The following pages are intended to form a record of my
experience in a department of music which has hitherto been left
to professional routine and amateur criticism. I shall appeal to
professional executants, both instrumentalists and vocalists,
rather than to conductors; since the executants only can tell
whether, or not, they have been led by a competent conductor. I
do not mean to set up a system, but simply to state certain
facts, and record a number of practical observations.
Composers cannot afford to be indifferent to the manner in which
their works are presented to the public; and the public,
naturally, cannot be expected to decide whether the performance
of a piece of music is correct or faulty, since there are no data
beyond the actual effect of the performance to judge by.
I shall endeavour to throw some light upon the characteristics of
musical performances in Germany--with regard to the concert-room,
as well as to the theatre. Those who have experience in such
matters are aware that, in most cases, the defective constitution
of German orchestras and the faults of their performances are due
to the shortcomings of the conductors ("Capellmeister,"
"Musikdirectoren," etc.). The demands upon the orchestras have
increased greatly of late, their task has become more difficult
and more complicated; yet the directors of our art-institutions,
display increasing negligence in their choice of conductors. In
the days when Mozart's scores afforded the highest tasks that
could be set before an orchestra, the typical German
Capellmeister was a formidable personage, who knew how to make
himself respected at his post--sure of his business, strict,
despotic, and by no means polite. Friedrich Schneider, of Dessau,
was the last representative I have met with of this now extinct
species. Guhr, of Frankfort, also may be reckoned as belonging to
it. The attitude of these men towards modern music was certainly
"old fashioned"; but, in their own way, they produced good solid
work: as I found not more than eight years ago [Footnote: Circa,
1861.] at Carlsruhe, when old Capellmeister Strauss conducted
"Lohengrin." This venerable and worthy man evidently looked at my
score with some little shyness; but, he took good care of the
orchestra, which he led with a degree of precision and firmness
impossible to excel. He was, clearly, a man not to be trifled
with, and his forces obeyed him to perfection. Singularly enough,
this old gentleman was the only German conductor of repute I had
met with, up to that time, who possessed true fire; his tempi
were more often a trifle too quick than too slow; but they were
invariably firm and well marked. Subsequently, H. Esser's
conducting, at Vienna, impressed me in like manner.
The older conductors of this stamp if they happened to be less
gifted than those mentioned, found it difficult to cope with the
complications of modern orchestral music--mainly because of their
fixed notions concerning the proper constitution of an orchestra.
I am not aware that the number of permanent members of an
orchestra, has, in any German town, been rectified according to
the requirements of modern instrumentation. Now-a-days, as of
old, the principal parts in each group of instruments, are
allotted to the players according to the rules of seniority
[Footnote: Appointments at German Court theatres are usually for
life.]--thus men take first positions when their powers are on
the wane, whilst younger and stronger men are relegated to the
subordinate parts--a practice, the evil effects of which are
particularly noticeable with regard to the wind instruments.
Latterly [Footnote: 1869.] by discriminating exertions, and
particularly, by the good sense of the instrumentalists
concerned, these evils have diminished; another traditional
habit, however, regarding the choice of players of stringed
instruments, has led to deleterious consequences. Without the
slightest compunction, the second violin parts, and especially
the Viola parts, have been sacrificed. The viola is commonly
(with rare exceptions indeed) played by infirm violinists, or by
decrepit players of wind instruments who happen to have been
acquainted with a stringed instrument once upon a time: at best a
competent viola player occupies the first desk, so that he may
play the occasional soli for that instrument; but, I have even
seen this function performed by the leader of the first violins.
It was pointed out to me that in a large orchestra, which
contained eight violas, there was only one player who could deal
with the rather difficult passages in one of my later scores!
Such a state of things may be excusable from a humane point of
view; it arose from the older methods of instrumentation, where
the role of the viola consisted for the most part in filling up
the accompaniments; and it has since found some sort of
justification in the meagre method of instrumentation adopted by
the composers of Italian operas, whose works constitute an
important element in the repertoire of the German opera theatres.
At the various court theatres, Italian operas have always found
favour with the Directors. From this it follows as a matter of
course, that works which are not in the good grace of those
gentlemen stand a poor chance, unless it should so happen that
the conductor is a man of weight and influence who knows the real
requirements of a modern orchestra. But our older Capellmeisters
rarely knew as much--they did not choose to recognize the need of
a large increase in the number of stringed instruments to balance
the augmented number of wind instruments and the complicated uses
the latter are now put to.
In this respect the attempts at reform were always insufficient;
and our celebrated German orchestras remained far behind those of
France in the power and capacity of the violins, and particularly
of the violoncellos.
Now, had the conductors of a later generation been men of
authority like their predecessors, they might easily have mended
matters; but the Directors of court theatres took good care to
engage none but demure and subservient persons.
It is well worth while to note how the conductors, who are now at
the head of German music, arrived at the honourable positions
they hold.
We owe our permanent orchestras to the various theatres,
particularly the court theatres, small and great. The managers of
these theatres are therefore in a position to select the men who
are to represent the spirit and dignity of German music. Perhaps
those who have been thus advanced to posts of honour, are
themselves cognizant of how they got there--to an unpractised
observer it is rather difficult to discern their particular
merits. The so-called "good berths" are reached step by step: men
move on and push upwards. I believe the Court orchestra at Berlin
has got the majority of its conductors in this way. Now and then,
however, things come to pass in a more erratic manner; grand
personages, hitherto unknown, suddenly begin to flourish under
the protection of the lady in waiting to some princess, etc.
etc.--It is impossible to estimate the harm done to our leading
orchestras and opera theatres by such nonentities. Devoid of real
merit they keep their posts by abject cringing to the chief court
official, and by polite submission to the indolence of their
musical subordinates. Relinquishing the pretence of artistic
discipline, which they are unable to enforce, they are always
ready to give way, or to obey any absurd orders from headquarters;
and such conductors, under favourable circumstances, have even
been known to become popular favourites!
At rehearsals all difficulties are got over by means of mutual
congratulations and a pious allusion to the "old established fame
of our Orchestra." Who can venture to say that the performances
of that famous institution deteriorate year by year? Where is the
true authority? Certainly not amongst the critics, who only bark
when their mouths are not stopped; and the art of stopping mouths
is cultivated to perfection.
Recently, the post of chief conductor has here and there been
filled by a man of practical experience, especially engaged with
a view to stimulating the slumbering energy of his colleagues.
Such "chiefs" are famed for their skill in "bringing out" a new
opera in a fortnight; for their clever "cuts"; for the effective
"closes" they write to please singers, and for their
interpolations in other men's scores. Practical accomplishments
of this sort have, for instance, supplied the Dresden Opera with
one of its most energetic Capellmeisters.
Now and again the managers look out for "a conductor of
reputation." Generally none such are to be had at the theatres;
but, according to the feuilletons of the political newspapers,
the singing societies and concert establishments furnish a steady
supply of the article. These are the "music-brokers," as it were,
of the present day, who came forth from the school of
Mendelssohn, and flourished under his protection and
recommendation. They differ widely from the helpless epigonae of
our old conductors: they are not musicians brought up in the
orchestra or at the theatre, but respectable pupils of the new-
fangled conservatoires; composers of Psalms and Oratorios, and
devout listeners at rehearsals for the subscription concerts.
They have received lessons in conducting too, and are possessed
of an elegant "culture" hitherto unknown in the realms of music.
