THE SONATAS
MacDowell never hesitated, as I have elsewhere said, to adapt--some
would say "warp"--the sonata form to the needs of his poetic purposes.
Moreover, he declared his convictions as to the considerations which
should govern its employment. "If the composer's ideas do not
imperatively demand treatment in that [the sonata] form," he has
observed--"that is, if his first theme is not actually dependent upon
his second and side themes for its poetic fulfilment--he has not
composed a sonata movement, but a potpourri, which the form only
aggravates." There can be little question of the success which has
attended his application of this principle to his own performances in
this field, nor of the skill and tact with which he has reshaped the
form in accordance with his chosen poetic or dramatic scheme.
His four sonatas belong undeniably, though with a variously strict
allegiance, to the domain of programme-music. Neither the "Tragica,"
the "Eroica," the "Norse," nor the "Keltic," makes its appeal
exclusively to the tonal sense. If one looks to these works for the
particular kind of gratification which he is accustomed to derive, for
example, from a sonata by Brahms (to name the most extreme of
contrasts), he will not find it. It is impossible fully to appreciate
and enjoy the last page of the "Keltic," for instance, without some
knowledge of the dramatic crisis upon which the musician has
built--although its beauty and power, as sheer music, are immediately
perceptible.
With the exception of the "Tragica," the poetic substratum of the
sonatas has been avowed with more or less particularity. In the
"Tragica"--his first essay in the form--he has vouchsafed only the
general indication of his purpose which is declared in the title of
the work, though it is known that in composing the music MacDowell was
moved by the memory of his grief over the death of his master Raff (it
might stand even more appropriately as a commentary on the tragedy of
his own life). The tragic note is sounded, with impressive authority
and force, in the brief introduction, _largo maestoso_. The music,
from the first, drives to the very heart of the subject: there is
neither pose nor bombast in the presentation of the thought; and this
attitude is maintained throughout--in the ingratiating loveliness of
the second subject, in the fierce striving of the middle section, in
the noble and sombre slow movement,--a _largo_ of profound pathos and
dignity,--and in the dramatic and impassioned close (the scherzo is, I
think, less good). Of this final _allegro_ an exposition has been
vouchsafed. While in the preceding movements, it is said, he aimed at
expressing tragic details, in the last he has tried to generalise. He
wished "to heighten the darkness of tragedy by making it follow
closely on the heels of triumph. Therefore, he attempted to make the
last movement a steadily progressive triumph, which, at its close, is
utterly broken and shattered, thinking that the most poignant tragedy
is that of catastrophe in the hour of triumph.... In doing this he has
tried to epitomise the whole work." The meaning of the _coda_ is thus
made clear: a climax approached with the utmost pomp and brilliancy,
and cut short by a _precipitato_ descent in octaves, _fff_, ending
with a reminiscence of the portentous subject of the introduction. It
is a profoundly moving conclusion to a noble work--a work which Mr.
James Huneker has not extravagantly called "the most marked
contribution to solo sonata literature since Brahms' F-minor piano
sonata"; yet it is not so fine a work as any one of the three sonatas
which MacDowell afterward wrote. The style evinces, for the first time
in his piano music, the striking orchestral character of his
thought--yet the writing is not, paradoxical as it may seem,
unpianistic. The suggestion of orchestral relationships is contained
in the massiveness of the harmonic texture, and in the cumulative
effect of the climaxes and crescendi. He conveys an impression of
extended tone-spaces, of a largeness, complexity, and solidity of
structure, which are peculiar to his own music, and which presuppose a
rather disdainful view of the limitations of mere strings and hammers;
yet it is all playable: its demands are formidable, but not
prohibitive.
