The fugue also is interesting, and is elaborated to two quite imposing climaxes, the first beginning in measure 60 and the other in measure 140, where the bass has the principal theme in octaves. Mr. Liebling does not regard this fugue as quite up to Bach's standard, inasmuch as Bach has repeated quite long passages in different keys without materially changing the treatment, something which he rarely does, his fertility of fancy being such that he always or nearly always avoids exactly repeating himself, no matter how many times he chooses to bring back the principal theme. The composition as a whole is by far the most modern of Bach, and it is a veritable tone-poem. In order to realize this it will be necessary to hear it several times, its elaboration being so great and the difficulty of playing so considerable that only very good players will have enough sentiment and surplus of technic to interpret it with sufficiently musical quality. But when so played it is one of the surest masterpieces in the entire repertory of the piano-forte. And in consequence of its elevated and poetic sentiment, its caprice and program-like character, it affords one of the best possible studies in Bach's style at its best.

The sonatas by Beethoven named upon the programs are of quite dissimilar value. The "Sonate Pathetique" is a very strong work indeed, and, if we have many times seen its name, we must not forget that after all it is not very often played in any one place. Moreover, new players are all the time coming on to whom this strong and original work is new. The introduction carries out the emotional spirit of the Bach fantasia, as also does the work itself. The headlong allegro, the slow, sustained, and beautiful adagio, and the easy-going finale all have their own beauties, and continue the story, which, as Beethoven thought it, was one story from beginning to end. The least satisfactory part of this work is the rondo, the tempo of which is not altogether easy to determine; I prefer it at rather a slow tempo. There is a unity of movement in this work which is not always observed. In a general way the eighth note in the introduction, the whole note in the allegro, and the eighth note in the adagio, and the half note in the rondo go at about the same rate—approximately, from sixty to seventy-two by the metronome. If any modification is made, take the rondo faster, say about eighty-four.

A very important technical point of the work is the treatment of the chords in the introduction and in the allegro. All must have a melodic quality in their highest tones, since the melody passes through the chord. Neglect of this imparts a brutal and unmusical quality to the tones of chords struck so forcibly. Throughout the work strong contrasts continually occur between the impassioned motive and the pathetic or appealing idea. These two elements struggle for mastery. The adagio is one of those slow movements for which Beethoven was noted; the cantilena is lovely and the sentiment deep and tender.

In some respects the sonata upon the second program is even more remarkable. Its general build is rather light and pleasing, and neither in length nor in dramatic contrast is it to be compared with most of the "Pathetique." Especially is this the case when we confine our attention to the light and pleasing first movement and the finale. The latter, opening with that capricious little motive which seems to say "Why don't you?" is all the way arch, sprightly, and pleasing. But the second movement is one of the strongest and most impassioned in all the sonatas. It opens grave, serious, as if fate herself impended. A very slow and appealing motive is carried out thematically, almost in the modern style of Schumann or Brahms. It is a slow movement which might have been played upon Olympus or in Walhalla—provided the dissipated gods of the old dispensations had been developed to the capacity of remorse and repentance. Out of this profoundly sad, despondent, slow movement grows the tender flower of the delicious menuetto in D major which follows it. This is not to be taken too fast, remembering that we have our fast movement still to settle with later. It is a melodious, tender, gentle movement, which is one of the most characteristic and beautiful of the kind to be found anywhere in the entire list of the sonatas. In point of technical difficulty this sonata presents no very great problems.

The Sonata in A-flat, commonly remembered from the "Funeral March," which takes the place of a slow movement, opens with an air and variations. These were for a long time the most played of anything in the entire collection of sonatas. Lately, under the influence of the greater variations of Schumann and Brahms, they are becoming relegated to the more remote seats in the musical synagogue. They are, nevertheless, very interesting variations, quite in the "character" line, each variation being a new picture, a new mood. Opposed to this kind of variations is the "formal" variation, where, although the theme is varied in its figuration and rhythm, the harmony remains unchanged, and the esthetic character of the successive variations remains practically unchanged. The "Funeral March Upon the Death of a Hero" is one of the famous pieces. It no longer presents material difficulties to the student. The scherzo must not be played too rapidly; the finale is to go about as fast as possible, and with the greatest possible lightness and delicacy.

The great Sonata in C minor, opus 111, is the last which Beethoven composed, having been written after the Ninth Symphony, about a year or two before his death. It is very difficult, technically; very serious in its spirit, and has the curious peculiarity of consisting of two movements only, excepting a short but very profound and serious introduction. The first movement is very impassioned, and the entire movement is developed from one or two short germs, thematically, quite in the manner which Schumann took up and accomplished so much with. The spirit of the allegro is almost like that of the "Sonate Pathetique," but naturally much more mature. The slow movement, again, consists of an arietta of two eight-measure strains—the first in C major, the second in A minor. These two strains alternate throughout the variations, which are of the formal order; but here Beethoven manages to attain a very considerable development of interest, and rises to an imposing climax without ever quite forsaking the peace of the opening measures of the arietta. The variations are quite difficult to play, and the ending is very troublesome to treat in any manner to make it sound as one thinks an ending should. The whole, while perhaps but little more characteristic of Beethoven than the "Sonata Appassionata" or the great sonata for "Hammerklavier," opus 106, is nevertheless a very beautiful illustration of Beethoven's tone-poetry for pianoforte.

The Schumann "Etudes Symphoniques," here chosen for illustrating this capricious and humoristic master, is also a most astonishing work. It is in the form of a theme and variations, but the variations almost require the newspaper libel-saving reservation "alleged," since the theme in some of them is not referred to at all, while in others it occurs but for occasional measures here and there. Except for the monotony of key, this piece might as well have been called "studies" as variations. Nevertheless it is a most delightful example of Schumann's imagination and of tone-poetry for pianoforte. Each variation or successive movement is a new leaf from the world of the ideal. Nothing more contrasted, no more agreeable succession of moods, no more imposing example of poetic treatment of the pianoforte is to be found in the entire literature of the instrument. It is a work which the more one hears the more one likes it. It is curious, now that this work is so often played, to remember that Schumann wrote concerning it to a friend that he had just been writing a set of variations which interested him very much, but he doubted whether they would ever be played in public. Naturally, he said, it is unfit for such a position; it is for the musician in his closet. Yet of all the Schumann piano works this one probably is oftenest played, the immortal fantasia in C not excepted.

The other pieces here omitted from comment have perhaps already received sufficient attention in the earlier programs where they first appeared.

It will be quite possible for the player to substitute still other numbers in place of some of those here, or to rearrange the matter here presented, for the sake of using pieces which one can play well. In arranging the programs, however, it is desirable to preserve an agreeable succession of keys, a due contrast of moods, and a fitting illustration of the masters concerned.



CHAPTER X.

LISZT.

FRANZ LISZT.

Born October 22, 1811, at Raiding, Hungary. Died July 31, 1886, at Bayreuth.

Unquestionably, Liszt was one of the most interesting personalities of musical history. This began to show itself in his early childhood. Born at Raiding in Hungary, the boy had piano lessons at the age of six, his father having been a good musician himself, playing easily and well upon the piano and many other instruments. At the age of nine the boy appeared in concert with such success that, after a repetition of the concert in a neighboring town, the great Hungarian magnates, Prince Esterhazy at their head, united in providing a stipend of six hundred gulden yearly for his proper education. Thereupon Liszt's father resigned his position and attended scrupulously to his son, removing to Vienna and placing him under the teaching of the famous writer of etudes, Czerny. Liszt was now ten years old, and for two years he studied in Vienna. At the end of this period a farewell concert was given, in which the boy played with such astonishing power that Beethoven, who was present, came upon the stage and embraced and kissed him at the close of the concert.



Liszt was now taken to Paris, with the intention of entering him at the Conservatory. But Cherubini, who was then head of the institution, was not favorable to gifted children, and admission was refused him on the ground of his being a foreigner. Accordingly Liszt went on by himself, but entered upon thorough private lessons in counterpoint and instrumentation from Paer and Reicha. He attracted attention in Paris at once, his princely letters of introduction giving him admission in circles where a common person could never enter; once entered, his own genius and fascinating personality did the rest. Liszt seems to have been of a very fine and sincere nature, genial, charming in conversation, having plenty of wit as well as sentiment; entirely free from jealousy, yet most likely feeling within himself powers which as yet had not come to expression. He was singularly pure in character and a universal favorite of women as well as men. In 1824 he made his first concert journey to England, and he played everywhere in France and in parts of Germany. In 1827 his father died, and the boy now had the responsibility of supporting his mother. Accordingly he continued to make his home in Paris, and occupied a part of his time in teaching. At this time he was in the habit of playing such concert numbers as the Weber "Invitation to the Dance,"—with perhaps a few cadenzas of his own, but mainly in the original form,—the Concertstuecke of Weber, and now and then a sonata of Beethoven. One of his favorite numbers was a sonata by Czerny, and we find a letter in which he says, substantially (I quote from memory): "Dear Master: I wish you would write me another sonata, for nothing pleases so well as the one you formerly wrote for me."