Far from shewing any lack of politeness, they managed to
transform the timid modesty of our poor native Capellmeister into
a sort of cosmopolitan bon ton; which stood them in good stead
with the old-fashioned philistine society of our towns. I believe
the influence of these people upon German orchestras has been
good in many respects, and has brought about beneficial results:
certainly much that was raw and awkward has disappeared; and,
from a musical point of view, many details of refined phrasing
and expression are now more carefully attended to. They feel more
at home in the modern orchestra; which is indebted to their
master--Mendelssohn--for a particularly delicate and refined
development in the direction opened up by Weber's original
genius.
One thing however is wanting to these gentlemen, without which
they cannot be expected to achieve the needful reconstruction of
the orchestras, nor to enforce the needful reforms in the
institutions connected with them, viz., energy, self-confidence,
and personal power. In their case, unfortunately, reputation,
talent, culture, even faith, love and hope, are artificial. Each
of them was, and is, so busy with his personal affairs, and the
difficulty of maintaining his artificial position, that he cannot
occupy himself with measures of general import--measures which
might bring about a connected and consistent new order of things.
As a matter of fact, such an order of things cannot, and does not
concern the fraternity at all. They came to occupy the position
of those old fashioned German masters, because the power of the
latter had deteriorated and because they had shewn themselves
incapable to meet the wants of a new style; and it would appear
that they, in their turn, regard their position of to-day as
merely temporary--filling a gap in a period of transition. In the
face of the new ideals of German art, towards which all that is
noble in the nation begins to turn, they are evidently at a loss,
since these ideals are alien to their nature. In the presence of
certain technical difficulties inseparable from modern music they
have recourse to singular expedients. Meyerbeer, for instance,
was very circumspect; in Paris he engaged a new flutist and paid
him out of his own pocket to play a particular bit nicely. Fully
aware of the value of finished execution, rich and independent,
Meyerbeer might have been of great service to the Berlin
orchestra when the King of Prussia appointed him "General
Musikdirector." Mendelssohn was called upon to undertake a
similar mission about the same time; and, assuredly, Mendelssohn
was the possessor of the most extraordinary gifts and attainments.
Both men, doubtless, encountered all the difficulties which had
hitherto blocked the way towards improvements; but they were called
upon to overcome these very difficulties, and their independent
position and great attainments rendered them exceptionally
competent to do so. Why then did their powers desert them? It would
seem as if they had no real power. They left matters to take care
of themselves and, now, we are confronted by the "celebrated"
Berlin orchestra in which the last trace of the traditions of
Spontini's strict discipline have faded away. Thus fared Meyerbeer
and Mendelssohn whilst at Berlin: what are we to expect elsewhere
from their neat little shadows?
It is clear from this account of the survivals of the earlier and
of the latest species of Capellmeisters and Musikdirectors, that
neither of them are likely to do much towards the reorganization
of our orchestras. On the other hand the initiative has been
taken by the orchestral performers themselves; and the signs of
progress are evidently owing to the increasing development of
their technical attainments. Virtuosi upon the different
orchestral instruments have done excellent service, and they
might have done much more in the circumstances had the conductors
been competent.
Exceptionally gifted and accomplished players easily got the
upper hand of the decrepit Capellmeisters of the old sort, and of
their successors, the parvenus without authority--pianoforte
pedagogues patronized by ladies in waiting, etc., etc. Virtuosi
soon came to play a role in the orchestra akin to that of the
prima donna on the stage. The elegant conductors of the day chose
to associate and ally themselves with the virtuosi, and this
arrangement might have acted very satisfactorily if the
conductors had really understood the true spirit of German music.
It is important to point out in this connection that conductors
are indebted to the theatres for their posts, and even for the
existence of their orchestra. The greater part of their
professional work consists in rehearsing and conducting operas.
They ought, therefore, to have made it their business to
understand the theatre--the opera--and to make themselves masters
of the proper application of music to dramatic art, in something
like the manner in which an astronomer applies mathematics to
astronomy. Had they understood dramatic singing and dramatic
expression they might have applied such knowledge to the
execution of modern instrumental music.
A long time ago I derived much instruction as to the tempo and
the proper execution of Beethoven's music from the clearly
accentuated and expressive singing of that great artist, Frau
Schroder-Devrient. I have since found it impossible, for example,
to permit the touching cadence of the Oboe in the first movement
of the C minor Symphony--
[Figure: music example]
to be played in the customary timid and embarrassed way; indeed,
starting from the insight I had gained into the proper execution
of this cadence, I also found and felt the true significance and
expression due to the sustained fermata of the first violins
[Figure: musical example (a single note, a G atop the treble
clef, with a fermata)] [Footnote: Ante, bar 21.]
in the corresponding place, and from the touching emotional
impressions I got by means of these two seemingly so
insignificant details I gained a new point of view, from which
the entire movement appeared in a clearer and warmer light.
Leaving this for the present, I am content to point out that a
conductor might exercise great influence upon the higher musical
culture with regard to execution, if he properly understood his
position in relation to dramatic art, to which, in fact, he is
indebted for his post and his dignity. But our conductors are
accustomed to look upon the opera as an irksome daily task (for
which, on the other hand, the deplorable condition of that genre
of art at German theatres furnishes reason enough); they consider
that the sole source of honour lies in the concert rooms from
which they started and from which they were called; for, as I
have said above, wherever the managers of a theatre happen to
covet a musician of reputation for Capellmeister, they think
themselves obliged to get him from some place other than a
theatre.
Now to estimate the value of a quondam conductor of concerts and
of choral societies at a theatre, it is advisable to pay him a
visit at home, i.e., in the concert-room, from which he derives
his reputation as a "solid" German musician. Let us observe him
as a conductor of orchestral concerts. Looking back upon my
earliest youth I remember to have had unpleasant impressions from
performances of classical orchestral music. At the piano or
whilst reading a score, certain things appeared animated and
expressive, whereas, at a performance, they could hardly be
recognised, and failed to attract attention. I was puzzled by the
apparent flabbiness of Mozartian Melody (Cantilena) which I had
been taught to regard as so delicately expressive. Later in life
I discovered the reasons for this, and I have discussed them in
my report on a "German music school to be established at Munich,"
[Footnote: "Bericht ueber eine in Munchen zu errichtende deutsche
Musikschule" (1865). See Appendix A.] to which I beg to refer
readers who may be interested in the subject. Assuredly, the
reasons lie in the want of a proper Conservatorium of German
music--a Conservatory, in the strictest sense of the word, in
which the traditions of the CLASSICAL MASTERS' OWN style of
execution are preserved in practice--which, of course, would
imply that the masters should, once at least, have had a chance
personally to supervise performances of their works in such a
place. Unfortunately German culture has missed all such
opportunities; and if we now wish to become acquainted with the
spirit of a classical composer's music, we must rely on this or
that conductor, and upon his notion of what may, or may not, be
the proper tempo and style of execution.
In the days of my youth, orchestral pieces at the celebrated
Leipzig Gewandhaus Concerts were not conducted at all; they were
simply played through under the leadership of Conzertmeister
[Footnote: i.e., the leader of the first violins.] Mathai, like
overtures and entr'actes at a theatre. At least there was no
"disturbing individuality," in the shape of a conductor! The
principal classical pieces which presented no particular
technical difficulties were regularly given every winter; the
execution was smooth and precise; and the members of the
orchestra evidently enjoyed the annual recurrence of their
familiar favourites.
With Beethoven's Ninth Symphony alone they could not get on,
though it was considered a point of honour to give that work
every year. I had copied the score for myself, and made a
pianoforte arrangement for two hands; but I was so much
astonished at the utterly confused and bewildering effect of the
Gewandhaus performance that I lost courage, and gave up the study
of Beethoven for some time. Later, I found it instructive to note
how I came to take true delight in performances of Mozart's
instrumental works: it was when I had a chance to conduct them
myself, and when I could indulge my feelings as to the expressive
rendering of Mozart's cantilena.
