“In instrumental music Haydn has revolutionized the details as well as

the masses. It is he who has obliged the wind instruments to execute

_pianissimo_.

“In the same way as Leonardo da Vinci sketched in a little book which

he always carried with him the singular faces he met with, Haydn also

carefully noted down the passages and ideas which came into his head.

When he was in good spirits and happy he hastened to his little table

and wrote subjects for airs and minuets. Did he feel himself disposed

to tenderness and melancholy, he noted down themes for _Andantes_ and

_Adagios_; and, afterwards, in composing, when he wanted a passage of

such a character, he had recourse to his note-book.

“Haydn, like Buffon, thought it necessary to have his hair put in the

same nice order, as if he were going out, and dressed himself with a

degree of magnificence. Frederick II had sent him a diamond ring; and

Haydn confessed that, often, when he sat down to his piano, if he had

forgotten to put on his ring, he could not summon a single idea. The

paper on which he composed must be of the finest and whitest possible;

and he wrote with so much neatness and care that the best copyist could

not have surpassed him in the regularity and clearness of his characters.

It is true that his notes had such little heads and slender tails that he

used, very properly, to call them his _flies’ legs_.

“It is said that no man had such a knowledge of the various effects and

relations of colors and the contrasts which they were capable of forming

as Titian. Haydn, likewise, possessed an incredible acquaintance with

each of the instruments which composed his Orchestra. As soon as his

imagination supplied him with a passage, a chord, or a single note, he

immediately saw by what instrument it should be executed, in order to

produce the most sonorous and agreeable effect. If any doubt arose during

the composition of a symphony, his situation at Eisenstadt enabled him

easily to resolve it. He rang his bell in the way agreed on to announce a

rehearsal; the performers repaired to the rehearsing-room. He made them

execute the passage which he had in his mind in two or three different

ways; and, having made his choice, he dismissed them and returned to

resume his composition.

“Sometimes he supposed that one of his friends, the father of a numerous

family, ill provided with the goods of fortune, was embarking for

America in the hope of improving his circumstances. The first events

of the voyage formed the symphony. It began with the departure. A

favorable breeze gently agitated the waves. The ship sailed smoothly

out of the port; while on shore the family of the voyager followed him

with tearful eyes and his friends made signals of farewell. The vessel

had a prosperous voyage and reached at length an unknown land. A savage

music, dances and barbarous cries were heard towards the middle of the

symphony. The fortunate navigator made advantageous exchanges with the

natives of the country, loaded his vessel with rich merchandise and at

length set sail for Europe with a prosperous wind. Here the first part

of the symphony returned. But soon the sea begins to be rough, the sky

grows dark and a dreadful storm confounds together all the chords and

accelerates the time. Everything is in disorder on board the vessel. The

cries of the sailors, the roaring of the waves, and the whistling of the

wind, carry the melody of the chromatic scale to the highest degree of

the pathetic. Diminished and excited chords, modulations, succeeded by

semitones, describe the terror of the mariners.

“But, gradually, the sea becomes calm, favorable breezes swell the sails

and port is reached. The happy father casts anchor in the midst of the

congratulations of his friends and the joyful cries of his children and

of their mother, whom he at length embraces safe on shore. Everything at

the end of the symphony is happiness and joy.

“I cannot recollect to which of the symphonies this little romance served

as a clue. I know that he mentioned it to me, as well as to Professor

Pichl, but I have totally forgotten it.

“For the subject of another symphony, Haydn had imagined a sort of

dialogue between Jesus Christ and an obstinate sinner, and afterwards

followed the parable of the Prodigal Son.

“From these little romances were taken the names by which our composer

sometimes designated his symphonies. Without the knowledge of this

circumstance, one is at a loss to understand the meaning of the titles

_The Fair Circassian_, _Roxalana_, _The Hermit_, _The Enamoured

Schoolmaster_, _The Persian_, _The Poltroon_, _The Queen_, _Laudohn_, all

which names indicate the little romance which guided the composer. I wish

the names of Haydn’s symphonies had been retained instead of the numbers.”

When Dr. Burney had nearly finished his immense _History of Music_ he

wrote the following words:

“I am now happily arrived at that part of my narrative where it is

necessary to speak of Haydn, the admirable and matchless Haydn! from

whose productions I have received more pleasure late in my life, when

tired of most other Music, than I ever received in the most ignorant and

rapturous part of my youth, when everything was new and the disposition

to be pleased undiminished by criticism, or satiety.

“The first time I met with his name in the German catalogues of Music is

in that of Breitkopf of Leipzig, 1763, to a _Divertimento a Cembalo_,

_3 Concerti a Cembalo_, _6 Trios_, _8 Quados_, or _Quartets_, and _6

Symphonies in four_. The chief of his early music was for the Chamber. He

is said at Vienna to have composed before 1782 a hundred and twenty-four

pieces for the _baryton_, for the use of his prince, who is partial

to that instrument and a great performer upon it. Besides his numerous

pieces for instruments he has composed many operas for the Esterhazy

theatre and Church Music that has established his reputation as a deep

contrapuntist.

“His innumerable symphonies, quartets and other instrumental pieces,

which are so original and so difficult, have the advantage of being

rehearsed and performed at Esterhazy under his own direction, by a band

of his own forming, who have apartments in the palace and practise from

morning to night in the same room, according to Fischer’s account, like

the students in the conservatories of Naples.

“Ideas so new and varied were not at first so universally admired in

Germany as at present. The critics in the northern parts of the empire

were up in arms. And a friend at Hamburg wrote me word in 1772 that ‘the

genius, fine ideas and fancy of Haydn, Ditters and Filtz were praised,

but their mixture of serious and comic was disliked, particularly as

there is more of the latter than the former in their works; and as

for rules, they knew but little of them.’ This is a censure which the

admirable Haydn has long since silenced; for he is now as much respected

by professors for his science as invention. Indeed his compositions are

in general so new to the player and hearer that they are equally unable,

at first, to keep pace with his inspiration. But it may be laid down as

an axiom in Music that whatever is _easy_ is _old_, and what the hand,

eye and ear are accustomed to; and, on the contrary, what is _new_ is,

of course, _difficult_, and not only scholars but professors have it to

learn. The first exclamation of an embarrassed performer and a bewildered

hearer is, that the Music is very _odd_, or very _comical_; but the

queerness and the comicality cease, when, by frequent repetition, the

performer and hearer are at their ease. There is a general cheerfulness

and good humor in Haydn’s _Allegros_ which exhilarate every hearer. But

his _Adagios_ are often so sublime in ideas and the harmony in which they

are clad that though played by inarticulate instruments they have a more

pathetic effect on my feelings than the finest opera air united with

the most exquisite poetry. He has likewise movements that are sportive,

_folâtres_, and even grotesque, for the sake of variety; but they are

only the _entremets_, or rather _intermezzi_, between the serious

business of his other movements.”

Haydn’s _Symphonies_ are to-day considered very simple and easy, so it is

interesting to learn from Dr. Burney that a hundred years ago they were

thought difficult and full of new effects and violent contrasts.

What would Dr. Burney have thought of Richard Strauss!

And now let us place by the side of Dr. Burney’s criticism one by a

writer of to-day, which will show us how Haydn is regarded at the present

time.

“Of Haydn’s general style as a composer it is hardly necessary to speak.

To say that a composition is ‘Haydnish’ is to express in one word what

is well understood by all intelligent amateurs. Haydn’s music is like

his character—clear, straightforward, fresh and winning, without the

slightest trace of affectation, or morbidity. Its perfect transparency,

its firmness of design, its fluency of instrumental language, the beauty

and inexhaustible invention of its melody, its studied moderation, its

child-like cheerfulness—these are some of the qualities which mark the

style of this most genial of all the great composers.”[59]

Mozart was, perhaps, the greatest musical genius that ever lived. There

was no branch of music in which he did not shine. His life was short. He

only lived thirty-five years, but every moment of it was full of music

and experience.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in Salzburg in 1756 and died in Vienna

in 1791. He picked out chords on the harpsichord when he was only a baby

and began to compose when he was but four years old. His sister was

also a musical genius; and his father, Leopold Mozart, a violinist of

reputation, took these two children on concert tours throughout Europe.

They visited all the German cities, Paris and London, and in 1769-1770

they travelled through Italy, where Mozart performed in Rome the great

feat of writing from memory Allegri’s famous _Miserere_ performed in the

Sistine Chapel during Passion Week.

In reviewing Mozart’s life it seems almost impossible that anyone

could have composed so many works, travelled so much and lived so much

in the world besides. His long list of compositions includes operas,

church-music, pieces for the piano, chamber-music, concertos for nearly

every kind of known instrument; and for the Orchestra there is an

astonishing number of works, among which forty-nine _Symphonies_ are

included!

Such genius cannot be accounted for, nor explained: it has to be

accepted. We cannot stop to talk of his many great works. We can only say

that the older one grows and the more musical knowledge and experience

one has, the more one appreciates the charm and greatness of Mozart.

Mozart had the gift of beauty and grace; and those two qualities

blended together produce that quality so hard to define and so easy to

feel,—_charm_. _Mozart has charm._

Whatever Mozart does, he, like Raphael, to whom he has been compared,

is always beautiful. He is sunny and fresh and smiling, clear and

delightful. His melodies, moreover, are like a never-failing spring,—they

flow from an inexhaustible source.

Stendhal wrote in 1808:

“Like Raphael, Mozart embraced his art in its whole extent. Raphael

appears to have been unacquainted with one thing only,—the mode of

painting figures on a ceiling in contracted proportion, or what is termed

foreshortening. As for Mozart, I am not aware of any department in which

he has not excelled: operas, symphonies, songs, airs for dancing,—he

is great in everything. The most remarkable circumstance in his music,

independently of the genius displayed in it, is the novel way in which

he employs the Orchestra, especially the wind instruments. He draws

surprising effects from the flute, an instrument of which Cimarosa hardly

ever made any use. He enriches the accompaniment with all the beauties

of the finest symphonies.”

[Illustration: MOZART

_By Cignaroli_]

What did Mozart do towards the development of our modern Orchestra? The

question is easily answered. Mozart gave the Orchestra _tone-color_.

We have seen that Bach’s Orchestra and Handel’s Orchestra were both

neutral in tint; or, if we prefer, black and white. The instruments all

played their separate parts, but their individual _voices_ had as yet

hardly been discovered. It is true that Bach and Handel had written solo

parts for various instruments, but, as a general thing, the melodies

could be sung by one instrument as well as any other. But Mozart had very

different ideas regarding instruments. To him a violin was a violin, a

flute was a flute, a bassoon was a bassoon and a clarinet was a clarinet.

Each instrument had to _speak for itself and with its own true voice_, or

_tone-color_. Mozart originated what we may call an _orchestral palette_.

We have all seen a painter’s palette, with the colors arranged in groups

of reds and blues and greens, and so on, in their different gradations,

or shades. Mozart’s orchestral palette was arranged similarly, only

instead of paints he grouped his instruments—his strings, his woodwind,

his brass—as he pleased; and he mixed these tone-colors or conspicuously

exhibited one of these splendid hues, keeping the others subordinate as

an accompaniment.

We all know that light—perfectly white light—can be divided into the

seven colors of the rainbow and that all the manifold and varied tints

that we see in the world of nature—in sky and earth and sea—in every

flower and every fleeting hue that falls upon it—comes from those seven

colors. Now Bach and Handel and all the other composers who lived before

Mozart had never thought of music as anything but white, so to speak. It

was Mozart who broke up this white light into its prismatic hues. It was

Mozart who brought the new _beauty of color into music_.

Although Mozart learned much from Haydn, Haydn learned more from Mozart.

When Haydn wrote his first _Symphony_, Mozart was three years old.

Mozart died while Haydn was enjoying his London triumphs. Haydn’s last

_Symphonies_ show the influence of Mozart, though Haydn never reached

Mozart’s glowing and brilliant color.

It is singular to remember that Mozart wrote his first Symphony only five

years after Haydn wrote his first; but then Mozart was only eight years

old! It was, however, a real symphony, in three movements and scored for

the usual Orchestra of two violins, viola, bass (violoncello), two oboes

and two horns.

