object to write separate movements in different keys, which he often
connects by direct transitions. The third Sonata in the “Kenner und
Liebhaber” stands in the first movement in B minor, in the second in G
minor, and in the third in B minor once more. The fifth Sonata, which
is set in F major, begins quietly with a phrase in C minor. In the
first Rondo of volume V. we find the chord of the seventh (G, E, B, C
sharp), set at the key-deciding place, _in B minor_; a chord at which
some of our best memories of Wagner are revived. For such things he
was severely censured by his comrades in the profession.
As to his melody, it is as delightful as is to be expected from
“galant” music, and from that only. At one time it shows a charming
sentimentalism, in which the stronger use of retardations has its
share, now it is frisky and playful, toying with itself; in both
cases anticipating Mozart. Specially characteristic of the author are
numerous melodic phrases, the like of which have played an important
part down to our own time. Philip Emanuel used them with the greatest
depth and penetration in the F sharp minor movement of the A major
sonata (No. IV. in Kenner und Liebhaber, vol. i). In all these points
he manifests his independence; and in spite of his study of the
French, it is but seldom that, as in the “Siciliana” of one of his
sonatas in the “Musikalisches Allerley,” we catch an echo of a phrase
from Couperin.
Like all the “galants,” he wrote much. A considerable number of his
works were printed in his own time in the magazines or separately.
Among these the sonatas to Frederick the Great to Charles Eugene of
Württemberg, to Amalie of Prussia, and the “Kenner und Liebhaber,”
take the first place. But yet more remained unprinted. Prosniz has
counted four hundred and twenty of his clavier pieces, of which two
hundred and fifty were printed. There is no modern comprehensive
edition of his works, but the “Kenner und Liebhaber” has been very
beautifully reissued by Krebs in the Berlin Academy collection of
original editions. Apart from the first volume these are written
exclusively for pianoforte.
The name of Philip Emanuel generally rises to our lips when we speak
of the origins of the modern forms of chamber-music and symphony.
This is correct enough if we are content to establish his claims as
an agent in the crystallisation of the two main forms of classical
composition--the Sonata and the Rondo. But the creator of these forms
he was not; he found them very far advanced in France and Italy, and
on the other hand he handles them so freely that their regulation
cannot be said to have been completed till the days of Haydn and
Mozart. Thus he is in these points also but an intermediary.
The strict sonata introduces first a main subject, then in an allied
key an allied subject; next the middle section[105] in which these
subjects are developed and completed; and lastly it repeats the
exposition, transposing the subordinate subject, however, with a view
to the finale, into the main key.
In the Rondo, on the contrary, there is _one_ main theme and many
subordinate motives. The main theme is chiefly melodious; the
by-themes alternate in all kinds of forms among the repetitions of the
melodic strophe.
To the Sonata and the Rondo all older dance and fantasia forms
gradually gravitated. The Sonata is the more dramatic, the Rondo the
more lyrical. The Rondo, considered as to logical content, is the
more organic; but advance and climax are wanting to it. The Sonata
on the other hand, is, because of its _reprises_, less intellectual
than architectural; but it has the sobriety of greatness. Usually, in
thinking of the forms of this musical age, our thoughts dwell on the
Sonata--in which form as a rule the first movement was cast. But the
Rondo was equally important, and is equally often used in the second
or last movement. Purer dance-forms were always in use as intermezzos
between the movements.
[Illustration: Mary Coswey with the Orphica, a portable clavier, which
at the beginning of this century had a certain vogue.]
In Philip Emanuel, then, we see a preference for the types of the
sonata and the rondo which prepares the way for their sole supremacy.
He only needed to proceed eclectically. Not only the French Rondo but
the Italian Sonata had led to the _reprise_ form. Philip Emanuel did
not advance far beyond these models. A second theme is not universal
in his works; and only the modulation of the keys within the first
half, to the dominant or relative major, is strongly stamped on them.