I received a good lesson at Paris in 1839, when I heard the
orchestra of the Conservatoire rehearse the enigmatical Ninth
Symphony. The scales fell from my eyes; I came to understand the
value of CORRECT execution, and the secret of a good performance.
The orchestra had learnt to look for Beethoven's MELODY in every
bar--that melody which the worthy Leipzig musicians had failed to
discover; and the orchestra SANG that melody. THIS WAS THE
SECRET.
Habeneck, who solved the difficulty, and to whom the great credit
for this performance is due, was not a conductor of special
genius. Whilst rehearsing the symphony, during an entire winter
season, he had felt it to be incomprehensible and ineffective
(would German conductors have confessed as much?), but he
persisted throughout a second and a third season! until
Beethoven's new melos [Footnote: Melody in all its aspects.] was
understood and correctly rendered by each member of the
orchestra. Habeneck was a conductor of the old stamp; HE was the
master--and everyone obeyed him. I cannot attempt to describe the
beauty of this performance. However, to give an idea of it, I
will select a passage by the aid of which I shall endeavour to
shew the reason why Beethoven is so difficult to render, as well
as the reason for the indifferent success of German orchestras
when confronted by such difficulties. Even with first class
orchestras I have never been able to get the passage in the first
movement
[Figure: musical example]
performed with such equable perfection as I then (thirty years
ago) heard it played by the musicians of the Paris "Orchestre du
Conservatoire." [Footnote: Wagner, however, subsequently admitted
that the passage was rendered to his satisfaction at the
memorable performance of the Ninth Symphony, given May 22nd,
1872, to celebrate the laying of the foundation stone of the
theatre at Bayreuth.] Often in later life have I recalled this
passage, and tried by its aid to enumerate the desiderata in the
execution of orchestral music: it comprises MOVEMENT and
SUSTAINED tone, with a DEFINITE DEGREE OF POWER. [Footnote: ("An
dieser Stelle ist es mir, bei oft in meinem spateren Leben
erneueter Erinnerung, recht klar geworden, worauf es beim
Orchestervortrag ankommt, weil sie die BEWEGUNG und den
GEHALTENEN TON, zugleich mit dem Gesetz der DYNAMIK in sich
schliesst.")] The masterly execution of this passage by the Paris
orchestra consisted in the fact that they played it EXACTLY as it
is written. Neither at Dresden, nor in London [Footnote: Concert
of the Philharmonic Society, 26th March, 1855.] when, in after
years, I had occasion to prepare a performance of the symphony,
did I succeed in getting rid of the annoying irregularity which
arises from the change of bow and change of strings. Still less
could I suppress an involuntary accentuation as the passage
ascends; musicians, as a rule, are tempted to play an ascending
passage with an increase of tone, and a descending one with a
decrease. With the fourth bar of the above passage we invariably
got into a crescendo so that the sustained G flat of the fifth
bar was given with an involuntary yet vehement accent, enough to
spoil the peculiar tonal significance of that note. The
composer's intention is clearly indicated; but it remains
difficult to prove to a person whose musical feelings are not of
a refined sort, that there is a great gap between a commonplace
reading, and the reading meant by the composer: no doubt both
readings convey a sense of dissatisfaction, unrest, longing--but
the quality of these, the true sense of the passage, cannot be
conveyed unless it is played as the master imagined it, and as I
have not hitherto heard it given except by the Parisian musicians
in 1839. In connection with this I am conscious that the
impression of dynamical monotony [Footnote: i.e., a power of tone
the degree of which remains unchanged.] (if I may risk such an
apparently senseless expression for a difficult phenomenon)
together with the unusually varied and ever irregular movement of
intervals in the ascending figure entering on the prolonged G
flat to be sung with such infinite delicacy, to which the G
natural answers with equal delicacy, initiated me as by magic to
the incomparable mystery of the spirit. Keeping my further
practical experience in view, I would ask how did the musicians
of Paris arrive at so perfect a solution of the difficult
problem? By the most conscientious diligence. They were not
content with mutual admiration and congratulation (sich
gegenseitig Complimente zu machen) nor did they assume that
difficulties must disappear before them as a matter of course.
French musicians in the main belong to the Italian school; its
influence upon them has been beneficial in as much as they have
thus been taught to approach music mainly through the medium of
the human voice. The French idea of playing an instrument well is
to be able to SING well upon it. And (as already said) that
superb orchestra SANG the symphony. The possibility of its being
well sung implies that the TRUE TEMPO had been found: and this is
the second point which impressed me at the time. Old Habeneck was
not the medium of any abstract aesthetical inspiration--he was
devoid of "genius:" BUT HE FOUND THE RIGHT TEMPO WHILE
PERSISTENTLY FIXING THE ATTENTION OF HIS ORCHESTRA UPON THE MELOS
[Footnote: MELODY in all its aspects.] OF THE SYMPHONY.
THE RIGHT COMPREHENSION OF THE MELOS IS THE SOLE GUIDE TO THE
RIGHT TEMPO; these two things are inseparable: the one implies
and qualifies the other. As a proof of my assertion that the
majority of performances of instrumental music with us are faulty
it is sufficient to point out that OUR CONDUCTORS SO FREQUENTLY
FAIL TO FIND THE TRUE TEMPO BECAUSE THEY ARE IGNORANT OF SINGING.
I have not yet met with a German Capellmeister or Musik-director
who, be it with good or bad voice, can really sing a melody.
These people look upon music as a singularly abstract sort of
thing, an amalgam of grammar, arithmetic, and digital
gymnastics;--to be an adept in which may fit a man for a
mastership at a conservatory or a musical gymnasium; but it does
not follow from this that he will be able to put life and soul
into a musical performance. The whole duty of a conductor is
comprised in his ability always to indicate the right TEMPO. His
choice of tempi will show whether he understands the piece or
not. With good players again the true tempo induces correct
phrasing and expression, and conversely, with a conductor, the
idea of appropriate phrasing and expression will induce the
conception of the true tempo.
This, however, is by no means so simple a matter as it appears.
Older composers probably felt so, for they are content with the
simplest general indications. Haydn and Mozart made use of the
term "Andante" as the mean between "Allegro" and "Adagio," and
thought it sufficient to indicate a few gradations and
modifications of these terms.
Sebastian Bach, as a rule, does not indicate tempo at all, which
in a truly musical sense is perhaps best. He may have said to
himself: whoever does not understand my themes and figures, and
does not feel their character and expression, will not be much
the wiser for an Italian indication of tempo.
Let me be permitted to mention a few facts which concern me
personally. In my earlier operas I gave detailed directions as to
the tempi, and indicated them (as I thought) accurately, by means
of the Metronome. Subsequently, whenever I had occasion to
protest against a particularly absurd tempo, in "Tannhauser" for
instance, I was assured that the Metronome had been consulted and
carefully followed. In my later works I omitted the metronome and
merely described the main tempi in general terms, paying,
however, particular attention to the various modifications of
tempo. It would appear that general directions also tend to vex
and confuse Capellmeisters, especially when they are expressed in
plain German words. Accustomed to the conventional Italian terms
these gentlemen are apt to lose their wits when, for instance, I
write "moderate." Not long ago a Capellmeister complained of that
term (massig) which I employed in the score of "Das Rheingold";
the music, (it was reported) lasted exactly two hours and a half
at rehearsals under a conductor whom I had personally instructed;
whereas, at the performances and under the beat of the official
Capellmeister, it lasted fully three hours! (according to the
report of the "Allgemeine Zeitung"). Wherefore, indeed, did I
write "Massig"? To match this I have been informed that the
overture to "Tannhauser," which, when I conducted it at Dresden,
used to last twelve minutes, now lasts twenty. No doubt I am here
alluding to thoroughly incompetent persons who are particularly
shy of Alla breve time, and who stick to their correct and normal
crotchet beats, four in a bar, merely to shew they are present
and conscious of doing something. Heaven knows how such
"quadrupeds" find their way from the village church to our opera
theatres. But "dragging" is not a characteristic of the elegant
conductors of these latter days; on the contrary they have a
fatal tendency to hurry and to run away with the tempi. THIS
TENDENCY TO HURRY is so characteristic a mark of our entire
musical life latterly, that I propose to enter into some details
with regard to it.