Mozart had a very great advantage over Haydn in having heard so much

music and so many different Orchestras. At this time there were a great

many fine Orchestras in Europe and Mozart heard them all. Particularly

notable was that of Mannheim, where Mozart first heard clarinets. “Oh, if

we only had clarinets!” he wrote home in 1778. “You cannot think what a

splendid effect a symphony makes with flutes, oboes and clarinets!”

The Mannheim Orchestra was generally considered the best in Europe,

though some critics thought those of Munich and Vienna were better.

“The excellence of the Mannheim Orchestra—whose performances excited as

much admiration among contemporaries as those of the Paris Orchestra

under Habeneck’s conductorship at a later date—gained for it the honor of

taking a regular share in the Elector’s concerts. The Orchestra contained

some of the first artists and _virtuosi_ of the day, such as Cannabich,

Toeschi, Cramer, Stamitz and Fränzel among the violins, Wendling as a

flute-player, Le Brun and Ramm as oboists, Ritter as bassoonist and Lang

as horn-player. But its fame rested chiefly on the excellent discipline

of the Orchestra, which, among so many first-rate artists, it was no easy

task to maintain. The _Kapellmeister_ at the time of Mozart’s visit was

Christian Cannabich (1731-1798), who had succeeded Stamitz in 1775. His

compositions were, doubtless, overrated by his contemporaries; but he was

admirable as a solo violinist and still better as an orchestral leader,

besides being an excellent teacher. The majority of the violinists

in the Mannheim Orchestra had issued from his school and to this was

mainly owing the uniformity of their execution and delivery. Cannabich,

who was more of an organizer than an originator, had experimented with

every condition and device for producing instrumental effects and he

laid special stress on technical perfection of execution in order to be

certain of having good ensemble players.”[60]

Mozart had much to do in raising the standard of the Vienna Orchestra on

his return home.

From this time forward the clarinet became conspicuous in Mozart’s

compositions.

We get a glimpse of Mozart conducting in 1789 from Jahn. He was in

Leipzig:

“At the rehearsal for this concert he took the _tempo_ of the first

_Allegro_ of his symphony so fast that the Orchestra was very soon in

hopeless confusion. Mozart stopped, told the players what was wrong and

began again as fast as before, doing all he could to keep the Orchestra

together and stamping the time with his foot so energetically that his

steel shoe-buckle snapped in two. He laughed at this; and, as they

still dragged, he began a third time. The musicians, now having become

impatient, worked in desperation; and at last the movement went right.

‘It was not caprice;’ he explained afterwards to some musical friends,

to whom he had been holding forth on the subject of too rapid _tempo_,

‘but I saw at once that most of the players were advanced in years and

there would have been no end to the dragging if I had not worked them

up into a rage so that they did their best out of pure spite.’ The rest

of the symphony he took in moderate time; and after the song had been

rehearsed he praised the accompaniment of the Orchestra and said it

would be unnecessary to rehearse his concerto: ‘The parts are correctly

written out, you play accurately and so do I.’ The result showed that his

confidence was not misplaced.”

Mozart is interesting to us in many periods; but we like best to think of

him as the tiny prodigy, who was caressed and admired by all the world

and who wrote the most delightful, childish letters home inquiring if

“Master Canary still sang in G-sharp” and sending “A thousand kisses

to Miss Bimberl” (the dog). We like, too, the story of his first

composition, as related by an eye-witness:

“Mozart’s father, returning from church one day with a friend, found his

son aged five, busy writing.

“‘What are you doing there, my little boy?’ he asked.

“‘I am composing a concerto for the harpsichord, and have almost got to

the end of the first part.’

“‘Let me see your fine scrawl.’

“‘No; I have not finished it yet.’

“The father, however, took the paper and showed his friend the sheet full

of notes, which could hardly be deciphered for the blots of ink.

“The two friends at first laughed heartily at this scribbling; but after

a little time when the father had looked at it with more attention, his

eyes were fastened on the paper, and at length, overflowed with tears of

joy and wonder.

“‘Look, my friend,’ he said, ‘look. Everything is composed according to

rule. It is a pity that the piece cannot be made any use of; but it is

too difficult. Nobody would be able to play it.’

“‘It is a concerto,’ replied his little son, ‘and must be studied until

it can be played properly. This is the way it should be played.’”

This was the beginning of Mozart’s composition. He wrote no less than six

hundred and thirty-six works!

And to his name we will add this tribute:

“I have always been one of the greatest admirers of Mozart and I shall

remain so until my last breath,—Beethoven.”

When Mozart heard the boy Beethoven play during his first visit to Vienna

in 1787 he said to his friends: “Pay attention to him he will make a

noise in the world some day, or other.”

It seems strange to find an English musician writing the following just

appreciation of Beethoven in 1818, while the great genius was still

living:

“Beethoven’s genius seems to anticipate a future age. In one

comprehensive view, he surveys all that science has hitherto produced,

but regards it only as the basis of that superstructure which harmony

is capable of raising. He measures the talents and resources of every

preceding artist, and, as it were, collects into a focus their scattered

rays. He discovers that Haydn and Mozart alone have followed nature, yet

he explores the hidden treasures of harmony with a vigor superior to

either. In sacred music he is pre-eminently great. The dark tone of his

mind is in unison with that solemn style which the service of the church

requires; and the gigantic harmony which he wields enables him to excite

by sounds, a terror hitherto unknown.”

Yes; Beethoven had a dark nature; or, at least, dark clouds frequently

floated across his mind. He had everything to make him morose. His life

was exceptionally unhappy: he had an unfortunate love-affair; the nephew

in whom he placed all his hopes disappointed him; and, finally, he became

totally deaf.

“His whole life is like a stormy day. At the beginning—a fresh, clear

morning, perhaps a languid breeze, scarcely a breath of air. But there

is always in the still air a secret menace, a dark foreboding. Large

shadows loom and pass; tragic rumblings; murmuring awesome silences—the

furious gusts of the winds of the _Eroica_ and the _C-minor_.”[61]

Ludwig van Beethoven was of Flemish-Dutch origin as the “van” shows. He

was, however, born in Bonn in 1770, his birthplace a bare attic. His

father was a lazy tenor and his mother a servant. His childhood was most

unhappy. Beethoven was marked for sorrow from his earliest years.

He was compelled to practise the violin and harpsichord by his

good-for-nothing father, who made him earn his own living, and he soon

lost his mother, whom he adored.

In 1787 he visited Vienna and had some lessons from Mozart. In 1788, when

but seventeen, Beethoven was playing in the Orchestra of the Elector of

Cologne at Bonn.

We get a good idea of what a fine German Orchestra was in 1791 from

Charles Louis Junker, who described it in that year, and Beethoven, too,

who was then twenty:

“The Elector remained a considerable time at Mergentheim and had some

twenty of his band with him. I heard the most exquisite music and made

the acquaintance of some first-rate artists.

“On the first day I heard the musical performance, which took place

regularly while the Elector dined. There were two oboes, two clarinets,

two flageolets, and two horns. These eight players may fairly be called

masters in their art. Soon after the musical performance during dinner

the play began. It was _King Theodor_, with music by Paisiello.

“The Orchestra was capital, the _piani_, _forti_ and _crescendi_ being

exceedingly well observed. Herr Ries, the expert score-reader and player

at sight, conducted with the violin. He is worthy of being placed beside

Cannabich.[62] His firm, vigorous lead inspires every player with life

and spirit.

“The arrangement of the Orchestra was such as I had not seen elsewhere,

but I thought it very convenient. Herr Ries stood on a raised platform in

the middle of the theatre, and close to the stage where he could be seen

by everyone. Immediately below and behind him were a counter violinist

and violoncellist; on his right were the first violins, with the second

violins opposite them; behind the violins the violas, with the clarinets

opposite; behind the violas the counter violin and violoncello; and, last

of all, the trumpets. On the conductor’s left were the wind instruments;

the oboes with the flageolets opposite and flutes and horns. It would

be difficult to find an Orchestra where the violins and basses were so

perfect.

“I also heard one of the greatest pianists—the dear, good Beethoven.

I heard him improvise. In fact, I, myself, was asked to give him a

theme. The greatness of this gentle man as a _virtuoso_ may, I think,

be estimated by the almost inexhaustible wealth of his imagination, the

skill of his execution and the thorough originality of his expression. I

did not find him deficient in any of the attributes of a great artist.

In addition to his fluent execution he is suggestive, expressive,

telling—in a word he touches the heart, and he is as good in _adagio_ as

in _allegro_. The clever artists of this Orchestra are his admirers one

and all and listen intently when he plays. But he is modest and quite

unassuming.

“The members of this band are, almost without exception in the prime

of early manhood and well-educated. They have a splendid physique and,

attired in the scarlet and gold uniform of the Prince, their appearance

is very striking.

“We have perhaps been accustomed to regard the Electorate of Cologne as

a dark land into which rays of enlightenment had never penetrated; but a

visit to the Elector’s Court would soon alter this opinion. I found the

members of the Orchestra men of very liberal and sound understanding.

“The Elector, the most humane and best of princes, is not only a

performer, but an enthusiastic lover of music. At the concert I went to

he was the most attentive listener present.”

Beethoven saw Haydn when the latter stopped in Bonn on his way to and

from London. In 1792 Beethoven submitted a cantata to Haydn. Haydn

praised it and encouraged Beethoven to go on with his studies. After a

time the Elector sent Beethoven to Vienna, the main reason being that he

should study with Haydn. One of his friends, on parting, advised him to

“Labor assiduously and receive Mozart’s spirit from the hands of Haydn.”

Beethoven was then twenty-two. He never returned. Vienna was thenceforth

his home.

Beethoven took lessons with Haydn for nearly two years and then went to

another master, Albrechtsberger, a very strict contrapuntist, who took

great pains with Beethoven but evidently did not think much of him, for

he said to a friend: “Have nothing to do with Beethoven. He has learned

nothing and will never do anything in decent style.”

Among Beethoven’s friends in Vienna were the Prince and Princess

Lichnowsky, who had been patrons of Mozart. They supported a Quartet and

an Orchestra and gave musical parties on a large scale. Their Friday

evenings were famous.

Music in Vienna was at that time chiefly dependent upon the patronage of

the wealthy; for concerts were not paying and they were usually organized

for some benevolent purpose.

The Lichnowskys offered Beethoven a home in their palace and a yearly

allowance. For ten years, or more, it was at Prince Lichnowsky’s house

that almost all of Beethoven’s works were first performed.

He was free to come and go as he pleased and had plenty of time to

study and compose. Here he had a great deal of pleasure with the

famous Quartet, first known as the Schuppanzigh and afterwards as the

Rasoumoffsky.

Notwithstanding his uncouth ways and his passionate temper, Beethoven

was a favorite in Vienna society. Haydn called him the Grand Mogul and

considered him more of a pianist than a composer.

[Illustration: BEETHOVEN

_By Lebronne_]

“His manner was often abrupt and even aggressive. Perhaps he sometimes

appeared so when nothing was further from his intention. A man with

the _C-minor Symphony_ ringing in his head might well be excused some

forgetfulness of the smaller conventions.

“Hitherto Beethoven’s playing in Vienna had been restricted to the

drawing-rooms of his personal friends. It was not till the year 1795 that

the public whose curiosity must have been considerably excited by reports

of the achievements of the young pianist from Bonn, had an opportunity of

witnessing his powers. At the annual concert given at the Burg Theatre,

for the benefit of the widows and orphans of musicians, the composer

made his first public appearance. Salieri, as usual, conducted, and the

programme included, besides an operetta composed by one of his pupils, a

‘Pianoforte Concerto in C-major by L. van Beethoven.’

“On this, as on several other occasions, Beethoven caused something

like a panic among his friends by postponing the completion of his

composition till the last moment. Two days before the date of the

performance the Concerto was still in an unfinished state; one cause of

the delay being an attack of the colic, a malady to which the composer

was subject. Wegeler was at hand to doctor him as well as he could; and

while Beethoven, working at high pressure, filled sheet after sheet of

music-paper, they were passed over to four copyists who attended in the

next room. Next day at rehearsal a fresh _contretemps_ arose. There

was found to be a difference of half a tone between the pitch of the

pianoforte and that of the other instruments. To save a general retuning

Beethoven seated himself at the piano without hesitation, and played

the whole Concerto in C-sharp—not an entirely unprecedented feat,

but, nevertheless, one that gives an idea of his thorough mastery over

technical difficulties.”[63]

In 1796 Beethoven visited Dresden, Leipzig and Berlin.

