ELGAR.
[Sidenote: ="King Olaf."=
_December 2, 1898._]
Mr. Edward Elgar seems to owe his fame almost entirely to those autumn
festivals which are so important a feature of musical life in this
country. An organist, with a turn for serious composition, occupying a
post in some city where one of those festivals is periodically held, is
favourably placed with a view to getting a hearing for the productions
of his musical genius; and Mr. Elgar was, and so far as we know is
still, organist at St. George's Roman Catholic Church in Worcester. His
career as a festival composer dates from 1890, in which year his
overture "Froissart" was produced at the Worcester Festival. Three years
later a choral work--"The Black Knight"--was brought to a hearing in the
same city, apparently with advantageous results to Mr. Elgar's
reputation, for since that time he has devoted much of his energy to
composition. The cantata performed yesterday evening for the first time
in Manchester seems to have been the fourth of Mr. Elgar's important
choral works. When first performed at the Hanley Festival two years ago
it attracted much attention, and was hailed by many writers for the
press as a work for the Leeds Festival--generally considered the most
important event of the kind in the country. The work composed for Leeds
and produced there last October was called "Caractacus." It is in
general style similar to "King Olaf," while naturally representing a
later stage in the composer's development. In both works one notes the
same dramatic instinct, the same unconventional treatment, the same
faculty of genuine thematic invention, and the same unmistakeable gift
for orchestration. As this composer gains in experience it does not
seem, as with many others, that his inventive powers become exhausted,
but that, on the contrary, they ripen and develop. "Caractacus" is
obviously a finer work in every way than "King Olaf." Now, all these
facts make Mr. Elgar a very interesting person. The qualities enumerated
above--gift for thematic invention, ingenious and telling orchestration,
unconventional treatment, and so forth--are extremely rare and valuable.
It is quite possible for a composer to have a long and successful career
without possessing any one of them, and it is therefore very natural
that a composer who does possess them should be hailed with enthusiasm.
But, unfortunately, they are not the only qualities necessary to a
composer of extended choral works, and Mr. Elgar, who rises so far above
mere feeble conventionalities in his actual music, is not free from the
common but most mischievous delusion that almost anything will suffice
by way of "verses for music." He throws away the resources of his
remarkable art upon a text that is in places unfit for any kind of
musical treatment, and is, on the whole, hopelessly rambling,
incoherent, and tiresome. One becomes interested in a dramatic episode
where a bride seems on the point of murdering her bridegroom with a
dagger that gleams in the moonlight. But the narrative wanders away to
other subjects; a fresh heroine, with quite different affairs and
interests, occupies attention, and one hears nothing more of the lady
with the dagger. No doubt, the title "Scenes from" the Saga of King Olaf
seems to justify such procedure, but it does not prevent the interest
from flagging or the general impression left by the work from being
fragmentary and incoherent. The best of the music is at the beginning,
where there is an extremely fine chorus, "The Challenge of Thor,"
containing various musical elements all truly expressive and fraught
with the same primitive and racy vigour. The more important of the
elements in question are the Hammer music, the Iceberg music, the
Thunder and Lightning music, and the strains which carry the defiance of
Christianity by the old Norse religion. The most effective, too, of the
solos is the long tenor recitative following the great chorus. At the
words "listening to the wild winds wailing" a highly original and
interesting strain begins to be heard in the accompaniment. But the
promise of these fine things is not well carried out in the latter part
of the work. Everywhere the difficulties are very formidable, and in a
good many cases they were too much for the chorus, who, except in "The
Challenge of Thor," did not sing in a very free or expressive manner.
Nor did they always take their leads with precision; but, in a complex
work abounding in accompaniment figures with such puzzling
cross-rhythms, these defects were excusable. The cantata did not seem to
make any great impression on the audience; but we should expect to find,
if ever Mr. Elgar were so fortunate as to obtain a really good subject
and a good book, and especially a subject and book thoroughly adapted to
his remarkable dramatic powers, that he would produce something of
lasting value.
[Sidenote: =The "Enigma Variations."=
_February 9, 1900._]
The style of composition called "Variations" is a striking example of a
primitive form that has proved imperishable. Sir Hubert Parry has
pointed out that the fundamental idea of variations in instrumental
music is co-ordinate with the _canto fermo_ and counterpoint of the
early choral composers. Each system resulted from an attempt at giving
form and unity to a composition by repeating a theme over and over
again, each time in some new aspect, or with fresh ornamentation; though
the effect obtained by winding ingenious counterpoint for other voices
about an unchanging _canto fermo_ is, of course, very different from the
tricking out of the melody itself. In choral music the _canto fermo_
system almost died out when maturer principles of structure were
discovered; but variation-form has never fallen into disuse at any
period since its invention. It has been used by all the great masters,
and by many of them as a vehicle for great and splendid ideas. General
progress from the mechanical to the imaginative marks the successive
stages through which the form has passed. One great reason for its
vitality is that it admits of treatment in every possible style.
Variations may be melodic, or contrapuntal, or harmonic. A superficial
composer can make them by simply worrying his theme, a profound composer
by developing the musical ideas that are in it. Bach's were mainly
contrapuntal, Mozart's mainly melodic--one may even say melismatic--and
Beethoven made variations of every kind, in his later works obtaining
results of undreamed-of grandeur from the form. But the later Beethoven
has never really been followed by any mortal in the austere and
wonderful path that he struck out for himself, though Brahms and others
have obtained a few hints from him. The originator of modern romantic
variations was Schumann, whose "Etudes Symphoniques" revealed a fresh
source of life in the form, that has proved less austerely inaccessible
than Beethoven's; Brahms, Tchaïkovsky, and many others having obviously
derived inspiration from it. Mr. Elgar stands in a peculiar relation to
the modern masters of variation-form. He seems to be much preoccupied
with the curious idea of musical portraiture, which, again, owes its
existence to Schumann. The miniature of Chopin occurring in Schumann's
"Carnaval" was the first, and perhaps remains to this day the best,
example in its kind, and the sketch of Mendelssohn forming No. 24 of the
same composer's "Album for the Young" is also a recognisable piece of
musical portraiture. Mr. Elgar has carried out the idea in an extended
scale in these variations. His theme, which he calls "enigma," has no
eccentricity. It is a rather march-like strain in regular form, having
three sections, the last of which is a repetition of the first, with
fresh harmony and instrumentation. There are nominally fourteen
variations;--including the finale, actually thirteen, for No. 10,
described as intermezzo, is not a variation. Each of the variations, and
the intermezzo, bears initials, or a nickname, which are commonly
assumed to represent the composer's friends. Why any such thing should
be assumed we do not know. It is both possible and allowable to portray
persons who are not one's friends, and some of Mr. Elgar's portraits
seem to us extremely severe and satirical. One of the early numbers, in
particular, gives a vivid impression of a very unsympathetic
personality, garrulous, querulous, trivial, meanly egotistic, and rather
ape-like. The composer does well to let the identity of the original
remain shrouded in mystery. The variations are grouped according to the
usual principles of contrast, and they are all extremely effective.
