three distinct parts—hence the name: a clause of assertion in the home-key; a second clause, affording a genuine contrast to the first part in regard to key, melodic outline and general treatment, and a third clause of reassertion, which shall repeat—either literally or in varied form—the material of part one.[68] In the Three-part form, as employed in the classic Minuet and Scherzo, each of the three parts taken by itself is in complete Two-part form; and as the third part was generally a literal repetition of part one, it was not written out, but at the end of the middle part (called the Trio, because it was originally written in three-voiced harmony) we find the direction "Minuet or Scherzo da capo," meaning a return to the first part. A coda or tail-piece is often added to round out the form. As the student will become thoroughly familiar with the Three-part form, in connection with the classic Symphonies soon to be studied (each Minuet, Scherzo or Trio being an example), our illustrations show the use of this form in independent pieces and are chiefly taken from modern literature; the object being so to interest the student in the beauty of these compositions as to convince him that in all good music content and design go hand is hand. For examples[69] see Supplement Nos. 25, 26, 27.

CHAPTER VI

THE CLASSICAL AND THE MODERN SUITE

NO sooner had the Two-and Three-part forms become accepted as definite means of instrumental expression, than composers were eager to try their skill in combining dance-movements in such forms into larger groups. These compositions—known in France as Ordres, in Germany as Suites and Partitas and in England as Lessons—though all the movements were in the same key, yet showed considerable variety by reason of the contrast in the dance rhythms. They were, moreover, simple, direct and easily understood of the people.[70] This development was furthered by the perfecting of two groups of instruments: The violins, by the great Italian masters; and those precursors of our modern pianoforte, the harpsichord, clavichord and spinet. We find, consequently, the Italians—of whom Corelli was most prominent—combining these dances into groups called Sonate da Ballo: and the French composers Couperin and Rameau, developing the possibilities of keyed stringed instruments in graceful pieces to which fantastic titles, such as La Poule, Le Rappel des Oiseaux, etc., were often given. The greatest master of instrumental style in these early days was the Italian, Domenico Scarlatti (1685-1757). He was famous both as composer and performer—the first, in fact, of the long line of key-board virtuosi—and in his compositions in dance form and in those of a more abstract type there is a sparkling fancy and an adjustment of the thought to his instrument, which will keep them forever immortal.[71]

The grouping together of dance forms reached its highest development through the genius of Sebastian Bach in the so-called French and English Suites.[72] In these compositions—in the Partitas and in the orchestral Suite in D major, which contains the well-known Aria, often played in transcription for Violin solo—the dance-forms are not employed literally but are made a vehicle for the expression of varied types of human emotion and sentiment. Nor should we overlook the twelve Harpsichord Lessons of Handel—especially the superb Fugue in E minor in the Fourth Suite—which are noteworthy for their vigor, though, in freshness and delicacy of invention, not to be compared with Bach's.

We now give a tabulated list of the customary dance forms, both as found in the Classic and the modern Suite or used as independent pieces; and we shall then analyze those which have the most characteristic rhythmic pattern.

LIST OF DANCES

The four indispensable movements of the classic or 18th century Suite were the Allemande, the Courante, the Sarabande and the Gigue; and, between the last two, it became customary to insert an optional number of other dances—the most usual being the Gavotte, Bourrée, Minuet and Passepied. In effect, the Suite was a kind of "international Potpourri" of the dances most in vogue, and affords us a vivid reflection of the manners and customs of the period. Many of the English Suites begin with an elaborate polyphonic Prelude. We shall not give a detailed analysis of all these dance movements; for the main characteristics the tabulated list will suffice, and in the book of Supplementary examples (see No. 35) will be found the 6th French Suite complete. It will be more useful to center attention on those dances which, in rhythmic pattern, are especially typical and are most frequently employed in modern music; and we shall select, as examples drawn from various sources, those dances which make a direct appeal. The most characteristic of the dances are the Sarabande, the Gavotte, the Minuet and the Gigue; and with the last, as exemplifying the same spirit, may be grouped the Rigaudon, Furiant, Tarantella and Saltarello.

The Sarabande is a slow, stately dance; always in triple meter indicated by 3/2 or 3/4. Its striking features are the frequent occurrence of the rhythmic pattern

in which it is evident that there is a strong accent on the weak beats; and the prevalence of feminine endings in the cadences. The Sarabande always displays great depth of emotion—often of a tragic and impassioned kind; and, in the Suite, seems to have served the composer for the same outpouring of feeling which we associate with the slow movement in the later Sonata or Symphony. The example cited in the Supplement (See No. 28)—taken from one of Bach's Sonatas for 'cello—is considered one of the most beautiful in existence. Other eloquent Sarabandes may be found in the Second and Third English Suites and in Handel's noble Air "Lascia ch'io pianga" from the opera of Rinaldo. Two fine modern examples of this dance are the second number in Paderewski's Humoresques de Concert, op. 14, and the second number in the set of pieces by Debussy, Pour le Piano—Prélude, Sarabande, Toccata. Composers sometimes employ the Sarabande rhythm for its inherent beauty, or for dramatic purposes without indication of the fact. Examples are the theme for variations in Beethoven's Sonata, op. 109, and the opening measures of the Egmont Overture where, by means of the characteristic Spanish dance-rhythm, an atmosphere of oppression and dejection is established, e.g.

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The Gavotte is an energetic yet dignified dance in duple rhythm (it is almost always played too fast)—the characteristics of which are its beginning on the half-measure and its strongly marked cadences. One of the most stirring examples is that cited from the Third English Suite (See Supplement No. 29) which, with its subdued middle portion, La Musette,[73] is an early example of tripartite arrangement. Other gavottes[74] are the favorite one from the Fifth French Suite, that from Handel's opera Ottone (so often played in organ or pianoforte transcriptions) and, from modern literature, the charming one in d'Albert's Suite for Pianoforte, op. 1.

The Minuet is of particular interest, not alone because of the many beautiful examples of its use but because it is the only dance which, carried over from the Suite, has remained an integral movement of Symphonic compositions. The Minuet, in its older form, was a stately dance; the derivation of the term (French menu) referring to the dainty steps of the dancers, always in 3/8 or 3/4 metre and beginning on the first beat of the measure. By Haydn the character of the Minuet was considerably changed; the tempo becomes much faster, the music begins on the third beat of the measure instead of the first and the mood is one of playful humor—at times even of downright jollity. In the Minuets of Mozart the peculiar characteristics are grace and tenderness rather than rollicking fun, e.g., the charming examples in the E-flat major and G minor Symphonies. Concerning the transformation by Beethoven of the Minuet into the Scherzo, with its fantastic and freakish atmosphere, we shall speak more fully in connection with his Symphonies. Of the examples cited in the Supplement (see Nos. 30 and 31) the former, from the first Finale of Mozart's opera Don Giovanni, remains one of the most famous minuets in existence; and the two from Rameau's opera, Castor and Pollux, are of inimitable spontaneity and rhythmic grace. They are grouped in contrasting, tripartite arrangement. In modern literature every one knows of the melodious example for Pianoforte by Paderewski (No. 1 of the Humoresques de Concert) and the Menuet Italien by Mrs. Beach; that in the last scene of Verdi's Falstaff is also well worth acquaintance.

The last of the particularly characteristic dances is the Gigue with its counterparts mentioned above. This is a rapid, animated dance in 6/8, 3/8, 12/8, 12/16 (sometimes 4/4) with marked rhythm; the term being derived from giga (German, geige)—an early name for fiddle—on account of the power of accent associated with the violin family. The Gigue is always the closing number of Bach's Suites, in order to give a final impression of irrepressible vitality and gaiety, and is treated with considerable polyphonic complexity; in fact, his gigues often begin like a complete Fugue. They are all in clear-cut Two-part form; and it became the convention for the second part to treat the motive in inverted form. The example cited from Bach's Fifth French Suite (see Supplement No. 32) is unsurpassed for rhythmic energy; the closing measures sound as if all the bells of heaven were ringing. The example of Mozart (see Supplement No. 33) is noteworthy for its daring use of the dissonant element and for its free modulations. Of the counterparts of the gigue the following are excellent examples: The Rigaudon—the Finale of Grieg's Holberg Suite, the vigorous one from Rameau's opera Dardanus, and MacDowell's independent piece in this form, op. 49, No. 2; the Furiant—the Finale of Dvořák's Suite for Small Orchestra, op. 30 (accessible in an effective pianoforte arrangement for four hands); the Tarantelle—Chopin's independent piece in this rhythm, op. 43, and the brilliant Finale of Rheinberger's Pianoforte Sonata for four hands, op. 122; the Saltarello—the last movement of Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony and the main portion of Berlioz's Carnaval Romain Overture. One additional example is cited (see Supplement No. 34), a Courante by D. Scarlatti, to give an example of his pianoforte style. In connection with these dances, especially the Sarabande, Gavotte, Loure, Pavane, Polonaise and Tarantelle, there should be read the articles treating of each dance in Grove's Dictionary; for these dances are so closely connected with human activity that a knowledge of their development broadens our horizon in many matters pertaining to social life and civilization in general. As to specific examples of the less usual dances, many of the quaintest are found in the works of the early English composers: Byrd, Bull, etc., in the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, e.g., The Lord of Salisbury his Pavan. An excellent example of the Loure is the well-known arrangement from Bach's third 'Cello sonata. Chopin, in his works, has glorified both the Polonaise and the Mazurka; Bizet, in his opera Carmen, has used the Habañera and the Seguidilla, and there is a wonderful use of the Habañera rhythm in Debussy's descriptive piece Soirée dans Grenade. The French composer Ravel in his pianoforte piece Pavane pour un enfant defunt has used with remarkable effect the stately rhythm of that dance. The Spanish composers, Albeniz and Granados, frequently employ national dance rhythms in their pieces. The French composer Chabrier's Bourrée Fantasque is a dazzling modernization of the old form; and his España for full orchestra fairly intoxicates us with its dashing rhythms based upon the Jota and the Malagueña.[75] Debussy's well-known piece Hommage à Rameau is in the style of the Sarabande. The allusions in literature to these dances are so frequent that only a few can be cited. The very spirit of the Jig is given in Pope's line "Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven." In speaking of the antics of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in Twelfth Night, Shakespeare remarks—"I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg that it was formed under the star of a Galliard." One of the most remarkable works of the English composer John Dowland (born 1562) is entitled Lachrymae, or Seven Teares, figured in seven passionate Pavans.

The Suite, by reason of its freedom in combining different rhythms and moods, has appealed vividly to modern composers; and the literature of our times contains a number of Suites which should be known to the music-lover. In these modern Suites no attempt is made to conform to the old conventional grouping of dances. The movements are in different keys, are often based on rhythms of an exotic or ultra-nationalistic type—as in Tchaikowsky and Dvořák, or may employ any material suggested by the fantastic imagination of the composer—as in Debussy and Ravel. Among the most attractive modern Suites may be cited: The Peer Gynt (put together from incidental music to Ibsen's play) and the Holberg by Grieg; the two L'Arlésienne Suites by Bizet (written to illustrate Daudet's romantic story)—the first, with its dainty Minuet and brilliant Carillons (Peal of bells); Dvořák's Suite for Small Orchestra, op. 39, with its sprightly Polka and impassioned Furiant; Tchaikowsky's five Orchestral Suites of which the best known are the Casse-Noisette with its exotic rhythms and novel orchestral effects, the Mozartiana and the third which closes with a brilliant Polonaise; Brahms's Serenades for orchestra; Charpentier's Impressions of Italy in which there is an effective use of Italian rhythm and color; MacDowell's Indian Suite, with several of the themes based on native tunes; the fascinating orchestral Suite Adventures in a Perambulator by John Alden Carpenter; Arthur Whiting's Suite Moderne for pianoforte; Stevensoniana, (based on stanzas from Stevenson's Child's Garden of Verses) an orchestral Suite in four movements by Edward B. Hill; Debussy's Suite Bergamasque in which is found the oft-played Clair de Lune; Ravel's[76] Mother Goose, a delightful work—and by the same composer the Daphnis and Chloe Suite, the material drawn from an opera of the same name. In modern literature easily the most celebrated and brilliant example of this type is the Scheherazade Suite (based on the Arabian Nights) for full orchestra by Rimsky-Korsakoff. This work in the genuine poetic quality of its themes, in its marvellous descriptive power and in the boldness of its orchestral effect remains unsurpassed.

CHAPTER VII

THE OLDER RONDO FORM

ONE of the earliest instrumental forms to be worked out[77] was the Rondo, which is merely an extension of the three-part principle of "restatement after contrast" and which, by reason of its logical appeal, has retained its place to this day. Originally the Rondo was a combination of dance and song; that is, the performers sang and danced in a circle—holding one another's hands. The music would begin with a chorus in which all joined, one of the dancers would then sing a solo, after which all would dance about and repeat the chorus; other solos would follow, the chorus being repeated after each. The characteristic feature, then, of this structure is the continual recurrence to a principal motive after intervening contrasts—hence the name Rondo (French, Rondeau); exemplifying a principle found not only in primitive folk-songs and dances but in literature, e.g., many of the songs of Burns and the Rondeaux of Austin Dobson. For it is obvious that the form answers to the simplest requirements of unity and contrast. Frequent examples of the Rondo are found in all early instrumental composers: Bach, e.g., the charming one in C minor in his third Partita; Couperin, Rameau, Haydn and Mozart. It is found also in vocal works, e.g., Purcell's well-known song "I Attempt from Love's Sickness to Fly." From the standpoint of modern taste, however, Beethoven was—with few exceptions—the first to treat the form with real genius; and so our illustrations are taken chiefly from his works and from those of his successors. Although there need be no arbitrary limit to the alternation of the chief part with the subsidiary portions—in fact, Beethoven's humorous Rondo Capriccio, On a Lost Farthing has as many as eleven sections—it gradually became conventional for the form to consist of five parts: a first presentation and two repetitions of the main theme together with two contrasting portions called Episodes, to which a free Coda was often added. The form would then be A, b, A´, c, A´´, Coda—A´ and A´´ indicating that the repetition need not be literal, but often varied rhythmically and harmonically; not, however, so as to obliterate the original outline. For in a well-constructed Rondo the main theme must be one of such direct appeal that we look forward to hearing it again; and the successive repetitions must be so planned that we can easily enjoy this pleasure of reminiscence. It also became customary not to block off the sections with rigid cadences but often to insert modulatory passages, thus securing a continuous flow of thought. This practise we see particularly in Beethoven and Schumann. The form which we are discussing is the so-called Older Rondo Form, clearly derived from the dance described above. Beginning[78] with Beethoven, however, we find numerous examples of a different kind of rondo treatment which developed in connection with the Sonata Form—to be explained later. The Rondo-Sonata Form, as it is generally called, is in fact a hybrid type, with certain features derived from rondo structure and certain from the pure sonata form. The Finales to Beethoven's Sonatas, when entitled Rondos, are—with few exceptions—of this Rondo-Sonata type. An excellent example, which should be well known, is the Finale of the Sonata Pathétique. Although there are many cases of free treatment of the rondo principle, they are all based on one or the other of these two fundamental types. Schumann was extremely fond of this Older Rondo Form, as may be seen from his frequent practice of writing two Trios to the Scherzos of his Symphonies. A moment's thought will make clear that a Scherzo with two Trios and the customary repetitions will conform exactly to the pattern given above, i.e., A, b, A´, c, A´´ Coda, e.g., Scherzo, First Trio = First Episode, First return, Second Trio = Second Episode, Final return and Coda—five portions in all, or six when there is a Coda. For convincing examples see the Scherzos of the First and Second Symphonies. Schumann's well-known Arabesque for pianoforte, op. 18, is a beautiful, clear-cut example of the form; with an interpolated modulatory passage between the first episode and first return, and a poetic Coda which has, for its closing measures, the chief motive in augmentation (already referred to on [p. 45]). To show Schumann's partiality for this form the student may be referred to Nos. 2 and 8 of the Kreisleriana (op. 16) and to Nos. 1, 2 and 3 of the "Nachtstücke" (op. 23). The third of the Romances (op. 28)—a remarkably free example in the grouping of the material and in the key-relationship—is cited in the Supplement (No. 37). An excellent example (readily accessible), popular by reason of its freedom of treatment, as well as for its inherent sparkle and dash, is the Finale of Weber's Sonata in C major, op. 24—the so-called Moto Perpetuo. The most famous example of this form in classical literature is undoubtedly the Finale of Beethoven's Waldstein Sonata, op. 53, with its melodious and easily remembered first subject, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

its two episodes in A minor and C minor (which afford most dramatic contrasts to the lyric quality of the main subject) and its glorious, long-extended Coda of about three pages.[79]

As stated above, the Older Rondo-Form has not become obsolete; indeed, by reason of its possibilities for emphasis and contrast it has commended itself to modern composers. Striking examples may be found in the Finale of Brahms's Pianoforte Sonata in F minor, in the Finale of Tchaikowsky's Fourth Symphony and, above all, in the Symphonic Poems of Strauss, Don Juan and Till Eulenspiegel, in which the form is admirably adapted to the dramatic needs of these descriptive works. Additional examples, which can be readily procured, are the Slow Movement of the Sonata Pathétique, op. 13, Beethoven's well-known Andante in F major—remarkable for its brilliant Coda—and his Rondo, already cited, On the Lost Farthing. (See Supplement No. 38). Although there is a certain stiffness in this form these examples afford the student excellent rudimentary practise in ease of listening.

CHAPTER VIII

THE VARIATION FORM

MONOTONY, as previously suggested, is more unendurable in music than in any of the other arts. We should therefore expect to find musicians inventing new devices to vary their thoughts so that the interest of the hearer might be continually sustained and refreshed. Thus there gradually grew up the form known as the Varied Air—a term meaning the presentation of the same musical material under different aspects. As far back as we can trace the development of instrumental structure, there appears this instinct for varying a simple tune by embellishments of a rhythmical and melodic nature. Examples abound in the works of the early Italian masters, in the harpsichord pieces of the English composers Byrd and Bull[80] and in the music of Couperin and Rameau. But all these Variations, however interesting from a historical point[81] of view, are very labored and lack any real poetic growth. They are, moreover, often prolonged to an interminable length—one example, as late as Handel, consisting of an Air with sixty-two Variations; prolixity or "damnable iteration" being as bad a blemish in music as in any of the other arts. In the early days of instrumental composition, about all that composers could do was "to put the theme through its paces." That is, there was no unfolding of the poetic possibilities of the melody. The successive variations were all in the same key; the harmonic basis was practically unchanged and the treatment consisted of dressing up the theme with stereotyped embellishment-figures and of systematic rhythmic animation—produced by the addition of more and more notes to each time unit. A standard illustration of this type of Variations is the so-called Harmonious Blacksmith of Handel from his Suite in E Major. This piece owes whatever popularity it may have preserved to the sturdy swing of the main theme and to the fact that it makes no demand on the attention of the most untrained listener. In fairness we should state that on the harpsichord—with its contrasting stops and key-boards—for which the piece was composed, there is possible more variety of effect than on the modern pianoforte.

Three collateral early forms deserve a passing mention because, notwithstanding a certain rigidity of structure, they have been used by the great masters for the expression of sublime thoughts. These are the Ground Bass (or, as it is sometimes called, the Basso Ostinato), the Chaconne and the Passacaglia[82] which, in modern literature, is well represented by the magnificent "tour de force" that serves as the Finale to Brahms's Fourth Symphony. By a Ground Bass is meant a theme, continually repeated, in the lowest voice, each time with varied upper parts. An excellent example (see Supplement No. 39) is the Aria "When I am laid in earth" from Purcell's Opera Dido and Aeneas. It is evident that the persistent iteration of a striking phrase in the bass gives an effect of dramatic intensity, as may be seen in the sublime "Crucifixion" of Bach's Mass in B minor.[83] The Chaconne and Passacaglia are old dance forms (examples of the former being found in Gluck's Ballet Music) and are closely related to the Ground Bass; since, in the majority of cases, we find the same procedure in the announcement of the theme and in its subsequent treatment. Two examples of the Chaconne from standard literature are the famous one of Bach in D minor for solo violin and Beethoven's thirty-two Variations in C minor for Pianoforte. The Passacaglia is of importance as shown by the striking example for organ in C minor by Bach on the following theme:

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Whoever has heard this majestic theme, which seems to bear the sorrows of the world on its shoulders, announced on the deep-sounding pedals will gain a lasting impression of the grandeur of Bach's style.

By the time of Haydn, the technical skill of composers had improved sufficiently so that we find in his works some genuinely interesting examples of the Variation form, e.g., the set on the well-known Austrian hymn from the Kaiser Quartet in C major—in which each of the five variations has a real individuality—and the Variations in F minor for Pianoforte: remarkable as an early example of the varied treatment of two themes.

Most of Mozart's Variations are based upon popular themes and, in general, may be considered as virtuoso pieces to show off the agility of the performer. We find occasional examples, as in the Clarinet Quintette and in the Sonata in D major, which are of more intrinsic worth.

The genius of Beethoven first revealed the full possibilities of the form. In fact, so remarkable was his work that such creative composers as César Franck and d'Indy consider the basic principles for our modern development of music to be found in the Fugue of Bach and the Varied Air of Beethoven. For, deadly dull as is the Variation form when treated in a stereotyped manner, by very reason of its freedom from arbitrary rules it may be a most elastic medium for the expression of poetic genius. The composer has but to invent a striking characteristic theme, rich in potential development, and then to let it develop for as long as he can retain the interest of his hearers. Likewise for a great orator the simple rule is to state a theme on which something worth while may be said and then by presenting it in new lights and with copious illustrations to drive the truth home. The principal and significant changes which we owe to Beethoven are the following: complete freedom in variety of key, so that at times (as in his op. 34) each variation is in a new key; a frequent omission of the rigid stops at the end of each variation, e.g., the Slow movement of the Fifth Symphony and the third movement of the Trio, op. 96, so that a continuous flow of thought is preserved; the practice, so often followed in modern literature, of founding variations on a double theme—of which the Finale of the Heroic Symphony is a striking example. But the chief advance in Beethoven is the entirely new conception of what variations should be; not, according to him, mere mechanical manipulations of the subject matter, but vital products of the imagination, as varied as the members of a human family having the same mother. Beethoven's variations, in fact, often seem like a series of character-pieces, each with its own individuality and yet retaining an organic relationship to the main thought. His fondness for the form and his mastery over it is seen by the frequency of its use in the last Sonatas and String-Quartets. Every composer since Beethoven has written one or more works in the Variation form; but we can mention only the most beautiful examples and then pass on to the daring conceptions of the modern school. The Variations by Schubert in his String-Quartet in D minor on the Song, Death and the Maiden, will amply repay study, and so will the Variations Sérieuses, op. 54, for the pianoforte by Mendelssohn. As for Schumann, he was very happy in the use of this form, and his Symphonic Études, op. 13—in wealth of fancy and freedom of treatment—are quite unparalleled. His Variations for two pianofortes, op. 46, deserve also to be known. Among the finest examples since Beethoven are the numerous sets by Brahms, remarkable alike for emotional power, for free and yet logical treatment of the material and for solidity of workmanship. They include the Variations on a theme from Handel for pianoforte, op. 24; the set for orchestra, op. 56a, on the St. Anthony Choral of Haydn; and the two sets, op. 35, on themes from Paganini—universally conceded to be the most brilliant examples for the pianoforte in recent literature.

To speak now particularly of the modern school, there are five compositions in this form which, for their daring novelty and sustained eloquence, should be familiar to every music-lover and heard as often as possible. For they are elaborate works which must be thoroughly known to be understood and loved. (1), There is the set in Tchaikowsky's Pianoforte Trio in A minor, op. 50; noteworthy for freedom of modulation and for the striking individuality given to the different transformations of the theme—two of the changes being to a Waltz and a Mazurka. (2), The Symphonic Variations for Pianoforte and Orchestra of César Franck, based on two contrasting themes, one in the minor mode and one with modulations to the major. The variations are not numbered and there are no rigid stops; throughout the work Franck's marvellous power of modulation and rich harmonic texture are eloquently manifested. (3), The Istar Variations for orchestra by d'Indy is one of the most original works in the whole field; in that, for dramatic reasons connected with the subject, the usual order is reversed and the variations come first, gradually becoming more and more simple until we reach the theme itself, pure and unadorned. (4), The Symphonic Poem, Don Quixote, of R. Strauss, a complex set of Variations on three themes which typify respectively the characters of Cervantes' story; the Knight, his attendant, Sancho Panza and Dulcinea. The variations are not confined to a merely abstract or formal treatment of the material but set before us a picture of the attributes of the characters and a description of some of their spectacular adventures. (5), Lastly the Enigma Variations for orchestra by Elgar, so-called because the identity of the basic theme is not revealed. The variations are character-pieces which for individuality and charm are a lasting glory to the genius of the composer.[84]

We shall now analyze, with suggestive comments, two[85] of the well-known sets of Beethoven: the first movement of the Sonata, op. 26, and the Six Variations on an original theme, op. 34. The variations from the Sonata are an early work; but, although definitely sectionalized and with only one change of tonality, they clearly reveal Beethoven's freedom of conception and his aversion to stereotyped treatment. The theme itself is a suave, appealing melody, already cited as an example of a sixteen-measure sentence, and admirably suited for variation purposes, since it arouses at once the expectation of the listener.[86] The first variation is a kind of shadowy, mysterious outline of the theme just presented, as if the composer were musing upon the latent possibilities of his material. There is a quickening of interest in the second variation which, with the theme in the bass, may be likened to a 'cello solo of a mildly bravura nature. (Note the fantastic accents on weak beats in measures 18, 22, 23, and 24.) In the third variation comes a complete contrast in mood; the key is changed to A-flat minor and the theme is transformed into an elegy, all its joy crushed out. The movement abounds in impassioned dissonances, always emphasized by sf marks, and the throbbing pulsations of the bass—in the second phrase—give a tragic intensity of feeling. With the fourth variation there enters that spirit of playfulness so characteristic of Beethoven—the movement being, in fact, a miniature Scherzo. The fifth and last variation is an idyllic revery in which the composer reviews and amplifies the many beautiful fancies which his imagination has conceived, and closes with a coda, based on the motive of the main theme, of tranquillity and satisfaction.

The set in F major, op. 34, is a striking illustration of Beethoven's fondness for mediant relationship, since no two variations are in the same key; the tonic of each being a third below that of the preceding. The Key-scheme is F, D, B-flat, G, E-flat, C minor; and then, through the descent of a fifth, back to the home-key, or in actual notes:

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

The first variation is a highly embellished treatment of the opening theme; the melodic outline being merely hinted at in unimportant parts of the phraseology, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Written in the old ornate style, it is of interest chiefly for the pianistic effect. In the second Variation we have a change both of time and key; the impression being that of a distant march for men's voices or for soft trombones. The third Variation, again with change of time and key, illustrates Beethoven's fondness for a subtle outlining of the theme. In the fourth Variation the theme is transformed into a Minuet of graceful swing; and in the next Variation a strong contrast is afforded by the Funeral March, the minor mode being used for the first time. The last Variation—in the home-key—gives a brilliant summing up of the characteristic features of the theme. Note especially the reminiscent effect of the closing measures.

CHAPTER IX

THE SONATA-FORM AND ITS FOUNDERS,
EMMANUEL BACH AND HAYDN

WE have now set forth, with representative illustrations, all the fundamental forms of instrumental music, i.e., the Canon, Fugue and Invention, the Two and Three-part forms, the Rondo and the Varied Air. Through the perfecting of these means of expression music became a living language of communication, ready for that development which, through the genius of the Classic and Romantic masters, it was destined to show. The essential feature of all the above forms is the emphasis laid on one theme. This is strictly true of the polyphonic forms, the Canon, Fugue[87] and Invention and of the Two-part form; and although in the Three-part form we have a second theme, this is merely for contrast and is often of rather slight import. The same comment holds true of the Rondo where, notwithstanding the new contrasting themes of the episodes, the centre of attraction is the single main theme, to which constant recurrence is made. Obviously the Varied Air is the expansion of a single theme. But the principal characteristic of the Sonata-Form, now to be studied, is that we find therein two themes of coequal importance, which may well be compared to the hero and heroine of a novel or the two leading characters in a drama. It is true that a composer will often in the creations of his imagination show a marked preference for one theme over the other; just as, in the family group to which the child owes its life, either the man or the woman is likely to be the stronger character. But as there can be no child without two parents, so the organism of the Sonata-Form derives its vitality from the presence and interaction of two living musical personalities, the first and second themes. The first theme is so called because it is the one first presented and because it generally furnishes the prevailing rhythmic pulse of the movement. Yet the second theme,—exactly as important in its own way, is often of a greater beauty; its title of "second theme" implying nothing of a secondary nature, but merely its position in order of appearance. No greater step was ever taken in the growth of musical structure than this introduction of a second coequal theme; for the principle of duality, of action and reaction between two forces, runs throughout nature both human and physical, as is seen from the import of the terms: man and woman, active and passive, positive and negative, heat and cold, light and darkness. The first theme, in fact, often resembles, in its vigor and directness, a masculine personality; while the second theme, in grace and tenderness, resembles the feminine. As long as music confined itself to the presentation of but one main theme it was hampered by the same limitations which beset the early Greek tragedians, in whose primitive plays[88] we find but one chief actor. The introduction of a second theme can not be attributed to any single man; indeed it resulted from a tendency of the times, the demand of which was for more homophonic melodies rather than for an elaborate polyphonic treatment of a single one. Embryonic traces of a second theme we find in D. Scarlatti (see Supplement No. 40) and in Sebastian Bach himself.[89] Scarlatti,[90] in fact, was often hovering close to the Sonata-Form and in the example just cited actually achieved it. The systematic employment of the second-theme principle, however, is commonly attributed to Emmanuel Bach (1714-1788), although an undue amount of praise, by certain German scholars, has been given his achievements to the exclusion of musicians from other nations who were working along the same lines. Any fair historical account of the development of the Sonata-Form should recognize the Italians, Sammartini and Galuppi; the gifted Belgian Gossec, who exercised such a marked influence in Paris, and above all, the Bohemian Johann Stamitz (1717-1757), the leader of the famous Mannheim Orchestra, of whom we shall speak further when we come to the orchestra as a medium. In many of Stamitz's Symphonies we find the essential first-movement structure (i.e., tripartite grouping with a clear second theme) and, as Riemann says in his Handbuch der Musikgeschichte, "Their sincere phraseology, their boldness of conception and the masterly thematic development give Stamitz's works lasting value. Haydn and Mozart rest absolutely upon his shoulders."[91]

The other marked characteristic of the Sonata-Form is the second part which is known as the Development Section; for, as we shall soon explain, the structure as a whole is tripartite. In this portion of the movement the composer has an opportunity to improvise, as it were, with his material, using one theme or both as already presented. Dry and labored development sections may, of course, be found in certain Sonatas and Symphonies, but in the great works of such masters as Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy the development is the most exciting part of the movement. The hearer is conducted through a musical excursion; every device of rhythmic variety, of modulatory change and polyphonic imitation being employed to enhance the beauty of the themes and to reveal their latent possibilities.

