CHAPTER XXI.--Symphonies in America

Henry Hadley. Symphony No. 3

Gustav Strube. Symphony in D minor

Chadwick. Suite Symphonique

Loeffler. "The Devil's Round." Symphonic Poem

SYMPHONIES AND THEIR MEANING

MODERN SYMPHONIES

CHAPTER I

THE SYMPHONY DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

After the long dominance of German masters of the musical art, a

reaction could not fail to come with the restless tendencies of other

nations, who, having learned the lesson, were yet jealous of foreign

models and eager to utter their own message. The later nineteenth

century was thus the age of refraction of the classic tradition among

the various racial groups that sprang up with the rise of the national

idea. We can see a kind of beginning in the Napoleonic destruction of

feudal dynasties. German authority in music at the beginning of the

century was as absolute as Roman rule in the age of Augustus. But the

seed was carried by teachers to the various centres of Europe. And, with

all the joy we have in the new burst of a nation's song, there is no

doubt that it is ever best uttered when it is grounded on the lines of

classic art. Here is a paramount reason for the strength of the modern

Russian school. With this semi-political cause in mind it is less

difficult to grasp the paradox that with all the growth of

intercommunication the music of Europe moves in more detached grooves

to-day than two centuries ago. The suite in the time of Bach is a

special type and proof of a blended breadth and unity of musical thought

in the various nations of Europe of the seventeenth century. In the

quaint series of dances of the different peoples, with a certain

international quality, one sees a direct effect of the Thirty Years'

War,--the beneficent side of those ill winds and cruel blasts, when all

kinds of nations were jostling on a common battle-ground. And as the

folk-dances sprang from the various corners of Europe, so different

nations nursed the artistic growth of the form. Each would treat the

dances of the other in its own way, and here is the significance of

Bach's separate suites,--English, French and German.

Nationalism seems thus a prevailing element in the music of to-day, and

we may perceive two kinds, one spontaneous and full of charm, the other

a result of conscious effort, sophisticated in spirit and in detail. It

may as well be said that there was no compelling call for a separate

French school in the nineteenth century as a national utterance. It

sprang from a political rather than an artistic motive; it was the itch

of jealous pride that sharply stressed the difference of musical style

on the two sides of the Rhine. The very influence of German music was

needed by the French rather than a bizarre invention of national traits.

The broader art of a Saint-Saëns here shines in contrast with the

brilliant conceits of his younger compatriots, though it cannot be

denied that the latter are grounded in classic counterpoint. With other

nations the impulse was more natural: the racial song of the

Scandinavians, Czechs and other Slavs craved a deliverance as much as

the German in the time of Schubert. In France, where music had long

flourished, there was no stream of suppressed folk-song.

But the symphony must in the natural course have suffered from the very

fulness of its own triumph. We know the Romantic reaction of Schumann,

uttered in smaller cyclic forms; in Berlioz is almost a complete

abandonment of pure music, devoid of special description. Liszt was one

of the mighty figures of the century, with all the external qualities of

a master-genius, shaking the stage of Europe with the weight of his

personality, and, besides, endowed with a creative power that was not

understood in his day. With him the restless tendency resulted in a new

form intended to displace the symphony: the symphonic poem, in a single,

varied movement, and always on a definite poetic subject. Here was at

once a relief and a recess from the classic rigor. Away with sonata form

and all the odious code of rules! In the story of the title will lie all

the outline of the music.

Yet in this rebellious age--and here is the significance of the

form--the symphony did not languish, but blossomed to new and varied

flower. Liszt turned back to the symphony from his new-fangled device

for his two greatest works. It has, indeed, been charged that the

symphony was accepted by the Romantic masters in the spirit of a

challenge. Mendelssohn and even Schumann are not entirely free from such

a suspicion. Nevertheless it remains true that all of them confided to

the symphony their fairest inspiration. About the middle of the century,

at the high point of anti-classical revolt, a wonderful group of

symphonies, by Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Liszt, were presented

to the world. With the younger Brahms on a returning wave of

neo-classicism the form became again distinctively a personal choice.

Finally, in the spontaneous utterance of a national spirit on broad

lines, as in the later Russian and Finnish examples, with the various

phases of surging resolution, of lyric contemplation and of rollicking

humor, the symphony has its best sanction in modern times.

To return to the historical view, the course of the symphony during the

century cannot be adequately scanned without a glance at the music-drama

of Richard Wagner. Until the middle of the century, symphony and opera

had moved entirely in separate channels. At most the overture was

affected, in temper and detail, by the career of the nobler form.

The restless iconoclasm of a Liszt was now united, in a close personal

and poetic league, with the new ideas of Wagner's later drama. Both men

adopted the symbolic motif as their main melodic means; with both mere

iteration took the place of development; a brilliant and lurid

color-scheme (of orchestration) served to hide the weakness of intrinsic

content; a vehement and hysteric manner cast into temporary shade the

classic mood of tranquil depth in which alone man's greatest thought is

born.

But a still larger view of the whole temper of art in Europe of the

later century is needed. We wander here beyond the fine distinctions of

musical forms. A new wave of feeling had come over the world that

violently affected all processes of thought. And strangely, it was

strongest in the land where the great heights of poetry and music had

just been reached. Where the high aim of a Beethoven and a Goethe had

been proclaimed, arose a Wagner to preach the gospel of brute fate and

nature, where love was the involuntary sequence of mechanical device and

ended in inevitable death, all overthrowing the heroic idea that teems

throughout the classic scores, crowned in a greatest symphony in praise

of "Joy."

Such was the intrinsic content of a "Tristan and Isolde" and the whole

"Nibelungen-Ring," and it was uttered with a sensuous wealth of sound

and a passionate strain of melody that (without special greatness of its

own) dazzled and charmed the world in the dramatic setting of mediaeval

legend. The new harmonic style of Wagner, there is good reason to

suppose, was in reality first conceived by Liszt, whose larger works,

written about the middle of the century, have but lately come to

light.[A] In correspondence with this moral mutiny was the complete

revolt from classic art-tradition: melody (at least in theory), the

vital quality of musical form and the true process of a coherent thread,

were cast to the winds with earlier poetic ideals.

[Footnote A: The "Dante" Symphony of Liszt was written between 1847 and

1855; the "Faust" Symphony between 1854 and 1857. Wagner finished the

text of _Tristan und Isolde_ in 1857; the music was not completed until

1859. In 1863 was published the libretto of the _Nibelungen-Ring_. In

1864 Wagner was invited by King Ludwig of Bavaria to complete the work

in Munich.]

If it were ever true that a single personality could change an opposite

course of thought, it must be held that Richard Wagner, in his own

striking and decadent career, comes nearest to such a type. But he was

clearly prompted and reinforced in his philosophy by other men and

tendencies of his time. The realism of a Schopenhauer, which Wagner

frankly adopted without its full significance (where primal will finds a

redemption in euthanasia), led by a natural course of thought to

Nietzsche's dreams of an overman, who tramples on his kind.

In itself this philosophy had been more of a passing phase (even as

Schopenhauer is lost in the chain of ethical sages) but for its strange

coincidence with the Wagnerian music. The accident of this alliance gave

it an overwhelming power in Germany, where it soon threatened to corrupt

all the arts, banishing idealism from the land of its special

haunts.[A] The ultimate weakness of the Wagnerian philosophy is that it

finds in fatalism an excuse for the surrender of heroic virtue,--not in

the spirit of a tragic truth, but in a glorification of the senses; just

as in Wagner's final work, the ascetic, sinless type becomes a figure

almost of ridicule, devoid of human reality. It is significant that with

the revival of a sound art, fraught with resolute aspiration, is

imminent a return to an idealistic system of philosophy.

[Footnote A: In literature this movement is most marked, as may be seen

by contrasting the tone of Goethe with that of Sudermann; by noting the

decadence from the stories of a Chamisseau and Immermann to those of a

Gottfried Keller; from the novels of Freytag to the latest of Frenssen

and Arthur Schnitzler; from the poems of Heine to those of Hoffmansthal,

author of the text of Strauss' later operas.

Or, contrast merely the two typical dramas of love, Goethe's "Faust" and

Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde."]

In the musical art even of Germany the triumph was never complete. The

famous feud of Brahms and Wagner partisans marked the alignment of the

classical and radical traditions. Throughout the second half of the

century the banner of a true musical process was upheld; the personal

meeting of the youthful Brahms with the declining Schumann is

wonderfully significant, viewed as a symbol of this passing of the

classic mantle. And the symphonies of Gustav Mahler seem an assurance of

present tendencies. The influence of Bach, revived early in the century,

grew steadily as a latent leaven.

Nevertheless in the prevailing taste and temper of present German

music, in the spirit of the most popular works, as those of Richard

Strauss (who seems to have sold his poetic birthright), the aftermath of

this wave is felt, and not least in the acclaim of the barren symphonies

of a Bruckner. It is well known that Bruckner, who paid a personal

homage to Wagner, became a political figure in the partisan dispute,

when he was put forth as the antagonist of Brahms in the symphony. His

present vogue is due to this association and to his frank adoption of

Wagner idiom in his later works, as well as, more generally, to the

lowered taste in Germany.

In all this division of musical dialect, in the shattering of the

classic tower among the diverse tongues of many peoples, what is to be

the harvest? The full symbol of a Babel does not hold for the tonal art.

Music is, in its nature, a single language for the world, as its

alphabet rests on ideal elements. It has no national limits, like prose

or poetry; its home is the whole world; its idiom the blended song of

all nations.

In such a view there is less hope in the older than in the newer world.

No single, limited song of one nation can in the future achieve a second

climax of the art. It is by the actual mingling of them all that the

fairest flower and fruit must come. The very absence of one prevailing

native song, held a reproach to America, is in reality her strength; for

hers is the common heritage of all strains of song. And it may be her

destiny to lead in the glorious merging of them all.

CHAPTER II

BERLIOZ AND LISZT

The path of progress of an art has little to do with mere chronology.

For here in early days are bold spirits whose influence is not felt

until a whole generation has passed of a former tradition. Nor are these

patient pioneers always the best-inspired prophets; the mere fate of

slow recognition does not imply a highest genius. A radical innovation

may provoke a just and natural resistance. Again, a gradual yielding is

not always due to the pure force of truth. Strange and oblique ideas may

slowly win a triumph that is not wholly merited and may not prove

enduring.

To fully grapple with this mystery, we may still hold to the faith that

final victory comes only to pure truth, and yet we may find that

imperfect truth will often achieve a slow and late acceptance. The

victory may then be viewed in either of two ways: the whole spirit of

the age yields to the brilliant allurement, or there is an overweighing

balance of true beauty that deserves the prize of permanence. Of such a

kind were two principal composers of the symphony: Franz Liszt and

Hector Berlioz. Long after they had wrought their greatest works, others

had come and gone in truer line with the first masters, until it seemed

these radical spirits had been quite rejected.

