RICHARD STRAUSS.
[Sidenote: ="Don Quixote,"
Düsseldorf.=
_May 26, 1899._]
Richard Strauss is now beyond question the most prominent figure among
the younger composers of Germany. He was born at Munich in 1864. At an
early age he mastered the various arts of composition and produced works
that showed originality and power. Among such early works may be
mentioned a String Quartet produced in 1881, and a Symphony first heard
in the following year. Within a few years he also composed a Sonata for
'cello, a Serenade for wind instruments, a Concerto for violin, a
Concerto for horn, besides songs and pianoforte pieces. These early
works show the influence of classical models, and in three cases--the
Sonata for 'cello and the Concertos for violin and horn
respectively--the influence of Mendelssohn. At a later period Richard
Strauss became a disciple of the Wagner-Liszt school and adopted the
Symphonic Poem as his principal medium of expression. His fine Sonata in
E flat for pianoforte and violin marks the transition stage. In his
later phase Strauss appears as a psychologist and an _esprit fin_. His
study of Nietzsche's philosophy appears not only in his "Zarathustra,"
but in nearly all his "Symphonic Poems." The "Heldenleben" might quite
well be labelled with the Nietzschian expression "Der Uebermensch."
Strauss thus seems to stand to Nietzsche in something like the relation
that Wagner bore to Schopenhauer, and it is a curious point that in each
case the musician is found diverging somewhat violently from the taste
of his philosophical master. These two philosophers--the only two that
have taken a genuine interest in modern music--had both somewhat
rudimentary musical taste, though good taste as far as it went.
Schopenhauer's preference was for Rossini and Nietzsche's for Bizet, and
even as Wagner's style differs _toto coelo_ from Rossini's, so do
Strauss's incredible richness of imaginative detail and indifference to
rhythmical charm stamp him as something very different from those
"Halcyonian" composers whom Nietzsche loved. Strauss is not likely to
become popular in England, but two or three of his larger orchestral
works, and especially the "Heldenleben," would probably find favour with
a section of the English public. To the mandarins and to the majority he
is and must remain anathema.
On the third and last day of this Festival Strauss's "Don Quixote" was
the work upon which public curiosity was chiefly concentrated. In these
"Fantastic Variations" we find the composer once more adopting a style
as frankly grotesque as in "Till Eulenspiegel." The long and important
introduction stands in a relation to the rest of the work that, so far
as I know, is unique. It is a preparation for the principal theme,
successively emphasising all the different kinds of significance
supposed to be contained in that theme. First we have a naïve, stilted,
and pompous phrase suggesting Don Quixote's absorption in the romances
of chivalry. Succeeding passages touch upon the hero's pose of gallantry
and the great predominance of imagination over reason which leads him
into grotesque adventures. The psychological method of the composer
causes him to lay stress on the crisis forming the _point de départ_ of
Don Quixote's career--a vow of atonement for sins and follies. At last
we get the theme in its complete form--a masterpiece of droll
characterisation,--and immediately after it the prosaic jog-trot of
Sancho Panza. In the first variation a musical element is introduced
typifying Don Quixote's feminine ideal--Dulcinea of Toboso. It ends with
the windmill incident. One hears the airy swing of the mill-sails, the
furious approach of the knight, and his sudden overthrow. Variation No.
2 gives the meeting with the flock of sheep. In the third we have a
colloquy between Don Quixote and Sancho, forming an elaborate movement.
