their ironic abhorrence of tawdry sentimentality and commonplace.
Heine is the most elegant and graceful writer of his country, and
Chopin the most elegant and graceful of all composers. Not a redundant
note or a meaningless bar in all his compositions. Heine owed his
formal finish to French influences, but Chopin did not need them, for
the Poles are as noted as the French for elegance and grace. He
avoided not only the modulatory monotony of the classical school, but,
especially, the commonplace endings which marred so many classical
compositions. "All's well that ends well," is a rule that was
generally ignored by composers till Chopin taught them its value and
effect. Chopin's pen always stopped when his thoughts stopped, and he
never appends a meaningless end formula as if to warn the audience
that they may now put on their hats. On the contrary, some of his
later compositions, especially of the last period, end with exquisite
miniature poems, connected in spirit with the preceding music and yet
distinct--separate inspirations. I refer, especially, to the endings
of his last two nocturnes and to the final bars of the mazurka, opus
59, No. 3.
George Sand has given us a vivid sketch of Chopin's conscientiousness
as a composer. "He shut himself up in his room for entire days," she
says, "weeping, walking about, breaking his pen, repeating and
changing a bar a hundred times, and beginning again next day with
minute and desperate perseverance. He spent six weeks over a single
page, only to go back and write that which he had traced at the first
essay." As regards his creativeness, George Sand says that "it
descended upon his piano suddenly, completely, sublimely, or it sang
itself in his head during his walks, and he made haste to hear it by
rushing to the instrument." I have already mentioned the fact that
when he wrote his last mazurka he was too weak to try it on the piano.
In one of his letters he speaks of a polonaise being ready in his
head. These facts indicate that he composed mentally, although, no
doubt, during the improvisations, many themes occurred to him which he
remembered and utilized. When he improvised he did not watch the
key-board, but generally looked at the ceiling. Already as a youth he
used to be so absorbed that he forgot his meals; and, in the street,
he was often so absent-minded that he very narrowly escaped being run
over by a wagon. Visions of female loveliness and patriotic
reminiscences inspired many of his best works. Sometimes the pictures
in his mind became so vivid as to form real hallucinations. Thus it
is related that one evening when he was alone in the dark, trying over
the A major polonaise which he had just completed, he saw the door
open and in marched a procession of Polish knights and ladies in
mediæval costumes--the same, no doubt, that his imagination had
pictured while he was composing. He was so alarmed at this vision that
he fled through the opposite door and did not venture to return.
Another illustration of the relations between genius and insanity.
The foregoing remarks on Chopin's compositions suffice, I think, to
show how absurd is the prevalent notion that he is the composer for
the drawing-room, and that his pieces reflect the spirit of
fashionable Parisian society. They do, perhaps, in their elegant form,
but certainly not in their spirit. The frivolous aristocratic circles
that heard Chopin could never have comprehended the depth of his
emotional life. The pianists for them, the real drawing-room composers
were Kalkbrenner, and Field, and Thalberg, with their operatic
fantasias. Chopin is the composer for the few, and he is the composer
_par excellence_ for musicians. From him they can get more ideas, and
learn more as regards form, than from anyone else, except Bach and
Wagner. In comparing his last works with his first, and noting their
progress, the mind tries in vain to conceive where he would have led
the world had he lived eighty instead of forty years. One thing is
certain: he would have probably written more for other instruments.
His pianoforte concertos belong to his early period, and betray a lack
of experience in the treatment of the orchestra. But he wrote two
pieces of chamber music which have never been excelled--a 'cello
sonata and a trio. The 'cello sonata was the last of his larger works,
and in my opinion it is superior to any of the 'cello sonatas of
Mendelssohn, Brahms, and even Beethoven and Rubinstein. The trio,
though an earlier work, is, like the 'cello sonata, admirably adapted
to the instruments for which it is written. I once belonged to an
amateur trio club. Our tastes naturally differed on many points, but
in one thing we all agreed: we always closed our entertainment with
this Chopin trio. It was the climax of the evening's enjoyment. Yet,
only a few years ago, the leader of one of the principal chamber music
organizations in New York admitted to me that he had never heard of
this trio!--an incident which vividly illustrates the truth of my
assertion that Chopin's genius is still far from being esteemed at its
full value.