Besides the masters of their own day, Schumann and Mendelssohn, a group

of minor poets, like Raff and Goetz, appeared, and at last Brahms, the

latest great builder of the symphony, all following and crowning the

classical tradition.

The slow reception of the larger works of Liszt strangely agrees with

the startling resemblance of their manner to the Russian style that

captivated a much later age. It seemed as if the spirit of the Hungarian

was suddenly revived in a new national group. His humor wonderfully

suited the restless and sensational temper of an age that began after

his death.

The very harmonies and passionate manner that influence modern audiences

evoked a dull indifference in their own day.[A] They roused the first

acclaim when presented in the more popular form of the music-drama. It

may well be questioned whether Liszt was not the fountain source of the

characteristic harmonies of Wagner's later opera.

[Footnote A: Compare the similarity of the themes of the Faust Symphony

of Liszt and of the _Pathétique_ of Tschaikowsky in the last chapter of

vol. ii, "Symphonies and Their Meaning."]

Historically considered, that is in their relation to other music

preceding and following them, the symphonies of Liszt have striking

interest. They are in boldest departure from all other symphonies, save

possibly those of Berlioz, and they were prophetic in a degree only

apparent a half-century later. If the quality of being ahead of his time

be proof, instead of a symptom, of genius, then Liszt was in the first

rank of masters. The use of significant motif is in both of his

symphonies. But almost all the traits that startled and moved the world

in Tschaikowsky's symphonies are revealed in this far earlier music: the

tempestuous rage of what might be called an hysterical school, and the

same poignant beauty of the lyric episodes; the sheer contrast, half

trick, half natural, of fierce clangor and dulcet harmonies, all painted

with the broad strokes of the orchestral palette. Doubly striking it is

how Liszt foreshadowed his later followers and how he has really

overshadowed them; not one, down to the most modern tone-painters, has

equalled him in depth and breadth of design, in the original power of

his tonal symbols. It seems that Liszt will endure as the master-spirit

in this reactionary phase of the symphony.

Berlioz is another figure of a bold innovator, whose career seemed a

series of failures, yet whose music will not down. His art was centred

less upon the old essentials, of characteristic melody and soul-stirring

harmonies, than upon the magic strokes of new instrumental grouping,--a

graphic rather than a pure musical purpose. And so he is the father not

only of the modern orchestra, but of the fashion of the day that revels

in new sensations of startling effects, that are spent in portraying the

events of a story.

Berlioz was the first of a line of _virtuosi_ of the orchestra, a

pioneer in the art of weaving significant strains,--significant, that

is, apart from the music. He was seized with the passion of making a

pictured design with his orchestral colors. Music, it seems, did not

exist for Berlioz except for the telling of a story. His symphony is

often rather opera. A symphony, he forgot, is not a musical drama

without the scenery. This is just what is not a symphony. It is not the

literal story, but the pure musical utterance. Thus Berlioz's "Romeo and

Juliet" symphony is in its design more the literal story than is

Shakespeare's play. And yet there is ever a serious nobility, a heroic

reach in the art of Berlioz, where he stands almost alone among the

composers of his race. Here, probably, more than in his pictured

stories, lies the secret of his endurance. He was, other than his

followers, ever an idealist. And so, when we are on the point of

condemning him as a scene-painter, we suddenly come upon a stretch of

pure musical beauty, that flowed from the unconscious rapture of true

poet. As the bee sucks, so may we cull the stray beauty and the more

intimate meaning, despite and aside from this outer intent.

CHAPTER III

BERLIOZ. "ROMEO AND JULIET."

_DRAMATIC SYMPHONY_

In the sub-title we see the growing impulse towards graphic music. A

"dramatic symphony" is not promising. For, if music is the most

subjective expression of the arts, why should its highest form be used

to dramatize a drama? Without the aid of scene and actors, that were

needed by the original poet, the artisan in absolute tones attempts his

own theatric rendering. Clearly this symphony is one of those works of

art which within an incongruous form (like certain ancient pictures)

affords episodes of imperishable beauty.

Passing by the dramatic episodes that are strung on the thread of the

story, we dwell, according to our wont, on the stretches where a pure

musical utterance rises to a lofty height of pathos or of rarest

fantasy.

In the first scene of the Second Part is the clear intent of a direct

tonal expression, and there is a sustained thread of sincere sentiment.

The passion of Romeo shines in the purity rather than in the intensity

of feeling. The scene has a delicate series of moods, with subtle

melodic touches and dramatic surprises of chord and color. The whole

seems a reflection of Romeo's humor, the personal (_Allegro_) theme

being the symbol as it roams throughout the various phases,--the sadness

of solitude, the feverish thrill of the ball. Into the first phrase of

straying violins wanders the personal motive, sadly meditative.

[Music: _Allegro._

(Choir of wood, with sustained chords of strings)]

Sweeter dreams now woo the muser, warming into passion, pulsing with a

more eager throb of desire, in changed tone and pace. Suddenly in a new

quarter amid a quick strum of dance the main motive hurries along. The

gay sounds vanish, ominous almost in the distance. The sadness of the

lover now sings unrestrained in expressive melody (of oboe), in long

swinging pace, while far away rumbles the beat of festive drum.

The song rises in surging curves, but dies away among the quick festal

sounds, where the personal motive is still supreme, chasing its own

ardent antics, and plunges headlong into the swirl of dance.

II Penseroso (in his personal rôle) has glided into a buoyant,

rollicking Allegro with joyous answer. Anon the outer revel breaks in

with shock almost of terror. And now in climax of joy, through the

festal strum across the never-ceasing thread of transformed meditation

resound in slowest, broadest swing the

[Music: _Larghetto espressivo_

(Ob. with fl. and cl. and arpeggic cellos)]

warm tones of the love-song in triumph of bliss.[A] As the song dies

away, the festal sounds fade. Grim meditation returns in double

figure,--the slower, heavier pace below. Its shadows are all about as in

a fugue of fears, flitting still to the tune of the dance and anon

yielding before the gaiety. But through the returning festal ring the

fateful motive is still straying in the bass. In the concluding revel

the hue of meditation is not entirely banned.

[Footnote A: In unison of the wind. Berlioz has here noted in the score

"_Réunion des deux Thémes, du Larghetto et de L'Allegro_," the second

and first of our cited phrases.]

The Shakespearian love-drama thus far seems to be celebrated in the

manner of a French romance. After all, the treatment remains scenic in

the main; the feeling is diluted, as it were, not intensified by the

music.

The stillness of night and the shimmering moonlight are in the delicate

harmonies of (_Allegretto_) strings. A lusty song of departing revellers

breaks upon the scene. The former distant sounds of feast are now near

and clear in actual words.

[Music: _Adagio_

(Muted strings)

(_Pizz._ basses an 8ve. lower)]

There is an intimate charm, a true glamor of love-idyll about the

Adagio. On more eager pulse rises a languorous strain of horn and

cellos. The flow

[Music: (Horn and cellos with murmuring strings)]

of its passionate phrase reaches the climax of prologue where, the type

and essence of the story, it plays about the lovers' first meeting. As

lower strings hum the burden of desire, higher wood add touches of

ecstasy, the melting violins sing the wooing song, and all break into an

overwhelming rapture, as though transfigured in the brightness of its

own vehemence, in midst of a trembling mystery.

The restless spirit starts (_allegro agitato_) in fearsome agitation on

quick nervous throb of melody; below, violas sing a soothing answer;

there is a clear dialogue of wistful lovers.

Instead of the classic form of several verses led by one dominant melody

to varied paths and views, here almost in reverse we seem to fall from a

broader lyric mood to a single note of sad yearning that

[Music: (Fl. with Eng. horn an 8ve. below)

(Muted violins with sustained lower strings)]

grows out of the several strains. Upon such a motive a new melody sings.

The delicate bliss of early love is all about, and in the lingering

close the timid ecstasies of wooing phrase. But this is a mere prelude

to the more highly stressed, vehement song of love that follows on the

same yearning motive. Here is the crowning, summing phase of the whole

poem, without a return to earlier melody save that, by significant

touch, it ends in the same expressive turn as the former languorous

song.

The first melody does not reappear, is thus a kind of background of the

scene. The whole is a dramatic lyric that moves from broader tune to a

reiterated note of sad desire, driven to a splendid height of crowned

bliss. The turbulence of early love is there; pure ardor in flaming

tongues of ecstasy; the quick turn of mood and the note of omen of the

original poem: the violence of early love and the fate that hangs over.

Berlioz has drawn the subject of his Scherzo from Mercutio's speech in

Scene 4 of the First Act of Shakespeare's tragedy. He has entitled it

"Queen Mab, or the Fairy of Dreams," and clearly intends to portray the

airy flight of Mab and her fairies. But we must doubt whether this, the

musical gem of the symphony, has a plan that is purely graphic,--rather

does it seem to soar beyond those concrete limits to an utterance of the

sense of dreams themselves in the spirit of Mercutio's conclusion:

"... I talk of dreams

Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;

Which is as thin of substance as the air;"

And we may add, as elusive for the enchanted mind to hold are these

pranks and brilliant parade of tonal sprites. It stands one of the

masterpieces of program-music, in equal balance of pure beauty with the

graphic plan.

Imps they are, these flitting figures, almost insects with a

personality. In pace there is a division, where the first dazzling

speed is simply the fairy rhythm (halted anon by speaking pauses or

silences), and the second, a kind of idyll or romance in miniature. It

is all a drama of fairy actors, in a dreamland of softest tone. The main

figure leads its troop on gossamer thread of varied journey.

[Music: (Violins) _Prestissimo_]

Almost frightening in the quickest, pulsing motion is the sudden

stillness, as the weird poising of trembling sprites. Best of all is the

resonant beauty of the second melody in enchanting surprise of tone.

[Music: (Strings without basses)]

Anon, as in a varied dance, the skipping, mincing step is followed by a

gentle swaying; or the figures all run together down the line to start

the first dance again, or the divided groups have different motions, or

one shouts a sudden answer to the other.

Much slower now is the main song (in flute and English horn) beneath an

ariel harmony (of overtones), while a quicker trip begins below of the

same figure. And in the midst is a strange concert of low dancing

strings with highest tones of harp,--strange mating of flitting sprites.

We are suddenly back in the first, skipping dance, ever faster and

brighter in dazzling group of lesser figures. And here is the golden

note of fairy-land,--the horn in soft cheery hunter's lay, answered by

echoing voices. For a moment the call is tipped with touch of sadness,

then rings out brightly in a new quarter. Beautiful it sings between the

quick phrases, with a certain shock of change, and there is the terror

of a sudden low rumbling and the thrill of new murmuring sounds with

soft beat of drum that hails the gathering fairies. There is a sudden

clarion burst of the whole chorus, with clash of drum and clang of

brass, and sudden pause, then faintest echoes of higher voices.

A new figure now dances a joyous measure to the tinkling of harp and the

sparkling strokes of high

[Music: (Harp in higher 8ve.)