Robert Schumann once complained to me at Dresden that he could
not enjoy the Ninth Symphony at the Leipzig Gewandhaus concerts
because of the quick tempi Mendelssohn chose to take,
particularly in the first movement. I have, myself, only once
been present at a rehearsal of one of Beethoven's Symphonies,
when Mendelssohn conducted; the rehearsal took place at Berlin,
and the Symphony was No. 8 (in F major). I noticed that he chose
a detail here and there--almost at random--and worked at it with
a certain obstinacy, until it stood forth clearly. This was so
manifestly to the advantage of the detail that I could not but
wonder why he did not take similar pains with other nuances. For
the rest, this incomparably bright symphony was rendered in a
remarkably smooth and genial manner. Mendelssohn himself once
remarked to me, with regard to conducting, that he thought most
harm was done by taking a tempo too slow; and that on the
contrary, he always recommended quick tempi as being less
detrimental. Really good execution, he thought, was at all times
a rare thing, but short-comings might be disguised if care was
taken that they should not appear very prominent; and the best
way to do this was "to get over the ground quickly." This can
hardly have been a casual view, accidentally mentioned in
conversation. The master's pupils must have received further and
more detailed instruction; for, subsequently, I have, on various
occasions, noticed the consequences of that maxim "take quick
tempi," and have, I think, discovered the reasons which may have
led to its adoption.
I remembered it well, when I came to lead the orchestra of the
Philharmonic Society in London, 1855. Mendelssohn had conducted
the concerts during several seasons, and the tradition of his
readings was carefully preserved. It appears likely that the
habits and peculiarities of the Philharmonic Society suggested to
Mendelssohn his favourite style of performance (Vortragsweise)--
certainly it was admirably adapted to meet their wants. An
unusual amount of instrumental music is consumed at these
concerts; but, as a rule, each piece is rehearsed once only. Thus
in many instances, I could not avoid letting the orchestra follow
its traditions, and so I became acquainted with a style of
performance which called up a lively recollection of
Mendelssohn's remarks.
The music gushed forth like water from a fountain; there was no
arresting it, and every Allegro ended as an undeniable Presto. It
was troublesome and difficult to interfere; for when correct
tempi and proper modifications of these were taken the defects of
style which the flood had carried along or concealed became
painfully apparent. The orchestra generally played mezzoforte; no
real forte, no real piano was attained. Of course, in important
cases I took care to enforce the reading I thought the true one,
and to insist upon the right tempo. The excellent musicians did
not object to this; on the contrary, they showed themselves
sincerely glad of it; the public also approved, but the critics
were annoyed and continued so to browbeat the directors of the
society that the latter actually requested me to permit the
second movement of Mozart's Symphony in E flat to be played in
the flabby and colourless way (ruschlich herunter spielen) they
had been accustomed to--and which, they said, even Mendelssohn
himself had sanctioned.
The fatal maxims came to the front quite clearly when I was about
to rehearse a symphony by a very amiable elderly contrapuntist,
Mr. Potter, [Footnote: Cipriani Potter, 1792-1871, pianist and
composer, author of "Recollections of Beethoven." etc.] if I
mistake not. The composer approached me in a pleasant way, and
asked me to take the Andante rather quickly as he feared it might
prove tedious. I assured him that his Andante, no matter how
short its duration might be, would inevitably prove tedious if it
was played in a vapid and inexpressive manner; whereas if the
orchestra could be got to play the very pretty and ingenious
theme, as I felt confident he meant it and as I now sang it to
him, it would certainly please. Mr. Potter was touched; he
agreed, and excused himself, saying that latterly he had not been
in the habit of reckoning upon this sort of orchestral playing.
In the evening, after the Andante, he joyfully pressed my hand.
I have often been astonished at the singularly slight sense for
tempo and execution evinced by leading musicians. I found it
impossible, for instance, to communicate to Mendelssohn what I
felt to be a perverse piece of negligence with regard to the
tempo of the third movement in Beethoven's Symphony in F major,
No. 8. This is one of the instances I have chosen out of many to
throw light upon certain dubious aspects of music amongst us.
We know that Haydn in his principal later symphonies used the
form of the Menuet as a pleasant link between the Adagio and the
final Allegro, and that he thus was induced to increase the speed
of the movement considerably, contrary to the character of the
true Menuet. It is clear that he incorporated the "Landler,"
[Footnote: A South German country dance in 3/4 time, from which
the modern waltz is derived.] particularly in the "Trio"--so
that, with regard to the tempo, the designation "Menuetto" is
hardly appropriate, and was retained for conventional reasons
only. Nevertheless, I believe Haydn's Menuets are generally taken
too quick; undoubtedly the Menuets of Mozart's Symphonies are;
this will be felt very distinctly if, for instance, the Menuetto
in Mozart's Symphony in G minor, and still more that of his
Symphony in C major, be played a little slower than at the
customary pace. It will be found that the latter Menuet, which is
usually hurried, and treated almost as a Presto, will now shew an
amiable, firm and festive character; in contrast with which, the
trio, with its delicately sustained
[music score excerpt]
is reduced, as usually given, to an empty hurry-skurry (eine
nichtssagende Nuschelei). Now Beethoven, as is not uncommon with
him, meant to write a true Menuet in his F major Symphony; he
places it between the two main Allegro movements as a sort of
complementary antithesis (ein gewissermassen erganzender
Gegensatz) to an Allegretto scherzando which precedes it, and to
remove any doubt as to his intentions regarding the Tempo he
designates it NOT as a Menuetto: but as a Tempo di Menuetto. This
novel and unconventional characterization of the two middle
movements of a symphony was almost entirely overlooked: the
Allegretto scherzando was taken to represent the usual Andante,
the Tempo di Menuetto, the familiar "Scherzo" and, as the two
movements thus interpreted seemed rather paltry, and none of the
usual effects could be got with them, our musicians came to
regard the entire symphony as a sort of accidental hors d'oeuvre
of Beethoven's muse--who, after the exertions with the A major
symphony had chosen "to take things rather easily." Accordingly
after the Allegretto Scherzando, the time of which is invariably
"dragged" somewhat, the Tempo di Minuetto is universally served
up as a refreshing "Landler," which passes the ear without
leaving any distinct impression. Generally, however, one is glad
when the tortures of the Trio are over. This loveliest of idylls
is turned into a veritable monstrosity by the passage in triplets
for the violoncello; which, if taken at the usual quick pace, is
the despair of violoncellists, who are worried with the hasty
staccato across the strings and back again, and find it
impossible to produce anything but a painful series of scratches.
