his twenty francs a lesson at the best houses; he was naturally a
welcome guest, and from the first seemed to have the run of high
Parisian society. His life was feverish, his activity irregular, his
health far from strong; but the vulgar temptations of the gay capital
seemed to have little attraction for his noble nature. His heart
remained unspoiled. He was most generous to those who could not
afford to pay for his lessons, most pitiful to the poor, most
dutiful and affectionate to his mother. Coming home late from some
grand entertainment, he would sit outside on the staircase till
morning, sooner than awaken, or perhaps alarm, her by letting himself
in. But in losing his father he seemed to have lost a certain method
and order. His meals were irregular, so were his lessons; more so were
the hours devoted to sleep.
At this time he was hardly twenty; we are not surprised anon to hear
in his own words, of "a female form chaste, and pure as the alabaster
of holy vessel," but he adds: "Such was the sacrifice which I offered
with tears to the God of Christians!"
I will explain. Mlle. Caroline St. Cricq was just seventeen, lithe,
slender, and of "angelic" beauty, with a complexion like a lily
flushed with roses, open, "impressionable to beauty, to the world, to
religion, to God." The countess, her mother, appears to have been a
charming woman, very partial to Liszt, whom she engaged to instruct
Mademoiselle in music. The lessons went not by time, but by
inclination. The young man's eloquence, varied knowledge, ardent love
of literature, and flashing genius won both the mother and daughter.
Not one of them seemed to suspect the whirlpool of grief and death to
which they were hurrying. The countess fell ill and died, but not
before she had recommended Liszt to the Count St. Cricq as a possible
suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle.
The haughty diplomat, St. Cricq, at once put his foot down. The
funeral over, Liszt's movements were watched. They were innocent
enough. He was already an _enfant de la maison_, but one night he
lingered reading aloud some favorite author to Mademoiselle a little
too late. He was reported by the servants, and received his polite
dismissal as music master. In an interview with the count his own
pride was deeply wounded. "Difference of rank!" said the count. That
was quite enough for Liszt. He rose, pale as death, with quivering
lip, but uttered not a word. As a man of honor he had but one course.
He and Caroline parted forever. She contracted later an uncongenial
marriage; he seems to have turned with intense ardor to religion. His
good mother used to complain to those who came to inquire for him that
he was all day long in church, and had ceased to occupy himself, as he
should, with music.
It was toward the close of 1831 that Liszt met Chopin in Paris. From
the first, these two men, so different, became fast friends. Chopin's
delicate, retiring soul found a singular delight in Liszt's strong and
imposing personality. Liszt's exquisite perception enabled him
perfectly to live in the strange dreamland of Chopin's fancies, while
his own vigor inspired Chopin with nerve to conceive those mighty
Polonaises that he could never properly play himself, and which he so
gladly committed to the keeping of his prodigious friend. Liszt
undertook the task of interpreting Chopin to the mixed crowds which he
revelled in subduing, but from which his fastidious and delicately
strung friend shrank with something like aversion.
From Chopin, Liszt and all the world after him got that _tempo
rubato_, that playing with the duration of notes without breaking the
time, and those arabesque ornaments which are woven like fine
embroidery all about the pages of Chopin's nocturnes, and lift what in
others are mere casual flourishes into the dignity of interpretative
phrases and poetic commentaries on the text.
People were fond of comparing the two young men who so often appeared
in the same salons together--Liszt with his finely shaped, long, oval
head and _profil d'ivoire_, set proudly on his shoulders, his stiff
hair of dark blonde thrown back from the forehead without a parting,
and cut in a straight line, his _aplomb_, his magnificent and courtly
bearing, his ready tongue, his flashing wit and fine irony, his genial
_bonhomie_ and irresistibly winning smile; and Chopin, also, with dark
blonde hair, but soft as silk, parted on one side, to use Liszt's own
words, "An angel of fair countenance, with brown eyes from which
intellect beamed rather than burned; a gentle, refined smile, slightly
aquiline nose; a delicious, clear, almost diaphanous complexion, all
bearing witness to the harmony of a soul which required no commentary
beyond itself."
