[Footnote 244: For a most entertaining description of this work see the Huneker Biography, pp. 64-70.]

Just a few closing words as to Liszt's specific contributions to the expansion of musical structure. He was an advanced leader in the "program school," being endowed with considerably more constructive power than Berlioz, who often fell between two stools: in that while his subject demanded the freest treatment, he lacked the vigor to break away from the formal routine of his classic models. In Liszt's orchestral works, however, the term "Symphonic Poem"—one of his own invention—is fully justified, i.e., they are symphonic in that they have organic unity, although this is not attained by preserving the classic number and arrangement of themes; and they are also poetic, being not a presentation of abstract tone patterns, but illustrative of some external idea which shapes the course of the music entirely to its own needs.[245] The distinguishing quality of the Symphonic Poem is its unbroken continuity. Although objective points are reached, and while there are broad lines of demarcation with reference to the varied moods of the poem to be illustrated, there are no rigid stops—everything is fused together into a continuous whole. Liszt was an advocate of persistent development, i.e., the music going out into space like a straight line instead of returning on itself. Inner evidence shows, however, that although he avoided many needless and conventional repetitions, he could not entirely throw overboard the cyclical law of restatement; for there is not one of his Symphonic Poems which does not repeat, at the end, thematic material already heard. Liszt carried the principle of theme transformation still further than Berlioz; and, as a German, tended to lay stress rather on the psychological aspects of character than on those outward theatric events which appeal to French taste. The difference is well shown by a comparison of the Damnation of Faust with Liszt's Faust Symphony, considered his most inspired orchestral work. Liszt must not be forgotten as a song-writer, especially for his settings to Goethe's poems; which, as Huneker says, are masterpieces and contain, in essence, all the dramatic lyricism of modern writers, Strauss included. In these songs the instrumental part is of special import; Liszt in pianistic treatment anticipating Hugo Wolf with his "Songs for Voice and Pianoforte," i.e., the voice and the instrument are treated as coequal factors.

[Footnote 245: For stimulating comments see The Symphony since Beethoven by Weingartner, pp. 71-86.]

The works of Liszt selected for analytical comment are the Symphonic Poem Orpheus, the Faust Symphony and the Pianoforte Etude, Waldesrauschen. The student, however, should become familiar with several others[246] of the Symphonic Poems, notably Tasso, Les Preludes and Mazeppa; with the Pianoforte Sonata in B minor in one movement, in which Liszt works on the same plan as Schumann in the Fourth Symphony; with the descriptive pianoforte pieces and etudes; and with the songs, of which Kennst du das Land, Die Lorelei and Du bist wie eine Blume are beautiful examples.

[Footnote 246: An enlightening and comprehensive account of each of these may be found in Niecks's Programme Music already referred to. See also Chapter VII, pp. 141-155 in Vol. VI of the Oxford History for what is perhaps a rather biased point of view. There is an excellent tabulation of the themes from Les Preludes in Mason's Romantic Composers.]

SYMPHONIC POEM, ORPHEUS

In this work, as must always be the case in poetically suggestive music, the composer trusts to the general intelligence and insight of the listener. For a mere mention of the name Orpheus may well call up the vision of a majestic, godlike youth proclaiming his message of joy and peace to soften the unruly passions of men and animals.

It is said that Liszt's imagination was kindled by a beautiful representation of Orpheus playing on the lyre, which decorates an Etruscan vase in the Louvre. The aim of the music was thus to intensify and supplement the visual effect. The Poem begins with soft, sustained calls on the horns, creating a mood of expectancy, interspersed with modulatory arpeggios on the harp serving to complete the legendary picture. In these Symphonic Poems, we must always observe how closely the nature of the themes and the whole import of the music are involved with the orchestral dress. For Liszt, though not perhaps so brilliant and sensational as Berlioz, was equally a great master of orchestral coloring and poetic suggestion by means of appropriate instruments; often, too, more delicate and refined. In measure 15 begins for sustained strings the stately march which typifies the gradual approach of Orpheus. The second phrase of the march, beginning in measure 38, has received the compliment of being appropriated, almost literally, by Wagner in the second act of the Valkyrie for the march motive with which Wotan is ushered in. Some beautiful modulatory developments of the march theme, with which the original horn calls are united, lead to the impassioned theme in E major, sung by an English horn, which is the message of Orpheus to the sons of men, e.g.

[Music]

The theme is expanded by means of striking modulations until, in measure 102, it is presented by the full orchestra. Some rather meaningless repetitions, in detached phrases, of the Orpheus theme bring us, in measure 130, to a return of the original march which is finally proclaimed ff with great power and sonority. It seems to typify the triumphant justification of Orpheus's appearance. The dissonant modulations in the following passage, beginning measure 155, (in which the double basses take a dramatic part) have been thought by some to represent realistically the uncouth roars of forest monsters. These outcries finally subside and in the Coda, beginning at measure 180, we have first a beautiful reminiscence of Orpheus's message and then a last announcement of the march theme, which is now presented in the form of a long diminuendo, as if the God-like apparition were slowly withdrawing from our sight. A series of shifting modulations (adagio and pianissimo) seems to bring a cloud before our enraptured senses, and the work closes with a long sustained chord in C major, ppp, giving an elemental idea of peace and satisfaction. From the standpoint of musical structure the work is a crescendo followed by a diminuendo and, poetically considered, is a convincing picture in terms of music of the effect made upon Liszt's imagination by the legend of Orpheus. Observe that, although the composition is free in form, it is not formless.[247] The main lines are the familiar ones of statement, contrast and restatement, i.e., three-part form, and the key-relationship is clear and carefully planned.

[Footnote 247: An allegation often brought against Liszt's work by those whose conception of "form" is that of a cast-iron mould.]

THE FAUST SYMPHONY

This work, although embodying Liszt's favorite ideas of dramatic characterization and transformation of theme as found in the Symphonic Poems, more nearly resembles the ordinary symphony in that it is in three distinct movements—with pauses between—which stand, respectively, for the three chief characters in Goethe's drama: Faust, Gretchen and Mephistopheles. In the Faust Symphony the principle of transformation or metamorphosis of themes is of such importance that it may be defined as their rhythmic, melodic and harmonic modification for the purpose of changing the meaning to correspond with a modification in the characters for which they stand. The first movement sets before us five themes illustrative of the most prominent traits in the complex nature of Faust; the three most important being (a) typical of brooding, speculative inquiry, (b) the longing of love, (c) the enthusiasm and chivalry of Faust, e.g.

[Music: (a)]

[Music: (b)]

[Music: (c)]

The development of these themes is entirely free, the musical texture being held together by a general application of the principle of contrast and by a logical key-scheme. The second movement has two main themes, e.g.

[Music: (a)]

[Music: (b)]

which portray eloquently the sweetness and dreamy ecstacy of Gretchen's nature. In the course of this portrayal there appear several themes from the first movement showing, by their transformation, the effect upon the introspective Faust of the awakening influence of love. Thus the love theme appears as—

[Music]

and also later in this form—

[Music]

Towards the close of the movement there is a subtle reference to the chivalrous theme, as follows—

[Music]

Much of the appeal of the music depends upon the orchestration which throughout is of remarkable beauty.

In the final movement, entitled Mephistopheles, there are a few independent themes which portray the malign influence of the spirit of Evil—the movement is marked Allegro vivace ironico!—but most of the material is a transformation of the Faust themes which are here burlesqued, parodied; as if all the noble aspirations of Faust were being mocked and set at naught. This treatment is a perfectly logical result of the correspondence, for which Liszt was striving, between the music and the spirit of the underlying drama. As for the final impressiveness of his artistic message, the composer may well have felt that the effect would be indefinite without the specific meaning which words alone can give. For the style is very subjective throughout; that is, if the hearer is in a responsive condition, an effect is produced on his imagination—otherwise, not. To close the work, therefore, in the most moving and dignified manner, Liszt, with unerring instinct and following the precedent of Beethoven in the Ninth Symphony, introduces a chorus of men's voices—marked Andante Mistico—which intones the famous stanza "Alles Vergaengliche"[248] at the close of the second part of Faust; while, above this chorus, a solo tenor proclaims the motto of the redeeming love of woman, "Das ewig Weibliche"—a sentiment so dear to the German[249] mind and one that plays such an important part in the music dramas of Wagner. A dramatic and musical connection between the movements is established by using, for this solo part, the melody (intensified by augmentation) which in the second movement typified the love and charm of Gretchen, e.g.

[Music: Das ewig Weibliche]

[Footnote 248: Translated as follows by Bayard Taylor:—

Chorus Misticus

All things transitory But as symbols are sent; Earth's insufficiency Here grows to Event; The Indescribable, Here it is done: The Woman-Soul leadeth us Upward and on!]

[Footnote 249: The way in which the Germans in the recent war have applied this doctrine raises, we must say, many searching questions.]

Notwithstanding the ultra sensationalism in some of Liszt's works there is no doubt that, in the closing pages of Faust, he has produced an effect of genuine power and of inspired musical beauty.[250] Faust, in fact, may be called a great work because of the character of its leading melodies, its freedom of structure and expression and its wealth of appropriate orchestral color. For these merits we may overlook certain dreary passages where it would surely seem as if the imagination of the composer were not able to translate into tones all the phases of Goethe's stupendous drama.[251]

[Footnote 250: That this is the verdict of the public is shown by the fact that, whenever of late years Faust has been given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, it has had to be repeated by popular request.]