(Clarinet with chord of horns)

(Violas)]

cymbals and long blown tone of horns. The very essence it is of fairy

life. And so the joy is not unmixed with just a touch of awe. Amidst the

whole tintinnabulation is a soft resonant echo of horns below, like an

image in a lake. The air hangs heavy with dim romance until the sudden

return to first fairy verse in sounds almost human. Once more come the

frightening pauses.

The end is in a great crash of sweet sound--a glad awakening to day and

to reality.

CHAPTER IV

A SYMPHONY TO DANTE'S "DIVINA COMMEDIA"

_FOR ORCHESTRA AND CHORUS OF SOPRANOS AND ALTOS_

The "Divina Commedia" may be said in a broad view to belong to the great

design by which Christian teaching was brought into relation with

earlier pagan lore. The subject commands all the interest of the epics

of Virgil and of Milton. It must be called the greatest Christian poem

of all times, and the breadth of its appeal and of its art specially

attest the age in which it was written, when classic pagan poetry broke

upon the world like a great treasure-trove.

The subject was an ideal one in Dante's time,--a theme convincing and

contenting to all the world, and, besides, akin to the essence of pagan

poetry. The poet was needed to celebrate all the phases of its meaning

and beauty. This is true of all flashes of evolutionary truth. As in the

ancient epics, an idea once real to the world may be enshrined in a

design of immortal art.

To-day we are perhaps in too agnostic a state to be absorbed by such a

contemplation. The subject in a narrower sense is true at most to those

who will to cherish the solace of a salvation which they have not fully

apprehended. And so the Liszt symphony of the nineteenth century is not

a complete reflection of the Dante poem of the fourteenth. It becomes

for the devout believer almost a kind of church-liturgy,--a Mass by the

Abbé Liszt.

Rare qualities there undoubtedly are in the music: a reality of passion;

a certain simplicity of plan; the sensuous beauty of melodic and

harmonic touches. But a greatness in the whole musical expression that

may approach the grandeur of the poem, could only come in a suggestion

of symbolic truth; and here the composer seems to fail by a too close

clinging to ecclesiastic ritual. Yet in the agony of remorse, rising

from hopeless woe to a chastened worship of the light, is a strain of

inner truth that will leave the work for a long time a hold on human

interest.

Novel is the writing of words in the score, as if they are to be sung by

the instruments,--all sheer aside from the original purpose of the form.

Page after page has its precise text; we hear the shrieks of the damned,

the dread inscription of the infernal portals; the sad lament of lovers;

the final song of praise of the redeemed. A kind of picture-book music

has our symphony become. The _leit-motif_ has crept into the high form

of absolute tones to make it as definite and dramatic as any opera.

I. INFERNO

The legend of the portal is proclaimed at the outset in a rising phrase

(of the low brass and strings)

[Music: (Doubled in two lower 8ves.)

_Lento_

(3 trombones and tuba: violas, cellos and brass)]

_Per me si va nella cit-ta do-lente;

Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;_

and in still higher chant--

_Per me si va tra la perduta gente._

Then, in antiphonal blast of horns and trumpets sounds the fatal doom in

grim monotone (in descending harmony of trembling strings):

[Music: (Chant in octaves of trumpets and horns)

La-scia-te ogni spe-ran- - -za.

(Brass, wood and _tremolo_ strings)]

_Lasciate ogni speranza mi ch' entrate!_[A]

[Footnote A:

"Through me the way is to the city dolent;

Through me the way is to eternal dole;

Through me the way among the people lost.

All hope abandon, ye who enter in!"

--_From Longfellow's translation._]

A tumult on a sigh (from the first phrase) rises again and again in

gusts. In a violent paroxysm we hear the doom of the monotone in lowest

horns. The fateful phrases are ringing about, while pervading all is

the hope-destroying blast of the brass. But the storm-centre is the

sighing motive which now enters on a quicker spur of passionate stride

(_Allegro frenetico, quasi doppio movimento_). In its winding

[Music: _Alla breve_

_Allegro frenetico (quasi doppio movimento)_

(Theme in violins and cellos)

(Woodwind and violas)]

sequences it sings a new song in more regular pace. The tempest grows

wilder and more masterful, still following the lines of the song, rising

to towering height. And now in the strains, slow and faster, sounds the

sigh above and below, all in a madrigal of woe. The whole is surmounted

by a big descending phrase, articulate almost in its grim dogma, as it

runs into the line of the first legend in full tumult of gloom. It is

followed by the doom slowly proclaimed in thundering tones of the brass,

in midst of a tempest of surging harmonies. Only it is all more fully

and poignantly stressed than before, with long, resonant echoes of the

stentorian tones of lowest brass.

Suddenly we are in the dulcet mood (_Quasi Andante, ma sempre un poco

mosso_) 'mid light waving strings and rich swirling harp, and soothing

tones of flutes and muted horns. Then, as all other voices are hushed,

the clarinet sings a strain that ends in lowest notes of expressive

grief (_Recit., espressivo dolente_)--where we can almost hear the

words. It is answered by a sweet plaint of other wood, in

[Music: _Quasi Andante, ma sempre un poco mosso_

_dolce teneremente_

(Clarinets and bassoons)]

questioning accents, followed by the returning waves of strings and

harp, and another phrase of the lament; and now to the pulsing chords of

the harp the mellow English horn does sing (at least in the score) the

words,--the central text of all:

[Music: _Poco agitato_

(English horn, with arpeggic flow of harp)

Nes-sun mag-gior do-lo-re che ri-cor-dar-si del tem-po fe-li-ce.[A]]

[Footnote A: "There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy

time in misery."--_From Longfellow's translation._]

Other voices join the leader. As the lower reed start the refrain, the

higher enter in pursuit, and then the two groups sing a melodic chase.

But the whole phrase is a mere foil to the pure melody of the former

plaint that now returns in lower strings. And all so far is as a herald

to the passage of intimate sentiment (_Andante amoroso_) that lies a

lyric gem in the heart of the symphony. The melting strain is stressed

in tenderness by the languor of harmonies, the delicate design of

elusive rhythm and the appealing whisper of harp and two

violins,--tipped by the touch of mellow wood.

[Music: _Andante amoroso. (Tempo rubato)_

_dolce con intimo sentimento_

(Melody in first violins; arpeggios of harp and violas;

lower woodwind and strings)]

With the rising passion, as the refrain spreads in wider sequences, the

choirs of wood and strings are drawn into the song, one group answering

the other in a true love duet.

The last cadence falls into the old sigh as the dread oracle sounds once

more the knell of hope. Swirling strings bring us to a new scene of the

world of shades. In the furious, frenetic pace of yore (_Tempo primo,

Allegro, alla breve_) there is a new sullen note, a dull martial trip

of drums with demonic growls (in the lowest wood). The sigh is there,

but perverted in humor. A chorus of blasphemous mockery is stressed by

strident accents of lower wood and strings.[A]

[Footnote A: We are again assisted by the interpreting words in the

score.]

Gradually we fall into the former frenzied song, amid the demon

cacchinations, until we have plunged back into the nightmare of groans.

Instead of the big descending phrase we sink into lower depths of gloom,

wilder than ever, on the first tripping motive. As the sighing strain

resounds below in the midst of a chorus of demon shrieks, there enters

the chant of inexorable fate. Mockery yields to a tinge of pathos, a

sense almost of majestic resignation, an apotheosis of grief.

II. PURGATORIO

A state of tranquillity, almost of bliss, is in the opening primal

harmonies (of harp and strings and

[Music: _Andante con moto quasi Allegretto. Tranquillo assai_

(Oboe _molto espressivo_)

_Sempre piano e legato_

(Full arpeggic harp and muted strings)]

soft horns). Indeed, what else could be the mood of relief from the

horrors of hell? And lo! the reed strikes a pure limpid song echoed in

turn by other voices, beneath a rich spray of heavenly harmonies.

This all recurs in higher shift of tone. A wistful phrase (_piu lento_,

in low strings) seems to breathe

[Music: _Un poco meno mosso_

(English horn, clarinets, bassoons, French horn)]

a spoken sob. Then, as in voices of a hymn, chants a more formal liturgy

of plaint where the phrase is almost lost in the lowest voice. It is all

but articulate, with a sense of the old sigh; but it is in a calmer

spirit, though anon bursting with passionate grief (_lagrimoso_).

[Music: _Lamentoso_ (In fugue of muted strings)]

And now in the same vein, of the same fibre, a fugue begins of lament,

first in muted strings.

It is the line of sad expressive recitative that heralded the plaint and

the love-scene. There is here the full charm of fugue: a rhythmic

quality of single theme, the choir of concerted dirge in independent

and interdependent paths, and with every note of integral melody. There

is the beauty of pure tonal architecture blended with the personal

significance of the human (and divine) tragedy.

The fugue begins in muted strings, like plaintive human voices, though

wood and brass here and there light up the phrases. Now the full bass of

horns and wood strikes the descending course of theme, while higher

strings and wood soar in rising stress of (sighing) grief.

[Music: (In double higher 8ves.)

_With lower 8ves._

(Strings, with enforcing and answering wind)]

A hymnal verse of the theme enters in the wood answered by impetuous

strings on a coursing phrase. The antiphonal song rises with eager

stress of themal attack. A quieter elegy leads to another burst, the

motive above, the insistent sigh below. The climax of fugue returns to

the heroic main plaint below, with sighing answers above, all the voices

of wood and brass enforcing the strings.

Then the fugue turns to a transfigured phase; the theme rings triumphant

retorts in golden horns and in a masterful unison of the wood; the wild

answer runs joyfully in lower strings, while the higher are strumming

like celestial harps. The whole is transformed to a big song of praise

ever in higher harmonies. The theme flows on in ever varying thread,

amidst the acclaiming tumult.

But the heavenly heights are not reached by a single leap. Once more we

sink to sombre depths not of the old rejection, but of a chastened,

wistful wonderment. The former plaintive chant returns, in slower,

contained pace, broken by phrases of mourning recitative, with the old

sigh. And a former brief strain of simple aspiration is supported by

angelic harps. In gentle ascent we are wafted to the acclaim of heavenly

(treble) voices in the _Magnificat_. A wonderful utterance, throughout

the scene of Purgatory, there is of a chastened, almost spiritual grief

for the sin that cannot be undone, though it is not past pardon.

The bold design of the final Praise of the Almighty was evidently

conceived in the main as a service. An actual depiction, or a direct

expression (such as is attempted in the prologue of Boito's Mefistofele)

was thereby avoided. The Holy of Holies is screened from view by a

priestly ceremony,--by the mask of conventional religion. Else we must

take the composer's personal conception of such a climax as that of an

orthodox Churchman. And then the whole work, with all its pathos and

humanity, falls to the level of liturgy.

