An inquiry into the gradual cultivation of the genius of our great
musical composers is as instructive as it is interesting to the lover of
music. Before attempting this inquiry, it is advisable to ascertain
exactly what is meant by the designation "our great composers."
To compose music does not only imply to invent musical ideas, but also
to employ ideas which are already invented in such a way as to exhibit
them in a new light. Certain modulations, passages, and rhythmical
combinations occurring in our musical compositions may be regarded as
common property; but how surprisingly original and fresh do they often
appear to us through the new way in which they are employed by composers
in connection with other ideas! Now, a composer who has the power to
construct very beautiful works of art in a certain form, by inventing
ideas and by showing in a new light ideas not invented by him, deserves
to be regarded as a great composer.
However, in order to trace the gradual progress of his genius, it is not
sufficient to examine his studies, or, so to say, to watch him in his
workshop; we must commence our inquiry further back, and observe him
first as a promising child.
Unfortunately, of the early initiatory lessons of our great composers
but little is generally ascertainable. Celebrated musicians have more
important occupation than to explain their earliest instructions; or
they have to a great extent forgotten how they learnt in childhood the
rudiments of their art. Still the initiatory lessons are especially
noteworthy, since the foundation exercises an almost ineffaceable
influence upon the subsequent direction of the musical student.
The talent for music in children is not always so easily discovered as
might be supposed. Idleness, not unusual in fast-growing children, or
indifference caused by injudicious training, may be mistaken for want of
talent. There are records extant of distinguished musicians who in early
childhood evinced neither talent nor fondness for music. Others, who,
showing no inclination to learn the musical instrument on which they
received instruction, have unexpectedly exhibited much talent and
industry in practising on another kind of instrument of their own
choice. Most of our distinguished musicians have manifested from early
childhood a preference for a particular instrument which they
perseveringly cultivated, and on which they afterwards excelled.
Parents are apt to see talent in their children where it does not exist,
or, at least, not in the supposed degree. Some even find unmistakable
evidence of musical talent in the shape of the head of their offspring.
A peculiar formation of the skull, especially about the temples, is
certainly observable in many clever musicians, and may be recognized in
the few portraits which are known to be faithful likenesses of great
composers. It would be interesting to know whether the infantine musical
prodigies, of which there have been so many during the present century,
generally possessed this phrenological indication. Be this as it may,
they have become great composers in only exceptional instances. Indeed,
early musical prodigies have but seldom achieved in after-life so much
as was expected from them. There are, however, exceptions; for instance,
Mozart. Dr. Crotch in his infancy displayed abilities as extraordinary
as Mozart's. At the age of three years and a half he could play some
harmonized tunes on the pianoforte, and when he was five years old he
performed in public on the organ at a benefit concert in London. He
afterwards achieved comparatively but little, and did not realise the
expectations which as a child he had excited.
There are instances on record of musicians who in their early childhood
were forced against their inclination to practise assiduously, and who
must have been tortured by the incessant care for their progress
bestowed on them by their parents. They became brilliant players, making
music like a well-constructed machine. Our great composers have
generally had a happier childhood. They were, in most instances,
children whose physical development was especially attended to; who were
permitted to ramble about in fields and forests, and by outdoor
amusements and bodily exercises to lay the foundation for a healthy
life. This, perhaps, sufficiently explains why not all of them have
displayed a precocity of talent in early childhood. Indeed, their full
development has been in many instances but slow, and several of them did
not produce their best works until they had attained an age exceeding
that generally allotted to musicians. Gluck composed his 'Iphigenia in
Tauris' at the age of sixty-five; Haydn composed the 'Creation' in his
sixty-ninth year, and the 'Seasons' in his seventy-second year. Handel
was fifty-six years old when he wrote the 'Messiah,' and sixty-one when
he wrote 'Judas MaccabÊus.'
Some of our most gifted musicians have required much longer time than
others for cultivating their talent, because they had not in childhood
the same advantage of guidance which others had, and were consequently
compelled to find out for themselves the best method of cultivation.
Perhaps there now walks behind a plough a Handel, who has not shown that
he is a man of genius because circumstances prevented his knowing and
cultivating his powers. Happy is the artist who, in his childhood, was
led by a judicious guide in the way which saves much time, trouble, and
disappointment! Mozart had such a guide in his father; also Mendelssohn.
Weber deserves, perhaps, all the greater praise from the fact of his
father having been an impediment rather than a help to him.
