present. Guntram kills Duke Robert, and immediately lets fall his sword.
The frenzied laugh of Zarathustra ends in an avowal of discouraged
impotence. The delirious passion of Don Juan dies away in nothingness.
Don Quixote when dying forswears his illusions. Even the Hero himself
admits the futility of his work, and seeks oblivion in an indifferent
Nature. Nietzsche, speaking of the artists of our time, laughs at "those
Tantaluses of the will, rebels and enemies of laws, who come, broken in
spirit, and fall at the foot of the cross of Christ." Whether it is for
the sake of the Cross or Nothingness, these heroes renounce their
victories in disgust and despair, or with a resignation that is sadder
still. It was not thus that Beethoven overcame his sorrows. Sad adagios
make their lament in the middle of his symphonies, but a note of joy and
triumph is always sounded at the end. His work is the triumph of a
conquered hero; that of Strauss is the defeat of a conquering hero. This
irresoluteness of the will can be still more clearly seen in
contemporary German literature, and in particular in the author of _Die
versunkene Glocke_. But it is more striking in Strauss, because he is
more heroic. And so we get all this display of superhuman will, and the
end is only "My desire is gone!"
In this lies the undying worm of German thought--I am speaking of the
thought of the choice few who enlighten the present and anticipate the
future. I see an heroic people, intoxicated by its triumphs, by its
great riches, by its numbers, by its force, which clasps the world in
its great arms and subjugates it, and then stops, fatigued by its
conquest, and asks: "Why have I conquered?"
HUGO WOLF
The more one learns of the history of great artists, the more one is
struck by the immense amount of sadness their lives enclose. Not only
are they subjected to the trials and disappointments of ordinary
life--which affect them more cruelly through their greater
sensitiveness--but their surroundings are like a desert, because they
are twenty, thirty, fifty, or even hundreds of years in advance of their
contemporaries; and they are often condemned to despairing efforts, not
to conquer the world, but to live.
These highly-strung natures are rarely able to keep up this incessant
struggle for very long; and the finest genius may have to reckon with
illness and misery and even premature death. And yet there were people
like Mozart and Schumann and Weber who were happy in spite of
everything, because they had been able to keep their soul's health and
the joy of creation until the end; and though their bodies were worn out
with fatigue and privation, a light was kept burning which sent its rays
far into the darkness of their night. There are worse destinies; and
Beethoven, though he was poor, shut up within himself, and deceived in
his affections, was far from being the most unhappy of men. In his case,
he possessed nothing but himself; but he possessed himself truly, and
reigned over the world that was within him; and no other empire could
ever be compared with that of his vast imagination, which stretched like
a great expanse of sky, where tempests raged. Until his last day the old
Prometheus in him, though fettered by a miserable body, preserved his
iron force unbroken. When dying during a storm, his last gesture was one
of revolt; and in his agony he raised himself on his bed and shook his
fist at the sky. And so he fell, struck down by a single blow in the
thick of the fight.
But what shall be said of those who die little by little, who outlive
themselves, and watch the slow decay of their souls?
Such was the fate of Hugo Wolf, whose tragic destiny has assured him a
place apart in the hell of great musicians.[183]
[Footnote 183: A large number of works on Hugo Wolf have been published
in Germany since his death. The chief is the great biography of Herr
Ernst Decsey--_Hugo Wolf_ (Berlin, 1903-4). I have found this book of
great service; it is a work full of knowledge and sympathy. I have also
consulted Herr Paul Müller's excellent little pamphlet, _Hugo Wolf
(Moderne essays_, Berlin, 1904), and the collections of Wolf's letters,
in particular his letters to Oskar Grohe, Emil Kaufmann, and Hugo
Faisst.]
* * * * *
He was born at Windischgratz in Styria, 13 March, 1860. He was the
fourth son of a currier--a currier-musician, like old Veit Bach, the
baker-musician, and Haydn's father, the wheelwright-musician. Philipp
Wolf played the violin, the guitar, and the piano, and used to have
little quintet parties at his house, in which he played the first
violin, Hugo the second violin, Hugo's brother the violoncello, an uncle
the horn, and a friend the tenor violin. The musical taste of the
country was not properly German. Wolf was a Catholic; and his taste was
not formed, like that of most German musicians, by books of chorales.