The words of invisible angel-chorus are those of the blessed maid

trusting in God her savior, on a theme for which we are prepared by

preluding choirs of harps, wood and strings. It is sung on an ancient

Church tone that in its height approaches the mode of secular song. With

all the power of broad rhythm, and fulness of harmony and volume, the

feeling is of conventional worship. With all the purity of shimmering

harmonies the form is ecclesiastical in its main lines and depends upon

liturgic symbols for its effect and upon the faith of the listener for

its appeal.

At the end of the hymn, on the entering _Hosanna!_ and _Hallelujah!_ we

catch the sacred symbol (of seven tones) in the path of the two vocal

parts, the lower descending, the higher ascending as on heavenly scale.

In the second, optional ending the figure is completed, as the bass

descends through the seven whole tones and the treble (of voices and

instruments) rises as before to end in overpowering _Hallelujah!_ The

style is close knit with the earlier music. A pervading motive is the

former brief phrase of aspiration; upon it the angelic groups seem to

wing their flight between verses of praise. By a wonderful touch the

sigh, that appeared inverted in the plaintive chant of the _Purgatorio_,

is finally glorified as the motive of the bass to the words of

exultation.

CHAPTER V

THE SYMPHONIC POEMS OF LISZT

Liszt was clearly a follower of Berlioz in the abandon to a pictorial

aim, in the revolt from pure musical form, and in the mastery of

orchestral color. If we feel in almost all his works a charming

translation of story in the tones, we also miss the higher empyraean of

pure fancy, unlimited by halting labels. It is a descent into pleasant,

rich pastures from the cosmic view of the lofty mountain. Yet it must be

yielded that Liszt's program-music was of the higher kind that dwells in

symbols rather than in concrete details. It was a graphic plan of

symbolization that led Liszt to choose the subjects of his symphonic

poems (such as the "Préludes" and the "Ideals") and to prefer the poetic

scheme of Hugo's "Mazeppa" to the finer verse of a Byron. Though not

without literal touches, Liszt perceived that his subjects must have a

symbolic quality.

Nevertheless this pictorial style led to a revolution in the very nature

of musical creation and to a new form which was seemingly intended to

usurp the place of the symphony. It is clear that the symphonic poem is

in very essence opposed to the symphony. The genius of the symphony lies

in the overwhelming breadth and intensity of its expression without the

aid of words. Vainly decried by a later age of shallower perception, it

achieved this Promethean stroke by the very magic of the design. At one

bound thus arose in the youngest art a form higher than any other of

human device,--higher than the epic, the drama, or the cathedral.

Bowing to an impatient demand for verbal meaning, Liszt invented the

Symphonic Poem, in which the classic cogency yielded to the loose thread

of a musical sketch in one movement, slavishly following the sequence of

some literary subject. He abandoned sheer tonal fancy, surrendering the

magic potency of pure music, fully expressive within its own design far

beyond the literal scheme.[A]

[Footnote A: Mendelssohn with perfect insight once declared,--"Notes

have as definite a meaning as words, perhaps even a more definite one."]

The symphonic poems of Liszt, in so far as his intent was in destructive

reaction to the classic process, were precisely in line with the drama

of Wagner. The common revolt completely failed. The higher, the real

music is ever of that pure tonal design where the fancy is not leashed

to some external scheme. Liszt himself grew to perceive the inadequacy

of the new device when he returned to the symphony for his greatest

orchestral expression, though even here he never escaped from the thrall

of a literal subject.

And strangely, in point of actual music, we cannot fail to find an

emptier, a more grandiose manner in all these symphonic poems than in

the two symphonies. It seems as if an unconscious sense of the greater

nobility of the classic medium drove Liszt to a far higher inspiration

in his melodic themes.

Yet we cannot deny the brilliant, dazzling strokes, and the luscious

harmonies. It was all a new manner, and alone the novelty is welcome,

not to speak of the broad sweep of facile melody, and the sparkling

thrills.

_LES PRÉLUDES_

This work has a preface by the composer, who refers in a footnote to the

"_Méditations poétiques_" of Lamartine.

"What else is our life than a series of preludes to that unknown song of

which the first solemn note is struck by death? Love is the morning glow

of every heart; but in what human career have not the first ecstasies of

bliss been broken by the storm, whose cruel breath destroys fond

illusions, and blasts the sacred shrine with the bolt of lightning. And

what soul, sorely wounded, does not, emerging from the tempest, seek to

indulge its memories in the calm of country life? Nevertheless, man will

not resign himself for long to the soothing charm of quiet nature, and

when the trumpet sounds the signal of alarm, he runs to the perilous

post, whatever be the cause that calls him to the ranks of war,--that he

may find in combat the full consciousness of himself and the command of

all his powers."

How far is the music literally graphic? We cannot look for the "unknown

song" in definite sounds. That would defeat, not describe, its

character. But the first solemn notes, are not these the solemn rising

phrase that reappears in varying rhythm and pace all about the beginning

and, indeed, the whole course

[Music: _Andante_

(Strings, doubled in two lower 8ves.)]

of the music. Just these three notes abound in the mystic first

"prelude," and they are the core of the great swinging tune of the

Andante maestoso, the beginning and main pulse of the unknown song.

[Music: _Andante maestoso_

(Basses of strings, wood and brass, doubled below; arpeggic

harmonies in upper strings; sustained higher wood)]

Now (_dolce cantando_) is a softer guise of the phrase. For death and

birth, the two portals, are like

[Music: (Strings, with arpeggic violins)

_dolce cantando_

(_Pizz._ basses)]

elements. Even here the former separate motive sounds, and so in the

further turn of the song (_espressivo dolente_) on new thread.

The melody that sings (_espressivo ma tranquillo_) may well stand for

"love, the glow of dawn in every heart." Before the storm, both great

motives (of love and death) sound together very beautifully, as in

[Music: _espress. ma tranquillo_

_dolce._

(Horns and lower strings, with arpeggic harp and violins)]

Tennyson's poem. The storm that blasts the romance begins with the same

fateful phrase. It is all about, even inverted, and at the crisis it

sings with the fervor of full-blown song. At the lull the soft guise

reappears, faintly, like a sweet memory.

The Allegretto pastorale is clear from the preface. After we are lulled,

soothed, caressed and all but entranced by these new impersonal sounds,

then, as if the sovereign for whom all else were preparing, the song of

love seeks its recapitulated verse. Indeed here is the real full song.

Is it that in the memory lies the reality, or at least the realization?

Out of the dream of love rouses the sudden alarm of brass (_Allegro

marziale animato_), with a new war-tune fashioned of the former soft

disguised motive. The air of fate still hangs heavy over all. In

spirited retorts the martial madrigal proceeds, but it is not all mere

war and courage. Through the clash of strife break in the former songs,

the love-theme in triumph and the first expressive strain in tempestuous

joy. Last of all the fateful original motto rings once more in serene,

contained majesty.

On the whole, even with so well-defined a program, and with a full play

of memory, we cannot be quite sure of a fixed association of the motive.

It is better to view the melodic episodes as subjective phases, arising

from the tenor of the poem.

_TASSO_

Liszt's "Tasso" is probably the earliest celebration, in pure tonal

form, of the plot of man's suffering and redemption, that has been so

much followed that it may be called the type of the modern symphony.[A]

In this direct influence the "Tasso" poem has been the most striking of

all of Liszt's creations.

[Footnote A: We may mention such other works of Liszt as "Mazeppa" and

the "Faust" Symphony; the third symphony of Saint-Saëns; Strauss' tone

poem "Death and Transfiguration"; Volbach's symphony, besides other

symphonies such as a work by Carl Pohlig. We may count here, too, the

Heldenlied by Dvôrák, and Strauss' Heldenleben (see Vol. II).]

The following preface of the composer accompanies the score:

"In the year 1849 the one hundredth anniversary of Goethe's birth

was celebrated throughout Germany; the theatre in Weimar, where we

were at the time, marked the 28th of August by a performance of

'Tasso.'

"The tragic fate of the unfortunate bard served as a text for the

two greatest poets produced by Germany and England in the last

century: Goethe and Byron. Upon Goethe was bestowed the most

brilliant of mortal careers; while Byron's advantages of birth and

of fortune were balanced by keenest suffering. We must confess that

when bidden, in 1849, to write an overture for Goethe's drama, we

were more immediately inspired by Byron's reverential pity for the

shades of the great man, which he invoked, than by the work of the

German poet. Nevertheless Byron, in his picture of Tasso in prison,

was unable to add to the remembrance of his poignant grief, so

nobly and eloquently uttered in his 'Lament,' the thought of the

'Triumph' that a tardy justice gave to the chivalrous author of

'Jerusalem Delivered.' We have sought to mark this dual idea in the

very title of our work, and we should be glad to have succeeded in

pointing this great contrast,--the genius who was misjudged during

his life, surrounded, after death, with a halo that destroyed his

enemies. Tasso loved and suffered at Ferrara; he was avenged at

Rome; his glory still lives in the folk-songs of Venice. These

three elements are inseparable from his immortal memory. To

represent them in music, we first called up his august spirit as he

still haunts the waters of Venice. Then we beheld his proud and

melancholy figure as he passed through the festivals of Ferrara

where he had produced his master-works. Finally we followed him to

Rome, the eternal city, that offered him the crown and glorified in

him the martyr and the poet.

"_Lamento e Trionfo_: Such are the opposite poles of the destiny

of poets, of whom it has been justly said that if their lives are

sometimes burdened with a curse, a blessing is never wanting over

their grave. For the sake not merely of authority, but the

distinction of historical truth, we put our idea into realistic

form in taking for the theme of our musical poem the motive with

which we have heard the gondoliers of Venice sing over the waters

the lines of Tasso, and utter them three centuries after the poet:

"'Canto l'armi pietose e'l Capitano

Che'l gran Sepolcro liberò di Christo!'

"The motive is in itself plaintive; it has a sustained sigh, a

monotone of grief. But the gondoliers give it a special quality by

prolonging certain tones--as when distant rays of brilliant light

are reflected on the waves. This song had deeply impressed us long

ago. It was impossible to treat of Tasso without taking, as it

were, as text for our thoughts, this homage rendered by the nation

to the genius whose love and loyalty were ill merited by the court

of Ferrara. The Venetian melody breathes so sharp a melancholy,

such hopeless sadness, that it suffices in itself to reveal the

secret of Tasso's grief. It lent itself, like the poet's

imagination, to the world's brilliant illusions, to the smooth and

false coquetry of those smiles that brought the dreadful

catastrophe in their train, for which there seemed to be no

compensation in this world. And yet upon the Capitol the poet was

clothed with a mantle of purer and more brilliant purple than that

of Alphonse."

With the help of the composer's plot, the intent of the music becomes

clear, to the dot almost of the note. The whole poem is an exposition of

the one sovereign melody, where we may feel a kindred trait of Hungarian

song, above all in the cadences, that must have stirred Liszt's patriot

heart. Nay,--beginning as it does with melancholy stress of the phrase

of cadence and the straying into full rhythmitic exultation, it seems

(in strange guise) another

[Music: _Adagio mesto_

(With rhythmic harp and horns)]

of Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies,--that were, perhaps, the greatest of

all he achieved, where his unpremeditated frenzy revelled in purest

folk-rhythm and tune. The natural division of the Hungarian dance, with

the sad _Lassu_ and the glad _Friss_, is here clear in order and

recurrence. The Magyar seems to the manner born in both parts of the

melody.[A]

[Footnote A: A common Oriental element in Hungarian and Venetian music

has been observed. See Kretschmar's note to Liszt's "Tasso" (Breitkopf &

Haertel).]