[Footnote 251: For further comments on the work see Huneker's Franz Liszt, pp. 141-146 and the third part (on Program Music) of Finck's R. Strauss, The Man and His Works. Also Chap. VII passim in Vol. VI of the Oxford History.]

In a book such as this, chiefly concerned with broad principles of structure and style, it would be out of place to attempt a detailed account of Liszt's numerous and varied pianoforte compositions. But they can by no means be left out of consideration by anyone who wishes to gain a comprehensive estimate of his influence. For although the fundamental principles of pianoforte style, both in writing for the instrument and in playing upon it, are derived from Chopin and Schumann,[252] Liszt so amplified the work of these men and added so many novel features of his own in pianistic effect and especially in execution that he is rightly considered a genius of the instrument. He certainly brought out of the pianoforte a sonority and wealth of color which heretofore had been associated only with the orchestra. The chief groups of the pianoforte works are (1) the transcriptions of songs, notably of Schubert and Schumann, and of operas, particularly of Wagner. In this group should also be included the remarkable arrangement for solo-pianoforte of all the Beethoven Symphonies. (2) The Etudes, especially the set entitled "Etudes d'execution transcendante"—a description which clearly shows the idea Liszt set before himself and indubitably attained; of this set the one in F minor is particularly fine. (3) The world-famed Hungarian Rhapsodies, fifteen in number, based on national melodies and rhythms. In these Liszt aspired to be the poet of his nation, and they are still among the most important manifestations of the national spirit so prominent in our modern music. Perhaps the most eloquent and celebrated are the 2d, the 12th and the 14th. Even if at times they are overencrusted with effects meant primarily for display, the rhythmic vitality and color of the melodies cannot be withstood.

[Footnote 252: Weber and Schubert had, of course, done valuable pioneer work.]

CONCERT ETUDE, Waldesrauschen

(SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 59)

This composition begins with a swaying, cantabile theme for the left hand very characteristic of Liszt, which stands out in relief against some beautifully placed arabesque figures in the upper register of the instrument—the whole to be played una corda, dolce con grazia. It really is a poetic picture, in terms of music, of the delicious murmur of the woods. In the 15th measure the theme is transferred to the right hand, in octaves, over sonorous, widely extended groups below. The theme is expanded through a series of striking modulations and then returns, in measure 30, to the left hand in a single melodic line. This middle portion, measures 30-50, is very beautiful in its genuine atmospheric treatment. Towards its close, however, Liszt's fondness for sensational effect rather runs away with him and there is a good deal, in measures 50-60 (marked martellato, strepitoso and fff), which is rather difficult to reconcile with the poetic subject. Perhaps a mighty wind is roaring through the trees! In measure 61 the theme is once more presented in amplified form by the right hand, piu mosso and molto appassionata, and worked up to a brilliant climax—ending with an interlocking trill and a long, descending passage of delightful sensuous effect. The closing measures, una corda and dolcissimo, afford a reminiscence of the haunting appeal of the chief melody. All in all, in spite of a certain admixture of alloy, here is a poetic composition, a real tone-picture of the woods and of the effects implied by the title. Certainly a piece which, in its picturesque suggestiveness and pianistic treatment, may fairly be called the ancestor of much that is beautiful in such modern composers as Debussy and Ravel.

As a final estimate of Liszt and as a suggestion for the student's attitude we cite from Niecks the following quotation, since, in our opinion, it is true and forcibly expressed:

"Liszt's works are too full of originality and striking expressiveness to deserve permanently the neglect that has been their lot. Be, however, the ultimate fate of these works what it may, there will always remain to Liszt the fame of a daring striver, a fruitful originator and a wide-ranging quickener."



CHAPTER XVI

BRAHMS

After the novel and brilliant work of the Romanticists had reached its height in the compositions just studied, it seemed as if there were nothing more for music to do. Wagner, with his special dramatic aims and gorgeous coloring, loomed so large on the horizon that for a time all other music was dwarfed. It is, therefore of real significance that just in this interregnum two men, born in the early years of the 19th century, were quietly laying the foundations for eloquent works in absolute or symphonic music. These men were Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) and Cesar Franck (1822-1890). Following a few preliminary remarks about the significance of symphonic style in general, the next chapters will be devoted to an account of their works and influence.

A striking feature in the development of music since 1850 is the number of symphonies produced by the representative composers of the various nations; and the manner in which these works embody certain phases of style and manifest national tendencies is a subject of great interest. Ever since Beethoven, there has been a universal feeling that the symphony is the form in which a composer should express his highest thoughts. If Wagner and Richard Strauss seem to be exceptions, we must remember that their work for orchestra is thoroughly symphonic both in material and in scope. The difference is chiefly one of terms. Wagner claimed that he merely applied to dramatic purposes Beethoven's thematic development; and the tone-poems of Strauss are symphonies in essence though on a free poetic basis. Every composer has taken up the writing of a symphony with a serious purpose and often comparatively late in life. To be sure, Beethoven's first Symphony, op. 21, was composed in his thirtieth year; but for the works which manifest most strongly his personality, such as the Third, Fifth and Ninth, we have to wait until a later period. Schumann essayed symphonic composition only after his technique had been developed in every other field. Brahms's first Symphony, on which he is said to have worked ten years, is op. 68. Cesar Franck looked forward to a Symphony as the climax of his career. The day has passed when a composer could dash off symphonies by the dozen; quality and genuine personality in each work are the modern requirements. Thus from Brahms we have four symphonies, from Tchaikowsky six, from Bruckner nine—a dangerously large number!—from Sibelius five, from Elgar two, from d'Indy three; and, even if a composer write but a single really inspired and noble symphony—as for example, Cesar Franck—he is in so far immortal. For the symphonic form is the product of too much intense striving (think of Beethoven's agonies of conception!) to be treated lightly. Beginning with the operatic overture of Lully and Scarlatti, called "Sinfonia avanti l'opera," down through the labors of Stamitz, Gossec, Emmanuel Bach, Haydn and Mozart, this form, as we know it to-day, is the result of at least a century and a half of sustained, constructive work. A musician who wishes to compose a symphony is brought face to face with the formidable question, "Have I a real message to utter and the technical skill to present it in communicable form?" There are no accessory appeals to the other senses in the way of a dramatic story, scenic effect, dancing and costumes—as in opera—to cloak poverty of invention and to mollify the judgment of the listener. I grant that the composition of an original opera is a high achievement, but we know how many composers have won success in the operatic field from whom we should never expect a symphony. From comparatively few have we great works in both forms. Consider, furthermore, how complicated a tool is the present orchestra, as a tool, to say nothing of the invention of ideas. Many years of study are required to attain a certainty of calculation in sonority and nuance, and the mere writing out the score of a symphony requires unremitting toil. We all pay homage to life: human life in men, women and children, and the life of nature in animals, birds, trees and flowers. Let us ever remember that the imagination also has its products and the themes of a symphony may certainly be considered its children. The public often seems to have slight idea of the sanctity and mystery of a musical idea. Composers are considered people with a kind of "knack" in writing down notes. In reality, a musical idea is as wonderful a thing as we can conceive—a miracle of life and yet intangible, ethereal. The composer apparently creates something out of nothing, pure fancy being wrought into terms of communication. Since the close of the Romantic period proper, the Symphonic composers of universal recognition have been Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky, d'Indy, Sibelius, Bruckner, Mahler, Dvořak, Elgar, and a few lesser men of the Russian and French schools. Their works carry still further the principles which can be traced from Beethoven down through the Romantic School, i.e., the chief themes are of a highly subjective nature, often in fact being treated like actual characters in a drama; and great freedom is shown in regard to mood and order of the usual symphonic movements—this being particularly true of Mahler and Bruckner. A distinct feature of interest in the work of Tchaikowsky, Dvořak and Sibelius is the introduction of exotic types of melody and rhythm, drawn from national sources. Thus Tchaikowsky, who said that he wished all his instrumental music to sound like a glorified Russian folk-song, uses rhythms of 5 and (in his chamber music) 7 beats a measure, with frequent touches of old modal harmony. Dvořak founds his harmony and modulations on the exceedingly chromatic scale of the Bohemians; and his piquant and dashing rhythms could come only from a nation which has no less than forty national dances. In listening to Sibelius, we are conscious of the wild sweep of the wind, of unchained forces of nature; and there are the same traits of virile strength and grim dignity which have made the Kalevala, Finland's national poem, one of the great epics of the world. Although Brahms never lets us forget that he is a Teuton, there are frequent traces in his compositions of the Hungarian element—so dear to all the Viennese composers—as well as of German folk-songs; and the most artistic treatment we have of Hungarian rhythms is found in his two sets of Hungarian dances.

