Although written for piano and orchestra, and still occasionally given
as a concerto in symphony concerts, this work is more familiar and more
frequently heard as a piano solo merely, or with the orchestral parts
arranged for second piano, in which form it is very popular, especially
for use in pupils’ recitals and music schools. It is one of the best and
most effective of Weber’s compositions for piano, and one of the most
successful of his attempts in the line of descriptive music, in which he
was a pioneer; for as Sir George Grove well says, “His talent shone most
conspicuously whenever he had a poetical idea to interpret musically.”
On the subject of this concerto, he continues: “Though complete in
itself as a piece of music, it is prompted by a poetical idea, for a
whole dramatic scene was in the composer’s mind when he wrote it.... The
part which the different movements take in this program is obvious
enough, but a knowledge of the program adds greatly to the pleasure of
listening.”
It is rare indeed to find in print any accurate and detailed information
concerning the artistic and dramatic content of any particular
composition; but in regard to this Concertstück by Weber, we are
fortunate enough to have the whole story on which the music was founded
given in the words of Benedict, who had it from the composer himself.
“The châtelaine sits alone on her balcony, gazing far away into the
distance. Her knight has gone to the Holy Land. Years have passed by,
battles have been fought. Is he still alive? Will she ever see him
again? Her excited imagination calls up a vision of her husband, lying
wounded and forsaken on the battlefield. Can she not fly to him and die
by his side? She falls back unconscious. But hark! What notes are those
in the distance? Over there in the forest something flashes in the
sunlight—nearer and nearer! Knights and squires with the cross of the
crusaders, banners waving, acclamations of the people. And there, it is
he! She sinks into his arms. Love is triumphant. Happiness without end.
The very woods and waves sing the song of love. A thousand voices
proclaim his victory.”
The composition is in four movements, and it is hardly necessary to add
that the first, _larghetto_, represents the sorrowful meditation of the
lonely châtelaine upon her balcony; the second, _allegro_, her lively
imagination picturing her lord upon the field of battle; the third,
_march_, the tramp of the returning crusaders with flying banners; and
the fourth, _finale_, the reunion when “the very woods and waves sing
the song of love.”
Those Philistines who contend that program music is but a mushroom
growth of the last decades of the nineteenth century will hardly care to
come face to face with this instance of it, backed by the authority of
Grove, Benedict, and von Weber, and nearly a hundred years old.