In the accents of the motive of cadence (_Lento_) we feel the secret

grief of the hero, that turns _Allegro strepitoso_, in quicker pace to

fierce revolt.

In full tragic majesty the noble theme enters, in panoply of woe. In the

further flow, as in the beginning, is a brief chromatic strain and a

sigh of descending tone that do not lie in the obvious song, that are

drawn by the subjective poet from the latent fibre. Here is the modern

Liszt, of rapture and anguish, in manner and in mood that proved so

potent a model with a later generation.[A]

[Footnote A: See note in the final chapter of Volume II.]

The verse ends in a prolonged threnody, then turns to a firm, serenely

grave burst of the song in major, _Meno Adagio_, with just a hint of

martial grandeur. For once, or the nonce, we seem to see the hero-poet

acclaimed. In a middle episode the motive of the cadence sings

expressively with delicate harmonies, rising to full-blown exaltation.

We may see here an actual brief celebration, such as Tasso did receive

on entering Ferrara.

And here is a sudden fanciful turn. A festive dance strikes a tuneful

trip,--a menuet it surely is, with all the ancient festal charm, vibrant

with tune and spring, though still we do not escape the source of the

first pervading theme. Out of the midst of the dance sings slyly an

enchanting phrase, much like a secret love-romance. Now to the light

continuing dance is joined a strange companion,--the heroic melody in

its earlier majestic pace. Is it the poet in serious meditation at the

feast apart from the joyous abandon, or do we see him laurel-crowned, a

centre of the festival, while the gay dancers flit about him in homage?

More and more brilliant grows the scene, though ever with the dominant

grave figure. With sudden stroke as of fatal blast returns the earlier

fierce burst of revolt, rising to agitation of the former lament,

blending both moods and motives, and ending with a broader stress of the

first tragic motto.

Now, _Allegro con brio_, with herald calls of the brass and fanfare of

running strings (drawn from the personal theme), in bright major the

whole song bursts forth in brilliant gladness. At the height the

exaltation finds vent in a peal of simple melody. The "triumph" follows

in broadest, royal pace of the main song in the wind, while the strings

are madly coursing and the basses reiterate the transformed motive of

the cadence. The end is a revel of jubilation.

_MAZEPPA_

The Mazeppa music is based upon Victor Hugo's poem, in turn founded upon

Byron's verse, with an added stirring touch of allegory.

The verses of Hugo first tell how the victim is tied to the fiery

steed, how--

"He turns in the toils like a serpent in madness,

And ... his tormentors have feasted in gladness

Upon his despair.

* * * * *

"They fly.--Empty space is behind and before them

* * * * *

"The horse, neither bridle nor bit on him feeling,

Flies ever; red drops o'er the victim are stealing:

His whole body bleeds.

Alas! to the wild horses foaming and champing

That followed with mane erect, neighing and stamping,

A crow-flight succeeds.

The raven, the horn'd owl with eyes round and hollow,

The osprey and eagle from battle-field follow,

Though daylight alarm.

* * * * *

"Then after three days of this course wild and frantic,

Through rivers of ice, plains and forests gigantic,

The horse sinks and dies;

* * * * *

"Yet mark! That poor sufferer, gasping and moaning,

To-morrow the Cossacks of Ukraine atoning,

Will hail as their King;

* * * * *

"To royal Mazeppa the hordes Asiatic

Will show their devotion in fervor ecstatic,

And low to earth bow."

In his splendid epilogue the poet likens the hero to the mortal on whom

the god has set his mark. He sees himself bound living to the fatal

course of genius, the fiery steed.

"Away from the world--from all real existence

He is borne upwards, despite his resistance

On feet of steel.

He is taken o'er deserts, o'er mountains in legions,

Grey-hoary, thro' oceans, and into the regions

Far over the clouds;

A thousand base spirits his progress unshaken

Arouses, press round him and stare as they waken,

In insolent crowds

* * * * *

"He cries out with terror, in agony grasping,

Yet ever the mane of his Pegasus clasping,

They heavenward spring;

Each leap that he takes with fresh woe is attended;

He totters--falls lifeless--the struggle is ended--

And rises as King!"[A]

[Footnote A: The English verses are taken for the most part from the

translation of F. Corder.]

The original _Allegro agitato_ in broad 6/4 time (aptly suggestive of

the unbridled motion) grows

[Music: (In brass and strings with lower 8ve.)

(With constant clattering higher strings and

chord of low wind on the middle beat)]

more rapid into an _alla breve_ pace (in two beats), with dazzling maze

of lesser rhythms. Throughout the work a song of primeval strain

prevails. Here and there a tinge of foreshadowing pain appears, as the

song sounds on high, _espressivo dolente_. But the fervor and fury of

movement is undiminished. The brief touch of pathos soon merges in the

general heroic mood. Later, the whole motion ceases, "the horse sinks

and dies," and now an interlude sings a pure plaint (in the strain of

the main motive). Then, _Allegro_, the martial note clangs in stirring

trumpet and breaks into formal song of war, _Allegro marziale_.

[Music: (Brass and strings)

_Allegro marziale_

(With lower 8ve.)]

In the wake of this song, with a relentless trip and tramp of warrior

hordes, is the real clash and jingle of the battle, where the sparkling

thrill of strings and the saucy counter theme are strong elements in the

stirring beauty.

There is a touch here of the old Goth, or rather the Hun, nearer akin to

the composer's race.

At the height rings out the main tune of yore, transformed in triumphant

majesty.

The musical design embraces various phases. First is the clear rhythmic

sense of the ride. We think of other instances like Schubert's

"Erl-King" or the ghostly ride in Raff's "Lenore" Symphony.

The degree of vivid description must vary, not only with the composer,

but with the hearer. The greatest masters have yielded to the variety of

the actual graphic touch. And, too, there are always interpreters who

find it, even if it was never intended. Thus it is common to hear at the

very beginning of the "Mazeppa" music the cry that goes up as starts the

flight.

We are of course entitled, if we prefer, to feel the poetry rather than

the picture. Finally it is probably true that such a poetic design is

not marred merely because there is here or there a trick of

onomatopoeia; if it is permitted in poetry, why not in music? It may be

no more than a spur to the fancy, a quick conjuring of the association.

_HUNNENSCHLACHT--"THE BATTLE OF THE HUNS"_

Liszt's symphonic poem, "Hunnenschlacht," one of the last of his works

in this form, completed in 1857, was directly inspired by the picture of

the German painter, Wilhelm Kaulbach, which represents the legend of the

aerial battle between the spirits of the Romans and Huns who had fallen

outside of the walls of Rome.[A]

[Footnote A: A description of the picture is cited by Lawrence Gilman in

his book, "Stories of Symphonic Music," as follows:

"According to a legend, the combatants were so exasperated that the

slain rose during the night and fought in the air. Rome, which is seen

in the background, is said to have been the scene of this event. Above,

borne on a shield, is Attila, with a scourge in his hand; opposite him

Theodoric, King of the Visigoths. The foreground is a battle-field,

strewn with corpses, which are seen to be gradually reviving, rising up

and rallying, while among them wander wailing and lamenting women."]

The evidence of the composer's intent is embodied in a letter written in

1857 to the wife of the painter, which accompanied the manuscript of an

arrangement of the music for two pianos. In the letter Liszt speaks of

"the meteoric and solar light which I have borrowed from the painting,

and which at the Finale I have formed into one whole by the gradual

working up of the Catholic _choral_ 'Crux fidelis,' and the meteoric

sparks blended therewith." He continues: "As I have already intimated to

Kaulbach, in Munich, I was led by the musical demands of the material to

give proportionately more place to the solar light of Christianity,

personified in the Catholic _choral_ ... than appears to be the case in

the glorious painting, in order to win and pregnantly represent the

conclusion of the Victory of the Cross, with which I both as a Catholic

and as a man could not dispense."

The work begins _tempestuoso_ (_allegro non troppo_), with a nervous

theme over soft rolling drums and

[Music: _Tempestuoso. Allegro non troppo_

(Bassoons with _tremolo_ cellos and roll of kettle-drums)]

trembling low strings, that is taken up as in fugue by successive groups

and carried to a height where enters a fierce call of the horns. The

cries of battle spread with increasing din and gathering speed. At the

first climax the whole motion has a new energy, as the strings in

feverish chase attack the quickened motive with violent stress. Later,

though the motion has not lessened, the theme has returned to a

semblance of its former pace, and again the cries of battle (in brass

and wood) sound across its path.

[Music: (Strings, _tremolo_, doubled above)

(Horns)]

In the hush of the storm the full-blown call to arms is heard in lowest,

funereal tones. Of a sudden, though the speed is the same, the pace

changes with a certain terror as of a cavalry attack. Presently amid the

clattering tramp sounds the big hymn,--in the ancient rhythm that moves

strangely out of the rut of even time.[A]

[Footnote A: Quoted on the following page.]

A single line of the hymn is followed by a refrain of the battle-call,

and by the charge of horse that brings back the hymn, in high pitch of

trumpets. And so recur the former phases of battle,--really of threat

and preparation. For now begins the serious fray in one long gathering

of speed and power. The first theme here grows to full melodic song,

with extended answer, led by strepitous band of lower reed over a heavy

clatter of strings. We are in a

[Music: (Trombones with lower 8ve)

_Marcato_]

maze of furious charges and cries, till the shrill trumpet and the

stentorian trombone strike the full call in antiphonal song. The tempest

increases with a renewed charge of the strings, and now the more distant

calls have a slower sweep. Later the battle song is in the

basses,--again in clashing basses and trebles; nearer strike the broad

sweeping calls.

Suddenly over the hushed motion in soothing harmonies sings the hymn in

pious choir of all the brass. Then the gathering speed and volume is

merged in a majestic tread as of ordered array (_Maestoso assai;

Andante_); a brief spirited prelude of martial motives is answered by

the soft religious strains of the organ on the line of the hymn:

"Crux fidelis, inter omnes

Arbor una nobilis,

Nulla silva talem profert

Fronde, flore, germine.

Dulce lignum, dulces clavos,

Dulce pondus sustinet."[A]

[Footnote A:

Faithful cross, among the trees

Thou the noblest of them all!

Forest ne'er doth grow a like

In leaf, in flower or in seed.

Blessed wood and blessed nails,

Blessed burden that it bears!]

As in solemn liturgy come the answering phrases of the organ and the big

chorus in martial tread. As the hymn winds its further course, violins

entwine about the harmonies. The last line ends in expressive strain and

warm line of new major tone,--echoed in interluding organ and violins.