The Sonata movement with him still admits of all _tempi_. In the
third of the “Kenner und Liebhaber” Sonatas the peculiar sonata-form
is not on the whole adhered to, but allegretto, andante, cantabile,
follow each other in free fashion. On the other hand, in the following
piece, the first and the last movements both show the sonata-form; but
in the first of the “Württembergers” only the last movement has the
stricter sonata-style. The third sonata of Volume II. of the “Kenner
und Liebhaber” is actually written in a single movement. On the other
hand the second Württemberger begins with a genuine sonata with double
subject; and in the Kenner und Liebhaber, Vol. III. No. 2, the type of
the modern sonata appears in full development. We see then from these
examples that while Philip Emanuel uses the _reprise_ of the first
part almost universally, he is yet far removed from the classical
model of the sonata. In a word, we shall find in him nothing that is
not already to be found in Rameau, Scarlatti, or above all, his great
father.
The Rondo was more in accordance with his genius. Here, where he had
fully developed French models, it cannot be denied that with all
his freedom in detail he has brought the form appreciably nearer
to the classic type. Even Beethoven was often unable to improve on
his alternations of intermediate movements, or the grace with which
he returns to the air and makes his theme gently rock to and fro.
He loves those simple popular rondo airs, which, as we listen, we
all seem to have heard before. As couplets[106] he prefers to use
technically brilliant figures, which in their turn offer a good
contrast to the air. He is untiring in toying with the theme. He
makes it now break off in the middle, now become sentimental; now it
becomes questioning. As time goes on he develops his whole power of
expression, so that he is far removed from a stiff alternation of
theme with couplet. In a fantasia (K. and L. v.; last piece), which
is perhaps his most charming composition, he blends the rondo-form
most skilfully with the free style of an improvisation, and thus
shows himself on his best side. Hardly less delightful is the last
piece in Volume VI., a Fantasia-Rondo whose main theme is a kind
of hunting-call. In this movement the hunt is interrupted by a
beautiful romantic _andante_, then by emotional reveries in _larghetto
sostenuto_, and in the conclusion the reflective style gains the upper
hand.
The Rondo was so attractive to him because by its means he was able
the more easily to bring his beloved “affettuoso” into expression.
And his inner genius was not so much formal as lyrical. In his music
there is even to-day a strong spiritual charm, to which the slight
archaism adds a pleasant flavour. In his Rondos he comes very near
to us, and not less in those little characteristic pieces which,
written in dance-form, followed French models in the very style of
the inscriptions. He uses for titles proper names, such as Hermann,
Buchholz, Böhmer, Stahl; and such more general appellations as La
Xenophone, La Sibylle, La Complaisante, La Capricieuse, L’Irrésolue,
La Journalière, and Les Langueurs Tendres--names, it will be
remembered, used also by Couperin. La Sibylle has a wonderfully
beautiful melody; and Les Langueurs Tendres is such an unsurpassable
air in two mournful voices, that it bears endless repetition. Nothing
has ever been written to surpass this tender clavichord-sadness.
The great counterpoint of Bach is now forgotten with extraordinary
rapidity. The ancestor of the following generation is Philip Emanuel.
Wherever we look, to the London Bach, Johann Christian, to the
Austrians--anywhere--we find the work influenced by his style. “He is
the father and we the boys,” said Mozart.
[Illustration: Joseph Haydn. Engraved by Quenedey.]
Haydn knew well what he owed to Philip Emanuel, and was as little
chary to acknowledge it as Mozart. In actual essentials Haydn made
no advance in clavier-music. The stream is perhaps a little clouded,
and it is not till Mozart’s time that it again becomes clear. Haydn’s
genius lay in composing for the orchestra, not for the piano. He
has of course written clavier sonatas--they number thirty-five--and
other pieces in which the clavier takes part; as numerous and light
as the works of all these “galant” musicians. But his trios are to
be preferred to the sonatas for piano only; there is more depth in
them; and the ideas are lit up more brightly by the instrumental
combination. Only in the sonatas after 1790, as in the first in E flat
major (Br. and H.) does something more noteworthy emerge--but by that
time Haydn had studied Mozart.
Still further, in his pieces, Haydn is no great virtuoso. In his
Trios he knows well how to make the most of the character of the
clavier, by contrasting it with the strings, by means of arpeggios,
all kinds of passages, full chords, and the beloved octave-melodies.