II
HOW COMPOSERS WORK
Forty years ago Robert Schumann complained that the musical critics
had so much to say about singers and players, while the composer was
almost entirely ignored. To-day this reproach could hardly be made,
for although vocalists still receive perhaps a disproportionate share
of attention, compositions, new and old, are also discussed at great
length in the press. Nevertheless, I believe that the vast majority of
those who attend an operatic performance in New York, and are
delighted with "Siegfried" or "Faust," have but vague and shadowy
notions as to the way in which such an opera is composed. My object
here is to illustrate the way composers work, and to prove that the
creating of an opera is perhaps the most difficult and marvellous
achievement of the human intellect.
Professor Langhans notes, in his history of music, that in the Middle
Ages, as late as Luther's time, it took two men to compose the
simplest piece of music: one who conceived the melody, and the other
who added the harmonic accompaniment. The theoretical writer,
Glareanus, deliberately expressed his opinion, in 1547, that it might
be _possible_ to unite these two functions in one person, but that one
would rarely find the inventor of a melody able to work it out
artistically. We have made much progress in music within these three
hundred years, and to-day every composer is not only expected to
invent his own harmonies and accompaniments to his melodies, but,
since Wagner set the example, composers are beginning to consider it
incumbent on them to write their own librettos; and, what is more
remarkable, if we examine biographies of musicians carefully we find
that, even _before_ Wagner, not a few composers assisted in the
preparation of their operatic texts; and this remark applies even to
some of the Italian composers, who were proverbially careless
regarding their librettos. Rossini was, perhaps, too indolent to
devote much attention to his texts, and he was apt to postpone even
the _musical_ work to the last moment, so that he sometimes had to be
locked up in his room by his friends, to enable him to finish his
score by the date named in his contract. Yet it is worthy of note that
during the composition of what Rossini's admirers commonly regard as
his best and most characteristic work--the "Barber of Seville"--he
lived in the same house with his librettist. "The admirable unity of
the 'Barber,' in which a person without previous information on the
subject could scarcely say whether the words were written for the
music or the music for the words, may doubtless," as Mr. Sutherland
Edwards suggests, "in a great measure be accounted for by the fact
that poet and musician were always together during the composition of
the opera; ready mutually to suggest and to profit by suggestions."
"Donizetti," the same writer informs us, while at the Bologna Lyceum,
"occupied himself not only with music, but also with drawing,
architecture, and even poetry; and that he could turn out fair enough
verses for musical purposes was shown when, many years afterward, he
wrote--so rapidly that the word 'improvise' might here be used--for
the benefit of a manager in distress, both words and music of a little
one-act opera, called 'Il Campanello' founded on the 'Sonnette de
Nuit' of Scribe. Donizetti also arranged the librettos of 'Betty' and
'The Daughter of the Regiment,' and of the last act of 'Lucia' he not
only wrote the words but designed the scenes."
Concerning Verdi, Arthur Pougin says: "It is not generally known that,
virtually, Verdi is himself the author of all his poems. That is to
say, not only does he always choose the subject of his operas, but, in
addition to that, he draws out the sketch of the libretti, indicates
all the situations, constructs them almost entirely as far as regards
the general plan, brings his personages and his characters on the
stage in such a way that his _collaborateur_ has simply to follow his
indications to bring the whole together, and to write the verses."
One of Verdi's poetic assistants was Francesco Piave, who supplied the
verses for "La Traviata," "Ernani" and several other of his operas. He
was, Pougin informs us, "a tolerably bad poet, quite wanting in
invention," but he had the most important quality (from Verdi's point
of view) "of effacing himself completely, of putting aside every kind
of personal vanity and of following entirely the indications and the
desires of the composer, cutting out this, paring down that,
shortening or expanding at the will of the latter--giving himself up,
in short, to all his exigencies, whatever they might be."