Before going further, it is well to point out a confusion which often arises between the terms Sonata and Sonata-Form. When we speak of Sonata-Form we mean invariably the structural treatment as to number of themes, key-relationship, etc., of any single movement within a series.[92] By the term Sonata is meant a composition generally in three or four movements, e.g., First Movement, Slow Movement, Minuet or Scherzo and Finale; of which, in most examples of the classic school, the First Movement—and often the last—were in Sonata-Form. An alternative name, indeed, for Sonata-Form is First Movement Form. Beginning with Beethoven, however, composers began to exhibit great freedom in the application of the Sonata-Form. We find Sonatas of Beethoven, notably the set op. 31, in which every movement (even the Scherzo) is in Sonata Form or a modification thereof; on the other hand, there are compositions, entitled Sonatas, in which not a single movement is in pure Sonata-Form, e.g., Beethoven's Twelfth Sonata, op. 26. These comments apply equally to many other large instrumental works. For a symphony is merely a Sonata for Orchestra, a String-Quartet a composition—of the same general type—for four solo instruments[93] and there is, furthermore, a large group of ensemble compositions: Sonatas for Violin (or any solo-instrument) and Pianoforte; Trios, often for unusual combinations, e.g., Brahms's Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte; Quintets and even Septets—in all of which the distinction must be made between the terms Sonata and Sonata-Form. Nor is there any rigid rule in regard to number of movements or the moods expressed therein. The classic Sonata, Symphony or Quartet, as we have stated above, generally contained three or four movements, of which the first would be direct and vigorous in nature—a summons to attention—cast in sonata-form, with a wealth of material organically treated, and requiring from the listener concentrated attention. The second movement was generally much simpler in form, affording relief after the tension of the preceding movement—its themes of a lyric nature, often with great depth of emotion, sometimes even of tragic import. The third movement, Minuet or Scherzo, would portray the light, humorous side of life; and the Finale, joyful and optimistic—its themes often bearing strongly the sense of finality—would close the work with a general feeling of satisfaction. It was Beethoven who first modified these principles to suit his own poetic needs. Thus we find some of his Sonatas with only two movements; some have three, some have four. One of Schumann's Symphonies contains five movements and Rubinstein's Ocean Symphony seven! When we reach the modern school, we shall see further freedom as to number, order and type of movements.

We are now prepared to sum up the essential characteristics of the Sonata-Form; for there is no structure in which it is more important for the music-lover to acquire the art of listening easily, naturally and with a minimum of friction. The Sonata-Form is the instrumental form "par excellence"—the Gothic Cathedral[94] of music—and has retained its place, not because of any slavish regard for form as such, but because it has been worked out, perfected and utilized by the greatest of the composers. Any form with a beginning, a middle and an ending, i.e., presenting material worthy of consideration, which allows this material to grow and realize its inherent possibilities and then sums the matter up in a convincing, objective close; which, furthermore, exemplifies the great principle of Duality, i.e., reveals two musical personalities, has as little need for argumentative sanction as a tree or a human being. The Sonata-Form—often, to be sure, with free modifications—predominates in all the large instrumental compositions of the Classic, Romantic and Modern Composers, notably of such men as Beethoven, Schumann, Brahms, César Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy and Sibelius. Anyone unable readily to follow movements in this form, if he thinks he is receiving the complete message of the music, is his own dupe. It would be as logical to expect to enjoy the beauties of architecture without perceiving the difference between a nave and a bowling-alley. The obvious way to understand the meaning of a language is to know something of the principles of structure and expression in that language. Music is in very truth a language; and far too many people get from it nothing save the appeal which comes from its emotional power. This exciting experience is important, we may frankly acknowledge, but there are no reasons, save apathy and indifference, why the hearer should not have all this and more too. There is no conflict between warm emotions and an intelligent, well-trained mind. They should go hand in hand; and in any complete artistic appreciation each is indispensable.[95]

The three main divisions of the Sonata-Form, with their essential features, are the following: (1) the Exposition, in which two themes in different tonalities are announced for the consideration—and, as the composer hopes, the pleasure—of the hearer. In the works of Haydn and Mozart this contrast of key was invariably that of Tonic and Dominant, e.g., C major and G major, or of major and relative minor, e.g., A-flat major and F minor. Beginning, however, with Beethoven great emphasis has been laid on mediant relationship, e.g., C major and E major or C major and A-flat major; and in modern composers[96] this more stimulating change has largely superseded the former tonic and dominant grouping, e.g., Brahms's Third Symphony. We thus see that the harmonic feature of the Exposition is Duality of Key-relationship. Between these two main themes there is always a modulatory connection or Bridge Passage which, in the time of Haydn, was generally of a very perfunctory, stereotyped character. Wagner once sarcastically remarked that Haydn's transitions reminded him of the clatter of dishes between courses at a royal feast. In Mozart we find the bridge-passage more deftly planned, more organically connected with what precedes and follows; but it was Beethoven who, in this portion of the movement, first revealed its possibilities. Throughout his works the bridge-passage is never a mere mechanical modulation or a floundering about until the introduction of the second theme, but is so conceived that the interest of the hearer is increasingly aroused until, at the entrance of the second theme, he is in the highest state of expectancy.[97] A bridge-passage of this kind often has a subsidiary theme of its own, or even several melodic phrases, and is planned as carefully as the action by which a dramatist leads up to the entrance of his heroine. After the second theme we generally find a closing theme to round out the Exposition as a whole. This practice dates from Haydn and has been much expanded by modern composers. Witness the glorious climactic effect in César Franck's Symphony and in Brahms's D major Symphony of the closing themes in the Expositions of the first movements. For many years it was the invariable custom to repeat the Exposition, and in Classic Symphonies we always find a double bar with marks of repeat and two endings. This practice was not an integral part of the form but was adopted so that the hearer, by going over the themes of the Exposition twice, might follow more intelligently their growth in the Development. With the advance in public appreciation this repeating of the Exposition has been largely abandoned; for there is no doubt that to begin all over again, when a certain objective point has been reached, breaks the continuous flow of the movement.[98]

(2) The Development, for which the Germans have the happy name of "Freie Phantasie," or free phantasy; the composer thus giving rein to his imagination and doing whatever he pleases, so long as he holds the interest of his hearers and neither becomes verbose nor indulges in mere mechanical manipulation. There are, alas! developments in which the composer exhausts his themes and his hearers too;[99] but on work of this kind, since it is not real development but labored jugglery, no powder need be wasted. Beethoven began the practice, in his Developments, of not confining himself to the themes of the Exposition but of introducing an entirely new theme, whenever the main material had fulfilled its purpose. The single most exciting factor in a good development is the freedom and wealth of modulation revealed by the daring genius of the creator; the effect being Plurality of Key-relationship, in distinction from the two closely related keys of the Exposition. It would often seem as if we were taken up into high mountains or borne away to distant seas. For illustrations of this "free phantasy" note the end of the Development in the first movement of Beethoven's Second Symphony where, after great stress has been laid in the Exposition on the two basic keys of D major and A major, we are left in the distant tonality of C-sharp major and are then whirled back, by a dramatic change, into the home-key of the third part. One of the most interesting studies in the workings of a great mind is to observe how Beethoven, in his developments, allows the excitement to subside and yet never entirely die out, and how deftly he leads the hearer onward to the summing up of the main themes of the exposition.

(3) The Recapitulation or Résumé, in which both the themes of the Exposition are reasserted, each in the home key—a strong final emphasis thus being laid on Unity of Tonality. The bridge-passage has to be correspondingly changed, for now the modulation is between two themes both in the same key. To achieve such a modulation is quite a "tour de force" as every musician knows, and often taxed the ingenuity even of the great Beethoven. The skill by which he always made the second theme sound fresh and vital is astounding. For a case of "academic fumbling"—mere treading of water—in this adjustment of key relationship, see the Recapitulation of the first movement of Brahms's Second Symphony. To secure unbroken continuity and to avoid vain repetitions[100] there is no portion of the Sonata-Form which has been more modified by the inventive genius of modern composers and by the tendency exemplified in the Symphonic Poem (to be explained in due season). The general validity of Restatement, as shown in the Recapitulation of the Sonata-Form, cannot be questioned; for that depends, as so often pointed out, upon the human craving to enjoy once more, after intervening contrast, something which has originally given pleasure. Furthermore this sound psychological principle finds an analogy in our own life: with its early years of striving, its middle period of development and its closing years of climactic retrospect and satisfaction. There is a corresponding structural treatment in the dénoûment of a drama. In the classic composers, the Recapitulation is almost always a literal repetition of the Exposition, although Beethoven began to be freer, e.g., in the climax of the Coriolanus overture, where he modifies the form to meet the dramatic needs of the subject.[101] Modern composers, however, have felt that much of this repetition was superfluous; and when they do repeat both themes, one or the other is freely varied and made still more eloquent. For examples, see the résumé of the first movements of Franck's Symphony, of Brahms's First Symphony and of Tchaikowsky's Sixth. The Recapitulation is often abridged by omitting the first theme altogether and dwelling exclusively on the second; as for example, in the Finale of Schumann's Fourth Symphony and in Sinigaglia's Overture, Le Baruffe Chiozzotte.[102]

It remains to speak of the beginning and end of the Sonata-Form. With Haydn it became the custom, not necessarily invariable, to introduce the body of the movement by a Prelude which, in early days, was of slight texture and import—often a mere preliminary "flourish of trumpets," a presenting of arms. In Mozart we find some examples of more artistic treatment, notably in the Overture to the Magic Flute and in the prelude to the C major Quartet with its stimulating dissonances. But in this case, as in so many others, it was Beethoven who first showed what a Prelude should be: a subtle means of arousing the interest and expectancy of the hearer; the effect as carefully planned as the portico leading to a temple. To usher in the theme of the Exposition in a truly exciting manner every means of modulation and rhythm is employed; famous illustrations being the introductions to the first movements of the Second, Fourth and Seventh symphonies; and, in modern literature, those of the first movements of Brahms's First Symphony and of Tchaikowsky's Fifth. It also became customary to prolong the end of the movement by what is termed a Coda; the same tendency being operative that is found in the peroration to a speech or in the spire of a cathedral, i.e., the human instinct to end whatever we attempt as impressively and completely as possible. This Coda, which, in Haydn and Mozart, was often a mere iteration of trite chords—a ceasing to go—was so expanded by Beethoven that it was the real glory of the whole movement. In fact so many eloquent treatments of the main material were reserved for the Coda that it often became a second development; and such was its scope that the form may be considered to have four parts instead of three, i.e., 1, Exposition, 2, Development, 3, Recapitulation, 4, Coda; parts 4 and 2 balancing each other in the same way as 3 and 1. For two of the most famous examples in all Beethoven literature see the Codas to the First movement of the Third Symphony and to the Finale of the Eighth.

We now present a tabular view of the Sonata-Form summing up the features just commented upon.

THE SONATA-FORM OR FIRST-MOVEMENT FORM

For actual musical examples it seems best to begin with the works of Haydn. This exclusion of Philip Emmanuel Bach is not meant to minimize what we owe him for his preliminary efforts in formulating the tripartite Sonata structure, with its two themes and its Development portion. Haydn is on record as saying that it was his study of six Sonatas of Emmanuel Bach which laid the foundations for his own instrumental style. But on the whole, the compositions of Emmanuel Bach are of interest rather from a historical point of view than from one purely artistic. The object of this book, furthermore, is not to give a complete account of the evolution[103] of the Sonata-Form; but, accepting the existence of standard works which employ this form, to enable the student to gain a more complete appreciation of those works. P.E. Bach wrote in the so-called "galant style"[104] of the period which has, for our modern ears, too much embellishment and too many meaningless, rhapsodic passages. He made a sincere effort to invent pure instrumental melody, i.e., musical expression suited to various instruments that should be unhampered by the too definite balance of the dance forms, by polyphonic complexities or by the conventional artifices of operatic style. But though he wrote skilfully for his instrument and though his style has a certain quaint charm, on the whole it is lacking in genuine melodic warmth and feeling. These qualities alone keep works immortal.[105]

In Josef Haydn (1782-1809) we are face to face with a musician of a different type. Haydn is popularly known as the father of the Sonata, the Symphony and the String-Quartet; but, according to Edward Dickinson,[106] this estimate is something of an exaggeration, for "it overlooks the fact that a large number of composers were struggling with the same problem and working along similar lines. Haydn was simply the greatest in genius of the instrumental writers of his day. His works have lived by virtue of the superiority, i.e., the greater spontaneity and vitality, of their contents. He should be called the 'foster-father,' rather than the father of the symphony and quartet for he raised them from feebleness to strength and authority." To him must be given the honor of establishing the types of instrumental composition which became the foundations of modern music. Haydn, moreover, was the first musician since Sebastian Bach who had a real personality which may be felt in his works. To speak of a piece of music as "Haydnish" conveys as distinct a meaning as to refer to a poetic stanza as "Miltonic." When Haydn arrived on the scene, music—through the labors of many earnest workers—had become a language of definite expression, with a logical grammar and with principles of structure. The time was ripe for the use of this language in a more artistic way, i.e., for a more intense personal expression and for more subtle treatment of the material. The composer could count upon the public following his points; and with Haydn, whose heart beat in sympathy with the common people, music begins to be a truly popular art.

The striking features in Haydn's works are three: (1) The wealth of spontaneous and sparkling melodies, for he was born with this lyric gift and never had to cudgel his wits for a tune. That instrumental melody could make such sudden progress as we find between the dryness of Emmanuel Bach and the freshness of Haydn, was long a puzzle to scholars, and only recently has the proof been submitted that Haydn was largely of Croatian ancestry. Now the Croatians of Southern Austria are one of the most musical races in the world, with a wealth of folk-songs and dances. Haydn therefore did not have to "invent" melodies in the ordinary sense of the term; they were his birthright. Many of his melodies are adaptations of actual folk-songs[107] or original melodies coming from an imagination saturated with the folk-song spirit.[108] For this reason they seem like wild flowers in their perennial freshness and charm. (2) The precision and clarity with which his ideas are presented. These qualities were due to his well-balanced and logical intellect that impressed everyone with whom he came in contact. His style, moreover, was the result of indefatigable labor, for he was largely self-taught. If the balance of his phrases and the general symmetry of his style seem to our modern taste a bit excessive, we must remember that he was a pioneer and could run no risks in the way of non-acceptance of his message through puzzling complexities. Everything must be so clear that the ordinary mind could at once accept it. Nor is the "sing-song," "square-toed" element so prevalent in Haydn as is commonly supposed. In his melody a distinct feature—no doubt of racial origin—is his fondness for odd rhythms of three, five and seven measures, of which examples abound in the Quartets. In his Minuets and Finales there is a rollicking effect of high spirits which could never have been attained by mere labored pedantry. In his mature works we find a pervading spontaneity which is one of the outstanding examples in all literature of "art concealing art." Never do these works smell of the lamp, and let us remember it is far easier to criticize them than to create them.[109]

(3) The skillful and eloquent manner in which Haydn adapted his ideas to his favorite media of expression: the orchestra and the string-quartet. Although he wrote a number of pianoforte sonatas, these works, on the whole, do not represent his best thought. For they were composed in the transitional period between the waning influence of the harpsichord and the advent of the pianoforte, not yet come to its own. But as for the orchestra, Haydn established[110] the grouping of the three so-called choirs of strings, wood-wind and brass; to which were gradually added the instruments of percussion. In his works we begin to enjoy orchestral effect for its own sake: the dashing vivacity of the strings, the mellowness of the wood-wind, the sonority and grandeur of the brass. Instrumental works had formerly been composed in black and white, but now we have the interplay of orchestral colors. No less paramount was Haydn's influence in the handling of the four solo instruments known as the String Quartet. In his Quartets the voices are so highly individualized that it seems as if four intelligent and witty persons were holding a musical conversation. Such melodic and rhythmic freedom were hitherto unknown and his style became the point of departure for modern practice.[111] Both Mozart and Beethoven, those great masters of the String-Quartet, acknowledged their debt of gratitude to Haydn. His success in establishing the formation of the orchestra and the string-quartet was chiefly due to the inestimable advantage he enjoyed of being, for so many years, chapel-master to those celebrated patrons of music the Princes Paul and Nicholas Esterhazy, at whose country-seat of Esterhaz he had at his disposal, for free experimentation, a fine body of players.[112] Here Haydn worked from 1762 until 1790; and, to quote his own words, "could, as conductor of an orchestra, make experiments, observe what produced an effect and be as bold as I pleased. I was cut off from the world, there was no one to confuse or torment me and I was forced to become original."[113]

As to the formal side of Haydn's work, he is responsible for several distinct improvements. The different divisions of the movement are more clearly defined—sometimes perhaps, as we look back, a bit rigidly—but no more so than was necessary for a public just beginning to follow easily the main outlines of the form. Haydn leads up to his objective points in a clear-cut, logical way and there is little of "running off into the sand" or of those otherwise aimless passages so prevalent in Emmanuel Bach. In his best works, notably in many of the Quartets, there is also more individuality secured for the second theme;[114] although for highly personified and moving second themes we have to await the greater genius of Mozart and Beethoven. Whenever we are inclined to call Haydn's style old-fashioned we must remember that he wrote before the note of intense personal expression—the so-called subjective element, prominent in Beethoven—had come to the fore. The time just prior to Haydn had been called the "Pig-tail period" (Zopf-Periode) in reference to the stiff and precise dress and manners which had their counterpart in formality of artistic expression. Only towards the end of his career do we feel that breath of freedom in life and art which was generated by the French Revolution (beginning in 1791) and by the many political and social changes of that stirring period. From Haydn on, much more attention should be paid to the content and meaning of the music than to the formal handling of the material. In all worthy music, in fact, the chief point of interest is the music itself which speaks to us in its own language of sound and rhythm. A knowledge of form is but a means to an end: for the composer, that he may express himself clearly and convincingly, and for the listener, that he may readily receive the message set forth. In Haydn's music we find the expression of a real personality—though of an artless, child-like type, without great depth of emotion or the tragic intensity of a Beethoven. Haydn was not a philosopher, or a man of broad vision. During his epoch, artists hardly dared to be introspective. His imagination gave birth to music, simple though it was, as freely as the earth puts forth flowers; but, although he wore a wig, he had a heart which was in good working operation even in his sixty-fourth year when, during his London visit, he fell in love with a charming widow, Madame Schroeter, whom he would have married had not his wife been still alive.

We should acquire the catholic taste to enjoy every composer for what he really was and not criticise him for what he was not—a state which would imply necessarily different conditions. In criticism there is no worse error, or one more often made, than that of blaming Haydn because he was not Beethoven; or, in our times, Tchaikowsky because his music does not resemble that of Brahms. Blasé pedants often call Haydn's music "tame"; we might as well apply that adjective to the antics of a sportive kitten. As for the "amiable prattle" of his style we do not speak in a derogatory way of the fresh, innocent voices of children, though we need not listen to them continually. Haydn, in short, is Haydn,[115] and the vitality and sincerity of his works will always keep them immortal. In these feverish days we may dwell upon the simplicity of "Papa Haydn," as he was affectionately called; who would kneel down before beginning work, and who inscribed his scores "In nomine Domini." His modest estimate of his own powers cannot fail to touch our hearts. "I know," he said, "that God has bestowed a talent upon me, and I thank him for it. I think I have done my duty, and been of use in my generation by my works; let others do the same."

We shall now make a few comments on the illustrations in the Supplement (see Exs. No. 41 and 42): the Finale of the Sonata for Pianoforte in E-flat major and the first movement of the so-called Surprise Symphony in G major. Haydn, of all composers, needs little verbal elucidation; his music speaks for itself and everyone must be sensitive to its vitality and charm. We regret that it is not practical to give examples from the Quartets which, in many respects—especially in the Minuets with their inexhaustible invention[116] and their bubbling spirits—represent Haydn at his best. But the real effect of his Quartets is so bound up with idiomatic treatment of the strings that in any transcription for pianoforte the music suffers grievously. It is through the score, however, that everyone should become familiar, with the contents of the Quartets in C major, op. 76, and D major, op. 64; the Finale of the latter being one of the supreme examples in all chamber literature[117] of rhythmic vitality.

The Finale of the E-flat sonata, in strict Sonata-form, begins with a lively eight-measure phrase which is at once repeated a tone higher. The extension of the sentence shows Haydn's freedom in phraseology; for, beginning with measure 17, we should have to count the measures 1, 2, 3, 3a, 4, 5, 6, 6a, 7, 7a, 8, 8a. In the second theme, which begins in the 44th measure, note the piquant dissonances[118] coupled with sforzando accents. Haydn surely liked spice as well as anyone! The rest of the Exposition is taken up with closing passages which accentuate the tonality of the second theme—B-flat major. The Development needs no comment, as the correspondence between the original material and Haydn's treatment is perfectly clear. The Recapitulation is a literal repetition of the Exposition, with the two themes as usual in the tonic key. The movement may be considered an example of Sonata-form in its clearest manifestation, hence an excellent one for preliminary analytical study.

In the first movement of the Surprise Symphony, before the body of the work begins, we have an early example of the Prelude. This slow Prelude, short though it be, is most carefully planned; with its crescendo from pp to a sf forte and its free modulation it arouses a genuine feeling of expectancy. The first theme of the Exposition (Vivace Assai) is a happy illustration of Haydn's sparkling rhythm, and as tossed off by the violins is of irresistible gaiety. The reader is asked to remember that the comments on this symphony—and on all subsequent symphonic works—are based upon the orchestral score; also that the composition, when separated from its orchestral dress, necessarily loses much of its real eloquence. Thus the first theme, of a folk-dance character, is a typical violin melody; only strings—with their incisiveness and power of subtle phrasing—can fully express its piquancy. For private study or for class-room work, a practical version is that for four hands; or better still, when possible, the arrangement for two pianofortes.[119] The second phrase of the first theme is considerably expanded by repetition, as if unable to stop from sheer exuberance, but finally reaches a cadence in the dominant key in the 32nd measure. We are at once taken back, however, to the home-key of G major; and, in measure 40, the first theme is repeated, this time delicately embellished with phrases on the flute. From now on, by reason of the emphasis laid on the key of D major, it is evident that we are in the transitional passage and are heading towards the announcement of the second theme. It must be said that Haydn does not drive very straight at his mark; though it is a pleasant touch of variety in measures 55-57 to introduce the main theme in the minor mode, and though the fiery violin passages in the following measures give an air of considerable excitement. What stands for the second theme begins in measure 67. This portion of the movement has no theme with genuine individuality, but consists of running passages—based exclusively on tonic and dominant harmonies in the new key, and of little import save one of general vivacity. It is, however, decidedly alive—not stagnant or flabby—and in the orchestra it all "comes off." We are rewarded, finally, by a clear-cut closing theme of jaunty rhythm, e.g.,

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

which Haydn liked so much that it is presented twice, the second time slightly embellished. The Exposition closes with the conventional insistence upon a strong cadence in the key of the second theme. The Development begins with some rather fragmentary treatment of the first theme; then, after some fugitive modulation into flat keys, contents itself with running passages and a series of iterated notes. Of organic and sustained development, such as Haydn indeed sometimes attained, there is little trace. Even so we must be chary of sweeping condemnation; for there are well-planned dynamic contrasts and the instruments are used in such a natural way—especially the figure in the double basses (measures 149-153)—that the scene is one of animation, though perhaps no more than one of aimless gambols. There is sufficient modulation, so that the principle of Plurality of key is carried out. We are suddenly but gracefully led back, in measure 155, to the repetition of the first theme, thus beginning the Recapitulation. This portion, with certain abbreviations, is an almost exact duplication of the first part and emphasizes the main tonality of G major. That Haydn was not forced to this literal repetition through any lack of fancy is shown by the skilful amplification of the first theme, in measures 177-184. The whole movement sparkles with sunshine; and those ponderous "heavy-weights" who criticise it because it is not deep or "soulful" are looking for qualities which the music does not pretend to contain. It is the work of a wholesome, cheerful-hearted man expressing through his favorite language his joy in life. In listening to the music we have the same delight as in wandering by the side of a rippling brook. The three remaining movements of the Symphony require little comment; being readily accessible they are not given in the Supplement. The second movement, a set of stereotyped variations, contains the explosive chord which gave to the work its descriptive title. Needless to say that this chord does not "surprise" our modern ears to any great extent. The Minuet is one of Haydn's best—full of queer antics in rhythm and modulation. The Finale (Allegro di molto), in the Rondo Sonata form, is the acme of Haydn's vivacity and is a "tour de force" of brilliant writing for the strings. In many passages they seem fairly to burn.

Haydn's position in the development of music is of the first importance. Whatever his works may "mean," they contain a rhythmic vitality which will keep them alive for ever, and their "child-like cheerfulness and drollery" will charm away care and sorrow as long as the world shall last.

CHAPTER X

MOZART. THE PERFECTION OF CLASSIC
STRUCTURE AND STYLE

ALTHOUGH Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus[120] (1756-1791), was, in regard to art problems, no more of a broad thinker than Haydn (Mozart and Schubert being pre-eminently men whose whole nature centered in music), yet on hearing his works we are aware that aspects of form and content have certainly changed for the better. In the first place he was more highly gifted than Haydn; he had from his infancy the advantage of a broad cosmopolitan experience, and he was dimly conscious of the expanding possibilities of musical expression. It is a perfectly fair distinction to consider Haydn an able, even brilliant prose-writer, and Mozart a poet. Haydn we can account for, but Mozart is the genius "born, not made"—defying classification—and his inspired works seem to fall straight from the blue of Heaven. Whereas Haydn, Beethoven and Schubert were all of very lowly parentage[121] (their mothers being cooks—a blessing on their heads!), Mozart's father and mother were people of considerable general cultivation, and in particular the father, Leopold Mozart, was an educated man and somewhat of a composer himself, who since 1743 had been in the service of the Archbishop of Salzburg, as director of his private orchestra. An excellent violinist, he had written and published a treatise on violin playing, which for many years was the standard work on the subject. Both parents were noted for their good looks, were, moreover, of strong character and highly respectable in every way. Among their several children two early exhibited unusual precocity—Maria Anna, born in 1751, and Wolfgang, still more highly gifted. The stories of the boy's skill and general delicacy of perception may be exaggerated, but we have sufficient valid evidence to convince us that he was a phenomenon absolutely "sui generis." Thus, he began to improvise between three and four, actually to compose little pieces (which we have), when he was five, and to perform in public when he was six! In that very year and continuing for nineteen years (until Mozart had reached the age of twenty-five) began the memorable series of concert tours—eleven in all—comprising Vienna, all the chief cities of Italy and Germany, even Paris and London. These tours the father planned and carried through with the utmost solicitude and self-sacrifice—not to exploit the talented children, but to give them a comprehensive education and artistic experience, and eventually to secure for his son some distinguished post worthy his abilities. It is quite impossible to rehearse all the details of these trips. For one who wishes to investigate for himself they truly make fascinating reading. A single incident, however, will show how clearly defined were the two personalities which made up the complete Mozart; and of which one or the other was in the ascendant throughout his life. As a man, Mozart was light-hearted, witty—even volatile—fond of society, dancing, and a good time generally; not of the strongest intellectual power, judged by modern standards, but, as shown by his marvellous dramatic insight, by no means the debonair light-weight he is often represented. Yet whenever music was under consideration he was a changed being; he became instantly serious, and would suffer no disrespect to himself or to his art. During the last sad years of his career in Vienna, when he was in actual want for the bare necessities of life, a publisher once said to him, "Write in a more popular style, or I will not print a note of your music or give you a kreutzer." "Then, my good sir," replied Mozart, "I have only to resign myself and die of hunger."

In Mozart's works, in distinction from the unconscious, naïve folk-song type of Haydn, we find highly wrought instrumental melodies; although such was his inborn spontaneity of expression that we are never aware of the labor expended. His works are quite as clear as those of Haydn, but they show a more conscious individuality of style. They are not so artless, and the phraseology is more elastic—less cut and dried. There is a higher imaginative vitality; trite, mechanical repetitions are in general avoided, climaxes are led up to in a more subtle manner, and a great gain is made in real organic development. For Mozart, as a master of polyphonic treatment, is second only to Bach. The most striking single feature in his work is the ceaseless flow of expressive melody, notably those wondrous tunes found in his operas, such as "Voi che sapete," "Batti, batti" and numerous others. He had travelled so widely, so keen was his power of assimilation that his melodic style embodied and enhanced the best qualities of contemporary Italian, French and German practice. And yet his innate genius was of sufficient strength to achieve this result without lapsing into formal eclecticism. Whatever suggestions he took he made wholly his own; and his music is nothing if not individual in its inimitable charm and freshness. Whereas Haydn's music often smacks too prominently of the soil, with Mozart we have the fine flower of a broad artistic culture. In his best symphonies and string quartets the art of music made a distinct advance and began to be capable of expressing the universal emotions and aspirations of mankind.

The reactive influence—each upon the other—of Haydn (1732-1809) and Mozart (1756-1791) is a most interesting feature of the period.[122] By the time Mozart was ripe for his best work Haydn had formulated and exemplified the main lines of instrumental structure. From this preparatory work Mozart reaped such an advantage that in his last compositions there is a spontaneous flowering of genius—a union of individual content with perfect clarity of style—which has kept them alive to this day. Haydn's last symphonies, the two Salomon sets composed for his London tours, show in their turn abundant signs of the stimulating influence of the younger man. The perennial importance of form and style cannot be better understood than by recognizing the fact that both Tchaikowsky and Richard Strauss, two of the most fearlessly independent of modern composers, have considered Mozart as their ideal. But even if in Mozart's best works we are not beyond the preponderating influence of form over substance, they must be judged on their own intrinsic merits and not with reference to progress made since—of which, nevertheless, they were an important foundation. His technique was quite sufficient to express what he had to say. We seldom feel that the contents are bursting through the form, that the spirit is too great for the body. Purity of conception and faultlessness of workmanship were still the desiderata of music. The world had to wait for a Beethoven before the hearer should be shaken out of himself by a spiritual power, of which the music at best was often an inadequate expression. This statement is meant to contain no disparagement. Because Beethoven was more elemental we must never belittle the genius of his predecessor. Any familiarity with Mozart's works will convince us of the gratitude we owe him for his original harmonies, for the stimulating contrapuntal texture and for the perfect finish and care for detail found therein. Could we be forever content with "abstract music"—that which justifies itself by a fulfilment of its own inherent laws—Mozart's music would remain the acme of the art. His fame to-day rests upon his string quartets, his three principal symphonies, and—above all—the operas, of which Don Giovanni and the Marriage of Figaro are noted examples. For consummate character-drawing (so that, as Rubinstein remarks, "Each acting personage has become an immortal type"), for interest sustained by unflagging musical vitality, for a combination of humor and seriousness and for ingenious and characteristic handling of the orchestral forces, these works were unequalled until the advent of Wagner and even to-day in their own field remain unsurpassed. The real charm of Mozart—that sunny radiance, at times shot through with a haunting pathos—eludes verbal description. As well attempt to put into words the fragrance and charm of a violet. Hazlitt's fine phrase, apropos of performance, says much in a few words. "Mozart's music seems to come from the air and should return to it," and the ecstatic eulogy of Goethe, to whom genius meant Mozart, should be familiar to all. "What else is genius than that productive power through which deeds arise, worthy of standing in the presence of God and of Nature, and which, for this reason, bear results and are lasting? All the creations of Mozart are of this class; within them there is a generative force which is transplanted from age to age, and is not likely soon to be exhausted or devoured."

In studying Mozart's works the special points to be noticed are these: the wider sweep and freer rhythmic variety of the melodic curve; the more organic fusion of the different portions of a movement—Mozart's lines of demarcation being perfectly clear but not so rigid as in Haydn; the much greater richness of the whole musical fabric, due to Mozart's marvellous skill in polyphony. The time had not yet come when the composer could pique the fancy of the hearer by unexpected structural devices or even lead him off on a false trail as was so often done by Beethoven. Both Haydn and Mozart are homophonic composers, i.e., the outpouring of individual melodies is the chief factor in their works; but whereas in Haydn the tune is almost invariably in the upper voice, in Mozart we find the melody appearing in any one of the voices and often accompanied with fascinating imitations. See, in corroboration, any of the first three movements of the G minor Symphony or the slow movement of the E-flat major Symphony. In the structure of music Mozart made slight changes; the forms were still fresh—having just been established by Haydn—and Mozart with his genius filled them to overflowing. His one important contribution to the development of instrumental form was the Pianoforte Concerto; but, as a consideration of this would lead us too far afield, the student is referred to the life of Mozart in Grove's Dictionary and to the Oxford History, Vol. V. The literature[123] about Mozart and his works is voluminous. Our chief attention nevertheless should be centered on the works themselves rather than on what anyone else writes about them. Certain of these criticisms, however, are so suggestive and illuminating that the student should become familiar with them.