Suddenly a strict, solemn tread, with sharp stress of violins, brings a

new song of the _choral_. Strings alone play here "with pious

expression"; gradually reeds add support and ornament. A lingering

phrase ascends on celestial harmonies. With a stern shock the plain hymn

strikes in the reed, against a rapid course of strings, with fateful

tread. In interlude sound the battle-cries of yore. Again the hymn ends

in the expressive cadence, though now it grows to a height of power.

Here a former figure (the first motive of the battle) reappears in a

new guise of bright major,[A] in full, spirited stride, and leads once

more to a blast of the hymn, with organ and all, the air in unison of

trumpets and all the wood. The expressive cadence merges into a last

fanfare of battle, followed by a strain of hymns and with reverberating

Amens, where the organ predominates and holds long after all other

sounds have ceased.

[Footnote A: In the whole tonality we may see the "meteoric and solar

light" of which the composer speaks in the letter quoted above.]

CHAPTER VI

THE SYMPHONIC POEMS OF SAINT-SAËNS

There is something charming and even ideal in a complete versatility,

quite apart from the depth of the separate poems, where there is a

never-failing touch of grace and of distinction. The Philip Sydneys are

quite as important as the Miltons, perhaps they are as great. Some poets

seem to achieve an expression in a certain cyclic or sporadic career of

their fancy, touching on this or that form, illuminating with an elusive

light the various corners of the garden. Their individual expression

lies in the _ensemble_ of these touches, rather than in a single

profound revelation.

A symptom of the eminence of Saint-Saëns in the history of French music

lies in his attitude towards the art as a whole, especially of the

German masters,--the absence of national bias in his perceptions. He was

foremost in revealing to his countrymen the greatness of Bach, Beethoven

and Schumann. Without their influence the present high state of French

music can hardly be conceived.

It is part of a broad and versatile mastery that it is difficult to

analyze. Thus it is not easy to find salient traits in the art of M.

Saint-Saëns. We are apt to think mainly of the distinguished beauty of

his harmonies, until we remember his subtle counterpoint, or in turn

the brilliancy of his orchestration. The one trait that he has above his

contemporaries is an inbred refinement and restraint,--a thorough-going

workmanship. If he does not share a certain overwrought emotionalism

that is much affected nowadays, there is here no limitation--rather a

distinction. Aside from the general charm of his art, Saint-Saëns found

in the symphonic poem his one special form, so that it seemed Liszt had

created it less for himself than for his French successor. A fine

reserve of poetic temper saved him from hysterical excess. He never lost

the music in the story, disdaining the mere rude graphic stroke; in his

dramatic symbols a musical charm is ever commingled. And a like poise

helped him to a right plot and point in his descriptions. So his

symphonic poems must ever be enjoyed mainly for the music, with perhaps

a revery upon the poetic story. With a less brilliant vein of melody,

though they are not so Promethean in reach as those of Liszt, they are

more complete in the musical and in the narrative effect.

_DANSE MACABRE_

Challenged for a choice among the works of the versatile composer, we

should hit upon the _Danse Macabre_ as the most original, profound and

essentially beautiful of all. It is free from certain lacks that one

feels in other works, with all their charm,--a shallowness and almost

frivolity; a facility of theme approaching the commonplace.

There is here an eccentric quality of humor, a daemonic conceit that

reach the height of other classic expression of the supernatural.

The music is founded upon certain lines of a poem of _Henri Calais_

(under a like title), that may be given as follows:

Zig-a-zig, zig-a-zig-a-zig,

Death knocks on the tomb with rhythmic heel.

Zig-a-zig, zig-a-zig-zig,

Death fiddles at midnight a ghostly reel.

The winter wind whistles, dark is the night;

Dull groans behind the lindens grow loud;

Back and forth fly the skeletons white,

Running and leaping each under his shroud.

Zig-a-zig-a-zig, how it makes you quake,

As you hear the bones of the dancers shake.

* * * * *

But hist! all at once they vanish away,

The cock has hailed the dawn of day.

The magic midnight strokes sound clear and sharp. In eager chords of

tuned pitch the fiddling ghost summons the dancing groups, where the

single fife is soon followed by demon violins.

Broadly sings now the descending tune half-way between a wail and a

laugh. And ever in interlude is the skipping, mincing step,--here of

reeds answered by solo violin with a light clank of cymbals. Answering

the summoning fifes, the unison troop of fiddlers dance the main step

to bright strokes of triangle, then the main ghostly violin trips in

with choir of wind. And broadly again sweeps the song between tears and

[Music: _In waltz rhythm_

(Flute)

(Harp, with sustained bass note of strings)]

smiles. Or Death fiddles the first strain of reel for the tumultuous

answer of chorus.

Now they build a busy, bustling fugue (of the descending song) and at

the serious moment suddenly

[Music: (Solo violin)

_Largamente_

(_Pizz._ strings)]

they skip away in new frolicsome, all but joyous, tune: a shadowy

counterfeit of gladness, where the sob hangs on the edge of the smile.

As if it could no longer be contained, now pours the full passionate

grief of the broad descending strain. Death fiddles his mournful chant

to echoing, expressive wind. On the abandon of grief follows the revel

of grim humor in pranks of mocking demons. All the strains are mingled

in the ghostly bacchanale. The descending song is answered in opposite

melody. A chorus of laughter follows the tripping dance. The summoning

chords, acclaimed by chorus, grow to appealing song in a brief lull. At

the height, to the united skipping dance of overpowering chorus the

brass blows the full verse of descending song. The rest is a mad storm

of carousing till ... out of the whirling darkness sudden starts the

sharp, sheer call of prosaic day, in high, shrill reed. On a minishing

sound of rolling drum and trembling strings, sings a brief line of

wistful rhapsody of the departing spirit before the last whisking steps.

_PHAETON_

On a separate page between title and score is a "_Notice_,"--an epitome

of the story of Phaeton, as follows:

"Phaeton has been permitted to drive the chariot of the Sun, his father,

through the heavens. But his unskilful hands frighten the steeds. The

flaming chariot, thrown out of its course, approaches the terrestrial

regions. The whole universe is on the verge of ruin when Jupiter strikes

the imprudent Phaeton with his thunderbolt."

There is a solemn sense at first (_Maestoso_), a mid-air poise of the

harmony, a quick spring of resolution and--on through the heavens. At

the outset and always is the pervading musical charm. In the beginning

is the enchantment of mere motion in lightest prancing strings and harp

with slowly ascending curve. In farther journey comes a spring of the

higher wood and soon a firm note of horns and a blast of trumpets on a

chirruping call, till the whole panoply of solar brilliance is

shimmering. Now with the continuing pulse (of saltant strings) rings a

buoyant,

[Music: _Allegro animato_

(Violins)

_Marcato_ (Trumpets and trombones)]

regnant air in the brass. A (canon) chase of echoing voices merely adds

an entrancing bewilderment, then yields to other symbols and visions.

Still rises the thread of pulsing strings to higher empyraean and then

floats forth in golden horns, as we hang in the heavens, a melody

tenderly solemn, as of pent delight, or perhaps of a more fatal hue,

with the solar orb encircled by his satellites.

Still on to a higher pole spins the dizzy path; then at the top of the

song, it turns in slow descending curve. Almost to Avernus seems the

gliding fall when the first melody rings anew. But there is now an

anxious sense that dims the joy of motion and in the

[Music: (With trembling of violins in high B flat)

(Horns)]

returning first motive jars the buoyant spring. Through the maze of

fugue with tinge of terror presses the fatuous chase, when--crash comes

the shock of higher power. There is a pause of motion in the din and a

downward flight as of lifeless figure.

Now seems the soul of the sweet melody to sing, in purest dirge, without

the shimmer of attendant motion save a ghostly shadow of the joyous

symbol.

_THE YOUTH OF HERCULES_

The "Legend" is printed in the score as follows:

"Fable tells us that upon entering into life Hercules saw the two paths

open before him: of pleasure and of virtue.

"Insensible to the seductions of Nymphs and Bacchantes, the hero devotes

himself to the career of struggle and combat, at the end of which he

glimpses across the flames of the funeral pyre the reward of

immortality."

We can let our fancy play about the score and wonderfully hit an

intention of the poet. Yet that is often rather a self-flattery than a

real perception. In the small touches we may lose the greater beauty.

Here, after all, is the justification of the music. If the graphic

picture is added, a little, only, is gained. The main virtue of it lies

in our better grasp of the musical design.

In the muted strings, straying dreamily in pairs, is a vague line of the

motto,--a foreshadowing of the heroic idea, as are the soft calls of the

wind with wooing harp a first vision of delight.

[Music: _Allegro moderato_

(Strings)]

Now begins the main song in sturdy course of unmuted strings. The wood

soon join in the rehearsing. But it is not all easy deciphering. The

song wanders in gently agitated strings while the horns hold a solemn

phrase that but faintly resembles the motto.[A] Lesser phrases play

about the bigger in rising flight of aspiration, crowned at the height

with a ray of glad light.

[Footnote A: It is well to resist the vain search for a transnotation of

the story. And here we see a virtue of Saint-Saëns himself, a national

trait of poise that saved him from losing the music in the picture. His

symphonic poems must be enjoyed in a kind of musical revery upon the

poetic subject. He disdained the rude graphic stroke, and used dramatic

means only where a musical charm was commingled.]

As the dream sinks slowly away, the stern motto is buried in quick

flashes of the tempting call. These are mere visions; now comes the

scene itself of temptation.

To ripples of harp the reed sings enchantingly in swaying rhythm; other

groups in new surprise of

[Music: (Flutes, oboe, clarinets and harp)]

scene usurp the melody with the languishing answer, until one Siren

breaks into an impassioned burst, while her sisters hold the dance.

Straight upon her vanished echoes shrieks the shrill pipe of war, with

trembling drum. We hear a yearning sigh of the Siren strain before it is

swept away in the tide and tumult of strife. Beneath the whirl and

motion, the flash and crash of arms, we have glimpses of the heroic

figure.

Here is a strange lay in the fierce chorus of battle-cries: the Siren

song in bright insistence, changed to the rushing pace of war.

The scene ends in a crash. Loud sings a solemn phrase; do we catch an

edge of wistful regret? Now returns the sturdy course of the main

heroic melody; only it is slower (_Andante sostenuto_), and the high

stress of cadence is solemnly impassioned.

As if to atone for the slower pace, the theme strikes into a lively

fugue, with trembling strings (_Allegro animato_).

There is an air of achievement in the relentless progress and the

insistent recurrence of the masterful motive. An episode there is of

mere striving and straining, before the theme resumes its vehement

attack, followed by lusty echoes all about as of an army of heroes.

There is the breath of battle in the rumbling basses and the shaking,

quivering brass.

At last the plain song resounds in simple lines of ringing brass, led by

the high bugle.[A]

[Footnote A: Saint-Saëns employs besides the usual 4 horns, 2 trumpets,

3 trombones and tuba, a small bugle (in B-flat) and 2 cornets.]