A systematic education in childhood presents the greatest advantage;
this is too self-evident to require further comment. It may also be
taken for granted that the moral and mental education of the young
composer is not less important than are his musical studies. Nay, his
moral training is even of higher importance, since one _may_ be a good
musician, but _must_ be a good man. Moreover, he is sure to become a
better musician if he possesses an acute discernment of right and wrong,
with love for the former and dislike to the latter.
As regards his mental education, it is more important for him to know
_how_ to think than _what_ to think. A clear discernment is preferable
to much information; at any rate, it is better to know but little and to
understand that little clearly, than to know a great deal confusedly.
There can be no doubt that a classical education is of great advantage
to the musician, not only on account of the refining influence which a
familiarity with classical literature exercises upon the artistic mind,
but also on account of the languages. An acquaintance with two or three
modern languages is almost indispensable to the composer. Latin poetry
occurs not unfrequently in Church music; and several old treatises on
music have been written in Latin, and are therefore not accessible to
musicians unacquainted with this language. It does not, of course,
follow that to be a great composer one must know Latin; however, many
musicians have thought it advisable in their later years to study this
language, when they had not the opportunity of studying it in their
youth.
Talented young musicians sometimes appear rather deficient in their
mental cultivation. The enthusiasm with which they pursue their musical
studies is apt to cause them to neglect other studies. But there is no
real deficiency of intellectual gifts; on the contrary, they have
generally a great versatility of talent. This often becomes apparent in
their later years. Several eminent musicians have evinced much talent
for painting. The humorous, witty, and clever remarks of some of our
great composers are notorious.
Without having thoroughly mastered the technicalities of the art, it is
impossible to achieve anything of artistic value. An assiduous and
persevering cultivation of the talent is as necessary as the talent
itself. It has generally cost a musical composer long and continued
labour to produce a valuable work of art. He attained his aim by knowing
what was requisite for its achievement, and by labouring perseveringly
to attain it.
As has been already intimated, it is of great importance for the
progress of the future composer that his initiatory lessons should be
correct, so that there is nothing learnt which afterwards requires to be
unlearnt. A bad touch on the pianoforte, or a wrong method of bowing in
playing the violin, is scarcely ever entirely remedied in later years.
Example is better than precept. A teacher who, by playing to his pupil,
can show him how a passage ought to be executed, may save him much time
and trouble. Our celebrated singers have generally learnt the most
easily the best they are able to accomplish by having been sung to.
However, music may be learnt by different methods, and each method may
have something to recommend it. The teacher must study the pupil to find
out what is the best for him.
Our great composers had generally instruction in singing very early.
Indeed, a composer who has not cultivated his voice in childhood is not
likely to write vocal music so effectively as would be the case if he
had accustomed himself to sing his melodies while inventing them. Even
the melodious phrases in his instrumental compositions are likely to be
more impressive if he has been a singer from early age.
Furthermore, the young student has to learn to play in a high degree of
perfection at least one musical instrument. The pianoforte is--in our
time, perhaps--the best suited for his purpose, on account of the
harmony and of the arrangement of orchestral works executable on the
instrument. Most of our great composers were pianists, harpsichord
players, or organists. There are, it is true, exceptions. Gluck's
instrument was the violoncello; Spohr's, the violin. But even composers
who are not pianists, generally, while composing for the orchestra, make
use of the pianoforte.
The best musical performer is he who can play the most simple melody
with the greatest expression; and the second best is he who can play the
most difficult passages with the greatest correctness. Some pianists of
astonishing manual dexterity are unable to play a simple tune with
proper expression; others cannot execute well a technically easy sonata
by Mozart, because they have not learnt--or, perhaps, have
forgotten--the pure expression required for such unaffected music. The
execution of many modern pianists is best suited for the performance of
their own compositions.
If the young musician is bent upon becoming a distinguished _virtuoso_,
it may easily be disadvantageous to him as a composer, not only on
account of the time he will require for practising his fingers, but also
because his fingers are apt to induce him to compose for them instead of
for the heart. A great composer generally plays one instrument masterly;
and he has, probably, found it expedient to learn another instrument or
two besides that which he has principally cultivated. If, in addition to
the pianoforte, he can play the viola or violoncello in a quartet, or
Bach's pedal-fugues on the organ, he possesses the means of
familiarising himself more thoroughly with many of our classical
compositions than he could possibly do by merely hearing or reading
them; and the familiarity thus acquired is beneficial to him. Moreover,
some practical experience with wind-instruments is useful to the
composer of orchestral works. Our great masters knew this, and acted
upon it.