As illustrations[124] for comment we select the F major Sonata for Pianoforte, the G minor Symphony, the Magic Flute Overture for Orchestra and the little known but most characteristic Adagio in B minor for Pianoforte. Here again, as in the case of Haydn, we must regret that it is impracticable to give examples from the chamber music: the String Quartets, the Quintet in G minor or from the entrancing Clarinet Quintet. Any familiarity with Mozart's genius is very incomplete which does not comprise the C major Quartet, especially its heavenly Andante Cantabile; likewise the E-flat major Quartet in the slow movement of which are the following poignant dissonances—a striking anticipation of Tristan and Isolde.

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The F major Sonata is selected to illustrate Mozart's pianoforte style because it bubbles over with typical Mozartian melody and because the Sonata-form is the basis of all three movements; in the first and last strictly employed and in the slow movement somewhat modified. The structure, while just as clear and easy to follow as that of Haydn, represents an advance in the sustained interest of the transitional passages and in the organic treatment of the Development—this being particularly true of the Finale—the middle portion of the first movement being not so significant. The Sonata, without prelude, begins with a soaring, lyric melody in which the customary eight measure formation is expanded to twelve measures. This expansion is brought about by an imitative treatment of the fifth measure and is a convincing example of the flexible phraseology so prominent a feature in Mozart's style. A balancing sentence of eight measures, with an extended cadence, brings us to the transition which is to introduce the second theme. Observe the increasing animation of the rhythm and how the fresh entry of the second theme (in C major) is enhanced by the insistence on the contrasting tonality of C minor. In measure 41 there begins the second theme, a graceful melody that is repeated with heightened fervour and then expanded by means of various modulatory and rhythmic devices—the interest, for a number of measures, being in the bass. In measure 71 we have a piquant closing theme which ends in the "good old way" with some rather formal groups of cadential chords. The Development is short and, save for the dynamic contrasts in the middle part, not of particular import. But though a bit naïve it is neither labored nor dull. The Recapitulation with the necessary adjustments of key (both themes appearing in F major) corresponds exactly to the Exposition. In the opening melody of the Slow movement—a dreamy, sustained Adagio—we see the beautiful use Mozart made of the "turn," e.g.,

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employing it not as meaningless embroidery or to cover up deficiencies in the instrument but as an integral factor in the melodic line, thus anticipating Chopin and Wagner with his "essential turn." The movement is in abridged[125] Sonata-form, i.e., there is a regular Exposition with two themes in the tonic and dominant and a corresponding Recapitulation, but the Development is entirely omitted and in its place we find merely two modulatory measures which take us back to the third part. Such a form arose from the feeling that the Slow Movement should be one of direct melodic and emotional appeal and should not concern itself with protracted discussion of the material. The two closing measures are of a wondrous serenity, peculiar to Mozart. The Finale, Allegro assai, in complete and elaborate Sonata-form, is one of superb vigor and dash, the happiest example possible of Mozart's "joie de vivre." It begins with a brilliant running theme in free phraseology, and then, after a cadence in measure 14, is at once followed by an out and out Waltz tune of a very seductive swing.[126] This is developed to a brilliant climax and then closes pp in a delicate, wistful manner. The transition, with some canonic imitations and stimulating sequences, leads us to the second theme at measure 50. This—one of Mozart's loveliest melodies—is rather exceptionally in the dominant minor (i.e., C minor) and with its mood of pathetic revery affords a wonderful contrast to the headlong dash of the first theme. This melody alone would prove that Mozart had his moments of deep emotion. In measure 65 begins a long closing portion which resumes the exuberant mood characteristic of the Exposition as a whole. The Development at first is based upon modulatory changes in the first theme; and then, towards the middle, occurs a passage which seems to be a counterpart of the second theme, save that it is in the major mode. We are now carried onward through a series of passages, with pungent dissonances and imitative phrases, to a fortissimo dominant chord; thence through a descending cadenza-like passage we are whirled back to the Recapitulation. In material and treatment this corresponds exactly to the Exposition and has the same pianissimo ending. Such an effect was a touch of genuine originality and was a delightful contrast to the conventional flourish of trumpets with which the Finale of the period was expected to end. Music is often most impressive when most subdued.

The G minor Symphony is universally acknowledged to be the highest achievement of 18th century instrumental music and is also premonitory of that subjective spirit peculiar to the 19th century. It will remain immortal so long as human beings are capable of being touched by a sincere revelation of emotion combined with a perfection of utterance which seems fairly Divine. This delicate treatment and this exquisite finish are two prominent characteristics of Mozart's style. Truly the Symphony is the quintessence of Mozart in terms of sound and rhythm, and we need but to listen to his message and receive it with grateful appreciation. The work contains the four customary movements, all of them (save the three-part Minuet and Trio) in complete Sonata-form. The first movement begins at once with a gracefully poised theme sung by the violins, a theme which may be likened in its outlines to the purity of a Greek statue. The entrancing effect of this melody cannot be realized except on the orchestra, for it seems to float on the gently pulsating chords of the violas like a beautiful flower. Everyone who hears the work is at once arrested by this highly original treatment, e.g.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

The transition is short but leads us in a happy state of expectancy through a change of rhythm from the graceful outlines of the first theme to the vigorous phrase

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and by a bold run, thrice repeated, to the entrance of the second theme in measure 43. This theme, in the customary relative major (B-flat), illustrates Mozart's fondness for the chromatic element which gives to many of his melodies such a haunting appeal. The closing portion, beginning at measure 71, is an example of Mozart's spontaneous skill in polyphonic writing. It is based entirely on the motive of the main theme in delightful imitations tossed about by different sections of the orchestra. The second part is a genuine Development, since the musical life never flags in its contrapuntal vitality; the theme appears in all parts of the texture—upper, inner and lower voices—and we are carried vigorously onward by the daring modulations. Just at the close of the Development we see Mozart's constructive skill in the fusion of this part with the subsequent Recapitulation. A series of drifting chromatic chords in the flutes and oboes, like light fleecy clouds, keeps us in a state of suspended wonder when quietly there emerges the first theme and the return home has begun. It is one of the truly poetic touches in musical literature and has been often imitated—especially by Tchaikowsky in his Fifth and Sixth Symphonies.[127] The Recapitulation corresponds exactly with the Exposition, but an added pathos is given to the second theme by its appearance in the tonic key of G minor. Observe the impassioned intensity of the climax in measures 13-19 (counting back from the end). The mood of dreamy contemplation with which the Slow Movement begins cannot be translated into words; why attempt it? We have the music which, coming from the divinely gifted imagination of the composer, reveals in its own language a message of pathetic longing and ideal aspiration. The movement is very concise but in complete Sonata-form, and with an orchestration felicitous in the treatment of the horns and the wood-wind instruments. The Minuet, noteworthy for the three-measure rhythm of the opening phrase,

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shows clearly the new life which Mozart infused into the old form by his remarkable polyphonic skill. Note at the outset of the second part the vigorous effect of the theme in the bass and the frequency of biting dissonances. The charming grace and simplicity of the Trio are indescribable; here again we find an eloquent use of the wood-wind group. The Finale, in complete Sonata-form, begins with a perfectly balanced periodic theme, presented in Two-part form, i.e., two sentences of eight measures, each repeated. If from our present standpoint we feel that the tone of this movement is a bit light to follow the serious thoughts of the preceding movements, let us remember that it was composed when the Finale was meant merely to "top off" a work; and that, if it radiated a general atmosphere of sunshine and satisfaction, its purpose was fulfilled. For the Finale, which, like the glorious splendor of an autumn day, is the crowning objective towards which the other movements have been striving, we must wait for Beethoven and his modern successors. In fact we may express the general trend of a Haydn or a Mozart Symphony by a decrescendo, thus

i.e., the real genius of the composer is shown in the first three movements; whereas, beginning with Beethoven, we find an organic climactic effect[128] from the first movement to the last, thus

. But to carry such criticisms too far is ungracious and unjust. Mozart's themes, both the first and the second (beginning in measure 55), with their tripping contredance rhythms, fill our hearts with life and carry us irresistibly onward. And the Development has some surprises in store, for now the dramatic genius of Mozart asserts itself. Note the bold leaps and daring modulations of the opening measures. Nothing trite or formal here! The strong polyphonic treatment of the first theme, beginning in measure 120 and sustained with unflagging energy for seventy measures, makes this one of the most stimulating developments in symphonic literature, not excepting Beethoven himself. The Recapitulation, in subject matter, is an exact duplication of the Exposition and allows us to recover gradually from our excitement and to return to the ordinary world of men and events. The presentation of the second theme, however, shows Mozart's mastery of melodic variation. The substance is the same, but the import of the melody is intensified, e.g.

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The Overtures to Mozart's three operas: The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni and the Magic Flute are of particular interest, not only for the beauty of their contents but because they are our earliest examples of the Overture fashioned in complete Sonata form. Originally the Overture had been a prelude to the opening of a play, a prelude of the lightest and most meagre nature. Examples, beginning with Monteverde, abound in all the early Italian opera composers.[129] Lully of the French school and Alessandro Scarlatti of the Italian were the first to amplify these beginnings and to establish a definite standard of structure. In both schools this standard represented an application of the Three-part form principle; the French arranging their contrasts, slow, fast, slow (the so-called French overture—of which we have an example in Handel's Messiah) and the Italians, fast, slow, fast (the so-called Italian Overture). Although Gluck (1714-1787) did much to establish a more dramatic connection between the overture and the play, even the best of his Overtures, Iphigenia in Aulis, is a rather loosely expanded tripartite structure with a good many meaningless passages. But Mozart, coming after Haydn's definite establishment of the Sonata-form and with the growing interest of the public in instrumental music for its own sake as an incentive, could take advantage of these circumstances to display his genius and to delight his hearers with a piece of genuine music. This he did and his operatic overtures are of such distinct import and self-sufficiency that they are often detached from the opera itself and played as concert numbers. The Magic Flute Overture is also noteworthy because of the polyphonic treatment of the first theme which is a definite fugal presentation in four voices. The second theme, beginning in measure 64, and soon repeated, is light and winning, meant to supplement rather than to contrast strongly with the first theme, which indeed keeps up at the same time, in the inner voices, its rhythmic impetuosity. The Exposition ends with a graceful closing phrase, e.g.,

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and the usual cadence in the dominant key. It is considered that the Adagio chords for the trombones, interpolated between the Exposition and the Development, are suggestive of the religious element in the play that is to follow. The Development is remarkable for the spirited imitative treatment of the first theme, for the bold way in which the voices cut into each other and for the fusion of its closing measures with the Recapitulation. The chief feature in this brilliant passage is a piling up of the theme in stretto form (see measures 148-153). The Recapitulation is somewhat shortened and the melodic outline of the second theme is slightly changed; otherwise it corresponds with the Exposition. After the closing phrase we have some pungent dissonances, e.g.

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Rossini, it is said, was never tired of eulogizing this Overture and certainly for spontaneity and vigor it is unrivalled.[130]

The last illustration from Mozart is his Adagio in B minor (see Supplement No. 43) an independent piece, far too little known, in complete Sonata-form. The haunting pathos in the theme, the exquisite loveliness in the whole fabric instantly reach the hearer's heart. Analytical comment seems quite unnecessary; a child can "follow" the music, but only he with a ripe knowledge of human life can begin to fathom its deep mystery.[131] When we see such modern passages as the following, e.g.

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Tchaikowsky's love for Mozart's music is readily understood. Indeed, we cannot refrain from urging everyone to cultivate such a love himself; for in the works of Mozart are found a purity, a sanity and a delight in creation which keep them alive and make them in very truth "things of beauty and a joy forever."

CHAPTER XI

BEETHOVEN, THE TONE-POET

AS Beethoven was such an intensely subjective composer, a knowledge of his personality and environment is indispensable for a complete appreciation of his works.[132]

Beethoven, Ludwig van (1770-1827), born at Bonn on the Rhine, though his active career is associated with Vienna, may be called the first thinker in music; for at last the art is brought into correlation with man's other powers and becomes a living reflex of the tendencies and activities of the period. Notwithstanding the prodigious vitality of Bach's work, we feel that his musical sense operated abstractly like a law of Nature and that he was an unconscious embodiment, as it were, of the deep religious sentiment of his time and of the sturdy independence of his race. At any period and in any place Bach would have been Bach. Beethoven's music, however, in its intense personality and as a vivid expression of the ideals of his fellow men, was different from any the world had heard before. There were three paramount advantages in his equipment: first, Beethoven was a strong character who only happened to find in music his most suitable means of self-expression. The full import of his works cannot be understood unless he is recognized, great creative artist that he was, as first and foremost a unique personality. Had he not written a note of music we should have sufficient historical evidence to assure ourselves of the vigor of his intellect and the elevation of his ideals. Whereas Haydn and Mozart are to be judged purely as musicians, in Beethoven it is always something underlying the musical symbols which claims our allegiance. Furthermore he had the inestimable advantage of finding the mechanical structure of instrumental music carefully formulated by his predecessors. The stone had been quarried, the rough cutting done and the blocks lay ready for a genius to use in the erection of his own poetically conceived edifice. And these forms were still fresh and vigorous; they had not yet hardened into formalism. In Beethoven's works we rarely find form employed for its own sake, as a mere "tour de force" of skilful workmanship, rather is it made to adapt itself to the individual needs of the composer. Finally Beethoven's career coincided with momentous changes and upheavals in the social, political and artistic world. He is the embodiment of that spirit of individualism, of human freedom and self-respect which found its expression in the French Revolution, in our American War of Independence and in the entire alteration of social standards. Beethoven at all costs resolved to be himself. With him music ceases to be a mere "concourse of sweet sounds"; it must always bring some message to the brooding human soul, and be something more than a skilful example of abstract ingenuity. These personal tendencies of Beethoven were fostered by the spirit of the times, and his music became in turn a vital expression of revolt against existing conditions and of passionate aspiration towards something better. He was the first musician to free himself from the enervating influence of having to write exclusively for aristocratic patronage. Such was the social emancipation of the period that he could address himself at first hand to a musical public eagerly receptive and constantly growing. His representative works could never have been composed in the time of Haydn and Mozart; for though in formal structure the logical development of preceding methods—Beethoven being no reckless iconoclast—in individual content they reveal a freedom of utterance which took its rise in tendencies hitherto unknown. Beethoven's mighty personality and far-reaching influence can not be stated in a few formulae. An extensive library covering his life and times is accessible to the interested layman, and a thorough appreciation of his masterpieces is a spiritual possession which everyone must gain individually. Since Beethoven's works compel a man to think for himself, the constructive power of the creator must be met with an analogous activity on the part of the receptive hearer. The symphonies, for example, are more than cunningly contrived works of musical art; they are human documents of undying power to quicken and exalt the soul which will submit itself to their influence. Beethoven's great instrumental compositions are few in number in comparison with the voluminous and uneven output of his predecessors. Thus from Haydn we have 125 symphonies, from Mozart about 40, from Beethoven 9. Of Haydn's symphonies possibly a half dozen have permanent vitality; of Mozart's four; of Beethoven's all, with the possible exception of the experimental first. Condensation of subject matter, conciseness of style, a ceaseless exaltation of quality above quantity are the prominent features in Beethoven's work. All adipose tissue is relentlessly excised, and the finished creation resembles a human being in perfect physical condition—the outward mechanical organism subservient to the spirit within.

Beethoven's life is of supreme interest and importance, for his music is the direct expression of himself, of his joys and sorrows. His ancestry raises many perplexing questions as to the influence of heredity and the sources of genius. In the first place Beethoven was not a pure-blooded German, but partly Flemish on his father's side. His paternal grandfather, Ludwig van[133] Beethoven, was a man of strong character and of a certain musical aptitude, who had migrated from the neighborhood of Antwerp to Bonn where he served as court musician to the Elector of Cologne. The paternal grandmother early developed a passion for drink and ended her days confined in a convent. The son of this couple, Johann (the father of the composer) was a tenor singer in the court chapel at Bonn and soon became a confirmed drunkard. He seems to be a mere intermediary between grandfather and grandson. In 1767 he married a young widow, Maria Keverich, a woman of warm affections and depth of sentiment, whose life was bound up in the care of her gifted son. The tender love between Beethoven and his mother was a bright spot in his early years, in many ways so sordid and unhappy. Unfortunately she was delicate, of consumptive tendencies, and died when Ludwig was but seventeen. "She has been to me a good and loving mother," he writes, "and my best friend." As we ponder on such facts and then consider for what Beethoven stands, we can only exclaim, "God works in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform." It was early seen that the young Beethoven had unusual ability, and so the shiftless father, with the example of Mozart's precocity before him, submitted the boy to a deal of enforced drudgery in the way of harpsichord and violin practice. He had one good teacher however, Neefe, who records that the boy of thirteen played the harpsichord with energetic skill and had mastered the Preludes and Fugues of the Well-Tempered Clavichord. Beethoven's general education was sadly neglected, and when he was thirteen practically ceased. These deficiencies were a source of mortification all his life. He spelled atrociously, was never sure of his addition and subtraction and so was often involved in altercations with landlords and washerwomen. By nature Beethoven was of strong, eager intellect. He became an omnivorous reader, and later in life acquired a working facility in Latin, French, Italian and English. The first period of his life ends with his departure in 1792 for Vienna, whither he was sent by the Elector to study with Haydn. In summing up its special incidents we are struck first by the vivid and lasting impression which Beethoven, in spite of his lowly origin and deficiencies in education and cultivation, made upon wealthy and refined people of distinction, simply through his extraordinary personality and unmistakable sincerity. Two of these friends were the von Breuning family, including the charming daughter Eleanore—one of Beethoven's early loves—and the cultivated and influential Count Waldstein, in whose companionship he became acquainted with the German poets and with the dramas of Shakespeare. For a vivid picture of these boyish years the student is recommended to the Romance, [Jean Christophe] (by Romain Rolland) which, though somewhat idealized, is mainly on a historical basis. Two of Beethoven's most unique characteristics date from this period. First, his constant habit of drawing inspiration directly from Nature, of which he was a passionate and persistent lover. He says of himself "No one can love the country as I love it. Here alone can I learn wisdom. Every tree exclaims to me 'Holy, Holy, Holy.'" In long walks through wood and field he would allow his thoughts to germinate, giving himself up utterly to creative emotion. When in this state of mind Madame von Breuning used to say that he was in his "raptus." Consequently, in comparison with the works of previous composers, which often have a note of primness and artificial restraint—they smell a bit of the lamp and the study—those of Beethoven have the elemental power of Nature herself, especially shown in the vigor and variety of the rhythm. Second, he would always carry sketch books in which to jot down ideas as they came to him. These he would polish and improve—sometimes for years—before they took final shape. Many of these sketch books[134] have been preserved and edited, and they illustrate, most vividly, Beethoven's method of composing: slow, cautious, but invincible in its final effect; an idea frequently being altered as many as twenty times. At the age of twenty-two he was chiefly known as a pianist with wonderful facility in improvisation; his compositions had been insignificant. The next eight years—up to 1800, when Beethoven was thirty—were spent in acquainting himself with the Viennese aristocracy and in building up a public clientèle. Then follows the marvellous period until 1815 in which his power of inspiration was at its height, and which gave to the world a body of work for magnitude and variety never surpassed: all the symphonies except the Ninth, the first twenty-seven pianoforte Sonatas, five concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, the opera of Fidelio, several Overtures, numerous string quartets and ensemble chamber music. We realize even more vividly the heroic and sublime character of Beethoven when we learn that, as early as 1798, there began the signs of that deafness which altered his whole life. By nature he was hypersensitive, proud and high-strung, and these qualities were so aggravated by his malady that he became suspicious, at times morose, and his subsequent career was checkered with the violent altercations, and equally spasmodic renewals of friendship, which took place between him and his best friends. His courage was extraordinary. Thus we find him writing: "Though at times I shall be the most miserable of God's creatures, I will grapple with Fate, it shall never pull me down." On the artistic side this affliction had its compensations in that it isolated the composer from outer distractions, and allowed him to lay entire stress on the spiritual inner side of his art; certainly this is one of the strongest notes in his music—the pure fancy manifested therein. As a deaf musician he is comparable to the blind seer who penetrates more deeply into the mysteries of life than those whose physical eyesight is perfect. Beethoven's closing years form a period of manifold complications, caused by the care of his scapegrace nephew, by his settled deafness and precarious financial position. Yet he grimly continued to compose, his last works being of titanic dimensions such as the Choral symphony, the Mass in D and the last Quartets and Pianoforte Sonatas. Beethoven died on March 26, 1827; nature most appropriately giving a dramatic setting to the event by a terrific storm of hail and snow, lightning and thunder. It would take too long to dwell on the many characteristics of the man Beethoven. Power, individuality and sincerity were stamped upon him, and his music is just what we should expect from his nature. He embodied all the longings, the joys and sorrows of humanity, and gave them such burning utterance that the world has listened ever since.

To touch now upon a few of the formal aspects of Beethoven's work, as far as verbal analysis can help, it may be asserted that he is the acknowledged master of the Sonata Form as Bach was of the Fugue, and in his hands this form, and also the Air with Variations, were raised to a potency the influence of which is felt even to-day. From beginning to end every portion of the Sonata Form was made over and vitalized. Instead of the perfunctory "flourish of trumpets" which served previous composers for an introduction, this portion with Beethoven deftly leads on the hearer to a contemplation of the main work, and is as carefully planned as the porch of a great Cathedral. For examples, witness the continually growing excitement generated in the introductions to the Second and Seventh Symphonies, the breathless suspense of the introduction to the Fourth, and the primeval, mysterious beginning of the Ninth. And then what a difference in the character and emotional suggestiveness of the themes, that with Beethoven are actual human voices, dramatic characters, which once met can never be forgotten. As Lavoix says of the Fifth Symphony, "Is not this a drama in its purity, where passion is no longer the attribute of a theatrical work, but the expression of our own individual feelings?" No longer are the transitions mere mechanical connections, but a portion of the structure which, though subsidiary, is yet organically developed from that which precedes and inevitably related to that which follows. In the development section we find the real Beethoven. Here his marvellous freshness of invention found full play. Such inexhaustible fancy, such coherence of structure, such subtlety of transformation were unknown in former times, when development was often as lifeless as the perfunctory motions of an automaton. Beethoven's developments are no mere juggling with tones; they are vast tonal edifices, examples of what the imagination of man controlled by intellect can achieve. Possibly Beethoven's greatest skill as a musical architect was shown in his treatment of the Coda, which became the crowning climax of a movement, a last driving home with all possible eloquence of the message heretofore presented. The end of previous compositions had too often been a mere ceasing to go, a running down, but in Beethoven there is usually a strong objective point towards which everything converges.

Fully conscious as he was of the throbbing human message it was his mission to reveal, we may be sure that Beethoven spared no effort to enhance the expressive capabilities of music as a language. Certain aspects of his style in this respect are strikingly noticeable in every one of his representative works. First, the marvellous rhythmic vitality. Note the absence of the former sing-song rhythm of Haydn; in its stead we hear the heart-beat, now fast, now slow, of a living human being. No longer can the hearer in dreamy apathy beat time with his foot. Second, his use of the fiercest dissonances to express the heights and depths of our stormy human existence. In listening to contemporary works nothing should persuade us more strongly to a sympathetic tolerance, or at any rate to a suspension of judgment, than the fact that many of Beethoven's most individual cries (surely in his case the outward expression of what he heard within, those very outbursts which to-day ring longest in our consciousness) were considered at the time of their creation as the ravings of a mad-man. Dissonances, both acoustically and psychologically, are a vital principle in music. In no respect was his music more original than in his Promethean boldness in their use. One of his favorite conceptions was that music should strike fire from the soul of man; it was not meant to lull the hearer into a drowsy revery, but to awaken his spiritual consciousness with a shock at times positively galvanic. A third feature is his subtlety in expression, as is shown by the minute indications in which every page of his work abounds. The crescendos, often leading to a sudden drop to pianissimo, the long stretches of hushed suspense, the violent sforzandos on unimportant beats, the plasticity of periodic formation, all these workings of a rich imagination first gave music its place as the supreme art of human expression.

A word must be spoken concerning two forms which we owe to Beethoven's constructive genius. In place of the former naïve Minuet, so characteristic of the formal manners of its time, he substituted a movement with a characteristic name—the Scherzo, which opened up entirely new possibilities. No mere literary distinction between wit and humor[135] can explain the power of Beethoven's Scherzos; only through his own experience of life can the hearer fathom their secrets. The expression of real humor, akin to that spirit which is found in Cervantes, Swift, Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln, was a genuine contribution of Beethoven. Deep thinkers alone are capable of humor which, to quote a recent writer, is "that faculty of imagination so humane and sympathetic in its nature that it can perceive at the same time serious and jocose things. It can feel the pathos of a scene on life's stage and yet have an eye for the incongruities of the actors. It is imagination, the feel of kinship with the universal human soul." Beethoven's Scherzos are as varied as life itself. Who can forget the boisterous vitality of this movement in the Eroica, which quite sweeps us off our feet, the haunting mystery of the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony, or listen unmoved to the grim seriousness, alternating with touching pathos, in the Scherzo of the Ninth? Secondly, his conception of the Air and Variations was so different from anything previously known that he may fairly be called its creator. With him variations became poetic transformations, and the notable works in this form of Brahms, Tchaikowsky, Franck and d'Indy are only freer manifestations of Beethoven's method. Upon two last features, his use of titles and his individualizing of the orchestral instruments, we cannot dwell in detail. Although program music in its literal sense dates back several centuries, Beethoven—far more than was customary before—used external suggestions or incidents, often intimate subjective experiences, as the quickening impulse to his imagination. We know from his own words that, while composing, he generally had some mental picture before him. Very often we are not given the clue to his thoughts, but the titles, familiar to every one, which he did use, such as the Heroic and Pastoral Symphonies, the Coriolanus and Egmont Overtures, those to several of the Sonatas, are full of import and show clearly that he was engaged in no mere abstract music making for its own sake. These works are the point of departure for the significant development of modern music along this path. With Beethoven the orchestra began to assume its present importance, and the instruments are no longer treated as mere producers of sound and rhythm, but often as living beings. How eloquent is the message of the Horns in the Trio to the Scherzo of the Heroic! Berlioz compares the double basses in the Fifth Symphony to the gambols of sportive elephants, and instances might be multiplied. But words are futile in describing the wonders of Beethoven. A striking tribute is that of Professor John K. Paine. "In instrumental music Beethoven is pre-eminent, from all points of view, formally, aesthetically and spiritually. Like Shakespeare's, his creations are distinguished by great diversity of character; each is a type by itself. Beethoven is the least of a mannerist of all composers. His compositions are genuine poems, which tell their meaning to the true listener clearly and unmistakably in the language of tones, a language however which cannot be translated into mere words."

We are now in a position to approach intelligently, enthusiastically and reverently the mighty works of Beethoven which, though built upon the foundations of Haydn and Mozart, yet take us into an entirely new world of power and fancy. For illustrations we select the first movement of the Third or Heroic Symphony; the Seventh Sonata in D major for Pianoforte; the Fifth Symphony in C minor (entire) and the Coriolanus Overture. In regard to the symphonies it is understood that the emphasis on certain ones and the omission of others implies no ultra-critical attitude. Each of Beethoven's symphonies has its characteristic attributes and each is the work of a genius. But just as in Nature some mountains are more majestic than others, so concerning the nine symphonies we may say that their order of excellence as endorsed by the consensus of mankind would be as follows. The First Symphony is somewhat experimental, composed when Beethoven was working out his technique of expression. It is closely modeled on the style of Haydn and, though showing certain daring touches and though perfectly direct and sincere, is not of marked individuality. In the Second Symphony a long advance is made, for we find numerous traits which are thoroughly distinctive of the genius of Beethoven: the exciting Prelude to the first movement; the heavenly Larghetto, one of the first slow movements of real emotional power; the rollicking Scherzo (note the fantastic touches in the Trio) and the splendor of the last pages of the Finale, which can only be compared to a sunset with its slowly fading colors and its last burst of glory. The general style of the Second Symphony however is that of Haydn and Mozart, though raised to the highest pitch of eloquence. In the Third Symphony the complete Beethoven steps forth. It was his declaration of independence, and in this work, as he himself said, he began a completely new line of activity; it was also his own favorite among the symphonies.[136] Heretofore there had been no such impassioned utterance as is revealed in the first movement of this Third Symphony and there have been few, if any, to equal it since. The Fourth Symphony is an entrancing work and shows Beethoven's inexhaustible variety of mood; since, save for the "grand manner" peculiar to all his works, it differs strikingly from the Third and the Fifth. It was composed during the happiest period of Beethoven's life and is related in its whole character to his emotions and aspirations at that time.[137] The slow movement is the most sublime love-song in music. The Fifth Symphony is undoubtedly the most popular of them all, in the true sense of the term.[138] The reason for this verdict is the unparalleled combination in a single work of the emotional intensity found in the first movement, the touching appeal of the slow movement, the mystery, followed by the reckless display of spirit, in the Scherzo and the paean of rejoicing which rings through the Finale. The Sixth or Pastoral, Beethoven's one excursion into the realm of tone-painting based on natural phenomena, is of interest more as a point of departure for the work of his successors than for its intrinsic message. The conception of the possibilities of musical description has so widened since Beethoven, and the facilities for orchestral color so increased, that this symphony, though it has many characteristic beauties, sounds a bit old-fashioned. The Seventh is one of the most original of them all, incomparable for its rhythmic vitality—the Apotheosis of the Dance, as Wagner called it.[139] If rhythm be the basis of music and of life itself, this symphony is thoroughly alive from start to finish, hence immortal. The Eighth is the embodiment of Beethoven's (possibly) most individual trait—his abounding humor. Never before had symphonic music played such pranks as are found here, especially in the Finale. The Symphony is in fact a prolonged Scherzo[140]—the third movement (a Minuetto) being merely for contrast. The Ninth Symphony, composed in the philosophic period of Beethoven's life, when he was attempting still greater heights, is a vast work, the first three movements purely instrumental, and the Finale, for the first time in symphonic literature, a union of solo voices and chorus with the instrumental forces. The text was taken from Schiller's "Ode to Joy." The spirit of the poem made a strong appeal to Beethoven's humanitarian and democratic aspirations and there is no question of the grandeur of his conception. But it is not carping criticism to say that his thoughts were too heaven-soaring for a perfect realization through any earthly means. Beethoven moreover was seldom happy in writing for the human voice—he thought in terms of the instruments—and it is not to be denied that there are several passages in the Finale which consist of mere boisterous shouting. No one save believers in plenary inspiration can give to this Finale the whole-hearted admiration that is paid to the three instrumental movements which are pure gold; especially the seraphic Adagio and the Gargantuan Scherzo with its demoniacal rhythmic energy. To sum up the foregoing estimates, if the student is forced to select and cannot become equally familiar with all of the nine symphonies, a reasonable order of study would be the following: the Fifth, the Third, the Seventh, the Eighth, the Fourth, the Ninth, the Second, the Sixth and the First. See Supplement No. 44.