[Illustration (Score): FACSIMILE OF A PORTION OF THE MS. OF THE
"SONATA TRAGICA"]
In 1895 MacDowell published his "Sonata Eroica" (op. 50), and those
who had wondered how he could better his performance in the "Tragica"
received a fresh demonstration of the extent of his gifts. For these
sonatas of his constitute an ascending series, steadily progressive in
excellence of substance and workmanship. They are, on the whole, I
think it will be determined, his most significant and important
contribution to musical art. The "Eroica" bears the motto, "Flos
regum Arthuris," and as a further index to its content MacDowell has
given this explanation: "While not exactly programme music,"[14] he
says, "I had in mind the Arthurian legend when writing this work. The
first movement typifies the coming of Arthur. The scherzo was
suggested by a picture of Doré showing a knight in the woods
surrounded by elves. The third movement was suggested by my idea of
Guinevere. That following represents the passing of Arthur." MacDowell
had intended to inscribe the scherzo: "After Doré"; but he finally
thought better of this because, as he told Mr. N.J. Corey, "the
superscription seemed to single it out too much from the other
movements." Concerning this movement Mr. Corey writes: "The passage
which it [the Doré picture] illustrates, may be found in [Tennyson's]
_Guinevere_, in the story of the little novice, following a few lines
after the well known 'Late, late, so late!' poem. I always had a
little feeling," continues Mr. Corey, "that the sonata would have been
stronger, from a programme standpoint, with this movement
omitted--that it had perhaps been included largely as a concession to
the traditions of sonata form. The fact that no scherzos were included
in the two sonatas that followed, strengthened my opinion in regard to
this. I questioned him in regard to it later when I saw him in New
York, and he replied that it was a matter over which he had pondered
considerably, and one which had influenced him in the composition of
the last two sonatas, as the insertion of a scherzo in such a scheme
did seem something like an interruption, or 'aside.'"
[14] It must be confessed that this qualification is a little
difficult to grasp. Is not the sonata dependent for its complete
understanding upon a knowledge of its literary basis? MacDowell
exhibits here the half-heartedness which I have elsewhere remarked
in his attitude toward representative music.
In this sonata MacDowell has been not only faithful to his text, he
has illuminated it. Indeed, I think it would not be extravagant to say
that he has given us here the noblest musical incarnation of the
Arthurian legend which we have. It is singular, by the way, how
frequently one is impelled to use the epithet "noble" in praising
MacDowell's work; in reference to the "Sonata Eroica" it has an
emphatic aptness, for nobility is the keynote of this music. If the
work, as a whole, has not the dynamic power of the "Tragica," the
weight and gravity of substance, it is both a lovelier and a more
lovable work, and it is everywhere more significantly accented. He has
written few things more luxuriantly beautiful than the "Guinevere"
movement, nothing more elevated and ecstatic than the apotheosis which
ends the work. The diction throughout is richer and more variously
contrasted than in the earlier work, and his manipulation of the form
is more elastic.
Apparent as is the advance of the "Eroica" over its predecessor, the
difference between these and the two later sonatas--the "Norse" and
the "Keltic"--is even more marked. The first of these, the "Norse"
sonata (op. 57) appeared five years after the publication of the
"Eroica." In the interval he had put forth the "Woodland Sketches,"
the "Sea Pieces," and the songs of op. 56 and op. 58; and he had,
evidently, examined deeply into the resources and potentialities of
his art. He had hitherto done nothing quite like these two later
sonatas; they are based upon larger and more intricate plans than
their predecessors, are more determined and confident in their
expression of personality, riper in style and far freer in form: they
are, in fact, MacDowell at his most salient and distinguished. He has
placed these lines of his own on the first page of the score of the
"Norse" (which is dedicated to Grieg):
"Night had fallen on a day of deeds.
The great rafters in the red-ribbed hall
Flashed crimson in the fitful flame
Of smouldering logs;
And from the stealthy shadows
That crept 'round Harald's throne
Rang out a Skald's strong voice
With tales of battles won:
Of Gudrun's love
And Sigurd, Siegmund's son."
Here, evidently, is a subject after his own heart, presenting such
opportunities as he is at his happiest in improving--and he has
improved them magnificently. The spaciousness of the plan, the boldness
of the drawing, the fulness and intensity of the colour scheme, engage
one's attention at the start. He has indulged almost to its extreme
limits his predilection for extended chord formations and for phrases
of heroic span--as in, for example, almost the whole of the first
movement. The pervading quality of the musical thought is of a
resistless and passionate virility. It is steeped in the barbaric and
splendid atmosphere of the sagas. There are pages of epical breadth and
power, passages of elemental vigour and ferocity--passages, again, of
an exquisite tenderness and poignancy. Of the three movements which the
work comprises, the first makes the most lasting impression, although
the second (the slow movement) has a haunting subject, which is
recalled episodically in the final movement in a passage of
unforgettable beauty and character.