Besides that, in Styria they were fond of playing the old Italian operas
of Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti. Later on, Wolf used to like to think
that he had a few drops of Latin blood in his veins; and all his life he
had a predilection for the great French musicians.
His term of apprenticeship was not marked by anything brilliant. He went
from one school to another without being kept long anywhere. And yet he
was not a worthless lad; but he was always very reserved, little caring
to be intimate with others, and passionately devoted to music. His
father naturally did not want him to take up music as a profession; and
he had the same struggles that Berlioz had. Finally he succeeded in
getting permission from his family to go to Vienna, and he entered the
Conservatoire there in 1875. But he was not any the happier for it, and
at the end of two years he was sent away for being unruly.
What was to be done? His family was ruined, for a fire had demolished
their little possessions. He felt the silent reproaches of his father
already weighing upon him--for he loved his father dearly, and
remembered the sacrifices he had made for him. He did not wish to return
to his own province; indeed he could not return--that would have been
death. It was necessary that this boy of seventeen should find some
means of earning a livelihood and be able to instruct himself at the
same time. After his expulsion from the Conservatoire he attended no
other school; he taught himself. And he taught himself wonderfully; but
at what a cost! The suffering he went through from that time until he
was thirty, the enormous amount of energy he had to expend in order to
live and cultivate the fine spirit of poetry that was within him--all
this effort and toil was, without doubt, the cause of his unhappy death.
He had a burning thirst for knowledge and a fever for work which made
him sometimes forget the necessity for eating and drinking.
He had a great admiration for Goethe, and was infatuated by Heinrich von
Kleist, whom he rather resembles both in his gifts and in his life; he
was an enthusiast about Grillparzer and Hebbel at a time when they were
but little appreciated; and he was one of the first Germans to discover
the worth of Mörike, whom, later on, he made popular in Germany. Besides
this, he read English and French writers. He liked Rabelais, and was
very partial to Claude Tillier, the French novelist of the provinces,
whose _Oncle Benjamin_ has given pleasure to so many German provincial
families, by bringing before them, as Wolf said, the vision of their own
little world, and helping them by his own jovial good humour to bear
their troubles with a smiling face. And so little Wolf, with hardly
enough to eat, found the means of learning both French and English, in
order better to appreciate the thoughts of foreign artists.
In music he learned a great deal from his friend Schalk,[184] a
professor at the Vienna Conservatoire; but, like Berlioz, he got most of
his education from the libraries, and spent months in reading the scores
of the great masters. Not having a piano, he used to carry Beethoven's
sonatas to the Prater Park in Vienna and study them on a bench in the
open air. He soaked himself in the classics--in Bach and Beethoven, and
the German masters of the _Lied_--Schubert and Schumann. He was one of
the young Germans who was passionately fond of Berlioz; and it is due to
Wolf that France was afterwards honoured in the possession of this great
artist, whom French critics, whether of the school of Meyerbeer, Wagner,
Franck, or Debussy, have never understood. He was also early a friend of
old Anton Bruckner, whose music we do not know in France, neither his
eight symphonies, nor his _Te Deum_, nor his masses, nor his cantatas,
nor anything else of his fertile work. Bruckner had a sweet and modest
character, and an endearing, if rather childish, personality. He was
rather crushed all his life by the Brahms party; but, like Franck in
France, he gathered round him new and original talent to fight the
academic art of his time.
[Footnote 184: Joseph Schalk was one of the founders of the
_Wagner-Verein_ at Vienna, and devoted his life to propagating the cult
of Bruckner (who called him his "_Herr Generalissimus_ "), and to
fighting for Wolf.]
But of all these influences, the strongest was that of Wagner. Wagner
came to Vienna in 1875 to conduct _Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_. There
was then among the younger people a fever of enthusiasm similar to that
which _Werther_ had caused a century before. Wolf saw Wagner. He tells
us about it in his letters to his parents. I will quote his own words,
and though they make one smile, one loves the impulsive devotion of his
youth; and they make one feel, too, that a man who inspires such an
affection, and who can do so much good by a little sympathy, is to blame
when he does not befriend others--above all if he has suffered, like
Wagner, from loneliness and the want of a helping hand. You must
remember that this letter was written by a boy of fifteen.
"I have been to--guess whom?... to the master, Richard Wagner! Now
I will tell you all about it, just as it happened. I will copy the
words down exactly as I wrote them in my note-book.