In 1800 he left the Lichnowsky house and took lodgings for himself.

Thenceforward he spent his summers in the country. He was now deaf.

In 1803 Beethoven gave an important concert in the Theater-an-der-Wien,

the programme consisting of the oratorio _The Mount of Olives_, the

Piano Concerto in C-minor and the Second Symphony, which was dedicated

to Prince Lichnowsky. The final rehearsal took place at eight o’clock in

the morning. “A terrible rehearsal,” Ries[64] recorded, “and by half-past

two everybody was tired out and more or less discontented. But the genial

Lichnowsky, who was present from the beginning, had brought some huge

baskets laden with meat, wine and bread-and-butter, and he was soon hard

at work, pressing the good things upon each tired musician with both his

friendly hands. After this all went well.”

“We are told that Beethoven’s attitude at the piano was perfectly quiet

and dignified, with no approach to grimace except to bend down a little

towards the keys as his deafness increased. This is remarkable because as

a conductor his motions were most extravagant. At a _pianissimo_ he would

crouch down so as to be hidden by the desk, and then as the _crescendo_

increased would gradually rise, beating all the time, until at the

_fortissimo_ he would spring into the air with his arms extended as if

wishing to float on the clouds. When, as was sometimes the case after he

became deaf, he lost his place and these motions did not coincide with

the music, the effect was very unfortunate, though not so unfortunate

as it would have been had he himself been aware of the mistake. In the

Orchestra, as at the piano, he was urgent in demanding expression, exact

attention to _piano_ and _forte_ and the slightest shades of _nuance_ and

to _tempo rubato_. Generally speaking, he was extremely courteous to the

band, though there were now and then exceptions.”[65]

“Beethoven was short and thick-set, broad shouldered and of athletic

build. A big face, ruddy in complexion—except towards the end of his

life, when his color became sickly and yellow, especially in the winter

after he had been remaining indoors far from the fields. He had a massive

and rugged forehead, extremely black and extraordinarily thick hair

through which it seemed the comb had never passed, for it was always

very rumpled, veritable bristling ‘serpents of Medusa.’ His eyes shone

with prodigious force. It was one of the chief things one noticed on

first encountering him, but many were mistaken in their color. When they

shone out in dark splendor from a sad and tragic visage, they generally

appeared black; but they were usually a bluish gray. Small and very deep

set, they flashed fiercely in moments of passion or warmth, and dilated

in a peculiar way under the influence of inspiration, reflecting his

thoughts with a marvellous exactness. Often they inclined upwards with

a melancholy expression. His nose was short and broad with the nostrils

of a lion; the mouth refined, with the lower lip somewhat prominent.

He had very strong jaws, which would easily break nuts, and a large

indentation in his chin imparted a curious irregularity to the face. ‘He

had a charming smile,’ said Moscheles, ‘and in conversation a manner

often lovable and inviting confidence; on the other hand his laugh was

most disagreeable, loud, discordant and strident’—the laugh of a man

unused to happiness. His usual expression was one of melancholy. Rellstab

in 1825 said that he had to summon up all his courage to prevent himself

from breaking into tears when he looked into Beethoven’s ‘tender eyes

with their speaking sadness.’ Braun von Braunthal met him at an inn a

year later. Beethoven was sitting in a corner with closed eyes, smoking a

long pipe—a habit which grew on him more and more as he approached death.

A friend spoke to him. He smiled sadly, drew from his pocket a little

note-tablet, and in a thin voice which frequently sounded cracked notes,

asked him to write down his request.

“His face would suddenly become transfigured, maybe in the access of

sudden inspiration which seized him at random, even in the street,

filling the passers-by with amazement, or it might be when great thoughts

came to him suddenly when seated at the piano. The muscles of his face

would stand out; his veins would swell; his wild eyes would become doubly

terrible. His lips trembled, he had the manner of a wizard controlling

the demons which he had invoked. A Shakespearean visage—King Lear, so

Sir Julius Benedict described it.”[66]

Beethoven’s compositions are far too numerous to mention here. We shall

only speak of the _Symphonies_.

Beethoven’s very first _Symphony_ showed he was master of the Orchestra.

The Orchestra left by Mozart and Haydn consisted of the four stringed

instruments, two flutes, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns, two

trumpets, kettledrums and, occasionally, two clarinets. Neither Mozart

nor Haydn ever used trombones in their _Symphonies_. Haydn had used as an

exceptional matter in his _Military Symphony_ a big drum, a triangle and

cymbals.

The _First Symphony_ is written for two drums (in C and G), two trumpets,

two horns, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, first and

second violins, violas and basso. There are one flute and one clarinet

more than Mozart used in his _Jupiter Symphony_. One flute only is used

in the _Andante_.

Beethoven also for the first time in the history of the Orchestra tuned

the kettledrums in the key of the dominant instead of in the key of the

movement.

In the _Second Symphony_ the Orchestra is still the ordinary Haydn-Mozart

Orchestra without trombones, but _with the addition of clarinets_.

In the _Eroica_ (the _Third_) _Symphony_ we find something new—_three

horns_. It was, perhaps, the first appearance of three horns in the

Orchestra. In passing, we may recall that in 1805 when Prince Lobkowitz

was entertaining Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia at his castle

in Bohemia, to honor his guest, who was a remarkable musician and

connoisseur, Lobkowitz ordered a performance of the new _Eroica_, by his

Orchestra which always attended him. When the _Symphony_ was finished

Louis Ferdinand begged to have it repeated, and on the second performance

begged to hear it again. “Certainly,” replied Lobkowitz, “only we must

first give the Orchestra some supper!”

In the _Fourth Symphony_ only one flute is used. It is scored for two

drums, two trumpets, two horns, one flute, two oboes, two clarinets, two

bassoons, first and second violins, violas, violoncello and double-bass.

This _Symphony_, lovely as it is, was severely criticised. No one was

more satirical than Weber, who was then a young man. He wrote a sketch

in which he imagined himself as seeing in a dream all the instruments

of the Orchestra grouped around the violins. The double-bass speaks:

“I have just come from the rehearsal of a Symphony by one of our

newest composers; and though, as you know, I have a tolerably strong

constitution, I could only just hold out. Five minutes more would have

shattered my frame and burst the sinews of my body. I have been made to

caper about like a wild goat and to turn myself into a mere fiddle to

execute the no-ideas of Mr. Composer. I’d sooner be a dancing master’s

kit at once.”

The first violoncello (bathed in perspiration) says that for his part

he is too tired to speak, and can recollect nothing like the warming

he has just had since he played in Cherubini’s last opera. The second

violoncello is of the opinion that the _Symphony_ is a musical

monstrosity, revolting alike to the nature of the instruments and the

expression of thought and with no purpose but that of perpetually

“showing-off.” The conductor enters and threatens if they are not quiet

to make them play the _Eroica Symphony_; and then he makes a speech,

telling the instruments that the time has gone by for clearness and

force, spirit and fancy, works like those of Gluck and Haydn and Mozart;

and that here is the latest Vienna recipe for a _Symphony_: “First a

slow movement full of short, disjointed, unconnected ideas, at the rate

of three or four notes per quarter of an hour; then a mysterious roll of

the drum and passage of the violas, seasoned with the proper quantity of

pauses and _ritardandos_; and to end all a furious _finale_, in which

the only requisite is that there should be no ideas for the hearer to

make out, but plenty of transitions from one key to another—on to the new

note at once, never mind modulating—above all things, throw rules to the

winds, for they only hamper a genius.”

“At this point,” says Weber, “I woke in a dreadful fright. I was on the

road to become either a great composer, or a lunatic.”

The _Fifth Symphony_ is scored for two drums, two trumpets, two horns,

two flutes, one flute piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons,

three trombones, first and second violins, violoncellos, basses and

contra-fagotto (double-bassoon).

The piccolo, trombones and double-bassoon here make their first

appearance in the symphonies. Beethoven had long known the

double-bassoon, for there was one in the Orchestra of the Elector of

Cologne.

The _C-minor Symphony_ is of all Beethoven’s works the most popular. It

was the work that made him known to the whole world.

Berlioz tells an anecdote of how the _C-minor_ impressed Lesueur, one of

Berlioz’s masters, at the Paris Conservatoire when it was first played

in Paris. “After the performance,” Berlioz says, “I hurried to see the

effect the work had had upon him and to hear his judgment on it. I found

him in the passage, red as fire and walking furiously fast. ‘Well, my

dear master,’ said I—

“‘Ouf!’ was his reply, ‘I must get out into the air. It is astonishing,

wonderful. It has excited and overcome me so that in trying to put my

hat on I could hardly find my head. Don’t stop me now, but come to me

to-morrow.’

“Early next morning I called on him and we at once rushed into the

subject. At length I succeeded in making him repeat the confession of his

emotion at the performance, but then with a violent shake of his head and

a peculiar smile he said: ‘All the same, such music as that ought not to

be made.’ To which I answered: ‘All right, dear master, there’s no fear

of much being made like it.’”

The _Pastoral Symphony_ (the _Sixth_) calls for two flutes, one piccolo,

two oboes, two clarinets, two horns, two bassoons, two trumpets, two

drums, alto and tenor trombones, first and second violins, viola,

violoncellos and basses. The trumpets and trombones are used in the

_Storm_ only (fourth movement). In the _Andante_ (second movement) there

are two solo violoncellos (with _sordini_); the other violoncellos play

with the double-basses.

The _Seventh Symphony_ is composed for two flutes, two oboes, two

clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, two drums, first and

second violins, viola, violoncello and double-basses. The drums are tuned

in E and A except in the _Scherzo_, where they are tuned in F and A.

This _Symphony_ was first performed in the University of Vienna at a

concert for the benefit of soldiers wounded at the Battle of Hanau (Oct.

30, 1813), where the Austrians and Bavarians tried to cut off Napoleon’s

retreat from Leipzig.

Beethoven conducted. Some of the most famous musicians and composers

played in the Orchestra. There was Schuppanzigh, Romberg, Spohr, Mayseder

and the famous double-bass, Dragonetti (see page 70); Meyerbeer and

Hummel played the kettledrums; Moscheles, the cymbals and old Salieri

“gave time to the drums and salvos,” says a contemporary, who continued:

“At this concert I first saw Beethoven conduct. Often as I had heard of

it, it surprised me extremely. He was accustomed to convey the marks of

expression to the Orchestra by the most peculiar motions of his body.

Thus at a _sforzando_ he tore his arms, which were before crossed on his

breast, violently apart. At a _piano_ he crouched down, bending lower the

softer the tone. At the _crescendo_ he raised himself by degrees until at

the _forte_ he sprang up to his full height; and without knowing it would

often at the same time shout aloud.”

The _Eighth Symphony_ has two drums in F and C, two trumpets in F, two

horns in F, two flutes, two clarinets, two oboes, two bassoons, first

and second violins, violas, violoncello and double-bass. In the Finale

the drums are for the first time tuned in octaves. It was first performed

in the Great Redoutensaal, Vienna, on Feb. 27, 1814. The Seventh Symphony

was also on the programme and received the most applause.

There is a tremendous gap between the _Eighth_ and the _Ninth

Symphonies_. Even Beethoven, Titan that he was and with an orchestra that

had developed marvellously under his magic hands, felt that instruments

were not sufficient to express the ultimate climax of this mighty work,

and, therefore, added human voices to swell the joyous uproar of the

last movement. The _Ninth_ was first performed at the Kärnthnerthor

Theatre, Vienna, May 7, 1824. The house was crowded. All the principal

musicians, professional and amateur, were present. “In a letter to

Schindler, quoted by Lenz, he calls the day _Fracktag_, because he had

the bore of putting on a smarter coat than usual. On this occasion it was

a green coat, and he probably also wore a three-cornered cocked hat. The

preparations had somewhat upset him, and his dress had to be discussed

with Schindler in one of the conversation-books. His deafness had by

this time become total, but that did not keep him out of the Orchestra.