With the publication, in 1901, of the "Keltic" sonata (his fourth, op.
59),[15] MacDowell achieved a conclusive demonstration of his capacity
as a creative musician of unquestionable importance. Not before had he
given so convincing an earnest of the larger aspect of his genius:
neither in the three earlier sonatas, in the "Sea Pieces," nor in the
"Indian" suite, had he attained an equal magnitude, an equal scope and
significance. Nowhere else in his work are the distinguishing traits
of his genius so strikingly disclosed--the breadth and reach of
imagination, the magnetic vitality, the richness and fervour, the
conquering poetic charm. Here you will find a beauty which is as "the
beauty of the men that take up spears and die for a name," no less
than "the beauty of the poets that take up harp and sorrow and the
wandering road"--a harp shaken with a wild and piercing music, a
sorrow that is not of to-day, but of a past when dreams were actual
and imperishable, and men lived the tales of beauty and of wonder
which now are but a discredited and fading memory.
[15] Dedicated, like the "Norse," to Grieg.
It was a fortunate, if not an inevitable, event, in view of his
temperamental affiliations with the Celtic genius, that MacDowell
should have been made aware of the suitability for musical treatment
of the ancient heroic chronicles of the Gaels, and that he should
have gone for his inspiration, in particular, to the legends
comprised in the famous Cycle of the Red Branch: that wonderful group
of epics which comprises, among other tales, the story of the
matchless Deirdré,--whose loveliness was such, so say the
chroniclers, that "not upon the ridge of earth was there a woman so
beautiful,"--and the life and adventures and glorious death of the
incomparable Cuchullin. These two kindred legends MacDowell has
welded into a coherent and satisfying whole; and in a verse with
which he prefixes the sonata, he gives this index to its poetic
content:
"Who minds now Keltic tales of yore,
Dark Druid rhymes that thrall;
Deirdré's song, and wizard lore
Of great Cuchullin's fall."
At the time of the publication of the sonata he wrote to me as
follows concerning it:
"... Here is the sonata, which it is a pleasure to me to offer you
as a token of sympathy. I enclose also some lines [of his own
verse] anent Cuchullin, which, however, do not entirely fit the
music, and which I hope to use in another musical form. They may
serve, however, to aid the understanding of the _stimmung_ of
the sonata. Cuchullin's story is in touch with the Deirdré-Naesi
tale; and, as with my 3rd Sonata, the music is more a commentary
on the subject than an actual depiction of it."
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A PASSAGE FROM THE ORIGINAL MS. OF THE
"KELTIC" SONATA]
The "lines anent Cuchullin" I quote below. They do not, as he said,
have a parallel in the sonata as a whole; but in the _coda_ of the
last movement (of which I shall speak later) he has attempted a
commentary on the scene which he here describes:
"Cuchullin fought and fought in vain,
'Gainst faery folk and Druid thrall:
And as the queenly sun swept down.
In royal robes, red gold besown,
With one last lingering glance
He sate himself in lonely state
Against a giant monolith,
To wait Death's wooing call.
None dared approach the silent shape
That froze to iron majesty,
Save the wan, mad daughters of old Night,
Blind, wandering maidens of the mist,
Whose creeping fingers, cold and white,
Oft by the sluggard dead are kissed.
And yet the monstrous Thing held sway,
No living soul dared say it nay;
When lo! upon its shoulder still,
Unconscious of its potent will,
There perched a preening birdling gray,
A'weary of the dying day;
And all the watchers knew the lore:
Cuchullin was no more."
To Mr. Corey MacDowell wrote:
"... Even though you are not on intimate terms with Deirdré,
Cuchullin, etc., you will easily perceive from the music that
something extremely unpleasant is happening. Joking aside, I will
confess to a certain fascination the subject has for me. So much
so that my 'motto' [the original motto--the verses which I have
quoted above] spread beyond the music; therefore I am going to
make a different work of the former, and for the sonata I adopted
the modest quatrain that is printed in it.... Like the third,
this fourth sonata is more of a 'bardic' rhapsody on the subject
than an attempt at actual presentation of it, although I have
made use of all the suggestion of tone-painting in my power,--just
as the bard would have reinforced _his_ speech with gesture
and facial expression."