"On Thursday, 9 December, at half-past ten, I saw Richard Wagner
for the second time at the Hotel Imperial, where I stayed for half
an hour on the staircase, awaiting his arrival (I knew that on that
day he would conduct the last rehearsal of his _Lohengrin_). At
last the master came down from the second floor, and I bowed to him
very respectfully while he was yet some distance from me. He
thanked me in a very friendly way. As he neared the door I sprang
forward and opened it for him, upon which he looked fixedly at me
for a few seconds, and then went on his way to the rehearsal at
the Opera. I ran as fast as I could, and arrived at the Opera
sooner than Richard Wagner did in his cab. I bowed to him again,
and I wanted to open the door of his cab for him; but as I could
not get it open, the coachman jumped down from his seat and did it
for me. Wagner said something to the coachman--I think it was about
me. I wanted to follow him into the theatre, but they would not let
me pass.
"I often used to wait for him at the Hotel Imperial; and on this
occasion I made the acquaintance of the manager of the hotel, who
promised that he would interest himself on my behalf. Who was more
delighted than I when he told me that on the following Saturday
afternoon, 11 December, I was to come and find him, so that he
could introduce me to Mme. Cosima's maid and Richard Wagner's
valet! I arrived at the appointed hour. The visit to the lady's
maid was very short. I was advised to come the following day,
Sunday, 12 December, at two o'clock. I arrived at the right hour,
but found the maid and the valet and the manager still at table....
Then I went with the maid to the master's rooms, where I waited for
about a quarter of an hour until he came. At last Wagner appeared
in company with Cosima and Goldmark. I bowed to Cosima very
respectfully, but she evidently did not think it worth while to
honour me with a single glance. Wagner was going into his room
without paying any attention to me, when the maid said to him in a
beseeching voice: 'Ah, Herr Wagner, it is a young musician who
wishes to speak to you; he has been waiting for you a long time.'
"He then came out of his room, looked at me, and said: 'I have seen
you before, I think. You are....'
"Probably he wanted to say, 'You are a fool.'
"He went in front of me and opened the door of the reception-room,
which was furnished in a truly royal style. In the middle of the
room was a couch covered in velvet and silk. Wagner himself was
wrapped in a long velvet mantle bordered with fur.
"When I was inside the room he asked me what I wanted."
Here Hugo Wolf, to excite the curiosity of his parents, broke off his
story and put "To be continued in my next." In his next letter he
continues:
"I said to him: 'Highly honoured master, for a long time I have
wanted to hear an opinion on my compositions, and it would be....'
"Here the master interrupted me and said: 'My dear child, I cannot
give you an opinion of your compositions; I have far too little
time; I can't even get my own letters written. I understand nothing
at all about music _(Ich verstehe gar nichts von der Musik_).'
"I asked the master whether I should ever be able really to do
anything, and he said to me: 'When I was your age and composing
music, no one could tell me then whether I should ever do anything
great. You could at most play me your compositions on the piano;
but I have no time to hear them. When you are older, and when you
have composed bigger works, and if by chance I return to Vienna,
you shall show me what you have done. But that is no use now; I
cannot give you an opinion of them yet.'
"When I told the master that I took the classics as models, he
said: 'Good, good. One can't be original at first.' And he laughed,
and then said, 'I wish you, dear friend, much happiness in your
career. Go on working steadily, and if I come back to Vienna, show
me your compositions.'
"Upon that I left the master, profoundly moved and impressed."
Wolf and Wagner did not see each other again. But Wolf fought
unceasingly on Wagner's behalf. He went several times to Bayreuth,
though he had no personal intercourse with the Wagner family; but he met
Liszt, who, with his usual goodness, wrote him a kind letter about a
composition that he had sent him, and showed him what alterations to
make in it.
Mottl and the composer, Adalbert de Goldschmidt, were the first friends
to aid him in his years of misery, by finding him some music pupils. He
taught music to little children of seven and eight years old; but he was
a poor teacher, and found giving lessons was a martyrdom. The money he
earned hardly served to feed him, and he only ate once a day--Heaven
knows how. To comfort himself he read Hebbel's Life; and for a time he
thought of going to America. In 1881 Goldschmidt got him the post of
second _Kapellmeister_ at the Salzburg theatre. It was his business to
rehearse the choruses for the operettas of Strauss and Millöcker. He did
his work conscientiously, but in deadly weariness; and he lacked the
necessary power of making his authority felt. He did not stay long in
this post, and came back to Vienna.
