TCHAÏKOVSKY.
[Sidenote: =Symphony No. 5 and other Works.=
_January 21, 1898._]
The experiment of devoting an entire miscellaneous concert to the works
of one composer is nearly always hazardous. We doubt whether any other
composer besides Wagner has ever withstood such a test quite
satisfactorily. It was, of course, inevitable that the unparalleled wave
of popularity upon which Tchaïkovsky's "Pathetic" symphony has been
carried over the country during the past two years should have had the
result of bringing other works by the same composer to the fore. That
result is in no way to be regretted. Tchaïkovsky is a thoroughly
interesting composer. His power and originality can scarcely now be
disputed, and, whatever may be the verdict upon his art arrived at by
those competent to judge when the excitement of novelty shall have
passed off, one fact seems already to be quite clear, namely, that he
was a great master of the orchestra. Listening to Tchaïkovsky's music
for a whole evening and comparing the new with former impressions may
have revealed more defects and limitations than merits; but the
experience confirms, to our mind, the view that the Russian composer
must be allowed to take rank along with Berlioz and Wagner as a
consummate and original master of the orchestra, regarded as a medium of
expression. He grasps the modern orchestra as if it were one instrument.
He sweeps over it like a mighty virtuoso with unerring touch. He knows
the suggestions and potencies that lie in the timbre of each pipe,
string, and membrane, just as a man knows the articulations of his
native language. To any musical strain that is in his mind he gives
outward form with absolute success. In short, he has consummate ability
to express himself in music, and such ability is so rare that it is
sufficient alone to make a composer very famous. There remain, of
course, certain questions about the self thus expressed, and not till we
reach those questions do the defects and limitations of Tchaïkovsky's
art come into view. The great prevalence of melancholy moods in
Tchaïkovsky's music is a matter of common observation. When he desires
to shake off his habitually gloomy and brooding state, how does he set
about it? Just as one would expect with such a disposition--by frenzied
excitement, by the blare and glare of military pageant or by an
orgiastic dance. His lighter music is bizarre or sardonic when it is not
merely intoxicating. The enormous predominance of the rhythmical
interest over every other kind of interest, such as that of melody or
harmony, in Tchaïkovsky's music, can scarcely have escaped notice; and
rhythm is the lowest element in music; it is the element representing
animal impulse, as shown by its preponderance in every kind of religious
music (Palestrina, for example). The music of Tchaïkovsky rocks, tramps,
jigs, whirls, and flies far more than it sings; and when it does sing
it is either profoundly melancholy, bitterly sardonic, or merely
bizarre. The composer has absolutely no serenity in his disposition, no
love of nature or of innocence, no naïveté, no calmness or coolness, no
healthy activity, no religion, though much picturesque patriotism, and
very little intellectuality--only just enough for the purpose of
expression. Such is the disposition revealed in the art of Tchaïkovsky.
Like Rubens, the painter, he cares for nothing but exuberant
animalism--for Rubens' Madonnas and other quasi-religious pictures are
all just as much studies of exuberant animalism as his Venuses and his
boar-hunts. Tchaïkovsky, too, loves hunting; though his more special
tastes are for fighting and military display, and for dancing. Such a
character could not be otherwise than profoundly melancholy in the
absence of strong excitement. At the same time, he was--again like
Rubens--an artist of enormous power, and his creations have their value.
The fifth symphony, which was given yesterday, affords a most
interesting comparison with the sixth and last. Such a nature as,
according to our view, Tchaïkovsky has revealed in his art would never
be thoroughly dignified except in great grief or in some situation
bringing his patriotism to the fore. This, we believe--added to the more
complete maturity of the art,--is the explanation of that greatness
which has been generally recognised as distinguishing the "Pathetic"
symphony among the composer's works. Alone among the larger works of the
composer it has dignity. The feeling that it embodies is tremendously
deep and sincere. It is an utterance of a strong semi-primitive nature
with robust appetite, but also with an immense capacity for
feeling--personal feeling, and family, tribal or patriotic feeling. In
the symphony given yesterday, on the other hand, we have a feast of
gorgeous tone-colour, orchestral figures of astonishing scope and
ingenuity, here and there motifs that are poignantly expressive,
vastness of design, superhuman energy; but the dignity of the work is
marred by the perpetual intervention of riotous and frenzied rhythms.