A question having arisen some years ago, as to the origin of the
libretto of "Aida," the author of it, M. du Locle, wrote to a Roman
paper that the first idea of the poem belongs to the celebrated
Egyptologist, Mariette Bey. He adds: "I wrote the libretto, scene by
scene, phrase by phrase, in French prose, at Busseto, under the eye of
the maestro, who took a large share in the work. The idea of the
finale of the last act, with its two stages, one above the other,
belongs especially to him."
The libretto for Verdi's last work, "Otello," was prepared by Boïto,
who had previously assisted him in rearranging his "Simon Boccanegra,"
and who also wrote the poem of "La Gioconda" for Ponchielli. Boïto is
a thorough believer in Wagner's doctrine that every composer should
write his own opera books, and he followed this rule in his
interesting opera "Mefistofele."
Mozart was altogether too careless in accepting librettos unworthy of
his genius. Yet occasionally he took the liberty to improve the stuff
that was submitted to him. As the learned librarian, Herr Pohl,
remarks, "In the 'Entführung' it is interesting to observe the
alterations in Bretzner's libretto which Mozart's practical
acquaintance with the stage has dictated, to the author's great
disgust. Indeed, _Osmin_, one of the most original characters, is
entirely his own creation, at Fischer's suggestion."
Weber resembled Wagner, among other things, in the habit of carrying
plans for operas in his head for many years. Thus we read that while
on the look out for a subject for an opera he and Dusch hit upon "Der
Freischütz," a story by Apel, then just published. At the time,
however, it did not get beyond the beginning; and not till seven years
later did Weber begin the work which made his reputation, a work which
in Dresden, where it was first produced, has had already more than a
thousand performances, and which even in London was at one time
played simultaneously at three theatres. When he finally did begin his
work on the "Freischütz" the libretto he used was by another author,
Herr Kind, a man of considerable dramatic ability, but who--perhaps
for that very reason--was subsequently so mortified by the fact that
Weber's superior genius caused his music to receive the lion's share
of the public's attention, that he refused to write another libretto
for him. This was unfortunate, for, as ill luck would have it, Weber
fell into the hands of a Leipsic blue stocking, Wilhelmine von Chezy,
whose literary gifts were not of the most brilliant order. She
submitted several subjects to him, from which he selected "Euryanthe;"
but her sketch proved so unsatisfactory that he altered it entirely
and compelled her to work it over nine times before he was
sufficiently satisfied with it to set it to music. The libretto for
his last opera, "Oberon," was prepared for him in London, but the
subject, as usual, was his own choice and was based on Wieland's
famous poem of that name. Weber's rare artistic conscientiousness is
indicated by the fact that at this time, although he felt that his end
was approaching, he set to work to learn the English language in order
to avoid mistakes in adapting his melodies to the accent of the words
and the spirit of the text.
Having now caught a glimpse of the manner in which the great
composers find subjects for their operas, and elaborate them, with or
without the assistance of poets, we may go on to consider the sources
of the musical inspiration which provides appropriate melodies and
harmonies for these texts. Experience shows conclusively that the most
powerful stimulant of the composer's brain is _the possession of a
really poetic and dramatic text_. To take only one instance--it surely
cannot be a mere coincidence that the best works of four great
composers--Spohr, Berlioz, Gounod, and Schumann, are based on the
story of "Faust." And Schumann, in one of his private letters,
indicates very clearly why his "Faust" is such an inspired
composition. Speaking of a performance of this work he says: "It
appeared to make a good impression--better than my 'Paradise and
Peri'--no doubt in consequence of the superior grandeur of the poem
which aroused _my_ powers also to a greater effort."
More significant still are the words which Weber wrote to Fran von
Chezy when she was writing the libretto for "Euryanthe;" which he
intended to make better than all his previous works. "When you begin
to elaborate the text," he wrote; "I entreat you by all that is sacred
to task me with the most difficult kinds of metre, unexpected rhythms,
etc., which will force my thoughts into new paths and draw them out of
their hiding-places."
In one of his theoretical essays, Wagner emphasizes the value of a
good poem in kindling the spark of inspiration in a composer's mind by
exclaiming: "Oh, how I adore and honor Mozart because he found it
impossible to compose for his 'Titus' as good music as for his 'Don
Juan,' or for his 'Così fan Tutte' as good music as for 'Figaro.'"