Next comes the quarrel with the pilgrims, and then the scene in the
tavern where Don Quixote undergoes regular initiation into the order of
knighthood by keeping guard over his armour all night. No. 6 represents
the scene of the peasant woman mistaken for Dulcinea, and No. 7 the ride
of the two companions on wooden horses at the fair. Nos. 8 and 9 are
concerned with the enchanted boat and the priests mistaken for
magicians. No. 10 gives the disastrous fight with the Knight of the
Shining Moon. There is also a finale setting forth the reveries of Don
Quixote in his old age, and, last of all, his death. Together with the
purely grotesque elements are many touches of wonderful poetic beauty,
among which may be mentioned the scene of Don Quixote's midnight watch
and, above all, the concluding strain--a sigh of ineffable pathos. On
the other hand, it may be urged against the encounter with the flock of
sheep that such sounds do not really belong to the domain of music, but
rather to that of farm-yard imitations. On the whole, "Don Quixote"
strikes me as a less admirable work than the "Heldenleben," heard on the
previous day. The chief feature in the interpretation on Tuesday was the
superb rendering, by Professor Hugo Becker, of Frankfurt, of the
violoncello solo which throughout the work is identified with the person
of the titular hero.
[Sidenote: ="Don Juan,"
Preliminary Article.=
_January 17, 1901._]
"Don Juan," though much less eccentric than most of the other "Symphonic
Poems" by Richard Strauss, is a typical example of his overwhelmingly
rich and effective orchestration. It also exemplifies the peculiar
quality of his design, crowded with a Düreresque multiplicity of forms
and details, his indifference to symmetry and sustained rhythmical flow,
and his systematic endeavour to render the musical medium less vague and
more nearly articulate than it ever was before, by enlarging the range
of emotional expression, sharpening the instruments of graphic
representation, and exploring the mysterious by-ways of the tone-world.
Two imaginary figures that originated in Spanish literature have become
the property of mankind. If Don Quixote stands isolated, without any
close analogue in the romance of other countries, Don Juan--a somewhat
later creation--has much in common with several heroes of Germanic
legend, such as Tannhäuser, the Wild Huntsman, and Faust. The closest
parallel is between Don Juan and Faust. Both are rebellious spirits; but
Faust is ruined by intellectual pride, Juan by sensual passion. As those
two kinds of revolt belong to the persistent facts of life, neither Juan
nor Faust can ever cease to be interesting. It is quite natural that
each of them should be found as the subject of innumerable plays, poems,
romances, operas, and ballets. The poetic scheme forming the basis of
Richard Strauss's Symphonic Poem is remarkably simple. There is no
incident of a definite kind. Don Juan is simply conceived as
personifying the most direct and vivid affirmation of what Schopenhauer
called the "Will to live." He is enamoured of no one particular woman,
but of all the beauty and charm that are in womankind. He has a new kind
of love for each kind of beauty. Defying the laws of gods and men with
demonic recklessness, he rushes from one enjoyment to another, leaving
the trail of weeping victims behind him, while he himself remains the
incarnation of gaiety--for remorse is unknown to his heart, and he never
keeps up a love affair for a moment longer than it amuses him, nor is he
ever at a loss for fresh delights. The music of Strauss plunges us at
once into this whirl of intoxicating gaiety. A series of love-episodes
ensue, each one being individualised with amazing subtlety. It is, of
course, no new thing for masculine and feminine elements to be clearly
distinguishable in music; but the wealth of resource that Strauss shows
in these dialogues of dalliance and passion amounts to originality of a
very remarkable kind. After several such episodes we have a section
symbolising a masked ball that is very strongly stamped with the
composer's genius as a musical humourist. In the latter part the spirit
of Juan begins to flag. Reminiscences of the foregoing episodes recur
with an ominous change in the emotional colouring, and in the end Juan
is brought face to face with the black and cold embers of his once so
glowing heart.
Beethoven protested against the desecration of music by so scandalous a
subject as the Don Juan story. But Mozart produced from the same subject
the prize opera of all the ages. It seems, too, that Richard Strauss has
made of it his masterpiece.