Yet the struggle, the inner combat, is not over. At the very moment of

triumph sings on high over purling harp the mastering strain of Sirens,

is buried beneath martial clash and emerges with its enchantment. But

here the virile mood and motive gains the victory and strides on to

final scene.

We remember how Hercules built and ascended his own funeral pyre. In

midst of quivering strings, with dashing harp and shrieking wood, a roll

of drum and a clang of brass sounds the solemn chant of the trombone,

descending in relentless steps. As the lowest is reached, there comes a

spring of freedom in the pulsing figures, like the winging of a spirit,

and a final acclaim in a brief line of the legend.

_OMPHALE'S SPINNING WHEEL_

Between title and score is this _Notice_:

"The subject of this symphonic poem is feminine witchery, the triumphant

struggle of weakness. The spinning wheel is a mere pretext, chosen from

the point of view of rhythm and the general atmosphere of the piece.

"Those persons who might be interested in a study of the details of the

picture, will see ... the hero groaning in the toils which he cannot

break, and ... Omphale mocking the vain efforts of Hercules."

The versions of the story differ slightly. After the fulfilment of his

twelve labors Hercules is ordered by the oracle to a period of three

years' service to expiate the killing of the son of King Eurytus in a

fit of madness. Hermes placed him in the household of Omphale, queen of

Lydia, widow of Tmolus. Hercules is degraded to female drudgery, is

clothed in soft raiment and set to spin wool, while the queen assumes

the lion skin and club.

In another version he was sold as slave to Omphale, who restored him to

freedom. Their passion was mutual. The story has a likeness to a similar

episode of Achilles.

The spinning-wheel begins _Andante_ in muted strings alternating with

flutes and gradually hurries into a lively motion. Here the horn accents

the spinning, while another thread (of higher wood) runs through the

graceful woof. A chain of alluring harmonies preludes the ensnaring

song, mainly of woodwind above the humming strings, with soft dotting of

the harmony by the horns. The violins, to be sure, often enforce the

melody.

[Music: _Andantino_

(Fl. and muted violins)

_Grazioso_

(Strings, muted)]

In the second verse, with fuller chorus, the harp adds its touches to

the harmony of the horns, with lightest tap of tonal drum. Later a

single note of the trumpet is answered by a silvery laugh in the wood.

Between the verses proceeds the luscious chain of harmonies, as with the

turning of the wheel.

Now with the heavily expressive tones of low, unmuted strings and the

sonorous basses of reed and brass (together with a low roll of drum and

soft clash of cymbals) an heroic air sings in low strings and brass, to

meet at each period a shower of notes from the harp. The song grows

intense with the

[Music: (Wood and _trem._ violins doubled above)

(Horns)

_espress. e pesante_

(Cellos, basses, bassoons and trombone, doubled below)]

added clang of trumpets and roll of drums,--only to succumb to the more

eager attack of the siren chorus. At last the full effort of strength

battling vainly with weakness reaches a single heroic height and sinks

away with dull throbs.

In soothing answer falls the caressing song of the high reed in the

phrase of the heroic strain, lightly, quickly and, it seems, mockingly

aimed. In gently railing triumph returns the pretty song of the wheel,

with a new buoyant spring. Drums and martial brass yield to the laughing

flutes, the cooing horns and the soft rippling harp with murmuring

strings, to return like captives in the train at the height of the

gaiety.

CHAPTER VII

CÉSAR FRANCK

The new French school of symphony that broke upon the world in the

latter part of the nineteenth century had its pioneer and true leader in

César Franck.[A] It was he who gave it a stamp and a tradition.

[Footnote A: If language and association, as against the place of birth,

may define nationality, we have in César Franck another worthy

expression of French art in the symphony. He was born at Liège in 1822;

he died in 1890.]

The novelty of his style, together with the lateness of his acclaim (of

which it was the probable cause), have marked him as more modern than

others who were born long after him.

The works of Franck, in other lines of oratorio and chamber music, show

a clear personality, quite apart from a prevailing modern spirit. A

certain charm of settled melancholy seems to inhere in his wonted style.

A mystic is Franck in his dominant moods, with a special sense and power

for subtle harmonic process, ever groping in a spiritual discontent with

defined tonality.

A glance at the detail of his art discloses Franck as one of the main

harmonists of his age, with Wagner and Grieg. Only, his harmonic manner

was blended if not balanced by a stronger, sounder counterpoint than

either of the others. But with all the originality of his style we

cannot escape a sense of the stereotype, that indeed inheres in all

music that depends mainly on an harmonic process. His harmonic ideas,

that often seem inconsequential, in the main merely surprise rather than

move or please. The enharmonic principle is almost too predominant,--an

element that ought never to be more than occasional. For it is founded

not upon ideal, natural harmony, but upon a conventional compromise, an

expedient compelled by the limitation of instruments. This over-stress

appears far stronger in the music of Franck's followers, above all in

their frequent use of the whole tone "scale" which can have no other

_rationale_ than a violent extension of the enharmonic principle.[A]

With a certain quality of kaleidoscope, there is besides (in the

harmonic manner of César Franck) an infinitesimal kind of progress in

smallest steps. It is a dangerous form of ingenuity, to which the

French are perhaps most prone,--an originality mainly in details.

[Footnote A: Absolute harmony would count many more than the semitones

of which our music takes cognizance. For purpose of convenience on the

keyboard the semitonal raising of one note is merged in the lowering of

the next higher degree in the scale. However charming for occasional

surprise may be such a substitution, a continuous, pervading use cannot

but destroy the essential beauty of harmony and the clear sense of

tonality; moreover it is mechanical in process, devoid of poetic fancy,

purely chaotic in effect. There is ever a danger of confusing the novel

in art with new beauty.]

And yet we must praise in the French master a wonderful workmanship and

a profound sincerity of sentiment. He shows probably the highest point

to which a style that is mainly harmonic may rise. But when he employs

his broader mastery of tonal architecture, he attains a rare height of

lofty feeling, with reaches of true dramatic passion.

The effect, to be sure, of his special manner is somewhat to dilute the

temper of his art, and to depress the humor. It is thus that the

pervading melancholy almost compels the absence of a "slow movement" in

his symphony. And so we feel in all his larger works for instruments a

suddenness of recoil in the Finale.

One can see in Franck, in analogy with his German contemporaries, an

etherealized kind of "Tristan and Isolde,"--a "Paolo and Francesca" in a

world of shades. Compared with his followers the quality of stereotype

in Franck is merely general; there is no excessive use of one device.

A baffling element in viewing the art of Franck is his remoteness of

spirit, the strangeness of his temper. He lacked the joyous spring that

is a dominant note in the classic period. Nor on the other hand did his

music breathe the pessimism and naturalism that came with the last

rebound of Romantic reaction. Rather was his vein one of high spiritual

absorption--not so much in recoil, as merely apart from the world in a

kind of pious seclusion. Perhaps his main point of view was the

church-organ. He seems a religious prophet in a non-religious age. With

his immediate disciples he was a leader in the manner of his art, rather

than in the temper of his poetry.

_SYMPHONY IN D MINOR_

The scoring shows a sign of modern feeling in the prominence of the

brasses. With all contrast of spirit, the analogy of Franck with the

Liszt-Wagner school and manner is frequently suggestive.

The main novelty of outer detail is the plan of merely three movements.

Nor is there a return to the original form, without the Scherzo. To

judge from the headings, the "slow" movement is absent. In truth, by way

of cursory preamble, the chronic vein of César Franck is so ingrainedly

reflective that there never can be with him an absence of the meditative

phrase. Rather must there be a vehement rousing of his muse from a state

of mystic adoration to rhythmic energy and cheer.[A]

[Footnote A: The key of the work is given by the composer as D minor.

The first movement alone is in the nominal key. The second (in B flat)

is in the submediant, the last in the tonic major. The old manner in

church music, that Bach often used, of closing a minor tonality with a

major chord, was probably due to a regard for the mood of the

congregation. An extension of this tradition is frequent in a long coda

in the major. But this is quite different in kind from a plan where all

of the last movement is in insistent major. We know that it is quite

possible to begin a work at some distance from the main key, leading to

it by tortuous path of modulation; though there is no reason why we may

not question the composer's own inscription, the controlling point is

really the whole tonal scheme. Here the key of the second movement is

built on a design in minor,--would have less reason in the major. For it

rests on a degree that does not exist in the tonic major. To be sure,

Beethoven did invent the change to a lowered submediant in a succeeding

movement. And, of course, the final turn to the tonic major is virtually

as great a license.]

_Lento_ in basses of the strings a strain sounds like a basic motive,

answered with harmonies in the wood. In further strings lies the full

tenor of quiet reflection, with sombre color of tonal scheme. Motives

are less controlling probably in Franck than in any other

symphonist,--less so, at any rate, than his one

[Music: _Lento_]

special mood and manner. Yet nowhere is the strict figural plot more

faithful in detail than with César Franck.

The theme has an entirely new ring and answer when it enters Allegro

after the Lento prelude. The further course of the tune here is in

eccentric, resolute stride in the descending scale. Our new answer is

much evident in the bass. The Allegro seems a mere irruption; for the

Lento prelude reappears in full solemnity. Indeed, with all the title

and pace, this seems very like the virtual "slow" movement. A mood of

rapt, almost melancholy absorption prevails, with rare flashes of joyous

utterance, where the Allegro enters as if to break the thrall of

meditation. A very striking inversion of the theme now appears. The

gradual growth of phrases in melodious instalments is a trait of Franck

(as it is of Richard Strauss). The rough motto at each turn has a new

[Music: _Allegro non troppo_

(Strings)

(Wind)]

phase and frequently is transfigured to a fresh tune. So out of the

first chance counter-figures somehow spring beautiful melodies, where we

feel the fitness and the relevance though we have not heard them before.

It is a quality that Franck shares with Brahms, so that in a

mathematical spirit we might care to deduce all the figures from the

first phrase. This themal manner is quite analogous to the harmonic

style of Franck,--a kaleidoscope of gradual steps, a slow procession of

pale hues of tone that with strange aptness reflect the dim religious

light of mystic musing.

More and more expressive are the stages of the first figures until we

have a duet _molto cantabile_ in the strings. Much of the charm of the

movement lies in the balance of the new rhythms, the eccentric and the

flowing. By some subtle path there grows a song

[Music: _Allegro. Molto cantabile_]

in big tones of unison, wood and strings and trumpets, that is the real

hymnal refrain of the movement. Between this note almost of exultation

and all shades of pious dreaming the mood is constantly shifting.

[Music: _Allegro_]

Another phrase rises also to a triumphant height (the clear reverse of

the former tuneful melody) that comes now like a big _envoi_ of assuring

message.

Though the whole movement is evenly balanced between Allegro and

Penseroso (so far as pace is concerned), the mood of reflection really

finds full vent; it has no reason for a further special expression.