Mozart, he adds, always wrote music, but _good_ music he could only
write when he was inspired, and when this inspiration was supplied by
a subject worthy of being wedded to his muse.
No doubt Wagner was right in maintaining that Mozart's operas contain
his best music. Where among all his purely instrumental works is
anything to be found as inspired as the music in the scenes where the
ghostly statue nods at _Don Juan_, and subsequently where it enters
his room and clutches his hand in its marble grasp? I venture to add
that even Beethoven, although he is not generally regarded as an
operatic composer _par excellence_, and although his fame chiefly
rests on his symphonies and other instrumental works, nevertheless
composed his most inspired music in connection with his one opera
"Fidelio." I refer to the third "Leonora" overture, and to the music
in the prison scene, where the digging of the grave is depicted in the
orchestra with a realism worthy of Wagner, and where the music when
_Leonora_ levels her pistol at the villain reaches a climax as
thrilling as is to be found in any dramatic work, musical or literary.
Obviously, it was the intensely dramatic situation which here inspired
Beethoven to the grandest effort of his genius.
It has often been asserted that the best numbers in "Fidelio" were
directly inspired in Beethoven by the emotional exaltation resulting
from one of his unhappy love affairs. Mr. Thayer doubts this story,
because he could not find anything in Beethoven's sketch-books
corroborating it; but even if it should be a myth, there are many well
authenticated facts which show that Beethoven, like other composers,
owed many of his best ideas to the magic influence of love in
stimulating his mental powers. He dedicated thirty-nine compositions
to thirty-six different women, and it is well known that he was
constantly falling in love, had made up his mind several times to
marry, and was twice refused. Female beauty always made a deep
impression on him, and Marx relates that "even in his later years he
was fond of looking at pretty faces, and used to stand still in the
street and gaze after them with his eyeglasses till they were out of
sight; if anyone noticed this he smiled and looked confused, but not
annoyed. His little Werther romance he had lived at an early age in
Bonn. In Vienna, he is said to have had more than one love affair and
to have made an occasional conquest which would have been difficult
if not impossible to many an Adonis."
Weber's "Freischütz" doubtless owes much of its beauty to the fact
that it was written but a few months before the composer's marriage.
In one of his letters to his betrothed he writes, "Yesterday I
composed all the forenoon and thought of you _very often_, for I was
at work on a scene of _Agatha_, in which I still cannot attain all the
fire, longing, and passion that vaguely float before me." And his son
testifies that Weber's love influenced all his work at the time. "It
was the reason," he says, "that Weber took to heart, above everything
else, the part of _Aennchen_, in which he saw an embodiment of his
bride's special talent and characteristics, and it was under the
fostering stimulus of this warm feeling that he allowed those parts of
the opera in which _Aennchen_ appears to ripen first. The first note
which he wrote down for the 'Freischütz' belongs in the duo between
_Aennchen_ and _Agatha_." He adds that his father, while composing,
actually saw his bride in his mind's eye, and heard her sing his
melodies, and accordingly as this imaginary vocalist nodded approval
or shook her head, he was led to retain or reject certain musical
ideas.
Schumann's letters contain a superabundance of evidence showing how
love suggested to him immortal musical thoughts. "I have discovered,"
he writes to his bride, "that nothing transports the imagination so
readily as expectation and longing for something, as was again the
case during the last few days, when I was awaiting a letter from you,
and meanwhile composed whole volumes--strange, curious, solemn
things--how you will open your eyes when you play them. Indeed, I am
at present so full of musical ideas that I often feel as if I should
explode." This was in 1838, two years before his marriage. "Schumann
himself admits," as Professor Spitta remarks, "that his compositions
for the piano written during the period of his courtship reveal much
of his personal experiences and feelings, and his creative work of
1840 is of a very striking character. In this single year he wrote
over a hundred songs, the best he ever gave to the world, and," as
Professor Spitta continues, "when we look through the words of his
songs, it is clear that here, more than anywhere, love was the
prompter--love that had endured so long a struggle, and at last
attained the goal of its desires. This is confirmed by the 'Myrthen,'
which he dedicated to the lady of his choice, and the twelve songs
from Rückert's 'Springtime of Love'--which were written conjointly by
the two lovers."