Naturally, this difficulty disappears as soon as the delicate
melody of the horns and clarinets is taken at the proper tempo;
these instruments are thus relieved from the special difficulties
pertaining to them, and which, particularly with the clarinet, at
times render it likely to produce a "quack" [FOOTNOTE: Anglice,
"a goose,"] even in the hands of skilful players. I remember an
occasion when all the musicians began to breathe at ease on my
taking this piece at the true moderate pace: then the humorous
sforzato of the basses and bassoons at once produced an
intelligible effect; the short crescendi became clear, the
delicate pianissimo close was effective, and the gentle gravity
of the returning principal movement was properly felt. Now, the
late Capellmeister Reissiger, of Dresden, once conducted this
symphony there, and I happened to be present at the performance
together with Mendelssohn; we talked about the dilemma just
described, and its proper solution; concerning which I told
Mendelssohn that I believed I had convinced Reissiger, who had
promised that he would take the tempo slower than usual.
Mendelssohn perfectly agreed with me. We listened. The third
movement began and I was terrified on hearing precisely the old
Landler tempo; but before I could give vent to my annoyance
Mendelssohn smiled, and pleasantly nodded his head, as if to say
"now it's all right! Bravo!" So my terror changed to
astonishment. Reissiger, for reasons which I shall discuss
presently, may not have been so very much to blame for persisting
in the old tempo; but Mendelssohn's indifference, with regard to
this queer artistic contretemps, raised doubts in my mind whether
he saw any distinction and difference in the case at all. I
fancied myself standing before an abyss of superficiality, a
veritable void. SOON after this had happened with Reissiger, the
very same thing took place with the same movement of the Eighth
Symphony at Leipzig. The conductor, in the latter case, was a
well-known successor of Mendelssohn at the Gewandhaus concerts.
[FOOTNOTE: Ferdinand Hiller.] He also had agreed with my views as
to the Tempo di Menuetto, and had invited me to attend a concert
at which he promised to take it at the proper moderate pace. He
did not keep his word and offered a queer excuse: he laughed, and
confessed that he had been disturbed with all manner of
administrative business, and had only remembered his promise
after the piece had begun; naturally he could not then alter the
tempo, etc. The explanation was sufficiently annoying. Still I
could, at least, flatter myself that I had found somebody to
share my views as to the difference between one tempo and
another. I doubt, however, whether the conductor could be fairly
reproached with a want of forethought and consideration;
unconsciously, perhaps, he may have had a very good reason for
his "forgetfulness." It would have been very indiscreet to risk a
change of tempo which had not been rehearsed. For the orchestra,
accustomed to play the piece in a quick tempo, would have been
disturbed by the sudden imposition of a more moderate pace;
which, as a matter of course, demands a totally different style
of playing.
We have now reached an important and decisive point, an
appreciation of which is indispensable if we care to arrive at a
satisfactory conclusion regarding the execution of classical
music. Injudicious tempi might be defended with some show of
reason inasmuch as a factitious style of delivery has arisen in
conformity with them, and to the uninitiated such conformity of
style and tempo might appear as a proof that all was right. The
evil, however, is apparent enough if only the right tempo is
taken, in which case the false style becomes quite unbearable.
To illustrate this, in the simplest possible way, let us take the
opening of the C minor Symphony
[Musical Score excerpt of the famous main motif from Beethoven's
Fifth]
Usually the fermata of the second bar is left after a slight
rest; our conductors hardly make use of this fermata for anything
else than to fix the attention of their men upon the attack of
the figure in the third bar. In most cases the note E flat is not
held any longer than a forte produced with a careless stroke of
the bow will last upon the stringed instruments. Now, suppose the
voice of Beethoven were heard from the grave admonishing a
conductor: "Hold my fermata firmly, terribly! I did not write
fermatas in jest, or because I was at a loss how to proceed; I
indulge in the fullest, the most sustained tone to express
emotions in my Adagio; and I use this full and firm tone when I
want it in a passionate Allegro as a rapturous or terrible spasm.
Then the very life blood of the tone shall be extracted to the
last drop. I arrest the waves of the sea, and the depths shall be
visible; or, I stem the clouds, disperse the mist, and show the
pure blue ether and the glorious eye of the sun. For this I put
fermatas, sudden long-sustained notes in my Allegro. And now look
at my clear thematic intention with the sustained E flat after
the three stormy notes, and understand what I meant to say with
other such sustained notes in the sequel."
[FOOTNOTE: In the original this fine passage is: "Nun setzen wir
den Fall, die Stimme Beethoven's habe aus den Grabe einem
Dirigenten zugerufen; Halte du meine Fermate lange und furchtbar!
Ich schrieb keine Fermaten zum Spass oder aus Verlegenheit, etwa
um mich auf das Weitere zu besinnen; sondern, was in meinem
Adagio der ganz und voll aufzusaugende Ton fur den Ausdruck der
schwelgenden Empfindung ist, dasselbe werfe ich, wenn ich es
brauche, in das heftig und schnell figurirte Allegro, als wonnig
oder schrecklich anhaltenden Krampf. Dann soll das Leben des
Tones bis auf seinen letzten Blutstropfen aufgesogen werden; dann
halte ich die Wellen meines Meeres an, und lasse in seinen
Abgrund blicken; oder hemme ich den Zug der Wolken, zertheile die
wirren Nebelstreifen, und lasse einmal in den reinen blauen
Aether, in das strahlende Auge der Sonne schauen. Hierfur setze
ich Fermaten, d. h. plotzlich eintretende lang auszuhaltende
Noten in meine Allegro's. Und nun beachte du, welche ganz
bestimmte thematische Absicht ich mit diesem ausgehaltenen Es
nach drei sturmisch kurzen Noten hatte, und was ich mit allen den
im Folgenden gleich auszuhaltenden Noten gesagt haben will."]
Suppose a conductor were to attempt to hold the fermata as here
directed, what would be the result? A miserable failure. After
the initial power of the bow of the stringed instruments had been
wasted, their tone would become thin and thinner, ending in a
week and timid piano: for--(and here is one of the results of
indifferent conducting)--our orchestras now-a-days hardly know
what is meant by EQUALLY SUSTAINED TONE. Let any conductor ask
any orchestral instrument, no matter which, for a full and
prolonged FORTE, and he will find the player puzzled, and will be
astonished at the trouble it takes to get what he asks for.
Yet TONE SUSTAINED WITH EQUAL POWER is the basis of all
expression, [FOOTNOTE: Die Basis aller Dynamik.] with the voice
as with the orchestra: the manifold modifications of the power of
tone, which constitute one of the principal elements of musical
expression, rest upon it. Without such basis an orchestra will
produce much noise but no power. And this is one of the first
symptoms of the weakness of most of our orchestral performances.
The conductors of the day care little about a sustained forte,
but they are particularly fond of an EXAGGERATED PIANO. Now the
strings produce the latter with ease, but the wind instruments,
particularly the wood winds do not. It is almost impossible to
get a delicately sustained piano from wind instruments.
The players, flautists particularly, have transformed their
formerly delicate instruments into formidable tubes
(Gewaltsrohren). French oboists, who have preserved the pastoral
character of their instrument, and our clarinetists, when they
make use of the "Echo effect," are the exceptions.
This drawback, which exists in our best orchestras, suggests the
question: why, at least, do not conductors try to equalise
matters by demanding a somewhat fuller piano from the strings?
But the conductors do not seem to notice any discrepancy.
To a considerable extent the fault lies not so much with the wind
instruments, as in the character of the piano of the strings; for
we do not possess a TRUE PIANO, just as we do not possess a TRUE
FORTE; both are wanting in fulness of tone--to attain which our
stringed instruments should watch the tone of the winds. Of
course it is easy enough to produce a buzzing vibration by gently
passing the bow over the strings; but it requires great artistic
command of the breath to produce a delicate and pure tone upon a
wind instrument. Players of stringed instruments should copy the
full-toned piano of the best winds, and the latter, again, should
endeavour to imitate the best vocalists.