It is manifestly beyond the scope of a single book to treat comprehensively each of the symphonists in the list just cited, so I shall dwell chiefly upon the characteristics of Brahms, Franck, Tchaikowsky and d'Indy as probably the greatest, and touch only incidentally upon the others, as of somewhat lesser import; though if anyone take issue with this preference in regard to Mahler and Bruckner I shall not combat him. For I believe Mahler to be a real genius; feeling, however, that his wonderful conceptions are sometimes not expressed in the most convincing manner. There is no doubt that Mahler has not yet received his bigger part in due valuation, but his time will surely come. As for Bruckner, we have from him some of the most elemental and powerful ideas in modern music—witness the dirge in the Seventh Symphony with its impressive scoring for trombones and Bayreuth tubas, a movement Beethoven might have signed; although with the virgin gold there is mixed, it must be confessed, a large amount of crude alloy, and there are dreary stretches of waste sand.

Johannes Brahms, like Beethoven, with whom his style has many affinities, was a North-German, born in 1833 in the historic seaport town of Hamburg.[253] Brahms came of lowly though respectable and intelligent parents, his father being a double-bass player in one of the theatre orchestras. That the positiveness of character, so conspicuous in his famous son, was an inherited trait may be seen from the following anecdote. The director of the theatre orchestra once asked father Brahms not to play so loud; whereupon he replied with dignity, "Herr Kapellmeister, this is my double-bass, I want you to understand, and I shall play it as loud as I please." The music of Brahms in its bracing vigor has been appropriately compared to a mixture of sea air and the timbre of this instrument.

[Footnote 253: Noted as being the original centre of national German opera and for its associations with the early career of Handel.]

Brahms's mother was a deeply religious woman who imbued her son with a seriousness of purpose which runs through all his work. From his earliest years he was trained for music, as a matter of course, and showed marked precocity as a pianist, though it soon became evident that he also was endowed with rare creative gifts. The young student made such progress under Marxsen, a famous teacher of the period, that at the age of fifteen he gave a public concert, on the program of which stood some original pieces of his own. The next few years were spent in diligent study and in the composition of some of his early works, of which the Scherzo op. 4 is the most significant. Brahms was extraordinarily precocious and during these formative years manifested a trait which is noticeable throughout his career—that of knowing exactly what end he had in view and of setting to work quickly and steadily to attain it. Finally in 1853, when he was twenty, he was invited to participate in the memorable concert-tour with the Hungarian Violinist Remenyi, which was the cause of his being brought before the public under the auspices of three such sponsors as Schumann, Liszt and Joachim. It seems that, at one of the concerts in a small town, the pianoforte was a semitone too low, whereupon young Brahms transposed at sight a difficult Beethoven Sonata into the requisite higher key. This remarkable feat of musicianship so impressed Joachim, who was in the audience, that he gave Brahms two letters of introduction—one to Liszt at Weimar and one to Schumann at Duesseldorf on the Rhine. Following up these letters, Brahms now spent six weeks at Weimar with Liszt, assimilating important points of method and style. Although the two natures were somewhat unsympathetic, Liszt was so impressed with the creative power and character of Brahms's first compositions, that he tried to adopt him as an adherent of the advanced school of modern music; while Brahms was led, as some would claim, through Liszt's influence to an appreciation of the artistic effects to be found in Hungarian music. Brahms's visit to Schumann in the autumn of 1853 was in its consequences a significant incident. After hearing Brahms's music, Schumann wrote for the "Neue Zeitschrift" an article entitled "Neue Bahnen" ("New Paths") in which the young composer was heralded as the master for whom the world had been waiting, the successor of Beethoven in the symphonic style. Through Schumann's influence, the publishers Breitkopf and Haertel at once brought out Brahms's first works, which were by no means received by the public with general favor; in fact they provoked as bitter discussion as those of Wagner, and made headway slowly. For four years—from 1854 to 1858—Brahms was in the service of the Prince of Lippe-Detmold, a small principality near Hanover, where the court was a quiet one, thus affording ample time for composition and private study. Brahms's strength of purpose and unusual power of self-criticism are shown by the way in which this period was spent. Although he had made a brilliant debut, Brahms now imposed upon himself a course of rigorous technical training, appeared seldom before the public and published no compositions; his object being to free himself from a narrow subjectivity and to give scope to his wide human sympathies and to his passion for perfection of utterance. It seemed to him that a plausible originality might degenerate into mere idiosyncrasy, and that universality of appeal should be a musician's highest goal. When he resigned his post and came before the public with his first large work, a concerto for pianoforte and orchestra, the gain made in increased power and resources was evident. The greatest tribute which can be paid Brahms is that he has summed up and united the classic principles of clearness and solidity of workmanship with the warmth and spontaneity of the Romantic School. In 1862 Brahms settled in Vienna where, for thirty-five years, his career was entirely free from external incidents of note; his time spent in quiet steady work and in the attainment of artistic ideals. His slow logical development is like that of Beethoven, due to the fact that his works were far from numerous, but finished with the greatest care. The standard of creative quality is also very high; comparatively few of Brahms's works are not altogether alive. Matthew Arnold's beautiful lines on labor are applicable to Brahms. "Work which in lasting fruit outgrows far noisier schemes; accomplished in repose; too great for haste; too high for rivalry." Brahms thus described to Mr. Henschel, a former conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his ideals concerning composing: "There is no real creating without hard work; that which you call invention is simply an inspiration from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit of mine." And again, "Whether a composition is beautiful is one consideration, but perfect it must be." The few of his compositions which show connection with outward events are the Deutsches Requiem, his best-known choral work (in commemoration of his mother's death) and the Academic Overture, composed in place of the conventional thesis, when—in 1880—the University of Breslau conferred on him a doctor's degree. This Overture, based on several convivial student songs, is on the whole his most genial composition for orchestra and has won a deserved popularity the world over.[254] For sustained fancy his most beautiful work for chorus and orchestra is the Schicksalslied (Song of Destiny). Symphonic composition, as has been said, came in the latter part of Brahms's career, his first work in that form being op. 68. After that, within a few years, three other symphonies were composed. His last works include the significant pianoforte pieces called Intermezzi—not all equally inspired, but many representing the finest flower of Brahms's genius; four serious songs for bass voice, and one posthumous work, Eleven Choral Preludes for Organ. Brahms died in 1897 and lies buried in Vienna not far from Beethoven and Schubert.

[Footnote 254: Another very fine work in this class is the Tragic Overture, worthy of the deepest study.]

From Brahms we have beautiful works in every branch of composition save the opera and symphonic poem. (He once said he would risk neither an opera nor getting married!) Very few of his works have titles, and in this respect he stood somewhat aloof from that strong tendency in modern times—the connection between music and poetic and literary sources of inspiration. But he had a right to choose his own line of effort; it is for us to become familiar with his works as they are. They comprise about two hundred songs, three pianoforte sonatas and many lesser pieces, two concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, a wonderfully fine violin concerto, four symphonies—each with a character of its own—and a large group of chamber compositions: string quartets, sonatas for violin and pianoforte, trios, and a number of works for unusual ensemble combinations—the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte being the best known.

As to the nature of Brahms's music the following comments are submitted for consideration. He was not a colorist or a stylist in the broad sense of those terms, i.e., color and style were not the prime ingredients in his music. There is light and shade in Brahms but seldom that rich and varied glow found, for example, in Rimsky-Korsakoff—that supreme master of orchestral coloring. As for style, it may be said that his work fulfils Matthew Arnold's definition of that desirable quality, "To have something to say and to say it in the most simple and direct manner possible." We sometimes feel, however, that he is thinking more of what he has to say than of outward eloquence of expression. But when there are so many composers[255] in whom there is far more style than substance, we should not carp at Brahms for the "stuff" in his work. The matter might be put in a nut-shell by saying that Brahms is Brahms; you accept him or leave him, as you see fit. The bulk of his music not only has stood the test of time but becomes more potent each year; surely this is the highest possible endorsement. He is rightly considered a great master of pure melodic line and a consummate architect, especially in the conciseness and concentration of certain compositions, e.g., the Third Symphony, and in his superb mastery of the Variation form which is the basis of some of his most famous works for orchestra and for pianoforte. His texture is of marked richness and variety; seldom do we find verbiage or lifeless padding. He has been called the Browning of music—a deep thinker in tones. Genuine appreciation of Brahms presupposes work on the part of the music-lover; and the recognition should be more general that the imaginative stimulation gained only through work is one of the blessings music has to bestow.

[Footnote 255: We cite Saint-Saens, as one instance.]

It is often alleged, indeed, that to enjoy Brahms one has to work. Of course, but what repaying work! This may be said equally of Shakespeare, of Dante, of Browning, of Bach and of every poet with a serious message. The vitality of Brahms's creative power, like that of Beethoven, is seen in his rhythm. He had a highly developed rhythmic sense, and in his fondness for syncopations, for contrasted accents and for complicated metric groups he is the logical successor of Schumann. One of his favorite devices is the altered grouping of the notes in a measure, so that there is a contrast between duple and triple rhythm, e.g., the following passage in the Second Symphony, where an effect of great vigor is produced.