But a more interesting virtuoso performance, such as that in the F
minor variations, appears very rarely. The ornamental work is still
extensive, but within limits; and much of it is written out in full,
just as the cadenzas, which used to appear in small notes, are now
preferably printed in the usual type. At the end of the century
everything was taken away from the caprice of the player, except the
great cadenzas at the conclusion of the concerto-movements. Philip
Emanuel had taken a last important step, when, in his Sonata dedicated
to the Prussian Princess Amalie, he wrote out exactly for the second
time the ornamentations and alterations in the frequent repetitions of
musical phrases of a few bars, instead of leaving them to the pleasure
of the players. To judge by his preface, caprice in these matters
must have flourished like a green bay-tree; and he takes great credit
to himself for having been the first to offer accurately formulated
“alternative _reprises_,” which run no risk of spoiling the whole aim
and meaning of the piece. His point of view is interesting. It is, he
says, not possible to avoid altering a musical phrase in repeating it.
This conception is endorsed by all his contemporaries and successors
in style, in their works: Haydn and Mozart cannot be conceived apart
from this mannerism of altering a musical idea in repetition by
slight turns and adornments. This method is the fixed law of movement
of their musical ideas, and dictates their progress through long
stretches in advance. Deep founded in the general delight in variation
so characteristic of the time, it enables us to understand that
great development which forms a whole branch of musical history--the
development, namely, of improvised “manieren” into strict and firm
melodies.
As far as _form_ is concerned, the work already begun is continued
by Haydn. The Sonata-form tends to limit itself more and more to
the first movement; more and more clearly does the “second theme”
crystallise itself; slow-drawn movements are preferred more and
more in the second place, and graceful rondo-like movements in the
third--without, however, any appearance of compulsion. The only relic
of the traditional “suite” of dances, which Haydn retains in his
sonatas or symphonies, is the “Minuet” which he is so fond of using as
an intermezzo.[107] The old dance-forms, _as_ dances, were so speedily
forgotten, that in a certain trio a delicate slow waltz is marked as
“allemande”--whereas the old allemande is not even written in the time
of a waltz, apart from the difference in style.[108]
[Illustration: W. A. Mozart. Engraved in 1793 by C. Kohl (1754-1807).]
Haydn received more from the clavier than he gave to it. He
transferred to the orchestra the clavier-forms of the time, and thus
pointed out to it the path to the symphony. Without doubt the modern
symphony, in the first instance, is to be traced to the clavier
pieces of Philip Emanuel Bach; and Haydn, to whom fell the task of
the intermediary, was the first to put the rich development of this
chamber-music to practical use. Clavier and orchestra always advance
in mutual rivalry, treading on each other’s heels. In Haydn it was
the clavier that aided the orchestra; in Beethoven the orchestra aided
the clavier; Mozart, standing between, gives to each its own.
Thus it is that Mozart has given much, and much of its special
character, to the clavier. This equilibrium--and Mozart is always
the very personification of equilibrium--is most striking in his
piano-concertos, which justly enjoy the renown of having created an
epoch in this class. Especially remarkable is the C minor concerto,
in which the piano experienced one of its chief emancipations. On one
side stood the orchestra, on the other the instrument, and yet neither
of these two great rivals loses anything of its essential nature;
rather, they owe to this very rivalry many of their best effects.
When clavier and orchestra address and answer each other; when the
clavier intertwines itself with the strings and the wood, and they in
turn blend with the clavier; when in the running strife each sounds
in its own style and gives birth to a natural variation of phrases
and to delicate alterations of the constituent forms; all proceeds in
accordance with that self-evident logic which, at such critical points
in artistic history, naturally dispenses with internal laws.
Mozart is the great virtuoso who, even as a boy, was the astonishment
of Europe. It is not to be expected that he should content himself
with the intimate reflectiveness of the pianoforte; he drags it out
into the great world; he needs the concerto-form just as he needs
great concert halls. The new pianoforte, with its fuller and more
subtly expressive tones, is precisely adapted to his aims, and he
is the first to launch the pianoforte on its decisive career. With
his triumphal progresses the popularity of the new instrument was
not likely to decline. The great enchanter leaves the tiny victories
of the spinet far behind; his public recitals in hired halls, which
henceforward become more and more popular, demand new feats. He has to
work on bold lines; he has to bring into use the special features of
the instrument he adopted; the rippling scale-passage, the variety of
tone, the _forte_, the _pianissimo_, the hundred gradations between
these extremes, the altogether new possibilities of sentimental
expression which were now at the disposal of the public performer. But
amid all the intoxication of the concert hall, the virtuoso remains
an artist; the idol of the hour retains his deeper feeling. As he was
only truly himself when, after the furore of publicity, he touched the
notes in solitude or before a few friends, so in his concertos, behind
the external glitter, a romantic soul lies hidden. In the beautiful
Romance in the D minor Concerto, for example, the soul looks out on us
with a wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten intensity.