Since 1875 he had been writing music: _Lieder_, sonatas, symphonies,
quartets, etc., and already his _Lieder_ held the most important place.
He also composed in 1883 a symphonic poem on the _Penthesilea_ of his
friend Kleist.
In 1884 he succeeded in getting a post as musical critic. But on what a
paper! It was the _Salonblatt_--a mundane journal filled with articles
on sport and fashion news. One would have said that this little
barbarian was put there for a wager. His articles from 1884 to 1887 are
full of life and humour. He upholds the great classic masters in them:
Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, and--Wagner; he defends Berlioz; he scourges
the modern Italians, whose success at Vienna was simply scandalous; he
breaks lances for Bruckner, and begins a bold campaign against Brahms.
It was not that he disliked or had any prejudice against Brahms; he took
a delight in some of his works, especially his chamber music, but he
found fault with his symphonies and was shocked by the carelessness of
the declamation in his _Lieder_ and, in general, could not bear his want
of originality and power, and found him lacking in joy and fulness of
life. Above all, he struck at him as being the head of a party that was
spitefully opposed to Wagner and Bruckner and all innovators. For all
that was retrograde in music in Vienna, and all that was the enemy of
liberty and progress in art and criticism, was giving Brahms its
detestable support by gathering itself about him and spreading his fame
abroad; and though Brahms was really far above his party as an artist
and a man, he had not the courage to break away from it.
Brahms read Wolf's articles, but his attacks did not seem to stir his
apathy. The "Brahmines," however, never forgave Wolf. One of his
bitterest enemies was Hans von Bülow, who found anti-Brahmism "the
blasphemy against the Holy Ghost--which shall not be forgiven."[185]
Some years later, when Wolf succeeded in getting his own compositions
played, he had to submit to criticisms like that of Max Kalbeck, one of
the leaders of "Brahmism" at Vienna:
"Herr Wolf has lately, as a reporter, raised an irresistible laugh
in musical circles. So someone suggested he had better devote
himself to composition. The last products of his muse show that
this well-meant advice was bad. He ought to go back to reporting."
[Footnote 185: Letter of H. von Bülow to Detlev von Liliencron.]
An orchestral society in Vienna gave Wolf's _Penthesilea_ a trial
reading; and it was rehearsed, in disregard of all good taste, amid
shouts of laughter. When it was finished, the conductor said:
"Gentlemen, I ask your pardon for having allowed this piece to be played
to the end; but I wanted to know what manner of man it is that dares to
write such things about the master, Brahms."
Wolf got a little respite from his miseries by going to stay a few weeks
in his own country with his brother-in-law, Strasser, an inspector of
taxes.[186] He took with him his books, his poets, and began to set them
to music.
[Footnote 186: Wolf's letters to Strasser are of great value in giving
us an insight into his artist's eager and unhappy soul.]
* * * * *
He was now twenty-seven years old, and had as yet published nothing. The
years of 1887 and 1888 were the most critical ones of his life. In 1887
he lost his father whom he loved so much, and that loss, like so many of
his other misfortunes, gave fresh impulse to his energies. The same
year, a generous friend called Eckstein published his first collection
of _Lieder_. Wolf up to that time had been smothered, but this
publication stirred the life in him, and was the means of unloosing his
genius. Settled at Perchtoldsdorf, near Vienna, in February, 1888, in
absolute peace, he wrote in three months fifty-three _Lieder_ to the
words of Eduard Mörike, the pastor-poet of Swabia, who died in 1875, and
who, misunderstood and laughed at during his lifetime, is now covered
with honour, and universally popular in Germany. Wolf composed his
songs in a state of exalted joy and almost fright at the sudden
discovery of his creative power.
In a letter to Dr. Heinrich Werner, he says:
"It is now seven o'clock in the evening, and I am so happy--oh,
happier than the happiest of kings. Another new _Lied_! If you
could hear what is going on in my heart!... the devil would carry
you away with pleasure!...
"Another two new _Lieder_! There is one that sounds so horribly
strange that it frightens me. There is nothing like it in
existence. Heaven help the unfortunate people who will one day hear
it!...
