pieces and chooses between them. Thus among the hundred classical
compositions most in demand by pianolists, the slow movement of
Beethoven's "Fifth Symphony" ranks seventeenth, while the first is as
far down on the list as thirty-seventh, and the roll with the last
two movements as sixty-fifth. That in future the consensus of opinion
of thousands of music lovers who are unhampered by pedantic tradition,
will have immense influence in determining the standard of composers
and of their several works, and will have immense effect in hastening
the introduction and appreciation of works by new composers, in spite
of opposition from the ultra-conservative element, goes without
saying, and will be one of the most important factors in the
revolution this new musical instrument is destined to effect.
All this readily can be appreciated when the attitude of this great
musical public toward Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsodies" is taken into
account. For years the critical camp has been divided on Liszt, some
considering him a composer whose unequalled greatness as a player of
the pianoforte led him to write music that was superficially
brilliant but barren of genuine musical inspiration. Others, like
Henry T. Finck and that band of advanced commentators on music among
whom I am proud to number myself, unhesitatingly rank him with the
greatest composers. This phase of musical life, this warring of
factions, the pianolist happily ignores entirely, and following his
unbiased intuition, places Liszt's second "Hungarian Rhapsody" at the
head of the repertory, closely follows it with the twelfth and
fourteenth, and, all told, includes nine of these fifteen compositions
in the top list of one hundred pieces of serious music which have
proved most popular with pianola players. The pianolist is not aware
of the fact, but that most inexorable of all critics, time, most
emphatically justifies his choice.
Liszt brought out these rhapsodies fifty-three years ago. They are not
compositions which suddenly are offering themselves as candidates for
popular favor. For more than half a century has passed over these
master works, which still are as fresh and modern as if they had been
struck off but yesterday in the white heat of inspiration. Their roots
go back even further than fifty-three years. As long ago as 1838 Liszt
published them as short transcriptions of Hungarian tunes. Then he
worked them over and, in 1846, issued them in somewhat more elaborate
form as "Melodies Hongroises." Still further elaborated they became in
1854 the "Rhapsodies Hongroises" as we know them.
These rhapsodies reflect the weird romanticism of that most mysterious
and fascinating of races, the Gypsies, as successfully as Chopin's
music reflects the crushed aspirations of his unhappy country, Poland.
Although they are called Hungarian, they are neither derived from nor
founded upon national Hungarian music, but are purely of Gypsy origin.
The Hungarians, however, have adopted the Gypsies as their national
musicians, and it is by reason of this adoption, or, in order to
express through the title this mutual assimilation, that Liszt has
called these rhapsodies "Hungarian." With a Gypsy parentage so
authentic that he speaks of the melodies on which they are based, as
"the songs without words" of the Gypsies, his rhapsodies form the only
channel through which the intense inner life and mystic idealism of
this strange race has found expression. They are the long suppressed
cry of souls struggling for self utterance and they constitute nothing
less than an epic, the "Iliad," of that strange race which centuries
ago cast itself upon the continent of Europe like a wave coming, none
knew from where or whither bound.
This race, as Liszt describes it in his book on Gypsy music, brought
no memories, betrayed no hope; possessed no country, religion,
history. Divided into tribes, hordes and bands, wandering hither and
thither, following each the route dictated by chance, they still
preserve under the most distant meridian, the same infallible rallying
signs, the same physiognomy, the same language, the same traditions.
The ages pass. The world progresses. Countries make war or peace,
change masters and manners, but this people that shares the joys, the
sorrows, the prosperity and the misfortunes of none other; that laughs
at the ambitions, the tears, the combats of civilization; still
obstinately clings to its hunger and its liberty, its tents and its
tatters, and still exercises, as it has exercised for centuries, an
indescribable and indestructible fascination upon poetic minds,
passing it on as a mysterious legacy from age to age.
Such is the race of which Liszt recites the epic in the "Hungarian
Rhapsodies." They portray the life, the scenes, the mood of the Gypsy
camp, vividly, brilliantly, yet with an undercurrent of tragedy--the
tragedy of homeless wanderers. Because they represent life, because
they are true to life, because they depict life with a wonderful union
of realism and beauty, they will, in spite of critical detraction,
live as long as the Bach fugues, the Beethoven sonatas or the Wagner
music dramas.