[Music]

There are never in Brahms weak or conventional rhythms. He is also one of the great modern song-composers, representing with Strauss, Wolf and Mahler the culmination of the German Lied. In his songs there is a warmth and depth of sentiment as yet unsurpassed, and the accompaniment is always a highly wrought factor in the work. In estimating the value of Brahms's compositions as a whole, it is difficult to hold the balance true. Those to whom he is sympathetic through an affinity of temperament revere him as one of the great geniuses for all time, while to others his message is not of such convincing power. The effect of inborn temperament in the personal appeal made by any composer is vividly shown by the estimate which Tchaikowsky and Brahms had for one another. Each felt respect for the sincerity and artistic skill of his contemporary, at the same time regretfully acknowledging that the essence of the music meant little to him. To Tchaikowsky Brahms seemed cold and lacking in melodic spontaneity; to Brahms, on the other hand, Tchaikowsky seemed superficial, sensational. The gist of the matter is that Brahms was a Teuton and wrote with characteristic Teutonic reserve and dignity. Tchaikowsky, being a Slav, wrote with the impassioned lack of restraint and volatility of mood associated with that people. How could it be otherwise? Each was a genuine artist, expressing his natural feelings with clearness and conviction; and each should be respected for what he did: not one at the expense of the other. In Brahms, however, the question does arise of facility of expression versus worthiness of expression. He had an unparalleled technique in the manipulation of notes but whether there was always an emotional impulse behind what he wrote is debatable. For there are these two contrasting types in every art: works which come from the heart (remember Beethoven's significant inscription at the end of his Mass),[256] and those which come from the head. This brings us face to face with the perplexing question as to the essence of music. To some it is a record of intellectual activity tinged with emotion; to others, an emotional outpouring controlled by intellect. These two types of music will always exist, being the natural expression of the corresponding classes in human nature.

[Footnote 256: "From the heart it has come, to the heart it shall go."]

Brahms's music is sometimes called dry, but this is a misuse of terms. To draw an analogy from another sense, we might rejoin that the best champagne is "sec," all the superfluous, cloying sugar being removed. There is plenty of saccharine music in the world for those who like it. In Brahms, however, we find a potential energy and a manly tenderness which cannot be ignored even by those who are not profoundly thrilled by his message. He was a sincere idealist and composed to please his own high standards, never thinking of outward effect nor testing the pulse of the fickle public. As a man there is no doubt that he was warm-hearted and vigorous, but his was not the nature to come forward with captivating geniality. On the contrary he expects the hearer to come to him, and is too reserved to meet you more than half-way. That this austerity has proved a bar in the way of a wide-spread fame, while to be regretted, is unavoidable; remove these characteristics from Brahms and he ceases to be Brahms. Those, however, who may think that Brahms is always austere and grim, holding himself aloof from broad human emotion, should remember that he has done more than any other modern composer to idealize the Waltz; and, if the atmosphere of his symphonic style be too rarified, they may well begin their effort in appreciation with those charming Waltzes op. 39 (both for solo pianoforte and for a four-hand arrangement); the Hungarian Dances, and—most beautiful of all—the Liebeslieder Walzer for chorus and pianoforte (four-hands). Anyone who knows these works cannot fail to become a genuine lover of Brahms. To be of the earth and yet to strike the note of sublimity is a paradox. For, in Brahms at his best, we surely find more of the sublime, of true exalted aspiration, than in any other modern composer save Cesar Franck. To strike this note of sublimity is the highest achievement of music—its proper function; a return, as it were, to the abode whence it came. Such music is far beyond that which is merely sensuous, brilliantly descriptive, or even dramatically characteristic. Much of present day music excites and thrills but does not exalt. Brahms, in his great moments, lifts us high above the earth. His universal acceptance is alike hindered by a deficiency which, though as natural as his reserve, may yet justly be cited against him—the occasional monotony of his color scheme. In the symphonies, notwithstanding the dignity and sincerity of thought, we find pages in the style of an engraving which would be more effective as a glowing canvas, e.g., in the slow movement of the Second Symphony and in the last two movements of the Fourth. Many consider, however, that Brahms's orchestral treatment is exactly suited to the seriousness of his ideas; so it comes down to a question of individual taste. That he had his own delicate feeling for color and sensuous effect is shown in many pages of the chamber music, especially in those works for unusual combinations, e.g., the Clarinet Quintet, and the Trio for Violin, Horn and Pianoforte. No one in modern times has used more eloquently that romantic instrument, the horn. See, for example, the Coda to the first movement of the D major Symphony and the slow movement of the Third Symphony. We must gratefully acknowledge the lasting quality of his music—without question it wears well. In fact, difficult though it be to comprehend at a first hearing, the more it is heard, the more it is enjoyed. Brahms's[257] music is steadily growing in popularity. His orchestral works and chamber music are applauded to-day, although twenty-five years ago they were received with apathy and scornful indifference.

[Footnote 257: For literature on Brahms the following works are recommended: the comprehensive Life by Fuller-Maitland; the essay in Hadow's Studies in Modern Music; that in Mason's From Grieg to Brahms; that by Spitta in Studies in Music by Robin Grey; the first essay in Mezzotints in Modern Music by Huneker; the biographical and critical article in Grove's Dictionary; Chapter IX in Volume 8 of the Art of Music, and Chapter XIII in Volume 2. There are also some stimulating remarks on Brahms's style in general, and on the attitude of a past generation towards his work, in those delightful essays, in 2 volumes, By the Way, About Music by the late well-known critic, W.F. Apthorp.]

As a representative work in each of the four fields in which Brahms created such masterpieces we have selected, for detailed analysis, the First Symphony, the Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte in A major, the Ballade in G minor and the Song, Meine Liebe ist gruen wie der Fliederbusch. All four of Brahms's symphonies may justly be considered great, each in its own way. For Brahms is not a man with a single message and has not written one large symphony in different sections, as, in a broad sense, may be said of Tchaikowsky. The Second, on account of the spontaneity and direct appeal of its themes, is undoubtedly the most popular. It contains a first movement of a quasi-Mendelssohnian suavity and lyric charm; a slow movement which is a meditation of the profundity of Bach himself; a third movement, allegretto, based on a delightful waltz of the Viennese Laendler type and a Finale of a Mozartian freshness and vigor—the second theme being specially notable for its broad sweep. The whole work is a convincing example of Brahms's vitality and "joie de vivre." The Third symphony is a marvel of conciseness and virile life. The Fourth, though not in all respects so inspired as the others, is famous for its beautiful slow movement—with an impressive introduction in the Phrygian mode (Brahms often showing a marked fondness for old modal harmony)—and for the Finale, which is an illustration of his polyphonic skill in modernizing the variation form, the Passacaglia or ground bass. But the First,[258] it seems to us, is the greatest, in scope, in wealth of material, in its remarkable combination of dramatic, epic and lyric elements and in an intensity of feeling and sublimity of thought peculiar to Brahms. It is extremely subjective, of deep ethical value, and sets forth a message of optimism and undying hope. The structural basis is a motto, often recurring in the work, which (whatever it may mean) is evidently—like the theme of the C minor symphony—some fierce protest against fate. The symphony, as a whole, represents a triumphant progress from darkness to light; and this meaning is made evident by the ever-brightening mood of the successive movements, the tone of which is strengthened by the scheme of key-relationship—based on an ascending series of major thirds, e.g.

[Music: C Minor, E major, A-flat major, C major.]

[Footnote 258: The eloquence of the work is so integrally involved with its orchestral dress that it should always be studied, if possible, in the full score. For class-room work excellent editions are available for two and four hands.]

The work is somewhat uneven—never weak—but at times a bit labored; as if the composer were consciously wrestling with great thoughts. This, however, is nothing against it, because equally true of large works in other fields of art, e.g., the Agamemnon of Aeschylus or Wagner's Tetralogy. It cannot be understood, much less appreciated, without close attention and earnest thought, for it presents the struggles and aspirations of mankind and is not meant solely to delight or entertain. When the hearer has made it his own it is a priceless possession for all time. The Prelude to the first movement, un poco sostenuto, is of impressive solemnity, developed from the motto, and based on the almost persistent iteration of the pedal notes C and G—the tonic and dominant. It proclaims that a serious meaning is to be revealed, and this meaning is accentuated by the orchestration which with its stratified grouping of melodic lines has a grim strength characteristic of Brahms.

[Music]

The first movement proper, Allegro, in complete sonata-form, begins with a ff announcement of the impassioned, chromatic motto, e.g.

[Music]

Note the cutting effect of the dissonant tones F-sharp and A-flat! From this motto grows the melodic part of the first theme in two balancing phrases, e.g.

[Music]

Then follow some stormy measures of dissonant chords and warring rhythms until the theme rages itself out, in measure 52. The transition begins with some sharp staccato chords, as if summoning to further attention. It gradually cools down through a series of beautiful modulations and, in measure 84, the second theme—introduced by calls on the horn and sung by the oboe—enters in the relative major key of E-flat. This also is based on the ascending, chromatic line of the motto; still further organic unity being gained by the bass, which has the same melodic figure as the second phrase of the first theme, e.g.

[Music]

Much of the previous fierceness, however, has abated and the remainder of the second theme is of a rare loveliness, with mysterious answering calls between oboes, clarinets and horns. The pp dominant ninth chords at the beginning of the closing portion (measures 120-122) give a positively shuddering effect and then the combat of clashing rhythms is renewed. The development begins with a series of shifting harmonies, at first ff and then pp—a lull before the storm—as if preparing the way for a still more terrific assault upon our emotions. It is tempestuous throughout; based at first on material taken from the preceding codetta and ending with an extended presentation of the motto over an iterated pedal note on the dominant, e.g.