We shall now make a few comments[141] on the first movement of the Third or Heroic Symphony, merely to stimulate the hearer's interest, for the music may be trusted to make its own direct appeal. After two short, sonorous chords, which summon us to attention, the first theme, allegro con brio, with its elemental, swinging rhythm, is announced by the 'cellos. It is often glibly asserted that these notes of the tonic triad are the whole of the first theme. This is a great misconception, for although the motive in the first four measures is the generative basis for the entire movement, the arresting, dramatic note of the theme is the C-sharp in measure five. This theme in fact is a typical example of Beethoven's broad sweeps of thought; for prolonged with secondary melodic phrases in the first violins and flutes, its real close does not come until the 13th measure, e.g.

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After a varied repetition of the first motive of the theme, there occurs a passage (measures 23-33)[142] which illustrates one of the most characteristic features in all Beethoven's work, i.e., those sharp dislocations of the rhythm, indicated by the sforzando accents (sf) on beats usually unaccented and often coupled with strong dissonances. Although the basic rhythm is triple, the beats for several measures are in groups of two quarter notes or their equivalent, one half note, e.g.

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No longer can we drift along in dreamy apathy; our vitality is quickened as by the gusts of a tornado. There have been those who for the first time in their lives were jarred from the even tenor of their way by these impassioned onslaughts. When Beethoven's Symphonies were first played in Paris, it is reported that the operatic composer Boieldieu was much disconcerted, because, as he said, he liked "musique qui me berce." The transition (measures 43-81) is a remarkable example of Beethoven's power of creating ever more and more excitement and expectancy. It contains three subsidiary melodic phrases, each of increasing rhythmic animation, e.g.,

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and fairly whirls us into the beautiful contemplative theme at measure 81. This theme embodies some entrancing modulations into remote keys, and then, after one of Beethoven's typical passages of hushed pianissimo (beginning in measure 97) we are led through a series of sforzandos, crescendos and titanic ejaculations to the overpowering dissonances in measure 145, which with the tonic chord close the Exposition in the dominant key. The Development (measures 164-396) is extremely long and varied, but a perfect manifestation of spontaneous, organic treatment—each portion growing inevitably from what has preceded and marching irresistibly onward to its objective goal. Every modulatory, rhythmic and polyphonic device is employed to vary and intensify the message; yet, notwithstanding the diversity of the material, we are held spellbound by the directness and coherence of the thought. Such is Beethoven's passionate insistence on the right to speak out just what he felt that in one stupendous passage (measures 246-277) it seems as if the very Heavens were falling about our heads. At measure 282 a theme of ideal repose is interpolated—just the contrast needed after the preceding cataclysm. The Development proper is renewed in measure 298 and after a repetition of the interpolated theme in measures 320-335 the rhythm of the first theme asserts itself in all its majesty, carrying us upward to a veritable table-land of sublimity. From this we are brought down through a series of decrescendo, modulatory chords, like drifting mists, to an almost complete cessation of musical life—nothing but a pianissimo tremolo on the strings. From this hush there floats in upon us the rhythmic motive of the first theme; then, with a ff chord of the dominant, we are suddenly brought back into the sunshine of the main theme, and the Recapitulation has begun. This portion with certain happy changes in modulation—note the beautiful variant on the horn in measures 406-414, e.g.,

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—preserves the customary emphasis on the main tonality of E-flat major, ending in measures 549-550 with the same dissonances which closed the Exposition. Then are declaimed by the full orchestra those two dramatic outbursts which usher in the Coda and which may be likened to "Stop! Listen! the best is yet to come." The blunt, intentional disjunction of the harmony adds weight to the assertion, e.g.

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Here we have a convincing illustration of Beethoven's individual conception that the Coda should be a second and final development; special points of interest and treatment being held in store, so that it becomes a truly crowning piece of eloquence. Observe how the reappearance of the interpolated theme balances the Coda with the Development proper and how the various rhythms of the Exposition are concentrated in the last page. Finally a series of bold, vibrato leaps in the first violins—based on the dominant chord—brings this impassioned movement to a close.

A lack of space prevents the inclusion in the Supplement of the rest of the Symphony, but the student is urged to make himself familiar with the three remaining movements: the Marcia Funèbre, the Scherzo and the Finale. The Funeral March is justly ranked with that of Chopin in his B-flat minor Sonata and that of Wagner in the last act of the Götterdämmerung as one of the most eloquent in existence, and contains melodies so touching that they could have come only from the very soul of Beethoven. Especially noteworthy is the aspiring melody of the middle, contrasting portion (Maggiore) where the spirit, freed from earthly dross, seems to mount to the skies in a chariot of fire. The third part, where the minor mode is resumed, abounds in dramatic touches; especially that fugal passage, where the ecclesiastical tone, combined with pealing trumpets, brings before us some funeral pageant in a vast, medieval cathedral. The Coda, beginning in A-flat major, with an impressive mood of resignation, illustrates at its close a psychological use of programmistic effect; for the first theme, treated as a real person, disintegrates before our very eyes—becoming, as it were, a disembodied spirit. Nothing can show more clearly than this passage the widening of the expressive powers of music which we owe to the genius of Beethoven. The same effect with a slightly different dramatic purpose is found at the end of the Coriolanus Overture.

The Scherzo, allegro vivace, in triple time, but marked one beat a measure = 116 (almost two measures per second!), is unsurpassed for sustained brilliancy and daring rhythmic changes. It is so idiomatically conceived for orchestra that only the barest idea can be gained from a pianoforte transcription. The prevailing background is a mass of shimmering strings, marked by Beethoven "sempre pp e staccato" and against this stands out a buoyant, folk-song type of melody on the oboe. After some mysterious and fantastic modulations a ff climax is reached which leads to the famous syncopated passage where the orchestra seems to hurl itself headlong into space, e.g.

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The Trio, with its three hunting horns, gives a fresh, woodland note typifying Beethoven's love of nature. Some mysterious modulations lead us back from the dim recesses of the forest to the sparkling animation of the Scherzo. In this part of the movement Beethoven plays one of his characteristic practical jokes; for, just where we expect the same syncopated effect as before, the time is changed from 3/4 to 2/2, the duration of the measure remaining the same, e.g.

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This effect may be likened to the uproarious guffaws of a giant. The Coda has a clear reminiscence of the dramatic C-sharp in the main theme of the first movement, e.g.[143]

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Such an organic connection between movements begins to be very frequent in Beethoven's works.

The Finale, Allegro molto, has caused considerable difficulty to the commentators for reasons known only to themselves. Different forms are assigned to it by different critics; one regrets the falling off of inspiration, another asserts that the movement "does not fulfill the requirements which the human mind makes of art; it leaves us confused." Poor Beethoven! But why all this pother? If the inner evidence of the music itself be any justification for structural classification, this wonderful, inspired Finale is a series of free Variations[144] on a double theme of which the parts are related to each other as Soprano and Bass, e.g.

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By beginning the first two variations with the less important of the two melodies (i.e., the bass) Beethoven is simply indulging in his fondness for piquing the fancy of the hearer by starting him on a false trail—not giving away, as it were, his real purpose too soon. Yet from the first announcement of the leading melody in the Third Variation it assumes increasing importance, through successive appearances in E-flat major, B minor, D major and C major, until after a long fugal development we reach the inspired passage (Poco Andante con espressione), e.g.,

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in which the main theme is stated first in its noble simplicity and then enhanced by an obligato melody on the oboe. It is one of the most eloquent passages in all symphonic literature. At its last appearance the real theme comes fully to its own—for the first time in the bass, that fundamental voice—where it is declaimed ff in gorgeous splendor by all the lower instruments of the orchestra. It is evident that not even the most inspired genius can sustain such a flight for ever, and after this magnificent paean the workings of Beethoven's imagination resemble those of Nature herself. Following a tranquil intermediary passage in A-flat major we enter upon one of those long, mysterious periods of hushed suspense which may be compared to a long expanse of open country or to the fading lights on the sea at sunset. The last page, beginning with the Presto, is sheer orchestral jubilation of the most intoxicating kind. We may picture an enthusiastic gathering, with hats thrown aloft and shouts of triumph ringing from every throat. It is of historical interest to know that the theme of this Finale must have been a favorite with Beethoven, for he had used it in three former works: a Contre-dance, as the basis for a set of Pianoforte Variations and in the Ballet Music to Prometheus. It may not be too fanciful to trace a dramatic relationship between its use in portraying the daring spirit who first stole fire from Heaven and as the crowning message of a work meant to glorify all heroic endeavor. A thorough familiarity with this movement will repay the student not only as exemplifying Beethoven's freedom of expression but indeed as a point of departure for so many modern works in free variation form. See Supplement No. 45.

To illustrate Beethoven's Pianoforte compositions we shall now analyze the Seventh Sonata in D major, op. 10, No. 3. Only wholesale hero-worshipers consider all of the thirty-two Sonatas of equal significance. It is true that, taken as a whole, they are a storehouse of creative vitality and that in each there is something, somewhere, which strikes a spark; for everything which Beethoven wrote was stamped with his dominating personality. But the fire of genius burns more steadily in some of the Sonatas than in others. It is the very essence of genius to have its transcendent moments; only mediocrity preserves a dead level. It is therefore no spirit of fault finding which leads us to centre our attention upon those Sonatas which have best stood the test of time and which never fail to convince us of their "raison d'être": the Appassionata, the Waldstein, the C-sharp minor, the Pathétique, the Sonata in G major, op. 14, No. 2, and all the last five, especially the glorious one in A-flat major, op. 119. It is futile to deny that some of the early sonatas are experimental and that certain others do not represent Beethoven at his best, being more the result of his constructive power than of an impelling message which had to be expressed. The D major Sonata has been selected for study because, though composed in Beethoven's first period, it is thoroughly characteristic, and because its performance is within the powers of the average intelligent amateur. The full beauty of the later Sonatas can be realized only by great virtuosi who devote to them years of study. The work is in four movements: the first, complete Sonata-form; the second, modified Sonata-form; the third, Three-part; the Finale, a freely treated Rondo-Sonata-form. The first movement, Presto, begins with a vigorous presentation of the main theme which ends in measure 22 with the last of three ff octaves. The unusually long transition, containing a subsidiary theme in B minor, is remarkable for its onrushing excitement and for the playful false leads which usher in the second theme. After a brilliant cadence in the dominant key, one would suppose this theme might be announced in measure 53, but not so; after three measures of cantabile melody, progress is interrupted by a group of descending octave leaps. A second attempt is now made, this time in A minor, only to be thwarted by a still more capricious octave descent. This time, however, after a dramatic pause, we are rewarded with a clear-cut, periodic melody beginning in measure 66, against which the rhythm of the first theme keeps up a gentle undercurrent. Some interesting modulations develop into a series of descending octaves which, accompanied by sf chords, lead to the closing portion. This brilliant passage accentuates the dominant key of the second theme. After a short tranquillo phrase and some free imitations of the main theme we repeat the Exposition, or go on to the Development ushered in by a bold change to the mediant key of B-flat major. After several appearances of the main theme in the bass, Beethoven takes a leaf out of D. Scarlatti's book and revels in some crossing of the hands and some wide leaps. The Recapitulation corresponds exactly with the first part until we reach the Coda in measure 298, which affords a striking example of Beethoven's power of climax. After a long period of suspense an imitative treatment of the first theme, with kettle-drum effect in the bass, leads to a stringendo ascending passage which closes with two crashing dissonances and two peculiarly grouped chords, e.g.

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They have a hard, cutting brilliance all their own and give just the touch of color needed to finish this dazzling movement.[145]

In the Slow Movement, Largo e Mesto, there is a depth of emotion quite unparalleled in the early history of music.[146] Certainly no composer since Bach had uttered such a message. As soon as the movement begins we are convinced that it represents the outpouring of a soul capable of deep meditations upon life and its mysteries, and with the eloquence at its command to impress these thoughts upon the hearer. The number of themes and their key relationship are those of Sonata-form, but instead of the usual development we have a new contrasting theme of great pathos in the major mode. Observe the poignancy of the dissonances, e.g.,

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in the second theme of the Exposition which begins in measure 17, and the passionate outcries in measures 35 and 37 of the middle portion. Just before the Recapitulation, in measures 41-43, is an early example of Beethoven's fondness for instrumental recitative—music speaking with a more intimate appeal than words. The movement ends with an impassioned Coda which, beginning with the main theme in the bass and working up, more and more agitato, to a powerful climax, dies away with mysterious fragments of the opening measures. The dissonant element so characteristic of the whole movement is retained to the end, e.g.

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The growing importance of dissonance may be seen from a comparison of this movement with the average slow movements of Haydn and Mozart These, although they have serenity and grace, beauty and finish of form, and are sincere manifestations of the genius of their creators, are yet lacking in passion. This placid mood and amiability of style is shown by the comparatively slight employment of dissonances. By unthinking and uncultivated persons dissonances[147] are often considered as something harsh, repellant—hence to be avoided. But dissonances contain the real life and progress of music. They arouse, even take by storm our imaginations and shake us out of our equanimity. Consonant chords represent stability, satisfaction and, when over-used, inertia. The genius of the composer is shown in establishing just the right proportion between these two elements; but if there is to be any disproportion let us have too much rather than too little dissonance, for then, at any rate, the music is alive. Since Beethoven the whole development of music as a human language shows the preponderating stress laid on dissonance; to this fact a knowledge of the works of Schumann, Chopin, Wagner, Debussy and Franck will amply testify.[148] The same analogy holds equally in all realms of life, human and physical. The truest development of character depends on the warring elements of good and evil. Honest discontent is the first step to progress. Dissonance is the yeast of music and should be welcomed for its invigorating influence.

The third movement, Minuetto, may be taken as a reply to Haydn's well-known wish "Oh! that some one would write us a new Minuet." Well, here it is—with all the grace and charm of the 18th century type and yet with more import, especially in the Coda with its haunting retrospect. The rhythmic formation of the opening sentence would be clearer if two measures had been thrown into one, for the swing is clearly that of a 6/4 measure. The Trio, with its Scarlatti-like crossing of the hands, is a playful bit of badinage, affording a delightful contrast to the Minuetto. Such genuine variety in mood makes the Three-part Form of lasting worth.

The Finale, Allegro, with its capricious fortissimo outbursts and unexpected sforzandos is a characteristic example of Beethoven's freedom of utterance. Any cast-iron conception of form was entirely foreign to his nature; instead, he made form the servant of the freest flights of fancy. The movement begins as if it were to be worked out in the so-called Rondo Sonata-form—a hybrid, tripartite structure related to the Sonata-form in that it has two themes in the first and last portions, and to the Rondo in that the middle portion is a free Episode instead of the customary development of former material. The salient feature by which this form may always be recognized is that the Exposition closes with a definite return to the first theme—thus emphasizing the Rondo aspect—instead of with an expanded cadence based upon the second theme. As we have stated before (see [Chapter IX]), many of Beethoven's Finales are in this mixed form, clear examples of which may be found in the last movements of the Fourth, Eighth and Twelfth Sonatas. The Finale of the Twelfth Sonata has been included in the Supplement in order to make this important form familiar to the student. To return now to the Finale of the sonata we are studying. Its first two portions correspond exactly to the usual practice in the Rondo-Sonata form just explained; i.e., we find in the Exposition a first theme, a modulatory transition, a second theme (beginning in measure 17) and a definite repetition of the first theme, in measures 25-32. Then, after two measures of bold modulation, begins the middle, episodical passage which, closing with a whimsical cadenza-like passage, leads back to the beginning of the third part. After a complete, slightly varied appearance of the first theme, Beethoven does not repeat the second theme, as we should expect, but allows his fancy to indulge in a series of brilliant passages, exciting modulations and dynamic contrasts. All this freedom is held together by insistence on the fundamental rhythmic motive (measures 72-83). A final embellished statement of the first theme ushers in the fiery Coda, in measure 92, which ends with a long running passage; beneath, we hear reminiscences of the main theme. It is often stated that Beethoven's Sonatas are lacking in pianistic effect, and it is true that his pianoforte works do not bring out the possibilities of color and sonority as we find them, for example, in Chopin and Debussy—the orchestra and the string-quartet being indeed his favorite media of expression. Yet during his entire early career Beethoven was famous as a performer and improviser on the pianoforte and some, at any rate, of his deepest thoughts have been confided to that instrument. That he was not at all insensible to the beauty of pianistic effect for its own sake is shown by the syncopated, shadowy chords in measures 101-105, the whole justification for which lies in their enchanting sound.[149]

Symphony No. 5[150]

The Fifth Symphony in C minor, op. 67, is deservedly popular because it is so human; a translation, in fact, of life itself into the glowing language of music. Beethoven's emotional power was so deep and true that, in expressing himself, he spoke, like every great philosopher, poet or artist, for all mankind. Which one of us in his own experience, has not felt the same protests against relentless Fate that find such uncontrollable utterance in the first movement? Who, again, is untouched by that angelic message, set before us in the second movement, of hope and aspiration, of heroic and even warlike[151] resolution, mingled with the resignation which only great souls know? The third movement (Allegro)—in reality a Scherzo of the most fantastic type, though not so marked—might well typify the riddle of the Universe. We indeed "see through a glass darkly," and yet there is no note of despair. Amid the sinister mutterings of the basses there ring out, on the horns and trumpets, clarion calls to action. While we are in this world we must live its life; a living death is unendurable. The Finale, Allegro maestoso, is a majestic declaration of unconquerable faith and optimism—the intense expression of Beethoven's own words, "I will grapple with Fate, it shall never pull me down"—to be compared only with Browning's "God's in his heaven, all's right with the world," and the peroration to Whitman's [Mystic Trumpeter], "Joy, joy, over all joy!" No adequate attempt could be made to translate the music into words. The Symphony is extremely subjective; indeed, autobiographic. For all historical details as to its composition, the reader is referred to the Grove essay,[152] and for eulogistic rhapsodies nothing can surpass the essay of Berlioz, that prince of critics. We shall content ourselves with a few comments of a structural nature and then trust the student to seek a performance of the work by a good orchestra. Of the first movement (Allegro con brio)[153] the dominant characteristics, especially in comparison with the wealth of material in the Heroic, are conciseness and intensity. It starts at once, without prelude, with the motive—one of the tersest in music—from which is developed, polyphonically, the first theme, e.g.[A]

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Everything is concentrated in the highest degree and the assault upon our consciousness is of corresponding power. A tempestuous transition leads to two short sf chords and then in measure 59, announced ff by the horns, appears the first phrase of the second theme, based on the same motive as the first, but in the relative major (E-flat), e.g.

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It is answered by a second phrase of marked simplicity and loveliness—a mood, indeed, of resignation. This is only momentary, however, for the relentless rhythm of the chief motive continues to assert itself in the basses until, as it gathers headway after a short closing phrase (95-99), it is thundered out ff by the full orchestra in a series of descending groups. The Development continues the same resistless impetuosity. Note the grim effect of the empty fifths and fourths in measures 126-127. Once only is there a slackening of the titanic, elemental drive—in the mysterious passage (212-239) where the pent-up fury of the composer seems to have exhausted itself. It is only, however, a lull in the storm which breaks forth with renewed energy in the Recapitulation and Coda. Observe the pathetic commentary which the solo oboe makes upon the main theme at the outset of the third part (268)—a flower growing out of the débris of the avalanche. The Coda begins, at measure 374, with a passionate insistence upon the fundamental rhythm, driven home with sharp hammer-blows and, as in all Beethoven's symphonic movements, furnishes an overpowering climax, not a mere perfunctory close. The second Movement, in A-flat major, is a series of free[154] Variations (five in number) based on a theme, Andante con moto,[155] of great rhythmic vitality, peculiarly rich and suave—announced, as it is, by 'celli and violas in unison, e.g.

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The first two presentations of the theme are in each case followed by a passage of martial character which bursts triumphantly into C major. There is an orchestral touch of great beauty and originality in the first and second variations (beginning in measures 49 and 98 respectively), where a solo clarinet—later a flute, oboe and bassoon—prolongs a single tone which seems to float above the melody like a guiding star.[156] A passage of special significance is that in measures 123-146, where Beethoven indulges in a touching soliloquy upon his main theme. It is mysteriously introduced by the repetition, eight times, pp, of the dominant chord (the simplest medium of suspense) which seems to say "Hush, I have something most intimate reveal." The Coda (Più Moto) begins with a mood of wistful reverie, but the clouds are soon dispelled and the movement ends in radiant sunshine.

The salient structural feature in the last two movements[157] is that they are merged together; there is no pause after the Scherzo; and the movements are further interlocked by an interpolation, in the middle of the Finale, of a portion of the preceding Scherzo—a kind of inter-quotation or cross reference. This composite movement is a striking example of the organic relationship which Beethoven succeeded in establishing—between the different movements of the symphony. Prior to him, it is fair to say—to use a homely simile—that a sonata or a symphony resembled a train of different cars merely linked together, one after the other; whereas the modern work, as foreshadowed by Beethoven, is a vestibuled train: one indivisible whole from beginning to end.[158] But before the Fifth Symphony there had been no such systematic unification; for it is not too much to say that the whole work is based upon the persistent iteration of a single note in varied rhythmic groups. Thus in the first movement we find continually the rhythm

; in the second, in several places

; in the Scherzo

; and in the Finale

. Furthermore a C, repeated by the kettle-drums for fifty measures, is the chief factor in the connecting link between the Scherzo and the Finale. We shall observe this tendency to interconnection still further developed by Schumann in his Fourth Symphony, by Liszt in the Symphonic Poem[159] (to be treated later), and a climax of attainment reached in such highly unified works as César Franck's D minor Symphony and Tchaikowsky's Fifth. To return to the Scherzo, well worthy of note is the Trio, in free fugal form (its theme announced by the ponderous double basses), because it is such a convincing illustration of the humorous possibilities inherent in fugal style. The way in which the voices chase each other about—compared by Berlioz[160] with the gambols of a delighted elephant—and their spasmodic attempts at assertion, produce an effect irresistibly droll. The humour is as broad as that of Aristophanes or Rabelais. Words are powerless to describe the thrill of the last fifty measures which launch us into the Finale. We may merely observe that this long passage, pp throughout until the last molto crescendo, and with the rhythmic element reduced to a minimum, makes more of an impact upon our imagination than that of the loudest orchestral forces ever conceived. We are reminded of the effect of the "still, small voice" after the thunders on Sinai. The Finale, with its majestic opening theme in fanfare, contains a wealth of material and is conceived throughout in the utmost spirit of optimistic joy and freedom.[161] The Exposition has a subsidiary theme of its own, beginning at measure 26, which reappears with rhythmic modification (diminution), and most eloquently announced by the bassoons, in the first section of the final Coda. After the brilliant second theme (45-63) there is an impressive closing theme (with some biting fp dissonances) which forms the basis of the Presto portion of the Coda. The Development is a marvellous treatment of the second theme, in imitation, modulation and climactic growth; the rhythm

, so vitally connected with the whole work, persisting with stupendous energy. In the final measures it would seem as if Beethoven were storming the very heavens. Here occurs the quotation from the preceding Scherzo which binds the movements together and serves as a point of departure for a still greater climax. It seems unreasonable to expect a higher flight, but the genius of Beethoven is equal to the effort. If, before, we have reached the heavens, now we pierce them. The brilliant Coda—note the ascending runs for the piccolo—is in three sections, the first based on the subsidiary theme, e.g.,

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the second on the closing theme in quickened tempo, e.g.,[B]

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and the third, a canonic treatment of the opening fanfare, e.g.,

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in which the orchestra seems to tumble head over heels in a paroxysm of delight. The movement closes with prolonged shouts of victory and exultation.[162]

The Coriolanus Overture

This dramatic work is of great importance, not only for its emotional power and eloquence, but because it represents a type of Program music, i.e., music with a suggestive title, which Beethoven was the first to conceive and to establish. From the inherent connection between the materials of music (sound and rhythm) and certain natural phenomena (the sound and rhythm of wind, wave and storm, the call of birds, etc.) it is evident that the possibility for Program—or descriptive—music has always existed.[163] That is, the imagination of musicians has continually been influenced by external sights, sounds and events; and to their translation into music suggestive titles have been given, as a guide to the hearer. Thus we find Jannequin, a French composer of the 16th century, writing two pieces—for voices!—entitled "Les cris de Paris" and "La Bataille—défaite des Suisses à la journée de Marignan;" in the former of which are introduced the varied cries of street venders and in the latter, imitations of fifes, drums, cannon and all the bustle and noises of war. In the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book there is a Fantasie by John Mundy of the English school, in which such natural phenomena as thunder, lightning and fair weather are delineated. There is a curious similarity between the musical portrayal of lightning in this piece[164] of Mundy and that of Wagner in the Valkyrie. In the Bible Sonatas of the German composer Kuhnau (1660-1722) we have a musical description of the combat between David and Goliath. Anyone at all familiar with the music of Couperin and Rameau will recall the variety of fantastic titles assigned to their charming pieces for the claveçin—almost always drawn from the field of nature: birds, bees, butterflies, hens, windmills, even an eel! It is but fair to state that we also find attempts at character drawing, even in those early days, as is indicated by such titles as La Prude, La Diligente, La Séduisante.[165] Haydn's portrayal of Chaos, in the Prelude to the Creation, is a remarkable mood-picture and shows a trend in quite a different direction. All these instances corroborate the statement that, in general, composers were influenced by external phenomena and that their program music was of an imitative and often frankly literal kind. From what we know of Beethoven's nature and genius, however, we should imagine that he would be far more interested in the emotions and struggles of the soul and we find that such indeed is the case. With the exception of the Pastoral Symphony with its bird-calls and thunderstorm and the Egmont Overture with its graphic description of a returning victorious army, his program music invariably aims at the description of character and the manner in which it is influenced by events—not, be it understood, at a musical portrayal of the events themselves. This difference in type is generally indicated by the terms subjective and objective, i.e., program music is subjective, when it deals with the emotions and moods of real or historical persons; objective, when it is based upon incidents or objects of the actual world. It is evident that in subjective program music an adjustment must be made, for the dramatic needs of the subject are to be considered as well as the inherent laws of music itself. We may state that the widening of the conception of form, so marked in modern music, has been caused by the need of such an adjustment; for as composers became more cultivated, more in touch with life and of more richly endowed imagination, the arbitrary conventions of strict form had perforce to yield to the demands of dramatic treatment. This implies not that program music is without a definite structure, only that the form is different—modified by the needs of the subject. As there is no other point in aesthetics which has caused more loose thinking, a few further comments may be pertinent. Some critics go so far as to deny the right of existence to all program music.[166] Of course there is good as well as bad program music, but to condemn it per se is simply to fly in the face of facts, for a large proportion of the music since Beethoven is on a poetic basis and has descriptive titles. Others claim that they cannot understand it. But that is their loss, not the fault of the music; the composer writes it and it is for us to acquire the state of mind to appreciate it. Another misleading allegation, often heard, is that a piece of program music should be so clear and self-sufficient that the hearer needs to know nothing of the title to derive the fullest enjoyment. But this simply begs the question. As well say that in listening to a song we need to know nothing of the meaning of the text. It is true that in listening to Beethoven's Coriolanus, for example, any sensitive hearer will be impressed by the vitality of the rhythm and the sheer beauty of orchestral sound. But to hold that such a hearer gets as much from the work as he who knows the underlying drama and can follow sympathetically the correspondence between the characters and their musical treatment is to indulge in reckless assertion. The true relationship between composer and hearer is this: when works are entitled Coriolanus, Melpomene, Francesca da Rimini, Sakuntala, L'après-midi d'un Faune, The Mystic Trumpeter, L'apprenti Sorcier, and the composers reveal therein the influence such subjects have had upon their imagination, they are paying a tacit compliment to the hearer whose breadth of intelligence and cultivation they expect to be on a par with their own. If such be not the case, the fault is not the composer's; the burden of proof is on the listener.[167] Let us now trace certain relationships between the drama of Coriolanus and the musical characterization of Beethoven. The Overture was composed as an introduction to a tragedy by the German playwright von Collin, but as the play is obsolete and as both von Collin and Shakespeare went to Plutarch for their sources, a familiarity—which should be taken for granted[168]—with the English drama will furnish sufficient background for an appreciation of the music. The scene before the city gates is evidently that in which Volumnia and Virgilia plead with the victorious warrior to refrain from his fell purpose of destruction. The work is in Sonata-form, since the great Sonata principle of duality of theme exactly harmonizes with the two main influences of the drama—the masculine and the feminine. It is of particular interest to observe how the usual methods of Sonata-form procedure are modified to suit the dramatic logic of the subject. The work begins Allegro con brio, with three sustained Cs—as if someone were stamping with heavy foot—followed by a series of assertive ff chords for full orchestra (note the piercing dissonance in the 7th measure), which at once establishes an atmosphere of headstrong defiance. The first theme, beginning in measure 15 with its restless rhythm, is not meant to be beautiful in the ordinary sense of the term—"a concourse of sweet sounds"; rather is it a dramatic characterization, a picture in terms of music, of the reckless energy and the fierce threats which we naturally associate with Coriolanus. The theme is repeated and then the transition develops this masculine mood in an impassioned manner—observe the frequency of sf accents and the crashing dissonances[169]—until a sustained note on the violins, followed by a descending cantabile phrase, brings us to the second theme, e.g.

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This theme, in distinction from the first, typifies the appeal for mercy made by the women in the drama. No contrast could be stronger than that between these two themes—the first, impulsive, staccato, of sweeping range, and in the minor; the second, suave, legato, restrained and in the major. They show indeed how powerfully Beethoven's imagination was impressed by the subject. After an eloquent expansion of the second theme there follow several stormy measures (the deprecations of the women are at first of no avail) that lead through a crescendo to a closing theme, at measure 83, in which the mood of defiant assertion is strongly marked. The exposition closes in this mood, in measure 100, and the following Development accentuates it through several successions of restless, crescendo passages until a ff descent sweeps us back to the Recapitulation, in measure 151. It is now evident that the furious intentions of the warrior have raged themselves out, for not only is the theme which represents him much shortened but it loses somewhat of its former fiery intensity. From here on, the trend of the music is largely modified by the dramatic demands of the subject. That the appeals of the women are beginning to prevail is evident from the emphasis laid on the second theme, which gives its message no less than three times, instead of the single appearance which we should expect in the usual Recapitulation. The third appeal, in measures 247-253, is rendered most pathetic by being expressed in the minor mode. In the Coda there are fitful flare-ups of the relentless purpose, but that the stubborn will has been softened is evident from the slowing down of the rhythm, in measures 285-294. Finally, in the wonderful closing passage, we have a picture of broken resolves and ruined hopes. The theme disintegrates and fades away—a lifeless vision. Although much of the structure in this overture is identical with that which prevails in absolute music—for, after all, the composer must be true to the laws of his medium of expression—there is enough purely dramatic treatment to justify the foregoing analysis. Beethoven, at any rate, called the overture Coriolanus, and we may be sure he meant it to represent Coriolanus and to be something more than a skillful combination of sounds and rhythms.

We now add a few last words on the quality of Beethoven's themes in his moments of supreme inspiration. The unshaken hold which his music has upon the affections of mankind is due chiefly to two striking characteristics: first, the way in which he dramatized everything—themes, instruments, even single notes, i.e., treating them as actual factors in life itself rather than as artistic abstractions; second, the spirituality and sublimity in his immortal message. The first quality is exemplified in a number of passages, notably in the first movement of the Violin Concerto and in the Finale of the Eighth Symphony. In the opening measures of the Concerto the use of the single note D-sharp, and the entry pp of the F natural in the following passage—in each case, entirely disconnected from the normal rules of musical grammar—are most dramatic, e.g.

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At the mysterious entrance of the F natural in this passage it would seem as if some mighty spirit were suddenly looking over our shoulder. In the Finale of the Eighth Symphony what can be more startling than the sudden explosive entrance of the unrelated C-sharp—before the orchestra continues its mad career—which can be compared only to the uproarious laughter of Rabelais himself, e.g.

