[Footnote 190: Because of an unfortunate accident to one of his fingers this ambition, however, had to be abandoned. The world thereby gained a great composer.]

Schumann's career was peculiar in that, beginning as a pianoforte composer, he tried successively every other form as well—the song, chamber music, works for orchestra, and for orchestra with solo voices and chorus—and won distinction to a greater or less degree in every field save that of the opera. Notwithstanding the beauty of poetic inspiration enshrined in the four symphonies, a grave defect is the quality of orchestral tone which greets the ear, especially the modern ear accustomed to the many-hued sonority of Wagner, Tchaikowsky, Debussy and others. These symphonies have been called "huge pieces for four hands" which were afterwards orchestrated, and the allegation is not without truth, as real orchestral glow and brilliancy is so often lacking. Each one, however, has notable features, e.g., the sublime Adagio of the 2d, and the touching Romanza of the 4th, and each is worthy of study; for Schumann in certain aspects furnishes the best avenue of approach to the modern school. In the Fourth Symphony he obliterates the pauses between the movements and fuses them all together; calling it a Symphony "in einem Satze" and anticipating the very same procedure that Schoenberg follows in his String Quartet which has had recent vogue. Schumann's chief contribution to the development of the German Song lay in the pianoforte part, which with Schubert and Mendelssohn might properly be called an accompaniment, however rich and varied. But in Schumann the pianoforte attains to a real independence of style, intensifying in the most subtle and delicate way every shade of poetic feeling in the text. In fact, it is often used to reveal some deep meaning beyond the expressive power of words. This is seen in the closing measures of "Moonlight" where the voice ceases in suspense, and the instrument completes the eloquence of the message. Schumann's great achievement as a literary man was his founding, in 1834, of the Neue Zeitschrift fuer Musik, to which he himself contributed many stimulating and suggestive essays, opposing with might and main the Philistinism which so pervaded the music of his time. He even established an imaginary club, called the Davidsbund, to storm the citadel of Philistia.

The best eulogy of Schumann is the recognition that many of the tendencies in modern music, which we now take for granted, date from him: the exaltation of freedom and fancy over mere formal presentation, the union of broad culture with musical technique, and the recognition of music as the art closest in touch with the aspirations of humanity. He was an idealist with such perseverance and clearness of aim that his more characteristic work can never die.

DES ABENDS.

The Fantasiestuecke[191], op. 12, of which this piece is the first, amply justify their title, for they abound in soaring thoughts, in fantastic, whimsical imaginings and in novel modes of utterance and structure. Every number of the set is a gem, In der Nacht being perhaps the most poetic of Schumann's short pieces for the pianoforte. They are thoroughly pianistic and evoke from the instrument all its possibilities of sonority and color. In point of texture they illustrate that happy combination, which Schumann worked out, of lyric melodies on a firmly knit polyphonic basis. They are also programmistic in so far as Schumann believed in music of that type. There is no attempt to tell a detailed story or to have the music correspond literally to definite incidents. The titles merely afford a verbal clue to the general import and atmosphere of the music. Thus in regard to the piece under consideration, the mere mention of eventide is supposed to be enough to stimulate thought in any one with a sensitive imagination, and the music is a suggestive expression of Schumann's own intimate reveries. The piece is in extended two-part form—each part repeated—and rounded out with an eloquent Coda. The rhythmic scheme is of particular significance for it illustrates not only the composer's fondness for inventing new combinations, but, as well, suggests most delicately the mood of the piece. It would evidently be false art to write a piece, entitled Evening, in a vigorous, arousing rhythm, such as might be associated with a noon-day sun, when we often see the heat-waves dancing over the fields. On the other hand Schumann, by a subtle blending of triple time in the main upper melody and duple time in the lower, suggests that hazy indefiniteness appropriate to the time of day when the life of Nature seems momentarily subsiding and everything sinking to rest, e.g.

[Music]

In many measures of the second part (i.e., 21-24) the accent is so disguised that it seems as if we were in a twilight revery, quite apart from matters of time and space.

[Footnote 191: As the music is readily procurable the student should make himself familiar with the entire set.]

WARUM?

This piece is a happy illustration of the intensity of meaning and the conciseness of structure which Schumann gained by the application of polyphonic imitation. It is difficult to say exactly what Warum signifies. It was characteristic of the Romantic unrest of the German mind to question everything—especially "Why am I not more happy in love?" The motto may be considered a Carlyle-like "everlasting why." At any rate the composition is an example of music speaking more plainly than words; for no one can fail to recognize the haunting appeal in the theme with its long-drawn out final note after the upward leap. It is a real musical question, e.g.

[Music]

Grillen, the next piece in the set, deserves careful study. It is too long to present as a whole, but we cite the middle part (See Supplement No. 52) as it is such a convincing example of syncopated effect (i.e., the persistent placing of the accent on weak beats), and of elasticity in the metric scheme.

Novellette in E major.

This piece illustrates the vigor and massiveness of Schumann's pianoforte style. Note the sonority gained by the use of widely spaced chords. For the brilliant effect demanded, there should be a liberal use of the damper pedal.[192] We likewise find, beginning with the third brace, some characteristic polyphonic imitations which give to the movement a remarkable concentration. In the middle contrasting portion it seems as if Schumann had taken a leaf out of Chopin's book—a beautiful, lyric melody floating on an undercurrent of sonorous, arpeggio chords. The theme is presented in dialogue form, first in the upper voice, next in an inner voice and finally in the bass. (See Supplement No. 53.)

[Footnote 192: A beautiful contrast may be made by playing the section in F major with the "una corda" pedal throughout.]

SONG, Mondnacht.

No estimate of Schumann would be fair or comprehensive without some mention of his songs; upon which, together with his pianoforte compositions, his immortality tends more and more to rest. Notwithstanding the many poetic and dramatic touches in Schubert's accompaniments, those of Schumann are on the whole more finely wrought; for he had the advantage of Schubert in being, himself, a pianist of high attainment, thoroughly versed in pianistic effects. His imagination was also more sensitive to subtle shades of meaning in the text and he was inspired by the wonderful lyrics of Heine, Eichendorff and Chamisso who in Schubert's day had written very little. Special features of Schumann's songs are the instrumental preludes and postludes, the prelude establishing just the right setting for the import of the words and the postlude commenting on the beautiful message which the voice has just delivered. In Mondnacht, for example, (as previously mentioned), note how the voice stops in suspense and in what an eloquent revery the accompaniment completes the picture. (See Supplement No. 54.)

OVERTURE TO Manfred.

This Overture, the first of a set of incidental numbers which Schumann composed to illustrate Byron's dramatic poem, represents some of his most typical inspiration, and so is well worthy of our study. The music is labored at times, especially in the Development, and the orchestration is often dry and stereotyped. But the conception was a powerful one, and there is a genuine correspondence between the nature of the music and the spirit of the poem. It is evident that the subject made a deep impression on Schumann, whose own imagination, addicted to mysterious and even morbid broodings, was strongly akin to that of Byron's fictitious character. The composition is program music of the subjective order, comparable to Beethoven's Coriolanus, i.e., the themes are dramatic characterizations: the first typifying the stormy nature of Manfred; the second, with its note of pleading, the mysterious influence over the recluse of the spirit of Astarte. As in all works of this kind the music cannot be readily appreciated without a knowledge of the poem which it illustrates.[193] As for the structure, Schumann clings too closely to the Sonata-form. The music is eloquent just in proportion as he gives his fancy free rein; where he tries to force the themes into an arbitrary mould, the result is unsatisfactory—especially the development, which is neither very dramatic nor interesting from a purely musical point of view. The work opens with three spasmodic syncopated[194] chords, and then follow twenty-four measures (lento and at first pianissimo) of a preludial nature with suggestions of the Manfred theme. The movement becomes gradually faster and more impassioned until, in measure 26, we reach the presentation of the first theme (allegro agitato) which, with its frequent syncopations, is characteristic of Manfred's restless nature. The transition begins in measure 39; at first with a repetition of the main theme, which soon modulates to F-sharp minor, in which key the second theme enters, in measure 51. This theme—in three portions—seems to embody different aspects of the feminine influence of Astarte. The first portion, measures 51-61, with its undulating, chromatic outline, may be said to typify the haunting apparition so real to Manfred's imagination and yet so intangible; the second, 62-67, contains a note of impassioned protest, and the third, 68-77, is a love message of tender consolation. If this interpretation seem too subjective, a careful reading of the drama where Astarte appears (pp. 284-285 in the Everyman's Edition) will, we believe, corroborate it. The rest of the Exposition consists in a treatment of the Astarte motive, primarily of a musical nature; though there is a real dramatic intensity in measures 96-103, which are an expansion of the love message with its characteristic "appoggiatura." The Development, beginning in measure 132, is a striking example of how difficult it was—even for an exponent of freedom in musical expression like Schumann—to break loose from the shackles of arbitrary form. The musical thought is kept in motion, to be sure, but that is about all; for the treatment is often very labored, and nothing is added to the dramatic picture. The world had to await the work of Tchaikowsky, and Strauss for a satisfactory adjustment[195] between the demands of dramatic fitness and the needs of musical structure. In the Coda, beginning measure 258, Schumann—now that he is free from considerations of structure—gains a dramatic effect of truly impressive power. The horns, supported by trumpets and trombones, intone a funeral dirge of touching solemnity (evidently suggested by the closing death scene of the drama) while, above, hover portions of the Astarte motive, as if even in his death her influence was paramount in Manfred's imagination, e.g.

[Music]

Notwithstanding certain blemishes, this Overture at the time of its composition was a landmark in the development of program music, and if to our modern tastes it seems a bit antiquated, this is largely because of the great progress which has since been made.[196]

[Footnote 193: The poem is easily procured in a volume of Everyman's Library.]