[Music]

The fusion of the development with the recapitulation is skillfully handled, and the motto is proclaimed, beginning at measure 298, in a series of ascending strata, with overwhelming force. The third part, with slight abridgment and necessary adjustment of key-relationship, conforms exactly to the exposition. There is the same agitato closing portion as before, and then the Coda proper, beginning at measure 421, emphasizes with fiery accents the mood of storm and stress characteristic of the movement as a whole. After the fury has subsided, the dramatic motto asserts itself in the closing measures, poco sostenuto; the problem is still unsolved and the last C major chord is but a ray of light cast on troubled waters.

The second movement, andante sostenuto—in three-part form—begins with a tender melody expressing a mood of deep resignation and religious hope. No sooner has it started, however, than there creeps in the sinister motto, as if to remind us that life is undeniably stern and grim, e.g.

[Music]

In measure 17 there enters a closing theme, sung by the oboe, of ineffable beauty which is used in the third part as the climax of the movement. It surely seems to come from another world and is one of the most sublime melodies by Brahms or any one else. Its climax is impressively united with the main theme in the bass, e.g.

[Music]

The middle portion, beginning in measure 38, is a meditation—in dialogue form—for solo oboe and clarinet, worked up to an eloquent climax in the key of the relative minor, C-sharp. The third part, beginning measure 66, with the addition of some lovely modulatory changes, corresponds to part one; save that the melody is varied by Brahms's favorite device of three notes to a beat in one voice against two in another. Beginning in measure 90, the wondrous closing theme of the first part is sung by a solo violin, reinforced by oboe and horn. It is finally entrusted, in the home key, to the horn alone, above which the solo violin soars in ecstacy, e.g.

[Music]

Some diminuendo, descending passages lead to a reminiscent portion of the first theme and then, in measure 116, the grim motto enters, but this time without prevailing; for, in measures 122-124, it is finally exorcised and the movement closes with the seraphic calm of a soft, rich chord in E major, above which is heard a star-like note on the solo violin.

The third movement is an Allegretto; it being Brahms's custom in each[259] of his symphonies to substitute a movement of this type in place of the conventional Scherzo or Minuet. This movement clearly in three-part form, is thrown in to furnish relief after the emotional tension of the movement preceding. It has no obvious organic connection with the other movements, but is just the right thing in its surroundings, with a note of vitality which does much to brighten the scene and to prepare the way for the Finale. The opening theme in A-flat major is in two phrases of five measures each—a favorite rhythm with Brahms—given out by the clarinet over a pizzicato bass in the 'cellos. The melodic formation is unusual in that the latter phrase is an inversion of the first, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 259: The only slight exception is the third movement of the Fourth Symphony which, being marked Allegro giocoso, partakes somewhat of the nature of a Scherzo.]

After some descending passages in thirds and sixths—one of the characteristic[260] effects in Brahms's style—the theme is repeated in the violins with richer scoring. The descending passage returns and this time leads to the entrance of a subsidiary theme in F minor. In measures 50-51 occurs one of those cases of melodic germination which entitles Brahms to be called a genuine creative artist. The melody with its dashing, Hungarian zest sounds like something brand-new and yet is logically derived from the main theme by diminution, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 260: "Those eternal sixths and thirds." Weingartner later publicly recanted and became a whole-souled convert to Brahms. (See The Symphony since Beethoven, latest edition.)]

This is real poetic creation, it being the prime object of a poet to create in music something out of apparent nothing. After these vivacious developments the first part ends with a slight repetition of the main theme. The middle part, beginning measure 71, in 6/8 time and in the enharmonic key of B major (E-flat = D-sharp) is noteworthy for its rhythmic swing, bold syncopations and contrasted accents; see especially measures 97-107. At the beginning of the third part there is an effective blending of the rhythm which has just prevailed with the graceful lines of the first theme. The fabric is made up of effective changes, modulatory and rhythmic, in the material from the first part. At the Coda, piu tranquillo, there is a delightful reminiscence of the rhythm of the middle portion carried out to the very end by the double basses.[261]

[Footnote 261: A similar effect may be found in the closing measures of the first movement of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.]

The Finale is one of the most thrilling perorations in music; not a perfunctory close, but a veritable Apotheosis of victorious aspiration, giving an irresistible contrast to the first movement. Whereas, before, there was nothing but conflict, now all is triumphant joy. This movement is laid out on a vast scale, with a wealth of material, including a long Prelude with a distinct theme of its own and an extended Coda. The body of the movement is in abridged sonata form, i.e., there is a complete Exposition with first, second and closing themes, and the usual Recapitulation, but no Development proper. This lack is made good by considerable variation and expansion in the first part of the Resume. The Prelude begins Adagio with some strains which, like smouldering embers, remind us of the sinister motto of the first movement—note the same dissonant tones A-flat and F-sharp. The following measures are of indefinite nature, beginning piano and pizzicato as if a great body were gathering headway slowly. The pace gradually quickens and we are led through a series of impetuous stringendo runs to a ff chord which, accompanied by a ff roll on the kettle-drums, sounds like a clap of thunder and which, as the reverberations die away, ushers in a most moving theme[262]—given out forte and sempre passionato on the horn over a pp muted tremolo on the strings with a background of pp trombones, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 262: There is a striking analogy between the intervals of this theme and those of a well-known peal in a cathedral chime, e.g.

[Music]

In both the same elemental effect is produced by using the natural tones of the harmonic series (see page 193).]

This inspired passage[263] has been eloquently described by W.F. Apthorp as follows:

"Amid hushed, tremulous harmonies in the strings, the horn and afterward the flute pour forth an utterly original melody, the character of which ranges from passionate pleading to a sort of wild exultation according to the instrument that plays it. The coloring is enriched by the solemn tones of the trombones, which appear for the first time in this movement. It is ticklish work trying to dive down into a composer's brain, and surmise what special outside source his inspiration may have had; but one cannot help feeling that this whole wonderful episode may have been suggested to Brahms by the tones of the Alpine horn, as it awakens the echoes from mountain after mountain on some of the high passes in the Bernese Oberland. This is certainly what the episode recalls to any one who has ever heard those poetic tones and their echoes. A short, solemn, even ecclesiastical interruption by the trombones and bassoons is of more thematic importance. As the horn-tones gradually die away, and the cloud-like harmonies in the strings sink lower and lower—like mist veiling the landscape—an impressive pause ushers in the Allegro."

[Footnote 263: See also a similar eulogy by Weingartner in his The Symphony since Beethoven.]

After the flute has repeated this theme there is an interpolation of an important choral-like phrase (referred to above), e.g.

[Music]

for it is later used as the climax of the Finale—in fact, of the whole work—and its tone of religious fervor, accentuated by the scoring for trombones and bassoons, is a clear indication of the ideal message which Brahms meant to convey. The body of the movement, Allegro non troppo ma con brio, begins with a majestic, sweeping theme[264] of great rhythmic vitality and elasticity announced by the strings, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 264: There is a statement in many books that this is a reminiscence of the theme in the Finale of the Ninth Symphony. How such a legend started it is difficult to say; it must be due to what the late W.F. Apthorp called "purblind criticism." For my part I see a resemblance in only one measure—save that both melodies are in quadruple rhythm—between the theme of Brahms and the following:—

[Music]]

It is at once repeated with richer scoring and then some exciting transitional passages lead, after a slight phrase taken from the chief theme of the prelude, to the second theme, animato, in G major, e.g.

[Music]

This has some rhythmical expansion and then a quieter part, dolce e piano, beginning measure 71. Some rushing ff passages bring us, in measure 107, to the brilliant closing theme with its staccato, triplet rhythm. The Exposition ends in E minor, in measure 122, after a series of forte, staccato chords. The Recapitulation begins at once after two modulatory chords, and though sufficient stress is laid on the first theme, there is so much development of previous material that it serves for both the customary second and third parts. A good deal of adverse criticism has been expended on this portion of the movement and it is possible that Brahms's remarkable technique in handling his material ran away with him. But the music is always striving toward some goal, and even if it has to plough through desperate seas, there is no weakness or faltering. This part of the work is not beautiful in the popular sense of the term, but no one can fail to be impressed with its character. A climax is finally reached, in measure 224, with a fortissimo statement of the chief theme of the prelude, and then, after this has cooled down, diminuendo e calando, the second theme enters in the home key. The rest of the recapitulation corresponds closely with the exposition. The Coda begins, in measure 306, with a shadowy outline of modulatory chords, as if slumbering forces were slowly awakening; and, becoming more crescendo and stringendo, reveals its full glory at the Piu Allegro. This portion, based on quickened phrases of the first theme, seems charged with superhuman energy, and mounting higher and higher culminates in a majestic proclamation of the choral-like motto of the prelude, e.g.

[Music]

On hearing this it always seems as if the heavens above us really opened. The rest of the Coda is a scene of jubilation with ever more life and light. The dissonant tones of F-sharp and A-flat try to lift their heads but this time are crushed forever by the triumphant fundamental chords of C major, e.g.

[Music]

The movement, in keeping with its serious message, ends with a prolonged and brilliant Plagal Cadence in which the double basses and the trombone surge upward with elemental power.