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There are numerous examples in Beethoven showing his dramatic use of such orchestral instruments as the bassoons, horns, kettle-drums and double basses. Possibly the most striking[170] is the Slow Movement of the G major Pianoforte Concerto—that inspired dialogue, as it has been eloquently called, "between Destiny and the human soul," in which the touching appeals of the solo instrument are constantly interrupted by the sinister mutterings and forebodings of the strings. Observe especially the closing measures where the basses, alone are heard pp, e.g.

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A spiritual quality escapes verbal definition; but just as we can feel it in certain characters, and just as we recognize the sublime in nature and in such works of art as a cathedral or a Shakespearian Drama, so we may find it in the following specific examples from his works: the Trio of the second movement of the Seventh Symphony; the Slow Movement theme of the B-flat major Trio and the Slow Movement of the Sonata op. 109. (See Supplement Nos. 47, 48, 49.) Anyone who allows these themes to sink into his consciousness is carried into a realm of ideality where he begins to recognize the truth that "the things which are unseen are eternal." Music of this transporting power is far above that which merely excites, amuses or even fascinates; and of such music Beethoven is the poet for all time.

We have referred above to the voluminous literature extant concerning Beethoven. Several scholars, in fact—notably Alexander Thayer and Sir George Grove—have devoted a large part of their lives to finding out all there is to be known about his life and works. Obviously the layman cannot be expected to become familiar with this entire mass of historical and critical writing. The following books, however, may be considered indispensable aids to those who would become cultivated appreciators of Beethoven's masterpieces: the Life of Beethoven by Alexander Thayer—a great glory to American scholarship; the life in Grove's Dictionary; the illuminating Biography by d'Indy (in French and in English); Beethoven and his Nine Symphonies by Grove; the Oxford History of Music, Vol. V; and the essay by Mason in his Beethoven and his Forerunners.[171] We cite, in closing, a eulogy[172] by Dannreuther—in our opinion the most eloquent ever written on Beethoven's genius:

"While listening," says Mr. Dannreuther, "to such works as the Overture to Leonora, the Sinfonia Eroica, or the Ninth Symphony, we feel that we are in the presence of something far wider and higher than the mere development of musical themes. The execution in detail of each movement and each succeeding work is modified more and more by the prevailing sentiment. A religious passion and elevation are present in the utterances. The mental and moral horizon of the music grows upon us with each renewed hearing. The different movements—like the different particles of each movement—have as close a connection with one another as the acts of a tragedy, and a characteristic significance to be understood only in relation to the whole; each work is in the full sense of the word a revelation. Beethoven speaks a language no one has spoken before, and treats of things no one has dreamt of before: yet it seems as though he were speaking of matters long familiar, in one's mother tongue; as though he touched upon emotions one had lived through in some former existence.... The warmth and depth of his ethical sentiment is now felt all the world over, and it will ere long be universally recognised that he has leavened and widened the sphere of men's emotions in a manner akin to that in which the conceptions of great philosophers and poets have widened the sphere of men's intellectual activity."

CHAPTER XII

THE ROMANTIC COMPOSERS. SCHUBERT AND WEBER

DURING the latter part of Beethoven's life—he died in 1827—new currents were setting in, which were to influence profoundly the trend of modern music. Two important, though in some respects unconscious, representatives of these tendencies were actually working contemporaneously with Beethoven, von Weber (1786-1826) and Schubert (1797-1828). Beethoven himself is felt to be a dual personality in that he summed up and ratified all that was best in his predecessors, and pointed the way for most of the tendencies operative since his time. For the designation of these two contrasting, though not exclusive, ideals, the currently accepted terms are Classic and Romantic. So many shades of meaning have unfortunately been associated with the word Romantic that confusion of thought has arisen. It is also true that the so-called Romanticists, including poets and painters as well as musicians, in their endeavors to break loose from the formality of the Classic period, have indulged in many irritating idiosyncracies. We are beginning to see clearly that a too violent expression of individuality destroys a most vital factor in music—universality of appeal. Yet the Romantic School cannot be ignored. To its representatives we owe many of our finest works, and they were the prime movers in those strivings toward freedom and ideality which have made the modern world what it is. The term Romantic is perfectly clear in its application to literature, from which music borrowed it. It refers to the movement begun about the year 1796 among such German poets as Tieck, the two Schlegels and Novalis, to restore the poetic legends of the middle ages, written in the Romance dialects, and to embody in their own works the fantastic spirit of this medieval poetry.[173] In reference to music, however, the terms Classic and Romantic are often vague and misleading, and have had extreme interpretations put upon them.[174] Thus, to many, "romantic" implies ultra-sentimental, mawkish or grotesque, while everything "classic" is dry, uninspired and academic. How often we hear the expression, "I am not up to classic music; let me hear something modern and romantic." Many scholars show little respect for the terms and some would abolish them altogether. Everything, however, hinges upon a reasonable definition. Pater's well-known saying that "Romanticism is the addition of strangeness to beauty" is fair; and yet, since strangeness in art can result only from imaginative conception, it amounts to nothing more than the truism that romantic art is imbued with personality. Hence Stendhal is right in saying that "All good art was Romantic in its day"; i.e., it exhibited as much warmth and individuality as the spirit of its times would allow. Surely Bach, Haydn and Mozart were real characters, notwithstanding the restraint which the artificialities of the period often put upon their utterance. On the other hand, work at first pronounced to be romantic establishes, by a universal recognition of its merit, the claim to be considered classic, or set apart; what is romantic to-day thus growing to be classic[175] tomorrow. It is evident, therefore, that the terms interlock and are not mutually exclusive. It is a mistaken attitude to set one school off against the other, or to prove that one style is greater than the other; they are simply different. Compositions of lasting worth always manifest such a happy union of qualities that, in a broad sense, they may be called both romantic and classic, i.e., they combine personal emotion and imagination with breadth of meaning and solidity of structure.

Beginning, however, with Schubert and Weber—the two first representatives of the romantic group—there is a marked novelty of content and style; and if we drop the terms and confine ourselves to the inner evidence of the music itself, we note a difference which may be felt and to a certain extent formulated. To take extreme types for the sake of vivid contrast, let us compare the compositions of Haydn and Mozart with those of Berlioz and Liszt. In the former there is repose, restraint and a perfect finish in the structural presentation; a feeling of serenity comes over us as we listen. In the latter, a peculiar intensity of expression, an attempt to fascinate the listener by the most intimate kinds of appeal, especially to the senses and fancy, regardless of any liberties taken with former modes of treatment. The purely classical composer is always master of his subject, whereas the romanticist is often carried away by it. Classical works are objectively beautiful, commending themselves to everyone like works of nature, or, let us say, like decorative patterns in pure design. Romantic works are subjective, charged with individuality and demand a sensitive and sympathetic appreciation on the part of the hearer. It is evident that many of these tendencies are found clearly outlined in the works of Beethoven. In fact, as has been said, he was not only the climax of the classical school, but the founder of the new era—opening a door, as it were, into the possibilities of a more intense, specialized form of emotional utterance and a freer conception of form. These special characteristics were so fully developed by Beethoven's successors, Schubert, Weber, Schumann, Chopin, etc. that they are always grouped together as the Romantic School. A striking feature in this whole Romantic group is the early flowering of their genius and the shortness of their lives—Weber, forty years, Schubert, thirty-one, Schumann, forty-six, Mendelssohn, thirty-eight, Chopin, forty. In the case of all the composers we have hitherto studied, with the exception of Mozart, their masterpieces have been the result of long years of patient, technical study and hence show that finish and maturity of style which come only with time. But the precocity of the Romanticists is astounding! Many of Schubert's famous pieces were composed in his earliest manhood; Mendelssohn's Midsummer Night's Dream Overture dates from his sixteenth year; Schumann's best pianoforte works were composed before he was thirty. The irresistible spontaneity and vigor of all these works largely atone for any blemishes in treatment. We feel somewhat the same in the case of Keats and Shelley in comparison with Milton, and are reminded of Wordsworth's lines, "Bliss was it in that hour to be alive, but to be young was very Heaven."[176] Why expect senatorial wisdom and the fancy of youth in any one person!

A most important distinction between a classical and a romantic composer is the knowledge and love of literature shown by the latter. Although Haydn kept a note-book on his London tours, and although we have a fair number of letters from Mozart, in neither of these men do we find any appreciation of general currents of thought and life. In many of Beethoven's works we have seen how close was the connection between literature and musical expression. All the Romantic composers, with the exception of Schubert, were broadly cultivated, and several could express themselves artistically in words as well as in notes. They may not have been on this account any better composers, as far as sheer creative vitality is concerned, but it is evident that their imaginations were nourished in quite a different way and hence a novel product was to be expected. Romantic music has been defined as a reflex of poetry expressed in musical terms, at times fairly trembling on the verge of speech. Music can not, to be sure, describe matters of fact, but the Romantic composers have brought it to a high degree of poetical suggestiveness. Thus the horn-calls of Weber and Schubert remind us of "the horns of Elfland faintly blowing" and much romantic music arouses our imaginations and enchants our senses in the same way as the lines of Keats where he tells of "Magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn," the chief glory of which is not any precise intellectual idea they convey, but the fascinating picture which carries us from the land of hard and fast events into the realm of fancy. Schumann claimed that his object in writing music was so to influence the imagination of the listeners that they could go on dreaming for themselves. A second characteristic is the freedom of form. Considering that a free rein to their fancy was incompatible with strict adherence to traditional rules, the Romantic spirits refused to be bound by forms felt to be inadequate. Although this attitude sometimes resulted in diffuseness and obscurity, on the whole (as Goethe says of romantic literature) "a wider and more varied subject matter and a freer form has been attained." The chief aim of romantic art being to arouse the imagination, we find a predilection for the use of solo wood-wind instruments, which are capable of such warmth and variety of tone-color. Whereas in the classical masters, and even generally in Beethoven, the melodies are likely to be the upper voice of a harmonic mass, or assigned to groups of instruments, Weber and Schubert in particular showed the eloquence to be gained by the use of such warm-blooded solo instruments as the horn, the oboe and the clarinet. Schubert fairly conjures with the horn, often holding us spellbound with its haunting appeal, e.g., in the well-known second movement of the C major Symphony, the calls of which, as Schumann said, "seem to come from another world." Schubert was anything but a thinker, and reflected unconsciously the tendencies which were in the air; but his wonderful gift of lyric melody was thoroughly in keeping with the individual expression for which Romanticism stood. He said himself that his compositions were the direct result of his inmost sorrows. He was steeped in romantic poetry and the glowing fancy in his best work leads us to condone the occasional prolixity referred to by Schumann as "heavenly length." Schubert was well named by Liszt the most poetic of musicians, i.e., a creator of pure beauty which enthralls the imagination of the hearer. Why expect the work of any one composer to manifest all possible merits? If we crave dynamic power of emotion or sublimity of thought we may have recourse to Bach and Beethoven; but the spontaneous charm of Schubert never grows old; and it is not without interest to note that his music fulfils the definition of one of the most poetic composers of our time, Debussy, who claims that music is chiefly meant "to give pleasure."

We note these same tendencies in Weber as shown in the overtures to his three Romantic operas, Der Freischütz, Euryanthe and Oberon, which are the foundations of the modern art of dramatic orchestration, i.e., the intensification of certain ideas and situations by the special tone color and register of solo-instruments or by a novel use of customary means, e.g., the divided violins in the mysterious passage of the Euryanthe overture. Another favorite means of arresting the attention was by modulation; not used in a constructive sense, simply to pass from one point to another, or to connect themes in different keys, but to furnish the ear with a purely sensuous delight, corresponding to that which the eye derives from the kaleidoscopic colors of a sunset. The works of Schubert, Chopin and to a lesser degree of Schumann abound in these shifting harmonies by which we seem to be wafted along on a magic carpet. A final characteristic, shared by all the Romantic composers, is the prevalence of titles—the logical result of the close connection between music, literature and the world of outward events,—thus Mendelssohn's Overture to the Midsummer Night's Dream with its romantic opening chords, his Hebrides Overture, the musical record of a trip to Scotland, and Schumann's Manfred, from Byron. Liszt even went so far as to draw inspiration from a painting, as in his Battle of the Huns, and again from a beautiful vase in Orpheus.

We shall now make a few specific comments on the style of Schubert and Weber and then analyze some of their representative works. Schubert was a born composer of songs, and though his works for Pianoforte, String quartet and Orchestra were of marked significance and have proved of lasting value, the instinct for highly individualized, lyric melody predominates, and all his instrumental compositions may fairly be called "Songs without words."[177] It is evident that the solo-song, unencumbered by structural considerations, is one of the best media for expressing the Romantic spirit, and many of its fairest fruits are found in this field. Schubert's songs are often tone-dramas in which the expressive powers of music are most eloquently employed.[178] Note the poetic touches of character-drawing and of description in the Young Nun (see Supplement No. 50). Schubert's pianoforte compositions are miniature tone-poems, mood-pictures—their titles: Impromptus and Moments Musicaux, speak for themselves—making no pretense to the scope and elaborate structure of movements in Sonata-form,[179] yet of great import not only for their intrinsic beauty but as the prototypes of the numerous lyric and descriptive pieces of Schumann, Brahms, Grieg, Debussy and others. Their charm lies in the heart-felt melodies and surprising modulations. While neither sublime nor deeply introspective, they make the simple, direct appeal of a lovely flower. In the development of music they are as important as the modern short story in the field of literature; which, in distinction to the old "three-decker" novel, often really says more and says it so concisely that our interest never flags. This tendency to the short, independent piece had been begun by Beethoven in his Bagatelles (French "trifles"); but these, as has been aptly said, were "mere chips from the work-shop" whereas in a short piece of Schubert we find the quintessence of his genius. He was a prolific composer in the field of chamber music, and the Trios for Violin, 'Cello and Pianoforte, the A minor Quartet, the C major Quintet and, above all, the posthumous Quartet in D minor, which contains the entrancing Variations on the song Death and the Maiden, are still as fresh as when they were composed. In these works we do not look for architectonic power—we must admit, in fact, at the risk of seeming ungracious, that Schubert is diffuse at times—but our senses are so enthralled by the imaginative freedom and by the splendor of color, that all purely intellectual judgment is suspended. The magician works his wonders; it is for us to enjoy. We have from Schubert seven complete Symphonies and the so-called Unfinished in B minor, i.e., the first two movements and the fragment of a Scherzo. Of these the Fourth (Tragic), composed in 1816, foreshadows the real Schubert and is occasionally heard to-day. But the immortal ones are the B minor and the C major, the latter composed in 1828 (the last year of his life) and never heard by its author.[180] Of this work Schumann said that "a tenth Muse had been added to the nine of Beethoven." This symphony is specially characterized by the incorporation of Hungarian types of melody, particularly in the first and in the last movement. It is indeed a storehouse of beauty, but the "high moments" are in the last two movements—the fairly intoxicating Trio of the Scherzo, which seems as if Nature herself were singing to us, and the gorgeous Finale with its throbbing rhythms. The first movement is laid out on a vast scale and holds the attention throughout, but the second movement, notwithstanding its wondrous theme, suffers from a lack of concentration; the sweetness is so long-drawn out that we become sated.

As examples[181] for analytical comment we select the Menuetto in B minor from the Fantasia for Pianoforte, op. 78; the fourth Impromptu in A-flat major from the set, op. 90, and the B minor Symphony for orchestra. The Menuetto, though one of Schubert's simpler pieces—the first part in an idealized Mozartian vein—yet exemplifies in the Trio one of the composer's most characteristic traits, the predilection for those bewitching alternations,[182] like sunlight and shadow, between the major and the minor mode.

The Impromptu in A-flat major, one of several equally fine ones, is notable for the wealth of its iridescent modulations and for the note of genuine pathos and passion in the middle portion in the minor mode. Schubert might well say that his most inspired music came from his sorrows.

The Unfinished Symphony requires less comment and elucidation than perhaps any other symphonic composition. The two movements are in definite Sonata-form—the first, strict, the second, with modifications; but the quality of the themes is quite different from that to which we have been accustomed in classical treatment. Instead of the terse, characteristic motive which, often at first uncompromisingly bare, impresses us as its latent possibilities are revealed, we have a series of lyric, periodic melodies which make their instant appeal. In Schubert everything sings; thus in the first part of the Exposition of the Allegro we have three distinct melodies: the introductory phrase, the accompaniment figure which has a melodic line of its own, and the first theme proper. In any consideration of this work from a pianoforte version we must always remember how much the beauty and eloquence of the themes depend upon the solo instruments to which they are assigned. For Schubert was one of the first, as well as one of the greatest, of "Colorists." By the use of this pictorial term in music we mean that the tone-quality of certain instruments—the mellow, far-echoing effect of the horn, the tang of the oboe, the passionate warmth of the clarinet[183]—appeals to our sense of hearing in the same way in which beautiful colors—the green grass, the blue sky, the hues of a sunset—delight our sight. A striking example of Schubert's genius in utilizing tone-color to suit structural needs is found in the transition beginning at measure 38. This is a single tone on the horn (with a modulatory ending) announced forte and then allowed to die away, i.e., sf

. So powerful is the horn in evoking a spirit of suspense and revery that this tone introduces the beautiful, swaying second theme more impressively than a whole series of routine modulations. The Development speaks for itself. Though there is little polyphonic treatment, it holds our interest by reason of the harmonic variety and the dramatic touches of orchestration. In Schubert we do not look for the development of a complicated plot but give ourselves up unreservedly to the enjoyment of pure melodic line, couched in terms of sensuously delightful tone-color. The transitional passage of the Recapitulation (measures 231-253) illustrates Schubert's fondness for modulation just for its own sake; we care not what the objective point of the music may be—enthralled, as we are, by the magical shifts of scene. In the Second Movement, likewise, the chief beauty—especially of the second theme—consists in the lyric quality, in the color of the solo instruments, the oboe, clarinet and horn, and in the enharmonic changes, e.g., where, in measures 80-95, the theme modulates from C-sharp minor to D-flat major. Note in the orchestral score the charming dialogue in this passage between the clarinet, oboe and flute. The Development, based upon the second theme, with some effective canonic treatment, shows that Schubert was by no means entirely lacking in polyphonic skill. At any rate he can work wonders with the horn, for at the close of the Development (measures 134-142) by the simple device of an octave leap, ppp, he veritably transports the listener, e.g.

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The Coda has a dream-like quality all its own.

Weber's permanent contribution to musical literature has proved to be his operas—a form of art not treated in this book. But the whole nature of his genius was so closely related to the Romantic spirit, as shown in the intimate connection between literature and music, in his descriptive powers and his development of the orchestra, that for the sake of comprehensiveness some familiarity should be gained with the essential features of his style. Of Weber it may be said with conviction that there is hardly a composer of acknowledged rank in whom style, i.e., the way and the medium by which musical thought is presented, so prevails over the substance of the thought itself. There are few if any of Weber's melodies which are notable for creative power, and as a harmonist he was lamentably weak. It has been scathingly said, though with considerable truth, that all his melodies are based upon an alternation of tonic and dominant chords![184] But when we consider what his themes are meant to describe, the pictures they evoke and their orchestral dress, we must acknowledge in Weber the touch of real poetic genius. To quote Runciman[185]—

"If you look, and look rightly, for the right thing in Weber's music, disappointment is impossible, though I admit that the man who professes to find there the great qualities he finds in Mozart, Beethoven, or any of the giants, must be in a very sad case. Grandeur, pure beauty, and high expressiveness are alike wanting. Weber's claim to a place amongst the composers is supported in a lesser degree by the gifts which he shared, even if his share was small, with the greater masters of music, than by his miraculous power of vividly drawing and painting in music the things that kindled his imagination. Being a factor of the Romantic movement, that mighty rebellion against the tyranny of a world of footrules and ledgers, he lived in a world where two and two might make five or seven or any number you pleased, and where footrules were unknown; he took small interest in drama taken out of the lives of ordinary men and enacted amidst every-day surroundings; his imagination lit up only when he thought of haunted glens and ghouls and evil spirits, the fantastic world and life that goes on underneath the ocean, or of men or women held by ghastly spells."

Weber's present-day fame rests upon the Overtures to his three operas of Der Freischütz, Euryanthe and Oberon, which are often played in detached concert form and hold their own for their romantic glow and for the brilliancy of orchestral effect. By employing for his thematic material the leading melodies of the operas themselves Weber has created what may be called epitomized dramas which, if we have any knowledge of what the titles imply, present us with realistic pictures. For the use of special tone-color to enhance the dramatic situation Weber is the precursor of that type of orchestration which has reached such heights in Wagner and other moderns. From the above comments it is evident that only the barest idea of the Overtures can be gained from a pianoforte version; we have selected Oberon[186] because it suffers less than either of the others. Everyone, however, should become familiar with the mysterious, boding passage in the introduction to Der Freischütz (taken from the scene in the Wolf's Glen) and the Intermezzo from Euryanthe for muted, divided strings,[187] which accompanies the apparition of the ghost. This is genuine descriptive music for it really sounds ghostly. (See Supplement No. 51.)

The Oberon Overture in D major, begins with the intoning of the motto of Oberon's magic horn, and then follows a passage for muted strings (piano e adagio sostenuto) and for delicate combinations of the wood-wind instruments, which gives us a picture of the moonlit glens of fairyland, peopled with airy spirits. The vision is dispelled by a sudden ff chord for full orchestra which, from its setting, is one of the loudest effects in music, thoroughly characteristic of Weber's penchant for dramatic contrast. The main body of the work (allegro con fuoco) opens with a dashing theme for the strings of great brilliancy, most typical of Weber. Though we may feel that it has little substance (note the tonic and dominant foundation of the harmony) we cannot be insensible to its abounding vigor. It is not alone the ponderous things which should move our imaginations; even a soap-bubble is a wonderful phenomenon. The theme is expanded to a climax, in measure 28 (counting from the allegro), of great sonority and considerable harmonic boldness. After some reminiscent appearances of the introductory horn-call, a long-sustained dominant note introduces the second theme which seems a bit cloying, to be sure, but is just suited to the melting tone-color of the clarinet. The closing theme borders on triviality; the Exposition ends, however, with some exceedingly brilliant improvisations on the rhythmic figure of the main theme. The following Development is rather flimsy and we need expend upon it no critical powder. Weber was a great colorist but not a great architect. These qualities are united only too seldom. In the Recapitulation, which is shortened by the omission of the second theme—rather overworked in the Development—he is once more on his own ground of rhythmic life and dazzling orchestral color. At the close we are convinced that the overture has accomplished its purpose of graphically depicting the revels of Fairy-land.

Although they are seldom[188] played to-day, no account of Weber would be complete which entirely passed over his compositions for the Pianoforte, i.e., the four Sonatas, the concert piece in F minor and the originally conceived Invitation to the Dance, often played in the orchestral version of Berlioz which is so much better than the inflated, bombastic one by Weingartner. Weber is classed as one of the founders of the "brilliant school" of pianoforte playing which, chiefly through the genius of Franz Liszt, has done so much to enlarge the sonorous and coloristic possibilities of the instrument. Here again Weber's fame rests more upon his influence than upon lasting achievement; as to the importance of this influence, however, there can be no doubt.

The student will be repaid for informing[189] himself as fully as possible concerning Weber's career and artistic ideals, for he was a genuine though early exponent of Romantic tendencies. Of marked versatility, of no mean literary skill and of such social magnetism and charm that he might properly be considered a man of the world, as well as an artist, Weber was thus enabled to do pioneer work in raising the standard of musicianship and in bringing the art of music and ordinary, daily life into closer touch.

CHAPTER XIII

SCHUMANN AND MENDELSSOHN

IN distinction from pioneers like Schubert, slightly tinged with Romanticism, and Weber who, though versatile, was somewhat lacking in creative vigor, Schumann (1810-1856) stands forth as the definite, conscious spokesman of the Romantic movement in German art just as Berlioz was for art in France. He was endowed with literary gifts of a high order, had a keen critical and historical sense and wrote freely and convincingly in support of his own views and in generous recognition of the ideals of his contemporaries. Many of his swans, to be sure, proved later to be geese, and it is debatable how much good was done by his rhapsodic praise to young Brahms; whether in fact he did not set before the youngster a chimerical ideal impossible of attainment. Schumann early came under the influence of Jean Paul Richter, that incarnation of German Romanticism, whom he placed on the same high plane as Shakespeare and Beethoven. An intimate appreciation of much that is fantastic and whimsical in Schumann is possible only through acquaintance with the work of this Jean Paul. Schumann's first compositions were for the pianoforte—in fact his original ambition[190] was to be a pianoforte virtuoso—and to-day his permanent significance depends on the spontaneity in conception and the freedom of form manifested in these pianoforte works and in his romantic songs. Here we have the "ipsissimus Schumann," as von Bülow so well remarks. Schumann's pianoforte style is compounded of two factors: first, his intensely subjective and varied imagination which, nourished by the love of Romantic literature, craved an individual mode of expression; second, a power of concentration and of organic structure which was largely derived from a study of Bach and of the later works of Beethoven. Schumann saw that the regularity of abstract form, found in the purely classical writers, was not suited to the full expression of his moods and so he worked out a style of his own, although in many cases this was simply a logical amplification or modification of former practice. In his pianoforte compositions, then, we find a striking freedom in the choice of subject, which is generally indicated by some poetically descriptive title, e.g., Waldscenen, Nachtstücke, Fantasiestücke, Novelletten, Kreisleriana, Humoreske, etc. The danger in this form of subject matter is that it often degenerates into sentimentality coupled with a corresponding spinelessness of structure. This danger Schumann avoids by a style noticeable for terseness and structural solidity. His effort was to give significance to every note; all verbiage, meaningless scale passages and monotonous arpeggios were swept away, while the imagination was aroused by the bold use of dissonances and by the variety of tone-color. A thoroughly novel feature was the flexibility of the rhythm, which breaks from the old "sing-song" metres and abounds in syncopations, in contrasted accents, and in subtle combinations of metrical groups; every effort being made to avoid the tyranny of the bar-line.

Schumann's career was peculiar in that, beginning as a pianoforte composer, he tried successively every other form as well—the song, chamber music, works for orchestra, and for orchestra with solo voices and chorus—and won distinction to a greater or less degree in every field save that of the opera. Notwithstanding the beauty of poetic inspiration enshrined in the four symphonies, a grave defect is the quality of orchestral tone which greets the ear, especially the modern ear accustomed to the many-hued sonority of Wagner, Tchaikowsky, Debussy and others. These symphonies have been called "huge pieces for four hands" which were afterwards orchestrated, and the allegation is not without truth, as real orchestral glow and brilliancy is so often lacking. Each one, however, has notable features, e.g., the sublime Adagio of the 2d, and the touching Romanza of the 4th, and each is worthy of study; for Schumann in certain aspects furnishes the best avenue of approach to the modern school. In the Fourth Symphony he obliterates the pauses between the movements and fuses them all together; calling it a Symphony "in einem Satze" and anticipating the very same procedure that Schönberg follows in his String Quartet which has had recent vogue. Schumann's chief contribution to the development of the German Song lay in the pianoforte part, which with Schubert and Mendelssohn might properly be called an accompaniment, however rich and varied. But in Schumann the pianoforte attains to a real independence of style, intensifying in the most subtle and delicate way every shade of poetic feeling in the text. In fact, it is often used to reveal some deep meaning beyond the expressive power of words. This is seen in the closing measures of "Moonlight" where the voice ceases in suspense, and the instrument completes the eloquence of the message. Schumann's great achievement as a literary man was his founding, in 1834, of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, to which he himself contributed many stimulating and suggestive essays, opposing with might and main the Philistinism which so pervaded the music of his time. He even established an imaginary club, called the Davidsbund, to storm the citadel of Philistia.

The best eulogy of Schumann is the recognition that many of the tendencies in modern music, which we now take for granted, date from him: the exaltation of freedom and fancy over mere formal presentation, the union of broad culture with musical technique, and the recognition of music as the art closest in touch with the aspirations of humanity. He was an idealist with such perseverance and clearness of aim that his more characteristic work can never die.

Des Abends.

The Fantasiestücke[191], op. 12, of which this piece is the first, amply justify their title, for they abound in soaring thoughts, in fantastic, whimsical imaginings and in novel modes of utterance and structure. Every number of the set is a gem, In der Nacht being perhaps the most poetic of Schumann's short pieces for the pianoforte. They are thoroughly pianistic and evoke from the instrument all its possibilities of sonority and color. In point of texture they illustrate that happy combination, which Schumann worked out, of lyric melodies on a firmly knit polyphonic basis. They are also programmistic in so far as Schumann believed in music of that type. There is no attempt to tell a detailed story or to have the music correspond literally to definite incidents. The titles merely afford a verbal clue to the general import and atmosphere of the music. Thus in regard to the piece under consideration, the mere mention of eventide is supposed to be enough to stimulate thought in any one with a sensitive imagination, and the music is a suggestive expression of Schumann's own intimate reveries. The piece is in extended two-part form—each part repeated—and rounded out with an eloquent Coda. The rhythmic scheme is of particular significance for it illustrates not only the composer's fondness for inventing new combinations, but, as well, suggests most delicately the mood of the piece. It would evidently be false art to write a piece, entitled Evening, in a vigorous, arousing rhythm, such as might be associated with a noon-day sun, when we often see the heat-waves dancing over the fields. On the other hand Schumann, by a subtle blending of triple time in the main upper melody and duple time in the lower, suggests that hazy indefiniteness appropriate to the time of day when the life of Nature seems momentarily subsiding and everything sinking to rest, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

In many measures of the second part (i.e., 21-24) the accent is so disguised that it seems as if we were in a twilight revery, quite apart from matters of time and space.

Warum?

This piece is a happy illustration of the intensity of meaning and the conciseness of structure which Schumann gained by the application of polyphonic imitation. It is difficult to say exactly what Warum signifies. It was characteristic of the Romantic unrest of the German mind to question everything—especially "Why am I not more happy in love?" The motto may be considered a Carlyle-like "everlasting why." At any rate the composition is an example of music speaking more plainly than words; for no one can fail to recognize the haunting appeal in the theme with its long-drawn out final note after the upward leap. It is a real musical question, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Grillen, the next piece in the set, deserves careful study. It is too long to present as a whole, but we cite the middle part (See Supplement No. 52) as it is such a convincing example of syncopated effect (i.e., the persistent placing of the accent on weak beats), and of elasticity in the metric scheme.

Novellette in E major.

This piece illustrates the vigor and massiveness of Schumann's pianoforte style. Note the sonority gained by the use of widely spaced chords. For the brilliant effect demanded, there should be a liberal use of the damper pedal.[192] We likewise find, beginning with the third brace, some characteristic polyphonic imitations which give to the movement a remarkable concentration. In the middle contrasting portion it seems as if Schumann had taken a leaf out of Chopin's book—a beautiful, lyric melody floating on an undercurrent of sonorous, arpeggio chords. The theme is presented in dialogue form, first in the upper voice, next in an inner voice and finally in the bass. (See Supplement No. 53.)

Song, Mondnacht.

No estimate of Schumann would be fair or comprehensive without some mention of his songs; upon which, together with his pianoforte compositions, his immortality tends more and more to rest. Notwithstanding the many poetic and dramatic touches in Schubert's accompaniments, those of Schumann are on the whole more finely wrought; for he had the advantage of Schubert in being, himself, a pianist of high attainment, thoroughly versed in pianistic effects. His imagination was also more sensitive to subtle shades of meaning in the text and he was inspired by the wonderful lyrics of Heine, Eichendorff and Chamisso who in Schubert's day had written very little. Special features of Schumann's songs are the instrumental preludes and postludes, the prelude establishing just the right setting for the import of the words and the postlude commenting on the beautiful message which the voice has just delivered. In Mondnacht, for example, (as previously mentioned), note how the voice stops in suspense and in what an eloquent revery the accompaniment completes the picture. (See Supplement No. 54.)