Nothing can be more generous or more true than Liszt's recognition of
Chopin's independent support. "To our endeavors," he says, "to our
struggles, just then so much needing certainty, he lent us the support
of a calm, unshakable conviction, equally armed against apathy and
cajolery." There was only one picture on the walls of Chopin's room;
it hung just above his piano. It was a head of Liszt.
It is no part of my present scheme to describe the battle which
romanticism in music waged against the prevalent conventionalities. We
know the general outcome of the struggle culminating, after the most
prodigious artistic convulsions, in the musical supremacy of Richard
Wagner, who certainly marks firmly and broadly enough the greatest
stride in musical development made since Beethoven.
In 1842 Liszt visited Weimar, Berlin, and then went to Paris; he was
meditating a tour in Russia. Pressing invitations reached him from St.
Petersburg and Moscow. The most fabulous accounts of his virtuosity
had raised expectation to its highest pitch. He was as legendary even
among the common people as Paganini. His first concert at St.
Petersburg realized the then unheard-of sum of L2,000. The roads were
crowded to see him pass, and the corridors and approaches to the Grand
Opera blocked to catch a glimpse of him. The same scenes were repeated
at Moscow, where he gave six concerts without exhausting the popular
excitement.
On his return to Weimar he accepted the post of Capellmeister to the
Grand Duke. It provided him with that settled abode, and above all
with an orchestra, which he now felt so indispensable to meet his
growing passion for orchestral composition. But the time of rest had
not yet come.
In 1844 and 1845 he was received in Spain and Portugal with incredible
enthusiasm, after which he returned to Bonn to assist at the
inauguration of Beethoven's statue. With boundless liberality, he had
subscribed more money than all the princes and people of Germany put
together, to make the statue worthy of the occasion and the occasion
worthy of the statue.
The golden river which poured into him from all the capitals of
Europe now freely found a new vent in boundless generosity. Hospitals,
poor and needy, patriotic celebrations, the dignity and interests of
art, were all subsidized from his private purse. His transcendent
virtuosity was only equalled by his splendid munificence; but he
found--what others have so often experienced--that great personal
gifts and prodigious _eclat_ cannot possibly escape the poison of envy
and detraction. He was attacked by calumny; his gifts denied and
ridiculed; his munificence ascribed to vainglory, and his charity to
pride and ostentation; yet none will ever know the extent of his
private charities, and no one who knows anything of Liszt can be
ignorant of the simple, unaffected goodness of heart which prompted
them.
Still he was wounded by ingratitude and abuse. It seemed to check and
paralyze for the moment his generous nature. Fetis saw him at Coblenz
soon after the Bonn festival, at which he had expended such vast sums.
He was sitting alone, dejected and out of health. He said he was sick
of everything, tired of life, and nearly ruined. But that mood never
lasted long with Liszt; he soon arose and shook himself like a lion.
His detractors slunk away into their holes, and he walked forth
victorious to refill his empty purse and reap new laurels.
His career was interrupted by the stormy events of 1848. He settled
down for a time at Weimar, and it was then that he began to take that
warm interest in Richard Wagner which ended in the closest and most
enduring of friendships.
He labored incessantly to get a hearing for the "Lohengrin" and
"Tannhaeuser." He forced Wagner's compositions on the band, on the
grand-duke; he breasted public opposition and fought nobly for the
eccentric and obscure person who was chiefly known as a political
outlaw and an inventor of extravagant compositions which it was
impossible to play or sing, and odiously unpleasant to listen to. But
years of faithful service, mainly the service and immense _prestige_
and authority of Liszt, procured Wagner a hearing, and paved the way
for his glorious triumphs at Bayreuth in 1876, 1882, and 1883.
I have preferred to confine myself in this article to the personality of
Liszt, and have made no allusion to his orchestral works and oratorio
compositions. The "Symphonic Poems" speak for themselves--magnificent
renderings of the inner life of spontaneous emotion--but subject-matter
which calls for a special article can find no place at the fag-end of
this, and at all times it is better to hear music than to describe it.
As it would be impossible to describe Liszt's orchestration intelligibly
to those who have not heard it, and unnecessary to those who have, I
will simply leave it alone.