The exercise of the fingers takes up time, but not necessarily much. One
hour of practice with great attention is better than three hours of
careless practice. The former has not only the advantage that it
advances the student more rapidly, but also that it leaves him the time
required for other studies, reading, and recreation. Several of our
great composers could be named who, notwithstanding their diligent
studies from their youth, always found plenty of time for bodily
exercise, and for amusements conducive to the preservation of health and
energy--such as pedestrian tours, riding, fencing, swimming, dancing,
etc.
The young musician has soon to commence the study of the theory of
music, especially if he exhibits decided talent for composing. He must
learn to write with facility any musical composition strictly according
to the rules which have been laid down by our theorists as they found
them observed in the works of the great masters. When he has acquired
the skill to write correctly and fluently in the different forms of
composition, it will be early enough for him to disregard the rules
occasionally where he thinks it advisable for his purpose. Perhaps he
may establish a new one. By far the greater number of our rules of
composition are not dictated by any physical law traceable in acoustics,
but only by human taste, which is continually undergoing modifications
in the course of time. Thus, most of our great composers have caused
some alterations in our theory of music. It is not only possible, but
probable, that in a hundred years' time we shall have admirable musical
compositions very different in form and construction from our present
ones.
Several of our great composers in their youth excelled in extemporising.
They were fond of it, and spent many an hour in pouring forth on their
favourite instrument their momentary inspirations and fanciful
conceptions. Extempore fantasias are sometimes so original and effective
that it is a pity they cannot be preserved by being committed to
notation at the moment of their creation. However, charming as such
spontaneous effusions may be on account of their freshness, they do not
possess the artistic value of an elaborately constructed and carefully
finished work. At any rate, our great composers have in their youth
derived greater benefit from carefully working out in notation a theme
according to a certain form of composition, than from indulging in
extempore fantasias. These have, however, often helped them in creating
beautiful ideas for their works.
It may easily be understood that a retentive memory is of great value to
the musician, be he composer or merely performer. Talented young
musicians not unfrequently possess an astounding memory. Sonatas,
symphonies, and even fugues, which they practise, they can soon play by
heart. As they advance in years the power of memory generally becomes
somewhat weaker. Blind musicians appear to preserve it undiminished for
a longer period than others. The blind flutist Dulon knew 120 flute
concertos by heart, which he had numbered, and any one of which he could
play instantly on its number being mentioned to him. True, there is
musically little gained by burdening the memory with compositions which
chiefly consist of compilations of passages calculated to display the
dexterity and skill of the performer. The works which the musician ought
to be able to recall to his memory are the classical works, such as
Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' Mozart's 'Don Giovanni,' Beethoven's
Symphonies, Handel's 'Messiah,' Bach's 'Passion according to St.
Matthew.' There are not a few among our great composers who studied the
master-works of their predecessors so effectually that they knew by
heart a considerable number of them from beginning to end, with the
instrumentation of every bar.
As regards the different forms of composition, that of the sonata is the
most important; for, if the composer is able to express his ideas with
facility in this form, he possesses the key to all the other
forms--except some of the older ones, as that of the fugue. Certain
theorists recommend the student of composition to select a sonata by
Mozart, or some other master, in which the established form is strictly
adhered to, and to write a precisely similar sonata by imitating the
model bar for bar, using the same time, tempo, modulations, changes in
loudness, and so on--only substituting other notes. No doubt he may thus
manufacture a sonata which is correct in form, whatever it may be in
spirit. Our great composers did not arise from students trained to make
music as the shoemaker makes shoes.
The form of the fugue has already become antiquated, and that of the
sonata is more and more neglected by our present composers, and
apparently will likewise become antiquated in the course of time. But
until we have beautiful examples of some new form, it is not probable
that those forms which have been gradually brought to a high degree of
perfection will be entirely dispensed with, whatever modern composers
may produce exhibiting an indifference to the rules observed by their
predecessors.
Our great composers were particularly careful in the choice of the
theme. This is only what might be expected. An orator who discourses on
an uninteresting subject will not easily command the attention of his
hearers. Still, if he is gifted with extraordinary powers of eloquence,
he may discourse on almost any subject interestingly. Thus also in
music. Beethoven and other great composers have occasionally chosen a
theme which becomes significant only from its original and spirited
treatment.