The sustained soft tone here spoken of, and the sustained
powerful tone mentioned above, are the two poles of orchestral
expression. [FOOTNOTE: Dynamik des Orchesters.]
But what about orchestral execution if neither the one nor the
other is properly forthcoming? Where are the modifications of
expression to come from if the very means of expression are
defective? Thus, the Mendelssohnian rule of "getting over the
ground" (des flotten Daruberhinweggehens) suggested a happy
expedient; conductors gladly adopted the maxim, and turned it
into a veritable dogma; so that, nowadays, attempts to perform
classical music correctly are openly denounced as heretical!
I am persistently returning to the question of tempo because, as
I said above, this is the point at which it becomes evident
whether a conductor understands his business or not.
Obviously the proper pace of a piece of music is determined by
the particular character of the rendering it requires; the
question, therefore, comes to this: does the sustained tone, the
vocal element, the cantilena predominate, or the rhythmical
movement? (Figuration). The conductor should lead accordingly.
The Adagio stands to the Allegro as the sustained tone stands to
the RHYTHMICAL MOVEMENT (figurirte Bewegung). The sustained tone
regulates the Tempo Adagio: here the rhythm is as it were
dissolved in pure tone, the tone per se suffices for the musical
expression. In a certain delicate sense it may be said of the
pure Adagio that it cannot be taken too slow. A rapt confidence
in the sufficiency of pure musical speech should reign here; the
languor of feeling grows to ecstasy; that which in the Allegro
was expressed by changes of figuration, is now conveyed by means
of variously inflected tone. Thus the least change of harmony may
call forth a sense of surprise; and again, the most remote
harmonic progressions prove acceptable to our expectant feelings.
None of our conductors are courageous enough to take an Adagio in
this manner; they always begin by looking for some bit of
figuration, and arrange their tempo to match. I am, perhaps, the
only conductor who has ventured to take the Adagio section of the
third movement of the Ninth Symphony at the pace proper to its
peculiar character. This character is distinctly contrasted with
that of the alternating Andante in triple time; but our
conductors invariably contrive to obliterate the difference,
leaving only the rhythmical change between square and triple
time. This movement (assuredly one of the most instructive in the
present respect), finally (in the section in twelve-eight time),
offers a conspicuous example of the breaking up of the pure
Adagio by the more marked rhythms of an independent
accompaniment, during which the cantilena is steadily and broadly
continued. In this section we may recognize, as it were, a fixed
and consolidated reflex
[FOOTNOTE: In the original: "Hier erkennen wir das gleichsam
fixirte Bild des zuvor nach unendlicher Ausdehnung verlangenden
Adagio's, und wie dort eine uneingeschrankte Freiheit fur die
Befriedigung des tonischen Ausdruckes das zwischen zartesten
Gesetzen schwankende Maass der Bewegung angab, wird hier durch
die feste Rhythmik der figurativ geschmuckten Begleitung das neue
Gesetz der Festhaltung einer bestimmten Bewegung gegeben, welches
in seinen ausgebildeten Konseqnenzen uns zum Gesetz fur das
Zeitmaass des Allegro wird."]
of the Adagio's tendency towards infinite expansion; there,
limitless freedom in the expression of sound, with fluctuating,
yet delicately regulated movement; here, the firm rhythm of the
figurated accompaniments, imposing the new regulation of a steady
and distinct pace--in the consequences of which, when fully
developed, we have got the law that regulates the movement of the
Allegro in general. We have seen that sustained tone with its
modifications is the basis of all musical execution. Similarly
the Adagio, developed, as Beethoven has developed it in the third
movement of his Ninth Symphony, may be taken as the basis of all
regulations as to musical time. In a certain delicate sense the
Allegro may be regarded as the final result of a refraction
(Brechung) of the pure Adagio-character by the more restless
moving figuration. On careful examination of the principal
motives of the Allegro it will be found that the melody (Gesang)
derived from the Adagio, predominates. The most important Allegro
movements of Beethoven are ruled by a predominant melody which
exhibits some of the characteristics of the Adagio; and in this
wise Beethoven's Allegros receive the EMOTIONAL SENTIMENTAL
significance which distinguishes them from the earlier naive
species of Allegro. However, Beethoven's [Musical Score: Symphony
III. "Eroica."] and Mozart's [Footnote: Symphony in C major,
"Jupiter."]
or:--
[Musical Score excerpt]
are not far asunder. And with Mozart, as with Beethoven, the
exclusive character of the Allegro is only felt when the
figuration gets the upper hand of the melody (Gesang) that is,
when the reaction of the rhythmical movement against the
sustained tone is entirely carried out. This is particularly the
case in those final movements which have grown out of the
Rondeau, and of which the Finales to Mozart's Symphony in E flat,
and to Beethoven's in A, are excellent examples. Here the purely
rhythmical movement, so to speak, celebrates its orgies; and it
is consequently impossible to take these movements too quick. But
whatever lies between these two extremes IS SUBJECT TO THE LAWS
OF MUTUAL RELATIONSHIP AND INTERDEPENDENCE; AND SUCH LAWS CANNOT
BE TOO DELICATELY AND VARIOUSLY APPLIED, for they are
fundamentally identical with the laws which modify all
conceivable nuances of the sustained tone.
I shall now turn to the question of the MODIFICATION OF TEMPO; a
question of which our conductors know nothing, and for which they
consequently profess contempt. Whoever has followed me so far
with attention will, I trust, understand that this question goes
to the root of the matter before us. In the course of the
argument so far, two species of Allegro have been mentioned; an
emotional and sentimental character has been assigned to the
latter, the true Beethovenian Allegro, whereas the older
Mozartian Allegro was distinguished as showing a naive character.
I have adopted the expressions "sentimental" and "naive" from
Schiller's well-known essay upon "sentimental and naive poetry."
It is needless to discuss the aesthetic problems Schiller touches
upon. It is enough to state here that I take Mozart's quick Alla-
breve movements as representative of the naive Allegro. The
Allegros of the overtures to his operas, particularly to "Figaro"
and "Don Giovanni" are the most perfect specimens. It is well
known that Mozart wished these pieces to be played as fast as
possible. Having driven his musicians into a sort of rage, so
that to their own surprise they successfully rendered the unheard
of Presto of his overture to "Figaro," he commended them, saying:
"that was beautiful! Let us take it still quicker this evening."
Quite right. As I have said of the pure Adagio that, in an ideal
sense, it cannot be taken too slowly, so this pure unmixed
Allegro cannot be given too quickly.
The slow emanations of pure tone on the one hand, and the most
rapid figurated movement on the other, are subject to ideal
limits only, and in both directions the law of beauty is the sole
measure of what is possible. The law of beauty establishes the
point of contact at which the opposite extremes tend to meet and
to unite. The order of the movements in the symphonies of our
masters--from the opening Allegro, to the Adagio, and thence by
means of a stricter dance-form (the Menuet or Scherzo), to the
quickest Allegro (Finale)--shows a perfect sense of fitness. To
my mind, however, there are signs of a deterioration of the sense
of fitness when composers exhibit their platitudes in the SUITE
[FOOTNOTE: Compare Franz Lachner's Suites for Orchestra.] and
attempt to bolster up that old form, with its less thoughtfully
arranged succession of typical dance tunes; for these have been
fully developed elsewhere, and have already been embodied in far
richer, more extensive and complex forms.