The other orchestral works given were all of minor importance. Perhaps
the best was the "Romeo and Juliet" overture, dealing with a subject
certain sides of which were naturally congenial to the composer's
temperament. He seized on these sides with unerring self-knowledge and
made an eloquent musical picture out of them. "The Variations on a
Rococo Theme" and "Pezzo Capriccioso" are two ingenious and bizarre
pieces, both very cleverly scored, which enabled Mr. Carl Fuchs to
display his admirable mastery of the violoncello as a solo instrument.
They were both very finely played, and, especially the latter, aroused
considerable enthusiasm. As far as the interpretation was concerned the
symphony, too, must be unreservedly commended. There was only one work
in the entire concert which, to our mind, bears the stamp of
perfection--namely, the little song "Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt," which
is worthy to rank with the best lyrics by Schumann, and indeed shows the
spirit of that composer in one of his moods--that which produced "Ich
grolle nicht"--very strongly. All the songs were interesting. In fact,
the lyrical power of Tchaïkovsky is so striking that it may be placed
side by side with his mastery of the orchestra among those qualities
which make him a great composer. All that has been said with more
especial reference to the orchestral works applies with equal truth to
the songs; they are either melancholy, like the first, third, and last
given at yesterday's concert, or sardonic, like "Don Juan's Serenade."
Brightness, happiness, confidence, resignation, reverence, sense of
mystery are qualities as alien to the composer's nature as simple
joviality or innocent badinage.
[Sidenote: =Symphony in F Minor.=
_November 25, 1898._]
The fourth symphony of Tchaïkovsky, which formed the principal
orchestral work at yesterday's concert, is full of life and zest,
affording an interesting glimpse of those powers which were destined to
produce the "Pathetic" symphony. Composed some fifteen years earlier
than the "Pathetic," the fourth symphony represents the composer in a
very different mood, though with nearly the same technical powers. It is
perhaps natural that the earlier work should be more cheerful; but,
considering that the composer was thirty-eight years of age when he
produced that earlier work, the music sounds curiously youthful. The
difference between the style of the symphony given yesterday and the
"Pathetic" is almost entirely of a kind that eludes analysis. It can
only be stated broadly that in the "Pathetic" there is a depth and
energy of feeling to be found in none but truly great works of art; also
that there is mature style, appearing especially in the marvellous tact
with which so much rich, highly coloured, and dangerous material is
disposed. On the other hand, the earlier symphony, while strongly akin
to the "Pathetic" in rhythmic and melodic invention, figuration,
instrumentation, and device in general, is not only wanting in the tact
of the mature artist, but shows the composer not under the influence of
any strong feeling, and simply revelling in his powers of gorgeous
orchestration, ingenious thematic work, and marshalling of tone masses
with a view to picturesque effect. Tchaïkovsky is nearly always martial
in one part or another of an orchestral work. In the great symphony the
first movement has a ferocious section suggesting actual slaughter,
while the greater part of the third movement is an elaborate military
pageant. The work given yesterday leads off with martial strains, which
recur several times in the first movement and again in the last. The
first movement also exemplifies the composer's practice of bringing in a
good deal of development immediately after the statement of a theme,
instead of waiting for the development section. Though every musical
element is telling, the movement is too prolix. In the andantino it soon
becomes apparent that the composer's mind is running on his national
folk-melody, the second theme especially having a very strong flavour of
Russian national music. The movement is short and very charming. Next
one passes from song to dance, the scherzo being a kind of Cossack dance
orchestrated in the most piquant style, the strings playing pizzicato
throughout. Here again the composer is irresistible. The music is
ballet-music, not worthy of a symphony, but it is so exhilarating that
there has to be a "truce with grimace." And the finale? On a former
occasion we have declared our view that none of Tchaïkovsky's music
except his last symphony has dignity, but probably in no other
quasi-serious work has he committed himself to such an astounding piece
of rodomontade as is here used to conclude the symphony. The music
enters like a voluble showman, beating a drum at the head of a
procession, and assuring the crowd that never in this world has anything
been seen quite so wonderful as that particular show. The show then
proceeds, seeming to be concerned with national exploits which are all
illustrated by the comments of the same voluble showman. A meritorious
rendering was given of this amusing and in some respects instructive
work. Many of the wind-instrument passages are very trying for the
performers, especially in the case of the bass trombone, which in the
last movement sometimes has to play as fast as the flute; but the
players struggled manfully with these difficulties and did justice to
the score.