The artistic charm of a well-constructed composition consists in the
development of the theme, so that it is exhibited in a variety of
beautiful aspects--appearing, though always the same, yet always new.
The skill of thus treating the theme, our great composers, by constant
study and practice, have cultivated to an admirable degree of
perfection. They were fully aware that it is as indispensable to the
composer as is the power of creating an interesting musical idea.
However, the development of the theme may be carried too far. It appears
pedantic when it is contrived more with regard to the form than to the
spirit of the music; and it disturbs the unity of the composition when
the theme is so much changed as to appear an entirely new idea.
Schubert, in his pianoforte sonatas, has not unfrequently altered the
theme so much that its second exposition does not bear the required
resemblance with its first; it becomes another theme, which is not
wanted. For the clever development of a theme Schubert did not possess
sufficient practical experience acquired by systematic study. Had he
possessed a full command over the rules of the art--and especially, had
he written less hastily--he might, with his wonderful gifts, have been
as great a composer as Beethoven.
A few examples from Beethoven's book of sketches may find a place here,
since they throw some light upon his studies. The alterations which he
marked with "_meilleur_" are generally decided improvements upon the
first notation of the idea to which they refer. This is, for instance,
strikingly apparent in his sketches of his famous song 'Adelaide,' the
beginning of which, noted down at first thus:--
[Music]
he afterwards altered into:--
[Music]
The following sketches from Beethoven's pocket-book refer to his Quartet
in C[#] minor, Op. 131, with which they must be compared to
render the several attempts at improvement more clearly intelligible:--
[Music]
The first sketches for a tenth symphony, which Beethoven intended to
compose, are noted by him thus:--
[Music]
Beethoven wrote _As_ over the little fragment of the Andante, evidently
to indicate that he intended it to be in A flat major--_As_ signifying
in German _A flat_.
As an interesting specimen of Haydn's sketches, the following notation
of his first design of the earthquake in the 'Seven Last Words' may
serve. The entire sketch of which this is a fragment, has been published
in the 'Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,' Leipsig, 1848:--
[Music]
Haydn, as well as Beethoven, generally used one staff for his first
sketches; Mozart made them more clear by using two staves--one for the
melody and another for the bass. Still, as the sketches are only
indications to assist the memory, which is, as we have seen, in
composers generally very strong, especially when their own inventions
are concerned, a hasty notation is in most instances sufficient. In
writing the score of an orchestral composition, Haydn, Mozart and
Beethoven usually noted down the entire thread of a movement, or what
may be called the melody and the bass of the piece; and having written
this, they inserted the notation for the various instruments.
In submitting the manuscript of a composition to a final revision, or in
preparing a new edition of a published work, our great composers have
not unfrequently introduced improvements which testify to their
unabating study as well as to their delicacy of taste and discernment.
One or two examples in support of this opinion shall be pointed out
here. Others will probably occur to the musical reader.
AndrÈ, in Offenbach, has published the score of the overture to the
'Zauberflˆte' (the Magic Flute), from Mozart's original manuscript, with
its alterations and corrections. This interesting publication exhibits
clearly the care bestowed by Mozart upon the work, and affords an
excellent study for the musician.
A remarkable improvement by extension occurs in Mozart's famous Symphony
in C major. Mendelssohn speaks of it with admiration in a letter to
Moscheles as follows: "Just now AndrÈ sends me for inspection the
original score of Mozart's C major Symphony ('Jupiter'); I shall copy
something from it for you which will amuse you. Eleven bars before the
end of the Adagio it stood formerly thus:--
[Music]
and so on, as it proceeds to the end. Mozart has written the entire
repetition of the theme on an inserted leaf; he has struck out the
passage, and has introduced it three bars before the end. Is that not a
happy alteration? The repetition of the seven bars belongs to my most
favourite portions of the whole symphony."[28]
The Adagio of Beethoven's Sonata in B flat major, Op. 106, originally
commenced with its present second bar thus:--
[Music]
Beethoven had sent, in the year 1819, a copy of the manuscript of this
sonata to Ferdinand Ries, in London, who had undertaken to superintend
its publication in England. Great must have been the astonishment of
Ries when, soon after the arrival of the bulky manuscript of this
gigantic sonata, he received a letter from Beethoven containing the
notation of an additional single bar:--
[Music]
to be placed at the beginning of the Adagio. The beautiful effect
obtained by the alteration is especially noteworthy, inasmuch as it
serves as an example of the incessant care which Beethoven bestowed upon
the improvement of his compositions up to the last moment of their
publication.
