the orchestra perfectly ready to attack the most energetic nuance
of the main tempo together with the following fortissimo. It was
not so easy on the return of the conflict of the two strongly
contrasted motives, to bring them out clearly without disturbing
the proper feeling for the predominant rate of speed. Here, when
the despairing energy of the allegro is concentrated in
successively shorter periods, and culminates in
[music score example]
the success of the ever-present modification of tempo was perhaps
shown best of all.
After the splendidly sustained C major chords, and the
significant long pauses, by which these chords are so well
relieved, the musicians were greatly surprised when I asked them
to play the second theme, which is now raised to a joyous chant,
NOT as they had been accustomed, in the violently excited nuance
of the first allegro theme, but in the milder modification of the
main time.
This worrying and driving to death of the PRINCIPAL theme at the
close of a piece is a habit common to all our orchestras--very
frequently indeed nothing is wanting but the sound of the great
horse-whip to complete the resemblance to the effects at a
circus. No doubt increase of speed at the close of an overture is
frequently demanded by composers; it is a matter of course in
those cases where the true Allegro theme, as it were, remains in
possession of the field, and finally celebrates its apotheosis;
of which Beethoven's great overture to "Leonora" is a celebrated
example. In this latter case, however, the effect of the
increased speed of the Allegro is frequently spoilt by the fact
that the conductor, who does not know how to modify the main
tempo to meet the various requirements of the thematic
combinations (e.g., at the proper moment to relax the rate of
speed), has already permitted the main tempo to grow so quick as
to exclude the possibility of any further increase--unless,
indeed, the strings choose to risk an abnormal rush and run, such
as I remember to have heard with astonishment, though not with
satisfaction, from this very Viennese orchestra. The necessity
for such an eccentric exertion arose in consequence of the main
tempo having been hurried too much during the progress of the
piece; the final result was simply an exaggeration--and moreover,
a risk to which no true work of art should be exposed--though, in
a rough way, it may be able to bear it.
However, it is difficult to understand why the close of the
Freyschutz overture should be thus hurried and worried by
Germans, who are supposed to possess some delicacy of feeling.
Perhaps the blunder will appear less inexplicable, if it is
remembered that this second cantilena, which towards the close is
treated as a chant of joy, was, already at its very first
appearance, made to trot on at the pace of the principal Allegro:
like a pretty captive girl tied to the tail of a hussar's
charger--and it would seem a case of simple practical justice
that she should eventually be raised to the charger's back when
the wicked rider has fallen off--whereat, finally, the
Capellmeister is delighted, and proceeds to apply the great whip.
An indescribably repulsive effect is produced by this trivial
reading of a passage, by which the composer meant to convey, as
it were, a maiden's tender and warm effusions of gratitude.
[Footnote: See the close of the Aria in E, known as "Softly
sighing," in Der Freyschutz (No. 8).] Truly, certain people who
sit and listen again and again to a vulgar effect such as this,
whenever and wherever the Freyschutz overture is performed, and
approve of it, and talk of "the wonted excellence of our
orchestral performances"--and otherwise indulge in queer notions
of their own about music, like the venerable Herr Lobe,
[Footnote: Author of a "Kompositionslehre," "Briefe eines
Wohlbekannten," etc.] whose jubilee we have recently celebrated--
such people, I say, are in the right position to warn the public
against "the absurdities of a mistaken idealism"--and "to point
towards that which is artistically genuine, true and eternally
valid, as an antidote to all sorts of half-true or half-mad
doctrines and maxims." [Footnote: (See Eduard Bernsdorf in
Signale fur die musicalishe Welt, No. 67, 1869).]
As I have related, a number of Viennese amateurs who attended a
performance of this poor maltreated overture, heard it rendered
in a very different manner. The effect of that performance is
still felt at Vienna. People asserted that they could hardly
recognize the piece, and wanted to know what I had done to it.
They could not conceive how the novel and surprising effect at
the close had been produced, and scarcely credited my assertion
that a moderate tempo was the sole cause. The musicians in the
orchestra, however, might have divulged a little secret, namely
this:--in the fourth bar of the powerful and brilliant entrata I
interpreted the sign >, which in the score might be mistaken for
a timid and senseless accent, as a mark of diminuendo [Figure:
diminuendo sign] assuredly in accordance with the composer's
intentions--thus we reached a more moderate degree of force, and
the opening bars of the theme were at once distinguished by a
softer inflection, which, I now could easily permit to swell to
fortissimo--thus the warm and tender motive, gorgeously supported
by the full orchestra, appeared happy and glorified.
Our Capellmeisters are not particularly pleased at a success such
as this.
Herr Dessof, however, whose business it was afterwards to conduct
"Der Freyschutz," at the Viennese opera, thought it advisable to
leave the members of the orchestra undisturbed in the possession
of the new reading. He announced this to them, with a smile,
saying: "Well, gentlemen, let us take the overture a la Wagner."
Yes, Yes:--a la Wagner! I believe, there would be no harm in
taking a good many other things, a la Wagner! [Footnote:
"Wagnerisch"--there is a pun here: wagen = to dare; erwagen--to
weigh mentally: thus "Wagnerisch," may be taken as--in a daring
well considered manner.]
At all events this was an entire concession on the part of the
Viennese Capellmeister; whereas in a similar case, my former
colleague, the late Reissiger, would only consent to meet me HALF
way. In the last movement of Beethoven's A major symphony, I
discovered a PIANO which Reissiger had been pleased to insert in
the parts when he conducted the work. This piano concerned the
grand preparation for the close of this final movement, when,
after the powerful reiterated chords on the dominant seventh A
(Breitkopf and Haertel's Score, page 86) the figure
[Figure: musical example]
is carried on forte, until with "sempre piu forte," it becomes
still more violent. This did not suit Reissiger; accordingly, at
the bar quoted, he interpolated a sudden piano, so that he might
in time get a perceptible crescendo. Of course, I erased this
piano and restored the energetic forte in its integrity. And
thus, I presume, I again committed an offence against "Lobe and
Bernsdorf's eternal laws of truth and beauty," which Reissiger,
in his day, was so careful to obey.
After I had left Dresden, when this A major symphony came to be
performed again under Reissiger, he did not feel at ease about
that passage; so he stopped the orchestra, and advised that it
should be taken mezzo forte!
On another occasion (not very long ago, at Munich), I was present
at a public performance of the overture to "Egmont," which proved
instructive--somewhat after the manner of the customary
performances of the overture to "Der Freyschutz." In the Allegro
of the Egmont overture [Footnote: Beethoven: op. 84.] the
powerful and weighty sostenuto of the introduction:
[Figure: musical example]
is used in rhythmical diminution as the first half of the second
theme, and is answered in the other half, by a soft and smooth
countermotive.
[Figure: musical example]
The conductor, [Footnote: Franz Lachner] in accordance with
"classical" custom, permitted this concise and concentrated
theme, a contrast of power and gentle self-content, to be swept
away by the rush of the Allegro, like a sere and withered leaf;
so that, whenever it caught the ear at all, a sort of dance pace
was heard, in which, during the two opening bars the dancers
stepped forward, and in the two following bars twirled about in
"Laendler" [Footnote: Laendler--an Austrian peasant's dance, in
triple time, from which the waltz is derived.] fashion.