He stood by the side of Umlauf, the conductor, to indicate the times of

the various movements. The house was tolerably full, though not crowded,

and his reception was all that his warmest friends could desire. To use

Schindler’s expression it was more than Imperial. Three successive bursts

of applause were the rule for the Imperial Family and he had _five_!

After the fifth, the Commissary of Police interfered and called for

silence! Beethoven acknowledged the applause by a bow. The Scherzo was

so completely interrupted—at the _Ritmo di tre battute_, where the drums

give the motif—that it had to be begun again. A great deal of emotion was

naturally enough visible in the Orchestra; and we hear of such eminent

players as Mayseder and Böhm even weeping.

“At the close of the performance an incident occurred which must have

brought the tears to many an eye in the room. The master, though placed

in the midst of this confluence of music, heard nothing of it at all and

was not even sensible of the applause of the audience at the end of his

great work, but continued standing with his back to the audience and

beating the time, till Fräulein Ungher, who had sung the contralto part,

turned him, or induced him to turn round and face the people, who were

still clapping their hands and giving way to the greatest demonstrations

of pleasure. His turning round and the sudden conviction thereby forced

on everybody that he had not done so before because he could not hear

what was going on, acted like an electric shock on all present, and

a volcanic explosion of sympathy and admiration followed, which was

repeated again and again and it seemed as if it would never end.”[67]

The score comprises two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons,

four horns, two trumpets, two drums, first and second violins, violas,

violoncellos and basses. In some of the movements three trombones, a

double bassoon, a piccolo, triangle, cymbals and big drum are called for.

“These great works he did as no one ever did and probably no one

ever will. But of orchestral music he wrote no more after the _Ninth

Symphony_. Music will advance in richness, scope and difficulty; but such

music as Beethoven’s great instrumental works, in which thought, emotion,

melody and romance combine with extraordinary judgment and common sense

and a truly wonderful industry to make a perfect whole, can hardly any

more be written. The time for such an event, such a concurrence of the

man and the circumstances will not again arrive. There can never be a

second Beethoven, or a second Shakespeare. However much Orchestras may

improve and execution increase, Beethoven’s _Symphonies_ will always

remain at the head of music as Shakespeare’s plays are at the head of the

literature of the modern world—‘Age cannot wither them, nor custom stale

their infinite variety.’”[68]

In every way possible Beethoven discovered and brought forward the

capacities of each individual instrument. Each instrument in the

Orchestra was enriched under Beethoven’s touch and given a new standing,

a new dignity. The viola, the violoncello, the double-bass, the horn, the

trombone and the kettledrum were all brought forward and turned into solo

instruments. The clarinet, too, became firmly established as a leading

voice.

No composer before him had ever _made the instruments converse_ as

did Beethoven. No composer had ever made the strings so flexible, so

humorous, so pathetic, so gay, so languorous. Besides, Beethoven was the

first to take the violins up into the highest register—into the ethereal

domain where Wagner followed.

“When an idea comes to me,” said Beethoven, “I hear it on an instrument,

never on a voice.”

“Beethoven is the prophet of the new era which the Nineteenth Century

ushered in for mankind. As things must be _felt_ before they can be

acted out, so they must be expressed in the indefinite emotional forms

of music before they can be uttered and definitely imaged forth in words

or pictorial shapes. Beethoven is the forerunner of Shelley and Whitman

among the poets, of J. W. Turner and J. F. Millet among the painters. He

is the great poet who holds Nature by the one hand and Man by the other.

Within that low-statured, rudely outlined figure which a century ago

walked hatless through the fields near Mödling or sat oblivious in some

shabby restaurant at Vienna, dwelt an emotional giant—a being who—through

his outer life by deafness, disease, business-worries, poverty, was

shattered as it were into a thousand squalid fragments—in his great heart

embraced all mankind, with piercing insight penetrated intellectually

through all falsehoods to the truth and already in his art-work gave

outline to the religious, the human, the democratic yearnings, the

loves, the comradeship, the daring individualities, and all the heights

and depths of feeling of a new dawning era of society. He was, in fact,

and he gave utterance to, a new type of man. What that struggle must

have been between his inner and outer conditions—of his real self with

the lonely and mean surroundings in which it was embodied—we only know

through his music.”[69]

Beethoven was the last great Classical composer.

With Weber we enter a new school of music—the Romantic; and Carl Maria

von Weber stands at the head of this Romantic School.

The word _Classical_ is used in two ways: one, to define old works which

have held their place in general estimation for a long time; and the

other to describe works, written according to strict ideas of form,

usually in the Sonata and Symphonic style. The great classical masters

are Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. The word _Romantic_ is

used to define the works of the composers who came directly after the

Classical composers and who wished to write in freer form, permitting

more play for the imagination.

The great Romantics are Weber, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Chopin.

“Widely as the composers of this new school differed in other respects,

they were alike in their susceptibility to the tone of thought and

feeling which so deeply colored the romantic literature of their time.

None of them were strangers to that weariness, approaching to disgust,

of the actual world around them and those yearnings to escape from it

which pursued so many of the finest minds of the generation to which they

belonged. To such men it was a relief and delight to live in an ideal

world as remote as possible from the real one.

[Illustration: C. M. VON WEBER

_By Schimon_]

“Some took refuge in mediæval legends, where no border divided the

natural from the supernatural one; some, in the charms and solitudes of

nature; and others in the contemplation of peace and beatitude beyond the

grave.”[70]

Of all the German musicians of the Nineteenth Century none exercised

a greater influence than Weber. “The historian of German music in the

Nineteenth Century will have to make Weber his starting-point. His

influence was even greater than that of Beethoven, for deeply imbued

though Beethoven was with the modern spirit of that time, he adhered

as a rule to the traditions of the Eighteenth Century. These Weber

casts aside and starts after fresh ideals. He was far less perfect in

form than Beethoven, nor was he his equal in power; but in originality

he has never been surpassed by any musician, ancient or modern. The

germs of life he scattered broadcast; and the whole of German Opera

down to Wagner’s latest works is evolved from Weber’s spirit. Even the

concert-music of other masters such as Mendelssohn and Schumann profited

by his suggestiveness. Without Weber Mendelssohn’s _Midsummer Night’s

Dream Music_, _Walpurgis Nacht_, _Concert-Overtures_ and _Pianoforte

Concertos_; Schumann’s _Paradise and the Peri_, _Pilgrimage of the Rose_

and concert-ballads; the entire variation music of the present day;

choruses for men’s voices; certain forms of the German _Lied_; even the

modern technique of pianoforte playing; and, most of all, the _present

development of orchestration are inconceivable_.”[71]

Weber, like Bach, came of a musical family; but, unlike most of the

great composers who had, heretofore appeared, Weber was of noble ancestry.

Weber was a cultivated man of the world as well as a musician. His

birth gave him a place in the best society and his cultivation, which

was learned from men rather than books—he lived a wandering life in his

youth—was wide and embraced literature and several arts.

Carl Maria von Weber was born in Vienna in 1786. He was a delicate,

nervous child whose health was not improved by his father’s desire to

make him a musical prodigy like Mozart, of whom he was a cousin. Weber

was sadly overtaxed. Among his masters were Michael Haydn, brother of the

great Haydn, and the Abbé Vogler, a fashionable composer and organist of

Vienna and a man of wit, culture and social position. By 1810, when his

true musical life may be said to begin, Weber had brought out several

operas. In Mannheim he produced his first _Symphony_. In 1811 he started

on his tour through Germany and Switzerland, at first alone and then in

company with Baermann, the celebrated clarinet-player. Weber’s visit to

Berlin in 1812 was very important. After many concert-tours Weber became

conductor of the theatre in Prague. In 1816 the King of Saxony called him

to Dresden.

It is interesting to catch a glimpse of Weber on his first appearance as

_Kapellmeister_ here, as related by his son:

“After a few words of pleasant and friendly greeting and assurances of

his goodwill and interest to all, he terminated with the astounding

declaration: ‘In return I expect explicit obedience. I shall be just but

pitilessly severe with all who need severity, myself among the number.’

Such expressions had never before been heard by any of the company. For

many generations gentle wishes, not commands, had been the order of the

day. At first all stood aghast and dumb. On leaving the theatre at least

two-thirds of the company declared themselves against the ‘impertinent

young musical director.’ The members of the Orchestra were all indignant.

Never had the most celebrated of _kapellmeisters_ ever dared to

address this celebrated Orchestra. And yet, in a short time, some of

the bitterest enemies of this hour became Weber’s staunchest friends,

supporters and admirers.

“There are still living many old members of the Dresden Orchestra who can

remember the appearance of Weber on this memorable occasion. He stood

before them a little, narrow-chested man, with long arms and a thin, pale

face, from which his eyes gleamed forth in lightning flashes through his

spectacles. When he was pleased a smile, which was positively enchanting,

played over his otherwise serious mouth. When affected by the occurrences

of the moment, he bent his head gently sideways with an air of peculiar

tenderness and earnestness. He wore a blue frock coat with metal buttons,

tight pantaloons and Hessian boots with tassels. A scrupulously clean

white cravat with embroidered ends, in which was stuck a handsome diamond

pin, encircled his neck. Over all he carried a tawny colored cloak with

several capes, a broad round hat on his head. Nothing in his whole attire

indicated any artistic pretension or affectation; and, in the streets,

or in a room, he might have been easily overlooked. Once noticed,

however, Weber was sure to charm and captivate by his air of intellectual

refinement and elegance of manner.”

_Der Freischütz_ was performed in Berlin in 1821; _Euryanthe_ in Vienna

in 1823; and _Oberon_ in London in 1826, the year of Weber’s death.

Though Weber’s works for the Orchestra are comparatively unimportant, the

instrumentation of his operas, so dramatic, so original and so poetic,

has had great effect on modern orchestral writers.

Weber’s instrumentation was founded on Beethoven’s. He introduced no new

instruments. What he did _was to develop the woodwind and make new and

lovely combinations_. For the clarinet he had a special fondness.

After Mozart introduced the clarinet into the Orchestra, it rapidly

became a favorite solo-instrument. At the beginning of the Nineteenth

Century Germany had two splendid clarinet-players,—Hermstedt of

Sondershausen, for whom Spohr composed, and Baermann of Munich, with whom

Weber gave concerts, as we have seen,[72] and wrote special music. Weber

learned much from the latter about the resources of this instrument; and

Weber is the composer, _par excellence_, of the clarinet.

Next to the clarinet, Weber loved the horns. He made them most poetic.

With Beethoven four horns and three trombones had been exceptional. With

Weber this number became the rule.

Weber was also fond of subdividing the violins.

“As an interpreter of nature Weber’s position in the dramatic world is

like that of Beethoven in the Symphony. Nobody has ever depicted with

the same truth as he a sultry moonlight night the stillness broken only

by the nightingale’s trill and the solemn murmur of the trees, as in

Agathe’s grand _scene_ in _Der Freischütz_; or a gruesome night scene

in the gloomy forest ravine such as that in the Finale of the 2d Act.

With this descriptive faculty went hand in hand consummate skill in

orchestration. There is something original and intoxicating in the sound

he brings out of the Orchestra, a complete simplicity combined with

perfect novelty. He was able, as it were, to _transport himself into the

soul of the instruments_ and make them talk to us like human beings, each

in its own language, each speaking when it alone has power to lay bare

the very heart of the action.

“The phrase ‘local coloring’ in music may be defined as that which

conjures up before our minds the associations connected with certain

scenes, races and epochs. In the _Freischütz_ the prevailing color

was derived from the life of the German foresters and huntsmen; in

_Preciosa_ we have the charm of the south in lovely Spain, then the

type of all that was romantic, with the picturesque life of the roving

gipsy. _Euryanthe_ takes us back to the Middle Ages and the palmy days of

French chivalry which reappear to some extent in _Oberon_ mingled with

scenes from Oriental life and from fairyland. Weber’s melody, the chords

of his harmony, the figures employed, the effects of color so totally

unexpected—all combine to waft us with mysterious power into an unknown

land.”[73]

Schubert’s gift to the Orchestra was his _novel way of writing for the

trombones and for his use of the woodwind_. He gave a conversational

treatment of oboe, flute and clarinet. This does not mean to say that he

did not also write beautifully for the strings.