Liszt does not appear to have entered upon any course as pianist which could be called original or marking out a new path until after Paganini came to Paris, in 1831. This wonderful genius performed the most astonishing and unheard-of things upon the violin. More than a year before this time Robert Schumann had heard him in Milan, and was already beginning to try to do for the piano some of the things which Paganini did upon the violin, in his famous "Studies after Paganini."

Paganini's appearance in Paris set the town on fire, musically, and for some time all attention was centered upon him, to the neglect even of such well-tried favorites as Liszt had by this time become. This fact and the inspiration of his novel playing inspired Liszt to new efforts on his own behalf, and he now entered upon the career of original mastery of the pianoforte and the new style which from this time characterized his works. It is probable that some of his famous "Studies for Transcendent Execution" date from this period, but as he rewrote them twice afterward, it is not possible now to say which ones, or to trace the steps by which he arrived at the many new effects in piano playing which later came from his pen in such astonishing and epoch-marking number.

Berlioz, the father of program music, came back from his residence in Italy in 1833, and brought with him his fantastic symphony, "Episodes in the Life of an Artist." This work Liszt set for the piano, and, if I am right, it was the beginning of the enormous number of transcriptions of orchestral works for piano which are to be found in his works. Liszt had already made a certain mark as composer, his operetta of "Don Sancho" having been produced in 1825.

When Liszt turned his serious attention to composition, which he must have done about this time, he entered earnestly into the path of the so-called "music of the future," although this term had not then been invented. Berlioz had shown himself very bold in his modulations, and the learned Fetis had advocated the closer association of keys which distinguishes the harmonic practice of Richard Wagner from the rules of the classic school. So it was with two fixed ideas that Liszt began to write. First (from Berlioz), that music ought to signify something, adhere more or less closely to a poetic or imaginative program; and, second, that in trying to do this, one might go in any direction needed for the desired tonal effect. Meanwhile, upon the keyboard of the piano he had the individuality of manner which had been developed much sooner, and which was now taking on an astonishing range. Add to these influences the ideas of individuality and human freedom which were in the air, and we need not wonder that the talent of this great artist now blossomed out with such luxuriance that its fragrance filled the world.

It was in 1834 that Liszt's first marriage took place, or as soon after as circumstances warranted. The young and brilliant Countess D'Agoult, wearied with a tyrannic and unsympathetic husband, left him and placed herself under the care of Liszt. They lived during the next three years in Geneva, in a semi-private manner, and here also Liszt continued his studies and experiments. Then, in 1836, he entered upon his great career as performing artist, when he astonished Europe from one end to the other by playing the piano in a manner previously unheard of. His art had everything in it. He had enormous facility, his very long hand giving him the same kind of mastery over technical difficulties that Paganini had upon the finger-board of the violin; and, while indulging in long stretches of pianissimo, he diversified his performances by climaxes of prodigious power, under which for a long time piano hammers gave way, so that often there were three or four grand pianos upon the stage, and as soon as one was knocked out in the melee another was rolled forward to be sacrificed in turn. After a few years the piano-makers found ways of strengthening the actions, so that nowadays such a thing as a hammer breaking in a concert never occurs.

In 1839 Liszt did one of those daring things which hardly any other musician has ever done. Hearing that the committee in charge of raising funds for a Beethoven monument at Bonn had found themselves making little or no headway, Liszt wrote them offering to raise the entire missing sum himself. This he did, and in 1847, I think it was, he himself conducted the musical festival with which the monument was dedicated, himself playing the Fifth Concerto of Beethoven in a manner which Berlioz characterized gloriously in his letters from Bonn to the Paris "Journal des Debats."

In this same year Liszt entered upon the restful period of his life in accepting the position of musical director at Weimar, where he lived and kept up a sort of musical court until 1861, and at intervals afterward. In the exercise of his duties here he was able to accept the manuscript of Wagner's "Lohengrin" when that hot-headed young musician had gotten himself mixed up in the revolution of 1848 at Dresden, and Liszt produced the work at Weimar in 1850. From that time forward Liszt was the mouthpiece of the new school, or rather he was a sort of godfather to it, ministering to Wagner's impecuniousness often and again out of resources which were absurdly small when we consider the rank of genius which the salary covered. Liszt's salary at Weimar was about $1100 a year.

In order to appreciate Liszt's standpoint as pianoforte writer more particularly, it is necessary for a moment to glance at his celebrated contemporary, Thalberg. This artist, born one year later than Liszt, was taught by Hummel and Sechter at Vienna, and in 1827 he made his debut as pianist, exciting admiration by the beauty of his tone, his unexampled equality of running work, and perhaps a little later through an effect of which he was the inventor (at least for the pianoforte)—that, namely, in which the melody is carried by the thumbs in the middle range of the instrument, the long tones being sustained by the pedal while the hands carry long and light running passages across the full range of the instrument. The real inventor of this effect was Parish-Alvars, a great virtuoso of the harp, who was born in 1808. Availing himself of the beautiful melodies of his native Wales, and later of suitable operatic melodies of the Donizetti and Bellini school, he created beautiful effects upon the harp, previously unheard, by means of melodies and surrounding variations or accompanying arabesques of runs, both arpeggios and scales. When Thalberg began to be praised for discovering this device in piano playing there ensued a long and acrimonious correspondence between him and Parish-Alvars, the latter claiming the prior invention—and rightfully so.

Thalberg arrived in Paris in 1836, and for some time there was quite a contest between him and Liszt for superiority of art. Thalberg sang a melody beautifully, and his running work was of the most delightfully clear and even description. He was entirely reposeful in his work, never manifesting any uneasiness of bodily position, no matter what the difficulty of his playing might be. Liszt, on the other hand, being of an impassioned and nervous temperament, had a great deal more motion, and in his brilliant climaxes he developed a strength which seemed excessive to the aristocratic hearers constituting the main portion of his audiences. Presently, however, the honors of the competition went to Liszt, where they have ever since remained.

Liszt had the good fortune to divine the future course of piano development, as also did Schumann. Both took for the strategic center of the piano the principle of what has been called the "differential touch," or discrimination in touch, by means of which not only long passages of different kinds were discriminated from one another, as in the Thalbergian melodies and their surrounding arabesques, but the infinitely finer discriminations which take place within the phrase, and especially in chord playing, where at least one tone of the chord belongs to the melodic thread, and as such receives an emphasis, or at least a distinctness of delivery, to which the remainder of the chord has no claim whatever. Moreover, while Thalberg employed the pedal,—and it was, in fact, an indispensable condition of the effect of his pieces,—he did not rightly consider what would be the effect when the piano should be developed to a sonority and continuance of vibration which in his time it did not have. Schumann and Liszt recognized the inner significance of the pedal, and wrote their works with reference to what we might call perhaps a sort of pianoforte chiaro-oscuro (luminous-indistinctness), which inevitably follows when the pedal is rapidly employed in quickly moving chords. In many of the Schumann pieces this is one of the most notable elements of the tonal beauty, and it is the underlying condition of the successful performance of nearly or quite all of the great Liszt transcriptions.

Thus, in the course of the thirty years or more over which his activity as composer extended, Liszt not only inaugurated new principles of playing, but brought them to perfection himself, and illustrated them in a thousand ways in his voluminous works; and, through the charm of his personality and his pleasure in contact with young and promising genius, became the master and the forming influence of all the concert pianists who came upon the stage previous to his death.

No periods can be safely marked in the creative career of Liszt, at least not in so far as relates to the pianoforte. In his "Studies for Transcendent Execution," which appear to have been first written about 1836, advanced principles of playing are illustrated as fully as any that meet us later; and in the first of his serious transcriptions of orchestral works for piano,—the "Fantastic Symphony" of Berlioz,—he set himself as carefully to reproduce upon the piano the orchestral work as he did in his famous transcriptions of the Beethoven symphonies and the later things of Wagner. But, while creative periods can not be affirmed with certainty, there are differences of style. In some of his works he indulges in a variety of piano-playing additions having no essential, or indeed suitable, relation to the musical matter which he purports to be illustrating. In others, on the contrary, he is essentially simple, loyal, and scrupulous to the last degree. The latter is true of his transcriptions of some of the Schubert songs, especially such as "My Sweet Repose," "The Wanderer," "Hark! Hark! the Lark," "The Erl King," "The Ave Maria," "Greeting to Spring," etc. In many of his operatic fantasies, on the contrary, he puts in running work, effect-cadenzas, and interpolations of various sorts. This is illustrated, perhaps better than elsewhere, in his enormously difficult fantasia upon melodies from Bellini's "Sonnambula," which for several years was one of his own concert pieces. In this there is a very difficult part where two melodies are going together, and a long and difficult trill. Other examples of this kind of writing are found in his "Trovatore" fantasias, his "Rigoletto," and the like.