An elaborate musical analysis of these wonderful works would be
futile. They are too racial, and in parts too pictorial to be
dissected in narrative style. What I have said of the race from which
they derive their characteristics should serve as a general
explanation of their purport. The second, twelfth and fourteenth
rhapsodies are admirable examples of the series. In general these
"Hungarian Rhapsodies" open with a few brief bars suggestive of tragic
recitative, which leads into a broad yet strongly marked and searching
rhythm, upon which is built a slow, stately yet mournful melody,
broken in upon here and there by strange weird runs and rapid
passages. These latter serve a double purpose. They imitate the
curious æolian harp effects of the most characteristic instrument of
the Gypsy orchestra, the cembalon, a large, shallow box with strings
about as numerous as those of the pianoforte, and played with two
little mallets, with which the player produces the weird arpeggios or
rapid, broken chords and the improvised runs characteristic of
Hungarian Gypsy music; and they also prepare the player and listener
for the rapid movement into which the slow melody passes over, finally
to dash into the very frenzy of emotional and physical excitement.
These three divisions, the slow movement introduced by a recitative,
the rapid movement following, and the still more rapid one with which
the rhapsodies generally end, are based upon three distinct kinds of
melodies of the Gypsies, and their startling contrast contributes to
the effectiveness of the composition. The slow melody in the first
part of the rhapsodies (a different melody in each rhapsody of course)
is the "lassan," a sad song giving utterance to the pathos of the
race. The dance music that follows, so full of playful humor, grace,
caprice, coquetry and dashing contrast, is the "frischka"; while the
delirium, almost demoniac in its fury, with which the rhapsody rushes
to its intoxicating finale, and compared with which the Italian
tarantella and even the Dervish dance of the East are tame, is the
"czardas." In playing these rhapsodies one must try to imagine a Gypsy
camp, the flicker of firelight in the deep forest or on the wild
plains of Hungary, a sense of loneliness or of vast distance, forms of
swarthy men and women suddenly appearing from a shadowy background to
be illumined for a moment in the light of the fire, their swaying,
whirling forms vanishing the next, back into the vague darkness from
which they issued. Of the "Hungarian Rhapsodies" hostile critics may
say what they please; he who plays them understandingly, will feel in
them the thrill of a great master.
A composition of impassioned, yet mournful beauty is Liszt's
"Liebestraum" (Dream of Love) one of a set of three nocturnes, this
one being based upon a well known German poem, Freiligrath's,
O love as long as love thou canst,
O love as long as love will keep;
The day will come, the day will come,
When at a grave you stand and weep.
Liszt's "At the Spring" is a charming composition somewhat in the same
style as the "Campanella," but instead of describing silver-toned
chimes of bells, reproducing the purl of a bosky spring. One hears the
clear rippling water and sees its sparkling jets in glints of
sunlight, as it dashes against the stones, and its shimmering spray.
The work is the forerunner and model of numerous similar pieces, all
of them, however, lacking its freshness and originality and its high
order of musicianship.
The pianolist who is led by the examples of Liszt's music which I have
cited to choose liberally from the numerous compositions by him in the
catalogue of music rolls, hardly can go amiss. If, however, he prefers
to leave this for some other time, and to turn to another composer, he
will find Mendelssohn's "Rondo Capriccioso," Op. 14, a capital roll.
This rondo was composed in 1826, the same year in which he wrote the
overture to Shakespere's "Midsummer Night's Dream," with its wonderful
depiction of fairy life. The "Rondo Capriccioso" might be part of the
"Midsummer Night's Dream" music, it is so much in the same character.