SONATA FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE

Of Brahms's three Sonatas for violin and pianoforte, respectively, in D minor, A major and G major, that in A major has been selected to give some idea of his chamber music, on account of the spontaneous appeal of its melodies and because its performance is possible for fairly well equipped executants. In many respects the D minor Sonata is the greatest of the three, but it is a work exceedingly difficult of execution and interpretation. The A major Sonata needs few comments, as the music speaks for itself. The work is in three movements, the first in complete sonata-form with the two customary themes, each of distinct lyric charm and hence eminently suited to the singing qualities of the violin; the second movement a fusion of the two normal middle ones, and the Finale a Rondo, freely treated. The first movement, Allegro amabile, begins with a suave theme, e.g.,

[Music]

the first interval of which, a descending leap from the third to the leading tone, always seems to make a distinct appeal.[265] After the customary transition appears the second theme, announced by the pianoforte in measure 50, e.g.,

[Music]

showing Brahms's fondness for contrasted rhythms—three notes to a beat in one hand against two in the other. After a repetition by the violin there is a spirited closing theme in measure 75, of great importance later. The Development, one of Brahms's best, manifests real organic growth; there is nothing labored or perfunctory. It is based on the first theme and the closing theme of the Exposition, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 265: It is used at the beginning of three other well-known melodies, e.g., the slow movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, in the middle part of Schumann's Aufschwung and in the first phrase of Wagner's Preislied.]

The Reprise beginning in measure 158, shows the usual treatment. The Coda, from measure 219, is long and, like codas of Beethoven, has features of a second development. The movement ends with brilliant arpeggios in the pianoforte against octaves and double stops in the violin. In the second movement, Andante tranquillo, in F major, Brahms fuses[266] together the moods usually associated with the slow movement and the scherzo, playing one off against the other; the slow theme appearing three times—at its final appearance with eloquent modulations—and the rapid one twice, with contrast gained the second time through pizzicato effects on the violin. The two themes are as follows:—

[Music]

[Music]

[Footnote 266: This practice he has adopted in several other works and it is also the structural feature in the slow movement of Cesar Franck's D minor Symphony.]

The short, dashing Coda is based on the vivace theme, with sonorous chords on the violin, both pizzicato and arco.

The Finale, Allegretto grazioso, is a convincing example of how such a rigid form as the Older Rondo can be freshened up and revitalized by the hand of a master, for the main theme, e.g.

[Music]

has such genuine melodic life that we always recur to it with pleasure and yet at each appearance it is so deftly varied that no monotony is felt. The two episodes afford stimulating contrasts and need no comment. The main theme at its third appearance is in the subdominant key, with effective rhythmic modifications. The movement is a remarkable illustration of idiomatic style for each of the instruments: the violin part, sustained and cantabile; the pianoforte part, broken up and of remarkable color and sonority. The last page of the Coda, almost exclusively in double stops for the violin, brings a rousing close to a masterpiece.

BALLADE IN G MINOR FOR PIANOFORTE

(SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 60)

Although the most important factor in Brahms's pianoforte pieces is Brahms himself, a careful examination of his works in this field shows that his style is fashioned from an intelligent, and by no means slavish assimilation of important features in the works of his great predecessors. Thus we find the same melodic warmth as in Schubert, the rhythmic vitality and massive harmony so prominent in Schumann and the extended arpeggios and chords, the color and richness, peculiar to Chopin. From among the numerous and beautiful compositions of Brahms for solo pianoforte we have selected the Ballade in G minor because it represents a somewhat unusual and hence seldom recognized side of his genius—the specifically dramatic. When a composer calls his piece a Ballade, as in the case of compositions so entitled by Chopin and Liszt, we may assume that there is some dramatic or subjective meaning behind the notes; and the hearer is at liberty to give play to his own imagination and to receive the message as something more than music in the ordinary abstract or absolute sense. From the inner evidence of this Ballade of Brahms it seems to the writer[267] not too fanciful to consider it a picture of a knight-errant in medieval times setting out on his adventures. Observe the vigorous swing of the opening theme in that five-measure rhythm so dear to Brahms. But in the middle portion, in the romantic key of B major,[268] the woman appears—perhaps some maiden imprisoned in a tower—and she sings to the knight a song of such sweetness that he would fain forsake duty, battle, everything! The contrast of opposing wills[269] is dramatically indicated by an interpolation, after the maiden's first appeal, of the martial theme of the knight, as if he felt he should be off instead of lingering, enchanted by her song. Notwithstanding a still more impassioned repetition of the song, the Knight is firm, tears himself away and continues on his course; how great the wrench, being clearly indicated by the unusual modulations in measures 72-76. The enchanting song, however, still lingers with him and he dwells with fond regret upon bygone scenes and dreams which were unattainable. In this piece is seen Brahms's aristocratic distinction in the treatment of program music. The subject is portrayed broadly—there are no petty details—and the music itself, to anyone with a sensitive imagination, tells the story clearly. Hence a detailed poetic interpretation is out of place, since only to the suggester would it have meaning.

[Footnote 267: It is to be understood that this is a purely personal interpretation and if any one wishes to consider the piece merely as absolute music with a strong masculine theme in the minor, a lyric melody in the major for the natural contrast, and a coda referring in a general way to the first theme, there is no way to disprove the contention. That Brahms, however, was not entirely averse to out and out programmistic treatment is seen from his two pieces on specific poetic texts, i.e., the first number in op. 10 on the Scottish Ballads of Edward and the Lullaby in op. 117 on the Scottish Folk-song Sleep Soft, My Child.]

[Footnote 268: The same key that Wagner uses for the end of Tristan and Isolde and Cesar Franck for the gorgeous Finale of the Prelude, Chorale and Fugue.]

[Footnote 269: The subject is the same as the story of the Sirens in the Odyssey or of the Lorelei in German Legend.]

So many of Brahms's pianoforte compositions are of great beauty and significance that, although space is lacking for further comment on definite examples, we urge the music-lover to study the following: the second Intermezzo[270] in B-flat minor of op. 117, perhaps the most beautiful single piece Brahms has written—remarkable for its rhythmic texture and for the equalization of both hands, which was one of his chief contributions to pianoforte style; the second Intermezzo of op. 119, the middle part of which is significant for the extended arpeggio grouping for the left hand (Brahms following Chopin's lead in this respect); the sixth Intermezzo of op. 118, a superb piece for sonority and color; the third Intermezzo in op. 119, (grazioso e giocoso) and the B minor Capriccio op. 76—both in Brahms's happiest vein of exuberant vitality; the sixth Intermezzo in op. 116, a beautiful example, in its polyphonic texture, of modernized Schumann; and, above all, the mighty Rhapsodies in E-flat major, op. 112 No. 4 and the one in G minor op. 79—this latter, one of Brahms's most dramatic conceptions, and an example, as well, of complete sonata-form used for an independent composition.

[Footnote 270: For further comments on the phraseology see The Rhythm of Modern Music by Abdy Williams, pp. 75-77. We may add that the pieces called Intermezzi, are generally of a meditative, somber nature; whereas the Capriccios are more sprightly, even whimsical in spirit.]

SONG—Meine Liebe ist gruen wie der Fliederbusch

(SEE SUPPLEMENT NO. 61)

Whatever Brahms is or is not, he is universally recognized as an inspired song-composer and those who do not know his songs are cut off from one of the greatest joys music has to offer. As Huneker so well says, "Although his topmost peaks are tremendously remote, and glitter and gleam in an atmosphere almost too thin for dwellers of the plains, in his songs he was as simple, as manly, as tender as Robert Burns." In Brahms's songs we cannot say which is the most significant factor: the words, the vocal part or the accompaniment; all go together to make up a perfect whole. Brahms had discernment in the selection of texts suited to inspire poetic creation. His melodies are always appropriate to the spirit of the words, yet truly lyric and singable, and the accompaniment catches and intensifies every subtle shade of meaning. If any one factor is of special beauty, however, it is the instrumental part; for here Brahms's great genius in pianoforte style came to the fore and in utilizing every resource of the instrument to glorify the spirit of the text, he is a worthy successor of Schubert, Schumann and Franz. Note how in this song the passionate glow of the poem is reflected in the gorgeous modulations and sonority of the pianoforte part. Especially remarkable is the interlude between the stanzas, with its wealth of dissonances and waves of flashing color. After this surely no one can say that Brahms had no feeling for sensuous effect, at any rate on the pianoforte. Other famous songs of Brahms which should be familiar to the student are the following: Wie Melodien zieht es mir, Feldeinsamkeit, Minnelied, Von ewiger Liebe, Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer, Sapphische Ode, Vergebliches Staendchen. An excellent essay on Brahms as a song composer will be found in the preface to the Forty Songs of Brahms in the Musician's Library (The Oliver Ditson Company).

The foregoing illustrations have made clear, we trust, the inspiration and power of Brahms's varied message. His music, therefore, must be approached reverently, sympathetically and with an earnest desire for a better understanding, for Brahms is veritably a giant.



CHAPTER XVII

CESAR FRANCK

Before an appreciation of the significant works and influence of Cesar Franck can be gained, it is necessary to have a broad historical perspective of what had been the trend and the limitations of French music prior to his career. Since the time of Couperin and Rameau, musical composition in France had been devoted almost exclusively to opera—with its two types of grand opera and opera-comique—and in this field there had been some French musicians of real, though possibly rather slight, genius: Philidor, Mehul, Gretry, Boieldieu, Herold and Auber. One searches in vain through French literature for great symphonies, string-quartets, violin sonatas or pianoforte compositions of significance. Berlioz, as we have seen, had composed a number of orchestral works; but, from the standpoint of absolute music, even these rather beg the question as they are so extremely programmistic, dramatic or even theatric. This one-sided development of French music was chiefly caused by the people's innate fondness for the drama, and by the national genius for acting, mimicry and dancing.