In almost all his pieces Mozart composes according to the bidding
of the moment. He is an “occasional” composer. In the concertos the
occasion was his own appearance on the stage. In the duets and double
pianoforte pieces he found the occasion in his association with
his sister. From this species of performance he drew new effects.
The D major sonata for two pianos stands alone in the skilful and
effective blending of the two instruments. His four-handed sonatas are
astonishingly successful in the individualisation of the hands, and
started a numerous class of clavier-pieces which have been too often
misused. We shall not appreciate such duets, if we take the clavier as
a diminutive orchestra.[109] But here again Mozart has been unwilling
utterly to sacrifice combined effects to individual demands.
[Illustration: Beginning of Mozart’s A minor Sonata. Royal
Musikbibliothek, Berlin.]
Through the ravishing chamber-music in which, especially in the
quintett for oboe, clarinet, horn, fagotto and pianoforte, the
splendid treatment of the pianoforte with regard to the wind deserves
notice; through all the melodious pieces for piano and violin, the
trios, the quartetts; to the numerous smaller clavier-pieces, the
fashionable variations, the relics of the suites, the scattered
fugues, the fantasies so rich in variety; we follow Mozart to the
eighteen pure piano sonatas, which are the very miniature mirror of
his unfailing musical invention. We shall treat them in chronological
order, for here for the first time we perceive a distinct development
which renders such treatment the most natural and advantageous.
At first we meet the daring harmonies and enharmonic changes by
which every innovator makes himself notorious, and which draw on him
the first severe criticisms. But there is not yet the concentration
of later works. A light counterpoint runs through the whole, a
conscientious treatment of the themes, which bears witness to sound
training. A striking feature is the unforced inventiveness in motives,
which succeed one another in unfailing profusion. Intellectual themes,
as for example in the B flat major, remind us of Philip Emanuel.
The form becomes more distinct, the rules of sonata-arrangement
more rigid. But it is not till we reach the A minor (1778) that the
full brilliancy of form is seen. This piece has all that wonderful
proportion and balance even in the smallest parts, which was, and
remained, Mozart’s most peculiar characteristic. Proportion in the
well-balanced opposition of themes in all three divisions, in the
liveliness of the piquant semiquaver runs, which already leave
Scarlatti far behind, in the brilliant and yet simple execution of the
last movement--proportion, indeed, is everywhere.
After 1778 our impressions deepen. The D major is the creation of
Mozart’s indestructible caprice. The motives become ever more tuneful,
more _speaking_: in the C major we hear the phrases as though sung; we
seem to hear words with pauses for breath, as from a distant exquisite
opera. The melodies run after each other, and--what is so typical a
feature of Mozart--it is by this that our attention is held rather
than by any inner development of the themes.
[Illustration: Mozart at the age of seven, with his Father and Sister.
Engraved 1764, by J. B. Delafosse (b. 1721) after L. C. de Carmontelle
(? about 1790).]
The A major sonata is an excellent example of this melodic regularity.
Its contours are of an unimagined loveliness, and its airs of a
magic delicacy. The Turkish March stands out in variegated national
colours, far removed from every triviality--if only we give to the
Janissary rhythm its full due.
The airs become broader, the piquancies more daring, until the
allegretto of the B flat major with its jubilant sevenths stands
before us as a new peak of Philip Emanuel’s Rondo forms. Here is that
bright laughter, which from Mozart’s lips has the most delightful of
sounds.