When Bulow, in the absence of the favourite senior conductor, was
called upon to lead the music to Egmont at Munich, I induced him,
amongst other things, to attend to the proper rendering of this
passage. It proved at once strikingly effective--concise,
laconic--as Beethoven meant it. The tempo, which up to that point
had been kept up with passionate animation, was firmly arrested,
and very slightly modified--just as much, and no more than was
necessary to permit the orchestra properly to attack this
thematic combination, so full of energetic decision and of a
contemplative sense of happiness. At the end of the 3/4 time the
combination is treated in a broader and still more determined
manner; and thus these simple, but indispensible, modifications
brought about a new reading of the overture--the CORRECT reading.
The impression produced by this properly conducted performance
was singular, to say the least of it; I was assured that the
manager of the Court theatre was persuaded there had been "a
break-down."
No one among the audience of the celebrated Odeon Concerts at
Munich dreamt of "a break-down" when the above-mentioned senior
"classical" conductor led the performance of Mozart's G minor
symphony, when I happened to be present. The manner in which the
Andante of the symphony was played, and the effect it produced
was altogether surprising. Who has not, in his youth, admired
this beautiful piece, and tried to realize it in his own way? In
what way? No matter. If the marks of expression are scanty, the
wonderful composition arouses one's feelings; and fancy supplies
the means to read it in accordance with such feelings. It seems
as though Mozart had expected something of the kind, for he has
given but few and meagre indications of the expression. So we
felt free to indulge ourselves in the delicately increasing swing
of the quavers, with the moon-like rise of the violins:
[Figure: musical example]
the notes of which we believed to sound softly legato; the
tenderly whispering
[Figure: musical example]
touched us as with wings of angels, and before the solemn
admonitions and questionings of
[Figure: musical example]
(which, however, we heard in a finely sustained crescendo) we
imagined ourselves led to a blissful evanescence, which came upon
us with the final bars. Fancies of this sort, however, were not
permitted during the "strictly classical" performance, under the
veteran Capellmeister, at the Munich Odeon; the proceedings,
there, were carried on with a degree of solemnity, enough to make
one's flesh creep, with a sensation akin to a foretaste of
eternal perdition.
The lightly floating Andante was converted into a ponderous
Largo; not the hundredth part of the weight of a single quaver
was spared us; stiff and ghastly, like a bronze pigtail, the
battuta of this Andante was swung over our heads; even the
feathers on the angel's wings were turned into corkscrew curls--
rigid, like those of the seven year's war. Already, I felt myself
placed under the staff of a Prussian recruiting officer, A.D.
1740, and longed to be bought off--but! who can guess my terror,
when the veteran turned back the pages, and recommenced his
Largo--Andante, merely to do "classical" justice to the two
little dots before the double bar in the score! I looked about me
for help and succour--and beheld another wondrous thing: the
audience listened patiently: quite convinced that everything was
in the best possible order, and that they were having a true
Mozartian "feast for the ears" in all innocence and safety.--This
being so, I acquiesced, and bowed my head in silence.
Once, however, a little later on, my patience failed. At a
rehearsal of "Tannhauser" I had quietly allowed a good deal to
pass by unnoticed--even the clerical tempo at which my knights
had to march up in the second act. But now it became evident that
the undoubtedly "veteran" master could not even make out how 4/4
time was to be changed to an equivalent 6/4: i.e., two crotchets
[Figure: two crotchets (quarter notes)]
into a triplet of three crotchets
[Figure: a triplet of three crotchets (quarter notes)]
The trouble arose during Tannhauser's narrative of his pilgrimage
(Act III.), when 4/4
[Figure: musical score example]
is replaced by 6/4
This was too much for the veteran. He was very properly
accustomed to beat 4/4 on the square; but it is also the custom
of such conductors to beat 6/4 after the manner of 6/8, that is,
with an Alla breve beat--two in the bar. (Only in the Andante of
the G minor symphony did I witness six grave quaver beats = 1, 2,
3,--4, 5, 6). But, for my poor narrative about the Pope at Rome,
the conductor thought two timid Alla breve beats sufficient--so
that the members of the orchestra might be left at liberty to
make out the crotchets as best they could. Thus it came to pass
that the tempo was taken at exactly double the proper pace:
namely, instead of the equivalents just described, things
appeared thus:
[Figure: musical score example]
Now, this may have been very interesting, musically, but it
compelled the poor singer of Tannhauser to relate his painful
recollections of Rome to a gay and lively waltz-rhythm (which,
again, reminds me of Lohengrin's narrative about the Holy Grail,
at Wiesbaden, where I heard it recited scherzando, as though it
were about Queen Mab). But as I was, in this case, dealing with
so excellent a representative of Tannhauser as Ludwig Schnorr,
[Footnote: Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld, the first "Tristan"
died 1865.] I was bound to establish the right tempo, and, for
once, respectfully to interfere. This, I am sorry to say, caused
some scandal and annoyance. I fear in course of time, it even
caused some little martyrdom, and inspired a cold-blooded Gospel-
critic [Footnote: David Strauss, author of "Das Leben Jesu."] to
celebrate and console the veteran-martyr in a couple of sonnets.
Indeed, we have now got sundry "martyrs of classical music"
crowned with a halo of poetry. I shall beg leave to examine them
still more closely in the sequel.
It has repeatedly been pointed out that our conductors dislike
attempts at modification of tempo, for the sake of perspicuity in
the rendering of Beethoven and other classical music. I have
shewn that plausible objections can be urged against such
modifications, so long as they are not accompanied by
corresponding modifications of tone and expression; and I have
further shewn that such objections have no foundation other than
the incompetence of conductors, who attempt to perform functions
for which they are not fit. In fact, there is but one valid
objection which can be urged against the mode of procedure I
advocate, namely this: nothing can be more detrimental to a piece
of music than ARBITRARY NUANCES of tempo, etc., such as are
likely to be introduced by this or that self-willed and conceited
time-beater, for the sake of what he may deem "effective." In
that way, certainly, the very existence of our classical music
might, in course of time, be undermined. Now, what is to be said
or done in the face of so sad a state of things? A sound public
opinion with regard to questions of art does not exist in
Germany; and there is nothing amongst us that could effectually
put a stop to such vagaries. Thus, the above objection, valid as
it is (though seldom put forward in good faith), again points
towards the conductors; for, if incompetent persons are not to be
permitted to maltreat classical music at their pleasure, how is
it that the best and most influential musicians have not taken
this matter in hand? why have they themselves led classical music
into such a groove of triviality and actual disfigurement? In
many instances the objection in question is merely put forward as
a pretext for opposition to all efforts in the direction I have
indicated. Indolent and incompetent persons form an immense
majority: and, under certain circumstances, incompetency and
sluggishness unite, and grow aggressive.
The first performances of classical compositions with us have, as
a rule, been very imperfect. (One has but to recall the accounts
of the circumstances under which Beethoven's most difficult
symphonies were first performed!). A good deal also has, from the
first, been brought before the German public in an absolutely
incorrect manner (compare my essay on "Gluck's Overture to
Iphigenia in Aulis" in one of the earlier volumes of the "Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik.") [Footnote: Wagner. "Gessammelte
Schriften." Vol. V.. p.143.] This being so, how can the current
style of execution appear other than it is? In Germany the
"conservators" of such works are both ignorant and incompetent.
And, on the other hand, suppose one were to take an unprejudiced
and impartial view of the manner in which a master like
Mendelssohn led such works! How can it be expected that lesser
musicians, not to speak of musical mediocrities generally, should
really comprehend things which have remained doubtful to their
master? For average people, who are not specially gifted, there
is but one good guide to excellence--a good example; and a
guiding example was not to be found in the path chosen by the
host of mediocrities. Unfortunately, they entirely occupy this
path or pass, at present,--without a guide or leader--and any
other person who might, perchance, be capable of setting up a
proper example, has no room left. For these reasons I deem it
worth while to strip this spirit of reticence and shallow
pretence of the halo of sanctity with which it poses as the
"chaste spirit of German art." A poor and pretentious pietism at
present stifles every effort, and shuts out every breath of fresh
air from the musical atmosphere. At this rate we may live to see
our glorious music turned into a colourless and ridiculous bug-
bear!