Nothing could be more crisp and dainty. It seems to depict elves
romping through the forest by moonlight. Nor is it without romantic
moods, as if love-making were going on even among these light-footed,
light-hearted revelers. But when this is said, it still is all touch
and go; a breath, a sigh, the iridescence of the moonglade on a
woodland lake--then off and away:--
Over hill, over dale,
Through brush, through brier,
Over park, over vale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
or
Light as any wind that blows
So fleetly did she stir,
The flower she touch'd on dipt and rose,
And turned to look at her.
This "Rondo Capriccioso" is indeed a fascinating piece, written in its
composer's most facile vein. It is one of the finest rolls from among
which the pianolist can select. There can be no doubt that Mendelssohn
has been losing ground as compared with the enormous popularity which
he enjoyed in his lifetime. But the pendulum has swung too much the
other way. Certain of his compositions have been too much neglected.
The "Rondo Capriccioso" is one of them. As it actually sounds crisper
and daintier on the pianola than on the pianoforte no matter by whom
played, it enjoys well merited popularity in the pianolist's repertory
and may contribute toward restoring the appreciation of Mendelssohn's
music to its proper balance.
I would be greatly surprised if a beautiful work like Schubert's
"Rosamunde" impromptu were not among the most popular pieces of the
pianolist's choice. The word impromptu is sufficiently
self-explanatory, but it needs to be pointed out that this work of
Schubert's differs from the usual impromptu in being an air with
variations, the variations, however, giving the impression of free
fantasies or improvisations on the original air. There are five
variations and the composition ends with a repetition of the air.
The work is written in the truest Schubertian style. I like to fancy
that the melody with its serene, lyric beauty is a picture of the
fair Rosamunde herself. The first variation, a plaintive melody over
an agitated accompaniment, I should be inclined, still referring to
Rosamunde and regarding each variation as expressing an experience in
her life, to entitle "Moods." The second variation is more playful in
character but without any loss of romantic charm, and I should say
that we might call it an expression of her "Fancies." The third an
impassioned meditation, a cry from the heart, Rosamunde's heart, may
be called "Love." The fourth variation, which again is frankly playful
like the second, is "Hope." The fifth, as brilliant as a cascade on
which the sun is shining, is "Joy." It ends suddenly without coming to
a full stop in the musical sense, and, after a pause, the original air
now couched in broad and beautiful chords, begins in the lower
register, rises successively to the middle and higher ones, then dies
away--an exquisite ending. Is this not Rosamunde, the more charming
for the romance of which she is the heroine; Rosamunde, looking at her
engagement ring, musing on the past and trustful of the future?
Schubert was one of the most famous song composers and Liszt in
addition to being an original composer, rendered a great service to
music by transcribing, in most admirable style, many of Schubert's
most famous songs for pianoforte. Widely known as they are for voice,
they have through these transcriptions become almost as familiar for
pianoforte. The delicate and dainty "Hark, Hark the Lark" is a
favorite work in Paderewski's repertory. So spontaneous was Schubert's
inspiration that he wrote the music of this song at a tavern where he
chanced to see the poem in a book which he was examining. "If only I
had some music paper!" he exclaimed. One of his friends promptly ruled
lines on the back of his bill of fare and Schubert, with the varied
noises of the tavern going on about him, jotted down the song then and
there.
Another splendid Schubert song that has been made popular on the
pianoforte through Listz's transcription is "The Erlking." As it ranks
among the greatest songs, and by many people actually is considered
the greatest, the illustration it affords of the rapidity with which
Schubert worked is most interesting. Two friends calling upon him one
afternoon, toward the close of the year 1815, found him all aglow
reading "The Erlking" aloud to himself. Having read the poem, he
walked up and down the room several times, book in hand, then suddenly
dropped into a chair, and, without a moment's pause and as fast as his
pen could travel over the paper, composed the song. Schubert had no
pianoforte, so the three men hurried over to the school where formerly
he had been trained for the Imperial choir--this was in Vienna--and
there "The Erlking" was sung the same evening and received with
enthusiasm. Afterwards the Court organist played it over himself
without the voice, and, some of those present objecting to the
dissonances which depict the child's terror of the Erlking, the
organist struck these chords again and explained how admirably they
expressed the situation described in the poem and how well they were
worked out musically. Schubert was only thirty-one when he died and
was only eighteen when he set this poem of Goethe's to music, yet the
whole song is almost Wagnerian in its descriptive and dramatic
qualities, and its climax thrilling.