Mozart's ABSOLUTE Allegros belong to the naive species. As
regards the various degrees of power of tone (Nach der Seite der
Dynamik hin) they consist of simple changes of piano and forte;
and, as regards structure they show certain fixed and stable
rhythmic melodic traits (Formen) which, without much choice or
sifting, are placed side by side, and made to chime with the
changes of piano and forte; and which (in the bustling ever-
recurring semi-cadences) the master employs with more than
surprising ease. But such things--even the greatest negligence
(Achtlosigkeit) in the use of common-place phrases and sections--
are explicable and excusable from the nature of this sort of
Allegro, which is not meant to interest by means of Cantilena,
but in which the restless incessant movement is intended to
produce a certain excitement. It is a significant trait in the
Allegro of the overture to Don Giovanni that this restless
movement ends with an unmistakable turn towards the
"sentimental." Here--where the extremes meet, at the point of
contact indicated above--it becomes necessary to modify the tempo
in the bars leading from the overture to the first tempo of the
opera (which is also an alla-breve but a slower one)--and the
pace must be slackened accordingly. But our conductors, in their
customary crude way, generally miss this point in the overture.
We need not, however, now be lead into premature reflections. Let
us merely consider it established that the character of the older
classical or, as I call it, naive Allegro differs greatly from
the new emotional sentimental Allegro, peculiar to Beethoven.
Mozart became acquainted with the orchestral crescendo and
diminuendo at Mannheim, (in 1777) when the orchestra there had
acquired it as a novelty: up to that time the instrumentation of
the old masters shows that, as a rule, nothing was inserted
between the forte and piano sections of the allegro movements
which can have been intended to be played with emotional
expression. Now, how does the true Beethovenian Allegro appear
with regard to this? To take the boldest and most inspired
example of Beethoven's unheard-of innovation in this direction,
the first movement of his Sinfonia eroica: how does this movement
appear if played in the strict tempo of one of the Allegros of
Mozart's overtures? But do our conductors ever dream of taking it
otherwise? Do they not always proceed monotonously from the first
bar to the last? With the members of the "elegant" tribe of
Capellmeisters the "conception" of the tempo consists of an
application of the Mendelssohnian maxim "chi va presto va sano."
Let the players who happen to have any regard for proper
execution make the best of it in passages like:--
[Musical Score]
or the plaintive:--
[Musical Score]
the conductors do not trouble their minds about such details;
they are on "classic ground," and will not stop for trifles; they
prefer to progress rapidly "grande vitesse," "time is money."
We have now reached the point in our discussion from which we can
judge the music of the day. It will have been noticed that I have
approached this point with some circumspection. I was anxious to
expose the dilemma, and to make everyone see and feel that since
Beethoven there has been a very considerable change in the
treatment and the execution of instrumental music. Things which
formerly existed in separate and opposite forms, each complete in
itself, are now placed in juxtaposition, and further developed,
one from the other, so as to form a whole. It is essential that
the style of execution shall agree with the matter set forth--
that the tempo shall be imbued with life as delicate as the life
of the thematic tissue. We may consider it established that in
classical music written in the later style MODIFICATION of Tempo
is a sine qua non. No doubt very great difficulties will have to
be overcome. Summing up my experiences I do not hesitate to
assert that, as far as public performances go, Beethoven is still
a pure chimera with us. [FOOTNOTE: i.e.. in 1869.]
I shall now attempt to describe what I conceive to be the right
way of performing Beethoven, and music akin to his. In this
respect also the subject seems inexhaustible, and I shall again
confine myself to a few salient points.
One of the principal musical forms consists of a series of
VARIATIONS upon a theme. Haydn, and eventually Beethoven, have
improved this form, and rendered it artistically significant, by
the originality of their devices, and particularly, by connecting
the single variations one with the other, and establishing
relations of mutual dependence between them. This is accomplished
with the happiest results in cases where one variation is
developed from another--that is to say, when a degree of
movement, suggested in the one is carried further in the other,
or when a certain satisfactory sense of surprise is occasioned by
one variation supplying a complementary form of movement, which
was wanting in the one before it. The real weakness of the
Variation-form, however, becomes apparent when strongly
contrasting parts are placed in juxtaposition, without any link
to connect them. Beethoven often contrives to convert this same
weakness into a source of strength; and he manages to do so in a
manner which excludes all sense of accident or of awkwardness:
namely--at the point which I have described above as marking the
limits of the laws of beauty with regard to the sustained tone
(in the Adagio), and the unfettered movement (in the Allegro)--he
contrives to satisfy, in a seemingly abrupt way, the extreme
longing after an antithesis; which antithesis, by means of a
different and contrasting movement, is now made to serve as a
relief. This can be observed in the master's greatest works. The
last movement of the Sinfonia eroica, for instance, affords
excellent instruction in this respect; it should be understood as
a movement consisting of a greatly expanded series of variations;
and accordingly it should be interpreted with as much variety as
possible. To do this properly, here as in all similar cases, the
above mentioned weakness of the Variation-form, and the
disadvantage which is felt to result from it, must be taken into
account. Single and separate variations are frequently seen to
have had each an independent origin, and to have merely been
strung together in a conventional manner. The unpleasant effects
of such fortuitous juxtaposition are particularly felt in cases
where a quiet and sustained theme is followed by an exceptionally
lively variation.
The first variation on that most wonderful theme in Beethoven's
grand Sonata in A major for piano and violin (Kreutzer) is an
example. Virtuosi always treat this as "a first variation" of the
common type--i.e., a mere display of musical gymnastics, which
destroys all desire to listen any further. It is curious that,
whenever I have mentioned the case of this variation to anyone,
my experience with the tempo di minuetto of the eighth symphony
has been repeated. Everybody agreed with me "on the whole"; but
in particular, people failed to see what I was aiming at.
Certainly (to go on with the example) this first variation of
that lovely sustained theme is of a conspicuously lively
character; when the composer invented it he could hardly have
thought of it as immediately following the theme, or as being in
direct contact with it. The component parts of the Variation-form
are each complete in themselves, and perhaps the composer was
unconsciously influenced by this fact. But, when the entire piece
is played, the parts appear in uninterrupted succession. We know
from other movements of the master's (for instance the second
movement of the C minor symphony, the Adagio of the great quartet
in E flat, and above all from the wonderful second movement of
the great sonata in C minor, Op. III), which are all written in
the form of Variations, but in which the parts are conceived as
standing in immediate connection, how deftly and delicately the
links between the different variations can be contrived. A player
who, in a case like that of the so-called "Kreutzer-Sonata,"
claims the honour of representing the master in full, might, at
least, attempt to establish some sort of relation and connection
between the sentiment of the theme and that of the first
variation; he might begin the latter at a more moderate pace, and
gradually lead up to the lively movement. Pianoforte and violin
players are firmly persuaded that the character of this variation
differs considerably from that of the theme. Let them then
interpret it with artistic discrimination, and treat the first
part of the variation as a gradual approach to the new tempo;
thus adding a charm to the interest the part already possesses
per se.
A stronger case, of similar import, will be found in the
beginning of the first Allegro 6-8 after the long introductory
Adagio of the string quartet in C sharp minor. [FOOTNOTE: Op.