I therefore think it advisable to take a straightforward survey
of this spirit, to look closely into its eyes, and to openly
assert that it has NOTHING in common with the true spirit of
German music. It is not easy to estimate the positive weight and
value of modern, Beethovenian, music--but we may perhaps hope to
get at some negative proof of its worth, by an examination of the
pseudo-Beethovenian-classicism now in the ascendant.
It is curious to note how the opposition to the things I advocate
finds vent in the press, where uneducated scribblers clamour and
create a disturbance, whilst in the profession proper, the
utterances are far from noisy, though sufficiently bitter. ("You
see he cannot express himself," a lady once said to me with a sly
glance at one of these reticent musicians). As I have said at the
outset this new musical Areopagus consists of two distinct
species: Germans of the old type, who have managed to hold out in
the South of Germany, but are now gradually disappearing; and the
elegant Cosmopolites, who have arisen from the school of
Mendelssohn in the North, and are now in the ascendant. Formerly
the two species did not think much of each other; but latterly,
in the face of certain disturbances which seem to threaten their
nourishing business, they have united in mutual admiration; so
that in the South the Mendelssohnian school, with all that
pertains to it, is now lauded and protected--whilst, in the
North, the prototype of South-German sterility is welcomed
[Footnote: Franz Lachner and his Orchestral Suites.] with sudden
and profound respect--an honour which Lindpaintner of blessed
memory [Footnote: Peter Josef von Lindpainter, 1791-1856,
Capellmeister at Stuttgart] did not live to see. Thus to ensure
their prosperity the two species are shaking hands. Perhaps at
the outset such an alliance was rather repugnant to those of the
old native type; but they got over the difficulty by the aid of
that not particularly laudable propensity of Germans: namely, a
timid feeling of jealousy which accompanies a sense of
helplessness (die mit der Unbeholfenheit verbundenc Scheelsucht).
This propensity spoilt the temper of one of the most eminent
German musicians of later times, [Footnote: Robert Schumann.] led
him to repudiate his true nature, and to submit to the
regulations of the elegant and alien second species. The
opposition of the more subordinate musicians signifies nothing
beyond this: "we cannot advance, we do not want others to
advance, and we are annoyed to see them advance in spite of us."
This is at least honest Philistinism; dishonest only under
provocation.
In the newly-formed camp, however, things arc not so simple. Most
complicated maxims have there been evolved from the queer
ramifications of personal, social, and even national interests.
Without going into details, I will only touch one prominent
point, that HERE THERE IS A GOOD DEAL TO CONCEAL, A GOOD DEAL TO
HIDE AND SUPPRESS. The members of the fraternity hardly think it
desirable to show that they are "musicians" at all; and they have
sufficient reason for this.
Our true German musician was originally a man difficult to
associate with. In days gone by the social position of musicians
in Germany, as in France and England, was far from good. Princes,
and aristocratical society generally, hardly recognised the
social status of musicians (Italians alone excepted). Italians
were everywhere preferred to native Germans (witness the
treatment Mozart met with at the Imperial Court at Vienna).
Musicians remained peculiar half-wild, half-childish beings, and
were treated as such by their employers. The education, even of
the most gifted, bore traces of the fact that they had not really
come under the influence of refined and intelligent society--
(think of Beethoven when he came in contact with Goethe at
Teplitz). It was taken for granted that the mental organisation
of professional musicians was such as to render them
insusceptible to the influence of culture. When Marschner,
[Footnote: Heinrich Marschner, 1796-1861, operatic composer;
Weber's colleague at Dresden, subsequently conductor at Leipzig
and Hanover.] in 1848, found me striving to awaken the spirit of
the members of the Dresden orchestra, he seriously dissuaded me,
saying he thought professional musicians incapable of
understanding what I meant. Certain it is, as I have already
said, that the higher and highest professional posts were
formerly occupied by men who had gradually risen from the ranks,
and in a good journeyman-like sense this had brought about many
an excellent result. A certain family feeling, not devoid of
warmth and depth, was developed in such patriarchal orchestras--
and this family feeling was ready to respond to the suggestions
of a sympathetic leader. But just as, for instance, the Jews
formerly kept aloof from our handicraftsmen, so the new species
of conductors did not grow up among the musical guilds--they
would have shrunk from the hard work there. They simply took the
lead of the guilds--much as the bankers take the lead in our
industrial society. To be able to do this creditably conductors
had to show themselves possessed of something that was lacking to
the musicians from the ranks--something at least very difficult
to acquire in a sufficient degree, if it was not altogether
lacking: namely, a certain varnish of culture (Gebildetheit). As
a banker is equipped with capital, so our elegant conductors are
the possessors of pseudo-culture. I say pseudo-culture, not
CULTURE, for whoever really possesses the latter is a superior
person and above ridicule. But there can be no harm in discussing
our varnished and elegant friends.
I have not met with a case in which the results of true culture,
an open mind and a free spirit, have become apparent amongst
them. Even Mendelssohn, whose manifold gifts had been cultivated
most assiduously, never got over a certain anxious timidity; and
in spite of all his well-merited successes, he remained outside
the pale of German art-life. It seems probable that a feeling of
isolation and constraint was a source of much pain to him, and
shortened his life. The reason for this is to be found in the
fact that the motives of a desire for culture, such as his, lack
spontaneity--(dass dem Motive eines solchen Bildungsdranges keine
Unbefangenheit innewohnt)--and arise from a desire to cover and
conceal some part of a man's individuality, rather than to
develop it freely.
But true culture is not the result of such a process: a man may
grow extremely intelligent in certain ways; yet the point at
which these ways meet may be other than that of "pure
intelligence" (reinschende Intelligenz). To watch such an inner
process in the case of a particularly gifted and delicately
organized individual is sometimes touching; in the case of lesser
and more trivial natures however, the contemplation of the
process and its results is simply nauseous.
Flat and empty pseudo-culture confronts us with a grin, and if we
are not inclined to grin in return, as superficial observers of
our civilization are wont to do, we may indeed grow seriously
indignant. And German musicians now-a-days have good reason to be
indignant if this miserable sham culture presumes to judge of the
spirit and significance of our glorious music.
Generally speaking, it is a characteristic TRAIT of pseudo-
culture not to insist too much, not to enter deeply into a
subject or, as the phrase goes, not to make much fuss about
anything. Thus, whatever is high, great and deep, is treated as a
matter of course, a commonplace, naturally at everybody's beck
and call; something that can be readily acquired, and, if need
be, imitated. Again, that which is sublime, god-like, demonic,
must not be dwelt upon, simply because it is impossible or
difficult to copy. Pseudo-culture accordingly talks of
"excrescencies," "exaggerations," and the like--and sets up a
novel system of aesthetics, which professes to rest upon Goethe--
since he, too, was averse to prodigious monstrosities, and was
good enough to invent "artistic calm and beauty" in lieu thereof.