[Footnote 194: These chords are an amusing example of a "paper effect," for unless you watch the conductor's beat, it is impossible to feel the syncopation. There being no first beat proper, the chords are syncopated against the air!]

[Footnote 195: For pertinent comments on this point see Newman's essay on Program Music, pp. 134-135, in his Musical Studies.]

[Footnote 196: In studying this work consult, if possible, the orchestral score. For those who need a condensed two-hand arrangement, the Litolff edition is to be recommended.]

SYMPHONY IN D MINOR.

This Symphony is selected from Schumann's four, both for the peculiar romantic beauty of its themes and because the form in which it is cast makes it an important connecting link between the freedom of structure, instituted by Beethoven, and the Symphonic Poem of Liszt and other modern composers. All of Schumann's symphonies contain genuine beauties and should be familiar to the cultivated musician. Perhaps the first in B-flat major is the most sustained, and it has a freshness and buoyancy summed up in its title, the Spring, by which it is popularly known. The exuberance of the Finale is pure Schumann and is expressed with an orchestral eloquence in which he was frequently lacking.[197] The Second Symphony is notable for its sublime Adagio, Schumann's love-song—comparable to the slow movement of Beethoven's Fourth. At some future day, conductors will have the courage to play this movement by itself like a magnificent Torso, for indubitably the other movements have aged beyond recall. The Third Symphony, known as the Rhenish (composed when Schumann was living at Duesseldorf on the Rhine) is significant for its incorporation of popular melodies from the Rhineland, and for the movement, scored chiefly for trombones and other brass instruments, which gives a picture of some ceremonial occasion in the Cologne Cathedral.

[Footnote 197: It is more than a matter of mere chronology to realise that the D minor Symphony was composed in the same year as the B-flat major. It was afterwards revised and published as No. 4, but the vitality and spontaneity of its themes come from the first gush of Schumann's inspiration.]

The Fourth Symphony is an uneven work, for there are many places where Schumann's constructive power was unequal to his ideal conceptions. We often can see the joints, and the structure—in places—resembles a rag-carpet rather than the organic texture of an oriental rug. But the spontaneous outpouring of melody touches our emotions and well-nigh disarms criticism. Schumann had constantly been striving for a closer relationship[198] between the conventional movements of the symphony; and his purpose, in the structural treatment adopted, is indicated by the statement published in the full score—"Introduction, Allegro, Romanze, Scherzo und Finale in einem Satze" i.e., the work is to be considered as a continuous whole and not broken up into arbitrary movements with rigid pauses between. The long drawn-out Introduction,[199] with its mysterious harmonies, leads us into the land of romance, and a portion of this introduction is happily carried over and repeated in the Romanze. The First movement proper, from Lebhaft, seems at first as if it were to be in the customary Sonata-form; the Exposition beginning with two themes in the normal relationship of minor and relative major, though to be sure the second theme is more of a supplementary expansion of the first than one which provides a strong contrast. But after the double bar and repeat, this first theme is developed in a free preludial manner as if it were continually leading up to a climax. We are finally rewarded by a new theme of great warmth which amply makes up for any lack of individuality in the second theme proper, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 198: We find traces of this tendency in the First Symphony, where the Slow Movement and the Scherzo are linked together, likewise in the Second, where the motto of the first movement is repeated at the end of the Scherzo.]

[Footnote 199: The analysis is based, as usual, on the orchestral score; for class-room study there are excellent editions for two and four hands.]

The rest of the movement consists of additional improvisations, rather too rigidly sectionalized, on the first theme and a second appearance of the interpolated theme. This theme, with rhythmic modifications, serves also as the basis for the brilliant Coda; for there is no Recapitulation proper, and it is evident that the movement is an extended prelude for what is to come—a first portion of the work as a whole. After a dramatic pause,[200] which enhances the feeling of expectancy (so prominent in the first movement) followed by a sustained modulatory chord, the Romanze begins with a plaintive theme in A minor. The mood is that of an idealized serenade, and in the original score the accompaniment for the oboe melody was given to the guitar[201] to secure the appropriate atmosphere. After the first statement of the theme there is an interpolated quotation of the characteristic passage from the introduction, which serves to bind the movements together both in structure and in relationship of mood. The movement is in clear-cut three-part form and the middle contrasting section in the major mode reveals a sustained descending melody played by the body of strings, which is delicately embellished by an obligato variant given to a solo violin, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 200: Concert-goers may well be reminded that there should be no applause between the movements of this work. One of the most pernicious ideas of the public is that as soon as the music ceases, handclapping should begin; whereas a complete silence is often the very means the composer employs for intensifying what has been said and preparing for what is to come. Let us ponder the cryptic remark attributed to Mozart that "the rests in music are more important than the notes."]

[Footnote 201: This was afterwards withdrawn as impracticable. What a pity that Schumann wrote before the harp as a member of the orchestra had come into its own. For the mood which he was trying to establish compare the scoring of this Romanza with that in the Slow movement of Franck's Symphony.]

At first the 'cellos, also, re-enforce this melody.

[Music]

The effect is that of an ethereal voice commenting on the beauty of the main theme. This obligato part is of special significance, since with rhythmic change it forms the chief theme of the Trio in the following movement. The Romanze closes with a simple return to the plaintive oboe melody, this time in D minor. The tonality is purposely indefinite to accentuate the wistful feeling of the movement—the last chords having the suspense of a dominant ending. After a short pause we are at once whirled into the dashing Scherzo which seems to represent the playful badinage of a Romantic lover. The Trio affords a delightful reminiscence of the Romanze and, from a structural point of view, is an early example of the principle of "transformation of theme"[202] which plays so important a role in the works of Liszt, Franck, Tchaikowsky and Dvořak. For the melody, e.g.,

[Music]

is a rhythmic variant of the former obligato of the solo violin, and has this characteristic, which gives a peculiar note of surprise, that it always begins on the third beat of the measure. Following a repetition of the Scherzo the movement ends eloquently with a coda-like return to the Trio which, after some modulatory changes, is broken up into detached fragments, seeming to vanish into thin air. There is no pause between the end of the Scherzo and the introduction, based on the theme of the first movement, which ushers in the Finale. This movement is in Sonata-form with a modified Recapitulation—i.e., the first theme is not repeated—and with a passionate closing theme, e.g.,

[Music]

which atones for the intentional incompleteness with which the first movement ends. The main theme is a compound of a vigorous march-like motive, closely related to one of the subsidiary phrases of the first movement, and a running figure in the bass—the derivation of which is obvious. After a rather labored transition[203]—surely the most mechanical passage in the whole work—we are rewarded by a melody of great buoyancy and rhythmic life, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 202: In Brahms, who was something of a conservative as to freedom of form, there is a striking example in the connection between the second movement and the Finale of the Third Symphony.]

[Footnote 203: Schumann was a true poet in the spontaneity of his themes, but often an unsuccessful architect when connecting them.]

The free Fantasie begins with a contrapuntal working-out of a figure taken from the first theme, but it suffers from a persistent emphasis on what, after all, is an uninteresting rhythm [Music]; there is, furthermore, a rigid grouping of the phrases in twos and fours. Schumann's instinct was a wise one in omitting the main theme of the Recapitulation and in leading, as soon as possible, to the repetition of the delightful second theme—the gem of the movement—which now makes its orthodox appearance in the tonic. After some ejaculatory measures, which remind us of the beginning of the Development, we have the impassioned closing theme, referred to above, which ushers in the free and brilliant Coda, worked up contrapuntally with ever increasing speed. The movement ends with Schumannesque syncopations. The D minor Symphony, thus, although not a perfect work of art, is a significant one and repays intimate study. A long life may safely be predicted for it by reason of the fervor and charm of its melodies. An important historical status it will always hold, for it is the honorable ancestor of such great symphonies as Cesar Franck's in D minor and Tchaikowsky's in E minor, in which we find the same freedom of form and the same fusion of material attempted by Schumann's daring spirit.[204]

[Footnote 204: For a detailed and illuminating study of this symphony and of Schumann's style in general see the last essay in Preludes and Studies by W.J. Henderson. Another excellent essay may be found in Studies in Modern Music by W.H. Hadow.]