After the production of "Lohengrin," Liszt seems to have entered upon a more serious view of his art than he had previously held, and his works later are generally more confined to musical considerations, and free from display as such. Nevertheless, the "Rigoletto" fantasia can not have been written prior to 1851, for it was in this year that the opera was first produced.

In cataloguing the Liszt works according to the difficulty they present to the piano player, it must first be noted that such has been the advance during the fifty years since the early ones were produced, that compositions which at their first appearance seemed stupendous to ordinary pianists have now, thanks to education and the general advance of art, become practicable to players of little beyond ordinary capacity. In fact, there is a whole world of pieces by Liszt which are more practicable to young players than most of the serious compositions of Chopin. The latter composer demands, above everything else, refinement and delicate finish; Liszt demands musical idea and effect, and, while refinement adds greatly to the charm of the works, it is not absolutely a sine qua non. In other words, Liszt always wrote with an eye to the stage, and with a certain largeness and ample scope of treatment, in which breadth and genuine musical intention, combined with a certain freedom upon the keyboard, are the main conditions of success. From a modern standpoint, the most difficult of all the Liszt works are, probably, his arrangement of the overture to Wagner's "Tannhaeuser,"—which he himself considered by far the most difficult piece ever written,—the "Don Juan" fantasia, and perhaps also the "Sonnambula."

It is, of course, extremely difficult to illustrate powers so varied and ample as those of Liszt in any single program, unless we were to confine ourselves to compositions of the most extreme difficulty, since it is in these that he has shown most fully what he considers possible upon the pianoforte. The following list, however, will afford a good idea of his style, without making upon the player any demands which can not be met by the common run of superior amateurs. At the same time, in consequence of the variety of composers represented, the program presents quite a variety.

PROGRAM.

"A Dream of Love." No. 3. "Waldesrauschen." "Consolation." No. 5. Polonaise in E major. Five Transcriptions from the songs of Schubert. "The Wanderer." "Greeting to Spring." "My Sweet Repose." "Hark! Hark! the Lark." "The Erl King." Four Transcriptions from Wagner and Paganini. March and Chorus from "Tannhaeuser." Romance of the Evening Star. "Tannhaeuser." Spinning Song from "The Flying Dutchman." "La Campanella." (Paganini.) Concerto in E-flat. With second piano. (Optional.)

The first group of these pieces contains four numbers entirely original with Liszt. The first one, "A Dream of Love," is No. 3 in a series of nocturne-like compositions which are very melodious, picturesque, and full of sentiment. At the same time, toward the end of this third number there is one of those brilliant passages the opportunity for which Liszt could never forego. The second piece on the list, "Forest Murmurs," is a little on the line of the "Forest Murmurs" in Wagner's "Siegfried," except that Liszt operates mainly in the upper range of the piano, whereas Wagner busies himself for a long time with the lower ranges of pitch. When this piece is done with sufficient delicacy, and at the same time with adequate brilliancy and fervor, it produces a most astonishing and gratifying effect. The next selection is one of a set of six called "Consolations." These, again, are nocturne-like in character, and the one here selected is so simple that no explanation is necessary. The Polonaise in E major is one of the most brilliant and satisfactory of the original pieces of Liszt for the piano. The semi-martial chivalry of this style of composition is extremely well reproduced, and while there is a long passage in A minor which requires to be played rather discreetly to prevent its becoming tiresome, there is some lovely cadenza work in the last part in a style thoroughly original with Liszt.

If the player prefers one of the Hungarian rhapsodies, it might be substituted for the Polonaise in E in this group. The Hungarian rhapsodies are written some of them on original melodies in Hungarian style, but most of them probably on well-known Hungarian Czardas. It is difficult to speak with certainty on this subject, as Liszt has left no indications as to which are original and which are quoted. To refer to a very different composition in the same school, it may be mentioned that the famous Hungarian dances of Brahms are composed upon melodies given him by Remenyi, when both were young. These melodies were not traditional Hungarian themes, but were improvised by Remenyi himself.

The next group of pieces consists entirely of transcriptions from Schubert's songs. They are very varied in musical spirit and in manner of treatment, but, with the exception of the long-continued succession of octaves in "The Erl King,"—for which Schubert is responsible rather than Liszt,—they are not very difficult for the player, and the resources of the piano are used with the utmost discretion for producing a musical effect.

In the third group of pieces we have several selections of the Wagner transcriptions, beginning with the very brilliant march from "Tannhaeuser," which, however, should not be ended at the first climax, but the intermezzo should be played, and so to the end. The "Romance of the Evening Star" is one of those delightful melodies which it is always a pleasure to hear. These selections conclude with the very brilliant study after Paganini, "La Campanella." In case this should not prove practicable for the player, a Liszt rhapsody might be substituted or the Tarantelle from "Venice and Naples." The program may be regarded as complete at this point, but if it happens to be convenient to give one or more movements of the Concerto in E-flat, a still different idea of Liszt's manner of writing will have been gained. The Concerto in E-flat is very brilliant, but, excepting the third movement, is not very difficult. There are few piano pieces in the repertory which produce so much effect in proportion to the labor of performing them as this. It would be possible to omit the third movement and play the first, second, and fourth.



CHAPTER XI.

BACH, BEETHOVEN, CHOPIN, SCHUMANN, LISZT.

The fullness with which the characteristics of the different composers have been treated in the preceding chapters of this course leaves little to be said in this final summing up, since the only element of the present program which we have not already had in combination with the others is that of Liszt, itself fully treated in the previous chapter.

We have now arrived at a point where a completely developed recital program, according to modern ideas, can be presented, and this upon a great variety of grades of difficulty. As an illustration, three programs are given. The first contains nothing of greater difficulty than the fifth grade, and is, therefore, within the reach of pianists of very moderate abilities. The second is of a more difficult character, involving technic up to the eighth or ninth grade, and requiring more experience and brilliant capacity. The third program is a fully developed recital, such as an artist might play. In so far as regards the mechanical difficulties of the last program, they are not beyond the reach of the better class of pianists, as we find them almost anywhere; but from an artistic point of view the interpretations require a good deal of musical maturity.

PROGRAM I. (Easy.)

Bach, Prelude and Fugue in D major. Clavier, No. 5. Saraband in E minor. Loure in G major. (Heinze.) Beethoven, Sonata in G major, opus 14, No. 2. Chopin, Impromptu in A-flat, opus 29. Nocturne in B major, opus 15. Schumann, Forest Scenes: "Entrance," "Wayside Inn," "Homeward." Nachtstueck in F, opus 23, No. 4. Wagner-Liszt, Spinning Song, from "The Flying Dutchman."

PROGRAM II. (Moderate.)

Bach, Prelude and Fugue in C-sharp major. Clavier, No. 3. Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat major, opus 26. Schumann, Fancy Pieces, opus 12: "In the Evening," "Soaring," "Why?" "Whims," "End of the Song." Chopin, Prelude in D-flat; Scherzo in B-flat minor. Liszt, "A Dream of Love" (No. 3); Eighth Hungarian Rhapsody.

PROGRAM III. (Difficult.)

Bach-Liszt, Fantasia and Fugue in G minor. (Organ.) Beethoven, Sonata in C minor, opus 111. Chopin, Fantasia Impromptu in C-sharp minor, opus 66. Studies, opus 10, Nos. 3, 5, and 12. Nocturne in G major, opus 37. Schumann, "Kreisleriana," opus 16, Nos. 1 and 2. Liszt, "Eclogue," "Au Bord D'Un Source." "The Erl King." (Schubert.)

In all these programs, except the second, the order observed is that of Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt. When forming a program to be played before those not accustomed to classic music, it is quite practicable to make a combination on a different plan, beginning with a combination of three pieces by Bach, Chopin, and Schumann or Liszt, or Bach, Schumann, and Chopin. These could be followed by a serious Beethoven work, such as one of the larger sonatas; and this again by a few small pieces, in order to relieve the overtaxed attention; the whole concluding with a Hungarian rhapsody or some other brilliant piece. The advantage of this arrangement is that the audience does not have to wait so long before arriving at music which pleases.

In the ordinary arrangement—as that in the programs above—the program follows a systematic development from the beginning to the end, in the direction of greater freedom of expression and more brilliancy and adaptability to the pianoforte; so the music becomes more and more pleasing all the way through, and the only trouble is a fear lest the early pieces may prove too severe to those who are not accustomed to listening to music of this kind. In the case of musical clubs, and other places where the study of art is the principal motive, this fear is not entitled to any weight, since when it is designed to present programs of serious works, requiring to be understood and to be heard several times before their full meaning is apparent to the listener, a certain amount of preliminary analysis or study ought to be done, either by members of the club separately or by the club together in a sort of preliminary rehearsal by a competent person, who will both play the works in fragments and comment upon their peculiarities. As an illustration of a program arranged on the plan last mentioned, the following is presented:

1. Bach, Prelude and Fugue in C-sharp major, Clavier No. 3. Chopin, Fantasia Impromptu in C-sharp minor, Valse in A-flat, opus 42.