"The guileless innocence of art" becomes an object of laudation;
and Schiller, who now and then was too violent, is treated rather
contemptuously; so, in sage accord with the Philistines of the
day, a new conception of classicality is evolved. In other
departments of art, too, the Greeks are pressed into service, on
the ground that Greece was the very home of "clear transparent
serenity;" and, finally, such shallow meddling with all that is
most earnest and terrible in the existence of man, is gathered
together in a full and novel philosophical system [Footnote:
Hanslick's "Vom Musicalish-Schoenen," and particularly Vischer's
voluminous "System der AEsthetik."]--wherein our varnished
musical heroes find a comfortable and undisputed place of honour.
How the latter heroes treat great musical works I have shewn by
the aid of a few representative examples. It remains to explain
the serene and cheerful Greek sense of that "getting over the
ground" which Mendelssohn so earnestly recommended. This will be
best shown by a reference to his disciples and successors.
Mendelssohn wished to hide the inevitable shortcomings of the
execution, and also, in case of need, the shortcomings of that
which is executed; to this, his disciples and successors
superadded the specific motive of their "CULTURE": namely, "to
hide and cover up in general," to escape attention, to create no
disturbance. There is a QUASI physiological reason for this which
I accidentally discovered once upon a time.
For the performance of Tannhauser, at Paris, I re-wrote the scene
in the "Venusberg" on a larger scale: at one of the rehearsals I
explained to the ballet master that the little tripping pas of
his Maenads and Bacchantes contrasted miserably with my music,
and asked him to arrange something wild and bold for his corps--
something akin to the groups of Bacchantes on ancient bas-
reliefs. Thereupon the man whistled through his fingers, and
said, "Ah, I understand perfectly, but to produce anything of the
sort I should require a host of premiers sujets; if I were to
whisper a word of what you say, and indicate the attitudes you
intend to my people here, we should instantly have the 'cancan,'
and be lost." The very same feeling which induced my Parisian
ballet-master to rest content with the most vapid pas of Maenads
and Bacchantes, forbids our elegant, new-fangled conductors to
cut the traces of their "culture." They are afraid such a thing
might lead to a scandal a la Offenbach. Meyerbeer was a warning
to them; the Parisian opera had tempted him into certain
ambiguous Semitic accentuations in music, which fairly scared the
"men of culture."
A large part of their education has ever since consisted in
learning to watch their behaviour, and to suppress any
indications of passion; much as one who naturally lisps and
stammers, is careful to keep quiet, lest he should be overcome by
a fit of hissing and stuttering. Such continuous watchfulness has
assisted in the removal of much that was unpleasant, and the
general humane amalgamation has gone on much more smoothly;
which, again, has brought it about that many a stiff and poorly
developed element of our home-growth has been refreshed and
rejuvenated. I have already mentioned that amongst musicians
roughness of speech and behaviour are going out, that delicate
details in musical execution are more carefully attended to, etc.
But it is a very different thing to allow the necessity for
reticence, and for the suppression of certain personal
characteristics, to be converted into a principle for the
treatment of our art! Germans are stiff and awkward when they
want to appear mannerly: BUT THEY ARE NOBLE AND SUPERIOR WHEN
THEY GROW WARM. And are we to suppress our fire to please those
reticent persons? In truth, it looks as though they expected us
to do so.
In former days, whenever I met a young musician who had come in
contact with Mendelssohn, I learnt that the master had admonished
him not to think of effect when composing, and to avoid
everything that might prove meretriciously impressive. Now, this
was very pleasant and soothing advice; and those pupils who
adopted it, and remained true to the master, have indeed produced
neither "impression nor meretricious effect;" only, the advice
seemed to me rather too negative, and I failed to see the value
of that which was positively acquired under it. I believe the
entire teaching of the Leipzig Conservatorium was based upon some
such negative advice, and I understand that young people there
have been positively pestered with warnings of a like kind;
whilst their best endeavours met with no encouragement from the
masters, unless their taste in music fully coincided with the
tone of the orthodox psalms. The first result of the new
doctrine, and the most important for our investigations, came to
light in the execution of classical music. Everything here was
governed by the fear of exaggeration (etwa in das Drastische zu
fallen). I have, for instance, hitherto not found any traces that
those later pianoforte works of Beethoven, in which the master's
peculiar style is best developed, have actually been studied and
played by the converts to that doctrine.
For a long time I earnestly wished to meet with some one who
could play the great Sonata in B flat (Op. 106) as it should be
played. At length my wish was gratified--but by a person who came
from a camp wherein those doctrines do NOT prevail. Franz Liszt,
also, gratified my longing to hear Bach. No doubt Bach has been
assiduously cultivated by Liszt's opponents; they esteem Bach for
teaching purposes, since a smooth and mild manner of execution
apparently accords better with his music than "modern effect," or
Beethovenian strenuousness (Drastik).
I once asked one of the best-reputed older musicians, a friend
and companion of Mendelssohn (whom I have already mentioned
apropos of the tempo di menuetto of the eighth symphony),
[Footnote: Ferdinand Hiller] to play the eighth Prelude and Fugue
from the first part of "Das Wohltemperirte Clavier" (E flat
minor), a piece which has always had a magical attraction for me.
[Footnote: i.e. Prelude VIII., from Part I. of Bach's 48 Preludes
and Fugues.] He very kindly complied, and I must confess that I
have rarely been so much taken by surprise. Certainly, there was
no trace here of sombre German gothicism and all that old-
fashioned stuff; under the hands of my friend, the piece ran
along the keyboard with a degree of "Greek serenity" that left me
at a loss whither to turn; in my innocence I deemed myself
transported to a neo-hellenic synagogue, from the musical cultus
of which all old testamentary accentuations had been most
elegantly eliminated. This singular performance still tingled in
my ears, when at length I begged Liszt for once to cleanse my
musical soul of the painful impression: he played the fourth
Prelude and Fugue (C sharp minor). Now, I knew what to expect
from Liszt at the piano; but I had not expected anything like
what I came to hear from Bach, though I had studied him well; I
saw how study is eclipsed by genius. By his rendering of this
single fugue of Bach's, Liszt revealed Bach to me; so that I
henceforth knew for certain what to make of Bach, and how to
solve all doubts concerning him. I was convinced, also, that
THOSE people know NOTHING of Bach; and if anyone chooses to doubt
my assertion, I answer: "request them to play a piece of Bach's."
[Footnote: See Appendix C]
I would like further to question any member of that musical
temperance society and, if it has ever been his lot to hear Liszt
play Beethoven's great B flat Sonata. I would ask him to testify
honestly whether he had before really known and understood that
sonata? I, at least, am acquainted with a person who was so
fortunate; and who was constrained to confess that he had not
before understood it. And to this day, who plays Bach, and the
great works of Beethoven, in public, and compels every audience
to confess as much? a member of that "school for temperance?" No!
it is Liszt's chosen successor, Hans van Bulow.
So much for the present on this subject. It might prove
interesting to observe the attitude these reticent gentlemen take
up with regard to performances such as Liszt's and Bulow's.
The successes of their policy, to which they are indebted for the
control of public music in Germany, need not detain us; but we
are concerned in an examination of the curious religious
development within their congregation. In this respect the
earlier maxim, "beware of effect"--the result of embarrassment
and cautious timidity--has now been changed, from a delicate rule
of prudence and security, to a positively aggressive dogma. The
adherents of this dogma hypocritically look askance if they
happen to meet with a true man in music. They pretend to be shocked,
as though they had come across something improper. The spirit of
their shyness, which originally served to conceal their own
impotence, now attempts the defamation of other people's potency.
Defamatory insinuations and calumny find ready acceptance with the
representatives of German Philistinism, and appear to be at home
in that mean and paltry state of things which, as we have seen,
environs our musical affairs.