However much the composer may call his theme an enigma--Berlioz called
his variation-theme in an early symphony _idée fixe_--one can scarcely
escape the impression that it represents the temperament of the artist,
through which he sees his subjects; for that, and nothing else, is what
forms the connecting link between any series of portraits by the same
hand. Wonderful ingenuity is shown in varying the relation in which the
theme stands to the musical picture. During the first part of the work,
down to the end of the sixth variation, the attitude of the audience
seemed rather reserved. But a change began to be noticeable at the
seventh variation, called "Troyte," an impetuous presto movement that
shows a hitherto unsuspected kind of energy. Nor did the attention flag
at all during the noble and serene harmonies of the ensuing Allegretto.
The richly-organised "Nimrod," forming No. 9, leads to the dainty and
tripping "Dorabella" Intermezzo, which has no connection with the theme.
The eleventh variation, headed "G. R. S.," is another demonstration of
abundant vigour, and the following "B. G. N." has for leading feature a
fine lyrical melody for 'cello. No. 13 obviously has reference to
someone on a sea voyage, the "prosperous voyage" theme from
Mendelssohn's "Meeresstille" overture being heard amid delicate
suggestions of distant sea sound. In the very extended finale there is
some powerful polyphonic writing, and the movement ends with a
repetition of the theme in augmentation, forcibly declaimed by the heavy
brass to the accompaniment of the full orchestra. The audience seemed
rather astonished that a work by a British composer should have had
other than a petrifying effect upon them. They applauded with the energy
that the composer's imaginative power and masterly handling of the
orchestra deserve. Dr. Richter signalled to Mr. Elgar, who was seated
among the audience, and he thereupon mounted the stage and received an
enthusiastic greeting from the public. The striking success of this
composition reminds us of the following passage occurring at the end of
an article by Sir Hubert Parry written some years ago:--"It is even
possible that, after all its long history, the variation still affords
one of the most favourable opportunities for the exercise of their
genius by composers of the future."
[Sidenote: ="Cockaigne."=
_October 25, 1901._]
Dr. Elgar's more recent compositions seem to require nearly as much
talking about as Wagner's. But, be it observed, that is not the
composer's fault, but is the result of the primitive stage at which not
only the bulk of our musical public but many of our "leading musicians"
still find themselves, as regards understanding the poetic import of a
musical work. On two occasions in recent years a work full of slaughter
and frenzy, of barbarous revelry and sensuality, of glittering and
blaring pageantry, and ending with annihilation--a work the powerful
appeal of which lies precisely in the fact that it is the most powerful
existing expression in music of everything most un-Christian and
anti-Catholic--has been performed without public protest in a British
Cathedral. We here refer, of course, to the "Symphonie Pathétique." Dr.
Elgar is another composer whose music means something; but what chance
is there for us to understand him? One quails before the task of
discussing in a concert notice all the questions to which such a work as
the "Cockaigne" overture gives rise. First let us state, without
stopping to give reasons, that we think it worth hearing and worth
studying. If any previously existing overture is to be mentioned in
order to indicate the type to which "Cockaigne" belongs, it must
obviously be "Meistersinger." The humorous element is somewhat more
prominent than in "Meistersinger," and the general tone and colouring of
the two works are utterly dissimilar. But that the composer of
"Cockaigne" had "Meistersinger" in mind is rendered practically certain
by one particular point--the use of a Londoner theme and of the same
theme in diminution for the youthful Londoner, in exact analogy with
Wagner's symbols for the Meistersingers and the apprentices. Again the
opening bustle, giving way to a love-scene, suggests "Meistersinger,"
and so does the polyphonic elaboration of the middle part. But there is
a great difference between following Wagner's procedure and borrowing
his musical ideas. To some slight extent in the E flat section, and more
particularly in the harmony thereof, we find the Wagner flavour. For the
rest, while the procedure seems at any rate to be based on Wagner's, we
find the materials used and the character of the artistic result
achieved to be entirely different from Wagner's. There are seven musical
elements in "Cockaigne," the significance of which may be roughly
indicated as follows:--(1) Bustle of the streets; (2) a virile personal
note; (3) companionship and interchange of ideas between two
sweethearts; (4) pert children playing their pranks; (5) military band
episode; (6) impressions on passing from the street into a church; (7)
new phases of street-bustle music. Musical symbols of very considerable
plastic force are invented for these things, and are woven into a
powerful and entertaining tone-picture with that mastery of the
orchestra which no one can now refuse to recognise in Dr. Elgar. He
always works with definite lines, and does not seem to care much for
those atmospheric effects in which certain moderns, such as Richard
Strauss, are so strong. The music has a far wider range of ideas and
emotions than would be possible in a poem occupying the same time in
delivery. It gives us impressions of London by day and by night,
impressions that are partly realistic and partly antiquarian, following
the flight of the imagination with absolute freedom, forming a sort of
musical parallel to Henley's "London Voluntaries."
And lo! the wizard hour
Whose shining silent sorcery hath such power!
Still, still the streets, between their carcanets
Of linking gold, are avenues of sleep.
But see how gable ends and parapets
In gradual beauty and significance
Emerge! And did you hear
That little twitter-and-cheep,
Breaking inordinately loud and clear
On this still spectral exquisite atmosphere?
'Tis a first nest at matins! And behold
A rakehell cat--how furtive and acold!
A spent witch homing from some infamous dance--
Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade
Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade!
And if this is effective, does not a certain sonnet of Wordsworth's
exist to prove that an aspect of London may furnish a magnificent poetic
inspiration? It should be remembered that there is originality in
emotion as well as in ideas and in devices; and this is where we find
Dr. Elgar strong--perhaps stronger than any other British composer.
Besides the technical ability to express himself in music, he has
originality of emotion. He takes us into regions where music never took
us before. As to his use of Wagner's procedure, that was also
Beethoven's procedure in some of his finest works. In fact, it is the
procedure of everyone for whom music is a language, such as it has
tended more and more to become ever since Beethoven's time. The history
of music in the nineteenth century is the history of something growing
constantly more articulate.
No doubt some persons would like to ask--Should we have known all this,
or any of it, about the significance of the "Cockaigne" music had there
been no programmes? The answer is, Probably not. But the beauty of an
artistic design illustrating a certain subject may often be perceived
when one cannot make out what the subject is. In such a case the subject
is not "all nonsense." It is the stimulating cause of the beautiful
design, and it is very natural for those who find the design beautiful
to like to know what it is all about. It is a mistake to think that a
definite play of the imagination has nothing to do with musical
composition. It has very much to do with it. The kind of music with no
underlying play of fancy is only too familiar.