The work of Beethoven's which seems most to appeal to the pianolist
is the "Moonlight" sonata. Possibly the attractive title, which,
however, Beethoven probably did not give to it, may have something to
do with its selection. But why not attribute its popularity to the
fact that the music bears out the title?
A sonata is a composition in several movements, usually four, and
follows a clearly outlined, in fact, an almost rigid form, not to say
formula. It attained its highest development during the classical
period and left its impress upon all the larger compositions of that
time, for a symphony is nothing more than a sonata composed for
orchestra, instead of for the pianoforte, and trios, quartets, and
other pieces of chamber music of the classical period are sonatas for
the corresponding combination of instruments.
The "Moonlight Sonata," however, is less rigid in form than the
average sonata. In it, in fact, Beethoven may be said to have broken
away from form, for after the word sonata he adds the qualifying
phrase "quasi una fantasia," signifying that, although he calls the
work a sonata, it has the characteristics of a free fantasy.
Instead of opening with the usual rapid movement, the work begins with
a broad and beautiful slow one, a sustained melody, a poem of profound
pathos in musical accents. This is followed by a lighter allegretto
which Liszt called "a flower 'twixt two abysses," the second "abyss"
being the last movement, which is one of Beethoven's most impassioned
creations. At the end both of the first movement and of the allegretto
the usual wait between the divisions of a sonata is omitted, Beethoven
giving the direction "attacca subito il sequente," literally meaning
"attack suddenly the following," indicating an inner relationship
between the movements so close that there must be only the briefest
possible pause between them.
This sonata is a true drama of life, a story of unrequited passion. It
is dedicated to one of the great beauties of Beethoven's time, the
Countess Giulietta Guicciardi. Although it is known that the composer
subsequently was deeply in love with her cousin, the Countess Therese
Brunswick, he is believed to have been in love with Giulietta at the
time he wrote the "Moonlight Sonata." The countess was not insensible
to his passion. She already was engaged to Count Gallenberg, but one
day, coming excitedly into the presence of her cousin Therese, she
threw herself at the latter's feet, "like a stage princess," and
exclaimed: "Counsel me, cold, wise one! I long to give Gallenberg the
mitten and marry the wonderfully ugly, wonderfully beautiful
Beethoven, if only it did not involve lowering myself socially." And
so she gave up Beethoven and led a life, none too happy, with her
Count. Connecting the "Moonlight Sonata" with this episode in
Beethoven's life, the first movement of the sonata may appropriately
be regarded as a song of love, deeply pathetic because no response is
evoked by the longing it expresses. The second movement, the graceful
allegretto, is the coquetish Giulietta who would not "lower herself
socially" by marrying a genius. The third movement is the rejected
lover crying out his passion and despair to the night.
From Beethoven to Grieg, from Vienna to Norway, from the greatest
master of the classical period to a composer who still is living and
who has been called not inaptly, "the Chopin of the North," may seem a
long step. But the pianolist can travel with seven league boots.
Grieg's most widely known compositions are four of the pieces of
incidental music which he wrote to Ibsen's drama "Peer Gynt." Peer
Gynt is the Faust of Norwegian literature. Without attempting here to
follow up this parallel, it may be said that he is a curious
combination of ne'er-do-well, dreamer and philosopher, with a
pronounced streak of impishness running through his character and
giving a touch of the extravagant and grotesque to many of his actions
and to some of them even a suggestion of the weird and supernatural.