I saw Liszt but six times, and then only between the years 1876 and
1881. I heard him play upon two occasions only, and then he played
certain pieces of Chopin at my request and a new composition by
himself. I have heard Mme Schumann, Buelow, Rubenstein, Menter, and
Esipoff, but I can understand that saying of Tausig, himself one of
the greatest masters of _technique_ whom Germany has ever produced:
"No mortal can measure himself with Liszt. He dwells alone upon a
solitary height."
RICHARD WAGNER
By FRANKLIN PETERSON, Mus. Bac.
(1813-1883)
[Illustration: Wagner.]
Richard Wagner's personality has been so overshadowed by and almost
merged in the great controversy which his schemes of reform in opera
raised, that his life and character are often now sorely
misjudged--just as his music long was--by those who have not the time,
the inclination, or the ability to understand the facts and the
issues. Before briefly stating then the theories he propounded and
their development, as shown in successive music dramas, it will be
well to summarize the story of a life (1813-83) during which he was
called to endure so much vicissitude, trial and temptation, suffering
and defeat.
Born in Leipsic, on May 22, 1813, the youngest of nine children,
Wilhelm Richard was only five months old when his father died. His
mother's second marriage entailed a removal to Dresden, where, at the
Kreuzschule, young Wagner received an excellent liberal education. At
the age of thirteen the bent of his taste, as well as his diligence,
was shown by his translation (out of school hours) of the first twelve
books of the "Odyssey." In the following year his passion for poetry
found expression in a grand tragedy. "It was a mixture," he says, "of
Hamlet and Lear. Forty-two persons died in the course of the play,
and, for want of more characters, I had to make some of them reappear
as ghosts in the last act." Weber, who was then conductor of the
Dresden opera, seems to have attracted the boy both by his personality
and by his music; but it was Beethoven's music which gave him his real
inspiration. From 1830 to 1833 many compositions after standard models
are evidence of hard and systematic work and in 1833 he began his long
career as an operatic composer with "Die Feen" which, however, never
reached the dignity of performance till 1888--five years after
Wagner's death. After some time spent in very unremunerative routine
work in Heidelberg, Koenigsberg, and Riga (where in 1836 he married),
he resolved, in 1839, to try his fortune in Paris with "Rienzi," a new
opera, written on the lines of the Paris Grand Opera and with all its
great resources in view. From the month's terrific storm in the North
Sea, through which the vessel struggled to its haven, till the spring
of 1842, when Wagner left Paris with "Rienzi" unperformed, heartsick
with hope deferred, his lot was a hard and bitter one. Berlioz, in
similar straits, supported himself by singing in the chorus of a
second-rate theatre. Wagner was refused even that humble post. In 1842
"Rienzi" was accepted at Dresden, and its signal success led to his
appointment as Capellmeister there (January, 1843). In the following
year the "Flying Dutchman" was not so enthusiastically received, but
it has since easily distanced the earlier work in popular favor. The
story was suggested to his mind during the stormy voyage from Riga;
and it is a remarkable fact that the wonderful tone-picture of
Norway's storm-beaten shore was painted by one who, till that voyage,
had never set eyes on the sea. In 1845 his new opera, "Tannhaeuser,"
proved at first a comparative failure. The subject, one which had been
proposed to Weber in 1814, attracted Wagner while he was in Paris, and
during his studies for the libretto he found also the first
suggestions of "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal." The temporary failure of
the opera led him to the consideration and self-examination which
resulted in the elaborate exposition of his ideal (in "Opera and
Drama," and many other essays). "I saw a single possibility before
me," he writes, "to induce the public to understand and participate in
my aims as an artist." "Lohengrin" was finished early in 1848, and
also the poem of "Siegfried's Tod," the result of Wagner's studies in
the old Nibelungen Lied; but a too warm sympathy with some of the aims
of the revolutionary party (which reigned for two short days behind
the street barricades in Dresden, May, 1849) rendered his absence from
Saxony advisable, and a few days later news reached him in Weimar that
a warrant was issued for his arrest. With a passport procured by Liszt
he fled across the frontier, and for nearly twelve years the
bitterness of exile was added to the hardships of poverty. It is this
period which is mainly responsible for Wagner's polemical writings, so
biting in their sarcasm, and often unfair in their attacks. He was a
good hater; one of the most fiendish pamphlets in existence is the
"Capitulation" (1871), in which Wagner, safe from poverty (thanks to
the kindness of Liszt and the munificence of Ludwig II., of Bavaria),
and nearing the summit of his ambition, but remembering only his
misfortunes and his slights, gloated in public over the horrors which
were making a hell of the fairest city on earth. There is excuse at
least, if not justification, to be found for his attacks on Meyerbeer
and others; there are considerations to be taken into account while
one reads with humiliation and pity the correspondence between Wagner
and his benefactor, Liszt; but it is sad that an affectionate, humane,
intensely human, to say nothing of an artistic, nature, could so
blaspheme against the first principles of humanity.