Prior to the advent of Franck there were two important pioneers in the broadening tendency which finally became noticeable, Saint-Saens and Lalo. For great assimilative power, for versatility, for clarity of expression and a finish and finesse peculiarly French, Camille Saint-Saens (1835-still living) is certainly one of the most remarkable musicians of the nineteenth century. His works are numerous, always "well-made" and, though lacking in emotional depth, by no means without charm and grace. They comprise ensemble works: trios, etc., several concertos and symphonies and four symphonic poems. Of these, the third concerto for pianoforte, with its Bach-like introduction, the third violin concerto, the two symphonic poems, Le Rouet d'Omphale and Phaeton and, in particular, the third symphony in C minor, still hold their own. Whatever Saint-Saens has to say is well said; and if the French have modified their previous opinion that the only vehicle for musical expression was the opera, it is largely through the influence of his compositions. This C minor symphony, first performed in London in 1886, shares with Lalo's symphony in G minor (1887) the claim to be, in all French literature, the first instrumental work of large scope free from programmistic tendencies. Saint-Saens[271] and Lalo fairly popularized the Sonata form and their works are worthy of great respect; since, through them, the public became accustomed to symphonic style and was prepared for the subsequent greater works of Franck, d'Indy and Chausson. Although not so versatile as Saint-Saens nor so varied in output, Eduard Lalo (1823-1892) should decidedly not be overlooked. He was of Spanish origin and this racial strain is noticeable in the vivacity of his rhythm, in the piquant individuality of his melodies and in his brilliant and picturesque orchestration. His characteristic work is represented by a series of Concertos and Rhapsodies in which he employs Spanish, Russian and Norwegian themes. He did not escape the French predilection for operatic fame and his best work is probably the well-known opera Le Roi d'Ys, from which the dramatic overture is often played separately. His G minor symphony, however, will always be considered an important landmark in the development of French instrumental music.[272]

[Footnote 271: For further comments on the style and influence of Saint-Saens see the essay Mason's From Grieg to Brahms; the article by Professor E.B. Hill in the third volume of the Art of Music; and, for some pungent and witty remarks, the Program Book of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (edited by Philip Hale) for Nov. 22, 1918.]

[Footnote 272: For a comprehensive and discriminating account of his style see the Boston Symphony Orchestra Program Book, for January 17, 1919.]

Cesar Franck (1822-1890) was a composer of such innate spirituality that to analyze and classify him in a formal manner seems well-nigh irreverent. His music once heard is never forgotten, and when thoroughly known is loved for all time. Nor is an elaborate biographical account necessary; for Franck, more than any other modern composer, has been fortunate in that his life and works have been sympathetically presented to the world by a distinguished contemporary, his most famous pupil d'Indy—himself a gifted composer and a man of rare literary powers. His biography of Cesar Franck (in French and in English) should certainly be read by all who would keep abreast of modern tendencies. Franck's message, however, is so remarkable and his style so individual, that a few definite comments may be made concerning the structural features of his work and the essential attributes, thereby expressed, of his inspiring personality. Franck was a Belgian born at Liege—one of that long line of musicians who, though born elsewhere, have become thoroughly identified with French thought and standards; and there is much in his music which finds a parallel in the literary qualities of another Belgian artist, Maeterlinck, for in both is that same haunting indefiniteness, that same symbolic aspiration. Nothing in Franck is rigid, square-toed; his music is suggestive of a mystic idealism, the full expression of which, from its very nature is unattainable. Franck's outward life was simple, without excitement or diversion of any kind. When he was not giving lessons or composing, he was active in the service of the Roman Catholic Church, in which he was a devout believer. For a number of years he was organist at Sainte Clotilde, and his style thereby was influenced strongly. A distinct note of religious exaltation runs through much of his music; for Franck was a fine character, of spotless purity of life and of such generosity and elevation of soul that his pupils looked upon him as a real father and always called him "Pater Seraphicus." He was universally acknowledged to be the greatest improviser on the organ since Bach himself. Even Liszt, who heard him in 1866, left the church, lost in amazement; evoking the name of the great Sebastian as the only possible comparison.

Franck's services to the development of music are twofold: 1st, as an inspired composer of varied works, which are more and more becoming understood and loved; 2d, as a truly great teacher, among his notable pupils being d'Indy, Chausson, Duparc, Ropartz, and the gifted but short-lived Lekeu. In Franck's music, fully as remarkable as the content—the worthy expression of his poetic nature—is its organic structure. He was the first composer of the French School to use adequately the great forms of symphonic and chamber music which had been worked out hitherto by the Germans: Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, etc. If during the last thirty years, composers of the modern French School have put forth a number of instrumental works of large dimensions (chamber music, symphonies, symphonic poems and pianoforte sonatas), it is to Franck more than to any other man, by reason of his own achievements in these fields and his stimulating influence on others, that this significant fact is due. A striking feature of Franck's music is the individual harmonic scheme, fascinating because so elusive. He was a daring innovator in modulations and in chromatic effect; and has, perhaps, added more genuinely new words to our vocabulary than any one since Wagner. The basis of Franck's harmony is the novel use of the so-called augmented harmonies which, in their derivation, are chromatically altered chords. These are resolved by Franck in a manner remarkably free, and are often submitted to still further chromatic change. In revealing new possibilities he has, in fact, done for these chords what Wagner did for the chord of the ninth. Any page of Franck's music will exemplify this statement, and as an illustration we have cited, in the Supplement, the first part of the Prelude in E major. A life-long student of Bach and Beethoven, Franck believed—as a cardinal principle—that great ideas were not enough; they must be welded together with inexorable logic. And so his chief glory as a musical architect is the free use he makes of such organic forms as the Canon, the Fugue and the Varied Air. Franck was likewise a pioneer in establishing in a sonata or symphony a new conception as to the relationship of the movements. This he effected by the use of what may be called "generative motives" which, announced in the first movement of a work, are found with organic growth, modulatory and rhythmic, in all the succeeding portions. Such a method of gaining unity had been hinted at by Beethoven in his Fifth Symphony, was further developed by Schumann and Liszt and, since the example of Franck, has become a recognized principle in all large cyclic works. The following estimate of his music by F. Baldensperger is worthy of citation. "The contemplative character of Franck's music which explains his entire technique is rare at the epoch in which his life was cast, an epoch of realism, generally inspired by a taste for the picturesque and the dramatic. Posterity will place Cesar Franck in a niche similar to that of Puvis de Chavannes, whose inspiration, indifferent to all worldly solicitations, flowed willingly, like that of Franck, into the paths of reverie, and pursued its way like a beautiful river of quiet waters, undisturbed by waves or rapids, and reflecting the eternal calm of the sky."

As representative works[273] we have chosen, for analytical comments the D minor Symphony (Franck's only work in this field), the Sonata for violin and pianoforte and the Symphonic Variations for pianoforte and orchestra. Franck has also composed a very beautiful Quintet for strings and pianoforte—considered by some the most sublime chamber work of recent times; a String Quartet, notable for its interrelationship of themes and movements; two elaborate compositions for pianoforte solo, the Prelude, Chorale and Fugue (the fugue showing a masterly combination of strict fugal style and free form) and the Prelude, Aria and Finale; a wealth of organ works—the three Chorales being of special beauty—and several Symphonic Poems of lesser importance. His purely vocal works, oratorios and church music lie outside the province of this book.

[Footnote 273: On account of the length of these works it is impossible to include any of them in the Supplement.]

The Symphony[274] in D minor is in three movements; the first in complete and elaborate sonata-form, the second a fusion of the two customary middle movements, and the Finale (though fundamentally on a sonata-form basis) an organic summing-up of the chief themes of the entire work. The first movement begins, Lento, with the main theme proper (thesis) the motive[275] of which is the foundation of the whole work, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 274: Study, if possible, the orchestral score. For class-room work there is an excellent four-hand arrangement by the composer, and one for two hands by Ernest Alder.]

[Footnote 275: This terse phrase is identical with motives from several other works, e.g., the beginning of Liszt's Les Preludes, the motive "Muss es sein?" in Beethoven's quartet, opus 135, and the Fate motive in Wagner's Valkyrie.]

The phraseology of the theme is noticeable for its flexibility; since the first phrase is expanded to five measures and the second phrase (antithesis), with a descending motive, to seven, e.g.