[Sidenote: ="Don Juan,"
Hallé Concerts.=
_January 18, 1901._]
There can be no gainsaying that Strauss's "Don Juan" Fantasia was
received yesterday with much applause. But there is room for doubt
whether the excitement that thus found expression was not due rather to
the bold and highly picturesque orchestration than to the essentially
musical qualities of the work. Richard Strauss postulates an audience of
great mental activity. He expects to be understood instantly, instead of
letting a musical idea gradually soak in to the listener's mind, as did
the older composers. In order to stimulate such mental activity he
constantly deals in strange and violent effects. Hence the irritation of
orthodox musicians, who, hearing so much noise and jingle, too rapidly
conclude that there is nothing behind; whereas, perhaps, if they
listened a little longer, they would begin to discover that Strauss has
nearly every gift that was ever in a composer--every gift, that is,
except those of a very profound or very sublime order. His power of
inventing thematic material to correspond exactly with some peculiar
mood of feeling is almost as remarkable as Wagner's. The opening of the
"Don Juan" Fantasia is characteristic of that excited condition of mind
which is so frequent with the composer. A passage beginning with an
upward rush for the strings shows us Juan launched upon his career.
Presently a rapid passage, mainly in triplets, for wood, wind and
afterwards strings, suggests the eager hunt after enjoyment. Next the
impetuous Don is himself characterised. Of these elements a tone-picture
of intoxicating gaiety is composed. Then follow the love-episodes, the
most beautiful being that in which the oboe has the melody while the
lower strings _a divisi_ add a rich and sombre accompaniment. The masked
ball scene is, in places, a little like a travesty of the "Venusberg"
music. This leads to the scene in which Juan is struck down by some
calamity--probably a sword-thrust. As he lies stricken, memories of
former days crowd back upon him. He has one or two momentary returns of
his old fire and energy. But at last his time comes and his soul departs
with a shiver. Strauss knows how to make such a scene marvellously
poignant. His most wonderful achievement in this kind is the parting
sigh of Don Quixote in the work on that subject. But his treatment of
Juan's death is also very powerful.
[Sidenote: ="Till Eulenspiegel."=
_February 14, 1902._]
"Till Eulenspiegel" was the great mediæval _farceur_. His name is well
known to students of folk-lore. In Flemish books it figures as Thyl
Uylenspiegel, in English as Till Owlglass. Like other heroes of popular
story, Till lies buried in more than one place, each of his tombstones
being adorned with his armorial bearings--an owl perched on a
hand-mirror. He originated and, for the most part, lived in Westphalia
or some country of the Lower Rhine; but he was a migratory person, and
one of his best authenticated exploits occurred in Poland, where he had
a contest of skill with the King's professional jester. Till is the
incarnation of mockery and satire and buffoonery, sometimes witty and
usually coarse. He represents a literary development that may be
regarded as a kind of Scherzo, after the Andante of the Troubadours,
Minnesingers, and other courtly poets--the inevitable reaction of the
popular spirit against too much high-flown sentiment. The legendary
figure of Till has appealed with the most extraordinary results to that
composer who first brought into the domain of the musical art the
specific qualities of the South German imagination, as represented, for
example, by Holbein, Dürer, and Adam Krafft. Incisive, graphic, ornate,
and with no less unheard-of power of characterisation is Richard
Strauss in his music than those other masters in their graphic or
plastic achievements. His "Till" reminds one of Dürer's woodcut
illustrations to the Apocalypse, but, of course, with colour added. And
what colour! and what characterisation in the colour! He controls the
orchestra precisely as a good actor the tones of his own voice. He can
make it render the finest shades of emotion. "Till" is a musical
miracle, unlocking the springs of laughter and of tears at the same
time. It enlarges one's notions of what is possible in music, so
multifarious and inconceivable are the drolleries, so prodigious the
technical audacities which the composer succeeds in justifying. Strauss
has, in a sense, revived an art said to have existed in the ancient
world--the telling of a story in the form of a dance. From the point
where that chromatic jig is heard which symbolises Till wandering about
in search of material for the exercise of his talents, the imagination
is spell-bound.
Strauss goes a distinct point beyond Wagner in the articulateness of his
musical phrases, and he knows better than any other composer that it is
the special province of music to express what cannot be expressed in any
other way--what is too delicate, or too indelicate, to be expressed in
any other way. The most wonderful quality of "Till" is its mediævalism.