"If you could only hear the last _Lied_ I have just composed you
would only have one desire left--to die.... Your happy, happy
Wolf."
He had hardly finished the _Mörike-Lieder_ when he began a series of
_Lieder_ on poems of Goethe. In three months (December, 1888, to
February, 1889) he had written all the _Goethe-Liederbuch_--fifty-one
_Lieder_, some of which are, like _Prometheus_, big dramatic scenes.
The same year, while still at Perchtoldsdorf, after having published a
volume of Eichendorff _Lieder_, he became absorbed in a new cycle--the
_Spanisches-Liederbuch_, on Spanish poems translated by Heyse. He wrote
these forty-four songs in the same ecstasy of gladness:
"What I write now, I write for the future.... Since Schubert and
Schumann there has been nothing like it!"
In 1890, two months after he had finished the _Spanisches-Liederbuch_,
he composed another cycle of _Lieder_ on poems called _Alten Weisen_, by
the great Swiss writer Gottfried Keller. And lastly, in the same year,
he began his _Italienisches-Liederbuch_, on Italian poems, translated by
Geibel and Heyse.
And then--then there was silence.
* * * * *
The history of Wolf is one of the most extraordinary in the history of
art, and gives one a better glimpse of the mysteries of genius than most
histories do.
Let us make a little _résumé_. Wolf at twenty-eight years old had
written practically nothing. From 1888 to 1890 he wrote, one after
another, in a kind of fever, fifty-three Mörike _Lieder_, fifty-one
Goethe _Lieder_, forty-four Spanish _Lieder_, seventeen Eichendorff
_Lieder_, a dozen Keller _Lieder_, and the first Italian _Lieder_--that
is about two hundred _Lieder_, each one having its own admirable
individuality.
And then the music stops. The spring has dried up. Wolf in great anguish
wrote despairing letters to his friends. To Oskar Grohe, on 2 May, 1891,
he wrote:
"I have given up all idea of composing. Heaven knows how things
will finish. Pray for my poor soul."
And to Wette, on 13 August, 1891, he says:
"For the last four months I have been suffering from a sort of
mental consumption, which makes me very seriously think of quitting
this world for ever.... Only those who truly live should live at
all. I have been for some time like one who is dead. I only wish it
were an apparent death; but I am really dead and buried; though the
power to control my body gives me a seeming life. It is my inmost,
my only desire, that the flesh may quickly follow the spirit that
has already passed. For the last fifteen days I have been living at
Traunkirchen, the pearl of Traunsee.... All the comforts that a man
could wish for are here to make my life happy--peace, solitude,
beautiful scenery, invigorating air, and everything that could suit
the tastes of a hermit like myself.[187] And yet--and yet, my
friend, I am the most miserable creature on earth. Everything
around me breathes peace and happiness, everything throbs with life
and fulfils its functions.... I alone, oh God!... I alone live like
a beast that is deaf and senseless. Even reading hardly serves to
distract me now, though I bury myself in books in my despair. As
for composition, that is finished; I can no longer bring to mind
the meaning of a harmony or a melody, and I almost begin to doubt
if the compositions that bear my name are really mine. Good God!
what is the use of all this fame? What is the good of these great
aims if misery is all that lies at the end of it?...
"_Heaven gives a man complete genius or no genius at all. Hell has
given me everything by halves_.
"O unhappy man, how true, how true it is! In the flower of your
life you went to hell; into the evil jaws of destiny you threw the
delusive present and yourself with it. O Kleist!"
[Footnote 187: Wolf was living there with a friend. He had not a lodging
of his own until 1896, and that was due to the generosity of his
friends.]
Suddenly, at Döbling, on 29 November, 1891, the stream of Wolf's genius
flowed again, and he wrote fifteen Italian _Lieder_, sometimes several
in one day. In December it stopped again; and this time for five years.
These Italian melodies show, however, no trace of any effort, nor a
greater tension of mind than is shown in his preceding works. On the
contrary, they have the air of being the simplest and most natural work
that Wolf ever did. But the matter is of no real consequence, for when
Wolf's genius was not stirring within him he was useless. He wished to
write thirty-three Italian _Lieder_, but he had to stop after the
twenty-second, and in 1891 he published one volume only of the
_Italienisches-Liederbuch_. The second volume was completed in a month,
five years later, in 1896.