2. Beethoven, "Sonata Appassionata," opus 57.

3. Grieg, "Butterflies." Wm. Mason, "Reverie Poetique," "The Silver Spring."

4. Schumann, "Traumes Wirren," "End of the Song," opus 12. Liszt, Second Hungarian Rhapsody.

This could be played in two numbers, pausing after the sonata; or, better, in four, pausing after the Chopin valse, the sonata, and the Mason "Silver Spring." Each number is pleasing by itself.

A certain amount of care has been taken in the easy program to illustrate different phases of all the writers; accordingly, the Bach illustration begins with the Prelude and Fugue in D major, which is a very pleasing one, followed by the short Saraband in E minor, and this again by the Loure in G major. The saraband is of a very serious and melodious turn, and is about as near a sustained lyric melody as Bach ever got upon the piano. In writing for the violin he reaches a higher flight in several cases.

In the most difficult program of all, we open with the Bach-Liszt Fantasia and Fugue in G minor, which, having originally been composed for the organ with a difficult pedal part, becomes very much more difficult when put upon the piano for two hands alone. This is a very remarkable work indeed, the fantasia being full of chromatic changes and very expressive and thoroughly modern modulations and sequences. It is almost as modern a work as the "Chromatic Fantasia." The fugue is remarkable for having a very long subject, which is almost a gavotte in its rhythm; and the splendid subject is developed with charming freedom. It is one of the greatest favorites of all the Bach fugues, and when arranged for orchestra—as has been done by Abert—it is one of the most pleasing numbers in the entire orchestral repertory, never failing of delighting an audience. The Beethoven sonata in this program (opus 111, in C minor) is the last one which that great master wrote. Opinions of artists differ in regard to this sonata; some, like the present writer, holding it to be, on the whole, the most expressive of all the sonatas, or nearly so; others regarding the last movement as practically a failure. The peculiarities of the work which have given rise to these differences of opinion are substantially the following: It begins with a slow introduction, which is full of meditative and dreamy harmonic changes of a very delicate and suggestive character. Then enters the allegro, with a very strong subject, such as would naturally be used for a fugue. The entire first movement is developed out of this subject in a very strong and almost fugue-like manner. In fact, fugal passages occur repeatedly in the course of this development. The effect of the whole is very impassioned and irresistible. It is a very similar vein to that of the allegro movement of the "Sonate Pathetique," a work which Beethoven composed about twenty-five years earlier.

Up to this point it will be seen that the work differs from the usual sonata treatment in not possessing a lyric second subject. The element of song-like repose is entirely wanting in this first movement; it is suggested in the slow introduction, but in the allegro itself we have nothing of it.

The second movement consists of an Arietta, which is in two strains—one in C major, the other in A minor. These two strains are treated with variations through a very long and highly developed unfolding, the necessary relief of key being secured by the alternating tonalities of C and A minor. In my opinion, what Beethoven sought to do was to end this sonata in a more serious and poetic vein than sonatas usually close in. The general character of the sonata form, with a slow movement in the middle, necessarily amounts to an anti-climax. The sonata finale is almost always either a sonata-piece—in which case it is of a very impassioned character, such as we find illustrated in the first sonata and in the "Moonlight Sonata"; or a rondo—an easy-going movement, the principal subject often returning, examples of which we find in the "Pastoral Sonata," the opus 2 in C major, opus 7 in E-flat, and a great variety of others. While the regular finale admits of a serious and effective ending, it precludes the peculiarly elevated and poetic sentiment of the adagio movement. I think Beethoven undertook in the present instance to develop the sonata to the necessary complexity for climax and at the same time to end with the poetic and sentimental spirit. When these variations are played in this mood, they produce a very beautiful and excellent effect, but the close of the sonata is very difficult to treat satisfactorily.

In the Liszt selections at the close of the last program are two pieces very seldom played—an eclogue and "At the Fountain." Both these require delicate playing rather than extremely brilliant, and both are rather difficult, without making a show proportionate to the difficulty of performing them. They are, however, very musical and pleasing. The whole ends with "The Erl King" of Schubert.



CHAPTER XII.

CONCERNING THE TYPICAL MUSICAL FORMS.

By form in music is meant the general plan in accordance with which the ideas composing the piece are arranged; that is to say, if the piece be a short melody of one period, there will be one phrase which is repeated at least twice, and two other phrases which are not exactly alike. In an ordinary simple melody the first phrase has the general character of proposing a subject or of stating a proposition, and the second phrase has the general character of answering that subject, or, in musical parlance, it forms a counter-theme, but as a rule does not fully complete itself on the original key. The third phrase is very often quite the same as the first; thus the original proposition is repeated and emphasized, and the fourth phrase completely answers it and ends upon the principal key. A period of this type is known as a "lyric" form, and this is the general type of all simple melodies.

There is a period of quite a different type, sometimes called "thematic," in which, in place of a single idea extending throughout the first phrase, we have a short idea, or motive, which is repeated or modified in one way or another a sufficient number of times to fill up the rhythm proper to the first phrase of the simple period—viz., two measures. Occasionally, the development of this motive is carried through the first two phrases of the piece, or four measures; after which it is answered by a counter-theme or new material, bringing the whole period to an end on its own or some other key. This type of construction is very common in Schumann's works, and striking examples of it are found in the first period of the Novelette in E major, the first "Kreisleriana," the first period of the "Aufsschwung," and in many other places. Up to this point we might make a scheme of the period forms as follows: Letting a represent the first subject unchanged, a' the first subject slightly modified and b the answering material, and b' the answering material of the counter-theme somewhat modified, the lyric period would present the following schedule:

a plus b a plus b';

and the thematic this:

a plus a' b plus b';

or, more generally:

a plus b.

The a and b in this latter case each extend to four measures.

In case a form is to be developed to two periods, new material is often introduced at the beginning of the second period. Designating this new material by c and c', the schedule of the two-measure period would be as follows:

First period: a plus b a plus b'. Second period: c plus c' a plus b'.

Thus represented in algebraic formulae, it is easy to see that repetition of the materials designated a, or a and b together, is the source of unity in the period, and the third element introduced, here designated as c, has its only use in serving as variety. The normal dimensions for the two-period form just scheduled would be sixteen measures; but if the motive were two measures, then the period form resulting would be sixteen measures, and the two-period form thirty-two measures. Many examples will be found in the instrumental works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, and also in Schumann.

This simple form above given serves also as a type of the organization of the larger forms. For example, one of the most numerously represented forms in music is the rondo, which derives its name from the reappearance of the principal subject at intervals, after the manner of a round. Supposing such a principal subject to be a one- or two-period song form like those described above, this entire form would be designated as A; after A, a small amount of passage work might be introduced, and then would enter a second form, B, which within itself, however, would be modeled quite like the two-period form described above. After this second form the first form would then be repeated, and after this a coda would be added. Designating the entire first form or principal subject of a rondo by A, and the second subject or second song form by B, the rondo then will have this schedule:

A plus B plus A plus Coda.

This is the form of the great majority of polkas and waltzes, except that the song forms standing for A and B respectively are very often of three periods instead of two. This form also lies at the foundation of the great majority of salon pieces for the piano.

The only difference between the rondo form and the form last described—the proper designation of which is "song form with trio"—is that the rondo introduces passage work between the subject and the second subject. Should it be desired to develop the rondo to a greater length, the second subject can be repeated after the repetition of the first, and the first subject brought in still again. A third subject can be introduced, and in the longest rondo form the schedule is like this, C standing for the third subject:

A-B-A-C-A-B-A-Coda.

A form of this sort might extend to a very considerable length, as happens in the case of Chopin's Rondo in E-flat major, opus 18, which reaches to ten or twelve pages and occupies about ten minutes to perform.

The essential principle of musical form—form in music—is quite analogous to form in literature. As in a poem or article the first consideration is Unity, or the preponderance of a leading idea, and the second Variety, or the occurrence of interesting illustrative matter, and the third Symmetry, or the just relation between the different parts in order that the leading idea may not be obscured by the prolixity of the subordinate ideas, so the same principles prevail in music. Unity also is attained by peculiarly similar means in both cases. As in the article the leading idea is repeated a number of times in order to impress it upon the hearer, but frequently in different language, so in music the principal idea is repeated more times than any other in the course of the piece; and in the small forms, or rather in the molecular construction of a piece of music, the repetitions are in a great variety of speech, exactly as they are in a well-made article. The same idea can be presented in different aspects, and different words may express it. In music this takes place through the appearance of the motive in different chords from those in which it first appeared, giving rise to variations in the melodic intervals and the like.