The gay and genial Haydn appears to have been as great a favorite of
women as Beethoven, and he doubtless owed some of his inspirations to
their influence upon his susceptible heart. "He always considered
himself an ugly man," Herr Pohl writes, "and could not understand how
so many handsome women fell in love with him; 'at any rate,' he used
to say, 'they were not tempted by my beauty,' though he admitted that
he liked looking at a pretty woman, and was never at a loss for a
compliment."
Everybody has heard of the marvellous effect produced on Berlioz's
ardent imagination by the _Juliet_ of Miss Smithson. He relates in his
memoirs that an English critic said that after seeing Miss Smithson in
_Juliet_ he had cried out, "I will marry that woman, and write my
grandest symphony on this play." "I did both things," he adds, "but I
never said anything of the sort." It is in "Lelio" that the story of
his love is embodied; and other compositions of his might be mentioned
which were simply the overflow of his passions.
Poor Schubert, who enjoyed little of the fame and less of the fortune
that were due him during his brief life, and who was as unattractive
in personal appearance as Haydn and Beethoven, does not seem to have
cared as much for women as most other composers. Nevertheless he fell
deeply in love with a countess, who, however, was too young to
reciprocate his feelings. But one day she asked him why he never
dedicated any of his compositions to her, whereupon he replied, "Why
should I? Are not all my compositions dedicated to you?" This was as
neat a compliment as Beethoven once made Frau von Arnim--an incident
which also gives us a glimpse of his manner of composing. One evening
at a party Beethoven repeatedly took his note-book from his pocket and
wrote a few lines in it. Subsequently, when he was alone with Frau von
Arnim, he looked over what he had written and sang it; whereupon he
exclaimed: "There, how does that sound? It is yours if you like it; I
made it for you, you inspired me with it; _I saw it written in your
eyes_."
Many similar cases might be cited, showing that although women may
have done little for music from a creative point of view, they are
indirectly responsible for many of the most inspired products of the
great composers. And the moral of the story is that a young musician,
as soon as he has secured a good poetic subject for a song or an
opera, should hasten to fall in love, in order to tune his
heart-strings and devotions to concert pitch. And a patriotic wag
might, perhaps, be allowed to maintain that, as America has more
pretty girls than any other country in the world, it is easier to fall
in love here than elsewhere, and that there is, therefore, no excuse
whatever for American composers if they do not soon lead the world in
musical inspiration.
Feminine beauty, however, is not the only kind of beauty that arouses
dormant musical ideas and brings them to light. The beauty of nature
appeals as strongly to musicians as to poets, and is responsible for
many of their inspirations. When Mendelssohn visited Fingal's Cave, he
wrote a letter on one of the Hebrides, inclosing twenty bars of music
"to show how extraordinarily the place affected me," to use his own
words. "These twenty bars," says Sir George Grove, "an actual
inspiration, are virtually identical with the opening of the wonderful
overture which bears the name of 'Hebrides' or 'Fingal's Cave.'" And
an English admirer of Mendelssohn, who had the honor of entertaining
him in the country, notes how deeply he entered into the beauty of the
hills and the woods. "His way of representing them," he says, "was not
with the pencil; but in the evenings his improvised music would show
what he had observed or felt in the past day. The piece which he
called 'The Rivulet,' which he wrote at that time, for my sister
Susan, will show what I mean; it was a recollection of a real, actual
rivulet.
"We observed" he continues, "how natural objects seemed to suggest
music to him. There was in my sister Honora's garden a pretty creeping
plant, new at that time, covered with little trumpet-like flowers. He
was struck with it, and played for her the music which (he said) the
fairies might play on those trumpets. When he wrote out the piece he
drew a little branch of that flower all up the margin of the paper."
In another piece, inspired by the sight of carnations, they found that
Mendelssohn intended certain arpeggio passages "as a reminder of the
sweet scent of the flower rising up."