Closely connected with Schumann, chronologically and also by certain executive associations, e.g., the Leipsic Conservatory, is the career of Mendelssohn (1809-1847). There was much in common between the two; they both were extremely versatile, of strong literary bent and naturally drawn to the same media of expression: pianoforte, solo voices and orchestra. And yet, so dissimilar were the underlying strains in their temperaments that their compositions, as an expression of their personalities, show little in common. Schumann, as we have seen, was fantastic, mystical, a bold, independent thinker, the quintessence of the Romantic spirit. Mendelssohn, on the other hand, though not lacking in poetic fancy and warmth, was cautious—a born conservative; and his early classical training, together with the opulent circumstances of his life, served as a natural check upon the freedom of genius. His dazzling precocity—witness the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, composed while he was in his seventeenth year—and a great popular success were surely not the best stimuli to make him delve into the depths of his imagination. Undoubtedly he did a valuable service, in his day, in uniting the leading tendencies of the two schools: the exuberant fancy of the Romantic, and the reserve and finish of the Classic. He has been aptly called a "Romanticist with a classical equipment." If any appraisement be necessary to the detriment of one or the other, it must be conceded that Schumann was the greater genius. A just estimate of Mendelssohn's work is difficult, for his career was so meteoric and in his life he was so overvalued that now, with the opposite swing of the pendulum, he is as often underrated. He was assuredly a great artist, for what he had to say was beautifully expressed; the question hinges on the actual worth of the message. With perfect finish there often goes a lack of power and objective energy; somewhat the same difference that we feel between skillful gardening and the free vitality of Nature. Although Mendelssohn's music delights and charms there is a prevailing lack of that deep emotion which alone can move the soul. And yet a composer whom Wagner called "the greatest of landscape painters" and whose best works have stood the test of time can by no means be scorned. His descriptive Overtures for orchestra: the Hebrides, the Midsummer Night's Dream and the Fair Melusine; his Variations Serieuses for Pianoforte and some of the Songs without Words[205] contain a genuinely poetic message, flawlessly expressed. As for the pianoforte music, when the Songs without Words are called "hackneyed" we must remember that only compositions of truly popular appeal ever have sufficient vogue to warrant the application of this opprobrious term. In the pianoforte Scherzos and in the Rondo Capriccioso in E major there is without doubt a vitality and a play of fancy easier to criticize than to create. The prevalent mood in Mendelssohn's music is one of sunny-hearted lightness and emotional satisfaction; and if this be a one-sided presentation of life, it is no more so, as Pratt well says in his History of Music, than the picture of gloom and sorrow which certain other composers continually emphasize. The fact that his descriptive Overtures, just mentioned, have been surpassed—owing to the recent expansion in orchestral possibilities of tone-color—must not blind us to the beauty of their content, or make us forget the impetus they have given to modern composers. No one could possibly find in the Hebrides Overture that subtle descriptive fancy or that wealth of orchestral coloring which exists in Debussy's marvellous Sea Pieces; and yet the Mendelssohn composition is a genuine reflection of nature in terms of music and can still be heard with sustained attention. Wagner[206] praises highly its orchestral effects; and a modern scholar, Cecil Forsyth,[207] considers the tone-painting quite irresistible. A sincere tribute of admiration should also be paid to Mendelssohn's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra. Written in the most idiomatic style for the solo instrument and containing real violin melodies it is still one of the few great works in its class. Any final critical estimate of Mendelssohn—no matter how earnest the effort to be absolutely fair—is inevitably involved with personal prejudices. If his music appeals to any one, it is liked extremely and no one need be ashamed of enjoying it, for it is sincerely felt and beautifully expressed. Mendelssohn, himself, doubtless knew perfectly well that he was not Bach, Beethoven or Schubert. For those whose natures crave a more robust message, more fire and a deeper passion, there are the works of those other composers to which they may turn.

[Footnote 205: Several of these were constantly played by both Paderewski and De Pachman, two of the greatest virtuosi of our day: surely a convincing tribute!]

[Footnote 206: See the Oxford History of Music, Vol. VI, pp. 80-84. Anyone who cares to see what Wagner owed to Mendelssohn may compare the opening theme, and its treatment, of the Fair Melusine Overture with the music of the Rhine Maidens in the Rheingold.]

[Footnote 207: See his treatise on Orchestration, p. 194.]

Let us now analyze the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture,[208] "his first and highest flight" to quote Schumann. In this work we do not find a characterization by musical means of the emotions of the dramatis personae, as in the Coriolanus Overture; and there is little specific correspondence between the type of theme and definite incidents, except possibly at the beginning of the Recapitulation, where the low tones of the Bass Tuba[209] may be thought to represent the snores of Bottom, as the fairies hover about him. Anyone familiar with Shakespeare's play—and such a knowledge is indispensible for a complete enjoyment of the music—will see that Mendelssohn's object was to give a broad, general picture of the fairy world and to intensify, by his music, the fancy and humor found in the play. The introductory sustained chords, pianissimo, are a happy illustration of his deftness in tone-painting; for, assigned to the ethereal flutes and clarinets, they constitute, as Niecks ingeniously expresses it, a "magic formula" which ushers us into the moonlit realm of fairyland. The first theme in E minor (Allegro di molto: throughout pp and staccato), announced by the strings, is a graphic representation of the playful antics of the nimble elves and fairies. Its course is twice interrupted by a peculiar, prolonged chord which seems to say, "Hush! you are listening to the activities of beings not of this every-day, humdrum world." The first theme has a second part in E major (beginning at measure 62) of a pompous, march-like nature, which may be thought to represent the dignity of Duke Theseus and his train. The Overture being in complete Sonata-form, there occurs at this point a short transition based on the rhythm of the first theme; followed by a lovely cantabile melody—the second theme proper—that typifies the romantic love pervading the play. This theme also is expanded into several sections; the first of which may portray the clownish Athenian tradespeople, and the second, the brays of Bottom after he has been transformed into an ass, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 208: This is exceptionally effective in the four-hand version—in fact, it was often played as a pianoforte duet by his sister Fanny and himself—although the real poetic effect is inseparably connected with the orchestral treatment.]

[Footnote 209: Originally these tones were played by the Ophicleide or Serpent (now obsolete).]

The free fantasia, an improvisation on the first theme—although containing a few perfunctory manipulations—sustains interest, as a whole, by its modulations and by the suggestive orchestral effects. The closing measures, where the pizzicato 'cellos and double basses seem to imitate the light, tripping footsteps of the elves, is genuinely realistic. The Recapitulation, which begins with the same chords as the Introduction, is an illustration of bondage to classic practise; for here they have no dramatic significance and are merely a concession to routine procedure.[210] The first theme and the transition, however, are effectively abridged so that the second theme, by far the most appealing in the whole work, stands out in greater prominence. Then follows a brilliant expansion of the closing portions of the second theme, until we reach the Coda. This begins with a reminiscence of the first theme which fades away into a modified presentation of the Duke Theseus theme, followed by four long-drawn out Amens.[211] These may signify the blessing which, in the play, the elves bestow upon the Ducal house. The Introductory chords dissolve the dream which the music has evoked, and we are back once more in the world of reality.

[Footnote 210: This, after all, is a rather subtle point for a boy of seventeen to be called upon to consider. Perhaps if he had been that kind of a boy he might not have written the Overture at all!]

[Footnote 211: The ecclesiastical formula for an Amen being the so-called Plagal cadence of subdominant and tonic chords.]

To suggest the attitude which we of to-day should take towards Mendelssohn—he may justly be admired as a musician of great natural gifts, of high ideals and of unusually finished technique in many branches of composition. It is ungracious to censure him because he lacks the gripping emotional power of a Beethoven or a Wagner. Those who indulge in such narrow criticism condemn only themselves.



CHAPTER XIV

CHOPIN AND PIANOFORTE STYLE

Although Chopin (1809-1849) was less aggressively romantic than others of the group we have been considering, in many respects his music represents the romantic spirit in its fairest bloom. Not even yet has full justice been done him—although his fame is growing—since he is often considered as a composer of mere "salon-pieces" which, though captivating, are too gossamer-like to merit serious attention. Chopin was a life-long student of Bach; and much of his music, in its closeness of texture, shows unmistakably the influence of that master. Together with Schumann, he broke away from the strict formality of the old classic forms and instituted the reign of freely conceived tone-poems for the pianoforte: the form being conditioned by the poetic feelings of the composer. As far as fundamental principles of architecture are concerned, his pieces are generally simple, modeled as they are on the two and three-part form and that of the rondo. When he attempted works of large scope, where varied material had to be held together, he was lamentably deficient, e.g., in his Sonatas. In fact, even in such pieces as the Etudes and Scherzos, in the presentation of the material we find occasional blemishes. But there are so many other wonderful qualities that this weakness may be overlooked. In spite of a certain deficiency in form, Chopin is indisputably a great genius. Far too much stress has been laid on the delicacy of his style to the exclusion of the intensity and bold dramatic power that characterize much of his music to a marked degree. Though of frail physique,[212] and though living in an environment which tended to overdevelop his fastidious nature, Chopin had a fiery soul, which would assert itself with unmistakable force. His music by no means consists solely of melting moods or languorous sighs; he had a keen instinct for the dissonant element (witness passages in the G minor Ballade); he was a daring harmonic innovator; and much of his music is surcharged with tragic significance. A born stylist, he nevertheless did not avoid incessant labor to secure the acme of finish. So perfect in his works is the balance between substance and treatment, that they make a direct appeal to music-lovers of every nation. In listening to Chopin we are never conscious of turgidity, of diffuseness, of labored treatment of material. All is direct, pellucid; poetic thoughts are presented in a convincingly beautiful manner. He was a great colorist as well, and in his work we must recognize the fact that color in music is as distinct an achievement of the imagination as profound thought or beauty of line. Chopin's position in regard to program music is an interesting subject for speculation. Few of his works bear specifically descriptive titles; and it is well known that he had little sympathy with the extreme tendencies of Berlioz and Liszt. Yet there is, in general, something more than an abstract presentation of musical material, however beautiful. The varied moods aroused by the Ballades and Nocturnes, the actual pictures we see in the Polonaises, must have had their counterpart in definite subjective experiences in the life of the composer, and so from a broad psychological standpoint—even in the absence of explanatory titles—we may call Chopin a thoroughly romantic tone-poet; indeed, as Balzac says, "a soul which rendered itself audible."

[Footnote 212: He was born of a Polish mother and a French father, and these mixed strains of blood account fundamentally for the leading characteristics of his music. From the former strain came the impassioned, romantic and at times chivalrous moods, prominent in all Polish life and art; and from the latter the grace, charm and finish which we rightly associate with the French nature. For side-lights on Chopin's intimacy with George Sand see the well-known essays by Henry James and Rene Doumic.]