Symmetry in music is much more exactly observed than in literary composition, even in verse, since music itself is a matter of time and vibration, and the proportionate and mathematical relation of parts belongs to the very essence of the art. Every musical form, therefore, whether large or small, consists essentially of one leading idea and of two or more subordinate ideas, brought in with whatever cleverness of treatment the composer may find convenient, and the whole turned over and diversified according to his fancy.

In certain aspects the musical forms bear a good deal of resemblance to the quasi-geometric figures called arabesques, in which a certain line or form is many times repeated; or to the arrangement of crystals which the frost forms upon the glass of the window, when the simple crystalline form of water is repeated in a great diversity of ways, and larger figures and curious symmetries and suggestions are brought out. In music of a serious construction the leading motives are diversified in a great variety of ways by being made to appear in different chords and intervals from the original form, and by being carried into other keys, whereby the impression upon the ear is very materially modified, at the same time without destroying the unity of the idea.

Musical forms in general may be divided into elementary and complete. The elementary forms are those which are used as structural elements in the larger or complete forms. Thus, a motive repeated becomes a phrase; a phrase repeated or answered by counter-theme becomes a section; a section repeated becomes a period; the period repeated or modified becomes a two-period form or a period group, which may extend to a considerable number of periods. Out of these elementary forms the large forms are constructed. Beginning with the song form as the principal subject, the rondo goes on with a second song form as second subject, and so on to any extent desirable, according to the plan given above. In analyzing a large piece of music to find these leading subjects, the student should begin by first finding the great divisions in the piece, such as, for instance, those where an entirely new melody comes in a change of key, and the like. Having found the larger points of joining, he should then proceed to find the dividing lines in the smaller parts, which, in music, is rendered somewhat more difficult in consequence of the entire absence of punctuation bringing out relations of this kind. Not only are the marks wanting, but the bars confuse the eye and make it more difficult to find the real point where the ideas begin and end. The student, however, accustomed to memorizing his music, and consequently to thinking about it, will soon be able to find it by his intuition, in the same way that the reader knows when the sentence has been completed by the sense and not necessarily by the period which is placed after the last word.

There are a few leading types of form to which all others more or less conform. The first of these, and perhaps, on the whole, the most important, are those which are called unitary forms. A unitary form is a musical form with only one leading melodic idea, out of which the entire piece is developed. This can only be done in one or the other of three ways. Taking the simplest way first, it will be to develop this leading idea into a song form according to the pattern given above, in the beginning of this discussion. This, being sufficiently obvious on the face of it, requires no further attention here. Forms of this kind belong essentially to popular music, although they are not uncommon by way of relief in the more elevated art music.

There are two types of unitary form, however, which enter into and color all instrumental music to a degree, making it indispensable that the pupil thoroughly understand them. The first of these is the fugue. In the fugue a melodic subject of two measures or four, rarely more, is taken by a single voice and is answered by another voice in the dominant, and this again by the third voice in the original key, and so on according to the number of voices performing the fugue. The voice which has completed the subject goes on with the counter-subject or the counterpoint while the second voice is singing the subject. When all the voices have had their turn at the phrase there is an interlude of modulating material, after which the subject comes again and is answered one or more times in the properly related keys, for which the artificer of fugues has his rules already prepared, following the principles laid down by Bach. After this second appearance of the theme in these new keys, another interlude, and then an additional strophe in still a different key and with finer treatment; and thus, according to the fancy of the composer and his skill, the piece is extended to one, two, or even six or eight pages. But during the whole of it the principal subject has reappeared at very short intervals and in a great variety of keys, while the interlude matter has always been of a lighter and less significant character. In order to arrive at an appreciation of fugues, the student perhaps can not do better than to begin with some of the two-part inventions of Bach, which, while not following the fugue form strictly, approximate it very nearly. The first invention and the eighth are perhaps the best for this purpose. After these, an easy fugue in the "Well-tempered Clavier," such as the one in D major or that in C minor; more difficult examples are those in C-sharp major and in G major. In the development of fugues the old masters made use of a great variety of artifices, including all the devices of double counterpoint at the tenth and twelfth, canon and inversion, the latter applied not alone to the relation of the voices but also to the melodic material constituting a voice. "The fugue," Cherubini says, "contains everything which a good composer ought to know," and it is, in fact, the underlying element in all serious moments of modern music except those which are purely lyric. The fugue underlies the elaboration in the middle of a sonata-piece, and, in fact, is the original source, as said before, of nearly all the serious moments in the higher departments of art.

The second serious unitary form is the theme and variation. In this case the theme is itself a complete song form of perhaps two or three periods, and each variation is precisely of the same number of measures, and follows the same harmonic structure in many cases.

There are, however, in modern use, two types of the variation form. One of these, called formal variations, leaves the harmony entirely the same in all the variations, except, perhaps, to change the melody from major to minor of the same key and back again. In the best examples the harmony remains entirely unchanged, but the melody is diversified rhythmically in various ways. Good examples of this type of variations are to be found in the works of Mozart and in the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata in G major, opus 14, and in the second movement of the "Sonata Appassionata" of Beethoven.

The character variation pursues a different course. At times the key is changed and the harmony changes very much. In order to see how this can be accomplished without destroying the identity of the musical idea, it should be remembered that a musical idea consists essentially of three elements: it has a rhythm, a melodic figure, and a harmonic foundation. If the melodic figure is retained, and the harmonic figure, the rhythm can be diversified indefinitely, and, in fact, if any two of these elements are retained the third can be modified very much. In the latest practice of variation writing, two of these elements are changed at the same time, leaving only one element fixed, and in some instances it is difficult to find exactly where any of the original element of the theme remains. Beethoven began the development of character variation in his Sonata, opus 26, the first movement of which is in this form. He also did more or less in this direction in his famous "Thirty-two Variations." The variations of Schumann in the "Etudes Symphoniques" pass even beyond the bounds here defined. While remaining fast upon the original harmonic foundation, measure for measure, entirely new melodies come in and wholly different rhythms, so that in many instances only a few notes of the original theme are retained in any one variation. The student desiring to explore the most advanced variation writing will find examples ready to his hand in Brahms' variation on a theme of Haendel and the two books of variations on a theme of Paganini. These may be considered as at present the ultima thule of variation-making art. The principle of the variation lies at the foundation of very much that meets us in the higher departments of music, even when the variation form is not heard of. All modifications or amplifications of a theme belong essentially to the variation type, and it is liberally applied to all long compositions where the same material is used a number of times.

When a piece of music consists of two fully developed melodic ideas, it is said to be binary in form, and these are all either song forms with trio or small rondo forms. Nearly all of the slow movements of Beethoven in the sonatas are binary forms, the dimensions of which may vary extremely. The student desiring to investigate this part of the subject more thoroughly is referred to the "Primer of Musical Forms," by W. S. B. Mathews (Arthur P. Schmidt & Co., Boston), where the principles are more fully unfolded.

There is one form in modern music which is the type of so large a proportion of extended instrumental movements that the student will do well to master its peculiarities at the earliest possible moment. This is the form sometimes called the sonata form or sonata-piece. The term sonata was originally used in two senses: in its larger sense it indicates an extended musical composition with three or four movements, all which taken together form the sonata. By the term sonata-piece, however, is meant the particular movement of the sonata which gives the name to the whole piece. This, as a rule, is the first movement, but sometimes it is the closing movement, and in some instances there are three of these movements in the same sonata, so arranged with reference to one another as to form the necessary contrasts. The sonata-piece is the form which contains within itself very much of the essence of all the smaller forms. It generally consists of three large chapters, beginning with the principal subject, which may be longer or shorter, according to the fancy of the composer, and may end on its own principal key or on the dominant, and may be followed by passage work or not, to any extent the composer chooses; then comes a second subject. According to Beethoven's almost invariable practice, the first subject of a sonata form is thematic in its character, and in developing this theme many of the principles of variation work are applied. The second subject is almost invariably a lyric melody, sometimes very charming, and always in a different key from that of the first subject, usually in the dominant; or, if the first subject is a minor, this will be in the relative major. Then follows a concluding paragraph of anywhere from six to thirty measures, and a double bar with a repeat sign. This forms the first chapter of the sonata-piece. After the double bar comes the second chapter, which is an elaboration or free fantasia on the material of the first part. At the end of this free fantasia, which may be longer or shorter at the fancy of the composer, comes the recapitulation, or the repetition of the entire first part, the only change being that the second subject is now in the principal key. In the elaboration of the sonata all sorts of musical fancies are liable to appear—queer juxtapositions of motives from the different parts of the first and second subjects, inversions, variations, and so on.

The sonata-piece is the type, not alone of the principal movement in symphonies and chamber quartets and trios, but it is also the type of all serious overtures, and therefore it has been well designated by German theorists as the Principal Form of modern music.