Overture to Manfred.

This Overture, the first of a set of incidental numbers which Schumann composed to illustrate Byron's dramatic poem, represents some of his most typical inspiration, and so is well worthy of our study. The music is labored at times, especially in the Development, and the orchestration is often dry and stereotyped. But the conception was a powerful one, and there is a genuine correspondence between the nature of the music and the spirit of the poem. It is evident that the subject made a deep impression on Schumann, whose own imagination, addicted to mysterious and even morbid broodings, was strongly akin to that of Byron's fictitious character. The composition is program music of the subjective order, comparable to Beethoven's Coriolanus, i.e., the themes are dramatic characterizations: the first typifying the stormy nature of Manfred; the second, with its note of pleading, the mysterious influence over the recluse of the spirit of Astarte. As in all works of this kind the music cannot be readily appreciated without a knowledge of the poem which it illustrates.[193] As for the structure, Schumann clings too closely to the Sonata-form. The music is eloquent just in proportion as he gives his fancy free rein; where he tries to force the themes into an arbitrary mould, the result is unsatisfactory—especially the development, which is neither very dramatic nor interesting from a purely musical point of view. The work opens with three spasmodic syncopated[194] chords, and then follow twenty-four measures (lento and at first pianissimo) of a preludial nature with suggestions of the Manfred theme. The movement becomes gradually faster and more impassioned until, in measure 26, we reach the presentation of the first theme (allegro agitato) which, with its frequent syncopations, is characteristic of Manfred's restless nature. The transition begins in measure 39; at first with a repetition of the main theme, which soon modulates to F-sharp minor, in which key the second theme enters, in measure 51. This theme—in three portions—seems to embody different aspects of the feminine influence of Astarte. The first portion, measures 51-61, with its undulating, chromatic outline, may be said to typify the haunting apparition so real to Manfred's imagination and yet so intangible; the second, 62-67, contains a note of impassioned protest, and the third, 68-77, is a love message of tender consolation. If this interpretation seem too subjective, a careful reading of the drama where Astarte appears (pp. 284-285 in the Everyman's Edition) will, we believe, corroborate it. The rest of the Exposition consists in a treatment of the Astarte motive, primarily of a musical nature; though there is a real dramatic intensity in measures 96-103, which are an expansion of the love message with its characteristic "appoggiatura." The Development, beginning in measure 132, is a striking example of how difficult it was—even for an exponent of freedom in musical expression like Schumann—to break loose from the shackles of arbitrary form. The musical thought is kept in motion, to be sure, but that is about all; for the treatment is often very labored, and nothing is added to the dramatic picture. The world had to await the work of Tchaikowsky, and Strauss for a satisfactory adjustment[195] between the demands of dramatic fitness and the needs of musical structure. In the Coda, beginning measure 258, Schumann—now that he is free from considerations of structure—gains a dramatic effect of truly impressive power. The horns, supported by trumpets and trombones, intone a funeral dirge of touching solemnity (evidently suggested by the closing death scene of the drama) while, above, hover portions of the Astarte motive, as if even in his death her influence was paramount in Manfred's imagination, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Notwithstanding certain blemishes, this Overture at the time of its composition was a landmark in the development of program music, and if to our modern tastes it seems a bit antiquated, this is largely because of the great progress which has since been made.[196]

Symphony in D Minor.

This Symphony is selected from Schumann's four, both for the peculiar romantic beauty of its themes and because the form in which it is cast makes it an important connecting link between the freedom of structure, instituted by Beethoven, and the Symphonic Poem of Liszt and other modern composers. All of Schumann's symphonies contain genuine beauties and should be familiar to the cultivated musician. Perhaps the first in B-flat major is the most sustained, and it has a freshness and buoyancy summed up in its title, the Spring, by which it is popularly known. The exuberance of the Finale is pure Schumann and is expressed with an orchestral eloquence in which he was frequently lacking.[197] The Second Symphony is notable for its sublime Adagio, Schumann's love-song—comparable to the slow movement of Beethoven's Fourth. At some future day, conductors will have the courage to play this movement by itself like a magnificent Torso, for indubitably the other movements have aged beyond recall. The Third Symphony, known as the Rhenish (composed when Schumann was living at Düsseldorf on the Rhine) is significant for its incorporation of popular melodies from the Rhineland, and for the movement, scored chiefly for trombones and other brass instruments, which gives a picture of some ceremonial occasion in the Cologne Cathedral.

The Fourth Symphony is an uneven work, for there are many places where Schumann's constructive power was unequal to his ideal conceptions. We often can see the joints, and the structure—in places—resembles a rag-carpet rather than the organic texture of an oriental rug. But the spontaneous outpouring of melody touches our emotions and well-nigh disarms criticism. Schumann had constantly been striving for a closer relationship[198] between the conventional movements of the symphony; and his purpose, in the structural treatment adopted, is indicated by the statement published in the full score—"Introduction, Allegro, Romanze, Scherzo und Finale in einem Satze" i.e., the work is to be considered as a continuous whole and not broken up into arbitrary movements with rigid pauses between. The long drawn-out Introduction,[199] with its mysterious harmonies, leads us into the land of romance, and a portion of this introduction is happily carried over and repeated in the Romanze. The First movement proper, from Lebhaft, seems at first as if it were to be in the customary Sonata-form; the Exposition beginning with two themes in the normal relationship of minor and relative major, though to be sure the second theme is more of a supplementary expansion of the first than one which provides a strong contrast. But after the double bar and repeat, this first theme is developed in a free preludial manner as if it were continually leading up to a climax. We are finally rewarded by a new theme of great warmth which amply makes up for any lack of individuality in the second theme proper, e.g.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

The rest of the movement consists of additional improvisations, rather too rigidly sectionalized, on the first theme and a second appearance of the interpolated theme. This theme, with rhythmic modifications, serves also as the basis for the brilliant Coda; for there is no Recapitulation proper, and it is evident that the movement is an extended prelude for what is to come—a first portion of the work as a whole. After a dramatic pause,[200] which enhances the feeling of expectancy (so prominent in the first movement) followed by a sustained modulatory chord, the Romanze begins with a plaintive theme in A minor. The mood is that of an idealized serenade, and in the original score the accompaniment for the oboe melody was given to the guitar[201] to secure the appropriate atmosphere. After the first statement of the theme there is an interpolated quotation of the characteristic passage from the introduction, which serves to bind the movements together both in structure and in relationship of mood. The movement is in clear-cut three-part form and the middle contrasting section in the major mode reveals a sustained descending melody played by the body of strings, which is delicately embellished by an obligato variant given to a solo violin, e.g.

[[Listen (MP3)]] [[MusicXML]]

At first the 'cellos, also, re-enforce this melody.

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The effect is that of an ethereal voice commenting on the beauty of the main theme. This obligato part is of special significance, since with rhythmic change it forms the chief theme of the Trio in the following movement. The Romanze closes with a simple return to the plaintive oboe melody, this time in D minor. The tonality is purposely indefinite to accentuate the wistful feeling of the movement—the last chords having the suspense of a dominant ending. After a short pause we are at once whirled into the dashing Scherzo which seems to represent the playful badinage of a Romantic lover. The Trio affords a delightful reminiscence of the Romanze and, from a structural point of view, is an early example of the principle of "transformation of theme"[202] which plays so important a role in the works of Liszt, Franck, Tchaikowsky and Dvořák. For the melody, e.g.,

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

is a rhythmic variant of the former obligato of the solo violin, and has this characteristic, which gives a peculiar note of surprise, that it always begins on the third beat of the measure. Following a repetition of the Scherzo the movement ends eloquently with a coda-like return to the Trio which, after some modulatory changes, is broken up into detached fragments, seeming to vanish into thin air. There is no pause between the end of the Scherzo and the introduction, based on the theme of the first movement, which ushers in the Finale. This movement is in Sonata-form with a modified Recapitulation—i.e., the first theme is not repeated—and with a passionate closing theme, e.g.,

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

which atones for the intentional incompleteness with which the first movement ends. The main theme is a compound of a vigorous march-like motive, closely related to one of the subsidiary phrases of the first movement, and a running figure in the bass—the derivation of which is obvious. After a rather labored transition[203]—surely the most mechanical passage in the whole work—we are rewarded by a melody of great buoyancy and rhythmic life, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

The free Fantasie begins with a contrapuntal working-out of a figure taken from the first theme, but it suffers from a persistent emphasis on what, after all, is an uninteresting rhythm

; there is, furthermore, a rigid grouping of the phrases in twos and fours. Schumann's instinct was a wise one in omitting the main theme of the Recapitulation and in leading, as soon as possible, to the repetition of the delightful second theme—the gem of the movement—which now makes its orthodox appearance in the tonic. After some ejaculatory measures, which remind us of the beginning of the Development, we have the impassioned closing theme, referred to above, which ushers in the free and brilliant Coda, worked up contrapuntally with ever increasing speed. The movement ends with Schumannesque syncopations. The D minor Symphony, thus, although not a perfect work of art, is a significant one and repays intimate study. A long life may safely be predicted for it by reason of the fervor and charm of its melodies. An important historical status it will always hold, for it is the honorable ancestor of such great symphonies as César Franck's in D minor and Tchaikowsky's in E minor, in which we find the same freedom of form and the same fusion of material attempted by Schumann's daring spirit.[204]

Closely connected with Schumann, chronologically and also by certain executive associations, e.g., the Leipsic Conservatory, is the career of Mendelssohn (1809-1847). There was much in common between the two; they both were extremely versatile, of strong literary bent and naturally drawn to the same media of expression: pianoforte, solo voices and orchestra. And yet, so dissimilar were the underlying strains in their temperaments that their compositions, as an expression of their personalities, show little in common. Schumann, as we have seen, was fantastic, mystical, a bold, independent thinker, the quintessence of the Romantic spirit. Mendelssohn, on the other hand, though not lacking in poetic fancy and warmth, was cautious—a born conservative; and his early classical training, together with the opulent circumstances of his life, served as a natural check upon the freedom of genius. His dazzling precocity—witness the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, composed while he was in his seventeenth year—and a great popular success were surely not the best stimuli to make him delve into the depths of his imagination. Undoubtedly he did a valuable service, in his day, in uniting the leading tendencies of the two schools: the exuberant fancy of the Romantic, and the reserve and finish of the Classic. He has been aptly called a "Romanticist with a classical equipment." If any appraisement be necessary to the detriment of one or the other, it must be conceded that Schumann was the greater genius. A just estimate of Mendelssohn's work is difficult, for his career was so meteoric and in his life he was so overvalued that now, with the opposite swing of the pendulum, he is as often underrated. He was assuredly a great artist, for what he had to say was beautifully expressed; the question hinges on the actual worth of the message. With perfect finish there often goes a lack of power and objective energy; somewhat the same difference that we feel between skillful gardening and the free vitality of Nature. Although Mendelssohn's music delights and charms there is a prevailing lack of that deep emotion which alone can move the soul. And yet a composer whom Wagner called "the greatest of landscape painters" and whose best works have stood the test of time can by no means be scorned. His descriptive Overtures for orchestra: the Hebrides, the Midsummer Night's Dream and the Fair Melusine; his Variations Sérieuses for Pianoforte and some of the Songs without Words[205] contain a genuinely poetic message, flawlessly expressed. As for the pianoforte music, when the Songs without Words are called "hackneyed" we must remember that only compositions of truly popular appeal ever have sufficient vogue to warrant the application of this opprobrious term. In the pianoforte Scherzos and in the Rondo Capriccioso in E major there is without doubt a vitality and a play of fancy easier to criticize than to create. The prevalent mood in Mendelssohn's music is one of sunny-hearted lightness and emotional satisfaction; and if this be a one-sided presentation of life, it is no more so, as Pratt well says in his History of Music, than the picture of gloom and sorrow which certain other composers continually emphasize. The fact that his descriptive Overtures, just mentioned, have been surpassed—owing to the recent expansion in orchestral possibilities of tone-color—must not blind us to the beauty of their content, or make us forget the impetus they have given to modern composers. No one could possibly find in the Hebrides Overture that subtle descriptive fancy or that wealth of orchestral coloring which exists in Debussy's marvellous Sea Pieces; and yet the Mendelssohn composition is a genuine reflection of nature in terms of music and can still be heard with sustained attention. Wagner[206] praises highly its orchestral effects; and a modern scholar, Cecil Forsyth,[207] considers the tone-painting quite irresistible. A sincere tribute of admiration should also be paid to Mendelssohn's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra. Written in the most idiomatic style for the solo instrument and containing real violin melodies it is still one of the few great works in its class. Any final critical estimate of Mendelssohn—no matter how earnest the effort to be absolutely fair—is inevitably involved with personal prejudices. If his music appeals to any one, it is liked extremely and no one need be ashamed of enjoying it, for it is sincerely felt and beautifully expressed. Mendelssohn, himself, doubtless knew perfectly well that he was not Bach, Beethoven or Schubert. For those whose natures crave a more robust message, more fire and a deeper passion, there are the works of those other composers to which they may turn.

Let us now analyze the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture,[208] "his first and highest flight" to quote Schumann. In this work we do not find a characterization by musical means of the emotions of the dramatis personae, as in the Coriolanus Overture; and there is little specific correspondence between the type of theme and definite incidents, except possibly at the beginning of the Recapitulation, where the low tones of the Bass Tuba[209] may be thought to represent the snores of Bottom, as the fairies hover about him. Anyone familiar with [Shakespeare's play]—and such a knowledge is indispensible for a complete enjoyment of the music—will see that Mendelssohn's object was to give a broad, general picture of the fairy world and to intensify, by his music, the fancy and humor found in the play. The introductory sustained chords, pianissimo, are a happy illustration of his deftness in tone-painting; for, assigned to the ethereal flutes and clarinets, they constitute, as Niecks ingeniously expresses it, a "magic formula" which ushers us into the moonlit realm of fairyland. The first theme in E minor (Allegro di molto: throughout pp and staccato), announced by the strings, is a graphic representation of the playful antics of the nimble elves and fairies. Its course is twice interrupted by a peculiar, prolonged chord which seems to say, "Hush! you are listening to the activities of beings not of this every-day, humdrum world." The first theme has a second part in E major (beginning at measure 62) of a pompous, march-like nature, which may be thought to represent the dignity of Duke Theseus and his train. The Overture being in complete Sonata-form, there occurs at this point a short transition based on the rhythm of the first theme; followed by a lovely cantabile melody—the second theme proper—that typifies the romantic love pervading the play. This theme also is expanded into several sections; the first of which may portray the clownish Athenian tradespeople, and the second, the brays of Bottom after he has been transformed into an ass, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

The free fantasia, an improvisation on the first theme—although containing a few perfunctory manipulations—sustains interest, as a whole, by its modulations and by the suggestive orchestral effects. The closing measures, where the pizzicato 'cellos and double basses seem to imitate the light, tripping footsteps of the elves, is genuinely realistic. The Recapitulation, which begins with the same chords as the Introduction, is an illustration of bondage to classic practise; for here they have no dramatic significance and are merely a concession to routine procedure.[210] The first theme and the transition, however, are effectively abridged so that the second theme, by far the most appealing in the whole work, stands out in greater prominence. Then follows a brilliant expansion of the closing portions of the second theme, until we reach the Coda. This begins with a reminiscence of the first theme which fades away into a modified presentation of the Duke Theseus theme, followed by four long-drawn out Amens.[211] These may signify the blessing which, in the play, the elves bestow upon the Ducal house. The Introductory chords dissolve the dream which the music has evoked, and we are back once more in the world of reality.

To suggest the attitude which we of to-day should take towards Mendelssohn—he may justly be admired as a musician of great natural gifts, of high ideals and of unusually finished technique in many branches of composition. It is ungracious to censure him because he lacks the gripping emotional power of a Beethoven or a Wagner. Those who indulge in such narrow criticism condemn only themselves.

CHAPTER XIV

CHOPIN AND PIANOFORTE STYLE

ALTHOUGH Chopin (1809-1849) was less aggressively romantic than others of the group we have been considering, in many respects his music represents the romantic spirit in its fairest bloom. Not even yet has full justice been done him—although his fame is growing—since he is often considered as a composer of mere "salon-pieces" which, though captivating, are too gossamer-like to merit serious attention. Chopin was a life-long student of Bach; and much of his music, in its closeness of texture, shows unmistakably the influence of that master. Together with Schumann, he broke away from the strict formality of the old classic forms and instituted the reign of freely conceived tone-poems for the pianoforte: the form being conditioned by the poetic feelings of the composer. As far as fundamental principles of architecture are concerned, his pieces are generally simple, modeled as they are on the two and three-part form and that of the rondo. When he attempted works of large scope, where varied material had to be held together, he was lamentably deficient, e.g., in his Sonatas. In fact, even in such pieces as the Études and Scherzos, in the presentation of the material we find occasional blemishes. But there are so many other wonderful qualities that this weakness may be overlooked. In spite of a certain deficiency in form, Chopin is indisputably a great genius. Far too much stress has been laid on the delicacy of his style to the exclusion of the intensity and bold dramatic power that characterize much of his music to a marked degree. Though of frail physique,[212] and though living in an environment which tended to overdevelop his fastidious nature, Chopin had a fiery soul, which would assert itself with unmistakable force. His music by no means consists solely of melting moods or languorous sighs; he had a keen instinct for the dissonant element (witness passages in the G minor Ballade); he was a daring harmonic innovator; and much of his music is surcharged with tragic significance. A born stylist, he nevertheless did not avoid incessant labor to secure the acme of finish. So perfect in his works is the balance between substance and treatment, that they make a direct appeal to music-lovers of every nation. In listening to Chopin we are never conscious of turgidity, of diffuseness, of labored treatment of material. All is direct, pellucid; poetic thoughts are presented in a convincingly beautiful manner. He was a great colorist as well, and in his work we must recognize the fact that color in music is as distinct an achievement of the imagination as profound thought or beauty of line. Chopin's position in regard to program music is an interesting subject for speculation. Few of his works bear specifically descriptive titles; and it is well known that he had little sympathy with the extreme tendencies of Berlioz and Liszt. Yet there is, in general, something more than an abstract presentation of musical material, however beautiful. The varied moods aroused by the Ballades and Nocturnes, the actual pictures we see in the Polonaises, must have had their counterpart in definite subjective experiences in the life of the composer, and so from a broad psychological standpoint—even in the absence of explanatory titles—we may call Chopin a thoroughly romantic tone-poet; indeed, as Balzac says, "a soul which rendered itself audible."

As Chopin composed so idiomatically for his chosen instrument, the pianoforte, to which he devoted himself exclusively,[213] no understanding or adequate appreciation of the subtleties of his style is possible without some knowledge of the nature and attributes of this instrument which, in our time, has become the universal medium for the rendering of music. All of Chopin's works were not only published for the pianoforte but were conceived in terms of the pianoforte; his style in this respect being quite unique in the history of musical art. For there are noble and poetically inspired thoughts of many composers which may be satisfactorily presented through a number of media: pianoforte, organ, string-quartet or voices. This fact has been the cause of many so-called transcriptions of orchestral or string-quartet music for the organ. A composer, furthermore, often publishes a work for a certain instrument when the inner evidence shows that, during the period of creation, he actually had some other medium in mind. Beethoven's Sonatas abound[214] in effects which, for their complete realization, require an orchestra; so that, notwithstanding the beauty of the thought, his style is often anything but pianistic. In certain of César Franck's pianoforte works we are conscious of his predilection for the organ, as the spirit of the music demands a sustained volume of sound which the organ, with its powerful lungs, alone can give. But if the full beauty of Chopin's conception is to be gained, his music must be played on the pianoforte and on nothing else. The pianoforte has, to be sure, several limitations; it is not per se a loud instrument in comparison with a trumpet or an organ, and the whole nature of its tone is evanescent—that is, as soon as the tone is produced, it begins to fade away,

. This latter apparent limitation, however, is in fact one of its most suggestive beauties; for nothing is more stimulating to the imagination than the dying away of a beautiful sound, as may be felt in the striking of a clear-toned bell, or in the wonderful diminuendo of the horn. This effect, inherent in pianoforte tone, should be more utilized rather than deplored, especially since dwelling on a delightful harmony or a single dramatic note is a definite characteristic of "tempo rubato"—that peculiar feature of Chopin's rhythm. The pianoforte can neither steadily sustain a tone

nor increase it

; achievements for which the strings and the wind instruments are so valued. On the other hand, the instrument has the merits of great sonority and marvellous coloristic possibilities; and when music is composed for the pianoforte by one who understands its secrets and, furthermore, when it is properly played, it is quite the finest[215] instrument ever yet brought under the control of a single performer. Again, the pianoforte is not meant for great rapidity of utterance, such as, for instance, we associate with the violin, the flute or the clarinet. It is, in fact, often played too fast, sounding like a pianola or a machine rather than an instrument with a soul. If there be no lingering over the notes, beautiful effects have no opportunity to be heard. Rapidity and brilliance on the pianoforte do not depend on so many notes per second but on vitality and precision of accent. These admirable qualities of the instrument are due to the great number of vibrating metal strings (in a modern concert-grand, about two hundred and thirty, i.e., three strings to each of the twelve notes of the seven octaves, save for a few of the lowest bass notes); to the large sounding board (about twenty-four square feet, on the largest model), and above all to the damper pedal which Rubinstein—so appropriately—calls the soul of the pianoforte. The very term Pianoforte implies a wealth of meaning; for a special glory of the instrument is its power of shading, its flexibility of utterance, from piano to forte or vice versa. The limits themselves, to be sure, are not so striking as in certain other instruments, e.g., the pianoforte cannot produce the almost ghostly whisper of which the clarinet is capable, nor can it equal the trumpet or the trombone in intensity or volume. But it can produce a very beautiful pianissimo; and if a sense of relativity be kept, and soft effects begun quietly enough, it can be made to sound with remarkable brilliancy. The pianoforte should always be played with a keen regard for this power of shading, of nuance; the tones should undulate like the winds or the waves. Anything like the steady sostenuto level for which the organ shows itself so fitted is, except for special effects, entirely foreign to the nature of the pianoforte. Nor should we ever attempt to make it, per se, a loud, overpowering instrument. Its forte and its brilliancy are purely relative; and, when forced to do something unsuited to its real nature, it protests with a hard, unmelodious tone.

Likewise the two pedals,[216] when their technical names are understood, imply their own meaning, just as their popular designations hint at the way in which they are often abused. The pedal employed by the right foot, properly called the "damper pedal," is so named because, by its action, all the dampers of the key-board may be raised simultaneously. This allows the strings to vibrate together and to send forth great waves of colored sound like those produced by an Aeolian harp; an effect similar to that heard when a sea-shell is held to the ear. The pianoforte, in fact, has aptly been called "a harp laid on its back" to which the action of keys has been applied. Accordingly an open, flowing style (arpeggio) is one of the idioms best suited to its nature. To secure proper contrast, a massive, chordal style is sometimes employed by such composers as Schumann, Brahms and Franck—even at times by Chopin himself; but that the extended arpeggio (often merely two voices, with the body of tone secured by the pedal) is the norm may be seen from almost any page of Chopin's compositions. The resonance and carrying power of these waves are intensified by raising the lid[217] of the pianoforte; for then they are brought to a focus and projected into space. The effect produced by raising the dampers is appropriate and beautiful, not alone with consonant chords but, at times, equally with chords that are unrelated; which, were they sustained for long by an organ, would be intolerably harsh. But the tone of the pianoforte is so fleeting that such a mixture ensures great brilliance and warmth without undue jargon, and is thus akin to the blending of strange colors by modern painters. Many people, in fact, play the pianoforte with too little, rather than too much, pedal; or with too much pedal used the wrong way! A definite attempt should be made to cultivate a feeling for color and warmth of tone; a hard, colorless tone on the pianoforte being a great blemish as it is so unnecessary. The following passage illustrates the above points.

Chopin: Barcarolle

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

There is really no such thing on the pianoforte as a "pure" single tone. It is an acoustical law that no tone exists by itself, but always generates a whole series of overtones[218] or "upper partials," as they are called, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Even what we call the perfectly consonant chord of C major, e.g.,

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]] would be slightly qualified and colored by the B-flat, and this effect has actually been utilized by Chopin in the final cadence of his Prelude in F major, No. 23, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

In this example the E-flat must be very delicately accented and both pedals freely used.

Let it be clearly understood, therefore, that the damper pedal—popularly but erroneously called the "loud pedal"—has nothing to do with "noise" as such. Its purpose is to amplify and color the waves of sound and these waves may vary all the way from pp to ff. The dynamic gradation of pianoforte tone is caused by the amount of force with which the hammer strikes the wires; and this power is applied by the attack and pressure of the fingers. The damper pedal will, to be sure, reinforce fortissimo effects, but logically it is only a means of reinforcement and should never be used so that a mere "roar of sound" is produced. The normal pianoforte tone, however, is that brought forth in connection with the damper pedal, and only to gain an effect of intentional coolness and dryness do we see in pianoforte literature the direction "senza pedal"; passages so marked being often most appropriate as a strong contrast to highly colored ones.[219]

An important adjunct of the instrument, though even less intelligently used, is the pedal employed by the left foot; that popularly known as the "soft pedal," but of which the technical name is the "una corda" pedal. By this device on a grand pianoforte the whole key-board is shifted from left to right, so that the hammers strike but two wires in each group of three, and the third wire of the set is left free to vibrate sympathetically. Thus a very etherial, magical quality of tone is produced, especially in the upper ranges of the instrument. In the middle register, passages played forte or fortissimo will have a richness comparable to the G string of a violin. The effect is analogous to that of a viol d'amour which has, as is well known (stretched underneath the strings, which produce the actual tone) a set of additional strings, freely vibrating. Although this "una corda"[220] pedal may be used in a dynamic sense to reduce, as it were, the size of the instrument, its chief purpose is coloristic, i.e., to make possible a special quality of tone. This statement is proved by directions in pianoforte literature as far back as Beethoven, in whose Sonatas we find the dynamic marks of f and ff coupled with the proscribed use of the una corda pedal. In any case, this left-foot pedal should not be abused; for, just because the tone quality produced thereby is so beautiful and characteristic, it soon becomes, if constantly employed, rather cloying. The dynamic gradation of tone is primarily a matter for the control of the fingers, i.e., the touch. The damper pedal is for sonority and color; the una corda for special shades, and all three factors—touch and the two pedals—are combined in pianistic effects which only a trained technique and artistic judgment can regulate.[221]

Even a slight analysis of Chopin's style proves that it is based upon logical inferences, drawn from the series of overtones as they are generated and reinforced by the very nature of the pianoforte. From the wide spacing of the lower tones of the series Chopin derived the extended grouping of his arpeggios, e.g.,

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Prelude, No. 19

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

so that the chord of the 10th, instead of the former grouping within the octave, may be considered the basis of his harmonic scheme. By this means a great gain was made in richness and sonority. Another striking feature of Chopin's style is found in those groups of spray-like, superadded notes with which the melody is embellished. It is evident, in many cases at least, that these tones are not merely embroidery in the ordinary sense. Rather do they represent a reinforcement of the overtones, ideally or actually present, in connection with bass tones and chords used in the lower part of the musical fabric. As a striking example[222] see the long series of descending non-harmonic tones in the Coda of the B major Nocturne, op. 9, No. 3, and note the delicate colors in the closing arpeggio chord (to be played with a free use of both pedals).

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

In general, Chopin's style is homophonic—wondrous lyric melodies which seem to float on waves of richly colored sound. But there is also much subtly used polyphony, i.e., delightful phrases in inner voices and imitative effects between the different parts. In comparison, however, with Schumann's style (which is largely on a polyphonic basis) Chopin is a decidedly homophonic composer.[223] A great deal of interesting and instructive reading on Chopin is available and the following works are especially recommended: [Chopin, the Man and his Music] by Huneker; the [Life of Chopin] by Niecks; the essay on Chopin in Mason's Romantic Composers and in Hadow's Studies in Modern Music; the volume on Chopin by Elié Poirée in the series Les Musiciens Célèbres; and the same by Louis Laloy in the series Les Maîtres de la Musique; the [Life] by Liszt (well known and most valuable as coming from a contemporary and brother musician); finally a somewhat rhapsodic essay by H.T. Finck in [Chopin and Other Essays].

We select, as being thoroughly representative, the following works for comment: the first Prelude, the A-flat major Étude, the F-sharp minor Mazurka, the E-flat minor Polonaise, the Barcarolle and the C-sharp minor Scherzo.[224]

Prelude in C Major, Op. 28, No. 1.

This Prelude, the first of the set of 24, is an excellent example of the sonority Chopin gained from widely extended chords in the bass; by the use—characteristically bold—of dissonances (measures 13-20), and by the sensuous richness of the closing measures, in which a wonderful wave of sound is produced through the damper pedal, in connection with the blending of the tonic, dominant and subdominant chords. The prelude is a kind of intensified Bach and may well be compared with that prelude in the same key which begins the immortal well-tempered Clavichord. All the Preludes, for their poetic import, finished style and pianistic effect, are masterpieces of the first rank. Schumann well says of them: "They are sketches, eagle's feathers, all strangely intermingled. But in every piece we recognize the hand of Frédéric Chopin; he is the boldest, the proudest poet-soul of his time."

Étude in A-flat Major, Op. 25, No. 1.

This étude, deservedly popular, may be considered the example par excellence of Chopin's style. The lyric beauty of the melody, the fascinating modulations, the shades of color alike justify the following rhapsodic comments of Schumann, "Imagine that an Aeolian harp possessed all the musical scales, and that the hand of an artist were to cause them to intermingle in all sorts of fantastic embellishments, yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft, continuously singing upper voice, and you will get about the right idea. But it would be an error to think that Chopin, in playing this étude, permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A-flat major chord, here and there thrown aloft by the pedal. Throughout the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only, in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent. After the étude a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when already half awake, one would gladly once more recall."

Mazurka in F-sharp Minor, Op. 6, No. 1.

As Franz Liszt says in his life of Chopin, "The Mazurka is not only a dance, it is a national poem, and like all poems of conquered nations, is shaped so as to let the blazing flames of patriotic feeling shimmer out through the transparent veil of popular melody." The chief peculiarity of the Mazurka (which is always in triple rhythm, with a latitude in speed from Presto to Mesto) is the scheme of accentuation—the normal accent on the first beat being systematically transferred to the second and third beats. We also find in the Mazurka frequent indications for the use of the so-called "tempo rubato," a proper conception of which is so essential in the performance of Chopin's music. Tempo rubato—so often abused!—literally meaning borrowed time, is simply free rhythm emancipated from rigid, scholastic bonds. As Huneker well says, "Chopin must be played in curves" with emotional freedom; just as the heart, when excited, increases the speed of its pulsations, and in moments of calm and depression slows down. The jerky, really unrhythmical playing of certain performers reminds us of a person suffering from palpitation of the heart. Liszt's description of the rubato is most suggestive: "A wind plays in the leaves, life unfolds and develops beneath them, but the tree remains the same." In Chopin, accordingly, the ground rhythm should always be preserved, though varied with subtle, and yet logical fluctuations.

Polonaise in E-flat Minor, Op. 26, No. 11.