"Peer Gynt" has its roots in Norwegian folklore and was written by
Ibsen in Italy when he was about thirty-seven years old, and it
precedes the problem plays by which he is best known, although Peer's
character is in itself a complex problem. Grieg in his incidental
music, adroitly avoids the difficult task of interpreting or even
hinting at the curiously contradictory nature of the principal rôle
in the play, one of the most interesting psychological studies in
modern literature. His music deals with the more superficial aspects
of the story and is pictorial rather than intellectual or profoundly
emotional. The principal selections for the piano-player from the
"Peer Gynt" music, are contained on two rolls with two selections to
each roll. One of them gives the music of "Anitra's Dance" and "In the
Hall of the Mountain King"; the other the scenes "Daybreak" and "Death
of Aase." Were these selections to be arranged in the order in which
they occur in the drama it would be necessary to begin with the "The
Hall of the Mountain King" and follow this, in the order mentioned,
with "Aase's Death," "Anitra's Dance" and "Daybreak." On the rolls,
however, the pieces are not arranged in the order of their occurrence
in the play, but in the sequence which is most effective from a
musical standpoint--just as in this book I have purposely refrained
from following any set, historical sequence, but have adopted a purely
musical method of guiding the pianolist from music of the lighter kind
to that of a more serious character.
"Anitra's Dance" is an episode of the drama laid in Morocco which Peer
has reached in the course of his wanderings. Anitra is a lithe-limbed
daughter of the East who entrances Peer with her dancing, and, when he
promises to endow her with a soul, promptly informs him that she would
rather have the opal from his turban; gradually coaxes all his jewels
from him; then swiftly throws herself upon his horse and gallops away,
showing herself a true exemplar of the "eternal feminine," so called,
I presume, because it eternally is getting the better of the eternal
masculine. Be that as it may, "Anitra's Dance" is the very essence of
witchery and grace. In the scene "In the Hall of the Mountain King"
the trolls gather for the marriage of Peer to the Troll King's
daughter. When Peer, at the last moment, refuses to go through the
ceremony, the trolls dash at him. One bites himself fast to his ear.
Others strike him. He falls. They throw themselves upon him in a heap.
At this critical moment, when he is writhing beneath them in torture,
the sound of distant church bells is heard, the trolls take to flight,
the palace of the Mountain King collapses and Peer is standing alone
on a mountain. The scene may be construed as one of his supernatural
experiences, as a nightmare, or as the allegory of a stricken
conscience. "Daybreak" which opens the second roll is in Egypt, Peer
standing before the statue of Memnon in the first hush of dawn and
waiting for the rays of the rising sun to evoke the music which
according to tradition many thousand years old, is drawn from the
statue by the sunrise. In this number Grieg paints the colors of an
Oriental daybreak rather than attempts to convey the thrill of an
ancient sculpture, on the edge of the great desert, thrilling with
song at the first kiss of the rising sun. In the "Death of Aase" Peer
watches his mother's life slowly ebb away and seeks to divert her mind
from death by grotesque tales, even throwing himself astride a chair
and persuading her through subjective suggestion, that he is the
forerider of a beautiful chariot in which she is seated, so that the
poor woman, who all her life long has felt the pinch of penury, dies
with a vision of wealth and glory before her eyes created for her by
the son, worry over whom has hastened her death. In keeping with the
lyric trend of his genius, Grieg has ignored the grotesque and ghastly
humor of the situation, and has contented himself with portraying its
sombre and tragic aspect, his music being in character somewhat like a
funeral march.
The pianolist will find a characteristic Norwegian touch in Grieg's
"Bridal Procession Passing By," Op. 19, No. 2, from his "Sketches from
Norwegian Life." It begins with a curiously droning rhythm, played
softly as though the procession were approaching from a distance. Over
this rhythm is introduced a piquant march figure, hopping and skipping
along as if the musicians were dancing at the head of the marchers. As
the procession approaches and the music becomes louder, one hears in
the bass an accentuation of the characteristic rhythm, like the tap of
a bass drum. When the march has swelled to a forte, it sinks to a
brief piano, as if the winding path had led the procession away again.
Then there is another brief outburst, this time fortissimo, as if the
marchers were quite near; and then a pianissimo, as if they had passed
behind a hill and almost out of hearing. The music grows loud again,
the procession goes by, and there is a delicious effect as the march
dies away in the distance, the rhythmic beats with which it opened
becoming softer and softer, while the little hopping and skipping
march-figure, somewhat curtailed, flutters over it.