Whether longer or shorter, whether serious or lively, all musical forms have the same conditions to satisfy—viz., those of unity, or the preponderance of a single idea; symmetry, or just proportion of parts; and variety, the proper relief and introduction of new material. If the principal idea is repeated too much, monotony ensues; if there are too many accessory ideas, in place of variety we have looseness and want of unity. And in carrying out these principles in compositions of different lengths and in different styles, the composer has practically unlimited freedom.



PART II.

MODERN MASTERS

AND

AMERICAN COMPOSERS



AUTHOR'S NOTE.

According to the original design, this work was completed with the ten chapters in which the great masterworks of the leading composers of the period from 1750 to 1850 were compared and their peculiarities and individualities emphasized.

In response to a wide-spread demand, however, it is deemed advisable to add a few programs of later masters, and a few of the leading American composers, who, although not yet to be mentioned in the same connection as those forming the subject of the original ten chapters, are, nevertheless, of more immediate interest to a large circle of students, and in demand for the use of musical clubs, lecture recitals, and the like. The selection of these later composers has been a matter of no small difficulty, but the names decided upon for the present are Grieg, Brahms, Rubinstein, Tschaikowsky, and a miscellaneous list of the later romantic German composers. The American names included are those of Dr. William Mason, L. Moreau Gottschalk, E. A. MacDowell, Mrs. H. H. A. Beach, Arthur Foote, Ethelbert Nevin, and Wilson G. Smith, with scattering compositions from a few others of the more notable composers of the present time.

Concerning these supplementary programs, it is also to be said that only one name belongs to the high category of great immortals embraced in the first ten chapters—namely, that of Johannes Brahms. Grieg, however, is certainly a composer of rare poetry and originality; and the same is to be said of Rubinstein and Tschaikowsky—even with greater emphasis of the last mentioned. Still, the student will be wise to remember that in the works of these latest composers there is much which, as yet, is imperfectly understood, and its ultimate place in the pantheon of art unascertained. That all these have shown great originality is unmistakable; yet no one of them has written pianoforte music uniting elegance and pianoforte tact with complete originality and success. If any exception is to be made at this point, it should be in the case of Brahms, who has shown, in orchestral and vocal writing, constructive and poetic powers of the very highest order. This fact, taken in connection with his unquestioned mastery of the pianoforte and the epoch-marking originality of his technic and effects upon this instrument, should make us pause before considering anything of his as standing beyond the line of the beautiful. Schumann was condemned for many years after his death, yet at the present time no master stands higher as a pianoforte writer pure and simple. It is more than likely that Brahms will later stand as the maker of an epoch in piano playing not less significant than that established by the works of Liszt, Chopin, and Schumann.

One of our American masters also, Mr. Edward Alexander MacDowell, is held by many to belong to the very highest rank of living composers (1898). Comparisons of this kind have no proper place in a work like the present. The question which these chapters are intended to assist in solving is not as to the highest, the broadest, the most pleasing, but the characteristic individuality of certain composers, of ability so high that they have gained the ears of their own generation and have been found of lasting interest.

"What have these men done?" And "What is the new note which they have sounded in the pantheon of art?" These are the two questions which this little essay is meant to discuss.

Moreover, we may remember that it is one of the laws of gravitation that it increases in proportion to the "square of the proximity," as they say in social science. Composers near to us, and the outgrowth of our own conditions of life and our national heredity, can hardly escape bringing to expression in their works something of the American character and turn of thought. This inner something may well give their works a transient interest for us which better works wanting these national traits might fail to awaken. The programs in these supplementary chapters, therefore, should be taken up after those of the first ten have been fully mastered.

If a word of regret is needed that so little of American matter has been included, the explanation must be that the scope of this work and the present resources of the writer do not afford him the means of treating American music in the broad and comprehensive way possible to epochs in art the works of which are fully finished and catalogued. In the nature of the case the treatment of American writers herein is tentative and incomplete. Later on, additions will be made, as occasion may arise.



MODERN MASTERS AND AMERICAN COMPOSERS.



CHAPTER I.

NATIONALITY IN MUSIC

The outflow of musical production has become so wide during the last fifty years, and so many composers have distinguished themselves in every part of the world, that it is a matter of no small difficulty to make a selection of names sufficiently representative to illustrate the many-sided individualities of this movement. Dividing the entire list into countries which have produced the composers, or in which they have principally expressed themselves, we have at least four great European provinces or musical centers, viz., Germany (including also Austro-Hungary), Russia, France, and the Scandinavian countries, including Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. To this list of characteristic nationalities in music must be added our own, the American.

As soon as we pass beyond the short roll of the great masters in instrumental music of the first class, we immediately come upon a large circle of composers of such cleverness that they have just missed becoming enrolled in the higher list, and perhaps some of them will, later on, be included among the immortals. The operation of this slow promotion is something like that of the French Academy, where, when one member dies, a new one is elected to take his place. In this way, with forty immortals constantly on duty, as one may say (although as a matter of fact they are rarely elected to that honor until their productive activity has practically ceased), the nation has a long roll of distinguished and honored authors, composers, artists, and the like.

In all this music since Liszt there are curious resemblances and equally curious differences. To speak first of the resemblances, it is an interesting circumstance that by far the greater number of the composers have been educated, at least in part, at the Conservatory of Leipsic, which, ever since it was founded by Mendelssohn, has held a wholly unique pre-eminence among the music schools of the world—a pre-eminence which in many respects it has not deserved, especially upon the technical side of musical instruction; and most emphatically with reference to the pianoforte, where for at least ten years after the death of Schumann nothing of Chopin, Schumann, or Liszt was admitted or permitted to be taught to the students. Then a very grudging reception was given to the works of Chopin, while Schumann had to wait some time longer; and it is only within a very recent period that the peculiar value of Liszt as a writer for the piano-forte has been recognized at all. On the other hand, it is evident that any school able to attract to itself so large a percentage of the highly gifted musicians of the different countries, who have afterward shown themselves to possess creative talent of a high order, must have had about it a quality at least unusual and commanding. Almost all the composers who will be taken up have been educated in Germany, or by teachers who were themselves educated in Germany. Almost the only exceptions to this rule are probably the American, Gottschalk, and the Frenchman, Saint-Saens. Accordingly, the marks of nationality and of individuality in the music of the different composers are rarely sufficient to prevent the works of any composer from being current in any other country, and, from the mere sound of the works, in a great majority of cases it would be difficult to tell whether they are German or of some other nationality, so strongly does the German influence pervade and underlie nearly the whole of this production.

The opportunity for expressing nationality in music, or, to say it differently, the possibility of national coloring in music, is somewhat narrow. It is only in the case of the nations which are distinctly unmusical that it is entirely easy to recall their peculiarities, and the features by means of which this is usually done amount to parody. For example, when it is a question of something Turkish, much is made of the tambourine, the cymbals, and the fife. In something Persian or Arabic, the triangle cuts quite a figure; but when it is a question between composers of the civilized countries of Europe, music has become a cosmopolitan language among them all, and only a small number of national traits are to be found distinguishing the production of one country from that of another. It would be an interesting study to trace these marks of nationality, but it would take us too far. Suffice it to say that in general, taking German music as representing the purest type of instrumental music, in which the musical idea as such has full sway, the Russians differ from this mainly in their own uncontrollable energy and a certain fondness for a semi-barbaric display of over-coloration. The pigments with which they work and the manner of treating their ideas are not materially different from that of the German composers of the purest type. It is only a question of exaggerating certain features—to judge them from the German standpoint. This is true, in a general way, of the entire list of Russian composers, all of whom have been influenced a good deal from Leipsic, although Russia has had for many years a very strong music school of its own at St. Petersburg, established by Rubinstein in 1862. It was at this school that Tschaikowsky and Glazounow were educated. In the Austro-Hungary empire there are two nationalities which have left quite an impress upon their music productions. They are the Bohemians and the Hungarians. The Hungarian, representing the extreme of the emphasis and caprice; the Bohemian, showing a great deal of impetuosity;—which, however, they lose in their productions in proportion as they become polished and finished writers. Bohemianism, in German music, has more the character of provincialism than of a national mark.

In France there has been a national school this long time in which all the young composers are educated; a school which has turned out men like Berlioz, Gounod, Bizet, Delibes, Massenet, and a great and honored roll of composers and artists. French music differs from German primarily in taking itself less seriously. Everything tends to be shorter; there is a more fanciful and capricious use of passing tones and by-tones of every sort, and its general complexion is that of daintiness and sensuous sweetness, rather than of deep thought. The French school is therefore well adapted for imparting refinement to the style of a performer.

The writers of the Scandinavian peninsula have certain peculiarities in their melody which impart to their work a trait of local color. This one finds in the writings of Grieg, Svendsen, and to some extent in those of Gade. A similar coloring was hit upon much earlier by Mendelssohn in the beginning of the "Hebrides" overture.