[Music]

The harmony of this second phrase illustrates a striking feature in Franck's style, namely the fact that his resolutions seldom come out as expected but, instead, drift imperceptibly into other channels. In measure 13 there begins a long series of modulatory developments of the main theme—of a preludial nature—but not a mere prelude in the ordinary sense. That this entire opening portion is the main body of the work is seen by a comparison with what takes place at the beginning of the recapitulation. In measure 29, allegro non troppo, we begin with a presentation of the motive in the usual first-movement mood. The answering phrase, antithesis, is now quite different; and, in measure 48, is developed—with some new contrapuntal voices—to a half cadence in F minor. This whole portion, both the Lento and the Allegro, is now repeated almost literally (the one slight change being in measures 56-57) in this new key, a minor third higher than the original. To begin a first movement in this way, i.e., with such a strong contrast of moods is very novel and striking, but as Franck was a devoted student of Beethoven, it would seem that, by presenting his theme in different strata, he was simply expanding the practise[276] of that master in order to impress his message upon the listener's memory. The repetition of the Allegro part now leads through some rich modulations to the entrance of the second theme, in measure 99. This lovely melody, characteristic of Franck's tenderness,

[Music]

is noteworthy for the imitations between the violins and the 'cellos and basses. It shows, furthermore, that peculiar quality in Franck's style which comes from his elusive modulations. In measures 109-110 we are at a loss to tell just what direction the music will take when almost miraculously, in measure 111, we find ourselves in D-flat major—in which key the whole theme is now repeated. Some stimulating modulations bring us, in measure 129, to a most energetic and aspiring melody, considered by some another part of the second theme, but which certainly has the note of a closing theme and also the structural position of a closing theme, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 276: See for example the opening measures of the Waldstein and of the Appassionata Sonata.]

It is developed with great brilliancy through a series of mediant modulations, in which the originality of Franck's harmonic scheme is very apparent. The exposition ends with some dreamy, pianissimo reminiscences of the closing theme in the mediant keys of F, D and B major, delicately scored for the wood-wind instruments and horns. The development begins, in measure 191, with the motive of the closing theme which, combined with other phrases from the exposition, is used persistently in the bass for a number of measures. The material is developed climactically until, in measure 229, we find an impressive treatment of the second descending phrase of the first theme—originally in augmentation and later in diminution, e.g.

[Music]

and

[Music]

The rest of the development is clearly derivable from material already presented. After a final ff climax there begins, in measure 287, a series of beautiful entries pp of the closing theme for the clarinet, oboe and flute. This is the spot in a sonata-form movement where appears the hand of the master; for the excitement of the free fantasy must cool down without entirely dying out, and there must also be a fresh crescendo of energy for the restatement of themes in the part following. Franck handles the situation with convincing skill; and some climactic measures, in which the main theme hints at the return, lead us, in measure 333, to the recapitulation. This is one of the most powerful and eloquent parts of the movement, for the whole first theme is presented canonically—the announcement in the trombones, tuba and basses being answered, a half measure later, by trumpets and cornets. The rest of the recapitulation, with necessary modulations and slight expansion, corresponds closely to the first portion. The coda, beginning after the same echo-effects heard at the close of the exposition, is founded on one of the counterpoints of the first subject, e.g.

[Music]

Gathering headway it leads to an imposing assertion fff, in canon form, of the main motto which concludes, with a widely spaced chord, in the brilliant[277] orchestral key of D major.

[Footnote 277: Brilliant by reason of the fact that the four principal tones in D major, D, A, G, E are open strings on the violin.]

The second movement begins with a series of subdued, pizzicato chords (for strings and harp) which establish the mood and later furnish the harmonic background for the main theme. This haunting melody, announced—in measure 16—by the English horn and afterwards strengthened by the clarinet and flute, is clearly derived from the motto of the first movement, e.g.

[Music]

and is a notable example of the free phraseology and long sweep peculiar to Franck. Although extending 32 measures it never loses its continuity, for every measure grows inevitably from what has preceded. It begins with two identical eight-measure phrases; the second of which, with a different harmonic ending, is varied by a cantabile counter theme in the violas—causing thereby, with the upper voice, some delightful dissonant effects. The last eight-measure phrase, also varied by a counterpoint in the 'cellos, ends with a characteristic, Franckian modulation; keeping us in suspense until the last moment, and then debouching unexpectedly into B-flat major. In this key there follows a long-breathed, cantabile melody—at first for strings alone, but scored with increasing richness. It abounds in modulatory changes and expresses, throughout, the note of mystical exaltation so prominent in Franck's nature. It ends in measures 81-86 with an eloquent cadence, largamente and pianissimo, in B-flat major and is followed by a partial restatement of the first theme; thus giving, to this portion of the movement, a feeling of three-part form. Then, after some preliminary phrases, begins the piquant theme in G minor, in triplet rhythm, which takes the place of the conventional Scherzo, e.g.,

[Music]

for, as we have stated, the structural feature of this movement is the fusion of the two customary middle movements. This theme, mostly pp (con sordini and vibrato)—daintily scored for strings and light wood-wind chords—closes, in measures 131-134, with a cadence in G minor. The following portion, beginning in E-flat major, but often modulating—its graceful theme sung by the clarinets, dolce espressivo, answered by flutes and oboes—e.g.,

[Music]

evidently takes the place of a trio and is one of the most poetic parts of the movement. After some effective development there is a return, in measure 175, to the G minor scherzo-theme in the strings; soon joined, in measure 183, by the slow theme on the English horn—the structural union of the two moods being thus established, e.g.

[Music]

The rest of the movement is a free but perfectly organic improvisation on the chief melodies already presented. It is richly scored, with dialogue effects between the several orchestral choirs; especially beautiful are the two passages in B major, poco piu lento, scored pp for the complete wood-wind group and horns. The closing measures have lovely echoes between wood-wind and strings, and the final cadence is one of the most magical in all Franck; holding us off to the very last from our goal and finally reaching it in a chord of unforgettable peace and satisfaction, e.g.

[Music]

The Finale in D major, allegro non troppo, is a remarkable example in modern literature of that tendency, growing since Beethoven, not to treat the last movement as an unrelated independent portion but, instead, as an organic summing up of all the leading themes. This cyclic use of themes—transferring them from one movement to another—is one of Franck's important contributions to musical architecture. The movement has two themes of its own, e.g.

[Music: 1st theme]

[Music: 2d theme]

and at first proceeds along regular sonata-form lines, i.e., with an exposition, development and recapitulation. After vigorous summons to attention the first theme is given out by the 'cellos and bassoons. It is expanded at some length, repeated ff by the full orchestra, and then after bold modulations leads, in measure 72, to the second theme in B major, happily called by Ropartz the "theme of triumph."[278] After a quieter portion of sombre tone in B minor we reach, in measure 124, an interpolation of the slow movement theme, e.g.,

[Music]

sung by the English horn against a triplet accompaniment in the strings; the fundamental beat—the time now changed from 2/2 to 3/4—preserving the same value. Now we begin to foresee that this theme is to be the climax of the whole work. In measure 140 the development proper is resumed; based, at first, on some modulatory and imitative treatment of the first theme and followed by two ff sostenuto announcements of the jubilant second theme. After these have subsided there are a number of measures (piu lento) of a shadowy outline, developed from preceding melodic phrases. The pace gradually quickens, the volume of sound increases and we are brought, through a series of pungent dissonances and stimulating syncopations, to a brilliant assertion of the first theme in D major. This again waxes more and more eloquent until it bursts into a truly apocalyptic proclamation of the slow movement theme for full orchestra which, closing in D major, is the real climax of the movement and indeed of the work. Franck, however, still wishes to impress upon us some of his other thoughts—they are really too lovely not to be heard once more—and so, after an intermediary passage consisting entirely of successive ninth chords,[279] there is a reminiscence of the whole closing theme of the first movement now for low strings alone—the violins playing on the G string—later for the wood-wind and finally echoed by the high strings ppp. As this fades away we reach one of the most inspired passages of the whole work—in its mood of mysterious suggestion truly indescribable. Over a slow elemental kind of basso ostinato there appear first the dramatic motto and then other portions of preceding themes, as if struggling to come to the light. A long exciting crescendo leads to a complete statement of the main theme of the Finale, with a canonic treatment of which the work ends, e.g.

[Music]

[Footnote 278: The scoring of this theme for trumpets, cornets and trombones has been severely criticized and it is true that the cornet is an instrument to be employed and played with discretion. The writer, however, has heard performances of this work in which the cornets seemed to give just that ringing note evidently desired by Franck.]

[Footnote 279: The harmony of this passage is most characteristic of Franck and should be carefully studied.]

That both the first and last movements end with canons is indeed noteworthy; Franck thus clearly showing his belief that in no other way than by polyphonic imitation could such intensity of utterance be gained.

SONATA FOR VIOLIN AND PIANOFORTE IN A MAJOR

This Sonata ranks with those of Brahms as being among the great works in its class. Some of its lovers, in fact, would risk an unqualified superlative and call it the greatest. It certainly is remarkable for its inspired themes, its bold harmonies, its free and yet organic structure and for that sublime fervor which was the basis of Franck's genius. It is, in two respects, at least, a highly original work: in the unusual moods of the several movements, and in the relationship between the two instruments. For although it is a violin sonata, the emphasis in many respects is laid on the pianoforte part which requires great virtuoso power of performance,—the violin, at times, having the nature more of an obligato. There are four movements, the first in abridged sonata form, i.e., there is no development; the second in complete and elaborate sonata form; the third, a kind of free rhapsody, supplying an intermezzo between the third and fourth movements and organically connected with the Finale. This, in free rondo-form, with a main theme of its own treated canonically, sums up the chief themes which have preceded. The work exemplifies Franck's practise of generative themes; for d'Indy claims[280] that the whole structure is based on three motives, e.g.,