Probably no composer has revised his manuscripts more carefully, and
re-written whole pieces with the view of improving them, than has J. S.
Bach. His forty-eight Preludes and Fugues, entitled 'Das wohltemperirte
Clavier,' afford instructive examples of improvements, which may be
traced by a comparison of the several editions of the work, and
especially by an examination of the several manuscripts of these
preludes and fugues in Bach's handwriting which have been preserved.
The prelude in C major, in the first set, was originally longer than in
subsequent revisions. The second half, which Bach has struck out, was a
repetition of its first half.
The prelude in C[#] major, in the first set, he has curtailed by
striking out thirty-five bars. This he did evidently for the purpose of
increasing the unity of this charming composition by discarding what was
foreign to its character, as indicated by the theme.
On the other hand, the beautiful prelude in D minor, in the same set, he
has considerably enlarged.
These few remarks must suffice to draw the reader's attention to the
careful reconsideration given by Bach to 'Das wohltemperirte Clavier.'
Beethoven generally kept his manuscripts a long time by him, and altered
and polished them up gradually. This he did especially with the
manuscripts of his earlier compositions. Gluck, in composing an opera,
carried out in his mind the principal airs and choruses before he wrote
down a note; so that, when he began to commit the music to paper, he
considered his opera as almost finished. Mozart, too, had sometimes a
whole new composition in his head before he commenced writing it down.
The overture to 'Don Giovanni' he is recorded, by some of his
biographers, to have composed a few hours before the first performance
of the opera, so that the copied parts for the musicians were not yet
dry when they were carried into the orchestra. Probably Mozart did not
compose the overture when he committed it to paper, but had it ready in
his head. He was often composing when otherwise occupied, and even while
he was playing billiards.
A musical composer may have a good reason for preserving the manuscript
of his new work though he considers it a failure. He may wish to refer
to it after a time to ascertain whether his unfavourable opinion remains
unchanged on a subsequent examination. Perhaps it contains ideas which
he may be glad to employ in later years when his power of invention
begins to flag. Still, a celebrated musician would do wisely to destroy
any such manuscripts when he no longer requires them; otherwise they are
sure to arise against him after his death as posthumous works. They
will, at least, lower his fame, if it is too great to be seriously
injured by them. In truth, there is often harm done to art as well as to
artists by these posthumous publications--in most instances weak
productions which have been permitted to live from carelessness of the
composers, or perhaps from the natural affection which a father feels
for even his most ill-favoured child.
Our great composers have generally been extremely cautious, especially
during the earlier part of their lifetime, in selecting for publication
only such of their manuscripts as they were fully justified in
considering worthy of being published. As regards most musicians, it
would be better for their reputation if they had published only half
the number of their works, and destroyed the other half.
It is a noteworthy fact that our great composers have occasionally
produced beautiful effects by disregarding the rules laid down in
treatises on the theory of music. Beethoven has been not unfrequently a
trespasser in this respect. Weber, in the Introductory Chorus of the
elves, in 'Oberon,' produces really charming consecutive fifths. So does
Handel, in the beautiful Pastoral Symphony in the 'Messiah':--
[Music]
and Gluck repeatedly, in the beautiful air of Rinaldo, in 'Armida':--
[Music]
Graun, in his cantata, 'Der Tod Jesu' (The Death of Jesus), introduces
into the first chorale consecutive fifths upon the words "Zur Frevelthat
entschlossen" (On evil deed resolved), thus:--
[Music: Zur Fre-vel-that ent-schlos-sen]
which, no doubt, was considered by some musicians as remarkably
appropriate to the words, although, probably, they could not have heard
it in the performance, had they not previously seen it in notation. Not
such whims only, but even oversights and misprints occurring in the
works of eminent masters have found admirers, who regarded them as
strokes of genius; while, on the other hand, some of the most original
and surpassingly beautiful ideas were thought to be misprints, and
attempts have actually been made by theorists to correct them.