America can not be said, as yet, to have attained a national school. We had one genius who might be called self-instructed—viz., Louis Moreau Gottschalk. All of our composers since have been German educated, or educated under teachers who themselves were German taught, and as yet our music is little more than a slightly modified German production, although our composers are beginning to show as much originality and force as the better class of the writers of any country.

Selecting only those names the most prominent in the several countries, and more particularly the composers who have distinguished themselves in pianoforte music, the following seem, on the whole, the most worthy of our attention:

In Germany—Brahms, Dvorak, Raff, D'Albert, Nicode, Moszkowski, Jensen, Reinecke, Paderewski, and Scharwenka.

In Russia—Rubinstein, Henselt, Tschaikowsky, Balakirew, Glazounow, and Karganoff.

In France—Stephen Heller, Saint-Saens, Pierne, Faure, Widor, Guyrand, and Benoit.

In Scandinavia—Grieg, Gade, Svendsen, Kjerulf, and Meyer-Helmund.

In America—Gottschalk, Mason, Wollenhaupt, Foote, Chadwick, MacDowell, and others.



CHAPTER II.

BRAHMS.

JOHANNES BRAHMS.

Born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833. Died at Vienna, April 3, 1897.

In Johannes Brahms we have a musical master of the first order. His quality as master was shown in his marvelous technic, in which respect no recent composer is to be mentioned as his superior, if any can be named, since Bach, as his equal. This technic was at first personal, at the pianoforte, upon which he was a virtuoso of phenomenal rank; but this renown, great as it is in well-informed circles, sinks into insignificance beside his marvelous ability at marshaling musical periods, elaborating together the most dissimilar and apparently incompatible subjects, and his powers of varying a given theme and of ever unfolding from it something new. These wonderful gifts—for such they were, rather than laboriously acquired attainments—Brahms showed at the first moment when the light of musical history shines upon him. It was in 1853, when the Hungarian violinist, Edouard Remenyi, found him at Hamburg and engaged him as accompanist, and having ascertained his astonishing talents, brought him, a young man of twenty, to Liszt at Weimar, with his first trio and certain other compositions in manuscript. The new talent made a prodigious effect upon Liszt, who needed not that any one should certify to him whether a composer had genius or merely talent. And that Brahms on his own part made the regrettable mistake of falling asleep while Liszt in turn was playing for him his newly completed sonata for pianoforte, is an incident which was important only for the moment. The Liszt circle took up the Brahms cult in earnest, played the trio at the chamber concerts, and the members, when they departed to their homes, generally carried with them their admiration of this new personality which had appeared in music.

William Mason, the New York teacher and pianist, was at Weimar at the time, and when he came back to New York and, with the young Theodore Thomas, opened the celebrated series of chamber concerts,—modeled, as the prospectus said, "after those of Mr. Liszt at Weimar,"—the first program included the Brahms Trio in B-flat. From that time until now, for nearly forty years, Mr. Thomas has paid his tribute to the genius of Brahms, introducing the new works as fast as they have appeared, and repeating the older ones many times.

Johannes Brahms was born at Hamburg, May 7, 1833, the son of a fine musician who was player upon the double bass in the orchestra there. The boy was always intended for a musician, and his instruction was taken in hand with so much success that at the age of fourteen he played in public pieces by Bach and Beethoven, and a set of original variations. At the age of twenty he was a master, and it was in this year that he accompanied Remenyi, made the acquaintance of Joachim and Liszt, and had a rarely appreciative notice from a master no less than Robert Schumann himself, who, in his "New Journal of Music," said:

"He has come—a youth at whose cradle graces and heroes kept watch. Sitting at the piano, he began to unveil wonderful regions. We were drawn into more and more magical circles by his playing, full of genius, which made of the piano an orchestra of lamenting and jubilant voices. There were sonatas, or rather veiled symphonies; songs whose poetry might be understood without words; piano pieces both of a demonaic nature and of the most graceful form; sonatas for piano and violin; string quartets, each so different from every other that they seemed to flow from many different springs. Whenever he bends his magic wand, there, when the powers of the orchestra and chorus lend him their aid, further glimpses of the magic world will be revealed to us. May the highest genius strengthen him! Meanwhile the spirit of modesty dwells within him. His comrades greet him at his first entrance into the world of art, where wounds may perhaps await him, but bay and laurel also; we welcome him as a valiant warrior."

The next few years were spent by Brahms in directing orchestra and chorus at Detmold and elsewhere, and in Switzerland, which always had great attraction for him. In 1859 he played in Leipsic his first great pianoforte concerto; most of the criticisms thereon were, however, such as now excite mirth. In the later years of his life he played in Leipsic again, conducted several of his works, and was greeted with the reverence and enthusiasm due the greatest living representative of the art of music. In 1862 Brahms located in Vienna, where he lived until his death. Mr. Louis Kestelborn, in "Famous Composers and their Works," says: "About thirty years ago the writer first saw Brahms in his Swiss home; at that time he was of a rather delicate, slim-looking figure, with a beardless face of ideal expression. Since then he has changed in appearance, until now he looks the very image of health, being stout and muscular, the noble, manly face surrounded by a full gray beard. The writer well remembers singing under his direction, watching him conduct orchestra rehearsals, hearing him play alone or with orchestra, listening to an after-dinner speech or private conversation, observing him when attentively listening to other works, and seeing the modest smile with which he accepted, or rather declined, expressions of admiration."

The Serenade, Opus 11, in D major, was written before 1859. It consists of six pieces, in form analogous to a suite. The first is marked allegro molto. It is in the key of D, the melody opening for horn. This is followed by a counter-theme of clarinets, after which all the instruments take part. Much is made of a pleasing motive in thirds by the clarinets. There is a charming elaboration containing bold and free modulations, touching such keys as D-flat, B-flat, D minor, etc.

The second movement, scherzo, allegro non troppo, is in the key of D minor and in the style of a Beethoven scherzo, which, again, is a legitimate outgrowth of certain movements of Bach. It opens with an idea for violins and bassoons, and goes on in a very buoyant and vigorous manner, with abundant syncopations, modulations, and unexpected incidents. It is beautifully developed. Then it gives place to a trio in B-flat, in which the violins start with a syncopated rhythm, and later all the orchestral persons take their turn in the development. After this is finished the scherzo is recapitulated.

The adagio opens with a melody for bassoons and basses, which later leads to a very legato and lovely melody for violins, treated at times with very elaborate figuration, especially at the return of the principal theme.

The first menuetto begins with a melody for clarinets, which is developed into a short form. Then follows the second menuetto, which many would have called a trio, excepting that it really is a complete little minuet, the leading idea of which is given by the second violins; after this the first menuetto returns.

Then follows another scherzo, in D major, the subject being given out by the horns, accompanied by the 'cellos.

In the trio the same combination takes precedence, but the 'cello figures are twice as fast.

The work concludes with a rondo, the principal subject of which is very sprightly in character, given out by the clarinets and bassoons, accompanied by the lower strings. This movement is carried out with great spirit. The work as a whole is of singularly genial character.

It happened to the writer to enter the rehearsal once during one of the movements. He was expecting something by Tschaikowsky or Richard Strauss. As he listened, the simplicity and naivete of the ideas suggested Mozart; but presently there was an earnestness foreign to Mozart, and Beethoven was recalled. Just then the counterpoint took a turn which was plainly not Beethoven, but surely the work of some late master, and the question was, Who could have done a thing of this kind so delightfully, with such reserve? All at once the author's name occurred. "Surely," he said, "it is Brahms"; and it was. It is the beauty of an unpretending work of this character by so great a master that the hearer is able to follow it with so much enjoyment and from purely musical motives, without making himself unhappy in the effort to realize a story or some great and mysterious power. It is genius in its moments of pure enjoyment.

The Symphony in E minor was first published in 1885, and immediately was pronounced by advanced musicians the most significant of Brahms, because showing the composer's nature more completely and, so to say, more spontaneously. This opinion, says Dr. Kretschmar, is based upon the elevation of the work and the fact that in it Brahms for the first time fully displays his many-sided individuality and genius in the province of symphony. "The singer of the great German requiem stands before us." Like its predecessors, it is developed out of a small number of fundamental ideas, but with a degree of complexity beneath its apparent simplicity which makes it a rich field for musical analysis.

The first movement is marked allegro non assai (quick, but not too quick). In spirit it is noble, forceful, yet tender and extremely musical. The opening melody is itself made up thematically out of the first little molecule of two tones, or out of the first four tones, if you please. This is carried through sixteen measures in order to bring it to completion; it is immediately resumed with an added element of rhythmic motion and varieties of harmony, and carried through along to the second idea.