Listen to those triplets, in four-part chromatic harmony for five solo
violins with _sordini_, expressing the agony of terror into which Till
is thrown by his own wicked mockery of religion. By such devices the
composer conjures up the atmosphere of the age, characterised by
"Furcht auf der Gasse, Furcht im Herzen." The treatment of the prologue
and epilogue, where all that is blackguardly is taken out of Till's
themes now that he has become a story, is of inconceivable felicity.
[Sidenote: ="Sehnsucht."=
_March 18, 1902._]
Richard Strauss's song "Sehnsucht," raises a good many interesting
questions, such as whether it is not, after all, on harmony rather than
on tone-colouring that the essential quality of Strauss's music depends;
whether the eminent South German composer would have found it necessary
to be so persistently galvanic in his procedure had he not addressed a
musical generation that is too fond of taking opium with Tchaïkovsky;
whether it is with Eulenspieglish intent that he sets so many
unsophisticated love-song texts to music that betrays contempt of mere
lyrism, or whether he genuinely misunderstands the trend of his own
talent. Thus one might continue indefinitely; for it is the regular
effect of Strauss's music to crook the listener's mind into one huge
note of interrogation. One further and more important question must,
however, be added. Is it Strauss's deliberate intention to abolish
rhythm? Would he add to the well-known saying, "_Am Anfang war der
Rhythmus_" the rider "_aber jetzt nicht mehr_?" The over-strongly salted
and too highly flavoured "Sehnsucht" was admirably sung, and the
fascination of it, not unmixed with horror, was such that it had to be
repeated. Nothing about Strauss is more disquieting than his
after-effect on the musical palate. Whether one likes his style or not,
any other sounds are tame by contrast with it, and a naïf and mild
composer such as Grieg (the Hans Andersen of music) seems almost
bread-and-butter.
[Sidenote: ="Faust Symphonie,"
Düsseldorf.=
_May 23, 1902._]
The many violent anti-Lisztians in England should be particularly
careful just now to keep their powder dry. They are going to have great
trouble with this Eulenspiegelisch Mr. Strauss. A considerable group of
English visitors heard his interpretation of the "Faust Symphonie" on
Monday evening, and they are not likely to forget it. Strauss does not
belong to the small group of international conductors who can travel
from place to place, commanding success everywhere and in music of every
style. He has not studied conductor's deportment carefully enough to be
generally pleasing to the public. At the same time, his demonic talent
comes out clearly enough in his conducting when he has to deal with some
work that makes a special appeal to his sympathies. It seems to be his
mission to justify Liszt after decades of misunderstanding and
detraction. His rendering of the "Faust Symphonie" was simply a gigantic
success. The stress and anguish of the first movement, the wonderful
sweetness and charm of the Gretchen music, the almost incredible
incisiveness and pregnancy of the characteristic music in the
Mephistopheles section of the finale, and the unparalleled grandeur of
the concluding idea, where the mask is torn from the face of the
"spirit that denies" and the "chorus mysticus" enters with the final
stanza, leading up to the crowning idea of the whole drama, "Das
Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan"--these beauties and splendours of the
composition were revealed with the infallible touch of a master into
whose flesh and blood it long ago passed: and the audience, including
even the English visitors, felt it. The "Faust Symphonie" declares the
composer to be, in his attitude towards art and life, akin to Hugo,
Delacroix, and the other great French Romantics, and the result of that
attitude seems more completely happy in music than in painting or
literature. It makes one look back with envious longing to the freshness
and abounding vitality of those fellows who found such huge relish in
the great, broad, fundamental human themes, and resources so vast in the
treatment of them. It also provokes bewildered reflections on the
complex and enigmatic personality of the composer, who, for all his
religious orthodoxy, was a more tremendous revolutionary in art than
Wagner, and was, in fact, the originator of certain particularly
fruitful Wagnerian ideas. All this and much more is to be learned from
the Liszt interpretations of Strauss--a sphinx-like person who, as his
abnormally big head sways on the top of his tall and bulky figure, to
the accompaniment of fantastic gestures, works up his audience into a
sort of phosphorescent fever, here and there provoking a process of
sharp self-examination.