No composer ever lived more entirely in his music than Schubert. There

is not much to say about his life. He was born in Vienna; he lived there

all his life; and he died there at the age of thirty-one. He earned a

scanty living; he found it hard to get his compositions published; he

had no wealthy patrons like Handel, Haydn, Gluck, Mozart and Beethoven;

he had no pleasures, no triumphs such as Weber and Mendelssohn enjoyed.

Schubert’s life was dull and commonplace. Yet between the years of his

birth and death—1797-1828—he produced an astounding number of works. He

wrote 650 songs (the extraordinary _Erl-King_ when he was only eighteen),

ten _Symphonies_ (of which the eighth is the _Unfinished_), many

operettas, piano-music and a great deal of orchestral and chamber-music

and compositions for special instruments.

Salieri, the old rival of Mozart, was the first to recognize Schubert’s

genius. “He can do everything,” he exclaimed, “he is a genius. He

composes songs, masses, operas, quartets—whatever you can think of.” In

1822 Schubert met both Beethoven and Weber. Beethoven he adored. Schubert

was a singer, violinist and pianist.

[Illustration: SCHUBERT

_By Rieder_]

Schubert’s first _Symphony in D_ is dated 1813; the _Second in B-flat_

is dated 1814; the _Third in D_, in 1815; the _Fourth in C-minor_

(described by the composer as “the Tragic”) is dated 1816; and scored

for two violins, viola, violoncello and bass, two flutes, two oboes, two

clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets and drums.

The _Fifth Symphony_, known as the “Symphony without trumpets and

drums,” is scored for two violins, viola, violoncello, double-bass,

flute, two oboes, two bassoons and two horns. It is dated 1816. Up to

this point Schubert’s _Symphonies_ show the influence of Haydn, Mozart

and Beethoven. Now came the true Schubert style with the _Sixth_, _the

C-major Symphony_, which is regarded as Schubert’s masterpiece. It is

scored for two violins, viola, violoncello and double-bass; two flutes,

two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, and

drums. This work was first performed in Vienna in 1828, but it was not

heard in Paris and London until 1856. In 1842 Habeneck rehearsed it

in Paris, but the Orchestra refused to play it; and when Mendelssohn

put it into rehearsal in London the Philharmonic Orchestra laughed at

the triplets in the last movement, and Mendelssohn, very indignant,

withdrew it. Sir Augustus Manns, who introduced the work in England in

1856, remembers hearing at the end of the first movement the principal

horn call out to one of the first violins: “Tom, have you been able to

discover a tune yet?” “I have not,” was Tom’s reply.

The _B-minor_, the _Unfinished_, was written in 1822, before the

_C-major_. The _Unfinished_ we may note, was composed before Beethoven’s

_Ninth_ and the _C-major Symphony_ after it.

Perhaps Mendelssohn’s most characteristic orchestral work is to be found

in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ music, the oratorio of _Elijah_ and the

Overture to _Melusine_. Of course, his Symphonies—the _Reformation_,

which appeared in 1830, two years after Schubert’s _C-major_, the

_Italian_ in 1831 and the _Scotch_ in 1842, contain beautiful work

especially for the woodwind.

With his suave, graceful, sunny and charming melodies, it was only

natural that Mendelssohn’s instrumentation should be delicate.

In the world of pictures we often turn from the deep, rich colors of

Titian, Rembrandt and Velasquez to enjoy the softer hues of Chardin,

Watteau and Fragonard. It is the same in music. Refreshing it is to

turn from the dark, heavy colors of Beethoven, or the glowing hues of

Weber and Wagner to the opalescent tints of delightful, fanciful, poetic

Mendelssohn.

Mendelssohn’s life was happy from beginning to end; and this joy bubbles

up in his music. The world gave him much; and he gave the world much in

return.

Born in Hamburg in 1809, he spent his early years in Berlin, where his

family removed. He had a childhood almost unparalleled in the annals of

music for happiness. He conducted a little Orchestra in his father’s

house every Sunday morning, where many of his early compositions were

performed, among them the Overture to the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_,

which he wrote when he was only seventeen. As pianist, organist,

conductor and composer, Mendelssohn had one triumph after another. He

made nine visits to London, where he stood next to Handel in popular

affection.

In 1835 he became conductor of the Gewandhaus concerts in Leipzig and he

established the Conservatory of Music in that city. He died in Leipzig in

1847.

Mendelssohn has suffered somewhat from the high position the English have

given him in music; but he has a place that is quite his own. He followed

in the footsteps of Weber rather than in those of Beethoven; and, though

he has no tragic depths, he has given the world lyric compositions of

great beauty and the greatest oratorios since Handel’s.

Mendelssohn sketched and painted well; he had a love for literature; he

wrote charming letters; and he was altogether a delightful person.

Mendelssohn’s orchestration is noted for _its perfect balance, its

clarity and its polish_. He seems to have cared less for the brass than

the other groups. His violin concerto, ranking next to Beethoven’s, shows

his sympathy for the violin. The viola is also well treated in all his

works. The violoncello _obbligato_ in the accompaniment to the solo “It

is enough” in _Elijah_ proves that this instrument was a favorite. The

clarinet passages in the _Overture to Melusine_ and the use of the horns

in the _Notturno_ in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ exhibit his poetic and

romantic touch in the highest degree.

Many persons have left snap-shots of happy Mendelssohn, Sir Julius

Benedict, a pupil of his, wrote enthusiastically: “It would be a

matter of difficulty to decide in what quality Mendelssohn excelled

the most,—whether as composer, pianist, organist, or conductor of an

Orchestra. Nobody, certainly, ever knew better how to communicate—as

if by an electric fluid—his own conception of a work to a large body

of performers. It was highly interesting, on such an occasion, to

contemplate the anxious attention manifested by a body of sometimes

more than five hundred singers and performers, watching every glance

of Mendelssohn’s eye and following, like obedient spirits, the magic

wand of this musical Prospero. Once, while conducting a rehearsal of

Beethoven’s _Eighth Symphony_, the admirable Allegretto in B-flat,

not going at first to his liking, he remarked, smilingly that he knew

every one of the gentlemen engaged was capable of performing and even

composing a scherzo of his own, but that _just now_ he wanted to hear

Beethoven’s, which he thought had some merits. It was cheerfully

repeated. ‘Beautiful! Charming!’ cried Mendelssohn, ‘but still too loud

in two or three instances. Let us take it again from the middle.’ ‘No,

no,’ was the general reply of the band, ‘the whole piece over again,

for our satisfaction;’ and then they played it with the utmost delicacy

and finish, Mendelssohn laying aside his _bâton_ and listening with

evident delight to the perfect execution. ‘What would I have given,’ he

exclaimed, ‘if Beethoven could have heard his own composition so well

understood and so magnificently performed.’”

[Illustration: MENDELSSOHN

_By Bendemann_]

Another admirer wrote: “When once his fine, firm hand grasped the

_bâton_, the electric fire of Mendelssohn’s nature seemed to stream out

through it and be felt at once by singers, orchestra and audience.

Mendelssohn conducted not only with his _bâton_, but with his whole

body. At the outset, when he took his place at the music-stand, his

countenance was wrapped in deep and almost solemn earnestness. You could

see at a glance that the temple of music was a holy place to him. As

soon as he had given the first beat, his face lighted up, every feature

was aflame and the play of countenance was the best commentary on the

piece. Often the spectator could anticipate from his face what was to

come. The _fortes_ and _crescendos_ he accompanied with an energetic play

of features and the most forcible action; while the _decrescendos_ and

_pianos_ he used to modulate with a motion of both hands till they slowly

sank to almost perfect silence. He glanced at the most distant performers

when they should strike in, and often designated the instant when they

should pause, by a characteristic movement of the hand, which will not be

forgotten by those who ever saw it.”

Contemporary with Mendelssohn, though they seem much nearer to us than

he, are three great geniuses of the Nineteenth Century,—Berlioz, Liszt

and Wagner. Though all three were admirers of the Classic masters, they

formed an entirely new school of music, which was called “The Music of

the Future.”

It is hard to say to which of these men Music owes the most; for while

Wagner was certainly the greatest composer, Berlioz daringly led the

way into these new regions where Wagner followed, and Liszt, with his

extraordinary influence, his generosity of spirit, his untiring zeal in

producing Wagner’s works as well as his lavish gifts to Wagner in times

of trouble, was not the least important of the three in making Music what

it is to-day. Moreover, Liszt’s own compositions helped to establish in

the affections of the public this Music of the Future that became the

Music of the Present and that is rapidly taking its place in the Music of

the Past ranking as Classic in the first meaning of the word (see page

232).

To understand how Music departed from the old roads and took a new path,

we must remember that in 1830 with the Revolution that sent Charles IX

from the French throne, a new spirit came into the world of literature,

art and music. It is known as the Romantic Movement. Writers and

painters, full of the excitement of the period and joy at the triumph

of republican ideas, sought to portray nature and human nature in truer

lines and colors than the traditional rules and measurements of the

Classic period.

There was a great outburst of literature in France—Gautier, Flaubert,

de Musset, de Vigny and Victor Hugo are a few of the names that rise to

one’s lips when the Romantic Movement is mentioned. Painters, too, were

numerous. There was but one French composer—Berlioz. Just what Victor

Hugo expressed in literature, just what Delacroix expressed in painting,

Berlioz expressed in music; and Berlioz stands alone, a solitary figure.

“Berlioz’s early influences were as much literary as musical. His

reading was mainly romantic; his musical gods were Beethoven, Weber and

Gluck, whose orchestral writings influenced him most. He knew little of

Beethoven’s piano writings and did not like Bach. Into the intellectual

world of the Beethoven symphony and the operas of Gluck and Weber, he

breathed the newer, more nervous life of the French Romanticists. _Color

and sensation_ became as important as form and the pure idea. These

influences and his literary instincts led him to graft the programme form

on the older symphony. All his music aims at something concrete. Instead

of the abstract world of the classical symphonists he gives us definite

emotions, or paints definite scenes. His own words: ‘I have taken up

music where Beethoven left it’ indicate his position. He is the real

beginner of that interpenetration of music and the poetic idea which has

transformed modern art.”[74]

Berlioz’s temperament was like a volcano bursting continually into fire

and flame and his mind took delight in everything of enormous magnitude.

He loved to think of the Pyramids of Egypt, of huge lonely mountains,

of great seas, the bursting of thunderbolts and the howl of tempests.

Everything with him appeared in colossal proportions; and, consequently,

much of his music seemed to the people of his time, even more than to us

to-day, to have been written for the ears of giants and Titans and not

for men and women of ordinary build.

Heine appreciated this phase of the extravagant Berlioz. “A colossal

nightingale, a lark the size of an eagle,” he wrote of him, “such as once

existed in the primæval world. Yes, the music of Berlioz, in general

seems to me primitive almost antediluvian; it sets me dreaming of

gigantic species of extinct animals, of mammoths, of fabulous empires

with fabulous sins, of all kinds of impossibilities piled one on top of

the other. These magic accents recall to us Babylon, the hanging-gardens

of Semiramis, the marvels of Nineveh, the audacious edifices of Mizraim

such as are shown in the pictures of the English painter Martin.”

This is all true, but it represents only one side of Berlioz.

Berlioz could be exquisite and dainty as well as colossal and terrific,

as we hear in the _Queen Mab Scherzo_ from the _Roméo et Juliette

Symphony_, and the _Dance of the Sylphs_ from the _Damnation of Faust_.

Berlioz is called the “Father of Modern Orchestration.” To appreciate the

magnitude of his work, we must forget all our modern music for a moment

and remember what the Orchestra was like when Berlioz, a country boy of

eighteen, arrived in Paris in 1821.

[Illustration: BERLIOZ

_By Fischer_]

Berlioz “is one of the most remarkable phenomena in the history of music.