A curious instance of a misprint which by many admirers of Beethoven has
been accepted as a beautiful inspiration occurs in the scherzo of his C
minor Symphony. To dispel all doubt of its being a misprint, Mendelssohn
caused the publishers of the Symphony to make known a letter addressed
to them by Beethoven in the year 1810, in which he says: "The following
mistake I still find in the C minor Symphony, namely, in the third
piece, in 3/4 time, where, after C major, the minor key recommences. It
stands thus (I take at once the bass part):--
[Music]
The two bars marked with * are redundant, and must be struck out; of
course, also in all the other parts which have rests." A reference to
the manuscript in the possession of the publishers revealed how the two
superfluous bars had crept in. Beethoven had originally intended that
the entire scherzo, with the trio, should be repeated, and then be
concluded by the coda. He had marked in the manuscript the two
superfluous bars with 1, and the two following ones with 2, and had
written with a red pencil, "_Si replica con trio allora 2_," which the
engraver had not exactly understood. As also the written parts for the
instruments, which were used at the first performance of the C minor
Symphony in Vienna, under Beethoven's direction, do not possess those
two bars, there remains not the least doubt that they were never
intended by the composer to be where they are now found to the delight
of many enthusiastic admirers of Beethoven.
A misprint in Beethoven's 'Sinfonia Pastorale' (which Schumann points
out in his 'Gesammelte Schriften,' Vol. IV.) is almost too evident to be
left uncorrected, even by those who find it beautiful. In the second
part of the first movement, where the theme recommences, with the
accompaniment of triplets, the score has the following notations:--
[Music]
That here, by mistake, three rests for the first violins have been
inserted by the engraver, instead of three simile-signs, [simile marks],
is evident from the sudden interruption of the flow of the triplet
accompaniment, as well as from the fact that immediately afterwards, in
the inversion of the same passage, the violas have the same
accompaniment without any interruption. Otto Jahn, in his 'Gesammelte
Aufs‰tze ¸ber Musik,' notices a misprint in the score of Beethoven's
last Quartet, Op. 135, which is very extraordinary. He says: "In the
last movement the copyist has omitted two bars in the first violin part,
so that during twelve bars it is two bars in advance of the other
instruments. After the twelve bars, the corrector perceiving that two
bars were wanting to restore the equilibrium, has inserted two there
according to his own fancy." Jahn gives side by side the genuine reading
and the interpolated one. The wonder is that the latter is playable at
all,--or rather, that the musicians, in playing it, should not have
discovered at once that there must be something radically wrong.
However, as Jahn justly remarks, the respect for the eccentricities of
Beethoven's last quartets was so great, that no one ventured to think
there could be a mistake here which required rectifying.
A carefully-compiled manual, containing reliable corrections of the most
important misprints occurring in our classical compositions, would be a
boon to the musical student. There are many in Bach's fugues, and even
in Beethoven's sonatas, which are not easily detected, but which are on
this account all the more noteworthy.
The following beautiful conception, which occurs in the first movement
of Beethoven's Sinfonia Eroica, was regarded by many, on the first
publication of the symphony, as a misprint:--
[Music]
Ferdinand Ries, the pupil of Beethoven, was unable to appreciate the
charm of this soft and timid indication of the theme on a dissonance
immediately before it gloriously breaks out on the harmonious triad. In
his biographical notices of Beethoven he thus speaks of it: "In the
first Allegro of the Symphony there occurs a bad whim of Beethoven for
the horn. Some bars before the theme enters again, in the second part of
the Allegro, Beethoven indicates it by the horn, while the violins
continue to sound the second-chord. This must always convey to those who
are unacquainted with the score, the impression that the horn-player has
counted incorrectly, and that he falls in at a wrong bar. At the first
rehearsal of the symphony, which was very unsatisfactory, but in which
the horn-player kept proper time, I was standing near Beethoven, and, in
the belief that it was wrong, I cried: 'That confounded hornist! Can he
not count! It sounds so infamously wrong!' Beethoven was near to giving
me a box on the ear. It took him a long time to forgive me."
By making beautiful "mistakes," Beethoven has extended the rules of
composition. Ries relates, "During a walk I took with him, I spoke to
him of certain consecutive fifths which occur in his C minor Quartet,
Op. 18, and which are so eminently beautiful. Beethoven was not aware of
them, and maintained that I must be in error as to their being fifths.
As he was in the habit of always carrying music paper with him, I asked
for it, and wrote down the passage in all its four parts. When he saw
that I was right, he said, 'Well, and who has forbidden them?' Not
knowing how to take this question, I hesitated. He repeated it, until I
replied in astonishment, 'But, they are against the first fundamental
rules!' 'Who has forbidden them?' repeated Beethoven. 'Marpurg,
Kirnberger, Fuchs, etc., etc.--all theorists,' I replied. 'And I permit
them!' said Beethoven."