This was in 1779. In 1784 Mozart has entered upon the second half of
his life, the unhappy half, and the C minor sonata appears. New tones
now strike upon our ear, harsh, strong, broad, intense. But all is
still in proportion. The hand is freer, rushing more boldly from the
heights of the piano to its depths; bolder also are the episodes which
are the pivots of the thoughts. In all is the sweet intoxication in
the bewildering sound of the pianoforte, and the air so full of soul,
growing richer in retardations, and more and more taking the lines
which Mozart decisively fixed for the beautifully-formed melody. A
strange reserve, the reserve of maturity, characterises the last
movement, otherwise so flowing; its expressive raggedness forbodes
new things, the victory of matter over form--in a word, Beethoven;
and then, in this period of Figaro and Don Giovanni, we meet the F
major, the most sombre in content of all his writings (1788). With
its two movements we are accustomed, not improperly, to connect the
Rondo written in 1786. Counterpoint has slowly advanced to its old
position--the sign of the mature man, who is seeking his fixed abode.
This it is which stiffens the weft into what at times is a solidity
worthy of Bach. The dominion over the world of tone is now absolute,
the melodies sing heavenward, as for example in the theme of this
andante, which came spontaneously from his soul.
We have reached the limit of the “galant,” over whose fields dark
clouds are already gathering. But we are also at its highest point.
In Mozart the ideal of popular music was more fully realised than
its father, Philip Emanuel, could ever have dreamed. Mozart’s
well-balanced nature preserved the clavier from superficiality; and
he himself was saved by an early death from sacrificing this balance
to the sombre thought of a new time. His sense for form brought the
sonata into more typical shape, but the endless melody and the free
intelligence of his music took all sharpness from the forms. No music
can be less easily described in words than his; and therefore, as a
great beautiful sound, it was the best content which the forms of the
galant popular epoch could find. It is not till we have left youth
behind that we see proportion and equilibrium in this repose; and it
is then, as Otto Jahn says, that we are amazed at the wonderful wealth
of this art and at ourselves for being so slow to feel it.
[Illustration: Upright Hammer-clavier (pianoforte), about 1800, called
the “Giraffe.” Mahogany and bronze, with open work in green moiré.
Three pedals, _forte_, _piano_, and “fagotto.” By Joseph Wachtl,
Vienna. De Wit collection.]
[96] Both these adjectives apply to decorative ornament.
The general idea of “baroque” is “odd” or “outrageous.”
“Rococo” implies an elaborate want of good taste.
[97] “Dux,” the _leader_, _i.e._ the “subject” of the
fugue; “Comes,” the _attendant_, _i.e._ the “answer.” So
called because the one follows the other as a matter of
course, like master and servant.
[98] Meaning “The Philosophy of Spinoza,” _i.e._ an
illustration of Spinoza’s method, given in musical notes.
[99] It is impossible to describe this action in words. See
the diagrams in Grove’s “Dictionary of Music,” vol. ii. pp.
716 and 718.
[100] I possess a Zumpe pianoforte, date 1766, which is
apparently the earliest surviving made by him in England.
E. W. N.
[101] Such a judgment of Handel, which would be ungracious
in the mouth of an Englishman, is not unfitting in a
German. England alone, apparently, knows and cares about
Handel, the athlete in _choral_ music.
[102] _i.e._ the ornamentations, turns, appoggiaturas, etc.
[103] The doppelschlag was the “turn,” beginning with the
_note above_.
[104] “For professors and amateurs.”
[105] Various names have been used for this “middle
section” of the “sonata form,” _e.g._--“Development,”
“Fantasia,” “Free part,” “_Durchführung_, carrying
through,” “Working-out.”
[106] The word “couplet” is here used as in Couperin, and
other old French composers. It means the subsidiary themes
or sections which alternate with the main subject in these
ancient rondos. Call the main theme A, the subsidiary ones
B, C, D, etc. Then the course of the movement is--A, B, A,
C, A, D, A, etc., and B, C, D, etc., are called “couplets.”
[107] See, for instance, Haydn’s earliest string quartets,
where he commonly has _two_ minuets, one on each side of
the “slow” movement.
[108] Does not “allemande” here simply mean “German” waltz?
[109] It is a great pity, and a great loss in every
way, that the careful _artistic_ playing of duets on
one pianoforte has largely ceased. What Moscheles and
Mendelssohn were not ashamed to do in public, surely is not
an unworthy employment. It should be revived, if only to
popularise Schubert’s beautiful works for four hands, the
widespread ignorance of which is a simple disgrace to us
all.
[Illustration: Beethoven at age of 31.]
Beethoven