The name "Cockaigne" occurs in some form in old English, French,
Italian, and Spanish literature, meaning "the land of delights." The
fancied connection with "Cockney" is of much later date. Henry S.
Leigh's "Carols of Cockayne" (1869) shows the recognition of the word in
the sense of "Cockneydom." There is said to be a connection between
"Cockney" and the French "coquin," and if that is so the appropriation
of "Cockaigne" as correlative of "Cockney" is justified by community of
origin, all these words being derived from the stem of _coquere_ (to
cook). No doubt "coquin" originally meant "cook's boy" or "loafer in a
cook-shop," and "Cockney" at first meant something of the same sort. At
the same time there hangs about the word "Cockaigne" a certain
proverbial suggestiveness, derived from the time when it was used in the
sense of "land of delights," the etymology being forgotten. It thus has
a peculiar appropriateness as the title of Dr. Elgar's genial and
largely humoristic tone-picture.
[Sidenote: ="The Dream of Gerontius," Birmingham Festival.=
_October 3, 1900_]
"The Dream of Gerontius," Cardinal Newman called his poem, with
exquisite modesty. How that poem may stand in the estimation of those
who share Cardinal Newman's point of view in regard to religious matters
is perhaps an important question, but not one with which musical, or any
artistic, criticism is concerned. For nothing is more certain about art
than that it is subservient to a person's view of life. Artistic or
æsthetic criticism must be humble, and must abstain from trespassing on
the ground of faith and morals. Indirectly, indeed, æsthetics may have a
bearing on these more serious subjects. For is it not written of
religious doctrines, "By their fruits ye shall know them"?--and nothing
else is in so complete a sense a "fruit" of a religion as a work of art
arising therefrom. Nevertheless, the function of æsthetics is not to
commend or blame a view of life, but rather to enquire with what
eloquence, with what sincerity, with what measure of convincing power
the artist expounds his ideas and communicates his feelings, whatever
those ideas and feelings may be. With these reflections I find it
necessary to premise my notes on Edward Elgar's new work. The
reflections are rather solemn, but the new work is very solemn. It is
deeply and intensely religious; it is totally unconventional, and must
be discussed in an unconventional manner. First, then, let me state a
point of difference from all that I have experienced in listening to
other oratorios and sacred cantatas, and, I may say, all other musical
works with words made by one person and music by another. The point is
that _this_ music, on the whole, is apt to bring home to the listener
the greatness of the poem. The composer has not merely chosen from the
poem such material as suited him. He has expounded the poem musically,
and to the task of expounding it he has brought what may be described
without inflation as the resources of modern music. We shall doubtless
hear of plagiarism from "Parsifal," and there is indeed much in the work
that could not have been there but for "Parsifal." But it is not
allowable for a modern composer of religious music to be ignorant of
"Parsifal." One might as well write for orchestra in ignorance of the
Berlioz orchestration as write any serious music in ignorance of the
Wagnerian symbolism. Edward Elgar does nothing so affected as to ignore
the development which, for good or for evil, the language of music
underwent at the hands of Wagner. His orchestral prelude, however,
reverts to an earlier Wagnerian type. It gives a forecast of the whole
story in such wise that at the end of it the imagination has to be
carried back. We have the last agony of the sick man, his death, and
passage to the unseen. The symbols, though employed in the Wagnerian
manner, are, nevertheless, thoroughly original, taking us into an
atmosphere and a world absolutely remote from all that is Wagnerian.
When the voice of Gerontius (assigned to a tenor solo) enters we are
carried back to the death-bed--to the prayers of Gerontius and his
companions. A series of choruses with intervening and accompanying
passages for the solo voice is devoted to the King of Terrors. Here the
music touches the various notes in the gamut of feeling, from the agony
of terrors to serene confidence. After the parting of Gerontius, with
the words "Novissima hora est," a new voice enters, that of the Priest
(baritone), chanting "Proficiscere, anima Christiana." Among the
supplications for the departed is a chant three times repeated, each of
the two parts ending with a choral "Amen" that bears a tender echo of
the mediæval "Cantus fictus." An extended section of chorus and
semi-chorus bring the first part of the cantata to a peaceful and
prayerful ending.
In the second part the soul of Gerontius is winging its way towards the
celestial regions, holding colloquy with an angel. There is a Dantesque
passage in which a chorus of demons is overheard by the pair--the soul
and the angel. Gerontius is encouraged by the angel. Echoes of earthly
voices, praying for the departed soul, are borne up from the earth, and
in the end the soul of Gerontius is affectionately delivered over to
Purgatory by the angel, there to wait suffering indeed, but in
resignation and in the assurance of salvation.
Naturally the prevalent poetic note in such a work is the mystical
exaltation, now of the contrite sinner, now of the aspiring saint. The
chief climax is reached, not at the end, but in the hymn of the Angels,
"Praise to the Holiest in the Height," recurring before the departure to
Purgatory. But the whole work sings "Praise to the Holiest in the Height
_and in the Depth_." A powerfully contrasting note is heard in the
death-agony of Gerontius and, above all, in the chorus of demons
occurring in the second part. Here a comparison with Berlioz is simply
inevitable--for Edward Elgar's dramatic power admits of comparison with
the great masters. His demons are much more terrible than those of
Berlioz, who was a materialist in the profound sense--not, that is, in
virtue of more or less shifting beliefs, but of unalterable temperament.
Infinitely remote from that of Berlioz is the temperament revealed in
Edward Elgar's music, which, like parts of the poem, fairly merits the
epithet "Dantesque."
[Sidenote: ="Gerontius,"
Lower Rhine Festival,
Düsseldorf.=
_May 22, 1902._]
"Ever since the far-off times of the great madrigal composers England
has played but a modest part in the concert of the great musical powers.
For the products of the musical mind it has depended almost entirely on
importation, and has exported nothing but works of a lighter order."
Such are the words with which the German author of the "Gerontius"
programme, specially written for this Festival, introduces his subject.