As Chopin composed so idiomatically for his chosen instrument, the pianoforte, to which he devoted himself exclusively,[213] no understanding or adequate appreciation of the subtleties of his style is possible without some knowledge of the nature and attributes of this instrument which, in our time, has become the universal medium for the rendering of music. All of Chopin's works were not only published for the pianoforte but were conceived in terms of the pianoforte; his style in this respect being quite unique in the history of musical art. For there are noble and poetically inspired thoughts of many composers which may be satisfactorily presented through a number of media: pianoforte, organ, string-quartet or voices. This fact has been the cause of many so-called transcriptions of orchestral or string-quartet music for the organ. A composer, furthermore, often publishes a work for a certain instrument when the inner evidence shows that, during the period of creation, he actually had some other medium in mind. Beethoven's Sonatas abound[214] in effects which, for their complete realization, require an orchestra; so that, notwithstanding the beauty of the thought, his style is often anything but pianistic. In certain of Cesar Franck's pianoforte works we are conscious of his predilection for the organ, as the spirit of the music demands a sustained volume of sound which the organ, with its powerful lungs, alone can give. But if the full beauty of Chopin's conception is to be gained, his music must be played on the pianoforte and on nothing else. The pianoforte has, to be sure, several limitations; it is not per se a loud instrument in comparison with a trumpet or an organ, and the whole nature of its tone is evanescent—that is, as soon as the tone is produced, it begins to fade away, [decrescendo symbol]. This latter apparent limitation, however, is in fact one of its most suggestive beauties; for nothing is more stimulating to the imagination than the dying away of a beautiful sound, as may be felt in the striking of a clear-toned bell, or in the wonderful diminuendo of the horn. This effect, inherent in pianoforte tone, should be more utilized rather than deplored, especially since dwelling on a delightful harmony or a single dramatic note is a definite characteristic of "tempo rubato"—that peculiar feature of Chopin's rhythm. The pianoforte can neither steadily sustain a tone [sustaining symbol] nor increase it [crescendo symbol]; achievements for which the strings and the wind instruments are so valued. On the other hand, the instrument has the merits of great sonority and marvellous coloristic possibilities; and when music is composed for the pianoforte by one who understands its secrets and, furthermore, when it is properly played, it is quite the finest[215] instrument ever yet brought under the control of a single performer. Again, the pianoforte is not meant for great rapidity of utterance, such as, for instance, we associate with the violin, the flute or the clarinet. It is, in fact, often played too fast, sounding like a pianola or a machine rather than an instrument with a soul. If there be no lingering over the notes, beautiful effects have no opportunity to be heard. Rapidity and brilliance on the pianoforte do not depend on so many notes per second but on vitality and precision of accent. These admirable qualities of the instrument are due to the great number of vibrating metal strings (in a modern concert-grand, about two hundred and thirty, i.e., three strings to each of the twelve notes of the seven octaves, save for a few of the lowest bass notes); to the large sounding board (about twenty-four square feet, on the largest model), and above all to the damper pedal which Rubinstein—so appropriately—calls the soul of the pianoforte. The very term Pianoforte implies a wealth of meaning; for a special glory of the instrument is its power of shading, its flexibility of utterance, from piano to forte or vice versa. The limits themselves, to be sure, are not so striking as in certain other instruments, e.g., the pianoforte cannot produce the almost ghostly whisper of which the clarinet is capable, nor can it equal the trumpet or the trombone in intensity or volume. But it can produce a very beautiful pianissimo; and if a sense of relativity be kept, and soft effects begun quietly enough, it can be made to sound with remarkable brilliancy. The pianoforte should always be played with a keen regard for this power of shading, of nuance; the tones should undulate like the winds or the waves. Anything like the steady sostenuto level for which the organ shows itself so fitted is, except for special effects, entirely foreign to the nature of the pianoforte. Nor should we ever attempt to make it, per se, a loud, overpowering instrument. Its forte and its brilliancy are purely relative; and, when forced to do something unsuited to its real nature, it protests with a hard, unmelodious tone.

[Footnote 213: The few exceptions being the Polish Songs, the Trio for Violin, 'Cello and Pianoforte and the orchestral accompaniment to the two Concertos.]

[Footnote 214: There will occur to every one numerous passages in which the pianoforte is expected to be a kettle-drum, or where the figuration is far better suited to the violin than to the hand in connection with keys.]

[Footnote 215: This by reason of its combined powers in melody, harmony and rhythm. Some of these qualities it shares, to be sure, with the organ; but the organ is inherently lacking in rhythm, and its solid, block-like tones do not exercise the same fascination upon the imagination as do the fleeting sounds of the pianoforte. It is, of course, possible and desirable to enjoy both instruments—each in its own proper sphere, and each for its characteristic effects.]

Likewise the two pedals,[216] when their technical names are understood, imply their own meaning, just as their popular designations hint at the way in which they are often abused. The pedal employed by the right foot, properly called the "damper pedal," is so named because, by its action, all the dampers of the key-board may be raised simultaneously. This allows the strings to vibrate together and to send forth great waves of colored sound like those produced by an Aeolian harp; an effect similar to that heard when a sea-shell is held to the ear. The pianoforte, in fact, has aptly been called "a harp laid on its back" to which the action of keys has been applied. Accordingly an open, flowing style (arpeggio) is one of the idioms best suited to its nature. To secure proper contrast, a massive, chordal style is sometimes employed by such composers as Schumann, Brahms and Franck—even at times by Chopin himself; but that the extended arpeggio (often merely two voices, with the body of tone secured by the pedal) is the norm may be seen from almost any page of Chopin's compositions. The resonance and carrying power of these waves are intensified by raising the lid[217] of the pianoforte; for then they are brought to a focus and projected into space. The effect produced by raising the dampers is appropriate and beautiful, not alone with consonant chords but, at times, equally with chords that are unrelated; which, were they sustained for long by an organ, would be intolerably harsh. But the tone of the pianoforte is so fleeting that such a mixture ensures great brilliance and warmth without undue jargon, and is thus akin to the blending of strange colors by modern painters. Many people, in fact, play the pianoforte with too little, rather than too much, pedal; or with too much pedal used the wrong way! A definite attempt should be made to cultivate a feeling for color and warmth of tone; a hard, colorless tone on the pianoforte being a great blemish as it is so unnecessary. The following passage illustrates the above points.

[Footnote 216: It is understood that all the comments are based on the action of a concert-grand pianoforte, since on an upright or a square—because of mechanical limitations of space—the effects are quite different.]

[Footnote 217: In this connection, even at the risk of seeming to preach, let the advice be given that nothing should ever be put on top of a grand pianoforte: neither flowers, afternoon tea-sets, bird-cages, books, nor even an aquarium! For the lid is not merely a cover, but an additional sounding-board, and must always be in readiness to be so used. The pianoforte as a coloristic instrument, in short, is completely itself only when played with the lid raised.]

[Music: CHOPIN: Barcarolle]

There is really no such thing on the pianoforte as a "pure" single tone. It is an acoustical law that no tone exists by itself, but always generates a whole series of overtones[218] or "upper partials," as they are called, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 218: An instrument designed to reinforce these upper tones, so that they may be clearly heard, is to be found in any Physical Laboratory. That these tones really vibrate "sympathetically" may be proved by striking ff [Transcriber's Note: Music example indicates sf] this note [Music: C2 With damper pedal] and then pressing down very lightly the keys of G and E just above middle C, thus removing the individual dampers of these notes. In a quiet room the tones are distinctly audible. For another rewarding experiment of the same nature, see the Introduction to the first volume of Arthur Whiting's Pedal Studies and the well-known treatise of Helmholtz.]

Even what we call the perfectly consonant chord of C major, e.g., [Music] would be slightly qualified and colored by the B-flat, and this effect has actually been utilized by Chopin in the final cadence of his Prelude in F major, No. 23, e.g.

[Music]

In this example the E-flat must be very delicately accented and both pedals freely used.

Let it be clearly understood, therefore, that the damper pedal—popularly but erroneously called the "loud pedal"—has nothing to do with "noise" as such. Its purpose is to amplify and color the waves of sound and these waves may vary all the way from pp to ff. The dynamic gradation of pianoforte tone is caused by the amount of force with which the hammer strikes the wires; and this power is applied by the attack and pressure of the fingers. The damper pedal will, to be sure, reinforce fortissimo effects, but logically it is only a means of reinforcement and should never be used so that a mere "roar of sound" is produced. The normal pianoforte tone, however, is that brought forth in connection with the damper pedal, and only to gain an effect of intentional coolness and dryness do we see in pianoforte literature the direction "senza pedal"; passages so marked being often most appropriate as a strong contrast to highly colored ones.[219]

[Footnote 219: For a complete and illuminating treatise on the pedals and their artistic use, see the aforesaid two volumes of Pedal Studies by Arthur Whiting (G. Schirmer, New York).]

An important adjunct of the instrument, though even less intelligently used, is the pedal employed by the left foot; that popularly known as the "soft pedal," but of which the technical name is the "una corda" pedal. By this device on a grand pianoforte the whole key-board is shifted from left to right, so that the hammers strike but two wires in each group of three, and the third wire of the set is left free to vibrate sympathetically. Thus a very etherial, magical quality of tone is produced, especially in the upper ranges of the instrument. In the middle register, passages played forte or fortissimo will have a richness comparable to the G string of a violin. The effect is analogous to that of a viol d'amour which has, as is well known (stretched underneath the strings, which produce the actual tone) a set of additional strings, freely vibrating. Although this "una corda"[220] pedal may be used in a dynamic sense to reduce, as it were, the size of the instrument, its chief purpose is coloristic, i.e., to make possible a special quality of tone. This statement is proved by directions in pianoforte literature as far back as Beethoven, in whose Sonatas we find the dynamic marks of f and ff coupled with the proscribed use of the una corda pedal. In any case, this left-foot pedal should not be abused; for, just because the tone quality produced thereby is so beautiful and characteristic, it soon becomes, if constantly employed, rather cloying. The dynamic gradation of tone is primarily a matter for the control of the fingers, i.e., the touch. The damper pedal is for sonority and color; the una corda for special shades, and all three factors—touch and the two pedals—are combined in pianistic effects which only a trained technique and artistic judgment can regulate.[221]

[Footnote 220: The term dates from the period when this pedal controlled three shifts: una corda, due corde and tre corde; the hammer striking respectively one, two or three strings. The whole mechanism is well implied in the German word Verschiebung, i.e., the shoving along—so frequent in Schumann's works, e.g., the middle part of his Vogel als Prophet from the Waldscenen, op. 82, No. 7.]