The harsh beginning of Mozart's C major Quartet (No. 6 of the set
dedicated to Joseph Haydn) has been the subject of fierce attacks and
controversies. Many musicians have supposed that misprints must have
crept into the score; while others have endeavoured to prove in detail
that all the four instruments are treated strictly according to the
rules of counterpoint. Otto Jahn (in his 'Biography of Mozart,' Vol. IV.
p. 74) finds it beautiful as "the afflicted and depressed spirit which
struggles for deliverance." This may be so; and it is needless to
conjecture what the admirers of the passage would have said, if it had
emanated from an unknown composer. As it stands, it is, at any rate,
interesting as an idea of Mozart, whose compositions are generally
distinguished by great clearness of form and purity of harmony.
The adherence to a strictly prescribed form may easily lead the composer
to the re-employment of some peculiar idea which he has already employed
in a previous work. In fugues especially this may be often observed.
Beethoven, in his sonatas, and likewise in his other compositions
written in the sonata form, as trios, quartets, etc., introduces not
unfrequently in the modulation from the tonic to the dominant certain
favourite combinations of chords and modes of expression; and he has one
or two phrases which may be recognised with more or less modification,
in many of his compositions. Mozart, too, has his favourite successions
of chords; for instance, the interrupted cadence which the German
musicians call _Trugschluss_. Spohr repeats himself perhaps more
frequently than any other composer. Mendelssohn has a certain mannerism
in the rhythmical construction of many of his works, which gives them a
strong family likeness. Weber has employed a certain favourite passage
of his, constructed of groups of semi-quavers, so frequently, that the
sight of a notation like this:--
[Music]
is to the musician almost the same as the written name Carl Maria von
Weber.
Some of the best examples for illustrating the studies of our great
composers are to be found in those compositions which originally formed
part of earlier and comparatively inferior works, and which were
afterwards incorporated by the composers into their most renowned works.
In thus adopting a piece which would otherwise probably have fallen into
oblivion, the composer has generally submitted it to a careful revision;
and it is instructive to compare the revision with the first conception.
Gluck has used in his operas several pieces which he had originally
written for earlier works, now but little known. For instance, the
famous ballet of the Furies in his 'Orfeo,' is identical with the Finale
in his 'Don Juan,' where the rake is hurled into the burning abyss; the
overture to 'Armida' belonged originally to his Italian opera,
'Telemacco;' the wild dance of the infernal subjects of Hate, in
'Armida,' is the Allegro of the duel-scene in his 'Don Juan.'
As an instance of adoption from a former work wonderfully improved by
reconstruction, may be noticed Handel's Sarabande, in his opera
'Almira,' performed the first time at Hamburg in the year 1705:--
[Music]
From this Sarabande, Handel, six years later, constructed the beautiful
air "Lascia ch'io pianga," in his opera 'Rinaldo,' performed in London
in the year 1711:--
[Music:
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-t‡, e che so-
-spi-ri, e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-t‡,
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da
sor-te, e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-
t‡.
Il duolo in fran-ga que-ste ri-tor-te
de miei mar-ti-ri sÛl per pie----t‡
de miei so-spi-ri sÛl per pie-t‡.]
Beethoven's third overture to his opera 'Leonora' (later called
'Fidelio') is a reconstruction of the second. A comparison of these two
overtures affords an interesting insight into Beethoven's studies. It
must be remembered that Beethoven, not satisfied with the first
overture, wrote a second, and subsequently a third, and a fourth. The
first three, which are in C major, he wrote when the opera was known by
the name of 'Leonora;' and the fourth, which is in E major, when the
opera was brought anew on the stage in its revised form under the name
of 'Fidelio.' The air of Florestan is indicated in Nos. 1, 2, and 3,
composed in 1805 and 1806. No. 2 has the distant trumpet-signal,
produced on the stage; and in No. 3 this idea is further carried out;
but in No. 4, written in 1814, it is dropped.
