I. Allegro moderato
II. Canzonetta: andante
III. Finale: allegro vivacissimo
Hanslick’s volumes of collected reviews and essays are many. It is
possible that in the days to come he will be remembered only by the fact
that he said, apropos of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, that it stank in
the ear. In spite of Hanslick’s dictum, the concerto still lives,
whatever its obvious faults: its endless repetitions, its measures of
sheer padding. Why cannot someone arrange _Gems from Tchaikovsky’s
Concerto_ after the manner of various anthologies (including _Crumbs of
Comfort_)? Long-winded, tedious at times as it is, the concerto, by
reason of melodic charm and demoniacal spirit, is still heard by the
people gladly.
* * *
The concerto, dedicated at first to Leopold Auer, but afterwards to
Adolf Brodsky—and thereby hangs a tale—was performed for the first time
at a Philharmonic concert, Vienna, December 4, 1881. Brodsky was the
solo violinist. An interesting letter from him to Tchaikovsky after the
first performance, is published in Modeste’s Life of his brother (Vol.
II, p. 177): “I had the wish to play the concerto in public ever since I
first looked it through. That was two years ago. I often took it up and
often put it down, because my laziness was stronger than my wish to
reach the goal. You have, indeed, crammed too many difficulties into it.
I played it last year in Paris to Laroche, but so badly that he could
gain no true idea of the work; nevertheless, he was pleased with it.
That journey to Paris which turned out unluckily for me—I had to bear
many rude things from Colonne and Pasdeloup—fired my energy (misfortune
always does this to me, but when I am fortunate then am I weak) so that,
back in Russia, I took up the concerto with burning zeal. It is
wonderfully beautiful. One can play it again and again and never be
bored; and this is a most important circumstance for the conquering of
its difficulties. When I felt myself sure of it, I determined to try my
luck in Vienna. Now I come to the point where I must say to you that you
should not thank me: I should thank you; for it was only the wish to
know the new concerto that induced Hans Richter and later the
Philharmonic Orchestra to hear me play and grant my participation in one
of these concerts. The concerto was not liked at the rehearsal of the
new pieces, although I came out successfully on its shoulders. It would
have been most unthankful on my part, had I not strained every nerve to
pull my benefactor through behind me. Finally we were admitted to the
Philharmonic concert. I had to be satisfied with one rehearsal, and much
time was lost there in the correction of the parts, that swarmed with
errors. The players determined to accompany everything _pianissimo_, not
to go to smash; naturally, the work, which demands many nuances, even in
the accompaniment, suffered thereby. Richter wished to make some cuts,
but I did not allow it.”
The concerto came immediately after a _divertimento_ by Mozart.
According to the account of the Viennese critics and of Brodsky there
was a furious mixture of applause and hissing after the performance. The
applause prevailed, and Brodsky was thrice recalled, which showed that
the hissing was directed against the work, not the interpreter. Out of
ten critics only two, and they were the least important, reviewed the
concerto favorably. The review by Eduard Hanslick, who was born hating
programme music and the Russian school, was extravagant in its
bitterness, and caused Tchaikovsky long-continued distress, although
Brodsky, Carl Halir, and other violinists soon made his concerto
popular. Tchaikovsky wrote from Rome, December 27, 1881, to Jurgenson:
“My dear, I saw lately in a café a number of the _Neue Freie Presse_ in
which Hanslick speaks so curiously about my violin concerto that I beg
you to read it. Besides other reproaches he censures Brodsky for having
chosen it. If you know Brodsky’s address, please write to him that I am
moved deeply by the courage shown by him in playing so difficult and
ungrateful a piece before a most prejudiced audience. If Kotek, my best
friend, were so cowardly and pusillanimous as to change his intention of
acquainting the St. Petersburg public with this concerto, although it
was his pressing duty to play it, for he is responsible in the matter of
ease of execution of the piece; if Auer, to whom the work is dedicated,
intrigued against me, so am I doubly thankful to dear Brodsky, in that
for my sake he must stand the curses of the Viennese journals.”
The review of Hanslick is preserved in the volume of his collected
_feuilletons_ entitled, _Concerte, Componisten, und Virtuosen der
Letzten fünfzehn Jahre, 1870-1885_, pp. 295, 296 (Berlin, 1886). The
criticism in its fierce extravagance now seems amusing. Here are
extracts: “For a while the concerto has proportion, is musical, and is
not without genius, but soon savagery gains the upper hand and lords it
to the end of the first movement. The violin is no longer played: it is
yanked about, it is torn asunder, it is beaten black and blue. I do not
know whether it is possible for anyone to conquer these hair-raising
difficulties, but I do know that Mr. Brodsky martyrized his hearers as
well as himself. The _adagio_, with its tender national melody, almost
conciliates, almost wins us. But it breaks off abruptly to make way for
a _finale_ that puts us in the midst of the brutal and wretched jollity
of a Russian _kermess_. We see wild and vulgar faces, we hear curses, we
smell bad brandy. Friedrich Vischer once asserted in reference to
lascivious painting that there are pictures which ‘stink in the eye.’
Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto brings to us for the first time the horrid
idea that there may be music that stinks in the ear.” Modeste
Tchaikovsky tells us that this article disquieted Peter till he died;
that he knew it by heart, as he did an adverse criticism written by
César Cui in 1866.
The concerto was dedicated first to Leopold Auer. Tchaikovsky, in the
Diary of his tour in 1888, wrote: “I do not know whether my dedication
was flattering to Mr. Auer, but in spite of his genuine friendship he
never tried to conquer the difficulties of this concerto. He pronounced
it impossible to play, and this verdict, coming from such an authority
as the St. Petersburg virtuoso, had the effect of casting this
unfortunate child of my imagination for many years to come into the
limbo of hopelessly forgotten things.” The composer about seven years
before this wrote to Jurgenson from Rome (January 16, 1882) that Auer
had been “intriguing against him.” Peter’s brother Modeste explains this
by saying: “It had been reported to Peter that Auer had dissuaded Emile
Sauret from playing the concerto in St. Petersburg;” but Modeste also
adds that Auer changed his opinion many years later, and became one of
the most brilliant interpreters of the concerto.
The following orchestration was used by Tchaikovsky in his last three
symphonies (with no percussion but timpani in the Fifth): piccolo, two
flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two
trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals,
triangle, and strings. In the _Romeo and Juliet_ overture, the English
horn and harp were added for color, and the bass drum (with the
customary kettledrums) sufficed for percussion. In the piano and
violin concertos there was the same scheme of orchestration (without
the additional percussion).—EDITOR.
RICHARD
WAGNER
(Born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813; died at Venice, February 13, 1883)
It is not easy for anyone who did not live through the period of the
Wagnerian excitement to understand the fierceness of the controversy.
The younger generation reads at its ease accounts of protests against
compositions by Strauss, Reger, Schönberg; how this or that piece was
hissed by some in a concert hall and applauded by others; it reads and
is amused, but it regards the discussion as academic. The Wagner
question, like the Beecher trial, like the Ibsen controversy in Norway,
divided households.
The world has moved since 1876. Much water has flowed under the bridge.
Wagner is still one of the most commanding figures in the temple, but it
is no longer an act of irreverence to discuss him as Verdi, Gluck,
Richard Strauss are discussed. It is now generally agreed that this
towering genius was after all a mortal; that he was often verbose, that
he could be dull in his musical speech, as other geniuses were before
him.
The great public today cares nothing about Wagner’s philosophy, or the
“metaphysics” of his _Ring_. Wotan, Mime, Siegfried, and the rest of
them, heroic or shabby characters, are as Radames, Salome, Mélisande,
Edgardo, Leonora, Manrico in the tower; they are persons in a drama who
sing, and do not speak the dialogue. We have the heartiest admiration
for the great scenes in the _Ring_, and yet find Wotan long-winded and
tiresome in his reminiscences and narrations. Mime is like Artemus
Ward’s kangaroo, “an amoozin’ little cuss.” Alberich with his gibbering
and his jumping about is also amusing. The Dragon and the Bird do not
excite our ridicule. We accept them and find their singing no more
surprising than the vocal endurance of Tristan on his deathbed or the
moving scenery in the first act of _Parsifal_. The dragon is a familiar
figure in art, and we should not rub our eyes more than once if we
should see one in the wilds of New Jersey. We enjoy seeing him in his
proper place in _Siegfried_ and do not wish to be told what he
represents or typifies.
Enemies of Wagner, esthetic enemies, used to reproach him for the
“immorality” of his librettos. In _Tannhäuser_ there is the Venusberg.
In _Die Walküre_ there is the incestuous and adulterous pair whose
amorous shoutings shocked Arthur Schopenhauer. Reading the story of
_Tristan_, these rigid moralists held the nose and called for civet. Fie
on Kundry’s case!
We now hear little about the “immorality” of the music dramas. King
Mark’s long harangue is more immoral than the rapturous duet of the
lovers; the Landgrave is more immoral than Venus; for Mark and the
Landgrave, by reason of their long-winded platitudes, make Virtue
boresome and Respectability a monster.
And in the expression of certain emotions and passions, in the
expression of amorous ecstasy and the mystery of death, Wagner reached a
height of eloquence that has seldom been attained by makers of music.
Hearing the announcement by Brünnhilde of Siegmund’s fate, the love song
of Tristan and Isolde under the cloak of the conniving night, the rustle
and murmur of Siegfried’s forest, we marvel at the genius of the man who
first heard these things and had the ability to let the world hear them
with him.