[Sidenote: ="Romeo and Juliet" Overture.=
_December 14, 1900._]
The case of Tchaïkovsky, with his one great Symphony overtopping by such
immeasurable heights all his other compositions of whatever kind, is
isolated. One is almost compelled to think of everything else in the
light of the one great work. Here is something that dimly foreshadows
the stupendous battle-picture in the first movement. There we note some
faint suggestion of that power to represent a heart full of the most
awful foreboding, amid scenes of gaiety and gallantry, which gives its
peculiar character to the celebrated 5--4 movement; and there are
foretastes of the bustle and excitement rendered on a gigantic scale in
the scherzo, of the triumphal note in the March, of the final despairing
wail. But all else is faint and fragmentary by comparison with the great
symphony. The "Romeo and Juliet" overture, played yesterday, is probably
Tchaïkovsky's best early composition, and it is certainly that which
suggests the great last symphony in the most unmistakable manner. The
poetic basis of the tone-picture is to a considerable extent the same in
both. A warning prologue leads to the scenes of violence and bloodshed.
Then follows a romantic love-story with a tragic ending. Everything in
the overture is extremely well done--the fighting music is graphic and
the love music is deeply fraught with feeling,--but it is not a bit
Shakespearean in spirit. The peculiar neuralgic pathos which haunts
nearly all Tchaïkovsky's works takes us into a fevered and unnatural
atmosphere very unlike Shakespeare's; and the fighting is gory and
realistic in the haggard manner of Verestchagin. As with Berlioz's
treatment of "Faust," one must not seek for any sort of fidelity to the
spirit of the original. It is better to rest satisfied with the striking
and eloquent picture, founded on external features of a well-known poem
but belonging essentially to the composer's own dream-world. The
overture was splendidly played yesterday. Dr. Richter's interpretation
most fully revealed the beauty of the introduction, where the composer
had succeeded in finding a note of pathos unlike his usual narrow and
egotistic or merely tormented vein. Specially remarkable was the fine
precision of the percussion instruments in the sections representing the
strife of the Montagues and Capulets; but it is scarcely necessary to
mention details, for the whole tone-picture was superbly presented.