The economic metaphor is ingenious. It does not imply too much or
justify the state of things to which it refers. Rightly or wrongly,
Germany and the Continent of Europe in general did not feel that serious
English music was a thing to be taken seriously, and to that fact the
writer refers with ingenious delicacy, going on to say that about the
turn of the century a change began to be noticeable. Everyone conversant
with musical affairs knows how that change was brought about, though not
everyone on our own side of the Channel cares to admit what he knows. It
is in the main to Edward Elgar--a man who has done his best work living
quietly in the Malvern hills, without official position of any kind,
remote from social distraction and the strife of commercialism--that the
change is due. The presentation of so lengthy a work as the "Dream of
Gerontius" at a Rhine Festival has a kind of significance that the
English musical public would do well to consider. The programme is much
more carefully selected than at our own festivals, the idea being not at
all that it should contain "something for all tastes," but that it
should be characteristic of musical art as it now stands, giving only
the most typically excellent of newer compositions, and of older
compositions only those upon which it is felt that contemporary genius
had been more particularly nourished. It is not accidental that on the
present occasion the names of Handel, Mendelssohn, Schumann are absent
while Bach is very abundantly represented; Beethoven's name figures in
connection with the most modern in feeling of all his works (the C minor
Symphony), and Liszt's with his revolutionary "Faust" Symphony. Nor is
it accidental that the preference is given to Strauss among German and
Elgar among English composers. For those are the men who really carry
the torch, and the Germans are not to be deceived in such matters.
The performance of "Gerontius" yesterday evening had a good many
features of special interest. Full justice was done to the instrumental
part of the work by the magnificent Festival orchestra of a hundred and
twenty-seven performers. Those peculiar qualities of the imagination
which make of Dr. Wüllner, jun., by far the best representative of
Gerontius as yet found were once more demonstrated, and the part of the
Angel was given by Miss Muriel Foster with the wonderfully beautiful and
genuine voice that has long been recognised as her most remarkable gift,
and with considerably greater and more expressive eloquence than any
previous experience might have led one to expect from her. In the bass
parts of the Priest and the Angel of Death Professor Messchaert sang
with wonderful dramatic power, and the semi-chorus, seated in a line
before the orchestra, acquitted themselves almost to perfection in the
delicate task that they have to perform throughout the death-bed scene.
I have already expressed the view that the final section of the first
part, beginning with the Priest's "proficiscere, anima Christiana," is
the point at which one first becomes conscious of actual genius in the
composition; but now, after further study and another complete hearing
of the work, I am not quite satisfied with that statement. Perhaps at
that point a good many listeners first become clearly conscious of the
composer's genius. But on looking back at the extraordinary eloquence
and beauty of the musical symbolism in the prelude and death-agony of
Gerontius, one perceives that the _quietus_ which comes to the spirit in
the scene following Gerontius's death is merely a climax in a process
that really begins with the first notes. The heavenly calm at the
opening of the second part I realised yesterday more thoroughly than
ever before. Splendid as the treatment of the hymn "Praise to the
Holiest in the Height" is, the final section is not so completely
adequate as the rest. The truth is that the composer there found himself
in presence of a task hopelessly beyond the powers of any mortal except
Bach. In the "Sanctus" heard on Sunday evening the shining circles of
the heavenly choir are, as it were, made audible to the ears of mortals.
Bach could only do it once, and no other composer could do it at all.
Elgar gives a beautiful and grandly conceived hymn of the Church
Triumphant, and with that we may well rest satisfied. He is in the main
a dramatic composer, and, in those cases where he enters the domain of
purely religious music, he gravitates back rather to Palestrina, with
his "souls like thin flames mounting up to God," than to the greater and
serener spirit of Bach.
[Sidenote: ="Gerontius,"
Preliminary Article.=
_March 12, 1903._]
In subject, though not in treatment, this oratorio--the first
performance of which in Manchester will be given this evening--is
closely akin to the morality play "Everyman." Gerontius is not a
historical character, but a typical person, belonging to no particular
age or country. He is further like Everyman in being a layman, who has
lived in the world, as distinguished from the Church, and in being just
a plain, well-meaning man, without very great or shining qualities. The
poem on which the oratorio is founded begins, at a later stage than
"Everyman," with the death-bed scene, and does not end with the death of
Gerontius's mortal part, but peers wistfully into the world beyond, and
"under the similitude of a dream," tells much of what holy men have
imagined about the experiences of Christian souls going to their account
under the guidance of angels.
In the oratorio the utterances of Gerontius are assigned to a tenor
soloist, who in the first part has to deliver the broken phrases of the
sick man "near to death," and in the second the delicately restrained
raptures of the soul that "feels in him an inexpressive lightness and a
sense of freedom," as he gradually becomes conscious of the angelic
presence that is bearing him along towards the heavenly regions. The
only other soloist in the first part is the Priest (bass), who delivers
the solemn "Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo," as the soul
of Gerontius quits the body. In the second part the second and third
soloists represent, one the Guiding Angel (mezzo-soprano) and the other
the Angel of the Agony (bass), who, at the most solemn moment of the
oratorio, is recognised by the Soul as "the same who strengthened Him,
what time he knelt, lone in the garden shade bedewed with blood." The
semi-chorus in the first part is the group of "assistants," or friends
gathered about the dying man's bed. The function of the chorus in the
first part is not defined, but it may be taken as voicing the prayers
and aspirations of other faithful souls, aware of Gerontius's case and
sympathising with him. In the second part the chorus is now of
"angelicals," now of demons. The semi-chorus again represents the voices
of friends on earth, which at one point are imagined as again becoming
audible to the Soul, and also takes part in certain phases of the great
hymn "Praise to the Holiest in the Height," where the vocal harmony
falls into as many as twelve parts.
Those who are to hear this music to-day for the first time should beware
of judging it by false standards. Let them be prepared for the fact that
from beginning to end there is not a particle of anything in the least
like Handel or Mendelssohn. Without the slightest intention of doing
anything revolutionary, but simply following the bent of his own genius,
the composer here brushes aside the conventions of oratorio very much as
Wagner brushed aside the conventions of opera, and justifies himself
just as thoroughly in so doing. To hear the "Gerontius" music is to
become acquainted with by far the most remarkable and original
personality that has arisen in musical Britain since the days of
Purcell. One might trace the manifestations of that originality in the
harmony, that always shows a touch both sensitive and sure, in the
orchestration and interplay of chorus and semi-chorus, in the amazing
sweetness and depth of feeling that sounds in the Angel (mezzo-soprano
solo) music, in the force and truth of musical expression which, for the
most part, extends even to elements of minor importance in the work. But
for the present these broad indications must suffice, and we will only
add the warning that the music is powerful, subtle, and of manifold
significance, not to be judged in too great a hurry, and yielding up the
best of its secrets only to those who listen repeatedly and study
between.
[Sidenote: ="Gerontius,"
Hallé Concerts.=
_March 13, 1903._]
Originality is disadvantageous to a composer at first in two ways. The
more obvious is that listeners find the music speaking to them in an
unknown or partially unknown tongue, and are displeased; and the less
obvious, that players and singers cannot, as a rule, do justice to an
unfamiliar style. When it is a case of winning recognition for something
new and original a thoroughly adequate rendering is half the battle.