The Polonaise[225] is the great national dance of the Poles; an impassioned and yet stately pageant in which, as Liszt says, "The noblest traditional feelings of ancient Poland are represented." This dance—or rather, processional march—is always in triple rhythm and based on a definite rhythmic formula: either

or

. The frequent feminine endings are also a characteristic feature, e.g., the cadence in the well known military Polonaise in A major:

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

To return to the example being considered,—it is in Three-part form (A, B, A, with Coda) the first part in the minor mode; the second part beautifully contrasted by being in B major—introduced by the implied enharmonic change from E-flat to D-sharp. This first part, remarkable for its passionate, headlong impetuosity, should dispel any idea that Chopin was a weak sentimentalist. Although of a delicate constitution he certainly had a fiery soul. The second part, sotto voce—note the feminine endings—reminds us of the muffled music of a military band as it passes by.

Barcarolle in F-sharp Major, Op. 60.

This composition, in many ways the most wonderful single piece we have from Chopin, is the quintessence of his genius. It seems, in fact, to contain everything: appealing melodies, wealth of harmony, bold dissonances (note in particular the 6th and 7th measures of the Coda), brilliant embellishments; and withal, it is written in a pianistic style which, for richness and warmth of color, is quite unsurpassed. It is also most sincerely conceived, intensifying the suggestiveness of the descriptive title. Would that objective program music were always so true to life and to the real nature of music! It is in free three-part form, the first part of a calm nature in which we are rocked on gently undulating waves; a more rhythmic second part where, as Kullak says, the bass seems to suggest the monotonous steadiness of oar-strokes; an interlude, marked "dolce sfogato," introduced by some delightful modulations, as if in a quiet nook the poet were dreaming of the beauties of love and nature; an impassioned return to the chief subject, together with a partial presentation of the middle portion; and finally a long and brilliant coda. The composition is unique in romantic literature for its power to arouse the imagination, or, as Schumann so well says, "to set people romancing for themselves."

Scherzo in C-sharp Minor, Op. 39.

The four Scherzos, for passion and eloquence, rank among Chopin's most characteristic works, though it seems impossible to trace a logical correspondence between the former classic meaning of the term "Scherzo" and the contents revealed to us in these poems; save that they are all in triple rhythm, hence on a dance-form basis. As Niecks well says, "There is in them neither frolicsomeness nor humor"—such, for example, as we find in Beethoven's Scherzos—and he suggests that "Capriccio" might be a less misleading designation. But, however inexplicable the title which Huneker thinks Chopin may have applied in serious jest, there is no doubt of the uncompromising dignity of the utterance, and there is often a grim irony, a wayward scorn, which a liberal interpretation might well consider attributes of humor. These were marked traits in Chopin's nature, and the Scherzos are their revelation in terms of music. Schumann's well-known comment is apropos—"How is gravity to clothe itself if jest goes about in dark veils?" This Scherzo (Presto con fuoco) is in extended three-part form; the dominant note of the first part being one of feverish agitation, which expresses itself in spasmodic outbursts. The second part, with its broad cantabile melody of a hymn-like character, reveals a calmer mood. The last note of each phrase is adorned throughout with lovely coloristic embellishments. After a return to the first theme, the second part is also repeated; this time with striking modulatory changes which strongly resemble the mood of Wotan's Farewell, in the third Act of Wagner's Valkyrie. A long and fiery coda of new thematic material closes the work. The major ending is like a shaft of light dispelling storm-tossed clouds.

Chopin's works are so instinct with genius and have proved to be so immortal that they may well be considered as ideal witnesses to the triumph of quality over mere quantity or sensational display. To-day, when we suffer from musical bombast, their refined message is of special significance.

CHAPTER XV

BERLIOZ AND LISZT. PROGRAMME MUSIC

THERE is no doubt that Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), however varied the appeal of his music to different temperaments, is an artistic personality to be reckoned with; one not to be ticketed and laid on the shelf. Although a century and more has elapsed since his birth the permanent value of his music is still debated, often amusingly enough, by those who seem unaware that, whatever the theoretical rights of the case, in practice his principles are the reigning ones in modern music. As Berlioz stands as the foremost representative of program music and never wrote anything without a title, it is certain that before his music or influence can be appreciated, the mind must be cleared of prejudice and we must recognize that modern program music is a condition—an artistic fact, not a theory—and that the tendency towards specific, subjective expression (whether manifested in song, opera or symphonic poem) is a dominant one among present day composers. It is true that all music is the expression in tones of the imagination of the composer; true, also, that music must fulfil certain conditions of its own being. But imaginations differ. That of Berlioz, for example, was quite a new phenomenon; and as for the working principles of musical composition, they are as much subject to modification as any other form of human experimentation. Berlioz, himself, says that he never intended to subvert the laws of music, only to make a new and individual use of them. As he was no abstract maker of music, his autobiography—one of the most fascinating in the history of art, only to be compared with that of Benvenuto Cellini—should be familiar to all who would penetrate the secrets of his style. Berlioz's compositions, in fact, are more specifically autobiographic than those of any other notable musician. Both in his music and his literary works are the same notes of passionate insistence on his own point of view, of radical dislike for accepting conditions as they were (he says of himself that he loved to make the barriers crack) and of fondness for brilliant outward effect. In considering Berlioz, one is always reminded of Matthew Arnold's lines on Byron, who resembles Berlioz so closely.

Only realize that Berlioz's Fantastic Symphony was composed but twenty-one years after Haydn's death, and compare the simple, self-centered Haydn with the restless, wide-visioned Berlioz, of a mentality positively omnivorous; who, in addition to his musical achievements, was a brilliant critic and littérateur, a man of travel and wide acquaintance with the world. Then indeed you will appreciate what an enormous change had come over music. A mere mention of the authors from whom Berlioz drew his subjects: Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, Scott, Virgil, Hugo, shows the wide range of his reading and the difference in output which would inevitably result. The previous impersonal attitude towards music is shown by the very names of compositions which, broadly speaking (till the beginning of the 19th century) were seldom more than Symphony, Sonata, or Quartet, No. so and so; while the movements, in an equally mechanical way, were known by the designations of tempo: allegro, adagio, andante, etc.—those "senseless terms," as Beethoven himself says. Beginning pre-eminently with Berlioz, composers have had more highly cultivated imaginations, much more to say; and the wider range of emotion resulting therefrom has necessitated differences of form and treatment. A frequent misconception on the part of the layman is that worthy music should be so constructed that the hearer be spared all mental exertion. As long as it was certain that a composer would present just so many themes in a prescribed order and treated in the routine fashion, listening to music was a comparatively easy task. Since Berlioz, music has made ever greater demands on the hearer; who only when his receptivity is of an equal degree of cultivation with the creative power of the composer, can grasp the full meaning of the music. The first step, therefore, toward an appreciation of Berlioz is to recognize the peculiar, picturesque power of his imagination, which was of an entirely new order, and may be called musico-poetic in distinction from purely musical activity. This form of double consciousness is equally necessary on the part of the hearer. As Debussy, the modern French composer, so well says, people often do not understand or enjoy new music because it differs from "une musique" i.e., from a conventional and unvarying type which they have in their mind. The real effect of Berlioz's "Carnaval Romain" Overture, to take a simple example, is to complement and intensify the mental picture which any well-read person—or better still, any one who has actually visited Rome—will have of this characteristic incident in Italian life. If the work be considered merely as abstract music, notwithstanding the stimulation and delight caused by the rhythmic vitality and by the orchestral effects, the real poetic purpose of the composer remains unfulfilled. This peculiar quality of Berlioz was partly the result of his fiery excitable temperament and partly the reactive effect of the environment in which he found himself. What an amazing group in Paris (beginning about 1830) was that with which he was associated! De Musset, de Vigny, Liszt, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Balzac, Dumas, Chopin, Heine, Delacroix, Géricault: young men representing every art and several nationalities, all under the lead of Hugo, that prince of Romanticists; their object being—revolt from conventional standards and a complete expression of their own personalities. Hugo, as he says in the famous preface to Cromwell, was tearing down the plaster which hides the facade of the fair temple of art; Dumas had just demolished Racine; Géricault and Delacroix, by their daring conceptions, were founding our modern school of painting. Into this maelstrom of revolution, Berlioz—he of the flaming locks, "that hairy Romantic" as Thackeray calls him—flung himself with temperamental ardor; for he was a born fighter and always in opposition to someone. The audacity and dramatic energy of his compositions are but the natural result of the tendencies of the period. Berlioz's early career is of extreme interest to us English-speaking people, because the first strong stimulus to his imagination came from his acquaintance with the dramas of Shakespeare. In 1827, some of the dramas, (such as Hamlet, and Romeo and Juliet) were played in Paris by an English company, and their effect upon Berlioz was overwhelming. He would wander about the streets raving of Shakespeare; he promptly fell in love with the most beautiful actress in the troupe—Henrietta Smithson, whom he later married[226]—and then began the frenzied period of composing and concert giving, which came to a climax in the Fantastic Symphony first performed in 1830. Berlioz's courage and perseverance are shown by his winning the Prix de Rome, after four failures! His two years in Italy (his picture may still be seen at the Villa Medici), replete with amusing and thrilling incidents, were, on the whole the happiest period of his stormy life.

But we must pass to some brief comments upon the characteristics, pro and con, of his style. In the first place it was extremely original; showed little or no connection with former composers; has had no imitators, and cannot be parodied. Berlioz likewise possessed great range of emotion—though he rarely touched the sublime; a power of laying out works on a vast scale, and, in general, of achieving with unerring certainty the effects desired. The poet Heine said that much of Berlioz's music reminded him of "primeval monsters and fabulous empires." And what a master he was of rhythm!—one of the greatest in music! Prior to his work, and that of Schumann among the Germans, the classic rhythms were becoming rather stereotyped; and the vigorous elasticity introduced by these two composers has widened incalculably the range of dramatic effect. But his indisputable claim to lasting recognition is his genius in the treatment of the orchestra. Berlioz had an inborn instinct for sensuous tonal effect for its own sake, and not as the clothing of an abstract idea. With him the art of making that composite instrument, the orchestra, give forth the greatest beauty and variety of sound became an end in itself; and from his ingenious and innovating effects has been evolved the orchestra as we hear it to-day. Berlioz thought, so to speak, in terms of orchestral color. In his melodies we do not feel that the drawing, the contour of the pure line, is the chief thing; but that the assignment of the melody to just the right instrument, and the color-effect thereby produced, are integral parts of the conception. Notwithstanding the fact that some of his effects are extravagant or at times bizarre, he must be credited with revealing possibilities in orchestral shading and color which, still further developed by Wagner, Strauss and Tchaikowsky, have become conventional means of expression. Some of his most celebrated and satisfying works, in addition to those mentioned, are the Harold in Italy Symphony, with its personification by a solo viola of the chief character; the Romeo and Juliet Symphony, for both vocal and instrumental forces (of which the ball-scene with its wondrous love-melody and the Queen Mab Scherzo—unequalled for daintiness—represent his highest attainments as a tone-poet) and, most popular of all, the Damnation of Faust based on scenes from Goethe's poem. The bewitching incidental pieces for orchestra alone, such as the Ballet of Sylphs and the Rakoczy March, are often played at symphony concerts, and are familiar to everyone. Certain blemishes in Berlioz's music are obvious and need not be over-emphasized. There is often more style and outward effect than real substance. His works excite, but how seldom do they exalt! For he was frequently deficient in depth of emotion and in latent warmth—qualities quite different from the hectic glow and the feverish passion which his French admirers, Tiersot and Boschot, claim to be genuine attributes of musical inspiration, of power to compel universal attention. We of other nations can only firmly dissent. Without question his work has never succeeded in calling forth the spontaneous love of a large body of admirers.[227] In an eloquent passage the conductor and critic Weingartner sums up the case: "Berlioz will always represent a milestone in the development of music, for he is the real founder of the modern school. He did not approach that ethical depth, that ideal purity which surround Beethoven's name with such unspeakable glory, but no composer since Beethoven, except Wagner, has enriched music with so many new means of expression as this great Frenchman. Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner are the heroes of the last half of the 19th century, just as Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Weber and Schubert were of the first."

As Berlioz is, if possible, even more idiomatic for the orchestra than Chopin for the pianoforte, no conception of the real quality of his message can be gained from transcriptions, however good. His works[228] must be studied at first hand in the orchestral score and then heard in performance by an excellent orchestra. Some preliminary acquaintance and appreciation, however, of characteristic features in his style is possible from arrangements and so we select for comment the following works and movements: The Fantastic Symphony, the Carnaval Romain Overture, the Ballet des Sylphes and the Feux Follets from the Damnation of Faust, the Pilgrim's March from the Childe Harold Symphony and the Slow Movement from the Romeo and Juliet Symphony.[229] There is much valuable and stimulating reading[230] about Berlioz and his influence; for, as Théophile Gautier acutely remarks, "S'il fut un grand génie, on peut le discuter encore, le monde est livré aux controverses; mais nul ne penserait à nier qu'il fut un grand caractère." The Symphonie[231] fantastique, op. 14, épisode de la vie d'un artiste, in five movements is significant for being the first manifestation of Berlioz's conviction that music should be yet more specifically expressive, since it is founded on a characteristic theme, called l'idée fixe which typifies the heroine, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

This theme, with modifications appropriate to the changes in the character and the environment, is repeated in each movement. As for the theme itself, frankly it does not amount to much; it certainly fails to take our emotions by storm or sing itself into our hearts. Berlioz's harmonization is very bald, and as to his attempts at development,[232] the less said the better. Of course whatever Berlioz writes for the orchestra sounds well; of that there is no doubt. But this is not enough; any more than we are convinced by a person's statements or arguments merely because he happens to have a beautiful speaking voice. This dramatization of a musical theme was, after all, nothing iconoclastically new and Berlioz is perfectly right in claiming that he was merely extending the possibilities of that same type of theme as is found in Beethoven himself, e.g., in the Coriolanus Overture and to a certain extent in the Fifth Symphony. If, furthermore, we look back from the dramatic and highly personified use made of themes in modern music, in the works of Strauss, Tchaikowsky, Franck and even Brahms (e.g., his First Symphony with its motto-theme) we can see that this symphony of Berlioz is an important link in a perfectly logical chain of development. This melody, then, l'idée fixe, appears in each of the five movements; undergoing, however, but slight purely thematic development, being introduced and modified primarily for dramatic purposes. In the second movement,[233] Un Bal, two phrases drawn from it are sung pp by the clarinet as an indication that, amid the gaieties of the dance, the vision of the beloved one is ever present. In the Scène aux Champs it is modified and eloquently declaimed by the flute and oboe, e.g.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

At the close of the movement occurs one of Berlioz's most novel and realistic effects—the imitation of the rumbles of distant thunder produced by four kettle-drums tuned in a very peculiar way (see page 75 of the orchestral score, Breitkopf and Härtel edition). In the fourth movement, Marche au Supplice, four measures of l'idée fixe are introduced just at the moment when the head of the hero is to be chopped off. This is done for purely theatric purposes and certainly makes our flesh creep—as Berlioz no doubt intended. The most spectacular effect, however, is in the last movement, Songe d'une Nuit du Sabbat, where the theme is parodied to typify the degraded appearance which the beloved one takes in the distorted dreams of her lover, e.g.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

The impression made by the Symphony depends largely upon the attitude of the hearer. In this work we are not to look for the sublimity and emotional depth of a Bach or Beethoven any more than we expect a whimsical comedy of Aristophanes to resemble an epic poem of Milton. But for daring imagination, for rhythmic vitality and certainty of orchestral effect, it was and remains a work[234] of genius.

The Carnaval Romain Overture
(See Supplement No. 57)

This work is one of Berlioz's most brilliant pieces, with an orchestral life and color all its own. The material is taken from his opera Benvenuto Cellini;[235] the checquered career of this artist having made an irresistible appeal to Berlioz's love of the unusual and the spectacular. The body of the work is based on the Italian national dance, the Saltarello; and with this rhythm as a steadying background Berlioz achieves a continuity sometimes lacking in his work. The mere thought of the sights, sounds and colors of that important event in the life of Rome would be enough to inflame his susceptible imagination, and so here we have Berlioz at his very best. The overture begins, allegro assai con fuoco, with a partial announcement of the saltarello theme by the violins and violas, freely imitated by the wood-wind instruments, e.g.

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After a sudden prolonged silence and some crescendo trills the first periodic melody is introduced, sung by the English horn—the tune taken from an aria of Benvenuto in the first act. The melody is soon repeated in the dominant key by the violas and then, treated canonically, by the 'cellos and violins. The canon really tells and shows that Berlioz, as is often alleged, was not altogether lacking in polyphonic skill. The rhythm is now gradually quickened and leads to the main body of the work, in 6/8 time, based on the Italian folk-dance—the Saltarello which, as its name implies, is of a "skipping" nature. The music is freely developed from the two following themes; there is no second theme proper, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Toward the close there is a return to the introductory melody which is treated contrapuntally by the bassoons and other wind-instruments. The saltarello resumes its sway and is worked up to a fiery ending; especially brilliant are the closing chords scored for full brass with trills on the cornets.

Two of Berlioz's most poetically conceived descriptive pieces are the Menuet des Feux-Follets and the Ballet des Sylphes, incidental orchestral numbers from the Damnation of Faust; for they illustrate convincingly what one means by the claim that Berlioz thought in terms of orchestral color and suggestion. To give a musical picture of such airy and fantastic imaginings by the mere repetition of conventional formulae would obviously be of no avail. Berlioz's genius is equal to the situation; and as we listen to the music we can really see the flickering of the Will o' the Wisps and feel the graceful swaying of the Sylphs as they hover about the sleeping Faust. To suggest the Feux-Follets Berlioz ingeniously gives the theme to two piccolos in thirds, which are supported by a rich but subdued mass of wind instruments, horns and trumpets, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

With equal felicity does he create the picture of the delicate, graceful Sylphs. Any boisterous rhythmic activity would be quite out of place; and so, above a sustained ground tone on muted 'cellos and basses (which continues through the piece), and the slightest suspicion of motion on the second violins and violas, there floats in the first violins one of the most perfectly rounded and exquisite melodies in existence, e.g.

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

In the closing measures there is a charming shadowy dialogue between kettle-drums (struck with sponge-headed sticks) and harps, in harmonics, carrying out Berlioz's stage directions—"Les esprits de l'air se balancent quelque temps autour de Faust endormi et disparaissent peu à peu." The piece ends with a chord barely whispered on the clarinets, pppp, which, as Hadow aptly suggests, reminds us of vanishing soap bubbles.

Berlioz's most sustained and perfect work, both in content and treatment, is universally acknowledged to be the Harold en Italie Symphony[236] in four movements for full orchestra and solo viola. There is little actual correspondence between the scenes of Byron's poem and the musical portrayal; and in fact, as Liszt says, "The title clearly shows that the composer wished to render the impression which the magnificent nature of Italy could not fail to make on a soul such as that of Harold languishing in sorrow." The significant features of the work are the melody for solo viola, recurring[237] in each movement, which typifies Harold—that "melancholy dreamer," e.g.,

[[audio/mpeg]] [[MusicXML]]

and the dazzling sensationalism of the Finale (Orgy of Brigands) which, when it was once played "con amore" by a fine orchestra, called forth from Berlioz the following eulogy,—"Sublime! I thank you, gentlemen, and I wonder at you; you are perfect brigands." The finale is also notable in that the opening portion is a reminiscence, a passing in review, of the chief themes of the preceding movements. Berlioz, we may surmise, was following the precedent established by Beethoven in the finale of the Ninth Symphony, and, although his treatment is rather mechanical and lacking in any such dramatic logic as justified Beethoven, a certain organic connection between the movements is undoubtedly secured. A portion of the second movement, March of Pilgrims singing the evening prayer, is cited in the Supplement (See No. 58) chiefly because it is one of Berlioz's noblest inspirations, giving an eloquent picture of a procession approaching, passing by and losing itself in the distance—a long crescendo and diminuendo. At every eighth measure the March melody is interrupted by the muffled chant of the pilgrims, very effectively scored for brass instruments, pianissimo. In the middle of the piece a contrast is gained by the introduction of a religious chant. The closing measures of this movement are of haunting beauty—a mysterious effect being produced by an intentional mixture of tonalities (the sustained B in the flute and oboe being answered by a C on the horns and harp, while beneath are heard fragments of the March theme in the main key on the pizzicato double basses).[238] Berlioz's most pretentious orchestral composition is that called in the full title "Romeo and Juliet, dramatic symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and a prologue in choral recitative, composed after Shakespeare's tragedy." Notwithstanding many touches of genius, it is a very uneven work and is too much a conglomerate of styles—narrative, lyrical, dramatic, theatric and symphonic—for the constructive ability of the author to weld into a living whole. There are several portions which, however noble and glorious may have been Berlioz's conception,[239] and however inspired by Shakespeare's genius, do not "come off." Two of the numbers, on the other hand, are worthy of the highest praise—the Love Scene and the Queen Mab Scherzo. Of the latter Saint-Saëns writes—"The famous Scherzo is worth even more than its reputation. It is a miracle of lightness and gracefulness. Beside such delicacies and transparencies the finesses of Mendelssohn in the Midsummer Night's Dream seem heavy." The main theme is fascinating in its daintiness and sparkle, e.g.

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Berlioz considered the Love Scene his finest inspiration and there are few pieces comparable with it for passionate utterance. The orchestration is wonderful for richness and variety.[240]

After a careful study of the foregoing examples the reader, we hope, is in a position to make a fair estimate of Berlioz's power and to realize his great significance. It should be understood that this music is intensely subjective and so requires a sympathetic and cultivated attitude on the part of the listener. To the writer at least, there remains one vital lack in Berlioz's music,—that of the dissonant element. It often seems as if his conceptions could not be fully realized for want of sheer musical equipment, largely due to insufficient early training. For what is music without dissonance? Surely "flat, stale and unprofitable" even if, in Berlioz's case, this deficiency is offset by great rhythmic vitality and gorgeous color. Yet in his best works[241] there is such a strong note of individuality, indeed such real character, that they are deserving of sincere respect and admiration, although by everybody they may not be deeply loved. We should, furthermore, always remember that, if Berlioz's poverty of harmonic effect is sometimes annoying, he never falls into the humdrum ruts of those who have had a stereotyped academic training. His genius was unhampered by any conventional harmonic vocabulary, and hence it could always express itself freely. That he was a real genius no one can fairly doubt.

All the qualities which have been enumerated as typical of the romantic temperament: warmth of sentiment, broad culture, love of color and the sensuous side of music, freedom of form, and stress laid on the orchestra as the most eloquent means of expression, reach their climax in Franz Liszt (1811-1886). Born near Vienna of a Hungarian father and a German mother, but chiefly associated with Paris, Weimar, Budapest and Rome, he is certainly the most picturesque and versatile figure in the music of the 19th century; for he worked and won fame as a pianoforte virtuoso—probably the greatest the world has known—as a prolific composer for pianoforte, orchestra and voice, as a teacher, conductor and man of letters, and withal spent a large part of his time, strength and fortune in helping young artists and in producing works which otherwise might never have seen the light. His life is of constant and varied interest, so spectacular at times that it seems like a fairy tale.[242] As a mere boy he began to receive adulation for his precocity; at the height of his career he was loaded with honors and wealth; in his old age he was a favorite with everyone of distinction and influence in France, Germany, England and Italy. Nevertheless he preserved, throughout, the integrity of his character and the nobility of his disposition. Whatever may be the final estimate of his powers as a creative artist, as a man he has earned nothing but eulogy;[243] for seldom has any one been freer from the faults of vanity, petty jealousy and envy which so often mar the artistic temperament. Liszt's generous encouragement and financial support of Wagner in the struggling days of his unpopularity have never been surpassed in the brotherhood of art.

Liszt is akin to Berlioz in many respects; we feel the same natural tendency to derive musical inspiration from external sources, poetic, pictorial or from the realm of Nature. Purely as a musician, however, Liszt was far greater, with a wider vocabulary and more power in thematic development. His work also is somewhat uneven; moments of real beauty alternating with passages which are trivial, bombastic or mere lifeless padding. When we bear in mind Liszt's unparalleled versatility, his output in quantity and variety is so amazing—there being well over 1,000 works of about every kind—that it is unfair to expect the style to be as finely wrought as the original conception is noble. A serious and unbiased study of his best compositions will convince one that Liszt is entitled to high rank as a musician of genuine poetic inspiration. The average music-lover is prone to dwell upon him as the composer of Les Préludes, the Hungarian Rhapsodies, and as the somewhat flashy transcriber of operatic potpourris, such as the Rigoletto Fantasie. But Les Préludes, notwithstanding a certain charm and the clever manner in which the music (without becoming minutely descriptive) supplements the poem of Lamartine, is yet barred from the first rank by its mawkishness of sentiment and by its cloying harmonies. The most significant among the symphonic poems are Orpheus with its characteristic crescendos and diminuendos; Tasso of great nobility and pathos, and Mazeppa, a veritable tour de force of descriptive writing. To hear any one of these masterpieces can not fail to alter the opinion of those who may have considered Liszt as exclusively given over to sensational effects. As for the Hungarian Rhapsodies, which Liszt intended as a kind of national ballade and so, for the basic themes and rhythms, drew largely on Hungarian Folk music, here again the public, with its fondness for being dazzled, has laid exclusive stress on the flashy ones to the detriment of those containing much that is noble and of enduring worth. In his transcriptions of standard songs Liszt did as valuable a public service as any popularizer, and has thereby made familiar the melodies of Schubert and Schumann to hundreds who otherwise would know nothing of them. In considering Liszt's pianoforte works we must remember that he was a born virtuoso with a natural fondness for exploiting the possibilities of his instrument, and with an amazing technique as a performer. When the sincerity of a composer is in question there is a great difference as to what should be the standard of judgment, whether the work be for orchestra or for pianoforte. In writing for orchestra the composer naturally centres himself on the pure ideas and their treatment, as the execution is something entirely external to himself. In works for pianoforte, however, the composer who is also a virtuoso will often, and quite justifiably, introduce passages of purely pianistic effect which in other circumstances would amount to a confession of deficient imagination. That Liszt at times abused his facility in decoration need not be gainsaid, and yet how poetic and eloquent are his best pianoforte compositions!—the Études, the Waldesrauschen, the Ballade and, above all, the Sonata in B minor.[244] Much unjust criticism has been expended upon Liszt for treating the pianoforte like an orchestra. As a matter of fact he widened, in a perfectly legitimate way, the possibilities of the instrument as to sonority, wealth and variety of color-effect. According to the testimony of contemporary colleagues, Rubinstein, Taussig and von Bülow who, had they not been convinced of his supremacy, might well have been jealous, Liszt was incontestably the greatest interpreter of Bach, Beethoven and Chopin; and his power as a Beethoven scholar is attested by the poetically annotated edition of the Sonatas. It is often asserted that Liszt lacked spontaneous melodic invention. This is a hard saying unless taken in a relative sense. We may grant that Liszt was neither a Schubert nor a Mozart, and yet recognize in his works some extremely haunting melodies. His creative power was acknowledged by Wagner and in a very practical manner. In fact, after a comparative study of their works, one is amazed at the number of melodies which Wagner borrowed from Liszt and at the generous complaisance of the latter. The reactive influence of Liszt and Wagner, each upon the other, is an interesting chapter in the development of modern art. Liszt was undoubtedly encouraged in his revolutionary aims by Wagner's fiery courage. Wagner, on his side, owed much to Liszt's unselfish generosity; and with his more powerful constructive gifts worked up into enduring form motives which, internal evidence clearly shows, came from Liszt himself.

Just a few closing words as to Liszt's specific contributions to the expansion of musical structure. He was an advanced leader in the "program school," being endowed with considerably more constructive power than Berlioz, who often fell between two stools: in that while his subject demanded the freest treatment, he lacked the vigor to break away from the formal routine of his classic models. In Liszt's orchestral works, however, the term "Symphonic Poem"—one of his own invention—is fully justified, i.e., they are symphonic in that they have organic unity, although this is not attained by preserving the classic number and arrangement of themes; and they are also poetic, being not a presentation of abstract tone patterns, but illustrative of some external idea which shapes the course of the music entirely to its own needs.[245] The distinguishing quality of the Symphonic Poem is its unbroken continuity. Although objective points are reached, and while there are broad lines of demarcation with reference to the varied moods of the poem to be illustrated, there are no rigid stops—everything is fused together into a continuous whole. Liszt was an advocate of persistent development, i.e., the music going out into space like a straight line instead of returning on itself. Inner evidence shows, however, that although he avoided many needless and conventional repetitions, he could not entirely throw overboard the cyclical law of restatement; for there is not one of his Symphonic Poems which does not repeat, at the end, thematic material already heard. Liszt carried the principle of theme transformation still further than Berlioz; and, as a German, tended to lay stress rather on the psychological aspects of character than on those outward theatric events which appeal to French taste. The difference is well shown by a comparison of the Damnation of Faust with Liszt's Faust Symphony, considered his most inspired orchestral work. Liszt must not be forgotten as a song-writer, especially for his settings to Goethe's poems; which, as Huneker says, are masterpieces and contain, in essence, all the dramatic lyricism of modern writers, Strauss included. In these songs the instrumental part is of special import; Liszt in pianistic treatment anticipating Hugo Wolf with his "Songs for Voice and Pianoforte," i.e., the voice and the instrument are treated as coequal factors.

The works of Liszt selected for analytical comment are the Symphonic Poem Orpheus, the Faust Symphony and the Pianoforte Étude, Waldesrauschen. The student, however, should become familiar with several others[246] of the Symphonic Poems, notably Tasso, Les Préludes and Mazeppa; with the Pianoforte Sonata in B minor in one movement, in which Liszt works on the same plan as Schumann in the Fourth Symphony; with the descriptive pianoforte pieces and études; and with the songs, of which Kennst du das Land, Die Lorelei and Du bist wie eine Blume are beautiful examples.

Symphonic Poem, Orpheus

In this work, as must always be the case in poetically suggestive music, the composer trusts to the general intelligence and insight of the listener. For a mere mention of the name Orpheus may well call up the vision of a majestic, godlike youth proclaiming his message of joy and peace to soften the unruly passions of men and animals.

It is said that Liszt's imagination was kindled by a beautiful representation of Orpheus playing on the lyre, which decorates an Etruscan vase in the Louvre. The aim of the music was thus to intensify and supplement the visual effect. The Poem begins with soft, sustained calls on the horns, creating a mood of expectancy, interspersed with modulatory arpeggios on the harp serving to complete the legendary picture. In these Symphonic Poems, we must always observe how closely the nature of the themes and the whole import of the music are involved with the orchestral dress. For Liszt, though not perhaps so brilliant and sensational as Berlioz, was equally a great master of orchestral coloring and poetic suggestion by means of appropriate instruments; often, too, more delicate and refined. In measure 15 begins for sustained strings the stately march which typifies the gradual approach of Orpheus. The second phrase of the march, beginning in measure 38, has received the compliment of being appropriated, almost literally, by Wagner in the second act of the Valkyrie for the march motive with which Wotan is ushered in. Some beautiful modulatory developments of the march theme, with which the original horn calls are united, lead to the impassioned theme in E major, sung by an English horn, which is the message of Orpheus to the sons of men, e.g.

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The theme is expanded by means of striking modulations until, in measure 102, it is presented by the full orchestra. Some rather meaningless repetitions, in detached phrases, of the Orpheus theme bring us, in measure 130, to a return of the original march which is finally proclaimed ff with great power and sonority. It seems to typify the triumphant justification of Orpheus's appearance. The dissonant modulations in the following passage, beginning measure 155, (in which the double basses take a dramatic part) have been thought by some to represent realistically the uncouth roars of forest monsters. These outcries finally subside and in the Coda, beginning at measure 180, we have first a beautiful reminiscence of Orpheus's message and then a last announcement of the march theme, which is now presented in the form of a long diminuendo, as if the God-like apparition were slowly withdrawing from our sight. A series of shifting modulations (adagio and pianissimo) seems to bring a cloud before our enraptured senses, and the work closes with a long sustained chord in C major, ppp, giving an elemental idea of peace and satisfaction. From the standpoint of musical structure the work is a crescendo followed by a diminuendo and, poetically considered, is a convincing picture in terms of music of the effect made upon Liszt's imagination by the legend of Orpheus. Observe that, although the composition is free in form, it is not formless.[247] The main lines are the familiar ones of statement, contrast and restatement, i.e., three-part form, and the key-relationship is clear and carefully planned.