[Footnote 221: American pianofortes also have a middle pedal called the "sustaining pedal," by which tones in the lower register may be prolonged. It has not proved to be of great value, though there are occasional passages, e.g., the closing measures of the second movement of Cesar Franck's Violin Sonata, where it may be effectively employed.]

Even a slight analysis of Chopin's style proves that it is based upon logical inferences, drawn from the series of overtones as they are generated and reinforced by the very nature of the pianoforte. From the wide spacing of the lower tones of the series Chopin derived the extended grouping of his arpeggios, e.g.,

[Music]

[Music: Prelude, No. 19]

so that the chord of the 10th, instead of the former grouping within the octave, may be considered the basis of his harmonic scheme. By this means a great gain was made in richness and sonority. Another striking feature of Chopin's style is found in those groups of spray-like, superadded notes with which the melody is embellished. It is evident, in many cases at least, that these tones are not merely embroidery in the ordinary sense. Rather do they represent a reinforcement of the overtones, ideally or actually present, in connection with bass tones and chords used in the lower part of the musical fabric. As a striking example[222] see the long series of descending non-harmonic tones in the Coda of the B major Nocturne, op. 9, No. 3, and note the delicate colors in the closing arpeggio chord (to be played with a free use of both pedals).

[Footnote 222: For a commentary on this passage see D.G. Mason's essay on Chopin in The Romantic Composers.]

[Music]

In general, Chopin's style is homophonic—wondrous lyric melodies which seem to float on waves of richly colored sound. But there is also much subtly used polyphony, i.e., delightful phrases in inner voices and imitative effects between the different parts. In comparison, however, with Schumann's style (which is largely on a polyphonic basis) Chopin is a decidedly homophonic composer.[223] A great deal of interesting and instructive reading on Chopin is available and the following works are especially recommended: Chopin, the Man and his Music by Huneker; the Life of Chopin by Niecks; the essay on Chopin in Mason's Romantic Composers and in Hadow's Studies in Modern Music; the volume on Chopin by Elie Poiree in the series Les Musiciens Celebres; and the same by Louis Laloy in the series Les Maitres de la Musique; the Life by Liszt (well known and most valuable as coming from a contemporary and brother musician); finally a somewhat rhapsodic essay by H.T. Finck in Chopin and Other Essays.

[Footnote 223: For a detailed analysis of many special features of style see the volume by Edgar Stillman Kelly, Chopin the Composer.]

We select, as being thoroughly representative, the following works for comment: the first Prelude, the A-flat major Etude, the F-sharp minor Mazurka, the E-flat minor Polonaise, the Barcarolle and the C-sharp minor Scherzo.[224]

[Footnote 224: To save space, no one of these pieces except the Barcarolle is given in the Supplement, since they are readily accessible. The Barcarolle, however, is given in order to make it better known; for although it is one of the most inspired and beautifully expressed of all Chopin's works, it is heard comparatively seldom. The best editions of the works are those of Kullak, Mikuli and Klindworth.]

PRELUDE IN C MAJOR, OP. 28, NO. 1.

This Prelude, the first of the set of 24, is an excellent example of the sonority Chopin gained from widely extended chords in the bass; by the use—characteristically bold—of dissonances (measures 13-20), and by the sensuous richness of the closing measures, in which a wonderful wave of sound is produced through the damper pedal, in connection with the blending of the tonic, dominant and subdominant chords. The prelude is a kind of intensified Bach and may well be compared with that prelude in the same key which begins the immortal well-tempered Clavichord. All the Preludes, for their poetic import, finished style and pianistic effect, are masterpieces of the first rank. Schumann well says of them: "They are sketches, eagle's feathers, all strangely intermingled. But in every piece we recognize the hand of Frederic Chopin; he is the boldest, the proudest poet-soul of his time."

ETUDE IN A-FLAT MAJOR, OP. 25, NO. 1.

This etude, deservedly popular, may be considered the example par excellence of Chopin's style. The lyric beauty of the melody, the fascinating modulations, the shades of color alike justify the following rhapsodic comments of Schumann, "Imagine that an Aeolian harp possessed all the musical scales, and that the hand of an artist were to cause them to intermingle in all sorts of fantastic embellishments, yet in such a way as to leave everywhere audible a deep fundamental tone and a soft, continuously singing upper voice, and you will get about the right idea. But it would be an error to think that Chopin, in playing this etude, permitted every one of the small notes to be distinctly heard. It was rather an undulation of the A-flat major chord, here and there thrown aloft by the pedal. Throughout the harmonies one always heard in great tones a wondrous melody, while once only, in the middle of the piece, besides that chief song, a tenor voice became prominent. After the etude a feeling came over one as of having seen in a dream a beatific picture which, when already half awake, one would gladly once more recall."

MAZURKA IN F-SHARP MINOR, OP. 6, NO. 1.

As Franz Liszt says in his life of Chopin, "The Mazurka is not only a dance, it is a national poem, and like all poems of conquered nations, is shaped so as to let the blazing flames of patriotic feeling shimmer out through the transparent veil of popular melody." The chief peculiarity of the Mazurka (which is always in triple rhythm, with a latitude in speed from Presto to Mesto) is the scheme of accentuation—the normal accent on the first beat being systematically transferred to the second and third beats. We also find in the Mazurka frequent indications for the use of the so-called "tempo rubato," a proper conception of which is so essential in the performance of Chopin's music. Tempo rubato—so often abused!—literally meaning borrowed time, is simply free rhythm emancipated from rigid, scholastic bonds. As Huneker well says, "Chopin must be played in curves" with emotional freedom; just as the heart, when excited, increases the speed of its pulsations, and in moments of calm and depression slows down. The jerky, really unrhythmical playing of certain performers reminds us of a person suffering from palpitation of the heart. Liszt's description of the rubato is most suggestive: "A wind plays in the leaves, life unfolds and develops beneath them, but the tree remains the same." In Chopin, accordingly, the ground rhythm should always be preserved, though varied with subtle, and yet logical fluctuations.

POLONAISE IN E-FLAT MINOR, OP. 26, NO. 11.

The Polonaise[225] is the great national dance of the Poles; an impassioned and yet stately pageant in which, as Liszt says, "The noblest traditional feelings of ancient Poland are represented." This dance—or rather, processional march—is always in triple rhythm and based on a definite rhythmic formula: either [Music] or [Music]. The frequent feminine endings are also a characteristic feature, e.g., the cadence in the well known military Polonaise in A major:

[Music]

To return to the example being considered,—it is in Three-part form (A, B, A, with Coda) the first part in the minor mode; the second part beautifully contrasted by being in B major—introduced by the implied enharmonic change from E-flat to D-sharp. This first part, remarkable for its passionate, headlong impetuosity, should dispel any idea that Chopin was a weak sentimentalist. Although of a delicate constitution he certainly had a fiery soul. The second part, sotto voce—note the feminine endings—reminds us of the muffled music of a military band as it passes by.

[Footnote 225: For an account of its origin see the chapter in Huneker's book and the article on the Polonaise in Grove's Dictionary.]

BARCAROLLE IN F-SHARP MAJOR, OP. 60.

This composition, in many ways the most wonderful single piece we have from Chopin, is the quintessence of his genius. It seems, in fact, to contain everything: appealing melodies, wealth of harmony, bold dissonances (note in particular the 6th and 7th measures of the Coda), brilliant embellishments; and withal, it is written in a pianistic style which, for richness and warmth of color, is quite unsurpassed. It is also most sincerely conceived, intensifying the suggestiveness of the descriptive title. Would that objective program music were always so true to life and to the real nature of music! It is in free three-part form, the first part of a calm nature in which we are rocked on gently undulating waves; a more rhythmic second part where, as Kullak says, the bass seems to suggest the monotonous steadiness of oar-strokes; an interlude, marked "dolce sfogato," introduced by some delightful modulations, as if in a quiet nook the poet were dreaming of the beauties of love and nature; an impassioned return to the chief subject, together with a partial presentation of the middle portion; and finally a long and brilliant coda. The composition is unique in romantic literature for its power to arouse the imagination, or, as Schumann so well says, "to set people romancing for themselves."

SCHERZO IN C-SHARP MINOR, OP. 39.

The four Scherzos, for passion and eloquence, rank among Chopin's most characteristic works, though it seems impossible to trace a logical correspondence between the former classic meaning of the term "Scherzo" and the contents revealed to us in these poems; save that they are all in triple rhythm, hence on a dance-form basis. As Niecks well says, "There is in them neither frolicsomeness nor humor"—such, for example, as we find in Beethoven's Scherzos—and he suggests that "Capriccio" might be a less misleading designation. But, however inexplicable the title which Huneker thinks Chopin may have applied in serious jest, there is no doubt of the uncompromising dignity of the utterance, and there is often a grim irony, a wayward scorn, which a liberal interpretation might well consider attributes of humor. These were marked traits in Chopin's nature, and the Scherzos are their revelation in terms of music. Schumann's well-known comment is apropos—"How is gravity to clothe itself if jest goes about in dark veils?" This Scherzo (Presto con fuoco) is in extended three-part form; the dominant note of the first part being one of feverish agitation, which expresses itself in spasmodic outbursts. The second part, with its broad cantabile melody of a hymn-like character, reveals a calmer mood. The last note of each phrase is adorned throughout with lovely coloristic embellishments. After a return to the first theme, the second part is also repeated; this time with striking modulatory changes which strongly resemble the mood of Wotan's Farewell, in the third Act of Wagner's Valkyrie. A long and fiery coda of new thematic material closes the work. The major ending is like a shaft of light dispelling storm-tossed clouds.