A composer who borrows from his former works deserves reproach as little
as a person who removes his purse from one pocket into another which he
thinks a better place. To borrow from the works of others, as some
composers have done, is altogether a different thing. However, it would
be unreasonable to regard such a plagiarism as a theft unless the
plagiarist conceals the liberty he is taking by disguising the
appropriation so as to make it appear a creation of his own. Some
inferior musicians display much talent in this procedure. Our great
composers, on the other hand, have often so wonderfully ennobled
compositions of other musicians which they have thought advisable to
admit into their oratorios, operas, or other elaborate works, that they
have thereby honoured the original composers of those pieces as well as
benefited art. It is a well-known fact that Handel has, in several of
his oratorios, made use of the compositions of others. As these
adoptions have been pointed out by one or two of Handel's biographers,
it may suffice here to allude to them. Beethoven has adopted remarkably
little. His employment of popular tunes where they are especially
required, as for example in his Battle Symphony, Op. 91, can hardly be
regarded as an instance to the contrary. At any rate, popular tunes have
frequently been adopted by our great composers for the purpose of giving
to a work a certain national character. Weber has done this very
effectively in his 'Preciosa.' Gluck, in his 'Don Juan,' introduces the
Spanish fandango. Mozart does the same in his 'Le Nozze di Figaro,'
twenty-five years later. Here probably Mozart took a hint from Gluck.
However this may be, there can be no doubt that Gluck's 'Don Juan'
contains the germs of several beautiful phrases which occur in Mozart's
'Don Giovanni.' Even on this account it deserves to be better known to
musicians than it is, independently of its intrinsic musical value. A
detailed account of it here would, however, be a transgression. Suffice
it to state that Gluck's 'Don Juan' is a ballet which was composed at
Vienna in the year 1761, twenty-six years before Mozart produced his
'Don Giovanni.' The programme of the former work, which has been printed
from a manuscript preserved in the BibliothËque de l'Ecole Royale de
Musique of Paris, shows that it is nearly identical with the scenarium
of the latter work. The instrumental pieces, of which there are
thirty-one, are mostly short, and increase in beauty and powerful
expression towards the end of the work. The justly-deserved popularity
in Vienna of Gluck's 'Don Juan' probably induced Mozart to have his 'Don
Giovanni' first performed under the title of 'Il Dissoluto Punito,' and
the great superiority of this opera may perhaps be the cause of Gluck's
charming production having fallen into obscurity.
Mozart's facility of invention was so remarkably great that he can have
had but little inducement to borrow from others. Plagiarisms occur but
rarely in his works, but are on this account all the more interesting
when they do occur. Take for instance the following passage from
'Ariadne of Naxos,' a duodrama by Georg Benda. It is composed to be
played by the orchestra while Ariadne exclaims: "Now the sun arises! How
glorious!"
[Music]
Mozart was in his youth a great admirer of this duodrama. He mentions in
one of his letters that he carried its score constantly with him. The
great air of the Queen of Night in 'Die Zauberflˆte,' Act 1, commences
thus:--
[Music]
It is, however, quite possible that Mozart had made Benda's work so
thoroughly his own that he borrowed from it in the present instance
without being aware of the fact.
Again, Johann Heinrich Rolle published in the year 1779 an oratorio
entitled 'Lazarus, oder die Feier der Auferstehung' (Lazarus, or the
Celebration of the Resurrection). The second part of this oratorio
begins with an introductory symphony, as follows:--
[Music]
Perhaps Mozart was not acquainted with Rolle's oratorio when he wrote
his overture to the 'Zauberflˆte,' in the year 1791. The curious
resemblance in the two compositions may be entirely owing to the form of
the fugue in which they are written.
Moreover, the theme of Mozart's overture to the 'Zauberflˆte' resembles
also the theme of a Sonata by Clementi which was composed ten years
earlier than the overture. In Clementi's Sonata it is as follows:--
[Music]
In the complete edition of Clementi's pianoforte compositions this
Sonata is published with the appended notice that Clementi played it to
the Emperor Joseph II. when Mozart was present, in the year 1781. Mozart
appears to have been fond of the theme, for he introduces a reminiscence
of it into the first movement of his Symphony in D major, dating from
the year 1786.
The first chorus in Mozart's 'Requiem' was evidently suggested by the
first chorus in Handel's 'Funeral Anthem for Queen Caroline.' The
_motivo_ of both is however an old German dirge dating from the
sixteenth century, which begins thus:--
[Music:
Wenn mein St¸ndlein vor-han-den ist,
und soll hinfahrn mein Stras-se.]
and which may have been familiar to Mozart as well as to Handel.