[Sidenote: ="Tod und Verklärung."=
_October 17, 1902._]
It is difficult to make out the prevalent state of mind in this country
in regard to Richard Strauss--Richard II., as he is often called in
Germany. Of course the upholders of a turnip-headed orthodoxy will not
hear of him, any more than they would hear of Richard I. a quarter of a
century ago, and he seems to have an irritating effect on all critics,
except a certain very small minority in whose temperament there is
something giving them the key to some part, at any rate, of Strauss's
genius. What irritates the critics is simply the difficulty of finding a
formula for Strauss. He has the annoying impertinence not to fit into
any of their pigeon-holes. He is enigmatic, Sphinx-like, a complex
personality not to be conveniently catalogued. That complex personality
we are not here proposing to analyse, but on one point we venture to
state a definite opinion. Those who assert that Strauss is a mere
eccentric will sooner or later find themselves in the wrong. He has in a
few cases played tricks on the public, but he is nevertheless a
master-composer, in the full and simple sense of those words--a
master-composer just as Mozart was. In "Tod und Verklärung" we find him
in a mood of absolute seriousness. The theme is a death-bed scene, the
phantasmagoria of a sick brain during the last moments of earthly
consciousness, the final struggle with death, and then a wonderful
suggestion of reawakening to immortality. The composition is thus, as a
German critic has pointed out, the counterpart of Elgar's "Gerontius,"
so far as the subject is concerned; but in no other respect have the
two works any similarity. The qualities with which Strauss's name is
most commonly associated--audacious and grotesque realism, gorgeous,
intoxicating orchestral figuration and colouring--are here completely in
abeyance. In the mood of the opening section there is kinship with the
third act of "Tristan"--the same hush and oppression of the sick man's
lair,--but not in the musical treatment, which with Strauss has much
more reference to external detail (_e.g._, the ticking of the clock)
than with Wagner. The introductory notes are full of weird power, and
they lead on to some exquisitely pathetic "Seelenmalerei." In the
ensuing agitato section any listener acquainted with other Symphonic
Poems by the same composer--earlier or later--is likely to be surprised
at his comparative moderation and restraint in depicting the terrors of
the struggle with death. It cannot be denied that Strauss is greatly
preoccupied with such ideas. He has set the very article of death to
music on at least four different occasions ("Tod und Verklärung," "Don
Juan," "Till," and "Don Quixote"). The hanging of "Till" is
inconceivably drastic in its realism, and the last sigh of Don Quixote
is the most unearthly thing in all music. Don Juan's death is purely
_macabre_; but in "Tod und Verklärung" a certain suggestion of the
_macabre_ gives way to something very different--the suggestion of the
soul rising to immortality; and thus is initiated the final section,
dominated by the noble and beautiful "transfiguration" theme. Those of
the composer's admirers who "always thought he was a heathen Chinee" may
here find matter for searchings of heart. For the thing is too well done
not to have been sincerely felt.