In his earliest years, as in his latest, Berlioz was himself, a solitary

figure, owing practically nothing to other people’s music, an artist

we may say, without ancestry and without posterity. Mozart builds upon

Haydn and influences Beethoven; Beethoven imitates Mozart and in turn

influences the practice of all later symphonists; Wagner learns from

Weber and gives birth to a host of imitators. But with Berlioz—and it

is a point to be insisted on—there is no one whose speech he tried to

copy in his early years and there is no one since who speaks with _his_

voice. How many things in the early Beethoven were made in the factory

of Mozart! How many times does the early Wagner speak with the voice

of Weber! But who can turn over the scores of Berlioz’s early works

and find a single phrase that can be fathered upon any previous, or

contemporary, writer? There was never any one, before his time or since,

who thought and wrote just like him; his musical style especially is

absolutely his own. Now and then in _L’Enfance du Christ_ he suggests

Gluck—not in the turn of his phrases but in the general atmosphere of an

aria; but apart from this it is the rarest thing for him to remind us of

any other composer. His melody, his harmony, his rhythm, are absolutely

his own.”[75]

In nothing did the originality of Berlioz show itself more strikingly

than in his treatment of the Orchestra.

So many of his ideas and effects were used, and carried still further,

by Wagner that some of the richness and beauty of tone of the modern

Orchestra that we usually give to Wagner belongs rightfully to Hector

Berlioz. For instance, Berlioz discovered the value of _pianissimo_

brass effects; he discovered the ethereal charm of harmonies on divided

violins; he discovered the true worth of the viola; he introduced the

harp into the Symphony Orchestra; he grouped instruments into families

and got from them rich chords in different shades of the same tone-color;

he advocated the tuba as a substitution for the coarser ophicleide; he

made many experiments with the kettledrums and other instruments of

percussion; he divided the strings into many parts (one of his scores

calls for five double-basses); and he also advocated the sunken and

hidden Orchestra, which Wagner realized in his theatre of Bayreuth.

Wagner frankly confesses his debt to this French genius. “Berlioz

was diabolically clever,” he wrote: “I made a minute study of his

instrumentation as early as 1840 in Paris and I have often taken up his

scores since. I profited greatly both as regards what to do and what to

leave undone.”

It is absurd to say that without Berlioz there would have been no Wagner;

but it is no exaggeration to say that without Berlioz there might have

been a Wagner very different from the one we know.

“Berlioz’s startling originality as a musician rests upon a physical and

mental organization very different from, and in some respects superior

to, that of other eminent masters,—a most ardent nervous temperament;

a gorgeous imagination, incessantly active, heated at times to the

verge of insanity; an abnormally subtle and acute sense of hearing; the

keenest intellect, of a disserting analyzing turn; the most violent will,

manifesting itself in a spirit of enterprise and daring equalled only by

its tenacity of purpose and indefatigable perseverance.

“From a technical point of view certain of Berlioz’s attainments are

phenomenal. The gigantic proportions, the grandiose style, the imposing

weight of those long and broad harmonic and rhythmical progressions

towards some end afar off, the exceptional means employed for exceptional

ends—in a word, the colossal cyclopean aspect of certain movements are

without parallel in musical art.

“The originality and inexhaustible variety of rhythms and the

surpassing perfection of his instrumentation are points willingly

conceded by Berlioz’s staunchest opponents. As far as the technique of

instrumentation is concerned, it may truly be asserted that he treats the

Orchestra with the same supreme daring and absolute mastery with which

Paganini treated the violin and Liszt the pianoforte. No one before him

had so clearly realized the individuality of each particular instrument,

its resources and capabilities. In his works the equation between a

particular phrase and a particular instrument is invariably perfect; and

over and above this, his experiments in orchestral color, his combination

of single instruments with others so as to form groups, and again his

combination of several separate groups of instruments with one another

are as novel and as beautiful as they are uniformly successful.”[76]

Berlioz wrote a _Treatise on Instrumentation_, which he curiously

numbered among his works as opus 10.

Hector Berlioz was born in La Cote Saint-André, near Grenoble, in 1803,

and died in Paris in 1869. His father, Dr. Louis Berlioz, wanted him to

be a physician and sent him to Paris at the age of eighteen to study

medicine. But medicine was against his will, and it was not long before

Berlioz abandoned these studies and entered the Paris Conservatory as

a pupil of Lesueur. Soon his parents stopped his allowance; and the

young man was forced to earn his living by singing in the chorus of an

obscure theatre. He was not popular in the Conservatory: his character

and his genius were too original. However, in 1830 he obtained the

_prix de Rome_, that envied purse enabling the winner to study in

Italy. On returning to Paris, he earned his living by his pen—he was a

brilliant journalist—and gave concerts of his works as he finished their

composition.

His monster concerts and the huge Orchestra he required were subject to

ridicule and caricature. The comic papers were full of illustrated jokes

at his expense.

“I am so sorry to hear that your husband has become deaf. How did it

happen?” one sympathetic lady says to a friend, who replies, “Well, you

see he _would_ go to that last concert of Berlioz!”

Another picture shows two street venders looking at one of their tribe

flaunting a rich dress. “How did she become so rich?” one asks the other;

and the latter explains: “Why, she sells cotton at the door of Berlioz’s

concerts for people to stuff in their ears!”

Berlioz’s symphony _Harold in Italy_, written in 1834, at Paganini’s

request for a solo part in which he could exhibit his fine Stradivari

viola, attracted some attention when it was performed at the

Conservatory. His dramatic symphony _Roméo et Juliette_, performed at

the Conservatory in 1839, won him fresh laurels. It was dedicated to

Paganini, who having heard the _Fantastic Symphony_ and _Harold in Italy_

given under Berlioz’s direction at a concert in Paris in 1838, dropped

on his knees before the composer, kissed his hand and the next day sent

him a cheque for twenty thousand francs ($4,000). Berlioz spent much

time polishing this score; and of all his compositions he preferred the

_Adagio_ (love scene) of _Roméo et Juliette Symphony_.

Berlioz’s life was comparatively uneventful. His operas, _Benvenuto

Cellini_ and _Béatrice et Bénédict_ (_Much Ado about Nothing_) and his

two works on the Trojan War were unsuccessful. His gigantic works such as

the _Damnation of Faust_ and _Requiem_ were also failures. His success

was gained outside of his beloved Paris in 1843 and 1847, when he gave

concerts in Germany and Russia. His extraordinary reception amazed his

own countrymen, with whom Berlioz was never popular.

In 1852 he became Librarian at the Paris Conservatory. France gave him

the cross of the Legion of Honor and other countries bestowed decorations

upon him.

“Liszt was at first a pianist, the most extraordinary and fascinating

ever known, and one of the most wonderful of improvisators. Yielding

to the taste of the time, he composed _Fantasias_, arrangements, or

paraphrases, upon fashionable operas, bristling with difficulties of

execution so extreme that no one but himself could attempt to play them.

“It was not until a later period that he began really to compose and then

he brought into his work the quality of mysticism which was in his own

nature.”[77]

Franz Liszt (1811-1886), is another phenomenon in musical history. He was

great as a pianist, great as a composer, great as a conductor, great as a

man, great as a friend. In looking over his life it seems incredible that

any man could have accomplished so much and in so many varied directions.

All the good fairies of fortune presided over his career from his

earliest hours. He was born at Raiding in Hungary, in 1811, the son

of Adam Liszt, an official in the Imperial service of Prince Nicolaus

Esterhazy (the patron of Haydn) and amateur musician, who taught his

son so well that at the age of nine years he appeared at a concert in

Œdenburg. Soon afterwards several Hungarian noblemen subscribed a sum

to provide for his education for six years. Young Franz studied with

Czerny and Salieri (Mozart’s rival) in Vienna and in 1823 played before

Beethoven, who embraced him on the stage. In that year “the little Liszt”

was taken to Paris by his father and there he had the best instruction.

After the death of his father in 1827, he supported himself and his

mother in Paris, by teaching and giving concerts.

He lived in Paris in the early days of the Romantic Movement[78] and was

brought into relation with all the great artists, writers, poets and

musicians of the day. Paganini’s magical playing inspired in him the

ambition to do for the pianoforte what Paganini had done for the violin.

How well he accomplished his desire we all know.

For many years Liszt travelled through Europe giving concerts everywhere

and always with phenomenal success. His concert-tours, which extended

from Spain and England to Russia and Hungary, were really triumphal

progresses. Much of his money he gave away—sometimes to relieve suffering

brought about by some great calamity, sometimes to help needy brother

artists, sometimes for the cause of music, particularly for “the Music of

the Future.”

[Illustration: LISZT IN 1875

_Photograph taken in Budapest_]

In 1849 his career as a virtuoso-pianist practically came to an end and

he settled in Weimar. He soon made this town the centre of a brilliant

artistic life.

Professional and amateur musicians flocked there to study under the

generous master who gave instruction to talented pupils without

remuneration. Others came to hear rare and new works performed under his

_bâton_ at the Court Theatre of which he was conductor. His splendid

interpretations of _Lohengrin_ and _Tannhäuser_ contributed no little in

establishing Wagner’s reputation at a time when he greatly needed such

endorsement as Liszt was able to give.

In 1861 Liszt left Weimar and went to Rome, where he took minor orders in

1865. Subsequently he was known as the Abbé Liszt.

The last years of his life were divided between Rome, Weimar and

Buda-Pesth, an active and influential force in musical art until his

sudden death at Bayreuth in 1886.

There are two great paradoxes in the career of Liszt. The first is

that just as Rossini, the most popular opera composer of his day,

ceased writing operas thirty-nine years before his death, so Liszt, the

greatest and most adored pianist of all times, ceased playing in public

(except for an occasional charitable purpose) about the same number of

years before his end came. He had with his inimitable art familiarized

concert-goers with nearly all the best compositions for the piano created

by other masters. He had transcribed for the same instrument a large

number of songs, operatic melodies and orchestral works (the number of

these transcriptions at his death was 371) thereby vastly increasing

their vogue. He also wrote altogether 160 original compositions for

the pianoforte, many of them as new in _form_ as in _substance_; unique

among them being the fifteen _Hungarian Rhapsodies_—collections of Magyar

melodies with gipsy ornaments molded by him into works of art, after the

manner of epic poets. But—and here lies the second paradox—Liszt, the

greatest of all pianists was not satisfied with the piano. In many of

his pieces for it he endeavored to impart orchestral power and variety

of tonal effect; and finally, when he became conductor at Weimar, in

1849, he transferred his attention chiefly to the Orchestra. Of his

thirty-four orchestral works the most important are the _Faust_ and

_Dante Symphonies_ and thirteen _Symphonic Poems_, in which he deviated

from the old symphonic form in a spirit similar to Wagner’s operatic

reforms—abolishing unconnected movements and allowing the underlying

poetic idea to shape the form of the music.[79]

Liszt linked himself with Berlioz when he heard the _Symphonie

fantastique_. He took up the cause of Berlioz and became his champion.

But independently of Berlioz, Liszt was imbued with the Romantic Movement

of 1830. To such a genius and man of the world who came in contact with

all the great intellects of the day, it soon became natural to him to

make art _human and emotional_.

Therefore in both his playing and his composition Liszt departed from the

Classic ideals of an earlier period and became an expression of his own

time. In his endeavor to depict and express emotions, ideas, scenes of

nature and even events, he felt that the old Classic forms were suited

only to music that was purely music and nothing else. In the new paths

that the “Music of the Future” had made for itself a new form was needed

to express sensations and ideas of a new age of keener observation,

intense sentiment and passionate enthusiasm. Consequently Liszt invented

the _Symphonic Poem_, in which the movements are not divided as in the

regular Symphony but lead into one another.

In his orchestration Liszt followed Beethoven, Berlioz and Wagner. It is

always rich and heavy and full of color. Liszt makes great use of the

harp and his Hungarian blood shows itself in his marvellous and stirring

rhythms.

“Concerning so prodigious an activity, so far-seeing an intelligence, so

all-embracing a mind, so complete a musical organization, so ardent an

imagination, so enthusiastic a nature, so unselfish a character, anything

that may be said must seem inadequate.

“The spirit of Franz Liszt soared far above the petty meannesses of

life. His influence has been great and far-reaching, and if he has

left a priceless artistic legacy to the world, he has also given it a

magnificent and unique example of benevolence and self-abnegation and

realised to the fullest extent his own motto, _Génie oblige!_”

The third and greatest member of this remarkable trio, Richard Wagner,

seems to have gathered up all that was best in the music that preceded

him and having assimilated it in the crucible of his mind, gave it forth

again, fresh, new and vital.

Wagner was born in Leipzig in 1803 and died in Venice, in 1883. His

career as a musician began in 1833, after he had taken part in the

Revolutionary politics of 1830.