131.] This is marked "molto vivace," and the character of the
entire movement is thus appropriately indicated. In quite an
exceptional way, however Beethoven has, in this quartet, so
arranged the several movements that they are heard in immediate
succession, without the customary interval; indeed they appear to
be developed one from the other according to certain delicate
laws. Thus the Allegro immediately follows an Adagio full of a
dreamy sadness, not to be matched elsewhere in the master's
works. If it were permitted to interpret the Allegro as showing a
state of feeling, such as could in some sort be reproduced in
pictorial language, (deutbares Stimmungsbild) one might say that
it shews a most lovely phenomenon, which arises, as it were, from
the depths of memory, and which, as soon as it has been
apprehended, is warmly taken up, and cherished. Evidently the
question, with regard to execution, here is: how can this
phenomenon (the new Allegro theme) be made to arise naturally
from the sad and sombre close of the Adagio, so that its abrupt
appearance shall prove attractive rather than repellant? Very
appropriately, the new theme first appears like a delicate,
hardly distinguishable dream, in unbroken pp, and is then lost in
a melting ritardando; thereafter, by means of a crescendo, it
enters its true sphere, and proceeds to unfold its real nature.
It is obviously the delicate duty of the executants to indicate
the character of the new movement with an appropriate
modification of tempo--i.e., to take the notes which immediately
succeed the Adagio for a link, and so unobtrusively to connect
them with the following that a change in the movement is hardly
perceptible, and moreover so to manage the ritardando, that the
crescendo, which comes after it, will introduce the master's
quick tempo, in such wise that the molto vivace now appears as
the rhythmical consequence of the increase of tone during the
crescendo. But the modifications here indicated are usually
overlooked; and the sense of artistic propriety is outraged by a
sudden and vulgar vivace, as though the whole piece were meant
for a jest, and the gaiety had at last begun! People seem to
think this "classical." [FOOTNOTE: For further comments upon this
Quartet see Appendix B.]
I may have been top circumstantial, but the matter is of
incalculable importance. Let us now proceed to look still more
closely into the wants and requirements of a proper performance
of classical music. In the foregoing investigations I hoped to
have elucidated the problem of the modification of tempo, and to
have shewn how a discerning mind will recognise and solve the
difficulties inherent in modern classical music. Beethoven has
furnished the immortal type of what I may call emotional,
sentimental music--it unites all the separate and peculiar
constituents of the earlier essentially naive types; sustained
and interrupted tone, cantilena and figurations, are no longer
kept formally asunder--the manifold changes of a series of
variations are not merely strung together, but are now brought
into immediate contact, and made to merge one into the other.
Assuredly, the novel and infinitely various combinations of a
symphonic movement must be set in motion in an adequate and
appropriate manner if the whole is not to appear as a
monstrosity. I remember in my young days to have heard older
musicians make very dubious remarks about the Eroica. [FOOTNOTE:
Beethoven's Symphony, No. III.] Dionys Weber, at Prague, simply
treated it as a nonentity. The man was right in his way; he chose
to recognise nothing but the Mozartian Allegro; and in the strict
tempo peculiar to that Allegro, he taught his pupils at the
Conservatorium to play the Eroica! The result was such that one
could not help agreeing with him. Yet everywhere else the work
was thus played, and it is still so played to this day! True, the
symphony is now received with universal acclamations; but, if we
are not to laugh at the whole thing, the real reasons for its
success must be sought in the fact that Beethoven's music is
studied apart from the concert-rooms--particularly at the piano--
and its irresistible power is thus fully felt, though in rather a
round-about way. If fate had not furnished such a path of safety,
and if our noblest music depended solely upon the conductors, it
would have perished long ago.
To support so astounding an assertion I will take a popular
example:--Has not every German heard the overture to Der
Freyschutz over and over again? I have been told of sundry
persons who were surprised to find how frequently they had
listened to this wonderful musical poem, without having been
shocked when it was rendered in the most trivial manner; these
persons were among the audience of a concert given at Vienna in
1864, when I was invited to conduct the overture. At the
rehearsal it came to pass that the orchestra of the imperial
opera (certainly one of the finest orchestras in existence), were
surprised at my demands regarding the execution of this piece. It
appeared at once that the Adagio of the introduction had
habitually been taken as a pleasant Andante in the tempo of the
"Alphorn," [FOOTNOTE: A sentimental song by Proch.] or some such
comfortable composition. That this was not "Viennese tradition"
only, but had come to be the universal practice, I had already
learnt at Dresden--where Weber himself had conducted his work.
When I had a chance to conduct Der Freyschutz at Dresden--
eighteen years after Weber's death--I ventured to set aside the
slovenly manner of execution which had prevailed under Reissiger,
my senior colleague. I simply took the tempo of the introduction
to the overture as I felt it; whereupon a veteran member of the
orchestra, the old violoncellist Dotzauer, turned towards me and
said seriously: "Yes, this is the way Weber himself took it; I
now hear it again correctly for the first time." Weber's widow,
who still resided at Dresden, became touchingly solicitous for my
welfare in the position of Capellmeister. She trusted that my
sympathy with her deceased husband's music would bring about
correct performances of his works, for which she had no longer
dared to hope. The recollection of this flattering testimony has
frequently cheered and encouraged me. At Vienna I was bold enough
to insist upon a proper performance. The orchestra actually
STUDIED the too-well-known overture anew. Discreetly led by R.
Lewi, the Cornists entirely changed the tone of the soft
woodnotes in the introduction, which they had been accustomed to
play as a pompous show piece. The magic perfume of the melody for
the horns was now shed over the PIANISSIMO indicated in the score
for the strings. Once only (also as indicated) the power of their
tone rose to a mezzoforte and was then gradually lost again
without the customary SFORZANDO, in the delicately inflected
The Violoncellos similarly reduced the usual heavy accent, which
was now heard above the tremolo of the violins like the delicate
sigh it is intended to be, and which finally gave to the
fortissimo that follows the crescendo that air of desperation
which properly belongs to it. Having restored the mysterious
dignity of the introductory Adagio, I allowed the wild movement
of the Allegro to run its passionate course, without regard to
the quieter expression, which the soft second theme demands; for
I knew that I should be able SUFFICIENTLY TO SLACKEN THE PACE AT
THE RIGHT MOMENT, so that the proper movement for this theme
might be reached.
Evidently the greater number, if not all modern Allegro
movements, consist of a combination of two essentially different
constituent parts: in contrast with the older naive unmixed
Allegro, the construction is enriched by the combination of the
pure Allegro with the thematic peculiarities of the vocal Adagio
in all its gradations. The second theme of the overture to
"Oberon," which does not in the least partake of the character of
the Allegro, very clearly shows this contrasted peculiarity.
Technically, the composer has managed to merge the character of
this theme into the general character of the piece. That is to
say: on the surface, the theme reads smoothly, according to the
scheme of an Allegro; but, as soon as the true character of the
theme is brought out, it becomes apparent that A COMPOSER MUST
THINK SUCH A SCHEME CAPABLE OF CONSIDERABLE MODIFICATION IF IT IS
TO COMBINE BOTH PRINCIPLES. (Hauptcharactere.)
To continue the account of the performance of the Freyschutz
overture at Vienna: after the extreme excitement of the tempo
Allegro, I made use of the long drawn notes of the clarinet--the
character of which is quite that of the Adagio--so as
imperceptibly to ease the tempo in this place, where the
figurated movement is dissolved into sustained or tremulous tone;
so that, in spite of the connecting figure:
[music score example]
which renews the movement, and so beautifully leads to the
cantilena in E flat, we had arrived at the very slight nuance of
the main tempo, which has been kept up all along. I arranged with
the excellent executants that they were to play this theme
[music score example]
legato, and with an equable piano, i.e., without the customary
commonplace accentuation and NOT as follows:
[music score example]
The good result was at once apparent, so that for the gradual
reanimation of the tempo with the pulsating
[music score example]