The Faust Symphony

This work, although embodying Liszt's favorite ideas of dramatic characterization and transformation of theme as found in the Symphonic Poems, more nearly resembles the ordinary symphony in that it is in three distinct movements—with pauses between—which stand, respectively, for the three chief characters in Goethe's drama: Faust, Gretchen and Mephistopheles. In the Faust Symphony the principle of transformation or metamorphosis of themes is of such importance that it may be defined as their rhythmic, melodic and harmonic modification for the purpose of changing the meaning to correspond with a modification in the characters for which they stand. The first movement sets before us five themes illustrative of the most prominent traits in the complex nature of Faust; the three most important being (a) typical of brooding, speculative inquiry, (b) the longing of love, (c) the enthusiasm and chivalry of Faust, e.g.

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The development of these themes is entirely free, the musical texture being held together by a general application of the principle of contrast and by a logical key-scheme. The second movement has two main themes, e.g.

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which portray eloquently the sweetness and dreamy ecstacy of Gretchen's nature. In the course of this portrayal there appear several themes from the first movement showing, by their transformation, the effect upon the introspective Faust of the awakening influence of love. Thus the love theme appears as—

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and also later in this form—

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Towards the close of the movement there is a subtle reference to the chivalrous theme, as follows—

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Much of the appeal of the music depends upon the orchestration which throughout is of remarkable beauty.

In the final movement, entitled Mephistopheles, there are a few independent themes which portray the malign influence of the spirit of Evil—the movement is marked Allegro vivace ironico!—but most of the material is a transformation of the Faust themes which are here burlesqued, parodied; as if all the noble aspirations of Faust were being mocked and set at naught. This treatment is a perfectly logical result of the correspondence, for which Liszt was striving, between the music and the spirit of the underlying drama. As for the final impressiveness of his artistic message, the composer may well have felt that the effect would be indefinite without the specific meaning which words alone can give. For the style is very subjective throughout; that is, if the hearer is in a responsive condition, an effect is produced on his imagination—otherwise, not. To close the work, therefore, in the most moving and dignified manner, Liszt, with unerring instinct and following the precedent of Beethoven in the Ninth Symphony, introduces a chorus of men's voices—marked Andante Mistico—which intones the famous stanza "Alles Vergängliche"[248] at the close of the second part of Faust; while, above this chorus, a solo tenor proclaims the motto of the redeeming love of woman, "Das ewig Weibliche"—a sentiment so dear to the German[249] mind and one that plays such an important part in the music dramas of Wagner. A dramatic and musical connection between the movements is established by using, for this solo part, the melody (intensified by augmentation) which in the second movement typified the love and charm of Gretchen, e.g.

[[Listen]] [[MusicXML]]

Notwithstanding the ultra sensationalism in some of Liszt's works there is no doubt that, in the closing pages of Faust, he has produced an effect of genuine power and of inspired musical beauty.[250] Faust, in fact, may be called a great work because of the character of its leading melodies, its freedom of structure and expression and its wealth of appropriate orchestral color. For these merits we may overlook certain dreary passages where it would surely seem as if the imagination of the composer were not able to translate into tones all the phases of Goethe's stupendous drama.[251]

In a book such as this, chiefly concerned with broad principles of structure and style, it would be out of place to attempt a detailed account of Liszt's numerous and varied pianoforte compositions. But they can by no means be left out of consideration by anyone who wishes to gain a comprehensive estimate of his influence. For although the fundamental principles of pianoforte style, both in writing for the instrument and in playing upon it, are derived from Chopin and Schumann,[252] Liszt so amplified the work of these men and added so many novel features of his own in pianistic effect and especially in execution that he is rightly considered a genius of the instrument. He certainly brought out of the pianoforte a sonority and wealth of color which heretofore had been associated only with the orchestra. The chief groups of the pianoforte works are (1) the transcriptions of songs, notably of Schubert and Schumann, and of operas, particularly of Wagner. In this group should also be included the remarkable arrangement for solo-pianoforte of all the Beethoven Symphonies. (2) The Études, especially the set entitled "Études d'exécution transcendante"—a description which clearly shows the idea Liszt set before himself and indubitably attained; of this set the one in F minor is particularly fine. (3) The world-famed Hungarian Rhapsodies, fifteen in number, based on national melodies and rhythms. In these Liszt aspired to be the poet of his nation, and they are still among the most important manifestations of the national spirit so prominent in our modern music. Perhaps the most eloquent and celebrated are the 2d, the 12th and the 14th. Even if at times they are overencrusted with effects meant primarily for display, the rhythmic vitality and color of the melodies cannot be withstood.

Concert Étude, Waldesrauschen
(See Supplement No. 59)

This composition begins with a swaying, cantabile theme for the left hand very characteristic of Liszt, which stands out in relief against some beautifully placed arabesque figures in the upper register of the instrument—the whole to be played una corda, dolce con grazia. It really is a poetic picture, in terms of music, of the delicious murmur of the woods. In the 15th measure the theme is transferred to the right hand, in octaves, over sonorous, widely extended groups below. The theme is expanded through a series of striking modulations and then returns, in measure 30, to the left hand in a single melodic line. This middle portion, measures 30-50, is very beautiful in its genuine atmospheric treatment. Towards its close, however, Liszt's fondness for sensational effect rather runs away with him and there is a good deal, in measures 50-60 (marked martellato, strepitoso and fff), which is rather difficult to reconcile with the poetic subject. Perhaps a mighty wind is roaring through the trees! In measure 61 the theme is once more presented in amplified form by the right hand, più mosso and molto appassionata, and worked up to a brilliant climax—ending with an interlocking trill and a long, descending passage of delightful sensuous effect. The closing measures, una corda and dolcissimo, afford a reminiscence of the haunting appeal of the chief melody. All in all, in spite of a certain admixture of alloy, here is a poetic composition, a real tone-picture of the woods and of the effects implied by the title. Certainly a piece which, in its picturesque suggestiveness and pianistic treatment, may fairly be called the ancestor of much that is beautiful in such modern composers as Debussy and Ravel.

As a final estimate of Liszt and as a suggestion for the student's attitude we cite from Niecks the following quotation, since, in our opinion, it is true and forcibly expressed:

"Liszt's works are too full of originality and striking expressiveness to deserve permanently the neglect that has been their lot. Be, however, the ultimate fate of these works what it may, there will always remain to Liszt the fame of a daring striver, a fruitful originator and a wide-ranging quickener."

CHAPTER XVI

BRAHMS

AFTER the novel and brilliant work of the Romanticists had reached its height in the compositions just studied, it seemed as if there were nothing more for music to do. Wagner, with his special dramatic aims and gorgeous coloring, loomed so large on the horizon that for a time all other music was dwarfed. It is, therefore of real significance that just in this interregnum two men, born in the early years of the 19th century, were quietly laying the foundations for eloquent works in absolute or symphonic music. These men were Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) and César Franck (1822-1890). Following a few preliminary remarks about the significance of symphonic style in general, the next chapters will be devoted to an account of their works and influence.

A striking feature in the development of music since 1850 is the number of symphonies produced by the representative composers of the various nations; and the manner in which these works embody certain phases of style and manifest national tendencies is a subject of great interest. Ever since Beethoven, there has been a universal feeling that the symphony is the form in which a composer should express his highest thoughts. If Wagner and Richard Strauss seem to be exceptions, we must remember that their work for orchestra is thoroughly symphonic both in material and in scope. The difference is chiefly one of terms. Wagner claimed that he merely applied to dramatic purposes Beethoven's thematic development; and the tone-poems of Strauss are symphonies in essence though on a free poetic basis. Every composer has taken up the writing of a symphony with a serious purpose and often comparatively late in life. To be sure, Beethoven's first Symphony, op. 21, was composed in his thirtieth year; but for the works which manifest most strongly his personality, such as the Third, Fifth and Ninth, we have to wait until a later period. Schumann essayed symphonic composition only after his technique had been developed in every other field. Brahms's first Symphony, on which he is said to have worked ten years, is op. 68. César Franck looked forward to a Symphony as the climax of his career. The day has passed when a composer could dash off symphonies by the dozen; quality and genuine personality in each work are the modern requirements. Thus from Brahms we have four symphonies, from Tchaikowsky six, from Bruckner nine—a dangerously large number!—from Sibelius five, from Elgar two, from d'Indy three; and, even if a composer write but a single really inspired and noble symphony—as for example, César Franck—he is in so far immortal. For the symphonic form is the product of too much intense striving (think of Beethoven's agonies of conception!) to be treated lightly. Beginning with the operatic overture of Lully and Scarlatti, called "Sinfonia avanti l'opera," down through the labors of Stamitz, Gossec, Emmanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart, this form, as we know it to-day, is the result of at least a century and a half of sustained, constructive work. A musician who wishes to compose a symphony is brought face to face with the formidable question, "Have I a real message to utter and the technical skill to present it in communicable form?" There are no accessory appeals to the other senses in the way of a dramatic story, scenic effect, dancing and costumes—as in opera—to cloak poverty of invention and to mollify the judgment of the listener. I grant that the composition of an original opera is a high achievement, but we know how many composers have won success in the operatic field from whom we should never expect a symphony. From comparatively few have we great works in both forms. Consider, furthermore, how complicated a tool is the present orchestra, as a tool, to say nothing of the invention of ideas. Many years of study are required to attain a certainty of calculation in sonority and nuance, and the mere writing out the score of a symphony requires unremitting toil. We all pay homage to life: human life in men, women and children, and the life of nature in animals, birds, trees and flowers. Let us ever remember that the imagination also has its products and the themes of a symphony may certainly be considered its children. The public often seems to have slight idea of the sanctity and mystery of a musical idea. Composers are considered people with a kind of "knack" in writing down notes. In reality, a musical idea is as wonderful a thing as we can conceive—a miracle of life and yet intangible, ethereal. The composer apparently creates something out of nothing, pure fancy being wrought into terms of communication. Since the close of the Romantic period proper, the Symphonic composers of universal recognition have been Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy, Sibelius, Bruckner, Mahler, Dvořák, Elgar, and a few lesser men of the Russian and French schools. Their works carry still further the principles which can be traced from Beethoven down through the Romantic School, i.e., the chief themes are of a highly subjective nature, often in fact being treated like actual characters in a drama; and great freedom is shown in regard to mood and order of the usual symphonic movements—this being particularly true of Mahler and Bruckner. A distinct feature of interest in the work of Tchaikowsky, Dvořák and Sibelius is the introduction of exotic types of melody and rhythm, drawn from national sources. Thus Tchaikowsky, who said that he wished all his instrumental music to sound like a glorified Russian folk-song, uses rhythms of 5 and (in his chamber music) 7 beats a measure, with frequent touches of old modal harmony. Dvořák founds his harmony and modulations on the exceedingly chromatic scale of the Bohemians; and his piquant and dashing rhythms could come only from a nation which has no less than forty national dances. In listening to Sibelius, we are conscious of the wild sweep of the wind, of unchained forces of nature; and there are the same traits of virile strength and grim dignity which have made the Kalevala, Finland's national poem, one of the great epics of the world. Although Brahms never lets us forget that he is a Teuton, there are frequent traces in his compositions of the Hungarian element—so dear to all the Viennese composers—as well as of German folk-songs; and the most artistic treatment we have of Hungarian rhythms is found in his two sets of Hungarian dances.

It is manifestly beyond the scope of a single book to treat comprehensively each of the symphonists in the list just cited, so I shall dwell chiefly upon the characteristics of Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy as probably the greatest, and touch only incidentally upon the others, as of somewhat lesser import; though if anyone take issue with this preference in regard to Mahler and Bruckner I shall not combat him. For I believe Mahler to be a real genius; feeling, however, that his wonderful conceptions are sometimes not expressed in the most convincing manner. There is no doubt that Mahler has not yet received his bigger part in due valuation, but his time will surely come. As for Bruckner, we have from him some of the most elemental and powerful ideas in modern music—witness the dirge in the Seventh Symphony with its impressive scoring for trombones and Bayreuth tubas, a movement Beethoven might have signed; although with the virgin gold there is mixed, it must be confessed, a large amount of crude alloy, and there are dreary stretches of waste sand.

Johannes Brahms, like Beethoven, with whom his style has many affinities, was a North-German, born in 1833 in the historic seaport town of Hamburg.[253] Brahms came of lowly though respectable and intelligent parents, his father being a double-bass player in one of the theatre orchestras. That the positiveness of character, so conspicuous in his famous son, was an inherited trait may be seen from the following anecdote. The director of the theatre orchestra once asked father Brahms not to play so loud; whereupon he replied with dignity, "Herr Kapellmeister, this is my double-bass, I want you to understand, and I shall play it as loud as I please." The music of Brahms in its bracing vigor has been appropriately compared to a mixture of sea air and the timbre of this instrument.

Brahms's mother was a deeply religious woman who imbued her son with a seriousness of purpose which runs through all his work. From his earliest years he was trained for music, as a matter of course, and showed marked precocity as a pianist, though it soon became evident that he also was endowed with rare creative gifts. The young student made such progress under Marxsen, a famous teacher of the period, that at the age of fifteen he gave a public concert, on the program of which stood some original pieces of his own. The next few years were spent in diligent study and in the composition of some of his early works, of which the Scherzo op. 4 is the most significant. Brahms was extraordinarily precocious and during these formative years manifested a trait which is noticeable throughout his career—that of knowing exactly what end he had in view and of setting to work quickly and steadily to attain it. Finally in 1853, when he was twenty, he was invited to participate in the memorable concert-tour with the Hungarian Violinist Remenyi, which was the cause of his being brought before the public under the auspices of three such sponsors as Schumann, Liszt and Joachim. It seems that, at one of the concerts in a small town, the pianoforte was a semitone too low, whereupon young Brahms transposed at sight a difficult Beethoven Sonata into the requisite higher key. This remarkable feat of musicianship so impressed Joachim, who was in the audience, that he gave Brahms two letters of introduction—one to Liszt at Weimar and one to Schumann at Düsseldorf on the Rhine. Following up these letters, Brahms now spent six weeks at Weimar with Liszt, assimilating important points of method and style. Although the two natures were somewhat unsympathetic, Liszt was so impressed with the creative power and character of Brahms's first compositions, that he tried to adopt him as an adherent of the advanced school of modern music; while Brahms was led, as some would claim, through Liszt's influence to an appreciation of the artistic effects to be found in Hungarian music. Brahms's visit to Schumann in the autumn of 1853 was in its consequences a significant incident. After hearing Brahms's music, Schumann wrote for the "Neue Zeitschrift" an article entitled "Neue Bahnen" ("New Paths") in which the young composer was heralded as the master for whom the world had been waiting, the successor of Beethoven in the symphonic style. Through Schumann's influence, the publishers Breitkopf and Härtel at once brought out Brahms's first works, which were by no means received by the public with general favor; in fact they provoked as bitter discussion as those of Wagner, and made headway slowly. For four years—from 1854 to 1858—Brahms was in the service of the Prince of Lippe-Detmold, a small principality near Hanover, where the court was a quiet one, thus affording ample time for composition and private study. Brahms's strength of purpose and unusual power of self-criticism are shown by the way in which this period was spent. Although he had made a brilliant début, Brahms now imposed upon himself a course of rigorous technical training, appeared seldom before the public and published no compositions; his object being to free himself from a narrow subjectivity and to give scope to his wide human sympathies and to his passion for perfection of utterance. It seemed to him that a plausible originality might degenerate into mere idiosyncrasy, and that universality of appeal should be a musician's highest goal. When he resigned his post and came before the public with his first large work, a concerto for pianoforte and orchestra, the gain made in increased power and resources was evident. The greatest tribute which can be paid Brahms is that he has summed up and united the classic principles of clearness and solidity of workmanship with the warmth and spontaneity of the Romantic School. In 1862 Brahms settled in Vienna where, for thirty-five years, his career was entirely free from external incidents of note; his time spent in quiet steady work and in the attainment of artistic ideals. His slow logical development is like that of Beethoven, due to the fact that his works were far from numerous, but finished with the greatest care. The standard of creative quality is also very high; comparatively few of Brahms's works are not altogether alive. Matthew Arnold's beautiful lines on labor are applicable to Brahms. "Work which in lasting fruit outgrows far noisier schemes; accomplished in repose; too great for haste; too high for rivalry." Brahms thus described to Mr. Henschel, a former conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his ideals concerning composing: "There is no real creating without hard work; that which you call invention is simply an inspiration from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit of mine." And again, "Whether a composition is beautiful is one consideration, but perfect it must be." The few of his compositions which show connection with outward events are the Deutsches Requiem, his best-known choral work (in commemoration of his mother's death) and the Academic Overture, composed in place of the conventional thesis, when—in 1880—the University of Breslau conferred on him a doctor's degree. This Overture, based on several convivial student songs, is on the whole his most genial composition for orchestra and has won a deserved popularity the world over.[254] For sustained fancy his most beautiful work for chorus and orchestra is the Schicksalslied (Song of Destiny). Symphonic composition, as has been said, came in the latter part of Brahms's career, his first work in that form being op. 68. After that, within a few years, three other symphonies were composed. His last works include the significant pianoforte pieces called Intermezzi—not all equally inspired, but many representing the finest flower of Brahms's genius; four serious songs for bass voice, and one posthumous work, Eleven Choral Preludes for Organ. Brahms died in 1897 and lies buried in Vienna not far from Beethoven and Schubert.

From Brahms we have beautiful works in every branch of composition save the opera and symphonic poem. (He once said he would risk neither an opera nor getting married!) Very few of his works have titles, and in this respect he stood somewhat aloof from that strong tendency in modern times—the connection between music and poetic and literary sources of inspiration. But he had a right to choose his own line of effort; it is for us to become familiar with his works as they are. They comprise about two hundred songs, three pianoforte sonatas and many lesser pieces, two concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, a wonderfully fine violin concerto, four symphonies—each with a character of its own—and a large group of chamber compositions: string quartets, sonatas for violin and pianoforte, trios, and a number of works for unusual ensemble combinations—the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte being the best known.

As to the nature of Brahms's music the following comments are submitted for consideration. He was not a colorist or a stylist in the broad sense of those terms, i.e., color and style were not the prime ingredients in his music. There is light and shade in Brahms but seldom that rich and varied glow found, for example, in Rimsky-Korsakoff—that supreme master of orchestral coloring. As for style, it may be said that his work fulfils Matthew Arnold's definition of that desirable quality, "To have something to say and to say it in the most simple and direct manner possible." We sometimes feel, however, that he is thinking more of what he has to say than of outward eloquence of expression. But when there are so many composers[255] in whom there is far more style than substance, we should not carp at Brahms for the "stuff" in his work. The matter might be put in a nut-shell by saying that Brahms is Brahms; you accept him or leave him, as you see fit. The bulk of his music not only has stood the test of time but becomes more potent each year; surely this is the highest possible endorsement. He is rightly considered a great master of pure melodic line and a consummate architect, especially in the conciseness and concentration of certain compositions, e.g., the Third Symphony, and in his superb mastery of the Variation form which is the basis of some of his most famous works for orchestra and for pianoforte. His texture is of marked richness and variety; seldom do we find verbiage or lifeless padding. He has been called the Browning of music—a deep thinker in tones. Genuine appreciation of Brahms presupposes work on the part of the music-lover; and the recognition should be more general that the imaginative stimulation gained only through work is one of the blessings music has to bestow.

It is often alleged, indeed, that to enjoy Brahms one has to work. Of course, but what repaying work! This may be said equally of Shakespeare, of Dante, of Browning, of Bach and of every poet with a serious message. The vitality of Brahms's creative power, like that of Beethoven, is seen in his rhythm. He had a highly developed rhythmic sense, and in his fondness for syncopations, for contrasted accents and for complicated metric groups he is the logical successor of Schumann. One of his favorite devices is the altered grouping of the notes in a measure, so that there is a contrast between duple and triple rhythm, e.g., the following passage in the Second Symphony, where an effect of great vigor is produced.

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There are never in Brahms weak or conventional rhythms. He is also one of the great modern song-composers, representing with Strauss, Wolf and Mahler the culmination of the German Lied. In his songs there is a warmth and depth of sentiment as yet unsurpassed, and the accompaniment is always a highly wrought factor in the work. In estimating the value of Brahms's compositions as a whole, it is difficult to hold the balance true. Those to whom he is sympathetic through an affinity of temperament revere him as one of the great geniuses for all time, while to others his message is not of such convincing power. The effect of inborn temperament in the personal appeal made by any composer is vividly shown by the estimate which Tchaikowsky and Brahms had for one another. Each felt respect for the sincerity and artistic skill of his contemporary, at the same time regretfully acknowledging that the essence of the music meant little to him. To Tchaikowsky Brahms seemed cold and lacking in melodic spontaneity; to Brahms, on the other hand, Tchaikowsky seemed superficial, sensational. The gist of the matter is that Brahms was a Teuton and wrote with characteristic Teutonic reserve and dignity. Tchaikowsky, being a Slav, wrote with the impassioned lack of restraint and volatility of mood associated with that people. How could it be otherwise? Each was a genuine artist, expressing his natural feelings with clearness and conviction; and each should be respected for what he did: not one at the expense of the other. In Brahms, however, the question does arise of facility of expression versus worthiness of expression. He had an unparalleled technique in the manipulation of notes but whether there was always an emotional impulse behind what he wrote is debatable. For there are these two contrasting types in every art: works which come from the heart (remember Beethoven's significant inscription at the end of his Mass),[256] and those which come from the head. This brings us face to face with the perplexing question as to the essence of music. To some it is a record of intellectual activity tinged with emotion; to others, an emotional outpouring controlled by intellect. These two types of music will always exist, being the natural expression of the corresponding classes in human nature.

Brahms's music is sometimes called dry, but this is a misuse of terms. To draw an analogy from another sense, we might rejoin that the best champagne is "sec," all the superfluous, cloying sugar being removed. There is plenty of saccharine music in the world for those who like it. In Brahms, however, we find a potential energy and a manly tenderness which cannot be ignored even by those who are not profoundly thrilled by his message. He was a sincere idealist and composed to please his own high standards, never thinking of outward effect nor testing the pulse of the fickle public. As a man there is no doubt that he was warm-hearted and vigorous, but his was not the nature to come forward with captivating geniality. On the contrary he expects the hearer to come to him, and is too reserved to meet you more than half-way. That this austerity has proved a bar in the way of a wide-spread fame, while to be regretted, is unavoidable; remove these characteristics from Brahms and he ceases to be Brahms. Those, however, who may think that Brahms is always austere and grim, holding himself aloof from broad human emotion, should remember that he has done more than any other modern composer to idealize the Waltz; and, if the atmosphere of his symphonic style be too rarified, they may well begin their effort in appreciation with those charming Waltzes op. 39 (both for solo pianoforte and for a four-hand arrangement); the Hungarian Dances, and—most beautiful of all—the Liebeslieder Walzer for chorus and pianoforte (four-hands). Anyone who knows these works cannot fail to become a genuine lover of Brahms. To be of the earth and yet to strike the note of sublimity is a paradox. For, in Brahms at his best, we surely find more of the sublime, of true exalted aspiration, than in any other modern composer save César Franck. To strike this note of sublimity is the highest achievement of music—its proper function; a return, as it were, to the abode whence it came. Such music is far beyond that which is merely sensuous, brilliantly descriptive, or even dramatically characteristic. Much of present day music excites and thrills but does not exalt. Brahms, in his great moments, lifts us high above the earth. His universal acceptance is alike hindered by a deficiency which, though as natural as his reserve, may yet justly be cited against him—the occasional monotony of his color scheme. In the symphonies, notwithstanding the dignity and sincerity of thought, we find pages in the style of an engraving which would be more effective as a glowing canvas, e.g., in the slow movement of the Second Symphony and in the last two movements of the Fourth. Many consider, however, that Brahms's orchestral treatment is exactly suited to the seriousness of his ideas; so it comes down to a question of individual taste. That he had his own delicate feeling for color and sensuous effect is shown in many pages of the chamber music, especially in those works for unusual combinations, e.g., the Clarinet Quintet, and the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte. No one in modern times has used more eloquently that romantic instrument, the horn. See, for example, the Coda to the first movement of the D major Symphony and the slow movement of the Third Symphony. We must gratefully acknowledge the lasting quality of his music—without question it wears well. In fact, difficult though it be to comprehend at a first hearing, the more it is heard, the more it is enjoyed. Brahms's[257] music is steadily growing in popularity. His orchestral works and chamber music are applauded to-day, although twenty-five years ago they were received with apathy and scornful indifference.

As a representative work in each of the four fields in which Brahms created such masterpieces we have selected, for detailed analysis, the First Symphony, the Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte in A major, the Ballade in G minor and the Song, Meine Liebe ist grün wie der Fliederbusch. All four of Brahms's symphonies may justly be considered great, each in its own way. For Brahms is not a man with a single message and has not written one large symphony in different sections, as, in a broad sense, may be said of Tchaikowsky. The Second, on account of the spontaneity and direct appeal of its themes, is undoubtedly the most popular. It contains a first movement of a quasi-Mendelssohnian suavity and lyric charm; a slow movement which is a meditation of the profundity of Bach himself; a third movement, allegretto, based on a delightful waltz of the Viennese Ländler type and a Finale of a Mozartian freshness and vigor—the second theme being specially notable for its broad sweep. The whole work is a convincing example of Brahms's vitality and "joie de vivre." The Third symphony is a marvel of conciseness and virile life. The Fourth, though not in all respects so inspired as the others, is famous for its beautiful slow movement—with an impressive introduction in the Phrygian mode (Brahms often showing a marked fondness for old modal harmony)—and for the Finale, which is an illustration of his polyphonic skill in modernizing the variation form, the Passacaglia or ground bass. But the First,[258] it seems to us, is the greatest, in scope, in wealth of material, in its remarkable combination of dramatic, epic and lyric elements and in an intensity of feeling and sublimity of thought peculiar to Brahms. It is extremely subjective, of deep ethical value, and sets forth a message of optimism and undying hope. The structural basis is a motto, often recurring in the work, which (whatever it may mean) is evidently—like the theme of the C minor symphony—some fierce protest against fate. The symphony, as a whole, represents a triumphant progress from darkness to light; and this meaning is made evident by the ever-brightening mood of the successive movements, the tone of which is strengthened by the scheme of key-relationship—based on an ascending series of major thirds, e.g.

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The work is somewhat uneven—never weak—but at times a bit labored; as if the composer were consciously wrestling with great thoughts. This, however, is nothing against it, because equally true of large works in other fields of art, e.g., the Agamemnon of Aeschylus or Wagner's Tetralogy. It cannot be understood, much less appreciated, without close attention and earnest thought, for it presents the struggles and aspirations of mankind and is not meant solely to delight or entertain. When the hearer has made it his own it is a priceless possession for all time. The Prelude to the first movement, un poco sostenuto, is of impressive solemnity, developed from the motto, and based on the almost persistent iteration of the pedal notes C and G—the tonic and dominant. It proclaims that a serious meaning is to be revealed, and this meaning is accentuated by the orchestration which with its stratified grouping of melodic lines has a grim strength characteristic of Brahms.

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The first movement proper, Allegro, in complete sonata-form, begins with a ff announcement of the impassioned, chromatic motto, e.g.

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Note the cutting effect of the dissonant tones F-sharp and A-flat! From this motto grows the melodic part of the first theme in two balancing phrases, e.g.

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Then follow some stormy measures of dissonant chords and warring rhythms until the theme rages itself out, in measure 52. The transition begins with some sharp staccato chords, as if summoning to further attention. It gradually cools down through a series of beautiful modulations and, in measure 84, the second theme—introduced by calls on the horn and sung by the oboe—enters in the relative major key of E-flat. This also is based on the ascending, chromatic line of the motto; still further organic unity being gained by the bass, which has the same melodic figure as the second phrase of the first theme, e.g.

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Much of the previous fierceness, however, has abated and the remainder of the second theme is of a rare loveliness, with mysterious answering calls between oboes, clarinets and horns. The pp dominant ninth chords at the beginning of the closing portion (measures 120-122) give a positively shuddering effect and then the combat of clashing rhythms is renewed. The development begins with a series of shifting harmonies, at first ff and then pp—a lull before the storm—as if preparing the way for a still more terrific assault upon our emotions. It is tempestuous throughout; based at first on material taken from the preceding codetta and ending with an extended presentation of the motto over an iterated pedal note on the dominant, e.g.

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The fusion of the development with the recapitulation is skillfully handled, and the motto is proclaimed, beginning at measure 298, in a series of ascending strata, with overwhelming force. The third part, with slight abridgment and necessary adjustment of key-relationship, conforms exactly to the exposition. There is the same agitato closing portion as before, and then the Coda proper, beginning at measure 421, emphasizes with fiery accents the mood of storm and stress characteristic of the movement as a whole. After the fury has subsided, the dramatic motto asserts itself in the closing measures, poco sostenuto; the problem is still unsolved and the last C major chord is but a ray of light cast on troubled waters.

The second movement, andante sostenuto—in three-part form—begins with a tender melody expressing a mood of deep resignation and religious hope. No sooner has it started, however, than there creeps in the sinister motto, as if to remind us that life is undeniably stern and grim, e.g.

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In measure 17 there enters a closing theme, sung by the oboe, of ineffable beauty which is used in the third part as the climax of the movement. It surely seems to come from another world and is one of the most sublime melodies by Brahms or any one else. Its climax is impressively united with the main theme in the bass, e.g.

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The middle portion, beginning in measure 38, is a meditation—in dialogue form—for solo oboe and clarinet, worked up to an eloquent climax in the key of the relative minor, C-sharp. The third part, beginning measure 66, with the addition of some lovely modulatory changes, corresponds to part one; save that the melody is varied by Brahms's favorite device of three notes to a beat in one voice against two in another. Beginning in measure 90, the wondrous closing theme of the first part is sung by a solo violin, reinforced by oboe and horn. It is finally entrusted, in the home key, to the horn alone, above which the solo violin soars in ecstacy, e.g.

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Some diminuendo, descending passages lead to a reminiscent portion of the first theme and then, in measure 116, the grim motto enters, but this time without prevailing; for, in measures 122-124, it is finally exorcised and the movement closes with the seraphic calm of a soft, rich chord in E major, above which is heard a star-like note on the solo violin.

The third movement is an Allegretto; it being Brahms's custom in each[259] of his symphonies to substitute a movement of this type in place of the conventional Scherzo or Minuet. This movement clearly in three-part form, is thrown in to furnish relief after the emotional tension of the movement preceding. It has no obvious organic connection with the other movements, but is just the right thing in its surroundings, with a note of vitality which does much to brighten the scene and to prepare the way for the Finale. The opening theme in A-flat major is in two phrases of five measures each—a favorite rhythm with Brahms—given out by the clarinet over a pizzicato bass in the 'cellos. The melodic formation is unusual in that the latter phrase is an inversion of the first, e.g.

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After some descending passages in thirds and sixths—one of the characteristic[260] effects in Brahms's style—the theme is repeated in the violins with richer scoring. The descending passage returns and this time leads to the entrance of a subsidiary theme in F minor. In measures 50-51 occurs one of those cases of melodic germination which entitles Brahms to be called a genuine creative artist. The melody with its dashing, Hungarian zest sounds like something brand-new and yet is logically derived from the main theme by diminution, e.g.