[Sidenote: ="Zarathustra."=
_January 29, 1904._]
"Also sprach Zarathustra" ("Thus spake Zarathustra") is the first work
in Strauss's most advanced manner. It is scored for the following
enormous orchestra:--One piccolo and three flutes; three oboes and one
cor anglais; one clarinet in E flat, two clarinets in B flat, and one
bass clarinet in B flat; three bassoons and one contrafagotto; six horns
in F, four trumpets in C, three trombones, and two bass tubas; kettle
drums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, and glockenspiel; a bell in E;
organ, two harps, and the usual bow instruments; and the demands on the
_technique_ of the performers are as exceptional as the number of
instruments employed. It is as striking an example of Dr. Richter's
energy that he should not have shrunk from the task of interpreting so
vast and bewildering a score, as it is of his openness of mind that at
his age he should have cared to bring forward the most typically
advanced and modern of compositions--for that we take Strauss's
"Zarathustra" to be in respect both of subject and treatment. We doubt
whether another living musician of anything like Dr. Richter's age
possesses in the same degree that youthful elasticity which can do full
justice to the works of a younger generation. Moreover, he is not in any
special sense a Straussian. He simply knows, as everyone conversant with
the musical affairs of the present day knows, that Strauss is a composer
of very great and commanding talent, and he thinks that in such a
musical centre as Manchester his more important works ought to be
known. So, in spite of a rather discouraging attitude on the part of the
public and an amount of extra trouble that can scarcely be reckoned up,
he gives one of them from time to time. It is not Lancashire any more
than it is London that, among British musical centres, has displayed the
readiest appreciation of Strauss--the great and typical modern. It is
the part of the country served by the Scottish Orchestra, where "Tod und
Verklärung" has before now been chosen for performance at a _plébiscite_
concert. This seems very natural, for "Tod und Verklärung" is the
clearest, simplest, and least heterodox of Strauss's orchestral works,
and much easier to understand at a first hearing than Beethoven's C
minor Symphony. It has, in fact, been recognised as a classic nearly
everywhere, though here it still lies under suspicion of being a mere
piece of eccentricity. We can only hope that after hearing
"Zarathustra"--which certainly is rather a large order--some of our
conscientious objectors may reconsider their position. The extraordinary
thing is that it was better received than the far more generally
comprehensible "Tod und Verklärung." This was no doubt, in part, due to
sheer astonishment, but also, we believe, to the perception that
whatever else there may be in the work there is a certain grandeur of
perception. It is scarcely possible to listen in a state of complete
indifference to the opening tone-picture of sunrise, with its great
booming nature ground-tone, that recalls the Introduction to Wagner's
"Rheingold," and the ringing trumpet harmonies following the three notes
of the soulless nature theme. The plan of the tone-poem that gradually
unfolds is one of the clearest. It is on the same plan as the discourse
of St. Francis on "La Joie Parfaite," quoted by Sabatier from the
"Fioretti," where the holy man, the better to impress upon Brother Leo
wherein perfect joy consists, first enumerates a series of things in
which it does not consist, and then, having disposed of the erroneous
opinions corresponding to various stages of the upward path towards true
wisdom, tells us at last what perfect joy is. The wisdom of Zarathustra
is, of course, very different from the wisdom of St. Francis, but his
method of inculcating it is the same. He, too, has mortified the flesh
with the "Hinterweltler" (perhaps "other-worldlings" is the nearest
English equivalent), and thrown himself for a change into the vortex of
exciting pleasures--the "Freuden und Leidenschaften" he calls them, as
who should say the "fruitions and passions of youth." It is
characteristic that he puts the religion first and the exciting
pleasures afterwards. He also "did eagerly frequent doctor and saint and
heard great argument," that experience being symbolised by Strauss's
"Fugue of Science." But none of these things, he gives us to understand,
by emphatic use of the "disgust" theme, is the pearl of great price, or
perfect joy, or anything of the sort. The penultimate part of the
tone-poem deals with the conversion of Zarathustra into a dancing
philosopher--his learning of the great lesson that one must "get rid of
heaviness"; and here, of course, the musician is very thoroughly in his
element. Very remarkable and surprising is the conclusion. Strauss has
declared that the whole composition is simply his homage to the genius
of Nietzsche, but it is impossible to resist the impression that in the
manner of the ending he has endeavoured to suggest an improvement on
Nietzsche--and he might well be pleased with himself, and so a little
overbearing, after producing that "Tanzlied" (a sort of waltz for
demigods or "Uebermenschen"), which he has done much better than any
other composer that ever lived could have done it. He ends with a night
picture in B major against the final notes of which the persistent
nature theme in C major once more reasserts itself as a pizzicato
bass;--in words, "but you have left the riddle of the painful earth just
as much unsolved as it was before, for all your wisdom." Whether that
ending is more to the point than Nietzsche's own or not, it is really
wonderful that musical notes can be made to speak so plainly, and even
to say something quite important.