Chopin's works are so instinct with genius and have proved to be so immortal that they may well be considered as ideal witnesses to the triumph of quality over mere quantity or sensational display. To-day, when we suffer from musical bombast, their refined message is of special significance.



CHAPTER XV

BERLIOZ AND LISZT. PROGRAMME MUSIC

There is no doubt that Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), however varied the appeal of his music to different temperaments, is an artistic personality to be reckoned with; one not to be ticketed and laid on the shelf. Although a century and more has elapsed since his birth the permanent value of his music is still debated, often amusingly enough, by those who seem unaware that, whatever the theoretical rights of the case, in practice his principles are the reigning ones in modern music. As Berlioz stands as the foremost representative of program music and never wrote anything without a title, it is certain that before his music or influence can be appreciated, the mind must be cleared of prejudice and we must recognize that modern program music is a condition—an artistic fact, not a theory—and that the tendency towards specific, subjective expression (whether manifested in song, opera or symphonic poem) is a dominant one among present day composers. It is true that all music is the expression in tones of the imagination of the composer; true, also, that music must fulfil certain conditions of its own being. But imaginations differ. That of Berlioz, for example, was quite a new phenomenon; and as for the working principles of musical composition, they are as much subject to modification as any other form of human experimentation. Berlioz, himself, says that he never intended to subvert the laws of music, only to make a new and individual use of them. As he was no abstract maker of music, his autobiography—one of the most fascinating in the history of art, only to be compared with that of Benvenuto Cellini—should be familiar to all who would penetrate the secrets of his style. Berlioz's compositions, in fact, are more specifically autobiographic than those of any other notable musician. Both in his music and his literary works are the same notes of passionate insistence on his own point of view, of radical dislike for accepting conditions as they were (he says of himself that he loved to make the barriers crack) and of fondness for brilliant outward effect. In considering Berlioz, one is always reminded of Matthew Arnold's lines on Byron, who resembles Berlioz so closely.

"He taught us little; but our soul Had felt him, like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law; And yet with reverential awe We watch'd the fount of fiery life Which served for that Titanic strife."

Only realize that Berlioz's Fantastic Symphony was composed but twenty-one years after Haydn's death, and compare the simple, self-centered Haydn with the restless, wide-visioned Berlioz, of a mentality positively omnivorous; who, in addition to his musical achievements, was a brilliant critic and litterateur, a man of travel and wide acquaintance with the world. Then indeed you will appreciate what an enormous change had come over music. A mere mention of the authors from whom Berlioz drew his subjects: Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, Scott, Virgil, Hugo, shows the wide range of his reading and the difference in output which would inevitably result. The previous impersonal attitude towards music is shown by the very names of compositions which, broadly speaking (till the beginning of the 19th century) were seldom more than Symphony, Sonata, or Quartet, No. so and so; while the movements, in an equally mechanical way, were known by the designations of tempo: allegro, adagio, andante, etc.—those "senseless terms," as Beethoven himself says. Beginning pre-eminently with Berlioz, composers have had more highly cultivated imaginations, much more to say; and the wider range of emotion resulting therefrom has necessitated differences of form and treatment. A frequent misconception on the part of the layman is that worthy music should be so constructed that the hearer be spared all mental exertion. As long as it was certain that a composer would present just so many themes in a prescribed order and treated in the routine fashion, listening to music was a comparatively easy task. Since Berlioz, music has made ever greater demands on the hearer; who only when his receptivity is of an equal degree of cultivation with the creative power of the composer, can grasp the full meaning of the music. The first step, therefore, toward an appreciation of Berlioz is to recognize the peculiar, picturesque power of his imagination, which was of an entirely new order, and may be called musico-poetic in distinction from purely musical activity. This form of double consciousness is equally necessary on the part of the hearer. As Debussy, the modern French composer, so well says, people often do not understand or enjoy new music because it differs from "une musique" i.e., from a conventional and unvarying type which they have in their mind. The real effect of Berlioz's "Carnaval Romain" Overture, to take a simple example, is to complement and intensify the mental picture which any well-read person—or better still, any one who has actually visited Rome—will have of this characteristic incident in Italian life. If the work be considered merely as abstract music, notwithstanding the stimulation and delight caused by the rhythmic vitality and by the orchestral effects, the real poetic purpose of the composer remains unfulfilled. This peculiar quality of Berlioz was partly the result of his fiery excitable temperament and partly the reactive effect of the environment in which he found himself. What an amazing group in Paris (beginning about 1830) was that with which he was associated! De Musset, de Vigny, Liszt, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Balzac, Dumas, Chopin, Heine, Delacroix, Gericault: young men representing every art and several nationalities, all under the lead of Hugo, that prince of Romanticists; their object being—revolt from conventional standards and a complete expression of their own personalities. Hugo, as he says in the famous preface to Cromwell, was tearing down the plaster which hides the facade of the fair temple of art; Dumas had just demolished Racine; Gericault and Delacroix, by their daring conceptions, were founding our modern school of painting. Into this maelstrom of revolution, Berlioz—he of the flaming locks, "that hairy Romantic" as Thackeray calls him—flung himself with temperamental ardor; for he was a born fighter and always in opposition to someone. The audacity and dramatic energy of his compositions are but the natural result of the tendencies of the period. Berlioz's early career is of extreme interest to us English-speaking people, because the first strong stimulus to his imagination came from his acquaintance with the dramas of Shakespeare. In 1827, some of the dramas, (such as Hamlet, and Romeo and Juliet) were played in Paris by an English company, and their effect upon Berlioz was overwhelming. He would wander about the streets raving of Shakespeare; he promptly fell in love with the most beautiful actress in the troupe—Henrietta Smithson, whom he later married[226]—and then began the frenzied period of composing and concert giving, which came to a climax in the Fantastic Symphony first performed in 1830. Berlioz's courage and perseverance are shown by his winning the Prix de Rome, after four failures! His two years in Italy (his picture may still be seen at the Villa Medici), replete with amusing and thrilling incidents, were, on the whole the happiest period of his stormy life.

[Footnote 226: For a convincing account of this tragic marriage see the volume of Recollections by Ernest Legouve.]

But we must pass to some brief comments upon the characteristics, pro and con, of his style. In the first place it was extremely original; showed little or no connection with former composers; has had no imitators, and cannot be parodied. Berlioz likewise possessed great range of emotion—though he rarely touched the sublime; a power of laying out works on a vast scale, and, in general, of achieving with unerring certainty the effects desired. The poet Heine said that much of Berlioz's music reminded him of "primeval monsters and fabulous empires." And what a master he was of rhythm!—one of the greatest in music! Prior to his work, and that of Schumann among the Germans, the classic rhythms were becoming rather stereotyped; and the vigorous elasticity introduced by these two composers has widened incalculably the range of dramatic effect. But his indisputable claim to lasting recognition is his genius in the treatment of the orchestra. Berlioz had an inborn instinct for sensuous tonal effect for its own sake, and not as the clothing of an abstract idea. With him the art of making that composite instrument, the orchestra, give forth the greatest beauty and variety of sound became an end in itself; and from his ingenious and innovating effects has been evolved the orchestra as we hear it to-day. Berlioz thought, so to speak, in terms of orchestral color. In his melodies we do not feel that the drawing, the contour of the pure line, is the chief thing; but that the assignment of the melody to just the right instrument, and the color-effect thereby produced, are integral parts of the conception. Notwithstanding the fact that some of his effects are extravagant or at times bizarre, he must be credited with revealing possibilities in orchestral shading and color which, still further developed by Wagner, Strauss and Tchaikowsky, have become conventional means of expression. Some of his most celebrated and satisfying works, in addition to those mentioned, are the Harold in Italy Symphony, with its personification by a solo viola of the chief character; the Romeo and Juliet Symphony, for both vocal and instrumental forces (of which the ball-scene with its wondrous love-melody and the Queen Mab Scherzo—unequalled for daintiness—represent his highest attainments as a tone-poet) and, most popular of all, the Damnation of Faust based on scenes from Goethe's poem. The bewitching incidental pieces for orchestra alone, such as the Ballet of Sylphs and the Rakoczy March, are often played at symphony concerts, and are familiar to everyone. Certain blemishes in Berlioz's music are obvious and need not be over-emphasized. There is often more style and outward effect than real substance. His works excite, but how seldom do they exalt! For he was frequently deficient in depth of emotion and in latent warmth—qualities quite different from the hectic glow and the feverish passion which his French admirers, Tiersot and Boschot, claim to be genuine attributes of musical inspiration, of power to compel universal attention. We of other nations can only firmly dissent. Without question his work has never succeeded in calling forth the spontaneous love of a large body of admirers.[227] In an eloquent passage the conductor and critic Weingartner sums up the case: "Berlioz will always represent a milestone in the development of music, for he is the real founder of the modern school. He did not approach that ethical depth, that ideal purity which surround Beethoven's name with such unspeakable glory, but no composer since Beethoven, except Wagner, has enriched music with so many new means of expression as this great Frenchman. Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner are the heroes of the last half of the 19th century, just as Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Weber and Schubert were of the first."

[Footnote 227: It is understood that this is merely a personal opinion of the writer and might well have been prefaced by the Socratic "it seems to me." Too much criticism reminds us of wine-tasting—Mr. So-and-So likes port, Mr. So-and-So sherry. The object of fair-minded appreciation is to understand clearly just what each composer set out to do, i.e., what was the natural tendency of his individual genius; then the only question is: did or did he not do this well? It is futile to blame him because he was not someone else or did not achieve what he never set out to do.]