Such a rendering carries with it a sense of enjoyment and satisfaction
in the performers, and there is always a chance that this may to some
extent communicate itself to the public; whereas in the other case the
embarrassment of the performers will certainly communicate itself, and
the audience attribute everything unsatisfactory to the unknown or
insufficiently guaranteed composer. In Elgar's "Gerontius" the
originality is strong and unmistakeable, and the performers find their
technical skill severely taxed. But fortunately the composer has a clear
head; he knows the technique of each instrument and he never
miscalculates. Performers therefore find their task, though often
difficult, is always possible and, further, that the result is always
satisfactory. For Elgar has an ear; he is a man of tone, and does not
care for music that looks well on paper but sounds rather muddy. These
points, known to those who for some time past have taken a close
interest in Elgar's work, made it possible to hope that the Manchester
performance of his great oratorio would be a striking success, and
perhaps even throw a new light on the merits of the composition; and it
can scarcely be questioned that the experience of yesterday evening
fulfilled those hopes. It was doubtless the most carefully prepared of
the performances that have been given thus far in this country. Dr.
Richter was, for various reasons, peculiarly anxious that it should go
well; Mr. Wilson made up his mind some time ago that whatever
conscientious work could do to secure a worthy performance should be
done; the hopes and endeavours of choir-master and conductor were
seconded by the choir in an admirable spirit; and, though it seems that
for some time the usual difficulties of an unfamiliar style were felt,
not a trace of any such thing was to be observed in the performance, the
remarkably willing and energetic style in which the choral singers had
grappled with their task bearing its proper fruit in a rendering that
sounded spontaneous and unembarrassed, as though the singers were sure
of the notes and could give nearly all their attention to phrasing,
expression, and dynamic adjustments. In the highest degree remarkable,
too, was the orchestral performance. Passages of such peculiar
difficulty as the rushing string figures, that represent the strains of
heavenly music overheard by the Soul and the Angel as they approach the
judgment-seat, came out with much greater distinctness than we have
ever heard before, and we had a similar impression at many other points
in the performance, which was as delicate as it was precise in detail
and broad in style. But experience of all the complete performances yet
given induces us to think that the difference between thorough success
and ordinary half-success with this oratorio depends more on the
semi-chorus than on any other point, and this is where the pre-eminence
of last night's rendering, among all yet given in this country, is most
unquestionable. Though not placed in front of the orchestra--as they
should have been and, we hope, will be next time,--this group of twenty
picked singers was really excellent. The voices blended well, and their
combined tone was clearly distinguishable from the larger choir's. At
the notoriously dangerous points, such as the re-entry with the "Kyrie"
after the invocation of "angels, martyrs, hermits, and holy virgins,"
there was no hint of embarrassment, and they played their part as a
slightly more delicate choral unit with absolute success in the litany
and throughout the marvellous concluding chorus of the first part,
where, as the original analysis suggested, the noble pedal-point
harmonies symbolise the swinging of golden censers, as the supplications
of the friends and of the church rise up to the throne of God. Among the
astonishingly new kinds of musical eloquence obtained in this work by
the interplay of chorus and semi-chorus it is worth drawing special
attention to the tenor and alto unison in the semi-chorus on p. 108 (we
quote from the second edition). The passage is not difficult, but to
realise the particular effect of tone as well as it was realised
yesterday shows exquisite adjustment.
As principal soloist Mr. John Coates had an enormously difficult task,
which he performed about as well as was possible with the vocal material
that has been assigned to him by nature. All that thorough knowledge of
the part, together with high artistic intelligence, could do was done.
His voice did not break on the high B flat (p. 33), and he seemed to be
well disposed, notwithstanding his recent illness. Though it is usually
said that Elgar writes better for orchestra than for choir, and better
for choir than for the solo voice, he was very finely inspired when he
conceived the part of the mezzo-soprano Angel. The opening arioso, "My
work is done," is a most lovely song, to which the haunting "Alleluia"
phrase forms a kind of refrain. But even this--one of the very few
detachable things in the oratorio--is not the best of the Angel's music.
It is surpassed by the other song, "Softly and gently, dearly ransomed
Soul," where the dropping of the Soul down into the waters of Purgatory
is accompanied by music of quite unearthly sweetness and tenderness.
These are things which make it seem almost a shame to discuss this work
in any purely technical aspect. Miss Brema made the Angel's part one of
the few entirely satisfactory features of the first performance, and
again yesterday her nobly expressive style did full justice to the
marvellous beauty of the music. Mr. Black was vocally irreproachable in
the part of the Priest who speeds the parting soul of Gerontius, and
again as the Angel of the Agony in the second part.
In reference to a musical composition the word "dramatic" has sometimes
to be used in a sense different from "theatrical." Thus the two great
Passions by Bach--the "St. Matthew" and the "St. John"--both have a
dramatic element so strong that at certain points the music becomes
altogether dramatic. Yet no sane person ever called it theatrical, in
the sense of unfit for a church. By "dramatic" in such cases one means
two things--(1) having thematic material that is conceived with a
certain vividness, in reference to a particular situation or mood of
feeling; (2) developed according to procedure that does not sacrifice
the vividness to formal or structural considerations. In this sense,
then, we call Elgar's "Gerontius" a dramatic composition from beginning
to end. To find fault with it for the absence of choral climax in the
manner of Handel and Mendelssohn is as much out of place as it would be
with Wagner's "Tannhäuser." On the other hand, we do not agree with the
criticism that "Gerontius" is Wagnerian music. In two places there is a
brief and faint suggestion of "Parsifal," first in the _sostenuto_ theme
for _cor anglais_ and 'celli that enters in the fifty-second bar of the
Prelude and recurs in some form at several points in the course of the
work, and secondly in a recurrent phrase for strings at the entry of the
recitative assigned to the Angel of the Agony--and to some extent
throughout that recitative, which vaguely recalls "Parsifal." The other
elements we find to be unlike Wagner and unlike every other composer but
Elgar. These elements it is convenient to classify, not according to the
usual technical or formal principle, but according to a dramatic
principle. One notes, in the first place, four main categories--(1) the
purely human; (2) the ecclesiastical; (3) the angelic; (4) the demonic.