The principal ingredient, however, is an apparently judicious
caution in presence of that which one happens to be incapable of,
together with detraction of that which one would like to
accomplish one's self. It is sad, above all things, to find a man
so powerful and capable as Robert Schumann concerned in this
confusion, and in the end to see his name inscribed on the banner
of the new fraternity. The misfortune was that Schumann in his
later days attempted certain tasks for which he was not
qualified. And it is a pity to see that portion of his work, in
which he failed to reach the mark he had set himself, raised as
the insignia of the latest guild of musicians. A good deal of
Schumann's early endeavour was most worthy of admiration and
sympathy, and it has been cherished and nurtured by us (I am
proud here to rank myself with Liszt's friends) in a more
commendable and commending way than by his immediate adherents.
[Footnote: See Appendix D.] The latter, well aware that Schumann
had herein evinced true productivity, knowingly kept these things
in the background, perhaps because they could not play them in an
effective way. On the other hand, certain works of Schumann
conceived on a larger and bolder scale, and in which the limits
of his gifts become apparent are now carefully brought forward.
[Footnote: Such as the Overtures to Faust, Die Braut von Messina,
Julius Caesar; the "Balladen," Das Gluck von Edenhall, Des Sanger
Fluch, Vom Pagen und der Konigstochter, etc.] The public does not
exactly like these works, but their performance offers an
opportunity to point out how commendable a thing it is to "make
no effect." Finally, a comparison with the works of Beethoven in
his third period (played as they play them) comes in opportunely.
Certain later, inflated (schwulstig) and dull productions of R.
Schumann, which simply require to be played smoothly (glatt
herunter gespielt) are confounded with Beethoven; and an attempt
is made to show that they agree in spirit with the rarest,
boldest and most profound achievements of German music! Thus
Schumann's shallow bombast is made to pass for the equivalent of
the inexpressible purport of Beethoven--but always with the
reservation that strenuous eccentricity such as Beethoven's is
hardly admissible; whereas, vapid emptiness (das gleichgiltig
Nichtssagende) is right and proper: a point at which Schumann
properly played, and Beethoven improperly rendered, are perhaps
comparable without much fear of misunderstanding! Thus these
singular defenders of musical chastity stand towards our great
classical music in the position of eunuchs in the Grand-Turk's
Harem; and by the same token German Philistinism is ready to
entrust them with the care of music in the family--since it is
plain that anything ambiguous is not likely to proceed from that
quarter.
BUT NOW WHAT BECOMES OF OUR GREAT AND GLORIOUS GERMAN MUSIC? It
is the fate of our music that really concerns us. We have little
reason to grieve if, after a century of wondrous productivity,
nothing particular happens to come to light for some little time.
But there is every reason to beware of suspicious persons who set
themselves up as the trustees and conservators of the "true
German spirit" of our inheritance.
Regarded as individuals, there is not much to blame in these
musicians; most of them compose very well. Herr Johannes Brahms
once had the kindness to play a composition of his own to me--a
piece with very serious variations--which I thought excellent,
and from which I gathered that he was impervious to a joke. His
performance of other pianoforte music at a concert gave me less
pleasure. I even thought it impertinent that the friends of this
gentleman professed themselves unable to attribute anything
beyond "extraordinary technical power" to "Liszt and his school,"
whilst the execution of Herr Brahms appeared so painfully dry,
inflexible and wooden. I should have liked to see Herr Brahms'
technique annointed with a little of the oil of Liszt's school;
an ointment which does not seem to issue spontaneously from the
keyboard, but is evidently got from a more aetherial region than
that of mere "technique." To all appearances, however, this was a
very respectable phenomenon; only it remains doubtful how such a
phenomenon could be set up in a natural way as the Messiah, or,
at least, the Messiah's most beloved disciple; unless, indeed, an
affected enthusiasm for mediaeval wood-carvings should have
induced us to accept those stiff wooden figures for the ideals of
ecclesiastical sanctity. In any case we must protest against any
presentation of our great warm-hearted Beethoven in the guise of
such sanctity. If THEY cannot bring out the difference between
Beethoven, whom they do not comprehend and therefore pervert, and
Schumann, who, for very simple reasons, IS incomprehensible, they
shall, at least, not be permitted to assume that no difference
exists.
I have already indicated sundry special aspects of this
sanctimoniousness. Following its aspirations a little further we
shall come upon a new field, across which our investigation on
and about conducting must now lead us. Some time ago the editor
of a South German journal discovered "hypocritical tendencies"
(muckerische Tendenzen) in my artistic theories. The man
evidently did not know what he was saying; he merely wished to
use an unpleasant word. But my experience has led me to
understand that the essence of hypocrisy, and the singular
tendency of a repulsive sect of hypocrites (Mucker), may be known
by certain characteristics:--they wish to be tempted, and
greedily seek temptation, in order to exercise their power of
resistance!--Actual scandal, however, does not begin until the
secret of the adepts and leaders of the sect is disclosed;--the
adepts reverse the object of the resistance--they resist with a
view to increasing the ultimate sense of beatitude. Accordingly,
if this were applied to art, one would perhaps not be saying a
senseless thing if one were to attribute hypocritical tendencies
to the queer "school for chastity" of this Musical Temperance
Society. The lower grades of the school may be conceived as
vacillating between the orgiastic spirit of musical art and the
reticence which their dogmatic maxim imposes upon them--whilst it
can easily be shewn that the higher grades nourish a deep desire
to enjoy that which is forbidden to the lower. The "Liebeslieder
Walzer" of the blessed Johannes (in spite of the silly title)
might be taken as the exercises of the lower grades; whereas the
intense longing after "the Opera," which troubles the
sanctimonious devotions of the adepts, may be accepted as the
mark of the higher and highest grades. If a single member, for
once only, were to achieve a success with an opera, it is more
than probable that the entire "school" would explode. But,
somehow, no such success has hitherto been achieved, and this
keeps the school together; for, every attempt that happens to
fail, can be made to appear as a conscious effort of abstinence,
in the sense of the exercises of the lower grades; [Footnote: For
a curious example of such exercises, see Ferdinand Hiller's "Oper
ohne Text;" a set of pianoforte pieces, a quatre mains.] and "the
opera," which beckons in the distance like a forlorn bride, can
be made to figure as a symbol of the temptation, which is to be
finally resisted--so that the authors of operatic failures may be
glorified as special saints.
Seriously speaking, how do these musical gentlemen stand with
regard to "THE OPERA?" Having paid them a visit in the concert-
room to which they belong, and from which they started, we shall
now, for the sake of "conducting," look after them at the
theatre.
Herr Eduard Devrient, in his "Erinnerungen," has given us an
account of the difficulties his friend Mendelssohn met with in
the search for a textbook to an opera. It was to be a truly
"GERMAN" opera, and the master's friends were to find the
materials wherewith to construct it. Unfortunately, they did not
succeed in the quest. I suspect there were very simple reasons
for this. A good deal can be got at by means of discussion and
arrangement; but a "German" and "nobly-serene" opera, such as
Mendelssohn in his delicate ambition dreamt of, is not exactly a
thing that can be manufactured--nor old nor new testamentary
recipes will serve the purpose. The master did not live to reach
the goal: but his companions and apprentices continued their
efforts. Herr Hiller believed he could force on a success, simply
by dint of cheerful and unflagging perseverance. Everything, he
thought, depends upon a "lucky hit," such as others had made in
his very presence, and which steady perseverance, as in a game of
chance, must, sooner or later, bring round to him. But the "lucky
hit" invariably missed. Schumann also did not succeed, [Footnote:
"Genoveva," Oper in vier Acten, nach Tieck und F. Hebbel, Musik
von Robert Schumann. Op. 81."] and many other members of the
church of abstinence, both adepts and neophytes, have since
stretched forth their "chaste and innocent" hands in search of an
operatic success--they troubled greatly--but their efforts proved
fruitless--"the fortunate grip" failed.