His early life was spent in struggling with poverty and composing operas,

which were not successful. He acquired greater fame as a _conductor_ than

as a _composer_. Called to be conductor of the Dresden Orchestra in 1842,

he began his work by conducting works of Berlioz, who was then making a

tour in Germany. (See page 251.) Berlioz speaks gratefully of Wagner’s

“zeal and good will” in this matter and also of the success of _Rienzi_

and _The Flying Dutchman_ in Dresden.

The active part he took in Revolutionary politics offended the Court; and

Wagner, compelled to flee, hastened to Liszt in Weimar. Liszt got him a

passport under a fictitious name; and Wagner hurried to Paris and thence

to Zürich, where he finished _Lohengrin_ and sent it to Liszt to produce

in Weimar.

The first half of Wagner’s life was singularly unhappy; the last was

singularly happy. He had the good fortune to attract the interest of

the young King of Bavaria, Ludwig II, who became his patron and turned

Wagner’s dreams into realities.

After forty years of struggle and disappointment, Wagner had his own

theatre at Bayreuth, where his works were given under ideal conditions.

The Bayreuth Opera House was opened in 1876, with a great performance of

the _Nibelungen Ring_; and the greatest artists of the day played in the

Orchestra of which Wilhelmj was the first violinist. In the meanwhile,

_Tristan_ had been splendidly performed in Munich in 1865 and _Die

Meistersinger_ in 1868.

One of Wagner’s great ideas was to make the Orchestra a vital part of his

music dramas. In other words he _carried the Symphony-Orchestra_ into the

opera.

Wagner is the greatest master of orchestration that the world has ever

seen.

“Wagner treats every instrument with the same certainty of touch as if

he had played it himself. He knows, as no one else knows, how to avail

himself of its resources, and he demands nothing of it beyond what is

entirely within its capacity.

“Notwithstanding the large number of performers he requires, he never has

recourse to complicated methods in his orchestration. The combinations

are always clear and simple, resulting in a sonority that is both plain

and powerful. The _Leitmotive_ (guiding themes) ceaselessly move about

the whole Orchestra, passing from one desk to another; but, nevertheless,

each one has a fondness for one special instrument, or one group of

instruments, which agrees with its character, on which it is first

heard and to which it returns whenever it must be heard again with

preponderating importance. Sometimes we recognize it from its very first

note by means of this characteristic _timbre_.

“Wagner developed the art of orchestration, of orchestral coloring to

a point before unknown, a point which is _apparently_ its final limit;

but in art there is no limit, its progress is endless. I will not name

the person, but it seems to me that there is now among French composers

one who has surpassed Wagner in this very respect. Wagner, however,

in addition to the new combinations that he devised among the various

instruments of the classic Orchestra, introduced new elements, notably

tubas, a family intermediate between horns and trumpets, and the bass

trumpet which figures in nearly all of his scores, and singularly

enriches the group of brasses without rendering his instrumentation any

more noisy.”[80]

“Wagner is a supreme master of instrumentation, of orchestral color. His

Orchestra differs from Beethoven’s in the _quality_ of tone emitted; over

and above effects of richness obtained by the more elaborate treatment

of the inner part of the string-quartet, the frequent subdivision

of violins, violas, violoncellos, the use of chromatics in horn and

trumpet-parts, etc. There is a peculiar charm in the very sound of

Wagner’s woodwind and brass. It is fuller than Beethoven’s, though

singularly pure. And the reason for this is not far to seek. Wagner

rarely employs instruments unknown to Beethoven, but he completes each

group or family of wind-instruments with a view to _getting full chords

from each group_.

“Thus the two clarinets of Beethoven’s Orchestra are supplemented by a

third clarinet and a bass-clarinet if need be; the two oboes by a third

oboe, or a cor anglais (alto oboe); the two bassoons by a third bassoon

and a double-bassoon; the two trumpets by a third trumpet and a bass

trumpet, etc. The results got by the use of these additional instruments

are of greater significance than at first appears, since each set of

instruments can thus produce complete chords and can be employed in full

harmony without mixture of _timbre_ unless the composer so chooses.

[Illustration: WAGNER

_Photograph taken in Munich_]

“To account for the exceptional array of extra instruments in the scores

of the _Nibelungen Ring_ it is enough to say that they are used as

special means to special ends.

“Thus at the opening of the _Rheingold_, the question is what sound will

best prepare for and accord with dim twilight and waves of moving water?

The soft notes of the horns might be a musician’s answer; but to produce

the full, smooth wavelike motion upon the notes of a single chord, the

usual two, or four, horns are not sufficient, Wagner takes _eight_, and

the unique and beautiful effect is secured.

“Again, in the next scene, the waves change to clouds: from misty

mountain heights the gods behold Walhalla in the glow of the morning

sun. Here subdued, solemn sound is required. How to get it? Use brass

instruments _piano_. But the trumpets, trombones and tuba of Wagner’s

usual Orchestra cannot produce enough of it. He, therefore, supplements

them by other instruments of their family: a bass trumpet, two tenor and

two bass tubas, a contrabass trombone and a contrabass tuba. Then the

full band of thirteen brass instruments is ready for one of the simplest

and noblest effects of sonority in existence.

“At the close of the _Rheingold_, Donner with his thunder-hammer clears

the air of mist and storm-clouds; a rainbow spans the valley of the

Rhine and over this glistening bridge the gods pass to Walhalla. What

additional sounds shall accompany the glimmer and glitter of this scene?

The silvery notes of harps might do it; but the sounds of a single

harp would appear trivial, or would hardly be audible against the full

Orchestra. Wagner takes _six_ harps, writes a separate part for each, and

the desired effect is forthcoming.”[81]

It might seem that after Wagner nothing more could be done with the

Orchestra. But the progress of Music, like all other arts, never ceases.

We have three more great names to consider—Richard Strauss, Tschaikowsky

and Debussy.

“Richard Strauss is an intellectual musician. Saint-Saëns pointed out

long ago the master part harmony would play in the music of the future,

and Strauss realized the theory that melody is no longer sovereign

in the kingdom of tone. His master works are architectural marvels.

In structure, in rhythmical complexity, in striking harmonies, ugly,

bold, brilliant, dissonantal, his symphonic poems are without parallel.

Berlioz never dared, Liszt never invented such marvels of polyphony,

a polyphony beside which even Wagner’s is child’s play and Bach’s is

rivalled. And this learning, this titanic brushwork on vast and sombre

canvases are never for formal music’s sake; indeed, one may ask if it is

indeed music and not a new art. It is always intended to mean something,

say something, paint someone’s soul. It is an attempt to make the old

absolute music new and articulate.

“The greatest technical master of the Orchestra, making of it a vibrating

dynamic machine, a humming mountain of fire, Richard Strauss, by

virtue of his musical imagination, is painter-poet and psychologist.

He describes, comments and narrates in tones of jewelled brilliancy;

his Orchestra flashes like a canvas of Monet,—the divided tones and the

theory of complementary colors (over-tones) have their analogues in the

manner with which Strauss intricately divides his various instrumental

choirs: setting one group in opposition, or juxtaposition, to another;

producing the most marvellous, unexpected effects by acoustical mirroring

and transmutation of motives; and almost blinding the brain when the

entire battery of reverberation and repercussion is invoked. If he can

paint sunshine and imitate the bleating of sheep, he can also draw the

full-length portrait of a man. This he proves with his _Don Quixote_,

wherein the noble dreamer and his earthly squire are _heard_ in a series

of adventures terminating with the death of the rueful knight—one of the

most poignant pages in musical literature.”[82]

Richard Strauss was born in Munich, in 1864. His father, Franz Strauss,

was first horn-player in the Court Orchestra and could play almost every

orchestral instrument. He was an extraordinary musician. Once when

playing under Wagner’s _bâton_, the composer said to him: “Strauss,

you can’t be such an anti-Wagnerite as I hear. You play my music so

beautifully!” “What has that got to do with it?” the horn-player replied.

Richard early showed his great genius. He played the piano at the age

of four and began to compose at the age of six. While at school he had

lessons on the piano and violin and studied composition.

“My father kept me very strictly to the old masters,” says Strauss, “in

whose compositions I had a thorough grounding. You cannot appreciate

Wagner and the moderns unless you pass through a grounding in the

Classics. Young composers bring me voluminous manuscripts for my opinion

on their productions. In looking at them, I generally find that they want

to begin where Wagner left off. I say to all such: ‘My good young man,

go home and study the works of Bach, the symphonies of Haydn, Mozart and

Beethoven, and when you have mastered these art works come to me again.’

Without thoroughly understanding the significance of the development from

Haydn _via_ Mozart and Beethoven to Wagner, these young students cannot

appreciate at their proper worth either the music of Wagner, or of his

predecessors. ‘What an extraordinary thing for Richard Strauss to say,’

these young men remark; but I only give them the advice gained by my own

experience.”

Strauss early attracted the attention of Hans von Bülow, who played his

_Serenade_ for wind instruments (op. 7) at Meiningen. In 1885 Strauss

was chosen to succeed von Bülow as conductor of that famous Orchestra.

In 1885 he became third _Kapellmeister_ in Munich, and, in 1889,

assistant _Kapellmeister_ at Weimar. Later he returned to Munich as

Court _Kapellmeister_; and three years later he was made general music

director. For a little while he was conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic

Orchestra and in 1899 was made _Kapellmeister_ at the Berlin Royal

Opera, which position he still holds.

“If the now childish simplicity of Schubert’s orchestration proved a

stumbling block to the Viennese Orchestra only fifty odd years ago, and

furthermore Wagner’s _Tristan and Isolde_ shared the same fate at a

still more recent date, it will not be difficult to realise that Strauss

fifteen years ago taxed the virtuosity of the performers with passages

that are no longer dreaded.

“The flexibility of execution that formerly was expected only of a first

violinist is now imposed upon all five sections of the string band and

each member finds before him the pages of what looks like a concerto.

To the woodwind are assigned passages that Wagner would have hesitated

to write. What Strauss demands from them, Beethoven might have demanded

from the strings. Most prominent of all is the attention bestowed upon

the deployment of the brass as initiated by Wagner. The trumpets are

treated with unprecedented freedom, and are expected to perform passages

either of flowing melody, or of rhythmic intricacy in the fastest of

_tempi_. The horns are taught to display the agility of violoncellos.

In four-part writing, the fourth horn is much used as a deep bass

instrument absolutely apart from the three upper horns. The trombones are

employed as much for unallied melodic utterance as for combined harmonic

effects, and the intricacy of their parts constantly necessitates the

use of three staves in the score. Incidental mention might also be

made of such devices for acquiring weird tonal tints as obtained from

muted trombones. Similar to Wagner’s procedure in the Overture to the

_Meistersinger_, the tubas—and particularly the tenor tuba—are constantly

detached from their conventional association with the trombones, for the

purpose of giving expression to flowing _cantilena_.

“Novelty in the use of instruments of percussion is restricted to

rhythmic peculiarities and original combinations with other instruments

of more variable pitch; for Wagner’s general method of handling the

battery cannot be improved upon.

“In a word, the three choirs of the Orchestra have advanced one step

higher. The string-band has become so many virtuoso soloists. The

woodwind replace the strings and are themselves replaced by the brass.

The battery has acquired prominence such as the Classicists allowed to

the trumpets and trombones.

“Strauss advances yet farther by making permanent Wagner’s occasional

incorporation into the Orchestra of a second harp, an E-flat clarinet,

a double quartet of horns, five instead of four trumpets, and a tenor

tuba in addition to a bass tuba. The occasional addition of unusual

instruments, such as an _oboe d’amore_ and saxophones, is required.”[83]

In 1864 one of the chief critics of Russia pointed out Tschaikowsky

as “the future star of Russian music.” His prediction was verified.

Tschaikowsky is now ranked with the great masters. His great popularity

in this country is largely due to Mr. Walter Damrosch, who invited him

to take part in a series of festival concerts in 1891 at the opening of

Carnegie Hall in New York. Here Tschaikowsky conducted several of his

works, many of which were already known and loved by concert-goers.

We are all familiar now with Tschaikowsky’s great sweeps of tone; dark,

melancholy harmonies; and strange, barbaric rhythms.