In 1852 the poem of the "Nibelungen Ring Trilogy" was finished. In
1854 "Rheingold" (the introduction of "Vorabend") was ready, and "Die
Walkuere" (Part I.) in 1856. But "tired," as he said, "of heaping one
silent score upon another," he left "Siegfried" unfinished, and turned
to the story of "Tristan." The poem was completed in 1857, and the
music two years later. At last, in 1861, he received permission to
return to Germany, and in Vienna he had the first opportunity of
hearing his own "Lohengrin." For three years the struggle with fortune
seems to have been harder than ever before, and Wagner, in broken
health, had practically determined to give up the unequal contest,
when an invitation was sent him by Ludwig II., the young King of
Bavaria--"Come here and finish your work." Here at last was salvation
for Wagner, and the rest of his life was comparatively smooth. In 1865
"Tristan und Isolde" was performed at Munich, and was followed three
years later by a comic opera, "Die Meistersinger," the first sketches
of which date from 1845. "Siegfried" ("Nibelungen Ring," Part II.) was
completed in 1869, and in the following year Wagner married Cosima,
the daughter of Liszt, and formerly the wife of Von Buelow. His first
wife, from whom he had been separated in 1861, died at Dresden in
1866.
A theatre built somewhere off the main lines of traffic, and specially
constructed for the performance of Wagner's later works, must have
seemed the most impracticable and visionary of proposals in 1870; and
yet, chiefly through the unwearying exertions of Carl Tausig (and, after
his death, of the various Wagner societies), the foundation-stone of the
Baireuth Theatre was laid in 1872, and in 1876, two years after the
completion of the "Goetterdaemmerung" ("Nibelungen Ring," Part III.), it
became an accomplished fact. The first work given was the entire
"Trilogy;" and in July, 1882, Wagner's long and stormy career was
magnificently crowned there by the first performance of "Parsifal." A
few weeks later his health showed signs of giving way, and he resolved
to spend the winter at Venice. There he died suddenly, February 13,
1883, and was buried in the garden of his own house, Wahnfried, at
Baireuth.[12]
[Footnote 12: Our illustration represents him at Wahnfried in
company with his wife Cosima, her father Franz Liszt, who was
his lifelong friend, and Herr von Wolzogen.]
Wagner's life and his individuality are of unusual importance in
rightly estimating his work, because, unlike the other great masters,
he not only devoted all his genius to one branch of music--the
opera--but he gradually evolved a theory and an ideal which he
consciously formulated and adopted, and perseveringly followed. It may
be asked whether Wagner's premises were sound and his conclusions
right; and also whether his genius was great enough to be the worthy
champion of a cause involving such revolutions. Unless Wagner's
operas, considered solely as music, are not only more advanced in
style, but worthy in themselves to stand at least on a level with the
greatest efforts of his predecessors, no amount of proof that these
were wrong and he right will give his name the place his admirers
claim for it. It is now universally acknowledged that Wagner can only
be compared with the greatest names in music. His instrumentation has
the advantage in being the inheritor of the enormous development of
the orchestra from Haydn to Berlioz, his harmony is as daring and
original as Bach's, and his melody is as beautiful as it is different
from Beethoven's or Mozart's. (These names are used not in order to
institute profitless comparisons, but as convenient standards;
therefore even a qualification of the statement will not invalidate
the case.)
[Illustration: Wagner and his Friends.]