He aimed to make his music, as he says, "more a commentary on the
subject than an actual depiction of it"; but the case would be stated
more truly, I think, if one were to say that he has penetrated to the
heart of the entire body of legends, has imbued himself with their
ultimate spirit and significance, and has bodied it forth in his music
with splendid veracity and eloquence. He has attempted no mere musical
recounting of those romances of the ancient Gaelic world at which he
hints in his brief motto. It would be juster to say, rather, that he
has recalled in his music the very life and presence of the Gaelic
prime--that he has "unbound the Island harp." Above all, he has
achieved that "heroic beauty" which, believes Mr. Yeats, has been
fading out of the arts since "that decadence we call progress set
voluptuous beauty in its place"--that heroic beauty which is of the
very essence of the imaginative life of the primitive Celts, and which
the Celtic "revival" in contemporary letters has so signally failed to
revive. For it is, I repeat, the heroic Gaelic world that MacDowell
has made to live again in his music: that miraculous world of
stupendous passions and aspirations, of bards and heroes and great
adventure--the world of Cuchullin the Unconquerable, and Laeg, and
Queen Meave; of Naesi, and Deirdré the Beautiful, and Fergus, and
Connla the Harper, and those kindred figures, lovely or greatly
tragical, that are like no other figures in the world's mythologies.
This sonata marks the consummation of his evolution toward the acme of
powerful expression. It is cast in a mould essentially heroic; it has
its moods of tenderness, of insistent sweetness, but these are
incidental: the governing mood is signified in the tremendous exordium
with which the work opens, and which is sustained, with few
deviations, throughout the work. Deirdré he has realised exquisitely
in his middle movement: that is her image, in all its fragrant
loveliness. MacDowell has limned her musically in a manner worthy of
comparison with the sumptuous pen-portrait of her in Standish
O'Grady's "Cuculain": "a woman of wondrous beauty, bright gold her
hair, eyes piercing and splendid, tongue full of sweet sounds, her
countenance like the colour of snow blended with crimson."
In the close of the last movement we are justified in seeing a
translation of the sublime tradition of Cuchullin's death. This it is
which furnished MacDowell with the theme that he celebrates in the
lines of verse which I have quoted above. I believe that he was
planning an orchestral setting of this scene; and that, had he lived,
we should have had from him a symphonic poem, "Cuchullin."
The manner of the hero's death is thus described by Standish O'Grady:
"Cuculain sprang forth, but as he sprang, Lewy MacConroi pierced him
through the bowels. Then fell the great hero of the Gael. Thereat the
sun darkened, and the earth trembled ... when, with a crash, fell that
pillar of heroism, and that flame of the warlike valour of Erin was
extinguished.... Then Cuculain, raising his eyes, saw thence
northwards from the lake a tall pillar-stone, the grave of a warrior
slain there in some ancient war. With difficulty he reached it and he
leaned awhile against the pillar, for his mind wandered, and he knew
nothing for a space. After that he took off his brooch, and removing
the torn bratta [girdle], he passed it round the top of the pillar,
where there was an indentation in the stone, and passed the ends under
his arms and around his breast, tying with languid hands a loose knot,
which soon was made fast by the weight of the dying hero; thus they
beheld him standing with the drawn sword in his hand, and the rays of
the setting sun bright on his panic-striking helmet. So stood
Cuculain, even in death-pangs, a terror to his enemies, for a deep
spring of stern valour was opened in his soul, and the might of his
unfathomable spirit sustained him. Thus perished Cuculain ..."
Superb as this is, it is paralleled by MacDowell's tone-picture. That,
for nobility of conception, for majestic solemnity and pathos, is a
musical performance which measures up to the level of superlative
achievements.
If there is anything in the literature of the piano since the death of
Beethoven which, for combined passion, dignity, breadth of style,
weight of momentum, and irresistible plangency of emotion, is
comparable to the four sonatas which have been considered here, I do
not know of it. And I write these words with a perfectly definite
consciousness of all that they may be held to imply.