Now, such experiences are apt to embitter the most harmless
persons. All the more so, since Capellmeisters and Musikdirectors
are daily occupied at the theatres, and are bound to serve in a
sphere in which they are absolutely helpless and impotent. And
the causes of their impotence, with regard to the composition of
an opera, are also the causes of their inability to conduct an
opera properly. Yet such is the fate of our public art, that
gentlemen who are not even able to conduct concert music, are the
sole leaders in the very complicated business of the opera
theatres! Let a reader of discretion imagine the condition of
things there!
I have been prolix in showing the weakness of our conductors, in
the very field, where, by rights, they ought to feel at home. I
can be brief now with regard to the opera. Here it simply comes
to this: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."
To characterize their disgraceful doings, I should have to show
how much that is good and significant MIGHT be done at the
theatres, and this would lead me too far. Let it be reserved for
another occasion. For the present I shall only say a little about
their ways as operatic conductors.
In the concert room these gentlemen go to work with the most
serious mien; at the opera they deem it becoming to put on a
nonchalant, sceptical, cleverly-frivolous air. They concede with
a smile that they are not quite at home in the opera, and do not
profess to understand much about things which they do not
particularly esteem. Accordingly, they are very accommodating and
complaisant towards vocalists, female and male, for whom they are
glad to make matters comfortable; they arrange the tempo,
introduce fermatas, ritardandos, accelerandos, transpositions,
and, above all, "cuts," whenever and wherever a vocalist chooses
to call for such. Whence indeed are they to derive the authority
to resist this or that absurd demand? If, perchance, a
pedantically disposed conductor should incline to insist upon
this or that detail, he will, as a rule, be found in the wrong.
For vocalists are at least at home and, in their own frivolous
way, at ease in the opera; they know well enough what they can
do, and how to do it; so that, if anything worthy of admiration
is produced in the operatic world it is generally due to the
right instincts of the vocalists, just as in the orchestra the
merit lies almost entirely in the good sense of the musicians.
One has only to examine an orchestra part of "Norma," for
instance, to see what a curious musical changeling (Wechselbalg)
such innocent looking sheets of music paper can be turned into;
the mere succession of the transpositions--the Adagio of an Aria
in F sharp major, the Allegro in F, and between the two (for the
sake of the military band) a transition in E flat--offers a truly
horrifying picture of the music to which such an esteemed
conductor cheerfully beats time.
It was only at a suburban theatre at Turin (i.e., in Italy) that
I witnessed a correct and complete performance of the "Barber of
Seville;" for our conductors grudge the trouble it takes to do
justice even to a simple score such as "Il Barbiere." They have
no notion that a perfectly correct performance, be it of the most
insignificant opera can produce an excellent impression upon an
educated mind, simply by reason of its correctness. Even the
shallowest theatrical concoctions, at the smallest Parisian
theatres, can produce a pleasant aesthetical effect, since, as a
rule, they are carefully rehearsed, and correctly rendered. The
power of the artistic principle is, in fact, so great that an
aesthetic result is at once attained, if only some part of that
principle be properly applied, and its conditions fulfilled: and
such is true art, although it may be on a very low level. But we
do not get such aesthetic results in Germany, unless it be at
PERFORMANCES OF BALLETS, in Vienna, or Berlin. Here the whole
matter is in the hands of one man--the ballet-master--and that
man knows his business. Fortunately, he is in a position to
dictate the rate of movement to the orchestra, for the expression
as well as for the tempo, and he does so, not according to his
individual whim, like an operatic singer, but with a view to the
ensemble, the consensus of all the artistic factors; and now, of
a sudden, it comes to pass that the orchestra plays correctly! A
rare sense of satisfaction will be felt by everyone who, after
the tortures of an opera, witnesses a performance of one of those
Ballets.
In this way the stage manager might lend his aid to the ensemble
of the opera. But, singularly enough, the fiction that the opera
is a branch of absolute music is everywhere kept up; every
vocalist is aware of the musical director's ignorance of the
business of an opera; yet--if it should happen that the right
instincts of gifted singers, musicians and executants generally
are aroused by a fine work, and bring about a successful
performance--are we not accustomed to see the Herr Capellmeister
called to the front, and otherwise rewarded, as the
representative of the total artistic achievement? Ought he not
himself to be surprised at this? Is he not, in his turn, in a
position to pray, "Forgive them, they know not what they do?"
But as I wished to speak of Conducting proper, and do not want to
lose my way in the operatic wilderness, I have only to confess
that I have come to the end of this chapter. I cannot dispute
about the conducting of our capellmeisters at the theatres.
Singers may do so, when they have to complain that this conductor
is not accommodating enough, or that the other one does not give
them their cues properly: in short, from the stand-point of
vulgar journeyman-work, a discussion may be possible. BUT FROM
THE POINT OF VIEW OF TRULY ARTISTIC WORK THIS SORT OF CONDUCTING
CANNOT BE TAKEN INTO ACCOUNT AT ALL. Among Germans, now living, I
am, perhaps, the only person who can venture openly to pronounce
so general a condemnation, and I maintain that I am not exceeding
the limits of my province when I do so.
If I try to sum up my experiences, regarding performances of my
own operas, I am at a loss to distinguish with which of the
qualities of our conductors I am concerned. Is it the spirit in
which they treat German music in the concert rooms, or the spirit
in which they deal with the opera at the theatres? I believe it
to be my particular and personal misfortune that the two spirits
meet in my operas, and mutually encourage one another in a rather
dubious kind of way. Whenever the former spirit, which practices
upon our classical concert music, gets a chance--as in the
instrumental introductions to my operas--I have invariably
discovered the disastrous consequences of the bad habits already
described at such length. I need only speak of the tempo, which
is either absurdly hurried (as, for instance, under Mendelssohn,
who, once upon a time, at a Leipzig Gewandhaus concert, produced
the overture to Tannhauser as an example and a warning), or
muddled (like the introduction to Lohengrin at Berlin, and almost
everywhere else), or both dragged and muddled (like the
introduction to "Die Meistersinger," lately, at Dresden and at
other places), yet never with those well-considered modifications
of the tempo, upon which I must count as much as upon the correct
intonation of the notes themselves, if an intelligible rendering
is to be obtained.