[Sidenote: ="Ein Heldenleben,"
Liverpool Orchestral Soc.=
_Feb. 8, 1904._]
We have here to deal with the latest phase of Strauss, and to arrive at
anything like a true estimate of "Heldenleben" we have to remember that
Strauss is a reformer and the recognised leader of a party which,
whether we like it or not, has played and is playing a great part in the
world of music. The central principle of the Strauss school rests upon
the perfectly correct observation that the general development of music
during the last two centuries shows continual progress towards greater
articulateness, and that there is no reason for regarding that progress
as having reached its final stage with Berlioz, Liszt, and Wagner.
Brahms and the neo-classicists were on a wrong track, they consider, and
it is the mission of Strauss and his connection to bring the art back
into the paths of true progress. This indicates the sense in which
Strauss is called a reformer. It is the usual fate of reformers to
overshoot the mark; Mr. Weingartner thinks that Strauss has done so very
seriously in his last three Symphonic Poems--"Zarathustra," "Don
Quixote," and "Heldenleben,"--and I am constrained to give in my
adherence to Mr. Weingartner's view. In each of the three works named
there is much that only genius could have produced, but also something
that is alien to genius. The perpetration of deliberate cacophony for a
symbolical purpose we first encounter in "Zarathustra," where it is done
in a tentative and restrained manner and on a very small scale. In "Don
Quixote" the same procedure is used on a larger scale and with much
greater boldness, and in "Heldenleben" it has given rise, in the
"battle" section, to an extended movement that I can only call an
atrocity. That section displays the composer in a mood of unparalleled
extravagance. Taking harmony in the most extended sense that is
possible, it still remains a thing outside the limits of which Strauss's
battle-picture lies. It therefore fails altogether, I suggest, to carry
on the progress of music towards greater articulateness. It is not
music, and does nothing whatever for music. It is a monstrous
excrescence and blemish--a product of musical insanity, bearing no trace
whatever of that genius which produced the lovely and perfect "Tod und
Verklärung" and the superbly racy and pithy orchestral Scherzo "Till
Eulenspiegel."
The expression of such views carries with it the terrible consequence of
being identified with "The Adversaries," whom Strauss, disarming
criticism by a novel method, symbolises in the awful strains quoted as
examples 4 and 5 in Mr. Newman's programme. But one must testify
according to one's convictions, and I confess that I cannot be
reconciled to section 4 of "Heldenleben," and find in section 5 a
considerable element of merely curious mystification. The principle of
"horizontal listening," which the whole-hog-going Straussians recommend,
does not help me. Horizontal listening becomes, beneath the murderous
cacophony of that battle section, simply supine listening.
In other parts of the work there is much that is thoroughly worthy of
Strauss. Perhaps the most attractive thing of all is the violin solo
representing the feminine element in the hero's life-experience. The
wayward emotion of that part is rendered by the composer with a truly
magical touch that shows with what wonderful freshness he conceives the
task of such character-delineation in tones. How different from Chopin's
princesses is the Straussian lady! How infinitely more subtle, varied,
interesting, and psychologically true! The hero, too, is powerfully
sketched, though throughout the section specially devoted to him one is
conscious of the gigantic rather than the heroic. Most of the thematic
invention is telling--perhaps more so than in "Zarathustra,"--and the
"Seelenmalerei" in the love music and afterwards in the renunciation
music is all very finely done. Even the drastic musical satire of the
"Adversaries" is acceptable enough in its earlier phases. It is the
polyphony in the sections of storm and stress that goes wrong. The
subject of the work as a whole has the merit of general
intelligibleness. But the composer identifies the hero much too
insistently with himself; nor does he maintain the consistency of tone
that is proper to a work of art. If sections 3, 4, 5 and 6 carried out
the promise of sections 1 and 2 we should have a sort of gigantic
Gulliverian humoresque. But with section 3 a new atmosphere is conjured
up, and henceforth the work gravitates backwards and forwards between
two irreconcilable elements--the one drastic, sarcastic, and
cataplastic, the other at first subtle, sinuous, and soulful, and
afterwards turning towards a mood of religious exaltation and austere
contemplation.