“Tschaikowsky is eclectic, and many cosmopolitan woofs run through the

fabric of his music. Italy influenced, then Germany, then France; and, in

his later day, he let lightly fall the reins on the neck of his Pegasus

and was much given to joyously riding in the fabled country of ballet,

pantomime, and other delightful places.”[84]

This is perfectly true, but beyond and above all else Tschaikowsky is

_Russian_.

“Like most Slavs,” writes Ernest Newman, “he drew sustenance more from

France than Germany. Brahms he thought dull; Wagner he never really

understood. He loved music, he said, that came from the heart, that

expressed ‘a deep humanity,’ like Grieg’s. To the delicate brain and

nerves of the modern man he added the long-accumulated eruptive passions

of his race. He takes the language made by the great Germans and uses it

to express the complex pessimism of another culture. The color of life in

his music ranges from pale gray to intense black, with here and there a

note of angry scarlet tearing through the mass of cloud.”

Peter Ilich Tschaikowsky was born in 1840 in Votinsk in the government

of Viatka, where his father was inspector of the government mines, soon

removing to Petrograd, where the boy received his education. He studied

music, played the piano well, and composed light music; but with him

at this time music was merely an accomplishment and a social pleasure.

In 1861 he began to study music seriously and gave up his work to face

poverty for the sake of art. In 1865 he completed his course at the

Conservatory, where he had attracted the admiration of Anton Rubinstein

with whom he studied orchestration. As an instance of his industry

Rubinstein’s story may be quoted. “Once at the composition class,” said

Rubinstein, “I set him to write out contrapuntal variations on a given

theme, and I mentioned that in this class of work not only _quality_ but

_quantity_ was of importance. I thought perhaps he would write about a

dozen variations. But not at all. At the next class I received over two

hundred. To examine all these would have taken me more time than it took

him to write them.”

When Nicholas Rubinstein organized the Conservatory in Moscow in 1866,

he gave Tschaikowsky the chair of professor of harmony. He spent much

time in composing and Nicholas Rubinstein brought out his works at the

concerts of the Russian Musical Society. Tschaikowsky’s life is in his

works. Whether in Petrograd, Moscow, in his country home, in Paris, or

travelling, he was always composing; and, consequently, his list of works

is long.

[Illustration: TSCHAIKOWSKY

_Photograph taken in Petrograd_]

Although Tschaikowsky wrote light operas, he is chiefly known for his

orchestral music—his magnificent symphonies and his symphonic poems. So

immense are these works in their effect that the hearer often imagines

that Tschaikowsky called for an orchestra with as many additional

instruments, new and old, as Richard Strauss. This is not the case,

however. For instance, in the _Symphonie pathetique_ he has the Beethoven

orchestra with the addition of the bass tuba.

“A remarkable feature of his scoring is the extreme modern effect secured

with comparatively modest means. He expressed himself in a language of

profound pathos which was in part due to the embodiment of weird and

gloomy orchestration. He made prominent use of low woodwind, which were

constantly combined with the violas, and he evinced peculiar predilection

for clarinets in their low range and bassoons in their upper range.”[85]

In the _Casse Noisette_ Suite (Nut-cracker Suite), which is so charming

in its playfulness, his instrumentation is particularly novel. In it he

introduced the celesta (see page 128).

Tschaikowsky should be described as a follower of Berlioz, Liszt, and

Mozart. He was particularly devoted to Mozart as his fourth orchestral

suite, entitled _Mozartiana_ plainly shows. In a preface to this work

Tschaikowsky says: “A large number of the most admirable compositions of

Mozart are, for some inexplicable reason, hardly known not only to the

public but even to the majority of musicians.”

Tschaikowsky died of cholera in Petrograd in 1893.

We have seen that in the days of Berlioz the French public cared more for

operatic than for symphonic music. After Berlioz, composers devoted much

more thought to the Orchestra; and French music now contains a long list

of masterpieces and admirable works.

Orchestral concerts under the direction of Habeneck and Pasdeloup and

afterwards under Lamoureux and Colonne did much to make symphonic music

popular in Paris.

The greatest name in the development of Orchestral music since Berlioz is

that of Saint-Saëns, whose orchestration, although rich and elaborate,

is always clear and polished to the last degree. The exquisite Symphonic

Poem, called _Le Rouet d’Omphale_, may be taken as an example. It is not

merely a beautiful piece of descriptive writing, but it is beautifully

scored.

Camille Saint-Saëns is the oldest living French composer. He was born

in 1835 in Paris and early showed his great talent for music. At the

age of seven he began to study the piano with Stamaty and harmony with

Maleden. In 1846, at the age of eleven, he appeared at a concert in the

Salle Pleyel; and a year later entered the Conservatory. Here he made a

name for himself. His _Symphony_, composed at the age of sixteen, was

successfully performed. In 1858 he became organist at the Madeleine in

Paris and astonished everyone by his feats of improvisation. Meantime,

he continued composing. He has produced an immense number of works that

include every kind of composition from operas to chamber-music, songs and

pieces for the harp.

[Illustration: SAINT-SAËNS’ FESTIVAL CONCERT

_Paris, 1896_]

Saint-Saëns has also been an extensive traveller and has spent much time

in Algiers. He is an incomparable pianist, a fine musical critic, and an

excellent writer. Saint-Saëns is another instance of the general culture

required of the modern musician—the type that came into existence after

the Revolution of 1830 (see page 244).

Saint-Saëns was made an officer of the Legion d’Honneur in 1884. On June

2, 1896, the fiftieth anniversary of his first public appearance was

celebrated in the Salle Pleyel, on which occasion Taffanel conducted the

orchestra and Sarasate played a sonata by Saint-Saëns (see illustration

facing 268), with the composer at the piano. At the age of seventy he

came to America and astonished his audiences by playing his five piano

concertos, accompanied by Walter Damrosch and the New York Symphony

Orchestra, with marvellous skill and the fire of youth.

Debussy is a modern of the moderns; and, moreover, he has led music into

a new path.

Debussy is, however, but one of a group of French musicians who, for

the last thirty or forty years, have been developing French music more

according to the traditional taste of their nation than it had been since

the days of Rameau. In fact, these musicians have carried music back to

its fountain head; and we may say that the same spirit that characterized

the works of the _trouvères_ of the Fifteenth Century (music such as is

being played by King René’s musicians in our frontispiece); the same

spirit that was expressed in the music of the French Renaissance; the

same spirit that was heard in the operas and ballets of Lully and Rameau

lives again, though in a new form.

Of all these modern French composers—Gabriel Fauré, Maurice Ravel,

Albert Roussel, Emmanuel Chabrier, Vincent d’Indy, Ernest Chausson,

Henri Duparc, Paul Dukas, Florent Schmitt, Déodat de Séverac, and Ernest

Satie—Claude Debussy is the leading spirit; and, perhaps, the greatest

genius.

Claude Achille Debussy was born at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, in 1862. He

entered the Conservatory in Paris at the age of twelve and studied under

Albert Lavignac, Marmontel, Durand, and Guiraud. In 1884 he took the

_prix de Rome_; and from the Eternal City he went to Russia. On his

return to Paris he became one of the frequent guests at those famous

_soirées_ of Mallarmé, where painters, poets, sculptors, and musicians

gathered.

His piano works, songs, instrumental pieces, and orchestral compositions,

such as _L’Après midi d’un faune_, were admired by many persons on their

first hearing; but his audience was comparatively small until the opera

of _Pelleas et Mélisande_ made him known throughout the world. Here

was an entirely new idea in music. The Orchestra did not annotate, nor

emphasize the actions of the persons on the stage, but it became a soft,

melodious atmosphere, a delicious web of harmony enfolding the entire

work. It was like nothing that had ever been written.

[Illustration: DEBUSSY

_Photograph taken in Paris_]

One idea of Debussy’s in orchestral writing is to get the greatest

effect with the simplest means. To produce these effects Debussy employs

many old scales and harmonic chords. His instrumentation, therefore,

seems diaphanous, ethereal, and suffused with delicate, opalescent

colors. He is in sympathy with the _impressionists_ in painting and the

_symbolists_ in poetry. The fluid quality of his music lends itself to

the description of water. His works are full of the sound of water—the

sea, fountains, and silvery rain falling upon dim gardens. He creates a

sense of mystery and atmospheric beauties as no one else has ever done.

In the _Afternoon of a Faun_:

“The ascending and descending introductory bars given out by an

unaccompanied flute convey an idea of pastoral charm. A characteristic

bucolic horn motive follows, and the first theme is repeated with muted

string accompaniment. The whole scoring of the composition is of cobweb

delicacy. The Orchestra is composed of three flutes, oboes, clarinets,

four horns, two harps, antique cymbals, and strings. The principal

themes are given by clarinets, oboes, and harps respectively. A scale

of whole tones is heard on the clarinet; this leads to another section

marked _più animato_, in which the oboe voices the principal theme. These

subjects are all interwoven with and linked to other themes. They are

heard sometimes as solos, sometimes concerted. The rhythm of the whole

work is free and varied. The strings, muted or otherwise, are often used

as a kind of background to the wind solos, which is most effective. A

veil of palpitating heat seems to be suffused over the composition and

corresponds to the glow of Eastern sunlight in the poem and also to the

remote, visionary nature of the poet’s imagery and fancies. The tone poem

also recalls the golden noon of an Idyl of Theocritus. All through the

piece the composer preserves this feeling of elusiveness, of mirage: he

attains it by the use of delicate unusual harmonies and by the silvery,

web-like tracery of his phrases. The frequent use of the scale of

whole tones and the unresolved dissonances produce a distinct charm of

their own. The chords are of an exceeding richness and present a depth

of glowing color. The interspersed solos for violin, oboe, clarinet,

_cor anglais_, resemble dainty broidery, and portray intimately the

ramifications of doubt and longing in the faun’s mind, which he likens to

a multitude of branches with slender pointed sprays and sprigs.”[86]

Debussy thus explains some of his titles: “The title of _Nocturnes_ is

to be interpreted in a wider sense than that usually given, and most

especially it should be understood as having a decorative meaning.

Therefore, the usual form of Nocturne has not been considered, and the

word should be accepted as signifying in the fullest manner diversified

impressions.

“_Nuages_ (clouds)—the unchanging aspect of the sky and the slow, solemn

movement of the clouds dissolving in gray tints lightly touched with

white.

“_Fêtes_ (festivities)—the restless dancing rhythm of the atmosphere

interspersed with sudden flashes of light. There is also an incidental

procession (a dazzling imaginary vision) passing through and mingling

with the aërial revelry; but the background of uninterrupted festivity is

persistent with its blending of music and luminous dust participating in

the universal rhythm of all things.

“_Sirénes_ (sirens)—the sea and its perpetual rhythm, and then amid

waves silvered by moonbeams are heard the laughter and mysterious song of

passing sirens.”

[Illustration: ORCHESTRA OF THE SYMPHONY SOCIETY OF NEW YORK

_Walter Damrosch conducting_]

Some critics have called Debussy a revolutionist. They are wrong.

Debussy’s musical ancestors are Rameau and Couperin; and his works show

us that “_revolution_ is merely _evolution_ made clear for all to see.”

Such is the French music of the present—beautiful, refined, clear,

polished, delicate, enchanting!

* * * * *

We, in our great country, like to hear all schools of music, and our

wonderful orchestras are able to play equally well the works of all

composers and of all schools and nationalities. Some of us prefer the

French, some of us the Russian, and some of us the German Schools; but

our taste is broad and cultured, and we wish to hear the various ways in

which the musical minds of the day are expressing themselves.

What an advance since the days of “a consort of lutes, or viols”! What a

development since the Fifteenth Century, when gentle ladies played the

_psaltérion_ and flute and _vielle_, as seen in our frontispiece! But to

appreciate the evolution of the Orchestra, let us look at the picture

of an Orchestra of the Eleventh Century (facing page 274), the earliest

known representation of any Orchestra, taken from the capital of a column

of a church near Rouen, and then compare it with the picture of the

Symphony Society of New York (facing page 272).

Between these two Orchestras, separated by a period of eight hundred

years, we can realize the progress of “music’s ever welling spring, which

has flowed through the centuries until it has become an ocean.”