The Prelude opens with the symbols of Judgment and Prayer. Next the
"slumber" theme enters, to be joined at the fourteenth bar by the
"Miserere." The note of feeling contracts and sinks towards utter
abasement, which reaches the lowest point in the _cor anglais_ theme
with _tremolando_ accompaniment. But now the sick man's despair finds
expression in a loud cry, which is answered in the majestic and ringing
tones that remind him to face death hopefully. A quite new musical
element enters with the Andantino theme, developed at some length, and
informs the penultimate section of the noble tone-poem, which continues
till a brief _reprise_ of the slumber theme suggests the passing of the
soul. New phases of the Judgment theme connect the Prelude with the
opening recitative, and here the imagination has to be carried back, as
usual after the Prelude of a dramatic composition, which as a rule
epitomises a good part of the action. It is evident, then, that the
Prelude is concerned only with the first two of the categories above
enumerated--that is to say, with the purely human and the
ecclesiastical, and not at all with the angelic or demonic. Of the
angelic music the principal elements, in addition to those already
mentioned, are the various phases of the great hymn "Praise to the
Holiest in the Height." The extraordinary demon music would in itself
offer material for an essay. Here we can only touch on a few obvious
features--the upward rushing semiquaver figure in chromatic fourths,
which is grotesque and rat-like; the three-part figure for strings in
quavers which is first heard with the words "Tainting the hallowed
air," but belongs more particularly to "in a deep hideous purring have
their life"; the terrific fugato "dispossessed, thrust aside, chuck'd
down"; the sinister and ominous four-note theme "To every slave and
pious cheat"; the _motif_ of demonic pride, p. 83; and the sarcastic
prolongation of the last word in "He'll slave for hire." The long chorus
formed of these elements is a welter of infernal but most eloquent
sound, the enormous technical difficulties all of which were completely
mastered yesterday.
[Sidenote: ="The Apostles,"
Birmingham Festival.=
_October 15, 1903._]
To-day, when Elgar's new Oratorio "The Apostles" was first publicly
performed, was a sufficiently striking contrast with the corresponding
day in the Festival of three years ago that witnessed the production of
the same composer's "Gerontius." On that earlier occasion the interest
both of performers and public was languid. That Elgar's music was
difficult and harassing to perform was generally known, while the merit
of it was regarded as doubtful. The upholders of British musical
orthodoxy, with their faith in the saving virtues of eight-part
counterpoint, shook their heads, the choral singers found their work
disconcerting, and the public doubted whether the composer was anything
more than an eccentric. The three intervening years have placed Elgar's
reputation on a very different footing. Vague hostility towards the
unusual and the unknown has given way almost universally to the
recognition that he is one of the great originals in the musical world
of to-day; and he thus compels attention even in those who instinctively
dislike both his particular methods and the kind of general atmosphere
into which his religious art transports the listener.
In "The Apostles" Elgar adheres completely to those principles which
were exemplified by "Gerontius" first among works of British origin.
That is to say, the music is continuous, as in Wagnerian musical drama.
There is no such thing in the work as a detachable musical
"number"--whether air, song, chorus, concerted piece, march, or anything
else. The composer has musical symbols corresponding to ideas, feelings,
moods, aspects of nature or personality, religious conceptions or
aspirations, animated scenes of popular life, phases of local and
national custom, exhortations of the angels, suggestions of the devil,
mystical rapture, rebellious despair; and he uses those symbols in the
manner of a language. There is no mechanical work, no carrying out of
architectural schemes with lifeless material. Everything in the score is
vivified by the idea. The composition heard to-day consists of the first
and second parts of the projected oratorio. In the first part there are
three scenes--"The Calling of the Apostles," "By the Wayside," and "By
the Sea of Galilee"; in the second part four scenes--"The Betrayal,"
"Golgotha," "At the Sepulchre," and "The Ascension." After the prologue
and the narrator's opening recitative, the setting forth of the
Apostles' calling begins with the changing of the Temple watch at dawn,
the watchmen on the roof as they salute the rising sun being conceived
as the unconscious heralds of Christ's kingdom on earth. Here the
musical treatment is stamped with the utmost grandeur, and points of
amazingly vivid and picturesque detail are successively made, the
curious Oriental _Melismata_ of the watchman's cry, accompanied by the
_Shofar_ (Hebrew trumpet of ram's horn), giving way to the psalm within
the Temple, between the phrases of which is heard the brazen clangour of
the opening gates, while the air is flooded with the rushing music of
harps. For the psalm an old Hebrew melody is used. So rich in matter is
the text of the oratorio that I cannot attempt here even to give an
outline of it, but must refer readers to Canon Gorton's booklet "An
Interpretation of the Libretto" (Novello and Co.). There will be found
an account of the sources from which the composer took his text, and in
particular the justification for his view of Judas as a man who intended
not to betray his Master to destruction but to force His hand, to make
Him declare His power and establish His earthly kingdom forthwith--a
view for which there would seem to be patristic authority.[2] The
oratorio is not theological; it is a dramatisation of the Gospel story
that may be compared with Klopstock's "Messiah." After the introductory
sections, broadly expounding the scheme of Redemption as accepted by the
entire Christian world, but not enforcing any particular doctrine, all
the stress is laid on the individuality of the persons--the Apostles,
the Magdalene, and the Mother of Christ--and on the collective character
of the groups, such as the women who are scandalised at the
ministrations of the Magdalene and the mob which cries "Crucify Him!"
As an accompaniment of the drama we have the mystical chorus of angels
commenting on the progress of earthly affairs and giving utterance to
the sweet, passionless jubilation of sinless beings after the Ascension.
To those who are acquainted with "Gerontius" it is almost needless to
say that the composer is at his best in rendering the music of the
heavenly choir. His marvellous faculty of finding music that matches the
words inevitably, so that once heard the associations seem to have been
long known, is here repeatedly illustrated. Perhaps the most absolutely
perfect examples occur at the words "What are these wounds in Thine
hands?" and in the recurrent "Alleluia" phrase.
[2] Compare De Quincey's famous essay on Judas Iscariot.--ED.
Elgar's austerity is more strongly pronounced in "The Apostles" than in
"Gerontius," and so, too, is his audacity in using the special resources
of the modern dramatic orchestra to expound a religious theme. The old
pompous oratorio manner he has left an immeasurable distance behind him.
He sticks at nothing in his determination to cut down to the quick of
human nature, to reject all abstractions and conventions and illustrate
an idea or fact of religious experience in its relation to actual flesh
and blood. The sinister parts of the oratorio recall by their general
tone, atmosphere, and colouring the scene in Klopstock's "Messiah" in
which an avenging angel carries the soul of Judas up to Golgotha and
there shows him the results of his work. Mighty as the music is, it is
all strictly illustrative, and so the centre of gravity remains in the
text.
Some time must elapse yet before anyone can offer a confident estimate
of "The Apostles" as a work of art. It will possibly be found to stand
to "Gerontius" in something like the relation of Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony to his Seventh, the later work being of greater depth and
significance but less perfectly finished.