[Sidenote: =Quartet in C Minor.=
_March 10, 1904._]
The case of Strauss is certainly an awkward one for the believers in the
neo-classicism of Brahms. In such works as the Quartet, op. 13, and the
violin Sonata, op. 18, written twenty or more years ago, he declares
himself an absolute Brahmsian, worshipping before all things the
well-constructed musical sentence, using the extended harmonies and
profuse figuration of the modern technique to express emotions that have
but little individuality and are merely typical of the thorough-going
German sentimentalist. Indeed, he here shows himself a better Brahmsian
than Brahms, avoiding all his model's worst faults, such as his groping
and fumbling, his muttering and whining, and only sentimentalising in
quite a healthy sort of way and with a flow so abundant and easy that to
find fault would seem intolerant. Yet, with all these wonderful
qualifications for a great Brahmsian career, Strauss would have none of
it, except during his most youthful period. For many years now he has
been displaying utter contempt of the well-constructed musical sentence;
also of German sentimentalism and of all the other traditional subjects
of musical eloquence. As an orchestral composer, he has pursued a path
of adventurous hardihood scarcely paralleled in the history of art, and
he looks back to his Brahmsian chamber-music as belonging to a
fledgeling state of his talent. As it is not open to the Brahmsians to
say that those early works prove Strauss's incompetence as a composer of
the orthodox kind, the only thing left for them to say is that the
chamber-music is much the best of his whole output. Sooner or later we
shall doubtless begin to hear that, and in the meantime those who like
the early works can play them or listen to them with the comforting
assurance that the composer would not object, inasmuch as he has himself
quite recently taken part in public performances of them. The
Quartet--which Dr. Brodsky and his usual associates, assisted by Mr.
Isidor Cohn, played yesterday--might rank as the mature work of anyone
but Strauss. It is youthful, relatively to the composer, in the
emotional basis of the music; but not in the workmanship, and least of
all in the invention, which has all the pith and weight commonly telling
of ripe experience. In short, it is an extremely good Quartet of the
orthodox kind--one may even say, one of the best existing works for
pianoforte and three bow instruments. The Andante is not quite such a
marvel as the slow movement of the violin Sonata, but it is very nearly
as good in invention and quite as good in its adaptation to the
medium--that is, to the particular group of instruments. The Scherzo is
as pithy as the Andante is glowingly sentimental, and the framing-in
movements are magnificently done. Thoroughly adequate was the rendering
of this immensely interesting composition. The tempo in the Scherzo was
faster than the composer's own; but, as it is not possible for him to
keep up the technique of a solo pianist, he may possibly avoid a very
rapid tempo for that reason. Mr. Cohn brought out all the passage work
clearly enough, though the rapid tempo caused a certain dryness in the
string tone. The other movements were satisfactory from every point of
view. It is interesting to note in this Quartet an early example of
Strauss's tendency to associate a certain mood with a certain key. A
contrasting section with an easier flow he assigns to B major, and
throughout the recurrences the original key assignment is preserved in a
manner very unlike the procedure of the older composers. Throughout the
work the connection between tonality and emotional import is preserved
in detail, and we here note a further development of the principle which
prompted Beethoven to throw his prevalently dark and mysterious Symphony
of Fate into C minor and his Rhythmic or Dancing Symphony into A major,
but which, from him, met with no more than a very broad kind of
recognition.