His aim (stated very generally) was to reform the whole structure of
opera, using the last or "Beethoven" development of instrumental music
as a basis, and freeing it from the fetters which conventionality had
imposed, in the shape of set forms, accepted arrangements, and
traditional concessions to a style of singing now happily almost
extinct. The one canon was to be dramatic fitness. In this "Art Work
of the Future," as he called it, the interest of the drama is to
depend not entirely on the music, but also on the poem and on the
acting and staging as well. It will be seen that Wagner's theory is
not new. All or most of it is contained in the theories of Gluck and
others, who at various periods in the development of opera consciously
strove after an ideal music drama. But the times were not ripe, and
therefore such music could not exert its proper influence. The twin
arts of music and poetry, dissociated by the rapid advance of
literature and the slow development of music, pursued their several
paths alone. The attempt to reunite them in the end of the sixteenth
century was futile, and only led to opera which never needed, and
therefore did not employ, great poetry. In Germany music was developed
along instrumental lines until the school arrived at its culmination
in Beethoven; and when an opera composer stopped to think on the
eternal verities, the result must always have been such a prophecy of
Wagner's work as we find in Mozart's letters:
"_October, 1781._--Verse indeed is indispensable for music, but rhyme
is bad in its very nature.... It would be by far the best if a good
composer, understanding the theatre and knowing how to produce a
piece, and a clever poet, could be united in one...."
Other but comparatively unimportant features in the Wagner music drama
are, _e.g._, the use of the _Leitmotiv_, or leading motive--found
occasionally in Gluck, Mozart, Weber, etc., but here first adopted
with a definite purpose, and the contention for mythological rather
than historical subjects--now largely admitted. But all Wagner's
principles would have been useless without the energy and perseverance
which directed his work, the loving study which stored his memory with
all the great works of his predecessors, and, above all, the genius
which commands the admiration of the musical world.
Wagner's works show a remarkable and progressive development. "Rienzi"
is quite in the grand opera style of Meyerbeer, Spontini, etc. The
"Flying Dutchman" is a deliberate departure from that style, and in
romantic opera strikes out for itself a new line, which, followed
still further in "Tannhaeuser," reaches its stage of perfection in
"Lohengrin." From this time dates the music drama, of which "Tristan"
is the most uncompromising type, and by virtue of wonderful
orchestration, and the intense pathos of the beautifully written poem,
the most fascinating of all. The "Trilogy" ("Walkuere," "Siegfried,"
"Goetterdaemmerung," with the "Rheingold" as introduction) is a very
unequal work. It is full of Wagner's most inspired writing and most
marvellous orchestration; but it is too long and too diffuse. The plot
also is strangely confused and uninteresting, and fails alike as a
story and as a vehicle of theories, morals, or religion. "Parsifal,"
with its sacred allegory, its lofty nobility of tone, and its pure
mysticism, stands on a platform by itself, and is almost above
criticism, or praise, or blame. The libretto alone might have won
Wagner immortality, so original is it and perfect in intention; and
the music seems to be no longer a mere accessory to the effect, but
the very essence and fragrance of the great conception.
GIUSEPPE VERDI
(BORN 1813)
[Illustration: Verdi.]
Giuseppe Verdi, the last and most widely successful of the school of
Italian opera proper, was born at Roncole, near Busseto, October 9,
1813. At ten years he was organist of the small church in his native
village, the salary being raised after a year from L1 8_s._ 10_d._ to
L1 12_s._ per annum. At the age of sixteen he was provided with funds
to prosecute his studies at the Conservatorium at Milan; but at the
entrance examination he showed so little evidence of musical talent
that the authorities declined to enroll him. Nothing daunted, he
pursued his studies with ardor under Lavigna, from 1831 to 1833, when,
according to agreement, he returned to Busseto to take the place of
his old teacher Provesi, now deceased.
After five unhappy years in a town where he was little appreciated,
Verdi returned to Milan. His first opera, "Oberto," is chiefly
indebted to Bellini, and the next, "Un Giorno di Regno" (which
fulfilled its own title, as it was only once performed), has been
styled "Un Bazar de Reminiscences." Poor Verdi had just lost his wife
and two children within a few days of each other, so it is hardly to
be wondered at that a comic opera was not a very congenial work, nor
successfully accomplished.