To convey some notion of faulty performances of the latter sort
it will suffice to point to the way in which the overture to "Die
Meistersinger" is usually given. The main tempo of this piece is
indicated as "sehr massig bewegt" (with very moderate movement);
according to the older method, it would have been marked Allegro
maestoso. Now, when this kind of tempo continues through a long
piece, particularly if the themes are treated episodically, it
demands modification as much as, or even more than any other kind
of tempo; it is frequently chosen to embody the manifold
combinations of distinct motives; and its broad divisions into
regular bars of four beats are found convenient, as these tend to
render modifications of movement both easy and simple. This
moderate 4/4 time can be interpreted in many and various ways; it
may consist of four vigorous crotchet-beats, and thus express a
true animated Allegro (this is the main tempo I intend, which
becomes most animated in those eight bars of transition
[2 measures of music are shown here]
which lead from the march proper to the theme in E major); or, it
may be taken to consist of a demi-period made up of two 2/4
beats; as when, at the entrance of the shortened theme,
[2 measures of music are shown here]
it assumes the character of a lively Scherzando; or, it may even
be interpreted as Alia breve (2/2 time) when it would represent
the older, easily moving Tempo andante (often employed in church
music) which is to be rendered with two moderately slow beats to
a bar. I have used it in the latter sense, beginning from the
eighth bar after the return to C major, in a combination of the
principal march theme, now allotted to the basses, with the
second main theme, now sung broadly and with commodious ease, in
rhythmical prolongation, by the violins and violoncellos:
[Three measures of music are shown here]
This second theme has previously been introduced in diminution,
and in common 4/4 time:
[Two measures of music are shown here]
Together with the greatest delicacy which the proper execution
demands, it here exhibits a passionate, almost hasty character
(something like a whispered declaration of love). Not to disturb
the main characteristic, delicacy, it is, therefore, necessary
slightly to hold back the tempo (the moving figuration
sufficiently expresses passionate haste), thus the extreme nuance
of the main tempo, in the direction of a somewhat grave 4/4 time,
should be adopted here, and, to do this without a wrench (i.e.,
without really disfiguring the general character of the main
tempo), a bar is marked poco rallentando, to introduce the
change. Through the more restless nuance of this theme:
[A musical score]
which, eventually, gets the upper hand, and which is indicated
with "leidenschaftlicher" (more passionate) it is easy to lead
the tempo back into the original quicker movement, in which,
finally, it will be found capable to serve in the above-mentioned
sense of an Andante alla breve, whereby it is only needful to
recur to a nuance of the main tempo, which has already been
developed in the exposition of the piece; namely, I have allowed
the final development of the pompous march theme to expand to a
lengthy coda of a cantabile character conceived in that tempo
Andante alia breve. As this full-toned cantabile
[A musical score]
is preceded by the weighty crochets of the fanfare the
modification of the tempo must obviously begin at the end of the
crochets, that is to say with the more sustained notes of the
chord on the dominant which introduces the cantabile. And, as
this broader movement in minims continues for some time with an
increase in power and modulation, I thought conductors could be
trusted to attain the proper increase of speed; the more so, as
such passages, when simply left to the natural impulse of the
executants always induce a more animated tempo. Being myself an
experienced conductor, I counted upon this as a matter of course,
and merely indicated the passage at which the tempo returns to
the original 4/4 time, which any musician will feel, at the
return of the crochets and in the changes of harmony.
At the conclusion of the overture the broader 4/4 time, quoted
above in the powerfully sustained march-like fanfare, returns
again; the quick figured embellishments are added, and the tempo
ends exactly as it began.
This overture was first performed at a concert at Leipzig, when I
conducted it as described above. It was so well played by the
orchestra that the small audience, consisting for the most part
of non-resident friends, demanded an immediate repetition, which
the musicians, who agreed with the audience, gladly accorded. The
favourable impression thus created was much talked of, and the
directors of the Gewandhaus Concerts decided to give the native
Leipzig public a chance to hear the new overture.
In this instance Herr Capellmeister Reinecke, who had heard the
piece under my direction, conducted it, and the very same
orchestra played it--in such wise that the audience hissed! I do
not care to investigate how far this result was due to the
straightforward honesty of the persons concerned; let it suffice
that competent musicians, who were present at the performance,
described to me the SORT OF TIME the Herr Capellmeister had
thought fit to beat to the overture--and therewith I knew enough.
If any conductor wishes to prove to his audience or to his
directors, etc., what an ambiguous risk they will run with "Die
Meistersinger," he need take no further trouble than to beat time
to the overture after the fashion in which he is wont to beat it
to the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach (which fashion suits
the works of R. Schumann fairly well); it will then be
sufficiently obvious that he is dealing with a very unpleasant
kind of music--let anyone imagine so animated, yet so sensitive a
thing as the tempo which governs this overture, let this
delicately constituted thing suddenly be forced into the
Procrustus-bed of such a classical time-beater, what will become
of it? The doom is: "Herein shalt thou lie, whatsoever is too
long with thee shall be chopped off, and whatsoever is too short
shall be stretched!" Whereupon the band strikes up and overpowers
the cries of the victim! Safely bedded in this wise, not only the
overture, but, as will appear in the sequel, the entire opera of
Die Meistersinger, or as much of it as was left after the
Capellmeister's cuts, was presented to the public of Dresden. On
this occasion, correctly and technically speaking, the merits of
the conductor [Footnote: The late Julius Rietz.] consisted in
this: he made a guess at the main tempo, chose the broadest
nuance of it, and spread this over the whole, beating the
steadiest and stiffest square time from beginning to end! The
ultimate results were as follows: I had made use of the
combination of the two main themes under an ideal Tempo Andante
alia breve (quoted above from the conclusion of the overture,
page 94) to form a pleasant and cheerful conclusion to the entire
opera, something after the manner of a burden to some old popular
song: I had augmented and enlarged the treatment of the thematic
combination for this purpose, and now employed it as a sort of
accompaniment to Hans Sachs's epilogising praise of the "Master-
singers," and to his consolatory rhymes upon German art, with
which the work ends. Though the words are serious, the closing
apostrophe is none the less meant to have a cheering and hopeful
effect; and, to produce this, I counted upon that simple thematic
combination, the rhythmical movement of which was intended to
proceed smoothly, and was not meant to assume a pompous
character, except just before the end, when the chorus enters.
Now in the overture, the conductor had failed to see the
necessity of a modification of the original march-like tempo in
the direction of an Andante alla breve; and, of course, here--at
the close of the opera--he equally failed to feel that the
movement was not directly connected with the march tempo--his
first mistake was therefore continued, and he proceeded to
confine and hold fast the warmly-feeling singer of the part of
Hans Sachs in rigid 4/4 time, and to compel him to deliver his
final address in the stiffest and most awkward manner possible.
Friends of mine requested me to permit a large "cut" for Dresden,
as the effect of the close was so very depressing. I declined;
and the complaints soon ceased. At length I came to understand
the reason why; the Capellmeister had acted for the obstinate
composer; "solely with a view to the good of the work," he had
followed the dictates of his artistic insight and conscience, had
laid his hands on the troublesome apostrophe, and simply "CUT"
it.
"Cut! Cut!"--this is the ultimo ratio of our conductors; by its
aid they establish a satisfactory equilibrium between their own
incompetence, and the proper execution of the artistic tasks
before them. They remember the proverb: "What I know not, burns
me not!" ("was ich nicht weiss, macht mich nicht heiss") and the
public cannot object to an arrangement so eminently practical. It
only remains for me to consider what I am to say to a performance
of my work, which thus appears enclosed between a failure at
Alpha, and a failure at Omega? Outwardly things look very
pleasant: An unusually animated audience, and an ovation for the
Herr Capellmeister--to join in which the royal father of my
country returns to the front of his box. But, subsequently,
ominous reports about cuts which had been made, and further
changes and abbreviations super-added; whilst the impression of a
perfectly unabbreviated, but perfectly correct performance, at
Munich, remains in my mind, and makes it impossible for me to
agree with the mutilators. So disgraceful a state of things seems
inevitable, since few people understand the gravity of the evil,
and fewer still care to assist in any attempts to mend it.