As Berlioz is, if possible, even more idiomatic for the orchestra than Chopin for the pianoforte, no conception of the real quality of his message can be gained from transcriptions, however good. His works[228] must be studied at first hand in the orchestral score and then heard in performance by an excellent orchestra. Some preliminary acquaintance and appreciation, however, of characteristic features in his style is possible from arrangements and so we select for comment the following works and movements: The Fantastic Symphony, the Carnaval Romain Overture, the Ballet des Sylphes and the Feux Follets from the Damnation of Faust, the Pilgrim's March from the Childe Harold Symphony and the Slow Movement from the Romeo and Juliet Symphony.[229] There is much valuable and stimulating reading[230] about Berlioz and his influence; for, as Theophile Gautier acutely remarks, "S'il fut un grand genie, on peut le discuter encore, le monde est livre aux controverses; mais nul ne penserait a nier qu'il fut un grand caractere." The Symphonie[231] fantastique, op. 14, episode de la vie d'un artiste, in five movements is significant for being the first manifestation of Berlioz's conviction that music should be yet more specifically expressive, since it is founded on a characteristic theme, called l'idee fixe which typifies the heroine, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 228: The best edition is the complete one, beautifully engraved and with critical comments, by Malherbe and Weingartner. This is expensive, but should be found in any large library.]

[Footnote 229: The only citations possible in the Supplement are the Overture and portions of a few of the others.]

[Footnote 230: Particularly to be recommended are the following: the essay in Musical Studies by Newman; that by R. Rolland in Musiciens d'aujourd'hui (in French and in English); Berlioz et la societe de son temps by J. Tiersot; the essay in Studies in Modern Music by Hadow; Berlioz's own Memoires (in French and in English) and his entertaining essays, A Travers Chants, Grotesques de la Musique and Soirees d'Orchestre; the excellent resume of Berlioz's writings in the Amateur Series by W.F. Apthorp; the Symphony since Beethoven by Weingartner; and, above all, the monumental work by Boschot in three parts—La Jeunesse d'un Romantique, Un Romantique sous Louis Philippe, Le Crepuscule d'un Romantique. There is an amusing but far from convincing assault against Berlioz as a programme composer and, to a certain extent, against Romanticism in general, in the New Laocoon by Professor Irving Babbitt.]

[Footnote 231: On the title page of the autograph copy of the full score is inscribed the following quotation from King Lear: "As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods; they kill us for their sport."]

This theme, with modifications appropriate to the changes in the character and the environment, is repeated in each movement. As for the theme itself, frankly it does not amount to much; it certainly fails to take our emotions by storm or sing itself into our hearts. Berlioz's harmonization is very bald, and as to his attempts at development,[232] the less said the better. Of course whatever Berlioz writes for the orchestra sounds well; of that there is no doubt. But this is not enough; any more than we are convinced by a person's statements or arguments merely because he happens to have a beautiful speaking voice. This dramatization of a musical theme was, after all, nothing iconoclastically new and Berlioz is perfectly right in claiming that he was merely extending the possibilities of that same type of theme as is found in Beethoven himself, e.g., in the Coriolanus Overture and to a certain extent in the Fifth Symphony. If, furthermore, we look back from the dramatic and highly personified use made of themes in modern music, in the works of Strauss, Tchaikowsky, Franck and even Brahms (e.g., his First Symphony with its motto-theme) we can see that this symphony of Berlioz is an important link in a perfectly logical chain of development. This melody, then, l'idee fixe, appears in each of the five movements; undergoing, however, but slight purely thematic development, being introduced and modified primarily for dramatic purposes. In the second movement,[233] Un Bal, two phrases drawn from it are sung pp by the clarinet as an indication that, amid the gaieties of the dance, the vision of the beloved one is ever present. In the Scene aux Champs it is modified and eloquently declaimed by the flute and oboe, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 232: Dannreuther, in his essay in the Sixth Volume of the Oxford History of Music, speaks of the peculiar process of "rabbeting" which serves Berlioz in the place of counterpoint, and the criticism, though caustic, holds much truth.]

[Footnote 233: This movement is also of interest as an early example of the Waltz among the conventional symphonic moods. The example has been followed by Tchaikowsky in the third movement of his Fifth Symphony.]

At the close of the movement occurs one of Berlioz's most novel and realistic effects—the imitation of the rumbles of distant thunder produced by four kettle-drums tuned in a very peculiar way (see page 75 of the orchestral score, Breitkopf and Haertel edition). In the fourth movement, Marche au Supplice, four measures of l'idee fixe are introduced just at the moment when the head of the hero is to be chopped off. This is done for purely theatric purposes and certainly makes our flesh creep—as Berlioz no doubt intended. The most spectacular effect, however, is in the last movement, Songe d'une Nuit du Sabbat, where the theme is parodied to typify the degraded appearance which the beloved one takes in the distorted dreams of her lover, e.g.

[Music]

The impression made by the Symphony depends largely upon the attitude of the hearer. In this work we are not to look for the sublimity and emotional depth of a Bach or Beethoven any more than we expect a whimsical comedy of Aristophanes to resemble an epic poem of Milton. But for daring imagination, for rhythmic vitality and certainty of orchestral effect, it was and remains a work[234] of genius.

[Footnote 234: For further comments on this Symphony see Mr. Mason's essay in the Romantic Composers, an essay which, while thoughtful, strikes the writer as somewhat biased.]

THE CARNAVAL ROMAIN OVERTURE

(SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 57)

This work is one of Berlioz's most brilliant pieces, with an orchestral life and color all its own. The material is taken from his opera Benvenuto Cellini;[235] the checquered career of this artist having made an irresistible appeal to Berlioz's love of the unusual and the spectacular. The body of the work is based on the Italian national dance, the Saltarello; and with this rhythm as a steadying background Berlioz achieves a continuity sometimes lacking in his work. The mere thought of the sights, sounds and colors of that important event in the life of Rome would be enough to inflame his susceptible imagination, and so here we have Berlioz at his very best. The overture begins, allegro assai con fuoco, with a partial announcement of the saltarello theme by the violins and violas, freely imitated by the wood-wind instruments, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 235: For an entertaining account of the subject matter of the opera see Chapter VII of Boschot's Un Romantique sous Louis Philippe.]

After a sudden prolonged silence and some crescendo trills the first periodic melody is introduced, sung by the English horn—the tune taken from an aria of Benvenuto in the first act. The melody is soon repeated in the dominant key by the violas and then, treated canonically, by the 'cellos and violins. The canon really tells and shows that Berlioz, as is often alleged, was not altogether lacking in polyphonic skill. The rhythm is now gradually quickened and leads to the main body of the work, in 6/8 time, based on the Italian folk-dance—the Saltarello which, as its name implies, is of a "skipping" nature. The music is freely developed from the two following themes; there is no second theme proper, e.g.

[Music: (a)]

[Music: (b)]

Toward the close there is a return to the introductory melody which is treated contrapuntally by the bassoons and other wind-instruments. The saltarello resumes its sway and is worked up to a fiery ending; especially brilliant are the closing chords scored for full brass with trills on the cornets.

Two of Berlioz's most poetically conceived descriptive pieces are the Menuet des Feux-Follets and the Ballet des Sylphes, incidental orchestral numbers from the Damnation of Faust; for they illustrate convincingly what one means by the claim that Berlioz thought in terms of orchestral color and suggestion. To give a musical picture of such airy and fantastic imaginings by the mere repetition of conventional formulae would obviously be of no avail. Berlioz's genius is equal to the situation; and as we listen to the music we can really see the flickering of the Will o' the Wisps and feel the graceful swaying of the Sylphs as they hover about the sleeping Faust. To suggest the Feux-Follets Berlioz ingeniously gives the theme to two piccolos in thirds, which are supported by a rich but subdued mass of wind instruments, horns and trumpets, e.g.

[Music]

With equal felicity does he create the picture of the delicate, graceful Sylphs. Any boisterous rhythmic activity would be quite out of place; and so, above a sustained ground tone on muted 'cellos and basses (which continues through the piece), and the slightest suspicion of motion on the second violins and violas, there floats in the first violins one of the most perfectly rounded and exquisite melodies in existence, e.g.

[Music]

In the closing measures there is a charming shadowy dialogue between kettle-drums (struck with sponge-headed sticks) and harps, in harmonics, carrying out Berlioz's stage directions—"Les esprits de l'air se balancent quelque temps autour de Faust endormi et disparaissent peu a peu." The piece ends with a chord barely whispered on the clarinets, pppp, which, as Hadow aptly suggests, reminds us of vanishing soap bubbles.