The instruments concerned in the first enunciation of the theme are mainly the strings, the horns having long holding tones, and the wood-wind coming in with accompanying chords upon the off beat. Presently a second or transitional theme enters, of a jolly free character, which brings us almost immediately to a beautiful second theme for the 'cellos, the sustained and song-like character of which well contrasts with the broken character of the leading idea.

The elaboration now follows the jolly little counter-theme in connection with the leading theme, and while the continued treatment of the working out seems simple, it is in fact extremely rich, and well managed for intensifying the elegiac character of the opening subject. Abundance of melodic life meets us in every one of the orchestral voices, and the richness of detail is like that of one of the old cathedrals, where the mighty mass of the whole is no less significant to the distant observer than the patient care with which all the smaller spaces have been elaborated is grateful to the close student. A curious circumstance of this movement is the apparent resumption of the principal theme prematurely in its own key, the development immediately taking a new turn, and when finally the principal theme returns, it is at first in a foreign key, almost at once, however, giving place to the original harmonies.

A movement of this character is not to be judged or studied from a technical standpoint, but from that of enjoyable hearing. It is a musical discourse, in which the first thing to feel is the very patent fact that the author is trying to say something to us; and the second to make out something of what this significance may mean in its general and larger aspects; and, only later than this, what it is in its details.

In two respects this work seems to the student different from the symphonic work of Beethoven on the one hand, and from the earnest orchestral work of later masters on the other. It is thoroughly modern in its thematic handling. Everything grows out of a very few central roots; yet out of these vital germs, as in the stories of Eastern magicians, a mighty tree forms itself before our very eyes. Or, to change the figure, while the actual melodic germ is very small, its development into the leading subject takes it over a considerable range of rhythm and harmony, and brings it to us with almost a song-like character. Then, when we come to a second subject, it is not so completely contrasted as in Beethoven; or, rather, it still partakes of the modern spirit, being, if very legato, nevertheless very appealing and earnest in its harmonic treatment. This is one point where Beethoven always did differently, for his second subjects are almost invariably simple and lyric, with something very like a folk-song turn of melody. Brahms remains upon the elevated plane of musical earnestness which he assumes at starting, and throughout the entire work carries us ever to greater heights.

Again, from the side of tone-color Brahms differs from later writers in not giving himself much to mere lusciousness of tone contrast, but confines himself to carrying out his ideas with those portions of the orchestra best suited in turn, and with more reference to cumulative impression from the treatment than to mere richness and contrast of color. The contrasts do still meet us here, but they are never glaring. It is even a question whether the colors are so strongly contrasted as commonly in Beethoven. But it is not a question whether the music is strong, meaningful, and musicianly. These qualities are patent to even a casual hearing. Equally recognizable is that inner something which has been called the ethical element; a something in the general spirit of treatment, or behind it, which we intuitively feel as consistent with our highest thoughts, noblest moods, and best resolutions. This is distinguished from the merely sensuous, as represented sometimes in Berlioz, Goldmark, Gounod, and the like; and the fantastic, inconsequent, and irresponsible, as represented, for instance, in Richard Strauss' "Till Eulenspiegel."

The second movement, andante moderate, although very strange in certain of its peculiarities, is nevertheless very beautiful, and at the same time novel. The subject is given out first by the horn alone; afterward it is taken up by the oboes and flutes, while the strings have a secondary place and complete the harmony.

Kretschmar says that it reminds one of a story of the olden time, an impression due to the archaic tonality, the first version of the theme being in the Gregorian Phrygian mode—a key of E in which all the notes are naturals. On its repetition it is given a different turn, the scale having a major seventh, but minor third and sixth.

Kretschmar says: "In the middle of this movement, where the triplets begin, the music forsakes this neutral tone and shows a friendly spirit and breaks out into heart-felt lamentations." In other words, a subordinate subject is introduced which Mr. Apthorp characterizes (in the Boston Symphony Orchestra programs) as "a grave, solemn melody, harmonized and scored in the richest coloring."

A third melodic idea still remains to be mentioned. It is the melody for 'cello, which is delicately accompanied by the higher strings. Later the first subject returns in a variety of treatment, always cumulative in its character, and frequently with strange transformations. The impression of the whole is, after all, that already mentioned; it is a story of the olden times, into which a modern thread has been woven, and through which the modern heart still thrills and vibrates none the less powerfully for the strange-sounding accents of the ancient tonality.

The third movement, allegro giocoso (giocoso primarily means jokingly), opens with full orchestra. This movement takes the place of a scherzo. It is earnest, vigorous, and free; at times, as Mr. Apthorp says, "almost fierce"; and for straightforward directness stands in manly contrast to the movements preceding.

The fourth movement, again, is marked allegro energico epassionato (quick, energetically, and passionately). It opens with eight measures for all the brass. The melody lies in the upper voice.

Upon this as cantus firmus Brahms has developed what is known as a passacaglia; originally a rather slow and stately dance, but in musical use denoting a movement developed over a ground bass, or single harmonic foundation, the final result partaking somewhat of the nature of variations; but more of a sort of cumulative playing with musical elements, finally reaching a great degree of complexity, which, if well done, should also be a complexity of idea and a fullness and richness of expression. It was in this spirit that Bach handled the form in his great C minor Passacaglia for organ, now transcribed for orchestra, and played occasionally, if I remember, by Mr. Thomas; and it is in this spirit that Brahms works here. Occasionally the spirit changes to something tender, meditative; but this is only to gain strength. Immediately it resumes, and is carried ever and ever to higher pitches of force and meaning. Melody after melody appears in prominent places, but under every one lies the harmonic foundation of the fundamental subject. There are thirty-two of these variations in all.

The criticism which has been made upon Brahms, that a movement of this kind has no proper place in symphony, is "not competent," as lawyers say; for, setting aside the demonstrated fact that Brahms knew better what could be done in symphony than any of his critics, there is plenty of precedent for doing almost anything one cares to try in the fourth movement of a symphony. The old practice had a rondo for the final movement of the sonata. Beethoven rightly felt the insignificance of this form and its half trivial spirit, and in many directions he sought to get out of it, and to end his sonatas with a climax of the spiritual interest. The same desire is shown in his symphonies and chamber music. Brahms has here given us a manly, vigorous, strongly developed piece. At least, it closes the symphony without loss of vitality—whether with increasing elevation of spiritual meaning is for each hearer to determine according to the measure of his capacity and receptive ness. Inspiration is not a question of light being ready, but of clear glass to shine through.

For virtuoso pianists an entirely new world remains to be conquered in the works of Brahms. Beginning with those of his earliest period, there is even then a marvelous novelty in the combinations and, above all, a peculiarly rich and melodic quality of thought which rarely forsakes him, even in the passages where at first sight it seems impossible to make anything of the music beyond an extremely trying exercise. The melodiousness of Brahms and the complexity of the forms in which beautiful conceptions express themselves is even surpassed by the endless variety of new forms and effects which these works reveal. Passages which to the casual player seem dry and forbidding, when properly interpreted, and played gently and melodiously as Brahms demanded, reveal themselves full of an inner warmth and ideality such as no recent master has surpassed or equaled.

From the piano-playing side these new effects rest upon the utmost equality and suppleness of the fingers, a much wider extension of the hand than any previous composer demanded (save possibly Schumann in the "Kreisleriana" and the "Phantasie"), and a melodic quality in all the voices. When to these are added the necessary discrimination of touch and the clear definition of the contrasting voices, together with a sensitive and changeful use of the pedal, the new worlds open.

Beginning with the most advanced of these technical unfoldings, let us take the variations upon a theme from Paganini, of which there are two books. At first view the variations in the first book seem to address themselves exclusively to technical objects, the first variation containing a succession of sixths in the right hand which is extremely trying, the second variation having the same succession for the left hand. In the third variation a very capricious figure is taken as pattern, and the piano is covered in a new way. In the fourth variation there is a long capricious figure and trills high up in the treble with the weak fingers of the right hand. These trills are afterward transferred to the bass, where the thumb and second finger have them, the design being apparently technical. In the fifth variation a very characteristic trick of Brahms' music is brought out in strong light. It is his way of carrying on together a cantus firmus in two's and a counterpoint in three's. All his writing is full of this expedient, one design of which is to mystify the rhythm and to impart to the music a more flowing and ideal character, and at the same time to concentrate the attention of the player upon the large meter, with which these conflicting two's and three's never interfere. In the sixth variation a syncopated effect. In the seventh, very brilliant octave effects. In the eighth a sort of caprice. In the ninth, an extremely brilliant octave effect. In the tenth, the excitement quiets a little, and the variation begins sotto voce. In the eleventh, we enter the major key, and a very delightful and beautiful effect is here produced. The twelfth, again, begins to contain greater difficulties, and our old friend of the two's and three's greets us. The thirteenth, a very brilliant octave variation, which in the fourteenth is carried to a still higher point, and leads immediately to a finale, which concludes the first book.