On the other hand there is some little consolation in the fact
that in spite of all ill-treatment the work retains some of its
power--that fatal power and "effect" against which the professors
of the Leipsic conservatorium so earnestly warn their pupils, and
against which all sorts of destructive tactics are applied in
vain! Having made up my mind, not to assist personally at any
future performance like the recent ones of "Die Meistersinger" at
Dresden, I am content to accept the "success" of the work as a
consolatory example illustrating the fate of our classical music
in the hands of our conducting musicians. Classical music retains
its warmth, and continues to exist in spite of the maltreatment
they subject it to. It appears truly indestructible: and the
Spirit of German art may accept this indestructibility as a
consoling fact, and may fearlessly continue its efforts in
future. It might be asked: But what do the queer conductors with
celebrated names amount to, considered simply as practical
musicians? Looking at their perfect unanimity in every practical
matter one might be led to think that, after all, they understand
their business properly, and that, in spite of the protest of
one's feelings, their ways might even be "classical." The general
public is so ready to take the excellence of their doings for
granted, and to accept it as a matter of course, that the middle-
class musical people are not troubled with the slightest doubt as
to who is to beat time at their musical festivals, or on any
other great occasion when the nation desires to hear some music.
No one but Herr Hiller, Herr Rietz, or Herr Lachner is thought
fit for this. It would be simply impossible to celebrate the
hundredth anniversary of Beethoven's birth if these three
gentlemen should happen suddenly to sprain their wrists. On the
other hand, I am sorry to say I know of no one to whom I would
confidently entrust a single tempo in one of my operas; certainly
to no member of the staff of our army of time-beaters. Now and
then I have met with some poor devil who showed real skill and
talent for conducting: but such rare fellows find it difficult to
get on, because they are apt not only to see through the
incompetence of the celebrities, but imprudent enough to speak
about it. If, for instance, a man happens to discover serious
mistakes in the orchestra parts of "Figaro," from which the opera
had been played with special unction--heaven knows how often--
under the solemn conductorship of a celebrity, he is not likely
to gain the favour of his chief. Such gifted poor fellows are
destined to perish like the heretics of old.
As everything is thus apparently in good order, and seems likely
to remain so, I am again tempted to ask how CAN this be? We
entertain lurking doubts whether these gentlemen really ARE
musicians; evidently they do not evince the slightest MUSICAL
FEELING; yet, in fact, they HEAR very accurately (with
mathematical, not ideal, accuracy; contretemps like that of the
faulty orchestra parts do not happen to everyone); they are quick
at a score, read and play at sight (many of them, at least, do
so); in short, they prove true professionals; but, alongside of
this, their general education (Bildung)--in spite of all efforts-
-is such as can pass muster in the case of a musician only; so
that, if music were struck from the list of their attainments,
there would be little left--least of all, a man of spirit and
sense. No, no! they certainly ARE musicians and very competent
musicians, who know and can do everything that pertains to music.
Well, then? As soon as they begin to perform music they muddle
matters, and feel unsafe all round, unless it be in "Ewig,
selig," or at best in "Lord Sabaoth!"
That which makes our great music great is the very thing which
confuses these people; unfortunately, this cannot be expressed in
words and concepts, nor in arithmetical figures. Yet, what is it
other than music? and music only! What, then, can be the reason
of this barrenness, dryness, coldness, this complete inability to
feel the influence of true music, and, in its presence, to forget
any little vexation, any small jealous distress, or any mistaken
personal notion? Could Mozart's astonishing gift for arithmetic
serve us for a vague explanation? On the one hand, it seems that
with him--whose nervous system was so excessively sensitive to
any disturbing sound, whose heart beat with such overflowing
sympathy--the ideal elements of music met and united to form a
wondrous whole. On the other hand, Beethoven's naive way of
adding up his accounts is sufficiently well known; arithmetical
problems of any sort or kind assuredly never entered into his
social or musical plans. Compared with Mozart he appears as a
monstrum per excessum in the direction of sensibility, which, not
being checked and balanced by an intellectual counterweight from
the arithmetical side, can hardly be conceived as able to exist
or to escape premature destruction, if it had not fortunately
been protected by a singularly tough and robust constitution. Nor
can anything in Beethoven's music be gauged or measured by
figures; whilst with Mozart a good deal that appears regular--
almost too regular (as has already been touched upon) is
conceivable, and can be explained as the result of a naive
mixture of those two extremes of musical perception. Accordingly
the professional musicians under examination appear as
monstrosities in the direction of musical arithmetic; and it is
not difficult to understand how such musicians, endowed with the
very reverse of a Beethovenian temperament, should succeed and
flourish with a nervous system of the commonest kind.
If then our celebrated and uncelebrated conductors happen to be
born for music only under the sign of Numbers (im Zeichen der
Zahl), it would seem very desirable that some new school might be
able to teach them the proper tempo for our music by the rule of
three. I doubt whether they will ever acquire it in the simple
way of musical feeling; wherefore, I believe, I have now reached
the end of my task.
Perhaps the new school is already in sight. I understand that a
"High-School of Music" has been established at Berlin, under the
auspices of the Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences, and that the
directorship of the school has been entrusted to the celebrated
violinist, Herr Joachim. To start such a school without Herr
Joachim, if his services are available, would be a great mistake.
I am inclined to hope for much from him; because everything I
know and have heard concerning his method of playing proves that
this virtuoso is a complete master of the style of execution I
demand for our classical music. By the side of Liszt and his
disciples he is the only living musician to whom I can point as a
practical proof and example in support of the foregoing
assertions. It is immaterial whether or not Herr Joachim likes to
see his name mentioned in such connection; for, with regard to
that which a man can do and actually does, it matters little what
he chooses to profess. If Herr Joachim thinks it expedient to
profess that he has developed his fine style in the company of
Herr Hiller, or of R. Schumann, this may rest upon its merits,
provided he always plays in such wise that one may recognise the
good results of several years intimate intercourse with Liszt. I
also think it an advantage that when a "High-School of Music" was
first thought of, the promoters at once secured the services of
an admirable PRACTICAL MASTER OF STYLE AND EXECUTION. If, to-day,
I had to put a theatre capellmeister in the way of comprehending
how he ought to conduct a piece, I would much rather refer him to
Frau Lucca, than to the late Cantor Hauptmann at Leipzig, even if
the latter were still alive. In this point I agree with the naive
portion of the public, and indeed, with the taste of the
aristocratic patrons of the opera, for I prefer to deal with
persons who actually bring forth something that appeals to the
ear and to the feelings. Yet, I cannot help entertaining some
little doubt, when I see Herr Joachim--all alone and solitary--
sitting on high in the curule chair of the Academy--with nothing
in his hand but a violin; for towards violinists generally I have
always felt as Mephistopheles feels towards "the fair," whom he
affects "once for all in the plural." The conductor's baton is
reported not to have worked well in Herr Joachim's hands;
composition, too, appears rather to have been a source of
bitterness to him than of pleasure to others. I fail to see how
"the high-school" is to be directed solely from the "high-stool"
of the violinist. Socrates, at least, was not of opinion that
Themistocles, Cimon and Pericles would prove capable of guiding
the State by reason of their abilities as commanders and
speakers; for, unfortunately, he could point to the results of
their successes, and shew that the administration of State
affairs became a source of personal trouble to them. But perhaps
the case is different in the realms of music.
Yet another thing appears dubious. I am told that Herr J. Brahms
expects all possible good to result from a return to the melody
of Schubert's songs, and that Herr Joachim, for his own part,
expects a NEW MESSIAH for music in general. Ought he not to leave
such expectations to those who have chosen him "high-
schoolmaster?" I, for my part, say to him "Go in, and win!" If it
should come to pass that he himself is the Messiah, he may, at
all events, rest assured that the Jews will not crucify him.