[Sidenote: =Symphony in E Minor.=
_March 8, 1901._]
There is a great diversity of opinion as to the merits of Tchaïkovsky's
fifth Symphony. More than one London critic has expressed the view that
it is equal to the much-better known sixth and last. Mr. Jacques
declares in yesterday's programme that, though No. 6--the
"Pathétique"--appeals more strongly to the emotions, No. 5 is
constructively the finer work. On the other hand, we have the opinion of
the Russian critic Berezovsky--quoted together with the same writer's
detailed account of the work in a recent English book on
Tchaïkovsky--that No. 5 is the weakest of all the Symphonies. There is
something rather depressing in such extreme divergence of opinion. It
proves one of two things;--either Tchaïkovsky is not one of the sane
composers whose works stand in a certain clear relation to the musical
needs of human nature; or else, for all our greatly increased musical
culture, we are no quicker than were the men of Beethoven's day in our
perceptions; and, in the absence of perception, we are even more tied
down than were our predecessors by pedantic notions. The reception of
the great "Symphonic Pathétique" in this country disposes of the former
alternative. No other instrumental work ever aroused so great a wave of
genuine public interest, and even persons who are no great admirers of
Tchaïkovsky ought, if they care for the musical life of this country, to
take an interest in him, on account of the astonishingly sudden and
powerful grip that he took of the public imagination. It is not to
externals--such as instrumentation, counterpoint, form, and so
forth--that we must look for the explanation. Glazounoff orchestrates no
less brilliantly than Tchaïkovsky and has probably a greater mastery of
scholastic device, and the same is true of Saint-Saëns. Yet neither of
those masters ever did or could stir anything in the least like the
interest that Tchaïkovsky stirs. We believe the secret of Tchaïkovsky
lies first in his sincerity, his being in earnest, his intentness, his
search after the true symbol of his idea or feeling, his rejection of
mere fabricated music. In listening to Glazounoff one perceives the
trotting out of device. "Note how cleverly," the composer seems to say,
"how cleverly I introduce this theme in augmentation." Whereas
Tchaïkovsky is always intent on his idea, and, when he uses device, it
is with the air of a man deeply in earnest and grasping at a resource of
expression. Thus the centre of gravity is with Glazounoff as often as
not in the device, with Tchaïkovsky always in the message, and with that
dim sub-consciousness of the musical soul we perceive the one to be a
cultivated trifler, the other a man with something important to say.
That is the first and chief point. Next comes Tchaïkovsky's gift of
rhythm--the quality in music for which the general public of the
present day cares most. When a person of rudimentary musical notions
says that he likes a good tune, it will nearly always be found that what
he likes is the rhythm, and that the melody can be freely changed
without his perceiving it. The same taste exists in the higher stages of
cultivation. A hundred times commoner than a real sense of melodic
beauty is the love of a powerful rhythm that carries the listener off
his feet. Now Tchaïkovsky does that for the listener much more often
than any other composer. He first captivates by something in which his
gift of rhythm plays a leading part, and, having captivated, he does not
disappoint us by saying empty things. Further points are his
astonishingly rich harmony, which is never twisted and inconsequent,
like so much of Berlioz's harmony, but always develops logically and
clearly his vastness of design; his warmth of colouring, and his
picturesque force. Needless to say, that to explain sudden and signal
success with the general public there must always be a mention of weak
points. Among Tchaïkovsky's weak points that which has gained him most
popularity is his persistent habit of presenting his ideas in a sort of
balanced and antithetical manner. He does not expect too much
intelligence in the listener. First he says a thing, then he says it
again an octave lower down or higher up and with different
instrumentation; next he repeats a tag of what has just been said, and
repeats that once or twice, and so forth. And the thing is not done
artificially; such procedure evidently came natural to him. By the time
he has finished, something of the idea has been conveyed into the
dullest mind; and all this is done along with the extremely modern
harmony and with instrumentation so dashing, brilliant, and varied that
only a dreadfully analytical person takes note of the thematic
iteration. It is a remarkable point that while all the other symphonies
are full of Slavonic folk-melodies, the thematic invention in the
"Pathetic" is all original--every scrap of it. There is not a folk-tune
from beginning to end. One has only to think of the first theme of the
first quick movement to perceive how thoroughly the composer was worked
up. The originality of it is absolute. One may go over all the
orchestral composers from Haydn to Wagner and Brahms, asking oneself
whether that theme could be by any one of them. Obviously it could not
be the work of anyone else except Tchaïkovsky. On hearing that theme for
the first time the listener pricks up his ears. "Here is a man with
something to say," he thinks. Now there is nothing of that kind in No.