Simple as the Allegretto appears in its suggestion of halting dance, the

intent in the episodes is of the subtlest. The slow trip of strings and

harp is soon given a new meaning with the melody of English horn.

Throughout we are somehow divided between pure dance and a more

thoughtful muse. In the first departure to an episode in major, seems to

sing the essence of the former melody in gently murmuring strings, where

later the whole chorus are drawn in. The song moves on clear thread and

wing right out of the mood of the dance-tune; but the very charm lies in

the mere outer change of guise. And so the second episode is still far

from all likeness with the first dance beyond a least sense of the old

trip that does appear here and there. It is all clearly a true scheme of

variations, the main theme disguised beyond outer semblance, yet

faithfully present throughout in the essential rhythm and harmony.

In the Finale, _Allegro non troppo_, we are really clear, at the outset,

of the toils of musing melancholy.

[Music: _Allegro non troppo_

_Dolce cantabile_]

After big bursts of chords, a tune rolls pleasantly along, _dolce

cantabile_, in basses of wood and strings. Expressive after-phrases

abound, all in the same jolly mood, until the whole band break

boisterously on the simple song, with a new sonorous phrase of basses.

Then, in sudden remove, sounds the purest bit of melody of all the

symphony, in gentlest tones

[Music: _Dolce cantabile_

(In the brass)]

of brass (trumpet, trombone and tuba). But, though in complete recoil

from the rhythmic energy of Allegro theme, it is even farther from the

reflective mood than the latter. It shows, in this very contrast, the

absence of the true lyric in the meditative vein, frequent with César

Franck. The burst of melody blossoms ever fairer. In its later musing

the tune browses in the bass. A waving phrase grows in the violins,

which continues with strange evenness through the entrance of new song

where we are surprised by the strange fitness of the Allegretto melody.

And the second phase of the latter follows as if it belonged here. So,

almost listless, without a hair of rhythmic change (_les temps ont

toujours la même valeur_), the Finale theme sings again most softly in

the strings. It has, to be sure, lost all of its color, without the

original throb of accompanying sounds. The phase of the movement is a

shadowy procession of former ideas, united in the dreamy haze that

enshrouds them. The stir that now begins is not of the first pale hue of

thought, rather the vein of big discussion, brewing a storm that breaks

finally in full blast on the gentle melody (of the brass) transfigured

in ringing triumph, in all the course of the song. Nor is the succeeding

phase the mystic habit of our poet; it is a mere farther digestion of

the meat of the melody that leads once more to a height of climax whence

we return to first course of themes, tuneful afterphrase and all, with

the old happy motion. The counterpoint here is the mere joyous ringing

of many strains all about.

Against all rules comes a new chorusing paean on the theme of

Allegretto, led by stentorian basses, together with an enchanting

after-strain, which we might have remarked before. And still another

quarter, long hushed, is heard anew, as a voice sounds a faint reminder

of the hymn of the first Allegro. Indeed, the combining strains before

the close seem sprung all of one parental idea. The motto of the

beginning sings in fittest answer to the latest phrases. The very maze

of the concert forbids our turning to their first origin. The end is in

joyous chanting of the Finale melody.

CHAPTER VIII

D'INDY AND THE FOLLOWERS OF FRANCK

Perhaps the noblest essay in symphonic music of the followers of Franck

is the second symphony of Vincent D'Indy.[A] His vein is indeed

throughout nearest akin of all the disciples to the serious muse of the

master.

[Footnote A: Vincent d'Indy was born in Paris on March 27, 1852.]

Though D'Indy is surpassed in a certain poetic originality by some of

his compatriot contemporaries, there is in this symphony a breadth of

design and detail, a clear melodic quality and a sustained lofty feeling

that seem to mark it the typical French symphony of its time. The

strength of the work lies in a unity that is not merely of figure and

outline. If we must measure a symphony mainly by the slow movement, we

cannot avoid, with all the languorous beauty, a certain conventionality

of mood, stressed with an exotic use of the appoggiatura, while in the

Scherzo is a refined savagery of modern cacophony.

The directions are all in French; we are reminded of Schumann's

departure from the Italian fashion.

Each movement, save the third, has its prelude: a gathering of threads

before the new story. The first notes of basses, together with the

answer on high, sound a prophetic legend of the whole.

The harmonic lucubrations are profoundly subtle. Indeed the very nature

of the first phrase is of dim

[Music: _Extrêmémént Lent._ (Woodwind)

(Strings and harps)]

groping; it ends in a climax of the answer and merges into the main song

of the Allegro (_très vif_) in horns, with rapid trip of strings.

[Music: _Très vif_ (Horns)

(Strings)]

Throughout (from a technical view) is a fine mastery of the device of

ornamental notes, and secondary harmonies; there is also a certain

modern sense of chords and their relations. Together with an infinite

brilliance of these resources there is not only no weakness in cogency

of form, but there is a rare unity of design. The movements are bound

together, at least in themal relation, as strictly as in any symphony.

While the first phrase of the Allegro theme may hark back to the answer

of original motto, the second is the main thread of narrative.

[Music: (Flutes, oboes and clarinets)

_Sempre staccato_]

Again and again is the climax rung on the first high note of the theme.

Then, in lieu of cadence, out of a bright dissonance the quick notes

dance upward in sturdy pace, the answer of the Allegro in sharp

disguise. And then from the height descends a refreshing spray of

subtlest discords, ending in another masterful burst of new harmony.

The dainty, dazzling play is stopped by a rough thud of basses and a

fierce clang of chords. In the sharp blare of brass on the ascending

phrase is almost lost the original motto in lowest basses. It is now

heard in gradually quickened speed, while the rising phrase runs more

timidly. At last the quickened motto sinks gently into lulling motion,

_un peu plus modéré_. Above, in strings and horns, the melody haunts us

with a dim sense that takes us to the first languishing answer of the

original legend. And the whole is strong-knit; for the very Allegro

theme began in resolute mood of a like figure. A counter-strain rises to

meet the main phrase. The whole episode is an intertwining of song in

the vein of the first answer of motto.

The quick rising notes suddenly return with snatches of the main motive,

the chain of echoing phrases runs a gamut of moods, fitful, anxious,

soothed, until the bright upward trip begins anew, with the enchanting

burst of chord and descending harmonies. A climactic height is stressed

by a rough meeting of opposing groups, in hostile tone and movement,

ending in a trill of flutes and a reëntry of the episode.

In the returning Allegro the thread is still the same, though richer in

color and texture. Again there is the plunge into dark abyss, with

shriek of harp, and the ominous theme in the depths. The slow ascending

phrase here has a full song and sway. The end is in spirited duet of two

quick motives.

The second movement, _modérément lent_, begins in revery on the answer

of original motive, and the stately pathos of the theme, in horns,

clarinets and violas, with rhythmic strings, grows naturally out of the

mood.

_Plus animé_, in subtle change of pace (from 6/4 to 3/2), the episode

begins with eccentric stride of harps (and added woodwind), that serves

as a kind of

[Music: _Modérément Lent._

(Melody in horns, clarinets and violas)

(Acc'd in strings)]

accompanying figure and foil for the sweeping song of the real second

melody (in oboe solo, succeeded by the clarinet).

[Music: (Oboe solo)

_Très espress._

(Violins)

(Acc't in bassoons, horns, harps and basses)]

In the clash of themes and harmonies of the climax, the very limits of

modern license seem to be invoked. Later the three themes are entwined

in a passage of masterly counterpoint.

There is a touch of ancient harmony in the delicate tune of third

movement, which has the virtue of endless weaving. It is sung by solo

violin, mainly supported by a choir of lower strings.

A final conclusive line is given by the solo flute. Besides the constant

course of varying tune, there is a power of ever changing harmony that

seems to lie in some themes.

[Music: _Modéré_

(Viola solo)

_Très simplement_]

One can hardly call it all a Scherzo. It is rather an idyll after the

pathos of the Andante. Or, from another view, reversing the usual order,

we may find the quality of traditional Trio in the first melody and a

bacchanale of wild humor in the middle. For, out

[Music: _Très animé_

(Woodwind and strings)]

of a chance phrase of horns grows of all the symphony the boldest

harmonic phrase (repeated through ten bars). Above rings a barbarous

cry, in defiance of common time and rhythm.

Suddenly we are surprised by the sound of the martial stride of the

second theme of the Andante which moves on the sea of rough harmony as

on a native element. One whim follows another. The same motion is all

there, but as if in shadow, in softest sound, and without the jar of

discord; then comes the fiercest clash of all, and now a gayest dance of

the first tune, _assez vif_, in triple rhythm, various figures having

their _pas seul_. A second episode returns, brilliant in high pace but

purged of the former war of sounds. At the end is the song of the first

tune, with new pranks and sallies.

The beginning of the Finale is all in a musing review of past thoughts.

The shadow of the last tune lingers, in slower pace; the ominous dirge

of first motto sounds below; the soothing melody of the Andante sings a

verse. In solemn fugue the original motto is reared from its timid

phrase to masterful utterance, with splendid stride. Or

[Music: _Modéré et solennel_

(Cellos and basses)]

rather the theme is blended of the first two phrases, merging their

opposite characters in the new mood of resolution. The strings prepare

for the sonorous entrance of woodwind and horns. One of the greatest

fugal episodes of symphonies, it is yet a mere prelude to the real

movement, where the light theme is drawn from a phrase of latest

cadence. And the dim hue of minor which began the symphony, and all

overspread the prelude, at last yields to the clear major. There is

something of the struggle of shadow and light of the great third

symphony of Brahms.

The continuous round of the theme, in its unstable pace (of 5/4), has a

strange power of motion, the feeling

[Music: (Ob.)

(Strings)]

of old passacaglia. To be sure, it is the mere herald and companion of

the crowning tune, in solo of the reeds.

From the special view of structure, there is no symphony, modern or

classic, with such an overpowering combination and resolution of

integral themes in one movement. So almost constant is the derivation of

ideas, that one feels they must be all related. Thus, the late rush of

rhythm, in the Finale, is broken by a quiet verse where with enchanting

subtlety we are carried back somewhere to the idyll of third movement.

Above, rises another melody, and from its simple outline grows a fervor

and pathos that, aside from the basic themes of the whole work, strike

the main feeling of the Finale.

[Music: _Un peu moins vite_]

The martial trip from the Andante joins later in the return of the

whirling rhythm. At last the motto strikes on high, but the appealing

counter-melody is not easily hushed.

[Music: (Ob.)

(Cellos with _tremolo_ violins)]

It breaks out later in a verse of exalted beauty and passion. The

struggle of the two ideas reminds us of the Fifth Symphony. At last the

gloom of the fateful motto is relieved by the return of the original

answer, and we seem to see a new source of latest ideas, so that we

wonder whether all the melodies are but guises of the motto and answer,

which now at the close, sing in united tones a hymn of peace and bliss.

CHAPTER IX

DÉBUSSY AND THE INNOVATORS