[Sidenote: ="The Apostles,"
Preliminary Article.=
_February 25, 1904._]
Elgar's most recent oratorio, "The Apostles," which will be heard by the
Manchester public for the first time this evening, stands in much the
same relation to recent works in oratorio form by other composers as one
of the later musical dramas by Wagner holds to the kind of opera that
was in vogue when he began to write. According to current ideas,
justified by the practice of many well-known composers, an oratorio
comes into existence by some such process as the following. A composer
casts about for a subject, either being guided in his choice by
consideration of what is in some manner appropriate to the particular
occasion, or simply taking a story from the Bible that has not been used
before, or not too frequently before, for musical purposes. He then
either obtains the services of a librettist or himself arranges a
libretto setting forth the chosen story. In the drawing up of the
libretto the most important matter is the engineering of "opportunities"
for the composer--here an effective air for the principal personage,
there a chorus with scope for effective contrapuntal writing, everywhere
due regard for the well-varied interest which the public loves, and, at
the end of a part, provision for an effective Finale. But some
recognised kind of musical opportunity is always the chief matter. No
one cares much about the subject except in so far as it provides the
musical opportunity of an accepted kind. It is a case of chorus, air,
concerted piece, march, air for another sort of voice, and Finale, with
connecting recitatives as a necessary evil, and the whole thing standing
or falling according as the composer seizes the said opportunities and
turns them to account in the accepted manner, or neglects or fails to do
that. For so long a time has that kind of oratorio been regarded by the
general public as the only possible kind, that even now immense numbers
of persons discuss works like "Gerontius" and "The Apostles" on the old
lines. That a musician should have a mind, and a message to which notes
and chords are subservient, is an idea so new as to be disquieting, if
not at once dismissed as absurd. People are so much accustomed to say
that they never did care about the subject of a musical work; that no
sensible person does; that if the music is pretty the work is good; and
there is an end of the matter. Yet now comes a composer and makes the
subject the chief thing, writing music that gives no one the slightest
encouragement to take interest in it apart from the subject--in short,
displaying the most complete indifference to everything that used to be
expected of a composer, and giving us all to understand that, in a
religious work, if the music does not in some clear manner contribute to
the exposition of the subject, it is not justified at all. In this
respect "Gerontius" and "The Apostles" are alike. People can take them
or leave them, but they cannot make them out to be pretty music, such as
one can enjoy without "bothering about" the subject. For Elgar so orders
that we have to enjoy with the head and the heart or not at all. He will
not allow us to enjoy simply with the nerves or by recognising approved
kinds of musical rhetoric.
Whatever Elgar may do in the future, he can never approach a more
weighty subject than is expounded in the two parts of "The Apostles,"
which make up the oratorio in its present form. This deals with the
calling of the Apostles and with some of the most important incidents in
the life of the Redeemer during His ministry. Everyone intending to hear
the work should read the short and clear account given in Canon Gorton's
"Interpretation of the Text." The writer is remarkably successful in
bringing out the profound consistency and psychological insight which
distinguish this oratorio text so very sharply from most others.
Attention may be drawn specially to the characterisation of the three
Apostles, John, Peter, and Judas, expounded mainly on pages 13 and 15.
Canon Gorton also shows us the sources from which some of the most
fruitful ideas and telling symbols of the oratorio have been derived.
The music exemplifies a further development along the lines indicated by
"Gerontius." In the resources which he calls into play the composer is a
thorough-going modern. His orchestra is of great size, and he does not
scorn the specially modern instruments or the modern tendency to group
and subdivide in an elaborate and subtle fashion. In the quality of his
absolute musical invention he shows himself to be neither a classic nor
a romantic, but a psychological musician. His thematic web is the exact
analogue of the emotional and imaginative play to which the exposition
of the story gives rise from point to point, and it thus partakes of the
nature of language. The composer cares nothing for accepted views as to
what is in accordance with the proper dignity of oratorio; but, trusting
to his conception as a whole to ennoble every part, he allows himself to
be here and there extremely realistic, very much as the great religious
painters have done. He works on a great scale; in the handling of
musical symbols he is not dismayed by tasks that might well be
considered impossible, and he thus reminds one of the compliment which
Erasmus paid to Albrecht Dürer--"There is nothing that he cannot express
with his black and white--thunder and lightning, a gust of wind, God
Almighty and the heavenly host."
[Sidenote: ="The Apostles,"
Hallé Concerts.=
_February 26, 1904._]
A faultless rendering of "The Apostles" is not to be expected. The same
thing has been said of "Gerontius," and the score of the later work yet
more obviously transcends the powers of the best endowed and disciplined
musical forces to render it in a manner which "leaves nothing to be
desired." All hope of reaching the end of their task with a feeling of
complacency must be abandoned by the choir, orchestra, soloists, and
conductor who undertake to perform "The Apostles," which, in point of
technical difficulty, is a "Symphonie Fantastique" and Mass in D
combined. Still, in a relative sense, a rendering may be
satisfactory--in the sense that it has the root of the matter in it, not
that it is faultless in every detail,--and in that sense we should call
the rendering of yesterday highly satisfactory. The general intonation
of the choir was better than on any previous occasion, all the delicate
fluting rapture of the celestial choruses at the end sounding
wonderfully sweet and showing not the least trace of fatigue. The
orchestral playing was more subtle than at Birmingham, and it seemed to
afford a better justification of the composer's extraordinary colour
schemes. It would be hard to suggest a better representation for any of
the solo parts. As at Birmingham, Mr. Ffrangcon Davies gave the words of
the Redeemer with admirable dignity, and here and there with a trumpet
tone in his voice that might have reminded an Ammergau pilgrim of the
late Joseph Mayer. As the Narrator and the Apostle John Mr. Coates gave
a rendering worthy of his Gerontius earlier in the season. In the parts
for women's voices Miss Agnes Nicholls and Miss Muriel Foster once more
proved their immeasurable superiority to singers of the "star" order in
music of real poetic quality. Mr. Black gave a most telling
interpretation of the part of Judas, which, as in the Passion Play at
Oberammergau, has greater dramatic significance than any other. All the
solo parts, except the Redeemer's, are in certain sections so much
interwoven with each other and with the chorus that the combined result
overpowers the individual interest, though in the parts of the Magdalene
and of Judas there are also important independent developments. There
can be no question as to the general excellence of the rendering, and
the audience was on the same enormous scale as when "Gerontius" was
given in November; but the reception was very different. There was
applause, of course, yesterday, but no scene of great enthusiasm such as
the earlier and simpler oratorio evoked. Some persons seem to be of
opinion that the comparative reserve of the public was caused by the
extreme solemnity of the subject; that they were really impressed by the
music, but in such a manner that there was no inclination to be
demonstrative. In this there may be some truth; but, "The Apostles"
being unquestionably much more austere and difficult to understand than
"Gerontius," we are inclined to accept the simpler explanation that the
audience did not like it so well.