5. The thematic material has been obtained in an easy-going
manner--mostly by borrowing. And the superiority of the great No. 6 is
just as remarkable in the richness and spontaneity of development as in
originality of thematic invention. In other respects the case against
Mr. Jacques's view is much stronger. There is not the ghost of an
indication in No. 5 of the power which produced that overwhelming
battle-picture in the first movement of the "Pathetic," or of the
completely new kind of eloquence introduced into the world of music in
the third movement--the Scherzo-March--of the "Pathetic," or of the
unparalleled poignancy of expression in the Finale. The fifth is a fine
picturesque work, chiefly interesting for the glimpse that it gives us
of those exercises by which the genius destined to produce No. 6
strengthened itself. We hear many of the same orchestral effects, such
as the frequent use of divided lower strings and the prominence of
bassoon parts. The figuration in the Valse, and again in the Finale,
also affords a faint premonition of the marvels that enthral us in the
latter work. But, before any comparison of the two is really possible at
all, one must knock off the last movement of the "Pathetic" and take it
as ending with the March, as the composer originally intended it to end.
[Sidenote: ="Pathetic" Symphony.=
_November 22, 1901._]
"Eighth time at these concerts," says last night's programme, in
reference to the great Tchaïkovsky Symphony, which is only eight years
old. The performances in London are to be numbered by dozens, and
whenever genuine orchestral concerts are given in this country the
swan-song of the late Russian master has probably been heard more often
than any other symphonic work. Let us not be in too great a hurry to
protest against this state of things. The enormous audience of yesterday
evening--much the largest of the present season so far--suggests that
the public have not lost interest in the Symphony. Nor do we dissent
from the views of the public in this respect. There is astounding
potency in the charm of the work and in the appeal that it makes to the
imagination. For some time past we have been preoccupied with the notion
that it forms a sort of pendant to Dvoràk's "New World" Symphony.
Dvoràk has caught in his music the breezy, hopeful, democratic,
optimistic, and free-thinking spirit of American life, with its upper
side of furious go-ahead civilisation, and its under side of primitive
humanity (Negroes and Red Indians) in which energy of feeling is out of
all proportion to intellectual faculty. Dvoràk's slow movement is
undoubtedly a hymn of such primitive humanity, with an undercurrent of
meditation on the prairie by night, in which the movements of sap and
the germination of seeds within the bosom of inexhaustibly fertile
nature become, as it were, audible. It is something like the poetry that
Walt Whitman would have written had he been a much better poet. In an
analogous manner Tchaïkovsky has caught up and fixed in his "Symphonie
Pathétique" the soul of modern Russia. Just as the American Symphony is
breezy, democratic, optimistic, and free-thinking, so the Russian is
languorous and oppressed, aristocratic, pessimistic, and hierarchic. The
absence of any slow movement, except the dirge at the end, is intensely
characteristic. The composer has no hymn of thanksgiving or serenely
contemplative interlude to give us, but only something with the perfumed
and artificial atmosphere of the ballroom, as a relief from the ardours
and terrors of his military and patriotic passages. Both in his first
and third movements he reminds us that the Russian, for all his profound
religiosity and mysticism, for all his abundance of talent and exquisite
courtesy under normal conditions, lives in a cruel country and has it in
him to be more cruel than any other modern white man. The dirge at the
end we believe to be the most powerful expression of tragic emotion that
exists in the entire range of music. Such a work will bear a good many
performances, especially in a place where there is a Richter to
interpret it. Of course neither the "New World" nor the Muscovite
Symphony is for a moment to be compared with Beethoven. Fellows like
Dvoràk and Tchaïkovsky, belonging to the fringe of civilisation, have
something of the savage about them, whereas Beethoven inherited the
central European culture and expressed in music the emotions of a
completely civilised character. The part of the nineteenth century
subsequent to the death of Wagner will probably be remembered for the
_avènement_ of the semi-savage in music. But, be it remembered, music is
an art of expression, and all thoroughly and richly expressive music is
good music, no matter what the informing emotion or underlying idea.