Berlioz's most sustained and perfect work, both in content and treatment, is universally acknowledged to be the Harold en Italie Symphony[236] in four movements for full orchestra and solo viola. There is little actual correspondence between the scenes of Byron's poem and the musical portrayal; and in fact, as Liszt says, "The title clearly shows that the composer wished to render the impression which the magnificent nature of Italy could not fail to make on a soul such as that of Harold languishing in sorrow." The significant features of the work are the melody for solo viola, recurring[237] in each movement, which typifies Harold—that "melancholy dreamer," e.g.,

[Music]

and the dazzling sensationalism of the Finale (Orgy of Brigands) which, when it was once played "con amore" by a fine orchestra, called forth from Berlioz the following eulogy,—"Sublime! I thank you, gentlemen, and I wonder at you; you are perfect brigands." The finale is also notable in that the opening portion is a reminiscence, a passing in review, of the chief themes of the preceding movements. Berlioz, we may surmise, was following the precedent established by Beethoven in the finale of the Ninth Symphony, and, although his treatment is rather mechanical and lacking in any such dramatic logic as justified Beethoven, a certain organic connection between the movements is undoubtedly secured. A portion of the second movement, March of Pilgrims singing the evening prayer, is cited in the Supplement (See No. 58) chiefly because it is one of Berlioz's noblest inspirations, giving an eloquent picture of a procession approaching, passing by and losing itself in the distance—a long crescendo and diminuendo. At every eighth measure the March melody is interrupted by the muffled chant of the pilgrims, very effectively scored for brass instruments, pianissimo. In the middle of the piece a contrast is gained by the introduction of a religious chant. The closing measures of this movement are of haunting beauty—a mysterious effect being produced by an intentional mixture of tonalities (the sustained B in the flute and oboe being answered by a C on the horns and harp, while beneath are heard fragments of the March theme in the main key on the pizzicato double basses).[238] Berlioz's most pretentious orchestral composition is that called in the full title "Romeo and Juliet, dramatic symphony, with choruses, vocal solos, and a prologue in choral recitative, composed after Shakespeare's tragedy." Notwithstanding many touches of genius, it is a very uneven work and is too much a conglomerate of styles—narrative, lyrical, dramatic, theatric and symphonic—for the constructive ability of the author to weld into a living whole. There are several portions which, however noble and glorious may have been Berlioz's conception,[239] and however inspired by Shakespeare's genius, do not "come off." Two of the numbers, on the other hand, are worthy of the highest praise—the Love Scene and the Queen Mab Scherzo. Of the latter Saint-Saens writes—"The famous Scherzo is worth even more than its reputation. It is a miracle of lightness and gracefulness. Beside such delicacies and transparencies the finesses of Mendelssohn in the Midsummer Night's Dream seem heavy." The main theme is fascinating in its daintiness and sparkle, e.g.

[Music]

Berlioz considered the Love Scene his finest inspiration and there are few pieces comparable with it for passionate utterance. The orchestration is wonderful for richness and variety.[240]

[Footnote 236: For an extended analysis of the work and also for an account of the alleged connection of the virtuoso Paganini with its composition, see the essay in Niecks' Program Music. There are, in addition, interesting comments in Stories of Symphonic Music by Lawrence Gilman.]

[Footnote 237: An early example of the modern principle of transformation and transference by theme.]

[Footnote 238: A striking illustration of "association of ideas" may be gained from a comparison of the end of this movement with the closing measures of Strauss's Thus Spake Zarathustra; it seems incredible that Strauss did not have Berlioz's effect in his mind.]

[Footnote 239: See the Memoires for a rhapsodic account of his state of mind at this time—"basking in the warm rays of Shakespeare's imagination and believing it in his power to arrive at the marvellous island where rises the temple of pure Art."]

[Footnote 240: For extended comments and a long citation of the actual music see the Sixth Volume of the Oxford History of Music.]

After a careful study of the foregoing examples the reader, we hope, is in a position to make a fair estimate of Berlioz's power and to realize his great significance. It should be understood that this music is intensely subjective and so requires a sympathetic and cultivated attitude on the part of the listener. To the writer at least, there remains one vital lack in Berlioz's music,—that of the dissonant element. It often seems as if his conceptions could not be fully realized for want of sheer musical equipment, largely due to insufficient early training. For what is music without dissonance? Surely "flat, stale and unprofitable" even if, in Berlioz's case, this deficiency is offset by great rhythmic vitality and gorgeous color. Yet in his best works[241] there is such a strong note of individuality, indeed such real character, that they are deserving of sincere respect and admiration, although by everybody they may not be deeply loved. We should, furthermore, always remember that, if Berlioz's poverty of harmonic effect is sometimes annoying, he never falls into the humdrum ruts of those who have had a stereotyped academic training. His genius was unhampered by any conventional harmonic vocabulary, and hence it could always express itself freely. That he was a real genius no one can fairly doubt.

[Footnote 241: For valuable analytical comments on Berlioz's orchestral style see Vol. VIII, Chapter X, of the Art of Music (Cesar Saerchinger, N.Y.), and for biographical details and matters of general import, Vol. II, Chap. IX.]

All the qualities which have been enumerated as typical of the romantic temperament: warmth of sentiment, broad culture, love of color and the sensuous side of music, freedom of form, and stress laid on the orchestra as the most eloquent means of expression, reach their climax in Franz Liszt (1811-1886). Born near Vienna of a Hungarian father and a German mother, but chiefly associated with Paris, Weimar, Budapest and Rome, he is certainly the most picturesque and versatile figure in the music of the 19th century; for he worked and won fame as a pianoforte virtuoso—probably the greatest the world has known—as a prolific composer for pianoforte, orchestra and voice, as a teacher, conductor and man of letters, and withal spent a large part of his time, strength and fortune in helping young artists and in producing works which otherwise might never have seen the light. His life is of constant and varied interest, so spectacular at times that it seems like a fairy tale.[242] As a mere boy he began to receive adulation for his precocity; at the height of his career he was loaded with honors and wealth; in his old age he was a favorite with everyone of distinction and influence in France, Germany, England and Italy. Nevertheless he preserved, throughout, the integrity of his character and the nobility of his disposition. Whatever may be the final estimate of his powers as a creative artist, as a man he has earned nothing but eulogy;[243] for seldom has any one been freer from the faults of vanity, petty jealousy and envy which so often mar the artistic temperament. Liszt's generous encouragement and financial support of Wagner in the struggling days of his unpopularity have never been surpassed in the brotherhood of art.

[Footnote 242: The best biographies in English are the one by Huneker and that in Vol. 2 of Grove's Dictionary.]

[Footnote 243: For a lively description of his influence as a pianoforte teacher see Music Study in Germany by Amy Fay.]

Liszt is akin to Berlioz in many respects; we feel the same natural tendency to derive musical inspiration from external sources, poetic, pictorial or from the realm of Nature. Purely as a musician, however, Liszt was far greater, with a wider vocabulary and more power in thematic development. His work also is somewhat uneven; moments of real beauty alternating with passages which are trivial, bombastic or mere lifeless padding. When we bear in mind Liszt's unparalleled versatility, his output in quantity and variety is so amazing—there being well over 1,000 works of about every kind—that it is unfair to expect the style to be as finely wrought as the original conception is noble. A serious and unbiased study of his best compositions will convince one that Liszt is entitled to high rank as a musician of genuine poetic inspiration. The average music-lover is prone to dwell upon him as the composer of Les Preludes, the Hungarian Rhapsodies, and as the somewhat flashy transcriber of operatic potpourris, such as the Rigoletto Fantasie. But Les Preludes, notwithstanding a certain charm and the clever manner in which the music (without becoming minutely descriptive) supplements the poem of Lamartine, is yet barred from the first rank by its mawkishness of sentiment and by its cloying harmonies. The most significant among the symphonic poems are Orpheus with its characteristic crescendos and diminuendos; Tasso of great nobility and pathos, and Mazeppa, a veritable tour de force of descriptive writing. To hear any one of these masterpieces can not fail to alter the opinion of those who may have considered Liszt as exclusively given over to sensational effects. As for the Hungarian Rhapsodies, which Liszt intended as a kind of national ballade and so, for the basic themes and rhythms, drew largely on Hungarian Folk music, here again the public, with its fondness for being dazzled, has laid exclusive stress on the flashy ones to the detriment of those containing much that is noble and of enduring worth. In his transcriptions of standard songs Liszt did as valuable a public service as any popularizer, and has thereby made familiar the melodies of Schubert and Schumann to hundreds who otherwise would know nothing of them. In considering Liszt's pianoforte works we must remember that he was a born virtuoso with a natural fondness for exploiting the possibilities of his instrument, and with an amazing technique as a performer. When the sincerity of a composer is in question there is a great difference as to what should be the standard of judgment, whether the work be for orchestra or for pianoforte. In writing for orchestra the composer naturally centres himself on the pure ideas and their treatment, as the execution is something entirely external to himself. In works for pianoforte, however, the composer who is also a virtuoso will often, and quite justifiably, introduce passages of purely pianistic effect which in other circumstances would amount to a confession of deficient imagination. That Liszt at times abused his facility in decoration need not be gainsaid, and yet how poetic and eloquent are his best pianoforte compositions!—the Etudes, the Waldesrauschen, the Ballade and, above all, the Sonata in B minor.[244] Much unjust criticism has been expended upon Liszt for treating the pianoforte like an orchestra. As a matter of fact he widened, in a perfectly legitimate way, the possibilities of the instrument as to sonority, wealth and variety of color-effect. According to the testimony of contemporary colleagues, Rubinstein, Taussig and von Buelow who, had they not been convinced of his supremacy, might well have been jealous, Liszt was incontestably the greatest interpreter of Bach, Beethoven and Chopin; and his power as a Beethoven scholar is attested by the poetically annotated edition of the Sonatas. It is often asserted that Liszt lacked spontaneous melodic invention. This is a hard saying unless taken in a relative sense. We may grant that Liszt was neither a Schubert nor a Mozart, and yet recognize in his works some extremely haunting melodies. His creative power was acknowledged by Wagner and in a very practical manner. In fact, after a comparative study of their works, one is amazed at the number of melodies which Wagner borrowed from Liszt and at the generous complaisance of the latter. The reactive influence of Liszt and Wagner, each upon the other, is an interesting chapter in the development of modern art. Liszt was undoubtedly encouraged in his revolutionary aims by Wagner's fiery courage. Wagner, on his side, owed much to Liszt's unselfish generosity; and with his more powerful constructive gifts worked up into enduring form motives which, internal evidence clearly shows, came from Liszt himself.