It seems impossible to deny that the music of "The Apostles" represents
in many important respects an advance upon the earlier oratorio. The
poetic theme of the whole work is incomparably more ambitious, and the
musical invention is in more respects than one of greater power. In
regard to this point the obvious case to take is Mr. Jaeger's example 3
(Novello's edition), "Christ, the Man of Sorrows," that being the
_motif_ of which more frequent and varied use is made than any other.
Here we find unmistakable progress. In its simplest form the theme is
more intense and more profound in feeling than any in "Gerontius," and
furthermore the manner in which the significance of it develops
throughout the work, up to the Ascension phrase, where it occurs in its
most expanded form, though not for the last time, shows a great advance
in the composer's art. Again, the interest of the "Apostles" music is
much more varied. All the symbolism having reference to Christ in
solitude makes a most powerful appeal to the imagination; and the
opening of the Temple gates at dawn is a scene of astonishingly graphic
force and bold design. In the second part the tragedy of the Passion is
given in four scenes of tremendous intensity, and then, in the section
headed "At the Sepulchre," we begin to become aware of the spirit which
is Elgar's most rare and wonderful possession. "And very early in the
morning," says the text, "they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of
the sun." Thereupon are heard the watchers singing an echo of the music
from the great sunrise scene at the beginning. After a dozen bars the
fluting notes of a celestial chorus begin gliding in, and then we have
an example of that _naïf_ mediævalism at which the second part of
"Gerontius" here and there hints. A kind of unearthly exhilaration
begins to sound in the music. The Resurrection has brought a new fact
into a sorrowful world. It is a sublime adventure, at news of which
heaven and earth bubble into song. Throughout all the rest of the work
the composer creates that sense of the multitudinous which belongs to
parts of the hymn "Praise to the Holiest" in the earlier oratorio. But
the angelic rapture that accompanies the Resurrection and Ascension in
the "Apostles" is far greater and more wonderful. The heavenly strain is
repeated in so many different ways that the air seems to be full of it,
and it never loses the angelic character by becoming militant or
assertive. It remains to the end an efflorescence of song--the sinless,
strifeless, untiring, sweetly fluting rapture of the heavenly choir,
mixing or alternating with the more substantial tones of holy men and
women on earth. Elgar can also render for us the grief of angels. This
he does in a page of unparalleled beauty, describing how Peter, after
denying his Master, went out and wept bitterly. This page alone might
well save the composition from ever being forgotten.
The less convincing parts of the oratorio are sections ii. and iii.,
especially those parts devoted to the Beatitudes and the conversion of
the Magdalene. It is obviously a work the secrets of which are to be
penetrated only with the aid of many hearings and much study. At present
we are disposed to regard "Gerontius" as the more perfect work of art,
though the individual beauties of the "Apostles" are greater and more
wonderful. Nearly everything in the later oratorio is stronger. The
symbols of the Church show an advance upon the corresponding parts of
"Gerontius" scarcely less remarkably than the symbols of the heavenly
choir. The strange Old Testament element connected with the Temple
service again shows imaginative power of quite a new kind, wonderfully
enriching the background of the composition, and the tragic force of the
"Passion" scenes is immensely greater than anything in "Gerontius." But
with our present degree of knowledge we miss in the "Apostles" that
crowning artistic unity which prompted us to describe "Gerontius" as a
pearl among oratorios.
[Sidenote: ="In the South."=
_November 4, 1904._]
Sir Edward Elgar's most recent Overture, "In the South," has a
picturesqueness, or rather a kind of graphic power, arising from
far-reaching play of the imagination. In thematic invention it is
perhaps more strongly stamped with Elgar's originality than any other
work. Its whole tone, atmosphere, and colouring are something
essentially new in music, the only hint of any other composer's
influence occurring in the viola solo, which bears a faint suggestion of
Berlioz's "Harold in Italy." But, being a secondary element in the
latter part of the Overture, it is to be regarded merely as that kind of
reference which in music is as allowable as it is in literature. The
_grandioso_ theme beginning in A flat minor, which was suggested by the
Roman remains of La Turbie, is so striking that it has already acquired
a good many nicknames. The "steam-roller" theme, it has been called;
elsewhere, the "seven-league-boot" theme, the "Jack the Giant-killer,"
and, among Germans, the "Siebentöter" theme. In any case it is a most
extraordinary piece of musical expression, of a kind scarcely ever
foreshadowed by any other composer, except once or twice by Beethoven,
who first sought and found the musical symbol of great historic or
cosmic forces, or of the emotion stirred in the human consciousness by
the play, or after-effects, of such forces. One thing remains to be said
about this Overture. The composer's procedure is a compromise between
the old procedure by way of thematic development and the newer by way of
dramatic suggestion, and he does not always succeed completely in the
fusion of the two, as, for example, Beethoven does in his greater
"Leonora"; but here and there he permits the feeling to arise that the
one is interfering with the other. In particular, the composition is
open to the charge of a certain weakness in thematic development; but
that does not prevent it from being, as a whole, a very striking,
beautiful, and original tone picture. Dr. Richter's interpretation very
finely revealed all the strong points. He saved three minutes of the
composer's own time by taking the _vivace_ sections at a somewhat
quicker tempo. As at Covent Garden last March, Mr. Speelman played the
incidental viola solo with marvellous beauty of tone.
[Sidenote: ="The Coronation Ode."=
_October 3, 1902._]
To the Coronation Ode I listened with great curiosity, remembering the
ordinary fate that overtakes patriotic composers and wondering what Sir
Edward Elgar would make of the subject. I find that he has let himself
be inspired by the nymph of the same spring whence flowed those two
delightful Tommy Atkins marches known as "Pomp and Circumstance." It is
popular music of a kind that has not been made for a long time in this
country--scarcely at all since Dibdin's time. At least one may say that
of the best parts, such as the bass solo and chorus "Britain, ask of
thyself," and the contralto solo and chorus "Land of hope and glory."
The former is ringing martial music, the latter a sort of Church parade
song having the breath of a national hymn. It is the melody which
occurs as second principal theme of the longer "Pomp and Circumstance"
march, which I beg to suggest is as broad as "God Save the King," "Rule
Britannia," and "See the Conquering Hero," and is perhaps the broadest
open-air tune composed since Beethoven's "Freude schöner Götterfunken."
Moreover, it is distinctively British--at once beefy and breezy. It is
astonishing to hear people finding fault with Elgar for using this tune
in two different compositions. I find it most natural in a composer, to
whom music is a language in which, desiring to say exactly the same
thing again, one has no choice but to say it in the same notes. Besides,
such tunes are composed less frequently than once in fifty years. How
then can one blame Elgar for not composing two in six months? The chorus
enjoyed themselves over it, and so did the audience. As to the
sentimental parts of the Ode, frankly I find them uninspired.